#tshfanfiction

[charliedaltonswife]

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

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

A Bath to Ease The Soul

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

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

Summary: read the request

Warnings: mother pushing very traditional domestic views

master list found here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, inevitably, the conversation shifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him, surprised. “Good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t last long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only when necessary,” he replied.

“And you think this is necessary?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn what off?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always.”

[henrywintersdearestgirl]

what about makeup sex with henry after a big fight hehe

love u

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

I hope you will like my present:)

Odium

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrowed as he looked at her in confusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[charliedaltonswife]

could we maybe get a part two to “an education in loathing….?” the sizzling tension, the hatred, the quippy remarks OOOO i loved it. maybe the two get assigned as partners for a project (or something??? idk??) and a late night argument finally boils over into something smutty…if you feel comfortable writing that….

An Education in Loathing - Pt 2

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

soooo, went overboard with this one, high word count, um gets heated....

Summary: read the request

Warnings: far from none. S.M.U.T. do with that what you will

master list found here

You begged, as in got down on your knees and hands clutching together in prayer type begged, for anyone in the group to switch with you in this stupid project. But to no avail. 

You should have seen it coming. The way the universe seemed to take particular delight in your suffering, in orchestrating your life like a Greek tragedy, the fates snipping their shears with barely concealed amusement. Of course it had to be Henry.

Julian had announced the project with a kind of airy indifference, as if he weren’t about to ruin your entire semester. A “joint exploration of classical interpretations,” he had called it, pairing each of you off with someone to work through the assignment together. A “reward,” he had added, as if being shackled to Henry Winter for the foreseeable future was anything short of divine punishment.

Now, here you were, sitting across from him in the library’s dim back corner, trying not to succumb to the overwhelming urge to either strangle him or fling yourself dramatically out of the nearest window.

Henry, of course, looked perfectly unbothered. His long fingers turned a page of De Anima with excruciating slowness, his expression unreadable. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones, his jaw. He looked like some archaic statue came to life, some smug, superior deity sent to torment you.

“I suppose we should begin,” you said, barely keeping the venom from your voice.

Henry didn’t even glance up. “By all means.”

Your nails dug into the paper in front of you. “Well, seeing as you have no original thoughts of your own, why don’t you start by parroting whatever Julian has spoon-fed you on the subject?”

He made a quiet, amused sound, finally lifting his gaze. “Charming,” he murmured, setting the book down. “I see you’ve elected to be insufferable tonight.”

“You bring out the best in me.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to let him see the way he got under your skin. If you let him have that, you’d already lost.

“We could always divide the work,” you said, feigning a pleasant tone. “That way, I don’t have to suffer through your droning monologues, and you don’t have to endure my… how did you put it last time? ‘Exhausting need to contradict everything you say’?”

Henry leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, utterly at ease. “No,” he said simply.

You blinked. “No?”

“I don’t trust you to do it properly.”

You let out a sharp breath of laughter. “Oh, I’m the one who can’t do it properly?”

“Yes.”

You wanted to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. “And why, exactly, is that?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering. “You’re impulsive.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you’re a condescending bastard, but we all have our flaws, don’t we?”

His mouth twitched. “The difference is that I’m right.”

“Oh, you are so-” You cut yourself off, inhaling sharply through your nose. You refused to let him rile you up this early. You had to pace yourself. If you let the irritation take over now, you’d never survive the night.

Instead, you took a slow sip of your coffee, schooling your expression into one of disinterest. “Fine,” you said at last. “Since you’re clearly too much of a control freak to work separately, we’ll suffer through this together. But I swear to God, Henry, if you correct me one more time on things I already know-”

“You’ll what?” His voice was almost amused.

You leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something slow and deliberate. “I’ll smother you in your sleep and burn all of your books.”

Henry regarded you for a moment, gaze flickering over your face, before he exhaled a quiet laugh. “It’s adorable that you think you could.”

You stared at him, and there was something taut in the air between you, something sharp and charged. You could feel it, a tension neither of you wanted to acknowledge but both of you were utterly ensnared by.

Finally, you forced yourself to look away, reaching for your pen with more force than necessary. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Henry smirked, but he, too, returned to the task at hand.

-

The problem with Henry Winter, you had learned, was not simply that he was insufferable. It was that he was insufferable with such careful precision, such cruel artistry, that you sometimes suspected he did it on purpose, the way a cat will toy with a half-dead bird. That he liked needling you, watching the slow build of frustration, the way you burned under his gaze.

However, you found yourself in his apartment, not exactly what you’d expected; cold, austere, and far too tidy. Books lined the walls in obsessive, precise order, not a single one askew. A small fireplace, unlit, and the smell of something faintly metallic in the air, like old paper and ink.

You had known from the start this was a mistake.

“You could at least pretend to be a gracious host,” you muttered, dropping your bag onto the armchair nearest to the desk. “It wouldn’t kill you.”

Henry didn’t glance up from where he was pouring over a text, one hand idly at his temple. “I didn’t invite you here for pleasantries.”

You scoffed, taking a seat opposite him. “No, you invited me here because Julian gave us this absurd assignment, and unfortunately, you are stuck with me.”

“I wouldn’t say it's unfortunate.” His voice was mild, but there was something in it, something you didn’t trust.

You ignored it. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He hummed, leaning back slightly. “You’re in a mood.”

“You put me in a mood,” you retorted, flipping open your notes. “Now, are we discussing the comparative mythology of Orpheus, or are we going to sit here and psychoanalyze my temperament?”

Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, his version of a laugh. “The former, obviously.” He turned a page. “Though your temperament is certainly interesting.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Don’t.”

He smirked, and you hated how he did it, so subtle, so knowing. Like he had already won. “As you wish.”

For a while, you managed to focus. Or at least, you tried to. But Henry had a way of getting under your skin, his presence coiling around your thoughts like smoke, making it impossible to concentrate. And of course, he was unbearable, correcting your phrasing, sighing pointedly whenever you said something he found lacking.

Eventually, the digs began. As they always did. Thank the lords the group wasn't present, although they found your banter amusing, often when it got too far they were the ones having to break you two up and sometimes being caught in the crossfire.  

“That’s not the primary interpretation of the myth,” Henry murmured, flipping a page, barely looking at you.

You grit your teeth. “It’s an interpretation.”

“A weak one.”

“Oh, I see. And you’re the sole arbiter of intellectual strength, is that it?”

Henry glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to.” You set your pen down with a sharp tap. “You think so.”

There was a pause. “You always assume the worst of me.”

You scoffed. “Because the worst is usually true.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I don’t think it, Henry. I know it.” You leaned forward. “You like feeling superior. It’s why you go after people the way you do, why you can’t just have a discussion, you have to dismantle. I’d almost admire it, if it weren’t so-” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Pathetic.”

For the first time that evening, his expression shifted.

And then, to your horror, he smiled.

Slowly, purposefully, he shut the book in front of him, his fingers resting lightly against the worn cover. “That’s an awfully emotional response for someone who claims not to care what I think.”

Your pulse quickened. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to,” he said, voice low. “You do it for me.”

There was something wrong with the air in the room. It had thickened, become charged. You suddenly felt too warm.

Henry stood, moving past you toward the bookshelf, running his fingers idly over the spines of the texts, the firelight casting sharp shadows along his jaw. “You hate me,” he mused, his back still turned. “And yet here you are.”

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “It’s an assignment.”

He turned.

It was something in his posture, the slow way he leaned back against the shelf, arms crossed, head tilting slightly. The smirk that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“Of course,” he murmured. Something about the way he was watching you made your stomach tighten.

“Stop that,” you said, voice coming out sharper than you intended.

“Stop what?”

“Whatever this is. The-” You gestured vaguely. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re imagining things again, we’ve talked about this darling, you must stop doing that” Henry said smoothly, pushing off from the shelf. You looked forward, only hearing his steps approach you as he rounded the table to stand behind you. 

You meant to say something cutting, to brush him off, but then, his hand. Light. Barely touching the inside of your wrist as he moved to lean over you.

The contrast was startling. His words, his voice, the sharp precision of his arguments, and then, this.

It was like a game.

And worse, you were losing.

“Careful,” you murmured, echoing the warning you had given him before.

Henry, leaning so his lips were ever so close to your ear. “Am I making you nervous?”

You inhaled sharply, your eyes blinked a few times before you turned your head slightly to be eye to eye with him. You were so close it felt suffocating. “You wish.”

You suddenly pulled the chair out from under you, the back of it forcing Henry to step back. You quickly move to the middle of the room, facing him and strangely out of breath. You didn’t want the distance for a reason unbeknownst to you, but if you were that close to him anymore you were going to combust. 

He hummed, as he moved closer, boxing you in. Slowly, so you barely noticed it was happening. Until your back was nearly to the bookshelf, and Henry was in front of you, his presence filling every inch of space between you.

It wasn’t quite touching. But it was close.

“You like to think you know me,” he said, his voice lower now, almost conversational, like he was considering something carefully. His fingers skimmed the edge of your sleeve, so light you almost didn’t feel it. “But you don’t.”

You swallowed. “And you like to think you’re unknowable.”

Henry’s lips twitched, but his eyes darkened. “Maybe.”

There was something in the way he was looking at you, something electric, a live wire strung too tightly. Your pulse was an insistent, frantic thing against your ribs.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

Henry leaned in just slightly, the heat of him inches from your skin, his breath warm against your jaw.

“So are you.”

You should have left the moment you realized what he was doing. Should have made some scathing remark, put him in his place, turned on your heel and walked out. But instead, you stayed. And Henry knew it.

You could see it in the way his eyes gleamed, dark and knowing, in the small curve of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smirk but something worse, something more dangerous.

"You always run your mouth, don’t you?" His voice was quiet, almost amused, but there was something sharper beneath it, a blade hidden in silk. “So much conviction. So much certainty.”

You exhaled sharply, trying to push past him, but he didn’t move. He only shifted, subtly, deliberately, blocking your escape with the sort of ease that made you realize he’d been planning this, had anticipated every move, every reaction. Your back pressed against the bookshelf, the sharp corners of the wood digging into your shoulder blades. Henry leaned in.

"Tell me, do you ever stop talking long enough to listen?" he murmured, and his breath was warm against your ear, a stark contrast to the razor edge of his words.

You breathed hard, threw your nose, letting your chest rise and fall. "Get out of my way, Henry."

His hand lifted, light, barely there, trailing just along the side of your throat, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

"You don’t want that," he whispered.

You did.

You did.

But he was so close now, his body a careful, practiced cage around yours. His cologne, something dark and expensive, filled your lungs.

“I think you like this.” His voice was a murmur now, a secret only for you. "I think you like fighting with me. Like how I make you feel.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re delusional.”

Henry exhaled a quiet laugh, tipping his head slightly, close enough that you could feel his lips brush the shell of your ear.

“You know what I think?” he whispered.

You refused to answer.

“I think,” he continued, voice silken, “that you like the way I get under your skin. I think you wake up in the middle of the night replaying our arguments, rehearsing all the things you should have said." His fingers drifted lower, a ghost of a touch along the inside of your wrist. "I think it keeps you up.”

Your heart was hammering against your ribs, your breath uneven. You didn’t answer, but Henry wasn’t expecting you to. He tilted his head, considering you.

“I wonder,” he mused, his fingers slipping down to the curve of your waist, tracing over the fabric of your sweater, "if you even hate me as much as you pretend to."

Your skin burned under his touch, and you gritted your teeth, furious, at him, at yourself, at the way your body betrayed you.

“Henry,” you said, a very empty warning, hating how unsteady your voice was.

He only leaned in closer, his lips barely an inch from yours now, his breath warm, steady, unrushed.

"Why?" he murmured, his fingers tightening ever so slightly at your hip. “Afraid you’ll like it?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “You,”

Henry lifted a single brow, waiting.

You wanted to slap him or maybe you wanted to kiss him. You wanted to kick yourself for wanting both. 

His fingers trailed up your spine, slow, deliberate. He pressed in closer, his body a whisper against yours, the heat of him making your knees weak.

And then, just as you thought he might close the distance, might press his lips to yours, might finally shatter whatever had been simmering between you for months, he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, let his mouth hover just beside yours, and whispered,

“Say please.”

It was so condescending. You refused. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, wouldn’t feed his ego with whatever twisted game he was playing. You shook your head, not saying a word. 

But Henry was patient.

His lips hovered just beside yours, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath, the maddening proximity of him. His fingers traced slow, idle patterns along your waist, barely touching, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

"Nothing to say?" he murmured, voice low, teasing. "For once?"

You turned your head away, jaw tight, but he only laughed, a quiet, amused sound that made something coil hot and electric in your stomach.

Then, his hand caught your chin, turning your face back toward him. Not forceful. Not rough. But firm.

His thumb traced lightly over your bottom lip, the touch so featherlight it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I could make you beg,” he said, thoughtful, almost to himself. "If I wanted to."

Your breath caught. “Go to hell.”

Henry just hummed, nodding his head as to agree with your statement. "Ladies first."

And then, he dipped his head, his lips grazing along the line of your jaw. It wasn’t a kiss. Not really. Just a brush of warmth, a suggestion, as though he was testing you. As though he wanted to see how long you could last before you cracked.

“You hate me,” he mused, his mouth ghosting over your skin. “You hate this.”

Your fingers curled against his chest, gripping the soft, expensive fabric of his sweater like you weren’t sure whether to pull him closer or push him away. His lips moved lower, the curve of your throat, the sharp line of your collarbone, never quite touching, just enough to make you want to chase the feeling. And god, you hated that.

His hand slid lower, past your waist, tracing slow, teasing lines over your hip.

"Say please," he whispered again.

You swallowed hard. “Go fuck yourself.”

Henry sighed, like you were being particularly difficult, and then, he pressed his lips just beneath your ear, the faintest scrape of teeth against sensitive skin. Your breath hitched. His hands curled against your hips, pulling you just slightly, just barely, against him. And oh, you felt it then, how hard he was, how much he was enjoying this.

The realization sent something sharp and hot spiraling through you, a dangerous kind of thrill, a rush of power tangled with frustration and something else you weren’t ready to name. Henry leaned in, pressing his body flush against yours, caging you against the bookshelf.

And then, with a voice so low it was almost a growl, he murmured,

"I think you like being told what to do."

Your breath left you in a sharp exhale. Henry tilted his head, studying you, like he was savoring your reaction.

Slowly, maddeningly, he dragged his lips down the side of your throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your pulse. And before you know it, you let your desire overcome your body, you let it consume your movements and your thoughts. Your tongue tangled with his, so eager as you pulled his shirt desperately to bring him closer. He guided your tongue into his mouth, sucking lightly before releasing you to bite your lip, toying with your mouth like he owned it. 

You hated him. You thought you had. He thought you had too but he could feel how much you loved this in your own sick and twisted way, your hips pressing against his. 

He smiles, moving his hands to grip your hips. In a quick movement, he guides you to the desk with all of your work scattered on it. He moves to stand behind you, and slowly trails down your spine with his finger tips before pushing you down to lean against the desk. Your hands slapped onto the table to catch yourself

“Henry,” you whined, trying to look over your shoulder at him. He smiled down at you while sliding up your skirt.

“Say please.” He already knew what your answer would be. He knew you couldn’t do it. Not yet.

You shook your head side to side, pressing yourself back into his hands. “You’re insufferable,” you managed, voice breathless, unsteady.

Henry exhaled a quiet laugh.

"You’re trembling."

You hated that he was right.

Hated the way your body betrayed you, the way his voice sent a pulse of heat straight through you.

He smiled, squeezing the ample flesh, then delivered a swift slap that made you gasp. “Oh darling, let’s see where this hatred will take us.” 

He slid his right hand between your legs, gliding two fingers over the damp spot on your panties. You gritted your teeth, not wanting him to be awarded the pleasure of your moans, gripping the wood of the table to keep yourself shut when he applied a little pressure, moving his hand in a slow circle. 

“Such a shame,” he said, pausing his movement. “Letting your pride get in the way of your own pleasure. It’s not as noble as you want to believe.”

“You’re a pretentious, self righteous, piece of sh-” you cut yourself off with a whine as his hand came down onto your flesh again. 

“There we are,” he murmured, and in quick movement, he pulled down your panties, letting the fabric pool around your ankles, and kicked your feet further apart, forcing you to lay your chest flush against the table. “So good for me now huh,” he purred, bringing his hand back between your legs. 

“Fuck you,” you moaned, rocking your hips against his hand.

You were already soaked, hot and slick as his middle finger swiped through your sex. He started massaging your clit, quick, light circles that had you moaning breathlessly. He moved away from your clit and eased his middle finger inside of you, curling gently as you bit your lip, nearly drawing blood. Your walls fluttered around him, sucking back against his finger when he pulled it out. You let an annoyed whine escape your lips, feeling pathetic to let it slip. 

“Say it,” he rasped, snaking a hand up your spine to grip your hair and pull your head back.

“No.” You replied through gritted teeth, and before you knew it you felt him pushing into you. He drew back a few inches before snapping his hips forward, gripping your hips as he pounded into you. 

You screamed, your whole body locking up and then losing all control of itself, collapsing harder onto the shaking table. He didn't let up, no matter how much you shook.

He was panting, the heat from the fire in the study made sweat collect around his hairline and drip down his spine. You felt as if your soul had ascended, you were reaching for the sublime. You let out loud noises from your lips, letting the pleasure drip like honey, letting him grip your hips. You didn’t want to, but you needed to. 

“Please, Henry, please.” You reached back for him, nails dragging along his forearm, and he felt himself teeter on the edge of release, his balls drawing up tight as liquid heat spread through his pelvis. 

“I knew you could do it. Just had to fuck that attitude out of you, didn’t I.” Your pussy clenched at his words, a wanton moan falling from your lips, and he smiled.

“Yes,” You moaned out, tears beginning to prick your eyes and threaten to fall onto your cheeks.

“How much do you want it?” Henry asked, almost politely, which almost made you laugh. If you didn’t feel like your body was being taken over, like pleasure was swimming through the veins of your body, making your heart pulse at a rate you didn't know was possible, you would have laughed. 

“So much, please Henry.” You were both so close, holding on to the brink of this worldly feeling. Then, it happened.

“Yes, yes, fuck!” It hit you, your whole body convulsing as it ripped through, and he was done for too. It flooded through you like golden light through cracked stained glass, something vast, something unbearable, an ecstasy so sharp it teetered on pain, leaving you trembling, hollowed out, and whole all at once. You were nothing but a vessel for it, a body undone by beauty, by longing, by the sheer ruinous joy of surrender.

Bracing his hands on the table as he came down, his hips involuntarily rocking into your greedy warmth. You, again, were trembling, completely boneless, held up entirely by the table and his hips. He leaned forward, pressing kisses into your hair. “All you needed to do was say please,” he murmured, throat tight with affection. 

“Such a jerk,” you muttered, amusement ringing through your tone so he could catch it. You chuckled before he moved his feet, letting you close your legs, and he hissed through his teeth at the new tightness around his softening cock, stealing a final thrust before slipping out of you.

The only sounds were the ragged edge of your breathing, the ticking of the antique clock on the far wall, and the faint rustle of Henry adjusting his sweater sleeves and you fixing your own clothes up.

You were slumped against the desk, fingers curled against the polished wood as if it might anchor you, keep you from unraveling entirely. Your skin was feverish, your body still humming with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened.

Henry, infuriatingly composed, leaned back against the bookshelf, watching you. His lips were pink, his hair mussed in a way that betrayed his otherwise careful exterior. 

You tilted your head and smiled slightly, biting back its full capacity. “Don’t look so smug.”

“Why not?” His voice was languid, smug, so utterly him you could’ve throttled him. “I think I’ve earned it.”

You had to force yourself not to laugh. “You-”

Shifting closer, voice a murmur. “Would you rather I pretend it didn’t happen? That you didn’t enjoy it?”

You bristled, standing so abruptly your knees nearly buckled. Henry caught your wrist before you could move away, his fingers light but firm.

"Careful," he murmured, tilting his head. "I wouldn’t want you to fall."

Your pulse leapt.

“You’re staring,” you muttered, still breathless.

“So are you.”

You scowled, pushing yourself up, reaching for your coat draped over the chair. “Well, I’m leaving.”

Henry hummed. “Why?”

You hesitated, fingers curling in the fabric. And then, just as you turned toward the door, Henry caught your wrist, not forcefully, not teasingly, just… gently. A stark contrast to everything that had just transpired between you.

“Stay.” His voice was quieter now, none of the sharp edges from earlier, none of the arrogance. Just the simple weight of the word. You swallowed, suddenly unsure.

“We hate each other,” you reminded him, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Do we?”

Your heart pounded. He was still holding your wrist, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your pulse. It wasn’t calculated, wasn’t another move in whatever game the two of you had been playing for years.

It was just him, just you.

“I won’t ask again,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “If you want to go, go.”

For a second, you thought about it, thought about leaving, pretending none of this had happened, continuing as if you still couldn’t stand the sight of him.

But then, instead of pulling away, your fingers curled around his.

You exhaled, shoulders sinking. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to walk back in the cold.”

Henry’s lips twitched. “Of course.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he laced your fingers together, you didn’t let go.

[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!!!

[charliedaltonswife]

Crack of A Gun

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

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

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

master list found here

Richard POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a crack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

-

3rd person POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[charliedaltonswife]

Buttons

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

this is an request in my dms which will stay anon, love you lots!!!

Summary: You return home to find Henry waiting for you, as he often does. When he follows you into your room and offers to help with the buttons of your dress, Henry finally lets go of the restraint he’s held for so long.

Warnings: bro fucking smut, filth. I still dont know if im any good at smut but here ya go.

master list found here

The incense clung to the rafters, curling into ghostly fingers that wove through the heavy stone arches. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, washing the congregation in blood-red and cobalt-blue light. The choir’s voices rose, thick and sacred, their harmonies threading through the cavernous church.

"Kyrie eleison… Christe eleison…"

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

You stood among them, lips moving with the familiar Latin, though your voice was absent from the chorus. There was something about the words, the repetition of them, that always made you feel like a child again. It was less about belief, you thought, than the rhythm of it, the same way people who hadn’t prayed in years still found themselves murmuring Hail Marys in the dark.

The priest droned on, the Gospel reading sliding from his tongue in an unbroken wave. You let your mind drift, eyes tracing the golden thread embroidered along the hem of your missal.

Religion, after all, was a performance.

Not in the crude, cynical sense. Though you had met your fair share of atheists who sneered at the whole affair, calling it a grand theatrical piece put on for the feeble-minded. Julian came to mind immediately. No, religion was a performance in the way all human interaction was. The way people bowed their heads, murmured their responses on cue. The way they folded themselves into its movements, following its choreography without thought.

Henry understood that better than most. You had watched him, over the years, move through the world as if he were rehearsing lines no one else could hear. And wasn’t that its own kind of devotion? To recite something so often that you became it?

There had always been something between you and Henry. Amongst the group - their laughter, their quarrels, the wine-drunk intellectual posturing that spun late into the night - you and he only contributed when necessary, calculated. Not for lack of thought, but because there was nothing to prove. Where the others filled space with words, you and Henry existed in the hush between them, in the understanding that a glance could say what a thousand syllables could not. You had never needed to explain yourselves to one another. It was a rare, precious thing in a world where everyone else demanded translation.

The others noticed it, of course. Francis with his amused, knowing looks, Charles with his ever-lingering skepticism, Camilla watching from some distant place as if she, too, was trying to decipher what lay beneath it all. Even Richard, so eager to belong, had asked once in that tentative way of his, what it was, exactly, that made Henry so different when it came to you. You had only shrugged. Because how could you explain that Henry, for all his precision and calculation, his cold-blooded pragmatism, had never needed to hold a knife to you? That you had never once felt the need to impress him, to earn his approval like the others so quietly did? He had been cruel to them, sometimes, dismissive in that sharp, unsparing way of his, but never to you. With you, there was only a stillness, an understanding. As if he had recognized something in you, something similar, and chosen you for it.

There were moments when that connection felt like a kind of solace, those late nights together, when the world narrowed to the scratch of pen on paper, the glow of lamplight stretching long shadows across the floor, neither of you speaking but still in perfect company. And yet, there were other times when it felt like a force far more dangerous, something neither of you could quite name. A pull, an inevitability. A thread drawn too tight. Because there were times when you would look at him, really look at him, and find him already looking back, and in that moment, something in the air would shift. As if the world, for just one breath, was waiting for whatever would come next.

The congregation stirred. The Creed. You stood with the others, hands brushing the pew in front of you. The choir began again, a soaring hymn that rattled against the stone.

"Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis…"

And on earth, peace to men of goodwill.

You wondered if Henry had ever struggled with that line.

-

The apartment was dim when you arrived home, the weak afternoon sun barely slipping through the curtains. You had barely closed the door when you saw him.

Henry sat on your couch as if it were his own, one leg crossed over the other, a book balanced neatly on his knee. He looked up as you entered, his gaze sweeping over you in that unreadable way of his.

“You leave your door unlocked,” he remarked, turning a page. “A poor habit.”

“You pick my lock,” you countered, stepping out of your shoes. “A worse one.”

Henry only hummed, before he snapped his book shut.

“Church?” he asked.

You nodded, tossing your bag onto the table.

“And?”

You exhaled, rubbing at your temple. “And,” you said, “Mother believes me good and innocent purely because I attend those masses, little does she know I go because father pays me. He hates going, you see, slips me cash so I go instead.”

Henry smirked slightly, watching as you unfastened the coat draped over your shoulders. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long, before he looked away.

You had grown accustomed to Henry’s presence in your home. It had started with small intrusions, an unannounced visit, a book borrowed and not returned. Now, it was an unspoken routine, a thing that simply was.

You padded toward your bedroom, pausing in the doorway. “I’m changing.”

A flick of the wrist, dismissive. “I’m aware.”

You rolled your eyes, shutting the door behind you.

The room was dim, quiet. You reached for the buttons at the back of your dress, fingers fumbling slightly. The fabric was stiff, the buttons stubborn, and you let out a quiet, frustrated noise.

There was a shift behind you. A flicker in the mirror’s reflection.

You turned, and there he was.

Henry stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and steady, his hands in his pockets. The moment stretched, thin as thread.

“You know, I should be screaming for help right no-”

But he was already moving.

He stepped behind you, hands brushing yours aside, fingers finding the buttons with practiced ease. The air between you felt impossibly thick.

“You should really stop wearing these,” he murmured, undoing the next button. “Too much trouble.”

Your breath caught as his knuckles grazed the bare skin of your spine.

“I wasn’t aware you had such strong opinions on my wardrobe.”

A quiet hum. “Oh, I have plenty.”

Another button. And another.

Your throat felt tight. You wanted to say something sharp, something cutting, but the words wouldn’t come. Not with his hands so careful, his breath so close.

The last button slipped free.

The dress sagged against your shoulders, heavy with its own weight.

Henry didn’t move away.

His fingers brushed the curve of your neck, tracing the place where your pulse beat beneath your skin. You swallowed hard, your hands curling into fists.

“You were staring at me,” you said suddenly. The words felt like an accusation.

Henry was quiet for a long moment. 

“I know.” A simple response, very Henry-esq. He dipped his head, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and you hated the way your body betrayed you, the way you leaned into him without thinking.

“You should tell me to stop,” he murmured. You should. But you didn’t.

Henry exhaled softly, and then, finally, he pressed his mouth to your skin. The way his lips traced a path down your neck, the way his fingers skimmed the edge of your dress, pushing it lower, lower.

Henry hummed, a quiet sound of amusement, but didn’t reply. He reached for the dress, and the fabric slackened, slipping down your shoulders, baring the curve of your neck.

His fingers ghosted along your skin, tracing the line of your spine, so faint it might have been an accident. But nothing Henry did was ever accidental. His hand trailed up your spine like a whisper of silk, each fingertip a quiet invocation, a prayer written in heat and reverence. The touch was slow, setting each vertebra alight with something perilously close to worship. His mouth was at your ear before you could even think to stop him.

“Turn around,” he said.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. But because you did. Because you had always wanted to.

Yet, slowly, you turned. You felt incredibly small under his gaze, not in size but in confidence. If you were being true to yourself, all of your confidence had flushed away the second he stepped into the room. His fingers found the edge of your sleeve, pushing it further down your shoulder, his touch so light it sent a shiver through you. His other hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his knuckles grazing the hollow beneath your ear.

But then his lips were against your throat, warm and deliberate, and any lingering hesitations burned away like parchment to flame.

His lips barely grazed your throat at first, a whisper of a touch, but the sensation sent a pulse of heat down your spine. You stood there, frozen, the fabric of your dress slipping further down your shoulders, caught at your elbows. Henry's breath fanned across your skin.

“Let go,” Henry states simply, a hushed tone in his voice, “Let go of the dress darling.”

Before you can argue with him, his lips are latching to yours, hands gripping your hips enough to tug you flush against his own. You let the dress slip from your body and pool at your feet. A hand slides up from your bare lower back, up along your spine just as he did before, as he finds the strap of your bra. His lips are on your neck, wet and sloppy open mouthed kisses, every touch making you think you had died and were now in the warm clouds of heaven. The clasps are disengaged in quick time, and he pulls away from your skin to switch to the other side of your neck. Your bra is discarded to the floor, dropping to meet your long forgotten dress.

“Henry…” You began, not actually sure as to what you were about to say.

“Shush.” He responded, not quite silencing you but easing you, carefully cupping your breast, and gripping onto it. If that didn't silence you, you weren't sure what would. Henry’s thumb rolled over the peak of your nipple as your head craned back, soaking in the sweet feeling of euphoria. His mouth left a wet trail down your chest until the warm feeling blooms along your other boob, his tongue flicking to make a rhythm along your skin. You didn't know what else to do but moan. 

“Not so innocent anymore,” He taunts, moving to switch sides.

His touch was a struck match against your skin, a slow-burning ember that sparked and caught, setting alight something that had long lain dormant within you. As he keeps mouthing at your tits, he maneuvers his other hand to let a finger run explore underneath the skimpy material of your underwear. Slowly, he moves to the edge of the bed. 

"Lay down," He was always direct, you knew that well, but this felt different, it was as if he needed this. 

You nodded sheepishly, moving towards the bed to lay down, adjusting to sit on your forearms. Instinctively your eyes closed and before you knew it, you felt his lips start leaving wet spots along your inner thighs, a slight sound leaving you. 

"Are you always this demanding?" You huffed, looking down at him finally.

A very subtle smirk floods his face as rough hands slide under the sides of your underwear. 

"Don’t get cocky with me." Henry responded lightly. You found it oddly amusing that the meaning of his words contrasted so starkly with the sweet tone he said it in. 

The surprise on your face speaks for itself as his hands free the material from your hips. His hands come to your calves, guiding your legs to prop up and spread apart. You bite down on your lip, surely drawing blood, when his tongue slides between your folds, the sensation making you somewhat melt along the duvet under you. 

You moan loudly as he latches his lips around your clit; sucking and licking like his life depended on it. Your hand suddenly flew down and pulled on his hair as you felt your arousal grow tighter. His touch was a whispered incantation, a current of quiet ruin sparking along your skin, setting every nerve alight in a way that felt less like being touched and more like being rewritten. You could taste the metallic pang drip from your lip from biting it so harshly, holding back the sounds that threatened to escape.

“Dont,” he shifted one of his hands from your things and inserted a finger into you, going in and out, curling. “Stop doing that, just let yourself go.”

You nod your head, and he smiles contently, his eyes locking you and your attention in as he catches you off guard, his other hand pushing a finger into you, thoroughly soaked from his toying. You lean your head back, arching slightly as you let out a loud moan, letting the pleasure ooze from your throat.

"Good girl." His hand at your lower half begins to pump in and out, his other hand holding your hips down in place.

The faster his hand rocks into you, the slower and more affectionately his tongue becomes, rubbing circles against your clit, the feeling making you sigh in contentment. When he moved, it was the breaking of a dam, a flood of feeling crashing through the fragile barriers you’d spent so long pretending weren’t there. Henry’s hand that was on your hip slowly trails up to trace along your jawline and chin before it taps your bottom lip. 

"Open up." His thumb, soft as moth wings, pressed against your lips with a delicacy that felt almost reverent, as if he were tracing the shape of something sacred, something he scarcely believed he had the right to touch. You do as you're told as he dips his thumb past your lips, instinctively closing around him. Your cheeks hollow out as you suck, Henry’s thumb stifling the moan that shakes through your body as he pushes another finger into you. 

"You are so good for me, aren't you?" Henry pulls back, the both of you catching your breath as pushes - in, out, in out. Your jaw slacks, trying to get an answer out. A particularly rough thrust of his hand drives his question again. "Answer."

Eagerly, you nod, a gasping answer sneaking out. "Yes Henry, so good just for you, Henry."

He keeps increasing his pace as you feel yourself getting closer to your climax. Your leg begins to shake a bit as you cling to him, pulling his hair, sinking your nails into his arm. He kisses your clit one last time before your moans grow louder and you feel yourself releasing around his fingers, your cries echoing through the house. It was as if he had reached inside you and tugged at the very strings that held you together, unraveling something deep and secret with a touch so precise it felt preordained. His fingers continue, but slow down slightly to ride you through your high.

You followed his lead, instinctively, as if you had always known how to move with him, how to read the minute shifts in his body, the careful deliberation in his touch. Your breathing slowed, the tension unraveling from your limbs, melting into the soft sheets beneath you. His lips traced a slow, deliberate path along your thigh, a whisper of warmth and reverence, before he moved upward, the mattress shifting as he braced himself above you. When his mouth finally found yours, it was not hurried, not impatient, only the quiet press of lips, the shared breath.

He pulled back just slightly, his nose brushing against yours, his gaze searching. You knew what he meant without him even asking.

Your throat tightened, the sheer intimacy of it all catching you off guard. But you nodded, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything unspoken. “I’m fine,” you said oh so quietly, “that was perfect darling.”

He lingered there for a moment, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips, close enough that all you had to do was tilt your chin, just slightly, and you would meet him again. So you did. Without thinking, without hesitation, you closed the space between you, your lips pressing to his with the same quiet certainty that had always existed between you.

a/n: oh lords, well, we're just gonna leave this here and get back to writing more requests, im trying my best to keep cranking them out, i hope you like them, it brings me so much joy to wake up to more requests, and creative af too.

[charliedaltonswife]

Deny It

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

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

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

master list found here

Richard P. POV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[charliedaltonswife]

Razor Sharp

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

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

Warnings: none i think, mmm just short

master list found here

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Richard?” you prompted, stepping closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Me shaving you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even a little.”

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

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

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

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

“Do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[charliedaltonswife]

A Dance, A Fight Pt 2

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

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

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

masterlist found here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you wish to be loved, love.

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

"Only for you darling," he murmured.

[charliedaltonswife]

A casual friendship blossoms between Henry and a the bookstore clerk. He starts to visit her semi-regularly and she starts to recommend books. Imagine his surprise and nervousness when she asks him out one day.

idk!! i just feel like he’s so confident all the time that this would throw him for a loop. excited/nervous henry nation stand up!! love your work btw, you are really showing up for tsh fans!! ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Books and Beginnings

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

SORRY SORRY SORRY for the delay, I am knee deep in assignments and writing papers on my least favorite area of law, and thats saying something because I love doing law, ughhhhh

Summary: read the request

Warnings: none

master list found here

“Back again?”

You didn’t even look up as you said it, flipping a page in your book with a casualness that was nearly theatrical. Henry had the distinct feeling that you had been waiting for him, but would rather set yourself on fire than admit it.

He hummed noncommittally, stepping past the threshold and into the warm hush of the bookstore. The place was small, tucked into the corner of a side street, with narrow aisles and shelves that groaned under the weight of their own excess. Dust motes floated in the air, catching in the late-afternoon light, and the place smelled like old paper, vanilla, and something else he couldn’t quite place.

“I wasn’t aware I had a schedule,” he said, pulling off his gloves.

“You don’t,” you replied, at last setting your book aside, “but you show up on Thursdays and Saturdays, usually between four and six, and always head straight to the classics section.”

Henry narrowed his eyes, mildly impressed. “You’ve been keeping track.”

“No, you’ve been predictable.” You tilted your head, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but had the shape of one. “I take it you’re looking for something?”

He should have been irritated, but there was something about your presence, dry, vaguely amused, like a cat watching a bird just outside its reach, that made it impossible to be.

Henry glanced toward the shelves, scanning the spines of books he had seen a thousand times over. He wasn’t sure why he had come, not really. He had books at home, more than enough, and nothing in particular on his mind. And yet, there was something nice about the quiet here, the way the world outside seemed to shrink when he stepped inside. It was different from the library, less academic, more human.

“I suppose I could use something new,” he admitted.

You tapped a finger against your lips, considering. Then, without a word, you pushed off the counter and disappeared down one of the aisles. He followed - because what else was he supposed to do? - watching as you trailed your fingertips along the spines of books, skimming titles, lips moving slightly as if in silent deliberation.

Then, you stopped.

“This.”

You plucked a book from the shelf and held it out to him. Henry glanced at the cover, then back at you.

“The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge?”

“It’s Rilke.”

“I know who it is.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you do.”

Henry thumbed through the pages, reading a line at random:

"I have often wondered whether especially those days when we are forced to be idle are not precisely the days spent in the most profound activity…"

It was… an interesting recommendation.

He glanced back at you, but you had already turned away, heading back to the counter with an air of complete indifference. He wondered, not for the first time, whether you were toying with him.

“Let me know what you think,” you said, settling back onto your stool.

“I doubt I’ll have much to say.”

You smiled, just barely. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Henry exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to smile back. Instead, he placed the book on the counter, pulled out his wallet, and slid a five across to you.

“Keep the change.”

You picked up the bill between two fingers, holding it up to the light as if inspecting its authenticity. “Generous.”

He gave you a dry look.

You just laughed.

And for reasons he didn’t care to examine, Henry found himself looking forward to the next Thursday.

-

“You’re in a mood.”

Henry glanced up from where he stood, running his fingers along the spine of a book he had no intention of buying. You were behind the counter, as always, propped up on your elbows with the kind of lazy amusement that suggested you were enjoying whatever storm cloud had settled over his head.

“I’m not in a mood,” he said, returning his attention to the shelf.

“You are. You’ve been scowling at that copy of Anna Karenina for five minutes.”

“I don’t scowl.”

You snorted. “You live in a scowl.”

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. It had been a long day. A long week, really. Charles was being insufferable, Richard was always around, Camilla had left a scarf at his place and casually asked him to return it, he didn’t like when people left things behind, and he liked even less when they assumed he would return them like some errand boy. And Julian, perceptive as ever, had asked if he was feeling “unsettled,” which only irritated him further.

You didn’t ask him things like that.

You just watched him with that small, knowing smile, the one that said I’m not going to ask, but I know anyway. He preferred that.

Henry exhaled through his nose and dropped his hand from the shelf.

“What do you recommend today?”

You considered him, tilting your head. He watched as you reached for something behind the counter, sliding it across to him without preamble.

“The Pillow Book,” he read, raising an eyebrow.

“Sei Shōnagon.” You leaned your chin into your palm. “It’s a collection of observations. Random thoughts, moments. Beautifully detached.”

Henry flicked through it.

"It is delightful to sit alone and look upon the mountains and rivers, thinking over various things."

"One day a man came with a request. I thought, 'It is absurd that he should have such expectations of me' and I felt sorry for him."

He let the book fall shut. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

You grinned. “I think you’d like it.”

“Do you?”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe you’ll surprise me.”

He should have known, then. Should have known something was shifting, that something was unfurling in the space between him and you, something neither of you had quite acknowledged. Because later that night, stretched out on his couch, he found himself flipping through the book long after he had intended to put it down.

And the next Thursday, when you looked up and saw him walk in, your smile was a fraction warmer than it had been before.

-

Henry had always been a man of control. A man of certainty. There were few things in his life that truly surprised him, most things, most people, were predictable if you simply observed them long enough. He could anticipate the shift in Julian’s mood before he spoke. He could hear the hesitation in Charles’s voice before he made a mistake. He could see the exact moment Camilla decided she was done entertaining someone’s company.

But when you asked him out, he did not see it coming.

It was a Thursday, as it always was. He had walked into the bookstore at half past three, nodding at you as you sat behind the counter, flipping idly through a book. It was raining, had been since morning, and the shop smelled warm, like paper and cinnamon tea. The door creaked as it shut behind him.

“Afternoon,” you greeted without looking up.

Henry said nothing, walking towards the philosophy section. It had become a habit, his presence here, one neither of you questioned. He came in once a week, occasionally twice, browsed for an unnecessary amount of time, and left with whatever book you saw fit to place into his hands. Sometimes you discussed it later. Sometimes you didn’t. But you always had something to say.

"You never pick anything yourself," you remarked now, glancing up as he ran a hand along the shelf. "You realize that, right?"

Henry hummed. "Maybe I don't trust my own taste."

"You don't trust your taste?" You scoffed. "Please. The last time I handed you something modern, you nearly threw it at me."

"It was insipid."

"It was beautiful."

"It was sentimental drivel dressed up as profundity."

You rolled your eyes, pushing away from the counter. "Fine, then. Let’s see if I can challenge your pretentious sensibilities today."

He didn’t answer as you wandered towards him, scanning the spines of the books as you went. He was aware of you standing close, of the way you smelled like the pages of an old book, like ink and something faintly citrusy. You reached past him, fingers brushing his sleeve as you plucked something from the shelf.

"Here." You handed it to him.

Henry looked at the cover. Letters to a Young Poet.

He exhaled through his nose. "Rilke again."

"Yes, Henry. Very good."

He shot you a look. You just smiled, a small, knowing thing.

"I think you'll like it," you said lightly, stepping back towards the counter.

Henry considered the book, flipping through the pages. He lingered over one passage.

You must change your life.

Something about it unsettled him so he promptly shut the book.

"Fine."

You smirked. "A ringing endorsement."

He started towards the counter, reaching into his coat for his wallet. The sound of rain thickened outside, tapping against the glass, and you watched as he fished out a few bills. There was something unreadable in your gaze, something that made him pause, fingers resting against the edge of the book.

You hesitated. Then:

"Would you like to get a drink sometime?"

Silence. You wanted to almost swallow your words, tuck them right back in in the comfort and security of your throat. It took a full ten seconds for Henry to process what you had just said. You were forward in certain situations, but you had never done this before, so it is safe to say you weren't quite within your comfort zone.

He blinked.

"You mean,” He stopped. Cleared his throat. "A drink?"

You had to follow through now, stay confident. Don’t back down and make it awkward, you thought. You raised an eyebrow. "That is what I said."

There was a sharp, strange lurch in his stomach.

It wasn't that he was opposed to the idea, wasn't even that he hadn’t thought about it, in some distant, abstract way. It was that he hadn't been expecting it, hadn’t prepared for it, and Henry did not do well with things he hadn’t prepared for.

You were still watching him, actually feeling a little less embarrassed but a little amused by his sudden… nervousness?

"Well?" you prompted, amused.

Henry exhaled, trying to will away the inexplicable rush of something that felt too much like nerves.

"When?" he asked. 

"Tomorrow?" Another pause. 

Then, carefully: 

"Alright." 

Your smile widened. "Alright." 

He nodded once, tucking the book under his arm. 

"Good." 

"Good," you echoed, clearly suppressing a laugh. 

Henry turned, walking towards the door. His hand was on the handle when you called, "Henry?" He glanced back. You leaned forward slightly, chin propped on your palm. "You're blushing."

Henry was not blushing.

Or, at the very least, he refused to acknowledge the possibility. Blushing implied something juvenile, something foolish, and Henry Winter was neither of those things. He was composed. He was impervious. He did not blush.

Still, his fingers tightened on the door handle. The air in the shop felt thicker now, heavier, the faint scent of rain curling in through the crack in the door. The walls seemed suddenly too close, the ceiling too low.

He turned back slowly, expression carefully neutral.

You were watching him with a look of quiet amusement, elbow propped against the counter, fingers curled against your jaw. A picture of effortless ease. It irritated him, how unbothered you looked. As if this was all some great joke, as if you hadn't just asked him out and then proceeded to stand there smirking while he scrambled to formulate an appropriate response.

And now you were taunting him.

He exhaled, measured and slow. “I am not.”

Your smile widened. “You are.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

You tilted your head. “Your ears are red.”

Henry clenched his jaw.

It was a terrible thing, to be perceived like this, to have his internal state, normally so carefully concealed, laid bare by something as treacherous as blood vessels. Worse still was the distinct, creeping realization that you knew exactly what you were doing.

He should leave. He should turn around and walk out the door, leave you to your books and your laughter and the irritating way you noticed things. And yet, he lingered, didn't he.

You studied him for a moment, lips pursed as if in deep, theatrical consideration. Then, with a casual flick of your hand: “You should wear a scarf tomorrow. Hide any type of blushing from your ears.”

Henry stared at you. A long, sharp silence. Then, finally, without a word, he turned on his heel and stepped into the rain, the bell above the door chiming softly in his wake.

You laughed as the door shut behind him.

a/n: thank you for waiting my lovely nonnie!!!! hope you like it.

[charliedaltonswife]

henry giving the sapphos copy and getting mad they haven’t read it in years JUICY STUFF

Read You

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

i legit dont know if this is good but hope you like it!!!

Summary: read the request

Warnings: mmm nothing???

master list found here

There were books one read and forgot, and there were books one remembered forever; not necessarily because of their content, but because of who had placed them in one’s hands.

You still remember the day Henry gave it to you.

It had been winter, one of those gray afternoons where the cold seeped into the bones, refusing to be shaken off. We had just left the library, the hush of it still clinging to us, the scent of old paper and dust lingering in the folds of our coats. The sun had barely risen all day, and now it was dissolving into the horizon, throwing up weak pinks and oranges before vanishing entirely.

You were adjusting your scarf, fumbling with your gloves, when he reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out; a thin volume, bound in dark blue cloth, the spine embossed with faded gold lettering. Sappho.

He held it between two fingers, not offering it so much as presenting it, as though expecting you to recognize its significance immediately. You don’t know why he was so awfully aloof about gift giving, sometimes it made you mad thinking about it. 

You didn’t take it at first, thinking he just wanted you to hold his books like an assistant, which you was far from willing to do. 

“What’s this?” you asked him, your eyebrows raised as you looked up at him.

“What do you think? It’s a book.” His voice was so flat it took you a second to realize he was mocking you. You scowled and took it, turning it over in your hands. The cover was cool against your fingertips, worn soft at the edges, as though it had been handled often but carefully. "You should read it.”

“Why? Any reason why you’re giving me something without any occasion?” You said, placing it in your bag. 

There was a slight pause, something Henry often did. That’s something you liked about Henry, he thought very carefully before speaking, only saying what was absolutely necessary. “Because I am telling you to.”

There was no further explanation. That’s all you were going to get from him and you accepted that - his command.

You should have read it that night, or the next. But you didn’t. Instead, you placed it on my desk, then moved it to my bedside table, where it sat untouched for weeks, then months. Eventually, it found its way onto your bookshelf, slotted between other books you had meant to read but never quite had.

Time passed. The semester ended, then another. The book gathered dust, forgotten.

It’s not that you didn’t want to read it or that you didn’t appreciate his gesture, you had flicked through it one night. But you were struggling with all the reading material from your classes and spending time with the group. Particularly taxing in its nature was the fasting that we were doing for the bacchanal, all of the preparation. So the book went untouched. 

-

You don’t remember exactly how Henry found out. Maybe he saw it one afternoon, haphazardly stacked among a pile of papers, the spine barely cracked and the pages still stiff with disuse. Or maybe you let it slip in conversation, some careless remark, some offhand comment that revealed what he already suspected.

However it happened, you knew the moment he knew.

It was late afternoon, the kind of hour when everything was cast in long, melancholic light. You were in Henry’s study, sitting opposite each other at the wooden table, the air thick with the smell of old books and burning cigarettes. The window beside him framed his profile in fading gold, but there was nothing warm in his expression.

His gaze flickered down, settled on the book lying near your elbow. His voice, when it came, was quiet and a little unease, catching you off guard almost immediately. “You haven't read it.”

You glanced up. "Care to give any context to this allegation darling?" You usually eased any tension with humor but you did not see a glint of recognition in his features nor received a snarky comment back. 

“You haven't read it.” He said it as though confirming something inevitable. “Sappho, I gave you a copy years ago.” 

You exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “Of course I have, don't be absurd.”

He reached into the drawer and took out the copy that was supposed to be miles away on your shelf, his fingers brushed the cover, the touch deceptively light. His expression did not change. "Lying is beneath you."

"Oh, for God’s sake, Henry,” You sighed, “You went through my dorm and took it? And I have read it for crying out loud.”

“Spare me.” His voice cut through mine, sharp and precise. “You read a page, maybe two. Flipped through it like a catalogue, found it too much effort, and let it sit there collecting dust.”

You felt something bristle inside you. "I read some of it."

“Some.” He repeated the word like it disgusted him.

“Yes, some. You never asked about it again, why all the sudden interest in my reading habits. Was I supposed to write you an essay? Provide a thesis?”

His jaw tightened. “You were supposed to understand. I didn’t know you were that entitled that you can’t even appreciate the gifts people give to you; or maybe you’re not as intelligent as I thought you were to try to find a greater depth to gestures. Maybe you’re both.”

“Oh don’t start with me,” But his words unsettled you more than you wanted to admit. “Understand what?”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression. “You tell me.”

Silence stretched between you. The book lay between you like a drawn weapon, an accusation, an indictment.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Are you serious? You're actually angry about this?"

His jaw tightened. "Yes."

"You’re being ridiculous."

"And you’re being selfish."

You had had enough, and his words sent you over the edge of your patience.

"Excuse me?" You said, heat flaring beneath your ribs.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, measured but seething. "I gave you something important. I put it in your hands, expecting, naively, it seems, that you would give it the respect it deserved. Instead, you abandoned it like a half-read magazine. Like it meant nothing."

You scoffed. "Oh, I’m sorry, did I commit literary blasphemy by not devouring your little offering on command? Christ, Henry, you act like I burned it in the town square."

His mouth pressed into a hard line. "You don’t get it."

"No, Henry, I think I get it just fine. You wanted me to read it, to absorb whatever grand message you thought I’d find in it, and because I didn’t, because I failed some imaginary test, you’re punishing me for it."

His hand curled into a fist against the table. "You really think this is about me proving a point?"

"Yes!" You snapped, exasperated. "Because everything with you is a test, isn’t it? Everything is measured, weighed, judged. And if I don’t perform exactly how you expect, if I don’t see things exactly how you want me to, then I’ve failed, then I’m not worthy of your time, or your respect."

"It wasn't a test." His voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "It was a gift."

That took the fight out of you for half a second.

I stared at him, breathing unevenly.

"A gift," You repeated, almost bitterly.

"Yes."

"Well, forgive me if I didn’t realize it was meant to be treated like the fucking Ark of the Covenant."

His grip tightening on the book as he exhaled sharply, like he was trying to level himself. Then, his eyes met yours, and his next words struck with precision.

"You are the most brilliant person I know. But sometimes, you are so," He cut himself off, shaking his head slightly, as if the sheer force of what he wanted to say was too much. "So stupid."

You blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t quite register, like hearing something underwater, warped and distant. There was a delay, a beat of silence where your brain tried to fold them into something less sharp, less wounding, but they resisted translation. They remained exactly as they were.

Stupid.

A heat crawled up the back of your neck, not quite anger, not quite humiliation, but something between the two, something molten, something volatile. You thought, absurdly, of a wasp trapped against a windowpane, its wings beating frantically against the glass. The invisible barrier between intention and action.

"Sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly.”

"You heard me." His voice was low, almost quiet. "You don’t even see what’s right in front of you."

Anger and confusion twisted in your gut. "What the hell does that mean?"

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you, his gaze barely readable, mouth pressed into a tight line.

You wanted to demand an answer, push him until he cracked, that's what you usually did. Instead, you reached forward and snatched the book from his hands, shoving it into my bag with a force that made my papers crumple.

"Fine," you said, voice sharp as glass. "You want me to read it? I’ll read it."

Henry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like he couldn’t decide if he was amused or disgusted. "Don’t do it out of spite."

"Oh, fuck off, Henry."

And with that, you stood, slinging my bag over your shoulder, your pulse hammering.

So that’s what you did; you went straight home, not stopping for an instant. You stayed up through the night to read the book. And what this accomplished one may ask. Well, that would bring us to the moment you stormed through Henry’s door, the house dark when you arrived.

Not empty, Henry wasn’t the type to leave his lamps burning in his absence, and besides, you had seen the faint sliver of light from the street, the soft glow seeping between the curtains. You hadn’t planned to come here, hadn’t even thought about it. You had finished the book an hour ago, the last line burning itself into your mind like an afterimage on the retina, and then, somehow, you had found yourself here, your hands cold and your breath uneven, gripping the thin blue volume like it was evidence.

You knocked, sharply, twice on the door of his sitting room. You weren't sure why you suddenly found yourself respecting his boundaries of his study after barging into his house. Then, because patience had never been your virtue, you let yourself in.

He looked up at the sound of the door closing, and his brow furrowed when he saw you. He didn’t rise, but his posture shifted, a slight straightening of the spine, an alertness that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

You crossed the room in three strides and slammed Sappho down onto the table between you.

"What the hell did you mean?" Your voice was sharp but uneven, wavering with emotions you wanted to keep deep within but were battling your will. You were breathing too hard, like you had run here instead of walked. The book wobbled slightly before settling, its weight undeniable, its presence impossible to ignore.

Henry didn’t flinch. He regarded you with that same unreadable expression, the same irritating calm he always wore like armor.

"You’ll have to be more specific," he said calmly.

"Don’t," You pointed at the book, your hand unsteady. "act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about."

A long pause. Then, deliberately, he leaned forward, setting his own book aside. "You finally read it, then."

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "What is it, some sort of test? Some ridiculous, arrogant game where you wait to see if I figure it out?"

Henry sighed, running a hand over his face, and for the first time, he looked tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from lack of sleep, but something deeper, something worn thin.

"You’re angry," he said.

"I am confused," you shot back. "You gave me that book like it was supposed to mean something. And I read it, Henry, I read all of it, and now I can’t stop thinking about it, about why you-"

You broke off, swallowing hard. The words tangled in your throat, too much, too raw. Henry was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, measured. "And what did you decide?"

Your breath hitched. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was the heart of it. The question he had been waiting for you to answer, not with words, but with understanding. You sank into the chair across from him, suddenly exhausted. Henry didn’t push, that’s something that you appreciated greatly between you two. He just watched, waiting. You reached for the book again, fingers tracing the worn edge of the cover.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against the table, grounding yourself. "I don’t know what to do with this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if what I think is correct, I don’t know if I can read you Henry.”

Henry studied you for a long moment. Then, finally, he reached across the table, fingers brushing against the spine of the book, against your hand.

"You do darling," he said. “You always do.”

a/n: im so sorry if i take a little longer on requests, there are quite a few but i love them all. ALSO im so excited to do the next request, someone wants angst crossed with a Phoebe Bridgers song and i fw that so hard

[charliedaltonswife]

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

Polar Opposites

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

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

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

master list found here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[charliedaltonswife]

Just came back from the cinema after watching Blue Velvet (rip David Lynch), and I was just curious how it'd be to go with Henry to the movies. Surely he wouldn't fancy it enough to propose it, and even if he'd go, what would he watch? How would a little movie date go with him?

(Yapper Henry anon here hehe)

Off to See the Movies

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

gosh i LOVED this idea so much, i was so excited to get to this one. And another amazing request from the yapper anon, i absolutely adored that one too and enjoyed writing it, probably one of my favorites

Summary: read the request

Warnings: possibly some inaccurate timeline of when movies were released but um just dw about it thanks! they're all movies i like so just put up w it

master list found here

“You must be joking.”

Henry didn’t even glance up from his book. He was perched in his usual spot, the armchair by your window, legs crossed, posture impeccable. You had long since stopped questioning why he spent so much time in your apartment, it was simply a given, like the certainty of gravity, or the way he never seemed to age. You had caught him here reading Ovid in Latin, scowling at the radio as if offended by its very existence, taking your books from the shelves as if they belonged to him.

Today, it was The Republic, open in his lap, fingers idly tracing the margin where some past owner had scrawled a hasty translation.

“I’m not,” you said, arms folding across your chest. “I want to go to the movies.”

He sighed audibly, turning a page. “And you need me for this, why?”

“Because,” you huffed, already exasperated, “I refuse to go alone, and everyone else is busy.”

He flicked his gaze up now, sharp and vaguely disapproving, like a teacher catching a student in a lie. “Bunny would go.”

“Bunny would go,” you repeated, “but I would rather walk into the Hudson with bricks in my pockets.”

Henry exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. You gave him a look before he spoke again.

“Francis.”

“Busy.”

“Camilla.”

“She doesn’t like long movies.”

“Charles.”

“Absolutely not, he’d fall asleep.”

He stared at you, expression unmoving, before flicking his attention back to the book. “Then I suppose you’re out of luck.”

You groaned, flopping down into the opposite chair with theatrical misery. “Why are you like this?”

“I find it keeps my life pleasantly uncluttered.”

“I am not clutter.” You pretended to be offended, placing your hand on your chest as if you had been shot. 

“Debatable.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, for someone who looks like he should be serenading a dying soprano in an opera house, you are remarkably unwilling to engage in any real dramatics.”

He blinked, once, as if considering whether or not you were worth responding to. Then, with an air of utmost boredom, he asked, “What is it?”

“The Mission.”

His fingers stilled on the page.

You saw it, the brief flicker of interest before he smoothed his expression into dispassion.

“The Mission?” he repeated.

You nodded. “Robert De Niro. Jeremy Irons. Jesuits, imperialism, a truly heartbreaking Ennio Morricone score.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “And I assume it’s insufferably sentimental?”

“It’s devastating,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Henry said nothing, merely looking at you with that quiet, considering expression that always made you feel like you were being weighed and measured. You held his gaze, unblinking, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled through his nose.

“Fine.”

You grinned. “You just can’t say no to me can you?”

-

The lobby smelled of popcorn and stale air, the golden glow of dim sconces casting everything in sepia. You had been here before, of course, an old, independent theater tucked away downtown, its rows of velvet seats worn thin from years of bodies shifting against them, the screen slightly too large for the room. You had been here once with Richard and Judy Poovey, but with both of them at a party, you resorted to Henry. Not that you minded in the slightest. 

Henry, naturally, was overdressed. His dark coat was tailored, his turtleneck perfectly pressed, and he carried himself with the stiff, unbending posture of a man who had not voluntarily slouched a day in his life. He stood out here like a marble bust placed unceremoniously in a dive bar.

“You don’t seem thrilled,” you observed, watching as he studied his ticket stub with vague disinterest.

“I am reserving judgment,” he said.

You smirked. “Not everything requires judgment, you know.”

He shot you a look. “If that were true, I would have significantly fewer headaches.”

You grinned, nudging him lightly as you made your way toward the doors. The theater was already dimly lit, the hum of quiet conversation settling like dust in the air. Henry followed you, silent as a shadow, and, surprisingly. did not insist on sitting in the very back like some kind of lurking specter. Instead, he took a seat in the middle row, legs crossing as he settled in with an air of studied indifference.

You sank into the chair beside him, sighing contentedly.

The lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life.

“Don’t be all up tight, yes?” You whispered, only earning a huff in response. 

And The Mission began.

You had almost forgotten about Henry entirely.

The film was mesmerizing. From the very first frame, it wrapped around you like something holy, the vast, untamed jungles of South America stretching endlessly, thick with mist, a world so untouched it felt ancient.

Father Gabriel, Jeremy Irons’ character, climbing to the top of the waterfall where the Guaraní had thrown his predecessor to his death. The oboe, that soft, tentative offering of peace. The first few notes, high, trembling, carving through the quiet like a prayer.

It made something ache inside you.

And then, after some time, you became aware of Henry again.

He was still beside you, his profile etched in silver by the light of the screen. His gaze was fixed forward, sharp and unwavering, but there was something in the way he sat, some infinitesimal shift in his posture, that told you he was not unaffected.

Interesting.

You turned your attention back to the film, but you couldn’t quite shake the awareness of him.

The story unfolded as you knew it would, De Niro’s character, Mendoza, burdened by the weight of his own sins, dragging his past behind him like an anchor. The Guaraní, caught in the violent machinery of imperialism, their dignity steady even in the face of annihilation. And through it all, the music, Morricone’s aching, unrelenting score, threading through each moment like something woven into the fabric of the universe itself.

At some point, you shifted slightly, your arm brushing against Henry’s.

You felt him tense, just barely.

Fascinating.

The film reached its climax, and you felt your throat tighten, the final, devastating sequence, the Guaraní walking unarmed into the face of certain death, the priest holding the Eucharist high even as bullets cut him down.

You exhaled. And beside you, so quiet you might have missed it, you heard Henry do the same.

And you knew.

Henry Winter, impenetrable, unreadable, the coldest man you had ever known, reacted ever so slightly to the film.

You turned back to the screen, lips curving just slightly.

The theater was nearly empty when you stepped out into the cold night air, your breath curling in the space between you. Henry walked beside you, hands in his coat pockets, his expression unreadable.

“Well,” you said finally. “Was it insufferably sentimental?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed straight ahead, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he finally said, “No.”

“Well I wasn't going to bring you to a chick flick.” You smirked. “Admit it. You liked it.”

He glanced at you, face betraying nothing. “I don’t know if ‘like’ is the right word.”

“Mm.” You pulled your coat tighter around you. “Well, I enjoyed watching you watch it.”

Henry exhaled sharply, something almost like a laugh. “Is that so?”

“Very much.” You grinned. “Would you go again?”

He considered this. “Under the right circumstances.”

You hummed. “And what would those be?”

Henry glanced at you sidelong, eyes glinting in the dim streetlamp glow. “Something worth watching.”

You grinned. “I’ll find something tragic.”

“I expect nothing less.”

And with that, you walked on, the city stretching out before you, the quiet hum of the night settling in your bones.

-

The morning was slow and golden, sunlight spilling lazily through the windows of Francis’s house, painting the walls with shifting patterns of shadow and light. A record was playing somewhere, something dreamy and orchestral, barely audible beneath the gentle clinking of teacups and the occasional murmur of conversation.

You were curled into an armchair, one leg tucked beneath you, stirring sugar into your tea with absentminded precision. Camilla was beside you, barefoot and still drowsy from sleep, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the condensation of her glass. Bunny was draped across the sofa, complaining loudly about something, or nothing, really, while Charles ignored him in favor of his newspaper.

And then, Henry walked in.

“Jesus,” Bunny said, blinking at him. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Henry, entirely unaffected, merely poured himself a cup of coffee.

Francis glanced at him over the rim of his glass, eyes glinting with amusement. “So,” he drawled, “I hear you went to the movies.”

At that, Charles actually looked up from his paper. “You did what?”

Henry took a sip of his coffee. “I went to the movies.”

“With her,” Bunny added, jerking his chin in your direction.

You raised an eyebrow. “Good morning to you too, Bun.”

Francis was still watching Henry, his expression downright delighted. “I must say, Henry, I never took you for a man of the silver screen.”

Henry exhaled through his nose, setting his cup down with an air of finality. “It was fine.”

“Fine,” Camilla echoed, bemused. “That’s all you have to say?”

He shrugged.

Bunny let out a low whistle. “Unbelievable. You’re telling me you, Henry Winter, patron saint of disapproval, willingly sat through an entire movie and didn’t complain once?”

Henry shot him a look. “I fail to see why this is so shocking.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Francis said lightly. “It might have something to do with the fact that you refuse to acknowledge the existence of any cultural artifact produced after 1900.”

“I am not that extreme.”

“Oh, you are.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “So what was it?”

Henry glanced at him.

“The movie,” Charles clarified. “What did she drag you to see?”

You smirked. “The Mission.”

Silence.

Then, Bunny let out a cackle.

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not,” you matter of factly.

Francis shook his head, grinning. “And here I was picturing something ghastly. The one with the little thing from outer space, E.P or E.T or something.”

“God,” Bunny groaned, “can you imagine?”

“I quite liked it,” you interjected, feigning offense.

Bunny waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you did.”

Charles studied Henry, a knowing look in his eyes. “You must’ve liked it at least a little,” he said.

Henry merely picked up his coffee again and repeated his earlier response. “It was fine.”

“Oh well, that’s high praise from you,” Camilla teased.

Francis smirked. “Next thing we know, you’ll be asking us all to go see The Shining”

Henry shot him a flat look. “I am leaving this conversation.”

With that, he stood, slipping his hands into his coat pockets as he made his way to the back door.

“Where are you going?” Charles asked.

“The garden.”

Bunny let out a dramatic sigh. “Of course. The world is too crass for you, is it?”

Henry ignored him entirely and stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind him. For a moment, the group was quiet, watching the space he’d just occupied.

“Well,” Francis said, reclining languidly, “that was delightful.”

Camilla shook her head, amused. “I don’t know why you find it so funny.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “Henry? At the movies? That’s hilarious.”

Bunny grinned. “I bet he didn’t even blink the whole time.”

You smirked, taking a sip of your tea. “He did, actually.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Did he like it?”

You considered this for a moment.

Then, casually, you said, “I think he did.”

Francis let out a low hum, watching you. “Interesting.”

And with that, the conversation drifted back into its usual rhythm, the paper rustling, Bunny launching into another half-hearted complaint, Camilla humming along with the record.

And outside, Henry stood in the garden, the sun warm on his face, thinking, though he would never admit it, about the way the light from the screen had flickered across your cheekbones, the sound of your laugh when you had nudged him, the way the music had settled deep into his ribs and refused to leave.

[charliedaltonswife]

I cannot stop reading your stuff, so good. Would love an academic rivals with Henry. A realllllll deep-rooted hatred. I want those two nasty. Rude. Mean. Go about it however, I love the way you write and trust you completely!

An Education in Loathing

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

omfg when i get a cute little compliment with the request, you dont know how much my heart swells. thank you nonnie, sending my love!!!

Summary: You and Henry Winter have spent years locked in a battle of intellect. But is it possible to despise someone this much without wanting them just as badly?

Warnings: none! stark contrast with Buttons which i just posted ahahahah.

master list found here

"If you tell me one more time to be civil, Francis, I swear to God I’ll hide your cigarettes every time I’m with you."

"You wouldn’t dare, besides, I'm only saying," Francis interrupted, swirling the wine in his glass, "that I think it would be nice if, for one night, you and Henry didn’t act like two stray dogs fighting over the same scrap of meat."

You snatched the cigarette from Francis’s fingers, taking a drag and exhaling through your nose, the smoke tickling your upper lip. "I don’t know what’s more insulting my dear Francis, you comparing me to a stray dog or the fact that you seem to think I’m the less civilized one."

Francis took a slow sip of his wine. "I wouldn’t say less civilized, per se but you have a certain quality."

You shot him a sharp look. He merely raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow in return, before flicking his forehead lightly. Out of everyone in the Greek class, and you knew you shouldn’t have favourites, you were closest with Francis; you felt as though you could speak and act freely without any care. That is not to say that you didn’t feel comfortable within the group, you had your place, however you found that outside of group dinners and class, you spent more one-on-one time with him. He knew you best, and you hated that he was always right. 

However, the evening had started out promising. Charles had managed to get his hands on several bottles of an obscenely expensive Bordeaux, which meant that the twins were playing gracious hosts, dinner spread out decadently across the long, wooden table, crystal glasses catching the candlelight, the whole room smelling of rosemary and red wine.

It was pleasant. Almost peaceful.

Oh and then, Henry arrived.

He was late, of course, something that bothered you for a reason you couldn't actually understand if you looked back at it. He swept in unbothered, his coat slung over the arm of one of the chairs, nodding his greetings before sitting down directly across from you. His gaze flickered over you just once before he reached for the bottle in front of him, pouring himself a glass.

That was fifteen minutes ago. And in that short time, you’d already managed to start resenting the shape of his mouth and the way he felt the need to correct anyone.

"You’re clenching your jaw again," Francis muttered under his breath, nudging you slightly with his elbow as he cut into a roast vegetable. 

"I am not." You responded, reaching for your knife and fork.

"You look like you’re about to shatter your teeth."

Your grip on your fork tightened. Across the table, Henry was speaking to Camilla, something about the wine, his voice a low hum of authority. The kind of voice that made people listen. Frankly, you wanted to take your glass and throw it at his head. His stupid perfect head. 

And then, as if summoned by sheer force of will, he turned toward you. "That reminds me, what were you saying earlier? About Plato?" 

His tone was casual. You didn’t buy it for a second. Prick. 

You took a slow sip of your wine before responding. "I read somewhere that Plato’s Republic is less about governance and more about the philosophy of the self. It’s about what makes an individual just, not a state. The reading makes absolute sense to me."

Henry made a quiet, considering noise. "That’s reductive." You saw in the corner of your eye Francis slump in his chair.

"Oh, is it?" You retort, earning a sigh from Charles or Bunny, you weren't sure. 

Richard shifted uncomfortably beside you again, reaching for his pocket where his cigarettes were safely tucked away. "It’s a valid reading."

"It’s an incomplete reading," Henry countered, turning fully toward you now, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "If you reduce the text to a mere psychological treatise, you ignore the fact that its entire structure is built around the metaphor of the city-state. Plato was not interested in a singular man, he was interested in the composite whole."

You leaned forward, elbows on the table, your wine glass dangerously close to tipping. "Is that not a predictable interpretation? God, if Plato were alive to hear you say that, he’d throw you off a cliff."

Charles snorted into his drink.

Henry’s lips curved ever so slightly. "It’s not an interpretation, it’s a fact. If you actually understood the dialogue, you’d-"

"Oh, here we go," you interrupted, waving your hand dramatically. "If you actually understood. Always the same argument with you; everybody else is stupid except for Henry."

"It’s not my fault if you can’t comprehend basic philosophical principles."

"God, you are such an asshole."

"Alright," Camilla cut in, her voice light but firm, a warning. "Let’s not do this tonight."

You ignored her. "You act like you’re some omnipotent genius when really, you’re just an overgrown child who throws a tantrum when someone doesn’t agree with you."

Henry’s eyes darkened, his hand tightening around his glass. Oh Henry, when will you learn to not take the bait, is your ego that fragile. You wanted to smile. "And you act like being contrary for the sake of it makes you interesting. It doesn’t."

"At least I don’t talk just to hear myself speak." You responded, placing your cutlery down with a clank. 

"I don’t have to. People actually listen to me." He leaned forward.

"Because they’re afraid of you."

"And no one’s afraid of you, are you jealous, is that it?"

You scoffed. "God, you are pretentious."

"And you are exhausting."

"Enough," Francis sighed, rubbing his temples. “Please, I’m going to have to start taking pills before dinner to get through them now.”

"Really," Richard added, clearing his throat. "I mean, it’s, um. It’s just dinner, you know?"

But neither of you were listening anymore. You could feel it, something beyond the argument itself, beyond Plato or philosophy or whatever the hell it had started as. Something dangerous curling beneath your ribs, thickening the air between you. You wanted to hit him, scream at him. 

It was Henry who broke first.

His jaw tightened, his grip on his glass so white-knuckled you thought it might shatter. He exhaled sharply, and then, with the smoothest, most deliberate motion, he leaned back in his chair, bracing one arm against the side of the armchair, in such a carefree way it made your chest set aflame with rage.

"You know what your problem is?" His voice was softer now, almost amused, but there was something sharp at the edges, something that cut. "You hate that I don’t take you seriously."

Your pulse stuttered.

"And worse," he continued, head tilting slightly, "you hate that it bothers you."

The room was quiet. You blink when you hear a quiet cough from Camilla and a very small ‘christ’ from Francis. The heat of his gaze, that steady and unrelenting expression, felt like a challenge. You willed yourself not to flinch, not to let it show.

And then, very carefully, you leaned.

"You know what your problem is?" you murmured, lips just barely curling. Henry’s expression didn’t change. "You think you don’t care what I think of you." You let the words settle between you, let the realization flicker behind his eyes before you leaned back again, your work done. "But you do. And you fucking hate it."

He stared at you, unreadable.

And then, with no other reaction, he simply sat back further into his chair, as if nothing had happened at all.

Camilla exhaled. "I need more wine."

-

If dinners were considered bad. Class could be considered a heated catastrophe. 

"You’re wrong." The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharper than you intended, though not by much. Across the table, Henry lifted his eyes from the book slowly, as if you had just uttered something too ridiculous to warrant a real response, as if the words were so baffling he was thinking about if he had actually heard them correctly.

"Sorry, am I?" His voice was measured, mild, which was frankly infuriating. Though, you hated that he sounded sweet, and you knew it was because Julian was in the room. 

"Yes," you said, pen tapping against your notebook. "You’re misinterpreting Dionysian catharsis as a moral failing rather than what it actually is, an inevitability."

There was a brief pause. You knew that pause. It was the one he took when deciding whether or not you were worth the effort of dismantling today. You could feel the entire class watching. Francis, idly flipping his pen between his fingers; Bunny, chin in his hand, smiling faintly like this was all terribly amusing. Even Julian, his expression unreadable but certainly entertained, waiting for whichever one of you was about to win this round.

"Fascinating," Henry said at last, sitting back in his chair. "Except you’re overlooking the fundamental nature of Greek tragedy, which is that the fatal flaw isn’t just inevitable, it’s deserved."

You let out a slow breath through your nose. "You think Pentheus deserves it?"

"I think Pentheus is a fool," Henry said simply, tilting his head. "He mistakes his own rigidity for righteousness. It’s a common error."

The insult was not subtle.

Your nails dug into your palm beneath the table. "You do realize the Greeks didn’t think in terms of deserving the way we do, don’t you? Their gods were arbitrary. Their punishments were inevitable, not ethical."

Henry's mouth quirked, barely a smile. "How convenient for you."

"How convenient for me?" You smiled, raising your eyebrows, “Oh do humor me.”

Henry paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "That you always find a way to argue that nothing is anyone’s fault."

You narrowed your eyes. "And you always find a way to argue that suffering is justified, as long as you were smart enough to predict it."

"Better than pretending it’s meaningless."

Julian sighed, but there was the ghost of a smile on his face. "Children," he said lightly. "Do try not to start throwing things."

Henry still hadn’t looked away from you.

"Go on, then," you said, gesturing toward him. "By all means, tell me why I’m wrong."

Henry closed his book with a quiet thud. And then he did, he let you have it in front of Julian, in front of the class, your friends. 

The class had ended, mercifully.

You stalked down the stone steps of the humanities building, the late afternoon sun too bright, the air sharp with October. You were still simmering. The worst part about arguing with Henry wasn’t losing, because you never actually lost, but that he had a way of getting under your skin, setting up camp in the hollow of your ribcage, his voice echoing there long after the conversation had ended.

You should have known he’d follow.

"You left rather quickly," Henry’s voice drifted behind you, dry as parchment.

You didn’t bother to turn around. "Maybe I just didn’t want to be in the same room as you for another second."

"But you spend more than a few seconds just then to talk to me." 

Here you were, indeed. Taking time out of your day to let him get under your skin. You exhaled sharply, halting on the steps, feeling him come up beside you. You turned to him, arms crossing, expression tight. "Did you follow me just to piss me off?"

Henry adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, his tone infuriatingly casual. "No, I followed you because you were wrong."

"Jesus Christ." You let your head fall back slightly, staring up at the clear sky, as if appealing to the gods. "You don’t give it a rest."

"But you were wrong," he continued, unfazed. "And I find it hard to believe you don’t know that."

"I was not wrong," you snapped, your eyes flicking back to him. "You just don’t like that I’m better at this than you are."

That made him smile. A small, almost imperceptible thing, but a smile nonetheless.

"You think you’re better than me?" He almost let out something reminiscent of a laugh. 

"No, Henry," you smiled up at him, “I just am better than you, see I have no need to idolise my teacher like a fucking school girl with a crush. I can enjoy the classics just fine without that.”

Henry faltered for a second, his jaw clenching at your words; you had never gone that personal, restrained yourself to purely intellectual battles, and weirdly, you wanted to swallow the words as they came out. Henry hummed, shifting his weight slightly. "Your ego is truly staggering."

You scoffed. "Oh, and yours is what? Charming?"

"Mine is warranted."

You wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or push him down the rest of the steps and walk away before you had to acknowledge either impulse.

You hated how he stood so close, how his presence had the gravitational pull of something celestial, how he could make you feel like you were hurtling through space even when your feet were firmly on the ground.

His gaze flickered over your face, as if deciphering something. "What?" you snapped.

"Nothing," he said, too quickly. And then, a moment later: "You have ink on your wrist."

You glanced down, seeing the smudge of black ink where your pen must have leaked against your skin. Henry reached out, his fingers barely grazing the inside of your wrist, before he seemed to catch himself and withdrew his hand.

You swallowed. You considered telling him it was a birthmark, that you were actually born with an affliction that caused pretentious men to materialize whenever ink touched your skin. But then he might take that as a compliment, and you’d sooner fling yourself into oncoming traffic than let him think you admired him in any capacity.

"Careful," you murmured, your voice quieter now, a little unsteady. "Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were being nice to me."

Henry’s mouth twitched, and for a fraction of a second, he looked like he might say something else, something important. But then the moment passed, and he merely turned, descending the last few steps.

"You should read more Euripides," he called over his shoulder. "It might teach you something about hubris."

You stared after him, pulse thrumming in your throat. It was going to be a long semester.

[charliedaltonswife]

Masterlist

(Under editing) -> Requests are closed temporarily, i have so many to get through still. Reblog, comment ect, i love whomever this finds. -> *is smut btw

Fic recommendations found here

The Secret History (ranked from top to bottom by personal preference)

Henry Winter

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

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

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

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

*Buttons -> summary: You return home to find Henry waiting for you, as he often does. When he follows you into your room and offers to help with the buttons of your dress, Henry finally lets go of the restraint he’s held for so long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Education in Loathing -> summary: You and Henry Winter have spent years locked in a battle of intellect. But is it possible to despise someone this much without wanting them just as badly?

Waiting Room -> summary: you knew it was for the better; to stay away, to crush your feelings. Being in love with Henry wasn't for the weak, you were addicted to the small attention he granted you, but in the back of your mind, you knew it was for the better for you to leave.

Read You -> summary: Henry gave you the stupid book years ago and you had meant to read it, you really had, but things got in the way. And you failed to understand what it truly meant until Henry snapped.

Off to See the Movies: summary -> Henry reluctantly accompanies you to see a movie. You, of course, take immense pleasure in watching him enjoy it in a way.

Art Everywhere: It's difficult to get away from someone like you, even when you aren't even near Henry, he sees you in everywhere; he sees you in the depth and beauty of a sculpture, a painting.

Charles Macaulay

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

[charliedaltonswife]

hey gorgeous, i just want to say you are honestly such a gift. i look forward to reading your stuff everyday, the way you write is just addictive. i hope you dont find this at all strange or offends you in any way but could you make a fic recommendation list for henry winters, i swear i cant find much on him but i feel like you would know.

Henry Winter Fic Recommendations

aw thank you so so much, it really warms my heart and totally no offence taken at all! Here's my favorite Henry Winter fics, all of these are so beautiful in their own ways:

just let me help you//henry winter x reader by @urfavoritedcwhore -> this is my all time favorite, it scratches something perfect in my brain

this post by @beauty-is-terrror -> holy shit its not funny how good this is

this post by @superbusmeretrix

this post by @ominis-g -> theres a part two to this one and its so so good as well

To Indeed Be A God by @sketches4mysw33theart -> this gets special mention cause the title is a dps reference and i fw that so hard

ΦΙΛΗΔ��ΝΙΑ. by @greenandsorrow

Henry, meus cupitus by @insidemyrottenbrain -> holy shit this one is good

The risk of jealousy by @insidemyrottenbrain

this post by @superbusmeretrix

break//henry winter x reader fanfic by @urfavoritedcwhore

this post by @fleetingcalypso

Henry Winter x reader by @sweetestgirlintown111 -> the whole series is beautiful

No Such Thing As Ghosts by @sketches4mysw33theart

this post by @delicrieux