#charles and camilla fanfic

[urfavoritedcwhore]

hi lovely! I come bearing a henry winter request

So maybe they are all in Francis’ house (reader and henry are dating) and henry gets one of his headaches and idk reader takes care of him (as he reluctantly lets her)

Im sorry that is all i came up with for now😭 thank you <333

uhm i literally love that idea so yes of course.

just let me help you//henry winter x reader

doing this in the way i wrote my last henry winter fanfic, instead of using “you” I write “i” and so forth. (don’t worry tho cause there will be plenty of “y/n”’s thrown in here:)

warnings: mention of alcohol, mention of migraines, swearing, drinking

(not proof read)

sitting in the hammock Reading my book at the country house is probably my all-time favorite thing to do. the fall air, the sounds of the twins bickering with Bunny as they all play croquet, Francis and Richard out on the boat, and my lovely Henry reading on the porch with a glass of scotch. However, this day is severely different. As my friends and I drive to the lake house, Henry is growing increasingly snappy. Bunny begins to go off on a rant about how “religion is a ploy to get all of the dumbasses who believe in that shit’s money.”. I listen to his rant, shaking my head slightly as the twins let their mouths hang open in disgust. “Bun, it’s not as if you could truly know that. No one knows if there’s a God or not. It’s all based on personal belief," I explain from the front seat. Being a devoted Catholic, it takes all my willpower to not wear the same face of horror that Camilla and Charles hold, but I know that’s precisely what Bunny wants. “Your joking right, y/n?” I watch him in the rearview mirror nudge Richard. “Old man, can you believe the bullshit she’s spewing?" Bunny says in his nasally voice with a chuckle. I see Richard simply shrug and continue to look out the window. “Bunny, please just change the topic; no one likes bickering about religion with you," I say a bit sharper than before as I continue to watch him from the rearview mirror. “Old gals on her period," he says as if it’s a fact. I turn my head to Henry as he drives, my expression angry and my gaze saying, “Your seriously going to let him speak to me like that?”. Henry glances over at me briefly before returning his gaze to the road silently. I let out a small scoff and voiced my thoughts aloud to him. “You’re going to let him speak about me like that?" I asked, irritated. Bunny chuckles behind me, which only angers me further. Henry only takes a deep breath and remains quiet. “Your attack dog is not barking for you, y/n?” Bunny asks amused. “Both of you, shut up," Henry says sharply and suddenly as he continues to face the road. My eyes grow wide, and I scoff in disbelief before looking out the window and shifting my knees towards the door away from him. Bunny remains chuckling in the back seat. I remain quiet for the rest of the drive, my face undeniably red with anger and embarrassment, both from Bunny speaking to me like he did and Henry not defending me. As we pull into the driveway of the country house, I practically swing open the door as soon as the car stops. I slam it shut, just so Henry can know how frustrated I am. Everyone piles out of the car stretching, except for Henry, who swiftly makes his way towards the front door. I follow behind him as he swings it open and walks up the stairs without a word to me, not even bothering to get his bag out of the car before going to his room. I stand at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, watching him in udder disbelief. Everyone piles in behind us, chatting loudly and heading for the kitchen. I walk away from the stairs, following the group to the kitchen. “Asshole," I mutter under my breath as I walk to the cabinets to get a bottle of wine out. “He’s more...irritable than usual," Charles says behind me as I grab the wine bottle and turn around to get a glass. “Yes, maybe he’s upset about us arriving so late," Camilla replies back as she scrunches her face the way Charles is—something that they always do when they’re thinking. I shake my head and nudge Bunny out of the way of the glasses, grabbing one and setting it on the counter. “He’s just in a pissy mood; he has been since this morning," I say, annoyed as I cork the wine and pour some into the glass. Francis looks up from the piece of mail he’s been studying since we walked in. “Did you see him as he got out of the car? He looked as if he was going to pass out," he says, running a hand through his hair. Camilla shrugs, “Perhaps he’s tired," to which Charles immediately nods, “Yes, perhaps he is.”. I scoff slightly and take a sip of my wine. “Tired? My god, I’ve never once seen him tired. He’s just being a supercilious jerk.”.

Richard shakes his head. "He looks ill," he says in an emotionless voice. slightly irritated that no one’s agreeing with me, I turn around and walk out of the kitchen with my wine in my hand. I find myself back in front of the stairs, staring up at them as I sip my wine. I place my foot on the first stair, and before I know it, I'm marching up the rest of them on a mission. I get to the top of the stairs and look down the left hallway, marching to the room Henry always stays in and slamming open the door. “How are you feeling, darling? Hopefully like a real lousy boyfriend," I say sharply as I see him sitting on the end of his bed with his face in his hands. “Out," he says without looking at me, his voice audibly shaking. My face softens slightly as I continue to study him and the state of his room, curtains closed, no lights on, his jacket off, and his tie loosened. I walk towards him slowly, setting my wine in the dresser as I do so. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me; he's sweating and extremely pale. Any ounce of anger I have left in me immediately disappears. As I study his face, my own face drops. How could I have been so stupid? “Migraine," I whisper as he looks up at me. He flinches at my quiet word in pain, “Please, please just leave y/n.”. It absolutely breaks my heart whenever I see him like this. Henry is always so put together and independent, but when he has his migraines He becomes almost small-looking, desperate. I rub his shoulder gently and whisper, “Where’s your medication?” I ask softly. “Car," he says as he flinch’s from the pain of hearing his own word. I immediately turn around and jog out of his room, downstairs, out the front door, and to the car. I grab his bag from the trunk and jog all the way back into the house and up the stairs. When I get back into Henry’s room, I'm panting and trying my hardest to catch my breath quietly. After about ten seconds of standing like an idiot, breathing heavily in front of him, I place the bag on the floor, following it down, and sitting on my knees in front of it. I hear him let out a quiet gasp of pain as he hears me unzip the bag. I riffle through it, trying to be as quiet as possible, until I find the small orange bottle of his pills. I unscrew the lid as I stand back up and pour one out into my hand. I grab my wine off the dresser and walk to him, holding the pill and wine out to him. “Please, darling, I can take care of myself," he says quietly and desperately, his voice betraying his words. I move my hands towards him more as a way to say, “Just take it." He slowly reaches out and takes the small pill from my hand, putting it into his mouth before taking the wine from me and using it to wash down the pill. He still looks ghostly white; his eyes close instantly. I gently take off his glasses and lay him flat on the bed, climbing beside him as I cover his eyes with my hand gently to make the room darker for him. He lets out a soft sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t trouble yourself with this," he whispers. I shake my head as I continue to hold my hand gently over his eyes and lay on him. “I’ll do this all night if I need to," I whisper back, my thumb gently tracing his scar in a soothing manner. “Please, y/n, stop treating me like a child. I can take care of myself," he says unconvincingly. I shake my head again and whisper back, “Just sleep, hen.”. He finally falls asleep about five minutes later as I lay beside him for at least three hours, my hand never leaving his eyes. I watch his chest move up and down, his breathing as he sleeps much more even and natural compared to his breaths when he’s awake. I don’t notice at first when he wakes up. “How long has it been?” he asks in a raspy, mumbling voice. I take my hand off his eyes, and he turns on his side to look at me. “Just a few hours, are you still feeling ill?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.

“You didn’t have to do that; I’m more than capable of taking care of myself," he replies, wrapping an arm around my waist as we lay on our sides facing each other. I nod. “Just let me take care of you from time to time, okay?” I say, moving my hand out for his hair and placing it under my cheek. He closes his eyes and nods slightly as he pulls me closer to him. “Sorry," he mumbles into my neck. I chuckle softly; he’s acting like a child right now, clingy and sleepy. “It’s okay, just get some more rest," I say back as I put my chin on top of his head. "I love you," he mutters into my neck. I kiss the top of his head gently. "I love you too, Hen.”.

A/N: hope this is what you were looking for:)) thank you for the request, i loved writing this!!

[melancholyfool]

Can You Hear It?

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You, Henry, Francis, Charles, and Camilla preform a Bacchanal

a/n: This came to me in a dream...enjoy!

The air in Francis’ country home was thick and oppressive, the kind of summer heat that stuck to you, made you dizzy with its weight. The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but it left the air still warm, the night alive with the hum of crickets and cicadas. Inside, the five of you sprawled languidly across the furniture, the scent of spilled wine and sweat mingling in the air. The old, opulent room glowed with the golden light of a few scattered candles, their wax pooling on the ornate holders Francis had carelessly lit earlier in the evening.

You shifted in your chair, the fabric of your white dress sticking to your skin. Across from you, Camilla leaned back, her own white dress riding up her thighs, her legs bare and glistening faintly with the sheen of sweat. Her laugh was airy, a sound that drifted and lingered, like the faint taste of honey on the tongue. Charles lounged beside her, his hand lazily tracing patterns on her knee. Francis was slumped in an armchair, his head tilted back as though lost in a drunken reverie, his curls sticking to his damp forehead. And Henry—Henry sat upright, his back rigid, his pale fingers curled loosely around the stem of his wine glass. His dark eyes watched you all, calculating even in the haze of the wine, which you now suspected had been laced with something more potent.

The room buzzed with a strange energy, electric and unspoken. You could feel it in the way Henry’s gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, in the way Camilla’s laughter became breathier, almost nervous. Words slurred together, conversations looping into nonsense. And then Henry stood, his movements sharp, slicing through the languid haze that had settled over the group.

“It’s time,” he said, his voice low and steady, commanding. The air seemed to shift, the weight of his words anchoring you all to the moment. He extended a hand toward you, and without thinking, you took it. His palm was cool and dry against yours, his grip firm as he pulled you to your feet. The others followed without a word, as if entranced, and soon you were all making your way outside, the warm night air pressing against your skin like a second layer.

The forest loomed ahead, its darkness inviting and ominous. You walked in silence, your heart pounding in rhythm with the cicadas, the wine making your limbs feel both weightless and heavy at once. The path was uneven, roots and stones catching at your bare feet, but Henry’s grip on your hand never faltered. Finally, you emerged into a clearing, the moonlight spilling down like silver, casting everything in an otherworldly glow.

You found yourselves forming a circle, drawn together as if by some unseen force. Henry stood at the center, his face illuminated, his features sharp and almost cruel in the moonlight. He began to speak, his voice steady and measured, though the words themselves seemed to blur together in your mind, their meaning just out of reach. You couldn’t focus, your head swimming, your eyelids heavy. You glanced to your left and saw Camilla, Charles gripping her hand so tightly his knuckles were white. To your right, Francis’ eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on Henry with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

And then Henry was in front of you. You hadn’t even noticed him move, but there he was, towering over you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost tender.

“Yes,” you whispered, though your voice barely carried, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. You turned your head to look at Camilla, and she was already moving toward you, her hand outstretched. Without a word, she grabbed your hand, her grip firm and urgent, and before you knew it, the two of you were running, breaking away from the circle and plunging deeper into the forest.

The sound of the boys shouting behind you spurred you on, your heart pounding in your chest. Camilla’s laughter rang out, wild and unrestrained, and she pulled you along, her bare feet barely making a sound on the forest floor. The trees blurred around you, the world narrowing to the sound of your breath and the pounding of your feet.

You stumbled into a stream, the cold water shocking against your skin. Camilla slipped, her laughter turning to a soft cry as she fell, the bottom of her dress soaking through. You bent down to help her, your own dress dragging in the water, clinging to your legs. “Are you all right?” you asked, your voice breathless. She nodded, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead, and pulled you further along.

When you reached the water’s edge, the moonlight reflecting off its surface, you both paused, panting and laughing, your fingers still intertwined. The spell was broken when the boys caught up, their figures emerging from the shadows like specters. Camilla let go of your hand and drifted toward Francis and Charles, leaving you standing alone.

Henry’s gaze found yours immediately. His chest heaved with the exertion of the run, and his eyes traveled over you, lingering on the way your wet dress clung to your body, translucent now in the moonlight. His breathing slowed, deep, and he stepped toward you.

“Do you feel it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his fingers ghosting over your arm. You shivered, though the night was warm, and nodded, unable to speak.

Henry tilted his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and you felt yourself moving backward, drawn toward the water. The coolness lapped at your ankles, then your knees, as you waded in, and Henry followed, his movements unhurried. When he reached you, his hands found your waist, his touch firm and grounding. You draped your arms over his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he pressed his lips to your temple, then your cheek, each kiss slow, burning.

The world seemed to fade away, the sounds of the others splashing and laughing in the water dimming into the background. You threw your head back, staring up at the sky, the stars spinning above you. Henry’s lips found your neck, and you let out a soft whine, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Henry…” you whispered, your voice trailing off, your mind too hazy to form a coherent thought.

And then a scream shattered the stillness. You jerked your head toward the sound, your trance breaking, and saw Camilla running back into the forest, Charles and Francis close behind her. The sight was surreal, like a scene from a dream, and you could only watch as they disappeared into the shadows.

Henry’s hands tightened on your waist, grounding you. “Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice rough with something you couldn’t quite name. You turned back to him, your eyes meeting his, and let him pull you out of the water.

The night air kissed your wet skin, your dress clinging to you. You spun away from Henry, laughing softly, your movements light and unsteady. The grass was cool beneath your feet, and you stumbled, falling onto your back, the stars spinning above you.

Henry loomed over you, his expression unreadable, and you looked up at him, your legs parting slightly, the fabric of your dress slipping higher. His gaze darkened, and he knelt down, his hands sliding over your thighs. You lifted your leg, brushing your foot against his side, and he caught your ankle, his grip firm as he pulled you closer.

Your breath hitched, your body arching toward him, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

But you slip from beneath him, your skin a fleeting whisper against his, and dart into the forest as though it’s beckoning you, the cool, damp air kissing your flushed cheeks. Henry’s voice trails after you, low and sharp against the soft hum of the night.

“Wait!” he calls, but you only laugh, a lilting, distant sound, like the chime of bells lost on the wind.

Barefoot and wild, you run deeper into the trees, the hem of your soaked dress brushing against your thighs. The forest hums with a pulse that’s almost alive. The breeze feels heavy, pressing against your skin, and the moon glows too bright, casting the world in silvery shades that shimmer and shift. You stop, your chest heaving, and press yourself against the rough bark of a tree.

You glance over your shoulder just as Henry emerges from the shadows. He moves with a deliberate slowness, his face caught half in shadow, half in light, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the air crackle.

“Running won’t save you,” he says, voice low, each word curling in the air like smoke.

“Who says I want to be saved?” you whisper, tilting your head with a teasing smile.

Henry takes a step closer, his lips quirking in a faint, wolfish grin. “Then why run?”

Your fingers trail along the tree’s bark as you circle it slowly, swaying on your feet as though pulled by an unseen rhythm. You look at him through half-lidded eyes, your voice soft, almost singsong. “Because the forest is calling me. Can’t you hear it?”

He stops, his head tilting slightly, as if to listen. The silence stretches, heavy and alive. And then, faintly, it comes—a low, muffled sound, like music played underwater. The cadence is slow, strange, and haunting, the kind that seeps into your skin and stirs something deep in your chest.

Henry’s gaze doesn’t leave you, his eyes hazy, reflecting the pale glow of the moon. “I hear it,” he murmurs, his voice almost reverent.

You smile, stepping out from behind the tree, your movements languid and unsteady, as though your body is no longer entirely your own. “My spirit,” you whisper, running your hands slowly down your arms, your waist, your hips. “It’s not here anymore, it's slipped away. It’s out there, dancing. Can’t you feel it, Henry?”

Henry’s breathing slows, his chest rising and falling in time with the faint pulse of the music. He steps closer, his voice low and distant. “Yes. I feel it. It’s everywhere.”

You close the space between you, lifting your hand to trail your fingertips down his jaw, his neck. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and when he opens them, they gleam, unfocused but intense. “Your spirit is dancing with mine,” you murmur, your lips curving into a soft, dreamy smile. “They’ve left us behind, Henry. They’ve merged.”

Henry sways slightly, as though caught in the same current pulling you under. “It’s strange,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t name. “I can feel it—like I’m not here anymore, either. Like we’re somewhere else entirely.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and distant, carried by the breeze. “We are. Don’t you see? This isn’t real. None of this is real. We’ve slipped away.”

Henry’s lips part as if to speak, but no words come. He watches you with an almost feral intensity, his hands at his sides, trembling slightly. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the words heavy and slow, as if dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

You step back, your bare feet pressing into the mossy ground, your body swaying to the strange, invisible melody. “Do you hear it, Henry? The music?”

Henry nods, his gaze locked on you. “Yes.”

You laugh again, throwing your head back, your arms lifting as though embracing the night itself. “It’s our spirits, Henry. They’re dancing together. They’re one now. Can’t you feel it?”

Henry steps closer. “I feel it,” he whispers, his voice rough and unsteady.

The world around you blurs, the forest spinning and shimmering like a mirage. The moon seems to grow brighter, the light spilling over you both like water. Henry reaches out, his hands brushing against your hips, your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the hum of his breath against your cheek.

“We’re not here anymore,” you murmur, your voice distant, your gaze hazy as you stare at him. “We’ve left.”

Henry nods, his forehead pressing gently against yours. “I know.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, the two of you are suspended in the glow of the unreal. Then, slowly, you pull away, just enough for the night to slip between you. Henry watches you, his eyes wide and dark, his breath coming in shallow waves.

Without a word, your fingers hook at the hem of your dress, and you tug it upward in one fluid motion. The fabric slides over your skin and you toss it to the ground, the moonlight tracing the curves of your bare body. Henry’s breath hitches, sharp and audible, his gaze fixed on you like a man mesmerized.

You smirk, tilting your head to the side, your voice soft but teasing. “What’s the matter, Henry?"

He doesn’t respond, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling as though he’s forgotten how to breathe.

You laugh again, low and throaty, and before he can move, you dart away, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. The sound of your laughter lingers, mingling with the strange music that seems to echo all around, pulling Henry deeper into the haze.

The air is thick with the pull of something beyond the earth, as Henry stands frozen, his eyes still lingering where you disappeared into the trees. Your voice, soft and alluring, reverberates through the forest, the words melting into the night air.

Come to me, Henry.

Your voice, sweet and haunting, is everywhere—wrapped around him like the warmest of embraces, a whisper in the breeze, in the rustling leaves, in the distant echo of his heartbeat. The sound draws him in, a tether he cannot break, and he feels his limbs move without his command, as though the very ground is guiding him toward you.

His body feels light, like he’s floating, suspended between earth and sky, carried on the sound of your voice. Every step he takes pulls him closer, the intensity of the pull growing stronger with each moment.

He catches sight of you then, dancing bare in the shadows. You move with an ethereal grace, as though you're not even bound by gravity, your skin glowing in the moonlight. A teasing laugh echoes in his ears, soft and melodic.

Henry’s breath catches in his chest, his pulse quickening, his heart pounding in his ears. His hands reach for you, his fingers brushing the cool air where you just were. But you slip further away, always just out of reach.

“Stop running,” he growls, low and strained, the ache in his voice making it clear how much he wants you.

You giggle, the sound like wind chimes in a storm, your voice rippling through him. "Catch me, Henry. Catch me if you can."

You laugh like a wild thing in the night. His muscles coil, and with one swift motion, he’s on you. He grabs your wrist, the firm grip locking you in place. His body presses against yours, chest to chest, heat radiating off both of you like a shared flame.

“You think you can escape this?” Henry murmurs, his voice thick with something primal, his breath warm against your ear. “I’ll never let you go.”

Before you can respond, his arms wrap around your frame, lifting you off the ground. Your body curves into his, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Your lips brush his, teasing, just barely a kiss, and you feel him shiver in response, his hands tightening around your waist.

You look up at the sky, eyes glazed over in a daze, and for the briefest moment, you see it—a flicker in the darkness above. Your spirit dances there, light and free, moving in ways your body cannot. You smile, a lazy, satisfied smile, letting your head fall back to rest against Henry’s shoulder, giggling softly.

Henry feels the pull too—he can see it. His spirit, intertwined with yours, dances in the night sky above him. He stops, breath caught in his throat, eyes wide in awe. The faint music, that ethereal melody, fills his ears, louder than before. His pulse quickens as his gaze follows the twirling shadows above.

“I see it,” he whispers, the awe in his voice unmistakable. “Our spirits, dancing together. They’re one now.”

Your fingers dig into his neck, your nails scraping lightly against his skin as you pull him closer. “It’s beautiful,” you murmur, your voice thick with desire, the dreamlike haze still enveloping both of you.

Henry's lips trail kisses along your jaw, your throat, just grazing the sensitive skin there. His movements are slow, his hands caressing your back, pulling you tighter to him, feeling the soft, damp fabric of his clothes stick to your skin, feeling your body respond to his touch. He knows you can feel it too—the energy between you both, the pull that neither of you can resist.

“I’ve always known this moment was meant to be,” Henry breathes, his lips brushing over your pulse, his chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

You smile lazily, intoxicated by the moment, by the music, by him. “We’ve always been connected. Now, it’s just…clear.”

The night deepens around you both, a soft blanket of stillness, and Henry carries you back toward the house. The moonlight bathes you both in an otherworldly glow as you trace invisible patterns along his skin, your fingers brushing along his neck, his chest, leaving marks of heat in your wake.

The sound of your laughter, your sighs, echoes in the forest as Henry walks, his grip on you tightening with every step. The air feels charged, thick with the magic of the night, and you feel like you’re floating—half in this world, half in the one your spirits have created.

Your eyes meet Henry’s, the glint in them matching the brightness of the stars above. His lips curl into a smile, dark and dangerous, and he kisses you again, a slow, sweet kiss that tastes like wine, like promise, like everything you’ve ever wanted. You lose yourself in him, in the pull of the night, in the merging of souls.

And when you look up again, the house is no longer a distant dream��it’s real, and you’re almost there, but you don’t feel like you ever truly left.

[charliedaltonswife]

Thank you for being such a lovely writer! <3 This is a long request but how about a Henry Winter x reader fic where the reader sort of subtly tries to warn Henry to not idolize Julian so much because Julian doesn't care that much about him, he just likes to be looked up to, but Henry believes Julian isn't like that. And after Bunny's death, after Henry goes to Julian only to find he has left and moved away, Henry is distraught and goes to reader for an explanation since Julian has left him with none and she had figured out that would happen. And reader tries to explain to him that Henry is a giving person who helps others but demands the same devotion in return but people are selfish and usually won't reciprocate. But in the end, reader is also the same way as Henry and at least they have each other.

Hope this isn't too much. Thank you in advance!

Give and Take

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

thank you nonnie, i loved the request!

Summary: read the request

Warnings: none i believe

master list found here

The thing about Henry Winter, you’d long since realized, was that he didn’t just love the idea of perfection, he required it. He sought it the way others sought air, his life orbiting around the pursuit of symmetry, elegance, and control. It was in everything he touched, his books, his Greek, his posture when he spoke, even the way he poured his tea, slow and precise, as though to spill even a drop would be an affront to the universe.

And above all, he sought it in people. Julian, for instance.

Julian was everything Henry wanted to be. Polished, serene, a man who seemed to glide through the world without ever touching the ground. He had the air of someone invulnerable, untainted, truly divine. It didn’t matter that his charm was brittle, that his affections were doled out sparingly, as if he were a miser of admiration. Henry couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it.

“Julian is not infallible,” you’d told him once, early in the fall semester. The words had come out quiet but steady, like a single note cutting through the dense hum of the library.

Henry didn’t look up. He was sitting across from you, hunched over an enormous book of Greek poetry, his sharp features half-draped in shadow. The dim light of the desk lamp cast a warm, golden glow over the worn wood of the table, catching on the sharp line of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. In that light, he looked almost unreal, like a figure carved from stone, a statue brought to life.

His pen continued its steady movement, underlining a passage with such precision it could have been drawn by a ruler. “I never said he was,” he replied, his voice clipped, his eyes fixed on the page.

“You act like it,” you countered, leaning back in your chair.

That made him pause. It was subtle, just the faintest hitch in his movement, but it was enough to let you know he’d heard you. He always heard you, even when he pretended not to.

Finally, he looked up, his pale, glacial eyes locking onto yours. There was something cutting in his gaze, something that made you feel as though he could see straight through to the core of you. “Maybe you don’t understand him,” he said, his tone even but edged with a quiet reproach.

“Maybe not,” you conceded, tilting your head as you studied him. “But I think I understand you.”

His brow furrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of something—curiosity, irritation—crossing his face before vanishing. “And what exactly do you think you understand?”

“You’re loyal,” you said, your voice soft but unyielding. “Devoted, even. When you care about someone, you give them everything. And that’s… rare. But Henry, not everyone deserves that from you. Not everyone is going to give it back.”

“Julian does,” he said firmly, the words landing between you like the final note of a symphony.

You tilted your head, letting the silence linger for a moment before speaking. “Are you sure?”

His expression didn’t change, but you saw it—the flicker of doubt, so brief it could have been a trick of the light. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that impenetrable certainty that was so uniquely Henry.

“I don’t need you to analyze my relationships,” he said, his tone like the sharp snap of winter wind against your skin.

You didn’t press him further. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d accept, not then. But the thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of your mind as the weeks turned into months.

- 

The common room of Francis’s apartment was dimly lit, the amber glow of the floor lamp barely cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the air like a shroud. You sat curled up in one of the threadbare armchairs, a cup of coffee cradled in your hands, though it had gone cold long ago.

Francis sat opposite you, sprawled out on the sofa in a way that made him look boneless. His long legs stretched across the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other holding a half-empty glass of something dark and strong. He looked as he always did—like he belonged in some black-and-white photograph, all sharp cheekbones and careless elegance. But there was something brittle in his expression tonight, something that even the lazy curl of smoke rising from his cigarette couldn’t mask.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a long, slow stream of smoke. “Even for you.”

You shrugged, your gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in your coffee. “Just thinking.”

“God, don’t do that. It never ends well,” he said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Despite yourself, you smiled, a small, fleeting thing. “And you’re unusually sober. Even for you.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “But don’t mistake this for sobriety. It’s more strategic pacing.”

You rolled your eyes, setting your coffee cup down on the low table between you. “Strategic, right. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

He watched you for a moment, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. The movement was fluid, practiced, like everything Francis did. “Alright, out with it. What’s got you looking so… tragic?”

You hesitated, your fingers curling around the edge of your sleeve. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he said bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not the brooding type, not really. Leave that to Henry. Or Charles, for that matter.”

At the mention of Henry, your chest tightened, but you pushed the feeling aside. “It’s just been… a lot. Everything with Bunny, the group, the way things feel like they’re unraveling—”

“Darling,” Francis interrupted, his tone cutting but not unkind, “things unraveled a long time ago. We’re just standing in the wreckage, pretending it still looks like a tapestry.”

You blinked at him, startled by the stark truth of his words. Francis rarely ventured into sentimentality, but when he did, it was like being slapped with ice water.

“You don’t have to make it sound so… fatalistic,” you said, your voice quieter now.

He gave a humorless laugh, leaning back against the couch and letting his head fall against the cushion. “I’m not making it sound like anything. I’m just stating the obvious. Look at us. We’re a disaster waiting to happen. Or, more accurately, a disaster that’s already happened and is still somehow managing to make things worse.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “That’s comforting.”

“I’m not here to comfort you,” Francis said lightly, though there was an edge to his tone. “If you want comfort, go find someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

You shot him a glare, but it lacked any real venom. “You’re a real joy to be around, you know that?”

He smirked, reaching for his glass and taking a slow sip. “I try.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the only sounds were the faint hum of the heater and the soft clink of ice in Francis’s glass. The weight of the conversation lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Finally, he broke the quiet. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the only one who’s… struggling.”

You looked at him, surprised by the admission. Francis wasn’t exactly the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

“I mean, God knows we’re all walking around with more baggage than we know what to do with,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the cigarette in his hand. “I mean Henry acts all stoic and all, but… well you know him.”

The words were unexpected, and they settled over you like a balm, soothing but not erasing the ache.

“Yes, Francis,” you said softly.

He waved a hand dismissively, “Now, finish your tragic coffee and let’s talk about something less depressing. Like how terribly I plan to behave at tomorrow’s dinner.”

You laughed, the sound light and unforced for the first time in what felt like days. And for a moment, just a moment, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

-

It was well past midnight when the knocking came, sharp and urgent, cutting through the thick, muffled quiet of your dorm room.

You stirred awake, your heart pounding from the suddenness of it. Fumbling in the dark, your hand searched for the lamp, brushing clumsily against the stack of books on your nightstand before finally finding the switch. The warm light washed over the room, revealing the disarray of papers, books, and scattered cigarette butts that had become your constant companions.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the door, apprehension prickling at the back of your neck. When you opened it, the sight that greeted you made you freeze.

Henry.

His hair was a disheveled mess, strands falling into his eyes in a way that would have driven him mad under normal circumstances. His face, usually so composed, was pale and drawn, the dark circles under his eyes making him look almost gaunt. And his posture—always so upright, so deliberate, had crumbled, his shoulders slumped as though he were carrying the weight of the world on them.

“I went to see Julian,” he said, his voice raw and frayed at the edges.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in. He moved past you like a ghost, his steps heavy and uneven, and sank onto the edge of your bed, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Closing the door, you turned to face him, your heart twisting painfully at the sight of him. He looked… lost.

“Yes, and?” you prompted, your voice cautious but steady.

“He’s gone,” Henry said, the words trembling as they left his lips. “His office is empty. His house, too. He’s gone.”

You inhaled sharply, the confirmation hitting you like a blow to the chest. You’d suspected it, of course. Julian had been withdrawing for weeks, his attention scattering like leaves in the wind. But hearing it, seeing the hollow look in Henry’s eyes, was something else entirely.

“I tried to warn you,” you said gently, sitting down beside him. Your movements were slow and deliberate, as if you were afraid he might shatter if you got too close too quickly. “Have you a lighter?”

Henry turned to you then, his gaze sharp and accusatory. “You knew?”

“I didn’t know,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “But I had a feeling. Henry, Julian… he’s not like you. He doesn’t give himself to people the way you do.”

Henry’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face working as he went into his pocket to hand me a lighter. “He cared about us. About me.”

“I’m sure he did,” you said softly, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on your nightstand. “But not the way you think.” You lit the cigarette, the faint orange glow illuminating the tension etched into his features. “Julian likes being admired. He likes being needed. But when things got messy, when it stopped being about him, he checked out.”

Henry laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that cut through the quiet. “And you didn’t think to tell me this earlier?”

“I tried,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t want to hear it.”

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, pressing down on both of you like a physical weight.

“You give too much,” you said finally, breaking the silence. Your voice was soft, almost mournful. “You expect people to give back the same way. But most people… they’re not like you, Henry. They take and take, and they leave you with nothing.”

He turned to you then, his pale eyes glassy but piercing. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked, his voice low and bitter. “That I’m some fool who doesn’t know better?”

“No,” you said firmly, holding his gaze. “I think you’re extraordinary. And I think it’s tragic that the world doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against yours.

“So, you’re like me then?” he said, his voice quiet but certain.

You nodded, your throat tight. “I suppose.”

And for the first time that night, you saw it, he faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Not peace, not exactly. But something close.

And as you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, you thought that maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

a/n: so i woke up to a lot of requests (I LOVE THEM ALL BTW, THIS IS NOT ME TELLING YOU TO STOP), but i just wanted to say thank you all, and being the very critical person I am, i hope to fucking god im not fucking up your ideas!!!

[sweetestgirlintown111]

Henry Winter x reader

chapter i

A/N here's the first chapter i have many more in my drafts i also would say that the next chapters are better. Enjoy and of course give me your thoughts and criticism on it.

Hampden was magnificent this time of the semester, the dorm's window overlooking the vast greenery- now in shades of reds and oranges below, the weather cold and dry, the grounds yet to be muddied by the fall of rain, allowing me to take the path over the fallen leaves. The walk to class was full of anticipation and excitement, on the way there I came across Bunny who- being his outgoing self - approached and linked his arm with mine leading us slower than I would've marched had I not been interrupted

as he held me he glanced in the direction that I came from, "hey"

"Hi"

“your dorms there?” he looked back at my building

I nodded “Uh yeah”, he turned to me,

“My girl stays there, second floor- Marion, quite the lady, she is studying to become a teacher loves children ’n’ all, very demure if you ask me, suitable for a respectable woman.” the last comment made me frown, something that'll become synonymous with bunny discussing women and any other subjects really.

I hum in response not knowing what else to say but that didn't stop him, he went on “You seem very ladylike y’know, quiet” he took a look at my attire, a cream pleated skirt that fell just below my knees, and a dusty pink cashmere sweater “and quite well dressed as well-”

“we're here” I cut him off before he can continue, pointing my fingers towards the building thankful to see its old bricks, a couple of feet away the fiery red of Francis’ hair approaches us, he greets us, and all three of us head toward the office.

Going up the stairs - me in front and both of the men behind me- approaching the white office door I knock before going in, my eyes first land on Henry his dark suit and relaxed figure -back leaned against the back of the couch, legs spread wide holding a book in his hand- demanding the attention, his eyes raked over me then behind me onto bunny, I turn to Julian and in a soft, almost weak voice sound a good morning to both him and henry, after id turned around I was pulled down by bunny, who was sat on one end of the couch, and now had me squished between him and henry on the other end. After ten minutes of Bunny leaning over me to talk to Henry, while I was chatting with Francis about his coat, the twins finally arrived along with Richard and Julian started with the class, starting with Plato as we had been previously informed he would.

“let us end with Plato's virtues as discussed in his book The Republic. For Plato virtue comes from the form of the good. Only in knowing the good, which is an independent self-subsisting entity, can one be virtuous. Virtue is only thought of as a characteristic of the person insomuch as come to know, the good.” he looked up at us “Do you agree with his definition?"

“I think this definition is quite unfair”

Henry turns to me and scoffs “Are you really saying that Plato's wrong?”

“I didn't say that he's wrong I just said that I don't agree entirely with his definition, and even if I was saying that he's wrong, it's not a crime” I try to stay calm to match his coldness but its proving to be very hard.

“it is a crime. He's Plato!”

“he's not a god!” our voices were now rising.

and Julian had to step in, “Henry please let her continue, go on please” he nodded to me and Henry leaned back in his seat clearly not happy.

“I was saying that, in defining virtue as something you only know is unfair, I'd say that it is more of a learning curve”

“So you think that an honest man and a man who’s a liar but is trying to become truthful are equal?” Henry arose again'

"I think, that someone who acknowledges their vices and is actively trying to better them is perhaps even better than someone who’s only known virtue because it is against their nature to be virtuous thus they master the virtue of wisdom and temperance, don't you think Henry?” I address him with a slight smirk barely noticeable, but I know he saw it from the way he clenches his jaw.

”very well, let's leave it here today, and next time we'll discuss vice and virtue more in depth”

after collecting our things we all leave the room and huddle at the bottom of the stairs. Standing there with Charles and Francis, we were talking about the best materials for winter days, Francis having quite an expertise regarding the matter, but that subject is cut short by Bunny -dragging along Richard, Camilla, and Henry.

“What do you all say we go grab a bite? There's a place in town they have the best pancakes, the one down the street from your house Henry.”

“I'd eat just about anything right now, to be honest” Francis chimed in looking At me,

“I am quite hungry, plus I need to go get some ink from the town square,” I said looking in my bag at the empty bottle of ink.

“Great so we'll go, Henry would you drive us” Bunny looks at Henry not asking but rather stating.

“Sure but my car only fits 5 people 6 if we push it, so I can't drive us all”, he stated staring me in the eyes, challenging, just for a second just intended for me to see. I open my bag reaching for a cigarette and lighting it, using the time to try and think of something clever to shoot back, but I didn't have the chance as Francis beat me to it, turns out he caught the look Henry shot me, taking my hand in his, pulling out car keys from his pocket looking at henry, “it's fine henry, we'll take mine, I want to get some ink too, we'll meet you at the restaurant after”

and with that he dragged me along with him, as we headed towards his car, my biggest relief was getting a break of bunny's blabbering, and Henry's- well Henry's everything, happy that from the looks of it, I'd already made a friend of Francis. As soon as we're out of earshot I turn to him a big sigh escaping me, “he's just unbelievable, you saw how annoyed he looked with me from the second he saw me? I don't get why he's this aggressive, and why only with me!”

we get to the car and he gets in before answering “Oh trust me everyone saw that, he never gets this agitated with anyone really, not even when Bunny's acting stupid”

“I didn't do anything to warrant such attitude from him, also you see his friend- bunny, while coming to class today randomly started talking about his girlfriend and how she is a proper ‘respectable’ woman because she likes kids and some shit, really weirded me out”

“I can't say that I'm surprised he just says stuff like that sometimes, which store do you get your ink from?”

“It's just to the left of the dry cleaners, he really doesn't seem like the kind of guy you'd expect to be studying classics y’know, I wonder how he and that old grump became friends”

“They've been friends for years and Bunny was Henry's only friend, before college, met at some all-boys boarding school in Europe and have been friends ever since for a good chunk of time you would never see Henry without Bunny. Is it this store?”

“Yes the one with the yellow sign, I wouldn't expect he'd have many friends with that attitude of his.” we both get out of the car and into the stationary shop, we greet the lady working there and get our ink mine brown and red, Francis's black, after that, we wander to the notebook section, ultimately getting distracted by all the pretty covers and different paper for about 20 minutes, chatting the brunch completely forgotten.

That's until Richard comes in looking for us, he stops by, “Where have you two been, we've been waiting for thirty minutes, bunny is getting really hangry” his hand wanders about the notebooks, looking at the different covers,

“Just a moment Richard we're almost done”.With that we grab our ink and notebooks we definitely don't need but were too pretty to leave on the shelf and I also grab a notebook that Richard was eying, as a gift and check out, heading towards the restaurant.

Not much occurs there, except for Bunny annoying Henry and Charles, i mainly just eat my food and chat with Francis, Richard, Charles, and Camilla, making a point of not participating when Henry is involved in the discussion until it all comes crumbling down when bunny, thought he was bored from torturing Charles, turned to me “say you-he pointed to me across the round table- are you religious?”

the question completely unexpected “I uhh…It's complicated” I answer trying to avoid getting into a discussion with him, but that didn't work of course

“Complicated how?”

“I mean I was raised catholic but that wasn't something I felt I belonged to, so as a teenager, I became very interested in paganism, and now it's harder to decide”

“And why do you not endorse Catholicism?” He pushed, all of them now staring at me with intensity and curiosity

“From my experience with the church, it seemed that most of those who belong to it and claim they are the men of god are morally corrupt money thirsty predatory assholes,” I say it so casually and only the looks on everyone's faces -except for bunny, who wore a smug expression- made me realize that maybe I had gone too far,

and Henry obviously wasn't gonna let it slide, he chuckles leaning over the table in my direction “My, my, little miss know it all feels she's way above religion now, how surprising” he mocked, voice high pitched not entirely believing what he said.

“I didn't say that Henry,” he isn't stupid and he knows what I meant but he just wants to get a reaction out of me

“Really? Then what did you say, because to all of us that's how it sounded.”

“You know what, fine. Interpret it as you want, I'm not going to justify my own beliefs to you.”

“Because you can't, can you?”

“No Henry trust me I'm more than capable but you don't deserve wasting my breath on you” I shoot back, and I could feel my ears becoming red, just as I was about to lose it,

Richard chimed in, “That's enough Henry don't you think. Let's just have the food and leave.”, and with everyone having already been done with their food we sat for five more minutes paying before we went back to college the same as we came.

Maybe that first class was what had drawn the outlines of my relationship with Henry, rivals always looking for something to jump down the other's throat about, and while it was mostly Henry who started with a scoff or chuckle or some offhanded comment, I never let it slide and more often than not I'd be the one escalating the situation. Our egos were far too big to admit that what we came to was childish.

[secret-histories]

Hi, should I post my drabbles (I guess tumblr calls them this) on here…? I love writing and write a lot of short little The Secret History things. Of course I always want to write a full length fanfic like I used to but I find myself unable to. (Especially since I can only really write the from perspective of Camilla? Plus I’m not one for writing any fluff I guess… so idk. It’s mostly like angst themed stuff? Not sure how I should describe…) Therefore all of my writing really is just short unfinished ideas, but I still desperately want to share! Should I?

Hmm… Ahhh!!! Here are snippets from two different things I’ve written. Do let me know if I should!

[what-if-queen-camilla]

Like grandfather, like grandson - Chapter 4 - Sandringham House

Sandringham House, Norfolk, Monday, 11th December 1972

Camilla was still in a bit of a shock, firstly about Charles’ somehow not-so unexpected proposal about two weeks ago, and secondly, actually just recently, about his grandmother’s invitation to Sandringham House, which she, even if she had wanted to, hardly could have turned down. It was the week of both, the King’s accession day and his birthday, which was going to end with the third Sunday of Advent, and moreover the last day before Charles would leave for the Navy. It was not the first time she was invited to stay with the Royal Family, God knew how often she, her parents and siblings had joined them for hunting weekends at Balmoral back when they had all been children - but Sandringham House was something different, and this time, she was not just the daughter of a much appreciated World-War-II veteran and granddaughter of darling Mrs Greville's ever so adored goddaughter, but the more or less official girlfriend of Prince Charles of Edinburgh!

“It’s a very small group, darling, and it will be a cosy atmosphere!”, he had promised her when he had brought her his grandmother’s invitation. “It’ll be only my grandparents, Aunt Margo, Uncle Peter, the cousins and us!”, he had explained and at least the absence of his parents had somehow calmed her down a bit, yet, it was still frightening enough. A driver had picked her up early on this Monday morning to ensure she'd arrive in time for luncheon. There'd be a small reception to mark the 35th anniversary of His Majesty's accession later in the afternoon, certainly an especially bittersweet one this year, Camilla thought, considering the Duke of Windsor's death last May. Despite everything, The King had insisted that his brother should have a State Funeral in everything but name, and Charles, alongside his mother's cousins the Duke of Kent, Prince William of Gloucester (who had so tragically died only a couple of weeks later which had been a huge heartbreak for the whole family), and his own eldest cousin George, Viscount Linley, first born son of Princess Margaret and her husband Captain Peter Townsend, the Earl and Countess of Snowdon, had stood vigil during the lying-in-state of the former monarch. It had caused some controversy, but also underlined once more just how important family and forgiveness was to King George VI, and as far as Camilla was concerned, she had been deeply impressed and touched by his generous gesture, as was her entire family and most people she knew. For the occasion, Camilla had got herself a simple, but elegant, knee-length black silk and lace dress of which she hoped that it wouldn't draw the attention away from Charles’ grandmother. She very much preferred to stay as invisible as possible and, of course, would never want to “outshine” The Queen! Though it was probably impossible to outshine Her Majesty with her fancy style anyway, but still.

“Here we are, Ma'am, Sandringham House.”, the driver announced and Camilla's heart stopped for a moment as she, indeed, caught sight of the famous, red bricked, Jacobethan styled country house right next to her out of the car window, and much to her relief, her Prince right in front of the building, happily smiling and waving at her. “Darling!”, he greeted her affectionately, as soon as she got out of the window, tenderly kissing both her cheeks. “I'm so glad you're here, I've missed you terribly! Have you had a comfortable journey?” “Yes, darling, everything went well.”, she confirmed, with a grateful nod towards the driver, who was meanwhile unloading her luggage, that would later be carried into the house by another servant. “Come on, my love, let's go inside.”, Charles said, tenderly wrapped her arm around her and guided her through the main entrance. “Where are the others?”, Camilla asked, a bit frightened. So far, nobody was in sight, but she didn't want to experience any kind of surprises, so wanted to be sure. “Grandpa is working in his office, Granny and Aunt Margo have gone on a ride, Uncle Peter and the boys have gone fishing and Sarah…” “... has been waiting for you all morning!!!”, the Prince's seven-year-old cousin, who had suddenly appeared as if by magic, excitedly declared and almost jumped onto Camilla’s arms. “Hello young lady!”, Camilla greeted her affectionately and Sarah's eyes widened in excitement. They had met a few short times before and somehow, Sarah was almost as much in love with her cousin's girlfriend as she himself. “Charles says you're drawing, is that true?”, the little girl asked and Camilla nodded. “I do, but I'm not very good…” “That's not true!”, Charles immediately protested. “You're absolutely brilliant, darling!” “And you like horses, right?”, Sarah happily babbled away. “Can I show you that stables later?” “For the moment, sweetheart, please hold your horses and let Camilla arrive first!”, Charles giggled, but Camilla gave him an approving glance, confirming that she didn't mind the little girl's behaviour at all. She had two younger siblings herself and she loved children, so everything was fine. “Well, in that case, Sarah, you might like to show Camilla her room?”, he asked and Sarah nodded excitingly. “I helped Mary preparing it yesterday!”, she explained and took Camilla's hand. “It's next to mine, we girls have an entire corridor of our own!” Camilla looked at Charles and he nodded. Of course - only married couples were allowed to share a room in this circle… Trying to conceal her slight disappointment, Camilla followed Sarah up the stairs and to the room that was going to be hers for the rest of the week. “I'll come and pick you up for lunch in about half an hour!”, he promised and blew a kiss, before the ladies rushed around the corner and were out of sight.

[secret-history-hyperfixation]

These are some of the notes/comments I’ve made while writing the tsh fic i’ve been working on for the past year.

(sorry that some are blurry lol)

[beauty-is-terrror]

send your requests for Henry Marchbanks Winter fanfics and i will try my best to write something

[axieta]

Hungry eyes

Henry Winter x reader

Warnings: suggested auto-aggression, abuse and medicine abuse, thoughts of violence, breakdown (dni if you fell like any of the warnings mentioned, even described in a very roundabout way, may impact you negatively, please and thank you)

Chapter 9

Two points of view

Chapter 9

Hours passed. Days. Weeks. The snow fell, perched on my shoulders, on top of my head, in my hands, like a particularly annoying case of dandruff. Years, decades. I was sure that the white powder that made my skin turn pale and then red, that chased shivers all around my body should have already been gone after such a long time. Or maybe it was not snow, truly, but dandruff indeed. After all I had been standing there, in the dodgy parking lot outside of the Cherry flavour, that it might have been as well. Centuries. Lifetimes. All that I had witnessed on that evening and all of it before, the calm before the storm and its sorrowful, unnerving resolution, it all had flashed before me, in my mind’s eye. It all came and went so suddenly, so abruptly, that the screaming memories of the past appeared almost violent to me. Like a crazed stranger running your way along the pavement, screaming, tearing at his hair, tossing, and stumbling, zigzagging along his path, and then passing you and disappearing in the crowd, somewhere behind you, as you shiver once, push your eyelids together in the ultimate expression of horror and disgust.

God, please don’t let him touch me; you think. God don’t let him see me; you pray.

And then the stranger passes, his torn, dirty clothes, a marksman of a homeless bum, disappear from your field of vision, and the only thing that stays with you, the testament to his sorry existence, is that sweetly nauseating smell he leaves behind.

Millennia. Eons. It all passed me in a blink of an eye, or they had not passed at all, and I had just been imagining things. But my body hurt, my arms felt taunt, packed with an unmeasurable tension and my gums swirled with restless swarms of worms. An unwanted, painful reminder of what had been and what turned into ashes in matters of mere seconds.

Standing there, a few meters behind Henry it donned on me how terribly cold it was outside. Only garbed in the delicate, summer shirt I used to wear only at the inaugurations of school year, I started to shake uncontrollably. A full-body convulsion overtook me and a chirp chatter of my teeth, ones hitting the others, filled my ears. My body submitted to the rising wind and the falling temperatures, but I could not feel the cold at all. To the contrary, the pain that shook me so, was birthed directly by the iron-hot waves of heat washing all over my intestines, my skin, pulling over my brows in pearly droplets of sweat.

Henry’s cigarette hit the ground, then the heel of his impeccable, shiny Oxford smothered the last glimpse of flame still flickering with orange hope at the very end of the butt. Merciless stomp, half wet splash in the melting snow on the pavement. And that was it. His hands were shaking, but his face stilled in a terrifying grip of ever frost.

A few weeks later and nothing changed. Not really. We all acted normal, or at least appeared to act normal. Bunny was his usual cheery self, Camilla and Charles kept on with their Sunday dinners, of which we had two before the winter break came tearing us apart and throwing all around the world and Henry maintained his stoic, cold disposition. Nothing shook him no more. He froze in one moment and his face kept that taunt, expressionless grimace I saw right before the bar. His eyes turned sharp, strangely calm. He seemed both very aware of his surroundings and completely detached from them at the same time. In the matter of days, he regressed into the Henry I knew from my first encounter with him – chill, full of distaste and afloat, above all the filth of this world. Even Francis seemed unbothered, or worse, completely oblivious to what has happened in the Cherry flavour. To my deepest surprise, even she herself, wasn’t overly bothered. She talked, she smiled, even joked around. Some of her jokes landed punches against Bunny, but there was nothing aggressive in them, just her characteristically sarcastic remarks mixed with her usual witty climaxes. It was truly, as if nothing had happened. As if I, myself had thought out this elaborate drama in one of my drunken fantastic apparitions and convinced myself of its authenticity. But there was something more to this frozen normalcy of our group. Not only had they brushed the incident, like it was nothing, they had reset themselves to a state of complete neutrality, the one in which I had met them. All the characteristics of the group I came to know and adjusted myself to suddenly vanished leaving behind a bunch of empty, hollowed vessels, of which I knew nothing and whose lives had once again become a complete mystery to me. They changed the sitting places in Julian’s class once again. No longer was Henry besides her. What’s more, I don’t think I saw him anywhere near her since the night at the bar. Long forgotten were the brushes of hands, the solemn and longing stares thrown across tables. No one raced in the gathering snow anymore, nor did anyone read Argonautica Orphica, crammed into some dark corner of the library. No one mused in hushed tones to some other twin soul the passages of Greek dramas.

With time, even her jokes and laughs simmered down to an untaxing hum, and one day, I could not say which, but the paste of the change seemed so alarming I had to note that in my memory, they stopped all together.

I asked Francis about the bar once, mostly because after Henry’s silent resignation from his previous seat, the ginger boy seemed to be the closest to her.

‘Say,’ I had asked him one day, when we were all leaving class, and her coat had long vanished from my field of vision ‘What are you going to do with the whole Bunny situation?’

He threw me a look, a dumbfounded, confused look, one would expect from a pupil being called to the board and not a grown man asked a simple question, such as himself.

‘Whatever do you mean, Richard?’

I shrugged my shoulders forward and wagged my head from side to side with disappointment. Resigned, I had never asked him about that again.

It was as if the past few weeks had not happened at all. Well, I guess there was no more need for all that, because she herself seemed to be more and more absent from our private, antic world. She became quite unresponsive during the lessons, although she kept her marks up and if only asked, she responded with the same vigour and fervour as usual, there was a special air of vacancy around her, whenever her lips sealed into that thin, pensive line I adored so. Her interactions with us became more and more scarce and suddenly, right before the break had begun, I realised that for a few days now she had been coming into class, nodding in greeting, and then staying silent for as long as she possibly could. That one nod, sometimes two, if she remembered to draft it before leaving class, was the only remnant of her usual sunny and loud greetings. I could not remember how did her voice sound before, but I knew that slight rasp and a gravel undertone weren’t always there. But now, whenever she spoke those qualities seemed ubiquitous and synonymous with her. A dark smudge on the crystal timbre of her vocal cords.

I noticed that she had not decided on changing her shoes. The dark-shining vices gripped her feet at all times, mercilessly and gave her steps a slight rhythm akin to that of a lame. I could not understand why was she still insisting on torturing herself with this terrible choice of footwear, but seeing as she would not talk to anyone, not even Henry, I did not feel especially invited to starting a conversation with her about that. Especially when all I could focus on was the dubious existence of that fateful evening I witnessed. If I could not trust myself with remembering a night such as this correctly, what else must’ve my mind gotten wrong?

The pages of my sketchbook suddenly filled with frantic notes of recollection and quick, messy drafts of those boots. From side, front, back, upside, dark, atmospheric, and linear. Shiny noses, black shoelaces, bits of mud on the soles and slight blemishes of salt on the delicate leather. I saw them every day, and every day I committed them to paper, slowly perfecting the ovoid shape. And all the while my pen hit the yellowed, stylized pages, all my ears registered was the unrhythmic clack of her heels on the frozen pavement. I tried to remember every clack and every click. Every broken shade and glimmer of artificial light that reflected off that polished leather as they laid beneath the table in Cherry flavour. And the longer I thought of them, those two black holes consuming my every waking thought, the longer that sick obsession with the shoes’ glimmering noses unravelled into a twisted spiral over the pages of my notebook and transformed them into some sort of mythical regalia of martyrdom, the more I started to think that I might’ve been in fact overexaggerating a bit. After all, it was not the first time I would completely submerge myself into an obsession that would ultimately prove pointless and redundant.

Only, no! I had eyes, I could see, I was not a blind man, nor was I marginally stupid. It did not take a genius to mark the pain in her stride, to see, how her laugh and her smile did not bear any water, how they died on her cheeks, never reaching her eyes. How, when she finally stopped the charade and alongside it, stopped talking altogether, those shine-less eyes, those once magnificent pools of sheer starlight became empty and dark. How she shrivelled and thinned in the matter of weeks – days! – and how her hair matted over with a thin layer of patina. Like a beautiful, bronze statue, knocked down into the murky waters of a lake it once guarded, her whole being overgrew with pondweeds and widgeon grass. Something dimmed her, a duckweed casted deep shadows on the crystal-clear surface of her face, and yet I could not comprehend what could it be. Bunny choked her, that I got. But that… that silence, that burnout… it all seemed far too much. And then Henry. So cold, so angry… and then completely uninterested. It was all, at the same time too much and too little for what I had gathered from a few glances at them. I wasn’t close with neither of them, except for her. I could’ve asked her then, at the bar, but that ship has had already sailed by the time doubts gripped at my throat. I was just so sure that Henry was going to take care of things, weed the pond water, that I didn’t even think of doing anything myself. Even though I knew, I swear to gods, old and new, I knew she needed… something. Someone. And I knew they knew that as well.

But they kept quiet. Cheery even, submerged into the deep waters of the Red Sea, running alongside the mystical warriors, sons of gods, storming the beaches of Troy, focused solely on the past, they stayed blind to the unsteady march of their friend. Henry, most of them, seemed to be shockingly cut off from all that surrounded him. Once again, I saw him reading the Iliad, alone. Once again, I had heard his snarky comments cutting the air like knives swishing at warm butter. I glanced at his hasty, unnecessary translations of old books into even older languages. And in all of that he remained solitarily unified with what has been. He had not even so much as spared a glance towards her way since that night. Not even a discrete, throw-away look, or a passing stare. His eyes remained polarised, sharp, and empty, investigating the dark swirls of letters on the old papers. Amongst all the shine of the glory that once was he surrounded himself with, he appeared somehow ghostly. Pale skin turned almost grey, and as time went on, violet swirls of broken capillaries dusted it with random cracks, here and there. Deep shadows marked his face from the waterlines of his eyes, right to his immensely sharp cheekbones, as if he had not been getting enough sleep. And his hands, they shook. Constantly and perpetually, small temblors shook his palmar nerves, forcing him to close and open his fists. Pain painted on his face the most magnificent landscapes, even more frequently when she fell silent. Still, he kept on with his studies, unbothered, pinning his button, shark-like eyes onto the inanimate objects of his admiration.

Once, I even saw him picking Bunny up from some restaurant, dragging a bummed-out boy behind him. I knew the precedence. I recognised the apologetic scowl on his face, when he drove off with the boy crammed up in the passenger seat of his car and I wonder how such a heartless, blind person could ever be let behind a wheel. As his car glided over the dangerously slippery street, the glimmer of Bunny’s blonde head, turned in half-chirp caught my eyes. I gagged. I simply could not watch this flock surrounding Tiresias with a straight face. I might have not understood the situation at hand, might have even assessed it wrong, but what got me the worst was the collective dismissal of the state my Diogenes found herself in. the turning of a blind eye, the dismissal, it made my blood boil.

Getting more and more angry with the silence surrounding something I was absolutely sure of witnessing, I decided to go back to the bar. Looking for something, anything, even now I would not be able to describe what for exactly, I decided to snoop around there. And I would, I really would. If it wasn’t for the stomped-out butt that greeted me on the pavement right before the entrance. Pathetic and soaked it had already dissolved under the immense pressure of humidity and dirty water that had washed over it during the days of my absence. It was there, it was real. And it had red letters – Lucky Strikes – engraved on the white band dividing the ashy end from the orange body. It stared at me from the distance of approximately six feet. The same ciggy Henry had stomped out.

My knees popped when I squatted over that piece of evidence. I stared intently, with bated breath and hands covering my mouth, just not to somehow contaminate that butt. Like a careful investigator I examined the unexpected piece of evidence with utmost unction I looked and watched and glanced at it, considered all the ways it had creased, soaked in the dirty water. I wanted to notice something, somehow connect the dots, tie it all up with one swift revelation. Maybe notice a certain shape or conjure a poetic, dramatic metaphor that could somehow describe it, take that mystery to a higher plane on which I could finally achieve enlightenment and deeper understanding of the situation. I thought that staring at it would help me capture at least a bit of Henry’s essence, that clasping my hands at the phantom thread tied to his mind at the moment of him smoking it would allow me access to his mindset, explain what was going on inside of him, when he mulled over the Latin phrase. Desperately searching for the slightest trace of reason in it, or some kind of symbolism, like a pair of grey, ashy bunny ears or a cute, fluff tail poking out of the mangled cotton end of the ciggy which’s visual allegory would bring me any closer to an explanation. But nothing appeared. The butt was just a butt. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sudden anger gripped me by the throat, poked at my eyeballs from the inside of my pained skull and coloured the whole world before me in vivid splashes of red. For the simple fact of my ingenuousness, the unreasonable investigation that refused to bear any fruit at its infant stages, the way the others did not seemed to be bothered by the whole Cherry flavour situation, savage frenzy sprouted in me, took root in my brain, slithered around my muscles, and took all inhibition from the body that once had belonged to me. For a split moment I was not human. For a short second, in which I jumped to my feet and with a brutish yap escaping my mouth, felt my muscles convulse with unpredictable movement, I was not even an animal. The accumulated rage was not me, not my own, but a whole other entity, alive, smart, hungry, vicious. Akin to Ophiocordyceps unilateralis it wrapped its way round me and guided my whole body into a fit of purely obscure seizure. My brain, my mind, it was there, although set still and useless, as if numbed and enslaved by that foreign rage in a sort of gilded cage it revelled in. Oh, the golden splendour of my inhibition, the sudden servitude to my own emotions, it all left a deliciously sweet taste on my tongue. My foot, one I had not realised had been risen, hit the ground with a terrible wet splash, perfectly pinning the dreaded butt beneath itself. The scream that followed the spontaneous motion echoed uncomfortably against each and every building that surrounded me. Tearing my leg up once again I struck anew, well the fungal rage reigning my body did, with both viciousness and force doubled. After three more dealt kicks like that I was sure the butt was not only stomped out, but completely obliterated, and yet I could not stop myself. I could not stop the stabbing motion of my leg, nor could I muffle the thick, grating bays coming out of my throat at every hit I/it had dealt. Dirty thawed snow splashed miserably all around me and landed on my trousers, on the cars parked in the parking lot and the poles dividing pavement from the road.

It was not far. No fair at all.

Splash!

How were they treating her!

Smack!

How she looked!

Splat!

What Henry had said! What he promised! What he didn’t do!

Plop!

Henry, that bastard! Bastard-Henry! Henry-Bastard! Blind fool! King of fools!

Slam!

He and that insufferable brat Bunny! Bunny, Bunny, Bunny! Idiot! Moron!

Nothing coherent crossed my mind in that moment. Nothing of higher importance or sense. But I knew that what had, was the purest form of frustration, the truest vent for every single one of my doubts and problems that had snowballed during that year in Hampden. I knew that those frantic kicks, those incoherent bellows of mine, they were not just empty swings at an already burnt-out cigarette. No, each strike was a protest, a manifestation and a drub against the nature of every single person entangled in the pattern of neglect and disinterest surrounding my Diogenes. Angry stomps surrounded me whole and muffled all the other sounds with their hateful nosegay.

In my fevered state the butt became Henry’s head, his chest, his hands, and the dark hair sprouting above his white, aristocratic forehead morphed into the sunlit grains of Bunny’s coiffure. Images, imprints really, of his pastel, nauseating outfits inflamed my nostrils with a smoke-stained dragon breath. They sharpened my teeth, turned me further and equipped me with diamond-sharp claws, armoured me with thick scales. I was a mystical dragon of pure, liquid fury and I was ready to melt down mountains. What’s worse is that I always knew what I had felt towards Bunny. It was nothing new. Detestation, slight indifference, unease sneaking its way beneath my skin with terrible itch whenever he appeared somewhere near me – the purest form of unknowing discomfort. But the unadulterated, all-consuming hatred I felt towards Henry was. In all honesty I was willing to admit my distaste regarding the blonde quarterback, and yet to this day, I quiver before the thoughts that ghosted and rattled over my mind when the acrid taste of venomous loathing filled my mouth when I saw the dark eyes, the jet-black hair and the cynical grin of Henry Winter being stomped out by my own foot. Yet I did not falter in that moment, not one step back. I did not quelched my thirst for blood, stomping my foot around I did not stomp out the desire to melt those two until there was nothing left of them, and then further scorch them until even the memory of them, the last trace of it has been completely purified and forged anew. I was a monster willing to turn them into a breed of creatures of my sort. For a moment a violent fantasy, of me stepping up, cornering them, and tearing them apart in two-to-one combat, clouded my vision. Oh, what I could have given in that moment to possess any kind of skill in martial arts. Of even owning a knife with which I could threaten them with. A kidney, or a lung, or even a heart would not be equal to the bargain I was willing to make in order to suddenly become apt, athletic and strong. A whole world would not be a sacrifice big enough for my willingness to hurt nor was it enough to bring me the levels of courage and skill I needed to face and best those two. After all, I was but a boy. Not a dragon, not an investigator, and not an infection-ridden insect. Just an angry little scrawny boy, scared and confused stomping in the molten snow like a capricious brat. More than anything I was a pathetic child. My knees buckled beneath the weight of that realisation, and I collapsed into the disgusting greyish-brownish pulp. Wet matter soaked into my pants and despite the moderately mild weather I swear, I had never felt such seeping cold.

Once again time stopped and galloped around me with no rhyme or reason. I could not tell how long I was kneeling there, pinned to the ground by the sheer gravity of that tiny, obliterated butt. And I think I would stay there for far longer, until darkened sky came in the marvellous shade of indigo and frost coated the perimeter with spiky-white fur, until I’d had lost feeling in my toes and the overwhelming cold of the night steadily slowed and slowed my pulse to the point of a dangerously gentle halt if it wasn’t for the shy shadow creeping over my form.

Small and bleak shape of a person sliding carefully on the pavement, mixed with the strange fragrance of a muffled, warm scent, domestic in that slow creep, nice and soft with the cautious steps of its owner. I knew that scent, that shape, that rhythm, swayed slightly to the right, as if the person guiding it avoided putting their whole weight to the left. I knew it and I longed for it for so, so long. My head snapped back, eager, almost wanton, and my gaze was met with a slightly bent figure, big, hollowed eyes gazing right, no, trough, mine and tightly pressed pale lips. Her. The intensity of that sudden stare, despite its murky and diffused, or maybe precisely because of that thinly spread quality, forced goose-skin to come forth on my clothed arms. She was slimmer, so much so, that when her jaw clenched at the shock surfacing on my face, I could see and count the small bones of her skull sliding smoothly beneath her taunt skin. Paler and somehow yellow, like a thin, thin, thin papyrus left for too long on the scorching sun of a desert, the rosy fresh bloom of her skin, just an afterthought left in the broken capillaries of her eyes and the reddish rim of them. The hair that fell over her arm, when she leaned in some more into my private space, as if to sniff me or confirm that I was in fact me, slid over her shoulder with a quiet dry shuffle, akin to the jerk of wheat fields in the middle of July, forgotten or abandoned by their farmer. No more gilded halo, rather bone-dry empty stems. In that dimension she was not so far away from the ghostly grey shape her body casted over me, even more so, she herself seemed like a shadow of her former self. A vessel that would drag behind her a fortnight before. A shape that would break over silvery-white snow caps, hide and split under the influence of light seeping into the campus library. There was this newfound quality about her, an air I had no words to describe then. I just knew that she didn’t quite feel like herself, somehow hollow, unfilled, not really finished, just like she herself was not complete, not whole, like the part of herself that kept her whole being by the seams, suddenly vanished and her frame fell apart, spitting out that lively, sweet part of herself, the cottony filling that gives puppets their shape, and all that was left of her was that skin, those glossy eyes, gleaming like two polished buttons. All I could think of, while desperately trying to bear that bone-chilling stare of hers, was that she had cracked into two halves, and the one – the cold, silent, limping, and tight-lipped creature – was the only half that survived that tragic severance. The worse half.

Now, that I have assisted in an attempt on someone’s life, I know that she looked like what death feels like. Cold and un-personalised ghostly presence that hoovers over you, seeps into you and stays somewhere there, in your body, in the stems of your fingers, forever curved around an already non-existent neck, slots itself right between the globes of your brain, playing the imagine of body muddled in snow over and over again, sits in your ears, echoing the never-ending crack of neck, settles on your skin with sheer dust of dried blood, and holds you hostage in constant state of fear for the rest of your miserable life. Once you’ve tasted death, once you’ve looked into dead man’s eyes, it stays with you, just like that imagine of her stayed with me, imprinted forevermore in my being.

And I had said before, ever since that night in her apartment, when I laid on the couch, half-drunk and dumb with fascination, and she kissed Henry over that one-piece table, three deaths had been prescribed in her lifetime. What I was seeing then, in the dodgy parking lot of Cherry favour was a tell-tale sign of the first one.

‘What’s up, pup?’ Mors dicit. Or was it her? ‘A lovely weather we’re having, huh?’ She croaked my way, as she crouched next to me with a slight hiss.

The weather was nice indeed, not that I had noticed before she so gracefully pointed that out for me. Chilly, yes, and, courtesy of the lingering snow, covered in a thin tint of sepia, but overall nice. But none of that mattered. Not really, when she was there, so close that I could smell her, feel the faint warmth of her body leaving a shallow indentation on my arm.

‘Hey.’ My tongue darted to wet my horrid, chapped lips. She smelled naturally, of herself, like no other fragrance in this world, broken by slight notes of cigarette smoke and fresh coffee carried forth on her breath, although the smell was muffled, weathered and I had to breath unrealistically deeply to get a real sense of it. ‘Wasn’t expecting you here.’

Her brows furrowed, as if she had no idea of what I was talking about, and only when I pointed my finger up, to the neon sign, turned off for the time, had a sharp spark of comprehension light her eyes. For a second, she seemed suspended in time, when she considered and took in the sight of the establishment, and I thought she might break down crying, because her lower lip wobbled and the skin around her eyes tightened dangerously, but no, nothing like that happened. Instead, her white teeth peaked from beneath the pale barrier of her lips and a snarl, something I would take for a laugh if it wasn’t so primal, so angry, fell from between them.

‘Oh, that’s rich, that’s rich.’ She gurgled some more, before turning to me. Something in me, cowardly and slimy, suggested that I much preferred her giggling at the bar, and not looking at me. Truly, something in those washed-out, wandering eyes, did not feel quite… sane. ‘I was… out for a walk. Wanted to go to the post office. Guess I lost my way.’

I nodded, not knowing what else to say. And I wanted to say so many things. Maybe too many for any of them to come forth. Something in her face told me that she understood, and so I didn’t feel as restricted as before. Somehow, that one shift in the muscles on her face convinced me that she, the Diogenes I loved so much, the accomplice I adored with all my might, was still there.

‘What for?’

‘Oh, just… wanted to buy more letter writing paper. I’m writing a lot recently…’

I nodded and promptly decided I had to keep up the good karma of her talking, because with every word she uttered I heard that terrible rasp fading and fading away. I really wanted to hear that crystal-clear laugh of hers once more. Icy and fresh, like the coldest creaks flowing down from the highest of mountain tops. Although before I could ask her another question, she beat me to it, her ever perceptive gaze falling to my wet, dirtied knees. Something like a smile, real heartfelt smile and not a cynical crack of lips, flashed across her face and she cocked her chin towards that bizarre view.

‘You’re kneeling in the snow, Richard Papen, have you noticed?’

I nodded, again, and scoffed a little, noticing how strange that must’ve looked for someone who wasn’t privy to my melt-down, or anyone perfectly sane for that matter. Although, looking at her, I wasn’t sure I could apply the latter category to anything currently concerning her person.

‘Ya. I did. I just read somewhere that winter swims can work wonders for your nervous system. You know, I find it quite refreshing actually, the dirty water getting soaked in by my pants, I mean.’ I stomped my knees a few times, splashing the water around a bit, as if I was trying to paddle in real, deep water.

To my utter surprise, she giggled. And by gods, I’d be damned if I didn’t blush at that sweet, treacly laugh. My lips curved with hers, and widened even more, when she continued with her interrogation. Every second word she managed to utter was interrupted by a new wave of giggles.

‘No, really. Why are you… why are you kneeling like that? Come one, don’t give me that look, don’t look at me like you know something I don’t!’

She pulled me by my arms, her slim, tender fingers digging into my used and shabby overcoat with such surprising force I feared for the stitches that held it together. I grabbed her back, maybe out of that fear, or just simply because I missed the feel of her, her body somewhere near mine, the touch I could squeeze out of our short interactions, how her arms felt in the palms of my hand… I pulled her towards me, with the fullest intent of dragging her to the ground with me, but she was far stronger than I imagined. Now, the prospect of her catching Henry if he’d fall did not seem so abstract, when she somehow managed to maintain her equilibrium and slip from my grasp, jumping a few steps back, still, balancing perfectly of the balls of her feet. She flashed me a toothy grin, and I, the weak man that I was, tried again, just so I could see it again. I reached for her once more, but she was too agile for me, even with her limp, even in that state of suspended half-death, she jumped around me like an eager, young heifer, drafted circles as I wagged and dragged behind her.

‘Quick, Richard, you gotta be quick! Answer me, or you won’t catch me! Come on now, it’s not that hard, just tell me.’

After some more tittering coaxing, that went in a more-or-less similar tune to her first question, I finally gave in. Giddy myself with the marvellous melody of her happiness I could not help but tell her everything she wanted to know. Who was I to refuse her, after all? Before I started though, I waved my hand dismissively in order to lighten the impact of what I was going to say. I didn’t want her to take me for a hopeless case, but I figured that maybe the sheer ridiculousness of my behaviour might help in holding up that magnificent smile a while longer on her lips. I went for so long without seeing it, that now, that I finally got the chance to, I threw myself at it with abandon and hunger of a starving person.

‘I just had an epiphany. A pretty grim one.’ I admitted, pursing my lips, and nodding my head in a very pensive, over-the-top way. Her smile did not widen, but neither did it falter, so I took it for a small success. Her head tilted though, in that feline, interested burst of expression I had seen her making in classes before.

‘Grim? How come?’

Squaring my shoulders, I nodded. To be fair I did not really know if I wanted to tell her all about what just had gone through my head. The violence… the desperate need for it. But I figured that if I ever wanted her to open up to me, to keep on smiling, trusting me like she did a few weeks before, I had to give her something. So, like a coward, I went with the safest option, one that could give me the desired results.

‘Henry.’ I said, and her smile faltered until it faded completely. ‘He… he told me something, and I believed it, and now… well, now I know it not to be true. The epiphany, I guess, was about him.’ A dash of malevolence glimmered in her irises at the mention of his name. She craned her neck backwards, slowly, and very carefully like king cobra lazily hauling her body up and spreading the beige collar in the ultimate warning before dealing the lethal blow. Her hair electrified around her beautiful swan neck, seemingly willed by the sheer force of her ireful mind, and for a second, I thought I caught a glimpse of perilous white fangs, dripping with saliva down onto her tongue.

‘Guess you’re not the first one to be deceived.’ Venomous, was her comment. Stabbing and full of intent to kill. I nodded, half in understanding, half in agreement. ‘What has he said to you?’

I allowed myself a longer pause, just to swallow and gather my thoughts, although I already knew what I was going to say, the second his name left my lips.

‘Henry said he was going to help you. Deal with Bunny.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, he said something like, an eye for an eye. You know, for choking you in the bar. I guess I thought he was going to scare him a bit, take him for a small tumble or…’

A spasm of fear run through my body when her face suddenly twisted and morphed, elongated by the purest iteration of despair. Her lips quivered and curved downwards, brows squeezing and releasing her high forehead in an iron grip of pain. Her eyes screwed up, until her face flooded in stramineous red and then popped back out, capillaries prominent, lashes fluttering, gathering unwanted wetness. She kind of choked, or gurgled, her throat waved and resonated with a snarl of an animal wounded and then a long, desperate whiz. Her hands, pale and thin, shot up, tangling her fingers into the already unruly coiffure. With another panicked exhale she pulled the tightly gripped strands over her face, strained them to their fullest length, and then some more, to the point where I saw the roots of her hair pulling the skin of her head up, and up. Her body convulsed, and then went completely taunt, her chest collapsing over her bent knees. Something in me broke, seeing her like that, something snapped. Not with the fiery, almost-too-cold rage of a mythical beast I felt before. Rather with soft, damp resignation that fills oneself when they find a dead mouse in the trap, they had set themselves the night before. I scooted closer, slowly, announcing my movement to her, so that she would not be scared with my presence, like a good hunter would do with a yet alive prey in need of a final blow. She nodded, still whimpering quietly as I shuffled across the wet pavement. I let my arms snake around her shoulders, tug her head to my chest, so that she would hear the steady beat of my heart, know that it was me, that I was real, and I was indeed there, by her side. She complied, fell forward into my embrace, as if longing for it. Her knees hit the ground, wet splash marked my lap, but none of us cared as I pressed my jaw to the crown of her head, as another wet splash hit my chest. Small, almost unnoticeable droplets slid from her eyes, from the bridge of her nose. The street was empty, just the two of us bundled to the side, shivering, pained and scared together. She could cry as much as she wanted, I shielded her from the rising wind.

‘Shhhhh, hey sweet thing. What’s happened? Come on. It’s all right. It’ll be all right.’ She sobbed into me, and I felt it, not in the physical when the waves of her voice went to crash over my body, but in a much more piercing way. My heart clenched at that. ‘I know, I know. Come one, let’s get up, you’ll catch a cold. See? your pants are already brown from the snow.’

Another froth of waves came crushing my chest, but I managed to haul her up. She nodded frantically over and over, clearly not knowing what to do. Embarrassed, or confused she begun to dry her face with quick, hard stokes, that left long red trails over her cheeks.

‘Yea, yea, you’re right Richard. It’s all so stupid, I’m so stupid, sorry… let me just… just… I’ll be fine in a second. Just. Can you stay a while longer?’ Her voice trembled and fluctuated between a nasal gags and whispery retches. Her head lunched forward and for a second, I thought she was vomiting, but she managed to straighten up. Iron heat rushed to my head, swirled in my stomach. ‘Just stay a bit longer, please. It’s stupid, it’ll pass.’

‘It’s not. You’re not. None of it is. You have every right…’ Red rimmed eyes shot to me, wet with all the things unsaid, undone, longing and hungry. The hunger of her soul reflected in those starry windows overwhelmed me, took my inhibitions, and threw them far, far away. Those were not the eyes of a human, of a mortal. Not with their sharp glints, soft edges, the magnificent colour, knowing glances. Older and wiser than any other eyes I’ve ever seen before. Kind but hardened by life. with the little lines at their corners, that stayed there as a testament to her laugh. But then, when she looked at me, when she mulled over my words and I saw her pupils retract, sag in helplessness and anticipation, to me those were the eyes of an immortal creature, burdened with ancient depth, the eyes of the magnificent daughter of Peneus. Sorrowful, forced to submit, yet unwilling. The eyes of a running Daphne. Then it clicked for me, and venom raised in furious fumes up my throat, bail-chased nausea spined me around, tightened my fists over her elbows, desperate to find a semblance of grounding, as the revelation, slipped the ground from beneath my feet. ‘Hey… you. Come, let’s get you home, how about that?’

One nod for her and I was already dragging her across the pavement, far, far away from the bar. I wanted to take her away, haul her to me and teleport to someplace safe. Salvage her from the dirt and gutter of the streets, from the gaze of people who might cross our way, from the words I, myself spoke. Her feet shuffled on the ground, disoriented and irregular. The shoe, I thought, the damned shoe. The limping leg, scratching the tumbling surface of pavement almost made my ears bleed.

‘I’m going to carry you now,’ I said, surprised at how deep my voice had come out.

Thankfully, she did not object to my statement, I don’t know what I would have done if she did. I took her into my arms, her legs hanging over one of my arms, head snug to my chest. Her arms snuck up and grabbed a hold of my shoulders, seemingly the straw that a drowning man is to clutch. I lunged forward then, my steps long, far apart, almost jumps. The streets passed me in a blur, the people, their wandering, bewildered stares. I did not care for them, for anything other than the slight flutter of her heart, beating slightly under my ribs, other than her warm body pressing into mine. She sobbed into my chest, and that gave me an edge, a mission to complete, a goal. Finally, I had something to do, some means to help. I had never walked as fast, stretched my legs as far apart, as I did when I devoured the steps of the stairwell of her apartment building, fort, sometimes five at a time. All the while I muttered to myself maybe more than to her, words of affirmation, calming phrases. And she was so small, holding onto me. God, so utterly small and shaky, I barely could feel her weight in my arms. I felt like sobbing myself. And my heels clacked along the pavement, and my breath bated, my heart clenched and aching, a steady drum of my steps, as I tore through the darkened bluish veil of night shine. She stayed cooped in my arms, small, sizzling out, yet still breathing. Her leg, the hurt one, marked with carnation-esque blemishes of copper blood, twitched over my bent elbow.

‘Hey, pretty thing, you hang in there, all right?’

I shook her body slightly in my grasp, just to make sure she heard what I said. Glancing down, I noticed that my breath had turned into a puff of grey mist, obscuring her silhouette a bit from me. But it didn’t matter, as long as I could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the small beat of her heart, so, so close to my own. She shrugged. The streets of Hampden appeared to be longer than I remembered. Stretched by a touch of an invisible hand. Darker, than I was used to. More cramped despite there being almost no sole in our field of vision. The unrelenting quiet of the eve, a sound box for my shaky tone. As I walked, the buildings before me appeared to be bending towards me, as if the same malicious hand pushed them with the force of gravity towards me, so that they could close over our heads, burry us in never ending piles of rubble. I would not complain if that was really the case. I would not mutter a word of defiance, only if she would speak to me, answer my question. But the silence between us stretched long and morbid, just like the distance I desperately tried to cover.

‘Are you okay?’

Her sad, big eyes gleamed at me through the canopy of our tangled breaths. Hers – short and shallow – mine – unsteady but deep.

‘No, Richard. I don’t think I am,’ she said, her voice snotty, clogged by the unrelenting stream of tears flooding her face. I had never heard her like that. The rasp, the croaking, all of that it seemed I could take. I could ignore it, or accept it even, purely because those screechy vowels, and high-pitched consonants, those sounds were hers. Formed a part of her, even if it was ugly, deterring. I still could see the beauty in them. Some sort of sardonic fascination, or grotesque appreciation for the abhorrent reality of her. But that mushed sob, she seemingly clawed out of her squeezed windpipes? That wasn’t her own, wasn’t of her making nor intention and so, as it wasn’t purely her, I could not bring myself to muffle the crump tearing my soul in two at the sound of it. I was sure, that if I only tried to respond in some kind of way, opened my mouth, the bone-chilling, banshee scream would fly out of it, scare her so utterly, that I would not be able to hold on to her squirming, scrambling form. And so, I stayed quiet, soaking the prolonged silence of stretched streets.

‘It’s opened,’ she murmured when we finally arrived at her door. By that time, she somehow managed to calm down, and now in her voice rung rather tiredness than the despair from before. ‘I left it open.’ Something in the way she said it, the numb undertone of resignation, when she announced it, chased shivers down my spine. I pushed; the door was indeed left open. Its hinges creaked slightly when they swung, revealing a whole other world to me. The ascetic landscape of her flat took me by surprise and made me stop in my tracks. Nothing, and I mean nothing was where it had been before. No plants, no coffee mugs or glasses, no ashtrays. The one-piece table had been pushed up to the window, while the couch with the glass coffee table stood, crocked and strangely in a line, in the middle of the space. Books, now stacked into neat piles had been gathered around the fireplace. Alarmingly – the Alexander the Great print was nowhere to be seen. Without it, the flat presented itself rather miserably. Like the Mona Lisa without her smile, or the Lady with an Ermine, with her companion scavenging for prey, somewhere outside the frame. I didn’t notice any plants either. Strange how a jungle-like kitchen turns to a complete replica of the Gobi Desert, in matter of mere days.

‘Where do you want me to…’

‘The couch. Please. Thank you.’

I let go of her, letting her body fall and submerge itself into the cushions of the meuble. As she laid back, the soft material of her dress slid over my arms, cold and silky, making me realise how hot, almost feverish, my skin had become. It was her, all her. Splayed in that mangled pose, her knees raised slightly up, hands thrown over the headrest, hair tangling everywhere, she looked most tragically. Most divine. Sudden hunger rumbled in my stomach, resonated along my spine and ribs, and I had to dip my head down, kneel before her in a mock attempt at loosening her shoelaces, in order to mask the scowl, it had produced on my face.

‘We should take off those shoes, you hear me. Matter of fact, we should burn them at once, or throw them into the river. See? How bloody your socks are? Completely soaked. No, you should never wear those again. Why didn’t you return them? They’re clearly too small for you.’

I tried to force every fibre of my body to bend into an apologetic, careful pose, one that would pose no threat to her. Not that I did, I just didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, as I fiddled with the leather at her feet. I tried to be as small, as servile as possible. I wanted her to remember that moment, to rely on it in times of fear. Or then, right in that flat, squatted around the couch, I wanted her to see me as I was, Richard Papen, the most reliable, safe presence in her life. Better than Henry, than Bunny, than Charles or Camilla, or anyone else. Anyway, it did not matter what I did or did not do. She remained unresponsive to my every query. Only when, halfway through unlacing her second shoe, I proposed that I could maybe make some tea for the both of us, seeing as we were drenched in brownish-snowish pulp, head to toe, and our noses, resembled more a ripe set of cranberries in colour than a normal part of a human body, she murmured something, rather unbefitting of a lady, and I decided to take that as a ‘no’.

‘Aye, those are real torture devices, I really can’t understand why you keep wearing them.’

Her legs were daft, almost waxy as I gently slid off the shoes from her feet. It seemed as if I was catering to a giant doll, unable to bend her knees, or change positions. Like finest crockery her skin glistened with a sheer sheet of sweaty glaze, moon-kissed and pale, even at her lowest she rendered such a powerful aura around her, I, the sane and most certainly more empowered out of us two, felt like game. Game to the real hunter – my own desire.

‘Have you ever heard Richard… there is this thing those cool, riotous dads tell their children when they get slightly injured and raise inadequate ruckus. Something like… well, if your finger hurts, then hit your head, then the finger will stop hurting.’

I laughed, dryly, rather focused on the copper smudges soaked into the white cotton of her socks, than her. I knew that if I looked up, faced her beaming, pleading eyes, I would not be able to control myself. I would unravel before her, cry or wail or fall to the ground to roll in my gloom and ineptness, and that was the last thing she needed.

‘I don’t quite know what you mean. If I ever cried, my dad just told me to shut up and soak it up.’

‘That’s tough love for ya,’ Over my scoffing I heard her snort as well, although she had to snarl right afterwards and prevent snot from overflowing her nostrils. ‘But no, the bang your head method actually makes some sense, to me at least. If something hurts, like finger, and it hurts real bad, then maybe hurting your head more will, well not alleviate the pain from the finger, but focus your attention on the splitting headache you get next. A bait and bleed, but for pain.’

‘So, does your finger hurt?’

Her hands moved. One grabbed at the scarf woven around her neck, the other lifted the hem of her skirt, slowly bunching it upwards, cumulating the small creases into her fingers, one after the other. Agile and skilled like a tiny spider gathering its web. As the folds of her clothes compressed further, diminished, as they slid slowly against her body, the more and more of waxy-pale skin I saw. What I saw, at least up there, on her neck, I somehow anticipated. Black and blueish marks forming a faint shape of a hand, big and spread across her larynx, imprinted with conviction and goal – to muffle any sound that it might’ve produced. But down there, where her skit got hiked up to her hip, I could never prepare myself for what I saw there.

‘Finger. Fingers. Thighs. Neck, calves, wrists, ribs, ears, eyes, chest, lungs, stomach.’

Her monotone voice filled my ears with an oceanic roar. Purple stains, red scratches and spotty chafing jigged and bounced a pagan dance across her skin, I saw them and in a sort of semi-empiric sort of way I felt them stomp on my thighs, hurt, and twist my nerves in a hellish grip, dastardly burning through right to my bones like and acrid pools of venom. I could only suspect how much she was suffering. The muscle above my knee twitched and spasmed painfully, bringing me back, polarising on the here and now, as her daft fingers weaved through the silky waves of her skirt. And the bruises I saw there. Burgeoning, at the precipice of her thighs, in a bedlam of rioting, furious reds, nauseous greens and mournful purples. Vulgar motley splayed all the way from her bony knees to, as far as my eyes could reach, the slight peaks of her quadriceps. Brutish handprints grabbing at her with a phantom, everlasting grip, swallowed every paled inch of her skin, and looking at them I felt how they burned on me.

‘Everything hurts, Richard. The shoes though… they’re more physical.’

Then she looked away, into the void above my head, and it seemed she found some familiar comfort in that unfocused blank state.

‘We’ve all got good many things that pain us, I just never thought I would prefer the horrid burn of flesh over my ethereal torments.’

‘Lean back, sweet thing, all right?’ It was hard for me to take the skirts out of her fingers, but I managed to do so, even with the trembling of my stems, I pulled the material in most gentle manor and yet it staggered on her knee and stayed there. She didn’t mind. ‘You need anything else?’

For a second, I saw a shadow of focus march across her face. And then the stare came, the terrifyingly polarising, pulverising gaze that crossed universes and souls, crush them, crush me, the game to the hunter of her eyes. Contagious, like a mood that passes into you, a sound that creeps on the border of your mind a tune you repeat, on and on and on, and with time you begin to dread and hate it, until it loops, and you cannot hear naught, but that single melody. Her will, so strange and strong, shined amongst that onslaught of power stirring in her pupils like the tolling of a bell.

‘The pills. The ones in the cupboard. Right there.’

I followed the path her finger drafted in the air right to the kitchen. Clean, empty, eerily not her. I reached into the cupboard, surprisingly containing no cups, just a messy pile of packets and bottles with different kinds of medicine. Some of them green, others pink or purple or blue. Safe to say the cupboard seemed to be containing all the colour drained from the apartment. In the corner of the shelf, I thought I saw a greyish piece of cloth or canvas, like the one stretched over the hearth with Alexander on it, but I did not let myself linger on that.

‘Which ones do you want?’

I observed the back of her head from where I stood. She wasn’t moving and if she hadn’t responded to my question, I’d thought that the second I walked away, she transcended into the plain of death by the sheer power of her hollow stare.

‘Duragesic.’

‘Forte?’

‘Ye, ye. And water, please.’

‘I can bring you some in my hands, otherwise, I don’t see how.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Then no water.’

She said that as if the marginal lack of any glasses or cups in her apartment was some cardinal truth, she just so happened to forget.

I brought the whole package to her, although I pondered a while if it would be safer to just squeeze a couple of the pills out and hand them to her like that. But I ultimately thought she wouldn’t like that. So, I just threw the silver leaflet her way, and like a starved animal she nearly tore her way to the pills through the plastic safety-packing. I watched in horror as she downed not one, not two and not three but four white, oval pills. And then she swallowed, without blinking an eye. She must’ve gathered some saliva in her mouth beforehand to help them go down, either way the bulge that painfully dragged down her throat went down uncomfortably slow, and I could see her face contorting at the unsavoury, bitter aftertaste. But then she moved, really moved, and smiled, like nothing I’ve seen her do on that day, or the weeks before. Her body loosened and lost a certain quality of strain as if some magical, invisible rope feel from it, releasing her consciousness into a more senile, easy state. Worry evaporated from me like dew on a hot, summer day, and I smiled back at her.

‘What now?’

‘Now, Richard dearest, I go to sleep. And you, you do what you want. Make it worthwhile. Be happy while you do it. Do not hurt.’

She started to shift clumsily on the sofa and so I came closer to lift her legs and help in making herself comfortable. Her head dragged along the pillows back and forth, heavily, filled with woolly haze of the medicine. Her eyelids fluttered in a drowsy rhythm, shoving away the waves of sleepiness as she stared at me and mouthed something, some kind of advice I could not read. I shuffled closer, bent my neck so that my ear could gather the soft nectar dripping from her lips.

‘Or take some pills, I’ve money for some more. And sleep. Sleep is the best solution for dwelling my dear. In sleep you don’t remember, you do not feel. It is just you and the dark void all around you.’

I jumped back at the slurring onslaught of her words, vicious and sad. In doing so I carelessly stepped on the tale of my coat and crumbled to the floor. Her laugh, deranged and dry followed me in my way down, resonated in my bones as I came into the contact with the cold, hard ground. Wind whistled in that cruel giggle as she quickly switched into a humming tune, mocking my fall. Any humour run away from me at the sound of that maddened croak, like liquids seeping out of a corpse. She was right, the physical pain of my backbone might’ve been grounding, comforting against the cruel tear I felt when she pointed at me and laughed.

‘Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme, ce beau matin d'été si doux: au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme sur un lit semé de Cailloux.’

Pointing an accusatory finger at me, as if I were the aforementioned carcass, she swayed to the rhythm of her words, wild smile stretching her face, pupils dilated and gleaming with a strange glow. Sweat came onto her forehead and her eyes bathed in a strange mist of pure delirium. I plucked my eyes away. It was like hand-picking them out of my skull.

‘Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique, come on, open your legs Richard, brûlante et suant les poisons, ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.’

A strange lullaby, and so it was, but so was she. And she chanted like that for a second more, mesmerising me, pulling with the gravity of her flawless French and taunting words down, down the spiral with her, until her wrist limped, her hand slowly lowered, and her eyelids closed. Her breath steadied, deepened and soon I realized she fell asleep mid-sentence. I watched for a while, took a hold of her hand, and counted the pumps of her blood. Then her neck, as I studied the slow ticks on her face. She dreamed, I gathered, instead of sleeping, like she intended, but at least in that state she was left alone. Terrified of leaving her like that, in her solitude, to awake in an empty, cold apartment I stayed there for a while. But my body twitched and squirmed into action. As her breath came in, poisonous rage flowed into me, burning every inactive cell. The dragon-slaying knight in shining armour awakened inside of me once again and without thinking, I stumbled onto my feet, took off my coat to put something around her, so she would freeze, and staggered out of the flat. My gait strayed uneven, but my steps gained in audacity and purpose with every meter devoured. With bitter taste of upcoming glory, I directed myself towards Henry’s layer.

My head was light, soaring miles away from Earth, breaking through the cotton barriers of clouds, shoving stars out of my way, dispersing galaxies, I was hot and cold at the same time, waves of burning strain crashed within my muscles with every stretch and cramp, and the wind cooled my body, now bared to it, rid of the safe layer of a coat. Greatest discomfort resonated all the way from my feet to my knees, as the soles of my shoes slipped every now and again against the wet cobblestone of the streets. Every cant of every stone, every empty space left by a stray foundation of the pavement filled me with utter desperation and an emotion so strong, so indescribable, I nearly threw up. Everything was too tight on my body, too damp and too cold. My hands suddenly appeared to bony and fragile as I balled them into fists at my sides to stop the antsy ticks that dripped over the joint of my fingers. At the back of my skull formed a sort of pressure familiar to some, especially those suffering from strong migraines. I experienced pain like that before, mainly due to alcohol overuse or exhaustion, never like that though. I had never feared for my precious eyeballs so much, never dreaded and anticipated the moment the pressure would become too much, and they’d pop right out of my eye sockets. My cheeks hollowed out, pulled to the inside of my mouth and I nibbled at the soft tissue to distract myself from the growing dizziness radiating straight from my corneas. Iron floated to my tongue, brought out bitter taste of anger even more. Ire and pain fumed in me like twin forces spurring each other on, keeping their flames burning.

I don’t remember much of my journey, how I got to where I had to be, how I managed to not crush into anyone or anything or any particular details of the spaces I run through, just the angry swelling of the darkened sky, as the clouds gathered to bring forth a snowstorm. I prayed, all the way there, that Henry would be home. And if not, I was wholly ready to roam across different apartments, even the campus to find him and shove my fist as far back his throat, so that he could see the stars that currently jumped around my field of vision. Seething, manifesting I arrived at his door, and I don’t know if thanks to my stupid luck, or the power of divine beings listening in on my pleadings, he was. In a matter of seconds, he answered to my brazen knocking, his dark head poked through a crack of an opened door, gold, short chain of a lock resting slightly against his curls. And maybe it was the sheer existence of the chain, maybe the austere face beneath it, but my tongue suddenly stuck to the roof of my mouth, dry and stiff as a log. I had so many things I wanted to say, to do, so many scenarios I planned in my mind, a myriad of quips, of angry yaps and barks, and yet in the face of a real challenge, when he measured me with his cold, distant gaze, I found I had nothing to say to him. I took a breath and stopped. My lungs swelled, pushed my chest out, he stared, not even bothering to unlock the door, as if I was just some peddler, bothering him. I shifted, trying to gaze into the apartment, he moved with me, squaring his shoulders, and obscuring my view completely. Either way I would be able to see anything like that, the light inside was turned off.

‘Richard,’ he said finally, his voice empty and flat. ‘What brings you here?’

I wasn’t able to speak yet, not even force myself to breathe properly. So, through some strange, dreamy influence, I raised my hands to the sides of my head and wagged my fingers back and forth, like when little kids do, if they want to imitate a bunny, which gathered no reaction from him, so I lowered my make-believe ears and wrapped them around my throat. And when his brows soared across his forehead, clearly not understanding what I was trying to communicate, I started to toss my head around, squirm and convulse. Muffled gurgles escaped my throat as my fingers tightened and tightened, squeezing my larynx in a grip I would never suspect myself of being able to pull. This must’ve come as quite a shock to him, to see me choke myself right at his doorstep.

‘What the- Richard, Jesus Christ! What are you doing?’

In one swift motion he tore the chain out of its place and swinging the door open, pulled me in by the collar. The move was so unexpected and at once so strong that I staggered forward, struggling to find any footing and by the end of my tumble I swung in the grasp of his extended hand – the only thing that saved me from smashing my face against the floor. My shirt creaked and I think popped unexpectedly at the seam, right over my left scapula. I whined, baffled, loud enough for the two men sitting inside to turn towards me.

The room I found, or rather forced, myself into was dark. Not dark like the night, that snuck up on me, quiet like a thief, right outside the building. No, rather dark like lack of any light. The curtains were drawn and only the luminescent outer line of windows. The rest of the room got drowned out in a blue-black cold of darkness. The air inside was stuffy and reeked of alcohol mixed with sweaty fumes of tobacco, likely suspended in the small space of what I could only assume was a saloon, for long hours. To the sides, against the walls and between various shapes, most probably pieces of furniture, poked some strange, sharp, and fuzzy or delicate and swaying objects. Plants, I thought to myself as I saw that some of them stood proudly on lean wooden stems, and other chose to bend down and slither right into the murky embrace of dark sliding across the floor. Heavy mist of conspiracy wrapped itself around the whole space, tucked itself into every nook and cranny. What struck me the most about the apartment though, was the utterly perfect silence scattered across it, disturbed only periodically by the cars passing slowly by, down, down, down below. Against the backdrop of obscured rectangles of windows two man sat, lit from behind, their sharp features presented themselves disturbingly alien. Their hair, accumulated around their heads into thick manes of dark matter, lighter only at the ends, when the moon could tear through the sheerest layers and colour them in coronae of copper and gold. Long faces starved and caved in at the edges, bone-showing, dead-eyed, terrifying sculptures tasked me with unison judgment. The smaller, gilded boy nursed a glass against his abdomen, the other, red judge held up a smoking pipe. God, how I wished to be drunk in that moment.

‘Oh, Richard, fancy seeing you here.’

‘Do you really, Francis?’

Once Henry released me, I stumbled a bit forward then regained my balance. Somehow, I discovered it was much easier to regain my previous rebellious disposition when I didn’t have to face him. It was easier to be a dick towards Francis, than Henry. To spit all the venom the bile accumulated throughout the day, days, weeks. It was easier to speak the truth when the person I feared most telling it to wasn’t facing me. The boys in the chairs shuffled uncomfortably, Charles swirled the drink in his glass a couple of times. Dark liquid swirled into a small tornado and then fell back into its given shape. I bit the inside of my cheek.

‘Are you alone? Is it just the three of you?’

An uneven drag sounded somewhere behind me, most likely announcing that Henry chose to change positions or chose his sitting anew.

‘What’s it to you?’ He asked. ‘You come over unannounced, barge in, you don’t even answer our questions, and now you expect us to answer yours?’

Something in his voice, maybe the cold distance or the chilling indifference towards my exemplary rudeness, unnerved me. As if he wasn’t even bothered nor interested by it all, cut off completely from me, from the world, from its actions. Maybe it was his resignation that rendered him so inhuman, stirred him to ask and answer and act like a robot, inquiring on auto pilot, that took me to the hights of my ire.

‘I met her, I was at her apartment, she’s got the bruises still, she’s a mess. I’m here because you’re here. Sitting. Doing nothing, and she withers. I’m here because you don’t even know that, because you don’t even bother to check. So now, are you alone?’

A quick glance exchanged by the boys in the chairs told me they knew. Three steps and I was by them, starring daggers into the beautiful, alien aureoles of their heads. My hands gripped the headrests above them, ruffled them into my fists, successfully closing in on them, creating a circle of my arms so that they could not escape me.

‘She does not have water at her apartment, no lants, no books, nothing. It does not even look like her apartment no more. She lives there alone, sleeps on the couch, leaves the door open, and you won’t even talk to her, you talk to Bunny, miserable traitors.’

‘What traitors, Richard? We’re all friends here, she just focuses on her studies more right now, come on, why so angry?’

‘Oh, don’t give me that shit Francis. There is something terribly wrong going on inside of her, she faced and managed to get away from a terrible fate, we didn’t act in time and now you act like nothing happened?! You cut her off when she needed you, you let her disappear, you-‘

I spun on my heel, not carrying about the yaps of the boys raising from their chairs grabbing at me, when I already stepped away, decided on my new direction. I pointed an accusatory finger into the dark, where a lean dark shadow stood perched, no sign of shame seeded in its body. ‘You let her go you allowed to go away, you changed your school desks, you bastrad. You might as well be the reason for her being like this right now!’

Something hard and overwhelmingly heavy hit my back, settled between my shoulder blades. A sweet smell, floral and light hit my nostrils as I felt a sharp cheek bone digging into my jaw, bony hands sliding across it, trying to grip and close my mouth.

‘Stop screaming, stop fucking screaming, Richard, stop it, now I tell you!’

High-pitched squeals of Charles filled my ears as I dug my elbow into his ribs and shrugged his weight off my shoulders in an unbelievable fit of athletic prowess. Somewhere, in the corners of my eye I noticed that he stumbled a few steps back and knocked into Francis, who apparently was hot on my heels. I took the opportunity and lunged forward, tearing my throat out.

‘You shut up, you shut up, just shut up, and do something! You abandoned her, you-‘

I didn’t not expect the clash. Nor did I expect the arms, the bronze snarls, that wrapped around me, my nape, my head, auspiciously muffling my screams, tugging me into the grey mass that was my opponent. The tumble was unfair, predestined from the second I took my first step, I knew it, when Henry’s surprisingly hot breath fanned my ear. Funny, at this point I thought he would cough and wheezing with icy stilettos, instead he huffed pure fire. Matter of fact, his whole body fumed with ghastly feverish heat waves, unbalancing the air around us. I felt something rumbling in his chest, like a thunder, and then as his fingers comped through the locks at the back of my head and pulled it backwards, painfully far, strikingly ungentle, I saw his face clearly, for what I could gather, first time in weeks.

All fell silent when I met his gaze and the room, the boys, their animalistic pants, the plant, it all disappeared, and all that existed, all that lived, and breathed died and focused inside of those black, soulless shark eyes.

Scrupulously austere, locked into a heavy mask was his physiognomy. And yet, up close I could see the cracks. Harsh and deep in how his brows furrowed, how his lips turned down their corners, how a vein popped regularly on his forehead. His glasses cast no reflection, no shadows over his dark eyes as they filled with such torment, such ache I don’t think I would be ever able to gaze into them if he wasn’t holding me still, craning over me like a gargoyle swinging off a cathedral’s roof, judging the sinners, scaring off the unfaithful. In that bend he looked starved, famished and lonely for something. I though, in a brilliant second of sobriety, that, as I had noticed before, those eyes were a mirror image of hers. He too, surprisingly enough, had not took the severance too well. Maybe the half that she lost, and he so desperately searched for in my face, the filling they both lacked and without which they could not live, was one and the same.

I did not expect to see through his heart’s frosty discipline so easily, so abruptly and so it was not the grip truly, that had settled me into stillness, but that beggar’s stare. For a split moment we stood in silence, locked in a hug so uncomfortable, on both physical and metaphysical plane, I cringed. From the depths of me surged disgust, slimy and languid, and as his eyes flew over my form, I felt it crawling up my throat. Pathetic, I thought, he was pathetic gripping me like that, lazy for expecting me to hand him a dagger of words that could disembowel him. And yet between the irregular crack of his face, amongst the frosty spikes of hoar and rime I saw a soft spark of something strong, still not forged into completion, but nursed and thought over countless times. It was not ire, not anger, not pain. Calculated and mixed into a brew stronger than any combination of those emotions, he, probably yet not aware of the fact, has flung himself into a spiral of vicious madness, unrecognisable to those, who had not experienced misery. So, I spoke, handed him the tanto.

‘Where is your honour, Henry? What are you doing, pushing her away? Do you want to punish her, instead of him?’

With that, his guts spilled, the truth gushed out of his mouth. And his eyes, like the shark’s buttony orbs dilated at the smell of his own blood.

‘I’m not punishing her. I’m protecting her, keeping away from the just punishment I plan to deal.’

His voice sounded husky, gravely in my ear as he seeped venom into it. It burned, the temperature, the words, the slight tremble of his vocal cords as it all splashed against the shell and soaked into the eardrum.

‘I’m going to kill Bunny for what he had done to her, to us, to others, and she’ll have nothing to with this. With me.’

Stunned, I mulled over his words, I let the marinate inside my brain and I nibbled on every syllable like a capricious critic. I took them in, broke the pallet of tastes, analysed. Finally, after swallowing the context, after understanding the bitter flavour he has served me, slowly, I nodded.

‘But I will,’ not a question, a statement. ‘They will as well.’

Two shadows hummed in unison behind me, giving me an almost silent confirmation of what I’ve already figured out. A Cheshire, lucid grin cracked opened on Henry’s lips, as he too let out a pleased sound. His teeth, straight and white gleamed in the dark, two rows of beastly weapons.

‘I don’t think you have a choice, Richard, now you join us, or you join Bunny.’

Fear and trepidation scurried cross me as I realised, I had walked right into a murder council. Worse, elation washed over me with the realisation that the head of the jury, the demented predator, currently holding me in his grip, had no mercy to give to the swine I most desired to see dead.

[urfavoritedcwhore]

Idea for Henry Marchbanks Winter fanfic: He gets extremely jealous. Maybe even a break up? And getting back together … could be wrote in multiple parts!

love this idea

break//henry winter x reader fanfic

a prelude to my “phone sex” fanfic.

warnings: swearing, drinking, slight mention of being sick.

not proof read//reminder that english isn’t my first language, sorry if i mess up<33

lowercase intended

i wrote this at 4am so please bare with me.

henry is almost always jealous. Whether, I am helping Charles cook or helping Bunny with his literature assignments, just little harmless things really. He always has a “stern talk” with me about it afterwards, in which i explain myself and everything goes back to normal. it’s almost comedic how often it happens. let’s talk about what’s happening right now. i’m half drunk, holding henry’s arm as he and bunny bicker drunkenly over….well actually im not sure. all i’ve been doing is giggling and watching henry’s reactions to bunny’s words. we’re all at charles’s and camilla’s apartment as of right now. dinner went well but perusal, everyone has had too much to drink. i think camilla and charles are in the kitchen, i can hear francis and richard behind me on the couch, and of course bunny stands in front of henry and i. i’m watching them and giggling when i feel a hand on my shoulder. i turn around with a chuckle as i half expecting it to be camila coming to watch the quarrel with me. instead i turn to see a drunk richard stumbling on one foot down to the other. he’s smiling boyishly at me, “come dance with me.”, he says nodding to the open space in the living room. faintly from the record player i can hear Valerie Delaney’s, “Six Gnossiennes: Gnossienne No. 1”. i twist my mouth to the side before looking up at henry, who’s still bickering with bunny. i shrug and release my grip on henry’s arm as i turn back to richard, “why not.”, i say before stumbling to the open floor space in the living room. i giggle softly, (something i’m very prone to doing after having a few scotches), and stumble as i look at him. “what kind of dance are you suggesting?”, i ask. he stumbles back a bit and grabs my hands, interlocking his fingers with mine and shrugging as he gives me a drunken smile. he pulls me close as he moves our hands to the sides of us, allowing our bodies to press against eachother. we both stumble for a moment and laugh before we eventually find the rhythm and sway to the music. now listen and understand me, i am in no way attracted to richard papen; hell, i’m pretty sure he’s gay. so in my mind dancing with him, is not different then if i were to dance with francis or even camilla. it’s friendly. when his fingers disconnect from mine and his hands find there way to my hips i simply drape my arms around his neck and continue swaying to the music. not even a full minute later a sharp voice calls out from behind me, “that’s enough y/n. let’s go now.”. i look over my shoulder and see henry standing in the same spot he’s been standing, but now facing richard and me. i’ve always found it a bit eerie how fast he can sober up when it’s time to leave. i chuckle and disconnect my arms from around richard’s shoulders as his hands fall from my hips to his sides. i walk, correction, i stumble towards henry and call over my shoulder back to richard, “that was fun old man, let’s do it again sometime!”. fuck, i need to stop being around bunny so much. i’m beginning to adopt his vocabulary. when i approach henry’s side he drapes his arm around my waist tightly and turns us around. he walks, practically pulling me with him. as we get to the door he calls out his goodbyes and drags me out into the hall before anyone can even reply. i chuckle drunkenly as he walks us down the hall. his grip on my waist doesn’t wavier at all. he keeps his eyes forward as we walk and mutters something to himself. i look up at him, “huh?”, i ask as he continues to pull me along while i stumble. he keeps his eyes forward and his tone steady as he repeats himself, “i said, ‘there are two reasons for evil deeds, one is illness, the other is wickedness.’”. as we get on the elevator my face scrunches slightly as i think. i finally shift my eyes back up to his face as the elevator door closes, “Dante’s inferno. Canto 11, Dante discusses the nature of sin and the motivations behind evil deeds.”, i state realizing what he’s quoting. he keeps his eyes pointed towards the closed elevator doors and nods once.

when the elevator doors open my drunken mind is still confused, “why are you quoting Dante to me?”, i ask as he drags me out the building’s doors and into by the parking lot. he doesn’t answer. instead he continues to walk to his car, not even bothering to open my door for me when we get to it. i narrow my eyebrows before opening my own door and joining him in the car. as i sit and close the door his head snaps to me, his tone is calm but his eyes suggest he’s upset with me. “so which are you y/n? are you ill or simply wicked.”, he asks like he’s asking me the simplest question in the world. i sober up slightly from his words, my body almost flinching from the harshness of them, “excuse me?”, i ask baffled. he looks forward as he starts the car and backs it out of the parking space. he responds as we pull out of the parking lot, his eyes still on the road and his tone still calm, but his fists are clenching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles have gone white; “i’m asking did you dance with richard and embarrass me because there’s something mentally wrong with you, or did you do it just to be wicked?”. my eyes widen as i look at him bewildered, “are you joking?”, i ask greatly offended. he only scoffs and continues to drive. i reply back angrily with my head still turned towards him, “he’s homosexual henry, good God.”, i say shaking my head. “so there is something mentally wrong with you then. you don’t see the way he looks at you all the time? y/n he practically salivates over you.”, he says with the slightest bit of either annoyance or anger in his voice. i furrow my eyebrows and shake my head in disbelief. i turn my head and look back out the windshield. we’re driving towards campus? why are we going to henry’s apartment? i turn my head back to look at him, “why are you driving to campus?”, i ask genuinely confused. his eyes stay focused on the road.

“i’m talking you to your dorm.”, he answers as if it’s obvious. my heart sinks, “why, why aren’t we going to your apartment?”, i ask with my anger wavering and a small feeling of dread in my stomach. to my surprise he sighs. he doesn’t answer until we pull into my dormitory buildings parking lot, “i need to not be around you right now y/n”, he says as he finally looks at me. he’s eyes are hard to read, but i see a flicker of something. anger? disgust? resentment? hurt? “i don’t want to go to my dorm…i want to go back to your apartment with you.”, i say in almost a whisper as my eyes meet him. he closes his eyes and rubs his temples, “i think it best if we spend some time apart. i cannot continue to be constantly worried about you going off with another man.”, he says in a sigh. immediately i feel my cheeks burn red and my eyes grow with tears, “what do you mean by ‘time apart’?”, i say back trying to keep my voice steady. “are you breaking up with me?”, i add on but this time not able to conceal the shakiness in my voice. he opens his eye quickly, “if that’s what you need me to call it than i suppose. though i would rather just call it a break for right now.”, he says in a calculated tone. my eyebrows furrow as i try to process his words. i feel a lump forming in my throat. don’t let him see you cry, don’t let him see you cry. i nod once, quickly wiping a small tear off my cheek that escaped my eye. “fine. if that’s what you want.”, i say trying my best to sound indifferent. he looks back to the front, “it is.”, he says matter-of-factly. i allow myself a momentary pained expression while his eyes aren’t on me, but i quickly wipe it away as i unbuckle my seatbelt. “fine then.”, is all i say before opening the car door, getting out, and slamming it shut. i don’t allow myself to look back at the car once im out, i simply walk forward towards my dorm building. i don’t even realize im full on sobbing until i get into my dorm room and look in my mirror. fuck fuck fuck fuck. i pace around for a moment before i feel utterly sick. does he truly think i would betray him? does he truly think i could ever love someone else? i throw myself on my bed, but i know, i wont be sleeping tonight.

A/N: thank you for the request! if you all want i can write a fic about how the week during the break<33

[melancholyfool]

Aching Love

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: In an all-consuming love, Henry and you are trapped in a cycle of yearning and obsession, knowing you're bad for each other but unable to break free, while the rest of your friends watch helplessly as your bond deepens into something both devastating and inevitable.

a/n: i believe that if henry were to love, it would be tragically beautiful, he would be obsessed and consumed and see absolutely nothing wrong with it

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

The first time Francis says it, it’s almost a joke.

"You two are like a car crash I can’t look away from."

It’s late, too late, and you and Henry are tucked into a corner of his dimly lit apartment, whiskey glasses resting half-empty between you. His fingers are curled loosely around his cigarette, the smoke curling in the air between you, and your hand is on his knee, idly tracing the fabric of his trousers. It’s not even a conscious touch—it’s a habit, like the way you breathe, like the way you watch him when he isn’t looking.

Francis is drunk enough that his words are slurred, but not so drunk that he doesn’t mean them. His gaze flickers between the two of you, then he shakes his head and exhales a sigh, amused and exasperated all at once.

"You do know you’re going to destroy each other, right?"

You should deny it. Maybe once, a long time ago, you would have. But now, you just glance at Henry, and his eyes meet yours, and something unspoken tightens between you like a noose.

"Probably," Henry says, taking a slow sip of his drink.

Neither of you seem particularly concerned about it.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐏𝐮𝐥𝐥

It starts as a mistake.

Or maybe, it starts long before that.

A glance too long, a touch that lingers, the way you always seem to find yourselves alone together, even when you weren’t supposed to be.

The first time Henry kisses you, it’s not gentle.

It’s months after Bunny’s death, the weight of everything pressing into your ribs like something you cannot remove. You’re standing outside the house, the night thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, and your hands are shaking from something you can’t name.

"You’re unraveling," Henry says, voice low, but not unkind.

"So are you," you murmur.

There’s a beat. A hesitation.

Then—

His fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your chin up just slightly, and suddenly you are too close, too much, too desperate.

It isn’t sweet.

It’s ruinous.

It’s the kind of kiss that steals the air from your lungs, that presses into the hollow places of you, that makes you realize, suddenly and terribly, that there is no going back from this. His hands are cold, his fingers threading through your hair, his grip tight, like if he lets go, you’ll slip through his fingers.

The thought of stopping never crosses your mind.

The thought of ever stopping doesn’t even exist.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝐏𝐮𝐬𝐡

You fight like you love. Violently. Desperately.

"You left with him," Henry says one night, voice edged with something darker.

You roll your eyes, tossing your coat over the back of a chair. "So what?"

Henry is across the room, standing near the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle. His grip is so tight his knuckles have gone white. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

"You know why."

"Do I?"

The moment stretches, taut and thin. Then—

Henry crosses the room in three measured steps. His hand lands on the back of the chair, bracketing you in place before you can move away.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmurs, voice low.

"Like what?"

"Making me say it."

Your heartbeat slams against your ribs. His breath is warm against your cheek, his presence swallowing all the air in the room.

"Say it, then."

For a long, stretched-out moment, he doesn’t. Then—

"I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else."

The words settle between you like something tangible, something sharp enough to cut.

You don’t move.

"Neither can I," you admit.

The words taste like surrender.

And when Henry kisses you, slow and punishing, it doesn’t feel like forgiveness. It feels like destruction.

And you welcome it.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫

The others start to notice before you do.

One night, Camilla drapes herself across the couch, watching you and Henry like animals in a cage. "You two are going to drive each other insane," she says, her voice a little too casual.

Francis snorts, flicking ash from his cigarette. "I’d say that ship has sailed."

Charles frowns, shifting uncomfortably. "It’s not normal."

Camilla sips her wine, eyes narrowing slightly. "It’s like they think they’ll die if they’re apart."

Richard doesn’t say anything, but his silence is weighted.

You ignore them. Henry does too.

But later that night, when the party has died down and the world has quieted, you find yourself sitting on the floor of Henry’s apartment, knees drawn to your chest. The weight of it all presses into you, settling heavy in your chest.

"Are we really that bad?" you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

Henry is leaning against the wall, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He’s studying you like a problem he can’t solve.

"Does it matter?" he asks, his voice quiet, detached.

You don’t answer.

Later, when he pulls you close, when your hands tangle in his shirt and his breath is warm against your temple, the truth is painfully clear—you almost laugh. Of course it doesn’t matter.

The next day, the others start to notice again.

Richard, watching you more closely than usual, frowns. "You’re different," he says, his voice laced with something that sounds almost like concern. "You never used to—"

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

"It’s like you’re not real unless he’s in the room," he adds, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

You don’t answer. Because he’s right.

Camilla is the first to try to talk to Henry. She cornered him the next morning, arms crossed and gaze sharp. "You know this isn’t healthy," she says, her voice more serious than usual.

Henry doesn’t even blink. He flicks the ashes from his cigarette and exhales slowly. "I don’t care."

She studies him for a long moment, then exhales sharply, frustration lining her features. "Do you love her?"

Henry looks at her like she has asked him the most foolish question in the world, as if he could never answer it in any way other than the truth.

"What else would you call this?"

Camilla doesn’t answer.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫: 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞

You try to leave. Once.

It lasts four days.

Four days of silence.

Four days of feeling like you are choking on the absence of something vital.

Then—

A knock at your door.

And Henry is there.

His tie is loose, his hair unkempt, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—

"I can’t," he says.

And you know exactly what he means.

Because neither can you.

And suddenly, none of it matters—not the warnings, not the whispered conversations, not the worry in their eyes.

Nothing matters except this.

You step aside.

He walks in.

And the door closes behind him.

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

One night, after everything has unraveled, you ask Henry if he ever regrets it.

"Regret what?" he asks, watching you through the candlelight.

"This," you say. "Us."

He studies you for a long moment. Then, voice steady—

"I’d rather burn with you than fade without you."

You don’t answer.

Because you already know it’s true.

Because obsession is not love.

But love was never what you wanted.

And when Henry kisses you, slow and devastating, it feels like the end of the world.

And neither of you care.

Because if it is—

Then at least, you’re ending together.

[sourcherrylove]

Overwhelmed while applying for grad programs, I wrote fic for The Secret History.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62085385

Please, enjoy!

[sweetestgirlintown111]

henry winter x fem reader

Chapter iii

A/N: some reader x charles in this one

I wake up to my head throbbing, I sit up and I'm overtaken by the urge to throw up, so I run to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, in my nightgown barefoot my hair hanging around my face, in the bathroom I lean over the nearest stool emptying my stomach. a hand grabs my hair from behind, patting me on the back as tears cover my face, I fucking hate throwing up. when my stomach is emptied I turned around and it was Judy Poovey, her dorm was a couple of rooms up from mine, a very sweet wild californian, she clearly was in the midst of applying her makeup before I barged in, one of her eyes was done and the other blank.

“hangover?” she asks hip popped her hand leaning on the other as I'm leaning over the sink washing my face, I give her nod wincing as my head throbs again from the movement, “don't tell me you're gonna go to class like this” she looks me over

“ha imagine, I don't have classes today so no”

“good because you look like shit no offense”

I laugh at her bluntness, “long night, and one too many drinks y’know”

“yeah I know the feeling” she goes back to doing her make up and looks at my reflection in the mirror “there this party at a guys house off campus basically everyone's gonna be there you should come”

“uhh i have some translations to do for greek so i probably won't be there”

“well if you change your mind it's up the street from rick's diner”

The library was quiet and not very busy, most people having classes in the afternoon, i sit by a big window, books littering the table and start with my translation, it goes fairly quick since well I've known greek for so long it's like second nature, latin however I've never had much interest for which is a shame since the greater part of what i needed to get done was the latin translations.

Hours pass and im not nearly done, i leave my work and go outside for a smoke, the cold breeze of what now became night slaps me in the face, my cheeks turning red, i finish a cigarette and then one more before going back inside, as i round the corner i can make out a tall figure towering over the table hand carelessly flipping through the pages, getting closer it appears to be Henry, i curse under my breath and i wonder what cruel good keeps crossing our path, i get to my chair and sit down not even looking at him.

“From the way you act in class one would think you wouldn't make this much mistakes” skimming through my latin

of course i know about the mistakes that's why it was ripped out and thrown to the side, “that is a rough draft obviously”

“if you need a draft then you aren't good”

“so you don't use a draft Henry good for you, should we throw a party?”

he looks at me clearly happy with himself “That wouldn't be necessary, i can for a fact translate it with my eyes closed”

i turn back to my books, collecting my stuff “maybe but you also stalk your classmate in hopes to make yourself feel a bit better about how pathetic and lonely you are, and that's not a trade im willing to make”

“I'm not stalking you”

“really? then what are you doing here henry?”

he hisetates for a second “I'm here to get a book”

“what book” i look at him challenging

“none of your business” he thinks this is amusing,

“well go get your book Henry” i push the chair back grabbing my stuff and leaving,

he walks after me “wait where are you going? Aren't you going to finish the translation, are you giving up?”,

i have to hold back with every fiber if my being to not slap the smirk off of his face, i keep walking not looking at him “none of your business winter”. I know exactly where im going, I'm not going to let him ruin my night.

Staring at my closet it's painfully obvious that i don't really go to parties, trying on different combinations of outfits nothing works out and i realize that maybe i have the style of an old librarian, so i walk up the hallway to Judy’s room, praying to every god that she's still there, and by some miracle she is,

“hey what's up” she looks like she was about to leave surprised to see me,

“erm i wanted to go to that party you told me about, but i kind of don't have anything to wear so i was um wondering if you can lend me a dress or something?”

“oh sure come in I'll put a little more make up on you as well, wait here i have the perfect dress for you”

she digs through the endless clothes she has, and the ‘perfect dress’ she's referring to is a very short dress that looks like something from the sixties, velvet,long sleeves brown in color, pretty but definitely going to make me freeze, i wear it anyway changing in Judy's room while she digs through her makeup looking for glitter, i let her do what she pleases and when she's done we head out of the door, stopping on the way at the cafeteria per my request, we get there and Henry is there with Camilla aswell, i pretend not to see him and pray he doesn't see me, suddenly too aware of my exposed legs and ridiculous makeup, but of course they see me but they don't approach us probably due to a fight they had with judy and one of her friends at a party that she told me all about. What he does do though is give me a deadly stare his jaw clenched and eyes set.

The party was very loud as i had expected, i clung to judy drinking and then going down to dance with a friend of hers, she was an art major, we danced together for good chunk of time bodies swaying and clinging together, hands brushing up and down, many dancing partners change through the night, whenever my legs start throbbing i go for another drink,

at one point i go for a drink and bump into someones chest going back, i look up and it's charles, blond hair hanging around him like a halo, obviously drunk, he grins looking at me “what are you doing here? Don't you like live in book solitude?”

“ Well trying to change that”

“yea?” we just look at one another for a moment, and i suppose that if I wasn't as drunk as i was i would have asked about his sister or if any of the others was here,

“come dance with me” i scream over the music placing a hand on his chest. And so we dance, our bodies swaying and grinding against each other his hands traveling far too low, and our faces way too close, and maybe it's the frustration of the past month or the just the alcohol, but by the end of the song were making out in the middle of the bodies of other partyers, it lasts for a while that way, but then I'm against a wall, and his hands are squeezing me, and our voices get louder and then we're in the back of a cab going to my dorm, and finally we're in bed collapsed, sweaty, tired and drunk and we're lulled to sleep before i can regret it.

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

i LOVED your fic for camilla! she is my bbg!!! can you do a purely fluff fic for her? i dunno maybe they’ve both had a really long day of studying and just cuddle!! thank you! :)

Thank you for the request, and I must agree, Camilla is really bbg:)

Warmth

Today was an awful long day.

The night before wasn’t better either, there was a storm all night and my dear Y/N was unable to sleep, and I couldn’t either. So waking up in a mood gave the whole feeling to our day. We topped it with our lectures, some library time with a load of schoolwork that Julian put on us and we went shopping for groceries, given the fact that our fridge was nearly empty. At least we could get quite some chocolate and sweets for ourselves.

Just when we thought we could relax, the owner of the building stopped by, thankfully only for a short amount of time to renew our contract. When he left, both of us just stripped down to our underwear. It was comical when both of us let out a relieved sigh the second we unclasped our bras.

We laid down into our king sized bed and snuggled up. Her skin was warm and soft against mine, and her breathing lulled me to sleep. Sleeping with Y/N was heaven on earth, she would always wait for me to fall asleep so she could caress me into sleep. She stroked my hair, traced her pinky finger on the bridge of my nose gently. Her motherly touch and nature was everything.

I made sure to return the comforting favour of hers. I left soft kisses on her naked skin, letting my lips linger. I also made sure to throw her leg over my waist, the weight of her thigh was comforting and I knew that it was the position that was most comfortable for her.

I woke up to a sweet scent lingering in the air and Y/N nowhere to be seen, minutes later she came in with a tray in her hand. It had tea on it and some strawberry cupcakes that she made.

“I wanted to surprise you, you were absolutely passed out, I checked on you multiple times and you slept like a bear” she giggled along with me as she fed me her masterpiece of a cupcake.

“These are amazing, as always. How lucky I am to have a girl as talented as you all to myself, eh?” I kissed her blushing cheeks.

“I am the lucky one, Milly.”

We stayed like that until the moon came up, when it did, we feel into another slumber. Tangled into eachother.

[what-if-queen-camilla]

Like grandfather, like grandson - Chapter 1

First of all, I'd like to wish a very happy new year to you all! New year, new story - don't worry about Thea, we'll keep on following her journey as well, but somehow, after re-watching The Crown last week, I was inspired to something else - and I'm curious for your opinions!

What if… King George VI had not died of cancer in 1952, Princess Elizabeth had not ascended the throne only aged 25, and young Prince Charles of Edinburgh had grown up having his grandfather guiding him through the ways of the world…?

Chapter 1

23rd November, 1972

“Hello, my darling boy!”, his elderly grandfather greeted Charles affectionately as the two of them met, as they've always done ever since the young Prince could remember, on this rainy Thursday at 11.30 am at Buckingham Palace. “Hello grandpa!”, Charles replied, kissing both of his grandfather's cheeks before bowing down to him. “How are you doing? How's your cough?” As if on command, the elderly King was stricken by another, rather rough cough attack which immediately caused his caring grandson to rush to his side and help him getting seated in one of the red chairs on the dining table. “Not too bad, not too bad…”, the King tried to play down his health issues as per usual; he didn't want to raise anyone's concerns and thought he was lucky enough to have recovered from the wretched cancer all of those years ago at all. Though he'd never really got back into his old shape, he was still around and felt very humble and grateful for that. Every year - every day actually - he could spend with his family, his beloved wife and daughters and of course his darling grandson Charles, who was all his pride and joy, was a gift to him, a gift he wanted to enjoy to the full, for himself and his loved ones. He didn't want them to worry about him, he was far more interested in hearing everything his loved ones were up to, and especially the lad of course. “Mama has asked me to forward her and Papa’s very best wishes to you!”, Charles began, as per usual, with a little update on his parents. “Thank you!”, Bertie replied. “Where are they off to again this month…?” Travelling had become so different compared to when he and Elizabeth undertook their first joint overseas visits back in the 1930s, before the war, over the last couple of years, and the young people seemed to do everything at once, the whole Commonwealth within 10 days it seemed, and he had long lost count of the places his eldest daughter and son-in-law were visiting. He was just grateful for their sense of duty and dedication and for their popularity across all realms. “Tuvalu, grandpa.”, Charles explained giggling. “Oh, right.”, The King responded. “Is that where they worship your father as a God?”, he chuckled and Charles shook his head in amusement. “No, grandpa, that would be Vanuatu.” “Oh…”, Bertie said, just as a servant entered the room and brought them drinks.

“Anyway, tell me all of your news, my darling boy!”, the King asked after they had both been served a good glass of wine. “I'll be off to the Navy two weeks from now.”, Charles declared proudly, and his grandfather's eyes lit up immediately. Having served in the Navy himself, of course, he was beyond happy to see the son he never had following his footsteps. But somehow, he felt, there was something on the young Prince’s mind that seemed to dampen his joy. “What’s the matter, my dear?”, the sensitive King asked and gave Charles an especially reassuring and understanding glance. Charles blushed and lowered his eyes, well aware that his grandfather knew him better than anyone else and had, of course, noticed his insecurities at once. “Could it be about a certain girl…?”, Bertie asked carefully, smiling at Charles encouragingly. “Well…”, the Prince stuttered awkwardly, much to his grandfather’s amusement. “Maybe… Um, grandpa, listen, I… I wanted to ask you something…” His grandson’s unusually serious inflexion almost caused the elderly monarch to worry but the twinkle in Charles’ eyes let him know that whatever he was up to right now, it had to be something wonderful. “I… um, you might remember… Camilla Shand…”, he finally stuttered and Bertie frowned his forehead. “Shand? You mean, um… the daughter of… Baron Ashcombe?” “Granddaughter.”, Charles gently corrected him. “Oh, yes, right.” The King cleared his throat. He and Elizabeth used to meet with the young Baron back when he was the heir, and his former wife at some glamorous dinner parties hosted by Mrs Greville back in the golden twenties - back when they were still Duke and Duchess of York and though Sonia and Roland sadly divorced shortly after the war, especially Elizabeth had always stayed close with Sonia as well as her daughter Rosalind who, much to her parents’ regret had married way below her station and became Mrs Shand in 1946. Bertie himself had actually admired her for having chosen love above titles and wealth and he quite liked the lad. Bruce, if he recalled correctly, who maybe couldn’t offer what was considered an aristocratic background, had strongly and bravely defended their country during the awful war and even got imprisoned by the Germans…

Times had changed and if Bertie had learnt one thing from his almost 35 years on the throne, it was that love was stronger than convention. So the Shands, along with many other families, had been frequent guests at several fun Balmoral weekends ever since and Bertie remembered Charles and Anne playing with their two little daughters and son who’s name he sadly couldn’t recall for the moment… “Camilla…”, Charles pronounced it as if it was some kind of a prayer. “Her sister Annabel and her brother Mark.” “Oh, yes, I remember.”, Bertie said, taking a huge sip of his red wine. “And… What’s your question now, darling boy?” “Oh grandpa…”, Charles remarked, chuckling in some awkward kind of embarrassment. “You see… Camilla and I’ve been dating for a couple of months now and… I think… No, I don’t think, I know… I love her. She’s the one, grandpa. My soulmate. The one person in this world who truly understands me, who completes me… She’s warm and funny and loving and… oh, grandpa, I… I just feel like I’m flying! I’ve never felt such bliss and happiness before!”, he gushed and the pure joy in his grandson’s eyes sweetly reminded the elderly King of his own crush on the young Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon who had had the very same effect on him. He had known she was the one almost at once, but it took him quite a while to convince her… It had been worth the wait though, they’d be happily married for 50 years next April and surely everybody agreed that she was the best and most devoted Queen Consort the United Kingdom had ever seen.

“Well, if that’s what you want to ask me, my darling boy…”, he began. “Then of course, you can count on my blessings! Let’s hope your Camilla won’t need as long to say ‘yes’ as your grandmother!”, he chuckled, but couldn’t even think of it any further, as his grandson excitedly jumped up and rushed over to him, hugging him affectionately. “Thank you, grandpa!”, he sobbed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” “But, Charles, darling… have you already got a ring for you girl?”, the King asked and Chalres looked at him as if he was a ghost. “A… ring… um…”, he stuttered, and  his grandfather burst into laughter. “I’ve told you, my lad!”, Bertie giggled. “You have to impress the ladies! Let’s have a look at our little treasure chamber together and find something fit for a future Queen…”

[secret-history-hyperfixation]

In the middle of writing a fanfic between Richard, Charles, and Francis on ao3, if anyone wants to check it out.

I’ve written nine chapters so far. :]

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What if Charles helped Richard realize he's bisexual, instead of the incest scene?

"Though similar to that night with Francis, there was evidently something distinct about being here with Charles that gave me a thrilling, uncharted feeling, as though something important lay beyond this moment, just over the horizon. Like reading an excellent book. Apprehensively anticipating what might be revealed on every turn of the page.

If Francis was the introduction, Charles was the climax."

In other words, a gay reimagining of the ending of TSH.