Ok time to organise this âšdisasterâš of a blog.Â
I donât believe in compartmentalising my bullshit so anything and everything gets reblogged here (welcome to my brain). Main fandoms: bbc merlin, dead boy detectives, discworld and good omens.Â
If youâre looking for my writing itâs all under the hag writes tag, but I now have a master post specifically for merthur microfic fills as well as my dead boy drabbles. I'm also on ao3!
Ask box open for dead boy drabble prompts! Not making any promises but lets see how we go with this đ
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Merlin can feel destiny breathing down his neck, down all their necks. His skin is screaming with itâevery muscle, tendon and fingernail tense. Everything is going wrong, and he is utterly powerless to stop it.
Arthur is quiet for a long moment, beside him, before he answers Mordred. "I wish I knew."
He turns from the cell.
Merlin follows.
He has to do something. He has to try and fix this, beforeâ
But it's like trying to talk underwater, asking Arthur to listen. He can't hear Merlin, because for all this time he's been kept in the dark, and now Merlin's standing in front of him, choking to death on the panic, the dread that's settling like silt in his veins and slowly filling his lungs.
"Arthurâ"
"It's my decision. Mine alone, Merlin." Arthur is troubled too, he can tell. Exhausted. Grieving, blind-sided by Mordred's betrayal. But he doesn't know. He doesn't know what Merlin knows, that this is the beginning of the end: that if Kara is executed, and Mordred turns against Arthur, his fateâtheir fate, togetherâis all but decided.
Blood pounds in his ears, hot and wild with fright. "Please."
"What would you have me do?" Arthur demands, whirling to face him, voice sharp with frustration, desperation. "I have to uphold the laws of Camelot!"
Merlin swallows. It's all rising up in him, a decade-long bile of secrets and sacrifices, and hope, and horrorâ
"Exile her. Exile them both."
"Merlin, I can't justâ"
Something in Merlin snaps, or breaks loose, because he justâhe can't fucking do this. He can't watch Arthur die. He can't. "Arthur. There's more, alright, there's so much more to this than you know. I canâI'll tell you about it. I'll tell you everythingâ"
Arthur's gaze locks on him, eyes wide, and he looksâfrightened, or lost. Merlin is shaking.
"Please," he repeats, choking on it; realises suddenly he's crying. "Please, Arthur."
"Alright." It's a murmur, low in the dwindling space between them, as Arthur steps away from the window, towards him, hand hesitant but reaching. "Alright, tell me."
@frogmerthur â web weave, gwen/mithian · moodboard, gwen/mithian · web weave, gwen/morgana · web weave, freya/morgana · web weave, nimueh/ygraine · web weave, nimueh/ygraine
Thatâs a wrap on another month, and what a month it was! Thank you to every single person who created, reblogged, commented and generally showed up for more femslash this month. Weâll see you again when the next prompts drop âĄ
For @morgwenmicrofic | Prompt: Flower | Word Cound: 752
There was a narrow path behind the lower town, half-swallowed by wild grass and tangled brambles and the slow, patient insistence of nature reclaiming what people forgot, and it was there, on a bright spring morning washed clean by rain from the night before, that Morgana first found Gwen gathering flowers.
She had escaped the castle because the walls felt too close, because every corridor echoed with expectations she had never asked for, because every nobleman seemed to have an opinion on what she should become and every servant lowered their eyes when she passed, and because the sky beyond the battlements had looked impossibly blue and she had wanted to walk beneath it.
She almost missed Gwen entirely.
The blacksmith's daughter was kneeling in the grass several yards away, her skirts stained with dirt, her sleeves rolled carelessly to her elbows, completely absorbed in the task before her as though the fate of the kingdom depended upon it.
Gwen reached for a cluster of tiny white blossoms growing between stones, smiling faintly as she gathered them, and there was something so peaceful about the sight that Morgana found herself reluctant to move.
Most people behaved differently when she was near.
They straightened.
Stumbled over words.
Became painfully aware of her rank.
But Gwen, unaware she was being observed, seemed utterly herself.
And perhaps that was what kept Morgana standing there longer than she intended.
Eventually a twig snapped beneath her boot.
Gwen startled.
Her head jerked upward.
For a moment they simply stared at one another.
Then Gwen rose so quickly she nearly dropped half her flowers.
"My lady."
"What are you doing?"
Gwen glanced down at the flowers gathered in her arms.
"Collecting these."
"Obviously."
A laugh escaped Gwen.
Morgana felt absurdly pleased she had caused it.
"For my father," Gwen explained. "He likes having flowers in the house."
Morgana looked at the mismatched collection.
Tiny white blossoms.
Yellow buttercups.
Blue cornflowers.
"They're just weeds."
Gwen's expression softened.
"No."
The answer came so simply that Morgana looked back at her.
Gwen held up a flower.
A small thing.
Fragile.
Ordinary.
"They're flowers."
Something about the certainty in her voice made Morgana smile despite herself.
The morning stretched around them.
Birdsong drifted through the trees.
A breeze stirred loose strands of Gwen's dark hair.
And without entirely understanding why, Morgana remained.
She helped gather flowers.
Badly.
She crushed stems.
Picked the wrong plants.
Got caught in thorns twice.
Gwen laughed every time with genuine amusement that made Morgana want to hear the sound again.
And again.
And again.
By the time they finished, the basket was overflowing.
Gwen sat beneath a tree to arrange the flowers into something resembling a bouquet.
Morgana sat beside her.
Gwen worked carefully, weaving stems together with patient fingers.
Morgana watched.
Finally, Gwen selected a single flower from the bundle.
A pale blue cornflower.
She hesitated.
Then held it out.
"For you."
Morgana stared.
Nobody gave her gifts.
Not real gifts.
Jewels were obligations.
Silks were expectations.
Everything expensive came attached to something.
But this was just a flower.
Picked from a field.
Offered because Gwen wanted to offer it.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Morgana accepted it carefully.
As though it might break.
"Thank you."
Their eyes met.
For a moment neither looked away.
And something settled between them.
Not love.
Not yet.
Nothing so obvious.
Just the faintest beginning of something.
A thread.
A possibility.
A flower pushing through stone.
Small enough to miss.
Strong enough to survive.
Then voices drifted faintly from the direction of Camelot.
Reality returning.
The castle.
Responsibilities.
The distance that existed between a king's ward and a blacksmith's daughter.
Gwen stood first.
"We should go back."
"Probably."
Neither moved immediately.
Morgana turned the cornflower slowly between her fingers.
Blue petals catching sunlight.
Ridiculously ordinary.
Ridiculously precious.
When they finally began walking toward Camelot, the flower remained tucked safely behind Morgana's ear, and though she would later receive necklaces made of gold and gowns sewn with silver thread and gifts worth more than most people earned in a year, it was that small blue flower she remembered long afterward, because it had been given freely, beneath an open sky, by a girl who saw flowers where others saw weeds and who, without knowing it, had begun to make Morgana wonder whether the world contained more kindness than she had ever dared believe.
Beside her, Gwen carried the basket home.
And every so often, when she thought Morgana wasn't looking, she smiled.
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Moomintroll cleared his throat and felt very proud.
"Oh, everything," he said. "Stars, for example!"
Snufkin was deeply impressed.
"Stars!" he exclaimed. "Then I must come with you. Stars are my favorite things. I always lie and look at them before I go to sleep, and wonder who is on them and how one could get there. The sky looks so friendly with all those little eyes twinkling in it.â
trying to bed a knight like: *unbuttons your jupon* *unbuckles your cuirass* *unbuckles your gorget* *takes off your hauberk* *stops to catch my breath* *unbuttons your gambeson* *takes off your shirt*
"i asked chatgpt" ok well i asked the dandelion sprites trapped in an enchanted jar on my desk and they said that i might be a piece of shit but you're a festering heap of rancid babydollspider fingernails and piss
bingewatching will never come close to bingereading. there is nothing like blocking out the entire Earth for ten hours to read a book in one sitting no food no water no shower no bra and emerging at the end with no idea what time it is or where you are, a dried-up prune that's sensitive to light and loud noises because you've been in your room in the dark reading by the glow of a single LED. it's like coming back after a three-month vacation in another dimension and now you have to go downstairs and make dinner. absolutely transcendental
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With deft hands, Ygraine finishes knotting the last of the sheets together. An experimental tug shows that they hold fast, and itâs with no small amount of giddy relief that she realizes this might actually work.
When she told Tristan she would rather run off and live as a common peasant in the woods than marry Uther Pendragon, he laughed as though sheâd made a particularly amusing joke; she wonders, her lips quirking in a wry smile, if he will laugh again when he hears that she has actually gone and done it. It will be his own fault, for underestimating her.
Ygraine has the makeshift rope gathered in her hands and is about to toss it out the window, when thereâs a knock at her door. She goes still. Perhaps if they think no one is here, theyâll go away. She fights the urge to swear when another knock comes, accompanied by a womanâs voice.
âMy Lady?â
Ygraine shoves the sheets behind a curtain and hurries for the door. Her heart is thudding against her ribcage as though whoever is on the other side knows that she is trying to run. Itâs ridiculousâ she has played the part of the acquiescing bride since her arrival, hasnât spoken of her plans to anyoneâ but the fear still leaves her wrongfooted. She wrenches the door open, unladylike and just barely composed.
The woman on the other side of the threshold doesnât help in the slightest.
Her warm brown hair is pulled backâ not elaborately braided like Ygraineâs, but its simplicity only highlights her features. Thereâs something kind in the set of her lips, and the flickering of the sconces only softens the lines of her further.
Ygraine suspects that the staccato of her heart now has less to do with almost getting caught, and more to do with the woman in front of her. The moment stretches, andâ
âSorry,â Ygraine says finally, blinking at the woman as she tries to gather herself, âI was, erââ
As though she knows exactly why Ygraine is so flustered, the womanâs lip twitches mischievously.
Ygraine canât help but notice that theyâre very nice lips, then abruptly jerks her gaze up to the womanâs eyes. She can already feel her face beginning to flush, and wonders if perhaps she ought to simply dive from her window, sheets be damned, to spare herself this embarrassment.
The woman holds up a small jar and a flower in one hand, thankfully taking pity on Ygraine, though her smile hasnât changed. âMy brotherâ the physician, he sent me to deliver this.â
Ygraine wracks her brain. She met Gaius when she first arrived in Camelot; he did mention a sister, now that she thinks about it... Hunith?
Hunithâs hands are warm when they press the potion into Ygraineâs palm. Her touch is almost searing, doing nothing to cool the heat rushing to Ygraineâs cheeks.
âAnd the flower?â Ygraine asks, squaring her shoulders and trying to sound unaffected. It does little to restore her dignity, nor does it quell the urge to slam the door and escape her embarrassment, or, gods forbid, the urge to touch Hunith again.
Hunithâs expression shifts, amusement giving way to something softer. Something kind. âItâs from me,â she says. âWhatever Gaius says, medicine doesnât fix homesickness. I thought it might cheer you up.â
Ygraine takes the flower from her, far more carefully than she did the potion. Their fingers donât brush this time, but something flutters in her stomach nonetheless when she recognizes the purple bloomsâ in the summer, they grow in the fields surrounding Tintagel. She didnât know they could be found here.
The silence between them shifts, suddenly far more intimate than it was before. Ygraine opens her mouth, but all words seem to have fled her. Hunith had no reason to be so kind; she just was. No one has been so thoughtful since Ygraine arrived in Camelotâ not even the man who was meant to become her husband.
âIâm sorry,â Hunith says suddenly, cheeks pink and fingers twitching as though she wants to take the bloom back, âThat was terribly forward, I shouldnât haveââ
âNo,â Ygraine says, holding the flower closer to her chest. âNo, itâsâ thank you.â
The smile Ygraine receives in return is her favorite by farâ a small, sincere thing that wrinkles the corners of Hunithâs eyes.
âI should be going,â Hunith says, sounding almost regretful, âbutââ The mischievous, knowing glint returns, ââ the guards will catch you if you try the window. Youâre better off sneaking through the armoryâ thereâs a tunnel behind one of the shields that leads out of the city.â
Ygraineâs jaw drops, head snapping back around to look at the window.
The sheets are completely out of sight.
âHow do you know about that?â she demands.
Hunithâs grin is crooked. She offers no reply.
Ygraine didnât think that she could grow any more flustered, but she does. âTell me! I am the future Queen of Camelotââ
âYes, running off in the middle of the night using your bedsheets is very queenly.â Hunith dips in a small curtsy, which somehow manages to come across as both perfectly respectful and horribly amused at Ygraineâs expense. âGoodnight, My Lady.â
Ygraine is only able to gape as Hunith slips around the corner. Her heart is pounding, but sheâs not sure if itâs from the adrenaline of being caught or from the way Hunith smiled at her, wonderful and wild, like she was letting Ygraine in on a joke. Sheâs certain that her face is still flushed when she closes the door, Gaiusâ potion gripped in one hand and the flower gently held in the other.
When sheâs feeling a bit more collected, Ygraine sets both items on the table, moving to peek out the open window. Through the darkness, she manages to make out a pair of guards meandering below. Damn.
She shuts her window, though not with as much frustration as she expected. After all, itâs still a month until the wedding. Thatâs plenty of time to escape, andâ she thinks of kind brown eyes and a knowing smileâ plenty of time to get to know Camelot before she goes. Perhaps she can stay a little longer.
Ygraineâs eyes stray back to the flower, and she knows that the warmth that fills her chest isnât just because of its familiarity.
Thereâs something about Hunith. She just canât quite put her finger on it.