#Kings Counsel

[scotianostra]

March 14th 1900 saw the birth of Scottish lawyer, Dame Margaret Kidd in Bo’ness. 

Today, there are around 130 practising female advocates in Scotland. Before 1923 there had been none; then along came Margaret Henderson Kidd.  

Margaret was brought up in Carriden, and that over the decade the Kidd family grew.; Margaret lived with her parents and now had five brothers and three sisters.

She educated at Linlithgow Academy, Kidd later studied law at the University of Edinburgh, graduating with an MA and LLB in 1922. Her early training was conducted with Mitchell and Baxter, writers to the signet, in Edinburgh. Although her first choice of career was the Foreign Office, the then Permanent Secretary, Mr Eyre Crowe, ‘was opposed to women’, so instead Kidd decided to follow her father and go into law. 

In 1923, Kidd was called to the Faculty of Advocates and became the first female with the right to plead in the Court of Session, the highest civil court in Scotland. The event attracted great interest from members of the faculty and the legal profession, as well as the media. The Scotsman newspaper, as was typical of press coverage of women in the news, took special interest in Margaret’s outfit, reporting that she wore a ‘coat frock of black crepe morocain, a soft white collar with a narrow white bow tie, and a straw hat trimmed with velvet.’ Later in the day she donned the wig and gown as she formally entered her new role.

Between 1923 and 1948 she remained the only lady advocate. Kidd was the first lady advocate to appear before the House of Lords and before a parliamentary select committee. Kidd also had the distinction of becoming the first woman KC in Britain, preceding Helena Normanton and Rose Helibron who were appointed KC in England and Wales in 1949.

While Kidd appears to have downplayed the significance of her role and career in interviews – “I don’t know what they made all the fuss about” - it is clear that others, including her alma mater, were aware of and followed her progress. In the University of Edinburgh’s records of graduations, Kidd’s entry includes several newspaper clippings tracking parts of her career and life.

In 1930 Margaret married Donald Somerled MacDonald in Carriden Parish Church. Donald was a Writer to the Signet and member of the firm Scott and Glover, Hill Street, Edinburgh. . The couple went on to have one daughter, Anne.

During the Second World War, Margaret played a prominent part in organising Christmas treats and functions for the wives and dependants of men serving with the 14th Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment, and particularly the 39th Battery, of which her brother Col. J. T. Kidd was then in command.

Margaret’s professional life also led her to sit on the committee of Representatives of Poor Persons in Scotland as a referee under the Widows and Orphans and Old Age Contributions Pensions Act, and to undertake the Assistantship in the class of Public Law at Edinburgh University.

Margaret Kidd spent much of her life in India Street, Edinburgh. Donald had died in 1957, leaving Margaret a widow for over 30 years until her death on 22 March 1989 in Cambridge. A funeral service was held at the Canongate Kirk, Edinburgh. A eulogy by Lord Hope of Craighead echoed what had been printed about her 41 years earlier by the Scotsman:

‘Her success was won by strength of character, courage and integrity and is a mark of her true qualities that, despite what might seem to be the revolutionary nature of her achievements, she always held the affection and respect of others.’ 

[kettlefire]

Prepare for the unexpected. (DPxDC)

Everyone knew about the reign of Pariah Dark. Even those who did not dabble in those realms have heard the tale of the tyrant. A power-hungry man who ruled over the dead with an iron fist.

Following the rise of Pariah Dark, his realm had been effectively cut off from communication. Many mystics and magic users knew better than to open the door of nightmares that could arise if Pariah Dark's reach went further than his own realm.

Except, the universe had plans to bring the realm of the dead back into the cards.

A new opponent, one that had all of Earth's heroes scrambling for options. A being with powers of a god over weather, destruction was on the horizon. A world ending threat.

It's the only reason the Justice League was doing this. In a deep bunker, far from close civilization as a precaution, the heroes looked on with grim expressions.

The world was already being threatened. It would be destroyed regardless of what the league did. So it only made sense to make the last ditch effort. To summon someone strong enough to defeat the threat.

No one wanted to do it. No one wanted to be the one to pull the realm of the dead back to the living. The consequences were untold if this succeeded. If Pariah Dark was freed and defeated the threat, whose to say he won't want control?

That was a problem for later. For the aftermath. For now, the league could only watch on with bated breath as Constantine completely the summon ritual.

They watched on as the shadows in the room seemed to darken and grow. As the sigil sputtered to life with a glow that was growing increasingly brighter. A sudden gust of wind rushed through the room, the temperature began to drop with eaching ticking second.

And then it was all gone.

The room stood perfectly still. Just as it had been moments before. Nothing changed. No giant king standing before them, no sign that the ritual worked.

The room stood deadly still for another beat before the murmurs started. The team trying to make sense of the situation, figure out what went wrong.

Constantine swore up and down that this was the correct ritual, taking offense that they would even think the problem was on his end. It only made it better when it finally happened.

A loud sound ripped through the room, pulling everyone's attention back to the summoning circle. Just in time to see a tear appear in the space above the circle.

A thin tear that ran the length of eight feet. The fabric of the dimension seems to curl at the edges, pulling back to reveal a deep glowing swirl of greens. A dark gloved hand reached through, fingers curling around the edge of the tear, stretching it even further.

A portal. The ritual had worked, but there had been a delay. A delay that had every hero nerves on edge. Each team member tensed, weapons at the ready as they watched the being stretch the portal to the right size.

Then, a foot stepped out with a heavy thud. A dark boot that looked otherworldly despite its similarity to mortal clothing. A deep black that seemed never-ending. A second foot quickly followed before a full body emerged from the portal.

Not many people in the room have ever seen Pariah Dark, let alone know what to expect. Based on what Constantine and Zatara had said, this wasn't Pariah Dark.

A man had stepped out of the portal, standing at almost seven feet tall, and built like a brick house. One glance at the glowing white hair, deadly red eyes, and shard teeth was enough to know this being was not to be messed with.

But there was no giant show of armor or royal garbs. There is no large crown at the top of his head or jewelry from the infinite realms laced around his neck.

Instead, the man stood before them in combat boots, worn-in ripped jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a spiked leather jacket. Despite his almost normal clothing choice, the man's jacket seemed to be a never-ending depth of the dark night sky. If one was to look closely enough, the cosmos could almost be made out in the sea of darkness.

None of that would have prepared them for when the man spoke. His tone sounded more bored than anything as he took a step forward.

"Oh, so now you need the help of the dead." The man had spoken, running a hand through his hair. When Batman took a step forward to speak, the man raised a hand. Immediately commanding silence in the single gesture. "I'm on babysitting duty and have yet to have a cup of coffee. I'll be right back."

Just like that, both the man and portal vanished into thin air. Leaving behind a group of stunned heroes. Not only was the man not Pariah Dark, but he was also supposedly babysitting.

"Did that just-"

The Flash had been the first voice to speak up, his eyes trained on where the man had once stood. Except he had barely made it through the first few words before the man was suddenly back.

The man that now had a child hanging off his shoulders and another teen being held up by his scruff. Unlike the man, these kids looked human.

Too human for Bruce's liking. The dark black hair and bright blue eyes had every heroes eyes flickering to Batman for just the briefest moment.

"This isn't fair! I'm not even the king. Why do I have to be here!" The teenager had been complaining the moment the man had reappeared. Arms crossed tight over his chest and seemingly used to being held dangling. "Besides, who brings kids to a show down! Wait til I tell mom about this."

"Aw, come on, Danny. This is gonna be fun!!" The younger girl seemed in much better spirits than the teen, Danny. She had climbed up the large man, sitting on his shoulders and resting her arms on the mess of glowing hair. "It's like take your kids to work day! Ooo, Dan! Can we fight too!?"

Unlike the two kids, the man looked purely exhausted and annoyed. The man, Dan, dropped Danny like a sack of potatoes as he took a long drink from the travel cup in his hand.

It didn't take a genius to recognize the look of an exhausted parent in Dan's expression. A look many of the league members were well acquainted to. A look that even had Batman grimacing with sympathy.

"Can it, little shits. You two were grounded, remember." Dan had growled at the kids before shifting his focus back on the team of heroes before them. His glowing eyes set in a deadly glare. "Pariah Dark isn't coming, and he never will. He's been dethroned and banished. We're the best you've got."

A summoning that started with a group of on edge and scared heroes looking for the ghost king, ended in a way no one expected.

No one was even sure if it made any sense. They weren't sure if they should feel hopeful or in despair.

Because truly, what was a ghostly man with two seemingly human children against a godlike foe with the control over the weather?

The unspoken question of power and ability seemed to vanish following Dan downing the metal travel cup of coffee, and crushing it in his fist.

He tossed it to the side, straighting up his posture as he looked over the heroes. Dan might not be a hero, but he's been playing family for too long.

An almost feral, bloodhungry grin spread across the man's face, sharp fangs on full display. The look made the man suddenly look even less human. He looked closer to a demon from the pits of hell rather than the exhausted parent he looked just a few seconds ago.

"Point me in the direction of this bastard. It's been too long since I let loose and had some fun."

[echo-goes-mmm]

Regress

Juno Collection Masterpost

Previous

Companion Part by Chai

Next

Warnings: slavery, mild delirium

Something was wrong.

Master had called for the healers and the court mage when he woke, and now they were huddled around the bed, staring at him and talking.

He couldn’t move; too drained to turn his head. Juno blinked, slowly. 

The kennel was in the corner of the room. Its door was open, the bear he made from scraps of fabric sitting inside.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to crawl inside his crate, cozy and safe and without eyes and hands on him.

The healer reached for him, and he flinched. She grabbed his wrist anyway, checking his pulse.

“It’s slow,” she said after a moment, and Juno’s eyes flicked to Master. 

“He hasn’t moved,” Master said. “I tried to get him to sit up earlier so he could eat, but-”

I’m sorry, Juno wanted to say. Instead, he only breathed.

He heard the healer uncork a bottle. “Just needs more potion,” she said soothingly to Master. Juno’s mouth went dry. Not more magic, please.

She reached for his jaw-

“Actually,” the wizard said, sipping on a lime green drink. “I wouldn’t.” He went around the bed, out of view.

“Juno,” the wizard said from behind him. “Does this hurt?” He prodded his bare side, and Juno startled.

“Stop it!” Master hissed at the mage. “He can’t answer you anyway, remember?”

Juno closed his eyes. Useless, worthless, defective.

“Juno,” someone said in front of him, and he was so tired. Couldn’t they put him away so he could sleep?

“Juno, please.”

He opened his eyes. The wizard was at eye level, sitting on his heels.

“Did that hurt? It’s important. Blink once for yes and twice for no,” he said.

It didn’t, but Juno was sore all over. Bone-deep soreness, and weighed down with sleep and near paralysis.

He blinked twice.

The wizard stood. “See? I think he’s mostly healed. Just sore and tired.”

“More potion would-” the healer started.

“Would kill him, maybe,” the wizard went on. “He’s Timorsian. Our healing potions are based on Rhodantheian physiology. Juno doesn’t have inner magic, so it’s working slower and harder on his system-”

Juno stopped listening. He stared at the wall behind the court mage. He could feel the world becoming more and more fuzzy; slipping away like mist on the wind, just like it did every night when he was too tired.

Now it was the middle of the day, not evening where the shadows leapt at him and his hands shook.

“Juno? Juno?”

He couldn’t do it.

He drifted.

___________________

The healer had prescribed bedrest for a week or until he recovered his strength, whichever came first.

Juno couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He was trapped on his bed, sprawled out on his stomach, head turned to the left.

His bed. 

It really wasn’t his bed, it was a bed, in a room that Master let him use. Because he was generous.

Master was so kind. He even asked after painkillers, but the healer told him no. That it might interfere with the process.

Juno didn’t deserve Master’s kindness. He had been disobedient.

He was still waiting to be punished for it.

___________________

Master hovered over him. It was scary, and Juno didn’t like it. He was still naked, and the idea that Master would just grab him and-

He let the thought slip away.

Master hand-fed him. Little bits of fruit and fish, and that felt normal. Natural. Was he being good? 

As he swallowed, he realized his collar felt weird. Light and airy, instead of grounding and familiar.

It wasn’t his collar at all. Wasn’t his comforting leather with a brass tag.

Where was his collar? How would people know he belonged to someone? 

Had he been bad?

Tears filled his eyes as Master fed him another bite. He swallowed, whimpered.

Please, what did I do wrong? Don’t you love me anymore?

No answer.

He cried as quietly as possible. Master liked silence. If he wanted to be good again, he needed to be small.

___________________

The kennel was so far away. But it was safety.

He shouldn’t be on a bed. This was Master’s bed, and he was on it. For no reason.

Bad. Disobedient. Horrible creature.

Juno struggled to pick himself up off the bed. 

“Juno, no!” said a voice above him. A hand pushed him back down, and he couldn’t help but burst into tears.

But why? Why wasn’t he allowed to hide away?

“Juno, please don’t cry. What do you need?”

He couldn’t lift himself again, even to point to his perfect, quiet crate. All he could do was sob and sob and hope Master wasn’t around to hear him.

The hands moved him onto his back, propping him up on the pillows. A tissue wiped away his misery.

“I think I should teach you some sign, or to write, or something,” the voice said.

No! No nononono-

He tried to move away, to thrash against the man’s grip, but it was useless.

He sank back into the pillows, staring off into the distance. 

Juno didn’t want his hands broken or his eyes torn out. 

So as the man talked and moved and tried to get him to look at paper and markings-

He looked away.

He just wanted his kennel and collar.

He just wanted to rest.

taglist: @haro-whumps @paintedpigeon1 @phoenixpromptsandstuff @tianablackwell @starsick1979

[whumpspicelatte]

A Boy Named Juno: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Terry's POV to @echo-goes-mmm's Birthday Present

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: power imbalance, slavery, references to physical and sexual abuse, implied dubcon

This would be the third birthday to pass since the sudden assassination of Queen Catherine and King Ambrose, only a matter of months after the loss of their crown prince in the wake of the Gojuyeon civil war, when his wife, Princess Chaewon, was made to take the throne. A birthday Terrance had grown to dread.   

His head swam with the crowds of people filling the ballroom, corset drawn so tight he could barely get in a breath even with the frail mess of a body he hid beneath the silks dragging heavy down his shoulders. His skirts pooled around his feet where he sat on display in the ornate throne set up for him. 

Spectacle. Terrance had never been the Desrosiers son who did well with spectacle. 

The deceptively light crown resting upon his brow, sapphires dripping down his forehead, should have never touched his head. 

Fresh welts and bruising over the backs of his thighs and his ass ached with the weight of his own body pressing them into the cushioning of the throne. What was meant to be a reminder as to what was at stake should he screw up left his head spinning within the prison of his body. 

As he kept his gaze focused on General Adamantidis, long-time Oikophorean ambassador and vaunted retired military commander, as the older woman presented to him perfumes and foreign fruit trees and beautifully woven bolts of dyed linens of the highest quality for the summer months, just one of each gift worth enough to keep one of the servants who brought him his morning meal fed for a decade if sold to the right bidder, his thoughts strayed to the distinct, irrationally despairing anxiety that someone would be able to sense the ghost of his naval advisor’s seed curdling in his stomach from early this morning.

Nobody would be able to tell. Everyone had made sure of it, from his breakfast of fresh fruit afterwards to the meticulous morning cleansing to the light rose perfumes and the heavy silks hiding the truth from the world. Yet still his fingers curled in his lap in a subtle display of nerves. 

He played his role. Kept his composure. Said the right words. Didn’t let slip just how hollowed out he’d been left. 

General Adamantidis bowed, gifts taken aside with everything else, and left to join the crowds, replaced within moments by the current Timorsian representative. Beside him sat a covered crate, atop which laid rolls of fine lace and a jewelry set Terrance already knew he’d have to wear the next time he had any Timorsian nobility or royalty as guests. At least such visits would be rare indeed. 

At least the set should be on the understated side. Hopefully. 

“Your Majesty,” the representative announced himself. “I bring gifts from Timorsia, to celebrate your birth.” A loud, clear voice for such a wiry frame, soot-black curls over the scalp and around the jaw, silver-blue eyes glinting from narrowed eyes. Skin tanned copper-gold from the sun. 

Terrance was, fortunately or not, not expected expected to know this man’s name. Not with the frosty tensions lingering between his kingdom and their empire. 

The man opened the jewelry set to reveal a gleaming set of Timorsian jade pearls, each gleaming as if carved from the water of oceanside tropics. Ironic, considering their freezing cold origin, deep in watery depths near the capital of the empire. Simple. Understated. Even rather elegantly styled, rather than the grandiose overwrought monstrosity he’d been given on the year of his coronation. Hair ornaments, rings, earrings, brooches, strands to wrap around his wrists and neck. “A full set of seafoam green pearls, courtesy of His Grace, King Jason the Fifth. Collected from Timorsia Bay.”

It almost felt more appropriate for something to add to one of his nieces’ dowries than to accept for himself. 

From the half-appreciative murmur that ran through the crowd, he knew there would be rumours of the king sending over at least some of his daughters or younger female relatives with the next representative once Terrance eventually opened himself to marriage within the week. 

Just what he needed. 

Next, the extremely valuable rolls of lace where displayed, jewelry set handed off to the servants charged with the gifts. “Seven bolts of silk lace, from Lady Farthens.” She did have an uncommon habit of sending over beautiful gifts and actually sticking to the boundaries and limits of proper decorum. “Handmade.”

These were received better. Extremely valuable, but not presumptuous. Bolts of fabric were a favourite for a reason. 

Quietly, he wondered how much he’d be able to get away with regifting to his nieces and nephews. Some should be given to Jules, at the very least. She’d enjoy admiring and reverse-engineering the craftsmanship in her spare time. 

And then only the cloth-covered crate remained. The fabric flowed with air, slightly, revealing hints of bars about the bottom. Something live rested in there. Some kind of animal, perhaps. Some kind of beast. 

A quiet beast. Nothing so large as a steed. A well-trained hound or two, perhaps?

The representative whipped the cloth away, and the room went silent. Terrance’s own vocal cords withered in his throat. He binked at its contents. Focused on his icy composure. 

That was no beast in the crate. 

“A slave from Middle Timorsia, from Lord Aspen.”

A boy. 

Pale skin covered in jagged scars, dark hair cropped short. Clean-shaven beneath a brutish muzzle. Dressed only in a plain shift. Terrance couldn’t see the boy well from here, couldn’t even tell if the boy really were a boy or a young man, if not older. Not shadowed in the dark as he was, kneeling behind those bars. Looking down at his knees. 

“He responds to Juno,” the representative continued, “and is trained to utter obedience. He is mute, and guaranteed not to distract you from your work, Your Grace.”

As if distracting him from his work could ever be what might cross his mind right now.

The representative unlatched the door, and hissed something too quietly to hear; clearly at the boy- the man?- within that kennel. The boy being made- being made a gift. 

And it was a boy, Terrance could see in the light. Young. Achingly so; he could only be a bit older than Terrance’s own nieces and nephews at best.

The boy didn’t walk to Terrance. He crawled. 

The boy crawled on red and swollen knees and palms, dragged against the polished sheen of the marble floors. Terrance resisted the urge to leave his throne and go to the boy instead. He was shivering, the boy. No wonder; the castle marble was cold. Like ice. 

Juno- that was his name, Juno- came close. Closer than anyone but his guards and advisors had all night. Terrance watched those thighs and arms quiver. Watched one of those arms buckle beneath him. 

Watched the boy hide his little stumble by resting his cheek against the king’s thigh. 

Heat seeped through the layers of fine fabric, into Terrance’s skin. 

He hid his shiver at the quiet, unassuming warmth. 

His fingers ran through Juno’s hair. The boy’s hair was soft. Freshly washed. 

Only to still as the boy stiffened. Sniffled. Grimaced. 

Braced himself for a blow. 

Something in Terrance’s lungs ached. 

This wasn’t a gift that Terrance could refuse, not with how cold relations between Rhodantheia and Tismoria, even though, if he did, it would not be Terrance who would suffer. No, it would be the boy. 

The whip scars peeking out from under that shift…

“Timorsia has been as generous as ever,” he let his voice ring out, as cold and sharp and distant as ever. A slight edge to his tone that had the Timorsian representative wincing. “Please let our gratitude be known to His Grace and Her Ladyship.”

He said nothing of the lord who had sent a slave as a birthday present to a Rhodantheian king. He didn’t need to. 

The representative bowed and excused himself, but despite watching Pellinore, the Mirei diplomat, meekly present the gifts from Mire with a lingering anxiety that Terrance couldn’t help but sympathize with, all he could genuinely focus on was the warmth of the boy curling up against his legs, soft puffs of breath against his thigh. 

When the celebration moved on Terrance receiving his own piece of cake, the music was too loud for anyone but him to hear the empty gurgling of Juno’s stomach. He could barely stomach more the rich chocolate on his tongue. 

Nobody noticed anything amiss at Terrance proving unable to finish his slice. 

[...]

Terrance’s private study was too far from the great hall for him to feel comfortable taking Juno there just yet, especially as the boy remained on his knees. Instead he settled for a small, private room; one of the small parlours dotting the palace. Anais opened the door for them as they made their way inside, and he gave her a small nod as the door closed behind him and his new responsibility. 

She’d done well; a small, sparse tea service awaited them with crackers and cheese, the scent of honey ginger tea rising from the teapot. Beside the teapot and tray sat a small plate of cake. 

A good, rich slice, larger than the one Terrance had struggled to eat; hopefully Juno was not so starved as to make eating it uncomfortable, or worse. 

He sat down gingerly on one of the two plush seats, strangling a groan before it could escape his throat. His eyes fluttered shut. 

Much better than that throne he’d been perched on like a doll for hours on end, for all it made his tender backside sting. 

When he opened his eyes, Juno knelt on the floor, a few feet away from him. Hm. Yes, he should have expected this. His older brother had liked to torment him with horror stories of how the Tismorian aristocracy would treat their slaves back when they were young. Exaggerations, likely, but…

“Come here, Juno,” he murmured. If he let the cold edge to his voice melt completely, well, there was only him and this mute boy here to know. 

Juno crawled miserably up to him, lashes fluttering in a familiar way that had his stomach sinking. Terrance resisted the urge to pick the boy up off the floor, as if he were one of his nephews instead of- of- 

Whatever he was now, here with Terrance. 

Terrance reached forward, tapping the rough wire of the muzzle on the boy’s face. “If I take this off, will you promise not to bite?” He’d take it off either way; he just had to check his bases first. Figure out if he would need to hide injuries from his advisors. 

Juno’s head nodded vigorously. If he didn’t know any better, he might fear the boy’s skull would slip right off his head. He reached forward, unbuckled the leather straps and eased the metal wires off the boy’s face. Terrance’s stomach churned at the sight of friction burns framing Juno’s nose and jaw. 

The boy opened his mouth stretching his undoubtedly aching jaw, letting out a soft moan of relief. Then the boy looked up at him. 

Blue. 

Blue eyes, just a few shades darker than the cornflower shade that haunted Terrance’s nightmares. His own breath hitched. 

They were beautiful, of course. Large and vibrant with the same glow as expertly cut tanzanite. Especially framed by long, dark lashes. Altogether, if not for the scars cutting into the boy’s skin, he’d look almost like a doll. 

Iohannes’s eyes were beautiful too. 

So was the ocean that Terrance had drowned in, the summer before Iohannes had shoved him down a whole flight of stairs. 

He locked his expression down before he could let any hint of unease slip free. 

Juno’s stomach had grumbled, during the celebrations. He needed to eat. But Terrance never had much appetite after deeply stressful situations; would Juno? 

“Are you hungry?”

Apparently, Terrance just stuck his foot in his mouth, because that had Juno’s eyes swimming with tears. The look of desperation on his face- that whimper-

Terrance tore his gaze away to pour a cup of tea for the boy. He gripped the porcelain tight, to better steady his hands. The inside of his throat swelled.  

“Sit,” he murmured, waving his hand towards the opposing seat. Some comfort had to do the boy some good. 

Juno blinked up at him, radiating confusion. 

Only his own long years of conscious control over the minute muscles of his face kept his brows from furrowing. “Wouldn’t you like to sit on a chair rather than the floor?”

The boy shook his head. Terrance only recognized the helpless puff of air escaping his lungs at the sight of Juno’s expression dropping into dread. Of his face screwing up. 

Tears dribbled down those pale, hollow cheeks, clearly in spite of his best efforts, and a sickening sense of peering into a reflection flickered irrationally through the king’s mind. 

Damn it. Only a few hours into their…acquaintanceship, and Terrance was already making him cry. What should he-

He grabbed the plate of cake off the table and practically shoved it into the boy’s hands. 

“Eat.” Somehow, his panic didn’t leak into his voice. 

Distracting a toddler from tears with something they liked always worked when his nieces and nephews were little. Somehow, the same principle seemed to work here. 

Juno blinked down at the cake in his hands in disbelief. 

Terrance grabbed a fork, setting it on the boy’s plate. Would the boy like cake? He hoped so; he hadn’t prepared anything else. Maybe tea would work instead as a stopgap while sending out for something else for the boy if not.  “Go on.”

That was all that he seemed to have to do before Juno was gingerly picking up the fork and sliding a tiny piece of the cake into his mouth. For a moment, he froze. 

Tears dribbled down his cheeks. 

Were it not for the boy immediately beginning to work diligently on the slice of cake, taking his time to savour every bite, Terrance would have thought he’d just screwed up yet again. 

Terrance sat back in his chair, sipping at the cup of tea he’d just poured, and let himself relax. 

Juno liked chocolate cake. 

He’d have to remember that. 

[sylvancastor]

Aemond: I'm about to commit some crimes that are so one dimensional

[deconstructthesoup]

The thing with writing Crowcat is that I'm always torn between the amazingly compelling, beautiful, and angsty storyline of the Cat King and Monty realizing that neither of them need to be alone, finding solace in each other, making each other happy again, and tearing down the world if someone hurts the other... and facing the fact that a relationship between two canonically bitchy characters who are a crow and a cat, two of the singularly most petty animals in the whole goddamned animal kingdom, would be the most drama-filled, reality-TV-show bullshit of all time

And baby, with the Hadestown AU, I can do both

[raayllum]

it's funny because in our two examples of "what does a high mage do" we see Viren be involved in basically every decision that Harrow makes as an advisor, even ones that wouldn't necessarily warrant it immediately, versus Callum, who *checks canon* isn't substantially involved in any decision Ezran makes as king in any given season

[docmccoy]

I saw some MASH Pacific rim murmurings around and it may be time again for my yearly crack at my beast

[ask-theredman]

@ask-kurt-wagnerandrpwithhim

Azazel comes home to the sight of his barely 21 year old son hanging from the stairs by his tail, looking hung over and exhausted, and the remnants of what could only be assumed to have once been a party Kurt wasn't supposed to be throwing. The speakers are still going but have long since blown out and the flashing multicolored lights have died out, indicating the party had started a while ago and simply hadn't stopped until Azazel was due back from his trip. Unfortunately for Kurt it would seem he had not enhereted his father's intelligence, only his mutation

The sun was rising gracefully on the beach as the gentle waves lapped the shore. The whole scene was so calm and inviting on the side he was facing, that this path could only lead him to a great new morning...

Unfortunately, his house was in the opposite direction from this almost magical view... That meant his morning wasn't going to go so well.

The first thing that should have alerted him to the 'situation' was the fact that he could see holes in the walls of their house from more than 20 paces away.

A trail of passed out Blue Bamfs, surrounded by candy wrappers, led him to the epicentre of the chaos. His Red ones, who had been travelling with him, tried to shake some of them awake but to no avail : All they managed to get out of them were a few mutterings that could be translated as "No more taxi rides out of the party".

That made him frown.

'So much for a relaxing walk on the beach.'

As he crossed the unusual trail to the entrance of his house, a dozen or so footprints of varying sizes in the sand gave him a hint of what had happened, but what they could not do was prepare him for what lay behind the door...

His eyes found it hard to focus on just one thing.

The Red Bamfs who accompanied him inside found themselves in a similar situation : Those who weren't all wide-eyed and aghast at the sight before them scattered to assess the damage. A few Red Bamfs mechanically unplugged the speakers, their eyes never leaving the scene that welcomed them home.

Finally, Azazel's eyes focused on something or rather someone. Hanging upside down from the stairs by his tail like a damson plum, just as passed out as his little counterparts outside.

Azazel was impressed. In the worst possible way.

He kicked the soft mattress off the divan and landed it right under his son. This startled his Bamfs and brought them back to the present. He gestured for them to hold the half-discarded hammock on the floor a few feet above the mattress, which they managed by holding onto to some furniture.

Azazel then teleported up the stairs and with a quick flick of his hand like he had done this a thousand times before, unfastened Kurt's tail from the railing, causing him to fall all the way down onto the hammock and then the mattress.

[bachanaliaa]

legal counsel || jonno

closed starter for @poor-princejohn

Livung with a roommate that wasn't his sister meant that Angelo had learned a few things. One of those things was that if he wasn't up at normal time, John would leave a disaster in the kitchen. Man couldn't cook, which meant it looked like a tornado had hit.

That was on Angelo's list of things to change.

The other was that if John were running late he forgot things. Usually, he came back. Today, he didn't. Today, it was his flat keys and his wallet.

Angelo pocketed both once he was back from his run with Titan and showered, changed for his shift at Pixie's.

InterPride wasn't too far out of his way, so Ange hoofs it there, meandering his way to the front desk - where he turns on his mega watt grin and 'aw shucks' attitude - and asks for directions to the legal department.

Once he's off the lift, Angelo struts down the hall, gaze searching for a familiar, pretty little blond head.

[ outfit ]

[patrice-bergerons]

Absolutely cannot get over the way the opposing KCs keep referring to one another as "my learned friend" in court (usually in the context of a very polite but very catty remark - e.g. "my learned friend made quite the curious submission yesterday") what an unserious country we are

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Eddard IV

Ned was aghast. “Aerys Targaryen left a treasury flowing with gold. How could you let this happen?”

Littlefinger gave a shrug. “The master of coin finds the money. The king and the Hand spend it.”

“I will not believe that Jon Arryn allowed Robert to beggar the realm,” Ned said hotly.

Grand Maester Pycelle shook his great bald head, his chains clinking softly. “Lord Arryn was a prudent man, but I fear that His Grace does not always listen to wise counsel.”

“My royal brother loves tournaments and feasts,” Renly Baratheon said, “and he loathes what he calls ‘counting coppers.’”

[echo-goes-mmm]

Juno in "King's Counsel"

Juno Collection Masterpost

Previous

Companion Part by Chai

Next

Context: Terry Desrosiers (who belongs to @whumpspicelatte) is king of Rhodantheia, and given Juno as a birthday present. Juno is still getting used to how things work in this new country.

Warings: implied dubcon

The first time an advisor slapped Master, Juno was too stunned to do anything.

He didn't know the man's name, still getting used to his new Master's way of life. But surely this was wrong.

Master was King, how could anyone hit him and it was allowed?

The advisor was still yelling at King Terrance, and Juno cringed at the angry volume. The tips of Master's ears were red, and his face flushed where he had been struck.

Master did nothing, accepting the man's words without protest.

"I'll do better," he said finally, "I'm sorry."

His voice was trembling under the surface, but from a glance it was even and sure.

"You better," spat the advisor, and maybe it was only because of Juno's own experiences that he was able to see the wince.

Later, when they were alone, Juno made his Master tea and fetched his slippers. He looked so sad from this angle, face trying to stay stony but failing, hands wringing his soft nightshirt without his notice.

Juno was meant for housework, and not for comfort, but he did his best.

He pressed the mug of warm honey tea into his Master's hand.

"Thank you," he said.

Master was a strange one, but Juno didn't mind.

He sat by Master's chair, and Master's other hand came to rest on his head, stroking his hair.

Juno hummed in appreciation, and they sat together, listening to the crackle of the fireplace.

___________________

The second time, Juno saw the hand raise and didn't think before launching himself inbetween his Master and the man.

The strike was hard, and stars burst in his vision. He stumbled backwards, and only distantly felt Masters hands steady his shoulders.

Silence filled the room, and Juno shook the ringing from his ears.

The advisor's eyes narrowed, looking from him to the king and back.

"Fix this," he said eventually, turning on his heel and leaving the secure room they always met in.

Juno's jaw stung, and the hands on his shoulders slightly squeezed him.

"Don't do that again," Master told him later in his chambers. "You are not to interfere. Understand? Whatever happens... it's my responsibility to deal with. It's my own fault, not yours."

His voice was soft but firm, and Juno nodded.

It was only partially a lie.

Because he didn't understand. Juno didn't know much of politics, but the king was in charge and the king didn't order the advisor to hit him. How could it be his Master's fault?

But he did understand that he was to follow orders. It was his place; his duty. Nothing more.

So Juno did not interfere.

And when Master needed help bathing, when his back was littered with welts that burst and bruises that ached, Juno did not interfere.

When he saw with his own eyes Master on his knees, 'apologizing' with a cock in his mouth, Juno did not interfere.

His place was only to make his Master happy later. To wipe his wounds clean and brush away his tears and cover his lap with a blanket.

So he did. And hoped one day his Master would remember that he was king and not slave.

taglist: @haro-whumps @paintedpigeon1 @phoenixpromptsandstuff

[whumpspicelatte]

A Mouth Filled With Blood: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Set about four days(?) after Two Steps Back

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: Depression, suicidal ideation, implied past dubcon/noncon, implied past abuse, fear of future noncon, mild accidental self injury (twice), fear of becoming like past whumpers?

Time passed. The week ended. Juno healed enough to return to his crate that he still preferred to sleep in when not in their now-shared bed in his eight-months-new king’s room. Terrance finally, finally got to take off the gloves. The court was even finally beginning to cool down a bit from their thwarted feeding frenzy. 

Juno watched Terrance like he was going to tear his throat out with his teeth, and that wary gaze had banished Terrance from his own rooms like he had four ravenous, white-faced ghosts nipping at his heels. 

What had he done to earn that? What had he done to make Juno fear him? 

….had Juno seen what he’d done to his advisors? Had he scared his boy? Was that why Juno seemed to think Terrance was going to hurt him? Why Juno was looking at him the way Terrance might have once looked at-

No. No. He wasn’t his mother, he wasn’t his father, he wasn’t his older brother. 

He wasn’t. He wasn’t. 

…was he? 

Terrance rested his head in his hands, elbows braced against his desk. Nothing felt quite real since he’d settled Juno back into his rooms. As if he were walking through pearly white mist and everything he touched were made of solid smoke. 

He should be happy, shouldn’t he? Juno was alright. He didn’t have to deal with his advisors anymore. The ensuing ripples through court had finally begun to calm down. For the first time in years, he didn’t have fresh bruising to layer upon the yellowing and purpling flesh hidden under his robes. He no longer had to wear silks and fabrics which could fall off his body with just the tug of a hidden ribbon. 

Nobody touched him. Nobody hurt him. 

…nobody touched him, not since he’d emerged from the council room with Juno half-dead in his arms. Nobody. 

Nobody at all. 

He closed his eyes, trying his best to banish the burning threatening to make him tear up. The inner lining of his throat began to swell. 

What was wrong with him? Something had to be wrong with him. Nobody else seemed to struggle with just getting up in the morning. Nobody else seemed to spend hours in the bathtub, trying to even gather the resolve to get up and dry themself off. Nobody else had to spend an entire day unable to get out of bed not out of pain, but simply from the mental exhaustion of doing his duty the rest of the week. Not that he knew of. 

Something was wrong with him. So very, very wrong. But what was it? 

Did anyone else ever fantasize of going under the bathwater and never coming back up? Of a punishment having gone too far, having dug too deep, having hit something vital, of bleeding out on wood and stone? Of one day falling asleep and never having to wake up? 

He shouldn’t be entertaining these thoughts. If he died, with no viable candidate to inherit the curse and the kingdom, Rhodantheia would implode at the breaking of the curse. Not quite literally, but with the resulting wave of cataclysms…

Terrance couldn’t be a second King Raphael II, no matter if the vile man were his namesake. He couldn’t let himself be the last of his line. 

Even if it eventually meant marrying, now that it was unlikely to end in his death. 

He… he should get on with that, shouldn’t he? Finding a bride. A mother to his children who could raise them well. Who was…was fertile. Willing. Capable. Who would… would use him…

Terrance choked down bile, hands cupping his mouth. 

Later. Yes, later. He could do that- later. 

Plenty of paperwork he still had to do now. The prospect of marriage could wait for another day. 

He groped around for pen and paper and threw himself into his paperwork in the hopes it would help him flee from his own thoughts. Deaden his mind. Allow him to be useful. To be worth something beyond his blood and bones and flesh and-

And- 

His fingers shook too hard for him to properly scrawl his signature, forcing him to set the inkwell pen down and press his open hands against the wood of his desk. 

Enough. He was fine. He was fine. 

Maybe, if he repeated it enough times, he would begin to believe it. 

He was safe. Juno was safe. Everyone was safe. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back against his seat. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, knuckles white. And yet still tremors ran up his hands. At any moment, someone was going to come through those doors. Antoine or Ser Beauchene or Elodie or Wethoras or- or one of the others. Someone was going to slip inside, see his state, grab him by the shoulder, twist him over their lap and- 

What was wrong with him? 

They were gone. They were gone, and they weren’t coming back. None of them were going to hurt Terrance again. None of them were going to get even a chance at hurting Juno again. 

Juno…

…Juno, who feared him, now. 

It took a moment for him to realize that the blood filing his mouth behind his thinly pressed limbs leaked out from his tongue instead of another person’s flesh, that the ache in his teeth was from him grinding them together instead of his canines and molars breaking another person’s bones. 

It took a moment after that for the sting to hit his senses. 

Ow. 

He breathed in, breathed out. Inhaled, exhaled. In, and out. In, and out. 

Shaky fingers pried themselves off varnished wood to knead at silk-covered knees instead. Terrance lowered his chin to protect his barred neck. Focused on the air whistling in and out of his nose.

He pried his eyes open to stare down at ink printed over paper. 

Right. Work. 

He…he had to work. 

Terrance picked up the pen, set it to paper, and did his best not to cry. 

His mother would be so very angry with him to know how much he had cried these past few years, after all her work to yank such an undignified habit out of his skull like a loose tooth. 

She would have never let things get so bad with the council. 

The council had respected her. In a way they never had him. In a way that they might never respect him. Especially now. 

The door creaked open, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch, sending a sharp jagged scrawl across the paper he was signing. Damn it all. Why had he done that? Why did he keep on ruining whatever he touched-

A soft, wrinkled hand glinting with rings laid itself on his fist, and only then did he notice the sharp sting of his nail digging into his palm. When he set his hand flat on the table, he spotted blood under his nails. 

Damn it. 

His gaze drifted up to meet the Duchess’s own eyes, lined with subtle makeup to hide the tired shadows beneath. Dread pooled in his gut. The wetness along his lashes felt like the first symptoms of poison in an empty cup. 

A king does not cry. A king does not let others know that he had cried-

Delphine Valentin’s hand cupped his cheek, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch at the graze of her soft skin, skin prickling for the sting of a slap. But all she did was let his head rest in her hold. Let his thoughts fizzle in his head, empty out of his skull. Let him melt. 

Quiet. 

Finally, finally quiet. 

Her thumb ran beneath his eye and drew away wet. Distantly, he recognized the heat trickling down his cheeks. But all he could focus on was touch. 

It had been a little over a week since anyone had touched him. Anyone at all. Nobody had touched him since he’d brought Juno for healing. His hand hadn’t brushed against another’s skin since Juno had first woken up. 

He’d gotten spoiled, having his boy press into his side to sleep every night, having Juno’s calloused hands wrap his fingers around a warm mug on the daily. 

Gods, he missed it. 

And he didn’t know if he’d ever get that back. 

If he’d ever get back the one person in over a year to touch him without ill intent-

His vision blurred, a rough sob leaving his throat mangled and bruised. Soft lips pressed against his forehead. The Duchess’s voice rippled through the air like water, but he couldn’t make the slightest sense of it, burned out by the warmth of her hand bleeding into his skin. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he was hauled up into someone’s side, glove slipped off for a gentle, wrinkled hand to take its place. Leading him somewhere. He didn’t know where. He just knew he was being touched. 

He didn’t know when would be the next time he’d get to be touched. 

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Seek the Lord's Counsel First

"'Inquire, I pray thee, at the word of the LORD today.'" — 1 Kings 22:5b | JPS Tanakh 1917 (JPST) The Holy Scriptures according to the Masoretic text; Jewish Publication Society 1917. Cross References: 1 Kings 22:4; 1 Kings 22:6

[magnifiico]

i have to touch on this before i forget—

the way mag runs Rosas could be considered "irregular" to other kingdoms simply because he does not have any sort of council or advisors, anyone who really... assists in his decision-making; in his mind, his "advisor" is Amaya, and he doesn't feel that he needs anyone else (flawed logic there on its own uvu/ shocking)

i mean, fine. at least the one person he will listen to is in a position to keep him under some sort of control and we all know mags will heed amaya's advice like an excited puppy with his tail wagging buuuut yeah in all their years, the royal couple literally just manage it all on their own (and by "royal couple" i mainly mean amaya since she's truly Too Powerful and deserves more credit than she gets while her husband is playing around with magic)

the castle of course has servants, as we see. mag has guards (mainly for show bc as if this guy can't defend himself), but that's about it. all of the decisions on how to organize the way rosas is run, how to handle laws, etc. etc. – all the king and queen 😎 power couple rise up