I hate when king arthur has all these fussy little steps in the instructions and you're like "no way do these fussy little steps matter" but you try it and they do. they matter so much.
I thought you meant Camelot quests and I was like "that's fair, 'never pick a four leaf clover on the last Wednesday of the month' IS a fussy little step that shouldn't matter" but then I was like "wait isn't that also a flour company"
is that a love potion in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
for @merthurmicrofic prompt "sickness" and @merlinbingo prompt "falling in love"
T - 1150 words
***
Gaius ought to have known something was amiss the moment that Prince Arthur marched into the physician’s chambers, looking for all the world perfectly hale, and announced grandly that he was ill.
“Of course, sire.” Gaius set down his willow bark and sighed. Evidently the pain draught was going to have to wait until tomorrow. “And what might the symptoms be?” Across the room, he noted with avuncular pride that Merlin had raised a single eyebrow, mirroring his own. The boy was learning.
“Erm,” Arthur hedged.
Merlin squinted. “You weren’t ill this morning when you were tormenting me on the training field.”
“Well, I’m ill now!” Arthur snapped, flushing. “Or— well— I’m unwell, at any rate.” He shut the door behind him, peering out in both directions first, as though checking for spies, and dropped despondently into a chair with his head in his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was a mumble. “I think it’s a love spell.”
“That is serious,” Gaius agreed. “Which lovely young lady is the object of your affections this time?”
Arthur’s head jerked up and he coloured, if such a thing were possible, even further, so that his face was now approximately the same shade as his shirt. “I’d really rather not say.”
“Well, that’s stupid,” said Merlin. Gaius shot him a look. Granted, he had been about to express roughly the same sentiment, but he would have done it more tactfully. “How are we— er, how is Gaius supposed to break the spell if he doesn't know who’s cast it?”
“I am quite certain,” said Arthur slowly, “that the person responsible is not the same as the, er…” He turned his eyes to the ceiling and finished lamely, “…target.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Merlin retorted.
Really, Merlin wouldn’t know good manners if they danced a jig in front of him wearing that absurd feathered hat. Gaius tried a more reasoned approach. “Even if they are not the same person,” he explained to Arthur, fairly exuding patience and geniality, in his own most humble opinion, “the identity of the spell’s focus is still valuable information. Knowing that could help me to determine the spellcaster’s motivation.”
“Be that as it may,” said Arthur, avoiding both Gaius’s and Merlin’s eyes, “you’ll just have to do without that little tidbit. I have every confidence in your investigative skills regardless.”
“You,” cried Merlin, throwing up his hands, “are an incorrigible horse’s snout, did you know that? I empty your chamber pot. Why is this what you’ve decided to get all embarrassed over?”
Arthur’s expression was midway between a scowl and a pout. “I am not embarrassed, Merlin. I simply wish not to embarrass the, er, other party.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell her about it!”
“You won’t be telling anyone about it,” shouted Arthur, face thunderous, “because I won’t be telling you. Good day, Gaius. I trust that you will begin your search for the remedy with all haste.” With that he stomped from the room and slammed the door with such ferocity that Gaius momentarily feared for the potion bottles on the nearest shelf.
“Well, my boy,” said Gaius, once the door ceased vibrating, “I suppose we have some research to do.”
***
The passage of a week had done nothing to inspire Arthur to share the identity of his newfound love interest. Merlin’s groaning was audible before he even opened the door. “It’s getting worse, Gaius. We have to find the cure soon or I’m going to go mad.”
“Good evening to you too,” Gaius replied, fondly if a bit exasperatedly. “Ordinarily I would ask whether Hunith tolerated such constant whingeing during your childhood, but all things considered, I am inclined to agree with you. The situation has become untenable. However—”
“I’m really worried about him,” Merlin interrupted, clearly not listening, not that he was ever much in the habit of listening, and slumped into a chair with a book selected more-or-less randomly from the shelf; they had been through them all twice already.
“Merlin—”
“He’s behaving like even more of a carrot-head than usual,” Merlin continued, heedless. “Thought he was going to take Sir Balin’s head off in training this morning.” He thumbed morosely through the book, eyes glazed. “And when I tried to get him undressed for bed, he just went red in the face and shouted at me to get out.” He looked up, frowning. “It’s weird, actually. He wasn’t like this at all with the last love spell.”
“Merlin,” said Gaius, sternly, “that is exactly the point. If you would listen to me for a moment, I believe I have the answer.” He paused for dramatic effect. “When Prince Arthur was previously under a love spell, did he deduce as much on his own?”
“No,” Merlin replied, slowly. “He didn't even believe us when we told him.”
“And was he circumspect about exactly whom he loved?”
“No.” Merlin’s eyes widened. “It was all I could do to get him to stop gibbering about Lady What's Her Face long enough to drink the antidote.”
“Precisely,” said Gaius with a bit of a self-satisfied smile. “The two characteristic attributes of all love spells are the subject’s compulsion to profess his love, and his complete unwillingness to consider even the possibility that his infatuation is not entirely genuine.”
Merlin pulled a contemplative face. Gaius waited. After a long moment Merlin said, “So what you’re saying is that this isn’t a love spell.”
“Indeed.” Gaius nodded. “It seems that our young prince has actually fallen in love. Why don’t you go and give him the good news?”
Unfortunately, Merlin did not seem to consider this good news. “Oh no,” he moaned, “Arthur’s going to be furious. You saw how embarrassed he was when he thought it was just a spell. Why do I have to be the one to break it to him that he’s really in love with— with— ugh. Maybe it’s Lady Bertilak.” He grabbed a fistful of his hair. “She’s, like, a hundred years old.”
“Lady Bertilak is younger than me,” corrected Gaius, rather severely. It was a mark of Merlin’s dire mood that he did not even have the decency to look properly chastised.
“She’s still old. And Arthur’s still going to hate me.”
“I doubt that very much,” Gaius sighed, bundling him towards the door. “Best get on with it, then. We all have our burdens to bear.” Merlin’s dramatics notwithstanding, Gaius was quite confident everything would turn out all right, and all too eager to collapse into bed for his first proper night’s sleep in a week.
When he awoke the next morning to find that Merlin had not returned to the physician’s chambers, Gaius had to admit that he was not entirely surprised. Well, he thought, and bustled over to the hearth to get started on breakfast for one. I suppose that answers that question.
the whole boston team knowing about montreal jane and they think that ilya rozanov who can pull any girl he wants must have found a real baddie the way he keeps coming back for more and then hard cut to shane hollander on a friday night drinking tea and reading the same hockey book for the fourth time who when ilya texts him asking what are you wearing? texts back my new organic cotton pj set and ilya texts back i'm so hard tell me more
I am sort of frustrated about that post I made about Google Gemini giving an AI summary of Tumblr users if you google a URL because it quickly turned into a long post where people started sharing all the things the AI got wrong about them, and I'm not saying it isn't good for a laugh when an AI is wrong, but I feel like people are missing the point. Who cares if the AI offers information about you that's wrong? What's worrying is all the information the AI got right.
That initial accidental google I did of a mutual returned an AI summary that was absolutely correct, and featured information about them that would not have been obvious from a quick perusal of their blog. The first few times I googled myself the AI overview was 100% correct. The version of that post that is circulating is not the one where I shared that the AI gave me someone's real name. I had hoped that it had screwed up and it wasn't their real name after all, but no, I checked with them, and just by googling someone's Tumblr URL, I got their honest to goodness legal name. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Like yeah I get that it's fun to go, "Haha, AI bad at collecting information," but that's not the problem. The problem is that sometimes AI good at collecting information, and it can collect a lot more a lot faster than a normal human can, by running multiple searches simultaneously and cross-referencing a lot of different documents all in a few seconds, for a level of snooping that would take a real person hours or even days, if they could do it at all.
That is so dangerous and I need people to be angrier about the fact that Google thinks it's okay to let their AI do this for online users. If you google your legal name and you're not already famous the AI won't say shit. Because that would be creepy and invasive! So why does Google think it's all hunky dory to do it for random internet users?
I am fully ready to testify in court that Ilya is not actually particularly dominant. He’s just a service top whose long-term sexual partner happened to be thoroughly submissive and he cares more about pleasing than what role he’s in. But those of us who are enlightened can see submissive top Ilya gets his turn in ep. 4 for a brief moment. He’s in there and ready for those rare occasions Shane is so overcome with lust he accidentally takes the wheel.
in a reasonable canon, shane would simply have THEE most dependent and intimate relationship with the montreal team nutritionist. like, he has her on speed dial. they text multiple times per day. she spends 60% of her work hours adjusting meal plans for his texture issues and aversions. nobody else really sees how intense their connection is.
when he was crashing out about trading to ottawa, he said, "You know, it's just gonna be really hard to leave melissa," and hayden was sitting right there like. "melissa?? it's gonna be hard to leave MELISSA??"
but i think we can probably convince melissa to move to ottawa with him, don't worry.
I hope I'm online when it happens. I want to see a sudden flood of crab rave memes right after refreshing my dash, and in the middle of it all, the Castiel news meme. That's how I want to learn of it; not through anything solemn or serious, but via overwhelming silly celebration.
i just truly truly truly believe connor deserves so much credit for understanding, in the midst of butching himself to the fucking gawds, that ilya needed to remain kinda fruity
the legally blonde mentality isnt just for law students. u can bring that attitude with you into every field of work. be the whimsical force of positive change. wear that neon outfit. snaps for us all.
this post was inspired by my boss telling me she couldnt "take me seriously" in a pair of dinosaur print overalls. sorry i have two degrees and a dope wardrobe. you dont need to take me seriously but You Will Take Me.
unreasonably amused by the idea of passenger princess ilya on vacation with shane
obviously shane hired a travel agent to create The Optimum Vacation, but he also studied and approved everything and also has custody of all important documents just because it makes HIM feel better and in control
meanwhile ilya?? straight elevator music. where are they going? unclear. when's the flight? not his concern. how long are they staying? who's to say. where's his passport? his husband has both of theirs.
his job is look pretty and "he asked for no mayonnaise" and that is IT
studying history is like. here's to another beautiful day of not being pregnant and of having no obligation to ever be. thank you women who fight for abortion and contraception and independance from men for another beautiful day of not being pregnant and of having no obligation to ever be
Boston and Montreal are at the same club. They're at different tables, but they were all sat in the VIP section - it's a little more secluded, offers the facsimile of privacy more than anything - and the Boston boys are loud, loud enough to be heard even over the thumping bassline of the music. Loud enough for Shane to hear them from where he's sitting in the corner of his booth, nursing his drink.
"Okay, best lay. Go."
"Sorry fellas, I'm a gentleman - I don't kiss and tell."
"That means you have nothing to tell, Connors?"
"Suck my fat one, Lenny."
"And become your best lay? Pass."
"For me, it was twins. In Vegas."
"Yeah, their names were right and left, surname hand. Gimme a break."
"Ye of little faith!"
"Ey, there's nothing little about me, bud. Just ask my best lay - Laura Steeler."
"What, the chick from the car commercials?"
"Oh yeah."
"No wonder she was your best lay, Petey - she was the only one of the poor girls you picked up who could act."
Raucous, jeering laughter drowns out Peterson's objections. It doesn't drown our Marleau's voice, clear and sly:
"We all know who Rozanov's best lay is."
Like they'd rehearsed it, the Boston Raider's all cry out in lilting sing-song unison: "Montreal Jane!"
Shane stops breathing. His skin goes hot, then cold, prickling, his hair standing on end. There's no way. He must have heard it wrong, there was no way-
"Now why are you limp dick losers talking about my best girl?"
Shane has to shut his eyes. This is not happening, surely. Ilya Rozanov is not swaggering up to the next table, calling Shane his - his -
"Ayyye, Cap. We were just talking about our top fucks."
"Ah, I see. You all had nothing to offer so you had to talk about my conquests, I understand."
Boos briefly follow.
"No but seriously, Cap. Yours has gotta be Jane, right?"
Rozanov hums, slow, indulgent, like he's savouring something. "Mmmh yes. My Jane."
Some catcalls follow, lurid. Shane's pulse is in his throat, thumping thumping thumping. He stares out into the throng of writhing bodies on the dancefloor, unblinking.
"Yeah okay so you love banging this chick, but that still doesn't answer the question: what was your best fuck with her."
Rozanov's laughter is rolling, incredulous. "This I cannot answer - no, no it is true!" He adds when he's met with crows of denial, "My Jane, she is always surprising me. She is crazy for my cock. You would not understand what this is like, for a girl to want your dick so bad she is biting your belt buckle."
It's like getting shoved in the solar plexus, hard. Boston's jeering rises but it doesn't dim the memory - they hadn't seen each other in weeks, and it was coming off of summer besides, and Shane had felt like he was on fire, like he'd die if he didn't get Rozanov's cock inside him now now right fucking now, and in his desperate rush, mouthing his way across denim, over Rozanov's zipper, he'd clipped his teeth against -
"I call bull. No way she's that easy for it."
"Oh, but she is," Rozanov's voice is inescapable, like he's whispering straight into Shane's ear, "I go to eat her out and I can already work three fingers inside - she opened herself up for me in the shower because she needs it so bad."
That's not fair, Shane thinks dizzily over Boston's whooping, that wasn't the same night as the belt thing.
Ilya is still talking, rapturous now:
"- but it does not matter if she does not open herself up before I get there because the way this girl gets wet for me? Oh my god, she is like - like faucet, just dripping, always, making a mess in her little panties -"
And suddenly Shane is standing, uncaring if the movement is obvious through the dim lights of the club. He's weaving, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Jesus, people probably think he's wasted what with the way he's walking, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care about anything apart from getting behind a locked stall door right fucking now.
When the lock clicks shut, Shane is scrambling for his pants. He's so hard he's throbbing, hot to touch. And he's - he's dripping, all down his shaft, down to his fucking balls, making a mess of his -
Panties, Shane hears in Rozanov's indolent drawl, and he puts his fist in his mouth and bites down, hard.
It's enough to muffle his noises, if not the shwick shwick shwick of his hand jacking his cock.
It's enough so that he doesn't miss the door handle of the bathroom turning.
Shane's hand doesn't (can't) stop working, neck arching as it flies over his dick, but he's not worried, not really.
