you can call me andromeda, but i also answer to a suspiciously large number of nicknames depending on the platform and the level of chaos involved. things like Andi, Meda, Dromeda, and whatever affectionate disaster name my mutuals decide on in the moment are all legally binding at this point. pronouns: she/they (but also… i promise it’s not that deep if you mess up)
you can find me on ao3
what you will find here, specifically, is a very curated form of uncurated chaos:
- fandom posting that ranges from coherent analysis to “i am chewing on this character like a rabid animal”
- live reactions to books, shows, films, and whatever media has decided to emotionally ruin me this week
- occasional edits of my own sanity in real time
- ship discourse (mostly self-inflicted)
- crack posts that spiral out of control within 3 lines
- soft moments of genuine affection for fictional characters that i will absolutely deny having five minutes later
political speaking, i’m pretty straightforward: anti-bigotry in all forms. that includes racism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, islamophobia, ableism, misogyny, and all the rest of it. if you’re using fandom spaces as a place to be hateful, we’re probably not going to get along.
The door banged open and Merlin woke with a start.
“Rats! Again!”
“Wha—”
“I always knew you were incompetent, Merlin, but this is just ridiculous. What’s the point of having magic if you can’t even sort out something as simple as a rodent infestation? Although, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since they do have more brains than you.”
“I don’t see you having any luck with catching them, either,” Merlin mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up.
Arthur glared at him.
Merlin had, in fact, caught and killed the rats in a matter of seconds, with one simple glance, each night they had appeared. For six nights in a row. It seemed someone was having them on.
It was then, after he’d blinked away the last of the bleariness, that he noticed the pillow Arthur was clutching to his chest.
“Why’ve you got that?” he asked, with a note of foreboding in his voice.
“If you think I’m sleeping in there with the rats, you can think again,” Arthur said.
“Frightened, are you?”
Arthur scoffed. “I don’t get frightened. It is critical for a king to have a decent night’s rest so that he is at his best for his people. Now, budge up, will you?”
Merlin rolled his eyes, but shuffled over all the same, moving his pillow so Arthur could plop his down.
It wasn’t like they had never shared a bedroll; camping overnight often called for it on the colder nights to keep all their fingers, toes, and other vulnerable bits functioning and intact. But this was Merlin’s bed. And there was hardly room enough for one man, let alone two, especially now that Merlin’s chest and arms had filled out to rival Arthur’s own.
He tried not to think about the way Arthur’s thigh pressed up alongside his, or the way his tunic rode down his chest, showing off the smattering of blond hair there. Merlin no longer knew what to do with his hands; his arms lay awkwardly, woodenly at his sides, all too aware that the slightest movement might brush their fingers together.
“There were no guest chambers available, I take it?” he joked.
“Shut up, Merlin.”
As Arthur settled in beside him, Merlin stared up at the ceiling; he felt, in that moment, that he would likely have a better night’s sleep in a room full of rats.
Bonus:
“You must think you’re pretty funny.”
“I do, actually,” Morgana agreed. “But if you’re accusing me of something, you’re going to need to be more specific.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “The rats?”
Morgana affected a look of total innocence, which, if Merlin hadn’t known her so well, would have been entirely convincing. “Rats? What are you talking about, Merlin?”
“Please. A rat in his chambers one night is a coincidence, two nights and I thought maybe Elyan and Gwaine were having a laugh, but seven nights? That’s got sorcery written all over it, and I know it wasn’t me.”
Morgana smirked. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“All it took was making Arthur’s chambers somewhat uninhabitable and off he ran to spend the night with you.” She grinned, which did nothing to dim the malevolence in her eyes, but rather accentuated it. “Do you deny it?”
“I—well—all we did was sleep!”
Morgana hummed. “That lie might have worked if you’d remembered your neck scarf,” she said, and turned away, smirk firmly in place.
Merlin’s mouth fell open, and he slapped a hand, rather too late, over the bruises Arthur had left there that morning.
“Gwen will be pleased,” Morgana called as she walked away. “The rats were her idea, you know.”
Shaking his head, Merlin watched her go, and as the heat slowly faded from his cheeks, he made a mental note to send both the meddling wretches some flowers.
Morgana stood beside the narrow window of her chambers with one hand resting against the cold stone, her fingertips numb from the chill that seeped through the castle walls, watching the courtyard disappear beneath sheets of rain until there was nothing left but indistinct movement, servants rushing beneath cloaks, guards lowering their heads against the weather, horses stamping impatiently in the stables, every soul in Camelot seeking warmth while she alone felt herself become colder with every passing moment, as though the storm had not descended from the heavens at all but risen quietly from somewhere beneath her ribs, flooding every hollow place inside her until she could scarcely remember what it had been like to breathe without drowning.
There had been a time when storms had delighted her.
There had been a time when she had run laughing through the gardens with her skirts soaked through and her hair clinging to her cheeks while Gwen followed with that helpless smile that always seemed to appear despite herself, calling after her that Lady Morgana would catch her death if she did not come inside this instant, though the warning had never carried any weight because neither of them truly wished the afternoon to end, because there were hours in those earlier years when Camelot felt small compared to the world they imagined together, and propriety dissolved beneath shared laughter until they were simply two young women lying beneath dripping apple trees, staring upward through leaves jeweled with rain, speaking of places they would never see and futures they would never possess.
But destiny, Morgana had learned, possessed all the mercy of winter.
She heard the familiar knock before the door opened.
It was always the same rhythm.
Three soft taps.
Gwen had always knocked that way, even after years of serving her, even after Morgana had told her a hundred different times that she needn't ask permission, that she was welcome whenever she wished, because Gwen insisted upon kindness in the smallest rituals, insisted upon respect even where affection had long since made such things unnecessary, and perhaps that was why Morgana's heart betrayed her every single time she heard those careful knocks, because they carried with them every ordinary day that had ever mattered more than great victories or lavish feasts or royal celebrations, every quiet evening spent mending torn sleeves beside the fire, every shared joke whispered through laughter that dissolved into silence simply because neither wished to disturb the peace that had settled between them.
"Come in."
Gwen entered carrying fresh candles, though she stopped after only two steps, her brows knitting together the moment she looked at Morgana, because she had always been cursed with noticing too much, with seeing sorrow before it was spoken, exhaustion before it became visible to anyone else, love before those who carried it had admitted its existence even to themselves.
"Are you all right, my lady?"
"You've asked me that three times already today."
"I worry."
"I know."
Such simple words.
Such unbearable ones.
Gwen crossed the room and began replacing the candles one by one, each small flame blooming into life beneath her careful hands until warm gold chased the shadows back toward the corners of the chamber, though it never quite reached Morgana herself, who remained standing beside the rain-darkened window like another piece of the night beyond the glass.
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"You've barely slept."
"I'm tired."
Morgana found herself watching Gwen rather than the rain, watching the graceful certainty with which she moved through the chamber, folding discarded garments, straightening books left carelessly open, adjusting the blanket draped across the chair beside the hearth, performing each tiny task with a tenderness so instinctive it seemed less like duty than prayer, as though caring for the world around her was simply another way Gwen remembered how to exist.
How terribly unfair, Morgana thought, that goodness should look so ordinary.
No crown.
No miracle.
No celestial light.
Simply Gwen, humming softly beneath her breath while arranging flowers someone else would never notice had been rearranged.
There were moments when Morgana believed she could have endured every nightmare, every whispered prophecy, every accusation of witchcraft, every loneliness that stalked her waking hours, if only the world had possessed the decency to leave Gwen untouched by it all.
Instead, the world had done what it always did.
It had reached first for the gentlest thing.
"You've been crying."
Morgana almost laughed.
"No."
"You have."
"It was the rain."
"You are indoors."
"I know."
Gwen approached carefully, as though nearing an injured animal liable to bolt without warning, and stopped close enough that Morgana could smell lavender on her sleeves, close enough that warmth radiated between them despite the cold lodged beneath Morgana's skin, and for one heartbeat the distance separating them seemed absurd, nothing more than a handful of inches and years of silence stretched painfully thin across it.
"You don't have to bear everything alone."
If only that were true.
If only loneliness required solitude instead of love.
Because love was what made loneliness unbearable, Morgana thought, not its absence but its presence, the knowledge that someone stood within reach and still remained forever impossible to hold without consequence.
Slowly, almost against her own will, she turned.
Gwen's face was so familiar it hurt.
Not beautiful in the way court poets praised beauty, not polished into perfection like carved marble queens in ancient halls, but alive, endlessly alive, every expression arriving honestly before disappearing again, kindness softening her eyes, concern drawing faint lines between her brows, hope lingering stubbornly around her mouth even after the world had given her every reason to surrender it, and Morgana wondered with sudden, terrible clarity whether love had always been this quiet, this ordinary, this devastating, whether it had begun not in some single lightning strike but in a thousand unnoticed moments accumulating patiently until one day she had looked at Gwen and discovered there was no corner of herself untouched by her.
"I..." Morgana whispered.
"What?"
She almost said it.
The words rose like birds startled from long grass, beating desperately against the cage of her ribs.
I love you.
Three words.
Ridiculously small.
Far too small for years of devotion disguised as friendship, for every glance stolen across crowded halls, every excuse invented merely to keep Gwen nearby a little longer, every prayer uttered without gods because Gwen herself had become the closest thing Morgana knew to faith.
Instead she smiled.
"I wish," she said softly, "that things could stay like this."
Gwen smiled back, relieved.
"They can."
Morgana closed her eyes.
No.
They never could.
Just this once, Morgana thought, with an ache so vast it seemed capable of splitting the earth itself, let tomorrow lose its way.
Just this once, let tomorrow wander so far from Camelot that even destiny cannot remember the road back.
Just this once, let every prophecy fall silent beneath the endless music of rain upon stone.
Just this once, let Gwen's hand remain within hers without either of them searching for a reason worthy enough to explain it away, let warmth remain only warmth, tenderness remain only tenderness, and the terrible miracle of being understood require no apology, no courage greater than simply refusing to let go.
Just this once, let the storm rage for as many years as it pleases beyond the castle walls, let the heavens exhaust themselves until every cloud has forgotten why it wept.
Just this once, let Morgana be only a woman in love.
I love you characters who challenge what it means to be human. I love you characters who make you think about what it means to be alive. I love you characters who give you mild existential dread. I love you characters whose identities are fought for. I love you characters who make you cherish life itself.
So the thing is boobs really do be jiggling. If having breasts has taught me anything it is that the ladies frolic. I don't even have that large of boobs but every time I go down some stairs all I can think about is that stupid quote about boobing breastily down the stairs or whatever it is because God Damn.
But anime and video game boob jiggling is like. The most uncanny valley shit I've ever seen nine times out of ten. You would think people this horny about tits would have actually looked at some but I guess not.
What we really need is some pervert to compile the ultimate visual guide to boob bouncing physics that's just like 500 hours of meticulously organized videos of breasts of different size and shape and under different fabrics bouncing around from a wide variety of physical movements so horny game devs can finally get it right and I don't have to be creeped out by women who appear to have surgically implanted softballs in their chest under skin made of rubber bands.
it's genuinely fascinating how the average person with boobs has a more accurate internal physics engine than whatever AAA studio spent six million dollars animating a woman whose chest behaves like it's connected to the rest of her body via two independently possessed balloons
