notthesoup

[notthesoup]

I love how you write for Henry X reader! In “Remedies and exorcising illnesses” he calls her Angel, and it’s now lodged in my brain. Could you write for a y/n who is angelic in looks and personality? Soft, delicate, kind, soothing, affectionate - an antithesis to the coldness and aloofness of the Greek class. I think Henry would be confused by this ‘weakness’ but it would be something precious too.

How the title came to be

Pairing: Henry Winter x Gn!Reader

Henry does not understand you.

From the moment you arrived, quiet and radiant as sunlight in morning mist, he regarded you with something like suspicion. You were so unlike the others. Unlike him. Your words were steel, yet you didn't use them to cut. You didn't push, you steered away.

You do not seem to belong here, among the cold brilliance of the Greek class. You are not like Richard, eager to please, nor Francis or Camilla, whose beauty is a thing edged with cruelty. You are warm, open in a way that feels almost anachronistic, as if you have stepped out of some forgotten painting. You are kind. And kindness, to Henry, has always been a means to an end—something given with expectation, a weakness to be exploited. But with you, it is different. You ask for nothing.

You confuse him not because you are kind, but because you mean it. Even now, in the amber glow of his study, you sit across from him, chin resting on your hand, utterly at ease. The others have gone—Francis outside smoking, Charles and Camilla murmuring by the piano—but you remain, watching him. You always watch him like this, as if he is something to be understood, not conquered.

"You should sleep," you say softly, watching the way the candlelight catches in the sharp planes of his face. "You look tired."

Henry doesn't answer immediately. He turns a page of his book, his expression unreadable. "I don’t require much sleep."

"That doesn’t mean you don’t need it." His eyes flick up to yours, sharp and measured, but you only smile at him. He has seen so many kinds of cruelty, so many manipulations, that he cannot comprehend the gentleness in your voice, the genuine concern in your face.

It should annoy him. He should find your softness weak, your kindness an inconvenience. But instead, it is something rare. Something precious. He watches as you lean back, stretching, the loose sleeve of your sweater slipping down your wrist. Everything about you is soft. Soft voice, soft skin, soft touch, soft heart. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this? With no calculation, no ulterior motive? The thought unsettles him.

"You worry too much," he says finally, a strange sort of amusement in his voice.

You tilt your head, considering him. "Someone has to."

The words should mean nothing. But later, when the house is quiet and he finds himself staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, he thinks of them again.

There is something unsettling about the way you care. Henry has spent his life surrounded by people who take. Even Julian, in all his refinement, is no exception. But you—you move through the world offering pieces of yourself freely, as if you do not realize how easily they can be stolen. It is infuriating.

Tonight, the others are loud, caught up in some half-drunken debate in Francis’ sitting room. Henry pays them no mind. He is watching you. You sit cross-legged on the floor, absently tracing the rim of an empty glass, listening rather than speaking. You have a way of disappearing into the edges of a room without anyone noticing. But Henry notices. He notices the quiet way you reach for someone’s wrist when they speak, the absentminded hum of agreement when you listen, the way your real smile is a little crooked before you straighten it. It is not the affected charm of Francis, nor the studied grace of Camilla. It is effortless. And it is dangerous.

Henry does not believe in weakness, but he believes in vulnerability. And you are vulnerable in a way he has never encountered before—not because you are naive, but because you refuse to be anything else but who you are. He wonders if you realize how easily you could be destroyed.

A glass shatters somewhere behind him. Francis swears. Charles laughs too loudly. You rise to your feet, retrieving a cloth from the table, and without a word, you crouch beside Francis, gathering the shards in your palm. Henry watches as you fold them carefully into the cloth. You do not flinch when a sharp edge slices your finger. A bead of blood wells up, bright red against your skin. Henry was half expecting you to bleed golden. He half doesn't believe you're only mortal, that the world can affect you.

A part of him wants to touch you. Not in any untoward way, not in the way Charles would after too many drinks, but simply—to know if you are real. He watches as you rise, moving past him to discard the broken pieces. And for the first time, he wonders if he has been mistaken. Because perhaps you are not fragile at all. Perhaps you are something else entirely.

You are not fragile. Henry sees that now. He had mistaken your kindness for something delicate, something easily broken. But there is a quiet resilience in you, something unshaken by the cold logic he wields so effortlessly. The others bend and fracture under the weight of their own making, but you remain. Soft, yes. But immovable. It is both maddening and—if he were to be honest with himself—impressive.

Henry has learned to recognize the sound of your footsteps. Light, unhurried, a quiet rhythm against the old wooden floors. You move like you belong, like the world will shape itself around you if given enough time. He doesn’t look up when you step into the study, but he knows it’s you.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” he says, turning a page in his book.

“I could say the same to you.” Your voice is soft, but not uncertain. You move past the desk, past the scattered papers, and stop near the fireplace, where the embers have begun to dim. He hears the rustle of fabric as you sit on the rug, tucking your knees to your chest.

“Do you ever stop thinking?” you ask after a moment.

Henry glances at you. Your profile is illuminated in the low firelight, your expression unreadable. “I doubt it,” he says.

You smile faintly, but say nothing. Silence stretches between you, easy and unpressured. Most people expect something from him—answers, decisions, approval. You never do.

At some point, you shift, lying back against the floor. Your fingers trace idle patterns against the fabric of your sleeve.

“Did you know,” you say absently, “that in some myths, Hypnos and Thanatos are twins?”

Henry closes his book, watching you. “Sleep and death.”

You hum in agreement, still gazing at the ceiling. “Two sides of the same thing.” A pause. Then, quieter: “You look more like one than the other.”

Henry considers this. It is not untrue. He has been told, more than once, that there is something inhuman about his stillness, his detachment. But there is no malice in your words, no judgment. Just observation. You shift slightly, turning your head to look at him. “You should sleep.”

“You should as well.”

“I am sleeping,” you say lightly. “My mind is resting. My eyes are just open.”

Henry exhales through his nose—almost, but not quite, a laugh. He does not argue.

Then, for reasons he cannot explain, he says—softly, without calculation—"Angel."

You blink. Just once. Henry does not know why he said it. The word is unfamiliar in his mouth, something sacred that should not belong to him. But the moment it leaves him, he knows it is right. Because what else could you be? Something too gentle for this world, too bright in its quiet way. Not a weakness, as he once thought, but something worse—something he cannot bear to ruin.

Your mouth twitches. You shake your head: "Hardly."

Henry shakes his head back at you. You don't argue either. It's not as though you are blind to his efforts to do his best to understand you. You know he only calls what he sees, not what he assumes you to be.

The night stretches on, and neither of you move.

[notthesoup]

Need you guys to know I am soooo anti generative AI. In case that wasn't clear. It's bad for the environment, unethical, theft, and will never be as freaky as me. It is inferior in every way

[notthesoup]

Wow, now there's a bot going around on Ao3 telling people that the "moderators" will delete works from "deprecated" fandoms and impose bans.

Fearmongering bullshit, but it's fearmongering bullshit that seems to be taking advantage of the recent spotlight series in order to trick authors into deleting their fics.

Just. Why.

What the hell does anyone get out of making these bots.

[notthesoup]

Mmmm trying to finish a show not because of the show but because it gave me a good au idea and I wanna understand how everything works before writing abt it 💔

[notthesoup]

In a turn of events, it seems I have an office job now

[notthesoup]

i love to put a guy in a situation

[notthesoup]

if you're a young writer and you're struggling to realize your epic magnum opus idea that you've built up in your head so much it's become a daunting drain on your creativity, this is your sign to drop that shit. just let it go. if it sucks hit da bricks. go write something fun instead

[notthesoup]

WHO ARE WE? WRITERS!

WHAT DO WE DO? WRITE!

WHEN DO WE DO IT?

And there was a silence...

[notthesoup]

nothing but respect for our troops (smut writers) but listen. i dont want to be the person to tell you this, but not every character is going to be a dom or a sub. some people. and i know this is hard to hear. but some people do have vanilla sex. and some of those people might even be The Character.

[notthesoup]

"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread

[notthesoup]

I’m employed 🎉 at a flower shop 💆‍♀️ so now I can properly write flower shop au’s 🧚‍♀️

[notthesoup]

Most blessed type of fandom experience tbh

[notthesoup]

a bad habit (chapter 2 of bbsml)

[notthesoup]

As a manuscript evaluator, I pray everyday that writers remember that there is more to intimacy between characters than just sex.

Just as a reminder: intimacy is the simple act of enjoying being with one another. When I get scenes of intimacy where the characters are bonding outside of, “Oh, this person is hot,” and I get to understand why these characters are compatible, it makes the manuscript a cut above the rest!!!

[notthesoup]

maybe this is just me idk

[notthesoup]

anyway… if anyone is looking to improve their reading & writing skills, i highly recommend this article by celine nguyen, which analyses the opening paragraphs of good essays to understand how and why they work. focuses on nonfiction but could apply generally i think

[notthesoup]

phantom touch

gekko x reader. she/her. reader does not have any physical descriptions.

it’s getting harder and harder for gekko to hide the fact he’s helplessly in love with you, and his critters are definitely not helping.

gekko knew he felt something like a “phantom touch” whenever his critters channeled their feelings into him, it just wasn’t something they did often. until now. 

there’s no doubt they know he’s in love with you, and maybe wingman is trying to be a wingman by jumping into your arms and nuzzling into your neck, all while tapping into gekko’s senses and inviting him to appreciate the warmth too.

it was too much, so overwhelming, he felt like exploding every single time. but you, so sweet and loving, did nothing to push away the critters, instead you did the exact opposite, cuddling them back and cooing at them for their cuteness.

one time you even gave thrash a kiss on the forehead. 

gekko’s entire face burned such a bright shade of scarlet you asked him if he was okay, cheek brushing against thrash and your hands rubbing gently at dizzy’s tummy.

the critters had the gall to chirp in concern too, the little shits. they knew exactly what they were doing, and gekko was definitely going to give them all a long lecture about playing with his love life when they get back to base. 

“i-i’m okay!” he says, sounding nothing near okay, inwardly cursing himself for being such a terrible liar.

you give thrash one more smooch on the forehead before setting her down atop a pillow beside you, catching gekko lurch in his seat from your peripheral with a sudden gasp,

“teo?” he cant hide from you now, not with you standing right before him with so much concern in your eyes. 

“you sure you’re okay?” and then you rest the back of your hand against his forehead and he breaks, hiding his face away in his hands and heaving a deep breath before jerking back in his seat again. “yes im okay,” he sounds like a broken record, still unconvincing as ever. you take a step back, offering some distance, “sorry i shouldn't have touched you without asking-“

“n-no its fine! i don’t mind i’m just-” he tilts his head up to glance at you but your eyes are already on his, unmoving, the eye contact is too intense, gekko can feel his face burning up again. you look guilty almost, and before gekko can attempt to reassure you again that he is okay, wingman is tugging at his pants and mosh jumps up to rest on his shoulder.

“little buddies seem worried too.” you comment, smiling softly at them as they gather around their owner. thrash zooms past you to settle on gekko’s lap, dizzy following in suit. gekko is glaring at them, grumbling in spanish to the critters who all gurgle and chirp in content despite his threatening tone. the interaction pulls a laugh out from your chest and the sound makes his heart tighten instantly. 

“believe it or not, they aren’t worried, they’re actually pretty happy.” gekko mutters, his attention leaving his critters and settling on you again.

“are they?” you tilt your head in amusement, gekko nods, “they like embarrassing me for some reason. i mean thrash, she’s always been naughty, wingman and mosh too. i’m just shocked by dizzy, the little traitor, i thought you were the sweet one?” he pouts at the critter, she does a flip afloat before curling up in his hand, a soft purr resonating from her tummy.

“embarrass you? how so?” you take the initiative to sit beside him now, thighs touching, the warmth of your body setting his aflame. “i try to teach them to be polite and on their best behavior around other agents, y’know? but no, wingman still rummages through the trash bin and thrash is still knocking things off of the table for fun.” he laughs. “they’ve been all over you lately to get a rise out of me.”

his words cause your brows to knit together in confusion, and it hits him then that he’s said too much and cornered himself under your gaze. 

“sage told me you could feel what they feel, is that true?” 

“y-yeah.” he admits, you’re nodding your head in understanding, lips curling at the corners at the new information. “interesting. so whenever i kiss thrash, you feel it too?” you’re leaning in closer to him, invading his personal space, close enough to count his eyelashes and to really admire just how rosy his cheeks have become.

gekko opens his mouth before closing it, unsure of how to respond, brain shutting down at the sudden close proximity. 

“teo? you with me?” you’re tilting your  head at him again while taking his hand in yours, a smug smile painting its way onto your lips when gekko’s eyes widen at the ministration. “i-i y-yeah i-i’m here-” he manages, and you laugh while squeezing his hand, and he feels his heart soar. 

“so do you?” you poke again, and gekko breathes deeply before nodding, “yeah, i do feel it… when you kiss them.” 

“why didn’t you say anything? probably made you uncomfortable--” 

“n-no its fine i don’t mind.”

“you don’t mind?” 

“no, i mean, its like a phantom feeling, i’ll feel all warm and tingly, its actually kinda nice.” he admits, and he’s cursing himself immediately after because fuck he said too much again and you have that grin on your face, the one you make when you’re up to no good.

“you like the feeling of my kisses?” you're reaching for his face now, cupping his cheek in your hands, they’re so warm, but gekko’s cheeks are definitely hotter. 

his eyes meet yours, heart blaring in his ears, so nervous and terrified for what's next. 

he nods, and your smile widens, he said the right thing? 

you rest your forehead against his, “bet it’d feel better directly though, wouldn’t it?” you offer, giggling when mateo’s eyes widen in disbelief at your words. he’s gaping at you, stuttering out a bunch of ums and doing everything in his power to avoid your eyes.

your laughter continues, sending a flurry of butterflies haywire in his tummy, and then you’re tilting his head up to meet his gaze again, to take in his flustered state and bashful expression, “oh teo you’re so cute.” you coo, leaning forward and pecking the corner of his mouth once. 

his heart is practically banging against his ribcage at this point, he feels far too hot than what is probably physically safe, and you’re still holding his face in your hands and staring deep into his soul and it’s too much-

he breaks, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, “you’re gonna fucking kill me, cariño.” he mumbles against you, his breath warm and tickling the sensitive skin of your collarbone.  

asks are open! stop by to chat or send a request! -v <3