Today is the amazing and talented @slashyrogue‘s birthday and so I was a little cheeky and stole a prompt from their @hannigramprompts blog for a forbidden love story between Prince Hannibal and his valet, Will (full prompt here). So without further ado, happy birthday, my dear slashy, I hope you enjoy <3<3<3
“I am the prince, am I not? I can do exactly as I please.”
“That’s why you can’t, princes don’t kneel before their subjects. And they
definitely don’t clean their boots for them!”
“You’re not my subject, Will, you’re my friend. I don’t care about what
the rules say, I care about you.”
“I… alright, fine then, have it your way. Should be me down there
cleaning your shoes, though. Good practice for when I’m somebody’s servant.”
“You could be so much more than that, Will. I could help you.”
“Nothing wrong with being a servant, your highness. We can’t all be the
“Perhaps I long for something different as well.”
“We all long for things we can’t have, Hannibal, that’s life.”
“Then life is unfair.”
“Yes. Hadn’t you figured that out yet?”
Will couldn’t help but remember
that conversation, years past now, on the morning he was to begin his new
employment. It wasn’t the first, or the last time the prince had offered to
help him rise beyond his station but, looking back now, Will could see it was
the beginning of the end for their friendship. He had known, by that point,
that he wouldn’t be able to keep Hannibal, that his life would soon diverge
from the prince’s in ways that would deny them the closeness they had enjoyed
throughout their childhood. The child of the king, the future ruler, could not
remain best friends with the child of a mere cook, and much as Will might have
wanted to hold Hannibal close – closer even than friends, in his secret heart –
he had done his best to accept this inevitability. Hannibal though, it seemed,
had not realised, or at least not believed it, until that day and that
conversation. After, he seemed to withdraw somewhat, as if he too had begun to
build a wall around his heart against their upcoming separation, and gradually
the two drifted apart, consumed by the quickly accruing duties of their
different destinies. Hannibal learned how to govern, how to lead, how to rule.
Will, how to serve, how to bow and scrape and obey.
Now they were both men grown, and
it had been at least a year since they had been in each other’s company; longer
still since they had exchanged a friendly word. So it had been a shock indeed
for Will to receive news of his advancement to this new position, ahead of many
other valets who were better qualified for the role. And it was downright
unsettling to stand in this room, watching his new master survey him from top
“Good morning, your highness.”
Will kept his eyes trained on the fireplace, as Hannibal prowled round him in a
slow circle, clearly having no wish to put him at his ease. He felt stiff and
awkward in his new uniform, provided for him by the prince’s household, and
Hannibal’s scrutiny was not helping. It was all Will could do not to squirm
under his gaze, only the distinct desire not to give Hannibal such satisfaction
holding him in place.
Finally, the prince had apparently
looked his fill and came to stand before Will, smiling affably. “You have grown
up well, Will, as I always imagined you would.”
Will did his best not to roll his
eyes at this. Hannibal was barely two years older than him, yet he spoke as
though Will was a child in comparison. He always had been given to patronising
everybody around him; when they were younger, Will would simply have smacked
him and told him to stop being so annoying. Now though…
“Thank you, your highness, you are
very kind. Would you like me to begin my duties?”
Hannibal raised an eyebrow at
this, and sought out Will’s eyes, forcing eye contact that he had no choice but
to return. “So eager to begin you have no time to catch up, Will?” Hannibal
asked, and Will could swear there was something like disappointment in the
prince’s eyes. It was gone again a second later though, and while Will usually
trusted himself to read people accurately, with Hannibal he’d never found it
quite so easy, and so told himself he’d imagined it. “Very well, Mr Graham, you
The title caught Will by surprise.
It was, really, exactly as any valet should be addressed by his master, but
from Hannibal… Still, Will did not let it faze him, and he moved calmly towards
the shaving set to take up his position. The head of the prince’s household had
informed him that Hannibal preferred to shave himself, as well as to pick out
his own clothing (a fact which Will was greatly relieved by, having little
sartorial sense of his own), and so he stood by as Hannibal approached the
washstand, ready to hand him the implements as required. He was therefore in
the perfect spot to observe as Hannibal dropped his fine, flowing gown to the
floor, and could barely contain his gasp.
OMGAAAAWWWW!!!! I work on this for two days, NOTE!!! i took this idea from a fanfinc i read a while back, i don’t know who the author is but it was a great story its called “The dark daughter” or “Alucard’s daughter” can’t really remember. but this was a part where Alucard and Seras see each other after four years, Seras ran way after realizing she got pregnant from alucard!!.
PS. I don’t know how to draw anime so what i did was i made a lot of research taking different pictures from google and tumblr and just rearranging them. So Artist if you see your art here sorry i didn’t credit you i could find your source Soooooo. i credit any artist who’s drawing is here.
Re: arranged marriage royalty rebelcaptain - Stormy the fiercely protective chow sounds adorable. I can imagine private secretary Kay getting to the royal couple's door and being chagrined by Stormy growling at him for daring to disturb his mistress and master. =)
Jyn’s devoted chow hound, Stormy, loves her and almost nobody else. The fierce little dog growls at sweet Bodhi, eyes her father with suspicious distance, and keeps a cool distance from her mother. So when she and Cassian are first married, Jyn expects Stormy to outright hate her new husband, if only out of loyalty to her. But Stormy betrays Jyn, and on Day 2 of their marriage, and she finds her pup curled at Cassian’s side in the library as he reads a book and absently pets her. On Day 5, Jyn finds Stormy whining at Cassian’s bedroom door, trying to get in, and has to physically lift her dog with her arms to deposit Stormy into her room for the night.
Jyn wants to know if Cassian has been plying her dog with sausages as a bribe, but Stormy’s never been that easy to win over. And at first, Jyn is flummoxed by the whole situation, but as the first year of their marriage passes and she gets to know her husband in specifics instead of the abstract, Jyn realizes this: her dog knew what a good man he was before she did and recognized in him the fierce loyalty the little dog had in himself.
“He’s a good little guard dog,” Cassian murmurs sleepily into her crown of hair when Jyn finally catches up to what Stormy knew from the start. Stormy is in the hallway between their rooms, growling at something or someone.
Jyn burrows herself deeper into his blankets and curls closer to his chest, humming in agreement as her hands slide down his naked chest and then lower and lower in a little, very un-princess-like tease. Cassian gasps a little in surprise and pleasure and Jyn turns her eyes up to look at his face when he says her name. She’s in love with hearing him say it now, in how the single syllable falls from his lips in all his different tones; how it sounds first thing in the morning when they wake together; how it sounds at night when he undresses her piece by piece as their bodies slide together.
“We’ll have to get up soon,” she finally says, regretfully. “Duty always calls.”
Cassian runs his finger along her jaw and lets his hand rest in her cheek. Stormy growls again, louder, before barking, and this time they both can hear Kay’s angry and ultimately ineffectual protests through the bedroom door.
“Someone get this dog out of here! I need to wake his highness.”
Cassian chuckles and kisses Jyn’s lips. She sighs, eyes still closed. “I think we can take a few extra minutes, don’t you think?”
“He’s such a good dog,” Jyn smirks, rolling on top of him and trapping him very willingly between her legs. “What do you want to do with those extra minutes?“
He smiles at her, a glint in his eye, and a pang of regret washes over her for the year she let pass without knowing him like this. But the feeling doesn’t last long. Cassian purses his lips as she leans down toward him, and he says to her, “Oh, I think we have the same thing in mind.”
So, say someone finally does claim the throne and becomes the new king/queen. But, say that you had to give this ruler one trait from all the current claimants/powers behind the throne. (So. Dany, Stannis, Tommen, Aegon (F?) Varys, Cersei, Jon Con) What one trait from each would you give to this ruler to make them the most effective.
Daenerys - Dragons. This is a unique trump card, and represents overwhelming military power. That might be a cheat though, since it’s not actually a ‘trait,’ Assuming, of course, we can’t use dragons and we have to use something else, I’d say idealism. As we see with actors like Baelor Breakspear, idealism is a great foundation for building toward good government.
Stannis - Commitment to his duty. Stannis emphasizes the best
part of a functioning government, where it takes its obligations
This is the second part of building toward a good government, by following through on commitments,
Tommen - Compassion. Few monarchs in the series are as good-hearted and well-meaning as Tommen.
Aegon VI - Intellect. Aegon has a very broad education, and this serves him well for higher-level discussion and building common ground. Much the way Eddard spoke to his master of horse about the stables, and his master of hounds about the hounds, Aegon’s ability to interface with his staff in their area is a uniting factor.
Varys - Image politics. I’ve made it plain that Varys is one of the masters of symbol politics in the series, and using that helps, especially in a preliterate society like Westeros.
Cersei - Conviction. She might be committed to power at any cost, but that drive re-oriented towards a better goal would serve a monarch well.
Jon Connington - Tactical ability. Connington might still be a terrible strategist, but he’s learned from his tactical mistakes. No longer seeking glory, he looks more toward victory, and any monarch needs to have victory in mind when it comes to war.
I'm so sorry to bother you but I just unliked an ask/answer of yours listing the songs you listen to when feeling sad and down and it was from a while ago but I can't find it. I remember it had a song by Hozier in it but I can't find it. Do you know how I can find it? Again, sorry for the silly question. Lots of love your way xx
I will do you one better and give you my new sad/sleep playlist! I’ll highlight my faves! I love you!
“All Alright”–Sigur Ros
“Always Gold”–Radical Face
"Ashokan Farewell”–Evan Stover
“Be Still”–The Fray
“Blood”–The Middle East
“Broadripple is Burning”–Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s “Bronte”–Gotye
“A Case of You”–Joni Mitchell
“Dandelion Wine”–Gregory Alan Isakov
“First Defeat”–Noah Gunderson
“Flume”–Bon Iver “Forgetting”–David Gray “Free Fallin’”–John Mayer
“I Can’t Make You Love Me/Nick of Time”–Bon Iver “Kettering”–The Antlers “In These Arms”–The Swell Season “Master and a Hound”–Gregory Alan Isakov
“New York”–Snow Patrol
“Nobody Knows Me at All”–The Weepies “Nothing Like You and I”–The Perishers
“River”–Joni Mitchell “Samson”–Regina Spektor “Sea of Love”–Cat Power
“Sea and the Rhythm”–Iron and Wine
“She’s Always a Woman to Me”–Billy Joel “Sister Song”–Perfume Genius “Sodom South Georgia”–Iron and Wine “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”–Israel Kamakwiwo'ole “the stable song”–Gregory Alan Isakov
“Such Great Heights”–Iron and Wine
“Summer 78 (Instrumental)”–Yann Tiersen
“That Sea, the Gambler”–Gregory Alan Isakov “The Light”–The Album Leaf “Time Flies”–Lykke Li
“The Trapeze Swinger”–Iron and Wine
“Upward Over the Mountain”–Iron and Wine “Wherever You Will Go”–Charlene Soraia
“Words”–Gregory Alan Isakov
“Wrapped In Piano Strings”–Radical Face “Youth”–Daughter
“In My Veins”–Andrew Belle
“I Will Follow You Into the Dark”–Death Cab For Cutie
Ten Things About Boromir the Bold That Never Made It Into the Red Book of Westmarch
I. His strongest memory of his mother was the smell of the sea she carried in her hair; how dark and tall she stood, looking towards a west Boromir would ever only long for in her honor.
II. Boromir did not ever doubt that he was loved. He was the first son of Gondor, swaddled in a walled citadel and rocked in Pelennor’s arms. He did not question why his father’s love was like stone, nor why his brother looked to him like he was the highest point of the ramparts. They were a city, and how else was a city to love?
III. For Boromir’s fourteenth year, the master of hounds promised him a pup of his own—One of Huan’s own line, the man swore, As befits a prince. What Boromir received, however, was the runt of that spring’s litter, a wheezing, stumbling thing that Boromir stubbornly nursed with a cheesecloth dipped in milk, then fed meat from his own plate.
Bellas, he called her, and ignored any who dared laugh.
Bellas never grew taller than Boromir’s knees, but she was strong and stubborn and loyal—for three years, Boromir went nowhere without her shadow at his heels. Bellas slept at the end of his bed; waited patiently during Boromir’s lessons; loped after his horse when he went riding.
Boromir was seventeen when Bellas was killed, her neck broken by an orc who had stumbled into their hunting party. She had put herself between her young master and the interloper, and afterwards, Boromir had carried her in his arms all the way back to Minas Tirith.
He buried her beneath a sapling tree on the slope of Mindolliun, and wept where no one could see him.
IV. Faramir looked west, and dreamt of great waves. Boromir watched him, heart heavy in his chest.
V. He had been in love with—well. He never said.
VI. Boromir was ill at ease in Elrond’s house, feeling too rough with travel, and heavy—all of Gondor on his shoulders, the knowledge that Faramir’s fine speech and strange visions might have meant something here, where Boromir, Protector of the City, did not. But he burned when they dismissed Gondor, his fingernails biting into his palms when the strength of Men was so questioned. (He had not seen any Elves come to Osgiliath’s defense, nor heard of any wizard-craft that kept the Corsairs from their brazen pillaging of Langstrand and Belfalas. What had these mighty peoples done to battle back the Shadow in the East except sit in their cool green palaces and speak in riddles?)
VII. He liked the Hobbits best, even after. They reminded him most of his own men, with their stubbornness and light-hearted complaints, their love of food and pipe-smoke and story. Three of them had left behind the whole of their world, to walk into darkness beside just one, and—yes, Boromir could respect such brotherhood.
VIII. (Aragorn remembered when Boromir was only a child, rosy-cheeked and happy to leave his mother’s side, to follow Thorongil around the citadel burbling in some tongue only Denethor and Finduilas could decipher. It was strange to meet the man that child became, to stand at a height with him, to wield a sword at his side, to listen to him speak of peace for Minas Tirith like other men spoke of lovers.
It made Aragorn feel very old, an ache deep in his bones that had not been there before. Careful, he wanted to caution the man, as he had once cautioned the child. Reach too high and you will fall.)
IX. One rainy night, when Boromir was keeping watch over the sleeping Fellowship, he sketched it out in his mind—the streets he would lead Aragorn through, the hidden corners of the palace he would show to Merry and Pippin, the great gates of the city whose craftsmanship he might justly boast of to Gimli. How Minas Tirith, that shining city, would chase the sorrow from the Fellowship’s faces, might shield them, might give them rest.
The rain dripped down his neck, cold, but he was gone to Minas Tirith—This is my home, he imagined himself saying to his companions, his brothers. This is home, may you always be welcome.
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.”