Ебаный трамп почему никто не заткнул ему варежку сколько

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.

i just know henry winter would have the most atrocious blue eyed stare

There is no way I’m gonna make my studies without killing myself but pretending that i am scientist from Los Alamos and it’s 1944

TW: kinda gory??

Watched Pet Sementary (1989) and decided to bring back my Zombiezai concept and give him a zombie cat :P

"So what do you recommend to encourage affection?"

"Dancing, even if one's partner is barely tolerable"

You know you’re fucked up when Regulus Black is your comfort character

Кто-то же должен любить некрасивых

С 8 марта меня!

I saw a video once that tried to claim that Chuuya accidentally became popular, and I actually laughed. Like no. Nobody gives a character a hat, gloves, red hair, and a choker without at least expecting they'd be popular. No one makes a character short, a wine lover, loud, and a Mafia executive if they didn't suspect they'd be popular. you don't make a character the ex partner to the other most popular character and have them bicker like children if you thought, "eh, no one cares about this guy." No one gives a character the power of gravity manipulation and the power to create black holes when they go feral if they thought, "yeah, pretty mid-tier character" NO ONE MAKES A CHARACTER JUMP OFF A PLANE AND FIGHT A DRAGON—