#I HAD NOTHING ELSE TO WRITE

[thedreadvampy]

Losing my shit about this article in which a transphobic Tory was so busy panicking about existing in the vicinity of a Trans that she almost certainly misheard "jeans" as "penis" and decided that not only was this a problem with the other woman, but also that the world must be informed of this pressing danger.

"a trans woman! I had to stand directly behind her....I thought, 'this is going well', I'm handling The Situation fine'..."

translated: I saw a tall woman with broad shoulders. How would I get out of this alive? I thought. she has a PENIS. PENIS PENIS PENIS. through some force of PENIS I mean will I managed to PENIS behave normally towards her. My hands were PENIS PENIS PENIS shaking as I tried to dry them. summoning up all my PENIS courage I said 'dryer's crap innit'. she turned to me and said " yeah I'm just goiPENIS PENIS PENIS"

It's been a week and I'm still shaking. This proves trans women are the problem and I'm not weird. I'm fine. It's fine. If you think about it I'm the hero hePENIS!!!!!

very this

[bean-winchester]

Wait I’m sorry can we talk about how the Loustat reunion in 2x08 is the FIRST TIME we as the audience meet Lestat unfiltered??? Not Louis’ narrative of Lestat, not Armand’s, not a hallucination, but the genuine article, for the first time??? And he’s so sad, so vulnerable, so… human? You can feel how different he is— Sam plays him like a new Lestat, like how he conceived of Dreamstat and Armand’s Lestat as different Lestats from s1 Lestat— and the first impression you get from this is that time and grief have changed Lestat. But what if the difference is more than that— what if these have always been elements of Lestat, flattened by Louis’ memory?

Watching that scene, the revelation of caring, grieving, tender Lestat rippled back through the show for me, subtler but more powerful than the San Francisco revelations or the revisions from the trial. Because it’s true, isn’t it, that it’s so much easier to make monsters of the people who hurt us, to remember them as powerful, intentional, and fundamentally uncaring? The truth is much harder to bear— that those who maim and abuse us feel as deeply as we do, that they love and grieve and doubt, that they cry and shake and cling to us, just as small before the hurricane as we are

[desceros]

headcanon: donnie is very finicky about his appearance actually

he pays attention to his clothes. how they fall on him. how the patterns match. if they catch his eye pleasingly or if they clash and he needs to change them. he cares a lot about fashion, but not in a Pays Attention To What's Popular way; he cares in a I Have My Style And I Will Adhere To It Under The Penalty Of Death way. i think about the way he makes a logo for his tech when he's a kid. it's trademarked he says of his brand. he cares about how things look. how his name is attached to things. appearances matter.

(it's common in the animal kingdom too, he consoles himself, looking into the mirror and tugging at his new shirt before going to see you. birds. fish. it's just biology. so he's interested. it's fine. natural. not extra at all. he just wants to look good. put on a good show. convince your eyes to land on him.)

this translates over when he starts courting you hard. plucking at your outfits and complimenting your choices. giving you suggestions when he comes into your room and his eyes finally slide off where you're lounging and into your closet. he asks if he can take a look inside. opens it up, thumbs through, muttering to himself. he'll pull together things you never thought to put together, and huh. that looks. really really good actually. thanks, donnie. giving him a sparkling smile that makes him look away because it's too bright to look into directly.

it starts then. before you're dating, when you're just... something. a question mark. a potential. you see him while you're walking down the street. he's looking into the glass storefronts, but the items inside don't seem to make any cogent sense or slide into one particular category. shoes. technology. dresses. flower arrangements. the items all over the place, not anything you can use to try and guess what he may want to his birthday coming up, which is annoying since you kinda want to spoil him a little.

(it's not until years later, seeing it again, curled beneath a possessive arm at a crosswalk, that you ask what that's all about. only then that he tells you he is admiring how the two of you look next to each other: fashionable, complimentary, coordinated;

fitting together just. right.)

[wonder-worker]

Thinking about Elizabeth Woodville as a gothic heroine is making me go insane. She entered the story by overturning existing social structures, provoking both ire and fascination. She married into a dynasty doomed to eat itself alive. She was repeatedly associated with the supernatural, both in terms of love and death. Her life was shaped entirely by uncanny repetitions - two marriages, two widowhoods, two depositions, two flights to sanctuary, two ultimate reclamations, all paralleling and ricocheting off each other. Her plight after 1483 exposed the true rot at the heart of the monarchy - the trappings of royalty pulled away to reveal nothing, a never-ending cycle of betrayal and war, the price of power being the (literal) blood of children. She lived past the end of her family name, she lived past the end of her myth. She ended her life in a deeply anomalous position, half-in and half-out of royal society. She was both a haunting tragedy and the ultimate survivor who was finally free.

[soupmanspeaks]

Michael Ao3 author AU walk with me here

"hey guys sorry I havent posted much on the Immortal and the Restless fic, I had to do this one errand my father sent me on, its actually a funny story; my dead sister actually possesed this big robot clown that killed her, and I had to like, put her scattered parts back together again, it was a whole thing, but yeah, her murder AI kind of just took over and she tricked me into being a meat suit, so that kind of sucked, and im actually organless atm, so sorry for slower updates, but it is what it is yk"

And then wayyyy later "heyyyyy what's up superstars, sorry for the long hiatus, my soul got put into a robot bear, but that's all taken care of, so chapter 27 soon :3"

[micamicster]

Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

~

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

~

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

[shalpilot]

a notepad that slowly got turned into a journal

[dirtytransmasc]

Modern Aocorro high school au: what if Spider was a harpist in his high school orchestra and Ao'nung was down bad about it.

Spider was already your classic high school heart throb. He was popular, buff, handsome, a little rough around the edges, yet still a total sweetheart.

For Eywa's sake, he carpooled his siblings to school or rode his skateboard to school, volunteered around town 24/7, used reusable straws, he'd hand his pocket change to anyone in need, and was known for getting into fights with bullies in the parking lot.

Not to mention that he had the prettiest golden curls and brown eyes anyone had ever seen (at least in Ao'nung's opinion).

So to say Ao'nung was crushing, hard, was probably the understatement of the century, and could you even blame him? The guy was perfect, an angel, and it was driving him insane.

He'd catch himself staring during gym practice, marveling at his muscles, cheeks flushing, or in the locker room when he took his shirt off to change, his heart pounding away in his chest.

he thought he couldn't be even more down bad for that boy than he already was, his confident personality rendered null and void when he was around, his tongue caught in the back of his throat, unable to do so much as squeak at him… until the day he caught him in the orchestra room, practicing.

Now, he had heard Spider was in orchestra and had even seen him rolling around some large black case around the school before, but he'd never actually caught what he played.

But walking past that half-opened door was how he found out the love of his life wasn't only a sweet handsome hunk of a guy, but he played the harp, the instrument of an angel.

The sheer audacity of this boy was getting out of hand, he swore to Eywa, he was gonna kill him one of these days with his impossibly hot antics.

He stands and watches as Spider presses up against his harp, eyes focused on his sheet music, hair tied up in a messy bun but a single golden curl hangs he keeps blowing out of his face, and his fingers strum along the strings, working the muscles throughout his hands and arms.

The sound of gentle music flowed from the gap in the door, and it sounded just as pretty as Spider looked, soft and sweet, but still robust, still full of base and bravado. It was so fitting.

Watching Spider's face quirk with focus and frustration and pride as he worked through the song made the other's heart swoon, he swore it must be palpating or maybe skipping beats. He just knows it wasn't beating right, especially as he rubs his hand over his chest and feels how heavy it beats against his ribs.

And thats when Spider just so happens to turn to see who was gawking at him from the hallway, and instead of telling him to stop staring or throwing a pissed-off glance like Ao'nung is sure most other's would do if they caught someone staring like he had been, Spider just smiled.

"Like what you hear?" he quipped, leaning forward to turn the page of his music binder.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, you're... amazing," he choked out an answer, coughing into his fist to try and cover up the stammer in his voice and the blush on his cheeks.

"You flatter me," he replied, sitting back and looking Ao'nung right in the eye before he looked away with an even brighter smile, and it was like his skin was set on fire by just that single glance. "Are you gonna come in or are you gonna keep standing out their like some weirdo?"

"Oh, I-I wouldn't want to bother, I was j-just passing by,"

"It's free period, it's why I'm in here all by my lonesome," he puts on a fake pout and bats his lashes in his direction for show, "keep my company yeah? I'm sure you've got nothing to do if you've already spent so much time staring."

He moved his bag off the chair next to him before patting it.

"Sit," his tone was warm and inviting and his eyes were soft and almost pleading, so he did, with a deep breath, he sat next to the other boy.

He managed to be even prettier up close, and Ao'nung had to tear his eyes away so he didn't make a fool of himself. He decided to turn his attention to the harp. It was beautiful, made of a soft, warm-toned wood, intricately carved and painted with the image of flowers he couldn't name off the top of his head.

"She's a beauty isn't she?" Spider asked

he only nodded at first, before feeling the urge to touch, his hand moving before he could think better of it, but he managed to stop himself before he made contact with he wood.

"Can I?" he asked, quite pitifully, finally making his own eye contact with the blonde. Eywa save him, he was too pretty, it was unfair. He felt butterflies tickling his stomach and his head getting fuzzy. Why didn't he run when he had the chance?

"Go ahead," he answered with a huff of laughter.

He tried to steady himself as he stroked a hand down the curved wood that he saw resting against Spider's chest earlier when he was playing, feeling the warmth from the other boy's skin still clinging to the wood.

His fingers sought out the strings Spider's rested on moments ago, the metal threading bit into his flesh ever so slightly when he ran his fingers down them.

"I catch you staring all the time y'know, you're not very good at hiding it."

Ao'nung feels his heart drop through the floor and into the stone-cold basement beneath them. Fuck. He fucked up, he fucked up so bad, Spider must think he's a freak-

"It's cute."

"What?" he didn't mean to ask that out loud, but when he did, he said it far too loud.

Spider just laughs at him, gently and without malice, his eyes crinkling into almost nothing, his cheeks going a little red, his nose scrunching a little. Ao'nung feels his heart swell.

"Oh, it's never subtle, especially since you turn bright red, and the second you realize I'm looking back, you turn tail and run away like you have the devil on your heels," he pauses to wipe the tears from his eyes, "It's just cute, adorable even. I kinda like having a not so secret admirer."

"You don't think I'm some total freak?"

"Nah dude.... who's to say I'm not staring back?" he said nonchalantly.

Ao'nung was sure his brain was melting, cause he just found out his crush might like him back? Potentially. And that was just simply mind-boggling, cause, he wasn't gonna sell himself short, but he never thought he could be on Spider's radar.

They hung out with different people, and he used to be an ass to his siblings before he transferred to be here, and sure he apologized and made up with them, he always seemed to hold a bit of a grudge.

"You are?" he had to ask.

"Mmmmmm, maybe a little," he replied with a cheeky grin plastered on his face. "I will admit, at first it was because I was trying to make sure you weren't being an ass, but, things might be changing."

Ao'nung nodded to himself, clearing his throat, trying to decipher what that could even mean. Was Spider saying he was starting to like him too? did he have a shot with him?

"Listen, the bells about to ring, so why don't I give you this," he pulled a pen from the spine of his binder, tearing the corner off of one of his sheet music, which felt oddly intimate, and wrote something down on it, before handing it to him.

It was his number. Spider just gave him his number.

"Text me? we can start gettign to actually know each other, and maybe you could start joining me in here during free period, I could give you some lessons on the harp if you'd like?" now Spider sounded a little sheepish.

Which somehow made Ao'nung feel a bit more confident, so for the first time in seemingly forever, he answered Spider with some level of confidence.

"Yeah, I'd like that, I'd like that a lot."

"Good, good, I'd like that too."

They were both smiling now. The bell rang. They both hesitated to break eye contact.

"I'll text you, promise." Eywa, he was making promises. Already. He really was a hopeless sap. But it felt right when Spider huffed a laugh at it, a hand coming up to cover his smile a little. He was flattered.

"You better, stalker," Spider laughed, finally starting to pack up his stuff.

"Rude," he faked a gasped, lingering in the door, knowing he had to get to class, and he needed to let Spider pack up so he wouldn't be late himself, but wanting to let the moment last just a little longer.

"I think staring is rude, but I think I'll give you a pass, so long as you stop running away when I catch you, deal?"

"Deal."

"And you have to meet me here tomorrow."

"I will, it's a date," the words slipped out of his mouth without thinking about how it could be interpreted, "oh, not like-"

"It's a date" Spider repeated.

Ao'nung found he could only nod. It's a date. Even if it wasn't like that, it was still nice to think about. a date with an angel.

"Now go, before you're late, wouldn't want you to get in any trouble." Spider crossed his arms and jutted out his hip like he was some disappointed mom or something.

"Right, bye Spider."

He waved goodbye. It was corny and childish, but he waved. Spider waved back. He had his number clutched tightly in his other palm. Spider had his phone clutched in his hands as if he couldn't wait for the message to come any longer.

"Bye Stalker."

He has a feeling he's gonna have to get used to that nickname, but as he rounds the corner, his chest still feeling warm and full of butterflies, he doesn't think he minds all that much.

[atopvisenyashill]

Bran The Time Traveling Toddler

Yes that IS a reference to the Tyrion the time traveling fetus theory. The thing about MY insane theories is that they actually make sense and I’m right. Follow me please down the worm hole!!

There’s very clearly Someone Influencing things when it comes to the Starklings and even the overreaching plot in general - there’s enough weird magic surrounding them, whispering in the wind, that it’s a no brainer they’re being watched over. The question is WHO and WHEN. For me, personally, I think it’s Bran, and I think it’s an older Bran from the future (whether it be Bran In TWOW and ADOS or Bran post canon) trying to lead his siblings to safety.

Now, like my Harrenhal meta, I don’t think I’m saying anything new so much as compiling what people have said scattered across the interwebs. There’s a lot of theories about whether Bran can time travel, time travel in general in the series, how george has dealt with time travel before, and about the three eyed crow’s identity and I agree with bits and pieces of what other people have said - preston jacobs is a more famous example of this theory for example. But I don't want to get caught up on things like time travel paradoxes because, like, i don’t care about that, and george has talked about how time travel is more fantasy than scifi bc it’s just not really scientifically possible. do you know what that means? it means there’s no weird physical paradoxes because it’s ✨magic✨ and Bran isn't literally going through space and time. It's as Jojen says-

With two eyes you see my face. With three you could see my heart. With two you can see that oak tree there. With three you could see the acorn the oak grew from and the stump that it will one day become. With two you see no farther than your walls. With three you would gaze south to the Summer Sea and north beyond the Wall

Through his greenseeing abilities, Bran can see the whole of a lifespan, from conception to burial, and can pop out at any point in that lifespan, because a span of 100, 1000, or 1,000,000 years is all the same to the weirwood. So I don't think it's in the realm of Crazy Ass Theories to say that Bran is capable of a more magic based form of time travel. That he can whisper in people's dreams, on the wind, taking on the voice of the old gods themselves and doing his best to nudge things the way he needs them to be in order to keep the people he loves safe.

I also don't think Bloodraven is Three Eyed Crow (though I do think he also uses this metaphor of "flying" wrt magic, and that's why Euron also has a comment about flying in his dreams - I just don't believe that metaphor originates with Brynden himself. Rather, I think he picked it up from somewhere else), but instead, it's Bran, using the weirwood network to get all the pieces on the board he needs where he needs them to be for the endgame. Notice that Brynden doesn't seem to know what Bran is talking about when he mentions the Three Eyed Crow-

"Are you the three-eyed crow?" Bran heard himself say. A three-eyed crow should have three eyes. He has only one, and that one red. Bran could feel the eye staring at him, shining like a pool of blood in the torchlight. Where his other eye should have been, a thin white root grew from an empty socket, down his cheek, and into his neck. "A … crow?" The pale lord's voice was dry. His lips moved slowly, as if they had forgotten how to form words. "Once, aye. Black of garb and black of blood." 

Brynden mentions the watch, but doesn't mention the three eyed crow. Everyone simply refers to Brynden as the greenseer, not the three eyed crow, except for Bran himself, who simply assumes Brynden is the three eyed crow (and we know magical assumptions in this series are generally wrong!).

What’s double interesting to me about this “bloodraven is the three eyed crow” assumption is brynden himself makes his “a thousand eyes and one” comment - but doesn’t mention a third eye. Meanwhile, Bran’s narrative is obviously filled with bird references and the opening of his third eye from Bran feeding the crows on the towers before he falls then longing to go back to the crows afterwards, of a crow sending Jojen to “the winged wolf,” of his dreams of living as a bird in maester luwin’s rookery with his siblings - Jon Snow even compares him to a bird in their final scene face to face when he thinks bran has “fingers like the bones of birds.”

And notable that though both Rickon and Bran have a greendream where they talk to Ned in the crypts of Winterfell just before Ned is executed, Rickon makes no mention of a three eyed crow, but Bran explicitly sees him-

The mention of dreams reminded him. "I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad."

"Shaggy," a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father's tomb. With one final snap at Summer's face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon's side. "You let my father be," Rickon warned Luwin. "You let him be." "Rickon," Bran said softly. "Father's not here." "Yes he is. I saw him." Tears glistened on Rickon's face. "I saw him last night."

What that says to me is that the Three Eyed Crow has the ability to speak directly to only Bran and can only otherwise appear in a more ephemeral way to others. With the established rules about not being able to communicate properly with the past, I think this makes sense - being able to use the weirwood hivemind/greenseeing powers to appear in a different form to yourself but unable to appear in a concrete form to anyone else.

I think it's even likely we'll see Bran doing some of this nudging and whispering on page in ADOS or maybe as early as TWOW, but it won't be the exact same sort of "Bran can literally reach out and touch someone in a weirwood dream" that they had in the show with the later scenes. It'll be more like that very first scene in the show where we see Bran influence the past slightly - you know, when he calls out "father!" and young Ned turns around, having heard a voice on the wind-

And there's a direct parallel to ADWD here, where Bran is certain Ned heard him speaking in the godswood but Brynden says it's not possible (not possible for Brynden perhaps!)-

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man's gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard's lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth. "Winterfell," Bran whispered. His father looked up. "Who's there?" he asked, turning … … and Bran, frightened, pulled away. His father and the black pool and the godswood faded and were gone and he was back in the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling his limbs as a mother does a child.

It's not quite time travel. It's like the acorn and stump metaphor - Bran can't appear in his physical body in the past but he can make a bit of noise, perhaps even be mistaken for one of the old gods.

As TWOW and ADOS go on, I think we'll see Bran's powers grow (likely in ways that frighten him and horrify the reader), and we'll see the very beginnings of him influencing the plot that happens during the previous books, showing up in scenes we've already experienced, similar to the Ned scene above. I think this because, well...he's already done it!

Now, as for What Time Traveling Bran Has Already Done - it’s tricky because we have a LOT of magic users waking and shaking. I’m not including every single instance of weird whispering or funny birds here, just the moments I think are more likely to be Bran than anyone else because I think Bran mostly deals with his siblings. I imagine they're easiest to reach out to magically because they already have the ability to access magic, and they're also the people he cares most about. The most obvious to me is in A Clash of Kings, when Jon hears a voice on the wind, very similar to the young Ned scene in the show-

Jon VII in A Clash of Kings

The call came from behind him, softer than a whisper, but strong too. Can a shout be silent? He turned his head, searching for his brother, for a glimpse of a lean grey shape moving beneath the trees, but there was nothing, only … A weirwood. It seemed to sprout from solid rock, its pale roots twisting up from a myriad of fissures and hairline cracks. The tree was slender compared to other weirwoods he had seen, no more than a sapling, yet it was growing as he watched, its limbs thickening as they reached for the sky. Wary, he circled the smooth white trunk until he came to the face. Red eyes looked at him. Fierce eyes they were, yet glad to see him. The weirwood had his brother’s face. Had his brother always had three eyes?

Not always, came the silent shout. Not before the crow. He sniffed at the bark, smelled wolf and tree and boy, but behind that there were other scents, the rich brown smell of warm earth and the hard grey smell of stone and something else, something terrible. Death, he knew. He was smelling death. He cringed back, his hair bristling, and bared his fangs.

Don’t be afraid, I like it in the dark. No one can see you, but you can see them. But first you have to open your eyes. See? Like this. And the tree reached down and touched him.

This moment was when I really started paying attention to Weird Shit Bran Might Be Doing because of that line "not before the crow." Now, we know Bran mentions talking with Jon later on, in the very last chapter of the book, here-

 He could reach Summer whenever he wanted, and once he had even touched Ghost and talked to Jon. Though maybe he had only dreamed that.

But I think it's both Bran in the present and Bran in ADOS speaking here - brothers reaching out to each other in their fear, and future Bran piggybacking off that connection to send a warning (this is back in Jon VII, during the shared Jon-Bran dream as before)-

Then he realized he was looking at a river of ice several thousand feet high. Under that glittering cold cliff was a great lake, its deep cobalt waters reflecting the snowcapped peaks that ringed it. There were men down in the valley, he saw now; many men, thousands, a huge host. Some were tearing great holes in the half-frozen ground, while others trained for war...This is no army, no more than it is a town. This is a whole people come together.

Bran warns Jon of the wildling army headed their way because he needs the Night’s Watch to stop fighting the wildlings, get them safely out of the True North (so they can’t be reanimated as wights), and focus on the Long Night. When you read the passage, it seems as if Bran is trying to awaken Jon’s third eye - something present baby Bran isn’t concerned with, because he barely understands his own third eye awakening. But a Bran in ADOS or beyond would know exactly what to say and do to get Jon and himself to wake up! Not just because of the paradox, but because of his connection to his brother and his vast understanding of his own magic. Similar to the idea that “who would know how to motivate Bran better than Bran himself” who would know how to motivate Jon better than one of his beloved siblings?

Arya X in A Clash of Kings

In the godswood she found her broomstick sword where she had left it, and carried it to the heart tree. There she knelt. Red leaves rustled. Red eyes peered inside her. The eyes of the gods. "Tell me what to do, you gods," she prayed.

For a long moment there was no sound but the wind and the water and the creak of leaf and limb. And then, far far off, beyond the godswood and the haunted towers and the immense stone walls of Harrenhal, from somewhere out in the world, came the long lonely howl of a wolf. Gooseprickles rose on Arya's skin, and for an instant she felt dizzy. Then, so faintly, it seemed as if she heard her father's voice. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," he said.

“But there is no pack," she whispered to the weirwood. Bran and Rickon were dead, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. "I'm not even me now, I'm Nan."

"You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in you."

"The wolf blood." Arya remembered now. "I'll be as strong as Robb. I said I would." She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought it down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth.

Once again, we have a voice - it seemed as if it was her father's voice - telling a Starkling to do something specific, reminding that Starkling of their ties to Winterfell, the north, and home. The voice she hears, speaking her true name, is the kick in the pants Arya needs to grab Gendry and Hot Pie and get out of Harrenhal. There's something interesting, engaging, heartbreaking, that when Arya is at one of her lowest points, lamenting the loss of her pack, and out comes the voice of one of her pack urging her to keep faith, and helping to inspire one of her best moments - I am a direwolf, and done with wooden teeth. Again, we have a voice trying to get the Starklings to wake up and face their reality!

Sansa in A Storm of Swords

That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King. She dreamt of Joffrey dying, but as he clawed at his throat and the blood ran down across his fingers she saw with horror that it was her brother Robb. And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion's eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. "I'll have a song from you," he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said.

To be clear I think there’s a large change this is nothing. BUT. Considering Bran seems to be reaching out to his siblings, I like the idea that Bran, and magic in general, is trying to talk to Sansa but she can’t quite hear it. Winterfell and it’s magic and it’s family is calling it’s daughter home, even torn from her magical guide as she is, still trying to reach out through her dreams and through the animals around her. I’m desperately hoping that at some point in Sansa’s early TWOW chapters, we’ll start to see birds acting and speaking funny around her as Bran tries harder to reach his lost sister.

Theon Greyjoy in A Dance With Dragons

BUT. I don't think it's just the Starklings that get these messages from Bran - it's everyone he cares about, everyone he loves or will love. One of the other more obvious examples of this is Theon Greyjoy, himself clearly capable of some degree of magic, just like the Starklings-

The night was windless, the snow drifting straight down out of a cold black sky, yet the leaves of the heart tree were rustling his name. “Theon,” they seemed to whisper, “Theon.” The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. “Please.” He fell to his knees. “A sword, that’s all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek.” Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. “I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands.” A leaf drifted down from above, brushed his brow, and landed in the pool. It floated on the water, red, five-fingered, like a bloody hand. “… Bran,” the tree murmured. They know. The gods know. They saw what I did. And for one strange moment it seemed as if it were Bran’s face carved into the pale trunk of the weirwood, staring down at him with eyes red and wise and sad. Bran’s ghost, he thought, but that was madness. Why should Bran want to haunt him? He had been fond of the boy, had never done him any harm. It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller’s sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water.

“he had been fond of the boy” please allow me this moment to contemplate killing myself thanks.

okay back on track but this is very self explanatory - we know Theon has some sort of capacity for magic because he had a vision of the Red Wedding in ACOK and unlike Jaime who just fell asleep on a weirweed tree, Theon was just up in bed. We see it again here, where Theon can hear a voice on the wind and then seems to see Bran’s own face in the face of the weirwood tree. Once again, the voice on the wind is trying to help a loved one of Bran’s find their way back to themselves, back to home. And Theon, for all the harm he has done, is still so so loved by Bran, and loves Bran in return.

Samwell Tarly III in A Storm of Swords

Sam made a whimpery sound. “It’s not fair …” “Fair.” The raven landed on his shoulder. “Fair, far, fear.” It flapped its wings, and screamed along with Gilly. The wights were almost on her. He heard the dark red leaves of the weirwood rustling, whispering to one another in a tongue he did not know. The starlight itself seemed to stir, and all around them the trees groaned and creaked. Sam Tarly turned the color of curdled milk, and his eyes went wide as plates. Ravens! They were in the weirwood, hundreds of them, thousands, perched on the bone-white branches, peering between the leaves. He saw their beaks open as they screamed, saw them spread their black wings. Shrieking, flapping, they descended on the wights in angry clouds. They swarmed round Chett’s face and pecked at his blue eyes, they covered the Sisterman like flies, they plucked gobbets from inside Hake’s shattered head. There were so many that when Sam looked up, he could not see the moon. “Go,” said the bird on his shoulder. “Go, go, go.”

Whoever this is - it's Bran!!!! - helps to save Sam and Gilly's lives, actively tells them to run for it, and just a little bit later, Sam is around to help save Bran in turn. I think there's also something to be said for the brotherhood connection here. They refer to each other as brothers in the book because of their connection to Jon; that connection to Jon, and therefore each other, means a lot to both Sam and Bran. There's a practical reason for saving Sam here in that he can help Bran in the "present" timeline, will likely help in the future, but more than that there's an emotional bond here and it seems to me that magic runs off emotions just as assuredly as it runs off of other important stuff like blood and and sacrifice and weirwoods.

Jon Snow XII in A Storm of Swords

With a raucous scream and a clap of wings, a huge raven burst out of the kettle. It flapped upward, seeking the rafters perhaps, or a window to make its escape, but there were no rafters in the vault, nor windows either. The raven was trapped. Cawing loudly, it circled the hall, once, twice, three times. And Jon heard Samwell Tarly shout, “I know that bird! That’s Lord Mormont’s raven!” The raven landed on the table nearest Jon. “Snow,” it cawed. It was an old bird, dirty and bedraggled. “Snow,” it said again, “Snow, snow, snow.” It walked to the end of the table, spread its wings again, and flew to Jon’s shoulder. Lord Janos Slynt sat down so heavily he made a thump, but Ser Alliser filled the vault with mocking laughter. “Ser Piggy thinks we’re all fools, brothers,” he said. “He’s taught the bird this little trick. They all say snow, go up to the rookery and hear for yourselves. Mormont’s bird had more words than that.” The raven cocked its head and looked at Jon. “Corn?” it said hopefully. When it got neither corn nor answer, it quorked and muttered, “Kettle? Kettle? Kettle?” The rest was arrowheads, a torrent of arrowheads, a flood of arrowheads, arrowheads enough to drown the last few stones and shells, and all the copper pennies too.

The Night's Watch seem to take this as some sort of divine sign, and Jon's friends take it as an excellent ploy from Samwell Tarly. But when Pyp confronts Sam over it a page later, Sam completely denies it -

“I had nothing to do with the bird,” Sam insisted. “When it flew out of the kettle I almost wet myself.”

Everyone has their theories about people warging Mormont's crow of course. I think what's interesting to me here is that Jon is really wrestling with the idea of leaving the Watch for Winterfell, in which case Janos Slynt was likely to take over command. Someone like Slynt being in charge when the Long Night is coming is a bad idea, and here, Mormont's bird directly contributes to Jon staying where he needs to be - watching over the wildlings and making sure they aren't turning into Wights.

(And this is getting into my other theories here, but IF Sansa as the Girl In Grey is true, I think this is a neat sort of timeline fixing - almost as if Bran is saying “no, not yet, the pieces aren’t aligned, Jon can’t leave yet, Brienne isn’t at the Vale to get Sansa, I haven’t trained enough, Jon still keeps slapping his hands over his third eye so he can’t see, I need to give myself more time here.”)

Bran II in A Game of Thrones

But...it's not just his family and friends that I think Bran is trying to help here, and of course, if he IS the Three-Eyed Crow, he isn’t YET. What I think is going to be a big climactic part of Bran's story is self sacrifice, giving up some of his own power, his own happiness, to save others. Yes, part of this is my absolute refusal to accept Borg Hivemind Fantasy Police State King Bran in that he will say NO to the hivemind, but I think there's something magical here as well!

I think in order to access great power you need to be willing to put your own body on the line.

Jojen mentions having gotten sick with "greywater fever" shortly before his greendreams started

Dany experiences a miscarriage then literally walks into fire in order to hatch her dragons

both Beric and Catelyn have to quite literally be gruesomely murdered in order for Thoros' fire magic to work to bring them back to life

Melisandre has to physically give birth in order for her shadow assassination to work

on and on it goes. In order to be capable of great power, you can’t just have a willingness to throw someone ELSE onto the pyre but yourself as well. But Bran is pushed out of the window instead of willingly jumping. Or...

The wolfling was smarter than any of the hounds in his father’s kennel and Bran would have sworn he understood every word that was said to him, but he showed very little interest in chasing sticks…Finally he got tired of the stick game and decided to go climbing….

The wolf did as he was told. Bran scratched him behind the ears, then turned away, jumped, grabbed a low branch, and pulled himself up. He was halfway up the tree, moving easily from limb to limb, when the wolf got to his feet and began to howl.

Bran looked back down. His wolf fell silent, staring up at him through slitted yellow eyes. A strange chill went through him. He began to climb again. Once more the wolf howled. “Quiet,” he yelled. “Sit down. Stay. You’re worse than Mother.” The howling chased him all the way up the tree, until finally he jumped off onto the armory roof and out of sight.

I think this is future Bran, finally becoming the Three Eyed Crow, inside Summer. Summer shows no interest in the game and it’s only then that Bran decides to go climbing. Future Bran is sacrificing himself for the greater good - but can’t stop his mournful cry of the fate that awaits his own young self.

[deoidesign]

.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

I was thinking about Joker being the person Futaba feels most comfortable around and how he’s immediately very protective of her, and urges her to take chances and bond with the others while telling her he’ll be right there for support.

And then I thought back to the beginning of the game and I just wonder if he related to Futaba at all. He didn’t start off the confident leader that he became. He was angry and indignant, yes, but also quiet and hurt. Zoned out and disoriented and passive, even catching himself wondering if what he did was right after all, if this is the cost. He tries to delete the Metaverse app multiple times, outright refusing the call of anything abnormal, because he is trying so so hard to be normal. It doesn’t work. Everyone hates him and doesn’t even give him a chance to explain. They intentionally outcast him. His hands shake when he has to sign his name. Morgana implies he hasn’t been eating well. Attempting to study while students are whispering rumours over his head gets him very little Knowledge - it’s mostly Guts.

He urges Futaba to bond with his friends because he actually tried to isolate himself right at the very start, and honestly? Where would he be if he hadn’t had that support or direction; if Ryuji and Morgana and Ann hadn’t shoved their way into his life?

Ren’s managed to help people because of the Metaverse and Joker, but where would he be as well without the Metaverse and all it gave him?

He might not have had as much of a reason to bond with Ryuji. He would’ve been alone. He felt helpless and unable to change his situation, and without his awakening, he likely would’ve remained feeling that way - aimless and without a capacity to voice his outrage against this injustice.

He keeps his head even lower. It doesn’t work. He zones out more. A teacher is hurting the students. A girl jumps. He watches the aftermath bitterly, and can’t do a thing. The teacher doubles down until he can’t even breathe without someone commenting behind his back. He’s a criminal. He’s dangerous. The school should kick him out. He can’t focus. His test scores drop. The school should never have taken him in. Lost cause. He should just disappear. Maybe something happens one day. He finally snaps, gets into an actual altercation, gets suspended. Maybe he just can’t take the whispers or his own helplessness anymore. He stops going to school. He stops leaving the attic.

Sojiro ends up with not one, but two hikikomori, and is left completely at a loss for what to do.

He keeps making curry.

[cerise-on-top]

Eating Jausn with König

A Brettljausn is just about the best thing out there. I wrote this back in November when my classmates decided to talk about Easter and Osterjausn, so the formatting is different. However, I thought it would work well with the Easter post, so I decided to post it now.

“Honey, what is that?” You looked at the wrinkly, dark colored thing in front of you. It might have been a sausage, on closer inspection. The plate was well filled with all kinds of meat and cheese. On the side were horseradish, eggs and pepper of all colors. On a small plate in front of you were small, sliced cherry tomatoes, the basket next to it held bread.

“It’s a Brettljause, it’s what we eat on special occasions, such as easter. But you don’t always need one to eat it. Just enjoy the meat, dear. It’s all from regional farmers as well.” König seemed rather content while looking at the food. You knew that Austrians loved their meats and sausages, he had told you about that before and you made fun of him for it, but you didn’t think he’d take it upon himself to prepare something like that. It seemed like that must have taken a lot of work. Must have been fairly costly as well. There was bacon there, it looked fairly good.

You took a piece of bread and picked up some meat with a fork. “And what’s this?”

“That’s Geselchtes. I call it Gsöchts, though. It’s meat that you put in salt water before smoking for a few hours. Before eating, you normally cook it. Don’t worry, this one doesn’t have too much fat on it, you can just cut those pieces off.” He put some gray-ish meat on a slice of bread, adding some egg slices and topping it off with some of the grated horseradish. Its scent wafted through the air, stinging your nose a bit. You watch him take a bite out of the bread, he locks his eyes with yours once he notices. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no, everything’s alright.” You looked at the pink meat on your fork, a bit hesitant to give it a try. König seemed to like this sort of food, he likely wouldn’t have prepared it otherwise. Besides, it was classic Austrian cuisine, apparently, it was only polite of you to try it, at the very least. Taking a bite out of the meat, you ran your tongue across it to give it a taste. You could definitely taste the salt, but it wasn’t too bad. It simply added to the flavor. The meat wasn’t very chewy, but you wouldn’t exactly call it the most tender meat either. It was actually surprisingly good. Instead of putting it on your bread, you simply ate the piece whole before picking up the same thing König had. “And what’s this?”

“Schweinsbratn.” He didn’t even hesitate to gobble up his bread, already on his second one. This time he put some bacon on it with cheese. Eggs and horseradish weren’t missing this time either. One of the tomato slices was lifted off the plate and put on his instead.

You followed his example and put two slices of the meat on your bread, topping it off the same way as him. That meat wasn’t too bad actually either, it was obvious that it was made of pork. With the horseradish being very fresh it was only natural for it to be spicy still. It didn’t disappoint, the taste somewhat reminding you of wasabi, even if your eyes started watering a bit. Your bread was gone soon enough and you opted for another one. There was no telling if König’s next one was his third or fourth one already.

“So, Schatzi.” He prepared another one. “Is it good? Do you like it?”

“Oh, it actually is. It’s pretty good.” Taking some of the red pepper, you put it on your bread with Geselchtem, gulping down a few of the tomatoes. You were sort of surprised this stuff didn’t come with a salad as well.

By the time you were on your third bread, the plate was already pretty empty, with König having eaten quite a lot. He’s always had a rather big appetite, and for that you were grateful, there was no way you could have eaten all of that on your own. You hadn’t tried the dark, cut up sausage yet. Of course, you had no idea what that was either. “What’s this? Sausage?”

König quickly chewed the food in his mouth before swallowing it down. “Yes, that’s Hoatwiastl. Hartwürstel, I suppose. As the name suggests, it’s a hard sausage. It’s very good, though, you have to try it.”

It was rather hard indeed, you were glad it was cut up into smaller slices. Biting into it whole would be another other ordeal. It was too small to put on bread, so you ate it along with it. Once done, you were completely full, incapable of eating another bite. There were still pieces of meat and cheese left on the plate, it was unbelievable. König didn’t seem affected at all, he simply got up and started putting everything away before returning with a bottle. If you had to take an educated guess then there’s a chance “Wein” might have been the German word for “wine”. “Would you like a  Spritzer? It’s essentially wine mixed with soda.”

“Is that really necessary? Do we really need to drink too?”

He chuckled a bit. “It’s a big part of our culture. Alternatively, I can offer you some Gösser or Puntigamer.” With an amused expression, he watched you weigh your options. You didn’t know what either of those things were, probably some sort of beer, thus making you better off with the wine, probably. König even got the two of you some wine glasses. They were fancy looking, but you weren’t sure if you could actually take a sip of that.

He really just put mineral water into some wine, drinking it slowly. With a watchful eye, he almost expected you to take after him, which you did eventually. It tasted exactly the way you’d imagine, sparkly wine with a bit less flavor. Not the worst you’ve ever had. The things you did to make your man happy.

You continued to eat for another few minutes, this time in silence, for the most part. The plate was certainly full at the beginning, you couldn’t believe your eyes when most of it was gone. Still, despite the culture being rather meat heavy, you had to admit, it was pretty good. However, it was very filling. You couldn’t eat another slice of bread, opting for the meat and sausage instead, eating some slices of cheese along with them. Maybe some mayonnaise would have been good with it as well, but you didn’t want to make the suggestion in case König didn’t like it.

After wiping his mouth with a paper towel, he sat back, letting out a content sigh while holding his tummy. Even he seemed to be rather full after the copious amounts of meat he had eaten. Not like you weren’t, however. He took another sip of his Spritzer before putting the plates away, with you helping him out a bit, naturally.

“Thank you for trying some of my food, I do appreciate it. Did you like it?” Cleaning the plates with a sponge, his focus was on getting the last few crumbs off it so he could put it in the dishwasher. You popped one last cherry tomato in your mouth before handing him another plate, giving him a hum of approval.

“Yeah, it was pretty good, but could we maybe eat something less meaty next time? This was quite a lot.”

“Don’t worry, Schatzi, next time we can eat Kasnudeln. They’re also very delicious!”

[recurring-polynya]

hello I love your writing and I wish you many fun story-ideas to toy with! if Squad 6 are drawn together by the ritual of poetry night, is there a Squad 13 tradition... or has any such thing died out with them in disarray, and Rukia maybe the person to start some new tradition as their new lieutenant? Would the vice-captains know and poke fun at each squad's takes on non-work-team-bonding-time, or would they be a little private?

I hope you don't mind, but I actually combined this prompt with this one from @voxluxenjoyer: -Young Byakuya, rabble-rousing at Squad 13

I'm going to be up front about this: what follows is based almost entirely on my own goofy Byakuya-early-career headcanons as well as this post I made in 2021 about Ukitake liking movies, so if you're wondering where if anything in here is supported by canon, the answer is "surely not."

Thank you both for your suggestions, I had an absolutely lovely time writing this.

(read on ao3)

🎞️ 🎥 🍿

"So, the thing about a month-long deployment," said Sixth-Seat Kotetsu, "is that you will not need to be on high alert twenty-fours a day. Doing a circuit around your patrol area a few times a day should be fine. Both Hollows and Pluses tend to be more active during the night-time, so I like to do one in the evening, one sometime between midnight and dawn, and one during the day. You won't need to sleep in the World of the Living--"

"I know that."

"--but you will need to rest. You can sit somewhere quietly. If you de-manifest, that's fine, that's natural. Some people do, some people don't."

"I will not de-manifest."

"You'll either just pop back into reality when you're rested, or it'll definitely happen if there's some disturbance in the ambiance reiatsu. It's not at all like sleeping, it's more like when you get bored and get lost in your own thoughts."

"I do not do that. Also, as I told you, I will not de-manifest."

"In any case," Kotetsu said, making what Byakuya considered to be a very dismissive hand gesture, "you should also take the opportunity to explore the Living World. This is your first time, right?"

"I have been to the World of the Living on three occasions, all under school auspices."

Kotetsu wrinkled her nose and flapped a hand, "Oh, field trips don't count!"

"My grandfather says that the culture of the Living is degenerate, and we would do best not to become too enamored of it."

Kotetsu sucked her teeth for a moment. "Well, I'm not going to argue with anyone's grandfather, but the fact is, here in Squad Thirteen, we deal with the recently dead, and you'll be better at dealing with the recently dead if you have some idea of what it's like over there."

"I suppose that is fair."

Sixth Seat Kotetsu cleared her throat primly. "But speaking of being enamored with the World of the Living--do you know what 'moving pictures' are?"

Byakuya felt the corners of his mouth turn down immediately. "It is some vulgar new form of entertainment, is it not?"

"Oh, it's not vulgar!" Kotetsu protested. "Are you talking about the one where the people kissed? That one was imported from America, they're just like that over there. Sentarou saw that one! I was so jealous--!"

"Are they not all imported?" Byakuya did not wish to hear any more about the kissing movie than he possibly had to.

"The first ones were, but they're making them right in Japan now!"

"Why are we talking of this again? Are we done with my briefing?"

"We are almost done. Anyway, Captain Ukitake loves moving pictures, but he doesn't get to go to the Living World very often, so we have this little tradition--"

"No."

"--of going to see one, and he'll have tea with you when you get back and you can tell him all about it! And the rest of your trip, as well, but having the movie to talk about makes it less awkward. It's a good opportunity to spend time with the captain!"

"Captain Ukitake is a friend of my family. I have taken tea with him many times. I do not need to go see a dreadful piece of human entertainment in order to talk to Captain Ukitake."

Kotetsu narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. "Eleventh Seat Kuchiki," she said firmly.

Byakuya refused to meet her gaze. He knew that he had not been sufficiently respectful to his senior officer several times during this conversation, but nearly all the officers at the Thirteenth were so casual. Also, by all rights, he would outrank her, if the Thirteenth didn't have that stupid rule that you needed at least two years of service to be named to one of the top ten seats. "Yes, ma'am?" he finally muttered.

"Go see the movie."

---

"So," Grandfather finally said, as he did every evening at dinner, "what's today's news from the Thirteenth Division?"

Byakuya had been waiting eagerly for this, but then his father and grandfather had gotten enmeshed in a very long and boring discussion about some proposed new leave policy that Grandfather wasn't a fan of. Byakuya's attention snapped back to the present. He sat up a little straighter and cleared his throat. "I received a special assignment today," he said. "I am being sent on a month-long detail to the World of the Living."

"Hmm," said Grandfather, "is that so?"

Byakuya realized, both belatedly and stupidly, that his mission had likely already been run by his grandfather and approved. You couldn't just send the scion of the Kuchiki off to another plane of existence, no matter how competent he had already shown himself to be. He should have phrased his announcement differently. He should have--

"How do you feel about that, Byakuya?" Father asked, an edge of genuine excitement in his voice.

"I am glad to have the experience, I suppose, even if it is a bit of menial duty," Byakuya said, trying to sound very blase about it. "Not all squads have regular postings in the World of the Living, and once I have done my two years and am appointed Third Seat, I'll be too busy for things like that."

"Well, enjoy this nice meal while you can," Grandfather pointed out, picking up a piece of firefly squid with his chopsticks. "And your nice soft futon. You won't have either over there. It's a tough duty."

"Oh, but there's so much to see!" Father exclaimed. "I'm sure you'll be up to it."

"Have you ever been, Father?" Byakuya asked, poking at his dinner.

"I've been on sorties," Father replied. "I've never had an extended deployment." He glanced at Grandfather out of the corner of his eye, then smiled his kind smile. "I'm a little jealous, to be honest."

"That's because you're starry-eyed, Soujun," Grandfather said sternly. "You get excited by anything new and shiny. Byakuya's a practical lad, like his old grandfather. He doesn't care about whatever damn whimsy the humans are mooning over these days."

"I'm not going to sightsee," Byakuya protested. "I'm going to fight Hollows, of course."

"You're going to take care of Pluses," Grandfather corrected. "Every Hollow is a konsou that a shinigami failed to perform."

"Of course, Grandfather," Byakuya agreed quickly. "That is what I meant. What I was trying to say."

"There will probably be a Hollow to two to fight," Father said with a wink. "Ones that are other peoples' fault."

"And I will take care of those, too!"

Grandfather harrumphed, at which one of them, Byakuya wasn't quite sure.

"Well, I'm glad you aren't feeling nervous about it," Father added. "Not that I would expect you to, but it is a long time to be off under your own direction, in an unfamiliar place. When do you leave?"

"In three days," Byakuya replied.

Father took a long sip of his tea, then set his cup down. "I know you are very good at handling things by yourself, Byakuya, but if you think of any questions, don't hesitate to ask your superiors before you go. The officers of the Thirteenth have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, and their advice will be very valuable."

"About that." Byakuya resisted the urge to roll his chopsticks between his fingers. He put them down on their holder instead so that he wouldn't. "Sixth Seat Kotetsu gave me a bit of a silly order and I don't want to do it."

Grandfather's eyebrows drew together. "When your superior gives you an order, it's not silly," he started.

"Oh, Father, he's at home, let him speak freely," Father interrupted. "What was the order, Byakuya?"

Byakuya swallowed, feeling self-conscious that his father had been rude to Grandfather on his behalf. "You've heard of those moving picture shows they have in the Living World, right?"

"Mm, yes, the Kidou Corps is very interested in that technology." Father was very interested in kidou theory, and had a number of friends in the Kidou Corps, although his closest one, former-Lieutenant Ushouda, had been lost in action several years earlier.

"Well, Captain Ukitake loves them. Apparently. And not for technological reasons, he just likes them. Sixth Seat Kotetsu says I need to go watch one and then come back and tell Captain Ukitake about it."

"All right, that is silly," Grandfather grumbled. "Just say you forgot. Or you were too busy killing Hollows."

"First of all," Father said, pointedly ignoring Grandfather, "personally, I think you may be overlooking an opportunity to learn about the culture and technology of the Living World. The Living are very innovative. Some of the moving pictures are said to be very educational." He sighed, "But there are times when it is good to know how to push back on an order you disagree with. Did you express your opinion to Sixth-Seat Kotetsu?"

"I did. She said it's just how it's done."

"That's what I would have expected." Father sighed. "If you truly think it's unfair, you can always talk to your lieutenant. That is, among other things, what lieutenants are there for."

Grandfather gave a short bark of laughter. "That's what lieutenants are for? Acting as agony aunts? No wonder you never finish your paperwork, Soujun."

"Smoothing over disagreements," Soujun corrected serenely. "And I never finish my paperwork because it's the Gotei, Father. There's always more paperwork."

"I don't think that's what my lieutenant is for," Byakuya said, frowning deeply.

"Resolving disputes, then," Soujun corrected. "And I suspect Lieutenant Shiba is better at it than you think."

Of course Father thought that. Lieutenant Shiba respected him.

Father shrugged. "Or you can just go see the movie. It's your decision."

"Be sure to weigh it carefully," added Grandfather.

---

"What…exactly…is the problem?" Lieutenant Shiba asked, running his fingers through his disrespectfully spiky hair.

"It is a waste of my time," Byakuya pressed. "I would like to be relieved of the obligation."

Shiba stared at him for a long moment, then started sorting practice swords again, which is what he had been doing when Byakuya found him. "Byakuya," he said, "what, exactly, would you be doing otherwise?"

"We are at work, Lieutenant Shiba. Address me as Eleventh Seat Kuchiki."

"Fine, Eleventh Seat Kuchiki, whatever. I am hearing you out. What else do you have to do in the World of the Living that's so pressing?"

"I will be seeing to my duties, of course."

"Nuh-uh. You can't patrol twenty-four hours a day."

"I am very dedicated."

"You don't get it." Lieutenant Shiba gently bopped Byakuya on the head with a practice sword that was on its way to the rubbish pile. "If I needed someone on watch twenty-four hours a day, I would assign two, maybe three officers, so you could rest in shifts. I'm not going to do that, because this is the sort of duty that a competent officer should be able to handle by himself, resting when he can so that he's alert when he needs to be. If you're not up to that, yet, it's not a big deal, I can just re-assign--"

"I am up to it!" Byakuya protested. "That's-- that's not the issue!"

"It's not?" Lieutenant Shiba made a surprised face. It was not very convincing.

Byakuya squeezed his hands into fists, and then loosened them again. "Either," he said slowly, "I am on duty, in which case, it would be inappropriate to attend an entertainment, or I am not, in which case, my Leisure Hours are mind to do with what I wish."

LIeutenant Shiba gave a loud bark of laughter and clapped him on the shoulder. "Byakuya, I admire your commitment to a rich life outside of work, and I cannot wait to remind you about this conversation when you inherit Squad Six, but that's not how missions work. Speaking of Squad Six, doesn't your dad run some sort of monthly poetry night that people have to attend? Think of it like that."

"People love Squad Six Poetry Night!" Byakuya protested.

"Everyone?" Lieutenant Shiba asked. "Everyone in Squad Six loves giving up their evening to go listen to amateur poetry?"

"I have never been, personally, but I…I assume so," Byakuya stammered. "Many members of Squad Six are well-know poets!" He was desperate to attend Squad Six Poetry Night, actually, but Grandfather said he had to get well settled at Squad Thirteen first. It was open to officers from other squads, but Grandfather didn't want anyone to get the idea that Byakuya wasn't fully committed to his placement at the Thirteenth. And he wasn't! He was in perfect agreement with his grandfather's idea that he should receive some seasoning at a squad that wasn't the one he was going to lead someday. He was just hoping that seasoning would occur very quickly, so that he could transfer to the Sixth as soon as possible.

"Kuchiki," said Lieutenant Shiba, "with all the love in my heart to your dad and to Squad Six Poetry Night, I am absolutely positive that at least someone is not happy to be there." Byakuya started to protest, but Shiba held up a hand. "I know what you are going to say, and they are faking, Byakuya. They are faking either because they like your dad or they want to make a good impression with your grandfather or just because it's part of being in a squad."

"Are you telling me…sir," Byakuya said, keeping his voice very measured, "that I should…fake it?"

"Absolutely not!" Lieutenant Shiba grinned toothily. "Because this is Squad Thirteen, Kuchiki, where we do everything with our whole heart! I am telling you to go see a moving picture, and then to come back and tell Captain Ukitake exactly what you think of it. Pull no punches! He'll respect your courage!"

Something inside Byakuya crumpled at the thought of telling cheerful, kind Captain Ukitake that he hated movies. He couldn't. It had taken everything he had to ask the captain to stop giving him handfuls of candy (which didn't even like!), with the excuse that it wasn't appropriate now that he was a subordinate. Byakuya could still see the disappointed look on Ukitake's face as he reluctantly agreed. It had possibly been burned onto the back of his eyelids.

"It's settled then!" Lieutenant Shiba declared.

"Wait," said Byakuya. "No."

"Thank you for coming to me with your concern," Shiba went on. "I am always glad to help my precious subordinates understand the spirit of Squad Thirteen!"

"Nothing is settled," Byakuya protested. "I didn't agree."

"By the way," said Shiba, dumping a pile of splintering, worn out practice swords into Byakuya's arms, "these are trash. You don't mind taking 'em down to the dump for me, eh, Kuchiki?"

---

"I need you to talk to him." Byakuya was usually above pleading, but right now, he was not above pleading. "I need you to convince him that I do not need to go see the moving picture."

"I am not going to do that," Miyako replied, plucking a piece of sushi delicately from her bento.

"You always use me as an excuse to come over here and flirt with him," Byakuya pointed out. "It's the least you could do."

"I came over here to see you!" Miyako cried. "I brought you lunch, because you're going away for a whole month and you're my friend and I'm going to miss you!"

Byakuya drummed his fingers on the table. "So you'll be going directly back to the Eighth after this? You definitely aren't going to ask me to conveniently need to drop some piece of paper off at the main offices when I walk you to the gate?"

"Oh, probably!" Miyako flapped a hand at him. "It's not for me, you know. It's for my mother. It's never going to work, anyway. Just because Kaien knows what I look like isn't going to make him any more likely to agree to an arranged marriage."

"Mm-hmm," said Byakuya, who had heard all of this before and also wasn't blind. Miyako wasn't even really his friend, she was just his old schoolmate. She only proclaimed herself thus to get his goat (Miyako was both very fond of and talented at goat-getting). Even so, Byakuya hoped she didn't quit the Gotei after her mother's stupid arranged marriage ploy paid off. Miyako was also stuck as the Eleventh Seat because the Eighth had the same stupid two-year rule as the Thirteenth, and it was nice to have someone who understood his agonies. Speaking of which-- "We were talking about my problem."

"Yes, we were talking about your problem--actually, back up a bit. Could you remind me again why you don't want to see the moving picture? You like theater well enough. I've heard that many of them are simply recorded scenes from kabuki."

"It is cheapening of the arts, and also new-fangled."

"Oh, new-fangled, of course! Yes, yes, I understand."

"At least someone does," Byakuya grumbled.

"Now, I realize this isn't helpful now, but perhaps for future reference," Miyako started primly, "Did your Sixth Seat actually order you to go to a moving picture?"

Byakuya frowned as he considered this. "No, not as such. I did ask for clarification, though, and she said I had to."

"See? That was your problem right there. You should have just gone on the mission and not done it. Then, when you got back, you could have said, 'oh, I didn't think a silly thing like that was an actual order' and they might scold you for next time--if there's even a next time--but it's not like they could make you go back there."

"I told you, that is what my grandfather suggested."

"No, your grandfather suggested that you just ignore the order after it was already an order, which is exactly the sort of advice you're going to get from a man who doesn't have to listen to other people. I am from Squad Eight, where we have elevated slithering out of things to a high art."

Byakuya snorted. "You say that, and it may be true of your captain, but you wouldn't. You would just go watch the stupid thing. You would never slither your way out of anything." He frowned, feeling, not for the first time, that Miyako would be a better fit at Squad Thirteen than he was. It was impossible, at least at the moment. Like many noble girls, Miyako's family, who were second cousins to the Kyouraku, considered it an indulgence to allow her to serve in the Gotei and had insisted on a squad with a family connection. Byakuya had to assume that the prospect of a transfer had to be at least some of the allure of marrying Shiba. He couldn't imagine what else there could possibly be.

"You're even less of a slitherer-outer than I am, and you know it," Miyako pointed out. "You've backed yourself into a corner, is what you've done. You announced that you didn't want to go, so now your pride as a hater-of-fun-things is on the line. On the other hand, you can't not-go without sullying your pride as an officer. There's no way to win."

"I am not a hater-of-fun-things. I love fun things." Byakuya frowned. "Otherwise, I think you are correct." He took a deep breath, and allowed himself to say it out loud. "Curses. This wouldn't be happening to me if Grandfather had just let me join the Sixth."

Miyako nodded and shrugged. "I think that learning to deal with these sorts of low-stakes interpersonal personal problems is exactly why they sent you over here. I don't think this is half a big a deal as you seem to think it is, but even if you do fumble it horribly, you're going to be out of here in a few years, and no one is going to remember it anyway."

"Lieutenant Shiba will remember," Byakuya replied grimly.

"Yes, but I will be Lady Shiba then, and I will make him be nice to you."

"That is a patent falsehood."

Miyako laughed. Byakuya was not a man who was laid low by pretty laughs, but for just a moment, he understood how other people might be.

"You're probably right," she said. "The point is, your reputation at Squad Six will remain untarnished and that's the important thing." Miyako frowned briefly, but it wasn't a real frown, it was a frown for making a point. "Speaking of--and speaking of slithering out of things--have you written your regrets yet?"

"My regrets?" Byakuya asked, confused.

"A whole month away? Surely you had a packed schedule of Kuchiki social events you must now lamentably demur on. Tea dates with future potential Lady Kuchikis? Aunts having birthdays? Isn't that awful flower exhibition your grandfather makes you go to coming up?"

"It is," Byakuya realized, his heart lifting in his chest. "And Aunt Etsu's birthday, as well. And the old man drinking party Grandfather throws at our house for his shogi club."

Miyako tsked. "You'll miss it all, I'm afraid."

Suddenly, going to see the moving pictures seemed like a very small price to pay, after all.

---

Byakuya had been in the World of the Living for eight days. He had made twenty-nine circuits around his one-spirit ri patrol radius. He had sent four Pluses on their way, one of which was a dog. He had not been told there would be dogs, but it had been a very friendly and obviously loyal one, and the konsou seemed to have worked normally.

He thought he had heard the roar of a Hollow on the first day, and had flash-stepped to the source of the sound just in time to witness a steam-powered locomotive thunder past. Byakuya was still mildly ashamed at the way he had frozen long past the time the great iron beast had disappeared over a hill. Over the next week, though, he became accustomed to their schedule, which turned out to follow a predictable, if somewhat complicated pattern, which was displayed on a large board at the train station. Trains could only travel on their tracks and their ghastly screams carried no accompanying spike of reiatsu, so he would surely not make the same mistake again.

Byakuya felt neither hungry nor sleepy, but he was having difficulty shaking the feeling that he ought to be hungry and sleepy. He had been away from home for longer periods before, so of course he did not miss anyone, not his father or grandfather or captain or vice-captain. He certainly did not find himself thinking of any of his co-workers or social acquaintances or former schoolmates. On the other hand, he found himself starting to miss strange things. The heft of a rice bowl in his hand. The texture of tatami under bare feet. The familiar rhythm of morning drills. He'd actually started doing the exercises himself in absentia--he missed the shouts and stomps of his squad-mates, but it was good to maintain routine, and he found the pleasant burn in his muscles afterwards to be anchoring.

It was time, he decided, to view the motion picture. His brain was starting to bounce around in his skull a bit, and he needed something external to think about. Loath as he was to ever grant Lieutenant Shiba anything, even just being mad about something for a bit would be a welcome distraction.

Byakuya knew the location of the theater already. He passed it each day on his early morning patrol. He told himself that he did not actually have to watch the moving picture today if the one they were playing did not sound interesting. That was another reason to plan this early, he reasoned.

Large posters were hung outside of the theater to indicate what was currently being shown, as well as what was expected the following week. Byakuya waited while a group of sticky-looking school boys exclaimed over today's showing. Byakuya was not feeling particularly optimistic.

The boys departed into the theater. Byakuya stepped forward, and examined the poster.

"The Forty Seven Loyal Ronin," the poster announced in bright colors, along with a list of famous personages involved in the film, none of whom were familiar to Byakuya.

Byakuya's muscles locked. It was like seeing the train all over again.

Grandfather liked theater, but he preferred noh to kabuki, having never quite gotten over the latter's more salacious origins. Even so, he insisted that Byakuya should only attend plays composed by Soul Society playwrights. The ones imported from the Living World were garish, he proclaimed, and the one he despised the most was The Forty Seven Loyal Ronin. Ahistorical drivel! Grandfather had cried. They keep adding tawdry subplots to try to make it make sense, each one worse than the last!

Byakuya had seen three acts of it performed at the annual cultural festival while he was still in school. An acquaintance, whose roommate was portraying Moronao, promised to buy Byakuya a drink afterwards if he attended in solidarity. The production had been thoroughly amateurish. The costumes were improvised. The roommate had chewed scenery so voraciously, he must have been picking it out of his teeth for days. The women's roles were played by actual women. Afterward, Byakuya had offered to buy the acquaintance all the drinks he could swallow if he could get him a copy of the script.

Byakuya scrambled into the theater, hot on the heels of the pack of grubby urchins.

--

eleven days later

"It is seventeen after. Do you think the captains' meeting has run long? It is bad when they run long, is it not? Do you think this bodes ill?"

"I think it bodes that he stopped to chit-chat," Lieutenant Shiba said. He was pretending to be engrossed in some paperwork, but Byakuya hadn't actually seen him write anything on the form in some time.

"His message said to come by at ten after. He is expecting me."

"He's a dilly-dallier, Kuchiki, don't take it personally. You can go back to your office, if you want. I'll call you when he gets in."

"I shall not. He asked me to be here, and I am here."

Just then, the shoji slid open, and Captain Ukitake, his face flushed, walked in. "Whew!" he exclaimed. "Hot out today!"

"Welcome back, Captain," Lieutenant Shiba said.

"Good afternoon, Captain Ukitake!" Byakuya greeted, bowing deeply.

"Eleventh Seat Kuchiki survived his deployment, as you can see," Lieutenant Shiba added.

"Welcome home, Eleventh Seat Kuchiki!" Captain Ukitake beamed. "You got in last night?"

"Yes, sir," Byakuya replied. "It was quite late."

"I bet you must have been happy to see your own bed."

Byakuya felt his cheeks go warm. He had, in fact, fallen directly into his futon and gotten possibly the best night of sleep he'd ever had. "Yes, sir," he agreed.

"Well, come on in! Shiba, what are the odds on rustling up some iced tea?"

"Out on the engawa, sir."

"Amazing! Thank you, Shiba!" Ukitake tipped his head toward Byakuya. "I've got some sweets in my desk. Let's take those, too!"

"I don't like sweets," Byakuya reminded him, but it was futile.

"So, how was the mission?" Ukitake asked, once they were out on the porch, and he had poured them each a cup of tea from a jug frosted over with an ice kidou.

"I saw a moving picture," Byakuya announced.

Captain Ukitake's eyebrows lifted. "You did? I heard you weren't very enthusiastic about the idea."

"I am not a man who shirks my duty, Captain."

"I didn't mean to imply that you were," Captain Ukitake replied. "But we don't have to talk about that, if you don't want to. I'd love to hear about any of your impressions of the Living World."

"The motion picture that I saw," said Byakuya, "was The Forty Seven Loyal Ronin. I saw it…more than once. I wanted to be sure to report the details correctly."

"You know, I have done the same thing more than once," Captain Ukitake admitted.

"You can do that with a moving picture, because it is the same each time. I did notice that the narrator occasionally varied his script, but he was still bound to the immutability of the performance, the 'truth', as it were, on display for all to see." Byakuya suddenly realized he had been doing the thing his grandfather had told him not to do, where he talked too much about the thing he wanted to talk about without taking other people's responses properly into account. He cleared his throat. "Captain Ukitake. Would you like to hear about The Forty Seven Loyal Ronin?"

Captain Ukitake smiled his brilliant smile. "Kuchiki," he said, "I would love to hear about The Forty Seven Loyal Ronin."

[tomgrcg]

we've learnt for a fact now that tom feels the full range of human emotions towards greg and that he can't let anyone in or he'll die. so how does he express his emotions? the only way he can let himself. he wants to be a specific kind of person, a roy, and how he is feeling and what he wants to do does not fit in with how these people behave. he doesn’t do it because it’s natural. he does it because he has to. he throws insults at it and tries to wrestle it to the ground but it feels weak because his heart isn’t in it.

neither greg or tom are like the roys at their core. they weren’t raised in it. there are moments of real happiness for the two of them when they’re alone and can just be themselves. there's something different in their relationship dynamic here than the relationships the siblings have. it doesn’t feel as bittersweet because they aren’t as fundamentally broken.

tom is more guarded, of course, he’s received some emotional damage from shiv so he always says or does something to keep greg just far enough away. he’s learnt vulnerability is dangerous. every time he tries to show shiv that he loves her she makes him feel like he’s done it wrong. this season he started behaving in a way that would get through to her but that didn’t feel good to him either, didn’t save him from being fired, nothing.

shiv needed the kind of love tom gave her the same way tom needs what greg gives him. but the difference is tom is more capable of accepting love from people he cares about and wouldn’t hurt greg any deeper than a weak insult, even if he could.

tom knows what it’s like to have to beg for someone who is supposed to care about you to do something for you, so when greg asked if he could possibly save him from going to jail he says load me up without a second thought. he cares about greg’s feelings and would sacrifice something of his own for them and it’s this empathy that tom has that the roy family is lacking.

it’s not hard for tom to think to do something for another person for no reason other than it would make that person feel good. no quid pro quo. but even when tom does do something good for greg he 'can’t stand the good feeling he’s engendered' because he feels like he shouldn’t be doing nice things for no reason.

the nero and sporus scene was tom telling greg he cares about him at all and “come with me, sporus?” was the marriage proposal. greg asks what’s in it for him because that’s how greg works and tom has to say “who has ever looked out for you” instead of “i want you with me”. tom cannot let him know the depth of how he feels so he lets greg think he's using him for something and only merely tolerates him, like everyone else does.

and then, because greg still doesn’t get it, or is choosing to ignore it, tom has to yell “not samson! i want you gregging for me!" he still can’t say the real reason why. the only time he’s shown his real emotions to greg is when he’s alone in a room and greg can’t see his face through the phone.

it's not a perfect relationship. it's not supposed to be. that's why it's so compelling. it’s please don't be better than me i can't stand it but i love you. it’s i’m using you to get somewhere in the world but i’ll still look after you even when i don’t need to anymore. (villainfvcker made a great post about this.)

i’m writing this after episode eight, and if they’re going all the way with greg’s transformation into a roy family member and he betrays tom in some way, it will be another case of a succession character destroying the only real connection they have for some kind of power, and regretting it later.

if anything at all, we know tom really does love greg, and that’s a satisfying enough tomgreg endgame for me, personally.

[reinedeslys-central]

"Hey, man," Percy's voice lifted over on his left before he felt the tell-tale thwump of his hand landing on his shoulder.

"You got a minute? Let's get drinks, on me-" and so Grover finds himself led away from his project for the tenth time this week, because he would never say no to his best friend if it wasn't something Important.

Miles later, when so much time has passed that neither of them are willing to check the clock, Percy's eyes flicker towards him, but he doesn't look at him. Instead, he looks up out the window to the sky, rapidly darkening but still light out in that inescapable, metropolis way.

"Grover."

"Hmm?"

"Sorry, no, it's-.." Grover angles his body towards him, not sure where Percy is in his mind but not so surprised, either. He sighs.

"Percy."

Percy's eyes lift to his for a breath of a second, then skitter away.

"Grover, was I too much?"

Too - too much? He feels his eyebrows bunch together as he mulls it over. He's not so gauche as to ignore what Percy might be implying here, but he's not so sure anymore.

They don't talk about it much, those years between them now that they can't catch up to. Something slipped and fell and broke, maybe, but with all those conversations they've forced themselves to have, they figured most of it out, he thinks. Enough to know they both still love each other, obviously. Enough to know they never stopped.

Also enough to know they have to say so, when they don't understand each other. Sometimes being blunt stops the ship from sinking, or whatever. So that's what he does.

"Percy. Can you - elaborate. Elaborate, I'm serious, I'm basically drunk by now - "

"Was I too much for you, though?" Percy sounds far away, gazing through the window again. Like he's not here, in Grover's apartment, drunk on cheap beer that he bought that neither of them really like but use as an excuse to see each other when there's no other obvious thing to do, and six hours away from the things they're really supposed to be doing.

"It's nothing - or, well, it is something, I just - you know they preserve all those old messages and things on those servers these days, right? And I was going through those old messages. And I know - I was looking back too, a couple years after, you know, and I just - it was everything. It's not - it seems so simple, and I can't tell if I'm overreacting or underreacting, and looking back now I should've stopped always texting like that and let you go sooner -"

"Hey." He cuts Percy off, because - fuck. Hell, no. He gets what he's talking about now. Percy's friendship style has always been a little - not clingy, exactly, almost so respectful and vulnerable that sometimes it tripped the line into - exactly, 'too much' - but he's not going to say that. He's biased. He won't. He won't hurt him like that. Not just because it's not the whole truth, but also because he knows that if he gives Percy's insecurities an inch, they'll really be miles away by morning.

Anyways. "Percy, are you seriously thinking - we've had years. You know I would've said something." He did, technically. Nevermind, that's a terrible example -

"Okay, not that; Percy, listen to me. You're not too much. You'll never be too much to handle, just as yourself. If being your friend is too much for someone else to handle, then they can damn well tell you about it, alright?"

Percy bobs his head slightly, leaning back against the table, since they've decided to sit on the floor for some reason.

(It's Grover. He's the reason. Percy never acts like he notices, but he probably gets that Grover likes to be grounded most of the time - well, as much as they can be, a gazillion feet in the air, anyway.)

"A dam well, you say?" he suddenly giggles, a little wetly.

"Whatever, man."

They clink bottles and lean back.

It's almost black outside now, that dark shade that's something deeper than indigo, violet.

"Is this about Jason?"

"..No. Not really."

The yellow lighting from the lamps settles around them. Grover feels weighed down by it, anchored to the mat where they're sitting. He watches as Percy curls his fingers around the neck of his bottle.

Cuticles perfectly trimmed and obnoxiously perfect nail beds. The bastard.

"You.. this is - okay." Percy jerks his head up, startled by how sharp Grover's voice suddenly is, probably.

He softens it before trying again. "We were kids, Percy."

The idiot genius in question makes a half-sound of disbelief.

"No, shut up. We were. Whether you were too much or whatever - when else are you supposed to figure out these things? When you're twenty? Now? When else are you supposed to find out how to navigate conversations with people? Look, Percy, whatever's gone down between us - I'm not going to blame you for not being a, hell, fully matured flawless conversationalist at age nine."

"Well, when you say it like that.."

"Oh, I'll say it like that. I'll say it like that every time you need me to grow a seed of perspective into your brain, you strain of seaweed."

That's the thing that gets him to laugh, in the end. Grover watches as Percy's shoulders relax and he curls inwards, shoulders shaking.

"I- I thought only Annabeth was going to call me seaweed, but now I see the market hasn't been cornered-"

"Shut up. Clarisse gives you new nicknames every summer."

"Alright, G-man."

Grover grabs the pink-white striped throw pillow from the sofa, pets it affectionately, and then whips it at his best friend's face. Percy squawks and dives out of the way, and they're lucky their bottles are finished because he tips over both of those too in the mad dash to Grover's bedroom, probably to stock up on more pillows.

Grover stands in the middle of the hallway and dodges the first of Percy's paltry attempts at revenge, then another. When Percy has to stop and pick up his pillows again, eyeing him suspiciously, he retreats to the kitchen.

He grins while grabbing the blue blankets from the supply closet. He's not going down alone.

my writing directory if that's a thing you'd like to check out - I put all my writing posts on there so I can't lose track of them TT