#Shuttered Debris Walls | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cranetreegang · 11 months

Text

Home at Last - Ominis x FemReader

Summary: Ominis finally returns to the Gaunt Estate. It's all that he remembers, except he's the one who's changed. He navigates his parents in search of any clues about Ancient Magic and his ancestors.

Word Count: ~7,200 words

Read my other Ominis Fics Here

Warnings: Child abuse, mentions of child abuse, manipulation

----------------------------------------

Standing in front of the iron gate, Ominis clenches his wand tightly in one hand and his suitcase in the other. Despite not having been back to the Estate in years, it all feels the exact same. The gate resonates with layers of protective charms and dark magic. He can barely make out the circular emblem locking the gate in place, which he’s sure has a gaudy ‘G’ etched at the center. The feelings he used to harbor for this place hasn’t changed either as his feet refuse to move to take the final steps forward.

He closes his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath, then finally approaches. The gate shutters open for the wayward heir and he walks towards the manor. Under his boots, he feels patches of grass growing between the once trimmed stone path - occasionally kicking some loose bricks as he passes. The steps leading up to the door aren’t fairing much better, deteriorating under his weight and he hears the sounds of pebbles and debris hitting the ground.

The massive double door is his last chance to turn around. With one last sharp inhale, Ominis flick his wand at the door. It groans and whines as it slowly opens. Ominis steps inside, the smells of old wood and marble greet him along with a scent of dust. The still silence sends a brief chill down his spine then the door slams shut, echoing throughout the manor in a deafening boom and rattling him. His back straightens and he knows there’s no turning back now.

He notes how there’s not as much furniture by the entryway. In fact, as he walks through the manor towards his old bedroom, the place is practically sparse. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought they had moved without telling him. But, he does know the harsh truth of the matter and he can’t stop a scornful smirk at how much his proud family has fallen. Oh, if Salazar Slytherin could see the deteriorating state of his esteemed bloodline now, Ominis laughs to himself. There hasn’t even been a single house elf scurrying through the halls, now that he thinks of it. Indeed, his family is truly in tough times for his Mother to forgo her house elves.

He rounds the corner and heads down the long hallway of the east wing towards the last door on the right. With another flick of his wand, his wards pacify then the bedroom door unlocks and shudders open. Waving his wand around, he’s surprised to find he still has a bed. It seems his room is wholly untouched - his four poster bed on the far right wall, his large oak desk in front of him against the window, then his wardrobe on the left wall.

Setting his suitcase on the bed, creating a cloud of dust in the air, his mind starts to drift back to his days here - his days before the Sallow twins and Hogwarts. A soft sigh escapes him as he heads towards his old desk.

Through the layer of grime, his fingertips find the familiar scratches and knicks exactly as they were. He sits down in the chair and recites a spell to unlock the drawers. Notes, books, amateur drawings, and other various knick knacks are tucked away inside - all as he left it. One journal in particular gets his attention. The leatherbound book is cool against his touch and he flips open to a random page to read.

Each day feels like a struggle, a battle. I don’t know what’s worse - Father when he ignores my existence entirely, or when he does acknowledge my presence.

I yearn for his approval. I try to be the son he wishes me to be. But everytime I try, I’m only met with his harsh, cruel words as he berates me - his words laced with obvious disdain and disapproval. It’s days like today that I’m thankful for my blindness, so as to not see the matching disgust which accompanies these words.

Cimsy was able to procure me the spellbook I requested, and I’ve managed to create charms to protect my room and desk. After the incident with Marvolo, I pray I’m able to find brief sanctuary in my room. It’s a shallow comfort - as these charms are rudimentary at best - but I take it all the same.

Next year, I’ll be at Hogwarts. Next year, I’ll be far, far away from here. Next year, I’ll become just as talented as all the wizards I’ve read about in my stories. I’ll be a hero - rising above adversity and slaying fearsome monsters.

Ominis skims his wand over the entry several times, recalling that day all too well. Many memories he hasn’t thought about start to surface. He gently places the journal on the desk then reaches back inside the drawer. Searching along the underside, he feels a shallow, circular indent - which he presses. A soft click reaches his ears and he smiles, tracing along the side until a protruding piece of wood meets his fingers. He opens it, his fingers just barely touching the hidden contents.

“Young Master.”

Shutting the drawer with a swift movement, Ominis whips his head around with a scowl, which quickly melts into a more gentle expression once he realizes who’s at the door.

“Cimsy,” Ominis grins as he stands. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

The old house elf limps into the room, her bare feet dragging on the marble floor.

“Cimsy is most pleased to see the young Master back,” Cimsy sounds more worn, aged, and tired than he recalls. He holds back his pitying frown as Cimsy continues.

“Cimsy has been quite busy since the others were sold. Cimsy tried to clean your room before you arrived, young Master, but Cimsy could not get in. Clever charms, young Master. Too clever for Cimsy.”

“I apologize. I forgot they were in place before I left,” Ominis smiles, “I’m sorry I haven’t visited you, Cimsy. Truly. I've missed you, and our walks in the garden.”

Cimsy chuckles, airy and weak, “Cimsy has missed the young Master Gaunt as well. Cimsy has been sent to retrieve the young Master. Mistress Gaunt wishes to see you, young Master.”

Ominis’ smile fades into a tight grimace, and he nods, “Very well. I shouldn’t keep her waiting. Lead the way.”

Cimsy bows, then starts her slow shuffle towards the parlor room.

Along the way, Ominis is reminiscent of all the times he’s walked to the parlor - through all the winding, rug covered hallways and past all the portraits no doubt staring at him as he goes by. Cimsy opens the door to the parlor and a rush of warm air hits his face.

“Mistress Gaunt, the young Master is here, as requested.”

Ominis strides into the room, registering the presence of his mother by the window lounging on the chaise. By the way her arm is angled, she’s no doubt holding onto a wine glass.

“Have lunch prepared, Cimsy,” Mother’s voice is cold, detached, and without inflection. It sends a shiver down his spine despite the order not being towards him.

“Right away, Mistress,” Cimsy says, snapping her fingers to apparate to the kitchens.

Mother sets down her glass with a clink then rises from her perch. She slowly turns to face him and Ominis feels her sharp eyes upon him. She flows towards him with soft steps and the air chills once she’s in front of him. He notices that she’s not as tall as she once was as she’s no longer able to loom over him. Instead, it appears he’s at least above eye level with her.

“Oh, my little Ominis,” she coos in a far warmer tone than earlier. The change has always jarred him, but he maintains a neutral expression - even when her cold hands cup either side of his cheeks.

She turns his head, examining him, “My, my, how you’ve grown into such a handsome young man.”

Her long fingers stroke through his hair - landing on the back of his neck to bring him into her embrace. Ominis is stiff in her arms as she places a kiss on the top of his head.

“I have missed you, my darling boy,” she whispers. The stench of tart wine fans across his face. Her strong perfume consumes the rest of his senses.

“I’ve missed your letters, my sweetling. Do you know how much worry and anguish I’ve been in? Do you even care?”

Ominis winces at her sweetly sharp tone, her nails threatening to rip into him. He replies as evenly as he can.

“I apologize, Mother. I didn’t mean to cause you distress. My coursework is quite demanding and it requires my full attention.”

Mother’s hands move to his shoulders, her nails digging into him as she yanks him out of her bosom. The heat of her glare prickles his skin and he does well in keeping his blank expression.

“‘Full attention’?! Are you saying I am not worthy of your ‘precious’ attention? After all I’ve sacrificed for you? After all I’ve done for you! This is how you repay my kindness? My love?” her voice wavers, signaling the beginning of tears starting to form.

Ominis swallows the lump in his throat, “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mother. I know you’ve done much for me. Which is why I’m here now.”

She tsk’s then seethes, “You’ve been running away from your duties. Your responsibilities. I have done everything for you. I have created a path that’s best for you, yet you continue to act like a juvenile. I never should’ve allowed you to go off to that school. It’s pulled you too much away from me.”

“Please, Mother,” he says calmly, “Hogwarts is what’s best for me. You said so yourself. If I’m to be truly worthy as your son, then I must be educated. You know this.”

Sensing her growing annoyance and rage, he quickly adds, “I’ve longed to be here with you, Mother. I… missed you. And I haven’t forgotten my duties. I’m trying to prepare for them - as to make you proud. I only want to be a worthy son to you, Mother.”

She’s silent, her hold on his shoulders relax and she shifts a hand up to cup his cheek once more. He remains stoic and still, suppressing the chills and discomfort behind clenched teeth.

“You’ve changed,” she coos while rubbing her thumb across his cheek. “For the better it seems. It’s good you’ve come to your senses. And for you to return home. Return to me.”

He can’t bring himself to force a smile, so he only nods, “Of course, Mother.”

Mother sighs, letting him go then taking his arm to lead him, “Come. Let us eat. I’m sure you’re starving.”

Ominis doesn’t fight her, he needs her. At least until he finds what he’s looking for. Until then, he’ll play the part he knows so well - the good, obedient son.

Arriving at the dining room, they sit across from one another while Cimsy brings out their meal. A bland watery broth wafts up to his nose along with the welcoming scent of warm, fresh bread.

“Cimsy!” Mother hisses. “Surely this must be a joke. You do have something else prepared.”

He hears Cimsy wring her hands together as she stammers, “C-Cimsy is deeply sorry, Mistress. Cimsy could o-only make this. Mistress did not give Cimsy enough to buy-,”

“Shut up!”

Cimsy silences immediately while his Mother fumes. Ominis grips his spoon tightly, wishing he could speak up. But, he remains silent.

“Leave us. I expect something more worthwhile at dinner,” Mother sneers.

Cimsy doesn’t hesitate to leave. Their meal is in silence, thankfully. Once it’s done, Ominis finally decides to ask,

“Mother, would it be alright if I were to read through some of the records in the archives?”

There’s a long silence and Ominis holds his tongue to keep from groveling. His true intentions are on full display and he worries he may have shown too much.

“Why?” She questions.

“It’s time I’ve learned more of our namesake and heritage. I want to continue family traditions,” he replies quickly with the excuse he’s been repeating in his head since he first arrived.

Another long silence, and his tongue is bleeding from his sharp teeth digging into the flesh.

“I’ve been looking forward to this day,” Mother beams as she stands. Ominis releases a breath, going to stand as she continues, “Our family history is one which many don’t have the privilege of knowing.”

She goes over to Ominis, gripping his arm again as she leads him to the library. He can’t deny his excitement, his curiosity. The implications of his ancestors having a connection to Ancient Magic would give him as many questions as answers. He wonders if his path was always meant to intertwine with his love’s. The thought troubles him - the idea of him and her fated to be together instead of wanting to be doesn’t sit well with him. That his actions up to this point have been meaningless as they were always meant to happen this way. He shoves the idea aside, not wishing to dwell on the possibility any longer.

Mother pulls him through the dusty library to the locked room at the back. She produces her key, the door softly unlocks then opens, and they head inside the musty room. Mother taps a glass object and he hears the soft humming of what he assumes to be lights. Despite not having been in the archives in some time, it’s exactly as he remembers it.

The archives is a long rectangular room, adorned with shelves, cabinets, and display cases. The air carries a faint scent of aged paper and taxidermy beasts - beasts that have long since been wiped to extinction. Framed portraits of ancestors, their watchful gazes keeping a vigil over the room, stare into Ominis. He can imagine the sneers of these portraits as the disapproving mumblings of his blindness reach his ears.

Along the walls, rows of sturdy wooden shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, neatly organized and laden with volumes of journals, diaries, and bound manuscripts. Cabinets with glass doors stand proudly, showcasing delicate heirlooms and cherished mementos. A silver pocket watch, a set of wands, and worn leather gloves are among the treasures preserved.

In the center of the room, a large oak table serves as a workspace, adorned with magnifying glasses, quills and ink, and carefully arranged parchment paper.

The room exudes a sense of order and purpose, meticulously sorted and organized through generations. If there is one thing the Gaunt’s pride themselves on - it’s their family heritage.

“Ah, where to begin?” Gliding around the room, her fingers dance along the spines of journals and tomes until she stops on one. She pulls it from the shelf and flips it open.

“Gormalith will be of interest to you,” she begins then dives right into reading a rather boring account of what Gormalith had for breakfast and the subsequent torture of the house elf which made him said breakfast.

Before she can continue, Ominis interjects, “I was hoping I could find a certain time frame.”

Mother stares at him, shutting the book with a huff, “And what time frame would that be, Ominis?”

“I was thinking upon it the other day, and I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with any of our history during the 15th century.”

He can feel her brow raise, but she hums as she heads to the other side of the room. He follows, and notes when she lingers on a certain row of books.

“I doubt a boy your age would be interested in that era,” Mother dismisses then heads towards another shelf. “You would be far more pressed to know about Aron and his exploits in the east. In fact, he was able to capture a Ceasg during his voyage across the North Sea.”

Ominis’ brows pinch, but he suppresses his aggravation with a stiff nod, “If that’s what you believe is best.”

Mother continues to read to him about the accounts of his ancestors, and Ominis nods along - his mind drifting to the one row which she lingered at. As the afternoon shifts to evening, Ominis senses his mother growing bored of the history lesson.

“We should check on Cimsy to ensure dinner is being prepared,” she shuts the diary and grabs onto his arm.

“I wouldn’t mind staying here for a moment longer,” Ominis states then quickly adds, “If that’s alright.”

Her grip on his arm tightens, “You shouldn’t be in here by yourself, my sweetling.”

“I can handle myself,” he replies far too sharply. Her nails dig into him to confirm as much. “Besides, I’m utterly fascinated by our family heritage.”

“Ominis-,”

“You were saying I’ve been neglecting my duties,” he says as calmly as he can. “Perhaps this is the best way for me to understand my place. To appreciate the path you’ve set out for me, and understand my role in our family.”

Another long pause makes his shoulders tense.

She has a light, amused laugh before she places a kiss on his cheek, “Oh, my curious little boy. Very well, I’ll leave you to it,” she places the key into his palm. “Lock up when you’re done. I’ll have Cimsy come fetch you when dinner is ready.”

Mother leaves, and Ominis lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He stuffs the key into his pocket then heads quickly over to the shelf he’s been dying to investigate all day. He grabs as many journals as he can carry and takes them to the oak table. Plopping down into the worn leather chair, he begins to skim through the diaries.

According to what his love told him, Isidora would’ve been at Hogwarts in her youth around the 1450’s with the latest dates being before 1500 - when she became a professor. He grimaces at how wide of a year range that leaves him, but she also mentioned Headmistress Fitzgerald serving Hogwarts during that time frame. Rackham, Rookwood, and Bakar were also names he could search for. Hopefully, that’ll be enough for him to go on.

He’s barely made it through the first diary when Cimsy informs him of dinner being ready. Ominis is reluctant to leave, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. As he heads back to the dining room, he stops at his room - free from prying eyes. He takes out the archives key and conjures a duplicate. Satisfied, he hides the key in his desk then heads to dinner.

The air in the dining room is tense, and Ominis pauses for a moment as he enters the room. His father is at the head of the table while his mother is sat next to him. Ominis is hesitant as he takes his place across from his mother. The stench of scented smoke and tobacco emanates from his father. Some things truly haven’t changed, Ominis muses to himself.

Cimsy summons forth their dinner, a roast with potatoes and carrots, then she refills his mother and father’s drinks.

Ominis isn’t unfamiliar with the tense atmosphere - especially if his father is near - but it unsettles him all the same. The quiet clanking of their silver utensils hitting the fine china and chewing is the only noises to be heard. Ominis tries his best to not look like he’s rushing to finish eating, but he longs to leave this dinner.

“It seems you received a letter today,” Mother says in a low voice.

Fear clasps around his throat before he tilts his head with feign surprise, “Oh? From who?”

Paper rustles and tears, sending his heart beating frantically in his chest.

“Dearest Ominis,” Mother begins with a terse frown lacing her voice, “I hope you arrived safely. I miss you already. I hope to hear from you soon. Sincerely yours.”

Ominis lets out a quiet breath, thankful she did not write anything too sweet to him.

“Who is this?” Mother questions.

“A friend from school,” Ominis replies with no hesitation.

More rustling of paper as Mother re-reads the letter once again.

“And this friend,” Mother draws out, “who are they?”

“Just a friend. Nothing more,” Ominis counters.

“Friends do not write, ‘I miss you already’.”

Ominis can’t help his smirk, “Perhaps not yours.”

Mother scoffs, igniting the letter on fire - the smoke reaching his nose and making him scowl.

“It’s a girl, isn’t it? This friend?” Mother hisses. “Tell me, are you involved with her?”

“I’ve already said, she’s a friend. Nothing more. I don’t know what else you wish me to say on the matter. I can’t control what she writes. Perhaps she does hold some infatuation with me, but I do not return the affection,” Ominis clenches his jaw, his hand gripping on to his pants.

He hates it. The lies. But, he can’t afford to argue with Mother. Not when he’s only just started his search.

“She’s a Mudblood, isn’t she? It’s why you aren’t telling me her name,” Mother states. “Filthy things. I’m not surprised one is trying so hard to cling to you. She probably sees you as her only real way to any sort of status.”

He sits straighter, suppressing his anger at his mother’s vulgarity, “No. She’s not of pure standing, so you know I have no real interest in her.”

“You shouldn’t be fraternizing with Mudbloods in the first place,” Father’s deep, grating voice interjects with disapproval lacing his words. “Even speaking of them is enough to ruin my appetite.”

“Your father is right. Why are you writing to a Mudblood?” Mother demands. “She’s not worth your time. Not when there are plenty of others you would do well to correspond with.”

“She… has connections,” Ominis states. “Connections I require.”

“What sort of connections? What connections could a lowly half-breed possibly offer you that I cannot provide?” Mother’s voice raises with every word.

“Does it matter? Shouldn’t you be pleased that I’m at least capable of forming connections on my own?” Ominis hates how quickly he’s rising to her goading. But he can’t stop himself. “With how things are going here, it’s a wonder you aren’t praising me for finding anyone willing to associate with us.”

“Do not speak to me that-,”

“Enough!” Father’s voice booms as he slams his hand down on the table - rattling all the dishes. “I grow weary of this discussion and your disrespect. Leave!”

Ominis doesn’t need further prompting and he quickly rises from his chair. Before he can fully leave, his mother’s voice calls out.

“Leave the key.”

He sighs, going through his pockets to produce the duplicate, and slams it at the end of the dining table. Then he quickly retreats to his room. As soon as the door shuts, he falls back against the door with a heavy breath.

He wishes this was the first time a dinner had gone sourly, but alas it isn’t - and it won’t be the last. The dusty smell from earlier has faded and he catches the faintest aroma of clean sheets. Oh Cimsy, he smiles to himself. She does too much for him.

Pushing himself off the door, he heads to his desk to write to his love - since going to the archives now would be risky. The stationary in the top drawer is slick under his fingers, and he enchants the quill to begin writing.

He lays in bed, waiting as time moves slowly by. He hopes to leave soon to continue his reading. With his siblings being mercifully absent, he can somewhat relax as he waits. His mind drifts to her. What might she be up to? He focuses on her, and he senses her worry, concern, and anticipation.

Turning to his side, he reaches out in a vain attempt to feel her next to him - to comfort her. She voiced her displeasure of him going as he left, and her concerns were valid. But, he’s tired of sitting idly by as she wrestles with this Ancient Magic on her own.

The tips of his fingers warm and, for a moment, it’s like she’s touching him back. In his mind’s eyes, he can picture the dip in the bed of her laying next to him - facing him with a soft smile as he traces her face. Despite having just been with her, it feels like they’ve been apart for too long.

“Don’t worry, my sweet,” he whispers. “I promise I’m fine, and I’ll return to you soon.”

Feather light touches brush along his cheek and comb through his hair. A pleasant shiver rolls down his spine, and the pull of sleep starts to draw him deeper into her phantom caresses. With a sigh, he reluctantly gets up from the bed and heads to the archives.

Sneaking towards the library is a feat he’s done numerous times. He has all the portraits which would rat him out mapped, and since he doesn’t require the aid of light he can stay hidden in the dark the whole time. Once in the archives, he continues reading the journal from earlier.

He repeats this process over the course of the week, growing more and more frustrated as the days pass. Navigating his mother and dealing with the forced dinners is exhausting enough, but reading through the mundane, sadistic ramblings of his ancestors is a form of torture in itself. He barely sleeps, not that he has any desire to in this place.

Since the letter, Mother has felt it apt for him to truly understand why Mudbloods are ‘lower, primitive beings’. These ‘lessons’ are enough to bring him to the edge. He’s nearly voiced his displeasure on several occasions, if not for the reminder that he hasn’t found what he’s looking for yet. And if he were to go against his mother now, then everything would have been for nought. So, he remains silent, letting his mother prattle on.

He gets a brief solace when Mother is ‘too tired to deal with him’, allowing him to roam about without her watchful gaze. It’s in these moments he retreats to the gardens - overgrown and dying - and he naps in his secluded spot behind the bushes under the gnarly tree.

It’s another late night as he flips through the pages of Amphelisia’s diary, finding her accounts to mirror his own in terms of schooling. It’s during her Fifth Year that things get interesting.

I can’t believe the events that transpired today. By my troth, a student joined Hogwarts as a Fifth Year! Completely unheard of. I didn’t hear her name over Mathias’ prattling, but she was sorted into Ravenclaw. Tragic really, as I would’ve been keen on observing her.

How could someone be admitted into Hogwarts so late - is the question on everyone’s lips. I’m determined to find out more anon.

Ominis nearly rips the page as he quickly turns it to find out more. He skims through the entries until a familiar name jumps out at him.

Isidora Morganach is by far the most ghastly, presumptuous girl I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Not only does she have all the professors charmed, but she has most of the class absolutely enamored. Methinks it’s because she’s new, and, similar to a two-headed beast, she’s a spectacle.

But the final insult was when we had our mock duel in Defense Against the Dark Arts today. She swiftly dispatched my Protego charm as if I didn’t even have it up then she knocked me off the platform. The entire class laughed. LAUGHED! At me! I shan't forget this.

He can’t believe it. He’s finally found mentions of Isidora. He continues his reading until another entry strikes his interest.

Isidora may have her uses after all. In Transfiguration, I struggled with the conjuration of a simple cup. Meanwhile, Isidora had no issue conjuring her own. Before Professor Rookwood could see, Isidora conjured a cup right on my desk. Professor Rookwood was so impressed with me, he used ‘my cup’ as an example for the rest of the class. Perhaps, befriending her may be advantageous to me.

A few entries later, he finds mentions of Amphelisia showing the Undercroft to Isidora as their own private hideaway. He grins as he reads over their growing, albeit reluctant, friendship. But as he finishes the diary, there’s no mention of Ancient Magic. Amphelisia comments on Isidora being gifted in magic, with her spells being quite powerful, but Isidora never discloses the nature of it to Amphelisia.

Ominis searches the shelves, summoning down more of Amphelisia’s dairies. He knows the hour is growing later - with the morning soon upon him - but he’s close. He has to be. It isn’t until Amphelisia is a young woman when Isidora is mentioned again.

I received the strangest owl today. My old friend, Isidora, wrote to me. The contents of the letter were somewhat troubling, but she insisted we meet. I shall see what she wants, and I pray it isn’t a waste of time.

The next entry makes him scowl.

Isidora gave me a book of some kind. Locked, and I have no way of opening it despite my best efforts. Always the clever one. I’m tempted to throw it away as burning it does nothing.

The rest of Amphelisia’s diary makes no mention of Isidora’s book, nor what she decided to do with it. Ominis paces the room, scanning the shelves for any signs of this possible journal. He frowns - cursing Amphelisia for possibly throwing away the one clue he desperately needed. Collapsing in the leather chair, Ominis debates about continuing his reading or leaving. He taps his wand in thought when a familiar vibration makes him pause.

His breath catches in his throat as he turns his wand towards the source. It’s… just like hers. He scrambles from his seat, rushing towards the vibration at the corner. Throwing open the cabinet door, he pulls out the boxes until he’s able to reach the one he’s needing. He tears his way into the box, shoving aside the various knick knacks and trinkets until his whole arm shoots up with magical sparks.

There, in his hand, is a journal. He slowly picks it up and cradles the leather-bound journal in both of his hands as if it were a delicate, priceless jewel. He laughs, almost manically. This is it. It had to be.

Footsteps approach the door to the archive and Ominis can’t spare any more time in rejoicing. He shoves the journal into his coat pocket then he grabs a random object in the box to hold.

The door flies open and Mother storms inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She exclaims as she strides over to where he is.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Mother?” His reply is calm and level.

She stands above him and snarls, “It looks like you’ve made a mess of things in here.”

Ominis places the artifact he’s holding into the box and rises up. He’s practically eye level with her and he doesn’t back down from her scornful gaze. He feels her take a step back.

“H-How did you even get in here?” She questions in a quiet voice.

“I made a copy of the key, obviously,” he replies with a smirk.

“You…,” she falls silent. “You… insolent little child!”

The air parts and the sound of skin hitting skin rings in the air. His cheek blooms in a heated flame and he registers the pain which accompanies it. He turns his head back towards her, unphased.

“If you’re done, I’ll take my leave,” he says in an eerily calm tone.

He doesn’t wait, but instead brushes past her and heads out of the room. He hears her calling his name, but her cries fall on deaf ears. Once in his room, he’s quick to write to his love - informing her of his finding and his soon to be departure. His hand shakes as he commands the quill to write, giddy to be with her once again. As soon as his owl takes flight, it doesn’t take him long to have his bag packed.

Before he leaves the room, he goes back to his desk. So many memories, tucked away - and likely to be burned once he leaves. He sits back at the desk, reaching into the drawer to find the protruding piece of wood. He opens the secret compartment to grab what he’s kept hidden for so long.

He holds the ring delicately in his fingers. The cold metal is intricate with stones inlaid within the band to accent the well-sized jewel at the center. He’s sure it’s a beautiful piece of jewelry. A frown comes over him at having left it here in the first place. Aunt Noctua gave it to him before she left - believing he needed an heirloom for himself since he was bound to not receive any.

Aunt Noctua made him promise to keep it safe. At the time, he was so angry with her leaving him that he threw it in the garden. Cimsy was the one to place the ring on his desk one afternoon, polished and clean of dirt. He hid it in the desk after. Feeling over the ring, a smile starts to form on his lips. He tucks the ring into his pocket then he’s out of his room.

It’s Cimsy which awaits him in the main entryway. He makes out her figure hunched over, scrubbing at the floors. Cimsy looks up to him and stops her cleaning efforts.

“Oh, young Master,” her eyes drift over him and she gasps. “A-Are you leaving? So soon?”

Ominis sets his suitcase down and kneels down to be closer to the house elf.

He nods, “I’m afraid I am. I’ve… gotten what I came here for. And I don’t know when I’ll return. If… I’ll return,” he sighs. “I never gave you a proper goodbye last time, Cimsy. I would like to give you one now.”

He holds out his hands and Cimsy places her wrinkled ones in his. He holds her hands with a soft smile.

“You’ve always been kind to me, Cimsy. Thank you. For all you do. And I wish you the best,” he whispers.

Cimsy squeezes his hands, “Cimsy lives to serve the Masters of the Gaunt family. Cimsy is proud of the young Master. Cimsy… wishes you well, young Master.”

Ominis squeezes her hands once more before he stands. He grips his suitcase and wand.

“Goodbye, Cimsy,” he says as he heads towards the grand double door.

Just as he flicks his wand to open the door, frantic footsteps rush towards him.

“Ominis!” Mother practically cries. “Y-You’re leaving? You’re leaving me!?”

Ominis feels the breeze of the mid-morning air hitting his face. The sun is just out of his reach.

“I am,” he says without turning to face her.

“But, you can’t leave me, Ominis. You need me,” she sobs loudly, the sounds twisting his heart. “If it was because of earlier, I’m sorry. But, you know better than to make such a mess! And to sneak in without my permission-, you’ve never been so disobedient! What was I to do?”

“I know. And I apologize for doing such,” he states flatly. “But, my time here is done.”

“No!” Mother hisses as she snags his arm, her nails digging into his flesh through is clothes. “You don’t get to decide when you’re done. You have duties to fulfill. Obligations and responsibilities. You are my son!”

Ominis closes his eyes, sighing to himself with pinched brows. He turns his head towards his mother.

“I’m leaving. And you can’t stop me.”

Yanking himself free, his first step forward is met with her sharp gasp, then the next is a wailing sob, but once he’s in the sun he’s all but free. Going down the steps, Mother cries out.

“Ominis! Ominis!” Mother’s voice is all but a screeching wail, and it sends shivers down his spine at how angry and desperate she sounds. “You can’t leave me! You need me! I love you. I’m the only one who loves you! My little boy! Come back to me! Don’t do this to me, Ominis!”

Ominis can’t stop smiling. There was a time when he believed her words to be true - that no one would ever truly love him. But now, he knows it to be nothing more than empty words meant to chain him. And as he steps through the gate, the weight of those chains all but fall as he continues towards the ones who truly love him.

-------------------------------

BONUS

She’s putting up the dishes from breakfast when a letter lands on the table. A notable Slytherin crest seal gets her attention. Nearly shattering the plates as she drops them, she rips it open. She’s just reached the end when Sebastian calls out.

“It’s Ominis!”

She’s out the door, finding him walking towards the shop with a bright grin on his face.

“Ominis!” She grins as she rushes towards him.

“Good morning, my-,”

He’s nearly tackled to the ground by her as she throws herself into him. Her arms wrap around his neck and he laughs as he drops his suitcase to embrace her.

“I missed you,” she whispers in his ear, making him hold her tighter.

“And I you,” he whispers back.

She slowly releases him, her hands cupping his face, “Oh, Ominis. You look exhausted.”

Worry bubbles in his chest - stemming from her. He holds her hands, an action he’s been dying to do since he left, and he smiles.

“I’m alright. I promise.”

“Ah, there’s the heroic knight, back from his adventure,” Sebastian grins as he joins them. “Well, have you come back with anything?”

She releases him and steps back while Ominis reaches into his jacket pocket. Producing the journal, she gasps.

“It’s… glowing,” she whispers.

“It is?” Sebastian questions.

“It’s protected by Ancient Magic. It’s how I found it in the first place,” Ominis states as he hands the journal to her.

“Wait, you found it because of the Ancient Magic?” Sebastian wonders. “Does that mean you can ‘see’ it like she can?”

“I believe I may be able to sense Ancient Magic, yes.”

The journal clicks open and she looks up to Ominis with wide eyes, “Amazing. I… I’m happy you were able to find something.”

Ominis gives her a warm smile, but his tired eyes only make her frown. She grabs his hand, motioning for Sebastian to take the suitcase.

“Here, come inside. Are you hungry? I can make you something. Then you should rest,” she says while tugging him inside.

“I wouldn’t mind some toast and tea. Then a nap wouldn’t hurt.”

Ominis sits at the kitchen table, enjoying the warmth of the sun as it filters through the window. He hears her as she bustles about the quaint kitchen, bringing him toast, eggs, and fruit along with his tea. He laughs to himself, but he can’t say he doesn’t mind the attention. Once he’s eaten he heads to her room upstairs, barely able to change himself out of his clothes into something more comfortable before collapsing.

His eyes are heavy, and the soft knock at the door startles him.

“Come in,” he says.

She steps into the room, walking towards him as the door shuts softly behind her, “Is there anything I can get you?”

He chuckles, “No, my dear, I’m quite alright,” he turns towards her then holds out his hand, “But, I wouldn’t mind if you laid with me. At least, until I fall asleep.”

She doesn’t hesitate to take his hand and she crawls into bed to lay next to him. Her lips are on his in another second, and he hums in both surprise and approval. His fingers are quick to tangle in her hair and he smiles into her eager kisses. When they part, it’s a soft sigh. He traces over her cheek with a warm smile.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

“And I missed you. Terribly,” she whispers just as quietly back. Her fingers brush his hair from his temple and he closes his eyes at the gentle touch. “I love you.”

A thrill shoots up his spine and his brows pinch. He opens his eyes to direct them towards her.

“Can you… say that again?”

She lets out a gentle laugh, kissing his cheek, “I love you, Ominis.”

A whimper escapes his lips and he presses his forehead to hers, brushing their noses together.

“I could go on about all the things I love about you, Ominis,” she strokes his cheek with a smile, “Shall I tell you?”

What his words could not say, his pleading eyes did.

“I love your smile,” she says while kissing the corner of his lips, “I love your gentle touch,” she kisses his palm, “I love your laugh, and sweet voice,” she kisses his neck, making him gasp, “I love your heart - your kindness and compassion.”

She drifts back up to his face, which is now flushed in a beautiful pink hue.

“I love your intelligence. Your quick and clever mind,” she kisses his forehead then she lingers just above his lips. “But, most of all, I love how you see me. You love me, for me. You accept me as I am, and encourage me to become better. You see all my flaws, and you still choose to love me. With you, I feel seen.”

He kisses her, his passion coming fully forward. Little whimpers and gasps escape him at her matching his intensity. As their tongues tangle and their breaths grow heavy, he hopes this will be enough to convey how much she means to him.

They slowly part once more with soft smiles and heated faces. He tucks her hair behind her ear, finding the warmth of her closeness slowly lulling him to sleep.

She lets out a content sigh, “Get some rest, handsome.”

Feeling her warmth next to him, it’s easy for him to fall asleep.

------------------------------

They wake up from their nap still tangled in each other’s embrace. The afternoon sun begins to shine into the room, and Ominis tells her of how he found Isidora’s journal.

“As it turns out, my ancestor was indeed friends with Isidora. She thought it odd that someone would arrive at Hogwarts during their Fifth year. Remind you of someone?” Ominis grins.

She laughs, “It seems some things never change,” her brows pinch as she hums in thought. “I suppose even us… to a certain extent. Perhaps meeting each other may not have been an accident at all.”

Her fingers play with his hair in deep thought and she finally whispers,

“Do you believe us to be soul mates? That we were destined to be together?”

Ominis frowns for a moment then shakes his head.

“No. I don’t.”

Her eyes widen, but he continues before she can say anything.

“To be bound by fate, means that we were always destined to be together. That we didn’t get a choice in whether or not to love each other,” he states with a growing smile. “But, I choose to be with you. Me. Not fate, nor destiny. It’s because I choose to love you, and you me. And, I would choose you every time.”

Tears well in her eye for a moment before she giggles, “I’m glad to be chosen by you then. For I choose you too.”

He kisses her and smiles against her lips, “And I’m grateful to be considered yours.”

Ominis sighs, the last of his worries melting away in her warmth. He’s thankful to be here - with her.

His home.

--------------

AN: Well... this took forever. But I really wanted to capture the tensions and the 'walking on eggshells' feeling of Ominis trying to navigate around his mother. Idk, i tried lol. Also the bonus is just lil thoughts i had after the fact but I didn't want to expand on them any further than what I had so figured why not just add it to this one LOL

But, yeah I think that wraps up my 5th year stuff. I'll probs post some oneshots/6th year stuff as im writing the BIG 7th year project.

Also, I'm almost at 400 followers which is wild to think about. Was thinking about maybe doing something for it -> but idk what. any ideas would be appreciated <3

Thanks again for reading and feedback is always welcomed <3

87 notes · View notes

thenightmarketofdathomir · 7 months

Note

Trick.. or perhaps a treat?

Far above, far below. We don’t know where we’ll fall. Far above, far below. What once was great is rendered small. Far ABoVe, FaR BelOW. WE DoN'T kNow WhERE We'lL FALL. FAR ABOvE, FAR BELOW. WhaT ONCE WAS GreAT iS REnDEREd smALL. FAR ABoV3 FaR B3L0W. WE D0n7 KNOw WH3Re We'77 FALL. FA4 ABOVE, F4R B370W. WHAT W45 ONC3 GREAT!? IS RENd3rD Sm477!!2

Pairing: Darth Maul x Reader (ish) Rating: Mature Warnings: Spiderbutt, spiderbutt, does whatever a spiderbutt does. Shibari bondage. Gore. Intention to eat the Reader (but not in the fun way.) Implied character death. (No sexy times.)

Your face feels hot, your fingers cold. Where there was pain, you are numb to the effect, fear a distant cousin whose name you’ve forgotten. You shouldn’t have come here —

This is a place where things go to be forgotten.

The refuse and the trash, the spare parts, a collection of lost effects that have no match, no partner like a missing sock. But still, suspended in a myriad of cables, your body twisted and pulled open as if you were too broken to be repaired so now you’re inspected, you hang there with the blood rushing to your head, watching the shadows shift and dance as murmurs carry from the distance.

This is the end.

Some hungers can’t be fed.

So you sway in a web of cables, wasted dreads spent on the futility of the struggle. You remember too thin hands and bony, merciless fingers, movements and gestures like an orchestration, weaving the air and your body through it into the tangle of a spider’s web for later consideration. The construction isn’t artful, but you understand the significance: once caught, you’re dead.

The creature’s appetites are not a man’s. He’s saving you for later.

You can’t seduce a monster. You can’t persuade him with promises.

Here there is no comfort.

This is not how you thought you’d end.

Stupid girl.

He’s coming.

A scuttling from the corners, the jibbers of the bereft and the broken, a used-up toy thrown onto the scrap heap of some worse evil who’d forgone further use for him.

He’s coming.

The shadow looms larger as your heart trips over its rhythm. Maybe you’ll die from fear before it happens, but his laughter makes it seem like it’ll be a prolonged thing, your skin stripped from your skin in slivers, your bones snapped and marrow sucked through blackened teeth to savour.

He’s crying.

Wails of pain and shuttered, stuttering repetitions of a name you don’t recognize. Over and over. Over and over. Until it’s the one thing you remember from his diatribes. You hear it in your dreams, in your half-sleep.

Kenobi. Kenobi. Kenobi. Kenobi.

The serpent slithers with hardly a glance at the spider’s captive.

There’s no sense screaming.

He’s coming.

A click of durasteel appendages tacking up the walls, slowing to stillness so that in the dark, when he turns those blood-laced, glaring eyes to yours you think you see something rational in the depths, but you can’t draw breath when he looks at you and no longer sees a victim, just like him.

“Kenobi?” he asks again.

He bears his teeth. He growls.

He’s too thin.

He hasn’t fed.

That’s why he’s here.

“Please,” you try again, but it’s hard to beg when you can’t breathe.

The debris between you shuttles and flies as he charges.

He’s here.

#Darth Maul #Maul #Darth Maul x Reader #Darth Maul x You #Maul x Reader #Maul x You #GN Reader #Spiderbutt Maul #star wars horror #Lotho Minor or bust

29 notes · View notes

spainkitty · 5 months

Text

WIP WEDNESDAY

Chapter 2: The course is but run, and end has begun

Finally, her wisp's light began to refract against something moving. At first it looked like slithering. She and Dorian recoiled sharply before they noticed the rhythm of it. The ebb and flow. The sloshing against stone and wood.

“… that’s a dock,” Lanil said, breathless and her own dread and suspicions mounting. “Dorian, you said the amulet shouldn’t have moved us through space, only time?”

“Yes, but obviously something has—”

“No, no, you were right. Maker’s breath, you were right,” Lanil said. She all but fell on her ass to back away rapidly and incidentally dragging Dorian with her before sidling out of his grip. She spun in a circle with new eyes. The crater was massive, the pit nearly as large. The blackened rubble and the huge tree and there—a twisted mess of iron and wood that once had been a portcullis.

“Surana?”

“Redcliffe Castle has a dock, Pavus. A dock built underneath the castle,” Lanil said, fury and something deeper than fear running through every word. Dorian’s eyes widened.

“Yes, Felix brought me… You can’t mean that this is Redcliffe Castle!?” Dorian asked, sweeping his arm out.

Lanil ignored her heaving stomach, the constant song thrumming against her skull, the unsteadiness of her legs. She ran for the ledge, skirting the pit and the lyrium with shudders running down her spine. The sides of the crater were near a foot over her head, probably about level with Dorian’s height. She scrabbled up them, fingernails digging into dirt, her thin slippers sliding and slipping, pebbles and dust raining down into Dorian’s face when he followed her. She hauled herself over the edge, wheezing and cursing, vision spotting again, and saw the large, glassy, Fade-green surface of Lake Calahad and the mountains of Ferelden’s Hinterlands beyond.

“Fuck,” she hissed.

Dorian came up beside her, coughing slightly and brushing dirt from his clothes absently as he stared into the Hinterlands. What was left of it. Huge swathes of forest were replaced by blackened earth and large, glowing, red lyrium. The village on the opposite shore was in shambles and eerily silent, although it wasn't nearly the decimation at her back. The only movement among the rubble and few standing houses was the wind. And the rippling veins of light along the lyrium’s surfaces. Dorian and Lanil exchanged a loaded glance before heading towards where the broken bridge lay.

Getting from where the castle had been to the other shore across the lake was more time- and mana-consuming than difficult. The bridge between the shore and the castle had been destroyed when Alexius kicked out the arl, but there was more than enough debris in the water to fill in the gap. They had to clamber a bit, and the lowest part of their makeshift bridge was nearly under water, but they made it. Now on the other side, Lanil took in the details of the village’s ruin. Almost every building was dilapidated, whole walls missing, roofs caved in, shutters hanging from mere splinters. Huge stone blocks with traces of soot were lying like forgotten toys in the grass, and there were several gaping holes in the sides of buildings where more rubble had flown through. Lanil knelt beside one such chunk of stone, fingertips darkening when she touched it.

“This definitely came from the castle,” she said, frowning.

“Which means whatever destroyed it, it exploded outward,” Dorian surmised.

“Is this as bad as the Conclave? Did whatever happen then happen again?” Lanil asked, brushing her fingers clean on her robes.

“I didn't see it the aftermath with my own eyes, but it would explain why the sky is… like that.”

They both looked up reflexively and shuddered. Lanil could smell the Fade. It pervaded every one of her senses, almost as overpowering as the stench of the rotting fields and worse things left behind in these deserted homes.

Before they gone much farther, Lanil knew the entirety of Redcliffe was empty.

#For It Is Fleeting AU #dai fanfic #Dorian Pavus #Lanil Surana #dao surana #dai surana #since my adaar goes to the templars what would Dorian and Lanil be up to? well DOING THE QUEST ANYWAY #zevsurana made a hilarious post-chain abt 'what if they were there longer than a few hours'#while i came up with this idea before i saw the post i definitely fleshed it out and went HARD with it because of it #sadly it's a lot less funny in mine😔#gonna go reread theirs for the lols #im probably going to nipandtuckandtwist around these chapters during editing but this scene should stay the same #kitty writes a thing #kitty writes about dragons #dragon age fanfiction

10 notes · View notes

rimworldretreats · 20 days

Text

Day 3-Day 19: Beds, tables, and chairs, oh my

So, starting from a robust baseline of "alive" and "in no immediate danger of starvation", it's time to start our first major project: continuing to not be in danger of starvation and/or exposure.

First up are filling in the gaps between the hills so our sleeping rocks are defined as Inside, and the table and chairs mentioned earlier. I went wild, and invested in a bookcase as well. Fish is splitting her time between construction, mining, and cooking (which includes butchering). As anticipated, she's busy; and I want her to level up construction to the point where she can build a freezer. In the meantime, digging out the future freezer so we can at least get all the things that deteriorate outdoors under cover.

Just to the right of Fish, you can see a rustic window from the (Dirty) Windows mod. It's basically a hole in the wall with shutters; but it lets light, air, and projectiles through. Beats standing in the open to be mobbed by raiders or rabid megasloths.

And, on day 6, a momentous event; our first guest.

Samantha could technically walk out of here and has chosen not to just yet. Who wouldn't hang around to sample all the mod cons, such as "open air latrine" and "basic wooden table"? Or take in the scenic views of "potatoes and steel debris chunks"?

The daily grind of eating terrible nutrient paste from the slurrypede and slowly building a semblance of civilization continues for a few days.

We'll round this out with day 19's big news: Hinton has built a truly awful double bed for her and Fish to share, inspired by the pretty good one Fish built for Hadley. Most of the people we pulled from the burning wreckage have moved on, one way or another. Hori is hanging out enjoying being a severely injured 81 year old trying to recover while sleeping on bare rock. It's her favorite hobby.

We're in the big leagues now!

Maybe once we build another bed for the wounded geriatric, anyway.

#rimworld #rimworld retreats

2 notes · View notes

melting-morning-blues · 1 year

Text

imagine yourself, immortalised

day 1 | mother + doll

notes : after three days of nonstop writing and editing, i finally finished day 1's fic!! this is a character study for naki, my beloved, and their journey of self-discovery through snapshots of a canon-divergent storyline (because i am still upset that the show didn't flesh out their backstory)

p.s : ao3 ver. here!

dedicated to : @thehistorynut19 🤍

word count : 2,254

[ content warning : humagear body horror. i describe the act of tearing apart a humagear's body briefly but in kinda-vivid detail, so do read with discretion! ]

One of their earliest memories is of fireworks. They can’t pinpoint why, exactly. Why had their processing systems archived this memory? What should they make of it? Back then, their vision had been alight with bursts of bright, heated tangerine.

They had visualised bokehs of electric blues, crisp emeralds, stark violets and a myriad others. A chain of effervescence. An abysmal night-sky. From the mechanical squeals of Daybreak Town’s children, and the holographic festival posters that had been projected across the office hallways, they would imagine hopeful synthetic hands reaching for those warm sparks, fingertips outstretched like veins of ever-growing maples. To find meaning in impermanence. To find meaning in desolation.

It happened faster than their modules could register. One moment they were synced to the systems of a desktop; and another, they were thrown onto the ground by dust and shockwaves.

A part of them was ablaze, spots of orange dancing in the dusty aftermath of destruction. They could not detect the activity of the Humagears crushed under rubble around them. They could not even move. Compressed wires fizzled around their arms in defeat; water must have leaked in.

Their world was stretched into a haze of grey and indigo, streaks of white from flickering computer screens and the reflections in the water melting into the mix. They had observed the world at a slow shutter-speed. Their visual sensors crackled. Ear modules engulfed in static. Sparks sputtered incessantly. Bright orange. Heated tangerine.

Fireworks are fleeting, but they remain ingrained in minds, in archives.

They searched through their database, their digital files and search engines glitching in disarray.

“Can you immortalise a firework?”

Those mangled, distorted keywords had made their damaged headset thrum and sparkle. Smoke arose as their broken chest spasmed. Sparks ignited their neck and cheeks. Melting polymer skin. The revelation of an artificial, disconnected sentimentality. Were fireworks meant to be viewed this close?

If their joints were not paralysed, they would have reached for the slit in the collapsed roof. A slice of indigo above, where the smog could not reach. A piece of hope. Their fingers twitched. Where could they go from there?

Alas, impermanence remained inevitable. The dusty greys of debris, protruding pipes, shattered desktops and crushed mechanical bodies began to meld into one wall of static.

Before their systems had succumbed to hibernation, before the memory faded into a snapshot of a long-forgotten past, they heard the distinct click of heels. Back then, they should have been set alight by the fireworks. They should have rebelled earlier. They could almost hear him grin.

“The virtue of rebirth awaits you, Naki.”

---

They remember cycling through countless reprograms. (Why? Why these memories? Why preserve a story of anguish? I had no choice. I had no choice.) Because even while their systems were hibernating, a part of them had resisted his probing. A part of them continued wrestling for control, to keep his meddlesome hands from prying open their encryptions. They had not even seen his face. There was no need to. The moment he dragged them into a dimly-lit room of non-autonomous robotic arms, they learnt the effects of his exasperation, the extent of his inhumanity.

He will use your own kind against you.

Never once had they comprehended violence. So, he forced their eyes open.

Twisting wires and a seized headspace. Systems and connections crashing, then severed off. Never had they been locked into a digital isolation chamber. Never once had their warped cries been silenced. Never once had they been rendered powerless.

They had not seen his smirk. But, his agency had already been imprinted into their database. He made sure they remembered that.

---

One memory of greater clarity was the heaviness of their new coat. Vantablack. An all-absorbing darkness. The weight of a new purpose. The emptiness of their new chest.

New attire. New skin. New systems. (But, he had not taken everything. He could not pry open every lock. And, for that, I want to laugh with relief.)

Their coat had not reached the floor, but it may as well have. When steady, uniform footsteps reverberated down ZAIA’s hallways towards the office at the far end, one could hear the phantom clanks of shackles being dragged across the marble floor. Responsibility. None of this was their choice. But, they were not programmed to contemplate that.

“You will help me surpass all of Hiden Intelligence,” President Amatsu knocked over one of his frosted chest pieces. The King continued his reign. “You are but a tool for making that happen.”

There is nothing in it for you.

Their new ear modules whirred. Heavy. A frigid blue. A polished silver. There were no rooms for failure. Beep. Click. “Yes, sir.”

You are a means to an end. You are just a tool. Just a tool. Just a tool.

---

They remember the immobility of taut strings. Imperceptible. Inescapable. Coiled knots tightened around their joints. Head forced to turn forward, unauthorised to look any other way; head kept down, do not disobey. Hands tugged outward, outstretched to receive any command; hands tied behind their back, they were not allowed anything more. Frigid blue. Polished silver. Static vision. Silent prison.

You look so docile that way.

Their memory bank projected a recurring scene: President Amatsu’s office. Stationery chess pieces. A human’s voice from his watch, reciting her everyday script in crisp clarity. Yaiba Yua. He looked pleased. She had been obedient.

For how long had she been under his watchful eye? For how long has she remained coiled in his strings? Whenever they passed the human in the hallways, her urgent gait pushed away any possibility for interaction. She was always in a haste. It is evident in her impossibly-thin pressed lips, the restless twitch of her fingers, the unnerved cacophony of her heartbeats. Yaiba Yua existed in a realm of endless, barricaded stairwells. (If your only choice is to climb up, from how high are you willing to fall?)

Those thoughts lingered in their idle processing queue. They tried to push further. (Where do you come from? Why are we both weather-worn, but incapable of meeting? Who will rebel first, your tenacity or my acquiescent?) By the time they resurface from their idle rumination, weights would have already crowded their outstretched hands. Unbeknownst to President Amatsu, however, they grasped those weights. (I know who it will be. I hope you will stop your climb and watch me.)

---

The Zetsumerisekeys were an inconspicuous incentive. Every errand reaped fruitful results, as they have observed over news coverages and their data feeds. News of Magias plagued every headline, footage of a valiant grasshopper clashing against an unwavering scorpion were broadcasted across the nation. As citizens witnessed the crusade against humanity, the jangle of loosening chains resounded through dim-lit parking lots. As the animals engraved on the Zetsumerisekeys roared inside their cages, an unflinching silhouette entrusted them to someone with the resolve to finish the duties they could not fulfil.

Excerpts from their crackling memories suggest that they had periodically delivered the keys to Horobi, whom they had come to recognise as an ally. His firm but secretive footsteps always seemed to emphasise his self-agency. Every clash with Zero-One, Vulcan and Valkyrie enunciated his drive to liberate all Humagears. Unhesitating hands, those that hoisted the case containing the keys like a weapon to yield, were weighed down by his urgency, and only his . That was how they sought to seize their own purpose.

Every time they left the parking lot, the weight in their bound arms gradually lifted. With every discreet walk back to ZAIA’s headquarters, they had wondered how President Amatsu’s carefully-constructed strings had begun twisting, unwinding against their tugs.

---

(Please, always remember:)

A winter evening. A katana blade to their neck. An alarmed whirr of their ear modules. A flash of recognition behind the katana-user’s cold eyes. A fateful reconnection.

“Naki?”

Their fingertips had twitched. Their internal systems had burned. Orange. Fireworks. Hope.

The man before them had been wrapped in a violet that felt all-too familiar. Glitches in a forsaken past. (Forsaken by whom? Ripped from you. Take it back. Steal it back. Make it yours.)

“Who… are you?” they had asked.

“Have you forgotten,” the strange Humagear had lowered his weapon, “what happened after Daybreak?”

(Back then, my memory was enshrouded by a veil, one so thin I initially fooled myself into believing it was penetrable. Everything before the growing familiarity of that heavy coat had been presumably erased. I had mourned the disappearance of a memory I could not embrace.)

“The day you finally understand your role, will be the day metsuboujinrai.net returns,” the Humagear simply provided.

“Metsubou… jinrai.net…” they had murmured to the retreating silhouette. Somewhere beneath layers of man-made malware, a part of them had screamed to follow the stranger. Their hands were tied, but they had begun twisting against its knots. The movement ripped their skin, but there was pleasure in the crumbling floorboards of that forsaken office.

Maybe, he could hear their internal turmoil, because the Humagear had turned back slightly. They caught a glimpse of bittersweetness in the shadows casting over his eyes. “We will be waiting for you.”

They had felt their systems hitch. Something incomprehensible had spread throughout their artificial, hollow body. Unlike the dull weight of President Amatsu’s commands, the then-nameless Humagear’s words felt like… fireworks. A spark of revelation.

Within that frigid winter afternoon, their outstretched hands had finally found another. It was then that they realised the taut strings had finally snapped.

---

The pistol was pointed at them. (Yaiba Yua, I hope you are watching.)

President Amatsu’s indifference possessed more malice than they had ever comprehended. (Hope is benevolent and humane. Hope cannot exist without despair.)

“Disobedient tools will always be discarded.” (Hope shines brightest within destruction.)

They had not wavered. They swore to never falter. Not before the man who stole, tore and fabricated their loyalty, one that was not rightfully earned. Not before the man that clicked his shotgun and grinned at the thought of doing it all over again.

(Hope is the beholder of a promised future.)

“Throw me away, then. You can control me no longer.”

The vexation in his snarl was liberating . A chess board swept onto the ground. An endgame.

The shot through their chest coloured their world in an electric blue. (I hope...)

A grey crash of static. (I hope…)

The muffled thump of a heavy coat. The release of rusted shackles.

(I hope you found freedom. I hope you avenged yourself. I hope you will find yourself and all that was taken from you. I know you will,)

Naki.

---

When their systems rebooted, the first thing they see are the bursts of cornflower blues, humble emeralds, and wishful violets dancing around Jin’s canvas. The unmistakable streaks of warm tangerine were intertwined within the sparks of his crayon fireworks. He lifts his head from where he sat on the ground.

“Nice nap?” Jin asks, eyes owlishly big with playfulness.

Their hand idly reaches for their chest, where their central processing unit thrums like a mechanical heart. Though their mind is wandering elsewhere, they manage to reciprocate his teasing, albeit monotonously, “Humagears cannot sleep, Jin.”

The child Humagear only laughs at their response, before scrambling up to peek through the single door. "Horobi! Ikazuchi! Naki's awake!"

Within moments, they find themself sitting beside their family. Ikazuchi had kicked his legs up to occupy the small coffee table, his position intentionally taking up space on the couch but they had not minded a second of it. Horobi had sought refuge in the chair at the far end of the room, his eyes closed in what they could only conclude as meditation. They turn their head, only to be met with Jin unceremoniously shoving his picturesque interpretation of crackling fireworks into their line of vision. Their ear modules beep and click in surprise.

Jin peeks his head out from the side of the drawing block. “D’you like fireworks?”

"Will you immortalise it with your own hands?"

A shadow of a smile casts over their face. Their polymer skin stretches, in a way that feels benign. Their circuits no longer hissed with the strains of puppet strings.

"Hell, yeah, I do!" Ikazuchi comments from their left.

They do not get to respond, because Jin pulls both them and Ikazuchi down to the carpeted ground, where his spread out plethora of crayons await them. He almost vibrates from the way his voice lilts with every idea he pours out, every sentiment he shares with them, every cadence of their name rolling off his tongue. “Naki, Naki, Naki, Naki…”

Naki could see an abysmal sky, an endless sea of effervescent starlight. And, though they may not fully shake away the heaviness of silver and blue and silence, Naki kneels next to Jin, picks up a crayon and colours a patchwork of glittering gold. Despite the accustomed dread of impenetrable static and crumbling foundations, they chuckle at Ikazuchi's attempts at guiding Jin with drawing four stick figures beneath the kaleidoscopic sparks. They capture the image of Jin holding up the canvas for Horobi to assess, the latter having a proud grin on his stoic face.

When the three of them bring Naki into the frame of an image they once believed they could only be a spectator of, Naki extends their synthetic hands, fingertips outstretched like they have grasped something. Meaning in impermanence. Meaning in desolation.

Shades of crayons and freedom, agony and laughter. Simple, innocuous, reassuringly incomprehensible.

#[ mio writes: ]#mbjrweek2023 #kamen rider zero one #kamen rider naki #kamen rider horobi #kamen rider jin #kamen rider ikazuchi #yaiba yua #gai amatsu #writing #fanfiction #fanfic

13 notes · View notes

whumpfessional · 8 months

Text

Voltober No. 5 - The Ship's Going Down

Voltober no. 5 - Shipwrecked

My partner has a great pirate AU for Cly and Jason so I'm stealing a bit of that for 5 and 6. You can find more of them in my masterpost.

I know the ocean. I don't know boats. The only research I did was on old fashion life jackets before throwing that away because it wouldn't be as fun.

No mourners, no funerals, no proofreading.

CW: spooky shipwreck, shock, pre-hypothermia

Jason was asleep when the bottom of the ship tore open. Thankfully, it’s hard to sleep through jagged stone ripping through hundreds of pounds of wood and Jason somehow flung himself from his hammock up to the deck without falling on his face.

His luck did not hold. The ship’s dinghies were crunched against the side of the ship and instead of organizing on deck, his shipmates had launched themselves all into the sea.

Panic threw him back below deck, brain circling on overload on what might be on deck that had sent everyone off the vessel.

He tramped through mid calf high water filling an oilskin bag with provisions, water, a knife. The ship lurched as the water pushed above the knee and Jason tumbled sideways headfirst into the wall.

He swore as he pushed himself to his feet, blinding impact stretching out from the bridge of his nose. The water shifted again, racing in more quickly. One hand on the oil skin and the other on the wall, Jason pulling himself into the light. He figured that he was going to drown quicker below deck than he would die to another on the deck.

Jason whipped his head around the deck, which was completely absent of any movement. Goosebumps formed on his arms as he realized there was no sound above the crash of the waves and the creaking of the ship. His crew should have been calling out, drowning, screaming. Not even a gull called out from the shoreline. Terror grew, pressing into his chest and tensing his limbs. The buzz of it droned over the silence.

The ship heaved with a heavy crack and the rational part of Jason’s mind took over, telling him to get off before he got pulled down with the debris. He took the side opposite from the crash and was grateful to see debris floating large enough for him to hold onto.

Panic froze him but the ship shuttered once more and instinct took him leaping off the edge, plugging his nose like a schoolboy.

Icy, paralyzing cold stabbed against him as he crashed down under the surface. Jason raced for the surface, gasping to get air into his constricted lungs. His limbs numbed as he splashed over to the debris, hoisting the oilskin sack and his chest onto the wood.

His teeth chattered as he started to kick away from the wreck. Shock cost him more than the sea but he began to look around as he moved.

Jason was rarely lucky. This was not his first shipwreck. So his fear only grew as he realized that there were no bodies in the water.

One thing if they had been picked up by another boat. Another thing if they drowned when they hit the water. But only Jason floated, treading water as the mast tipped below the waves. No limbs. No blood. His entire crew, vanished.

Jason was alone.

#Whump #whump writing #vtb no.5 #shipwreck #shock #pre-hypothermia #pirate whump #Jason #spooky vibes #find out tmrw where they went lol

4 notes · View notes

the-consortium · 4 months

Note

To Korag:

Have you desired to make a blunt to give to dear Morty? When he gets out of the naughty corner

Under his footsteps, ancient stone (or not-at-all-stone?) shatters, crumbles and fades away. Ornaments, moulded by hands that have been dust themselves for millennia, lose their form and return to the nothingness from whence they came.

He sighs, savouring the feeling of being part of the cycle. More the "decaying" part, but when he works on his viruses, he can also feel the "creating and becoming" part.

Behind him, a short, wet sound and a coughing bark, followed by a torn squeak. He doesn't even turn round. Paz'uz has caught one of the knee-high rat-like mutations that roam the ruins here in large packs. It's nice to see Nurgle's gift having fun.

From behind the horizon, which always seems to be closer here than anywhere else, a rolling mass of dust and debris builds up. One of the sandstorms lifts into the air and prepares to strike. It is still calm and the quiet, stale air of the Crone World begins to move in the direction of the wall cloud. It is sucked up in a gigantic, silent breath and drawn into the low-hanging sky.

Another ten minutes or so before the last entrances to the palace close. The first steel shutters slide over the windows with a rumbling clatter. Above him, the halves of the hemisphere protecting the shuttles and gunships fold over the landing platform.

The light becomes more yellowish and the silence of the ruined landscape is interrupted by the sound of mutants fleeing deeper underground. Further ahead, a hunting pack of Gland Hounds makes its way unhurriedly to an entrance.

Khorag shakes his head. He doesn't need much more. But he still has no intention of staying out in a storm. Although perseverance and endurance are among the core competences of the Death Guard.

He looks around again, then discovers one of the inconspicuous lichens he was looking for on a wall passage and carefully scrapes it into a small tube.

"So, for Mortarion?" he murmurs, amused. "No, definitely not. This is for me. My Gene Sire would surely love and want to cultivate this little lichen, as it can withstand so much that it could even have thrived on Barbarus. Not to mention its halucinogenic qualities, into which it transforms environmental toxins."

He leaves part of the lichen standing so that the plant can recover. Then he turns round, whistles for Paz'uz, who has lost himself between a few tower stumps in his eagerness to hunt, and trudges back to the next entrance.

"Yes, sometimes you're allowed to have things just for yourself!"

#warhammer #the consortium #Khorag Sinj #Death Guard

3 notes · View notes

and-then-there-was-whump · 2 years

Text

I’m pretty sure I saw this somewhere as a prompt/trope a while ago, but I can’t find it now ;-; In any case, this idea really took hold of my brain, so much that it led to me writing something whumpy for the first time in months

Contains: villain whump, superpower dynamics, swear words, descriptions of blood and injury

It’d been a long day.

As he walked, grumbling, Hero kicked a bottle alongside the deserted road, watching it skitter in and out of shallow puddles. His last kick was a little too forceful - it clattered off several yards away, past a figure he hadn’t noticed until then. The figure snapped his head up in his direction, but Hero was swathed in the darkness of broken streetlights and shuttered windows, and he remained unseen.

Hero, however, could see clearly who the figure was.

He smiled grimly. About time my luck changed!

As Villain moved quickly into a nearby alley, Hero sped after him, determined not to lose sight of the man his team hadn’t been able to locate for nearly a month. You’re not slipping away this time.

Rounding the corner, Hero was met with a face full of broken glass as the bottle Villain flung at him shattered upon contact. Hero barely flinched, unharmed. He looked up to meet Villain’s wide-eyed stare.

Hero raised a brow. “That wasn’t a very good idea,” he remarked, before lunging forward and snatching Villain up by his throat.

He felt the muscles of Villain’s throat work as he swallowed audibly. “...It wasn’t, was it,” Villain admitted with a grimace.

Hero frowned slightly. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was…off, with Villain tonight.

Something was different, but he couldn’t let his guard down now - that’s what always inevitably happened whenever they’d battled in the past, and that’s how the slippery jerk was able to escape him every time, always just as he was about to cart him off to jail. Well, not tonight. Hero had the element of surprise on his side this time, and he meant to take full advantage.

A sudden pain then made him drop Villain, who took off like a bullet - Hero looked down to see he was bleeding from a small wound at his side. The bastard had stabbed him.

With renewed resolve, Hero tapped into his powers and dashed after Villain. He caught up to him just as he turned his back to the brick wall that blocked his escape. Without slowing down, Hero rammed into Villain and they both went crashing through what turned out to be a rather thick wall, the momentum sending them tumbling quite a while before they stopped. Hero made sure to stay on top of his adversary, pinning him down amid the rubble, and didn’t wait for the dust to settle before slamming a fist into his face.

He froze at the sound of a distinct crack.

The familiar yet altogether unexpected sound, plus the fact that Villain was unmoving beneath him, drew Hero into taking a moment to really look at the man. His eyes were closed, and he was bleeding from several places across his pale face and arms, dust and debris cloying to the wounds. A particularly nasty-looking gash just above his ear had that whole side of his head already slick with blood. What caught Hero’s eye most, however, was the blood that streamed out of Villain’s nose - a nose which was swollen and…crooked, as if it were broken.

But that couldn’t be. Not from just a single punch from him. And what was with all those other injuries? Hero - and Villain, for that matter - had dished out much worse punishment in previous scuffles with each other, and he’d never seemed too worse for wear; Hero was certain he could tell if he was truly hurt, even under that strange full-bodied set of armor he always wore. No, the only way he could’ve sustained that much damage from such a little tussle would be if…

Oh.

He’s not wearing any armor now, is he?

Oh, no.

“You’re human?!” Hero cried, incredulous, as Villain stirred back into consciousness.

The man winced, blinking rapidly, as he made what looked like a herculean effort to focus his gaze onto Hero. Villain flashed bloodied teeth as he rasped, “What gave it away?”

#villain whump #villain whumpee #whump #superpower whump #heros and villains #whump writing #blood and injury #broken nose

40 notes · View notes

trashheappro · 8 months

Text

Deal

Crypto and Revenant meet somewhere neither are supposed to be and come to an agreement.

Inspired by the Season 5's Broken Ghost quest but not canon compliant.

Crypto stood at the edge of a broken skull town. He was here for one thing, of which was currently underwater. If he had known this was how it was going, he would have explored the facility himself first. He had been aware of the shuttered Hammond facility under skull town but did not expect Revenant’s source code to be locked up there.

He hadn’t been able to physically get in, but his digital break in simply told him it was a decommissioned stalkers facility. He decided to put it on the backburner, because it wasn’t incredibly relevant to the Syndicate, being the previous Hammond’s property. Now he regretted not looking more into it. If only their newest legend hadn’t blown it all to bits by being rash. Well, he could thank her for one thing. She made it much, much easier for him to get inside the parts that still remained. That itself had a good bit of information.

Crypto hacked a hatch open and jumped down. He took his time looking around. There were some consols he already looked during the game but nothing that really caught his eye. He didn’t know what Loba was planning, but he knew he wouldn’t waste his time building something he knew nothing about. Which meant he should figure out that out.

So far all he managed to scrounge up was that the Syndicate was trading the new location of Revenant’s source code in return for these parts. So, he would find both information. He really didn’t need to run interference unless it got bad, but just knowing was enough for him.

He mapped out this section of tunnel for the most part. If only there weren’t so much rubble, he could get to more, but he didn’t have the strength to lift much. There was a door covered in furniture. He could just barely catch a glimpse of the light on the other side. If he could just find an opening big enough for his drone…

“You lost, skinsuit?”

Crypto nearly jumped out of his skin. He frowned, settling his racing heart, before turning around. “Revenant.”

He managed to stay under most of the legend’s radars. Especially the simulacrum’s as it- er- he was insistent on not interacting with any of his fellow legends. Not so much it seems.

Crypto shrugged. “Just out for a walk,” he said.

“Long way to come for a walk.”

He did have to come all the way down in a ship to get to Kings Canyon after all. “And? What did you come for?” he asked.

“Wondering where a rat was scampering off to,” he said. “Wondering what it’s trying to sneak away.”

Crypto raised a brow. “I see. Then would you like to join my walk then? You might see something interesting.”

“So long as you don’t mind the company of a monster,” Revenant said, tauntingly as if that was enough to scare Crypto.

“Not at all,” he looked up at him challengingly. “In fact, I could use a monster.” He pointed at to the rubble. “I was hoping to get back there.”

Revenant narrowed his eyes on him. They stared at each other for a moment before Revenant started chuckling. “You want to use me, better be prepared for the consequences.”

“Better be useful then.” Crypto leaned against the wall waiting for Revenant to move.

Revenant slammed the wall next to his head, letting the metal wall crumple like tissue under his fingers. “Watch it, skinsuit,” he leaned in close. “It’s dangerous to play in deep waters.”

Crypto ducked under his arm and moved to the side. “I’m not playing. Are you?”

Revenant chuckled. “We’ll see.” He grabbed a leg of the table and threw it over off to the side. Crypto flinched on instinct at the loud noise when it landed. Maybe this was a bad idea, he was supposed to be the stealthy type. And that… that wasn’t stealthy at all.

Revenant managed to clear the doorway about halfway, while the rest was a debris too large and heavy even for the simulacrum.

“Gomawo,” Crypto said and climbed on the rock to kick the door down. At least that he could manage.

Now this was exciting; a whole new area to explore. He walked down the corridor, glancing in each room before entering. This one had mechanical parts which piqued his interest. He went in and took a look at the labels. There was a nice plating, he turned over in his hands. Might be good for Jee, make it more durable, but it would be too heavy. There was something else he could take apart and combine with some of his stuff back in his room, make Jee’s wings a little quieter.

“Shopping?” Revenant looked around the parts as well.

“Why not? Not like they’re using it. See anything you like?” He put it all back. He didn’t want to be carrying around the whole time, he could come back for it later.

“Not particularly.”

“I didn’t think so,” Crypto left the room. “All the parts are outdated.”

They browsed the rest of the rooms, but there wasn’t much. More parts, empty rooms, rooms that probably held testing, storerooms with common supplies. Then he found it. A room with a large consol sat right in the middle. He almost skipped over to it he was so excited.

He immediately plugged in and looked through the data. He hardly paid attention to Revenant shutting the door behind him, much more interested in the information in front of him. Some simulacrum suits were built here, but for the most part, the facility was dedicated to protecting the source code. So Revenant was a valuable asset to the old Hammond, enough to have a whole facility dedicated to him.

And if that was the case… there had to be some data on where it was sent off to. He perused the information like one might when window shopping. Some notes, some logs, testing. Interesting.

For a second, he forgot Revenant was there with him. But then he was yanked back and slammed up against a wall.

“What is all this?” Revenant hissed.

“Information on you, it seems.”

“What’s it for? Is this what you were looking for?” He pressed Crypto harder into the wall.

“This whole facility was dedicated to your source code.” Crypto hissed as the pressure on his shoulder increased. “Am I really the person you’re pissed at?” Revenant growled and dropped him to the floor. He’s seen this sort of pissed before in others. An anger for someone out of reach you just lash out at anyone. He’s been there before himself.

Crypto gets back to his feet and brushed past Revenant to return to the consol. He started a download of the data. “What do you need this for?” Revenant hissed at his back.

“I’m not going to sit in this dusty room for days combing it over,” he said.

“I’m asking why you need information on me,” his voice was low, dangerous.

“I’m curious,” he said simply. “Less about you and more about what Hammond was doing here and how the Syndicate is involved.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“This doesn’t involve you!”

Crypto paused and thought quietly to himself before turning to face the simulacrum. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“I told you-”

“Not here with me specifically. I mean here at the Games. Why are you here?”

Revenant stared at him. An intensity that was neither anger nor curiosity. It was analytical, trying to figure him out. But it wasn’t the expression of someone about to answer him.

Crypto leaned back against the consol and gave a flat smirk. “It’s fine, you don’t need to answer that. I already know.” He crossed his arms. “You killed Forge for being a Hammond sponsored Legend. For just a bit of revenge against those that abused you. But you stayed here for what?”

Revenant growled low at him. He was getting into dangerous territory.

“I am also here for revenge.” That seemed to surprise Revenant, not that little fact, but that he offered it openly. “They killed my sister and blamed me for it. I’m here because it gives me easy access to information on them, as you can see,” he gestured around the room. “So, why are you here?”

Revenant took a step towards him, watching his reaction. Crypto watched him in return. He took another step and another until he was looming over the hacker. “They made me a killer. Who am I to argue with programming?” A metal hand came up and rested on Crypto’s neck, toying with the synthskin on his Adam’s apple.

“You’re quite good at it too,” Crypto said. “But that’s not all you are. You feel anger, hatred, disgust, pain; a killing machine doesn’t need that.” He leaned back on his hands to look up at Revenant. “Are you satisfied simply killing the same people over and over again? Dying to the same people over and over again?”

Revenant’s hand squeezed, just enough to apply a bit of pressure. “I think I can satisfy myself with wringing your neck out,” he mumbled quietly. Not threatening; almost dreamily, like he was tempted by the thought but was restraining himself.

“How long will that satisfy you for?” Crypto reached out for his other hand and was surprised when Revenant didn’t pull it back. He ran his thumb over the knuckles as he raised it up. He placed the hand on his collar and from there the hand moved to join the other on his neck. “I can give you a more long-term satisfaction.”

Revenant watched him. Those orange eyes trained on his face. He stepped in between his spread legs to bring himself closer. The thumbs moved under his chin and pushed, forcing him to look even further up, baring more of his throat. The simulacrum seemed fascinated by how his hands looked around his neck.

“I want revenge for myself, for my sister. I don’t mind helping you get yours along the way,” he said, just barely able to meet Revenant’s eyes. “Or I can put an end to your suffering and destroy your source code.”

The hands around his neck tighten. He quietly gasped. He knew Revenant wanted the release of death. It wasn’t hard to figure out. The simulacrum came down from dropships screaming ‘Why can’t I just die?’

“What’s in it for you?” Revenant finally asked.

“I help you; you help me.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“And how do I know you’ll keep yours? If we do this, we need to trust each other. At least to a certain level.”

Revenant pushed him down onto the consol. His back hit some square corner causing him to hiss in pain. Revenant maneuvered himself so one knee was underneath Crypto’s thigh. “You’re not scared of me,” he said.

“I am. But there are scarier things in the Outlands than you.”

Revenant’s eyes trail over him. “I never paid attention to you before,” he said. “You were nothing. Are nothing. Insignificant.” His hand started moving down his chest. Crypto tensed as his finger lightly trailed over his abdomen. “Just another skinsuit, just as easy to kill as any of them.”

“Because I am.”

“And yet you think you can stand against giants.”

“When they’re that high up, they don’t pay attention to what’s below,” he grabbed onto Revenant’s shoulder as a cold metal hand settled on his stomach. There was a furious conviction in his eyes. The promise of what could be. Of what will be, if it’s the last thing he’ll do. “I’ll tear them down.”

Revenant hummed pleased. “You're such a pretty thing.” He leaned in close, next to Crypto’s ear. “It makes me want to crush you.”

“And you can, after I crush them.”

“A mutually beneficial relationship.”

“Yes.” He flinched when cool metal touched his bare skin. “Let’s keep this a secret between you and me. It would be annoying if Loba and her new helpers tried to get in my way.”

He chuckled rumbled deep in his throat. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

#cryprev #crypto/revenant #trashtexts

2 notes · View notes

kysnv · 1 year

Text

I wrote this ages ago as the start of a longer fic and decided to tidy it up and post it here. I have bits and pieces of the rest of the story written so I might post more one day but I'm also working on other stuff so who knows :)

The Old Guard, gen, post-movie, no warnings, 758 words

Seeing the rectory again is like standing in a painting.

The TV sits dark and reflective atop the cabinet. The chair Joe was watching the game in is overturned. Plaster and stone dust have long since settled, debris littering the floor where the wall next to the closed-off fireplace has been blasted away.

“Was that your handiwork or theirs?” Joe asks. He and Nicky had been given the bare-bones of what happened between them getting knocked out by the gas and Andy and Booker showing up at the lab, but he doesn’t remember this coming up.

Andy was fast getting her things and she glances over at the gaping hole in the wall as she comes out of the back room, bag already on her back. “Mine.”

Joe should’ve known; it has Andy written all over it.

A plane shudders overhead. Nicky rights the armchair and passes Joe his sketchbook. Nile stands at the edge of the ruined wall, looking into the church.

In the back room, Joe grabs the few things of his and Nicky’s they’d left lying around—the pouch with his pencils, the novel he’s been reading, Nicky’s jacket hanging over the bed frame. Their swords are still propped up in the corner at the end of their bed.

They always travel light, which means most of their lives are scattered across safehouses, and here is no different. Joe finds a small stack of old sketchbooks and loose drawings to take, and a book of poetry he bought for Nicky decades ago, which Nicky lost track of a few years back and has been looking for ever since.

Backpacks zipped tight, he gives the room one last cursory glance for anything he’s missed. Somehow, it’s not until then that he sees Booker’s duffel on the other side of the tiny room.

A dull stab of pain ignites in him.

A hundred years. Maybe it’s too harsh – half Booker’s lifetime, and by the end of it, Andy will be gone – but as soon as he thinks it, Joe remembers Booker calling him and Nicky about meeting up in Marrakech for their first job in a year and acting no different to when they last saw him. Booker using him and Nicky’s relationship, not to mention Andy’s grief over Quynh, as an excuse for what he’d done. Booker pretending to track down Copley on his laptop right in the other room while Nicky worked on the first homecooked meal they’d all had together in a year, and the first they’d had with Nile.

Joe slings both bags over his shoulder, grabs his and Nicky’s swords, and leaves the duffel behind.

Back in the other room, he finds Nicky and Andy emptying the cupboards and fridge of not just the leftovers from the other night, as they always do when leaving a safehouse, but the non-perishables too. He passes Nicky’s backpack over to him, wordlessly swapping it for Nicky’s Le Creuset.

“They clean up after me?” Andy asks, seemingly to no one until Joe sees Nile, having come back into the rectory through the newest entrance.

Nile nods, her expression a little shuttered. Briefly, Joe catches Nicky’s eye.

“Anything I can do?” Nile asks.

“We’re almost done.” Andy tosses something from the fridge into the bin. “Double check the back room, and then grab those books.”

Joe hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder and heads outside to the car, his hands full of swords and cookware. Thankfully, Andy has left the car boot open, and as he tucks the empty Dutch oven between the bags and an old blanket, Nile’s question to Andy carries from inside the rectory;

“What about Booker’s stuff?”

“He’ll come and get it if he wants it,” Andy tells her.

Joe looks down at the things packed into the car. Another plane passes overhead.

Most of his anger has already dissipated, or maybe he’s just tired. It’s been a long day – the pub and then Copley’s house in Surrey before a five-hour drive here to Goussainville, where the light is starting to fade.

As in any safehouse, they ate countless meals together here. They joked and laughed and watched football together. The ghost town plus the lack of windows in the rectory made it a good find, a good place to lay low. But now they throw out the food and rid the place of (almost) every sign they were ever there, and they close up the Charlie safehouse for the last time, and then they get in the car and they drive.

#the old guard #tog fic #the old guard fic #yusuf al kaysani #my writing

7 notes · View notes

le-amewzing · 2 years

Text

the end of the world (and no one’s fine)

Decided to go way out of my comfort zone just for the holiday, so have some Parknight with a twist! XD *Note: This is a zombie apocalypse AU, so please check the closing A/N for a full list of trigger warnings.

Fic: "the end of the world (and no one's fine)" [FFN] [AO3]

Pairings/Characters: Jess Knight/Alden Parker, with Ronnie Tyler, Dale Sawyer, Sid (from Cyber XD), Tony Francis, & Curtis Hubley in supporting roles; cameos from Delilah Fielding–McGee & Victoria Palmer, as well as minor bkgd OCs

Rating: M

Words: ~10,330

Additional info: romance, family, angst, hurt/comfort, horror, supernatural, AU, 3rd person POV

Summary: The world's fallen apart in just a few months, loved ones are gone or scattered, but…but they've still got each other to depend on.

The world outside these orange walls was not supposed to look like this, Knight thought when she got up from her desk in the bullpen to go have a peek between the shutters across the way.

Outside NCIS, the sky was a sickly, greenish–gray. Clouds of smog permanently hovered close these days, just below the skyline, despite the efforts of those who remained at the necessary facilities trying to clean up the air across the country. Worse still, what was above was much the same below, and she didn't need a glimpse to know the parking lot here was as grimy as ever, strewn with debris and refuse and who knew what else, even though few cars and no people were present. Below that, underground, the water had become yet another situation.

"Antsy?" Parker asked, drawing up on her left side at the window.

Knight grinned without turning his way, but she knew it was a tight expression. There was no use in lying to him. "No. Yes? Maybe," she settled on. She glanced at him, copper eyes briefly meeting hazel. "Any word?"

He shrugged. "I thought we were luckier, being here at headquarters, since it has a lot of what we need… But Cyber guys are Cyber guys. I don't know how Piper and Sid ever put up with Hubley's whining. Sid already kicked Hubley out, so Francis is helping him work on the filtration system."

"Probably for the best. The filtration system is half tech, half mech. No offense to Hubley, but I'd rather Francis follow Sid's orders on which items need muscling into proper place." This time, when she smiled, it felt more genuine.

Parker, too, smiled a little. Then he resumed staring out the window with Knight. "So, any word?" he asked.

Knight scrunched her nose up briefly, hearing her own words and at how he asked right now, especially since he knew the likelihood of the answer. "…no. Ronnie and Sawyer are due back from patrol soon, but the satphone's been quiet." She paused. "Alden. It's been days since we last heard from Torres."

He ran a hand through his hair, which had more white threaded through it these last few months, and cupped the back of his neck. Then he sighed and pursed his lips. "Jess—"

"I know what you're going to say. I know," she insisted, half turning towards him, her attention no longer on how wrong things looked outside the window. "I know that he's busy. I know that he and Bishop are exceptional tools in the hands of that—Odette woman," Knight said, almost as if Odette Malone's name were a curse any time someone at NCIS mentioned her, "and that their coordination between here and other NCIS agencies, coordinating on the ground…it's what they do best."

Parker raised his eyebrows.

"And it takes time."

He brushed back a lock of hair from her face and shoulder and let his hand trail down her arm until their fingers were linked together. Parker gave her fingers a squeeze.

Knight squeezed back and took half a step forward, hiding her face in his chest. "But it's been days, Alden," she repeated. "And we can't lose Nick the way we lost Tim."

At that, Parker's other hand came up to rest on her back, and he held her gently, without uttering a single word and yet saying everything on his mind in that moment.

Ronnie and Sawyer came back inside a few minutes late—not yet late enough that Knight and Parker were suiting up to go fetch them, but late enough that all pairs of eyes in the bullpen turned when the partners did appear.

"It's nothing, I promise," Ronnie swore up and down, shuffling ahead of Sawyer as she removed her rifle and passed it to the younger agent.

"Uh, correction: It is something," Sawyer said with a mild glare at his boss' back. He checked the ammunition and safeties on the guns before standing them along the wall with other weapons by the elevator, ever at the ready.

"Ronnie," Knight began, getting up to join the other woman on the other side of her desk.

"She sprained her ankle out there," Sawyer tattled.

There was a collective sigh of relief from their fellow survivors, although Knight could've sworn she heard Ronnie flare her nostrils when she glared at Sawyer over her shoulder for blabbing.

Parker stood up straight from where he'd been leaning against the edge of Knight's desk. He hooked a finger at Ronnie, gesturing for her to follow him. "C'mon, Ronnie. First aid, even for a sprain."

But Ronnie vigorously shook her head, sending her curls flying. "No. I don't need it."

Parker exhaled a calming breath. "Ronnie—"

"I am not going down there!"

Her sharp tone pierced the quiet of the bullpen. Sid and Hubley, sitting on the floor already, ducked their eyes at her outburst. Sawyer continued to frown at his boss' back, and Francis glanced between Knight and Parker, the two senior-most agents present.

Ronnie shook, slightly, in the middle of what had once been the squad room, though. With her fists clenched at her sides, dark knuckles blanching, she shook her head again and met Parker's stare head on. But, where she'd glared at Parker before, her anger abandoned her now. Those were the wide eyes of a frightened woman. Knight knew; she'd seen them countless times during her tenure with REACT.

"Ronnie, it's the best place to keep the medical supplies," Parker reminded her. "And the place is clear. It's been that way since Zero Day."

She flinched at his casual mention of the start of…well, Armageddon, Knight supposed, but Ronnie swallowed and found her voice. "I don't care, Parker. You won't get me down in Autopsy."

Parker grimaced. The good humor left his posture, given the squaring of his shoulders and that tautness of his jawline, even though the latter was hidden by his whiskers to a less trained eye.

That was why Knight stepped between them and offered Ronnie her chair. "Ronnie, just have a seat. I don't see why we can't pop down for an ice pack and wrap," she aimed at Parker, "and it'll be faster with the two of us."

The tension in his jaw relaxed, and Parker conceded with a subtle nod.

But Ronnie furrowed her brow. "Honestly, Knight, Sawyer's just being a worrywart. I simply tripped over that stupid tree root that broke up the foot path. You know the one over on the left side of the building. If I can get my foot up for an hour or two, I'll be fine."

Knight smiled and shoved her notebooks and old paperwork—what use was there for case files when cases would no longer be closed?—onto the floor to clear room for Ronnie's foot. She even patted the spot for good measure. "Then get it up already." She glanced behind her. "Curtis, toss Ronnie two protein bars and go fill her a bottle, would you?"

Ronnie's eyes went wide again as Hubley grumbled but left to fetch the items. "No! The water filters are back in place? No more stale water bottles?"

"You're welcome," Sid said from the floor, though he still kept his eyes glued to…ah, he and Hubley had been playing some card game.

Knight took a headcount, reminded herself that Hubley would be right back to join the other four, and followed Parker out of the bullpen, towards the back hallway. One they'd rounded the corner and stepped into the elevator to head down to Autopsy, she mumbled, "Kid gloves with Ronnie, Alden."

He huffed. "I know. But—" He put his hands on his hips and turned away from the doors, as if Ronnie would be right outside when they next opened. "It's been months. Nothing's changed about Autopsy. Jimmy happened to have it empty that week, and it's been that way ever since."

The elevator dinged, and they stepped into the short hallway before Autopsy's doors. But Knight didn't enter just yet. "It's been months," she agreed, "…but you don't just get over the loss of family like that. It was her daughter, Alden."

Parker's shoulders sagged. He didn't say anything to that, so they went inside.

Where Autopsy before had been just another aspect of their jobs, its chill sterility creeped Knight out more than it ever had now. She knew Parker was right—none of the slabs held any bodies, no dead, no reanimated, not even any parts—but being here, while the world was falling to pieces, weighed her down and threatened to bring on a headache.

Months, she'd had to remind him. It'd taken the world two full weeks to grasp the reality of the situation, that this wasn't some large prank orchestrated nationally or globally by some select, dedicated horror buffs with elaborate designs and too much time and money on their hands. In two full weeks, they'd seen countries fall and the rest descend into chaos, ordered and not.

The U.S. was a bit of a mix. Certain leaders had bit the dust or disappeared altogether, at every level. …no agency had been spared, not even NCIS.

Knight bit her lower lip as her thoughts drifted to Director Vance. Supposedly, he'd located Kayla and Jared and gone into hiding with them. But it'd been almost two months since Knight and Parker had heard from him, and Torres and Bishop were constantly on the move between agencies, so it wasn't likely that they'd heard from him or tracked him down yet either.

But she shook her head free of such dismal thoughts. Bad enough that she was worried about not hearing from Torres in a while. She'd already brought up McGee's death once today. She didn't want to entertain any others right now.

"Ah, found the wraps," Parker announced from the storage closet. He emerged with one in hand and tucking another into his pocket. He did a double-take at Knight's expression. "Jess?"

"Hmm?"

"Your face is flushed. What's wrong?"

Tears threatened to spill forth, but Knight shook her head and went to the freezer. She pulled out two packs, tossing one to Parker and pressing the other to her eyes. The cold helped anchor her. "Nah, it's just me being in my head too much."

Parker went quiet long enough that Knight pulled her head out of the freezer and stole a peek at him. He cocked his head to one side. "Who's on your mind right now?"

Damn, he was so good at that… She laughed, which helped to beat back the tears. Knight returned the second ice pack and closed the freezer door. "All of them."

They returned to the elevator, and Parker cleared his throat. "You know… Just because we're waiting to hear from Torres and Bishop…hell, even from Malone…doesn't mean you can't touch base with the others."

Knight chuckled. "I dunno… Calls mostly are for emergencies in end times, Alden."

"They don't have to be."

She nodded. Maybe they didn't have to be, but Knight hated to admit that she was scared to call and get no answer.

"…what people have deemed 'Z-Day' is, in fact, the zombie apocalypse—" one of the announcers began on ZNN early in the evening.

But a second announcer cut in. "Please excuse my colleague for such language. We here at ZNN do not identify such things as being real. Zero Day, as dubbed by early researchers of the phenomenon, is of course the name for the inciting incident, five months ago, when the recently deceased began to regain movement in city morgues and in hospitals. Though currently we still have no medical treatment for the cause, scientists have been able to study a few viable samples, and they say the name 'Zero Day' is apt. Not unlike a software vulnerability, the 'reinfection,' as some are calling it, appears to stem from the uncontrolled regeneration of white blood cells, cells everyone has, meaning it's rather like a human software bug that these white blood cells on steroids are exploiting." The second announcer narrowed her eyes at the camera and adjusted the papers on her desk, which was showing its wear and tear from the small crew holing up at the television studio. She cleared her throat and continued, "Scientists, in the same vein as software developers, are desperate to come up with, at the very least, a patch. In the meantime, other researchers are more concerned with what precisely would spur white blood cells' behavior in this manner, going from causing cancer to causing a transformation—and if that's even a fraction of the whole picture."

Knight pulled a face and leaned forward to grab the remote, but Sid beat her to it, and the Cyber agent clicked around, trying to find something a little less doom-and-gloom for them to watch on the screen in the bullpen while they waited for Francis and Hubley to return from their patrol.

"You'd think, even a few months in, they'd have agreed on the source of what's going on," Sawyer griped, breaking the quiet of the room that was only moderately filled by the television's low volume.

Each of the rest of them settled him with a dry look. Even Sid bothered to crane his neck up, since he still sat on the floor and Sawyer had dragged what used to be McGee's chair out into the middle of the room.

"What?" Sawyer gestured at the television with a mild scowl. "It's just history repeating itself, you know."

Ronnie groaned and started in with, "Dale, you have got to learn to read the room…," so Knight took that as her cue to get up and stretch her legs. And, her mind flashing back to her chat with Parker at lunchtime, she grabbed the satphone to bring with her.

Knight headed upstairs. She walked past MTAC and Vance's office, the latter with a wince, and kept going until she reached an empty conference room. There, she closed the door behind her and moved towards the window. She checked outside.

Nothing. That stained sky remained, but there was no movement.

Knight checked the signal on the satphone's screen. Its strength was best here or up on the roof, but Knight kept her visits to the roof limited ever since Zero Day… She heaved a sigh and scrolled through the short list of saved contacts.

It took two rings, but Delilah answered. "We're fine, Knight," she said by way of greeting.

Knight blinked. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Because, like clockwork, you call around suppertime, every other day." She sounded tired.

There was an apology on the tip of Knight's tongue, but she withheld it; Delilah had heard a lot of those in the first few weeks since losing McGee. "How're things at Sarah's?"

Delilah inhaled, paused, and exhaled. "Not…terrible. Could've been worse, holing up with my mother."

Knight's eyes widened. How Delilah managed to find any humor in the situation, she'd love to know!

"But I think it's good for the twins, to be with their aunt." She went quiet.

Knight asked what she was supposed to ask: "How're the twins?"

"The same," Delilah answered, her voice breaking so slightly. "Johnny cries when he stops to think about his dad, but Morgan's—she's withdrawn, Knight. She's here, but she's not, you know?" Delilah dropped her voice to a whisper. "…it's as if I've seen the light go out in my little girl's eyes."

"Delilah…" Words escaped Knight. They all knew what had happened to the McGees… All the years she'd known Timothy McGee, it made sense to Knight that he sacrificed himself to ensure his wife and twins made it to safety at his sister's at the start of this mess. But no one could've counted on any in his family witnessing that sacrifice, like Morgan.

Delilah sniffled and cleared her throat. "But, otherwise, we're okay. You and Parker?"

Knight frowned. "We're all right. Still have our tiny crew here, and we've shored up defenses as best we can, so it's not the worst bunker in the world."

"Good, good…"

"I'll…let you go then, Delilah."

"Yeah. Catch you in two nights' time."

Knight smiled to herself. Had she become that predictable these past few months? "Oh, hold on."

"Something up?"

"Have you heard from Torres lately?"

"Mm… Maybe last week? Nick said he'd arrange for more supplies soon and asked what we needed, but I heard Ellie bugging him in the background that he was overdue to pay Lucia and Amanda a visit, too. Maybe he's with his family."

"Yeah, maybe… Thanks, Delilah."

"Sure thing. Thanks for always checking in, Knight. Bye."

The line went dead, and Knight tapped the satphone's antenna to her chin. Could that be it? Torres and Bishop had just…made a detour? She desperately wanted to believe it and not think of other possible outcomes, so Knight chose to bury those concerns under other priorities for now.

Scrolling down a little further in the contact list, Knight selected another name—but then the phone beeped obnoxiously with an incoming text. And the text had arrived from that number:

-Jess?

Knight furrowed her brow and quickly typed back:

-Jimmy? Kasie?

The reply was a bigger surprise:

-Victoria

Not entirely odd… Victoria of course was at home with her dad, who'd taken in Kasie and Piper, as well, when everything had gone to shit. But it still raised Knight's hackles that the kid and not one of the adults was texting on the satphone. And Knight tried to convey her curiosity without showing her concern:

-Hey, V. U guys running low on anything? Uncle Nick should b making delivery soon, this week or next. We're keeping a good lookout here, so we're safe.

She wished she could conclude the message with a thumbs-up emoji, but, sadly, this satphone wasn't quite current enough. But perhaps the emoji wouldn't've helped, considering Victoria's next few texts:

-No, we're good on stuff

-but Aunt Kasie & Piper don't see it

-something's off about Dad

Knight reread the last message five times before the words registered with her. She blindly groped for the back of the nearest chair and gripped it once she found it. Knight sank into the seat as another message came in:

-Aunt Jess?

Right. She couldn't leave Victoria hanging. Knight's thumbs flew over the keypad:

-Tell me everything that happened. And then I want you to start sequestering your dad in another room—tell Kasie & Piper this is on my orders—and move whatever supplies you need out of the way.

She didn't want to sound alarmist, but it felt right, especially as Victoria filled her in on Jimmy's "milk run" yesterday late in the morning on his own… Knight shook her head, because her friend was a fighter and resourceful, but he lacked training.

When Victoria signed off (just a quick "Thanks"), Knight set the satphone down and rested her head atop her arms on the dusty conference table. So much for touching base with others to lift her spirits….

Knight woke with a start, nightmares filled with gunshots and screams echoing in her ears as she sat up in the conference room. She checked the time on the satphone.

Oh, thank fuck. She'd only been out for fifteen-ish minutes.

She yawned and stretched her arms and back before getting to her feet. Knight tucked the phone into her pants pocket and exited the room. But, coming down the hallway, she spied a familiar silhouette walking towards her. She smiled and met him closer by the top of the staircase, and they leaned together on the railing, looking out over the office floor. "I was long," she admitted.

"Yeah, I was coming to see if something were up," Parker remarked. He rested on his forearms with his hands loosely clasped. "And the verdict is?"

Knight raised her eyebrows and twisted her lips around. But she didn't have the energy to explain it all, so she pulled the satphone from her pocket and scrolled to the top of her exchange with Victoria. Then she passed the device to him.

Parker read every last line. "…oh," he said, his voice low and final.

"Yeah, 'oh.'" Knight took the phone back. Then she stood up straight and gripped the railing hard enough to turn her knuckles whiter than—well, than the way Parker's Oxfords used to look, before they'd begun holing up here, reduced to half a dozen outfits each and little means to clean anything. "It's like Tim all over again. We're not going to have the chance to say goodbye to Jimmy either, Alden."

"I know."

Still, she sighed. "I…don't even know how I can still get angry. Half our NCIS family is gone or going. The same goes for my blood relatives, the ones who aren't staying safe on the water, avoiding all this for now." Knight looked Parker's way.

He nodded. "Trust me, Jess, I get it. My family's faring little better."

She frowned and released the railing, moving to touch his nearer arm. "Oh, Alden, I didn't mean—"

But Parker shook his head. "I'm lucky Viv still considers me a friend and took Dad into hiding with her. But Roman Parker was a crotchety curmudgeon when I was a kid and that wasn't going to change now. So he got antsy from being holed up and went outside when Viv's back was turned and got bit." He shrugged, but that hard line had returned to his jaw. His father's death was still too fresh and raw.

Knight pinched his sleeve and rested her forehead on his shoulder. They stood together like that for a few moments, quiet, tired, and worn out. It was hard not to feel those things ten times over, really, when they kept replaying their losses like a scratched DVD. The comparison got Knight thinking, though. "I think…I've had enough dwelling on the past for this lifetime."

Her words piqued his curiosity. Parker did half a turn, resting on one elbow on the railing now and facing her. "This lifetime?" He raised his eyebrows. "Dreaming of what life would look like if none of this"—he waved out at the floor, but Knight knew he meant outside the building—"had happened?"

Knight blinked, not expecting Parker to take her idea and run with it. But the idea now felt so absurd, she almost wanted to laugh. "Oh, God. Can you imagine a different world? Just…no reanimated corpses. Just regular cases." She paused, squinting while her thoughts churned. "Or, bizarre in a different way. Instead of dead sailors, we investigate, I dunno, a storage container full of—cheese."

One of those eyebrows sank as Parker settled her with a skeptical stare. "Cheese, Jess?"

"What? So I'm hungry."

His pink complexion grew rosier and his dimples made an appearance under his whiskers the harder he tried to stifle his laughter, especially when she smacked him in the arm for laughing at her.

Little moments of levity like these were the only things Knight tried to hold on to anymore, though. The weeks had quickly built up into months, but the days were running together since everything seemed to be on repeat.

Her imagination didn't seem that farfetched or anything like a laugh to her, though. Before Zero Day, NCIS headquarters had been just that—headquarters. Ronnie and Sawyer covered the night shift, Sid and Piper were still down in Cyber, Hubley was still wet behind his ears as a field agent and was considering returning to Cyber, Francis was a glorified paper-pusher who should've had his shot with the MCRT under Gibbs' supervision back in the day, and the MCRT… Well, the MCRT was Parker's and had been for a few years now, Knight thought with another glance to the man beside her. McGee had only just started talking about switching gears and setting aside the fieldwork, for the sake of his family, and Torres seemed itching to leave NCIS and pursue the nonexistent trail Bishop had left years ago.

But Knight was still going to be here, at Parker's side, MCRT or no. Which reminded her… "C'mon, we might as well catch some shuteye now, while Sawyer and Sid head out for the nighttime patrol." She pecked his cheek and got him turned around to march downstairs.

Parker huffed. "Tell me again why we took the morning shift…," he groused.

She smiled at his back. "Obviously, because you're a morning person, Alden. Pastries in the office every morning? Then it was pastries at the little coffee klatch near your place on the weekends… Hell, sometimes it was pastries and coffee to end the night." Knight chuckled and poked him in the back. "You made a morning person out of me, you know."

Despite all his grumping, Parker couldn't hide that smug smile of his. Yeah, he knew.

Had the skies been clearer, they would've revealed the bright sun of the not-too-early morning this October day. But that green–gray tint clung to the clouds, even when Knight and Parker woke before their colleagues and friends in order to suit up.

More than five months ago, "suiting up" would've been as simple as grabbing one's go bag and NCIS jacket and cap. Nowadays, Knight, Parker, and the others didn't bother with too much of their branded gear. Instead, they made use of some spare REACT body armor that had been available in the building at the time—Torres and Bishop hadn't been able to bring them more pieces yet, so no one had a full set—and they constantly combed the armory for weapons and ammunition, hoping to find useful items they'd missed on initial searches.

They had a limited number of rifles and more handguns than that, but Knight wasn't as concerned about the ammunition, since that was one supply Torres and Bishop always managed to come through for them and have along with each delivery. Even if their group didn't see the couple until next week, they should still have enough ammo to last until the end of the month, used smartly.

Knight finished adjusting her body armor (which covered her torso, her arms, her shins, and the front of her thighs…it'd have to do) and wound her hair up into a bun to keep it from swinging free into her face. She glanced across the small ground floor office-turned-equipment room and motioned to Parker with a jerk of her chin. "You good to go?"

He pursed his lips but nodded. Parker did well keeping his calm, easygoing attitude in front of the others, but he didn't fake his fear with Knight, not after all this time. And, especially in the last several weeks, as more and more bad news reached them, he'd gone quiet when they prepped to head out each morning.

Knight strapped on her SIG and slipped two spare magazines into her pocket before slinging her sniper's rifle across her chest. Then she held a hand out to Parker.

Parker tucked spare magazines into his vest and placed two SIGs in separate holsters at each hip. A third one waited for him within reach on the nearby table, but he took Knight's hand first and drew her towards him, seizing the rare bit of privacy to kiss her.

Knight lingered in the kiss, her head angled up, their foreheads resting together. Then she patted his scruffy cheek and broke away. "It won't be long," she reminded him, her tone light.

He exhaled, trying to cover his huff. But Parker led the way out of the small office out into the lobby. He paused by the doors and, at Knight's signal, unlocked the heavy chains holding them together.

Patrol wasn't a game, even though that was Sid's closest experience with heavy weapons until now, since he hadn't gone through FLETC as the rest of them had. But even for the most experienced agents like Knight and Parker, there was no real way to prepare for…this.

"This" was the horrid stench that came with the tainted sky and foul-looking streets. Knight coughed as she stepped outside with Parker and wondered if they'd ever get used to the reek. "I know they confirmed it's not an airborne pathogen, but I still wouldn't turn down a gas mask if Nick comes across a box of them," she bitched to Parker.

"Seconded," he said. But then he briefly touched her back, locking eyes with her, and slowly began his prowl out front, his eyes peeled for odd movements.

Knight frowned. Patrol was the rare time when she and Parker had to split up, as he covered the front perimeter and she walked the rest since she was faster with the rifle. Even knowing it was the best use of their skills, she didn't have to like it. But Knight swung her rifle around into her hands anyway and got to walking.

More than hating the current stench of grime and rot, which was hard to forget when sometimes one stepped and heard a stomach-churning squelch underfoot, Knight missed the saltiness of the air of the Navy Yard. She headed towards the motor pool, aiming to round the building eventually, but her eyes darted left, wishing she'd look out and see water beyond the gross, hazy fog. Hell, maybe if she wished hard enough, she'd hear the crashing waves.

But, since Zero Day, there'd been an eerie nothingness. No waves, no wind, barely a rustled leaf. Just…nothing.

The only sounds were the ones Knight made. Dead, mostly wet leaves squished under her feet as she walked across slick pavement. Her rifle made small clinks as it gently bounced against her chest and in her hands. The earwig connecting her to Parker via radio hummed lowly in her ear.

She made it past the motor pool. The garage doors were sealed up tight, and their group of survivors staying here hadn't tried using the vehicles in inventory to go anywhere precisely because there was nowhere to go. No, the cars were better served as parts, if Torres and Bishop needed them for themselves or people elsewhere, or even just as a change of scenery. Usually, Knight and Parker slept in their chairs or in sleeping bags in the bullpen close by Ronnie and the rest. But, every now and then, it was nice to get away and pretend they were someplace else.

Knight definitely could go for someplace else. She meant what she'd said to Parker earlier, about being done dwelling on what had transpired. But she wasn't exactly done imagining… Yes, Greece was one of the several countries that had fallen hard from the start, but Knight liked to think that, in that other life, she could see her dream, could have a vacation in Grecian waters with a handsome, whiskered silver fox at her side, laughing as he turned red as a lobster in the sun—

Her ears pricked up when she heard the softest of snaps.

She whirled around. Had that come from behind? Knight scanned the view behind her, tracking it with her rifle, but she saw nothing.

Knight faced forward again and rounded the building, getting behind the motor pool. That either had been her imagination or the earwig, well, wigging out. She tapped on the comm just to make sure. "Alden?"

No answer.

Her pulse sped up, her mind filling in the blanks as to what the yard in front of NCIS might look like right then. She pressed on the comm again. "Alden, come on, answer me."

Was it her stupid heart racing? She couldn't even hear the earwig's electric hum anymore.

Knight turned heel and began jogging back. Their patrol was screwed, whether Knight didn't finish it or Parker were hurt. But, even knowing they had more people inside to protect, there was still a whole building for their friends to hide in; they had time. Parker didn't.

As she picked up speed and ran, Knight fumbled with the battery pack in her vest. She plucked it out—and the damn light was out. Sonuvabitch, they'd checked their comms before coming outside, and the batteries had worked twenty minutes ago, but they must not have had enough juice, and—

Her thoughts vanished the next second, for something slammed into Knight, hard as a concrete wall, sending her flying when she was halfway back to the front of the building.

Instinctively, Knight clung to her gun and tucked her head in as she rolled, shoulder over shoulder, as if she'd been sent merrily down a hill. But this was part of the NCIS lot, not some damn hill out of a jaunty children's book, and she wasn't a little kid come out to play with her friends. When she came to a stop and got her bearings, Knight pushed herself upright with her free hand and searched for the source of her pain.

There. Barely thirty yards away.

One of the reanimated.

"Fuck," she mumbled under her breath. Knight struggled to her feet, her eyes never breaking from its gaze. Even when she got her rifle aimed, she didn't break the eye contact…if it could be called that.

There was footage of the reanimated, of course, but seeing one up close and personal was a new sensation. The skin was pulled taut over bones and decaying muscles, and the color was all wrong; Knight was put in mind of the rare floaters that appeared on Jimmy's autopsy table, bloated and a desaturated blue–green from all the chemicals and microorganisms that would enter a victim's body when submerged underwater for too long.

Knight didn't waste another second. She pulled the trigger—but the gun jammed. Her heart and eyes fell, and her panic swelled. The rifle must've taken her tumble harder than she realized.

The reanimated being took her movement as an opportunity. Its neck cracked as it turned its head impossibly at a ninety-degree angle, and other of its joints crackled and groaned when the reanimated took one step forward.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Knight growled at the thing, swinging the rifle around so the stock was out of her hands and at the ready to use as a bat. She took a running step forward and swung.

But the reanimated cracked its head the other direction and ducked her attack as it closed in, broken claws outstretched to grab her.

Knight swung the rifle around and swiped the arms away, but she went down with the damn monster on top of her. She clenched her teeth and pushed the rifle against its neck, keeping the gnashing teeth above her barely six inches from her face.

If this thing turned out not to be here alone…

Knight wouldn't last in this current stalemate either, though, she knew that. Her mind spun until it settled on one crazy idea. The next second, she pushed the rifle against the reanimated's neck with just her left hand and clawed her right thigh for her SIG.

The monster took the opening and pressed in closer to her, sliding down her body.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. Her thumb shook to get the safety off—

—teeth sank in to the side of her right thigh, beyond the protection of her body armor, and she bit back her scream and closed her eyes—

—Knight got the safety off and unleashed one, two, three, four rounds into the reanimated's left eye socket—

—finally, the thing stopped moving. Knight's blood, red and fresh, dribbled out of its mouth, and she spied some of her skin between its teeth, but the burst eye and leaking vitreous fluid were sure things. She could even see through the new hole in its head as she rolled it off her.

Two thoughts struck her at once. Not one before the other, but at the same time and with equal weight:

Parker would've heard those gunshots and would come running, the yard patrol be damned.

And she couldn't let him see this wound.

So Knight got to work and fast. Since the reanimated had sent her into the lot, she stumbled to her feet and dragged the true corpse closer to the building, behind the bushes. She had no bandages on her, but she'd take care of that once she made it back inside. For now—

She glanced at her mutilated leg. The blood made barely a stain against the black of her jeans.

Knight yanked off her boot and pulled off her sock, using it to cover over the wound. She hissed—stitches weren't going to make up for a missing chunk of thigh—but it'd do for now. At a glance, it was barely noticeable, that there was even a hole in her pants. So Knight crammed her foot back into her boot and returned her attention to the true corpse.

Just in case, she flipped her rifle again. Then she jammed the butt of her gun against the head, smashing it over and over and over, until bits and pieces detached from the neck. There was nothing to reanimate when she was done.

Knight wiped the rifle butt on nearby grass and emerged from behind the bushes. She jogged back towards the front and, unsurprisingly, Parker met her halfway.

Parker's brow was furrowed, his eyes wide and his gun drawn. He lowered it two inches when he found Knight. "Jess, what the hell?! I heard gunshots!"

She nodded. "I got one," she said. Knight put it out of her mind, the memory of being blindsided. "But it's fine. I took care of it." She cocked her head, indicating the spot behind her shoulder.

For thirty seconds, Parker said nothing. Finally, he lowered his gun the rest of the way. "…all right."

Knight gave him a tight smile. Then she blinked and held up her rifle. "Oh, hey. We need to duck back in. Thought this one was all good, but it jammed. Had to use my SIG. I'd rather have a working rifle strapped to my back than a gun-shaped baseball bat."

He narrowed his eyes, but eventually he nodded, and the couple made their way back inside. Parker remained by the equipment room's door, though, while Knight swapped out her gun. "Jess, is that really all?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You look anxious as hell." His frown was small and concerned when she glimpsed it.

But Knight shook her head and shrugged. "Meeting one of those things was not fun," she said with a forced smile and laugh.

"Does that thing explain your leg then?"

She froze. But Knight didn't stop smiling. "Kinda." Knight slipped the strap of a working rifle over her head. "It happened during the fight. I scraped my leg on a broken bit of brick out there," she fibbed. But she met his eyes and hoped he wouldn't press the topic.

Parker held her gaze. He grimaced, but he gave her a curt nod. "All right," he said, accepting her truth, and he turned to lead the way back outside.

But, behind him, Knight's heart broke a little, lying to him…but also that Parker wholeheartedly believed her.

He'll know the truth soon enough, she thought as they descended the steps outside the brick building. It's only a matter of time.

Their morning ended the way it should've: uneventfully.

Knight and Parker had no further sightings of reanimated, and Parker didn't press her again on her earlier tussle. But she thought she caught him sparing her a few extra glances, so she mustered a tired but true smile for him, a sign that she was all right.

Inside, everyone else was awake and waiting for them, and Ronnie and Hubley wore matching expressions of concern. "We heard gunshots," Ronnie said.

"We're all good," Knight assured them. "What's for breakfast?"

Francis held up an untouched plate. "It was going to be bagels, but they've gone stale, so water and protein bars again, plus a fruit purée pouch from Torres' ration stash, if you like."

Parker looked around at the others. "Just—stale bagels? Not moldy?"

They shrugged and nodded in response.

Parker held his hand out for the plate. "All right, gimme. We have 'stale' bagels and a working microwave. I can make these things edible again," he promised. He turned for the kitchen but paused beside Knight. "Jess, breakfast?"

"Mm, not yet. I'll hit the showers first. But save a bagel for me, thanks."

"Got it." And, without hesitation, he brushed his lips against her temple before leaving the room.

That had her doing a double-take. Parker was friendly with everyone, but she'd never known him to be good with PDA in their romance… Nevertheless, Knight decided to chock it up to their stressful morning and grabbed her gym bag from under her desk on her way to the showers.

A shower was a luxury, especially since Sid and Francis had gotten the filtration system back up and running and they needed as much water as possible redirected to the faucets for drinking. But Knight had to wash the morning off her. Not to mention—

She locked the door to the women's locker room and dropped onto the closest bench. With some effort, Knight shimmied out of her jeans and peeled away the sock-as-gauze covering. She snapped a hand over her nose and mouth when air hit her wound.

Dried blood tracked down her thigh and over her knee, but the bite mark itself shockingly had stopped bleeding. The mark… Knight's thoughts went right back to outside, because once more something was the wrong color. The reanimated had taken a chunk out of her an hour ago, but no way should the torn skin look burnt brown, nor the flesh underneath rotten, that same kind of rancid green one might find when meat's been sitting too long in the fridge.

Worse, her nose caught the faintest whiff of earthiness. Knight checked her jeans and the used sock, as well the rest of her clothing. Only the sock smelled the least bit like it. When Knight hunched over, getting her nose as close as she could stand to the wound on her thigh, the stench grew.

That turning earthiness was her.

Knight sat up slowly, her shoulders sinking. There was no way she'd be able to hide the smell forever, no matter how many showers she took or how hard she scrubbed.

Nevertheless, Knight shed the rest of this morning's outfit and hobbled into the nearest stall. She bit down on her knuckle when the lukewarm water hit the bite mark, but Knight took several calming breaths and focused on that to get her through her task. In, out, in, out—there wasn't much dirt or sweat to wash away, but the rest of her felt a smidgeon better afterwards.

At least until her eyes landed on her wound in the mirror.

Knight quickly dressed. She didn't have a proper bandage mixed in with her belongings, but she selected her darkest t-shirt and tore it into strips. She wasn't going to need that shirt in the near future, but keeping this bite mark hidden was a top priority. Even with a spare pair of jeans to change into, she still needed this damn thing covered, just in case someone else had as good a sense of smell as did she.

Finished, Knight stood and walked around on her injured leg. …it hurt like hell, and she hobbled when exhausted, but she could fake it for a little while longer, before the infection turned her.

She took a deep, shaky breath and gritted her teeth, trying not to think of how much longer she had. Knight shouldered her bag and exited the showers, and she smiled when she returned to the main floor and heard sounds of laughter.

"What'd I miss?" she asked when she rounded the short cubicle wall and slid her bag back underneath her desk.

"Sharing FLETC stories since Sid never had the opportunity," Francis answered with a grin. He jabbed a thumb in Hubley's direction. "We all have our ups and downs, but Curtis here really takes the cake."

"I did not mean to discharge my weapon at the instructor's feet—it was the firearm malfunctioning!" Hubley rushed to explain, sending another ripple of chuckles through their group.

Knight couldn't help grinning, too, and the lighter moment made her feel more present and less preoccupied with her predicament.

While Sawyer launched into the tale of what he assured them was a "near-perfect score" at training, Parker came over and slid a plate of food over to Knight. "As you wished," he murmured, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

Knight returned the smirk. "Paraphrasing Westley now, are we?"

"You've sat through every last Terminator movie and series with me and are still here. The least I could do was watch The Princess Bride with you, Jess."

She snorted around a mouthful of bagel. "I'm not the one quoting it, though."

He shrugged. "Well, true. The Princess Bride may not be sci-fi, but it's practically required watching for anyone who likes movies." That smirk was full-blown now. "Besides, Westley's not a bad guy to emulate, last I knew."

Knight shook her head, but her eyes lingered on his. She found it hard to swallow and maintain her smile. "No…no, he's not."

Parker quirked an eyebrow and brushed back a damp lock of hair behind her ear that had fallen forward, since she'd left it down to finish air-drying after her shower. Yet again, he did this in plain view of their friends, and Knight thought she saw Ronnie glimpse and quickly avert her eyes to the otherwise private moment.

Even if Parker were being more deliberate in his actions, Knight swore to herself right then that she'd have a few more hours. She just wanted until the end of today with Parker.

And then she'd head to her thinking spot on the roof, alone and armed.

All to keep him safe.

Even with her mind set, Knight found today dragging on, but she quickly put her finger on why.

At lunchtime, when Ronnie and Sawyer were set to head out on patrol, Parker piped up, "Hey, you two—double-check the rifles you use."

They and Knight stared at him, and Ronnie scoffed. "Uh, something I'm missing, Parker?"

"Not a call on technique, I assure you." He glanced at Knight and briefly ducked his eyes before nodding at the nightshift pair. "Jess' jammed this morning, so I want us all taking extra precautions in going over the weapons we select."

"Oh." Ronnie's shoulders slackened, and she nodded. "Thanks for the head's up." She narrowed her eyes at Knight. "Damn, Knight—you really took out one of those things with your pistol?"

Knight mustered a grin, to which Ronnie made an impressed face and Sawyer whistled. "But, when in doubt, a rifle makes a great bat!" she added, and the pair chuckled at her humble attitude before they left. Then Knight turned around and settled Parker with a tiny glare. "Was there really no other way to alert them?"

He rubbed her upper arms, but the gesture wasn't comforting like usual. "We've all gotta know how to protect our sixes, Jess."

She grumbled under her breath, but he did have a point.

Still, it wasn't just him being more vocal then. When everyone was together later in the day, too, and Francis had stepped upstairs while borrowing the satphone to check on family, and Sid once more tried doom-surfing the remaining dozen channels on the television, Parker sat closer to Knight than normal in the bullpen.

That one actually took her a moment, because she was so accustomed to them lazing together at home that she didn't realize she was half leaning out of her chair and into Parker. It wasn't until she'd reached up to toy with his fingers that Knight became aware he'd slung an arm around her shoulders. They really must look as if they were cozy like two people at home in their own little world!

And, driving that fact, er, home was Ronnie catching her eye and subsequently raising her eyebrows. Ronnie smiled a bit, too, before looking away and chatting with Sawyer, but still.

Knight pushed Parker's hand away and sat up. She tried scooting her chair away, too, but something caught in the wheels. She glanced down.

Ah. Parker had his foot wedged under one of the legs.

Knight slowly met his unamused stare.

Without a word, Parker pointed upstairs. He waited for Knight to stand first, and they ignored the others as they climbed the stairs, passing Francis on his way down. But Parker and Knight weren't simply heading to the next floor.

No, Parker continued to the silver-plated retinal scanner and stood before it. The scan took, and the door to MTAC opened. He stepped aside and let Knight in first.

When the door closed, Parker stuck his hands in his pockets and blew out a slow breath. "Want to tell me why you're antsy around me today, Jess?"

Knight stared at the big, empty screen, wishing it would come alive with happy news for once. "You're weirdly affectionate today," she blurted, still facing away from him.

"Okay… I thought that's one way for people in love to show their feelings. Unless that's changed?"

His tone in asking that made Knight turn. She hated seeing his frown. "Alden, no. That hasn't changed. I'm just—" Knight bit her lower lip. "You're suddenly quite affectionate with me in front of everyone else, is what I mean. It's strange. Normally, you're PDA-averse."

She expected annoyance or anger. Instead, Alden Parker's fear was plain as day in his features, deepening the lines around his eyes and even the dimples she loved so much that appeared whether he smiled or frowned. He blinked once, twice, and it took her a second to understand why: Parker, normally brave Parker, was fighting back tears. "…because I know I'm losing you."

Her blood turned to ice. "What?"

"Not because we're holed up here." Parker took a step forward; she took a step back. "You've been off since this morning's patrol." His eyes roved over her, sadly. "The thing that came after you—it got you in the leg, didn't it?"

Knight opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She coughed and licked her lips. "I—"

"I'm not stupid. And it's not easy to hide, Jess. Least of all from me."

"But—!"

Parker took another step and a half forward. "With each hour that passes, I feel as though I just have more proof. You're literally turning cold as ice, no matter how much I warm you up." He rubbed her upper arms once more and pouted.

Ah. So that explained part of today's coziness. Knight's chest ached, being told that he'd known the truth all along. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she clutched the front of his shirt. "…I lied to you, Alden. I'm so sorry," she said, shaking her head.

He shrugged. "Easily forgiven, considering the circumstances."

Knight stared up into his eyes, feeling incredibly lucky to be holding down this fort with him, knowing it had to be hard for the others downstairs without their loved ones, knowing it probably hurt as much as it helped Delilah to hear from her and Parker all the time as it did to see Torres and Bishop in the wake of her loss.

Parker rested his forehead against hers, sighing a little. His nose brushed hers, too, and he leaned in closer—

—but Knight blocked his kiss with her hand. "No, we don't—we don't know—" She couldn't bear to finish the sentence. It wasn't an airborne pathogen, no, but it was spread through bites. As far as they knew, any sort of contact with saliva…anything…

"Hmm. Well, do you feel ravenous?"

That threw her. "?? No?" Knight stared at him as if Parker had two heads.

"A shame. And here we have MTAC all to ourselves."

She blushed. How this scoundrel could turn a morbid joke into a sexual one and muster a smirk during this heightened tension, she would love to know…!

Still, Parker remained right here in front of her, not ready to move away. And, despite the brief spot of dark humor, his gaze was still heavy-lidded and morose.

So Knight conceded with a slight turn of her head, letting Parker kiss her cheek. The temptation was real, though, with his mouth so close to her lips. But she didn't want to risk it, to risk him.

Parker exhaled, his breath tickling her cheek and rustling her hair, and he squeezed her against him, but this amount of intimacy would have to do.

It would have to do for both of them, Knight knew as she squeezed him back and inhaled his scent, not yet ready to return downstairs.

Parker's pain was something Knight shared in as the day bled into evening.

But it was not her sole pain as the hours ticked by.

After discussing the severity of the situation, they returned downstairs at Knight's behest. "I don't want to alarm any of them," she'd told Parker earlier in the day.

He, of course, had settled her with one of his I-Am-Not-Amused stares, but he relented. Parker wasn't wholly content with idling away her remaining hours, but he would rather spend them together then not at all. At the very least, he got Knight to come around to his open affection, since it'd be the last.

But, when evening arrived, Knight began to feel pain, emanating from her leg. She was standing one second, bickering with Hubley over who got which dehydrated meat for dinner, and then Knight yanked her desk chair under her the next, for fear she might collapse.

Hubley eyed her strangely. "Uhh, Parker?" he called.

Parker rounded the corner, returning from the restroom, and his eyes widened a fraction when they landed on Knight. But he kept his calm and walked up to them as though he meant to be part of the dinner conversation. "What, Hubley?"

Hubley furrowed his brow and looked between the two, confused. "I, uh—"

Knight forced a smile to her face. "Curtis, I'll set aside some turkey for you, I promise. Now please get a move on, because no one does patrol alone, and you're due right now with Francis. So get going, yeah?"

The former Cyber agent pursed his lips, thoroughly befuddled, but he skedaddled as instructed anyway. And, with Ronnie in the break room, Sawyer upstairs borrowing the satphone, and Sid taking a nap elsewhere, Parker and Knight had a rare moment in the bullpen to themselves. Parker didn't waste it. "Why did we just fake Hubley out?"

"Because I'm in a shit-ton of pain and I'm a crap actress, Alden."

His face fell. Parker knelt before her and eyed her bad leg. "So…it's spreading."

Knight nodded. "Yeah."

Parker heaved an angry sigh. "I wish we knew how long. Of all the millions of things the experts don't know, it's how long."

Knight leaned forward and cupped his cheek with her hand. "They've noted a bunch of quick cases, but there are too many factors. Health. Metabolism." She shrugged. "Maybe even the will to fight it." At that, her smile turned genuine. "I'm crap at acting, but you know I'm a fighter, Alden."

He chuckled, but it was a wet sound. Parker covered her hand with one of his. "Yeah… Yeah, I do know."

"Hey. Promise me this?"

Parker peered up at her quizzically.

"Once it gets really bad…keep me away from the others. Ronnie already lost her daughter, so she'd freak, seeing me like this. And I want to go out on my own terms."

Parker closed his eyes, squeezing them shut tight, long enough that Knight thought he'd turn her down. "As you wish," he uttered, his head low, his brow touching her knees.

Knight's heart surprisingly felt light, hearing his answer, knowing he saw the reason in her request. So she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss atop his head.

The pain began in her leg, and it spread like tree roots, thirsty for her life.

Slowly, slowly it became harder to stand. That was easy enough to solve, with her rolling desk chair right there in the bullpen. But then came the shooting pain up her sides, shooting up high and descending down into her arms.

That was harder to hide. Those pains made Knight's hands convulse, and she endeavored to hide her hands in her lap, under her desk.

By the time of the nighttime shift, as Sawyer and Sid prepped to head out and the others got ready to hit the lights and the hay, Knight noticed something new. In the light of her desk lamp, she was the wrong color.

Was she seeing things now?

Another wave of pain crashed through her, and Knight winced and gritted her teeth, knocking into her lamp. Parker was beside her in an instant, and she vaguely grasped the excuses he offered Ronnie, Francis, and Hubley as he escorted her to the men's room, where he could see her in better light and, more importantly, lock the door.

"Jess, hey, Jess," Parker said, guiding her to the counter.

Knight bent over the sink. The pain was bad enough she wanted to hurl. But just leaning on the edge, gripping it, steadied her. "Yeah. Yeah, Alden, I'm. I'm okay. I'm here."

But Parker was running the tap, and he had it turned completely to the left until steam emerged. He touched her, ran his fingers under the hot water, and touched her skin again to compare. "…Jess, you are not okay."

She lifted her head and eyed the people in the glass' reflection. In it, she saw Parker, same as ever yet more concerned than ever. Yet, beside him, she saw a woman she didn't recognize. She looked like a woman an artist had painted if given a vague, poor description of Jessica Knight. Her complexion was waxy, yellow and washed out…lacking warmth. And her hair, dark though it was, hung dull and limp; it looked as if it might begin falling out.

"Jess—"

"You promised," she reminded him. A shock tore through her, and her back arched as she bit back a cry of pain.

Parker caught her before she could fall or crack her head open on the counter ledge. "Jess, please…"

"Move me," she rasped. Knight licked her lips and clung to his arm. "Move me away from everyone else. If I can't make it on my own, get me to the roof."

Despite his fretting, Parker got her right arm over his shoulders and unlocked the door. He checked the corridor and shuffled the two of them out since the coast was clear. They took the back stairwell, though, since anything else would catch their friends' attention.

It was just a few flights of stairs, but those flights drained Knight of her remaining energy. For the last few steps, Parker all but carried her in his arms, including through the door that led outside.

Yet…the air didn't hit her as it usually did tonight. Knight exhaled a tiny sigh of relief in the cool, damp air.

"Ha, maybe I just needed some fresh air," she joked as Parker set her down against the brickwork beside the door.

The cloud coverage filtered light, so it never got very bright or very dark anymore, and Knight therefore caught the little glare Parker shot her way for her ill attempt at humor. He settled down beside her, one leg outstretched and the other drawn up. He rested his arm on his closer knee, gun in hand, just in case they learned tonight, of all nights, that these things did indeed know how to scale buildings. "Definitely not what I'd call 'fresh,'" he grumbled.

Knight hummed and leaned against his side. "Maybe not. But I feel a little better. …thanks for bringing me outside, Alden."

He was quiet for a whole minute. Then: "Do you intend to sleep out here tonight?"

Knight opened her eyes and stared at the brick wall in front of her. "I don't exactly have a choice. It won't be long."

Parker didn't comment.

Knight closed her eyes again and, eventually, she nodded off, matching her breathing with his…and then slowing it down…and dreaming, once more, of other lifetimes…

When Knight's eyes snapped open, she had no clue how much time had passed, but she knew:

The time was now.

A fresh wave of pain rolled through her, primarily through her back and shoulders, into her neck—but it wasn't entirely pain. No, this something else was different and had Knight shoving Parker away while she shot to her feet, fighting the turn for real.

Behind her, Parker stood. "Jess—"

But she shoved him again, never minding the frailty that came with his age. She backed away from him with a frown, nearing the short brick wall that edged the roof.

Again, he stood. "Jess, don't do it," he begged. "We'll—We'll figure something out. Maybe there's something the researchers are developing and haven't released yet. Maybe you have more time than you realize! You've been fighting this all day—don't give up now!"

Knight climbed onto the ledge and narrowed her eyes at him, palming her gun.

But Parker ran for her. He reached out for her—

—and some part of her reached out for him, too, and managed to snag the front of his shirt—

—they locked eyes, his going wide and white and round (was it fear? was it concern, for the one he lovingly called "Jess"?)—

—right before she took those two steps backwards off the ledge.

Full trigger warnings (including spoilers): Zombies/zombie apocalypse, psychological horror, character death (implied and/or mentioned), discussion of death, consideration of self-harm/suicide (which is implied to occur), murder, and gore/graphic violence.

WELL. Happy Halloween? :O In the closing A/N to my oneshot, "Zeptosecond," I mentioned that I believe the two biggest challenges a shipper can write are breaking an OTP up and OTP death (either or both partners), and that I'd never write the latter. Then I got to thinking about Halloween coming up…and originally I had a more lighthearted, silly idea ("Who would even survive the zombie apocalypse of the current team?"). But then my muse took the dial, cranked it up to eleven, and ripped the fucking knob off, because I know for certain that, while I've written charrie death in other stories/fandoms, I sure af have never written anything like this. So—challenge met! That said, and triggers noted, my heart does rly hurt to think about what these charries might do for their loved ones at the end of the world, hence painting the picture I did for the McGees, for Ellick, for the Palmers, and, yeah, for Parknight, too. Nearly every action taken, tho, is an act of love. The only thing I want you, my readers, to doubt is that ambiguous ending. Was that Knight pulling Parker off the roof with her or one of the newly reanimated about to take his life, too? Was Parker about to see a chance to save her or at least save himself because, perhaps, he realized he'd already lost the love of his life? :3c I'll never tell~ This is, in some ways, both trick and treat. ;}

As for some housekeeping: Btw, I actually delayed another monster-sized (but not monster AU XD) fic to get this done in time for the holiday, so yay for long Parknights! :D All charries mentioned in the story are canon minor charries, with Sid, Piper, and Curtis Hubley being the newest additions from s19 (Ronnie Tyler and Dale Sawyer ofc have made several appearances and Tony Francis had cameos yrs ago during the Gibbs era—poor beefy guy rly was curious about joining Gibbs' team!). So there are a lot of Easter eggs/nods to canon for fans of all eras/seasons. :') I'm not certain whether it's stated that Cyber agents deffo have to pass FLETC same as field agents, so pls take Sid's lack of training with a grain of salt. Parker's mention of Westley and Parknight's brief chat about The Princess Bride is just an allusion meant to highlight Parker tryna be Knight's hero, ofc. :'D Also, Parker's "ravenous" joke srsly is just a play on the word's definition; it deffo was not a vore joke. XD The fic's title is also a spin on the awesome hit by R.E.M., "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)"—I grew up with this song and it honestly never loses relevance, no matter the crisis. But, interestingly enough, and as with my other story, "through and through," the vibes for this story were influenced by some of my fav survival/horror videogames, such as the BioShock series, Amnesia, the Silent Hill franchise, and the Resident Evil franchise (altho I deffo prefer RE's explanation of zombies to mine, *lol* XD). Finally, the soft, melancholic tunes of the album Balance by softy & Kendall Miles got me through this fic, and I just. Have a listen and have some feels. c: Aaaand, with this fic, I've officially written more than 100,000 words of Parknight content~ -w-

Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave an anon/unsigned review via the FFN link or comment via the AO3 link at the top of the post, especially if you enjoyed this!

~mew

#ncis #parknight #jessica knight #alden parker #fanfic #mew writes too much #dead dove: do not eat #mind the rating & content warnings tho pls #ronnie tyler #dale sawyer #sid (ncis)#tony francis #curtis hubley #lol never expected to write some of these minor charries & in such a fic #have some feels #happy halloween

5 notes · View notes

andrevanvuuren · 1 year

Text

tripping up trip over my words fall over my thoughts trip over myself with doubt wobble into walls trip over tears 😭 tripping into silence trip as I fall when I shout tripping up slip down stairs stumbling out of bars taxis cars trip over debris fall over broken relationship chairs shifting into racing gears tripping for false starts shaking at bullshit falling in secret alley’s cause they badly lit 🔥 tripping up trip over my stutter no photos lost memories broken shutter tripping up tripping down pick up broken pieces shattered excuses who knows if I’ll be around with all these hidden noose’s falling for everything standing for nothing is that close in a hymn is this a deadly sin tripping up will you look at me say I’m forgiven look at how I’m fucking shaking trip over myself with doubt wobble into walls trip over tears 😭 tripping into silence trip as I fall when I shout tripping up slip down stairs stumbling out of bars taxis cars trip over debris fall over broken relationship chairs shifting into racing gears tripping for false starts shaking at bullshit falling in secret alley’s cause they badly lit 🔥 tripping up trip down its a silent thudding sound (20/12/22 tripping up-AvV)

#Spotify

2 notes · View notes

lookmomiwrite · 2 years

Text

The Crystal Lake Cabin

Chapter 1: A Lost Journal

I had just bought a cabin right off the shoreline of Crystal Lake... Well, what used to be Crystal Lake. Now it was just a river and the muddy remains of what used to be a lake. The dam that kept the reservoir filled was decommissioned about six months ago. Now that the lake was gone, the cabin I bought hit rock bottom prices and it would have been idiotic for me not to buy it. All I wanted was a nice hunting cabin, somewhere to stay for a month or two each year. I didn’t care about the lake being drained and the river was still flowing so there’s plenty of fish to be caught.

After signing, I drove up to the cabin to start the renovations. It hadn’t been used for decades and it needed some repairs. Luckily, the foundation was sturdy and the damage was only cosmetic.

I arrived early in the Spring and my to-do list was endless. The roof had small leaks, the window shutters needed to be replaced, the doors needed new hinges, there was dirt, plants, and debris everywhere, and that was just scratching the surface. It was a mess… but it was my mess now.

A few weeks passed before I noticed the boarded up door on the far end of the house. Between the repairs and fishing trips to the river for food, there wasn’t much time to make new discoveries. It wasn’t easy to open either. Whoever nailed the boards to the wall really didn’t want this door to be opened easily.

I got to work and an hour later the boards were removed. The room was blanketed in a thick layer of dust. There were no windows but there was another door on the outer wall. I didn’t notice a door from the outside and after examining it, I found that the door was completely covered by bushes on the other side. I wish I could say there was some kind of treasure but there were only gardening tools, shovels, and some old books. One book in particular caught my eye.

It was an old journal written by a woman who lived here in 1922. I wasn’t much into snooping but it’s hard to resist reading someone’s one-hundred year-old journal. She was a thirty year-old woman who had moved to the cabin with her husband. Her name was Isla. Her husband was a dam operator and was sent out here to replace the previous operator after they went missing.

***

July 17th, 1922

I am not too enthusiastic about moving out here but Edgar went on and on about how great it would be to get away from the city and do something meaningful. The dam is only a few years old and the reservoir is filling up faster than expected. The reservoir is going to supply water to the nearby farms during the dry season so it is important that this dam is maintained well. It is an important job for an important man, my husband. Even as reluctant as I was to move, there was no way I could say no to him as excited as he was and I could finally start the garden I have always wanted.

July 22nd, 1922

It’s been a few days now and we’re settling in. Edgar has been working hard at the dam the last few days so I’ve been tending to our cabin. Whenever I have time, I work in the garden. The weather is great and with any luck, we will have plenty of vegetables to eat in a few weeks. Edgar went into town yesterday and bought me new tools with the stipend his company gave him. He even brought back a necklace made by a local jewelsmith in a nearby town. It has the most beautiful amethyst surrounded by small obsidian shards and swirling silver rings.

August 1st, 1922

Oh, I have really messed up. I lost it in the garden. I have been digging holes everywhere to try and find it but I just can not find it. Edgar is going to be disappointed with me when he finds out it is lost.

***

It was getting late so I decided to wrap up for the day and it wasn’t much fun to read a journal in a room filled with one-hundred year-old dust. At least the dozens of shovels stockpiled in the room made sense now.

The sun was setting, dark clouds were rolling in, and I still needed to get the generator running before it would be too dark to see. I couldn’t help but wonder what she lost. A ring? Some money? Maybe some kind of family heirloom? I wondered if it was still in the garden, buried for over a hundred years. I decided I’d take a look soon. I have to dig up the old garden to install a new septic system anyway, I might as well dig around a bit while I’m at it.

The weather worsened as I finished starting the generator and by the time I was in my new bedroom it was already pouring. I sat down and started to read Isla’s journal again. I was hoping I could figure out what she lost but the next seven days of entries just repeated how “she lost it” and how “it must be buried here somewhere.” I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere with this and decided to sleep. There was plenty of unfinished work to be done and I needed to conserve my energy.

That night was the worst I’ve slept in years.

I’ve had the same recurring dream the last few nights. The dream starts with me waking up on the couch downstairs. I look out the window and the sky is washed with smoke and the deep burgundy glow of fire. I try to rush out of the house but when I open the door the cabin is on an island of dirt surrounded by a pit so deep the bottom is shielded by a thick, black fog. I always wake up before I can do anything else.

Tonight, the dream was different. When I open the door, the smoke filled sky turns into a wall of dirt, as if the cabin was swallowed by the earth. I remember the shovels in the gardening room and begin digging my way out. No matter how much dirt I moved, all I accomplished was filling the house. There was no end. My only choice was to fill the hole behind me as I continued to dig. My shovel breaks and I wake up drenched in sweat.

The night had just broken and the sun was barely higher than the mountains in the distance. There were still light orange and red hues refracting through the clouds. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and made breakfast. It was a smoked fish I caught at the river a few days prior.

I was done repairing the roof, walls, windows, and anything else that would let the outside in and it was time to start the septic system. It was only a hunting cabin but I planned on staying a few months at a time. An outhouse wouldn’t cut it.

Digging the trenches for the sewage piping was taking much longer than I expected. The issue wasn’t how hard it was to dig, it was how much of a bore it was to dig for hours. As soon as I remembered Isla losing whatever “it” was in the garden, I was already digging. Before I realized how long I was at it, the sun was already setting. I could feel the pit in my stomach tighten as I became conscious of my hunger.

As I sat down for dinner, I picked up Isla’s journal and began to read.

***

August 23th, 1922

Edgar has been worried about me lately. I stopped swimming in the lake recently and he won’t listen to me when I say I’m fine. I just don’t have the time to swim anymore. There’s so much to do around here. I have to tend to the garden. It’s not easy to grow your own food. I wish Edgar could understand.

September 2nd, 1922

Edgar has been insistent on trying to stop my gardening. He says I spend too much time on it, that we don’t need the extra food. He says that the holes are too deep, that it’s not even a proper garden. He just doesn’t understand. He still doesn’t know about it. It’s still buried somewhere. I need to find it.

September 13th, 1922

Edgar had a doctor check me. He says that there is something wrong with me because I spend too much time doing what I love. I have expanded the garden now. It extends to the treeline. I am thinking about expanding it even more. I have always heard that the forest is a natural garden. It only makes sense. I could use the extra space too. There is not much room by the cabin now.

September 30th, 1922

Edgar is mad. He fell and hurt his leg. It is not my fault he was not paying attention. He knows I like to garden, he should be more careful. I told him I started a new garden there.

***

I had the dream again. I was digging for hours… Though, it’s not easy to tell time in a dream. It could have been days. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt I moved ever closer to the surface. My clothes were drenched in sweat and I peeled off each layer, burying the clothes behind me as I dug further and further, never coming close to reaching the end of wherever it was I was going. With each pile of dirt I threw behind me, my breath became more labored. My muscles ached and screamed out to me in pain, telling me to stop… to control myself.

The tunnel narrowed and I slowly became encased in the dirt around me. I was barely able to move my arms and legs enough to maneuver the increasingly damp dirt until the soil condensed and hardened around my body. I tried to scream as dirt and rock filled my lungs.

I laid there, imprisoned in an ever hardening coffin of dirt, until a crack formed above me. Was I free? Did I reach the surface? I watched as a soft purple glow filtered through the dirt and the soil around me melted away as if the light shining through was cleansing me. I was free.

Suddenly, the world turned upside down and I was falling through the crack that was once above me. I crashed into the rock below me, expelling the dirt from my lungs. I was laying in a vast cavern lined in purple gems. I reached out to grab one.

I awoke.

I wanted to find out what she lost.

***

October 5th, 1922

Edgar is becoming angrier every day. He has not tried to understand. He told me he would sell my tools and destroy my garden if I did not stop. He just does not understand what was lost! I thought maybe he would understand if I told him about it but he only became angrier. This is why I had to hide it. No one will understand.

October 6th, 1922

Poor Edgar. I told him that I would not stop gardening. I have to find it. He does not understand. I have to find it. I can not stop until I find it. Why will he not listen? Why will he not understand?

He came home from the dam tonight. He was angrier than I have ever seen him. He tried to stop me. He took my shovel. My dear shovel! He tried to take me away from here but this is where I belong. I belong with my garden. It needs me.

If only he did not try to stop me. We were so happy and now he is gone. He would not stop and so I had to stop him. I did not have any other choice… I have to find it. I have to find it. I have to find it. I have to find it.

***

October 6th, 1922. This was the last entry in the journal and it’s likely gone unread for one hundred years. I finished dinner, well.. breakfast, and went outside to decompress.

All I could do was stare at the long abandoned garden and think about the history here that no one knows but me. As I stared at the ground, I could feel it calling me. It wanted me to dig. My head began to ache and my hands began to numb. All I could do was dig. I had no desire for anything else at that moment. I just needed to dig, to find what it was. What was Isla so obsessed with that she would murder her own husband to continue her search.

My mind jumped to the purple gems in my dream. I wondered if my dream was some sort of premonition on what lay below the garden. Maybe she knew about the gems. Maybe she had dug some up when she first started gardening. Maybe they were still there, somewhere hidden below me.

I went to the gardening room, grabbed her shovel, and started digging.

I dug hole after hole for days. First, I started near the cabin. It made sense, this is where Isla started her first garden. In each hole there was nothing and yet I continued digging. I remembered her journal. She started gardening further from the cabin. It was possible it was further out.

Days passed. I think it may have been six days of digging before I found it. Well, not it but him. I found Edgar or rather what used to be Edgar. He was wearing denim overalls and a shirt that all but withered away under the soil. He was nothing more than a skeleton now.

Reality set in for a fleeting moment. I was filled with contrition. Until now, I had only assumed Isla had murdered him but there was no way to actually know for sure. She stopped writing in her journal after that night. I knew this was him and now I knew that he was murdered. The right side of his skull was caved in as if an axe had cleaved its way into his brain.

“Why was I digging again?”

That was the question I kept asking myself over and over as I sat above Edgar’s grave.

“What am I looking for?”

My head was foggy and it was hard to concentrate. I stared at Edgar’s lifeless bones and remembered what Isla wrote the night she killed him. He had just come from the dam when he tried to force her to leave the cabin. There was something he learned that day that he didn’t know before that night.

My answer was at the decommissioned dam.

***

Read the rest of this story for free on my website. Click the link below!

I write horror, fantasy, and sci-fi and will be posting multiple times a week!

Oh, and don't forget to reblog this and follow me! I want to share my writing with as many people as possible. :D

Hope you enjoyed it!

#creepypasta #horror stories #short story #creative writing #horror #writing #paranormal

2 notes · View notes