Joyride!

was it casual when you shoved him off the cliff and then stood over his corpse watching the warmth and light slowly fade from his familiar blue eyes was it casual when his father said you made his son the happiest he'd ever seen his baby boy was it casual when his parents gave you the honor of being the pallbearer when you stood amongst his brothers and carried the corpse you'd made to the hollowed ground was it casual when you were so lost in your own mind standing above his grave that you smeared the dirt of his grave across your chest (you killed him. it doesn't mean you didn't love him.)

I had to draw this handsome creature💔💔

my rendition of the dead apple poster 🖤

this took forever but I'm so happy with how it turned out!!

The sillies™ exposure therapy did NOT help

Also!! I have emergency com open to help my family pay for the electric! Dm me if ur interested

Francis visits Henry’s grave every year. Alone.

No one else does — no one else wants to. Charles avoids the topic entirely. Camilla sends Francis clipped replies when he brings it up. Richard pretends he never gets the messages. But Francis marks the day like a liturgy. Like a holy feast. Like penance.

He books the same suite in a faceless hotel. Wears the same black coat. Packs the same silver lighter — an old one Henry once admired in passing. It’s all performative, of course. But what is Catholicism if not grief wrapped in ritual? He fasts before the visit. Doesn't drink the night before. He makes the trip feel like confession.

The grave is unmarked, just a patch of earth in a neglected corner of a rural cemetery, the kind no one visits on purpose. Francis had to dig to find out where Henry was buried. Had to call someone’s widow and lie. But now he knows, and he treats it like a secret shrine.

He kneels every year. Gets the dirt on his trousers, on his coat, lets the damp seep into his bones because suffering feels closer to prayer when it’s physical. And he talks.

Not to Henry. Not really. To God. To himself. To something between the two.

"You ruined everything, you know," he says once. "And so did I."

He breaks off. Lights a cigarette. Doesn’t smoke it. Leaves it burning at the grave like incense. The first year he did this, he left a bottle of scotch. Last year, he left a page torn out of a Latin prayer book. This year, he doesn’t bring anything. He just sits.

And he waits. For something. A sign. An answer. Forgiveness.

But Henry is silent. Always was. Even now, dead and buried, he’s still the one with the upper hand.

And Francis — Francis goes back to the hotel, vomits in the sink, lights another cigarette with shaking hands. He doesn’t cry. Not anymore. It’s been years. But his hands won’t stop trembling.

That night, he goes to mass. Sits in the very back. Doesn't take communion.

He knows better.

henry winter x reader headcanons:

he leaves you for someone in the greek class

Shhh...Dazai is writing on his braille slate :]❤️

small spoon henry winter (he has a headache)

“Our own selves make us most unhappy, and that’s why we’re so anxious to lose them, don’t you think?”

– The Secret History

*a few months after The Ithaca Saga*

Odysseus: *wakes up at the dead of night drenched in cold sweat*

Penelope: Love? What's wrong?

Odysseus: That prophet son of a bitch- IT WAS ME!

Penelope: What??

Odysseus: I WAS THE MAN WHO WAS HAUNTING ALL ALONG!!

Penelope: *pulling him down and hugging him* ok dear just go back to sleep.

*meanwhile in the Underworld*

Tiresias: Fucking finally that dumbass