#inconceivable

[itookthetardis2liveaid]

Eddie Munson would have loved The Princess Bride.

But this is the thing that bugs me: Eddie died in 1986. And what year did The Princess Bride come out? 1987. The year after.

RIP Eddie, you would have loved The Princess Bride.

[aseuki]

Sleep power coming in clutch

[yeyinde]

OK but i need to know if price allows his wife to trim his beard …can you please write a drabble on it to feed my price addiction

Oh, absolutely!! I bet it’s easier for him to have someone he trusts cut his hair for him. His beard, though—I imagine he grooms it himself (too many oh, sir, you should cut it this way—), and he prefers a straight razor over a blade. If he really, really trusts you, he'll let you do it for him, but he's been grooming his beard since he was 28, and so. No one does it better than he does. 

His hair, however? He considers it a free cut.

》 WARNINGS: Um. Just some domestic bliss, really. Bantering. Allusions to sexual content, PTSD, and trust issues (not as serious as it sounds; just briefly mentioned). This is basically just gratuitous fluff. This was written with absolutely no discernible characteristics for the Reader—gender-neutral reader 》 WORD COUNT: 1,9k

"Hold still."

"Holdin' as still as I can, love."

His words are thick—little more than a grumble rasped into the collar of his shirt, distorted from the tilt of his head, chin resting on his sternum. 

To someone else, his tone might be misconstrued as waspish; a scathing snap sawed between his clenched teeth, and coloured in a thick paint of impatience. 

But you know him more than most, and the huffiness of his tone only serves to amuse you. 

(Your irascible man.)

Still. 

Your fingers snake through the overgrown locks on the top of his hand until you have a fistful trapped tight between each of your digits, and then you tug just so. A warning. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough that it makes him tense—makes him groan. 

His voice loses the surly pinch, and sounds decidedly breathless—a fact that makes you stifle a grin. 

"Gonna start somethin' you can't finish, you bloody minx."

"Gonna cut your skin if you don't stop wriggling around," you volley back. 

He huffs, shoulders slumping down with his sharp exhale. "Just get on with it. Getting stiff sittin' like this."

You ease off the clutch of his hair, but keep the locks between your fingers, eyeing the length, before nodding to yourself, and bringing the scissors close to the tuffs spilling out. 

The snipping sound of the shears cutting through his hair fills your small washroom. His shoulders seem to relax, if only slightly, as you work. 

You cut the locks between your pinky and ring finger shorter than the rest, and wince. 

"You know," you murmur, brows furrowing as you try to gauge whether or not it's passable enough to be overlooked, or if you'll need to cut all of it shorter to match. "You could go to a barber. A professional."

He grunts. You know what he's going to say before he says it, and you wordlessly mimic the words that leave his lips:

"Cheaper this way, ain't it?" He drops his chin when you nudge his head. 

Cutting his hair has become a small tradition between you, one that started a few months into your relationship when he showed up at your door, three hours late to a planned date with a bucket hat on his head, and a package of forget-me-nots in his hand (seeds, he said, because flowers will wilt and die in a day but if you plant them in your garden, they'll regrow forever). His hair was longer than usual, curling just under his chin, and the sight of him—so frazzled and unkempt compared to how put together he normally was—made something inside of you ache.

He'd rushed here as soon as he could, complaining that his flight was delayed, and his barber quit on him, and all the while, your fingers itched with the urge to run them through his overgrown locks, to feel the silken hair against your palm. 

(To grip tight and not let go.)

The words slipped out with very little conscious thought: I can cut it for you. 

He seemed almost caught off-guard, but the obvious discomfort of having his hair tickle the nape of his neck made his acquiescence much easier. 

You discovered that night just how much you liked having his hair in your hands, and he seemed to realise that fucking you against the wall, while you tugged on his freshly cut hair, in lieu of payment was much more preferable than dealing with a barber. 

"No," he grouses. "They're always goin' on 'bout undercuts, and tryin'a get me to shave my chops, and I ain't dealin' with that when I 'ave you." 

"Free labour?" 

"Hardly." He scoffs. "Gonna break my damned back one of these days, you bloody—"

"—hold still, love," the stolen endearment makes him shudder, but he quiets when you rest the flat of the blade over the crest of his ear, cutting the overgrown hair around his sideburns. "That's it. Good boy."

"Keep playing with me, love, and I'll show you who's a good—" 

Another tug. His scorching words taper off into a growl. 

"You don't seem to complain much when you pull me in for another round—ah, ah—" You tug his hair again when he moves, fighting a wide grin. The plastic handles of the scissors slide back until it arches off the back of your hand, thumb brushing the loose hair from behind his ear. "God, you're so stubborn. You want to get cut, don't you?"

"Trust you not to leave me a bloody mess by the end of this." 

With his chin dipped so far down into his collar, his words are honey-thick and robust, and the deep cadence alone makes your toes curl in your slippers. 

"Trust me that much, hmm?" 

Despite the transparent barb, the tease in your slightly breathless tone, he doesn't hesitate. "With my life." 

"Aren't you a charmer?" 

"Almost done? I'll show you how charming I can be—"

"Nearly. Would've finished an hour ago if you'd keep still."

He grumbles again, but the words are swallowed by the snip of the scissors. An impasse blooms in the scant space between your front, and his broad back. Comfortable, like all silences with him have become. Despite your griping, cutting his hair is soothing—intimate in a way you'd never come to expect it to be. 

It might be the explicit trust he places in your hands when you direct him to tilt his chin for you at a mere tap against his jaw, or the crown of his head. Wordlessly following your commands as soon as they're conveyed. 

To anyone else, such a display is commonplace, but you've been through the thick of everything to know that exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way to you, and so soon after a mission, is more meaningful than any declaration of trust could ever be. The innate drive to protect his fragile pieces from harm often leads to him flinching away from the sharp end of the shears, but it diminishes just as quickly as it rears, and he sits, docile and accommodating, for you. Allowing you this minuscule power over him. 

Maybe that's why he refuses to see a barber, opting to let you chop his hair in whichever style you deem attractive instead. Explaining to someone else why he's so tense, why he sometimes can't stifle the small jerk when cold metal kisses the nape of his neck, seems tiresome. The unneeded opening of a barely healed scab. 

It was a battle getting him to open up to you, to let you invade his space, and squeeze through the splinters in his resolve when it became clear that you weren't going anywhere that wasn't with him. 

The thought of it alone warms you. The ache in your joints from holding your hands still, cutting through the thick tufts of hair, feels like a small burden in comparison to what he's shown you with this. 

It's been barely five hours since he touched down at Heathrow. His duffle bag is still packed. His fatigues are still on. He hadn't even showered off the stench of the mission, or scoured the blood and dirt from between his nails, and yet—

You tap his cheek. His head lifts, and then lists to the side. The smooth curve of his neck is exposed. His exterior vein throbs through his sun-kissed skin. 

Affection blossoms in your chest. 

"Missed you." 

The words are barely a whisper, but his eyes peel open, icy blue finding yours as you lean over him, getting the last patch of hair near his temple. 

John says nothing in response, but he doesn't have to. You see it all—feel it. The vein in his neck throbs more intensely as his heart rate picks up, and that alone is more than an echoed sentiment in return. It's enough. 

But still:

His hand lifts with a deliberate slowness until the pads of his fingers kiss your wrist. He burns red-hot—skin just as fiery as his temper—and the warmth of his rough skin bleeds into you when he wraps his full palm over your arm, thumb brushing your flesh in a distinct pattern. 

When you recognise it, you falter. 

It isn't quite Morse code, but it's something he taught you on the eighth date when you asked if the wordless hand signals were accurate in the movie you'd just seen. His hand found yours as he led you out of the theatre, and down the cold, wet streets of Liverpool. 

"No," he snorted, derisively. And then spent the three blocks back to your flat showing you the different commands they used in the SAS, and the ones he taught his men. "If you can, skin on skin is better. Less likely to be seen. We save it for hostage situations. Like this—"

Blisteringly intense cerulean never wavers from yours as he lets you feel the words he rasps over your skin. 

You try not to tremble with the shears pressed too close to his skin, and quietly pull them away. He watches as you place them on the ledge of the vanity, hand never releasing yours. 

You brush the loose hair from his shoulders, trying to hide a smile.

"All done." 

John hums, the noise a crackling ember that fills the hush in the room, and notches between your ribs where it sticks against your thudding heart. 

"What's the verdict?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

Loose hair falls from his shoulders when he stands until it dusts across the tile below his feet. He leans over the sink, shaking his head above the basin, before settling, angling his chin as he takes in your shoddy handiwork. 

"Looks good."

You snort. "Sure. I'll have to go over it once you finish showering because someone wouldn't sit still long enough for me to clip around your crown, and—"

He turns to face you, and the playful diatribe is cut off when his warm palms fit against your hips. It's his turn to tug, and he does so with a sharp jerk of his wrists, pulling you taut to his chest. 

His eyes bore down into yours, mirthful blue. "Yes, yes," his eyes roll briefly toward the ceiling, lips curling into a soft smirk. "But someone kept tryin'a clip my ears, and pullin' on my hair."

"Someone, eh?" You volley coyly, reaching up, and curling your fingers into the bristles of hair spilling from his cheeks. 

At your gentle touch, his expression shifts to contemplative. His chin tilts when your nails graze his skin. 

"You like my beard, don't you?" 

Your brow lifts in question. "Yes, you know I do. Why? The boys making fun of you for it?"

"Gaz said I looked like an Edwardian lord—" you snort at the comparison. He pinches your side. "Watch it."

"Is that all?"

"Soap said they're grabable."

"Yeah, they are," you purr, taking in as much as you can in your fists. "Very steerable, too. But why is Soap concerned about that?"

"Said someone could grab 'em. Drag me by 'em, and—"

"Like his mohawk?"

He concedes your point with a flash of teeth. "You don't think I need to trim 'em?"

"And lose my handlebars? No way—"

His darken. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?" 

"For you? Always." 

"Mmm," he tilts his chin down, and presses his mouth to yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip. "Insatiable little minx."

"You love it." 

"You know I do." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. When you peer up at him, his pelagic gaze turns turbid with desire. "Now, about your payment…"

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

Inconceivable (Princess Bride AU)

Part I: A Kissing Story

Westeros has been at peace for nearly a year, and a wedding has been planned to celebrate the anniversary. King Jacaerys will marry his aunt, the only surviving child of the Greens, and unite both Targaryen bloodlines at last. It is a fairy tale ending, but this is no ordinary fairy tale...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x sister!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Jacaerys x reader

Warnings: Angst, grief, forced marriage

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: Nothing like watching an old classic movie to revive the writing inspiration, huh?

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

Part I: A Kissing Story

“The princess was raised in a great castle along the coast of a glimmering sea. Her favorite pastimes were riding her dragon and tormenting her older brother. His name was…” Aemond. His name was Aemond, but she couldn’t say that. She had not said it in what felt like a lifetime. Not even to their mother.

His name was Aerion. But she never called him that. Nothing gave the princess as much pleasure as ordering Aerion around. ‘Lēkia, help me brush my hair!’ she would say.

Aerion would reply, “as you wish.’ It was all he ever said to her.

One day, the princess called him into her chambers before they were to attend a ball. When he entered, she was sitting at her vanity, a necklace of sapphires set in gold laid before her. ‘Lēkia, help me with my necklace. The clasp is quite tricky.’

The clasp was not tricky, but he put it around her neck anyway, his hands lingering on her neck as they gazed into each other’s eyes through the mirror. ‘As you wish,’ Aerion said.

That day, the princess was amazed to discover that when her brother said ‘As you wish,’ what he meant was this: ‘I love you.’ And even more amazing was that night when she realized she truly loved him back.”

“Is this a kissing story?” Young Aegon’s voice shattered the spell she’d been under like a pane of glass. The young prince – her nephew – was tucked into his bed as he recovered from a mild fever.

She laughed. The boy was becoming a man now if he no longer had a taste for ‘kissing stories.’ Once, he had loved them. “I’m sorry, Aegon. I can tell another if you would prefer?”

Aegon sighed. “No, I think I just want to sleep, muña.”

“Then I shall let you sleep, trēsy.” She did not let her disappointment show until she had left her nephew’s bedchamber. She needed to tell the story, for it was the only way she could keep it alive, the only way she could remember.

So, as she returned to her rooms and was readied for bed by servants she did not trust, she silently told the story to herself.

“Aerion asked the crown for permission to marry his sister, but before they could say their vows, war befell the kingdom, and he was sent away to battle to protect their family.

‘I fear I’ll never see you again,’ the princess cried as they said their farewells.

‘Of course you will,’ he assured.

‘But what if something happens to you?’

‘Hear this now: I will always come for you.’

Through her tears, the princess asked, ‘How can you be sure?’

Aerion smiled, ‘This is true love; you think it happens every day?’

His assurance gave the princess enough bravery to watch him mount his dragon and fly away. But Aerion did not return from battle. His dragon was attacked in the Gullet by his enemies and felled. When the princess got the news that he was murdered, she went into her rooms and shut the door and for days she neither slept nor ate, swearing she would never love again.

Two years later, King’s Landing was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great King Jacaerys’ bride-to-be.

‘My people,’ Jacaerys said, ‘three months from now, our realm will celebrate a year since peace was at last declared. On that sundown, I shall marry my dear aunt, our princess, to reunite our family and signal an end to the strife that threatened to consume us.’

The people cheered so loudly that the princess thought she might be struck deaf. But she was not, forcing her to hear every moment of their adoration. Her emptiness consumed her.

Although the law of the land gave Jacaerys the right to choose his bride, the princess did not love him. He had fought in the battle where her true love had been killed, and every time she looked at him, all she could see was a vision of her brother as he and his dragon fell into the sea.

Despite Jacaerys’ reassurance that she would grow to love him, the only joy she found was in telling her story to her little niece and nephews – the only other remaining members of her family and the only ones who would not glean the longing in her voice. For if the king or his council ever learned that she still loved her brother…”

The door thumped shut as the last of the servants left. She let out a heavy sigh, at last feeling as though she could breathe again as she finished her story, whispered into her pillow.

“She would never be allowed to tell the story again.”

-

Hundreds of miles away, a weather-worn ship rocked lazily in the docks of Lys. Its crew was scattered within the city, enjoying its many pleasures.

All but the captain.

The man known and feared throughout the world as the Dread Pirate Symeon sat alone in his quarters, silent as death. He pored over a map of the Narrow Sea, but his eye was drawn again and again to a single mark – the small three-headed dragon along the coast of Westeros—King’s Landing.

He ran a finger gloved in black leather over the mark, tapping it twice as he again pondered the words that had echoed in his mind since he heard them.

“King Jacaerys has announced his intention to marry his aunt upon the anniversary of his taking the throne and restoring peace to Westeros.”

Symeon stood so quickly that his chair toppled over, one leg splintering on impact. He did not give it a second glance before strapping a sackful of gold to his belt and storming off the ship.

One of his sailors had the misfortune to be making his way drunkenly back to the ship when the captain pulled him aside. “The ship is Marlow’s now,” he said, naming his first mate. “You will tell no one that you have seen me, or I will return and slit your throat. Understood?”

The sailor nodded, his blood sluggish with drink and fear. The captain released him, and he nearly stumbled into the sea.

When he regained his balance and looked back down the dock, the Dread Pirate Symeon was gone.

[anneslovegood]

The British museum be like:

[p-seduonym]

Being the Maid of Yandere Louis James Moriarty

A/N: I kinda winged this one, if you can’t tell already. Enjoy, or don’t, I guess. Do whatever.

You were a maid at the Rockwell estate.

Fairly young, you had worked there for your entire life.

Your days consisted of tedious chores, cooking and cleaning mostly.

That is until Lord Rockwell suddenly took in three wards.

You heard passing rumors from other servants, about the incident at the Moriarty manor.

The count and his wife, along with all of their servants, tragically lost their lives in a terrible fire. Nothing was spared, except the count’s children, who were left orphaned.

Although no one seemed to mention the adopted child that had also perished in the fire…

You felt pity for the boys, only a few years younger than yourself. Especially the youngest.

The eldest son, Albert, was busy with duties as the heir to the earldom while the second son, William, was soon enrolled in school.

That left the youngest, Louis, alone.

And, although you don’t like to admit it, you felt slight trepidation at first. 

The boys were withdrawn, which could only be expected, but they didn’t seem to have an air of grief about them. More so, the atmosphere appeared almost like a cold sense of resolution.

But, when you laid eyes on his bandaged face, you felt guilty for your thoughts.

Ashamed, you made it a point to be especially kind to the boys. But, your efforts mostly went to Louis, who remained in the house most of the time.

Initially, Louis was rather confused by your attention. You seemed to go out of your way to speak with him. Whether it was just greeting him or asking how his day was.

He didn’t know why you were so interested in him, rather than Albert, the eldest, or William, the prodigy. 

Most people disregarded him, the adopted, scarred boy from the slums, with neither age or intelligence to make him stand out in a particular way.

Still, he remained cordial to you. He was even somewhat grateful to learn firsthand how to manage a household.

Soon enough, it became common for the two of you to be seen together, whether it was doing laundry, washing dishes, or cooking in the kitchen.

It was tedious work that you were used to, but you enjoyed the time with Louis.

And you couldn’t help but think he did as well.

As time passes, Louis becomes gradually less distant, his smile becoming less of a pleasantry, more genuine.

He would also leave small gifts for you, be it a small pastry he claimed he made too much of or a flower he said was out of place in a bouquet he picked.

You're pleased by this change. Ignoring etiquette, you sometimes gently ruffled his hair just to see him get flustered. Or you would hug him to coax a smile out of him.

If someone saw the two of you, they would have seen an older sister teasing her brother.

And it felt that way. For you, at least. For Louis…

It felt odd to think of you in such a way.

William mentions, offhandedly, how close the two of you seem to be.

Louis is startled by this observation. He’d never been particularly close to anyone except William, and Albert, to an extent.

He quickly assured his brother that you were just a maid, an innocent servant that knew nothing.

But William only smiles and says he’s happy to see Louis enjoying himself. 

With his brother’s (seeming) blessing, Louis reconsiders his feelings about you.

It was obvious you viewed him as a younger sibling, if your physical affection said anything. But why did that frustrate him?

He wanted to be the only one you smiled at with that beautiful smile of yours. He felt irritated whenever you gave one in passing to a male servant.

Fortunately, it was easy to use his young age to his advantage. He would grab at your skirt like a child trying to get someone’s attention. It was shameless, but effective as you would turn to him with a smile.

Or he would pretend to be confused about how to prepare a meal, just to have your attention to himself.

It was easy when he was younger, but those tricks wouldn’t work as he got older.

So how could he keep you to himself?

As years passed, the two of you grew older.

Your relationship now turned a few more heads. Why would a simple maid be so close to the son of a count? You heard this among other whispers as you passed servants in the halls.

It was endearing, at first, to see a maid so attentive to her young master. Now, however, it made it look as if you were just a tad too ambitious. Could you be trying to raise your social status by seducing a young nobleman?

The entire idea scandalized you so much that you made an effort to shape up, acting more professional around Louis, who obviously notices you becoming more distant.

It’s difficult trying to maintain a proper relationship, between a servant and their master, with him. But you figured it was for the best, since he came of age and wouldn’t remain in the Rockwell estate forever.

This was inevitable, and you had resigned yourself to that…

Louis, however…

He isn't oblivious to the rumors, so he doesn’t blame you for becoming distant. However, he refuses to accept this. You’ve become someone precious to him.

So, he asks his brother for his advice…

For reasons unknown to you, your life had become increasingly hostile at the Rockwell manor. Rumors followed you everywhere, along with disdainful looks. You noticed items of yours disappearing. Pins were stuck in your uniform and broken glass in your shoes.

Who would do such a thing?

Your only solace was Louis, who remained loyal even in the wake of your distant behavior towards him. He comforted you as you confessed all that happened.

Ultimately, it all culminates in someone - you only saw a shadow - pushing you down the large staircase, causing you to break a leg. The one who found you lying at the base in a heap was Louis…

Carrying you to the servant’s quarters, Louis softly proposes something to you.

Albert has purchased a house, in the quiet town of Durham. Somewhat old, but furnished. He and his brothers were to move there soon.

As he bandages your leg, he asks for you to come with him. He can’t bear to see you suffer here any longer. There won’t be too much work, his brothers and he weren’t demanding. There was always a place for you.

As you tear up and hug him, for the first time in a while, Louis smiles to himself.

[benthesoldiersjeanshorts]

[entomolog-t]

I agree with the anon, you're definetly a celebrity. *throws a tiny flower at you*

(Pls dont be allergic)

YOU STARTED ALL OF THIS!!!

[angryasiandyk3]

okay but have we considered a chainshipping princess bride au where Lawrence is Westley (I love Cary in this movie sm) and Adam is Buttercup ?

[thcscus]

hello! i'm a huge fan of your works. i first found you through passerine and i love your newer fics just as much, you even got me into 'the wayhaven chronicles' lol i was just wondering if you had any writing advice you could spare? just in general. but personally when i try implementing aspects of my favourite authors' writing styles into my own, it makes my own feel stiff and janky

OHO i can now die happy knowing i dragged someone else down into wayhaven hell with me

re: writing advice—i always found this one helpful :]

[twobrokenwyngs]

—You see the latest Stab movie? —Not really a fan of scary movies. —That checks out. Anyway, it sucked balls.

[servegrilledcheese]

plumbobteasociety you will always be famous

[onejellyfishplease]

Doot doot >:D

.... well this is getting quite suspicious ....

[cheshiremask]

Inconceivable

[lostflamingo]

Morgana is an icon 😍

-A