#javelin studies

[javelinbk]

Paul McCartney doesn’t stroke hands with guys: a study

[tosahobi-if]

Back muscles you say? I think it’s very important for…. Science. To share this. (If you don’t mind)

JSAJFSJ I FEEL LIKE I JUST ACTIVATED SLEEPER AGENTS (i'll probably share them when i feel a little more confident about my anatomy! i'm still learning right now hehe)

[manicali]

On one hand: AHHHHHHJH ITS FUCKING OCTOBER FUCKERS ITS SPOOKY SEASON BITCHESSSSS

Ont the other i have a test I will fail in four days please kindly stab me with a javelin until i wiggle on the ground and die like a trout

[omarwolaeth]

Best not overuse cursed items

[bring-forth-his-sac]

The Christmas Party - Chapter 1

Summary: Your first year at Alexandria High is going smoothly, until you accidentally offer to plan the staff Christmas party. To make matters worse? You're stuck planning it with the one person you made a terrible first impression on; Negan.

Tags: Modern AU, Teacher AU, Gossip, Swearing, Pet Names, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: ok this is partially based on how common Negan's surname is... I mean, Smith?! Really??? Also I have written this very fast and there are many more chapters to come. My plan is to have it complete by Christmas Eve so hopefully you stay tuned until then!!

You tend to avoid Negan Smith. From what you’ve heard, there isn’t a good reason to go near the man. Womanizer. Loudmouth. Curses like a sailor and a professional at ghosting.

But, the job of a teacher sometimes means dealing with people you don’t like. Whether that be talking to a parent who’s convinced their child is a saint or, like in this case, him . 

You haven’t even made it to the Christmas break yet and you’re about to knock heads with another teacher. Great. You suppose this is a good thing considering you’ve managed to make it past Halloween unscathed. 

Still, it’s not a good look to be confronting another teacher in your first year at a new job, especially when he has taught here for years. You sigh, hand automatically raising to block the surprisingly warm rays of the Winter sun as you scan the track and field. 

Ew. Sports. Or more specifically, track. You've never understood appeal to any sports, whether to participate, watch or worse; teach.

With it being midday already, the field is quite busy, with more students mulling around than you anticipated. Some kids sit on the grass surrounding the running track, lacing up sneakers and complaining about upcoming tests.  

On the far side of the track, a smaller group of students mess with the plastic javelins that are stuck in the ground, bouncing them back and forth to see how far they’ll bend. You know you should probably tell them to stop and that it’s some kind of safety hazard to be messing with them but this isn’t your class. 

If it was in the classroom then of course you’d tell them to stop to save your own skin, but out here, you can pretend to have not noticed the incessant messing they’re doing. 

On the actual track is where the bulk of students are, running at a good pace while getting yelled at by some middle aged man with a whistle. The joys of high school.

It takes a certain kind of person to be a teacher, you should know. But to teach gym ? Yeah, that’s some sociopathic shit.

You watch as who you assume is Coach Smith yells at one of the quieter kids to keep up. Well, he’s definitely living up to the loudmouth tag he’s been labelled with.

But that’s not all he has a reputation for. Negan happened to be some of the first gossip you got when you moved here. Well, you’d call it gossip. Others might say it was a cautionary tale or a straight out warning.

Word on the corridor is that he's basically tasked himself to sleep with every female teacher, adding more notches to his bedpost and undoubtedly collecting diseases as if they’re baseball cards.

“You…” the sudden voice catches you off guard, snapping you out of your thoughts as another teacher approaches “do not look like you belong here”.

Another one of the gym teachers, oh goodie. 

Considering the size of the school, there were three in total; Coach Smith aka the town bike, the other coach who teaches basketball and another new teaching addition who deals with the tennis and badminton teams. Despite not knowing the new coach, you’d like to think there’s an unspoken alliance between you two since you’re both newbies this year. 

Unfortunately, luck isn’t on your side today and it’s the one that teaches basketball that approaches you

You put your best generic smile on and shrug. “Yeah, I’m more at home in the classroom,” you agree “I’m the new teacher for Literacy studies”.

He shook his head in response “No fuckin’ kidding, English teacher, eh? They’ll slap a fancy title on anything nowadays”.

You give a small laugh in response, subtly glancing around to make sure none of the kids are in earshot. And you thought you had a potty mouth. 

“And why’re you out here? Checking out what the coaches have to offer?” he comments with a hint of amusement, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he casually leans back against nothing but air, tilting his tall frame.

“Oh I just need a quick word with Coach Smith,” you gesture in the direction of the running teacher, ignoring the latter half of his question. 

“About?”.

You try not to let his crass or nosiness annoy you.  Pushing down your slight irritation, you keep your smile in place “Just a mix up with a student we both have… he stayed late at one of my classes because we had a test, then he was late for gym, got detention, you know the drill”. 

‘Now please fuck off ,’ you so desperately want to add to the end of that sentence, but bit your tongue.

“And what?” the hint of a smirk begin to grace his face “You’re here to get the kid off the hook?”.

“Well, it was my class that kept him behind,” you reply, keeping your gaze on Coach Smith. 

That’s all you were going to say but even with your eyes focused on the other coach, you could sense the man beside you practically sizing you up. A flutter of panic pangs at your heart and for a brief moment, you wonder if this other coach thinks you’re being incompetent, or that you’re somehow in the wrong. 

“I mean, I did give Henry a note explaining why he was late but obviously that wasn’t enough for Coach Smith” you’re starting to ramble and the worst part is, you know it. 

He hums in response, nodding as if he knows all too well “So he’s being a real jackass, huh?”.

“Uh-huh, jackass” you agree, before quietly mumbling “along with a few other things”. 

You know it’s time to stop talking now. The last thing you want is to ramble on about things that are none of your business.

“Oh?” that piques his interest.

“Well, y’know… word travels fast and all that,” that rational part of your brain begs you to stay vague “small town gossip spreads like wildfire”.

“And I am just dying to know what that small town gossip is” he turns his face to you fully, giving you his undivided attention.  

Being truthful, it’s intense. His gaze is welcoming and yet it’s as if he’s waiting for you to slip up, to say the wrong thing so he can swoop in to defend his colleague.

“Oh it’s nothing really,” you quickly backtrack, every fibre in your body screaming how it’s a bad idea to gossip about another teacher “just stupid hearsay”.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the man coaxes “let me indulge a little”.

Shrugging, you look back at Coach Smith who’s still in the middle of a class and with no intention of stopping anytime soon. 

Don’t do it. It’s not worth it… but can it really be considered gossip when it’s true? 

“I’ve just been told it’s best to stay away” you answer honestly.

“ Me-ow !” he punctuates the word, a large grin on his face and undeniably revelling in the small nugget of information “is there a cat fight on the horizon? One of the other teacher’s already got her claws in him?”.

You laughs at that, mostly out of shock. “Not that I would know,” you reply “but by the sounds of it, he’s got enough claws in him as it is”.

A surprised look spreads across the coach’s face, eyebrows raised and mouth slacking open as he uses his thumb to point to Smith, mouthing “Him? Really?”.

You nod. This is going better than expected. A part of you presumed all gym teachers would be macho men with zero personality but this one’s actually charismatic.  “Guess they really call him coach for a reason,” you jibe, watching as the man’s face shifts into confusion.

“And why’s that?”.

“Well from what I’ve heard, he’s definitely surpassed the status of player… though he’s probably riddled with… y’know” you raise your eyebrows, hoping the insinuation alone would be enough to get your point across.

He chuckles, glancing back at his colleague with a sigh “His poor wife”.

By now, it looks like Coach Smith is slowing to a halt, his students quickly following suit. About time. Though he’s not completely done yet, giving his class a rundown of the lesson and squirting water into his mouth from a water bottle he’s holding a little too high above his head. 

“Yeah,” you sigh solemnly “I heard about that”. 

This piece of information was also included in your warning. Apparently Coach Smith’s wife died a few years back. Cancer. And that’s what subsequently led to his quest to fuck anything that a) has a pulse and b) has a vag. 

Damn, maybe you really are a gossip. 

"It's pretty awful, though," you mutter without thinking, continuing to ramble "I mean, from what I've heard, her side of the bed wasn't even cold and he was already crawling into the beds of other women”.

The man watches you intently, his expression growing flat and unreadable. That’s the shift you feared—the ‘you’ve said too much’ look settling into place.

“But I-“ you’re about to continue, hoping to seem more genuine in your regards when the newest coach appears. 

“Sir! Sir! Have you moved the javelins? I was supposed to use them for my ’Aerodynamics in Training’ lesson but they’re not in the storage room” he blurts out as if this is a national disaster.

The man puts up a hand to stop him “Fa–, Joey , can you not see I’m in the middle of something? And the fuck did I tell you about calling me sir all the damn time?”.

Joey, or well, Coach Joey, stumbles over his words before replying, his eyes darting between the two of them “Oh! Oh, I am so sorry sir– uh, Coach Smith,”.

You’re not too sure what Joey said after that, your brain pausing for a moment to process his words. That can’t be right.  Not when Mr Jones, the economics teacher specifically pointed at the Ken doll that’s still giving the exhausted teenages a pep talk and said that that’s Coach Smith. 

“Coach what?” you blurt, unsure whether you’ve just interrupted Joey or not. You’re surprised the words actually came out coherent, your throat growing tighter by the second. 

“Smith” Joey replies without missing a beat. The other man stays quiet and frankly, you refuse to look his way, not wanting to see the look on his face.

“What?” your generic smile graces your face yet again, a defence mechanism to hopefully stop any genuine facial expressions from leaking out “But I thought… over there… that’s Coach Smith”.

Joey gives you a reassuring smile “It’s ok, it confused me too when I got here”. 

That still doesn’t answer your question.

“He’s Coach Mark Smith,” Joey points passed the two of them and to the Ken doll “and then this is Coach Negan Smith”. He tries to put his hand on Negan’s upper arm but he quickly shrugs him off, gaze trying to catch yours.  

You refuse to meet that gaze, the reality of your fuck up sinking in. While numerous responses whizz around your head, you fail to vocalise any, instead opting to stand there utterly dumbfounded.  

Joey doesn’t notice and laughs to himself “It’s confusing, I know but it gets easier when you just associate Coach Smith with Mark and Coach Negan with… haha, well with Negan”.

Your mouth opens but you have no idea what to say or where to ever start. Not that it matters because you’re cut off by the alleged Coach (Negan) Smith. 

“Or if that doesn’t suit, you can always tell us apart with him being the clean one and me being… What did you say again? Riddled?”.

Oh dear God no.

That makes your look at him, your eyes wide with sheer embarrassment. “What?” Joey speaks up.

The look in Negan’s eye isn’t one of offence or even annoyance. He’s more pleased that he’s caught you in such an elaborate snare, a glimmer of playfulness in his intense stare that tests you endlessly. Before you can even process what to do, your instincts kick in and you use your best teacher voice to say “Henry won’t be going to detention today. He was late and that’s on me, not him so leave him be”. 

Turning on your heels, you quickly walk off and disappear back inside the school building. You don’t look back as you walk away, unwilling to look at the man you were just badmouthing to his face again.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Mondays are usually good days but considering your earlier mishap, you‘re beginning to doubt that. Thankfully, you have a few classes off so you can spend your time overthinking your recent mistake. 

Propping your head up with your hands, you look around the classroom you can now call your own. It’s one of the older rooms in the school, a bit drafty but yours nonetheless. 

With a quick knock at the door, the skeptical face of Ms. Peletier enters your peripheral vision. “Hi! Is it just you in here?,” she asks in a cheery voice, waltzing into the room. 

You give a silent nod and she drops the act.

“I don’t know why I do this to myself. I mean, the kids… it’s like they’re getting more annoying” she huffs, pulling up a chair.

Ms. Peletier, the home ec teacher usually stops by on Mondays. She has a free period at the same time as you and likes to use it venting about how much she hates kids, but also enjoys teaching them and then realizes that maybe she actually likes her job. 

It’s a love hate relationship. 

But today you’re not as eager to listen. “Have I entered the Twilight Zone?” she does another quick glance, double checking there’s no lingering teacher or student outside “Where’s the bubbly ‘Hi Carol!’ that makes me want to rip my hair out?”.

Bringing her attention back to the statue that is you, an eyebrow quirks up “Are you… moping right now?”.

“It’s been a rough morning” you admit. 

“How so?”.

“I bad mouthed another teacher,” you grimace as you explain “to the teacher”.

That doesn’t make sense to Carol, her head tilting to the side like a confused puppy “Huh?”.

You explain the situation briefly: a kid in your class stayed late because of a test but he had gym class afterwards. Despite you giving him a note explaining the delay, Negan gave him detention anyway.

Carol nods along, listening intently. 

“And he told me his gym teacher was Coach Smith, so in my head I was like ‘fuck, ok, this is the infamous womanizer guy’ ”.

“No, you’re getting them mixed up that’s-” Carol stops when she sees the look you give her, vaguely beginning to understand where this story is going.

“Well I didn’t realise that and while I was waiting for Coach Smith as in Mark Smith, I was talking to Coach Smith the second, aka Coach Negan” you want to end the story there and save yourself from reliving the trauma. 

“Ahhhh,” Carol leans back in her seat, drumming her fingers on the desk that separated them. She gives you a laid back smile “Did he ask you out? Is that where this is heading?”. 

You suppress a sigh “No, I started talking about what I thought I knew about Coach Smith but it was actually information I had on Coach Negan Smith and I basically called him a man-whore to his face”.

Carol's face turns blank as she tries to yet again process this. “There’s no way I’m hearing this right” she concludes, though the small shine of amusement in her eyes lets you know that she is in fact computing what she’s hearing. 

Deciding you may as well throw this grenade out there too, you add “Oh and I said he’s awful for screwing around right after his wife died”. Now that bomb almost makes the eyes bulge out of Carol’ head.

“You what?” she splutters, losing all composure.

“It wasn’t like anything bad, I didn't do it mockingly-”.

“ Mockingly ? Oh, you just don’t think, do you?” Whatever sense of amusement that was in Carol’s eyes is overtaken with panic.

“No! No, not mockingly, just like— casually, but obviously I wouldn’t have said it if I knew I was in front of a widower” you hurriedly clarifies “it’s not my fault it’s so confusing with all the Smith’s here!!”.

Carol sinks her head into her hands “Oh god”.  

After a moment of silence, she collects herself “So you’re never going near the gym hall or track and field again, right?”.

“Never,” you swiftly confirm “not talking to either Smith after this too… actually I think this is a good excuse to avoid gyms in general”.

Carol smiles at that, leaving the wave of panic subside. “Oh! Actually,” she takes out her phone “I keep meaning to add you to the teacher group chat. It’s awful and mainly it’s Gregory complaining about one thing or another but I’ll add you anyways!”.

A few seconds later and your phone buzzes: “You have been added to: Alexandria High’s Teacher Midlife Crisis Support Line”.

“Oh… well, that’s a cheery name,” you tilt your head “that’s… good?”.

Carol gives a small laugh as she stands, slipping her phone back into her pocket “Well, we can’t all be as creative as you Ms Literacy Studies”. You laugh, rolling your eyes as she leaves and the bell rings. Maybe today won’t be that bad. You hope that the bad start to the day just means the day will end on a high. 

But you’re wrong.

By the time your last class rolls around, everything is calm. You’ve told Henry he’s off the hook for detention, no one is acting up in your classes and there’s been no gym teachers around. Everything was calm.

“Alright guys,” you announce to the class, glancing at the clock “how’s about you start that grammar worksheet for the last ten minutes of class? If you get it done now then no homework for the night but if not, make sure it’s done by tomorrow”. 

The class immediately starts, mumbling chatter and the sounds of rummaging pencil cases filling the room. 

You look to the clock again, as if it’ll magically have moved at least five minutes. It hasn’t. But that’s ok, ten more minutes until freedom. You can do that.

“Knock knock” an unfamiliar voice enters, catching both you and your students off guard. A few heads look up to the door but none match the ‘oh fuck’ expression that is plastered across your face.

What makes it worse is that he knows it too, basking in your reaction. You try to hide your expression, quickly masking it but the smug look you’re met with tells you it’s too late for that. 

“Coach Negan,” you greet, getting it right this time “what can I do for you?”.

“I’m sure there’s plenty you could do for me” he moves deeper into the room, taking no notice of the students and shooting you a promiscuous grin you ignore. 

Making his way over to your desk, he takes his time peering around at the various trinkets that litter the surface: a mug that says “I’d rather be reading” filled with different pens, a colourful stapler, an empty bowl that was filled with sweets about a week ago, and a stress ball. 

“No sweet treats going?” he asks teasingly “well besides the obvious”. Negan winks at you, making your face scrunch up with a mixture of confusion and repugnance. 

“Is there a reason why you’re here, Coach?” this time you raise your voice a little more, hoping to remind him of the other ears in the room that are undoubtedly listening in.

Concluding that you won’t take the bait that easily, Negan gives you a firm nod “Just hear to let you know detention starts at four o’ five”.

Your eyes go to the students, most of which are focusing on their work. Of course there are some nosy ones that are hanging onto their every word, loving the idea of hearing some juicy teacher gossip. Oh god. The very reminder of gossip makes you want to shiver. 

Lowering your voice to a whisper, you lean across the desk “I already told you, Henry won’t be attending detention today”. 

You debate saying more but with Negan, simplicity seems to be key. The less you say then the less he has to pick apart or use against you in some taunting way.

“I know, I know,” he concedes “you got some big ol’ lady balls for practically demanding I let him off the hook… and for some of the other shit you said”.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Your eyes go wide but you manage to give him a glare as you scan the class, hoping no one heard him. Unfortunately, going off the number of smirks the kids are trying to hide by looking down at their worksheet, they heard. 

You want to argue back, tell him off for using such language in front of the kids you’re in charge of for the next seven minutes but instead, you take a breath. 

After all, you catch more flies with honey.

“And I would like to apologise for what I said,” you keep her voice low, just because Negan has no problem with the kids hearing his side of the conversation doesn’t mean they get to hear your response “what I said was completely inappropriate and insensitive, I’m really sorry and-“.

Looking at his watch, Negan acts as if you aren’t  even speaking let alone issuing him an apology.  “Oh shit, would you look at that, I’ve got to shoot but remember,” he loudly slaps his hands against the desk, poorly creating rhythm as he heads back to the door “you got detention at four o’ five”.

He goes to leave but you speak up again “Wait, what? Me?”.

“Yeah, you're on detention duty” he casually replies. 

No, you’re not. That kind of thing gets rostered usually at the monthly staff meetings and considering this is your first year here, they’re yet to bestow such a vital job upon you. 

“No I haven’t been scheduled for that-“ you’re seriously getting pissed with how much this guy interrupts you.

“Yes, you are, honey,” he says as if this is well known information “so don’t be late”. 

And with that, Negan disappears, leaving you more confused than before. At least he didn’t seem that pissed at you for your previous comments. Still, you don't understand how you didn’t know beforehand that you’re on detention duty or why Negan of all people would willingly seek you out to remind you. 

Before you can contemplate it too much, the bell goes and you reboot yourself back into teacher mode. 

Once everyone has packed up and left, you let out a long huff, packing up your own belongings before heading to the designated classroom for detention. With the rush of bustling kids wanting to leave, you’re able to get there fast, weaving through the current and into the barren classroom.  

Going over to the old cabinet that’s tucked away in the corner, you find the clipboard full of the names of the attendees. You skim it haphazardly, seeing if you recognise any of the names before plonking down at the desk at the top of the room. Although one of your student’s older sisters is supposed to show up, no one that you directly teach is listed, which gives you a strange sense of pride.

Pulling out your phone, your attention span forgets about the clipboard in no time. Just as you do, the phone buzzes in your hand, lighting up with a notification from Alexandria High’s Teacher Midlife Crisis Support Line.

Gregory: Friendly reminder, do not park your vehicles in other people’s spots.

Some students filter into the hall, avoiding eye contact despite the small smile you give each of them. Unsurprisingly, none of them are in a talking mood and take their seats, pulling out homework or some study material to occupy their hour with.

Paul J Monroe : good idea, stop parking in my spot

You move your hand up to cover the smirk tugging at your lips.  Gregory, the vice principal, isn't known for his popularity. His entire personality is marked by his distinct sense of entitlement and self-perseveration. It’s baffling that he somehow ended up as vice principal when his leadership style is rooted in only helping himself.

Scrolling through the list of members on the group chat, you recognize a fair amount of names. Of course Carol and Mr Monroe, the counsellor, are in there. The likes of Ms Espinosa the geography and Spanish teacher is there too, as is Mr Abrams the music teacher, both Coach Smiths and surprisingly the Chaplin, Father Stokes, is there too. Unfortunately, most of the names you don’t know, having not done much socialising since getting here.

Sasha: there was a Christmas lights installation van parked across my spot and Rosita’s, will they be there again tomorrow?

Rosita: if it’s there tomorrow I’m slashing its tires

Rosita: that’s a joke

Gregory: I hired them, they’ll be here all week to make things more festive 

While waiting to see how the others react to that, you look back at the clipboard, your gaze hardening as you look to the very top of the page. There, in black ink, is the date, followed by which school week this is and finally, the name of the teacher on duty. 

And guess what, it sure as shit isn’t your name up there.

If it isn’t for the room full of kids, you would be swearing out loud, having to bite your tongue to stop the words from actually coming out. 

That motherfucker. That sly, riddled and sleazy motherfucker. The name Coach N. Smith is at the top of the page with a horizontal line next to it for him to sign, proving that he did actually show up and do his damn job.  Yanking your phone back up, you stew silently and watch the messages flow.

Rosita: ur shitting me

Sasha: why weren’t we told about this?!

Gregory: this can be discussed tomorrow

Sasha: discussed tomorrow while they’re parked in our spots AGAIN?

Aaron: Does anyone know where we’re going for the Christmas party? Is it still on for next Friday? Need to hire a babysitter haha :)

Rosita: Gregory?? Reply??

Scrolling to the top of the group chat, you tap to see its members, noticing how it says Gregory is now offline. Typical. Thankfully, Aaron’s message moves the conversation in a new direction and teachers begin to lightly debate whether they should go to the Kingdom for the staff Christmas Party or if they should venture further afield. 

Amber: can we not go back to the Kingdom? Pretty sure I got food poisoning last year :S

Gregory: budget for Christmas party is very low this year, if anyone can plan it for next Friday then it can still go ahead. 

Rosita: what about our parking spaces? Hello???????

Rosita is once again ignored by Gregory and the topic of the Christmas party stays. You know you shouldn’t be getting such entertainment from this but watching as the teachers try to assert their points, shooting down what the others have to stay while simultaneously trying to stay as polite as possible provides some great amusement.

And, it’s extremely passive aggressive. Oh, what joy.

One of your favourite moments is the science teacher Mr Porter’s response when Gregory struck down his idea of making the Christmas Party a weekend getaway to the closest city. 

Eugene: For clarification, are you suggesting the staff members in this here group chat don’t have the sufficient financial funds to rent a hotel room for a night or two?

You want to let out a low ‘ooooo’ noise as if you’re watching a sports game. In all honesty, if you weren’t supervising detention, you probably would be making gleeful noises as you read each text. Gregory ignores Mr Porter’s accusation and instead proposes his own idea. 

Gregory: Having it at the school is the best opton, everyone can get there and it’s big enough 

You presume that’s a spelling mistake on his part. The next text comes from one of the Coach Smith’s, the one you haven’t badmouthed. 

Mark: The gym hall can definitely fit everyone

When you see Mark’s name pop up along with the thumbs up emoji he adds to his text, you go into your options for him, deciding to set yourself a little reminder of who’s who.

Mark (Coach Smith): but I’ll be taking next week off for vacay

Sherry: who’s the new number that’s been added ?

“Miss?” You look up as a student approaches with a bored face “can I borrow a pen? Or even a pencil?”.

“Oh sure!” You perk up, dropping your phone on to your lap so the student can’t see. The last thing you need is to be the teacher who leaked the mere idea of a teacher group chat being real. 

Hurriedly typing out your awkward introductory message of yourself to the group, you send it and focus on helping the student. Taking out your little pencil case, you begin rummaging around for a pen you wouldn’t mind a student ruining. 

Mark (Coach Smith): so someone else will have to help Negan set up the gym if we decide to have the party there

Sherry: oh are you the new English teacher?? I haven’t had a chance to meet you yet! hi!

After selecting a black pen, you pause, eyeing the kid with suspicion. “Wait… you spent the whole day at school without a pen or pencil?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

You look down at your messages as the student stalls to answer, rocking back and forth on his heels. There’s a strange socially awkward panic that bubbles in you when you see the new message, knowing you can’t be rude and start texting again when dealing with a student.

But at the same time, the longer you stall in answering, the more you’re convinced you’re coming across as being rude to the group chat.

The kid just shrugs “Yeah.”

“How is that even possible?” you start to ask, but the words fade as your phone buzzes again.

With a silent sigh, you hand the pen over, offering it a quiet farewell. Picking up your phone a little too eagerly, you type out a fast response to Sherry’s question.

You: Yes!! :)

Ok, maybe you went a little overkill with the exclamation points and the smiley face but that’s where panic gets ya. Now that the rush is over, you swipe your finger up a little to look at the message you missed.

Gregory: anyone willing to help plan the Christmas party?

Oh fuck. Your stomach drops as you read the order of messages again. Mark saying he’ll be gone, offering up the gym for the staff Christmas party while knowing full well he’s gone the week leading up to it and won't even be attending.

Sherry asking if you’re the new English teacher. 

Gregory, who would rather ask others to help rather than offer any help himself, wondering if someone else can help set up the party. 

And then you, enthusiastically texting in a yes. Fuck. Please no. No, no, no. That message was in response to Sherry's message!

You put your phone on the table, screen facing down as you lean back in your chair. This can’t be happening. The last person you want to be around is Negan, never mind plan a goddamn Christmas party with him!  

You take some deep breaths, hoping that your message won’t be misread. Surely, it won’t be, not to anyone who was actually paying attention to the different conversations happening.

It buzzes again, louder this time as it vibrates off the table. You don’t want to pick it up. You don’t want to see what it is and yet you still reach for it. Slowly flipping your phone to see the screen, there’s only one new message from the group chat.

It’s Gregory, calling you by your teacher name as he replies…

Gregory: great! I’ll leave it to you and Negan to sort out the finer details

———

Read Chapter 2 here!

gif made from scenepack provided by harleys.scenes on insta <3

[sophswritingthings]

PART 9 🫠🫠🫠

So you know how Mizu went to assassinate that one girl and when coming back from the successful kill that some random kid she decided to trust actually snitched on her?? (Cant trust kids for shit anymore 😔😔), well i had an idea for reader and her to fight off the army like the badass couple they are.

So when the army comes around and says their grand plan and how they are gonna wreck shit up. Mizu ofc tells Ringo to bring everyone down to the cellar to keep them safe and shit, including reader of course because reader is just a magnet for trouble atp but Reader says “absolutely not” and goes to help her wife. Since she’s an Ex-Shinobi she definitely knows how to sneak around and be stealthy so she readies herself and even makes makeshift weapons like a rope javelin and smoke screens.

So when Mizu is out struggling with her wound, reader is out killing the rest of the other stupid men because she still has anger nestled in her from her Frenemy encounter. Some of the men even recognize her to be daughter of the infamous Shinobi “black death” (or smth idk, making this part while doing trigonometry homework 😓😓). And reader just doesn’t respond and kills them heartlessly. And then she helps Mizu and they fight together with such precision it’s beautiful.

At the end of the fight, The guards who were looking for akemi found her ofc and Reader wanted help even if Akemi was threatening to kill Mizu but Mizu just stops Reader and reader is like “☹️ i wanted to help her though.” (Best i can come up with while studying and doing homework 😭😭)

pairing: mizu x fem!apothecary!reader

warning(s): heavy blood, injury, swearing

a/n: really can’t trust them little bastards anymore 😞 and not the trigonometry homework 😭 I pray for you bestie

summary: after returning from your little encounter; you find a child snitched on mizu for doing her work. the thousand claw army shows up; and you and your wife are ready to fuck shit up.

word count: 1,225 words / 6,751 characters

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bang—ban—ba—b—

your eyes flash up to the door, suddenly snapped out of your anger. 

mizu slowly gets to her feet, sliding her hat back on her head. you follow close behind—you promised never to leave your wife’s side, and you wouldn’t.

you step outside the brothel, the workers pooling outside behind you.

your eyes widen, recoiling back when you saw the thousand claw army; a young boy nestled at their side. 

mizu looked absolutely pissed when she saw the boy. 

oh, god. what now?

you turn your attention to the man, held by his hair. 

slash.

blood tricked down his throat, practically gushing onto the floor as his eyes rolled back and body went limp.

you’d seen so much death you didn’t even flinch.

mizu, promptly, threw off her overcoat, hat and glasses.

she didn’t give a shit who saw, right now; they’d all be dead soon, anyway.

“ringo,” mizu narrowed her eyes, placing an arm out protectively. “get them all downstairs.” she said in a hushed voice, ushering everyone inside as she boarded up the door. “keep them there and stand guard, don’t leave, you hear me? unless I say so you stay down there.”

everyone began being ushered downstairs, you stay still, holding your ground.

“you too,” she hissed, looking up up and down for a moment.

“oh, no.” you place a hand on her arm, “we are in this together; always have been. I know what I’m doing—two is better than one fighting a whole army, isn’t it?”

she narrows her eyes further, letting her eyebrows furrow being sighing.

“do as I say,” she whispers, “stay in the dark and stay out of sight. strike only when a few are around; never take on a whole group at once.”

you nod, squeezing her hand.

“we’ve got this, don’t worry.” 

you smile. you seemed so sure; it soothed her worries that something would happen to you—if only a little.

you slink into the darkness, pressed up against the wall. your wife is on the other side; glancing down the hall every so often. you have three kunai's in between your fingertips, and a small javelin type weapon in your other hand.

the thundering footsteps of the thousand claw army storm past you, never even stopping to look for you. after they separated, a little, mizu glanced at you—she gestured you forward.

you tossed one of the kunai's at the back of one of the men's throat; piercing through with a sharp “plunk” sound.

you took the next man, slipping past him as he attempted to swing it you—your small size coming in handy. you dash under his arm, grabbing his bicep and slashing the javelin across his throat with precision.

you may have been covered in blood, but you had plenty of pent up anger from your earlier encounter. the adrenaline of fighting was pumping through your body; you weren’t sure how long it'd been since you fought.

mizu grabbed your hand, pulling you along to the next area. you slunk into the darkness, peering around to see three more men come into your vicinity.

mizu slashed her sword across his waist, chopping one in half. you took on a different one; tossing your kunai's and pinning him to the wall with puncture wounds in his chest and legs.

you pulled them all out; smirking as he fell to the ground lifeless.

you tossed one of your kunai's to your wife, who caught it quickly—stabbing it through the warriors chest. it was laced with poison, so if the would didn’t kill him, the vile certainly would.

mizu groaned, scooting up against the wall—tucked away into a skinny hall. 

you're heart dropped—

—she was holding her stomach. four stab wounds from the claws punctured her skin.

you rush to her side, sliding onto your knees. you place pressure on her wound, slipping some bandages out of your kimono. you had no herbs or poultice right now; but as long as mizu didn’t bleed out, you'd be fine.

you leapt to your feet, leaving her to breathing heavy and struggling with her wound.

five men surrounded you.

you'd watched mizu handle the same situation with beautiful precision.

you could try.

you grabbed one of their arms, as they reared up to claw you with those metal claws of theirs—you sweat your foot under their feet, knocking them to the floor as you punctured his chest with your makeshift javelin. 

you tugged it out of his chest, turning around and slashing another’s throat—you tossed your poisoned kunai's at two others, stabbing their heads and knocking them to the floor.

you kicked the last one to the floor, digging your heal into his stomach.

you tossed the javelin down at him, letting out a scream before going limp.

“how many,” you huff, gazing at mizu, who was looking at you with almost lovesick sparkling eyes. “more?”

“plenty more..” she tried to get up, groaning as she fell back to the ground.

“careful..” you hiss, eyes narrowed. you wiped a dash of blood from your face.

“I’ll be fine,” she heaved herself to her feet, latching around you as you made your way outside. she had her weapon in one hand, your hand in her other.

you gazed at the hundreds of soldiers.

just you and your wife… fighting all them off.

seemed reasonable enough.

you hopped into battle, the two of you having each other’s backs the entire time. mizu, every so often, would pass you her weapon—and in turn you'd pass a few of your kunai's.

it was like a wedding dance; at least, your version of it, since you never had one.

you're breathing was heavy—and your entire body was soaked in blood, as was mizu’s. some of it was hers, most of it… wasn’t.

she reached out for your hand. she placed a tender kiss on top of it;

“thank you, my love. but please… never offer to fight with me again.”

her words make you giggle, placing a kiss to her cheek.

“whenever you need help, my darling, I will offer it—over and over again even if it gets me killed every time, in every universe,” you smile softly.

“mizu!”

“master!”

the two calls sound from the brothel doors, akemi and ringo, both covered in dashes off blood—come running out.

guards. warriors. more of them.

your head whips to the side; your eye widening as more guards approach. though they don’t seem violet, your hand stands readied in case they chose to be.

“we are here to collect princess akemi of kyoto,” they announced, gazing at akemi.

“no,” akemi hissed. “you won’t let them take me. right, mizu?”

mizu gazed into her eyes for a moment. she sighed, adverting her gaze.

“take her,” mizu hissed.

“what?!” 

akemi exclaimed, her voice hollering out mizu's name as she was lifted and taken away by the guards.

her screams hurt your heart, covering your ears so you didn’t have to hear them.

when it died off; you gazed at your wife.

“we should have helped her,” you murmur. “I wanted to help her.”

“we can’t help everyone we come across,” mizu settles down on the curb of the street. “she would only weigh us down; we don’t need the bounty of some stollen princess on our shoulders.”

you advert your gaze, “I suppose we do not.”

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[adrift-in-thyme]

I worked on the fic as promised and…it got out of hand. So instead of a snippet I’ll just give you guys the whole thing XD Thank you all for providing that extra nudge I needed to finish it!

Though there’s nothing too descriptive here, there are brief mentions of blood, injury, and captivity. So be careful and take care of yourselves <3

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There is another fae in their group.

Hyrule has sensed it since he joined this little band of heroes. Fairy magic is soft, gentle, easy to miss when it is not in concentrated amounts. But there is a strength to it, an unbreakable force that little else possesses.

While the dark arts are vicious, like a javelin through the heart, fairy magic is soothing and unshatterable. Dependable and comforting.

There are many different magical signatures amongst the men and boys who share his name. Some torn apart and melded back together into something stronger. Others as mighty as a gale force wind, or as swift and discerning as a rabbit, as decisive and resilient as a barricade. Still others as fierce as a soaring hawk, as vicious and protective as the wolves that prowl the forest, as crafty and quick as the mischievous foxes that sometimes play around Hyrule’s feet.

Hyrule keeps his eye on them all as they travel, discovering who they are, watching their tells, learning the ways their faces portray their emotions even when they attempt to cloak them. And he wonders who amongst them is a brother in more ways than shared spirit. Who among them flits on a pair of silken wings.

He wonders until the day Time breaks.

Their journey is a long, arduous one, treacherous and laden with pitfalls. It’s only natural that it would take its toll. Still, Time holds out impressively. Even while he studies him with the other heroes, Hyrule never sees that mask of his slip, never sees a chink in the armor he wears.

At least, not for the first three months of traveling together.

But then, one day, there is an accident. A simple slip up born of exhaustion. During a battle with a group of black-blooded beasts in Twilight’s Hyrule, Warriors doesn’t see a monster lunging for him. Not until it’s too late.

And when he crumples into a limp, bloodied heap, Time’s mask shatters.

He doesn’t manage to piece it back together for the rest of the day. Not when he carries Warriors back to camp. Not when he lays the captain down on his bed mat and helps Hyrule tend to him. Not even when Warriors comes to, groggy and sore but very much alive and very much himself.

The captain teases him about being over protective. Time’s answering smile is a hollow one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The injury had been a severe one, Hyrule won’t deny that — perhaps, more so than any of them have endured thus far. But Time seems to take it the hardest of any of them. And Hyrule can’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe there is something more behind his behavior.

Could it be that Time has been feeling the overwhelming nature of this quest the same as the rest of them, caving beneath its weight but unwilling to show it?

So, during dinner that night when Time sets aside his untouched food and slips silently away, Hyrule trails after him.

He goes a short way into the surrounding forest, footsteps soft, ears pricked for any sound of disturbance. Then, he stops, casts a quick glance around him…and disappears.

Hyrule peeks out from the cover of a nearby bush, eyes wide as he stares at the place where the old man had stood. For a long moment, he remains motionless, thoughts whirring, trying to decipher what has just happened.

Hero of Hyrule or not, people don’t simply dissipate like the morning mist. Though, with Time’s seemingly endless collection of masks, he supposes something of the sort is possible. Still…

Hyrule frowns.

There is something else here, hovering in the damp night air. A familiar magic that now drifts lazily over to him in delicate wisps.

Hyrule straightens. His brows dip further.

He knows what Time’s magic looks like, smells like, feels like. It is difficult to ignore, after all, tangled and tortured as it is. Such power is meant to flow freely. But Time’s has been grasped in hands that are not his own, grasped and mangled, suffocated, stretched to its breaking point and further, morphed into something completely unlike what it must have been at the start.

It is nauseating to behold at times. Right now, however, right now Hyrule can’t bring himself to look away. Because threaded in between the heartbreak and pain are gentle strands of the faintest blue fae magic.

The traveler steps forward. His eyes travel over the trail Time’s power has left behind, leading all the way up into the highest branches of a nearby oak. If he squints, he can make out a tiny dot among the lush leaves, shimmering emerald.

His lips part in a silent “oh.” He dares to take another step forward, then another and another, wings issuing from his back as he goes, body shrinking until it too can soar up to the haven of foliage.

Time doesn’t startle when he lands quietly on the branch. He remains sitting where he is, legs hanging over the edge into the open air, wings wafting gracefully back and forth. Hyrule stares at them, almost taken aback by their beauty.

He should have expected it, he supposes. Every fairy’s pride is their wings, after all. But Time’s unforgiving plates of armor, his dull gray tunic and obsidian trousers, the glowing marks of crimson and navy blue adorning his face – they provide such a severe air. Strength, dedication to duty, and unyielding courage are what they convey.

His wings, however, they speak of softer things, fragile things held close and treasured.

They are long, sweeping along the height of Time’s body in flowing curves like those of a butterfly. Their translucent surface is colored a deep emerald and adorned with veins of pale pink. They remind Hyrule of the vibrancy of the forest after a long, hard storm; of the look of leaves when the emerging sun caresses their dewy surfaces.

He walks closer, almost enraptured by this sight. Perhaps, he should turn away from something so vulnerable. That is likely the polite thing to do. But he has traveled far beyond politeness now, mesmerized as he is by this discovery.

And when Time says, “Hello, Hyrule,” there is nothing in his tone to communicate that this is an invasion of his privacy. On the contrary, he sounds calm, unbothered. He pats the spot beside him and slowly, Hyrule settles down upon it. Their wings nearly touch.

“So, it’s you,” he says, awkward and awestruck.

A small smile quirks the old man’s lips. His gaze remains trained on the heroes gathered far, far below them. Their laughter and chatter float up to them in bubbles of murmured joy.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says, mildly, as though this meeting is no shock. As though he has been expecting it for a long while.

Silence settles for a moment as Hyrule scrambles for what else to say.

“How?” Is all he can come up with.

Time chuckles. Hyrule is certain the sound is lighter than usual.

“I’m not sure.” He cocks his head, bangs falling aside so Hyrule can see his markings. “I have theories, of course, but I have no way to prove any of them. And those who might have been able to explain are long gone.”

His voice is good-natured enough but the words carry a weight that Hyrule can feel in his soul. He ducks his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Time shrugs. “Their fates were not your doing. There is no need for you to ache for them. Or for me.” He turns now, a smile brightening his face once more. “What about you, Hyrule? What is the nature of your transformation? Were you born with it?”

“Oh, it’s just a spell,” Hyrule replies, quickly. “Though, I’ve wondered if I was born with fae blood in me. I don’t think it would’ve worked otherwise.”

Time hums, thoughtfully. He is quiet for a moment, once more staring down at their comrades.

“I wondered why I felt the presence of one of my brethren amongst the group. But it wasn’t my place to pry. Besides, I assumed it was only a matter of time before I discovered who it was. Secrets don’t stay concealed for long in a group such as ours.” He grins. “It seems you found me first, however.”

Hyrule laughs. “It sure seems that way.”

“That isn’t why you followed me though, is it?” The old man’s gaze is sharp and discerning as he pins Hyrule with it. The traveler fights not to sink into himself beneath it.

“No.” His voice is a bit smaller than he wants it to be, embarrassment sneaking into it against his will. “It isn’t.”

Time nods and looks away again. Stance relaxed, expression guarded, he waits. Hyrule swallows, gathers his courage, and continues.

“I saw how upset you were about Wars.”

Time flinches almost imperceptibly. The walls that had gone relatively low rise again so far Hyrule is taken aback by it. Yet, he plows on anyway.

If anything, Time’s reaction validates his decision further.

“And…I saw how you tried to hide it, too. And I wanted to make sure you were okay. Because you don’t, old man, you don’t have to hide what you feel.” His gaze travels to those magnificent wings again, grander than his own, yet so similar. “Or what you are.”

“It’s dangerous,” Time murmurs. “You know that, traveler.”

Perhaps, he is talking solely about feelings and the open expression of them. But Hyrule sees a bottle anyway, brimming with desperate magic, translucent sides smeared with blood and tears, it’s top shut so tightly the air has grown thin.

“Not with us,” he says, firm despite the dizzying rush of fear the memories bring. “Not with me.”

He scoots closer. His shoulder bumps against Time’s, their wings brush. Time’s next exhale catches at the end.

To anyone else such proximity would be touching enough, a display of closeness between two brothers in arms and spirit. But Hyrule knows that to fae it means even more than that.

Wings are not only the pride of the fairy people. They are also their greatest power — and their very life. To allow someone else to touch your wings so freely is a show of trust as momentous as when Time had shown them his ocarina. Not the one embued with sacred magic and given to him by Lullaby. No, the one that is even more precious to him that even that one. The one Sariah had given him so very, very, (very, very, Hyrule adds for good measure) long ago.

The stiffness that had seeped into Time’s posture eases slightly. Hyrule feels a smile stretch across his face.

The two of them grow silent, allowing the symphony of night creatures to fill the space between them. Hyrule swings his legs, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the crickets and owls singing in time with the laughter of his brothers. Time still looks down upon them.

Watching over them, Hyrule realizes with a sudden burst of warmth.

Their leader can seem cold sometimes, distant. Little had he known the depths of his love for the heroes with whom he shared a spirit of courage.

There is much, he thinks in wonder, that he doesn’t know about the old man.

Beside him, Time sighs and exhaustion permeates it. “You all aren’t going to give up on me, are you?”

Hyrule sends him a grin. “Nope. We’re not gonna stop until we know all your secrets. All of them. And we’ll know because you’re comfortable enough with us enough to share them, because we’ve earned your trust enough to be gifted them.”

Emotion burns in Time’s eye when he turns to the traveler. His face is more vulnerable than Hyrule has ever seen it before — even when Warriors fell.

“My trust isn’t easy to earn.”

“And Hyrule isn’t easy to save.”

Time holds his gaze for a long moment. Then, he smiles. It is small, almost shy, but Hyrule knows it is a gift. The first of many, if he’s lucky.

“Well, then, I suppose you’re amply prepared for such a challenge.”

Hyrule leans in closer, pride welling within him when Time returns the gesture, and his grin grows.

Yeah. He thinks, watching with wide eyes as fairy dust floats around them. I am.

We all are.

[whencyclopedia]

Gymnasium

The Gymnasium was a Greek building originally used for athletic activities but which came, over time, to be used also as a place of study and philosophical discussion. In the Hellenistic Period, gymnasia became highly standardized both in architecture and function and continued their important role in a young male's physical and general education. They became a common feature across the Greek world and were adopted and adapted by the later Romans, eventually evolving into the huge multi-purpose complex that was the Roman baths.

Origins of the Gymnasium

The name gymnasium (gymnasion) derives from the Greek word for nudity (gymnos) as all exercise and sports were done by the male only members in the nude. The earliest recorded examples of gymnasia date to the 6th century BCE and were simple affairs consisting of an area of packed earth shaded by trees located somewhere close to a river or spring. They were especially common at sanctuary sites such as Delphi, Olympia, and Nemea.

The gymnasium may have evolved from the necessity for a dedicated space where young Greek men (ephebeia) could train and improve their fitness to make them ready for warfare. In battle they would fight as hoplites and so have to wear heavy bronze armour and carry a large bronze shield. Another view is that gymnasia were reserved only for the aristocracy and so came to be a place where men could demonstrate their physical, as well as their social, superiority to the lower, agricultural class.

The typical sports practised were wrestling, running, boxing, jumping, discus, and gymnastics. Many would have been accompanied by rhythmic music. Sports useful for warfare included archery, javelin, armed combat, and using catapults. Sports were supervised by a trainer or paidotribe, perhaps an older athlete who had gained experience at the great Games of Greece. An aleiptes was responsible for oiling and massaging members. Each year a competition might be held too, the Hermaia, where members of the gymnasium participated in a torch race and competed in three categories of events: vigor (euexia), discipline (eutaxia), and endurance (philoponia).

Continue reading...

[bestiarium]

The Ikugan [Filipino mythology]!

On the island of Mindanao in the Philippines, there are tales of a mysterious group of humanoid creatures with long tails. They are called ‘Ikugan’, which roughly translates to ‘tailed men’ and they were notorious for their ferocity in battle. Their raids supposedly drove the people on Mindanao back from the Agusan valley to Surigao. After a series of vicious raids, the Ikugan creatures disappeared without a trace, satisfied with the destruction they had caused.

Ikugan have an ape-like appearance and are covered in fine, soft fur. They are also said to have disproportionally large hands and feet, perhaps to climb trees more easily. It is said that this species harbours a deep hatred towards humans.

Their characteristic tail is used to hang from trees. When a human victim passes underneath the waiting Ikugan, they drop down to attack.

In 1931, during the American occupation of the Philippines, some of these stories were recorded. It was theorized that the monstrous tailed invaders were actually the real-life Moro people, whose raids devastated the island in the 18th and 19th century. These warriors were known for their particularly long swords, which had the appearance of tails when sheathed. There is another theory that the stories actually originated from the late 12th century, when a group of pirates raided shore settlements. These raiders supposedly threw javelins which were attached to a rope, which may or may not be the origin of the story about humanoid creatures with long tails. This is unproven and remains a theory, however.

Sources: Cruz, F. A. and Adiong, N. M., 2020, International Studies in the Philippines: Mapping New Frontiers in Theory and Practice, Routledge, 282 pp., p. 27. Ramos, M. D., 1971, Creatures of Lower Philippine Mythology, Quezon, University of the Philippines Press. (image source: AnthonyKristan on Deviantart)

[lucky-clover-gazette]

kings rising highlights & annotations

chapter 9

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

The next morning, they had to sit next to each other.

me when i’m a high school junior and had a huge falling out with my best friend who i’m totally not in love with last night but we still have to coexist in ap english class

The joint thrones today were under a silk awning, raised to protect Laurent’s milkmaid skin from the sun.

BRUTAL

Lady Vannes murmuring into the ear of a new female pet

oooooh what happened to the old one? drama alert!!

A part of Damen acknowledged, a little guiltily, that Laurent probably hadn’t deserved to get thrown around the training arena as a result.

laurent would disagree

Nikandros said, without looking next to him, ‘Your uncle has wiped out half of our army with two hundred men.’ ‘And a belt,’ said Laurent.

nikandros private twitter vent #11. incoherent violent stick figure jpegs

Damen said, ‘At least someone else has a chance to win at javelin.’

i understand that people like sports and it’s a fun thing to add to a pretty serious story but i am the buzzkill here and ugh. sports

In the stands, slaves rhythmically raised and lowered fans and brought shallow cups of wine that everyone drank except Laurent.

me getting ginger beer at the bar yesterday while the dude i was with drank an espresso martini and two whiskeys

He came forward naked, as was the custom in Akielos.

i feel like violent dangerous sports are a really good occasion to wear MORE clothing, but go off i guess

The two men scooped oil from the receptacle brought to them by the stewards, anointed their bodies with it, then they slung their arms around one another’s shoulders, and, on the signal, heaved. The crowd cheered, the men grappled, their bodies straining against each other in slippery hold after slippery hold, until Pallas finally had Elon panting, on the grass, the sounds an eruption from the crowd.

this is like the not-evil twin of the veretian court wrestling

Damen rose from the throne, and put his hand to the gold brooch at his shoulder. His garment dropped and the crowd roared its approval.

you know, damen’s lack of freaking out about some of the indignities of the veretian court make more sense now

‘Good fight,’ he said, taking his place again on the throne beside Laurent. He waved over some wine. ‘What is it?’ ‘Nothing,’ said Laurent, and found somewhere else to put his eyes.

hang in there buddy

‘What can we expect next? I really feel,’ said Vannes, ‘it might be anything.’

i love the slight disdain here

‘Who did this to you?’ ‘I did,’ Laurent said. Damen turned. Laurent stood in the entryway of the tent. He was arranged with elegant grace and his lazy, blue-eyed attention was all on Nikandros. Laurent said, ‘I meant to kill him, but my uncle wouldn’t let me.’ Nikandros took an impotent step forward but Damen already had a restraining hand on his arm. Nikandros’s hand had gone to the hilt of his sword. His eyes were on Laurent furiously. Laurent said, ‘He sucked my cock too.’ Nikandros said, ‘Exalted, I beg permission to challenge the Prince of Vere to a duel of honour for the insult that he has done to you.’ ‘Denied,’ said Damen. ‘You see?’ said Laurent. ‘He has forgiven me for the small matter of the whip. I have forgiven him for the small matter of killing my brother. All praise the alliance.’ ‘You flayed the skin from his back.’ ‘Not personally. I just watched while I had my man do it.’ Laurent said it with a fronded, long-lashed gaze. Nikandros looked physically sick with the effort of repressing his anger. ‘How many lashes was it? Fifty? One hundred? He might have died!’ Laurent said, ‘Yes, that was the idea.’

LAMEN HR COMPLAINT #8

god i FUCKING love this little confrontation. i appreciate how we can start easing into some more comedy with these specific characters, because nobody here is like actively enslaved or abused. they’re all on even footing, so shots can be fired for fun, and can be read as such. the analysis here, in short, is that damen and laurent are both insane about each other and nikandros just has to deal with it. laurent thinks it’s amusing to mess with nikandros, and to a lesser degree damen. and damen tolerates it because he knows laurent behind his performative cruelty, but can’t possibly explain that to nikandros. regardless, laurent has immunity from damen, which means he also has immunity from nikandros.

this is also a good way to show how both damen and laurent have started “settling” the matters of damen killing auguste and laurent punishing him in vere, since the last scene where both subjects were heavily referenced.

Angry as he was, Nikandros wouldn’t disobey a direct order. His training was too deeply ingrained.

i like this subtle moment. damen grew up in the same culture, yet one of his main Things in this series has always been disobeying orders he disagrees with. built different!

‘Why would you do that? He’ll defect.’ ‘He’s not going to defect. He is your most loyal servant.’ ‘So you push him to breaking point?’ ‘Should I have told him I didn’t enjoy it?’ said Laurent. ‘But I did enjoy it. I liked it most near the end, when you broke down.’

laurent calculated and performative cruelty to protect himself from being vulnerable, you know the drill by now

‘You didn’t have to come here. You could have sent a messenger.’ In the pause that followed, Laurent’s gaze shifted involuntarily sideways. A strange prickling passing over his skin, Damen realised that Laurent was looking at the polished mirror behind him at the reflection of his scars. Their eyes met again. Laurent wasn’t often caught out, but a single glance had betrayed him. They both knew it. Damen felt the hard ache of it. ‘Admiring your handiwork?’

damen: i know you came here on purpose to spend time with me alone when you totally didn’t have to laurent: [very obviously checks out damen’s bare back, and not just for the symbolism reasons] damen: you want to look at me so bad (because you have an emotional attachment to the marks and you want to torture us both about it, and also because you think i’m hot. in both cases you’re the desperate one here, i win)

‘I’ll join you after I’ve dressed. Unless you want to step closer. You can help stick in the pin.’ ‘Do it yourself,’ said Laurent.

this sounds like their prince’s gambit-era antagonistic, vaguely horny, reluctantly fond banter. we’re getting somewhere!

The fever pitch of the crowd was bloodthirsty. The okton brought that out in them, the danger, the threat of maiming. The second of two targets was hammered onto its struts, and the attendants gave the all clear. In the heat of the day, anticipation was an insect buzz, rising to a commotion on the south-western side of the field.

this is such a fucking terrible idea you are in a WAR. damen you are going to be KING. why are you risking your life to play a sports right now. it would be like if the person about to cure a disease decided to play a game of bowling with a 80% survival rate right before they finished the vaccine

Damen heard the reaction of those around him. The Veretian Prince was, at a glance, Damen’s athletic inferior. Certainly, he avoided the training fields. No Akielon had ever seen him fight, or take exercise. He had not participated in any of today’s contests. He had done nothing more than sit, elegant and relaxed, as now. ‘Veretians do not train in the okton,’ said Damen. ‘In Akielos, the okton is known as the sport of kings,’ said Makedon. ‘Our own King will take the field. Does the Prince of Vere lack the courage to ride against him?’

makedon wants that twink obliterated

Damen waited for Laurent to sidestep, to evade, to find, somehow, the words to extricate himself from the situation. The flags fluttered loudly. The stands were silent, to a man. ‘Why not?’ said Laurent.

FSIUFHSDIUFHSDF i love laurent so much it’s unreal. this is the same response you’d give if a friend asked if you wanted to get takeout on a thursday night. “yeah, why not?” mr. “probably” laurent strikes again

Mounted, Damen faced the course, holding his horse ready at the starting line. His mount shifted, fractious, eager for the horn that would signal his start. Two horses down from his own, he could see Laurent’s bright head.

their horses who are canonically in love with each other get to do homoerotic sports too!!

But the true challenge of the okton was this: if you missed, your spear might kill your opponent. If your opponent missed, you were dead.

i was going to say “thankfully there are no real-life sports that sacrifice the physical well-being and possibly lives of eager-to-impress youths looking for glory and compensation” but then i remembered american college football exists

Laurent could also throw a spear. Probably.

probably.

But all of that meant nothing in the face of the okton. Men died during the okton. Men fell, men suffered permanent injury—from a spear; from hooves after a fall. Out of the corner of his eye, Damen could see the physicians, including Paschal, who waited on the sidelines, ready to patch and sew. There was a great deal at stake for the lives of the physicians, with royalty from two countries on the field. There was a great deal at stake for everyone.

not beating the american college football allegations

Damen could not aid Laurent in the contest.

he’ll kill one of his own people by throwing a sword across a clearing to save his captor in book 2, but he won’t use his kingly authority to say “hey guys maybe let’s not put both of the army’s leaders, one of whom is the love of my life and also my divorced husband, in the hunger games right now”

There was something intellectual in the way he assessed the field, and it set him apart from the other riders. For Laurent, physical pursuits were not instinctive, and for the first time it occurred to Damen to wonder if Laurent even enjoyed them. Laurent had been bookish as a boy, before he had re-formed himself.

“he should be at the (afterschool dungeons and dragons) club”

Laurent dealt with the danger of the okton by simply behaving as though it did not exist.

that tracks externally, but i also think that inside laurent’s brain he does acknowledge it, he just has a precise threshold of acceptable risk

Instinct reacted before thought. The spear was driving towards his chest; Damen caught it out of the air, his hand closing hard around the shaft, the momentum of it wrenching his shoulder back. He absorbed it, tightening his grip with his thighs to keep himself in the saddle.

this would be even more impressive if it was not the solution to a dangerous situation you ACTIVELY MADE HAPPEN

All his attention was on the other spear, flying towards Laurent. His heart jammed in his throat. On the other side of the course, Pallas was frozen. In that stricken moment of choice, Pallas could only decide whether to dodge and risk his cowardice killing a prince, or stand his ground and receive a spear to the throat. His fate was tied to Laurent’s, and unlike Damen, he had no recourse for what to do. Laurent knew it. Like Damen, Laurent had seen it early—had seen the strut collapse, had judged the outcome. In the handful of extra seconds that this afforded him, Laurent acted without hesitation. He released his reins—and as Damen watched, as the spear flew right for him—he jumped, not out of the way, but into the path of the spear, leaping from his horse to Pallas’s, dragging them both to the left. Pallas swayed, shocked, and Laurent bodily kept him down low in the saddle. The spear sailed past them and landed in the tufted grass like a javelin.

an akielion wouldn’t think to do THAT, would they!!

(also, love the little parallel to prince’s gambit, with damen ripping the grate out of the wall and laurent’s meticulous scheming. here it’s not as much a competition as it is a mutual/cooperative victory, with damen stopping the javelin mid-air and laurent intelligently evading the other one headed towards him)

The crowd went wild. Laurent ignored it. Laurent reached down and neatly filched Pallas’s last spear for himself. And, keeping Pallas’s horse at a gallop—as the sounds of the crowd swelled to a crescendo—he threw it, sending it flying right into the centre of the final target. Completing the okton one spear ahead of Pallas and of Damen, Laurent drew his horse up in a little circle, and met Damen’s gaze, his pale brows rising, as if to say, ‘Well?’ Damen grinned. He hefted the spear he had caught, and from where he was on the far side of the course, threw; let it go sailing over the full, impossible length of the field, to thunk into the target alongside Laurent’s spear, where it rested, quivering. Pandemonium.

they are both That Bitch. perfect for each other, and now everyone knows it (kinda) <3

After, they crowned each other with laurels.

cute

There was a warmth in his chest whenever he looked at Laurent. He didn’t look often for that reason.

Their men would ride out unified, and if there was a crack down the centre, no one knew about it. He and Laurent were good at pretending.

no they’re not. they’re just becoming more entertaining and endearing than annoying and frustrating, so people are more likely to listen to them

Laurent took his place on one of the lounging couches like he was born to it. Damen sat alongside him.

and all was right with the universe

The whole room went silent. Makedon and Laurent faced one another. The silence stretched out. ‘You have the mind of a snake,’ Makedon said. ‘You have the mind of an old bull,’ said Laurent. They stared at one another. After a long moment, Makedon waved at the slave, who came forward with a fat-bellied bottle of Akielon spirits and two shallow cups. ‘I will drink with you,’ said Makedon.

i love this unlikely friendship. laurent is being socialized like a feral kitten

Laurent glanced at the wine that the slave had poured, and Damen knew with absolute certainty that if it was wine, Laurent wasn’t going to drink. Damen braced himself for the moment when every scrap of goodwill that Laurent had garnered for himself was thrown away—as every tenet of Akielon hospitality was insulted, and Makedon swept forever out of the hall. Laurent picked up the cup in front of him, drained it, then returned it to the table. Makedon gave a slow nod of approval, lifted his own cup, downed it. And said, ‘Again.’

extremely loud airhorn goes off SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS

Later, when a great many overturned cups scattered the low table, Makedon leaned forward and told Laurent he must try griva, the drink from his own region, and Laurent downed it and said it tasted like swill, and Makedon said, ‘Ha, ha, true!’ Later, Makedon told the story of his first games, when Ephagin won the okton, and the bannermen grew misty-eyed, and everyone had another drink. Later, everyone roared when Laurent was able to balance three empty cups on top of each other, while Makedon’s cups fell over.

is this just what frat parties are like?

Laurent maintained a scrupulous posture until they were all gone, his eyes dilated, his cheeks slightly flushed. Damen spread his arm over the back of his own seat and waited. After a long moment, Laurent said, ‘I’m going to need some help standing up.’

i love that damen just Waited. he knew. he wanted laurent to admit it. they’re so funny

He wasn’t expecting to receive Laurent’s full weight, but he did, a warm arm slung around his neck, and he was suddenly breathless with the feeling of Laurent in his arms. His hands came up to steady Laurent’s waist, his heart behaving strangely. It was sweetly, impossibly illicit. He felt the ache in his chest. Damen said, ‘The Prince and I are retiring,’ and waved the lingering slaves out. ‘It’s this way,’ said Laurent. ‘Probably.’

‘Is today the first time you’ve been beaten in an okton?’ ‘Technically, it was a draw,’ said Damen. ‘Technically. I told you I was quite good at riding. I used to beat Auguste all the time when we raced at Chastillon. It took me until I was nine to realise he was letting me win. I just thought I had a very fast pony. You’re smiling.’ He was smiling.

drunk laurent happily telling damen about auguste :’) also the “you’re smiling” is so adorable, i love how we’re getting some dorky soft laurent finally. he contains multitudes. this, like, “suddenly aware that he’s being cute and appreciated for it, slightly indignant but also allowing it because it’s damen who thinks he’s cute” thing is wonderful and tbh i hope i can someday allow myself to be like that too :)

‘Am I talking too much? I can’t hold alcohol at all.’ ‘I can see that.’ ‘It’s my fault. I never drink. I should have realised I’d need to, with men like these, and made an effort to . . . build up some sort of tolerance . . .’ He was serious. ‘Is that how your mind works?’ said Damen. ‘And what do you mean, you never drink?

drunk laurent is so funny. and i love how damen is amused, endeared, and absolutely fascinated by the inner workings of this man. me too.

also, it's insane that laurent would ever ask if he's talking too much. taking too much is like his entire thing

side note: this is 100% how i am when i use any kind of mind-altering substances, like a sedative before a root canal. i remember detailing how i felt in my notes app at the time and then reading it later and being both impressed by the determination to remain incoherent and amused by the inserted notes of “why am i laughing” “why is everything funny”

You were drunk the first night I met you.’ ‘I made an exception,’ said Laurent, ‘that night. Two and a half bottles. I had to force myself to get it down. I thought it would be easier drunk.’ ‘You thought what would be easier?’ said Damen. ‘“What”?’ said Laurent. ‘You.’ Damen felt the hairs rise over his whole body. Laurent said it softly, and as though it was obvious, his blue eyes a little hazy, his arm still around Damen’s neck. They were gazing at one another, halted in the half-light of the passage. ‘My Akielon bed slave,’ said Laurent, ‘named for the man who killed my brother.’

“no shit, i got drunk”

It wasn’t unusual for two young men to wander the halls together, swaying, after a revel—even among princes—and Damen could pretend for a moment that they were what they seemed to be: brothers in arms. Friends.

you guys got publicly married-divorced and laurent told an entire army that you fucked each other multiple times. you wear matching arm cuffs. even your horses are in love. be so serious rn

The guards on either side of the entrance were too well trained to react to the presence of royalty leaning all over each other.

They Pretend They Do Not See It (not an HR complain bc they’re not really bothering anyone or breaking rules)

‘No one is to enter,’ Damen ordered the guards. He was aware of the implication—Damianos entering a bedchamber with a young man in his arms and ordering everyone out—and he ignored it. If Isander suddenly had a startling reason why the frigid Prince of Vere had foregone his services, so be it.

oh nooooo what a shame if isander backed off from your man, what an unintended and unfortunate consequence, oh nooooooo

Laurent, intensely private, would not want his household present while he dealt with the effects of a night’s worth of drinking.

just got a vision of laurent as heather chandler in the hangover/death scene. wearing that cunty little robe and talking shit

Laurent was going to wake with a blinding headache fuelling his corrosive tongue, and pity anyone who ran into him then. As for Damen, he was going to give Laurent a push in the small of his back and send him staggering the four steps to the bed. Damen unlooped Laurent’s arm from his neck, disengaged himself. Laurent took a step under his own power, and lifted a hand to his jacket, blinking. ‘Attend me,’ Laurent said, unthinkingly. ‘For old time’s sake?’ said Damen. It was a mistake to say that. He stepped forward and put his hands on the ties of Laurent’s jacket. He began to draw the ties from their moorings. He felt the curve of Laurent’s ribcage as the tie threaded through its eye. The jacket tangled at Laurent’s wrist. It took some effort to get it off, disordering Laurent’s shirt. Damen stopped, his hands still inside the jacket.

:)

Under the fine fabric of Laurent’s shirt, Paschal had bound Laurent’s shoulder to strengthen it. He saw it with a pang. It was something Laurent would not have let him see sober, a keen breach of privacy. He thought of sixteen spears thrown, with a constant effort of arm and shoulder, after rough exertion the day before.

fuck, that’s right. damn laurent

Damen took a step back, said: ‘Now you can say you were served by the King of Akielos.’ ‘I could say that anyway.’

he may be white girl wasted but he’s still our laurent

Lamp-lit, the room was filled with orange light, revealing its simple furnishings, the low chairs, the wall table with its bowl of fresh-picked fruit.

this time, the fruit basket guy just showed the kitchen staff a bunch of ao3 fics tagged “in vino veritas” and told them to make it work

Laurent was a different presence in his white undershirt.

makes him sound like a cryptid. blonde man jumpscare

They were gazing at each other.

we know.

‘I miss you,’ said Laurent. ‘I miss our conversations.’

he would not have admitted this under torture

(also, i really like how he misses their conversations first and foremost. laurent really does love damen for his mind and heart, more than anything else. damen is the same, but he's a lot more vocally into the other parts of laurent too)

It was too much. He remembered being strapped to the post and half killed; sober, Laurent had made the line very clear, and he was aware that he had crossed it, they both had.

damen is still afraid to potentially take advantage of laurent, especially because of what happened the first time laurent interpreted his advances in such a light (ow)

‘You’re drunk,’ said Damen. ‘You’re not yourself.’ He said, ‘I should take you to bed.’ ‘Then, take me,’ said Laurent.

Laurent lay where Damen put him, on his back in a half-open shirt, his hair tumbled, his expression unguarded. His knee was pushed out to the side, his breathing was slow as one in sleep, the thin fabric of his shirt lay against his skin, rising and falling with it. ‘You don’t like me like this?’

first thing, good for him. second thing, not good for him, because trauma, and the fact that he sees himself as a sexual object (i went a lot more into this during the chapter 7 re-analysis)

‘You’re really . . . not yourself.’ ‘Aren’t I?’

i do think damen means this as a “you could punish me for taking advantage,” but i also think there is the fact that damen doesn’t want a version of laurent who isn’t in his right mind (like slaves, who aren’t given the ability to have minds of their own). this calls back to the whole “you like it simple” thing in chapter 7, and it’s pretty satisfying to see damen prove laurent wrong!

‘I tried to kill you. I can’t seem to go through with it. You keep overturning all my plans.’

said with hearts in his eyes <3

Damen found a water pitcher and poured water into a shallow cup that he brought to the low table by Laurent’s bed. Then he emptied the fruit bowl of fruit and put it on the floor alongside, to be used as a drunk soldier might use an empty helmet.

THEY WORKED HARD ON THAT THEMATICALLY RELEVANT FRUIT BASKET >:( although perhaps this is its true thematic relevance? a means of damen helping laurent care for himself in recovery?

‘Laurent. Sleep it off. In the morning, you can punish us both. Or forget this ever happened. Or pretend to.’ He did all of this quite adeptly,

at least he’s getting more self-aware about his own blind spots, or at least his ability to have them

Laurent, falling through scattered thoughts into sleep, said, ‘Yes, uncle.’

i think this line honestly might have been a step too far. not necessarily because it’s a bad thing for laurent to say, i get that it makes sense for him to associate this kind of vulnerability with [redacted], and it’s even possible that laurent doesn’t drink now because the regent got him drunk before he [redacted].

why i think it miiiiiiight not work, is the fact that damen doesn’t oh fuck wait i JUST made note of a line where damen acknowledges how he can “quite adeptly” ignore things, literally a few sentences ago. i can’t even say he would have noticed, or made note of it, because that is his character. and the irony is like right there on the page. it’s frustrating to read, but it’s an intentional choice. well played as usual!

[rhapsodynew]

#everything you need to know about rock

Keith Richards.

The whale had to literally "grow up to be an instrument." Grandpa Gus, a jazz musician, teased his grandson's interest by hanging an acoustic guitar on a higher wall with the words : "When you get it, I'll let you play."

UK rock musicians are a friendly community where everyone knows each other. Every talented guitarist became famous two or three weeks after his appearance in London. John Wetton did not stay idle for long after the collapse of King Crimson. One day he received an envelope with an invitation to attend a rehearsal of the famous band "Jurai Hip", which needed a professional bass guitarist. In early 1975, Yuri Hip lost one of its musicians, Gary Thane, who died of a drug overdose. John Wetton replaced him, and very successfully. The appearance of an experienced musician in the band changed the atmosphere radically. John, a powerful generator of new ideas, became the real leader of the group.

John Anderson's most famous project after the Yes band was the duo Jon and Vangelis — with the legendary keyboardist and film composer. They first crossed paths back in the mid-70s, and then we'll give the floor to John:

So, I got Vangelis's phone number, he lived in Paris, I went and called him. He said (feigning a rude Greek accent) "Hello." I said, "My name is John Anderson." He asked: "What?" I replied: "I sing in a band called Yes." He said: "Are you a singer? Well, come on over." And I came. I was greeted by a tall and sturdy man in a long caftan. He had a bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. I followed him to a luxurious apartment that was located near the Champs-Elysees. We walked down the long hallway leading to the living room. And then Vangelis took out a bow, pulled the string and shot an arrow along the corridor — it hit the open window exactly. I said: "Vangelis, you could have killed someone." He said, "Oh, don't worry, I'm Greek." I said: "I know you're Greek, but damn..." And he was already busy at the stove. In general, I was crazy about this reaction."

The story of the song "The End" by The Doors.

According to the band members, this song was conceived as an ordinary farewell song after Jim Morrison broke up with his girlfriend Mary Werbelow. During the creative process, however, it gradually became more complicated and modified, overgrown with universal images.

The album version consists of two glued parts. The second, which appeared later, the "Oedipus" part was added to the first directly from the words "The killer awoke before dawn", which can be detected by changing the sound when listening carefully. The song was recorded the morning after Morrison's next "frenzy", possibly still under the influence of drugs. Morrison replaced the censored "fuck you" in the "oedipal" part with an inarticulate mumble.

The song is included in the list of the top five hundred according to Rolling Stone magazine (No. 328); the guitar solo of the song is ranked 93rd in the list of the 100 best guitar solos according to Guitar World magazine.

Richie Blackmore.

During his school years, Richie was actively involved in javelin throwing and swimming. Richie hated his studies and teachers for their formalism and suppression of non-standard thinking among students.

Roger Taylor and his mini-replica, drawn using words from his songs.

[javelinbk]

Ringo’s ‘I got you girl’ hand: a study

[professionalranter31]

I have more general headcannons for the Overwatch heroes

Bastion has yet to really figure out their gender, they identify as he/him currently because of their relationship with Torbjorn but they are still discovering parts about who they are

Bob used to have a voice but Ashe’s parents had it removed when Ashe started to treat Bob as her parent instead of them, it had the opposite effect that they had intended. Ashe is determined to find a copy of Bob’s voice so he can tell her his stories again and talk to her while he makes meals and hum to her when she just needs a hug

When Efi began to create Orisa’s Javelin update she let Orisa pick out her own hairstyle, there are several hair styles stored away because Orisa went slightly overboard with picking one out, Efi is currently debating getting into selling hair styles to Omnics she’s made so many that she’s become that good

Brigitte had a habit growing up of trying to make mech suits for various animals, from a jet pack mech for a cat to a flying suit for a squirrel, Torbjorn already warned Bastion that she may try to do this with Ganymede, but he also knows that Reinhardt encourages the behavior

Widowmaker’s brainwashing did not simply affect her current emotions, the way that the brainwashers ensured it worked was that they altered her memories of her past emotions so that she felt like she was faking them instead of actually feeling them. Once that process was done then they implanted that she only feels real emotions when she kills someone and implanted the urge to kill Gerard. It also has to be stated that barely anyone knows that she is actually brainwashed, the only people who do are those that brainwashed her, some of them are dead, and Doomfist. So most people thinks this is the real Amelie instead of the fake. Angela and a few others just thinks she suffered a psychotic breakdown

Ana has a small holo disk that holds articles about all of Fareeha’s achievements, from her promotions to her completed missions, everything. Fareeha does not know about this

Ramattra has been analyzing certain individuals in order to create generals for Null Sector, or at the very least super soldiers (this is in reference to the Null Sector skins some heroes have, I want all of them to be canon to the lore)

Sombra hates hacking Omnics, the first time she tried it felt so wrong that she ended up getting sick. The issue that arises is that with manipulations there is always some sort of choice, no matter how much of an illusion one may be, but hacking an Omnic takes away all choice, and Sombra hates that because it makes her feel like the people she’s hunting down to uncover the conspiracy. She was sick for several days after she hacked several Omnics in Numbani for Doomfist

D.Va is a really good at making meals, and I mean like from scratch, it was something she learned to do when first entering the streaming scene because she didn’t want to become reliant on cup noodles and snacks for sustenance, which is ironic because she absolutely sucks at cooking games, which is made further ironic because Tracer, who can’t make a meal to save her life is amazing at cooking games

Doomfist’s philosophy was born when he lost his arm, he cried out for help but no one came even though he could see that people heard him, but no effort was made to save him. He had to force himself out of the rubble pinning him down, and forcefully tearing his trapped arm off to get out. That is when his philosophy first began to develop

Lifeweaver is constantly studying plants to try and find new effects he could create with his biolight that could help people, but the first plants he researched after he left Vishkar were some of Satya’s favorites. She had a small garden that she would trim and keep from overgrowing, with a bonsai tree to round it all together. The first plants he designed and created after leaving Vishkar and joining the Arcology were from that garden, he keeps a replica in his room to remember his best friend

[oh-so-romantically-hopeless]

The slight weight in his hands is familiar. It's always been familiar, since the first time he'd managed to bring a suitable weapon into existence. The first time he could remember anyways.

The fizzling of magic against his gloved hands is almost like warmth. The sensation of his magic being drawn from his person into his only does to make it feel like another part of himself, another limb. Maybe it was, in an odd sort of way. It was his after all.

He'd tried other things, trying to gauge which would be the best for him. The best to complete his work.

-

First a bow. It'd be elegant, long ranged, and quick. His namesake used one, how hard could it possibly be?

Much harder than it'd looked initially. He'd ended up with bruised fingers from recoil, an arrow to the foot, and wounded pride. Maybe... The bow was more suited to others anyways.

Next had been a sword, summoned of his own magic (he'd learned since the first attempt that his own was far better suited). That had been too unwieldy, clumsy, and looked horrifying when he used it. He didn't want to stab anyone, even if it was harmless usually it looked... Weird.

Next, a javelin. Long range, but much too big for what he needed. He really needed to find something that didn't look like he was committing murder.

He couldn't quite understand how this came so easily to the others! Not everyone had access to standard skeleton magic, he knew that, he'd seen it with his own eyelights! Eyelight.

They usually made do with other things, and knew what to do with them instinctively. Almost beautifully, like a dance instead of weaponry.

Maybe a few of them were older than him... Much older... With centuries of practice. But even baby bones seemed to handle their magic better than he had in months of attempts!

The whispers of quitting had begun to linger in the back of his mind. It'd be far easier to give up than be thwarted at nearly every turn. Leave this behind, leave his purpose behind in favor of a comfier, less taxing existence.

An eternal failure.

Now... Cupid could let a lot of things pass. Being hunted for sport by other outcodes? He was faster, and had a decent enough hold on his other forms of magic to escape.

Strung up by the multiverse's most volatile destroyer? He'd managed to talk his way out! Sort of!

Stuck in an uncomfortable situation? He could always find the positive in it! The silver lining of any stormy cloud! A constant optimist of his own will and power!

But, he could not- No. He would not be a failure. After all. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again, right?

In the end it'd taken less effort than he thought to get him there. That instinct he'd watched come to the others. What'd he'd been so envious of.

The end of an exhausting day, curled up in the soft pile of blankets he called a bed, watching whisps of his magic flow around his fingers in some manner of sleepy entertainment.

He'd only closed his socket for a moment, letting the warm, familiar fizzle continue to rest in his palm. Only to open it when instead of flowing, it decided to settle into his palm. Heavier, with the same quality, familiar.

He never questioned why it'd formed that way, a firearm that looked like it came out of one of the various alternates of "Mew Mew Kissy Cutie". But he had it, and he loved it. The right weight, long range, and far subtler than anything else he'd tried.

He'd put it to good use.

-

It hasn't been too long since then, but he's already become creative with it. A singular pistol to doubles, to a shotgun, to more. Channeling his more useful, and common, magic through it.

He keeps his hands steady, target right in view. The perfect shot! Pride settles in his chest, he'd gotten so far with it! Once he knew what he was doing of course!

It was only a pairing of friends, instilling platonic interest. Nothing that'd harm anyone, though his magic was rarely used for that. He'd done far too much study, enough to be sure that the two of them would be good for each other.

He lets the fizzling magic grow against his palms, warming up against him as it charged. Finger curling around the trigger in anticipation. Pulled back with the utmost caution.

The culmination of all his effort, his will.

A perfect shot.

[journeytothewestresearch]

The Crow's Nest Chan Master of JTTW

I am reading back through Journey to the West (Xiyouji, 西遊記) and was reminded of a strange, seemingly throwaway character who appears at the end of chapter 19, the "Crow's Nest Chan Master" (Wuchao chanshi, 烏巢禪師). He is described as an accomplished cultivator who lives in a juniper tree nest on Pagoda Mountain (Futu shan, 浮屠山), just beyond the border of Tibet (Wusicang, 烏斯藏). Zhu Bajie claims the master once asked him to jointly practice austerities, but the pig-spirit passed on the opportunity. Flash back to the present, and the pilgrims pass into his domain. After a brief chat, the Crow's Nest Chan master orally passes on the Heart Sutra (Xin jing, 心經) to Tripitaka.

There are two things that interest me about the Chan Master. The first is his magical abilities. Sun Wukong is offended by the monk but fails to hit him with his staff:

Enraged, Pilgrim lifted his iron rod and thrust it upward violently, but garlands of blooming lotus flowers were seen together with a thousand-layered shield of auspicious clouds. Though Pilgrim might have the strength to overturn rivers and seas, he could not catch hold of even one strand of the crow's nest (Wu & Yu, 2012, vol. 1, p. 391).

This reminds me of an event from Acts of the Buddha (Sk: Buddhacarita; Ch: Fo suoxing za, 佛所行讚, 2nd-century), an ancient biography of the Buddha:

The host of Mara hastening, as arranged, each one exerting his utmost force, taking each other’s place in turns, threatening every moment to destroy [the Buddha, but] … Their flying spears, lances, and javelins, stuck fast in space, refusing to descend; the angry thunderdrops and mighty hail, with these, were changed into five-colour’d lotus flowers…” (Beal, 1883, pp. 152 and 153).

This points to the Crow's Nest Chan Master having great holy powers.

The second thing that interests me is that he is based on a historical monk, Niaoke Daolin (鳥窠道林, lit: "Bird's Nest" Daolin; 741–824). Here is his full biography from the Records of the Transmission of the Lamp (Jingde chuandenglu, 景德傳燈錄, 1004 to 1007):

Chan master Niaoke Daolin ... was from Fuyang in Hangzhou and his family name was Pan. His mother, whose maiden name was Zhu, once dreamt of the rays of the sun entering her mouth, after which she conceived. When the baby was born a strange fragrance pervaded the room, so the name ‘Fragrant Light’ was given to the boy. He left the home life at the age of nine and received the full precepts at the Guoyuan Temple in Jing (Jingling, Hubei) when he was twenty-one years old. Later he went to the Ximing Monastery in Chang’an to study the Huayan Jing (Avatasaka Sūtra) and the Śāstra on the Arising of Faith (Śraddhotpada Śāstra, Aśvagosa) under the Dharma Teacher Fuli, who also introduced him to the Song of the Real and Unreal, and had him practise meditation. Once Niaoke asked Fuli, ‘Could you say how one meditates and how to exercise the heart?’ Teacher Fuli was silent for a long time, so then the master bowed three times and withdrew. It happened that at this time Tang Emperor Taizong had called the First Teacher in the Empire [Daoqin] of Jing Mountain to the Imperial Palace and Daolin went to pay him a formal visit, obtaining the True Dharma from him. Returning south the master first came to the Yongfu Temple on Mount Gu (Zhejiang), where there was a stūpa dedicated to the Pratyekabuddhas. At this time both monks and laymen were gathering there for a Dharma-talk. The master also entered the hall, carrying his walking stick, which emitted a clicking sound. There was a Dharma-teacher present from a temple called Lingying, whose name was Taoguang, and who asked the master, ‘Why make such a sound in this Dharma-meeting?’ ‘Without making a sound who would know that it was a Dharmameeting?’ replied the master. Later, on Qinwang Mountain, the master saw an old pine tree with lush foliage, its branches shaped like a lid, so he settled himself there, in the tree, which is why the people of that time called him Chan Master Niaoke (Bird’s Nest). Then magpies made their nest by the master’s side and became quite tame through the intimacy with a human – so he was also referred to as the Magpie Nest Monk. One day the master’s attendant Huitong suddenly wished to take his leave. ‘Where are you off to then?’ asked the master. ‘Huitong left the home life for the sake of the Dharma, but the venerable monk has not let fall one word of instruction, so now it’s a question of going here and there to study the Buddha-dharma,’ replied Huitong. ‘If it could be said that there is Buddha-dharma,’ said the master, ‘I also have a little here,’ whereupon he plucked a hair from the robe he was wearing and blew it away. Suddenly Huitong understood the deep meaning. During the Yuan reign period (806-820 CE) Bai Juyi was appointed governor of this commandery and so went to the mountain to pay the master a courtesy call. He asked the master, ‘Is not the Chan Master’s residing here very dangerous?’ ‘Is not your Excellency’s position even more so?’ countered the master. ‘Your humble student’s place is to keep the peace along the waterways and in the mountains. What danger is there in that?’ asked Bai Juyi. ‘When wood and fire meet there is ignition – the nature of thinking is endless,’ replied the master, ‘so how can there not be danger?’ ‘What is the essence of the Buddha-dharma?’ asked Bai. ‘To refrain from all evil and do all that is good,’ answered the master. ‘A three-year-old child already knows these words,’ said Bai. ‘Although a three-year-old can say them, an old man of eighty can’t put them into practice!’ countered the master. Bai then made obeisance. In the fourth year, during the tenth day of the second month of the reign period Changqing (824 CE), the master said to his attendant, ‘Now my time is up.’ And having spoken he sat on his cushion and passed away. He was eighty-four years old and had been a monk for sixty-three years. (Textual note: Some say the master’s name was Yuanxiu, but this is probably his posthumous name.) (Whitfiled, n.d., pp. 56-58).

Sources:

Beal, S. (Trans.). (1883). The Fo-sho-hing-tsan-king: A Life of Buddha by Asvaghosha Bodhisattva. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Retrieved from https://archive.org/details/foshohingtsankin00asva/mode/2up.

Whitfiled, R. S. (Trans.). (n.d.). Records of the Transmission of the Lamp: Volume 2 - The Early Masters. Hokun Trust. Retrieved from https://terebess.hu/zen/mesterek/Lamp2.pdf

Wu, C., & Yu, A. C. (2012). The Journey to the West (Vols. 1-4) (Rev. ed.). Chicago, Illinois: University of Chicago Press.

[spadesofgrass]

Because I have a hard time deciding what I should work on next, here's a poll lmao

*ensues (can't change poll smh)