Author: HadrianPeverellBlack (@evadne01)
Title: For Merlin Rating: Teen and Up
Pairing: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon
Characters: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon, Lancelot, Gwaine, Gaius, Mordred
Warnings: Major Character Death
Word Count: 622
Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53965657
Summary: Arthur Pendragon avenges his best friend.
Author's Notes: Hi! This is my second entry for Merlin Cinema, this time inspired by The Departed. I want to thank smartypantsflute for the beta work!❤❤❤ I hope you'll like it! Again, I use this for my Bingo Fill : m2 Arthur
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In 1962, Vincent Price joined with Sears and Roebuck to compile a collection of Fine art for their customers. Vincent purchased and chose each individual piece, and his wife Mary framed every one. He also would write a small "synopsis" of the piece, explaining what it is, why he chose it, and a little backstory about the artist.
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glass onion spoilers, again
they were so genius for the hair styles of helen & andi, with their hair being parted on different sides
cassandra/andi:
helen as helen:
helen as andi:
and they were even more sick for helen to wear the same earrings that andi had in the court when the shitheads last saw her, and then helen as andi had them on, on the way to the island:
(also this pose where both of them radiate the similar energy as the mona lisa ♥♥)
i love that helen knew andi so well - studied her journals, was listening to her recordings, probably had lot of pictures even from news about her, etc - but still deliberately chose to wear the hair parted to a different side!!
once again, *chef’s kiss*!
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...why is Yang's temple still a floating island? I thought that was cured.
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The Tortured Poets Department
Writer: Henry Fox
You are a dark sorcerer
Alex,
I can’t think of a single other way to start this email except to say, and I do hope you will forgive both my language and my utter lack of restraint: You are so fucking beautiful.
I’ve been useless for a week, driven around for appearances and meetings, lucky if I’ve made a single meaningful contribution to any of them. How is a man to get anything done knowing Alex Claremont-Diaz is out there on the loose? I am driven to distraction.
It’s all bloody useless because when I’m not thinking about your face, I’m thinking about your arse or your hands or your smart mouth. I suspect the latter is what got me into this predicament in the first place. Nobody’s ever got the nerve to be cheeky to a prince, except you. The moment you first called me a prick, my fate was sealed. O, fathers of my bloodline! O, ye kings of olde! Take this crown from me, bury me in my ancestral soil. If only you had known the mighty work of thine loins would be undone by a gay heir who likes it when American boys with chin dimples are mean to him.
Actually, remember those gay kings I mentioned? I feel that James I, who fell madly in love with a very fit and exceptionally dim knight at a titling match and immediately made him a gentleman of the bedchamber (a real title), would take mercy upon my particular plight.
I’ll be damned but I miss you.
x
Henry
-
The Tortured Poets Department
Writer: Alexander Claremont-Diaz
bad metaphors about maps
h,
i have had whiskey. bear with me. there’s this thing you do. this thing. it drives me crazy. i think about it all the time.
there’s a corner of your mouth, and a place that it goes. pinched and worried like you’re afraid you’re forgetting something. i used to hate it. used to think it was your little tic of disapproval.
but i’ve kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i’ve memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i’m still charting. i know it. i added it to the key. here: inches to miles. i can multiply it out, read your latitude and longitude. recite your coordinates like la rosaria.
this thing, your mouth, its place. it’s what you do when you’re trying not to give yourself away. not in the way that you do all the time, those empty, greedy grabs for you. i mean the truth of you. the weird, perfect shape of your heart. the one on the outside of your chest.
on the map of you, my fingers can always find the green hills, wales. cool waters and a shore of white chalk. the ancient part of you carved out of stone in a prayerful circle, sacrosanct. your spine’s a ridge i’d die climbing.
if i could spread it out on my desk, i’d find the corner of your mouth where it pinches with my fingers, and i’d smooth it away and you’d be marked with the names of saints like all the old maps. i get the nomenclature now—saints’ names belong to miracles.
give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart. there’s so much of you.
fucking yrs,
a
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