#frys comps

[n-a-gindustries]

j&w redraw of a ss of fry + laurie

(ss under the cut :p)

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2025: ODD THOMAS by Dean Koontz.

This was a reread for me! I remembered it being An Inspiration for one of my own novels (which I'm revising now, which is why I am Returning To My Inspiration Roots), but hooo boy did I forget Exactly How Influential it was. The syntax, the tone, specific images ("apocalyptic crimson," neon and sixth sense, aimless wandering for a guiding Feeling about bad things, hello????)--Odd Thomas is 100% Driscoll's precursor, and I think they'd be friends!

Odd is a fantastic fry-cook who can also see dead people (they don't speak)(he doesn't know why)(he helps them when he can) and strange shadow creatures that portend horrible violence. He gets premonitions and weird feelings, and he uses those to try to stop a massacre that's been haunting his dreams for years. (The Goodreads blurb is better; I'm not sure how to distill this sanely, but I love it so much--it's weird, it's fucked up, it's funny, it's sweet, it's unhinged.)

Overall, this held up well! There was more fatphobia than I remembered (published in 2003 whomst??), but I do still really love Odd, and it hurt A Lot to know what was coming--couple instances of neat foreshadowing that I didn't pick up on my first read, and I was still delighted by many of the phrasings and humor. Still an all-time fave series for me, and I'm glad I revisited it!

[silentscrying]

🎸 out of my mind ! 💿 track four: a conflict of interest

guitarist!ino x drummer!reader

summary: it's the annual battle of the bands at the fix, your college campus's iconic live music bar, and this year you're taking the stage as the drummer for indie rock group cursed technique. you know the competition is strong, but no part of you is ready for lead singer and guitarist takuma ino. you lock eyes at the edge of the stage, and something starts—something that might make you feel alive even more than the beat of the drums.

warnings: language, MIDTERMS, alcohol, PTSD/trauma, panic attack, naoya, discussion of car crash (not directly described), mention of deceased parent, literal wholesome sleeping together. || sfw. 8.4k words.

YOU’VE ALWAYS LOVED fall—the sharp, cool note that tacks itself onto the breeze, the crunch of leaves beneath the wheels of your longboard, the early sunsets over the shapes of the campus skyline. Usually, a week this beautiful would find you outside enjoying it. But for the same reason that you haven’t gotten Takuma alone since Saturday, you’ve been cooped up indoors, frying your brain.

The problem is midterms.

The week is a blur of class and homework and reporting and rehearsals, and you hardly ever see Takuma, or really anyone outside of your classes and rehearsals, save for the brief comings and goings of your housemates at strange hours of the day. You’re all drowning in work, and any wish you have of talking to Takuma without the rest of his band present washes itself away in an avalanche of assignments and emails and post-it note to-do lists all over your desk.

When you see him with Megumi and Yuji and Kirara, the both of you dance around all the things you want to say. Because you have to. You don’t have time to flesh this out, put a label on it.

You and Toge spend hours wrapping up your project story. Your comp midterm is eight to nine double-spaced pages of hell, excluding citations, and on top of it you’re balancing media law case studies and your elective comparative lit class.

And this is one of your lighter semesters.

Your housemates don’t have it any easier, Yuta and Maki wrapped up in senior capstone proposals, Nobara grinding her way through the rest of her gen. eds and practicing marketing presentations in the mirror, even Toge scrambling to get work done.

Between cramming and writing and squeezing naps in wherever you can, you and Takuma orbit around the unspoken truth of your kiss on the roof, borderline flirty but never crossing that line. Not over the phone.

you: how goes the algorithming you: or whatever the fuck takuma: I’M DYING takuma: KM GOING CROSSEYED takuma: havent touched grass in days. eons even you: :( same you: we’ll touch grass when this is over takuma: if it snows i will literally dig it up for you istg

You laugh despite yourself, sighing as you lean back in your desk chair, looking out the window. God, you want to kiss this boy again. Fuck school, fuck your busy schedules. Christ, you can’t believe it’s only Wednesday.

you: aw for me takuma: anything for you🫡

It shouldn’t make you blush so furiously in the privacy of your own room, but it does.

A soft knock on the doorframe draws your attention, and you spin in your chair to find Yuta leaning there. His dark hair is a mess, like he’s just taken off a hat, and his cheeks are red with the bite of cold air. He must’ve just gotten home.

“Yuta!”

“Hey.” He grins, holds up his phone so you can see the time. “You eaten yet?” It’s a rhetorical question. You shake your head, recognizing the call to action for what it is, and close your laptop, joining him at the doorway. You need a break, anyway—you just wrapped up a draft of a paper, and you need to do something else before you look it over with fresh eyes.

“Wanna make stir fry?” you ask, and Yuta lights up.

“Read my mind.”

The kitchen is cast in gold as the sun sinks over the rooftops, and you smile at the little hello, my name is stickers on Yuta’s plants in the windowsill. As the two of you grab bowls and pans and ingredients from the fridge, you realize you haven’t really spent one-on-one time with him in a while. You’ve missed it.

“We haven’t done this in forever,” you say, tossing a green pepper over your shoulder. He catches it with one hand and puts it on the cutting board.

“I know,” he laughs, gentle in the same way that everything Yuta does is gentle, and you’re suddenly struck with the horrible thought of how much you’re going to miss him next year. “I feel like we haven’t had any one-on-one time recently. But I’ve been meaning to, uh… well, I should thank you, for giving me that time with Maki. I don’t know that I’d have made a move if not for you.”

“So you’re the one who made the move?” You grin, elbowing him fondly. “Maki wasn’t very forthcoming with the details.”

“I wouldn’t say I made the first move,” he admits. “I started making dinner, and then she started scribbling on something over by the plants. And I was so confused, and then I realized she’d bought these.” He gestures to the plant name tags, a fond smile on his face. Half the handwriting is Yuta’s loopy scrawl, and the other half is Maki’s more jagged counterpart. “She knew all their names. Which is crazy. Sometimes I barely remember.”

You move to the cutting board and start on the peppers while Yuta fires up the stovetop. “That’s sweet,” you say. “You guys are good together. I’ve only been waiting for like, an entire year.”

Yuta chuckles and looks over his shoulder at you. “I asked how she remembered all the names and she said something along the lines of did you know people actually listen when you talk, and I’ve never been particularly good at hiding my facial expressions.” You snort, because you know that better than anyone. “And then I said Toge definitely doesn’t, and she rolled her eyes and said I kept missing the point.”

“Oh, smooth.” You move over so Yuta can reach into the cabinet above you for the seasoning. “And then you asked what the point is?”

“Mhm.” Yuta hip-checks you lightly as he moves back to his place by the stove, and you relish the familiarity of it. He’s one of your best friends, and you’ve missed doing this with him, cooking with him, talking to him. “She said the point is I’m an oblivious dumbass who should just shut up and kiss her already. So I did.”

You have to put the knife down as your laugh bursts out, shaking your shoulders, because that’s the most Maki thing you’ve ever heard. “And you’re together now?”

“Mhm.” Yuta flushes a little. “She’s great. I wasn’t really gonna say anything… ever? She’s out of my league, Skip.”

It should maybe feel like a bigger deal that Maki and Yuta are finally a thing, but in a way, it’s like nothing has changed. They’ve always been close, and you’ve always known they’re perfect for each other. It felt inevitable, and now it’s happened, and it feels right.

“You’re both out of everyone’s league,” you correct, turning to lean against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest. “And neither of you think you deserve each other, which is exactly why you do.” He smiles, shy and small, and your heart warms in your chest. “I’m happy for you, Yuta.”

“Thanks.” He ducks his head a little, his tell-tale sign of embarrassment, like when Takuma scratches the back of his neck. God, why does everything remind you of Takuma?

Like he can read your mind, Yuta says, “Your turn. You and Ino? I know everyone’s in the loop except me.”

The next half hour or so passes with you explaining the details of your night with Takuma yet again, the smell of stir fry eventually drawing Toge out from the cave (his and Yuta’s bedroom) around the same time Nobara sweeps through the door with Maki in tow. It’s the first time the five of you have been in the same room outside of rehearsals all week.

“Ooh, my god,” Nobara sighs, smelling the stir fry. “That’s the good shit. I owe you my life.”

“You can do the dishes,” you suggest, and she deflates as she unwinds the scarf around her neck and tosses it on a hook with her coat.

“I’ve made a fatal mistake,” she says.

“How’re midterms?” Maki asks as she brushes past you, tossing her jacket onto a chair, and you shrug. In response, Toge puts his head face-down on the counter, and Maki looks to Yuta, waiting for his answer. It’s like they don’t know how they’re supposed to interact in front of you all, now that the whole band knows.

“You don’t have to dance around each other anymore,” Nobara points out, blunt as ever. “We’ve watched you do that for years. I honestly think I’d rather watch you be gross.”

Toge raises a brow. “Careful what you wish for.”

“Let’s break the ice! Let’s talk about it!” Nobara crows, grabbing you by the elbow. “Reenactment, Skip. You be Yuta.” She leans dramatically over the plants, pretending to write on the name tag stickers. “This one is Pikachu.” Yuta definitely does not have a plant named Pikachu. “You’re an obtuse asshole, Yuta Okkotsu,” Nobara says in a truly horrendous impression of Maki, turning around and grabbing you by the shoulders. “Now kiss me.”

“Oh my god,” Maki says flatly. “I hate you.”

“She didn’t call me an asshole!” Yuta says indignantly.

Maki nudges him with a shoulder, which is probably the closest thing to PDA you’ll get out of them for weeks. Nobara’s teasing will only make them less willing to show affection in front of the rest of you. Maybe it’s reverse psychology and that is what she wants.

“Table,” Yuta says, pointing to Toge. “Nobara, go sit in the corner and think about your actions. Maki, could you grab the plates?”

“Girlfriend privilege!” Nobara cries, not making any move to listen to Yuta. She grins at you and you can’t help but smile back. She’s being obnoxious about it, but she also held in her teasing about their relationship for ages until they figured it out on their own. You know she’s just as happy for them as you are.

“You better keep Ino away from this one,” Maki says as she dishes up the stir fry and slides the plates across the counter to Toge, who ferries them over to the table without complaint. Nobara wiggles her brows at you in a way that very obviously says you can try, but you will fail.

When the five of you crowd the little table in the makeshift dining room, it’s honestly the most relaxed you’ve felt all week. For an hour it’s just you and your best friends, talking and ranting and joking and eating some damn good stir fry, and you can forget about all the work piling up on your desk and the boy down the street you desperately need to talk to and the performance in two days that’ll decide your band’s fate. It’s good.

You grin at Nobara as she gestures with her hands while telling a story about this girl in her marketing class, at Toge trying and failing to steal the snap peas from Yuta’s plate, at Maki fondly watching it all unfold.

Despite her earlier complaints, Nobara doesn’t hesitate to get started on the dishes, and Toge dries while you sit at the stool by the counter and chat with them. Nobara shoves a plate at Toge to dry and he nearly drops it onto one of the plants, earning him a look from Yuta very reminiscent of a parent scolding their child.

"Sorry, Snorlax," Toge says to the plant he nearly attacked. "Hey, these are helpful, actually. Good job, Maki."

You stare at the name tags, something starting to grow in the back of your mind. Hello! My name is...

"Yes," you breathe. And then you launch out of your seat and grab your notebook from the other room.

You have an idea.

—

You’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, spinning a drumstick in your right hand as The Cull wraps up their ten-decibels-too-loud set onstage. Waiting in the wings, Hakari and another stage tech linger by your kit, waiting to swap it out, and the rest of your band goes through their usual pre-performance rituals.

Maki leans against the wall, eyes closed, moving her fingers along her bass without making any sound. Yuta’s quietly checking his tuning for the thousandth time tonight. Nobara does laps around the backstage area, humming and mouthing words to herself, her guitar carefully leaning against the wall beside you.

Toge is straight up just dancing to the other band’s music in the corner.

And you’re here, spinning your sticks between your thumb and index finger, index and middle, middle and ring, ring and pinky, back again. Back and forth, back and forth, the worn wood dancing across your knuckles.

Midterms are over. Projects and papers are turned in, exams are taken, laptops are strewn forgotten across the living room for the weekend. All your attention is here and now, Friday at The Fix, Battle of the Bands. Lifeblood might be a good word for it, you think, whatever this kind of rush is to you. It’s electric.

The Cull finishes with a screeching of guitars and a held-out note that could very possibly be classified as a scream, and then Panda takes the stage, the techs start moving, and the other band files past you in the backstage area.

You nod as they slip by and they return the gesture, not seeming all that interested, but you don’t care. It’s time.

Sliding onto the throne, you adjust the hi-hat and pound the kick a few times. Nobara winks at you from center stage, and you make eye contact with each of your bandmates in turn, confirming they’re tuned and plugged in and ready to go.

And then you launch into your new song, unable to help the smile spreading across your face.

It begins with a drum solo, a mild rhythm on the floor tom. You add the kick, then move to hat, and Maki comes in, then Toge, then the guitars. And then Nobara leans forward and starts to sing.

“You’re in the corner watchin’, at the party, Solo cup in hand. I’m on the dance floor, one more wild girl who needs a place to land.” You glance out over the crowd, stage light blinding you from your position toward the back of the stage. You can’t see shit, but it’s like you can feel his eyes on you.

“Been goin’ solo, flying so low, meet your eyes and draw you close.” Nobara yanks the mic off the stand and belts,“You ask my name, I tap your chest, and I say you already know!”

Power chord, two big beats, one, two, three, crash—

“Hello, my name is everything you ever asked your gods about. Hello, my name is somebody who needs a guy to take me out…”

The music washes over you, thrums from the soles of your sneakers to the tips of your fingers, gets you high on spotlights and amp feedback. You wrote this song about a lot of things. On a surface level, it’s Maki and Yuta’s song, drawn from the name tags on the kitchen plants. But on another level, it’s about Takuma, and you know your whole band knows it.

“Hello, hello, my name is yours if you want it,” Nobara finishes, and you finish with two cymbal hits and a kick, grabbing the cymbals between thumb and index finger immediately after to mute them. It’s a sharper finish than a lot of your songs, punchier, and it feels good.

“We’re Cursed Technique!” Nobara shouts, and Yuta plucks a few strings as he retunes for one of your older tracks. The set goes by all too fast, and then you’re finishing with Next Fix, the beat under your hands familiar and automatic. You’re on my mind at two a.m., you help me find deliverance, I think it’s time I get my fix.

You’d stay here forever if you could, just making music with your favorite people, but your set ends and you have to retreat backstage, Black Flash passing you in the wing as they prepare to round out the night.

“That was awesome,” Kasumi Miwa whispers as she passes you, and you grin.

“You’ll be awesome.”

When Mai appears around the corner, she stops short. You glance at Maki and realize Yuta’s hand is on the small of her back, and Mai has zeroed in on it. Yuta looks like he’s about to pass out, his hand frozen a half-inch away from Maki’s back like he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse to let go, but Maki seems entirely unfazed.

Instead of addressing Maki, though, Mai looks right at Yuta, a slender brow raised in an expression you aren’t quite sure how to interpret. On Maki, it would be teasing, but on Mai it could be a challenge or a threat or a judgment just as easily.

But she only says, “Thought you were gonna take that to your grave, Okkotsu. Been long enough.” She breezes past all of you without another word, and Yuta stares at the place where she stood only moments before, slack-jawed.

Maki shrugs. “Well, that’s that.” The sound of tuning instruments floats back from the stage and Maki starts moving, looking confused when Yuta doesn’t immediately follow. “What?”

“She—what?” Yuta gapes, and Nobara and Toge catch up to you, herding you backstage.

“I can never tell how mad you two are at each other,” you tell Maki.

“We’re bonded by mutual hatred of our own family. We have an understanding,” she shrugs. “She approves of Yuta. I don’t give a shit. If she didn’t, I still wouldn’t give a shit.”

Sometimes you’re very, very glad you have no relatives at this school.

Maki elbows Yuta lightly and he seems to relax, shrugging off the interaction with Mai.

“On another note!” Nobara chirps. “That was fucking awesome.”

And then you hear, of all things, a trumpet coming from the direction of the stage. It’s a very recognizable riff.

Black Flash is covering September.

“What the fuck?” Toge asks. He holds up a hand and darts back to the wing, peeking out on stage. When he returns, his brows have shot up, mouth open like a fish. “Muta has a trumpet. Muta’s playing a trumpet. Since when does he know trumpet? What the fuck?”

“Miwa. Guaranteed,” Nobara says. “Momo’s been trying to get him to learn for years, but he wouldn’t even be in that band if Miwa wasn’t there.” She grins. “I bet Momo was so mad when he finally did it only ‘cause Miwa asked.”

“They sound straight out of a damn recording,” you murmur, craning your neck as if that’ll help you hear better. “They’re fucking good, guys.” Part of you wants to slip out into the crowd just to see them perform. These guys really have their art down to a science, as little sense as that might make, and you can’t help appreciating it.

They segue into a new song with a wild sax solo that you know to be Momo’s, and Nobara grabs you by the hand and twirls you around backstage, some jazzy movement with no real choreography. We’re going to lose, you think idly, but you understand why. There’s something infectious in this music.

Even Maki and Yuta can’t stand still once they’ve put their instruments away, and eventually the five of you are jumping around like a bunch of idiots as Black Flash closes out their set with an explosive series of riffs and chords, and the crowd’s cheering floods the place, all the way to backstage.

You hear Panda’s voice, or more so the bass-heavy sound of him speaking into a microphone, and you only really catch voting.

“Sweet democracy,” Toge says. “I pledge allegiance—”

“How about don’t?” Maki drawls.

Toge nods. “My bad. I’m supposed to be loyal to the queen now, anyway.” Maki’s brows furrow, but she must decide it’s not worth questioning, because she turns away and starts talking to Nobara.

Has anyone actually told Toge the queen is dead?

This time around, ten minutes feels all too short, and suddenly you’re on the stage again, Black Flash at your left and The Cull on their other side. Panda is in front of you all, mic in hand, the results on his phone.

“We have literally never had a vote this close,” he says, and the crowd draws in a collective breath. “The difference between first and second place was two votes.”

“Shit,” Nobara breathes out beside you, so soft nobody else could possibly hear. Two votes. That’s fucking insane.

“But we do have a winner,” Panda says, “and the band moving on to the finals next week is…”

This time, there’s too much attention on your band for Maki to make a comment about Panda’s dramatic pause. In the quiet, somebody shouts, “Woo, girl drummer!” and it sounds an awful lot like Kirara. You smile sheepishly.

Maybe you made it. This was definitely your best performance yet, and the crowd seemed to love the new song—

“Black Flash!” Panda shouts, and your stomach twists a little even as you smile and whoop for the winners. The stage explodes in movement as your band and The Cull converge on the members of the reigning Battle of the Bands champions, congratulating them.

“Amazing set,” you tell Kasumi earnestly. Deep down, you knew you didn’t have much of a chance against them. Still, you’d hoped.

You think you catch Maki muttering, “Y’know, not bad,” to Mai, but you could be wrong.

After you slip backstage, Panda catches up to you. “Y’all were second,” he tells Nobara. “Just thought you should know. That was real close.”

Part of you is immensely gratified that you beat The Cull. That you came that close to kicking Black Flash out of their championship spot. You’re bummed, but honestly? It’s enough for you.

And now Shibuya Incident and Black Flash will compete in the finals, just like last year. Takuma’s got a chance to dethrone them.

After locking up the drum kit in the back storage room (which Shoko blessedly lets you use free of charge), you head out to the floor. Toge splits off to talk to someone from a comm class, Nobara beelines for Yuji and Megumi, and you figure Maki and Yuta are being antisocial in a corner somewhere. It doesn’t take long for Takuma to find you.

“Skipper!” You turn to find him grinning at you, and you can’t help but mirror the expression. “That was amazing. That song was amazing, you were amazing. I mean, are. You are amazing.” His hand drifts up to the back of his neck, and part of you wants to reach out an intercept it, tangle your fingers in his. But you hold yourself back.

“Thanks,” you beam.

“Man. You should’ve won,” Takuma says earnestly, squeezing your shoulder. You took off your bomber jacket before the show—drumming is already a lot of movement, but the stage lights make you sweat—so his fingers skim the place where your T-shirt sleeves end and your bare skin begins, sending a spike of electricity down your spine. “You kicked their asses in my book.”

There’s that warmth again, flowering in your chest cavity. Even when his hand falls from your arm, the impression of his touch stays there.

“They were good,” you say, conceding defeat. He shrugs, like whatever you say, and you’re about to finally ask him if you can talk in private when Yuji materializes out of nowhere, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

“Dude!” he crows, slinging an arm around your shoulder so aggressively that you nearly stumble, laughing. This kid does not know his own strength. “That was so good. So good. You should’ve won. That was insane. The new song?”

“That’s what I said,” Takuma says, raising a brow at you, and you’re flushing again.

“Ino, we’re getting Taco Bell,” Yuji says. You plaster on a smile when he turns to look at you, like you haven’t been going out of your mind the entire week needing to be alone with Takuma. “You want anything?”

Yuji’s not trying to interrupt anything. Poor guy just wants Taco Bell. You stifle a sigh. “Nah, I’m good.” You catch Maki’s eye from the other side of the room, and she waves you over. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Hey, you should come over later,” Takuma says before you can turn away. “Gotta catch me up on your midterms. I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”

Yes. There it is. Exactly what you need.

“That sounds great,” you say honestly. “Call me when you guys get back?”

He gives you a two-fingered salute with a grin that makes your heart stutter a little. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

Nobara mourns the loss the whole way home, but by the time Maki pulls into the driveway she seems to have gotten all her feelings out and is back to her determined we’ll-get-it-next-year self. The guys drove separately with all the guitars piled in the backseat, and they beat you home.

You’ve just sat down on the couch and kicked off your shoes when your phone buzzes, a familiar but unexpected name floating across the screen.

INCOMING CALL: TSUMIKI FUSHIGURO

You slide to accept the call, waving at the boys to quiet down. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Tsumiki says, in that tone of voice that means she’s running on multitasking business mode. A low, static humming in the background tells you she’s calling from the car. “So, there was some kind of accident on 34th a couple blocks down from the science complex. I know you’re on features, but Yuki’s out of town and most of the freelancers are younger and haven’t done breaking yet. Are you busy? I can try the sophomores if you can’t, or I can go, but I’m just coming from work and I might take too long—”

You’re already grabbing your bag and your board, mouthing newspaper to Yuta and Toge, who are giving you curious looks as they dig through the movie collection under the TV. The intersection’s not far from your place at all, or from The Fix, for that matter. Yuki’s the news editor, and if she’s out, it makes more sense for someone who’s already done breaking to go. Time is of the essence with these sorts of briefs. “On it, don’t worry,” you say, pushing out the front door and waving to Maki and Nobara on the way. “Photog?”

“Yeah, I’m calling around after this. I’ll get someone there. God, thank you, you’re a lifesaver.”

“No problem. Call you when I’m done.” You hang up and shove your phone into your back pocket as you careen down the street, headed toward the spot Tsumiki mentioned. Now that midterms are over and you’re free of your academic obligations, you can actually take the time to savor the cool night air and crunch of freshly fallen leaves under your wheels. Hopefully the crash isn’t too bad—Tsumiki didn’t seem incredibly worried, but it’s likely she was operating on very little information.

It doesn’t take long for you to hear the commotion, and you round the corner to see a few cop cars blocking off the crash site on the side of the road.

The second you’re close enough to see past the officers and their cars, your heart plummets.

It’s a red Hyundai.

Smoke billows out from beneath the hood, but the other car’s got it worse, the passenger side smashed in. The way it’s positioned—it shouldn’t have even been possible, unless the other car was genuinely driving in the wrong lane.

“No,” you breathe, kicking your board up and running, and then you’re flashing your press card at a campus policeman—he tries to get you to stop anyway, but there’s no way he’s catching you now—and you’re sprinting to the wrecked car, heart shouting in your chest. You see Yuji first, trying to brush off a concerned-looking Megumi, and then a pair of cops approaching them, and another cop arresting someone—shit, you know him, what’s his name? Naoya, that’s Maki’s dickwad cousin—probably the driver of the other vehicle, but where’s Takuma, where—

When you skid around the far side of the car, Kirara giving you a surprised look, you see him leaning up against the tree. He’s sitting on the grass, one leg pulled up to his chest and the other stretched out in front of him, his forehead resting on his knee. His shoulders are shaking, his hat’s on the ground, Kirara is beside him talking lowly and glaring at anyone who tries to get near him—

Until she sees you.

“Thank god,” she breathes. She doesn’t ask why you’re here. She just guides you to sit down in front of Takuma. “Can you—”

“Is he hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so, he’s just—”

“Got it.”

She backs off to give you space, and then you’re on the ground, knees in the grass in front of Takuma. Panic attack, PTSD episode, whatever it is, you’ve dealt with these before. You remember the roof, his quiet voice, explaining what happened to his dad, how he was in the car, how he hates driving because of it. You’d bet anything Takuma thinks he’s back there.

“Kuma,” the nickname slips out before you even realize it. He jerks and looks up at you, shock and confusion written all over his face. He’s full-on trembling, and your heart shatters in your chest. “Hey. Hey, I need you to breathe.” You hesitantly reach out and take his hands in yours, watching him carefully to see if he tries to pull away. He doesn’t. “You’re okay. Everyone’s okay. You’re safe. Can you take a breath for me?”

He’s not fully here, you can tell, his eyes glassed over and his breath catching in his throat. You scoot closer to him, put your hands on either side of his face, blocking out the sirens and the chatter and the crowd. “Takuma,” you say. “Look at me.”

His frantic, moving stare settles on you after a long moment, and he seems to realize abruptly that he is having a panic attack. You can see the moment it clicks in his mind, that if he was twelve years old in a car crash with his father, you couldn’t be here in front of him, and now it’s up to his body to get the message across.

“Breathe,” you say again, drawing in an exaggerated breath and blowing it out slowly. “C’mon, with me. You got this.”

Takuma gasps, trying to follow your instructions as you talk him through it, counting inhales and exhales and starting over every time his breath hitches. “Doing great,” you promise. The rest of the world—the cops, a very angry Megumi pacing back and forth, Kirara speaking rapidly on the phone—might as well not exist. It’s you and Takuma and your breaths in the air between you. Nothing else matters, not right now.

All of the struggles you’ve had this week, papers and feelings and not enough sleep, feel suddenly unbelievably small.

There are things that matter in a much louder way, and this is one of them.

“Christ,” Takuma breathes out eventually, burying his head in his hands. One of the cop cars erupts with the blare of sirens momentarily before stopping again, and the sound has his shoulders tense with worry all over again.

You don’t even think about it. You just pull Takuma into you, wrapping your arms around him, like you can put the both of you in a little bubble away from everything else. “Hey, hey—”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you furiously shake your head. “Just—the sirens—“

“No,” you say firmly. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Takuma.”

He shudders and you rub your hand up and down his spine. “Is the other driver…?”

“A stupid fucking drunk driving in the wrong lane?” Kirara practically spits as she rejoins you near the tree. “Yes.” The cop just took her statement and has moved on to Megumi and Yuji.

You’ve never seen Megumi this livid. He’s gesturing wildly at the other car, and you remember idly that Naoya’s his cousin too, that this is a little personal for him.

“Yeah, but is he…?” Takuma trails off.

“He’s fine,” you murmur, your heart clenching for this boy, who’s been through so much and just relived the worst day of his life and still wanted to know if the other driver was okay. Jesus. He’s too good. “Everyone’s okay.”

You pull back to hold him at arm’s length, scanning him up and down for injury, and he’s staring at you like you just fell from the sky. “Skip—I’m really glad you’re here but—why? What are you…?” His voice is a little hoarse. His gaze trails down to the press pass hanging from your neck, and he cracks a wry smile. “Y’know, when I told you write a story on me, this isn’t really what I had in mind.”

So much relief floods you at once that you think you might actually start crying. “Jesus,” you croak out, and the smile drops from his face.

“I’m okay,” he says quickly. “Just—got the wind knocked out of me, but it’s fine. Skipper—”

You lurch forward and wrap your arms around him before he can finish, needing to feel him breathing, his heart beating. You also hear his breath hitch as he winces, and you pull back in alarm. “Shit, I’m sorry, what—”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Just sore. I’m fine. Really.” He leans back against the tree. “Airbags.”

You slump back against the tree too, deflated as the limp airbags in the ruined car. “You guys okay?” you ask as the others, done with their statements, turn toward you.

“Yeah,” Kirara says, but Megumi shakes his head and points to Yuji, who’s nodding even while cradling his wrist to his chest.

“It’s fine,” Yuji insists, and Megumi looks at him, incredibly unimpressed. “Well, it’s not broken, I can move it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay,” Megumi says flatly. And you look at him, his expression so familiar, and abruptly realize you’re supposed to be writing a brief.

“Shit,” you mutter, pulling out your phone. “I’m working for your sister right now. I gotta…” You point to the phone. Megumi winces but nods, and Tsumiki picks up on the first ring.

“Hey! Done already? You find Yoshino okay? He said he—”

“Uh, no,” you say sheepishly. “Actually, I—uh, okay, everyone’s fine, but Megumi’s here. If I—”

“Slow down!” Tsumiki blurts. “What? Shit. Frick. Where’s Gumi? Can you put him on the phone?”

You wordlessly hand your phone to Megumi, who’s looking more pained at the concept of talking to his sister about this than the accident itself.

A few cars pull up—a white one screeching to a stop that really should not have been going so fast in front of a bunch of police officers, and then a darker gray one that arrives smoothly after, neatly pulling up against the curb. Gojo practically launches himself out of the first car, looking around until his gaze locks on Megumi, who hangs up the phone with a quiet okay, thanks and then immediately groans upon seeing Gojo there. Nanami and Shoko get out of the second car much less dramatically and trail after Gojo to the cluster of you by the tree.

“Megumi!” Gojo calls as he jogs over. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Megumi grumbles, trying and failing to brush Gojo off. “Where’d you come from? Don’t you have work?”

“Geto and Utahime are closing down,” Gojo says with a shrug. “We heard and came as fast as we could. Figured I’d bring our resident doc. Or Nanami would, since she wouldn’t ride with me,” he says loudly so Shoko can hear. She just rolls her eyes.

Megumi tosses you your phone and says, “Forget the brief, you’re good.” You nod, pushing to your feet and offering a hand to Takuma.

“We,” Gojo says, placing one hand on Megumi’s head and the other on Yuji’s, “are going to the ER.” You expect Megumi to object, but it’s Yuji who tries to wave Gojo off. Except he tries to physically wave him off with his bad wrist and immediately grimaces. Megumi swats him on the shoulder and gives him a serious look that says we’re going, don’t argue. You figure Tsumiki will probably meet them there.

Shoko stops to talk to Kirara a short distance away, and Nanami keeps walking, making a beeline for Takuma—and by extension, you. It doesn’t escape your notice that the second he’s within range, some of the tension in Takuma’s body seems to vanish, seeping out of him and into the grass, like the tree’s roots are taking it on for him.

Nanami’s usually immaculate hair is a little disheveled, like he ran his fingers through it. Without his usual glasses on, he looks a lot less daunting, a lot more personable. The worry in his expression is well concealed but very much present.

“Ino,” he says. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Takuma says unconvincingly. “Fine. Just—yeah. Drunk driver, you know…” He scratches at the back of his neck, and this time you don’t check yourself. You reach up and grab his hand, slotting your fingers between his. He shoots you a grateful look before turning back to Nanami. “I’m okay. Really. Thanks for… um…”

“Of course,” Nanami says before Takuma can say anything more. You release his hand so he can step forward. You’ve never seen Nanami hug anyone before, but apparently there’s a first time for everything.

“You’re not going with Gojo?” he asks when he pulls back, hands planted on Takuma’s shoulders. It feels very paternal. You’re not sure you should be listening in.

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you got checked over,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “Would you let Shoko look at you, at least?” You’re relieved when Takuma nods, letting Shoko pull him away.

Gojo leads Yuji and Megumi past you, back to his car, and Yuji stops to whisper, “Never fear, Skip, the drum set was not in the car.”

“Oh my god,” you say. “Yuji. I’m more worried about you than the drums.”

“Aw, Skip!” he says happily. “That’s nice.” You roll your eyes but can’t keep the fond smile off your face, and you know Megumi’s probably doing the same thing, though you can only see the back of his head as he follows Gojo. Yuji bounds off after them, still cradling his wrist to his chest but seeming very unconcerned about the whole ordeal.

Yet another screech of tires alerts you to a truck appearing from the other end of the street. Hakari doesn’t even bother to shut it off, jumping out and leaving the door hanging open.

“Kira!” he shouts, pushing past the remaining officers. “Kirara!”

“Over here!” Kirara calls, thanking Shoko and weaving around the slowly diminishing crowd. Someone’s already showed up to tow Naoya’s car, and another truck probably isn’t far behind. Kirara gets swept up in Hakari’s arms, her trying to reassure him she’s fine, and you find yourself left alone with Nanami. He studies you openly, keen eyes and a calm, very slight smile on his face.

“I don’t think we’ve met, officially,” you say sheepishly. “I’m Skipper.”

“Kento,” he says, holding out a hand. You shake it and feel abruptly like you’re talking to a business executive. As Shoko looks Takuma over on the other side of the big tree, Nanami—Kento—lowers his voice a bit and says, “Ino’s told me all about you.”

The heat rises unbidden to your cheeks, and you hope the evening dimness hides it. He talks about you? To Nanami? You aren’t really sure how to respond to that, but luckily, Kento spares you the trouble. “Look out for him tonight, will you?” You can tell from the tone that he’s testing the waters, trying to determine how much you know about his dad.

Hopefully the message gets across when your gaze drifts back to Takuma over Kento’s shoulder and you say, “I plan on it.”

“He’s alright,” Shoko announces, and Takuma appears at your side again. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.” Something loosens in your chest at the words, something that tied itself into knots the second you saw Yuji’s car and hasn’t let up since.

“Hey,” Hakari calls, he and Kirara approaching hand in hand. “You guys good?”

Takuma nods, and you shrug. “Wasn’t in the car.”

“We’re gonna head back to Kirara’s. You want a lift?”

Takuma glances at Kento, and you feel the truth of his words that day on the roof, about Nanami being the closest thing he has to a father.

“Go home, kid,” he says. “Sleep it off. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Takuma says, like a breath of relief. He looks exhausted. But he’s here in one piece, and that’s what matters. Your fingers brush his as you walk back to Hakari’s truck. It’s a quiet ride, a short one, your board on your lap and your press pass still dangling from your neck.

“Oh, Skipper,” Hakari says when he turns onto your street. “Your house over here? Or are you coming to theirs?”

You glance at Takuma, but before either of you can say anything, Kirara says, “She’s comin’ over.” She catches your gaze in the rearview mirror with a knowing look and you manage a weak smile. You can’t imagine letting Takuma out of your sight right now, honestly.

The dogs are there the second Kirara opens the door, and Takuma practically falls into them, burying his face in their fur as they nuzzle up against him. Shiro turns to you after saying hi to the others and noses at your palm until you scratch her behind the ears.

“Hi, sweetie,” you murmur. “Good girl.”

Kirara nudges you with her shoulder as she brushes by, glancing down at Takuma and then back at you. You nod. I got him. She offers you a small smile before she and Hakari disappear around the corner.

“C’mon,” you murmur, tapping Takuma on the shoulder. He nods, pushing to his feet and patting each dog on the head one more time. You follow him upstairs, feeling a little out of your depth. After all, he’s not the one who decided you were staying.

When you’re both standing in his room, you shift on your feet a little, wondering how to word it. “If you want some space—”

“No,” he blurts, unexpectedly loud, and then his cheeks go a little red, sheepish. “I mean—uh. I could… use the company. If you don’t mind. You don’t have to stay, obviously, just—”

“Kuma.” You laugh a little, watching him freeze, glance up at you mid-ramble. “I would love to stay.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Cool. Okay. Um.” He turns around and grabs a pair of sweats and a tee from his dresser, then holds them out to you. “If you want…? Or I can ask Kirara, I’m sure she’d let you borrow something, or obviously you live right down the street or—”

Something about the idea of wearing his clothes makes you go a little warm all over, and you accept them without hesitating, cutting off his rambling. “Thanks.”

“I’m gonna…” He jerks his thumb toward the door. You don’t know if he’s just giving you the space to change or going to shower or what, but you nod, waiting until the door clicks shut behind him to tug on the sweats and shirt. The shirt is huge on you, one shoulder sliding off, a fading logo of some music festival on the front. You sit on the edge of Takuma’s bed, tucking your knees under you, and then your phone rings. Tsumiki.

“Hey,” you say, pressing it to your ear. “They’re okay?”

“Yeah, Yuji sprained his wrist but nothing else. Pretty minor, all things considered,” she reports. “They’re on their way back to the house.”

“Good,” you breathe, the relief evident in your voice. “Thanks. Do you… are you sure about the brief?”

Tsumiki chuckles. “Hey, not your job to worry about the press tonight.”

“I can still try to… write it,” you say half-heartedly, dreading the thought of it. “I mean, I saw the scene and…”

“Don’t even worry about it. Genuinely,” she says. “You and I both know that’s a conflict of interest.” You huff a weak laugh. What an understatement. “More importantly, you sound exhausted and I’m sure that whole thing stressed you out. Listen, the photog I had on it wanted to break into writing anyway. No time like the present.”

You immediately feel even worse, because your photographer was probably looking for you at the scene and you just left him hanging.

“Stop,” Tsumiki says, like she can read your mind through the phone. “He handled it well. It’s fine, Skipper. Get some rest.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, but she’s already gone. You shoot a quick text to the group chat explaining what happened, that everyone’s fine, and that you probably won’t be home tonight. Takuma doesn’t want to be alone, and honestly, you don’t know if you could leave him if you tried.

It doesn’t take long for the texts to start pouring in.

utah: let us know if any of you need anything!! maki: keep us posted and tell megumi to answer his dumb phone nobara: WHAT nobara: OH MY GOD???? nobara: well i’m glad everyone’s okay nobara: christ freak no. 1: alsjkfq qEQht

You frown at the keysmash, wondering if Toge dropped his phone or actually just doesn’t know how to communicate like a normal person.

you: ??? freak no. 1: sorry SOMEONE TOOK MY PHONE,,,, utah: because SOMEONE DOESN’T KNOW WHEN IT’S AN APPROPRIATE TIME TO SEND MEMES, TOGE maki: nvm he picked up maki: go to sleep, skipper, we can talk tomorrow

Toge texts you privately thirty seconds later. It’s the meme of Gru laying out his evil plan and then realizing it’s a horrible idea. The first frame says answer the phone, the second says get the breaking news like a baddie journalist, and the last frames say realize you know everyone at the scene of the crime. You laugh out loud. Toge knows you. He knows you needed this. He wouldn’t have sent it if he didn’t think it’d cheer you up.

A half-second later, another image comes in, but it’s just a picture of Nobara with her hands clasped together in front of her mouth, speechless and absolutely thrilled. The full image shows her swooning over a little puppy, but you long ago cropped it and started using it as a reaction image in your chats.

freak no. 1: me when ur okay :)

“Aw,” you murmur. Toge can be sweet sometimes. You start texting back, but then another message comes in and you backspace immediately.

freak no. 1: me when ur spending the night with your boyfie :) you: i was gonna say thanks but then you kept going freak no. 1: me when she texts back :) you: goodnIGHT TOGE freak no. 1: me when she goodnight texts :)

Takuma knocks softly on the door before cracking it open, waiting for you to give him the green light before coming in. He’s changed into his own pair of sweats, and his hair is ruffled and wild around his face. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You toss your phone on the bedside table and scoot over to make room. “You okay?”

He sits cross-legged on the bed, and you turn to face him. “Think so,” he says. “Just… felt like I was back there for a minute.” His eyes go distant just for a moment, and your heart twists in your chest. You scoot forward, knees bumping against his.

“Glad you’re okay,” you murmur, and it doesn’t feel like enough, but he gives you that soft, open look that makes you feel like you could say anything at all and he’d treasure it.

“Glad it was you and not some rando reporter.”

You grin, holding a fist out to Takuma like it’s a microphone. “How do you rate Skipper’s hug on a scale of one to ten?”

He leans forward, playing along. “Uh, you know, it was so long ago I might not have a really accurate rating. I would have to probably hug her again—”

You don’t let him finish, surging forward and wrapping your arms around him, tackling him down onto the bed in a fit of laughter. Caught off-guard, he has no defense, and after a startled moment his arms snake around your waist, and you lie there, looking at each other with barely-restrained grins.

“Well, that one was pretty good,” he murmurs. “Nine, I think.”

You gape at him. “Nine?”

Another smile dances across his lips, and you suddenly really want to kiss him.

“Guess you’ll just have to keep trying.” He shrugs innocently, and then tries and fails to stifle a yawn, which makes you yawn in turn. It’s late, night having draped itself over the city hours ago, and the effects of barely snatching hours of sleep all week are finally creeping up on you, weighing you down.

“Go to sleep,” you tell Takuma, grabbing a blanket from where it’s been wedged between the bed and the wall and shoving it toward him.

“You go to sleep.”

“Bossy.”

But he shakes the blanket out and lets it fall over both of you, trapping your warmth beneath it, and sleep feels very, very appealing.

You think about the paralyzing, all-consuming fear that took hold of you when you saw the car. The thought of anything happening to him—you actually can’t even fathom it. And you think about what that means, and that you’ve only known this boy for a month, but you feel like your heart beats on the same channel as his.

Geto’s words play themselves over and over in your head, Maki’s mixing themselves in until you have a chorus of phrases bouncing around like pinballs.

Your heart is not a finite thing.

You already know.

The question isn’t if he likes you, or if you like him. It’s whether you’re gonna let it play out or shut it down before it has a chance to.

If you’ve got something, love it while you have it.

Geto was right. You don’t know how long you’ll have this for, have him for. But you better make the most of it while you do.

But Takuma’s eyes are already closing, his arm slung over your waist, seeking your warmth, your comfort. He looks exhausted, shaken. These aren’t conversations for tonight. Tonight, you just hold him, and feel his breath against your neck, and revel in the fact that he’s okay.

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jjk taglist open: just send me a message!

@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32 @gojodickbig @stargazing-with-choso @anonymity-222

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, TEAM. i've fallen into another anime hyperfixation (blue lock) and it's killing me slowly. one part left of this fic !!

[modormouth]

2024 reel

here's a few pictures below of some in-development stills before i throw my models+animations together. it's not just beta-esque stuff but also some rigging horrors below.

this is an older almost-finished though cursed version of the vicar amelia rig from late november. it's titled IBUPROFEN on my laptop png files for a reason.

i heard from somewhere that you shouldn't paste teeth onto a model and rig it. this is why.

screwing around with random ps1 filters when i made this. this deep-fry post comp would definitely be titled 'this undertale game broke my computer.'

this was an old attempt at modeling the cleric beast via transparent hair cards. i'm still working on that other requested beast model!

everyone has a shame and this model is mine.

this was an older color scheme of the galian beastxbloodborne design i did in november. decided to make him purple but keep to the pale color schemes of some bloodborne beasts. i'm still fond of this one though.

another one.

undertale's muffet via material preview.

me screwing around with the add on that makes blender things wiggly. kind of mesmerizing!

also to end this: don't make your models a cloth-modifier object. lest this happens.

i can't explain why, but this feels like a crash bandicoot death animation....

thanks for looking!

[leiawritesstories]

Naughty Chef

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 4: Accidental Nude @rowaelinscourt

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: swearing, suggestive content/slightly NSFW

Surprise! Another episode of Chef Rowan! Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“42 up, 43 up, 51 in two minutes, and—what do you want, Moonie?” Wiping the rolled-up sleeve of his white chef’s jacket across his sweaty, flushed face, Rowan shot a sharp look at Fenrys, who had appeared out of nowhere in the expo window. “Hurry the hell up, we’re buried in tickets.” 

“I know.” Fen cleared his throat. “Just stopping by to check on the 86 list and give expo another set of hands.” 

Rowan glanced at the scribbled notes on the back of a guest check that was tucked into his side of the expo window. “We’re down to three halibut all day and one of the prep cooks said the mushrooms were slimy, so no stroganoff besides what we have in the fridge. That’s all for now.” 

“Fen, I need a comp on table 52!” Dorian, one of the servers, hurried around the corner. “You got a minute?” 

“Go on, boss man.” Rowan waved an empty frying pan at Fenrys as the blonde man left the expo hall. “Lor, where the fuck is that ribeye for 51?” 

“Don’t fuckin’ rush me, asshole!” Lorcan yelled from his station. Rowan chuckled and turned back to the orders he was working on, knowing Lorcan’s surliness was his way of showing affection. The two of them had been working for long enough to know each other’s cooking times and moods, and every so often he liked to needle the grumpy man in the middle of dinner service just to get a reaction. 

The music pumping from the speakers abruptly paused, and the voice on Rowan’s phone—it was his turn to pick the music—announced a message from Aelin. “Fireheart sent you a photo. Would you like to open it?” 

“No,” Rowan called, and the music started back up. He’d check his phone as soon as he was done with this ticket, because he didn’t want to miss a single photo or text about his precious angel baby girl, and Aelin frequently sent him Lana updates while he was at work. 

Lorcan snickered. “Aww, is Daddy Chef anxious about his wittle girwie?” 

“Asshole.” Rowan finished plating up the shrimp skewers he’d been grilling, slid the plate across the expo window, and threw a wadded-up rag at Lorcan’s ass. “Give me five, I’m gonna go check what Aelin said. You want music, Lor?” 

“Want me to play you a lullaby?” 

“Hey, Vaughan!” The chef down at the cold line looked up, brows raised in question. “How about you run the music while I duck into my office for a minute? Lorcan decided to be a dickwad.”

“When is he ever anything but a dickwad?” Vaughan pulled out his phone and connected to the Bluetooth speakers. “Go on and cry over your baby, Chef.” 

“All of you are dicks,” Rowan grumbled, affectionately. He left the kitchen, walked past the dishwashing station in the back, and pushed open the green-painted door of his office. Technically, he shared it with Lorcan, but his co-executive chef had once walked in on him cooing and blowing kisses to his baby daughter over the phone and declared that the office was ruined and he never wanted to step foot in it again. 

Taking a seat in the worn leather swivel chair, Rowan pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened his texts. He tapped on Aelin’s name, which was the top of his list, and opened the photo she’d sent him a few minutes ago. 

And his heart fucking stopped. 

Eyes the size of dinner plates, jaw nearly on the floor, and all of his systems short-circuiting, Rowan gaped at the picture on his phone, desperately trying to control the sudden rush of his blood directly to his groin. Because the picture was not Lana, but Aelin. Aelin, who was standing in front of her full-length mirror wearing tiny, nearly sheer scraps of flimsy lace, the pieces so tiny that he couldn’t tell what color they were from the photo. Aelin, whose artfully tousled wavy hair and smoky eye makeup and bold red lipstick made a forest fire erupt in his blood. 

>>what do you think of this for tonight?

<<You’re fucking stunning, Fireheart.

Seconds later, gray dots pulsed as Aelin responded. 

>>oh my gods

>>i’m so sorry!!!

>>that was supposed to go to the girls chat

>>oh my gods

<<You send…those pictures to the girls chat?! Aelin, you’re naked! It was irrational, he knew, to expect his fiancée not to ask her close friends about her outfits, but he was hard in his office and he wanted that photo only for himself. 

>>yes, you hovering buzzard. who else would give me honest opinions?

<<Me

>>love, you like everything i wear

>>it’s not a complaint, but i do want to surprise you sometimes

<<Naughty girl

<<You’d better be wearing that when I get home tonight. That, and nothing else.

>>ro, we have a baby…

<<We’re gonna have two babies if you keep getting new lingerie, baby. I want to see it when I get home. On you, then on the floor. 

>>hmm, sounds like someone’s a little worked up. He could practically hear the smirk in his fiancée’s voice. Instinctively, he locked the door, stood up, and angled the cheap mirror that was propped against the far wall. She wanted to tease him with photos of her looking absolutely sinful while he was at work? He’d give her something to think about, too. 

Rowan unbuttoned his jacket, revealing his bare, tattooed skin, and unzipped his pants. Shoving a hand into his boxers, he wrapped a fist around himself and faced the mirror, turning slightly to emphasize the rock-hard bulge. Before he could think better, he turned his flash on and snapped the photo, the bright light illuminating the gloomy space of the office and casting the angles of his figure into light and shadow. He sent it, turned his phone back to Do Not Disturb, shoved it in his pocket, left the office, and made a beeline for the staff bathroom. 

Several minutes later, he emerged more composed, straightened his chef’s jacket, and headed back to the kitchen. He nodded his thanks at Nico, the sous chef, who had taken over his station while he was…on break. Lorcan shot him a knowing smirk, wiggling his dark brows suggestively, and Rowan flipped him off, turning his attention back to the flood of tickets pouring off the printer. 

It was almost eleven o’clock by the time he clocked out and left through the back door, tiredly driving home through quiet streets. He unbuttoned his jacket as he walked up the steps to his house, and pushed through the front door. Inside, he carefully stepped out of his shoes and left them on the shoe rack before heading down the hall towards the bedroom. 

Where his fiancée was waiting, sprawled on their bed wearing barely more than a smirk.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

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@earthtolinds

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@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

[cokoweee]

Ahhhh I lost the sib comp

I knew frying my brain made me forget something

[spyvstailor]

Stalked

Chapter Five

@whiskeyskin

Chapter Five

Jaheira stared at the Zhent hard, trying to burn a hole into his thick skull as he fiddled with the frying pan beside her.

He was lingering for a reason, and it wasn't to flirt and cause troubling.

Anyone with half a sense left in their brain wouldn't come to the shadow cursed lands, and most certainly wouldn't linger long.

“Maybe,” he said finally, almost grudgingly, “maybe I'm just old and tired.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or maybe I'm putting off a death sentence,” he went on.

“Aren't we all?” She asked. “Stalked by time and death.”

“One and the same,” he pointed out.

Jaheira glanced up as a motion caught her attention. A figure walking through the gate. A solitary, tall figure, huddled over, stooping in defeat emerged from the darkness, lit only by a torch. The slump to the Tiefling wizard’s wide shoulders indicated his unsuccessful attempt to traverse the darkness on the trail of his sibling’s kidnappers.

As she spied him, she noticed the Zhent look up as well, eyes narrowing in study as Rolan slumped by them.

The nerve was open, raw for the tall wizard and it was something Jaheira avoided at all costs. Given the Tiefling’s propensity for snapping and snarling like a wounded animal at those who attempted to comfort him, she had kept a wide berth.

Nothing could be said or done for him and his family, she wouldn’t even try. Though, she wasn’t without her pity. To her knowledge these survivors from Elturel were put through so much shit before they even dared crossing through Reithwin, she could only imagine Rolan was on the edge of it all.

“We caught so many fish!” Umi greeted as the two Tiefling children scurried towards them, Mirkon holding a line of fish.

“I caught the most,” Mirkon stated proudly.

“Only because you wouldn’t share the pole!” Umi declared.

Rugan motioned to the area for the children to begin cleaning the fish, and Jaheira smirked to herself. She had used that tactic with Rion when she was young, to avoid arguing or fighting, just point at where you wanted her to focus her energy.

And it worked this time as well, both children settling down to begin their task, halting all bickering to work together on gutting and de-boning the fish.

She looked over at the Zhent. Did he have children? He didn’t seem the type. But he had the tactics of a man who did. Or at the very least, he had the instincts of a man who worked with younger people, or raised younger siblings.

Focusing on the rice, which was ready and steaming, she began to prepare it for serving.

She was at her table later, listening to the reports of Harper Branthos, when she noticed Tav return with their group. The quiet, steady Drow walked into the room where the Flaming Fist had set up their operations, just off to the side of the entrance.

Jaheira had to curl her hand into a fist. Her impatience over getting word from the Drow about Moonrise had her wanting so badly to head over and ask him if they had been to the tower yet. But she controlled the impatient urge, balled it up in her fist and focused on the report. Nodding to Branthos, she dismissed him wordlessly and turned sharp eyes onto the door to the other room.

To her left, she noticed the Zhent had seated himself at the bar, sitting beside an oddly quiet and miserable looking wizard. The two men weren’t conversing from what she saw, but they sat shoulder to shoulder, drinking sullenly and quietly.

The side room door opened and Tav walked out, followed by his companions.

Jaheira inhaled, ready to ask Tav about the status of their mission, when the Drow made straight for her, shaking his head.

“Not yet,” he said. “Come morning. My companions and I need to rest up. The shadows in this place are hungry.”

Jaheira nodded. She wanted to tell them to hells with the shadows, but she knew it was just her impatience. “Have a rest, have some drinks, there’s cold fish and rice we put behind the bar for those who are hungry.”

Tav nodded once. “Thank you.”

The Drow and his companions moved towards the bar, where at once Tav greeted Rugan with a soft laugh, clearly recognizing him.

The Zhent, as only he would, greeted the Drow with a sultry, almost seductive rasp and shifted on this stool, eyes shining in the darkness of the inn.

Was there a creature he didn’t flirt shamelessly with? She wondered with a mild furrow to her brow. The man was infuriating, really. Did he just throw charm and that rasping voice of his at anything with a heartbeat and hoped it would stick?

She shifted on her feet and returned her gaze to the world straight ahead of her, ears perked to the hushed conversation and grumbling snarls that came from the bar as Tav chatted with Rugan and Rolan both, amiable for a Drow.

Ridiculous how much she cared about what was happening at the bar without her. She had more important things to do, and they would certainly be moving if Tav would get to Moonrise and report back.

She huffed and moved from her table, heading out into the dark of the world outside.

Finishing her patrol, she returned to the inn, finding Tav and his companions gone, finding Rugan and Rolan still bellied up to the bar.

She headed for them, finally giving in to the urge to see just what Rugan was doing that kept Rolan from snarling at the man and pushing him away in his pain and grief, as he did to everyone else.

To her confusion, they weren’t saying anything. As she walked behind them, playing up her patrol, she realized the two were just sitting in silence, drinking. She did note, with a small sense of relief, that Rolan seemed to be pacing himself better, the Tiefling wasn’t belligerent or drunk, but just sullen and silent.

Rugan, for his part, was chatting idly now and then with a curious Ide, who was asking him a plethora of random questions, curious as all children were, and seemingly grateful to have those questions answered by a fairly patient and measured adult.

“Not teaching her any tricks to con people?” Jaheira asked as she passed by for the second time, on her way back to her table.

She nearly fell flat on her face as the hem of her tunic was caught, and she was yanked to a stop by a smirking Zhent.

Jaheira turned, ready to shove the man to the ground and defend her dignity, her anger rising fast and scalding into her chest, to her cheeks, up to the tips of her pointed ears.

He chuckled. “Sorry, lass, you were breezing by so quickly I thought it would be the easiest way to get you to stop for a moment.”

She growled lowly. “You must have a desire to lose that hand, I cannot see any other reason why you’d risk it like that.”

Rugan released her hem and sat back a little, hands up. “Aye, fair. My head is a little fogged from keeping up with this one.”

“You both are on very thin ice,” she snarled, still wound up from being stopped as she had been.

“Nobody asked you to come over here,” Rolan grumbled darkly.

She was about to snap back at the Tiefling, when she realized he was talking to Rugan, golden eyes flashing irritation in the direction of the man.

“Bar is a public space,” Rugan replied easily, taking a sip of his pint.

Jaheira reached over and snatched the pint from his lips. “Ide, no more for either one! I’m sick of dealing with these barflies.”

Rolan managed to fight her off one armed as he downed the last of his drink, his arm longer than her reach as he batted her off too easily for Jaheira's liking. The wizard chugged the last of his drink down, before sullenly clacking the empty pewter mug on the bartop.

“I mean it,” she stated firmly to the two young Tieflings who were tending the bar. “I want these two to dry up or get the hells out.” Storming back to her table, she quelled the rage that rose inside her guts, the rage that made her want to take wild form and tear something apart with her claws.

“There now,” Rugan protested, following her. “You shouldn’t take it out on the poor bastard for my hellish hand.”

She ignored him, standing at her table, eyes forward.

Rugan eased up beside her. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you, lass. But that poor bastard…”

“You’re both bastards,” she snapped. “We’re all miserable, we don’t need you both adding to the tension.”

“Aye,” Rugan agreed, sliding his hip against her table in order to ease up onto it. He sat facing her, angled to look directly at Jaheira. “I am a bastard, and there’s no contesting that fact, but…have a heart.”

“Rolan can wallow in his misery just as easy sober as he can drunk. And weren’t you supposed to be gone by now?” She turned and eyed him, hard eyes glittering. If she could cast thunderwave to blow the man all the way back to Baldurs Gate, she would, but instead she glared at him.

He smiled at her then, offering up a look that would have melted a lesser woman’s heart. “I’m sorry.”

Jaheira glanced over her shoulder, worried more for the state of the Tiefling, than for the man at her side.

Rolan sat, eyes on the bar, head bent.

She had noticed he was gone when she got up for the day, but she assumed he had gone for good, walked off into the shadows to die, when he returned, dejected and quiet, she knew it was a failed rescue attempt.

They couldn’t go on like this, not knowing, waiting for the Drow to make it through the shadows.

She couldn’t even blame anyone but herself.

If this didn’t come to a head by morning, she would go herself, deep into the shadows to recon for them, if she died, she died with a purpose. Because something had to give, something had to be done.

Rugan’s eyes were on her the entire time she worked through this, she could feel him studying her, his slightly glazed eyes not once wavering from their study.

Finally, she turned back, meeting his eyes.

There was something akin to an understanding, though she wasn’t certain of it, Zhent’s had a way of betraying their intentions through greed or sheer deception, but for a moment she knew Rugan knew exactly what she was thinking. It was as though he were a part of her for a single breath in time.

She hadn’t made a connection like that with another being in a very long time, she had avoided that sort of personal connection.

“Rolan needs someone to calm him down and reassure him,” she said finally. “Not drown him in enough Arabellan Dry to drown an Orc.”

“Fair play,” Rugan said. “Let’s give him something to do then. In my experience a wizard just needs research or a task that stimulates the brain.”

Jaheira smiled to herself. It was caught by Rugan who also smiled. “Rolan doesn’t seem like the research or task minded type.”

“Then give him something to blast with his fire sparkles.”

Jaheira inhaled. “Why don’t you take him on some recon for me?”

“What? Into the shadows?”

“Are you scared?” She challenged.

“Getting rid of both of us in one fell swoop? Clever little kitty-cat, aren’t you?” He teased, standing up. “Guess I’ll think something up right sharp.”

Jaheira scowled, at the thought, before she voiced it, “be careful. I don’t want to lose the Tiefling.” At Rugan’s glance, she added quickly. “He’s a very talented wizard from what I’ve heard.”

“Try not to miss me, lass,” Rugan returned easily, heading towards Rolan at the bar.

Blissfully alone, Jaheira sighed and fidgeted with the hem of her tunic, plucking a string from it before stilling herself. Her brow furrowed.

Did the Zhent just trick her into giving him something to do? It hadn’t been her idea, but it was a sound one.

She didn’t know just what the hell was going on, but she didn’t care for it. Something was shifting, slipping easily in through a crack she didn’t know she had. And it had to do with that bastard Zhent. Was he getting some kind of sick pleasure out of poking a sleeping bear? Did he often dig into a battleground like a tick just to stir the pot?

It only took Rugan a handful of words murmured to the Tiefling wizard, before the taller male was pushing to his feet and sighing in agreement and leaving behind the bar to trudge after him and Jaheira watched it all in mild shock. Was he some kind of spellcaster? Part siren or harpy? Lulling people to like him with just his words?

She recalled the situation, shaking the fog Rugan had spread across her senses away, and managed to reach out as the two men passed by her, grabbing hold of Rugan’s sleeve and holding him fast.

She smirked in retribution as he jerked to a short stop and turned around to face her, his blue eyes shining with delight.

“Get a blessing from Isobel if you’re going into the shadows,” she ordered.

The Zhent nodded once. “Aye, and whose that now?”

“God-botherer upstairs,” Rolan grumbled.

“Tell her I sent you both for a blessing,” Jaheira stated firmly.

“I’m good, lass.”

“Get the blessing,” she insisted. “It’s not for your soul. And don’t go into the deeper shadows!” She called after them as they both trudged towards the stairs.

[cerusee]

Scafata (spring stew of broad beans, chard, potatoes and artichokes)

“Typical of Lazio in spring, scafata is somewhere between a soup and a nicely oily stew, and is best served at room temperature with a spoonful of seasoned ricotta and a big pile of garlic and olive oil toast.” - Rachel Roddy

Prep 15 min

Cook 45 min

Serves 4

Ingredients:

To cook:

100ml / 6 TB olive oil

1 small bunch spring onions, trimmed and roughly chopped (alternatively: a large bunch of scallions, treated the same)

2 celery sticks, trimmed, strings pulled away and thinly sliced

200g / 7oz broad beans (fresh or frozen), or peas

400g / 14 oz cherry tomatoes, halved

2 large potatoes, peeled and diced

2 artichokes, trimmed and cut into wedges, or asparagus, cut into 1 inch chunks

1 pinch dried oregano

200g / 7 oz/ one small bunch chard or spinach, washed

1 handful fresh basil leaves

Salt

To serve:

200g / 7 oz fresh ricotta

2 tbsp parmesan

2 tbsp whole milk

Finely grated zest of 1 unwaxed lemon

Slices of bread, toasted, rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil

Preparation:

In a large, heavy-based pan, warm the oil, then gently fry the spring onion and celery with a pinch of salt for about 10 minutes, until translucent and soft.

Add the broad beans, tomatoes, potato, artichokes, oregano and another pinch of salt, and stir for a few minutes. Cover with 500ml / 2 cups water, half-cover the pan with a lid and leave to simmer for 20 minutes. Add the chard or spinach, simmer for 10 minutes more, until the vegetables are soft and there is just a little liquid surrounding them, then tear in the basil.

In a small bowl, whisk the ricotta with the parmesan, milk and lemon zest to taste.

Serve the stew at room temperature with the seasoned ricotta and some toast rubbed with garlic and zig-zagged with olive oil on the side.

Ceru notes: spring onions are essentially baby onions, young sprouts weeded out of the bed early in the onion-growing season to give their brethren more room to grow to maturity. At least where I live and shop, spring onions are not grown as a commercial crop for themselves, so I only actually ever see them at farmer’s markets, and of course, in the spring! Flavor-wise, I think they’re pretty indistinguishable from scallions (which are available year round in most American supermarkets), a fairly mild kind of allium, and my only note here would be that spring onions are usually much bigger than scallions. So size up accordingly, if using scallions.

Broad beans are also known as fava beans. They turn up a lot in the UK recipes I read, but I have never encountered a fava or broad bean in any form in the US. I just use frozen peas.

“Large” potatoes is not a helpful instruction. I say just follow your heart. Or maybe aim for like…1.5 pounds of Idahos or Yukons.

I love salt and I love chicken broth so EYE use chicken broth for this. You do not have to follow my predictable example here.

I personally find Rachel’s instructions (linked) on how to trim an artichoke difficult to follow, and the first time I made this, I ended up with a lot of inedible bits of leaves in the stew. It was delicious, but also hilarious, because I was having to do the whole ���scraping the edible flesh of the leaves out of the inedible bits with my teeth” thing which is normal for certain types of artichoke eating but not what I think was intended here. If you don’t feel like fucking around with fresh artichokes, substituting canned, jarred, or frozen artichoke hearts should work fine, although I’d try to stay clear of anything that’s preserved in a brine. Brine is delicious but might affect the taste of the stew.

The seasoned ricotta is stupidly satisfying; I highly recommend making that. Yum yum yum. I don’t think that these are good instructions for toast. You probably know how to make toast. Make some toast your own way (I’m a nerd and I make my own compound butters and put that on toast when I’m eating it with soup) and have that with this and the ricotta. This is one of the best things I have ever eaten in my entire life.

[hobbysognodilibri]

Okay okay-

So sorry because I’m sure you’re asleep-

I’ve been thinking about Caladin’s kit and I’m definitely going to need some help :’)

I think I want him to work for Dual DPS/quick swap teams in which his outro skill buffs the incoming party and his intro skill generates energy-

But as for his main combat, just based on the visuals I have in mind, I think his Resonance liberation would be a bit like dropping a nuke??

I’m trying so hard not to design him specifically to work with Jinhsi because that’s where my brain went first-

But I think I like the idea of his basic attack causing a stack of what I’m calling “Venegance” for now??? I’m trying to decide what kind of buff it would be, but I think using his Ult would clear all stacks of Venegance and enhance [Atk, Crit, or other stat??] by x amount for the whole party???

I could see it enhancing his basic attack so you have the option of keeping him on field after his Ult or swapping him out to another DPS like Jinhsi, Xiangli Yao, or even Jiyan??? Maybe???

I’m not sure if I want his skill to change with his Ult usage or not??? I don’t have any real ideas for his Ult to be honest :’)

Sorry if this is complicated nonsense or if I don’t make sense. I’m also very confused :’)

Dw dw about the time lol! I'm usually awake at 2am (insomnia my beloathed) but this time I was surprisingly asleep~ but again no biggie since I never hear notifications from tumblr no clue why

Alright I love the idea of double dps teams (despite the facts that all the teams I use are hypercarry lol) but about Jinhsi... I mean she is purely a hypercarry dps, or at least I've never seen anyone use her in double dps... To use them both in a team you should probably have the second dps and the suport be able to do coordinated attacks to charge her forte, or have her S1 so that it charges faster... I'm thinking how it could work...

The thing is most limited 5* are purely hypercarry that hardly work in double dps... The exceptions being Xiangli Yao (who stays in the liberation state even after being swapped out) and Changli (who is in every double dps team comp I've seen so far, but I don't have her so Idk how she works lol)

So if you want him to work on that for most limited 5* he'd probably need to be a very niche character, maybe buffing the attribute and something specific for the other dps... Unless again you either plan on using him with Yao or Changli (or any of our OCs that work more easily in double dps quick swap)

I like the idea of the ult being a nuke that also buffs the whole team! Really really like it

Let's try with a hypothetical kit.

So we have basic attack generating Vengeance (I had to look up how to write the world it was frying my brain fuck english) stacks, these stacks buffs a stat for him (let's say attack, just a basic af thing don't think too hard about this). Then his ult goes off (his intro generates a bit of energy for him so it'd probably charge pretty quickly) and deals a ton of dmg. After that you can either keep him on field (and have a main dmg dealer with something enhanced after the liberation cleared the stacks of Vengeance, let's say his basic atk, kinda like Cyno in genshin) or swap him after his concerto is full (and the ult buffed a stat for the other characters).

I think that's kinda what you wrote in your ask?? I'm short on coffee so maybe I messed up but whatever

If that's what we're going with I think the thing you should enhance (and maybe hypothetically build him on) is basic attack, since that's what's gonna charge the stacks and deal dmg more often... Then liberation again is a nuke/maybe change stance/buffs other team members. If you have him change stance after the ult adn keep the stance after being swapped out he could work well with like Yao that has a similar mechanic/gameplay.

As for the skill... I remember you said a while ago that you were thinking about some crowd control thing to add to his kit and I still stand by that being a good idea... Idk if you've seen Roccia's leaks but she does have something like that, or even Yangyang... either way it's useful since we don't have many cc units in wuwa so that'd be nice. You could do something that does dmg, a small cc area (so it's useful for both his nuke and a possible other dps) and idk maybe something with his stacks...

-

Damn I rambled a lot~

Got a bit carried away lol

But other than being a lore player I'm very much also a "fighting" player (not to the point of being a meta slave but I love the combat mechanics so much)

Let me know if you get any idea or need help figuring anything out (this is also for the actual game if you need help just ask, as a day one "everything player" I can consider myself enough of an expert lol)

[stressedlawsecretary]

Today's Focus

All the blue light reflections that color my mind when I sleep

03.26.25 - I have made it to the halfway point of the week, and I'm making it special by air frying the muffin I got for breakfast. I'm grateful for the hybrid schedule, and that I'll get to keep it for another year; I desperately needed that extra hour of sleep this morning. The cats have been waking me up for breakfast at the worst times recently.

Work - I opened my comp today to a bunch of efiles from late last night, plus a multitude of NYM requests. Meanwhile yesterday CSB asked me to do something I discovered was impossible on my end; since the reno, I no longer have a CD drive to write information to a CD to. Emailed CSB back, CC'd CS [the paralegal], and received no reply - until this A.M. Now CS can do the CD burning, but I gotta write a cover letter. Looking pretty busy on my end.

Background Noise - Well I am back working from home, so the DVR will primarily be the background noise; I have way too many Jeopardy and After Midnight episodes saved on there so we're binging those today. Plus YT, probably mostly on mute; I hit 21 videos yesterday and since most of the videos are at least 30 min or more I feel like I'm keeping up my numbers pretty well.

Study - Wednesday is 'visual study' day and while I'm not doing my usual DVR stuff, Jeopardy definitely counts. Additionally, I have quite a few YT vids saved up for today: one about the 'Idaho torso' (this is an archeological documentary, not true crime); one on a N. Korean spy who caused a plane crash; one on the Impossible Man - John Zegrus; one on Havana Syndrome; & one on the Aurora theater massacre. All of these count, especially the one on the Idaho torso and the one on the N. Korean spy; I'm more familiar with the content of the other three.

Speaking of studying, while I did not do quite as well as I wanted to yesterday, I did not do poorly either; I'm just an overachiever. I read two (2) press releases; an essay on Canada's 'Maple Spring'; a report on water analysis of a particular stream in Belgium (the water reports can tell us a lot about pollution); another section of Shielded from Justice; another entry on the Deep Climate blog; and 16 different news articles.

Extras - Okay chores: I have to clean the catbox out and vacuum the rugs as the normal stuff; then I want to take a deep clean dry Swiffer cloth to Dad's bedroom registers & floor, that way I can sweep and wet Swiffer it and then set up a routine where I'm not doing this BS every six (6) months. Dinner is takeout, which should give me time; I'm craving comfort food, namely pizza from my favorite takeout place down the street. Cup n' char with their garlic breadsticks on the side sounds like heaven while I watch a few (3) more episodes of Kiramager before doing the big self-care routine. It should pay off at the end of the night with more time to myself to relax.

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 12.13

Holidays

Acadian Remembrance Day (Canada)

Anesthesia Technicians Day (Turkey)

Bicycle Built For Two Day

Blame Someone Else Day

Clip-On Tie Day

Count the "La's" in "Deck the Halls" Day

Ella Josephine Baker Day

General Trias Foundation Day (Philippines)

International ACAB Day

Jane Addams Day

Jum ir-Repubblika (Malta)

Local Charities Day (UK)

Loki Day

Martial Law Victims Remembrance Day (Poland)

Nanking Massacre Memorial Day (China)

National Bring Your Brother-in-Law to Work Day

National Day (Saint Lucia)

National Day of the Horse [also 2nd Saturday]

National Guard Day (US)

National Violin Day

National Give a Wine Club Day

New Calendar Day

Nusantara Day (Indonesia)

Peace Day (Korea)

Pick a Pathologist Pal Day

Reed Plant Day (French Republic)

Republic Day (Malta)

Sailor’s Day (Brazil)

Santa Lucia Day (Sweden, Scandinavia)

Skip Day

Swiftie Day

Unreturned Library Book Day

World Violins Day

Yuletide Lad #2 arrives (Giljagaur or Gully Gawk; Iceland)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Ice Cream and Violins Day

National Cocoa Day

National Cream Cheese Frosting Day

National Ice Cream Day

National Popcorn String Day

Saffron Bun Day (Sweden)

World Raclette Day

Independence & Related Days

Malta (Republic Declared; 1974)

Vendsyssel (Declared; 2018) [unrecognized]

2nd Friday in December

Comfort Food Friday [Every Friday]

Five For Friday [Every Friday]

Flashback Friday [Every Friday]

Friday Finds [Every Friday]

Friday the Firkenteenth (Grey Lodge, Pennsylvania)

Fry Day (Pastafarian; Fritism) [Every Friday]

National Salesperson Day [2nd Friday]

Official Lost and Found Day [2nd Friday]

Purple Friday (Netherlands) [2nd Friday]

TGIF (Thank God It's Friday) [Every Friday]

World Brandy Day [2nd Friday]

Weekly Holidays beginning December 13 (2nd Full Week of December)

None Known

Festivals Beginning December 13, 2024

Candy Cane Hunt (Lenexa, Kansas)

Christmas on the River (Savannah, Georgia) [thru 12.14]

Country Christmas Festival (Tylertown, Mississippi) [thru 12.14]

4th Avenue Winter Street Fair (Tucson, Arizona) [thru 12.15]

International Film Festival of Kerala (Thiruvananthapuram, India) [thru 12.20]

Night of the Proms (Hamburg, Germany) [thru 12.14]

Saint Kitts and Nevis National Carnival [Sugar Mas] (Basseterre, Saint Kitts and Nevis) [thru 2.2.2025]

Woodstock Winter Wassail Weekend (Woodstock, Vermont) [thru 12.15]

Feast Days

Antiochus of Sulcis (Christian; Saint)

Antoni Tàpies (Artology)

Aubert of Cambrai (Christian; Saint)

Comp-U-Coffee 2000 (Muppetism)

Emily Carr (Artology)

Emma Bull (Writerism)

Euler (Positivist; Saint)

Eustratius and His Companions (Christian; Martyrs)

Feast of the Light-Bringer (Old Swedish Goddess of Light)

Franz von Lenbach (Artology)

Heinrich Heine (Writerism)

Herman of Alaska (American Orthodox Church)

Ides of December (Ancient Rome)

James Wright (Writerism)

John Marinoni (Christian; Blessed)

John Wayne Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Judoc (a.k.a. Joyce; Christian; Saint)

Kenelm, King (Christian; Saint)

Kenneth Patchen (Writerism)

Larry Storch Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Leonard Weisgard (Artology)

Losoong (a.k.a. Namsoong; Sikkim, India)

Luciadagen (a.k.a. Little Yule; Scandinavia)

Lucia’s Day (Pagan) [Sweden]

Lucy (Christian; Saint) [Writers]

Monkey Appreciation Day (Pastafarian)

Odile of Alsace (Christian; Saint)

Othilia (a.k.a. Odilia; Christian; Saint & Virgin)

The Sementivaem (Ancient Rome)

Tellus (Ancient Rome, with table spread for Ceres)

Thorn Cutting Ceremony Day (Glastonbury, England; Celtic)

Unreturned Library Books Sale (Imps; Shamanism)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Prime Number Day: 347 [69 of 72]

Taian (大安 Japan) [Lucky all day.]

Unlucky Day (EU, US) [Friday the 13th] (2 of 2 for 2024)

Unlucky Day (Canada, Germany, Ireland, UK, US) [Friday the 13th]

Premieres

Accordion Joe (Betty Boop Cartoon; 1930)

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.: Slingshot (Web Series; 2016)

Alice’s Brown Derby (Ub Iwerks Disney Cartoon; 1926)

American Hustle (Film; 2013)

An American in Paris, by George Gershwin (Tone Poem; 1928)

Bedknobs and Broomsticks (Disney Film; 1971)

Beyoncé, by Beyoncé (Album; 2013)

Bugsy (Film; 1991)

Calling Dr. Woodpecker (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1963)

A Chorus Line (Film; 1985)

Clue (Film; 1985)

Dark Star, performed by the Grateful Dead (Song; 1967)

Driving Miss Daisy (Film; 1989)

Emily of New Moon, by L.M. Montgomery (Novel; 1923)

Fool Coverage (WB LT Cartoon; 1952)

Foxy Lady, recorded by Jimi Hendrix (Song; 1966)

The Getaway (Film; 1972)

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (Film; 2013) [Hobbit #3]

Jerry Maguire (Film; 1996)

The Jewel of the Nile (Film; 1985)

Jumanji: The Next Level (Film; 2019)

The Lord of the Rings: The War of the Rohirrim (Animated Film; 2024)

Maid in Manhattan (Film; 2002)

Mars Attacks! (Film; 1996)

A Miser Brothers’ Christmas (Animated TV Special; 2008)

Monitored Noose or The Carbon Copy-Cats (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S1, Ep. 6; 1959)

My Name is Nobody (Film; 1973)

Popeye Presents Eugene, the Jeep (Fleischer Popeye Cartoon; 1940)

The Poseidon Adventure (Film; 1972)

Rakuen Tsuiho: Expelled from Paradise (Anime Film; 2014)

Richard III (Film; 1955)

Saving Mr. Banks (Film; 2013)

Scooby-Doo! Pirates ahoy! (WB Animated Film; 2005)

The Scorched Moose (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S1, Ep. 5; 1959)

Sense and Sensibility (Film; 1996)

6 Underground (Film; 2019)

The Snow Man (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1940)

Star Trek: Nemesis (Film; 2002)

Summertime (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1931)

Symphony No. 2 in C Minor, by Gustav Mahler (Symphony; 1895)

Symphony of Psalms, by Igor Stravinsky (Choral Symphony; 1930)

’Tis the Season to Be Smurfy (Hanna-Barbera Animated TV Special; 1987)

Tristessa, by Jack Kerouac (Novel; 1960)

Uncut Gems (Film; 2019)

Wild and Woody! (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1948)

Wind (Pixar Cartoon; 2019)

Ye Olde Toy Shop (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1935)

Today’s Name Days

Jodok, Lucia, Odilia (Austria)

Jasna, Lucija, Otilija, Svjetlana (Croatia)

Lucie (Czech Republic)

Lucia (Denmark)

Ele, Ere, Hele, Loviise, Lucia, Luise, Viise (Estonia)

Seija (Finland)

Jocelyn, Lucie (France)

Jodok, Johanna, Lucia, Ottilia (Germany)

Aris, Efstratios, Ioubenalios, Evstratios, Loukia, Lucy, Stratos (Greece)

Luca, Otilia (Hungary)

Antioco, Lucia (Italy)

Lūcija, Veldze (Latvia)

Eiviltė, Kastautas, Kastytis, Liucija, Otilija (Lithuania)

Lucia, Lydia (Norway)

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Day of Year: Day 348 of 2024; 18 days remaining in the year

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[magicalsniper]

9,832 words | Mature | One-Shot Author's AO3: MagicalSniper Story Link: An Heir is Borne

Summary: Arthur and Guinevere face a crisis when Arthur is found to be sterile, leaving the kingdom without an heir. Desperate, they turn to Merlin, who agrees to help them conceive a child through magic despite his own unrequited love for Arthur. However, little do they know, Merlin plans on leaving Camelot for good once Gwen falls pregnant.

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An Heir is Borne

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Beneath the starry sky of Arthur’s bed chambers that Merlin had placed one day for a prank but kept because Arthur loved it, Arthur’s hand found Gwen’s in a tremulous grasp. Gwen interlocked their fingers and closed her eyes, pressing her lips to his knuckles and letting out a shaky breath.

“Yet another month passes,” Arthur murmured as if the words were heavy on his tongue. His blue eyes, usually clear and sure, were clouded with sadness and self-doubt. “And still, no heir.”

Gwen sighed softly, shaking her head, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders. “Perhaps it is time to seek Merlin’s help,” she suggested gently. She understood her husband’s hesitance in getting their friend involved, but he might be their last hope. “He would never think ill of us.”

Arthur scoffed, rising from the edge of their bed. “Merlin wouldn’t think ill of us if we put him on a pyre to burn.”

“Maybe, but let’s not test that theory,” Merlin chirped as he entered the room with a large tray. He held the door for George, who was holding another large tray, and for Elisabeth, who was holding the water and wine jugs. He dismissed George and Elisabeth and walked up to the bed to lean against the left front bedpost, an eyebrow raised. “Why am I being put on a pyre?”

Arthur gave Gwen an uncertain look before sighing heavily. “Gwen and I have been trying to have a baby. We’ve yet to be successful.”

“Maybe your soldiers are just as stubborn as you,” Merlin quipped. He then grew serious, his face softening with genuine concern. “How long have you been trying?”

“About six seasons,” Gwen admitted, causing Arthur to wince. Merlin’s face mirrored their concern.

“And your monthly bleed is normal? I imagine so because once a month for like a week, Arthur complains and comp—”

“Shut it!” Arthur snapped, throwing a pillow at Merlin’s head. 

“There are tests we can try,” Merlin said as he caught the pillow and fluffed it before handing it to Gwen to place back on Arthur’s side of the bed. He tilted his head, shaking it slightly to get the hair out of his eyes. “Spells of fertility, to see what is happening.” 

“Are they dangerous?” Gwen asked, worry clouding her features.

“Only to Arthur’s pride,” Merlin said with a grin. He motioned for Gwen to come closer and, in a theatrical whisper, said, “he has to provide a sample for me.”

Arthur blanched. “What kind of sample?”

Merlin maintained a serious expression, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. “You need to ejaculate into a beaker for me. It’s the only way to get an accurate test with the spell. I could do it straight to your testicles, but then you risk frying the rest of them.” Arthur winced and moved his legs together. Merlin looked down at Gwen, “You can help him if he needs it, but honestly, if his sheets are anything to go by, he’s a semi-pro.”

“Gwen will not be helping me with that!” Arthur said, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“What, you want me to help you?” Merlin asked, finally allowing a small, reassuring smile to break through.

Arthur was at a loss of words for a moment, his face getting redder and redder as he struggled to form a sentence.

Gwen laughed and slapped Merlin’s shoulder gently, “Stop teasing him. He’s about to pass out.”

Merlin sighed heavily and shook his head at her, his tone light and affectionate. “You always take away my fun.” He straightened and motioned towards the table. “Why don’t we eat and discuss it more? If you are comfortable, we can start the tests tonight.”

“See, told you he could do it,” Merlin joked lightly later that evening as Arthur shoved the beaker with his sample into Merlin’s hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

“We will never speak of this again,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, standing beside Gwen on the other side of Merlin’s table. He squeezed her hand tightly, his heart feeling as if it were about to fall out of his chest.

Merlin’s chambers, which were across the corridor from Arthur and down the corridor from Gwen’s, were dimly lit. Tendrils of incense smoke rose, making the air feel heavy. Merlin drew intricate symbols on the table, his fingers leaving luminescent trails that glowed softly against the wood.

Arthur’s jaw was set firm as Merlin began to enchant, his voice barely above a murmur, yet it resonated through the room. Gwen’s eyes didn’t leave Merlin’s hands as, with careful precision, he dropped herbs into a chalice of water, each submerged with a pulsing ripple. The chalice's contents shimmered, casting an ethereal light that danced across their anxious faces.

Merlin placed the sample in the middle of the chalice, the liquid in the chalice now a vortex of swirling colours, each hue blending into the next. With a swift motion, he upturned the chalice, sending the contents to spread across the drawn circle.

The trio held their breath, watching the liquid stretch along the table, stopping within the confines. Arthur and Gwen looked up to Merlin for guidance, but his frown merely grew the dimmer the concoction got. 

Merlin stepped away from the table, sniffled and took a deep, shaky breath before vanishing everything from the table. “I’m so sorry.”

A sharp intake of breath from Gwen pierced the silence that followed. Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back as she looked over at Arthur. 

Arthur stood frozen, the colour draining from his face, leaving him ghostly pale. The implications of Merlin's words were a blow more devastating than any enemy's sword. A sterile king—a broken link in the chain of succession—meant uncertainty and chaos for Camelot.

“Are you certain?” Arthur’s voice cracked, his usual confidence shattered.

“There is a minimal chance, if ever, that you will be able to sire a child,” Merlin responded softly.  He hesitated before reaching over and rubbing Arthur’s back as Gwen reached for Arthur’s hand, squeezing it. 

“Then we must discuss the next steps,” Arthur said, his voice steadying with resolve.

Merlin looked over at him, eyes flooded with curiosity. “Next steps, like assigning an heir?”

“That is one of the options,” Gwen admitted, pushing a strand of hair behind her ears. “I think this is better if we do it sitting down.”

Merlin summoned the chairs from the other side of the room and sat on the table, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees.

“I need a drink,” Arthur muttered, not even flinching when Merlin summoned the goblets and wine from his chambers and handed him and Gwen theirs. 

“We’ve discussed that if one of us—”

Arthur took a deep drink from his wine. “Is unable,” Arthur finished for her, his eyes locking into Merlin’s. “That we would seek help.”

"Help?" Merlin queried, his brow knitting in confusion. “Surely not—”

Arthur shook his head hard, “Nothing like my father had done. A surrogate or donor, depending on our needs.”

“A donor,” Merlin said slowly. He licked his lips, “who were you considering?”

“Well, you.”

“Me!?” Merlin’s reaction was immediate and visceral; he almost fell off the table in his shock. “Surely, you can’t mean—”

“The kingdom needs an heir,” Arthur interrupted, his voice edging towards a plea.

“Of course, but consider the ramifications,” Merlin countered, his voice rising in pitch. "If the child does not resemble you, questions will arise. The accusations against Gwen alone..."

"Could weaken Camelot further," Arthur conceded, his expression darkening.

“Beyond the whispers of infidelity, there is the matter of lineage,” Merlin pressed on, his hands gesturing emphatically. "The legitimacy of your rule, the stability of the realm—it all hinges upon the perception of a rightful heir."

“We thought of all that, which is why it has to be you,” Gwen said with finality. 

Merlin dropped his hands into his lap, “I don’t follow.”

“We announce that you will be the child’s sire—”

“Are you insane?” Merlin screeched, “That’ll invite chaos and dissent.”

“Or it will be seen as the connection of Camelot to the magical community, something to make it stronger,” Arthur said, folding his arms across his chest. “A child, born to the Camelot throne, a child of Emrys…”

“But, Arthur, they will say you’re weak.”

“No, they will see we’re strong,” Arthur said firmly. “There have been times in Camelot’s history where an heir was not sired or had died early in life. The successful adopted heirs were those announced to the community, not hidden out of the King’s shame of not being able to sire one.” Arthur took a deep breath and looked into his friend’s eyes, a vulnerable smile on his face. “We can’t hide the fact that it will be your child, but we won’t have to.”

“Merlin, everyone loves you. Yes, there will be people against it, likely some of our counsellors, but the vast majority? They’d be proud to call your child a leader one day.” Gwen leaned forward and touched his knee, giving it a light squeeze. “The hope you would give the magical community—showing that you are helping grow Camelot into a haven for them—what better way than to give your child to rule the kingdom?”

“I…” Merlin glared down at his shoes, his fingers playing with his laces. “I don’t know about this…”

Arthur reached forward and took Merlin’s hand, squeezing it lightly before rubbing his thumb against the top. “Merlin, there is no one else in this world whom I trust as I trust you,” he began, his voice laced with an earnestness that Merlin hadn’t ever heard from him before. "You are my most loyal friend, my confidant, and the very soul of Camelot. Your intentions have always been pure, even when faced with the darkest times."

Merlin felt the room spin slightly, the gravity of Arthur's words anchoring him to the spot. He watched Gwen give them a slight, encouraging nod before she rose gracefully from her seat and retreated, leaving the two men alone.

"Arthur," Merlin started but was silenced by a gesture.

“Let me speak,” Arthur implored. "I have never doubted your loyalty nor your love for Camelot—and for us. If there is one man in this kingdom who could fulfil this role, who could help us in our most desperate hour, it is you, Merlin."

Merlin swallowed hard, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around him like a cloak. It was rare for Arthur to expose such vulnerability. "Arthur, this could bring unforeseen consequences upon us all," Merlin murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Perhaps," Arthur conceded, moving closer to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. "But without an heir, Camelot's future is bleak. You know as well as I that the realm's stability rests upon our lineage. Without it, the kingdom will fall into chaos, and the work we've done, the progress we've made towards uniting the five kingdoms—will be no more."

He knocked his shoulder with Merlin’s before pressing into his side.  "I would not ask this of anyone else, Merlin," Arthur continued solemnly. "You are the one person in this world, other than Gwen, whom I can trust with anything—my life, crown, and heart. You have stood by me through trials that would have broken lesser men. You've saved my life more times than I can count."

"Arthur, you are my king, my best friend," Merlin replied, caught in the intensity of Arthur's blue gaze. "Your request is... it's not something I ever imagined."

"Nor I," Arthur admitted. "But here we are, and I find myself asking you to help us in a way that goes beyond anything I have ever asked. I know that you love us, Merlin, and I know that you would never use this as an excuse to seek the crown."

Silence followed, Merlin unable to come up with any reasonable retort.

"Think on it, Merlin," Arthur said finally, his hand dropping away as he stepped back, allowing Merlin the space to process the enormity of the proposition. "This is not just about us—it's about the future of Camelot."

Merlin sighed heavily and licked his lips, his fingers twisting into the bottom of his tunic. His eyes, usually shining with joy, now flickered with an emotion that seemed to wrestle between profound duty and personal turmoil.

"Arthur," Merlin began, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts raging in his mind. "I will consider your request, but know that this is not a decision I can make lightly or quickly."

Arthur nodded sharply, "I understand. And whatever you decide, know that it will change nothing between us. You are my most trusted friend, and that is not contingent upon the answer you give."

"Thank you, Sire," Merlin replied, the formality of the title feeling suddenly inadequate for the moment. He glanced towards the door, feeling Gwen’s presence just beyond the wood. "I shall give you my answer by the rise of the next moon," he promised.

Arthur clapped a hand on Merlin’s shoulder before stepping away and leaving Merlin to his thoughts. As he stopped by the door, he glanced back at his friend. Merlin was still sitting upon the table, but now, his face was hidden in his knees, and his hands were running and pulling at the strands of his hair. With a sigh, Arthur opened the door and closed it softly behind him, joining his wife in the corridor. He wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin atop her head and kissing her crown.

"What if he says no?" Gwen whispered, her words fragile as glass.

"Then we will face that when it comes," Arthur replied, his voice unwavering even as his heart quaked with uncertainty. "We have overcome much, my love. We will overcome this, too.”

Gwen pulled away and took his hand, “Let’s go to sleep. It’s been a long evening.” 

As the night deepened around Camelot, the castle seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the decision that would shape the destiny of a kingdom.

And outside, beneath the veil of stars and the watchful gaze of the heavens, Merlin walked the cobblestone paths, his footsteps echoing softly against stone, the weight of a crown's future pressing upon his shoulders.

~o0o~

Merlin traced the contours of the wooden table with an absent-minded finger, his gaze distant as Gwaine and Lancelot entered his chambers. He greeted them with a melancholy smile and gestured for them to sit. He continued his musing, barely nodding in thanks when Gwaine slid a goblet of wine his way.

“What’s wrong?” Lancelot asked, pushing his hair from his eyes. “Another fight with Arthur?”

“No, it’s not that.” With a sigh, Merlin sat back in his chair, frown deepening. “The harvest moon is near, but the fields are barren.”

“What?” Gwaine leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Someone is struggling to conceive,” Lancelot said softly, his features tightening as he caught the hidden meaning in Merlin’s words. “Arthur and Gwen?”

Gwaine snorted. “Of course, it’s them. Who else would you be this down about?”

Merlin opened his mouth to argue but stopped, knowing it was pointless. “They asked me to help them have a child.”

Gwaine stood up abruptly. “Are they insane!? How could they ask that of you?” His voice was a low growl, his hands clenching into fists. He glared over at Lancelot, who put a calming hand on his shoulder and lightly pushed down to get Gwaine to sit back.

Merlin’s eyes watered, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. “I’m their last hope. If I don’t help them, who will?”

Lancelot leaned forward and took Merlin’s hand, squeezing it gently. “My friend, it is noble to consider this, but at what cost to your own heart?”

Merlin smiled sadly. “My love for Arthur will always be unrequited. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do something that will make them immeasurably happy.”

Lancelot and Gwaine shared a look. “It’ll tear you apart to watch Arthur and Gwen raise a child that you helped create,” Gwaine said, his voice softening with concern.

Merlin scoffed. “Even if Arthur returned my affections, we’d never have children. And in either case, what am I to do?” Merlin’s voice became almost lyrical, giving both men pause. He only spoke like that regarding talks of Destiny, the Five Kingdoms, and Albion. It usually meant he had already made his choice, and they couldn’t stop him.

“He wouldn’t hate you, you know,” Lancelot said gently.

“Of course, but I’d hate myself,” Merlin admitted. “If I don’t help Arthur and Gwen when I easily could. I can’t forsake Camelot’s future for selfish reasons.” He paused momentarily, looking unsure about his next sentence. “Should I go through with it, it would mean I leave Camelot.”

Gwaine spat out his wine, and Lancelot patted him on the back as he coughed violently. “Leave Camelot!?” He slammed his goblet on the table, causing a small crack on the surface. “You are the core of this kingdom! There wouldn’t be a Camelot without you.”

Merlin looked down at the table, “Sometimes, even the core must be removed for the whole body to thrive.”

“That is absolute—”

“Gwaine,” Lancelot said forcefully.

“You can’t think this is okay!?” Gwaine turned towards him angrily. “Merlin’s given up everything for Arthur. He is going too far this time, asking him for something like this.”

“I agree, but our job as Merlin’s friends is to support him in what he chooses to do.”

“How is this even going to happen? You have no interest in having sex with a woman,” Gwaine said, turning back to Merlin.

Merlin scrunched up his nose. It was true. There was only one woman he ever had an interest in sleeping with, and she was no longer a viable option. “There’s a spell one can use to transfer sperm into an ovum without the physical touch required of sex. It has to happen minutes after release for it to be effective, which is—”

“Weird,” Gwaine said bluntly. “What are you going to do, pleasure yourself with them in the room watching?” Gwaine scoffed and leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs. “I didn’t know voyeurism was a kink of yours.”

Merlin frowned at Gwaine, “It is not—”

“I’ll go with you,” Gwaine said with a heavy sigh. “When you leave Camelot.” he elaborated at Merlin’s confused look.

“Myself as well,” Lancelot said. “You won’t have to go through this alone, my friend.”

Merlin met with Arthur and Gwen early the following day for breakfast as usual. His mind was a vortex of entropy, and his emotions only held up marginally better. Upon reaching Arthur’s chambers, he paused to gather the last vestiges of composure before he had what was arguably the most important talk they’d ever had.

With a deep breath, he knocked and entered, finding Arthur and Gwen already at their table and having started breakfast. Gwen shot him a brilliant smile and pushed out the chair on the other side of the table. “Merlin, come join us.”

Merlin walked over slowly, each step heavy with the weight of his decision. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, feeling their concerned gazes on him. Gwen frowned and reached over to grab a clean plate, piling on foods she knew he liked to eat before nudging it in front of him.

Arthur’s sharp eyes narrowed as he watched Merlin’s uncharacteristic hesitation. “What’s wrong with you?” he snapped, his voice a mix of worry and frustration.

Merlin bit his lip, then looked up at them, his heart pounding. He forced a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll do it.”

Gwen gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her lips parting in shock. Arthur faltered, his eyes widening in surprise and something that looked like hope. “You’ll do it?” Arthur’s voice held a tremor that betrayed his usual fortitude.

“Yes,” Merlin confirmed, his gaze unwavering despite the storm inside him.

Gwen quickly got up from the table and circled Merlin, her arms wrapping around him tightly. “Thank you, Merlin. We can never repay you.” Her voice was thick with emotion, tears glistening in her eyes.

Arthur came up beside them and hugged Merlin, the warmth of their embrace both comforting and excruciating. Merlin pressed his face into Arthur’s shoulder, taking a shaky breath as he tried, failing to stop the tears in his eyes. He reached out and held them tightly, the reality of his decision sinking in.

“Think nothing of it,” Merlin said softly, allowing himself a moment to collect himself in their arms. “My only wish is to see you both happy and for Camelot to thrive.”

He gently extricated himself from their embrace, his heart aching with the loss he was about to face. “I’ll need a few days,” he said, keeping his voice steady despite the tempest brewing in his heart. “The specifics of the process require some preparation. It’ll take a bit to gather what is necessary and ensure everything is done correctly.”

“Take all the time you need, Merlin. We trust you completely,” Arthur said, his tone warm and filled with gratitude. It was subtle, but Merlin could hear the anticipation in his voice.

Gwen reached over, her touch light on Merlin’s forearm. “Is there anything we should do to prepare or be concerned about?”

Merlin shook his head. “It’s fairly simple, nothing like the one that ensured Arthur’s birth.” He paused for a moment, biting his lip. “You should use the time to come to terms with the fact that your child will likely have magic and be a dragonlord. My mother told me I was moving things before I was born—books flying, dancing vials, things like that.”

Gwen and Arthur were silent, causing Merlin to stutter out the following words. “I-I could bind the child’s powers. It isn’t dangerous if you do it before they are born, and it takes hold.” He offered, but the thought pained him more than he dared to admit.

“Absolutely not,” Arthur said firmly. “If our child has magic, especially magic inherited from you, Merlin, then it is meant to be nurtured. Any child with your gift... it could be nothing but pure and good.”

Gwen nodded her agreement, her eyes shining with determination. “They will know nothing but love and acceptance.”

Warmth bloomed in Merlin’s chest, a bittersweet mixture of joy and sorrow. “Thank you,” he managed to say, his throat tight with emotion. “I’ll begin the preparations at once.”

With that, Merlin excused himself to his chambers. Once there, he began to methodically gather the items he wanted to take, laying them out on his desk with a sense of finality. He separated his magic books from his personal effects, each item a memory of his time in Camelot. With a flick of his hand, he expanded the inside of his bag, the enchantment echoing the depth of his resolve. He carefully placed the books first, including the first book of magic he had received from Gaius. Next, he added his clothes and the small souvenirs he had collected over the years, each from various patrols, battles, feasts and festivals he joined.

At the top of the pile, he placed Arthur’s mother’s sigil, nestling it safely between the folds of his garments. The sigil was more than a token; it symbolised his bond with Arthur and the promise he had made to protect him. The last item he packed was a beautiful sapphire cloak with the Pendragon crest embroidered in gold thread on the front. It was a gift from Arthur and Gwen when he was made Court Sorcerer, a cherished reminder of their friendship and trust in him.

As the quiet hours of the night wore on, Merlin sat at his desk and wrote goodbye letters to his closest friends. Each letter was a labour of love, gratitude, and sorrow, the words flowing from his heart like a bittersweet melody. He poured his soul into each stroke of the pen, knowing that these letters would be the last pieces of himself he could leave behind.

With the first light of dawn cresting over the horizon, Merlin placed the notes in the top drawer of his desk. He had arranged for them to be delivered a day after he left Camelot, ensuring that there would be enough distance to prevent his friends from finding him too soon. Deep down, he knew they would come looking for him, driven by the same love and loyalty that bound them together.

The following day, Merlin steeled himself to fulfil his promise as the castle stirred to life. He would catalyse a future for Camelot that shimmered with hope, even if it meant walking away from the life he had known. His heart ached with the weight of his decision, but Merlin knew this act of deep loyalty and love would shape the destiny of the kingdom he cherished. As he took his final steps away from the castle he had called home, he felt the bittersweet pang of a new path unfolding before him, one marked by sacrifice and the unyielding strength of his heart.

~o0o~

The moonlight streamed through the stained glass window, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across Arthur’s chamber. The room, usually a sanctuary of comfort for Merlin, now felt suffocating with tension.

Merlin closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, hoping the warmth of the fire would ease his tension. He panted, his tongue circling two fingers before pressing them into his mouth. His left hand trailed down to his hip, rubbing slow circles. But nothing worked. Frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair and growled, leaping up from Arthur’s bed. The weight of Arthur and Gwen’s stares was unbearable.

"I can't do this with you both staring at me," Merlin snapped, his cheeks flushing crimson.

“You can go into the antechamber. I had George clean it out this morning,” Gwen suggested encouragingly.

Merlin nodded stiffly and walked to the antechamber, closing the door firmly behind him. He began to pace, anxiety mounting. If he didn’t do something soon, he wouldn’t be able to help Arthur and Gwen.

Two knocks on the door preceded Arthur’s entrance. Merlin stiffened, turning slowly, barely meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“I can’t do it with just you watching me either,” Merlin snarked, rubbing his sweaty hands on his pants.

Arthur raised his hands placatingly. “I was thinking… well, maybe I could…” A blush crept up his cheeks, and Merlin raised a brow. “I could help you.”

“Unless you can vanish on command,” Merlin retorted, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “I fear not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur scoffed. “What is a little help between us? The knights do it all the time.”

“I’m not a knight,” Merlin pointed out. “And you can’t—”

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense, it wouldn’t be a hardship.” His eyes glinted mischievously but held sincerity. “I assure you.”

Merlin bit his bottom lip, torn between his desire and the potential consequences. This might be his one chance to be with Arthur the way he wanted, but Arthur didn’t know of his feelings. Still, Arthur had offered...

His heart stuttered in his chest as he nodded slowly. 

Arthur closed the distance between them, his steps unhurried as he lightly pressed a hand to Merlin’s chest and pushed him backwards until his knees met the bed. Merlin toppled over and reached out to grab Arthur in his shock. 

He took a shuddery breath and let go of Arthur’s tunic. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He was suddenly reminded of the power and pain of loving someone out of reach and how this would likely only damage him more. Merlin swallowed thickly and shakily undid his pants before pushing his shirt up his chest before he could back out.

The room was chilly, causing him to suck in his stomach at the sudden temperature change, but he forced himself to relax, take deep breaths and block out everything else other than what was happening.

Arthur made to slide down to his knees when Merlin grabbed his tunic and pulled up until their faces were mere centimetres apart. “What’s wrong?” Arthur asked softly, his breath warming Merlin’s face.

“Kings should never be on their knees,” Merlin said firmly, ignoring the pleasure that shot through him at the very thought.

Arthur chuckled and rolled his eyes, placing a gentle hand on Merlin’s thigh as his other slowly freed his hardening cock. Merlin’s breath hitched as Arthur’s hand, calloused from years of wielding a sword, closed around him with unexpected gentleness. “For you, Merlin, I’d gladly walk on my knees.”

A violent shiver coursed down Merlin’s spine at the words, and he couldn’t help but lean into the sensations Arthur’s skilled hands evoked. It had been too long since he had felt this close to another, and the moment's intimacy was overwhelming.

Arthur leaned forward and nuzzled against the top of Merlin’s thigh, his breath ghosting over his cock, causing him to shiver as it rushed across the wet head. Merlin couldn’t help the strangled noise that escaped his lips as he pushed Arthur’s head off of his thigh before his hands flew up to cover his face as he felt tears begin to well in his eyes. 

He grabbed a pillow and hid his face in it, covering the rest of it with his arm. With his other, he reached down and started to run his fingers up and down his chest, sharp nails catching on a nipple, leaving him to buck into Arthur’s hand with a groan.

Arthur squeezed and twisted his hand over the head of Merlin’s cock, causing a drop of pre-cum to weep from the tip. He gently took a finger and rubbed against the slit. Merlin’s breathing hitched, and Merlin knew he couldn’t take much more. “Keep doing that,” he gasped, his voice thick with need.

Arthur slightly altered his touch to firmly rub from base to tip, collecting the precum as it dropped and massaging it into the head and shaft. “You’re so wet for me,” Arthur leaned up and whispered in his ear. Merlin’s toes curled in his boots, and he bit back a moan. It was too much, yet not enough, as his body yearned for more.

“I-I’m close,” he managed to ground out, his fingers pulling at his hair.

“Come for me, Merlin,” Arthur whispered in his ear, and it was that, the tender way Arthur spoke his name, that sent him over the edge.

Merlin’s climax crashed through him like a tidal wave, and he arched his back, crying out as pleasure surged through every fibre of his being. The world seemed to momentarily swirl around him as white-hot ecstasy coursed through his veins, and he barely registered the vial pressed against the tip of his cock.

The room fell silent as he panted for air. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it did nothing to hold back the tears that began to fall from his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Arthur was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place.

As his breath steadied, his chest rising and galling with a pace that slowly returned to its usual rhythm, he righted himself, feeling the familiar pull of his protective facades snapping back into place as he sniffled and wiped his face one last time. Avoiding Arthur’s gaze, he forced a cheerful tone. “We should get back to Gwen.”

Arthur’s concern still lingered in his eyes, the intensity of the moment they shared hanging between them, but Merlin deftly manoeuvred past it. He wasn't about to let Arthur see how profoundly the act had affected him— not when this was to give him and Gwen the thing they wanted most in the world.

"Merlin," Arthur started, but Merlin raised a hand, halting any words that might further strip away the layers he hastily rebuilt.

"Really, Arthur. Gwen needs us," Merlin insisted, the smile plastered on his face, not quite reaching his troubled eyes. With an unsteady step, he grabbed the vial from Arthur’s hand and moved towards the door, eager to distance himself from the intimacy of the antechamber.

Gwen awaited them on Arthur’s bed. She sat cross-legged, embroidering something into a thick leather band resembling what Arthur sometimes wore around his wrist. She looked up and smiled at him softly, gently putting what she was working on to the side to give him her full attention.

“Feeling relaxed?” He asked lightly, coming up beside her and sitting on the bed.

“Of course,” Gwen replied. “I trust you, Merlin.”

He nodded and rolled the vial in his hand before he began, taking one more silent moment before things changed forever. 

Merlin began the incantation with practised movements, his fingers weaving through the air as ancient words flowed from his lips. A warm glow emanated from the vial, casting dancing shadows upon the stone walls. 

Arthur had gone to sit on Gwen’s other side and grabbed her hand, watching Merlin carefully as he completed the ritual. The magic swirled around them, and the trio fell silent as they waited, the seconds stretching into an eternity. The vial suddenly shone with a brilliant burst of light, marking the success of their endeavour.

Arthur and Gwen laughed, unbelievable huffs as they stared at her womb that was confirmed to now be with child. Merlin couldn’t help but mirror their reaction, although he much felt like sobbing in relief. Thanking any deity, he could say that he didn’t have to go through the routine again, and he didn’t think he would be able to do it a second time. 

“Do they have magic?” Gwen asked softly, holding her hand protectively over her womb.

Merlin closed his eyes and listened, feeling the pulse of magic around him. It was faint, but he felt a slight tug of magic coming from Gwen that he never had before.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “It is hard to tell how much they’ll have right now.” He smiled tightly, “Although, even a small amount of magic will keep you on your feet.”

“I’ve had good practice,” Arthur smirked before reaching down and pulling Merlin to his feet. Merlin stood uncertainly when suddenly he found himself enveloped in a tight embrace, first from Gwen, whose gratitude was palpable in every line of her body, and then Arthur, who wrapped strong arms around them.

"Merlin," Gwen began, her voice thick with emotion, "I don't know how we can ever repay you for this gift."

"Your happiness is payment enough," Merlin replied, the words barely above a whisper. His face was still partially concealed behind his hands as he fought to master the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Still, we owe you more than words can say. You've given us hope, Merlin—hope for a future that seemed out of reach."

Merlin buried his face in Arthur’s neck, trying to hide the tears he was trying and failing to keep from falling. “We owe you everything,” Arthur whispered in his ear as he pressed his forehead to Merlin’s temple. 

“Anything for you,” Merlin said lightly, subtly rubbing his face against the cloth on Arthur’s shoulder before pulling away. “I’m going to go to bed; this took a lot out of me.” 

"Of course, Merlin," Arthur said, concern lacing his tone as he observed the sorcerer's sudden, weary posture. "We will see you in the morning."

“Good night, Merlin,” Gwen said with a wide smile.

“Goodbye,” he managed to say, his voice steady despite the fatigue that dragged at his limbs like chains. He offered them a smile that was more tired than joy, unable to give them anymore. He only hoped Arthur was too distracted to read through him.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned back one last time to look at them. Arthur and Gwen were huddled together on the edge of Arthur’s bed, their hands pressed to her stomach and their smiles bright. 

With a deep breath, he nodded to himself and stepped out into the corridor, the click of the door closing behind him echoing like a final note in a long and arduous symphony.

Merlin made his way through Camelot's dimly lit stone corridors, his steps slow and reflective. The torches flickered on the walls as he passed, casting shadows that matched his tumultuous emotions. With his possessions over his shoulder, he allowed his feet to take him to his final destination before he left Camelot for good.

Gaius’ chambers were as familiar to Merlin as his own heartbeat, a sanctuary within the vastness of the castle, second only to Arthur’s chambers. Pushing open the door, he saw Gaius bent over a scroll, his brow furrowed in concentration. The old man looked up, his gaze sharpening upon seeing the weariness in Merlin’s features.

"Merlin, what is it?" Gaius asked, concern instantly flooding his voice.

"The ritual... was successful," Merlin began his voice a low murmur that carried the weight of his relief and exhaustion. Gwen is with the child."

Gaius rose from his seat, a smile blooming on his face. "That's wonderful news, truly," he said, clasping Merlin's shoulder affectionately. "And the magic?"

Merlin hesitated for a fraction of a moment. "They have at least a small portion of magic. I was able to feel it already. This means I need you to guide them, Gaius. Teach them to harness their power, to use it wisely."

"Of course," Gaius nodded, his eyes narrowed slightly, reading something unspoken in Merlin's stance. "But you speak as if you won't be here to see it yourself."

Merlin's gaze dropped to the floor, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. When he lifted his eyes again, an implacable resolve was within them. "I am leaving Camelot," he declared, the words resolute yet thick with emotion. My path... it lies elsewhere now."

"Merlin, you can't mean this," Gaius protested, the distress evident in his voice. "After everything, you would turn your back on Camelot? On Arthur?"

"It's not a matter of turning my back," Merlin's response was swift, tinged with sorrow. "It's about being needed elsewhere. There are rumours that Cenred’s up to his tricks again, taking young sorcerers from their parents and turning them into slaves. I must put a stop to it, and I cannot stay tethered to Camelot’s gates if I want any chance of doing so."

"Reconsider this," Gaius implored, reaching out as if trying to anchor Merlin to the present physically. "You can’t go off to fight a war alone, and you are needed here in Camelot with Arthur."

"Arthur has his queen and, soon, an heir," Merlin countered, his tone gentle yet unyielding. "He is no longer the young prince who needed guidance at every step. And you, Gaius, you are more than capable of guiding him in my steed. Should the need arise, seek help from the Druids. They will help if they know I sent you."

"Merlin—"

"Promise me, Gaius," Merlin interjected, his eyes locking onto those of his mentor. "Promise me you'll look after them."

"I promise," Gaius acquiesced, the fight draining from him as he recognised the finality in Merlin's decision. "But my worry is not who will look after them but who will look after you."

Merlin scoffed, “I don’t need looking after.” He paused and sighed heavily, “I thank you for everything. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.”  Merlin said, his voice barely above a whisper, imbued with a lifetime of gratitude and unshed tears. With a last lingering look, he turned and strode from the room, leaving behind the flickering torchlight and the man who had been his teacher and anchor.

As he walked through the corridors and out the castle entrance, he thought of the countless mornings awoken by the bustle of servants, the late nights spent pouring over ancient texts with Gaius, and the stolen moments of quiet conversation with Arthur under the stars. He couldn’t help but stop once he was at the castle gates and stare up at the castle, unable to hold back the tears that fell. He laughed wetly, with how many times he’d cried that evening. He could hear Arthur’s voice in his mind calling him a girl.

"Goodbye, my friend," he murmured, not sure if he addressed the castle, its people, or the memories they held. With a finality that resonated in his core, Merlin stopped before the gate when he caught sight of the two shadows waiting for him.

“Are you ready to go, Merlin?” Lancelot asked softly, and Merlin turned back towards the castle one last time, strengthening his resolve.

“Yes… let’s go.”  And with that, he strode through the gates of Camelot with his two close friends at his side, his silhouette melting into the misty dawn, ready to embrace whatever trials awaited him beyond the safety of the kingdom's walls.

~o0o~

It was rainy that morning; the firelight from the fireplace spilling across the stone floor of Arthur’s chambers did nothing to warm his chambers. There was a knock at the door before it slid open, revealing George, his footsteps confident as he strode into the room with Arthur’s breakfast. 

“George?” Arthur’s brow furrowed in surprise as he peeked out from behind the changing partition, his blue eyes searching for Merlin’s absent figure. “Where is Merlin?” he stepped out from behind it, straightening his shirt and approaching the table.

“I am not certain about Merlin’s whereabouts, Sire,” George said, setting the tray down with a clatter that still disrupted the morning. “I received word this morning that I was to attend to you until further notice.”

Arthur’s hand paused mid-reach for a piece of honeyed bread, a flicker of concern passing over his face before he dismissed it with practised ease. “Very well,” he conceded, but he certainly wasn’t happy about it. Merlin was wont to the occasional and unexplained absence. He picked up the bread and bit into it without further comment, barely glancing at the sealed parchment lying innocently beside his plate. 

He would never admit it, but he jumped when Gwen burst through the doors, her breath coming out in short, urgent gasps. Her distress sent a jolt of alarm through Arthur, causing him to drop his bread. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Merlin,” Gwen said, her voice barely above a whisper, his brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“What’s happened to Merlin!?” Arthur asked frantically.

“He’s gone.”

“Gone, what do you mean he’s gone?” Then, he noticed the note clenched in Gwen’s shaky hands. 

His fingers closed around the crumpled parchment and pulled it towards himself. His eyes quickly scanned the familiar script that scrawled across the page, each word etching itself into his mind.

“I write to you with a heavy heart,” he read aloud, incredulity colouring his tone. “I realise that notice of my absence during this profound moment in your lives will likely cause you disappointment and perhaps some sorrow.” Arthur coughed, feeling his throat tighten, and thought it best to continue reading silently. 

Should you find yourself in need of guidance regarding your child’s gifts, I Implore you to seek the wisdom of the Druids. Tell them Emrys sent you. I cannot express how deeply I regret not being there to offer guidance myself, especially knowing the weight of responsibility that rests upon your shoulders now. Please believe me when I say I have the utmost faith in both of you as parents. The love and dedication you have shown me, not to mention countless others and yourselves, will undoubtedly shape your child into a beacon of hope and strength that will carry forth the noble legacy of Camelot that you and Arthur have courageously upheld. I apologise that I will not be there for the birth of your child nor to watch them grow. Please know that though I am not physically there with you, my thoughts will remain with you, Arthur and your child.  With heartfelt apologies and sincerest wishes for your happiness and prosperity, Merlin

Arthur breathes out a shaky breath and goes to sit at the table. His arm reaches out to grab his water goblet when his wrist brushes against the parchment by his plate. He frowns and opens the letter. It contains only two simple sentences.

I can’t stay. I’m sorry. Merlin

Arthur’s fingers trembled as they crumpled the edges of the parchment, his heart stuttering in his chest. The short message, stark against the creamy background, blurred before his eyes as a maelstrom of emotions surged within him—betrayal, confusion, and an aching sorrow clawed at his throat.

“Merlin,” he whispered, the name a plea and a curse all at once.

He rose abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. With swift strides, he made for the council chambers, snapping at the guards there that they were to gather the Knights of the Round Table immediately. The Round Table loomed as he entered, its polished surface reflecting the flickering torchlights— what was once a beacon of unity was now shadowed by absence.

As the others filed in, he noticed two notable absences. “Where are Sirs Lancelot and Gwaine?” he demanded, his voice ringing through the room. 

Sir Leon stepped forward, solemnity etched in his features. In his outstretched hands were two sealed parchments, their wax seals broken. “They sent these this morning,” he said, his tone laced with regret.

Arthur snatched the parchments from Leon’s grasp, eyes scanning the words. “Resignations, they’ve gone with Merlin.” On the one hand, he was devastated to lose not only one but three of his closest friends, but on the other, he was grateful to Lancelot and Gwaine for not allowing Merlin to leave Camelot on his own. But despite the gratefulness, he still couldn’t help but wonder why. What had caused the three of them to leave Camelot?

“Prepare the horses,” Arthur commanded, his resolve hardening. “We ride at once.”

“Arthur,” Leon began cautiously, “Should we not consider—”

“No!” Arthur cut him off sharply. “We will find them all and bring them home. Camelot needs them.” I need them. 

He turned his heel, the cape behind him whispering across the stone floor as he strode from the table to prepare for the journey.

“Sire, if Merlin wishes to remain hidden, even the combined forces of Camelot will not be able to find him.”

Arthur stopped abruptly, his back to Leon. The muscles in his jaw clenched visibly. “I know Merlin’s heart, and it is one that beats in tandem with Camelot’s,” he said, his voice low but laced with intensity. It beats in tandem with mine.

“Perhaps it would be kinder to let him go,” Percy ventured, joining them with Elyan at his side. His voice was gentle. Understanding, yet it grated against Arthur’s resolve like a whetstone.

“Kinder?”Arthur spun around, his blue eyes ablaze. “Merlin is more than just our court sorcerer— he’s my… confidant, my closest ally.” He took a shaky breath, steadying himself against the emotions threatening to spill forth. “I can’t— I won’t— do this without him.”

The journey to Ealdor was undertaken with haste, leaving no room for doubt. The gallop of hooves, which pounded against the earth and stirred clouds of dust that rose like spectators in their make, could be heard for miles before they were at the treeline of the small village. Arthur rode at the forefront, his golden hair gleaming beneath the brim of his helmet, eyes fixed on the path ahead with steely determination.

Upon arriving, the familiar sight of Hunith’s cottage emerged from the soft mists of early dawn. She stood there as if she had been awaiting their presence, her face tight with worry.

“Arthur,” Hunith greeted, pulling him into a hug. She lifted herself on her tiptoes and kissed his forehead before moving away. Her voice was strained, her muscles tense with evident fear. “Merlin came through here last night.”

“Where did he go, Hunith?”

“Essitir.”

Arthur’s heart sunk links a stone in the depths of the ocean. “He’s gone to Cenrad’s castle?”

“To stop the war,” Hunith said with a grave nod. “As you’ve likely heard, the war between the castle and the magical beings of Essitir has taken a dire turn. He’s enslaving children from druid camps, erasing their memories and making it so they know nothing but of war.”

Of course, he had heard. It’s one of the only things Merlin had taken to talking about. Arthur knew he had been in talks with druid leaders about what their next move would be. Arthur had offered refuge to those who needed it, but they had to get into Camelot territory for it to come into effect. From what they had heard, Cenred had been making sure that none of them made it into the territory. 

“Merlin believes it’s his duty— as Emrys— to intervene.”

“That idiot,” Arthur breathed, his pulse quickening at the thought of his friend amidst the chaos of a magical battle with only Lancelot and Gwaine at his side. His hands clenched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking with the force of his grip. “And you let him go?” he demanded.

“What choice did I have?” Hunith says painfully. She glared up into his eyes, determination in her gaze. “You bring my son home safe, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Upon my honour,” Arthur vowed. “I will not rest until Merlin is safe and sound at home. 

He turned on his heel, his cape swirling behind him as he returned to his knights. The brisk air bit at his cheeks as he steered them, racing towards Essetir Castle.

The castle loomed ahead several candle marks later, its foreboding silhouette a stark contrast against the twilight canvas. 

“Prepare yourselves,” Arthur called, his voice cutting through the evening hair like a blade. He steeled himself, unaware of what would await them once they crossed the castle walls.

~o0o~

“Secure the perimeter,” Arthur commanded, watching as his knights dispersed. Their movements were methodical as they examined each still form that littered the ground, searching for survivors among Essetir’s fallen knights. 

Arthur’s heart pounded against his breastplate, a relentless drum that spurred him onward. With each step, he felt the oppressive weight of dread squeezing tighter at the possibility that Merlin might be found among the fallen.

“Please don’t let him be here,” he whispered to himself as his eyes scanned the sea of bodies, seeking the sorcerer's familiar dark hair and bright eyes. 

"Sire!" Sir Kay called, his tone laced with urgency but not despair—a sign that gave Arthur a sliver of hope. He strode toward the knight, feeling every echo of his plated boots resonate within the hollow chambers of his chest.

"Report," Arthur demanded.

"No sign of Merlin, Sire," Sir Kay responded, his face alight with relief. "He is not among the casualties. Nor are Sirs Gwaine and Lancelot,” he tacked on at the end.

A silent exhale escaped Arthur’s lips, the tension in his shoulders ebbing away. “Then we continue our search,” Arthur declared his words, a clarion call that rallied his knights once more. "Merlin and the others are here, somewhere. And we shall find them.”

They swept across the castle’s shadowed corridors, and the pungent scent of blood and smoke permeated the air, but when they listened closely, they could hear a murmur of voices that drew them toward the counselling chambers.

Arthur signalled his men to pause, his hand raised for silence. They edged closer, the murmuring growing clearer until they stood before the imposing oak doors of the chamber. With a nod from Arthur, he and Leon gently pushed open the doors.

The sight before them gave them pause. Merlin sat at the head of the table, surrounded by druid leaders whose faces Arthur remembered from treaty meetings the past couple of years. A dragon circlet rested upon Merlin’s brow, starkly contrasting his simple clothes. Merlin grimaced and shifted it as he spoke, obviously uncomfortable with it on him. Lancelot and Gwaine sat at either side of him, sharp eyes observing the meeting.

It wasn’t until Gwaine had leaned down that Arthur noticed the small girl cradled in Merlin’s arms. Her hair, as dark as a raven’s wing, stood in stark contrast to the white swaddling he had her in. Even from a distance, Arthur could see how her tiny fingers grasped at the air, unknowing of the chaos around her.

“What do you plan on doing with her?” Gwaine asked, brushing his fingers across the baby’s forehead. 

“I’ll adopt her,” Merlin said softly, each word deliberate, “since I killed her mother.” He looked up then, his blue eyes locking with Arthur’s. “Hello, Sire.” The words were tinged with a melancholy that only served to deepen the furrows on Arthur's brow. His heart hammered against his chest as he stepped forward.

"That is all you have to say to me?“ Arthur's voice came out sharper than he intended, a byproduct of the worry gnawing at him. “You up and leave Camelot, and when I find you, it’s amid a war with a baby." The confusion and betrayal bled into his words, mingling with an anger he couldn't wholly suppress.

Merlin's snark was immediate, a defence mechanism honed through years of banter. "Technically, you found me on the successful side of a war." He tilted his head, a wry twist to his lips that failed to reach his eyes.

"Merlin," Arthur started, his tone brooking no argument, "don't play the semantic game with me. You need to come home."

The room held its breath, waiting for Merlin's retort. Yet what came was not a quip or a jest but the calm, measured tone that Arthur knew presaged gravity. Merlin glanced down at the babe, whose dark eyes had fluttered open. He cooed softly, a gentle hushing sound, before lifting his gaze to meet Arthur's once more.

"There's nothing for me in Camelot anymore," Merlin began, his voice clear and steady. "We have to rebuild Essiter. It can't be without a king for long. As I am Emrys, I offered to take over at least temporarily." He cradled the child closer to his chest, protective and resolute. "We will build it into the magical kingdom it is supposed to be."

Arthur felt a piercing pang in his chest—was it loss, fear, or something else entirely? Merlin's words echoed in the chamber, a haunting melody of finality that threatened to sever the bond they had forged. The future of Camelot, the weight of his crown, it all paled beside the realization that the man before him, the one he trusted above all others, the keeper of his secrets and his unspoken desires, might just slip away like mist at the break of dawn.

"Merlin," Arthur's voice cracked slightly, betraying his desperation. "You've always been the one to guide me, to stand with me against whatever darkness threatened Camelot. I have needed you before, but I need you by my side now more than ever." His plea lay bare, stripped of the regal veneer that usually cloaked his words.

The knights around them shifted uneasily, the weight of their king's vulnerability as palpable as the tension that thickened the air. Merlin regarded Arthur with a poignant stillness in his eyes.

Rising from his seat, Merlin gently placed the baby into Gwaine’s arms. The knight's usual playful demeanour was subdued; his brow furrowed with concern at the drama between his king and friend unfolding.

Merlin walked over to Arthur, his movements deliberate, each step seemingly heavier than the last. He stood before the king, close enough to touch, reassure, and mend what was broken. Instead, he reached out with tender precision, straightened Arthur's rumpled chainmail, smoothed down the fabric of his cape with a careful hand, and finally adjusted the disarray of golden locks that crowned the brow furrowed with worry.

"You don't need me anymore," Merlin said softly, his voice laced with a quiet strength. In his eyes, there flickered the merest hint of power, the depth and wisdom of a sorcerer who had seen too much, felt too much, sacrificed too much.

Arthur's heart clenched at those words, at the resignation they carried. But he could not—would not—accept this decree. Not from Merlin. His hands itched to grip Merlin's shoulders, shake him, awaken the bond that surely couldn't have faded like the embers of a dying fire.

"Merlin," he began, the name a prayer, a command, a plea. But the words that would follow remained unspoken, trapped within the confines of a throat tight with emotion. Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, stood face to face with the man who had shaped his reign, who had saved his life time and again, who had become the very essence of what he fought for—and found himself at a loss for how to keep him.

"Merlin," Arthur repeated, his voice cracking with the strain of unshed tears. "That's not true!" The words burst from him like a clarion call, a desperate bid to hold onto something that was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

Merlin leaned forward, and for a moment, Arthur wondered if he would be granted reprieve, a sign that his plea had reached the enigmatic heart before him. 

Merlin's lips brushed Arthur's forehead, a whisper of contact that sent a shiver down Arthur's spine. A faint glow emanated from the touch, magic seeping into the gesture—a final gift or perhaps a silent apology.

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmured as he pulled away, leaving a lingering warmth on Arthur's skin. His voice was barely above a breath, yet it carried the gravity of an unchangeable verdict. "I love you, but it's for the best."

The simple words, spoken with such a gentle finality, shattered the last vestiges of Arthur's composure. To hear the confession of love intertwined with the thread of goodbye wove a tapestry of pain too complex to unravel. He watched, feeling hollowed out and bereft, as Merlin stepped back, the distance between them expanding more than just the physical space—it was the chasm of their diverging destinies.

Arthur was left standing amidst the echoes of what had been and what might never be, devastated and unsure of what the future held without the man who had become his compass in a world that demanded so much of a king. Merlin, his sorcerer, confidant, and cornerstone, had decided upon a path Arthur could not follow. And the crown upon his head felt heavier than ever before, a symbol of power that could not command the human heart.

[cafeblackthorn]

I'm finally where I belong

    I'm a chef, a hiker, and a pagan. During my thirteen years as a chef, I've done and seen quite a lot of interesting things. In the time I've slogged it out in kitchens, I've always found myself returning to three things in my life: cooking, writing, and telling stories. I sufficed to say that the restaurant industry has given me a great deal of perspective on many, many things, quite a few of which I genuinely found to be superbly unexpected. In the immortal words of Ray Liotta in "Goodfellas", "All my life I wanted to be a gangster". From childhood to my early teen years my Saturday morning cartoons were replaced with cooking shows. "The Essence of Emeril", "Emeril Live", "Bobby Flay's Grillin and Chillin", "Molto Mario", "A Cook's Tour, and despite his current universal dragging by Uncle Roger "The Naked Chef with Jaime Oliver"

                    I genuinely give a lot of credit to my father, our bonding during my childhood was spent traveling across Queens where I currently live eating my way through every ethnic group to call Queens home. Those times exploring with my dad helped me come out of my shell and paved the way to becoming who I am today. A place my father and I regularly ate at was Rosa's Pizza in Maspeth, it was in this temple of Red Sauce Americana that exposed me to what would eventually evolve into my loving cooking. My Dad and I always and nearly without fail sat within the same three rows of booths and my culinary education as a New Yorker began. Whether you're a New Yorker for life or a transplant with a few years in the city we all accept a few simple truths, no matter how hard you try you can't get all the grease off of a regular slice, the corner slice of a Sicilian pie is the best piece (I defy you to tell me otherwise), and no matter what you do fountain soda from a pizzeria just hits different.

               In Rosa's you had the regular crew slinging pies in the open kitchen, and if you were in the mood for something heavier you had the closed-off portion of the kitchen where one of my favorite people in the world cooked day in and day out. Pete was an older guy when I was a kid and he still made some of the best Italian-American food you could ever sink your teeth into, and eventually, he would become like a second grandfather to me. The days he was at work and my dad and I happened to be in we'd walk away with a free soda here, a free slice there and I remember he even comped a meal for us, which for the time was unheard of (and it's even more so now). Pete had this uncanny ability to always make you smile and I remember the day he changed my life forever. Pete walked out of the kitchen in his sauce-stained waist apron, salt and pepper hair, and that caterpillar mustache that was almost a pre-requisite if you were cooking in a pizzeria in the 90's

               "Your dad tells me you want to be a cook?" I remember having a chunk of Sicilian dangling in my jaws, all I could do was nod like an idiot, I looked at my dad and he smiled knowingly. Pete took me into the kitchen where I saw three bowls and an eggplant cut into rounds. "Eggplant Parmesan, it's easy, I'm gonna show you how". Pete proceeded to show me how to pass the eggplant from flour to egg, to breadcrumb and how to put them into a deep fryer, I remember the sensory overload that making that food did for me. The slime of the egg, the powdery POOF the flour made when my eggplant hit the bowl and the crunch of breadcrumbs through my fingers, I even remember the squeal of delight and terror I let out as I saw produce deep fry for the first time. I'm not gonna lie, looking back on it now the thought of a nine-year-old kid rocketing food into a deep fryer gives me all kinds of anxiety, Pete showed me how to assemble an eggplant parm step by step with the most patience I've ever been shown in a kitchen and when all was said and done he laid a takeout container in front of me, It was my eggplant parm that I made and ya know what? It was fucking delicious.

                My Dad and I would take a nearly five-month break from visiting Rosa's and when we came back, I remember something felt off. The giant dining room somehow seemed bigger, the shine I always remembered gleaming off the tables seemed to dull somehow. My dad ordered for us our usual and we took to our usual booth. I remember saying to my dad "I wonder if Pete's working". Looking back on it now, I should have realized something was amiss when my Dad's absent gaze locked on me "He died..a few days ago", I remember finishing that slice of pizza with a tear in my eye understanding the importance that love had on cooking. Pete was gone, and it felt as though the love had gone from that restaurant.

               Pete's lived in my memory now for twenty-six years. A sadness admittedly enters my mind, I mourn the fact that Pete showed me what I was meant to become, I mourn the fact that I couldn't return to show him what I've learned. I said to myself when I began a writing effort, to putting my thoughts, and opinions on food, where I started would be important, and despite the fact, I would gain an Idol who left a permanent mark on my soul, It all comes back to Pete, and though he's gone I'm still a chef because of him, I'd raise a toast to you Pete, thank you for giving a fat little nine-year-old the realization he had a place in the world. I thank you for instilling in me a sense of pride in my work and working with my hands. Grazie Pietro, se non fossi entrato nella mia vita. Non so la direzione che avrebbe presso.

[dramaticallytrue]

re explaining the comps is frying my brain

[milo-myhigh]

Don't ruin your body for a workplace that will replace you as quickly as possible.

I am disabled now, worse than I was before, bc of when I worked for McD's. I was standing on my feet for 10-12 hour shifts as a teenager with undiagnosed scoliosis (amongst other issues), I was carrying the ENTIRE FRY STATION for end-of-night cleaning, I was carrying buckets that regularly weighed enough that I dislocated my shoulders frequently. The thing that permanently disabled me was when I injured my spine closing one night.

We had to brew a new urn of tea near the end of the night bc we had run out, and customers were still insisting on unsweetened tea so we had to brew more even though there was literally less than an hour before close. Ofc, not a single person ordered unsweet tea after we brewed it. Now, this was when they filled those tea urns to the brim, so this was about 10 gallons of tea. The store closes, and we're doing closing tasks so we can go home; and as I'm pulling the tea urns to take back to the sink, one of them tips off of the counter. I didn't even realize which one it was until I lunged to catch it, the only thought going through my 17yo head was that I didn't want to stay late to clean up even more. This was 1-2 weeks before my 18th birthday, and I never saw a cent of workman's comp even though I was out of work for months.

My spine has never been the same since that night. I have 3 bulging discs in my lower back, sciatica, and damage to my spinal chord bc of that injury. The spinal chord damage has a leak that causes cysts to form on my pelvis that are filled with spinal fluid, that come and go (they're painful and debilitating). And those are the spinal problems *just* caused by that injury.

Workplaces will not care if you're disabled. I've had maybe two employers give me accommodations, and one of them complained and guilt tripped me about it the entire time I worked for them. Do not break your body working for somebody who would work you to death

I would like to see more people talk about how jobs treat disabled employees.

I used to prep, wash dishes, and cook at mellow mushroom. I had chronic pain that wasn't NEARLY as bad as it is today, but it was still very debilitating. I told my employer "i cannot stand more than 4 to 6 hours. I CANNOT do shifts longer than this due to my illness." And even though i made my boundaries VERY clear, everyday i worked it was 8 hours at the least and 10 or 12 at the most. I would go up to my manager and say "look i really need to leave, my shift is over, my chronic pain is killing me." And he'd say "we really need to here, you HAVE to push through." And so i did, and after one, ONE month of that job my crps got incredibly worse to the point where i could no longer walk my dog around the block which was .5 miles. I quit, and that was FOUR years ago, and ever since that day I HAVE BEEN BEDRIDDEN AND HAVE TO USE A WHEELCHAIR. It is my biggest regret in life.

My best friend who has seen my whole journey has recently developed undiagnosed chronic pain, and she is in the EXACT same scenario i was 4 years ago. Busting her ass at a pizza place with extreme pain that hurts her so much she tells me "im in so much pain i don't even feel like a person." She doesn't feel LUCID. And her manager and coworkers are saying the same thing "if you don't help us you will let us down, we'll be in the shit."

That job thats hurting you isn't fucking worth it. I promise you no money is worth losing all your physical abilities and never getting them back. Your coworkers and boss do not give a shit about you, so don't you dare suffer for them. They will never understand your struggle and they will never try. They truly think being understaffed is worse than whatever pain you experience. They would rather you permanently damage yourself than inconvenience them. FUCK THEM. DON'T FUCKING DO IT!

[video-reviews]

TOP 5 Melhor AIR FRYER em 2025 | Melhores AIR FRYERS Custo-Benefício

Análise completa, descubra qual é a melhor AIR FRYER Custo-Benefício em 2025! TOP 5 MELHORES Fritadeiras . 🔒 Sites indicados no vídeo (100% Seguro): 

 ✅ 5) FRITADEIRA AIR FRY Britania BFR25P 110V: https://amzn.to/4aYVlHF 220V: https://amzn.to/416A2ke Magalu 110V ou 220V: https://divulgador.magalu.com/WPPmZj3o 

 ✅ 4) Fritadeira Electrolux Grand Airfryer EAF30, 4 litros Grafite 110V ou 220V: https://amzn.to/41961QE Magalu Grafite 110V: https://divulgador.magalu.com/jfAwloBq Magalu Grafite 220V: https://divulgador.magalu.com/rshJoVJ3 

 ✅ 3) Fritadeira Air Fryer Forno Mondial AFON-12L-BI 12L, Preto/Inox, 2000W 110V ou 220V: https://amzn.to/4gGlz2W Magalu 110V ou 220V: https://divulgador.magalu.com/dhOOdVkc 

 ✅ 2) Fritadeira Airfryer Philips Walita Série 1000 XL, 6,2 litros, Tecnologia RapidAir 110V ou 220V: https://amzn.to/4hyeDGg Magalu 110V ou 220V: https://divulgador.magalu.com/Catid68G 

 ✅ 1) Fritadeira Air Fryer Oster OFRT520 Sem Óleo 110V ou 220V: https://amzn.to/4hPPzKP Magalu 110V ou 220V: https://divulgador.magalu.com/CbhvhoMy 

Mais modelos de Air Fryers: https://amzn.to/3QsFzeJ Confira os descontos do dia da loja: https://amzn.to/48D894h 

#airfryer #fritadeira #airfryer2025 

Qual é a MELHOR Air Fryer em 2025? ✅ Análise Custo-Benefício! 

Começando pelo quinto lugar nós temos a Air fryer ‎Britânia BFR25P. Uma fritadeira boa e barata de 4 litros. Em quarto lugar nós temos a Airfryer Electrolux Efficient EAF30. Uma fritadeira prática e eficiente de 4 litros. Em terceiro lugar está a Airfryer Oven Mondial AFON 12L BI. Uma fritadeira forno 2 em 1 de 12 litros. Em segundo lugar está a Airfryer Philips Walita 1000 XL. A fritadeira melhor custo benefício de 6,2 litros. Em primeiríssimo lugar está a Airfryer Oster OFRT520. A fritadeira melhor avaliada da nossa lista. 

Capítulos do vídeo 

00:00 Top 5 das Melhores Air Fryers 

00:15 Já deixou o seu LIKE? 

00:29 Air Fryer Britânia BFR25P 

01:32 Air Fryer Electrolux Efficient EAF30 

02:35 Air Fryer Mondial AFON 12L BI 

03:40 Air Fryer Philips Walita 1000 XL 

04:47 Air Fryer Oster OFRT520 

05:59 Melhores descontos das Air Fryers 

06:06 Resumo das 5 Melhores Air Fryers 

06:11 Inscreva-se 👇🏻 Inscreva-se no Canal 👇🏻   / @info.compra   

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