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fleetingcalypso · 3 months ago

Note

Greetings, dearest Calypso

I sincerely hope this message finds thee in good health, both mentally and physically.

I come forward to present thee with a quite curious request, as I'd be quite interested to see thy opinion on such situation.

Imagine, in a distant future, in which Henry Winter was able to finish college and didn't die and maybe he and reader were able to marry, they live in an isolated house, surrounded by nature, the horrors of the college years long forgotten, perhaps.

If he sees him and reader spending their lives together until the end, would he ask them for children? Would he be willing (and wanting) to start a family? How would he propose to the reader such Idea? Maybe some fluff, you do not have to add suggesting tones to it if you're not comfortable with it (ex. Implied baby-making, jokes about it etc), but I'd love to just see some fluff about them. Feel free to add the undertones you desire, as I noticed the exquisite subtle manipulation you write, I love it so much. I wish you a good day.

≋ Married life is hardly uncomplicated, especially when it has such a tumultuous history behind it. That's not to say it is all bad.

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 5853 words.

≋CW: This fic wil be divided into two parts. This part feature GN!Reader, the second part will feature AFAB!Reader due to discussions of childbirth and pregnancies. Neither fic will include female pronouns for reader.

≋TW: Hallucinations, religious themes, light nsfw/suggestive themes, needle (weaving needle) mention.

After everything that transpired, lingering in Vermont was not a wise decision.

Henry had been crystal clear about it: he wanted to leave as fast as possible, it didn’t matter where as long as it was far away from the place we both called home. It took hours upon hours of convincing, reasons upon reasons laid out in front of him for him to –although reluctantly– agree on graduating first; that same day he barely gave me enough time to pack a suitcase before speeding us to the airport, wouldn’t even tell me what flight we were boarding on just that we were going to have a fresh start. I haven’t seen nor spoken to my friends in years, no letters nor phone calls. I miss them dearly, but he is set in abandoning the past to corrode with time and eventually disappear, swept away by the wind.

He has changed in the many moons that have passed since our getaway: in a subtle almost sweet way he’s kinder, softer. He makes sure to tell me he loves me each day, though his honesty is rather ambiguous. He gifts me small treasures, one of a kind pieces, for no reason at all. When the Sun rises his fingers trace my face and when the Moon takes her rightful spot in the night sky he holds me to his chest, yet oftentimes throughout the day he feels as though he is stuck somewhere else with his mind, promenading in the meanders of a haunting history we know far too well. A history I cannot save him from, no matter how much effort I may put in making him happy. I am unable to save myself from it, as well, after all. Our souls are forever tainted, no matter how much we bathe and scrub our bodies.

We married at some point during our escape. He didn’t have a ring, but then again, he didn’t need to. One day he was on one knee, the next we were already wed. It was but a quick ceremony, at times I feel like perhaps it went by in the blink of an eye, but it’s okay. It’s what he thought would be the best option for us and at that point I didn’t have it in myself to argue anymore. It was during a rare, yet much needed, phone call home that we reluctantly confessed to his mother why we escaped in such a hurry: under the false guise of just wanting to cement our affections once and for all we fed one white lie after the other to an unsuspecting woman, that was just oh so happy her son had finally found love. We settled down by the countryside in a beautiful house that gives me flashbacks to Francis’ laugh, much to Henry’s dislike. These days I’m not sure he enjoys much else besides writing, locked in his study, forsaking the light of day and laying by my side in our marital bed as we share a cigarette.

Unfortunately ‘good things never last’ is a hymn I’ve grown to fully comprehend a lifetime ago, the very moment I heard the gut wrenching, bone chilling noise Bunny’s body made when it was done falling off that damned cliff. I still hear it sometimes: sitting on the porch of our villa – a, perhaps too kind, gift by my now mother-in-law – sipping a warm cup of tea, watching the birds fly back to their nests after a long day of losing themselves in the thrill of flight. As expected, Henry is in his study, surrounded by inks, papers and documents I do not much care about and for just a second my insubordinate psyche drifts to the past, to an echo of what once was laughter and academic conversations, now turned deafening silence and haunting guilt. It only takes a second, a fleeting moment of reminiscing for me to feel Bunny’s thud right next to me, on my porch. I do not dare move a muscle because I know he is watching me with glassy eyes, his glasses broken and his head turned at an inhuman angle. I don’t have it in me to sneak a peek and give into my hallucinations. Allowing him the pleasure of plaguing my reality, as well as my nightmares, would drag me too deep into culpability.

I’m sure Henry sees him as well, at times. He will never admit to it.

His voice snaps me out of my thoughts, yanking me back into a most heavenly and cruel present: Bunny is dead, my friends have drifted away, I am somewhere in the countryside alienated from society, but at last, I’m with my lover who cares deeply for me and handles me as if I’m made of crystal. “Love, come inside, it’s getting dark.” Wordlessly I follow my husband into our home. It’s an arduous task for the terrors to follow me when he takes my hand in mine ever so gently and guides me to safety, mimicking a knight in shining armor. My savior leading me through our own private pearly gates.

Dinner is eerily silent, the only noise being cutlery scraping against porcelain plates and ice cold wine being poured in glasses. Not a pet’s barking nor a baby’s crying to be heard. I shatter the quiet that has settled upon us with quite the daring observation, "Are you happy?"

His arm stills mid-air as he’s bringing a fork to his mouth. The look he gives me through his lenses it's as if I am an open book and he could recite every single one of the inked paragraphs inside of me.

I insist, "Are you?" And finally he sets his fork down. I hold his attention in my shaking palm. His shoulders are stiff and there’s a small muscle in his jaw that twitches before he speaks and his voice fills the calm of our dining room.

"I am."

"Despite us only having each other, with not a single soul around for miles?"

“Where is this coming from?” I don’t miss the subtle accusative tone buried in what appears to be an innocent question, only a fool would be capable of ignoring it. His gaze pierces right through me, it renders me unable to ever look away, the ocean blue of his eyes is a sea I would gladly choose to swim into until my limbs no longer could keep me afloat and my lungs were filled with him, only with him.

"I'm not too sure," I lie with not a little difficulty, it all tastes far too bitter on my tongue. It’s a shame I’ve grown rusty, to speak falsehood had become a habit when it was to keep everyone in line for him, "I suppose I was wondering about our future. Are we to bury ourselves in our solitude for the rest of our lives?" The absence of our friends is more than noticeable, Bunny's absence even more than that. Living this way, pretending we did not murder our friend and abandon the rest to their fate is an herculean feat.

"What if I said yes? What if that's precisely what I want? For us to only have one another, for the rest of our lives, until our home is but dust and ruins with the only thing remaining of us being our bones entangled with each other in one final hug. Wouldn't you like that?"

It’s a dead end, I can feel it coming as my throat goes dry, this seemingly sinless query is rapidly morphing into an intricate maze that could rival Daedalus’ craftsmanship, a maze where I am the vicious minotaur, unable to find any sort of exit, unable to see the stars once again. As for Henry, he is my hero, my Theseus, ready to slay my beastly need for freedom with his own desires. I can see it already, how my horned head is thrown out on the sand of Crete, how he’d sit by my side and two pairs of eyes would admire the starry sky.

“I would. There’s nothing I’d love more, believe me,” I pleased him, the imperceptible tilt of his lips’ corner tells me so. Stroking his ego has become second nature, he’s a servant to his own hubris, shackled to it, an eager prisoner, “But I feel… lonely. It is lonely here.”

It’s not loneliness. It’s jealousy and it eats at the extremely rotten core of my being, ruining me from the inside out. Each waking day I spot the crows, stopping by my window and accepting any breadcrumb I offer them. They come and they go, occasionally bringing some presents for me along with their presence: small things such as acorns, nuts, buttons, mostly rubbish that I treasure in a box in the closet along with our friends’ letters. There’s four or maybe seven crows that keep coming back. Henry is more of an ornithologist than I’ve ever been, he’d be able to differentiate all of my feathered companions in just a quick glance.

Take me with you, my friends, I silently pray while my beloved sits in front of me, no sign of a reply falls from him, gift me nightmare colored wings and welcome me in the heavens alongside you, I’d inconspicuously blend in with you, harbingers of doom, and fly in the sky away from this gilded birdcage and into the open world.

The crows are not the only ones I send my pleas and supplications too, more than once my thoughts have sent me to ask the Queen of the Gods for help, for the magnificent lady Ἥρα Τελεία to bless this union with the fulfillment which I feel is nowhere in sight regardless of it all: we have a beautiful home with an even more beautiful scenery around us, enough money for Henry to forfeit being a writer for the rest of his life and still live a lavish life, a diamond ring worth a small fortune sits on my ring finger and yet, it all feels empty. We are happy, but feeling happy and feeling fulfilled rarely meant the same when it came to my dearest love.

When his lips slightly move apart I feel time stop and I can almost predict what his responses are going to be: “Aren't I enough company for you?”

“You knew what you were getting into when you married me.”

“We’ve done the impossible and built something perfect, my muse. I’m sure you’re just tired, why don’t you get ready for bed?”

Unforeseen words flow out of his mouth like an angels’ choir, they lure me into a sempiternal cocoon of silk and love, he speaks with a hint of an ephemeral promise when he drowns all my expectations in the ocean that is my affections for him: “I have been neglecting you, haven’t I?” He’s enthralling in the way he accepts his fault without his spine bending from his wrongdoings. He doesn’t seem to be surprised by my nodding along, the softness in his gaze is a one way ticket to my heart threatening to jump out of my chest.

“Come here,” He pats his leg and I rise to reach my altar, my preacher and my holy communion blended together as one being. The disrespect I throw at his sanctity when I defile his hallow personal space and find my seat on his lap is all forgiven by his grace, “How long have you felt this way, my bird?” His lips are resting against my temple, I can feel the vibration in his chest with every syllable, “Tell me.” I hope he will absolve me of all my sins if I let myself loose in his confessional, I just need to find it in my soul to bear myself to him, fears and secrets and all.

“I’m unable to exactly pinpoint when these feelings have begun planting roots in my mind, but I could estimate around a couple years after we appointed this building as our home. Look me in the eyes and tell me you haven’t felt it as well, Henry, I beg of you. We have banished ourselves from any chance at a regular life. I do not feel alive, I feel as though I am merely surviving day by day, trying to find balance while walking on a violin string fluctuating between the fiery pits of hell and a spot of honor behind the pearly gates. I love you. You are my greatest joy, the very air that I breathe, but it is not enough, not nearly. I miss what we used to be: young, careless and perhaps too proud to face the consequences of our actions, but I suppose that’s what youth is all about, after all. My life is slipping from right between my fingertips and the more I pretend everything is fine, the harsher reality hits me.”

He sits soundless, letting me pour my heart out. He doesn’t dare interrupt me until my eyes meet his and for my bravery in speaking my mind he rewards me with his palms cupping my face and his lips pressing against mine in what could perfectly be the gentlest kiss we’ve ever shared in our lifetimes. Time stops abruptly, the critters in the woods around our home freeze in their movements, the Earth ceases her rotation just for us to live in the moment. The only thing that assures me I'm in the land of the living is the thumping in my chest.

When the time for softness is over and he pulls away, for a moment I wholly believe I am not human, instead my being is but an amalgamation of disappointment and greed, stitched together by celestial barbed wires of desperate need. His brow furrows as he shifts his vision lower to inspect the golden band around my finger, surely going over my monologue word for word, searching for where he- where we went wrong, when all the flowers we have meticulously watered began wilting and losing their petals. “I can see why you’d feel this way,” I hang onto the promise of something more, I desperately grab with both hands the rope thrown to me that promises me some comfort, some hope, a smidge of light at the end of the tunnel.

It never comes.

He pulls me up to my feet prior to him standing as well, his plate is still half full on the table. I can’t imagine I’ve drained his appetite so harshly. “I am retiring to my study. There’s some documents I care to translate. I’ll join you in bed once I’m done, my bird.” Were it another day I would have gone along with it

“What about what I care for, Henry?”

This conversation can’t be over so fast, it just can’t. I’ve spent God knows how long feeling wrong, feeling ashamed for desiring more than what we have. He can’t do this to me, not after I abandoned Vermont, my friends, everything I felt familiar behind to follow him. Swallowing the ever growing resentment down my throat I keep my head up. “Your translations can wait another day. It’s just ink and paper, I am your spouse, damn it. I open up to you and you give some bullshit reply that means nothing at all.”

He says nothing. He doesn't give me the satisfaction of a fight, the roaring flame of passion in yells, screams and shouts, it would be the one thing needed to make me feel alive right now. The temptation to empty my lungs onto him with sentences I could never take back is strong, stronger than me, but just before I can say a word his hand softly pats my head, and he's gone out the kitchen in a matter of seconds, the muffled clicking sound I hear makes me aware of the fact that, as he said he would, he's in his study. The only inhabitants of our kitchen are me, our unfinished dishes and my dissatisfaction.

Not much later, when the food that I had lovingly prepared for us sits in the fridge and my hands are wrinkly from scrubbing at plates and cutlery I grant myself a moment of respite, the house is too silent for my taste, it is only me and Henry, at the end of the day. It’s an invisible pull, the one tugging at me as I make my way towards our piano and carefully lift the fallboard. He's never looked at it more than once, always and forever letting me be the one to delight in touching it so gracefully, so lovingly. It’s a familiar melody, the one I settle on playing, one I had played for my friends so many times that I barely require a music sheet anymore. It starts off soothing, soft and delicate, almost giving an idea of fragility, and despite knowing the story this composition belongs to I can’t help but create my own narrative: a caged nightingale, trapped in the biggest, most lavish golden cage the universe has to offer. It sits quiet and pretty, singing its best songs, chirping the most melodic of tunes just for the outside world to hear.

As I began caressing the instrument with romantic touches, it didn't take long for softness and delicateness to hide away in shame with the way my fingers glided across the keys, much like a mad person. My back slouches, my body begins swaying along with the rhythm as my hair falls into my face, I’m transfixed by the tale I’m crafting, the slow and solemn notes are the perfect background for my little bird’s development. It all serves as the perfect catharsis to my inner torment.

It’s tired, it incessantly flies and flies from side to side into his mammoth sized cage, with the bars too close together to even attempt squeezing through them. The illusion of freedom is all it knows. Its poor wings, battered and bruised are worn out from slamming against the bars of its enclosure.

A warm hand resting on my shoulder makes my fingers slip and abruptly makes me recover from my reverie, putting an end to my story and making my notes slur together. “Enough of Swan Lake,” Henry’s aggravated voice comes from behind me, “I can’t focus with you making a racket over here.” Very well, his wish is my command: enough of Swan Lake. Time for another song, then. Pressing with force on the piano’s keys I flaunt my day of wrath to my spectator. Dies Irae. If he refuses to listen to my words, he will have no other choice than to listen to my playing and what I am attempting to convey through it. I let my lip curl in a carefree smile as my body shrugs off his touch, the way my limbs dance across this ivory sea with specks of obsidian almost hypnotizes me into a delusion of change. It rekindles the flame inside me I so foolishly believed had been snuffed out.

I recall Charles one summer we spent at the lakehouse, performing Chopin halfway through a glass of whiskey, most likely his second or third one. I wondered if by looking at me in this moment Henry could see what we had left behind to rot in the shadows. If he could see white flashes of Charles bent over the piano, of Camilla, of Francis, of Richard and of Bunny. I hope he sees everything he forced me to abandon and I hope the remorse grips his heart so tight it burns marks on it. The satisfaction taking over me is otherworldly.

The fallboard barely misses my fingers when he slams it shut, sending me back in a flinch. There’s no need for me to turn my head to feel how livid he is as I abandon the plush piano seat, smoothing down the folds in my clothes. The room is filled with silence more meaningful than the loud melodies I lost myself in. “You used to enjoy it when I played,” I comment, as the back of my hand caresses his cheek for little over a couple seconds until my wrist is in his frustrated grasp.

“I am trying to work. It is challenging to do so when you’re all I can hear.”

“Is that truly my fault?”

With a slow and mechanical gesture he kisses my knuckles, the warmth of his sigh hits my skin, “I am trying to work, my bird.” He insists, with a warning hidden in his tone. I know better than to poke a sleeping bear.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Join me in bed once you’re done.” I echo the words he had so thoughtlessly sent my way earlier and not awaiting his dismissal I vanish from his sight and he makes no movements to stop me. What I would give to have eyes on the back of my head and peek at his reaction, to be a fly on the wall of the room spying on his every twitch. In spite of me, when our mattress dips under the weight of his body, I burrow my head into his chest and he wraps his arms around me.

“My bird,” He purrs as the moonlight sneaks us pecks through the window, “I understand you’re upset,” I’ve exhausted all my replies for the day, I love him and I hate him. I want to build him an altar and I want to leave him adrift at sea. The heat of the scalding blood running in his veins is all I can feel when I slide my hand under his shirt. I need to know he’s here, alive and well. His heart beating under my palm is more spellbinding than any of the melodies I could ever learn. And while with time, my memories could very well choose to set fire to all the scores sitting in my mind, his heartbeat is something I’ll safeguard forever. I correct him, “I’m very upset.” A small noncommittal noise escapes him, his gentle hands tilt my head up, resting his thumb on my chin, “You're very upset,” He repeats, resting his forehead against mine, his glasses long forgotten on his nightstand, “Is there anything I can do to make you any less upset?..” It's impossible for me to evaluate his sincerity with the way his lips move across my jaw. The language of love is one he’s fluent in, more than Greek, Latin, Italian or any other tongue his polyglot self has become educated in. It’s impossible to come up with a solution to my aching troubles, not when I’m wondering if I’ve pushed him too far, not when he’s feeding me all the attention I’ve been so starved of. I soak it up like a sponge, forfeit any sort of cutlery when I sit at his table and gobble up the fruits of his passion. The bedding rustles when he rolls onto his back, pulling me along with him until my thighs are on either side of him. He’s at my mercy: under me, strong hands grabbing onto my hips while my weight presses him into the mattress. The fabric of his nightshirt barely wrinkles under my palms. He is shackled to me and to what I want to say.

“You could listen to me, for starters.” “I am listening now, aren’t I? And what I hear is that my precious songbird is unhappy with the comfortable life I provide for us, for what reason I haven’t the slightest clue.”

“I simply want more, Henry.” It’s pathetic. I sense my own misery radiating in waves, enough to desiccate every single leaf in the verdant expanse of trees around our home and drain any nearby body of water. Would my friends grieve my sinner’s love if they were to witness it? Would they send compassionate glances my way? Time has molded me into an unstable clay sculpture of what I used to be. The marble carved in the shape of an impeccable scholar, trustworthy friend and loving companion has rusted due to the corrosive tears it keeps crying, it sits hidden behind a curtain of rubies, anxiously waiting for the day something will be able to restore it and place it back on the podium of honor it deserves.

He shifts his hands, tracing my body with his midas touch, making me golden with each touch and caress, “Well then, what is your idea of more?” He questions, making my mouth go arid. What is my idea of more? I do not know. Anything would do: not having to pretend the crows are my friends, not having to live hidden away in a remote part of the world, not having our friend’s specter occasionally manifest itself to me. I clench my teeth, holding back the tsunami of truth I wish to unleash on him. I've concealed so much from him it’s beginning to wonder if he barely knows me at all.

His touch travels until it finds my forearms, my wrists, my palms and his fingers are quick to intertwine with mine in his second plea for me to open up, only now he seems eager to fix me, to drip molten angels’ halos down the cracks of my wretched existence and make me whole once again. “I don’t know.” He scoffs, turning his head to the full moon sitting proud in the grand expense of the inky sky. I allow myself to slump back onto the mattress next to his supine figure, “I don’t know. I want to soar the skies with wings of wax and feathers, I want to dive in unknown waters, I want to capture the brightest stars and store them in a jar only to set them free the second I tire of them.”

“And am I included in these fantasies of yours?”

“You could be.”

I want to reach out to him. I want to hold him tight in my arms, I want to place my lips on his and taste tobacco and whiskey, I want to place our hands side by side and admire the matching rings around our fingers. The way he clicks his tongue in what I assume is disapproval sends me from one extreme of love to the other: I want to show him I can survive without him, I want to make him admit that what’s keeping me alive isn’t his affections but my own devotion to life, I want him to gaze up at the sky and spot me moving through the clouds.

In our early adulthood we were nothing if not masquerading young godlings with the world at our fingertips, high on our egos and drunk on our grandioseness, we could have swam laps in the pungent, bitter wine pressed from our self-importance. Not one living being could have pierced the shields we’d sanctimoniously put up.

The conversation has found its death, maybe it has never even lived in the first place and I’ve poignantly imagined the whole thing. A quick funeral is hosted for it in the recesses of my mind while my eyes close and I shift into a more comfortable position to sleep.

“I love you,” He whispers, turning his back to me. I fail to reciprocate his cloying words before darkness swallows me whole. As we sink into sleep our bed feels the same as an oversized casket, too comfortable and welcoming for my own good and I feel a little closer to Bunny than I ever was during his living time.

My dreams are a blur, flashes transcendentally weaved together with threads coming from my past, my present and my future to form a tapestry I’d rather unravel or light ablaze. The needle passes through mysterious hands, each one adds a new row to it, the picture it wants to depict is still unclear and the need to discover it urgently fades the moment I shift my attention upwards, to the entity carefully and meticulously weaving the story of my life.

I’m met with a boyish grin and a messy mop of blonde hair. An unforgettable burst of laughter rings in my ears, time freezes everything including the blood in my veins.

The wind is knocked out of me as I jolt awake, pushing myself upright and grasping at my chest. I am robbed of speech just like that. All it took was for a dead man to spot me and offer his joyful stare. Undeterred by the years, his face sits right behind my eyelids, waiting for the moment I let him back in. This time when a hand finds rest onto my shoulder I lean into it.

A warm, mellifluous murmur wraps around me, trying to push me out of my sweven, acting as my favorite nepenthe. “It’s over. It’s all over. There’s nothing to worry about now.” Nothing it’s over, nothing has ever been over since everything has begun. I haven’t known peace since that grand time under the moonlight, when we were stripped of all inhibitions, when we let our souls jump out of bodies and foregone our egos, when we had everything and nothing, when entire hours, weeks, months, years went by in less than an heartbeat,when all of us got lost in a frenzy beyond euphoric. There was a joie de vivre about it all that didn’t fade away, not even when we plummeted back into reality: wounds, cuts, dirt and leaves all over us, dry blood smeared onto our improvised chitons and fresh blood on Henry’s hands. The first drops to be shed but unfortunately not the last.

He attempts to soothe me as if I were a weeping babe, he brushes my hair away from my forehead, he holds my clammy hands until my breathing pattern somewhat resembles a normal person’s and it’s these kind of soft moments that make me condemn him, how much I need his touch and his soft words is proportionate to how much I wish to run free, a rabid dog chewing the string of its leash until it breaks.

The sheets suffocate me, the sun filtering in the room blinds me, my own flesh feels as though it has been lit on fire and my heart is pumping within my ribcage enough to let me know I am alive, furthermore persistently calling attention to who does not have the same luck as I.

It is only when a strong, rich smell is all I can inhale that I notice a veiny hand offering me a glass of I assume can only be whiskey, Henry had left me alone to fill it and I hadn’t even noticed it. “Drink,” He says sternly, resting the cold edge of the short tumbler against my lips, “It’ll help.” Swiftly, the amber liquid is sent swirling down my throat, effectively grounding me with its flavors dancing onto my tastebuds, a woodsy taste with a touch of caramel and orange is all I can taste. The burning yet sweet sensation sends me into a wheezing coughing fit that efficiently distracts me from the dark vision I witnessed in my dreamland. It doesn’t last long to my luck, though this stubborn, delicious aftertaste will only stick with me until my teeth are brushed.

“Thank you,” I breathe out once I regain control over my lungs and most importantly my whole self, “Thank you, I needed that.” With what could perfectly be the heaviest sigh of my life, my head drops into my palms. There’s so much to say but not a single sound makes it out of me. Henry doesn’t prod yet, I don’t offer explanations, a groan flees me as I recall yesterday’s events and in one hopeless effort to put it past me I gulp down the rest of the whiskey under my husband’s concerned gaze.

“I desperately needed that,” I reiterate as soon as the coldness of the glass leaves my lips and he does not hesitate in pulling it out of my hands, setting it onto the ebony nightstand with a quiet thud. “I can see that,” he notes with a hidden layer of worry rooted in his words. “You’ve been restless these past few nights.” Oh, how I love his voice, especially at times like this, when he’s just woken up and it’s deeper than ever, gruff and penetrating through my chest straight for my heart. More than once it has charmed me during late nights or early mornings, while we were drunk and when we were sober, his gravelly whispers are invisible tattoos on my neck.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed.” I should have imagined that my tossing and turning would have been caught by his all seeing eye.

To my surprise, he smiles, as much as a subtle crooked grin could be counted as such. “As you’ll come to learn, my bird, I notice everything happening under my roof.” I could argue with that, but I’ve been drained of all energy. The ponderous load of my weary bones leaves no room for strength as my body gracelessly flops back against the mattress. He continues, speaking softly while pushing away the tendrils of hair that fell onto my face, “I doubt you’ll be falling asleep anytime soon. That seemed to be quite the harrowing dream to evoke such a reaction.”

“I’ll live.”

He nods, “I’m sure you will,” his eyes, though caring and worried, feel so far away. Stuck in a distant land, perhaps revisiting memories of a barely forgettable day in class, he turns to where a stream of warm sunlight kisses fill the room with brightness and the tweeting of birds provides us with an idea of a fabricated, peaceful liberty, just outside of our reach, waiting to be grasped in our trembling hands.

They say that such an innocent thing as a butterfly’s wings flapping and creating the most imperceptible movement in the air, could cause a deadly typhoon on the other side of the world. It chants the notion that everyone and everything in the world is inevitably connected, that one small, insignificant occurrence can lead to something nearly impossible to control, a significant change in the way fate is realistically supposed to go.

This time when Henry abandons me in our bedroom to get his day started it doesn’t go unnoticed, and I spend this precious moment thinking of how I got here. I peruse the story of my life backwards, a book beginning with the ending and, of which the conclusion depicts the starting point of it all: bright, rivaling the sun with it’s shine and expecting nothing if not greatness is my story, a painting I immortalized with my own hands adding a stroke of color each day. Amidst all the dazzling radiance, discovering the origin of where it all began to grow dull and lacking glow takes a formidable effort, and even then, I find not the faintest sliver of an answer.

The ‘butterfly effect’ that dragged me down this path remains an unknown mystery to me, possibly remaining as such until the end of time.

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

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fleetingcalypso · 5 months ago

Text

With the Moon as my witness.

≋ Bite after bite, choke on the poisonous curse that is to love someone, wicked ways and all. It goes without fail, even a worm will turn. Whether it wishes to do so or not, whether it feels guilt or not, that remains to be seen. ≋

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 1260 words.

≋ CW: Somewhat of an open ending. This might be slightly different than what I usually find myself writing, as it is slightly darker than the rest of my collection. I enjoyed it nonetheless and I hope you do too.

I wonder how someone so occasionally cruel and serious could sleep so serenely. Henry’s glasses sit precariously on his nose while his head is tilted to the side, one wrong move and they’d join his book on the floorboards, a fallen soldier unable to hold on for its life while sleep took over the hands that were previously cradling it. It almost brings me pain to wake him. Admiring the slight flutter of his eyelashes and his slightly parted lips might be a fitting replacement to my own rest tonight. With no curtains to block its path the moonlight shines through the kitchen’s window and paints his milky skin an even paler alabaster hue, highlighting the darkened bags under his eyes.

His soft breaths fill the room along with an inviting scent of whiskey and smoke, as expected melted ice rests at the bottom of an empty tumbler sitting on the table, just to the right of an old ashtray bursting with cigarette butts. No, not yet, I internally scold myself for what I aim to do, don’t wake him up just yet. For too long he’s been worrying night and day, poor soul, his plans – as brilliant as they can be – have begun weighing him down while the rest of us hang onto his every word, waiting every day for new instructions on how we were going to cheat the law and get away from all the things we had done. Slumber was a goal he ached for but couldn't reach, more often than not he laid in bed aching all over and with his forehead drenched in sweat.

Before wondering about what classic captured his attention this time I collect the book from the floor, setting it next to the ashtray. The Iliad. A creature of habit through and through he is. Luckily none of the pages were ruined or bent from the fall and the bookmark, which is nothing more than a receipt for a pack of Lucky Strikes, still sits right where he’d left it. With steady hands I relieve his nose of his glasses’ weight, they too find a seat atop the wooden surface. He needs them, now more than ever, with his vision unfortunately blurring a little more each day.

“The things I do for you,” He can’t even hear me, whatever sweet dream Henry must be having right now it is far sweeter than the reality we’re in, sweet enough for his usually heightened senses to have been dulled. He, who was usually so alert. “The things we do for you,” I’m quick to correct myself, even if the only one listening to me is the moon. She’s always been a better listener than Henry, “We’re at your beck and call, some more than others. I don’t know if I like that or if I despise it beyond measure.” Cowardice crawls up my spine aiming to latch at the back of my neck, to unload this burden onto him while he can’t even defend himself is a move only a weakling would deem appropriate. And yet that’s exactly what I’m doing. Only, I wish he could hear the resentment in my voice and be poisoned by it.

His hands lie in his lap, cold and twitching at times, at any other moment I would have warmed them up, held them and raised them to my lips.

Henry trusts me. He trusts me enough to cook his lunch, fix him a glass, buy his cigarettes, sleep in his bed. It’s not enough, though. It might never be.

He doesn’t even stir when my warm hand cups his face, truly a prisoner of dreamland. I do so wonder what he dreams of sometimes: being a writer, translating his beloved classics in the only true way he knows how to – his. Maybe he leaves us all stranded and turns into a shared hallucination brought forth by alcohol and drugs. Even more plausible is this other conjecture in which in his dreams he’s back in a field, with white besdheets wrapped around him and blood on his hands, unafraid and unaware of the rest of the world around him.

It is for the best that he’s finally in a somewhat relaxed state. After lunch today he’d been quite sick, I suppose I should have considered it an insult towards my cooking. Having to listen to him retching in the bathroom made me reconsider many things, though.

Surely he must be catching up by now, even Richard could be such a fool and that simpleton does overlook quite a lot, “I do love you,” I whisper in the darkness, “I want you to know that. You must know that.” This was a last resort, someone ought to bring judgement in this home, and while I am not a God nor a master of the law, I do know Henry. I know his ways, I know the way his mind plans for futures that may not even happen, I know someone needs to put an end to this madness or it is only a matter of time before we all join our long gone friend in the afterlife.

“We didn’t want it to go this far.” I could have walked away that day, I should have turned my back to the assembly that had gathered in the lake house’s kitchen. Camilla, Charles and even Richard all sat at the table, their fingers gripping empty glasses with an even emptier bottle of wine being replaced by Francis, dejected and grim expressions on their faces.

Whatever secret conversation transpired that night I wish I could forget, whatever promise was shared I will not speak out loud, whatever course of action was decided I have to push through it.

It was supposed to be only for a limited time. Just enough to weaken him and not have him breath down everyone’s neck, for the noose to loosen. My hand slipped more than once, calculations were incorrect and his recovery time was longer than expected. Lucky for me tonight there’s still a warmth to his flesh, his cheek is warm against my palm. I keep pushing and pulling with his thread of life, fashioning myself one of the Fates, moreover, when the time comes, I do not know what will snap first, Henry’s mind or the strings that tie him to the realm of the living.

His revenge will come someday. Something to punish us for our quiet mutiny. Something that will make us question why we even attempted to fight back. He hasn’t acted yet, his pawns are all turning against him but the King does not withdraw from his post. I won’t think of that now, not when he sleeps so soundly.

Silently, my lips press a kiss to his cheek before I gently nudge his shoulder, “Henry, wake up,” his eyelids flutter open although laden with weariness and allow me to gaze into his cold yet beautiful eyes, “You fell asleep while reading. Come to bed.” Charles has begun addressing me as Judas when he believes I am not around, there’s no fault to be found in that.

His hand connects with mine as he stands from his chair with the grace of a building falling to pieces, “I just had the most puzzling dream, love.”

“Tell me about it.” Our roles reverse, now he’s the one speaking and I am the one not hearing a single word.

I should call the others in the morning. I think this has gone too far for my taste, and for Henry’s too.

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

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fleetingcalypso · 8 months ago

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Work In Progress - Henry Winter x AFAB!Reader.

≋ Greetings, my darlings. I have been absent for some time, and though my heart has always remained anchored here I apologize for having disappeared in such a way and wholly thank you for your patience. Alas, I've had little time to write, but I haven't forgotten you, my companions, my heroes, my world. I'm working on new stories that I hope you'll enjoy, so as proof that my soul has never strayed too far, I present to you a small part of what I'm currently busying myself with. It is not much, but it is enough to show my devotion to our heaven.

≋ Word Count: 700 words.

≋ CW: hallucinations, afab!reader but no feminine pronouns are used while referring to them.

Unfortunately ‘good things never last’ is a hymn I’ve grown to fully comprehend a lifetime ago, the very moment I heard the gut wrenching, bone chilling noise Bunny’s body made when it was done falling off that damned cliff. I still hear it sometimes: sitting on the porch of our villa – another, perhaps too kind, gift by my now mother-in-law – sipping a warm cup of tea, watching the birds fly back to their nests after a long day of losing themselves in the thrill of flight. As always, Henry is in his study, surrounded by inks, papers and documents I do not much care about and for just a second my insubordinate mind drifts to the past, to an echo of what once was laughter and academic conversations, now turned deafening silence and haunting guilt. It only takes a second, a fleeting moment of reminiscing for me to feel Bunny’s thud right next to me, on my porch. I do not dare move a muscle because I know he is watching me with glassy eyes, his glasses broken and his head turned at an inhuman angle. I don’t have it in me to sneak a peek and give into my hallucinations. Allowing him the pleasure of plaguing my reality, as well as my nightmares, would drag me too deep into culpability.

I’m sure Henry sees him as well, at times. He will never admit to it.

His voice snaps me out of my thoughts, yanking me back into a most heavenly and cruel present: Bunny is dead, my friends have drifted away, I am somewhere in the countryside alienated from society, but at last, I’m with my lover who cares deeply for me and handles me as if I’m made of crystal. “Dearest, come inside, it’s getting dark.” Wordlessly I follow my husband into our home. It’s an arduous task for the terrors to follow me when he takes my hand in mine ever so gently and guides me to safety, like a knight in shining armor. My savior leading me through our own private pearly gates.

Dinner is eerily silent, the only noise being cutlery scraping against porcelain plates and ice cold wine being poured in glasses. I scattered the quiet that has settled upon us with quite the daring observation, "Are you happy?"

His arm stills mid-air as he was bringing a fork to his mouth. The look he gives me through his glasses it's as if I am an open book and he could recite every single one of the inked paragraphs inside of me.

"I am."

"Despite us only having each other, with not a single soul around for miles?"

“Where is this coming from?” I don’t miss the accusative tone buried in what appears to be an innocent question, only a fool would be capable of ignoring it. His gaze pierces right through me, it renders me unable to ever look away, the ocean blue of his eyes is a sea I would gladly choose to swim into until my limbs no longer could keep me afloat and my lungs were filled with him, only with him.

"I'm not too sure," I lie with not little difficulty, it all tastes far too bitter on my tongue, "I suppose I was wondering about our future. Are we to bury ourselves in our solitude for the rest of our lives?" The absence of our friends is more than noticeable, Bunny's absence even more than that. Living like this, pretending we did not murder our friend and abandon the rest to their fate is an herculean feat.

"What if I said yes? What if that's precisely what I want? For us to only have each other, for the rest of our lives, until our home is but dust and ruins with the only thing remaining of us being our bones entangled with each other in one final hug. Wouldn't you like that?"

#fleetingcalypso #calypsodaydreams #dark academia #reader insert #writing #the secret history #the secret history x reader #henry winter x reader #wip #writing wip #work in progress

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fleetingcalypso · 11 months ago

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A thank you for 50 travelers.

≋ Greetings. It is I, Calypso.

≋ Since the birth of this corner of heaven, a little over a full moon has passed, soon to be two. My lonesomeness has been the one thing sitting at my side on the warm sand of these beaches, watching the sun melt into the ocean turning it into the deepest wine red, yet now, there are 50 of you admiring this view with me. My island welcomes all of you with the warmest of embraces. Many weary travelers after a period of time here, ranging from hours to years, decide it is time for them to go. I hope this shan’t be the case. I hope you shall consider this your home.

≋ Thank you for being here and filling my lonely nights with companionship and heartwarming kindness. Thank you for choosing to stay with me, instead of repairing your ship which the waves have destroyed with not little cruelty. Perhaps the sea did so in an attempt to bring you to me. Perhaps the punishment that was bestowed upon my lowly existence can be evaded somehow.

≋ I cannot thank you enough, for bringing a new rhythm to the repetitive melody of my life. Here's to a long life together. You all are loved.

Κ.

#fleetingcalypso #writing

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fleetingcalypso · 1 year ago

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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 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

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fleetingcalypso · 1 year ago

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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

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fleetingcalypso · 1 year ago

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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

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fleetingcalypso · 1 year ago

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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

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