#i thought duke deserved a little familiar if he had to be corrupted :)

[pipperoo]

once again, drawing my own fanart for my fics

my take on duke as the lords in black’s disciple, with his cat bart as his familiar. in a perfect world, both of their eyes would glow green. that is holloway’s jacket and he is holding the black blade. bart’s supposed to be an orange maine coon (i don’t really know how to draw cats)

this takes place after my fic “and i’m left here withering” if you’re interested

[pl-panda]

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 15

MASTERLIST || First || Previous || Next

To Marry a Vigilante: Part 15

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The book was incredibly interesting. It was written in some dialect of Mandarin. Many things were also covered in The Grimoire but several stories told there were previously completely unknown. It seemed like it was written after the other book and while the first was entirely encyclopedical, this one contained detailed stories from several time periods. What got Ladybug’s attention was that many of them were diary excerpts. 

One of the most important elements was a story about the seventeenth-century villain, Lord of Butterflies, who came to the colonial city of Gotham and tried to take control of the settlement. He was a master of deception and almost succeeded. Ladybug and Black Cat of that time never appeared. Another story told about their involvement in the Thirty Years’ War in continental Europe, where they were hunting the Snake and Bee Miraculous users that tried to manipulate the conflict. Luckily for Gotham, a witch hunter named Malleus opposed him and used jars with symbols engraved on the walls to keep the butterflies locked away so they could not wreak havoc again. The book told of the power struggle until finally, after the burning of Raphael Dent, a longtime friend of Malleus, the attacks stopped. Most people thought that the problem was over, but from the looks of it, the author of that book tried to imply that Lord of Butterflies just bid his time, waiting for the opportunity to strike again. 

Ladybug read the story twice, trying to figure out the fate of all the corrupted Butterflies or the jars, but she got nothing. Maybe if they figured out what symbols kept the akumas in, she could experiment with warding the butterflies away. It could be a breakthrough!

While she was browsing the book, Black Cat eyed the teens. “Shouldn’t you people scramble for classes?”

“Nope!” The little one, Maps, grinned. “The new school policy. In case of a supervillain attack on campus, the rest of the classes that day are canceled to avoid additional stress to students. It’s nice they care about our mental health.” 

“Yeah… Dude,” Colton looked at Black Cat, “any chance you can tell me what tech your staff uses?”

“Tt. It’s magic.” 

“No, seriously, I suppose it could be an organic metal of some sort, but it’s able to perfectly support your weight at the same time.” 

“Magic.” The vigilante-turned-hero growled.

“Come on! Don’t do it to me, man! Pom won’t let me live it down!”

“I told you magic was real!” The teen was glaring at him with a smirk on her face.

“Tt. Don’t play with magic or you’ll get burnt.” He scoffed. 

“Don’t be a grumpy cat!” Ladybug called from over the book. “Silverlock… Why does it sound so familiar…”

“Did you say Silverlock?” One of the teens peaked. “I’m Olive Silverlock.”

“Bellatrix Silverlock was the only akuma from that period mentioned here by name… I wonder why… Ugh! I can’t decipher that part. It’s too old and damaged.” The heroine groaned. “Cat! We should move back to the base.” She pulled a pair of glasses from her yo-yo and put them on. “Tikki! Kaalki! Merge!” 

As soon as the light of transformation died, a portal consumed both superheroes and the book, leaving the teens alone in the dark library.

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Sabine paced around the manor in the foul mood she was in ever since she sent the kids on their way after initiation and returned home for some long-deserved rest. Half-way home, she received a phone-call from Chloé saying that Marinette was crying in the bathroom with her over another girl that threatened her. The only thing that stopped Sabine from turning around and possibly crashing the car through the front gates was her daughter begging her not to.

She admired that her little girl tried to resolve the problems herself and she didn’t want to come off as overbearing and intruding. It wouldn’t stop her from preparing for if it seemed too much for her sunshine. She made a mistake with Lila. This time, she would be ready. But first, she needed tools. 

“Tom! Where is my suit?!” She called out to her husband, who was happily baking in the kitchen. He finally managed to kick Alfred out and get control. Sabine laughed when the butler, passing her, revealed that he let him win. 

“I think Bruce wanted to put it in the vault, together with the bag!” The large man answered with a merry tone. 

“Thank you, honey! I think I’ll be going out for a while!” 

“Be safe!”

Finally having a direction, she stormed toward the vault. It was hidden under the stairs, where one had to first enter a secret passage, only to then open a door in the wall.

When she opened the doors and looked inside, her first instinct was to immediately go into a battle stance.

It looked like a tornado passed through the room, which was supposed to be neatly ordered. All the documents were scattered, two priceless artifacts got destroyed and every drawer was pulled out. Inside the wall opposite to the doors, someone made a giant hole. The concrete was shattered and the metal reinforcement cage was pulled apart. 

Warily, Sabine approached the hole. Once she got closer, she could take a better look at the reinforcement. What got her attention was the way it was bent. Someone grabbed it and ripped it apart. The hole itself also revealed a small rectangular area that was used to hide something. A secret buried so deeply it was frozen inside a wall of a hidden vault inside a hidden corridor in one of the best-guarded buildings in Gotham.

“Oh for crying out loud! I just wanted my suit…” She threw her hands up. 

---------

More or less at the same time, Tim had a lazy day at the cave. He didn’t need to return to Wayne Enterprises for at least another week. He tried to solve a cold case, using the updated list of secret powers Sabine provided him. He and Bruce were both worried about how much had escaped them. Neither considered Luxembourg Secret Service to be capable of ordering a hit on a hitman that was after their Duke. And hire Lady Shiva nonetheless. 

He just got himself a new cup of coffee when suddenly, a portal appeared in the middle of the cave and dropped two superheroes and a book on a podium. The Cat landed on his feet while Ladybug fell on her rear with a soft thud. Startled, Tim dropped his mug and the coffee spilled all around him.

“Could you not!?” He shouted, a bit embarrassed that they got a drop on him so easily. 

“Tt. Shut up replacement.” Cat growled. He and Marinette dropped their transformations and she proceeded to feed Tikki with some cookies while he reluctantly pulled a small, isolated box from his pocket and gave Plagg a bit of cheese. 

“We’ve got plenty of new material after the last akuma attack. I’ve sent you a picture of a woman using the Peacock Miraculous and we’ve got an essential book.” She walked over to the bat computer. “It appears that they used the distraction the akuma caused to infiltrate the place.”

“I’m not sure, Angel.” Damian was busy with the other screen, trying to attach the tablet to it. The deciphering system managed to unlock it already and while he waited for the system to scan for any traps, he browsed the photos. “From the look of it, she only got two or three pages before we ambushed her. She must’ve arrived shortly before us or couldn’t find it for a long time. I would hazard a guess that she didn’t know about it.”

“But… That would mean she was at school when… but how would she… No! The only other person that heard about the book was Erica.”

“Maybe not. She could’ve been there trying to get some information on us.”

“But how did she get there before us?”

“Tt. It’s not like the Detective Club was in any hurry.” He huffed. 

“Um… That’s all great and all, but what the bat are you talking about?” Tim asked, trying to get between the married couple. 

“We had an akuma attack at school. Damian earned detention for calling Hammerhead old while out of the suit. After we dealt with the akuma we learned about this book,” she pointed at the podium. “We went to check it and found the new Peacock trying to photograph as much as she could. We stole her tablet and kicked her backside.” Marinette beamed. 

Their discussion was interrupted when Sabine stormed inside the cave. “I need security feed from the Gala. Someone trashed the Wayne Vault and stole some box!” She shouted at Tim. “Oh! Hi Sweetie. Go change out of the uniform and we will get tea in a minute.” She smiled at her daughter. Except it was not as genuine as her usual smile. It felt much more forced. 

“Maman. I would love to, but maybe let’s deal with the break-in first?”

“We must wait for Bruce to get back anyway. He took Cass to the ballet class today. My turn will be on Thursday.” 

She pulled the video feed from the camera that overlooked the entrance to the corridor that led to the Vault. She put it on double speed and watched various guests hang around and talk. They usually had a glass of champagne. Suddenly, Marinette lunged and pressed the pause button.

“Him!” She pointed to a younger man with jet black hair and a white mask that covered the upper part of his face. His hair was neatly combed back with no small amount of hair gel, enough that it shined in the camera. 

“He doesn’t stand out really…” Tim scanned the image. 

“The bracelet!” She seethed. “I can’t believe that bastard still carries the bracelet.”

“Tt. I can cut it off next time I see him.” Damian offered before muttering “Together with the arm.” Luckily for him, Marinette had more pressing matters than stopping his murderous instincts.

“So Agreste somehow got inside during the Gala. It’s maybe an hour before the akuma attack.” They continued to watch as he chatted with people nearby. Finally, when they left, he slipped inside the secret passage. They switched to the camera inside, only for it to then be destroyed by a cane. The one inside the vault was a bit farther away, so before it was destroyed they got a good look at the boy. 

The male figure had a dark purple suit with the signature butterfly brooch pinned to the top of the shirt. His chest was protected by two black flaps that looked a bit like the moth wings. In his black gloves, he held a cane topped with a purple orb. The face was covered by a simple domino mask that did nothing to hide the mane of blonde hair on top of his head.

“At least we know that he inherited his father’s lack of taste. At least his mask isn’t…” Marinette stopped herself when Damian poked her side and pointed toward the glass cabinet inside which the first Red Robin uniform was. Its mask was pretty close to what Gabriel wore. “Oh… Nevermind.”

Tim was clearly unamused. 

“This is still important. We’ve got a first look at his transformation. We can set cameras to, in addition to akuma tracing, scan for him personally.”

“I don’t think it would do much good. The image wasn’t the best.”

“But how did he avoid the scanners?” 

“Alfred was busy, tracking a suspicious blonde with bi-colored eyes. She was supposed to have messed too close to the kitchen for his liking.” Tim explained.

“I remember her. She said something to me. ‘You’re far from victory yet’. I considered it suspicious, but in the whirlwind of the following events, the meeting slipped my mind.”

“You! The great Damian Wayne forgot a crucial detail!?” Tim laughed. “This is gold! I need to mark the date on my calendar!”

“Tt. And I need a set of matches.” The youngest Wayne growled. 

“So we’ve got another suspect on the list?” 

“It’s getting complicated. First the vault, then the book… Hawkmoth was narrow-minded in his goals. Create akumas, have them hunt Ladybug and Chat Noir, take the Miraculous.” Marinette collapsed on the nearby chair. “Adrien is… he’s more organized. He’s got a plan. He’s not after the Miraculous. Or rather not directly. There is something else he’s trying to find. I’m just not sure what…”

“The history of Gotham is filled with so many mysteries that we wouldn’t even have any idea where to begin.” Tim wasn’t helpful. At all.

“We know they stole something from Wayne Vault and used the akuma as a distraction to carry it away. Then, they attacked the school. What could be at Gotham Academy that they had a personal interest in?”

“The book?”

“I don’t think they knew about it. The attack on the Academy could’ve been to test our abilities.” 

Tikki and Plagg floated to the group. “Gotham is a dark place.” Ladybug Kwami started. “There are so many things in this city…”

“What about the Bat miraculous, cookie?” Plagg asked. “I mean where else would it be but Gotham?”

“Bat… Miraculous…” Time starred at the two mini-gods. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. Balla is the Kwami of clarity.” Tikki nodded. “The Bat Miraculous gives the wearer supernatural perception and near-precognition.”

“What?” Marinette asked, not sure what the word was supposed to mean.

“They can see the immediate future.” Her mother clarified for her. 

“Is it possible they are after the Bat…” she tried to imagine what jewelry would be associated with bats. Tikki came to help. 

“It’s the belt buckle.”

“Tt. Bat Buckle?” Damian raised an eyebrow. “Whoever made the Miraculous had a great sense of humor.” 

“Okay. But we still need to figure out their next step…”

“Sweetie? Maybe you focus on school and let me deal with this?” Sabine asked after a moment. 

“But… I’m the Guardian.”

“And you’re also a teenager.” Her mother countered. “I’m not trying to replace you or keep you on the sidelines. I am your mom though. Teenage years are supposed to be the best in your life. You should be dating, spending time with friends. Exploring the world. Nowhere on that list is fighting against a mad terrorist.” 

“But… but… I can’t just sit back while you fight!” 

“You can still fight. And help.” Sabine tried again. “I just don’t want you to devote all your time to this. You can leave the investigation to me, Bruce and Tim and enjoy the time with friends; Or design; Or take Damian on dates.” 

“Tt. It’s my duty to take her on dates.”

“Dream on, grumpy cat.” Marinette booped his nose and giggled at the face he made.

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Masterlist // Next

[batfam-rewrites]

Batfam During Quarantine: Avatar

Dick: Okay, lets try to keep the craziness to a minimum. Harper and Cullen are quarantining for two weeks so lets not do anything to make them jealous.

Duke: *Duke and Tim walk into the room* Omg, We just finished watching Avatar The Last Airbender for like the fifth time right now! I LOVE THIS SHOW SO MUCH!!! WHY DID THEY EVER TAKE IT OFF OF NETFLIX!!!

Dick: Guys, come on. I literally just said to keep the craziness to a minimum.

Tim: They have Netflix set up on their tv. They should be fine.

Damian: What is Avatar The Last Airbender

Everyone: *gasp*

Selina: Some....

Jason: Sh ta ta ta ta. *presses his finger to Selina’s lips* Don’t speak, I know just what you’re sayin’, so please stop explainin’.

Selina: Really Jason? How long have you been waiting to use that one?

Jason: *breaks into a dance* All night long, all night.

Stephanie: What is going on with you Jason? 

Tim: I know right? You don’t ever listen to Lionel Richie, let alone pop music.

Jason: It’s his fault! *points at Dick* Him and his stupid playlist!

Dick: “Don’t Speak” isn’t on my playlist though.

Jason: I ummmm...... radio.

Dick: *gasp* You listen to No Doubt!

Jason: No! Maybe!

Dick: O-M-G!

Jason: They’re a guilty pleasure! Now don’t mention it again.

Cassandra: Guys!!! What is The Last Airbender?

Duke: *starts to explain but Dick holds him back*

Jason: *to Damian and Cassandra* You poor depraved children.

Damian: I’m not a child.

Jason: Hahaha, your cute. Avatar The Last Airbender is the beautiful brain child of Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. It is a fantastic series that can not be summarized by anyone or even a movie. Anyone who tries instantly robs the person of the magic of the original series and ruins the exper.....

Damian: You know what, screw it. This isn’t worth it.

Dick: NOOOO! Come on Dami, we can watch it all together, just the nine of us.

Duke: Yeah, come on Damian.

Stephanie: It’s a really great series Dami.

Cassandra: I mean I’m interested.

Tim: *turns his head towards Cassandra* We already knew you were on board. *turns his head back to Damian*

Damian: Fine, I’ll give your stupid show a chance.

Everyone: Yaaayyyyy!!!! *they all start to head down stairs when Dick gets an alert on his phone*

Dick: Actually, this is going to need to wait. Cass and Tim, come with me. I’ll alert Babs and Kate.

Jason: Why, what’s up?

Dick: There’s been a murder at Blackgate.

Batman, Batwoman, Batgirl, Red Robin, Orphan, and Commissioner Gordon

Jim: Batman and, wow there are a lot of you!

Batman: We want to try and get this over with as soon as possible.  

Jim: Very well. Victim is Julian Gregory Day, better known as Calendar Man. The body was found at 10:15. He left his cell at 10 to meet with the D.A. to talk about getting a reduced sentence. Both of the prison guards who were escorting Julian Day were knocked out during the attack. All of the camera’s were out, too.

Batwoman: The marks on his neck suggest that he was strangled and can’t quite tell but there’s something under his fingernails. He couldn’t have saw this coming but he definitely tried to put up a fight.

Batman: Okay, Batgirl and Orphan, lets have you head to the morgue with the diener and see if they could find out what’s under his finger nails. Batwoman, question Hugo Strange. Go through the audio files and see what you can find. Red Robin, you and I will see what any of the inmates in the cell block know. Jim, order your men to check the other camera monitors for anything suspicious.

Jim: I’m not one of your......

Batman: *glares at Jim Gordon*

Jim: I could figure out your identity any time I want. 

Batman: *smirks* Is that a promise?

Jim: It’s a door I’m willing to keep closed unless you cross the line.

Batwoman

Something she didn’t mention at the crime scene was that there was traces of reddish brown hair, so that points fingers at James Gordon Jr, Clock King, Edward Nigma, and Roxanne Sutton. Kate has her suspicions, but as of right now everyone is a suspect.

Hugo Strange: Hello Batwoman. How may I assist you?

Batwoman: I need to know about a few of your patients.

Hugo Strange: You know I can not tell you much I am.....

Batwoman: I am familiar with the confidentiality agreement. I need to know about Julian Day.

Hugo Strange: Poor guy. It’s a shame what happened to him. His most recent audio files are all yours. You’ll find the information you need in there.

Batwoman walked out of the room and began listening to the files in the secret Batcave in Blackgate.

Batgirl and Orphan

Batgirl: *walks into the door* Ugh, what is that smell?

Orphan: Rotting goat sex.

Batgirl: *burst out laughing* What?

Orphan: Rotting goat sex. 

Batgirl: What made you say that?

Orphan: Red Hood told me that’s the name of the yellow squares you put on sandwiches. The ones that go bad over time and smell like this room.

Batgirl: Okay, don’t listen to Red Hood anymore. It’s called cheese Orphan.

Orphan: Cheese. Okay. Got it.

Batgirl: So, how are you enjoying quarantine in the mansion.

Orphan: It’s not bad. Been sparring a lot. 

Batgirl: Who exactly? You’re not hurting my boyfriend right?

Orphan: Nope, but I kicked Helena’s butt a few times.

Batgirl: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY!!!

Coroner: *walks out* Hey, so the.... Sorry, am I interrupting something.

Batgirl: No. Tell us about the body.

Coroner: Okay so prior to his death it seems the victim was drugged with a depressant. Obviously slowing his reactions. Underneath his fingernails are threads from the string that was used strangle him and some dead skin cells.

Batgirl: There’s not a lot of options for strings except for shoelaces, and unless someone has a very old shoelace, that means the string had to have come from outside the prison.

Coroner: Correct, the threads are definitely not made from the same material as the shoelaces.

Orphan: Anything else.

Coroner: Yes, there was some short white hairs found on his body which is odd, but probably from facial hair or eyebrows.

Batgirl: Thanks! Let us know when you have an idea who those skin cells belong to. *both Barbara and Cassandra start walking away* Tell Red Robin what we found out.

Orphan: But we’re supposed to report to Batman.

Batgirl: Fuck Batman.

Selina, Bruce, Lucius, and Alfred

At Wayne Tower

Bruce: *starring at his computer screen* If I buy this company, then I can buy a donut, and the cosmic donut will make me live forever, plus more profits, because three coffees plus one donut equals one Tim. *Lucius Fox knocks on the door* Do you want to build a snowman?!

Lucius: Mister Wayne, we need to talk.

Bruce: What is it Lucius?

Alfred: You’re overworking yourself.

Bruce: *looks up from his computer* Dad, I mean Alfred, Selina, what are you doing here?

Selina: No simple way to say it but this is an intervention.

Bruce: I don’t need an intervention.

Selina: Bruce, it’s been a bit over two months since quarantine began. You’re company is doing just fine. Don’t you think you deserve a break?

Bruce: With a little less help from Red Tim, I need to work as much as possible to get the cosmic coffee back on track. The hacker a few weeks back did a bit of damage.

Alfred: Master Bruce, even the Batman needs a break from time to time. Isn’t that the real reason you have Master Dick running around in the Batsuit instead of you?

Bruce: No! *Bruce takes a moment to think it all over* Partially.

Lucius: You are putting to much pressure on yourself. You keep on talking nonsense and are obviously sleep deprived.

Bruce: No! I’ve haven’t put enough pressure on myself since I became Batman. Once Batman came into the picture I didn’t focus on the company any longer. And I’m not sleep deprived, I’ve slept 4 hours last night! I’m getting more than enough sleep.

Lucius: You had more of an impact on the company then you think. If it weren’t for you acting as a real CEO, we wouldn’t be doing a going green initiative, there wouldn’t be a yearly fund going out to local orphanages, you created a functioning way for employees to work from home while increasing productivity. I can go on for hours about the positive things you have done as Bruce Wayne.

Selina: You have done so much. Come home, sleep. Enjoy time with you’re family.

Bruce: I can’t do that, I can do more. I can help other companies, too.

Alfred: I remember one time, it was when you turned 5, your father was supposed to be at the hospital. However, the day before he had worked all day to make his patients feel better, so he could spend the next day with you. He wouldn’t have missed your birthday even if it would cause the end of the world. Master Thomas knew the importance of taking time off to spend time with his family. It is time that you do the same.

Bruce begins to tear up. He reflects on how often his father worked day and night, but regardless how often he worked, he always had time for him and his mother. He knew his father loved him with all his heart. Then he thought of Alfred. He wasn’t really his father but Bruce always saw him as one after his parents died. Alfred loves him as much as he loves his own family. 

Bruce: *rolls his chair back and walks over to hug Alfred* Thank you Alfred.

Alfred: Anytime sir.

Batman, Batwoman, Batgirl, Red Robin, and Orphan

*In the Blackgate Batcave*

Batman: What did we find?

Orphan: The threads under Julian’s finger nails came from a string outside of the prison meaning that it could be one of the employees who’ve killed him. Skin cells under his nails are being scanned now, and white hairs were found on his body. Also cheese is not called goat sex.

Red Robin: WHAT! *Dick and Tim start laughing hysterically* 

Batman: Why would you think that!

Batgirl: Jason told her. That’s beside the point though.

Red Robin: *whispers to Dick* What did you do?

Batman: *whispers to Tim* I don’t know.

Batgirl: Stop whispering, we can all see you!

Batman: Got it. Kate what did you find?

Batwoman: Day was in an extreme state of paranoia before he died. Talks about how he was going to tell the D.A. about corruption in Blackgate.

Batman: Interesting, did he say anyone’s name?

Batwoman: It’s not clear, but I would assume so.

Batman: That makes sense. When Red Robin and I interviewed his cellmate, Drury Walker, he said he was starting to suspect something was going to happen. He had suspicions that James Jr. was going to kill him.

Batwoman: If I had to assume, I would say the same. I noticed a large sum of reddish brown hair at the scene where the body was found.

Batgirl: There was white hair found on the body though. With Day being strangled the killer would be close enough to possibly have a few hairs fall onto his body.

Batman: Do you have a sample?

Batgirl: Obviously.

Batman: Okay, I’ll program the computer to scan it. I know it’s not ideal but we’ll find out in twelve hours. Tim, Cass, and Kate, go update Commissioner Gordon. Babs, do you mind if we talk for a moment.

Batgirl: Sure, if you feel like doing so now.

Batman: *takes off the cowl and mask* What’s wrong? 

Batgirl: How could you not tell me Helena was staying at the mansion!

Batman: I didn’t want you to overreact.

Batgirl: How could I not! One of your ex girlfriends is sleeping under the same roof you are!

Batman: Look, this conversation is a bit more complicated than I anticipated so we’ll talk more about it later.

Batgirl: You know what, do yourself one better and just don’t talk to me at all. *Barbara places her mask back on as she storms out*

Red Robin: *sneaks out from behind a door* I swear I totally wasn’t eavesdropping, but that sounded like it could have gone better.

Batman: Yeah, it could have. *Dick than walks out pulling the cowl over his head and placing his mask back on*

Batman and Batwoman

Batman: *knocks on the door*

Hugo Strange: Hello Batman, Batwoman! How may I assist you?

Batman: We have some more questions to ask you.

Hugo Strange: Please, come inside!

Batman: How has James Jr. been doing in his sessions?

Hugo Strange: He has been doing very well! Obviously he had to spend a small period in solitary for killing his cellmates but he is getting better. If he is a prime suspect you may look into his files.

Batwoman: When did you two last meet?

Hugo Strange: Yesterday.

Batman: When did you two conspire the death of Julian Day?

Hugo Strange: I’m sorry, what are you talking about?

Batwoman: *grabs Hugo Strange by the shirt and lifts him* DON’T PLAY GAMES WITH US STRANGE! ANSWER THE QUESTION!

Hugo Strange: I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about!

Batman: We saw that you transferred Day to Gordon’s cell! He has killed every cellmate he’s had! You were sentencing him to death!

Batwoman starts to shake Hugo Strange violently until a gun shot is heard from across the room. 

Batgirl, Red Robin, and Orphan

James Jr.: Hey Batgirl! I see you’re walking again, isn’t that such a neat surprise.

Red Robin: Shut up, James!

Batgirl: James, we want to know what happened?

James Jr.: ..........

Batgirl: Answer my question asshat!

James Jr.: Whoa little sis... I want to stay I was told to shut up!

Batgirl: Do you realize what’s happening?

James Jr.: I’m being interrogated.

Batgirl: You’re going to be transferred to Arkham. If you confess your time there could be reduced! 

James Jr.: Fine... I confess...... I cut open your teddy bear and filled it with razor blades when we were kids.

Batgirl flips the table and pins James to the wall, punching him in the head multiple times. Orphan then runs in, trying to help Red Robin to get Batgirl to stop punching James Jr.

Batgirl: Rot in fucking Arkham for all I care! You should have been sent there to begin with!

Batgirl, Red Robin, and Orphan begin to walk out the door before James Jr. lying on the floor yells.

James Jr.: WAIT! It wasn’t me, I promise!

Batgirl: Doubtful.

James Jr.: Red Robin, come on. I know you’re going to give me a chance. Hear me out.

Red Robin: Batgirl, let’s give him.....

Batgirl: NO! HE HAD HIS CHANCE! HE DECIDED TO WASTE IT!

Orphan: Batgirl. Please.

Batgirl: *stops in the hallway* Fine.

A few minutes later Red Robin is in the interrogation room with James Jr. with Orphan.

Red Robin: James Jr. Did you kill Julian Day?

James Jr.: No.

Off in the distance they all hear the gunshot from Hugo Strange’s office.

James Jr.: And there’s my proof.

Batman, Batwoman, Batgirl, Red Robin, and Orphan

Red lines flow down Hugo Strange’s face as blood pours from the hole in his forehead. Batman and Batwoman turn around to see who fired the shot, and are shocked to see Eduardo Flamingo. Batwoman drops the dead body of Hugo Strange as Flamingo fires three shots at both Batman and Batwoman. Both are unfazed by this and punch him in the face, causing him to fall back on the floor.

Batman: *picks up Flamingo* Who hired you?

Eduardo Flamingo: *cough* You just watched him die.

The GCPD arrives to the room and arrest Flamingo.

Commissioner Gordon: Freeze! You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.

He had confessed to everything. The murders, the contract Hugo Strange offered him to kill Day. No details was left out. By the time they all left the prison it was 12:30 in the morning.

Batman: Batgirl, let’s talk. 

Batgirl: I don’t want to talk.

Batman: Babs, if you won’t talk, then listen, please? *tears start to fill his eyes and make their way down his mask*

Batgirl: If anything, you listen to me *tears streak down her mask as well* I don’t know where I stand in this situation, and right now I really don’t care! For the time being don’t talk to me. *she takes out her grappling hook and leaves the four other members just standing there*

Batwoman: I’m not going to get too involved in this, but you know if you need to talk Dick, let me know.

Batman: Thank you.

The two hug and then go their separate ways.

Dick and Barbara

When they got home, Dick reached for his phone and started to text Barbara. He tried to explain how he never knew Helena was going to show up. How she showed up out of nowhere. How she is his everything, his world, and he doesn’t blame her for being skeptical but he still loves her. 

Barbara doesn’t want to read a word of Dick’s excuses. This has happened before when Dick was dating Koriand’r and Zatanna. Even before they were in a relationship, she knew he at one point was seeing multiple girls at a time. She doesn’t know if he is really sleeping with Helena behind her back, but she knows that she can’t trust Dick for the time being.

After his shower he walked to his room where he saw Helena laying on his bed in her costume. She then tosses his Nightwing costume at him.

Helena: Hey Dick, how about you throw that on and we do a bit of role play.

Dick: Cool, I’m into that. I’ll be Nightwing, the guy who loves Batgirl so much, and you’ll be Huntress, who sleeps on the first floor. You’re going to leave my room and I’ll lock my door for the rest of the night.

Helena: Rough night, lover?

Dick: I told you to stop calling me that.

Helena: I know, but I love it.

Dick: Helena, please just leave.

Dick just lied on his bed staring at his phone, wishing that Barbara would text him back. Fifteen minutes later he hears a knock at his door.

Bruce: Hey Dick! Are you okay?

Dick: What is this? Am I dreaming?

Bruce: No. I heard what happened. Just know if you ever want to talk about it, you can come to me. 

Dick: Thanks Bruce!

Bruce: Want to watch Avatar as a family? Damian told me how you talked him into watching it. I think it’s a fun idea!

Dick: *smirks* Sure!

They both walk downstairs to the media room as they see everyone down there already. He noticed Helena was sitting at the far end of the room so Dick considered sitting by Tim and Stephanie who seemed to have been chatting it up, but decided against it and sat near Damian. 

Dick: *leans over towards Damian*

Damian: Don’t you even think about it Grayson!

Dick: *wraps his arms around Damian* Come on, you know you love my hugs!

Damian: I will cut off your arms in your sleep,

Dick: You’re so adorable when you think you’re threatening.

The episode begins to play and everyone fell silent. As the second one ended everyone looked at Cassandra and Damian to get their reaction.

Cassandra: That was awesome!!! Let’s watch one more!

Damian: It is surprisingly entertaining. A little silly but intriguing.

Jason: WE KNEW YOU WOULD LIKE IT SUCKER!

Tim: One of the greatest shows ever!

[emphoenixcat]

Fluttering (The Prequel)

Read the next part here

*A/N: Hi, everyone. I’m sorry it took so long, I’m still trying to get back into writing and wouldn’t you know it, my computer decides to die on me as I’m about to post it.*

Warnings: slight swearing and a little bit of yelling. Also dark sides

______________________________________________________________

“I don’t know why you have to make such a big deal out of everything! Not everything is the end of the world, you know!”

Anxiety retreated deeper into his hoodie as the prince glared daggers at him. If looks could kill, he was sure he would be dead by now. Despite the agitated feeling rising up inside him, the anxious side pushed himself to finish his side of the argument, no matter how useless it seemed. 

“Look, Roman. This is the first time Thomas has ever driven, the first time he’s ever been in control, the first time his life will be in his own hands,” without his consent, Anxiety’s voice distorted.

Roman crossed his arms, “Oh, what nonsense! His life has been in his own hands many times. Besides, we’re only a part of him. So contrary to what you may think of me, I am not solely responsible for putting ‘senseless’ dreams in his head.”

Anxiety rubbed at his temples, “This isn’t about you, Princey. I’m worried about Thomas’ wellbeing. I just don’t want him getting into any accidents--”

“And you think he isn’t at risk when he’s in the passenger seat? Because he is, it doesn’t make a damn difference. All I know is that he has to rely on other people to get him around. He’s unhappy, Anxiety. He wants more. He can’t get anywhere in life by waiting around all the time.”

“I KNOW!” Anxiety shuddered at the sound of his own voice, distorted and unrecognizable and thundering to his own ears. He had been staring at the ground, contemplating the creative side’s words when it had all just become too much for him. It didn’t really matter how much he tried, his voice was always drowned out by others. So much so, that he couldn’t get them to understand his words’ meaning. It was becoming too difficult to focus, the worries overtaking his well-thought-out rationale. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he dared to peer up at the princely side.

Roman’s jaws were clenched, his eyes unreadable. “If you think you can scare me or the others into submission, it won’t work.”

Anxiety’s eyes widened, “I--I wasn’t--I didn’t mean--”

“The others think we should let you have a say. They think that you mean well most of the time despite you disagreeing with nearly every decision we make; relationships, acting, singing, parties, school, work, and art. No matter what it is, you find a problem with it!” Roman dramatically threw his arms up in the air and scowled causing Anxiety to shiver as his stomach did disconcerted flips; he dared not speak a word.

The prince’s eyes hardened and he turned away, “Well, I’m not buying it. You’re no different from the other dark sides, all you do is lie and destroy. And all you’ll ever be is evil.”

The royal side sunk out, leaving Anxiety alone with those words reverberating throughout his skull. Each word seemed to send shockwaves through his system and he shuddered, unable to hold himself back anymore. 

The sound of thunder shook the mindscape.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Not now, not here.

Anxiety realized he was still standing in the Light Sides’ part of the mindscape, and he was certain they could hear the storm coming. He just hoped they didn’t discover the source of the storm before he managed to slip away.

Clouds were beginning to form over his head, darkening and expanding with every passing second. The vigilant side closed his eyes, breathing hard. He needed to calm down enough in order to sink out of this side of the Mindscape.

All you do is lie and destroy.

Lightning struck, hitting a lamp on a nearby table and shattering glass all around the room. Anxiety covered his ears and bit back a sob, desperately trying to regain some sort of control over his emotions. Focus. Just calm down and focus.

All you’ll ever be is evil.

The cautious side didn’t dare open his eyes as he felt a sudden frightful flurry of wind rush past him, the unmistakable sound of destruction quickly following its unwelcome arrival. He shuddered to think of what damage his mere presence had caused. 

“My, oh my. Looks like I arrived just in the nick of time.”

Anxiety flinched at the unexpected voice, the realization that he was no longer alone startling him out of his thoughts. He blinked up at the yellow-clad side. Deceit smiled back at him, “What? You didn’t think I would miss out on the show, did you? The friendship between you and Creativity is truly heartwarming, certainly not dramatic and entertaining at all.”

“Are you telling me, you’ve been here this whole time and you only decided to help now?” he glared.

The deceitful side laughed, “Oh, Anx. Don’t tell me you wanted to leave their part of the mindscape unscathed after an argument like that. They surely don’t deserve a little disruption and chaos in their perfect little lives.”

“Whatever, can you just help me out here?”

“Of course not, darling,” the snake-like side said as he offered a golden gloved hand. As soon as their hands touched, the mindscape shifted around them, becoming darker and less pristine. The anxious side let himself relax slightly at the sight of the usual cobwebs decorating the halls, the amassing heaps of clutter courtesy of The Duke, the collection of snake skins from Dee’s many pets, and the darker color scheme lined with bright yellows and sickly greens. It was always an odd sort of comfort to be back in this part of the mindscape.

“DEATH AND DESTRUCTION ARE WHAT FUEL YOUR EXISTENCE!”

Then again….

Anxiety let out a loud exasperated sigh, “Hello, Remus.”

The chaotic side bounced and twirled around his anxious counterpart, giving him a headache. The Duke didn’t seem to mind the rain that was beginning to pour from a dark storm cloud situated above the anxious one’s head as he pointed a disgustingly unmanicured finger in Anxiety’s face, “You wouldn’t exist if there weren’t endless possibilities of pain, suffering, and ultimately death. Tell me, how does that make you feel?”

The anxious side nearly growled.

“Don’t.”

“Hmm, what a strange feeling,” the intrusive side laughed before taking a bite out of a deodorant stick.

Anxiety wrinkled his nose and pulled up his hood, ready to turn away from Remus and his shenanigans. However, as he turned away, a familiar lemon-hued glove touched his shoulder. “Why doesn’t my favorite worry wart tell me what is clouding his thoughts? This is totally usual of you,” Deceit tilted his head, conjuring a black and yellow umbrella as he eyed the storm clouds curiously. 

The anxious side ignored the pun at his expense, “Why do you care?”

“My dear Anxiety, of course I don’t care. What concerns Thomas, doesn’t concern all of us.”

“Oh, for the love of--can’t you just speak normally?”

Deceit glared, “Fine. Short and simple, I agree that Thomas does not need to learn to drive.”

“Y--you do?” Anxiety raised an eyebrow skeptically.

The two-faced side crossed his arms, flourishing a gloved hand every so often as if to punctuate his point, “He already has friends and family that he relies on to get him from A to B.” 

“A, C, F, E, Q, R, T, Y, Zeeeeee!” Remus screamed before face-planting into the ground.

Dee rolled his eyes, “And if they ever fail him, there is such a thing as public transportation.”

“blehgGerms!” cried the intrusive side, face still buried in the carpet.

“Ignore him, please. Look, what I am trying to say is that Thomas is only wanting to drive because that is what other ‘adults’ are pressuring him to do. It’s what they expect him to do.”

“I don’t know, Dee. It seems like he really wants to.”

“Fight him on it, you have the power to make him realize that he doesn’t actually want it. You can bring that overconfident buffoon of a prince down from his throne.”

The Duke chortled, finally getting up from the floor, only to fall back down on his butt. “Bring him down, down, down, dooooown!” he sang.

“I don’t care about the prince, I care about Thomas. And...”  Anxiety pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “...as much as I hate to admit it, the prince is a part of him. He literally represents his hopes and dreams, he knows what Thomas wants. I can’t just ignore that, Dee.”

 “Thomas has no idea what he wants!”

“What? And you think you do?”

Deceit got closer, his umbrella vanishing as his gloved hands gripped Anxiety’s shoulders. The apprehensive side tried backing away, but his two-faced counterpart only tightened his hold on him. “I am only trying to do my job, Anx. It doesn’t matter what is true or what is not true. You might not see it precisely as I do, but a lie can be for the greater good. We all lie to ourselves, you think that our Imagination cannot be distorted? That Logic cannot be skewed? That Morals cannot be corrupted? I am only asking you to do your job as I am, and protect Thomas no matter the cost.”

“I am Anxiety, NOT his anxiety disorder!” Virgil pushed the deceitful side away, a massive roar of thunder made the mindscape quake. A flash of light followed soon after, crackling across the room like bright violet veins running across the ceiling. Anxiety was scared, but for the first time in a long time, he felt powerful in a way that he couldn’t describe. Dee was right about one thing, he could force Thomas to listen. He could make him as anxious as he was right now. However, none of it mattered if it meant Thomas would end up living his entire life in fear, never able to fulfill his hopes and dreams. The Light Sides would hate him even more. The Dark Sides would probably hate him too. Eventually, Deceit would realize that Thomas can’t lie his way to the top or break away from societal norms with Anxiety ruling over his life. Yes, Thomas would hate Anxiety with every fiber of his being.

But he needed to be protected. 

The vigilant side stared down at Deceit, surprised to find that his scaly face had gone ashen. Even Remus looked perturbed, choosing to remain as silent as humanly possible. A cloudburst now bombarded them, completely soaking everyone and everything within the mindscape as harsh whirlwinds flew about the room. Not one item remained undisturbed by the severe squall.

A voice rose above the storm, shouting to be heard, “What is it gonna take to make y’all shut up so I can get my beauty rest?” The newcomer held a pink and black umbrella in one hand and a fancy caffeinated drink in the other.

The wind died down a bit, surprised at the interruption. Anxiety and Deceit turned to the newcomer, speechless. The Duke, however, jumped up and stomped his feet, “I refuse naptime!” And with that, the intrusive side ran out of the room.

The other side simply laughed and sipped his drink, looking unbothered by the statement. He didn’t even seem disturbed by the chaos in which he found himself in.

“What are YOU doing here?” Dee snapped when the side continued to sip his drink and say nothing.

“Can’t a fellow dark side join in on the party?”

“Sure, you can,” the deceitful side rolled his eyes, “You bring so much to the table and you’re always on time.”

“Aww, Deedee! That’s what I love to hear!”

The two-faced side glowered, “Don’t call me that!”

Remy smiled cheekily, “So you mean do call you that?” He loudly sipped his drink down to the last drop as Deceit stomped away to his room.

Anxiety couldn’t help but smile, Rem always knew how to get on the others’ nerves. It was one of the things he liked about him. He didn’t consider Remy much of a dark side, none of them did really. Remy represented the more lazy aspect of Thomas though, and Anxiety figured that that was the reason he was bunched in with the dark sides. People seldom like the inactive part of themselves. There were many times where Thomas felt like he could get more things done without Sleep.

With Deceit gone, Rem turned his attention to Anxiety. Tiny tornadoes still whooshed about the room, but they were less destructive now and not quite as terrifying as before.

“Gurl, we need to talk.”

                              ______________________________

Remy yawned and plopped down on a hot pink bean bag and patted the purple one next to him until the anxious side timidly sat down. Despite being in Rem’s room many times before, Anxiety was always surprised by how the weight lifted from his shoulders ever so slightly as he nestled comfortably in the cushy bean bag that seemed almost made for him. The sleepy side’s room was mostly an array of pillow forts and comfy lounge chairs. There was a mini bar in the right-hand corner of the room that specialized in coffee drinks and cocoa. In the left-hand corner, there was a huge mirror with an array of make-up on the counter and a back-massage chair and foot bath in front of it. From where they sat in the back of the room, there was a large TV with nearly every gaming console you could imagine. Everything in Sleep’s room was designed for absolute comfort. Even the carpet was super soft to the touch.  

“Okay, spill.”

“Wha--what?” 

Rem nodded toward the grey clouds and mini gusts of wind that had followed them, “You can’t be conjuring up a storm and then be telling me that nothing is up. What d’ya take me for?”

“Oh okay. I guess it’ll help if I talk to you about it. Gotta be better than talking to Princey or Deceit about it.”

“But not better than talking to Remus about it?” Remy pouted, “I can’t believe it!”

Anxiety smirked, “You know that’s not true.”

Sleep grinned, “Then speak, gurl, speak!”

So the vigilant side told Rem everything that had happened, starting with his argument with the prince. He told him about how the words were still echoing around in his head at this very moment, how he felt like he was holding Thomas back, and about how he couldn’t help himself because when he closed his eyes all he could see was Thomas getting hurt in an accident of some sort.

Surprisingly, Remy stayed quiet throughout it all. Nodding slightly as he took it all in. It wasn’t until the very end, that he said anything. 

“So do you believe what he said?”

“Who? Deceit? Nah, of course not. He just wants me to follow his own agenda.”

“Not Deceit. Princey. Do you believe what he said about you?”

Anxiety studied his hands for a moment, “All I do is lie and destroy. All I’ll ever be is evil.” He looked up, surprised to see that Rem’s sunglasses were off and that the other side was studying his face with his piercingly dark eyes. “What if--what if I do believe it?”

Remy sighed, “Deceit was right about one thing. The imagination can be distorted and that, among other things, is the prince’s domain.”

The anxious side’s brows furrowed, “What are you saying? Are you agreeing with Deceit?”

“Calm down, gurl. I am agreeing with a point he made. I am not agreeing with him entirely. Princey lives in a land of romanticism and fantasy. He sees himself as the hero and he is quick to judge whether something is good or evil. In a way, you are both doing the same thing. Right now, he sees you as a danger to Thomas just like how you see driving as a danger to Thomas. All in all, he does not hate you. He hates the unknown.”

“How can the embodiment of Thomas’ confidence and imagination hate the unknown?” Anxiety asked skeptically.

“You remind him that there are things to be scared of and it is that simple. You can’t take what he said to heart when he’s saying it out of fear.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” 

As the vigilant side’s voice finally went back to normal, so did the clouds that had been following him all day long. Instead of the deep grey they had been in the presence of the other dark sides, they were now a pleasant cream color and the rain had calmed to a light drizzle.

Sleep smiled, “Of course I’m right, darling. In fact, I bet that one day he’ll see that he was wrong about you. Cuz if anyone was gonna switch over to the light side’s. It’d be you, kid.”

“No way. They may apologize to you and you might become a light side one day, but I don’t see that ever happening to me. There’s no way in hell.”

“You’d be surprised, gurl. You’d be surprised.”

“Whatevs, Rem.”

Anxiety didn’t quite believe his crazy friend, but he felt a stubborn sense of hope rising up inside of him. The tornadoes turned into zephyrs, the rain stopped pouring, and the cloud above his head broke apart forming something else entirely. The anxious side and sleep-inducing side squinted as the strange figures began to move and make strange fluttering noises, colors changing from white to yellow to orange to pink before settling on purple.

Remy smirked at Anxiety’s stunned expression, “Every storm has it’s rainbow and one day they’re gonna see that.”

______________________________________________________________

General Tag List: @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms @anxious-but-whatever @tellmehowtoexist @maizieandbirds @theresneverenoughfandoms @grumpymoonbird @lizaelsparrow @jellopuffs

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #4 (human shield)

TW: child death, somewhat grisly descriptors, hurt/no comfort, I’M SORRY

Fandom: Good Omens (Crowley, Aziraphale, Hastur)

Notes: uhhhh, I’m totally intimidated to try out writing in the Gomens fandom but here we are. Angst, as always. Lightly edited because I’m trying to let go and I don’t got no time for that. Yes, I’m a day behind on these and that will likely be the case until next weekend SORRY GUYS.

-----

“So let me get this straight. Hell - “ Crowley peered over the rim of his sunglasses. “And we are talking about the same Hell, right? Bad plumbing, worse health plan, bunch of ugly faces - “

Hastur scowled in Crowley’s direction, the frog perched on his head mirroring the expression.

“Present company excluded, of course,” Crowley swallowed, smothering the lie with a wide, toothy smile. Wouldn’t do to piss off Hastur this early in the morning. “But, I mean, it’s a bit odd, don’t you think? Hell wants me to tempt some tin-pot dictator into releasing a bunch of kids from imprisonment?”

Not that Crowley would mind. (And not that he would ever admit that to anyone, except maybe the angel.) The kids didn’t deserve it, were being used as pawns (or worse) by the latest in an ever-revolving door of loathsome excuses of humanity looking to get their kicks. So no, he’d be more than happy to let the kids go.

But it was weird and Hell didn’t do weird.

It was a trap, it had to be, the way Hastur was doing that thing where he curved his lips upward just enough to be creepy. The man in question, Crowley didn’t bother with his name, already had one-way ticket stamped to downstairs, so why throw this wrench into things?

Crowley shrugged, trying to exude indifference. In another thirty minutes, the sun would rise, speeding to its overhead post where it broiled every living thing in this dusty, sand-ridden part of the world.

“Seems like a waste of effort, if you ask me.”

“Well then it’s a good I didn’t,” Hastur growled, surly as ever. “Unless you’re not demon enough for the job.”

Nice one, Hastur. Crowley rolled his eyes behind his glasses. Not.

“I’m more than demon, enough, Duke Hastur. Come on!” Crowley spread his arms wide in dramatic fashion, something he know Hastur hated. “I am damn well - damn bad - ugh, you know what I mean. Ask Dagon, they’ve got my personnel file. Long list of commendations.”

Crowley, against all instinct and good taste, leaned towards Hastur, waggling his eyebrows. “Bet mine’s bigger than yours. Wanna compare?”

A sharp shove sent Crowley hurtling away from Hastur’s none-too-aromatic personal space.

“Just get it done, Crawly.”

——-

There had been no way to finesse this one, no loophole Crowley could find to finagle his way out actually doing what he was told. But what was the harm, really? He was freeing kids from the grasp of some power-hungry asshole with a vendetta and laundry list of psychological issues. It was probably the best assignment Hell had given him in centuries, one he might not even mind taking credit for.  

With little else to do, he traveled to the makeshift headquarters of the revolutionary leader. Sidled up to him, whispered in his ear. Told him the kids had a better purpose. (They did. To be kids. Alive kids.) Told him to let them go, that they would prosper under a far better sun, that the ruler would reap benefits he couldn’t possibly imagine if he just let them go. The squat man thought about it, brushing his beard with his hand, legs splayed out from his would-be throne. And then he smiled, blade-like, a kind of look that made Crowley uneasy, even though he was a demon.

“I think I will take your advice, young man.”

Crowley bid a hasty retreat from the compound.

The seed had been planted. He did what he was supposed to, Hell would be placated, and the children would be safe.

Almost too easy…

So easy, in fact, it shouldn’t have surprised him when Hastur showed up at tavern. Four wines in, Crowley’s features had softened, his head spinning with thoughts of a certain blonde-haired angel back in London.

Hastur clapped him on the shoulder, taking a seat on the wooden bench.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Crawly.”

Crowley recoiled, picking Hastur’s hand off his shoulder as he would a soggy, used tissue.

“What, tempting a stupid dictator?” The wine allowed him to be brave, to ignore the fact that demons don’t touch, unless it’s to inflict pain. “Could do it in my sleep, Hastur.”

Of course, Hastur did that thing with his mouth again, the same aborted attempt of a smile from the other day. Worse yet, the Duke of Hell brought his hand back Crowley’s shoulder, this time digging his torn fingernails past fabric, into his actual muscle in a way that would leave a mortal without an arm.

“Demons don’t sleep.”

Crowley didn’t yelp when Hastur tightened his fingers further, but it was a near thing.

“Figure of speech,” he hissed.

Hastur, for his part, regarded Crowley as he would an animal in a lab experiment, coal-black eyes trained on the other demon’s expression as he used no small amount of his powers to all but press his fingers past skin, into the actual sinews of Crowley’s shoulder.

And then, all at once, he let go, crossing his arms over his chest.

Fucker, Crowley spat.

“You haven’t read the papers, then?”

And there it was, the other shoe dropping, plummeting, really, Crowley’s gut along with it. It was a rhetorical question - not that Hastur would know what that even meant - filled with gleeful, malicious anticipation.

Crowley managed to squeak out a somewhat breathless “no.”

“I mean,” he added, willing himself not to stutter, “I had…other thingsss to do.”

Hasted shoved a crumpled newspaper in his face.

Crowley’s eyes were sulfur-colored, a permanent mark of Hell’s claim on his soul. It was often assumed Crowley’s eyes belied his original serpent form, a testament to his role in the creation of Original Sin.

This assumption would be correct.

Partially.

Sulfur is a funny thing, though. Normally found as a solid, when burned at a high enough temperature, it melts to a blood-red liquid emitting a blue flame.

Crowley’s eyes are weeping crimson, glowing with a pure azure matched only by the Angels above.

In a single, furious movement, Crowley stormed from the tavern, Hastur cackling in his wake.

——

(Soho, London)

“…had reported the use of children as human shields in the latest violence between the two sides. Investigators say the children, ranging in age from 6 to 15, had been taken as prisoners during last week’s attack on the capital city. This had been seen by experts as the first step in a widening strategy to destabilize the region, courting further retaliation with no end in sight.

With the surprise execution of the leader and his closest circle of advisors, the fate of the region seems to be in question. NATO soldiers reported a gruesome scene in the capital city, bodies cleaved partially in two, eviscerated corpses hanging from their feet in the public square.

To date, no group has come forward to claim responsibility for the sudden execution of the splinter group leadership…”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed with each paragraph, every new description of the horrors of the article punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, a small “oh my.”

A terrible picture, one he knew had been sanitized for publication.

Humming absently, Aziraphale set the newspaper on his lap and closed his eyes, casting his metaphysical sight - hundred of eyes watching just beyond the threshold of this world and other-world, peering past the walls of his shop, pupils, cornea, irises (as much as Aziraphale’s true form had eyes that resembled the human eye.)

Aziraphale’s real eyes were golden, solid, yet malleable, able to travel through the smallest pinholes between dimensions. His gaze, his true gaze flew, from England to France, burrowing through middle Europe, sprinting through Turkey, landing on a dusty plain in a forgotten part of the world.

He steps into the dusty amphitheater, bodies still hanging from their toes, sawed partially in half from their…oh dear. Most of the corpses have had their inner organs ripped from their body cavity, seemingly by hand, red staining the sand beneath their lifeless bodies. As for the organs, it’s…it’s, well a right mess, parts where they shouldn’t be, used as rope, stuffed into pockets, or in the case of one,  shoved into his mouth.

While Aziraphale can’t quite make himself feel sorry for the men - they had set their own fate far before this unfortunate event - the presence of demonic rage, the pure, unfettered evil of the other side is undeniable, even with Aziraphale projecting himself from thousands of kilometers away. While oft times humans needed little provocation from Below to commit the most heinous of acts, this one had certainly been helped along by some foul agent of Hell, one so corrupted they would desecrate human lives - even these humans, in such a way.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s muffled and Aziraphale feels it more as a metaphor than reality, but he draws inwards, leaving behind the dusty, bloodshed streets, soaring above continental Europe, a comet, a shooting star. He feels the wishes of the humans, the ones who wake late, who watch the cosmos, yearning for the undefinable, for the ineffable, for a bit of hope to be found in an old mythology. He blesses them on his return to Soho, needing this small bit of Grace, this bolster, before confronting the presence he now realizes is committed to tearing down his antique front door.

A presence that was entirely demonic, and entirely familiar.

“AAAAAAANGEEEEEELL!”

Oh good lord.

The knocking escalated, a series of thick, violent thuds as the entire room shuddered with Crowley’s exertion. It seemed the demon had forgotten he could overcome the simple hurdle of a door with a simple snap of fingers.

Knowing he would be in for a long night, Aziraphale polished off the glass of wine sitting on his table in a single gulp, steeling himself for an armful of drunken, distraught demon.

(If he was lucky, it wouldn’t be as bad as the 14th century. To date, nothing had been quite as bad as the epic bender of 1378.)

“A-zi-ra-PHAAAAALE!”

Pulling one last time at his waistcoat, straightening his bowtie, Aziraphale headed to the front door. (And if that was not an act of faith, nothing else was. He knew full well his meticulous clothing would be rumpled, pulled at and thrown askew within minutes of allowing the demon inside.)

“ZIIIRRRAAAAAA!”

He should leave Crowley out there, as a lesson. The caterwauling really was getting to be a bit too much, and Aziraphale could’t imagine what had gotten Crowley into this state to begin with.

“Come on out, Angel! Smite the Evil One! Or have you grown soft?”

Perhaps this would be as bad as 1378.

Casting a glance upwards for strength (or something. He wasn’t certain Heaven would be all that thrilled to be called on in aid of a demon), Aziraphale huffed out the last of his annoyance, opening the front door with a singular flourish, plastering on his best angelic look of Unending Patience.

“It’s about damn time, Angel. Let me in, gotta do this prop - prop - the right way.”

Crowley was - there was no other word - a disaster, black shirt halfway unbuttoned, vest hanging off one arm, bottle held between his long fingers. The red stains under his fingernails didn’t go unnoticed by the angel, nor did the brown, viscous smudge of something he’d rather not identify smeared across his right cheek.

“Crowley, what happened? What the Hell is going on?” Aziraphale snapped.

So much for Unending Patience. The demon stared at him, uncomprehending, before tilting his head back with a maniacal, desperate cackle.

“That’s a good one, angel. In fact, Hell is exactly what is going on. Right here, in your bookshop.” Crowley popped the p, weaving inside the front room. “A real demon? Can you believe it?”

The door shut with a wave of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Yes, you are a demon,” Aziraphale began carefully, knowing the topic was dangerous ground even during the best of times. “I believe we ascertained that fact quite some time ago.”

Crowley leered at the books piled haphazardly on the front table. After a moment of contemplation, Crowley pushed at the stack with a single finger, sending the masterworks toppling to the ground.

“Crowley!”

The demon responded with a withering look from above the rims of his sunglasses.

“A real demon, angel. Come on, I know you lost that sword at the start, but you’ve got to have something else, right?” Crowley threw his hands out to the side, sending the bottle crashing to the floor, breaking into a million pieces. He eyed Aziraphale expectantly.

The angel gaped, twisting his hands together in front of his stomach. “What, you come crashing in here at who-knows-what time of the night, destroying my property, making a mess, demanding that I - that I - “

Aziraphale stomped his foot. Not what one would call appropriate behavior for one of the Heavenly Host, but they had never had to deal with a drunk, self-destructive demon on their doorstep at three in the morning.

“Crowley…no! Sober up and sit the fu - just sit down.”

“Nah, don’t feel like it.” Crowley swayed towards the red leather armchair Aziraphale had so peacefully been occupying not minutes before.

“Really, I must insist.” Aziraphale went to take the demon by the shoulders, stopping halfway. It would only escalate matters, Aziraphale making any kind of physical contact with the demon, the way he was itching for a fight, trying to provoke Aziraphale.

Crowley’s gaze flitted about the room, perhaps calculating where he could cause the most amount of chaos, before landing on the newspaper Aziraphale had left open on the table. Crowley lurched, grabbing the periodical, waving it like a revolutionary on the front lines.

“Did you read about this one, angel?”

“Dreadful, I know.” Aziraphale shuffled closer to the demon, skeptical as to where the conversation was going.

“That’s the work of a real demon. Pure Evil, capital E.”

“Yes, I imagine so. And I’m glad you were nowhere near that scene, Crowley."

Crowley laughed. It was a terrible empty sound, a nothing that somehow echoed throughout the bookshop, a heavy void, as if the gates of Pandemonium itself had opened on Earth. In that moment, something truly demonic, truly evil had invaded Aziraphale’s Earthly sanctum.

Instinct kicked in, the air crackling around Aziraphale’s form, which had begun to shed its corporeal skin, the tell-tale tang of ozone a warning, much in the way a a snake rears upwards, or a canine bares its teeth.

“That’s the stuff, Angel, come on!” Crowley taunted, shouting above the growing din of righteousness.

Aziaphale froze, aghast. Crowley was square to him, having pulled his shirt open, bare chest exposed, long scars criss-crossing his abdomen and where had those even come from?

Aziraphale backed away, shaking.

“Crowley, I’m sor - I didn’t - I mean - “

But the demon advanced, shedding a bit of his own corporeality, red scales manifesting down his arms, broken halo rising from his red hair. The room darkened, turning oppressive, clautroophoic and sweat beaded on Aziraphale’s forehead despite it being the middle of February in London.

“Come. On. Angel.” Crowley took a menacing step forward, his arms open to the side, head thrown back, neck exposed, chest thrust forward. The demon was panting, bony chest flush, heaving.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked. He swallowed over the lump of anxiety in his throat, mustering his inner strength. “Crowley, please stop this at once. I am not going to smite you.”

Crowley met his gaze, mask slipping, eyes round and red-rimmed.

And then Aziraphale was slammed against a bookcase, long, sharp fingers gripping at the lapels of his jacket. Crowley’s sharp teeth snapped near his lips, yellow eyes boring into Aziraphale.

Never had his friend looked so…demonic.

“You sssshould, Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eassstern Gate,” Crowley growled like a wild creature.

Never before had Aziraphale actually feared Crowley.

“I think you should go.”

Crowley glared, rearing at the polite, reserved request. Something shifted in his face. Azirphale felt the grip loosening on his jacket, cool air whisking into the space between angel and demon. Crowley made a dissatisfied grunt, lightly shoving Aziraphle back for good measure, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“You should have done it, Angel. It’s what I deserve.” Crowley nodded towards the paper. Aziraphale felt the sudden urge to vomit.

There was no - he couldn’t have, not Crowley. He must have been coerced, or blackmailed, or -

“No mistake, angel. All me.”

And Crowley stared at the ground, silently begging for his punishment, for what he’s due and Aziraphale just couldn’t wrap his head around that fact that Crowley, of all beings -

“Please leave, Crowley.”

The demon jerked his head up, just long enough for the flash of hurt to illuminate all over his face.

“Yeah. Good. I’ll just, uh. Right. See you in a couple hundred years.”

Crowley stepped out the door, barely making a sound.

Azirpahale slithered to the floor, back still to the bookcase. He summoned a bottle of wine, not bothering with a glass, not even bothering to look at the vintage. The dreadful photo of the execution site stared back at him. With a snarl, Aziraphale waved the paper away, sending the offending item into the ether, where it was ripped into atoms.

He drank late into the night, until the rose-colored fingers of dawn peeked above the horizon, thinking of nothing at all.

legobiwan does whumptober

[thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog]

LAW # 16 : USE ABSENCE TO INCREASE RESPECT AND HONOR

JUDGEMENT

Too much circulation makes the price go down: The more you are seen and heard from, the more common you appear. If you are already established in a group, temporary withdrawal from it will make you more talked about, even more admired. You must learn when to leave. Create value through scarcity.

TRANSGRESSION AND OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

Sir Guillaume de Balaun was a troubadour who roamed the South of France in the Middle Ages, going from castle to castle, reciting poetry, and playing the perfect knight. At the castle of Javiac he met and fell in love with the beautiful lady of the house, Madame Guillelma de Javiac. He sang her his songs, recited his poetry, played chess with her, and little by little she in turn fell in love with him. Guillaume had a friend, Sir Pierre de Barjac, who traveled with him and who was also received at the castle. And Pierre too fell in love with a lady in Javiac, the gracious but temperamental Viernetta.

THE CAMEL AND THE FLOATING STICKS

The first man who saw a camel fled; The second ventured within distance; The third dared slip a halter round its head. Familiarity in this existence Makes all things tame, for what may seem Terrible or bizarre, when once our eyes Have had time to acclimatize, Becomes quite commonplace. Since I’m on this theme, I’ve heard of sentinels posted by the shore Who, spotting something far-away afloat, Couldn’t resist the shout: “A sail! A sail! A mighty man-of-war!” Five minutes later it’s a packet boat, And then a skiff, and then a bale, And finally some sticks bobbing about. I know of plenty such To whom this story applies—People whom distance magnifies, Who, close to, don’t amount to much.

SELECTED FABLES, JEAN DE LA FONTAINE, 1621-1695

Then one day Pierre and Viernetta had a violent quarrel. The lady dismissed him, and he sought out his friend Guillaume to help heal the breach and get him back in her good graces. Guillaume was about to leave the castle for a while, but on his return, several weeks later, he worked his magic, and Pierre and the lady were reconciled. Pierre felt that his love had increased tenfold—that there was no stronger love, in fact, than the love that follows reconciliation. The stronger and longer the disagreement, he told Guillaume, the sweeter the feeling that comes with peace and rapprochement.

As a troubadour, Sir Guillaume prided himself on experiencing all the joys and sorrows of love. On hearing his friend’s talk, he too wanted know the bliss of reconciliation after a quarrel. He therefore feigned great anger with Lady Guillelma, stopped sending her love letters, and abruptly left the castle and stayed away, even during the festivals and hunts. This drove the young lady wild.

Guillelma sent messengers to Guillaume to find out what had happened, but he turned the messengers away. He thought all this would make her angry, forcing him to plead for reconciliation as Pierre had. Instead, however, his absence had the opposite effect: It made Guillelma love him all the more. Now the lady pursued her knight, sending messengers and love notes of her own. This was almost unheard of—a lady never pursued her troubadour. And Guillaume did not like it. Guillelma’s forwardness made him feel she had lost some of her dignity. Not only was he no longer sure of his plan, he was no longer sure of his lady.

Finally, after several months of not hearing from Guillaume, Guillelma gave up. She sent him no more messengers, and he began to wonder—perhaps she was angry? Perhaps the plan had worked after all? So much the better if she was. He would wait no more—it was time to reconcile. So he put on his best robe, decked the horse in its fanciest caparison, chose a magnificent helmet, and rode off to Javiac.

On hearing that her beloved had returned, Guillelma rushed to see him, knelt before him, dropped her veil to kiss him, and begged forgiveness for whatever slight had caused his anger. Imagine his confusion and despair—his plan had failed abysmally. She was not angry, she had never been angry, she was only deeper in love, and he would never experience the joy of reconciliation after a quarrel. Seeing her now, and still desperate to taste that joy, he decided to try one more time: He drove her away with harsh words and threatening gestures. She left, this time vowing never to see him again.

The next morning the troubadour regretted what he had done. He rode back to Javiac, but the lady would not receive him, and ordered her servants to chase him away, across the drawbridge and over the hill. Guillaume fled. Back in his chamber he collapsed and started to cry: He had made a terrible mistake. Over the next year, unable to see his lady, he experienced the absence, the terrible absence, that can only inflame love. He wrote one of his most beautiful poems, “My song ascends for mercy praying.” And he sent many letters to Guillelma, explaining what he had done, and begging forgiveness.

After a great deal of this, Lady Guillelma, remembering his beautiful songs, his handsome figure, and his skills in dancing and falconry, found herself yearning to have him back. As penance for his cruelty, she ordered him to remove the nail from the little finger of his right hand, and to send it to her along with a poem describing his miseries.

He did as she asked. Finally Guillaume de Balaun was able to taste the ultimate sensation—a reconciliation even surpassing that of his friend Pierre.

THE VIRTUES OF THE COCK

While serving under the Duke Ai of Lu, T‘ien Jao, resenting his obscure position, said to his master, “I am going to wander far away like a snow goose.” 

“What do you mean by that?” inquired the Duke. 

“Do you see the cock?” said T’ien Jao in reply. “Its crest is a symbol of civility; its powerful talons suggest strength; its daring to fight any enemy denotes courage; its instinct to invite others whenever food is obtained shows benevolence; and, last but not least, its punctuality in keeping the time through the night gives us an example of veracity. In spite. however, of these five virtues, the cock is daily killed to fill a dish on your table. Why? The reason is that it is found within our reach. On the other hand, the snow goose traverses in one flight a thousand li. Resting in your garden, it preys on your fishes and turtles and pecks your millet. Though devoid of any of the cock’s five virtues, yet you prize this bird for the sake of its scarcity. This being so, I shall fly far like a snow goose.”

ANCIENT CHINESE PARABLES, YU HSIU SEN, ED., 1974

Interpretation

Trying to discover the joys of reconciliation, Guillaume de Balaun inadvertently experienced the truth of the law of absence and presence. At the start of an affair, you need to heighten your presence in the eyes of the other. If you absent yourself too early, you may be forgotten. But once your lover’s emotions are engaged, and the feeling of love has crystallized, absence inflames and excites. Giving no reason for your absence excites even more: The other person assumes he or she is at fault. While you are away, the lover’s imagination takes flight, and a stimulated imagination cannot help but make love grow stronger. Conversely, the more Guillelma pursued Guillaume, the less he loved her—she had become too present, too accessible, leaving no room for his imagination and fancy, so that his feelings were suffocating. When she finally stopped sending messengers, he was able to breathe again, and to return to his plan.

What withdraws, what becomes scarce, suddenly seems to deserve our respect and honor. What stays too long, inundating us with its presence, makes us disdain it. In the Middle Ages, ladies were constantly putting their knights through trials of love, sending them on some long and arduous quest—all to create a pattern of absence and presence. Indeed, had Guillaume not left his lady in the first place, she might have been forced to send him away, creating an absence of her own.

Absence diminishes minor passions and inflames great ones, as the wind douses a candle and fans a fire.

La Rochefoucauld, 1613-1680

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

For many centuries the Assyrians ruled upper Asia with an iron fist. In the eighth century B.C., however, the people of Medea (now northwestern Iran) revolted against them, and finally broke free. Now the Medes had to establish a new government. Determined to avoid any form of despotism, they refused to give ultimate power to any one man, or to establish a monarchy. Without a leader, however, the country soon fell into chaos, and fractured into small kingdoms, with village fighting against village.

In one such village lived a man named Deioces, who began to make a name for himself for fair dealing and the ability to settle disputes.

He did this so successfully, in fact, that soon any legal conflict in the area was brought to him, and his power increased. Throughout the land, the law had fallen into disrepute—the judges were corrupt, and no one entrusted their cases to the courts any more, resorting to violence instead. When news spread of Deioces’ wisdom, incorruptibility, and unshakable impartiality, Medean villages far and wide turned to him to settle all manner of cases. Soon he became the sole arbiter of justice in the land.

At the height of his power, Deioces suddenly decided he had had enough. He would no longer sit in the chair of judgement, would hear no more suits, settle no more disputes between brother and brother, village and village. Complaining that he was spending so much time dealing with other people’s problems that he had neglected his own affairs, he retired. The country once again descended into chaos. With the sudden withdrawal of a powerful arbiter like Deioces, crime increased, and contempt for the law was never greater. The Medes held a meeting of all the villages to decide how to get out of their predicament. “We cannot continue to live in this country under these conditions,” said one tribal leader. “Let us appoint one of our number to rule so that we can live under orderly government, rather than losing our homes altogether in the present chaos.”

And so, despite all that the Medes had suffered under the Assyrian despotism, they decided to set up a monarchy and name a king. And the man they most wanted to rule, of course, was the fair-minded Deioces. He was hard to convince, for he wanted nothing more to do with the villages’ in-fighting and bickering, but the Medes begged and pleaded—without him the country had descended into a state of lawlessness. Deioces finally agreed.

Yet he also imposed conditions. An enormous palace was to be constructed for him, he was to be provided with bodyguards, and a capital city was to be built from which he could rule. All of this was done, and Deioces settled into his palace. In the center of the capital, the palace was surrounded by walls, and completely inaccessible to ordinary people. Deioces then established the terms of his rule: Admission to his presence was forbidden. Communication with the king was only possible through messengers. No one in the royal court could see him more than once a week, and then only by permission.

Deioces ruled for fifty-three years, extended the Medean empire, and established the foundation for what would later be the Persian empire, under his great-great-grandson Cyrus. During Deioces’ reign, the people’s respect for him gradually turned into a form of worship: He was not a mere mortal, they believed, but the son of a god.

Interpretation

Deioces was a man of great ambition. He determined early on that the country needed a strong ruler, and that he was the man for the job.

In a land plagued with anarchy, the most powerful man is the judge and arbiter. So Deioces began his career by making his reputation as a man of impeccable fairness.

At the height of his power as a judge, however, Deioces realized the truth of the law of absence and presence: By serving so many clients, he had become too noticeable, too available, and had lost the respect he had earlier enjoyed. People were taking his services for granted. The only way to regain the veneration and power he wanted was to withdraw completely, and let the Medes taste what life was like without him. As he expected, they came begging for him to rule.

Once Deioces had discovered the truth of this law, he carried it to its ultimate realization. In the palace his people had built for him, none could see him except a few courtiers, and those only rarely. As Herodotus wrote, “There was a risk that if they saw him habitually, it might lead to jealousy and resentment, and plots would follow; but if nobody saw him, the legend would grow that he was a being of a different order from mere men.”

A man said to a Dervish: “Why do I not see you more often?” The Dervish replied, “Because the words ‘Why have you not been to see me?’ are sweeter to my ear than the words ‘Why have you come again?”’

Mulla jami, quoted in ldries Shah’s Caravan of Dreams, 1968

KEYS TO POWER

Everything in the world depends on absence and presence. A strong presence will draw power and attention to you—you shine more brightly than those around you. But a point is inevitably reached where too much presence creates the opposite effect: The more you are seen and heard from, the more your value degrades. You become a habit. No matter how hard you try to be different, subtly, without your knowing why, people respect you less and less. At the right moment you must learn to withdraw yourself before they unconsciously push you away. It is a game of hide-and-seek.

The truth of this law can most easily be appreciated in matters of love and seduction. In the beginning stages of an affair, the lover’s absence stimulates your imagination, forming a sort of aura around him or her. But this aura fades when you know too much—when your imagination no longer has room to roam. The loved one becomes a person like anyone else, a person whose presence is taken for granted. This is why the seventeenth-century French courtesan Ninon de Lenclos advised constant feints at withdrawal from one’s lover. “Love never dies of starvation,” she wrote, “but often of indigestion.”

The moment you allow yourself to be treated like anyone else, it is too late—you are swallowed and digested. To prevent this you need to starve the other person of your presence. Force their respect by threatening them with the possibility that they will lose you for good; create a pattern of presence and absence.

Once you die, everything about you will seem different. You will be surrounded by an instant aura of respect. People will remember their criticisms of you, their arguments with you, and will be filled with regret and guilt. They are missing a presence that will never return. But you do not have to wait until you die: By completely withdrawing for a while, you create a kind of death before death. And when you come back, it will be as if you had come back from the dead—an air of resurrection will cling to you, and people will be relieved at your return. This is how Deioces made himself king.

Napoleon was recognizing the law of absence and presence when he said, “If I am often seen at the theater, people will cease to notice me.” Today, in a world inundated with presence through the flood of images, the game of withdrawal is all the more powerful. We rarely know when to withdraw anymore, and nothing seems private, so we are awed by anyone who is able to disappear by choice. Novelists J. D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon have created cultlike followings by knowing when to disappear.

Another, more everyday side of this law, but one that demonstrates its truth even further, is the law of scarcity in the science of economics. By withdrawing something from the market, you create instant value. In seventeenth-century Holland, the upper classes wanted to make the tulip more than just a beautiful flower—they wanted it to be a kind of status symbol. Making the flower scarce, indeed almost impossible to obtain, they sparked what was later called tulipomania. A single flower was now worth more than its weight in gold. In our own century, similarly, the art dealer Joseph Duveen insisted on making the paintings he sold as scarce and rare as possible. To keep their prices elevated and their status high, he bought up whole collections and stored them in his basement. The paintings that he sold became more than just paintings—they were fetish objects, their value increased by their rarity. “You can get all the pictures you want at fifty thousand dollars apiece—that’s easy,” he once said. “But to get pictures at a quarter of a million apiece—that wants doing!”

Image: The Sun. It can only be appreciated by its absence. The longer the days of rain, the more the sun is craved. But too many hot days and the sun overwhelms. Learn to keep yourself obscure and make people demand your return.

Extend the law of scarcity to your own skills. Make what you are offering the world rare and hard to find, and you instantly increase its value.

There always comes a moment when those in power overstay their welcome. We have grown tired of them, lost respect for them; we see them as no different from the rest of mankind, which is to say that we see them as rather worse, since we inevitably compare their current status in our eyes to their former one. There is an art to knowing when to retire. If it is done right, you regain the respect you had lost, and retain a part of your power.

The greatest ruler of the sixteenth century was Charles V. King of Spain, Hapsburg emperor, he governed an empire that at one point included much of Europe and the New World. Yet at the height of his power, in 1557, he retired to the monastery of Yuste. All of Europe was captivated by his sudden withdrawal; people who had hated and feared him suddenly called him great, and he came to be seen as a saint. In more recent times, the film actress Greta Garbo was never more admired than when she retired, in 1941. For some her absence came too soon—she was in her mid-thirties—but she wisely preferred to leave on her own terms, rather than waiting for her audience to grow tired of her.

Make yourself too available and the aura of power you have created around yourself will wear away. Turn the game around: Make yourself less accessible and you increase the value of your presence.

Authority: Use absence to create respect and esteem. If presence diminishes fame, absence augments it. A man who when absent is regarded as a lion becomes when present something com mon and ridiculous. Talents lose their luster if we become too familiar with them, for the outer shell of the mind is more readily seen than its rich inner kernel. Even the outstand ing genius makes use of retirement so that men may honor him and so that the yearning aroused by his absence may cause him to be esteemed. (Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

This law only applies once a certain level of power has been attained. The need to withdraw only comes after you have established your presence; leave too early and you do not increase your respect, you are simply forgotten. When you are first entering onto the world’s stage, create an image that is recognizable, reproducible, and is seen everywhere. Until that status is attained, absence is dangerous—instead of fanning the flames, it will extinguish them.

In love and seduction, similarly, absence is only effective once you have surrounded the other with your image, been seen by him or her everywhere. Everything must remind your lover of your presence, so that when you do choose to be away, the lover will always be thinking of you, will always be seeing you in his or her mind’s eye.

Remember: In the beginning, make yourself not scarce but omnipresent. Only what is seen, appreciated, and loved will be missed in its absence.

[jillmckenzie1]

The Courage to Question

I have a confession. I haven’t been completely honest with you lately.

I spent my last blog explicating a story about some guy in camo pants that would, quite literally, run into me in the singles line of my favorite chairlift. A guy that would inevitably save me from the digital dead zone of online dating. A guy who, at first take, would appear to be completely random, until we’d both divulge the calculated decisions we had made to get us into that same lift line on that same mountain on that very same day, and none of it would seem so random after all.

As much I want to chalk this up to fantasy (because, let’s be honest now, it is quite the fantasy), my confession is that camo pants is a very real-life guy. He is a walking, breathing, handsome human that has managed to surpass Whole Foods in my list of favorite things (in case you’re confused by this comment, it means that he’s sitting in a generally hard-to-reach number one).

And herein lies the paradox that is dating.

He and I. We are easy, which is perfectly epitomized by that casual chance encounter in a lift line that the two of us have visited – without running into anyone noteworthy – hundreds of times before. We are so easy that I often have to pinch myself to remind me that it’s real. Because I had convinced myself, so many years ago, that it should be so damn hard. And, we, us, we are the furthest thing from hard.

But, the dating ladder. The notorious dating ladder. That is hard.

Because you are both simultaneously, and independently, climbing the rungs of pre-dating to open dating to exclusive dating to full-blown relationship without a clear understanding of how the other person even defines those terms in our trying times of 2019. So, you are forced to engage in open conversation with the utmost fear that you might just scare off or piss off or something off this human that you ultimately just want to like you (like really like you).

Because there is that moment (well, I guess not ever having that moment would be a clear indication to abort the mission). But, you know, when all of a sudden you’ve gone from “Well, isn’t this fun?” to “Uh-oh, I am feeling this person.” Yeah, that moment.

Let me clarify for any of you who aren’t tracking.

We had spent three nights in a row together and on that inevitable return to solidarity – because four nights in a row breaks into some type of savage relationship force field – truth be told, I already missed him. The way he made me laugh while I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, knotting my legs between his limbs, an invitation for him to squeeze me more tightly into his being. And how I looked up to stare into his eyes, to re-memorize the shape of his smile, only to be drowned in the intoxication of his kiss. I already missed his hands that traveled through my hair and down my cheeks to hover on the small of my back while he talked to me about selling art and buying rental properties and building campfires underneath the stars before he’d sidebar to chastise me for not drinking enough water or regularly tuning my snowboard.

In that moment, the missing, I am hyperaware that he still has so much to teach me about his favorite brand of pickles and the corruption of the maple syrup industry and the evolution of punk rock in the 80’s. And I still have so much to teach him about my favorite brand of pickles and the secret of Sun Valley, Idaho and the dynasty that is Duke basketball. We’ve logged hours upon hours of uninterrupted storytelling, and yet, it’s still not enough (bold, vulnerable, unedited fact: I hope it never is).

So, there is the acknowledgement that I’m now spoiled by his presence – so deep into twitterpation that a night alone, a state that has been my comfortable existence for the last two years, now feels unbearably uncomfortable. Because my body begs to wake up as the small spoon, his lips grazing my forehead in the morning to, once again, remind me that he’s real (for the record, I much prefer this method over the pinching). I’ll relish the days that, sans alarm, we race off together towards the mountain. And, during the rest of the week, when he jumps at that all-too-familiar iPhone alert that beckons him to work, I will giggle as I beg for just one more minute of his heat inside my college-sized bed that’s nestled into my tin can that I call home.

And, who am I? Or, even more titillating of a question, what is this?

Because I am drowning in his goodness. I am giving myself permission to need him. I am opening myself up to one of those deep connections that taunts our insecurities with the possibility of heartbreak. Even now, especially now, all of these words escape my fingers in an equal state of bliss and trepidation. Because this guy, this altogether very real guy, has yet to friend zone me or ghost me or barter his sexual prowess with the words, “I like you, but I’m just not ready.”

And, despite all this realness and all the work that I have invested in myself for the last two years – the confidence that I have sharpened through a handful of agonizing decisions – I am still questioning my vulnerability. I have found myself second-guessing my own heart’s desires and have contemplated silencing their whispers (because I just want him to like me, like really like me).

Then, it will hit me (like it always does): I do not get what I want from soldiering my silence. I am met by another when I speak my truth and he embraces it. Any mockery of my speech – any thoughts that are drawn towards my words being too much or too little or too ridiculous – exist inside a person that doesn’t deserve my openness. So, in exposing myself to him, I have also been forced to embrace myself. Again. And again. And again. So as not to become the version of me that is silenced, the Stephanie 1.0 that didn’t know her needs or desires or worth. I have been challenged to keep the integrity of Stephanie 2.0, the one who preaches to live everyday as the most unapologetic version of herself (newsflash: easier said than done).

So, weeks into that aforementioned dating ladder, I am compelled to initiate the infamous conversation. I, Stephanie 2.0, engage (after a longer-than-I’d-like-to-admit pep talk).

So, what are we?

The words escape my lips as my stomach cascades across a set of metaphorical uneven bars. We are lying in bed, staring without hesitation into the deep brown color of each other’s eyes. Our knees, like magnets, slide effortlessly to touch. To be present with one another, that is easy; meanwhile, the tension that surrounds this question is nothing less than nauseating.

What the last two years of work are giving me in this seemingly unbearable moment of silence – the quiet buffer that exists between question and answer – is the ability to arrive in this space without expectation. There is a desirable outcome, of course, but I have both lied to myself and been lied to by others enough to recognize that this question is not the birthplace for a deliberation. I am not entering this conversation with bullet points that will ensure some type of victory.

I am asking because I care about both of us. I am asking because I deserve a spot at this two-person table called dating. I am asking because I owe it to myself to understand what rung of the ladder from which we are both hanging and how we go about defining such arbitrary words. I am asking because I want his honesty, the best and worst parts of it.

In the moment, I recall thinking that nothing could be worse than my sickened stomach sitting inside of that silence.  In hindsight, I realize that what would have been worse would be to never have asked the question at all. To parade around as if I am fine with the not knowing. To mask my voice as a means of assuming that I am, in some absurd fashion, pleasing him.

Because there I go again, creating a story for somebody else. This time, I have convinced myself that no man wants to be met with such a question. And, what I need to be telling myself (what I am now telling myself) is that any person – period – worth having in my life is going to embrace every inch of this inquisition.

And, he did. Embrace it. Every damn inch of it. Against all of my ill-imagined assumptions. He met me with hours of honesty, the best and worst parts of it, until we found ourselves freely coasting smooth waters after swimming, what felt like, upstream of a rather unpleasant and intense current.

I just want to make you feel lighter.

The words roll off of his tongue. I am awestruck at the beauty that exists in stringing together such a simple set of syllables. He wants to help carry me. With one single sentence, he has summarized every dream I’ve ever written, every brave thought about partnership that’s ever escaped my lips.

Alert. I think we just broke the aforementioned relationship force field.

Inside the safe space that we are creating for ourselves, the honest place that we are pruning as the foundation for an us, we chose the courage to question and the humility to answer. I’d be lying if I said that it doesn’t feel damn good to call camo pants my boyfriend, but the weight of this word lives inside our mutually agreed-upon definition of such a term. Together, we are making each other lighter.

And the only way to agree upon titles or definitions or words is to speak. To use our voices to express our needs. To unfold ourselves to another while simultaneously living out the most authentic versions of ourselves. The only way to agree is to communicate.

So, he and I, we are easy. And, our easiness, our attraction to each other because of all the little things that just feel so damn effortless, propels us to confront those conversations that can often times be so damn hard.

I don’t have it all figured out yet. But, this guy, he makes me want to try. Because what I do know is that I like him, like really like him.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/the-courage-to-question/