#ripping off king arthur

[rippingoffkingarthur]

A Pict of the Public Domain Steamboat Willie Mickey Mouse...

[tanzasadventuresinwearingclothes]

And to celebrate the Last Ripping Off King Arthur strip -- I think I'll take a nap!

(Click below if you want to check that strip out...)

[tanzasadventuresinwearingclothes]

Ah, fan art of me from Scott Eiler the Powernaut Webcartoonist! Although, would I be that enthusiastic about free tickets? No, don't think so!

It occurs to me, the Powernauts need to invite more people to our World's Fair... Hey, Tanza, wanna go on a cruise?

[author-morgan]

Title: Ghost of Days Gone By Rating: M Pairing: John Marston x fem!Reader Summary: Running from the past can only get you so far —but there's a chance the past holds the keys to your future. Or in which Jim Milton shows up at Pronghorn Ranch, and you're both visited by the ghost of days gone by. AO3 link

Do you ever cry for the ghost of days gone by?

“FOUND YOU A new milkmaid,” Tom Dickens announces, leaning on the fence as he watches you milk one of the cows. Used to be that Pronghorn Ranch kept half-a-dozen milkmaids, but that was before the lot of them got ideas above their stations and went chasing fame and fortune. Didn’t much matter to you, though. Your days of infamy are passed, and despite a coffer filled with the remnants of that life, working day in and out for David Geddes was enough to keep you content. In exchange for keeping the livestock, you had three meals a day, a roof over your head, and fair wages for fair work —more than could be said for those girls who ran off a few months back.

You place another bent metal pail under the cow’s udders, continuing your morning routine. “This one ain’t gonna run off for the circus, is she?” You ask, rising from the stool and brushing off the straw and dirt clots from your shirt and pants ‘fore turning to greet the newcomer.

“Don’t think so.” You recognize the rough voice instantly —even after all these years. And if your ears are trying to deceive you, then your eyes confirm what you already know. He’s not as skinny as when you last saw him, and instead of wiry scruff, there’s a dark beard on his chin and jaw, patchy where two long scars cut 'cross his cheek —new additions. “Jim Milton, ma’am,” John Marston says, extending his hand and snapping you from a far-off place filled with distant memories. He masks his surprise better than you do, but you know the look in his dark eyes.

It's less of a handshake and more of clumsily fumbling while trying to hold on to his hand —Tom casts an odd glance, but at least you can blame the awkwardness on milk and mud-slick hands. “Nice to meet you, Jim,” you tell him, smiling through the newfound ache in your chest. “C’mere and give me a hand.” You nod in the direction of old Bessie in her stall, knowing John Marston doesn’t know the first thing about how to milk a cow. “Thank you, Tom!” You call, waving to him as he heads back to the main barn to help Abe with the horses.

But then your attention snaps back to John —no, Jim. It’s been years since you last saw John Marston —more than that, it’s been almost twenty years. He and Arthur Morgan left you to your whims in a little livestock town in the middle of nowhere California after a successful stagecoach robbery. Pronghorn Ranch is the last place you ever thought you’d see him again, but it’d been the last place you thought you would’ve ended up too. “What the hell are you doing here?” You don’t know whether to hug or slap him, so you do neither, just gawk at him like you’d seen a ghost. “Thought you was dead.”

“Heard the same about you,” he says, remembering the day some of Colm O’Driscolls’s boys said they’d put a bullet between your eyes for making off with one of their scores. John had been enough of a fool to believe them —especially when the months started to pass and your paths never crossed again.

TOM DICKENS COMES to fetch the new hand after the day’s work is almost finished —to formally introduce him to David Geddes. Afterward, John goes to your cabin, knocking on the door, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot as he waits. You motion him in and close the door. There’s a moment’s pause when you both stare at one another as though not quite believing the other is real, but then you surge forward, arms twining around his neck with little hesitation. John Marston stumbles back, stiff as a bonefish at first, but he quickly caves into the warmth of your embrace, arms wrapping around your waist and cheek pressed into the crown of your head.

You step back first, hands lingering on his shoulders for a fleeting moment before turning to sit in one of the rickety chairs at the table in the center of the room. “What are you doing here?” You’ve already asked him earlier, but now he can’t use the guise of working to avoid answering. 

John sits next to you and shrugs, staring at the rough floorboards under his boots. “I don’t know” —seems like nothing made sense anymore, not since he shakes his head— “I thought maybe…” he fumbles for the words and knows he’s making a fool of himself. John Marston lifts his dark gaze, finally settling on a piss-poor explanation for why he’s turned up at a small ranch in West Elizabeth.

“I’m trying to do better...be better,” he finally ousts. “Got a son now.” It’s a quiet admission and it strikes something deep in your heart. “He’s still in Strawberry,” John tells you, knowing that’d be the next question —his boy was helping the doctor prep tools and clean between patients for twenty-five cents and two meals a day. A better life than he’d had for the past eight years. “Wanted to make sure this arrangement was gonna work out.” 

“And his ma?” You ask, almost timidly. 

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. It won’t nothing pretty that night when the Van der Linde Gang fell apart. Abigail. Susan. Arthur. “She…” John takes a deep breath, remembering how he went to Copperhead Landing to find his family, but only Jack and Tilly were waiting for him. “It was a mess,” he tells you. “Dutch came full undone. Lost a lot of people.” Left me for dead too. 

You hadn’t known everyone in the Van der Linde Gang, just John Marston and Arthur Morgan from the few times you’d run into them on the road and in towns. But you remember how they both used to talk about Hosea Matthews and Dutch Van der Linde and reading about the train and bank robberies and all the murders —all seemed out of place given the two men you knew. “And Arthur?” But somehow, you already know the answer —doubt John would be here in the first place if Arthur Morgan was still around.

He just shakes his head again, not wanting to talk about that night on the mountain, about what Arthur did for him in the end. And how it feels like he’s wasted his life since then —chasing gold in the Yukon, still on the run at every turn, unable to raise his boy right on his own. “Never thought I’d see you again,” John says, the rasp in his voice turning to a crack.  

You nudge his side lightly, offering a fleeting smile to cut through the suffocating despair. “We always did have a habit of finding each other.” Even as ghosts, John thinks though he doesn’t say as such. 

“So, what happened to you?” He asks, not about to let you come away from this conversation unscathed. “How’d you end up here?” A ranch in the middle of nowhere West Elizabeth won’t where he expected to find you, either. 

It’s both a long story and a short one. “Left it all behind.” Living like a criminal wouldn’t carry you through life much further, especially not with the law and the Pinkertons rounding up the last of the outlaws. Was a surprisingly easy choice to make after you met the man who’d eventually call you his wife. “Got married.” The memory is enough to make you smile in earnest. You glimpse John, his dark gaze focused only on you, lips slightly parted to take a slow breath as he realizes.

“Had a little homestead further east.” It was a small two-room cabin in the woods, warm and welcoming. A home. “Quiet life. A good life,” you muse. But it didn’t last long enough. “Then I got a visit from Colm’s boys,” you tell him, still not understanding how they found you that far east. “Came to settle a debt from a score I stole off ‘em.” There’s a certain apathy in how you say it —cold and matter of fact, as though to say such is life. You stare out the window on the opposite wall, eyes nigh devoid of emotion as you recall that night. “Buried them and my husband six feet deep,” you tell John, and he grips your hand —the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into your palm.  

“Guess I had it comin’, in the end.” You’d long been afeared that your sins would return to visit. They had, and the cost was almost more than you could bear. In the days and months afterward, it seemed your punishment from the Almighty was to keep living and try to make amends for past misdeeds. “Don’t get to have good things happen to you after the things I did.” John doesn’t say anything, just nods —it’s a sentiment he knows well enough.

Ain’t much more either of you can say. Life hadn’t been kind since you last saw one another, but fate or some high power must have a warped sense of humor to lead you back to one another after all these years. Sighing, you slip your hand free of John’s and reach for him, fingers following the new scars on his cheek and jaw —the one cutting across his thin, cracked lips too. “How’d you get these?”

His dark gaze flits across your face, and he lets out a trembling breath when you pull back your hand. “Wolves tried to make a meal out of me,” he answers —won’t a pleasant week between getting shot in Blackwater and mauled by wolves in the Grizzlies.

“Too rotten for ‘em?” You ask, teasing. “That why they spat you back out?” And John laughs, lips twisting into a ragged smile as he leans into you, resting his forehead against yours.

AFTER A FEW days of adjusting to the routine, John heads back into Strawberry on a late Sunday morning to fetch his son. Mister and Misses Geddes assured him there’d be a place for his boy on the ranch, and so long as he did his share, he’d even earn a few coins to fill his own coffer. If nothing else, Jack Marston would have a score of people to help look after him and teach him a thing or two about animal husbandry.

You’re starting a fire in the kitchen stove when you hear the wagon jostling to a stop and horses whinnying. Setting a pot of water on the burner, you turn to the door, wading into the cool spring evening air —equally excited and nervous to meet John’s son. The boy sitting next to him in the wagon seat climbs down with a book tucked underarm and glances around the ranch —to the big house and barns, the horses in the corral, and the ranch hands enjoying their day of rest on the porch with a bottle of whiskey.

He looks like his father, that’s for certain, but you imagine he must have his mother’s eyes. “Jack?” You greet softly, knowing John told the others his boy’s name was Lancelot.

The boy looks surprised that anyone would know him in this part of the country —especially given who his new persona is supposed to be. There’s a question budding in his bright eyes. “She’s a real good friend of mine from long time ago,” John explains before you can properly introduce yourself, wearing a little smile as he steps around his boy to grip your shoulder, a silent thank you almost for being so understanding —accepting of his sudden appearance back in your life. Jack’s gaze flits between you and John. Even he knows it’s been a long while since his pa’s looked this happy.

You step closer and extend a hand toward the boy, and he gives a timid but firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack,” you say with a smile, but then your attention shifts to John. “How about you boys stay with me?” You suggest, pointing over your shoulder to the women’s cabin —empty for the past few months save for you. “Be easier to keep an eye on him that way.” It’s better than staying in the stuffy bunks with the other ranch hands and one he won’t pass up. After living on the road for so long, it’d do Jack good to have a motherly figure back in his life.

Jack starts to the cabin with his bag, and you fall back to keep stride with John, nudging his side with your elbow. “Least we know he won’t turn out like you.” There’s a hint of laughter in the way you say it, a twinkle in your eye, too.

“What’s that supposed to mean, missy?” John asks, knowing good and well what it is you mean, and he's unable to hide his own amusement. But you don’t say anything else —just smile for him.

IT’S A SLOW life. Routine and almost boring compared to always running, always having to have one eye trained over his shoulder, but to be a decent man working for his keep every day is enough to keep John Marston happy for now, especially knowing what it means to his boy. It’s the first time Jack’s ever known the same place for more than a few weeks or months at a time —first time he’s had a whole bed to call his own too. Despite the hard work, day in and day out, the ranch starts to feel like a home —like maybe he’s found his calling in life. Or at least Jim Milton’s calling.

The rooster crows at the break of dawn, but you’re already awake with a pot of coffee brewing and bacon in a frying pan. It’s the scent of the bacon that draws both John and Jack from their bunks and to the table. Taking breakfast and supper together every day is bittersweet —makes you think of what could’ve been had Colm’s boys never found you, but there’s no point dwelling on the past like that. John won’t ever be the man you buried, and Jack won’t ever be your boy, but for the time being, you’re content with this mismatched family. “Mornin’ boys,” you greet, cracking half-a-dozen eggs into the leftover bacon fat. “Coffee’s ready.”

John mumbles his appreciation as he pours himself and you a cup before sitting at the table with the most recent copy of The Blackwater Ledger. 

It’s a quiet life, too. Until shouts and gunshots break out in the night — until flames rise from the barns to lick at the night sky. John’s out of bed before you, pulling on his boots and starting to the door. You peer out the window above your bed, recognizing the men and their horses. The Laramie Boys. They’ve already set the cattle loose and the barn ablaze —another attempt to drive David Geddes off the land to make way for Abel Atherton. “Stay here with Jack,” John tells you. 

But you’re already throwing open the lid of an old trunk tucked away in the corner, pulling out a worn Lancaster repeater and bandolier of ammunition from a life you meant to leave behind for good. “You forget who I am, John Marston?” You ask, pressing a round into the loading gate. “Been dealing with this lot longer than you have” —you cock the handle of the rifle, starting toward the door, pushing past him— “and I’m tired of this bullshit.” 

Hanging Dog Ranch isn’t a long ride, but on a moonless and starless night, it feels like it’s miles and miles away. The shadow of the windmill rises from the landscape, almost blending into the backdrop of tall trees. Lanterns pock the stables and tents —and in one of the corrals is David Geddes’s stolen cattle. The Laramie Boys were there, all right. John lifts a hand, a silent gesture for everyone to stop and dismount. You’d go in on foot from here. He directs Tom to the windmill —a good vantage point to keep an eye on anyone and do away with any of them who try to flee— and Abe to the opposite side, near the ranch house.

You crouch behind one of the boulders next to John. He watches as you pull the rifle off your shoulder and reload it, cocking the handle —ready to go. John Marston knows you can handle yourself, knows your skills with a gun are on par with his, if not a little slower, but he doesn’t want to chance you getting hurt. Not when you and Jack are all the good he’s got left in this world. “Ain’t letting you just walk in there,” he says.

Had you been younger and more ill-tempered, you would have argued with him, but now there’s no point in it —one way or another, this whole feud would end tonight. “I’ll flank the backside then,” you tell him. Between the four of you, the whole place would be surrounded. You turn to cut through the grass and the tree line, but he grips your forearm ‘fore you can head off. He means to say something, but all he can do is offer a curt nod and let you go.

Once the first shot rings out in the night, you move in. Part of you thinks after putting up your guns for so long, it should be harder —killing folk— but it’s just as easy now as it had been when you first met John Marston on the road. You ram the butt of the rifle into the back of a man’s head, and it doesn’t take much to pull the trigger when he goes to his knees, dazed. All that’s around you are corpses. The rest must be holed up in the barn or around the front. You sidle your way along the back of the barn, then stick an arm through one of the barn windows at the back and wave it ‘round, but no one shoots.

The barn is quiet —seems empty, too, but you know it ain’t. Crouching behind a stack of hay bales, you reload your rifle to finish the job. Couldn’t be but a handful of them left after that. But one of them is the gang’s leader. Caleb Hensley. A vile man who didn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. Dried straw crunches underfoot, the sound coming from the loft above. “Can’t hide forever!” You shout, tracing the footfalls above. There’s a lull in the gunfire outside when you step out from behind on the wooden posts, thinking you’d have the leader of the Laramie Boys cornered for an easy shot, but there’s no one there.  

Caleb Hensley steps out from one of the stables and swings a rough-cut piece of lumber. It’s a narrow miss, and you pull the trigger before he can strike again, but the shot goes wide, and he’s on you again. “Always thought you were a real hard woman, didn’t you?” He mocks, wrestling the rifle from your grasp. You duck around him, making for the discarded gun, but Caleb Hensley kicks the rifle away and grabs you by the hair, hauling you back up. 

Off me! You aren’t sure if you shout it or if it’s just a scream in your head. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warns, twisting your arm behind your back. You can feel the bite of cold and sharp metal against your neck. “Hate to slice such a pretty neck.” It’s an acrid whisper as he runs his nose along your shoulder, inhaling a mix of smoke and flowers. 

John pushes open the doors to the barn, his gun drawn, but he lowers his revolver when he sees you —and the glint of the knife pressed against your throat. “Let her go,” he says —cool and collected. 

Caleb Hensley twists your arm tighter, a new rage building in his gut. “Won’t give me the courtesy, but you’ll fuck some piss-poor farmhand?!” It’s a venomous sneer, but the accusation doesn't get to you the way he thinks it will, not when your fingers brush against the hilt of the throwing knife tucked into the back of your bandolier. John sees the shift in your breathing, the slight nod of your head as though telling him to get ready.

Breaking one arm free of his hold, you drive the knife straight back into Caleb Hensley’s thigh, deep as it’ll go. The sudden shock is enough for his grip to slacken and for you to slip free entirely. “Bitch!” He shouts, unholstering his pistol, but John’s there before he can fire a single round —and it’s over with the blast of a shotgun.

John tosses down the sawed-off shotgun and turns to you, half-blocking the mess of blood, bone, and brains splattered across the dirt and hay. “You alright?” he asks.   

“M’fine,” you answer. But there’s a slow red flower blossoming on the white linen of your nightdress. He reaches for you, hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head to the side. “Shit,” John breathes, pressing his hand against the cut and the slick warmth of blood —it spans from the base of your neck and across a collarbone to the edge of your sternum. It’s not deep, at least, and it doesn’t hurt —or maybe the pain hasn’t settled in yet.

The ride back to Pronghorn is quicker and John dismounts his black bay Thoroughbred and turns to you, still astride your speckled Appaloosa —he scarcely lets your feet touch the muddy ground before sweeping you up in his arms, carrying you from the hitching posts and back to the cabin. “M’legs still work, Marston,” you mutter into the crook of his neck, and he shakes his head at your stubbornness. There’s even a hint of laughter in his deep sigh too. All these years and a moment like this makes it seem as though nothing’s changed.

“Jack!” He calls out, nearing the steps of the cabin, and his boy opens the door. Jack stumbles away, his eyes wide and full of fear as he looks between you and his pa. John eases you down onto the bed and glances over his shoulder. “Bring the wash basin, son,” he says, and Jack does, fumbling over his own feet.

“I’m alright, Jack,” you assure the boy with a feeble smile when he places the basin bedside. You can see the color fade from his round face when he looks at you and the blood soaking through your night dress —it reminds him too much of the day he lost his ma. “Just a bad scratch.” John huffs as he wrings out the wet cloth. It’s not exactly a lie, but it ain’t the truth either. He tilts your head to the side gently and starts wiping away the drying blood on your neck.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed at the tinge of color on his cheeks as he silently asks permission to help you undress —poor timing to suddenly become a chivalrous man. With a grimace, you shrug out of the shift and quickly bunch up the stained cotton to keep your modesty intact. John’s gaze flits between the cut and your face, trying too see if he might be able to decipher the far-off look in your eyes, but then he presses too hard, and you wince. “Sorry,” he mutters, redoubling his focus. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a taut line —and he misses your hazy smile.

"Need to bandage it,” he says, voice dropping to a low rasp. You nod, turning to face away from him before offering up your shift to make crude dressings —he'll buy you a new one. The feel of his rough fingertips against your skin sends a chill down your spine and sets your heart to racing again.

John ties the strip of cloth off at your shoulder and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he offers one of his shirts in place of your ruined night dress —a faded black flannel with colored patches at the elbows. He holds it up for you to slip your arms into, and you quickly do up the buttons, turning so you can face him.

“Thank you.” It’s a tired whisper, and John doesn’t say anything in turn, only kisses the back of your hand before returning to his bunk on the other side of the cabin.

THE WAGON’S PULLED up to the front of the barn, loaded with crates and other sundries to be sold at the market in Strawberry and along the path there. Most times, Jack goes with John to make the deliveries and pick up new supplies, but this time the boy is headed toward the stables instead of the wagon seat. He and Duncan Geddes had been getting along quite well, especially when it came to helping work and train the foals.

You lean against the split-rail fence of one of the corrals, watching Jack Marston longe a nine-month-old filly named Llamrei, after one of King Arthur’s horses —Mrs. Geddes had even been kind enough to let Jack name the new foal. “Not goin’ with your pa?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Thought I’d stay and help with the horses, ma’am,” Jack answers, then he clicks his tongue to help Llamrei keep her gait.

“If you think you’ll be okay,” you start, “I’ve got a few errands to run in town myself.” It’s been a month or two since you made the trip to Strawberry, and your list has steadily grown to include fabric, sewing needles, and a new kettle for coffee.

“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” the boy assures you. Nodding, you head to the main barn, where John and Abe are finishing loading everything.

Coin purse tucked away, you climb into the wagon seat next to John. “Afraid you’ll have to suffer me today, Jim Milton,” you say, adjusting the brim of your sunhat and brushing down the creases of your canvas skirt. The corner of his lips twists into a smile as he takes hold of the reins and gives them a quick snap, setting the horses in motion toward the road and down the path to Strawberry.

It's good to get away from Pronghorn for a little while. Strawberry ain’t much, but it has everything simple folk could ever need for a good life. John pulls the wagon in front of the depot and waves you off to tend to your errands while he unloads everything and picks up the post.

You leave the general store with a ream of calico fabric tucked underarm and a small basket stuffed with linen and wool cabbage, new thread, and fresh sewing needles. It was almost time for autumn to set in, and wouldn’t be much longer 'fore the hands started bringing their coats and thicker denim to be patched up for the colder seasons.

John’s securing the last crate into the wagon from the post office and tying down the waxed canvas tarp, but you’re looking westward through the tall pines. “Those clouds don’t look good.” The sky’s gone dark since arriving in the early afternoon —smell of rain's on the wind too. He looks up, too, frowning. “Roads go right hell ‘round here in a storm,” you tell him. “We’ll break an axle tryin’ to beat it back.” Last thing you needed was a stuck wagon and ruined supplies, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught in a squall like the one brewing.

All Trackers can offer is a warm meal, but the innkeeper, Bartholomew Bogue, points you and John to the Welcome Center just up the road; they usually had a room or two to spare when the rest of town was booked. The fringes of the storm have already arrived as rain and howling wind. You start through the muddy street after John, holding down your hat to keep the wind from ferrying it away. “Room for the night, please.” He slides a dollar bill across the desk to the concierge, who quickly hands over a room key and motions toward the stairs by the door.

The room is simply furnished —a single four-poster bed caddy cornered, a dresser and vanity, and a table next to a cast iron heater. It’s warm and dry and almost more inviting than your cabin at Pronghorn. You drop your hat on the table and lay your shawl out to dry near the heater. “I’ll take the floor,” John offers —an attempt to be a gentleman— toeing off his muddy boots near the balcony door and setting his gun belt on the dresser.

It's a ridiculous suggestion. “Bed’s big enough for us both,” you counter, stepping behind the dressing screen, stripping off your wet outer clothes and corset. Wouldn’t be right to have him sleeping on the floor on a night like this —cold and wet. He doesn’t argue, and you’re glad for it. You slip between the sheets and quilted blanket, watching as John goes to add another log or two to the heater. And the bed dips with his added weight when he lays beside you. “G’night, John,” you tell him, turning onto your side.

“Night darlin’,” he echoes, reaching over to dim the oil lantern on the end table.

The steady rain turns into a deluge permeated by the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder. It’s a jagged bolt that seems like it cuts through the window and a deafening clap that first wakes you in the middle of the night. You stare up at the ceiling, a knot rising in your throat as your heart starts to pound. John’s still asleep —dark hair falling in front of his face—and it makes you feel a fool for acting like this. After all these years, a storm can still send you into a panic. You roll onto your side and stare out the window, but the shift in the mattress and tug of the blankets is enough to stir John Marston. “What’s wrong?” His voice is a grating rasp.

You run your hands over your face, wiping away budding tears before they fall, shaking your head. “Can’t sleep,” you tell him, fighting the tremble in your voice. “The storm.” It’s a poor explanation, but John has mind enough to piece together why the thunder and lightning have you acting like this. Was on a night like this Colm’s boys came for you. Was on a night like this, you had to bury Bo and watch your home burn.

John sits up, reaches out, and wraps an arm around your waist, then pulls you back to him —closer now than you had been before the storm picked up. You settle back down, head resting on his pillow, noses almost touching, and breaths mingling.

“Spent years hopin’ we’d run into each other again,” he admits. You first ran into John Marston on the road. He and Arthur Morgan were planning to rob the same stagecoach you’d been scoping out for well over a fortnight. A fake limp, crocodile tears, and a little womanly charm stopped the driver easily enough —all according to your plan. That was until two hotheaded outlaws came kicking up dust and firing their revolvers into the air shouting about it being a holdup. At least they had half a mind to share the take when it was all over.

And somehow, after that, you and John found yourselves running into each other —at saloons, on the road, planning a heist or two. Arthur always told him he was a fool for not bringing you back to camp. Given your talents, the three of you probably could’ve walked into the New York City Assay Office or the Philadelphia Mint and made off with enough gold to buy a small country or two.

It was a good few years, but then John and his gang wandered off too far, and you’d decided it was time to hang up the illicit lifestyle ‘fore the law finally caught up with you. “Be lyin’ if I said I didn’t miss you a little too,” you tell him, eyes tracing the scars on his cheek and across his nose.

“Only a little?” John teases, hand moving from your waist to cheek —the rough pad of his thumb tracing a line beneath your bottom lip and over your jaw. That gets you to smile for him, even if it’s fleeting, and he’ll count it as a small victory.

“What was he like?” Curiosity gets the better of him —all he knows is it must’ve been someone special to handle you. You close your eyes, picturing the small cabin tucked away in the eastern mountains after a new dusting of snow —can still see Bo splitting wood to bring in for the stove and hearth. But it’s been so long, and now you can scarcely recall the color of his eyes. John almost regrets asking when he sees the new tears welling in your eyes, but then you smile and reach to fiddle with the ends of his hair.

“Good. Honest. Kind. Hard-working.” Bo had been a logger, a working man from a decent family, had even built his house with his own two hands. A stark contrast to how you had lived for all of them years —always on the move, robbing people, and killing folk. “Didn’t deserve him, I know that.” You didn’t deserve Bo after the life you’d led. And John knows he hadn’t deserved Abigail, either. Not really. But maybe, just maybe, you deserved each other and the chance to atone for past sins together. “John,” you whisper his name, and he can hear all your heartache, despair, and longing —it damn near breaks his heart and scares the hell out of him, too.

He acts without warning and without permission, settling his scarred lips on yours —something he’s wanted to do for years and something he should’ve done sooner. His kiss is achingly slow and painfully tender. And you sigh into his mouth, hand sliding from his chest to the back of his neck. It tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when he draws you closer, hand straying from the curve of your back to rest against your neck —his thumb finding the proof of your racing heart. John groans softly against your mouth, and it brings you both to part, breathless. “Sorry,” he mutters, resting his thumb against your lips. It’s the same one he’d stroked across your pulse.

You part your lips, just slightly, not enough to take his thumb into your mouth but enough to suggest. “You’ve always been a bad liar, John Marston.” And he kisses you again, his thumb sweeping up until his hand is cradling your cheek, then further still until his fingers are threaded into your hair. It’s not soft as his first kiss, nor as gentle —it’s keen and desperate, an attempt to chase away the years of loneliness and yearning. You graze your teeth across the flesh of his lower lip, catching it at the edges, and the sound that rumbles from him is sharp-edged, not unlike a warning. But you aren’t willing to retreat. There won’t be any running this time.

John pulls you close until his chest is pressed tight against yours, and the hem of your linen shift is rucked up at the waist, a leg lazily draped over his hips —and the thunder rolls.

The old bed frame groans under your combined weights when you both start shifting, fumbling with the ties and buttons of both your underclothes —a wordless understanding that you both want, no need, this. He’s quick with the buttons of his faded scarlet union suit, ridding himself of it as you shrug off the plain linen shift, letting the thin nightdress fall to the floor next to the bed. 

“Darlin’,” he breathes, tugging you into his lap as he starts pressing a short line of kisses across your clavicle, following the path of a new scar —thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts and tracing sweeping lines across your ribs. His hands wander around your body. From your thighs, hips, waist, whatever he can reach —like he needs to touch you to stay grounded in this life. 

“John,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him against you. His lips twitch against your warm skin, halfway between a smile and smirk as his nose trails along your neck and over the swells of your breasts, leaving warm kisses here and there. The gentle shift of your hips pulls a low rumble from his throat. Nestled between your thighs, you can feel his cock twitch. 

The rough pads of his fingers trail from your sternum, across your belly, and lower still, slow enough to give you time to object if you wanted, but you don’t. You press your face into the crook of his neck, fighting to regain your breath when he parts the seam of your cunt. He pushes two fingers in, and you cry and sigh and keep whispering his name like a prayer. John slides them deep enough to stretch you good, to let his palm grind against your clit —then he moves them, slow and gentle at first, then quicker when you start to sing like one of those pretty songbirds in the early morning mist.

He bites his lower lip, curling and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm. Then repeats the same motion, this time achingly slowly, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his scarred knuckles. But impatience wins out this time, and you let out a low keening sound as John pulls his hand away, palm giving one last squeeze to your hip —leaving a slick dampness behind.

Reaching between you, John takes hold of his cock, stroking himself thrice over with his slick hand, and when he pushes in, he does so slowly —impossibly gentle, too. Your legs quiver and tremble from strain and desire as John finally eases your body against his. He trembles —it’s heaven— and he gasps like the sound is wrenched out of him against his will, eyes closing tightly, and distress written over his face as his hands fumble over your body, finally settling an open palm to your back when your hips meet his —tight and flush.

Your hands grip his shoulders, palm pressing into one of the scars there. One day you’ll ask him about that one and the one on his thigh and bicep too. Some you know the story of —the wolves, a more crooked nose from defending you in a bar fight, the silvery line on his calf from getting tangled up in barbed wire cutting through grazing land running from the law.

John doesn’t move, not yet, and you don’t either. There’s something about this moment, being like this. His dark eyes gleam as he looks up at you with something akin to adoration. But the mounting heat in your belly is too much to fight against, and you rock your hips against him, and it shatters him. You sigh, soft and sweet between pants and heaves of breath. All you can focus on is his face —flushed cheeks, mouth drawing out impious noises mixed between grunts and moans, a slight quiver in his bottom lip. You cup John’s face in your hands and kiss the curse from his lips.

A calloused hand slides over your ribs, stomach, and up to your breast, kneading it gently as he rubs slow, teasing circles around a taut nipple. You gasp his name, clinging to him, moving in unison as John lowers his mouth to your neck —soft lips skimming your pulse, moving to suckle a sensitive patch beneath your ear.

You ache and burn, and it's one of the most beautiful feelings you've ever felt —like maybe you should have stayed with him all those years ago. John’s grip on your hips tightens, almost holding you still as his hips thrust up into you. The warmth. The rhythm. It’s almost too much for him to bear, and John Marston isn’t willing to let this moment fade so quickly. “Darlin’,” he chokes, and then it’s a breathy groan that sounds like your name.

He rolls to the side, taking you with him, and nestles himself between your thighs again. John rasps atop you, groaning, moaning in pleasure as your cunt takes his cock deeper with each thrust. His cock twitches. His lips shape your name. You warm every inch of him, and the aches in his bones from the last months of work thaw with relief with each movement. It’s soft at first, but his mouth is at your ear, and you can hear it. John is coming apart inside you, and your name is the one on his lips. You smile and turn your head, catching him off guard in a kiss, legs parting wider and drawing up his sides to pull him deeper.

Clinging to John, you think there’s nothing in the world you'd trade this moment for. Everything else means nothing compared to the weight of his arms around you, the feel of his cock buried deep inside you. His hand shackles one of your ankles, then runs up the length of your calf, over your thigh, and your stomach bunches up in knots as his fingers drift back to your calf, hooking his hand behind your knee and drawing your leg up around his waist.

“John, please,” you plead softly, and he will deny you nothing, if only for selfish reasons. He fully relents to the passion and desire —letting himself love and be loved. His thrusts are deep and slow, yet quick all at once, and you find your eyes already stinging with a sheened wetness from the way he feels buried inside you. John’s breathing intensifies, his lips finding yours. He needs your kiss, has gone too long without, and gladly swallows the little gasps and whimpers you make —savoring his hot skin pressed against yours. You feel everything. Each ridge and vein, the weight of his swollen cock striking the place which unravels you.

His hand slides down between your breasts, across your stomach, and still further until he reaches where you’re joined —his thumb pressing against your clit, starting to rub slow, uneven circles. You tense at the jolt of euphoria, walls clamping around his cock. John bares his teeth, almost growling as his thrusts became faster, desperate. There will be no coming back this time. A grounding touch of his lips at your ear, a hoarse —nigh silent— plea for you to relinquish into his touch. His arm slides around your waist, lifting you against him, bodies flush and trembling.

Before long, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change to short, sharp gasps and your body tensing under his hands, back arching, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and back. Fingers digging into his flesh as you cry out his name on a great, sobbing breath. Seeing you undone like this is enough to finish him off. He pulls his throbbing cock from your heat, and you almost protest at the empty feeling, but John shushes you with his lips as he presses himself tight against you —cock twitching, coating your stomach with his sticky seed.

John settles, bracing his weight above you on bent arms. Wearing a hazy smile, you reach up, tracing his brow and the scar cutting through it, and urge him to rest atop you completely. He gives in, pillowing his head on your breast, listening as the frantic beat of your heart returns to normal. His own slowing in sync as you trace constellations across his shoulders, finding new scars and old ones, too. It feels like he should say something —a quip about being grateful for the storm, but you’re both content in silence, only listening to the thunder roll on outside.

TIME IS A fickle thing, and before long, John Marston’s been a ranch hand for David Geddes for over a year. After supper one evening, just after Jack’s settling into his bunk, John asks you to ride with him —to the wildflower meadows and burbling creek just down the way. Twilight drops her curtain of orange and red, fading to indigo in the distance and pinned in place by the Moon and stars.

John glances at you and feels that warm tingle rise in his chest again whenever he sees you —whenever his fingers brush against yours while doing a chore, whenever you tuck your head under his chin at night, whenever your lips touch his cheek for a chaste kiss. He didn’t think it would be possible to feel this way again…and yet. He leans forward in Rachel’s saddle, arms crossed atop the horn.

“I, uhh–” he’s thought about how to say it all day, rehearsed it in his head since the crack of dawn, but now the words evade him. Always did have a way with words, you think, smiling as you dismount your Appaloosa and bend to pick one of the wild bluebonnets. “Been thinkin’ bout maybe gettin’ a place of my own,” he finally admits. 

It’s the first time you’ve heard the idea, even if you’ve noticed how he lingers with the newspapers when they come in —looking over the parcels of land for sale around the state and across the Montana River. “Have you?”

“Yeah” —he nods, as though assuring himself, too— “near Blackwater, maybe. Or down in New Austin.” But saying that’s the easy part. “Was–” his voice trails off and takes off his hat, scratching the back of his neck nervously “–was wondering if you wanted to come with me and Jack?” John asks. “If it works out,” he quickly adds. Won’t like he had many dollars to his name, after all. There’s still a bounty on his head, too, even if no one’s come looking to collect on it in a good while.

You go oddly quiet, and John sees the hitch in your breathing and the tears gathering in your eyes as you think about having a life like that again —like the one Colm O’Driscoll stole from you so many years ago. He slides from Rachel’s saddle and looks at you, surrounded by the golden light of a setting sun and violet wildflowers —a dream. “Will you come?” He asks again, doing well to hide the tremble in his voice, the fear of rejection.

But it’s the way John looks at you, eyes dusted with love, that does you in —the same way he looks at every new sunrise and sunset—body relaxed, mind at ease. You’re the spring flowers blooming and the snow falling, the gentle rain that pitter-patters against the roof. He looks at you the way you would look at the simple things in life so often forgotten but reminding him why the world is beautiful —why life is truly worth living again. “Only if you’ll have me.” You tell him, stepping to him, heart pounding.

Seems a silly thought to him to entertain —of course, he’ll have you. You’re probably the only person in the world who’d still have him, especially knowing the life he used to live. John reaches for you, his rough, warm hands settling on either side of your neck, thumbs affectionately running across your jaw. “Course I will, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning toward you —a kiss to your forehead, nose, cheek, a delicate peck to your lips, lasting just long enough for the scuff of his beard to start tickling. 

And that’s when you know this is another chance for a simple, good life and that wherever John Marston is, is the only place that’ll ever feel like home. 

[RDR2 taglist: @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hc-geralt-23 / @Idkjj04 / @ksziggy / @little-honeypie / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @overratedsun / @qhbr2013 / @xiakahazou ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my RDR2 taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[milkwands]

even she was weirded tf out

[bloby-876]

"NO!"

Arthur falls and Merlin runs. He runs past the bodies, he runs past gwen's shocked face, all of the knights, the soldiers.

His only focus is Arthur. Arthur, who just got thrown off a cliff by a sorcerer.

He feels someone try to hold him back and he rips his arm out of their hand.

Merlin reaches the cliff edge and does not hesitate. And perhaps some magic was involved to make him faster. In the end, it doesn't really matter.

He jumps.

Someone shouts his name and somewhere in the back of his mind he registers that it is probably Gwaine. It is ignored, because the only thing on Merlin's mind, the only person, is Arthur. His king looks surprised. And they are both falling.

Merlin reaches Arthur and pulls him into a hug. Mainly to keep them together, slightly out of relief.

"MERLIN! You idiot what-"

He ignores Arthur's shocked exclamation because right now, if they're both getting out of this alive he needs to focus.

The spell that slows down accelerated falling is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't have time to focus on remembering so he focuses on all of the magic in his body and pulls.

---

Arthur tightens his hold on Merlin, holding his head close, and prepares for the inevitable pain. The king prays, for if one of them has to die, let it be him so his idiotic and terrifyingly loyal manservant survives.

Only, the pain never comes.

Instead, his back is met with something soft. They bounce off the ground instead of facing excruciating pain. The king holds the warlock close, and opens his eyes in surprise. (When did he close them?)

He's met with a cloudy blue sky and what seem to be flower petals dancing through the air.

Arthur sits up quickly and takes a look around. They're laying on what looks like a giant cloud.

...what?

His attention is stolen by his manservant snapping his head up from where it was tucked into Arthur's neck and making direct eye contact.

His eyes are a blazing gold.

And before the king can get a word in, he's stopped by Merlin beginning to scold him.

"You IDIOT. An absolute moron! What did you think was going to happen when you started fighting on a fucking cliff! I swear I should-"

"Do you ever shut up?"

Arthur cuts him off by pulling him into a hug. He would get angry about the lies and betrayal and all that other stuff, but they just survived falling off a cliff. Arthur thinks he deserves a hug at the very least.

---

And that's all I had written

[tansyuduri]

Art by @kairennart for chapter 17 of Our Stars Still Shine Together Arthur came back to pain and the sound of Merlin screaming as if his soul was ripping apart, in a voice that was quickly growing more and more hoarse.  

He was being clutched to his warlock, with his face pressed against Merlin’s chest as Merlin rocked back and forth.

Arthur shifted his head, looking up into tear-brightened blue eyes filled with a barely sane, anguished look. Alarm shot through him. Instantly he knew he had made the right choice, but then, that had never been in doubt. 

“Merlin.” Arthur raised a hand up to the warlock's cheek hoping he was not too late. “Merlin!”

The screaming broke off with a choking sob. His warlock looked down at him, the crazed look fading as his eyes grew wide. Sobs wracked his body and he leaned down pressing his forehead to Arthur’s. Their noses touched.

“Arthur.” Merlin whispered in a hoarse, broken voice. “Arthur… Arthur.” He repeated the name over and over again. A hand moved to the side of the king's head, caressing it gently. Long fingers pressing into sunkissed hair. “Arthur…” 

Arthur himself be held gently against his warlock’s chest. Their heads pressed together, as Arthur embraced the feel of Merlin touching him as opposed to the pain. Merlin’s free hand was wandering over every inch of him it could touch without letting him go, as though reassuring the warlock. “Arthur.” His name again and again on Merlin's tongue as though the man was caressing the very idea of it.  “Arthur.” Merlin was trembling.

Arthur reached up to entwine his own fingers with curling back hair. “Do me a favor?”

“Anything.” Merlin’s voice was horse and cracked as he spoke, his warm breath brushed against Arthur's face.

“Don’t let go of me.” The king told him.

Read it here

[overlyspecific]

Part 2 of Merlin as Robin Hood

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

A noble is traveling through the woods and Merlin sees him mistreating his servants.

Noble: come on, move faster! we need to get to Camelot before sundown. I don’t want to spend any longer in these words than I have to.

servant: *under his breath* well maybe if you gave me a horse i would be able to go a little faster

Noble: what did you say?!

the noble brings his arm up to strike the servant, but is suddenly thrown back against a tree. ropes spring up to tie the noble down.

Merlin: he said if you gave him a horse things would go faster. i happen to agree. what do you think, should i give him your horse?

Noble: Magic! You are using magic! The king will have your head for this!

Merlin: Oh he has certainly tried…several times. Anyways, its been a great chat but I actually have places to be so why don’t we speed things up? Lance? Gwaine?

Lance and Gwaine appear from behind the trees. The servant jumps back at their entrance.

Gwaine: yeah merls?

Merlin: take the excess from the cart for that village in famine we visited a couple days ago.

Gwaine: on it!

Merlin: Lance, make sure Gwaine doesnt take the ale.

Lance: on it.

Gwaine: oh come on, Merlin. whats the point of being an outlaw if we can’t benefit from it just a little?

Merlin: we’re not outlaws. we are just working outside of the law.

Merlin turns to face the servant.

Servant: Who ARE you?

Merlin: the names Merlin but some call me emrys and one calls me an idiot but i dont listen to him much.

Servant: and you steal from the rich…but you dont take anything for yourself?

Merlin: only what we need to survive

Servant: wow that’s really-

Merlin: amazing, honorable, selfless?

Servent: -a total rip-off of that guy in sherwood forest.

Gwaine: *from the cart, unloading boxes of jewelry and gold* that’s what I told him, but he didn’t listen

Lancelot: two people can do good in a similar way.

Merlin: thank you Lance, thats why you’re my favorite

Gwaine: *mock outrage* you dont mean THAT

Servant: so can I go or…

Merlin: yes you are free to leave, but you have to do one thing first…

Time jump. The throne room of the castle.

Uther: he said what?!

Servant: he said ‘tell the prince i appreciate the fancy jewels but i look better in blue’

Morgana hides a laugh behind her hand and Arthur glares at her. his anger isnt enough to hide his blush, and Moragna laugh harder.

Uther: Arthur, you are to go after him at once!

Arthur: but father, he has magic and seems to always be three steps ahead.

Uther: I don’t care! I will not have my kingdom be accosted by a sorcerer who taunts us at every turn

Morgana: *under her breath to Gwen as she fills her cup* he really only taunts arthur

Uther: Arthur, you will find him and make sure he burns on the pyre. we will make an example of him. no one is above the law!

Arthur: yes, father. we will leave at once

[boom-bada-boom]

of the old religion

there are consequences to being a creature of magic, of the old religion, of power and energy given form.

merlin is not human, no matter what he thinks. the body he has is just a second skin, a coat over the tumultuous magic beneath, so that it had shape, form. he looks human, he thinks human, he feels human. but he is not truly human.

it’s why shapeshifting spells work so well upon him. he’s not changing himself, just the look of the skin he’s wearing. the magic beneath has no true form, and thus cannot be changed when it is everything everywhere all at once.

(the magic that makes merlin is the magic that makes the world, so it has no shape and to look upon it with mortal eyes would be a headache inducing, nauseating ever-shifting thing, that moves through different features of different magical beings like the water of a lake rippling.)

OR

someone with a deep connection to the old religion can see that emrys is no true human. just a creature of magic wearing a human skin, a shapeshifter that refuses to show its true form. (because people say emrys is magic, but no one truly understands the roiling thing living and breathing inside his skin. so obviously there has to be a true form of emrys underneath the image of merlin.)

so they decide to rip that human skin off. force the shape beneath to show itself. tear away the visage of merlin to leave behind only emrys, the creature that will bring magic back to the land or so help them.

it takes a lot of energy and power, and the use of ancient artifacts of the old religion that have been slowly gathering magic for centuries. but they manage it, they bind the human skin to an object, and tear the object away, to leave behind only emrys.

…

except emrys is not made for mortal eyes. especially not the eyes of someone who had hurt them and tore away their shape, their form. (because emrys, as a creature of magic, is still heartbreakingly young. a child, really. maybe that’s why merlin is still so wide-eyed all the time. still young at heart, even as his body looks older.)

so they look upon emrys and burn.

and emrys, lost and confused and hurt and not understanding— where is their body why do they hurt what is wrong with them they are constantly changing shapes and cannot control it and theyre so scared— flees to the only thing they know for sure. and behind them, amongst the mess of ash and scorched earth that once was alive, the object holding their skin lies abandoned, forgotten.

OR

arthur finds the embodiment of magic huddled up against his bedroom window. he doesn’t recognize it immediately as such, but it glows golden and cannot seem to stop subtlety changing shape and growing features that were not there before while losing others. and really, he picks up on the fact eventually.

to reiterate, arthur pendragon, son of the magic-hating king, a young man who had not yet decided if he would hate it the same, has the embodiment of magic hiding outside his window.

he shouldn’t open it. shouldn’t let the pathetic, forcing-itself-to-be-small thing inside.

it howls and cries without words, a sad and fearful air pressing down on him, begging begging helphelphelphelpsomethingswrongsomethingswrongtheytookawaymybodyarthurarthurarthurhelphelphelphelphe—

arthur opens the window.

as the magic flies in, it takes a more solid, in the loosest form of the word, form, dragon-like and small. young. it hides in the crook of his neck, tucks its head in close and shivers.

arthur feels almost like he has let in a frightened bird, it is so small and fluttery.

merlin’s gone missing and there is something small and magical and highly illegal hiding against the small hollow between his neck and shoulders.

he leaves it there.

OR

arthur holds a power he does not quite understand in his hands. he knows it is greater than its form, can feel the pressing weight of something that belies the tiny body.

he knows it is magic. perhaps that is all he really needs to know.

and then he does something that feels exceedingly foolish.

“i’m looking for merlin, my… manservant,” he begins, and the golden thing ripples like a lake in the wind, “can you find where he was taken?”

at least seven eyes blink into existence upon the roiling magical creature, all of them looking up at arthur. another blink, and then they vanish. in their place, wings sprout, some of them draconian in shape, others more bird-like and feathery.

a tail, tiny and yet impossibly strong, wraps around his wrist, and the thing takes flight, pulling him along.

the knights startle, when arthur appears, being seemingly dragged behind a creature no bigger than a songbird, and so breathtakingly magical in spite of it.

“well?” arthur asks, acerbic. “prepare your steeds. we’ve finally gotten a lead on merlin.”

OR

they find a wasteland.

there is nothing left alive in a large circle, all of it surrounding an ancient building now nothing but rubble. the life is not burned away, or diseased into nothing, or anything that could be argued as natural.

instead, it is a wasteland that magic had abandoned. that intrinsic thing within all things, alive and not, had fled this place, ushered out by a fearful and terrified little godling ripped away from the only skin-home it had ever known.

nothing lives here and nothing will ever live here.

it is an ill omen indeed.

and then they discover the sorcerer’s bones, and the fact that said sorcerer was not in fact working alone.

“you,” the only other living being in about a mile spits out like a curse, upon sighting the king, “what have you done with them? where is the being below the skin?”

none of the knights nor the king understand. the little creature of magic had hidden itself in the folds of arthur’s cape, another golden draconian insignia among the rest.

“the what?” arthur asks.

“where is emrys?” the sorcerer spits, summoning a stream of fire heading directly for the king.

magic itself, given form, bursts from the camelot red cape, all golden edges and vengeful anger, the tiny thing no larger than an arm suddenly expanding rapidly. it forms a gigantic serpent, or something like it, lithe and long, but with the beak of a bird of prey, eyes like a feline, a unicorn’s horn on its head. it eats the fire whole, and the giant form bears down on the suddenly cowering sorcerer.

“but—but we freed you,” they mutter, afraid, “we released you from the human shell containing you. how else… how else could you bring back magic…?”

the thing cannot speak, it has no way to do so. what it can do is press feeling into your head. whatever this is, it is so powerful everyone there can feel it, and perhaps even some that are much further away.

G I V E I T B A C K.

it feels nothing like the helpless pained crying that arthur had heard from outside his window, like a yowling alley cat. this monster is nothing like the little bird-like afraid thing that had hidden in his collar, tucked against his throat. this beast of dripping fangs and deadly edges is almost completely separate from the creature of fluttery wings and wide eyes.

and yet he can hear something distinctly afraid in the wailing howl.

it is still desperate and afraid. it’s just angry enough now to cover it up.

[anachronistic-falsehood]

hey guys wouldn’t it be funny if the suckening characters had tumblr

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

omw to burger king gonna get the no whopper whopper who wants anything

🕷 gabrielmontezfuckingrocks

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCKV YKU FUCKG HUOU

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

suck my entire dick and balls

👑 shilo-bathory

Hello It’s Me Shilo Bathory Son ofthe Wueen hello 👋 what’s Is That There Is A Hand oon the Light Box Whose Hand Is that There Is A Tiny Man Inside The Lightbocx

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

you pressed the emoji button after typing hello see here i can do it too hello 👋

👑 shilo-bathory

Who Are Yoy Is This your Hand In The Light Box

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

why are you typing like a homestuck character

👑 shilo-bathory

Wghat is Home Suck

🦇 iamthevoid

The darkness is my only friend… my one constant companion in these long decades of breathless life…

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

edgelord alert

🦇 iamthevoid

Boy you have no idea what horrors I have seen. I have witnessed wars and massacres the likes of which would give you nightmares. You have seen nothing yet.

#darkness #my twisted mind #lonely #depression #no one understands #despair

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

@/iamthevoid stop typing like that youre clogging up my dashboard

🦇 iamthevoid

It’s what best suits my dark and twisted soul… if I even have one.

😈 phantom-flipper-official

who tf got peepaw a tumblr account

👑 shilo-bathory

Hello Emizel It Is me Shilo I Helped Arthur create a “tumblr blog” like You Did For Me ☺️ I Know How To Make The Smiley Faces now

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

👑 shilo-bathory

Emizel Hwo Is This Man inthe Lightt Box. Who is That

🦇 iamthevoid

Prince, I believe that is Keanu Reeves.

🗡 fromthetoprope

@/shilo-bathory Actually My Prince, that is Ben Affleck! He is an “actor.” I learned about him while watching the large light box!

👑 shilo-bathroy

grefgor

🥤 the-soda-man ✅✅

hey guys, i’m shutting this blog down. my soda addiction was getting really really bad, and i think it’s best i don’t post about vintage sodas anymore. i’m rebranding to the nalgene man

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

CONGRATS ON THE TRANSITION 🥳

🥤the-nalgene-man ✅✅

THANKS BRO YOURE MY NUMBER ONE ‼️‼️

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

the no whopper whopper is not worth the twenty five dollars

🕷 gabrielmontezfuckingrocks

YOU SUCK SO BAD

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

DUDE GET OFF MY DICK

🕷 gabrielmontezfuckingrocks

I’LL GET OFF YOUR DICK WHEN YOU GET OFF MINE

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

GUESS WERE GETTING OFF EACH OTHERS DICKS THEN

🦇 iamthevoid

I’m reporting this post for sexual content.

🕷 gabrielmontezfuckingrocks

WHATS YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM YOU WANNA GET OFF MY DICK TOO

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

YOU CANT GET OFF HIS DICK YOURE SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING OFF MY DICK

🦇 iamthevoid

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

WHO SHIWED YOU HOW TO USE REACTION INAGES?????>?>?

👑 shilo-bathory

Emizel We Are Learning ☺️ Grefgor Knows All

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

whoever showed arthur homophobic dog im going to strangle you he wont stop saying “i know what you are” and “dont tell me youre one of them” whenever i do anything i was washing the blood out of my clothes at 2 in the morning and he passed by the bathroom and said “i dont think thats normal” im going to fucking rip his throat out

🦇 iamthevoid

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOR

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

WHY IS THIS GETTING NOTES

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

you guys HAVE to stop asking me about arthur hes not my fucking dad i was an orphan your assumptions are offensive im not related to him i called him peepaw AS A JOKE

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

i AM related to the other guy but thats not relevant

🦇 iamthevoid

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

WHO GAVE YUO MORE IMAGES

👑 shilo-bathory

His Arsenal Is Expanding ☺️

🦇 iamthevoid

What is a Tumblrina and why are the people in my inbox calling me one?

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

im gonna fucking kill myself

👑 shilo-bathory

Okay 🥳 See You when youu Come Back 😊🥰

😈 phantom-flipper-official ✅✅

[neptunesyellowsands]

I don't know if this has been done before, but I've got a Merthur alt ending/prompt boring holes into my brain and I can't let it go. So, in DotD:

Merlin, realizing they won't make it to the lake in time, decides to try one last thing to save the king: to trade his own life for Arthur's via the power of life and death, a la Nimueh. It's a bold move, and it's unpredictable, but Merlin is both desperate and slightly ruthless when it comes to Arthur. Because he loves him.

However, since he wants to sacrifice himself, he needs a third party to work the magic. So when Morgana finds them, Merlin doesn't kill her. She's a High Priestess, like Nimueh. She could wield the magic herself. She might be the only one who can, actually, because Merlin has killed the only other two High Priestesses we know of - Nimueh and Morgause.

So he asks her to do it. He makes a convincing argument. She could be rid of him, Emrys, the bane of her existence, and they both know that he's the only thing keeping her from defeating Arthur. Once her army is rebuilt, she could return and take the kingdom for good, if she wanted. If not, she could live the rest of her life in peace, knowing she has defeated the greatest sorcerer of all time.

But Morgana is a seer. She sees that Arthur now knows about Merlin's magic and is accepting him. That Arthur is accepting Merlin, magic and all, because he loves him. That Arthur would likely, if he survived, return to Camelot and legalize magic, now that he knows. For Merlin. Because he loves him. For the first time, she looks in Arthur's eyes and believes he actually might have turned a corner, and in a wild fit of nostalgia and hope, she agrees -

But it doesn't work. The gods won't kill Emrys. It goes against the prophecy. Arthur and Merlin are to build the Golden Age together. One cannot exist without the other. They won't make the trade.

Instead, she explains, they demand something else in exchange for Arthur's life. Something that will allow them to replenish the dwindled population of magic-users without draining the earth's coffers and throwing off the balance once more. They will restore Arthur's life, but in return they will accept only one thing:

Merlin's magic.

In the end, it's not a hard decision for Merlin to make. Of course, he agrees. Of course, he would die for Arthur. He would kill for Arthur. But when he sacrifices his magic, it's something different altogether. As Morgana performs the spell, as the gods take back what they gave, as the golden magic pours out of Merlin's hands and ears and skin and trickles back into the earth to be dispersed elsewhere, Merlin gives away a part of himself he never thought could be separated. A connectivity that tied him to the ground. It's like going blind. It's like coming apart, atom by atom, and then being put back together with only half the pieces.

And Arthur watches it. He’s glad, at first. This will be easier anyway. None of them have to die today, and Arthur can keep Merlin’s secret. They can forget about the magic. They can go back to the way things were before. It might be hard, but their friendship might survive. And Arthur won’t have to protect Merlin. He’ll be safer, really.

He’ll be normal.

But then the thing happens, and Arthur watches, and he’s horrified. He's seen death. He's seen injury. But he's never seen this rending of a person from their essence, never seen the torment and pain of someone's magic being ripped from their body. He's never seen Merlin looking so gray as he does now. The golden light that he was taught to despise flickers in Merlin's eyes, like it's alive and trying to hold on, like it wants to stay, and then it's gone, and Merlin's tears aren’t rivers of gold anymore. They run tired and clear, and Merlin is a shell on the ground, fragile and hollow.

As the pain in Arthur's side begins to fade, as he takes the fullest breath he has in days and feels the vitality come back to his body, Arthur feels like he’s the monster here. Not Merlin. Not even Morgana. Him. His father. Everything he was taught to believe in.

Because he’s seen now what his father’s Purge did to his land. He’s watched Uther’s great vision for Camelot come to pass in the body of his best friend. The stripping away of magic. The destruction of this special, beautiful part of a person. 

And he’s seen what’s left. The shell. The empty gray.

Morgana disappears into a cloud of smoke. There is no place in Camelot for her now, but she has at least accomplished her goals. She's safe. She's free.

Arthur rises from the ground and picks up his sword. Merlin lies unconscious, and Arthur does the obvious: he carries him home.

Once he's back home, and Merlin is asleep in bed, and Gaius is digging out spellbooks and potions and all manner of incriminating truths, Arthur learns a few things:

Merlin is still Merlin. The magic was a tool, not his personality.

For those who possess it, magic functions like a sixth sense. Everything is learned and experienced through it, like any other sense. Everything. Moving through the world, seeing it, understanding it. 

Merlin was never actually clumsy.

Merlin was only ‘accident-prone’ because he had to suppress his magic so often. Sometimes, he played it up for his own advantage, but sometimes he just tripped because it wasn’t natural to walk around without reaching out with magic to find the floor first.

Now he has no magic.

Merlin is crippled, physically, once he wakes. He can move his body, but he can’t figure out where to put it.

He has no magic, but he is still Merlin. He’s still prone to fibbing, overwork, and sitting up late into the night to read. Still holds onto hope when he shouldn’t. Still tries and tries. And when he gives up, Arthur tells him he needs him, and he tries some more.

Because Arthur does need him. He wants to heal the rift in his land. He wants to stitch the wounds of his people put there by Uther. He never wants to see what happened to Merlin happen to anyone else. And he wants Merlin to be there, because he trusts him. Relies on him. Loves him.

Merlin has no magic, but he used to. He knows what’s needed by the people, the Druids, the land. When he drafts the documents needed to legalize magic, Arthur asks for Merlin’s help. And Merlin gives it. Of course he does. He’s still Merlin. He’s still too ready to give himself away. Still cheeky, to Arthur’s delight. 

Still wise.

Over time, Merlin learns to use utensils again. Two crutches come next, then one. Over the years, he is able to reduce it down to a staff, which he uses to find the floor. He trains a bird to go longer distances for him, across town or even just down the many flights of stairs in the castle. His mind rewires itself, relearns, but he will never have the wrist strength to buff armor again. 

Arthur wouldn’t have had him as a servant anyway. He makes him an advisor to the king, and he sits at the round table, at Arthur’s right hand. 

He sleeps, of course, in the king’s bed.

They call it the Golden Age, because all the magic Merlin poured into the earth comes back to the kingdom in waves. You can almost see it sparkling in the air sometimes, when the light hits it just right. Harvests are full and free of blight. Orchards blossom and hang heavy with fruit. More babes are born with magic in three years than have been in the last thirty. It’s Merlin, woven into every inch of the kingdom. It’s his gift to Arthur. To Camelot. To himself.

Merlin becomes a legend in his own right, known for his far-seeing eyes, his trusty staff, his surprisingly robust beard (Arthur is astonished and openly jealous). The kingdom benefits from his kindness and his ability to judge risk vs. reward. And the dragon helps, too, occasionally. 

Above all, Merlin is known for his wisdom, his council, and his unwavering love for Arthur.

Is it sad that Merlin had to give up his magic? Yes. But he never actually wanted it to begin with. Not really. Not to the extent he had it. He never wanted the burden of the prophecy. Like Arthur and his dream of relinquishing his reign and running off with Merlin to live on a farm, Merlin wanted to set aside the burden of being Emrys and return to himself. He wanted a life surrounded by love and peace. That was why he came to Camelot in the first place. He never, not once in his life, actually wanted power. He wanted the Golden Age. He wanted Arthur.

And he gets him.

[rippingoffkingarthur]

And another one for Halloween! It's Dracula, The Wolf Man, Frankenstein's Monster, and a Little Kitty Cat!

[tanzasadventuresinwearingclothes]

Okay. Looks like the Final Ripping Off King Arthur strip is out today! And since this was strip where I got my start guess I better check it out. Am I in it? (checks. skims through pages.) No, doesn't look like it. Well, that was disappointing. Guess you can read it if you want to. What a waste!

[tanzasadventuresinwearingclothes]

Ooh! Guess I'm guest starring in the Powernaut Webcomic! But will I get that free drink?

Follow the link and you'll see the start of our inaugural river cruise for the Power City World's Fair of 2024 - plus our guest list! It's star-studded. And the Obama family really has been friends with mine for twelve years or so!

[tiredcowboyy]

the return of the two kings

It takes 1500 years for it to finally happen and its not in the way merlin thought it would. He thought Arthur would return, but when a man that looks exactly like arthur sits beside merlin in his political science class, well merlin realises that reincarnation wasn’t completely off the table.

Merlin introduces himself on the 3rd class, the first two spent of him subtly studying arthur, his face, his mannerisms, trying to figure out if it was really him, though when he heard the voice and name any doubt was swept away.

From that point on they quickly grew as friends. Merlin wasnt really sure what to do, he was told arthur would return when the world needed him, but nothing about if he was reborn again with no memories of his past reign whatsoever.

It stresses merlin out for a while, he constantly was on edge for any world changing dangers, however after a while he just accepted that maybe there was no reason. Arthur was just born again and he should appreciate that.

They quickly grew close, becoming the best of friends and eventually roommates and merlin couldnt have been happier, content with have the blonde back in his life.

Until one day he gets this urge to walk near the lake of avalon again, something hes not felt like doing since he found arthur again. But he does, distantly thinking it was around this time of year he had lost his king all those years ago. So he goes, the sun still rising as he begins his usual route around the lake. He takes it in, smiling at how much life has changed since he last took this walk.

He was distracted so you cant blame him for how much he was caught off guard, really that wasnt his fault.

“Merlin?”

Despite what anyone who saw would say Merlin did not let out a scream.

He spins around and comes face to face with his best friend, his roommate, his destiny walking out of the lake soaking wet.

“Arthur? What are you doing here? And why are you in the lake? I-“

He pauses, the air ripped out of his lungs as he realises what hes actually looking at. Something was different. Something was wrong. Because this arthur wasnt wearing his usual jeans and jumper, his hair wasn’t slightly too long because hes been too busy with work to get it cut, he wasnt making some joke about merlins poor coffee making skills.

He was wearing chainmail and armour, a sword in his hand one that merlin hadnt seen since that day.

This wasnt the same arthur he left at home this morning, the same arthur who was too busy watching last nights football on catchup to make fun of merlin burning his toast, the same arthur who he has lived with for 6 years and thought was his arthur.

No, this was the same arthur that he held in his arms as he thanked him and took his final breath.

Merlin doesnt know what kind of sick game the world is playing on him but that doesnt matter,

Because now theres two Arthur Pendragons gracing this earth and merlin doesn’t think hes quite as cut out for this destiny thing as he thought he was.