#the princess bride inspired

[jackdaw-and-hattrick]

Dick, about Danny: that thing will kill you one of these days.

Jason: A man can only dream

[bloombird]

Wilted Rose Bouquet

This unnamed botbots OC belongs to my brother!!!

Here's her lore from what I can remember from my brother: The rose can sense some stuff before gaining sentience.

She thinks that she's made for love. After being bought by a human, she was excited. But suddenly, she was thrown away after several minutes. She was decaying and decaying until the energon storm brought her to life. Till then she was wistful and wandering about love

[comradesummers]

not enough discussion of how fundamentally jewish the princess bride is. the film makes this explicit with the grandfather saying "shalom" to the grandson as he's getting ready to leave. and of course there's billy crystal and carol kane's performances which speak for themselves.

but especially in the book, there's this extra layer of jewishness in the form of florin. the father is from florin, an old european country, he speaks in an accent, and the reading of the book to his son is his attempt to share with him the culture of the old country. and it works! the son (a fictionalized version of the novel's real life author, william goldman, who also wrote the screenplay for the film) loves the book, or that is to say, he loves the abridged version of the book without all the worldbuilding. but he doesn't quite succeed at passing the tradition on to his son. so he decides to abridge the book the way his father did for him so his son can enjoy it as much as he did. there's so much there about the immigrant experience, the attempt to keep the tradition of the old country alive through future generations, and how the process of keeping that tradition alive may necessitate losing parts of it. all of this is deeply tied to the jewish immigrant experience in both subtle and unsubtle ways.

most notably, there's this bit from the book (for those who haven't read it, as mentioned the frame narrative is that goldman is abridging the original book by a guy named s. morgenstern from the fictional country of florin, so this bit is a part of the book, even though it reads like paratext):

Hiram, my editor, felt the Miracle Max section was too Jewish in sound, too contemporary. I really let him have it on that one [...] And so here the point is, if Max and Valerie sound Jewish, why shouldn't they? You think a guy named Simon Morgenstern was Irish Catholic?

i just think there's a lot there and i've really only scratched the surface. both the film and the book are a lot more thematically rich than i think we give them credit for, and the jewishness of the story is a big part of that.

[lanternsponies]

Cadance

[graph-graphula]

Kim Kassas Couture Spring 2023

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Heirs to Empty Thrones (ao3)

In the absence of the king, Nesta finds herself carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and there's only one knight in the world that can take her mind off it. (For @cassianappreciationweek day 5. We're playing very fast and loose with the term 'lionhearted'...) (psst, @c-e-d-dreamer)

The gold circlet at her brow was heavy.

Heavier than before— heavier than it had been that morning. It was a burden, a chain around her neck, and it didn’t matter how fine or gilded it was— the hammered band was a mantle she did not wish to bear, and now there was an invisible weight crushing and pressing and bearing down on her as the strain worked its way into her very bones. It curled up around her veins and grew tighter, squeezing until it felt like the cold, thin band was constricting, determined to make her bleed.

It ached.

Everything ached.

Her father was gone— abandoned them a decade ago to wage holy war in lands so distant they seemed like another world, and now every day that dawned brought a horde of dissatisfied noblemen to her door, in their fine clothes and gold rings, horses hooves clattering in the courtyard every morning as the gates to the castle were thrown wide. The same men who had decades ago refused to accept a woman’s rule now crowded in her hall, begging her to write to her father and bring him home, as if her words could do anything, as if they were of any value at all.

Nesta shivered, the nighttime chill seeping through the stone of the central keep, and through the thick-paned and lead-lined glass she saw the torches glowing on the curtain wall, flames stark against the night sky, devouring the dark.

Beyond the light of those torches, in the distant miles outside that high stone wall, the realm crumbled. The roads were filled with bandits and rebels, taxes went unpaid, and as each day gave way to night, the laws of the realm seemed ever more breakable, no stronger than reeds swaying in the wind. Her father had left her uncle as regent, charged him with the protection of the crown and its lands, and yet unrest had never been so widespread. There were rumours of men in the forest stealing from the rich to give to the poor, tales of children starving, and with no king to call on there was no solution to be had, nothing to be done.

Nothing— and Nesta dropped her head into her hands now, wondering when exactly she’d been the one to pick up the weight her father had dropped ten years ago. She had been a child when he left, the eldest daughter he’d gotten in place of a son, and for so many years she had awaited his return, watching for his ship on the horizon, counting the sails of every vessel that came to port. In vain— she had waited in vain, and when her mother and sisters had returned to their estates in France, Nesta had stayed behind, a woman now, all alone and bearing the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. 

Weary, she sighed.

The hour grew late, the darkness deepening, and yet Nesta didn’t move. She remained sitting alone in the small chamber branching off the great hall with only the silence for company. A single candle cut the dim, sweet wax scenting the air as night descended, the flame flickering in the draughts that crept through the stone.

Already, she knew sleep would not find her tonight.

Her head began to throb, the coronet she wore unbearable. Her people suffered, her realm burned, and what was she but a princess in a world that didn’t hear the voice of women, powerless and vulnerable until her father returned? She shook her head, and with a steadiness that surprised her, she lifted her hand and removed that God-forsaken band, casting it onto the thick wooden table before her, leaving it to sit in a pool of candlelight, gold and shining and bright with something she had once thought to be promise. The jewels winked, garnets and emerald and sapphires, cut stones set into the band, and oh, once Nesta had looked at the diadem and thought it pretty.

Once she had thought it beautiful.

She didn’t think so any longer.

And with her head resting in her hand, she sat alone in that chamber, lost, only waiting for somebody to find her.

It didn’t take long. 

Soon enough a knock sounded at the door, echoing through the silence, and Nesta almost opened her mouth to ask for peace— but before her lips could part the door was opened, iron hinges creaking as old wood slid across even older stone. Footsteps sounded, muffled by the rushes scattered across the floor to fight the chill, and as Nesta looked up, fingers still resting against her temples, she glimpsed the bulk of a man slipping around the doorframe, a silhouette against the candlelight.

Somebody had found her indeed, and as she straightened in her chair, she realised that perhaps she didn’t mind so much that out of all the souls in this castle, he had been the one to seek her out. 

Cassian.

The man who had helped her off her horse so many months ago, when she’d first arrived at this particular castle, so close to the coast. He was her father’s knight, a broad span of hardened muscle with hands no strangers to the hilt of a sword, and yet when he’d lifted her down from her horse at that first meeting, when her hands had slid down the length of his chest, his fingers had curled around her waist and brushed her spine, and she’d felt a jolt go through her that had her suddenly wanting to ride every day, if it meant he would be the one to lead her horse to stable when she returned.

When her feet had hit the ground, his hands had lingered at her waist as hers had tarried at his shoulders. He had dipped his head as he took her horse’s reins, wrapping the leather around his fist, and when he’d glanced up at her from beneath thick eyelashes, he’d murmured welcome home, princess— and Nesta had known then that she was in trouble, swimming in dangerous waters, at risk of drowning.

He’d been knighted by her grandfather before the late king’s death, earning his spurs fighting rebels, and daily he could be seen in the courtyard practising with his blade, so lethal it was a wonder her father hadn’t ordered him to lead the armies fighting in the Holy Land. Silently, secretly, Nesta was glad he hadn’t. Cassian was confident, arrogantly so, but loyal to a fault, and since that very first day he’d worked his way into her good graces, slipping so easily among her thoughts it was though he was always supposed to be there, taking up space inside her head. 

And now she prayed for meetings on the turrets stairs, chance encounters in darkened halls, where his hand might brush hers, or his smile might make her heart race.

“You should be in bed,” he said now, looking at her across the candlelit chamber, over the long wooden table surrounded by empty chairs. “It’s late.”

His familiar face eased the ache that had plagued every part of her, and as his eyes dropped to her circlet lying discarded on the table, Nesta tipped her head up to see his face, raising an eyebrow as she rested her hands on the arms of her chair.

“Are you my nursemaid now?”

Cassian let out a small laugh as he stalked closer, prowling through the darkness as his eyes studied every inch of her he could see, as if searching for injury, looking for strain. As her father’s household knight, he was honour-bound to protect and serve her, but as he raked his gaze across her face, Nesta knew with certainty that it wasn’t honour that had him closing the distance between them with even, determined strides. Slowly, he tilted his head, giving her a brazen smile.

“Would you like me to be?”

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he came to a halt, standing on the other side of the long table. His silhouette was stark in the golden light— broad shoulders lined with muscle were covered with a simple linen tunic dyed a watery, washed-out red, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. Golden brown skin shone almost bronze beneath the glow of the candles, and his wrist lay idle atop the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip. Nesta dragged her eyes over him, from his leather boots to the silver bracelets at his wrists— a matching pair, each studded with a single large garnet. They glimmered, deep crimson stones shining like molten rubies, and even though they were far from extravagant, Nesta’s eye caught them anyway. Cassian lifted his wrist from his sword as he crossed his arms over the wide span of that chest, his gently curling hair spilling over one shoulder and brushing his collarbone.

He was…

He was everything she shouldn’t want, and everything she couldn’t have.

And yet still she met his eye, his hazel gaze a delectable blend of gold and green and brown— rich and warm and sweet. Cassian didn’t blink, and just as she always did, she felt stripped by the intensity of his gaze. He looked at her now, expectant.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted at last.

Cassian frowned. “You seem troubled.”

Nesta barked a laugh, one that was bitter and as sharp as shattered glass. She shook her head, and even without the golden circlet around her temples, she felt the pressure still there, pushing in on all sides. 

“Do I?”

“You do,” Cassian nodded, taking another step forward until he stood directly behind one of the chairs tucked beneath the empty table. He reached out and braced his hands on it, fingers curling around the wood as he leaned down to her level, canting his head to the side and sending his long hair tumbling over the other shoulder. Something thick and heady stirred in his eyes, something that seemed like concern mixed with something… something else, something she couldn’t recognise. His face softened as he let out a breath, tension seeping from his jaw as his fingers loosened on the chair.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment. “Tell me what burdens you.”

Nesta blinked. “It’s your brother that’s advisor to the crown,” she said, thinking of Cassian’s adopted brother— Rhysand, the one who was, even now, with her father in the Holy Land, kept deep within the king’s confidences. “Not you.”

Cassian shrugged. “I don’t want to be an advisor to the crown.”

“Just advisor to me, then?”

His lips split into a grin, one that made her heart ache. 

“If you’ll have me.”

Nesta shook her head again, dipping her gaze to her hands, just to stop herself from dragging her stare over every inch of him, over the forearms where his exposed skin shone in the candlelight.

“I can guess,” Cassian continued, his voice a drawl through the otherwise silent chamber. “What it is that brothers you— I can guess. Your uncle is causing chaos outside these walls, princess. Soon there will be riots.”

A chill gathered at the base of her spine. Nesta knew this already— had spent hours being lectured on it by the very men who her father had trusted to keep his lands safe. And now they looked to her, as if she could fix it— as if she had any sway at all over the man who had left when she was a child. The king had become a stranger to her, hardly a shadow in her memory, and she was naught but the princess of a failing kingdom, the daughter of an absent father. What did she have— what power did she hold at all?

“The law means nothing anymore,” Cassian said with a wave of his hand, lips pulled downwards in distaste. “Your grandfather I respected, but his sons leave him a poor legacy. Your uncle takes what he wants when he wants, and his retainers are worse. The taxes he levies are brutal and—”

Nesta let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I don’t want to think of it anymore,” she said, tired. “I want to forget about it— about all of it, for just one night.”

She looked up, at the warrior on the other side of the table. His words died on his tongue, and the silence stretched for a beat too long as he met her gaze. Her heart seemed loud enough for him to hear, and as the night pressed against the windows and the candle flame flickered, Nesta looked at him with a challenge - a plea - in her eyes. She blinked, but he merely looked at her the way he always did, like he knew her down to her bones.

“I want to forget,” she repeated, a whisper as he pushed away from the chair and took a step towards her, bringing him close enough to touch, now. “Let me forget, Cassian.”

Silent, he nodded. In the gathering dark he reached for her, lifting her hand from the arm of her chair and bringing it, reverently, to his lips. His mouth was warm against her skin, his hand tightening around hers, holding her against him as though he wanted to keep her there forever, and though this ought to have been a knightly gesture, something chivalric and gallant, there was something in the way he held her that made it deeper, made his kiss something far more than a show of loyalty from a knight to his lady.

Something far more meaningful— and something far more dangerous.

“I can help you,” he murmured, his voice little more than a breathless whisper in the darkness. Nesta found her eyes drifting closed, and even though he lifted his lips, he didn’t drop her hand. “I can make you forget all of it, princess. Just for tonight.”

Her eyes fluttered, and oh, it was a kind of treason— to let him touch her, to let him press such a lingering kiss to her skin, to let him speak to her as though he knew her, body and soul. With effort, Nesta forced herself to remember where she was— who she was, because with that raw heat dancing in his eyes… oh, yes. It was treason to touch the king’s daughter the way he did.

“My father…” she began.

“Is absent, princess.” Cassian let her hand slip from his, and the absence of his warmth was jarring. “Your sisters are in France. There’s nobody here but you and I, and no king on these shores to object to anything.”

“Treason,” Nesta breathed, her voice soft. To speak against the king, to speak of him with such disdain… that was treason too, or as close as one could get without lifting a sword. But Cassian only let a grin curve his lips, crooked and charming as he pulled away just enough to draw his sword an inch from its sheath.

“Will you end my life here, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Brave, Nesta thought wryly, looking at the hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his blade. They called her father coeur de lion, but it was Cassian who had a lion’s heart. A foolish heart— but brave nonetheless. He smirked a little still, even as he unsheathed his sword all the way and set it on the table. The steel was bright, polished, and the hilt was simple— wrapped in leather with a silver pommel. Her father’s was decorated with gold, vines engraved down the blade, a groove down the middle to wick away the blood he shed. Cassian’s was far simpler, but no less sharp— no less deadly. It lay between them as he nodded.

“Go on, princess.” He tilted his head to the side, eyes dark and daring. “Attaint me. Have me stripped of everything I own, take my name and ruin it.” His voiced dropped lower, his gaze turning heated. “Because even if your father were here, my loyalty would be to you. I wouldn’t go to the edge of the courtyard for a man that abandons his realm for ten years. But for you— for you I’d go to the ends of the earth, and you’re right princess, that’s all kinds of treason, so you should do everything that I’ve just said. Have me attainted, confiscate my lands, and then have someone slit my throat, because death is the only thing that could stop me from doing this.”

With an unwavering gaze, Cassian lifted a hand.

Slowly, purposefully he cupped her cheek, his touch far too bold and far too brazen as his fingers strayed across her jaw, sliding into her hair— braided and bound and up. His rings snagged on her braids, the plain silver bands he wore with swirling engravings reminding her of the woad tattoos she’d once heard about the ancient Scots decorating their skin with, and as his lips neared hers, her heart began an off-kilter beat inside her chest. His touch was one of devotion— unyielding and unshakeable and so very, very treacherous.

She didn’t move— couldn’t. His eyes roamed her face, searching, as her lips parted he looked at her like he’d just found whatever it was he’d been looking for. He risked his life, his neck, and yet something thrummed through her as she felt his callouses against her skin, rough from all those years with a sword in hand. The cool metal of his rings pressed against her cheek, and it felt all kinds of forbidden and yet— she didn’t pull away.

The gold circlet on the table was all the reason in the world that this was a bad idea, but outside the world was already going to Hell, and Nesta just wanted one moment of peace— one breath of it, no matter how brief. Cassian looked at her like she was the closest he would ever come to Heaven, like he’d already resigned himself to his damnation, and she knew without needing him to speak that she was the only thing he’d kneel for, the only altar he would worship at. 

“You can’t,” she whispered as he tilted his head. Those eyes - those damned eyes - were afire, blazing with a kind of heat Nesta had only ever heard about in songs and chansons de geste— epic, lyrical poems. They were certain to be her undoing, those eyes. Her unravelling. But as the candlelight glowed, reflected in that unwavering, steadily burning hazel… Nesta longed to fall, to let herself come undone.

“And why not?” Cassian asked with a rueful smile, daring to drag his thumb across her cheekbone.

“Because I—“ she began, but her breath faltered as he moved his thumb to her lips, tracing the bow in the centre before dropping to her chin and circling beneath her jaw. Nobody had ever touched her before— nobody had ever dared. “My father is the king,” she forced out.

“Your father hasn’t been here for ten years, sweetheart.”

“That doesn’t change anything,” she said, forcing her eyes open even as they threatened to drift closed. 

Cassian let out a breath, and when he spoke next his voice was firm. “Princess, your great-grandmother sank this country into a civil war to get the crown. You could too, if you wanted.” He didn’t waver, and his touch didn’t slow, exploring the planes of her face with a gentleness that contradicted the sword on the table, the scar through his eyebrow. Treason danced on his tongue, but he spoke of war and bloodshed as if it were nothing, as if he’d serve up this realm to her singlehanded if only she’d ask.  “And I will cut down every single person who stands in your way, if I have to.”

“That really is treason,” she whispered. 

“I care not,” he murmured, dipping his head until his lips were barely an inch from hers. She felt his breath on her cheeks, felt her heartbeat grow wild.

“Fool,” she said softly, but there was no ire there, none at all. He only hummed, nodding in agreement.

“Only for you,” he answered, and it seemed, somehow, like a promise. Like a vow. “Only for you would I draw that blade— only for you do I kneel.”

The candle flame flickered in the corner, and with the moonlight drifting through the windows, she let herself, for just a moment, lean into his touch. She turned her face into his palm, and he hummed again, daring to let his other hand curl around her hip. 

She felt herself slipping, falling. With the golden light dancing on his skin and setting his hazel eyes aglow, she felt herself forgetting all of the turmoil outside of these walls. Tomorrow— she’d deal with it tomorrow. For tonight she only wanted this— the man who looked at her like she was the sun and the moon and the sky itself, who offered her the sharp end of his blade, hers to command as she wished.

“No one can know,” she breathed. “About this— whatever this is.”

He smiled softly. “I always have been exceptionally good at keeping secrets.”

Nesta smiled too, and with every beat of her heart catching, stumbling, she reached for the hand he had rested at her hip. She tangled their fingers together, his rough against her smooth, and Lord have mercy on her— she melted at that touch, felt herself sinking into it and letting it enfold her, engulf her. His thumb moved across the back of her fingers, his lips parting on an exhale, and with all of the weight and authority that she could muster - every ounce of regality that circlet gave her, that her royal blood gave her - she lifted her chin and sought out those eyes of burning, burning hazel.

“Kiss me,” she said.

Cassian smiled, his fingers squeezing hers, tightening his hold. Nesta longed to feel the curve of those lips against hers, yearned for it, and just before Cassian pressed his lips to hers - just before he gave her everything she had ever wanted - he let out a soft breath, one hand moving behind her back, resting between her shoulder blades to pull her closer, to hold her pressed to his chest. As Cassian’s lips brushed the corner of her mouth, he smirked.

“As you wish, princess.”

[stealthysteveharrington]

Halloween ‘87 has a Princess Bride themed group costume at Eddie’s insistence. Eddie is of course Inigo Montoya, while Unnamed Freak is Fezzik and Gareth is Vizzini (inconceivable!).

Naturally, Steve is Westley and he tried to convince Robin to be Buttercup but she would only participate if she could be The Man With 6 Fingers (cue sword fight between her and Eddie - okay and of course Steve and Eddie have a sword fight too but that one has more sexual tension and definitely ends in them making out). Also she painted the matching sword marks on her cheeks for her costume. Nancy ends up being Buttercup and Argyle is the Albino. Jonathan is Humperdinck, and Jeff is Miracle Max, he brings the girl he’s seeing along to be Max’s wife.

They tried to convince Dustin to be an ROUS but he was not having it. The Party decided to dress as The Lost Boys instead

[talefoundryshow]

NEW VIDEO!

“And what does ‘vengeance’ mean? To right wrongs and rebalance the scales of justice in one's favor? Or to drive one's foes into a pit of agony?”

You’ll NEVER guess what we’re discussing today 😉

[dujour13]

Jumping on board the meme train! Most of these weren't conscious inspirations when Siavash took form but I can see where my little brain was shopping for ingredients.

Howl - the clothes and the radiant smile.

Jake - a very irresponsible but bombastic and musically talented little dog. Also loves adventures and knows how to cook.

Dale Cooper - always friendly, optimistic and brings people together. Just loves a good cup of coffee and slice of pie. Also really off the wall.

Miguel - his guitar and shenanigans. And his bff partner in crime.

Ferris Bueller - the extremely popular and dishonest guy who gets his best friend to take a day off from his troubles and, as if by magic, overcome them.

Eddie Vedder - not for the voice exactly (Sia's a tenor) but the vibe. Really nice guy, heartfelt songs, left wing politics.

Not tagging people because a lot have done this already but I'd love to see more! Here's the template

[unfriendlyamazon]

Fandom ask game, 17 for Seto, 18 for Joey 👀

17. What's a book, movie, or show you think [character] would like?

aaaaa okay i have too many answers but the most recent joke i've had going with @kaijous is that seto kaiba is obsessed with the film titanic and probably titanic in general and is probably a real james cameron about it. (he gets joey the heart of the ocean, the actual prop, yes joey loves it too he was rocking the leo for a while). there is also a book called The Flight of Dragons by Peter Dickinson which posits scientific explanations for dragons and why we don't uncover their bones and i picture an 11 year old seto D E V O U R I N G this book.

18. Type [charater]'s name and tell us what the autocomplete suggests as the next word

i tried both "joey wheeler" and "jounouchi" and no matter what all my phone will type is "joey wheeler is a great guy" which is true

[steadfastmockingbird]

Idea that I'd love to see written one day, either by me or someone else, I don't care:

Inigo Montoya (The Princess Bride) and 90s Gomez Addams (The Addams Family/The Addams Family Values) as somewhat homoerotic fencing buddies.

Tell me you can't see it. The passion, the devotion to their craft, the energy... Gomez would absolutely approve of Inigo's mission and Inigo would have to enjoy the challenge of another master fencer.

"You're on a quest for revenge? Capital!"

[air-of-the-waterfall]

Arc of a Scythe characters as Princess Bride quotes

Citra:

 “Move? You’re alive. If you want, I can fly.”

 “I wasn’t nervous. Maybe I was a little bit concerned, but that’s not the same thing.”

Rowan:

“Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

 “You use different moves when you’re fighting half a dozen people.”

Greyson:

“The name was the important thing for inspiring the necessary fear. You see, no one would surrender to the Dread Pirate Wesley.”

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Jeri:

“I inherited the ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited it from was not the real Dread Pirate Roberts either. The real Roberts has been retired fifteen years and living like a king in Patagonia.”

Thunderhead:

“As you wish.”

“Unless I am wrong, and I am never wrong.”

“It won’t be easy, sir.” “Try ruling the world sometime.”

“There’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead.”

Cirrus:

“Have you ever heard of Plato? Aristotle? Socrates? Morons.”

“Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up.”

Faraday:

“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”

“I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely.”

Curie:

“Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.”

“I did that on purpose. I didn’t have to miss.”

Goddard: 

“I’ve hired you to help me start a war. It’s a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition.”

“I’ve got my country’s 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Gildar to frame for it. I’m swamped!”

“Do you hear that, Highness? Those are the shrieking eels. They always grow louder when they’re about to feed on human flesh.”

Rand:

“Good night, Wesley. Good work. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

Astrid:

“No more rhyming, now I mean it!” “Anybody wanna peanut?”

Munira:

“In studying, you must have learned that man is mortal.”

Loriana: 

“Unemployed in Greenland?!”

Morrison:

“Oh, you mean this gate key!”

Constantine:

“She’s alive. Or was an hour ago. If she is otherwise when I find her, I shall be very put out.”

“He can track a falcon on a cloudy day; he can find you.”

Mendoza:

“Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

Tyger:

“I wonder if he’s using the same wind we are using.”

[stevespookington]

princess bride au featuring platonic fake dating childhood friends steve and nancy who are trying to make sure the prince doesnt try and marry either of them

their farm is in dire straits tho SO nancy sets off to find her fortune and bring it home BUT

instead runs into dread pirate robin and her crew including eddie

the prince hears of nancys supposed death and comes to get steve to marry him

at which point robin and nancy send eddie, dustin, and gareth to fake kidnap steve to get him out of that whole marriage thing but nobody thinks to tell steve this

featuring jonathan and argyle as miracle workers

add in some fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...

and did i mention dread pirate robin sailing the high seas cause really thats one of the most important parts here

[howlhawk]

a while back (like. november) the server was talking about "what if everyone had to go to a hero gala where they have to dress fancy but still be in costume" - i did some art for it but wanted to revisit the idea with future charlie :) it's basically the same outfit but with a few extras!

[theriu]

Normal Bloggers: My blog is a cultivated garden. I post/draw/write for this particular fandom so people who come to me can be assured they’ll find more of the content they love. I must continue to share this kind of content, lest my beloved followers lose interest and wander away.

Me, a spastic tumblr veteran: I toss out whatever fancy strikes me like brightly colored lures into the sea. Those who come seeking further treasures land in a kalaidescope of directionless chaos. Some of them like my particular flavor of randomness and stay, and we have a good ol’ time. I have never posted about miraculous ladybug before today and rarely will again. I throw a star trek headcanon into the universe then return to stocking my fridge with memes and cat videos. At night I stalk the notes of favorite posts of mine for nice comments, like a gremlin eating treats under the bed.

[hlizr50]

Merry Christmas to my @acotargiftexchange recipient, @velidewrites!! I know I sent a message already, but I was too excited to wait to post.

I hope you love this Princess Bride-inspired oneshot, featuring Jurian and Vassa :)

Read on AO3

How could someone care if she were the most beautiful woman in the world or not? What difference could it have made if you were only the third most beautiful? Or the sixth? Vassa, of course, would never dream of being ranked so highly. Not because she didn’t think she was beautiful; quite the contrary. The human queen with unblemished caramel skin and silken mane of fire knew the mirror held the reflection of a woman that would be the envy of many. It was her curse, the shackles that bound her to the death god Koschei, that knocked her down a peg or two.

So what she liked to do, preferred above all else really, was to taunt the general.

The general did what she told him. Actually, Jurian wasn’t much of a general any longer, at least at that point in time. Not after he had betrayed the fae female he’d claimed to love, had been tortured and destroyed, imprisoned in Amarantha’s ring, and then resurrected and pieced back together. But she referred to him that way still. “General, fetch me this”; “Prepare my horse, General, and make it quick. I wish to ride before the weather turns dour.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

That was all he ever answered. At least at first.

Fetch that, General. “Yes, my Queen.” Dry this, General. “Yes, my Queen.”

He’d become a bit snippity as they kept closer quarters. Of course, he would always relent, his gritted, “yes, my Queen” sometimes bitter or biting on his tongue.

As was the case currently.

“General, I think we need more wood for the fireplace in the evenings,” Vassa crooned, her ocean eyes flaring. The general had raised an eyebrow, unamused as the golden glow of fae lights cast shadows over his sullen brown eyes. Always so morose. So brooding. The queen would never admit it, but she enjoyed these evenings. When Jurian argued with her as if she were nothing more than a typical human. Not a queen. Not a woman cursed.

The general’s gaze dragged down the length of her reclined form, and she could feel it as if it were the caress of his battle-roughened fingertips. When he locked eyes with her again his stare was steely and assessing. “The weather is so warm that you cannot stand to wear more than a frilly little nightdress that leaves nearly nothing to the imagination.” Her cheeks reddened, heat flooding her face with the realization that his languid looks had served to peruse her frame and how meagerly she had covered herself in the warmth of the spring night. Jurian added, “My Queen.” Vassa’s eyes narrowed, the reverent title at odds with his observation of her body and how little of it was covered.

But, of course, two could play at this game.

“I do so love the comfort of a crackling fire. As your queen, as you always say, I would imagine you would prefer to satisfy my wants.” Her clear blue eyes took him in, her intense gaze traveling down his well-built form in an imitation of his own perusal. “And I do so enjoy watching you work.” The human queen smirked, satisfied with her own argument. And she was even more pleased when his lips quirked to one side in a half grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

None of his smiles ever did.

“Yes, my Queen.” Jurian dipped his chin.

And so the following afternoon, in the heat of the day, Vassa found herself perched upon a branch, watching intently as the general’s muscles rippled with every stroke of his ax. Anyone who would have come upon the scene might have been confused to find a majestic bird swathed in fiery feathers lazily observing something that many would consider mundane. 

But the general, being so arrogant and self-appreciative, had made nothing less than a spectacle of tormentingly slowly lifting his tunic over his head, revealing his lean, muscled form. And as he chopped the quite unnecessary wood, sweat glistened over his tan skin, droplets following the wending pale scars that painted his body with the constant reminder of his torturous life, death, and rebirth.

Jurian had never shared anything about his ordeal, instead choosing to keep himself so tightly wound and protected that he was likely to explode at any moment. More and more, recently, he had done just that, protesting anything from a simple question about the weather to the strategies being taken by the fae to address the death god that held her leash. Vassa had never broached the subject of his scars, both physical and mental, because as little tolerance she had for brooding, petulant bullshit, she did not have the courage to pry into that heavily shielded part of him.

Perhaps, if he knew just how beautiful she found him - scars and all - it would be different. But, then again, he did know, for if he didn’t would he make such a show of pouring water over his head and down his sculpted chest and chiseled stomach? Would he be so deliberate about rolling the sleeves of his tunic up those corded forearms when he prepared a meal or washed the dishes after, all purposely within her line of sight, if he thought she would not find him attractive?

Flaring her wings only slightly she tilted her head, considering the general in a different light. Did he think that the pleasure of viewing his body was all that she wanted? There had been times, she recalled, when she thought the coldness of his chocolate stare had melted into something more like passion or desire. But Jurian had never acted upon it, and the icy calculation and indifference had hardened his gaze in the very next moment.

Perhaps it was he who did not desire her.

“Am I ruffling your feathers, my Queen?” His voice was like honey as it floated across the clearing, thick and decadent. He’d turned to face her, a dark brow arching in conceited amusement.

The pompous ass.

Vassa squawked and spread her wings, hoping her message was clear as she narrowed her beady eyes on him.

‘I have half a mind to peck out those eyes of yours, general.’

But Jurian just huffed and returned to the task she had assigned.

~~~

“Jurian!”

Her legs were wobbling, and she couldn’t be sure if it was because she had been wretched from the feathers and wings that had usually contained her during the daylight hours, or if it was because there were so many dead, and she feared that the general - her general - would be one of them. She called his name again, voice cracking.

The battle had lasted days, and through it all Vassa had been powerless to assist. Koschei had tightened his leash and forced her into the form of the firebird, taking no chances that she might be able to fight alongside his enemy. She had flown over the killing fields, over and over, desperate to keep a watchful eye on the human general that fought with the skill and fervor that rivaled his fae companions.

But she had eventually lost sight of him, and had not been able to find him since. Now that she was human again - fully and permanently, she dared to hope - she could only see what was in front of her, and could only go as far and as fast as two legs could manage.

Gods, what if he was dead? What would she do then?

Not for the first time, she cursed herself for not making it more clear, for not telling Jurian what was in her heart. She prayed he understood how much she cared for him, that the agony simmering in his gaze when he realized that she had not transformed back into a human woman that first night was because he cared for her, too.

“Jurian!” she called again, desperately. Vassa was only vaguely aware of the hot tears trailing down her golden cheeks. She had attributed the burning in her eyes to the death that hung heavy in the air and permeated everything around her. Her feet felt clunky and unsure as she tried to carve a path through the battlefield, in the direction she thought the main camp would be. But she couldn’t be sure, not since she could no longer take to the sky and survey the landscape. Her blurring sight fell upon the men and males, women and females, left standing around her. She recognized none of them.

“Fuck,” she whimpered, shoulders sagging. The hope that had filled her chest when she’d become human again had dwindled. What good was being free if her general was gone? 

Heart cracking, she buried her face in her hands and wept. Tears for the future she’d hoped to give him, for the smiles she’d so desired to see in his eyes, finally. Tears for the broken man who had never been given the opportunity to mend. She didn’t know how long she stood there, shoulders heaving and legs quaking, when she felt the caress of roughened fingers over her temples and into her hair.

Slowly she lifted her head from her hands, and those callouses dragged back down to cup her damp cheeks. And when her wet lashes lifted her gaze was met with one that was devastating and dark and glistening.

“My Queen.”

Vassa’s lungs seized, her shuddering exhale fading to silence as her eyes darted over the handsome face before her. That same hard chin and sharp jaw, proud and stern. Those chocolate brown eyes, their attention focused and intent. Blood splattered his cheeks like freckles and rich, dark strands fell in front of his eyes as they escaped from the leather tie at his nape.

It was him.

“Jurian?” she rasped, unsure if she had enough breath to speak. The general pushed tendrils of copper away from her face as his lips curled up and he dipped his chin.

“Yes, my Queen.” His grin widened, and she watched in wonder as the warmth of it brightened his eyes. For the first time it felt true. Real. As he held her and his gaze flicked to her mouth before returning to connect with her.

And then she was consumed by him.

Jurian crushed his lips against hers, speaking words that neither of them had been daring enough to say in the days and weeks and months leading to this moment. His kiss was the fiercest flame she’d ever felt, the softness of his lips at odds with the way they demanded more and more and more from her. Vassa’s hands slid up the front of his leathers, his muscles unyielding as stone beneath her touch as they trailed up until she could curl her fingers into the hair at his nape. All the while he stole her fear and desperation with his kiss, his tongue parting the seam of her mouth and finding hers in a tantalizing dance.

When the general pulled away he was breathing hard, shoulders heaving. Vassa was much the same, her wide-eyed stare pinned on the devastating man before her.

“I should have told you. Before the battle, before Koschei bound you completely. Before all of this. So I will tell you now that I love you, Vassa.”

Her heart felt like it would burst from her chest, and she nearly choked on her words. “You… love me?” Jurian huffed a laugh.

“I’ve been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn’t listen,” he murmured, and her brows furrowed in confusion. His smile was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, so full and bright, warm and genuine. “Every time you said ‘General do this’ you thought I was answering ‘yes, my Queen’, but that’s only because you were hearing wrong. ‘I love you’ was what it was, but you never heard.” With a tiny gasp Vassa pulled back.

“But you… you never seemed happy. You were never content with my company,” she sputtered. “You were downright unpleasant! A regular piece of shit half the time!” She bristled at his breathy chuckle, as if he had any right to be exasperated with her.

“I have stayed in that estate because of you. I made my body strong so I could defend you, so it might please you, scarred and marked as it may be. I have attempted to live, a broken and ruined man, simply because your presence has made life something worth living. The very sight of you makes my heart race. You are my prayer before I go to sleep, you consume every dream, and you are my first thought when I wake in the morning.”

Her own heart was racing, thudding against her ribs as Jurian poured himself out to her. Laid himself bare. Her lips parted, but she could not form words. He smiled tenderly, stroking battle-roughened fingertips over the freckles that dotted her cheeks. 

“How could I admit such things to you? You are a queen, a veritable goddess. Your beauty rivals the fairest of the fae. Your fortitude puts the bravest of warriors to shame. Your mouth is so witty and foul and fucking perfect, and I would gladly be torn to shreds by words falling from those pretty lips every hour of every day, so long as it’s me that you’re verbally abusing.”

The queen laughed, her head falling back. But he pulled her back and kissed her again, resting his brow against hers. Breaths mingling, they stood in silence, reveling in each other. They were alive. They loved each other. There could be that future, full of arguments and menial tasks and smiling eyes.

“General,” Vassa whispered thickly, “take me home.”

Jurian did not hesitate for a single instant, sweeping her up in his arms as she gasped. The general dipped his chin and captured her lips, his kiss lingering as if he could hardly bear to pull away. And then he spoke his oath once more.

“Yes, my Queen.”