#surviving every day one foot in front of the other heart open and optimism in my soul

[quietblissxx]

[chiwhorei]

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬

paring: kenny ackerman x fem!reader

genre: apocalypse!au, smut, dark content, 18+ mdni [cross-posted to Ao3]

word count: 3k

overview: kenny *i-wouldn’t-fuck-you-if-it-was-the-end-of-the-world* ackerman; but it is and you do . . . and you’ll probably do it again. or, if you read beyond the cut and wind up in hell that is legally not my fault.

tags: dymph does sacrilege once again, post-apocalypse au, blood, violence, zombies (only mentions of gore nothing specific), somnophilia, noncon, dubcon, degradation, smoking, insertion, sloppy oral, big age gap aka kenny is a nasty old man and reader is a sweet little virgin.

a.notes: happy *fucking* easter. this is for the smut pile’s apocalypse collab so go give everyone’s pieces a read, everyone has worked so incredibly hard. this is dedicated to @pleasantanathema​, who was both my beta reader and emotional support while stringing this together. here’s to the old man fuckery, cheers.

hymn: the seven deadly virtues - camelot

But stay awake at all times, praying that you may have strength to escape all these things that are going to take place, and to stand before the Son of Man. -Luke 21:36

                                      * * *

Wet.

A sticky kind of wet. Clinging on like thick clay, splattered across your neck— gore and sinew wrapped in a noose. Shades of decaying reds and browns are all you see these days. 

The seeping, molding kind of wet.

The smell is suffocating, the toll of death deep in your bones. You keep moving, you have to. One foot in front of the other, fingers fretting with the cross hanging between your collarbones. Counting your Hail Mary’s distracts from the ache in your soles and the burning feeling that you’re rotting away.

It was slow at first. The end of the world, the crashing, clattering end felt like a slow decent to hell. Pieces of the modern world falling away, the promise of tomorrow, the assurance of a cure. You refused to believe the dead could walk the earth until they were stumbling straight towards you. 

All of us, you think, are rotting away.

“Pick up the pace, kid. Are you trying to end up like the rest of those fuckers?” His voice rings from a few feet in front of you. The brush under your feet is dry, leaves crunching loudly with every weary step forward. 

Kenny always likes to remind you of your naïveté, insults about your rose tinted glasses barked crudely from around a cigarette. Your youth, your optimism, your beliefs-- useless traits in his opinion. What good is God in a world like this.

“Friends. They were our friends.” Your words come out in a whimper, the tone further irritating the man ahead of you.

He stops, turning around to catch your eyes, gaze piercing through the night like a knife. All that’s left of your composure is used to keep from crashing right into his chest.

“Ain’t no more room for friends in this world, baby doll,” a long pointer finger lifts your chin, the slightest touch still bruising, “thinkin’ like that is what’s going to get ya killed.”

Rose tinted glasses, cracked and splattered with blood, fall off and are lost to a world that no longer exists. Kenny let’s up and turns, pulling you farther into the thick brush. You could swear you feel the lenses as they splinter under your shoe.

                                      * * *

Kenny is a vile man. He knows his name isn’t on a reservation list at the Pearly Gates, he’s aware that a sinner lives on borrowed time. 

Nowadays, everyone is living on borrowed time. Even you.

You, he thinks, looking back to where you stumble over a tree branch, far to good for a world like this.

He can’t help but laugh, the absolute absurdity of his current situation. Escaping death by the skin of his teeth, watching any familiar faces burning in the remnants of a camp he couldn’t really call home. People that fought to the bone, melting or devoured or both.

And then there was you, standing in front of the flames, tears falling down the apples of your cheeks, stiff in shock and horror. He remembers the way your lips moved, mumbling a quiet prayer instead of trying to run. Stupid little thing.

It’s not the earth the meek inherit; it’s the dirt.

Was it pity that made Kenny pull you away from an infernal gravesite all those months ago? He’s never the hero of any story. No, it must have been something else.

Maybe it was the way you looked up with teary eyes, silently begging for help. Unwittingly making a deal with the devil. His teeth grind at the memory, the vision of how beautiful you look so completely helpless. 

Kenny leads and you follow, he hunts and you flitch at the sound of an arrow piercing flesh. The small squeak and proceeding thumb of meat as it hits the ground never fails to make you sick. When he’s not hunting for food, he’s hunting something else.

The sounds of death are all the same.

Some days you’re lucky, coming across abandoned hideouts or deserted cars. Snagging whatever hasn’t already been picked over; some ammo, the occasional can of peaches or pack of cigarettes. Kenny laughs dryly everytime, chucking the carton into his bag. Always the cigarettes, never the lighter. Most days, not so much.

Every night, you fall asleep to the flicker of a campfire, lulled by the steady sound of Kenny’s knife as it scrapes against a piece of wood. He’s always the last asleep. The woods are a dangerous place, the possibility of monsters circle at every moment. Under the veil of night, anything could happen. And it does.

He wipes his mouth, settling back into the harsh ground below him with a pleased hum. Your whimpers have settled back into a light snore. 

Kenny is a vile man, and you’re too concerned with the lifeless villain in the shadows that you forget about the one sitting on the other side of the fire.

Three months of waking up to aching limbs and misplaced panties can’t be a coincidence, can it?

                                      * * *

“Well ain’t this something.” Kenny pulls on the door, swinging it open with a loud creek. Your neck strains to look up at dark wood and steepled roof, the tall building hidden by dense forest, you two must be the first people to step inside in months. 

“A church.” You’d find comfort within these walls if you weren’t so positive that God had abandoned this world.

Statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph are empty behind their stone eyes, shadowed with an unsettling shade of red from the stained-glass windows. The moment is a time capsule, a vision of the congregation of saints bathed in blood.

A chill runs down your back, counting every vertebrae.

You push down the unsettling foreboding, focusing back on the instincts to survive instead of lingering on a religion that you can no longer make sense of.

“Hey kid, over here.” You pick up the pace, quickening footsteps away from holy symbolism and towards Kenny’s voice. You walk into the closest room off a dark hallway and find him leaning against the doorframe. The rooms are getting darker with the vanishing sun, but you make out shelves of cans and boxes, food, blankets, clothes.

“I bet they used this as a food pantry,” Your comment was probably an obvious assumption, but Kenny just hums in response, “there’s enough here to last up months.” 

Good samaritans in the first life are a saving grace is this one. Your cynicism lifts from heavy shoulders for just a moment. The lines between luck and divine intervention are fuzzy at best.

“I saw a well right outside too. Water’s probably cold as ice but it’s better than anything we’ve come across yet.” Kenny’s voice is even, but you swear he cracks a smile.

He was right, the water is cold enough to shatter your bones like ice. You shiver and chatter, teeth threatening to crack, but the feeling of being clean has you dumping bucket after bucket over your head. The grime and grit of your reality running down to seep into the grass below.

There’s no home to run to after the world ends, but water and food is more than you could imagine in recent months. Shuffling through boxes of donated clothes, you find a shirt big enough to sleep in. The fabric smells like moth-balls and dust, but the feeling of clean cotton against your skin is heavenly. 

You find Kenny in the clerical office, rummaging through the priests desk. The sun is replaced with a flight of candles, for the first time in forever, you don’t feel like death is standing right behind you.

“Would you look at that,” Kenny pulls a cigar from the desk, bringing it up to his nose for inspection, “Looks like father had his own little habit.”

Despite yourself, you laugh at his comment, rounding towards the large leather chair he’s settled into.

“Smoking kills you know.” You lean against the desk next to him. Your bare legs brush against his knee, the heat from your skin makes his mouth water.

“I think there’s more pressing concerns than tobacco, kid.”

There’s something different about tonight, even more than just the four walls and roof around you. There’s something about Kenny and the way his stare has followed you all night. You can feel a cord pulling taught, fraying in the middle before it snaps.

“Asshole.”

The plush of Kenny’s bottom lip is close enough to your cunt to be disastrous.  Friendly banter becomes laughing and swatting at his chest like a teenager. Communion wine and tension pulling you into him. The loneliness of this life becomes more apparent the closer he is to touching your skin. When did the man in front of you make your heart race so fast? 

Maybe you’ve always felt this way.

You feel it, the ghosts of last night, the night before. The ghosts of weeks or maybe even months. The familiarity of a touch you weren’t quite awake for. 

Ass arching off from where it sticks to the cherry wood, you want to feel it again. The laving of tongue and mouth against you. The devouring of your most intimate planes of skin, places no one else has ever touched before, places you were saving for your future husband.

The kiss as hot as hell.

“Awe, c’mon now,” His nose nudges against your clit, the movement pulling another cry from your throat to bounce against the high ceiling, “that’s not my name.”

“I’ve been tracing it into this precious cunt of yours every night,” each word is more unhinged than the last, no longer worried about the doe in his sights running away, “Do I need to spell it out for you again?”

There’s nowhere to run, pressed in between his canines.

Dreams of calloused fingers and a wandering mouth are now cementing as memories. The feeling of rough facial hair. The sounds of desperate moans and how they shake against you. 

The way his tongue curls like a signature. 

His mouth is flush against you again, sucking at your aching clit for only a moment before moving his attention to long lashes against your clenching hole.

“You must remember. You were moaning it so sweetly,” he nips at your puffy lips before drawing back. His chin is sheened in your arousal, slick refracting off the dimly lit space between you, flickering candles outline his features with a dance of orange shadows. Kenny’s eyes hold you captive, giving you one more chance to answer.

“What’s my name, kid?”

His tongue breaches you, a set of large, familiar hands keep your legs spread wide atop the desk. 

You remember— of course you do. You remember everything. The name stuck in your head like a broken record. The name you call for in a sleepy haze as your body is dragged into orgasm.

The name that’s spelled against you like a promise.

“K-Kenny please.”

That’s all that he needs, the only thing, if he’s being honest, that he’s ever needed.

“There’s my sweet little girl. Finally using your manners.” Two fingers come up to swipe against your pussy, stopping right before your clit and collecting slick to bring up to your eye line for inspection. You jump when the warm digits drag against your bottom lip, a silent prompt for your mouth to fall open.

Kenny sticks his fingers in, the intent to make you gag is clear but you take it. You’ll take anything he gives you. Your tongue swirls around the intrusion, running against each joint and suckling loudly. The sound is wet and lewd, the spit collecting at the corners of your mouth makes his head spin.

Your destruction, he decides, will be beautiful. 

Kenny’s fingers release with a wet pop. He runs callouses down from your cheek, over the curve of your tits and down your abdomen. Two fingers stop at your pubic bone to trace lightly against the skin in random patterns. 

“Your body is just as agreeable when you’re awake.” His words drip in sin, reminding you exactly how familiar he is with you. All of you.

Both thumbs come down to spread your lips, Kenny can’t help but take a moment-- just a beat-- to stare at your swollen, glossy clit and the quiver of your little hole. Your skin is soft, completely untouched by anyone else. He laid claim to almost every inch before you begged him to.

He sinks from the leather chair, kneeling in front of you. You’re the body and blood as far as a sinner like Kenny is concerned.

There’s a plea stuck in your throat. You want to beg him to slow down, it’s too much all at once, but you know if you cried out-- all you would do is beg him for more.

His tongue is long and flat against you, every swipe is punctuated with a growl. The rumbling from his chest is thrown against your clit like a current through cold water. Sharp, shocking, terrifying.

“Kenny, I- I want,” He sucks your throbbing clit into his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue against the hood. There’s no words in any language that make sense to you. There’s nothing but his name. 

“Kenny ah, I need, I don’t know how t—”

Your dangling over a fire, trying desperately to jerk away from the lick of the flames. 

“I know, kid, I know exactly what you need.” his breath is heavy and warm in fans across your skin. You're dripping down the sides of his face and onto the cleric’s desk. Kenny is covered in you, open mouthed kisses against the sweetest thing he’s ever had in his mouth. The tangy taste of your pussy mixing with the wine still on his tongue. 

If he spent forever between your thighs, it wouldn’t be nearly long enough.

“Such a sweet little thing, you’re insatiable.” All you can do is nod dumbly, eyes glazing over with a distinct look of teary submission. It’s so new to you, but grinding upwards and catching your clit against his chin seems like second nature.

The primal need for release is much stronger than any prayer of abstinence. 

“What would your little prayer circle think if they knew you spread your legs for a dirty old fucker like me?” Kenny coos against the apex of your thighs. His words knock on the hollow space behind your breastbone.

Your family and friends, the priest from St. Mary’s who baptized you, old man Jaeger from next door— all buried or burned to ash or so much worse.

Anyone you’ve ever loved is dead, maybe that’s why Kenny is still around.

There’s nothing that can hold you back anymore, the control you claw at slips from your fingers like watery silk. There’s no escaping the roughness of his stubble and an evil, serpent tongue.

“Kenny!”

You cum with a shattering cry, the sound ringing so loud in your ears you swear any enemy of the living in a 10 mile radius could hear you. In reality, what escapes is little more than a broken snivel. 

It hurts, muscles aching from the exertion of trying to keep from falling apart. Your body is a hairpin trigger, the comedown feels more like withdrawal.

“There’s my girl, my good little girl.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, doting while you fall back to earth. It’s a strange feeling, you’ve never found comfort in Kenny before, he isn’t the shoulder you go to lean on. 

But tonight he’s the chin you buck into.

The aftershocks run across your naked skin, already missing the feeling of his touch as he settles back into the cracked leather chair. 

His cock presses into the denim confines uncomfortably, the ache can wait though. Whether this is his last night alive or has all the time in the world-- he’s going to savor the glistening prize nestled between your thighs. Kenny’s fingers find the cigar where it lies next to your knee, bringing it up to examine while you squirm at the cold night air against your wet cunt.

“No one will ever make you feel as good as I do,” both legs kick out, falling to dangle on either side of his knees in surprise as the cigar comes down to trace your outer lips. He presses the tuck inwards, pulling out slightly so you cry out. The harsh texture of the wrapper mixes with the most minimal of stimulation, causing tears to clump in your waterline. 

“Why don’t you think of a way to repay me, hmm?”

You push past the heaviness in your muscles, sitting up to meet his incredulous stare. Kenny sticks the cigar between his teeth, striking a match from the desk drawer to light the cap. The cigar is stale, cheap tobacco. But every drag now tastes like you.

“I- I could try to--” Words are left unspoken on your tongue, even now, the intonation is poison in your throat. 

You expect Kenny to laugh at your bashfulness, instead, two fingers come up to curl around the Rosary around your neck. He drags you forward, exhaling smoke into your parted, quivering lips. You try your best not to choke. 

He pulls the cigar away, ashing it carelessly on the floor.

“Use your words, kid, tell me what you want.” His words are sleazy but his voice is soft around the edges. Prompting you to shuffle onto his lap. His free hand rests in the small of your back to keep you steady.

“I want--” Fuck, your voice feels like it’ll fail, you take a moment to breathe, “I want you to fuck me, Kenny.” 

Your plea is rushed, so quick to hit his ears he almost misses it. There’s no hiding anymore, there’s nowhere else in this world but the private quarters of a long-dead clergy member. The space between you and Kenny is foggy and tense, only inches between lips.

There’s no more penance in this world, no more time to sit and atone for his sins with prayer. The soft, syrupy feeling of your cunt wrapping around his cock is a slice of heaven, cut out and stolen right from the sky. 

“I thought you’d never ask, doll face.” 

✞ all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[pahrak-the-sinnoh-slizer]

Right of Law, Section XXVI

(The kolhii tournament is about to begin in Civitas Magna, and the arrival of a certain team sparks some controversy.  Meanwhile, in Ga-Koro, Kojol receives a visit from one of the last people she ever expected.)

“After a series of heart-stopping qualifier matches, the 8585th District’s Kofo-Jaga have earned the privilege of representing Civitas Magna in this week’s kolhii tournament!  The dynamic duo of Bour and Keahi won over hearts from all across the city, stunning us all when…”  Tarduk looked up.  “Gaaki? You still there?”

The Ga-Matoran snapped to attention.  “O-Oh, yeah, sounds good!”

Tarduk set down the paper he was reading from and leaned forward.  “C’mon, Gaaki, we’ve got a deadline to meet.”

“Sorry...it’s just hard to focus.”  She glanced over her shoulder.  “I mean, is this really what should be on the front page?  There are much more important things going on.”

“You mean the things we were explicitly told not to write about?”

“Not just those, no.  What about that art that’s been circulating?  We’re allowed to cover that as long as we don’t make it sound like we sympathize.”

“Perditus is already doing an article on that.”

“He is?”

“Yeah.  Page 10.”

Gaaki ran a hand over her mask.  “No one reads to page 10…”

“Exactly.  Haven’t you figured Ahkmou out yet?  He wants to discourage people from buying and selling any suspected Nynrahn art, sure, but he knows that if he puts too much effort into it, people will get curious. A short afterthought of an editorial, though?  A casual dismissal like that will plant the idea to avoid it much more effectively.”

Gaaki’s eyes traced a crack in the ceiling.

“Look...I’m not happy about it, but this is the situation we find ourselves in, Gaaki.”

“So we should just play along?  Ignore our responsibility to inform the people?  Is that right?”

Tarduk sighed.  “...It sure doesn’t feel right.  But what would we accomplish if we made a push right now? We’d disappear, and the Chronicle would carry on as is--the people would be no better off.”

A long silence passed.

“We may be in a position to do some good...but if so, we’re only likely to get one good shot.  Aim carefully, Gaaki.”

The Ga-Matoran veered to one side.  Her attempts at forming a response were abandoned when the door swung open, letting in a frantic-looking De-Matoran wearing a Hau.  He rushed across the room, stopping only when Gaaki rose from her seat to say, “Woah, slow down there!  What’ve you got, Krakua?”

“I was at the wall,” the other Matoran panted, “interviewing teams as they arrived...the Mahri-Nui Hydruka showed up…”

Tarduk leaned back in his chair.  “Oh, that does sound like a scoop.  From what I hear they almost weren’t approved to participate.”

Krakua waved his hands.  “It’s even bigger than that!  Hahli and Dekar are here, as expected, but Dekar’s the substitute!  They’ve got Hewkii on the team now!”

Everyone looked up from their desks.  Gaaki gaped a moment before asking, “From the Atero Scarabax?  That Hewkii?”

“Exactly!  I’ve got to run this interview by the editor right away!”

Krakua took off once again.  Tarduk glanced at Gaaki, who remained perfectly still, eyes practically bulging out of her mask.  Time seemed to freeze in the newsroom as everyone collectively held their breath, until the silence was shattered by footsteps coming through the open door. Gaaki was first to see who it was, and immediately returned to her seat, the shock on her face now mixed with copious dread.

“Slow news day,” Ekimu said, tools jangling in his apron pockets as he strode across the floor.

“I am certain they are merely stunned by your arrival, Lord Ekimu,” Yarion said, the scuffs on their armor still faintly visible despite its recent polish.  “We are all humbled by your presence.”

At the back of the room, another door opened; Krakua quietly slinked out, and behind him stormed Ahkmou.  The Turaga froze mid-step when he noticed the Great Being.

“Ah, Lord Ekimu,” he said, quickly smoothing out his disposition.  “It is an honor to meet you in person at last.”

“Something’s wrong,” Ekimu said.  It was not a question.

“Ah...not to trouble you, my lord, but I did just receive some concerning news. It seems that someone with ties to Xia has arrived as part of the Mahri-Nui kolhii team.  I was just on my way to deal with the issue.”

Ekimu inclined his head.  Turning towards Krakua, he said, “You saw this?”

“Y-Yes, my lord,” Krakua answered.  “Hewkii from the Scarabax--”

“I’ll have him detained at once, Lord Ekimu,” Ahkmou said.  ��Please, there’s no need to worry yourself over the matter.”

Ekimu’s head swiveled back to regard Ahkmou.  “I don’t worry.”

“O-Oh, of course.”

“Leave him be.”

Ahkmou raised an eyebrow.  “...Ah...not to question you, but are you sure, my lord?  I have it on good authority that Hewkii assisted in defending the rebel-held Xia against Atero, and we already had some suspicions toward Mahri-Nui.  This is probably a rebel ploy.”

“I don’t care.”  Ekimu walked forward.  “I came to watch a tournament.  Make a mask for the winner.  Cause a stir now, and it may as well be cancelled.  And what’s the worst he can do?  Talk?  Who’s gonna listen when I’m here?”

Ahkmou bowed.  “Excellent point, Lord Ekimu.  Please forgive my rudeness.”

Ekimu passed the Turaga, saying, “Have Vamprah keep an eye on him.  Find out what he knows.  After the tournament, I’ll take him back to the Maze.”

“Of course, my lord.”  Ahkmou nodded to Yarion, who walked back outside.  Running after Ekimu, he said, “Now then, on to other matters!”

They disappeared into Ahkmou’s office.  Tarduk looked again to Gaaki, who was staring hard at the paper in front of her.  Quietly, he repeated, “Aim carefully.”

Gaaki locked eyes with him.  “I will.”

***

Dekar carefully peeked through the blinds.  Nothing stood out as suspicious, but it was hard to pick out faces in the large crowd gathered outside the hotel.

“Please stop checking every few minutes,” Hahli said.  “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Sorry,” he said as he stepped away from the window.  “Just a little on-edge.”

“I understand.  But if someone was coming for us, I’m sure we’d know.”

Hewkii lay on one of the beds, casually tossing a kolhii ball up and down. “Be at ease, friends.  If we’ve made it this far, I doubt we have anything to fear.”

“Is everyone from Atero so laid-back?” Dekar asked, tone flat as the pavement outside.

“Dekar,” Hahli mumbled.

Hewkii sat up.  “Oh...sorry, maybe it looks like I’m not taking this seriously.”

“No, no, we know you are.  But...how are you able to stay so calm?”

“I guess I’m just a little more prepared for being surrounded by enemies. Not that Atero’s forces see that much battle, but I imagine it’s more than Mahri-Nui’s used to.”

Dekar crossed his arms.  “You’d be surprised.  If this is how you approach battle, I’m amazed you’ve survived this long.”

“Hm? You’re a warrior?”

“A hunter, at least.  I also spend a lot of time surrounded by things that want me dead.”

Hewkii hopped to his feet, gently tossing the kolhii ball to Dekar.  “I see!  That must be exciting work!”

Dekar caught the ball in one hand, instantly stopping all its momentum. “It’s necessary work.  I wouldn’t call it ‘exciting’.”

Hewkii frowned.  Turning to Hahli, he said, “So, what is it you do when you’re not playing kolhii?”

“Oh, a little of everything,” Hahli said.  “Errands, deliveries, even hunting with Dekar every now and then.”

“Not really sure what it is you want to do?”

“Well…I’ve always been curious about reporting, but, there isn’t much need for that on an island as small as Mahri-Nui.”

“Is that so?  Need or not, you could always give it a try.”

Dekar shot the ball straight back at Hewkii, the other Toa bouncing it off his chest, rolling it down his arm, and then spinning it atop one finger. Unimpressed, Dekar said, “If you know something isn’t necessary, then doing it anyway is a waste of time.  Time you could spend doing something else.”

Hewkii tilted his head.  “...You have quite the work ethic, Dekar.  I’m a bit jealous!”

“Is playing kolhii ‘necessary’, Dekar?” Hahli asked.  “You need to have fun every once in a while.”

Dekar’s arms crossed once again.  “I need something to occupy myself.  Kolhii at least keeps me in good physical shape.  It’s practical.”

Hahli rolled her eyes.  “Oh, alright.”

Hewkii began juggling the ball with his foot.  “Dekar my friend, I think it would benefit you to relax a bit.  Once this is over, I’d be happy to lend you a hand.”

“There’s no guarantee any of us will be alive when this is over,” Dekar said. “Have you forgotten?  Did you even understand that risk when you agreed?”

Hewkii balanced the ball on his toe.  “I understand, and I haven’t forgotten.  But what’s the harm in a little optimism?  Plans falling through is better than seeing a day you never planned for, I think.”

“I’ll stay focused on the present.”

Finally, Hewkii set the ball down, resting his foot atop it.  “...You don’t like being a part of this operation, do you Dekar?”

Dekar paused.  “Honestly? I think it’s a bad idea.  If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have agreed to come.”

“It was up to you.  You were given a choice in whether you wanted to come or not.”

“Hm...I guess I should say ‘if it were just about me’.  But it isn’t. Mahri-Nui has allied with Zaekura, so we all have a responsibility to do what we can to make her vision a reality.” His voice dropped a bit.  “It’s a good vision.”  Returning to normal volume, he finished, “I’m prepared to do my part, whether I think it’s the best move or not.”

Hewkii grinned.  “I understand now.  You’re a good Toa, Dekar.”

Dekar grumbled something, going to throw himself onto a bed.  Hahli said, “Well, I like the plan.  Not everyday you get to save the world with kolhii, right?”

Hewkii laughed.

“I’m prepared for whatever might happen.  Hearing about what you saw in Xia made me ready to fight.”

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation.  Hewkii approached, asking, “Who is it?”

“Garan.”

Hewkii’s face lit up.  Opening the door, he said, “Garan!  I’m so glad to--”

He was greeted by a punch directly to the mask.  Stepping inside, Garan asked, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Dekar and Hahli leapt forward, each grabbing one of Garan’s shoulders.  “We should ask you that,” Dekar said.

“Ow…”  Hewkii rubbed his jaw.  “I see you haven’t gone soft at your new desk job!”

“Why did they let you in?” Garan asked.  “Your treachery isn’t a secret, Hewkii.  It’s only a matter of time until you get shipped straight to the Maze.”

“Well, if this is going to be my last game of kolhii, you’d better make it a good one.”

Garan glared at him in silence for a few seconds.

“Please, Garan--”

“Why?  Why did you have to betray us?”

Hewkii shook his head.  “I didn’t choose to fight against you, Garan.  I chose to fight for the people.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Don’t you know?”

Garan huffed.  He took a step back, shaking himself free of Hewkii’s teammates’ grips.  “The people will only be safe once Zaekura’s defeated. So I’m going make that happen as quickly as possible.”

Hewkii gave a single, slow nod.  “So that’s what you think.”

“What else can I think?  That it’s possible to defy the Great Beings?  That a system that’s controlled this planet for a hundred thousand years can just come toppling down, and that no one will suffer in the process?  You’re all just causing pointless chaos--can’t you see that?!”

He waited a long time for an answer.  Finally, Hewkii said, “I doubt there’s anything I can say that you haven’t already heard, Garan.  Let’s get some rest for tomorrow, alright?  Play well.”

Garan left without another word.

***

Using her powers of Magnetism, Kojol gently raised a new Peace banner, the old, weathered one now in a pile in the corner.  As she set it in place, she heard someone enter the cathedral.  She paid them no mind as she made sure the decoration was aligned properly.

“Kojol.”

She blinked.  Turning, she confirmed what she thought she had heard.  “Hmph...seems there truly is a first time for everything.”

Gorast growled, taking a seat in one of the pews.  “That how you treat your visitors?”

“You’re a special exception.  Isn’t that how you prefer it?”

“Pfeh.  You’re one to talk.”

“Much as I enjoy catching up, Gorast, why don’t you simply tell me why you’re here?”

Gorast eyed the Suva at the center of the room.  “...I don’t really know.  I was just passing by.”

“Then, if you’ll excuse me.”  Kojol continued replacing the banners.

After a very long pause, Gorast said, “I never liked you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Kojol said, not slowing in her work.

“You always ignored what the Great Beings wanted and did things your own way. I could never understand that.  We exist to serve them.”

“Perhaps.  The way I look at things, I have a more specific role--not that it need clash with the will of the Great Beings.”

“But you’re harboring rebels.  That idiot reporter interviewed Zaekura right here, didn’t he?”

“I am merely carrying out my role as I understand it.  Aren’t you doing the same?”

Gorast dug her claws into the pew in front of her.  “Don’t give me that!  The will of the Great Beings is absolute, not something you can twist however you want!”

Casting a glance over her shoulder, Kojol said, “Such narrow thinking.  Are you wholly dependent on the Great Beings, unable to make any decision for yourself?”

“I don’t need to decide for myself!”  She slowly rose to her feet.  “You may think you know better than the Great Beings, but I’m not that stupid!”

Kojol beat her staff against the floor.  “Calm yourself at once!  This is a place of peace, and I shall see it remains so!”

“Hah!  You really think you could stop me?”

“You may be a peerless warrior, Gorast, but even you could not face down the whole of Ga-Koro single-handedly.”

Gorast clicked her claws together.  “You sound awfully sure of that.”

“Are you prepared to learn why?”

They held each other’s gaze for a minute.  Then, Gorast snarled and turned aside.  “You all sicken me.  I’m the only one who deserves the title of Makuta.”

“You are certainly the only one who views it the way you do.  You’re like a child, proudly ignorant of the outside world, clinging to your parent’s leg so you cannot miss a single of their acts to perfect your mimicry.  At least the child does not know anything else.”

Gorast whirled.  “What did you say?!”

“I’ve no intention to repeat myself.”  Kojol returned to work.  “Will you be staying long?”

“...I need to escort Lord Ekimu back to the Maze in a few days.  Maybe I should just stay here until then.”

“Very well.  I hope you enjoy your stay.”

Gorast paused.  “You’d really let me stay?”

“Of course.  Ga-Koro welcomes all.”

She wished she had an answer, but she couldn’t even process what she was being told.  With a low grumble, Gorast sat back down, angrily watching Kojol work as she waited for some kind of retort to come.  As she waited, many came and went, offering prayers at the Suva or briefly conversing with Kojol about something--they all seemed wary of Gorast, but none were deterred by her presence.  She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.  Eventually, she got up and left the cathedral; she was only just down its steps when she bumped into a Guurahk wearing a beret.

“Oh...Makuta Gorast,” he said.  “W-What a surprise…”

Gorast sneered.  “It talks...one of Bitil’s, I take it?”

“Ah...yes.  My name is Ulwin.”

“I don’t care.”

Ulwin nodded and turned to leave.

“...Wait.”

Ulwin stopped, half-turning to face her.  “Yes?”

“Is Bitil here?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“...And you’re willing to tell me that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gorast clenched her fists.  “One of your enemies is right here.  Doesn’t that worry you?”

Ulwin glanced up the steps for a second.  “...It does, yes.  But I know that I’m safe here.”

Some unfamiliar emotion pulled at Gorast.  Ignoring it, she said, “You really think Kojol cares enough to protect you? Bitil’s the only one who can stand you mutant slugs.  I’m surprised you’d go anywhere without him.”

Ulwin’s eyes narrowed slightly.  “I admit...it has been difficult.  And we knew it would be--that’s certainly part of why we were always so reluctant to leave father’s side.  But, slowly, people are coming to understand us, to accept us.  Makuta Kojol has welcomed us just as she would any other, and I have complete faith that she would protect us as any other.  We’ve come to realize we don’t have to be dependent on father forever.”

For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Gorast felt a sickly flame rising within her.

“I quite look forward to venturing to other cities, getting to know more people. I look forward to the safer world Zaekura is fighting for.”

“Zaekura,” Gorast spat.  “She won’t win.”

Ulwin shrugged.  “I suppose we shall see.  Good day, Makuta.”

He made his way into the cathedral, leaving Gorast to stew.  Just as she was about to take her anger out on whatever was within reach, Kojol emerged, eyes immediately locking onto her.  Gorast hesitated.  And that made her disgusted in herself.

No...I won’t be swayed, she thought, turning and walking off.  I’m only holding back because the Great Beings told me too.

Her thoughts shifted to Ulwin.

Stupid slug.  Rahkshi aren’t meant to talk back. Everyone...just keeps stepping out of line.

The crowds parted as Gorast made her way down the street, not a single soul eager for the misfortune of getting in her way.  She barely noticed.

But I won’t.  I’ll stay loyal, even if I am the only real Makuta left.  Questions and doubts are for the weak.  I won’t give into that weakness.

[seeaddywrite]

give me strength so i can see (buddie; 9-1-1)

wow, okay, this is absolutely not something i should have written before i finished one of my wips, but this is what happened. i fully blame 9-1-1 & the chemistry between Buck & Eddie, because i couldn’t NOT write fic after the tsunami arc ended. this is my first foray into the fandom & their heads, so please be kind. also, this fic would not exist in its entirety without @soberqueerinthewild, who is always the best cheerleader, beta, & person around. <3 i’ve been in a bit of writing slump lately, so it feels really good to actually finish something!

warnings for self-loathing, references to depression, & excessive amounts of adverbs. 

The moment that Buck sees Christopher safely reunited with his father, all of the stress and adrenaline that had kept him going for the last several hours floods away instantaneously. He collapses forward, uncaring of the hard ground that rushes up to meet him. Hen and Chimney stop him from face-planting on the floor of the emergency hospital, but Buck barely tracks their reassurances or their hands as they try to assess the damage he’s done to himself in his frantic attempts to find Christopher. Buck wants to tell them to stop, that he’s fine, that all he ever needed was to witness the scene unfolding in front of them, with Eddie and Christopher, but he can’t quite manage the words through his chattering teeth. Blood loss is a bitch, and teamed with exhaustion, Buck knows it’ll take a while before he’s fully able to interact with the world again. 

Right now, that feels like a positive. The only two people he wants to talk to are half a hospital away, wrapped up in each other. Even when he regains feeling in his legs and is steady enough to leave the hospital, he doesn’t try to go near them. Instead, Buck watches from a distant cot as Christopher is checked out by a doctor and his father’s careful, assessing gaze, and slips through Chim and Hen’s guard to leave the makeshift hospital a moment after Chis is pronounced healthy, if tired and cold. 

It’s cowardly for him to leave like this, he knows, without so much as an apology to the brave little boy or any attempt to make this up to Eddie, but Buck is too tired to fight, and he’s not sure he could remain standing under the direct onslaught of Eddie’s entirely justified anger that night. Buck would face up to his mistakes later, but for now, it seems kinder for all of them to slip back to the apartment that doesn’t quite feel like a home and hide away under the blankets that still reek of depression and listlessness.  

It’s hard to sleep that night, despite the exhaustion plaguing him. The day’s events play on repeat in his head, waking him with a jolt every time he  manages to doze off. Every mistake is so obvious in retrospect -- had he really expected a child with cerebral palsy to keep himself steady on top of a floating fire truck? If he hadn’t had to play the hero, if he’d just stayed up there with Chris, it never would have happened. Buck would have had the little boy securely in his arms the entire time. He would never have been lost, or dependent on the kindness of strangers to get him to a hospital. Buck would never have been forced to look Eddie in the eye and tell him that he’d lost his son, or watch that familiar, impossibly deep gaze fill with grief and horror and blame before Chris’s miraculous reappearance. 

If Buck hadn’t had to play the fucking hero, maybe he would have finally been able to tell Eddie the truth about how he felt in the rush of victory, of survival and reunion. Maybe he would’ve finally had the guts to admit that being a best friend isn’t what he wants anymore, to say the words he’s been mulling over for what seems like forever. Maybe, just maybe, he could have discovered whether or not there was a chance for them to take things further -- but none of that matters now. The fear of being into guys -- or at least Eddie? Buck hasn’t quite figured that part out yet -- pales in comparison to the pain of losing a best friend and Christopher, who’d managed to get under his skin and cuddle in close to Buck’s heart when he wasn’t looking.  

In the end, Buck gets out of bed earlier than usual, giving up on sleep. There’s a slim chance that leaving his bed will stop his thoughts from continuing on that same, downward spiral, and Buck’s nothing if not a gambler. He winds up at the kitchen table, staring out at the sunrise with a beer sitting half-empty in front of him -- just staring out as the new day begins. It’s incredible, he muses, that from here, he could almost pretend nothing catastrophic had happened the day before. The sun is still rising, the birds are still chirping, the neighbors below him are still arguing at decibels loud enough to wake the dead. It’s the same as always, and just as he had for the last six months, Buck finds himself wondering how the world outside can simply keep going when his own personal world had come to a screeching halt. Only today, it’s worse than just losing his job, his identity. Now he’s lost his best friend, too, and the trust of a child he cares about. The losses are far more grievous.

A knock at the apartment door shakes him out of the self-loathing stupor, and Buck drags his aching body out of the kitchen chair with a groan. His bad leg throbs with the addition of his weight, but Buck has a lot of practice at ignoring that, these days, so he continues on with barely a limp, and opens the door, expecting to find Maddie, with her relentless optimism, or Bobby, with yet another pep talk prepared.

Instead, Eddie stares back at him from the hallway, his hands resting comfortably on Chris’s small shoulders as the little boy totters forward on his back-up crutches to hug Buck with a wide, blameless smile. Buck stands, stiff with astonishment, and pats Chris awkwardly on the back, still staring at Eddie, trying to figure out what the other man is playing at. Old instincts make him defensive, stiff, as Eddie leads Christopher into the apartment and begins rattling off the contents of the bag he’s plopped on the table next to Buck’s half-empty bottle. 

It’s hard, but Buck manages to tear his attention from Christopher, who’s sitting happily on the coffee table in front of the TV, to try to get a read on Eddie’s expression. Is this some kind of test? Is Buck supposed to play along, or is he supposed to blow up so Eddie has an easy excuse for Chris about why he’s not allowed to come over anymore? Buck has no idea, and the indecision makes him swallow harshly. He doesn’t want to fuck anything up any worse than he already has— by some miracle, he has both of the Diaz men in his home again, and God, Buck wants to keep them there. The sense of family they’ve given him in the last six months of hell is better than anything he’s had since he left home, and losing it once almost killed him. Losing it a second time, now, before he’s had the chance to say something? Buck doesn’t  think he could do it. 

“You want me to watch Christopher?” The words are incredulous, and not half as even as Buck would have liked, but he manages to keep his voice from cracking, so he takes the win where he can. 

Eddie’s less than a foot away now; Buck has closed the distance between at some point, but he honestly couldn’t pinpoint when. There’s no waver in his dark gaze, no uncertainty or anger, and Buck has no idea what to make of it, especially when his response is teasing and light. “It’s easy— he’s not very fast.”

Buck swallows the surprised response that threatens and schools his expression into something resembling calm, but his gut churns nervously. Everything about this interaction screams too easy, and if he’s learned anything through physical therapy, it’s that if something seems too easy, it probably is. No pain, no reward, his therapist is fond of reminding him, and Buck has always agreed. Then again, he’s never feared physical pain. This? The emotional toll of facing Eddie and Chris after his failures? That’s fucking terrifying.

“After everything that happened-“ 

“A natural disaster happened, Buck.”

Part of Buck wants to scoff, to point out everything that had happened after the natural disaster couldn’t be blamed on nature, not unless it was Buck’s. It is in his nature to tend toward making stupid fucking calls in the heat of the moment, after all. The other part of him soaks up Eddie’s words like a plant does sunlight. He keeps his eyes averted, though, still unable to accept it, unable to even fathom the possibility that Eddie doesn’t hate him. Because he should. Buck knows, because he’s pretty sure he hates himself. 

“I lost him, Eddie,” he manages, the reminder a low, defeated croak. Memories from the day before flicker in the spaces between words, broken images and impressions of the desperate search for Christopher, and Buck has to swallow once, twice, to defeat the nausea threatening to overcome him. Buck’s not a parent, isn’t sure he’ll ever be one, but he loves Christopher like his own, and the idea of losing him for good is more than enough to bring him to his knees.

 But Christopher is alive. He’d made it out of the tsunami despite Buck’s hubris, and is happily watching cartoons in the living room. 

The mental reminder is enough to stop Buck from vomiting on Eddie’s shoes, at least. 

“You saved him. That’s how he remembers it.” Eddie pauses, like he’s trying to let the weight of his words sink through Buck’s thick skull. And it’s not like Buck doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to stop seeing every moment of that horrible day on repeat every time he closes his eyes. There’s not much he wouldn’t do to stop the sinking pit of guilt in his stomach, or the squirming sense of self-loathing when he comes close to meeting Eddie’s gaze. But he can’t. The fact that Christopher made it out alive doesn’t make up for Buck’s mistake, and Eddie knows that. Buck had read the blame in his eyes before Christopher showed up at the hospital, seen the way his entire body had shifted away from Buck and into tight, tense lines that spoke of a strong desire to punch him in the face -- at the least. 

It had hurt, torn open whatever parts of him weren’t already bleeding with Christopher’s loss, and Buck couldn’t forget it, so this entire conversation felt almost dreamlike, a fantasy that Buck isn’t sure he can trust, no matter how much he’d like to. 

“And now it’s turn to do the same for you,” Eddie continues, oblivious to Buck’s internal conflict. 

And God, Buck wants that. He wants to put the entire disaster behind him, ignore all of the ways he’d fucked up and cling to the second chance Eddie seems to be offering without talking about it -- but Buck’s played that game before. He knows how it always ends. Bottling difficult things never works for long, and the resulting explosion is usually worse than whatever the actual problem was. 

So Buck trails Eddie into his living room, staying just a step behind, and shakes his head when he feels himself become the focus on that intense gaze once again. “I was -- I was supposed to watch out for him,” he tries again, stumbling over the words he doesn’t really want to say. Buck doesn’t do shy or shrinking; his entire life has been about taking up space, being unapologetically himself, but this is different, somehow. This is Eddie, whose opinion has meant too damn much to Buck since the first day they locked eyes at the station, who’s such an integral part of Buck’s life and happiness that the idea of losing him sucks the air from Buck’s lungs. This matters, in a way that nothing but firefighting and Maddie ever had, and Buck won’t screw it up again. He can’t. 

“And what, you think you failed?” 

Damn it, did Eddie have to sound so nonchalant about this? Of course Buck failed! Christopher had been missing for six fucking hours -- no matter how that equation’s set up, the answer is still the same. 

“Buck, I’ve failed that kid more times than I care to count, and I’m his father.”

The words are layered in empathy, in a sense of understanding, that makes something constrict tightly in Buck’s chest. Eddie shouldn’t be comparing Buck’s failure to the trials of being an actual parent -- the two aren’t even remotely close. Christopher has always been safe, happy, and cared for with his father, and Buck knows it because he’s seen it. He’s seen Eddie fight for his son to have the best education, the best childcare, the best of everything. He’s seen Eddie cut himself off from dating on the off chance Christopher would get hurt, seen him leave his own home and family in order for Christopher to be closer to his. There’s nothing Eddie wouldn’t do for the boy, and knows that Eddie’s never really failed his son. Not when it counted. So he can’t help the short, instinctive shake of his head at the reassurance, because it’s just not true. 

“But I love him enough to never stop trying, and I know you do, too.”

Unnamed emotion clogs Buck’s throat, and he glances down at the floor, swallowing hard. It’s been hard to play the tough, cool guy the last several months, so Eddie’s already seen him as weak and vulnerable as Buck can get -- career-ending injuries, a lack of mobility, and obvious depression hadn’t done great things for his rep around the 118, not that Buck had particularly cared at the time. Eddie’d been around the most, though, only slightly less often than Maddie, and had seen it all. So it should be easy to admit to loving Christopher, to caring more about his best friend’s son than he cared about anyone outside of Maddie and the 118 squad. 

It isn’t. 

Buck doesn’t get a chance to say anything, which is probably a blessing. One of Eddie’s large, work-roughened hands claps his shoulder, and warmth bleeds through the thin cotton of Buck’s t-shirt and sends a thrill down his spine. He still doesn’t manage to meet the eyes waiting on him until he hears his name, the single syllable infused with an order that Buck can’t quite ignore. 

But once he gives in, Buck’s immediately lost to the intensity of Eddie’s familiar dark gaze. He’s so close, now, and the heat his body throws off is slowly seeping into the icy chasm in Buck’s chest. Maybe, he realizes, he can trust this -- trust Eddie. Because no matter what has gone on between them, no matter how much of an ass Buck has been, there’s never been any reason to doubt Eddie’s sincerity; and there’s no way he’d so cruel as to dangle forgiveness and understanding in front of Buck only to yank it away at the last minute. 

“There is nobody,” Eddie begins firmly, and the open honesty in his face makes Buck shiver. Paired with the soft tapping of his thumb against the exposed skin of Buck’s collarbone, it would be all too easy for Buck to sway into the broad chest in front of him and know that Eddie would catch him. “ -- in this world that I trust with my son more than you.” 

It’s the last thing he expects to hear, and Buck blinks rapidly at Eddie, trying to understand how it could possibly be true after the previous day’s terror -- but there’s no hesitation in Eddie’s stance, no hint of uncertainty or the blame Buck knows he caught yesterday at the hospital. Buck swallows again, the sound of his throat working audible in the sudden quiet. Thanks and emotional confessions jam in his mouth until he can’t say anything, and Eddie doesn’t give him a chance before he’s squeezing Buck’s shoulder and dropping the point of contact to go say goodbye to Christopher in the living room. 

Though his skin is cold where Eddie’s touch lingered, Buck’s grateful for the reprieve. He turns his head and wipes at damp eyes, trying to regain some of the composure he’s lost. Eddie is too good at stripping down every defense, at seeing past all of his walls and leaving Buck open and vulnerable. It’s why he was the only one who could cajole Buck into going to PT after his last surgery, when things were looking hopeless, why he alone could drag Buck out of bed when even Bobby and Athena got shown the door -- hell, Eddie had even wound up with a fucking spare key to the apartment when Maddy didn’t even have one. And Buck is tired of being weak and vulnerable, of needing constant reassurance that he’s wanted and forgiven. This broken-down, over-emotional man he’s become isn’t who Evan Buckley is, and Buck suddenly needs to make that really damn clear to Eddie. 

But Eddie’s already on his way out the door with a few teasing comments about staying in-land, so Buck lets him go with a chuckle that feels natural, even if the circumstances don’t. He pivots on his good leg to join Christopher in front of the television, only to stop short when Eddie pops his head back in the door. 

“Thank you,” he says, in that same voice that’s sent chills down Buck’s spine at least twice that morning. “For not giving up.” And Eddie’s gone before Buck can summon any sort of response beyond the frustrated yearning that builds in the pit of his stomach when he vanishes out of the doorframe. Buck stares after him helplessly -- and god damn it, it’s not fair that Eddie can be so damned perfect when Buck is still reeling. He’s had months to come to terms with the fact that Eddie is ridiculously good-looking; and it’s never been a big deal that he likes to watch him work out, once in a while. So does pretty much everyone at the station. But this want, this desperation for Eddie’s approval, for his care and closeness -- that’s not normal. That’s not straight. And yeah, okay, maybe Buck’s had a few hints that he could be into guys before, maybe he’s considered and discarded the idea a few times over the years, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been so all-consuming, so impossible to ignore. It’s never been so terrifying. Not because Eddie’s a guy; Buck could care less about that. But Eddie is Buck’s best friend. Hell, outside of the others at the 118, Eddie’s his only friend. The rest have all disappeared, lost in the gaping chasm that separates first responders from civilians who could never understand the pull of the job, no matter how dangerous it might be. And then, of course, there’s Christopher -- the kid who’s still sitting in the living room in front of the TV, patiently waiting for Buck to get his shit together and join him. 

Right. Crisis later. Babysitting now. 

He can do this, one step at a time. Eddie’s not mad at him, and if he says that Chris isn’t either, then Buck can take him at his word. Buck drags in a slow breath, straightens his shoulders, and goes to join the child on the couch with a genuine, if small, smile.

“Hey, buddy …” 

****** 

They spend the day in the apartment, this time. Buck wants to say that it’s because they deserve a lazy day after previous one’s mess, but really, there’s a large part of him that’s afraid to set foot outside with Christopher, no matter how slim the chance of a second natural disaster. So they spend hours on the floor of the living room building increasingly complex structures with Legos and order that pizza Eddie prescribed and devour the entire thing --  if Buck eats a little more than he normally would, it definitely isn’t because Eddie told him to. It’s light and uncomplicated, just easy camaraderie that Buck never expected himself capable of finding with anyone, let alone a little kid, and the ease of it all is enough to allow some of his anxiety to bleed away. For the first time in the last thirty-six hours, Buck is truly able to relax. 

Christopher’s energy starts to wane after dinner, so Buck takes the initiative to put in one of the movies shoved in the bag Eddie packed for him. They end up in a pile of blankets and cushions on the floor -- Buck’s leg is stiff and sore after yesterday’s exertions, and Christopher hasn’t said anything, but he’s moving a lot more slowly than usual, and taking extra care when he does, so Buck guesses that he’s in some pain, too. Cerebral Palsy isn’t something he knows a whole lot about, but a lack of muscle tone is pretty obvious, and clinging to poles and other floating refuse during the tsunami had to have taken a toll on his little body. Not that Christopher had ever complained -- and that, right there, is yet another reason for Buck to be in awe of what that child is capable of. 

“Buck?” 

The small voice interrupts whatever animated crap is on the screen, and Buck glances down at Chris in askance. From this angle, all he can see is blonde curls; Chris has his cheek pressed against Buck’s chest, and is curled up beneath one arm. The warm weight against his body has Buck half asleep himself, but he rouses enough to ask, “Yeah?” 

“You didn’t lose me.” The simple, sleepy words make Buck’s heart seize, and he stares down at the top of Christopher’s head, trying to form words with numb lips. “I heard you tell Daddy that you did, but you didn’t.” Buck is struck speechless. He freezes, and the silence in the room seems a condemnation of his inability to speak, but Christopher doesn’t seem to mind. He presses on, unconcerned. “You found me, and I kept swimming, just like Dory, and I found you and Daddy. And I’m safe, and you’re safe, and we don’t need to be scared anymore.”  The matter-of-fact, blunt sentiment is hard for Buck to swallow, but he runs a hand over Christopher’s disheveled curls and down his back, anyway.

“I’m sorry you had to be scared at all, buddy,” he says honestly, and manages to keep his voice level and calm, despite the uncertainty he feels. “But you’re right. You’re safe now, and that’s what matters.” It seems like the most natural thing in the world to drop a casual kiss to the crown of blonde hair, and Buck doesn’t allow himself to second-guess the impulse when it’s done. “Come on, kid, you’re falling asleep. Let’s get you up to bed, huh? Your dad won’t be here for another few hours, and I think we both deserve a nap.” It’s not his most graceful or subtle subject change, but Chris is young enough not to notice -- or tactful enough to let it go, Buck’s honestly not sure which. 

Mock complaints and grumblings get tossed around, but Christopher clings to Buck’s neck as he carries him up the stairs and helps him settle into the bed with a minimum amount of fuss. They lay on the mattress together for half an hour, until Christopher’s breathing is slow and even, and there’s no hint of wakefulness on his young face. Buck knows better than to ruin his progress with sleeping during the day; that’s a one-way ticket back to the land of depression and hopelessness, and he refuses to fall back into bad habits. Instead, he slides from the bed, careful not to jolt the other occupant, and heads downstairs. He hadn’t had a chance to do his stretches and exercises from physical therapy that day, yet, and he knows he needs to -- firefighter or no, he’s not losing any mobility. The stretches have the added bonus of requiring all of his attention and focus, so his mind won’t wander to any dark places. Or any Eddie-shaped places, which Buck is pretty sure he should avoid, too. 

So that’s how Eddie finds Buck an hour or so later, sweat-soaked and lying, arms and legs akimbo, on the living room floor. He hadn’t heard a knock, or even the door opening, over the pounding of his own heart, and Buck flails upright into a sitting position when he hears the familiar chuckle from the entryway. 

“Only you would spend an entire day fighting a tsunami and still feel like you need to work out the next day,” Eddie says lightly as he enters the room, dressed in the same casual outfit from this morning. There’s a cut above his eye that hadn’t been there before, and Buck knows him well enough to read the fatigue in the set of his shoulders and the lines around his mouth. He recognizes that look from a hundred rough shifts, and can imagine what Eddie’s seen today on clean-up duty from the tsunami. He shudders, then carefully picks himself up off the ground and leads his guest into the kitchen to grab them both a beer without asking if Eddie wants one.

“Can’t slack off on PT,” Buck explains as they both settle down at the tiny kitchen table. “I may not be a firefighter anymore, but I’m not going to get stuck working behind a desk somewhere.” He can’t quite look directly at Eddie, but it’s easier now than it had been this morning to try. The sucking pit of desolation in his chest is gone, replaced by a stupid, schoolgirl flutter of nerves in his gut when they stand too close, and Buck doesn’t really know what to do with that -- but it’s easier than waiting to hear if Eddie’s decided to close him out of his and Christopher’s life for good. 

“You’re not going to end up behind a desk,” Eddie says firmly. There’s a frown forming between his brows, and something distinctly unhappy in the way he’s staring at Buck. Before the latter has a chance to question it, Eddie stands up and grabs both bottles of beer from the table. Without a word, he shoves both of them back in the fridge, then turns to face Buck again with his chin raised in challenge. “Unless you keep drinking your breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that is. Did you even eat today?” 

Buck’s spine stiffens defensively. “Chris ate lunch and dinner,” he says carefully. There’s good reason for Eddie to doubt that Buck’s been taking good care of his son, after all, even if this morning it had seemed they were passed it. “And I wouldn’t drink when I was watching him, Eddie.” 

A complicated series of emotions flickers over Eddie’s face, but it’s hidden behind one large hand before Buck can even try to translate it. “I didn’t ask if Christopher had eaten,” he says quietly, and drags his hand down his face to rest on the table directly in front of Buck. The movement has him leaning down, leaving them so close that their faces mere inches from each other. Immediately, the speed of Buck’s heartbeat kicks up a notch, and he curses himself for reacting so inappropriately to mere proximity. “I told you this morning, man -- I trust you with my son. I know you wouldn’t drink while you were watching him, or forget to feed him, just like I know you never gave up on him yesterday.” 

Buck chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, then deliberately leans back in his chair, trying to put some space between them before he answers. “Then what’s up with the third degree?” he demands, trying for some semblance of his usual bravado. “If you really thought I was taking good care of Christopher, why are you --”

“Because Christopher isn’t the only person I care about, Buck,” Eddie cuts in sharply. Frustration emanates from him in waves, and Buck wants to offer reassurance, but he’s too busy trying not to read too far into those words to manage it. Eddie cares about him. He’s known that for months -- caring isn’t the same as wanting to be with someone romantically. The two of them are friends. Best friends. And Buck needs to get ahold of himself before he says or does something to ruin that. 

“What --” 

“Don’t sit there and act like you don’t know what I mean!” Eddie shoves away from the table and paces in a circle around the table, never taking his eyes off of Buck as he does so. Unlike other moments when Eddie looks at him, Buck finds he doesn’t like this sort of scrutiny. It leaves him feeling like all of his weakest, most fragile parts have been put on display, and Buck’s never been good at admitting to his own problems. “It was bad enough when you were laid up from surgery, but now you’re either drinking or sleeping, or pushing yourself way too hard in PT. You’ve been losing weight for weeks, and it’s not healthy, Buck! I’m worried about you!”

Silence reigns in the kitchen for a long moment as Buck tamps down hard on the impulse to bellow that he’s fine, and no one asked Eddie to worry about him -- that’s the response of a scared man-child, not the person that Buck is trying to be. And truthfully, it’s nice to know that someone’s looking out for him. The others at the 118 and Maddy try, Buck knows, but they’re easy to reassure. A grin here, a cock-sure comment about his prowess there, a playful slug to the shoulder, and almost everyone sees him as the same old Buck who’d gotten into the fire engine the night of the bombings. 

Eddie’s not that easy to fob off, and as much as it makes Buck feel uncomfortable, it makes him feel seen. 

“I’m okay, Eddie,” he says instead, and lifts his chin to hold the skeptical gaze aimed at him. “I am, really.” The words feel honest, for the first time in quite a while, and Buck even manages a genuine smile. “You were right, when you dropped Chris off yesterday. Hanging out with him -- it was what I needed.” Buck shakes his head in remembered awe of the little boy and his strength. Even stranded in rushing water higher than his head, clinging to a pole for dear life, Christopher had been braver than Buck ever could be, and his courage and grace under pressure had shown Buck exactly how much work he had to do to deserve any part of the life he felt entitled to. “You and him -- even with everything yesterday -- you guys made me realize I needed to do something different, or I was going to end up somewhere I never wanted to be.” His smile thins, slightly, and Buck reaches out to touch one of the arms crossed over Eddie’s chest. “Even if I’m still not sure how you forgave me so easily, after what I did.” 

An exasperated huff escapes Eddie’s mouth, and gives the impression that if this were a cartoon, he’d be tossing his hands in the air. “Buck, there was never anything to forgive!” he says, voice pitched just low enough that it wouldn’t wake Christopher. “You got stuck in a tsunami. I know you’ve got an ego, but you can’t really take credit for a natural disaster. And Christopher is fine!” 

“But he almost wasn’t!” Buck interjects, tired of being the rational one in the room. If Eddie seriously wants to have this conversation, then he’s going to have to face the truth, too. “Give me a fucking break, Eddie -- those two mintues between me telling you I’d lost him and that woman showing up with Chris in her arms? You did blame me. You looked at me, and that’s all I could see, okay? You did blame me. And you were right. I messed up. I was supposed to look out for your son, and I failed, and it’s okay for you to blame me for it.” 

God, Buck’s tired. He hasn’t been until this moment, but it’s like this argument and facing these awful truths have sapped every last bit of energy from his veins, and he’s not sure how much longer he’ll be up for arguing with Eddie in his kitchen. He leans forward on his elbows over the table an exhales gustily, then lifts his chin again, determined to catch the moment when Eddie finally admits the truth to himself. 

But instead of the realization Buck has been expecting, Eddie’s face is only showing that same frustration. They freeze like that for a moment, Buck leaning against the table and trying hard to hold himself together, Eddie staring down at him from his position against the wall of the kitchen, arms folded over his chest, that guilt-laden frustration obvious in his expression. 

Then, faster than Buck can track, Eddie’s standing in front of his chair, grabbing his elbows and pulling him to his feet. It’s a gentle yank, and Buck could have ignored it if he chose, but he’s shocked enough by Eddie’s closeness that he goes along with it. They end up toe-to-toe, close enough that Buck can feel warm breath on his cheek, and there’s nowhere to look that doesn’t end with him staring back into Eddie’s dark eyes. 

“Look at me now,” Eddie tells him quietly, and Buck has to quell a shiver as two solid hands land on both of his shoulders, squeezing with just a little too much pressure to be truly comfortable. “I want you to stand here, and look straight at me while I tell you this: I do not blame you for what happened yesterday. I’m grateful to you for not giving up on him, okay? I know you love him, and I can’t even tell you how relieved I am that he has you in his corner.”

This feels like the conversation they should have had this morning, when more was being left unsaid that wasn’t, and this time, Buck isn’t going to pretend. “I do love him,” he admits, still looking straight into Eddie’s face. Vulnerability is hard, but it would be harder to keep pretending -- and Buck’s so damn tired of pretending. “And I, uh … I believe you.” Because there’s no denying reality, not when it’s quite literally staring him in the face. No matter what he saw, or thought he saw, yesterday, Eddie really doesn’t blame Buck for losing Christopher. They’re still solid, still good, and Buck’s not losing anyone. 

Relief swamps him as hard as any of the waves from the day before, even though Buck had thought he’d stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop that morning. Apparently, anxiety isn’t that easy to get rid of, even when it’s not screaming in the back of his head. He shifts to take a step back, to carry himself out of Eddie’s gravitational pull, before he ends up falling into his chest or something equally embarrassing, but Eddie’s grip just tightens on his shoulders, not allowing Buck to go anywhere. 

A second passes, two, and Eddie leans in a little closer, until they’re sharing the same breath. Buck swallows convulsively, telling himself over and over that he’s misreading the situation, that this can’t be what it feels like, but he can’t stop his eyes drifting down Eddie’s face to catch stubbornly on his mouth.  Full lips quirk up in a smirk, and heat rushes to pool in Buck’s belly. He doesn’t know what this moment is or how they got here, doesn’t know where they’re going next, but that smirk tells him everything that he needs to know: Eddie knows what Buck wants. Knows how he feels. Probably has for a while. 

And he hasn’t gone anywhere.

“I keep waiting for you to figure it out,” Eddie says in a low voice, and Buck’s eyelashes flutter before he can remind himself that he wants to be wholly present in this moment and doesn’t want to miss a damn thing. “I don’t go around telling everyone I meet that I trust them with my son’s life, Buck. Outside of my family, you’re it, do you get that?” It’s Eddie’s turn to swallow, and Buck tracks the movement of his throat with wide eyes. “You’re it.”

There’s a different meaning to the words the second time Eddie says them, and Buck feels like a kid at the eye doctor, putting glasses on for the first time. When he looks back at every interaction he’s had with Eddie since the bombs, he can see the same want reflected in Eddie’s face that has stared back at him in the mirror every day. When he runs his eyes over Eddie’s expression, he can read the same nervous hope, the same uncertainty, beneath his confident exterior. 

And this time, when Eddie leans further into his space, Buck leans back. 

Their lips bump together, almost incidentally, a soft kiss that’s more of a test than it is a true embrace. Buck’s heart leaps, and the anxious flutter in his stomach is back as he tips his head to correct the angle. The second time their lips meet, it’s better -- Eddie lets out a soft, surprised huff of air, and Buck takes advantage, pulling him closer with impatient hands at the belt loops of his jeans. He’s not thinking anymore, stopped sometime around when Eddie’s fingers tightened around his shoulders, and it feels so good to lose himself, to trust that Eddie will catch him as he falls. 

“You could’ve just said,” Buck mutters against Eddie’s lips, his hands roaming over the forearms revealed by the style of his button-up shirt. “I thought I was going crazy.” He wants to be annoyed that Eddie’s known all this time and waited for Buck to make the first move, but he can’t quite work up to it. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he needed the chance to wrap his head around this new truth about himself, and if Eddie had made a move before he was ready, Buck knows he wouldn’t have reacted well. 

“I’m pretty sure your sanity has been in question for way longer than I’ve been in LA,” Eddie shoots back with another teasing smirk. At some point, his hands slid from Buck’s shoulders to the planes of his back, and Buck’s not ashamed to admit that he pushes back into the touch, arching his spine like a cat seeking attention. He rolls his eyes at the joke and presses his face into Eddie’s neck, taking a long, slow breath to steady himself. The last two days -- hell, the last several weeks -- have been a riot of emotion that he’s still trying to sort, and as happy as he is in this moment, Buck knows that there’s still a lot for he and Eddie to talk about and work through. And Buck’s life is still a shambles, no matter how unexpectedly good his personal life has become. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Eddie tells him, his arms snug around Buck’s waist, holding him comfortably against his chest. “The world is complicated, Buck, but you and me? That doesn’t have to be. We can figure it out as we go.” A steady hand smooths over Buck’s spine, and he relaxes incrementally. It sounds too good to be true, but Buck has no intention of giving this up now that he’s got it. And Eddie’s gone to great lengths to make sure Buck knows that he can be trusted when he says something, today -- it wouldn’t make any sense to stop now. 

Buck lifts his head and smiles at Eddie with an echo of his old, rakish grin. “You’re going to have to do better than one kiss if you want me to stop thinking,” he says daringly, throwing caution to the wind and jumping headfirst into the unknown. Overthinking and panicking isn’t who Buck is, and he’s not going to let recent events change him. He’s stronger than circumstances, and Evan Buckley is more than a job title or a patient ID bracelet. 

He’s a fighter, and this time, all he wants to fight for is happiness for him, Eddie, and Christopher.

“Hmm, that sounds like a challenge,” Eddie observes, head cocked to one side in a faux-thoughtful expression. “I guess I don’t have much choice but to try harder then, do I?” 

Buck lets his satisfaction show on his face as he meets Eddie in another kiss. As in everything, practice makes perfect; this time, his knees get weak embarrassingly quickly, and he finds himself with his arms tossed around Eddie’s neck to keep his balance. He’s still smiling as they trade kisses back and forth, unable to quell the overwhelming contentment swelling in his chest. Eddie’s flushed and breathing hard, too, though, so Buck doesn’t waste a moment on embarrassment. They both want this; there’s no reason to start overthinking now. 

“Da-aad!” The whine from behind them stops the kiss in its tracks as both men take a hurried step back and spin to face the doorway. Christopher is leaning heavily on his crutches just past the arch, a blanket draped over his shoulders and hair mussed from sleep, and staring at them crankily. “Buck’s s’posed to be taking a nap with me. You can kiss him when we wake up.”

Eddie and Buck glance at each other, and the bubble of tension - romantic and otherwise - surrounding them bursts with a synchronous peal of laughter. Christopher gives them an unimpressed look, and Eddie recovers first, stifling another chuckle to tell him, “Sorry, buddy. But everyone’s awake now, right? So maybe we can watch a movie or something, and we can both spend some time with Buck before we have to go home.” He shoots a sidelong glance Buck’s way, like he needs permission or something stupid to talk about them with his son, or to stay longer. Like Buck is going to complain about getting more time with them. 

“What you think, Chris? Should we let your dad watch the rest of Hotel Transylvania with us?” Buck asks, and reaches out to grab Eddie’s hand -- just in case he’d gotten some ridiculous idea that this thing between them was going to be a secret. 

Christopher isn’t the kind of kid who’s grumpy for long, even right after a nap, so he beams at them and nods excitedly. “We have to start over, though,” he says seriously. “Daddy hasn’t seen the beginning, and he might get confused.” 

Buck nods his agreement, and Eddie just laughs. He tosses his free hand over Chris’s shoulders, and the three of them start toward the living room together, as a unit. As they settle together on the couch with tangled limbs and shared quips and laughter, Buck takes a second to breathe in the reality of this moment. He’s truly, incandescently happy, and he wants to take the memory and hold onto it forever -- through whatever job-related heartbreak and medical emergency comes next.

Because now, Buck’s got Eddie, and he’s got Christopher, and that’s more than enough to make him want to keep fighting. 

[daredevile]

Lumière

Summary: Lost in a timeless world of grief and sorrow, Bucky longs for a guiding light to lead him through the dark.

Warnings: Angst, character death, miscarriage 

A/N: This one's for @ussgallifreyfics‘ writing challenge and my prompt was 'it never hurts to keep looking for sunshine.'

The engine lulls into a hushed purr and he just wants to scream. Destroy every obstacle in his path. Veer left into the serene tides below the bridge - because at least then, he'd be in control of his end.

Dusk befalls upon weary skies and lights around him twinkle awake as nature unfolds into its own Starry Night. He strains his neck over the fluorescent hues of reds and yellows, knuckles burning white against the frayed leather wheel. And all he sees is miles and miles of vehicles sprayed onto eternal roads.

A part of him regrets it. Succumbing to those longing urges his subconscious sweeps into his slumber. As if Zeus, himself, branded his soul to the Underworld, casting the burden of reality upon the boulder he's cursed to bear till the thread of life ceases.

His gaze flickers to the stream below, the swaying of water had always embraced him with a sense of tranquillity - now, waves crash against the green, forever seized by the currents. He wants to escape too. Defeated by the cards the universe forced into his hands because he can't continue living hopeful lies expecting the bliss that'll never arrive.

The window rolls down and the mighty thrust of winter winds rush inside for warmth. His jaw clenches as the breeze trespasses his solitude and he considers abandoning the car because, much like the river beneath, he's imprisoned to this obscure sea of time.

Truth be told, he has no destination. Merely weaved into the plane of existence long enough till his will to endure the agony, wanes. It's the least he owes her.

The abrupt knocking on glass captures his attention. Palms flat against the window, a baby girl - no more than three - lights up when he catches sight of her big doe eyes. And for the first time in months, a smile willingly appears on his face, his shoulders ease and he's forgotten all the grief and sorrow the world has to offer.

Her hands extend from the seatbelt, motioning him to come closer. He sends her a small wave before her mother places a bottle of milk within her grasp and she lowers back into the seat. All he sees is the crown of her head bouncing up and down before their car inches forward and the feeling of numbness tunnels its path into his heart, again.

Right as the door opened, his hands snaked around your waist, chin resting atop your shoulder - and before you could face him, his lips pressed against the soft skin. For a second, your heart stopped and his laugh sent butterflies to your stomach. Swaying along to his humming, you leaned back into his soothing embrace.

"Ok, babe. Close your eyes."

"What're you doing Bucky?" You asked as he twirled you back into his arms. He bit back a grin, eyes instinctively fluttering towards the guest bedroom.

"Thought I asked you to close your eyes?" He whispered while you tried turning around, warm hands brushed past your lips as he covered your eyes. He paused in front of the guest room, guiding your hand to the doorknob before murmuring into your ear.

"Go ahead, sweetheart."

A gasp escaped from your lips in shock. Overwhelmed by the drastic modification of the room, you turned towards Bucky in wonder. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, shirt unbuttoned and hair dishevelled - the result of a day's work. He chuckled under your gaze, eager to show you every little thing he'd made.  

"Now, I know we said we'd do this together, but I wanted to surprise you."

"Bucky - it's perfect."

"Just wait till you see these!" He uncovered two pairs of baby shoes from the drawers, holding them in one hand each with the most radiant smile you'd ever seen and the pure gesture melted your heart.

Noticing your glossy eyes and loss for words, he pulled you into his chest, tracing calming patterns on your back. When you placed your lips on his jaw, he sighed with content, his hands caressing over your baby bump.

"We're gonna be great parents, I know it."

No. He forcefully wipes the tears trailing down his face - he cannot descend into this chasm of nothing, again. His hands seize the wheel because control brings even the smallest ray of sunshine to his thunderstorm.

He lost track of time a few months ago. Solely adrift in space, floating away to the horizon of forever. Because what's the point anyways? Everything is always taken from him. Ripped into a million shreds of distant memories. But, emptiness always welcomes him.

A faint melody travels through the steel bubble of a nearby car - an elderly couple humming along to classics from their time. He envies their rapture, not troubled by the miles of traffic ahead, but it fades into a forlorn desire that slips away from his fingertips.

The house was mute, dreading the silence that has fallen within these walls. Gloomy hallways, stale food and sealed doors. The living room had divided itself into two and it was only an exchange of reserved glances and sharp breaths.

"Y/N, there's nothing you could've - " It was anger. It was confusion. It was a cry for help. No amount of good would ever mend the puncture in his heart, he didn't need stitches - all he asked for was a band-aid.

"Stop. Just - please don't."

Neither of you had entered that room again, afraid to get caught in a realm of imaginary optimism where everything will be normal. The air was suffocating, mournful and miserable ever since the visit to the hospital yesterday. None of those meaningless words of sympathy and pity went into your minds.

Nothing he could do or say could ease the pain. And so, he stood up, slipped into his coat and reached for the door. His eyes found two tiny pairs of shoes laying right next to his and after a moment, he walked out with a heavy heart.

Time was what we need, he thought. That he'd return in a couple of days and somehow they'd get through this together. But time is funny. It enjoyed tearing him apart, taunting his life. It reminded him that he's alive and his baby girl isn't.

It's the thunder of engines revving that brings him to his senses. No matter how much he tried convincing himself to see you, his instincts begged otherwise. And every time he's restrained to the car, the streets always moulded into paths towards you, yet he steered to the opposite. But now, it's the least he owes her.

The barren streets unfurl in front of him, colours glossing over every circle and edge as he drives by the tiny shops. The world ahead fades from noir to pastel, eager eyes devouring every light. The steel bubble of the car bursts and he's exposed to the misfortunes of the universe as the door locks.

He skips over the creaky step, fist raised against the wooden door. A sense of familiarity washes over him and he knocks twice. It's mere seconds before the door swings open and your stoic expression is all that greets him.

Hesitant, he shuffles his foot back - a minute response to which a veil of tears glazes your eyes. His hands naturally guide you into his embrace, a wave of relief settles inside when you rest your head against his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Bucky. I really am, it's my fault - " You whisper into his shirt.

"No, Y/N it's no one's fault. What happened to us wasn't fair. But, we don't have to forget and move on to survive. Just please...please promise me you'll stay - we'll help each other. Together." He stares into your eyes, searching for any doubt, but his worries dissolve into serenity when a soft smile tugs on your lips.

"I promise, Bucky."

[daraanna]

“Arranged Love”- Part four „Candle”

For another week she felt as if she were wandering in the fog. No words will can describe how grateful she was to the Emperor and his wife for organizing her mother's funeral. She would not be able to arrange it herself. For a long time getting up from bed was a problem for her. The simplest activities of everyday life have become hard. In fact, the only thing that allowed her to survive until that day was her husband. Despite everything, Boruto tried to comfort her, help her or at least be with her all this time. Although he was sometimes unbearable or sloppy, his optimism helped her after all. Even now, when she was standing in the temple square listening to the priest's words, he was standing next to her gently and discreetly holding her hand. She looked at the hearth holding eternal fire in honour of the goddess Amateratsu. The final stage of the rite came when the priest gave her torch. Releasing her husband’s hand she came to light her from the holy fire to then approach the pile on which lay her mother's body wrapped in white cloth and covered with a navy blue tapestry with the symbol of the Uchiha clan. She stood still for a moment before she finally lit the wood. The fire spread quickly to form a high flame. Despite the pain she felt, she couldn't cry anymore. The last week devoted to mourning left only a void in her. She probably would have stood so thoughtlessly longer if the smoke hadn't caused her a choking cough.

She returned to the place next to Boruto. Moments later people began to approach her to express their condolences. And if in every other situation she would enjoy seeing the inhabitants of her native village now ... At least she tried to be nice. Despite the fact that the proper funeral ceremony was over, the next hours passed before her mother's ashes were collected and laid to the tomb in which her father was buried. Most of those gathered have long since parted. The emperor and empress also set out on their way back to Konoha before nightfall.

“It is too late to come back home” she heard Boruto's voice “You won't mind if we stay here in Naka?”

She didn't answer, just nodded, still standing in front of her parents' grave. Her husband stood patiently beside her until the darkness reigned.

“We should go ...” he started, but again he did not get the answer ”Sarada ...”

Moments later she felt a tug. She looked shocked at the blonde who was pulling her towards the house. At first she wanted to protest, but she realized how cold and tired she was. When they arrived at the property, they were greeted by Shizune, who is currently in charge of maintaining health resort. With her were a few people she did not know. Black-haired was the first and actually the only person she really talked to when she arrived in her hometown. The people who accompanied her turned out to be the servants who took care of the house from the moment it became the property of the prince of the land of fire. They led them to the main bedroom, but she wasn’t able to cross the threshold of her parents' room.

Boruto looked at her in surprise, but after a certain thought process, apparently it came to him who this bedroom belonged to, because he asked one of the maids whether they have prepared another room.

"There is a room but much smaller and with a smaller bed," said a middle-aged woman, surprised at his words.

"It is okey," Sarada answered her, heading left along the corridor before the maid had the opportunity to show them the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She spent the whole morning chasing a black kitty. A few weeks ago, the cat living in their attic get birth to 5 kitten. Sarada was very excited because the kittens were small and downy. However, out of all siblings, she chose black one as her friend. Unfortunately, the animal clearly did not share her interest, but unimpressed by a few scratches, she continued to case after him. Suddenly she heard a sound of horse hooves. A squad of twenty warriors roamed the forests bordering the garden. Men dressed in black and red armour and armed, they slowed down and walked through the gate of the estate. However, for a girl less than five years old, they were a terrifying sight, reminiscent of drawings of evil demons from books. Frightened, she ran home in search of her mother to find her talking to one of the warriors to even greater terror. In the first impulse she rushed to save her, but a little too late she realized that she could not do much with her bare hands. When she was between adults, she froze and just a moment later clung to her mother’s leg. Attention of them focused on her.

"Sarada, what happened?" Her mother asked, stroking her head.

The black-eyed man stared at her with an unspecified expression.

The girl squeaked and hid under a hanging layer of Sakura’s kimono.

“You don't recognize papa?”

The surprised black-haired girl looked once more at the warrior who took off his helmet. He did remind his dad a little, but she wasn't convinced. Finally, demons are known for cheating people ...

"Papa, wears a gray yukata and wash himself!" She replied, hugging the fabric even more.

Sakura sighed, surprised by her daughter's rudeness. The truth after returning from a few weeks of fighting Sasuke did not look good.

"Sarada, you can't ..." she began crouching to be at the height of the child.

"I will ..." said the black-haired man, pointing towards the bathroom and without waiting for the reaction of his wife, he went to that side. The pink-haired girl looked at the girl again.

"It's not polite to say things like that ..." she continued, to which the younger only stamped her foot.

"The evil demon is impersonating Dad!" She replied embracing her mother's neck. Startled, the green-eyed woman laughed.

"Tch," she said, younger.

“Why have such an idea?”

“It was in the book!”

“Sarada we have already talked about this fairy tales are not real ...” Black-haired snuggled into her again. Then she heard the sound of the door opening, and look curiously over the shoulder at the man returning. The girl turned uncertainly and took two steps towards him, to run a moment later.

"Papa!" She shouted, reaching out for him.

“Hn” Sasuke replied taking the daughter on his hands.

"Where have you been away so much?" She asked sulking.

"I was defending the northern border," he replied, gently stroking her head.

"Do you think it's over?" Asked the green-eyed.

“I hope so ... We managed to push off the Otsutsukis army, they retreated to the sea. However, we do not know if they will return, nor do we know where their kingdom lies. Nobody wants to go to the north sea ...

Sakura came closer, embracing her husband and daughter.

“Naruto plans to build a wall at the border, by which time patrols will have to be carried out ...”

Sarada looked thoughtfully at her parents, trying to understand the meaning of their words. However, despite the vocabulary rich for her age, she was not able to understand what her parents were talking about.

Her parents stood looking at each other, leading a silent form of dialogue which she was even more unable to figure out.

"Tadaima," Shogun replied after a long pause.

"Okaeri," his wife greeted him.

..............................................................

Sun rays woke her. She felt ... rested and calm, which surprised her. She remembered her dream, it really was one of earliest memories that she has. Even though it caused her longing, she was also convinced that her parents were together now. And even if he can't see them, they will always be with her in some way. Then she heard a strange sound, as if someone was tugging at the material. She turned towards the sound to see Boruto dressed, actually tangled in his kimono. She stared at him in shock for a moment before he noticed she was awake.

"Uh ... The servants didn't come to dress me," he replied, blushing.

However, his explanation did not help her understand the situation. She get up from the bed and walked over to him.

“They don’t enter private rooms ... In fact, most of them are nurses working in the clinic, sometimes they help to keep the property clean” she replied looking at him “ Have you never dressed by yourself?”

"Er ... Uh ..." replied the boy. She couldn't help laughing. The situation was absurd. She examined it again. Thanks Kami, at least his pants were properly dressed. She took off two layers covering his back and helped him to put them on correctly, but for a moment her mind stopped working. His chest was distracting. Despite his disputable sword skills, it was clear that he was training a lot. She felt a strange warmth on her face. In addition, his skin was silky smooth, what are they bathing him in?  In milk ?! She knew she shouldn't be staring. She quickly start to tying his Obi. Her brain couldn't tear herself away from how close they were. It didn't help that she could feel his eyes on her.

"I like your laugh," he said, and she felt her heart skip a tone. She quickly finished tying his belt.

"I-I like the color of your eyes," she said thoughtlessly, feeling the heat on her cheeks. Kami, it was so embarrassing.

“H-Hem?”

“Y-you know they are very blue...- seriously? What she was thinking. To her surprise, the boy smiled gently.

"Thank you," he said, looking into her eyes. "What are your plans for today?"

She thought about the answer for a moment.

"I want to go to the cemetery," she decided, correcting her Yukata.

“Um ... I don't think my outfit is suitable for ...”

"I want to go alone," she interrupted. The blond clearly saddened, she felt stupid “Um ... But after breakfast I can show you around the village ... I mean if you want ...”

A gentle smile returned to his face.

“I do”

.................................................. ......

She was kneeling on the ground next to a large marble slab. She lit a small candle and, placing it in a small clay pot, looked at the marble names of her parents.

“Hi Papa...” she started ”Um ... I haven't been here for a long time ... You know, I got married and all ... Anyway, mom probably told you” she felt strange talking to the empty space on the other hand she felt sure that her parents are listening to her ... Somehow ...”He ... My husband is the son of the emperor ... I know you probably wouldn't be delighted with it, but it's not bad. I like him ... I mean, at first I thought he was a stupid idiot, but he is also kind. Maybe someday, we will ... I mean... Don't worry about me.”

For a while she sat motionless watching the candle flame dance with the wind. It wasn't long before she felt her eyes tearing.

"I miss you," she whispered, "I miss you so much, but I hope you are happy there, that you are together ..."

.......................................................

When she returned to the estate her husband was eating breakfast. She came over and took a seat next to him, applying a small portion of rice and fish. They ate in silence for a while.

"Um ... So what can we visit here?" The blond asked, putting down the empty bowl. She thought about the answer for a moment.

“The main part of the complex is the clinic and temple .... In addition, there is a forest and a cemetery ... Not much is left of the old buildings of Naka ... The majority of residents are medical staff ...”

"So I should visit the clinic?" He asked. She answered nodding. The trip took much longer than expected. She thought that seeing so many sick people as well as greenhouses, laboratories and treatment rooms would not be too interesting for the future emperor. However, she was surprised how easily the blond made contact with patients. It embarrassed her enough, she wondered if their marriage problems weren’t only her fault. However, relationships with other people, especially strangers, were never her strong point. When they returned to her old bedroom it was already dark. Boruto went to the bathroom while she changed into her night Yukata. She combed her hair and made it into a loose ponytail. When the blond came back to the room she was already in bed.

"Good night," he muttered quietly, lying on the other side of the bed and putting out the only candle in the room. She answered him quietly "Hn". She wasn't sure exactly how much she lay, but the thoughts galloping in her head kept her awake. Even if she was able to function normally during the day, the night was still the worst. She felt despair, sadness and longing growing within her. She turned over, positioning her back to her husband. She hoped that the boy was already asleep. It wasn't long before she began to cry. She covered her mouth to muffle the sounds she made. She should be stronger ... How should she take care of Naka's future if she can't stop self-pitying? She tried to calm down, but it can’t. She almost screamed when she felt a touch on her back. Boruto embraced her gently grabbing her hand. To her surprise she felt better ... Less lonely. She slowly entwined her fingers with his and lightly relaxed leaning against his torso. However, she still felt too embarrassed to look at him. She was afraid to show weakness, and her current position gave her at least the illusions of security.

“It is okay to ...” heard the blue-eyed voice- You don't always have to ...

He did not finish, however, his words were the answer to her thoughts, probably if she was not so tired this fact would frighten her even more. But now she felt her sleepiness slowly increase.

“ If you only need help ... You can always count on me, I won't leave you ...”

The last words she could barely hear, make her feel a strange sense of peace.

...........................................................................................

So I was thinking about writing a prequel to this story... It would be a lot of shorter than this I was thinking about 3 part story about Naruto, Sasuke and Sakura. Idk, would you like to read something like this?

 <<first part                                                                           next part>

[wolf-555-writer]

Target On My Back Part 3

Hope you guys still like where this is going xd. And thanks for all the comments, likes and reblogs, I’m so glad you like it, it really means a lot! Thanks! :) 

PART 1 | PART 2 

Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow x Reader

Summary: You desperately need answers about your connection between Natalia and you. Will you find them? And will you like what you’ll find?

Word Count: 2,712

Charming, sparkling green eyes, piercing right through you. With an intense longing gaze and a mesmerizing grin. Drawing you closer, leaning in, she’s got a hold of you. Absolutely enchanted by her, and her impressive skills, her amazing figure and total fearlessness for everything. Her beautiful red hair tickles on your skin as she presses her soft, red lips on your neck. Melting away at her delicate touch. The fact that she shot you in the leg, minor detail, you’re already over it. Still alive and kicking, right? Her hand moves from your waist to your hips smoothly, and ends up on your back while she pulls you closer. Her body pressed against yours, she has complete control over you. “Stay…”, you beg her, exhaling a bit shaky since you struggle to breathe correctly. Giving in and closing your eyes in satisfaction as your heart flutters. With a soft voice she whispers in your ear, sensing her warm breath on your skin:  

“Agent (Y/L/N)? Are you hearing this?”, Coulson presses, snapping his fingers displeased, probably in response to your silence and absent-minded stare. “Yes, loud and clear sir”, you answer with a straight face, seated in a small, cramped space on an uncomfortable chair. No windows and barely any fresh air judging by the fusty smell hanging around. “Well then, can you repeat the question for me?”. “...Um-”. Debriefing. That's what they call it. After the second time it started to feel more like an interrogation. “I thought so. I asked if you can walk me through that moment just before Agent Hill arrived. One more time please”, Coulson insists, now leaning on the metal table while assuming an intimidating stature. You’d rather go back to that daydream…. Despite the several ‘interrogation’ attempts by Coulson and Hill, you haven’t told them what exactly happened between Natalia and you, both times. All these questions, asked in a particular, distrusting way. He’s really pushing it. Why even believe some deadly assassin over a government organization anyway? You have mixed feelings about it, about Natalia, about SHIELD and about yourself. Can’t pinpoint the exact reason where it’s coming from, but you have to figure it out. If you had known her before, you would know right? ‘Cause seriously, you don’t forget someone like her that easy. “So, are we done here?”, you urge, suppressing the rage, trying your best not to let it all out. “Yes, all clear Agent (Y/L/N). You’re dismissed”, Coulson states, closing the file in front of him, not written down a single word because you told the exact same story, just like all the previous times. Not cleared for field work yet as you’ve been recovering from the gunshot wound in your leg. Taking it easy and slow, which you undeniably hate. Although, it has given you enough time to think. Not too powerful, you slam both hands on the table in a passive-aggressive way and stand up, hearing the screeching of the metal chair on the floor as you push it back. Without saying another word you exit the room and march off. With a slight limp though, so it’s not as overpowering as intended to, but he got the point.

“Hi Maria!”, you greet, walking through the hallway at SHIELD headquarters, seeing her approach with a fast pace and a dead serious look. “It's Agent H-”. “Agent Hill, I know, I know. I was wondering if you have an assignment for me. It’s okay if it's a routine mission or anything, just give me something to do”, you ask in despair, being bored as hell around here. “I can't. I'm sorry. You haven't gotten the clearance from Coulson yet”, she answers while still moving. “From Coulson?”. Wait, so the doctor already cleared you for duty, yet Coulson didn't? Agent Hill clearly has other matters to attend to, no time to stop or respond as she continued her course with haste. Well… Coulson’s credibility really hit a low point at the moment. Loyal to SHIELD. Trust the system. Words you don't believe in anymore. Okay, it’s true, SHIELD always keeps secrets. But you need answers. Right now. Obviously asking for the information is by far the worst option, no doubt they would lie or cover it up anyway. A group of Agents pass you. They’re gazing at you just a bit too long with their judgy eyes. The story of your failures has been going around, or whatever you might call them. Missing and failing to apprehend the target. Losing the package. You're being watched, your every move, like you’re a traitor, a criminal. Especially Coulson is giving you that feeling. So you have to be careful. Probably the reason why you haven't considered the more obvious choice, which is tracking down Natalia. You have to do this, before talking yourself out of it, it’s now or never.

You chuckle, it’s kinda ironic, the skills taught by SHIELD now used to break-in into their own compound. It sure comes in handy, knowing the routines, codes and how to bypass the security system. Standing in a dark corner with your back against the wall, looking at your watch while counting down the seconds. A couple of guards will pass by any moment now. And… go. Setting the timer. You’ve got 8 minutes, should be enough. Looking over your shoulder one more time while you type in the passcode and covertly slip past the door, into the records room. You’re in. The blue screen lights up your face, and with a hypnotic stare you search for the info, now scrolling through the data of previous SHIELD operations like a maniac. Maybe you encountered her on a mission before, or you were part of a secret SHIELD program, forced to wipe your memory. Can’t find a connection between Black Widow and you. There has to be one, right? Because it feels like there is one. There’s a strange familiarity about her. You have to dig deeper. Accessing your personnel file, maybe that will shed some light on it. 4 minutes and 30 seconds left. A lot of stuff about your past is redacted, the file is filled with secrets. Why? Then you stumble upon a medical report.   

“(Y/N)! Can you hear me?!”, Coulson shouts using both his hands to focus the sound while slowly progressing through the thick layer of snow beneath him. The desperation in his voice is all too clear. “Are you sure it’s here?”, Agent Barton asks with a loud voice, also searching, several meters away from Coulson. “Yes, it’s here. It has to be...”. A low, almost inaudible groan has caught Coulson’s attention as he jolts his head and immediately struggles towards it. “Quick Barton, HERE!”. He kneels while pushing some of the ice-cold snow out of the way. “Don’t you think we’re too late Coulson?”. “No. I won’t believe that. I can't”, he utters in concern. No optimism left, until his expression suddenly changes. “I still feel a pulse. It’s very weak, but it’s there. Let's go!”.  

Perhaps those recurring nightmares were telling you something… Heavily beaten up, a couple of broken bones, and in your chest, close to your heart, a gunshot wound. Covered in snow mixed with blood and a whole lot of other injuries you were brought into the infirmary of a remote, classified SHIELD location by Coulson and Barton. How did I even survive this? You think, reading the file in disbelief. If that bullet had pierced you a couple of centimeters lower, you would have been dead, no doubt. And the cold temperature apparently saved your life too. There’s more information, it’s of a meeting between Coulson and you. Were you an informant? With Coulson being your handler? But you were told that you’ve been a SHIELD Agent your entire life, and a well trained one too. You believed them, didn’t question them. You even have your own academy records to prove it. “Was it all a lie? Was I a target? A criminal?”, realizing you are one of them. The people that you despise, and hunt for a living, the ‘bad guys’. Turns out you and Natalia are not so different after all. “No, NO. this is- this can’t be true”. There’s an audio file. You’re about to open it when you hear a noise.

“Hey, there’s somebody inside!”. “Fuck”. You still had 2 minutes left!? “Good evening fellas. This doesn’t have to go the hard way”, you advise in a nonchalant fashion, carefully shifting towards them with your hands up, trying to close the distance. “You’re not authorised to be here!”, one of the guards barks at you as two of the four enter. “Okay, suit yourself. Hard way it is then”, you decide while sprinting forward and forcing the door shut with your foot, locking two of them out. The other two inside promptly react and one swings his baton at you. You slip by ducking down. Making a spin while moving up, you hit him with the backside of your right elbow, followed by a left hook just below the eye. The other one moves towards you, swinging his baton. But you grip it tight, along with his other arm, preventing a blow to your head. Perceiving a crackling electricity sound right beside you. Okay... so these are also tasers, how convenient. You toss the guard to the side and taunt with a wide grin: “I can keep this up all day, guys”. Turning your head to the door as it opens again. The short distraction caused you to be forcefully thrown against the just unlocked entrance, with the guards arm crushing your throat. Gasping for air while you're being choked. However, the other two guards luckily can’t get in as you feel them banging on the door. Powerfully kicking him between the legs - always effective - now able to shove the guard back with your arms, to end with a kick in his stomach. You hunch over, hands resting on your knees, and cough due to the lack of oxygen intake. The other guard took this opportunity and has tased you around the waist area with his charged weapon. A painful shock radiates through your torso and you let out a painful cry. Quickly kicking the baton out of his hand and pivoting your whole body, loading up for another one. With the heel of your boot you strike him on the temple. Knocking him out before he crashes to the floor.

“Stop Agent (Y/L/N)!”, a familiar voice orders. It’s Coulson. “Stand down!”. A stinging pain in your neck makes you stop and you reach for it. He shot you with something. Displaying your left hand to see what it is, holding a type of dart in your palm. “This is for your own safety”. “What the h-”. Mid-sentence you collapse on the ground. Your body feels heavy, fading away as it gets dark before your eyes.   

“Hello, this is Agent Coulson”. “Sir, the prisoner has finally woken up”, a doctor informs on the phone. “Good. It’s been weeks. I'll be there as soon as possible”. Coulson enters the room inside the remote infirmary facility, however the bed is empty and the cuffs are opened. “What? How-”. He gets grabbed from behind. Trapped in a strong headlock and an IV needle firmly pressed on the skin near his carotid artery. “Easy, easy. So ...I see you’re feeling better (Y/N)”, Coulson carefully speaks as he puts his hands up to show that he's surrendering. “How do you know my name and who the hell are you?! Why was I chained to the bed!? Talk!”. “Do you want answers or not? Then you have to let me go first. Okay (Y/N)?”. “This is Fury”. “Director, it's Coulson. Sir, I'm back in Eastern Europe again and I have an interesting case here. My informant is awake, but has no memory”. “No memory?”. “Yes, sir. No idea about their past whatsoever”. “I see... We could use an Agent with that specific skill set here at SHIELD. They could be a valuable asset”. “My thoughts exactly sir”. “It’s best if no one knows the details about this”. “Nobody will know sir”. “Okay. I trust you Coulson. Agent (Y/L/N) is your responsibility now”.

“I thought I would find you here, sooner or later”. Perceiving Coulson’s voice as you slowly open your eyelids, feeling a little fuzzy. Wanting to move your arms and legs, however you can’t. “What the hell did you do to me?!”, you yell, tied to the chair with your wrist and ankles secured. He definitely injected you with a paralyzing agent earlier. “I should have never assigned you that mission. But I thought you would be the only one that could match up to Black Widow”, Coulson reveals, avoiding eye contact with you. Why would he say that? What is he playing at? Still trying to free yourself by moving around as you feel two hands grasping your shoulders. You shrug them off, but it only causes you to be pushed down with even more force. Detained by the two guards that you fought, having a hateful expression on their face. Can’t blame them though. “You need to fix this Coulson”, you protest, never having felt so enraged and betrayed before. “I can't. It can't be fixed anymore. And trust me, you don't want it to be fixed either”. “Trust you? Not a chance”, you scoff. “You kept this from me, lied to me”. He clearly doesn't want you to know about your past. “You have proven yourself over the years, being an excellent Agent here at SHIELD. Do you want to destroy all that?”. “Cut the crap Phil. What did SHIELD do to me?! I want answers, now”, you demand, not actually in a position to make these at the moment, being tied up and all. “Well, you may not like what you’ll find”, Coulson comments as he’s pacing back and forth. “I don’t care. I had your back. And you took advantage of me, used me for your own means”. Sick of all the secrets, cause it’s driving you crazy. “I just need to know who I am and where I’m from”. Coulson stares at you with a conflicted expression. “You can't know. That is why we lied to you in the first place. The secrets are there for a reason”. “I will never stop looking for answers Coulson”. “I know you won’t”. He looks away and sighs while shaking his head in an upset manner. You hoped this trip to the archives would trigger a memory, yet it didn’t. You’re desperate, not knowing who you are anymore. After some minutes you break the cutting silence. “Did I know her? Did I know Natalia? Come on Coulson, I need to know”. Coulson takes a strong breath in and ponders, hearing the gears turning in his head. “Guards, can you give us the room please?”, he instructs, sending the guards away, leaving you and him alone. He finally decided to give in. Now standing right in front of you, he tells with a deep sigh: “Okay, but you might want to sit down for this”. “...Really Coulson”. Considering the position you’re in, you give him a look, raising your eyebrows. “Well you know what I mean”.

Sitting outside, watching the sunset, Natalia has a picture in her hand. One of the edges is torn off and it’s wrinkled, probably due to the fact that she always carries it with her. The slight discoloration suggests it's an older picture. It's the last and only one she has, possibly the only personal belonging too. On it are two people wearing a uniform, standing side by side. One of them is a red-headed woman, winking at the camera, matched with a subtle grin. The other person close next to her is staring at her with a longing gaze and smiling. Left arm wrapped around her shoulder, being completely enchanted by her. By her laugh, her fiery green eyes and fearlessness. It’s you. You and her in this old picture. Together. Holding it close, Natalia gently caresses the image of you with her thumb and softly whispers:

“I hope one day you’ll remember me...”

PART 4

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  Chloe and Lucifer are survivors in a post apocalyptic world trying to make it through life step by step. (The cause is not biblical, but still falls in the canonical universe of the show.)

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter and the little goodies within it! Comments are greatly loved and appreciated! (Sorry it’s been a year lol)

                                                 Chapter Five

Fighting one's instinct versus knowledge on the situation at hand was becoming very clear to Chloe as she ventured deeper into the brush and away from Lucifer. Together, the Devil was vulnerable to any injury he received. Yet, as crudely humorous as it was, the same could be said when she was separated from him. Vulnerability. Such a fine skill to hold during the end of the world.

Twigs scraped against the detective's skin as walked as silently as she could. Every time a dead leaf crunch underneath her shoe, the more on edge she became. Despite their remote location, it was never a bad thing to be on the alert for looters. Or worse. These dark times had really turned some into true monsters. The things she'd witness, the stories she'd heard. It was something she tried to never think about, pushed far back to the outer limits of her mind.

Not much further, Chloe. She said to herself. Soon enough you can turn around and go back to Lucifer and-

There came a rustling noise behind her, a very distinct, undeniable sound. Chloe's blood ran cold as she froze in place, mouth completely dry. It came again, closer now. Heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, she tried to decipher the sound. Human? Animal? Before the next foot fall, the detective began to sprint.

Noise seemed to come from every direction as Chloe ran blindly through the dying forest. Blood pumping, breathing ragged, she kept going and going as what she could only presume was her hunter closing in on its prey. Just as she thought her limbs couldn't move any faster, someone grabbed her from behind.

"Detective," Lucifer tried to steady Chloe as she struggled against him, still in a state of defense. "Detective, it's just me. It's Lucifer."

"Something," she swallowed thickly, gasping for air as she pointed behind her. "Something-"

"It's alright," he soothed, letting her lean into him. "It was just a deer."

There, standing a few hundred feet away from them, Chloe could just make out the body of a doe. The creature seemed to meet her gaze, dark eyes staring back curiously. How odd it was to see such a thing out in this wasteland. A forest once teeming with life now stripped of its beauty. How the animal had survived this long, she wasn't sure. Before she could even make a remark, the deer bounded off, leaving both Chloe and Lucifer alone once more.

Embarrassment flushed in her cheeks as the adrenaline faded away. Months ago, or however long it'd been, she'd gone for her gun first. Fight versus flight. But just then, her gut reaction was to run. Flee into the uncharted woods and into a trap for all she knew. She was exhausted, strained from their days trekking through the wilderness. Sometimes it even surprised her that her sanity had somewhat remained intact.

"Shit!" She cursed, breaking away from Lucifer. Her foot connected with a small stone, sending it flying into the base of a tree. "I could've just gotten us both killed. If it had been...if I had…"

"Technically, you could claim that I was at fault since I'm the reason we're down here in the first place." He gave a tired smile, hoping she'd take to his crude attempt at humor. She didn't. "Everything's fine now," he reassured, moving to her side. "We're okay and that's what's important." Lucifer dangled his leg in front of her. "Good as new!"

Chloe's mouth twitched into a small smile, her head shaking at the gesture. Optimism at its finest. Inhaling softly, she reached over and gave his hand a small squeeze. The Devil's eyes flickered down to her fingers before flashing up to meet her gaze.

"No more injuries," she murmured, her smile weary.

"None," he agreed.

                                                     XXX

Even though she was expecting it, the sound of shattering glass still startled her as Chloe watched Nate ram a rock straight into the vending machine. It took a couple good strikes, and while she knew Lucifer could easily do it in one with his fist, she didn't feel the need to explain her partner's true nature to their group. So she waited hungrily, the desire to eat overpowering the guilt of stealing.

"Hell yeah," the young man chuckled, lunging straight for a bag of cheese puffs. "I love these damn things!"

But before Nate could even open his beloved prize, Lucifer quickly snatched it from his grasp. The man reeled around, a look of pure resentment burning in his eyes as the Devil held it just out of his grasp. Unlike him, the others had not immediately gone into a frenzy for the food. While each one of them wanted nothing more than to dig into whatever the machine offered, it was a silent agreement some sort of rules needed to be set in place.

"Give. That. Back." Nate growled, trying in desperation to retrieve his meal. "That's mine. I earned it!"

"Ha," Lucifer snorted, clearly amused by the other man's desperation. "If anything, you've earned yourself a first class ticket to Hell-"

"We need to ration," Chloe interrupted, throwing her partner a look. "Despite our luck in finding this before someone else, we need to figure out how to divide this to last." Her eyes flickered to the vandalized machine and the junk food it held. "Not that candy and chips are the best form of nutrition."

Though the machine was far from empty, it clearly hadn't been refilled before the chaos hit. Off brand chips, some chocolate bars of various kinds, gummies that looked a little stale even from where Chloe was standing, and a few packs of gum. That was it. Empty calories that would cause them to crash and burn energy. But it was all they had and anything was better than nothing.

"Come on," Nate groaned. "We've had barely anything to eat in the past several days. I'm starving. We all are!" He wildly gestured to the others. "What's one bag of chips going to do?"

"I'm with Chloe," Ruth spoke up, moving to the detective's side. "We need to have a plan. If we're going to make it far." She swallowed, her shoulders rising as she inhaled. "Before we turn on each other."

"You have my vote," Charlie agreed, throwing Nate a cold look. "Sometimes you have to sacrifice to get things done."

"Mine too," Kate added, her eyes focused on the ground. "It's for the best, I think."

All eyes fell on Lucifer, who, still holding the chips, simply shrugged. "You know whose side I'm always on." Chloe's smile only deepened Nate's scowl. "Especially when it comes to crisp eating pricks-"

"It's settled then," the detective cut in before Lucifer could finish. "We split things up. Divide and conquer." With a small smile, she reached in and grabbed a bag of old gummies. "So how do we go about this?"

After much debate, mostly on Nate's part, the snacks were gathered and split up. They had a good few days worth of "meals" if one would call them that. Chloe's stomach was already twisting at the look of all the sweets. It wasn't that she didn't like sugary foods-she really did, but for however long it would last, that's what her diet would consist of.

"Eat."

The detective was pulled from her thoughts as Lucifer continually poked at her with a chocolate bar. She eyed him carefully before taking the candy and breaking it in half. Handing him his piece, she began to nibble on hers, trying not to cram the entire thing down in one bite. She didn't have to look at the Devil to know he wasn't consuming his.

"Eat your own," she mumbled. "I'm fine."

"I'm not hungry," he countered. "You have it. I don't even like chocolate." Like a child, he obnoxiously poked her with it again. "Quick, it's melting in my hands and I don't want my clothes to get bloody chocolate stains on top of everything else."

Chloe huffed and shook her head. "You're being ridiculous right now, you know that?"

"And you love me for it," he smirked before forcing the treat into her hand. "Now eat, I'll be fine. I'll just have a few extra licorice whips later."

They both knew that it'd be a long while before they'd eat again, but neither spoke up about it. Instead, Chloe just leaned against him feeling his arm wrap around her waist. The wind began to blow, but only silence followed in its wake.

                                                       XXX

"Damn mosquitoes!"

Lucifer slapped the back of his neck as they trudged on through the woods. The air was sticky and the heat made Chloe's head spin. Despite the fact they were heading up north, the weather had turned out of their favor. Days had passed since they last saw rain, maybe even weeks. She was too tired, too thirsty to concentrate.

"Hey, hey," she hadn't even realized she was slipping down to the ground before Lucifer grabbed her. "Stay with me, detective. I know it's hotter than Hell, but we have to keep walking. We have to find water, yes?"

Chloe nodded her head weakly, her dry lips smacking together as Lucifer threw her arm around his neck. Weather seemed to be going from one extreme to the next. Maybe it was normal. Maybe it was from the bombs. But she needed to fight through this. Fight to stay alive. Survive for Trixie. For Lucifer.

"You know what I want," her voice slurred as if she was drunk. "A nice, big swimming pool of water that I could drink out of."

"I could go for a few shots of whiskey myself," he added, but a glass of water would be nice too I suppose." He chuckled, but Chloe could hear the worry in his tone. "Tell you what, we survive this and I'll build you the biggest bloody pool in all of Los Angeles."

"And we'll skinny dip," Chloe mumbled deliriously. "It's too hot for clothes."

"Ooh, you are quite the temptress, detective," Lucifer smirked, shifting to carry more of her weight. "I'll hold you to that."

They continued to walk on, Chloe growing more and more out of it as they went. Lucifer fear for her outdid his own concern for his well being as they pressed on. He knew if they didn't find some source of water soon, their outcome wouldn't be so pleasant. If running Hell was still a concern of his, he'd consider making this a torture option.

"Lucifer," Chloe murmured, bringing Lucifer back to reality. "If something happens to me-"

"Stop," he interrupted firmly. "It won't."

"But if it does-"

"It. Won't."

For a brief moment, his eyes flickered a crimson red. Though his anger was not aimed at Chloe. No. Literally at everything but her. As they moved on, almost painfully slow, suddenly the detective's voice broke through the silence.

"Lucifer, look," she nearly rasped. "A house!"

At first, he thought she was hallucinating, her hand shaking as she pointed towards the distance. He was going to ignore her words when his eyes did too catch a glimpse of something past a thicket of trees. By Father, she was right. There was a house. Right in the middle of bloody nowhere. The Devil couldn't contain the grin that spread across his face.

"Why my dear detective, I believe we found something much better than a pool," he breathed, looking down at her. "Much better indeed."

At least, he hoped as much.

[latenightscribbles13]

I Am Not (part I)

Day 1

I did it. I DID IT!!!

 Now, I wait.

 Day 2

I don't really know what day it is. The concept of time ceased to exist. One day passes into another, tomorrow merges with the day after, and so forth. We do not need to know anything else. Everything is decided for us. They wake you up. They tell you when to eat and what to eat. They realized eating food for pleasure is a waste of one’s body. So they serve us all the important nutrients in forms of tablets, capsules and powders. Any sort of pleasure is being eradicated. It is not necessary for survival and can only cause distraction. We all have a special purpose in this network, and it has been assigned to us the moment we set our foot in this complex. You will be safe here, they said.

We are. But this is not living. We are not. We simply are not. What, you ask? We are not alive. We are not humans. It’s not how it’s supposed to be. Sterile, white surfaces. White jumpsuits. Blank expressions.

It’s not how it’s supposed to be.

I know that much. I was brought here very young. They tried to mould me into a productive member of the new society. I spend my days in the lab, researching for new, easier ways to enslave people’s minds. I play my part perfectly. But I know. I know.

They lied. Everything they said was a lie. I keep dreaming about the past. They don’t know it. I plug all the newcomers to the dream machine. We can extract all the necessary information from dreams to reach into the person’s core, and tear it out, replacing it with molecules that encourage obedience and loyalty. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. I escaped the machine by volunteering to operate it and analyse the results. If they saw what was inside my head … I would be long gone.

I remember my mother. She was a hearty woman, with long and shiny hair, and a kind smile. She would always take me out for long walks through the forests and the fields. We didn’t have much, but it was enough. It was everything we needed. Sometimes, the bright colours of nature hurt my eyes. Around me, everything is white, white, white. It can drive you insane.

I would have jumped off of a roof a long time ago, had it not been for another dream. It started a long time ago, I think. First, I saw one young man, coming towards me, with a message in his hands. I would always wake up before reading it. Then, the boy was joined by more and more similar dark figures. Until there were nine. They were all wearing hoods, so I couldn’t see their faces properly, but I could feel their rebellious spirit. It made me excited and nervous, all the same. One night, the leader of the group handed me the message, as many times before, and I held onto it with all my might. I could feel the reality barging in already, distant voices disturbing the peaceful landscape of my dreams. Before I opened my eyes, I caught a glimpse of the short simple message.

I am not.

That’s all it said. I am not. And yet, I knew. I knew what it meant and what I would have do. The rebellion was near. The end of this fucked up reality was near. And I needed to do what I did best. Make a drug. An antidote. Something, that would keep the mind clean and free from any sort of control.

Yesterday, I succeeded. That’s why it’s called day 1. It’s the first day of the rest of the life that we know. All I have to do now, is wait. Wait for the boys from my dreams to come. They will know what to do.

 Day 3

I shouldn’t be writing every day. It’s too dangerous. I could be caught at any moment. They are already careful around me when exchanging confidential information. It wasn’t always like this. Usually, they could hardly notice my presence. They thought I was less than a fly on the wall. I’m pretty sure they didn’t even know if I could speak.

But now, they are more cautious. I can feel all those suspicious looks piercing my back whenever I pass them by. They don’t trust me. Maybe they noticed I have been spending more time in the lab, and brought in less successful drugs and analyses than before. I need to be more productive in the following days.

I hope the boys will be here soon.

 Day 5

I didn’t dare to open my notebook yesterday. I spent all day in the lab, improving the dream machine, whilst also coming up with a new drug. I needed to feed them something. They seemed quite pleased, but I still felt uncomfortable under their scanning eyes.

They smell something.

I need to throw them off.

 Day 13

I can keep track of days by drawing tiny dots on the wall behind my bed. It feels good knowing how much time has actually passed.

I dreamt about the boys again. This time, they didn’t bring me a message. They just kept walking towards me, but could never reach me. They just kept on marching and marching, the sound of their army boots resonating through the empty plain.

I woke up sweaty and anxious. What did all of that mean?

 Day 20

This morning, I realized I might’ve gotten it all wrong. I had another dream, but it was all mixed up. I was working on the dream machine, when they brought in a newcomer. They laid him on the bed, and he obeyed without a word, as they had drugged him before, surely. I placed the electrodes to each side of his forehead, and ran the machine. As I tried to feel his temperature, his fingers suddenly latched around my wrist, and his eyes flew open.

I recognized him immediately. It was the Leader from my dreams. What was he doing there? He kept his grab on my wrist, and the machine began printing out images of our meeting. He dreamt of the same thing, as I did. And now we had it on paper. I was paralyzed.

Before I could react, the guards flew in, and dragged me away.

They know

They know

They know

 I sat straight up in bed, heart beating against my ribcage, sheets drenched in my sweat. My mouth was dry, and I kept murmuring the same line -  they know, they know, they know.

It took me a long time to calm down. The waiting was taking a toll on me. Every day was a nervous battle. I kept the antidote with me at all times, it was safer that way. I had to be very, very careful not to lose or break the eprouvette. That would ruin it all. I need to be stronger.

When I calmed down, I realized another thing. Maybe, the rebels will not arrive in tanks or aeroplanes, armed with guns and bombs.

Maybe they will arrive in handcuffs.

 Day 26

I am carefully scanning each and every newcomer. It’s slowing down my working process but I can’t afford to miss any details.

But I am sure they are the ones that will make it happen.

Day 30

No luck so far.

 Day 41

I haven’t dreamt about them in a while. I hope I don’t forget their faces.

I do dream about my mom a lot, though. We are always running around the field, laughing, being free. Then, they come and take me away. I never see my mom again.

 Day 60

I’m starting to lose hope. I am getting sloppier with my work, and I don’t sleep much.

What, if it had all been a mistake?

What if they inserted that dream in my head to test my loyalty?

What if they had been doing that all along?

I’m going crazy.

 Day 99

He is here.

 Day 100

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Internally, I had already stopped hoping for somebody to come. I focused on my research and my everyday tasks to keep my head straight. All the conspiracy theories and all the guessing almost drove me mad.

So I went back to my usual self. I was quiet, invisible, and efficient. How they want me and need me to be.

The antidote was still safely tucked in my bra. It was the safest place, trust me.

I was going about my day, as the prisoner bus pulled up in front of the building. Well, I called it the prisoner bus, but officially it was the volunteer bus. It was full of taken children and young adults that would be trained and brainwashed to serve the system in any possible way. That’s where I came in. I analysed their thoughts and dreams to deduce the optimal position for them. Where would they be of most service?

There were at least 40 new people waiting to be examined. Most of them were scared and confused, but some of them showed stoic resistance. If they only knew how fast the system can break their spirit into a million distorted pieces. Then, they pick them up, one by one, and arrange them in their own way, they paint a new picture that will hardly resemble your old self.

I would know.

Before the night fell, the last of the newcomers was brought inside. He was laid on the bed, and I began my procedure. I washed his face, dried it, applied light blue gel on each side of his forehead, and attached the electrodes over it.

I almost ran the machine, when I realized I forgot to inject him with sleeping medicine. Everything happens for a reason. It was either a really long day, or I subconsciously felt that I shouldn’t put him to sleep.

When I glanced towards his tranquil face, I knew. It was him. The Leader. There was no doubt about it. My heart was racing, and my hands were shaking. The whole body knew.

I nudged him lightly, hoping nobody was watching me from the outside. When I nudged him for the third time, he slightly opened his eyes. He was drugged so he probably wasn’t thinking or seeing clearly. I just wanted him to see my face. It will stick with him, surely.

It was all I could do at the moment.

Then, I put him to sleep, and ran the machine.

Now, lying in bed with this notebook, an important question popped into my mind - where are the others?

[coffeeatthekeyboard-blog]

Story Bit: Summer Fears - 1

Story bit that came to me while I was on my way down to Seattle yesterday. Thankfully, my roommate was driving so I was able to scratch it out onto paper.

Summer was a dangerous time to be one of the hidden ones. Too small to fight against the predators of the outside world, to farm their own goods, and certainly to participate in the goods economy that the humans thrived on. They lived in the forgotten spaces and survived on unmissed scraps, relying on schedules and predictable routine to protect themselves. But summer... summer always messed that up.

And Sara hated the season, dreading its return every year before spring had even begun. It'd taken her family from her when she'd been a young teenager, in the house they'd lived in together across town. Summer meant that the human family had packed up their pets and left for the weekend like they did so often. It'd always been a nice time, when they didn't have to worry about being seen.

She'd never needed to know the term 'fumigation' before that. Nor had she needed to pay attention to the conversations of the family. Now... that had all changed.

Starting completely over was not easy for a tiny hidden one, especially when she was all on her own, but Sara couldn't risk bringing anything along that couldn't be washed any more than she could stand to stay.

The new house didn't have some of the dangers that the one one had. Fewer bugs, no rodents, and no teenagers. There were new dangers instead, or at least things that would grow up to be new dangers. There'd been a new baby born just months ago, and the husband had brought a puppy home last week. Neither were free to roam yet, and that was a true blessing. But she still took care to linger near the couple in the evenings when they were both home to talk over their plans. Talk that warned her.

Which was when she heard the other bit of news that could devastate any hidden family. Extended vacation. A whole month with no food being brought in, no faucets being left dripping, no windows left cracked open.

And they'd be leaving in two days. A surprise, delightful for wife but horrible and dreadful for Sara. How could she gather a month's worth of supplies in two days?

Those two days were spent in a mad scramble any time the pair left the house or settled down for long enough for her to dash out and grab whatever edibles she could find, or whatever water she had containers for. Her own safe schedules, built over years of habit and tradition, were all thrown out. And it was just not enough.

Sara watched them leave from the safety of an upstairs window, a sick feeling of dread settling into her gut. Could she hope to find another place if she had to leave again? It barely felt like she'd been here long enough to even start to settle down.

Tomorrow, she would think about it tomorrow. Who knew, maybe she could actually let herself sleep in for once. After barely sleeping a wink since she'd heard the news, she needed the rest. And it would help her think this thing over clearly.

When morning came, Sara took her time rising and eating the small breakfast she allowed herself as she worked through this problem in her mind. The humans wouldn't be bringing any fresh food, she knew that. But... But surely they wouldn't have thrown everything out when they'd cleaned out the kitchen. Flour, rice, sugar, baking powder, all those things they kept sealed tight in jars that were normally out of her reach because they took time and tools to get to, she had the time to pry open and collect. She could do this. And if it turned out she'd have to leave at some point, she'd have more time to get herself ready to go with food packed and supplies collected.

She'd be okay. And until then, she'd just mind her rations of the fresh items so she could keep her nutrition up.

It'd been a long time since she'd been able to spend a whole day gathering supplies without worrying about being seen or having to be gone by a certain time.

Which was precisely what Sara was doing come that afternoon, climbing up the side of the flour jar she'd pried open with a creative use of pullies and levers. Instead of just lowering a bucket this time, she was going to climb all the way in and stuff the bag she'd brought along absolutely full. Enough flour for weeks. And then she wanted to do the same with another one, and other. To actually make up that back stock her parents had always been trying to build for the family. She'd drawn up a list of all those long term ingredients she wanted to stock up on, enough to cover herself for all those times when she couldn't go out and get food. When there was company over and too many humans in the house, when she was sick, or just when she had too many other things to do in her own hidden home. One thing Sara had always envied listening in on the human conversations was the idea of days off. Days when they did things around the home, but didn't have to go out and work hard just to support themselves. Days off didn't exist when it was a choice between going and getting supplies or starving. She wanted them too. And this was her chance to earn them.

That strange optimism that'd crept on her distracted Sara from paying attention to all the other things she should have been minding. Like a key in the front door, followed by footsteps in the hall. Inside the shuttered pantry, inside the jar in the shuttered pantry, she didn't even see the human entering the kitchen. But she saw the sudden flood of light as the switch flicked on, and heard the excited barking of the family's puppy.

It was still here?! And there was a human too?!

In her panic, Sara lost her grip on the rope and fell into the flour, landing with a coughing fit as it flew into the air around her. Covering her face, she blindly grabbed for the rope again, losing her footing right as she grasped hold. It caught against something, but just for a moment before there was a soft impact in the floor beside her. As Sara groped around to find out what it was, she felt her heart sink. The pencil stub she'd wedged up top to keep the hinged lip open when she was inside. It'd fallen in with her.

Squinting against the flour coating her face and everything else, she saw exactly what she'd dreaded. The lid was done. She was trapped in here. The only thing that even kept it open enough to let air in was her rope dangling over the lip, tied to the hinge itself.

As she fought not to cry at the realization for fear of her tears gluing her eyes shut, she could hear the human outside the pantry talking to the puppy. A woman's voice, not one she recognized. Not that that mattered. The wife hadn't known she was there any more than this stranger would.

And then things got worse, because the pantry door opened.

Numbly, Sara realized that she'd never seen a human this close up before. By all the hidden gods, she was huge. And searching for something. Did she somehow know that Sara was there? Had the family known, and sent someone after her? Sara froze, feeling those huge eyes sweep right over her flour covered body. And past, to the box of dog treats next to her. The human grabbed one of them out and turned away, closing the pantry again behind her.

She hadn't been seen? Sara didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing, but she didn't have time to decide either before the shutters flew open again so suddenly that Sara automatically crouched down with a muffled yelp of fear. In the doorway, the human woman stood with wide eyes, staring right at her.

TBC

[fantasti-cat]

Lymphoma. I’m getting awfully damn sick of hearing and saying that word. I cry with owners every time I have to break that news to them. My heart breaks with theirs every time the disease makes their pets feel worse and when we make the decision to let them rest when they’ve fought the good fight.

No matter how many times I’ve gone through this it’s never easier. It was like a punch in the throat when I read those words on Panera’s biopsy result. It was a scary few weeks of starting treatment and having days where I had to ask, “Are you sick from cancer? Is it chemo? Or is it something else like pancreatitis from stealing some other food you shouldn’t be eating?”.

Over two years later, Panera is still thriving and I’m counting my blessings because we’ve borrowed so much time and he keeps on trucking through. He vomits from time to time but you can’t keep that cat out of your Taco Bell or your pizza. Hell, the cat pulverized a huge chunk of tofu scramble the other day when I ran to get the mail and didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it. I know we’re coming up on the back nine of his median survival time but in so many ways I’ve all but forgotten that he has lymphoma.

Two to three weeks ago, Hobbes, (whom like Panera, I raised from a tiny 9 day old kitten) starting intermittently vomiting. He never turned down food and never acted ill. It was hard to catch him in the act and for the longest time I thought it was Panera. I resigned myself to the fact that he was probably starting to come out of remission and brought him to work to watch him. That night my husband caught Hobbes vomiting and we finally realized it was him all along.

Within three days he started to act ill and we moved forward with his testing. I had the sinking feeling in my stomach that we were about to have another cancer patient in our house. I channeled my inner optimism and remembered how hard Panera was kicking cancer’s ass and while I hated it, as I wasn’t prepared to go through this with my other bottle baby too, I felt sure that we didn’t need to think our time with him was going to be short.

Hobbes didn’t need to have surgery to diagnose him like Panera did; he had minimally enlarged lymph nodes we were able to sample with ultrasound guidance. Red flag raised. But the results were clear. Not only did he have lymphoma, he had an aggressive form. Large cell. Median survival time of 6-9 months with good response to chemo. Real chemo. Injections that can cause side effects other than occasional GI upset. Visits once a week for treatment.

Let me digress one moment to explain veterinary chemo. We can’t cure these cancers. These poor little souls don’t understand why they feel ill or that they’ll feel better. It’s not fair to give them medication that makes them feel awful for days when it won’t save their lives and give them years to share with us. Their chemo is palliative. Knock back the disease progression, shrink the bad cells. If treatment makes them severely ill, they don’t get that treatment anymore. If the benefit does not outweigh the side effects, the protocol changes. If side effects cause days in the hospital for aggressive supportive care, no veterinarian is going to give your pet that medication again. If going to the hospital once a week is terrible for your pet, your options will reflect that. Doses are reduced, frequencies are changed, different drugs are chosen. It’s not like human chemo at all.

We made the decision to start the most aggressive chemo protocol for Hobbes. He was a good candidate: he was diagnosed early, he’s a low stress cat (not crazy about the car but loves people, even strangers, and is very amenable to handling), he doesn’t have any other health problems, and he wasn’t that sick yet. He was a perfect boy for the rest of his staging and kept head butting and purring at the tech who gave him his first treatment, vincristine. He begged shoulder rides off of anyone who opened his cage, which was pretty much everyone, as he was in the front of it starving for attention.

About 30 hours after his treatment, he was miserable. He didn’t want to leave the couch. He ate, but not voraciously. He even moaned a few times adjusting himself in my lap. He slept on the foot of the bed, leaving his traditional pillow space for Panera. I cried. I cried all night thinking I had done this to him. I made him feel worse by allowing him to have chemo. I gave him some fluids and an antiemetic. He felt a little better by morning.

I questioned myself all day. I talked to colleagues and the oncologist, all supportive and sympathetic. We discussed time lines and ideas. That night, he was much better: great appetite, attention seeking, purring. Sleeping on my head like normal. And he’s his wonderful happy self today. One bad night, and he’s right back on point. I think I’ve allowed myself to feel that the benefits outweighed the risk. He feels better than he has felt in days which means that chemo is helping.

But I know I’m going to be a wreck for weeks to come. And that I am not ready.