new prompts will be published at the beginning of each month
there will be three different prompts to choose from
despite the name, all femslash pairings are welcome
please keep in mind that this is an 18+ space
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every fill must be inspired by the prompt(s) (you can incorporate the word in your work, use it as a title, use it for inspiration, etc.)
you can choose one prompt, create one or more fills for each prompt, or try combining all prompts into one fic -- whatever works for you!
the guideline for fics is 50 words -- this is by no means a limit, only an indication. feel free to write more (or less!) if you want
every type of fanwork is encouraged: microfic, art, gifsets, fic recs, video edits, web weaves, moodboards, playlists... go wild!
remember to tag @morgwenmicrofic when posting your work, so we can see it and share it <3
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no AI. all submissions must be human-made
works must be centered around Morgana/Gwen or other femslash pairings. poly ships are welcome as well
all ratings are accepted (remember to include all appropriate warnings)
relationships are not required to be strictly romantic or sexual. platonic or gen fics are encouraged, as long as they keep the focus on the female characters. this is a space created to celebrate women in the show, so we ask you to keep this in mind when creating your work
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Happy pride! As Reinaeiry says in her pinned comment on this gorgeous song, "sapphics doomed by the narrative you have all of my love, and also all of my tears."
@morgwenmicrofic prompt: mythology
âjanuaryhoney, Medea // Nikita Gill, Hera // Jennifer Saint, Ariadne // Trista Mateer, Aphrodite Made Me Do It // Salma Deera, Medea's Reasons // Nikita Gill, Great Goddesses: Life Lessons from Myths and Monsters
| prompt: "is this true?" (hope slight rephrasing is okay?) | words: 281 |
| other tags: alternate universe: modern setting, one night stands, implied sexual content, rumours |
~
The party hall is a crowded space, lights shimmering and glittering in a way that distorts silhouettes and makes everything just a bit more anonymous, such that in the following morning's hangover memories of faces may blur together until none are distinct, and any fleeting connection can be plausibly denied.
By now, Gwen is already pleasantly drunk, and probably much more uninhibited than she's allowed herself to be in months. Her friends nudge her towards the dance floor, and she stumbles gracelessly a little, but follows happily with the crowd, swaying vaguely to the rhythm.
Somebody laughs beautifully behind her, and without thought, Gwen whips her head around, seeking the sound. There, head thrown back, bright-red lips curled in a sarcastic smile, hair cascading in gleaming dark waves down her back. Their eyes lock, for a single, electric moment and Gwen feels a sudden heat all over her body.
She's ready for it to pass in a moment, but instead it turns into a tunnel-vision focus, as the woman turns towards her and approaches, with a slow sway in her hips, never breaking eye contact.
She remembers very little after that, and simultaneously, every moment of it is etched crystal clear into her mind. Smooth, cool hand holding her chin, a teasing cherry-red smile. That same cherry-red smeared on her neck. Hands, skin. Stumbling through the crowd, towards the door, into the dimly lit hallway. Panting breaths, back pressed against the wall. Cold night air hitting heated skin.
Getting home late into the night, falling asleep without even changing. Being asked the next morning:
write a microfic or create fanwork inspired by one of the prompts (or combine them for an extra challenge) and tag @morgwenmicrofic âĄ
RULES | PAST PROMPTS
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write a microfic or create fanwork inspired by one of the prompts (or combine them for an extra challenge) and tag @morgwenmicrofic âĄ
RULES | PAST PROMPTS
The motion is almost a curtsy. Gwenâs dress skims the earth as she dips low to pluck a flower. She will place it in a vase beside the window, lit by a shaft of stray lightâ tend to it with cool clear water. Her fingertips will brush its petals, breeze-soft.
Soon it will wither and fade. Soon, she must cast it away. It is too late already: the rot has set in, and rot brings ruin, and pain, and sorrow, and death.
For now, it is bright and beautiful. Gwen rises and remembers Morgana as she carries the flower home.
hey there! I'm so sorry to be annoying and be all "look at meeeeee" haha but I wrote a microfic for the flowers prompt and it seems like the tag didn't work or something and it fell through the cracks? anyway I love your project and want to present my own humble offering so here it is: https://www.tumblr.com/theleftoveryou/817198459639808000/things-i-have-loved-im-allowed-to-keep-the?source=share
hello! not annoying at all â in fact, thanks for letting us know! weâll reblog it and add it to our masterlist asap <3
if this ever happens again, or if you notice we havenât reblogged you fill after a week, chances are the tag didnât work. in that case, donât hesitate to send us an ask or tag us again in the comments :)
thank you so much for participating, weâre so happy youâre enjoying what weâre doing <3 truly looking forward to see even more from you!
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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@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
@morgwenmicrofic prompt "I'm not afraid" 265 words
For Morgana, Camelot had always been a place shrouded in fear. Fear of Uther's wrath, fear of her visions, fear of being discovered for what she was. For a time, it felt as though the only time she wasn't afraid was when she was with Gwen. Gwen, with her soft smiles and rough hands, who seemed to smooth away Morgana's nightmares with a brush of her skin. Of course, as soon as Morgana realized this, she also realized that she had something entirely new to be afraid of: Gwen being taken from her. Perhaps Gwen would be ripped away like when Morgana's parents were killed, or perhaps she would slip out of reach like when Arthur decided he'd rather be a Pendragon than a brother. Either way, Morgana knew that there would be nothing she could do to stop it. She was cursed with enough power to see her world coming to an end, but never enough to stop the carnage.
Perhaps this was why, when Morgause offered her a different path, Morgana didn't hesitate. As the stolen crown settled on her head, Morgana saw a set of warm brown eyes, and knew that she finally had the power to keep everything exactly as it should be. She imagined Uther as she had seen him last, chained in his own dungeon. I'm not afraid of you anymore, she thought gleefully. For the first time in her life, she gazed out at Camelot and saw a place where she and Gwen would never have to hide, and it was worth whatever she'd done to get there.
freya/sophia for @morgwenmicrofic prompt "flowers", 242 words
âAll this time and you still wonât talk to me?â
The girl drapes herself over a broad, flat stone, her head pillowed on her folded arms. Below the water, Freya knows, her legs are kicking lazily swathed in gauzy golden silk. Her face, sweet with mischief, is tilted up to catch the sun on her pale cheek.
Freya pulls her knees tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. The afternoon warmth ripples all across the lakeâs unclouded surface and sloshes through Freyaâs veins or what passes for them now. In some part of her the clinging ribbons of the girlâs skirt billow to and fro and Freya wants to snag them, pull them, tangle her up, just because she can.
The other Sidhe never talk to Freya. She is beneath their notice, outside their realm, neither flesh nor spirit: more like the sunlight than the water or the lilies or the mist. But Lady Sophia is an exception, nosy and pestering; and Freya, who never had much company in life and certainly never the company of fairy ladies, hasnât mustered the courage to answer her endless questions.
âWell, youâre not very nice,â Freya reasons, and at the sound of her voice, Sophia perks up.
âItâs not very nice to ignore people, either,â Sophia teases. âSo, whatâs your name, rude girl?â
â...Freya.â
Eyes twinkling, Sophia holds out her hand, palm down, for a kiss.
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.
Hi, is there any chance you could update the pinned post with the current prompts? I might be interested in doing something but I've never been able to figure out what the current prompts are. Or is there an easier/better way to find them than scrolling the entire blog? Thanks!
hi there! the current prompts can be found under the 'additional info' section of the pinned post - i've just updated the wording from 'past prompts' to just 'prompts' to make it a bit clearer. the most recent prompt post on the blog will always be the current month's. hope that helps and we'd love to see what you create ⥠thanks for joining us!
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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.