orphicreveries

[orphicreveries]

would you ever write smut/angst/fluff whateva about any other characters?

I have thought about it, but I think for now it’ll probably just be Henry Winter smut with sub genres of maybe angst/fluff etc. As for other characters, it’ll most likely just be cameos like the Camilla fic, or the bunny fic. Mostly because I hate the thought of Henry wanting someone else more than reader💔💔💔🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ which is kind of silly but it’s whatever.

[orphicreveries]

Henry gets jealous, unbelievable jealous and that makes him realise that he is actually in love and committed to you.

And simply the thought of you being with someone else makes him go insane.

Francis’s house was flickering with too many candles and too little sense. The wine, something expensive and French was being poured with careless abandon, and the smoke from Camilla’s cigarette curled into the low chandelier like an offering. You were sitting beside Richard. Laughing. Touching his arm. The entire scene was so painfully, politely theatrical that Henry found himself repulsed.

He did not speak much that evening. He sat opposite you, spine straight, wine untouched. You weren’t looking at him. Not deliberately avoiding, no, but not seeking him out either. And that, he thought, was worse. Like you’d forgotten to remember him. Like you’d chosen someone simpler.

Richard was blushing at something you said. Some harmless anecdote, your fingers brushing his wrist as you reached for the water. Henry stared at the contact, eyes fixed and glassy, and something unspeakably old and ugly stirred behind his ribs.

Her hand doesn’t belong there.

She never laughs like that with me.

I would’ve killed a man for her once. And now she’s smiling at Richard like she’s never been touched.

He did not say a word when the party moved to the drawing room. Didn’t offer to help when you carried your wineglass with one hand and the hem of your dress with the other, nor when Richard leaned too close to whisper something idiotic in your ear.

You found Henry much later, where you always found him standing in the shadows like something pressed between the pages of a very old book. Francis’s library door had been left slightly ajar, and inside he was alone, staring at the window, fingers tapping once against the glass.

“You’re angry,” you said. You didn’t bother softening it. He would’ve heard the amusement in your voice anyway, and he hated being humored.

“No,” he said, not turning. “I’m out of my mind.”

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you. The lock clicked like a gun being cocked.

Henry turned slowly. His gaze met yours, and the room went colder.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked, like a professor catching you plagiarizing Ovid. There was no tremor in his voice. Only ice. Calculation.

“About what?”

“Richard.” His voice didn’t rise. It never rose. But the name was spat with the acidity of a curse. “You looked comfortable.”

You folded your arms. “I was being kind.”

“You were being flirted with. And you let him.”

You laughed, too sharp. “What, and you’re jealous now?”

“I’ve been jealous,” he said, calmly, walking toward you. “I’ve been jealous for months. I simply no longer care to hide it.”

You’re honestly in shock at the news of the cold and stoic Henry being jealous.

He stopped when he reached you. You didn’t move.

“You think he’d know what to do with you?” His voice dropped. “Would he even know how to touch you?” His face inches closer. “Do you truly think he could know you the way that I know you?”

“Henry—”

He kissed you, cutting you off like punctuation, hard, brutal, no breath, no prelude. His hands were already gathering your dress at the thighs, the bookshelves behind you creaking as he shoved you back against them. Leather-bound copies of Plato trembled.

“Did you like the way he looked at you?” he murmured into your neck, biting. “Did it make you feel desirable?”

You were breathless, fingers clinging to his shirt. “I didn’t do anything.”

“No,” he agreed. “That’s the problem.”

He dropped to his knees like a knight, but nothing about him was reverent. His hands were already under your dress, mouth at the soft inside of your thigh.

“Let me guess,” he said, breath hot. “You thought I wouldn’t care. Thought I was above it. That I’d keep fucking you like nothing happened.”

You gasped as he licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your cunt, one hand holding your thigh open.

“You were wrong.”

He ate you out like he was trying to rewrite something. Like Richard’s name had been written there, and he was erasing it. You could feel the blunt pressure of his fingers digging into your thighs, bruising, possessive. He wasn’t trying to make you come quickly, he was dragging it out. Ruining you.

When he stood again, his mouth was wet. He kissed you with it. Let you taste yourself.

“You’re mine,” he said, unbuckling his belt with infuriating grace. “Say it.”

You didn’t.

So he fucked you against the bookcase.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. But it was slow, each thrust deliberate, dragging a whimper from your throat despite how hard you bit your lip to stay quiet. He didn’t want fast. He wanted complete obliteration.

His mouth was at your ear. “Still thinking about him?”

“Huh?” You gasped

“Good.” A pause. “Because I will not share.”

It was overwhelming in a way that bordered on cruel. The rhythm of his thrusts was slow but ruinous, each one dragging something sacred and senseless out of you. He wasn’t fucking you to get off. He was fucking you to prove a point, one only he knew, one that kept spilling from his mouth in jagged fragments between clenched teeth and bitten kisses.

The sound of him, sharp exhales, the wet slap of skin against skin, the low, groans he barely let himself make filled the room like smoke. You clawed at his back, not because you needed him closer, but because there wasn’t any closer to get.

Every time he pulled out even an inch, your body clenched down like it thought he might leave. Every time he pushed back in, it felt like the first time again like he was discovering something secret inside you. Like he was branding it.

“You’re the only thing I believe in anymore.” And that alone would push you over the edge, the rawness and honesty in the way he says it.

You came first.

It hit like a fever, like a breaking wave, like the first sharp inhale after being underwater too long. Your thighs trembled around his hips, shaking violently from how long he’d held you on that edge, hovering there, useless with need, body taut and burning. And then suddenly it snapped. Not gently. Not in some soft, movie-score kind of way. You shattered around him.

But he kept going. His head is bowed low, eyes pinned to the place where your bodies meet, and his fingers dig mercilessly into the meat of your thigh, holding it open like he owns it.

And it’s all so unbearably slow.

Measured. Deep. Focused. Not because he’s being gentle, but because he’s chasing something. A precise feeling. An answer, maybe.

Your voice breaks, his name stuttered out in a gasp, breath catching in your throat, and something in his expression flickers. Not soft. Just cracked, for a moment. You feel him twitch inside you.

“Don’t,” he says lowly. Like you’ve touched a nerve. “Don’t say my name like that.”

But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he pushes deeper.

And then it hits him. Right as he feels your walls flutter around him, back arching, hand fisting the sheet—

This is different.

Not the sex. Not the body. But the weight of it.

He’s been inside other people. It’s never felt like this. Never like his ribs are being peeled open. Never like his breath is leaving him in fragments.

Your hands are on him. Your mouth, too, kissing at his neck, his jaw, your lips brushing something devastatingly sweet into the shell of his ear. He doesn’t even register what you say.

Because suddenly it’s all too much.

Your skin is too warm. Your body too tight. Your voice too soft, too intimate. You know things you shouldn’t. You’re looking at him like you see him, and Henry, Henry Marchbanks Winter, has never been more undone.

And it terrifies him.

He won’t say he loves you.

But something inside him is breaking.

He groans, breath hitching hard. His thrusts grow erratic, his hands tremble.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ll come- fuck I’ll come if you keep looking at me like that.”

“If anyone else ever-” he cuts himself off with a gasp, voice cracking on the brink, “-if anyone else touched you like this, I’d-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

Your nails rake down his back. Your mouth finds his again, messy and open, and when you come, biting his shoulder to stifle the moan, it sends him spiraling. A full-body shudder. He follows you with a guttural, broken noise, buried so deep inside you it feels like drowning.

He comes hard. Like he’s losing something. Like you’re taking it from him.

And afterward, when you’re panting beneath him and he’s still buried in you, muscles twitching with the aftershocks, he doesn’t speak.

He just stays there. Forehead pressed to your collarbone. Breathing you in. Letting himself be ruined in silence.

Because he doesn’t have the words for what this is.

But he knows it’s never happening with anyone else.

Not like this.

[orphicreveries]

AAHHHH i just read your latest post about reader x Henry x Camilla and oh my GOD was it good. I can't help but ask for reader x Henry x Bunny next, if you pretty please

This was a tough one, but we persevered nonetheless!! I did sort of stray from the original idea, BUT I have another half-baked one in my drafts.

It starts as a dare. A joke. Something Bunny says half-drunk and grinning, sprawled in Francis’s living room, lips stained with wine.

“Bet she’d let you do it right here,” he says to Henry, laughing. “Fucking mental for you, aren’t you sweetheart?”

You’re about to bite back when Henry sets his glass down and says, quiet and cool, “She would.”

That shuts Bunny up.

And when Henry stands and holds a hand out to you, you take it.

You expect him to lead you upstairs.

He doesn’t.

You end up on your back, on the couch in front of the fireplace, Henry hovering over you, shielding most of you from bunny. His pace, slow and brutal, fucking you like it’s a lesson in humiliation. He’s quiet, like always, except for the low, filthy things he murmurs against your shoulder.

Bunny doesn’t leave.

He can’t.

You glance over your shoulder mid-thrust and there he is, red-faced and stiff in the corner chair, hand wrapped around his cock like he’s too ashamed to move but too turned on to stop. His eyes are glued to you, to the place where Henry’s cock disappears into you again and again. He whimpers. Actually whimpers.

Henry notices.

Doesn’t stop.

Smirks against your neck and mutters, “Let him watch.”

You’re moaning now, loud, messy, and Henry growls, “You’re showing off for him, aren’t you?”

Then he drags his fingers to your mouth and makes you suck them while Bunny strokes himself harder, faster, pathetically. He looks like he might cry when you come, arched and gasping, and Henry doesn’t stop even then.

When Henry finishes, it’s with his teeth in your shoulder, one arm tight around your waist. He pulls out and leaves you shaking, dripping, ruined on the couch.

He doesn’t even glance at Bunny.

But you do.

He’s still panting. Still touching himself. Staring like you’ve both broken him open.

You smile, cruel and breathless.

“Did you like that, Bunny?”

And the only sound in the room is the wet slap of his hand and the low, stuttering moan when he finally comes too.

[orphicreveries]

omg the one where he’s never felt the need to be sexually active was a MASTERPIECE i will never be able to stop thinking about it, you’re doing the lord’s work truly

THANK YOU SM, I was literally FUELED by that request. Mostly because I genuinely agree with the request, in the book that man would not go near women, I feel like other than Camilla, he’s most likely a virgin. And Henry and Reader are actually soulmates!!!🫵🏼🫵🏼🫵🏼😼😼😼😼

[orphicreveries]

hi! it would be awesome if you could do henry x fem!reader (or gn, idk) where henry is just…feral. you know? unable to control it. i like to believe he’s never really been one for sex, so he’s just so pent up, you know?

I LOVE THIS, it’s even hotter ESPECIALLY because he’s never really felt the need to be sexually active.

It had been raining all afternoon.

The kind of ceaseless, delicate rain that felt more like a nuisance than a storm. It dappled the windows of Henry’s apartment like ink, rendered the entire room damp and shadowed. You were both supposed to be translating something, Catullus, maybe, or something worse, but you hadn’t turned a page in over an hour.

Henry sat across from you, glasses off, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the floor like he was calculating something. A pallid statue of control. He hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you said, teasing, eyes drifting over him with lazy interest. “Must be a truly devastating poem.”

He didn’t respond. Not at first. Just blinked slowly, like he’d been roused from somewhere far away.

When he looked at you, really looked, it wasn’t with curiosity, or even annoyance. It was hunger.

Not vulgar. Not even particularly physical.

“I can’t focus when you’re in the room,” he said.

You blinked.

He wasn’t smiling (he never smiles). He wasn’t joking.

“You—what?”

He took his glasses in one hand, folded them shut. “You distract me. Thoroughly. And I resent you for it.”

You laughed, uncertain, flustered. “You’re bluffing.”

“I’m not.” A pause. “I’ve tried everything. Cold showers. Longer walks. Reading the Metaphysics from start to finish. None of it works. I think I may be…” He trailed off, rubbed a hand down the side of his face. “Jesus.”

You stared.

“I think I may be on the verge of doing something terribly out of character,” he said finally, almost dreamily. “And I’d rather you not look surprised when I do.”

And before you could form a thought, before you could so much as breathe, he was on you.

Not like in a film. Not graceful or slick. There was a kind of barely-suppressed fury in it, like he’d been holding himself still for so long the moment he moved, he shattered.

His mouth on yours was hard, desperate. His hands clutched your waist like you might vanish. He kissed like he’d never done it before. Or at least never done it right. You kissed back with a gasp, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and that—that, drove him mad.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, panting, his voice low and cracked: “Can I touch you?”

You nod, still in a daze from his lips on yours.

And then he was dragging you back onto the couch with him, his long limbs tangled in yours, his hands pushing your skirt up around your hips like the fabric offended him, like it had personally mocked him for months.

He got your underwear off somehow, he didn’t even look down. Just shoved them aside and slid two fingers into you with the kind of reverent care that nearly broke your spine.

You whimpered. And that—that was it.

Henry groaned, full-bodied, like you’d knocked the breath from his lungs. He started moving his fingers like he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop, couldn’t even breathe properly with how wet you were, how tight you clenched around him. He kissed your neck, your cheek, your mouth, half-formed murmurs breaking between each gasp.

When you came, sharp and hot around his fingers, he shuddered. Swore softly. And without a word, he reached down, undid his belt, and pushed himself into you with a breathless, strangled “Gods forgive me.”

It was fast. Filthy. Utterly ruinous.

He muttered something against your throat and came so hard it seemed to hollow him out.

Afterward, he collapsed against you, drenched in sweat, breathing hard.

��Christ,” you muttered.

Henry didn’t move.

“…Feel better?” you asked eventually, voice dry.

He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan.

“No,” he said. “Not even remotely.”

It should have ended there. It should have, he’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? Release, satisfaction, the edge filed off whatever aching obsession had haunted him for weeks.

But it didn’t feel like enough.

Not even close.

You were still beneath him, flushed and damp, heart racing, your lips parted in a dazed little breath. And when you shifted, just a little, he felt himself twitch, still hard. Still wanting.

Still starving.

“…Henry,” you breathed, but didn’t say more. You didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said everything. That quiet, stunned want now made obvious. That perfect, terrible desperation.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Not frantic. Not frenzied. Just deep, like he meant to pour all of it into you.

When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide.

“I thought it would be messy. Embarrassing. Fast. But—” He swallowed, brushed his fingers over your temple like he was reading you. “You’re so soft. So warm. I can’t stop thinking about it. About the way you wrapped around me like you were made for it. Like I could stay inside you and never leave.”

Your breath hitched.

He kissed your throat, your shoulder, your wrist. Reverent. Methodical.

“Will you let me do it again?” he asked, quiet, shaking. “Properly this time.”

And he did.

He lifts himself off of you and stares at the sight before him.

Not just looking, memorising. His hands dragged down your ribs, your hips, over the curve of your thighs. You felt him hard again, hot against your stomach, leaking slightly, but he didn’t rush. He just kissed you, your mouth, your chest, between your legs, until you were arching under him and begging without even meaning to.

Then, finally, he slid back into you, so slowly it made you cry out. He hissed through his teeth, nearly buckling.

“Gods. You feel—” He groaned. “I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never—this is madness.”

He fucked you like he wanted to sink into your bones. Deep. Controlled. Filthy in a way that felt almost holy. Your legs wrapped around him, nails raking down his back, and Henry, usually silent, cold, unreadable, was whispering.

Praise, poetry, sweet ruined things like: “I want to live inside you.”

“Look how wet you are for me, how greedy—”

You came with a broken moan, legs shaking, tears pricking at your eyes. And Henry? Henry didn’t stop.

He just kept moving inside you, slower now, gentler. And when he came, it was with his head thrown back, groaning like the thought of being separate from you physically was unbearable.

After, you lay tangled together on his couch, the air thick with the smell of sex and rain and old books. His breath was still unsteady. He looked ruined.

“…Better now?” you teased again, voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed, low, rough, and pressed a kiss to your neck.

“No,” he murmured. “Now I want you again.”

[orphicreveries]

i want a henry winter so bad so i can kick him a bunch

[orphicreveries]

You weren’t even supposed to be in Francis’ bathroom, technically, it was the “guest” bath, but it was the only one with the deep clawfoot tub and ivy wallpaper. Everyone else was in the drawing room, halfway drunk on port, debating Ovid or murder or something equally pretentious.

The water’s steaming. You’d locked the door. You’d only meant to soak, a brief moment of peace. But you hear the knock. Soft. A pause. Then the door opens anyway, because of course Henry has a key, or a spare pin, or an uncanny ability to violate boundaries you pretend you have.

He closes the door behind him, silent.

He’s still wearing his wool coat, gloves off now, holding them in one hand like he was already planning to linger. His hair’s wet with snow, and the way his eyes drag over you, nude, knee-deep in the tub, legs slick and half-curled beneath you, it’s enough to make you shift.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say, voice gentler than you mean. A warning with no teeth.

“And yet,” he murmurs, dropping the gloves on the marble sink, “here I am.”

You don’t tell him to leave. Not when he shrugs off the coat. Not when he sinks to his knees at the side of the tub, one hand resting near your shin. You don’t move when he leans in and kisses the inside of your wrist, slow and reverent, the steam curling around his cheeks like some ancient, heretical priest.

He doesn’t touch you right away. Just looks.

The water ripples around you, and you try not to squirm under the weight of his gaze. His hands are off now, resting on the marble like he’s deep in thought, or resisting the urge to drag you forward by the ankles. You shift, subtly. Knees spreading just a little wider under the surface.

“Don’t,” you whisper, voice thinner than you meant.

“I haven’t done anything,” Henry murmurs, eyes still fixed between your legs.

And then one hand reaches into the water, fingers ghosting over your shin, your knee, until his palm is cupping the inside of your thigh beneath the surface. The sensation is barely there, but you’re already clenching. Anticipating. Dreading?

He sinks his fingers into you slowly, obscured by the steam. You arch, biting your lip to keep quiet as he curls them inside, deliberate and precise, like he’s learning you. Your hands scrabble uselessly against the tub walls, water sloshing over the side.

“Shh,” he soothes, though there’s a wicked curl to his lips. “You’ll give us away.”

You want to tell him to stop. That anyone could walk by. That Francis could open the door and see you panting in the bath, Henry elbow-deep and smirking. But then his thumb brushes over your clit, slow, steady, and you forget your name.

“I could stay like this all night,” he murmurs, lips brushing your knee now. “You, wet and aching. Me, buried inside you to the knuckles”

You’re shaking when you come. Trying to stay silent, knuckles white against porcelain.

He doesn’t let you catch your breath. Just lifts you by the waist and sets you, dripping, on the edge of the tub.

“Turn around,” he says softly. “I want to feel you clench on my fingers again.”

You’re breathless when he lifts you, water sluicing down your back, thighs trembling, and sets you on the edge of the tub like some pagan offering. Still dizzy from the last orgasm, your arms hook around his shoulders for balance, and only then does the contrast fully hit you.

“I’m naked,” you whisper, as if it’s a scandal.

Henry hums. He’s still fully dressed: sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt damp from your dripping skin. He’s kneeling between your spread thighs, gaze steady and almost clinical, like you’re an ancient text he intends to memorize. “Yes,” he says mildly. “You are.”

You scoff. “You’re going to fuck me like this? Soaking wet? While you’re dressed like a professor in a penny dreadful?”

He drags a hand up your inner thigh and you twitch. His fingers are slow, unhurried. “You’ll dry.”

The flatness of it nearly makes you laugh, until he presses in again, fingers returning with that same ruthless precision. Your breath catches. The edge of the tub is hard beneath your thighs, but you’re too gone to care.

“Does it bother you?” he murmurs, he looks up with quiet challenge in his gaze, as though daring you to look away first, knowing you won’t. “That I’m dressed, and you’re not?”

You can barely speak, but you manage: “It’s obscene.”

Henry smiles, slow and cruel and lovely.

“Good,” he whispers. “Now stay still and let me enjoy the view.”

His knees are soaked. The marble floor is cold. But he doesn’t care, not with you perched bare and dripping on the tub’s edge, thighs already trembling from the stretch of them over his shoulders.

Henry’s mouth is warm and slow at first, tongue tracing a reverent path like he’s reading you line by line. His hands are firm on your hips, grounding you, but when your back arches and you try to close your legs around his head, he growls.

“Keep them open.”

You gasp. “I can’t—Henry—”

“You can,” he says, calm as ever, voice muffled by the mess of you. “You will.”

His tongue circles lazily, then dives in again with purpose. You’re dizzy with sensation, the tile biting into your ass, but it’s nothing compared to the burn of his mouth, the filthy way in which he devours you completely.

When your hands tangle in his hair and your whole body jolts from the pressure building, he tightens his grip, holds you in place, and keeps going.

“Henry—”

He only hums, and the vibration sends you shattering.

You’re panting, flushed all over and boneless.

And he’s still between your legs, breath heavy, eyes dark.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmurs. “Let me start again.”

You’re still gasping, twitching from the aftershocks when he finally lifts his head. His lips are slick, his jaw shadowed with your mess, and his eyes burn down at you.

“Up,” he says, already gathering you in his arms.

“Henry—wait—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

“Someone will See—”

“They’re too drunk”

He carries you down the hall, arms steady, heart pounding hard beneath your ear. When he lays you down on the bed, it’s like you’re made of glass, until he kneels between your legs again and spreads them open.

“Just once more,” he says, kissing the inside of your thigh. “One more, and I’ll fuck you like you need.”

His mouth is even slower this time, painfully gentle at first, until your body betrays you again, arching into him, sobbing out his name like prayer. His tongue is merciless, dragging every sound from your throat, every tremor from your legs.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until his mouth leaves you and he’s thumbing away a tear from your cheek.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He unbuttons his shirt. Finally. He pulls it off with calm precision, his gaze never leaving yours. His trousers follow, and then he’s over you, kissing your tear-streaked face while he lines himself up, rubbing his cock through the soaked heat between your thighs.

“You’re going to take it all,” he tells you softly. “Every inch. You’re already soaked for me.”

You whimper as he starts to push in, slow and stretching and so deep you feel him in your throat.

And then he begins to move.

You’re already trembling, but he doesn’t care. Or maybe he does, maybe that’s why he goes so slow at first. One long thrust, buried to the hilt, then he just stays there, letting you feel all of him.

“Look at you,” Henry whispers, brushing your damp hair back from your face. “You’re still crying, and I haven’t even started yet.”

You try to speak, but the moment he pulls out and thrusts back in, the breath is stolen right from your lungs.

He finds a rhythm that’s punishing in its tenderness, grinding so deep it aches, then dragging back out until you’re begging, tears slipping down your cheeks again. He murmurs all the while, mouth grazing your skin with every thrust.

“Taking me so well, darling.”

“You can do one more for me, can’t you?”

“You’re going to let me fuck you until you forget your own name.”

Your hands scramble at his back, nails digging into the fine muscles of his shoulders, as he fucks you open with relentless care. It’s like he wants to memorize the shape of your body from the inside. His mouth finds your neck, your jaw, your collarbone, kissing you reverent and filthy in the same breath.

And then his hand slides between your bodies again.

You sob his name. “Henry—really, I can’t—please—”

His voice is low and firm but somehow still gentle, “You can”

He doesn’t stop. Fingers tight around your throat, not choking, just holding, as he fucks you through the unraveling, your body clenching and pulsing around him. He swallows your cries with his mouth and whispers,

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cry for me. I’ve got you.”

And when you break, when your entire body convulses and your voice shatters on a final, wrecked sob, he lets go completely. Lets himself fall with you, fucking you through every wave, hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a groan so quiet it feels sacrilegious.

The room feels like it’s spinning, though your vision is clearing. Henry’s weight presses gently against you, but his hand is still resting against your skin, his thumb lazily drawing circles across your lower back as if he’s trying to soothe you from the inside out. His breath is hot against your neck, his lips brushing against the faintest edge of your pulse.

You don’t even have the energy to move, still reeling from everything, the aftershocks of pleasure leaving you soft and pliable in his arms. He feels like home. The only constant that’s left.

You blink up at the ceiling, the coolness of the bed beneath you contrasting with the heat still simmering between your legs. The intimacy between you two, after everything, is almost too much.

Almost.

Henry shifts, rolling onto his side so he can look at you properly, his hand coming to rest on your cheek. “You’re still with me?” he asks, voice low, half-question, half-statement. As if he knows, he always knows exactly what’s going on in your head.

You nod faintly, your heart still racing, but in the best possible way. “Yes,” you whisper, reaching up to run your fingers through his sweat soaked hair “just tired”

[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.