procrastinatorrex

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It doesn't matter if that fic has been in your drafts for years and is now self-indulgent to the point of parody. If Steven Moffatt is allowed to do it professionally, you are allowed to do it for fun.

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Is anyone still genuinely in the Merlin fandom? I want to start making edits or wtv- but I don’t even know if anyone would interact with it😭

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is that who i think it is…

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This is why I can’t stop obsessing over these two. Arthur let him walk away, so Merlin let him walk away.

bbc merlin - 04x07 The Secret Sharer

don't know about you guys but i think he should've set agravaine on fire with his mind right then and there. and he would've been right to do it. just a thought.

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MERLIN 4.07 (The Secret Sharer)

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“I won’t strike you, you don’t have to worry,” the man said. His voice was rough and pitched so low it was difficult to hear over the shuddering of the wagon. “I—“ Merlin faltered, he didn’t know what to say. The strange man’s eyes were sharp on his face, like a hawk. The outline of his shoulders, when he leaned forward, revealed bulk under the thin tunic. This man was a warrior, Merlin felt certain. “How did they catch you?” He asked before he could think better of it. 

The man smirked, a wry twist of the mouth, but pride was obvious in his eyes. Merlin felt Gwen shift beside him, she was no doubt interested in the confident stranger. “I was… distracted.” He said, quietly, and glanced around for eavesdroppers. As though unable to help himself, he added, “The bastards don’t fight fair.” 

Merlin laughed, louder than he should have. The leather wrapped around his arms made his skin tingle madly as he crossed them over his chest. “No,” he whispered, leaning towards the other man. “They don’t.” The stranger gave him a fierce smile. Recognition, he thought, and… something else? 

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Arthur: *complaining about how Merlin's always in the tavern* Gwaine who practically lives in the tavern: I have never seen that man here in my life

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“since you are so fond of reading, i thought you might join me?”

“it is not fair, sire. you have found my weakness but i have yet to learn yours.”

“but i should think it was quite obvious.”

for @lauravian 🖤

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Merlin lay behind him, in a corner of the king’s tent. He sprawled across a small pile of supply sacks like it was the finest feather mattress in Albion; head tipped back, body limp, looking for all the world like he was deeply asleep… or perhaps drunk. It struck Arthur suddenly that he’d never seen Merlin passed out drunk before, despite all the time Gaius claimed the servant spent at the taverns. Why hadn’t he ever thought of that before? 

Had Merlin been a sorcerer all this time? 

Every time Merlin inhaled the small fire in the brazier shrunk, as though he was sucking his breath directly away from the flame. Every time he exhaled, it grew again. Outside, the trees rustled, then stilled, rustled, then stilled in the same rhythm. Arthur stared into the fire, then realized with a start that there were no coals or sticks in the brazier. 

Merlin didn’t open his eyes, but when Arthur looked up his mouth was curled into a smug smile.

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You will not use AI to get ideas for your story. You will lie on the floor and have wretched visions like god intended

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Arthur couldn’t sleep.

He’d never been one to toss and turn in the past; if he wasn’t tired, he simply stayed at his desk or paced, or went to see his dogs, or checked on the night watch. Tonight, he lay in bed staring up at the crimson canopy, watching the firelight play with the shadows and trying not to think about his tingling arm. 

He could feel the sorcerer. It was as though the other man was there, just beside him, and Arthur could turn his head and see him. Except, of course, that would never be. His father might allow a sorcerer to live, for a short time, if it was necessary to save his son and heir, but he’d never allow them to be… close. 

There was an odd smell in the air, comforting, though faint. Sage and the faintly salty scent of skin, just a hint of some kind of spice. Arthur was sure he knew exactly who would smell like that, if he could lean close, perhaps at the nape of that long neck…

It was impossible. 

He rolled over, tried to shake the mad tingling out of his hand to no avail. His chest felt heavy, the black lines of the mark looked gold in the firelight. His fingers tingled like someone was stroking his skin. Amusement drifted through the back of his mind, and Arthur had a sudden realization; “Stop it!” He said, out loud in the empty room, “stop it, you prat!” the prince was certain that the sorcerer could hear, somehow. “I’m trying to sleep. Go away!”

He was both relieved and disappointed when the tingling faded and the smell of sage on the air was overtaken by hints of woodsmoke from the fire. The heavy feeling in his chest remained but lightened. Arthur had a sudden, bizarre surge of fond amusement, like an echo of a feeling, before the bond quieted to a gentle thrum. 

The prince rolled over and was asleep in moments.

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On the fourth attempt Arthur, having apparently tired of his game, allowed the young lord to attempt a swing before disarming him with a short upward thrust and a fancy little twirl of his blade. It was flashy but simple and relatively slow– Merlin had only seen Arthur use it on particularly unimpressive knight hopefuls or cocky squires in the past. The murmuring and chuckling from the cluster of men watching the ‘sparring’ told him they could see exactly what their pince was doing. 

When Bealdric finally hit the dirt of the training field, Merlin ran to pick up Arthur's blade and dutifully followed his jubilant master out of the ring. “Nothing like a bit of sparring after breakfast,” Arthur said, grinning as they passed by his men. “Sure,” Merlin muttered, “Nothing like a little incentivized revenge before dinner, either.” 

“Ah, come on Merlin,” Arthur said breezily, “Pompus little idiot like that, Probably sits around worrying about his hair all day.” 

“Sure, he probably brushes it while thinking about all his grudges,” Merlin sighed, wondering how long it would take the Saxon prince to turn to magic out of sheer irritation.

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The battle resumed as though nothing had happened, because– as far as anyone knew-- nothing had. Arthur spun around, disoriented. His sword was in the mud, his opponent was lying at his feet, eyes open and mouth gaping in a silent, eternal scream. Mordred was gone, and Arthur’s confusion wafted on the air. Merlin inhaled, letting it sizzle in his lungs; he’d never felt anything so sweet– Arthur was confused because Arthur was alive. 

The king’s hearbeat was loud, steady, despite the rush of battle. Merlin closed his eyes and lost himself in the rhythm for a moment. 

“Merlin!” A hand on his shoulder, the bright jingle of chain mail and metallic slide plate metal danced over the sounds of the fighting that still went on around them. Hot breath on his face. Why did Arthur refuse to wear his helmet? He opened his eyes and was immediately drowning in bright, concerned blue. How funny, Merlin mused, Arthur’s eyes were more unguarded than he'd thought; no helm, and far too much care for a servant, naked on his face. He should be more careful.

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The king sat on the cot, and Merlin smiled. It was the same smile, exactly. It made something sharp twist in Arthur’s heart to see the open, boyish grin on that not-quite-Merlin face. “Are you– how do you feel?” 

Merlin tilted his head, and the wind outside the tent picked up, rustling the trees contemplatively. “Tired.” he decided, and nodded to himself, “but fine. Good.” 

“You’re scaring the men.” Arthur said. “But not you,” Merlin replied, smiling that delighted smile again. “No, not me,” Arthur agreed. 

Then Merlin frowned, the wind stopped, the night was suddenly still and unsure, “Are you– worried? About me? I’m fine, Arthur.” 

The king had a sudden flash– I’m fine– all the times Merlin had said that. Merlin, who had magic. Merlin who apparently could defeat death itself. Merlin, who watched his fellow sorcerers die and fought no end of secret battles. Merlin, who was always fine. 

Merlin, who was never fine. 

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objectifying men in armor will literally never get old. like, work it shiny boy. hit ‘em with that old razzle dazzle you fuckin trash can. hottie! (tucks $5 into your cuirass) 

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“Merlin!” The voice came more insistently now, irritation lacing the tone. Merlin shook his head, confusion wrinkling his brow. Arthur didn’t feel irritated. The other side of the bond hummed in his chest with the kind of loose contentment he’d come to associate with sleep or pronounced drunkenness. “‘Thur?” He mumbled thickly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Did’ja call me?”

“MERLIN!” The dragonlord toppled out of bed as the voice came again, this time almost a roar. “Ah! Ow! What?! I was sleeping you prat!” 

 The room was silent and empty. Outside his partly open window, the pink light of dawn bloomed over the white stone of the citadel. Birds chirped.  

Arthur was nowhere to be seen.