#mbbc

To the person who keeps putting fucking Merlin quotes in my locker: I see you, I hate you, but I see you

The Witching Hour: Spooky BBC Merlin Fic Recs

A Modern Pygmalion by supercalvin

A Warlock's Blood by Lullabylily

Ain't No Grave (Can Hold Me) by Val_Creative

All the Dead Are Here by Footloose

all our dead, unfinished selves by schweet_heart

An Ox on the Tongue by seapotato

and with my opened mouth i join the singing light by intothefirewego

Death is Only the Beginning by Val_Creative

Deliquesce by BeautifulFiction

Dying to Return by StormDancer

Feeding Grounds by N16  [gen]

From Darkness Comes Light by beren

From The Ashes by RandomSlasher

Gibraltar May Tumble by shes_gone

Grave Mistake by kickflaw

Haunted Ride by Sage_Owl

How It Will Be by Trojie. 

Hunter's Blood by Shadecat

I'll Be Your Fire (The Dragon Dream Remix) by claudine

In It For The Thrill by TheCourtSorcerer

Into the Dark by kriadydragon

i will always pick you up by daffodilprince

It Will Have Blood by kayura_sanada

London Tower by significantowl

Mating Call by orphan_account

My Breath In Your Lungs by Zaharya

Quickening Days by Fahye

Resurgam by La_Temperanza

Seeds of Darkness by N16 [gen]

The Devil's Table by kriadydragon [gen]

The Beast of Winter by linaerys

The Fallen by ArtemisPendragon

The Kingcraft of Arthur Pendragon by SauraUnderscore

The Maze of Malus by beckybrit

The Tomb by kriadydragon [gen]

The Washerwoman by schweet_heart

Jack knows cold.

His knowledge of it is as deep as his understanding of himself, perhaps even more so. It’s as much a part of him as he is a part of it, veins of ancient magic as old as the seasons, threaded and tangled and weaved until given form of a boy that really isn’t. Such threads and knots make Jackson as much an Overland as it makes him Jack Frost: He is Magic and he is Winter, which is to say the same thing, gifted and cursed with human body. Or as human as Jack can appear like.

To Jack, cold has always been home, like his mother. Like his sister. Like his king.

Jack feels the cold with a sense of comfort, a blanket that layers under his skin, beyond his physical body, although he enjoys it perfectly well that way, too. He feels cold as one would feel one’s own arm or leg, except everywhere, all at once. It’s beautiful. Until it isn’t.

Jack stares at the discolored tint Hiccup’s body has been steadily taking over the last two days, bleaching away his red-colored cheeks. They’ve taken to a sickening mix of pale yellow’s and bruised blue’s and ashy white’s to it—and those are Jack’s colors, the ones Jack wears with pride, like they were made for him and him only.

Jack’s gaze is fixed in front of him, focused hard at the way the metal chest plate goes up, so agonizingly slowly…and down, again. Then, there will be a moment of silence and nothing at all, and Jack doesn’t know, Jack doesn’t know if this one will finally be his friend’s last breath.

Jack doesn’t blink. Time slows, looses it’s meaning. His breath is kept tight under lock, not daring to miss a single moment to himself. He does not matter, right now. Only Hiccup does.

Hiccup’s chest rises up once more, defying death with every moment, and Jack feels like crying. All the senses of the word can not encapsulate his living grief.

Yes, Jack thinks, he thought he knew cold. Turns out he doesn’t, not at all.

He understands, now, why there are people who come to detest it. It’s cold, and for once, Jack is too.

Some of his horror must have shown on his face for Merlin’s expression hardened. The man suddenly came alive with unbidden emotion — more emotion than any human had any right to bear, really.

“Don’t you — don’t you dare, Arthur. Don’t you dare judge me, don’t you dare think that I— that I should have held on, that I had no right, when you, of all people, did not have the right of dying in the first place, I— You left me on my own, the lot of you.” Tears flowed from his eyes in a constant stream, breaking his voice, his words, his old-english tongue to a strange mixture of time-past dialects Arthur only managed to understand by virtue of the intense feelings he infused into them. “Left me to live. They denied my right to die, and I had to go on, and wait, wait for you, wait for a time no prophet could ever hint at, and what was I left to to then? Guess? Put my faith in what? You? Magic? Kilgarrah? Kilgarrah died, and soon did also Aithusa, and that was the end of the Age of Dragons. And I thought — oh, maybe now he’ll come back, to bring back the balance. But you didn’t. Then the Norse came, and I thought it was the time. I built up your legacy, the resistance, and promised them that you’d come. But you didn’t. The Romans destroyed our way of life. Still, you weren’t there. Christians tore down the last vestiges of the Old Religion. The Norse again, and Normans followed, and still I stood alone, promising the return of the great king who would bring peace to Albion. You never did. Our way of life changed, our tongue changed, our culture and science and time passed and still you slept. Wars came, too many of them now for me to count, or to count even then. Slowly the realisation came — you wouldn’t come back, would you? And you didn’t. Our people, our kings, they all turned into savage beasts of mass destruction. Genocide on new discovered lands, slavery, and there I was, left on my own, unable to stop it. Magic dwindled. I only met a couple of magic users in a lifetime, and I could not protect them. Then came the first world war — and I was sure, I was so sure this would be the time, I thought — oh, what came before never came close to this destruction. The Sidhe will surely bring him back to me. But you didn’t. And then I understood, and I wish it could have killed me, the mere realisation, especially when the second war came and I saw the sheer horror you would never be there to stop. And how could you? What could one man do to save millions of people from death camps, only supported by the weight of an old forgotten legend? The memory of you had faded, a simple children’s tale, and that was all I had left to do now, wasn’t it? Keep your memory alive, find my way back in time for a few traces of you, to keep and cherish and protect. For nothing, I realised. What could a private museum of Arthuriana artefacts do to protect Albion? It isn’t Albion anymore. It never was. All along, all of my youth, a complicated lie that had me cower in fear and bring down the extinction of my people. It was all my doing. Then and now Albion brings war on the Middle East, the world is plagued with a pandemic, and soon enough we will know of a flood not even my powers could prevent. No, Arthur — do not judge me for wanting to die, for wanting to hide from whatever the future holds of that same nothingness that has followed me for one thousand, five-hundred and thirty-five years.”

Merlin took one long, shuddering breath, and opened his mouth to continue but couldn’t find his voice; instead, a long wail had him hide his face in his hands.

Yay! They are actually!

Yennefer is Cheer Captain and is honestly such a basket case for a cheer cap.

Fringilla was originally gonna be Cheer Captain until Yennefer stole her spot.

Triss is just vibing. No drama. Just busting out laughing during practice if one of the jocks eat shit (usually Lambert because, well, it's Lambert).