Sometime fic writer. Sometime lurker. Lover of many slashy pairings, ice-cream and fireworks. Dog person. UK. Answers to "Berty" and "yo!" Her/she. Current loves are Sherlock and John and Benton and Ray K.
One slow measured breath, and Merlin opens the door to their flat — his flat — bracing himself against the slosh of anguish that briefly swamps the pit of his stomach every time he returns home from work these days. Something about the erosion of constantly renewed and refreshed disappointment.
He drops his keys on the pair of gloves that lives — untouched — on the shelves in the hallway.
Nothing moves in the flat. Light from the street spills through the windows, drawing sharp patches in variations of amber and orange across the floor and furniture. A faint smell of last night’s lonely Chicken Vindaloo lingers rather unappetisingly in the still air. He turns on the lights. Same old empty flat.
“Hello, I’m home,” he announces with fake cheer to the emptiness. He regrets it immediately. His own voice sounds strained and hollow. Truth be told, he is a bit of a prize-winning idiot in the self-inflicted wounds department. “Aithusa?” he calls gently, needing the emotional support.
Merlin flings his messenger bag on the couch and goes on to the kitchen area. No one there. The generous portion of eye-wateringly expensive kibble still sits in Aithusa’s bowl perfectly undisturbed.
Merlin heaves a controlled sigh. Rubs a tired hand over his brow. It was worth a try.
“Aithusa?” he calls again, injecting a forced buoyancy that he doesn’t feel into his tone. “You big tit, where are you?”
Merlin takes a better look around the living-room, then goes back into the hallway, checks the bathroom, then approaches the bedroom. The absence of stench is encouraging. Maybe this time he will be spared the puddle of piss on his side of the bed and the runny turd in his favourite trainers.
In the end, Merlin finds the tuxedo cat sulking under the bed.
“Come on, you can’t keep doing this, mate,” Merlin chides as he gently drags the toneless pet from where he is hiding. The soft, plaintive mrow is a jab to Merlin's already aching heart. The yellow eyes are gunky and full of reproach and sorrow, and Merlin can feel the ribs a bit too sharp under the lacklustre fur. He gathers the sickly cat to his chest and holds him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You can’t go on like this. I know you miss him, but you have to eat,” he pleads as the black tail remains motionless. "It's hard enough as it is without—" he cuts himself off and hugs the miserable cat a little closer.
There's only one possible way out of this mess and he hates it.
Read the rest on AO3
Title: Arthur Again
Pairing: Merthur
Rating: Explicit
Word count: ~11k
Tags: Modern AU, ANGST!, Merlin's POV, jealousy, pining, Happy Ending
Notes: Bit different from my usual tone, bit angstier. You'll have to trust me. 😉 My endless thanks to @bertytravelsfar for being such an amazing friend and beta. Love youuuu! ❤️❤️❤️
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slow burn or love at first sight
[Mmmmmm... Yes please. As slow as possible. As burning as possible too.] 🔥
fake dating or secret dating
[I mean, the fake dating has to be one of the best tropes ever, right? I haven't tackled that one yet, but just you wait.] 😏
enemies-to-lovers or best friends-to-lovers
[Yes. A bit of aggressive enmity with my conflicted love, please.] 😇
there’s only one bed or long-distance correspondence
[Heh! I've done this one! Always such a good cliché. Works like a charm.]
hurt/comfort or amnesia
[Never tried this (well, apart from one odd WIP), but yes please, love reading it.]
fantasy au or modern au
[Hard choice, but again, it's going to have to be modern AU. Merlin was born to sling modern insults.]
mutual pining or domestic bliss
[YESSSSSS! A favourite of mine. Can't stop writing it, tbh.] 😅
smut or fluff
[Oh damn, that's a hard one. In my fics, they're not mutually exclusive, so... ] 😅
canon-compliant or fix-it
[Well of course I want to fix-it! Why else would I want to write fics?!]
reincarnation or character death
[Yeah, no. No character death, please. I'm traumatised enough by the show as it is, thanks.]
one-shot or multi-chapter
[The thing is, I'm crap at multi-chapter. But I'll do a long-ass one-shot.]
kid fic or road trip fic
[Mostly because kidfics aren't for me.]
arranged marriage or accidental marriage
[Ooooh hard choice again!! But I'd have to go with arranged marriage. I'd love to write one, some day.]
high-school romance or middle-age romance
[Hmmmm, the choices keep getting more difficult. But yeah, I can relate to middle-age better, I'm afraid.] 🙄
time travel or isolated together
[Love a good old cabin fever fic...] 😈
neighbours or roommates
[Damn, that's another close one. I guess neighbours would be my favourite? Simply because it gives more space to the discovery part?]
sci-fi au or magic au
[All the scifi AUs I've read were fantastic.]
body swap or gender bent
[Oh body swap, body swap, BODY SWAP!!! We should've got body swap in the show, we were robbed!]
angst or crack
[I mean, a good crack is always highly enjoyable, but angst is my poison.] 🥹
apocalyptic or mundane
[Oh mundane it is for me. I can't even do a detective story. I suck at plot, so apocalyptic world building would do my head in.]
And thanks again @toomanyfanficsbruh ! That was fun! 🥰
I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3
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The old school lack of transparency on tumblr is amazing because you assume the people you follow must all be equivalent to you and then you see someone write “I brought my youngest to college today” and someone else write “my mom wouldn’t let me listen to Ariana Grande when I was a kid” and then your head explodes
honestly one of the best things we can do for ourselves is realize that people of different ages than us can still be the same kind of person as us. it's humbling and it gives everyone involved a sense of continuity, and it busts those stupid generational stereotypes media is so fond of.
New Merthur Fic - Deserving of Things that Aren't Simple (But Should Be)
Arthur and Merlin had been a thing at university, not that their friends know that. Years later, with a wedding being planned, the past catches up with them when old feeling are stirred up and big decisions need to be made.
Okay, that's the blurb version.
Here's the tea.
1.Merlin's university pals are co-dependent people and reluctant adults.
2. Arthur is an idiot who needs a slap and a cuddle in equal measure.
3. Gwen is an awesome human.
4. Gwaine has dubious morals but is sharp as a tack and has pretty hair
5. There's a cottage and a hypothetical orchard.
6. Merlin wonders how this is his life.
If this sounds like something that might amuse, then here's the link.
Tagging @iamcaledonia, @girasoligialli, who were kind enough to give me a wave when I posted a snippet.
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[merthur - rated T - 2476 words - gorgeous artwork by @count-pudding!!]
The sight was unfamiliar to Merlin, which in itself was probably cause for some level of concern.
Indeed, Merlin's expertise was second to none when it came to Arthur's various facial expressions. He was also well versed in Arthur's arcane body language, and proficient in the minute nuances lacing Arthur's huffs and hums. Every set of that jaw, every sharpening of those eyes, every twitch of those distracting lips told Merlin something of the inner workings and subtle moods of his princely prat.
It wasn't exactly that Arthur was an open book — far from it. It was just that Merlin had perfected the delicate art of reading him, through many (many, many) hours (days, months, years) of watchful presence and dedicated, selfless service to the emotionally constipated clotpole who had become his raison d'être. It was not strictly a healthy thing to be so cognizant of another man's state of mind at any given moment, but it did help keep them alive — to say nothing of the many hurled boots, pillows and cups Merlin had been able to deftly dodge over the years thanks to said intimate knowledge.
One could say that Merlin had seen Arthur at his glorious best and at his very pathetic worst and all the shades in between.
Which is why Merlin had a bit of a pause when he saw… what he was seeing.
Arthur. Utterly drunk. His flushed face a pathetic, glassy-eyed, rubicund mess, resting on the unyielding surface of the sturdy oak table in a smear of his own sweaty misery.
Arthur made a distraught little noise upon recognising his visitor. Just that. A brief, wet, squelching whine that was almost instantly quelled.
"Arthur? What…" Merlin immediately closed the door behind him and discreetly released the tendrils of his magic far and wide to find answers. It found none. None but the drunken prince, hugging his tabletop like a drowning man. "Arthur, what are you doing?"
"M'thinkin," he mumbled thickly. "P'ondering. C'ontemplating. Mmmulling."
"Oh boy," Merlin said under his breath. "Care to share the fruit of your reflection, Sire?" he asked lightly as he placed an unassuming and, hopefully, nonthreatening hand over the very pretty flagon of exotic wine that the envoy from Byzantium had brought amongst the cartload of presents for King Uther and his court. A potent brew, apparently.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur muttered, his heated cheek still very firmly stuck to the table. "Thought you were having a little… chat with Lord Whatsisface?"
"Lord Julian?"
"Lord Julian Fucking Apollo Coriolan," Arthur corrected pettily.
"Ah." Huh. "Is his middle name really Apollo?" It would've been justified, because there was no denying the man in question was excruciatingly handsome. And rather statuesque in build.
A dark, drunken (and very rude) curse was Arthur's only reply.
"I was actually discussing the use of a remedy that might help Gaius with his bad cold. It turns out His Lordship is very knowledgeable in cures and restoratives."
"Oh His Lordship, eh?"
"Ye-es, he has travelled extensively and been able to study the practices of many a place," Merlin said, quietly going about tidying bits and pieces around the room. "He has collected many herbs and roots and he has some scrolls he thinks I should look at. He promised to show me a few things tomorrow."
A wet snort spilled from Arthur as he pushed himself to a slightly more dignified sitting position, that almost overbalanced into a tumble from his stately seat.
"Oh he wants to show you his thing for sure," the prince muttered, a bitter twist to his sullen mouth.
Ah. Alright. This was new.
"I very much doubt it," Merlin said patiently as he reached to take the sloshing goblet from Arthur's hand. "I think we've had enough of that very nice Byzantine wine, Sire."
"No-o," Arthur whined as he cradled the goblet against his chest and glared at Merlin's whereabouts. Gods, how much of the stuff had he imbibed?
And more importantly, why?
Arthur was always so cautious around drink. He drank with his fellow knights, partook in banquets, toasted merrily with everyone as the situation required, but Merlin knew that he was prudent with his intake. As the heir to the throne and the son of his exacting father, he had been trained in the underestimated yet critical art of engaging in diplomatic libations. In fact, one of the first things Merlin had been taught as manservant and cupbearer to the prince was how to pour his drinks and mix his wine with the right amount of water (an amount which was definitely more than Merlin himself would find enjoyable).
And yet here, one whiff of Arthur's breath told Merlin that the spiced wine had been consumed hardly (if at all) diluted.
"Go away," Arthur sulked, still cuddling his cup. "Leave me to my inoss… my interss… my introshpection."
Merlin stifled a smile at the fractious yet oddly adorable prince. A tipsy Arthur was a rare sight indeed. Merlin reached out a hand and placed the back of his fingers over Arthur's brow, just to make sure no fever was involved.
"Leave me be," the prince said in a small voice, eyes now brimming with untold emotions and conflicted dampness.
"I just want to make sure you're all right," Merlin informed him as he finally managed to gently pry the cup from the clumsy but grabby hands. "I think you should retire to bed, my Lord."
"And I think you should fuck off, Merlin," Arthur groused as Merlin laboriously hauled him to his feet.
"I most certainly will. As soon as we've put you into bed."
Something undetermined (but no doubt derogatory) was mumbled.
"Come on. That's right," Merlin encouraged. Then, "Nonono— Gods, why did you have to drink yourself into a stupor?" he griped as the prince sagged unhelpfully in his arms.
"You like him," Arthur hissed accusingly.
"And who are we talking about now?"
"Fffucking Apollo."
"Ah," Merlin replied eloquently as he staggered under the limp, disarticulated weight of his prince.
"What does he have that I don't?"
"What?"
"I'm taller than him."
"Uh… I don't think—"
"And I'm a better warrior than him."
"I guess he would— whups, sorry," Merlin said as Arthur collapsed face first onto the bed. "Are you alright there, Sire?"
"He's nothing special," the pickled prince muttered into the pillow.
"Well, he's a Byzantine envoy and he's travelled a long way to meet you and your father," Merlin argued as he rolled the prat right side up.
"Yeah, because I'm special. Not him."
Merlin quashed a smile at the childish remark. He was going to have so much fun tomorrow reminding Arthur just what a rambling, drunken arse he had made of himself. He was going to have months of teasing material by the time Arthur fell asleep tonight.
"His eyes look like puddle water," the prince then noted, a satisfied but wobbly smirk on his flushed features as Merlin peeled him out of his tunic.
"Do they? They seemed grey-green to me."
"Zactly! Dreary colour. Terrible colour."
"I thought they were rather nice, intelligent eyes," Merlin prattled perversely as he wrestled the boots off Arthur's feet.
"Of course you would, wouldn't you?" Followed by a string of mutterings casting aspersions on Merlin's mental acuity, powers of observation and rampant lust for some reason.
Meanwhile, Merlin went on undressing Arthur. Then he fondly arranged the pillows behind him, feeling the heat and affronted misery coming off his inebriated prince. Sometimes, he found the amount of love he carried for Arthur was unfair. Sometimes… Well, sometimes he just felt blessed to be able to stand by his side and take care of him in all matters big and small. He would obviously rather rip his own tongue out than admit it out loud, but he could no more deny the sweet ache of his feelings than he could grow feathers and fly.
Probably. He'd never tried.
He was at this familiar and dreadfully tender point in his thoughts, tucking Arthur in for the night as he went, when the prince, who apparently had been following his own chaotic train of plastered thoughts suddenly grabbed his face and drew him up close.
Almost close enough to kiss.
Merlin was about to make light of the uncomfortably delicious situation, but Arthur's gaze was a little wild and oddly entreating.
"Don't go with him," Arthur breathed, voice hoarse yet commanding. "I'm… I mean, my… That is, I really… My eyes are blue," he eventually managed on a desperate splutter.
"So they are," Merlin replied gently, daring to touch a hand to Arthur's heated cheek. "And a very pretty blue, too. The prettiest in the land." Which was, alas, deplorably true as far as Merlin was concerned. Arthur's eyes were blue flecked with constellations of azure and ultramarine. He could lose himself in those eyes. He already had.
"And I'm blonder than him," Arthur went on, fingertips absently doing obscene things to Merlin's sense of duty and honour.
"You are," Merlin promised softly.
"Don't go to bed with him. Please."
Al-right.
"I wouldn't," he promised.
Especially as Lord Julian was clearly enamoured with his aide Nicodemus who also happened to be a powerful mage and a gifted seer. It was on Nicodemus' impulse that they had made the long and fraught journey to Camelot — to meet the foretold Once and Future King and confer with the 'Great Emrys'.
"I promise you Lord Julian has no designs on my virtue," Merlin murmured to the lovely but woefully shitfaced prat.
"That's what you think! He's no fool, he can see how pretty you are. How nice and… crafty… and funny…" Arthur's warm, spicy breath ghosted over him, intoxicating to Merlin in a way that had nothing to do with how much wine the prince had imbibed. "The truest friend and companion a man could desire." Then an upset frown creased his brow. "He can't have that. He can't have you," Arthur insisted, his hands awkwardly possessive on either side of Merlin's face, squishing his cheeks with loving fervour. Then Arthur seemed to run out of momentum, and he leaned his forehead against Merlin's. "Just…Tell him you're mine," he said weakly.
Oh the delightful pain that wrung Merlin's heart at those words. If only. If only he dared.
"I am yours," he agreed on a murmur. "I'm your manservant, aren't I?"
"Yes," Arthur said quietly, a mess of emotions brewed in the too-shiny blue eyes. "Yes, you are." Then with more intensity, "Sometimes it feels like that's not enough."
"Oh you want me to be your friend, now?" Merlin teased lightly, resorting to this old joke to shield them both from the bluntness of Arthur's cup-induced delusions of frankness
"You are my friend," Arthur announced, seemingly dredging up the admission from the innermost sanctum of his proud soul. "It's not right. And it's not what I want. But it's the truth."
Gods, could the clotpole be anymore sweetly hurtful?
"And I want you… to want to be by my side," the lost prince spelled out laboriously.
"Well, you know me. I'm apparently the self-sacrificing type," Merlin tried with a little smile. "And I have nowhere else I need to be."
"So… do you promise to always be mine?" The gleam of desperate longing in Arthur's wine-earnest eyes was gouging Merlin's heart out of his chest.
And Merlin saved himself with the only defence at his disposal — pained humour.
"Only if you promise to be mine in return?" was all he had the nerve to say.
Arthur closed his eyes, sighed a long tired breath. He released Merlin and leaned back against the pillows, seemingly exhausted.
Well, there was Merlin's answer. And here was his lacerated, shivering heart kindly handed back to him, a little worse for wear.
He let himself sit on the edge of the mattress for a moment — to recover from the ordeal.
He was about to get to his feet, when Arthur's hand found one of his wrists and held it, forcing him to stay. Anchoring him like nothing else could. Arthur then slowly brought Merlin's captive hand towards his own cheek.
"If I had a choice… If I didn't already belong to Camelot… There is nothing I would want more than to be yours," he vowed, soft and broken.
Merlin was speechless.
And Arthur forged on.
"If I wasn't…" The princely forefinger drew a wobbly loop in the air "…who I am. If we were not so…" The forefinger now waved back and forth unsteadily "…unequal." Arthur blinked and wet his lips unsurely. "Would you have me?" he asked on a poignant croak.
Yes. A thousand times yes.
The answer and the feeling caught painfully in Merlin's chest.
"I… I think we should…" The rest of the reasonable words momentarily died on his lips as Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the palm of Merlin's hand. A hand made rough and callused by the daily toil of a serving boy. And here were the prince's lips seeking to meekly brush against the base of Merlin's thumb. The soft, intimate gesture, so full of promise and longing, was too much to bear for Merlin. "I think we should keep this discussion for tomorrow morning," he said in a breathless rush. "When you're well-rested and sober. Sire."
Merlin then gently, very delicately, retrieved his hand from the sweetest trap ever.
"I have upset you," Arthur observed despondently. "You only ever give me 'sires' and 'my lords' when I've upset you."
"You know me too well, Your Highness."
Arthur gave a tired, damp snort. "Now you're just mocking me."
"I wouldn't dare." Said with an easy quirk of the lips. And there, just like that, Merlin had brought them back on a more familiar and more passable path. The one he walked every day, in thoughts simultaneously one step ahead and one step behind the man he loved, but never abreast.
Arthur rolled onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position as his eyes blurrily followed Merlin through the motions of closing down their day. Putting away the warming pan, making sure the chamber pot was clean and within reach, folding Arthur's still-warm clothes, patting the covers, snuffing out the candles. Letting the echoes of the incriminating, too-tender words die out, swallowed by the silk and velvet trappings of Arthur's power and status. All the little things to reset the clockwork of their improper, bristly and at times wildly intimate friendship.
Tomorrow would be another day. Merlin would do his best to forget he'd witnessed the longing because such notions were simply too fraught to entertain.
"I might hold you to it, you know?" Arthur's voice was raspy and drawling, tangled as it was in wine and sleep. "Tomorrow morning. You and I, having that long-overdue discussion."
"Goodnight, Arthur."
"Goodnight. Merlin."
Inspired by one of @count-pudding's sketches (posted last December). Thank you for sharing your beautiful art, my friend. 🙏🥰
This won't get posted to AO3 (unless it eventually becomes the first chapter of a longer thing instead of a standalone ficlet? 🤔), so feel free to reblog, like and let me know in the comments if you enjoyed it.
She got the idea for the study while walking with her advisor at Stanford to discuss her thesis topic, and the paper she eventually published in the Journal of Experimental Psychology in 2014 is sharp enough that it should have ended the seated meeting on the day it came out.
She ran 4 experiments on 176 people. Same person tested twice. Once sitting, once walking. The creativity tasks were the standard ones psychologists have used for decades to measure how good a brain is at generating novel useful ideas.
81% of participants in the first experiment produced more creative ideas while walking than while sitting. In the second experiment, 88%. In the third, 100%. Every single person walked into a more creative version of themselves. On average, people generated 60% more novel useful ideas the moment their legs started moving.
The skeptical question is the obvious one. Maybe it was the fresh air. Maybe it was the scenery passing by. Maybe it was the change of environment doing the work, not the walking itself.
Oppezzo killed every one of those explanations with one experimental decision. She put people on a treadmill facing a blank wall. No scenery. No fresh air. No environmental change. Just legs moving in place while staring at white drywall. The 60% boost held.
Then she ran the experiment that closed the case completely. She took participants outside in two conditions. Half of them walked through a Stanford courtyard. The other half were pushed through the exact same courtyard in a wheelchair. Same outdoor stimulation. Same scenery passing at the same speed. The only difference was whether the legs were moving.
The walkers produced dramatically more novel high-quality ideas than the wheelchair group. The outdoors did almost nothing on its own. The walking did everything.
She also tested the opposite kind of thinking. Convergent thinking. The kind where there is one right answer and you have to narrow down to it. Word puzzles where 3 words share a hidden fourth word that connects them. The seated participants did slightly better on these. Walkers got slightly worse.
Walking is not a general intelligence enhancer. It does one specific thing. It opens up the divergent search inside your brain. The part that generates options. The part that produces unexpected connections. The part that takes a problem and finds five ways into it instead of one.
When you need to converge on the single right answer, sit down. When you need to find the answer in the first place, get up.
The mechanism is now well understood. Walking selectively activates what neuroscientists call the default mode network, the system inside your brain that runs when you are not consciously focused on anything. The DMN is where mind-wandering happens. Where memories cross-reference each other. Where ideas that have been sitting in separate folders inside your head finally bump into each other.
When you sit at a desk and force yourself to concentrate, you suppress the DMN. When you walk at a natural pace, the executive part of your brain gets just busy enough handling the walking that the DMN comes online and starts doing the work that focus was blocking.
The most useful finding in the entire paper is the one almost nobody quotes. The boost did not turn off the moment people stopped walking. Participants who walked first and then sat back down stayed elevated. Their next round of seated creativity work was still significantly better than people who had been sitting the whole time. The rest lingered for at least several minutes after the legs stopped moving.
You do not need to do creative work while walking. You need to walk before the creative work. The brain holds the state.
Oh my god! We bloody called it, @saladscream It works almost every time for me. It’s not always relevant to the problem at hand but the ideas just bubble up so easily. ❤️💭💭💭
Please don't fall victim to internet misinformation. There is no floating head. It's a regular horse, it's neck is just hidden due to the position of the camera. I made an image to help you understand the what's actually going on.
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when i forget to log into ao3 and i have to click proceed to see an adult fic, i actually get a kick out of it. like i am an old timey queen and my bard is apologetic: “gentle lady, dicks doth touch in this next ballad. would you prefer another?” and i give him a gesture of command like, “nay, you may proceed, minstrel. bring forth the tale of dicks”
