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ego-meliorem-esse · 1 year ago

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July 13th, 1917

Be it from a sense of paternal concern or simply patriotic duty, Arthur made sure to leave his soldiers in the charge of an older Corporal and made his way to the quite pathetic excuse of a medical section where his son was left to rot.

Arthur had heard about the attack. He had been informed the day prior.

He had seen war and famine and sickness, but never like this. Arthur wasn't young, in any sense, and what wonders and strong political oppinions young men had, had left him a long time ago like a ship leaving the harbour in a hury to claim new land. This though, had left shock echoing within his tired, millenia old frame. He wasn't used to this.

Arthur made his way through the trenches with soldiers from every corner of the globe instantly stopping whatever they were doing prior and saluting him as if etiquette and rank mattered in hell. As if it was more importaint to greet the Higher ups than to survive long enough to even write a letter back to family. Arthur did understand that though. Routine and rules were the only thing keeping these poor and wretched souls from being consumed by thoughts of an imminent death.

The path to the section where Matthew was held was quite straightforward and quite familiar. He had marched to and from it hundreds of times and had a sort of automatic rithm in his step. Arthur made his way to the small and damp room with a fast pace indicative of familiarity, only to stop in his tracks in the shabbily built doorframe at the sight that awaited him in the corner.

Matthew sat in the corner of the sad makeshift medical section of the trenches, his back firm against the cold, damp wall.

His once-piercing blue-grey eyes were now clouded over with milky white cataracts, rendering him completely blind. The newly used gas had stolen his sight. His skin, once tanned and healthy, now bore the sickly pallor of a much older man who had endured unimaginable suffering.

Matthew's uniform, discarded in favour of his worn down undershirt, was now a tattered and stained relic of his time in the trenches. The not-white-anymore shirt clung to his emaciated frame as if decency still mattered in hell. The physical toll of the war was clear on his body. Not that Matthew would have to worry about seeing that any time soon. His hands, which had once held a rifle with resolve, now trembled even while resting on his thighs.

Despite his physical and emotional anguish, Matthew remained seated upright, his back pressed against the unforgiving, stained wall. A testament to his resilience if there was any left, a silent protest against the horrors that had taken his sight and left him broken in body and spirit.

As he sat there, his spirit reduced to a hollow shell, Matthew's face bore a mixed expression of utter defeat and complete indifference. His lips were drawn into a thin, lifeless line, and his cheeks were gaunt from the weight of his suffering. His blank, unseeing eyes stared into the abyss, as if waiting for answers and also hoping they'd never arrive.

In that moment, Matthew was not a representation of Canada; he was a young man who had been scarred and broken by the senseless brutality of war. The trenches around him buzzed with activity, but he remained isolated in his silent world of darkness and despair. The young medics job was done. He had patched Matthew up and left him to his own misery. Matthew was grateful.

Arthur stood there silently under the doorframe for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds. A strange and unfamiliar twinge of emotion plucked and pulled on his conscience. He hadn't felt guilt in quite some time. This feeling was reserved for drunken nights spent in solitude with the doors to the room he resided in firmly locked so that his sliver of self-deprecating emotion wasn't witnessed by any but himself, while he drunk himself to unconsciousness.

He preferred the emotional solitude to this.

Arthur had believed himself to be capable of most things. Especially conversation and confrontation. He was quite good at those as centuries of existence had proved. He believed himself quite skilful with words. Most of the time he knew what to say and when to say it without it resulting in unwanted and unforeseen consequences, while still making sure his opinion was heard.

Arthur had no words forming as he stood in that doorframe. If Arthur was a good man, his reasoning would be that he felt such strong empathy and sadness that words wouldn't be enough to express the sorrow he felt at that moment. If Arthur was a good man he'd run to his son, assure him that this wouldn't happen ever again and that he was safe. If Arthur was a good man he would fall on his knees in front of his oldest son and beg for forgiveness.

Arthur wasn't a good man.

He could admit to his shortcomings, but to act on them was not in his nature.

So he stood there for another 5 or 6 minutes watching his son shallowly breathe in and out, hearing the boys lungs struggle to keep up with his muscles contraction and need for air.

He must have made a noise, as Matthew's head tilted slightly to the left, almost looking at Arthur but definitely not seeing him. Arthur looked back at him.

The room was quiet, save for the desperate plea of Matthews lungs to be put out of their misery.

Sensing nothing after a few moments, Matthew turned his head back towards the blank wall ahead.

Arthur silently turned his frame around and slowly started walking the path he had taken to get here. As he took a few steps, he released the breath he didn't know he was holding.

How he longed for that whiskey bottle and that dark room where he could lock himself in and slowly drift out of consciousness instead of facing his own mistakes.

Arthur definitely was not a good man.

#ooof i had a field day with this one #father son drama ugh sighn me the fuck up #arthur is def not a good man im sorry to the england stans but he isnt #he lives his kids but he is not a good man #he would take a bullet for his kids bur he is not a good man #hetalia #hws england #hws canada #myart #my art #historical hetalia #my writing #arthur kirkland #matthew williams #hetalia fanfiction

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

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Operation Apollo | 2.8 | Jake Seresin x Reader (18+)

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Synopsis: After a threat is made against her life, the President’s grown up daughter gets her security tripled. Ex-Navy and current Secret Service, Jake Seresin is devoted to being the best at everything he does. He isn’t going to let a bratty little girl cost him this job.

Warning: age gap, power imbalance, enemies to lovers, danger and angst, manipulation, sucky parents, grief and manipulation, lying, distressing themes throughout but especially towards the end of the chapter. Graphic violence, dangerous situations, revenge, wc: 3.5k

For as long as you can remember, you had known that your father was going to be president. It was always discussed as a given. It was the coup de grace; he had been working towards it much longer than you had even been alive.

Those fourteen hour work days, and sleepless nights. The hard decisions and the time away from his family. All along, Matthew had sworn that it would be worth it. It would, one day, be enough.

Then, the first set of polls came in after those primary debates the summer before his first election run and with it, intel that Matthew plunged a sixth of his savings in to. Politics and bribery go hand in hand across most of the world; this wasn’t even the first step off of the beaten path.

The intel was clear as day; It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough. All of that time, and work, and desperation that he poured into his career, it wasn’t going to be enough to win him the presidency. The guarantee was next to nil.

But there was still time.

He remembers one evening, in particular, sitting with his advisors in his home office, and just sobbing. Every birthday he had missed, every milestone — it was all going to be for nothing.

“Look, Matt,” Arnie had said, stubbing his thin rolled cigarette out into a crystal ashtray and sitting back in the leather arm chair, sinking into it like the lazy waste of space that he was. He was a good friend of the family back then. “There’s still time. We’ve got options, buddy. Plenty of ‘em.”

Matthew had rolled his neck back slowly — he still remembers the stress-induced stiffness those days had caused him — and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, Arnie? — And what options are those?” It was a biting remark, untrusting and downright hateful by that point. Arnie had promised many things already, and rarely had delivered. On the times that Matthew thinks back to his twenty year friendship with Arnold Paulson, he finds himself glad that that asshole now resides six feet under.

The older guy had just shrugged, letting that snide little smile creep across his face. “I know a guy. I think he might be able to, uh… help you out. For a fee, if you get where I’m coming from.”

Ellis Armstrong. After three days, and more phone calls than you care to remember, you have a name. He’s a business-man, and a rather successful one at that. Works in corporate development — he’s not hidden from the public eye like you would expect a guy like this to be.

No, he’s got thirteen offices spanning three continents and a portfolio that would put the Forbes list to shame. Once upon a time, he had been a friend of the family. It’s easy to piece together the headshot of him sitting at the wide, mahogany desk in his new office and the fuzzy memories of the tall man in your father’s office late at night.

You remember him distinctly. The sound your bare feet had made, tiptoeing down that long, curving staircase in the old house. Far past your bedtime, your princess nightgown grazing your ankles. The halls dark, illuminated by lights pouring out from under doors. The house was never really empty back then. Pushing open the heavy pocket doors that separated your father’s office from the parlour.

The gaunt, tall blond man sitting in the armchair. His sunken eyes that had seemed so dark in the dimly lit room. His thin lips and hollow cheeks. The long, straight nose and the deep lines between his brows. Skeletal and still, he had looked like a monster. Something that belongs in the dark, lurking in wait.

“What are you doing up, princess?” Matthew had scooped you off of your feet and suddenly you were looking at him instead, in all of the warmth and glory and familiarity of a man adored by his little girl.

“I couldn’t sleep.” You remember, but it’s hazy now. You don’t remember the softer, higher pitch of your voice or really what had made the man in the chair quite so scary looking, or what had driven you out of the safety of your bed that night.

There’s a fondness to his smile in those hazy memories, a softness to his touch that feels so far away now. The stars and unicorns on your bedsheets, and the stuffie he had tucked under your chin. The safety of your childhood bedroom, with the warm pink glow of your nightlight and the embrace of your stuffed animal. How far away the fear of that man in the chair had felt once your father had kissed the top of your head and closed your door.

It doesn’t just feel far away, it is far away — everything about it. Your parents no longer own that house, you’ve long outgrown that bed and that stuffed animal ended up in the donate pile after one of your big moves. You’re no longer hiding from the scary man sitting in the armchair; you’re looking for him.

“I don’t understand,” You do, but showing your cards has never been part of your strategy. The woman opposite you forces her creasing mouth into a deeper frown as she pulls her coffee cup protectively closer. “Tell me, exactly, what you remember about your time working for my father.”

If Allen knew where you were, he would skin you alive. If Manny knew, he would be right here with you. If Jake knew, you wouldn’t be here at all. He would have locked you in a hallway closet before he let you set something like this up.

The woman sitting opposite you is a timid little redhead with big brown eyes and a disposition that brings new clarity to the term ‘afraid of her own shadow’. She’s jumpy, and looking over her shoulder constantly. You, are considerably cooler for a person more alone than they have been in more than a decade.

Her name is Ida — she was your father’s personal assistant the year before his first election, and it cost you to even get her to this cafe in Pasadena. You remember the long skirts and the narrow glasses, but you don’t remember Ida being quite so… afraid.

“He wasn’t— he isn’t a bad man, darling. That’s what you have to understand, it’s just that—“

“Ida, slow down.” You bite, growing tired of this. You don’t have long before someone notices that you’re gone, if they haven’t already. The sky outside is grey, and sullen, the cafe is almost empty for now but the lunch rush is approaching. “This isn’t about whether he’s a good guy or not. Tell me where Ellis Armstrong comes into this.”

Sitting opposite you, the mouse-like woman’s eyes turn wide like saucers as she shrinks down further into her seat, wringing her hands into the checked fabric of her skirt.

“He wasn’t going to win the election by himself. There was intel out there that… painted him in a bad light.”

“Details, Ida.” You click the pen and stare across at her impatiently. She swallows softly and checks around her again.

“Your father had an affair. It was all going to come out — it would have tanked any kind of campaign he could have put together, and you remember what times were like then… the kind of money it would have taken to make that go away…” The coffee mug in front of her scalds her trembling hands as she finally lifts her chin enough for you to look her in the eye. Raindrops start to beat into the sidewalk outside. A silence sets across the coffee shop as the soft indie playlist stops between tracks.

If you were still little, padding barefoot along the hall in your princess nightdress, this would have hurt so badly. The warm smile and his gentle disposition — and he was already betraying you, even then. You’re not little now. It doesn’t hurt like it would have then. You scrawl messily across the page.

“What was her name, who did she work for?”

Ida pauses briefly, blinking. Truthfully, she hadn’t been expecting this calculated coldness from you. She’s seen the videos of the frightened girl clinging to her bodyguard. She wonders how far he might be from you today.

“Suzy Blake. She was a political analyst for the New York Times back then.” Ida tells you, turning her head and checking through the rain-dotted front windows of the shop. You scribe the information and look back up to her, unsatisfied.

“All I’ve got on this is your word?” You prompt her.

“And her daughter — Matt never took a paternity test, but Suzy was always so sure.” This, Ida can see it worm its way under your skin, writhing under those years of collected conditioning. She blinks across at you and taps her nails against the coffee cup, glancing down at the milky liquid.

You have never heard of Suzy; couldn’t even begin to picture what she looks like. Her daughter would be nine, at least, maybe older. She could look like you, maybe. You press your lips together and grind the tip of the pen into the lined page, threatening to leave indentations of your anger through the rest of the book at once.

“So, Ellis paid for her to disappear?” You confirm, looking back up at Ida with an iciness that gives her a glimpse of her former boss.

“Ellis paid for a lot of things.” Ida answers you suddenly faster than she has in the entire hour that you’ve been sitting here. She doesn’t look at you as she says it, lifting the mug from the saucer and taking a long drink of her latte. The liquid shivers in the cup, disturbed by her trembling fingers.

“Ida.” You sigh, growing frustrated. She turns her head and looks towards the window again, craning her neck slightly. Frightened of her own shadow, you condemn her cowardice. “Details.”

Her eyes follow two raindrops as the grey droplets race along the windowpane. “He bought the presidency for your father.”

Your father is a proud man. He has told you the story plenty of times, of how your grandfather had tried to give your parents the down payment for a house, how your father chose to spend his first year of marriage in a studio apartment rather than taking it. Back then, you wouldn’t have believed he could do such a thing.

Now, you aren’t sure where to draw the line on where your beliefs lie.

“Extra campaign funding, promotions, big names,” Ida’s cup jingles as she sets it rockily back down onto the saucer. She turns her head back to the table, but avoids your gaze nonetheless. “Votes. Ellis made it all happen. He saved your father’s career.”

Your gaze flicks up from the scrawled information on the page, and lands on her hands. She picks restlessly at her cuticles, her attention shifting to every corner of the room but you. Your brows draw together seriously, taking a moment to check the empty space around you before you focus on her.

“And what did my father do to him?”

Such a clever little girl — that’s what Ida remembers most of you. So inquisitive, and engaged. So interested. It’s such a shame that no one had time for you, you really deserved someone who would have answered those wonderful questions you came up with.

She swallows softly, unsure of exactly how much information is encompassed by the umbrella of ‘everything’. In her industry, you never let go of all of your secrets at once. That’s just bad business.

“He ran for re-election,” Ida says calmly, her voice more confident sounding, even in its soft tone. She exhales slowly. “And, after the successes in his first term, it became clear that he could win the presidency again. Without Mr. Armstrong.”

Across the table, you set the pen down on the edge of the notebook and check the time on your watch. You should be getting back before Allen has time to deploy a whole search party.

“Again, Ida… I’ve just got your word on this.” You remind her. A jaded assistant from nine years ago isn’t exactly the concrete evidence that you broke out of your house for. The fear in her eyes is all the proof you need, but that won’t stand up in court.

You’ve been thinking about that a lot recently, as your research has deepened into your father’s past. You came across a picture yesterday, where he was your age, and smiling in the foreground of a Greenpeace conference. It struck you to consider if that young man would hate the man he was going to become as much as you have grown too — if maybe the two of you would have gotten along once, if things were different.

If you would be able to stand up in court and send the smiling young man, with the purest of intentions, to prison.

“You’re right,” She starts to shake her head and her chair scrapes across the floor. The loudest sound that has come from her all day. She twists in her seat and grabs her jacket and her bag from the back of her chair. “You’re right, I can’t prove this. This was a bad idea…”

Your eyes go wide as she scrambles for her things. “No, Ida, wait—“

She pauses, briefly, to look you in the eye. “I’m sorry.” She turns swiftly, and heads for the door, dinging the bell above it and slipping out into the sheets of grey rain outside the door. You slam your notebook shut and fumble to slip it into your back, all thumbs and no fingers, stuck in the struggle as she disappears from the view of the front window.

“Shit…” You mutter, slinging the bag onto your shoulder, forgetting your coat completely as you head after her. She’s much faster than she is loud. Rain chills your cheeks and dampens your hair before the bell above the door is even done ringing. Your shoes slap against the pavement, splashing fresh rainwater onto your jeans. You round the corner and squint through the grey ahead of you in search of her.

Her plaid skirt dips behind a car up ahead as she crosses to the driver’s side.

“Ida! Wait!” You call out for her, securing a hand around your bag as you jog to keep up, rushing for the blue sedan as she ducks into it. It doesn’t take you long, her hands are shaking too much to get the keys into the ignition. You slow, but don’t make it to a complete stop, reaching out to knock hard against the passenger window, as something cold, sharp-edged and hard slams into your right eye socket.

Your elbow hits the ground first, then your knee, then your left temple, before your body collapses to the wet pavement all together. Thrown off balance and reeling, your years of conditioning haven’t ever prepared you for this. Your skull aches, throbbing like you’re being hit with that first impact over and over, before you even feel the fingers curling around your arms and hoisting you off of the ground.

The car door clicks open. Blood rushes to the right side of your face, swelling in circles to form the deep bruise that will be left behind. Slow, blinking, your eyes drag themselves open and blink as you realize that it wasn’t the door of the car that opened. A second impact comes, but this one isn’t stone — it’s all skin. You can feel the warmth of the hand, and the ridges of each knuckle, as it drives forwards into your face.

After that, you can only imagine how easy you make for them to get you in that trunk. It hurts too much to open your eyes. Maybe that’s a pathetic thing to think, as you start to think of what they’ll do to you next — what pain is yet to come. But, it’s dark anyway, and in here, at least you’re alone. Your phone is in the bag. Maybe that’s still on th pavement, or maybe it’s in the car. But it isn’t with you.

Each turn sends you forwards or back, your body rolling over the thinly carpeted trunk, slamming into the back of the seats or the metal of the hatch. You can feel your face swelling, the heat from it stings like a burn.

Jake’s going to be so angry with you, for doing this to yourself.

Maybe it’s just a short ride, or maybe you black out a little on the way, there’s no way of knowing for sure. But, when your eyes feel open, they’re trying to focus to the new bright light after ages of dark. When they’re closed, it doesn’t look much different.

It’s cold, and the echo of the voices around you tells you that the space you’re in is wide open and empty. A warehouse, most likely. The perfect spot for an execution.

You’re held up by a hand on each of your arms, and your feet drag, scrambling for leverage against the ground as they tug you forwards. There’s some fight left in you after all. If it lasts long enough for someone to figure out where you are, that’s another story. You should have told Manny. Or left a note. Something.

The country is going to put your father on a pedestal when he’s grieving the loss of his beloved daughter.

Abruptly, you’re thrown down into a chair and your arms are torn backwards, making you cry out. Rope. Heavy, and fraying, rough against your wrists as you’re bound to the metal backing of a wooden chair. Fingers dig abruptly into either side of your cheeks, pressing the flesh of your mouth into your teeth until you’ve got no choice but to open up in complaint.

The second that your lips part, something is forced between them. A dry rag. It’s tied tight at the back of your head, digging into your cheeks, muffling your sounds of struggle.

Muffled and restrained, there’s no way to defend yourself when another blow comes. It hits the centre of your face hard, another fist, this one harder than the first. Not pulling the punch in the slightest. Instantly, liquid streams from your nostrils and the taste of copper floods your tastebuds.

Your screw your eyes shut and force yourself to blink, you force your eyes to adjust. You refuse to surrender your last sense. Gradually, the room steadies and your vision focuses. It’s grey and industrial, illuminated by a singular lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Empty, almost, bar a few storage crates, and a scary man sitting in front of you.

He smiles softly as your gaze settles on him and burns with rage.

“I know, I know,” Ellis offers with a small smile. He gives a small shake of his head. “This is none of your fault, darling. I know that. I’m sorry, really I am.”

You’re silent opposite him, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, sickened by the fact he has the satisfaction of watching you bleed. Turning your head slightly, you catch sight of the two men in your peripheral. Security, you guess, in case you do something.

This time, when you turn your head, you aren’t scared. The man in front of you is afraid of little, old you — so much so, that he needs backup.

“But Matt has a debt that I’m… not willing to forgive.” Ellis is wearing a green crewneck and black jeans, not like the suits in his pictures. This must be a casual kind of affair for him. His thin lips twitch, hinting at a smile as your gaze remains, unwavering, on him.

Saliva pools in your mouth, copper-tasting as your nose continues to stream with blood. It saturates the makeshift gag, spilling down your chin, your jaw aching and numb at the same time, pins and needles stinging through your hands as the restraints bruise your wrists.

“You understand, don’t you? — Smart girl like you, you get why we had to go after you, I mean.” Ellis sits opposite you with his long legs stretched in front of him, his palms braced on the cargo box that he is perched on. Maybe it’s because he’s closer now than he ever was before, or maybe it’s just because you aren’t a little girl anymore — but you look into those dark, hollow eyes and there’s not a fibre of your being that needs your father to rescue you from him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It’s easy enough to pretend that the damp rag secured around your mouth doesn’t cut into the corners of your mouth when you speak. You’re stronger than that.

Ellis presses his lips together and sits forwards, his gaunt face leering closer to you as he twitches towards a smile. He lifts one of those bony, skeletal hands and reaches for his phone, angling it towards your bruised face. “Don’t worry, darlin’ — we’ll get you back to your boyfriend soon enough. Just smile for the camera.”

tags: @alanadetigy @thedroneranger @momc95 @basicchelsea @perpetuelledaydreaming @cherrycola27 @eviesaurusrex @xoxabs88xox@desert-fern @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @khaylin27 @cowboybarbie @marchingicenotes7 @marantha @lgg5989 @herladyshipxx @chaoticweirdogeek @mak-32 @obiwankenobis-lap @diamond-3 @wolvesofthewinter@shawnsblue@itsmytimetoodream

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yellowbunnydreams · 1 year ago

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Mechanised Devotion (Part 1) ~Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader~

~ Please be nice to me, this is my first time writing fanfiction in a while and honestly have just been experiencing the phenomena that is Matthew Lillard as William Afton. Also, first time posting on tumblr! Also thinking of making this a multi-part series, so feedback is really appreciated!~

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), afab reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 40's), mention of crimes and violence, blood, mentions of child death (it's FNAF, what did you expect?), past trauma; abusive relationships.

When it had been suggested by your previous manager that you should see a career counsellor, you had thought it was a funny joke. You had laughed at the idea of something such as going to see another human being who's job was solely to tell you what jobs you were good and qualified for.

Until the paperwork had been handed over in an unsealed manila envelope letting you know that you had been terminated.

Unemployment had hit you like a truck, but without the pay-out that might have come from the trucking company. Filing paperwork to try and get even a few dollars a week to survive and contribute towards your house-share whilst already struggling to try and push through college had fallen by the wayside and you had been hitting the pavement both physically and online to try and find your next job.

That perfect one that was sure to turn up the next day, or maybe the next week.

But as somewhat expected, that moment had never arrived and neither did that job. So it was with great reluctance that you found yourself in a drab beige building with the occasional sound of human misery making the area feel like anybody was left alive in the room despite the faint clicking of the keyboard from the receptionist.

'Would it have killed them to put a small plant or something in the room?' You found yourself thinking as you looked around, almost missing the gesture from the receptionist lady who scowled over her glasses at you and handed you a slip of paper.

"Your councillor will see you down the hall, third door on the left."

"Thanks ma'am." your voice was quiet, and the woman scoffed before shooing you away with her somewhat ridiculously long nails. You wondered how she managed to do anything with them, but your thoughts quickly turned to the office you were supposed to find as you set off quickly down the hall.

The walls were beige, the floors were beige and you were minorly impressed that they had found somewhat beige doors as you moved down the hall cautiously. But the door you needed seemed almost comically like an old episode of Scooby-Doo where it was easy to tell what object was going to be interacted with due to the significantly different colours and quality of drawing. For some reason, the one door you needed was a nice deep wooden colour, although you seriously doubted it was real wood in a place like this. It took you a moment to breathe deeply, steeling your nerves and running your hand through your hair to tidy it up a bit, hand smoothing down your skirt before reaching up and knocking.

There was sound of shuffling from inside before a smooth, warm voice that came from inside though slightly muffled. "Come on in!"

Entering slowly, you blinked as you spotted a man sat at the desk infront of you, his hair peppered with greys despite being a cool brown colour and his slightly gaunt face adorned with greying stubble. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, which he looked over the rim of to see you before reaching up and pushing them back onto his face with his index finger, standing up with a warm, lopsided smile. What surprised you next was how tall he was. The guy was easily over six feet tall, and you felt dwarfed by his sheer size, broad shoulders accentuated by a neat by rumpled beige plaid shirt and a neatly knotted tie.

"You're my new client right? Come on in! Sit, sit!" he gestured to the cracked plastic chair opposite the desk with a large hand before extending it to shake your own, hand engulfing yours and allowing you to feel how rough and calloused they were compared to your own.

'How does an office worker get such rough hands?' you wondered as you took a seat, hands automatically tucking your skirt underneath you as you sat in the hard plastic chair. Blushing as you felt the man's grey eyes wandering over your appearance with something akin to disinterested amusement before he opened a folder and made a humming noise as he scanned it.

It allowed you to look around his office, noticing several framed diplomas on the walls, surprised by the amount of colour in the room with the warm wooden bookcase and even the occasional muted purplish-blue folder dotted amongst the shelves. You noted his room smelt like coffee, both freshly brewed and stale grounds somehow, a faint smell of smoke and cologne. Sniffing quietly, you wondered if perhaps the person who had sat there before you had been a smoker and worn some cologne to try and impress. But you supposed that you had gotten dressed up yourself despite your scuffed up converse ruining the somewhat ill-fitting blouse and skirt giving some illusion of professionalism.

"So, what are we going to do with you?" His voice made you jump as you suddenly snapped your attention back to him. Heart pounding as you blushed, realising as he tilted his head slightly to one side that he had caught you off-guard and slightly snooping.

"Pardon sir?" You asked, swallowing softly as you met his gaze for a moment before you looked down at your hands again. Picking slightly at your nails and more specifically the pale blush nail polish you had hastily tried to apply yourself that morning to hide the fact that you bit your nails. He paused before sighing and leaning forwards onto his elbows, chin resting on his hands as he gave you a somewhat lazy smile.

"I asked, miss..." he glanced at the paperwork before letting your name roll off his tongue in a way that made your heart pound slightly. You weren't sure why it did, but some tiny part of your brain was eager to hear him say it again. "what I was going to do with you. You have a clean employment record...aside from all the dismissals due to.." He paused and pulled his glasses down to peer over them to stare the text, his lips moving silently as he read before putting his attention back onto you. "it says here 'staffing issues and personal life interferance'?" Raising a quizzical eyebrow

"I um... I had some issues at home at that time Mr..." Glancing down at the nameplate on his desk, you realised he had never formally introduced himself to you apart from the handshake. "Raglan. I'd rather not talk about it."

"Well, I can't help you find a job if you don't help me help you." The man you now knew as Steve Raglan sighed, giving you another one of those lopsided smiles that made you feel like you were talking to a sweet, disappointed but supportive dad and gave you a pang in your chest that you might be letting this total stranger down.

"You don't have to tell me today, but I want to see you next week and I want you try to open up, tell me about what was going on and I might be able to offer something." Steve offered, gesturing to his pile of potential job prospects. You weren't aware that he was looking at you again, wondering if you purposely had chosen something that obscured your body-type and meant you weren't confident in yourself, or whether financially you had chosen what option was available.

The way you sat there meekly and picking at your nails was somewhat infuriating as he wanted to demand you looked at him when he spoke, but he remained calm. You were probably his most interesting client to date, hunching in on yourself and avoidant of filling in the blanks that your open ended statement had left. He decided he would lay on the charm slightly, see what got you to cave in and perhaps provide some amusement as his mind whirled with too many ideas and desire to move, do something and be far more active than his life as Steve Raglan allowed.

"I guess I'll see you next week then, thank you having me Mr. Raglan." you spoke softly and stood up. Watching as the hulking man stood too and opened the door with a somewhat sad smile, like he was watching a bright student walk down the wrong path in life.

"Of course, please, take this and give me a call if you would like to talk about this matter sooner. I hate to see a young woman like yourself go to waste because of one little hiccup." Another pang went through your chest as he spoke. He really did seem dissapointed in you, and some how, you found that you wanted to please the man you had met barely half an hour before.

As you walked down the corridoor, his eyes lingered on your smaller retreating form and tilted his head to one side, licking his lips to wet them for a moment in thought. He hoped whatever you were hiding from his was worth his time, and would perhaps find him another fun thing to play with.

#william afton x reader #steve raglan #steve raglan x reader #fnaf movie #fnaf x reader #william afton #springtrap #springtrap x reader #purple guy #william afton x you #william afton smut

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kelliealtogether · 16 days ago

Text

Safe Bet

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bars and Pubs, Meet-Cute, Bets & Wagers

Words: 1,000

The guy tilted his head slightly as if to say fair, and he lifted a long, lovely hand to push a lock of dusty hair back off his forehead as he looked at Ronan. “I might be, but I hope not.” One corner of his thin lips twitched, then he said, “Because I have a proposition.” Ronan stared. Blinked. He had not anticipated his evening taking this kind of turn when he’d needed to get out of his older brother’s apartment. Ronan loved his brothers Declan and Matthew — who he’d come to stay with while he tried to make his life less directionless — but sometimes three Lynches under one roof was too much. Evenly, he said, “A proposition.”

When Ronan Lynch is approached by a hot stranger at a bar, the last thing he expects is that he'll be drawn into the guy's scheme to win a bet against his coworkers.

Inspired by this post.

Full fic behind the cut. 😌

“Can I bother you for a minute?”

Before he turned toward the voice seeking his attention, Ronan Lynch flicked scraps of gummy paper — a product of scraping at the damp label on his bottle of Goose Island IPA — out from beneath his thumbnail. He wished he hadn’t waited though, once he laid eyes on the guy who’d slid onto the barstool to Ronan’s left. The guy could bother Ronan for a minute, an hour, as long as he wanted, if it meant Ronan got to look at that gaunt and elegant face while the guy graced Ronan with his presence.

Not that Ronan said that. Straightforwardness didn’t fit his aesthetic. Instead, he lifted his beer to his lips, took a too-long sip, swallowed, and set the bottle back down — coasterless — on the bar before asking, “What do you want?”

“I’m here with a bunch of assholes from work,” the guy began, turning his stool ever-so-slightly toward Ronan’s before leaning his wiry forearms — exposed by the cuffed-to-the-elbow sleeves of his red and gray plaid shirt — on the edge of the bar, “and I just bet each of them twenty bucks I could get someone’s number in under five minutes.”

“Kind of sounds like you set yourself up for failure, man,” Ronan replied. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

For one, he didn’t dish his number out to people he met at bars. Without exceptions. Mostly because he didn’t meet people at bars. That required talking and Ronan didn’t talk unless he needed to. Or — apparently — unless the hottest guy he’d seen since arriving in Boston sat down beside him. For two, the bar wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t not crowded. The after-work hours on a Thursday left this guy with plenty of other options for getting a phone number. Plenty of easier, straighter options than Ronan Lynch, but maybe the guy was mildly masochistic. Maybe he liked a challenge.

Ronan stared. Blinked. He had not anticipated his evening taking this kind of turn when he’d needed to get out of his older brother’s apartment. Ronan loved his brothers Declan and Matthew — who he’d come to stay with while he tried to make his life less directionless — but sometimes three Lynches under one roof was too much. Evenly, he said, “A proposition.”

“A proposition,” the guy repeated and leaned a little closer, a move Ronan registered as flirting. Whether for real or for show, he couldn’t tell, but the guy’s I hope not a few moments before gave Ronan hope it could be real. “I’m saving for a new motorcycle.”

“Don’t know what that’s got to do with me,” Ronan told him, snatching another sip of his beer before his mouth or body betrayed him and showed how senselessly turned on he was by the idea of this guy on a motorcycle.

“Well, if I get your number, I get two hundred bucks.”

“A good chunk of change,” Ronan admitted, and he really hated to be the reason this guy wouldn’t be adding that cash to his bike fund. “Except I just told you you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“But what if I split it with you?” The guy leaned incrementally closer and the red lighting behind the bar put a glint in his blue eyes, and the mischievousness of it senselessly turned Ronan on more. “Pretend to laugh like I just said a good pick up line, write a fake number on my hand, and a hundred dollars is yours. Come on. Easiest money you’ll make all week.”

Ronan gave the guy credit. Fleecing his asshole coworkers to get some money for a motorcycle made for a pretty good scheme. One Ronan could honestly see himself being part of. Sticking it to the man and all. But one hundred dollars made no difference to Ronan. The untimely death of his parents left him with a decent inheritance, and if he invested it wisely — or if he had Declan invest it wisely for him — he could float through life without needing to work much at all. And the guy telling Ronan to give him a fake number…

Good scheme or not, Ronan Lynch was not a liar. If — big if — he ever gave someone his number to someone at a bar, it would never be a fake one. It would be Ronan’s real telephone number or no telephone number at all.

Which — could work in Ronan’s favor.

If — big if — this guy wasn’t selling him a story about saving for a new motorcycle.

“Alright,” Ronan said, because — hell — if he had a shot, he might as well take it. “With one condition.”

“Depends on the size of the condition.”

“Once you get that bike, give me a call.”

Without hesitating a moment, the guy magicked a pen from his pocket and offered it to Ronan, and if Ronan held onto the guy’s hand a little firmer than he needed to as he wrote his name and real telephone number on the guy’s palm, no he didn’t.

After Ronan finished and the pen was capped, the guy tucked it back into his pocket as he looked down at his hand, and when he looked back up at Ronan, he smiled — elastic and amiable — as he said. “Nice to meet you, Ronan. I’m Adam.”

A few minutes later, a stack of five folded twenties appeared on the bar next to Ronan’s beer, and a few weeks later, an unknown 617 number appeared on the screen of Ronan’s phone.

“What?” Ronan answered, figuring it would be Declan calling from a burner.

“Ronan?” the caller replied. “This is Adam. From the bar. With the bet. I got that bike.”

[Read/kudo/comment on it here on Ao3.]

#pynch #my fics

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writing-whump · 3 months ago

Text

The Breaking Point

Seline and Isaiah have a TALK. Some pain and breathing problems after heart surgery mentioned.

"Are you feeling nauseous?" Seline asked as she adjusted the pillow behind Isaiah's back on the couch.

"Uhm," was the elaborative answer. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

She fought tooth and nail for Isaiah's release from the hospital once she was sure she understood everything the recovery phase would entail. Arguing with the doctors, telling the nurses that the hospital was too much of an incubator of germs in Isaiah's condition and that as a wolf, he would feel more comfortable with his pack and territory at home.

What she didn't expect was Isaiah shutting down. Wasn't it supposed to get easier instead of harder?

Isaiah's lips were pressed in a tight line and he was had that sickly paleness about him that made it hard to gauge his state. His cheeks were gaunt, he lost weight in that one week at the hospital, only on IVs.

Although he could handle food now, the long list of medications he was adjusting to - from beta-blockers to blood-thinners like warfarin to aspirin to help with blood clots - had the unnerving side-effect of causing nausea.

He could get nausous from not eating and from eating and not eating the right stuff. Honestly, she didn't know what issue to adress first.

But Isaiah just watched her sullenly, set on not revealing a single helpful detail. Jesus Christ. It was like a time loop, like they were not getting anywhere, not learning anything.

Matthew was still crouched down, unlacing Isaiah's shoes. Bending down was not recommended after the surgery. As was no heavy lifting. Or strenuous exercise.

The more she kept mentioning it, the more sullen and unreadable his expression became.

Seriously. How was she supposed to handle it, if he didn't voice his pain? What issues to talk over?

"You don't have to stay, you know?" He said suddenly, leaning his head back on the couch.

"Excuse me?" Seline stumbled down to the couch, not sure she heard right.

Isaiah's lips twisted, but he still glared up at the ceiling. "What, you think I wouldn't notice? You keep listing the medications and all my limits and things that make me fragile and sick or whatever, but you are so disgusted you can't even look at me."

Seline felt her mouth fall open in a little o. She threw a helpless look at Matt, but he just shrugged. Looking all the way like he just wanted to hide under the bed and wait for the storm to pass.

Her hands closed in the firsts on the armrests. "So that's what you think? That I'm disgusted with you?"

"Yeah. And I'm sorry for getting sick, I truly am," Isaiah said, nonchalantly daggering her heart, "I tried my best. I tried to get better, to be happy to compensate for the stress from the previous years. I thought it would go away on its own. I'm sorry I disappointed you-"

"No."

"No? Am I wrong?" Isaiah said in challange, finally lifting his head. His vibrant green eyes were shining feverishly. At the back of her mind it hit her with concern, since the doctors said he might sport a low-grade fever for an entire month after the surgery.

"I'm not disgusted with you," Seline said slowly, still stunned. "I'm angry with you, you moron!" She jumped to her feet, pacing around the room. From the corner of the eye she could see Matthew taking the pharmacy bag and slithering away to the kitchen with a flinch.

"I can't believe it! You don't even know what you have done!"

Isaiah frowned, a hand subconsciously curling around his chest like it hurt to breathe. "What I have done...?"

"You kept it a secret! You were in pain for months, dizzy, nausous, everything and you. Didn't. Tell. Me." Her voice jumped up an octave and she had to swallow down against the emotion tightening her throat. "You have any idea how that felt, standing in front of that doctor asking me how long your problems been going on and not being able to answer? I felt like an outsider in my own relationship!"

Isaiah looked dumbfounded, like that had never crossed his mind at all.

She whirled around, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. "And the worst part is, that I didn't notice myself. It was partly my fault, maybe even half of the whole thing. More than Matthew's even, because at least he noticed."

"That was an accident, I didn't want him to know either-"

"Did you choose me because of that? Because you knew I would be ignorant, that I live in my own world, in my books and studies and writing and wouldn't push you to handle the hard parts?" She ignored how her eyes burned, practically screaming now.

"What? No!" Isaiah struggled to sit up straight, even paler than before, almost like a wax figurine. He took a long, laborious breath, wincing as he exhaled.

Regret and guilt shot through her like an arrow. "Isaiah, let's- let's stop this. I'm sorry, we shouldn't have started this when you're still-"

"I- I was trying to spare you," he wheezed. "You think this is easy for me? That I wanted to be this pathetic, weak and pained in front of you?!"

Seline stopped in her tracks, amazed and reluctant all at once. That was the first time he had ever raised his voice at her. More like croaked, but it was there.

"I wanted to deal with this myself. It was my family, my past, my dad who messed me up like this-" he coughed, hand now pressed against the incision side of his chest. "You think I wanted this for you? A partner in life with thousand of issues? Who is a burden to you?"

Seline sat down on the sofa next to him, reaching out her hand towards his, but he shook her off.

"Don't you dare suggest it was your fault," his voice was a whisper, but cutting like a knife. "That it had anything to do with you. You did everything right. You are perfect, understanding, confident, brilliant, with a loving family and artistic passions and-" he coughed again, chest rattling painfully as he struggled in to get enough air.

"Okay, lean back, Isaiah, lean back a bit." She out another pillow behind his back to prop him up. "Deep breaths, you are alright."

Isaiah obeyed, closing his eyes. His breathing was still so chocked up.

"If it hurts, I can give you the nitroglycerin tablet. It melts under the tongue and should have an immediate effect." Seline’s hands trembled slightly as she rubbed Isaiah’s arm. "You can't stress yourself out like this."

"Just—just give me a minute," Isaiah said. He didn't turn her hand away this time, so she sat there unmoving, trying to gauge her intervention from the changing colours on his face.

When he breathed in with relief, though shoulders still tense, she let out a breath too. "Want some water? Painkillers?"

Isaiah gave a tiny shake of his head, a no. "I need you...to understand..."

"We are not talking about this right now," she said sternly.

"No...we..." He took her hand in hers then, entwining their fingers. "I was in...denial. I wanted it...to go away...if I was happy...shouldn't it? I thought it would get...better and you wouldn't have to..."

"Isaiah," she said in a small voice, brushing the black bangs out of his eyes. He got all sweaty in those last five minutes. "You are such a fool. You know how many points you have over me?"

Isaiah squinted his eyes open, rolling towards her tiredly. "Points...?"

Seline nodded. "I keep a score. All the things you do for me versus those that I can do for you. I started counting so it wouldn't be too uneven in your favour." She pushed a blond curl behind her ear self-consciously. "But it still is. You do so much for me, for Matt, for the packs, for anyone who asks for your help. I can never get anywhere close. 100 points is quite the headstart, isn't it?"

Isaiah frowned deeply, breathing shakily.

"So you don't have to worry about being a burden or that we are taking care of you. You have done so much for us, this is the least to repay you."

"That's not-"

"It's not the main reason," she leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Just a gentle touch, no real weight behind it. "I want to do this for you. I want to be there for you. To be able to." She looked down at their hands holding each other. "Why won't you let me in?" she whispered. "What am I doing wrong that you keep pushing me away?"

Isaiah tugged his hand out of her grasp, and her heart sank. For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression caught between pain and something else—fear, maybe. Then, before she could fully process the look in his eyes, he put both his arms around her, squeezing her against his chest so tightly it hurt. His feverishly warm lips brushed against her temple.

"I love you," he whispered.

Seline let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her arms wrapping around him in return. Something inside her heart clicked back into place. Warmth flooded her from her toes to the top of her head, mixing with the hurt, the tension, the love.

She sniffled and he winced, gently pushing her away just enough to see her face. The tears spilled over both her eyes at once, but she smiled at him. "So? How are you feeling?"

"Better than yesterday, worse than tomorrow," he said, bumping their noses together. "My chest hurts. And it's...hard to breathe still. Shooting up and over...to my arms, you know?"

She sighed in relief at the admission, her wet cheek pressed against his. "I got something for that."

#sickfic #hurt/comfort #angst #post op #chest pain #heart issues #my writing #werewolf wip #Isaiah

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superpoweredfancast · 1 month ago

Text

The Uncanny X-Men #4 Review

The Uncanny X-Men #4 Marvel Comics Written by Gail Simone Art by David Marquez Colors by Matthew Wilson Letters by Clayton Cowles The Rundown: Rogue faces the fury of Sarah Gaunt and discovers a dark truth. Rogue and Nightcrawler go hunting for Logan after receiving a psychic warning from him and find his broken, bloody body deep in the woods. As they prepare to get him to safety, he warns…

#comic book review #marvel comics #Uncanny X-Men

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misguidedasgardian · 8 months ago

Text

The Lifeaters (II.5)

V. The Dueling Club

MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: You find a… “allowed” way to… use magic on people you don’t like

Pairings: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader (platonic)

Warnings: Cursing, magical objects, Mugglephobia, people getting petrified, classism, taking joy on the prospect of muggleborns being petrified/killed, you know what this is about

Wordcount: 2,3 k

Notes: I will keep going with this fic, because I know it will take off, and I know in the future this is going to be AMAZING

You could feel it in class, or in your free periods…

The fear

The uncertainty

You couldn’t when you were in the common room, or surrounded by your friends, because they acted like nothing is happening, in fact, they took pride on it

Everyone was teasing Draco, about him being the heir of Slytherin, and he only smirked proudly, you wanted to feel the same, you wanted to feel the same thing they were feeling but, something stopped you from doing so, your belly felt heavy.

So as you were hanging around the common room, you looked up at Draco, and all your friends gathered there

“Who do you think is the heir of Slytherin?”, you asked, and to your surprise, he looked back at you and squinted, like really looking into you

“I don’t know”, he confessed, which did surprised you, Matthew chuckled, taking your attention far from your friend

“I don’t know, but that is someone worth befriending”, he said, imitating what Draco said about Potter on the first year, “a great job he is pulling”

You didn't think petrifying innocent people is a “Great job”, but you didn’t dare to say anything

But a little boy, a first year, had been petrified, he was lucky he wasn’t dead, but he was a muggle born, so the threat was actually becoming a reality.. and it was scary

An “heir”, and by the looks of it, a Slytherin heir, had come back to the school and decided to purge it from muggle born students.

The next class of defense against the dark arts came around, and to your delight, this wasn’t going to be a normal class like the rest, actually Lockheart made you walk all the way to a big hall on the first floor, where he gathered the rest of the students of second year

There was a large, long platform in the middle, drawings of the cycles of the moon beautifully painted atop a blue fabric. as you all second years students were standing around it, Professor Lockheart showed his face, walking along it

“Can you all hear me?”, he asked as we were his raging fanclub, “Excellent! In light of the dark events of recent weeks, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this dueling club, to train you all up in case you ever need to defend yourselves, as I myself has done in countless occasions, for full details... see my published works”, you rolled your eyes at him, and Draco snickered

“Maybe we can finally learn something useful”, you mocked to him, and he laughed

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape”, you all looked, entertained how your teacher climbed to the platform, with his common serious face, “He has sportingly agreed to help with a short demonstration, now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry, you’ll still have your potions master when I’m through with him. Never fear”, you snickered, not thinking for a second that clown could best the had of your house

They both got in font of the other, moving their wands in a traditional, dueling manner, then they turned around and gave short paces, to then turn to each other again several steps away

“1…2…3!”, counted Lockheart, but Snape was quicker, throwing him a quick expelliarmus charm to disarm him. You laughed when the blonde teacher flew back several feet and landed on his butt. He came out of his stupor and raised himself from the ground trying to demonstrate the little dignity he had left, just chuckling

“An excellent idea to show them that professor Snape… but if you don’t mind me saying, it was pretty obvious what you were about to do, if I had wanted to stop you, it would have been only too easy”, you looked at your teacher expectantly for what he was about to answer

“Perhaps it would be prudent to first teach the students to block unfriendly spells professor”, he tried then

“An excellent suggestion, Professor Snape! Let’s have a volunteer pair, Potter, Weasley, how about you?”

“Weasley’s wand causes devastation with the simplest spells, he is going to send Potter to the hospital wing in a match box, may I suggest someone from my own house, Malfoy, perhaps?”, you could see the excitement behind your friend’s eyes, especially when Snape commanded him to get up in the platform, he did without hesitation

“Good luck!”, you said quickly

“Like I will need it”, he mocked back, standing on the platform, on the other side, Potter did the same.

They walked until they were face to face, you exchanged excited looks with Pansy who was smiling widely

“Wands at the ready!”, demanded Lockheart

“Scared Potter?”, you heard your friend ask

“You wish”, he responded rather quickly. They walked away from each other, just like Snape and Lockheart had done

“In the count of three”, the professor chanted, “cast your charms to disarm your opponent, ONLY TO DISARM!”, he warned, “we don’t want any accidents here. One! Two!...”, but Draco didn’t wait on three, he cast the first spell

“Everte Statum!”, Potter flied backwards and fell on his face, which was hilarious, all of Sytherin laughed at him, even some Ravenclaws, but he stood up quickly

“Rictusempra!”, Potter cursed, and it was time for Draco to fly through the air and fall on his behind, the room filled with gasps and a few snickers. Snape grabbed him roughly and rigid him to stand

“I said disarm only!”, whined Lockheart

“Serpensortia!”, called Draco, clearly not hearing him, a snake was created from thin air and wheezing in front of Potter.

There was an uncomfortable silence, Potter seemed really, really surprised, and in the room you could hear even a pin drop.

“Don’t move Potter, I’ll get rid of her for you”, mocked Snape, walking in front of Draco, redying his wand. Draco seemed only too pleased with himself, as he saw how people looked at him amazed and some even frightened, conjuring snakes would indicate he was..

“Allow me professor Snape, Alarte Ascendare!”, Lockheart interrupted your thoughts, but the snake was only pushed into the air, and landed right back where she was, ready to attack, now, even angrier .

And Potter… he looked at the snake and started walking towards it, and to your surprise, he started chanting in parseltongue, talking to the snake.

nobody could move as Potter made the snake stop as it was directing itself towards another student.

The entire room was quiet, they were all in shock, you did too, so much, you missed Matthew right by your side, whispering in parseltongue as well.

“Vipera Evanesca”, interrupted Professor Snape, getting rid of the snake

Draco looked at me surprised, but they were all looking at Potter

He ran out of the room, and Lokcheart took a while to come out of his stupor, clearing his throat

“Pair up”, he said, Snapped has also vanished, “let’s practice some more”

You were really looking forward to the dueling club, but not as it was directed by Lockheart, at the end, after pairing up with Daphne, you learned nothing, except by a tickling charm Daph hit you with because she didn’t want to hurt you, you instead hit her with the dancing legs spell you learned last year and was the final exam for charms.

it was all good fun until Milicent and Granger actually came to physical blows, forgetting about their wands, you and daphne wanted to help your friend, so you punched on the both of them, and the Parvati twins stepped in to help Granger and you all ended up throwing spells at one another. You actually landed one that made her hair grow quickly, it catched her eyebrows, it was really funny, but Snape returned only to grab you by your robes and un-chant Patil.

You were actually kind of proud of it.

The very next week was even more eventful.

A huge Blizzard had hit Hogwarts with all its might, Herbology classes were canceled because of it, and you were so relieved, last class you had touched a plant and it had died on you, even Professor Sprout seemed concerned about it

You did not like Herbology at all

You didn’t know where the other common rooms were, but you were somehow lucky, yours was underground and under the Black Lake, so the temperature was somewhat even, even though you wished you had sunlight sometimes to read or study, your common room was beautiful. And now with all those attacks, you were… encouraged… to stay in your common rooms and not go about alone

“Have you heard what they are all saying?”, asked Matthew, entering the room really crossed, you looked up from the book you were reading on taking care of plants for dummies

“What?”, had asked Draco, who you were leaning against. Matthew frowned at the both of you but shook his head angrily

“They are saying Potter is the heir of slytherin”, he growled, “I heard some Hufflepuffs talking”

“That half-blood? it’s ridiculous”, mocked Draco.

“Maybe he is”, you threw in, gaining shocked looks from all of them

“Don’t be silly”, wanted Draco

“He can speak in parseltongue”, you reasoned

“How do you know what that is?”, asked Matthew, frowning

“Because…”, you didn’t really have a good explanation, “don’t we all?”, you tried to salvage yourself, “you all know what a parseltongue is, don’t you?”, and they got quiet

“Harry Potter is not the heir to Slytherin”, Matthew growled

“Are you?”, you asked him, he smirked, but didn't say anything, you looked back at Draco, and he didn't say anything either, only smiling slyly.

“Of course not”, he said then, more quietly, Theo at his side chuckled darkly, pretending to keep reading his tome on potions mastery for beginners, you hoped he still wouldn’t understand a thing, after the stunt he pulled last year, you had refused to partner up with him again, even though he even asked you a couple of times, you preferred to partner up with Draco so Snape wouldn’t criticize you as much, and you ALWAYS got a perfect grade, sharing the podium with Granger.

But Theodore Nott was still really cute, to your own frustration, Daphne, Pansy, even Milicent and Tracy would almost swoon when he asked them something directly, you found it annoying. He even had followers amongst first years, so… you wanted to keep away from him, refusing to be a member of his fan club.

You looked at Matthew from the corner of your eye, and he was still looking back at you, he even winked at you, like the fact he was the heir to Slytherin should make you swoon instead of feeling terrified

Was he really the heir to Slytherin?

You felt something besides the fear… you felt relief, because if that was truly Slytherin’s monster, and the one who opened the chamber was really a Slytherin heir, you had to admit, you felt relieved.

You would not get attacked, or any of your friends

Furthermore, you didn’t believe any of your friends could actually command a monster to do something like this, most of them were only twelve! Who could do that? it had to be one of the oldest pupils of your house, maybe Flint had a more accepted idea of who that might be

But he was also pure blood, one of the sacred 28 even…

Maybe he was the heir…

As you looked around at your class, you realized you didn’t have anyone else to share your deductions with, Draco seemed so different from before the summer

The very next day you found yourself taking notes in the History of Magic class, the class itself was boring, Professor Beams, even though he was a ghost, which you thought was pretty cool, couldn’t write on the board or make presentations, so he just limited himself to dictate from memory all he could on a particular subject. And most of your friends would snooze off, Pansy was the only one you could rely on when it came to good notes and paying attention in class, and Draco also seemed determined since he told you Lucius was very disappointed in his performance at school, even thought he had almost perfect scores, he was always second in class…

Maybe that is why Lucius was so crossed

The first one was Granger…

When class was finally over and you had awakened all of your dormant friends, you go out of the classroom and you stopped in your tracks as Potter was standing against the wall, on the floor in front of him, was an annoying hufflepuff boy, whose name you couldn’t remember right now, petrified with a shocked look on his face

And there floating above him, was nearly headless nick, Gryffindor’s ghost, with a wide-eyed horrified expression on his face, completely unmovable

He had been petrified too

How did they manage that? he was a ghost!

Peeves, the Hogwarts poltergeist, was screaming at the top of his lungs

“ANOTHER ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK!”, Professor Mcgonaggal was already on the scene, and it was general mayhem

You took a second to thank the Bloody Baron for keeping Peeves away from all of you Slytherins, you really disliked him, and he seemed to be the only thing that could somewhat “control” Peeves.

You were quickly removed from the scene, even though Draco was smiling almost brightly

He might not be heir of Slytherin, but Potter was going to get in sirius trouble

“This is even better”, he said, “he is not getting expelled… he is getting sent to Azkaban!”, he laughed, and he and Matt high-fived each other. As you were walking away, all you could hear above all the murmurs and scared whispers of the students… was Peeves singing.

“Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done? You are killing off students, you think it's good fun”

#misguidedlifeaters #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter and the philosopher's stone #harry potter and the chamber of secrets #hp fanfic #draco malfoy #theodore nott #blaise zabini #gregory goyle #vincent crabbe #pansy parkinson #daphne greengrass #mattheo riddle #matthew gaunt

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prucanfieldsurquestions · 1 year ago

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A question for either of you! When did you first fall in love with the other?

- 🦀

Thin hotel walls meant that Matthew, in Vancouver overnight for a meeting, could hear every sordid detail of the couple arguing in the next room.

He groaned and rolled over in bed, searching for something to throw so they would shut up for five minutes, but as he was about to toss a shoe, his gaze landed on his buzzing phone. A relieved smile crossed his face as he picked it up and answered it.

"Hallo, Maus!" Came the cheerful, if sleepy, voice on the other end.

"Hey babe, what's up?"

Gilbert, who was in their king sized bed and swaddled in more blankets and stuffed animals than there was really room for, balanced his phone on his shoulder while he scrolled on his laptop.

"How's the trip going?"

A sigh left Matthew's lips as he held the phone out towards the wall, so Gilbert could hear exactly how it was going. "They've been arguing for three hours now, over a fucking hair dryer from what I can tell."

"Put me on speaker and up against the wall."

Matthew did as told and had to clamp his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing as Gilbert shouted in German at the top of his lungs about how nice the weather was, and effectively shut the couple up. The cackle afterwards, as Matthew pulled the phone back to his ear, was just icing on the cake.

"My knight in shining armor." He sighed, and could practically feel the pleased grin coming from his lover on the other end.

"Ah, don't mention it. Oh, right! The reason I called you is because we got an ask from an anonymous crab!"

"...From a crab?"

"Yeah! Here, listen to how I'm gonna answer before I type it out."

And just like that, Matthew was whisked down memory lane.

- -

Berlin, 1990

“And he can’t stay with anyone else? Not even Alfred?”

Ludwig sighed and put down his newspaper to look at his dear older brother in a silent bid for pity. “No. I don’t understand why this is such a big deal, Gilbert.”

The albino, sitting pretty on the kitchen counter in a black band shirt that was far too big for his gaunt frame, narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you know, maybe because last time I saw him he shot me in the head while I was trying to get to you.”

“That was almost fifty years ago. Things are-”

“Different.” Gilbert spat. How many times had he heard that this week alone? “Fine. You want to keep that fucking monster in the house when I’ve been back for what, less than three months? Sure, yeah, why not! When you wake up tomorrow with him pointing a rifle at you, don’t you dare call me for help.”

Another ragged sigh was drawn out from Ludwig’s lips, who looked like he’d aged a few years from this conversation alone. “It’s only for a night or two. Just… please, don’t be a complete ass? Please? The last thing I need after this meeting is to clean blood off the floor.”

“I’ll think about it.” Gilbert said, knowing full well the venom injected indicated he had already thought about it, and Ludwig would most certainly not like his conclusion.

In the roughly forty minutes it took for Ludwig to pick Matthew up from the airport, Gilbert had moved from the counter to the table, tired body on vigil for the enemy that would be traipsing in any time now. Crimson eyes snapped to the door as soon as he heard the doorknob turn. Ludwig came in first, and coming behind him with both a guitar case and a suitcase was the Canadian himself.

Their eyes met almost immediately. Guarded and worn vermillion bored a hole through soft lavender, and Matthew dropped his gaze to the tiled floor after only a moment or two. Once he was upstairs and out of sight, silvery brows furrowed in confusion. Gilbert had expected a fight. The last few decades especially, in a long life dedicated to war, had taught him to always expect a fight. But his wordless challenge had been forfeited almost immediately. Huh.

Gilbert didn’t bother taking part in the small talk that occurred in the living room. He was there, of course, making sure things were as awkward as he possibly could so maybe Matthew would get the hell out of his house, but couldn’t care less about how the flight over was. He was quite open in his wordless scrutiny of the newcomer and yet hid his vexation over his findings behind a thin veneer of petulance at the man’s mere presence. The guy looked… nervous. Anxious. Like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but was far too polite to say so. His thumbs twiddled in his lap. He nodded along to whatever Ludwig was saying, offered hollow smiles exactly when he was supposed to, and stole glances at Gilbert to see if he was still being stared at like he had three heads.

Given that he was watching so closely, the albino saw the small sigh of relief when Ludwig indicated it was time to go to the meeting. The two left after a quick goodbye, and as soon as the front door was closed, Gilbert scurried upstairs and to the spare bedroom that had been given to Matthew. Something didn’t quite add up here. Where was the monster from nearly fifty years ago? What was he hiding?

Gilbert opened the door to find both the guitar case and suitcase had been hastily set on the bed. The guitar case was decorated with stickers from strange places like ‘Vancouver’, ‘Whitehorse’, ‘Saskatchewan’, and a few cities in America that Gilbert did recognize, like New York. Inside was a normal acoustic guitar, dappled by handmade paintings of red leaves. Nothing suspicious there.

The suitcase, a gaudy thing with flower print that was apparently a hallmark of the 70’s, honestly didn’t hold much of interest either. Clothes that smelled of maple and had been shoved in at random, a mostly-empty bottle of cologne, an entire set of pens that were just loose in there, and a sizeable stuffed moose. Gilbert pulled it out curiously and looked at it. Soft brown fur, adorable black buttons for eyes, admittedly the perfect size for hugging… A meaningless smirk crossed Gilbert’s face as he put the stuffie back, and rearranged everything so it looked as it did when he arrived.

“Still has to sleep with a toy. What a loser.”

This bit of stolen intel was enough to satisfy him that, at the very least, Matthew wasn’t dangerous. Gilbert went to his room and selected one of the many books he’d never read but had kept since the turn of the century, and remained there for the rest of the day.

It was about three and a half hours after the meeting was supposed to be over that Gilbert heard the front door open. By then, the sun had long set beneath the horizon and the house had gone dark. Two sets of weary feet trudged up the stairs. Two doors opened, indicating the returning blonds had gone into their respective rooms. A few minutes later one of the doors opened again and someone went back downstairs. Gilbert thought nothing of this, figuring maybe Ludwig had gone down for some TV to unwind or something.

That is, until he heard the first muffled notes ring out from an acoustic guitar.

The only music Gilbert had heard for decades was whatever Soviet drivel Ivan forced him to listen to, for the glory of the Motherland or whatever. Music laced with poison, thinly veiled propaganda, bombastic orchestras of people praising the regime that kept them under lock and key. It was nothing like the song now being performed downstairs. Even if he didn’t necessarily like the guy playing it, Gilbert decided that he would be a fool to pass up the opportunity to listen more closely. Who knew how long it was until Ivan claimed him again? Who knew how long it would be before he heard no more music at all?

Silent as a ghost, the albino crept downstairs and came to haunt the living room doorway. Matthew sat on the floor, bathed in soft orange light from the lamp, eyes closed and pouring his soul into some sorrowful tune. If he noticed that he now had an audience he certainly didn’t show it. His voice was a bird, soaring, swooping and diving through the octaves while his hands kept a steady rhythm and melody on his guitar. Gilbert forgot his previous animosity for a few moments as he stood entranced by the performance in front of him. When the song was over, Matthew’s eyes fluttered open like bird’s wings to meet softening crimson. A whisper of a smile crossed the Canadian’s lips as he moved right into another tune.

“You’re welcome to come sit if you’re going to listen.” He offered, before launching into the lyrics and losing himself in the song once more.

It took a few more tunes before Gilbert took him up on his offer. It started with stepping into the room, hand still on the doorway, just in case. A few more steps, another song. A boney hand resting on the easy chair opposite to the couch. Then, finally, Gilbert settled on the floor in front of Matthew and basked in the notes played just for him as if it were a warm shower.

Gilbert didn’t know how many songs were played for him. The talented musician before him blended the end of one into the beginning of another, and while he couldn’t understand all the lyrics sung to him, he certainly got the idea. From joyous celebration to the depths of sorrow, from puppy love to one final goodbye to a partner, Matthew took Gilbert’s hand and reintroduced him to emotions he’d forgotten he could feel.

Matthew only set the guitar down once his fingers were too sore to keep playing. By then, exhaustion had etched itself into his face. Or perhaps it was there at the beginning and Gilbert was too focused on the music to notice?

“Got more bullshit diplomacy to deal with tomorrow?” Gilbert asked, forgoing the venom from that morning.

Matthew sighed and looked at the clock hanging on the wall that showed him it was far, far past his bedtime. “Yeah. You’d think we could have gotten everything done, given that we stayed an extra three hours, but nope. Looks like I’ll be staying here tomorrow night too. I’m, um, I’m sorry about that, by the way. I know you don’t really want me here.”

Oh. Right. Gilbert had been all fire and brimstone about Matthew not staying, and yet here he was, with a twinge of guilt in his chest because the man he’d so desperately wanted out of his home had been kind enough to play for him for an hour. Fantastic.

“Well… I guess you do need somewhere to stay. Can't have you sleeping outside, after all.”

That seemed to be enough to bring a smile back to Matthew’s face. “I appreciate it. I- Oh! I forgot!”

Before Gilbert could respond, Matthew had run up the creaky wooden stairs and come back down with two items in his hands. He sat back down, beaming as much as he could while sleep tried desperately to claim him, and held out a familiar stuffed moose and a maple-leaf shaped bottle with syrup inside to Gilbert. A silvery brow quirked in confusion, prompting the Canadian to explain.

“Gifts from my place. I thought, well, maybe something sweet and something soft might help while you get your strength back.”

Gilbert sat in stunned silence, looking between the gifts and the sweet smile Matthew gave him, burning the image of both into his memory for later viewing. So, that moose that he’d called the man a loser over… had been for him all along? With an uncharacteristic gingerness, he took the stuffed animal first and set it in his lap. For once, he didn’t know what to say.

Most of his belongings needed to be replaced when he came home in November. His bed had been bought only a month ago, his civilian clothes didn't exist anymore, and… well, he’d gone from where hell was delivered in sweat and bullets to where it grabbed frozen grasp of one's soul and squeezed until there was nothing left. Maybe he didn’t have all that much to his name to begin with.

But now, even though he wore his brother’s shirt because time and Moscow had ruined all of his, even though his room was devoid of personality and everything except furniture, he had a soft little moose friend. And it wouldn’t be an understatement to say that meant the world to him. Gilbert lifted his gaze to kind (if exhausted) eyes and a knowing smile, to hair that was a golden halo framing round glasses, and the Matthew that shot him all those years ago was all but forgotten. With a little lopsided smile, he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and cracked it open.

“I think we’re going to get along just fine, you and I.”

“Me or the moose?” Matthew asked with a little laugh.

“Oh, definitely the moose. But I guess you’re okay too.” Gilbert returned with a smirk. And the rest, as they say, is history.

#thanks for the ask!#hws canada #hws prussia #prucan #gilbert beilschmidt #matthew williams #hey remember when i said i would write ficletts for these answers #apparently that was a lie this thijg is over 2000 words lmao

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z0mbieb0ybyersblog · 1 year ago

Text

request rules!

HOW TO REQUEST

— requests can be sent through my inbox! aka the button on my profile that says request

— state the character, romantic or platonic, the format of the request, and what you want with it

— do you have any specifics for the reader? male, female, blonde, poc, etc?

— PLEASE ACTUALLY SPECIFY WHAT YOU WANT WITH YOUR REQUEST!! ITS VERY HARD FOT ME TO WRITE SOMETHING THAT JUST SAYS "___ x reader (blank)" WITH NO FURTHER EXPLANATION! GIVE ME A PLOT IDEA! And if you want include a prompt you want in it!

WHAT I WILL WRITE:

└▸

male, female, and gender neutral reader

or no reader, I do ships too!!

alternative universe: soulmates, coffee shop, roommates, royal, bookstore, fake relationship, coworkers, neighbors, flower shop, library, bodyguard, modern era, band/rockstar, celebrity, mermaid, pirate, teachers (you can also mix them in your request, like asking for bookstore and coffee shop au! if that makes sense)

Headcanons, one-shots, drabble, imagine, etc.

poly relationships, whether it be character x reader x character or character x character x character

angst

fluff

smut

omega verse

WHAT I WONT WRITE:

└▸

illegal ships (incest or underage)

dark or yandere

abuse

abortion

pregnancy

someone having cancer

rape/sexual assault

canonically gay characters with fem identifying readers/characters, same thing with canonically lesbian characters with masc identifying readers/characters (platonically is fine, romantically isnt)

character list

bolded means they’re my favorite characters to write!

DOCTOR WHO

Nine, Ten, Eleventh, Thirteen, Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Jack Harkness, Donna Noble

RED, WHITE, & ROYAL BLUE

Alex Claremont-Diaz, Henry, June Claremont-Diaz, Nora Holleran, Bea

TED LASSO

Ted Lasso, Jamie Tartt, Roy Kent, Keeley Jones, Rebecca Welton

STRANGER THINGS

Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Eddie Munson

THE OUTSIDERS

Ponyboy Curtis, Johnny Cade, Sodapop Curtis, Darry Curtis, Steve Randall, Twobit Matthews, Dallas Winston

MARVEL

Matt Murdock, Peter Parker (Tobey, Andrew, Tom), Bucky Barnes, Clint Barton, Loki, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff

[more to be added]

911 FOX

Evan Buckley, Eddie Diaz, Maddie Buckley, Howie Han

STAR WARS

Luke Skywalker, Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

[more to be added]

HARRY POTTER

— golden trio era

Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Cedric Diggory, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Oliver Wood, Draco Malfoy

— marauders era

Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, James Potter, Lily Evans, Pandora Lovegood, Regulus Black, Dorcas Meadows, Marlene McKinnon, Barty Crouch Jr, Evan Roiser, Alice Fortescue, Mary MacDonald, Narcissa Black

[If you want one of these characters, like Remus for example to be older like during the Harry Potter movies let me know!]

— legacy era

Sebastian Sallow, Amit Thakkar, Poppy Sweeting, Natsai Onai, Garreth Weasley, Ominis Gaunt

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augment-techs · 5 months ago

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you distract me (but I'm distracted without you) + BillySkull (for the titles)

Title: you distract me (but I'm distracted without you) Rating: Unrated Relationships: Billy Cranston/Eugene Skullovitch; Eugene Skullovitch/Matthew Cook; Spike Skullovitch & Billy Cranston; Spike Skullovitch & Matthew Cook; Farkas Bulkmeier/Kimberly Hart/Tommy Oliver/Jason Scott. Characters: Billy Cranston; Eugene Skullovitch; Matthew Cook; Spike Skullovitch. Additional Tags: Meet Cute; Single Father Skull; Jealousy; Spike's Birth AU; Another Version of Putty Spike; Crippling Anxiety; Body Horror; Matt Trying His Best. Summary:

It's funny how people come back into others' lives through the weirdest incidents that they never would have imagined.

For Billy, it was having returned to Promethea to help out Terona after a year's sabbatical away from Earth, only to pass by Skull in one of the medical rooms getting blood drawn by Andrea--

But not for him. For the barely-five-month-old squeaking in his arms, tearing up at the tiny prick of a needle as Matt let the gaunt young parent lean back into him; the pain the infant felt almost striking Eugene like a stiletto.

Bonus Excerpt:

"He had no reason not to want to live, and I wasn't going to let him down by dying on him, leaving him alone."

"But your brother--"

"My brother is trying just to get by now that he has a boyfriend who has leukemia and neither one of us can stay at our so-called mother's house now that we're legally of age or emancipated. He stays at the Reserve with David more often than not, and Matt offered me the couch in his apartment. It's a foldout, so I'm comfortable, and Spike doesn't mind the nest I've made out of blankets for him."

Skull took a shaky breath and resettled Spike over to his other arm as he continued to use the breast bump that didn't look at all comfortable for him, trying to head off Spike's need for a meal off at the pass before the little guy woke up again.

Billy couldn't help but avert his eyes as the pump popped off from the Skull's nipple, feeling suddenly like he was intruding.

@skyland2703

#boom! comics power rangers #mighty morphin power rangers #another Putty Spike au #eugene skullovitch #billy cranston #matt cook #spike skullovitch #ask fill #prompt fill #what if scenario

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travllingbunny · 2 years ago

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Hi! I love your posts and insights about the Wars of the Roses. Do you think you could talk a bit about Richard Duke of York? What do you think his character/life was like? Also re his and his sons appearance??

Hi! I'm sorry for taking so long to answer your ask, but I just couldn't find the time before. (I happen to currently have more free time than usual, due to particular circumstances.)

Thank you for asking about Richard, Duke of York, because I think he is a very interesting historical figure who gets usually overshadowed by his sons. If one day someone decides to make a new TV show or movie about the Wars of the Roses that doesn't just skip over the 1460s and start when Richard Duke of York is already dead, his life would make quite a compelling story.

As for historical books about him, I recommend Matthew Lewis' Richard, Duke of York: King by Right.(2016), which is a very detailed (but still very interesting, to me at least) account of his life. I read it a few years ago so I don't remember all the details, only the main points and overall impression I got from it.

My main impression is that, although he is often portrayed by pro-Lancaster writers as power-hungry, this is far from the truth. It seems unlikely that he ever wanted to challenge Henry VI and put himself forward as king, before the last year of his life - and this controversial act makes perfect sense when you look at the circumstances and the things that had happened to him and his family just before that. Besides, while Richard was for a long time - before Edward of Lancaster was born - Henry VI's heir, it seems more likely that he was hoping that his son would one day succeed Henry, rather than himself, since Henry was younger than him and in good physical health. Rather than the result of some evil overreaching lust for power, it seems to me that his conflict with the Lancaster/Beaufort faction was a result of the years of frustration over his treatment. As the conflict grew, staking his claim to the throne throne may have been an act of desperation (since, at that point, this must have seemed like the only way to protect himself and his family), but maybe he was also just really done with everything, and with Henry VI and unwilling to support him as King. Considering the context, I don't really think even pro-Henry VI people could really blame him.

But first I think we'd have to go back to the beginnings. I think that Richard's childhood and, most of all, what happened to his father, is what framed his whole life. Richard's mother, Anne Mortimer (great-granddaughter of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the second of the sons of king Edward III who survived childhood), died soon after giving birth to him, aged only 22. His father, Richard, Earl of Cambridge (himself the grandson of Edward III through his 4th surviving son Edmund, the Duke of York), was executed - when Richard wasn't even 4 years old - for his involvement in the Southampton Plot to depose Henry V in favor of his brother-in-law, Edmund Mortimer (but since Edmund had no children, really in favor of his own son Richard, who would be his heir).

After all, the Lancasters, i.e., Henry V's father Henry IV , himself the son of Edward III's third son John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had deposed Richard II, skipping over the line of the elder son Lionel, so it could have been reasonably argued that the Mortimers's claim to the throne was stronger (sure, it was through the female line - but so was the English royals' claim to the throne of France - France had installed the Salic Law to bar the female lines from the throne of France - really to bar the English kings from it, but England did not). But Henry V was a crowned and annointed king, so trying to depose him would have been treason... (Even though he was only on the throne because his father had deposed, imprisoned and starved to death another annointed king. To quote one of my favorite TV shows, "Treason, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder". But it's crucial whether you won or lost.)

Just a couple of months later, his uncle Edward, his father's elder brother, was killed without children, Richard became the heir to his lands and titles and became the Duke of York at the age of 4. Ten years later, after the death of his maternal uncle Edmund, he also became heir to the Mortimer estates.

So, young Richard grew up as an orphan but also one of the technically most powerful and richest people in England, and heir not just to titles and lands but also the claims to the throne from not just the 4th but also the 2nd son of Edward III (the latter being the senior line of succession after the deposition and death of Richard II) to rival the Lancaster dynasty. And at the same time, he lived in the shadow of the fact that his father had died as a traitor and rebel against the crown for pressing that same claim.

If I were to speculate about Richard's personality and how his upbringing shaped it, I think he was a person who tried hard to do everything right, to fulfil his duties in every way and be beyond reproach, exactly because he had so much responsibility and probably so much to prove. Something that really strikes me about Richard is that he seemed almost too perfect: competent, respected nobleman popular with the people, in a stable marriage, not known to have any mistresses or sexual transgressions, had seven children who survived childhood including four sons...What the contrast to Henry VI, a nice and pious man but notoriously disinterested in ruling (long before he started showing signs of mental ilness and became catatonic), prone to relying on favorites such as his extremely incompetent cousin Edmund Beaufort. and also, for a long time, unable to conceive a child with his wife Margaret of Anjou (and possibly uninterested in trying), before finally siring Edward.

And this is exactly why Richard must have come across as such a threat in the eyes of Queen Margaret, Edmund Beaufort and other people around Henry VI. How could they not be wary of his powerful man, Henry's cousin and heir, who had all the qualities you'd want in a king, which Henry lacked? However, if he was really power hungry and eager to replace Henry as king, he certainly didn't show that for many years. I think he must have been especially eager to prove his loyalty with the "son of the traitor" thing hanging over his head since he was a child. But he was nevertheless constantly under suspicion and distrusted by the Queen and her faction. I remember reading the details of his career, which come across as Richard constantly having to prove himself while being denied positions or sent away - his appointment in Ireland was really meant a virtual exile, to get him away from court (but it resulted in him and by extension the York dynasty gaining long-term popularity and stronghold in Ireland). (One of the common myths is that Richard was warlike and that this got him in conflict with the supposedly more peaceful faction - in fact, if I remember correctly, it was Edmund Beaufort who acted belligerent in France but made a mess of things, which Richard then had to clean up.)

It all must have been really frustrating to Richard - he was doing everything right, but it was never enough, and he had to prove his loyalty over and over. Maybe the Queen and the Lancastrians really created a self-fulfilling prophecy. Theoretically, I suppose Richard could have been binding his time and playing some really long con to depose Henry, but that seems unlikely looking at the details.

Instead, I think the most likely reason for his decision to start claiming the throne for himself in 1460 is that the conflict had become too harsh and the situation too desperate after he had been proclaimed a traitor to the crown and had to flee to Ireland. The attainder meant he was to be killed if he set foot in England again, and his family was disinherited. He had to successfully invade (ironically, he was in a similar situation that the future Henry IV before he deposed Richard II) and then either make himself Lord Protector again or even Henry's heir, or to proclaim himself the true king.

But I think the earlier loss at the castle of Ludlow, when the Yorkist troops were reluctant to fight the Lancastrian army when Henry VI himself was at its head (a puppet or not, ineffectual or disinterested, the annointed king was seen in an almost religious light and had enormous symbolic authority), and then the brutal sack of the castle, where Richard's wife Cecily Neville, his daughter Margaret and his two youngest children George and Richard (who was only 7) at the very least had to witness awful scenes of rape and pillage, by that same army with Henry as its nominal head... this may have been the straw that broke the camel's back and made Richard decide he was done with Henry VI. (Whether or not he had earlier really respected Henry or just respected his position as King.) And I really can't blame him.

I wonder how he felt when he finally made that decision, which would lead to his death less than a year later - followed by his eldest son's successful campaign and decisive victory over the Lancasters? Was it sheer desperation and survival, was he angry, did he decide he deserved the crown after all and was going to take it, did he feel any pride and relief that his decision would also basically mean an annoncement that his father was not really a traitor? I don't know, but I'm surprised there aren't more novels, movies and TV shows with him as the protagonist, delving into those questions.

Now, as for Richard's appearance and those of his sons.

There doesn't seem to be a lot of direct evidence of what he looked like (and the drawing that, for whatever reason, you'll find most often as a supposed portrait of him on Google definitely isn't reliable), but there are some indirect ones: Richard III was said to particularly look like his father. The phrase about Richard III looking like his father in face and figure has been often interpreted to mean that Richard, Duke of York was short, because Richard was a bit on the shorter side. However, there's no indication whatsoever that York was short, and we know that Richard III was shorter than he would've otherwise been due to his scoliosis (but still quite taller than some other men such as Niklas von Popplau, the German knight who was his guest and described him later). And to put things into context - Richard III was being praised for his similarity to his father and the mention of his figure seems more likely to be a reference to the late Edward IV becoming notoriously overweight in his 30s (while Richard was slim and lean), so I think it simply meant that their father Richard Duke of York was slim and in good shape when he was killed at the age of 49.

This miniature portrait of Richard Duke of York from the Talbot Shrewsbury book (around 1445, when he was 33/34, around the same age Richard III was when he died) shows a blond man with a strong chin - similar to that seen in the portraits of his sons Edward and Richard, an acquiline nose similar to Richard, and full lips (the one detail that doesn't match Richard that well and in fact seems more similar to Edward, going by their portraits).

There are a lot of myths about what the brothers looked like that were mostly created by historical fiction - including that Edward and George were tall and strong while Richard was small (in fact, I don't think we have any contemporary evidence of what George looked like), or that Edward or maybe George too were blond while Richard was dark (both Edward and Richard seemed to have medium brown hair) or that Edward and Richard looked nothing alike. I actually think there is quite a resemblance between the two brothers mostly in chin and face shape, which probably would've been obvious before Edward had gained weight and his face shape got much fuller.

#richard duke of york #wars of the roses #richard iii #edward iv #english history

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