#henrywintersmut

[charliedaltonswife]

My one and only claim about Henry is that he's a yapper. We know it from the books. So why not make it sweet? I would find it endearing (and just so slightly comical) to have Henry, the ever stoic, leaning against the bathtub in which you've planned a relaxing, wine-accompanied bubble bath. To have Henry chat quietly, mindlessly, of whatever topic first reaches his mind, knowing you might not even listen, but nit exactly caring, simply because he wants to be close to you.

Oh, and how even sweeter would it be for him to wash your hair...

A Bath to Ease The Soul

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

nonnie, oh did this get my creative juices flowing, i got so carried away writing this at like 3am after just drinking a coffee. i think this is my longest one yet.

Summary: read the request

Warnings: mother pushing very traditional domestic views

master list found here

You hated - and I mean, hated - visiting your mother. You tried to tell yourself it wouldn’t be so bad this time. Just dinner. Just a few hours. You could handle that. But as the car pulled into the driveway, the sight of your mother’s perfectly manicured front lawn and the pristine wreath hanging on the door filled you with the same quiet panic it always did.

Your mother greeted you with her signature smile, the one that looked genuine to the untrained eye but always carried the sharp undertone of appraisal. She kissed you on the cheek, her perfume clouding around you like a fog, and ushered you inside, where the unmistakable sounds of domestic perfection were already in full swing.

The living room smelled faintly of cinnamon, a carefully curated holiday scent despite it being weeks past the season. Your sister sat on the couch, her newborn cradled in her arms, the picture of serene motherhood. She looked up as you entered, her face lighting up with genuine warmth that made you feel both loved and uncomfortably exposed.

“Sissy” she said, shifting the baby to one arm so she could wave. “You’re here!”

“Of course,” you said, forcing a smile as you dropped your coat onto the nearest chair. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Your mother appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of neatly arranged hors d'oeuvres, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood. “You’re late,” she remarked, her tone light but not without its sting.

“Traffic, snow on the road” you said simply, knowing better than to offer any further explanation. 

“Well, come in, come in. Don’t just stand there.”

You followed her into the dining room, where the table was already set with the kind of meticulous care that made you vaguely nervous to sit down. The china on the table was worth more than everything in your kitchen combined. 

The evening started innocuously enough. Your sister talked about the baby, her sleeping patterns, her favorite toys, how she already had your brother-in-law wrapped around her tiny fingers. Your mother listened intently, occasionally chiming in with advice or anecdotes from her own experiences raising the two of you. And you waited, you knew what was coming. 

And then, inevitably, the conversation shifted.

“So,” your mother began, her tone casual but her gaze sharp, “any exciting news from you, Y/N? Any boy special in your life?”

You felt the question land like a stone in the pit of your stomach, your carefully constructed defenses threatening to crack under the weight of her scrutiny.

“No, nothing like that,” you said, trying to keep your tone light. “Just busy with my classes, you know.”

Your mother frowned, a delicate crease appearing between her brows. “Education is fine, but it’s not everything. Don’t you want more than that? A husband?”

You felt sick at her words. Your mothers words felt like you had travelled back a couple centuries. 

Before you could respond, your sister chimed in, her voice annoyingly gentle. “Mom, leave her alone. She’s fine.”

Your mother sighed, clearly unimpressed. “I just worry about her. She’s not getting any younger, you know.” 

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to take a slow sip of your wine instead of responding. It wouldn’t do any good to argue. It never did.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced smiles and shallow conversation. Your sister’s baby cooed softly, her tiny fingers grasping at the air, and your mother looked at her with the kind of adoration you’d long since given up trying to earn.

By the time you finally escaped, the night was fully dark, the stars hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. The drive home felt longer than usual, the silence somehow made your mother’s words replay louder in your head.

Your apartment greeted you with silence, that particular stillness that always felt both a blessing and a curse. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes without bothering to line them up, and sighed. The wine you’d downed at dinner buzzed faintly in your veins, not enough to soften the edges of the evening but enough to make the ache in your temples feel slightly less personal.

You flicked on the lights and surveyed the mess of your living room with the vague dissatisfaction of someone who’s been out of the house long enough to forget what they left behind. A half-empty mug of tea sat abandoned on the coffee table, its contents now a murky swamp of regret.

Well, you thought to yourself, at least no one’s here to judge.

Not like your mother, who had practically appraised you at dinner like you were a loaf of bread she wasn’t sure was worth buying. Not like your sister, who didn’t have to say anything at all because her glowing, perfect existence spoke volumes louder than words. And she was younger than you. Although, she barely finished high school before she fell pregnant. So, in some ways, you felt you had it better than her. 

It was absurd, really, how the evening had played out exactly as you’d known it would, and yet you’d still come home feeling like you’d been hit by a truck. You were too old to still be doing this, subjecting yourself to their quiet disapproval, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that this time, things would be different.

Maybe next time you should just send a cardboard cutout of yourself you thought, toeing off your socks and heading for the bathroom. The bathroom was blissfully cool, the tiles smooth under your bare feet. You turned the taps, the sound of rushing water filling the small space and drowning out the hum of self-doubt still rattling around in your head.

The steam rose quickly, curling in lazy tendrils, and you reached for the bubble bath you kept stashed in the cabinet, the one you only used when you were feeling particularly indulgent, or particularly wrecked. Either way, you deserved it. 

As the scent of lavender filled the room, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. You paused, studying your reflection with the detached curiosity of someone examining a stranger.

Your hair was a little too messy, your makeup slightly smudged from where you’d rubbed at your eyes during dinner. 

“It’s no wonder,” you said aloud, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “You look exactly like someone who spent the evening being reminded of how woefully unaccomplished they are.”

The bath was nearly full now, the bubbles threatening to spill over the sides. You turned off the taps and leaned against the counter for a moment, letting the heat and the lavender and the soft gurgle of the water settle your nerves.

This was what you needed. Not validation from your mother, not the approval of a sister who had never once doubted herself, but this. A quiet room, a hot bath, and enough time to wash away the feeling of not being quite enough. The lavender in the air was soothing, but the cigarette in your hand did the real heavy lifting. You had perched yourself on the edge of the tub, still in your clothes, holding the cigarette between your fingers like it was the only tether to your sanity after a hellish day. You didn’t particularly care that the bathroom was filling with steam or that the cigarette. This was your time, and that was that.

You exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, watching it swirl and dissipate into nothing. 

Just as you were leaning back against the counter to savor another drag, the door creaked open. Henry stepped in without so much as a knock, his sharp, calculating presence contrasting with the languid heat of the room.

“You know,” he began, his voice as matter-of-fact as ever, “smoking indoors is a sure way to ruin your walls.”

You didn’t bother looking at him. “So is being condescending, but you keep showing up.”

He huffed softly, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but carried the same faint amusement. “At least open a window,” he said, crossing the room to the counter where the small sliding window was barely cracked. With an exasperated look, he shoved it open further and glanced at the cigarette in your hand. “Do you even have an ashtray?”

You gestured vaguely with your free hand. “Does it look like I have an ashtray, Henry?”

He sighed, the sort of sigh that implied he thought you hopeless but didn’t quite mind the fact. “Stay there,” he said, disappearing back into the hallway.

You took another drag, waiting. The bath gurgled softly, the bubbles popping against the surface in tiny, irregular bursts. A full minute passed before Henry returned, balancing a small ashtray and a wooden chair in his hands.

“Improvised, but it’ll do,” he muttered, placing the ashtray on the edge of the counter before setting the chair beside the tub. He sat down without ceremony, his long legs awkwardly folded in the cramped space, and rested his elbows on his knees.

The chair looked absurdly out of place in your bathroom. You snorted, finally turning your attention to him. “Are you planning to stay?”

“That depends,” he said, his expression impassive but his voice just warm enough to undercut the dryness of his words. “Will you allow me to indulge in some company, or are you going to sulk in silence all evening?”

You didn’t answer right away, flicking ash into the tray and watching him out of the corner of your eye. He had his head tilted slightly, studying you with that particular intensity that always felt a little invasive but not entirely unpleasant.

“Fine,” you said at last, leaning back against the counter and exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “But if you start lecturing me, I’m throwing you out.”

Henry smirked faintly, his mouth curving in that small, rare way that made you think he might actually be human beneath all the precision and logic.

“I’ll restrain myself,” he said. “Though, you won't believe what Bunny told me today, he claims someone landed on the moon.”

You stared at him for a beat, and then a laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Yes, and?”

“Word for word,” Henry replied, leaning back in the chair with an ease that didn’t match his usual rigidity. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s ridiculous that you learnt a dead language yet you didn’t know of the moon landing,” you said, your smile lingering as you stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. “Although I’m not sure what’s more ridiculous, that or you sitting on a kitchen chair in my bathroom.”

Henry’s brow arched slightly. “Would you prefer I left?”

“No,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty of it. “I’d rather you stay.”

He nodded, as if the matter were settled, and leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees again. “You seem off today,” he said, his tone gentler now. “I take it dinner didn’t go well?”

You sighed, your shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. “It went about as well as it always does. Mom asked me when I was getting married, and my sister reminded me that I’m failing at womanhood because I don’t have a baby attached to my hip.”

Henry tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “That seems like an odd metric for success.”

“It’s not odd if you’re them,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “It’s tradition, Henry. Marry young, have kids, spend the rest of your life baking pies and judging your neighbors. I’ve apparently failed on all counts.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on you like he was trying to untangle your words and find the truth hidden beneath them. “And do you care?” he asked finally.

“Not really,” you said, though your tone betrayed a flicker of doubt. “I mean, I care in the sense that it’s exhausting to have them constantly reminding me of what I’m not. But I don’t care enough to change who I am just to make them happy.”

“Good,” he said simply, his voice firm in a way that made your chest ache a little.

You looked at him, surprised. “Good?”

“Yes,” he said, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Because you’d be miserable living a life that wasn’t yours. And, frankly, you’re too interesting to waste on something so banal.”

The words hung in the air between you, unexpected and heavy in their sincerity. You swallowed, unsure how to respond, and finally settled for a quiet, “Thanks.”

Henry leaned back again, his shoulders relaxing as he shifted in the chair. “You’re welcome,” he said, his voice softer now. “Though if you’re planning to spend the rest of the evening wallowing, I’d suggest getting in the bath before the water goes cold.”

You blinked at him, startled by the shift in tone. “You’re really going to sit here while I take a bath?”

“Why not?” he said, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “I have plenty to talk about, and you seem in desperate need of distraction.”

You couldn’t argue with that, so you stubbed out the remains of your cigarette, watching the faint curl of smoke spiral upward. Henry’s gaze flicked toward the ashtray, then back to you, as if assessing whether you were finished sulking or simply pausing for dramatic effect.

“Fine,” you said, standing with a soft sigh. “But if you’re staying, you’re making yourself useful.”

“I already fetched the chair and ashtray,” he pointed out dryly, standing as well. “What more could you possibly require?”

“I don’t know,” you said, unbuttoning your shirt as you walked toward the bath. “Hand me a towel. Keep me entertained.”

Henry didn’t roll his eyes, you doubted he was capable of anything so undignified, but there was a faint quirk of his brow as he picked up the towel you’d tossed haphazardly onto the sink. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours briefly before retreating back to the chair he’d claimed.

As you sank into the steaming water, the tension in your shoulders began to dissolve, though the sight of Henry leaning back in the wooden chair, his legs crossed neatly at the ankle, was a small distraction.

“You’re going to sit there and stare at me the whole time, aren’t you?” you asked, settling against the curve of the tub.

He tilted his head slightly. “It depends. Would it make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, though the heat creeping into your cheeks suggested otherwise.

Henry hummed softly, clearly unconvinced. “Then I’ll avert my gaze,” he said, his voice tinged with mockery as he turned his head toward the window. “There. Better?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, instead letting your head fall back against the tub. The warmth of the water soaked into your skin, easing away the frustration of the day, and you closed your eyes, content to let the silence settle.

It didn’t last long.

“You’ve been reading Proust again, haven’t you?” Henry asked, his voice cutting through the stillness.

You cracked one eye open, frowning at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’ve been quoting him under your breath,” he said simply. “And because you always fall into this particular mood after reading Swann’s Way.”

You blinked, caught between annoyance and a begrudging sort of admiration. “Do you keep notes on me or something?”

“Of course not,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped between his knees. “But I notice things. Like how you always reread the section about the madeleine whenever you’ve had a bad day. Or how you defend Swann’s obsession with Odette, even though you claim to despise sentimentality.”

You groaned, sinking lower into the water. “Can we not analyze my reading habits right now?”

“Would you rather discuss yours or mine?” Henry countered, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

“I’m not sure I have the energy for either,” you muttered.

He ignored you, leaning back in the chair as he laced his fingers together in his lap. “I’ve been revisiting Montaigne lately,” he said, as though you’d asked. “His essays on friendship, in particular. There’s a passage where he writes about how true friends are mirrors to one another. That their souls are so intertwined that they become one.”

“Very romantic,” you said, your tone laced with sarcasm.

Henry gave a small shrug. “It’s not about romance. Montaigne was writing about companionship, the kind that transcends any notion of love as we understand it. The kind that’s rare and profound, and ultimately irreplaceable.”

You glanced at him, his profile lit softly by the dim light of the bathroom. There was a weight to his words that made your chest tighten, though you weren’t sure if it was the content or the way he said it, with that quiet, almost unintentional reverence that made you wonder if he was speaking about something specific.

“Well,” you said after a pause, “if Montaigne had friends who talked as much as you, he must’ve been a very patient man.”

Henry chuckled softly, the sound rare and fleeting. “Patience,” he said, “is a virtue.”

“Not one of mine,” you replied, shaking your head slightly and letting your eyes drift closed again.

Henry didn’t argue, and for a moment, you thought he might’ve taken the hint and decided to let you relax in peace. But, of course, that was wishful thinking.

“Do you ever think about the way writers immortalize people?” he asked suddenly.

You cracked one eye open, staring at him. “What?”

“Think about it,” he said, leaning forward again. “Proust wrote Odette into eternity because of Swann. Dante canonized Beatrice. Even Montaigne’s essays are filled with reflections of his closest friend. It’s a kind of madness, really, to believe you can preserve someone forever in words.”

You frowned, unsure where he was going with this. “What’s your point?”

He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Do you ever wonder,” he said quietly, “what someone might write about you.”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.

“Hopefully something better than ‘she smokes in the bathroom and sulks in the tub,’” you said, trying to mask the sudden tightness in your throat with humor.

Henry’s lips curved slightly, though his eyes remained serious. “I think,” he said, his voice low, “they’d write about how you find humor in the absurd. How you’re more than anyone expects you to be.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his tone. “That’s very poetic Henry,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

“I’ve been told I have my moments,” he replied, settling back in his chair. For once, you didn’t argue.

Henry stood from his chair without a word, his long shadow stretching across the bathroom tiles as he stepped toward the sink. He reached for the bottle of shampoo sitting on the counter, flipping it open and testing the consistency between his fingers. You watched him with a mix of amusement and curiosity, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

“What are you doing?” you asked, though the question was half-hearted.

“Washing your hair,” he said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What in God’s name- I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He placed the bottle on the edge of the tub and rolled up his sleeves with deliberate precision, exposing the sharp planes of his forearms. It was such a Henry gesture, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath.

“Do you even know how?” you teased, tilting your head back to meet his gaze.

He gave you a look, one that was equal parts amused and vaguely condescending. “It’s not that difficult,” he said, crouching beside the tub. “Tilt your head back.”

You obeyed, leaning your head against the curve of the tub as he cupped his hands to gather water, carefully pouring it over your hair. The warmth seeped into your scalp, and you let out a soft sigh, your body sinking deeper into the water.

“This is absurd,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.

“You can thank me later,” he replied, his tone dry as he worked a small amount of shampoo into his palms.

His hands were gentle as they worked through your hair, his fingertips massaging your scalp with a kind of practiced ease that made you wonder if he’d done this before. There was a certain tenderness in the way he handled you. Something that made this feel intimate. You sure wouldn’t want Bunny or Richard barging in. 

“Have you always been this bossy?” you asked, your eyes closed as his fingers traced careful patterns against your skin.

“Only when necessary,” he replied.

“And you think this is necessary?”

“I think you’ve had a long day,” he said simply, his voice softer now. “And I think you’re too stubborn to admit you need someone to take care of you every once in a while.”

Your lips parted to argue, but the words died on your tongue as his fingers moved to the nape of your neck, kneading the tension there with a skill that left you momentarily speechless.

“See?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You’re already proving my point.”

You groaned softly, though it was more out of reluctant enjoyment than genuine annoyance. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“I’ve been called worse,” he said with a faint smile, rinsing the suds from your hair with another careful pour of water.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the soft lapping of the water against the tub and the rhythmic motion of his hands in your hair. It was... soothing, in a way you hadn’t expected, and you found yourself relaxing in his presence in a way that felt oddly vulnerable.

“You’re quiet,” Henry remarked after a moment, his tone almost teasing. But you didn't respond, slightly scared you were going to wake up from a dream or something. 

He hummed softly, his hands moving to smooth the strands of your hair back from your face. “You know,” he said, his voice thoughtful, “I was reading something the other day about rituals. About how they can make the mundane feel sacred.”

You opened one eye, glancing up at him. “And this is your idea of a ritual?”

“Perhaps,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Though I doubt Montaigne had bubble baths in mind.”

You snorted softly, the sound cutting through the quiet. “You really can’t turn it off, can you?”

“Turn what off?”

“That incessant need to intellectualize everything,” you said, though there was no real bite to your words.

Henry’s smile widened slightly, and he reached for the towel he’d set aside earlier, draping it gently over your shoulders. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I’d argue it’s part of my charm.”

You rolled your eyes, but the gesture was half-hearted. “You’re ridiculous,��� you muttered, though the faint smile on your lips betrayed your words.

His voice low and amused, “But here you are, letting me wash your hair.”

Henry’s hands stilled, resting lightly on your shoulders as he adjusted the towel, tucking it more securely around you. The air in the room shifted, the playful tension dissipating into something softer, quieter. You leaned back against the curve of the tub, your eyes drifting shut, the warmth of the water lulling you into a pleasant haze.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable but companionable, filled with the faint dripping of water and the occasional rustle as Henry shifted in his seat. He didn’t leave; you’d known he wouldn’t. Instead, you felt him settle against the edge of the tub again, his hand brushing against yours briefly as he adjusted his position.

You opened your eyes just enough to catch him gazing at you, not in the sharp, calculating way he often regarded the world, but with a gentleness you weren’t sure you’d ever seen before. It was disarming, that look, as if he were seeing parts of you that even you didn’t know existed.

“Comfortable?” he asked quietly, his voice low and soft, as if he didn’t want to disturb the stillness.

You nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “More than.”

He gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied, and leaned back slightly, his head tilting against the wall. “Good.”

For a moment, you thought he might lapse into silence again, but then he started talking, quietly, almost absentmindedly, as though the words had been waiting to spill out all along. He spoke of a poem he’d been reading earlier in the day, his voice steady and soothing, weaving the verses into the air between you. He recited a line here and there, translating the meaning, tracing its cadence like a finger over parchment.

And then, as if the poem had unlocked something in him, he moved seamlessly into other topics. He talked about a book he’d been meaning to recommend to you, about a theory he’d read concerning the relationship between mythology and memory. His voice was unhurried, lilting, each word delivered as if he were sharing a secret meant only for you. You listened, not to every word of course, but to the rhythm of his voice, letting it wash over you like the water pooling around you.

Without thinking, you shifted slightly in the tub, your hand brushing against his where it rested on the edge. You expected him to move away, to pull back into himself as he often did, but he didn’t. Instead, his fingers curled around yours briefly, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but one that spoke volumes.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the hum of the heater kicking on.

“For what?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

“For staying,” you said simply, the words carrying a weight you couldn’t quite explain.

He didn’t reply immediately, but his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin in a gesture that felt almost instinctive. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Always.”

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

what about makeup sex with henry after a big fight hehe

love u

Merry Christmas, my dearest doves! Love you xx <3

I hope you will like my present:)

Odium

It was already bad timing for them to fight. It was the end of the semester, summer was right around the curb.

All the members of the greek class were together in Francis’ estate, it was easier if anyone had troubles with all of their work. But, that also meant that everyone was on fire, and not in a good way.

The twins were mainly calm and minding their own business, Francis just drank the second he felt an ounce of stress and dragged Richard with him to be a borderline alcoholic. Bunny was the main problem, he was irritating the shit out of everyone, especially Henry and Y/N.

It was obvious that Bunny had a thing for Y/N, it was an ignored open secret for everyone.

But one night, Bunny had drank a bit too much, unfortunately for Henry. Henry was trying to do his work in the library, but Bunny had different plans for him. He plopped down onto the armchair in front of Henry and made himself comfortable.

He just kept on talking, talking and talking. After an hour of his constant yapping, which Henry ignored of course, there was a bit of silence. Until there wasn’t…

Y/N went to sleep hours ago, but she just couldn’t get comfortable, and she felt like she was just not warm enough. She needed Henry’s big and warm body to fall asleep, so she made her way down to the library.

She had heard his distant voice, it made her stop in her tracks. Bunny was talking, and about her. His tone was fuming, and she could just see his angered red face, he must have drunk a whole bottle. She never heard his slurring this much, he wasn’t in his right mind, he will probably forget everything in the morning.

She stayed at the corner and just listened, what a mistake.

“Do you know what I don’t understand, Henry?” He huffed like a small child “You have her all to yourself, and you can’t even fucking cherish it, you fucking bastard!” He was hitting the arm of the chair in frustration “You just show her around, I bet you don’t even love her.” Her heart ached at the words of Bunny, but more at Henry’s silence. She didn’t need to hear her name to know that she was the topic.

“But let me tell you, old chap, if she was mine… Man, how I would love her. And not just her, but that body…” she clenched her fist and jaw, her heart dropped. “I would grab her hair and have those lips around my cock. I would knead and suck those tits all fucking night.” She could hear him creeping closer to Henry “And of course, I would fuck her sweet pu—“

She had turned on her heels and ran back to her room, she heard enough. And it angered her that Henry couldn’t stand up for her. Did he really just wanted to show her off? Without actually loving her? She knew she was beautiful, beautiful like the sun on a cold winter day. But, no, Henry loved her, he showed her multiple times and he really cherished her. Then why didn’t he fucking say something?

She needed space, she knew he would come looking for her. So, she took her bag out and threw in whatever clothing of hers she could find, she even put in a shirt of Henry’s. She may have been angry at him but he was the love of her life. She creeped into Francis’s room, and woke him up lightly, he looked confused and scared that something bad had happened.

“Y-Y/N? What is it? Is something wrong?” He sat up in bed, the moon rested on his pale freckled chest.

“No, no. I just—I have to leave, I must go home. Can I take your car?” He immediately understood that it was something to do with Henry. So, he nodded and gave her the keys. “Please, don’t say anything to Henry…”

“Of course not, my sweet.” He hugged her gently, and felt her shed a few tears on his neck, so he just let her stay like that for a couple of minutes, stroking her hair until she pulled away.

She shed many tears while driving back to her place, and when she plopped down on her bed, she cried even more.

She doesn’t remember when she had fallen asleep, but she woke up with Henry kneeling beside the bed, smoothing her hair softly. The second she recognized the familiar touch she melted into it. Then, she remembered the whole reason she fell asleep alone in her own bed, so she pulled away.

His brows furrowed as he looked at her in confusion.

“Why did you leave, my doe? What’s wrong? Do tell.”

The tears began to stream. “I heard you… In the library.” She sensed that he tensed up “I heard how Bunny was talking about me, but I didn’t hear you saying anything.” She barely whispered out, the knot in her throat nearly choking her words down.

She finally looked him in the eye, she was surprised to see the slight smile on his face. Why was he smiling?

He chuckled warmly and held her teary face in both of his big hands. “Oh, my girl. I wish you hadn’t left so early, otherwise you could have seen the bruise on Edmund’s cheek.” He sat up beside her on the bed and hugged her deeply, she immediately wrapped herself around his much bigger frame “I would never let anyone talk like that about my lovely baby. She is only for me, no one else can touch her like I do. And he was right in certain parts.” His kisses migrated down to her jaw.

“W-what?” He was hitching closer to her sweetest spot.

“I do love to show you off.” He sucked at her neck and she felt the warmth in her tummy. “I love how everyone envies me, because I have the most beautiful girl to myself.” His lips wandered to her cleavage, his hands slipped under her thin nightgown, slowly pushing it over her head. As he talked, he gently pushed her down on her back. “Mine to love, to hold, to kiss…” he slowly kissed down her body, stopping at her chest to give some attention to her perky breasts, which he got rewarded for with breathy moans. He kneeled down on the floor, pulling her hips to the edge of her bed. His arms wrapped around her soft thighs, which he kissed all over, and he bit the lower part of her tummy. “All mine to pleasure, to worship, to fuck.” He dived in and ate her out as if his life depended on it, he needed to make it up for her.

She loved when he ate her out, he was so good at it, but she needed him now, she needed him bad. She was already horny when she went down to the library, so she was eager to get him inside her. Henry and her were probably the least stressed out of the whole greek class, they fucked all of their stress away. She grabbed his hair and pulled him up from her heat, which Henry replied to with a whine, nobody likes to be pulled away from a good and warm cunt.

“I-I need you, Henry, I want you inside.” She pushed his shirt off of his muscular chest after pulling him down to her naked body.

He stood up from the ground and undressed quickly, his member was already standing hard and proudly against his stomach.

He laid down beside her. “Come one, doe, use me as you’d like.” She was hypnotised by him, she crawled on top of him and grinded down on his firm dick. He groaned when he felt her wet folds wrapping around him, he easily could have cummed just from her grinding. “Put me inside, dearest, let me feel you completely.”

That did it, she positioned him at her entrance, and sunk down on him. She fell down on him and began riding him while embracing him.

This was his heaven, being inside his girl, while being in her welcoming arms. His hands were caressing the back of her head. She straightened her back and gave him a sight for sore eyes. He felt himself pulse within her from the show she gave him, her soft hips moving precisely, her beautiful round tits bouncing from her moves, her hair messy from his touch. She radiated sex from her, and she was his sex goddess.

After a while, her moving got uncoordinated, so he sat up and fucked up into her. He pounded right up into her sweet spot, she moaned loudly and she fisted his hair from the pleasure. His mouth latched on one of her breasts and he began sucking and licking on her nipple.

“I’m close, just, oh! Don’t stop!” His fingers started rubbing her clit, and he felt her clenching around him.

“Go on, give it to me!” She came on him and that pushed him over the edge. His thick cum flooded her cunt.

“Oh, I love the feeling of you filling me up. Mm, so warm.” She nuzzled her face into his neck, and he caressed her skin all over.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other’s warmth. “I would never let anyone speak bad about you, my love.”

Her eyes closed slowly, the sex tiring her out. “I know, I should have stayed a bit longer, m’sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He kissed her lovingly “I understand, the next time someone dares to put a bad word next to your name, I will punch them that second.”

She laughed loudly, causing to laugh too. “How did you get even with punching him?”

“He was so drunk, so Richard just convinced him that he tripped and fell down the stairs. He even acts like his ribs are broken and he is whining all day, he even whined for Camilla to put ice on his arms.”

So, he made up with her. He took her out for breakfast, and just gave her love all day.

[charliedaltonswife]

https://www.tumblr.com/birintiharmelegi/762947458247639040

this is giving henry winter.. also i love your page so much. thanks for keeping the fandom fed

Play. Now.

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

thank you for the request, i open every request with so much excitement ngl

Summary: read the request. theres a ss of the link, but go look at the link

Warnings: first time writing smut, so dont fucking come for me, im lowkey bad at it okay. SO, smut beware, minors leave kindly.

master list found here

Ever since you were young, your parents had demanded that you take piano lessons. And frankly. You hated it. You hated the incessant nagging to practice pieces you were not fond of. But as you grew older, moved out and joined a rather strange group of Greek students at your college, you were drawn back to the melody. Not having a piano in your dorm, you would play occasionally, quietly, on the piano tucked away in Henry’s study. 

You would sit at the piano, just as you were presently, the varnished wood cool beneath your fingertips, the keys gleaming faintly in the low light. A quiet melody poured forth, hesitant and soft. 

The music wasn’t perfect, it faltered in places, your fingers stumbling over notes. Practice practice practice, your parents would have said. It wasn’t often that you played like this, not for others. It was something private, intimate. And yet, you’d left the door ajar, hadn’t you? You were so used to it at this point, you weren’t as careful to sneak off when everybody was drunk or sleeping, and close the door. You had left it just enough that the faint strains of music could escape and wind their way down the hall. Just enough that someone could follow them to you.

And he did.

You didn’t hear Henry come in. His steps were quiet, a skill he seemed to have perfected. He knew you could play and had heard you many times, standing just outside the door of his study. It was only when you felt the shift in the room, the small shift of a floor board, that you realized he was there.

“You missed a note,” he said matter of factly, but with an underlying softness, just noticeable enough to send a ripple of self consciousness down your spine.

You glanced over your shoulder, startled. He stood in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, his gaze fixed on you. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his collar slightly undone, the usual precision of his appearance just slightly unraveled. It was subtle, but enough to notice, enough to make you wonder what had unsettled him.

“I didn’t realize I had an audience,” you said, trying to sound unaffected, though the quickened pace of your heart betrayed you.

Henry smiled softly. “I didn’t realise that my study was free for use,” he said, stepping into the room. 

You panicked slightly, not picking up on his teasing tone, “Oh Henry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intru-”

He waved his hand dismissively, seeming to see the guilty look spread across your features, “It’s not a bad thing. That piano was going to go out of tune if it wasn't played soon.” 

You turned back to the piano, your fingers hovering over the keys. “You don't play but you own one?”

“It was a gift,” he said, coming closer. “I prefer tending to the garden as my hobby.”

“I’ve noticed,” you murmured, pressing down a key and letting the note linger in the air.

Henry didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he came to stand beside you, his presence steady. You could feel the faint heat radiating from him, the subtle shift in the air as he leaned down, just enough that his breath ghosted against your ear.

“Play it again,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. But it felt demanding. 

You hesitated, your hands poised over the keys. There was something in his tone, in the quiet intensity of his gaze, that made the simple request feel like a command, like a challenge. Slowly, you began to play, your fingers moving more deliberately this time, the melody smoother, more assured. And yet, you couldn’t focus. Not with him standing so close, his presence like a magnet pulling your attention away from the music.

As you reached the end of the piece, his hand moved, resting lightly on the edge of the piano, his fingers brushing against the polished wood. “Do you know what I’ve always found fascinating about music?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

“What’s that?” you said, your own voice quieter now, the notes fading into silence.

“It’s all about tension,” he said, his gaze fixed on the piano, though you felt his attention on you. “Every chord, every note, every pause, it’s all about the balance between tension and release. Without tension, there’s no interest. And without release, there’s no satisfaction.”

You swallowed, your pulse quickening. Surely there wasn't a double meaning in his words. God, you felt stupid to even consider it. “And what happens when the balance is off?”

Henry’s lips curved into a faint smile, his gaze finally meeting yours. “It creates dissonance,” he said. “Which can be unpleasant or interesting.”

The air between you seemed to hum, charged with something unspoken but unmistakable. He leaned down slightly, his face inches from yours, his gaze flickering to your lips for the briefest moment before returning to your eyes.

“Can I sit?” 

You shuffled across, closer to the base keys, to leave him enough space on the piano seat. 

“Play something else,” he said, his voice softer now, almost a murmur.

“What do you want to hear?” you asked, your voice wavering.

Henry tilted his head slightly, considering. “Something unfamiliar. Something that makes me think.”

You nodded, your fingers moving instinctively to a different piece, one you’d been practicing in secret, the notes more complex, the melody more haunting. As you played, Henry didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

When you stumbled over a particularly difficult passage, his hand moved, covering yours gently, stilling your fingers. The sudden contact made your breath hitch, your pulse hammering in your ears. He didn’t pull away, his hand lingering over yours, his touch warm and steady.

You didn’t know what came over you, but you lifted his hand with yours, to your lap, a frenzy of shivers forcing the hairs on your neck to wake. Your short flowy skirt had hiked up when you first sat down to play, and your hand faltered its guidance as you felt his cold hands graze the hem of your skit. Henry drops one hand to your lap, working it up the skirt of your dress to meet your lace undergarments.

“Play,” he instructed. You could barely think and let your hands touch the keys on autopilot. 

With a low curse, he slid his hand into them, pressing his thumb against your clit and rubbing in steady circles while you threw your head back and moaned at the feeling of his hands on you.

“Do you know what you do to me?”

Your breath caught, your pulse pounding in your ears as his words hung in the air, heavy and electric. His hand moved, trailing lightly up your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt, the space between you collapsing.

“Every time you stop playing, I stop moving.” His words were accompanied by a warm breath against your ear. You hadn't even realised you stopped playing. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You managed out, letting your hands rest on the keys and opting to play a new song you knew well. 

You writhed underneath his grasp, his arm was thrown across your thigh to reach you but also keep you in place, as he moved his fingers seemingly to the rhythm of the music. Your clit throbbed against his thumb as he flicked it from side to side over the sensitive spot. 

One of the notes hit a flat, definitely not in the key you were playing in as your legs trembled. 

"Oh- oh, my god." You panted, chest heaving with laboured breaths. 

“You’re rushing,” he said softly, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. “Slow down. Let it breathe.”

You let out a slightly strangled laugh at him as he decided to slide another finger into you at that moment. His fingers pumped in and out of you. Ecstasy. 

"For fuck- Christ." You gasped. You felt like your skin was on fire. When you feel Henry’s lips connect with your neck, sucking a bruise onto your sensitive skin, you let out a cry at the feeling of the vibrations running through you. 

The once slow pace he was at first was long forgotten, he increased the pace and then, once you were somehow even wetter, sped up even more. 

“Right t-there,” you babble, hips continuing to swivel as you grind against his hand. 

“Keep playing darling.” His low voice came up from your neck for a moment to speak close to your ear. His murmured little “Just like that,” helps push you over with a shout, your body shaking and trembling in his arms as he works you through your orgasm.

Both of his fingers inside of you, bending slightly to hit that sweet spot inside of you, along with his thumb making tight little circles on your clit. You gasped, and let his name drip like honey from your lips, hitting the final notes of the piece and letting the sound ring out in the air, the foot on the peddle allowing the sound to echo in the room. 

The pressure that had built in your lower abdomen suddenly snaps and sets your skin aflame. 

“So gorgeous darling, so good for me,” Henry says, his thumb slowing down against your clit as you come down from your high. When your eyes flutter open and you take him in, cheeks flushed and glasses slightly fogged from all of the exertion. He barely gives you a moment to catch your breath before his hand guides yours back to the keys, his fingers moving with a precision that is almost hypnotic. You followed his lead, your movements slowing, your breathing steadying as the music began to flow more naturally. 

His gaze was dark and searching, his expression unreadable.

“Are you alright?” he asked quickly.

You nodded sheepishly, your chest clenching. 

Before you could respond verbally, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your lips. And with the same courage from when you guided his hand, you leaned forward to softly capture his lips.

a/n: hahaha kill me, i dont know how to write smut. also dont know if i was actually supposed to write smut but i mean.... okay anyway we wont speak of this again! Bro I wrote this after I cancelled on a date 😭

[charliedaltonswife]

Nobody writes for Henry anymore this is awesome! Could you write something with the themes of “Not That Girl” from Wicked? The obvious connection but ultimate angsty refusal of feelings because they’re in the shadow of Camilla

Not That Girl

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

love the request nonnie!!! i randomly added charles just cause

Summary: read the request

Warnings: charles being slightly a dick?? angstyyy

master list found here

You felt like Richard in some way, looking back at it. Always available, at anyone's disposal, but never really within the tight group. 

Pathetic. That’s what you felt. This nagging feeling anytime you were in a room with him. And especially when you were around him and her together. 

You sat cross-legged on the floor, a distant pain pressing against your temples as you rifled through the old Greek text Henry had left on the coffee table. It was a strange sort of comfort, being in his space that is, surrounded by his orderliness, his books and carefully placed notes, all imbued with his silent precision. You once asked him if he had a maid come around but he said he didn’t want them to ruin his order of the place. 

He returned from the kitchen carrying a glass of wine on my request, the soft clink of the crystal breaking the quiet. Without a word, he set it beside you and took the armchair opposite, his movements unhurried. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable; it rarely was.

“Still trying to translate that?” he asked, his tone more amused than condescending. His gaze lingered on you, steady and inquisitive, though his expression betrayed nothing.

“Trying,” you said, lifting the glass to your lips. “But you have a talent for picking the densest passages, don’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly, an almost-smile ghosting across his face. “You underestimate yourself.”

There was something about the way he said it, so soft, that made your breath catch. Henry wasn’t the sort to offer meaningless reassurances, and yet, when he spoke to you like that, it felt as if he saw through the cracks in your self-doubt and understood something about you that you didn’t yet understand about yourself. You didn’t feel pathetic anymore. You felt enchanted. In some ways, you suppose you were enchanted under a spell cast wickedly to make you feel, for the smallest moment, like you were his. 

You looked away, suddenly self-conscious, pretending to focus on the text again. “You say that, but I’ve been stuck on this same sentence for an hour.”

“Let me see,” he said, leaning forward.

Before you could protest, he reached for the book in your lap. The movement brought him closer, the faint scent of his cologne filling the space between you. He thumbed through the pages, his eyes scanning the text with practiced ease.

“This isn’t about the translation,” he said after a moment, his gaze lifting to meet yours. “This is an easy passage, you’re distracted.”

The bluntness of his statement caught you off guard. “I’m not distracted,” you said, huffing out a small laugh, though the flush creeping up your neck betrayed you.

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened, the sharp edges of his intellect giving way to something gentler, something that felt almost tender. “You are,” he said simply.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Henry’s gaze never wavered, and in it, you suddenly felt as if the spell had gotten stronger. 

But then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. He straightened, his focus returning to the book as if nothing had happened.

“You’re overthinking this,” he said, his tone shifting back to its usual matter-of-fact cadence. “Take a break. It’ll make more sense in the morning.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. As he handed the book back to you, his fingers brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your skin. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” he said, standing and extending a hand to help you up.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it, his grip firm and steady as he pulled you to your feet.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t respond, but the faintest curve of his lips, the almost-smile that was so uniquely his, told you he’d heard you.

-

You had been drinking alone in your small dorm when you got the call from Henry. You were silent for a long while after he told you where he had hidden Camilla and what had happened with Charles, letting his words echo into the receiver with no response. 

“Would you come with me?” He asked after a long pause of silence. You rested you head against the wall, rubbing your eyes with your thumb and index finger,

“Why? Has she asked to see me?” You responded finally.

“I’m sure she’d enjoy your company for a while,” so, no, she hasn't, is what you thought, “But I’d like it if you came with me, please.”

If you weren't convinced already, which you honestly were, that did it for you. You knew you would never be able to say no to him, not when his words let you feel the slightest bit of hope. And where Henry went, you followed, though you never dared to ask if he expected you to or if you did it because you couldn’t bear the thought of him going without you.

The inn was quiet, the stillness broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards underfoot. A cold draft slipped through the narrow gaps in the windows, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and rain. The place was rustic, almost charming in its simplicity, but it felt like a cage all the same.

You had followed Henry here without question. You always did. His instructions were precise: Camilla needed to be far from Charles, far from whatever chaos his drinking and violence had wrought. 

Camilla had been quiet since you arrived, her demeanor subdued in a way that felt unnatural. She sat by the window now, staring out into the darkening sky, her delicate profile framed by the pale light of the afternoon. She looked untouchable, like something carved from marble. And Henry, standing at the small desk, sorting through papers he’d brought with him, seemed entirely fixated on her, as if her very presence demanded his full attention.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” you asked, breaking the silence. “Keeping her here.”

Henry didn’t look at you. “It’s for the best,” he said shortly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Camilla turned slightly, her gaze flickering to you for the briefest moment before returning to the window. “Henry’s right,” she said softly. “I can’t stay with Charles. Not right now.”

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach tightened. It wasn’t her words that unsettled you but the way Henry moved toward her then, his steps deliberate and unhurried. He placed a hand on the back of her chair, leaning down slightly to speak to her in a voice too low for you to hear.

You turned away, the sight of them together stirring something in you that you couldn’t name, something sharp and bitter that you hated yourself for feeling. Pathetic. 

“Y/N, darling,” Henry said suddenly, his voice drawing your attention back to him. Christ, you hated the way that your chest contracted when he called you that. “Could you make some tea? There should be a kettle in the kitchen.”

It wasn’t a request, not really. Henry rarely asked for things; he instructed. And though you bristled at the dismissal, you nodded, slipping out of the room without another word. You didn't even know that this place provided a kitchen. Stepping into it you realized, it you couldn't really call it a kitchen, rather a makeshift closet with a kettle and a random pot.

As you filled the kettle with water, the sound of their voices filtered through the thin walls. You couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable, low, intimate, as if they were the only two people in the world. It reminded you of the image you had in your head when Cloke told you about Camilla taking hushed phone calls at 2am in the morning. 

Your hands tightened around the kettle’s handle, and for a moment, you let yourself wonder what it was about Camilla that drew Henry to her so completely. Was it her beauty? Her quiet grace? Or was it something deeper, something intangible that you would never be able to replicate?

The whistle of the kettle jolted you from your thoughts. You poured the water into two cups, your movements brisk and mechanical, and carried them back to the room.

Henry looked up as you entered, his expression unreadable. Camilla offered you a small smile that you reciprocated. Thing is, you couldn't even hate her for it. 

“Thank you,” Henry said, taking one of the cups from the tray and handing it to Camilla.

You set the other on the desk and stepped back, the distance between you and them feeling like an insurmountable chasm.

“Are you staying the night?” Camilla asked, her voice soft and lilting.

Henry glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned back to her. “I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”

The words were simple, but they cut through you like a blade. Your forced smile suddenly felt brittle and unnatural. “I should head back,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “I’m going to go visit him.”

Henry’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t protest. “I’ll walk you to the car,” he said, setting down his cup.

The walk to the car was silent, the gravel crunching beneath your feet the only sound. When you reached the car, he stopped, his hands slipping into his pockets as he turned to face you.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice measured but sincere.

You nodded, avoiding his gaze. “Of course.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, you asked the question that had been gnawing at you since you arrived. “Henry, why did you ask me to come?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I trust you more than anybody,” he said simply. Oh, Henry, how you hurt me, you thought.

The words should have comforted you, but they didn’t. They only made the ache in your chest worse.

You nodded again, forcing another smile. “Goodnight, Henry.”

He didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered on you as you got into the car and drove away, leaving him behind with her.

When you reached the hospital it smelled of antiseptic and despair. It clung to the walls, to the floors, to the starched uniforms of the nurses who moved briskly through the corridors. You hated it and hoped the smell didn’t stick to your clothes when you left. You hated the stark fluorescent lights, the endless beeping of monitors. Or maybe, you were just projecting. Maybe you were just an upset little girl who was in love with someone who loved someone else more. And that made you feel more sick than the smell of the hospital. 

Charles had been moved to a private room at Francis’s insistence. Whether it was to spare him or the other patients from his sharp tongue and volatile moods, you weren’t sure. But as you stood outside the door, you found yourself hesitating, your hand hovering over the cold metal handle.

The last time you’d seen Charles, he’d been a mess, drunk and disheveled. But now, as you stepped into the room, he looked smaller somehow, diminished. The bruises on his face were still vivid, purples and yellows blooming across his pale skin, and his arm was in a sling. He was propped up in bed, his expression one of bored irritation as he flipped through a book you assumed Richard or Francis had brought for him. 

“You look awful,” you said bluntly. 

Charles glanced at you, his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Well, I do try just for you, my love,” he drawled, his voice raspy but unmistakably sharp.

“God, they’ve got you drugged up then.” You laughed at the name he called you, closed the door behind you and moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down with a sigh. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus,” he said, setting the book down on the tray table. “Which, in a way, I suppose I did. Except the bus is my own goddamn friend.”

There was a bitterness to his tone that made you wince. “He was trying to help,” you said gently.

Charles snorted, leaning his head back against the pillows. “If that’s what Henry calls help, I’d hate to see his idea of sabotage.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to your hands clasped in your lap. The silence stretched between you, heavy and uncomfortable, until Charles spoke again.

“Let me guess,” he said, his tone mocking. “You’re here on Henry’s orders. Come to check on me, make sure I’m not planning some grand act of revenge?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I came because I wanted to.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He studied you for a moment, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. Finally, you said, “Because I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

Charles let out a low, humorless laugh. “And you thought that someone should be you?”

You felt a little hurt by his words for a quick moment before responding gently, careful with your words. 

“I've just realized that you and I share something, although a little different in circumstances,” you said, your voice steady despite the tightness in your chest. “To be on the outside. To feel like you’re always fighting to be seen, to matter.”

His laughter stopped abruptly, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Is that what you think this is?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Isn’t it?” you countered, meeting his gaze.

Charles looked away, his jaw tightening. “Maybe,” he admitted after a long pause. “But it doesn’t matter. Not to them, anyway.”

You knew he was talking about Henry and Camilla, about the way they orbited each other, their connection. It was a wound you shared, though you’d never admit it to him.

“They care about you more than you think,” you said, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “They don’t care about me like they care about each other. You know that as well as I do.”

The truth of it hit you like a punch to the gut, but you didn’t flinch. “That doesn’t mean you don’t matter,” you said firmly.

Charles turned to look at you again, his gaze sharp and searching. “Is that what you keep telling yourself? That you matter to them, to him?” he asked, his voice low. “Where do you think you fit into all of this?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no words came out. Because the truth was, you didn’t know. You’d spent so long standing in Henry’s shadow, waiting for him to see you the way he saw Camilla, that you’d forgotten what it felt like to stand on your own.

Charles seemed to sense your hesitation, a sly smile creeping across his face. “You’re just like me,” he said, his voice almost mocking. “Always on the outside, looking in. The thing is, I don't care anymore, I don't need his approval, but you're still deluding yourself, thinking that one day he'll forget about my sister and be all yours. But they're both selfish, they're perfect for each other. And you know it.”

The words stung, not because they weren’t true, but because they were.

“I think I should go,” you said abruptly, standing up and grabbing your coat from the back of the chair.

“Of course,” Charles said, his tone dripping with false sweetness. “Run back to Henry. That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

"At least he's not my fucking brother." You stated firmly but he just laughed.

"Don't get offended that I told you the truth, you only keep me around because I do that," he shrugged, reaching for his book again, "you know that very well."

"I know," You paused at the door, your hand on the handle. “Take care of yourself, Charles,” you said softly, not looking back.

As you stepped into the hallway, you felt a salty tear escape your eye. You hated that he was right. But more than that, you hated that you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away from Henry, no matter how much it hurt to stay.

-

a/n: i'm loveing the requests guys omfg. oh and dont be a silent reader, i thrive on notifs!!

[charliedaltonswife]

as henry’s longtime friend, he becomes irritated with your blossoming friendship with newcomer richard. it’s not until he notices the copy of sapphos on your nightstand that things boil over. he confronts you about the romantic nature of these poems, and amidst a tense argument, true feelings are revealed. for the poems were never about richard, after all…

basically a childhood friends with a secret crush moment…i can see henry being a real asshole to mask his jealousy 🤭

A Jealous Temper

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

thank you nonnie, i got carried away and write a bit much!

Summary: read the request

Warnings: none i believe

master list found here

The first time Henry Winter spoke to you, he was six years old, standing stiffly in the corner of the garden where the other children were playing tag. His hair was slicked down, his shoes too shiny, and he looked at you like you were some curious artifact he wasn’t quite sure how to categorize.

You’d been sitting cross-legged in the grass, inspecting a row of ants marching determinedly toward a crumb of bread. When you noticed him, standing there awkwardly with his hands tucked behind his back, you tilted your head and said, “Why aren’t you playing with the others?”

He hesitated, glancing toward the chaos of shouting children. “They’re loud,” he said, his tone careful, precise. “And uncoordinated.”

You grinned, patting the patch of grass beside you. “Come sit, then. I’m watching ants.”

Henry blinked at you, as though you’d suggested something scandalous, but after a moment’s deliberation, he lowered himself primly onto the ground, folding his legs with an almost comical rigidity. He followed your gaze to the ants, his expression skeptical.

“They’re taking crumbs to their queen,” you explained, your voice filled with the kind of certainty only a child could muster.

Henry’s brows knit together. “Ants don’t have queens.”

“Yes, they do,” you said confidently, pointing at the tiny black shapes. “They work together. She’s the boss. My mom said so.”

He frowned, considering this. “Well,” he finally said, “if they do have a queen, I don’t think she’s their boss. Maybe they just… like her. Enough to work for her.”

You squinted at him, considering his words. “That’s silly. Why would they do that?”

He shrugged, his small shoulders rising and falling with a kind of gravity that seemed out of place on someone so young. “Sometimes you do things for people you like. Even if you don’t have to.”

You thought about that for a moment, then nodded solemnly. “Okay, but I still think she’s the boss.”

Henry didn’t argue further, but when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“You’re strange,” you said suddenly, matter-of-factly.

“So are you,” he replied, without missing a beat.

You both sat there in silence after that, watching the ants move back and forth, and somehow, it felt like the beginning of something neither of you could quite name.

Henry Winter had always been your anchor. The quiet, calculated one, always intent on the precision of things, be it philosophy or life itself. Since childhood, he had been a constant in your world, a steady, unshakable presence that you always relied on. He was, in many ways, the center of your universe, your closest confidant.

But lately, things had started to shift, even if you hadn’t yet dared to acknowledge it.

Richard Papen had come into the picture, a newcomer, full of naive wonder and an earnest desire to belong. He wasn’t like Henry, not in the least. He was raw, emotional, brimming with questions about the world. You’d found his curiosity infectious, and somehow, it had drawn you in. You’d never expected it to happen, this budding friendship with Richard. 

But Henry wasn’t blind.

It was in the way he began to avoid you in the hallways, his sharp gaze always cutting across you like a razor, a silent edge to his every movement. He wasn’t outright hostile, but there was a coldness there, an intensity you didn’t fully understand.

-

You awoke to the sharp, unforgiving sound of your blinds being yanked open, the cold gray light of the morning spilling into the room like an unwelcome guest.

“God, Henry,” you groaned, pulling your blanket over your head as the sound of his measured footsteps approached. “It’s Saturday. Let me sleep.”

“You’ve already wasted half the morning,” came his reply, that low, calm cadence of his voice carrying a faint hint of exasperation. You heard the faint rustle of papers being straightened, books shifted on your desk, as he went about his usual routine of tidying up your chaos.

“Some of us need rest,” you shot back, peeking out from beneath the covers. “Not all of us wake at dawn to contemplate the Iliad.”

“And yet you’re always behind,” he quipped, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. He turned then, and you caught sight of the Sappho resting on your nightstand, its faded spine a familiar sight among your ever-growing collection. He picked it up without asking, examining it with a critical eye.

“Interesting choice,” he said after a beat.

You sat up, the covers pooling around your waist, and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His pale eyes met yours, glinting with something unreadable. “Only that it’s sentimental,” he said, turning the book over in his hands. “And I wouldn’t have pegged you as sentimental.”

You crossed your arms, already sensing where this was going. “It’s poetry, Henry. It’s not an oh so deep confession of love darling.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice deceptively mild. But there was something sharper beneath it, a needle hidden in the silk.

Before you could reply, he set the book down with a deliberate motion, the soft thud of it echoing in the quiet room. His gaze fixed on you, “what exactly is it about Sappho that’s captured your attention lately?”

You rolled your eyes, pulling yourself out of bed with an annoyed huff. “Is this some kind of interrogation?”

“Should it be?” he countered smoothly, leaning back against your desk.

“For fuck sake,” You grumbled before grabbing a sweater from the back of your chair, slipping it over your sleep-rumpled shirt. “Why do you care?”

“I’m merely curious,” he said, though the tightness in his voice suggested otherwise. “It’s not as though I’ve seen you so invested in lyric poetry before.”

You were about to respond when there was a soft knock at the door, breaking the tension. You frowned and moved to open it, only to find Richard standing there, looking sheepish as he glanced between you and Henry.

Richards' very short glance down to your bare legs didn’t go unnoticed by Henry.

“Sorry,” Richard said quickly, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just wondering if you wanted to get breakfast.”

You hesitated, glancing back at Henry, whose expression had hardened into something unreadable.

“Breakfast?” you repeated, stalling.

“I’ll be fine here,” Henry interjected smoothly, though his tone was anything but warm. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Richard looked faintly uncomfortable, clearly picking up on the tension, but you forced a smile and turned back to him. “Maybe later,” you said quickly. “I’m still waking up and I haven’t done my translation for class yet.”

God you were stupid. It was Saturday, you didn’t have any work due. You hoped Richard hadn't noticed you were lying and offended him.  

“Right,” Richard said, nodding awkwardly. “No problem. I’ll see you later, then.” He gave you a quick smile before retreating down the hall.

When you closed the door and turned back to Henry, he was watching you with an expression that was far too measured, far too composed.

“Richard,” he said, his tone flat. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Merely an observation.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?” you muttered, sinking back onto the edge of your bed.

“And you’re evasive,” he shot back, his voice cool. “What exactly is it about him that’s so fascinating?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Henry, can we not do this?”

“Do what?” he pressed, his voice sharper now. “I’m merely trying to understand why you’ve been so,” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening. “Distracted.”

You looked up at him, something hot and defensive flaring in your chest. “I’m not distracted,” you snapped. “And even if I were, it’s none of your business.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room felt impossibly small, the air thick with something unspoken. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his voice low. “That this isn’t my business?”

Henry stepped closer, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room as the tension thickened. He picked up the copy of Sappho from the desk once again, the movement deliberate, as if it were some damning piece of evidence. His thumb brushed over the worn edge of the cover, his expression unreadable, save for the faint crease between his brows.

“You never answered my question,” he said quietly, his voice low and even. Too even. “Why this?”

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of it settle over you like a heavy blanket. “I told you. Poetry. I like it.”

“Poetry,” he repeated, his lips curling ever so slightly in something that might have been a sneer, though he caught himself before it could fully take shape. “I got this for you years ago, you’ve had this for years, and yet it’s suddenly in heavy rotation. Why now?”

Your jaw tightened, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Must there always be an ulterior motive with you?”

“With you? No,” he said, the words sharp but delivered with a deceptively calm tone. “With others perhaps. Maybe Richard.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” you snapped, rising from the bed. “Not everything is about him!”

“Isn’t it?” he countered, the question cutting through the air like a blade. His pale eyes glinted, the frustration finally breaking through his carefully cultivated veneer. “You’ve been bending over backwards to welcome him, to include him in everything, to make him comfortable. Do you know how absurd it is to watch you fawn over him?”

“Fawn? God you’re infuriating sometimes,” you repeated, your voice incredulous. “I’m being polite. He’s new, Henry. Unlike you, not everyone thrives on cold indifference!”

His jaw clenched, the muscles working as he stared at you, unblinking. “It’s more than that,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You’ve been distant as well.”

“Maybe because I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you,” you shot back, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

His eyes widened, just a fraction, before narrowing again. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you said, taking a step toward him, “that you can be difficult Henry. That you push people away the second they do something you don’t like. That you act like every little thing is a betrayal.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, his expression hardening like stone. Then, slowly, he raised the book again, flipping it open to a random page. His eyes scanned the text, and when he spoke, his voice was laced with cold amusement.

“‘He is more than a hero,’” he read aloud, his tone almost mocking. “‘He is a god in my eyes, the man who is allowed to sit beside you.’” He snapped the book shut, his gaze cutting into you like a knife. “Tell me. You have this underlined. A god like Richard does not make you distant from other people?”

The question hit you like a punch to the chest, knocking the wind out of you. Your mouth opened, then closed again, no words forming.

“Nothing to say?” he pressed, stepping closer until he was just a breath away. “I wonder why.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, your heart pounding in your chest. “You don’t get to do this,” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “You don’t get to pick apart my life like it’s some academic exercise. Not when you-” You stopped yourself, biting back the rest of the sentence.

“Not when I what?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.

“Not when you’re just as guilty,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, his expression tightening like a coil about to snap. “Guilty of what?”

“Of pretending you don’t care,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “Of acting like nothing matters to you, like you’re above it all. But you’re not, Henry. You care. You care too much, and you hate it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. For a moment, the room was silent, the tension so thick it was almost suffocating.

Then, slowly, Henry’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers shaking ever so slightly.

The air between you was suffocating. The lamplight spilled across the room, flickering against the tight angles of Henry’s face, his eyes glinting like sharpened steel. He stood so close now, the faint scent of tobacco and cold winter air clinging to him, and you felt the pull of his presence like a magnet, impossible to resist even as anger boiled hot beneath your skin.

“You think you know me,” he said, voice low and taut as a string about to snap.

“I do,” you shot back, your words sharp enough to draw blood. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy. And that’s why I know exactly what this is about.”

“Oh, enlighten me, then,” Henry sneered, the edge in his voice like shattered glass. “Please, spare no detail.”

You stepped closer, your chest brushing his, your heartbeat hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “This isn’t about Sappho. Or Richard. This is about you, Henry. About the fact that you can’t stand the idea of not being the center of the world.”

His eyes flashed, his jaw tightening as his breath hitched. “You think I’m upset that I’m not the centre of your world?” he said, but the words came out clipped, frayed at the edges, “don’t be absurd.”

“Admit it,” you pressed, your voice quieter now, trembling with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. “Admit that you hate it. That it drives you mad to think of someone else being close to me.”

His silence was deafening. He stared at you, his gaze fierce and searching, as if trying to crack you open and read the truth written inside. And then, without warning, he moved.

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, the motion so sudden it made you gasp. He pulled you closer, the heat of his body overwhelming, his breath fanning across your face.

“Is that what you want me to say?” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, sending a shiver down your spine. “That I think about it constantly? That it makes me sick to imagine someone else touching you, hearing your laugh, knowing things about you that I don’t?”

You froze, his words hitting you like a physical blow, your breath caught in your throat.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly, his eyes dark and burning. 

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Instead, you did the only thing you could think to do: you leaned in, closing the infinitesimal space between you, and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was a collision, all teeth and heat and fury. His hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric in your fists. There was no softness in it, no tenderness; just the raw, unfiltered need that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long it felt like it might consume you both.

He kissed you like he was trying to prove a point, like he was staking a claim. And maybe he was. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, and you gasped, giving him the chance to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that left you dizzy.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your faces so close you could feel the warmth of his skin against yours. His hand was still tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing against your jaw in a way that was almost tender, despite the fire in his eyes.

“Say it,” he whispered, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Say what?” you managed, your own voice barely above a whisper.

“That it wasn’t about him,” he said, his gaze locking onto yours, unrelenting. “That it’s never been about him.”

“It hasn’t,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “It’s always been about you, Henry.”

Something in his expression shifted then, the anger giving way to something deeper, rawer. He exhaled sharply, his hand slipping from your hair to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

“Good,” he said simply. Then, after a pause, his voice dropped even lower, almost inaudible. “Do you remember those ants?”

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing, though your fingers stayed clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

His lips quirked in the faintest of smiles, though his eyes still burned with that unreadable intensity. “You said they only followed their queen because she was the boss. But I told you back then, it wasn’t that. They followed her beca-”

“They wanted to. Because they cared about her.” you asked softly, your voice barely audible.

His hand slid to your neck, his thumb brushing the pulse point there. “I follow because I can’t help it,” he said. “Because I care. Because it’s you.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and before you could overthink it, you leaned in again, capturing his mouth in another kiss. This one wasn’t a collision; it was an unraveling, slow and deliberate, every touch of his lips against yours speaking the words neither of you had dared to say until now.

a/n: look at me fucking churning these requests out, hope you all like them loves!!!

[charliedaltonswife]

Crack of A Gun

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: okay so instead of Richard getting shot you do, that's it, its a long one.

Warnings: getting shot?? Henry doesn't off himself in this one. Like the tiniest charles/reader if you squint like really hard. POV change as well.

master list found here

Richard POV

The door slammed open with a violence that ricocheted off the walls, startling us into silence. Charles stood in the threshold, gun in hand, his face flushed and wild, the air around him charged with the tang of whiskey and adrenaline. He staggered slightly, but his grip on the gun was disturbingly firm, his knuckles white against the polished metal.

“Jesus, Charles, you've brought a gun?” you said, stepping forward slightly, your tone firm but not unkind.

His eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, something in his expression softened, his grip faltering. But then Camilla spoke, her voice calm and steady. “Charles, you’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

“And you think you are?” he snapped, rounding on her. “You think any of you are? We killed Bunny! We’re all just sitting here, pretending like it’s fine, like he’s not at the bottom of that ravine - rotting - and it’s fine.”

"Charles, put the gun down." I piped up, for some reason compelled to say something. Charles turned to me and I intently regretted it. The gun pointed lazily in my direction sent me into a state of paralysis.

"Henry's gotten to you as well, like he does with every one of us. Ruined our lives." Charles slurred, drunkenly turning towards Henry.

“So you’ve come to kill me then, and you suppose that will make things better?” Henry’s voice cut through the tension, cold and measured. He didn’t move from his seat, his sharp gaze fixed on the weapon in Charles’s hand, as if daring it to waver.

Charles let out a humorless laugh, his chest heaving. “Better than your stupid ideas,” he shot back, his voice slurring at the edges. “What are you doing, Henry? Sitting there like everything’s fine? Like, like we’re not completely screwed?”

Camilla took a step back, her composure slipping. “And you’re going to screw us even more if you kill another person Charles.”

“Can’t you see it Milly,” Charles spat, his voice venomous. “We can't act like this was the right thing. Bunny’s dead because he wouldn’t play along with Henry’s psychotic little games.”

Henry stood then, his movements slow, deliberate. “Bunny’s dead,” he said evenly, “because he was going to put us all in jail. All of us. Including you, Charles.”

Charles laughed again, a bitter, hollow sound. “Oh, you’re good, Henry. Always so calm, so rational. But what happens when this falls apart, huh? What happens when Richard cracks, or Francis decides he’s had enough of this madness?”

“That’s enough,” Henry said, his voice sharp now, a command.

But Charles didn’t back down. If anything, he seemed to feed off Henry’s anger, his grip tightening on the gun. “No, Henry. It’s not enough. It’s never enough with you. Always planning, always controlling-”

“Charles, stop, you’re too drunk to be holding a loaded fucking weapon,” you said, stepping forward again, your hands raised slightly.

“Y/N, don’t,” Henry said sharply, his gaze flicking to you.

But it was too late. Charles’s attention was on you now, his expression twisting with something unreadable. “And you,” he said, his voice quieter now, more dangerous. “Always defending him. Always standing by him, like you’re his little, his little disciple.”

“Don’t be a prick Charles, you know that’s not true,” you said evenly, though your voice shook slightly. “We’re all stuck in this together.”

“Oh, are we?” he said, his tone mocking. “Funny, because it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m the only one who sees how insane this is. Maybe you're too blind by this perverted infatuation you have with him.”

You faltered, "Well aren't you brave when you're drunk. Come on, say what you really want to say Charles."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his sister cut him off before he dug himself a hole. I had no idea what you meant, nor did you ever tell me after what you and Charles were talking about.

“Charles,” Camilla said softly, her voice trembling. “Please. Just put the gun down.”

He looked at her then, and something in his face crumpled, just for a moment. But then Henry stepped forward, his movements careful, calculated, and the fragile truce shattered.

“Give me the gun,” Henry said, his voice low, commanding.

“No,” Charles said, his voice rising. “No, you don’t get to-”

Henry lunged then, his hand closing around Charles’s wrist, and everything happened at once. The two of them struggled, the gun swinging wildly, and you moved instinctively, reaching out to help. 

Then a crack.

The gunshot shattered the air, louder than anything I had ever heard. For a second, everything froze, the sound of it still ringing in my ears, the acrid smell of gunpowder cutting through the room.

Then I saw her on the floor, clutching her side, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“God,” Francis whispered, his hand flying to his mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“Y/N-” I choked, but Henry was already there, dropping to his knees beside her, his face pale and rigid.

Charles staggered backward, the gun hanging limp in his hand, his face twisted in horror. “I didn’t-” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to-”

“You idiot,” Henry snapped, not even looking at him. His hands were pressed against her side, blood seeping through his fingers. “Get me something to stop the bleeding.”

Camilla moved first, grabbing a towel from the side table, her hands trembling as she passed it to him. “Here,” she said, her voice shaky.

Henry snatched it without a word, pressing it firmly against the wound. “Keep pressure here,” he ordered, guiding her hand to the towel.

“Henry,” she murmured, her voice faint but steady.

“Don’t talk,” he said sharply. “You’ve already lost too much blood.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted weakly, her lips curving into a faint, wry smile.

“Shut up,” he said flatly, his eyes flicking to hers for a brief moment before returning to the wound. “You’re not fine.”

Across the room, Charles was pacing, his hands in his hair, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “I didn’t mean to,” he kept saying, his voice rising. “I didn’t mean to - she just - why the hell did you move Y/N?”

“Oh yes, blame the woman that's been shot Charles. Why the hell were you holding a gun in the first place?” Francis snapped, his voice cutting. “Are you completely out of your mind?”

“Oh, don’t start, Francis,” Charles shot back, his voice trembling. “You’ve been sitting here pretending like everything’s fine, like we didn’t, like we didn’t,”

“Enough,” Henry barked, his voice slicing through their argument like a blade. “All of you. Make yourselves useful. Richard, get some water.”

Charles hesitated, his hands shaking, but the force of Henry’s glare seemed to pin him in place. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands, muttering to himself as I scurried out of the room as fast as I could to the kitchen.

I grabbed a glass of water from the tap and brought it over. “Here,” I said, my voice softer now. “What can I do?”

“Well, you did a year of med school, you tell me.” Henry responded before I knelt down next to you, trying my best with the little resources I had and faded memory of that year in med school, to try to help you.  

“Henry,” Y/N said again, her voice a little stronger this time.

He looked down at her, his jaw tightening. “I told you to stop talking.”

“I’m okay,” she insisted, her eyes meeting his.

“You’re not,” he said bluntly. “You’ve been shot. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Her lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement in her expression despite the pain. “You’re awfully bossy, you know that?”

He didn’t answer, his gaze dropping back to the wound as he adjusted the pressure on the towel. His hands were steady now, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a rigidity that betrayed the effort it was taking him to keep his composure.

“Henry,” Camilla said quietly, hovering nearby. “Should we call someone?”

“No,” he said immediately, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We handle this ourselves.”

“Handle it ourselves?” Francis repeated, incredulous. “She’s been shot, Henry. She needs a hospital.”

“And when they start asking questions?” Henry shot back, his voice cold. “What do you suggest we tell them? That our friend was so guilty for killing our other friend that he accidently brought a gun and shot her?”

Francis fell silent, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

Henry turned his attention back to her, his voice lowering slightly. “We’ll take care of this. You’ll be fine.”

She gave a small, shaky laugh, wincing at the motion. “You’re very reassuring.”

“It’s just a graze,” I muttered, pulling the towel back to inspect the wound. The words should have been a relief, but my tone was clipped, like I was more annoyed with the situation than anything else.

“See?” you murmured, your voice a faint tease. “I told you I’m fine.”

Pressing the towel back against your side, he replied “This does not qualify as ‘fine.’”

“It’s not that bad,” you insisted, though the sting of the graze and the throbbing ache spreading from your ribs told a different story.

Henry didn’t dignify that with a response, his focus sharp as he shifted slightly, one knee on the ground beside you, his hand firm but careful against your side.

“Christ, I think I’m going to be sick,” Francis muttered, backing away from the scene and collapsing into a chair, his head in his hands.

“You’re not the one who got shot, Francis,” I responded

“I promise Y/N, I didn’t mean it,” Charles’s voice rose again, panicked and defensive. He stood suddenly, knocking over a chair in the process, and ran his hands through his hair. “I swear, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop, it’s quite alright Charl-” you had started but was interrupted by Henry. 

“No one cares about your excuses right now,” Henry said flatly, not even looking at Charles. “What matters is fixing this mess.”

“Mess?” Charles spat, his voice cracking. “She’s not a mess, Henry.”

“Not her,” Henry said coldly, finally glancing up at Charles. “The situation. Which you made infinitely worse.”

“You didn’t exactly stop me, did you?” Charles shot back, his face flushing.

“Stop it,” Camilla interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. She stood between them, her hands outstretched, trying to contain the fraying tension in the room. “Fighting isn’t going to fix anything.”

“Camilla’s right,” you murmured, your voice softer now. “Everyone just... take a breath.”

Henry didn’t respond, his eyes narrowing slightly as he adjusted the towel again.

“God, he’s insufferable,” Francis muttered from the corner, earning a faint laugh from you that turned into a wince.

“Don’t make her laugh,” Henry snapped, his voice cutting through the room.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize we were in the operating room,” Francis retorted, his sarcasm barely masking his nerves.

“Enough,” Camilla said again, her voice cracking this time. She glanced down at you, her expression softening. “Are you sure you’re okay? Really?”

“I’ll live,” you said, your gaze flicking to Henry. “As long as Dr. Winter here doesn’t strangle me with his bedside manner.”

Henry’s lips twitched, just barely, but his hands remained steady as he worked. “If you stopped talking, I wouldn’t have to.”

-

The group’s arguing eventually fizzled into an uneasy silence. Charles had retreated to a corner, his head in his hands, while Francis lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the smoke curling around him in faint spirals. I stayed seated on the couch, having done what I could. 

It was Henry who broke the silence, his voice low and firm. “Camilla, Richard, clean up the blood. Francis, help them out. Charles—” He didn’t even finish the sentence, just sent him a withering look before turning his attention back to you.

“You should lie down,” he said, his voice softening slightly as he helped you to your feet, his arm steady around your waist.

“I’m fine, Henry,” you protested, though you leaned into him as he guided you toward the couch.

“Would you stop saying that,” he replied bluntly. “You’re not.”

-

3rd person POV

Later, after the others had reluctantly left - Camilla, Francis and Richard dragging Charles outside for fresh air - Henry stayed by your side, his presence solid and unwavering. His expression, usually so inscrutable, was softer now, though still laced with the faintest trace of tension as he continued to tend to your wound. His movements were purposeful, precise, and somehow calming, each gesture meticulous as if he had done this a thousand times before.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you said, watching him as he cleaned the graze on your side with careful attention.

Henry’s gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp yet tempered with something else. “Don’t be foolish,” he replied, his voice clipped, but beneath it, you caught a flicker of something less harsh. “You’re bleeding, and I’m not about to leave you to suffer in silence.”

You managed a faint smile, despite the ache in your side. “I’m really fine, Henry. I don’t need a personal nurse.”

His lips tightened, as if he was ready to dismiss your words, but instead, he said, “I know you’re fine. It’s not about that.” His fingers brushed the bandage, a subtle tenderness in his touch. “I want to be here.”

The simple truth in his words hit you harder than you expected. It left you silent, the weight of the moment sinking in, more than the pain from your side ever could. His hands continued their work, efficiently securing the bandage, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the question delicate despite the sharpness in his eyes.

“Not really,” you admitted, swallowing the lie. “It’s just a graze.”

He didn’t believe you. The slight narrowing of his eyes made it clear that he saw through your attempt at masking the discomfort. He said nothing, though, his hands stilling briefly as his gaze dropped to your wound, his expression unreadable but full of quiet concentration.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered, his voice tight, the words laced with self-directed guilt.

You reached up, your fingers brushing his wrist, the contact small. “It wasn’t your fault,” you said gently, your gaze steady on his.

Henry looked at you then, his gaze darkening, sharp and intense. “It could have been worse,” he said, voice rough. “I should have stopped him sooner.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” you interrupted, your voice soft but firm, squeezing his wrist just enough to catch his attention. “It was an accident, Henry. You didn’t cause this.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering to your side, his eyes dark with frustration, and maybe something else - something quieter, almost protective.

“He’s reckless,” Henry said, his voice rougher now. “And stupid. And you…” He cut himself off, his expression tightening even further. “You could have died because of it.”

“But I didn’t,” you said, your voice quieter this time, but no less resolute.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, his hand still resting near your side, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of your shirt. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “You scare me sometimes.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching. “Me?” you asked, surprised. “Why?”

Henry’s gaze met yours, his expression guarded yet open in a way it rarely was. “Because you’re you,” he said, his voice strangely vulnerable. “I can’t imagine a world where something happens to you.” He stopped, shaking his head as if trying to shake the thought off, but it lingered between you like something tangible.

You felt a sharp twist in your chest at his words, but instead of speaking, you reached up and touched his hand gently, squeezing it lightly, as if that simple gesture could offer reassurance.

“Sadly, it seems you’re stuck with me,” you said quietly, your voice soft but certain.

Henry didn’t say anything immediately, but his grip on your hand tightened, steady and grounding. It was a wordless acknowledgment, his hand warm and sure against yours. For a moment, everything else faded, the tension, the fear, the pain, leaving just the two of you in the soft stillness of the room.

He glanced down at you then, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You should rest,” he murmured after a while, his tone strangely gentle, though it still carried that underlying command that you’d come to recognize in him.

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a mix of affection and stubbornness. “Henry Winter telling someone to rest?” you said with a half-smile. “How rich.”

A small, fleeting smile tugged at the corner of his lips in response, almost imperceptible but enough to soften the sharp edges of his usual demeanor. “Consider it a rare moment of concern,” he said, his voice low, but with the faintest trace of humor that made your heart skip.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wince as you moved, but eventually, you settled your head carefully in his lap, your body aching but the warmth of his presence grounding you. His hand remained steady, hovering above you for a moment before finally resting lightly on your arm. He didn’t pull away, though his posture was stiff for a moment, as though unsure how to proceed.

“Are you comfortable?” you asked, your voice soft but teasing.

Henry’s lips quirked just enough to be noticeable. “You should be the one asking that,” he muttered, but it was clear the tension had eased between you.

His hand rested firmly against your arm, and for the first time in hours, the rest of the world outside that room seemed to disappear. The soft crackle of the fire blurred into a gentle hum as he absentmindedly traced light patterns on your arm.

“You’re worrying about them again, aren’t you?” he said eventually, his voice laced with amusement, though it was quiet.

You sighed, a soft breath escaping you. “They’re all just... shaken up. Charles more than anyone,” you murmured, your eyes drifting closed. “He never meant for this to happen.”

Henry’s fingers paused for a beat, but he didn’t speak at first. Instead, his gaze softened as he stared down at you, his eyes heavy with something that might have been concern—or something else entirely.

“You have a habit of doing that,” he said finally, his voice steady. “Worry about everybody else except yourself.”

You opened your eyes briefly, catching his gaze. “Liar.”

He smirked slightly, the faintest trace of that signature Henry Winter teasing slipping into his expression. “You know it’s true,” he said bluntly, before his gaze softened again. “You’re going to worry yourself to death before the bullet can.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The weight of the world seemed to have lifted, leaving only the two of you in the quiet cocoon of the room. It was strange, this comfort between you, but undeniable. Finally, you leaned up slightly, meeting his gaze with a quiet certainty.

“Henry?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but his grip on your hand unwavering. “Hmm?”

“Thank you,” you said softly, your words simple but sincere.

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on you as though considering his answer carefully. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than before, softer, more genuine. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

a/n: sorry for the pov change, i find it awfully gross. double post today, your girl felt productive and didn't want to continue writing her essay

[charliedaltonswife]

Razor Sharp

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: Henry and reader share an intimate moment (not smut, sorry y'all) in the bathroom as she helps him shave, their bond deepening amidst the fallout of Bunny revealing the group's darkest secret.

Warnings: none i think, mmm just short

master list found here

The bathroom was quiet save for the gentle trickle of water from the sink, its porcelain surface glinting faintly under the flickering light. The rest of the house was still asleep, the early morning light barely peeking through the frost-rimmed window. You stood beside Henry; you with a book in hand and him, sleeves rolled up. The hum of closeness settling over you like the calm before a storm.

“Bunny’s been talking,” Henry murmured, his voice low, almost distracted, as he set the razor down with precision.

The words hung in the air for a moment before you responded. “Bunny always talks. What’s so new about that?” You flip your page. 

Henry glanced at you, his sharp features softened in the pale light. “He told Richard,” he said finally, carefully choosing each word, “about the man we killed”

You paused, talking a pin out of your hair and placing it on your page as a bookmark, before placing the book aside and staring at him. “The man we killed,” you echoed, the weight of the words sinking in.

Henry didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he turned back to the mirror, running his hand over the faint stubble on his jaw. There was something unusually restless in his movements, a tension coiled beneath the surface.

“And Richard?” you prompted, stepping closer.

“Richard is, for his own reasons, remaining loyal to us,” Henry replied, though his tone carried none of the usual reassurance. “But that doesn’t mean Bunny won’t... embellish.”

The razor sat on the edge of the sink, gleaming faintly, and without thinking, you reached for it. “Let me help,” you said softly.

Henry’s brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” you interrupted gently, your hand brushing his. “Let me.”

For a moment, he hesitated, searching your face, before finally stepping back slightly, allowing you closer to rest between his legs.

You dipped the razor into the water, the blade gliding over the surface as you prepared it. “You know Bunny thrives on chaos,” you said, breaking the silence. “He loves to stir the pot, see what spills over.”

“True,” Henry admitted, his gaze fixed on your hands. “But there are things he shouldn’t spill.”

You glanced up at him, meeting his eyes. “Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t.”

Henry’s lips quirked slightly at your words, a faint, almost reluctant smile. “You’re remarkably steady-handed,” he remarked as you lifted the razor.

“I’m remarkably everything,” you teased, the lightness in your tone a deliberate attempt to ease the tension.

He huffed softly, something akin to a laugh, and you caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his expression.

“You trust me, don’t you?” you asked, tilting his chin slightly to catch the light.

His eyes met yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation. “More than anyone,” he said simply.

Carefully, you began to shave away the faint stubble along his jawline, the motion deliberate and precise.

“Bunny’s not clever enough to do any real damage except to our bank accounts,” you said after a moment, your voice steady. 

“Perhaps,” Henry said, his voice softer now, almost reflective. “But carelessness has a way of unraveling even the most carefully constructed plans. And, he now feels comfortable to tell anybody, Richard was just the closest he could find at the time.”

You paused, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “And us? The twins? Francis?”

He reached up, his hand covering yours briefly. “I’m working on it, I promise,” he said quietly.

You smiled at that, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Good.”

As the razor moved smoothly over his skin, the tension in the room seemed to ease, replaced by the quiet intimacy of the moment. The storm of Bunny’s latest antics still loomed in the background, but for now, it was distant, something to be dealt with later. Here, in the soft light of the bathroom, there was only the steady rhythm of your movements and the unspoken understanding between you.

“It's not bad, you know,” Henry said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You raised a brow. “Me shaving you?”

“Being looked after,” he corrected, not wanting to show much else in his expression.

Your laugh was soft, warm. “Don’t get used to it.”

He tilted his head slightly, the movement so subtle you almost missed it. “I already have.”

You didn’t reply, but the look you gave him, fond, steady, unshakable, said more than words ever could.

The razor scraped softly against Henry’s jaw, the sound almost rhythmic, steady, as though it could anchor the undercurrent of tension still lingering in the room. His hands rested on the edge of the sink, knuckles pale against the white porcelain, as he held himself utterly still, his eyes trained on you in the mirror.

“Richard already knew,” he said, his voice low, almost conversational, as though he were discussing the weather. “At least, he suspected. Bunny just gave him the confirmation.”

You paused, the razor hovering in midair, before tilting his chin up slightly to access the line of his throat. “And you’re only just now telling me this?”

Henry’s lips quirked faintly, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” you replied, your tone sharp but not unkind, the blade of your words as precise as the razor in your hand.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes traced the curve of your cheek, the determined set of your mouth. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said finally, though it sounded more like an excuse than a reassurance.

You let out a breath, your fingers lightly adjusting his jawline. “Henry, do you really think I’m the kind of person who cracks under pressure?”

His gaze softened then, his intensity flickering into something gentler, something close to admiration. “No,” he admitted, his voice quieter. “I don’t.”

The razor moved smoothly along his skin, each stroke deliberate, careful. You felt the intensity of his stare. He wasn’t looking at your hands or the blade or the way you meticulously wiped it clean between strokes. He was looking at you, studying the furrow of your brow, the way you bit your lip in concentration, the small, almost imperceptible smile that played on your lips when he caught you staring back.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, your voice teasing as you leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his neck.

“Shall I stop,” he replied, and the simplicity of his words made your pulse quicken.

“Is this a distraction tactic?” you asked, tilting his head to the side as you worked along the curve of his jaw.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice a shade lighter, though his eyes betrayed him, they were darker now, as if the storm outside had found its way into them. “Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped forward, your arm rounding his body to rinse the razor, but before you could, his hand caught your wrist, holding you in place. The touch was light, tentative, but it sent a ripple of heat up your arm.

“Darling,” he said, and the way he said it soft, deliberate, made you look at him.

“What?” you asked, though it came out quieter than you intended.

He was looking at you like he’d never seen you before, like the light slanting through the frost-bitten window had somehow rearranged the lines of your face, the tilt of your smile. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he said after a moment, his voice low, steady.

“Do what?”

“You know well what I mean,” he said, his thumb brushing against your wrist. 

You hummed, your skin tingling as his hand met your waist, “We’ll do what is necessary I suppose.” You didn’t want to address it in detail, you didn’t want to say it out loud. That you had planned, as a group, to do what you did to Bunny.

“You are rather calm about this,” Henry murmured back, “in the middle of all this madness.”

You smiled, though there was a flicker of something more serious behind it. “Someone has to be.”

His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go entirely. “You make it look easy,” he said, his eyes fixed on yours.

“It’s not,” you admitted. I really wished it was a goddamn dear we hit that night. 

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or heavy. You shuffled closer again, this time without the pretense of shaving cream or razors, and reached up to smooth a hand over his freshly shaven cheek. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you felt the slightest shiver as your thumb brushed against his jaw.

“See?” you murmured. “Not so chaotic after all.”

Henry let out a soft huff of laughter, though his gaze remained steady, serious. “I’m meant to be in control, and I don’t feel at all in control” he said, his voice dropping an octave, his hand reaching up to cover yours where it rested against his face.

You swallowed, your breath catching as he leaned into your touch, his eyes dark and unrelenting. “You don’t always have to be Henry,” you whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s dangerous,” he said softly, though there was no conviction in his voice.

You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly you were closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint scent of shaving cream mingling with something distinctly him. His other hand slid from your wrist to your waist, anchoring you as he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, though his voice held no real hope that you would.

“Why would I do that?” you whispered back, your lips barely grazing his as you spoke.

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening slightly at your waist. “You make me reckless, it's not good to be, especially right now” he admitted, the words almost inaudible.

“And you make me steady, and I suppose I should be feeling anything but steady right now,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly but sure.

The space between you disappeared, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was anything but steady, deep and searching, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you, the feel of you. His hands framed your face, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though it could tether you to the moment.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing hard, the silence between you filled with the sound of your racing hearts.

“Well,” you said, your voice shaky but light. “That escalated.”

Henry let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

a/n: omfg i've been wanting to write this one so bad

[charliedaltonswife]

henry winter taking a liking to a woman of math and science- his opposite, his muse

Polar Opposites

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: Two opposites find themselves drawn together by a shared appreciation for the beauty in the things they don't fully understand; one with a mind for the stars, the other for the stories between them.

Warnings: um so a bunch of googled astrophysics stuff that I know nothing about, so science people don't get triggered im a humanities girl

master list found here

The rain pattered softly against the tall windows of the library, creating a rhythmic, lulling cadence that echoed through the cavernous space. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and dust, a solemn hush settled over the rows of shelves like a benediction. It was in this sanctuary of words and thoughts that Henry Winter first found himself inexplicably drawn to you.

You were seated at your usual spot, the far corner table near the window, surrounded by a fortress of thick textbooks and notepads filled with equations and sketches. The contrast between the two of you could not have been starker. While he delved into the ethereal realms of ancient languages and esoteric philosophies, you navigated the rigid, empirical world of mathematics and science with a kind of methodical grace that fascinated him.

He had always been attuned to detail, to the subtle shifts in a person’s demeanor or the quiet undercurrents of a conversation. But with you, it was different. It wasn’t just the precision with which you worked or the quiet determination in your eyes; it was the way you seemed to embody a different kind of logic, one that challenged the fluidity of his world.

“Lost in thought, as always,” his voice broke through her studies, soft yet tinged with amusement. You didn’t look up from your notes, your pen moving in swift, elegant arcs across the page.

You blinked, momentarily disoriented before a small, rare smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “It would seem so.”

You glanced up then, your gaze meeting his with a mix of curiosity and warmth. “And what brings you to this side of the library? I thought the sciences were beneath your notice.”

“Hardly,” he replied, taking a seat across from you, his hands folding neatly on the table. “I find them quite interesting in their own way. Particularly when explained by someone who understands them as you do.”

You laughed softly, a sound that sent a curious warmth through him. “Flattery, from you? I must be imagining things.”

“It’s not flattery,” Henry said, his tone earnest. “It's an observation.”

“Besides,” he continued, making himself comfortable in the stiff library chair, “I have a particular fondness for this part of the library, so I’d rather work here.”

“Oh? Not because I’m here?” You teased, going back to your studies, not expecting him to reply with, “Perhaps.”

The two of you fell into an easy silence, the rain continuing its gentle percussion against the glass. He watched as you returned to your work, your brow furrowing in concentration, a stray strand of hair falling into your face. There was a quiet beauty in your focus, a kind of purity in the way you engaged with the world through numbers and formulas.

For a long time, he simply watched, the pages of his own book remaining untouched. There was something about your presence, the way you seemed to ground him in reality that made him keep coming back. 

- 

There was an inherent magnetism in your differences, a polarity that defied the natural order of things. Henry, with his quiet intellect and penchant for the arcane, seemed a universe apart from the world you inhabited; a world of numbers, formulas, and empirical certainties. Where he sought meaning in ancient texts and philosophical discourse, you found solace in the unyielding truths of the cosmos, in the elegance of a well-constructed theorem. Yet, it was precisely this divergence that pulled you toward one another, like celestial bodies caught in an invisible orbit, bound by a gravity neither could fully comprehend.

The others had noticed, of course. Charles and Camilla, with their shared glances, their questions. Bunny’s offhand remarks, tinged with a disbelief he didn’t bother to mask. Even Richard, always the observer, had raised a quiet eyebrow, though he never voiced his thoughts outright. You weren’t in the Greek class, not even in the same department, your academic pursuits couldn’t have been more removed from theirs. But Henry had brushed it off, his usual cool detachment shielding him from their skepticism. Your friends, too, had their reservations, puzzled by your fascination with someone that was such a mystery to the rest of the college. 

“You know they worship the devil, that Greek group that your new boyfriend’s in,” Angie had voiced her opinion after one late night.

“They don’t worship the devil Ang,” then you turned to her, “And, he’s not my boyfriend.”

She quirked an eyebrow, amused, “No, but you want him to be.”

“I think it’s time for you to go now Ang, I’ve started the new unit on astrophysics and I haven’t done the work that’s due tomorrow.” I had stated. 

-

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm, golden glow across the small study room. The storm outside raged on, rain lashing against the windows, the wind howling through the trees. Inside, though, the world was calm, a hug of light wrapped around the two of you as you settled in for the evening.

You were seated on the couch, a thick blanket draped over your legs, a mug of tea cradled in your hands. A textbook on astrophysics lay open on your lap, the pages filled with diagrams of star formations and dense equations describing celestial mechanics. It was a world of precision and discovery, one you navigated with ease, finding beauty in the intricate dance of the cosmos.

Henry sat at the opposite end of the couch, a book of poetry in his hands, though his attention kept drifting toward you. The quiet companionship between you had become a comforting ritual, each of you immersed in your own thoughts yet attuned to the presence of the other.

“I don’t understand how you can read in this light,” you murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.

Henry glanced up, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s more atmospheric, don’t you think?”

You rolled your eyes, though there was no real annoyance in your expression. “Atmospheric or not, you’re going to strain your eyes.”

He set the book aside, leaning back into the cushions. “Then perhaps you could read to me instead?”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the request. “Me? Read to you?”

“Why not?” he replied, his gaze soft and inviting. “I’m curious about your world.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before you glanced down at your textbook, considering. “All right, but I warn you, it’s not exactly light reading. It’s got no plot and it’s not written by any of your ‘greats.’”

“I’m sure I can keep up,” Henry said, settling in with an expression of quiet anticipation.

You shifted slightly, clearing your throat as you began to read from a section on stellar evolution. “The formation of a protostar begins when a molecular cloud, composed primarily of hydrogen and helium, undergoes gravitational collapse, often catalyzed by perturbations such as supernova shock waves or nearby stellar winds. As the core density increases, the temperature escalates, initiating the process of hydrostatic equilibrium ....”

Henry watched you, his eyes soft with interest as your voice filled the room. The intricate language and dense content didn't seem to deter him; instead, he seemed drawn in, as though the complexity itself was part of the allure.

You continued, your voice steady and rhythmic. “Post-main sequence, the star’s evolution diverges based on its mass. Low to intermediate-mass stars evolve into red giants, eventually shedding their outer layers as planetary nebulae, leaving behind a degenerate core; a white dwarf.”

You glanced up, your gaze meeting Henry’s. “Still with me?”

“More than,” he said, his voice low, contemplative. “It’s strange how something so vast can follow such precise rules.”

You nodded, the edges of your mouth curving up slightly. “It’s comforting to me, strangely. The equations, the Lane-Emden equation, for example, they might look complicated, but they map out a star’s life with such clarity. It’s like seeing the future laid bare.”

Henry tilted his head, his gaze steady. “You make it sound... graceful.”

“It is,” you said, softly. “But it’s different from what you know.”

He smiled, a flicker of warmth in his usually reserved expression. “It’s funny. You talk about stars and equations, and all I can think about is how much I’d like to understand it the way you do.”

You closed the book, the quiet of the room wrapping around you like a blanket. “Our worlds see things differently, I suppose, but it balances out.”

“Maybe,” he agreed, his tone soft, introspective. “I think I like the idea of seeing the world through your eyes.”

The silence stretched, not awkward, but filled with the slow crackle of the fire and the rhythm of rain against the windows. Almost instinctively, you leaned into him, your head finding its place on his shoulder. His arm shifted, wrapping around you in a gesture so natural it felt inevitable.

“Is this all right?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your arm. “I think I’ve been waiting for this.”

You let out a soft laugh, warm and quiet. “I didn’t know you were the sentimental type.”

“Only with you,” he admitted, a smile in his voice.

And as the fire waned, the room settling into a comfortable dimness, you felt a peace that wasn’t loud or overwhelming, but steady and sure. In that quiet moment, tangled together, the world outside seemed distant, and all that mattered was the warmth you found in each other’s company.

Bitch i have no clue if this is shit or not, i'm still undecided anyway thx for the request bby xx

[charliedaltonswife]

Deny It

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: Richard, having taken a liking to reader, realises something he has been denying for a while now.

Warnings: ig a bit of angst, allusion to smut if you squint really hard, oh and richard's pov

master list found here

Richard P. POV

I should have known, really. The signs were all there; hidden in plain sight, like so many things are with Henry. But then, I suppose it’s easier to see the truth in retrospect, when everything has been laid out for you, the final, painful, picture taking shape long after the moment has passed.

It was early autumn when you arrived, a time when the leaves began to curl and brown, and the air turned crisp enough to sting your lungs. Shame, you always reminded me of autumn - this was a curse really, an entire season every year I was reminded of you. Julian had let you into the Greek class not long after I had joined, and you fit into our group almost too easily, easier than me truthfully. There was something effortless about it, the way you slid into conversations with a quiet confidence. Everyone was surprised when you challenged Henry on the finer points of Greek translation. I liked you almost immediately. The way your wine stained lips quirked up when Francis made a joke, the way your heels made subtle clicking sounds as we walked to class together. Yes, I suppose I liked you a bit too much that I became blinded. 

Henry, of course, was the first to notice you. He always had a knack for identifying those who would matter, who would alter the delicate balance of our little circle. It wasn’t long before you were spending long afternoons with him in the library, your heads bent over ancient texts, a kind of fierce concentration radiating between the two of you that none of us dared interrupt.

“Henry’s really taken with her,” Charles said one evening, swirling the last of his drink in the glass. “Haven’t seen him like this since- well, since ever.”

“Hm?” I echoed, frowning. “He’s finally found a friend who can keep up with him.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a smirk. “Right, yes.”

There were moments, of course, that should have given it away. One evening, after a long night and too many drinks, you laughed at something Charles had said and stumbled slightly on an uneven bit of the rug. Henry was at your side in an instant, his hand gripping your arm a little tighter than necessary.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“I’m fine, Henry,” you assured him with a laugh, but he didn’t let go until you were safely sitting down on an armchair.

It was a small thing, really. An overprotective gesture from someone who cared. Henry being Henry; precise, cautious, unwilling to leave anything to chance. It didn’t seem unusual. After all, we were all protective of each other in our own ways, weren’t we? A tight knit group. 

There was another time, late one night, when I was passing by the sitting room and overheard your voice, soft but insistent. I paused, lingering in the shadows, curious.

“Henry, sit down,” you were saying calmly but with demand in your voice. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, though his voice was strained.

“Don’t argue with me. You’re not fine.” There was a rustle of movement, the sound of a chair being dragged closer. “Here, take this.”

A pause. Then Henry’s voice, quieter. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Sure I do,” you said firmly. “Close your eyes and try to relax.”

I stood there for a moment longer, listening to the soft hum of your voice, saying something in Latin to distract him from the pain, the way you spoke to him with a calm assurance that I’d rarely heard anyone use with Henry. It was oddly intimate, but again, I brushed it off. Henry had migraines sometimes; we all knew that. And you, well, you were kind. That’s what I liked about you most. Of course, you’d help him. Anyone would.

It was nothing. Just a friend being there for another friend. It wasn’t unusual. Not really.

The country house was always supposed to be a place where the outside world couldn’t touch us. It was where we could let loose, indulge in the illusion of timelessness. But that illusion has its cracks, and in those cracks, truths have a way of seeping in. Truths that were right in front of me before. But I was too ashamed to admit it to myself. Too stupid. 

It was during one of those languid weekends that I found myself on the second floor, wandering aimlessly as the others napped or lounged downstairs. The door to Henry’s room was slightly ajar, and though I knew it was a breach of privacy, I couldn’t help but glance in.

You were there, seated on a chair that had been obviously moved to be right next to the bed, a book spread open between the two of you. Henry leaned against the headboard, his gaze fixed on the text, though every so often, his eyes flicked up to you. There was a kind of quiet intensity to the scene, an intimacy that was all the more palpable for its lack of overt gestures.

I should have left then. I should have turned away and pretended I hadn’t seen. But I didn’t. I stayed rooted to the spot, watching as Henry reached out, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face before he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. It was such a simple, tender thing, and yet it felt like a declaration, a quiet confirmation of something I hadn’t been ready to see.

I decided to turn away as you mindlessly went to run your fingers through his hair, being careful not to move his glasses, both of you keeping focused on the texts in front of you. It felt practiced. It looked natural. 

I didn’t say anything that evening despite a question from Francis and a nudge from Bunny. I couldn’t.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when I saw you emerge from his room that the reality of it hit me. You stepped out first, wearing one of Henry’s dress shirts, the fabric hanging loosely off your frame, the hem brushing just above your knees. Your hair was slightly tousled, and there was a sleepy, contented look on your face. Henry followed shortly after, equally disheveled, his sleeves rolled up, his collar undone.

There was an ease between you. It was undeniable yet I managed to deny it for so long. I stood frozen at the end of the corridor, watching as you disappeared around the corner, my mind racing to reconcile what I had seen with what I had tried so hard to ignore.

Francis was the one to put it into words, as he always does. He caught my eye over breakfast before everybody had gathered, a sly grin playing on his lips. “So, you finally figured it out?” he asked, not unkindly. “About Henry and her?”

“I-” I began, but the words failed me.

He chuckled, setting down his cup. “We all saw it, Richard. You just didn’t want to.”

I nodded. It wasn’t jealousy that I felt, exactly. It was something more complicated; a mix of disappointment and resignation, perhaps. But there was also a strange sort of relief in the truth being out in the open, even if it was just for me.

Later, I found myself on the porch, watching as you and Henry walked across the field, your heads bent close in conversation. There was a lightness to your step, a kind of ease that spoke of familiarity and trust. It was beautiful, in its way.

Maybe, on some level, I had known all along.

Requested by the wonderful @timetravellingovercaffeinatedkoi who got me out of my writing slump

[charliedaltonswife]

A Dance, A Fight Pt 2

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: In the quiet aftermath of heartbreak, Y/N isolates herself from the world, only for Henry to break through her walls with gentle care.

Warnings: angst again ig dw there’s fluff as well

masterlist found here

The apartment was a cocoon of disarray, all dimly lit corners and lingering shadows. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tightly over the windows, the daylight banished in favor of the flickering amber of half-burnt candles. Empty wine bottles cluttered the coffee table alongside half-read books, their spines cracked open like abandoned confessions. A record spun on the turntable in the corner, but no music played—it was just the rhythmic scrape of the needle caught in a groove. The air was thick with stale smoke and something faintly floral, like perfume left too long in an empty room.

You sat curled in an oversized armchair, legs tucked beneath you, a blanket draped over your shoulders like armor. A glass of red wine, untouched, rested precariously on the armrest, the liquid dark and viscous in the low light.

It rang twice before you dragged yourself to your feet, the movement sluggish, as though the air itself resisted. You lifted the receiver, resting it against your ear.

“Alive?” His voice carried a note of forced levity, but the concern beneath it was unmistakable.

“Debatable,” you replied, your voice dry, clipped, like the edge of a blade dulled from overuse.

“You’ve gone bloody feral, haven’t you? You’re not eating, I know you’re not. God, Y/N, open a window at least—”

“Francis.” Your tone silenced him. “I’m fine. Go bother someone else.” You hung up before he could argue, the click of the receiver echoing in the quiet.

The phone rang again barely five minutes later. You hesitated before picking it up. “What now?”

“Darling, everyone’s worried about you. Come back, won’t you?” Camilla’s voice was honeyed, coaxing.

“I’m flattered, really,” you drawled, tipping your head back against the chair. “But I’ve got a paper due.”

“You’re lying and you’re being ridiculous,” she snapped, the sweetness in her tone vanishing.

“Goodbye, Camilla.” You hung up before she could respond, letting the phone drop onto the table with a hollow thud.

-

Five days. It had been five days since you left the weekend trip, and the knocking at your door felt like an intrusion from a world you’d rather forget. You ignored it, expecting the visitor to leave, but the sharp click of the lock startled you. Only one person had the confidence - and the means - to let himself in uninvited.

“Y/N?” Henry’s voice was hesitant, as he stepped into the dimly lit room. He didn’t recoil at the mess or the suffocating stillness, just closed the door quietly behind him. His gaze found you immediately, and something in his eyes flickered. But, as always, it faded too fast for you to understand what it was Henry was truly feeling. 

You didn’t move, didn’t look at him. “You’re trespassing, I should call the police.”

“You’re dehydrated,” he countered, his voice steady but gentle. He approached slowly, like one might approach a wounded animal. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m not hungry.” I closed my eyes, not wanting to see him, not wanting to feel the tightness in your chest. 

“And sleep?” He crouched in front of you, his voice softening. “You look like you haven’t rested in days.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes hollow and rimmed with sleeplessness. “I didn’t ask for a lecture, Henry. Nor did I want you to be here.”

“No,” he murmured, “but you needed me to.” His hands, careful but firm, brushed the blanket from your shoulders. Your resistance was perfunctory at best, and when he lifted you from the chair, you didn’t fight him.

“Don’t, Henry,” you said, voice breaking. “I don’t need you to fix me.”

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly as he carried you to the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled and uninviting, but he placed you down with a care that made your chest ache. His hands lingered at your face, brushing back stray strands of hair as he knelt beside you. For a moment, his face hovered above yours, his eyes glassy, and you were so unused to seeing Henry like this, you were convinced you had imagined his eyes tearing.

“Why won’t you love me?” you whispered, the words barely audible, trembling in the space between you. The words escaped you before you could stop them. 

Henry inhaled sharply, his composure fracturing as he pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead, lingering as if the act alone might piece you back together. You were so surprised that you almost pulled away. As if he understood, his hands went to cradle your face with the kind of care that felt almost reverent, his thumbs brushing the delicate curve of your cheekbones, wiping away a stray tear with a tenderness that made you want to cry even more. His breath was warm against your skin, as he whispered, “Omnia vincit amor.”

Love conquers all. Love? Something in your veins pulsed, like your body had been waiting for him. 

You blinked, your lashes wet, and he gently tilted your chin so your eyes met his. “Darling, I apologise.”

The weight of his words pressed against the fragile ache in your chest, the tension loosening as though he’d unraveled it with his bare hands. His gaze searched yours, desperate yet patient, as if he’d stand there forever, holding you together piece by piece.

Your breathing hitched, but his thumb traced a soft line across your temple, grounding you.

And for the first time in months, you knew he meant it.

Your trembling fingers reached up, brushing against his cheek as you gently guided his forehead to meet yours. The warmth of his skin, the nearness of him, steadied you. Your voice no more than a breath as you whispered, "Si vis amari, ama."

If you wish to be loved, love.

Henry stilled, his eyes fluttering shut as the words sank in. When he opened them again, they were softer, filled with something raw and unguarded. A quiet, almost disbelieving laugh escaped him, his breath mingling with yours in the space between.

"Only for you darling," he murmured.

[charliedaltonswife]

A Dance, A Fight

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: Amidst the intoxicating haze of a decadent evening, unspoken long unspoken tensions ignite between two fractured souls, threatening to unravel their carefully guarded facades.

Warnings: none, just angsttt

Part 2 posted here | masterlist found here

Allegro Moderato

The needle met the vinyl with a soft crackle, and Debussy's Clair de Lune began to unfurl, each note laced with aching elegance. The room, steeped in amber light, flickered like a moving tableau, shadows playing tricks against the paneled walls. Henry sat cross-legged on the floor, a leather-bound book resting open in his lap, the firelight sharpening his angular profile into something almost severe. You perched on the armrest of the sofa, cigarette balanced between two fingers, watching the slow revolution of the record like it held some profound secret.

Camilla breezed in with an unopened bottle of champagne, her silk blouse undone just enough to suggest careless indulgence. A halo of golden hair caught the light as she set the bottle on the table with an audible clink.

"That was meant for dinner," Francis drawled, slouched in a chair with a theatrical air of exhaustion.

"We didn’t drink it at dinner," Charles countered, lighting a cigarette with a faint smirk.

"Precisely," Bunny declared, snatching the bottle with a flourish. "Dinner’s the overture, darling. The symphony begins now."

Andante

The champagne was half gone when the conversation turned absurd. Bunny waxed poetic on The Bacchae, his voice rising with each increasingly tenuous analogy. Henry interrupted only once, his tone razor-sharp and precise. Camilla laughed, a low, musical sound that seemed to settle into the velvet air.

You swirled the wine in your glass, feeling it swim pleasantly in your head as Richard handed you his. His fingers brushed yours, a touch as fleeting as it was deliberate.

“They’re dancing,” Francis remarked to no one in particular, his gaze fixed on the flames licking at the hearth. You leaned toward Richard, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I want to dance with them.”

Henry’s eyes flicked up, cool and disapproving, before returning to his book. Richard, more daring with the whisky in his veins, stood abruptly and pulled you to your feet.

The room spun as you stumbled into an impromptu waltz, the music swelling as laughter spilled from your lips. Camilla clapped along in time, her head thrown back with delight, while Francis watched with the weary disdain of a saint.

"Dancing," you drawled, the words a shade too deliberate, "is divine in its nature. A gift from God, or so they say."

"Gods preserve us," Richard murmured, nearly tripping into the fireplace.

“Careful, Henry,” Bunny slurred, leaning precariously on the arm of the chair. “She’s trading you in for a poet.”

Henry’s eyes lifted from the page, dark and unreadable, before he rose abruptly. The needle skipped as his shoulder brushed the record player. The room faltered at the absence of music, the absence of him.

Crescendo

The hallway stretched before you, dim and silent save for the tap of your shoes on polished wood. Henry stood by the window, his silhouette stark against the deepening twilight. His posture, hands buried in his coat pockets, shoulders set with rigid indifference, radiated a quiet arrogance that both repelled and compelled you.

You stopped a few feet away, your voice cutting through the stillness. "Why must you always act like this?"

He didn’t turn, though his posture stiffened imperceptibly. "Like what?"

"Like I’m the one disrupting your pristine little world," you shot back, words tumbling out sharper than you intended. "You’re impossible, Henry. One moment, you’re so detached I wonder if you even notice I exist, and the next, you’re looking at me like, like I’m the center of it all."

He didn’t move, but his voice, when it came, was low and almost bored. "You’re overdramatizing again."

Fury bubbled in your chest. "Don’t you dare," you hissed, "reduce this to melodrama. I’m not one of your insipid, cloying admirers. I see you, Henry, in all your pretense and cowardice. Do you think I haven’t noticed how you refuse to let yourself feel?"

His shoulders tensed visibly, but he remained silent.

"Say something!" you demanded, the fire in your tone breaking against the icy wall of his restraint.

When he finally turned, his face was pale, his expression carefully composed. "Do you want the truth?"

You faltered, breath catching. "Yes."

"I can’t give you what you want," he said, each word deliberate, weighted. "Not because I don’t feel it, but because feeling it doesn’t change what I am. Or what I’m not."

The admission cut deeper than anger ever could.

"One day," you whispered, tears spilling over, "you’ll push me so far away I won’t come back."

Henry’s gaze softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face before his walls reassembled. "Perhaps that’s for the best."

It wasn’t the answer you wanted. Perhaps it never would be.

Turning on your heel, you walked away, each step echoing with finality. And for the first time, Henry didn’t follow.

Coda

Gonna post a part 2, watch nobody read this.

[charliedaltonswife]

Masterlist

Way more to come, just getting started. Reblog, comment ect, i love whomever this finds.

The Secret History

Henry Winter

Deny It -> summary: Richard, having taken a liking to reader, realises something he has been denying for a while now.

Polar Opposites -> summary: Two opposites find themselves drawn together by a shared appreciation for the beauty in the things they don't fully understand; one with a mind for the stars, the other for the stories between them.

Crack of a Gun -> summary: Instead of Richard getting shot you do, that's it, its a long one.

Play. Now. -> summary: You hadn't played the piano in a while. Maybe you just needed Henry's... motivation.

A Jealous Temper -> summary: Henry’s jealousy over your growing friendship with Richard leads to a heated confrontation, where buried feelings come to the surface in a passionate and intense confession.

A Fight, A Dance pt 1, pt 2 -> summary: Amidst the intoxicating haze of a decadent evening, unspoken long unspoken tensions ignite between two fractured souls, threatening to unravel their carefully guarded facade

Give and Take -> summary: Henry idolizes Julian, but when Julian abandons him, Y/N helps him see the truth about loyalty and finds solace in their shared devotion.

Razor Sharp -> summary: Henry and reader share an intimate moment (not smut, sorry y'all) in the bathroom as she helps him shave, their bond deepening amidst the fallout of Bunny revealing the group's darkest secret.

Not That Girl -> summary: You've always harbored feelings for Henry, but his devotion to Camilla overshadows everything.

A Bath to Ease the Soul -> summary: after a long dinner dealing with your mother and her digs, you decide to take a bath to relax, but Henry wants to talk.

Charles Macaulay

Spotted -> summary: Charles and reader’s secret relationship is accidentally exposed during a late-night mishap in the study.

[charliedaltonswife]

Thank you for being such a lovely writer! <3 This is a long request but how about a Henry Winter x reader fic where the reader sort of subtly tries to warn Henry to not idolize Julian so much because Julian doesn't care that much about him, he just likes to be looked up to, but Henry believes Julian isn't like that. And after Bunny's death, after Henry goes to Julian only to find he has left and moved away, Henry is distraught and goes to reader for an explanation since Julian has left him with none and she had figured out that would happen. And reader tries to explain to him that Henry is a giving person who helps others but demands the same devotion in return but people are selfish and usually won't reciprocate. But in the end, reader is also the same way as Henry and at least they have each other.

Hope this isn't too much. Thank you in advance!

Give and Take

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

thank you nonnie, i loved the request!

Summary: read the request

Warnings: none i believe

master list found here

The thing about Henry Winter, you’d long since realized, was that he didn’t just love the idea of perfection, he required it. He sought it the way others sought air, his life orbiting around the pursuit of symmetry, elegance, and control. It was in everything he touched, his books, his Greek, his posture when he spoke, even the way he poured his tea, slow and precise, as though to spill even a drop would be an affront to the universe.

And above all, he sought it in people. Julian, for instance.

Julian was everything Henry wanted to be. Polished, serene, a man who seemed to glide through the world without ever touching the ground. He had the air of someone invulnerable, untainted, truly divine. It didn’t matter that his charm was brittle, that his affections were doled out sparingly, as if he were a miser of admiration. Henry couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see it.

“Julian is not infallible,” you’d told him once, early in the fall semester. The words had come out quiet but steady, like a single note cutting through the dense hum of the library.

Henry didn’t look up. He was sitting across from you, hunched over an enormous book of Greek poetry, his sharp features half-draped in shadow. The dim light of the desk lamp cast a warm, golden glow over the worn wood of the table, catching on the sharp line of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. In that light, he looked almost unreal, like a figure carved from stone, a statue brought to life.

His pen continued its steady movement, underlining a passage with such precision it could have been drawn by a ruler. “I never said he was,” he replied, his voice clipped, his eyes fixed on the page.

“You act like it,” you countered, leaning back in your chair.

That made him pause. It was subtle, just the faintest hitch in his movement, but it was enough to let you know he’d heard you. He always heard you, even when he pretended not to.

Finally, he looked up, his pale, glacial eyes locking onto yours. There was something cutting in his gaze, something that made you feel as though he could see straight through to the core of you. “Maybe you don’t understand him,” he said, his tone even but edged with a quiet reproach.

“Maybe not,” you conceded, tilting your head as you studied him. “But I think I understand you.”

His brow furrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of something—curiosity, irritation—crossing his face before vanishing. “And what exactly do you think you understand?”

“You’re loyal,” you said, your voice soft but unyielding. “Devoted, even. When you care about someone, you give them everything. And that’s… rare. But Henry, not everyone deserves that from you. Not everyone is going to give it back.”

“Julian does,” he said firmly, the words landing between you like the final note of a symphony.

You tilted your head, letting the silence linger for a moment before speaking. “Are you sure?”

His expression didn’t change, but you saw it—the flicker of doubt, so brief it could have been a trick of the light. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that impenetrable certainty that was so uniquely Henry.

“I don’t need you to analyze my relationships,” he said, his tone like the sharp snap of winter wind against your skin.

You didn’t press him further. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d accept, not then. But the thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of your mind as the weeks turned into months.

- 

The common room of Francis’s apartment was dimly lit, the amber glow of the floor lamp barely cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the air like a shroud. You sat curled up in one of the threadbare armchairs, a cup of coffee cradled in your hands, though it had gone cold long ago.

Francis sat opposite you, sprawled out on the sofa in a way that made him look boneless. His long legs stretched across the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other holding a half-empty glass of something dark and strong. He looked as he always did—like he belonged in some black-and-white photograph, all sharp cheekbones and careless elegance. But there was something brittle in his expression tonight, something that even the lazy curl of smoke rising from his cigarette couldn’t mask.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a long, slow stream of smoke. “Even for you.”

You shrugged, your gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in your coffee. “Just thinking.”

“God, don’t do that. It never ends well,” he said dryly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Despite yourself, you smiled, a small, fleeting thing. “And you’re unusually sober. Even for you.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “But don’t mistake this for sobriety. It’s more strategic pacing.”

You rolled your eyes, setting your coffee cup down on the low table between you. “Strategic, right. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

He watched you for a moment, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. The movement was fluid, practiced, like everything Francis did. “Alright, out with it. What’s got you looking so… tragic?”

You hesitated, your fingers curling around the edge of your sleeve. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he said bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not the brooding type, not really. Leave that to Henry. Or Charles, for that matter.”

At the mention of Henry, your chest tightened, but you pushed the feeling aside. “It’s just been… a lot. Everything with Bunny, the group, the way things feel like they’re unraveling—”

“Darling,” Francis interrupted, his tone cutting but not unkind, “things unraveled a long time ago. We’re just standing in the wreckage, pretending it still looks like a tapestry.”

You blinked at him, startled by the stark truth of his words. Francis rarely ventured into sentimentality, but when he did, it was like being slapped with ice water.

“You don’t have to make it sound so… fatalistic,” you said, your voice quieter now.

He gave a humorless laugh, leaning back against the couch and letting his head fall against the cushion. “I’m not making it sound like anything. I’m just stating the obvious. Look at us. We’re a disaster waiting to happen. Or, more accurately, a disaster that’s already happened and is still somehow managing to make things worse.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “That’s comforting.”

“I’m not here to comfort you,” Francis said lightly, though there was an edge to his tone. “If you want comfort, go find someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

You shot him a glare, but it lacked any real venom. “You’re a real joy to be around, you know that?”

He smirked, reaching for his glass and taking a slow sip. “I try.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the only sounds were the faint hum of the heater and the soft clink of ice in Francis’s glass. The weight of the conversation lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Finally, he broke the quiet. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the only one who’s… struggling.”

You looked at him, surprised by the admission. Francis wasn’t exactly the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

“I mean, God knows we’re all walking around with more baggage than we know what to do with,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the cigarette in his hand. “I mean Henry acts all stoic and all, but… well you know him.”

The words were unexpected, and they settled over you like a balm, soothing but not erasing the ache.

“Yes, Francis,” you said softly.

He waved a hand dismissively, “Now, finish your tragic coffee and let’s talk about something less depressing. Like how terribly I plan to behave at tomorrow’s dinner.”

You laughed, the sound light and unforced for the first time in what felt like days. And for a moment, just a moment, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

-

It was well past midnight when the knocking came, sharp and urgent, cutting through the thick, muffled quiet of your dorm room.

You stirred awake, your heart pounding from the suddenness of it. Fumbling in the dark, your hand searched for the lamp, brushing clumsily against the stack of books on your nightstand before finally finding the switch. The warm light washed over the room, revealing the disarray of papers, books, and scattered cigarette butts that had become your constant companions.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled to the door, apprehension prickling at the back of your neck. When you opened it, the sight that greeted you made you freeze.

Henry.

His hair was a disheveled mess, strands falling into his eyes in a way that would have driven him mad under normal circumstances. His face, usually so composed, was pale and drawn, the dark circles under his eyes making him look almost gaunt. And his posture—always so upright, so deliberate, had crumbled, his shoulders slumped as though he were carrying the weight of the world on them.

“I went to see Julian,” he said, his voice raw and frayed at the edges.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in. He moved past you like a ghost, his steps heavy and uneven, and sank onto the edge of your bed, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Closing the door, you turned to face him, your heart twisting painfully at the sight of him. He looked… lost.

“Yes, and?” you prompted, your voice cautious but steady.

“He’s gone,” Henry said, the words trembling as they left his lips. “His office is empty. His house, too. He’s gone.”

You inhaled sharply, the confirmation hitting you like a blow to the chest. You’d suspected it, of course. Julian had been withdrawing for weeks, his attention scattering like leaves in the wind. But hearing it, seeing the hollow look in Henry’s eyes, was something else entirely.

“I tried to warn you,” you said gently, sitting down beside him. Your movements were slow and deliberate, as if you were afraid he might shatter if you got too close too quickly. “Have you a lighter?”

Henry turned to you then, his gaze sharp and accusatory. “You knew?”

“I didn’t know,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “But I had a feeling. Henry, Julian… he’s not like you. He doesn’t give himself to people the way you do.”

Henry’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face working as he went into his pocket to hand me a lighter. “He cared about us. About me.”

“I’m sure he did,” you said softly, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on your nightstand. “But not the way you think.” You lit the cigarette, the faint orange glow illuminating the tension etched into his features. “Julian likes being admired. He likes being needed. But when things got messy, when it stopped being about him, he checked out.”

Henry laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that cut through the quiet. “And you didn’t think to tell me this earlier?”

“I tried,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t want to hear it.”

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, pressing down on both of you like a physical weight.

“You give too much,” you said finally, breaking the silence. Your voice was soft, almost mournful. “You expect people to give back the same way. But most people… they’re not like you, Henry. They take and take, and they leave you with nothing.”

He turned to you then, his pale eyes glassy but piercing. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked, his voice low and bitter. “That I’m some fool who doesn’t know better?”

“No,” you said firmly, holding his gaze. “I think you’re extraordinary. And I think it’s tragic that the world doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against yours.

“So, you’re like me then?” he said, his voice quiet but certain.

You nodded, your throat tight. “I suppose.”

And for the first time that night, you saw it, he faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Not peace, not exactly. But something close.

And as you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, you thought that maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

a/n: so i woke up to a lot of requests (I LOVE THEM ALL BTW, THIS IS NOT ME TELLING YOU TO STOP), but i just wanted to say thank you all, and being the very critical person I am, i hope to fucking god im not fucking up your ideas!!!

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

I wrote this for my dearest friend @arinewneanias03

I hope you’ll like this piece, Bunny🐇 ily

After class

Reader’s point of view:

“And that is all I have planned for today!” Julian said and all of us slumped back into our seats, today was a long day. The others were even more keen to leave, it was a friday night, so the twins were rushing to the grocery store along with Francis, who just enjoyed cooking, before I blinked they were already out the door. Bunny and Richard already left, god knows where. I reached forward to finish my tea, and I stood up to get my coat on like everyone, but Julian had stopped me.

“Y/N, I wanted to talk to you about your latin translation.” This made me sit up straight, I kind of was expecting this given the fact that I did it last minute. “It wasn’t bad, but you missed the point on why Caesar had returned to the kingdom. So.. Henry!”

Henry, who was helping Julian by collecting the mismatched teacups, peeked out of the backroom. “Yes?”

“Could you, please, put on boiling water for two?” Julian sat down at his desk and motioned me to sit in the armchair in front of it.

“Of course, but… didn’t you mention that you have a meeting with the Dean today?” Henry said, leaning against the doorframe, he did say it when we started the lecture a few hours ago. I let my eyes linger on Henry, he always looked so good, especially with his crisp black trousers and white shirts, I wished I could tear them off of him. It always lit a flame in me when his shirts accidentally pulled a bit up, exposing his toned abs and sharp v-line, while he stretched his limbs out during our lessons.

Julian checked his watch and his small eyes widened a bit. “Oh dear, you’re right, I didn’t even notice how time went by so fast. Umm… The question is, what do I do with you, lovely Y/N?” He was already reaching for his coat.

Henry stepped forward and said, almost eagerly. “I could explain the text to the lovely Y/N.” He smirked when he caught me blushing.

“That is a good idea, thank you.” He put the keys down on the desk and he shot Henry a specific look that I didn’t understand, before stepping out the door. “Stay as long as you need, you’ll give me the keys tomorrow, I have a spare one at home.” He turned to me” You’re in good hands, Y/N. Be good, children!” With that, he left. We heard his footsteps until he completely left the lyceum.

Henry snapped me out of my thoughts. “Tea?”

I was nervous to be in the same room alone with him, but I had to get myself together. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Mint, a lot of honey and a little lemon?” I heard the kettle whistle, I was surprised that he knew exactly how I drank my tea.

“Exactly.” I smiled at him and he smiled back at me, more like smirked at me.

He made us tea and we moved over to the big couch, we sat with our knees touching. I could feel his manly and musky scent and warmth consuming my body. He took my translation and his from the table and analysed them for a few minutes. “Hm, the translation is almost perfect, it just seems that you used the wrong person for the accusativus, which changes the whole meaning.” He put the papers down and looked deeply into my eyes, I felt a blush creep up my cheeks again and a smile creep up my lips.

“To tell the truth, Henry, the reason that I messed it up is because I was rushing with it and I wasn’t really paying close attention to the text” I rambled.

“Tsk tsk, well that is not really nice, well… I see, but I am not letting you leave.” I was relieved and not at the same time. The past week was a long one and all I wanted was a long Friday nap, but I was about to spend quite some time with Henry Winter in a somewhat cozy office space.

“You know what lovely girls who don’t pay attention deserve?” He leaned closer and he started toying with the ends of my hair, I hoped my thighs pressing together wasn’t too noticeable.

“No?” My breath was stuck in my throat.

“We’ll go over Caesar’s story.” He whispered, almost seductively. “Be a doll and get it from the big shelf.” He commanded. With a quiet groan, which made him chuckle, I got up and went over to the massive bookcase. I looked on every shelf, but for the life of me I couldn’t find it. “Try looking on the top shelf!” He said from his position on the couch. So, I did, I couldn’t find the ladder that was usually there for the ceiling high bookshelf, so I stretched my torso as much as I could. I felt that my dress was riding up my thighs way too much, just below my butt or maybe even higher. Suddenly, I felt a pair of strong hands lifting me up by my waist to the highest shelf, and he did it so effortlessly, as if I was light as a feather. “It’s the dark blue book.” I saw it and I reached for it. I took it and I felt him turn me around in his arms, now we were face to face. I was still up a bit higher, my hair was all around our faces, but his big hands felt pleasant on my waist. Our faces were inches apart, his scent was stronger now. Out of instinct, I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he welcomed me in as if we had done this a thousand times. I was now completely in his warmth, I was so close that my breasts were pushed against his neck, and it made me blush that he was probably feeling them. One of his hands was supporting me on my lower back, and the other one reached up to caress my face. I looked closer at his face, his clean shaven jaw, his raven dark hair, his lips, the scar he had and those icy blue eyes of his. I have never seen a pair of eyes so beautiful, the scar made him ever more beautiful. I saw his eyes roaming around my face, he never saw me this up close, whatever he was looking at he felt the need to stroke with his finger. At first, he brushed my hair off my forehead. Then, he ran his hands along my cheeks, the curve of my nose, under my eyes and my lips. “What divine beauty you possess…” My breathing got heavy, which meant that my chest was repeatedly rubbing up against him. He looked down between us, and took in the sight of my cleavage with a barely audible groan, it was prominent given the fact that I was a bit leant forward in front of him. His eyes wandered from my breasts to my neck, until he looked me in the eyes again. “And this sweet scent of yours… It drives me crazy.” He took a step forward and pushed me up against the bookshelf, as he did, his hips pushed in between my spread legs, right into my centre. I felt a bit of shame at the low moan that escaped from the back of my throat, but quickly washed away when my brain registered that he also grunted at the contact.

The tension was electric. Suddenly, he took the book out of my hands and he dropped it on the floor. His hand went on the back of my neck and pulled my head close to his. “Fuck Caesar.” And he claimed my lips eagerly, I, of course, returned the kiss just as eagerly. He pushed me more and more into the bookshelf, I could feel his erection through my underwear. He pulled me closer, while still kissing me deeply, and went over to Julian’s desk. His big hands pulled my knees apart so he could nestle himself between them, my dress rid up to my waist. I was breathing heavily and on complete display for his hungry eyes.

“You’re a very sweet girl, aren’t you?” He kissed down my neck and jaw, occasionally biting and leaving marks on my untouched skin. He made his way down to my collarbone and my chest, my breath quivered from his teeth. “You’re so responsive to my touch, and just to me in general.” He pulled my arms out of my dress and slowly pushed it down to my waist, I mentally patted myself on the back for choosing a cute bra for the day. He looked like a starved man at the sight of my barely covered chest. “Beautiful, what pretty lingerie, but I want to see you without it. Show yourself to me, sweet girl, and I will do the same” His fingers motioned me to arch my back, so he could unclasp my bra. I got shy and embarrassed when my breasts were no longer covered by my lace, even if I wanted to be seen by him and taken by him, I quickly shot my arms up so I could cover them, but Henry was having none of it. His lusty gaze shifted to a softer one in a mere second, he caressed my arms that were covering my torso, his touch made me shiver. “Lovely lovely Y/N, you are the prettiest creature I ever saw, I knew this the very first time I had the pleasure of seeing you. And you do not owe me anything, if you don’t feel ready for me, I understand. But, I want to show you what a goddess you are, for I will be your devotee.” I slowly put my arms on my sides, my breasts were bare for his eyes. What he said made me feel comfortable, and so fucking in need for him. I needed him, and I needed him in that second. He had the time of his life kneading and sucking my boobs, but I grabbed his hair and pulled him up.

“Baise moi.”

His eyes had a sort of devilish look in them, and he chuckled darkly while unbuttoning his trousers. “Fuck you? Dirty girl…” He pulled his manhood out and my eyes widened, he was so thick and long. Veiny and dripping for me, he was fully hard, he was already hard when he was pushing me up against the bookcase. “And I wanted to take my time with you.” His hands wandered to my underwear and he slowly pulled it down, but he noticed how it clung to my skin due to my wetness.

“So wet already?” He had mockery in his tone.

“So hard already?” I shot back.

“Touché.” He yanked my underwear down. He pushed my knees up and spread my legs. His tip was begging to be inside me, the throbbing of it proved it. Henry took his pointer and middle finger to circle at my sensitive clit. “I should have known you were going to be this naughty… Walking around here, acting so sweet. But, I could see you. These short skirts and dresses, that only rid up your thighs and revealed your barely covering panties, when I was looking. Coincidence, dear?”

He slowly slipped into me and we both gasped, when he felt me get used to his size he started pounding into me relentlessly. We both had a lot of pent up sexual tension towards each other. “Oh, Henry! Please!”

He slowed down out of teasing. “Please what? Please fuck me harder? Deeper?”

“Deeper!” I moaned out loudly. I thought that he was going to spread my legs wider, so it was a surprise when he leaned down closer to me and threw one of my legs over his shoulder, my other one he wrapped around his waist. When I felt him hit that sweet spot inside of me, I was a mess, I felt even more wetness gather around him.

“Well, well…” he said in a low voice, his constant moving taking on a strain on his voice, but he still toon the effort to talk dirty to me, knowing that it turned me on. “No one ever hit that spot inside you, huh?” I nodded with closed eyes and a thrown back head. My throat was completely exposed for him, and he took advantage of it and kissed my skin, my eyes rolled into the back of my head. “Oh my, you are making a mess on me, lovely Y/N, what a gorgeous sight. Will you let me make a mess in you?”

Even if I was on the pill, I never let a man ejaculate inside me, but with Henry? Gladly. “Yes, please! I want to feel it!”

His thrust slowed down, only so he could stab more deeply into my cervix. He brought his head, so now we were eye to eye. “Ever had a man come inside you?” His eyes were soft. I shyly shook my head, as shyly as I could while getting fucked on a desk. He stroked my hair. “You will like it, most women tend to enjoy the feeling of getting filled. Don’t you worry, my sweet, I will make sure to really fill this sweet pussy.”

He reached down between us and rubbed my clit, which dropped me over the edge in seconds. When my walls clamped down on him, he let out a guttural moan and I felt the hot sensation of his seed painting me from the inside. Feeling so close to him, I reached up and pulled him down into an embrace, he wrapped his strong arms around me and we just stayed like that until we could breathe properly.

“If that what I get for fucking my translation up, maybe I need to do it more.” I chuckled.

His hand suddenly wrapped around my throat, yeah, that shut me up quite quickly. “The sweet Y/N wants to get punished, oh… You have seen nothing yet.”

He pulled out and kneeled before me. He watched as his own seed dripped out of my entrance like it hypnotised him, when it nearly dripped down he gathered it on his fingers and pushed it back. My legs twitched at the sudden contact on my sensitive parts. He looked up at me with a sly and smug grin, slowly he dived down. “Henry-what are yo-“ he pushed my now correct translation into my hands and wrapped his arms around my thighs to keep me in place, while giving my clit a little kiss.

“You are going to read it out for me. If I hear a tiny mistake, mispronunciation or even a moan, you are starting from the beginning.”

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

@celestialpoetry ‘s request, thank you for the support dove<3

I kind of based this character off of Meredith from If We Were Villains, which is my current read:)

summary: Henry meeting an embodiment of seducement and finding himself lusting after her

Temptress

Henry’s point of view:

The first time I saw her, I thought that it was the cigarette that clouded my vision. It even went through my head that I only imagined her.

But, it instantly cleared my doubts when I saw her multiple times later.

I only saw her from far-apart, and as time went by, I started to know more about her from here and there. She was in theatre, she dropped in mid-semester, no one knew where she came from and why she came to Hampden. Her hair was golden as the Sun, and always made in a nice way. Depending on how her hair was styled I knew what phase was she going through. If she was busy with exams, memorizing lines and running from practice to practice, her hair was trapped in a french twist. If she was relaxed and free, her hair was framing her face and back like a lion’s huge mane.

Her face, oh, her gorgeous face. She was beautiful, and the fact that she was aware of it and knew how to use it made it all better. Thick eyelashes, delicately curved nose, full lips caught between teeth, lusty eyes. Her body had curves that I wished I could grip into, her silky looking skin was hugged by silk or lace or fur.

She was sex on legs. A nymph. A goddess of seducement. A temptress.

No other woman had as much of an effect on me like she did. She lit a fire up within me with a single gaze of those eyes. She made me jealous of the people and even the wind that surrounded her. I wanted to suffocate any man that came closer to her.

The only contact I had with her was when our eyes met here and there. Whenever they did, she wasn’t shy, she let her eyes run up and down my body, she licked her those plush lips, bit them and let a sly smirk rest upon them. I smirked back at her and winked at her, I threw my manners out the window and checked her out.

Until one night, it was a cold night. I had an urging need to write, but my apartment couldn’t make the atmosphere I felt most inspired in. I put on a wool sweater instead of a shirt and I made my way toward the college’ library in my car. In the parking lot, I saw a blood red vintage car. The secluded library’s window showed that the fireplace within was lit up, someone was in there. I was fine with it as long as the person didn’t bother me with any annoying little habits.

I immediately felt my body relax at the warmth of the library, the warmth coming from the centre. The centre had a fireplace, a big rug in front of it and leather couches and armchairs that I was quite fond of. So, I made my way over to the centre.

My heartbeat quickened when I heard the voice from far apart.

“As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.

But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;

And for her sake do I rear up her boy,

And for her sake I will not part with him.”

Her honey-sweet voice hit my ears, she was practising her lines.

A few seconds later, she came into my vision. She was walking around on the rug, in front of the fireplace, a lit cigarette stuck between her slender, elegant fingers and her nails were painted blood red. How I wished that those fingers were caressing my skin and stroking my co—

“Hello there, Winter.” I was too lost in my perverse fantasies to notice that she turned around and now was looking at me with those seductive eyes of hers.

“Good evening.” I nodded and sat down on one of the couches. “Practise?”

She sat down on the same one as I did and took a long drag of her cigarette. “Trying to, if I’m honest I didn’t even come here to practise.”

I looked at her with awaiting eyes, gesturing to her to continue.

She streched her slender body and tucked her knees into her chest, I couldn’t help but glance down where her knees pushed against her delicate breasts. I wanted to devour her completely, I felt my trousers tighten at a million more fantasies of how I could make her mine and mine alone.

“The apartment above mine is having a gathering.”

“Are they drinking and stomping?”

“Almost, they are having an orgy.” She smirked at me, while taking a big gulp out of her flask.

I chuckled softly. “Good for them, I suppose.”

There was a comfortable silence between us. I looked at her to steal a glance, only to find her already looking at me with hooded eyes. She had a little smile on her lips, she suddenly reached up toward me and offered me her flask. I didn’t even care what she was offering me, she could have given me poison in it and I would have drank it eagerly. It sent a heatwave down my spine when I put my lips exactly where the print of her lipstick was.

“It’s a dirty martini.” She said when I gave it back to her.

“I could tell, it’s really good. Did you make it?” It really was good, the olive taste and sweetness mingled perfectly together.

“I’m glad you liked it, yes I made it. I have too much fun making all kinds of cocktails. When I was in my late teenage years, I worked in a bar, that’s where I learnt it all.” She was looking forward, as if she was telling tales to the fire. Her hands blindly reached for another cigarette, and so did I.

I couldn’t help, but smile at her. When she was talking about something she was enthusiastic about her eyes weren’t holding that lustful gaze of hers, more like wider, adorable eyes that reminded me of a doe.

I lit my cigarette with ease, and I noticed that her lighter was refusing to light up. “Oh damn it! It’s out, little fucker.” She mumbled under her breath.

Suddenly, she turned her head around to look me in the eyes..

There was something about her at that moment. Her hair was long and big, I wished to stroke it and pull it at the same time. The cigarette was between her lips that were painted a dark red. Her skirt rid up to the top of her thighs. I was lured in, and lured in deep.

She slowly crawled towards me from across the couch, when she got close, she supported herself on my knees. She leaned closer to my face, with a sultry look that made me want to fall to my knees at her every wish.

“Henry?” She whispered.

“Y/N?” I whispered back to her.

She leaned into my ear, I could smell her sweet scent all around me, I wanted to drown in it. My arms tightening with the need to just wrap themselves around her and show her pleasure on earth.

“Would you light my cigarette, please?” She leaned away and giggled, she was very well aware of the effect she left on me.

I lit my lighter up and she leaned into it, lighting the ashes to life. “You know what this means? When you light someone’s cigarette?”

I shook my head softly, there was an adoring smile on my face. She slowly got up and gathered her things, she stopped in front of me and said the answer.

“I’m your bitch now.” She smirked, everyone wanted her to be their bitch, I was no different. But, at the same time I was, I wanted to give her the world and worship her.

“And are you?” I smirked back at her in challenge, I was always up for a game.

“Do you want me to be?” She tilted her head in front of me, looking me up and down discreetly, there was hunger in her eyes, she had hunger for me.

I put my cigarette down and took hers too. I stood up and towered over her, my broad body nearly swallowing hers up. I let my fingers caress her hair and then wander to her cheeks, it was like caressing silk.

“I want you to be.” I whispered. “Let me take you out on a date, treat you nice, show you how you should be cherished. Let me give you the world.”

She closed her eyes, she loved to hear the words I said, and she loved that I was the one who said it. Behind that sultry gaze, I saw that she wanted me, and wanted me deeply.

She got up on her tiptoes and her lips were hovering over my ear. “If you want me, show it to me, show me that you really mean what you said. And then, if you are a winner, you may claim your prize.”

My blood stopped when I felt her plush lips press against my neck.

After many long seconds, she leaned away, winked at me and made her way out. From the window I could see the red vintage car driving away, of course it was hers.

I took my previous seat and watched the fire. She was playing hard to get, I loved it. I wanted to work for her love, I was fucking game.

I took my writing notebook out and I wrote one thing on the top of the page.

Temptress.

I found my muse.

———————

Yes, this will have another part dw I got you<3

Please, let me know what you think and thank you for reading:)

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

His Temptress

part two of @celestialpoetry ‘s femme fatale request!

Enjoy;)

Henry’s point of view:

I kept her waiting for a week, to keep her on tip-toes as she kept me on mine for months. It was visible to me that she was waiting for me to make a move. I wanted to grip her hair and tell her: “Don’t be impatient, sweetheart.” But, I couldn’t, not yet anyway.

Then one day, I started sending her gifts. Small gifts, such as chocolates, flowers and little notes. At first I sent them to her school letterbox, which was usually always full due to some desperate notes from desperate first- or second-years. Everyone wanted her in Hampden. It gave me a big amount of satisfaction that only my gifts were the ones that made her smile.

“Oh, sweetheart, if only you knew I was just warming up… -Winter” I sent her this letter one day, which she replied to with a note to my own letterbox.

“Game on, Winter, I am longing to see the fire within you… -Y/L/N”

If she wanted a well-played game, then a well-played game she must get.

I sent her naughty notes such as:

“Beautiful dress, I bet that you would look better without them.”

“What pretty hair you have, sweetheart, if only it was wrapped around my fists.”

“Don’t you worry, I see how you’re trying to tempt me with that dangerously low-buttoned shirt. Shame that all of those fuckers get to drool on what’s mine.” I saw her opening this very note, and I saw the blush that crept up her cheeks and the shiver that ran down her spine.

So, of course, she got another one.

“What a pretty blushing little thing you are, I’m sure you blush as much when you have those hands between your graspable thighs, touching yourself to my notes… You like getting compliments, sweetheart?

But only mine wakes up the beast inside. -Winter.”

This time, I sent it to her apartment for dramatic effect. Luckily for me, Francis lived nearby, so I was able to get her address.

I sent some exotic chocolates that were labelled as an Aphrodisiac. I wanted her to be starving for me, just like I was starving for her. Her body, her skin, her touch, I wanted everything from her.

But the icebreaker was this…

A box full of tiny silky and lacy lingerie, paired with a little velvet box containing a pure gold necklace and a bottle of expensive perfume. And of course, a note.

“I want you to try these on, get your sweet scent on them and wear them when I take you out.

I will pick you up, Friday night, 6pm.

-Winter.”

She has been playing with me for weeks, it was time for me to claim my prize.

Third person’s point of view:

Y/N enjoyed this little game between them. At first, as much as she would never confess it, but she was eager for him to make a move. Then the little gifts with notes came, she certainly enjoyed the attention she was getting from him. The girls at school actually found him hot, but he was hers. Actually, she had noticed him the very first day she arrived at Hampden, and after it, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. His broad and tall frame caging her underneath him, his big hands wrapped up in her hair and around her throat, she even imagined them gripping her breasts and hips. She lusted after him.

Then, the notes came naughtier and they started arriving at her own door. It brought her satisfaction that he cared enough to find out her address, even if it was obvious to her that he got it from Abernathy. They were neighbours, he lived right across from her. He had a nice style and he always greeted her in the morning. There was a time where his car broke down, so she gave him her car whenever he needed to go into the centre of the city.

But, what made her the most hot was that he was actually right. She saved his notes, put his gifts all around her apartment as little trinkets and she touched herself while looking at them. Imagining him taking her in every position and on every surface he could.

When she received his gift with the date, she felt like dancing and cheering. She also appreciated that a man bothered to take her out on a proper date, rather than just inviting her up to their apartments so they could shag.

She loved that men were at her feet, but only gentlemen could kiss her ankles, and Henry Winter was a real gentleman. She enjoyed his gifts, and she was looking forward to getting spoiled by him.

When she tried on the dark red lingerie, she felt more sexy than ever, especially when she put on the necklace and the perfume. She looked like sex on legs, an alluring goddess. Of course, she immediately fell down on her sheets and opened up her legs so she could trace her fingers down to her wet heat. The expensive fabric created a nice friction against her clit. Y/n was satisfied, and not many men could have achieved that. He worked hard enough, he deserved a gift from her too.

She had taken up her entire friday afternoon to get ready for their date. She blew out her hair into Hollywood-curls, she did her makeup perfectly and precisely (she didn’t even minded that it was going to be messed as long as he fucked her) and put the perfume on along with the lace and necklace, just like he asked. She followed orders when she was asked nicely, really nicely.

She wore an amazing dress, a black one with golden details. And as a bonus, it hugged her curves perfectly and it showed a fair amount of clevage.

At precisely 6pm, a car stopped in front of her house.

Henry’s point of view:

I wore an all black suit and I stopped in front of her house, I got out of my car and walked up to her door with a red rose. I was raised to be gentle, women deserved to be spoiled, so of course I wasn’t going to just honk for her. I knocked, and before I knew it, the prettiest sight I ever saw was standing right in front of me. The dress, the perfume and the necklace made her look absolutely ravishing, or maybe it was just her. She was smirking at me with full lips that were painted in dark red, her eyes looked like one a siren would have. She must have been a siren in a past life of hers.

“Good evening, Y/N, you look very beautiful.” She greeted me back, I stepped forward, took her soft hand and gave her a kiss on her hand, which I felt that it made her breath hitch. “Here.” I gave her the roses “They are almost as beautiful and delicate as you, almost.”

“Thank you, for the roses and the compliment, you look… really handsome, Winter.” She caressed the petals of thee roses with her gentle fingers. “Let me just put them in water and get my coat.”

I waited for her and when she was ready, I guided her to the passengers seat and opened the door for her. “Ladies first.”

The ride was quiet, except from the radio, but there was a comfortable silence, just like in the library.

When we arrived at the restaurant, I felt pride rise within me at her surprise when we got escorted to our reservation in the very expensive restaurant.

I pulled her seat out for her and let my fingers graze her neck when she sat down. The waiter took our orders, I had whiskey on the rocks and she ordered a dirty vodka martini.

Our conversation was flowing easily, it was easy to talk to her, I just wanted more and more information about her. She seemed a bit sheepish when the waiter gave us the menu cards.

“Order whatever you’d like, the bill is taken care of.” I reached across the table and put my hand on top of her’s, she whispered thank you and smiled at me.

We talked and drank and smoked cigarettes. I loved making her laugh and I loved that she made me laugh. The orangish light made her more angelic than ever.

When we were having desert, I felt her high heels grazing and my ankles, teasingly stroking up and down.

“You really look gorgeous, Y/N, you really do.” She just giggled and I leaned closer to her. “I do hope that you will let me ruin you tonight, I cannot wait to fuck you until your legs are weak.” I whispered to her.

“Well, you were really spoiling me lately, and now of course, I never had anything more delicious… Or maybe I will in a bit.” She bit her lip and winked at me. God, she was telling me straightforwardly that she wanted to suck me off, that lit flames in me. I needed her, and I needed her now

“Are you finished with your dessert?” There was only a bit of cream on her plate, which of course she took advantage of, she wiped her finger on the plate and licked the white cream off erotically, with that devilish smirk of hers, obviously.

“Why? Impatient are we, Winter?”

“You bet, I am craving you, Miss Y/L/N.” We held eye contact and a few seconds later, she grabbed her purse in her lap and she spoke.

“Let’s go.”

I paid for their dinner and even gave a generous tip to the waiter. In the car, I put my hands on her naked thigh and squeezed her flesh.

“Thank you for dinner, I really did have a good time.” She put her hands on mine.

“Anything for you, darling, but I still have a little treat for you.” I parked the car in front of my house and guided her inside.

Her eyes were wide at the size of my place and at the scattered expensive antiques everywhere, but she didn’t have enough time to do so before I pushed her against the nearest wall and finally kissed her lips. They were so soft and plushy, I never wanted to stop, she heightened my senses to a level where I always wanted her.

She returned my kiss just as eagerly, I tapped her thighs and she jumped into my lap. I gripped her ass as if my life was at stake. I somehow found my way into my bedroom and put her gently down on the bed. I stood back to remove my shirt and pants. She tried to do the same with her dress, but I stopped her.

“Don’t.” I said when she reached behind herself to take off her dress. “I want to take it off you.”

She just chuckled softly. “Whatever you say, sir.” She said it in a tone that made me throb in my underwear, she may have even seen it.

I crawled on her and kissed her roughly again, my kisses migrated down to her jaw and neck, where I inhaled scent. I was face to face with her again and I gripped her blushing cheeks. “Listen, if we are doing this, I don’t want you to do it because you believe I deserve it… I want you to do it because you purely want to. If you don’t, I’ll understand and it will be perfectly fine.” I gave her kisses on her face while whispering.

She pulled me in for a kiss again, I knew that she was craving me as much as I craved her. “I want to, I really want to.” She guided my hands to the straps of her dress and motioned me to pull it down. “I want you to fuck me senseless.”

I grinned, like a cat who got the cream. “Fuck you? What a dirty mouth you have, darling.”

I pulled her dress down and took her heels off her feet. I nearly orgasmed when I saw her under me, in the lacy and barely covering lingerie that I gifted her. Her hair was sprawled across my pillow. I kissed her until I couldn’t breath and I took the precious time to kiss her anywhere.

“My god, you are truly divine.” I left marks on her neck and collarbones. “How gorgeous, this swan-like neck…” I helped her out of her bra, her perky and full breasts right in front of my eyes. I kissed all across her chest and her breasts, I sucked and bit her nipples. “These beautiful breasts…” I kissed her lower, her waist and hips. “Your flesh that I want to hold all the time…” I went all the way down to her ankles and thighs. “Such soft and silky skin…” I pulled the lace off her legs, I kissed the insides of her thighs, and I inhaled her scent so deeply. “And this pretty cunt that is my personal heaven from now on…” I licked a long stripe from her opening to her clit, she whimpered at my every move, but now she let out a full throaty moan. “All mine. No one else gets to smell, taste and take this pussy, right darling?” I stuck my tongue into her.

She gripped my hair. “Yes, YES! All yours! Every part of me!” She was deep in pleasure. So, I ate her out as if my life depended on it. I sucked on her clit, I fucked her with my tongue. I felt her wetness covering half of my face, but I could tell by her noises that she enjoyed it as much as I did.

I took two fingers and I circled her entrance, and slowly pushed them in. “How warm and tight, darling, I cannot wait to feel you completely.” I dived my head back between her thighs. My fingers and mouth were working in perfect unison, and looking up at her, I needed to pathetically grind down on the mattress from the sight.

“All the stupid little boys would cum in the pants from this sight… But, you need a proper man to fuck you, don’t you darling? Someone who cares more about your pleasure, your pleasure is mine.” My fingers started plunging into her more fast and deep, her moans increasing with my every move. I kissed and suckled her clit, which was red and puffy. Her scent lingered all around the room, and I was sipping it up right from the source. “So sweet, I could have you like this everyday, I bet you would love that… I could put you to sleep with my head between these thighs, and wake you up with my tongue. You deserve to be spoiled, with gifts and orgasms.“

“Uh-huh! I want that! I want to taste you too, your pleasure is mine, too. Ah~ Don’t stop!” She gripped my hair for dear life, I could feel her walls closing up on my fingers, her little nub throbbing and suddenly… A big gush of clear liquid was running down my throat, I drank it up as if it was my ambrosia, it for sure was.

“Did you just squirt?”

“Yeah…”

“Do you do that everytime?”

“No, this was my first time that it happened with someone else, I can barely do that on my own.” She heaved, still in the haze of her orgasm.

Everytime I kissed her entrance or clit, she gushed a bit more. I did that until she pushed my head away.

I crawled up to her face and kissed her deeply, she hummed at the taste of herself, but she still clung to my hair for more.

I laid down on my side and caressed her hair, her eyes were hooded and relaxed, and still so full of lust.

“Wow… That was the best thing I ever felt.”

“I’m glad I could make you feel this good, I did mean it. I want to spoil you, to worship you.” I let my fingers stroke her side and occasionally her breast. “Are you tired?”

She suddenly straddled meg and her hair was shielding the room from my face. “Not at all, Winter, I don’t tire out so easily.” She laughed and she leant down to kiss me deeply, she liked kissing and getting kissed, it seemed.

She did the same thing I did to her, she kissed all around my face, jaw and she suckled at my neck. She left marks all around my chest and she caught my skin between her teeth many times, she was revelling in the shivers that were running up and down my spine. She left kisses all around my pelvis and kissed down at my V line. “Mhm, so toned and sharp.” she dragged a red nailed finger down my muscles and her eyes darkened when they contracted under it.

She rubbed me though my underwear, her eyes were shining with lust and the need to please. My cock was nearly tearing at my boxers, I am naturally a tall and big man, so it shouldn’t be surprising that my dick was long and thick, but she nearly lost her mind, when finally, after long minutes of teasing, she took me out.

“Oh-Wow.” She started pumping me and just feeling me up.

“Yeah.” She didn’t even hear me, probably. She was probably lost in imaging me inside of her, fucking her dumb.

She muttered under her breath, with naughty eyes. “So big and warm, and oh-” she kissed my tip, which was dripping with precum, just eager to get finally lost in her precious cunt. “So sweet.”

She wanted to suck me dry, but I was waiting for this, for such a long time. I needed to feel her. I harshly fisted her hair and she moaned, the lusty minx. I pulled her up and flipped us, so I was on top of her.

“Another time, darling.” I reached forward to open my drawer and took out a condom, which I rolled on quickly on myself. I leaned back and marvelled at the sight, her chest heaving, her tits heavy and perky, my knees pulling her legs apart, which made her pussy spread out right in front of my cock, just dripping and clenching around nothing. “Beg me.”

“Please, Henry, fuck me.” I shuffled my hips closer, so my tip was touching her entrance. My thumb wandered to her clit and I started rubbing in little circles, which made her squirm under me.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that.” My thumb fastened up.

“Please, please, please! Fuck me stupid, use me on every surface. I want it so bad.” I got her exactly where I had wanted her to be, desperate and begging for me. “You were right! I was touching myself to the thought of you, so much. Please…”

“What a good girl you are, you deserve to be fucked nicely. Let me show you what no one else can.” With that, I lined myself up and slowly pushed into her. I went slow, so I wouldn’t cause her any pain, but she was taking it like a champion. Her walls were welcoming me in, but her face scrunched up, while I was nearly all the way in. I twisted her silky hair between my pointer finger. “Shh, it’s okay. I am nearly fully in, you’re doing so good.”

When a bottomed out in her, we both released a sigh of relief. She was tight and I could feel myself pressing into the heavenly spongy spot inside of her. Her eyes were hooded and her mouth a tad open.

“You feel so good, Henry.” She reached up and pulled my face closer to hers. “You can move, please do.” She whispered with a voice dripping with seduction, so I did. I slowly started moving in and out of her.

Her sweet vanilla scent enveloped me completely. We were both lost in each other. Her slender legs were wrapping themselves around my waist, making me slide into her deeper. I was hitting deliciously against her cervix, and she pulled me into her embrace.

That was everything, her embrace. Feeling her breast push flat against my chest, her soft hair tickling my skin and her walls gripping me, pulling me closer to my release.

I reached between us, somehow managing through the tight space between our bodies, and I rubbed her clit. Her voice got whiny and louder, it was music to my ears and it indicated that she was getting close.

“Henry! I’m-OH GOD!” She pulled her nails down my back and I groaned , she was marking me and leaving scratches down my back, I loved it.

“I know, darling, I know.” I sped up and with a loud moan she came undone under me. I felt myself release into the condom. “Oh, what a good girl.”

I hauled her panting body in my arm and caressed her sweaty skin. “You did so so good, my dear.”

“Mmm…” Her eyes were cloudy, she was still in subspace, an adorable little thing. I let her rest in my arms for a bit and I pulled out of her.

“Give me a second.” I made my way to the bathroom connected to my bedroom and I made a bubble bath for her, vanilla scented of course. I went back to gather her up in bridal style. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” She nuzzled closer into my chest.

I helped do what she needed and I guided her into the bath, and I went in behind her.

I held her and caressed her skin. “My dear, it was amazing.”

“Yes, it was more than that, I would love it if we could do this frequently.” She turned around in the water and rested her pretty face on my chest, she looked up with her beautiful eyes, I could have watched them all night. “I would like to be yours, and I want you to be mine.”

“Yes, I would love that, my dear.”

So we laid there, bathed each other and just held each other.

“My temptress, I will give you everything that you ever want.”