d.Angeles

✨Hi, Im Donna, an artist ✨she/her✨Poisons: johnlock, destiel, merthur ✨

[eyattw]

A quick Merlin sketch

[sarascamander]

Merlin is never beating that nerd allegation

[theonebraincell]

for @merthurmicrofic | prompt: sickness + bingo fill: modern AU | words: ~1400 (i really tried!!)

“A… brain sickness? Like a fever?”

Merlin nodded, tilting his head back against the cracked plaster wall behind them with a sigh. Sitting between their legs, the dimmed light of the camping lantern they’d unearthed from the basement cast deep shadows into the gaunt cuts of his cheeks, the bruised skin beneath his eyes.

“That was Gaius’ theory,” Merlin answered eventually, voice rasping like sandpaper, “before -”

He cut himself off, throat clicking as he swallowed. For a moment, his eyes slid shut.

Arthur glanced away to give him some semblance of privacy, gaze sweeping over the room. All the furniture had been pushed aside, a tower of ottomans and end tables barricading the front door, leaving the living room’s open floor plan bare except for a large circular rug sprawled before an electric fireplace. At the rug’s center, a dark pile of bodies huddled together under mounds of pilfered blankets and pillows. The steady undulations of their collective breathing fortified Arthur, and he drank in the sight of all of them there, safe and alive - not the monstrous in-between creatures that had been claiming the identities of people all over the city for days on end now.

Including, most recently, Gaius.

Including his father.

Arthur looked to where Morgana was barely visible at the heart of the tight knot of people encircling her. It had been she who’d killed Uther in the end, after this supposed brain sickness seized him and Arthur’s strength had failed. Now she slept fitfully, her brow creased with a frown and mouth twitching, one arm clutching Gwen close. On either side of them, Elyan and Lance’s dozing forms curled inward like parentheses, forming a protective barrier.

A lump swelled in Arthur’s throat, painful. He turned his head toward Merlin, who was already watching him, eyes rimmed with red. Merlin, who less than twenty-four hours prior had honored Gaius’ final wishes of ending his life before the sickness took him after their old haven had been swarmed.

The weight of their losses filled the space between them, and Arthur’s bones grew heavy with a deep weariness.

“What else?” Arthur cleared his throat, blinking against the pinpricks watering his own eyes. He gestured toward the overstuffed notebook resting in Merlin’s lap. The notes Gaius had been taking over the days they’d been fending for their lives; his attempts to figure out what was happening, and maybe -

“Did he believe there was a cure?”

Merlin, whose nose had been buried in the chicken scratch of Gaius’ handwriting since they’d agreed as a group that morning to find another abandoned home in which to squat and regroup, only shrugged. He ran slender fingers over the worn blue cover, thumbing at the ragged edges of the pages.

“Deciphering Gaius’ notes is almost like trying to crack a code, but…” He bit his lip, glancing up from beneath his lashes. A tear threatened to slip down his cheek. “I’m sorry, Arthur, but no. I don’t think he knew if there’s a way to reverse this.”

Disappointed but attempting to hide it, Arthur nodded. He squeezed Merlin’s forearm, the most he could seem to do even now. It figured that, of all times, his courage would fail him during the end of the bloody world. Arthur swallowed.

“It’s okay, Merlin, really,” Arthur said, heart lifting to see the tension draining from Merlin’s shoulders at his reassurance. “Just tell me what else he figured out. Perhaps when the others wake, we can continue building on his discoveries.”

Blowing out a breath, Merlin flipped through the pages.

“Well, a lot of it is science jargon and working through hypotheses.” With the ghost of a smile haunting his features, Merlin stopped on one such example, tracing the abbreviations and symbols scribbled amongst the shaky lines of a diagram of the human form. He said, “In basic terms, he believed it was some kind of… rage virus. Something that burns up the brain and internal organs until all that’s left is a violent husk with a taste for human flesh.”

“Sounds fun,” Arthur, who’d had ample evidence to the contrary over the past week, responded. His head thumped back against the wall. After another few moments of hopeless wallowing, he dragged himself back to the present. “If it is a virus, then that suggests there must be some sort of treatment, right? Some sort of… antibiotic antidote.”

Merlin shot him a look. “Oh, sure, let’s just pop over to the nearest pharmacy and see if they have a round of pills we can give the half-dead cannibal corpses of our former loved ones.”

“At least I’m trying to come up with solutions,” Arthur hissed back, stung. Irritation rose in his throat like bile, the burn of it easier to tolerate than the bitterness of their increasingly bleak reality. “Feel free to offer any of your own instead of snivelling like a girl over things we can’t change.”

Leaning away as though struck, Merlin blinked. His eyebrows pulled down, mouth opening before he very obviously bit back a retort. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath.

“When Morgana wakes up I’m telling her you were being a sexist prat again.”

Arthur deflated, the will to fight rushing from his body at Merlin’s refusal to fan the flames of his temper. The hollow ache it left behind pulsed, sharp and painful. Shoulders slumped, Arthur eyed Merlin’s understanding expression. Merlin said, “Got that off your chest?”

Arthur ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I just -”

In Arthur’s periphery, Gwaine shifted closer to Percy in his sleep. Arthur licked his dry lips and lifted his gaze to Merlin’s, holding it. With intent, he said, “I can’t lose anyone else. I won’t lose anyone else.”

Eyes burning bright in the dim room, Merlin watched him for a long moment, before swooping to close the gap between them.

At first, the kiss caught Arthur off guard. Instinctively, he jerked back, unprepared to be on the sudden receiving end of a desire he’d been so careful to protect and conceal over their years of friendship. But Merlin lifted a hand, threading long fingers through the hair at the base of Arthur’s skull and holding him in place until Arthur relaxed into him.

Then, he returned the kiss in earnest.

They’d been fortunate enough to find toothpaste in this home, if not much unexpired food, and Merlin tasted faintly of mint. Arthur melted closer, gripping the collar of Merlin’s shirt in one hand. With the other, he pulled Merlin nearer, fingertips digging into his bony hips as Merlin swung a leg over Arthur’s lap and scrambled into it.

Of course, he also managed to tip over the lantern in the process. It crashed against the hardwood floor, clattering terribly, light and shadows casting about the room for a wild moment. They froze, and Merlin winced, his arms still wound around Arthur’s shoulders.

“Whoops,” he whispered at the same time a groggy sounding Leon muttered, “I counted three functional bedrooms in this house, lads.”

Arthur’s eyes met Merlin’s before widening in horror. He cleared his throat, easing Merlin to the side and whispering an embarrassed apology to the room at large. From within the tangle of bodies, someone else snorted.

By the time Arthur’s breathing returned to normal, it seemed the ones they’d disturbed had fallen back into slumber. An unnatural hush descended over the room, none of the usual late night ambient sounds of the city to break it.

“You alright?” Merlin asked into the eerie silence, causing Arthur to startle. Pressing a hand to his chest, Arthur turned to Merlin with an incredulous expression. Merlin rolled his eyes, fondness evident even through the deep shadows surrounding them. He smoothed Arthur's ruffled hair, sending a spark of warmth down Arthur’s spine, and said, quiet, “We could, you know. Find a bedroom to stay in tonight.”

The warmth spread, creeping into Arthur’s cheeks. “Um,” he said.

“To sleep, you dollophead. You look ready to drop, and your dull wits are barely any use even when you’re fully rested.”

Arthur pursed his lips, a font of gratitude flowing up from the depths of him. Jumping into bed with Merlin during the midst of everything happening felt… overwhelming to consider, even if Arthur would never admit it. Thankfully, with Merlin, he never had to.

Leveraging himself to his feet, Arthur bent to retrieve Gaius’ notebook, which had been kicked aside in their earlier frenzy. A beam of light from the overturned lantern shone onto the ripped paper that fluttered down from between its pages. Arthur scooped it up as well, then paused. Squinted.

At Merlin’s questioning noise, Arthur motioned him closer, tilting the paper into the light to show him the address Gaius had written down, the location it pointed to circled multiple times for emphasis:

Camelot Pharmaceutical

[gaygoatshane]

happy pride

[0niliz]

A bit of merthur bc why not

[spicegirlmoonheist]

RIP to the absolutely incredible, gorgeously kind and enthralling Anthony Head. I hope wherever he is, he's playing his pink Nintendo DS.

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[limbel]

:-)

[gvaine]

ARTHUR PENDRAGON 5.06 ⋄ The Dark Tower

[thebookluvrr1816]

merthur + unspoken love (lingering in the silence of a doorway)

Mikko Harvey (visuals - bbc merlin 5x03) // Anatomy of Unspoken Love // Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies (visuals - bbc merlin 5x07) // bbc merlin official books // pinterest (visuals - bbc merlin 5x13) // bbc merlin 5x08 // The Song of Achilles // bbc merlin 5x13// bbc merlin official books // Two Loves - Lord Alfred Douglas // bbc merlin 3x06 // bbc merlin 5x13 // Nizar Qabbani (visuals - bbc merlin 5x01) // Bashir al-Shmeary for @merthurmicrofic | prompt : linger

[eliasmustdieart]

My baby 🥹🤲🏻

[blackmascara]

fave dynamic 😌

[briggonsnow]

when we were first developing roommates back in 2020, we had our sights on animation. ultimately it found a home in audio, but here’s a never before released animatic from our pilot episode in honor of the announcement of season 2!

[dangeles]

started a little doodle to de-stress, and as always, it went out of hand oops XD

Roommates, the gay little podcast, is getting a season 2 and my gay little heart is whooping! <3 <3

[briggonsnow]

For real this time…

[lancelotdeservedbetter]

same energy

[intellectual-punk]

OP the tags are fantastic.

[chambersandfogg]

January 10th, 1946

One year. It’s been one year.

That doesn’t feel real to write. It can’t possibly be true. How can it be one year since Charles was killed, when he died just yesterday? When he died last Tuesday and four weeks before that and two months ago and every day since that terrible notice arrived.

It can’t have been a year because the loss is as fresh as if I had been told moments ago.

Though, thinking of that day now—when I learned that he’d died and that I was listed as his next of kin in the same terrible moment…it hasn’t been a year, has it? It was January twenty-third that the telegram came. I lived in ignorance for thirteen days. There was a period of nearly two weeks in which the deed had been done, the shell had been dropped, and yet I knew nothing. He was still alive then. For thirteen days he was alive in my mind. Sometimes I wish it could have stayed that way, that they’d never alerted me and that the war had never ended, and I could exist in a perpetual state of hope he would return. What a rotten, selfish thought.

But have I not earned the right to be selfish? The universe has been unaccountably cruel to me, ensuring that his letter only arrived after—

It should have been a gift, that letter. I should have been able to hold onto it, to fill my head with the glimmering possibility of how we would greet each other in victory.

But instead I received a confession from a dead man. I don’t even have a body to bury, just a stray dog tag pulled from the wreckage in Belgium, and yet I have his final words. Words that should have signified the start of something, not the end.

What an awful trick he pulled on me. Watch The Great Chambers disappear. Glance over here at the promise of a spectacle, his affections laid bare, and by the time you look back over, he’ll have vanished. Except I experienced the illusion in reverse and misdirection is neither thrilling nor effective when you can see the strings of fate that are being used to hang a man.

I’m writing a lot of nonsense. I’ve been doing little else, this past year. Perhaps I need to go away, stop pretending like I’m any use to anyone. Perhaps I should go away for a long while.

After her husband died, I gave Mrs. Bowman—Virginia, I should say, we’re friends enough now—a sizable amount of money. Enough to take a year off. I wish I could say it was a purely generous gesture, but even at the time, I was so terrified of losing him and I couldn’t bear to look at her. She put on a brave face, far braver than I would have managed, but seeing her every day at her desk, continuing to do what began to feel like the utterly pointless work of our profession, while her one true love laid dead in a battlefield somewhere…it was too much of a reminder of what he was risking, being over there.

In any case, whatever the motivation, I was able to do her the kindness of giving her a year to grieve. No work, no concerns, just…time. To be honest, I could have probably given her several more years, but—and, again, I am ashamed of this—when she came back and found me as the broken man I am, I took solace in the horrific partnership we now share. She understands what I’ve been through, more than anyone in my life, and was plenty aware of my…varied affairs, to put it one way, to blink an eye at my becoming a widower to another man.

Though, no, that isn’t quite right. That implies there was once a time in which I could claim the privilege of being something more to Charles than a bosom friend. Would that make all of this better or worse? Would his absence be easier to bear if I could recall those close and happy times in the way that Virginia reminisces about her honeymoon? She was—is—understandably overwrought with her loss, but whenever she speaks of Roger, it is with such fondness. She loves him so deeply, remembers him with such warmth, and meanwhile I am sometimes so furious with Charles that I can’t even see straight.

But I miss him. That’s the worst part. I’m so goddamn angry, I’m bitter, I’m buried underneath the oppressive sadness of grief, but mostly I just miss him.

I miss his laugh, which I’d gotten good at pulling out of him. I miss the way he was so particular about things, how he almost never let me win an argument, even if I could tell he knew I was right and was simply debating me for the sport of it. I miss how gentle his voice could be.

I miss his hands. Strong and littered with scars, all the more beautiful for the stories behind them. I don’t have any photos that do them justice. Not that any photograph could do any part of him justice. I suppose I should just be grateful I have a decent collection.

I wish I’d gotten him on film, properly. Not just the test reels he’d tolerate when I bought myself whatever new camera came onto the market.

There’s one in particular I took that captures him in the act of smiling. Not just any smile either, but the special one he has had when he was trying not to smile at me but couldn’t help it. I’d brought my camera to DC and made him stand in front of a cherry blossom tree. He was so bashful at the time, trying to get out of being my subject, but he looks so pleased in the footage. He looks like a film star. Handsome and charming and alive.

Thank goodness I went into the movie business. I can’t imagine I’d have even that if I hadn't. But I do need to be careful with the film. I worry about wearing it out. For as long as I can watch him flicker into motion, brought into shape by light and movement, I can keep him alive.

Good lord, Virginia is right. I’ve become so terribly maudlin of late. Perhaps it really is time for me to pull up stakes and wander the world for a while. God knows I don’t have anything keeping me here. Just a wonderful friend going through her own process of mourning, a beautiful house I can’t stand to be in, and a thriving movie studio that brings me absolutely no pleasure.

And I have years and years ahead of me. Endless decades of my perpetual life without him in it. He told me he’d never be lonely as long as I walked this earth and I didn’t say a word. I didn’t tell him that it was the same for me. I didn’t make him promise that he’d never leave me in a world without him.

There is so much I didn’t say. I’ve spent the last year reflecting on all the conversations we never had and I would do anything—would perform any kind of black magic—to speak to him again.

I would trade it if I could. I would trade the immortal nature of my life to live an ordinary one in a world that still houses his soul.

I’ve survived near-death at the hands of my own illusion, war, fire, a sinking ship—so much that should have killed me. At times I’ve even looked forward to discovering what else I am capable of surviving.

But how on earth am I meant to survive this?

[from the personal diary of J.S. Fogg]

[listen to New Year’s Day wherever you get your podcasts.To read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]

[xgayvler]

back again hi.

i sent my friend (who doesn’t listen but has heard about them often) the lines

“l've survived near-death at the hands of my own illusion, war, fire, a sinking ship—so much that should have killed me. At times l've even looked forward to discovering what else I am capable of surviving.

But how on earth am I meant to survive this?”

just to share what i was Going Through and their response was (and i quote) “that is horrifically depressing in such a gay way” which y’know… oddly perfectly sums up this podcast, john and charles. (as well as most atypical artists podcasts tbh)

[thelaurenshippen]

truly we should put that on our website's masthead

[dangeles]

LAUREN WHAT