#from when The Ghost in the Machine had more plot

[v-thinks-on]

“You won’t believe what’s happening!” Inspector Lestrade exclaims as her boots click rapidly across the wood floor.

“Inspector, you come bearing news of friend Moirarty?”

“You could say that, I don’t know who else it could be. Come on, there’s no time to explain!”

Watson is already pulling on his trenchcoat, he hands me my cloak, and we allow Lestrade to hurry us out the door to the vehicle waiting outside.

As we lift into the air and swerve through traffic, careening between metal spires, she says, “I rushed over as soon as I heard about it on the coms, hopefully we’re not too late!”

She makes it a quick journey. We touch down in front of an immense factory among many in an industrial corner of the city. There is no shortage of chaos; Lestrade’s vehicle is only the latest to arrive, and humans and robots hurry through the giant warehouse doors, but it is plain that the source of all of the commotion is gone, and now all that remains is to take stock of the damage.

“Shall we see what Moriarty has so generously left for us?” I step out of the vehicle and motion to the doors.

The three of us pass entirely unremarked amidst the maelstrom of people hurrying in and out, only adding to the chaos in their attempts to bring order. Fortunately, we have no such pretensions, rather our interests lie inside. The doors are already open, allowing us to pass into a factory on an enormous scale. It is like the city in miniature, crossed with conveyor belts for skyways, which run between colossal machines, whirring and pressing and cutting hundreds of still and silent compudroids and even bulkier enforcebots, waiting in long rows.

To the untrained eye, the evidence of crime could easily disappear into the regular commotion of the factory. I, however, know to look for that which is out of place, and my brain swiftly puts the pieces together, even as the remnants are hastily cleared away so that the factory may resume its ordinary operations.

Whole conveyor belts of compudroids have been knocked asunder and toppled to the ground like as many toy soldiers. The damage is largely glancing, but some bear blast marks, and a few are missing larger chunks or even limbs. The worst of the remnants of the fray are deeper still, amidst a tangle of conveyor belts torn askew, beneath which lie the shattered remains of a dozen or so enforcebots, presumably sent in to apprehend the intruders.

Lestrade stops to speak with a woman in a suit and hard hat who must be the foreman as Watson and I forge on, manoeuvring around the factory workers, human and robot alike, slowly working to clear away the remains. I duck out of the way of a pair of workers carrying a hefty, charred torso between them, to be disassembled for scrap, and a third brings the head not far behind.

I confess some unease at the sight, but I push it aside, turning to Watson to inquire whether his scanners have detected any evidence which might elude my senses. However, the question does not leave my lips. He stands frozen in what one might describe as shock, his fists clenched and human features twisted with pain and anger.

I pick my way across the scene to his side and lay an arm across his shoulders. “What is it, Watson?”

He shrugs off my arm. “I’m really no different from them.“

“We will stop Moriarty and bring him to justice for what he has done to man and machine,” I say with firm conviction, a hand lingering upon his arm.

He shakes his head, but does not pull away. “They were destroyed before they even had a chance, but even if they had not, it could hardly be called a life. I remember it, Holmes, what it was like to be an ordinary compudroid with no will of my own, only the directives imposed upon me and the will to fulfil them; a true automaton.”

“You may have been their prisoner, but there must have been some spark of you already dwelling within, for it may have been Dr. Watson’s journals which awoke you, but even now I remember Dr. Watson well enough to know that you are uniquely yourself - and I would have no other.”

He graces me with a smile, still weak and fleeting, but no less assuring. “I wonder if that’s what it’s like for the crhypnotized; imprisoned within their own minds by the will of society. Even with all they’ve done, it’s hard to blame them for joining up with Moriarty.”

“Do not forget that they’ve earned their fate.”

“You’re right, Holmes, it’s for the best.” He hesitates.

“Yes, Watson?”

“It’s just that I was surprised how so often in Dr. Watson’s journals you would side with the criminal over the law. True, it was a different time, with different laws, but perhaps I admired that lawless dedication to what was right, and I wonder if that was what broke my programming.”

Now that he mentions it, I do recall, and my reason seemed to be perfectly sound at the time. “It was a different time, under different circumstances, and now we have Moriarty to catch,” I say, but some unease lingers.

“Right, Moriarty has never been good news.” 

With some reluctance we both turn our attention back to the destruction around us; what remains of the scene of the crime despite the factory workers’ best efforts to clear away all of the evidence. As Watson steels himself to scan the debris, I take a broader view. That there was a fight is plain; seven assailants- no, eight, broke into the factory. They moved discreetly at first, their aim theft, not destruction, and then the alarm sounded, and they were forced to fight their way out.

“Holmes,” Watson interrupts my thoughts, “I believe I’ve found something left behind by Moriarty and his gang. It’s a synthetic fibre, I’ll see if I can find a cross-reference in the database.”

“Excellent, Watson!” I wade through the debris over to him to take a closer look.

Before I have the chance, Lestrade comes hurrying over from speaking with the foreman. “We’ve got a bigger problem than a few wrecked compudroids and enforcebots. Apparently, Moriarty’s gang wasn’t just here to stop production; they broke into the computers and stole some codes.”

“Codes?” Watson asks warily.

It’s the simplest matter to guess which codes they stole. “I should have seen it from the start. Moriarty’s aim can be nothing less than shutting down the Yard’s entire robot network.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Lestrade says. “They still have to figure out how to use the codes they stole to get into the network, but once they do, it’d be easy for them to bring down all our robots, crippling the New Scotland Yard.”

I am keenly aware of Watson beside me as I declare, “There is only one thing to do; we must stop them before they have the chance! Watson, has your clue turned up any leads?”

“It doesn’t seem to be anything of use,” he says, but at my urging he continues, “It’s a strand of a synthetic material. The closest match appears to be the Eurasian wolf, which has been extinct for nearly a hundred years. The only record of a wolf in the last two decades is reported sightings of an unnaturally large specimen on the moon, but that’s only a legend…” 

“But if Moriarty’s on the moon, that would explain why the Yard’s surveillance hasn’t been able to track down him or his gang!” Lestrade says.

“If I’m correct,” I say, “Moriarty is using this wolf of legend to scare would be trespassers away from his hideout.”

“You mean you believe Moriarty brought this legend to life merely to scare people away?” Watson asks dubiously.

“It would explain some of the more peculiar thefts he perpetrated before my return.”

“And don’t tell me you forgot, Watson,” Lestrade says, “I was wondering why he decrypnotized that nutty old environmentalist, who had been peacefully working for the government for the past few decades. Maybe it was so he could help create a security wolf.”

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,” I conclude.

[artdcnaldson]

changeover || art donaldson x reader ; patrick zweig x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex x2, fingering, f!recieving oral), drinking, pining after people you can’t have, a dash of reader x tashi, sprinkles of patrick x art, porn WITH plot

Summary: your ‘casual’ fling with art isn’t working for you anymore, which sucks because you probably love the guy. enter a freshly heartbroken patrick to take your mind off of things.

FALL 2006

You knew exactly why Art Donaldson refused to acknowledge that you were an item. You could see it clearly across the room— the way you were cast to the shadows while he followed Tashi around like a lost puppy.  

It made sense, even if it made your chest ache. Tashi was gorgeous, and was acing her classes, and was going to go pro soon and become a beautiful, all-American sports icon. And you were just some girl he’d met because he needed help understanding the reading for class. 

You’d known each other for months by then— hooking up, going on dates that ‘weren’t dates,’ spending most of your time together. And you stayed firmly in the no-labels zone. But you weren’t bitter. It was totally fine, being treated like a girlfriend in all but name. 

Art laughed and leaned into Tashi. It was totally fine.

You were nursing a beer in a red solo cup and trying your best to look friendly and approachable. The only reason you were even at the party was because Art had brought you, so you should’ve felt grateful. You should’ve been having fun.

But just as soon as you’d arrived, he’d slipped away with a promise to be right back. It had been over an hour, so it seemed like you had very different definitions of right back.

“Looks like your boyfriend stole my girlfriend.” You turned to see Patrick, tanned from his time on tour. He was only going to be at Stanford for the weekend before taking off for a challenger a state over, which meant he needed to capitalize on any chance to spend time with Art and Tashi. 

Unfortunately, you’d both been ditched.

“Art isn’t my boyfriend,” you said pointedly, maybe a little too quickly. 

Patrick knew better. The last time he came to visit, he’d interrupted a pseudo date night between the two of you (which was a nice way of saying he walked in on the two of you in Art’s dorm while his best friend was was knuckles deep in you). The rest of that night wound up being spent passing around mixed drinks made with cheap vodka and whatever you could get from the nearest vending machine. You overheard the it’s casual, nothing serious conversation they’d had through the ajar door while you bought more Powerade and Red Bull in the hall. 

But you were being so understanding and cool about that. 

Patrick narrowed his eyes slightly. “Really?” The corner of his mouth tugged upwards for a moment before he wrapped his lips around a beer can. He tried to hide it, but you saw. 

You chewed on your lip, stomach twisting with nerves and curiosity. He was probably just messing with you, trying to get your thoughts all muddled up about Art because it was fun. Still, you couldn’t help but ask the burning question echoing through your mind. “Did Art say something to you? About us, I mean.”

The question felt pathetic. A stupid, desperate girl begging to know if the guy she liked felt the same way. 

Patrick shrugged, leaning against the wall bearing the portraits of the ghosts of frat brothers’ past. “Not directly. But you’re here together, right? And he’s still seeing you.”

“I guess,” you replied with a huff, embarrassment burning hot in your chest. 

“If you’re worried about Tashi, don’t be,” Patrick said, sparing a glance in her direction. When you looked towards Art, and the way he was smiling and laughing and looked so natural beside her, a frown turned your lips. Patrick nudged your arm and offered a smile. “Hey, I’m serious. Nothing’s gonna happen there. Trust me.”

It should’ve felt nice. A total reassurance from the person who knew Art best. But it did nothing to quell the turmoil twisting in the pit of your stomach. Because if he really did feel that way, why was he over there with her?

Tashi Duncan. So beautiful, radiant, and perfect that she had total control over two men. Your paths didn’t cross much, outside of Art, and that was rare since he liked to keep you two apart. 

But there was a part of you that knew that Tashi would’ve been able to make you melt with one look, one smile, one word. You wanted to experience what Art did. You wanted to know what Patrick knew, and what Art was jealous of. Or maybe you wanted something of your own too, something to keep Art out of. 

“I need another drink,” you said suddenly, meeting Patrick’s gaze. “Do you wanna come with me?” Patrick’s eyes flitted quickly towards Tashi, where she bantered with Art and the rest of the tennis team. 

There was something in his expression you found incredibly familiar. That pang of jealousy. The ache of not belonging just right. The look was gone quickly, replaced by a toothy smile. “Sure. I could use something stronger.”

——

An hour later, Tashi left with Patrick, and Art quickly decided to take you back to his own dorm. 

His lips were insistent against yours, kissing you hungrily, completely dissonant to the delicate way he tugged down the zipper of your dress. His fingers were warm where they brushed along the line of your spine. His tongue brushed against yours, tasting of beer and mint gum.

“What were you doing with him?” He murmured against your lips just as he peeled off the cheap, bodycon dress you’d gotten from Forever 21. It was tossed across the room, to be lost in the mess of practice duffles and empty water bottles and dirty laundry. The only time he parted his lips from you was to lift you onto his bed and slot himself between your thighs. 

His tongue licked into your mouth possessively, claiming you as his from the inside out. You gasped as one of his hands kneaded your breast, panting open-mouthed against his lips. “Who?” You managed weakly, your mind completely blank except for Art, Art, Art. And maybe a tiny voice in the back of your head that was still thinking about the Tashi of it all.

“Patrick.” His voice was soft against the tender skin of your jaw. “I saw you two talk, then you disappeared for, like, an hour.” His teeth nipped gently at your pulse point as he nuzzled against your throat, awaiting your answer. 

So he had been watching? He was with her, but he was still thinking about you. It made your heart flutter. You moaned softly as his hand slid between your thighs, teasing you through your panties. “Getting drinks,” you managed feebly. “Fuck, Art, I can’t concentrate while y—“

You gasped at the feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the band of your panties, teasing you with delicate touches. “Just drinks? For an hour?”

A strangled gasp escaped you as fingers slick with your arousal met your clit. When your eyes opened in surprise, you found Art staring right back. His touch was relentless, flooding your senses with pleasure as he demanded an answer. “We were in the living room,” you managed between soft pants and moans. “He was telling me about the— god— about the tour.”

Art’s expression flickered slightly— a tiny furrow forming between his brows. Was it doubt, or possessiveness, or anger? Before you could figure it out, his lips were against your throat, your panties were pushed to the side, and he was easing two fingers inside of your cunt.

“Fuck,” you cried out, grasping onto his shoulders. French manicured nails scratched at the pastel-colored polo he wore— why was he still wearing his clothes? Soft, keening moans slipped past your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Every thought of him preferring Tashi or him leading you on slipped from the front of your mind as his thumb rubbed at your clit.

With a free hand, you palmed him over his pants, relishing in the way he panted against your warm skin. You made quick work of the button of his jeans— you knew your way around him like the back of your hand. He was warm, pulsing in your delicate grip when your hand slipped beneath the band of his briefs. Slick at his tip with need. 

He moaned against your pulse point, nuzzling against you as you began to jerk him off in time with each pump of his fingers. 

“You smell like him,” he groaned, nose pressed to the spot just beneath your ear as his hips bucked into your fist with a new sort of desperation. You didn’t have to ask who he meant. His tongue slipped out, lapping at you briefly before sucking a bruise into the delicate skin there. 

His fingers flexed so they brushed against the sweet spot within you. Your eyes rolled back and a sob of pleasure clawed its way from your throat. “Need you,” you pleaded, equal parts a thoughtless cry and a demand.

And who was he to deny either of you that? A pitiful whine escaped your lips when he slipped his fingers from within you and moved your hand from him. He stood to clumsily pull off the rest of his clothes at the same time that you quickly shimmied off your panties and tossed them to the side.

”You’re so fucking sexy,” he groaned as he joined you back on the bed, slotting himself between your legs. You were so pliant and sweet beneath him, looking up at him with adoring doe-eyes and a pretty smile on your spit-slick lips. He should’ve been perfectly content.

As he parted your thighs, stroking his dick as he lined himself up with your entrance, he wondered if Tashi and Patrick were doing the same exact thing at that same exact moment. He could imagine it clearly— Tashi, splayed out on her bed, and Patrick right at home between her thighs; sinking in, faces contorting with pleasure. Before he could stop himself, a soft moan slipped past his lips at the mental image. 

Your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he sheathed himself within you, and he buried his face into your neck. Fuck. You really did smell like Patrick. The shitty Axe body spray that was supposed to smell like chocolate, and the lingering scent of cigarettes. 

You moaned prettily, pussy squeezing him like a vise. Manicured nails scratched against his back, delicate enough that the marks would probably disappear by that time the next day. He was so used to Patrick lounging shirtless around their hotel rooms after tournaments— severe-looking scratch marks looking like angel wings against his pale skin. He always wore them like a badge of honor the night after he snuck off with some pretty girl he’d set his sights on. That’s how you know you’re doing it right. 

Why was he thinking about Patrick?

He tried to lose himself in you— in how pretty you were beneath him, the sweet words falling from your lips with each thrust. Feels so good, Art. ‘M so close already. Gonna make me cum. 

When he looked down at you, your mouth hung open, lips shiny with spit, begging to be kissed. His mouth met yours messily and you both moaned into the kiss. He moved a hand between your thighs, rubbing at your clit as he bullied his cock into your inviting cunt. 

You came with a string of moans and expletives that made the person next door bang on the wall out of annoyance. Art had to pull out as soon as he felt you start to squeeze around him. All it took was a few clumsy strokes and he was spilling onto your stomach with an almost embarrassing whine. 

You both lay there catching your breath and cursing the shitty air conditioning in the dorm. He wiped the mess of cum off of your stomach with an old tee shirt that was hanging off the side of his desk and tossed it to the side to be dealt with later.

“You’re so gross,” you mumbled with a tiny laugh, reaching down to grab your underwear from your floor. After you pulled them back on, you watched him dig through a pile of clothes in a papasan chair for a passable pair of pajama pants. An amused smile played on your lips at the sight. “Do I need to buy you a hamper?”

He held up a pair of pajama pants to examine them, shrugged, and pulled them on. “I have one, it’s just full.” A boyish grin spread across his lips as he crossed the room towards his dresser. He tossed a random tee shirt from the drawer in your direction and climbed on the bed, grinning down at you. “See? I have clean clothes.”

You laughed as you pulled the shirt over your head, then turned on your side to face him. His eyes flickered from your face, down to the shirt, then back. You wrinkled your face in confusion and peered down at the shirt. 

“What? What does it say?” You asked with a laugh.  You held it out, squinting to make sense of the graphic— faded and upside down. Finally, your eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh! I thought you were more of a Maroon 5 and Justin Timberlake guy. I’ve never even seen a Blink-182 CD in your stuff before.”

Art cleared his throat and shrugged, thumbing the bottom of the tee shirt absentmindedly. “I went with Patrick a few years back.”

A smile turned your lips. “It’s sweet that you two are such good friends.” You reached over, brushing his curls from his forehead. He turned, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Did you and Tashi have fun tonight?” The insecurity in your words was palpable.

Art shrugged. “A party’s a party, y’know?” He leaned into your touch, letting you play with his hair. “Just lost track of time. I won’t run off on you next time.”

You chewed your lip shyly. “I think it’d be nice for the three of us to hang out sometime,” you said, watching his expression to gauge his reaction. 

“C’mere,” he said with a tired smile, effectively avoiding your suggestion. When he pulled you against his side, he nuzzled his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder. His breath tickled with each exhale, which made you squirm, but every so often he’d place a chaste kiss on the skin there and you’d forget why you wanted to ask him to move.

In the morning, when you woke up to his alarm clock blaring a local radio station, you realized it was the first time he’d let you stay the night. 

SPRING 2007

After your second drink, you decided that Art Donaldson had hung you out to dry for the last time. Well, probably the last time. 

Most likely not the last time. 

Knowing yourself, you’d be clinging to his side like a lost puppy in a few weeks’ time, if you even had the dignity to give it that long. The second his attention turned to you again, you knew you’d be absolutely relishing in the special affection he always gave you when he was experiencing Tashi-related withdrawal.

You were so stupidly in love (or in lust, or in whatever) with him that you’d accept just about anything he could throw at you. 

No labels, just casual? Fine. Ignoring you all night then conveniently remembering you exist when he’s horny and ready to go back to his dorm? Whatever. You’re game. 

You’d gone to every match, watched a few practices. Helped him study for exams, let him borrow the notecards you’d painstakingly written over the course of the semester. Jesus, you even wrote a few essays for him when his schedule got crowded and he just couldn’t manage.

All you asked in return was a date to a stupid formal, and he ditched you last minute for Tashi. Again. And you couldn’t even get pissed about it without feeling guilty, because she’d fucking gotten injured and it wasn’t her fault that the guy you were into was carrying a torch for her instead.

“You’ve been staring down the Reese’s Pieces for the last five minutes.” The familiar voice startled you from your sulking. The world filtered back in suddenly— the blaring music, the smell of cigarettes and pot, the chatter of people wandering in and out of neighboring dorms. When you turned, Patrick Zweig was leaning against the vending machine beside you, carrying a large Tennis bag and backpack on both of his shoulders. “Do you need five bucks?”

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” You asked, brows furrowed with confusion. “I heard about her match. I just figured that you’d…“ You trailed off as you noticed the thinly veiled kicked-puppy expression he wore. “Oh.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s… it’s over. Did you want the Reese’s, or not?” 

“No,” you shook your head and laughed. “I just needed…” you trailed off. What was it you needed, again?

You needed Art. A date to the formal. You needed to feel desirable and cared for. You needed him to get his head out of his ass and just fucking commit. You needed to tell Art to fuck off and find another groupie. You needed…

“Another drink?” Patrick suggested.

You nodded eagerly like that’s what you’d been thinking all along. “Yes. Another drink.” You paused, glancing at his bags. “Do you want to drop your things in my room first? My roommate is in Iowa, or something. She won’t mind.”

Your dorm was decorated in shades of pink and green, with a ruffled bedspread and faux fur pillows and blankets. You bent down to retrieve two bottles of Smirnoff Ice from a mini fridge. Patrick did his best to look away like a gentleman would. 

Well, he did his best. It wasn’t exactly his fault that his options were to look at your tight jeans or the bulletin board above your desk that was essentially an Art Donaldson shrine. 

Pretty pink push pins held up a photo of the two of you after one of his matches, both beaming at the camera. Then there were little notes he’d written you in his boyish scrawl. Tickets to movies you’d gone to see and tickets to his matches. 

“Here,” you said, drawing his attention back to you, thankfully in an upright position. You’d already popped the bottle caps off the radioactive blue drink you handed him. You were chewing your lip shyly, sweetly. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it?”

“What?” He took a drink and nearly grimaced at the sweetness. After he finished it, he’d need to go find something stronger.

You sighed and took a long drink yourself. “I dunno, the whole… thing. Art.” You absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your shirt. “I mean, what girl with any self-respect lets a guy just screw her for months with no commitment?”

“Maybe self-respect is overrated.” He laughed and stepped closer. “Full disclosure? I only came here hoping that I could fuck someone and spend the night in their dorm. Free booze was a plus.”

“We’re in the same boat then,” You said, gazing up at him through your lashes. “We’re both jilted lovers who need a distraction.”

You tilted the bottom of the bottle up, chugging down the contents. When you were done, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and rolled your neck out. “Bottoms up,” you said with a coy smile. “Let’s find something stronger.”

——

An hour later, something by the Pussycat Dolls was blaring through a set of speakers in a darkened common area. You were the fun kind of tipsy, where you started to care less about everyone else and just found yourself buzzed in that light, easy kind of way. You danced to the beat without a care in the world while Patrick sat on the arm of a couch and nursed his beer. 

His eyes were glued to your body as you moved, almost hypnotic beneath the red Christmas lights that had been stapled around the ceiling. Your shirt had ridden up, revealing a sliver of stomach that you either didn’t notice or didn’t care to cover up. 

The only thought running through his head? Art was a fucking idiot. 

You glanced over at him and nodded for him to join you. He didn’t move, so, not one to give up, you joined him over on the couch. When he went for a drink, you tipped up the bottom of the beer can and forced him to finish it, even as it spilled past his lips and down his chin. 

“Thanks,” he deadpanned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

With a pleased smile, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the middle of the room to dance.

He shook his head as you tried to make him dance— your hands on his hips, pushing and pulling and trying and failing to make him move. “No, no. I don’t dance,” he explained, as firmly as he could stand to be.

“Because you can’t? Or because you think you’re too cool?” You asked, raising a brow. He rolled his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “C’mon, if you dance, I’ll tell you a secret.”

That did make him laugh. “What are you, five?”

With a shrug, you took his hands into yours and moved them to your hips. There was a hesitance in his touch, at first. But then his fingers splayed against exposed skin, and you were so warm. Your hips began moving to the beat beneath his hands. “See? We’re dancing,” you said, peering up at him through long lashes.

You looked genuinely victorious when he finally started dancing… kind of. It was less of an action and more of an acceptance. It had been abundantly obvious since the moment he walked into your dorm room that you wanted to end the night with him. Maybe it was because you thought it would hurt Art, or maybe it was because he was there and he was feeling the exact same things you were.

He’d done his best to resist out of some lingering sense that he could repair things with Tashi, and the hope that maybe Art’s spite would fade and they’d be friends again.

Despite skipping the whole college thing, Patrick wasn’t an idiot. He knew better. The second Tashi fell on that court, both of those doors slammed in his face.

And you were so close to him that he could smell the liquor on your breath. And Victoria’s Secret body spray. Mostly the liquor, though. He was barely moving, but you— you were something else. Hips moving against the thigh he’d slotted between your legs, arms trailing up his chest so you could sling them around his neck, pulling yourself impossibly closer. Even though you were grinding against each other like two horny middle-schoolers at their first dance, he’d had enough to drink that he didn’t really give a fuck. When he moved his hands from your hips to grab your ass, you gasped and laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

Your body moved so effortlessly that anything he could have possibly done would’ve looked clunky and clumsy. He groaned when you brushed against him just right, and he could tell by your smug expression that you knew exactly how you were affecting him. 

You leaned in, chest to chest. “Can I tell you the secret now?” You whispered, lips brushing against the line of his jaw. He swallowed hard and nodded. “I think it’d be a bad idea for us to fuck. We’re both in a bad place.”

“Mhmm. Bad idea,” he echoed. He wanted to reach out and grab your jaw, to tilt your face up and kiss you. One of your hands had slipped beneath the hem of his (Tashi’s) shirt, just barely teasing the skin there. It made him shiver and lean into the heat of your touch.

“But I still want to.” You sounded so earnest, so needy. Like you’d take anything he’d give you and thank him for it. “We can use each other to feel better, right? Just a nice, warm body and a rush of dopamine.”

It was exactly what Patrick had come to the fucking dorm rager for. To feel wanted and desired. For someone to look at him like he wasn’t actively failing at the one thing he was supposed to be the best at. 

But he was good at other things.

You guided him through the crowded hallway, way more packed than they had been before you’d started dancing. It was getting later, more people were falling for the siren song of R&B and beer. You were a siren of a different making— with much more dangerous consequences than a hangover.

It almost felt wrong to be back in your innocent, frilly little dorm with the intention of fucking your brains out. But the looks you were giving him were enough proof that he wasn’t the only pervert. Before you could get too far, he pinned you up against the door, displacing a dry-erase calendar in the process. 

You glanced down, eyes flitting towards the hearts around tomorrow’s date, anticipating the formal that Art had flaked on. Without looking back, you kicked the dry-erase board out of the way, a problem for later. 

His lips met yours in a messy clash— teeth knocking slightly until you found a rhythm with each other. Patrick Zweig kissed like he’d been at war for fucking years and had just returned home. He kissed like he had crawled out of the desert and the only promise of water could be found on your tongue. 

You’d never been kissed with that level of need and desperation— that desire— and you fucking loved it. The taste of his tongue licking into your mouth, the rumble of a moan against your own lips.

His hands were moving beneath your shirt, pushing it up as he went. A pretty whine slipped past your spit-slick lips as he squeezed your tits over your bra. Your hands stayed busy undoing his jeans. He moaned into your mouth when your fingers barely brushed against the bulge through the denim. 

“That feel good?” You teased, practically breathing the words into his lungs as you slipped your hand into his boxers. He groaned in response as your hand wrapped around him and pumped slowly.  There was something addicting about his need— you relished in the pulse of him, warm and bucking into your grip. And you wanted more. You wanted to be the one to make him come undone. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

His head fell back slightly as you brushed your thumb along his tip, the movement accompanied by another soft groan. The way you peered up at him with an earnest need to please made hot desire thrum within him.

“You could start by taking these clothes off,” he said, fingers roaming to tug at the strap of your bra. You started to move, slipping your hand from his boxers. Then you stopped.

“You’re not gonna help?” You asked coyly, goosebumps forming where his fingers trailed along your side, teasing at the band of the bra. 

That made a tiny smirk turn at his lips. “Does Art help?” It shouldn’t have turned him on— that little flash of longing for Art in your eyes. But it did. You nodded, shifting slightly to encourage more of Patrick’s touch. “Lift your arms.”

As easy as anything, you obeyed. No banter, no push and pull for control. It was so different than what he had with Tashi (who he shouldn’t have been thinking about), and he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how it always was for you and Art (who he shouldn’t have been thinking about either). 

He tossed your shirt to the side and moved a single hand to the clasp of your bra, undoing it with a quick movement that he’d perfected at sixteen. Painstakingly slow, he pushed each strap down your arms, until it fell at your feet and exposed your tits to the overzealous AC of the Stanford dorms. 

Your nipples pebbled in the cool air, and his mouth watered in a near-Pavlovian response to the sight. His hands moved back to your chest, so he could thumb over the sensitive buds and relish in the way you shivered.

The wood of the door was cold against your shoulders as you arched into his touch. Manicured nails fumbled with the button to your jeans— you twisted and shimmied them off before kicking them to the side.

Before you could react, he picked you up and carried you over to the bed. A grin played at your lips as he practically dropped you onto it, making a decorative pillow fall to the floor. 

“It was only, like, five steps,” you said with a laugh. Patrick shrugged and made quick work of his clothes. You sat up on your elbows to watch him shuck off his pants, then awkwardly hop on one foot at a time to remove his shoes and socks.

When he finally joined you on the bed, he was clad only in his boxers, which were sporting an almost comically large tent. He positioned himself over you, that shit-eating grin ever present on his face. “Can I go down on you?”

You laughed lightly in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

He nodded. “As a heart attack.” He nuzzled against your jaw teasingly. “C’mon, lemme make you feel good, okay? I live for this shit.”

You giggled, pushing his face away. “Yeah. Fuck. You can.”

He trailed his lips down your jaw, then your sternum. He stopped only briefly to suck each nipple into his mouth, making you squirm and arch into him. Your hand moved into his hair, and he moaned against your tit as you tugged slightly. 

You watched him kiss down your stomach and peel your panties down your legs with his teeth through half-lidded eyes. Your cunt clenched around nothing as he slowly kissed up one leg.

The sight made your stomach flip— the sheer desire of it all. Your mind flickered to Tashi, as it seemed to do more and more. Tashi got this same sight, felt the same lips on her skin, and heard the same groans and pants. You could’ve laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. At that moment, with Patrick on top of you, you were closer to Tashi than Art could even dream of.

A tap on the inside of your thigh was his wordless way of telling you to open up for him, to get out of your head and come back to earth. Your tummy fluttered as you spread your legs more and he slotted himself there with an arm slung across your stomach. 

“Fuck,” he said lowly, peering up at you. “You get this wet from just kissing?”

Heat burned in your cheeks at his obvious amusement, but you could tell he loved how responsive you were. His tongue traced you from your hole to your clit, making you cry out and twist your fingers into his curls. Quick, teasing flicks against your clit made your thighs tremble and squeeze around his shoulders. You were so fucking sensitive that it made him want to tear you apart.

It was messy— a sloppy mix of his spit and your arousal as he made out with your pussy. His nose brushed against your clit as he nuzzled deeper into you, moaning as his fervor was rewarded with more of your juices spilling onto his tongue. 

There was no method or precision to it, even though you were quite sure he could’ve had you coming undone beneath his fingers in no time at all. Patrick relished in every tiny reaction— in feeling your thighs around his head and your fingers in his hair. Relished in the taste of you on his tongue and the feeling of your slick smeared across his face. 

Your back was arching off the bed, nails digging just shy of painfully into his scalp. 

He opened you up with one finger, then a second. Your cunt accepted the intrusion with ease, like you were made for it. For him. He crooked his fingers just so and you cried out pathetically. He pressed there, constant and firmly and your fingers tugged harder on his hair, moans increasing in pitch as your breaths came in pants. 

“I’m— I— fuck—“ words failed you as his lips formed a seal around your clit and he sucked, making spots dance across your vision. In the absence of words, all you could manage were fucked out sobs and pitiful little whines.

Slick walls fluttered around his fingers, and your clit pulsed against his tongue. You were so easy to get worked up— a toy for him to wind up and set into motion. You came with a moan that would’ve made a weaker man cum inside of his boxers, your cunt spasming around the intrusion of his fingers. 

When he sat back and cleaned his fingers in his mouth, you were watching through half-lidded, hazy eyes. Tiny pieces of hair were plastered to your face and forehead, and you gave a breathless giggle as you looked up at him. 

“Holy shit,” you said with a grin as he shucked off his boxers and kicked them off somewhere across the room. 

“Feel good?” He asked, and pressed a kiss to your hip bone. You nodded wordlessly, feeling dizzy with need. “Gonna give me another one?”

“Yeah,” you said breathlessly, peering up at him with wide eyes. The tip of his nose was shiny with your arousal, which made warmth spread across your cheeks. With a sheepish laugh, you reached up and wiped it away with your thumb. There wasn’t much you could do about the mess on his mouth and chin. “You’re all messy.”

He kissed you slow— leaving his tongue against yours, making you taste yourself mixed with his spit. It was less of a kiss than a series of slow laves of his tongue against yours. It felt dirty, and a little gross, but you couldn’t help but relish in it. You’d never kissed Art like that, would’ve never even dreamed of it. Patrick was an entirely different animal. 

You stayed like that for a while— just completely lost in the feel of him warm on top of you, grinding his cock against your cunt as he planted messy kisses to your lips. 

“Condom?” He mumbled the words against your lips when he finally grew impatient.

“Mhmm. Bedside table.”

He fumbled inside the drawer, grabbing glasses cleaning wipes two seperate times before he finally found a foil packet in the bottom of the drawer.  

He held it between two fingers, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You sure this’ll fit me? I’m bigger than Art.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not by that much.”

“Where it counts, though.” His smirk was smarmy as he tore open the foil with his teeth and rolled the condom down his length. He spat in his hand and stroked himself as he peered down at you, like he hadn’t quite decided how he wanted you yet. 

“Turn over,” he finally said with a pat to the meat of your thigh. You did as he said, almost hesitant as you turned over and settled onto your forearms, arching your back slightly. “Does Art ever fuck you like this?”

He held the head of his cock at your entrance, teasing you with the tiniest amount of pressure. You took in a shaky breath and shifted, eager for more that he wasn’t going to give you yet. “Do you have to bring him up right now?”

No. He knew he really didn’t, but he couldn’t help himself at the same time. The thought of his Art in this same bed with you made it all so much hotter for him. He wanted to know how Art had fucked you, he wanted every detail burned in his brain. He wanted to be better, or maybe just be there with the two of you. 

It had gotten close. Once. Art was definitely fingering you under a blanket while the three of you watched a movie on his laptop across the room. Patrick’s thigh was touching yours— he could feel the way your muscles tensed and shook as Art played with you. He was close enough to hear the hitch of your breath. 

And if that hadn’t been enough to give it away, Art’s stupid fucking smirk and the obvious way his arm was moving would have.

He didn’t do anything then, but maybe he should’ve. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” He was slow as he sank into you, inch by inch. It could’ve been the position, or maybe his cocky bravado was completely founded, but he did feel bigger than you were used to. A soft moan was punched from your lips when he was finally buried to the hilt— your breath came in soft pants as you adjusted to the feeling of him. 

With your face pressed into your pillows, each breath you took flooded your senses with the smell of Art’s cologne. You moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut as your thoughts were overwhelmed with him.

“Shit, you’re fuckin’ tight,” he groaned. His fingers dimpled your skin where he held onto you. He moved one hand to rub the base of your spine in a way that could probably have been tender, on another day. You moaned pathetically into the pillows. “What? You need something?” 

One shallow, teasing thrust made your toes curl. “More,” was all you could manage.

“Can you take it?” Patrick cooed, smugness was practically dripping from his tongue. “Because I can go slow if you need—“

“You’re such an asshole. Just fuck m—”

A rough snap of Patrick’s hips cut you off suddenly. You cried out, grasping onto the bedspread feebly as he began to fuck you in earnest. 

Each thrust made the cheap, university-provided bed frame slam against the wall. The decorations you had hung up rattled, threatening to tumble right onto the floor and shatter, but neither of you even noticed. The moans slipping past your lips were pornographic.

But the sounds escaping you were nothing compared to the noises Patrick was making. Art had made an off-handed comment, once, about how much of a slut Patrick could be. You hadn’t really seen why until you got to hear the desperate, debauched noises he could make.

You slipped a hand between your thighs to rub at your clit and the feeling stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes rolled back, ass jiggling in time with each thrust.

Through it all, the memory of Art in this bed clung to you. Art, burying himself in the soft, wet heat between your thighs, flushed down to his chest and panting softly. His hungry kisses, melting sweet on your tongue like cotton candy. The whines that slipped past his lips, better than the prettiest music you could imagine. 

With each brutal thrust of Patrick’s cock into you, he punched out soft ah, ah, ahs from your lips. In your head, you just heard Art, Art, Art. Maybe that’s what you meant to say. 

You were probably in love with him. You were fucking his best friend. And it wasn’t even that simple. Patrick and Art and Tashi and somewhere between it all, you lingered. It was a giant clusterfuck of feelings and lust that you’d somehow tangled yourself inside of. Wanting someone so much, you want whoever has them just as badly. 

Maybe everything would’ve been a lot cleaner if you’d just locked the four of you into a room and stayed until every bit of tension had been fucked out. The idea of it all made you moan softly into the pillows. 

Patrick pulled you up suddenly, back flush against his chest as he continued to fuck into you. One hand grabbed at your jaw, turning you so he could press his lips to yours again, and the other squeezed at your tits. His mouth did a perfect job of muffling your moans— Patrick relished in feeling your pretty whines vibrate against his lips. 

“You feel so fucking perfect.” His words made heat flutter through you. “Need t’ feel you cum again. You have it in you, yeah? I can feel it.”

You nodded, eager to please. Pleasure was lapping at every nerve, lightning-hot. Your fingers rubbed faster at your clit as he pounded up into you. The whines escaping you were pathetic as your body crawled closer and closer to the edge. 

“Close,” you gasped out. Patrick licked into your open mouth, kissing you sloppily as you set a punishing pace on your poor, oversensitive clit. “So close— f-fuck—“

Your orgasm hit you suddenly. You clawed at his arm with your free hand, desperately seeking purchase as euphoria pulsed through your veins. 

“That’s it,” he groaned, his breath hot against your jaw. “Fuck— squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move— god—“

Your eyes were half-lidded as he worked you through it, rhythm only just beginning to falter as his finish approached. He pushed you back onto your stomach, manhandling your hips so your back was arched just like he wanted. 

You were reduced to whimpers and whines by the time he finally came— buried as deep as he could get, grip bruising on your hips. A few shallow thrusts were all he could manage before he pulled out, collapsing on beside you. 

You were catching your breath while he disposed of the condom in the cute trash can beside your bed, filled with gummy snack wrappers and broken pencils and old class notes. It felt like sacrilege. He laid back down, and you pulled a throw blanket over the two of you. 

With his head against the pillows, you wondered if he could also sense the phantom of Art’s presence there in the bed. Somewhere between you, forcing distance.

“So, when do you leave for your next tournament?” You asked. Unconsciously, you reached out to play with his hair, the same way you did to Art in times like these. “Soon, I bet. You usually don’t stay long.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” He asked, a tiny smile playing at his lips. His chest was still heaving with exertion. 

You shook your head. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Patrick.” He melted into your touch, eyes fluttering shut. 

In the morning, you’d wake up squished against Patrick’s side with the taste of sugary alcohol on your tongue. When you picked up your phone to see three missed calls from Art, it was easier to pretend that you hadn’t seen them at all.

thanks for reading :) if you enjoyed, please lmk by sending an ask, or whatever you wanna do <3

[ninibeingdelulu]

"You should pay more attention, liebe"

plot- luckily for michael, his girlfriend is a tattoo artist CLICK ME

The studio's atmosphere thrummed with an electric undercurrent as your skilled hands meticulously guided the tattoo machine over Michael's pale skin.

Deft lines and whirling bursts of brilliant cerulean pigment steadily coalesced into the beginnings of an intricate blue rose blossoming to vivid life- the pristine petals unfurling in an elegant trail from the nape of his neck down the lean cords of his arm.

Despite the intense level of focus the demanding artistry required, you were acutely aware of Michael's every subtle shift and hitch of breath from where he laid prone before you.

The solid warmth of his powerful frame so tantalizingly proximal, close enough to detect the rich, earthy notes of his cologne mingling with the faint astringent tang of the tattoo ink.

Unconsciously, your teeth worried at your lower lip in concentration as you leaned in closer to refine the delicate detailing.

So immersed in your handiwork, the first exploratory caress of Michael's calloused fingertips skimming the bare expanse of your back caused you to visibly startle with a sharp inhalation.

Instantly, your gaze snapped up to meet his- all at once awash in the molten amber depths sparkling with unambiguous affection and want.

Those full lips you knew so intimately curved into a lopsided smirk as Michael took hopeless delight in your visible surprise.

"You need to learn how to pay better attention, liebe." He rumbled in that decadent timbre that never failed to catalyze an array of delicious tremors ricocheting straight through your very bones.

"I won't be ignored so easily..."

"Michael..." You huffed an exasperated sigh even as the corners of your own mouth tugged upwards in begrudging amusement. "I'm trying to make you look good here. Stop with the endless teasing, would you?"

The striker only responded with a deep, self-satisfied chuckle that reverberated through his chest and your conjoined forms as those wandering fingers trailed higher in tandem.

Insistent sweeps of his thumb now traced mesmerizing spirals along the sensitive knobs of your vertebrae - their languid ministrations fast proving an incredibly effective distraction as you strove to remain centered on the task at hand.

"Are you quite finished?"

You arched one pointed brow in his direction whilst just barely suppressing a betraying shiver of pure indulgence.

When Michael's response was little more than a wicked glint in those smoldering amber pools, you huffed once more and stubbornly returned to your inking.

Yet no matter how fixated you kept your attentions, ignoring the steady smolder of his unhurried explorations rapidly becoming an impossibility.

Every successive sweep of his fingertips up your spine, each featherlight caress ghosting over the exposed flush of your shoulders was an unignorable siren demanding to be seared into your restless subconscious.

By the time you'd finally committed the last sweeping brushstroke of the magnificent bluerose blossoming in stark vibrancy across Michael's arm, your entire body thrummed like a livewire of exquisite tension awaiting release.

So it proved little surprise when the instant your needle stilled, the striker surged upright with sinuous grace- instantly caging you in the inescapable orbit of his hulking form.

Calloused fingers cradled your jaw while his lips hovered a mere hairsbreadth from your own in unabashed temptation.

Michael's eyes glittered with scorching intensity as he drank in every nuance of your expression up close- unconsciously licking his lips as if savoring the prospect of imminently tasting you.

"Now that I've suffered through that torturous punishment..." His baritone fairly dripped with faux indignation.

"Are you finally going to reward me properly, liebling?"

The prospect alone had your pulse jackhammering with delicious anticipation. Every nerve ending fairly throbbed with the echoing memory of his deliberate caresses now honed to a razors edge of rapturous need.

Still, you refused to relinquish your stance so easily.

"Nuh-uh..." You breathed the gentle rebuff, pressing a single fingertip to Michael's lips in playful defiance.

"That's what you get for distracting me while I was doing my job."

The striker's eyes went comically wide, sensual moment abruptly evaporating as his expression contorted into a moue of exaggerated distress.

"Oh come on, schatz. I'm sorry." He whined piteously, lower lip protruding in an excessively put-upon pout you couldn't help but find overwrought yet endearing.

"Now quit playing hard to get and come kiss me already."

Bubbling laughter spilled forth unrestrained as you drank in his childishly mulish antics, struck once more by just how fortunate you were to love this man so unconditionally.

Cupping his cheeks fondly, you surged up on your tiptoes to seal your lips over his in a fervent, lingering kiss that Michael instantly melted into with a groan of visceral satisfaction and relief.

As you gradually parted with a contented sigh of your own, you couldn't resist the urge to gently tease, "I really am the luckiest girl in the world..."

[venomous-qwille]

Ghost in the Machine

This is the master post for Ghost in the Machine links, character refs and FAQs.

I will try my best to keep this post as up to date as possible.

What is Ghost in The Machine?

GITM is a DCA AU and a fic set in the retrofuture (2055ish) long after Fazco has shut down. An eccentric collector has been acquiring versions of the Daycare Attendant animatronic from closed locations around the world. The story involves a reader character who has been brought into repair the original post-Ruin DCA from the games, and hijinks ensue. There are also ghosts.

Where can I read the fic?

GITM is currently being posted on Ao3, and is updated every three weeks on Saturdays. The fic is being beta'd by the tremendously talented @bubbiethesaur. You can read GITM here!

There is also a podfic, which you can find here:

Updates to the podfic will be sporadic, so please be patient &lt;3

Where can I see the art?

On this blog I use the #gitm au and #ghost in the machine au tags for GITM related content. If you are looking for art of a specific character, they also have their own tags: #misuta moon #nova #soleil #clip.exe #sunspot mk1 #fool eclipse #ruin eclipse #sombra #sunflower #mr sandman

FAQ~

Why haven't you answered my GITM ask?

One of three reasons: 1) your ask was too spoilery* 2) I'm waiting to answer it with art 3) ADHD

*spoilery includes but is not limited to: any questions about dual-AI or XYZ character's sun/moon variant; questions about character backstories and lore; questions about characters that have not featured in the fic yet (e.g Nova, Sanii, Harvest, Sunflower, Sandman etc); asks speculating about potential future scenarios (don't get me wrong, I love these asks, but I can't answer them!)

Where are all the Moons?

Read and find out. Seriously. There are at least 5 Moons who are core to the plot but I'm not going to talk about them, no matter how nicely you ask!

Does XYZ character have a Sun/Moon counterpart?

Some of them do, some of them don't. The dual-AI stuff is majorly plot related. If I'm not talking about someone's Sun/Moon counterpart, rest assured you will find out eventually. I won't be spoiling any of it on tumblr though :)

Can I create fanart of GITM?

Yes yes yes please do and please tag me when you post it so I can see it/reblog! If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create fanfic of GITM?

Super flattered about this. I have a longform answer to this question which you can read here. But tl;dr yes you can, please tag/credit me, do not spoil/try to write the lore, and please do not write GITM au (e.g mafia, mer, medieval). I have my own plans for this stuff and I would prefer to release the designs/stories in my own time. If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create NSFW GITM content?

Until recently I had blanket perms that allowed NSFW GITM content. I'm updating this to let you guys know I'm no longer comfortable with people making this content. Back when the community was small, I felt differently, but as time has passed a lot has changed and I've found myself becoming increasingly anxious about it. If this boundary changes again in the future, I will update this FAQ.

Do you have character refs I can use?

There is a collection of art 'refs' for each character on the Misutamojis discord. Latest link here.

There are no proper call-out sheets/refs currently, but I have a huge body of art for the characters on this blog which should give you more than enough info for most of them. I will get around to creating proper refs eventually, in which case I will link them here.

Where can I find the playlist?

I update the spotify playlist fairly regularly, if you have any music recs you can send them over in an ask! You can listen to the playlist here!

I've heard there are secret GITM drabbles, where can I find them?

I used to post frequent drabbles from future chapters in the DCA Palooza discord, I have recently deleted the majority of them as people were going back and binging them which hadn't been the intended reading experience. Anywho, this question probably refers more to the spicy drabbles (which people have very kindly made a lot of delicious art for). These are still around! You just need to access the spicy channel and do some digging.

Is there a GITM discord?

Nope! There is a server for GITM emotes and a busy thread in the DCA Palooza, but currently I don't have any plans to make a GITM-centric discord community. If that does happen in the future it's likely I will simply convert the emotes server (Misutamojis).

It finally happened, I converted Misutamojis. You can join the GITM discord here.

Can I smooch the robots?

Yes.

All of them?

All of them.

[gilbirda]

Friendly neighborhood vigilante. Chapter 28

BatmanxDP crossover. JasonxJazz

[Read on AO3] [Read on FF.net]

Based on this post

First chapter || << Previous chapter || Next chapter >>

---

Danny landed on the rooftop without making any sound. There was soft thud and air displacement when Batman landed next to him, but Danny ignored him.

They have kept it civil because they really wanted to get this done before he was called back to the Realms, but Danny wasn’t very keen on seeing the old man’s face right now.

After all, he hurt his sister.

Jason was very open about Bruce’s involvement in the whole debacle, and explained as well who exactly was Barbara in this equation and how he could find her. Danny had given the other man a hard time during the unplanned shovel talk, but he could easily tell Jason was as pissed as he was for Bruce’s treatment of Jazz, and he respected that.

He was still on probation for the whole “making her cry and making her spill her secrets at gunpoint” business, but for now the guy was making up for it very well. The shine in his eyes as he explained in detail what exactly Danny should and could do for payback was exactly what Danny needed to feel encouraged to start an impromptu prank war on Batman, which he promptly decided to do.

Jazz arrived after work and found them still in the Batburger, plotting machinations that she disapproved of at first, but quickly caved and added her two cents with her observations about Bruce.

Jazz wasn’t a stranger to prank wars. She was a Fenton after all.

Terrorizing the old man had been fun and a great way to blow off some steam, which he desperately needed. He had slipped with his chat with Jason, and he was fearing he went too far with the whole eldritch thing, but the guy was just fine and not traumatized so it couldn’t have been that bad.

He still refused to talk to Batman if he could help it. Weird thing, the man didn’t seem surprised by the development.

Good.

He should be very aware he did something very wrong and was on thin ice.

His only saving grace was new intel Jazz shared at the Batburger — she had struck a deal with Bruce, and apparently the man was going to help her launch her reform programs that the management at Arkham kept shutting down. Of course his sister saw this as an opportunity for her work, but if it made her happy, he was fine with it.

He was still going to mess with the man for a bit longer, though, even when they were on their way to meet The Spirit.

They didn’t have a set destination, but Danny instinctively followed the flow of ectoplasm to where it was the most concentrated, and where he knew she’d be a bit more stable to have this kind of interaction.

Gotham Spirit wasn’t like your regular ghost — she was born after a dream, an idea, a concept. She had never been human and existed in every brick and every tree and every person within the city. Manifesting as a one singular form took a lot of power and ability, something that an entity as old and experienced as Gotham certainly had, but required a lot of ectoplasm.

Danny watched Red Hood land on the other side of the rooftop with his sister in his arms. He scoffed. Jazz hadn’t looked apologetic when she told him she wanted to make the trip with her boyfriend instead of flying with him as usual.

Sure. Let her live her dreams of being swept away by her knight in shining tights or whatever. By the way her face had a slight blush up to her ears, she was enjoying every minute of this.

Danny scoffed and looked away, watching Batman instead. The man was openly staring at the couple being disgustingly cute with that neutral expression of his. Batman was liminal just enough that Danny could sense the underlying sadness he had every time he looked at Jason.

He didn’t know the full story, but had guessed from context that both had a complex relationship he didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, thank you very much.

Batman made a grunt type of sound and finally looked away from the other. Danny glanced and found them kissing, Jazz grabbing Jason’s jacket to pull him down and he had a hand on her waist.

“When do you think The Spirit will show up?”

Danny could see the attempt to distract himself away from the happy couple, but he felt a little evil and pretended he didn’t hear him, turning to look at the city skyline.

Gotham was a beautiful city — not exactly his taste, but he could appreciate the charm of such an urban metropolis with grotesques on every other rooftop and overall dark aesthetics. Sam would love the place, for sure. Maybe he should bring her the next time he comes over for a visit.

Batman grunted again, displeased with being ignored.

Good.

“Tomorrow—”

Whatever the man wanted to call his attention for was forgotten the second a colony of bats appeared out of nowhere, screeching and screaming as they rushed in towards Jazz and Jason’s direction.

Danny knew they weren’t dealing with normal animals when the bats ripped Jazz away from her boyfriend and threw her over the edge of the rooftop.

“Jazz!” Jason screamed, running after the cloud of darkness that took the woman.

Danny flew to see what was going on, finding his sister suspended mid-air, already drawing her staff and trying to fight off the bats off her body that were biting and scratching the skin that wasn’t covered by her armor.

“HOW COULD YOU!” A disembodied voice growled, distorted with rage and tell-tale static undertones that ghosts usually had.

Gotham, the Spirit, had arrived.

“I HAD ONE RULE!”

Oh boy.

The dark cloud carried Jazz towards a nearby building, through the wall and again upwards towards the sky, landing on the roof. It was a good thing that Jazz's physical abilities were enhanced with her armor on, because blasting through brick walls really, really hurt. He knew from experience.

The Bats immediately grappled closer to the fight, but didn’t dare intervene just yet — the murderous colony of bats seemingly multiplied and flew in a storm around Jazz, making it impossible to get closer or help the woman without risking injury.

Jazz shook her head to clear the debris from her face and hair as much as she could, and started flipping her staff around in practiced moves. She knew how to move with a staff, it was her main weapon after all, so she didn’t find a lot of trouble with at least keeping the worst of it out of her personal bubble.

“Do something!”

Danny’s head whipped away from the fight. “Like what!” He shouted back at Jason.

“I don’t know! You are the King! Stop this!”

Jazz screamed in pain, and they turned to watch as the bats finally overwhelmed her, sinking their teeth on her skin and taking flight with her, body and all. Her staff was useless in the air, and the higher they flew, the more she risked falling and hurting herself.

“Danny!” Jason growled, demanding answers.

The young King wished he could do what he was asked. It was his sister fighting for her life right there, but—

“I can’t.”

“What!”

“I can’t intervene! Could be perceived as a power move and make things worse.”

“Power move? What the fuck are you talking about? It's trying to kill her!”

Did they have time to discuss the intricacies of ghost politics, haunt protocol and unspoken rules of courtesy? No, they didn’t.

“Just trust me, dude!”

Also, technically, Gotham was within her rights here. Jazz broke a promise made with a ghost more ancient than her. She was not supposed to get close to the city’s beloved crime fighters.

Jazz activated the electrical tip of her staff and shocked the cloud of bats surrounding her. She screamed, probably because she shocked herself in the process, but it served its purpose — the electrocuted bats finally let go of her and started nosediving back down, freeing her.

She didn’t waste time and repositioned her body to dive back as well, her long red hair flapping wildly on her back, eyes fixed on her objective, hands tensed around her staff.

They watched the colony recover mid descent, flying back up to meet her halfway. Jazz placed one arm forward, activating the ghost shield of her arm guards, using the opportunity to cushion her fall back to the rooftop. She landed safely and flipped backwards a good distance away from the bats to regain her breath.

“Get over here!” The voice screamed again, less distorted and more human-like.

Black smoke manifested around the bats as the cloud changed course, preparing to rush towards Jazz. She was ready for them. She had put away her collapsed staff back on her waist and lifted both arms, making a bigger shield that hopefully could withstand the onslaught of the very pissed off ancient Spirit.

When they made contact they heard Jazz gasp as she was pushed back from the sheer force of impact, but she held her ground. Her legs trembled a little bit, and one collapsed until she had one knee on the ground.

Finally, it was too much and the woman was launched again over the edge, but this time something else caught her fall.

Batman’s cape was gigantic, and Danny could understand how it became a symbol for the city. It was like Jazz had been enveloped in the night itself and nothing could go through the protecting barrier as she was carried into safety by the vigilante.

The cloud of smoke and screeching bats followed, but froze the moment they realized who exactly had their arms around their target.

The moment Jazz was on her own feet she drew her weapon again, breathing hard and glaring at the murderous cloud.

“My Knight.” The voice whispered, static gone, rage gone.

Jason had rushed towards Jazz’s side and started checking her wounds, but stopped to watch as the bats and the smoke started to coalesce into human form. It was reminiscent of the visual effect when the Bats manifested from the shadows, as if the void itself suddenly had eyes, then a shape and at last a three dimensional form.

“My Son.” Gotham, the Spirit, breathed with newly formed lips.

“Holy shit.” Jason murmured under his breath.

Danny watched as both Batman and Red Hood froze in the presence of the personification of their beloved city. It was the woman of the painting back at the Manor, Danny confirmed, so it must be the face of Bruce’s mom. She was wearing a long deep black cocktail dress, darker than a moonless sky, that hung down to her feet and blended with the shadows she was formed from, almost as if she remained tethered to the essence of the city even with her humanoid manifestation.

What was the name of Bruce’s mother? Martha? Yeah, Danny was sure the name was Martha.

He was still going to call her Spirit or Gotham, just in case. Anything else could lead to confusion.

The Spirit approached the masked vigilante and touched his face with a delicate pale hand, face contorting in what could be called a maternal worried expression.

Batman didn’t move, frozen in place, letting the strange and yet familiar woman touch him.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but hesitated, and then the moment was gone.

The Spirit withdrew her hand and turned to glare at Jazz, ignoring everyone else standing on the rooftop.

“You promised.” She growled with a static-y edge to her voice.

Jazz had regained her breath. “I know. I’m sorry.” She collapsed her staff and slowly put it on the holder at her hip.

“Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Jason responded for Jazz, stepping forward to place his body between the angry ghost and his girlfriend. Danny thought it was cute.

The Spirit’s face softened at the gesture, floating closer to the pair. “My Knight.” She didn’t stop even when Jason tensed at her approach. “Would you protect her from me?”

He stood still even if it was clear he didn’t want that woman touching him. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, just a domino mask, so he was caressed on one cheek just like Bruce has been.

“Yes. Without question.”

The Spirit purred, considering. The shadows at her feet trembled and morphed as she thought, rivulets of pure darkness floating up until they dissolved like smoke.

“Very well.” Danny breathed in relief. “But you can’t expect me to be happy with you and the young King flaunting your power like this is your own haunt, girl.”

Jazz cleared her throat. “Actually, we wanted to talk about that topic.”

Gotham’s form shook and her shape blurred for a moment, her mouth curving in an impossible smile. “You dare make demands?”

“Not… Not demands,” Jazz tried to laugh the tension off. It didn’t work. “We wanted to discuss the possibility of letting me— letting us operate freely in the city—”

“HOW DARE YOU!”

The human form exploded in a cloud of bats, but this time they didn’t hurt anybody, they just flew around the group, screeching.

“If you could give me a minute—”

“You come into my city and dare—!”

“Listen to me.”

“ — prance around like it belongs to you!”

Danny and Jazz shared a look.

Jason stepped closer to Jazz, watching the flying cloud of murderous bats.

“B, do something. She likes you.”

Batman didn’t hesitate and moved closer to the pair, positioning on the other side of the young woman. Jazz ended up protected, sandwiched between the two vigilantes.

“There’s a threat coming.” The Dark Knight said. The bats slowed down, listening. “And only these two can help us. Hear what they have to say.”

The colony screeched one more time before they gathered again into the shape of Martha Wayne. She stood there observing the Princess, unblinking and unmoving, with one hand on the pearl necklace resting on her chest.

“A threat?”

“You don’t know them. They call themselves the Ghost Investigation Ward, and are after anyone that has been death touched.” The Spirit’s eyes sharpened, glowing with power. “Yes. Anyone. Including your Knights.”

“I can stop them.”

Danny intervened. “Vlad Plasmius may show up as well.”

The smoke cracked like a bonfire, and a strong smell of burning rubber and chemicals filled their noses.

“Plasmius?”

“You know him?”

She turned towards Danny, her eyes glowing red and dangerous. “I know of him. I don’t want that… man,” she twisted her mouth in distaste, “in my city.”

The siblings looked at each other and nodded. “We’ll deal with him. If—”

“No.”

“No?”

She floated away, the horrible smell followed her. “I don’t want any of you in my city either. You have caused enough harm as it is. Leave.”

She made a dismissive gesture and turned away, deeming the conversation over.

“What?” Danny heard Jason whisper.

“I’m sorry, my Lady, but I just can’t accept that.” Jazz stepped forward.

The burned rubber smell was back. Gotham looked over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

“You have done enough. Leave.” This time, the word had an added Command to it. Jazz stumbled but held her ground. This made the Spirit fully turn around to face her.

“No.”

The Spirit’s eyes glowed brighter as she stared down the Princess.

“Leave. My. City.”

“I won’t leave this city—” Jazz lifted her staff just in time to parry some kind of projectile Gotham threw at her. It vanished in a cloud of dark smoke that smelled like car exhaust. “I won’t leave this city, and I won’t leave its people. What’s coming is dangerous and we want to help you.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes you do! How can I stand by and watch how they take all the death-touched that are under your protection? How can you?”

“I can protect them.”

“Can you?”

The Spirit didn’t like her comment, her body starting to lose its shape again. But didn’t respond.

“Let me help you protect them. You know I can. You know who I am.” She stepped closer to the Spirit, eyes fixed on the powerful ghost, unflinching. The fiery tips of her mask ignited with determination, fire extending to make a perfect circle of flames above her head. “You know I can protect what matters the most to us.”

Gotham’s red eyes briefly found the quiet figures of the vigilantes behind Jazz, who were watching the exchange with bated breath. Maybe they understood the importance of the situation, the gravity of what was happening. Openly challenging an ancient ghost like Gotham, in her own haunt, was a highly frowned upon offense. If the Spirit wanted to smite Jazz there was nothing Danny could do.

He watched his sister, stomping down the impulse to jump in and protect her. He had seen her square up against big threats, against a whole army, but he wasn’t used to seeing her dive headfirst into a fight she couldn’t win.

She really wanted to stay, huh.

Danny looked at Jason, the reason why they were in this mess in the first place. That man better understood how much his sister was risking with this confrontation.

“You are a child.” Danny cringed at the condescending tone. By ghost standards, it was technically true. He knew Jazz hated it almost as much as he did.

But she wasn’t fazed.

Jazz did a flourish with her staff and slammed it against the concrete roof, releasing a wave of power, her power, amplified by the magical properties of her armor. Danny and Gotham were unaffected, but he saw the vigilantes take a slight step back.

Huh. Interesting.

“I am Crown Princess Jasmine. I’ve protected the Keep against invading forces for seven days and seven nights straight. I’ve battled alongside the Ancient Pandora, and trained by the Amazons residing in the Infinite Realms.” She slammed her staff again, another wave of raw power coursing through the city skyline. Her hair was lifted by the stream of energy, flowing around her body like a fiery halo. “I’m not a mere child, my Lady, and I’m ready to risk my own life, my own blood, to protect this city. I will stay.” She marched closer, extending her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Gotham made a face, barely giving Jazz’s hand a spared glance. Instead, she turned around and floated closer to the edge as if she was getting ready to jump.

Danny wanted to scoff. What a stubborn ghost. Just like its protectors.

“Very well,” she said, words carried by the wind. “You can stay. But,” she looked over her shoulder, “you must do one thing for me, if you are so fixated on ‘helping me’.”

“Anything.”

Danny’s eyebrows went to his hairline. That was a very, very dangerous thing to say. You just don’t promise “anything” to a ghost, even less to someone like the Gotham Spirit.

“There’s a vortex of corrupted ectoplasm hidden in my city. Find it, neutralize it, and I will be forever in your debt, Princess. Good night and—

“ — good luck.”

The last parting words were lost in the sound of flapping wings of the flurry of bats Gotham finally surrendered to. The colony flew up to the sky, vanishing among the dark clouds.

“Whew!” Jazz whistled. “That could have gone better.”

Danny turned away from the sky to look at his sister in disbelief. “What the fuck, Jazz?”

“What?

“What do you mean ‘what’?” He lifted his hands. Unbelievable. “You just— That was such— Why?”

She chuckled, her voice weak. “I… don’t know? It just happened.”

Danny wanted to get the bottom of how could his sister, always so obsessed with following protocol and rules, do a stand off with a whole freaking city just like that; but said sister was whisked away by two hundred pounds of vigilante.

Jason was laughing without caring who may listen, holding Jazz by her waist up in the air, spinning in place with her in his arms.

“That was amazing!”

Jazz laughed with him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her cheeks were colored, probably from embarrassment at being at the center of such a spectacle.

“Oh, well.”

Jason stopped spinning and placed her on her feet, but immediately captured her and flushed her against his chest instead, reaching for a deep kiss that dipped Jazz backwards.

Danny looked away from such a cheesy moment.

Batman ignored the show and had already approached the point from where Gotham disappeared. He placed one knee on the roof and reached for the concrete, but there was nothing on it. No stain or mark that there had ever been a ghost formed from soot and smoke.

“It really was her.” He murmured under his breath.

Danny knew he wasn’t supposed to hear that, but the alternative of engaging with Batman was watching his sister exchange bodily fluids with her boyfriend and hmmm no thanks.

He sighed.

“It’s not your mother.”

“I know.” Danny didn’t flinch at the tone. “I know.”

Danny crouched beside the man. “Was she what you expected?”

He thought about the question for a second. “I don’t know. She looked like my mother, but there was nothing of her. She was hurt and distrustful. Cautious.”

Danny hoped the man could see the similarities between the city and its protector, but chose to bite his tongue and not comment on it.

“The corrupted vortex of ectoplasm.” Batman said out of the blue, standing back up. “I think I know what she was talking about.”

Just like that, the man was all business and no fun. Almost made Danny want to go back to giving him the cold shoulder and ignore him the rest of his stay in Gotham.

“What do you mean?” Jazz asked, tuning into the conversation. Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were still flushed.

“I’ve had my suspicions but I never had enough proof to investigate.”

“What?”

He looked at his son. “There’s a Lazarus Pit here, in Gotham.” He looked at Jazz. “And I think I know where it is.”

---

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[catscidr]

Ghost reader with dottore!!?!?

Ilysm

BOO haha gotem. did i get you ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff, dottore is tired and maybe a little ooc, established relationship kinda? not proofread. for plot purposes pretend that sign language doesn't exist and or that neither dottore nor reader know it lmaosghfns includes: gn!reader, dottore, pantalone is mentioned at the end wc: 1,5k

Being a ghost had its perks. One, you could phase in and out of tangible objects at your own whim- made it infinitely easier to tease and annoy Dottore. It’s not like he could push you away if you were to poke his face repeatedly, anyways. 

Two, you had freakishly good night-vision. It lined up with the doctor’s schedule- since he always worked late into the hours of the night you could hang around him and, in turn, entertain yourself by wreaking havoc in his lab (havoc meaning knocking over an empty, plastic container when he wasn’t paying attention to you). 

However, being a ghost also utterly sucked ass sometimes. 

For one, you couldn’t speak. Occasionally you’ll let out a quiet, hushed noise of surprise whenever Dottore caught you off guard or threw something at you, but you couldn’t communicate with him properly. Your main mode of communication was, for the most part and for lack of better words, miming and charades. That in it of itself wasn’t too hard to do since you grew to become incredibly expressive during your time as a ghost, but it required Dottore to look at you (thank the Seven he could see you), which he, in petty revenge, would sometimes refuse to do. 

“Sweetheart, I’m busy. I’ve been busy for a while, and I need you to let me focus,” he says in a firm but calm tone, muffled by a dust mask. It would have sent shivers down your spine if you had one, but you don’t, so instead you roll your eyes at him, floating next to him to peek at what he was doing. 

Sparks flew and sharp, stinging sounds irritating your ghostly eardrums echoed through your body, but it wasn’t enough for you to give up on pestering him. 

It’s not like you could do much, anyways. 

Moving objects could take a lot out of you depending on their weight, volume and size. Pushing a pencil was easy enough, throwing one was just as effortless, but moving something like a desk was harder, considerably so. 

Despite his apparent dislike for you, Dottore enjoyed your company, more than others. Being around someone that wasn’t afraid of him, that treated him like a friend made his cold heart thaw. It’s something he would never admit with his words, too prideful and stubborn to voice out loud, but it didn’t mean that there weren’t any other ways for him to portray his love for you. 

You poked the large metal mechanism he was working on, a loud bonk echoing in the pristine lab. It drew him out of his thoughts, gloved fingers stiffening around the soldering iron he held. 

Nothing moved out of place, but the action was enough for him to peel his gaze away from the two pieces of metal he was soldering together to glare at your semitransparent, floating figure. He says your name with a quiet growl, the word rolling off his tongue in a silent threat. 

“If you keep distracting me, I’ll keep the lab’s curtains open and start working during the day.” he huffs, pushing his security goggles up to rest atop his head to rub his eyes. Dark circles decorated his eyes, the urge to go to sleep for hours at a time constantly present in the back of his mind. 

Your face contorts in an expression akin to one of betrayal, brows pinched together as you freeze in place, your pointer finger hovering just inches away from the machine. Quickly, you’re at Dottore’s side once again, a gust of cold air chilling his skin as a result of your proximity. He pays no mind to it, simply unfurling his sleeves to cover the goosebumps on his scarred forearms. 

You want to ask what he’s working on, what exactly this big chunk of iron and copper is doing in his lab. Why he has safety goggles and a dust mask instead of his usual crow mask, why he’s so much less receptive to your shenanigans than usual. While mulling over your questions, the Harbinger walks off, leaving you alone with your thoughts- but not for long. 

He comes back and takes a seat on the stepladder he was previously on, clicking his pen, slouching forward and leaning his chin on his free hand. You snap your attention back at him- your heart would flutter at the sight if you still had one. 

Dottore sat with his legs spread comfortably, crimson eyes unobscured by his mask, hair pulled back loosely with a few rogue strands falling over his face as he looked at you with his chin in his hand, twirling his pen absentmindedly. You wonder if ghosts are able to- 

“Have you ever tried to possess something?” 

The doctor’s question catches you off guard. You shake your head quickly, your attention definitely piqued. 

“...do you remember being able to possess anything?” he adds, his left brow raised. 

You shake your head again, this time after a slight pause as a sheepish expression adorns your features. Being a ghost meant you had a pretty bad memory, considering your lack of a brain and of, well, everything. You weren’t fortunate enough to have a good memory, being an entity made up purely of elemental energy. 

Your answer seemed to please Dottore as he writes down something on his notepad, scribbling quickly. If you remembered one thing, it’s that you knew you couldn’t read his handwriting purely for the fact that it was impossibly messy. Your brain wasn’t at fault, not this time. 

He looks back up at you. “Do you have an idea of how you could possess an object?” 

Again, you shake your head slowly after a short pause to think about his question. However, your face beams into a bright smile as you give him a thumbs up and a nod of your head. You point at yourself with your thumb, expression changing into something more boastful and confident. 

“You think you can do it?” he asks with the ghost of a smile, amused by your antics. His behaviour was definitely strange, but you paid no mind to it, just happy to see him smiling again since he didn’t seem to do it much nowadays. 

You gesture to yourself with both hands, pointing to your lower body that dissipated into nothingness, silently saying I’m a ghost, that’s what we’re supposed to do. 

He understands despite your lack of a voice and chuckles softly. 

Without another second to waste you float closer to the mass of metal Dottore was working on, analyzing and pondering what to do. Were you supposed to, like, chant something before going inside of it? Despite being an undead spirit, you had only used your ghostly powers to annoy Dottore. Possession wasn’t on the list. 

Figuring that you had nothing to lose, you try to phase yourself into the machine. Your ‘body’ felt like it suddenly weighed a ton and you felt cold, incredibly so. You didn’t know what you were seeing, eyesight blurred and blacked out around the corners as if you had glaucoma at the same time. It was dark inside of the lab, dark enough that your eyesight should be relatively normal. Caught up in your thoughts you fail to see Dottore rapidly taking notes as he looked up at his creation. 

Abruptly, you feel yourself getting ‘ejected’ from whatever state you were in. Your head spins and you hear a faint crash, though you don’t register it as being related to what you just experienced. 

Dottore calls out your name, the sound being much more pleasant to your ears than the previous loud noise despite his voice sounding just as rough. You blink repeatedly, focusing your gaze on him as he says your name again. 

“Are you okay?” he asks with furrowed brows, free hand raised up awkwardly in the air as if to hold your shoulder- forgetting that he can’t. You look at him and nod slowly, though your head felt impossibly tight, your body was readjusting to being so small in comparison to what you had just attempted to possess. 

He jots down something else as he observes your state. 

While he writes down whatever you take the opportunity to look around, noticing the hunk of metal now laid horizontally on the crushed tiles of the lab, dust settling in the cracks. You panic, hands flailing and gesturing at high speed, profusely apologizing to Dottore in your own way. 

He ignores your frazzled state and simply shrugs, expression back to being stern again since you seemed to be relatively okay. 

“I don’t care about the floor; you just successfully possessed a ruin guard. The state of my lab is the least of my worries,” he declares without taking his eyes off of his notepad. 

You stop your movements to look at him, then at what he had just called a ruin guard. If it used to be sitting upright and it was now on its side, then... 

“The banker’ll pay for the damages. We’ll have you practicing your ability to possess things. There’s room for improvement,” he says with a curl of his lips, looking up at you with a glint of mischievousness and something else you couldn’t put your transparent finger on. You nod happily, relieved to be able to make him grin again. 

If there’s anything you remembered, it was how much you loved to see the doctor smile. 

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Twenty

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen

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Author's Note: Happy Anniversary to Maiden! I'm so happy to those of you who've been on the journey from the start and those who have found this story along the way. We are in the final few chapters of this Arc! And to celebrate, I bring you amazing plot twists! All my love and thanks to @vampire-exgirlfriend for holding my hand and being with me every step of the way, and @darkwolf76 who loved this story first.

If you're reading here on tumblr, I'd love to hear from you! My inbox is open and I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

CHAPTER TWENTY - I'm In Over My Head

We finally arrive at Harrenhal, where you cannot escape the ghosts.

It was a fortnight by horseback and only six hours by Sunfyre to Harrenhal, but the royal progress along the Kingsroad took a moon. The people needed to see them, the queen had insisted, refusing to let them stay and ride out on dragonback. Instead, Helaena would stay, Ser Criston at her side, and the sworn sword would fly with the princess in a month’s time. Baela would fly out with them on Moondancer, Jace on Vermax, and Aemond would accompany the royal progress without Vhagar.

Harrenhal could only house so many dragons.

Abby was ready to be done with it all; her body felt like it would never stop jostling even when she was out of the wheelhouse. The days on horseback were better, but even those had left her aching from her inexperience. Aegon had whispered in her ear that it would be good practice for her, and how precious she looked bowlegged. The ribald flirtation had sent a rush of heat and anticipation through her, as well as frustration with him for making light of how uncomfortable she’d been. For his cheek, she’d bundled herself in the wheelhouse with the Crane twins, Merei Thorne, and Floris, the latter of which had her hold her tongue to keep from ranting.

She missed Wylla.

Wylla, she knew, would loop her arm through hers and recount all the wonderful ways they could make Aegon miserable. Jesting, of course, though the pair regularly snipped at one another.

Guilt roiled in Abby’s gut. After the betrothal announcement between Aemond and Floris, Wylla had taken the opportunity to flee to Stone Hedge to witness her brother’s nuptials to Lady Alys Bracken. It had been good that she did, Abby thought. She would be able to see her mother and other brothers, who had come down in order to attend her wedding, and Wylla did not know when she would see them next. Karhold was further north than Winterfell and her friend was giving up a great deal to come live at Harrenhal.

That said little of the other reasons why Wylla had eagerly left for Stone Hedge, and Abby thought of Helaena’s words all those months ago. ‘And I’ll be left alone while you and Aegon are busy making babies together!’ She felt like a poor friend and and even worse sister, unable to deny that as the weeks had passed, her focus had been less on duties she’d taken so seriously, of being there for those she cared for, and more focused on the making of her wedding dress, of the stealing time with Aegon with a desperate heat and wanting, of responding to well wishes and organizing a household… when she had promised to always be there for Helaena. When she had begun to foster a love and friendship with Wylla that had grown into its own sisterhood.

Jace had so easily comforted Helaena during her difficult days when Abby was pulled away or otherwise occupied. And Wylla had not even told her of the budding romance between her and Aemond - now brutally cut short in the wake of politics beyond their control. So consumed she’d been with Aegon, with everything else, things that, selfishly, were for her and her alone, and so easily she’d forgotten those she vowed to care for.

Abby would do all she could to make up for it. She would ensure that Wylla did not feel forgotten, that her and Helaena could indeed visit often. She would write, she would-

“Lady Abrogail?”

Desmera’s voice cut through the swirl of guilty words flitting through Abby’s head and she looked up at the Crane girl. Desma, Abby corrected herself. Desmera preferred Desma. She was holding the wool kirtle in her arms, the shade of green as lush and dark as the fields they passed through with red weirwood embroidery along the arms. The surcoat carefully folded on the table was half red and half blue and edged in silvery rabbit fur, among the other parts of her heraldic dress. She would not be in the wheelhouse as they came into Harrentown, and the parade that announced their arrival would be a large one. Already they had seen an uptick of traffic along the Kingsroad and the tents in the fields, the small inns filled to bursting the closer they were. With only a few hours until they approached the town, it was almost like they were approaching King’s Landing. Merchants were setting up along the way to hawk wares and Abby knew that the crowd would be thicker the closer they crept

The distant call of dragons echoed outside the tent and Abby and Desma poked their heads out the flap to crane their necks to look up.

“I can’t believe Ser Criston is riding dragonback with the princess,” Desma murmured, and Abby laughed. He had stayed behind with Helaena, and Abby knew it was to keep an eye on Jace. What Abby would have given to see the look on the knight’s face when he was told that he would fly with Helaena. Not even Queen Alicent had flown with her children, despite both Aegon and Helaena’s offers.

Abby knew how big dragons were, having been around them her whole life, but this was different. With no expansive sprawl of King’s Landing or the Great Sept to compare, they seemed even larger. Past the many tents of the camps, the moors of the Riverlands was all there was. No buildings, no great mountains or spires or monuments. Just the green, rolling hills surrounding the Kingsroad and the forest beyond.

Dreamfyre’s bulk was impressive, the blue and silver of her scales standing out in the morning light, her call warm and low, melodic in a way that was surprising for a dragon. Two smaller dragons were flying about, answering the calls, scales in shades of jade and bronze and silver as Jace and Baela danced around the great dragon.

There was another familiar call, the trilling echoing across the moor like a song. Abby’s heart swelled, hearing Aegon’s happy shout from somewhere inside the camp as Sunfyre gleamed as bright as the morning sun. How she missed him, how she missed being free in the air where nothing else mattered.

Desma tugged on her elbow, laughing. “Come back here, Abby, you’re still in your nightgown.”

Abby allowed herself to be pulled back in the tent, and was soon joined by Merei Thorne, who came bearing a plate of cold meats and bread and warm cider to break her fast.

“I’m ready to be done with all this mud,” she groused, dark hair loose and free about her shoulders, her swarthy skin flushed from the cool morning air. “Ser Rickard says the crowds up the road will be thick by the time we reach them.” Merei’s uncle was a member of the Kingsguard, and Abby was grateful that she had sought information before arriving.

She let herself be tugged out of her nightgown and a fresh chemise pulled over her head before Desma got her into the green kirtle and Merei shoved a piece of bread with ham into Abby’s open mouth. “Wylla’s sent word this morning with the rider.” Merei waved the scroll around. “Your rooms have been made ready, and Lythene and Sarra are settling in, so all you need to do is arrange things to your liking.”

Abby eagerly reached for the scroll as the girls laced her into the kirtle. It was a short message, but Wylla’s handwriting was comforting and familiar.

“Is Alys another one of your ladies?” Merei asked, moving the surcoat out of the way while Abby sat to eat. Desma opened the box of combs and ribbons and hairpins to get to work on her curls.

Wylla’s letter had mentioned help from Alys Rivers, and Abby shook her head before Desma pinched her to keep still as she carefully worked Abby’s curls.

“No, she’s a member of our household. A healer and sometimes ladies maid. She helped my mother when she was pregnant with me, but declined to come to the capital with us.” Her memories of the woman were fuzzy whenever Abby tried to look at them more closely. Dark haired with large grey eyes, Alys had been a fixture when she had visited Harrenhal over the years. “It’s good that she’s helping Wylla. I know Aunt Mya has her hands full with everything and my cousin, Deidre, is there to help.” Deidre, the future Lady Smallwood of Acorn Hall, had grown up at Harrenhal and would prove helpful in this busy time of preparation. Deidre’s younger sister, Cassana, lived at Runestone and would be arriving with Lord Yorick’s party soon.

Desma’s hands worked quickly to pull Abby’s curls from her face, winding a knot of braids along the back of her head, the rest curling down her back to her waist. It would be hours of riding, but also hours of being seen by the people who looked to Harrenhal, who looked to her family, as their liege lords. Merei pulled a delicate net of silver dotted with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds and pinned it around Desma’s delicate knotwork.

With her mother’s carnelian necklace around her throat, Abby shoved her feet into her riding boots and grabbed a last chunk of bread and ham before ducking out of the tent as her ladies oversaw the packing of her things.

The sea of black and red tents felt like a field of Targaryen poppies as she made her way through the camp. The ground was not as muddy as Merei complained, but Abby was nonetheless grateful for her sturdy boots. Already the grass was churning into a muddy mess in various places and she carefully stepped around them. Servants paused to offer quick bows and curtsies, which Abby felt awkward about. They did not need to pause in their duties to acknowledge her, but at the same time, it was strangely satisfying to be recognized, to be deferred to in some small way.

Abby was not sure how to feel about it, so she pushed the confusing feelings away and shoved the rest of her bread in her mouth.

She found Aegon where the horses were stabled, tethered to temporary posts and being fed their morning grain. The morning light turned Aegon’s curls a soft gold, his gray linen shirt tucked into a pair of high waisted, black riding pants, stripes of red embroidered with gold scales down the sides into a pair of tall, shiny black boots. He was without his own surcoat and she knew that it was just as ostentatious as her own heraldic gown: black and red and scaled as was the Targaryen way. She licked butter from her thumb as she approached, gaze raking over him appreciatively and the opened neck of his shirt, teasing the lightly freckled skin that she longed to kiss.

Kostōba was as brilliant as ever, pawing happily at the ground and rooting his nose against Aegon, clearly looking for more treats. His cream colored coat shone as golden as his master’s hair in the sun, brilliant against the caparison of red and black taffeta for House Targaryen. Aegon was busy stroking the snout of another horse, focused on checking the buckles of the halter and bit. The mare was a brilliant chestnut, so red that it matched her hair, it’s mane only a scant few shades darker. It pawed the ground beside Kostōba, nickering and also looking for treats.

“What’s this?”

Aegon turned, eyes wide as if he’d been caught, a sleepy smile on his face. She was no longer mad at him, of course, but the forced distance over their travels was frustrating, in addition to the misery of frequently having to sleep outdoors, no matter how comfortable the tents were. It made tempers shorter, and the stress of everything that was to come was fraying at her.

Aegon closed the distance between them, cupping her face in his hands, and the touch immediately had her shoulders relaxing and she sighed as he kissed her. Chastely, but it was Aegon and his teeth snuck in a quick nibble before he pulled back. She did her best to hide her pout, tasting the wine he’d had that morning on her mouth. Abby licked her lips, blushing at the look he gave her.

“Happy nameday!” he declared, gesturing to the mare. Abby blinked at him, owlish and momentarily confused.

“Nameday?” What day was it? Time had become an endless blur of bumpy roads and the creaking wheelhouse. He raised an eyebrow at her, taking her chin in hand and tilting her head to look up at him.

“It’s your nameday,” he repeated slowly as if she hadn’t heard him the first time.

Oh! It was, wasn’t it? She sputtered softly and he chuckled, pressing another brief kiss to her parted mouth.

“Happy nameday,” he repeated more slowly this time, snickering at her lapse of memory and dropping her chin to caress her shoulder and turn her towards the mare. “She’s from the same stock as Kostōba. Six years old and well trained. She’ll be gentle with you and give a hoof to the face of any who should try to pull you from her.” His grin brightened as he went on, lilac eyes crinkled in excitement as he glanced back at her. Abby could see the hope in Aegon’s face, the nerves and question of if he’d done well with the gift.

Kostōba snorted at Aegon’s shoulder, nudging at him more insistently. Aegon huffed and pulled another piece of carrot from the pocket of his black riding coat. Abby reached up to gently stroke the velvet soft nose of the mare and took the second carrot that Aegon offered. She eagerly took it with greedy teeth, and Abby giggled as the velvet nose tickled her palm.

“She’s beautiful,” Abby said, giddiness bubbling through her belly, swooping at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, and surprise at how exciting it was to be given a horse of her very own. “And she won’t buck me off?”

“Well you’ve proven to be a good rider already, on dragonback no less, though it’s different with a horse, obviously. And I think as long as you keep petting her and speaking to her sweetly as you do, provide plenty of carrots, maybe even some apples? Oh, I think you’ll be just fine.”

Abby scoffed, but her smile was bright. “Endless supply of carrots and apples and oats. Understood, my prince. I will endeavor to bond her to me.” The mare huffed softly as Kostōba’s head came near hers to bump it.

“They look good together, don’t they?” Aegon asked softly, casually.

“They do,” Abby agreed with a soft laugh. “She matches my hair.”

“Exactly. That’s why I picked her.”

“And your horse matches your hair.”

Aegon shrugged, cheeks flushed pink as he scratched around his stallion’s nose. “I have good taste. Do you like her?” There was a furrow now between his brows as he pointedly asked her, her words not doing enough to convey her thanks. It was a guileless thing - Aegon wasn’t trying to tease a deeper showing of affection from her in his usual, playful way. Abby handed him her gathered skirts and he took them, confused, and she reached up to cup his face with both hands, his skin warm against her perpetually chilled fingers.

“I love this gift, Aegon. No one else has wished me happy nameday, but you did, and provided me a thoughtful gift that I love very much,” she reassured him, teeth catching on her lower lip as the words visibly washed over him. She could feel the tension vibrating through him, as if he couldn’t quite believe she enjoyed the gift, or was waiting for something to drop, or a dozen other things. She felt him shudder and relax into her and Abby hummed, thumbs stroking along the apples of his cheeks. The furrow eased, the tension in his shoulders relaxed, his gaze grew softer as he turned his head slightly to nuzzle against her touch. Her belly was warm, fingers toying with the softness of his silver hair, affection surging through her. Abby pressed up on her toes to press a soft, innocent peck to his plush mouth. “I love you, Aegon.”

“I love you,” he whispered shyly as his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. Satisfaction and ease seemed to fill him as she pulled away and took her skirts back from his hold. He cleared his throat, tossing his hair back from his face and reached up to stroke the little white star on the mare’s forehead. “Now we can go riding together - properly have a good race.”

“You want to race? Well then, we’ll have to come up with some good wagers then, won’t we?” The prospect excited her, the planning for things they’d do once the wedding was over and they could just get on with the rest of their lives; away from the Red Keep, away from the politics and the eyes that constantly watched them, away from everything that chased them in waking and in sleep.

Another bright call sounded above them and they both looked up to see Sunfyre circling, his chirps and clicks echoing down to them. The mare snorted and backed away, shaking her head at the closeness of the predator. Two of the stableboys came hurrying over to help calm her. Abby backed away, not wanting to be too close should she rear up, feeling foolish that she was unable to calm her horse, let alone understand how.

“He missed you,” she said, and Aegon laughed, bright and happy as he always was when it came to his golden boy.

“He’s a smart one, isn’t he?” Aegon grinned. “I was…” He trailed off, uncertain, and Abby pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“He would not abandon you. That menace broke out of the dragon pit to get to you, remember?” Not that Sunfyre had caused any damage outside of freeing himself from his chains, and would not return until Aegon had gone to retrieve him before they were dragged back to the Red Keep all those months ago.

“He would most certainly not.” Confidence returned to Aegon’s voice and he cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting words of Valyrian and gesturing north.

Abby’s gaze drifted from the sight to look out past the horses to the rolling moors past them. The mist still hung heavy along the ground, slowly burning away as the morning grew, lending a murky sight of the forest that obscured the sight of the God’s Eye.

A twisting sensation spooled through her chest as she watched the trees. There were oaks abundant along the road, and as they drew north, there were pines dotting the landscape as well. But the great, dark forest beside them was different. The oaks here were giant things. Once, as a little girl, she’d ridden out with Harwin into the Red Wood. There were a few red oaks in the Harrenhal godswood - massive things that shot past the great height of the walls. Here in the forest surrounded by them, it felt like another world. The trunks of the trees were as big as the family dining hall in the Kingspyre. Uncle Simon said that the great round table had been cut from such a trunk.

Ancient trees that had survived the great heart wound of Harren the Black. Spirits lived in the weirwoods; she remembered those stories, and the ancient sentinels remembered too. They were here long before and would be there long after -

“Hey!”

Strong, warm hands gripped her arms and shook her. Abby blinked slowly, feeling tired and confused. Aegon was looking down at her; face pale, confused, annoyed. “What’s gotten into you? I was calling for you, Abby.”

“But…” As she meant to say she had not moved, Abby realized that she could not hear nor smell the horses, and that the sounds of camp were softer than they had been before.

“You kept walking and I thought you were going to show me something but then you stopped speaking,” Aegon went on, but his voice sounded odd - strangely muffled and then clear. She reached for him but her hand missed his arm and he reached for it, tugging her to him. “Abby, you’re freezing.”

She was always freezing.

The crowd was deafening and the drum beats of the parade only added to the din. The chestnut mare, now named Stranger, trotted smoothly beside Aegon’s stallion as the royal procession made its way through Harrentown. The scouts and messengers had not lied.

The crowd was large, not only the townsfolk but filled with those who had traveled far and wide to witness the festivities and hawk their wares. As they approached her family’s castle, the fields field with colored tents sporting the banners of the noble houses that had made their way to the God’s Eye.

Harrenton was not an exceptionally large town although little was when compared to King’s Landing. It was a trading post, a crossroads at the mouth of the Riverlands. Trade and travel that came south from Darry would stop here, as well as the trade from the south at the capital. The buildings were white stucco and plaster with the red oak timbers from the Red Wood, tiered three stories tall with steeply pitched, clay shingled roofs. Many of the ground floors were made from red bricks. Mud was in abundance here, and pottery and bricks were their foundations of trade.

Abby tilted her head up to the banners hung across the thoroughfare, the tri color streamers of House Strong interspersed with the black and red ribbons of House Targaryen. Those who could not find space along the red brick road hung out from the leaded windows, waving flags and banners, throwing out handfuls of flower petals from the winter flowers in swirling dances of pinks and purples, whites and yellows. Young children on their parents shoulders, too disinterested in whatever people were on display, giggled and reached to try to catch the petals. The people yelled for House Strong, they yelled for the name of her father, they yelled…

They yelled her name.

‘Lady Abrogail! Lady Strong! Princess Abrogail!’

Her cheeks flamed, her grin both shy and beaming, unused to the attention being paid to her. Abby glanced over at Aegon, who preened beneath his own attention, the petals that were thrown about the air catching in his silver curls.

‘Prince Aegon! House Targaryen! Lady Abrogail! House Strong!’

His lilac gaze found her, his grin broadening, all teeth and bright eyes, dimples creased in his cheeks. The breeze caught in her curls, fluttering the delicate silver veil around her face. The flower petals drifted and swirled between them, caught in his hair, in the silver and red manes of their horses, and everything felt like a dream.

Now they left the main thoroughfare and made their way up the switchback to where the castle loomed, and as they made the turn, the world dropped out as the vast, glittering expanse of the God’s Eye filled the horizon. Abby’s breath caught in her throat and beside her, Aegon audibly exhaled, momentarily halting his horse beside her to take a look. Behind them, Abby could hear Daeron’s exclamation of wonder.

The God’s Eye ate the entire horizon, glittering like an aquamarine gem beneath the cloudless blue of the sky. The only thing that interrupted the site was the distant, hazy sight of the Isle of Faces, obscured by the haze and distance.

“It’s bigger than the Whispering Sound,” Daeron breathed. “Uncle Gwayne-”

“Aye,” the elder sounded just as surprised, just as awed. “Large enough for the eye of a god, isn’t it?”

Seagulls called along with other birds along the banks and Abby could just make out a few fishing boats tiny on the water. She rose up in her saddle to take a better look, vowing that she would never tire of the spectacular sight.

“I didn’t realize how I missed this sight.” She laughed, unsure if she might cry from grief or joy.

“It’s the color of your eyes,” Aegon said softly, his gaze firmly affixed to the sight before them. He wasn’t even looking at her, just caught in wonder. It was a new expression for Aegon, and Abby was loath to draw him from it. She reached over and he must have seen her, or maybe he’d been reaching for her hand at the same time. “It’s endless, like the sky.”

He squeezed her hand and with a gentle command, their party continued.

Harrenhal was a scar against the landscape, the black stone stark against the green and blue of the landscape. With towers shooting up higher than the tallest of Maegor’s Holdfast, Harrenhal loomed as its maker always intended: Ominous and impossible to ignore. The twisted, melted stone that capped the towers were vicious reminders of the violence in the past, but life bloomed amidst the ruins. Sentinels and oaks, vibrant and lush, shot past the tops of the stone walls from the large godswood that butted up against the shore. Harrenhal held a small household guard and several called out from the gatehouse.

Making the final turn, their party was greeted by the half shattered statue of Harren the Black, only his legs and rearing mount left above the bridge. It started with stone and then switched to thick ironwood that spanned the dry moat beneath, and, as if to welcome them home, Sunfyre of all things perched above the gates like an enormous, golden hawk, calling out and declaring that this was now his domain. Stranger whickered nervously, hesitating in approach until Abby urged her on with a gentle hand against her neck.

“Seven hells,” Aegon muttered, barely caught over the sounds of the hooves on the wooden bridge and the creaking of the carriages behind them. Whatever else Aegon said was drowned out beneath the sound of Sunfyre’s trilling. The golden dragon was singing and it was a haunting tune that echoed along the stone like water over river rocks. The sound of it sent dozens, maybe even a hundred or more, bats bursting from the ruined tops of the tower. Distracted by the creatures that took to the sky, he pushed off the gatehouse, the horses rearing as stone debris fell in their path.

Abby looked at Aegon, eyebrows raised. “He can’t keep doing that.”

He frowned, half-offended and mildly concerned. “It’s not his fault the stone is crumbling,” he said, but the defense was half-hearted as he eyed the broken stone being pushed out of the way.

Aemond and Daeron, Ser Gwayne and a few of the Kingsguard followed them, the guards taking a station at the gate until the king passed through. The rest of the party in their wheelhouses were held back until the stone was removed.

The gatehouse was a great thing cut through the thick, black curtain walls. The way was lit with torches, the echo of the horses’ hoof beats giving an uncertain cacophony as the sound bounced around the tunnel. Abby’s gaze drifted up, the ceiling of the tunnel shadowed but she remembered Larys telling her the frightening tale of the dozen murder holes where they would drop oil and poisonous spiders and venomous snakes down onto those who tried to breach the castle. She’d had nightmares for weeks.

Aegon said nothing beside her, and the look on his face was one of bewildered interest. She bit her lip, a smile playing. He had only ever known King’s Landing, after all.

Tears pricked her eyes as the strange longing sensation that had harbored for so long in her chest eased. It didn’t go away, but she could feel the hooked edges of yearning, the grief, the feeling that she did not belong, that something was missing, smoothing out into something bittersweet. Beyond the great walls of the castle, Harrenhal was full of life. Beneath the great shadow of the ruined towers, a reclaiming had taken place over the years, and the notion soothed that bramble within her.

As the party passed through the gatehouse into the outer bailey, Abby’s eyes darted over the crowd that had begun to gather. Over the years, some of the ruins had been dismantled and turned into proper staff quarters. A new granary, the stables,meant to house a thousand horses, had partially been converted to a barn. Before them, the Hall of a Hundred Hearths loomed, rebuilt through the reclaiming of the ruined Tower of Ghosts, now only a few stories tall.

The focal point of the hall was the ornate, stained glass window above the colossal entrance. Along the top half of the circle, a weirwood tree was carefully placed, the red leaves a border around the top, the cream colored branches reaching wide, and the sun behind it sported the tri-color stripes of her family’s sigil. Below the roots was a mound with seven circles - each portraying the sigil of each aspect of the Seven.

The Andals had spread their faith when they had conquered, but here in the halls of her family’s seat, and through the Riverlands, folk noble and small alike found a faith made their own - to mourn the loss of the weirwoods in their subjugation, and the comfort found in faces old and new alike. Especially here, on the shores of the God’s Eye, where the last of the southron weirwoods still thrived, where whispers and tales of the Children of the Forest outside the North clung like moss to the stilts of the houses along the riverbanks.

Fluttering fabric caught her eye and Abby looked up to see the banners of their house strung between the towers, interspersed every two with the black and red House Targaryen, and every ten with the blue and red fish of House Tully, their immediate overlords. In the front of the hall, where the crowd was thickest, the short, white hair and broad frame of Uncle Simon stood out; he was clad in a rich, black coat, Aunt Mya beside him, her dark curls thickly streaked with silver, her gown red. Her cousins were there too; Garret, with his strawberry blonde curls, not much older than herself, holding his three-year-old daughter, Gwenys, just as ruddy gold as her papa. His father, Ser Edric, leaned heavily on a cane on the other side of Uncle Simon. As she went down the line, she caught sight of Wylla, clad in Abby’s colors in a gown of deep blue with a sash of green and red, beaming brightly beside Alyn Hull, who looked dashing in a jerkin of deep, blood red and black pants tucked into shiny, polished boots.

“Welcome to Harrenhal, Your Grace,” Uncle Simon greeted Aegon before his warm gaze found hers. “Welcome home, Lady Abrogail.” The title address to her felt odd, but this was a formal occasion. Two stableboys glad in House Strong livery reached for the bridles of the horses, Aegon dismounting easily as Abby frowned in slight annoyance at the yards of fabric of her surcoat. She’d shifted to side-saddle before they’d entered the town in preparation for an easier dismount but it was still daunting.

“Allow me, my lady.” Alyn was there, grinning at her, his green eyes soft and Abby returned his bright expression with a relieved one of her own.

“Thank you, Mister Hull,” she said, grateful, and let Alyn help her from the horse and set her safely on the ground. She caught Aegon’s brief annoyance at being denied his gallant moment and she patted Alyn on the shoulder. “We have some things your mother and a Miss Bri had sent up to the castle.” Alyn’s friendly expression moved to a grateful surprise, and she could see the red coloring his tanned cheeks.

“And I thank you, my lady. I am most appreciative.” Abby felt a giddiness at making a good impression with Aegon’s friend, and she left Alyn to embrace her great-aunt and uncle, uncaring if it was improper. This was her family, and even though she’d only seen a few of them not long ago, this was different.

This was a homecoming.

The warmth of her Uncle’s hug made her chest ache further, and Abby tucked her head beneath his chin, squeezing him tightly, eyes shut and for a moment, allowed herself to pretend that there was no pomp and circumstance and that it was her father who embraced her. Uncle Simon would never replace him, but he reminded her so much of him that she would not feel guilty for clinging to the memory. He seemed to understand, for she felt him squeeze her extra hard before releasing her with a paternal kiss to her forehead and then allowed Aunt Mya, who exclaimed, “A chroí! Tá cuma álainn ort,” before she was wrapped in a cloud of softness and the smell of lilies from her aunt’s perfume. Her hands, shaking slightly with her arthritis, carefully touched the veil she wore and the carnelian necklace around her throat. “You’ve got that Westerland poise to you,” she observed, and though the words might have been taken as a slight, there was a fondness there. “Like your mother and that Lefford blood, but oh, you’ve got the wild river in you, don’t you.” Her hands gently cupped her face, and Aunt Mya’s dark eyes shone with tears. “They haven’t taken that from you. Good.”

“It’s good to finally be home,” Abby said, her voice thick with emotion. Joy, sadness, grief, relief, and a swirl of other things she could not identify. She cleared her throat, turning in her Aunt’s embrace to gesture to Aemond, Daeron, and Gwayne who had dismounted. “May I present Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, as well as the queen’s brother, Ser Gwayne.”

“Ser Simon,” Gwayne said, sketching a bow. “I hope you do not mind my squire and I joining the household.” His grin was bright and disarming, his hand coming to clasp Daeron’s shoulder. “My sister hopes for us to keep an eye on my nephew, but I think it will be a good opportunity for my squire to also learn from a renowned knight such as yourself, Ser.” Abby bit her lip to hold in her laugh, appreciating the look of surprise and pride on her uncle’s face. “And Lady Mya, these are for you.” He produced from his green leather riding jacket a carefully wrapped package. “Your lovely niece shared with me how you once loved lacemaking. While this could not compare what you’ve made, I do hope you find use for this.”

“From the lacemaker who made my wedding dress,” Abby chimed in as her blushing aunt took the carefully wrapped package of lace. Aunt Mya’s features shifted into amusement.

“Oh, I like this one, Simon. You can sit by me at dinner, Ser Gwayne.” Uncle Simon rolled his eyes while Daeron stepped forward, sending a look at his uncle.

“And I brought this for Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said, not to be outdone by Gwayne’s flirtation. He produced a doll from his own coat, made from soft linen with carefully made brown yarn hair, and painted blue eyes with a felt crown on her head.

“Thank you very much, my prince,” Garret said, shifting Gwenys in his arms. “Can you say thank you to Prince Daeron?” Gwenys’ eyes were large in her face, gnawing shyly on her lip as she snuggled into her father, unsure of what to make of all the strange people. Daeron held the doll up higher, taking the little hand to wave at the child.

“Hello, Lady Gwenys,” Daeron said in a silly voice, blonde hair falling into his blue eyes, his own cheeks pink at all the attention. “Will you be my new friend?”

That drew the little girl out of her shyness, bubbling with giggles and reached for the toy with grabby little fingers. “Fank you!” she shouted, squealing as she clutched at the toy. Abby felt Aegon at her back and shivered as he leaned down to brush his lips against her ear.

“Was I meant to bring a gift?” he asked, his whisper harsh with anxiety. Abby pressed her lips firmly together to hold back her giggle and turned into his hold, a kiss brushed to his cheek.

“You’re fine. There’s plenty of time. I think it’ll have more meaning after the wedding.”

Abby’s gaze briefly took in the arrival of the carriages that held the king and queen, and the small council absent Ser Tyland. He’d left court with her grandfather to Castamere where his wife, Elayna, was ready to give birth to their children. Twins had been born, according to the raven that Abby had received from her cousin, and Elayna was sorry she could not bring them, but it would be nice to see her. Lady Elayna preferred the freedom of Castamere, and Abby could not blame her, not when being here among the half ruin of Harrenhal had revitalized her in a way she could not describe.

The crowd all lowered themselves in deference as the king was helped from the wheelhouse. Travelling had been difficult for him, and the progress had taken as much time as it could in order to keep him comfortable. He clutched his cane, squinting in the afternoon sun, the light catching upon his golden crown. The expression on his pale, mottled face was difficult for Abby to read, and she wondered if he was thinking about the last time he was here, when the lords of the realm declared him king over Princess Rhaenys and her son.

Larys appeared from the next carriage with Lord Jasper Wylde and the Grand Maester, a placid smile on his own features. “Uncle, you’ve outdone yourself,” he complimented. Abby noticed then that her uncle’s smile tightened, no longer meeting his eyes as he regarded Larys.

“It has been some time since our house has something so wonderful to celebrate. Not since Abrogail’s birth, I think. After so much tragedy, these halls benefit from the festivities.”

“We are looking forward to them, Ser Simon,” the queen smiled, her hand fluttering to the king’s arm. “It has been a long journey, and the king needs rest and recuperation. We shall reconvene for supper?” It was not a request. Alicent Hightower could command with a smile, and all the authority afforded to her as the mother of the realm.

“Of course, your graces,” Aunt Mya said with a smile. She clapped her hands and there was a flurry of activity, the king’s wheeled chair being brought out while Uncle Simon explained they had easily accessible rooms for the king so his time here would be comfortable.

Then there was a flurry of raven hair and blue wool as Wylla’s decorum barely kept her from completely barrelling into Abby and she clutched her friend, embracing her tightly and burying her face into her shoulder. She smelled of cinnamon and spice, familiar and comforting.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she cried, Wylla giving her a tight squeeze.

“I’ve missed you too! You look beautiful.” Abby pulled back and Wylla pinched her chin with a playful look on her fox features, the little scar along her mouth pulling at the smile on her face. She pushed her hand away with a shake of her head, hooking their arms together.

“As do you! Is this a new dress?” Wylla hummed in the affirmative and led the way across the tightly packed gravel. Aegon and Alyn fell in behind them, and behind them, the rest of her ladies followed. The king and queen and the rest of their immediate party were being led into the closest tower - what was ominously referred to as the Tower of Dread.

It was where Athair and Harwin had died.

As she watched the king and queen enter the tower, something ugly curled in her chest. ‘Good’, she thought savagely, though altogether unlike her. She hoped the ghosts that slept there would haunt them. The queen would not treat her so unkindly if her father were still here. The king? Well, he deserved a good haunting. Let the ghost of Lord Maegor Towers terrorize him during his stay.

The main hall at the foot of the Kingspyre Tower was a bustle of activity. Servants in the House Strong livery hurried to and fro from the small kitchens beneath the tower, sending out refreshment to the new arrivals.

“As soon as we had word of your arrival, I had a bath readied,” Wylla said. “There’s the bathhouses, of course, but I thought you’d like some private time.”

“That does sound nice,” she sighed, heading up the staircase. The next floor above the hall held the galleries and the library. Precious things that her father had loved, and his father before him.

‘What if fire seeks to claim me here? As it had them?’

The fear was ugly and painful and squeezed the breath from her lungs with its sudden onset. Wylla’s voice was muffled in her ears as she stood frozen in the stairwell.

“In the black of night, the dragon did rise.”

“What?” she choked out, turning to look through the open doors of the gallery. It was not Wylla’s voice. Abby could not even be sure it was a woman’s voice. She tugged away from Wylla’s hold to the open archway but a firm grip on her arm tugged her back. Aegon stroked her cheek, drawing her attention back to him. Abby’s cheeks colored. “I heard… I thought…”

“It’s just the wind,” he told her.

“Unfamiliar sounds,” Wylla chimed in, coming to her other side, although her eyes narrowed at her friend’s discomfort. “Come, we’ll get you settled into the bath and you can lay down. A lazy lie in.”

Abby nodded, mouth shut as everyone stared at her with worry and confusion. Catching the brief look Wylla and Aegon exchanged, Abby tugged away. She felt judged, as she had felt that morning when Aegon had shaken her out of whatever haze had taken hold of her. It was one thing to have such a lapse in front of him, but now here she was in front of their household, so many eyes on her, confused and curious. Gathering her heavy skirts in her arms, she soldiered forward, desperate to get out of her gown. If she could, she would have stripped from the surcoat in the stairway itself, but she would have gotten tangled in the fabric and likely tumbled down the stairs.

What an auspicious start to the festivities; a tragic bride felled by a broken neck.

She ignored the call of her name behind her, climbing past Uncle Simon’s apartments and office to the landing of what had once been her mother’s rooms. They were rooms that might have belonged to Rhaenyra Targaryen in another life, or Sabitha Frey or Alysanne Blackwood, or any dozens of young women in the Riverlands her brother could have taken to wife.

None of this should be hers. This castle, these lands, were not her birthright.

They were drenched in ash and screams and the knowledge of this was grasping her tighter with every step she took before she burst through the doors of her apartments. Afternoon light streaked through the large doors that opened out onto the multilevel balcony that went from her rooms up to Aegon’s chambers. Beyond would be the beautiful sight of the God’s Eye, but for now, it was the brilliant blue sky and the roses that crept along the stone and woodwork. Low couches littered the space, plush rugs faded with age, and before the fireplace and its merry flame, was the large tub draped in linens and ready and waiting.

The shadows beside the fireplace moved and Abby stilled, fear freezing her limbs until the face of the shadow appeared. The woman was older, older than the queen, mayhaps, with inky black hair that hung to her waist, a square face and storm gray eyes. In her hands, she held a woven circle of twigs, and Abby looked at the stick figure coming to shape in the center of it.

“Lady Abrogail,” she greeted, her accent like Wylla’s, like her Aunt Mya’s. “Did you leave the rest of your chattering ducklings behind?”

Buzzing filled her ears and Abby pressed her hands to her chest, fingers knotting into the fabric. “I… I… I can’t breathe.”

“If you could not breathe, you could not speak,” the woman pointed out, discarding her wood weaving on the chair. She closed the distance and grabbed Abby’s hands. “You speak, therefore you breathe. I hear your gasping. So keep doing that.”

Hands joined the woman’s to help her out of the surcoat and work the laces on her kirtle. Her vision was dark and hazy around the edges and she continued to heave and gulp for air. She swooned and arms caught her.

“What did she say, Alys?” she heard Wylla ask.

“A tincture from my chest,” was the answer. “The one in the blue bottle. And the smelling salts.” Alys River tsked and her face shimmered before her as she backed Abby to the low couch. “If we shove you in that bath now, you’ll faint and are liable to drown. A bride felled by her bathwater. What a tragic end.”

Abby blinked, her mouth dry. “What did you…”

“Alys likes to be cryptic,” Wylla’s voice drifted to her through the buzzing in her ears. She let herself be shuffled around and moved as if she were no more than a ragdoll onto the chaise, her legs propped up higher than her head on a pile of cushions. Time passed in a haze as the dizziness and the rushing passed. Alys sat on the couch beside her, holding a goblet to her mouth and Abby grimaced at the strangely sweet and medicinal taste of the thin, red liquid. Her limbs tingled and the drunken feeling gave way to a more relaxed sensation. Alys’ large, slate-gray eyes filled her vision and the elder woman tilted her head, appraising her.

“I cannot call you Little Lady anymore, can I?” she asked, but Abby didn’t think it was much of a question. “Although, you are still littler than me, wee beast.”

“Oh, so she calls you that as well?” Wylla’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the couch. “Do you feel like you can get in the bath now?”

Alys helped her up and held the goblet to her mouth once more, feeding her the strange liquid. “Someone should tell the princeling that his lady is all right, I can hear him pacing.”

“Hear him?” Sarra Frey’s voice chimed in, confused. Abby smiled wanly at Wylla as the elder girl helped her out of her chemise and into the tub. The water was still plenty warm, but not the scalding, steaming heat that it had been from when she first came into the room. “But he’s so far away.”

“You’re just not listening close enough,” Alys said and passed her the goblet. “Make sure the coinín beag drinks all of this.” The door shut behind the woman and Abby settled against the back of the tub, Wylla’ pinning her hair up.

“Doesn’t Aegon call you little rabbit as well?” she murmured against her ear.

Abby did not answer.

The confused look the servant gave Jace when he asked where the family crypts were was not something that would normally bother him, but there was no reason that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be asking where the family crypts of his host were.

The look in Ser Simon Strong and his wife’s eyes upon seeing him still stuck with Jace, and he tried not to keep looking over his shoulder as he strode down the gravel pathway through the family gardens. Torches were lit along the pathway, servants and guests still milling about, and the gardens were beginning to bloom as the seasons shifted. Lady Celeste’s mountain roses crept like a great, dark beast, along the outside of the Kingspyre tower, up to balconies above. Jace stole a glance up there, at the distant, flickering light behind the windows.

Abby should be here. She should be with him. This was more her family than his. Did he even have a right?

Jace straightened.

He did. He did have a right. Ser Harwin was someone in his life he cared for, who cared for him and his brothers. He had been gentle and kind - to them, to their mother.

Ser Simon looked at him as if he’d seen a ghost.

Goosebumps bloomed beneath Jace’s black tunic. Perhaps he was one.

The Sepulcher of House Strong was largely underground, but the entrance to it was a stone gazebo, just over a story tall, with seven stone pillars carved to mimic the twisting boughs of the weirwood trees. The branches held up the circular roof, the torchlight casting long shadows over the carvings of strange creatures. There was no door, simply smooth stone stairs leading into the torch lit crypts beneath.

At the foot of the stairs were a pair of doors, heavy ironwood etched with more of the weirwood motifs and little creatures that Jace realized from this close distance were meant to be the Children of the Forest. They were different from the drawings he’d seen in his books. These were spindly things, some with fins in place of ears, with large eyes and sharp little teeth. He reached to undo the latch but the door was partially ajar. Had Abrogail come down to pay her respects? Should he leave and return another day?

His mother would be here on the morrow, and as soon as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen set foot in this place, Jace’s chance to come here would be lost.

The door made no sound as he pushed it open to slip inside and he blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the deeper gloom. Braziers affixed to the pillars were spaced out every few dozen feet or so and as he quietly walked the path his ears could just make out the distant sound of rushing water, though he had no idea where it was coming from. Stone tombs were erected every few archways, and he paused in front of the tomb of Maegor Towers before he caught sight of the dragon relief nearby.

Targaryens were not entombed, they were burned on pyres, back to flame and ash from whence they came. But Harrenhal’s last lady was honored here.

In the stone alcove, a beautiful carved relief of Dreamfyre stood, raised on her legs, wings spread and her neck arched to call out to the sky. At her feet was a pedestal with an urn in the shape of a dragon egg.

Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the Rising and Setting Sun. Mother of her beloved Aerea and Rhaella. Beloved by Prince Aegon, where their souls meet once more.

To always Chase the Sun.

The crack of a cane hitting the stone echoed violently along the walls and Jace choked on dusty air, panic taking over. The next tomb was that of Lord Osmund. There was just enough room to duck behind it and Jace crouched behind, his heart pounding in his ears.

“You are kind to accompany this night, Your Grace. I confess, when I extended the invitation, I was not sure you would accept.” The low voice of Lord Larys drifted through the quiet ghosts, otherworldly beneath the earth himself. Your grace… was grandfather also down here?

“Lord Lyonel was a good man,” the king rasped, his voice shaky with emotion. “The best of us, I think. No better servant to the realm than he.”

“Surely you yourself are the realm’s greatest servant, my king.”

“Mmmm, Lyonel offered good counsel. I did not listen to him as much as I should have.”

“My father served the realm with all the wise counsel of a Grand Maester and the knowledge of one of your vassals, my king. In the end, however… Even beneath his great wisdom, matters of succession were well out of hand.”

Heat burned along Jace’s neck and rushed into his cheeks. He pressed his face against the cold, stone tomb but it did little to calm him.

Driftmark. It always came back to Driftmark. It came back to screaming and blood. It came back to his words. Yes, the words of a child, but his words that he knew, without question, would prevent punishment.

‘He called us bastards.’

With such a simple sentence, Jace watched, clutched in his mother’s arms, as the king’s ire went from Aemond’s wound to the accusations that had chased Jace and his siblings all their lives. Words that he knew were cruel, that upset his mother, yet words that spoke true. Lord Lyonel had stood, struck and silent beside the Driftwood throne, and Ser Harwin had lingered by the door, unarmored and disheveled given the late hour it had been. As old as he was now, Jace knew. He knew. He knew.

Ser Simon had looked at him as if Jace were a ghost.

Jace reached up and gripped the edge of the tomb of his blood, feeling the burn of Vermax inside of him with every beat of his heart, loudly thumping in his ears.

“I did not want it to happen that way, Larys,” King Viserys finally spoke, his voice mournful and heavy.

“I know, my king. Only a Targaryen can truly master the dangers of flame. Mere mortals such as those who strove to follow your wishes could only wish to wield such understanding.” The sound of scraping metal grated on Jace’s nerves. He hit his head against the tomb and had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out.

“Only Ser Harwin-” the king began and then stopped. Jace could see the long throw of their shadows along the stone floor. They weren’t moving.

“Whatever tragedies befell, they have brought us here, my king. Have the wounds not healed as you had hoped? Your daughter and brother arrive here with their children after their long absence. Our houses will be joined in only a few days. The match you and my father discussed so many years ago is now far more advantageous, as is right, for the King’s first born son, given the unusual circumstances.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Lord Larys.” The scrape of two canes now. Jace pressed himself as far into the shadows as he could, straining to listen as the two men made their way back up the corridor beneath the eyes of the dead. He dared not breathe, he dared not make a single sound for fear of what might happen were he discovered. It felt like an eternity before the door shutting reverberated through the quiet.

Jace sat on the cold ground, frozen and still as Dreamfyre’s statue. His heart continued to pound in his ears as he tried to process exactly what he had just heard. King Viserys, a peaceful man, so afraid of any confrontation that his mother fled to Dragonstone to hide than maintain her presence at court. She’d sent him to do it for her.

He couldn’t escape the catacombs fast enough. His feet slipped along the damp stone as he raced towards the entrance. Ser Harwin would forgive him, he was certain. Now? Now, he needed to get away as fast as possible. He tripped hard up the stone stairs, his left knee and shin screaming in agony before he made it up and forced himself to slow down so as not to attract attention. What would it say to see the king’s heir racing through the gardens of Harrenhal? Jace’s lungs ached and he kept trying to remember to breathe. All he knew was that he had to get away.

How could he hold this? Should he tell his mother? What would she do? Nothing. She’d do nothing, forbidding them - forbidding him from speaking of Ser Harwin. Did he tell Abby?

It would destroy her.

Should he - Jace slammed into a figure, sending the two of them sprawling to the gravel.

“What the fuck, Jace!” Aegon snapped, aggressively shoving him off. He too was dressed for night in his own gray linen and breaches, dark circles beneath his eyes. It struck Jace, hard between his ribs, how much Aegon looked like Jace’s own mother in that moment. How much he sounded like his own mother. Jace’s palms scraped against the gravel and he heaved a breath. “What?” Aegon repeated.

Another breath and Jace felt the words strangling him, and could feel the tension in his face as he looked at his uncle, his childhood playmate, with wide, lavender eyes. Aegon stared at him and whatever annoyances were on his tongue fell. His brow furrowed. “What is it?” he asked again, less sharply this time.

Jace gulped once more for air and heard Aegon mutter something about panic attacks before the elder manhandled him up to his feet and towards one of the benches. “Get your head between your knees before you pass out,” he snapped, hand on his back to push him forward. In spite of Aegon’s annoyance, his touch was gentle, if firm.

Also like his mother.

“Breathe, you idiot,” Aegon said and sat down beside him, hand between his shoulder blades. Jace did as he was told, falling into the way things once were, where Aegon led and Jace happily followed. They could never return to those days, and Jace did not wish for it, but Seven Hells, it had been easier.

He did not know how long they sat there, listening to the lowing of dragon calls outside the walls and the shrieking of bats, the distant sound of water fowl amid the rushes outside the castle walls. He breathed in the cold air, let it ebb at the fire in his blood. He spat on the ground and finally sat up, aware that Aegon’s hand did not leave him until Jace settled against the bench.

“You said something but I couldn’t understand,” Aegon ventured with his brows raised in exaggerated curiosity. The quiet of the night filled the space between them, the gaps left when things had reached such a breaking point.

It always came back to Driftmark.

“The king…” Jace whispered, heat burning in his eyes. “T-the king, he… ordered the deaths of Lord Lyonel and… Ser Harwin.”

So... that was an ending. As always, I love that you're here, but the only way I know you're reading is if you comment! Comments let me know people are reading and are actively interested! So I'd love to hear what your favorite part of the chapter was, what your theories are, OR If you have no idea what to say, drop a tree emoji to let me know you were here <3 I promise, I'm glad you are. ALSO! I would LOVE to hear how you found this story! Was it through the AO3 search? Tumblr? Did someone recommend it? (if so, where?) (we might end at 24 chapters. I'm not quite sure yet, I'll have to see how the next few chapters go for pacing as I don't want to inundate y'all) Shoutout to @queen--kenobi for allowing me to borrow the lovely Elayna Reyne! Baby girl is here!

[ Next Chapter ]

[glitteringcrab]

Mental restraints of the puppeteered

[or: Frying his backups (part 2)]

Okay so this theory has been sitting in my head for a long while and I had the feeling it might be accurate but I could not find a way to tie it up with the rest of the plot my headcanons...

Until now, when something changed (namely, the possibility that Rick Prime has been puppeteering other Ricks).

So.

1. Let's observe this scene:

I think we can all agree that Evil Rick was having lunch alone (there are a lot of bittersweet fanarts where Eyepatch Morty seeks comfort from post-surgery Evil Rick in some way or another, but if this one scene is typical of their post-surgery interactions, it appears this hypothetical comfort-seeking was not a thing. They did not even eat together). He broke the plate, either accidentally or on purpose. He picked one of the shards up. The rest is history.

So what I'm seeing is that he was not puppeteered 24/24.

In the incredible, gut-wrenching fanfiction "Ghost in the machine" which you should all totally read (in fact, drop this rambling post and go read it now!! Go go go go!!!!! Like, shooo!!! Come back after you've read it, if you still feel like it. Because there will be SPOILERS in the following 2 paragraphs!!!!) Evil Rick was constantly following orders, 24/24. Even when Eyepatch Morty did not puppeteer him directly, he still had orders to follow, like "bring me this object" or "stand there and wait", and the wiggle room for Evil Rick to resist was minimal. Said resisting mostly took the form of twitching (ergo momentarily disrupting whatever he was ordered to do) at crucial moments, maybe kinda like a computer lagging at the worst possible time. Like I said, absolutely incredible fic, go read iiiiiiiiiiit!!!

But now that Unmorticken has aired and we saw more of their interactions, if we think about the above scene, I think we can reach the conclusion that that's not how it worked. Evil Rick may have received an order to eat, as well as orders to keep the place neat and tidy (and therefore he began picking up the shards) but actually jamming the shard at his eye is not a matter of twitching nor just barely managing to change the trajectory of a movement at the last possible second. It's a fully deliberate action, from start to finish. He had the agency to do it.

So I think we can reach the conclusion that Evil Rick was technically free to... be himself when not puppeteered.

With some restrictions in place, of course:

I am just spitballing here, but I'm thinking of what kind of other actions Eyepatch Morty may have forbidden Evil Rick to do, such as:

Cannot damage any equipment (duh, otherwise he'd be throwing a massive tantrum, destroying everything Evil Morty is working on)

Cannot attack Eyepatch Morty (duh, otherwise the kid would never get a moment's rest lol)

Cannot escape

Cannot call for help

...and probably a bunch more, such as "cannot speak" because of Evil Rick's lack of words when Evil Morty came to him during his failed suicide attempt... Plus the fact that he has a scar on his mouth, which a couple of amazing fanart and fanfiction made me wonder if Evil Rick said something during his surgery that Evil Morty very much could not stand hearing so he shut him up with a scalpel or whatever he was holding... before shutting him up for good.

What a nightmare, huh?

And that's when he was allowed to be himself. The rest of the time he'd be forced to watch himself kill Ricks, and kidnap and torture a thousand versions of his grandson.

2. Now, if the theory that Evil Morty was once himself puppetered it true...

...wouldn't he also have a similar list of prohibitions restraining his actions? Such as:

Cannot harm Puppetmaster Rick

Cannot escape

Cannot operate a portal gun (we've never seen Evil Morty operate a portal gun made by a Rick, he made his own. Is that a coincidence? Of course, both are "portal guns" so maybe that's a stretch, unless he calls his own portal weapon something else, like the dinosaurs called their own "portal pistol" lol. Or maybe using a portal gun to escape counts as "escaping" and therefore a separate order is not needed)

Cannot reveal to anyone what Puppetmaster Rick has been doing to him (maybe. Is that one even necessary? Would anyone even help him if he did reveal it?)

3. Like I said, I'm just spitballing here, but I think the above stand to reason. I mean they just seem like reasonable precautions. If this assessment is accurate, we can reach the following conclusions:

a) If Evil Rick's puppeteering experience was a nightmare, Evil Morty's was a living hell considering what Puppetmaster Rick was doing to him, especially if he was not allowed to leave the house and ask for help.

b) The fact that Evil Morty managed to free himself while operating under such massive handicups is another testament to his incredible intelligence and resilience.

c) It may be another reason he showed no empathy to other Mortys in his attempt to escape. They've had it easy, they had their chances to leave the Citadel or kill their Ricks, they had a million other ways and opportunities to escape and either never bothered or blew them. Now it's his turn.

4. Okay, now... what do you think happens to all these mental restraints once Evil Morty severed his connection to Puppetmaster Rick by tearing his receiver off???

One scenario is that they all became void. They were cancelled. Evil Morty was free to be himself, however he wanted. This could very much be true, and in that case my rambling ends here, I have nothing more to say.

Another scenario is all the old restrictions were still in place and effective, and he would just receive no new orders nor be directly puppeteered anymore. (I suppose this would make it into a good metaphor about abused people being conditioned to act in certain ways and it being very hard to rebel against them. E.g. imagine Evil Morty being unable to confess to other people about what happened to him because he'd expect pain and failure and no support, similar to actual abuse victims learning to expect accusations and failure and no support) Assuming the second scenario is true, then let's head off to the next points:

5. Depending on the exact extent of Evil Morty's mental restraints, it may be that using Evil Rick as a puppet was not only a clever way to get the upper hand, but that he had literally no other choice. E.g. imagine if he actually was physically incapable of operating a portal gun. He would literally need to hold it via Evil Rick's puppeteered hand. The whole thing would be Eyepatch Morty taking all his mental restraints and turning each and every one of them to his advantage in a convoluted, ingenious way.

6. Judging by Evil Rick's halted suicide attempt, it seems that while he knew that removing the receiver would kill him (I mean... you don't normally die by poking your eye out, so it has to be tearing your receiver off that will kill you, and he knew that) the puppeteered have no knowledge of the restrictions placed on them until they stumble upon them. (That, or Evil Rick knew he was not allowed to commit suicide but was desperate enough to try nonetheless.)

Therefore it's theoretically possible there are still some restrictions employed that Evil Morty is unaware of, which are waiting to spring up on him if the right (wrong) conditions are met.

Personally I think that's unlikely because I'm sure he has studied his own implant extensively since he became president and had access to adequate equipment, but:

7. Even if he studied it, this doesn't mean he was able to alter it nor undo it. From what we've seen it appears that unauthorized removal of part of the puppeteering implant equates with a death sentence. And while Puppetmaster Rick thought it unlikely his scrawny, stupid Morty would ever be able to put together a plan to break free or have the guts to mutilate himself, if the puppeteering equipment was originally, I dunno, a prototype designed by Rick Prime and was intended to be used against Ricks, then it's entirely possible that it is designed to kill the victim both for trying to remove the implant itself and for altering the accompanying code. It's the absolute prison, and despite whatever fast-acting healing equipment Evil Morty successfully used to remove his receiver in the past, it might be that it barely worked and he might not be too keen on trying his luck again.

8. So let's continue this thought experiment and assume that, if not all, at least the core mental restraints of the mind control implant are still very much effective inside Evil Morty's brain.

...Including the "cannot harm Puppetmaster Rick" one.

Now, I don't want to reduce the very important plot point of Evil Morty's mental restraints into semantics of "attack vs hurt vs harm vs kill", but... I'm going to go ahead and assume there are limits, definitions, to these mental restraints, otherwise Evil Morty would never been able to even look at Puppetmaster Rick wrong if there was the tiniest chance of it eventually leading to Puppetmaster Rick getting harmed. So I'm going to assume that the restraint is about something blatant.

Like... shooting Puppetmaster Rick, running him over with a car, poisoning his food, strangling him are all no-go, but aggressively poking him with your finger or not warning him about his impending doom might be okay.

My guess is that restraining Puppetmaster Rick is also okay, because as long as that the "no harm" order is still in action, Puppetmaster Rick would just immediately puppeteer Evil Morty into stopping or freeing him. The puppeteered cannot really get very far with this, especially when they're a child with no equipment of their own... Or that is what Puppetmaster Rick would think.

9. Anyway, before season 7 we don't see Evil Morty directly kill (or try to kill) another Rick. (It's not his fault the Ricks walked into various deathtraps, occasionally when he even specifically told them not to lol) This observation tipped me off to the possibility that some restrictions might still be in place... Of course, I cannot think on why there'd be a restriction against Evil Morty killing random Ricks, so it might simply be that in his attempts to bypass the restrictions against Puppetmaster Rick Evil Morty has learnt to think outside the box and later fully employed this skill to minimize the risk to himself.

And in season 7, he has no difficulty in killing Nice Rick, nor to shoot and attack Rick Prime during the Prime Fight.

10. BUT THEN WHAT'S THIS ABOUT:

I couldn't stop thinking about this phrase!!! It just doesn't make any sense!! WHY DID RICK PRIME ACT LIKE EYEPATCH MORTY WAS INCAPABLE OF KILLING HIM?!

So I kept thinking on what sort of mental restraints might still be active inside Evil Morty's brain.

Like, what? Is it something like him "not being allowed to kill a Rick who isn't currently posing a threat", so he could shoot Rick Prime in the beginning but not now that he's restrained? (But he shot Nice Rick again with no problem inside the box, when he was down and weaponless and dying...) This didn't really make any sense, like... why??? So I dropped this theory and forgot about it...

... until the theory that Rick Prime has been mind controlling other Ricks came up. By more than one fan!!!! (and we followed different lines of thought to reach it!!!)

SO LET'S PUT EVERYTHING TOGETHER:

(1) Evil Morty absolutely does still have some mental restraints in his brain and has been carefully operating around them this whole time, trying not to trigger them.

(2) One of those mental restraints effectively prevents him from killing Puppetmaster Rick. This would provide an additional explanation about why Eyepatch Morty didn't kill Puppetmaster Rick the moment he realized said Rick was freed by Rick C-137 resetting all portal travelers. Like, I can think of other explanations:

Puppetmaster Rick being terrified of the Citadel and having no idea that it no longer exists and worrying that they'll come get him to throw him in the Machine of Unspeakable Doom again, therefore laying as low as possible, either hiding himself so effectively that even Evil Morty can't find him, or protecting his home base to withstand an attack from the Citadel itself, making it extremely difficult for Evil Morty to defeat him.

Evil Morty being either extremely scared or extremely repulsed by him, simply never wanting to deal with him ever again, and thinking it highly unlikely Puppetmaster Rick would ever be able to successfully track him down as long as Morty took certain precautions...

...But it's also very likely that Evil Morty is physically unable to do it. Like, I doubt Evil Morty is morally above neutrino-bombing an entire planet just to get this one Rick, but maybe he can't do it. Maybe he is not allowed to fire such a weapon.

(3) In fact, the only things Evil Morty can do is hide himself in the fringe between worlds, employ a number of sophisticated shields, and surgically add the mind-cotrol-implant-overriding fingerguns on himself. An attack with these might at worst cause pain for Puppetmaster Rick, but as we've seen the fingerguns don't actually physically harm nor kill their target, they just... override the target's nervous system. So he can use those against Puppetmaster Rick.

(4) Fast forward to the Prime Fight, where Evil Morty uses a gun to try to kill Rick Prime--and why not? Of course he can do it. He also attacks Rick Prime with his bare hands and hijacks one of Prime's Dianebots to pummel him into a pancake. All good.

(5) Eventually, Eyepatch Morty's temporary allies go down, all the weapons and physical attacks he has tried got him no results, there are no more Dianebots for him to hijack and he's about to get shot:

Desperate, he tries one last thing: the finger-gun, which would only work if Rick Prime also has a mind-control-implant in his forehead.

(6) Bingo!!! It works.

(7) ...But this means that Rick Prime is also defined by a "Puppetmaster Rick status". Whatever mental restraint Evil Morty struggled to operate around is updated to extend to Rick Prime.

While the remains of the mind-control implant inside Evil Morty's head did not receive any new orders (as he no longer has a receiver), the old orders are still in place, and the updated knowledge concerning Rick Prime's status as a "Rick who puppeteers others" (or "admin" if you like) firmly slots him inside the "cannot harm" box.

(8) Whatever. Evil Morty is annoyed, but he knows how to work around this. He's unconcerned.

We have no confirmation of this, but it's likely Puppetmaster Rick had a special room and special equipment and used it update or oversee Evil Morty's implant (I mean... we've come up with similar imagery for Evil Morty and Evil Rick). Evil Morty therefore knows Rick Prime should also have something similar, and knows just what to do. He immediately drags him to the control room, where indeed the relevant equipment is waiting for him.

What I find funny is that Evil Morty probably didn't stick himself inside the wall panels to get all those cables out, but puppeteered Rick Prime to do it in his stead.

And this explains why part of the room was wrecked: Evil Morty was unfamiliar with Prime's strength and implants, and as we've seen, when controlling an unfamiliar body with implants, accidents might happen:

Evil Morty then puppeteered Rick Prime into sitting on his chair (aaaaand I assume deactivated his time-healing ability) before holding him still.

(9) Rick Prime woke up, saw/felt the fingergun and cables on his forehead, noticed he was unable to move, saw Evil Morty, remembered Evil Morty shooting him with something... and probably also immediately began employing his own implants and defense systems to get feedback on Evil Morty's fingergun and on how it could be overridden.

Doesn't this line make a lot more sense now???

He really is getting the picture. And in fact he may be getting a much bigger picture than Evil Morty might like; he may be stealthily scanning Evil Morty's brain through some other implant of his; see it full of cables, recognize the similarities to his own handiwork. He might understand that Evil Morty has puppeteered others, might understand that Evil Morty was once puppeteered himself. He might get a feedback on Evil Morty's list of mental restraints.

And he immediately begins stealthily mounting attacks against the fingerguns, which retaliate each and every time, turning red and hurting him. He keeps trying nonetheless, while simultaneously trying to distract Evil Morty by sweet talking to him (which is nothing but a testament about how clever he is and his ability to multitask) but his fate is sealed; maybe he'd be able to override the fingerguns given enough time... But he doesn't have enough time, and Evil Morty has prepared himself for this exact moment moment. His fingerguns are not easy to be overridden.

(10) So Evil Morty successfully fries each and every one of Prime's puppeteered victims (which do not have "Puppetmaster Rick status") and Prime says this:

DOESN'T THIS LINE MAKE A LOT MORE SENSE NOW?

He got feedback on Evil Morty's brain control implant. He knows that from the moment the fingerguns worked Eyepatch Morty could literally not harm him anymore.

(11) Not that this matters, because Eyepatch Morty knows just what to do...

...bring someone who can finish the job:

DOESN'T THE ABOVE LINE ALSO MAKE SENSE NOW?

Evil Morty is not the one harming him!!! I mean if you wanna look at semantics he didn't even tell Rick C-137 to kill him, he said a joke, a pun.

And he has the added bonus of coming out of this looking like a team player (I mean... as much as he ever could) and gaining an enslaved, morally obligated Rick to himself lol (turning his mental restraints to his advantage)

(12) AND TALK ABOUT POETIC JUSTICE. RICK PRIME IS BEING PUPPETEERED TO SIT STILL IN HIS OWN CHAIR AND GET PUMMELED TO DEATH when he's the one who had been tricking and enslaving countless Ricks to be puppeteered by him forever.

He's literally forced to sit still there and live through it, unable to even lift a finger to protect himself. Poetic. Justice.

(13) Evil Morty had been very careful up to now to hide the fact that he has puppeteered others, but there is no way Rick C-137 didn't understand that Evil Morty is familiar with the puppeteering technology after this encounter (I mean... Rick C-137 knew not to remove the fingerguns, he knew to remove the cables, he knew what this whole thing was).

Which on one hand, doesn't mean he gets to reach any plot-relevant conclusions (at least, not yet) because he knows Evil Morty scans Ricks' brains and steals their technology. On the other hand... we don't know how much more he needs to put 2 and 2 together and reach the same conclusions that Rick Prime did.

(14) And now for my last point.

If all the above is true...

...and depending on the semantics of the mental restraints...

...I would not be surprised if it turns out that Evil Morty using the Omega Device against Ricks is nothing but a GIGANTIC BLUFF.

Like this is literally the worst he can do: improve its design, build it, threaten to use it. (Depending on whether he intends to do a demonstration on e.g. Churry he may not even ever bother to build it.)

Because he literally cannot fire such a weapon against Ricks as long as Puppetmaster Rick is alive. (edit: I'm gonna correct myself and change this to: he cannot use such a weapon against Ricks directly but he still can trick or force someone else to fire it in his stead)

Of course, he would still be able to fire it against Ricks' family, which is probably more effective as a deterrent considering Ricks' suicidal tendencies, but you get the idea.

(...On a different matter, Rick Prime wins plenty of extra cruelty points for vengefully trying to turn Rick C-137 against Evil Morty by warning him about a weapon he knows the kid literally cannot use (edit: cannot use in a moment's notice, in case a furious Rick C-137 pops up in his doorstep))

Again, this may not be true. We don't know if firing such a weapon by throwing another Rick in the Omega Device (and therefore killing eeeevery Rick) counts as Eyepatch Morty directly killing Puppetmaster Rick or not, but I fail to see how it's different from dropping a neutrino bomb on Puppetmaster Rick's head.

(15) Or maybe I'm wrong and I'm only trying to connect dots that don't exist. I honestly cannot think of another explanation for Rick Prime's lines to Evil Morty in Unmortiricken but this doesn't mean there isn't one.

And I do think Evil Morty being deathly scared of Puppetmaster Rick is adequate explanation for not wanting to even try to kill him, and plot-wise and character-wise I think it's a lot more interesting than semantics.

But then again, it's possible for both of these things to be true... Because even with Rick C-137 suddenly becoming his slave, Evil Morty very much did not jump at the opportunity to kill Puppetmaster Rick. He chose to remain hidden. He doesn't want to deal with him.

[telomeke]

4 MINUTES – ON GHOSTS, DEATH AND DYING (PLUS SOME THAI AND CHINESE CULTURAL REFERENCES)

The cogs and gears in my head are clanking and clunking away, trying to work out what the underlying plot logic of 4 Minutes might turn out to be. (And the machine upstairs seems a little rusty, to be honest! 🤣)

For the moment though, my money's on 4 Minutes as a supernatural thriller in which some of the characters are actually ghosts or spirits from another realm, interacting with humans still in the world of the living.

I've written more about it here:

And looking more closely, there are a few more clues that point in this direction – especially in the scenes with Lukwa, the only one of Den's interviewees who seems to have familiarity with the four-minute rewind.

My view is that Lukwa is a ghost, and that Den is one of the few humans who can see spirits and interact with them.

This is echoed by what Lukwa herself tells Den in Ep.4 – he's the only one who listens to her talk about her experiences after her heart stopped, unlike the others who seem to pay her no mind. I'm thinking everyone else is ignoring her not because they think she's crazy – but because most humans can't see her in her ghostly form, unlike Den who is blessed (cursed?) with the gift of second sight.

At their first meeting in Ep.1, Lukwa had already been scheduled to see Den (he knew her formal name was Arinya without looking up from his file). But she must have died just before the appointment time, and turned up in spirit form instead. This is why Den looked more than surprised to see her, because he had been expecting a living human interviewee, not a ghost. 👀

And this is also why Lukwa is clad in both black and white in this scene – she'd barely left the Four-Minute Zone (where the spirits are clad in black) and was transitioning to white (as is befitting of the ghostly dead) when she decided to keep her appointment with Den.

There are also some subtle visual details hinting that Lukwa no longer belongs in the world of the living.

In all three of her scenes (her two conversations with Den, and also when we see her in the Four-Minute Waiting Room), Lukwa is carrying a bag in which mesh (made of string) features prominently as part of the design composition. In Ep.1 it's a black mesh bag, in her Ep.4 impromptu visit with Den it's a bag with white mesh detailing, and in the waiting room, it's a white mesh bag.

I strongly think all this abundance of stringy accessories is a nod at a particular Thai funerary custom (among many others), in which a sacred string (called sai sin, usually white) is tied around the wrists of the deceased.

And when Lukwa first appears in Ep.1, the string handle of her mesh bag is looped around her wrist, which (I think) is signaling that Lukwa has already departed the realm of the living:

‌It's black rather than white, because Lukwa is still transitioning from the Four-Minute Zone (where black rules) to the ghostly realm (where white is de rigueur).

OK, so when we see Lukwa in the Four-Minute Waiting Room, one of the more unusual visual details is that oddly-positioned bed, deliberately skewed at an odd angle away from the walls:

I think this is a reference to the Thai superstition that beds should never be oriented to face west, because that is the direction reserved for the dead when they are laid out in their coffins at funerals.

Annoyingly, I can't find consensus online as to whether it's the top of the deceased's head that points to the west or rather the chin and feet that do. But no matter – I think it's enough to suggest that the bed Lukwa is perched upon is oriented such because it's the convention for the departed – and this must make her (and any other visitor to that room) one of them (and that includes Great, whom we see in the room with her 😥).

And this calls to mind immediately the scenes where we see Great waking up in his bed – it's also ominously positioned away from the walls (and thus echoes the Bed of the Dead in the Four-Minute Waiting Room). It's another hint that Great is a ghost too.

Still in the Four-Minute Waiting Room, that giant 04:00 projected on the curtain is probably some kind of timer, but we are not shown it counting down:

I think this timer has been counting up to four minutes, just like the giant projection in Great's apartment that we see counting up to 11:04 (which will likely mark the shutdown of his shared interlude with Tyme in the Four-Minute Zone). And as the waiting room projection has stopped at 04:00, this probably also means that both Lukwa and Great have left the Four-Minute Zone behind them and are in the room waiting to be admitted to the ghostly realm beyond.

So the projection is not really a clock, but it does call to mind all the various clocks in the preceding episodes.

And this is more a Thai-Chinese thing (rather than purely Thai), but clocks are also an ominous reminder of death. I'd originally not wanted to post about this (since this is a Thai show, not a Chinese one), but with Ep.5's nod at the Thai-Chinese significance of the numeral 4 and the realization that 4 Minutes is being broadcast (a little too coincidentally) during the Thai-Chinese Ghost Festival saat jeen I think it's worth mentioning.

So clocks in Chinese culture are often associated with death; you should never give a Chinese person a clock as a gift, because the words for "gifting a clock" (in Mandarin and Cantonese especially) sound like "paying one's last respects at a funeral" – song zhong (suggesting that the gift is also a wish for the recipient's death to be imminent).

Even without the gift-giving, the word for clock/钟 (in both Mandarin and Cantonese) is also a homonym for a word meaning death, demise or ending (终).

As a lot of Thai people have at least part-Chinese ancestry due to intermarriage dating back centuries, it's not inconceivable that quite a number of Thai viewers will recognize the ominous undertones every time a clock appears in 4 Minutes.

Although you don't need to know this to understand that a ticking clock also symbolizes time slipping away, which aligns well with the urgently palpitating heart of 4 Minutes, this convoluted supernatural gay romance thriller that has so many of us in a chokehold...

‌

[kaibutsushidousha]

Have you ever articulated your thoughts on Ms. president? Like in the way you did with Kiara?

It can't be the way I did with Kiara because Olga is still not a character with a complete narrative. I don't have a conclusion already to work backwards what she's about. That said, I think the latest reveal about her is something with a lot to comment about.

Olga Marie Quest 2 reveals the original Olga Marie was created as a control unit for CHALDEAS's system. That's a thing we speculated about before but now it's important to have it confirmed. It's really significant information when it comes to defining Olga.

As we can see her now, Olga is a machine who was never told she was a machine. She assumed she was a real girl, and because of that, she thought she needed approval from the creator she assumed to be her real father. She didn't get the approval that should come naturally to her apparent identity, so she began to hold herself to higher standards for it, which also comes with holding everyone else to higher standards, consequently making her a deeply unpleasant leader.

Her complexes blew up with Marisbury death, which pushed her to take command of Chaldea before she felt like she was ready for it, and made her contend with the fact that despite her incredible power, she was somehow unable to Rayshift and contract Servants (probably a more extreme case of Daybit inability to summon because he's not part of Earth's humanity). Olga Marie never felt more out of place in the identity she wrongly assumed to be hers.

In contrast, U-Olga is far more aware of what she was made for and a lot more in her element. She still holds everyone to very high standards, as it shows in her commentary about humanity's war and fuel problems, but her attitude about it is less that of an aggressive boss and more that of an attentive teacher and advisor.

But even then, U-Olga still proves herself too heavily affected by labels and the perceived responsibilities attached to it. In her reset state, she found dear companions in Fujimaru, Mash, and Marine 4, and she found her ideal in the deinos society that Wak Chan showed her, but at that point, she couldn't bring herself to act upon these desires that clearly originated from herself, because she was vaguely remembering her identity as an enemy of humanity. The only thing that ultimately made her break out of this role was accepting the other role Fujimaru said belonged to her, that of Chaldea's director.

One of the bigger mysteries in Fuyuki's story is how did Olga rayshift to Fuyuki when as far as everyone knew, she was incapable of rayshifting. The answer Lev gives is that Olga Marie's body was vaporized by being at the epicenter of the bomb, and without the restriction of the body, her mind and soul were naturally capable of rayshifting. Back when this was all it had, Olga being a ghost through her Fuyuki screentime feels like a really random twist that added nothing to plot. But now, Olga being unaware she was a ghost becomes part of a pattern of Olga being always incorrect about what she is.

Before Fuyuki, she assumed she was a human when she was actually a part of a Mystic Code. In Fuyuki, she assumed she still had a body when she didn't. From Olympus to Mictlan, she assumed she was an alien god who traveled to Earth to answer the SOS signal of a tortured peer (but in her Mictlan reset state, she changed her fake backstory to answering Earth's death cries) when she was unknowingly a Servant version of the Alien God CHALDEAS in the position of one of its Apostles. I don't have a conclusion to drop since the story isn't over, but I look forward to seeing how the 4 E-Olga Maries are also misinformed about their identity.

[oscconfessions]

do all the mods confessiony-sonas have different personalities/lore/other stuff? the designs are all really cool and I wanna know more about them :3

Paradox/Posy (or Catalog when they were alive) is from The Nightly Manor! They were alive before sketchpad's appearance and actually died bc of his arrival.

Paradox was your standard librarian, but they also were an mad/evil scientist on the side. Think Doofenshmirtz, comically bad at being evil. Literally no one knew about the deeds they wanted to accomplish.

I'm not sure about the other confessionysonas' lore, but! Thats mine at least.

-🗄️

Boom was a stick of dynamite from the TTR-verse who exploded and perma-died after TARDIS uh.. well, disabled all recovery centers. They were always called Boom, but after death immediately took the chance to change their appearance to what they are now (the explosion, rather than the dynamite, with goatlike features)!

They mostly wanted to change their appearance so people wouldn't figure out what universe they were from, or have no association with it. They have absolutely no love for TARDIS, and has no idea if they're Plot-relevant or even able to be found that way, but they do NOT want to risk it in any way.

They also don't want to get recovered anymore- they kind of like being a ghost!

When they were alive though they were mostly just a normal guy who was a fan of Twisted Turns and tried to get into the reboot once lmao.

-💥 cog comes from a world of what you would call a "dystopian super-technological future", and is one of the lead developers and lead AI/machine learning engineers. long story short AI, robots and what have you took over and killed off most of the universe, the first victim being the object who gave them life! with practically no one left on their universe, there is nobody to recover them, so... yeah, they're just a ghost now. fun fact, the inside of my confessiony-sona is actually cogs office, where they were killed :D - ⚙️

oh i'm a bit late... well! olive(r) is from the ii universe. this is stolen directly from my normal objectsona/selfship lore (democracy decided olipad is canon so i dont feel bad) lol. he is not mephone generated btw! i actually had to do a bit of rewriting because of ii 16 and decided that the rest of the production crew he worked with was generated but him? he simply got a bit lost. and well, long story i've barely written short, he Died. Badly.

now he spends his afterlife doing stereotypical ghost shit, you know standing at the end of hallways and whispering in earshot of the living. just freaking people out. he finds it hilarious.

he wants to go back, but he's accepted that he's just a ghost now. So he's trying to help out confessiony and comicy with this whole "oscc" thing.

-🫒

[jadenoryuu]

DP x ? Crossover Prompt

A though came to me when I re-read the tags on "Robin's Egg" by Calix/@arzuera (which I can't rec fast enough):

What if, given their liminality due to exposure to ectoplasm, the Fentons, Sam and Tucker have a proto-core?

What if, due to any accident of your choice (be the Nasty Burger explosion, the GiW getting shoot-y or a ghost attack), they get killed?

And what if, before their bodies die, Danny manages to snag their proto-cores and stuff them in a Thermos or within himself, to keep them from the possibility of fading after death?

After fleeing from Amity because of plot reasons (usually Vlad, but you could choose whatever), Danny now has two three possible options:

Help them stabilize as full ghosts. Angsty and full of feels, but that's a given due to the situation. (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Try to clone their human bodies and shove the proto-core (or full core if they had time to mature) inside of them before they could develop a soul of their own and so become halfas. [That's a personal headcanon of mine: "normal" clones can't be perfect replicas of the templates, because the soul (or the Core in an halfa's case) is impossible to copy. In this case the clones are more body-suits than ex-novo beings.]

Oh, I almost forgot! Robot body instead of a flesh one! Would they be considered the first generation of sentient machines or just ghosts possessing technology (a-la Technus/Skulker)?

Now, to add in more feels, there are two possibilities that could happen when Danny's still on the run:

Danny is "alone", because the proto-cores are in coma, so he has no one to bring him out of his spirals. (Bonus points if they have some moments of lucidity where they are too confused by what's going on, before going under again, to understand anything Danny's saying.)

They are conscious and, while Danny has someone to talk to, in the meanwhile they also feel his agony, regret and desperation to do something to fix things.

This idea is free for everyone, but I'd like to be tagged if anyone uses it! (I want to see what you come up with!!)

ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

[trulybetty]

dec' 03 x hot chocolate

Prompt: hot chocolate Pairing: joel miller x f!Reader Word Count: 3,196 Warnings: barely beta'd, all mistakes my own, this is au and way off the plot of anything to do with TLOU, mentions of coffee and festive fluff and introductions to our characters ☕ Summary: maplewood, a small town nestled in northern bc where people flock to see the festive decorations of main street and enjoy the festive traditions. finding yourself back home and working for the family business, you strike up a friendship with the town's local contractor. AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

The Little Coffee Shop Around the Corner - Part I

Joel Miller was the type who didn’t believe in buying coffee from a coffee shop. He had a perfectly good coffee maker at home that he’d had for a quarter century now. One that had moved countries and still worked just as well as it had done the first day he’d bought it. 

Well, that was until that very morning. 

With a sputter and a final wheeze, the machine gave up the ghost, leaving Joel staring in disbelief at his kitchen counter. Grudgingly accepting defeat, he grabbed his coat and ventured out to his truck on the brisk Maplewood morning.

He’d moved to the small Canadian town a handful of years ago with his daughter Sarah from Austin Texas. Many had questioned his decision to move not just to another country, but to a town that was drastically different and far removed from Austin.

He hadn’t answered with much more than a shrug.

His contracting business had been doing well enough to live an easy life, step back and enjoy someone else taking the reigns. 

That was until he became a widow at the age of thirty-six and all he’d wanted to do was get out of dodge. Everywhere he turned, there were reminders of her, making it too difficult for him to stay.

Sarah's arrival came after both of his parents had passed away. His brother Tommy had already moved to Wyoming in pursuit of joining a community that he insisted wasn't a commune, and he had settled down and started a family. This left him alone with Sarah, so when they were presented with the opportunity for her to receive a scholarship from a prestigious Canadian school with full access to their renowned soccer program, they eagerly took it as a chance for a new beginning. Despite its remote location in British Columbia, they saw it as a fresh start.

The transition had been challenging, no doubt about it. Neither of them possessed any winter clothing, and they both had to adapt to a new currency (Joel still struggled with the difference between a Loonie and a Toonie) while navigating unfamiliar locations. However, the warmth of the town's reception overshadowed all of those challenges. No one prodded for information or tried to uncover gossip; instead, they were embraced with open arms and quickly became just another part of the Maplewood community.

Sarah had quickly adapted to her new school, which didn't come as a surprise. Meanwhile, Joel had discovered that the town was in desperate need of a handyman, and soon enough Miller Contracting was back in business. 

Pulling into a parking space on the main street outside of the bookstore Sarah often frequented, Joel rubbed his hands together cursing leaving his gloves at home. Despite his years in Maplewood, winter still felt like a shock every time it rolled around.

After taking a moment to orient himself, he recalled that the coffee shop was located to the left around the corner. With this in mind, he began his journey to the end of the street. Luckily, his workload for the day was relatively light, so this unexpected diversion wouldn't cause too much delay

The stores had wasted no time in getting out their Christmas decorations, he looked across the street as he walked to the bakery - its window frames draped in holly and ivy, punctuated by glittering baubles were no exception. Merry Tree Trek, a Christmas tree scavenger hunt put on by the town's businesses was due to start the following day. One of the many traditions Maplewood had for the festive season. 

As Joel entered 'True North Brews,' the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and the gentle hum of conversation welcomed him. The shop was packed with locals, all happily chatting away as they waited for their orders to be ready. Standing in line, he scanned the menu, feeling out of his depth. This was Sarah’s territory - he usually was just there to provide payment before they headed on to whatever errand needed to be completed next.

He took in the festive decor as he waited in line. Christmas lights had been strung along the edges of the bar, while fake holly adorned every pillar in sight. Paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling and garlands of green and red festooned the fireplace. Which crackled merrily at one end of the room, and he smiled to himself as he watched an elderly couple sitting close together on one of the sofas near it - no doubt soaking up every minute of extra warmth they could get before trudging back out into the cold night air.

That’s when he noticed you behind the counter. You were relatively new, he knew your name and that you were the owner's daughter – Sarah had regaled your appearance in Maplewood several months back when you'd stopped by the bakery. Right now you were serving the town’s newest member of the tourism board, he couldn’t remember her name but knew he’d seen her with Marcus from the bakery here and there. Your eyes met briefly, and a hint of a smile danced on your lips.

Finally, it was his turn to order, “Hey Joel,” you said, recognizing him from his numerous visits with his daughter, “No Sarah today?”

He shook his head, “Just me.”

“In that case, what can I make for you?” you asked, your voice cheery in light of Joel’s look of utmost confusion.

“Just coffee, please,” he said, in a tone that suggested this was an everyday request.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “Coffee? Coffee means a lot of different things around here. What kind of coffee would you like?”

Joel scratched his head, looking a bit lost. “Uh, just your regular coffee, you know? Nothing fancy,” he replied, his Texas drawl more pronounced.

You leaned against the counter with a friendly grin. “How about trying something a bit festive? A peppermint mocha, perhaps? It's like a holiday in a cup!”

Joel's eyebrows rose in surprise, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That's far too fancy for my tastes.” he laughed, “Just a regular black coffee will do.”

You nodded understandingly but with a twinkle in your eye. “Tell you what, how about an Americano? It's close to black coffee but with a bit more character. It's on the house, and if you don't like it, you can come back, and I'll make you a straight-up black coffee. But, I have a hunch you might enjoy the Americano.”

Joel looked surprised but intrigued. “Well, when you put it that way... sure, I'll give it a try.”

As you began preparing his order, Joel glanced around, noticing the line behind him starting to grow. “Looks like you've got a busy day ahead,” he remarked.

You smiled, handing him the Americano. “Maplewood wakes up early during the holiday season. Enjoy your coffee, and remember, if it's not to your liking, come back up for that black coffee.”

Joel opened his mouth to respond, but the bustling line behind him urged him forward, cutting short the chance for a proper response. He settled for a quick, “Thanks,” and moved aside.

Later that day as you were wiping down the counters, your mother Jean and the current owner of the coffee shop, joined you out front. “I've been thinking,” she began, her voice laced with a blend of both excitement and seriousness. 

“That’s dangerous,” you quipped, ignoring the scowl she sent you as she made her way around the counter to the front of the store.

“I was thinking,” she said ignoring you, “that now might be a good time for me to step back with you back in town.”

You paused, cloth in hand. Coming back to Maplewood hadn't been your first choice, especially after things ended with Max. Your ex-boyfriend who had suddenly gotten too tied up in climbing the corporate ladder, after a business trip across seas, to notice the relationship unravelling. 

“I really don’t know how long I’m going to be here,” you replied, having already been in town a month longer than your original plan of just six weeks.

The statement was not an exaggeration; the apartment had been in Max's name, and the two of you had always planned to add your own on the deed. But procrastination got in the way. With rental prices on the rise and a sabbatical from work, coming home was your only option until you could figure out your next move.

She shrugged, “Doesn’t matter, as long as it’s long enough for me to do some travelling, get a taste of what an early retirement could look like.”

You sighed, “What’s the angle here, Mom?”

“What angle?” she responded as she fussed with the tree you’d both decorated with coffee-themed decor the night before for the Merry Tree Trek.

Your mother had a knack for mixing business with motherly concern in a way that only she could. She glanced at you over the rim of her glasses, a half-smile playing on her lips.

“No angle,” She said, adjusting a tiny coffee bean ornament. “I've been running True North Brews since before you were born, and it's been a dream. But, I'm not getting any younger, and the world's a big place. I'd like to see some of it while I still can.”

You couldn't help but smile at her adventurous spirit, something you had undoubtedly inherited. “You want to travel? Since when?”

“Since always,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. “The shop has been in our family for two generations now. I'd hate to see it end up in different hands, or worse, closed down.”

The weight of her words hung in the air. Taking over the coffee shop wasn't something you had considered seriously. You had other dreams, didn't you? But then again, the shop was more than just a business; it was a piece of Maplewood's heart, and undeniably, a big part of your family's legacy.

Your mother continued, “I know you're figuring things out, and I'm not asking you to decide right this second. But think about it. This place could use your touch and your ideas. You've always had a knack for making people feel welcome, just like your grandmother did when she opened this place.”

You leaned against the counter, absorbing her words. The coffee shop had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember. Your earliest memories were of playing behind the counter, the smell of coffee always in the air.

Perhaps this unexpected turn of events was not just a setback but an opportunity, a chance to add your chapter to the story of Maple Brews.

“I'll think about it,” you said finally, a mix of apprehension and excitement bubbling inside you. But you still threw her a pointed look, “just thinking about it, okay?”

“That's all I'm asking,” she replied, her eyes softening. “Now, help me with this stubborn string of lights, will you? This tree needs to look perfect for when the scavenger hunt starts this afternoon.”

It was nearing closing when the ring of the bell at the front door rang signalling a customer. Looking up you saw Marcus, the owner of Maple Delights standing at the door, stamping his feet to rid his boots of the snow that had started the fall that afternoon.

“Hey Marcus,” you greeted, “can I get you anything?” you asked as you accepted a stack of pink cake boxes from him. Maple Delights had a long-standing business deal with True North Brews to sell their baked goods in their displays - one that extended beyond Marcus' tenure as owner.

He gave you a wide smile, “Actually, it’s what you can do for me?”

You raised an eyebrow, “Well, I’m intrigued.”

“So, the Jingle Bell Movie night later this month,” he said, posing the event as a question. It was an annual tradition of the town, with everyone coming together for an evening of festivities and movie-watching in the community centre. “I was thinking, what if Maple Delights and True North Brews tag-teamed the event?”

Your interest was piqued. “Go on,” you encouraged.

Marcus's eyes lit up. “I'll supply the treats—cookies, pastries, you name it—and you guys could handle the hot drinks? Hot chocolate, spiced cider, maybe some festive coffee concoctions?”

You nodded, already visualizing the bustling event. “Sounds like a perfect match to me. Maple Delights' treats and our drinks? The town will love it!”

“Hey, speaking of the bakery, question for you about the renovations you did when you bought the place. You restored it to its original façade, right?” you asked, as Marcus leant against the counter.

He smiled, a hint of pride in his voice. “Yeah, I did. Wanted to preserve a piece of Maplewood’s history. The building has such character, it felt right to bring it back to its former glory.”

“Well, it certainly is stunning. It must've been quite a project,” you remarked.

Marcus nodded. “It was a labour of love, but totally worth it in the end.”

Your mind was buzzing with ideas and your mother's earlier conversation replaying over in your head, “Who did you get in to do the work?” you asked, knowing that Maplewood wasn't exactly crawling with talented contractors and designers.

“Actually it was Joel Miller, he did the renovation.”

“Really?” you asked, surprised.

Marcus chuckled. “Joel really did some great work on the bakery. He's got a really good eye for detail. Took my vision and made it even better than I could have imagined.”

You were impressed. “Wow, well he did an amazing job. It was one of the first things I noticed when I came back. It adds so much charm to the street.”

“Thanks,” Marcus said, a warm smile on his face. “Joel's a really talented guy. He's a great addition to the community, both him and Sarah.”

“Well, if he did such a great job with the bakery, maybe he could help us with the coffee shop,” you said, half-jokingly.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “You're thinking of doing a reno?”

You hesitated, feeling a bit exposed not having intended to speak out loud your internal thoughts, “It's something my mom and I have discussed in the past, but she's the type if it ain't broke don't fix it.”

Marcus laughed, “I can testify to that, I mentioned I was looking to scale back serving coffee in the bakery, and asked if she had any interest in the espresso machine,” you rolled your eyes knowing what was coming, you'd been begging her to replace the old machine for years, “told me that this one,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the tired looking machine, “worked just fine.”

You shook your head, “One of these days she's going to realize giving it a good thud is probably doing more damage than fixing it.”

Marcus glanced at his watch. “I should get going. Got to make sure we have enough gingerbread dough for tomorrow. Those gingerbread men won't bake themselves!”

“Thanks for stopping by. Let's touch base early next week to finalize those plans for the movie night.”

With a nod and a wave, you watched Marcus leave, but now the seed of an idea was planted in your mind. A reno could be just what True North Brews needed to give it a fresh look and make it stand out. But you weren't taking over, you reminded yourself, no -- it was just you helping out with the family business, nothing more, right?

The next morning, Joel’s kitchen still lacked a new coffee maker. The old one sat forlornly on the counter, a reminder of a morning routine disrupted. With a resigned sigh, Joel grabbed his coat and headed out to his truck. The town was slowly waking up, the street sprinkled with early risers and the promise of a busy day ahead.

As he pushed open the door of the coffee shop, the familiar jingle of the bell greeted him, along with the rich aroma of brewing coffee. You looked up from the espresso machine, a smile spreading across your face as you recognized him.

“Morning, Joel,” you greeted. “Americano?” you asked with a hopeful smile since he'd never returned for that black coffee.

Joel nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I think I actually like it a bit more than my usual.”

You laughed as you prepared his coffee. “Glad to hear that. We might make a coffee aficionado out of you yet.”

“Let's not get too ahead of ourselves.” he laughed as he watched you prepare his drink.

Handing him his coffee, you hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Actually Joel, can I ask you something about your contracting work?”

He looked surprised but nodded. “Sure, what about it?”

“I heard from Marcus that you did the renovation work on the bakery. It looks incredible. Said you kept the original design when you worked on it?”

Joel’s expression softened, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Yeah, I did. Marcus wanted to retain the historical look of the building. It was a great project to work on, restoring it to its original state while giving it all the modern requirements.”

You were genuinely interested. “That’s impressive. It’s such an integral part of the town’s charm. I’ve been thinking, True North Brews could use a bit of sprucing up. Would you perhaps be up for discussing a quote any time soon?”

Joel looked around the coffee shop, considering. “Sure, I’d be happy to. What did you have in mind?”

“I'm not too sure, mostly starting fixing what needs fixing and going from there, just keeping the cozy vibe but maybe adding a little Maplewood flair to it.”

He nodded, sipping at his coffee thoughtfully. “Sounds like a good project. Why don’t we sit down sometime next week and go over what you’re thinking? I can put together some ideas and a quote for you.”

“That would be great,” you replied, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of giving the coffee shop a fresh, new look.

Placing his coffee on the counter, Joel handed you his business card from his wallet, giving you a quick glimpse of a family portrait tucked inside. 

“Here,” he said pocketing his wallet and handing you his business card, “why don't you give me a call and we can arrange something?”

You smiled as you traced the logo of Miller Contracting, “Sure, sounds like a plan!”

As Joel left, coffee in hand, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation. Not only at the idea of possible renovations but for the growing sense of community you had quickly settled into while only being back for a short period in Maplewood. But before you could think any further about it, the bell above the door rang and a group of tourists trekked in, Merry Tree Trek maps in hand.

You gave them a wide smile as you welcomed them in, “Welcome to True North Brews, what can I get started for you?”

[tlbodine]

Overthinking: Piano Lessons Can Be Murder

Here's one that totally slipped my radar as a kid. The first time I have ever seen or heard of this book was when I was pulling up the list to re-read these in order. Isn't that strange? Tell me if you read this one as a kid.

Piano Lessons Can Be Murder is Goosebumps #13. There was also a television series episode for it, so it can't have been that obscure. So what's the verdict - hidden gem or forgettable addition? Let's overthink it.

First, the Plot: Jerry and his family just moved into a new house. He's a bit of a prankster, and before the movers have even left, he's pranked his parents, who are not amused. Unfortunately for him, this has now shot his credibility, because they will treat him like The Girl Who Cried Monster for the rest of this book.

Up in the attic, Jerry and his dad find an old piano, presumably left over by a previous tenant. His dad asks if he'd be interested in playing it, and Jerry decides sure, that could be cool, so they arrange for him to start taking lessons from an overzealous Santa Claus lookalike named Dr. Shreek.

In the meantime, the piano begins gaslighting Jerry, playing music seemingly only he can hear. Eventually, he spots the ghost responsible, a girl whose flesh melts off her skull in the best scare scene in the book. But nobody else can see the ghost, and nobody believes him about it, although after the third or fourth time of Jerry insisting he's not pranking his parents, they send him to a psychiatrist, who also doesn't believe him. Oh well.

Jerry's piano lessons are going well, and Dr. Shreek keeps muttering about what truly wonderful, excellent hands Jerry has. After a few lessons at home, he invites him to attend his music school, which is a big Gothic building full of little private rooms. Nobody else ever seems to come in or out, but it's always bustling with music.

At the school, he meets Mr. Toggle, an inventor and resident tech guy (??) who makes a bunch of cool inventions, like a floor-sweeping machine that also happens to look like a monster, and a hat that plays a keyboard with only your eye movements.

Jerry makes a friend at school named Kim. She plays violin, but when he tells her about Dr. Shreek she gets real weird about it. Later she admits to him that she's heard some scary rumors about the school, of the "kids go in but they don't come out" variety. Jerry dismisses it at first, but there was that incident with a piece of Dr. Toggle's "broken equipment" crying "help me" from a cabinet so maybe he should pay attention to that.

Another run-in with the ghost confirms what Jerry was beginning to suspect: All the rumors about Dr. Shreek are true. But before she can clarify or give any further information, Jerry starts screaming and his parents come to see what's going on. He says he doesn't want to play piano anymore and demands they get rid of the instrument. They tell him he has to go to one more piano lesson and then he can quit after he tells Dr. Shreek in person.

Predictably, when he delivers this news, Dr. Shreek responds by trying to take Jerry's hands from him. As he flees, Jerry realizes that all of the practice rooms are full of disembodied hands floating over instruments. He bumps into Mr. Toggle, who at first appears to rescue him, but then reveals that he's the real mastermind here -- Dr. Shreek (and all of the other instructors) are animatronics! He's in the business of chopping hands off of students because (as any artist can attest) hands are too hard to make.

Fortunately, the ghost shows up at this moment to tell Jerry that she had tried to warn him. She was a student here, too, and used to live in his house, and she wanted to scare him away from playing piano so he would be spared. That didn't work at all so now she's taking direct action. She summons the ghosts that belong to all of those disembodied hands and they swarm Mr. Toggle, dragging him out into the woods never to be seen or heard from again.

Jerry gives up piano and picks up a new hobby: playing baseball. Everybody says he has wonderful hands...

Overthinking It: This one is on the shorter side, 124 pages, but feels repetitive. I think it would have been stronger and more frightening as a short story, maybe, because we can only see "Jerry hears a piano, yells about it, his parents don't believe him" so many times before we start to get bored of it. Also, the cover kind of gives everything away on this one, and if it didn't, you're going to catch on pretty quickly where this is headed the twentieth time Dr. Shreek makes a comment about Jerry's hands.

That said, this story did age well in some ways. The idea of a tech inventor who tries to create art without human flaws and intervention, but cannot make hands, is fucking hilarious in the era of gen-AI.

Once again we have a classic R.L. Stine maneuver: the real bad guy is a scientist and the ghost is benevolent. Mr. Toggle's end echoes the end of The Curse of the Mummy's Tomb, but it doesn't feel quite as well set-up. It's not really clear why the ghost (did she even get a name?) couldn't just tell Jerry what was going on. It's even less clear why she couldn't just go take care of Mr. Toggle on her own. Did he release her from the piano somehow? Maybe, but nobody ever says that.

I do think this book is like a sister book to The Girl Who Cried Monster -- its mirror image, in some ways. Where The Girl Who cried Monster was about a serial liar who gets an almost-certainly-innocent man killed, Piano Lessons Can Be Murder is about a kid who's repeatedly failed by the adults around him, who ignore the signs of danger and put him in the crosshairs of a predator. I try not to rag on Goosebumps parents too much, but these ones were pretty irritating.

If we'd seen Jerry pranking them more than once, it might have helped sell their attitude. But we only see the one joke, and don't really hear about this as an established pattern -- so his parents repeatedly refusing to believe him is frustrating. And then they see how distraught he is about his piano lessons, but still force him to go to them in person to stop, and leave him alone with the instructor? Ugh. Sure, he DID insist that piano wasn't the problem when he was having his "nightmares" about the ghost, so at least his parents did try to raise that possibility there, but still. If your kid starts having screaming night terrors after beginning private lessons with a strange old man, maybe you should stop leaving him alone with him? Just a thought.

Interesting bit of trivia: R.L. Stine originally wanted to write about a guitar, because his son was taking guitar lessons. But guitars aren't scary enough so he made it a piano. I don't know why but that's true. Pianos are scarier than guitars.

If You Liked This, THESE Will Really Give You Goosebumps:

If you didn't read them yet, go read those other Goosebumps books - The Girl Who Cried Monster and The Curse of the Mummy's Tomb for a compare-contrast with this one. It'll be a good time, I promise.

I haven't seen it, but Stine says this book was inspired in part by The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T, a 1953 film about a piano teacher who enslaves his students to play music forever (but it's OK because it's a dream). The film was written by Dr. Seuss (yes, that one). Wild, but ok.

For a similar-but-opposite take on piano-hands-horror, watch The Hands of Orlac, a 1924 silent film about a pianist who loses his hands in an accident and has them replaced with a murderer's, to tragic ends. Or, watch the 1960 remake of the film, or better yet, read the French novel by the same name that they were all inspired by.

If you enjoyed the Gothic vibes of this book and want another story where the scary ghost is actually a helpful harbinger warning against a human threat, try Guillermo Del Toro's Crimson Peak.

[absolutebl]

helloo...

i know i'm late, but i just binge watching Triage last night. i kinda love it that the mystery about the story revealed gradually. and the leads had nice chemistry, despite the low heat. and i enjoyed bingeing on it and pulling an all nighter.

so, i'd like to ask you, do you have any recommendations on bl series like Triage that are completed or ongoing, that the show would be enjoyable on binge watching?

it's super fine if you don't answer this.

thank youu and have a nice day.

10 BL Series to Binge Watch with Complex story elements

Okay, I'm not really a binger so these are my best guesses at keeping the tension alive. Also it seems like you want something on the meaty end in terms of length so only Thai and Taiwanese stuff qualified.

Case study: Triage (so obviously that would be on this list)

1 Until We Meet Again

YouTube

Without question, a work of narrative genius with a powerful and cohesive romantic backbone and stellar performances. It is (to date) the only Thai BL (of c.250 watched) that I’ve rated a 10/10 predominantly on the basis of story structure. That said it is also very well cast (and it’s a BIG cast), with solid production values, and enduring pair branding as well as being the best Thai BL from a storytelling perspective. I think the story is good enough to carry the tensions. I also binges this on my first watch (it was already out when I discovered it) so I can attest to it being bingable. More discussion on why I love it so much here.

2 He's Coming to Me

YouTube

Boy and ghost boy fall in love, must solve ghost’s murder. Peak pining but also pretty tame, features my favorite sweet but important coming out sequence. The third in my precious triumvirate of unbeatable Thai BLs, that are only nominally BL because the story, acting, and production values are so good. (Together with UWMA & 1k*).

3 Not Me

YouTube

GMMTV gave us a dark disestablishment narrative (in a time of civil unrest) with established queer award-winning director Anucha and starring the biggest guns of BL, OffGun and THIS WAS AN AMAZING THING to get to experience at the time - nerve racking but remarkable. But was it ACTUALLY BL? It certainly has a lot of BL elements, but in the end romance was not what this show was about, or even what it was genuinely trying to be as a performance piece. Still a remarkable moment in Thai cinema, certainly worth your time. Don’t worry, it all ends happily. Full review.

4 I Feel You Linger in the Air

grey (YouTube for some)

I truly loved this time travel romance BUT for the ending it would have gotten a 10/10 from me. IFYLITA is an exquisite BL, from filming techniques to narrative framework (much like Until We Meet Again). Steeped in history and family drama it edges into lakorn (but no as much as To Sir With Love and with way less scenery chewing). This is an elegant and classy BL… from Thailand which normally doesn't even try for classy. If HEA's are NOT important to you, you'll be fine, but I struggled. More here.

5 Kiseki: Dear to Me

Gaga & Viki Y

The plot is totally ridiculous and slightly unhinged, but that’s normal for Taiwan. It involves all the tropes under a very casual framework of gay mafia gangs + food = love. Absolutely every character is queer. There’s a gum-ball machine of cameos, elder gay rep, great chemistry from all pairs, and a KILLER side couple. As a result Kiseki is a poster child for Taiwanese BL, and I happen to love Taiwanese BL. Bonus? They also managed to END IT WELL, which we cannot expect from Taiwan. (Triggers for knife play, child abuse, lingering trauma.)

6 Make a Wish

grey (Trailer)

(from Sammon - Manner of Death & Triage) about a doctor who can see the dead and strikes a bargain with a wish-granting irreverent tree angel to try and cure himself - naturally they fall in love. Stars Fluke Natouch opposite not Ohm, but who cares bc Fluke has chemistry with everybody. Once again the Thai afterlife is incredibly bureaucratic but I enjoyed the premise and the unfolding of the story (it’s not predictable but still satisfying and with nice little twist). I like that the doctor is just gay af and has a fag hag bestie and everything. The cast is excellent but the comedic stylings are often too overblown and tonally off. It had sad parts and did make me cry but is ultimately happy with a great sex scene, good smiley kisses, and all the agency.

7 HIStory 3: Trapped

Viki

Basically the definition of enemies to lovers from Lin Pei Yu. This is a cop + the mafia man he is chasing but WAIT, they fall in love. Added bonus side couple: assassin and nerd cop ALSO falling in love. It’s great. All the leads are stellar. Its high heat, fun action, and a bit of a mystery drama but pretty about all of it. My only warning is that the main couple doesn’t entirely end up together, it’s implied, but… amorphous ending.

8 Never Let Me Go

YouTube

Bodyguard romance where poor boy must watch over rich boy for family obligation reasons. Simple premise well executed with a few bumps that made it feel like it was trying to tackle too much (when it wasn’t). Still, an enjoyable show that benefited from being handed to PondPhuwin who did a stellar job with their roles and chemistry. Of GMMTV handing out new series to established pairs in 2023 this is one of the most successful IMHO. It's typically Thai in that it's a bit bloated and has a confusing plot, but at least it HAD a plot and the central relationship is solid and loyal. The Our Skyy 2 follow up is great too. And very much adds to the cannon in a fun way rather than feeling superfluous - making this show ultimately 14 eps rather than 12.

9 The Eclipse

YouTube

GMMTV does gay Blacklist with a good boy/bad boy pairing. This is a good show but the cast is excellent and the leads are absolutely flawless, which elevates it beyond just "a good show." We got a nuanced and multifaceted burgeoning relationship: philosophical (and socio-political) conflict contrasted to moments of empathy; flirtation contrasted to moments of genuine affection, plus plenty of angst. This narrative is less about love than it is about courage and tenderness. However, near the end the pacing was off and the plot frustrating. Still, this is an enjoyable watch, with a finale that features verbal consent and a fun blooper reel.

10 Ghost Host Ghost House

YouTube

This is light horror combined with family drama built around a well executed BL trough-line that felt honestly queer with fantastic chemistry from the lead pair. (I hope that we see more of them.) Pluem delivers the softest most seductive krap ever, Tod Techit (Kewin) is one of the prettiest humans on the planet, and watching these boys flirt over noodles is an unalloyed pleasure. Use of I/you pronouns is super interesting and cute as well. For me, personally, the surrounding cast, premise, and story didn’t resonate but if you like a touch of gothic in your BL this might appeal.

BONUS!

3 Will Be Free

YouTube

Queer AF crime thriller about three 20 somethings on the run after accidentally killing an assassin: a grifter, a nerdy mafia kid, and a stripper. They're chased by more assassins out for revenge.

It’s actually a remarkable piece of storytelling, using a pressure cooker of tension and suspense to bring about investigations into what love, romance, friendship, and identity actually mean. This show probably doesn’t qualify as BL but it does qualify as very very queer.

What it does well is examine many different aspects of queer identity, morality, and life choices based on repression and or acceptance of that identity using the framework of a crime triller.

It’s an adventure narrative, our three main characters are on the run together, being chased by assassins who are themselves dealing with the grief that results from love, all kinds of love. Meanwhile the 3 protagonists fall in love with each other and explore the boundaries and meaning of friendship/love.

Manner of Death

WeTV

Gay romantic suspense series with added cactus baby. Doctor & Mafia boy can't keep hands off each other, so also end up with chili plant baby.

Am I making sense? No? Well neither does it, but ho boy is it fun to watch MaxTul do... whatever it is they're doing.

I like MoD a lot but I’m conflicted over it being actual BL. It’s a great gay romantic suspense, although the mystery element is its primary weakness.

MaxTul, the Kings of Chemistry, are, of course, perfect and perfectly cast (and chemically unfair), but their romance thread is more a distraction than an addition. Still, I could watch them make-out the phonebook. Watch along here.

(source)

[anchor-ice]

ok since the overall response was positive i'm gonna tell you a bit about this project!

this is a series of jokey mini-comics detailing the (after) lives of a band of ghosts who are stuck in an abandoned summer camp near omsk location pending in 2005. this is basically bbc ghosts but russian and with more gore.

katya is the only one who's alive! she's 15 and started seing ghosts after her shitty boyfriend crashed his bike with her in the back seat. she's trying to help the ghosts mediate their relationships with eachother and the world, and they're helping her with homework (sometimes) or being general nuisances (more often).

the pilot died in 1944 when his plane crashed while he was test-flying it. he was wounded in the frontlines and sent home to recover, but decided to help out in the poiloting school in the meantime. the guy on whose watch the plane crashed was shot for sabotage afterwards, and his ghost in turn is pretty resentful about that, because it was just the lack of funds and old equipment going out. plot: katya helping them meet and make peace with eachothers deaths. the pilot had a daughter himself and thus is feeling very paternal towards katya. most organised and helpful of the ghosts. died with one broken cigarette whick they all now share and an officers notepad with his papers and maps, where he sketches from time to time (it all disappears after he stops concentrating 😔) has ideological beef with the suit and ex-beef with the sailor (they are besties now).

the sailor died in 1921 during the kronstadt rebellion and was very surprised when he woke up near omsk. he had a precious cigar case that was lost a year before his death, and in the chaos of th civil war found itself in a magpie's nest in the woods near omsk. his soul is tied to this case, and he spends a lot of time trying to get to the case and taunting the magpie family (unsuccessfully). has a tin of cocaine, 4 machine gun belts, no machine gun and an attitude. loves asking katya to marry him and run away to saint-petersburg together. plot: katya finally getting him his cig case back. obsessed with space and in love with yuri gagarin, wants to find and meet his ghost

the suit died in 1997 during a buisness deal gone wrong, shot and buried on the abandoned camp territory, is still a bit pissed about that. is disgusted by the starry-eyed belief in the happines of all mankind the pilot and the sailor exibit and in general is tormented by the fact tht he will have to spend his afterlife in a summer camp surrounded by these people. loves to come harass the monk living in the lake nearby to get some sort of ideological closure and figure out how afterlife works. plot: getting katya the money to move to another sity when she goes to uni

the bomber died in 1896. tried to sicide bomb a govt official but was discovered and sentenced to death, later pardoned bc of Nicholas 2 acending to the throne, sentence switched to siberian exile for 25 years with no rights to return. killed herself out of boredom and despair. gets along well with the sailor (he is slightly intimidated by her), would really like to talk to the monk but he doesn't answer to anyone. plot: idk so far 😔

the bear victims - a lego of bear victim parts. that's it. a comedic side character.

the monk died alone on an island in the lake in ????, the island was later blown up to increase the water capacity flowing from the lake to a water reservoir. doesn't talk to any of the other characters bc of his seraphimic schema and vow of silence & solitude. slowly warming to the idea of breaking his vow and trying to help the other ghosts move on, because if god's not letting him go, that must be for a reason, right? plot: speaking to katya