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freyalor · 6 years

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[For the headcanons:] Of all of heavenly bodies, the fairest; the moon shifting from full to crescent to new. The Earth’s most trusted servant, my dreams orphic larcener… Am I being clear enough? :3c

You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You KNOW I can’t do THAT in 100 words. Well, you’ve asked for it.

Headcanon A: realistic

I think my most realistic headcanon is my bipolar disorder diagnosis for Armand. It is timidly shared by one or two specialists among the handful that ever considered the question, but not enough to make it a serious historical fact. So at this point, it’s still headcanon.

There are traces of him going through phases of reckless, ecstatic dominance, followed, at the slightest failure, by a rapid crumbling of his health and mood, with significant symptoms of self-harm (self-starving, refusal of medicine…). Medici herself once said that though he could be shot down by the mere misfortune, he was “worse than a dragon” when the wind blew his way. Success was likely to trigger feeling of supreme power and invincibility in him, pushing him to headstrong extreme “conquest” behavior, as in La Rochelle, or in the Huguenot wars that followed around 1629/1630, where he took drastic military and political measures without a sign of hesitation, building schemes and systems, overworking himself with no regard for his own health. Then, at the (false) news of Medici gaining the favor of the King in November 1630, he crumbled in one day from all-victorious to sickbed, stopped working entirely, refused all food or care, and called for death.

He is also likely to have developed, as consequence or in addition to his bipolar disorder, a form of anxiety, with his paranoia, insomnia, and general state of agitation clearly growing over the years (his conduct during the Cinq Mars plot very much beyond reason at this stage of his life).

As mental illness is my work and my passion, I of course emphasize the disorder in my writing and art, adding the finger biting to the self-harm symptoms, because GOTHIC AESTHETIC, and low self-esteem/ extreme guilt to his self-punishment behavior. It doesn’t make him more interesting than the original, it only makes him more complex for me to handle, and I enjoy that so very much. It might be Cardinal abuse, but I swear I only gave him more sickness to make the therapy and care (might it be from Treville, or Louis) more epic.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

((It’s kinda hard to be funny with my Richelieu, I now realise. He is many things, but fuck he ain’t fun at all. ))

BUT. I have been keeping this headcanon for a while without ever finding an opportunity to insert it into my writing. My headcanon is Armand does try to be funny from time to time, but it’s always in very subtle, very sarcastic way, and almost always in private. With Joseph, by example, he really can put on a show. He quotes the words of an annoying diplomat earlier in the day with dreadful accuracy, ridiculous accent included. He’s quite gifted with impersonations actually, and it send Joseph rolling on the floor in tears of laughter. By example, as Richelieu led a French diplomatic delegation to the Court of Frederic-Henri of the United Provinces, known for his avarice, he bit his lips real hard not to laugh in front of the wealthiest man in Europe yelling “PARCIMONY” to his servants every time they poured wine to the guests to encourage them to be thrifty. He keeps using this word for YEARS after, dropped under his breath from time to time as wine is poured in his glass, with a perfect imitation of Frederic-Henri’s accent at the most unexpected times.

(Joseph, distractedly)-“Do you want more wine, Eminence?

(Richelieu nods, but as Joseph pours wine he suddenly mutters: )-“Parcimony!

(Joseph, snorting VERY LOUD)-“PPPRRFFTT !

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Since the summer of 1620, Armand has been doing these discrete journeys to Anjou at least once a year. He had to grow more careful as years went by and his rise to power unfolded, but hiding things has never been a weak point for him. He goes alone with a trusted carriage driver, and crawls around daybreak through the back door of that miserable castle of Milly. He never wears robes for those visits, and may it be summer or winter, he hides his shoulders under the same nameless brown coat. He never looks up in this doorframe, he keeps his eyes low, with the same soft sadness hung around the corners of his mouth.The valet knows him, he doesn’t ask questions. He simply nods, and leads him to the same small room, to the same thick gates where every year one more lock has been nailed. The room is dark, because the windows have been broken too many times to be replaced, and the shutters are locked forevermore.

On the wide bed, between medicine and torn gazettes, someone lies there, curled on the side and humming softly.

-“Bonjour, Nicole” Armand says, but she never looks at him.

She sings, most of the times, she sings or recites shattered verses of a Bible only she knows of. She prays, most of the times, ignoring the gentle touch of Armand’s resigned care.

Then at some point, she screams at him.

She screams, spitting on his shoes, spitting on his hands, and she insults him so loud, so violent, that three valets need to barge in to pin her down. She shouts, twisting in her sheets, and the solid ropes around her wrists creak in their effort. Armand just steps back, lowers his head and looks aside.

Every year, she gets thinner. Every year they have to tighten up the knots. Every year she gets dirtier, her eyes wild and her hair thick. Every year she steps further into darkness, that darkness Armand knows so well, because every day of his own life, he spends dancing on the edge of it.

-“Bonjour Nicole”, he breathes, but she doesn’t recognize him anymore.

He sits, then, on that chair next to the bed, the same chair every time, and for one hour exactly, he just watches that woman die, swallowed by madness, inch by inch, day by day. He sits in desperate silence and watches, for one hour a year, over what remains of his younger sister.

What remains of his family.

Henri and Françoise, both dead and buried. Alphonse, barely coherent. Isabelle, exiled.

Nicole is all he has left.

And she’s tied to a bed twisting and shouting in her own excrements. He watches, for one hour no less, one hour no more, and eventually he gets up to leave.

-“Au revoir, Nicole” he tells her every time, but she’ll never answer.

He’ll walk out in a sigh, eyes low, wrapping his frame in that same cloak. It happens every year, even in his busiest times, until the shortest of letters, written by the local physician, informs him, 1635, that there is nothing left to visit anymore.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

I think the biggest twist I inflicted to history is Richelieu’s sexuality. He was historically very straight and that’s a fact, the gonorrhea he caught in his early life with tavern whores and his ambiguous adoration for his niece D’Aiguillon might be enough evidence.

But for my own devious purposes I erased D’Aiguillon from existence and made Armand more opportunistic than straight, feeling sexually attracted to people he looks up to, for virtue or power, and if they happen to be men, well, so be it. I added a whole system of submission kink to that, all of it derived from the fact that his only purpose was to serve France and the King, and this is of course pure invention, because I find the idea of the most powerful man alive in France at this time kneeling in front of the man he loves because he craves for relief from responsibility and power ABSOLUTELY PERFECT.

It adds contrast to the character, it adds surprise, and it makes him more real, more conflicted. He actually struggled and schemed and plotted to gain himself absolute power, all of this because he wants to serve the absolute. The moment of switch between the almighty Generalissime Minister Richelieu and the lovely devoted whimpering creature he can be in bed is pure beauty to me. The sigh of relief, the floof of robes as he drops on his knees. Unf.

That also allows me to insert more GOTHIC AESTHETIC such as soft BDSM and the active search for pain. It blends smoothly into the mental illness patterns I made up for him and creates intense emotional porn, which is My JamTM.

#Cardinal Richelieu #Prompt fill #don't make me talk about him #i never can stop #You know how IMPORTANT he is #what have I done

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thestuckylibrary · 7 years

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Hey guys,I was wondering if you could rec some of your favourite underrated fics?Like,hidden gems?I understand that's a list that probably takes a while to make,so if you can't do that with all the work you've got its completely fine.Thanks for all you do!!

here are some fics i loved that have less than 300 kudos

stars go waltzing out by FreshBrains

Who am I?

Who are you?

Where am I?

It scared him when he asked himself those questions. It scared him shitless, because sometimes he didn’t know how to answer.

leave the lights on by memitims

“Do you believe in the one?” Steve asks.

in the land of the living by hitlikehammers

Trip remembers the Temple; the Chamber. Remembers the Obelisk. Remembers—

Well. Basically, Trip remembers more than enough to be real skeptical about how the hell he ended up here, after that.

Furrier Needed by bactaqueen

Steve comes home to Bucky wearing nothing but a fur coat.

more fics under the cut!

Fortunate Son by Heronfem

We have miles to go before we sleep.

Or, the one where the Winter Soldier comes back, Howard Stark was a terrible man, Bruce is enigmatic, and Steve learns about CCR.

Awakenings by thedevilchicken

Steve wakes to a world terrorised by kaiju and steps up to pilot a jaeger. Natasha assists.

Bucky wakes as the Winter Soldier and struggles to find a new identity. Steve is entirely unhelpful.

And while Steve comes to terms, someone else saves the world.

I Will Find a Way to You (If It Kills Me) by notwithoutyou

Bucky kisses Steve for a few years before Steve finally kisses back.

They Liked You, Too by fadedink

If the night blows up in their faces, he’ll do his best to keep from saying “I told you so” too loudly.

Rehabilitated by sterlingsuspenders

Stark’s press release calls him “rehabilitated,” but Bucky doesn’t feel rehabilitated at all. He feels like a feral animal on a short leash. He feels like gnawing his own leg off.

Cocktail Party by bellagerantalii

“We are in the fucking White House, Rogers. The man we just walked out on is the same guy who you promised me was going to change the world back in 1932, and oh, yeah, he’s now the President of the United States.”

“We didn’t walk out on Franklin Roosevelt,” Steve insists, even though he knows that’s kind of what just happened.

Memory, Now by sheafrotherdon

A first kiss, of a kind

tender refrain by colberts

“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” Bucky asks as he shifts down, his breath hot against Steve’s skin.

“Had a good teacher.”

“Keep talkin’.”

Cops and Assassins by sassembled

A Halloween AU where Steve is a waiter working at a bar that requires its staff to wear costumes and Bucky is a customer of said bar.

Paradise by MakingPoetry

After thawing out, getting a new arm, and recovering from what Hydra did to him, Bucky has something important to tell Steve, but Steve already knows.

sea begins to slide by technorat

Steve and Bucky don’t stick to one place for too long of a time.

streets of fire by molgera

Bucky remembers, through a haze, this: a small, blond boy, much too small, and far too resolute for his own good. Bruised knuckles and split lips, over and over. The memories were already fading around the edges, a worn photograph. And then he was captured. And then, and then, and then.

Renewal by zilia

Steve, Bucky, and a new experience for both of them.

Room’s Still Spinning by hollybennett123

“This ain’t no dance I’ve ever seen before,” Steve protests, trying not to laugh and not quite succeeding. He grasps at Bucky’s shirt, the fabric twisting sharply in his fist as he steadies himself, anchored.

“It’s ours,” Bucky says as he turns it into an off-tempo waltz, eyes bright and his wide, lush mouth kissed pretty. “Our dance, you an’ me.”

to the river to wade, to bathe by nbsherlock

they take a lot of baths.

Burst down the doors by trisarawrtops

He tries the door. Of course it’s actually properly locked tonight. He peers inside, raps on the glass with his knuckles, but there’s no one in the halls.

Or, Bucky gets locked out of his apartment.

The Parting Glass by portraitofemmy

When he remembers the song, he remembers it in Sarah’s voice, not in his own or that of his own mother. Just like every other memory that Bucky Barnes had considered important enough to go over again and again often enough to write it into the depths of his mind, it was tinged with echoes of Steve Rogers.

come on up to the house by nightmaresinwintah

Or; Steve and Bucky finally get some time away from the craziness of their lives and we get a slice of their soft, happy life.

Dark Lights of Brooklyn by jwdish98

Steve Rogers is a private investigator who is barely skating by. He spends more time in his office than his apartment, and he continues to watch all his friends live out their lives while he sits on the sidelines.

However, when a case falls into his lap that dredges up past mistakes Steve’s life starts to veer off course- in a good way. Probably.

(He’s not entirely sure yet.)

The Only Familiar Thing by brideofquiet

Steve takes a breath, steels himself, and asks, “Where are we going, Buck?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one driving, Steve.”

And before Steve can protest, Bucky gives him that broad, toothy grin again. The worry pitted in his stomach ebbs, and he decides—what the hell? Why not? Steve pulls his helmet on and swings a leg over the bike. Bucky settles in behind him, and he cranks the engine to life.

Four out of Five by bopeep

If there were a merit badge for standing your ground in the face of manipulative fourth graders, Bucky Barnes definitely would not have earned one.

out of chaos, life is being made by prusfockers

How Bucky Barnes remembered and Steve Rogers smiled, a story told in 15 acts.

EDIT: Someone wrote in to recommend:

Meet Me On The Darkest Night (/others) by Cryofreeze

“I know you think it wasn't my fault, Buck...”

“You had to make a decision, there was no right or wrong choice.”

Steve blinked miserably at the stone step beneath his knees, grinding grit into his so-called uniform. “Maybe I'm not cut out to be a Commanding Officer.” He forced back a lump in his throat threatening to constrict his voice. “Or Captain America...”

~ ~ ~ ~

After the Howling Commandos' last mission goes awry, Steve questions his morals and self worth as a soldier... and as Captain America. He struggles to believe in himself and the man he thought he was, but being thrust back out on another dangerous mission gives him little time to choose between his own self-doubts or giving his all to save 1,000 prisoners of war from Hydra's clutches.

With the aid of Peggy Carter and the unwavering support of Bucky Barnes, they set out on a rescue mission inside the confines of a medieval fortress in WWII Europe. However, Steve isn't the only one to find the ghosts of the place crawl under his skin...

There's angst, action and an emotionally driven core to the tale of how Steve Rogers is forced to come to terms with what it really means to be Captain America.

#thestuckylibrary asks #this got really long but i mean #fics <3 #mod julia #Anonymous

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