shark vs the universe
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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Misplaced Lens Cap
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
blake kathryn
NASA
Sade Olutola
art blog(derogatory)
we're not kids anymore.
Discoholic 🪩
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trying on a metaphor
oozey mess
#extradirty
Claire Keane
@theartofmadeline
Peter Solarz
DEAR READER
Product Placement
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@astrarosebud
The prompt list is HERE! Two prompts for each day! You can use both or just one for each of the days.
Below are the alternate prompts, which can be used in place of any of the daily prompts:
Additional info, including a link to the Ao3 Collection and a text-based version of the prompt list, are below the read more. Happy writing!
Change @merthurmicrofic
Bingo prompts: fairy tale au, third person pov, spell gone wrong
Word count: 3,837
Fic under the cut because of length.
for @merthurmicrofic ︱"change" ︱1632 words ︱bingo fills at end
It's a terrifying thing, to stand on the precipice of changing everything. To know the world you live in and the one you are about to inhabit are irrevocably different. If Merlin were not stripped down to desperation, he may have not had the courage to speak. He wonders if doing so is a folly, if the worlds in which he held his tongue are kinder, happier.
"I have magic."
But this is the world Merlin lives in. The one he's created. The one where he'd rather throw himself to the changing winds of fate than let his king think he'd abandon him.
Arthur stills from where he'd been about to leave the room. Right after he'd thrown the cruelest words he'd ever said to Merlin like a dagger. I thought you were the bravest man I ever knew. I guess I was wrong.
"I was born with it," Merlin continues, and Arthur's back is still turned to him, and he can't know, can't see the expression on Arthur's face. "I've used it to protect you since the moment we met. To help you become the king you've always been meant to be. And I want to go with you into battle, you help you win this fight, more than anything but— Morgana, she— she did something that took my magic. I need to go somewhere to try to get it back, or we'll— you'll— Arthur, please, look at me."
The words rush out of him like a waterfall, matching the taste of salt that's landed on his tongue. He's trembling.
Blue III
@merthurmicrofic
Word count: 397
Blue.
Arthur never knew what it was. Not really. The colour of the sky, he was told. The proper one. The colour of the rivers and streams. The colour of the lakes. The colour of some of Morgana's dresses.The colour of one of Morgan's eyes. His fathers eyes. His mother's eyes too, Arthur was told, though they seemed so grey in the paintings.
Grey was what Arthur knew blue as. The cloudy sky interchangeable with the cloudless sky. All the same to Arthur.
It didn't matter. He got by without seeing blue. It didn't affect his princely duties, nor his ones as a knight. And in his father's view as long as Arthur could see the red of Camelot and could discern the glint of magic use, his inability to see blue was unimportant.
And then.
And then…
Arthur met the most impudent, disrespectful, backwater bumpkin in all of the kingdom. He didn't give two figs that Arthur was the prince, just stood up to him, looked him right in the eyes and that was that.
Blue. Everywhere. Vivid and brilliant. The shade of Merlin's eyes. Such a colour he never knew existed. Worth waiting for. Just to see the first glimpse in the eyes of his fate.
They bantered, Arthur knew they did. As much for show as to protect their secret from Uther. His father would not be pleased Arthur had found his match in Merlin.
He sent his soulmate to the stocks, and he did feel a little bad about that. Really. But the sky was such a lovely shade of blue, as Arthur was learning were his own eyes, and Merlin could appreciate it at leisure. While Arthur figured out what they were supposed to do.
As would be their pattern, Merlin solved that conundrum. Saved his life and became Arthur's manservant. Uther would never have allowed it had he known, but Morgana was right. What Uther didn't know wouldn't hurt him, or Arthur or Merlin.
Morgana knew immediately, as did Leon Arthur suspected. Uther never found out. Arthur seeing blue was of no consequence to anyone else. Save Merlin, of course, and he already knew everything about Arthur.
(The fact that Arthur had also gained the ability to see gold that day too, well, Merlin could keep his secret for now. He really was adorable when he was trying to be sneaky.)
Blue II
@merthurmicrofic
Word count: 248
Objectively, their first flat was terrible. Hot water that either scalded them or didn't work at all. A kitchen tap that dripped for ten minutes at precisely 3:27 every morning. Carpet that was inexplicably paisley. There was a patch of something on the ceiling that looked either like a dragon or a jousting knight, depending on how they squinted their eyes. The bedroom was barely big enough for their bed, let alone dressers. The couch was at a permanently funky angle, and the windows only opened if they jiggled them the right way.
But it was theirs.
It was home.
And Merlin had fallen in love with it the moment the friend of a friend of one of Gwaine's acquaintances had shown them through it.
Arthur pretended to grumble. Muttering about the shade of the walls, discontinued in the bloody seventies, he said. But Merlin knew him better. Arthur had fallen in love with it too.
Bright and blue and wonderful. A far cry from the red Uther covered his cold manor in - a mark of family duty and legacy more of a burden than a joy to Arthur.
The wintry sunlight had struggled through the windows, shining off the blue, blue walls, and Merlin had seen a flash of his life. Late nights and early mornings, Christmases and birthdays, Saturday dinners with their friends, Sunday gatherings for the football.
The life they would have.
The life they did have.
The perfect beginning, wrapped up in four blue walls.
season 2, episode 5 - beauty and the beast part 1
{ blue | 160 words | @merthurmicrofic
"He likes the blue ones."
Guinevere's words drift on the warm breeze, breaking the stillness of the clearing, and Arthur's shoulders stiffen by instinct.
He lifts himself slightly, tilting his chin up so his eyes can fix on the distant, tintless rim of the sunlit glade. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The girl lets out a muffled giggle, and Arthur feels his body soften at the sound—he tries to resist it, but it's spring, and spring gives everything the right to be softer.
"He likes the blue ones," Gwen says again, slowly, as though Arthur might need time to take in each word. "The little ones—forget-me-nots, I think they're called." She squints at him, and the sight must be delightful, for she tries to bite back a smile, and fails miserably. "If you like, I could help you pick the loveliest ones, Sire."
Arthur swallows, then nods. "All right," he says quietly. "If you don't mind."
Prompt: blue (fill #2) @merthurmicrofic
Word count: 134 words
On the twenty-fourth day in December, the sky bleeds.
It does not occur gently, but with the sort of violence one might expect from the culmination of a terrible battle.
When Arthur’s breath leaves him and he lies, with heart unbeating, in Merlin’s arms, the sound torn from the man forsaken cracks open the dawn.
He does not mean to do it, knows of nothing but the weight of the man he cradles and wills, without the breath to show for it, back to life.
When he stands, consumed by the fury of his loss, he turns up his face and rages at the heavens.
And the sky shrinks back, as if in fear, and loses its little colour. For how would the sky dare to be blue in the wake of his devastation?
blue for @merthurmicrofic + deaf for @merlinbingo
For the @merthurmicrofic prompt: "blue"
Word count: 251
When Arthur died, all the blue in the world died with him.
All blue was Arthur. The sparkle of his eyes when he teased him; the fiery burn when he was determined; the soft light when they were alone.
Arthur was no more. The other half of Merlin's coin - the other half of Merlin's soul - wrenched away, taken before either of them were ready.
To Merlin's eyes - his broken heart, entrenched in immortal grief - all blue was grey. Dull and lifeless, all warmth and beauty extinguished.
Arthur's eyes, pained and beautiful, the last pure blue Merlin had ever seen. He wanted it no way else. All other blue paled, no other blue would he see again.
Eons passed, Merlin grew accustomed to grey skies, grey oceans, grey eyes staring back at him in the mirror. The world was still vibrant - reds and greens and golds, all the colours he knew so well - but not a glimpse of blue.
One day, Merlin was sitting in his little garden, reading a book that barely held his attention, and a butterfly alighted on the page.
A tiny thing, fragile and delicate like a snowflake. It glittered in the sunlight, a vibrant shade Merlin hadn't seen in so long. A perfect, precious periwinkle.
There was a breath in the back of Merlin's mind, a sigh that sounded like “Merlin.”
Merlin smiled, his heart warm for the first time in millenia. Blue had returned to his world. And Merlin felt like he'd been born again.
@merthurmicrofic | Blue | 196 words
“I believe I asked for blue,” says Arthur flatly, squinting at the rough scrap of fabric in his hands. Maybe if he does so, it will change colors by sheer force of his determination. He has borne witness to more unlikely things. “This is green.”
“It is sort of a green-blue, sire,” George offers.
“Yes, well, for these negotiations it needs to be a blue blue,” Arthur grits out, sighing through his teeth. “A real blue. A handsome blue. Like — I don’t know, the sky, or Merlin’s eyes, a robin’s egg —”
George blinks. “What was that second one?”
“The sky,” Arthur snaps, stuffing the sample back into George’s hands. “Surely you’ve seen it. Great big roiling thing up in the heavens? Or is your life so dull you spend all your time in the dungeons polishing brass?”
George stands brusquely to attention. Arthur had thought he already was standing to attention, but somehow he manages to stand to attention-er.
“Blue it is, sire,” he nods, and then, arms laden, he scurries off, the doors to the armoury booming closed behind him.
Gwaine clears his throat. “I heard it, too.”
“No you didn’t,” says Arthur. “Shut up.”
MERTHUR MICRO BINGO ⚔️ STARTS 1 DECEMBER
Ready your horses, strap on your armour and dust off your lance – the tournament is about to begin!
Details and extra cards below!
Burn @merthurmicrofic Take II
Words: 225
"You really are a bumpkin, aren't you, Merlin?"
Arthur's words were teasing, but his hands were gentle. So very gentle as he massaged Gaius's special lotion into the skin on Merlin's back and shoulders.
Merlin made a face at the wall. "This is your fault too, cabbage head," Merlin grumbled, sighing the next breath. The lotion was so very, very cool. "You had to drag me out on a hunt."
Yes, Merlin had been the one to decide on a nice splash in the river, but he wouldn't have been in that position if Arthur had stayed in the castle. Arthur flicked the back of Merlin's neck, "Insubordination."
He didn't stop rubbing the lotion into Merlin's heated skin.
Merlin hummed, his limbs going nice and heavy. "Go hunt the sun," he said dazedly. "Trying to assassinate your manservant."
"It's only a minor burn, Merlin." Arthur rolled his eyes. "A few days rest and you'll be fine. Spare a thought for me. I'll be stuck with George and his brass jokes until you've stopped playing on this."
He pressed a kiss to the back of Merlin's neck, where he was miraculously not sunburned.
"Wear a shirt next time, Merlin," Arthur ordered, rubbing one final dollop on the most throbbing part of his burn. "The sun might not like this fair skin of yours, but I do."
@merthurmicrofic | Burn | 420 words
Arthur has failed.
Every breath tears out of him, lungs cleaved open and flayed over hot coals. He claws weakly at his chest, but can only inhale in thick, sharp bursts, each one like raking gravel from a wound.
The pain splitting his side is low, and deep, the world limned red by the spots clouding the corners of his vision. Merlin’s face hangs moon-like, a blur above his head, and the depth of his betrayal burns through Arthur like a brand.
They had been running, breathless, near-frantic when he had fallen, a great stitch, like licking flames, erupting in his side. And Merlin — Merlin who had been just behind him, who knows every part of him, whom Arthur had trusted with his life — had stumbled, sworn, shoved Arthur sideways and turned back to meet his eyes — and then, one arm outstretched, he had revealed that every oath, each touch, all the gossamer threads of trust between them, worn to felt over the years, had been a lie.
Arthur tries to speak, but cannot breathe, the white-hot shale of his throat closing up around the words. His muscles seize, like wet cloth twisted and wrung out.
It had been foolish, he supposes, for Merlin to return to him in the wake of such a revelation. Or perhaps Arthur is foolish for not killing him. Maybe Merlin had planned this all along, had never loved him, only savoured the deception; or perhaps Arthur would not deserve his love if he could not forgive him this.
It is difficult to think. Merlin’s hair is haloed in a golden haze of light, and Arthur wants to laugh at the absurdity, the ham-fisted contradiction, but his stomach has been left a cavern, and he can only muster bile. He gasps with thirst, but cannot find any water that is not the sweat bleeding from his brow.
This must be what dying feels like, he thinks blindly. And he will do so before he trusts anyone again. But Arthur is bone-weary, and there is a fire in his ribs, and Merlin is the only man who knows what has been lost.
“Just —” Arthur rasps, palms clenched tight into his side, “just hold me. Please.”
The figure that is Merlin kneels, hums, and throws an empty biscuit package at his head. “I won fair and square, you ninny,” he snips, licking crumbs blithely off his fingers. “Next time you say, ‘first one to the kitchen gets the last custard cream,’ you should be prepared to lose.”
she's the best of us
Clothing long since reduced to ash, his body revels in the dancing flames.
He glances up to the balcony, at the king waiting for his screams—and his prince, waiting for his signal.
Why isn’t he dying? The crowd is becoming unsettled.
And then he smiles.
You cannot burn a Dragonlord.
Eyes blazing gold, he steps down from the pyre and in the thundering voice of the dragons, issues his command:
Kilgarrah! Aithusa! Raze the citadel!
« burn - 75 words - @merthurmicrofic »
Prompt: Burn
Words: 672
@merthurmicrofic
“MERLIN!”
Arthur's bellow was not an unusual way for Merlin to be jolted into wakefulness. Not Merlin's favourite way (those often involved Arthur saying Merlin's name in a husky register, not loud enough to have people's ears ringing from here to Essetir), but not unusual. The face full of vaguely smokey scented fabric, however, that was new.
“Wha-?” Merlin asked, proud he'd managed that much - what with the early wake-up call and the gob full of fabric.
He yanked the cloth off his face, blinking muzzily at the sight of a shirtless Arthur pacing back and forth in front of the bed.
“My shirt,” Arthur was saying, tossing dark glares at Merlin and at his wardrobe as he paced. “My shirt. My favourite shirt.”
His King was clearly in a snit, Merlin shouldn't antagonise him any further.
“It's a shirt, Arthur,” Merlin sniffed, biting back a yawn. “You have hundreds of them.”
Then again, Merlin never let common sense stop him.
Arthur's temper burned in his eyes, then he took a deep breath. “Look at my shirt, Merlin,” he ordered, waving his hand in a go on motion.
It was too early for this. Merlin wanted to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep, but he didn't much fancy whatever diabolical revenge Arthur would dream up. The last time, he had been stuck in a field with Kilgarrah for a fortnight, filling in the gaps in Geoffrey's history books - between the Great Dragon's riddles and tendency to go off on tangents, never mind the fact that it had pissed down the entire time, Merlin had been sorely tempted to use his Dragonlord power and order Kilgarrah to burn him. (His only solace at the time was that Gwaine was equally miserable, sent to accompany him by a palpably amused Leon).
Shaking off the image of a wet and woebegone Gwaine, Merlin shook out Arthur's favourite shirt. Or, rather, what had been Arthur's favourite shirt. The red fabric now appeared more akin to an archery dummy, littered with misshapen burn marks - some which were still gently smoking.
Ah.
“Trying a new fashion, sire?” Merlin teased, Arthur really did make it too easy. “I'm sure the Knights will love it. Catch on like wildfire, it will.”
“Merlin,” Arthur growled through gritted teeth. “Control your dragon.”
Now that he looked, Merlin could see the top of Aithusa's head peeking over the top of the wardrobe.
Oh.
Right, well. Awkward. But not technically Merlin's fault.
Merlin chucked the shirt back at Arthur, abusing his magic a little so it thwacked him in the face. “She's a baby, you prat,” Merlin sighed, enjoying Arthur's baleful glare. “You can't be upset at her for a little burn here and there. Like your not mad when a puppy leaves a puddle in the doorway.”
Arthur's eyes narrowed, staring between Aithusa (curled up on the wardrobe, looking small and innocent) and Merlin. “Fine,” he sniffed, tossing the shirt aside. “But don't come crying to me when she burns your things.”
“I won't get angry,” Merlin retorted, secure on his moral high ground. “She's a baby.” And she preferred Arthur's things to Merlin's, so Merlin's possessions would remain unsinged.
“AITHUSA!” Merlin's yell echoed in his and Arthur's chambers. He stormed through the doors, brandishing a scrap of charred material. The remnants of his best blue neckerchief.
Arthur was seated at his desk, Aithusa draped over his shoulders like fire was a talent still beyond her. Taking in the undoubtedly sorry picture Merlin made, Arthur's eyes glittered. “Is something the matter, Merlin?”
“Is something-?” Merlin squeaked, too annoyed to form a sentence. “She knows what she did.” Once again, Merlin brandished the charred neckerchief. A small, ashen scrap fluttered to the floor. “Look what she did!”
Arthur's smirk was a glorious thing. “Merlin,” he intoned regally. The dollophead King stroked the white scales of Aithusa's flank, Merlin's traitorous dragon chirruping as she snuggled into his neck. “She's only a baby. You can't expect her not to burn things.”
