#astrum asks

hi, all! because we are slowly but surely approaching the 200 posts mark and this blog hasn't even been up for a full month, i've decided to provide all those who are new to my page a handy tool to facilitate orientation. when you expand this post, you will be greeted with a summary of all of my original posts and asks regarding the topic of my blog — incessant, tenacious, shameless thirst for the secret history's very own henry marchbanks winter.

admittedly, i am a complete sucker for lists and organizational tools, which is why this will simply be a heavenly experience for me — even more so because i'm currently procrastinating writing my term paper. however, without much further ado — find the list below the cut.

-> IMPORTANT NOTE: due to the link limit on this post, i can no longer expand it to my liking. because i don't want to create a second masterlist (just yet), however, you will find any newer uploads linked in my own reblog of this post (look in the notes).

do you know what, anon? that (loudly) killed me. and this is not to say i wasn't intrigued by the idea in the first place — believe me when i say i was, and how strongly so, too — but that single addition, that seemingly harmless adverb in brackets... it finished me off. you double-tapped me. you knocked me unconscious and had to get a final punch in nevertheless. good god. i love this idea, i can't help doing so.

in order for this to work, however, henry's door would need to be unlocked. now, i cannot fathom a situation in which that would be the case, as he's about the most organized and secretive person on earth, but let's just block that out for a moment and assume the two of you had already been all over each other in the doorway and merely forgot to lock the front door in your haze of increasing passion. it happens to the best of us, right? so, by the time bunny will have barged in, you'd be getting your soul and your sanity rammed out of you, naked and coated in a gleamy film of sweat; clothes strewn about as another undeniable factor of your endeavors; the volume of your moans and the tone of his growls so emphasized it would be likewise impossible to deny the nature of your coalescence otherwise. not to mention the fleshy collisions of skin merely accentuated by the occasional spanks henry would land on you. hell, your activity would amount to being so loud that you wouldn't even hear bunny having strode in, all smiles (which would soon fade) and giddy to greet henry for whichever reason he had lodged in mind prior.

the worst part is: he wouldn't even announce his presence, which would excruciatingly leave you to discover him in the room with you on your own, not in any way initiated by the intruding party. henry would angle your hips in a different way and press your head into the bedsheets so that it'd loll to the side, conveniently in the general direction of the bedroom doorway — to notice the unwanted intruder.

you'd shriek, then — this time not out of pleasure — and propel henry to stop with a petrified exclamation of his name. he'd whip around in horror momentarily, and bunny would remain standing there, as though ossified; slack-jawed, wide-eyed, barely breathing. you will never have experienced a drop in libido that fast. the following few moments would be filled with spoken (and screamed) profanity and scrambling to cover yourselves, with henry fumbling about for his glasses so he could stand the hell up and irately shove a motionless bunny out of the room.

no because i love anything domestic and mundane and with henry even more.

you know those sweet little things. like washing the dishes, drying them, cooking, glances across the room, reading quietly together, falling asleep on his lap, oh and if i saw one of those small smiles adorning his lips i would never stop grinning ( or sobbing) while looking at him ( honest id love to see what he'd do if he saw me staring at him with a big smile upon seeing one of his smiles). i so so so need this.

im violently sobbing rn

-A

i, too, am immensely fond of domesticity and the simple things, specifically applied to a character as cool and otherwise indifferent as henry. it's very mellowing, so tender, and comforting beyond all comprehension. i wholeheartedly love the few ideas you've pitched in the request, they're marvelous. let me see what i can conjure up on the basis thereof.

doing the dishes for him after a long, taxing day; knowing he is merely situated in the adjacent room, working; being reassured of the fact by the waft of smoke curling its way into the kitchen. washing mugs that previously harbored tea he'd made for you, precisely the way you like it; drying plates that were previously used to serve a meal you'd brought from home for the two of you, a loving gesture he appreciated so much he couldn't help but press a gratuitous kiss into your forehead, specifically because he had been so busy lately he couldn't even bring himself to cook. but there you were, swooping in, and saving him from the brink of giving up on himself once more.

finishing up the dishes and tiredly lowering yourself into his couch with a book as he sits at his desk in the same room and continues working on something so tremendously important to him. flicking through the pages placidly, calmly, at utter peace — lighting yourself a cigarette when and if you feel like it, having wordlessly snuck one from the pack of luckies lain by his dominant hand. indirectly and passively listening to how he breathes, how his pen scratches ink into the firm paper, how he turns over book pages of his own and sighs every now and again with a heaviness that awakens sympathy in you. all the while, you read, immersed in either a story to get your mind off of your studies or matching henry in productivity by reading something on the curriculum.

soon enough, he would rise, and flick off the desktop lamp — thereby marking his work time done for now. without detaching your eyes from your book, you'd know that his would be looking for you, only because mere moments later, you'd feel his tired, large frame sinking into the very same couch you're curled up on. he would gently grab hold of your legs and place them on his lap, tenderly caressing them through the dark tights posing a barrier between his digits and your bare flesh. you'd sigh, then, laying your book aside — only to be met with a mellow, soft glance exuding from him. he'd smile upon having locked eyes with you, albeit lightly — tiredly. that smile would simultaneously cause your heart to swell and bleed, aware of how much relief your presence provides him but also due to the bitter recognition of how much he needs said relief in the first place due to constantly being burdened and plagued by his studies, his environment, and his problems.

"read that to me, please," he'd request, then, nodding at the book you will have lowered in your lap. "and come a little closer, if you'd like."

— flea

fuckkkkk, the mental image of that is coaxing me into a realm i fear there might be no return from. as someone who likes to get their nails done (or at least pretty and presentable through one's own efforts), this is etching away at the last remaining shreds of sanity i'm unfortunately still dealing with.

to be honest, he would love a pretty manicure. i said what i said. any color would be fine, just the sole fact — beautifully tended to fingernails — would be very pleasing to him, as i can imagine. hell, i can see him as someone who would appreciate a beautiful pair of hands, even be an occasional hand kisser and whatnot — and then, to see them wrapped around his cock as you'd work it in anticipation of something greater... let's just say his stoicism would be chipped away at quite rudely, yet effectively.

oh, absolutely.

it could start out as a harmless study date — sitting across from one another with various books cracked open in front of you, respectively, pens gliding upon paper; pure unassuming academic dedication. until something within you shifts. maybe it’s his consternated, drawn expression, or the way he lets the cigarette idle between his fingers, barely rolling it back and forth, when he ponders over a more suitable translation. his veiled frustration when he needs to consult textbooks and dictionaries, almost undetectable but nevertheless discernible through heavy, deep breaths. there’s only this much you can take.

he would grow so annoyed with it, it'd be a thrill. due to constantly being used to getting his way, the opposite scenario would irk him greatly. and thus, of course, he would resort to exaggerated, nearly desperate means.

at first, he’d think he were simply not doing his best, and therefore try to apply more pressure — stimulate your clit with his mouth even more, flick his tongue a little faster. that would go on for short while, until he’d ultimately register that you’re not exactly reacting to any of it like you usually do, either. then, he’d pull away to contemplate — and blow cool air on your clit as he does so. it’d tickle, obviously, sending a tremendous shiver folding down your spine, and yet, you’d employ your best to keep quiet and disregard it all.

of course, he’d have your little game figured out in not time. swooping in to your heated center once more, he’d press a curious kiss to your bundled sensitivity, and question — quite sweetly, “and to what do i owe this inadvertence? mmh? are my efforts insufficient for you?" his breath would fan out against your core in an electrifying manner; you’d be forced to bite down on your lip in order to suppress a moan.

having gathered a bit of composure, you’d act a fool, "what?" as a response, you’d merely receive a displeased, albeit curious flick of the eyebrow from him. this is where you’d make a mental note that communicating with henry whilst he is oh-so-conveniently situated between your legs might be the most wicked thing on earth. still, you’d brush his suspicions off, "no, not at all. keep going." a mischievous grin would appear on your face, merely posing further proof to him.

"will i receive any confirmation thereof, then?" he’d inquire sternly.

having decided to challenge him a little, you’d tangle your hand in his dark locks and tease, "just stop talking." after saying that, you’d try to nudge him back forward, and to your great surprise — he wouldn’t resist. instead, he’d let himself be urged against your center, and that’s when you’d perceive that secret catch about his uncharacteristic obedience despite being teased — he’d close his teeth in on your clit, albeit lightly. you’d immediately shriek — you wouldn’t have have expected him to bite.

“henry!”

this is obscene. do it again.

holy shit, this just blew my mind. i’m pretty sure i went blank for about a minute or two. this is the most deranged and yet intriguing prompt i’ve ever received. and do you know what? i like it. love it, even. remember that we’re talking about fictional characters here, all right? i love myself some artistic freedom in that regard. detailed expansion and description of this prompt to follow after the cut — proceed at your own risk. you’ve been warned.

I wonder what Henry's reaction would be when he realized that Y/N likes to be called a good girl.

i feel like he would initially realize it not via calling you as such himself, but by observing your reaction to someone's calling you a good girl instead. maybe the term was unassumingly dropped by francis under an entirely innocent premise, as he does (remember how he called camilla a good girl after she injured herself with the glass shard!), but you became a little too flustered at it out of sheer nowhere — because you do like it. henry will have noticed, of course, due to how overly observant he is, especially when it comes to you. consequently, in a more private setting, he would revisit the matter and apply the rather beneficial knowledge of the effect that term has on you in the most intriguing of ways.

you would be planted on his lap, slowly and desirously making out with him, the warmth and the tension in the room only striving higher and higher. shortly before the two of you would proceed to even more lascivious activity, however, henry would pull away and utter, "get up and undress for me like a good girl." in response, you would freeze; it would be as though you had been ossified. heat would immediately surge to your face, your breath bated.

"hm?" he'd urge, as though oblivious to the power of his words. you would be scattered all over the place, aroused beyond belief. another comment he would issue in regard to your immobility would be, "what, did you like that? being called a good girl? how vulgar." it'd be derisive and perhaps even degrading.

you would follow his initial order, of course, trembling all over; as a reward, you'd get called a good girl once more — sheerly for your obedience. then, for the remainder of that night, he would abandon the duty of applying the term again. however, with more moments of intimacy to come, he would certainly keep the importance thereof in mind, occasionally appealing to you with the lascivious utterance in moments most unexpected, causing your breath to falter in your throat and your heart to start beating harder. you'd be putty in his hands.