orphicreveries

[orphicreveries]

Goddddddd how I love your Henry he's so in character!!!! Your writing is sosososooooo good I swear I'm always happy when I see you wrote something!

I dunno if you write for poly but have you thought about writing something about FReader x Henry x Camilla??? Like, Henry and his two girlfriends??? It would b soooo cute/hot

AHHH TYSM, I have in fact never written a polyamorous relationship before, but here I am trying my best before you sweetheart<3(I took way to long with this I’m so sorry):

Francis’s townhouse. It’s late. There’s red wine on your tongue and Bach echoing softly from the other room. You’re curled up on the velvet settee with Camilla, knees touching, her perfume heady and floral. Henry sits across from you both, watching.

There’s something heavy in the air. Not tension, desire, maybe. Or ownership. Camilla brushes your hair behind your ear, lazily, like she’s done it a thousand times. Henry’s expression doesn’t change, but you know that look. That sharpened interest. That particular hunger he reserves for things he’s already decided belong to him.

And tonight? That includes both of you.

It starts slow. Of course it does.

There’s candlelight. Of course there is. Francis lit them ages ago, too many of them, like the room is some overindulgent chapel to classical hedonism. The wine is red and teeth-staining. Camilla’s shoulder is pressed against yours on the couch, warm, bare, steady. You’re not sure when she started playing with the hem of your skirt. Henry hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes.

He’s just watching.

From the armchair across from you, legs crossed, a book in his lap he’s no longer reading. He’s pretending to, but his eyes keep flicking upward, every few seconds, lazy and deliberate. Watching Camilla toy with you. Watching your breath stutter.

When her hand starts trailing up your thigh, you’re taken by surprise but there’s the tiniest twitch of your mouth. Satisfaction. Because Henry’s so enamoured that he can’t even pretend to read the book anymore, his eyes are glued on the erotic scene before him.

Camilla tilts your chin toward her, kisses you softly. She tastes like wine and expensive lipstick, and her fingers are gentle as they slide under your shirt, like she’s studying you. Like you’re a painting in some ruined Florentine museum, already cracked and half-faded, and she still wants to press her mouth to every inch of you, you want to do the same, your fingers knotted in her short golden locks while you savour the feeling of her lips on yours, enjoying the way it makes Henry squirm.

Henry only moves when you whimper.

You’re half in her lap, one hand braced against the couch cushion, the other twisted in her pale hair. When you bite her bottom lip, just lightly, she laughs into your mouth, breathless and flushed.

Behind you, Henry speaks. Cool. Measured. Amused.

“Careful,” he murmurs in your ear, and it’s not clear if he’s talking to you or Camilla. “She’ll fall in love with you.”

Camilla barely pulls away to murmur, soft and silken, “Wouldn’t that be the worst.”

You don’t even have time to process the weight of that before Henry is suddenly there. Hands slipping under your thighs from behind, shifting you in Camilla’s lap so your legs fall open over hers. She gasps as your body presses close to hers—bare thighs touching, chest to chest, and you realize what he’s doing only as you feel the first teasing touch of his fingers between your legs.

“Henry,” you breathe out, startled and already aching.

He says nothing, but you can hear the smirk in his silence. His fingers stroke slowly, lazily like he’s got all the time in the world because he already knows what makes you fall apart.

You’re trembling already, hips jerking slightly, and Camilla wraps her arms around your waist to steady you.

Your fingers trail up her bare thigh, then higher. She gasps when your hand slips beneath her skirt. She’s soaked, warm, and soft under your fingers, and when you press into her, she moans right into your mouth.

That’s when you both start really kissing, sloppy, wet, desperate. Hands tangled in each other’s hair, bodies rocking against each other with Henry between you, driving you closer with every slow thrust of his fingers.

Your fingers curl inside Camilla at the same time Henry curls his inside you. You both cry out, into each other’s mouths, into the humid warmth of the room.

It’s a loop of sensation, Henry stroking you from behind, Camilla gasping into your mouth, your hand working her open while your body trembles in her lap. Henry’s so enamoured, he could get off at the sight alone.

Henry leans in close now, his mouth near your ear.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “Fucking her while I fuck you. You’ll make her fall in love yet.”

Camilla’s close, you can feel it in the way her hips are rocking, shallow and helpless, her whimpers rising in pitch against your mouth. You’re both falling into it now, drunk off each other’s bodies, off Henry’s quiet, breathy “yes, just like that” as his fingers fuck you deeper, slower, drawing you out while you give Camilla everything.

Her breath breaks against your cheek. “I’m gonna—oh—please—”

You kiss her through it. Let her moan into your mouth as she comes on your fingers, clutching your arm with a desperation that surprises you. Her body shudders against yours, flushed and limp and shaking.

And somehow it undoes you.

The heat of her, the pressure of Henry’s hand still working inside you, the sheer closeness of it all, it sends you spiraling. Your body tenses and then breaks. You cry out into Camilla’s neck, eyes squeezed shut, thighs clamping around Henry’s hand. He moans, actually moans, low and dark as you clamp down on his fingers, your whole body arching forward.

You don’t even realize what’s happening until Camilla gasps and lets out a breathless laugh.

“Oh my God,” she says, half-giggling, half-moan, her palm cradling your flushed cheek as she pants. “Did you—?”

You’re still trembling. “What?”

And then Henry, Henry Winter, composed and calculating and cold, lets out the quietest, shattered little sound.

You twist back enough to see him, his chest rising and falling, lips parted slightly, and the wet stain dark on the front of his trousers.

He doesn’t even apologize.

Just sits there, eyes closed, panting. The sluttiest sight you’ve ever seen.

Breathless and still on Camilla’s lap, “Well, now who’s falling in love?” You manage to pant out.

Henry doesn’t answer. He just leans in and finally, finally, kisses you. Quiet, reverent, and completely undone.

[orphicreveries]

On the boat in the heat of summer, I guess

The wood of the boat is warm beneath your thighs, sun-drunk and lazy where you sit facing Henry, the two of you tucked away in some quiet inlet of the lake. The others are back at the house, sprawled out under fans and ice cubes and open windows, but Henry had suggested the boat, quietly, lowly, with that glint in his eye that meant he didn’t just want to row.

You’re both flushed from the wine, beads of sweat slipping down the back of your neck, and Henry looks unfairly composed, rolled sleeves, open collar, dark hair mussed just so from the heat. He watches you from beneath half-lidded eyes as you shift closer on the bench, the boat swaying gently beneath you.

“I’m melting,” you murmur, breathless.

He hums low in his throat, setting his glass down. “Then take your clothes off.”

You scoff, but his eyes flick down to your exposed thighs. He doesn’t look back up.

Minutes later, your dress pushed up, his belt undone, you’re straddling his lap, knees braced on either side of him. The lake is still, the trees quiet, the only sound is faint lap of water against wood and the lazy creak of the boat as it rocks, and your soft sighs against Henry’s ear.

“Look at you,” Henry murmurs, hand dragging up your thigh. “A proper naiad, drunk off wine and sin.”

He guides himself against you and you whimper, rocking forward as his mouth grazes your shoulder, teeth just barely catching your skin. He slips in slow, almost reverent, and you sink down with a gasp, dizzy from the stretch, the heat, the weight of him.

The sun blazes above, and Henry is all breath and grip and low voice beneath you. His hands stay on your hips, guiding you into a slow, wet rhythm. “Just like that,” he murmurs, voice soaked in praise. “Sweetheart… made to ride me, weren’t you?”

Your hands clutch his shoulders as the pleasure builds, wine-blurred and overwhelming, and he groans, deep and guttural, as you tighten around him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to your collarbone. “You’re- Christ. You feel like you were poured out just for me.”

When you come, it’s messy and hot and slow, your thighs trembling, his name spilling from your mouth like prayer. And he follows with a stuttering groan, hands fisting in your dress, mouth hot and open against your throat.

Afterward, he cradles you in his lap, chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. The boat sways softly beneath you, and the sun beats down, but neither of you speak for a long time.

Just the sound of water… and his fingertips idly tracing along your thigh.

You return to the house glowing, no other word for it, really.

Your dress is damp where it clings to your skin, your hair a mess from the lake breeze and Henry’s hands. You think you might still be drunk on the wine, or maybe on him. Either way, your legs are trembling and your lips are swollen, and you’re fairly certain there’s a bite mark in between your left thigh , hidden by the hem of your dress.

Francis is sprawled across the chaise in the sitting room, fanning himself with a record sleeve. “There you are,” he drawls. “I thought you’d drowned.”

Henry gives a faint smirk, like he’s still tasting you on his tongue. “Not quite.”

“No, really, the second Francis mentioned the notion of the two of you drowning, it sent Camilla into a near cardiac arrest” quipped Bunny from the counter, a frosted bottle of gin pressed to the side of his face.

You cross the room carefully, heart still hammering in your chest. No one says anything about the blush in your cheeks or the way Henry’s shirt buttons are misaligned.

Later, after dinner, after wine-stained laughter and a lazy sunset, you slip upstairs to rinse off the lake water. You barely close the bathroom door before Henry’s there again, slipping in behind you like a shadow.

“You’re limping,” he murmurs against your neck, arms sliding around your waist, holding eye contact with you through the mirror.

You let out a soft breath. “Whose fault is that?”

He hums, presses a kiss to the nape of your neck. “Let me help.”

In the low light of the bathroom, with your back to him and the sink counter pressing into your thighs, his hands explore you again, slow, reverent. There’s no hurry now, no risk of being seen. Just the two of you, and the heat of the house, and the echo of the lake in your limbs.

“You should see yourself,” Henry whispers, kissing just below your ear. “You look ruined.”

You smile, and turn your head to meet his gaze. “You like that?”

He grins into your skin. “I love it.”

[orphicreveries]

First time trying angst😀

Note: I just edited this and added smut to it, sorry I can’t help it💔💔

It’s subtle at first. At least, you think it is.

You don’t sit beside Henry in the seminar room, something you always do. You choose the seat across the table instead, carefully avoiding his gaze, even when Julian makes a pointed comment about the Iliad that would normally have you glancing to Henry automatically, silently trading thoughts.

But not today.

Today, (and a portion of yesterday) you turn a page in your notebook and pretend Henry Winter does not exist.

The rest of the Greek class notices by the ten-minute mark.

Francis keeps darting glances between the two of you, Camilla raises a brow once, then quietly kicks Charles under the table when he starts whispering about it. Richard, ever perceptive, probably noticed too, but he never said anything.

Henry, for his part, is infuriatingly composed. Not a muscle moves. Not a word is said.

But he watches you.

He always watches you.

When you make a comment in class, his eyes are locked on you. When you reach for your coffee, his gaze tracks the movement. When you laugh at something Richard says, his eyes are burning a whole in the side of your face.

After class, the group lingers in the marble hallway, the smell of old books and tobacco thick in the air. You’re already halfway out the door when you hear it:

“So,” Charles says too loudly, too cheerfully. “Are you two, uh… good?”

Camilla groans. “Oh, for god’s sake—”

“We’re fine,” Henry replies flatly. His voice is calm, even, deceptively bored.

You don’t stop walking.

You hear his footsteps before he speaks.

Even with the echo of rain outside and the sound of your own brisk steps down the marble hallway, you know it’s him. Henry never rushes. He simply appears, unhurried, inevitable.

“You’re being childish,” he says, coldly but somehow still softly.

You don’t look at him, or gratify him with an answer.

“I didn’t think you’d actually mind,” he mutters.

Your steps falter briefly, and you turn to him with disbelief. “Of course I minded, Henry. That’s the entire point.”

His brow furrows, irritation flickering in his expression, but there’s something else too, something like regret, curling just beneath the surface. He doesn’t apologize. He never does.

So you roll your eyes, start walking again. He follows.

Eventually, he sighs. “Are you going to talk to me at some point?”

You don’t answer.

He chuckles under his breath, low and humorless. “Fine. Punish me. Give the Greek class a show.”

You don’t look at him. “Stop trying to distract me from the task at hand.”

There’s a pause. “What’s the task at hand?”

“Not talking to you. Teaching you a lesson. Teaching you that you can’t do whatever you want and still expect people to adore you for it. I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.”

You push open the heavy front door to Hampden, stepping out into the rain without hesitation. It’s that steady, misty Vermont drizzle, the kind that sinks into your clothes and hair like smoke. You feel his presence behind you but keep walking, chin tilted upward like it might make the wetness noble.

“Are you walking?” he asks eventually.

“Yes.”

“In the rain?”

“I like the rain.”

He scoffs lightly. “No, you don’t.”

“You don’t know that” you reply flatly

“I do”

You stop on the edge of the gravel path, soaked already, turning to finally face him. He looks annoyingly composed under the archway, rain misting his dark hair, hands in the pockets of that stupid coat you’d left folded neatly on his chair the night before.

“Stop talking to me,” you snap at him, and begin trudging down the path, through the downpour.

There’s a beat of silence. Then of course, he follows.

“You’re being willfully immature,” he says evenly, just behind your shoulder, like he’s correcting a mistranslation.

“Don’t patronise me, Henry.” You pick up the pace, “And stop following me.” You say over your shoulder

He doesn’t answer. His footsteps fall in time with yours, quiet and deliberate on the rain-slick gravel. You increase your pace. So does he.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” he says, tone as calm as ever.

You whip around. “Then why are you still walking with me?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Almost a challenge. “You seem intent on proving a point. I thought I might observe.”

Your jaw clenches. You don’t dignify it with a response. Instead, you turn back around and keep walking, through the gray, through the steady drops of rain. Water soaks into your shoes, your sleeves, your hair. You don’t look at him again, not even when you hear him fall into step beside you.

He doesn’t speak. Just walks beside you in silence.

By the time you reach the house, your clothes are plastered to your skin and your limbs ache from the cold. Rain’s still drumming hard against the roof when you unlock the front door, stepping into the dim hush of the hallway without a word. Henry follows.

You don’t bother offering him a towel or even turning on the light. You just peel off your coat, leave it dripping by the door, and stalk into the kitchen. He’s close behind, shoes echoing softly on the wood floor.

You grab the half-finished bottle of wine from the counter, something expensive, something Francis left behind last time, and you take a long pull straight from the neck.

Henry’s standing there in the entryway to the kitchen, eyes sharp despite the rain dripping from his hair. He watches as you tip your head back, jaw tight, throat working with each swallow.

Your dress is soaked through. The thin material clings to your skin, see-through in the light. He notices. Of course he notices. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead he says, “I didn’t make you walk.”

You scoff. “Don’t start.”

“You’re the one who told me to stop talking. I assumed you’d prefer silence.”

“I asked you to stop following me too, so I guess you assumed wrong.”

“That happens more often lately,” he says lightly, leaning back against the wall like he has all the time in the world. “You’re getting impossible to read.”

You take another swig. “Maybe you’re just not as clever as you think you are.”

There’s a pause, only a second, but weighted, and then he pushes off the wall, takes a slow step toward you. “So this is how it is now? I offer you a ride and you act like I’ve committed treason.”

You scoff “first of all, you didn’t offer me anything, you decided to follow me here like a stray dog.”

“Better that than letting you catch pneumonia out of spite.”

“How chivalrous, now we’ll die of pneumonia together” you mutter.

“I followed you because I was worried” he states solemnly.

“Uh huh.”

He laughs once, low and dry. “I forgot how dramatic you get when you’ve had a bad day.”

You shove past him, heat rising to your face. “Go home, Henry.”

“I’m already here.”

You don’t answer him. You stand by your counter, seemingly focused on the swishing liquid inside the wine bottle.

“You don’t hate me,” he says finally, voice low. “You’re just angry. And cold.”

“Don’t tell me what you think I am.”

“And maybe slightly drunk.” He concludes.

You look over your shoulder at him, eyes narrow. “And you’re soaked through and smug and still refusing to apologize.”

He lifts a brow. “Apologize for what? Offering you a ride?”

You let out a laugh, cold and incredulous, and turn your back to him as you reach for a bottle of bourbon . “It was never about the ride, and you know that.” You sift through your cutlery draw for a corkscrew.

There’s a pause. You uncork the bottle with the force of someone trying not to throw something. You take a long drink from the bottle, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Is this about earlier?” he asks. Still too even. “When Bunny said that thing about Camilla?”

You don’t answer, not directly. You just lower the bottle and stare at him across the small kitchen, your dress clinging to your thighs like a second skin. “It didn’t seem to bother you.”

“It was Bunny,” he says, making the deduction from the expression your face made when he mentioned the earlier incident. “He says worse about all of us.”

“But you let him,” you say. “You always let him. That’s the thing.”

Henry’s brow twitches. A fraction. “Let him what?”

“Imply,” you say. “Invent. Be a fucking idiot. And you, God, you just stand there and let him believe whatever suits him.”

“I didn’t realise I was responsible for curating Bunny’s reality.”

“You’re responsible for me,” you say, and it’s out before you can stop it.

The silence that follows is short but biting.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.” you mutter, already turning away. “Forget it.”

“No,” he says. “Say it again.”

You whip around. “You don’t get to play dumb, Henry. Not when you fuck me and then let people think it’s Camilla sneaking into your room. Not when you—” You stop. Too much, too fast.

He studies you. His clothes are clinging to him, his shoes leaving puddles on your floor. His eyes are darker in the low light, but not unfeeling. “You think I’m ashamed of you.”

The silence thay follows is truly tragic.

“I think you’re hiding me.”

He shakes his head once, slow and disbelieving, like you’ve gotten the answer to a simple equation horribly wrong. “That isn’t true.”

“But you won’t say anything. You never do. Not when they ask. Not when they guess.”

He steps toward you. “And you think it’s because I don’t care.”

“I think,” you say, voice sharp and low, “that you like having me when it’s convenient. When no one’s looking.”

He’s in front of you now, close enough to reach out, though he doesn’t.

“You’re wrong,” he says. Quietly. Almost gently. “But I’m not in the habit of correcting idiots like Bunny. I assumed you weren’t either.”

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth. You raise the bottle to your lips again, taking a particularly large swig. “Well,” you say, “maybe I just wanted to hear it. Once. That you don’t want her.”

He exhales, almost a laugh, but without any real amusement. “You think I’d do this with Camilla?”

“I don’t know what you’d do, Henry. That’s the point.”

He reaches for the bottle, takes it from your hand with unhurried fingers, and sets it down on the counter.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says. “If anything, I’m surprised you’re not ashamed of me.”

“Don’t be daft.” You say in a tone that he can’t tell if you want to break the bottle of bourbon over his head, or kiss him until he’s completely dizzy.

You look up at him. His hair’s dripping into his eyes. You want to hate him. You want to kiss him. You want to cry.

“Get out of your wet clothes,” you mutter. “You’ll ruin the floor.”

He doesn’t move.

“Will you let me stay?” he asks.

You look at him for a long moment, then sigh, and step back.

“Only because it’s pouring outside, and your car’s on the other side of campus.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain had been steady for hours now, a soft percussive rhythm on the sloped tin of the veranda roof. The sound had dulled everything else, the creak of old wicker chairs, the scrape of ceramic against wood as you shifted your mug, and between the two of you, nothing but that thin hush of storm and the slow, deliberate rustle of paper.

Henry sat across from you, sleeves rolled up to the forearms, a faint bruise flowering just beneath the collar of his shirt, from you, you were certain, though neither of you had mentioned it. His brow was furrowed, reading glasses low on his nose, fingers stained faintly with ink from a leaky fountain pen. Between you sat a Latin translation he had assigned and then half-forgotten, and you were determined to pretend it mattered, because if it didn’t, you would have had to look at him.

It was not silence between you. Not quite. But it was something very near it—an intentional, delicate sort of quiet that had to be preserved. A quiet born from earlier pettiness, still fresh enough to sting. You hadn’t spoken, not really, since the argument. Since the rain. Since he’d followed you back to the house like some sullen retriever, trailing just behind your dripping coat and offering nothing by way of apology except the arch of an eyebrow and a sigh like it had all been terribly inconvenient for him.

You sipped your coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, black as ash. You weren’t even sure why you were still awake. Maybe for the same reason he was. The shared inability to sleep with anything unfinished.

He cleared his throat. You ignored him.

“Aetas prima canebat,” he said flatly, from the text between you.

Your eyes flicked up, narrowed. “The first age sang.”

A pause. The patter of rain.

“You missed the nuance,” Henry said coolly, like this was a classroom, and not a balcony strung together with fog and caffeine and residual disdain

You arched a brow. “And you missed the point.”

He glanced up at you then, slow and surgical. “I find your attempts at punishment strangely inconsistent.”

“Good,” you said crisply, turning another page. “I’m still workshopping.”

Another pause. The mug in your hand felt hot again, somehow. Or maybe your palms had gone cold.

Henry shifted in his chair, leaned back just slightly, watching you over the rim of his own mug. His voice was lower now, more idle. “So. Are we back to teaching me a lesson?”

You didn’t look at him. “You’re a fast learner. I thought I’d make it harder this time.”

A smirk flickered across his mouth, brief and dry and fleeting.

Outside, the rain kept falling. The kind of rain that made you feel like time had stopped altogether, the hours smeared into watercolor. The air smelled like earth and wet stone. You wondered if the others were asleep, if Francis had remembered to close the greenhouse windows.

And still, the silence stretched, warm and uneasy and shared.

Henry’s chair scraped softly against the floor as he shifted again. “You’ve spilled ink on the tablecloth.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look up.

But under the table, your foot brushed against his, accidentally or not, and you didn’t move it away.

It starts the way these things always do—with nothing. An errant brush of fingers when reaching for the same page, your hand flinching slightly as it touches his. He doesn’t pull away.

You can feel his gaze on you again, that measured, unreadable kind of stare. The kind he reserves for manuscripts and rare books and particularly stubborn people.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not looking up from the page.

“You’ve ink on your knuckle.”

You raise your hand, inspect it idly. “Tragic.”

There’s a long pause. You hear the soft clink of his cup being set down, the creak of wicker as he leans forward. And then, very low,

“I don’t like it when you’re angry with me.”

You glance at him then, finally. His hair’s still damp from the walk, pushed back carelessly, his shirt clinging faintly to his chest. There’s a faint scowl in his expression, but it’s tempered by something else, something softer beneath the usual marble.

You hesitate. “You don’t act like it.”

“No,” he agrees. “I suppose I don’t.”

You close the book.

He watches you, and you watch him. The air is heavy with late-night humidity and half-swallowed words.

Slowly, you move your chair back, the legs scraping softly against the veranda wood, and step toward him, knees brushing his, then thighs. He looks up at you, calm, silent. You settle yourself in his lap.

He exhales once through his nose, sharp and amused, as if to say really? now? but his hands go to your waist anyway, steadying you. You lean in, your breath mingling with his.

There’s no kiss. Not yet. Just the sound of the rain and your breath and the tension humming between you like a taut string.

“You’re impossible,” you murmur.

“So you’ve said.”

Your noses are nearly touching. One of his hands slips beneath the hem of your nightdress, quiet, reverent. Fingers brush the inside of your thigh. You sigh softly, your forehead tipping against his.

And then finally, he slides two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, the stretch achingly familiar. Your breath stutters. His mouth doesn’t move at first, just hovers near your ear, warm and maddeningly close.

And then, low and rough:

“I’m sorry.”

The words come like a secret. Not an admission of guilt but of desire. Of wanting you happy. Of knowing he’s wounded something delicate and not knowing how to mend it except like this.

You don’t answer, not with words.

Your hips roll slightly into his hand, and you let your lips ghost against his jaw. The book sits forgotten on the table beside you, the pages fluttering gently in the wind. And outside, the rain keeps falling, soft and steady and without end.

You shift on his lap, barely, but the movement is enough to make you gasp, a quiet, stunned sound that escapes before you can stifle it. His fingers work inside you with quiet precision, not hurried or desperate, but purposeful. Like everything Henry does, there’s a method. A kind of cold poetry to it.

Your head tips back slightly, eyes fluttering closed, and he’s still watching you. Always watching. His breath brushes the side of your neck, steady despite the rising tension in you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so soft you might be imagining it.

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.

It doesn’t take long. The ache in your belly has been simmering for hours, since the argument, since the tension, since the moment he refused to let you walk home alone in the rain. And now, as his thumb circles and his fingers curl just so, you fall.

Quietly. Softly. A faint gasp against the shell of his ear, your body trembling just once, like a note plucked from a string.

You come undone in silence, brow pressed to his temple, teeth grazing your lip to stay quiet. When it’s over, you exhale shakily, heart thudding in your chest like a bell.

Then comes the pause. The moment after.

You blink, awareness sliding back in, mortification following close behind. You clear your throat, gently shifting away from his lap.

“I should…” You glance toward the house, voice breathy, subdued. “I’m going to bed.”

He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t say anything at all.

Only watches you rise, wordless, as you walk back toward the door barefoot, your nightdress clinging to your legs, your skin still humming.

The rain hasn’t let up. Neither has the silence.

[orphicreveries]

Some Bacchanal Filth (before they’ve established their relationship) (from this poll)

The room is spinning with the kind of delirium only too much wine and incense can summon. Oil lamps flicker shadows over flushed skin and sheer togas. Someone is singing in bad Latin, someone else is laughing too loudly at nothing. The grapes are rotting in a bowl nearby.

No one notices.

You’re on Henry’s lap in the corner, legs straddled over his, the fabric of your drapes barely clinging to your body. His hand is fisted in the thin fabric at your lower back, anchoring you down while his cock splits you open slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. He’s still dressed, mostly, it was sinful really, the sight of him in pale linen robes, hair mussed, face feverish.

You’re trying to stay still. Really, you are.

But his hands won’t let you, and neither will his voice, low against your ear, coated in honeyed venom “Don’t make a sound,” he murmurs. “Unless you want them to watch.”

You clench around him involuntarily. His teeth catch your earlobe.

“You like the risk, don’t you?” he breathes. “Filthy little thing, bouncing on my cock while your friends toast Dionysus ten feet away.”

Your fingers clutch his shoulders. His cock drags deep inside you, slow and unyielding, and you know you should be afraid someone will see. But the thought that they might, and that Henry doesn’t give a damn, only makes you wetter.

He lets one hand slide up your thigh, pushing your toga aside just enough to touch where you’re soaked and stretched around him. You whimper against his throat. He shushes you, cruel and amused.

“Be quiet,” he says again. “Or I’ll pull out and make you finish on your knees.”

You’re shaking now, trembling where you sit on him, trying to keep some semblance of control, trying to stay composed while he ruins you slow and steady. But Henry, as always, is two steps ahead. One hand still gripping your hip, the other snakes between your bodies and circles your clit in lazy, calculated strokes.

“You’re dripping,” he murmurs, voice thick with mock pity. “Do you think they’d still call you innocent if they saw what a mess you’re making on me?”

Your head drops forward onto his shoulder, breath stuttering out of you, and he huffs a quiet laugh.

“Don’t hide,” he says. “Let me see you. Let them.”

You lift your head and meet his gaze, and that’s when you realize it: he wants someone to see. The thought turns your stomach inside out. Not because you’re afraid, but because you’re desperate. The depravity of it, the closeness, the forbidden filth of his fingers still sliding over your soaked clit while his cock sits deep, pulsing inside you…

“Henry—” you gasp.

He presses a firm hand against your lower back, grinding you forward just enough to knock the breath out of you.

“Not yet,” he growls. “You’ll come when I say.”

There’s a loud crash behind you, someone knocks over a chalice, maybe, laughter rises in the haze. No one looks your way. No one sees the way you arch forward, or the way Henry’s hand tightens on your hip as he thrusts just once, hard and deep, eyes locked on yours.

“You look divine like this,” he murmurs. “Ruined on my cock while the world continues around us.”

You clench, thighs quivering.

And finally, finally he whispers: “Come for me. Now.”

You don’t even get a warning cry out before it hits you. Hard. Body shaking, mouth open but silent, hips jerking as pleasure wracks through you so violently you almost fall forward. Henry catches you against his chest, his hand never stilling, letting you ride it out fully, shamelessly, every last tremor.

And when it’s done, when you’re sagging against him, ruined and spent, he presses a kiss to your temple, breath still heavy.

“I hope you remember this the next time you try to look me in the eye and pretend you’re untouched,” he says. “Because I won’t.”

You’re still in his lap, barely conscious, your limbs heavy and trembling as the world tilts just slightly around you. The scent of sweat and wine hangs thick in the air, and you can feel the thud of the music still pulsing through the stone floor beneath you. Someone’s laughing across the hall. Someone’s crying. But all you can hear is your own breath, shallow against his collarbone.

Henry hasn’t moved. One arm around your waist, possessive and grounding. The other trailing slow, lazy fingers along the curve of your bare thigh. He’s still inside you, softening, twitching, leaking, but neither of you make any attempt to move. You’re too far gone for that. Too drunk, too fucked-out, too dazed to speak.

“Can’t believe you let me do that,” he murmurs finally, lips brushing your temple. His voice is thick, like molasses, like red wine soaked into velvet. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

You hum, barely.

“No, you won’t,” he adds, almost to himself. “You’ll pretend like it didn’t happen. Like you didn’t cry when I made you come.”

You close your eyes and try to breathe. Everything aches in a delicious, burning way. Your cunt, overstretched. Your thighs, shaking. Your lips, swollen from his kisses and the wine and the desperate way you’d begged him without words.

You don’t respond, not with words. Just bury your face against his neck and breathe in the heady mix of sex and sweat and sandalwood. He presses his lips to your hair and laughs softly, drunken and low and just a little unhinged.

“What’ve we done?”

And still, neither of you move.

Not yet.

Not while the world spins and the candlelight flickers and your bodies stay tangled, hot and slick and trembling in the middle of a hall full of sinners.

[orphicreveries]

hey queen! I just wanted to say I absolutely love your writing, your Henry smut is literally on another level🩷🩷

OMG thanks queen!!! I’m literally blushing. I’m sauurrr happy you like it, because Henry is so foine and he just gets us all so hot and bothered💔💔💔

[orphicreveries]

I have like 3 drafts just sitting there and I’m unsure of which one to post💔💔💔 so I’ve decided upon doing a poll!

[orphicreveries]

Part 2 of Henry Winter eating you out whilst making you translate Greek:

You’ve barely made it through two lines.

You should be fluent, or at least passable, but every time your eyes skim the Greek, Henry’s mouth drags against you, tongue deliberate, maddening. He’s not even trying to be kind about it anymore.

He’s slow.

Precise.

Cruel, in the way that makes your thighs ache and your mind turn blank.

“I—I can’t,” you gasp, fingers gripping the worn leather of the book.

Henry pauses. Looks up at you, lips slick with you. His expression is maddeningly calm. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

You’re already shaking your head, breath caught in your throat. “Please, I—I can’t think—”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the gesture almost reverent, then leans forward and kisses your inner thigh like you’re blessed.

“Not even halfway through,” he says, tongue teasing again, soft but relentless. “And already giving up?” He tilts his head. “I thought you were smart.”

You whimper, hips bucking involuntarily. He clamps his hands around your thighs and holds you still.

“I’m not stopping,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your core with all the patience of a sadist. “You’ll translate when you can. Or not. I’ll still get something out of you eventually.”

You let the book slip from your hands, head thrown back against the leather. “Henry—”

“Shhh,” he soothes, fingers now involved, rubbing slow, perfect circles. “Don’t think, sweetheart. Just let me ruin you.”

And you do

He buries his face back between your thighs with no restraint now, none of that torturous patience he had while you read. Just mouth and tongue and desperate, filthy need. You’re already on the edge, shaking so hard you think you might black out, and he’s devouring you like he wants to make you forget your name, your language, the world.

And just before you come, he lifts his mouth just barely to whisper filthy atrocities, really, into your skin before completely finishing you off.

And when you do, the only thing you can say…again and again, is his name.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, legs spread over his, skin flushed and slick from where his mouth left its mark. He’s already hard beneath you, pressed firm against the slick heat of you, but he makes no move to take you fully yet. Instead, he picks up the book again, flips to the page with infuriating calm, and taps the paragraph with one long finger.

“Again,” he murmurs. “From the top.”

You blink at him, dazed. “W-What?”

“You said you could translate,” Henry says, tone casual, though his hand is already wrapped around your hip, grinding you slow against him. “So do it.”

The words blur on the page as you attempt to focus, his other hand sliding between your thighs again, unrelenting. “First line,” he says, voice low and amused. “I’ll stop if you mess it up.”

You choke on your own breath as his fingers slip inside you, impossibly slow.

“Translate it,” he demands. “Now.”

Your voice is shaking when you begin, stumbling through the Greek, translating each line to English with a strained whimper between words. He doesn’t stop moving beneath you, doesn’t stop touching you. Every slip-up is met with a firm grip on your hips, a hard grind up, the twitch of his cock beneath you like a threat.

“You’re making a mess all over my trousers,” he murmurs against your throat. “And for what? A few poorly spoken lines?” He lets his lips brush your ear. “Come on, sweetheart, you’re a good scholar, you can do better than that, can’t you?”

You moan, louder than you mean to, and Henry laughs, breath hot against your skin. “What’s the matter, darling?” he whispers. “Does the syntax get harder the wetter you are?”

You whimper as your thighs begin to tremble again, and his voice lowers, just above a growl. His fingers move inside you at an achingly slow pace.

“Finish the translation before you finish. Or I’ll start the passage over.”

You’re already shaking—your muscles twitching with the effort of holding on, holding anything together. His voice is velvet-covered steel behind your ear, and the way his fingers crook inside you is maddening—precision weaponry, designed to break you down to nothing but syllables and slick.

You try, God, you try to read the line, your voice warbling in a breathless whisper

“That’s not the line,” Henry murmurs, and his hand stills inside you. “Do it again.”

You nearly sob. Your body aches, soaked and needy, the pulse between your legs unbearable with the sudden loss of movement. You blink at the words, your vision blurry with tears and frustration and arousal. When you speak again, your voice is shaking, barely legible.

“There you are,” he whispers, and he starts moving again, slow, dragging thrusts of his fingers, curling up inside you with every second syllable.

Your hips stutter forward and he clicks his tongue, hand wrapping softly around your jaw, forcing you to look at him and meet his intense stare.

“Focus.”

You try, again, to finish the sentence, translating it into trembling English

“Good girl,” he breathes, letting his thumb brush against your clit. “Now keep going.”

You can’t. You can’t.

You’re gasping through every breath, every phrase, the language falling from your mouth like a prayer, like worship, while he ruins you from beneath.

And just as you reach the end of the passage, teetering on the edge, he slides his hand up your back, tangles it in your hair, and pulls your head back just enough to look up at you with that fucking face, all cool detachment, except for the raw want in his eyes.

“Now,” he says softly, “come for me. Let’s see what that tongue’s good for when you’re not trying to be clever.”

And when you do, he doesn’t stop. Not yet.

Because Henry Winter has never believed in half-measures.

[orphicreveries]

On the topic of Henry Winter eating you out whilst making you translate Greek:

Your thighs are trembling against the polished wood of the chair, silk robe bunched at your hips, Greek textbook splayed open in your lap, utterly forgotten.

Henry’s on his knees before you, of course he is. Always in control, even when he’s the one below. His mouth is ruinous, all tongue, precision, and impossible patience. You’re gasping around syllables, your voice broken and breathless as you try to choke out the jumbled words of sentences you’ve poorly translated in your head.

It’s blasphemous really, the eroticism of the whole situation.

He pauses, just enough to speak, voice smooth and clinical. “Page seventy-three.”

You flip, fingers fumbling. The column of Greek stares back at you through glassy eyes.

You try your best to repeat the sentence in your head out loud and coherently, but you end up fumbling over your words anyway.

“Slower,” he murmurs, voice low and infuriatingly calm, lips slick as he drags them across your inner thigh. “If you’re going to be a little mess, you might as well sound eloquent doing it.”

You moan, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the desk behind you. The Greek blurs on the page.

“Translate,” he says, glancing up with those impossible eyes, dark hair brushing your thighs, his mouth just hovering “Or I’ll stop.”

“Henry—”

He doesn’t wait. He licks a stripe up your center and moans into you, like you’re some sacrament he’s starved for. You sob out a half-correct conjugation and he chuckles darkly.

“Poor thing,” he whispers against you, voice wrecked and worshipful. “Falling apart over a few declensions and a good tongue.”

[orphicreveries]

Oh, hello! I love your writing! I've been thinking, have you ever thought of Henry with a girl who has never had sex? I think he would most likely enjoy to make it very "ancient" like, you know, like a ritual or something, yet very dirty. I would love very much to see you writing something about it, if it's possible!

IM SO SORRY IM SO LATE, I did NOT know how to work this whole request thing

But on the note of your request I can definitely try, because I feel like the whole idea is so hot, he would completely worship her.

At the bacchanal maybe? I’m not sure yet, but I’m so excited to start working on it. ໒(⊙ᴗ⊙)७✎▤

Thanks for the delicious request, I’m kissing your forehead in spirit <3

[orphicreveries]

I believe that Henry’s the type of guy to own one of those vintage camcorders, and he would definitely be obsessed with recording clips of you at the most random times

His favourite time to do this is when the two of you are having sex. He’d have it mostly focused on your face, scrunching up in pleasure when he’s filling you up over and over again. He loves tilting the camera down to the squelching mess you’re making on his cock. The mix of both of your arousal forming a ring at the base of him makes him feral, it makes him want to start fucking you faster and deeper and harder, he wants it to feel so good that it evokes tears on your part. He loves that, when he’s fucking you so good that your eyes glaze over and you start crying, when your features are contorted in raw pleasure from what he’s doing to you, he loves zooming in on your face, he’d want you to look into the camera while he’s fucking you too.

And the way he’d talk you through it? Absolutely devastating

“Be good and keep your eyes on me”

“Look at how you take me, so well, so good for me”

“You poor thing, you can barely think, can you?”

“Come on, stop mumbling sweetheart, tell the camera what you want”

“Tell me how it feels, use your words, be explicit”

“You love this, don’t you? Knowing I’ll watch this over and over again”

And when you’d try and stifle your moans into your forearm, he’d take your wrists and bring your arms above your head, still recording with his other hand, still fucking into you.

“No. None of that, let me hear you”

“If you do that again, I’ll stop” (the worst kind of punishment)

“I want to hear exactly how good I make you feel, and I think the camera does too”

He would lean in and mouth at your ear, coaxing the sounds out of you by doing things like pressing his lips to the shell of your ear, his breath hot, his voice smooth and coaxing, “that’s it, I wanna hear you”

He would whisper each word deliberately, his lips barely moving, making sure you feel every syllable against your skin.

And when it comes down to positions, his favourite would probably be when your thighs are pressed against your chest, and everything is exposed for Henry and his camcorder.

He also likes recording you while you’re riding him. He’d be sat on the bed, lazily leaning against the headboard with his camcorder, watching you struggle at first to take his cock, he loves watching you struggle. You get him back eventually, when you’re riding him so good that his breath and his camerawork becomes shaky. He’s so overwhelmed that he has to put the camera down. His hands find their way to your waist and he’s slamming you down on his cock even harder, his hips bucking up to meet you. You’re both completely out of it, your head lolled to the side as you roll your hips in time with his thrusts. He looks so pretty with his head tilted back slightly, his eyes fixed on sight of his cock entering and leaving you at such a sloppy and brutal pace. And then the world narrows to this, his hands, his voice, the unbearable pleasure building and building until it crests and crashes over you, shattering everything in its wake. It’s blinding, mind-numbing, a surge of heat that overtakes you completely that for a moment, you forget how to breathe, so you just collapse into Henry.

Both of your pleasure lingers in the deepest parts of you, a slow, burning pulse that refuses to fade completely.

Recording you during these moments was like an art for Henry, he took pride in his work, but if anyone ever saw those tapes, he might be compelled to commit a murder again.

[orphicreveries]

Pt. 2 of this

The gravel crunched under the wheels of Henry’s car as the two of you drove down the winding country road road to Charles and Camilla’s place. Inside the tension was truly palpable, the silence only broken by the soft hum of the engine.

You sat in the passenger seat, your legs crossed and gaze fixed outside of the window, though the faint curve of your lips betrayed your satisfaction with yourself.

Henry’s knuckles were tight against the steering wheel, he’s eyes fixed on the road ahead, posture composed as ever. It was a pathetic sight really, Henry trying his best to be calm and composed when he had an obvious boner.

“You should probably get that down” you muse

“Stop Talking” his voice low, but clipped

“Where’s the fun in that?” She replied resting her chin on her arm that was currently resting on the windowsill.

Henry just sighs deeply

“Think about bunny” you say, playful as ever.

Henry’s jaw tightens, “How can I think about bunny when you’re sitting next to me, and I’m hyper aware of the fact that your panties are soaked through.”

“Well, that was quite crude” you smirk

“And who’s fault is that” Henry turns to you briefly, just to turn back to the road

You scoff lightly “well, yours obviously seeing as you’re the one who said it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel “Anyone ever told you you’re really insufferable?” He says with his eyes still on the road.

You put your hand on his shoulder, and scrunch your eyebrows slightly “you weren’t saying this ten minutes ago, you looked quite sad to see me stop.”

Henry’s eyes remain on the road, his breathing long and measured like he’s counting backwards, trying to keep his composure.

“Would it help if I sat in your lap, Henry?” You innocently muse

His jaw clenches, and for a moment you think he might pop a tooth. “If you value your life, you’ll sit still and behave, sweetheart”

You laugh softly, lightly scraping his collar with your nails in languid patterns, “You’re no fun at all”

“I’d argue I’ve been too much fun” he mutters

Your face lights up with a grin “Well now you’re just bragging”

He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t look at you, but you still catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, and the way his knuckles remain white.

Satisfied, you turn back to the window, watching the dark and autumnal countryside of Vermont blur past, your body still thrumming from your earlier satisfaction.

⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧ ⧫

The dining room is warm with candlelight, the air thick with the scent of wine and roasted lamb, the low murmur of conversation mixing with the occasional sharp burst of laughter. Charles is already halfway through a bottle of something expensive, Camilla is leaning against the back of her chair, and Bunny is talking with his mouth full, nobody was really listening to him.

You’re seated next to Camilla, opposite Henry, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the weight of his fervid stare. You can feel his eyes fixed on the side profile of your face. You’re talking to Camilla about some Greek tragedy.

Henry hasn’t said much since the two of you had arrived. His usual impassivity replaced with something heavier, more intense. You know exactly what it is.

Every time he looks at you for a few seconds too long, his head flashes with the memory of you spread out on his bed, your fingers moving at a slow and languid pace, giving yourself just enough to stay satisfied, but not enough to finish.

He’s frustrated.

He’s frustrated with the effect you have on him, frustrated that he let the usual power dynamic slip, now he was the desperate one, sitting at the dinner table with his closest acquaintances, thinking about how much he needs you, how desperately he wants to have you.

You tried not to let it affect you…the memory of how gorgeous he looked across from you, his own hand wrapped around his pretty cock, matching your pace while completely at your mercy. You loved how wrecked and downright pathetic he looked when you stopped, his eyebrows were scrunched up so prettily, with his lips slightly parted, you just wanted to stick your two fingers inside his mouth and have him suck them while you sat on his cock.

But you had to keep it up. You wouldn’t lose

He’s irritated. His posture is incredibly stiff, he’s overanalysing your every move.

You pretend not to notice.

Instead you turn to Francis and slip into an easy conversation.

“Qu'est-ce qui l'énerve autant ?” He asks with a smirk.

“j'aurais aimé savoir” you say with a small laugh, completely dismissing Henry’s intense presence. “Quand prévoyez-vous de retourner à la campagne ?” She quirks her head to the left slightly. “La dernière fois, c’était exceptionnellement agréable”

Henry stiffens even more at this, because the last time the group had been at the country home, it was the first time you and Henry had slept together, wine drunk on the lake in an old wooden boat, in the early hours of the morning, hot and messy.

He takes deep breaths to attempt to calm himself, although his eyes remain fixed on you.

The rest of the dinner was quite unremarkable. The rest of the time was spent with Henry eye fucking you in every position under the sun.

⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧✦⧫❦ ⧫✦❦❧ ⧫

The car is quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the sound of the tires against the road. The air inside is thick and dense with everything unsaid, heavy with everything left unfinished. The tension clings to the space between you, taut and electric.

Henry’s hands are steady on the wheel, but his grip is tight, knuckles pale. He hasn’t looked at you once since pulling away from the twins’ house. Not directly. But you can feel him, the weight of his attention, the sharp edge of his restraint.

You shift slightly in your seat, stretching out your legs, and finally, finally he exhales through his nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. More like a warning.

“You think you’re clever,” he says, voice low and controlled.

You hum, tilting your head. “I know I am”

His fingers flex against the leather, a flicker of tension in his jaw. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you see the way his breath comes a little sharper, the way his posture remains impossibly rigid.

“You enjoyed yourself tonight,” you muse, watching him carefully. “Well, maybe not all of it. But I do think you liked suffering through dinner with me sitting there, pretending I wasn’t aware of every single thought in that head of yours.”

Nothing. No reaction. But the silence is telling.

You smirk. “You were thinking about it, weren’t you?”

His tilts his head slightly. “About what?”

You turn toward him fully now, leaning in just slightly, dropping your voice to something softer, something silkier. “About how much better your hands would’ve felt than mine.”

His grip on the wheel is so tight now you half expect the leather to tear.

You sigh, just a simple sigh, and his breath hitches, so quiet it might have almost gone unnoticed, but you heard it.

It feels like a victory.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a shade lower than before.

“Or what?” You grin

His head turns then, just slightly, just enough to cut you a look so dark, so filled with intent that your stomach twists in anticipation.

“Or I’ll remind you,” he murmurs

“Remind me of what?” You muse

“You know what” he says softly.

“Hmm, no I don’t think I do.” You tease.

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, you just like provoking me.” His voice dropped, each word a promise of exactly what he planned to do to you.

“Good,” you whisper, watching the way his fingers twitch on the wheel. “Because I’d hate for you to be boring.”

Henry inhales slowly, deeply, forcing control back into his body. You can tell it’s a battle.

The drive stretches on, tension mounting, thick enough to cut.

Neither of you speaks again, both remaining patient until the fountain of tension will eventually overflow when the two of you reach his apartment.

[orphicreveries]

Thinking about Henry being his studious self and studying, even when he had invited you over for god knows what. Nonetheless you showed up expecting to at least be conversing with the man. Though if you were being completely honest with yourself, you’d envisioned yourself and Henry engaging in vastly different activities than what was currently happening.

You would nag on him, subtly at first, implying that he hasn’t spoken to you since you’ve arrived. He would brush it off saying something like “I didn’t ask you over to talk”

“What then?” You would say

He would reply by telling you that he just felt like seeing you

The minutes would tick by, and you would grow more restless, as Henry grew more engrossed in his work. Sprawled across the chaise diagonal to his desk, you would voice your thoughts “I’m bored, Henry” you would say, not quite whining, but definitely getting there. You’re irritated by the lack of his attention. You keep moving around and fidgeting.

“You’re being restless” he would say “and I’m trying to work”. You would sigh out loud, frankly irritated by his lack of attention.

You’d eventually take things into your own hands, quietly slipping out of your dress, leaving you in just your underwear, sitting crisscross on Henry’s bed. As you sat there, you thought about it, is this a good idea? What the hell, it doesn’t matter.

So you slowly slide your hands over your body, slowly caressing yourself with your fingertips, trying to work yourself up. You ghost over your nipples as they harden through the flimsy fabric of your lacy bra. A soft gasp escapes through your lips. The fingers of your right hand sliding up your stomach, through the valley of your breasts, over your clavicle and into your mouth. You’d get them all slick, and then moving your spit soaked fingers from your mouth, down the valley of your breasts again toward your stomach, but stopping at the place you want to be touched most. You begin once more, wetting your fingers with your saliva, dripping this time, your fingers make their way over to your peaked nipple, rubbing your wet fingers around it through the fabric.

Henry is silently watching this spectacle from the corner of his eye, he doesn’t want to give in and react to your antics, so he keeps his head down and pretends not to see you, but his fingers are clenching around his pen, and his jaw is tightly shut and clenching.

You know he sees you, but you couldn’t care less about whether he chose to acknowledge you or not, after all, he’d chosen to ignore you in the first place, hadn’t he? This was just a sort of silent revenge that you got something more out of, an orgasm to be specific.

So you continued, slowly removing your bra from your frame. Both fingers are now in your mouth, dripping from your saliva, you slide each hand to its respective side and begin softly rubbing your slick fingers around your hardened peaks. Your breathing grows shallower as you begin to softly pinch and roll your nipples, your hips writhing gently, trying to gain friction against your panties as you fondled your breasts.

Henry is no longer focused on his translations, he’s now shamelessly watching you, waiting for your sweet voice to beckon him to fill you up. But you’ve got other plans, you’re silently seething at his choice to deny you at first, you don’t plan on begging for him as you usually would, you’re going to turn the tables, unravel his resolve bit by bit.

Henry’s breathing is becoming increasingly shallow as he watches you trail your hand down your stomach and into your panties. Your hand just resting there as you grind your clit onto your two fingers that remain unmoving, your hips doing all of the work. You stop tweaking your nipple so that you can just gently squeeze the fat of your breast while you slowly push your panties down. Your cunt exposed and slick with your arousal. You start panting and softly gasping when you finally roll your clit between your fingers.

Henry’s resolve comes crashing down like a broken dam. Never in his life had he ever given into temptation. He always thought himself exceptionally strong willed, but there you were, writhing on your fingers and moaning like Aphrodite on his bed, he swears he’s never seen such an erotic sight. But his broken resolve wasn’t enough to compensate for his stubbornness, because as much as he wanted to get up and have you with your knees dangling over his shoulders as he pleasured you, because he wanted to be the one making you feel like that, he wanted to be the reason for your beautiful face twisted in pleasure, but he couldn’t, simply because he was too stubborn.

So he watched you, he watched two of your fingers slide into your wet cunt and emerge covered in slick, he watched you close your mouth around the fingers that were just inside of you, longingly wishing it was his mouth instead of yours, his cock instead of your fingers, his fingers rubbing your clit instead of yours. But he downright refused to give into you. He doesn’t even know when his fingers unbuttoned his pants, when his hand started slowly pumping his hard cock in time with your fingers thrusting into your pussy. His eyes unsure on whether or not to focus on your pleasured face letting out quiet moans, or your fingers, pushing in and out of your cunt, with your legs spread obscenely. And then suddenly…you stop?

“We have dinner at the twins’ house in 10 minutes, we should get ready” you say as though you weren’t just playing with yourself like a siren trying to get him into the water.

You slip your panties on over your dripping cunt, Henry watches your every move, dumbfounded by the way you denied your impending orgasm for something as insignificant as that. You had to be playing with him, you knew that by denying your orgasm, you’d ruin his as well, and considering that he was being stubborn, and refusing to just give in and come and fuck you, you’d ruin it for the both of you.

You’re fully dressed by the time Henry finishes his turmoil. “Well” you say “come on then, you know that it’s a 7 minute walk to Charles and Camilla’s place”

Henry sighs deeply, studying your face, trying to figure out if this is all just a hoax, but in reality, you really are a minx, he thinks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sooo…pt2??

[orphicreveries]

Moments after sex with Henry Winter might just be better than the sex itself.

Let’s say you’re apart of the Greek class, you and Henry casually hook up, but it’s not awkward, it’s essentially just two people satiating their need for sex and intellectual conversation.

You and Henry would have the most mind shattering sex. On this particular night, you’d be on top, the length of him filling you perfectly, your head thrown back as you sit on him, panting whilst you adjust. Because let’s be honest, Henry is big.

Eventually, you’d be leaned back with you hands in the sheets, propping you up, Henry’s hands would be planted at your waist, guiding you up and down on his cock. You’d both take your time, relishing in your clandestine trysts, feeling every single sensation. Soft, mellifluous groans would fill the dark room. The only light would come from the moonlight shining through the slightly billowing curtain.

After the eventual release, the two of you would be panting, Henry still snuggled inside you, twitching every so often. You’d eventually get up and slip on the flimsy slip dress you’d worn under your dress while Henry slips on his rich cotton slacks.

You would both find yourselves outside on the balcony, chatting about an earlier discussed topic: “the sublime” and its relevance to Greek tragedy. The two of you would go back and forth, exchanging thoughts about the topic, sneaking glances that may have lingered a bit too long for friends of convenience.

Henry always thought you looked more than human on these nights. Sitting on his balcony in your post orgasmic haze, flimsy dress with one of the straps sliding down your shoulder as you spoke about concept of something both beautiful and frightening. He’d always found you attractive, in the conventional sense, but he found your intellect and the elegance at which you carried yourself even more attractive.

He thought these things, as you thought about the moonlight illuminating his features. You thought about how soft he looked on these nights, less callous. It made you feel like maybe you mean something to him, more than the arrangement you currently have.

But both of you were smart, not stupid enough to allow feelings to interrupt the flow of things in your lives.

[orphicreveries]

Clowning Around!!? (Beck Oliver x reader)

Summary: the one where you, beck, Andre and Cat get lost in Texas whilst you guys were meant to pick Tori up at the airport, it’s lowk kind of suggestive toward the end (;

“Okay, so here’s the deal. My cousin’s wedding is in Texas, and I need you guys to pick me up at 7pm tomorrow” Tori says, while stuffing papers into her already overstuffed bag.

Andre raises an eyebrow, “Us? Why not your parents?” He asks.

She sighs “because they’re in Florida for Trina’s broken elbow, and besides, you guys owe me for that time I helped you build a potato cannon for Sikowitz’s project.”

You cross your arms and groan, “okay, but that was ages ago, and there’s still mashed potatoes in my shoes.”

“Well it’s just picking her up, right? How hard can it be?” Beck says, slinging his arm around your shoulder

“yay! Oh my god a road trip!” Cat says excitedly, “man I’ve always wanted to go to Texas, Do you think we’ll see cowboys? Or cows? Or boys?”

Andre backs up “look I don’t know about you, but I’m afraid of Texas, my grandma says it’s haunted.”

So the next day, the gang is driving through the Texas countryside in a beck’s dad’s van. Beck’s driving, Andre’s navigating, Cats asleep on your lap, and you’re leaning against the window, annoyed at how painfully lost you all are.

Andre repeatedly hits the gps on his lap, “turn left in…uh…wait, why’s it recalculating again?”

Beck’s gripping steering wheel, “because this stupid gps is possessed, this is the third time it’s told me to turn into a cornfield”

“I told y’all Texas was haunted, this feels like we’re in a horror movie man” Andre complains

Cat awakens when she hears the word ‘horror movie’, “Oh my god, I love horror movies! Do you think we’ll see a corn ghost? Or Bigfoot? Or-”

You cut her off “If you say clowns, I’m jumping out of this van”

Cat gasps “I love clowns! Don’t you?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it” you say briskly

Andre squints at the gps “uh…so, funny thing. This gps won’t turn on”

You throw your hands up, “Fantastic. We’re lost in Texas.”

“No big deal babe, we’ll just backtrack a bit” beck tries to assure you

You glare at him through the rear view mirror “Your eternal optimism is really not helping the fact that we have no idea where we are, and we’re already like an hour late to Tori”

The van starts to sputter and comes to a stop in the middle of an empty country road surrounded by tall grass. Beck sighs and leans his head on the steering wheel “Of course, because why wouldn’t the Van break down?”

You stare ahead in disbelief “Wow, the universe really does hate us”

“Oh God, we’re gonna die in Texas man” Andre sobs into Beck’s shoulder

“Hey, why don’t you just jump start the van” says cat matter of factly.

You hit becks shoulder repeatedly, “Baby, go jump start the van” you urge Beck

“I like it when you call me baby” beck teases.

You shove him again, “shut up and get the car moving, you weirdo”

“Fine” he deadpans, “but you’re coming with me for moral support”

“Fine” you roll your eyes

Both you and beck are now out of the car getting the jumpers out of the trunk, when Beck points to a staggering figure in front of the car, quickly getting closer.

You look up and scream, “it’s a fucking clown, oh my god it’s a fucking clown waving around a fucking scissors”

“Hey calm down” Beck rubs the sides of your arms soothingly, but you shove him away, “no, don’t tell me to fucking calm down when there’s a fucking clown with a fucking scissors skipping toward us”

“Hey” Beck Waves at the clown guy

“Hello there” the clown wiggles his fingers at Beck, “Are you lost?, you look lost” the clown says matter of factly.

“We’re not lost” you snap, a little to quickly

The clown starts giggling lowly, his giggling eventually crescendos into high pitched screeches, leaving Beck and you staring at him all confused. Andre and Cat doing the same from inside the car. The clown finally calms down and starts speaking again, “Well…lost or not…I’m going to need to take one of each of your toes, in exchange for you all driving on my road” he starts violently snipping the air with his scissors.

“Nuh uh, nope” Andre comes tumbling out of the car with Cat, they both run into the tall grass, you quickly follow them, with beck not far behind.

Eventually you all lost the clown and made your way back to the car.

Beck sighs “well that was an experien-”

“Start the fucking car, there’s a homicidal clown trying to amputate us” you cut him off

“I like that idea, why don’t you listen to your girlfriend Beck?” Andre urges.

Beck raises his hands defensively.

They finally arrived at the airport, disheveled and exhausted. Toris waiting at the curb looking annoyed, “What took you guys so long?!”

Cat runs up to Tori and excitedly starts explaining “Oh my God, Tori it was wild, our gps got possessed and the van broke down, then a clown tried to cut our toes off, so we played tag in a cornfield with him.”

Tori looks dumbfounded. “And if you ever ask us to pick you up again, the answer is no” Andre assures her.

“I’m hungry, I’ve been here for 2 hours” Tori whines

“We’ll stop at a gas station” you deadpan while patting Tori’s shoulder.

Beck pulls into a gas station before switching places with Cat, in the back seat, so Andre can drive. It’s dark and the fluorescent lights flicker slightly above the pumps. You and Tori walk into the convenience store, Tori’s talking animatedly about something that you weren’t quite processing because of the creepy aura the place was exuding.

“Hey, do you want anything?” she asks, waving her chips and candy in the air.

“Uh, no thanks, I’ll just get a can or two of soda in the back, but it’s fine you don’t have to pay” you answer her

“Okay then, I’m gonna go and pay for these snacks real quick” Tori says

You were already in the back aisle, scanning through the soda flavours. As you’re standing there, you hear a sharp metallic sound slicing through the air. You stumble back and your eyes widen in horror as you see the clown from the cornfield standing behind you, scissors in his right hand and a huge chunk of your hair in his left.

“What the fuck man” you back away and start running out of shop, grabbing Tori on the way “Tori, RUN”

Tori looks up, confused, but when she sees the clown advancing toward you, her face goes pale, and the two of you sprint toward the van. The sound of the clowns slow, deliberate footsteps egging you on.

“What the heck is going on?! Why’s he after us?!” Tori screeches

You’re panting now “I swear to god, the universe keeps on testing me!”

The clown suddenly appears in front of the two of you, his scissors glinting menacingly in the dim light.

“Come on baby cakes, you all owe me” the clown gestures to the two of you, and then everyone else in the van, with his scissors.

“What is his deal?!?” Tori screams hysterical

“I don’t know! We need to get into the fucking car, Tori” you scream, whilst also trying to calm yourself.

You yank the door open and the two of you scramble inside. As soon as the door is shut, Andre floors the gas pedal and the van screeches off.

The clown however, seems to be keeping pace with them, running along the side of the road, occasionally trying to jump in front of the vehicle.

“Oh my god!” Cat gasps

“Almost there Andre, just a little slower and he’ll snip off all of our toes” you comment sarcastically

“Shut up! Im trying not to hit the guy.” Andre says

“Yeah? Well he doesn’t seem to worried about hitting us!!” You scream at Andre

“Deep breaths, baby” Beck rubs your arm again.

You’re gripping the seat, you keep glancing at the side mirror where you can see the clown following.

“I can’t believe this is happening” you whine ���he cut my fucking hair man! MY HAIR! And a huge chunk of it too!”

“Okay, you need to calm down and breathe, it’s okay” Beck assures you

“Don’t tell me to breathe!” You snap “how can I stay calm when I’m in Texas, running from a homicidal clown, with a chunk of hair missing from the side of my head, Jesus! Now I look fucking homicidal!”

Andre tries to be the voice of reason from the steering wheel “okay calm down, you’re still gorgeous”

“Not with half my hair missing” you grit out

Beck reaches over your shoulder and pulls you into his chest, “Hey, we’ll figure it out. It’s just hair. You’ll be fine.” He tries to comfort you

You throw your hands up and pout, “you say that now, but you didn’t just lose a chunk of hair, you guys don’t understand how long it took for me to get my hair just right, I’ve always been told I have great hair, but now I look fucking demented!”

“C’mon, focus, the clown dude is still chasing us” tori reminds everyone.

“I hate Texas man” Andre whines, as he speeds up for a brief moment, but then the clown starts catching up again.

“Oh my god! I just thought of something!” Says Cat excitedly, she’s digging in her bag for a moment before she pulls out a can of hairspray. She rolls down the window and sprays him in the face, he stumbles back and Cat lets out a victorious laugh.

Andre floors it, driving faster and faster, until they lose the clown in the distance, he’s finally out of sight and everyone relaxes.

The van is cruising down the highway, the night is calm and uneventful now that the clown is out of the picture.

Tori and you sit together at the back of the van, the dim light from the interior lamp casting a soft glow. Tori’s holding a pair of scissors, nervously eyeing your hair, trying to fix the abomination caused by the clown.

“You know it’s not that bad” Tori says, carefully cutting, “you look good with shorter hair, it’s very chic” she tries

“Chic? CHIC?, Tori it’s not about being chic! It’s about my identity! my long, luscious, healthy hair was a huge part of my image, me and Beck were crowned ‘The Couple with the best hair’, and now that title is gone”

Tori snips abit more off, trying to keep it even, but you’re struggling to sit still.

Cat gasps, as though she just made a revelation, “Oh my god, your hair’s even shorter than Beck’s now”

“Oh my god you’re right” you say as you fiddle with your hair in the mirror, you sigh with mock sadness “Beck’s never gonna think I’m hot now.”

Beck grins, “What? Of course I still think you’re hot, you’re always hot, even with the new hair.”

You raise an eyebrow playfully “You sure? I mean it’s a huge change”

Beck leans in, his voice low and teasing “C’mon, no matter what you do to your hair, you’ll always be the prettiest girl in the room.”

You look at him for a second, your playful smile fades into something softer and more sincere, you lean forward slightly and brush your lips against his in soft kiss, Beck responds almost immediately, deepening the kiss, his hand moving to your face as he pulls you closer.

Cat groans, “Ugh, seriously? Can you like not make out for like 5 minutes?”

You and beck, still locked in a kiss, hear the groaning and chuckling and so you reluctantly pull away, noses still touching, you sigh “fine, but I’m still waiting for you to prove I’m still hot”

“Oh I will” he gives you a quick peck

Cat groans loudly from the front, while Tori and Andre snicker.

The group finally makes it to the airport, utterly exhausted from the freaky clown chase, all of you can’t wait to get back to LA.

You sink down into a seat, sighing heavily, “I just wanna get back to LA, get my hair fixed, and pretend this never happened.”

Tori chuckles, “I don’t know, I kind of wanna tell people I got chased by a killer clown, it’d be like a cool badge of honor.”

Beck keeps anxiously checking his phone, “yeah, I just wanna get on this plane man”

As they get up to go to make their way to the gate, Cat yelps out and points at someone.

You turn and see the clown standing there, you grab becks arm and start panicking “no, no, no, NO. We are not doing this again.” You whine

“Well we gotta go, like now!” exclaims Andre.

You all start sprinting, weaving through the crowds of confused strangers. The clown follows them closely, waving his scissors around like a maniac. You all push past the other passengers, yelling for the gate agents to open the doors and let you through.

“This is insane!” Tori yells, glancing back at the clown

“I fucking hate Texas” you wail, for what felt like the fourth time that night.

The lot of you finally reach the gate, and throw their tickets at the lady, no time for niceties. You scurry down the jetway, hearts pounding as you all finally get inside and the door swings shut, leaving that creepo outside as the plane takes off.

The lot of you are now sitting down, recovering from the third attack on your lives.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe we survived Texas, my grandma was right, Texas is an EVIL PLACE” Andre wails out.

“Honestly I think the clowns the real winner here, he’s got a sick resume now, and nice chunk of your hair” Cat says, gesturing to you

“I’m gonna wear a hat forever” you groan

“Oh come on” Cat says “you look cute with short hair.

“Aww thanks” you say “I was really worried I was gonna lose all my appeal, you know?” You say teasingly.

Beck leans in with a teasing grin, “you know, my offer still stands? the one about proving you’re still hot.”

“Oh? I’m intrigued” you say

Beck smirks, “Come by my RV when we land in LA, and I’ll prove to you all night long that you’re still just as hot as ever.”

Your eyes widen briefly, but then you grin at him. Everybody groans in unison, making disgusted faces and rolling their eyes.

Tori’s mock gagging while she pulls a face, “Ugh, gross, Beck! We get it, you’re hot, she’s hot. Can you please not make me envision you two…proving it to each other”

Cat laughs with Tori, “Honestly, I don’t wanna know the details”

Andre pats Beck on the back.

You cross your arms and grin, “nice try, Beck, but you’re gonna have to work a little harder to convince me, after everything that happened.”

“Yeah, you better up your game, Beck, you still gotta prove to her that she’s still hot after being chased by a killer clown, and losing half her hair” Tori teases.

“Oh, I’m up for the challenge” Beck laughs

You glance at him with a small smile, “fine, fine, I guess I’ll see you at your RV, Beck.”

“Now that’s the spirit” Beck says grinning widely

Back in LA, Beck’s RV is cosy and dimly lit. You’re on Beck’s lap, tangled in each other, lips locked in a hot and messy kiss. You’re both lost in the moment, tugging at each other clothes forgetting to breath. Beck’s lips leave yours and you’re panting as he attatches them to your jaw, slowly making his way down your neck, to your collarbone, as his hand slowly inches up your sweater.

You’re breathing heavily now, “you know, this was a…really good…idea”

Beck hums into your neck, finishing up the mark he was sucking into your neck, “I think so too…” he breaths out as his hand reaches your bra’s clasp, intending to loosen it.

But he gets interrupted by a faint tapping sound, barely audible at first. The both of you freeze, heads turning toward the window. The tapping gets louder and more persistent.

You both cautiously stand up, trying to move as quietly as possible. Beck pulls the curtain aside, his face falls and his eyes widen in horror. You, unable to resist, also peek through the window and gasp, “No way. No. Way”

There outside the window, standing under the dim streetlight, is the same creepy clown you’d encountered in Texas.

“Oh my God, it’s him! The clown, What the- how?” Beck panics

“Nope, nope, nope, no way, NO!” You scream quietly.

You both stumble back from the window and stare in disbelief.

You stand there, half laughing, half screaming with fear, “so, uh, looks like I’m spending the night in your RV…whether I like it or not”

“God, now I’m stuck with you, and the killer clown outside” you say sarcastically

“Well…” beck smirks

You slowly move back to the couch, staring at Beck with wide eyes, “There is no way I’m leaving this RV, I’m not going out there, your dad might have to tow us to school tmmr.” You say

“Looks like it’s gonna be a long night, and since we’re not sleeping tonight anyway…we might as well make the most of it” beck says teasingly, as he lays down on the bed, and starts kissing you with the same passion as before.

“And besides” beck breaks from your lips, “I still have to prove something to you, don’t I?” he says as his hand slides down your waist.

You smirk at him, “yeah, you do” you kiss him, and he deepens it, your hand, tangling in his hair, his hand, gently pushing your shirt up, as he breaks away and begins placing kisses up your abdomen.

End of episode.