#henry? camilla had him on his knees

[smol-soop-spoon]

I tthink we need to make something clear and it's that the guys of the greek class get pegged. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[delicrieux]

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

[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.

[morally-gray101]

no.1: dickieboy oldman

First impressions: he's nothing like me. he's a weird narrator, unreliable and all this account take on this dreamlike take of what happened. i mean seriously, his account of everything is almost a decade after the events and it's idealised and confusing, chock full of timeskips.

But. he's an incredibly written unreliable narrator. he leaves out key details, (like the fact he was drunk off his ass half the time) (or on drugs) and just really. he lets his own bias get in the way of everything. he still loves bunny and charles (charles somewhat less because he actually hurt someone he "cared" about) because he's a white man from california in the eighties. he doesn't care that they're but abusive hateful people because their prejudices don't actively hurt him. even though they harmed his friends.

and furthermore he kind of indulges in the same prejudices. he feels violent urges towards camilla (though it was really a passing remark and he doesnt act on them as charles does) and his internalised homophobia inhibits his relationship with francis whenever he's confronted with francis' gayness all over again. (although francis was flirting with him the entire time. so that may be a moot point.) so yeah. he's definitely a narrator alright.

the way he interacts with people is interesting because he feels the urge to lie about. well. everything to do with his past. and so he doesn't really HAVE a relationship with people until they realise he's penniless. which they notice pretty quickly. (even bunny does) (ie making fun of his offbrand ties etc etc) as the people around him spend mroe time with him and realise that Richard Papen is actually poor, they start treating him like a person.

Richard has a very distinct and interesting way of interacting with his friends individually. he builds up a distinct way to build rapport with each of them. (reassuring charles that he is liked, listening to francis and taking him to the doctors etc) because not only does he have a deep seated need to be like, BUT he wants these people to stick with him for life. he wants them to want him.

but onto the reason i wrote this. hes fuckin gay. the way he describes men is just out of this world. henry is described like he's a god. francis is beautiful and untouchable. charles is an all american dream. and camilla. is constantly described as boyish and looking exactly like charles. which means he's attracted to charles by proxy. he literally kisses francis back in the kitchen. he would've got on his knees for henry had he the chance. he was literally a charles apologist. he was so repressed it hurts my heart. he just didn't like women the way he described men. he wanted to grow old with francis in the countryside. camilla was the closest he was going to get to a man.

he's toeing the line between bicon and gay bastard but god does he walk it hard. he does it for us. i love and hate his junkie ass.

[willothewispwisteriadawn]

I’m going to avoid putting her on blast. And I just went back and rewatched the section that made me leave off. To give her a little more charity, she does end up questioning if she was meant to empathize with Bunny. But her exact Francis quote was:

“Everyone in this book was awful except for poor Francis. I feel like poor Francis was like just along for the ride and doesn’t get to like— I mean he suffers as well as other people.”

And I just very much disagree.

I didn’t agree with many of the comments either. There was one saying Bunny was a homophobe and Henry was a sociopath but Francis needed a hug. And another comment saying Francis was the only character in the book that Richard didn’t despise and that they should have ended up together because they could only have a loving relationship with each other, because Richard couldn’t communicate and yet Francis understood him— but that ending would have been “too perfect.”

I am a big advocate for accepting multiple views on a text, because many readings can be valid. But I also think there’s a point where a take can be more about what the person wanted the text to be than what it was. Because a) Richard seemed to not purely love but instead idealize all the characters. Heck, he admits to doing this to Francis in the dorm scene:

I looked at [Francis]— dark suit, sitting very straight with his legs now crossed at the knee. He was a picture of respectability except that his feet were bare. All of a sudden I found myself able to see him as the world saw him, as I myself had seen him when I first met him— cool, well-mannered, rich, absolutely beyond reproach. It was such a convincing illusion that even I, who knew the essential falseness of it, felt oddly comforted.

And b) Richard didn’t “despise the others.” He was sickened by them in a sense, but he still loved them all— in the sense that Richard understood love— at the end. He was still asking about Charles. He wanted Camilla to marry him. He blatantly admitted to loving Henry still. And he stated partway through the book that he still sometimes wished Bunny were alive and would come through his door. The commenter acknowledged that Richard said he loved Camilla, but that he told her to leave when she didn’t fit his fantasies [I assume this is in reference to the scene in the dorm, and this reading isn’t incorrect. Richard has to face that Camilla isn’t fitting his ideals]. But again, this doesn’t cover that Richard just falls back into his old fantasies at the end when he proposes to her. And it acts like that Francis is exempt from Richard’s attitude when he isn’t. Again, Richard ACTIVELY states that there’s an illusion around Francis. Richard knows there’s falsity there, but he can’t stop getting fooled.

That’s my take!

I was watching a YouTube review for The Secret History, and the person voiced that there was nothing sad about Bunny’s death and that one could really only be happy about it, and that Francis was just there vibing the whole novel, not doing anything wrong. And that’s when I clicked off the review. I mean, this is fiction so you’re welcome to be happy Bunny died. He’s not real and also functions as a part of a story, and if you’re glad he’s out of there, fine. But I’m sorry I just do not think that was a happy occasion or that Francis was “just vibing.” 😭

[lefttigerobservation]

on another note i finished the secret history today (16th dec— this is actually been a draft for ages asdjfhd). screaming. it was very, very well-written. this'll be a long-form work in progress but i wanted to share my favourite parts of the book. feel free to gloss over this <3

(pg 38— absolutely made me laugh)

He pointed to me as if he were the host of a panel discussion on a talk show. "And you, what's-your-name, Robert? What sort of pens did they teach you to use in California?"

"Ball points," I said.

Bunny nodded deeply. "An honest man, gentlemen. Simple tastes. Lays his cards on the table. I like that."

(pg 40— richard's first glimpse of julian's discussions, which are glorified monologues and Brilliant. i adore the sentiment because it's so relatable, in a weird way)

"(...) It is a terrible thing to learn as a child that one is a being separate from all the world, that no one and no thing hurts along with one's burned tongues and skinned knees, that one's aches and pains are all one's own. Even more terrible, as we grow older, to learn that no person, no matter how beloved, can truly understand us. Our own selves make us most unhappy, and that's why we're so anxious to lose them, don't you think?"

(pg 45— henry being a weird-ass man from the get-go; Richard being awestruck but overall meh)

"(...) Are we, in this room, really very different from the Greeks or the Romans? Obsessed with duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice? All those things which are to modern tastes so chilling?"

I looked around the table at the six faces. To modern tastes they were somewhat chilling. I imagine any other teacher would've been on the phone to Psychological Counselling in about five minutes had heard what Henry said about arming the Greek glass and marching into Hampden town.

(pg 47— beauty is terror. WHAT A LINE)

"Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it."

also pg 47 is this:

"If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face: let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn."

(pg 50— donna tartt's descriptive writing strikes again!)

"He was, if possible, even a bigger windbag than Dr Roland. Together, they were like one of those superhero alliances in the comic books, invincible, an unconquerable confederation of boredom and confusion."

(pg 59— bunny being, at first, a lovable idiot. i thoroughly despise him but he is written Impeccably)

"(...) why don't you buy yourself some Berlitz records and brush up on your French. Find a little can-can girl or something. Voolay-voo coushay avec moi and all that."

(pg 61— i don't want to go into it, obviously, but this is where i begin to thoroughly despise bunny for his really shitty homophobia and anti-semitism that made me, for a split second, wonder whether this was being canonically condoned. man, this must read like a satire at times! /hj)

(pg 64— charles and camilla slowly becoming more suspicious with bunny's "but I wouldn't want to marry him, would I?" line)

(pg 72— the ravens' mild foreshadowing, which i quickly googled albeit belatedly)

"Three of them for three of us. That's an augury, I bet."

"An omen."

"Of what?" I said.

"Don't know," said Charles. "Henry's the ornithomantist. The bird-diviner."

(pg 75— henry's 'aesthetic objection' to standardised tests lmao)

(pg 82— richard being genuinely depressed by reading the great gatsby because they seemed to be too similar)

(pg 96— the first impression of closeness between henry and richard)

"You're not very happy where you come from, are you?" he said.

I was startled at this Holmes-like deduction. He smiled at my evident discomfiture.

"Don't worry. You hide it very cleverly," he said, going back to his book. Then he looked up again. "The others really don't understand that sort of thing, you know."

He said that without malice, without empathy, without even much in the way of interest. I was not even sure what he meant, but for the first time, I had a glimmer of something I had not previously understood: why the others were all so fond of him. (...)

I doubt if Milton himself could have impressed me more.

(pg 98— henry's surprise about the moon landing)

Once, over dinner, Henry was quite startled to learn from me that men had walked on the moon. "No," he said, putting down his fork.

"It's true," chorused the rest, who had somehow managed to pick this up along the way.

"I don't believe it."

"I saw it," said Bunny. "It was on television."

"How did they get there? When did this happen?").

(pg 101— marion and bunny being completely predictably chaotic)

It would be Marion, her little mouth tight, looking like a small, angry doll.

"Is Bunny there?" she would say, stretching up on tiptoe and craning to look past me into the room.

"He's not here."

"Are you sure?"

"He's not here, Marion."

"Bunny!" she would call ominously.

No answer.

"Bunny!"

And then, to my acute embarrassment, Bunny would emerge sheepishly in the doorway. "Hello, sweetie."

(pg 107— richard's life at francis's country house)

Everything, somehow, fit together; some sly and benevolent Providence was revealing itself by degrees and I felt myself trembling on the brink of a fabulous discovery, as though any morning it was all going to come together - my future, my past, the whole of my life - and I was going to sit up in bed like a thunderbolt and say oh! oh! oh!

(pg 109— the description of "launching merrily down the path of sin again.")

(pg 119— richard's sudden desire to just live at the country house forever; his lack of plans)

(pg 137— richard, liminal. ghost imagery.... so prevalent omw.)

It seemed my whole life was composed of these disjointed fractions of time, hanging around in one public place and then another, as if I were waiting for trains that never came. And, like one of those ghosts who are said to linger around depots late at night, asking passers-by for the timetable of the Midnight Express that derailed twenty years before, I wandered from light to light until that dreaded hour when all the doors closed and, stepping from the world of and warmth people and conversation overheard, I felt the old familiar cold twist through my bones again and then it was all forgotten, the warmth, the lights; I had never been warm in my life, ever.

(pg 139— dr roland and richard's incredibly chaotic relationship, even if they barely speak)

I was at Dr Roland's office every morning like clockwork. He, an alleged psychologist, noticed not one of the Ten Warning Signs of Nervous Collapse or whatever it was he was educated to see, and qualified to teach.

(pg 141— richard's hallucinations and me being very very worried)

(pg 146, 149— literally just henry being kind to richard in hospital and at his home)

(pg 176— hello i am very mad at bunny's anti-semitism)

(pg 196— i am forever terrified by henry's description of the ritual, thank you donna tartt /hj)

(pg 204— i don't even know, i was so perturbed by this at this point. it begun to sit awfully with me but.)

"(...) Scarcely an hour before, we'd all been really, truly out of our minds. And it may be a superhuman effort to lose oneself so completely, but that's nothing compared to the effort of getting oneself back again."

(pg 227— bunny's habit of leaving crumbs in notebooks.)

(pg 229— i am deeply worried about the fact that richard would rather have died than ask his rich friends for money. crying)

(pg 235— the entire page, solely for how richard feels so close to the greek class because they see the world so beautifully)

(pg 262— the culminating realisation that bunny was a shitty person and continued to mock and nip at them)

(pg 263— this one line.)

Love doesn't conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool.

(pg 264— bunny's misogyny. more blue angry noises)

(pg 266— suspicious camilla and charles........)

(pg 326— richard after bunny's death, reflecting)

Not that everything 'went black', nothing of the sort; only that the event itself is cloudy because of some primitive, numbing effect that obscured it at the time; the same effect, I suppose, that enables panicked mothers to swim icy rivers, or rush into burning houses, for a child; the effect that occasionally allows a deeply bereaved person to make it through a funeral without a single tear. Some things are too terrible to grasp at once. Other things — naked, sputtering, indelible in their horror — are too terrible to really ever grasp at all. It is only later, in solitude, in memory, that the realisation have departed; when one looks around and finds oneself — quite to one's surprise — in an entirely different world.

(pg 329— henry's insistence that the snow is 'just going to kill all the flowers')

(pg 335— richard, high, being so touched by someone offering him More shit)

(pg 347— richard hungover and terribly shaken)

It was almost dark. There was a horrible, erratic humping in my chest, as if a large bird were trapped inside my ribcage and beating itself to death. Gasping, I lay back on my bed. (...)

(pg 347 & 348— absolutely laughing over how richard is just so confused about him crying)

(pg 349— everyone being embarrassed about the movies they fake saw)

(pg 355— charles being near tears and.)

"But how," said Charles, who was close to tears, "how could you possibly justify cold-blooded murder?"

Henry lit a cigarette. "I prefer to think of it," he had said, "as redistribution of matter."

(pg 367— this absolutely funny line about uta/ursula)

Besides being a house chairperson and a vigorous member of the student council, she was also the president of a leftist group off campus, and was always trying to mobilise the youth of Hampden in the face of crushing indifference.

(pg 380— henry being so bored by the 'nonsense' following bunny's death)

"(...) Honestly. Two hours. I don't know if I could've made myself go through with this if I'd known what nonsense we were letting ourselves in for."

(pg 389— francis and henry content)

"Someone would have to dig pretty deep to find that."

"Someone would only have to make two or three well-placed phone calls."

Just then the telephone rang.

"Oh, God," Francis wailed.

"Don't answer it," said Henry.

But Francis picked it up anyway, as I knew he would.

(pg 393— MORE francis and henry content)

He was running the water and I was on my way out when the phone rang.

It was Henry. "Oh," he said. "I'm sorry. I thought I dialed Francis."

"You did. Hold on a second." I put down the phone and called for him.

He came in in his trousers and undershirt, his face half-lathered, a razor in his hand. "Who is it?"

"Henry."

"Tell him I'm in the bath."

"He's in the bath," I said.

"He is not in the bath," said Henry. "He is standing in the room with you. I can hear him."

(pg 400— julian out here doing it for the aesthetics. the ball has not yet dropped)

The business had upset him, that I knew, but I also knew that there was something about the operatic sweep of the search which could not fail to appeal to him and that he was pleased, however obscurely, with the aesthetics of the thing.

Henry saw it, too. "Like something from Tolstoy, isn't it?" he remarked.

Julian looked over his shoulder, and I was startled to see that there was real delight on his face.

"Yes," he said. "Isn't it, though?"

(pg 414— richard's burnt coffee but henry......)

They hadn't been twenty feet from where I said, were even drinking the same muddy coffee from the same pot I'd made in the teachers' lounge. "That's odd," said Henry. "The first thing I thought of when I tasted that coffee was you."

"What do you mean?"

"It tasted strange. Burnt. Like your coffee."

(pg 419— bunny's kleptomania vice)

(pg 424— more suspicious charles and camilla)

(pg 437— the reporters genuinely being afraid of henry)

(pg 441— camilla crying and sciola and davenport being like: this is all your fault.)

(pg 445— the increasingly chaotic hysteria of the aftermath of bunny's death and everyone's weird ideas of faux mourning and real mourning)

(pg 446— richard comparing hampden's grieving to small children acting)

(pg 448— bunny being an impression to so many people, and having "touched people's lives" as he fulfilled a specific role and this is such a Striking scene to me because bunny sucked but richard was willing to be so distraught even amid all that irked him)

(pg 450— the description of tracy and richard's fondness for detached people after bunny's death)

(pg 458— mr corcoran's outbursts of grief and then Sudden recoveries left me Reeling but they rocked storytelling-wise)

(pg 473— henry and mr corcoran's plane story chaos)

He rambled on with this fraudulent recollection while Henry, pale and ill, endured his prods and backslaps as a well-trained dog will tolerate the pummeling of a rough child.

(pg 475— cloke and richard teaming up to steal henry meds)

(pg 481— just..... henry freaky but aesthetically so)

For a moment his face, pale and watchful as a ghost's, would be caught in the headlights and then, very gradually, it would slide back into the dark.

(pg 484— richard having been high in primary school: aka the equivalent of john mulaney's "now we don't have time to unpack all of that")

(pg 486— "one time uncle bunny called me a bastard" and the very high boys having to talk to mrs corcoran)

(pg 489— oh my WORD the fkn funeral scene where francis is waving at the wasp, camilla is taking off her shoe then charles KILLS it, so loudly)

(pg 495— Bun, I thought, oh, Bun, I'm sorry. *weeps*)

(pg 509— henry gardening)

(pg 514— the frantic hypochondria of francis slowly starting to suggest.... you guessed it! anxiety!!)

(pg 520— the broken mirror had me SHAKE)

(pg 541— the puzzle pieces clicking into place for charles and camilla. the internalised biphobia of charles and poor, poor francis. i wish he and richard could have ended up together but then i don't think any of them would have felt any good at all after)

(pg 558— the kosher strawberry drink that richard offers charles who, just minutes prior, was asleep in a SNAIL)

(pg 559— the fact that charles saw bunny fkn Sitting on the edge of the bed. right there.)

(pg 566— this line julian says after they talk about bunny's death)

"It does not do to be frightened of things about which you know nothing," he said. "You are like children. Afraid of the dark."

(pg 569— them all being worried that something Happened to camilla when she left with henry.....)

(pg 577— richard piecing things together and wondering; did henry make him do all of this? 'the alarm bell, richard')

(pg 582— the way tartt describes henry and camilla specifically as pluto and persephone,,,,, goodness me)

(pg 583— you know exactly the line. also richard's surprise at saying it so Obviously)

"Nothing," he said. "Except that my life, for the most part, has been very stale and colourless. Dead, I mean. The world has always been an empty place to me. I was incapable of enjoying even the simplest things. I felt dead in everything I did." He brushed the dirt from his hands. "But then it changed," he said. "The night I killed that man."

(pg 590— the fact that they suddenly realise the letter julian received WAS bunny's)

(pg 602— henry trying and failing to explain to a Subtly horrified julian. a wrecking scene)

(pg 603— "It is always hard for me to talk about Julian without romanticising him." what a book. what an author.)

(pg 605— this line about beauty and art and how convoluted, i just... here)

"There is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty— unless she is wed to something more meaningful— is always superficial. It is not that your Julian chooses solely to concentrate on certain, exalted things, it is that he chooses to ignore others equally as important."

(pg 611— CHARLES being the shocking intrusion to reveal julian really is gone)

(pg 614— henry's accusing julian of being cowardly, of only wanting to keep his name out of it, and that he loved him more than his own father. broke my heart in a super super weird way)

(pg 616— henry not liking charles' use of the word 'fuck' is such a.... feeling..... and continuing onto page 617 where richard has in-depth made it akin to his own parents and realised: no one is in control here. no one is flying this plane.)

(pg 622— charles' insistent worry of henry wanting to kill him)

(pg 623— charles' cat being a 'mummified, hissing bundle' made me laugh, grateful for it amid all of this weight)

(pg 633— richard realising no one is looking at him while he's shot Gets me)

(pg 635— camilla being kissed between the eyes. and henry. henry henry henry.)

(pg 641— richard being able to get out of his exams with his 'excellent excuse' and his 'ride to the underworld lit by shell and burger king')

(pg 645— sophie dearbold being 'frightened' by richard's early morning looks,,,,, i do wonder.)

(pg 649— priscilla. that's it.)

(pg 653— this line and also the notion they're all wondering if henry faked his death even though he couldn't possibly have)

"Well, you know what Julian would say," said Francis. "There are such things as ghosts. People everywhere have always known that. And we believe in them every bit as much as Homer did. Only now, we call them by different names. Memory. The unconscious."

"Do you mind if we change the subject?" Camilla said, quite suddenly. "Please?"

(pg 654 & pg 655— richard wanting to move and marry camilla. but her still being very in love with henry)

(pg 657— the 'closing montage' of the epilogue; the revelation that marion and brady decided to nickname their daughter bunny.... got me)

(pg 660— henry. henry henry henry)

"Are you happy here?" I said at last.

He considered this for a moment. "Not particularly," he said. "But you're not very happy where you are, either."

St Basil's, in Moscow. Chartres. Salisbury and Amiens. He glanced at his watch.

He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back receding down the long, gleaming hall.

final note: this book ruined me. if you have the stomach for some of the heavier themes in this book, i highly suggest giving it a read. yes, donna tartt is impeccable, yes, her writing has improved, but it is nonetheless spectacular. bye bye now :]

(edit: i'm glad to see so many people are relating to my unhinged concern and love for this novel alfhahskf)

(edit as of 14/01/22: FINALLY BOUGHT MY OWN COPY. now to maths to figure out which page is which.)

[lessnearthesun]

Charles is very, very drunk. He’s been drunk a lot lately, more so than usual— but he’s fine. Really. He’s just tired. Stressed out. He hasn’t been sleeping too good, either. He tosses and turns in bed, heart racing restlessly, eyes refusing to close and let him drop off into oblivion. So, he drinks until he passes out. Sometimes Camilla finds him and drapes a blanket over his still form, splayed across the couch. Sometimes he wakes alone in his room, slumped against the wall with an aching back.

When he doesn't drink, he dreams of Bunny, of the horrified look on his face during the split second where he flailed and hovered between life and death. Eyes wide and betrayed under his glasses. He hadn’t had time to scream or to say anything. He’d had time for nothing more than a disembodied noise of shock when Henry shoved him. A clean break through the neck, Charles read later, sitting at the dining room table, hunched over the paper, a cold cup of coffee beside him.

I did that, he thought and felt his stomach churn.

So, Charles drinks, because then he doesn’t have to think about it. He doesn’t have to think about any of it.

He stumbles up the stairs to Francis’ apartment on unsteady feet, nearly crashing into a potted tree. “Jesus— fuck,” he curses, glaring at the plant. Who the fuck plants stuff there? It’s basically the middle of the walkway, anyway. But he somehow makes his way to Francis’. He knocks, swaying slightly for unknown reasons. No one answers. He knocks again. Silence. He calls out, “Francis, it’s me! Let me in.” Still nothing.

Charles looks around, shrugs, and sits himself down outside the door to wait. He could just go home, but Camilla isn’t there and the apartment is too quiet. Lately, when he looks at her, he wants to strangle her, mangle her pretty face, bruise her tiny wrists. He looks at her and he sees red. But it brings him no pleasure these fights they have— especially when no matter how much he rages, she stays impassive, with nothing to say but an exasperated Charles.

“Jesus.” Charles looks up to see Francis standing a few feet away, one hand pressed to his chest. “You gave me a fright.” Francis looks at Charles critically, lip curled. The expression makes Charles wish he hadn’t come, makes him want to knock it right off Francis’ stupid face.

He gets to his feet and asks in a harsh tone of voice, “can I come in?” Francis retrieves his key and unlocks the door. Charles stumbles in, gritting his teeth when he trips over Francis’ rug. Stupid fucking thing. Everything is so fucking stupid.

Francis disappears into the kitchen and reappears a moment later, two glasses and a bottle of whiskey in his hands. He fills both the glasses, saying, “I figured you’d want one.”

Maybe it’s his tone, or maybe Charles just feels like shit generally, maybe it’s this whole day, but he snaps, “what’s that supposed to mean?” His hand hovers over the glass, not quite touching it.

Francis blinks. He raises his hands. “Nothing. We’ve all needed a drink lately.”

“Oh.” Charles feels stupid. God, what’s wrong with him? He drains the glass and holds it out for Francis to refill. He sips from the refilled glass, slumping down on Francis’ nice couch, chin tucked into his chest. He wonders what Camilla’s doing, then he realizes she’s probably with Henry and he swears that he can hear the erratic thumping of his pulse in his ears. Fuck Henry, fuck them all. God— how are they here? How did they get here?

Francis gingerly sits down beside Charles, ankle resting on his opposite knee. There’s an exhausted set to his shoulders that Charles has seen in everyone (except Henry, the fucking psychopath) as of late.

“Where were you?” Charles asks, the whiskey a pleasant burn in his throat.

“With Richard,” Francis answers, digging around for a cigarette. He offers the pack to Charles, who takes one. Charles leans forward, face inches from Francis’ as the flame flickers between them.

Leaning back, Charles exhales a cloud of smoke. He watches it, fascinated, the question he was going to ask slipping from his mind. He’s noticed that lately. Everything is so hard to grasp. But that’s life and he’s just tired. Plus, he watched one of his best friends get murdered. He’s fine. What else can he expect? He could be doing much worse, he’s sure. Yes, yes, definitely.

And at least he has a conscience. Unlike Henry, who seems not to have a goddamn care in the world. This whole thing is his fault, as far as Charles is concerned. He’s stupid and now they’re all paying for it. Charles presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, blinking harshly. When he looks up, Francis is watching him with wary eyes. He says, “you look tired.”

Charles replies, “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Francis hums and nods. They fall into silence. Charles kicks his feet up and throws his head back to stare at the ceiling. He can feel Francis’ eyes on him, carefully tracking every movement. Charles spares him a glance, crossing his ankles. Francis, perched on the coach’s arm like a bird, drains his glass, baring his white throat.

Charles sets down his glass and pulls Francis towards him, pressing their lips together. It’s all very smooth, as Charles knew it would be. Francis takes it all in stride, straddling Charles and setting his glass aside.

Charles kisses him, lets his hands venture. It’s an old dance, one that they both know well. Francis stands up and pulls Charles’ after him to the bedroom where he kicks the door shut with a bang that Charles only distantly hears amidst the much more pleasant sound of Francis whispering his name.

———

They lie together on the bed, sweat pooled around them. Charles’ mouth tastes like smoke and whiskey and his heart sits heavy in his chest. He feels nothing beside muscle relaxation. Francis lays beside him, cigarette between his teeth. He blows smoke rings that Charles watches, his chin propped on his hand. It’s dark outside, the streetlights casting light through Francis’ curtains.

“Camilla is probably home by now,” Charles says to no one.

“Of course,” Francis replies, tone carefully devoid of anything.

Charles gets up and puts on his clothes: socks, pants, shirt, sweater, shoes. He peers into the mirror with his red eyes and fluffs up his hair. He looks like he’s just been fucked. Although what is he so upset about? Like Camilla has any fucking room to talk, whoring herself out for Henry fucking Winter.

Francis, from where he lies on the bed, calls out, “get home safe,” when Charles leaves.

It’s warm outside, a pleasant night. Charles regrets putting on his sweater but he doesn’t want to try removing it. He hums a tune under his breath all the way home, tired and hot. Why does everything have to be so horrible all the time? Is this their punishment? Charles was raised on sin, on confession. He’s had plenty of sins to atone for, but this one trumps them all. There’s no one to confess to now, though. Not for him, anyway.

Camilla is just getting out of the shower when Charles stumbles in. She’s wrapped in a white towel, water dripping from her hair onto the floors. Her face is flushed pink from her shower. Why was she taking a hot shower? Her whole life, she’s taken cold ones. Glaring, Charles slips past her to his room.

Camilla catches the door before it can slam. “Where were you?” she asks.

“Where were you?” Charles spits back. How dare she, like she has any place to question him when she’s—

“I was visiting Henry,” Camilla replies, voice flat, arms crossed. Charles isn’t surprised and yet his fists clench still. Is Henry punishing him? Is the bastard that cruel and petty?

Charles snorts. “And how’s he?” he spits.

“He’s fine,” Camilla answers evenly. In a tone he doesn’t much like, she asks, “how’s Francis?”

He could kill her. “Get out,” Charles snaps, striding over to her and grabbing the doorframe. If she doesn’t let go, he’ll gladly crush her fucking fingers. She must sense that, because she steps back. Charles slams the door in her face and stands there, breathing heavily and listening to her retreating footsteps. He stands by the door for he doesn’t know how long.

He remains there long after the footsteps have died away.

———

“Honest people don’t hide their deeds.”

— Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

[one-hell-of-otaku-is-here]

How many shots it would take for me to sleep with TSH characters

I saw this trend on TikTok (twice only but still) so it’s time to make my own content here

Richard - 0 or half the bottle - for me it’d take no alcohol at all to hook up i love this man but for Richard himself?? I am not sure I’d be his type but I am sure with enough alcohol in his system (or drugs) he’d sleep with anybody (we’ve seen that little one night stand he had in book soo ya). If we were friends before this it’d be very awkward the next day for us (no regrets for me. I think he’s a very good lover)

Henry - 0. I’d sleep with this man either sober or drunk (preferably drunk for our first time I bet he’d be more rough when drunk). He’d be hardest to seduce to it thou so I can only dream. I don’t mind glasses on him but during it I’d take them off (lemme see those eyes more clearly >.<)

Francis - 0. the first time I ever wished to be a man so he could sleep with me. Prob the best man to have sex with out of everyone on the list. Drunk or sober doesn’t matter I am on my knees already for him (could i convince him to try it with me with dildo?? If he’s very drunk prob)

Charles - 10 shots of vodka… and more. I’d like to say I would never let him sleep with me but he’s canonically ikemen af and I do like blondes. I’d have to drunk up to my ass to not think about everything he did… Honestly he’s still pretty much siscon but at the end of the day there would be no problem to convince him to have sex with enough wine in his system - the easiest to get into bed with (along with Richard ofc)

Camilla - 1-3. YES TO MY QUEEN. Buut tbh there are two conditions - being on my second or third drink and for her to initiate things to progress beyond just simple bestie hang out. I am not into women but with these two conditions I’d be easy to be convinced (well I mean look at her)

Bunny - Nope. The moment Bunny opens his mouth and says even something remotely insulting about my body (which is not slim to be honest) or too chubby face he’s out. I’d have to be wasted to the point of not knowing who I am doing it with for this to even happen (I still don’t understand what Marion saw in him, the guy is clearly secretly closeted in his questionable sexuality)

Bonus:

Julian - ABSOLUTELY NOT ANY. NO! I have no problem with age gap but honestly this man had done enough damage to be a huge turn off. I’d not even sit down to drink with him. The most experienced out of all here (with both genders) and tbh had to admit he’d be good and go for it once you strike his fancy… and then run away if things start to get problematic for him (that affair with princess… probably even with Henry Winter himself). How good for me I never studied classics

[godlessondheimite]

The Secret Search Party

Charles: You're all psychopaths just manipulating and killing people all the live long day!

Francis: So this week our journey takes us down the road of my magnificent self-recovery, and self-discovery, as I finally allow myself the revelation to admit that I simply hate working. I hate working, and I never want to work another day in my life. Wow, it feels really good to say that out loud. I HATE WORKING! I could shout it from the rooftops. I can’t even say it without smiling, it feels so good to finally admit that.

Francis: Honestly, this is mean, but she sounds like an idiot. That was like a conversation you have with someone in college.

Francis: Most of this stuff happened to us. You know, we didn't have any real agency at any given moment. We have to start taking more responsibility for how little responsibility we've actually had in our lives.

Richard: I've been finding out more stuff about myself, and it's like I DON'T LIKE IT.

Cop: You're acting pretty calm for a murderer.

Henry: I'm not a murderer.

Cop: You're acting pretty calm for someone wrongly accused of murder.

Henry: Ha.

Dory: It's a terrible thing, what we did. I mean, this man was not Voltaire we killed. But still. It’s a shame. I feel bad about it.

Marion's acapella group: Since you've been gone, Bunny, I can breathe for the first time.

Judy: I feel bad for Camilla sometimes. She grew up in a generation that was like “You have to be a man to get ahead.” Like bitch, just admit you like to shop.

Richard: Did you guys have sex in here?

Henry: No.

Richard: You don't have to lie to me, I know you had sex in here, I can feel it.

“Was it a surprise to learn that your friends were accused of murder?”

Bunny: I mean, it was an absolute shock to my system, like, swirled up in a larger shock of life changes. Like, not only was I balancing the news that my, uh, best friends were being accused of murder. I was realizing that I needed to become a CEO overnight, and I also took a quiz online that made me realize I'm probably bipolar. So, to answer your question, yes, I'm in pain. Judy: Detective Garcia--that's my character on Surviving Essex--she's a Latina, so she uses her hands a lot.

Richard: Sorry, you play a Latina?

Judy: Oh yeah, I'm ethnically ambiguous

Julian: Richard, how are you so good at doing the stuff no one else wants to do?

Charles: And we are gonna do anything for you.

Francis: As long as it's not financial.

Judy: Mathieu is so funny. I texted him "Why do you like soccer?" and then he just texted me pictures of his knee surgery.

Richard: You guys were kissing? I'm jealous, I think!

Henry: I need all of us to do our best to pretend we are good, normal, non-murdering people.

Richard: I'm not a murderer.

Henry: Exactly. Very good, Richard.

Bunny: Hey guys? I need to eat. My blood sugar levels are crashing.

Henry: I hate him so much.

Henry: I need you to imagine the worst thing possible.

Richard: OK.

Henry: It's worse than that.

Richard: I HAVE TO KNOW.

Judy: Women get scrutinized. Men get pasta.

Bunny: I just want to remind everyone that my passport is fake, in case that makes anyone uncomfortable.

Henry: You don't have your real passport with you?

Bunny: No, I left everything behind.

Henry: Bunny, that's a federal felony. "Margaret Wartime?" Why did you pick the name "Margaret Wartime?"

Camilla: Guys, none of us know "Margaret Wartime." He's a hitchhiker and we picked him up.

Francis: AND WE LET HIM HAVE THE FRONT SEAT?!

Francis: I read online that it takes years to get over killing someone, so the best we can do is just carry on.

Cop: We understand that you and Bunny had some, uh, tensions before her disappearance. 

Henry:: Mm. 

Cop: Is that something you feel comfortable elaborating on? 

Henry: Well... [Scoffs] Why don't you try living with a deadbeat who leaves bowls of cereal on the ground so that the living room turns into a god damn milk minefield?  Henry: And then Bunny said he was going somewhere tropical. We actually got alone. He’s cool. 

Charles: It’s so crazy how that happened even though, as you said to the press, Henry, we had absolutely nothing to do with Bunny’s death.

Henry: I just wanted to start by saying that it seems like somewhere down the road, there's been some sort of misunderstanding. 

Charles: Yeah. It appears to us that it is your opinion that we did something that we just didn't do.  And after putting together the implications of your threats to Henry, Bunny, do you think we killed someone? 

Bunny: Are you guys saying you didn't kill a man in cold blood? 

All: No! 

Francis: Why would we? 

Camilla: That's so weird. 

Bunny: Oh, my God. You guys, I'm so sorry. This makes me look so crazy. You should've just called and told me that. I wouldn't have had us all meet here so early in the day.

Camilla: This is so fun, April! I'm so glad we got to catch up with you, but I think we're done, so maybe we should just leave, you guys. 

Bunny: Yeah. Totally. Yeah. 

Camilla: But it was so good to see you.

Bunny: Or did you guys have to meet me here because you killed a farmer? 

Henry: Okay. So that's, I think, where the misunderstanding lies, because -- -

Bunny: No. It's not a misunderstanding when you overhear your friends screaming, "We killed a man, and now he's dead!" 

Henry: Shh! 

Bunny: "He's dead! He's dead!" 

Charles: Oh, my God! That was my play. Bunny, I wrote a play, and we were doing a reading of it. Did you like it, Bunny? I hope you -- 

Bunny: Shut up, Charles. I know this wasn't a play. I'm not stupid. 

Charles: Why are you doing this to us?

Bunny: Because I don't like the way you guys carry yourselves. [pause] And I don't think you should kill people.

[hrhduchessoflancaster]

Chapter Ninety-Four: The New Elizabethan Era

Disclaimer: see Prologue

A/N: Almost at the end now, everyone. Just one more chapter and epilogue to go. Hope you enjoy it! Thank you. xx Bea

_____________________________________________

September, 2020

Harry and Elle had remained in Sussex for a month after Philip’s death but duties over the UK had made them return to London. Elle’s parent’s and occasionally Charles and Camilla as well were more than happy to babysit the youngsters. Charles had taken the Sussexes to Highgrove and much like he had done with Arthur when he was a baby, the proud grandfather introduced his littlest grandchild to the all the animals and plants at the estate, going into much detail about the care of each one of them. Owen, like his older brother, enjoyed seeing the animals the most and even tried to pet a few of them. 

“ He’s a curious little boy, isn’t he?”, said Charles as Owen stretched out his arms trying to grab a hold of the sheep’s ear. 

“ He most certainly is! Arthur was more of an observant baby. Owen is the opposite. Acts first. Think later. Something we’ll have to be more careful about in the near future.”, said Elle. They said their farewells to the animals and walked along the path towards the house.

“ Have you heard from Will and Kate? We’ve been so busy lately with engagements and meetings that we’ve barely had time to breathe.”, asked Harry.

“ I have. They’ve been visiting mama every weekend, keeping her company.”, said Charles with a sad smile.

“ And how is she?”, asked Elle, balancing Owen on her arms. Charles sighed and shook his head.

“ Hanging in there. But we fear she’s losing her will to live.”, he replied.

As Harry had predicted, the Queen quite never recovered from her husband’s death. She resumed her public activities after three months in Sandringham. While there, she had often received visits from her children and grandchildren, as well as her great grandchildren, which seemed to bring back a bit of light and laughter into her life. Her animals were also a source of joy for her. She had traveled to Balmoral for the summer and enjoyed having the family around but it also brought many memories from Prince Philip that left her shaken up. 

Once the summer was over, instead of returning to London she decided to reside at Windsor and remain there, where she could continue her duties but be away from the public eye. And even though she had put on a brave façade, they all knew she was suffering. A loss such as hers leaves deep marks on the heart and soul and takes a toll on the body. And little by little the family saw the spark she once had, fade away.

**********

By mid September they returned to Sussex for an extended stay. There, they took the time to take their sons to the Ashdown Forest and played Pooh sticks with them and explored bits of the forest itself, much to the enjoyment of the children. Arthur, now three, had taken up to running while Owen, who was still tumbling on his feet at almost nine months old, tried to follow suit. While there, they also took the time to improve their vegetable garden and farming, started renovations two of the three cottages at the property into a guest houses for visitors who wished more privacy as well as the rooms at the end of the first floor and the second floor into more suitable bedroom and a playroom for the children. They had a hired a full-time staff to work at the property with a housekeep living on site in one of the cottages while the remaining workers lived in the village, which was a short distance from the house. 

Elle had taken the time she had with Charles at Highgrove to get some tips into what and how to plant at the property. In addition to the herb and vegetable garden, she also wanted to grow a few fruit trees such as apple, mulberry, raspberry, peach and pomegranate as well as some strawberries in the field next to the vegetables. She also wanted to plant a few flowers and start beekeeping. In a few years, she imagined, the property would have sufficient food to stock up their pantry and sell it in the farmer’s market at the village. Arthur loved helping her out when she was planting, helping put in seeds for the flowers and some other edible plants. He’d giggle and smile when he got his hands dirty but was ever so gentle with how he handled the plants, following the gentle guidance of his mother.

On Harry’s birthday, they kept it low key and decided to have a small celebration, just the four of them. Elle had baked a caked and the boys ‘helped’ decorate it with some fruits they had picked while in the village. She had also prepared their shared favourite pudding ‘Eton Mess’ so they could have as a side dish to the cake. They gathered around Harry, laughing and cheering as they sang Happy Birthday and he blew the candles. 

“ Thirty-six huh, Major? You’re getting old…”, joked Elle, kissing his cheek. He chuckled and shook his head, cutting a piece of the cake which he divided into three parts so he could give the first piece to them. Harry helped Arthur eat small pieces of the slice while Elle crumbled a bit of the cake to give Owen a taste. In a light and loving mood, the small family enjoyed their food 

“ Boys! Should we give Dada his gifts?”, she asked her sons and they cheered once again. Elle then handed each of them a parcel which they handed without ceremony to their father. Opening Arthur’s first he smiled as he saw the the little card with a doodle made by his eldest son and Elle’s calligraphy written at the bottom which read: “ To Dada. You make me happy and I love you.”. Below it, a pair of grey tracksuit trousers that he’d been needing for a few months. Smiling, touched with the gift, he hugged his eldest son and kissed his cheek.

“ Thank you, little cub. I loved it.”, he said and the boy grinned at his father then sat down beside him. He then took the one Owen had practically thrown at him and unwrapped it. Inside, there was a white t-shirt with an impression of his tiny hands in forest green, with his name and age printed below it. He chuckled and put it on, smiling at his youngest son and family, once again touched by the simple yet meaningful gifts he had received.

“ Thank you, little warrior.”, he said, hugging Owen and also kissing his cheek. “ Thank you all. I loved my gifts. The boys seemed satisfied with their father’s reply but soon lost interest in him and amused themselves with the wrappers, tearing it to pieces. Elle smiled, watching her sons and quietly approached her husband.

“ You have one more, Major.”, she said, handing him a small rectangular box. He eyed her suspiciously while opening it. Inside, placed in tissue paper was a familiar bracelet design: a leather string, and a metal plate with numbers and letters in it.

“ Let’s see if you can guess this one.”, she said. Smiling, he took a closer look. 52° 49′ 47″ N, 0° 30′ 50″ E. 

“ Well… assuming you’re following the same pattern, are those the coordinates to Sandringham?”, he asked.

“ Yes. Owen needed his own personal bracelet, too.”, said Elle, putting it on his wrist. 

“ Thank you, love.”, he replied, kissing her softly. “ Maybe we can get someone to put them all together in a single bracelet, so I can wear them all at once.”, he said to her.

“ I think that’s a great idea! She said, playing with the infinity band encrusted with diamonds that Harry had given her after Owen’s birth. 

“ And leave room for more… for I’m sure we’ll have more memorable moments to add to the collection.”, continued Harry. She smiled, nodding her head and pulled him towards her, hooking her arms around him and pressing their lips together for a more passionate kiss.

“ Easy there, love. The little ones are still up.”, whispered Harry, his lips still dangerously close to hers. Elle smirked and bit her bottom lip.

“ In an hour we’ll remedy that.”, she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

**********

On the following week, the couple travelled to Stratford-upon-Avon for Elle’s second official visit to the Royal Shakespeare Company, which she had become a patron after Arthur’s birth. She had been to a few plays and been in touch with the directors but this was the first time she’d visit them after she and Harry had stepped up their duties. The children stayed with nanny Jackie who had been hired again once they had Owen and their workload increased. That way, the children could travel with them and the nanny would come along to take care of the boys while they were at work. 

They had taken the helicopter and descended on Warwick that morning which was a 15 minute drive to Shakespeare’s birthplace. This time around, they’d be shown some landmarks in the city as well as attending a performance of Henry V later that same evening. They’d be staying overnight at Warwick Castle at their own expense just so they could enjoy the visit properly. At Warwick, Lisa and Daniel took care of settling their thing in the castle and Nanny Jackie took the children with her as well while Elle, Harry, Ronald, Ingrid, Alfred and Leo drove to Stratford. The couple was met with a crowd surrounding the main street, waving little English flags on their hands. Dressed in a black, long sleeved shirt and a burgundy knee high skirt, Elle waved at the people and Harry followed beside her as they walked at the entrance of the school where Shakespeare studied. 

“ Your Royal Highnesses, it’s a pleasure to have you here at Stratford.”, greeted the Mayor of the town, shaking their hands.

“ Thank  very much for having us. My husband and I are very happy to be here.”, said Elle, smiling. They proceeded to be taken inside the school, where they were given a private tour, followed by other landmarks such as Shakespeare’s home, Anne Hathaway’s cottage and Trinity Church where he’s buried. After the tours, they returned to the castle to rest and change for the evening. 

At the castle, they enjoyed some quality time with the boys during the afternoon by privately walking around the main building and grounds, trying to shoot a few arrows, meeting the actors and actresses dressed up as knights and ladies. Elle took upon herself to explain a few bit and pieces of medieval history to her children who seemed to enjoy being entertained by her mother as she made faces and sounds when telling particularly interesting moments of the Middle Ages. 

Once the sun started to go down, they returned to their suite, took care of the children and left them in the care of nanny Jackie while they dressed up for the night. Harry put on his suit while Elle put on a black dress with soft purple flowers in a mesh fabric draped over the base, giving it a shimmer. Before they left, they kissed the boys goodnight and departed for the theatre. Upon arrival at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, they were met with a line up of photographers and a few o the board members and directors from the RSC, whom Elle had previously met. 

“ Welcome, Your Royal Highnesses!”, greeted by Gregory Doran, the artistic director of the company.

“ It’s a pleasure to be here. I’ve been longing to watch of the historical productions here at Stratford for a few years now and now I finally can!”, joked Elle, and they both chuckled. 

“ You cannot believe how excited she is for this.”, said Harry, grinning.

“ I hope we can meet the expectations and deliver a performance to remember.”, said the director. 

“ I have no doubt it’ll be wonderful.”, said Elle.

Moving inside the theatre, they were directed to their box and received with a trumpet sound and applauses from the public. They smiled and acknowledged the audience before taking their seats. During the play Elle smiled, cheered, cried and got emotional as the story she knew — both historically and culturally — so well. At the end of the play, they were taken to the backstage, where they met and talked to the actors and actresses.

“ I actually enjoyed it!”, said Harry smiling at Elle, as they rode back to Warwick.

“ I had a feeling you would. It’d a war play after all.”, Elle replied chuckling.

“ Yes, I enjoyed that. But the speeches were also very good. Very inspiring.”, said Harry.

“ Oh absolutely! So much so that during World War Two the BBC recorded a film of Henry V to be broadcasted at home and internationally to the soldiers as a way to boost moral.”, said Elle.

“ Really? Didn’t know that. Makes sense though.”, replied Harry. The short ride to the castle was enough to bring their adrenaline down, which made them jump to bed as quick as they could and fall soundly asleep in each other’s arms.

***********

 October 2020

Back in London, Elle met up with her friends for lunch and tea at Kensington Palace while Harry, Richard and Edward were out together at polo training for the match they had coming up. Melissa and Trevor had yet to meet Owen and were delighted to see him and how much Arthur had grown. Valerie and Mary were also delighted to see their friend and children.

“ Look at you! A mother of two!”, said Melissa, smiling sweetly as they watched the children play. Rose, who was a bit older than the boys, coerced them into playing her favourite games which the boys welcomed as a distraction to their own playtime games. 

“ Arthur looks so much like you…”, commented Trevor, who in the past year had gotten engaged and remained his bubbly self. “ Owen, however, looks a bit more like Harry.”, he continued, earning agreements all around.

“ Hmmm… I don’t really see it but I guess I’m used to seeing the the bits that are mine and the ones that are Harry’s in both of them.”, replied Elle.

“ Speaking of children, how are Blair and Jeremy, Mel?”, Elle asked.

“ Oh, Blair started uni this term. History of Art and I’m entirely guilty and proud of her choice.”, said the older woman and they all chuckled.

“ Jeremy is having the time of his life at school ever since he started playing rugby. François thinks he has a genuine future in it.”, she continued.

“ That’s amazing! I’m really happy for them.”, said Elle. “ Oh how time passes quickly… yesterday they were little children!”, she continued and the mothers agreed.

“ They do grow up in front of our eyes, don’t they?”, said Mary.

“ They do. I’ve caught myself crying a few times while folding their clothes. Owen’s already wearing size one year old. He’s growing up too fast!”, said Elle.

“ Speaking of babies… I have something to tell you.” Said Mary smiling coyly. Elle’s and Victoria’s eyes widened.

“ No! You are? You are!”, said Victoria and Mary nodded her head, chuckling. “ I’m gonna be an aunt again!”, she said happily.

“ Congratulations! I’m so happy for you and Rick. I’m sure Rose will love having another sibling.”, said Elle, hugging her friend.

“ We’ve been trying for so long, you know? I’m only a couple of weeks along but I wanted to share the news with people I know wish me well.”, said Mary.

“ Of course we do and we’re ecstatic for you.”, said Valerie encouragingly.

That afternoon was filled with joy and laughter that Elle had missed severely int he past months after they had lost the Duke of Edinburgh. It felt good to be surrounded by people who could make her smiled and forget for a few moments, the sorrow, sadness and loss that had permeated their lives in the last couple of months. Those sad days, however, would soon return.

On the 9th of October, near 8 am, they received a phone call from Charles asking them to meet with him immediately at Clarence House. Their staff was alerted by his staff and were already set in motion to take them there. They rushed to the familiar home, barely greeting Greyson on their way to the Drawing Room. They were slightly shocked to see not only Charles and Camilla there, but also Andrew and Edward. All of them looking visibly shocked and red in the face as if they’d been crying.

“ Oh good, you’re here.”, said Camilla. “ Charles, they are here.”, said Camilla to her husband who had been talking in rushed tones to his siblings and senior advisor. 

“ Harry, Eleanor.”, said Charles, hugging them both and sniffing on their shoulders. 

“ Pa, you’re scaring us. What’s wrong?”, said Harry, cautiously.

“ It’s your grandmother. Anne has just called. I’m afraid… I’m afraid she’s passed away.”, said Charles, sobbing. Their eyes widened and tears began falling from their cheeks, which triggered the rest of the family to also cry in their shared grief. They hugged Charles while he cried at the same time as they held themselves amidst such tragic news. 

“ How?”, asked Elle, turning to the people in the room, still in disbelief. 

“ Heart failure, in her sleep. According to what Anne has told us.”, replied Edward. Gulping and sniffing, Elle nodded her head.

“ At least it was peaceful.”, she replied and they all nodded their head. Charles composed himself and dried his face with his fingers.

“ Operation London Bridge is on the way. The Private Secretary and Prime Minister have already been informed. I imagine the rest of the government will soon receive the news as well.”, said Charles, visibly shaken. 

And so they did. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office were also communicated and passed down the news to the other fifteen countries of which Her Majesty was the head of state and also the governments of the Commonwealth. The news vehicles were also alerted and all schedules programmes were interrupted. Soon, the news had reached the world that this most beloved Queen had passed away, age 94. A footman pinned a dark-edged notice to the gates of Buckingham Palace, much like her own father’s death had been notified. But unlike during her father’s reign, the staff of all royal households took to social media to address the public and keep them updated about a book of condolence and other way they could share take part in the ceremonies around the the UK and abroad to celebrate Queen Elizabeth.

That morning, the Prime Minister, Mr. Christopher Simmons recalled the Parliament and it would meet within the first hours of the news being shared. There, he addressed the House of Commons. Soon after, all government building were flying their flags at half-mast and all ceremonial ornaments were placed in black purses as a sign of mourning for the past monarch. 

That same day, her body was moved, and placed at St. George’s Chapel, with the royal standard draped over her coffin. The first funeral rites were given at the by the Windsor chaplain and the guards stationed at the castle mounted a guard of honour inside the building and would remain there for the next two days before he body was transported by by car to London, where it would remain at Buckingham Palace’s Throne Room for a day. 

In the afternoon, the Prime Minister came around Clarence House to meet with Charles who was now the Head of State. The family’s engagements were cancelled for the rest of the month and Elle and Harry remained at Clarence House overnight, their children had been brought to them by their staff, so they could support Charles and be close as a family. On the following day, they drove with Charles and Camilla to St. James’s Palace for the Accession Council meeting. 

“ Your Majesty, Your Royal highnesses, we’re very sorry for your loss.”, said a councillor as the family entered the building side by side. Inside it, members of the Privy Council, officers of the State, members of the House of Lords — which included Elle’s father and uncle, the Archbishop of Canterbury and other senior members of the Church of England, the mayor of London, high commissioners and representatives of the Commonwealth realms. 

As Charles took his place at the front of the room, with the people surrounding him, Charles made his Oath of Allegiance to the Council, the Church of England and Church of Scotland. Then, Charles seated on the Sovereign’s Chair and one by one, the members of government present as well as Harry, Elle and Camilla made their oaths of allegiance which would be repeated in a more ceremonial manner during his coronation in a few months. Afterwards, they moved to the Proclamation Gallery outside the court of the palace where the proclamation was read out-loud by the Garter King of Arms.

“Whereas it has pleased Almighty God to call to His Mercy our late Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth II of Blessed and Glorious memory, by whose Decease the Crown is solely and rightfully come to the High and Mighty Prince Charles Philip Arthur George. We, therefore, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of this Realm, being here assisted with these Her late Majesty's Privy Council, with representatives of other Members of the Commonwealth, with other Principal Gentlemen of Quality, with the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens of London, do now hereby with one voice and Consent of Tongue and Heart publish and proclaim that the High and Mighty Prince Charles Philip Arthur George is now, by the death of our late Sovereign of happy memory, become King Charles the Third, by the Grace of God King of this Realm and of all His other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, to whom His lieges do acknowledge all Faith and constant Obedience with hearty and humble Affection, beseeching God by whom Kings and Queens do reign, to bless the Royal Prince Charles the Third with long and happy Years to reign over us.”

“ The Queen is dead. Long live the King!”, he shouted.

“ Long live the King!”, was repeated by all. 

[amc-notthemovies]

The Secret History, by Donna Tartt Fancast

Richard Papen - Nick Robinson

Henry Winter - Darren Criss

“quite large, well over six feet… dark-haired, with a square jaw and coarse, pale skin. He might have been handsome had his features been less set, or his eyes, behind the glasses, less expressionless and blank. He wore dark English suits and carried an umbrella (a bizarre sight in Hampden) and he walked stiffly through the throngs and hippies and beatniks and preppies and punks with the self-conscious formality of an old ballerina, surprising in one so large as he.”

Julian Morrow - Christopher Waltz

“It was a small, wise face, as alert and poised as a question; and though certain features of it were suggestive of youth-- the elfin upsweep of the eyebrows, the deft lines of nose and jaw and mouth-- it was by no means a young face, and the hair was snow white.“

Charles & Camilla McCaluay - Dane Dehaan and Mia Wasikowska

“They looked very much alike, with heavy dark-blond hair and epicene faces as clear, as cheerful and gave, as a couple of Flemish angels. And perhaps most unusual in the context of Hampden – where pseudo-intellects and teenage decadents abounded, and where black clothing was de rigueur – they liked to wear pale clothes, particularly white. In this swarm of cigarettes and dark sophistication they appeared here and there like figures from an allegory, or lon-dead celebrants from some forgotten garden party… She, I thought, was very beautiful, in an unsettling, almost medieval way which would not be apparent to the casual observer.”

Francis Abernathy - Freddie Fox

“Angular and elegant, he was precariously thin, with nervous hands and a shrewd albino face and a short, fiery mop of the reddest hair I had ever seen. I thought (erroneously) that he dressed like Alfred Douglas, or the Comte de Montesquiou: beautiful starchy shirts with French cuffs; magnificent neckties; a black greatcoat that billowed behind him as he walked and made him look like a cross between a student prince and Jack the Ripper. Once, to my delight, I even saw him wearing pince-nez.”

Edmund “Bunny” Concoran - Josh Hutcherson 

“A sloppy blond boy, rosy-cheeked and gum-chewing, with a relentlessly cheery demeanor and his fists thrust deep in the pockets of his knee-sprung trousers. He wore the same jacket every day, a shapeless brown tweed that was frayed at the elbows and short in the sleeves, and his sandy hair was parted on the left, so a long forelock fell over one bespectacled eye.”

[melancholyfool]

Wits and Wagers

Pairing: Henry Winter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and the others play a game of wits poker in the country house

a/n: i think the best part about being a (fanfic) writer is being able to make your favourite characters do whatever you want.

The parlour of Francis’ estate was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the grand fireplace crackling with slow-burning embers. Shadows flickered across the dark wood-paneled walls, stretching long and elegant over the antique furniture. The scent of brandy and a faint trace of smoke from Francis’ cigarette lingered in the air, mixing with the autumn breeze that drifted in through the open windows.

The seven of you were gathered around an ornate poker table, an old relic that had undoubtedly seen its fair share of mischief. The deck of cards lay neatly shuffled in the center, a haphazard assortment of poker chips, coins, and various personal wagers scattered around it. There was an easy kind of tension in the air, an unspoken understanding that this game was more than just a game—no one ever played just for fun in your group.

You sat beside Henry, your thigh brushing against his beneath the table, a touch so subtle that no one else would notice, but enough to ground you. His presence, steady and deliberate, was always like that—quietly consuming, like an unspoken weight pressing against your ribs. He had one hand on his cards, the other resting lightly on his knee, fingers occasionally grazing yours in the space between you.

“Now, this is what I call a gentleman’s game,” Bunny declared, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass before taking a triumphant sip. “None of that dreary chess nonsense Henry’s always droning on about.”

Henry, seated rigidly across from him, merely lifted an eyebrow as he shuffled the deck with deliberate ease. “You wouldn’t last five minutes at a chessboard, Bunny.”

“Damn right, I wouldn’t. Too much thinking.” Bunny smirked, tipping his glass in Henry’s direction. “But this? This, I can handle.”

Francis, draped elegantly in his chair with a cigarette held loosely between his fingers, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. “Poker requires thinking, too, you know.”

“Yes, but it also requires a little thing called luck, which, might I remind you, is in my favor tonight.” Bunny tapped his temple, as if to emphasize his supposed good fortune.

Camilla leaned forward, her golden hair catching the firelight. “We’re playing for something better than money,” she said, idly twirling a poker chip between her fingers.

Bunny groaned, setting his glass down with an exaggerated thud. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, what now?”

Richard smirked. “Knowledge.”

Bunny threw his head back dramatically. “God, what fresh hell is this?”

You laughed, the sound drawing Henry’s eyes to you, his gaze softening just slightly.

“The rules are simple,” Camilla explained, placing her own bet—a pearl hairpin—onto the table. “Before you bet, you answer a question. Literature, philosophy, mythology—take your pick.”

“Ah, so a battle of wits,” Francis murmured, exhaling another breath of smoke. “I like it.”

Bunny grumbled, but reluctantly pushed a few coins into the pot. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Henry dealt the cards, his movements practiced, elegant. You watched his fingers, the way they moved with such quiet precision, and felt the urge to reach out and trace them. Instead, you turned your attention back to the game.

The first round began.

“Alright,” Francis drawled, tapping his cards against the table, “Bunny, since you’re so eager, let’s start with you. Who wrote the Hymn to Aphrodite?”

Bunny squinted, his brow furrowing. “That’s an easy one. Uh… Sappho, right?”

Francis nodded. “Correct. Now, place your bet.”

Bunny slid forward a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, which earned him a scoff from Camilla. “Are we playing for intellectual currency or actual money?” she teased.

“A little of both,” Richard said, tossing in his own bet—a well-worn copy of The Waste Land, edges frayed from use.

The game continued, each question growing more difficult, the bets becoming more personal—Richard’s silver fountain pen, Francis’s first edition of Les Fleurs du mal, Camilla’s delicate lace gloves.

Then, it was Henry’s turn.

You turned to him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “your question.”

He met your gaze with that quiet intensity you knew so well. “Go on.”

You smirked. “If you found yourself in the Underworld, which shade would you most like to speak to?”

The others fell into a hush, the fire crackling softly in the background.

Henry was silent for a moment, considering. The candlelight flickered across his sharp features, casting shifting shadows along his cheekbones. He exhaled slowly. “That depends. Do I get to ask them a question?”

“Of course.”

His fingers tapped against the table, thoughtful. “Then I would speak to Orpheus. And I would ask if he ever really thought he could resist looking back.”

A stillness settled over the group. Even Bunny, who had been halfway through another drink, lowered his glass slightly.

Camilla tilted her head, watching Henry curiously. “And what do you think he’d say?”

Henry’s gaze flickered toward you for the briefest moment before he answered. “I think he’d say he knew all along he would turn. That it was never really a question at all.”

You felt a shiver trace its way down your spine.

Francis let out a soft laugh, breaking the silence. “A suitably tragic answer.”

Henry placed his bet—a small, leather-bound book, its title worn away with age. You recognized it instantly—his collection of Catullus poems, the one he carried with him like a talisman, the one he had read to you late at night, his voice soft against your skin. The weight of the gesture settled between you like an unspoken promise.

The game carried on, the hours slipping away into laughter, sharp-witted conversation, and the occasional dramatic outburst from Bunny.

At some point, Henry’s hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers curling around yours in a way that felt effortless, inevitable. You squeezed gently, and though he did not look at you, you felt the smallest press of his thumb against your palm—a silent acknowledgment, a quiet declaration of something unspoken yet entirely understood.

Later, when the others had retired to their wine-laced conversations and Francis had stretched himself out on the chaise with a cigarette and a book of Rimbaud’s poetry, you and Henry remained at the table, the embers of the fire casting a golden glow over his face.

“You knew all along, didn’t you?” you murmured, running your fingers along the worn edge of his book.

He regarded you carefully, his expression unreadable. “Knew what?”

“That you would turn.”

His lips quirked slightly at the corners, though it was not quite a smile. “I suppose I did.”

You traced the leather spine, your voice softer now. “And if I was Eurydice?”

Henry exhaled, his gaze steady. “Then I would have turned the moment I stepped foot in the Underworld.”

[carebear102279]

A NEW LEASE ON LIFE PART

(I just realized my whole stories aren't posting, so sorry here's the rest of A NEW LEASE ON LIFE.)

Gabby "ok."

Antonio "promise me you're not going to go all gabby Dawson on this news."

Gabby "for fuck sake just tell me."

Sylvie "I'm pregnant with twins. Oh as you guessed you're brother is the father."

Antonio "so you're going to be una tia again. We are still figuring out us."

Gabby "really!! I'm so happy for both of you. Ok I love you both, but I have to go. Tell everyone I said hi."

Sylvie "ok. Love you too."

Antonio "love you too, sis."

The video chat ended.

Sylvie "I miss gabby so much."

Antonio "I miss her too. Come here."

He pulled her in for a hug. Wishing gabby wasn't so far away. But they both knew gabby was were she needed to be.

Sylvie was 6 months pregnant when she was put on office duty at 51. It wasn't the same as being on ambo. But she still got to be with her firehouse family.

Antonio was doing good. Still clean after the day he pushed Eva's attacker through a wall. He was going to NA and going to counseling. He was back at intelligence, a place where he felt like his old self. As close to it he could be.

Antonio arrived at 51 to pick up Sylvie. It was ultrasound day, to find out the gender of their twins. Hopefully the babies cooperate, because they haven't so far.

Antonio "ready to go Sylvie?"

Sylvie "yes."

Arriving at med, they were led to a patient's room. Dr Halstead arrived to perform the ultrasound. He was able to fit Sylvie into his schedule.

Will "ok you two. Are you ready to see your babies?"

Antonio "yes."

Sylvie nodded and grabbed Antonio's hand.

Will "ok. Well your twins appear to be healthy. Now do you want to know the genders of the twins?"

Sylvie "yes we do."

Antonio "like she said."

Will "smart man." Will chuckled.

Will "well you are having a girl and a boy. One of each. Congratulations to both of you." Will handed them the pictures of the ultrasound. "Just remember to keep your appointment with your ob, Sylvie. Again congrats."

Sylvie and Antonio were in the room by themselves. Absorbing the news of their twins. They were still trying to figure out them as a couple.

Sylvie "Antonio?"

Antonio "what is it?"

Sylvie "I want us. I love you."

Antonio looked at this amazing woman. Who was carrying their babies. And she loved him. In spite of the chaos that was his life. Antonio took a chance and leaned in and kissed her. "I love you too. More than you realize. Now will you move in with me? Because I've bought a house that will fit our growing family."

Sylvie "ok. I'll move in with you. We have a nursery to get ready."

While leaving the hospital, they ran into Kyle. Which definitely was awkward. But it was bound to happen sometimes.

Kyle "Sylvie and Antonio, good to see you. Hope all is going well in your pregnancy, Sylvie."

Sylvie "everything is going good. Antonio and are good. We are moving in together."

Kyle "good for both of you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work."

Antonio "well that wasn't awkward at all. He still cares about you."

Sylvie put his hands on his face "hey, you have nothing to worry about. I am completely in love with you. You are the love of my life. It just took our babies to knock some sense into us. I love you Antonio Dawson. If I have to spend the rest of my life showing you, each and everyday. I will do that for you. For us and all 4 of our kids."

Antonio put his hands on her pregnant belly. And kissed her gently. "I love you so much. Let's go home."

Sylvie was almost 8 months pregnant, standing in the nursery. Their babies names were above each crib. She heard the front door open. Rubbing her belly, she spoke softly to her twins "guess what your daddy is home."

Antonio came into the nursery. Holding a dozen roses and a little box. He got down on one knee "you are the best thing to happen to me. You love my kids like they were your own. Will you become my wife? Will you marry me Sylvie Brett?"

Sylvie "yes, but under one condition we get married before the babies are born. Which could be soon, twins are rarely carried to term."

Antonio smiled "of course, I'll make some calls. How about tomorrow?"

Sylvie "sounds good."

Antonio made sure his kids where there. He flew her parents in. Hank picked them up from the airport. Sylvie's firehouse family would be there. Along with intelligence and of course Trudy. Plus some of med came. Sylvie walked through the courthouse doors. She saw her parents and everyone else.

Sylvie "you did all this Antonio? For me?"

Antonio "of course. I'd do anything for you."

Sylvie and Antonio were married in front of their family and friends. There wasn't a dry eye in the room. Now was time to wait for the birth of their twins.

Sylvie was 2 & 1/2 weeks to her due date. Antonio was at work and Sylvie was resting on the couch with her feet up. She was really uncomfortable today. The doorbell rang. Since Antonio insisted the door locked. It took Sylvie awhile to get up.

Sylvie "I'm coming." Opening the door there stood Laura Dawson. "Hi Laura, what brings you here. Antonio is at work today. Please come in."

Laura "so when will Antonio be home?"

Sylvie had her hands on her very pregnant belly "I'm not sure. But I can give him a call. He has his phone on at all times. Jay told me he jumps every time the phone rings."

Laura paused "so how are you feeling?"

Sylvie "everything hurts today. I'm ready to have these twins. So hopefully soon." Sylvie grabbed the couch arm, gripping it hard. "Holy shit, this hurts."

Laura "are you in labor?"

Sylvie breathed slowly "yes, I think so."

Laura "well I'm not leaving you here. Where's your bag?"

Sylvie "closet.....by...... the......ummmm..... door."

Laura "we'll call Antonio on the hospital."

Laura helped his ex husband's new wife Sylvie to her car. Something she never thought she'd be doing.

On the way to med, Sylvie called Antonio "Antonio I'm in labor and on the way to the hospital."

Antonio "ok, please tell me your not driving."

Sylvie "no, but you might think differently once you find out who."

Antonio "oh hell, who?"

Sylvie "Laura stopped over to talk to you."

Sylvie put the phone on speaker. Antonio was swearing in Spanish.

Laura "ok Antonio calm down. I wasn't going to leave Sylvie with her in labor. Now just get your ass to the hospital. You can yell at me later, but not now."

Arriving at med Laura helped Sylvie into the emergency room. Laura "hey, I need a doctor now!!"

Dr Rhodes "oh Sylvie." He put Sylvie into a wheel chair. Paging Sylvie's doctor, bringing her up to the ob floor.

Sylvie looked at Laura "thank you."

Laura "your welcome. I'll wait for Antonio."

Dr Rhodes helped Sylvie get to her room. Hooking her up to monitors.

Antonio ran into the ER, running into Laura "where's Sylvie Laura?"

Laura "Dr Rhodes brought her up to delivery. Go, your wife needs you."

Antonio "thank you Laura." His ex wife could surprise the hell out of him every once in a while.

Laura "welcome. I'll call the kids and let them know."

Antonio arrived in Sylvie's room "hey baby."

Sylvie was breathing through a contraction "hey."

Sylvie and Antonio welcome there beautiful healthy twins into the world a girl they named after his mom, little baby Camilla Gabriella Dawson. They were going to call her Camie. There little boy they chose the name Justin Henry. Of course with Hank's blessing. Their extended family came to meet the new babies. Eva and Diego got to meet their new brother and sister. Camilla cried when she heard her new grandaugher's. Gabby met her new niece and nephew over video chat.

Only Antonio and Sylvie were left in the room. Sylvie was holding Camilla and Antonio was holding Justin.

Antonio kissed his wife "thank you for making me a dad again. I love you so much."

Sylvie "thank you for making me a mommy. I love you so much Antonio. I just gave birth to twins naturally by the way. So please come her and give me a kiss.

Antonio chuckled, leaning in and kissing his wife "I'm so proud of you baby. I love you Sylvie Dawson."

Sylvie "I love you to Antonio Dawson."

[thaliasthunder]

im back pls dont kill me

im such a dumbass i thought i read chapter 6 when i got into book 2 but no so here u have ch 6-7-8

To my surprise he put his hands on my shoulders and leaned forward and kissed me, right on the mouth. -> WHAT ¿#?%¿!@¡#¿$!

'how can you possibly justify cold-blooded murder?' Henry lit a cigarette. 'I prefer to think of it,' he had said, 'as redistribution of matter.' -> EKDKEJ FICTIONAL KILLER MEN MY BELOVEDS

charles & camilla's sibling relationship is very sweet :((

HENRY AND FRANCIS ARE 21 😭😭

a pregnant dog ran across the road in front of us. 'That,' said Henry, 'is a very bad omen.' -> LMFAO

Henry had done marvelously. He was the author of this drama and he had waited in the wings a long while for this moment, when he could step onto the stage and assume the role he'd written for himself: cool but friendly; hesitant; reticent with details; bright, but not as bright as he really was. He'd actually enjoyed talking to them, he told me. -> KELFKFJE KILLER MEN MY BELOVEDS

'Do you know what Henry made us do, a couple of days after that thing in the woods?' 'What?' 'He made us kill a piglet.' -> hah? 😃😃😃

'Milly, my girl,' I heard him call. 'Where are you, honey?' -> im gonna cry this is so sweet ???

An ambulance was parked directly beneath us. (…) I saw, hanging down from the edge, five or six inches of yellow rain slicker. -> OH FUCCCK

Henry took a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes; and exhaling sharply, a hand to his chest, he fell back in his chair as if he'd been shot. -> QUÉ

'Dirt under his nails. When that kid went down he was grabbing at anything he could get ahold of.' -> oh gods

Bun, I thought, oh, Bun, I'm sorry. -> <\3

The world was a fresh and wonderful place to me, green and bracing and entirely new, and I looked at it now with fresh new eyes. -> bro😭?? u just buried ur friend 😭

The idea of that fucking bacchanal in the first place –who thought of that? Whose idea was it to take Bunny to Italy? Who the hell wrote that diary and left it lying around? The son of a bitch. I blame every bit of this on him. -> i mean yeah i know henry ruined everything but i love him so who cares

CHARLES AND CAMILLA DO WHAT

charles fucking assaulted camilla im gonna fucking kill him

I felt a fierce, nearly irresistible desire to seize Camilla by her bruised wrist, twist her arm behind her back until she cried out, throw her on my bed: strangle her, rape her, I don't know what. -> ???? IM GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU TOO

'It was the most important night of my life,' he said calmly. 'It enabled me to do what I've always wanted most.' 'Which is?' 'To live without thinking -> wow….i love this murderer

JULIAN KNOWS

'Don't say "fuck" anymore,'  'Fuck? What's the matter, Henry? You never heard that word before? Isn't that what you do to my sister every night?' -> oookayy things are pretty tense here 😃💀

It was Charles. He stood in the doorway, blinking drunkenly around the room, and I was so surprised and glad to see him that it was a moment before I realized that he had a gun. -> WHAT

'What are we going to do about me?' I said. They all turned and looked at me. 'He shot me.' -> oh i imagined him saying this with a fragile voice just like a hurt child <\3

To my surprise, he smiled at her. 'You think I'd hurt you?' he said. 'Come here.' -> i love this killer man

He put the pistol to his temple and fired, twice. (…) and Henry, his eyes squeezed tight, and his knees giving way beneath him, fell with a thud to the carpet. -> WHAT???????¿¿? NONONONONO

Forgive me, for all the things I did but mostly for the ones that I did not. -> man dont do this to me

'I hope you'll excuse me,' he said, 'but I'm late for an appointment -> rest in peace my boy :((

grecia reading the secret history by donna tartt 🖼

here u have me FINALLY being able to read this book after weeks of searching for it

prologue + chap 1-2:

they fucking killed someone 💀

MA'AM TARTT THIS PROSE??????????

oh our main boi is named richard papen okay okay nice to meet u young man

so, the greek class huh?

damn the dark academia vibez here are IMMACULATED 🗝🖼🎩

I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive. -> PEOPLE DIED

did this mf really say come to bed w me,,,,, IN LATIN ?????

henry is such a emotionless narcisistic dick................i love him

professor julian marrow i love u

henry explaining how they'd take down hampden in extreme detail........ okay that's suspicious..... that's weird 👁

Francis maybe? He and she were fairly chummy, but Francis didn't look like the sort who would be too interested in girls. -> did i just read this rig- INSERTE MEME DE "LO SUPONIA 🏳️‍🌈"

.................woah

TOO MUCH TO THINK ABOUT

And the boy twin, he starts screaming at me. Like he really wants to kill me, you know? And that Henry just standing there, but to me he was scarier than the other one. -> why am i??? fascinated by this...........????

"See? Knew he'd come. Oh, hello. Boy am I glad to see" "Where's the check," said Henry, in a toneless and deadly voice. -> LMFAO

Once he was inside, Henry turned to me. 'I'm very sorry,' he said -> MY BABY BOY DONT APOLOGYZE ITS NOT UR FAULT

oh francis' has a house in the country and they all spent time in it this such a pleasant image 😭

HENRY DIDNT BELIEVE WE'VE GONE TO THE MOON IM FUCJING CRYINXG

Live forever.

(...) but for sedentary people they had an odd excess of bruises and small wounds -> okay thats suspicious.... thats weird

He smiled at her. There was a slight chip in one of his front teeth I'd never noticed before; it gave his smile a very engaging quality. 'You're light as a feather,' he said. -> SHUT UPPP 😭😭😭

bitch what the fuck is "Good girl. Look at you, you didn't even cry" and "she was brave" ???? U better stop before i fall in love w yall

i have no self control so i already made a playlist and may i tell u Sober II Melodrama by lorde and Heathens by 21pilots are the most tsh song i've heard u'r welcome

[rfsak2]

Cactus, Part VII

Cactus, Part VII Summary: You’ll understand why I want you so desperately. Harry/Jamie Warnings: Paparazzi being assholes.

‘I’m just going shopping,’ she’d told Harry. She was feeling restless and didn’t want to sit around a hotel until the call time for the show. She wanted to visit the Louboutin store and it was really only a ten minute drive from the concert and less than that from the hotel.

This shouldn’t be so hard.

She’d even turned down his offer to have one of the security guys go with her. She shouldn’t need one. They weren’t looking for her and they certainly didn’t know that she planned to make a random trip to a shop.

Why is this so hard?

She had even walked the whole way there, enjoying the sunshine and one of her favorite cities in the world. It was a beautiful day.

“Jamie! Jamie!”

“How much of his money are you planning on spending, Jamie?”

“What do you think of Camilla?”

She should’ve realized that this would somehow happen, after this morning’s run-in with the fans. She shouldn’t have underestimated the paparazzi and assumed that she could still go around relatively unnoticed.

But still how did they know?

She stared down at her phone and tried to decide what to do. Did she call him, worrying him and making him feel like he had to come rescue her, adding yet still to the shit show outside? Did she not call and try to deal with it all herself and risk upsetting him because she didn’t call?

“I can call a cab for you, madame?” The manager grasped her hand gently. “We can send your packages along afterward.

She sighed and nodded. “Yes, please. That’s very kind. I’m sorry for the trouble. I didn’t really expect this to happen.”

The manager of the shop shot a good deal of side-eye at the consultant who had helped her with her purchase, who’d try to keep her there for as long as possible.

She sighed, knowing that this girl- woman, really- had called the paps.

Oh well, what’s done is done.

“Don’t worry, petit. Henri will call a cab and I will be dealing with this situation.” The woman was still staring down the consultant, but Jamie reached out and touched her arm, lightly.

She managed a small smile. “I don’t want to be the reason someone loses their job. It’s fine.”

The manager didn’t look convinced and the woman would likely still lose her job, but the security guard came back and all conversation was cut off as the two conversed in French. “The cab will be here shortly, petit.”

“Merci beaucoup.” She wandered, waiting for the cab, but she couldn’t ignore their persistent shouting.

“Is Harry buying today, Jamie?”

NO he isn’t. She made her own money, and quite a bit of it, she didn’t need Harry to fund her taste for Louboutin.

“Is Harry cheating on you, Jamie?”

NO he isn’t. When would he even have time to cheat on anyone? If it was even within his character to do so, when would he? The boy didn’t stop working.

“How do you feel about Camilla Rowe?”

I don’t know her! How could she have an actual opinion on someone she’d never met?

“How does it feel to be a marketing strategy? When the tour is over do you think he’ll break it off with you?”

NO I don’t. He loves me. I love him.

“You’re a bit young for him, don’t you think?”

She frowned, unable to train the look from her face and turned to the windows at the front of the store.

The pap who’d asked the question was grinning, maliciously she wouldn’t hesitate to say. “He’s into the older women, that one. Aren’t you a bit young?”

She almost saw red. She gritted her teeth in an effort to not just scream. She could handle the yelling, the ridiculously intrusive questions, she could even handle the insinuation that she was a gold-digger or using him for publicity. She wasn’t as naive as Dante always pretended she was. She knew the game, she understood the game, she just refused to play it.

She was nothing if not stubborn as fuck.

But that was the truth too, wasn’t it? He never dated people younger than him. This relationship was an anomaly.

Why was he dating her?

“Madame, the cab is here. I wish we could bring it around back, but-”

She gritted her teeth and nodded. “It’s fine.”

The security guard set his hand on her shoulder and led her towards the door. She took a deep breath, slipping her sunglasses on as he pushed open the door and muscled her through the crowd of shouting sharks.

He wrenched open the cab door and used his body to physically shield her. She stepped in and reached out to clasp the man’s arm. “Merci beaucoup. Thank you so much.”

The man smiled and nodded, eyes kind, and shut the door. She could hear him shouting at the vultures in angry French and Jamie vowed to send gifts, to buy more, whatever she could do to repay their kindness.

She relayed the name of her hotel in mediocre French and sunk down in her seat, the flashing lights adding to the migraine behind her eyes.

As the cab pulled off, the driver eyeing her in the mirror, she allowed herself a stuttering breath. That had been the worst yet.

She pulled her phone out and stared down it, trying to figure out what to say.

Hey, I just got mobbed outside of-

Hey, you were right, I’m a dumbass-

Hey, I should’ve taken the guys with me-

Hey, I’m safe but-

She fought for another stuttering breath. He was going to be angry. He had said this would happen and-

Aren’t you a bit young for him?

She sucked in a breath and fought against the tightness in her throat. Fuck…

“Ça va, belle?”

She shook her head and wiped at her eyes, straightening in her seat and checking outside to see how close they were. They had gotten stuck in traffic-

You okay, love?

She took a breath and tried to type something... anything.

NO. A vulture just reminded me that I’m not your type.

NO. Why are you even dating me?

She wiped at her face again.

The consultant at the shop tipped off the paparazzi. I’m in a cab on my way back to the hotel. I’m safe. I’ll see you in a bit.

Yeah, but are you okay?

I’m safe.

You’re not answering my question, monster.

She couldn’t bring herself to lie to him, so she let it alone. He hadn’t asked a question after all.

Ten excruciating minutes later the cab pulled up to the hotel and, though there were no paparazzi in sight, Brandon and Jack, two of Harry’s security guys, came barrelling out of the entrance. They all but carried her into the hotel lobby, where Harry stood, anxiously wringing his hands.

“Are y’okay?” He reached her side in seconds, long legs to his benefit, bracketed her face with hands that were shaking almost as much as hers. “Monster, are you okay? Jesus, ye’ve been cryin’.”

She sucked in a breath. “Can we just go up? I don’t want to do this here.”

He frowned down at her. “Do what, love?”

“Can we just go up, please?”

He nodded, arm secure around her waist as he led her into the lift. “Love, please talk to me. Yer scarin’ me.”

The lift door closed behind them and they were alone

She took a deep breath and pressed her face into his shoulder, wetting the expensive silk shirt he was wearing as she sobbed, all of the tension from the cab ride and the thirty minutes sat there listening to their vitriol suddenly overwhelming her.

“Jesus, Jamie. What happened?” The lift opened and he led her quickly to their suite.

She collapsed onto the couch, her head in her hands. She felt his hand on the back of her neck, trying to pull her into his arms but she resisted.

“Why are you with me?”

He went very still. “What?”

She shrugged helplessly. “Why are you with me? You could have any woman in the world-”

“I’m with yeh because I love yeh.” He pulled away from her completely. “What d’ye mean: why am I with yeh?”

She shoved to her feet, the urge to pace arrested by how his eyes held her. “Why? Why? I’m not your type. I’m not tall and beautiful. I’m not a model. I’m painfully normal, Harry, painfully normal-” Harry looked hurt and that was enough to give her pause, but it was too late. The flood had started and there was nothing she could do. “Why would you want me?”

“Because yer you, daft woman! Because ye’ve been there for me since th’moment I met yeh. Yeh didn’t judge me or buy th’bullshit the media said about me. Yeh didn’t want me money or some sort of leg up in yer career. All yeh wanted was for me t’support yeh the way yeh supported me and I was ‘appy t’give tha’ t’yeh. Yeh accepted me as I was and tha’ has neva bloody happened befo’! That’s why! Where did this come from, love? Please ‘elp me understand why yer askin’ all this.”

She took a deep stuttering breath and he stood, wrapping his arms around her heaving body.

“What happened, Jamie? Please.”

“It was all n-normal and then this one pap… h-he asked if I was a bit too young-” She gasped against his shoulder and he tucked his face into her neck “-he said… he said you only date older women-”

“Jesus, Jamie.” He squeezed her tighter to him.

“And it’s true…” He was shaking his head against her shoulder and she stuttered again, “I-it is, Harry. All of your other relationships have been with older women-”

He had gone still and the blood in her veins went cold. “Did yeh believe him?”

“What?”

He pulled away. “Did yeh believe him? When he said that I couldn’t possibly love yeh, tha’ I couldn’t possibly wan’ yeh, ‘cause yeh were me own bloody age… did yeh believe him?”

Her mouth worked wordlessly and he stepped away from her.

“Did yeh believe him?”

“H-harry…”

“Yeh did, didn’t yeh? Fuck, Jamie.”

And then he walked out. He didn’t slam the door or shout, he just walked out.

She ended up on the floor, leaning back against the bed on the far side from the door. The tears had dried but she felt drained, utterly and completely. She stared at the wall and curled herself into a ball.

Maybe an hour later, she heard the door open and she didn’t turn, couldn’t bear to see him collect something he needed and ignore her.

“I love yeh.” His voice was rougher, deeper if that was possible, with emotion. “Do yeh love me, monster?”

She nodded, chin on her knees making it a rather awkward motion, but she didn’t trust her voice.

“I need t’hear yeh say, m’love. I need te know tha’ yeh love me.”

“I love you so much.” She gasped against her knee, having a hard time catching her breath again.

She saw him sit on the floor next to her out of the corner of her eye and took another deep breath. It took him a fraction of a second to wrap an arm around her, pulling her against his side. He kissed at the tears that were already rolling down her face again.

“I love yeh so much, Jamie, so much. I’m not sure I’ve eva met someone who was so determined to take me as I presented myself, to see me the way I see me. I’ve neva met someone who wanted the me that I showed them, who didn’t want the me that the media said existed. I love yeh because you love me, yeh see me.”

“There was a time when I couldn’t see myself dating someone my own age. I said that and I meant it, I did. But it was never about age, it was about not wanting to date silly little girls, who thought I was some pretty boy with too much money. It was about dating a woman who’d seen and done and experienced the world. But every single one of those women I dated, saw me as a fling, as a boy toy, as a media tool.” 

She wrapped her arm over his middle and squeezed him. 

He kissed her temple again. “I’m not sure ye’ve ever been a silly little girl but I know yer not as naive as Dante told me yeh were. Yer smart and sharp and yeh know what yer about. There isn’t much that normally phases yeh and I’m constantly in awe of how... self-possessed yeh are, how strong. There’s so much that ye’ve seen and experienced that blessedly, hopefully, no one else our age will eva haf’te. All of what ye’ve seen would’ve hardened anyone else, made yeh one of the thousands of jaded women in Hollywood, but yeh stayed soft. Yeh let it mature yeh and yeh learned yer lessons but yeh didn’t let it turn yeh sour. Yeh still see the good in people…”

He sighed. “If yeh really believed that I wouldn’t want yeh because yer- what? -nine months younger than me, which is rubbish, then this doesn’t need to go any further, love. It can’t.”

“It wasn’t th- I…” She sighed heavily and tucked herself further into his side. “I’m so sorry and I don’t want this to end. I can’t let you go.”

He squeezed her tighter. “D’yeh believe me when I say that I love yeh?”

“Yes.” She lifted her head and looked him in the eye, wiping at the tears on her face. “Yes, I believe you.” She reached out and cupped his face with one shaking hand. His face was a bit pale, the skin around his eyes a bit red and she wondered if he’d been crying as well. She scooted as close as she possibly could, resting her forehead against his. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

He nodded and kissed her briefly. “I’m sorry too, I shouldn’t have left yeh ‘ere alone. I ran and I’m sorry.”

She nodded.

“Also, I feel like we should deal with one more thing while we’re down ‘ere.”

His tone was purposely light so she managed a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Yeh are beautiful, love. Not only here-” he tapped the center of her chest “-but physically beautiful as well. I am attracted to yeh on every level; emotionally, intellectually and physically. Your eyes and hair are fuckin’ glorious and your smile is enough to stop m’heart, love, truly. I live for makin’ yeh smile and I’m not sure I can think of somethin’ sexier than the fact that yeh laugh at all of my dumb jokes completely unironically and unashamed of how corny they are. I am proud to get t’be the one who holds your hand when we’re out. I love the way yeh look in clothes and the way yeh look naked in m’bed. Yeh have the prettiest tits I’ve ever seen, honestly.”

He grinned. “What else? I like yer hands. I like how small they are but how talented and sure. I like that they all but disappear in mine when I hold them. I love watchin’ yeh play guitar, I love how much yeh love playing the guitar. It is seriously one of the sexiest things about yeh. And yeh should see yer ass when yer wearing a nice pair of heels, thing of fuckin’ beauty that.”

“I think I understand now, Haz.”

He shrugged. “D’ye? I thought I told yeh this often, but apparently not often enough.”

“I’m sorry.” She sighed, face buried in his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her hair. “I know and I’m sorry to be badgerin’ yeh, monster, but I’m goin’ te fuckin’ narrate every bloody thought and feelin’. I’m goin’ te keep at it until yeh can look the next vulture in th’face and tell him te go fuck ‘imself.”

She kissed his shoulder. “I love you too.” She sighed. “What a fuckin’ week.”

He nodded.

“You get groped and I have a bloody meltdown.”

“It’s not a meltdown. You were harassed and sometimes it’s not easy to shake that.”

“Either way, it’s not pleasant.”

“When it rains, its pours.”

“I wish it would stop.” She grinned. “I’m from the desert. Don’t much like rain.”

“It will.” He smiled, head back against the bed. “Yer packages from Louboutin came with what looks like a lengthy apology.” He smiled down at her. “What did yeh buy?”

She stood and offered him her hand. “A purse, a pair of pumps and a pair of boots. Wanna see?”

He smiled and let her pull him to his feet. “‘Course, love.” He leaned over and kissed her deeply, smiling against her lips when she stood on her tiptoes to get closer to him. “Now show me those shoes.”

Let me start by saying that Hazza looked fuckin’ phenomenal last night, that red suit just does something to me. The show was fantastic. Everything was perfect and one of the best nights of my life. Also Jamie looked soo cute, she wore all black except for these green velvet Mary Janes I’d guess you’d call them? I dunno. They were cute. She was also rocking the big black frame glasses and the red lip. Our girl looked fine as fuck.

My favorite part of the night was What Makes You Beautiful. He sang the entire first chorus looking back at her. He even went over and danced with her for a bit while she played. It was the cutest thing ever.

We’d all noticed that she wasn’t feeling one hundred percent, she was really quiet and Mitch kept leaning in to say something to her and she’d  just shrug. It wasn’t necessarily that she looked angry or anything, she just looked a bit sad and really tired. Then this morning I saw that she’d been harassed earlier when she was shopping, so I guess that’s why.

I’m not sure it mattered because by the end of the song, she was smiling so wide.

Part VI Up Next: Part VIII

[wholesomeobsessive]

The pallbearers stood in a dark row behind the coffin, like a chorus of elders in a tragedy. Henry was the youngest one. He stood there quietly, his hands folded before him – big, white, scholarly hands, capable and well-kept, the same hands that had dug in Bunny's neck for a pulse and rolled his head back and forth on its poor broken stem while the rest of us leaned over the edge, breathless, watching. Even from that distance we could see the terrible angle of his neck, the shoe turned the wrong way, the trickle of blood from nose and mouth. He pulled back the eyelids with his thumb, leaning close, careful not to touch the eyeglasses which were skewed on top of Bunny's head. One leg jerked in a solitary spasm which quieted gradually to a twitch and then stopped. Camilla's wristwatch had a second hand. We saw them silently conferring. Climbing up the hill after her, bracing his knee with his palm, he'd wiped his hands on his trousers and answered our clamorous whispers – dead? is he-? with the brief impersonal nod of a doctor…

The Secret History by Donna Tartt