#reader x henry winter

[insidemyrottenbrain]

Henry gets jealous because you spend time with Richard

The risk of jealousy - TSH

Henry Marchbanks Winter x GN!Reader

Dearest anonymous, I hope you can forgive him and his denial of jealousy.

The sharp claw of jealousy finally scratches the untouchable Henry.

I’ve always been incredibly particular about whom I associate with. The people around me need to be worthy. Now, I am well aware that my choice of words may make me sound arrogant, so allow me to explain: I want them to have shared interests, to be able to hold late-night debates on esoteric topics, while giving me a sense of belonging and consequently not tiring me out socially. I do not ask for much, really. Alas, one cannot always get what one desires.

The little group of which I’m currently a part of is… pleasant. The twins regularly host dinners which are, of course, the birthplace of many fights and arguments regarding the most trivial subjects that usually end up with Henry winning. Francis unhesitatingly puts his aunt’s house at our disposal whenever desiderium naturae strikes us and amusingly complains about some disease or other the whole way there. I even consider some of Bunny’s jokes witty on the rare occasions when he stops being insufferable. Unfortunately, they all give me a shallow sense of belonging that only manages to make itself felt in transit moments. However, Henry is different. With him, I feel content reading in silence after a long day, waking up in the same bed, legs intertwined under the soft cotton sheets he insists on buying with Apolon tugging at our lazy eyelids or simply challenging one another’s knowledge on whatever topic interests us at a given moment. A continuous childlike rendez-vous.

I do not know why I have been so platonically attracted to Richard of late. When he first joined our Greek class, he did not strike me as someone who would manage to integrate his lowly self into our complexly layered group, or even more, someone who would enjoy my presence. He was and still is flawed and ordinary. However, this normality flowing through every habit, every movement, or expression is a strange refresh in an intangible web of meticulously tangled appearances and facades. Richard is not some ancient scholar buried in paradoxical ideals, Gods-praising rituals, and glorious beliefs, but a modern human. He is aware of the current world, unisolated, present, an active participant. Not only does he attend parties but he also drinks, kisses, and loves strangers. Though an exaggeration to the unknowing eye, he seems to me quite the Epicurean in a cult of Stoics (excluding Bunny).

Despite my writings above which one might foolishly mistake as praise on my part, I must now dive into Richard’s own tendency to fictitiousness. He throws, here and there, long, lavish fabrications (with the aid of which he becomes unconsciously arrogant) and slight inexactitudes he considers too small to pass unnoticed by the attentive ear. And according to my fate and against my trusted intuition, I found myself unable to stop listening whenever he started talking about his (fake) childhood in California filled with swimming pools and orange groves and dissolute, charming show-biz parents, teenage years with a new girlfriend every night, the newest dramas (if they truly do exist and are not yet other fictions) circling Hampden.

There is a quirk. I notice it now, when we’re all standing in the day room of Francis’, or rather his aunt’s, manor. Charles is playing the piano filling the room with gifts for ears, showing off as he always does, while Bunny comments on one rhythm or another, challenging him, fueling him further. Everything is normal, except for one detail that does not escape me. Henry grows more agitated with every single one of Richard’s grant histoires. Albeit, the so-called agitations are rather minuscule, but I pride myself in being able to distinguish them. A small frown, creasing his pale forehead just the right amount for it to disappear just as quickly and nonchalantly as it came, a constant rub of his hand against his limped leg, and a novel proneness to small physical gestures: touching knees, pressing shoulders, his hand on the small of my back or idly playing with my fingers. I settle on questioning him later since I know he will not show any truths of his mind in such large company. 

We share a room, since we stopped bothering to hide our relationship long ago from the others. Henry’s already in bed, his nose buried in a book, dressed in his pyjamas, his initials embroidered upon the left side of his chest; H.M.W. If I had been told years ago that I was to be sharing a bed or be in a relationship with the person I suffered the least, the one that I had to compete with in Julian’s classes, the one that knew how to push my buttons I would have died of agony. But now I’m content. I know of the infatuation rendering me blind. My life has become a continuous torture, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to live without him. Just like Zeus who vows to fulfil his promise with a single sacred nod of his head, so am I unable to change the basis of my passion. He is in all my plans. In all the joys the future holds. In the dead of night, in Julian’s lessons, in the summer by the lake, instead of my mind’s eye being fully focused on one specific task, it always switches without fail to him.

I lower myself onto the bed next to him. “You seemed troubled earlier, in the day room.” I ask casually an indirect question.

“You’ve been spending an awful time with Richard.” He responds swiftly, tonelessly, simply pointing out a fact. 

I consider my answer for a moment. “I suppose so.” I hum, just as my head hits the pillow. “Don’t you find him intriguing? He watches the news on television.”

“Intriguing?” He blurts out, closing his book and putting it on the bedside table. Clearly, I have his attention. He turns on his side to fully face me, his hair falling over his forehead and slightly over his glasses. “His intriguing part eludes me. You are wasting your time with him, listening to his rambles.” He says clearly irritated, not bothering to keep up his stoic facade. “I assure you, you would be much better spending your time wisely.”

I frown. This is unusual of him. “He is in our class, is he not? I cannot avoid him.”

“Of course not, that’s not what I am suggesting.” His eyebrows remain furrowed. “What I do mean is that he does not bring you any benefit.” He continues in a monotone. “Why must you listen to him with the same attention and interest as you listen to me?”

Ah, I see. Henry is jealous.

“Is this jealousy?” I ask attempting desperately to restrain the slight smile forming on my face. 

“You are mistaken.” He ‘corrects’ me sharply, raising his eyebrows.  “I am merely stating that I see no point in your interactions with Richard when you could gain much more from being in my presence.”

I raise a sceptical eyebrow. He acts as if I wouldn’t mourn his death in the same way Achilles mourned Patroclus’, with rage and violence.

Words are imperfect communication devices, so I pull him down by the back of his neck and press my lips against his in a pleasant normality. I feel him slightly relax against me, his hand resting on my neck.

“Henry,” I mumble as we part, forcefully stretching our souls apart. I remove his glasses and place them down next to us and his forehead naturally falls against mine “you know better than to have such doubts.”

“I do.” He mumbles back, not bothering to deny his feelings anymore. “However, it proves to be quite difficult to not have them when-” He stops considering his words. “When you plague me so. There is no day or night in which your existence takes mercy on me and does not destroy the little rationality I have left.” He lowers himself down on the bed next to me. “You inexplicably and absurdly manage to be and eradicate my sanity.” He sighs. “And it certainly does not help when you look at Richard with the same eyes you look at me.” Henry mutters.

My hand finds his and I chuckle. “I’d argue I look at him with entirely different eyes.” At my comment, Henry raises an amused eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ll stop seeing shadows where there are none.”

That is all he needs to defeat his insomnia in my arms once again and to fall prey to sleep’s vicious grasp his body indistinguishable from mine under the sheets, sharing one breath.

[buckythinker]

Oh my fucking god i have NEVER wanted a man so bad. Fuck me

[ominis-g]

You have to move out of your dorm and Henry let's you stay in his guest room for the time being. After a few nights your bed stays empty because you found an even better place to sleep ...

This was a very good prompt. I plan to make a second part that is more... everything, but I feel like this is a good stopping point for the first part.

Notes: Narrator is a female, and it is implied to be before all the events of Richard's arrival. First person POV because it fits the vibes, but I can always change it. No use of narrator's name.

Summary: After some circumstances has Henry offer you his guest room for the interim, there is a snow storm incoming. No warnings, just a lot of fluff for this part.

Word count: 5 542

The main issue that I had with this place was not the frigid winters or the aloofness of some of its residents, but rather that it never seemed to change. The seasons would merge into each other so slowly that it was hard to pinpoint down precisely where and when they shifted, but I would be adjusting my wardrobe and habits along with the temperatures and until the winter break hit, it was the furthest thing from my mind. And upon return, what then? Heavy overcoats that cut off the view of everyone’s figures and forms and instead transformed the majority of the campus into some sort of shapeless blob until we went inside to the warmth. And then the cycle would begin again, slightly different schedules, different exams and essays, but it was the same.

And it was cold today, though the word hardly seemed sufficient. Vermont certainly had a way to cut through every piece of wool and cloth that I had layered on to stave off the biting wind. Classes were not set to begin for us for another couple of days, but here I was, shell-shocked after returning from home and its much warmer clime. My hands were still shaking as I poured myself a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, but there was not anyone around to notice. I went and sat by the window, despite its frost, because it was near enough to the radiator to offer some semblance of heat.

Hands wrapped around the heat, fingers tapping on the porcelain, I stared out of the window. I should have brought a book, or something to work on, but I had forgotten. It was still early, and the rest of the day laid before me. There was not much traffic, but there was enough people walking by to occupy my mind as I drank that cup, and then returned with a second. 

The tables were starting to fill, and so was the air with the sounds of the other students. No one greeted me, since I did not know any of them, and I did not care to. Surely my friends would be back today or the next, and we would spend the time out in the country or at the twins’ speaking all about our breaks and our adventures. Our communication had been through mostly calls when one of us had time, but for Henry, who preferred to write. My mother had found our correspondence for those two months endearing, but it was Henry. Most of his letters were filling me in on the entirety of the class’s misadventures, and the rest was complaining or contemplating something obscure.

I delayed returning to my dorm because I had that soft hope that I would see one of them go by the window, even Bunny, but there was no such luck this morn. I wrapped the scarf further and snugger around my neck and face to brave the chill once more. I made it to the stoop without incident, and was stomping the snow off of my boots when I heard a clamour from within. I stoop up on my tiptoes to see through the window, wondering if I should just make myself scarce, and just barely was able to get out of the way in time. Onto the ice, and slipping down into the snowy brush with sharp pains that made me hiss and grit my teeth, not aided by the slamming of the door. The wood wobbled violently on its hinges, and two large men were dragging out a third.

Their congruent yells were bouncing off of each other, but I was focused on disentangling myself from the brush and then wading awkwardly to the other side and back to the path to avoid all three. When I turned to return, I stopped in surprise. Bunny was there, looking disheveled and agitated and cursing at the retreating backs of his exilers.

“Bun?”

He looked over at me, then scoffed. “Did you see that–”

“What happened?”

I closed the space between us, quite a few paces, when I was sure that he was not about to lash out in his anger at me. 

“How was I supposed to know it was a girl’s dorm? She started screeching as soon as I turned the key and knob…” He trailed off, though his furied expression didn’t change. “Mixup in the office, or something.” His face only cleared when I began righting his coat, and he bent over obligingly to allow me to fix his hair, too. It was sticking up at odd angles from what was, no doubt, a very physical altercation. “Anyway, where am I supposed to go now?”

“Go back to the office, and tell them what happened,” I advised as he returned upright. “I am sure it was only a clerical error; just explain it coherently.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “You’re the most sensible of us, y’know?”

Hardly. 

I just smiled at him and brushed snow off of his shoulders. He gave me a cheeky wink and turned to walk towards the residential office. I watched him for a moment to be sure he was really going, considering following, before deciding against it and just returning to my room.

—----------------------------------------------

I spent the rest of the morning unpacking, since I had done so little the night before. I had gotten in late, and was simply thankful that someone had been in the office to give me back the key to my room. I had emptied it, of course, and now I was arranging my books on the shelves for something to occupy me. I was bent over my trunk for another armful when there was a knock on the door. Heavy-handed, not polite. I had a sinking feeling it was Bunny.

I answered it anyway. He pushed his way in past me, dragging a suitcase along with him. I frowned at this, but closed the door so no one else could see. “Did it not go well–”

“Hell no,” he complained. He dropped the suitcase heavily on the floor and began pacing through the small space, barely avoiding where I was still unpacking. I returned to the books, waiting for more. “They’re trying to sort it all out, all the other rooms are filled–”

“Have you tried Henry?”

He shook his head. “No answer, and his car’s not in the drive. When was he supposed to be back?”

“Last time he wrote, he said it would be about the same time as me, and I got back last night. Maybe he will come today. Francis? The twins?”

“Boston.” He sat heavily on my bed, and just watched me work for a few moments. “But you’ll not kick me out into the cold, right? I can stay here?”

“You know that I am not supposed to…” I trailed off, glancing over at him, and he really looked in that moment like a big, blond puppy. “You just have to be careful. I am sure one night breaking the coed rule will not hurt, and tomorrow everything will be fixed.” He grinned immediately. “But you sleep on the floor.”

The smile faltered, but then he shrugged. He laid down in my bed, boots hanging off the edge, and continued to watch me unpack. “I thought you’re neater.”

“I just started working.” 

Bunny found gum from the depths of his pockets and began chewing loudly. I tried to ignore him as I finished the books, and the silence otherwise was not even peaceful. My irritation finally got the best of me after arranging my desk, and decided I needed a break. 

I headed downstairs for the phone. I rang Henry first, and immediately. My fingers tapped impatiently on the wall as I listened to the rings, glancing up the stairs to be sure that Bunny was not about to catch me trying so desperately to be rid of him.

Finally, he answered. “Hello?”

“It’s me. When did you get back?”

“I haven’t even unpacked. I heard the phone from the door.” Blissful, perfect timing. “You can come by.”

“I have a different issue,” I answered quietly, glancing up at the stairs again. “Bunny.”

He lit a cigarette, the match’s sound distinctive even over the gravelly phone. “What did he do now?”

“There was some sort of mixup, and his dorm is nonexistent. He is currently squatting in mine.”

“I can’t have him here again.” I let out a sigh, hand from the wall to my forehead, eyes closing in abject horror at the prospect of spending any sort of time alone with Bunny. “What did the office say?”

“They are working on it, but…”

I did not need to continue. Henry caught it all and finished the thought. “I have the guest room. Grab some things, and you can stay there until it’s sorted.”

“Should I tell him?”

“Just say you’re staying elsewhere, to allow him privacy. I will see you in a few.”

We hung up, and I began the walk up to my room again with a sense of dread. It was not like Bunny was going to believe that. Maybe I could say I was going to opt for the hotel, so we would not get in trouble and get us both kicked out. He would believe that.

Bunny tried in a light way to offer to go to a hotel instead, but there was not any real heart behind it. I insisted that he not worry, and he just thanked me with a smile and got more comfortable on my bed. My clothes were still securely in their suitcase, maybe a little rummaged through that I tried to ignore, and placed on top a few books for classwork, and some supplies from my desk. I left Bunny the key, and he promised not to leave it unlocked and let me get burgled. It was something, at least.

The suitcase was heavy, but nothing I could not handle. Why were Classics books so massive? I huffed my way quickly down the stairs, eager to get through the door and away before Bunny could come up with some reason why I should stay in that tiny room with him.

Henry, bless him, was waiting. He was lounged against his car, smoking, still in his travelling clothes, but when he saw me he opened the trunk. I heaved the suitcase in, closed the trunk, and joined him in the warmth of the car. He offered me one of his Lucky Strikes, which I took and lit as he drove off. I recounted the entire morning’s events with our windows rolled down just enough to let out the smoke but not the heat, and though he glanced at me, he did not comment until I was finished.

“I know why he lives in the dorms, but why do you?”

“Convenience, mainly. I suppose I could rent somewhere, but if it is too far I would have to get a car, and that is a lot of extra steps for something so easily solved by living in the dorms.”

“You mentioned in a letter that your mother would prefer if you lived off-campus.” I frowned at him and his damned memory, letting out a steady cloud of smoke. He glanced at me, then shook his head with the hint of a smile. “Something about not wanting you to get mixed up in the party culture.”

“What she does not know will not hurt her.”

“So, you told her about the class.”

“Nothing specific. I spoke of you all as friends, though your letters did spark more inquiries.” He made an amused noise. “What?”

“Did she read any of them?”

“She does not know Latin. Of course, that just made her think of the whole correspondence as romantic. I had to correct her more than once, but after about a dozen times, I gave up.”

He was quiet. He pulled into the drive and shut off the car without a word, and I watched him get out with the air of a statue. I took the last pull from the cigarette and stepped to the snow as well, throwing the butt into the pile that someone had shoveled the snow from the drive into. I retrieved my suitcase from the trunk opened by Henry, but he was already at the door and unlocking it. I hurried to follow, knocking the snow off my boots hastily.

I had offended him. I set down the suitcase, unwinding my scarf and watching him flip through the waiting mail without expression. I hung up my overcoat in the closet, right beside the mail table. “Did you correct her for any particular reason?” He finally wondered.

“My mother is quite the romantic, and insists that I should be as well. She would have been insufferable if I had done any less. I was quite glad to return, to get out of there, actually.”

“There is something of romance in communicating through letters,” he mused, but he was still looking through the mail, and I was facing the closet, trying to get my scarf to hang right with my coat. “I took joy in it. Did you?”

“Yes.” He did not say anything more, so I followed up: “It really was just for my sanity. I did not need her dragging out her wedding albums or something.”

“That’s understandable.”

Henry abandoned the mail back to the table, and was beside me to hang up his coat as well. I could not think of anything else to say, because what was there to say? He did the task in silence and then he showed me to the guest room. When he left to go unpack himself, I checked the folding bed to be sure it was locked so I could make it up with the provided bedclothes in peace. I unpacked my few books and supplies, but left the rest in the suitcase.

I brought my literature book, a notebook, and pen with me when I ventured outwards again. I sat down in the kitchen, and that is where Henry found me. He had changed, and he set down his own work on the opposite side of the table before going to make some tea. It was mainly for me, though he poured himself a cup as well, and for quite a while we worked in silence.

A thick gust of wind broke us from the concentration some time after noon, and I frowned at the sound of the impending storm. He did not look up from his work, though I was considering the way the snow was blowing from its resting places out the window. “You’re safe here. Steady as a rock, this house.” His fountain pen rose from paper, and he joined me in looking at the weather. “We could do with some supplies, though. Would you mind running out?”

I did not mind. I needed the break anyway. He dictated to me a short list of what to be sure to get at the grocery while I did up my snow boots again. It did not take me long, despite all of the other people there at the store, and on the way home I turned on the car’s radio to find the weather report. Well, no wonder the store had been packed and the shelves half-empty. There was a snowstorm set to hit the following day, just in time for everyone to come back to Hampden.

Henry helped me in putting all of the supplies away, mostly food for us to make, and I had made sure to pick up snacks for myself. He inspected the package of cookies instead of putting them on the shelf inside the cabinet, where he had placed my mixed nuts and sugary cereal. “You actually eat these?”

“They are good,” I assured him, working on rearranging the fridge to hold the milk. “And if the power goes out, I will not want to bake.”

“I forgot you bake,” was all he replied, and went back to the task. “I haven’t heard you talk about baking since last year.”

“Since we were speaking about bakeries in Rome–”

“And the differences in the various Greek cities,” he agreed, leaning against the counter to light a cigarette. He placed the pack back onto the table, so I sat down to light one myself. “If you had access to a kitchen, would you bake while here at Hampden? I’m sure Charles would appreciate it.”

“I suppose so.” I watched him check the cabinet where I had put in fresh flour, baking soda, and sugar. Everything he had had from before the break was stale, or empty. “Bread, or sweets?”

“Perhaps a bit of both; we could try to recreate some breads that the ancients would have enjoyed.”

“We would have to go outside Hampden to find the flours and grains.”

This did not seem to bother him. He closed the cabinet and returned to standing as he had been, pondering the end of his cigarette. “True. It would be a worthy endeavour.”

“Are you offering your kitchen for my use?”

He focused instead on taking in a long drag. He had let it out before he said simply, “yes.”

I smiled, but I do not think he noticed. He was too engrossed in how absolutely fascinating his dwindling cigarette was. “What do you want for supper?”

The unspoken tension in the air loosened as we made a very simple meal of roast chicken and vegetables together. Neither of us were skilled cooks, but once he had given his opinion and the bird was in the oven, Henry returned to his work. I pondered the empty counters, the time remaining, and then made us a small batch of biscuits to go along with it. His smile returned when he smelled them; I doubt he even clocked that I was making them before that, or maybe he did and had only been looking when my back was to him.

Henry lit a few candles as the sky darkened, but even as we ate he seemed utterly unbothered; I, on the other hand, was constantly glancing out the window to judge the intensity. It was not terrible to be trapped inside of this apartment with him, but being trapped anywhere did not appeal to me, and especially not the rigid frigidity of snow. Vermont.

We started drinking after supper, and he and I put away our work. We sat on his sofa instead, him swirling his glass of whiskey as he read aloud to me in his flowing Greek any passage that caught his fancy. I played solitaire on the table as I listened, the flicker of the candlelight and the rattle of the radiators offering a very welcome ambiance that almost allowed me to forget the blizzard’s noises outside. 

—-------------------------------------------------

Even with the liquor in me, the bed was still uncomfortable. I knew it was far more preferable than listening to Bunny’s snoring and bothering that was sure to have come had I stayed, but in the depths of sleeplessness, I could only think about how much it was uncomfortable. When we had said good night to each other, Henry had offered in a polite way to switch beds, but I had brushed off the gesture as not necessary. Besides, he needed the better bed.

I was up early, but of course Henry was awake before me. He had made coffee, so I poured myself a cup and went to find him. He was sitting in his room with the door open, working– as usual. I paused there at the threshold with the storm’s sounds drowning out everything else, watching him at his desk. His chair was slightly inclined to the door, like he had expected me to find him like that, but he was bent over some large book and did not even look up. I waited, sipping at my coffee, until he finished whatever he was reading before I knocked on the open door softly.

“Come in,” he invited, and so I did. I sat down in his armchair, and my presence seemed to remind him of his coffee cup. He sat back to nurse it, eyes moving over the splay of papers on his desk before his attention turned to me. “How did you sleep?”

“I think the storm kept me up.” He nodded knowingly. “What of you?”

“Well enough. It is good to be back in my own bed.” He paused with the cup raised up as if to take a drink. “Which I’m sure you’ll be soon enough.”

“I will make sure to wash the sheets.” He smiled, and did finally take a sip of his coffee. My fingers tapped at the porcelain softly. “What if they are unable to figure it out?”

“Then you’ll stay here. We can go get the rest of your things.” It was stated matter-of-factly, as if the answer had been obvious. 

“I do not wish to impose on you–”

“I don’t mind your company.”

I hid the unease behind my mug. I could not pinpoint it, not exactly– was it the fear of Bunny staying for the term in my dorm, or the fear of him not? Was it rather the prospect of seeing Henry daily– more than I already did– and him maybe growing irritated by my presence? “I have never had a roommate.”

“You only have to be more agreeable than Bunny, and I would like to think I am as well.”

“It was a very pleasant day yesterday.”

“It was; relaxing, even, which is just what we needed before classes begin.”

He was not relenting, or maybe I was just too inexperienced at skirting around difficult questions. “Are you not worried you will tire of me?”

His brow rose, and with his hair slightly mussed from the early hour, it threw his scar into sharp relief. “No.”

“At all?”

“This is all and entirely hypothetical, but if we follow the thought through: no, I do not see myself growing tired of you. Disagreements, annoyances, on both of our parts, but that’s normal. We both have schedules beyond the Greek class, and the only difference would be seeing each other like this, before we retire, and for more meals than usual. That’s hardly an unseemly amount of difference.” He rose to find his cigarettes, and I considered him, his words, and his craving for nicotine. We were both quiet until he was shaking out the match. “The only conflict I could see arising is if you took some beau.”

I blinked slowly at the words, because they were not what I was expecting, especially from him. We had never spoken about it before, whether by design or by happenstance, I was not sure. “Why?”

“Coming home at all hours– or not at all– and I would have to meet the poor fellow, wouldn’t I? Then there’d be another person in the house with us, and when our friends come over, it’s already too many.” He leaned over to knock off some ash in his over-filled ashtray. “Unless you already have one. Back home, perhaps?”

“No; I am sure it would make my mother very happy, but no. You and Julian and everyone have completely monopolised my time. Well– and classes, of course. Family obligations…” I trailed off, because he was smiling. “Well then– you, same question.”

Henry actually laughed, waving away the question along with smoke in the air. “No, no.” I sighed over my coffee. “Who would it be? Surely no one else but our group could keep my interest, or for long. I’m too busy to look elsewhere.” He said it casually, but my eyes narrowed at his wording. He was focused on his cigarette again, though still smiling. “Say, how did it look outside?”

“Are you changing the subject?”

He ignored me, carrying his mug and cigarette with him to go into the main room. I had to force my face to clear before I joined him, draining the last of my coffee. He was standing at the window, looking out at the snow that was moving blurringly fast, almost surreal with the orange glow from the street lamps. “It seems a perfect day for translations.”

“Until the heat goes out.”

“Good thing that you’re here, then.” I wrapped both of my hands around the mug, trying very hard not to think about it. “Why don’t you get your work and we can relax in my room? It’ll be more comfortable than the kitchen.”

I pulled on a sweater as well, and sat there in his armchair eating a bowl of cereal noisily. I wanted to see if he would admit that I would annoy him, but he genuinely did not seem to mind and was utterly focused on his work. I refilled both of our coffees when I was done, and he murmured a thanks as I replaced it back onto his desk. I had my book for a literature class to read, so I lounged in the chair with a candle on the table beside it to slog through.

The power went out some time around noon, which I only discovered when I went to get something for lunch. I made two sandwiches and poured myself a glass of milk, wondering how long the power would be out, and worried it would spoil. I set his plate down onto his desk, and he started as if from a trance. He sat back to rub at his eye under his glasses, and I retreated to my chair.

“Power is out.”

“Inevitable,” he returned, examining the sandwich briefly before taking a bite. He finished the whole thing without speaking; he had not eaten breakfast. “As long as the gas stays on, we should have heat.”

We returned to our silent work. I left and came back to his room a few times, to get different books, to get a notebook, but he did not comment. I stopped at the window each time, but the house besides his room was completely dark; I could no longer see the street lamps, or any semblance of life outside of his walls. 

Henry had found I had moved to the floor to spread out and take notes for an essay over his rug when he finally rose. He must have gotten up more than that, simply to relieve himself, but this time was different. His head tilted as he looked over my work. “Comfortable?”

“Your carpet makes a wonderful desk, as big as I need.”

“You’re more than welcome to get your own desk.” I turned over to my back, eyes up his form with a smile for him. “Hypothetically, of course.” It was a very good view. He was still dressed as Henry, but he wore a sweater as we had no where to be or anyone else to see today. His hands slid into the pockets of his trousers, perhaps to shift them so I could see nothing from that angle but for the fold of the cloth. 

“Then how would we work together?”

“True,” he conceded, but he still looked thoughtful. His head turned, considering his desk, and I got a new angle for his features, the hair shadowing his eye, everything. “Maybe a large table, or two desks pushed up together, so we could work face-to-face.”

“Or I could continue to lay siege to your carpet.” He smiled. “Batter your desk’s defences–”

“Watch out for the hot wax,” he broke in. “Terrible for your troops, and my men are far from sitting ducks.”

I laughed lightly, and he met my smile. He then offered me his hands, and though I did hesitate, I was always going to take them. I sat up enough so my hands could meet his, slide into the warmth, and he stepped to the side as he helped me up. What could I say? There was a moment with our fingers still on each others’ wrists and palms, and us standing closer than I think we had ever stood before. I could feel his warmth, not just through the touch but through the mite space between us, could smell the ink, the coffee, the smoke and all the different scents from the house that made it so distinctly Henry.

I looked up at him in that brief interlude, and our gaze held together for the duration. My lips parted, raking my brain for something to say– did I even want to say anything? I took in a breath.

“Let’s take a break,” he said, not unkindly. His hands slid back, and so I withdrew mine as well, our fingertips lingering for a further second before he looked away, and then went to find his Lucky Strikes. I felt flush, my sweater suddenly sweltering, so I welcomed the walk out of his warm little room and into the main room. He did not bother to light any candles, using the cherry of his cigarette to guide him if he needed it, and then mine as well. 

Henry made a displeased noise when he stopped at the window, hand up to see if he could wipe away the obstruction, but no: that was snow plastered onto the windows and turning to ice. Despite the radiators rattling eerily, it was definitely colder out here than in the room we had been occupying, proof of just how cold and dreary it was outside of those walls.

“We’ve been keeping my room warm,” he noted, cigarette to his lips and squinting through the smoke.

“I might stay the entire night in there,” I returned in a light tone. He looked to me through the smoke, perhaps trying to determine if I was jesting or not. “I would not wish either of us to freeze to death.”

“And who knows if the heat will remain throughout the night,” he agreed in the same kind of tone, so I was the one questioning the meaning. “Just another reason why– hypothetically– you’d be the ideal roommate.”

“Is it still hypothetical?” He smiled around his cigarette, and for a moment we just smoked in silence. “Even if it is, I could not spend the entire term on that foldout bed.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. Still, you should have your own space, even if you shared mine on frigid nights such as this one.” He turned from the dark window for the couch, sitting down upon it and finally lighting a candle. He poured us each a drink, and he handed it to me as I joined him. “Of course, if you wished, you could get a bed of your own choosing, should you not want to share mine nightly.”

“Do you snore?”

“I don’t think so. Do you?” 

I shook my head. “Just while ill.”

“I think that’s everyone,” he mused, relaxing beside me with the ashtray between us. “I don’t blame you, by the way. Even if it wasn’t coed, I would not want to be stuck in such a small space with Bunny for an undetermined amount of time, and he does snore.”

“I do not mind him usually,” I replied, snuffing out my cigarette so I could focus on that glass of whiskey. “But the entire thing made me nervous. He is not the quietest person, not to mention how it would look when we were inevitably found out, even with him sleeping on the floor–”

“He would have guilted you into giving up your bed, or sharing–”

“Precisely, hence the anxiety.”

He was quiet as he considered that, and our previous words. “And I don’t make you anxious in that way?”

“No, and if you did, I could simply return to my own bed. I did not have anywhere to go with him there.” He made a curious noise into his glass. “And, you and I, we have a different… relationship.”

“We do.” It was such a short and simple statement that I waited for more. Anything more, really. He had finished his drink before it came. “Mutual respect, and you don’t impose yourself anywhere.”

“I try not to.”

“And if I had denied you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He set down his glass to pour himself another finger, and then two. He offered the bottle to me, so I held out the glass so he could refill mine as well. “Hypothetically or not, I’m not doing that.” The bottle was down, and I still without words. He returned to relax beside me, swirling the whiskey around thoughtfully, perhaps waiting for me to say something. 

“Thank you,” I finally managed. It made him smile. “But I also do not want things to be awkward if–”

“We’re both adults here, and we are friends. Quid enim mali accidere potest?”

“Sic transit gloria mundi.” He shook his head, holding back laughter before it was out in a chuckle into his glass. “I meant more that we will endure as friends even if anything romantic does not. No need to imply the end of the world as we know it.”

I shrugged and took a long drink. “I could not bear it.”

“Then let us be sure that we endure.”

A/N: Any glaring errors, please let me know!

[delicrieux]

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

[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.”

[sirengaunt]

Me when I write in my diary in English instead of Latin

[fleetingcalypso]

HIIII, if you don't mind me asking!

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

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

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

I'D LOVE TO HEAR YOUR OPINION

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

≋ Henry Winter x GN!Reader ≋

≋ Word count: around 2,4k words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bunny, I have to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What for?”

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

“That bastard.”

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

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

[supercap2319]

Y/N: "Okay, so we need ideas to cheer, Mr. Kent up. Any ideas?"

Steve: "We could make him a homecooked meal."

Bucky: "We could have him sit down and psychoanalysis him until he opens up and reveals the deep and emotional trauma of being stuck in another universe."

Y/N: "Well, I was just gonna offer him sex, but I like your guys' ideas better."

[melancholyfool]

Henry and you getting married in secret, like just the two of you signing papers, and then the class being gobsmacked when there’s a big diamond on your finger and Henry has his own band.

a/n: the idea of being called 'mrs. winter' sounds thrilling...thank you for the request! 🫀🤍

...

The marriage license sat on the desk in front of you, its edges curling faintly under the weight of the fountain pen in your hand. The municipal office was impossibly quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of papers or the ticking of an old clock on the wall. The fluorescent lighting hummed faintly overhead, stark and unromantic. But despite the mundane surroundings, your heart thundered in your chest, your fingers trembling ever so slightly as you glanced up at Henry.

He stood beside you, perfectly composed in his tailored black coat, though his dark eyes betrayed a flicker of nervous excitement. His hands were tucked neatly into his pockets, but you caught the way his fingers flexed, restless.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the silence of the room.

Henry’s gaze softened, his lips quirking into a rare smile—the kind he reserved only for you. “If you’re having second thoughts, now would be the time to tell me,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, tinged with dry humor.

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping despite the nerves knotting your stomach. “Not second thoughts. Just… this is real, isn’t it?”

He leaned closer, his hand brushing yours on the desk. “As real as it gets,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “No theatrics, no audience. Just us. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you signed your name with a deliberate flourish. When you slid the pen across the desk, Henry took it without hesitation, his signature elegant and precise, as if he’d been practicing this moment his entire life.

The clerk, an older woman with a faintly bored expression, stamped the papers with an air of finality. “Congratulations,” she said flatly, sliding the documents back toward you.

Henry turned to you, his hands finding yours, his grip firm but gentle. He didn’t speak, but his eyes conveyed everything: certainty, devotion, and an unspoken promise that this was only the beginning.

When you stepped outside into the brisk afternoon air, the quiet chaos of the world felt far away. It was just the two of you now, standing on the steps of a plain municipal building, a sense of weightless disbelief settling over you.

“I thought I’d feel different,” you admitted, staring down at your left hand. The ring he’d chosen—a vintage diamond set in platinum—sparkled in the pale winter sunlight, almost too dazzling to be real.

“You are different,” Henry replied, his voice softer now, almost reverent. He reached for your hand, turning it slightly to admire the ring. Then, with a faint smile, he added, “You’re mine now.”

You rolled your eyes at his possessive tone, but the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed you. “And you’re mine,” you countered, nodding toward his left hand. The plain gold band sat snugly on his ring finger, a stark contrast to the ostentation of your diamond.

Henry tilted his head, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features. “You’ll never hear me complain.”

...

The classroom was already alive with its usual chatter when you stepped in, Henry just a pace behind you. The smell of chalk and dust mingled with the faint aroma of stale coffee someone had left on Julian’s desk. You felt the weight of the diamond on your finger like a beacon.

Bunny was mid-sentence, laughing as he gestured wildly with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The smoke curled lazily above his head, but when he caught sight of you, his laughter died mid-breath. His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open for a moment before he jabbed his cigarette toward you.

“Wait. Hold on. Stop everything.” His voice cut through the room, and everyone’s attention snapped to him. “What the hell is that on your hand?”

Your cheeks flushed under the scrutiny, but you forced a casual shrug, lifting your hand just enough to draw their eyes. The diamond caught the light, sparkling with a brilliance that felt almost vulgar under the fluorescent bulbs.

There was a collective intake of breath, like the room itself was stunned into silence.

“Oh my God,” Camilla said, her voice sharp and clear, breaking the stillness. She leaned forward in her chair, her pale hair glinting like spun gold as her eyes locked on your ring. “You’re married?”

Bunny’s chair scraped loudly as he stood up, pointing between you and Henry like a detective unraveling a conspiracy. “Married? To him?”

Henry arched an eyebrow, his expression cool but dangerous. “Do you have a problem with that, Bunny?”

Bunny ignored him, spinning toward you instead. “When did this happen? How did this happen? And more importantly, why didn’t you tell us?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but Charles cut in before you could speak, his tone low and disbelieving. “You’re not serious. This is some kind of joke, right?”

“Deadly serious,” Henry said calmly, slipping into his usual seat.

Richard stared at the two of you as though trying to wake from a dream. “You’re… married,” he repeated, his voice hollow with disbelief.

Bunny threw his hands in the air. “Married! You two—of all people—snuck off and tied the knot like some runaway couple in Vegas? This is insane!”

“It wasn’t Vegas,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, though your heart pounded against your ribcage. “Just a courthouse. Friday afternoon.”

“Friday?” Camilla echoed, leaning back in her chair. Her lips parted, but no words came out as she stared at the ring on your hand.

Bunny clutched at his chest theatrically. “You’re telling me you signed your lives away on a Friday? Without so much as a word to us? No party? No announcement? Nothing?”

Henry’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “It was private. That’s how we wanted it.”

“Private?” Bunny let out a laugh that was more disbelief than humor. “You eloped! You—” He gestured frantically toward you. “And now you’re just sitting there like this is normal?”

Charles frowned, his brow furrowed. “It’s not normal, Bunny. That’s the point. It’s Henry. They don’t do anything the normal way.”

Richard, who hadn’t said much, finally spoke, his voice quieter than the others but no less bewildered. “But why wouldn’t you tell us?”

There was something in his tone that struck a nerve—an edge of hurt that lingered beneath the astonishment. You glanced at Henry, whose expression didn’t falter, though you could feel the tension radiating from him.

“It wasn’t about keeping it from you,” you said softly, meeting Richard’s gaze. “It was just… for us. That’s all.”

Camilla’s eyes narrowed slightly, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind her composed exterior. “For you,” she repeated, almost as if testing the words.

Bunny slumped back into his chair, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “God, you two really are something else.”

There was a heavy pause as everyone tried to process what had just been dropped in their laps. The tension in the room was almost palpable, broken only when Bunny leaned forward, pointing at Henry.

“Alright, then,” he said, his tone suddenly mischievous. “If you’re so bloody married, let’s see it. The band. You’ve got one, don’t you?”

Henry, unflinching, raised his hand, the simple silver band gleaming against his pale skin. His eyes met Bunny’s, unblinking and sharp. “Satisfied?”

Bunny let out a low whistle, shaking his head again. “God, you’re a smug bastard, aren’t you?”

“Bunny,” Charles said quietly, a warning in his tone.

But Bunny wasn’t done. He turned back to you, leaning forward with a sly grin. “So, how long do we have until the announcement of Baby Winter, huh?”

“Enough,” Henry said, his voice ice-cold.

The sharpness of his tone silenced Bunny instantly, the grin slipping from his face. The room went quiet again, the weight of Henry’s authority settling over everyone.

You reached for Henry’s hand under the table, squeezing it gently. He glanced at you, his gaze softening ever so slightly before he returned his attention to the room.

“Well,” Camilla said after a long pause, raising her water glass as though in toast. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Richard nodded slowly, though he still looked as though he hadn’t fully wrapped his mind around it. Charles sighed and reached for his cigarettes. Bunny, true to form, muttered something under his breath about “goddamn secrets” and “elopement lunacy.”

As the others slowly resumed their conversations, Henry leaned in close to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Do you regret it yet?”

You smiled, pressing your shoulder against his. “Not even for a second.”

[beauty-is-terrror]

Being Henry’s fiancée and Richard tries to make a pass at you as he’s new to the group.

Thank you so much for your ask! It has inspired my very first Henry Winter x Reader fanfiction.

Keep sending your ask and I might drop a second part with some of the characters mentioned in this one acutually appearing

______________________________________________________________

Henry Winter x Reader

When I put my key into the lock, I was surprised to find the apartment door unlocked, which was untypical for Henry and as soon as I walked in, I could not just smell the whisky but feel the changing atmosphere

The only source of light came from the living room, as well as the smell of whiskey. I didn’t even bother taking off my shoes and just walked into the living room, to find him sitting there. The fire cracking in the fireplace, the flames providing a flickering bit of light. The bottle of whisky was empty on the floor, a nearly empty glass in his hands. His eyes fixated on the fire, on the flames. His face unreadable. Even for me.

I picked up the bottle and placed in on the coffee table between us, while not taking my eyes off him.

"Henry."

His eyes shifted to the glass in his hands. He took the last sip from it before placing it next to the empty bottle. After a second his eyes finally met mine. And I could see the anger, the disgust in them.

"Y/N."

My name rolling from his tongue sounded like an insult but was cold as snow at the same time.

"Whatever it is. Get over it."

I rolled my eyes and wanted to grab the empty bottle from the table in front of me, just for Henry to grab my wrist and say "Get over it? You mean just getting over my future wife messing around with some uneducated wannabe rich guy from California."

I blinked, perplex about what he had just said. Henry let go of my wrist and stared at the flames again.

A few moments ago, I was just annoyed and slightly disgusted that he had gotten drunk like this in the middle of the day but after hearing these words from his mouth, I was fuming.

I grabbed the neck of the bottle, carefully reading the label.

“Hmm. There is something ironic about these words. Especially coming from you.” I didn’t bother waiting from him to reply and just turned around on my heels and walked into the kitchen, hoping that by putting distance between us I could calm down at least a little bit. The label of the bottle had slightly peeled on one of the corners and I started to peel it off with my nails, not worrying if my red nail polish would chip, when I could feel his presence behind me. Henry placed his empty glass carefully beside me, next to the sink. I didn’t look at him but could feel his stare on the back of my head. Mindlessly I took the glass, turned on the water and started to wish his used whisky glass. With the water getting hotter by the second, my skin getting redder and the glass getting washed as if it had not been for ages.

He didn’t say anything.

I didn’t say anything.

Seconds passed.

Minutes passed.

The skin on my hands had turned bright red, but I didn’t feel any pain. The steam of the hot water was starting to fill the alleyway kitchen we had found ourselves standing in silence. Henry stepped next to me and turned off the nearly boiling water.

I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to look at him. I just looked at the glass in my hands.

He moved behind me again, leaning against the cabinets with an airy smell of whisky surrounding him.

“You can’t even imagine how it makes me feel seeing him glaring at you. During class. During dinner. Or when you just walk past him.” The sound of his voice was low, but I knew he had thought about these words long before letting them leave his mouth.

“But you!” There was the anger again. The disgust. Just two little words but it felt like they were making the floor trembling. The grip of my fingers around the glass grew stronger and my vision got blurry. My only focus the shiny material in front of me and the reflection of the ring on my left hand. The glare from the lamp above our heads creating a surreal stream of light.

“But you don’t even seem to see it. Don’t even seem to see how much it hurts me. And how …”

The glass in my hands broke. The pieces falling into the sink and the sound of it making Henry stop throwing more accusations at me. He took a step closer, and I could feel his breath on my neck. No cut. No blood. I let the broken glass fall into the sink and turn around, my eyes staring at his muscular chest before finding his eyes.

“These words from you. These accusations. From you.” My words made him move back. Physically we only stood an arm length apart from each other but emotionally it felt like a seemingly endless pitch-black ravine grew between us.

“Have you ever heard me say anything like that about Camilla and you?” My eyes fixed on his. His jaw clenching.

“I never accused you of glaring at her. I never even asked about what had happened between the two of you, before us. Because I never questioned your dedication to me. Never questioned your loyalty to me. Because I never thought that she might have warmed the same bed that you couldn’t wait to drag me onto. The same bed that we have been sharing all these days and nights.” My eyes broke away from his and I could just look down at the ring on my finger. Saying these words had been painful and they created pictures in my head. Pictures had been trying to ignore.

Henry said nothing. Just stared at me.

“Instead, I sit across from her in class. At dinner. Have you ever thought about how that might make me feel?” the words were coming out low and my voice was nearly breaking.

I didn’t wait for him to answer or even try to hold me back, instead I just walked past him, out of the kitchen toward the door. As I grabbed my bag and keys from the little table next to the entrance I say “It might be better if I stay in my dorm tonight.”

His voice echoing through the hallways “Fine. Well, then I might call Camilla tonight.” The words cutting through the air like a knife.

My hand already on the doorknob, the ring on my finger catching the last bit of light left in the apartment. I turned my head over my shoulder, looking at him leaning against the door frame. His jaw still clenching.

My thumb had been playing with the ring around my left hand, moving it around till it slides down my finger. I am holding it between my thumb and index finger. Just moments ago, the ring felt like an extension of my body, like something I couldn’t live without, like something I would not want to live without. The ring he gave me.

Now it feels heavy and like something I am not sure still belongs to me.

“Then I might as well keep this here.” I am holding my hand up, between my fingers, the promise he made. And for him to see that I might not be carrying it with me through the night today.

_________________________________________________________

Here you can find: THE BEGINNING (first meeting)

more parts to come ...

[insidemyrottenbrain]

Henry wants to move away from the city and surprises you with a country house …

Surprise get away - TSH

Henry Marchbanks Winter x GN!Reader

Precious anonymous, I hope you enjoy Henry's modest get away plan.

Henry disappears for weeks, only for him to come back with a surprise.

Henry as a lover is not particularly affectionate. He doesn’t suffocate me with besotted compliments and gentle touches. The space he allows me is welcomed with much gratitude, however, this doesn’t mean I do not enjoy the occasional in-bed morning kisses under Apollon’s playful, morning rays, the hours spent in the comforting silence of each other’s presence, or the way his hand finds its way around my waist or on my thigh so stealthily that I only notice it when the familiar warmth seeps through my clothes and into my skin as if it is the very fuel my body runs on.

Lately, he’s been somewhat more distant than usual. I have not talked or heard from him outside our almost everyday classes with Julian for weeks. The other day I even dropped by his apartment only to be greeted by scattered advertisements, cut-out mail, papers with phone numbers, and announcements ripped out of newspapers all revolving around extravagant countryside houses with imposing, marble columns, vast fairytale-like green gardens, and enough rooms to fit a family of ten. I couldn’t figure out why Henry was looking into houses, but something must have happened otherwise he wouldn’t want to go so far away from Hampden, from Julian, from me.

I am wasting my time worrying about him when I should be writing my assignment. He is more than capable of taking care of himself and I trust that if the situation calls for it he will ask for my help. Just as I pick up my fountain pen to finally start the long-overdue translation of the first few books from the Aeneid I hear the sound of the key turning in my door’s lock. The only one with a copy of my dorm key is Henry. 

‘Where have you been?’ I inquire just as he graciously walks in as if he hasn’t been absent for the past days.

‘Get dressed.’ He orders with no care about what I’m doing whatsoever.

‘I’m working on my assignment.’ I point out sharply. ‘You cannot demand me to get dressed without telling me what you have planned.’

‘I assure you, you will not be displeased.’

Moments later, I’m sat in the passenger’s seat watching humans, shops, and houses blur into moving, indecipherable colours as Henry drives us out of Vermont towards Demeter’s neverending golden plains and dense forests. 

‘I consider it unfair when you use my curiosity against me.’ I sigh, rolling down the window to vent out the smoke from the cigarette I just lit. 

‘It is a great disadvantage which the comfort of love drags after itself.’ Henry half-smirks at me, his blue eyes behind the glasses abnormally warm.

‘And what may this terrible disadvantage be?’ I hold my cigarette to his lips and he takes a long drag from it before I bring it back to mine.

‘The mortifying ordeal of being known.’ The smoke escapes his lungs with every syllable he pronounces and I find it utterly entrancing.

.

.

.

.

.

Henry’s faint voice swirls in my mind, disturbing the unconscious state in which I am. Even in sleep, I can distinguish his precious voice from any other external sounds. He whispers my name and it hits my mind’s walls echoing until I wake up.

‘We have arrived.’ He announces with a slight smile and helps me step out of the car.

It takes me a moment to realise the massive manor towering over me with its aged stone walls covered in wicked ivy, large, arched windows with intricate tracery that allow glimpses into the stately interiors and prominent towers crowned with finials and spires piercing the limitless sky. Two watchful statues stand by the grand wooden doors as if anticipating our arrival. Suddenly, it all clicks together and I glare at Henry.

‘Is this why you’ve barely spoken to me in weeks?’ He was already retrieving his luggage along with another one he had packed for me using the various pieces of clothing I had left at his apartment throughout our relationship. ‘I can’t believe this..’ I shake my head and cross my arms, staring at the incredible purchase, knowing that it probably cost him a fortune. 

‘Let us enjoy this.’ He comes to stand by my side, suitcases in hand. ‘I have already spoken with Julian. I told him we would not be attending classes for a few weeks due to personal matters. Naturally, he wasn’t very pleased, but there is nothing he can do.’

‘Henry Marchbanks Winter skipping classes? I did not think I would live to see this day.’ It is nice to tease him once in a while.

‘I needed a break from society. Everyone does after a while and this place is perfect for such an occasion.’ For once, he looks relaxed and I decide to do as he wishes for the time being.

‘Why bring me here then? Wouldn’t it be better if you were to be alone here with your studies?’ 

Henry looks at me as if he has not been expecting the question and bursts into genuine laughter. ‘And leave my only piece of sanity in Vermont? That is something I couldn’t even dream of.’ He starts guiding me toward the entrance, his hand once again finding its rightful place on my waist.

[buckythinker]

literally shaking. What the fuck

[greenandsorrow]

ΦΙΛΗΔΟΝΙΑ. (i)

HENRY WINTER X SHAPELY!FEM!READER ⏳

☞ Here I am, writing spontaneous filth, a wet fever dream if you will... instead of getting the real work done (my tsh au with an oc). This one is quite suggestive, but I tried to incorporate nice prose in it as well! What if you take what you're about to read as an apology for not making any progress with 'What once was' yet ?? 🥺

☞ I know there are times I say that some smut fics of mine belong in the 'no plot just porn' category, even when it takes many paragraphs to get to the spice. But listen, I write and pace my smut like a female orgasm. (Iykyk☕) I was ovulating when I wrote this and it shows -says the luteal me.

☞ OOC!Henry??, adult themes, kinda slow burn, descriptive, teasing, masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, public setting, the more you read the hornier it gets, cliché tension-heightening tropes, my first time writing for Henry specifically and for tsh generally

You're a good friend of Richard.

Neither of you was born swimming in money and as a result of your humble upbringings, you both share a sense of wonder at making it into a place like Hamden. However, the main thing that connected you and the brunette Californian when you first met, was your shared desire to become part of the Greek class. Richard wholeheartedly believes that you deserved to be accepted by Julian far more than he did, but the eccentric professor has his own unique -or rather, peculiar- way of thinking and evaluating who is worthy of becoming his pupil and who… simply isn’t.

Unfortunately for you, you didn't manage to enroll in Greek. You didn't quite fit the mold, so to speak. Oh well... French, sketching and sculpting are fine. And Richard makes sure to keep you up to date with his new experiences as part of what essentially is a clique of wealthy twenty-year-olds.

To the untrained eye of a bystander, the brooding umbrella bearer, the ginger fashionista, the blonde twins, and the Edmund guy all appear equally obnoxious and hoity-toity. Still, Richard has given you a retrospective of the Greek class -or at least he tried- because you can't help but poke fun at pretentiousness when you see it.

The first few weeks were relatively calm. You only ever saw the group when they walked out of the Lyceum and you were waiting for Rich. During those moments, you took the chance to observe them more closely, but you were still unsure whether you liked what you saw. Camilla, the only girl in their little clique, would always shoot poisonous glares your way, while Bunny would give you a nod, accompanied by an acknowledging half-smirk.

You first met Francis, by mere luck. You were over at Richard's dorm room when the ginger paid him an unexpected visit -and even though you weren't entirely sure if he was kind out of politeness or sincerity, you liked him. Francis is a nervous man with a great sense of humor and style.

As time bled into the heart of autumn, you started going out with your classmates. There was a cozy little bar hidden in an alley on Vermont where you'd enjoy a couple of drinks, when you didn't have early lessons. While there, you spotted Francis and Charles sharing drinks together. There were some 'scandalous' dating rumors... and you had a feeling they were indeed hooking up. You caught them once on your way back to Hamden. Francis must have noticed you, but the twin was likely quite drunk. You didn't tell a soul and Francis was silently grateful for it.

Weeks turned into months...

And boom! You, Francis and Richard started hanging out around campus. It didn't become a daily occurrence overnight, but when it did, Charles would also join you from time to time. You even started talking to Bunny through your light interactions with his girlfriend, Marion. He definitely stood out from their polished social image, but in a way, he was the necessary ingredient that balanced out their measured and cut off demeanor.

You're not part of the group. If anything, you're even more of an outsider than Richard. The thing with you, though, is that unlike him, you aren't trying to fit in. Bunny is talkative to a fault, so you have no trouble entertaining him. We've already covered Francis. Charles is surprisingly chill and friendly. But despite that, his sister might mirror his appearance, but she certainly doesn't mirror his personality. She seems to tolerate you more than anything.

When Charles casually invited you to their apartment for dinner, her expression had turned so sour that you almost wanted to strangle her.

However, the cherry on top is that mountain of stoicism, Henry Winter. He always seems to be in his own world, his piercing gaze often fixed on something far beyond the crowd. You can't help but notice how he will occasionally glance in your direction, but these moments are fleeting, gone as quickly as they come. There is an intensity in his eyes that makes your heart race, yet he remains an enigma, shrouded in layers of indifference.

While Francis and Charles are engaging and willing to include you in their conversations, Henry's aloofness is what stimulates your curiosity. You sense he is aware of your presence, yet he never acknowledges you, as if you are just a mere afterthought in the grand narrative of his life.

The dinner was a catalyst experience.

As you arrived at the twins' apartment with Richard, Henry's presence loomed large but distant. You felt eyes on you, but it was only Bunny, Charles and Francis who greeted you with cheerful banter, while Henry remained in his corner, a book in hand. His gaze did flicker to your shapely figure, lingering just a moment longer than he intended before he quickly averted his eyes, dismissing you as nothing more than an unimportant distraction.

"Well, well, don't you look like a million bucks tonight!" Bunny called out with a grin, his eyes openly trailing down your curves. "That dress is working overtime, sweetheart. We should get you to wear that to the next charity event!"

Charles chuckled -though there was a slight awkwardness to it- and Francis rolled his eyes. You forced a smile, used to Bunny's crude remarks. Your attention was elsewhere anyway...

Why did Henry refuse to engage, even when you found yourselves under the same roof? He frustrated you as much as he intrigued you.

The atmosphere in the twins' apartment buzzed with lively chatter and the clinking of glasses. As you settled into your seat at the table, you were acutely aware of Henry's presence at the far end. You wore a fitted dress that accentuated your curves, the fabric clinging to your defined figure. You could feel the warmth of the others' gazes, but when it came to him, it was as if a cold, impenetrable wall stood next to you.

As the meal progressed, conversation flowed easily. Bunny dominated most of it, animatedly recounting stories from campus -with Richard often his chosen victim. Occasionally though, Bunny's attention would drift back to you, making some offhand comment about how you should consider a career in modeling. "No reason to hide those killer curves, darling" he'd say with a wink, making Francis groan in exasperation.

Through it all, Henry remained silent, his attention fixed on his plate or the flickering candlelight at the center of the table. Though he said nothing, there was a tightness in his jaw that suggested he was aware of everything -and perhaps disapproved.

You caught glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye -the subtle shift of his gaze when he thought no one was watching, the way his fingers twitched when Bunny's voice grew loud and lewd.

It was maddening. He was magnetic and repelling all at once.

"Henry, what do you think?" Charles asked at some point, finally drawing him into the conversation. For a moment, hope flickered within you that he might engage. But Henry merely shrugged, dismissing the warmth of the moment...

As the evening wore on, you tried to focus on the camaraderie of the others, but you couldn't shake the feeling that Henry was watching you from behind that wall of polite ignorance.

His silence only amplified the tension that crackled between you.

Tension, tension, tension... Or is it your wishful thinking?

Since that dinner, things have warmed between you and the Greek students. You often find yourself in their company -whether it's studying together in the library, thrifting with Richard, going to the opera with Francis and even Camilla, or awkwardly using the coffee machine in the cafeteria with Henry.

Henry has shifted from not acknowledging your existence to silently accepting it. It's a delicate situation and you know better than to push for more. He's far from an average Joe. Initiating small talk with him would feel almost like a personal insult.

Let's focus on today though, shall we?

It's early morning and you're both making coffee in the still empty cafeteria. The small space in front of the coffee maker forces you to stand close, too close. As you reach for a cup, your fingers accidentally graze his much larger ones, sending an electric jolt through you. Henry's hand lingers for one delicious moment before he pulls away, his expression neutral, though you catch the subtle clenching of his jaw.

Is he annoyed... Or did he feel the same tingling sensation you just felt? You apologize quietly and he nods, not saying a word, but the air feels heavier now.

A pause.

You turn to say something -anything!- but he's already walking away, his umbrella and Gucci coat perfectly in place.

It was a mundane thing to happen, really. Boring and normal, unimpressive and simple. Ordinary and meaningless... Something that could happen between absolutely anyone. And yet, you spend the rest of the day replaying it over and over in your pretty head, unable to focus on your classes.

In the blink of an eye and after several cups of mediocre at best coffee, you find yourself waiting for Richard at your usual spot. He emerges with Bunny. Dammit... They appear to be engrossed in conversation. Looks like you're heading back to the dorms on your own...

You sigh.

There's no hurry so you don't leave right away.

The cold evening air bites at your skin as you stand outside the Lyceum, watching as the others come out of it. Francis waves at you and Camilla gives you a brief smile, but neither lingers. And then there's Henry, the last to leave. He steps out into the dim streetlight, his dark coat wrapped tightly around him as he makes his way down the steps.

You hesitate for a moment, debating on saying something or staying silent as always, but frustration gnaws at you and your tongue wins control over your brain.

"Why doesn't he want me there?" you ask, not moving from your spot.

Henry pauses. His eyes -sharp and piercing- meet yours and for a moment you wonder if he's going to ignore you, as he has countless times before. But then he walks over, his steps measured and his expression unreadable.

"You mean Julian" he states in a low voice, but there's an edge to it like he's already thought about this.

You nod, your breath visible in the cold air. "Yes. Everyone else... but not me. Why?"

He regards you for a long moment, his eyes tracing your face... and for the first time you're acutely aware of his smell -expensive cologne and aftershave mixed with tobacco. His presence is imposing, even though his demeanor remains distant.

"Julian is..." he begins, then stops as if searching for the right words. He then looks away, towards the dark street, the silence between you thick. "Particular. He doesn’t take everyone."

The words sting, even though they were spoken with a calm detachment. You cross your arms, not entirely sure if it's to block out the cold or the weight of his indifference.

"That much is obvious. But why not me?"

Henry's jaw clenches, a flicker of something unspoken passing in his dark blue eyes, but his voice remains steady. "You don't need Julian's approval in order to spend time with us."

And then a bit more earnestly "You already know that."

You scoff lightly, taken aback by his response. "You didn't answer my question."

"I did."

His gaze snaps back to yours, something new surfacing behind those cold orbs of his.

You feel like you're standing on the edge of some cliffhanger, but before you can push him any further with your questions, Henry takes another step dangerously close. He looks down at you, taking in the curve of your upper lip, your jawline, the shape of your nose.

"You're not like the others" he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. There's no judgment in his tone, just the acknowledgment of a fact. You blink, taken completely off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor.

"Is that why Julian won't let me in? Because I'm not like all of you?"

Henry doesn't answer immediately. The tension between you feels fragile, like it could shatter at any given moment. Then, in a voice softer than you've ever heard from him, he replies "Maybe it's better this way."

His words hang in the air, loaded with a meaning you can't quite grasp. You search his eyes for something more, some explanation, but before you find anything, Henry steps back, his face closing off once again.

"Goodnight" he says, the tension breaking as he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there confused and more intrigued than ever.

A bottle of cheap wine and late night thinking is your next step.

"When Henry told me that Julian's judgment isn't everything, he revealed a small crack in his otherwise impenetrable loyalty to the professor. He respects Julian and his selective nature, but he doesn't entirely agree with my exclusion.

So Henry has protective instincts... whether he's aware of them or not. He senses that keeping me out may shield me from whatever lies ahead in Julian's world, which he must know isn't as glamorous as it appears...

I am such a philosopher..."

That evening, Henry remained by his car for a good while, watching you as you stood alone in the cold. He couldn't quite explain why your question had unsettled him, why your presence had been bothering him in ways he hadn't anticipated. You unsettled him -not because of what you said, but because of how acutely aware of you he had become.

You frustrated him.

Henry's need for control manifests in how he maintains a physical and emotional distance, even as the tension between you grows. He's hyperaware of how your interactions could escalate if he lets them. That's why he chooses to leave at the end of every single conversation you have. By walking away, Henry reasserts control over the situation, both over himself and you. He's not ready to let his guard down, so he retreats in order to keep the tension simmering rather than boiling over.

It was foolish, he told himself. He had no time for such petty distractions. Still, there was something about you that cracked the surface of his carefully constructed world.

You weren't part of Julian's circle, so you shouldn’t matter. But you did. He hated that you did.

Sexuality and romance... these are things Henry has never cared for. He can analyze them, dissect them from a distance, but the reality is different. He has observed enough to know how they work in theory, yet practice remains foreign to him.

Intimacy is something he has never sought, perhaps because it seems beneath him, too messy and unpredictable. But when standing before you, Henry realized something he hadn't expected... He was curious. Not in the detached, intellectual way he usually is.

A few days pass, but the memory of him looking at you outside the Lyceum is still annoyingly persistent. It's hard not to think about the odd tension between you. You tell yourself it's nothing, but it's not working, not really.

So you decide to head to the library. Not because you expect to see him there, but because your classes are starting to pile up and you need to focus. At least that's what you tell yourself as you step into the quiet, echoing halls. But as you move through the aisles, you spot him.

H. M. Winter

He's seated at a table near the back, away from the other scattered students, his serious expression fixed on a thick book in front of him. The mere sight of him -sharp jawline and tailored coat draped over the back of his chair- sends a jolt of something through you. You hesitate for a moment. You should leave, avoid him. But instead you find yourself walking over, heartbeat quickening, the air between you already charged before you've even said a word.

He doesn't look up immediately when you approach, his eyes still fixed on the book in front of him, his fingers carefully tracing the edge of a page as if he's deliberately keeping his focus there. But then, as you step closer he finally glances up, his gaze moving over your face and then lowering to take in the rest of your body, outfit and all.

Without a word, you pull out the chair across from him, the scrape of wood against the floor cutting through the heavy silence. You take your time, moving slowly. Your body brushes against the edge of the table as you sit, the fabric of your skirt clinging to your curves in a way you know he notices -even if he doesn't allow himself to look.

The scent of old books and cologne in the air adds to the heat building between you. You cross your legs, shifting slightly in your seat while you unpack your bag.

Time goes by.

The quiet hum of the library envelops you both as you sit across from each other, textbooks and notes now scattered on the table. You focus on actually studying for the most part, though you can still feel his bespectacled eyes shift on you from time to time. When you move in your seat, the hem of your skirt rides up slightly, revealing just a hint more thigh. His eyebrow twitches in response before he sharply returns his focus on his book, but not before you catch the encouraging micro expression...

You pretend not to notice, but the warmth crawling up your neck betrays you.

As the minutes tick by, the space starts to feel smaller than it should, the quiet charged with something unsaid.

Without the presence of the others, the air between you feels different -more electric and less restrained. With no one else to see, neither of you has to pretend anymore. Henry's usual detachment falters, his eyes lingering longer than they should, tracing the curve of your leg that has been exposed. This time, instead of shying away, you let the moment stretch.

Alone with him the rules feel different, unspoken boundaries becoming temptations to cross.

You lean forward ever so slightly -the movement causing your blouse to dip just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of cleavage. You pretend to adjust the papers in front of you, but you know exactly what you're doing... The corner of your mouth quirks up in the faintest hint of a smirk when you catch the way his stormy, blue eyes flick down momentarily.

Henry adjusts his glasses, the subtle motion giving him a moment to compose himself. His eyes narrow. His voice is steady, level, as he finally addresses you -but there's clearly an edge to it.

"What exactly are you trying to do?"

His gaze locks onto yours now, no longer avoiding the obvious. It's a challenge spoken softly but laced with a mix of curiosity and frustration. He's intelligent enough to know what's happening, but inexperienced enough that your boldness throws him off balance.

His hand tightens on the spine of the book.

It's a good thing you put on this little lacy bralette in the morning, because it does your assets more than justice. You sit up straighter.

Henry's gaze falls on your generous cleavage again, before it darts back to the forsaken book he's been pretending to read for the past hour. His ears turn a slight red, an indicator of his flustered state. And oh, the way he clears his throat... It tells you everything you need to know.

"I was just wondering if I could see your notes. You know… so I can get a glimpse of what Julian teaches you lot. Or is that Latin? Richard mentioned you're working on a translation or something..."

"Yes… It's Latin."

"Can I see?"

Was that a provocative thing to ask? Maybe.

Indeed, Henry stiffens at your question, the directness of it catching him off guard and you even catch a brief flash of uncertainty behind his gaze.

"I… suppose you can" he mutters after a small pause. He fumbles slightly with the pages in front of him, which seems like an unusual action for him -to fumble. His square-nailed fingers brush over the worn paper of the translation he's been working on, but you can tell his focus isn't on the text. As he slides the notebook toward you, you notice the almost imperceptible tremble of his upper limbs.

"Thanks" you say, offering him a small smile. Then, you lean even closer, supposedly to examine the translation -to expose more cleavage.

...he bites the bait. Henry swallows hard and you don't need to look up to know that his eyes are fixated on your supple bosom. His breath hitches audibly as he sees more of your assets than is appropriate.

After another charged moment, with you still 'reading' from his notebook, Henry straightens up, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as the hardness that has formed in his pants becomes impossible to ignore.

He's never felt anything like this before. The sudden arousal surges through him, unwelcome and overwhelming, making his skin prickle under his usually immovable composure. Crossing his legs, he tries in vain to hide the evidence of his arousal. It's a humiliating thing to be so out of control, to feel his body reacting when his mind is frantically trying to impose some order. He disappoints himself by being so... so affected by something as simple as a glimpse of your breasts.

Henry adjusts his glasses once more. His body is betraying him right now, a true traitor, a meek renegade, pulsing with a need he doesn't know how to handle.

You're delighted to see him bite his lower lip, making his internal struggle more tangible to you...

Before...

Before he blurts out... "You're not wearing a bra, are you?"

The question echoes in your ears, blunt and so so uncharacteristic of him, but his eyes are wide and his pupils dilated. You understand that the words must've slipped out before he could catch them. Still, you don't give him an answer.

His normally pale complexion flushes a deep shade of red, the realization of what he just said hitting him like a freight train. His hand tightens even more around the notebook -knuckles white- and he looks like he wishes the ground could swallow him whole.

For a second it seems like he might apologize, but no words come out of his mouth. Instead, he shifts again, the discomfort of his confined erection making him painfully aware of what he assumes are your bare breasts under the fabric of your blouse...

Henry's mind is working without his permission as it tries to decide how your skin must feel against his hands. You've clearly gotten under his skin and he's struggling to maintain the control he's so used to wielding.

He can't help but steal another peek at the dip of your blouse, admiring, longing. He also can't help but imagine running his palms over your unconstrained breasts. The breath he takes does little to calm his racing heart, or the stirring in his expensive dress pants, the ache becoming harder to ignore with every passing second.

His hand moves to close his notebook, as if to signal that this study session is over, but the awkward energy still crackles between you. On top of that, you're not ready to give up, not now that you finally have him wrapped around your finger.

"Are you leaving already?" you ask, something playful in your voice.

Henry hesitates, fingers lingering over the notebook, his usual confidence visibly shaken. He clears his throat, glancing at you and then quickly away, as though torn between staying and the uncomfortable predicament in his slacks.

"I… hadn't planned on it" he murmurs, speaking more to himself than to you. He uncrosses his legs, the icy gaze returning to meet yours, betraying a mixture of reluctance and undeniable attraction. "But maybe I… should."

With a touch of sultry innocence, you turn your attention back to your own book, supposedly accepting his sudden departure -while also positioning your arms so they press your breasts together, accentuating your already tantalizing cleavage. Of course he tenses as he sees what the new position does to your body...

You turn your focus away from Henry to glance around, noting the empty chairs and half-abandoned tables. It looks like most students have left -or are leaving- for dinner. It's just the two of you now, tucked into a secluded corner, as if the quiet solitude of the library is conspiring in your favor.

Time has slipped by unnoticed, a realization for him as much as for you.

The soft glow of the lamps casts long shadows across the rows of books. The library has quieted. The world outside is fading into dusk. The room feels still, almost intimate. The building's ventilation is the only sound left, along with your breathing.

Henry isn't sure if he should feel relieved or more uncomfortable now that it's just you. The absence of others only sharpens the tension, leaving him acutely aware of his body's betrayal. He aches with need, his arousal throbbing painfully against his zipper, each pulse a reminder of how far out of control this has spiraled.

As if on instinct, his hand moves to his lap, fingers brushing against the strained fabric of his pants. His gaze is fixed on your cleavage, drawn to the subtle rise and fall of your chest with each breath.

Your luscious skin has Henry's breath growing shallow, each muscle in his body tensing as if bracing against a storm. His thoughts also betray him -he wants his face there, buried between your soft mounds, suffocated by them, losing himself in you as if he were a Roman indulging in the decadence of an orgy.

His breathing grows even more labored as his eyes fixate on your hands, now massaging your plump assets. This is unfair. Unbearable. Infuriating. Under any other circumstances, he'd be appalled by such lewd behavior. Yet, in all honesty, his frustration is less directed to you and more to himself -for being weak enough to succumb to such a primal, lowly instinct.

Lust.

Lust...

But… is it really so lowly?

Lust for a woman. Lust for a man.

Lust for food. For alcohol.

For a sports car, a tailored suit, an ancestral estate.

Lust for knowledge. For the thrill of experience.

Lust for life.

It has always been about hedonism. The pursuit of satisfaction, the fulfillment of one's desires. Yet Henry had never felt it like this before, not in its pure, unrefined carnality. Even the excitement for Julian's praise pales in comparison to the one he experiences now -with his face contorted in pleasure, as he stares at your coy expression. His chest tightens as his gaze shifts from your cleavage to your face, struck by how utterly radiant you look. He's never truly taken the time to notice it before, let alone appreciate it... The fullness of your cheeks, their youthful glow, their intoxicating freshness, healthy and ripe like apples.

It's a stark contrast to his own face, or even Camilla's, or Richard's. Their cheeks are hollowed from sleepless nights, their skin pale, only flushed when warmed by too much wine. But you... oh, you. The blood flows effortlessly, naturally, deliciously to your face as you meet his gaze with that knowing expression.

He feels more sweat forming on his brow and his hand -oh, damn him- is already moving, rubbing slow, small circles over his aching crotch.

It dawns on him, then.

A revelation as visceral as it is absurd. He's never quite grasped why literature so often wields cannibalism as a metaphor for love, for lust. But now, with his pulse racing, his breath faltering and his thoughts consumed entirely by you, he understands. He wants to devour you. Consume you wholly, utterly, and without remorse.

"You look so... so..." he gasps, his voice strained and trembling with unspent desire. "Play with your... play with your- Oh God!"

You can't help but grin at his unraveling. You've done it. The mighty Henry Winter reduced to a needy mess, his carefully cultivated composure shattered like glass. He's acting like some desperate, hormonal teenager and the power you feel is almost dizzying.

Teasingly, you raise your top just enough to give him a good glimpse of what's going on underneath. His eyes widen, hunger and disbelief etched across his face as he's treated to the sight of your lingerie-clad breasts, the delicate lace doing little to hide your hardened nipples.

A hoarse groan escapes him, while his hand strokes his length -the slacks barely covering anything. Whatever hesitation or awareness of his surroundings he had before has vanished. At this moment, he doesn't care who might see the two of you.

The mix of pleasure and frustration is overwhelming him. His underwear has become far too tight for his engorged member and with a muttered profanity, he unbuckles his belt. In one swift motion, he shoves both his pants and underwear down -just enough to free himself.

His thick, hard cock springs forward then, standing tall and heavy. The sight of it catches even you off guard.

"Henry, what-"

"Shut up!" he growls in a voice that's low and rough, dripping with need. His hand wraps around his hard length, giving himself a few slow, deliberate strokes. "Just sit there and look beautiful while I take care of this."

His eyes aren't their usual icy blue anymore. They're darker -almost molten- and they fixate on your cleavage with an intensity that sends heat pooling in your stomach.

You glance around, a flicker of apprehension sparking within you. The thought of getting caught lingers at the back of your mind, but the darkness outside and the deserted library reassure you. Thank God your table is tucked away in a secluded corner.

With a teasing smile, you lift your top again.

Henry's reaction is immediate. His eyes glaze over, his head tipping back slightly as his mouth falls open in a silent moan. The sight of your perfectly-rounded breasts seems to unravel him entirely. His hand moves faster over his pulsating shaft, the tension in his body building with every passing second.

"Please… please" he rasps, his voice almost breaking.

The desperate plea sends a jolt of heat through you. You press your thighs together -the throbbing between them is growing more and more. You lean forward just a bit, your tone dripping with feigned innocence.

"Please what?" comes your whisper.

His lips part again as he struggles to form words. "Please... touch yourself... Your n- nip-" He can't even finish his sentence, his composure completely shattered as his cock throbs violently in his hand.

"Now, please!" he gasps.

You feel a flicker of shyness at first but decide to indulge him, pinching your nipples gently between your fingers. Henry's gaze is unwavering, his breath hitching as your fingers close around your hard, (color) nipples. The groan that escapes him is loud and unrestrained, his hand now moving furiously over the length of his leaking cock.

When your hands push your breasts together, his expression shifts entirely. He looks hypnotized... Utterly transfixed by the sight. You can tell he's imagining his face there, buried between your mounds and lost in the warmth of you.

His body begins to tense, every muscle coiled tight as his release inches closer.

The moment is abruptly interrupted by the sound of footsteps and you immediately hurry to cover yourself, just as a boy approaches to retrieve a forgotten notebook. Henry's hand also retreats and he straightens in his seat, doing his best to appear somehow worldly. The boy barely glances at either of you before leaving, blissfully unaware of what he nearly walked in on.

Once the intruder is gone, you turn your attention back to Henry. His chest heaves. He's still catching his breath, face still red and damp with sweat. Ebony hair disheveled, round glasses slipping down his nose. With a shaky hand, he pushes them back into place, looking almost... human for once.

In this moment, he's not the calculating and untouchable Henry M. Winter. He's just a man -a flushed, trembling and utterly undone by you man.

"Show them again."

With the intruder now gone, silence blankets the library once again, thick with boiling tension. Still, you don't give him what he wants right away, liking the control you have over him.

"You were saying?" you murmur with a sultry undertone.

Henry's eyes snap back to yours. His hand hasn't stopped and it's picking up speed again, moving with urgency.

"I… I can't-" he breathes, his voice tight.

"Don't hold back." Your words are laced with mischief. "Let me see you, as you see me..."

That's all the encouragement he needs, really.

"You're-" he gasps out "going to-" another gasp escapes his lips "make me... ah- c- come..."

Henry's words are broken and almost incoherent, as he dangerously teeters on the edge. His breathing is ragged, every muscle in him taut with anticipation.

His grip on his erection tightens, his thumb brushing over the swollen tip, smearing pre-cum as his breathing grows more erratic. Oh Lord, he's so so close, his mind utterly consumed by thoughts and images of you -your breasts, the tantalizing curve of your perky nipples...

The weight of your gaze -intent and deliberate- feels like a physical touch and the unique cadence of your voice echoes in his head, soft yet teasing, pulling him closer to the brink.

His movements become frantic, his breath hitching as the coil inside him winds tighter. He's watching you, every detail of your parted lips and flushed skin, your teasing smile as you slowly trail your fingers over the tops of your breasts.

And then he falls apart.

Henry's hand freezes over his manhood as he looks into your eyes, his body trembling with need. "Can I...Can I come on them? Please?"

The raw need in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, igniting the flicker of power within you. You lean forward quite a lot, giving him an even better view of the soft curves he's begging for.

"Are you asking nicely?" Your is voice soft but also dripping with seduction.

Henry's jaw tightens as his restraint slips further away. This is embarrassing, it's debauchery, but he's in too deep to back away now.

"Please" he repeats, his voice breaking, the desperation evident.

His hand resumes its movement, jerking himself harder now, his focus entirely on you and the unspoken permission you haven't yet given.

You glance around quickly, the library as quiet as it's been the whole evening, the shadows growing darker as the last traces of daylight fade completely. A thrill courses through you at the sheer audacity of the situation. Meeting his gaze again, you slowly tug your top down to expose more of yourself -your cleavage a tempting canvas for his impending release.

"Alright, Henry" you purr. "Go ahead."

His head falls back at that, a strangled moan escaping his lips as the tension in his body reaches its peak. His hips jerk forward and his hand works in a frenzy, chasing the release he's been holding back for what feels like hours. His entire body tenses, veins standing out on his forearms and neck as his climax overtakes him.

The first thick, hot streak spills out, landing on your breasts, followed by another... and another. His release is messy -almost overwhelming- each pulse marking your skin in stark contrast to your flushed complexion. The sight alone seems to prolong his orgasm, his strokes slowing only as his body begins to shudder with overstimulation.

For a moment after that, the library is filled with nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing and the soft hum of the lights overhead.

Henry blinks, his gaze dropping to where he's left his mark, his lips parting in something like awe. His glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose, his hair tousled and for once, he looks completely undone.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his eyes still locked on you, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. Finally, he manages to adjust his glasses, his voice coming out hoarse and unsteady.

"You're… incredible" he mutters, almost to himself.

You lean back slightly, satisfied and victorious, watching as he shakily adjusts his clothes. The post-climactic haze softens his usual sharp edges.

But then his gaze snaps back to yours, -vulnerable and searching- like he's trying to understand what just happened, or what it means.

You grab a tissue, breaking the tension with a teasing smirk as you clean yourself off. "You're not going to forget this, are you?"

Henry's lips twitch as if he's fighting a smile, but his eyes remain serious.

"No" he says simply, his voice steady despite the faint tremor of his hands. "I don't think I could if I tried."

His answer causes you to chuckle softy. You begin to gather your things, breaking eye contact to avoid lingering too long in the still charged atmosphere. As you stand, you glance back at him, offering a small smile.

"See you around, Henry."

He doesn't respond, only watches you stand and leave, his expression a mix of longing, frustration and something deeper he hasn't fully realized yet.

As you step out into the cool evening air, you can't help but feel a spark of exhilaration. You've rattled him -really rattled him- and something tells you this is far from over.

ΗΔΟΝΟΘΗΡΙΑ. (ii)

Soon.

Thank you for reading!!! I appreciate you so much! 🤎

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[gelatonic]

henry winter smutty thoughts. too bad u can't speak ancient greek!

it's a secret how henry somehow scored a major babe like you, but its no secret that you can't speak ancient greek, or any other language for that matter, and henry loves that about you.

he just thinks its sooo cute, how he'll tell you the depraved shit he wants to do to your little cunnie, whispering it in your ear bout how he's gonna bruise out your cervix, maybe whore you out in front of his friends, all while looking so composed n serious like he always does when he talks his talk.

n he loves how you just don't have a clue in that little head of yours, when you look up at him with those innocent eyes, asking him, "what's that mean?" with anyone else, he'd probably roll his eyes n not even answer when they ask for a translation, but for you, he tells you something sweet, stupid thing, like, "I just said how pretty and smart you are, sweetheart," instead of how he really meant that he wants to use you like a cumdump.

[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 wrote 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!!!

[legobookstore]

a study in henry winter — henry winter x reader smut

At Francis’ country house, you and Henry get a moment to yourselves.

Tags: 18+ only minors DNI, NSFW, praise kink, slight degradation kink, very very dirty talk, all sorts of positions, taking nudes, P in V penetration

Henry Winter did not appreciate swearing. He found it undignified. However, when he slept with me, filthy words left his mouth faster than I could keep track of.

Greedy whore. Cum-loving slut. And alternatively, fucking angel.

That day at Francis’ house, we had snuck into the master bedroom, because in Henry’s opinion, “the lighting was better.” I was wearing a silk blouse that I had unbuttoned perhaps a little too low, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of me.

“Look at your tits,” he exhaled. “How am I supposed to go on?” Henry was often stoic and stern, but l was his Platonic Ideal. He worshipped me the way he worshipped Homer.

He threw me on that plush, velvet bed. Everything was lazy and slow in those days, before. He left kisses up and down my neck, and struggled at unbuttoning my blouse. I had a white lace bra on. He loved it when I wore white. When he saw the bra he rolled his eyes and flopped on the bed.

“You’re killing me, darling.” I laughed, climbed on top of him, and shrugged off my blouse. The way he looked up at me was as if he revered me. I started rolling my hips, the wool of his slacks rubbing against the twill of my skirt.

“No, no, no,” he shook his head. “Gyration is no fun clothed.”

I giggled. “Gyration?”

“You know what I mean.”

From his position lying on the bed, he unbuttoned his pants as I slipped off my skirt. “Pretty girl,” he cooed. I repositioned my hips on his, and began to move in a figure eight motion.

Henry let out a low whistle. “That’s my little slut,” he said. “Desperate to feel my cock rub against her pussy.” His words hit me at my core, and I slowly leaned down so my tits hung over his face. He brushed the lace of my bra aside and took my nipple in his mouth. I moaned, loudly. “Hush, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Francis will hear and we won’t hear the end of it for days.” He released my breast from his mouth and turned me over to lie on my back. He hung above me, and I could see the outline of his cock through his underwear.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but we have to get you wet first, don’t we?” He slipped my underwear off of my figure and rubbed his delicate finger against my clit. “You like that, don’t you? My little whore. My sweet little whore.” I moaned, signaling my desire for more. Understanding what I wanted, he shoved a finger inside me.

“Oh, look at that. My little slut is dripping wet.” He curled his finger harshly. “Yeah, you like that?” He pumped his fingers in and out of me faster and faster. I bucked my hips into his hand. “You know it drives me crazy when you do that. Makes me want to fuck you even harder than I’d planned.”

I felt my orgasm approaching, and I alerted Henry by squeezing his hand. “Oh, you’re going to come? You’re going to come, my beautiful, beautiful slut?”

I nodded and screamed. He put a hand over my mouth, stifling my breath. The orgasm came in waves, rippling over my body like the ocean. Henry always likened coming to the sea, saying the feeling of ecstasy makes us, for just a moment, return to the water from which we came. The wideness and vast beauty of the ocean.

Henry took off his boxers and his cock sprung free. I leaned down to take it in my mouth, but he pushed my head away. “As much as I would like to see you on your knees like the little cock-whore you are, I am much too impatient.” He positioned himself on top of me and slammed into me. He wasted no time going slow or easing me into it; that wasn’t Henry’s way. He threw his head back. “You feel so good. So fucking good, darling.”

He fucked me at a feverish pace, and soon he was pulling my ankle to his shoulder. I moaned and whimpered; he would never admit it, but he loved the sounds I made.

“You,” he said, kissing me deeply, “were sent from heaven to squeeze my cock with your wet little cunt.”

“Yes, yes,” I breathed. I threw my hips into his, savoring every inch of his cock and loving the way he fucked me just the way I like. He began to roll his hips methodically, knowing it would make me arch my back and moan like no one else was in the house.

“Quiet, little bird,” he whispered. “Don’t want everyone to know how good I’m fucking you.”

“Maybe you do,” I teased. “Maybe you want everyone to know what a fucking god you are in bed.”

“True, but you probably don’t want everyone to know what a greedy cock-whore you are.”

He flipped me over and pulled me by my ankles to the edge of the bed and began to fuck me from behind. The new angle was heavenly, as I felt his cock deeper and deeper in me. He grabbed my hair and shoved my head into the plush sheets. It was downright pornographic. He spanked me—hard, which I pretended to hate but secretly loved.

“Look at you, bent over for me. Dripping pussy, ready to take my cock. You’re perfect, my lovely girl.”

The moment of sweetness was unexpected, and made me feel even more intimate with him. I felt my second orgasm approaching, and I began to warn him, but he just said: “I know, sweetheart. I know. Let it out.”

I couldn’t help it; I screamed. Henry stuck two fingers in my mouth to shut me up, and put his other hand around my neck while I rode out my undoing on his cock. It was a long orgasm, no doubt to Henry’s delight.

“Yes, darling,” he whispered in my ear. “Keep coming on my cock. That’s it. I make you feel good, don’t I?”

I nodded desperately as my orgasm faded away. Henry’s pace grew faster, but then he stopped suddenly. He withdrew from me, and turned me over.

“You’re going to ride me while I come, got it?”

I nodded and got on top of him. The angle was an adjustment, and it hurt at first, but I had a perverse desire to impress him, to make him proud, even, so I started bobbing up and down. He grabbed at my tits like a cat batting at a toy.

“You look so beautiful up there,” he said. I blushed at the compliment. He started jutting his hips into mine, and I could tell he was getting close. “You ready to feel my cum drip out of you? Yeah, you fucking cum slut.”

Henry rolled his eyes back, muttered something in Latin, held my hips down and fucked me ruthlessly as he came. He groaned, lifted me off of him, and ran to get something from the dresser.

I lied on the bed, legs open, and looked quizzically at him. “What are you doing?”

He held an object in his hands: a Polaroid camera. He held the camera between my calves, angled at the cum that was surely spilling out of my pussy. “Want to remember that sight forever,” he said.

Then, he lied behind me, draped his arms around me, and we waited for the film to develop.