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#Arthur pendragon

Headcanon

Since Arthur lived between the 5th and 6th century that means he probably would’ve spoken Old Welsh, right?

(I’m not positive on that. I’m just going off the very little research I’ve done. Correct me if I’m wrong.)

So that means when he rises from Avalon he’s still speaking the same language as when he died. Merlin obviously still speaks (very little) of it but if Arthur is gonna live in the 21st century he needs to know Modern English. But learning an entirely new language so very different and so many centuries apart from his own, it’s really hard on the king. So Merlin would probably opt to teach him Modern Welsh and Arthur picks that up fast.

Main point of this: let Arthur speak Welsh

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You know how in the first episode Merlin is like ‘Arthur can’t be my destiny he’s an idiot’ and the dragon is like ‘well maybe it’s your destiny to change that’ 

and then you know how at the end of the series Merlin is like ‘I failed!??!’ and it’s heartbreaking but also if it was his destiny to make Arthur less of an idiot… then he really did fail, huh 

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Could I please request no. 68, “A hoarse whisper, ‘kiss me’” for King Arthur? ❤️

@little-toxic-angel ❤️❤️❤️❤️ one kissing Arthur story coming up! 😉 I hope you like it! Includes some angst, mentions of violence, and mentions of rape…but nothing bad actually happens to anybody. Except the bad guys—they’re pretty fucked. Nobody messes with Arthur’s girl. Just saying.

Originally posted by charliehunnnamm

You can’t take your eyes from the knife in front of you. It’s red—a deep red, dripping little droplets to the ground and making a small pool of blood before you. Each little droplet that falls and crashes is like another hit, another slap to your face as your heart pounds like a fist against your rib cage. And you can’t look away. The owner of the knife runs a hand through your hair, brushing it back from your face so he can lean in close and examine you, his thumb tracing the soft details of your cheek down to your chin. His breath smells terrible. “Soon,” he promises, “that will be you.” The blade moves in close enough to your face that you can smell the dense, coppery scent of blood, tasting it in your mouth, and you can feel the edge smoothing near your cheek with just enough pressure to make you aware that it’s there but not enough to actually hurt you. “Just as soon as we’re done with your king.”

Your eyes stray up to his, connecting with an icy blue that you’ve come to associate with only two men in the entire world—the Viking who stands before you and who is using you as bait, and the man you love. You take slow, steady breaths, your face impassive as you stare up at him. If this is to be your fate, you think, you won’t give him the satisfaction of showing fear or anger. Instead, you just stare him down, feeling the knife’s blade to your cheek, recognizing that the blood of your friend is still coating it and that you can feel the slick coolness of it on your skin.



Arthur doesn’t plan for anyone to die. It’s perhaps one of his faults that he never really doubts himself, even when there sometimes appears to be a good reason, but he’s never seen the purpose in second guessing himself and he has no intentions of letting any harm come to you. The only question in his mind is what, exactly, Balder has already done to you. Are you safe? Have you been hurt? Balder wouldn’t dare to touch you, he thinks, his hand visibly flexing around Excalibur at the idea. He expects to find you a little bruised and bloodied, perhaps—he knows you’re a fighter and that you’d take them on as much as you could before you finally couldn’t fight them anymore—but he also expects that you’ll be okay. He can live with some bruises. You can live with some bruises. He can take you back to the palace, listening to you complain about how you’re not some damsel in distress and you were perfectly fine before he showed up—in fact, you had them right where you wanted them and you were getting ready to strike at any moment and make your big escape—and you don’t need to be riding his horse, dammit. The argument, Arthur thinks, will actually be a welcome relief. Arguing with you is one of Arthur’s favorite pastimes.

What he can’t live with is the darker image of how he might find you. It’s the one that’s tugging at the back of his mind, that he’s trying his hardest not to acknowledge because the thought of you being hurt in that way is so unbearable to him. Arthur can exercise a lot of control over himself. He’s spent years honing his fighting skills, learning to control his emotions and whims, and think through the best plan of attack or how to apply just the right amount of pressure. He knows that if he finds the Vikings holding you captive, luring him in, and all he sees are some bruises and scrapes, he can still do what he needs to do. He’s confident in his ability to get the job done.

But if he finds you beaten and battered, your dress torn, your legs bruised from being held in place, and that look he saw on some of the women from the brothel as a boy…before he was strong enough to protect them…he doesn’t think he can hold back. It will be an ugly day in England if Balder and his men have raped you, or worse, and he can’t guarantee who will survive it.


When you hear that Arthur has arrived, you’re actually afraid. It’s not that you doubt Arthur, because you’ve seen him fight and you know well that Arthur could destroy every last man here if he wanted to. But the thought of Arthur being hurt weighs on you. “Come on, bitch.” You gasp when Balder pulls you up by your hair, the knife you’re already well acquainted with coming to your throat with a sharp pressure as you’re dragged along toward the part of the camp where Balder is going to face Arthur. You want to fight, to hurt him, to protect yourself somehow. Your fingernails dig into the hand that’s grasping your hair, but Balder just pulls the knife away enough to give your hair another tug. Pain shoots through your scalp. “Enough—behave, or your king will find that your face isn’t so pretty anymore.”

You’re yanked through the camp and dragged before Arthur, your body pulled back against Balder’s, his fist still caught in your hair. You scowl, clenching your eyes closed in pain as your head is pulled back to give Arthur the best view of your body and the knife to your throat. “I knew you would come.” Balder’s voice is thick with his accent and aggression, his thirst for violence obvious when he speaks. He’s prepared to kill you. He’s prepared to kill Arthur and destroy everything that you care about.

“Did you, now?” Arthur’s only half focused on Balder. The rest of his attention is on you, on what state you’re in, making sure you’re okay. Bedivere, Bill and Wetstick, and the others all have their orders. They know that their jobs are to make sure that Arthur’s path is clear—he has to take care of Balder and make sure you’re not hurt in the process. His eyes are on you, taking in your bruised cheek, the cut on your forehead that’s dried and scabbed, the dirt on your dress from scrambling and fighting. But you look intact, Arthur thinks. One sleeve of your dress is torn, just a little, and your skirt is caked with dirt and blood, but he thinks that you haven’t been hurt too badly.

“This is what happens when you have a king who gets too attached to whores,” Balder declares. Your hair is yanked again. “You forget that they’re just dead weight, and you break our agreement for slaves.” Arthur’s face is stony as his eyes leave you and return to Balder, his jaw hard and clenched.

“We don’t have any whores in England,” Arthur replies. “And we don’t have any slaves, either. I thought your man, Greybeard, had passed that on.” Balder shows Arthur a toothy, predatory grin.

“He did,” Balder replies, “just before he died.” Arthur’s hard jaw flexes just a bit as he nods once, slowly.

“Then I guess we’ll have to settle this a different way.” Arthur’s words are hard and meticulously spoken, leaving no room for error as to their meaning. You feel the pressure on the knife increase, the blade starting to cut into your skin. Your bound hands are reaching for Balder’s, but you can recognize the shift in the pressure as Balder prepares to cut your throat. You look at Arthur one last time, doing your best to fix that image of him in your mind, then close your eyes as the blade starts to move.

Arthur’s face contorts in anger as he moves to grip Excalibur with both hands.

And the world seems to go black.


The next time you open your eyes, you’re in Camelot. Your head aches and as you try in vain to bring the room into focus, everything seems to spin. Someone you recognize as a nurse comes in to check on you, looking you over. “Where…where…”

“You’re in Camelot,” the nurse answers quickly. She reaches for a cup of water and tries to hand it to you, but you turn your head away.

“Arthur…”

“He’s with the men. They’re making a plan to…” Her voice trails off as your head aches and the room spins.

Between you recovering and Arthur dealing with the political fall out of a confrontation with the Vikings, it’s a few days before you can actually see him again. Arthur steals time every now and then to sit with you in your room, but you’re always asleep when he has the chance. When you finally do get to see him, you’re sitting up in bed as Arthur brings his dinner in while he sits with you.

“You’re awake,” Arthur says, his blue eyes appraising you as you sit up in bed.

“It had to happen sometime,” you say. “No thanks to you.” Arthur drops his plate of food unceremoniously on a table near your bed. His eyebrows raise and a grin spreads across his face.

“Oh?”

“I had them right where I wanted them,” you say, exactly the way that Arthur had imagined you would. He chuckles to himself a little, relieved that you’re both able to have this conversation.

“Looked like it,” Arthur says as he moves a chair close to the bed so he can face you. He falls backward into it, grunting a little when he settles, and leans back, his legs stretched and open in that room dominating way that men do. “What with the knife to your throat, and all.” You mock scowl at Arthur and shift in the bed to make yourself more comfortable. Your body is still sore in places that you don’t remember getting hurt.

“It was part of my plan,” you clarify. Arthur’s eyes are sparkling as he watches you, lines crinkling as he smiles. “I just wanted to get Balder close so I could hurt him—I was waiting for my moment.”

“And I ruined it?” Arthur asks, his amusement clear in his voice. You make a show of sighing in contemplation.

“I let you have it,” you tell him slowly, your lips curling into a smirk. Arthur snorts.

“That’s generous of you,” Arthur says.

“Yes,” you agree, “it is.”

You fall into an easy silence where you and Arthur watch each other from your respective positions. It’s easy to see the difference in Arthur when you’re sitting like this, you think. Arthur the leader is all toughness, the features of his face tensed and set into a glare, his lips pulled taut and eyes hard and narrowed. His whole body becomes a big rock, strong and imposing and ready to strike. Now, he watches with soft cheeks, his mouth loose and curving into a grin, his eyes narrowed and curved only to smile. His whole body is open and relaxed, and he looks at you with a mixture of humor, concern and relief, never quite sure which one is dominant. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he finally says, his voice gentle and low.

“Were you starting to miss me?” Your voice is playful as you ask. He lets out a slow breath, not sure if he’s ready to be playful.

“I was thinking that finding a new queen would be hard,” Arthur says.

“Well,” you start, ”I am a difficult woman to top.” Arthur’s lips edge upward.

“You are difficult,” Arthur agrees. That silence settles in again as you smile at each other, Arthur’s look is still intense.

“I’m okay, you know,” you say, breaking the silence. Arthur’s jaw clenches again.

“You almost weren’t,” he says. You meet his eyes and swallow anxiously.

“They didn’t touch me.” Arthur’s whole body stiffens at these words, his breathing a little unsteady. “They knew you were coming for me, and they certainly talked about it, but…they never did.” His eyes are hard, gazing at you intently as he digests this. Part of him is looking for any sign that you’re not telling the truth, that you’re trying to spare him some kind of horrible scenario in which he failed to do the one thing he’s been trying to do since he witnessed his own mother’s death—protect women from being hurt. Especially the women he cares about.

Especially the ones he loves.

“If they hurt you,” Arthur says, pausing with an audible breath, “you can tell me the truth.” Your face slowly forms into a frown as you watch Arthur, still waiting to hear that he failed, that something terrible happened that can’t be taken back when he should have been there to keep you safe. You push away from the headboard you’re resting against and climb across the bed toward Arthur, his eyes trained on your every move. He starts in his seat when he sees you flinch a little as you move, but you keep climbing across the bed. You pull yourself over to Arthur and climb onto the chair, settling on his lap with your legs on either side of him. His hands reach up to your hips support you as he pulls you against him. You lean in close and kiss him, your lips soft against each other in a long embrace that begins gently and grows more passionate. He looks up at you as the kiss ends, your faces still close enough for your noses to touch. He exhales sharply against your face as you shift on his lap, grinding against him a little bit and pulling your skirt out of the way. “Are you sure about this?” His voice is husky when he speaks. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You brush your lips against his. “Arthur Pendragon,” you say, your voice a hoarse whisper from the stress of the last few days and your body waking up to Arthur’s touch, “kiss me.” A small, wicked grin starts to form on Arthur’s face.

“As my queen commands.”

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🐉5. favourite magical creature

aithusa bc she’s adorable

🍺8. favourite excuse pulled by merlin

I think it’s funny how gaius’s go to excuse for merlin is he’s at the tavern

🦋12. favourite touching moment

this one

and this one

🧣13. favourite costume

anything morgana wears ever but I’ll do my favs from a few characters

morgana:

and of course

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