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oveliagirlhaditright · 1 year ago

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Here be Monsters - A Bangel and Buffy & Faith and Angel & Faith Fanfic

Summary: When Faith tells Buffy she's been assaulted by a supernatural being--someone that Faith at first believes is an Incubus--and Giles then sends Buffy and Angel on a quest to destroy the Rugarus in town, it puts them on the path of a mystery that no one could have expected. Slight mystery. Canon compliant. Post-Helpless. Bangel. Buffy and Faith. Angel and Faith. Slight Fuffy.

For @bisexualblckcanary

Here be Monsters

Angel’s PoV

Angel didn't know what he was doing helping the Scoobies carve stakes, exactly. He wasn't a people person: that was a fact. And ever since he had lost his soul and terrorized the Scooby Gang, he knew they hated him: something he couldn't blame them for that at all. He hated himself.

So why hadn't he made one of his usual quick exits, like always, when he found that Buffy wasn't in the library yet, to save everyone the awkwardness here?

"…and anyway, I'm really starting to wonder if maybe we should start looking into buying stakes on Ebay, so we don't have to do this," Willow was rambling, in trying to fill the otherwise strange silence, Angel thought. Bless her. "Surely it would be more cost effective, like if we need to make stakes and research at the same time or something. But hey: this is just a crazy idea this wacky girl has had. Don't listen to m-"

"I think it's a good idea," Angel cut off her self-loathing thoughts, though he may have partially been lying here. He wasn't entirely sure he felt this way. Though maybe Willow had a point. And Lord knew the sweet girl could use some confidence. "I mean, you can find about anything on the Internet these days… or so I've heard. And if anyone thinks it's weird you guys are buying a lot of stakes, they'll probably just think you're vampire movie fanatics."

Angel threw the last bit in, figuring that Harris would be longing to say something about the FBI--or someone--thinking their actions were strange (as if they'd ever even look into them. Actually, they'd surely think the Watcher's Council, who Giles would get to flip the bill for this if they did do it, were gardeners), so he'd thrown that in there before Xander could say anything. He didn’t want to give the boy any more reason to speak, after all.

"Thanks, Angel!" Willow beamed.

"No, problem," Angel allowed, giving her a small smile.

"Yeah," Xander moaned, sarcasm clearly in every inch of his words. "Thanks, angel eyes." Well, it seemed Xander had talked, and—as always—was annoyed with him. Oh, well. It couldn't have been helped, Angel supposed. The boy just loved to run his mouth, didn’t he?

Out of the corner of his eye, Angel saw that Giles was also irritated, maybe in thinking that Angel would warm Willow up to him again, only to turn evil again and then try to murder her once more.

Resisting the urge to sigh—since his soul wasn't going anywhere any time soon, if he could help it—Angel reminded himself that these reactions were only natural.

It was just when he was thinking of leaving after all, when his pile of fifteen stakes were complete, that Buffy arrived on the scene.

And just like that, Angel had to remind himself he was a fool to doubt that his soul might not be going anywhere: Buffy was far too tempting: she wore a sparkly, yellow tank top, black dance pants, and orange flip-flops.

And while lately Buffy seemed to be wearing her hair up all the time—almost to contrast with Faith, who always seemed to have her locks loose—at the moment she seemed to have found a compromise: at the top of her head she had part of her tresses in a bun, while the rest of it hung down in curls.

As always, she was Angel’s stolen sun. And also, temptation incarnate. As she walked over to him, Angel spied chandelier earrings in his girl's ears that were somewhere between her shirt and shoe color. Tangerine?

"Angel," Buffy whispered breathlessly the moment she saw him.

And he, keeping up their game, smirked at her and said, "Buffy."

Giles cleared his throat then, tearing the former lovers apart from each other—to Angel's relief and chagrin—and Buffy seemed to remember where she was and what she was doing, as she jumped atop their favored library table and began working on a stake herself. "Sorry I'm late for patrol, guys. There was this whole thing with Faith. Would you believe that there was actually a guy she didn't want to sleep with, but somehow, he still manipulated her in to doing so? Anyway, she thought he was an Incubus, so I was being Research Girl for her. But an Incubus hasn’t shown up in Sunnydale in more than a thousand years, so… Now Faith is even more upset. I tried to convince her to come patrol with us tonight, that we'd be there for her, but she said no…"

A pen could have dropped in that moment and everyone would have heard it. That whole thing was rough. At lest the way that Buffy had described it, It didn't exactly sound like rape to Angel—and if it was, he would find down this man who had done this to the second Slayer and kill him. He and the demon, of course, were tempted to do so, anyway—but who could say for sure? And Angel winced, knowing that Liam and Angelus had used similar tactics with girls in the past, and he once again despised himself.

He also knew that part of the reason Faith wasn't here was because of him… the new Slayer had lost some of her trust in Buffy when she'd learned his girlfriend had lied to protect him, or so Buffy had told him.

"That's- that's horrible. Poor Faith!" Willow exclaimed. "Is there anything we can do?" And even though Angel knew that Willow had her problems with Faith, he knew that right now she would give the girl the shirt off her back to make her feel better if she could.

"You know how Faith is with emotions, Will. I imagine anything we say might make it worse. But if I think of anything, I'll let you know. Thanks.

"But right now, I definitely want to kill something. Giles, please give me something to kill!"

"I second that," Xander said, with a certain fury on his face, looking as though he were mere seconds away from punching the table or all the stakes they'd just worked on.

"Oh, umm, yes," Giles said, fixing his glasses—though Angel also noted the concern (as well as calculating) look in the Watcher's eyes. "Buffy, how do you feel about fighting Rugurus?"

"As long as I can hit them, I'm there."

And as the answer to that seemed to be a resounding “yes” for the most part, it looked like they had their itinerary for the night.

…

"Do you have any ideas on how I can help Faith, Angel?" his Slayer asked him, as the two of them went out patrolling looking for said Rugurus.

In the end, not everyone had ended up going with the duo, since there was a chance Rugurus might not be a group that Buffy "could kill" as much as she might have liked—for the most part, one turned into a Ruguru when they were bitten by one, similar to how a vampire or werewolf were created. But where they differed, was while the bite would give the newly bitten an unbelievable craving for raw meat—to tempt them to sink their teeth into human flesh: their real desire—if they could resist that urge, they wouldn't fully turn. So there was a chance that some (or all) they would meet tonight could might only be in the process of transformation, and could return to normal if they refrained from their craving.

A.K.A. some they faced tonight might be innocent... And with tempers flaring after what they'd learned about Faith, Giles had decided not to send everyone on the warpath, just his Slayer and reluctantly Angel, since theoretically he should be able to sniff out a Ruguru and a half-turned.

"I wish I could give you better advice than giving her presents to distract her right now," Angel said, wincing, thinking of how often since he'd regained the soul, he'd sometimes used distraction as his own means of coping. Often with alcohol. "But… Oz had band practice tonight, right? And Faith likes music. What are the chances that Oz would be kind enough to write Faith her own song now?"

"I think that that's mainly a romantic thing he does for Willow—when he's not just trying to come up with songs for the band to hopefully make moola with someday--but I don't know, Angel, maybe," Buffy replied hopefully.

Really, Angel had known that. He'd been grasping at straws with his statement, and he knew it well… but what could he say? He wanted to help the other Slayer in some way. Whether it was because he still felt guilt over what happened with Kendra, or because he hated that Buffy had somewhat lost her friend because of him, he wasn't sure.

But before he could think it over much more, they were upon the nest. "Buffy," the vampire whispered in his Slayer's ear, not wanting to give their prey a head's up by his voice carrying. "Ruguru at twelve o'clock."

And they were, indeed, Ruguru they needed to be hunting, because they were currently tearing two girls apart. The one girl, unfortunately, was already dead. And while the other wasn't far behind her, Angel could still detect a faint heartbeat within her.

"Buffy… the blonde is still alive. If we can get her out of their clutches, one of us can run her to the hospital."

It was seeming like the best option here would be to split up, of course, even though Angel was loath to leave Buffy fighting Rugurus by herself for the first time, he thought he could make it to the hospital faster than she could…

There was a cave behind these three where un-turned could have been located, and Angel knew it wouldn't be fair if Buffy came across them and fought them, if they truly were un-turned and she thought they fully were. But what was the best choice here?

"Take her to the hospital then, Angel! I can handle a few monsters, who are just a bit hungrier than vampires!"

And if to demonstrate her point, Buffy had already charged into battle and had driven her stake along one of the Ruguru's arms, almost separating the lower part of said arm from the upper with her movement (the Ruguru howled out in pain with her action). Angel knew if she made said motion again, she probably would manage to do just that, and then that one wouldn't be much of a fighter at that point, at least…

He still hated to leave her like this, for a few reasons—one of them of course being that his demon was tempted to drink this already bleeding girl instead of seeing her to safety, but he knew he could fight that urge—but he wasn't really seeing any other options here.

Without any more preamble, Angel lifted this other blonde into his arms and wished his own golden goddess good luck—a scene that was somehow better and worse than the first time he'd said that to her. Then, he disappeared into the night.

…

Truth be told, Angel hated hospitals almost as much as Buffy did. He despised the illnesses that he could smell in the patients, and the hopelessness that he could detect in their family and friends.

He, perhaps, even moreso despised some of the games he'd played at hospitals before he'd gained his soul: letting some of his victims think they'd escaped him as they ended up at one, only for him to drag them away from their only hope…

He also recalled how just last year, he'd been responsible for Buffy, Willow, and Gile coming here. So, yes: if he never saw another hospital, it would be too soon. So he was glad that his business with the girl—Saya Baker, it turned out—didn't take long, and it seemed she would be okay.

Angel was just about to leave the building and see how Buffy had fared with the Rugurus, when he noticed Faith of all people in his peripheral vision.

Angel quite honestly couldn't believe that Faith was at the hospital. She didn't look injured enough to need any medical assistance that her Slayer healing wouldn't take care of (and Angel thought that if that insipid Watcher Wesley [who was sick right now] got word that Faith had come here for the doctors to look at some of her scrapes—if that was why she was here—he wouldn't be too happy about it… which was just ridiculous). He also didn't smell anything deeper in her, like cancer, thankfully. Hmm… could she be here because she had friends or family who were ill?

Truthfully, Angel really didn't know what to do with the other Slayer. And while his heart went out to her for what she was going through, according to Buffy, Angel knew that anything he said or did would just prove to set her off: he was her enemy. And furthermore, the one who was responsible for her decision to leave the Scoobies. Yes, it might have been best if he still decided to risk it all and talk to her, even with all of that. But despite everything Buffy had said and thought she had realized on Christmas, Angel of course knew he was a far cry from a good person.

So he'd decided to try and sneak past her, and hope that her Slayer senses hadn’t developed enough for her to sense him, when he noticed that his first assessment of her has been wrong as he sped past the girl: it looked like a rather strong creature had clawed her arm. And knowing that Faith wasn't the type to take that laying down—or at all—Angel had to stop and ask, "Faith, what happened to you?"

The new Slayer seemed to wake up from a trance, and with a vengeance, at Angel's line of questioning. And he felt that if they hadn't been in a hospital with people all around them, Faith would have thrown herself at him to stake him then and there. "I don't need your nose in my business, Angelus!"

Angel may have been crazy—actually, he knew that he was—but he was starting to put some things together here that he really didn't like. And he truly didn’t want to bring it up: he knew it would go over about as well as his telling Buffy that their dating could get out of hand had… But knowing that all that it took for evil to prosper was for good men to do nothing, he couldn't just leave it alone. He wouldn't.

Speaking softly and gently, the way he might have to a wounded animal—and maybe, just maybe, unintentionally the way he had when he'd attempted to thrall people in the past (which wouldn't work on a Slayer, since he’d never been great at thralling, so it was just so great that that was his voice for this)—Angel found himself pointing at Faith's arm. "I know you're not that reckless, Faith. I'm also aware that no one, in bed, can force a Slayer to do something they don't want to do…"

Faith was looking at him with eyes that said she positively wanted to dust him, and Angel thought she just might, but like a fool he swallowed and pressed on, anyway. "Has some abuser sweet-talked you into thinking he's not an abuser, and that… well, the things he's doing to you aren't abuse? Are you here hoping to talk to someone, because you know deep down that you’ve gotten in too deep?"

Angel was willing to bet the farm that whoever it was who had hurt Faith wasn't human, to be able to injure a Slayer the way they clearly had Faith here--maybe the demon had some type of compulsion, which could have explained a lot; if it was a vampire with thrall, it would be only too ironic. Though it was the slightest bit possible that they were human. However, that would make it all the worse. Because the amount of force they would have had to purposely put into their touch to be able to harm a Slayer… Angel didn't want to think about it.

At once, Faith exploded on Angel--pulling on his ear the way a mother might their misbehaving child. And with her strength—and his lack of it, since returning from Hell—he knew she was likely to pull it off. He thought she probably wanted to.

In the back of his mind—while Angel fought the urge to scream, as he already saw a few flecks of blood falling to the linoleum floor--he was somehow reminded of Buffy's one motion she’d done earlier tonight with the Rugaru…

"Nothing happened to me, Deputy Do-Right! Now how about you do me a favor and keep your inane observations about me to yourself, before I have to remind B that she was crazy to think that she couldn't make it through life without you? Capisce?"

"Hey, you two! Take it outside!"

"I'm leaving," Angel assured the nurse, pulling away from Faith with all of his strength. But not before the Slayer older than Buffy gave him a loo that clearly said, "you've picked the wrong battle," but what exactly she was trying to tell him with that, he wasn’t sure.

…

Visiting Buffy's house in the evenings was pure Hell now. In a sense, Angel supposed it always had been like that… being in close quarters with Buffy—especially in her bedroom, with her scent closing in all around him—made the man in him rise up and want to take her (it also made the demon go crazy for her blood, but he was thankfully good at forcing that back… even if it would be delicious Slayer blood).

Before her seventeenth birthday, her stuffed animals had seemed to look at him accusingly when he felt this way (her mother's thundering heartbeat just a floor below also reminded him that he was wrong to feel what he did for someone so young and full of life like Buffy). But that was nothing compared with now: when he knew he could never once lose control and act on his desires, or it would mean the cruelest vampire the world had ever seen back in action once more.

So, yes: being with Buffy in her room now was Hell—and Angel knew a thing or two about Hell—but sometimes he just couldn't avoid it.

Like right now: when he wanted to make certain that she was alright after her fight with the Rugurus—and apologize that he had had to leave her—and tell her some of his suspicions about Faith.

Thus he climbed up her tree and quietly slept into her window, perhaps expecting to find her sleeping, relaxing, doing her homework, or maybe even exercising… he hadn't expected to find a tired looking Buffy lying in bed—wearing a lovely pair of navy-blue pajamas, he might add—reading one of his favorite books: The Phantom of the Opera.

Her name was out of his mouth in question before he could stop it (wondering if he should go, because he didn't want to disturb her). "Buffy?"

"Oh, Angel!" she started, clapping a hand over her heart.

"Way to go, Buffy," the blonde Slayer admonished herself in a whisper then, with a shake of her head. "Wake up Mom, why don't you?" But then, with her attention back on Angel—a place he always wanted to be, even though he knew it shouldn't be there these days—Buffy got out of her bed and crept over to where Angel was still standing beside her window. "What are you doing here, Angel?" And the moment she was beside him, her left hand was instantly seeking out his own hand to hold. Angel couldn't help marveling at how natural it all felt.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were alright after I left you tonight," Angel wanted to add that leaving her was the last thing he’d wanted to do when she was still hurt by Giles' betrayal of her during her recent Cruciamentum—even if she was over it—and of course there was his becoming her enemy a year ago to think about… but knowing that saying either thing would just hurt Buffy more, Angel left his thought where it was and pulled Buffy into the safety of his arms, kissing the top of her head.

"Yep. Buffy is of the good and still the Little Engine that could. It was Buffy two, Rugurus zero. I kind of don't get why you and Giles were wigging about them earlier. They were no big. But knowing that my Watcher and my Angel care about me is certainly a treat I'll take any day. Mmm," Buffy voiced the last thing right as she stood up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his exposed collarbone. And Angel would be lying if he said he wasn't affected. But he tried to keep his mind on business.

"It was more because we know you don't want to accidentally hurt an innocent, Buffy… And speaking of innocents… I ran across Faith while I was at the hospital… And, well, I think you were definitely right in saying more of her innocence has been stolen from her recently."

Buffy looked at Angel with concern in her eyes then. And as she disentangled herself from him, he saw her gently put her book back down on her bedside table before she sat down on her bed, in order to better regard him. "Tell me everything," Buffy said tiredly.

And Angel did, hating that he had to make Buffy's impossible load even more thus. But was there anything else for it? Especially since Buffy might be one of the few who might be able to help the dark Slayer. And Angel knew how his girl longed to aid anyone that she could.

"Buffy… I saw Faith at the hospital, and she was really hurt. And you know how hard it is to harm a Slayer. And sure, she could have gotten the injury during patrol, but she hasn't been patrolling lately, has she?

"I think this ties in with what you were telling me earlier. And I think that Faith has fallen into an abusive relationship. But even then, it would be hard to bring physical harm to a Slayer. But abusers can be manipulative." And how Angel loathed his own manipulative past as Angelus. If he could go back and stop himself from being sired, so it would never happen—or keep himself from even being born—he would. "This manipulator also is not human, I’d guess."

Buffy nodded. And though it was simple action, the storm going on in her eyes was anything but. Angel was starting to see this from her more and more lately since her Cruciamentum, and he wondered if the tasks she had already had to face were too much for her to bear. It was unfair what the fates expected any one Slayer face, which was why he would lighten her load as much as he possibly could.

"Right…" Buffy muttered, running a hand under her chin, "because no Joe Schmoe could hope to leave marks on a Slayer…"

"Buffy-”

"Angel, did you happen to catch the scent of the culprit when you were around Faith?" Buffy questioned, completely catching Angel off-guard and interrupting the train of thought he’d had. He honestly hadn't thought that she would think to ask him that. Not because she forgot the abilities of the vampire, of course, but because he knew that thinking about what he could and couldn't smell from her had to make her uncomfortable.

"No, Buffy," Angel said, sitting beside her on her bed now—a risk, to be sure, but he hoped that the subject matter would keep both of their heads in the game. "Either I was too wrapped up in rescuing Saya,” ‘and not killing her,’ he thought but didn’t say. “Or the culprit could be a warlock who is masking their scent."

"Okay. Then we'll see if Will or Giles can do a locator spell on this person tomorrow. Either that, or I guess I'll be Research Girl again." Buffy sounded satisfied with her plan, and Angel found he couldn't blame her for that. It was, after all, a rather sound one.

He also knew that this should have been the end of their conversation here, and one of them really ought to have been finding an excuse for him to go, while they were still treading water… but that wasn't happening.

Instead, Angel crossed over and picked up Buffy's "Phantom of the Opera" book and gave it a once-over. He was relieved to see that she had the David Coward translation, even though he wasn't a fan of this cover for the novel.

"Interesting choice for a light read," Angel couldn't help remarking, a slight smile lighting up his face. "Where are you at in it?"

"'Poor, unhappy Erik,'" Buffy answered, her eyes having taken on a tragic look. And Angel knew why, of course. That was certainly one of the saddest parts of the story.

"You've gotten really far into the novel, then! That's great, Buffy! In a college interview, you might get asked about recent books that you've read, and this would be a good one to list. So, do you think Erik is redeemable?"

Only after the words had left Angel's mouth did he regret them. He'd honestly meant what he'd said: that this could be a great stepping stone for Buffy's future, and a part of him had wanted to help with that.

And, maybe, just maybe he'd been excited at the possibility of talking great literature with the love of his life.

But now he saw his mistake, of course. Because Buffy would say that Erik was irredeemable in the story: there was no way she couldn't. And he had done so much worse than the Opera Ghost. So what did that say about them? Why, something that Angel had known all along.

"I think, Angel, he wasn't irredeemable. He did regret his actions and let Christine go in the end. Though I do think that she should have ended up with Raoul. If things had been somewhat different with Erik, then maybe… but Erik frightened Christine and he started their relationship out with a lie." And Buffy looked Angel deeply in the eyes then, letting him know that that's what the difference was—Angel thought –since she, after all, had never been afraid of him and he'd never outright lied to her.

"I also agree with the author,” Buffy continued on, “that if people had just been nice to Erik, he wouldn't have become what he did. Instead, they could have benefited from his genius. But they weren't nice… I may have accidentally skipped ahead and read the part where Leroux said all of that," Buffy laughed.

Now it was Angel's turn to chortle. "More like: you jumped to the last pages early on, because you wanted to know the ending, right?"

Buffy rolled her eyes, no doubt for the fact that he thought that she would still do something so childish. But Angel noted that she didn't, however, deny the claim.

The vampire was about to say more: maybe something about how he loved Buffy’s heart and that she should never change, but then she yawned.

"I'm keeping you awake. You should get some sleep."

"No!" Buffy protested, grabbing onto Angel's arm the moment he got up from the bed that he’d only recently rejoined her on. "I'm awake. I'm Wakey-McFlakey. I could get up and do jumping jacks right now. I could-"

"Buffy." Angel gave his girl a look, before setting her favored book at the moment back on the table where she'd had it.

"…I guess I could probably appreciate this one night where I'm in bed early, yeah."

"That's what I thought. I'll see you tomorrow night." And Angel dropped a kiss to the crown of her head again, trying not to breathe in her sweet vanilla scent before he headed back towards her window.

“Angel?” Buffy asked, just as Angel’s knees were on the window frame.

“Yes?” he asked, curious about what Buffy could possibly have to say to him now when he could already tell that she was half-asleep. He wondered if she would be coherent. He was somewhat amused to find out.

“Don’t forget that you’re also the Raoul of the story.”

Angel did a double-take at that. He might have said more to Buffy’s kind words, but she was already asleep.

Raoul, huh? He wanted to believe he was Christine’s hero—though she herself was the hero of the story—and her great love, but he wasn’t sure he could. Though it was still a nice thought.

Smiling once more, Angel jumped first into his favorite tree and then leapt down from it. Then, it was back to the mansion for the rest of the night and day.

…

Angel had a feeling of déjà vu walking into the library to greet the Scoobies the next evening, and most importantly Buffy.

He supposed he shouldn't have, since tonight was starting off somewhat differently than the previous night—after all, he was here after Buffy, like he usually was—so perhaps what he was feeling was a sense of things returning to normal. Their normal, anyway.

And yet… Angel found he almost preferred making it to the library before Buffy did. Not because he much valued the time with any of her friends (except for perhaps Willow. And maybe Oz a little bit, even though they were both too laconic to speak to each other), but because he knew he was spending every second with Buffy that he could when he beat her here (for instance, if she was caught up with that Principal Snyder who seemed to abuse her, keeping her from the library so that she got here after him). But if he arrived late, he might have missed some precious moment of her time that he could have been a part of, if he'd been but a moment sooner, but would now never get back.

Angel was just about to try and explain some of these thoughts to Buffy, who was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, but he was interrupted from doing so by Cordelia's loud complaint of, "Giles, I'm not putting were-pumas into the file! The odds of Miss Slays-a-Lot facing them again has to be googolplex-in-one, compared to the trillion-in -one chance she had when she faced them the first time!"

Angel blinked. "You faced were-pumas, Buffy?" He wondered where he'd been during this scenario. Had it been the time Giles had sent him away to deal with one of his favorite cousins (read: one of the last followers of the Master) in Florida?

"It was at the same time that I had to deal with the Muses here in Sunnydale," Buffy explained, waving away his concern. "No big."

Except at the time, it had been a big deal. Angel hadn't been there for it—as that had been his trip to Florida, he knew now—but he remembered well how Buffy had fallen into his arms with relief the moment he returned to Sunnydale, and the tales she had told him. The fact she could laugh about it all now said so much about his Buffy's strength. How he loved her.

"So, about those were-pumas," Oz continued the inane comment Cordelia had made as she worked to recreate the Slayer database that Willow and Giles had once made, but had since been destroyed. "Do we think one of them could be what hurt Faith?"

"I just said-" Cordelia started, appalled, continuing to tap on the computer keyboard one key at a time, as she sat behind everyone else who was at the library table now. "Oh, whatever. You losers never listen to me, anyway. Fine. Think it's were-pumas, even when the chances of that are-"

"I doubt it," Angel cut in, breaking up this fight before it could really start, since he knew that both camps were probably completely off base. "I would have smelt it on her. I think-"

"Yeah, because we all know how reliable your nose is, Dead Boy—and how gross it not is to talk about that—and that we can trust you."

"Xander!" Giles admonished the boy, honestly surprising Angel. He knew what it must have cost the Watcher, of all people, to defend him. "Angel has come to our aid numerous- numerous times now, every time that he has his soul. So I will advise you not to take such a harsh tone with him. And as it is, his abilities are very much of aid to us when it comes to finding out what's going on with Faith."

"Thank you, Giles," Angel said earnestly, looking the older man directly in the eye for a moment, so he would hopefully know how much stock he was putting into the words "Xander does have one point, however. If it's a warlock, he could be messing with my sense of smell."

"Are we thinkin' it's a human who hurt Faith, then?" Willow ventured nervously, a crestfallen look on her face. And it didn't take a genius to figure out why. She'd figured out just as he and Buffy had how near impossible it would be for a human to hurt a Slayer, and that they'd really have to try to do it.

"I doubt it, Will," Buffy promised her friend, reaching across the table to where she sat beside Oz and patting her hand once. "They'd really have to be cooking with oil to manage that. And there's no law saying only we mere mortals get to play with magic, right? …Even though there should. Because a demon doing so, even when they're already overpowered, is just not fair."

What Buffy didn't say, of course, was a Slayer could also be a witch. Not that anyone suspected that Buffy had harmed Faith or that she was a witch, of course (nor should they), Angel knew. Or that Faith was a witch who had done this to herself. But Angel did know for a fact that there had been at least one Slayer witch… or one who had been suspected of being a witch, at least. He supposed the question was whether or not the Watcher's Journals did…

"So what you're all really saying here, is you have no clue what's going on with Faith and you're wasting time distracting me with your pointless theories. Gee! Why am I not surprised?" Cordelia piped up, while looking at one of the Watcher's Journals herself now.

"I hate to admit it… but Cordy may have a point here, Buff. I know we all ruled out talking to Faith. But you’re her Sister Slayer. That has to get you some street cred, right, and maybe get you in the door. Do you think you could try it?" Xander asked sympathetically, laying a gentle hand on Buffy's shoulder now.

And though Angel knew this was done in friendship—it was—and surely was what was needed to get them all where they needed to be now, he couldn't help a moment of jealousy, as he once again remembered that Xander could see Buffy in sunlight and he couldn't… and that Xander could go all the places he couldn't with Buffy. Thankfully, the jealousy passed quickly.

Buffy buried her face in her hands for just a moment, seeming helpless—and how it pained Angel to see it—but she was at once herself again. "Yeah. I can try shooting the breeze with Faith. I mean, what's the worst that can happen?"

Angel hated that the smile she painted on her face now for everyone to see, and how it broke at the last moment.

And he promised himself that no matter what, that somehow, he would be there for Buffy when she confronted her fellow Slayer… whether she knew it or not.

…

Buffy's PoV

Buffy wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of trying to meet with Faith. She knew she should have been: she should have been chomping at the bit to be there for her sister-in-arms, the way that Buffy often times wished that her friends could constantly be there for her. And she did feel that way. Truly.

…But it was just so hard with Faith. There had been a strange tension between them ever since Faith had found out that Buffy had lied to her about Angel—something that had never gone away.

But even before that, things hadn't always been easy between them. Buffy could never get over the sense that Faith was trying to steal what was hers—ridiculous, she knew—and she had to wonder if there would ever be a feeling of ease between them.

But Faith deserved someone in her corner. Especially now. So Buffy was putting on her big girl panties and doing what needed to be done… but the moment she walked into Faith's apartment—seeing her deal a killing blow to a Ruguru herself, with tears streaming down her face—Buffy wondered if she'd made the right choice.

"…Faith?" Buffy choked out her companion's name.

Faith whirled on Buffy then. And if Buffy had actually caught it (and she wasn't entirely sure she had), she thought that Faith might have looked some sort of mix of embarrassed and traumatized before settling on angry.

Scrubbing at her eyes, seemingly to stop her tears, Faith snapped, "Well, I guess you figured it out now, huh? Figures."

"Figured… what out?" Buffy echoed back, feeling at a complete loss. She thought she was getting pretty good at figuring out mysteries, but what Faith was talking about was completely beyond her. They slayed Rugurus, as they did all kinds of Hell beasties. And it was traumatizing that they were once human, yes, like a lot of their job was, but Buffy couldn't fathom why Faith was getting so bent out of shape over this.

…Wait a second. Wasn't that the girl that Buffy had had Angel take to the hospital? Had she been bitten without either of them knowing it, after all… and had then fed and fully turned? Was it possible that Angel couldn't smell half-turned Rugurus to have known she'd been bitten?

"That I lied to you, of course, Pollyanna. And was never assaulted. And man, do I just love that I had to get to a place where I would lie about something like that when I hate liars," Faith snarled, with a faraway look in her eyes. Was she remembering what had happened before and what had caused her to lie?

"Faith… I don't understand," Buffy admitted, feeling very small and vulnerable, as she crossed her arms over her chest now. But she already didn't like where this was going. It, after all, could only end in heartache for Faith.

Faith sighed. And that, at least, made Buffy feel somewhat better, because it was closer to the sadness she should have been feeling here, in having lost someone she cared about, if Buffy was guessing things correctly. Faith trying to hide it in being livid couldn't possibly be a good thing.

"I don't know why I'm going to tell you this now, B. Me not wanting to tell you before is the whole reason I probably fell into this mess. But I didn't want to be compared to you and Angel—and your shipwreck of a story—and I knew that's what everyone would say-"

Faith was clearly getting going off the deep end again. And she backed away from Buffy—to try and get a handle on her temper, the blonde Slayer guessed—before she continued with, "It all started when I stole a car. A real great choice, I know. But I was capable of doing that, but somehow not smart enough to know how to put gas into the clunker. That's how I met Saya. She saw me struggling and helped me out.

"We talked a little bit then—and she liked me right away and wanted to hang sometime—but I wasn't that trusting. Knowing she used that gas station to get groceries, I decided to go out of my way to another one to get my goods. But one day, wouldn't you know it? She happened to be there. Shopping for a nice card for her sister's birthday, or some shit.

“At that point—even though I'm really no romantic, B, I'm thinkin' maybe there's something to this. So, we go out. And then we go out a few times. We watch the ‘Clue’ movie at my crappy apartment, ‘Fight Club’… and the whole time, Saya doesn't even pressure me for sex. It's kind of nice. I should have known it was too good to last, because she-"

"She got bitten by a Ruguru," Buffy figured out. Of course. And she had come to Faith, probably freaking out (maybe Faith had even told Saya she was the Slayer so she knew she could confide in her). The two of them would have been convinced they could make it work, as long as Saya didn't feed. But even a semi-Ruguru must have had some strength, which explained the marks Buffy had seen on Faith's shoulders.

And when Buffy had asked her about them, Faith had said she'd been assaulted because, in so many ways, she didn't want to be told her and Saya's story was like Buffy and Angel's. Would Faith have been afraid she'd have to face the fact they were doomed if she told the Scoobies the truth, the way everyone seemed to think she and Angel were? Did Faith think she might have told Giles on her if she knew the truth, and then he might have pressured her to slay Saya even if she hadn't gone full Ruguru?

The night Angel had seen Faith in the hospital… had Faith been seeing about getting a psychologist for Saya, in hoping that would help her fight her urges and the change?

In the end, despite their best efforts, it seemed Saya had given in and fed and now Faith had been forced to slay someone she'd started to love.

"Faith, I'm so so-"

"Save it and get out, Buffy. I don't want your pity!"

Of course Faith would see it as pity, Buffy thought—tears starting to sting her eyes now—when she still had Angel.

"At least let me help you bury he-"

"I said leave! This is something I have to do, and me alone. And I swear to God, Buffy, if you get in my way. I will kill you."

"Faith," Buffy started, walking towards Faith because she knew her sister Slayer couldn't mean that. She just couldn't.

But suddenly Angel was there, standing behind the threshold of Faith’s room, and imploring of Buffy the same thing that Faith was.

“Buffy, let Faith have her wish. We can check on her later, when she’s feeling better.” That was the last thing Buffy wanted to do now. She knew that Faith needed her; Faith was raising up her castle walls even higher to protect herself. Pretty soon, no one would be able to reach her within them. Not even Faith herself.

But there was a certain urgency in Angel’s tone that Buffy didn’t understand, but trusted all the same. So, despite herself, Buffy joined Angel outside the small apartment and let him begin leading her away.

“Faith, if you need anything-” Buffy begged, but Faith was already cutting her off with, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You’ll ever be the perfect little girl scout and help me out. I can handle this, like I handle everything. Including your Boy Toy, if you don’t get out of here, Buffy!”

Buffy hated to admit it, but Faith threatening Angel was the last straw. Threatening her was one thing, but alluding to making an attempt on Angel—when he was still weak from Hell—terrified her. Buffy didn’t know if Angel would at all survive a fight with the other Slayer, if Faith really put her mind to it. And in her grief, Buffy thought that Faith might actually attack him, if she thought that it was unfair that Buffy got to keep the one that she loved and she didn’t.

“Okay, we’re leaving.” And with that, Buffy led Angel out into the night, almost wishing that she’d never come to Faith’s to be confronted with this tragedy in the first place. For so many reasons did she wish this.

She felt numb now—not unlike how Faith herself was now, which Buffy hated—and she didn’t know how long she’d been walking, or even where she was going, until Angel grabbed her hand to halt her. “Want to go to the park?” he asked with a shrug, far too innocently for someone who had surely witnessed everything that she just had. She should have known that he’d been spying with her.

And really, Buffy was glad Angel had been watching out for her in this situation, because she didn’t need to get into a fight with Faith (something he had saved her from)—and she knew she’d been getting close to that with Faith’s temper—but part of Buffy couldn’t help feeling that it made everything worse, because now instead of there being even more bad blood between her and Faith (something she wanted to believe she could have handled), it was now between all three of them. And so someone else had even moreseo joined the “Let’s Hate Angel” club.

“I want to kill something, Angel!” Buffy argued, finally noticing that her popping hot anger had subconsciously led her to Restfield Cemetery where she could get some action.

Buffy pulled out Mr. Pointy from her pocket, and was about to run towards the vampire that she thought she could feel pinging on her radar aways away, but Angel had wrapped his arms around her waist to stop her before she could move an inch.

“No, Buffy,” he whispered into her ear. And if she shivered at all, it was because of the chilly night air, not because she felt any of the things for Angel that she wasn’t supposed to. Not at all. “Your anger is making you see red, so you going after vamps tonight would just be asking for trouble.”

Buffy wanted to argue that she’d used this to aid her in slaying vampires and other nasties many a time, thank you very much, but deep down she knew that Angel was right. She was too distracted to do any serious damage.

Slumping in his arms irritably, because she felt a bit like a kid being told they couldn’t have dessert until they ate their veggies (and whoa. Since when had she enjoyed slaying so much?), Buffy relented with, “Fine. The park, you said?”

Angel nodded without a word, but he did take Buffy’s hand into his own. She’d appreciate that little wonder, at least. Then, as if they’d been walking hand-in-hand together their whole lives—if only they could, Buffy thought with a broken heart—he began leading her towards their intended destination.

Idly, Buffy wondered why he didn’t suggest going back to the mansion for this discussion they were inevitably going to have, but Buffy supposed he must have had something up his sleeve.

Before much time had seemed to pass it all (Sunnydale really was too small. Didn’t it know she needed any excuse she could get to be with Angel? Especially right now?), the two had reached Hammersmith Park.

Angel untangled his hand from Buffy’s, which was definitely a disappointment, but only to hop on the first swing that he saw before him and begin swinging: something that was so bizarre and hilarious to Buffy, that she could almost forgive not being in his arms any longer. Almost.

He indicated with a head motion that Buffy should take the swing next to him; and who was Buffy to deny this strange whim of Angel’s?

Once the two of them had swung together for a few minutes, and Buffy had amused herself by trying to catch Angel’s hand a few times while they did so, they both came to a stop and finally began discussing the Heavy.

“It was my fault, Buffy. I should have known that—Saya, was it?—had been bitten. Twice, it sounds like. I’d never faced Rugurus before, but I’d read about them a lot and I assumed I knew everything there was to know. But I should have guessed that those half-turned would be different… that maybe they wouldn’t have a smell to them. If I had, I could have pieced this all together. Maybe I could have stopped her from changing and Faith could have avoided this whole awful story. You sent me to take care of Saya that night, and I should have done a better job at it.”

Right in front of them, a mother was tying a balloon onto one child’s hand while handing another one of her children a snow cone. It was a cute sight. Buffy figured that this had to be the reason that Angel had wanted to go somewhere, rather than just going to the mansion: so that they would hopefully see people out and about and remember there was still good in the world, even if right now it didn’t seem like it.

“It’s not fair to blame yourself like that, Angel. I mean, who would have ever guessed that. Everything else has a scent, like full-fledged Rugurus. So who would have thought those first bitten wouldn’t? Life just sucks.”

Angel had nothing to say to that, as he seemed to suddenly find his shoes very interesting, and Buffy hoped that he had taken her words to heart and believed her. But knowing him, he had found a new thing to forever beat himself up about.

“What are we going to do about Faith?” Buffy finally asked the dreaded question, tightly grabbing the chains of her swing and—for whatever reason—refusing not to look at Angel right now. Was it because she thought that Faith’s story ending so badly was further proof that she and Angel were destined to forever be Romeo and Juliet themselves? “Should we tell the others that we found out what was going on with he-”

“I wouldn’t,” Angel answered right away, with what almost sounded like a scoff to Buffy. “At least not right now. She won’t thank you if you do. Maybe later… If you tell anyone, I’d tell Giles and try to get him to talk to her. Though I don’t have much love for the Watchers’ Council—and you certainly wouldn’t know it from anyone else but Giles—they’re somewhat trained in psychology. Maybe, once she’s healed a little, he could talk to Faith. But for now, I think the best thing to do is to try and let this whole thing blow over…”

There was something in Angel’s tone at the end there that hinted to Buffy that there was more than what he was telling her—she wondered if it had to do with his past—but she had the feeling he wouldn’t tell her if she asked. And she really didn’t feel like digging up more skeletons tonight, so she let it go. For the moment.

“You think everyone will be satisfied that I couldn’t crack Faith, and to just leave the ‘mystery’ unsolved?”

“On the Hellmouth? Yes, unfortunately.” Again, it seemed like there was more Angel wanted to say here, but whatever it was, it seemed his lips were sealed for the night.

Later, when Buffy was feeling more on her game and like her punning self, she’d really have to do something about that.

Buffy had suffered a few losses since becoming the Slayer, but until tonight, she’d never found one where she’d have to be quiet about something. She wasn’t a fan of it. At all. And if Faith wasn’t so unreasonable, she knew she wouldn’t be taking to such a thing, and rather be charging in like a bull in a china cabinet.

“Well, I hate this,” Buffy tried to laugh, attempting to get closer to her usual self. But it might have sounded more like a cry. She wasn’t sure.

“Ditto,” Angel agreed, seeming to try for a strained smile himself, as it appeared that he was in complete accordance with her.

“Angel… do you have anything to make this night better?” Buffy wailed, swinging closer to him so that their legs brushed. She knew that she was begging and probably sounded like a child—even after Angel had gone to the trouble of bringing her to the park here, in order to improve things a little bit—but right now, she just didn’t care.

Buffy’s favorite vampire didn’t seem to have an answer for a long time. Buffy was even about to mention that maybe he should give up on trying to think of anything to improve this night and just walk her home, but finally he seemed to have come up with something and he offered her a small smile. “Well, in the musical adaptation of Phantom of the Opera, Christine comes back while the Phantom is alive to give him back his ring. It sort of serves as an extended goodbye for them. And in some versions, depending on the actress, she might kiss his hand.”

Huh. In the novel, there was something similar to that: Erik had asked Christine to come back and bury him when he eventually died, and she did. And she buried him with said ring. Truthfully, Buffy liked Christine being kind enough to return in both endings, but maybe she did prefer this musical one. Perhaps she’d have to check this musical out sometime.

“That is a nice little epilogue. Thanks, Angel,” And Buffy blushed, despite herself, before she kissed her boyfriend on the cheek, for she knew too well what he’d been trying to get at with his explanation, after all.

Maybe there was a bit of hope for those who loved monsters, after all.

Author's Note: Rugarus were a monster from the TV show “Supernatural” that I used here.

I tried not to use any references to the Buffy novels for this fic, and I succeeded for the most part except for in two places: The first is that Buffy does fight the muses in the book “Power of Persuasion” and Angel is gone until the end of the book, for he was a mission Giles gave him (and Buffy is very much relieved to see him at the end, resting her head on his shoulder). Though we don’t know what that mission was. I made one up here.

The other is that in the novels, Willow and Giles do create a Slayer database to try and better figure out stuff that Buffy might face on the Hellmouth: A.K.A. they give it all of the stuff Buffy’s faced, and they hope it’ll spit out data for them, like, “It is likely that Buffy will face X on this date.” At one point, Cordelia ends up working on it, after her dad gets caught cheating on his taxes (because Willow is too busy to at the moment) and Giles offers to pay her to, which is why she does it (though I forget if this is before or after the database is destroyed—yes, it gets destroyed—like if she’s adding to a working one or trying to rebuild it). I have Cordelia working on it in this story, as it’s a good reason for her to be there after she and Xander have broken up and she’s left the Scoobies. Yep.

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dekuxroki · 2 years ago

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“Criminal With Benefits” by kornspiracy (it is a 2 part series)

Okay so let’s get it out of the way that this is a ABO fic, however, I will say you get sooo engrossed in it you FORGET it’s ABO sometimes. I know this is an “older” book some would say but the sequel was done in 2022, so it’s fine. I kept wondering why there were soooo few comments on chapters because it’s just so good. So, let’s talk plot because if you’re looking for a meaty story with plot then this is it. The story itself has an immaculate plot which makes you think you’re in an action movie and sets the scenes well. The author clearly did research to some degree and presents it in a realistic way. I will admit some of CwB was slow pacing and drove me insane….. but by the last 10 chapters you’re on the edge of your seat and engrossed in the feelings of the characters. It’s really good in my opinion and worth a read.

Now the sequel, be mindful of the tags, is delicious too. It focuses more on action and tying up plot holes and stuff. The portrayal of Hawks is awesome and the whole team working together. Note: The tags for the noncon & 🍇 are relevant but I will say I did not even notice it in the story at first because it’s only hinted at and implied and is not detailed. I will say it ties into the plot for the specific scenario that it relates to and what the character is going through for the sake of the story. It’s not brought up again past that one point either in the story. The rest of the story is tied together pretty well and gives the right amount of bkdk fluff and action together. I personally wish the ending was different but honestly it kinda fits for the story…. give it a read if you haven’t! Worth it I promise! <3

#dani reads #kornspiracy #criminal with benefits #bkdk fic #bakudeku fic rec #bakudeku fic

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sukurarose92 · 4 years ago

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Based slightly off a post i read before and my own headcannons.

Imagine you’re tim stoker. imagine losing your brother to some kind of inhuman monster that you can’t describe because people will think you’re insane. then imagine that because you’re the last one to see your brother you get fingers pointed at your back claiming you kidnapped him... possibly murdered him from people you know and don’t know, maybe even your own parents believe it. if not that, then they at least feel you should’ve protected him, you are the elder brother after all. it’s your job.

Imagine that after months of heavy interrogation and accusations it’s finally dropped and they bury an empty coffin in the ground, claiming your brother is finally resting in peace but you know better, there’s never going to be any rest for him. the circus stole his skin and now he’ll dance for eternity in that hellish place and you can’t save him.

Imagine going to work for the magnus institute in hopes of finding some way to destroy the circus so what happened to danny will never happen to anyone else and while you work in research you meet Jonathan sims, who reminds you, in so many ways, of the brother you just lost.... he fills that fresh void that’s been carved in your life without meaning to and you care about him. you swear to yourself that this time you’ll protect him. this time you’ll get it right.

then he gets a promotion that he’s really not qualified for... and maybe none of you are really qualified to work in the archives but that’s besides the point, clearly sasha is the most qualified out of all of you for the position, i mean, getrude herself wanted her to take her place. but you let it go, it’s not Jon’s fault he got promoted... but... he is acting far more distant now. he’s trying so hard to be professional, to be taken seriously that he’s pushing you and sasha away. that’s alright though. you still care about him and push come to shove you’ll protect him.

And you do protect him, then prentiss attacks and the worms come for you both you manage to get him and martin out of the room they were trapped in. you stay at his side as you both run and when you come up into the room with prentiss you dont run this time, not like with danny, if he’s going down, this time you’ll go with him.

Now imagine that after all this, the moment getrude robinson’s body is found a finger is pointed at you once more, this time by the very person you had sworn to protect, the one you took in as a brother. it’s like danny staring at you and asking why you didn’t save him. it hurts like nothing else. but the accusations aren’t where it ends. he stalks you, he thinks he’s being stealthy but he’s so awkward and bad at hiding himself it’s easy to see him trailing behind you in the crowd after work hours. it’s a simple task to look up while cooking and spot his silhouette by the bushes, watching.

It’s painful, knowing that you gave so much of yourself and he never trusted you in the first place. but what can you do? The relationship falls through and while you’re losing jon, you’re losing sasha too. She’s pulling away as jon sets into hysterics and paranoia. martin isn’t any help, he’s only interested in taking jon’s side, you can’t blame him, the man practically worships jon. you were like that too not so long ago when things were simpler.

Then you find out sasha is a monster. your friend has been dead for over a year and you never noticed it. you don’t remember her, her face, her voice, it’s all gone, replaced by something else... something similar to what took danny from you. now you’ve lost the two most important people in your life to the stranger and the one left was so sure you wanted to kill him he stalked you for nearly a month. you’re not willing to forgive him for that, for thinking you could ever be capable of that.

You spent your time looking into ways to destroy the circus and nothing else. you refuse to work for the horrific eye themed fear deity that runs the institute. you tried to leave but the sickness forced you back. now you’re stuck here until you inevitably die a horrible and painful death. there are other faces now, new people but you don’t really care. you just want to deal with the circus, stop the people who took danny and sasha away.

Then it’s time. you’ve got the explosives ready, the detonator in hand and you’re one button click away from sweet revenge and it seems like that’s all you have left. you idly wonder if you’ll see sasha or danny in the afterlife. probably not, they were killed by monsters and considering what you’re about to do you’ll likely be going to hell. you take a breath and thank jon for the opportunity to finish this.

then you push the button. the clown is leaping for you and that last thing that crosses your mind is that everyone was right. you were a killer after all.

#Tim stoker #TMA #season3 #season 2 #season 1 #pre season 1 #danny stoker #sasha james #jonathan sims #martin blackwoon #gertrude robinson #meta #just thoughts i had #turned out more like a fic #sorry about that

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poptod · 4 years ago

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hey there ☺ do you think you can write a soulmate au with ahk where you hear each other's thoughts? and ahk thought he didn't have one all these years only to hear you while he's at the museum and then you try to find each other?

notes: wonderful idea. also i noticed my method of doing requests is do it almost immediately after i get it or wait four months before i get it done so sorry about that, but i hope you enjoy this!

WC: 1.5k +

There are many versions of yourself, all talking over one another in an attempt to control your mind for once. Sometimes it's hard to decipher if your actions are the result of someone in your head tugging you in a different direction. There is the person you believe yourself to be––what you imagine you come off to people as. There is also the person you truly are, and what people actually perceive you to be. So despite there being several voices, they are all reiterations of yourself in some way.

Except for one.

One of them speaks in a voice that is not your own, in a voice you've never heard anywhere but echoing in your skull. Since you despised asking questions as a child, it took you until you were twelve to realize that no, you weren't insane. It was someone who would love you, who had the potential to grow close to you simply by the strings of fate. Your soulmate.

Someone who gave you nightmares for years.

'Get me out of here!' He would scream, sending your heart pounding while you tried to sleep as a child. 'Please, please, I need to see the stars,' he sobbed, 'I did nothing to deserve this!'

Once you grew old enough to deal with the screaming beyond what you thought was a schizophrenia disorder, nighttime brought a deep sadness to you. For some reason, your soulmate would never think during the day––which was incredibly odd––and during the night, the only time he was awake, he would scream and beg and cry until you could feel the hoarseness in your own throat. For your entire childhood, you stared up at your ceiling at night, eyes burning as you tried to calm the screaming.

It was all you could think about, as though the screams had muted your connection to him and strengthened his connection to you. Every now and then you would try to think, try to calm him down, but he never quite heard.

Then, one evening in winter, it stopped.

You were lying in bed, rolled onto your side as you once again listened to the man's yelling thoughts. But then he stopped, and both your hearts skipped a beat, followed by an incredibly clear thought: Thank the Gods, blessed Ra and Khonsu.

That evening you darted out of bed, jumping to your desk where you typed in with slamming, lightning-fast fingers, "khonsu." Ra you already knew––everyone knew Ra, and by connection Khonsu would probably also be a God. The only question you were left with was why you were hearing the thoughts of someone who worshipped Egyptian gods two thousand years after that civilization died.

As you continued your research, his thoughts continued.

They took my tablet?

Who are these people?

This man has no idea what he's doing, does he?

Why is he screaming at the Hun?

He's got my tablet.

About halfway into the night you gave up on your research, instead listening intently to the thoughts. With you entirely absorbed in your soulmates thoughts, you had little room to send your own words to him, which unbeknownst to you, would've reached him if you tried.

You weren't quite sure what to think of him for the following couple weeks. At first your assumption was that he was the insane one projecting his insane thoughts to you, but his quieter thoughts led you to believe there was something different in him. It is true what they say––geniuses are often tortured minds, and though you wouldn't classify your soulmate as a genius, he was clearly a knowledgeable philosopher of sorts.

He thought often of the human condition––the rise and fall of civilizations, the cruelty and the mercy of men that began the stories of bloodstained battlefields. Most of the time you just listened. Now that he wasn't screaming, his voice was soft and more of a comfort than you ever thought it would be.

Sometimes he got very sad. After a while you learned to not question the logic of his thoughts. Instead, you simply tried to understand what he meant, accepting him for where he was in his life.

I miss my brother.

I wonder what happened to my best friend.

I didn't think I would ever be this far from the Nile and the sun.

I abandoned my people, didn't I?

If only I could find where my sister was buried. Would that even make me feel better, though? What closure will I gain from seeing her tomb?

... if she even had one.

There's a melody going on in his head, right now. Something that could put you to sleep if you weren't currently working. It's nothing you've heard before, that you're certain of, and judging by the tone of it and your soulmate's previous thoughts, it sounds Egyptian.

Despite the museum being closed, most of the lights are still on. One of the night guards had a very strange insistence about it, but wouldn't tell you why. Oh well––questioning people is above your paygrade, since you aren't getting paid for this. It is volunteer work. Not that you mind; ever since realizing the voice in your head was Egyptian, you've gotten a palate for history. Currently, however, you're dealing less with history and more with files. The curator at this museum asked you to sort through the records of all the different exhibits that are here, or were once here at some point, which made a very large collection. Massive, actually––you're only sorting through A, and it's going to take you a couple weeks.

He's humming softly to himself. The tune carries into your work, and you allow yourself to enjoy his voice as you sort, going over every record to look for exhibits no longer displayed. For this you have a chart in your other hand––a log of all the exhibits currently public in the museum.

Although you're supposed to be concentrated on your sorting, you find yourself more entranced with the melody in your head, and the clearest thought that rings in your mind is, 'that is beautiful.'

The humming stops. Dead in its' tracks, about to reach its' peak, and it stops.

'My mother sang it to me,' he says, 'before I slept as a child.'

"Holy shit, are you talking to me?" You say out loud with bulging eyes before you can stop yourself. The moment you realize what you said, a bright blush coats your cheeks and you slap your hand over your mouth. But he doesn't seem to mind––actually, he laughs, and it's sweeter than summer sugar.

'You must be my heart,' he says in an astounded tone, and you can practically see his dream-filled eyes. You sit puzzled for a second before replying.

"Do you mean your soulmate?"

'Well... I suppose yes, that could be one of the names,' he says, and it only adds more onto the lists of questions you have for him.

"What is your name?" You ask first, hardly realizing you're still talking aloud to yourself.

'My name is Ahkmenrah," he tells you, and it takes less than a millisecond before the dots connect in your head. Instantly your eyes dart to the sheet in your hand, and near the top of the list, there it sits––Ahkmenrah.

'I know this must be confusing for you,' he continues, 'but I am from another time. While I lived then, I dreaded that I didn't have a heart, as I heard no voice. That fear has carried on into my next life, but now that you're here –'

"Oh I'm here alright," you say, unbelieving of both your circumstances and your unblinking acceptance at them. "I'm, like, two floors below you."

"WHAT?!"

A voice from above catches you, but as the same word rings in your mind, you realize with great glee that he instinctively yelled 'what' without thinking. You laugh, and the thought of your laughter reaches him.

Less than a minute later you can hear footsteps pounding down the stairs, landing at the closed door before the handle wrenches open. You quickly move to your feet, facing the man whose voice you know so well, who haunted your childhood and enchanted your adulthood. You can barely hide the grin that spreads across your face––whatever magic has brought you to this moment, you thank everything you can for it, your attention ensnared by the soft features of a 4,000 year old Pharaoh.

He pauses once he enters the archive, eyes finding yours immediately. His mouth hangs open slightly as he scans you, absorbs every feature on your body and face, and barely moves even to breathe for a good minute or two.

"I – I'm sorry, I j – I just realized I didn't ask your name," he says quietly, a small, ginger smile growing on his lips.

"(Y/N)," you say, but you don't quite know how your brain worked to make the word. You certainly didn't consciously choose to speak.

"I have waited thousands of years for you," he says, impossibly softer as he steps forward. He's really quite harmless, you realize––for all the fear you had of him as a child, he's nothing but a sweet-faced boy.

"Was it worth it?" You ask, and your voice cracks ever so slightly.

"My heart," he breathes out, affection lacing his name for you, "it was worth every second."

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek

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shatouto · 4 years ago

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another sequel to @obiwanobi's ex-sith anakin au (here and here), and at this rate… yea. yea we’re gonna have to archive this on ao3 (soon)

anyway here’s 2.8k words of tonal inconsistency

et si les étoiles sont cachées

Obi-Wan barely sleeps a wink through the night. His mind turns and whirls as he battles between second-guessing his decisions regarding the former Sith sleeping in his bed and planning on what to do going forward. Anakin knows how to cloak his own signature well enough, that much Obi-Wan can observe, but he will not stand a chance if Masters such as Yoda or Windu search his presence. And then there is the matter of the elusive Darth Sidious’ death, as well - Obi-Wan can only assume that it would be classified information on the Confederacy side, but even then, the Force only knows what kind of hell would break loose once his body is discovered. It doesn’t help that he could barely pull his hand out of Anakin’s without him frowning in his sleep and stirring. He simply has to stay put, with Anakin’s very likely feverish body pressed up against his side in a bed that is only snugly enough for two.

In meditating all of those scenarios, he forgets to account for the hell that breaks loose in his own quarters upon the return of his apprentice.

“Master, what were you thinking?” Ahsoka hisses, eyes darting from him to the closed door of his bedroom, from where the sound of Anakin’s pacing is obvious. Her hand is still clutching one of her lightsabers, alert.

“He was an injured man who crawled to my doorstep for aid, young one.” Obi-Wan sighs. “Surely you cannot expect me to simply turn my back to him, can you? That wouldn’t be the Jedi way.”

“Yes, but…” Ahsoka pinches her own forehead, shoulders dropping in a harsh exhale. “He’s a Sith lord, Master. We’ve all seen what he has done and can do!”

“He was a Sith, Ahsoka. Leading him back to the Light means one less darksider for the galaxy, and no more lives lost. I have always been trying to accomplish this.” Obi-Wan realizes, all of a sudden, that he is trying to convince himself rather than his apprentice. “He came in a moment of need, with nowhere else to go. He no longer wants to remain with the Dark.”

Ahsoka blinks. “And you just trust him? Just like that?”

Well, Obi-Wan wants to say, you didn’t see him on his knees in the hallway with blood covering half his body and bruises the other half; and you didn’t see him hang his head as you took his lightsaber and then his ruined arm off before setting him to bed. Then again, nobody would ever see that: the exact devastation and distress the once-Darth Vader was in last night, at his door. “That is the case, Ahsoka. I would like to trust him, for the time being.”

Ahsoka grumbles something about tried to kill me earlier, didn’t you see that? which of course inspires a twinge of guilt in Obi-Wan - because indeed, this borders on being a foolhardy venture, that his Padawan is dragged into solely by virtue of her sharing quarters with him. She shakes her head and speaks clearly again for him to hear. “...Fine, I get it. Where do you even plan to house him, Master?”

Obi-Wan pauses. He has had plenty of time in the night to consider this, and still he cannot find any better solution than the one he is about to suggest. “I suppose there is no place safer than here.”

“Here? You mean as in, your own quarters, in the Jedi Temple?” Ahsoka stresses on the last few words, incredulous.

Something crashes inside his room, followed by Anakin’s muffled curse. Obi-Wan looks his apprentice dead in the eye as he lets out a sigh, and says, “Yes.”

—

Anakin is strangely good at cooking.

Obi-Wan supposes he shouldn’t have presumed; after all, being a Sith apprentice should probably not interfere with the more mundane aspects of life. But not only is Anakin’s cooking distinctly above average (how did he learn enough skills to make a three-course meal out of the few basic ingredients in Obi-Wan’s pantry, and at what cost?), he also seems to undertake the task with zeal. It’s rather endearing to watch him shuffle around the kitchenette in warm beige pants that barely reach his ankles, and a left sleeve that doesn't need to be rolled up because it's already too short for his long arm.

It’s been less than a week since Anakin first comes to his door. He clearly doesn't like Ahsoka, but with one arm and no lightsaber and Obi-Wan firmly telling him to behave, he eventually, and clearly grudgingly, tolerates her presence, from time to time. The gleam in his eyes is still worrying, from time to time, but the most Anakin does nowadays when Ahsoka passes by is turn his back to her. He seems to be trying his best, which is why Obi-Wan feels immensely guilty for having to preface their meal with a rather somber question.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, as Anakin sets down before him a plate of steak that smells nearly the same as that one luxurious dish he once had while in disguise as a socialite at a prestigious fine dining party. It isn’t the materiality that is distracting, but the efforts that must have gone into it. “I would like to ask you a question.”

Anakin sits down opposite of him, balancing himself. Even with the Force, he’s unused to not having a weight elbow-down on his right hand. “What? Leftover is in the kitchen for your apprentice. If she wants it.” His voice still sharpens at your apprentice, defensive. “I didn’t mean to let her starve.”

Obi-Wan is torn between a smile and a grimace. “No, that isn’t my question, Anakin. I’ve been wondering if you knew of your allies’ plans.”

“What kind of plans?” Anakin’s eyes narrow, warily. “It depends. Dooku knew most. I just did battlefield strategy.”

“You don’t happen to know if there has been recent plans to assassinate the Supreme Chancellor, do you?” It has been on Obi-Wan’s mind ever since he was summoned to an urgent Council meeting days ago. Investigative teams reported that the Supreme Chancellor has gone missing; then midway through the meeting, another report came, and so they ended up discussing how to keep peace while the Senate would break the staggering news of the Supreme Chancellor’s death to the entire galaxy and organize an emergency election. The timing fit too well with Anakin’s arrival, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Oh, there’s never any.” Anakin shrugs, tension melting out of his shoulder. He begins to cut into his steak without a care.

Obi-Wan frowns. There has been plenty of attempted assassinations before, as well as kidnapping - he himself has been sent to protect the Chancellor on many occasions. He’s loath to contradict Anakin, though, so he asks, carefully: “And you are sure?”

“I’m sure,” Anakin says, swallowing a mouthful. “My mas—Darth Sidious, is Palpatine.”

It takes Obi-Wan a stunned moment, while Anakin just continues to eat.

Well, the Council had their suspicions, but it was never so direct. Some have speculated, very privately, that the Chancellor might be linked to a darksider in some way. Perhaps somebody who is in opposition to Count Dooku, another Master has raised. But for the Chancellor *himself* to be this elusive, mysterious Darth Sidious, seems downright unfathomable.

“You…” Obi-Wan pauses, rewording the sentence in his mind for the seventh time. “I would like you to be serious, Anakin. That was not a joke, was it?”

Anakin, unsmiling, turns his eyes up to him with a look of confusion as if saying What’s a joke? “Darth Sidious is Palpatine,” he repeats. “I’m not allowed—I was not allowed to call him that, though.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. The timing does line up far too well. “Anakin, that means you have... disposed of the Supreme Chancellor.”

Anakin scoffs, scrunches up his nose, and shrugs again. “If you put it that way,” he mutters, slouching down even lower as he pointedly eats his food.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, then closes it again. He sighs at the ceiling, and picks up his fork and knife. Might as well enjoy a good meal before the migraine sets in.

—

To his own amazement, Obi-Wan is getting used to the way Anakin follows him around like a hatchling, whenever he is home.

During the first few days, it took Obi-Wan a considerable amount of patient explanation to convince Anakin not to sit on the floor at the foot of the door frame until he came back. His reasons ranged from “It’s rather undignified for you” (to which Anakin said, “I’ve done worse,” at which point Obi-Wan had to switch subjects immediately, putting a pin in it for future unpacking), to “You might catch a cold, sitting here for so long” (to which Anakin answered, “It’ll go away on its own,” which prompted Obi-Wan to check his temperature immediately, only to realize that Anakin had been cloaking his fever for at least a day, and - well, that was another pin on the board). In the end, it was only the allowance for him to use the kitchenette that kept the former Sith from waiting at the door like a hound, rather busying himself at the stove instead. It was a great decision through and through, considering how much Anakin improved the quality of their meals.

But otherwise, Anakin still makes no secret of his immediate attachment to him. Perhaps there should be no surprise in that, considering the sort of upbringing he must have suffered through; not that Obi-Wan knows much of it anyway, considering how quiet Anakin remains and how reluctant he himself is to ask personal questions. Nevertheless, from the way Anakin acted - finding his way into the Jedi Temple and declaring his trust to a sworn enemy rather than relying on his own Sith allies - it isn’t hard to infer that this man has had precious little reason to put his trust into anybody in his surroundings. It also aligns with the Sith ways, Obi-Wan speculates - and could only dare speculate, because truth be told he does not know all that much of the Sith outside of his research on ancient texts. Contemporary Sith are few. The Master might just make his own rules, and Darth Sidious - the Supreme Chancellor, Force have mercy - seemed like the type to play cruel games. So he has every reason to understand and empathize. And he truly does extend his most heartfelt compassion to this wayward Force-wielder.

That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with Anakin’s irritability whenever Obi-Wan comes back from a mission.

He’s clearly unhappy about Obi-Wan being away, especially if he discovers that the mission has been with Ahsoka. He only grows more upset and quick-tempered as time goes by; it begins with him upturning the decorative datapad shelves in the living room, escalating to a series of broken glasses and plates in the kitchenette; finally one day Obi-Wan comes back home to knives lodged in the wall, Anakin in the midst of pulling them out.

Anakin has the decency to look sheepish, even just slightly, as he silently puts away all the knives and hides himself in the kitchen completely. He cleans up, at least. In fact, he was almost always in the middle of cleaning up when Obi-Wan caught him in the act, which prompts the question: How many other times has he done this while left alone?

Obi-Wan only sighs. It does border on cruelty to keep somebody alone in these cramped quarters for weeks on end. He also knows that whatever measures he has set up to keep Anakin safe here - from the world, and from Anakin himself, - it would be a fatal oversight to underestimate the ability of a former Sith. He has no doubts that Anakin, even while one-handed and saber-less, could escape if he truly wanted to. The fact that Anakin willingly keeps himself stowed away in a Jedi’s quarters while desperately and entertaining himself through destructive means only to then be embarrassed about it… is a testament to some budding virtue, Obi-Wan supposes. And it only intensifies his guilt: it’s as if he’s taking advantage of Anakin’s trust to confine him to solitude, while he himself pushes back and back the kind of work a true mentor would need to engage in to help Anakin. The fact that he is fighting a war, or whatever is left of it, is no excuse.

It is with resolution that he stands up and heads into the kitchen. Their eyes meet as soon as he steps in; clearly enough, Anakin has been watching him. Anakin’s fingers grip the counter, knuckles blanched. Obi-Wan holds up his hands, moving as slowly and unpredictably as possible, and cuts to the chase.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go outside, Anakin.”

Anakin’s brows shoot up, but he still doesn’t unclench his jaws.

“I believe it’s rather unfair to keep you locked inside,” Obi-Wan explains. “After all, cooking can only do so much to spend all of one’s pent up energy.” He gives a small, gentle smile, inwardly anxious because of the way Anakin still looks at him with his guards up, shoulders squared, halfway between fight and flight. “I am not suggesting anything much, Anakin. Only a walk in the park, if it suits you. The decision is up to you.”

A moment or two passes in thick, awkward silence. Then Anakin, hesitantly: “Will you be there?”

It’s the first pleasant surprise Obi-Wan has had in what felt like an age. His smile grows, unbidden. “Yes, I insist.”

—

Autumn winds reel through his hair before rushing off to rustle in the foliage. The nightly air is crisp on his cheeks, and Obi-Wan doesn’t even think to tighten his robes around him; he enjoys a nice, chilly evening. Silence is alleviated by the song of insects in the grass, as they make their way down the serpentine path, round fountains and beds of flowers. Their robes flutter, and their hands are firmly linked.

It’s nothing that cannot be explained by strict necessity, or so Obi-Wan reasons: He must be able to make sure Anakin never strays from his sight, for safety reasons; and he dislikes the thought of putting any kind of binding or chains or even just a simple tied thread on Anakin. As usual, when all else fails, undertaking by hand is the solution - hence Anakin’s hand in his own, their palms warmly interfacing, their calluses fitting together.

The contact is also enjoyable, but that’s beside the point.

“I like the sky at night,” Anakin says, sudden but quiet. Obi-Wan glances at him to find Anakin not looking back at him for once. Anakin’s hood has long since slipped off because of the way he tips his head back to turn his eyes to the stars. Most of them are shrouded by gathering clouds, but some of them still shine through the dark.

“I see,” Obi-Wan muses. “May I ask why?”

For once, Anakin doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I like to look at the stars. They’re just suns, but far away. Can’t burn you, only blink at you.” Anakin’s hand tightens just a little. A patch of wildflowers gently glows when the two of them pass by. “When you blink back at them, you’re not alone.”

“And what if the stars are hidden?” Obi-Wan gestures, voice light, even as his heart sinks. He knows a lonely child, or one who used to be a lonely child, when he sees one. “What do you do then?”

The sigh that follows is lost in a gust of wind. There’s only the slightest of tremors in Anakin’s fingertips. They fall back into silence, deeper silence this time, as even the insects seem to quiet. The air feels earthy and damp with a coming rain. The sky blackens as clouds roil and thicken, and suddenly it’s dark as pitch and the comfortable coolness splinters into shivers under his skin. When the first drop falls, Obi-Wan reaches over to draw up Anakin’s hood for him. Anakin turns to him, eyes downcast.

“Then I’m alone,” he answers, belated and small.

—

“Maybe you’re right, Master.” Ahsoka picks up her steaming mug of tea, sinking comfortably into her amply cushioned seat on the couch. A strip of morning sunlight draws lazily across the room. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. He’s getting... nicer, lately. You should keep walking him.”

Obi-Wan chuckles at the turn of phrase. Walking him… “I don’t think it’s my doing,” he says, pouring a little more tea for himself. Anakin shuffles from one corner of the kitchenette to another, apron strings fluttering behind him. Obi-Wan shakes his head and takes a sip of tea, smiling. “I don’t think it’s my doing at all.”

#obikin #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #star wars prequels #the clone wars #raised as sith anakin #i really did hijack clem’s au #sorry for pinging you again!#why is this so reminiscent of le petit prince all of a sudden #will that story ever stop haunting me? (no)#all aboard the woobify train yay

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thezolblade · 3 years ago

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tma season 4 meta

Seems I never posted this over here, and it might be worth having a link to reference for meta from a post-canon perspective, without reviving anything on twitter. (The thread’s from back before Jonny stopped replying to fandom over there, so, y’know, don’t @ him.)

(Screenshot text under the read more cut.)

It’s... hard to even say how this aged; mid season 4, i wasn’t anticipating the tone shift of the full on apocalypse. But this still feels like it describes the impact of that season, before the end. And in retrospect it marks the point where the progress from ‘tension to cathartic resolution for better or worse’ within the canon stopped working for me, though that sort of thing’s subjective depending on listener’s expectations.

Tweet thread text:

rozzlynn @allthescribbles August 28, 2019 @jonnywaistcoat uh i've seen you say you're happy to be @ on tma discussions (and seen people say twitter's better than discord if you're not online at the time), is it okay if i ask about sthing seems ominous last eps (understanding that you might not want to spoiler anything)?

The Eponymous Jonny @jonnywaistcoat Replying to @allthescribbles you can ask, by all means, but I generally don't do much by way of clarifying the text

rozzlynn @allthescribbles Replying to @jonnywaistcoat thanks well, i saw in last week's early access you listed some topics that you'd consider too bleak so ruled out of using in canon, and this week you were saying you like to see audience reaction to judge if stuff's having the intended impact. (1/ ) so if this is something you don't want to comment on it could just be feedback, but if you do feel like commenting on the 'too bleak' line then it could be really worth asking. >.> since ep 142 i've been worrying about the direct statement givers (2/ ) which is clearly as intended, it's v effective horror. but from how v distraught jess sounded, and how the supernatural fear-heightening stalking is ongoing for her and everyone else who's still getting the nightmares, right back to naomi, and the way (3/ ) it's gotten significantly worse for them in recent months w the archivist getting more powerful, and how the best the archive team seem to be able to do for now is try to avoid adding anyone else to the list & sorta sound they've given up on figuring out an escape from (4/ ) the contracts & supernatural setup causing it all (except for melanie doing her best to opt out), it's getting me worried how much worse things will get for the innocent bystanders - it doesn't seem like a massive stretch that the trauma-reawakening constant terrorising (5/) might push one of them to suicide if things carry on along those lines, and while that could be v effective horror too and suicide has come up in previous statements so it's not an unprecedented theme, i find it's still overshadowing any worries about/for the main cast (6/) in recent episodes, and more than wondering whether jon's going to be able to stop taking statements i keep wondering whether they're also trying to research ways to undo or lessen effects on current victims, or whether they've given up on that, as defeated as they sound (7/ ) when talking about being unable to quit. and even if suicide's come up before, giving jon a body count that way would be a jump into even bleaker territory, so it seems like the sort of thing where rather than feeling stressed about each new ep in advance until it turns out (8/ ) it's about something else, it could be worth sharing feedback in case it's the sort of thing where you're happy to say whether that's a possible direction. but if you want to leave things open then of course it's a horror show and i can deal w the per ep content warnings. (9/9)

The Eponymous Jonny @jonnywaistcoat Replying to @allthescribbles It's an interesting question, and definitely one worth asking. Certainly graphic descriptions of suicide is something I steer clear of, though obviously it's come up more than once and as a show that deals with fear and trauma, there's always bleaker conclusions lurking offscreen On the wider question of the Archivist’s victims, one of the themes I've been keen to explore in this season especially is the idea of being trapped as part of systems that do harm, how people deal with it, what if any moral responsibilities do they have, etc. To my mind, one of the most acute horrors of such systems is the desensitization they lead to in terms of those that have been harmed, and that's something that I've been trying to represent, the with the team's focus drifting away from the victims. I will say that we're unlikely to be revisiting the fate of any specific victim of the Archivist, certainly not in this season. But the Archivist’s powers ARE horrific, and while I'm not interested in revelling in the trauma, But at the base level, if you're worried I'm going to suddenly drop a "turns out the statement giver from 142 killed herself because of YOU!", then don't be. At the same time, I'm not going to categorically state the Archivist doesn't have a body count.

rozzlynn @allthescribbles Replying to @jonnywaistcoat thanks for sharing your thoughts! that is quite reassuring in terms of the tone; i'd been trying to figure out whether worrying about that One Particular Thing was part of the listening experience vs getting in the way of the rest of the listening experience.

The Eponymous Jonny @jonnywaistcoat Replying to @allthescribbles I think it is part of it, but probably not to the acute degree you've been feeling, so I'm happy to offer reassurance that it's not something I'm interested in deploying as a twist or horrorific reveal.

#the magnus archives #tma thoughts #death tw #suicide tw #long post

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5lazarus · 3 years ago

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So Much Lore! So Much Information!

Dorian has a wonderful conversation with the Skyhold Librarian about improvements to the library's filing system and the innovations coming out of Minrathous when Vivienne comes by and points out he's just talking to himself. He's been waxing rhapsodic about the Tevinter equivalent of the Dewey decimal system to a spirit--or maybe a demon.

So clearly they must investigate. The first time I played DAI, the Librarian didn't spawn! He was quite a surprise during my second playthrough--so I got to thinking, what if he were a spirit? And what sort of spirit would he be?

The song Dorian hears in the brothel, that Solas sings, is one of the most beautiful love songs I've ever heard-- "Lamma Bada Yatathanna," which was composed in Al-Andalus. Here's my favorite version. The other song he sings to himself as he paints is a poem by Tolkien. I like this arrangement! There's a background story in those songs, if you check out the lyrics. ;) Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Dorian’s having a wonderful conversation with the new librarian in the Skyhold library about proper filing systems, and he’s really starting to have faith in the Inquisition’s ability to pull together an organization actually organized to take on Corypheus and the Tevinter elite. He’s telling him about the latest innovation of folding actual waves of sound into crystals in Minrathous when Vivienne saunters by.

“Darling, shush,” she says as she goes. “We must have quiet in the library, and you’re scaring our guests, talking to yourself.”

Dorian reddens. “I am not monologuing!” he protests. “We’re having a conversation, aren’t we, er—“ He realizes he hasn’t actually asked for the librarian’s name, but he turns to him for back-up anyway. He’ll ignore the misstep, Dorian is so pretty, he can carry this away.

But there is no one there.

Vivienne says very calmly, “Did you think you were speaking to someone?”

Dorian says, “I’m not twelve, it wasn’t a demon. He was just right there!”

She says, “Oh, what do they teach you in Minrathous?”

“I know how to recognize a demon, Madame,” he snaps. “There was no demon. Just a librarian. He was telling me about how Skyhold originally used the old dwarven system of classification and how they were adapting that with the Orlesian système de dépôt to better accommodate all the many superfluous copies we have of Genitivi—“

“Then it was a pride demon,” Vivienne muses, “or envy. With the way it accumulates knowledge and drew you out…”

“Oh come now, Vivienne.” Dorian throws his head back and crosses his arms. He knows a demon when he sees it. While he’s never been particularly interested in blood magic, the magisterium does tend to throw corrupted spirits in his face. He has gotten very good at defining when their reality is importuned by creatures wanted to eat his flesh and ravage his soul. “He was a bit shorter than me, elf, with a long nose but kind-of bulbous at the end. Long hair, he didn’t quite know how to style it. Lank. But everyone here needs a wash. Wore blue enchanter’s robes edged with gold. It was quite garish, really. You’d think a pride demon would have better taste than that.”

Vivienne says, “The rebel mages no longer wear the outfits of the Circle. Haven’t you seen their military uniform? This wasn’t human, Dorian. When was the first time you saw it? There are children who come to this library, and with so few templars about, we cannot risk—“

Dorian puts up his hands. “But I’ve seen other people talking to him,” he protests.

Vivienne narrows her eyes. “That makes it more dangerous, darling. We must track it down to its source.”

He’s getting irritated now. The rotunda is full of mages. Someone would have noticed if a pride demon were running rampant through Skyhold, if not himself, then Fiona, or even Solas, who seems to specialize in weird relationships with spirits. Then he grins. Solas has his work station near the stairs, where he can see all that come and go.

He says, “Let’s ask Solas if he’s seen him. If Solas hasn’t, then I’ll cede the point.”

Vivienne grimaces. She has made no secret of her disdain for the apostate hobo, both of his research methodology and his fashion. Dorian does so love to see them both get catty, so he grins and gestures in an Orlesian curtsey for Vivienne to lead the way down the stairs. She gathers her skirts and descends; he follows.

The lowest level of the rotunda smells of plaster, charcoal, and wet paint. Solas is painting again, moving rapidly to fill in the first layer of background details on his still-wet fresco. He is singing to himself as he moves, his brushstrokes keeping time. Dorian frowns. He recognizes the melody, but from where? Then he pulls at his mustache in his surprise as he remembers: one of the elvhen whores at his favorite brothel in Minrathous got all the boys singing it, it was a love song, an ancient one, that even the slaves still remembered. His gift of the night had translated it for him: “Oh, my destiny, my perplexity! No one can comfort me in my misery….” Then of course the man had taken hold of him and relieved him of said suffering, and it was a quite enjoyable night, even though the song as a come-on was a bit too obvious. Dorian pushes away the memory and wonders how Solas knows an old Tevinter elven song—but of course if confronted, Solas would merely shrug and say he heard it in the Fade, once.

At the end of the song the first level is finished. Solas takes his brushes and his palette and climbs down to the second level. He is humming as he goes.

Vivienne clears her throat. Solas sets down his paints.

“What do you need?” he asks. “This paint dries quickly.”

Dorian says, “Why Solas, I didn’t know you had such a lovely voice. Was that a love song I detected? I think I’ve heard it before—in Tevinter.” He does not add that he heard it in a brothel. Why ruin such a lovely memory?

Solas repeats, “This paint dries quickly, and if I delay much longer I will have to chip away the plaster and begin again. What do you need?”

Vivienne and Dorian exchange a glance. It is definitely a love song, but that is not relevant to their quest, and the paintings in the rotunda are quite impressively monumental. Josephine will be upset if they ruin it.

Vivienne, ever practical, cuts in, “Have you noticed a spirit upstairs, in the library?”

Solas says, “Do you mean the librarian? Yes. He has quite a wonder for filing systems. What about him, Vivienne? Have you drawn him into conversation and found him a demon of Envy?” Dorian, awkward, shifts—he’d spent at least an hour discussing the Minrathous Circle’s new filing system with him, and hadn’t even realized he wasn’t quite real. Solas catches the movement and smiles suddenly at him. “Do not worry, Dorian. He is a very old and precious spirit, and it is a compliment that he was drawn to you beyond your—finery.” He turns to Vivienne. “Well? Is there anything that you need?”

Vivienne says, “We cannot have a spirit roaming unconfined where there are children about. Even Cole demanded a binding. Surely you see the danger of leaving it unsupervised, particularly since we leave the mage children so…undisciplined.”

Solas’ face tightens as he forces away a sneer. Blandly he picks up a brush and dips it into the lead-white paint. He turns his back to Vivienne and says over his shoulder to Dorian, “I can see no harm in it.” Company dismissed, he turns and begins rapidly sketching out two large triangles, pointing down. He begins singing again, a more melancholy thing than the love song, and this time the words are comprehensible: “The road goes ever on and on….”

When they return upstairs Vivienne seethes, “He sees no harm in it because he’s lived his whole life half-mad in the woods, with spirits as his only companions, and due to the accidental of his birth he cannot comprehend the dangers of the Fade to most other mages.”

Dorian pauses. It isn’t an unfair assessment, but the White Divine’s Circles are so much more restrictive in the way they view spirits, and Vivienne, brought up in the proper devotion of the White Spire, is more restrictive than most. He’s worked with incorporeal assistants in Nevarra before, and back in Tevinter, Alexius had several bound to serve in the laboratories, and managed to keep them all from getting corrupted, too. A bit guiltily he thinks about Cole, who is sweet and infernally well-meaning. He doesn’t like the idea of a spirit like him bound up as a servant, but then he would break, wouldn’t he? Compassion is so fragile.

Then he realizes: that is the danger, isn’t it, that this spirit will break? Solas may see no harm in it, but Dorian didn’t even realize the Librarian wasn’t a man. What if the wrong person finds it?

He tells Vivienne, “I see what you mean. But let’s find out what it is, first. Now that we know that it is a spirit and that it’s…friendly, we can question it about its nature.”

Vivienne says, “You sound like you’ve been speaking to a pride demon—why do you think it will answer you truthfully?”

Dorian bows. “That’s why I have you, my dear.”

She smiles, and together they walk into the shelves. The Librarian is there, sitting primly on the cold stone floor. A little girl, an elf, is flipping through the pages of an illustrated edition of one of their many copies of Genitivi, speaking rapidly. Dorian recognizes her as the Inquisitor’s younger daughter—Mirthen? Meerden? It was something unbelievably solemn for a young girl, that’s all he remembers.

“So much lore!” the Librarian marvels. “So much information!”

“And then of course Auntie said that her cousin lied because why would we want them to know when they already call them false? Mamae says that holy things need to be kept silent. When she takes us to pray she keeps silent and only speaks if she thinks the gods want her to. But Auntie said more than that, it’s dangerous for it to be in books we don’t write because that’s setting it down and it’s like how the Fade shapes things, and we shape the Fade? The books take it away, because of the print. Have you ever seen print? Mamae’s a printer.”

This the girl says with pride. The spirit says, “What is—a printer?”

She claps her hands in delight. “Mamae said the dwarves from House Cadash invented it but it’s based off what the Shapers do to the Memories! Have you ever been to Orzammar? I’ve never been. My cousin says it’s true though, the memories are like print. You can take them out and everything. But you take lead and you pour it into a mould like a blacksmith, except you make letters instead of axes and jewelry or whatever, and then press it and you have a stamp! But if you make small ones for all the letters and move them quickly, you can make words and you just have to stamp the page. Put it together, take it apart. So it’s faster than illuminating a book but it’s uglier too, and Babae said it had less personality but Mamae—“

The Librarian says, “So much information!” Its eyes are sparkling. “Can you show me a book with print?”

The girl looks up at the shelves and then sees Dorian and Vivienne watching them. She colors. Very formally, in manners her mother must have drilled in her, she gets up and curtseys.

She mumbles, “Good day, Master Pavus, Madame de Fer.” She studies the floor; the Inquisitor’s children get very quiet around humans, Dorian’s noticed. He’s seen them chatter the ears off Varric, and they love Solas for his stories, who seems to appreciate a willing audience.

Dorian says, “Good day, Mirthen.”

Vivienne says, “Mirwen. Be a good girl and run along to Solas downstairs, won’t you darling? Stay there until he tells you otherwise.”

Mirwen frowns, but turns to the Librarian and says confidingly, “I’ll come back later. Stay here!”

The Librarian says, “I am always there for those who seek wonder.” The girl beams and scurries away, lugging the massive volume of Genitivi with her. It is a charming sight, Dorian must admit. She reminds him a bit of himself at that age, still so full of wonder and eager to share everything he learned with anyone who bothered to listen. Few bothered, of course, but then he learned to make himself a wonder to draw others to him, by his beauty, his wit, his disreputable charm.

Vivienne summons a ward and outlines a binding circle around the Librarian. It continues to sit there in its dowdy robes, but blinks curiously up at them.

Dorian says, “Well, aren’t you a curio. I thought you liked filing systems.”

The spirit says, “I do like filing systems! And I like print now, too.” He beams at them. “I never knew of books that were made of stamps before. So much new information! So much progress! It’s wonderful.”

Dorian sighs. He tells Vivienne, “Look at it, it’s harmless. It’s like a child.”

Vivienne says, “It likes filing systems. It’s dull.”

Dorian huffs. “Nothing I am interested in is dull. Filing systems—now, I grant you that Orlais is better organized than Ferelden or Nevarra, but there is no feeling better than taking a messy archive from some blood-addled magister and cleaning it up. The Minrathous system, unlike the White Spire, organizes by subject rather than mere chronological order, and then within the category organized by date of publication. So you don’t just end up with three shelves of Genitivi, and have to go through each book and hope you can find something about—I don’t know, lyrium memory crystals. In this case, I would simply go the bookcase dedicated to the study of lyrium, and head right to the bottom shelf, for the most recent publication, so I don’t have to wade through outdated work that’s long since been disproven. Or! If I do want to understand the whole study as a discipline, and see the development of the field, I can simply trace it in chronological order—“

The spirit is glowing, delighted. Vivienne herself is smiling. She says, “Darling, you need to go out more.”

“I do go out!” Dorian snaps. “I came out here! Into this miserable mountain backwater. Forgive me if I’m so titillated by the byproducts of civilization.”

Vivienne lifts a single eyebrow. “You could attend one of Lady Montilyet’s tea parties.”

Dorian says, “Do you attend her parties? Not just when she feats the aristocracy, but even when she’s wining and dining, I don’t know, tea merchants, and suchlike?”

Vivienne says, “Of course. I do delight in conversation and repartee. You might try it sometime.” Dorian laughs and mock-clutches his heart—that was a good one. “Even a tea merchant provides needed information for the effects of the Breach on agriculture across the continent. Half of the most interesting gatherings at the Court happen over tea, darling. One must keep up with the fields—who is buying all of what stock, how they are being delivered, how the merchants are devising new ways of it being served. And if there is a drought in the Nevarran tea mountains, then there is less tea for Orlais, and a new form of party must be devised.”

The spirit looks at Vivienne glittering in her finery. “You enjoy people,” it says. “The new games they devise. It fills you with wonder.”

Vivienne sighs. “Simpler than Cole,” she notes. “But more discrete, which perhaps makes it safer to leave alone. With supervision. Dorian, what do you think it is?”

Dorian says, “Wait, let’s ask it—who are you, O spirit of the Skyhold library, who likes everything from Brother Genitivi to print to filing systems to tea parties, apparently?”

The Librarian says, “You brought me here, so you already know.” The spirit smiles and suddenly Dorian sees it, the little girl running her fingers along the rows of indented print, himself breathing out a sigh of satisfaction at a whole shelf, properly organized, and Vivienne at the tea party, cup in hand, as her eyes sparkle over a piece of information that would be useful to a trader friend’s. He sees Josephine marveling over Solas’ frescoes. He sees Solas watching the Inquisitor, and then he hears the singing at that brothel that beautiful little night, the arm thrown around him, the companionship and the pleasure of it.

The spirit steps out of the binding and walks to the railing, craning its head to watch Solas paint below. “I am Wonder,” it says, almost an afterthought. “Don’t you know?”

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #da fic #da fanfic #dai #dorian pavus #vivienne #madame de fer #solas #solavellan #so much lore! so much information!#skyhold librarian #skyhold is its own character after all #spirits #dai background characters

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voiceless-terror · 4 years ago

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11, jontim? 💛

jontim + things you said when you were drunk! <3

“I liked you, y’know.”

Jon blinks slowly and looks over at his companion. “What?”

Tim sets his drink down with a little too much flourish, beer spilling over the edge of the glass. It’s their first night out since Jon became Head Archivist, Tim had to practically drag him from the Archives. But it’s a nice, temperate night and Jon had been at it since seven am, so he makes only the weakest of protests. It’s just the two of them, Tim having waited until the others had left to make his request. They even went to Jon’s favorite bar- a tiny, out of the way place with only a few patrons and a nice, quiet atmosphere. And now, only two drinks in and Tim’s already sloshed, leaning heavily on the bar and scowling at his hands. He’s been unusually mopey for someone who wanted to go out.

“I liked you. Back in Research. Back before...all of this.” He makes a vague gesture at the air and refuses to meet Jon’s eyes. It makes him nervous.

“Well, I’d hope so. We’re friends.” But Tim said liked, and Jon’s heart sank a bit at that. Maybe this is some sort of ‘friend’ breakup. Is that a thing people do? Jon’s usually a ‘slowly grow distant and never speak to someone again’ type of man himself. Cutting off relationships can be very messy. He's rather not get into all that. And if that’s what this is, he prefers Tim just not tell him. He knows the move down to the archives has caused a bit of tension with Sasha, and she and Tim are close.

But Tim just rolls his eyes. “Don’t be obtuse. Liked, as in ‘stay the night at mine,’ yeah?”

Jon flushes at the words. Now he’s just not making any sense. “Tim, you know I don’t do that sort of thing-”

“Not that,” Tim groaned, slumping dangerously low on his bar stool. “Like, you could come over and we’d get shitty takeout, and maybe watch a movie, and kiss a little, and you’d fall asleep on my shoulder and my arm will go numb, but I won’t move because I don’t want to wake you-”

Hang on.

“You- you liked me like that?” Jon, for the life of him, can’t remember any signs of this. And usually Tim is so forward. “You never let on!”

“I invited you out loads of times-”

“With Sasha!” Jon sputters. “You always brought Sasha!”

“No, you brought Sasha. And you were clearly uninterested, so there’s that.” Tim ran a weary hand down his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Shouldn’t have had those shots.”

“When did you have shots?”

“When you were in the bathroom.” Ah.

Jon takes a long sip of his drink, attempting to make sense of his swirling thoughts. Tim liked him? Like that? It never occurred to him that Tim might want to spend time with him alone, hence always inviting Sasha. But Tim...he wanted him. Or at least, he used to. And that hurts. Tim’s always been there for him, always the problem solver, always willing to stay late or put in the extra hours if Jon needs anything. He’s quick to laugh at Jon’s stupid jokes and enjoys debating on any topic, no matter how obscure. And a night in with him, outside of work, no need for professionalism or pretence...it sounds wonderful.

Tim’s signaling for the check, clearly done with the conversation. Jon steels himself, takes a deep breath, and lays a tentative hand on Tim’s arm. The man gives him a confused, weary look.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Would you- that is, if you’d still like to, maybe sometime we could...do that?” He winces as the words tumble out of his mouth and Tim continues to stare. “What you said before. A-A movie, or something. It could be as friends, but if you still- if you still-”

“Like you?” Tim supplies, an irritating little smirk forming.

“T-That, yes.” Jon can feel his face heat up at the words. “Only if you want-”

“Sure.” Tim’s smile is back in full force. It hasn’t been aimed at him since their time in research and he feels like he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.

“R-Really?”

Tim laughs. “A date? With the one that got away? Of course-”

“I hardly got away-”

“No,” Tim softens, giving him an unreadable look. “You didn’t, did you?”

That night, Tim walks him to his door like a proper gentleman. He stands patiently while Jon fumbles with the keys, like he’s waiting for something. Jon thinks he knows what it is.

“I don’t want to kiss you.” He blurts out, probably a bit too loudly considering the hour. “I-I don’t like that.”

“That’s fine,” Tim says, looking utterly unperturbed. “Hug, though?”

Jon grins. “Yes please.”

When he curls up later that night, he can’t quite capture the warmth of Tim’s arms. But they’ve got time for that, Jon thinks. Time for plenty more hugs and nights out and secret smiles, if Tim will have him.

For the first time in weeks, Jon sleeps through the night.

#my writing #jonathan sims #tim stoker #jontim #tma #the magnus archives #oh this got sappy im sorry #but here you go #jon's not a fan of kisses in this one #v valid #witnesstotheend

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occasionalstorytelling · 4 years ago

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A slightly-belated fic written for Jason’s death anniversary. I just really wanted to write a story with autistic Jason, so here it is!

Summary: Jason Todd shows up at the Manor and asks if Alfred can spare some time for a chat. They head down to a coffee shop and settle in to talk. Jason has been thinking, and he wants to tell Alfred that he thinks he might be autistic, actually.

Word Count: 2,888

Read it here:

Damian wandered into the kitchen, where Alfred was finishing up cutting some apple slices for him. Damian took one, and crouched on a kitchen stool, balanced on his feet like some kind of bird of prey. Alfred was used to this behavior—it tended to be typical of Robins.

“Todd’s coming,” Damian shrugged in between apple bites.

“Really?” Alfred turned to the window. Lo and behold, Jason Todd was walking down the path to the Manor’s front door. With lightning speed, Alfred grabbed a medical kit from below the sink, then ran to the front door. He threw it open before Jason even made it all the way up the walk.

“Jason! Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Alfred was too panicked for formalities. The boy didn’t seem to be limping, and there were no visible bruises or cuts on him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt. Alfred opened the kit, ready for whatever it was was.

“Yeah, Alf, I’m fine,” Jason winced. It didn’t take Alfred more than a few seconds to notice the wince was at Alfred, not out of any kind of pain or duress.

“You’re…that’s good to hear, then, Master Jason,” Alfred said, awkwardly closing the kit. He tucked it loosely under one arm.

“Guess I don’t, uh, visit that often,” Jason rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“It’s good you’re not hurt. Is there something you need, then? Anything,” Alfred said. “Would you like to come inside?”

Jason looked up at the house, then down at the ground as if he was staring through the dirt right into the Batcave. “Don’t need anything. Just wanted to talk. Not inside, though.”

Alfred nodded. “I’ll fetch my coat.” He went inside, set the medical kit on a counter, and grabbed a coat and a hat. Then he went back outside to the front lawn, where Jason fidgeted nervously, still staring at the ground like he expected Batman to pop out of it at any moment.

They left the Manor grounds and walked into town. Alfred suggested a diner for a quick bite. Jason shook his head and suggested a coffee instead. They went to the nearest Jitters.

Alfred ordered a tea. Jason ordered a hot chocolate. They smiled awkwardly at each other then. Alfred paid, then joined Jason near the pickup counter to wait for the drinks.

“I don’t know why I said coffee,” Jason smiled, still awkward. “Neither of us drink it.”

“I’d wondered if your tastes had changed,” Alfred said fondly. “As I recall, you don’t drink soda, either. You’re still the only one of the boys who refuses.”

“So?” Jason shifted slightly, uncomfortable. “The bubbles go up my nose.”

“It’s healthier for you, anyway,” Alfred said. “If only Master Tim could be convinced to lower his caffeine intake, I’m sure we’d all feel a lot better.”

“Yeah,” Jason snorted. “Replacement’s the one who’s not…I mean,” Jason froze, sentence only halfway out. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, like he was trying to figure out how to say whatever it was he’d meant to say, but he eventually just trailed off and went quiet. They were saved from the awkwardness of the moment when the barista called “Pennyworth” and Alfred had to go retrieve their drinks.

“Shall we sit down?” Alfred asked.

Jason nodded. They found an empty table outside. Alfred took the seat with his back towards the street—another behavior typical of Robins was that they liked to be able to see their exit strategies. Not that Jason was a Robin, of course, but he was still Jason. Jason sipped his hot chocolate, and generally failed to make eye contact with Alfred.

“You’re looking well,” Alfred said.

“I’ve…been doing the thing you told me about,” Jason said, with just a slight flush of embarrassment in his cheeks.

“Which thing?” Alfred asked. He’d given Jason a lot of advice over the years.

“When you said it’s hard to take care of a Robin,” Jason said.

“I never meant that as a slight on you or any of the others,” Alfred said. “My sincerest apologies if—”

“No, no, I mean…um,” Jason took another sip of his drink while he figured out how to say it. “The self care thing. I’ve been…the thing about being gentle?”

“I’m not…sure what you’re referring to?” Alfred said.

“I’m the Robin,” Jason said, twisting his fingers in his lap. “I don’t have to…punish myself? You said that when I’m struggling with something, to pretend the thought or the idea or the thing or whatever is coming from my own Robin sidekick and deal with it like that. So I’ve been doing it.”

“Is it helping?” Alfred asked.

“Yeah,” Jason let out a relieved breath in a whoosh, at finally being understood. “It’s been really helpful. The other day, I bought a bunch of frozen mini corn dogs for him. Me? Me, I mean. I just…you know. I’m trying to…take care of myself.”

“That’s good to hear,” Alfred said. He sipped his tea. It was a little over-sugared, but Jitters tended to make all their drinks like that.

“And I was, um, researching on the internet about stuff too,” Jason said. “Self care stuff.”

“I’m proud of you,” Alfred said. “God knows Bruce needs to take better care of himself. I’m glad to hear you’re not following his poor example in that regard.” Alfred knew Jason very well, so he called Master Bruce simply “Bruce” to put Jason at ease, and he gave Jason praise that amounted to “you’re doing all right without Batman.” Jason always insisted he didn’t need to hear that, but the way he glowed after the praise…like he was glowing now. Jason took a long sip of his hot chocolate and relaxed enough to put his hands on the table.

“There was something else,” Jason said. “On the internet. That I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Please,” Alfred waved a hand. “You can talk to me about anything.” Admittedly, it had been some time since Jason had taken him up on the offer, but what better time than now to start changing that?

“I think I’m autistic,” Jason said. He stared at his drink when he spoke, but it came out smoothly, calmly, practiced. He’d practiced this conversation, Alfred realized.

“All right,” Alfred said. “Thank you for trusting me enough to say so. How can I support you?”

Jason laughed. “That’s what you said to Dick when he told you he liked boys, Alf.”

“The sentiment is no less true in this scenario, Master Jason,” Alfred said. “I am happy that you’ve…confided in me? Is that an appropriate term?”

“I guess so,” Jason shrugged. “It’s not a secret, I’m just not…not telling Bruce, and stuff.”

“Have you seen a doctor or a therapist?” Alfred asked.

“No,” Jason tensed. “I, uh, self-diagnosed. But plenty of people in online communities say it’s totally valid, and a diagnosis could only make my life worse, so—”

“Worse?” Alfred didn’t mean to interrupt, it just slipped out.

“Yeah,” Jason grit his teeth. “I mean, even if I wasn’t legally dead, it’s apparently really hard to get diagnosed officially as an adult, and even if I got a diagnosis it’s not like…I mean, it wouldn’t help, you know? It would be yet another excuse to get passed over in Bruce’s inheritance, and fired from jobs, and…stuff.”

“I understand,” Alfred nodded. “And you’re right. You don’t need a diagnosis to be valid. But, if I may…why tell me?”

“It just…seemed like something you tell people,” Jason fidgeted, cracking his knuckles over and over again. “Dick told you he likes boys, so…I’m telling you, this, I guess.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Alfred repeated. “I am…honored that you trust me with this. It’s clearly very personal.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed. “I don’t know…I don’t know that there’s much you can do to support me, I just wanted you to know.”

“Talking is supporting,” Alfred said.

“Talking is supporting,” Jason repeated it with a smile. He took another sip of his hot chocolate. Alfred finished off his own cup of tea. They both watched people walk by along the busy streets of Gotham.

“And, I can’t tell Bruce, because he’ll think it’s more…you know,” Jason said, picking up the conversation as if there hadn’t been a pause.

“He’ll think it’s related to your death,” Alfred nodded, finishing the sentence.

“See? You’ll at least talk about it. Bruce won’t even say it…” Jason sighed. “But yeah. That’s kind of what I worried, too? Do you remember if I was always like this,” he gestured at himself, “before I died?”

“What do you mean?” Alfred asked. “Your hairstyle has certainly changed.”

“Like, my costume,” Jason said. “Um. I was researching…I think I’ve got a sensory processing thing. And that’s why I don’t like soda bubbles, and why I need a helmet that blocks out more distractions than just a mask, and why I can’t wear leggings.”

“You wore leggings for a significant period of time,” Alfred pointed out.

“I know,” Jason frowned. “I remember doing it. And I tried it again the other day, someone lent me a pair of fishnets to try on…but the feeling on my legs doesn’t go away. I can’t wear leggings or skinny jeans for more than ten minutes without feeling like I’m gonna go crazy.”

“I see,” Alfred said.

“So…I remember wearing leggings before, but I don’t remember how it felt,” Jason said. “What if…I don’t know, what if all of my autistic symptoms, traits, whatever, what if if is all after-effects of being dead?”

“Would that make it any less real?” Alfred asked.

“I guess not,” Jason huffed and leaned back in his seat. “But…I want to know.”

“You hated the leggings, even back then,” Alfred said, remembering. “But you were too stubborn to wear anything else on patrol, which meant that when you got back, you threw them on the floor and went around in your underwear, and I was the one who had to pick them up and wash them.”

“Okay, that I think I remember,” Jason smiled. “I remember Bruce telling me to put on pants because Selina was coming over, at least.”

“Your new costume is more comfortable, I hope?” Alfred asked.

“It’s heavier. It’s nice,” Jason said. “I like the weight. It’s grounding. And it’s looser…no more leggings and spandex. It’s comfortable.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Alfred said. “You know…it occurs to me, you were also very particular about your bedsheets. You only liked the ones with the purple flowers, even though Master Dick’s favorite were the ones with the little rocket ships.”

“The flowers were the only ones with the right texture,” Jason said. “Yeah…that’s still how I buy sheets. It doesn’t matter what color it is, so long as it’s soft enough that it’s not gonna distract me from sleeping.”

“Would that also be related to…sensory processing?” Alfred asked, trying to remember the phrase Jason had used.

“Yeah,” Jason nodded. “Same with picky eating. I mean…yeah. I don’t have a better word for it, but—”

“There doesn’t need to be a word for it,” Alfred said. “Your food preferences are individual to you, just like anyone else’s.”

“Bruce still thinks I eat like a little kid,” Jason mumbled. “He thinks it’s stupid. I can tell he does, even when he doesn’t say it.”

“If that is the case, we will simply not discuss it with him,” Alfred said.

“Yeah,” Jason said, relaxing slightly. “That would be the one thing I’d change, though. If I could, I mean. I’d want to be less picky. I’m sorry I didn’t eat much of those dinners you used to make.”

“I’m only sorry it took so long for me to adapt to your tastes,” Alfred shook his head sadly. “I remember you claiming not to be hungry one too many times…”

“I didn’t want you to be mad at me, it’s just you worked so hard—”

“Nonsense,” Alfred said. “You should have been mad at me. I should have provided.”

“Your mac and cheese was always delicious,” Jason said. “I make it for myself, like, once a week.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Alfred smiled.

“There’s other stuff too though,” Jason said. “Other than sensory processing. I mean, I’m not making it up—”

“I never accused you of doing so,” Alfred said.

“I mean, I was looking at traits online…the thing about making scripts to talk to people? I do that all the time,” Jason said. “And I always get told that I’m too blunt and unreadable, and you know how I like to stick to my schedule, and I’m not really great at emotional regulation, and I can’t always tell when people are being sarcastic or trying to tell me something…I’ve been trying to relearn how to stim. I’m still not sure what masking is, but I think I’m doing it. Have been doing it? It’s…I got a spiky ball to play with, see?” Jason pulled a small, spiky stress ball out of his pocket. “And I got a chewable necklace so I could try to stop biting my fingernails…”

“Jason, I trust you,” Alfred said. “I believe you’ve done your research. You don’t need to convince me. If you say you’re autistic, I believe you.”

“Okay,” Jason said. “I just…you know. It’s weird, saying it out loud? It doesn’t feel real. But I also know it’s real, it’s my own brain and I know how it works, but…and Bruce would never understand, and I don’t really have—” Jason hesitated. Alfred hoped he hadn’t been about to say “I don’t really have any friends.”

“I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this,” Jason finished. “Online isn’t the same. I don’t…I want to talk to someone about it.”

“Talk to me about it,” Alfred said. “I’m happy you came to me. What were you saying about learning to stim?”

“Oh,” Jason said. “Well, now that I live alone, I can play a song out loud on repeat as many times as I want, you know? And I’ve been letting myself move more…I’ve seen the replacement do the flappy hand thing, and I’ve read about it online, and I don’t know if it’s really a thing I do or if I’m trying to copy it so I’ll feel more autistic—”

“It’s okay,” Alfred soothed. “Take a deep breath.”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed. “Sorry. I know I talk fast.”

“You talk at the perfect speed,” Alfred said. “You just seemed…anxious.”

“I keep picturing how Bruce would take it,” Jason fidgeted awkwardly, digging the spikes on the stress ball into his palm.

“Are you sure he’d take it poorly?” Alfred asked.

“I’m sure,” Jason snorted. “Either he’d tell me he doesn’t believe me and I’m not autistic, which would be no more emotionally devastating than anything else he does, I guess, or he’d act weird about it and walk on eggshells around me and constantly misunderstand my whole life, which is already how things are with him! Ugh,” Jason put his head down on the table.

“You don’t have to tell anyone you don’t want to,” Alfred said.

“I know,” Jason said. “But, like I said. Wanted to talk about it. Don’t have anyone. So.”

“Thank you for talking to me about it,” Alfred said. “I do appreciate your faith in me. Trust me—Master Bruce won’t hear a word of this from me.”

“I trust you, Alf,” Jason picked his head back up. “Thanks.”

“Is there anything in particular I can do to support you?” Alfred asked.

“Just this,” Jason said. “Thanks.”

“Would you like a hug?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” Jason said, sniffling slightly. They hugged, and they both pretended not to notice that Jason was almost in tears with happy relief.

“So, uh, yeah,” Jason sniffed and sat back in his chair. He continued to fiddle with the spiky ball. “I guess that’s it. Wanna start walking back?”

“I am at your service,” Alfred said. They walked back to the Manor, and hugged one more time on the front step.

“If Bruce asks, this conversation didn’t happen. I did come here because I was injured, or something,” Jason said.

“My lips are sealed,” Alfred smiled.

“See you later,” Jason waved, and walked back down the path, heading back to wherever he lived. Tim had mentioned Jason had some kind of safe house near Crime Alley. Maybe he’d invite Alfred to see it sometime.

“What did Todd want?” Damian asked.

“Nothing in particular,” Alfred said.

“I ate the apple slices,” Damian said. “And we’re out of granola bars. I ate all the ones in the cabinet.”

“You’re a growing boy,” Alfred ruffled his hair, and Damian grudgingly allowed it before smoothing it back into place.

“Bye,” Damian said, and slipped off into the house like the little ninja he was. There was a soft chiming sound. Alfred looked at his phone. He had a message from a number he didn’t recognize.

Thanks for talking. Could we meet there again, same time next week?

Of course, Alfred texted back with a smile.

#my AO3 #AO3 fanfic #my ao3 account #fanfiction #Jason Todd #batfamily #BatFam #alfred pennyworth #autistic jason todd #autistic experiences #actually autistic

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magnusmysteries · 4 years ago

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Part 4: The Sixteenth Fear

The Magnus Archives was a horror podcast. It is now completed. Many of the show’s mysteries were never explained on the show. I intend to explain them. Spoilers for the show, but also spoilers if you wanna solve these mysteries yourself.

In part 3 I said every fear has an opposite. But the Flesh didn’t exist before the industrial revolution. So there would have been 13 fears then, an uneven number, and not every fear could balance against an opposite. So how could that be?

The answer is, there were only 12 fears before the Flesh. The Corruption and the Desolation used to be the same fear.

Diego Molina of the Lightless Flame cult worships Asag. A Sumerian god of disease that could make fish boil. So Asag seems to be of both the Corruption and the Desolation.

In Infectious Doubts Arthur Nolan complains about it: “Not like I can vent to the others about what a prat Diego is. Got a lot of funny ideas. Still calls the Lightless Flame Asag, like he was when he was first researching it. I just really wanna tell him to get over it; I mean Asag was traditionally a force of destruction, sure, but as a church we very much settled on burning in terms of the – face we worship, and some fish-boiling Sumerian demon doesn’t really match up, does it? Plus there’s a lot of disease imagery with Asag that I’ll reckon is way too close to Filth for my taste, but no, he read it in some ancient tome, so that’s that –“

Ancient is the key word. The tome predates the industrial revolution and the Flesh. Asag probably isn’t a thing anymore and Diego is indeed a prat for worshipping it.

In The Architecture of Fear Smirke writes “I know you say the Flesh was perhaps always there, shriveled and nascent until its recent growth, but to grant the existence of such a lesser power would throw everything into confusion. Would you have me separate the Corruption into insects, dirt, and disease? To divide the fungal bloom from the maggot?”

It is not random that Smirke uses the Corruption as an example here. The Corruption is the opposite of the Flesh, so the Corruption is the fear that Smirke believed had no opposite for hundreds or thousands of years.

In part 3 I said vampires where Corruption/Desolation/Hunt. This is a little far-fetched, but I wonder if the vampire’s we’ve seen have been old ones that predate the Flesh. And that’s why they are part Corruption, since Corruption and Hunt used to be next to each other. Maybe there are more modern vampires without the long sucking tongue. Maybe instead of sucking blood, when they bite you begin to burn or boil. Since the Hunt is now next to the Desolation instead of the Corruption-Desolation combo.

In Vampire Killer Trevor says “I have killed five people that I know for sure as vampires, and there are two more that may or may not have been.” There is a missing middle part of Trevor’s statement. Maybe there he talks about killing two vampires that are modern and therefore different so he’s not sure if they’re actually vampires.

Speaking of fears splitting up, why is the Darkness the opposite fear of the Slaughter? In Last Words we hear of the first fear “A fear of blood and pounding feet, a fear of that sudden burst of pain and then nothing.”

And of the second fear “The fear of their own end, of the things that lived in the darkness, became a fear of the darkness itself.”

I think the first was a general fear of violence. It includes what became the Hunt “Blood and pounding Feet...” and the Slaughter “...Sudden burst of pain and then nothing”, and the End “The fear of their own end…” And the second fear was the Darkness. They were the opposite by default, simply for being the two first fears.

When the Buried became a fear, the Hunt split up from the Violence to oppose it. When the Vast became a fear, the End split up from the Violence to oppose it. All that was left of the Violence was Slaughter, still opposing the Dark. When humans began warfare, fear of war fit nicely with the Slaughter.

The Eye might have been part of the Dark at first. Still from Last Words: “...because they knew the dark held flashing talons and shining eyes…”

When the Lonely became a fear, the Eye split up from the Dark to oppose it.

So what about the Extinction? Does it have an opposite? Yes! There is a sixteenth fear. And what can be the opposite of the fear of the end of the world? The fear that the world isn’t real. That we’re all just living in a computer simulation. If you think the world isn’t even real, you’re not gonna be so worried about it ending. I’ll call it the Simulation.

Here is how the fears are arranged on the wheel, with the two latest fears added:

Description of image: A circle with 16 spots similar to a clock. On each spot is a number and the name of a power: 1. Corruption. 2 Extinction. 3. Desolation. 4. Hunt. 5. Slaughter. 6. End. 7. Lonely. 8. Stranger. 9. Flesh. 10. Simulation 11. Spiral. 12. Buried. 13. Dark. 14. Vast. 15. Eye. 16. Web.

The Extinction is next to the Corruption. Disease and garbage are both gross. Possessive is an Extinction episode, even if not acknowledged as such by any of the characters. It’s about garbage. And Maggie is creating people out of garbage. She is making the inheritors mentioned in Time of Revelation. There are also creatures made of garbage in Concrete Jungle. And Maggie was full of moving insect legs, showing Corruption influence.

Quote from Adelard Dekker from Rotten Core: “I’ve spoken before about how keenly I’ve watched news of possible pandemics, which is where I suspect the Extinction may pull away from the Corruption during its emergence.” Adelard knows the Extinction is next to Corruption.

The Extinction is next to Desolation. That fits, nuclear weapons cause fire. Quote from Times of Revelation, describing corpses: “They were stiff, and desiccated, mummified by some process Bernadette could not begin to guess at, but that rendered their flesh like tightly packed ash” Ash as if they were burned.

The Simulation is next to the Flesh. The Flesh makes you think humans aren’t people, they are just meat. The Simulation makes you think humans aren’t people, they are just NPCs.

The Simulation is the next to the Spiral. Both make you question what is real. The Spiral makes you doubt your mind, the Simulation makes you doubt your world.

There are four episodes about the Simulation: Binary, Zombie, Cul-de-sac and Reflection.

In Binary Sergey Ushanka uploads his mind into a computer. He becomes a simulation and it hurts. There is influence by the Spiral, the statement giver isn’t sure if she’s going crazy. And there is influence by the Flesh. Ushanka uploads himself into a computer and then he eats the computer. So that’s cannibalism.

In Zombie the statement giver thinks other people aren’t real, they’re philosophical zombies, In other words they like simulations or NPCs. The man that follows her repeats the phrase “Just fine, thank you for asking” and says nothing else. Just like some NPCs in video games will say the same phrase over and over. The man is identical the three times they meet, except for his t-shirt changes color. Sometimes in video games some NPCs will be identical, except for some colors are changed. (Because it’s less work to recollar a character than to draw one from scratch.)

John thinks Cul-De-Sac is about the Lonely. And yes, the statement giver was lonely. But the people affected by the Lonely choose to be lonely, and the statement giver didn’t. His boyfriend broke up with him because of cheating and then he lost his friends because they sided with his boyfriend.

I think the theme of the statement is unreality, not loneliness. In the Magnus Archives, when someone gets marked by a power it is because they made some wrong choice. The choice the statement giver makes is to return to the place he found dead and soulless. He drives back to his ex-boyfriend to deliver the moose, rather than send it by mail. He specifically wants to meet his ex. Not an act of loneliness, quite the opposite. Also he is returning a moose that is angular and creepy, in other words it is unreal.

When the statement escapes from the nightmare it’s because he got a phone call from his ex. And he says “I love you.” and that fits neatly with the Lonely. But it also fits with escape from the unreal. He escapes because he communicates with a real person.

The road signs says “Road” and “Street”. Generic and unreal. All the houses look the same. Like in a computer game. The statement giver wonders if they are the same house. Like in a computer game where one might reuse the code for a house many times.

The house he enters has stock photos. Unreal.

The people on TV have something wrong with their eyes, similar to the eyes of the zombies in Zombie. And it's a fake cooking show, and a fake infomercial.

The dead woman upstairs was someone who had social media profiles, and that nobody notices had died. Meaning she lived her life online. That sounds like she was lonely. But living online also makes her a good victim for the Simulation. Everyone she talked to was on a computer, she couldn’t know for sure if they were real.

The woman had killed herself with a mirror. I think what happened was she had looked into the mirror and seen that her eyes were wrong, like the eyes of the people on TV. And she had thought she was just a simulation, like everything around her. And therefore she killed herself. Or perhaps she wasn’t reflected in the mirror at all? Like in…

Reflection. Adelard speculated that this statement was about the Extinction, but I don’t think so. The protagonist was in a world that seemed unreal. A fun fair is artificial so that fits the theme. The people were playing games, which fits the theme via computer games maybe.

Adelard says “I can’t quite get past the detail that there was no reflection at all in the mirror he used to return.” It is almost at the end of Adelard’s letter, it’s clearly meant to be significant. The no reflection might be symbolic for the statement giver starting to think he isn’t real, which might be what happened to him after he gave the statement.

Reflection has influence by the Spiral, with the maze of mirrors. There is influence by the Flesh, with the cannibalism.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #robert smirke #adelard dekker

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suburbanbeatnik · 4 years ago

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The short and very miserable life of Napoleon II, aka the Eaglet, aka Franz, Duke of Reichstadt: PART ONE

Napoleon’s son with Marie Louise, his second wife, the daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor Habsburg Emperor Francis II, is known by a variety of names: Napoleon II, the Eaglet, l’Aiglon, King of Rome, or Franz, Duke of Reichstadt. It seems to me this kid barely gets mentioned as a footnote in most popular biographies of Napoleon. Of course Napoleon loved kids, and was over the moon that he finally had his own legitimate child, his own son and heir. He doted on this adorable and spirited blond moppet, being super affectionate with him, playing with him, spending lots of time with him, bringing him into his study to cuddle with him as he read dispatches, or tossing him up into the air when the toddler pulled on his coat-tails.

It’s very sweet and heart-warming to read all these adorable father-son moments, but honestly it’s depressing as hell to realize the best years of the Eaglet’s life was up to the age of four.

When he parted from his father after his defeat in Russia, it was all horribly and sickeningly downhill from there.

So I was reading Octave Aubry’s biography The King of Rome: Napoleon II. It’s not a new bio by any means— it’s from 1932. But it is thoroughly researched and very well written, with lots of cites from various Viennese archives, and Jesus Christ, it is depressing. The Eaglet was physically and emotionally abused by the Habsburg side of his family and by their minions for most of his very short life, and it makes for a harrowing read.

What did his mother do to stop it, you may ask? Unfortunately, the answer is absolutely nothing.

TW: CHILD ABUSE

So, the best that could be said about his mother, Marie Louise, was that she was a weak character. If I wanted to be more blunt, I’d say she was spineless enough to the point I wonder if she was even a vertebrate.

She was, of course, raised to hate Napoleon as a child. But then she met him and fell in love with him. She was very eager to be loved and do everything he asked her to do, even if (as Andrew Roberts points out in his own mammoth biography of Napoleon) she wasn’t the brightest bulb. But perhaps she was a perfectly cromulent empress when war wasn’t on her doorstep and she wasn’t asked to make decisions: but once the war WAS on her doorstep and decision-making was called of her, she fell apart like wet tissue. As Aubry explains:

That it would be a capital mistake for Marie Louise and her son to leave Paris was painfully evident to everyone, even to the Empress herself. But no initiative could have been expected of her. Willing, always of the best intentions, she was a passive creature both by temperament and education. She could never be more than an instrument in the hands of others. But Hortense, who had a resolute spirit behind that bleat of hers, showed both intelligence and heart in the circumstances. She was waiting for Marie Louise when the council was over, and said to her:

‘Sister dear, you must realize that in leaving Paris you will be neutralizing the defense and so lose your crown. I observe that you are making the sacrifice with great resignation.’

The Empress replied gently, almost humbly:

‘You are right. It is not my fault— the Council has decided that way.’

She was hoping vaguely for a letter from the Emperor, a counter-order that would permit her to remain. [Aubry pg 54]

At this point Louise, after fleeing Paris, wanted to be reunited with Napoleon, but she just cried and wrung her hands, as her lady-in-waiting Mme Lannes, in cahoots with Talleyrand, poured poison into her ear about how Napoleon never loved her. Then Talleyrand conspired to have all of Louise’s stuff stolen. The soon-to-be-ex-empress continued to cry and do nothing, only to go “to her room to collapse on her knees at her bedside.”

Anyway, her father swooped in and picked her up, and Metternich arranged to have Neipperg, a dashing, managing middle-aged man in uniform (Louise definitely had a type), seduce her. Within the space of weeks, she immediately changed her tune with regards to her husband, and wanted to have nothing more to do with him. As for the Eaglet, though he ended up in Vienna, he was in the care of his beloved governess, Mme de Montesquiou, aka “Maman ‘Quiou.” He was in good hands while Maman ‘Quiou was allowed to stay with him, but she was deathly afraid of being sent away, since she knew Louise was indifferent to her child and would never do the right thing, now that she was the puppet of her father and of Metternich.

With her son whom she had not seen for three months and who was enraptured at her return, she [Marie Louise] concerned herself less and less. In spite of the caresses and the gifts that were showered upon her, Mme. de Montesquiou saw things clearly and passed her judgment. Writing to her husband who was urging her to leave Vienna she said:

“My dear, do not call it my duty to return to France. As I have already advised you, you would be putting me in the greatest embarrassment, and my conscience would trouble me all my life long… If that child has a mother, very well, I could place him in her hands and be satisfied. But she is nothing less than that: she is more indifferent to his fate than the veriest stranger in his service.”

And to an intimate she confided in disgust at what she suspected and intuited:

“I have seen painful things, and I keep seeing them every day.” [Aubry pg 81]

Unfortunately, in 1815, Maman ‘Quiou was sent away. The Eaglet wept for two days straight, and was put into the care of a certain Countess Mitrovsky, “a creature of the Empress Maria-Ludovica and an intimate of Neipperg.” The loyal Meneval, who was also to be sent away, said good-bye to the little boy, and the change in the child’s demeanor was striking.

He was struck by the child’s earnest and melancholy air. He did not run to meet Meneval with his usual lively gestures and gay exclamations. He watched him, as he entered, with the utmost indifference. Countess Mitrovsky was with him. Every few seconds he would look at her as though in fear of a reprimand. After a few conventional phrases, Meneval took his hand and asked him if he had anything to say to his papa, for he was going soon to see him. The child looked at him sadly and went away, still silent, towards the embrasure of a distant window. Meneval bade good-bye to the Countess and Mme. Soufflot [one of the few remaining French waiting women], then, as he was leaving, stepped over to the little boy who stood watching him from the window. He bent low to bid him good-bye. And at that moment, he felt a tug at his coat and heard a trembling little voice say:

“Monsieur Meva, you will tell him that I still love him dearly.”

He was only four years old and for fourteen months he had not seen his father…

When he reached the antechamber, Meneval burst into tears. [Aubry, pgs 89-90]

Not long after this, the young King was delivered into the care of a tutor named Count Dietrichstein. The Eaglet, who was “dragged” by Countess Mitrovsky to meet Dietrichstein, refused to have anything to do with him, and Dietrichstein, while weeping, dramatically claimed to a friend “he cannot love me” as long as the last French women, even the aged nurse, were in Franz’s service. So Mme Soufflot, her daughter Fanny, and the others were banished, leaving Franz completely alone.

No more warmth about him, no more deep interest, no more deep interest, no soft hands to stroke his curls, no arms to clasp him too tight when he returned weary from a drive, no knees to spread him to let him rest, no more smiling reproofs for his shortcomings, no more love in short— real love, that is disinterested, unselfish love, love for himself and love for what he was. His mother was soon to leave him, to ascend to her throne in Parma. HIs grandfather Franz treated him kindly; but he had always sacrificed him for the interests of State and would sacrifice him again, if the Chancellor [Metternich] so ordered. As for his uncles, aunts, and cousins of Austria, however well they might treat him, however generous they might be, as certain of them were, they could not— and this was natural— help seeing in him, first of all, the son of Napoleon.

He was born with an affectionate disposition. He had loved his father infinitely. With his mother he had been tender and gentle. He had adored Mme de Montesquiou and Fanny Soufflot. Now he was compelled to close his heart. Brought up by men, raised only by men, but still too much of a child to become a man, he turned inward, escaped into the little universe he had made for himself with his memories of former days. For as young as he was, he had no hope, and he did not know there was a future. He was going to grow up that way, not unhappy if one only looks at the material content of life, but if one thinks of the needs of the heart, certainly not happy. [Aubry pgs 97-98]

Count Dietrichstein decided that he was going to stamp all the Frenchness out of the Eaglet’s mind, for he must become 100% a Habsburg. Nothing but German would be spoken to him, and when he clung to speaking French, crying that he didn’t want to be a German, that he wished to be a Frenchman, he was chastised, deprived of play and outings, and then, with the Emperor Franz’s approval, actually whipped. Yes— he was whipped. When he was only five years old, because he wouldn’t speak German.

But when even that wouldn’t work, Marie Louise sat him on her knee and told him solemnly that he must speak German to please his grandfather, which finally did the trick. Not long after this, she went to the little court in Parma. She requested for her son to go with her, but when Metternich refused, she acquiesced meekly.

Once so light-hearted and gay, the child became timid and mistrustful, and after the departure of his friends, the French women, and would lie to protect himself. In such cases he would be punished, not harshly, but not gently either. He shrank more and more into himself, accordingly, and since the world had grown hostile, he now began to offer it only a surface of indifference. [Aubry, pg 100]

He began to act out, destroying his copy books and mutilating his toys, but would also become sensitive to injustice or cruelty, like a dog being whipped or a bird eating a worm. He was told he would no longer be called Napoleon: he was to be called Franz. When he objected, he was “promptly silenced.” He became used to the name, and from here on out he was usually called Franz.

Franz still fought with Dietrichstein, who commented on his “laziness” and “ill will,” and his many quarrels with the prince, although he was happy to note in his letters to Marie Louise that it ended with “my victories.” Metternich had the boy closely followed, reports sent regularly and classified into a “ponderous file.” Meanwhile, his mother, off in Parma, when she wasn’t writing letters to her son exhorting him to pious obedience, made the feeblest attempt to defend the interests of the newly christened Franz— Franz was cut off from the succession of Parma after Metternich decided that this was in the best interests of the monarchy in Italy, Marie Louise was “readily brought into line by Neipperg, who owned her now body and soul.”

…She expressed herself as satisfied in a private letter of October, 1817:

“My son’s future has been determined. You know that I was never ambitious for thrones or States for him, but hoped he would be the richest and most charming gentleman in Austria.” [Aubry pg 110]

Meanwhile, Napoleon was kept on the island of St Helena, waiting for news from his son, but he heard not a word from his wife or a line from his son for six years. When he died, he was looking at Franz’s portrait, and left him many legacies, such as his books, engravings, papers, coffee service and the family house in Ajaccio, but Franz saw none of it. His mother, who was pregnant at the time with Neipperg’s son, didn’t even tell her son of his father’s death. She refused to accept Napoleon’s heart, which his will bequeathed her, because, as Aubry says, “she was more interested in the inheritance: she filed objection to the transfer of the six millions on deposit with Laffitte out of which the bequests of the Emperor were to be paid. She would not permit Marchand [Napoleon’s valet] to deliver to her at Parma Napoleon’s laces and the bracelet made of his hair.” Napoleon even begged her to take his last physician, Dr Antommarchi, into her service: she refused to even meet with him, palming the doctor off on Neipperg, who glad-handed Antommachi and pushed him out the door when he started asking too many questions about Franz.

Louise did moan about Napoleon’s suffering on St Helena while she was giving birth to Neipperg’s child, but she promptly forgot it. “She was a weak and frivolous soul. She would have grieved longer over her pet parrot, Marguerite. She even expressed astonishment that Madame Mere should have asked the British government for Napoleon’s body.” [Aubry pg 120]

One of the junior tutors named Foresti was given the task to tell the ten year old Franz that his father was dead.

The child began to weep and he wept a long time, doubtless calling up in his memory the pale face which had softened to such tenderness whenever it drew near his own. He sat down near the window, his cheeks, and his hands that covered them, wet with tears. Foresti himself was deeply moved and tried to comfort him. But the child did not hear him. [Aubry pg 122]

As Prokesch, his best friend of his short adult life, put it later:

“The prince wept for a whole day, almost without stopping. Then, suddenly, he mastered his emotions, dried his eyes, rose and paced the floor up and down. Not a word came from his lips. And several weeks passed before he alluded to his father’s death. He felt he must keep his grief to himself.”

Meanwhile, Franz was now thinking in German, but he still rebelled against his teachers, who, for years, beat him with the ferule (a type of paddle that resembled a long and large wooden spoon, the circular head often pierced with holes, and sometimes as large as a child’s head)— his grandfather the Emperor authorized “great severity” against him when he was being “stubborn”— but this stopped when it was clear beatings no longer had any affect. Except for brief months of pleasure during summer vacations at the castle of Persenbeug where Marie Louise deigned to leave Parma, Franz, who was completely without friends, was kept in solitude. He responded by withdrawing into himself and going into a fantasy world.

He dreamed, and gained freedom by dreaming. As a small boy he loved to play: now that he was growing up, it was still what he liked to do best. Never did child love to dream more than he: that escape from time, from responsibilities, from disappointments, that journey without end, where ideas, colors and forms mingled according to one’s fantasy! As soon as he could flee the watchful care of Foresti or of Collin, instead of working at his translations, his themes, or his arithmetic exercises, he would open the huge gilt-edged volumes given to him on his birthdays by his grandfather or the Archdukes and leaning his head on his hand, began to dream with his eyes upon the awkward, rather ridiculous illustrations of those days, in which one could see beplumed generals prancing besides their armies with spent cannonballs lying at their horses’ feet, while down in one corner an aide-de-camp would be reading an order and in the other an almoner kneeling besides a stretcher to confess a dying soldier.

Sometimes, bending low over an atlas, he would travel in spirit far out over the blue seas to the continents bordered in loud colors. One day, Matthias Collin came into the room and found him, with his cheek resting on a map. The little prince did not get up at his approach. His teacher thought he was asleep. But on going towards him, he saw the child’s eyes were wide open. The boy gave a start of surprise and blushed. He had been dreaming. Collin was more indulgent than Foresti. He did not punish him. [Aubry pg 132]

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More to come in part two!

#napoleon II #franz duke of reichstadt #l'aiglon #eaglet #reichstadt #marie louise #napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #octave aubry #king of rome #depressing shit #I'm sorry guys

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anjuschiffer · 4 years ago

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Following the Unknown

Okay, so sometime ago, I wrote something up about another soulmate au that was inspired from a dream I had (and for some reason I can’t find it in my archives...f* you Tumblr! And if anyone remembers what I’m talking about, think you can send me a link? Cuz I can’t find it QQ).

So the AU concept went something like this:

Some people know they have soulmates because they can hear their soulmate’s voice. If you’re lucky enough, you can actually see them, or rather their silhouette in the form of a swarm of leaves, that trail away once your soulmate stops talking to you. These leaves fly off and sometimes if you chase them, lead you to your soulmate. However, if they go on, that means that your soulmate isn’t close. Some people have feathers as guides, however, those who have seen these feathers and followed them are guaranteed to see their soulmates...but only at the brink of death. People dread to have feathers guide them to their soulmate, despite their gold color.

The only con of this soulmate bond is that only those with the bond can see the glowing white leaves, no one else can see the leaves but those with that type of bond.

And I haven’t touched the au until I was listening to Into the Unknown...

With that explanation out of the way, I hope you enjoy it!

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Song: Into the Unknown by Idina Menzel | Daminette Soulmate Au

Context: Damian is 17 years old, never once telling anyone he had a soulmate bond. Mari is 16, her soulmate bond appearing that very year, something she always wanted, but hated that it was at the worst time to receive a bond. After all, defeating Hawkmoth was her top priority.

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Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life

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AO3

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Damian stirred in his bed, a whisper ringing in his ears. Attempting to block them out, Damian wrapped his pillow over his head, his knuckles turning white as he did so.

Damian threw the pillow to the side, wincing at the voice that echoed within his head. Struggling to get up, Damian quickly drew out his sketchbook, flipping to the back of it. There, a meticulously set of dates were written and organized, a tip of a quill meeting the page, Damian writing down a new date.

Ever since his 16th birthday, he had been having these effects, a voice whispered to him.

It was soft, soothing, but annoying all at the same time.

Hello. It would whisper. Can you hear me?

I can hear you but I won't.

Of course he was able to. It bothered him to the ends of the Earth, causing him to become distracted at school and during patrols.

He regretted ever answering back to them after they kept trying to contact them for four solid months.

With that single response, he had been able to hear the voice clearer, causing the noise to grow stronger, something that Damian hated.

Because of it, his grades slowly slipped, but Damian had managed to keep them up. Patrol, however, was another story.

He kept getting a scolding from his father and brother, causing his mood to sour even more.

He already had a pretty shitty sleep schedule and the noise just made it worse.

He would awaken at random times during the middle of the night, ranging from one in the morning to four. He rarely got them at five and six, but nonetheless had them then as well.

Ignore your whispers which I wish would go away

Damian got back to bed, hoping to fall back to sleep as he heard the noise stay with him. Damian didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but he did, nonetheless when the noise had whispered to him.

Sorry.

And the voice remained quiet for the remainder of the night.

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“-and only one in every three million have this type of soulmate bond.” Damian paused the video, writing something down in his notepad, circling the new piece of information.

The Wind Bond.

A bond that those who had it describe it to be like a wind itself.

It caused you to hear the voice of your soulmate, ever so softly heard like a midsummer breeze.

The soulmate’s voice would only grow stronger if they were close by.

Those who had a romantic version of the bond would also see their soulmate’s silhouette in the form of leaves, scattering into the air if you managed to see it.

However, only the people with the bond were able to see and hear their soulmate.

It was also because of this that people called it the Wind Bond; many only faintly heard the voice of their soulmate and almost never got to ingrain the silhouette of their soulmate, causing them to lose all hope in ever seeing their soulmate.

It was hard to catch, hard to believe, just like the wind.

As Damian tapped in pencil against the table, the noise returned, Damian dropping his pencil to cradle his head.

You're not a voice, you're just a ringing in my ear.

With shaky hands, Damian reached for the headphones laying on his desk.

Damian paired them to his phone and put music to drown the noise, his shoulders relaxing when he could no longer hear it.

I'm sorry, secret siren, but I'm blocking out your calls.

Damian looked at what he had written, huffing at the paper.

Why would he ever believe in this?

Soulmates?

Damian ripped the paper and tossed them into his metal trash can. Seeing that all of the pieces were inside, Damian opened his desk drawer, rummaging through it until his hand found a small rectangular-like item.

Flicking the lighter, Damian took the final piece of his ‘research’ and lit it on fire, tossing it in with the rest, watching as smoke rose from the can.

Soulmates…

Why would he ever think he had one?

Even if he did have one, he shouldn’t care.

They were unnecessary, a hindrance to him…

At least his mother and grandfather told him.

As he watched the last ember die, Damian went back to studying, the ringing fading from his mind.

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Damian’s eyes widened as his eyes caught the thing behind him.

He had just gotten past the manor’s gates when he heard someone call out to him.

Turning, Damian found a girl made of softly glowing bluebell leaves.

He watched as they soon scattered into the air, Damian taking a step forward before going into a sprint.

He had the Wind Bond. And the romantic type at that.

Romance…

Love…

Chasing…

Damian quickly came to a stop, watching as the leaves finally left his view.

I'm afraid of what I'm risking if I follow you

Damian didn’t know for how long he was standing at where he was, but when he was done accepting what had happened to him, he let out a long deep sigh.

A soulmate, huh?

He would just have to try his best to ignore it.

------

Damian dug his nails into his hands, the noise coming back inside his head, and at the worst possible time.

What do you want?

He was busy trying to concentrate on the math problem in front of him, the clock ticking as his professor reminded the class of the time constraint.

“There’s ten minutes left!”

Are you here to distract me so I make a big mistake?

Damian wanted to scoff at the answer, racking everything he learned to solve the integration before him. It was the only thing left, but for some reason he just couldn’t seem to figure it out.

Just breath.

He did.

Recheck your fourth to last step. That’s where-

“Five minutes!”

Damian quickly rescanned his work for the twentieth time, finally noticing where he had gone wrong. Reworking that step, Damian began to internally grin as he confidently finished the rest, smiling when he placed his pencil down and the professor called time.

Damian hated to admit it, but was glad to be able to hear her voice clearly this time around.

The bell rang, signaling the start of the next class, Damian quickly walking out to get to it.

Thank you.

------

“-I simply did what I had to do!” Damian yelled, a snarl present on his face.

“You endangered the civilians inside the building!” Dick yelled, throwing a glare at Bruce. “And you allowed him to-”

“It was necessary for the mission.” Bruce simply stated, walking out the cave, leaving Dick with his feelings.

“I thought you had changed B!” Dick yelled, grabbing his coat. “Seems like you haven’t.”

Damian watched as Dick left, wanting to call him back, but knew that he shouldn’t. Instead, he went off to his own room, heading straight to the shower to get rid of the sweat that made his shirt cling to his body as if it were a second skin.

As he stood under the steaming hot water, Damian pondered to himself.

While he always held his father in high regards, Damian struggled to follow his standards, finding himself to lean more towards Dick’s. Who was right? Who did he have to follow? To please? Who’s standard should he even begin to follow?

Neither.

But he had to.

But don’t you already have your own set?

He did.

Then follow it.

Damian pursed his lips, turning off the water.

Why should he follow his own instead of one laid out before him?

Because if you try to meet the standards someone placed for you, you’re going to burn out quicker. You will start to lose yourself. Believe me. I’ve been there and hated it. Every. Second.

Damian kept wondering about the words the voice told him, catching the resentment behind them.

Despite having lived under the same roof as his father and older brother for seven years, Damian could still measure the tension between themselves. The air was suffocating, made his breathing heavy and felt off.

Or are you someone out there who's a little bit like me?

They did mention having to choose a decision and regretting it.

They had been through it…

Was it when he told them to take the ring from the other person she was fighting with?

If so, were they once like him? Did they once have these unwanted thoughts? Thoughts of fleeing?

Who knows deep down I'm not where I'm meant to be?

Damian shook his head, throwing himself onto his bed, Titus laying beside him.

As he laid in bed, Damian closed his eyes, replaying the day he stopped chasing the bluebell leaves.

Damian found himself reaching towards the ceiling, grabbing one of the leaves. He watched as the bluebell turned red before it slipped out of his hand.

Damian quickly chased after it, stopping as he reached the edge of the manor’s garden, watching as the red leaf turned bluebell once more and disappeared into the distance.

His hand reached out in an attempt to grab it again, despite knowing it was futile.

Don't you know there's part of me that longs to go

Into the unknown

------

Are you out there?

“-you alright Bugaboo?” Ladybug blinked as she registered what Chat had said, finally facing him after scanning their surroundings. “Is there something-”

“You didn’t hear that?”

“Hear what?” Chat asked, tilting his head, his ear twitching in anticipation.

Marinette looked to her side once again, wondering what the hell was happening to her.

Migraine? No, definitely not.

“Do you really-” Ladybug was about to ask, only to get interrupted by Chat.

“Seems like you can do it with a day off.” Chat said with a grin, twirling his baton. “You know, maybe a date at-”

Marinette zoned out Chat’s voice, wondering what was going on. She swore she had heard someone call out to her, a smooth voice that sent chills down her spine. But despite that, she felt curiosity behind that whisper.

“-and who knows? We might find out that we’re actually-”

“Soulmate.”

“You mean soulmates.” Chat tried to correct, watching as Ladybug’s face pale. “Bugaboo. What-”

“My soulmate bond.” She whispered, feeling a lump in her throat. “I got my soulmate b-”

“Does that mean-!”

“No.” Ladybug said, sternly looking at Chat. “We’re not soulmates.”

“How are yo-”

“When I asked if you heard that, you said no.”

“And what does that-”

“My soulmate bond has to do with hearing each other’s voices. Our thoughts.” Ladybug watched as Chat’s smile dropped, his eyes turning dull. “You’re not my- Chaton!” Marinette yelled out as Chat ran away from her, using his baton to launch himself to who knows where.

Sighing, Marinette called off her transformation, Tikki flying up to Marinette’s cheek. “Why now? Why now of all times?”

“I wish I had the answer to that Marinette, but even we have no knowledge on how soulmate bonds are assigned and given. If we did-”

“I always wanted a soulmate bond.” Marinette confessed, Tikki giving her a small smile. “But to think I would get one right now, with Hawkmoth-”

“It’s going to be alright Marinette.” Tikki assured, snuggling closer. “It’s going to be alright, you’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right Tikki. I really hope you are right.” Marinette said, embracing Tikki in her own way.

------

Do you know me?

Or rather do you remember me?

Marinette had not heard back from her soulmate in a solid month, wondering what was going on.

Was it just a fluke?

“I don’t think so.” Tikki said, munching on a cookie. “While we may not know everything about soulmate bonding, we do know some basic principles. Using those, I’m pretty sure you have a soulmate bond. It’s just taking a while to settle into your life. Well, lives.”

Marinette sighed, placing her head on her desk, attempting to reconnect with her soulmate for the umpteenth time.

Months continued to pass, Marinette now dealing with a tantrum-throwing Chat and an unresponsive soulmate.

Yes, the soulmate bonding was supposed to be the least of her worries, but how can Marinette ignore the fact that she hadn’t heard from them in three months?

In attempts to push it to the back of her mind, Marinette focused on retrieving the cat miraculous from Chat.

Another month passed when a miracle occured.

Marinette was sick and tired of playing cat and mouse with Chat, promising herself to try this one last time before she officially gave up on taking back the cat miraculous.

They were once more fighting an appearance changing akuma, the akuma changing the appearance of any person they touched, Marinette doing everything in her power to avoid being touched. What should she do? She didn’t want to be a useless fish nor-

Take it when he gets hit by his opponent.

Marinette stiffed at those words, feeling as if he knew then from experience himself.

Marinette didn’t get a response, but stuck with their advice, watching for her opportunity to rise.

An hour later, there it was.

As she flung him out of harm’s way, she slipped the ring off of him, her eyes closed as she renounced his ownership of the ring and of Plagg.

A single tear slipped as he heard him scream at her. As he begged her to reconsider.

Ladybug simply ignored the growing guilt in her chest, but knew it was for the best.

With a final tug at her yo-yo, Ladybug took down the akuma and prepared herself to be the hero Paris truly needed.

Back at home, Marinette hugged her pillow, crying her heart out as she started to doubt her decision from earlier that day.

Sorry.

———

A month had passed since that day, Marinette slumping into her bed as she de transformed. Plagg and Tikki quickly checked on their Guardian before going off to replenish their own energy.

With a heavy sigh, Marinette threw her arm over her forehead, feeling the tension in it.

Hawkmoth was still out there, searching for her, using all her allies against her. All but two.

Rena Rouge has the first out.

Then Carapace.

Lady Guêpe was forced to resign.

Then Chat Noir.

Ryuuko and Viperion remained, but at what cost?

But she couldn’t keep burdening them with her duties, with her life.

The trio were the only ones to protect Paris, although it was majorly Lady Chat in the scene.

Announcing to Paris that Chat was no longer going to aid with the defeat of Hawkmoth ended up turning for the worst, half of Paris wondering why Ladybug would ever do such a thing.

Why would she ever let Chat go when she needed him the most?

She ignored them, knowing it was for the greater good. She knew that what she did was necessary.

She wasn’t going to allow Chat to continue to corrupt Plagg, even Viperion and Ryuuko agreed with her.

And yes, she did always meet up with them...in their slightly hidden civilian forms.

While the previous guardian told her the importance of keeping their identities, Marinette’s morality began to waver.

If they wanted any chance of defeating Hawkmoth, they needed more trust with each other.

Yes, they can potentially leak out each other’s identities if akumatized, but she was willing to risk it.

So with Ryuuko and Viperion’s help, Ladybug sought a way to take down the enemy, once and for all.

Marinette’s thoughts soon became muddled, equations blurring into her mind.

She sat there, cradling her mind as math flooded her head, a concerned Tikki rushing to her.

They are rushing it.

They had to use substitution there, not the answer they got in the first part.

What do you want?

Are you here to distract me?

No.

Just breath.

Recheck your fourth to last step. That’s where-

The voice faded, becoming a soothing hum. Mari felt as her shoulders relaxed, only then noticing she had then square and tense.

She decided to sit up, eyeing her sketchbook.

When was the last time she opened it?

Just as she turned to a clean page, Marinette started to sketch, writing the word red at the side.

That’s when she heard her soulmate say something she thought they were never going to say to her.

Thank you.

Giddiness filled her imagination, Marinette got to designing, Plagg and Tikki smiling as they watched her emerge herself into her work.

———

Marinette placed a final pin into her alterations when her head began to angrily hum.

Who’s standard should I follow?

Marinette wondered what was going on with her soulmate that made them question and doubt the morality standards around them. But if she went off experience…

Neither.

But I have to choose a side.

Don’t you have your own set of morals? Principles?

I do.

Then follow them.

Why can’t I just choose one of the ones laid before me?

Because if you keep trying to choose one of them, you’re going to burn out. You’re going to lose yourself. And you’ll hate it. Every. Second. That passes.

Marinette began to panic when she didn’t hear anything said back, looking at Tikki for some type of explanation.

Tikki simply looked at her with sad eyes while Plagg purred against Marinette’s cheek, Marinette deflating upon not getting an answer to her situation.

———

Can you feel me?

The voice asked, Damian debating on whether to answer it.

Because, no. He couldn’t feel them, but certainly did feel their emotions

He had been for the past half year.

And he knew that whoever they were, they were either a hero or vigilante.

He was able to clearly feel their emotions and hear their thoughts when they finally defeated someone called Hawkmoth.

He had tried to ask them who it was, but they never responded, quickly changing the subject.

Mostly about their upcoming schedule.

Something about having to make a dress for some event they were invited to.

He remembers telling them about him being in the same boat, having to get his measurements taken for a new suit for the gala.

Can you show me?

Their bond only allowed them to hear each other.

And our silhouettes. They added.

“Master Damian, there you are.” Alfred spoke, Damian looking over at his grandfather (not that he would ever say it out loud).

“Is this about the gala? I presume Father wants me to do something for him.”

“More like remind you of how-“

“I won’t let some random harlots try to seduce me.” Damian stated firmly, picking up Alfred the cat. “They can try, but I will not waver.”

Alfred let a smile out, giving a few words for thought before leaving.

Damian sighed, going back to his conversation. Or at least attempted.

He tried to say something to his soulmate, but never got a response…

Not even as he tried to talk to her for the next few weeks.

———

Marinette stood by the punch bowl, watching as everyone around her talked like old time friends, chatting away into the night.

She rubbed her hands against her bare arms, wondering why someone like her was even at the Wayne Gala.

Oh right. She was personally invited because of her other identity: M.

M - the mysterious designer that had taken the fashion world upside down with their presence and style.

Marinette sighed, taking her glass of champagne and walking towards the balcony, not a single set of eyes following her crystal embedded red dress that stood out like a sore thumb.

Leaning against the stone railing, Marinette huffed, twirling the glass between her fingers, watching as the champagne sizzled as it swirled.

Finding herself bored, Marinette hummed to herself, wishing she was still able to talk to her soulmate.

Ever since that night a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to contact them, even Tikki growing worried as to why it was happening.

Marinette missed talking to them, even if their relationship did start on the wrong foot.

She missed them...dearly.

As Marinette continued to hum to herself, something caught her attention; a single emerald glowing leaf flew into her line of sight, her breath hitching.

It continued to fly away, into the hall in which the gala was taking place.

Where are you going? Don't leave me alone

Without a second thought, Marinette quickly followed it, not caring about the stares she was gathering as she pushed her way through the crowds.

She stumbled a bit as she saw the butterfly take a corner, almost losing it in the process.

How do I follow you

Into the unknown

Marinette quickly called out Kaalki, giving out an order to bring Mullo to her.

As soon as she had made it out into the open, Mullo quickly joined Marinette into the chase, multiplying to help with the search.

Marinette’s heart beat louder and stronger as she watched the butterfly begin to pulse brighter than ever before, a smile growing unbeknownst to Mari.

The joy died done when the butterfly stopped going, hovering in the middle of the garden which Mari found herself at.

Finally having a moment to breath, Marinette looked around herself, hedges and rows of flora surrounded her, shades of camellias encircling her. In the distance, she noticed some blue salvias, the tips peeking from under bushes.

Why was she brought here?

Here of all places?

Her thoughts were broken when she heard a pair of shoes click their way towards her, Marinette watching as the shadowed figure became another person.

When their eyes met, a group of leaves burst around them, the soft bluebell mingled with the emerald ones, dancing around each other.

“So you’re my soulmate.” He started, Marinette wondering how he wasn’t breaking a sweat in the layers of formal attire. She also couldn’t help but notice that his suit had kevlar integrated.

“I must be if the leaves guided us to one another.” Marinette responded, wondering what to do next.

The two looked at each other, wondering who was going to take the next step when the man broke into a smile.

“Damian. My name's Damian Wayne.”

“Marinette.” She followed. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m glad I found you, Damian.”

She really was.

She was happy to have followed the wind bond into the unknown.

Epilogue/Bonus:

Dick watched as Damian ran through the crowds in the gala.

“Damian! Where-“

“Somewhere!” Damian yelled, peaking Dick’s curiosity.

Dick waited until he saw him leave the hall before tailing him, having to pick up the pace when he almost lost sight of the boy a few times.

Dick wondered where exactly Damian was running off to, worry growing stronger when they had left the manor and were running into the garden.

He quickly tumbled into a hedge when he watched Damian slow down, following his gaze.

There, a few meters away, was a small stature girl with the most captivating red dress. The off-shoulder dress perfected fitted the girl’s small frame, Dick watching with the utmost glee as he saw Damian approach the girl.

Just as the two were three feet apart, Dick watched as a kaleidoscope of butterflies burst around them, leaving Dick starstruck.

He’d always heard of the wind bond, some of his friends telling him they had it. But this was the first time he’s ever seen it, let alone seen actual soulmates-

Soulmates…

HIS BROTHER HAD A SOULMATE AND NEVER TOLD HIM?!

Filled with hurt, Dick curled into a ball and stayed there in shock.

“Grayson. How long do you plan on staying there?”

Dick raised his head, watching how Damian attempted to keep a smile in check while his soulmate was wrapped around his arm. “Come on, the gala’s about to end. I need to make an announcement as it does.”

It took a quick second for Dick to figure out what he had meant by that.

“Damian! Don’t you dare-“

“Watch me.” Damian said with a grin, watching as the girl looked at Dick in confusion as Damian led her back inside.

Dick, however, didn't make it in time to warn their father, watching as Damian announced to the world about his soulmate… right as his own father was going to propose to Selina on live.

“That idiot.” Dick muttered, a smile still on his face as he watched Damian glow alongside his newfound love.

#maribat #daminette #maribat song inspired fic #daminette soulmates #maribat soulmate au #daminette soulmate au #anju writes

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