#calypsodaydreams

[fleetingcalypso]

Even children can act as Kings, even Kings can act as children.

≋ There is a certain joy in acting childish with one's lover at times. Far too often with time we become accustomed to a routine and abandon that carefreeness. Play harmless pranks on your beloveds, it is worthy if only to hear their laugh, see their smile lines and their eye crinkle.≋

≋ Cardan Greenbriar x Jude Duarte ≋

≋ Word count: 1350 words.

≋ CW: Mentions of alcohol. This is set sometime after Queen of Nothing, nowhere specific in the timeline, just a dip into Cardan and Jude's married life.

“Quit your squirming and drink this.” Jude’s ever present frown is noticeable even just by the tone of her voice, “I’d rather not have to pry your lips open, pour tea down your throat and risk staining these pristine sheets.” She was met just with an amused hum, coming from the bump currently occupying the High King’s bed, unruly raven strands of hair stand out against the blankets. “Your aim is far too perfect to ever miss my lips, sweetest joy I’ve ever known.” His muffled voice fails to hide the saccharine honey dripping from his words, in fact it did nothing to dissuade her from the matter at hand: make Cardan drink a hot tea to facilitate his return to sobriety. 

Brown eyes roll in annoyance and her free hand itches to throw the covers off his body, pin him to the bed and make him listen to her, but knowing him he’d find no lesson nor punishment from it, only pleasure. “You’ll find that flattery rarely ever is a way to change my mind, Cardan. I won’t repeat myself, sit up and drink.” Oh, how he loves that sliver of a threat in her voice. Reluctantly his form emerges from his burrow, with sluggish movements and a low groan that sounds anything but dignified. He’s sitting up at last, but the worst is yet to come: the herbal tea residing in the golden goblet Jude holds needs to be drank by his royal lips, and if he’s so kindly complied with sitting up, she can only imagine how much the High King is going to whine before he takes even the smallest of sips. To her surprise no whine comes, instead, as Cardan is greeted by a scowling face -of which he is too busy admiring pouty soft lips he knows taste like a golden sunset- Jude is greeted with rosy cheeks,a glazed gaze veiling a trickster’s twinkle and the smallest peek of pearly white teeth biting down on a bottom lip that is still damp with what is most likely faerie wine. For what feels like forever, but very well could have been only a second, the only movement in the room is midnight eyes running across all of Jude’s features, drinking her in like she was the sweetest of inebriants, resting at the very bottom of a bottle, swirling around in a hurricane of red at the slightest movement of his hand. “Every time I look at you, wife, you always look more beautiful than the last. And when I blink, and my eyes are shut, that’s when the magic happens, I can still spot you imprinted in the darkness. That’s never enough for my greedy heart, though, lucky for me when light comes back, you’re still there. You don’t disappear when the dark fades. You never do.” There are the words of a drunk, Jude needs to remind herself: a drunk who is very much in love with her, a drunk who married her and fought against all odds to forever keep her by his side, a drunk who is the High King of Elfhame and who rules on , but a drunk nonetheless. A foolish enamored fae who thinks he can get out of sobriety with the allure of a few sweet words.  No one could be this adoring to another living being, she’s sure of it, he seems to wholly be the contradiction to each and every one of her assumptions about the world. The way his words don’t slur almost turns her into a helpless victim to his charm. Almost. “Drink, Cardan.” Not even a single droplet of tea accidentally rolls down the goblet when she taps the edge of it against his bottom lip. Another hum escapes him as his eyes narrow, maybe the scent of sweet herbs swirled together delights him, or maybe, just maybe it’s her being too flustered to say anything that makes his heart sing.

“This is what I awake for, each day of my lowly life,” he says, his voice swirling in the air like a glamour as his long, rings-clad fingers graze hers while wrapping around the cup, “To hear you say my name, just like that. You make it sound like a curse and a blessing, all at once.” 

“Cardan,” she insists he stops talking and begins drinking. After another moment of admiring her, the corner of his lips curls upwards, he takes just a small sip, barely enough liquid makes it into the warmth of his mouth to be considered one. “Done.” His voice is a level of low she’s heard only a handful of times before. 

The scoff that leaves her is almost comedic, he doesn’t miss a second before his voice from low becomes a purr from the back of his throat, “I’ve done it, my love. Shouldn’t I be rewarded?” Jude’s fingers softly tilt his head up, she should have seen this coming. “You’ll get your reward when you drink all of your tea, you sly, cunning thing.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” He breathes.

“You could always find out.” 

“I don’t need to. I know you’re not lying,” The goblet slips out of his hand and hits the floor with a clunk after he chugs what is probably the sweetest herbal tea ever created. A rivulet descends down his chin and he does not bother to wipe it.

Her world and its views shift when Cardan pulls her onto the bed, next to him with a swift motion. “Reward me, now.” He murmurs, his hand cupping the back of her head, fingers threading through brown locks. He doesn’t have to wait much, she’s eager to give him his prize just as much as he’s eager to receive it. 

Their lips meet in the middle first in a soft kiss, until it evolves and it becomes difficult to ascertain where Jude ends and where Cardan begins. His knee nestles itself between her thighs, her hands slide into his unbuttoned shirt, their breaths are entangled as one. 

“I love watching you fight,” he sighs against her neck, “Even if it’s against me. Especially if it’s against me.” His fingers draw invisible, shapeless figures on her back, sending shivers down her spine, they’re still clothed but when he holds her like this she can’t help but feel naked, completely and utterly naked. 

Their glistening lips meet one last time before Cardan’s hand slides down to intertwine his fingers with hers, “It was worth it.” One slightly confused look from his human goddess prompts him to elaborate, “Having to drink that horrendously sweet tea for the second time. It was worth it, if it got you to look at me the way you do.”

“Second time?” Jude sits up, her head tilts in an even deeper confusion, this time whirling with a blossom of confusion that quickly shifts into annoyance once it clicks. 

His laugh echoes in the room, “Liliver all but forced it down my throat a couple hours ago as you threatened to do, just now. While her… quite intimidating ways have worked on me, I was curious to see how you’d convince me. As it turns out, not even my darling wife can unmask my facade when she’s busy worrying about me.” 

Satisfaction tastes sweet, it tastes even sweeter when a soft pillow hits him a number of times, knowing he was able to trick his quick-witted Jude and that she is retaliating with the one thing she finds comfort in: violence, although a softer, more sensible version of it, is a feeling he’ll never grow tired of. To Jude’s dissatisfaction Cardan’s laugh only grows louder and more melodic.

It’s a bright, warm summer’s day in Elfhame. From Insmire, to Insmoor and Insweal no one has any idea that the High King and the High Queen are busy having a pillow fight in the privacy of their bedroom, not a soul would suspect that just for a moment their monarchs are playing like children, keeping secrets from the world like teens and living their love like grown ups.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jude x cardan #jurdan #the cruel prince #the folk of the air

[fleetingcalypso]

HIIII, if you don't mind me asking!

I have a prompt in mind thanks to a post I saw the other day on Instagram, and I think it's PERFECT for an Henry Winters fic, so here it is!

It is said that the ancient Greeks used the throwing of an apple to propose, and if you accepted the marriage proposal you caught the apple mid air.

Imagine that, after years of friendship and relationship, Henry proposes to y/n by throwing her?them? an apple and they caught it 👀👀👀

I'D LOVE TO HEAR YOUR OPINION

≋ Thank you for being my very first companion in this new beginning. I'll happily indulge you. I can only hope my vision is satisfactory.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word count: around 2,4k words.

≋ TW: Slight misogyny, probable manipulation and toxic relationship, Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran.

Henry Winter is a disease. I took notice the first time I laid my eyes on him. He carries himself as if he is Atlas, mantaining the entire world on his shoulders and as if the it weighs nothing at all. His friend group is not any better, quite frankly: twins, incestuous ones clinging to each other like abandoned pups, a queer young man, with hair as red as the sunset and a mask to put Melpomene and Thalia to shame, an insufferable brat and a clean slate of a man, completely and utterly empty inside, stuck in his fantasy. For some insane reason, I found myself part of this whorehouse as well.

Henry Winter rises above all of them, I fully believe that. The world bends to his will, it always has and it always will. He is the tempestuous sea that grinds down the cliff, he is the wind that bends trees with only a light breeze, Henry Winter in his magnificence is the Sun which the World revolves around. 

He stands on the edge of the lake as I see him, towering over the calm surface, trusted book resting in the crook of his elbow and a red apple in his hand. If I squint and let the sun go into my eyes for a moment, I can wholly see him as Zeus, King of the Gods, unshackled by any guilt or any error he might have upon himself, he grips the fruit of sin in his palm, his thumb stroking the skin of it as if it was a lover’s cheek. “Henry,” I call out to the wind and I feel the Heaven I had created in my mind collapse when my voice reaches him. His gaze breaks from the horizon, it sets itself upon my figure, it feels like I’m no longer standing near Francis’ lake house, instead I’m perambulating through the Elysian Fields, at the edge of the world. This man is a disease, he is a drug, and I am but a servant of his world slowly stealing crumbs of what he offers me, becoming an addict before I can realize it.

“You should have stayed back with the others. I’ll be but a minute.” He speaks and it’s a subtle order the one he gives me, but I’ve never been one to follow instructions, even if given by Gods of his caliber. I am unable to move from my spot. It is an impossible task, almost herculean, how could it be anything else when this is one of the very rare moments we can catch, with just us present.

At my insolent inobedience, his lips tilt up into a grin. It is a swift motion as he tosses the apple to me, an even swifter motion as I grab it. And it ends there: Paris has chosen the one to whom the Golden Apple belongs to. He wordlessly approaches me, spins me around, rests his warm hand on the small of my back and guides me back to the house.

A week later, as I’m nursing him back to health after he's found himself victim to a vicious migraine, his kitchen acts as my sanctuary and it isn’t until after ten minutes of pure silence that his house phone rings, on the other side of it none other than Bunny. “How’s Henry?” He asks, and I doubt he is looking for an honest answer, “He’s resting,” I reply, hoping he might find some other poor sinner to bother. To my displeasure, he keeps talking, tasking me with the lowly chore of having to listen to him.

“That’s too bad! I’ve been meaning to talk to him about something of the utmost importance,” He professes, his smirk perfectly audible in the tone of his voice.

“I’m sure I can pass along the message, what is it, Bunny?” “Oh, I was just wondering if he could lend me a couple hundred dollars before he begins going mental trying to organize your wedding.” Now, this was one of the most dumbfounding sentences Bunny had ever spoken into existence. Even if it was for a fleeting moment, my mind could not comprehend him: ‘your wedding’ he had said, like he expected me to agree as second nature. “My wedding, Bunny?” I sought further information, with not little confusion in my voice, his newly founded dubiety mimicking my feelings. 

“Yes? Your wedding. You know, the one Henry proposed to you not so long ago? Have you really forgotten?”  His ‘know-it-all’ tone doesn’t do much to help me find what grain of peace of mind I have lost. “No, Bunny. Henry did not propose to me, you must be mistaken. We are not engaged, whatever you are drinking is doing you more harm than good.”

“Ah, but I’m as sober as a stone carving, dearest friend,” and there it is again, the mockery that so perfectly encapsulates what Edmund ‘Bunny’ Corcoran is. If Henry is a disease, then Bunny is the plague itself. “And I am not mistaken, I don’t know what the point of acting secretively is now that we all know about your engagement. You’re acting ridiculous.” 

For once in my life, I find Bunny’s words interesting, and for as much as I would love for it to be reality, I know an engagement with Henry never occurred. Lest I was too inebriated to properly recall it.

“I for one,” he keeps talking, much to my dismay when I see Henry staggering into the room, “Would be heartbroken if my Marion were to forget a romantic proposal such as the one you experienced. Ah! I can feel it shattering already, my poor heart.”

“Bunny, I have to go.”

“Wait! What about the mon-” I’m quick to interrupt him by hanging up. With time it’s become almost an artstyle: ignoring Bunny’s requests this way is something not even Henry himself is able to do.

My fingers are still tightly wrapped around the handset, the only noise I hear is Henry’s rugged breathing as he struggles to keep himself upright. Such a prideful man, bested by a migraine. Were I not caught up in an internal turmoil I would have precipitously scrambled by his side, wrapped my arm around his body and guided him to his armchair, but now? Now I watch him, and he watches me. His eyes are like a hawk’s, they pierce right through me.

He hasn’t heard what Bunny said, I know it, I’m certain of it. Then, why is it that I feel like in front of me is not a man, but judge, jury and executioner. He’s waiting for me to do anything, my Achilles’ heel is waiting, standing right in front of me and it seems unsure of what to do: to mercilessly bore himself through me as a spear does to an enemy soldier  or to let me make the first step into the battlefield unharmed.

“Bunny called.” My voice is unrecognizable to me, his hum is enough for me to keep talking, “He is often unruly, foolish and to be completely honest unbearable. One can always expect to be mocked when in his presence,” Why I find myself detailing our friend’s manners is unclear, perhaps I am searching for a grain of context where I can find only unsureness, “But he said something peculiar today, to my surprise. Something I find myself clinging on. It was but a short-lived conversation, yet, it flooded my mind with ‘what-ifs’.”

“Even Bunny has his moments.” His attempt at a joke is but a mere flicker of light humor, a fickle attempt to avoid this situation we are both stuck in. Knowing him, Henry right now would love nothing more than a glass of whiskey and for me to start working on his dinner. So I do. A sigh abandons my lips as I move to the kitchen, and before I know it I’ve abandoned the subject at hand, focusing instead on the sound of the bottom of his glass makes as it makes contact with the wooden table.

Henry, my gentle savior, pops me out of my bubble with just a few words. “I have yet to properly thank you for taking care of me this way.” I feel he wants to say more so I don’t interrupt and as expected my transcendental divinity blesses me with his voice once again, “My kitchen feels right with you in it, there’s a dent in the place you always occupy on the couch, for some reason I can’t bring myself to fluff it out.” A beat passes, “My bed feels warmer with you in it.”

Nights with him weren’t all that rare, but they also weren’t a regular occurrence. I know I’m not the only one to have seen Henry in his most intimate moments, the sheer passion we have shared wasn’t one that he kept locked away just for me. He is a giver, at heart. His heart, although cold and behind bars, has a need to give, all the time. I fear he thinks that if he does not give, then he has nothing himself. 

“Are you saying I should move in with you?” I ask, the spoon I’m using to stir his dinner almost abandons my hands to fall into the pot. He is easier to read than he thinks, or maybe I am a fool with a crooked halo. 

“I feel it is only proper.” His presence behind me is noticeable only when his arms wrap around me, his chest presses against my back and I delude myself this is a display of affection for an invisible audience, I mislead myself into imagining we are in  a house full of people gazing at us with a soft smile on their faces, being participants of what could be our affection for each other. I know better. From the way his arms twitch, my beloved Henry is only using me as a crutch to make sure I am not burning his food. 

“Is it?” The ability to form sentences seems to have fled my mind, “And why is that? Simply because I nurse you back to health?” 

“I won’t lie and say that’s not part of why I want you here. I would have thought you had understood by now.”

Maybe I don’t know Henry as well as I do, because his words strike me with each syllable. “What Bunny said, he said something about a wedding. My wedding, your wedding, our wedding.” 

And just like that the bandaid comes off. And a response never comes. His hair tickles my neck and the cold rim of his glasses sends goosebumps down my neck when he nuzzles his face in my shoulder. Now I’m sure I don’t know him at all.

“Our wedding.” He finally breaks the silence when he notices the spoon inevitably fell into the pot. I hear his soft whisper directly into my ear.

As my head turns to try and find his gaze, my eye falls onto the basket of apples set on the counter. Red ones, like the ones near the lake house. Red, the color of love, of passion and of blood. It ties together the two most gruesome things in human history, a pair that cannot be undone not even by divine intervention: Love and Murder.

“I thought you’d be overjoyed to be my bride. Was I wrong?” There’s a challenge in his tone, he wants to be challenged, almost wants me to deny him, but Henry knows. He knows I cannot deny him, ever. I don’t want to deny him. 

Now it seems so obvious. Henry must think me a fool for having taken so long, even so, teasing him tastes just like sweet ambrosia and no matter how much I try, part of me cannot be restrained.

“Throwing an apple at a girl to claim her as your bride might have been the fashion back then,” His smirk is pressed into my skin as his lips kiss the spot right under my ear, “But might I have to remind you, Henry, not all of us are as knowledgeable about Ancient Greece's customs as you are. It was such an ephemeral moment it did not seem to have much meaning.”

“I’m offended, I’ll have you know I put quite a lot of thought into it.” His hands rest on my waist as they have done so many times, only now it doesn’t feel as inconspicuous as it used to be. I’m the last one to know, this is a first. 

“I doubt aiming a fruit at my face took you much thought.”

“On the contrary, dearest. Were my toss too strong it would have hurt you, and that was not my intention.” His hand is warm, it’s all I can feel when it rests on my cheek, and as he did while holding the apple that day, his thumb strokes my skin. “It was entertaining to see you so oblivious, I have to admit, even if I owe Bunny around two hundred dollars now.”

“What for?”

“He bet everyone that you would not understand what my action meant until someone brought your attention to it.”

“That bastard.”

I have a sneaking feeling a diamond ring will sit on my finger before tomorrow, but for the time being, this is fine. Jewelry, accessories have never meant much, it’s just gold, silver, rubies. The way his lips press against mine to muffle my laugh means much more than any diamond ever could. I’ve spent long trying to not fall in love with Henry, and now I’ll spend even longer knowing what being loved by him feels like. 

He is my Paris, kidnapping me from my rotten existence to be with him, and unlike Helen I accept this fate. Unlike Helen, I love my abductor, I love him so much this doesn’t even feel like a transgression. Henry holds my heart in his hands, as he did that apple, and it is his choice to chuck it as far as he can or to gently place it in a basket in his home. For the time being, he is being as generous as to handle me with nothing but love and care. If our story is to be narrated, like a Greek myth, like a victorious hymn, let it be forever like this, while we hold each other in our kitchen, exchanging the first kisses of our real, unmasked love.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #the secret history #the secret history x reader #henry winter x reader #oneshot #gn reader #reader insert #dark academia #fluff #angst

[fleetingcalypso]

Hii!! So I've been obsessed with the two fics you've written about Henry so far. The way you write is pure art ♡

I was wondering, if we have already seen the way the reader/significant other thinks of Henry, how would he think of them? Say, during a slow, surprisingly lazy morning, where the sun peeks through the window and falls over the entanglement of sheets that lay atop the bed, along with the two lovers. Soft caresses, lingering kisses, or just the simple act of holding one another, I'd be more than ecstatic to see what would go through that pretty mind of his.

Have a lovely day, and if you choose this as your next prompt, I want to thank you in advance ♡♡♡

≋ Silent mornings, roaring thoughts. Is he capable of loving something other than the feeling of being loved?

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 1123 words.

≋ TW: Mentions of dr*gs (h*roin, c*caine), religious imagery, possible toxic relationship

It's not the birds chirping outside his window that inconsiderately pull him from his slumber, neither is the way playful sunrays of the dawn sent by Eos kiss his skin as they make their way into the room. The only culprit for his sudden awakening is the absence of a familiar body in his arms. 

With his tired eyes still closed, Henry reaches towards the side of the bed where he knows, without the shadow of a doubt, his companion is still sleeping soundly, the soft breaths he hears coming from them almost lull him back into Hypnos' world. Rolling away from his embrace in the middle of the night, what audacity they have. Soon enough, their back is once again pressed against him, one strong arm protectively wrapped around their body, securing them in his hold. He is able to press his lips to the back of their neck for a chaste kiss just in time before sleep washes over him like the gentlest of tsunamis. 

When Henry awakens for the second time that morning, he does not spare a second to let his eyelids part and cast his gaze to the ravishing - although looking quite blurry- human lying alongside him, stroking his face and occasionally pushing midnight colored strands of hair away from his forehead. He does not speak. There is no need to. The only truly meaningful silence in the world is confined between the four walls of his bedroom, comfortable and soothing. The outside can be unreasonably boisterous, for all he cares, he is going to pay it no mind. They’re in the eye of the storm.

It was immaculate moments like these, with his beloved stretching their arm back towards the nightstand, fishing out his glasses from the many scattered papers on the surface that made him somewhat happy. This ambiguous domesticity he never really thought anyone was worthy of sharing with him in the beginning had caught him by surprise. It snuck up on him, lurking, until there was not a single way of avoiding it. 

 And so he watches wordlessly as the indistinct figure apparently cleans his glasses using the edge of their sleeping shirt, which is actually his, before setting them delicately onto his nose. If questioned about it, he will forever, incessantly deny the way his heart throbs harder in his chest when their fingers slide behind his ears and tickle his neck, to make sure the temple tips fit just right. It's just a momentary touch, yet it's akin to a shot of heroin or a sniff of cocaine. 

Instead of a simple good morning he opts for something slightly more doting as he leans forward, capturing their lips with his. Henry doesn't even have to pull them in. They do it themselves, what a sweet lamb. He relishes in the way their body and mind acts by his unspoken, implicit commands. He offers them a taste and they crave a banquet: when soft hands land on his bare chest he does not stop them, when a soft hum of indulgence joins the orchestra of blankets rustling and breaths entangling he pulls away. 

Alas, he speaks, “Greedy bird,” his voice is deep and gravelly, warm like the very sunrays that still sneak their way into the room, acting like prying spectators to a viewerless play. 

“Good morning,” they greet him with a whisper. There’s an exhilarating satisfaction in knowing that each time the sun rises, there is already a devoted follower standing at the gates of his Church, hands clasping a rosary until its shape is engraved in their flesh, halfway through a prayer, and each time the sun sets, said worshiper doesn’t leave after the end of the sermon, no, they stay back and clean the blood-stained altar with their clothes. It gets him high, makes his blood boil in his veins. It’s the closest thing to feeling like a God he has experienced while going about the mundanity of everyday life.

He kisses them again. And again. And again. Until they’re the ones to pull back, the breath in their lungs being insufficient.

They’re the greedy one Henry reminds himself as his fingers dig into their waist, they’re the greedy one he chants in his head as his lips find their neck and suck on the supple skin, they’re the greedy one he insists as he finds himself addicted to the way their fingers move through his hair. 

In the back of his psyche a humming, wretched hypothesis forms. He tunes it out as best as he can, even thinking about acknowledging it feels like treason against himself.

“I love you,” They break him out of his spiraling thoughts. He doesn’t say it back. Instead his veiny hands reach to cup their face, he holds them like they’re prepared and willing to be laid upon a sacrificial stone and be gutted in the name of devotion, but instead of a knife to the neck he bestows upon them a kiss between the eyes. 

They constantly guide him to a state of self-questioning. Is it love what he feels? Surely not. It is not love that instructs him to kiss their brow, their cheekbone, their jaw, until he reaches their lips once again. Certainly, it cannot be love that tilts the corner of his lips into a soft smile when his palms heats up from their cheeks flushing.

Unavoidably, he realizes, it is love that binds him to the bed they’re in and the sneaking suspicion that blossomed in a moment of absent-minded bliss was wholly factual. Veiling his growing feelings behind an invisible curtain served only to secure him into a state of hiding, and each time he desperately put his efforts in persuading himself that he did not know what love was a wind picked up, disregarding his wishes and pushing away the imperceptible shield he was putting up.

“As do I.” He replies, in a hushed whisper, rolling onto his back. Only at this instant he feels the tightness in his muscles, that with a groan he tries to stretch away, his arms lifting above his head.

“Do you? Love me?”

“I do.”

“What if I don’t believe it?”

Henry turns to look at them, taking apart each microexpression their face is incapable of hiding. “You do believe it.” Before they can counter, he speaks again, shushing them, “Now, quit your singing, my nightingale. Let’s avoid our responsibilities for just a big longer.” And subserviently they comply, resting their head onto his chest. Even if he won’t outright say the words they want to hear that is fine, his heartbeat has always betrayed him and revealed the truth. They’re both greedy, for the same sin but in different ways.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #henry winter x reader #henry winter #the secret history #the secret history x reader #tsh donna tartt #fluff #dark academia #reader insert

[fleetingcalypso]

Hello love! i'm absolutely enraptured by your writing. If i could, i'd love to request a Henry Winter x Reader enemies to lovers? Like an absolutely cut-throat academic rivalry that culminates in a dramatic fight and reconciliation at Francis' house? Thank you!

≋ Sometimes attraction blossoms even in the most hostile of places. I'm sure having Henry's life could only benefit from having a rival, turning his world upside down, keeping him on his toes. This is one of my longest works yet, also one I'm not too keen on, nonetheless I pray it captures your interest.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 4582 words.

≋ TW: mentions of dr*gs, consumption of alcohol, violence (Henry receives a slap in a moment of ire), Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran.

I remember when I initially stepped foot in Julian’s office: most of the words he spoke are lost in time but one thing is forever stitched in the fabric of my memory, he patted me on the shoulder as an affectionate mentor would and with an award winning smile he said, “You’ll fit right in.” It made me feel validated at the time, like I had a place in the world, a bird fallen out of its nest reunited with its family at last. He wasted no seconds in telling me how he would usually limit his students to the odd number of only five, but he could tell there was something about the way I carried myself that would not disturb the peaceful routine he had meticulously crafted.

Classes with Julian were anything but peaceful, to my displeasure, not because of him, not at all. He was a splendid instructor, I often found myself on the edge of my seat with each one of his words. With no surprise, I was not the only one placing him on a crystal pedestal. 

One single man made each class feel as though I was being tortured by demons, poked by sharp pointy tails. Each of my comments was brushed off, deemed useless and void of meaning, each paragraph, line, even a single word I read was followed by a deep voice interrupting me and correcting my pronunciation with great emphasis. Thankfully, I had found friends as well, other than a snake spiraling around my ankle, threatening to consume me whole.

The root of all of my headaches, as much as I’d love to strip him of his name, is called Henry Winter.

It’s not to say that I’d let him walk all over me. On more than one occasion, I was victorious after our heated discussions about the accuracy of a translated text or if we were to choose one of the five Greek cases over another. Following each argument his jaw would clench and he’d let out a curt “Very well, then,” before turning his head away and acting as if nothing had happened, although I could without fail notice the tension in his body. It was rather easy, for some unknown reason we’d always find ourselves sitting next to each other, so close our knees touched.

“Henry,  is there anything you’re unable to do?” One day I asked him, in Julian’s momentary absence, the question felt only natural to pose: with his expertise in various languages and his familiarity with the world in Ancient Greece being so fascinating. The taunting tone in my voice caught the attention of not only my interlocutor, but the rest of our classmates as well. Six pairs of eyes were fixed on me, some looking more amused than others.  His response came only after Bunny elbowed him, egging him on, “Ensuring you will not plague my days, apparently,” he said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. The venom he spat failed to enter my system, nonetheless it makes my gaze narrow. 

“You always know what to say.” It’s not a question this time, but an observation which he rewarded with a “Of course I do. Lack of words is for the uncultured.” Our interaction was cut short due to Julian returning, but that would not be the end of it.

That very same day, after our lesson was over we all stood to leave, his hand found the spot on the small of my back as he walked past me, as if it belonged there by birthright. Sometimes I still feel it, the memory creeps up on me in the middle of the night, it keeps me awake whilst making me want more and more of him, like a cruel, vicious, thrilling drug I am unable to have a sober day from.

Class wasn’t the only occasion of the day where we would have contrasting thoughts: once, it happened during a morning when all seven of us sat in the library, open books and notebooks scattered all over our table, “This is going nowhere,” groaned Charles pushing the wrinkled paper he was writing onto towards my direction, “Take a look at this. What do you think?” 

It stroked my ego that he chose my opinion over Henry’s and by a flying glance I noticed a slight surprised glint in his blue eyes, though he was quick to conceal it by focusing onto the fountain pan in his hand. I wasn’t the only one surprised by our friend’s choice in who should aid him in his translation. 

After a short look, the mistake was clear, “Ah, here it is. Your writing is not inherently wrong, ‘Who dares think one thing, and another tell, my heart detests him as the gates of hell,’ while it is correct, it could be worded in a different way, try: ‘For hateful to me as the gates of Hādēs is that man who hides one thought in his mind, but speaks another.’ That should flow better.” Just to be certain - and perhaps to bother him just a small amount - I turned to Henry, “Shouldn’t it?” He didn’t move for a second before humming and nodding, although I might have overheard him whisper “You’re doing too much,” under his breath. When I handed the paper back to its owner I could spot Francis with his hand over his lips, trying to mask a grin, obviously amused by my exchange with our friend.

The amount of times we’ve debated over the littlest of things, it would take all the stars in the universe to count, and it still would not be enough. 

“You’re slow today.” He whispered to me one day, when I hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to answer one of Julian’s queries about the Iliad, his breath tickled my ear and sent goosebumps down the back of my neck. It's true, I was slow. Henry's cologne for some insane reason was all I could think about: his closeness to me, as much as it was far by greatly affecting my attention, it certainly was reluctantly occupying a part of my mind. “Have you considered that not every thought should be spoken out loud?” I argued, the left corner of his lips lifted into a crooked half smile, “Interesting. You could benefit from your own advice.” He said, and it ended there. It left me with something I can’t quite recognize.

Ultimately, every day turned into a competition: petty, small things that held my heart hostage, like who was the first to enter Julian’s office at the beginning of the day, who turned in an essay the fastest, whose penmanship was more aesthetically pleasing and whose comments in class were rewarded with more praise. 

Another episode in which I thought our rivalry was set in stone, from the very moment he laid eyes on me, happened during a quiet Wednesday, and we were enjoying a delicious lunch at the twins’ place. Camilla had cooked lamb chops, the rest of us had brought refreshments and some side dishes.  Henry got a hold of my chair before I could grab it, he pulled it out for me then took a seat in the chair furthest away from mine. 

In the middle of our meal, as I was diving in for seconds, Bunny interrupted the calm atmosphere that had formed by being his usual exasperating self and kicking my leg from under the table, “You know,” He began waving his fork in my direction, with his lips still dirty with food, “I’ve always wondered, whenever you look at Julian with stars in your eyes, is it because you truly care about what he has to say, or is it because you’re trying to suck up to him and get easy marks by being a teacher’s pet? He’s too old for you, you know?” From the seat next to me I swear I could hear Charles choke on his food, Richard’s jaw fell open, Francis looked positively disgusted, Camilla -poor soul- pushed her plate away, as the mental image of me being in love with our professor was plastered into her unwilling mind. The only one with no visible reaction was Henry. 

“That’s what I thought as well, at first,” He noted, dabbing his lips with his napkin, “Class with Julian is not a slice of bread even the dirty pigeons on the sidewalk can stumble upon. It is only a matter of time before you realize what blessing you’ve found.” He was a master of masking a mocking undertone in his voice, along with an air of superiority which implied that the one thing he was waiting for was for me to blow up, to storm away, pack my stuff and leave Vermont for good.

“Don’t you think assuming my inability to follow lessons with the rest of you is an insult to Julian’s ability to tell whether someone is worth his time or not? If I were him I’d be quite offended, if I can say so.”

The glare he shot at me, with his blue eyes piercing through his glasses, was enough for me to know I had won; the way he was gripping his fork, his knuckles white as ever, let me know that this was not only a win, this was one of his battleships sinking. This was war, as far as I was concerned, it could only end either with an impossible truce or until one of us was dead in a ditch. 

Not wanting to entirely ruin lunch, Francis was the one to change the subject. What he said I do not remember, as I was too busy basking in my own subtle victory to pay attention, but it did work and Henry made no further jabs at me that day. The same cannot be said for Bunny, who seemed to find it exhilarating that I would stand up to Henry the way I did and spent the rest of the day testing my patience.

Since that day, life has been notably bloodless between me and the human thorn in my side, with the occasional exception. I’ve come to notice that, when he is not wasting his time trying his best to get on my nerves, he passes as a truly handsome man. It might be something about the sheer size of him, or it could very well be the way he looks at me,his gaze permanently deeper than the ocean itself, as well as his hands, veiny and large, yet rarely rough in movements. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve spent far too many instants passing glimpses at his fingers, as they slide along the pages of books.

If I have to stand in front of a jury of Gods, though, and speak my naked truth - with no censors - I’d probably reveal that what is so fascinating about Henry is the way he is a bottomless well of knowledge about Ancient Greece. He is devoted to it, as he is devoted to Julian and in some sick twisted way I can’t help but find that veneration attractive. 

Against my better judgment, I find myself missing our banter more than anything. The way he stared me down used to give me goosebumps, it still does when my eyelids close and I imagine it.

Summer comes faster than I imagine, faster than lightning striking the Earth, and in the blink of an eye I find myself at Francis’s aunt’s house. All of us fell into a comfortable rhythm while residing here, it was a breath of fresh air compared to our daily life. Playing the piano, reading in the vast library, excursions out to the lake, we kept ourselves busy, enjoying the countryside, keeping what -at the time- felt like the biggest secret of our lives from Richard.

At my awakening I was delighted in discovering everyone else was still deep in sleep. I took it as permission to make some breakfast. I had placed two cups of coffee on the table when he made his way into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and not a single sight of his usual exhaustion on his face. Morning sunlight shines onto his skin, giving it a warm glow, he looks positively saintlike. An archangel descending from the heavens, waiting to be welcomed to my mass, just to notify me that the end is coming sooner than I expect. “I made coffee.” I said, setting a cup in front of him. He looked at it for a moment, just for a moment, before his doubt shrouded eyes met mine,  “I have a feeling you’ve poisoned this.” As he was debating whether to accept my offer, Charles joined us. He accepted a cup without a moment’s hesitation, downed it while throwing his head back, then walked off to God knows where, not like I care much.

Henry took a sip only after witnessing that it was indeed safe to do so, I did as well. As the hot liquid met his taste buds I could see him regret he ever came into the kitchen. It was coffee, yes, although unlike my cup which had sugar at the bottom of it, the one he was drinking from had salt in it. A smile tugged at my lips, “Good morning,” I said watching his face scrunch up and force himself to not spit out what was in his mouth. A puzzled look possesses my face as he doesn’t look away from my eyes, not for one second, his eyebrows scrunch while he doesn’t spill a drop of salted coffee, it all slides down his throat. “Good morning.” He replies, coldly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. 

By the time everyone had come to have breakfast, whether it was a glass of wine, whiskey or any drink of their choice, Henry hadn’t moved. With him following my every move, it felt only natural to imagine he’d be scheming something, and my hypothesis would soon reveal itself to ring true, leaving me like a sailor at sea, in the middle of an impenetrable storm.

The sun burns high in the sky, then it slowly melts into the sea, showering the world in tones of red, gold and purple; we spent dawn-to-dark  in nature, feeling the blades of grass under our feet, taking turns sitting on a boat floating down the lake and resting by the shadows of the trees with books in our lap, the seraphic nature of the day could have been immortalized in a painting by Michelangelo himself, but no amount of expertise with the brush would be able to capture the unmitigated calm that reigned. 

Such a glorious day deserves to have an equally splendid ending, suggested Francis once we retired back to the house. Bottles were hastily opened, alcohol floating in glasses and finding a home between thirsty lips. Inebriation wasted no time in letting  inhibitions be on the loose. One small insignificant disagreement accounted as an act of hypothetical insubordination broke into an altercation between me and my nemesis. It went on forever, such an interminable occasion that our friends abandoned us in the kitchen and went on to enjoy their drinks in the library.

“I don’t think you should be here,” His vicious words didn’t faze me at that point, the knowledge that in his idea of a perfect world I was nowhere to be found wasn’t lost on me, “You should get in your car and drive far, far away from where my eye can’t reach.” The first two buttons of his shirt were nonchalantly unbuttoned distracting me for just a moment, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with each sound caught my attention. 

“Careful my friend,” I answered, fingers growing cold from the cool glass in my hand, being gripped with an unusual stability given the wine floating in my system, his face twitched at my name for him, “It almost sounds like my very existence bothers you more than one could imagine.”

“It does. Bother me, it is. It bothers me greatly. I don’t think you should be here” He repeats. As magnanimous as I am, I am no martyr. My glass hits the table with a thud, bright red splashes onto the tablecloth as I raise my voice louder than I would like, “What the fuck is your problem?!” Never in my life had I met a human as frustrating as him, “I can’t imagine I’ve done much to you the first day I sat in that office, yet, you’ve been nothing but unkind towards me.”

“What is my problem?!” He pushes himself to his feet, his voice loud to match mine, “You are my problem!  You’re always having something to prove, buzzing about like a working insect devoted to the queen bee, it’s exhausting to even have you sit next to me.”  I’m tempted to spill my drink in his face, what a sight it would be: savory red drops slipping down his glasses and hair, wetting his cheeks and jaw until it reached his lip. Instead of that I just shove him, resulting in him stumbling a step backwards, clearly not expecting the mouse to fight back against the owl trying to catch it.

“Have you ever even glimpsed in a mirror?! You act as if you’re so all-mighty, like the rest of the world is merely ants under your shoe! It’s nerve wracking when you find someone you can’t step all over isn't it? How does it feel to have found the one person in the world that does not bow down to you?” He enrages me, in all truth. I can’t bring myself to understand why it is, that now of all times, he makes my blood boil, in more ways than one, “Does it turn your stomach upside down? Is it the only thing you can think about?” 

His chest moved for just a single, shaky breath and by now I knew I was playing with fire. If I got burned by touching the sun, at the very least it means I flew high enough to touch it. My hands moved again, ready to push him once again however just a breath before my lips could part to berate him even more his hands caught my wrists.

“You’re a parasite.” He hisses, lowering his face close to mine, by my reflection in the lenses of his glasses it is plain to see his choice of words leaves a mark, not on my face as a slap would, but on my emotions, “You’re a tiny, disgusting, parasite. You’ve single handedly infiltrated yourself in my modus operandi and I am just waiting for the moment I can finally take a moment to breathe again. Since the day you’ve set foot in that office I have, not once, had a chance to relax.” My body reacts before I can allow it to do so, the red handprint forming on his right cheek and his glasses being askew -almost on the brink of falling-  confirm that I did, indeed, strike him in a fit of rage. How I was able to free one of my limbs from his death grip I do not know, adrenaline does some wonderful miracles.

“If I’m a parasite,” My voice comes out in a low growl, “Then you best pay attention I don’t end up killing you.” The more I stand in his presence, in this kitchen, having our chests rising in synch with the slowest breaths we have ever taken, I recognize just how much we latch onto each other, how we’ve stitched our existence together with an obsidian thread the very first time we sat with our knees grazing.

“You’ll be the death of me.” He admits in a whisper I can barely hear. Had our faces not been as close as they are, I’d probably would have thought he’d been mouthing nonsense. One second he’s all I can see, with his monumental figure blocking everything else, the next he’s walking away from me, his glass of wine sits on the tablecloth, still full, untouched.

Now I know how Pandora felt as she unintentionally let the vase she was gifted almost grow empty, now I could describe in meticulous detail what a bee feels after its first and final sting.

I do not join my friends in their gathering. My chest aches with something unfamiliar, comfort certainly won’t be known for as long as I find myself anywhere near Henry Winter.

The moon has reached its place in the sky by barely an hour now, a pearl glistening onto a fabric of pure pitch-black, tiny crystals surrounding it, making sure it will never be alone forever and ever. I’ve never seen a tapestry as breathtaking as the one mirroring on the calm surface of the lake I’m strolling by to gather my thoughts. Henry is somewhat right, deep inside of me I can feel it, I’ll be the death of him one way or another. He’s the king, guiding his troops and his courtesans from the comfortable seat of an opulent throne and I’m an approaching invasion, inevitable and threatening destruction for the kingdom he has built from nothing, rooted in the deepest of sins: pride. Hubris seems to get the better of us both with each breath we take. 

My anger had settled in the brief sixty minutes I’ve spent admiring the darkness, by myself. Some fireflies with their microscopic body attempt to irradiate the entire lakeside with light, oblivious to their size or the impossibility of their mission.

Tirelessly I recount my life at Hampden, every single moment I can recall gets forced under scrutiny: “You’ll fit right in,” Julian had told me, in his eyes there lived a conviction I’ve noticed only during his enthralling lessons. I’ve only ever known him to speak the holy truth, doubting feels like going against everything I’ve ever known. In my solitude I find contentment, time flows steadily, mimicking a river in which nymphs could find respite.

“So this is where you were hiding.” A deep voice rises among the chirping of crickets, “We couldn’t find you at the house.” And just like that the incantation I’d fashioned myself in dissolves in the cool night air, joining the fireflies in their dance to please the stars and the moon. I hear him before I see him. A colorless shadow approaches me, in an impossibly inky abyss of nature, it can only be him; out of all our friends he’s the only one that can tell what bizarre chemical reactions my brain produces, he’s the only one that can read my thoughts like they were the very first lines of the Iliad, because more often than not he’s thinking the exact same thing. 

‘The wrath of Peleus' son, the direful spring Of all the Grecian woes, O Goddess, sing.’ I recite in my mind as the barely human shadow only gets closer and closer, ‘That wrath which hurled to Pluto's gloomy reign the souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain, whose limbs, unburied on the naked shore,’ his footsteps stop behind me, he wants to speak as do I, but neither dare utter a sound, ‘Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore: Since great Achilles and Atrides strove, such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove!’ 

Unconsciously I found more satisfaction in rehearsing the words out loud, “Declare, O Muse. In what ill-fated hour, sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power?” And of course, he continued them effortlessly: “Latona's son a dire contagion spread, and heaped the camp with mountains of the dead; The king of men his reverend priest defied, and, for the king's offence, the people died.”  We will never stop trying to compete with each other, it is a losing battle: it’s asking the moon to stop being the unmatchable muse for romance poems, it’s asking the cosmos and all of its constellations to disappear.

“You’re not always honest,” I mumbled, disregarding if he’d consider me weak or frail, ignoring the way I could feel him burn a hole in the back of my head, “Tonight you were what I think is the most honest you’ve been in a long time.”  He’s my tormentor just as much as I am his. 

His knee grazes against mine in the instant he finds a seat on the grass, next to me. His lingering accidental touch takes a hold of me, it’s addictive. “You are a parasite.” He insists and for a moment I think we’re about to raise our voices at each other again, but then he continues with a softer voice, “You’ve latched into my mind, consuming every corner of my life and I am defenseless to it.”

“What do you mean?”

I can’t perfectly see his face in the moonlight, but if he is by any means like me as I know he is, I can consider correct the hypothesis of his pupils being dilated enough to swallow me whole. He drinks me in, like the salty cup of coffee I offered him, he doesn't leave anything behind, doesn’t waste a drop.

“You’re in possession of a great intellect. For a second in your life, put aside the countless feuds we were active participants in and figure it out. You’re hurling me into unwanted and unknown territory.” I know what he means. He could speak every language in the world and I’d still know what each word signifies, in its deepest meaning. It baffles me that he is able to discern my brilliance. He’d never lauded me so. There’s a first for everything, it seems.

“I am not a threat to your leadership, I’m not trying to be.”

He laughs at my words, to my surprise: dry and void of humor, “It’s not my leadership that’s compromised. It’s my heart and mind. While at first I found our game bothersome and quite frankly childish, I’ve unearthed a yearning for it, so influential on my being that I find myself hopelessly wishing you’d dismiss yourself from my life, with the result that I might go back to when you were not the only thing inhabiting my thoughts.”

“I won’t deny I’ve allowed myself to feel the same.” In the dim lighting we sit, I’m appreciative my confession will be the only truly limpid particle of me, I’m not ready for him to see me as I am, not yet, “I yearn for our arguments, for the furrow in your brow and your disapproving stare with each of our disagreements, most of all I yearn for your stimulating presence. Henry, you’re quite the character.”

“So are you. Impossibly infuriating, and delightfully of the essence for me.”

Our friends are waiting for us, I’m acutely aware of it, nonetheless I find myself giving into selfishness for tonight. It is a long way to go, for us two to build a bridge, but with one brick at a time perhaps it is not only a bridge we can erect, but a whole kingdom, with two thrones instead of a solitary one and no invasion to knock at its doors. If his hand slips on top of mine I pretend I do not notice, just like he doesn’t mention my head resting itself on his shoulder. The lake has never looked better, with a bright spotlight shining onto the calm surface, ripped out the pages of a fairytale. Maybe with enough time and effort the fireflies will be able to shine as bright as the moon. 

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #henry winter x reader #henry winter #the secret history #the secret history x reader #tsh donna tartt #dark academia #reader insert #writing

[fleetingcalypso]

I saw you write for Henry Winter, and since seldom someone here does actually write about him I'd love to send you an idea, if you're comfortable with it of course<3

Since I'm on my period and my cramps are so painful I physically cannot stand them, I was wondering about how Henry would react if his s/o was sick and forced to stay in their bed because of their cramps. Maybe he'd take care of them because he understands how it feels to be in so much pain you're incapacitated?

≋ I hope your pain can soon be alleviated, my friend, I'l pray for you to be in good health. For the meantime, I reccomend sweet treats, warm beverages and if needed do not be afraid to benefit from modern day medicine.

≋ Henry Winter x AFAB!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 535 words.

≋ CW: Reader is AFAB and suffers from period pains, but it can be read as GN!Reader for there are no feminine pronouns included.

Each month that goes by, without fail, I am reminded of the curse that an apparently caring and forgiving God cast upon Eve. A cycle of agony is what welcomes me every twenty-eight days: bones aching, muscles sore and head throbbing.  Even my divine savior cannot lift this burden off my shoulder, all he can do is sit by my side in his bed as my body writhes and suffers. “You could have told me,” He scolds me, “I wouldn’t have asked you to come.” And now he twists the knife. Doesn’t he realize? If I have to suffer I want it to be with him stroking my lower back, I want it to be with him pushing my face in the crook of his neck, I want it with him handling me as though I am a first edition book in his collection. 

“Do you need anything?” What kindness there is, hidden behind his cold tone. I can feel it as it envelops me and does what little it can to make the pain in my lower stomach fade. “I can make you tea, if you’d like.”

My head shakes in a silent denial. I wish I could tell him, it kills me that all I can do is burrow myself in his bedsheets, breathe in his cologne and hope this damnation comes soon to an end. 

He scoffs. It’s not of annoyance, not towards me at the very least, I know that. I know it because his fingers push strands of my hair away from my face with a gentleness I rarely felt in my life, his thumb rests on my bottom lip and even with my eyes closed I can feel his gaze penetrating through my core and inhabiting my very soul.

The bed shifts under his weight when he lays down, my body finds its rightful spot right between his arms. My life before I met him feels like purgatory, a mindless wandering about life, meaningless until fate brought him to me. 

“Thank you.” I attempt to express my gratitude in what little voice I have, even thinking about speaking feels like a dagger cutting through my flesh. He shushes me. His lips have deemed me worthy of their protection, I feel it when he kisses my forehead.

Outside of this corner of heaven, in the real world, I can hear a dog barking and birds chirping. Henry makes a comment that barely reaches my ears, something about shutting that dog up. I’m not too sure, because before I can comprehend just how tired I am, Henry’s scent is somniferous to me: combined with the warm hand rubbing my aching invisible wounds, the intoxicating fragrance of cigarettes, whiskey, sandalwood and roses makes its way into my lungs.

There is no lullaby, no sweet song to drag me into rest. All it takes is His presence, my dearest deity. He holds me in his sacred heaven, allows me to feel safe after having held up my walls for so long I forgot what the horizon looked like. I pray to him in my sleep. And by the way his arms tighten around me, I can only assume he is welcoming my prayer.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #tsh donna tartt #comfort fic #henry winter #henry winter x reader #afab reader #gn reader #the secret history x reader #reader insert

[fleetingcalypso]

I absolutely love how you write Henry Winter! Perhaps you could write something more angsty. For example, Henry and the reader could get into a fight over Bunny going to Rome instead of the reader. Just an idea but I would love anything you do xx

≋ Love isn't love without some disagreements. I took the liberty of developing this prompt into something slightly different, it is a fight nonetheless.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 3277 words.

≋ TW: Possible manipulation/gaslighting, argument, consumption of alcohol, small moment of hallucination/dissociation, mentions of blood, mentions of planning someone's death, possible angst.

My arms are elbow deep in my sink, scrubbing the plates that barely minutes ago had my food resting on them. The only noises keeping me company are the quiet buzzing of the fridge, the splashing of water and porcelain hitting more porcelain. Three well assessed bangs coming from outside my apartment cause me to almost jump out of my skin and dry my hands in anticipation of opening the door, one glimpse at the clock mounted to the wall tells me it’s around nine. I’m not expecting anyone.

Most of all, I’m not expecting Henry to be the one pounding his fist against my door, a white knuckle grip on his suitcase’s handle, his chest rising in what look like panicked gasps for air. “Let me in.” He commands me. 

It takes me a moment to realize this is the real thing and not a hallucination. “My God, Henry…” I don’t recognize the narrowed eyes that stare at me, “What’s happened to you? What are you doing here?”  His shoulder bumps into mine as he makes his way into my home, without waiting for me to move out of the way.

“I had to leave. I had to.” He goes straight to my living room, all but throwing his coat onto my couch and ungracefully flopping beside it, I’ve rarely seen him act this way. A muscle in his clenched jaw twitches as he raises his fist, pressing it to his lips, the ever present frown on his face looks impossibly deeper than usual, he’s thinking about something and it vexes me that I can't read his mind like a poetry verse.

“Henry-” One glacial look from him shuts me up. He stares at me through his eyebrows, as if I’m everything wrong in the world, as if I was the serpent guiding humanity to an eternity of being exiled from Eden.

After he’s done petrifying me with his gaze he lets out an exhale of frustration lowering his head into his hands, his elbows sitting on his knees. Once the spell he had on my body evaporates I test my luck with just a couple steps in his direction. He doesn’t move. I’m gambling with his mood when I sit on the arm of my couch, lift his coat into my arms to fold it and set it aside. 

He abruptly stands and storms into my bathroom, slamming the door behind him; the muffled water sounds make it clear that he’s taken ownership over my shower. It leaves me enough time to fish some clean clothes out of his suitcase and set them in my bedroom’s bed where I know he will retire once he steps out, dripping wet and barely dressed.

Time barely moves while I step back into the living room and take a seat on the soft pillow he used earlier. I have no idea how much time has passed when he emerges from a cloud of steam, robe wrapped around his body. He spares me no glances while I rise to my feet. This time the door doesn’t slam after he steps into the bedroom and gets dressed. I still wait for him. It’s best to let him come to me, rather than pry. It’s like a toothache: the more the tongue smoothes over an aching tooth, the more it’s going to hurt.

After what feels like forever he trudges into the living room for what is the second time now, looking exhausted, his hand rests against the wall keeping him upright. Henry walks past me, pulling me into a kiss that lasts less than the flap of a butterfly’s wings.

The couch dips with his weight and suddenly we are back at square one. 

“Are you going to tell me what you are doing here, or am I going to pry the words out of you?” My words come out harsher than expected. Nothing makes sense. He’s supposed to be in Rome, keeping a strict eye on Bunny, making sure that idiot won’t do anything he might regret. I know for a fact our friend is still in Italy, he would have called and asked to meet up otherwise, surely to boast about all the things he’s admired and all to flaunt all the useless garbage he bought using Henry’s money.

Finally, he deems me worthy of an explanation, “Cuniculus molestus,” he says and it only adds fuel to my puzzlement. I repeat his words, he could only be talking about one thing, the one situation I hoped would never emerge. One blink, two words, three breaths and four shaky words: “What do you mean?...” It was all it took for Henry to rip apart at the seams.

“Bunny knows. He knows everything. The damned idiot found my diary.” He tries to contain the growl in his voice while rummaging through the clutter on my coffee table, searching for cigarettes I assume. And my suspicion is confirmed  hearing his groan of annoyance, finding the almost empty packet of Lucky Strikes: only four cigarettes, one is flipped upside-down. 

“It was a living nightmare. Bun acted as his usual aggravating self, perhaps even more so than usual, but nonetheless he wasn’t causing any actual harm. He complained about the rooms not being up to his standards, hell we were staying in some of the most picturesque rooms I had ever seen. He could have only dreamed of standing in that room, were I not there. Then he began feigning asthma attacks, nagging me about every small thing he could think of.” Henry’s words stop only when at last he lights the first cigarette.

“My God. He lamented being left alone just for a couple of minutes, but those times where I solicited him in coming with me, to a church, an art gallery, a restaurant- I don’t understand if he was faking, but he was insufferably bored, pestering me to leave. And it only got worse after a few weeks. Like salt sprinkled on a bleeding wound, I fell ill. A migraine, quite a painful one too. There was not much I could do, I realized. When after days of pure, unfiltered agony I finally mustered up enough strength to stand and search for a glass of water, that’s the moment it happened. I saw Bunny, because of the morning light shining into my eyes he simply looked like a blurry figure. When I greeted him, it took me a while to grasp the reality of what was happening.”

By now he’s a quarter in his second cigarette and I’m fully ready to cash a punch I know his words are leading the way for. He keeps talking.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Henry asks, the pictures hung on my wall suddenly being the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, he stares at them almost unblinking. “I hit him. Hard. He retaliated, making me his punching bag until the chambermaid broke us apart. Since that day I tried to be as compliant as I could with him, I’d written quite a lot of harsh things about him after all, the best thing I could do was try to show him that- I don't know- that I didn’t mean them? Or that he wasn’t as estranged from our friend group as he thought?-” This time it’s my turn to interrupt him, this rambling has gone on for far too long. 

“Henry, get to the point. My patience is wearing quite thin, while I appreciate you going through what very well sounds like your own personal circle of hell to keep an eye on that menace of a man, I would very much like to know if we are all going to get caught because of that fool’s inability to keep his mouth shut in a foreign country or not.”

“I’m getting there.” He snaps. The third cigarette meets the previous’ fate, being lit and sitting between his lips. I try my best not to panic as he recounts about a German overhearing Bunny talk about what happened then following them, waiting for them by the fountain near their hotel. Anxiety nestles in me with each word that flies out of his lips, it doesn’t abandon me for a moment while he confesses that now he’s left Bunny alone in Italy without a note.

With the way my head spins I’m unable to reach the couch and I just sit on the floor. 

Henry knows Bunny better than anyone else, and he’s assured me countless times that he’d never go to the police, but I can’t help but wonder: if that German man found his way to Bunny, perhaps while he’s drunk in some italian bar, what are the chances that the truth would be out and we behind bars before we can plead ‘not guilty’?

“You think you could fix this?” My voice is barely above a whisper, I don’t think I even hear it over the sound of my blood thumping in my ears. When his head moves in a nod, mine mirrors it. “It all depends on waiting for the right opportunity.” For the first time in my life, his words sound completely disconnected from reality after he adds, “It depends on how far we’re willing to go, as well.” 

I can’t bring myself to glance at his eyes, if at first I delighted myself in being the one to willingly drown into the depth of his focus, meeting his divine stare feels borderline blasphemous now. Is the way my blood is freezing in my veins because my mind is spiraling into madness, or have I passed on as well? If I turn my head to the side and lower my gaze will I find a mauled farmer welcoming into the world of the dead? For a split second, when my hands come into view, I’m sure they’re stained red up to the end of my forearm; the water I used to wash my dishes did nothing to wash away the guilt that apparently only I, in my friend group, feel. Invisible, imperceptible droplets of what I know is blood, stains my carpet. There’s no washing it off. I could bathe in the holiest of waters, scrub my skin until it turned the very same color of what I want to rinse off of me and it still would be for naught.

Lucky for me, my holy salvation undoes the curse I’ve cast upon myself with just a call of my name. “I said I could fix it. Do not doubt me.” My hands clench, I feel my muscles tense as soon as I realize that what he accuses me is indeed true, I am doubting him. 

No words are able to make it through the lump in my throat. With what little strength I can gather I force my legs to stand straight after I lift myself off the ground. “I’m not doubting you,” I lie, “I just think this entire ordeal has developed into something way bigger than us all.” 

“So you don’t understand, then.” He shakes his head, strands of hair the color of raven wings fall onto his forehead, his glasses sit precariously low on the bridge of his nose.  “I don't, Henry. I really don’t,” My panic is slowly shaping itself into something else, something I am familiar with and that I had stored away as soon as Henry’s healing salve was rubbed on my sinful body, “There’s a lot I don’t understand at this exact time.”

He doesn’reply. He silently lights up the last cigarette, the upside down one, the one I was saving for last and after a couple of clouds of smoke are created into existence he extends his hand to me: offering me my own lucky cigarette. I accept it. Smoke fills my lungs and burns my throat while I pace back and forth, letting ash fall to my feet.

It’s not enough, just one isn’t enough to calm the nerves that threaten to take over me. Inadvertently stubbing my smoke in my hardwood coffee table instead then into the ashtray an unstable exhale escapes me.

Henry doesn’t move, not one of his muscles has even remotely twitched in the time I took smoking. 

It is impossible to think in this scenario and in what feels like the blink of an eye, there’s a cold bottle in my hand, burgundy wine flows into a clean glass, it doesn’t settle into it for a second before it makes its way down my throat, the fruitiness and sweetness of it tickles me. In my rush, it spills down my lips  and leaves a maroon spot, as small as a cherry, on my shirt.

“I want my life back,” I pathetically confide in him, this time taking a seat next to him, “I am sick and tired of living in fear of the authorities showing up at my doorstep.” A miniscule yet expanding part of me outright believes the murder we committed is a sin not even Henry can absolve. 

“You think I don’t feel guilty, also?” He began, taking the empty glass out of my hands and pouring himself a drink before pointing his finger at me, “We are human. Of course I feel bad for eradicating a man’s life, but certainly not enough to be distraught over it like you are.” It makes me feel wrong, being so agitated over something he swears he can fix.

“It’s not guilt that I feel, it’s fear. I am terrified every morning when I wake up that I am going to be in handcuffs in a prison cell by the end of the day.”

“You do not know Bunny as well as I do. He won’t say anything.”

“You say that, but you’re just a man. You’re not an all-seeing creature. You don’t know every small variable that could cause him to out us all.” I’d never thought I’d say it out loud. ‘You’re just a man’. It felt like blasphemy to even think of Henry as anything but a deity, jabbing his mortality right in his face was something that I had never even imagined doing. I didn’t think it would come to this.

“I see what this is.” The way he said that, it resembled a lighting flung from Olympus, ready to strike an unaware, disrespectful follower of the gods. “You’re not guilty and you’re not scared of Bun telling anyone. What you’re scared of is repercussions.”

"That's not-"

"Not true? Is that what you're going to say? Because it sure sounds like it is. You don't believe I could find a solution." Never has a voice so calm yet so deadly existed.

"I'm just saying, what if you can't? What if none of us can?" I keep seeing it like I'm reading from a book set in the future, like the Oracle of Delphi is miraculously inhabiting my body. "Henry, I don't think there's time to wait for 'the right opportunity'. Bunny is a ticking bomb as is it."

"So what?" He spits, "Should we just kill him, as soon as we see him, without a proper plan? That would ensure his silence, wouldn't it?"

The temperature in the room drops.

"Kill him?..." Never in my life had I imagined entertaining the idea of putting an end to one of my friend's life. I might lie, in truth, if I said it didn't sound like a plausible solution. "We can't."

"Why not?”

Good question. While it sounded absurd, it was truly the only way this nightmare would come to an end. I thought of Mrs.Corcoran, Mr.Corcoran, all of Bun’s siblings and Marion. 

“It’s insanity.” I stood, backing away from him. “We are not killing Bunny. That’s final.” No matter how much it would help us, no matter how much that would ease my anxiety in the moment, I couldn’t. It is likely that my expression betrayed my words, for Henry’s next words shot a spear through me. Being in his presence was insufferable, now.

He hissed as he spoke, “Oh, would you quit the wounded bird act, for just a moment of your life?” He lifted himself off the couch, following me as I evaded his gaze by walking away into my kitchen. “What are you trying to prove? Your acting like this won’t bring back that man in the countryside, nothing will ever bring him back.” 

“I don’t want to bring him back! You’re so deep into your own view of life that you're refusing to see my side!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.” I hadn’t even noticed my loud volume, “Nothing can please you, I swear. You’re in no way the single victim of what transpired in that field. Yes, your hands were stained red that night, but you’re not the only one: Camilla still has nightmares about it, Francis as well and Charles, he will never forget that bloody bite on his arm. You’re not a saint, you were there with us drenched in blood, no matter how much you’d like to imagine the contrary. ”

My clenched fists trembled at my sides, with my back metaphorically against a wall of needles there was not a single thing I could do. My time was slipping away from under my fingers, crumbling into sand and being carried into a faraway land, never to be seen again. “But killing our friend is… it feels so wrong.”

“Try not to see it as murder.” To my surprise his steady hands held mine until they stopped shaking, “Look at me, look me in the eyes,” he held my face with one of his hands, slightly squeezing both my cheeks to stop me from looking away, “It’s not murder,” His whisper was slow and soft, deep down it sounded as if he was trying to convince an invisible audience and not me, "Think of it as a redistribution of matter, alright? You’re calling him friend, but was he behaving like one when he would throw out references to our misdeed? Was he a friend when he would pick up the phone and pretend to call the tips number on the daily paper?” 

“You’re going mental Henry. There is not a single way in hell you’re seriously saying these words. If in the right situation I were in Bunny’s place, would you conspire against me, too?”  I asked, knowing what he would say, “You wouldn’t be half as troubling as Bun is.” That was confirmation enough. 

That night in the country, the only thing that was somewhat planned was the bacchanal, being drowned in what can only be described as the epitome of blissful, dionysian madness. Mauling an innocent man wasn’t planned, it was a tragedy. This, on the other hand, is a plan to get rid of Bunny. The one man that could be described as Henry’s best friend, there was a time where one would not ever be seen in public without the other.

“I don’t recognize you.”

“You don’t need to. You just follow my lead and it will all be okay. I promise you, we’ll fix it. I’ll fix it. Don’t stray away from me, don’t make us fight over something like this, alright?” 

Hours after this conversation, when he’s fast asleep in my bed and I’m staring at his eyelashes, I want nothing more than for this torment to reach an end.  “Does it all mean anything to you? Or is it all momentary until divine punishment wipes all off the face of the Earth?” My whisper is met with no answer on his end, his soft breathing for the time being placates my doubts. This is enough.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #henry winter x reader #the secret history x reader #the secret history #henry winter #angst #reader insert #dark academia #tsh donna tartt

[fleetingcalypso]

you are an enchantress, and my mind is running around your work. Can you write something where it's y/n's birthday? it's my birthday in two days. I'd love if it was summer-y and at the lake house with all of them. It could be Y/n x anybody, i'm partial to henry :)

≋ I hope your birthday will be celebrated with the sweetest of pastries and the most joyful of laughter. Happy early birthday, please accept this as my gift to you, may your day be one to remember forever.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 1461 words.

“I know you’re awake,” Henry’s husky voice comes from the right side of the bed, I can feel him watching me. Of course I’m awake, how could I not be with Bunny causing a ruckus barely a few feet away from the bedroom where me and my lover doze off during the nighttime. I’m not going to let the commotion steal me away from my sleep, not when I was living in the most magnificent dream of all which now, by no means I can remember. If I pretend to be asleep and lay as still as I can, perhaps the divine Hypnos will take pity on me and bless me with a couple more hours of rest. 

As well as my deception could work on the deity of sleep, it does not on the divine being lying by my side. “Ignoring me is unbecoming of you,” he whispers in my ear, his finger grazing over the side of my hip, sliding up towards my waist, gliding up to my shoulder before gripping the thin blanket I was holding over my head and expose my body to the warm sunlight glimpsing through the half-open window. 

“Five more minutes…” I groan into the pillow in which my face is buried. I’ve never understood how Henry could wake up as early as first light whenever we are welcomed in Francis’ aunt’s mansion. He’d tried to explain it to me once, in my current drowsiness his original statement becomes abandoned in the fabric of time. “It’s too early.” I croak again, my body rolling away from his in a pitiful attempt to have him abandon me to my slumber and the many dreams that await me on the other side of the oniric world.

At last he yields, my seemingly preposterous request for just a few more moments of relaxation is accepted and my dearest has shown himself for the kind soul that he is, pressing his lips to my head in a sweet blessing, “Five more minutes, then. Not one second more.” My only response to the limitation he poses to me is an unconcerned hum and somehow, as the pandemonium occurring downstairs grows louder, it serves as the perfect cradlesong to guide me right into Morpheus’s arms.

The house being oddly quiet is the first thing that worries me when my eyes blink open, Henry’s absence beside me being the second thing I detect, although less troubling. Educated as I am on his habits and his needs, he’s most likely working on yet a new translation. 

A gentle breeze fills the room, pecking my skin with its cool kisses, alleviating for what feels like a fleeting second the heat I feel, thanks to the sun electing me as one of its lovers for it too decides to lay its kind caresses on my body. The window is wide open, I only notice it after my head turns, the sudden brilliancy reaching my gaze causes me to squint, my hand instinctively rising to create some shadow. Peeking from my fingers, I can make out a bird perched on the windowsill, if only Henry were basking in this peaceful moment with me, he’d be able to identify precisely what kind of feathered creature that is, he’s the ornithologist out of the two of us.

With time my vision adjusts to the glistening light and as I observe my plumaged friend take flight I decide it is time to finally see if my not so plumaged peers kindly left any scraps of their breakfast for me. I take my time washing up and getting dressed. It is such a serene day, to taint it with hurriedness feels like a crime against nature.

Making my way towards the kitchen has me realizing that the house is not as soundless as I imagined: hushed whispers are audible, along with repetitive shushing and a melodious yet quiet feminine giggle. I’m not swimming in solitude, then. It only adds to my enjoyment of the morning.

Finally, when I step into the room, that's when I spot it: a cake sits in the middle of the breakfast table, Bunny trying his best to not be seen sneaking a taste of it with his finger. My dearest invites me to step further in with his sweet call, “At last, you live. I thought you’d never join us.” Henry sits with his elbows on the table and his chin resting confidently on top of his joined hand, naturally I glide across the floor to him, my hand finds its rightful spot on his shoulder rubbing my fingers in his muscles, “Good morning,” I say and there rises an echo of ‘Morning’ in return.

His hand finds mine, bringing it to his lips and pressing the softest of kisses to the back of it, “Take a seat. We were just waiting for you.” The chair next to him is already pulled, waiting only to feel my weight on it. Settling at the right side of my beloved I feel like the very world we’re in is but a violin’s string, ready to snap at any moment. Clearly, I’m missing a piece of the puzzle, watching my companions throw each other amused glances, not so patiently looking forward to something I do not understand, though by Bun’s hungry looks towards the baked delicacy sat in front of him, it’s plain to see just what he is impatient for.

Following a moment’s quiet, his anticipation takes the best of him, “Do you know what day it is or are you still half-asleep?” He asks, his fingers tapping nervously on the edge of wood. I do not know what day it is, in truth. The times we spend in this sanctuary compel me to misinterpret the countless hours that spread through the summer weeks into one single round of twenty-four. It all blends together in a haze.

“Is it an important occasion that’s slipping my mind?” 

“Oh for God’s sake!” He childishly laments, shaking his head in frustration. “It is, no doubt, a special occasion,” Comes Camilla’s voice with syrupy patience embedded in it, “A cake, us gathered around it, waiting for you…” 

Miraculously I get the picture before any kind of remarks against my intellect can be formulated. Eyes wide with glee, elated smile taking over my lips, I can’t hide the appreciation I feel for the souls joining me in celebrating the day I was born. When the traces of flour smudged on their clothes finally have a reason for existing I feel my heart overflowing, they’ve baked a cake just for me and even if I haven’t tasted it yet, I can already tell it will taste like ambrosia. This is one of those times where I wonder if one individual could pass away from feeling too much love.

Celebrating with them all has a golden spot in the throne residing inside of my memory, and not for the visible kindness they’ve shown me by gifting me many presents I’ll forever treasure, but for the affection they’ve showered me. I’m able to bathe in the tenderness of our friendship.

Francis gifted me a locket on a chain, a small sparkly token where I could hide away a picture of my lover for only my greedy eyes to see. Charles and Camilla offered me a brand new chess set with the promise that they’ll take turns playing against me soon, the immaculate black and white pieces sculpted in smooth marble almost look like precious jewels. Bunny, hyperbolizing how long it took him to find a gift he deemed worthy of me, presented me with a watch I’m sure he pestered Henry to buy in his stead. Richard, with an air of uncertainty to him, handed me a book, the very one I’d been rambling about purchasing for myself during one drunken night. How he’d caught that miniscule detail, I’ll never know.

“Happy birthday,” Henry whispers, his voice caresses my ear as he sets a small rectangular, intricate, case in my hands. The see-through glass top shows me the contents of it. A stunning montblanc fountain pen, with golden decorations on its body. 

The conviction sets in me with every breath I take, that finding people as caring as them is an unprecedented benediction. “Thank you.” Attempting to put my gratitude into more elegant words is unachievable. “Thank you for everything.” Henry’s arm around my body drags me further into his side in an unusual display of public affection while my friends, they don’t seem to notice, too busy arguing over who should get the last slice of the dessert they spent so much time preparing. If birthdays could always compose such a heavenly melody, then they’d be hymns I’d never grow tired of singing. 

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #henry winter x reader #the secret history #the secret history x reader #tsh donna tartt #dark academia #reader insert #writing

[fleetingcalypso]

Hello! I just stumbled across your blog, and find the way you write and portray Henry in your stories absolutely captivating. I just finished reading the book for the first time ever today and managed to do so without seeing any spoilers beforehand, so safe to say that Henry's suicide blindsided me completely. In hindsight it made complete sense, but I'm still in denial about it and would love a story about him actually surviving his wounds. Henry gives me the vibe of hiding everything that was happening from anyone but those in the Greek class alongside him, which, in my opinion, would even extend to his partner as well. I think it would be really interesting if his partner comes to visit him in the hospital after he's just woken up (ignoring the logical fact that he'd probably be heavily brain damaged) and is just absolutely devastated because she/they thought he was genuinely taking his life because he was depressed. To me, even then I don't see Henry fessing up to what's actually been happening, and I think it'd be cool to see the way he would try and talk his way out of it. (Henry seems pretty closed off emotionally, but I'd love some genuine hurt/comfort, only if this idea intrigues you of course.) thank you! (:

≋ The dread of losing a loved one, the knowledge that someone's time could have come faster than expected, the paranoid of could have happened had help on arrived on time, the fear of the future holds. These feelings are not foreign to me. At any rate, everyone sails away from Ogygia one day or another, I am accustomed to it. For anyone else, I want to emphasize that themes of this narration are quite heavy, if need be please don't be afraid to reach out to me for help or simple communication. You're not alone and you are deeply loved. Going back to Henry, I am of the opinion he'd try to manipulate his way out of a truly meaningful conversation. He's quite the orator, after all.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 2190 words.

≋ TW: Attempted s*icide, angst, manipulation, reader feels an exorbitant amount of guilt, somewhat hurt/comfort.

≋ CW: As the themes are quite heavy and Henry is a pragmatic, stoic character, I feel like there could not be much comfort in a scenario like this. He'd be too busy trying to find another way to get out of the mess he's in, to take the time to comfort his loved one. I beg your forgiveness for not including most of the genuine comfort you were searching for, but if you were to enjoy this nonetheless, I'd be thrilled.

On my way to Henry’s hospital room, sprinting through the haunting sterile hallways I ran into Camilla Macaulay, a girl -the only one- in his class, she was just here to bring him some flowers she’d tell me before her body began trembling trying to hold back sobs and I was left to watch her scurry away, I could not get a word in to ask her anything at all, if he was awake, if he was alright, why he did it, why they all waited days before telling me he had tried to end his life. The intensity of the drum beating in my chest could barely compare against the headache I brought upon myself, drowning in my own salty tears. 

I nearly went into cardiac arrest when I spotted him, the only thing reassuring me that he still had a pulse was the rhythmic movement of his chest, rising with each breath he took accompanied by the beeping of a heart monitor I can’t bring myself to glimpse at. “I can feel you staring.” He said, his croaky voice already tugging at my heartstring. I can’t look away even if I wanted to: it’s a sight I never thought I’d see, as abominable as it is I fear that if I avert my gaze then the puzzle pieces might never fall into place and I might never know the motive of his extreme action. 

Does he hate me? I can’t help but wonder if during what could have been his last breaths he thought of me, if maybe he wished I was there to stop him and remind him of how loved he is. The image of him searching for my body next to his as he collapses lifeless makes me shudder. I come to the conclusion that I failed in everything when it comes to Henry. Not being able to read between the lines, I barely scratched the surface of him while I thought I was in deep waters. 

He was content in life, I think. Yes, in one moment where exhaustion took ahold of him and he was more asleep than awake, in the comforting hiding place under my blankets he confessed to me that he had a lot on his mind. I never could have imagined it would lead to this: two gunshots to the temple, according to what Richard -another one of his classmates- told me over the phone, the second being triggered by the gun’s recoil.

I wasn’t there, I thought at that moment, Henry had taken a gun to his head and I wasn’t there. Henry had tried to kill himself and I wasn’t there. He could have been lying in a pool of his hot blood, flowing out on the ground and expanding like a stain on a white shirt, and I wasn’t there to hold him in his possible final moments. He could have died and I would have found out thanks to a desolate phone call from a stuttering man I didn’t know that well, or maybe even from a serious police officer just doing his job. Nonetheless, Henry’s finger had pressed the trigger in front of a handful of people and I wasn’t anywhere near him.

Cement bricks become chained to my ankles, getting heavier and heavier with each hesitant step I take towards him. I would have flown to him if I could have, crashed at the side of his bed, thrown my arms around his neck in ecstatic joy for his survival, kissed him a thousand times for each second I spent unaware of his whereabouts or his feelings.

“How do you feel?” I foolishly ask, being rewarded with his eyes cracking open and settling on my figure which I know will look indistinct and blurry to him given the absence of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, “Dead,” he answers me. To think the fierce storm he held in his irises was something that could very well have been a sight no one in the world could have appreciated in full. 

The mattress shifted and dipped under my weight when I sat at the edge of his bed, the chair at his side remaining empty. I wanted to feel him, touch him, try to be as close as possible and a sad little chair putting even the smallest of distances between us was the last thing I desired. Reaching towards the night table I found his glasses with ease, the only other things sitting on the surface were a pack of unopened Lucky Strike cigarettes, his wallet and the fragrant bouquet of flowers his friend had brought. I cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief and then tried my best to not look at the seemingly infinite bandages wrapping his head as I set the glasses on his face.

He blinks once, twice, thrice before he finally sees me as I am, without a hazy cloud over my face.

“Well, you’re not,” I inform him, swallowing the ‘what-if’ stuck in the middle of my throat, “By a miracle, I heard a nurse say. A miracle saved you Henry, do you hear how lucky that sounds?”

“I hear you.” He exhales, a sinkhole forms in me when I catch that small tone of disappointment hidden layer after layer under his voice, “Lucky indeed.” It’s dreadful how he keeps his gaze low, set in my direction but never quite reaching my eyes. It’s even more embarrassing to admit I do not understand him, I haven’t been able to do so since the very beginning.

That is to say, me not understanding him, does not mean I do not love him. He’d been the best lover a human being could ever ask for, there were no fights, no arguments, no disagreements, just pure unapologetic passion. Only once did we not see eye to eye and even then it was soon enough resolved over a glass of whiskey and a couple cigarettes: when he travelled to Rome with his friend Bunny without so much as a “I’ll be back soon,”  leaving me worried to no end as to where he might be.

“Talk to me, Henry. What happened?” I knew what happened of course, he’d shot himself in the head, but what I craved wasn’t a rundown of events, a bullet point list of the movements he made to get two bullets in his cranium. No. I desperately needed some way to understand what led him to attempting to do such a drastic thing. Were there signs I missed? Was I not loving enough? What hurt him so much? Was he truly that miserable in life, and if so, how had he hid it so well?

“Don’t cry,” he said, lifting the one arm that did not have the tube connecting him to the IV drip, his finger made contact with the corner of my eye and only then did I realise the salty diamonds rolling down my cheeks. I did not want to cry in front of him, not if it would add onto his miseries. As if I was kneeling in a confessional I have to come clean, I did not think I had any more tears left in me after having cried myself to sleep the night prior. Guilty of not appreciating the beauty of Selene as she brightened the darkened world, guilty of living only for the hospital doors to open and seeing him again.

“I have to ask, you know I have to.” Now that I was aware of the tears, nothing could have stopped the stinging feeling that seemed to spread from my eyes to every inch of my being, “Why did you do it?” There was no sugarcoating it, he’s never been one to beat around the bush and he often would not appreciate me going around in circles trying to find the nicest way to say or ask something. 

His jaw clenched and I watched hopelessly as Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His lips parted but no sound that made proper sense came out. In my head I had already formed some hypotheses, none of them struck me as much as what he said. “I had to.” He apathetically said and I vaguely registered the sharp pain in my palm as my nails digging into my skin to stop my body from doubling-over and breaking into a gut wrenching sob.

“I-” Never has my mind been blank like this moment, it made so much sense and none at the same time,“I- Just- Why? Give me a reason- a concrete reason, Henry.” I all but begged him, sniffling like a whimpering child. That was exactly how I felt, like a child: small, lost and with no way to do something that could actually make a difference. 

Through my glossy vision I observed as he stiffened in pain while he shifted in his bed trying to sit up, the bedsheets moving along with his every movement made me nauseous. They weren’t supposed to be hospital ones, he wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, this should have never happened. Alas, it has happened and he is not sitting in the armchair he claimed as his own in my apartment, reading a book and letting the cloud of smoke from his cigarette expand until my entire house looks like a misty field.

Ignored and useless was my attempt to stop him, to get him to lay down and not do anything straining, “Come here,” Instead he requested, hinting towards the spot he’d left on the bed, right next to him. Sheepishly I shuffled to his side, my back against the bed’s headboard, hoping and praying that no nurses would spot us and ask me to move away. His arm found its way around my shoulders, pulling me into a protective side hug and I shattered in small, countless, infinite pieces: a pathetic catharsis. Broken sobs, gasps and hiccups filled the room yet i could hear him over the sound of my desperation, “Don’t cry,” he’d say softly in my ear, “There’s no need to cry,” he’d insist kissing my temple, “Everything is going to be fine.” He’d promise me solemnly, with his enchanting way of making me feel like his words were gospel.

My heaving breaths did everything they could to send oxygen into my lungs, but air was not what I needed. Henry was my air, and the idea that I could have lost him for eternity plagued me, it made me look over my shoulder each moment expecting to see the grim reaper. The panic I felt gave me the strength to cling onto my lover as if he was my only lifeline, as if my love filled embrace could be the only thing able to bind him to the mortal realm. I know that could never be, sadly. Love, as much as it is a primordial force in the world, rivalling hate and rage, oftentimes can’t be the holy saviour we need.

“Why?” I found myself once again begging, I could not accept his previous answer, I pitifully needed something concrete, something I could fix. Before I could break into sobs again he leaned even closer, his lips moving against my hairline, his voice barely audible - like he was telling me a secret- only for me to hear, “I have been through some dark moments of my life, ones that I have never mentioned to you, not because I do not love you, the very opposite of it. I love you, my love for you is as incandescent as the sun, you know it, certainly. I did not want you to be concerned with those parts of me, hidden pieces that I rarely even let myself recognize as part of myself. Your pure hands should never be dirtied with the corruption that runs free inside of me. Cease your tears now, it is okay.” 

“So instead of letting me help you, you decided to just shoot yourself?!” It might have been harsh, but I felt at an impasse, raising my voice was my undignified way of getting ahold of control over life, “Are you listening to yourself? What about me? What would I have done without you? I’d do anything for you, isn’t it obvious?! I don’t care what you’re hiding, I don’t care how corrupt you think you are, I love you and I want to assist you through the darkest times of your life.”

He seemed to think about it, perhaps my words had made an impact on him or perhaps he was just tired of arguing with me. When he kissed me, slow and delicate, that was enough for me to postpone the debate I was already preparing in my head. I'd talk his ear off about letting me be a hand in easing his burdens when he would be well enough to be discharged and go home. “I want you to live forever,” Henry all but implored me and I just nodded. Whatever in the world could I say other than yes, but on one condition: he was to live alongside me.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #henry winter x reader #henry winter #the secret history #the secret history x reader #reader insert #tsh donna tartt #angst #writing #dark academia #hurt/comfort

[fleetingcalypso]

We were girls together.

≋ Living in the past, recounting experiences that are now part of an old carving on the altar of memory can at times be the only remedy for a lonely heart. ≋

≋ Camilla Macaulay x FEM!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 907 words.

≋ TW: religious (catholic) imagery.

We were girls together.

We sat close to each other in class, our feet touching and occasionally tapping each other's ankle with the tip of our shoe whenever something entertaining occurred. We lied side by side on the same bed, reading from the same book, complaining when one of us would turn the page before the other was done, occasionally she would rest her head on my chest and fall asleep listening to my heartbeat. I would trim her hair and she’d trim mine. We held each other’s hands while crossing the street, the childish gesture feeling like a sacrosanct inside joke between the two of us. We exchanged recipes, fashion tips, accessories. 

We would rest our bodies on the grass by the lakeside, her head on my lap or vice versa and we'd look up at the sky and find shapes in the clouds. Once she pointed her finger up to the heavens and said "That one looks like a knight, the other looks like a dragon," I laughed, "Perhaps there's also a princess nearby, then. Just hiding away, waiting to be rescued." She hummed in agreement though it seemed as if she had more to say, then her eyes closed. I let her nap while I moved my fingers through her hair.

We were girls together. 

When the cold came, with its freezing kiss and the gift of candid snow, she'd wrap her arms around me and I'd wrap my coat around her, swaying her from side to side as if she was but a babe needing comfort. Sometimes she'd forget her gloves and she'd place her perfect hands into mine, greedily stealing all the heat I could produce. Silly girl she was, there was no need to steal. I would have gladly warmed her up any way I could have, even by using my own body as foundation wood for a burning pyre in her honor. With eyes full of mischief she would frequently pluck the cigarettes out of my fingers and claim it as hers, expecting me for my hands to find her waist and drag her closer to me, consequentially taking back what was mine from her. 

We were girls together. 

She was the one to kiss me first. It started as a game, truthfully, to kiss each other until one put an end to it. We never did keep count of who pulled away for air first, each time, being eager as we were to get back to each other's lips. Those times where she would spend the night at my apartment are some of the most bittersweet memories I own. She would show up with the orange glow of the sunset and ask, "Can I stay with you?" And powerless as I was, I replied, "There's no need to ask." One day turned into two, into three, into four, until she often spent an entire week or more rolling around in my bed sheets and wearing my clothes. Even presently, I’m confident that the sweater I’ve been searching for far too long is still in her possession, possibly hiding out in the back of a drawer.

In the moments where she felt like she could let her guard down, a completely different girl than most would see jumped out. She would be unapologetically hilarious with risquè jokes, leaving me to question where she heard them in the first place. She would complain about Bunny from time to time, complain about her brother and his ways, complain about how she felt trapped. There’s no denying it. My beautiful, perfect girl was but a nightingale trapped inside of a rusting cage.

We were girls together.

We were two sheep in a pack of wolves, but as I was able to hide my ivory fleece disguising it as a predator’s gray fur, she was incapable of doing the same and so she was cursed by becoming the Holy Virgin Mary they all prayed to, on their bruised, bloody knees, stretching their arms up in the air to grasp at the hem of her the veil that hid her face. It doesn’t surprise me that I was her only shelter. The way she’d melt when I did so little as to link my pinky with hers, it felt like a young girl experiencing joy for the first time in her life.

“I never thought this could happen,” She whispered in my ear one night, thinking sleep had taken over me, “I love you.” Her legs were tangled with mine, we shared the same pillow and the very same air, our nightwear discarded on the floor. How I wish I had responded. I would have told her I loved her too, more than anything. I would have told her that I could be her knight, saving her from the world’s injustice. I would have asked her to run away from Vermont, maybe fly to the other side of the world and start a new life together, just two girls being together.

We were just girls together, when we were younger. Camilla Macaulay has been to this day my greatest spark, my epitome of the perfect love: it was quiet, subtle and it was enough for the both of us. After Henry died we all somewhat drifted apart, but as I stuff a wrinkled letter into a pristine envelope I pray to all the Gods out there that my moonlight goddess could return by my side.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #camilla macaulay #camilla macaulay x reader #the secret history #the secret history x reader #dark academia #tsh donna tartt #reader insert #writing

[fleetingcalypso]

I am very sorry to bother you, but a very sweet prompt fleeted into my mind as I prepared myself to come out to my parents, and I'd thought I'd share it in the sheer hope you'd read it, enjoy the thought and perhaps write something based on it, if you're comfortable.

Just imagine, you're very close to Sirius Black (you can choose to which degree, platonically, romantically, interested but not together yet, preferably the last because hehe). You've known for a while you were transgender (FtM) but never had the strength to come out, fearing rejection and alienation from the friend group. Just a sweet little comfort fic because I'm anxious as fuck.

≋ What you're doing is extremely brave, I'm so very proud of you. I wish you the best, friend. Know that whatever goes down, you'll never be judged or rejected here. I'll pray your coming out will be met with love and affection.

≋ Sirius Black x TransMasc!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 2285 words.

≋TW: Dysphoria, Misgendering (not done by Sirius)

Hogwarts seemed intimidating, more than anything. Eleven year old me, sitting in that train, chewing my nails and staring out at the moving scenery, had not the slightest idea that finding friends would be as easy as breathing. At least it is when four troublemakers decide to adopt you into their friend group, barely a week after classes started.

‘The marauders’ they’d call themselves, not so slowly becoming every professor’s nightmare.

They each had something that made them so intriguing. The four of them were attached at the hip, and with me being dragged into their pranks and escapades things only got more entertaining. Even as my house was far away from the castle we studied at, every day I got to spend with them made it feel like I was home, with their jokes and their being able to light up a dull moment with only a couple of words. James, Sirius, Remus and Peter welcomed me in, as one of them.

In the midst of my lowest moments I wondered, would they still accept me if I let my walls down? I sprinkled seeds of the truth here and there: I cut my hair short, I opted for pants instead of the usual skirt, I was at my happiest during winter - when finally I could show off the baggiest of sweaters to conceal the appendages on my chest. It’s not purely a physical discomfort, though. It’s in the little things, small seemingly meaningless moments that no one appears to notice but me. 

People perceive me differently based on how I move even the tiniest of muscles, it is painfully obvious. The boys have never done it, not once, they’ve always treated me as one of them. Never has one of them implied me being weaker, more delicate or called me ‘sweetheart’ in that obnoxious way lots of people do when they’re trying to put me back in my place.

 My head constantly feels underwater with the knowledge that if I were to sit wrong I’d be labeled as a girl, if I walk in a specific way it’ll put attention on my hips, even just standing, unmoving, gives me anxiety. The most insignificant of movements could shoot down the image of me that I want people to see whenever they lay eyes on me.

I feared the worst each time I let my mind tug me into a daydream. Deep down I knew, they’d never turn their back on a friend, but fear nipped at my heels every day. Not only was I hiding who I was from them, but I was lying to their faces about it as well. What hurt me the most, though, was not being able to admit my identity to Sirius.

Sirius Orion Black, he’s been the one that made sure I felt safe around him and the lads. More than once I caught myself being entranced by his words as he let the rest of us know what a nightmare his family life was. He was the total opposite of what his mother wanted him to be, yet that didn’t stop him from being his pure unfiltered self, if anything he enhanced each trait she found disgusting. Sirius wasn’t scared to be his true self, even if it meant going against his blood.

It sparked something in me. My heart has been his, for a long time now.

Sirius, with his raven locks, smooth skin and ever present smirk on his face is the one and only subject of all my dreams. He constantly looks as though he knows everyone’s secrets. The thought makes my stomach twist. When I awake, with the moon still high up in the sky, I almost turn to the pillow beside me, to take a peek at him, they’re that realistic. 

At any rate, if there’s someone that I feel should be the one to know the true me, it is him. I contemplated asking all four of them to meet me, but I don’t think I could rip the bandaid that easily. I want to talk to the one who knows -somewhat- how it feels to have expectations placed on oneself, the one who knows that being someone you’re not is more painful than the Crucio curse itself. Of course our situations are oceans apart: he doesn’t deal with having the need to hide certain parts of my body, or with the numerous wailing moments caused by being born in the wrong body, but I think he'd be the first one to accept me.

I had a whole speech prepared, a letter pages and pages long that I was going to give him, so he could read it without my presence, but as I hear his footsteps approaching me, I can imagine him already. His wand resting behind his ear and tie loosened, hands comfortably and nonchalantly situated in the pockets of his jeans with his luscious hair possibly styled into a bun.

“You’ve been rather gloomy lately, mate.” His foot taps my leg, before he lowers himself to sit next to me. We’ve always enjoyed sitting in the astronomy tower together, in the short span of time between a prank or two. Here, we don’t have to worry about being something else, we’re just humans admiring the stars. In hindsight, I should have figured out he knew I’d be hiding out here, as for my ‘being gloomy’, well, I thought I’d done a good job pretending. Apparently not. It makes me wonder if he’s seen through all of my white lies.

“You know how it is, life is hard.” I turn to him, expecting a silly joke like ‘Life is hard, but I’m harder’, something stupid to cheer me up as he usually does, but said joke never makes it into reality. He’s not even smiling, his lip is caught between his teeth in a clearly troubled look, it doesn’t suit him. No trace of a bun holding his luscious hair in place, what a shame.

“Are you okay though?” He whispers, even if we are the only beating hearts in the room and the sincerity in his voice almost brings me to tears. “I mean it when I say you haven’t been yourself lately.” I haven’t fully been myself for ages, but he doesn’t know that. Of course he doesn’t. I’ve been everything but myself. Oh, how many times have I hoped I could just rip my chest apart and rid myself of this body that doesn’t belong to me, before emerging from the depth of it as the man I know I am.

My tongue is threatening me to run faster than my mind. ‘I’m a man’ I want to shout, ‘I have always been a man, from the moment I was born, and I hope you can accept me for what I am.’ It sounds so easy in my head, which is why I hate it more than anything when my throat dries up as soon as I part my lips. His gaze falls to them, but it comes back up to meet my eyes when only a sigh escapes from them.

In being faced with my hesitation he speaks again, a subtle comforting smile on his face, “Hey, I’m not holding you hostage. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t feel like it.” His elbow meeting my side in a gentle shove sends my heart ablaze, it is just a simple touch, not even skin on skin, yet it makes my entire body warm up.

“If one day you woke up and saw that you were trapped in a cage, what would you do?” I tentatively ask, testing the waters of the ocean I know I am going to dive in today. My question causes a corner of his lips to tilt upwards, “I’d pick the lock,” He says, as if the solution would be that easy. I foolishly hope it was.

“What if there is no lock to pick? What if you could escape it, but you’d have to face one of the biggest fears in your life in order to do so?” 

His answer, before I can even finish the last syllable, “I’d do it. If it means freedom, I’d do anything. You know it.” His hand rests on my shoulder, I can feel his thumb pressing into my muscles, more than anything I want to hug him and confess my reality with my face hidden in his neck. But I don’t. I’m tired of hiding. My life has turned into a twisted version of hide and seek, where I’m both the seeker and the one hiding. I seek a day where I won’t have to hold back anymore, a day where I’ll be able to use a masculine pronoun without expecting weird looks towards me, yet I hide away in the darkness, afraid of the future, afraid of losing everything I’ve built so far. 

I’ve built mansions, cathedrals, palaces with precarious foundations and I think the time has come to fix that. 

“What’s with all the philosophical talk today? Cages and fears and whatnot. Is it a new idea for a prank? Because if it is you need to hear one James had just a while ago-”

“I’ve been lying to you, Sirius.” I confess with the taste of bile in the back of my throat. The letter I had prepared and read so many times I’d memorized it sits deep in the pockets of my pants, I’m running on no script and no idea of where this conversation will bring us. I have no patience to hear what he might say, so I don’t even stop to breathe before I speak again.

“I’ve been lying to all of you, even to myself at times. I want to preface this by saying that I understand if this is confusing to you, or if you don’t understand where this is coming from but I am not the girl you boys befriended all those years ago. I’ve never been a girl, not once, but this doesn’t mean I’ve been faking to be your friend. I’m still the friend that helped you get out of detention, I’m still the friend that sent professors down the wrong hallway when they would ask for you mid prank preparation, I’m still the friend that would do your essays for you in exchange for part of your food at lunch. I’m still your friend, just not the friend you thought you had.” The words flow out like a river overflowing, it is only as I say the last word that I notice the tears rolling down my cheeks, “I’m not a girl,” I say again, my voice cracking in a sob, “I’m a guy.” 

The grip he had on my shoulder tightens for a moment before he lets out the loudest sigh of relief I’ve ever heard, “By Merlin’s beard, you scared me half to death there.” His other hand rests on his chest, most likely trying to relax his beating heart that, if it’s pounding half the speed of mine, then it must be fighting tooth and nail to escape his ribcage. Something halfway through another sigh and a chuckle comes from him as his head shakes, “So, you’re a bloke, huh? Is that what you’re telling me?” 

I nod, swallowing the gulp stuck in my throat, I can’t force myself to make a sound. The arm wrapping itself around my shoulder and pulling me into Sirius takes me by surprise, “You were always one of the lads, mate.” He says, grinning ear to ear, “Thank you for telling me. I can’t imagine this was easy for you…” The weight on my back does not abandon me completely, it is only the tiniest amount lighter. The first step is taken, there is no going back, little by little he’ll be able to uncover all of me. One small step at a time. Now it is no time to let him know how the only things I smelled while brewing amortentia was his cologne, butterbeer and the occasional cigarette. 

I don’t know what else to say, it feels like I just lept from a flying broom awaiting contact with the ground, but the crash never comes, my bones never break and no absurd pain breaks through me. “Thank you for still being here.” I choke out. His thumb runs over the corners of my eyes, the silver rings on his fingers graze my hot skin, “Thank you for telling me.” He repeats, dragging my body closer to his in a warm hug, “I want you to know, telling the others, that’s your choice. I won’t say a word. There’s no rush. I’ll even hold your hand while you do it.”

I melt in his arms. His last remark, as teasing as it was, is enough to pull a smile out of me. “I’ll make sure to let you know whenever I’m ready so you can wash your hands first. Who knows what you’ve touched.”

“Wow, rude much.” Sirius holds me for what feels like a lifetime. They say Hogwarts is the safest place there is, but I think I’ve found a worthy adversary to that claim. We don’t say anything, I said my piece and he listened. That’s all that was important. One day I’m going to have to tell James, Remus and Peter as well, but that can wait for now. The worst is done. 

“Do you feel a little more free now?” He murmurs in my ear, “Has that cage began to feel like something you could escape from?”

“Yes.” And I mean it when I say it. The future looks brighter than it ever has.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #sirius black x male reader #sirius black x m!reader #hurt/comfort #marauders x reader #male reader #trans lives matter #reader insert #writing

[fleetingcalypso]

Greetings, oh beautifully talented Calypso.

Today I come forward to ask you a quite peculiar request for a fic, if you'd be comfortable writing about it.

If you'd like to humor me, I am definitely a sucker for Francis Abernathy, therefore I present to you a prompt for him, that takes place in the timeline after the end of college.

Since I tremendously like the way you portray the characters psychological traits, I believe you could write a masterpiece out of this.

Could you write about a reunion between Francis and the reader, who has received Francis' goodbye letter and rushed to his side, after they went no contact for years.

Maybe they were occasional lovers while in college, but Francis kept the reader as a side piece for when Charles didn't want him? All while the reader had genuine feelings for him and stayed by his side even though they knew it was extremely toxic?

How would this reunion end? Would it be with or without comfort? If it's okay for you to write this, I'll leave this decision up to you. Thank you for listening and have a good day!

≋ Quite heartbreaking, being used as a replacement for an impossible love.

≋ Francis Abernathy x AMAB!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 2259 words.

≋ TW: Mentions of sh, mentions of s*icide, depressive themes, mentions of d*ath, probable manipulation and toxic relationship, one-sided love, lavender marriage.

≋ CW: Angst with no happy ending. Hurt/No Comfort. Reader is AMAB, but it can be read as GN!Reader.

“Mon amant,”

These are the first words I receive from the one man I gifted my best moments to. Black ink on white paper laughs in my face and  mocks me, the swirls in his penmanship whirl me into an hallucinogenic land I hadn’t stepped foot in for what felt like ages. The last time I spoke to him was at a funeral in St. Louis, a wretched day, where he promised me, with his gaze fixed on a black casket, that he’d never drift too far from me. After that, I’d only meet him in my dreams, during those nights where I thought my time had come.

Just eight letters perfectly placed, that was all it took for dried flowers to be bathed in holy water and blossom into divine red roses. For years and years I had tried to contact him, but in vain; my efforts in hearing his voice again, feeling his skin, catching a glimpse of his eyes only succeeded in my heart shrivelling up into something unrecognisable, chewed, consumed by worms and larvae. Each letter I sent found its way back to my doorstep, each call was left unanswered, Richard was my only way of knowing Francis was even alive at all.

Casting my feelings aside for just a moment, me and my soul feel no shame in drinking up each and every word on the page, it’s like eating cherries. One word leaves me hungry for the other, a famine coming to an end; after so long with only my memories keeping his memory alive it is difficult to contain my craving for any scrap of him I can get my cursed hands on.

His letter reads like an obituary although written in haste. 

“Mon amant,

I will not bother you with worthless, dishonest chatter of the likes of ‘How are you, my friend? We haven’t talked in a while!’ because this is most likely the first and last time I will speak to you in more time than I want to admit.

Seeing Henry being lowered into the ground, with none of our friends present, cleared a lot of fog into my mind, honestly I think this was a long time coming. Don’t feel sorry for me. You of all people, I wholeheartedly feel, should be somewhat relieved.

As I’m writing this, I realise - or perhaps I knew it all along - that I have been anything but kind to you, in our youth. I do ask, beg even, that you forgive me for my sins.

Forgive me for the kisses we shared, forgive me for those gasps I breathed against your neck, forgive me for having moulded you into the silhouette of what I was looking for in a lover, without ever actually dipping more than my finger in your waters.

Forgive me for all the promises I didn’t even try to keep.

There are many things we did together that I can still remember: when my eyes are closed and I'm tip-toeing on the fine line between sleep and wakefulness, my mind brings me back to whispers in the dark, to my back being pressed against the wall and to your hand in mine.

I won’t reminisce any longer. It leaves an all too saccharine aftertaste in my mouth.

If it matters any, you are the one thing I can’t bring myself to regret.

If after I fall into eternal sleep I happen to run into Henry, I will not hesitate in speaking my mind and asking him why the hell he was so selfish as to leave us all behind and not cause a bloodbath in that hotel room. 

Again, please don’t feel too anguished over this. It was only a matter of time.

Yours, if only for a fleeting moment in time,

Francis”

I read it, again and again, until it is burned into my retinas. I could repeat it out loud like a litany, like a religious chant forwards and backwards, in my sleep even. I most likely did repeat it in my sleep, as while I was on a plane rushing to his side in Logan, I remember being gently stirred awake by a young girl who thought I was trapped in what she called a nightmare. I assured her I was alright, but my words would soon reveal themselves to be false.

It was indeed a night terror that I was going through, only I wasn’t asleep and this was the cruel reality that fate had written in the cards for me. And terror inhabited my heart when my eyes finally met his once again.

Who was this man? Where had my Francis gone? Had I gotten the wrong room? Of course I hadn’t, he was reserved a private one, his personal nurse guided me to it.

We stared at each other and not a single muscle was moved, not until he was the one to break the spell that had enchanted us into cold statues. He sighed and turned away. I felt it like a slap in my face, still I rushed to the chair next to his bed, almost tripping over my own feet.

“Francis.” I breathe, tasting his name on my tongue, invisible maraschino cherries grazing my taste buds turning sour when my vision focuses on the bandages around his wrists. It’s unreal. The first time I can breathe in the air he exhales after an everlasting apnea, and it’s because he attempted to take his own life.

I want to scream. I want to break something. Hell, I’d strike him, if he wasn’t injured. What right does he have to take away what I hold closest to my chest? I could have lived, knowing he was alive, living his best - or worst- life somewhere in a far away meander of the world. I could have lived without his presence next to me. I could have endured it for a million lifetime, not knowing if my gaze would catch a glimpse of his red curls ever again. 

What I could not live with, was knowing he was not on this Earth anymore. That my affection was being dispersed into the wind, melting into the roots of trees with no way of reaching its recipient.

Silence reigned, I had left my house in a hurry, not even bothering to wash my dishes, fold my laundry or clean the coffee that spilled on my kitchen table when I read the name inked on the back of the letter delivered to me. It dawns on me tragically. I was so eager to finally be able to count the freckles on his cheeks again, that not for one second had I prepared what to say in his presence.

Surprisingly -or maybe not- he is the one to speak first, his words send an ice dagger through me, “How are you? We haven’t talked in a while.” He says not looking at me, just like he did during Henry’s funeral. History repeats itself.

These are the first words I receive from the one man I gifted my best moments to, this time at the very least I can hear his voice as he mocks me with what he quotes as worthless, dishonest chatter.

“Francis.” There’s a masked harshness to my tone that grabs him by the jaw and forces him to look my way once again. “You tried to kill yourself.”

“Wow, I left you as sharp as an arrow and I find you as dull as an unsharpened knife.” It sounds more like a tease than an insult, the slight rising of his eyebrow confirms my doubt. 

Why the hell would you do that? I want to say, why the hell would you promise me to stick by my side and then disappear like a phantom? Why in the world would you eradicate your existence from my life? But the words never come, because they’re not the ones I should say right now and with the way his hollowed eyes gaze into mine, it’s obvious he understands my struggle in not blowing up.

“I’ve been selfish,” He admits, trying to sit up straighter, my hands fists the material of my trousers to hold back from helping him, “I did not expect to see you ever again. That day, when we said goodbye to Henry…” For a blink of an eye he’s back in time, standing at my side, three rows behind our friend’s weeping mother, “Some inconsiderate part of me truly wanted to be with you, I was looking at the future and there wasn’t much I could count as permanent. Not even life itself. But you… You were always there for me.”

“I was.” I’m not ashamed to admit it. Those times where Charles wanted nothing to do with Francis, I was, without fail, the one he seeked comfort in. My body did not hesitate when it was pulled in bathroom stalls, in bedrooms or in a secluded corner of the library back at Hampden. Maybe he liked having me as his paramour because of my gentle touch and the way I’d carefully set his glasses to the side before kissing him, maybe being on the receiving hand of love and care made him feel more alive than his hair being pulled and teeth digging into his neck.

“I was scared.” Unlike me, he is ashamed. “I was scared if I kept you in my life, I would forever be reminded of what we did.” 

“What we did?” I echo him and he nods solemnly. It’s when his teeth begin torturing his bottom lip, that I almost let myself be pulled back in the past. I almost feel like Orpheus and Eurydice together as one, one single look behind me and I will be forever lost in what could have been. His tongue peaks out to alleviate the damage his teeth are guilty of and it is done.

Invisible spirits wrap themselves around my limbs and guide my hand on top of his, I restrained myself as much as humanly possible. His letter sits in the chest pocket of my jacket, it weighs heavy, though it is not the reason my body leans towards him.

Mesmerised by the way his curls bounce when his head shakes it takes a while for me to realise he’s slipped his hand away from mine to reach for a cigarette on his nightstand, jealousy possesses me when such a small object fits perfectly between his lips, nonetheless I light it up for him. The nearby ashtray is already a residence to a dead cigarette, though it looks like it was put out as soon as it was lit.

After breathing out a cloud of smoke Francis decides it’s time to throw my world off its axis, “I’m getting married. I have to, or I can kiss my grandfather’s money goodbye.” If jealousy possessed me earlier, for a simple cigarette, now a pit sits in my stomach, my head tilts in confusion because it’s all I can do while my throat goes dry. “To an impossibly stupid girl, of all people.” He adds, and it doesn’t take long until he shoves in my hands a photo of someone I don’t recognize.

“She’s pretty.”

“Richard said the same. You just missed him, he left a moment before you arrived.” For some reason it irks me that Richard was here before me. He’d always been everywhere and nowhere at once yet somehow still in the way. Too often Francis had confessed to me how interesting it would be if he could have a chance with Richard.

The more I stared at the smiling woman in the picture the more daggers piercing me. While he may not ever truly love her like a man loves a woman, perhaps she could give him a good life. Something he clearly did not want with me. I’m quick to brush that thought away, the same way I set the photo back onto the nightstand. “Nonetheless congra-”

“I had found someone else.” He interrupts and at this point maybe it would have been better if I had just stayed at home, if I had forgotten Francis Abernathy existed and if I had tried to wash his taste out of my mouth with soap. Each and every word he says is a bullet aimed to kill, he probably doesn’t even realise or if he does then the years have made him much more cruel than I could have ever imagined. “His name is Kim, he’s a lawyer, he went to Harward, he was good. But no, instead I have to marry a stupid girl, whose presence sucks the fun out of every room she steps foot into.” 

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say? “I’m really sorry, Francis.”

“I’m sorry too.” 

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, no you shouldn’t have.”

I wonder if I could offer him to run away together. I wonder if he’d agree to let me be his saviour. I wonder if he opened up to Richard in one day more than he ever did with me. I wonder if he’s going to notice that I stole one of his cigarettes. I wonder how much time I’ve spent sitting in silence on a bench a couple streets away from Brigham and Women’s Hospital. I wonder how much time has passed since I last smoked a cigarette. I wonder why it doesn’t hurt as much as I imagined when the letter he wrote me burns at my feet. I wonder when the next flight back home is.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #the secret history x reader #francis abernathy x reader #angst #hurt/no comfort #francis abernathy #reader insert #dark academia #tsh donna tartt #the secret history #amab reader #gn reader

[fleetingcalypso]

The Collection.

≋ A collection of what I want to leave for posterity. Once Helios rides his chariot across the sky for the final time, these works will stay here, forgotten by everyone but me and Time. ≋

≋ The Secret History;

Camilla Macaulay:

We were girls together.

Charles Macaulay: Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran: Francis Abernathy:

Mon amant.

Henry Winter:

Henry Winter proposing in his own special way.

Henry taking care of his lover while they suffer from period pains.

Lazy morning and possibly deceptive kisses.

Fighting with Henry.

A rivarly blossoming into attraction.

Celebrating a birthday with him and the Greek class.

Unaware reader seeing Henry after his attempt.

Richard Papen:

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦

≋ The Folk of the Air;

Cardan Greenbriar:

Even children can act as Kings, even Kings can act as children.

Jude Duarte:

Even children can act as Kings, even Kings can act as children.

Locke: Oak Greenbriar: Suren "Wren": Taryn Duarte:

━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━◦○◦━━◦○◦

≋ Marauders;

James "Prongs" Potter: Peter "Wormtail" Pettigrew: Remus "Moony" Lupin: Sirius "Padfoot" Black:

Coming out as a man to Sirius.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #the secret history #tfota #marauders #xreader #writing #fluff #angst #comfort #readerinsert #x reader headcanons #x reader imagine

[fleetingcalypso]

Welcome to Ogygia.

≋You must be tired, scared and maybe even confused. Do not worry, let me welcome you into my home.≋

≋ Feel free to call me Calypso. It's been a long while since I had some company, I can only hope and pray to the Gods you decide to stay.

≋ There is not much to do on my island, so I've begin indulging myself in some creative writing. I encourage you to send me ideas, thoughts and opinions, it's always better to make something together than alone, although I reserve the right to deny anything that does not fit the sanctity of this slice of heaven.

≋ Here is the collection of my writings, my MASTERLIST. ≋ I beg of you to not present my work as your own, or to share it elsewhere in the world without my permession. ≋ English is not my main language, although I am trying my best to communicate with you all. Albeit finding solace in writing, I am not a poet nor a novelist, do forgive me if my work is not up to your standards. Thank you for being so kind and understanding, I'm sure we'll get along swimmingly.

Κ.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #introduction #writing #dark academia #xreader #readerinsert #originalcharacter #oc

[fleetingcalypso]

The Catalogue.

≋ Go ahead, hero. Take your pick. I have a great many interests, they blossom like flowers in spring, blessed by the ever lovely divine Persephone. Can you recognize any of them as your own? ≋

≋ What I will write for is merely whatever catches my attention enough to push me into a writing mood. Usually, that is characters of books that have had an impact on my cursed existence. ≋ Here is a list of what you may find me interested in:

The Secret History,

The Folk Of The Air,

Harry Potter (Marauders Time),

The Olympians and minor deities.

≋ Do not be afraid to ask for more risquè topics, I do not mind. It is ever so lonely here, some acts of passion can only do some good. NSFW is welcomed.

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #readerinsert #dark academia #xreader #writing #creative writing

[fleetingcalypso]

Even heaven has its rules.

≋ There are no limits here on Ogygia. Your imagination runs wild. You can be anywhere in the world without moving a muscle, just close your eyes and hold my hand.≋

≋ Although writing has unlimited doors to unlock, there are a few paths I will not walk upon, such as:

Any bigotery of any kind (e.g racism, homophobia, transphobia etc...)

Anything with a child as a love interest, or as the lover of an older love interest.

Acts of passionate love that do not match with my boundaries (e.g bodily fluids, fecal matters, taboo - proship, age-play.)

#calypsorules #fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #mdni #reader insert #dark academia #xreader #writing #originalcharacter