henrysmuse

[henrysmuse]

[henrysmuse]

life is hard enough without having to pretend I'm normal about Henry Winter

[henrysmuse]

Stunning

Is It Over Now songfic with Henry? ❤️

Thank you so much for your request! I took the liberty of keeping Henry alive after Bunny’s murder, hopefully you don’t mind it too much💞

Is It Over Now? - Henry Winter

You don't remember the moment you fell in love with him. Maybe it was the stillness of his voice when everything else was chaos. Or the way he handed you a volume of Horace like he was offering you something sacred. Maybe it was the cold. The Vermont cold. How he looked like a painting left too long in winter light. Untouched, until you touched him.

But it was never simple. Henry Winter never made things simple.

You never quite belonged to the inner circle. Not like Francis did. Not like Camilla. You danced around their Latin-spoken world with a hunger too loud, too modern, too warm. Henry noticed you anyway. He always noticed.

You were supposed to be smart enough to know better.

The first time he undressed you, it was in silence. No poetry, no grand declarations. Only candlelight flickering across pages of Plato left open on his floor. You whispered “Come here” into the shell of his ear. He didn’t speak. Just moved toward you like a man walking into a confession booth.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Not after he passed out beside you, dreamless or not. You stared at the ceiling and thought: is this what it means to be chosen by a god?

But gods don’t love. They consume.

Once the flight had flown -Bunny dead, Henry quiet, Charles unraveling- you told yourself to leave. Just get out. Before the frost set too deep. Before the rose you’d been holding, tight in your bare hands, wilted and bloodied your palms.

But you didn’t. And he didn’t ask you to go.

He sat beside you on your dormitory couch, hands folded in his lap like he was praying. And you wondered if he ever really knew how much you loved him. Or if it had always just been about power -how close you let him get before your breath caught, and how close he let you stay before he pulled away.

"I know what you think of what I did," he said once. You didn’t answer. You just kissed him. You think he hated you for that.

It changes after the murder. The blood, the snow, the silence that followed. You catch glimpses of him in the reflection of windows, on boats where Camilla laughs too softly, too sadly. And you in your blue dress, your heels sinking into the wood, watch her as she leans too close to him.

She touches his wrist.

You look away.

The next time you see him, it’s in the middle of a philosophy seminar he isn’t even enrolled in. You’re taking notes. He’s not looking at the professor. Only at you. You can feel it like a hand around your throat.

That night, he brings Camilla to the dining hall. And you watch her. Short hair. Pale. Eyes the same icy blue as yours.

She orders tea. He watches her speak, but never quite hears her.

You smile at him, cruelly. He doesn’t flinch.

You start disappearing after that.

To Richard, you’re polite.

To Francis, you’re drunk.

To Charles and Camilla, you’re quiet.

To Henry, you’re gone.

But he still dreams of your mouth. You know this because Francis tells you, drunk one night on gin and bad choices. “He says your name in his sleep,” he says. “Like he’s afraid of it.”

You take a sip of your drink. “He should be.”

Three hundred coffees later, you’re back in New York. You've left Hampden behind. Or tried to. But every man you date has Henry’s mouth. His arrogance. His distance. You sleep with them anyway.

And in the mornings, you see the lie of it.

None of them say your name like a prayer.

None of them kiss you like an apology.

You catch glimpses of Henry in museums. In books you never meant to pick up. In the curve of a waiter’s smile. You think about calling him. But you know what he’ll say. Nothing. Or worse -everything.

You check the papers, once in a while. Still no arrest. Just flashing lights. Whispers. Rumors about what happened that night in the snow. About what Henry did. About what you helped him bury.

You kept your nights out of sight. At least you had the decency for that.

When they ask you about Henry, you lie.

You say: “We were never that close.”

You say: “He wasn’t like that with me.”

You say: “I left before it got bad.”

But when you're alone -really alone- you think about that couch in your dorm. Your blouse unbuttoned. His hands shaking. The way he didn’t stop you, not once.

Was it over then?

Is it over now?

You dream about jumping.

Off tall things. Fire escapes. The roofs of buildings. The idea of falling feels like the only honest thing left. You imagine him below, watching, finally breaking, running.

He’d say it then, wouldn’t he?

The one thing you’ve been wanting?

But no.

Henry Winter doesn’t run.

You hear he’s gone to Rome. Or maybe Paris. You don't ask Francis. You don't ask anyone.

But every time someone mentions “that boy who died,” you feel a piece of your chest cave in. You remember red blood on white snow. You remember a body in a ravine. You remember Henry’s eyes -calm, composed, murderous.

You remember what it cost to love him.

Tonight, you made coffee out of habit.

It’s snowing. You think of blue dresses. Of boats. Of flashing lights. You think of yourself as a ghost, caught between who you were before him and who you’ll be when you finally forget his name.

The doorbell rings.

For a moment—just a moment—you think it might be him.

You open the door. It’s not.

But you imagine what he’d say, if he were standing there.

You imagine him brushing past you like he belongs here, still.

You imagine his voice, soft, unsparing:

“It wasn’t over then.”

“And it’s not over now.”

You close the door.

And you drink the coffee anyway.

[henrysmuse]

So obsessed with the concept of guard dog!boyfriend Henry..

“Henry Winter was a formidable man, but there was something unearthly about her – the girl on Henry’s arm, as if she’d stepped through some crack in the world. she drew the eye, not with beauty, though she had that in abundance, but with something stranger. her eyes almost as cold as his, almost blank despite the chaos behind them, both focused and unimpressed simultaneously. she looked at the world as if she'd already seen all of it and found it deeply underwhelming. 

together, they dressed in black, not out of affectation but as if in perpetual rehearsal for grief, commanding attention without saying a word. they were, in a phrase, a lethal combination, a collision of beautiful ruin – corrupted not by the world but by each other.

she was Persephone, and he, her Cerberus.”

[henrysmuse]

what are you favourite henry smutty hcs

- he only swears during sex

- he’s the horniest drunk that’s ever existed

- if you’re both drunk he’ll drag you away and fuck you senseless

- if you’re sober and he’s drunk he’ll lay on your lap running his hands over you and telling you in graphic detail all the things he wants to do to you

- always fucks in at least two different positions

- he doesn’t jack off. just fucks when he needs to. doesn’t matter who.

- blowjob fiend

- only likes improvised bondage. he finds preplanned restraints like handcuffs strange but has no issue tearing his tie off to keep you still

- horny drunk (said louder for the people in the back)

- tits

- always ramming his fingers in your mouth, just to make you gag and tear up

- because he’s a raging dacryphiliac

- especially when he’s been drinking

- did i mention he’s a horny drunk

- tits

[henrysmuse]

these beautifully tragic little gods who smoked too much, read too much, felt nothing, and pretended to feel everything

[henrysmuse]

henry winter is a lot of things, and a devout eyefucker is one of them. there’s no doubt in my mind that he’ll sit across the room from you and stare daggers until you’re wriggling uncomfortably in your seat.

although for most, it’s some sort of foreplay- and henry often makes good on his silent promises- it’s almost as if henry believes it’s genuinely possible to make you squeal with just a gaze. the thing is, he’s not wrong.

the way his eyes rake up and down your figure is deliberate, letting you know that he’s mentally undressing you, then laying you down, and then completely wrecking you. it’s like telepathic sex: you can tell henry’s thinking it, and so that makes you think about it, too, and before you know it you’re both red in the face and sinking deeper into your seats to try and hide it.

tldr henry’s an eyefucking pervert and i love it

[henrysmuse]

random romantic Henry hc’s ~ sfw

- can be a very soft lover when he is not in the presence of others. think gentle touches, fingers brushing against yours under tables, gentle patterns drawn lazily over legs stacked across his lap when lounged out over the sofa, fleeting kisses on your forehead as he passes by or gets up from bed.

- is a known pedant, he sees all the small details - there is no hiding from him, no matter how you feel, he knows. you’re happy? He will make note of the cause to repeat in the future. sad? you can’t hide it from him, he will find out why and deal with the problem at hand.

- doesn’t intentionally use his strength to impress you, but manages to do so anyway. he is by no means a show off, but he is not afraid to lift you up and carry you should he feel the need, say you are tired but refusing to go to bed, or are in any way inconvenienced by injury or illness.

- is deeply romantic. he is a traditionalist in every sense of the word. flowers because he can, expensive trips to Europe, symphonies, operas – and the clothes and jewels to match. nothing is every too much for his love.

- on that note, his love language is acts of service. not, perhaps in the traditional sense, but in bringing you intriguing books with handwritten notes and passages to further your studies, cups of tea or glasses of wine at seemingly random.

- proposes young. he is very sure in his decisions, and why would he want to trifle with anyone else when he has found his Penelope? you don’t meet his parents until long after said engagement, and very rarely after the first meeting.

- demands those around you show the same respect he does. this is not through any grandiose effort, but through the quietly calculated warnings he could convey with as little as a glance, or a few well placed, quiet words.

- he allows you to decorate his flat as you see fit. he will not admit it verbally, but he finds great comfort in the small echoes of you throughout the space, and doesn’t mind the excess of furniture as much as he thought he would.

- on the odd occasion, he does not mind you washing his hair in the bath. rather, he finds the motion of your nails against his scalp soothing, especially in the post-haze of a migraine. he would rather not share the tub with you, however, as the awkward positions puts too much weight on his damaged knee.

- values loyalty above anything else. Henry is nothing in his heart if not devoted, and he expects nothing less from his partner.

- late night drives when he can't sleep, with you curled up in the front passenger seat under his coat watching out the window at the passing trees and night sky.

- never shouts during arguments, but does go scarily quiet, unnervingly so. even if you end up screaming, he stays irritatingly passive, saying a few words at most until you tire yourself out. he rarely apologises either, but will climb into bed beside you at the end of the day regardless and rest a hand on your waist, squeezing softly. it's the best you'll get.

[henrysmuse]

i strongly believe that Henry would be particularly attentive to a partner who has a chronic illness, even if it might not have had that name back in the 1980s.

as someone who understands chronic pain on a far too intimate level, i feel he would be incredibly protective over his partner. he is a pedant, Richard says as much, his attention to the finest details is indisputable. he would be able to notice that you were having an episode almost before you knew yourself.

take a condition such as postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, for instance (for i wish to indulge myself for a moment), where the sufferer is prone to exceptionally high heart rate and fainting episodes. he would notice the moment your chest started to rise and fall that little bit quicker, offering you an arm if the two of you were walking together, in case you started to wobble.

similarly, on those hot, hazy days spent at Francis’ home, he would supply you with a steady stream of drinks, ‘fussing’ in his own monotone Henry way about you staying in the shade and not overexerting yourself.

not to mention when those terrible fainting episodes hit. he has grown rather accustomed to catching you as you topple, although it is an event he would rather avoid for both of your sakes, even if he is strong enough to ease you up into his arms and carry you to his bed.

in turn, i think he would be rather comforted by the mutual understanding you have with one another, and, for once, that he might have someone with whom he can let down a fraction of his mask when his leg sends that vile pain up his thigh, or who he trusts implicitly to apply the cold compress to his brow when his head aches so severely that he dares not open his eyes.

[henrysmuse]

current hobby; wandering around country houses and pretending that Henry is going to buy it for me as our engagement present