So @kaijusmoocher brought up a very interesting point over on discord. Namely, it's canon that marids are so powerful that wherever they go they leave behind a kind of magical residue - which I would compare to radiation and Bartimaeus to the slime of a slug. The reason why Ammet doesn't have this kind of emanation in the book is, I assume, because he keeps up the high level Veil which keeps him looking like a shadow on all planes so that nobody can figure out he's a marid.
But like, he does take the spell off sometimes, right?
Which begs the question: how much of that magical residue is left on Khaba after they're done with their, uh, experiments in his private chambers?
And I cannot stop thinking about this.
Is that why Khaba has such cursed vibes? Did he screw a marid so many times that his aura became permanently tainted by it? Well, I mean we'd prolly be told by Bart if his aura was filthy that way so I assume that the Veiling spell stays on during sex so that nobody figures out K's banging a marid... but like his aura must have been influenced SOMEHOW by Ammet's magical radiation over the years, if only from just hanging out.
And, again, I cannot stop thinking about this. About being stained, irreversibly changed this way, just from bedding someone one time too many. Just from being around them. Ammet may have taken Khaba's shadow but Khaba also got something from him, was marked by him. Perhaps irreversibly. (I assume that the radiation wears off after a bit but they're together all the time around 30 years and counting so it doesn't have a chance to fade.)
Do you think Ammet knows? Do you think he likes it? Do you think he's smug? "I licked it so it's mine" but on a more metaphysical level.
A/N: Time for my annual Bartseq post about the bastards aka read as my scrambled brain is clinically insane for 3k words and then collapses so I can go back into the void until I'll appear again next year.
Pairing: Khaba x Ammet (big surprise)
Description: Fluff mixed with angst and more fluff. And some more angst because I can't let them be happy.
Warnings: It's heavily implied that they did some rather unholy things off screen but there are no real descriptions of it, mentions of death if you squint. If you see any spelling errors no you didn't. Also please be aware of the feral octopus @shadowy-dumbo-octopus
Story under the cut!
There is something fundamentally different in the way Khaba calls out Ammet’s name.
First and foremost, there is the obvious part. If somebody overheard Khaba mentioning Ammet’s name in passing conversation, they would assume he is a friend, possibly a lover.
Now, knowing Khaba the cruel and the fact that he wouldn’t utter Ammet’s name anywhere where it would be possible for people to overhear him, one would have to be eavesdropping on the sorcerer which isn’t a very good idea with sorcerers in general, and even less if the magician in question is named „the cruel“.
So even if some unfortunate spirit overheard a certain name leave Khaba’s lips, there wouldn’t be any opportunity for them to think the underlying tone in which the name is uttered, considering the usual lifespan of a spirit that decides to poke their nose in Khaba’s business is not a long or particularly joyful one.
The countless spirits of varying ranks which are currently suffering in neatly arranged rows of essence cages are more than enough proof of said sorceres short temper when it comes to eavesdroppers, not to mention the unexplainable illnesses that usually take hold of whoever was ludicrous enough to send their spirits to Khaba with the intention of working out some plot against him.
Not one single soul, spirit or sorcerer alike would have ever guessed that Khaba was referring to a spirit, and Ammet was gleefully aware of that. If his master whispered his name, it was without the malice that usually distinguished the way sorceres addressed the spirits, their slaves.
Ammet was different from the other spirits that were unfortunate enough to work under Khaba. There was no open distaste dripping from the sorcerer’s lips as he talked to him, no barked orders that made the poor spirit on the receiving end remember their position as a slave with each hissed word. No, not when Khaba was speaking to Ammet. Never when he was speaking to Ammet. If his name danced on Khaba’s tongue, there was something that reached far deeper than a spoken word should be able to.
Every magician, alive or long dead, was very aware of the power a spirit’s name had over the creature. It was the usage of their true name that allowed them to call spirits into their realm, to force them into a physical form and to bind them to the orders that were given to them, giving them the choice between cooperating with said orders or having to endure severe punishments if the unfortunate spirit in question messed up. In that way, a spirit’s name was everything they really had, and so it comes to no surprise that spirits usually kept their name as secret as it was possible to avoid any further enslavement.
Ammet, however, couldn’t help but to think that even if his master wouldn’t have been the one to summon him, he would have given Khaba his name anyway. Hell, he would have offered his name on a silver platter, even if the silver burned his essence to bits and pieces. He’d gladly choose this human time and time again for the rest of eternity, no matter the fact that staying on earth too long would irreversibly damage his essence and make him go mad with pain. No matter the price, he would stop at nothing if it meant that he would be able to serve Khaba just for a few heartbeats longer.
How could he resist, really? When Khaba spoke his name, it wasn’t as if the sorcerer was talking to another human either, No, the soft whisper that left Khaba’s lips was something that only Ammet has been privy to, for no other creature on this earth could compare with the soft call of Khaba’s voice.
Every syllable that left Khaba’s lips as he muttered Ammet’s name was something akin to a prayer, filled with adoration as every letter sinks into his skin like a psalm offered by a devotee to their beloved god. They leave Ammet helpless in a way that he has never felt before, not even when compared to all his experiences that he gathered during his long time of serving different masters on this wretched planet.
Ammet, as a marid and therefore more akin to water as an element, was used to the dark depths of the oceans and whatever horrors lurked within. But Khaba’s words were molten silver, banishing the cold and burning their mark into Ammet’s essence.
Sometimes, Ammet couldn’t help but to feel as if every single one of Khaba’s words was slowly dissecting him, cutting with a sharp blade and gentle hands all the way through his essence until he would lay fully bare in front of the human, no disguises to cover his form. Just Khaba and him.
And as thrilling as it was, as hard as Ammet had to fight against each of his deeply ingrained survival instincts that screamed at him to get up, to rip our the scalpel from his essence and fight back against whatever made him feel so vulnerable and exposed, he felt strangely at peace when the touch of molten silver caressed his form and hands that were stained black by his essence brushed so gently against his form. In a way unknown to him, despite being eons old, he wished for the burning touch as soon as the feeling left his body.
If given the opportunity, he would reach for the silver scalpel himself, just to peel his outer layer fully apart and offer Khaba what he had never offered any other create before. He would rip and tear through however many layers of his essence it would take just to hear Khaba calling his name again, and to offer the sorcerer what he had difficulty to put into words.
This is me, with no disguises to shield me, with no lies to keep myself save from the cruelty I have experienced from your kind before. I am yours. Call my name again, for it already belongs to you. I belong to you.
In return, there is something fundamentally different in the way Ammet calls Khaba’s name, too.
As unusual it is for a spirit to be addressed by their master with anything else than cold dismissal or seething hatered, the fact that Ammet calls his master by his first name borders on nothing short of bizarre from a more traditional standpoint. Even if it isn’t Khaba’s birth name that Ammet is calling, it still breaks almost every single rule that usually keeps the spirit at bay.
No self-respecting slave should call out a masters name like Ammet calls out for Khaba. Especially not if said slave was forced into a realm to follow orders against their will. And no self-respecting master would ever let their name be called in such a matter. Not when Ammet whispers his master’s name against the sorcerer’s lips in a tone filled with adoration, devotion and wonder.
For Ammet, it’s like tasting the sweetest forbidden fruit any garden could ever have to offer, knowing full well that you will never able to enjoy any other fruit because the juices if the forbidden one have caressed and stained your tongue with the first bite, making any other taste pale and dull in comparison.
The only thing that slightly mellows the sweet taste is the fact that Khaba is unable to offer Ammet his birth name - long forgotten by years of intensive sorcerer training back when Khaba lived in egypt, as a young boy. With each step that Khaba took forwards the memory of his birth name slipped further from his grasp, until it was no more than a dull, murky shadow that could not be remembered, even if Khaba would have tried to do so.
And gods, he had tried. He would offer Ammet his real name without any second thought, knowing full well that he was playing with fire. Letting a spirit know your real name is akin to a death sentence for sorcerers, but Khaba cared little for this fact. If given the opportunity to remember his first name, Khaba’s very first instinct would be to whisper it against the marid’s lips, only of his ears to hear. He would offer up his own name to the creature in front of him within a heartbeat. And Ammet is more than aware of this.
Still, even if he is unable to call his beloved by his first name, the marid isn’t one to complain about little details. Not when Khaba, his dear master would so sweetly offer him anything he is without a second thought. And this fills Ammet with glee. It encourages him even more to gently whisper the name of his human, in rooms where there is nobody present but the two of them and Ammet has the opportunity to taste each letter on his tongue, to sample and enjoy every single one of them like a fine wine.
He can tell that Khaba enjoys this too, when he observes the way the sorcerer smiles when looking at him. Moments like these make yearn for a world where he can have Khaba all to his own, where there is nothing else to think about than the sweet taste of his masters name on his lips.
The reality, unfortunately, looks nothing like that. Even if Ammet follows his master around every step he takes, watching over the sorcerer from his disguise as the mans shadow himself, Ammet has to be careful. Other magicians, especially the other ones of Solomons 17 are always looking for a way to get rid of competition, as Ammet has had seen countless times with magicians. This time, however, it was different.
Not once has he ever felt as much anger as the first time he had overheard one particularly gruesome plot to get rid of his beloved master. Not once in his eons of existence and serving other magicians had the mention of a name elected such an aggressive response out of the marid - the spirits who were chosen to be send out to injure his master were ripped to shreds before they came even close to catching one glimpse of the tower in which Khaba resided in.
Even hours later, in his masters personal chambers far away from anything that could hurt him, Ammet was restless.
„They said your name“ he had whispered, claws digging into flesh as he pulled Khaba impossibly closer to him. „They said what only I should be allowed to say. Trying to take away what was mine“. And Khaba had done nothing but to chuckle and placed a hand on the marid’s claws, keeping them there despite the wounds that were already forming, despite the blood that was running down the sides and staining Ammet’s form.
„They may have said my name, they may have had the intention to hurt me“, Khaba had said, his voice low and gentle, yet slightly amused. „But as you can see, I am in the best hands. You would keep me save, wouldn’t you? Why would I need to worry about trivial matters as these, my dear Ammet“ - one of the magicians hands had brushed over the back of Ammet’s hands, gently. Way too gentle to be directed at a creature like him, but Khaba continued anyways. „Let them say my name. I could not care less.“ Khaba locked eyes with Ammet that moment, his voice a low purr.
„There is only one person that I could care about when they say my name, and that would be you. You should know this. Others may speak my name, but it only holds worth to me if it comes from your lips. Nobody else.“
You offer me your name in return, like the sweetest sacrifice a devotee could ever offer their god. You place it down on an altar dedicated to me and smile as I dig my fangs into your skin. You are mine in return. Your name only holds significance if it falls from my lips, because there is nobody on this earth who you belong to more than me. You are mine.
But there are days when simply calling the name of his beloved isn’t enough. Days on which Ammet suddenly is served a painful reminder that his lover is mortal - easily fragile when compared to him.
One day, he knows, Khaba will call out his name for the last time. And now matter how loud Ammet screams out, he will never get an answer in return.
On days like these, he kisses Khaba like he wishes to devour him whole. The promises spilling from Khaba’s lips are sweet poison and Ammet laps up every single drop before diving in for more. „I’m right here“, Khaba whispers. „I’ll stay with you. Right here. You have me.“
The words leave stains on Ammet’s tongue, on his claws, on his essence. In response, he grabs Khaba tighter and digs his claws into his skin. Ammet wishes for nothing more than to carve his name into the humans flesh, over and over again, as Khaba’s words burn into him like molten silver and brand the marid in return. Until there is nothing left of the both of them but the whispers of each other’s names that they share between kisses. Until his eyes can only see Khaba, and nothing else. Not as if anything else would really matter to him in the first place.
This is the way Ammet has decided to cope with the gnawing feeling of emptiness that threatens to consume him, overwhelmed by feelings most creatures of his kind won’t experience and deeply fearful of the day on which Khaba will be forced to leave him behind.
But there is no time for such musings right now, not when Khaba calls his name so sweetly, breathless and with fingers digging into Ammets skin to ground himself.
There is no time for Ammet to delve into the deep waters of what will happen to the both of them once Khaba is gone, not when a touch of molten silver grazes against his skin and sets his whole being alight. Not when every breath Khaba takes breathes fresh air into Ammet’s lungs aswell.
How foolish Ammet would have to be to focus on anything else but right now, when Khaba smiles at him with a droplet of blood running down his lips, where Ammet’s sharp teeth broke skin during their frenzied kissing.
„I want your eyes on me“, the marid murmurs, tracing the twin scars on the magician’s face ever so gently despite his strength. „Nobody else but me shall ever have you“.
And Khaba smiles, leaning into his touch. Eyes tracing the creature in front of him like he is looking at the finest work of art ever created. „And you have me“.
Ammet’s hands grasp at the magician in front of him in a way unusual for a spirit like him. He holds the human as if digging his claws into his skin ensures that Khaba will never leave again, like every kiss against his lips is a promise.
„You have me in return“, Ammet’s actions scream, even if he isn’t uttering a single tone. Not that he needed to. Khaba knows his lover well enough to be aware of what his actions mean. The bruises on his skin will serve as a sweet reminder of his marid’s devotion, and Khaba carries them with pride.
He knows that he’ll use them to rile Ammet up later, when the sorcerer intentionally brushes against them over the fabric of his robes, knowing fully what lies underneath and seeing the edges of his shadow glimmer just a bit too much for an actual human shadow as his lover tries his hardest to compose himself.
Khaba is fully aware that his lifespan as a human is significantly lower than the span of his beloved, and knowing that someday, someone else will call his marid’s name and force him to carry out orders simply makes Khaba press against Ammet even harder, as if trying to merge their bodies into one.
Knowing that he alone will be the only one that Ammet has ever desired and adored, hoping that he will be able to leave a mark on Ammet’s essence so that the marid will carry a piece of him forever.
A few hours later, as they lay in bed exhausted and simply basking in each others presence, Khaba brushes his hands over Ammet, deep in thought. „Nothing will ever able to compare to this. Not in this lifetime or in any other“, he muses against the marid’s form. The fact that any lifetime without Ammet by his side would be worthless to him remains unspoken, but Ammet understands the implications anyways and it earns Khaba a quiet chuckle in return.
„As long as I am here you won’t have to worry about these things. Not that anything would have a chance to compare with me in the fist place, dear master“, Ammet murmurs, and Khaba almost consideres smacking him with a pillow to wipe the smug smile off his face, but tender moments like these are hard to come by and to ruin this one out of pride would be a waste. Instead, he rolls his eyes and pulls Ammet closer.
Truth be told, he barely cares about what will await him in the afterlife. Whatever it is, Ammet is worth it. And should he be punished for loving the marid, then so be it. He doesn’t wish for salvation.
Why should he care about the opinion of whatever god may judge him after he passes in the first place? No, their judgement means nothing to him. Not when the creature snuggled soundly into his side is the only thing in this world that Khaba deems as truly divine.
When I speak your name it leaves stains on my lips, my skin and my soul. You deem them beautiful. I kiss the marks I have left on you in return. Nothing that we’ll ever experience will be able to compare with the way your voice claws at my body as you speak my name as answer to my whispers. I offer my name and everything I am to you and you accept and offer me your name in exchange.
A/N: Here you go, I present to you a tiny little Bartimaeus drabble because this series is was what formed me into the (sad) monsterfucker that I am today. The ending also gave me severe depression but we do not talk about it. I always found the dynamic between Khaba and Ammet extremely interesting even tho they are both little garbage gremlins that deserve everything they got for treating my boy Bart the way they did. Unfortunately, I deeply resonate with Khabas desire to get rawed by a demon that could instantly kill me if he wanted to, so I can’t completely hate him. I wrote this blurb a long long time ago and I don’t like it that much tbh but content is almost nonexistent in the bartimaeus fandom so I decided to take one for the team and just post it. I hope my take on the relationship between the both of them and the knowledge that Khaba will inevitably die someday is enough to feed this starved fandom just a little bit.
Pairing: flaming trashcan x sewer rat Khaba x Ammet
Warnings: None, light angst if you squint real hard or are as big of a baby as I am
Description: Ammet is plagued by the knowledge that his beloved master will someday have to pass away and Khaba wakes up to comfort him
Story under the cut!
Humans were destined to die. Every human knew it, and some of them tried to fill their useless little life with as many adventures and experiences as possible, and others just decided to wallow in despair, shaking in fear of the steadily approaching end.
Ammet knew, too. He knew it better than most of the humans themselves, for he had watched the sun go up way too many times for him to count, had watched way too many empires bloom and then turn to dust. He knew, oh he knew that humans were fragile little creatures which could be crushed to death by as much as a puddle of his essence, and he know how easily they withered away because they had fallen ill, or because their bodies crumbled under the impact of time.
For the longest time, it hadn’t even concerned him, really. Rather, he had found pleasure in watching the light fade out of their eyes as they took their last breath, he had found comfort and glee at the knowledge that even his worst masters were sure to find their end. And when they found their end, he would still be there, watching.
He knew. He knew way too many things. Knowledge was power, yes, and power was something he had in masses. However, after some time, knowledge didn’t satisfy him anymore. Rather, it made him careless. Who was he to even spare a thought when it came to these tiny little creatures, which thought way too highly of themselves? He would live on. He didn’t have to care.
Yet, even with as much knowledge as he had collected over thousands of years, he couldn’t explain how he had ended up like this.
He still remembered clear as daylight that one, faithful day when he was summoned. He remembered how he appeared in the pentagram, the smell of sand and dust. He remembered the voice calling his name, those onyx eyes staring straight at him, seeing him.
He remembered how he stopped for a moment as he studied the form of his master, a young, Egyptian boy. And the boy looked right back at him. Not a single sign of fear was visible, but much more curiosity.
He remembered his first order, how they left Egypt, how they grew closer than human and demon should have. He remembered how –
The warm body next to him shifted, and Ammet snapped out of his thoughts. His eyes flickered around for a second until they fixated on the eyes of his lover.
Khaba was laying sprawled out on his bed, dressed in nothing more but a light cloth which was wrapped around his hips. His eyes were still dull and unfocused from sleep, but just like in Egypt many years ago, they seemed to see him. Not just his disguise, but rather his essence. The unwavering stare of Khaba caused Ammet’s essence to whirl around, to shift and trash like the ocean on a particular stormy day.
Entranced, Ammet stared at him, until the deep voice of his master once again brought him back to reality.
“Are you alright?”
The marid shifted and reached out to brush a hand over Khaba’s cheek. He had chosen the form of a young man, with chestnut coloured skin, a lithe and agile body and dark eyes. When his cold fingertips met the smooth skin of his beloved’s face, another set of shivers assaulted his essence.
Khaba’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact and he leaned into the hand. A soft hum escaped his lips as he took in the familiar scent of his lover, a mix of the smell of the ocean and the sickly sweet scent of a body that was about to decay.
The magician opened his eyes again to see the marid still staring at him, and he decided to repeat his question.
“Ammet, my beloved.”
Cold finger tightened their hold around Khaba’s face and he raised his own hand to cup the shaking fingers. He gave them an assuring short squeeze as he slowly began to sit up, the mattress under him creaking softly in the process.
“I don’t know.”
Ammet’s voice was nothing more than a soft whisper, but Khaba heard him.
They locked eyes once again and deep inside, they both new. They understood each other without words, their bond too deep. They knew, they understood each other, and the unspoken words hung heavy in the air.
Khaba reached out to pull Ammet closer to him, and without a second thought, the marid gave in. They fell together as Ammet’s essence moved to cover him in the form of dark mist. Khaba gave a short grunt as he moved under him, and he lifted his hand to let it glide through the dark mist, and he felt the mass over him shudder in appreciation.
Sometimes, Khaba was bothered by the fact that Ammet didn’t have a true physical form, but this was the closest it he could come to feel Ammet as a whole, as a being. But there was one thing that he could experience, even if it was for only a short time.
“Let me hear your voice”, Khaba pleaded as he threaded his hand through the small tendrils of smoke. “I want to hear your voice, Ammet.”
The marid over him cried out, in pain, in adoration, in anguish. It was a noise which oh so clearly showed that its owner had no idea what to feel and how to express it. Then, a booming, deep sound echoed in the small chamber.
Even after hearing Ammet’s true voice a number of times, Khaba had no idea how to explain it. Ammet seemed to speak in every language of this world and yet Khaba clearly understood him. There were so many voices but at the same time just one, and its message was directed at Khaba and Khaba alone.
“I love you”, it, they, he spoke, “I would be nothing without you”. And Khaba knew, he understood.
Feeling kinda down in the dumps today, it sure would be terrible if a monster suddenly snatched me up and dragged me to their cave/nest/whatever to cuddle me and make me feel better oh nooo
Godzilla Sir, could you maybe spare a little kiss? You don't have to bend down to the ground because so the lord help me I will climb a skyscraper to smooch your giant lizard nose please I am begging
