#ripping off king arthur

[rippingoffkingarthur]

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

#ripping off king arthur #webcomic #webcomics #mickey mouse #steamboat willie

[tanzasadventuresinwearingclothes]

Feel very negative today...

#tanza late #webcomic #webcomics #ripping off king arthur #negative

[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!

#John Marston #John Marston x Reader #Jim Milton #Jim Milton x Reader #He's also #Rip Van Winkle #Red Dead Redemption 2 Fanfiction #Red Dead Redemption 2 #RDR2 #my writing #still lowkey irked they just gave John a slightly-off Arthur model for the epilogue tbh at least give him his greasy hair #me: partially colorblind #also me: trying to make gifs again #song inspo for this was ghost of days gone by - alter bridge & loud and heavy - cody jinks #also a little bit of the thunder rolls by the king himself #went absolutely apeshit for this greasy bastard #fuckin 13 page monstrosity and 8k words later

[dykeredhood]

Society if King Arthur: Legend of the Sword got a franchise

#it was a fun movie!!! even if the score COMPLETELY ripped off Sherlock Holmes 2009 #personal #kalots #king arthur legend of the sword #King Arthur: legend of the sword

[forevercloudnine]

There's so many ways DC could've handled the whole canon bisexuality thing but them making Clock King also queer just so that Eddie can have a man to flirt with is arguably the funniest way this could've gone and it's so so deranged isn't it

It's especially funny to me because the first Batman villain that Clock King ever hung out with was Cluemaster... do you think Arthur introduced him to RIddler, or...?

#cluemaster #arthur brown #clock king #william tockman #these panels ARE definitively william tockman. it's from justice league international no. 23 so i know this for sure #riddler #edward nygma #riddleclock #still going with that #i mean in a nebulous way i guess clock king himself COULD be considered a batman villain #like a version of him was on btas. a version of him was on batman '66 #but he did start as a green arrow villain so technically he is still that #ALTHOUGH. he started as a green arrow villain back when green arrow was just a batman rip-off with no other character traits #so maybe he should technically be a batman villain #damn. i think this is the first time i've wished tumblr had a poll feature #although i doubt anyone else is invested in the question of whose rogue gallery clock king should belong to #maybe he can spend weekends in gotham and weekdays in star city like bruce and oliver are his divorced parents

[gaelic-holiday]

New fic idea: Merlin tells everyone he has magic right from the start, but no one believes him.

Arthur: How did you manage to bring me rolls that are still warm, Merlin?

Merlin: Magic, sire. (with a teasing grin)

Arthur: Haha, very funny, Merlin

Gwen: How did the poultice you gave me heal my father?

Merlin: Magic.

Gwen: You can tell me me the truth, Merlin. I know you're not foolish enough to use magic in Camelot.

Merlin: I really, really am.

Gwain: How do you keep not dying when we run into bandits?

Merlin: I use my magic to protect myself.

Gwaine: Lol, nice one, Merlin.

Leon: Hey Merlin, why are you reading from a book that looks like a book of sorcery?

Merlin: Oh, because I have magic and am studying spells so I can use it better.

Leon, laughing: If you say so, Merlin.

Percival: Hey Merlin, how do you get the fire started so quickly?

Merlin: Magic. Forbearn is a really easy spell.

Percival, laughing: Alright, fine. Keep your secrets, 'oh mystical sorcerer'.

Elyan: And where do you keep disappearing to, Merlin?

Merlin: Oh, just saving Arthur from whatever assasin or magical threat crops up this week!

Elyan, playing along: Oh really? And which was it when you missed going to the tavern with us?

Merlin, completely serious: Morgause sent a swarm of enchanted birds to try and rip out Arthur's heart.

Elyan: You have a strange sense of humour, Merlin.

Uther: And how, precisely, did you survive the encounter you've just described?

Merlin: I used magic.

Uther:...I have no idea why my son seems to like you so much. You're an idiot.

Arthur: Hey, he's my idiot. And my idiot is just the kind of person to joke about having magic to the king of Camelot.

Merlin: Why do you assume I'm joking?

Arthur: See what I mean?

Lancelot, the only person besides Gaiuss that actually knows about Merlin's magic: How on earth do you keep that a secret?

Merlin: I don't. I use magic in front of literally everyone, and no one believes me.

Lancelot: You're joking.

Merlin: I literally use magic to fill Arthur's tub in front of him every day, and he assumes I'm joking about having it.

Gaius, very distressed: Merlin, you really should be more careful with your magic.

Merlin, calls Arthur over: watch this trick!

Merlin, summons a glowing, clearly magic butterfly in front of Arthur: Isn't magic neat?

Arthur, patting Merlin on the shoulder: Like you could ever learn magic, Merlin. Make sure you polish my armor again, will you?

Merlin: Why, do you intend to use it as a mirror?

Arthur: *flips Merlin off and walks away*

Merlin: See Gaius? Perfectly safe.

Gaius:...

Merlin: If it wasn't so convenient for me, I'd be very worried about how unobservant our future king is.

#merlin #fic ideas #merthur #they're idiots your honor

[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.

#Maybe I actually write this #or someone else #either way I thought it was slightly funny #but also if I was merlin id be so stressed #bbc merlin #arthur pendragon #merlin #merthur #merlin emrys #merlin bbc #merlin and arthur #modern au #modern merlin

[the-kingshound]

Part 1 of the series about MC's siblings reaction to discovering MC is going to marry King Arthur.

Adrei

"We had no choice left."

Adrei grips the sheets of her bed with such force her knuckles whiten. Every nerve of her arms is on fire and yet she welcomes the pain, gritting her teeth through it to look at her mother.

"When?" She rasps out.

"They will leave in two weeks for Camelot."

All that follows is the wheezing sound of Adrei's laboured breaths. She feels more vulnerable tham ever. Weak. Unable to even move, unable to even speak more than a sentence. For the first time in decades, she feels close to tears. On the corner of her eyes, she sees her mother rearrange her bed and leave.

Her vision darkens for a few moments, but she wills herself into consciousness again. A broken imitation of a sob, a single one, is all she allows herself to have, while no one is in her room and the sky is darkening. It only makes the rage, the desperation bubbling inside of her chest grow.

She was so weak they lost the war. So weak her youngest sibling, the only one she had left with her, had to pay the price. She condamned them to the enemy King's mercy-

They will DIE they will be killed and it's HER FAULT-

Every breath burns her lungs. Despite the nearly unbearable pain, she is too weak to resist the pull of destruction. In pathetic, broken movements she tries to get off the bed but when her legs don't support her, she collapses on the floor.

A wave of pain shocks her entire body, stealing her breath away and still, she crawls forward, blinded by the need to rip everything apart. The floor cracks under her grip, breaking when she tears it off. Despite the taste of blood in her mouth, despite how difficult it is to inhale, how painful it is to exhale, Adrei only stops when all her muscles give up on her.

She collapses, boneless, on the destroyed floor, losing consciousness when the pain becomes too much.

---

She opens her eyes on a white, familiar ceiling. She takes a stuttering breath when the pain starts, already intimately familiar with it. She tries to even her breathing, though it takes a lot out of her - perhaps more than she can give.

Adrei goes in and out of consciousness for days.

When she opens her eyes again, the room is dark. Someone is at her bedside.

"Have they left yet?" She asks her father.

"No. But tomorrow they will."

Resignation settles on her like a heavy blanket. Weakly, her eyes survey the sparse furniture of her room. She needs to give her sibling something. Something to defend themselves with, when they will be in the dragon's mouth.

None of the weapons she forged, though, are crafted with enough ability to be of use. She can't give them a blunted, flawed weapon.

With a sigh, her gaze settles on a chest. "My chest," she guides her father. "Take the white envelope and give it to [name] for me."

Her father obeys, retrieving the metal circlet, one of the only creations Adrei is satisfied with. With that task accomplished, she already feels exhaustion starting to take hold again.

The last thing she feels is the cool touch of her father's hand on her forehead. "Rest, baby. I will give this to your sibling before they go."

#adrei #angst :)

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Edgy Comedy

Oscar Wilde: [wearing sunglasses & tight black crewneck T, smoking cigarette] hey Poe: new look, oscar? Wilde: that's right, jerkface Poe: Whoa oscar Poe: that's uncalled for Wilde: too bad hockeypuck!! Wilde: i got a whole new act Wilde: no one liked my bon mots Wilde: so i'm rebranding Wilde: i'm a fearless truth teller now

Wilde: [ripping black tape away from mouth] i'm a fearless truth teller Wilde: i'm sayin' what everyone's thinkin now! Wilde: and you know what they say Wilde: the only thing worse than saying what everyone's thinking is not saying what everyone's thinking

Wilde: this ain't your dad's comedy! Wilde: some of these bon mots might be Wilde: a little spicy Wilde: but i'm a comedian Wilde: that's my job [giant animated red stamp appears across screen saying 'Too Hot for TV!!']

Wilde: some of these jokes might not be PC Wilde: they might make you uncomfortable Wilde: they might upset you Wilde: they might make you have a really bad time Wilde: but that's what comedy is all about Wilde: just absolutely not enjoying yourself Wilde: and feeling real bad Wilde: but seriously folks Wilde: how about that marginalized group? [rimshot] Wilde: they sure are bad! [rimshot] Poe: oh no Barker: oh no King: oh no Koontz: oh no Lovecraft: no wait let's hear this out

Poe: oh oscar Poe: oh oscar you're better than this Poe: what happened to you Poe: you were the wittiest man in europe Poe: and now you're doing this?

Wilde: look this is what people want to hear Wilde: and i am a fearless truth teller telling people the hard truths that they really desperately want to hear Lovecraft: do you have jokes about italians? Lovecraft: they've had it too good too long

Wilde: whoa if you came here for jokes about italians you came to the wrong comedy show Wilde: those garlic eating spaghetti eaters Poe: oscar Poe: oscar this is beneath you Lovecraft: ha ha! i don't what the problem is, he's killing up there!

Wilde: here's a joke the PC police don't want you to hear Wilde: italians Dario Argento: Mario Bava: Lucio Fulci: Wilde: tough crowd Wilde: don't worry oscar, you still got your ace Wilde: oh did i offend you? did i offend you? are you offended by my fearless truth telling?

Wilde: as a comedian, it's my job to tell truth to power Barker: your job is to be funny! Wilde: my bon mots actually have layers of meaning, if you think about it Barker: try being funny! Wilde: i..i..

Wilde: oh  god what am i doing Wilde: what have i become Wilde: it's not me! none of this is me! Wilde: it's this damn shirt! [tearing off tight black crewneck T] Wilde: this damn shirt got inside my head, man!

Wilde: i never wanted to be like this! Wilde: i don't have what it takes to be edgy! Wilde: i'm just a lousy pundit who punctures staid victorian mores with my trenchent bon mots and fucks dudes!! Poe: well that's all still kind of edgy Poe: in a different way Wilde: what Wilde: really? Poe: yes oscar Poe: turns out you were edgy this whole time Poe: and you didn't have to change a thing

Wilde: white people drive like this, but black people drive like this Arthur Machen: white people? Wilde: no no not like THOSE white people Wilde: i mean like Wilde: white people

Koontz: gosh what's happening? Koontz: is there a different kind of white people? Machen: oh you wouldn't get it, dean Machen: i'm talking some real Lebor Gabála Érenn hours Todd Keisling: oh yeah i know this from that horslips album

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #stephen king #clive barker #edgar allan poe #dean koontz #hp lovecraft #oscar wilde #arthur machen #todd keisling #dario argento #mario bava #lucio fulci

[georgies-ftts]

just another Merlin headcanon/fic idea that i may or may not write… (AU: Post canon/nobody dies, Arthur knows about Merlin’s magic but not quite what Merlin does for Camelot in his spare time)

Merlin and Arthur have been teetering around each other since the Battle. Arthur showing a more protective and outwardly caring side to the younger man. Merlin leaving lingering touches and soft glances whenever he’s able, defending Arthur more openly and strongly to those he never would’ve dared to before.

The Knights have bets on their relationship. Leon is winning. Gwaine is in debt. Percival wants to rip his hair out, Lancelot and Eylan are secretly betting on Gwaine going bankrupt before Merlin and Arthur even admit their feelings out loud.

After a particularly close encounter with his servant, soon to be court sorcerer, Arthur finally works up the courage to ask Merlin if he feels the same as he does, to tell Merlin that marrying for an heir is what the court want, he wants to marry for love, and he loves Merlin.

He asks Merlin, by a letter that he thinks gives a clear light to his intentions, to meet him outside the castle, in a spot they sometimes sit at together when the days have been long and stressful. The spot where the moonlight shines brightly over the flowers and the grass is somehow soft year round and in the summer a small refreshing cross breeze is created by the way the trees are sprayed out scarcely before them.

But Merlin never shows and Arthur feels embarrassed, hurt, somehow more betrayed than when Merlin revealed the gold dragon within the flames of the fire but he understands that Merlin must’ve read Arthur’s intentions loud and clear and saved him the mortifying rejection of his manservant. So instead he turns to avoiding Merlin, that seeing him after the clear rejection would only send him into a spiral so he tries his best to stay away.

However he notices that, despite his effort to avoid him, he hasn’t seen the sorcerer anywhere at all, his chores untouched, a dreadful feeling that hasn’t been there until that morning fills the air. It’s obvious the others within the castle feel it too.

Arthur turns to the knights, questioning if they have seen Merlin, if he is okay and well, but they have not seen him and that only causes Arthur to panic more.

He sends the guards to search the castle, the stables, Gwens house, even the small opening by the lake where Merlin traipses off to when he’s feeling rough, when he’s hiding. But he’s never gone this long.

He orders them to tear Camelot apart if they have too.

But he’s found in none of those places.

Instead Merlin and Gwaine find him, bloody, broken and shivering beneath the castle where he hasn’t been able to move himself for the past two days even calling for help had been pointless so far below the occupied layers of the castle.

Merlin is rushed to Gauis as he his eyes flutter and Arthur can do nothing but sit and panic as Merlin’s wounds are tended too.

Once he is awake and competent Arthur sits beside his cot and, though it feels wrong too, he questions him deeply, his voice tremors and his fingers shake but he does it anyway.

And Merlin tells him everything, how he received the letter and his heart almost gave up on itself at the thought of alone time with the King, how he’d been sneaking around near the stores, trying to find a bottle of wine or two just before their meeting so they could truly relax after a stressful council meeting and had caught the assassin that had been snooping low in the castle. A poisoned dagger strapped to his belt.

He had been strong and relentless and had nearly left Merlin with less than his life but Merlin had fought for Arthur and he had won, even if he ended the scrap with blood coating his body and an ache in his ribs that made him hiss and cough with each movement.

That even before Arthur knew about his magic this had been a large part of his daily life, to keep Arthur safe and to never let him know just how much it hurt him, how much it broke him. He jokes that he doesn’t even know where the tavern is.

But Arthur echos that now he doesn’t need to hide, he can ask for help, and he will receive it.

Then Arthur realises that Merlin truly had no idea what he was going to ask him and he knows that if he doesn’t do it now he won’t ever be able too again.

So he asks.

And Merlin replies.

#merlin x arthur #merthur #bbc merlin #arthur x merlin #merlin #arthur pendragon #court sorcerer merlin #king arthur #bbc merlin arthur #bbc merthur #bbc gwaine #merthur fanfic #merlin fanfic #merlin headcanons #bbc leon #bbc elyan #bbc percival #bbc lancelot #the knights of the round table #the knights of camelot #the knights are dumb but it’s okay cause i love them

[rippingoffkingarthur]

Picts of Fred Nielsen's Kittens Saying Motherfucker from 2017...

#ripping off king arthur #webcomic #webcomics #kittens #kittens saying motherfucker #trump #halloween

[tanzasadventuresinwearingclothes]

Here I am thinking -- That doesn't look so good...

#tanza late #webcomic #webcomics #ripping off king arthur

[queer-ragnelle]

do you have any arthur/guinevere/lancelot recommendations? if not, just stories where their characters were done justice and their friendship is explored and the love triangle comes to some satisfying solution.

i sure do! as always, with caveats. this list has two parts: films first and then books as i have suggestions for both! all of these movies can be watched here and the books read here.

TL;DR movies: Excalibur (1981), Camelot (1967), Knights of The Round Table (1953), Merlin and The Sword (1985), Sword of Lancelot (1963)

TL;DR books: The Birth of Galahad by Richard Hovey, Arthur Rex by Thomas Berger, Guinevere Trilogy by Persia Woolley, Guinevere by Lavinia Collins, Spear by Nicola Griffith, honorable mention to Arthurian Saga by Mary Stewart

MOVIES:

Excalibur (1981): for me it has everything. we get to see young stupid arthur and clever curious guinevere fall in love, their wedding is gorgeous, then nicholas clay my beloved lancelot throws a wrench in it as he loves and respects them both so much, and they love him. he gets to be crazy about it too like running off to the woods to beg god to take these feelings away, dreams he's fighting himself and ends up impaled<3 meanwhile arthur/guinevere leave a cup out for him even when he isn't there. the crux of it comes when guinevere is accused of cheating (which she hadn't even at this point) and arthur won't champion her because his kingship comes before husbandly duties, so lancelot fights for her honor instead. at the end, after guinevere has gone away to a convent (lancelot is a wildman with a full beard lost to them all) arthur comes to retrieve excalibur from her and his speech is so romantic about finding her in the next life. i die every time. here is my review of that movie.

Camelot (1967): i adoooore this guinevere. jenny<3 she does whatever she wants and i love that for her. the whole may day queen aspect of her is muah chef's kiss. small wonder arthur loved her immediately. this arthur gets to wear eyeliner which is a plus. lancelot almost kills arthur on meeting him and then falls at his feet on realizing it, only for guinevere to be really cold to him at first, trying to get other knights to defeat him, but ends up falling in love with him. which arthur totally knows and turns a blind eye to btw. even when pellinore brings it up in as gently as possible, arthur bites his head off, knowing he cant even entertain the rumor or else the kingdom is in danger, and he just wants his two favorite people to be happy....cries forever.

Knights of The Round Table (1953): the biggest downside to this one is that lancelot has a horrible insufferable american accent. however his celebrity worship/instant friendship with arthur is soooo good. he breaks his own sword for threatening the king and then arthur gives him his own....is that even allowed to be so adorable? anyway so lancelot had met guinevere before they were arthur's friend and wife, essentially had a charming meet cute, and went their separate ways, only to formally meet at the wedding in front of everyone....god, the eye contact could turn someone to stone. arthur is extremely sympathetic and compassionate, to the point that when he catches guinevere sulking alone on the roof with a gift from lancelot, he says "i miss him too..." bruh???? my heart?? all around delicious food.

Merlin and The Sword (1985): huge disclaimer...this movie is ugly as sin lol the only version available is ripped from a vhs tape so it might as well be a crunchy gif at this point. it was also cut down from the 3 hour tv version to 1.5 hours which is a tragedy. (i've tried emailing the studio for a rerelease to no avail...) however it has the most insane arthur/guinevere/lancelot ever i'll never be the same. arthur is played by malcom mcdowell who always brings his a game to roles. he's a bit older than guinevere, but she apparently taught him to read? he dotes on her but he's somewhat emotionally stunted which gets in the way. this guinevere is gorgeous i'm obsessed with her she has this deep sultry voice and a simple elegance that completely shatters lancelot's resolve. i get it, it would work on me. lancelot meanwhile is this incredibly lanky sometimes mute shy guy who is besties with gawain and his meet cute with guinevere involves the mingling of their blood after they are both cut on some rose thorns? hello???? they're freaks just like chrétien intended. the blood. they share bath water and fuck in a dungeon. then after guinevere is rescued from meleagant, arthur asks merlin for some sort of potion to help guinevere recover emotionally instead of like.....talking to her? he's trying but so so bad at it<3 he then takes her to bed to "treat her like a queen." IT'S ALL GREAT IT MAKES ME FERAL ARGH

Sword of Lancelot (1963): this one is fun because cornel wilde wrote it, directed it, and starred as lancelot himself!! the other fun factoid is the woman who plays guinevere is his real life wife. how stinking cute is that? so obviously their chemistry is ridiculous. but arthur is a cutie too. he's older and tends to talk down to guinevere a bit, which makes sense why she befriends lancelot in her loneliness. lancelot gets a lot of development, taking young tor under his wing, besties with gawain and lamorak and gareth. being irl married to guinevere also makes their disagreements feel very real. arthur is counseled by a ton of characters, bedievere, merlin, even mordred is here giving his two cents. so you really feel that tug of war pulling the throuple apart. it hurts.

BOOKS:

The Birth of Galahad by Richard Hovey: this play is wiiiiiild but the take away here is that guinevere is the mother of galahad. like what a twist. meanwhile all the men are away fighting rome so you get this tragic back and forth switching of perspective between lancelot and arthur missing guinevere (plus galehaut is here as counsel which really kicks this up a notch) then it cuts to guinevere with a new baby and tormented by the prospect of whether to write to rome with the news but afraid it will cause an upset where she cant be.....hovey you mad lad you've done it again.

Arthur Rex by Thomas Berger: i hate i keep having to recommend this bigoted book but damn it this arthur/guinevere/lancelot are so good. why are they sooo goood???? this arthur is compelling since he loses his virginity to morgause and is forever messed up after that, so he struggles to connect with guinevere in the way she needs, not really understanding her even though he bends over backwards to please her. meanwhile there isnt a word for what she and lancelot have here they need to be studied under a microscope so history doesn't repeat itself they're so twisted it's wild i can't look away. and the friendship between arthur and lancelot is so powerful and enduring that even at the end while joyous garde is under siege, arthur sends in kay with food the moment he hears their stores are low, and has him serve them like old times. he doesnt want it to be the way it is....sick and twisted narrative choices.

Guinevere Trilogy by Persia Woolley: i admit this isn't my favorite guinevere, but credit where it's due, she's a complex and fully realized character. through her we come to understand both arthur and lancelot as deeply damaged men, who had their emotional states devastated by the fall out of sexual abuse, and how that impacts their relationship with her (and their sons, mordred and galahad, who likewise suffer as a result of their fathers' emotional states). as a celtic queen, guinevere has every right to take a lover if she so desires, and arthur is not ignorant of his own failings as a husband, but the tragedy plays out anyway as the orkney brothers are there to wreak havoc on the place as usual. (you might find that this has a movie adaptation Guinevere (1994) don't watch it, trust me, it's not even fun bad, just cursed.)

Guinevere by Lavinia Collins: this is technically part of a series so you'll also get a lot of arthur and lancelot in the other three (Igraine, Morgawse, Morgan) but for the sake of this list, the guinevere one will suffice. anyway what i like about this is the strong contrast in relationships with both men. lancelot is bisexual and guinevere is the first woman he ever sleeps with (but not the last...) so theyre very tender and sweet together meanwhile arthur sired mordred before marrying her he's overall more adventurous while keeping entirely faithful to her for the rest of his life......there is a threesome in this but ironically its lancelot/guinevere/kay and not arthur but you know what? he deserves a win. this still goes on the list.

Spear by Nicola Griffith: this is perceval pov so the focus on arthur/guinevere/lancelot is minimal, but its delicious. arthur is kinda cold and mean here (falling back on the celtic "bear" thing, same as woolley does) but its revealed that he, lancelot, and guinevere are in a throuple, the characterization of lancelot's shy explanation of this was so good, and he goes on the grail quest to try and heal guinevere's womb so she can have their children, as it's a point of tension that mordred and galahad both exist, but guinevere wants to have children with arthur and lancelot. there's literally a part she faints and they both carry her off to bed like....they dont even pretend its any other way. no homophobia or slut shaming or anything like that in this book which is a huge plus. palate cleanser after arthur rex lol

Arthurian Saga by Mary Stewart: this is more of an honorable mention, as the first three books are merlin pov and the fourth is mordred. but book two (the hollow hills) has arthur raised alongside bedwyr (who is lancelot in all but name, son of ban, eventual lover of guinevere etc) they are the best of friends its adorable, bedwyr gave him his dog cabal, which is cute on its own, then fast forward to mordred pov (the wicked day) decades later and arthur is picking out a new puppy and names that one cabal too, its like this long homoromantic ritual that every dog descended from the first calls back to his original gift....im pulling my hair out. guinevere here is underdeveloped at best, as merlin doesnt really know her well and mordred's perspective on her is that shes (respectfully) hot lmao but worth mentioning as mary stewart is the goat, highly recommend her books.

and that's the list. hope that gives you some stuff to chew over!

#arthurian legend #arthurian legends #arthuriana #arthurian mythology #king arthur #queen guinevere #sir lancelot #ask #anonymous

[merrilinie]

CW: violence and immortal mcd (so not really), child death

Merlin who is able to tell the weather and state of nature and season not because of magic, but because of how he grew up.

The small village was in a rather unfortunate place, at least to most. It was stuck between a forest and meadow with a large river bed that often flooded and took out numerous of their crops. It helped greatly with a permanent water source but every good thing had a fault.

So, Merlin learnt quickly when to tell it was going to rain by the humidity and clouds, so he could better help his neighbours with any preparations. He learnt what soil was best for planting what plants, what of those would be worthy he effort of growing, what could carry bugs and other insects that could house disease or venom. He learnt what habitats snakes and spiders liked, what caves could be good to hide in if the rain came in too quick or bandits came too close to the village.

That was what he learnt most, without ever really wanting to. He learnt when to tell if the air changed with the eagerness of bandits ready for a fight. He learnt how to spot traps after getting caught in two as just a child, the long jagged scar along his leg a permanent reminder of the danger he had to watch for.

Merlin learnt through trail and error, tasting the poisonous berries to know they were as such. He knew how to treat venom bites, to stay still as a rock when a snake caught onto his flesh, what to eat and drink when he had something wrong, how to get out of cruel traps made to rip a man apart by simply not passing out and keeping a clear head.

The knights and Arthur do not know this. They don’t know of his magic, if they did they would assume like the Druid’s did that he simply used that, which he did at times. They just assumed he had a knack for these kinds of things.

Then they go to his home for a rest stop as they target a group of bandits. This is where a elder hears the Knights making fun of Merlin and he marches right up to them and he tells them off in a way that both mortifies and compliments Merlin.

“Listen here, you ignorant fools! This young man had done more for this village than any of you have done for the Kingdom! It’s Merlin who learnt how to make the soil grow our crops properly, he who taught the children what food is okay to scavenge for! It’s this boy who warns us when the floods are most likely and helps us prepare, even though his home is on the other side of the village! Do you know how many times I’ve had to watch this boy nearly die because he took it upon himself to make sure the bandit traps were set off before a child got caught? He once spent two full nights in a cave with a broke leg after my daughter got lost, just to find her and bring her home even though-… even though she’d already passed.”

Merlin goes to his friend and hold so to his hand, trying to comfort him as memories flood his frail mind.

The man finishes his ramble with a pat to Merlin’s cheek, “You do not need strength and armour to be a good man. The selfishness of man has never once touched you, my boy. I will not allow such blasphemy to your name, not by a king or a pauper.”

Merlin only gives a single look at the Knights and shrinks under the pity and shock, deciding instead to take his friend back to his home so they can visit his daughters grave. He had died that first night when he looked for her, his first death and how he discovered his immortality.

He tried not to remember it, the pain and agony of starving and bleeding and a deep burning in his leg that made his body squirm with phantom pain.

The next day the Knights are quiet, Arthur watching him without ever looking away. They only ask him if what was said was true when they set camp up three nights later. So, he lifts up his pant leg to show his mangled flesh and gives them a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes,

“Don’t worry, I know how to heal things properly now if it happens to any of you.”

A tear slides down Gwaines face.

#bbc merlin #merlin emrys #merlin #arthur pendragon #bbc merlin angst #merlin x arthur #merlin angst #merthur #knights of camelot

[theprinceofliones]

Tristan has always been scared of the dark.

It's a fear he's never been able to shake ever since he was little. Not being able to see what surrounds him, not being able to anticipate what would come next---it terrified him to no end.

Arthur Pendragon must be aware of this, as wherever Tristan is being held now is as black as night with no entrance or exit in sight.

His hands and legs have been wrapped in chains that obviously nullify his magic, his goddess wings have been strung to the floor, open and unable to move. He's on the stone concrete floor below, unable to muster the strength to lift any part of his body as they're weighed down so heavily. He keeps his eyes closed, attempting to focus on his breathing so he doesn't have to open his eyes to darkness.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, doesn't wish to know. He just wants to go /home/.

Suddenly, after what felt like hours, the door, entrance, opens wide.

Tristan's eyes snap open and they adjust to the light now spilling into the endlessly dark cavern that is this dungeon, and when they do, their he finds the man behind it all.

Arthur Pendragon smiles at him sweetly, head titling.

"Are you comfortable?" He asks. "Little prince?"

Tristan glares at him and his fists clench behind him. He doesn't say anything, choosing to keep his last remnants of dignity that he can muster to keep to himself.

The false king grins wider. "Shy now, are we?" He chuckles. "A shame. You were quite mouthy last time we met."

"I'm gonna kill you," Tristan suddenly seethes and Arthur laughs.

"There it is!" He cheers and claps. "Such /rage/. You look just like your father when you glare at me like that," He chuckles again and sighs. "I don't know why everyone says you look like your whore mother, Elizabeth---to me, you are a carbon copy of your monstrous father and all his demon kin."

At the mention of his sweet mother, Tristan /snarls/. "/Don't speak her name, bastard/!" He screams as he shakes with rage. "Else I'll rip your fucking tongue from your /throat/!"

Arthur just scoffs. "I will admit, you're either quite brave or quite /foolish/ to insult me when you're in the position you're in now," He says nonchalantly. "All alone, away from home. You poor thing, you must be so scared."

Tristan wants to claw the bastard's eyes out, rip out his vocal cords and shove them down his throat until he chokes and dies.

He's never felt such rage before---a wrath taking over him like nothing ever has.

"Well," Arthur sighs with a devilish grin as he turns around and away from him with a wave of his hand. "I hope you enjoy your stay here, little prince, because you're going to be here for a /while/, I'd wager. Who knows, maybe you'll even come to like it here? Perhaps you will one day come to lick my boot---"

Tristan doesn't even realize he's able to move until he's near inches away from Arthur's face.

Chains stops him, tugging him back and away from the bastard.

Tristan cries out as he nearly loses his footing and pain floods his senses as the brackets around his wrists and ankles nearly pull his skin off. His goddess wings attempt to flap uselessly and he nearly /screams/ in frustration.

Arthur rears back, obviously not expecting Tristan to be able to move with the magic wards and drugs in his system flooding his senses to make him dizzy and drowsy.

Tristan tries to get as close as possible, shrieking in rage as he can't get any closer and Arthur stares at him in complete disbelief before he begins to laugh, as though he were in shock and awe.

"Wow!" He gasps. "I shouldn't have expected any less! The fact that you're able to get past my wards at all is---"

Blood spills from a cut on his cheek and the God of Chaos stumbles.

Tristan pants for air and his one /freed/ wing floats beside him, feathers sharpened to the same sharpness of steel /blades/.

Arthur is stunned into silence.

"/I/ am Tristan Liones," He begins, gasping as he stands up as tall as he can. He can feel his magic flowing through him, as little as the wards allow. "I am the son of Meliodas and Elizabeth Liones, the Crown Prince of Britannia, the Four Knights of the Apocalypse of Pestilence, and, when I escape from here, I will take your /head/."

The only sound that can be heard is Tristan's gasps for air and the sound of chains rattling and Arthur's lips part as their eyes remained locked.

After several moments of silence, Arthur just smiles again, tiny scar and droplet of blood gone as he heals himself.

"I look forward to your meager attempts, sweet prince," Is all he says before he turns around and leaves the dungeon before he shuts the door.

Thus, encasing Tristan in a darkness that will now, unfortunately, become his home for a long, /long/ time.

#nanatsu no taizai #mokushiroku no yonkishi #the seven deadly sins #the four knights of the apocalypse #tristan liones #lancelot #meliodas #elizabeth liones #arthur pendragon #king arthur #4kota #nnt #nnt manga #4kota anime

[rottenprincessshura100]

Blue Exorcist Chapter 140: Notes

The Future is Depressing....y'all.

We start off with Rin as the "Demon King." He has a pretty amazing character design upgrade. A really dark, grungy cape and a scary mask that hides his cute little elfin features. But our Rin has changed; he's now a killer of humans. He wears a mask and hides his soul away.

In this chapter we see Rin is attacking an exorcist.

I'm not sure if this woman he battles is human. The best way to describe her is an Angelic Legion Sailor Scout. Her outfit is covered with angel wings and all kinds of tacky bling and details (plus, who chooses to fight in heels? No human, I know.)

Arthur the Paladin has totally designed this outfit.

Plus, the exorcist, or whatever she is, looks like a Lucifer clone. It makes me wonder who controls the Knights of True Cross? I think all the clues are pointing at Lucifer. Anything Angelic looking, things with little pretty wings, cherubs and light, point back to him. In this case, the perfection and heavenly details tend to be the evil ones. Isn't that the way the world works now? Anyway, I digress.

Her name is...or was, Malchidael, which translates into angelic messenger. Just an aside, remember when Shura was so embarrassed to be part of the Angelic Legion? She wouldn't be caught dead in an outfit like this. The legion was too square; this is proof that Angel is in charge..or Lucifer. You don't get more square than those two.

I think I've seen a version of this female character before....it was like an action figure on Mephisto's desk. I'm not quite sure if she's real or not.

Things that bother me about her...she looks like Shiemi but wields a weapon with Armumahel powers like the Myoda. Is she related to Shima? A sister? Ooof.

Getting back to Rin.

Rin has changed...he's still our Rin but tired and dark. We see it in his eyes, the sad resignation. Plus, he looks much older. As he uses his demonic powers, his hair changes from white to black. He seems in complete control of his inner demons.

Unfortunately, Rin is also capable of killing humans. So much has changed, and we don't know the back story. Yet, we know he seems to only be killing exorcists that are threatening him. When Paku calls out his name from her hiding place, he doesn't raise his sword to kill her or threaten her in any way. Rin regards her as an old friend from a past life. But an old friend he no longer has time for.

His personality reminds me more of Yukio now, worn out and saddled with some huge responsibility he can't talk about.

(Just an aside, he looks like my friends and me when we came out of covid...we felt ten years older and unsure how to talk to other humans, Kato is making this parallel to our current world...remember calling the terrible event Maga. Yeah.)

Whatever has happened, Rin has been left alone, and he's trying to survive in any way he can. He is now like Satan, ruling over demons and making them do his bidding. But...he's still got his empathy. He doesn't send the hobgoblins to their deaths but tells them to retreat. He's accomplished his mission, killed his target and left.

One thing we do know...all of his friends are missing.

Did they die? Paku doesn't know, and it's heartbreaking.

She runs away and is so torn. She's happy to see Rin but is beyond sad at what has happened to him. And, as soon as she remembers the past, something happens....she finds a glowing door suddenly in front of her. The door is a rip in space-time, and maybe she caused the rip. This is a very strange situation considering the Paku doesn't seem to have any powers, temptaint or exorcist ability, yet somehow Paku connects between worlds, connects to Mephisto. She gives the demon king a glimpse into something he's never seen before.

Mephisto.

This part, of course, was great. Mephisto still has those fucking crazy eyes. He's on the edge of sanity. When Paku opens the door, he jumps into action and seals the portal closed. Of course, he does it with style and conjures some milk chocolate crazy glue. Which is fittingly weird with the rest of the upside-down we are experiencing.

Mephisto is weak but has enough power to stop the universe from imploding. But for the first time, he's seen past the end of times. He can see the future and knows there is one. Mephisto is so fucking excited because it's new.

A new place for him to play, new chess moves for him to work with.

This future might come to pass but hasn't yet. Mephisto can still change this....this is a possible future.

At the very end, we get this troubling sketch by Kato. Yukio survives as well as Rin, back two years ago, which he does because he's got Satan's temptaint. But the others were not so lucky. All around him are bodies...

Hopefully, Mephisto can fix all of this. This future is no future at all for our favourite characters.

#blue exorcist #mephisto pheles #rin okumura #ane #an no exorcist #blue exorcist manga