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Richard had just discovered that Henry and Camilla were lovers when he described him as physically ‘mediocre,’ so I’ve always personally attributed it to jealousy and resentment. There seems to be a considerable leap between “He might have been handsome had his features been less set” and “I'd always thought that only the formality of his bearing saved him from mediocrity, as far as looks went.”
This approximately 6'5" man, square jaw, deep blue eyes, “dark, glossy hair,” “strong as an ox,” with a “tigerish grace,” seems anything but mediocre to me, and if you add to that a privileged and fascinating mind, “how good he is at anything he tries,” nobility of spirit, poet's soul and extraordinary courage, Henry Winter is literally a prince among men.
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for as much as i enjoy speculating what henry said to camilla at the end, i think the narrative significance of it was not what henry said specifically, but rather that henry and camilla had something richard was not privvy to. he was left out again
warnings: wlw, internalized homophobia, possessiveness, language, emotional manipulation, avoidant attachment, smut, fingering, cunnilingus, grinding, teasing, body worship, dacryphilia, praise and degradation, aftercare, bottom!camilla, top!reader, referenced physical and sexual abuse mdni
Summary: As the only other girl in the greek class, it was your responsibility to get camilla away from all those awful boys. She was your best friend, after all. And sure, she needs a lot of special care and attention, but you have no problem giving that to her.
part two here
You’re straight. Obviously.
Why wouldn’t you be when men looked like that? Though, you will admit you generally prefer them with clothes on. The only thing about them you really couldn’t stand was how rough some of them could be.
It’s one of the reasons you love the greek class. It’s nice to be in a group of young men who think with their minds instead of their dicks. Except for Charles and Francis.
Bunny was ever the gentleman, despite his more distasteful comments about certain kinds of individuals. He opened doors, gave you his sweater when you were cold, danced with you, and called you a “real woman” like his girlfriend back home. You are, to his point, more traditionally feminine than most of the girls at Hampden. You wore often red lipstick and kitten heels to class, and dresses even on weekends.
Charles called you a prude for refusing to sleep with him, but heaven knows where that thing has been. You know, actually. Inside his sister. And you therefore had elected to keep him and Francis far away from you.
Francis was quite affectionate, though a bit of a cunt, and he made you laugh, but you had your suspicions that he was a homosexual, judging mostly by the fact that he slept with men didn’t seem interested in the girls at Hampden.
You had your reservations about Henry at first, but you quickly realized that you had enough in common. You both loved philosophy and had an extensive vocabulary. You both loved Camilla, too.
Not in the same way, obviously, because you aren’t like that, but you did both love her.
You both wanted to keep her away from Charles as often as you could. You both knew what she endured any time he got drunk, or jealous, or angry. You both wanted to keep her safe.
You both wanted to lay with her in bed and press chocolates to her tongue to watch them melt.
You were quite certain that you cared for her more than Henry did, though he was quite gentle with her. He was… good to her. Better than you often liked to admit. A gentlemen, and quite considerate in most cases.
Still, he couldn’t possibly see her the way you do, dressed in light and wrapped in softness, glowing like the pale full moon, the sweat on her skin tasting like an aphrodisiac. If he had, you were quite certain, he would have married her by now. You certainly would have, if you were a man.
You always preferred when she came to you rather than Henry. It made something buzz warmly in your chest each time she curled up in your arms on the couch. Each time she would bury her face in the crook of your neck and mumble that she missed you.
You would do anything to get her from the others. Even Henry. Especially Henry.
It wasn’t jealousy. It was worse. It was possession. You were just looking out for her. She was your best friend. There’s no one else who sees her like you do. No one that understands her like you do. No one else that touches her like you do.
It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for her to be tempted to return to Henry and the others. She had needs, of course. The need for attention and care… and the desperate need to be fucked.
You had found, though, that most of those needs could be met by you. You had no issue brushing her hair and holding her. You enjoyed cooking for her and telling her how lovely she was.
You loved prying her thighs apart and putting your mouth on her. You’ll admit that some lines were crossed from time to time. She’d show up drunk at your house and beg you to hold her, so you did. And when she asked you to touch her, you were gentle in your rejection. You’d continue to hold her while she cried, not understanding why you wouldn’t. It didn’t matter how many times you explained consent, she would only insist that drunk words and actions are sober thoughts.
“In vino veritas,” she would mumble against your skin, pressing kisses to your neck. You let her.
You often worried that she might go to Henry, or even Charles seeking relief, so instead, you did what any real friend would do. You let her grind against your thigh. You told her she was beautiful and cuddled her until the feeling subsided.
She got off so beautifully, even drunk.
Things were a bit different when she was sober. She whined less and begged more clearly. You had less issue helping her out when she was sober. Not in a lesbian way, just… as her friend. As someone she needed.
As someone she needed inside her.
Now, she laid with her legs across your lap, lashes resting delicately against her cheeks. Her chest rises and falls evenly, and your fingertips trace small shapes on her thigh.
You consider, for a moment, what things would be like if you were a boy. You could have made a good one, you figure.
“Ma bichette,” you mumble, not looking up from your book. My doe.
She hums in acknowledgment, not yet opening her eyes.
“If I were a boy, would you love me?”
Her eyes flutter open. She looks amused.
“I already do love you,” she blinks slowly.
Your fingertips stop, your body tensing slightly.
“No, Χρυσή μου, I mean ἔρως.” You say it casually, like it was an obvious misunderstanding.
Camilla is silent for a long moment, and despite your attention being elsewhere, you continue to stare at the pages of your book.
“Would you love me?”
“I think I would,” you say, finally setting the book down. “If I were attracted to women instead of men, you’d certainly have my affections.”
Camilla stares at you for another moment. You know she won’t let you feign ignorance to what’s going on in her head. She had cried about it many times to you while intoxicated. She wants you to love her, now. She wants your affections as she is.
“Such a greedy thing,” you would tut every time. “Isn’t Henry enough for you, dove?”
She’d whimper and shake her head, eyes squeezing shut as her hips bucked against your thigh.
Now, though, her eyes only shoot daggers into you. She goes to move her legs out of your lap, but you hold them in place, and she doesn’t put up a fight.
“Come, love, let’s not spoil a nice moment with this, again.”
“I’m…I’m not,” she mutters back, causing a small pang of guilt in your chest.
“Camilla…”
“Don’t.”
You sigh and lift her legs off of you, getting up and moving to lie between her legs.
“Don’t?” you question softly. She’s blushing furiously, her thighs pressing around your torso.
She breathes your name, pleading, though she’s not sure what for.
“Speak up, my darling, tell me what you want.”
You can see the shift in her eyes, the silent acknowledgment that she won’t get what she really wants, but you’ll give her anything else if she asks for it.
“Touch me,” she says simply. You raise an eyebrow, looking slightly amused.
“Please,” she adds, quieter.
You aren’t in any hurry as you sit up and carefully tug her shorts down, discarding them on the floor. You kiss slowly up from her ankle, inch by inch, until your mouth reaches her apex. You slide one finger under the hem of her panties and gently slide them to the side, watching her eyes the entire time.
“So pretty, Cam,” you coo, your breath fanning over her.
“Th-thank you,” she whimpers, anticipation growing in her.
“Say it,” you say quickly before flattening your tongue against her.
“Ah! I-I’m… so pretty,” she manages between whimpers.
“Mhmm… such a pretty angel.” You kiss her clit, sucking gently. “Good girl.”
She whines, legs trying to close around your head, but you hold them open firmly, mindful not to touch the bruises left by her brother.
You were going to kill him one of these days.
She gasped and tugged at your hair, squirming and trying to pull you impossibly closer to her.
“Please, please…”
You lick and suck at her, fingers teasing her inner thigh until she’s practically crying.
“Je veux te dévorer,” you mutter against her dripping cunt, your eyes closing for a moment.
She groans as you slide two fingers into her, dragging them slowly against the spongy flesh inside her.
“F-fuck,” she whispers, her head falling back against the arm of the couch as she bites her lip.
You feel as the coil in her stomach starts to tighten, her walls tightening despite her obvious efforts to prolong her orgasm.
“Tu es tout pour moi, mon ange.”
Neither of you were certain exactly why most of your bedroom talk happened in french. Though, Camilla did have her drunken theories about it being easier than hearing the words leave your mouth in english.
Regardless, she loved when you’d murmur sweet nothings against her, everything she wanted to hear. She knew, deep down, that you must mean it, even if you wouldn’t say it outside moments like this.
“I’m… oh gods, I’m—”
“I know, baby. You’re okay.”
Tears slip from her eyes as she trembles and releases. You work her through it, slowing your ministrations until she stops shaking.
“Je t'aime à la folie,” you mutter, leaning up to kiss her lips. She whines, tasting herself on your mouth.
You scatter kisses on her face and neck, reaching for a blanket on the back of the couch and laying it over her.
When you return with a warm rag, she’s already asleep. You carefully clean her up, knowing how sensitive she is. She let out a small whimper, but her eyes stayed closed.
You’re about to lay with her when you hear a knock at the door.
The fuck do they want?
When you answer it, Henry is standing in the doorway, his eyes dark and serious.
“I’m looking for Camilla,” he says, monotone.
You stare at him for a moment.
“She’s asleep.”
A faint amusement flickers in his eyes like he might smile, but he never does.
“She does tire quite easily, doesn’t she?” He sounds almost fond, stepping closer to you.
You match his step, standing straight despite the way he towers over you.
“She certainly does.” Your jaw is tight, and his eyes are dark, and neither of you move your speak for a while.
He lifts a hand and cups your cheek, gliding his thumb over your bottom lip. You don’t move, still staring up at him harshly.
He leans down slow, giving you more than enough time to pull away or protest, but you never do.
He kisses you slow, his tongue moving against yours like he’s searching for traces of her.
He pulls away even slower, and for a moment, neither of you move.
“Henry…”
“Thank you,” he says before you can find the words, “for taking care of her.”
You swallow, opening your mouth to speak, but he continues.
“I wish you wouldn’t string her along the way you do, but I know you do care. I know she’s always… safe when she’s with you. I appreciate that.”
You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out his angle but finding none.
“I could… say the same to you.”
“Yes,” he says, his mouth curling up almost imperceptibly. “You could.”
You hear Camilla stir behind you, muttering sleepily, asking where you are and who’s at the door.
You swallow your pride, stamping out your jealousy for a moment, because you know nothing would make her happier than having both you and Henry. You meet his eyes, fighting every urge to shut the door in his face.
“Henry, would you…?”
He smirks and stands straight, waiting for you to finish. The smug look in his eyes offers no mercy for your dignity.
“Would you like to come inside?” You finally huff.
His smile softens and he nods, already removing his coat as he steps through the door.
You knew in that moment that it was going to be a very long night.
