The fulfillment of the first five prompts that you lovely people left me; various pairings and ratings.



Prompted by fortassetu: 'Morgana/Nimueh. Morgana gets lost and find herself on the island. Nimueh can be a spirit presence that can touch humans, or something else, you choose.'

The mist smothers the low light of evening and clings to Morgana’s skin, heavy and damp. An altar of dark stone stands before her, a golden chalice overturned on its pitted surface. Morgana’s fingers curl around the stem and she lifts it to her lips, the last dregs of moisture beading on its rim.

‘Drink,’ a voice tells her, feminine and rich with the cadence of the water lapping all around; the stale scent of burning lingers on the stagnant air.

A phantom hand closes round Morgana’s own, slender fingers twining against the cool press of metal. She drinks.



Prompted by b_hallward: 'Merlin/Morgana: mad dangerous games.'

‘Why?’Merlin asks, voice hoarse from thirst. He reaches for her in entreaty but the shackles scrape and drag at his bruised wrists.

Morgana watches him, cat-like, eyes fever-bright with a fire he remembers best from furtive nights in tangled sheets: sharp nails in his skin, urgent lips and tight, wet heat. She speaks:

‘How long have you toyed with me, drugged me with sleeping draughts to keep my power at bay?’

She leans forward, hands clutching white-knuckled at the bars of his cell, her smile a vicious twist of teeth.

‘You wouldn’t tell me my secret, so I told him yours.’



Prompted by xaritomene: 'Arthur + Merlin + Ineffectual Gardening. Including the line, "Are you SURE that's a weed?"'

‘Are you sure that’s a weed?’

Merlin twitches; there’s only one person who could achieve that level of condescension.

‘And what would you know about weeds, sire?’ he asks mildly.

‘More than you, apparently.’

Merlin snorts. ‘Remember – I’m a poor country idiot; I’ve spent my life grubbing around in the dirt.’

‘A life entirely wasted if you still can’t tell that that is not a weed.’

Arthur crouches down beside him with a sigh. ‘That’s feverfew, you dolt.’ He takes Merlin’s hand and guides it to another plant. ‘This is the weed,’ he murmurs softly, thumb warm on Merlin’s pulse.



Prompted by allothi: 'Merlin, the road to hell.'

The air burns acrid in Merlin’s lungs as he gasps for breath, the iron-sharp tang of blood and magic mixing on his tongue. Ears full of the groans of the dying he meets Arthur’s eyes across the battlefield.

His king is a grim omen in dented armour, his handsome face smeared with crimson and exalted Excalibur slick with it; Albion is a dual dream of blood and beauty.

A tight nod and the moment breaks; they turn away, resolved – there’s work to be done yet.

This road leads through hell and back, but on the other side a vision waits.



Prompted by woldy: 'Merlin/Arthur/Lancelot, 'what are the rules of chivalry in bed?''

Arthur reclines against pale sheets, fingers twisted in Merlin’s dark hair, legs splayed. He shifts restlessly and lifts a knee, loose-limbed and uninhibited, head thrown back and straining as Merlin trails messy kisses down his chest, licks and sucks at the swollen length of his cock and swallows him down with loud, wet suction. Their bodies tangle and join, clasped hands and urgent mouths and rocking, rhythmic motion.

Lancelot hesitates in the doorway, caught.

‘This isn’t-’ right, he thinks, proper.

Arthur extends a hand and smiles, languid and inviting.

‘Lancelot, the bedroom is no place for the rules of chivalry.’


I have decided in my infinite wisdom that drabbles are awesomely fun, so I'll continue to beg for more prompts - if you want to give me some just comment here, thanks!