Love reading, specially classic books, listening to music (Lana Del Rey, David Bowie, Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, etc) and drawing. I’m currently studying Latin and Greek.
In my spare time I like to write, that’s why I’ve created this blog. I’ll specially write about The Secret History since it’s one of my favorites, and it’ll be focused in Henry Winter. I also love the Marauders so maybe someday I’ll write something.
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Your page is amazing! I love the way you write it's so cool and fitting!
Could you write something about Henry x intelligent reader who seems so free and poetic so he's surprised when she's traditionally naive or inexperienced? (Like she's like totally clumsy in romantic and sexual things, and Henry is a surprised about it)
Thank you for requesting, love! Hope you like it. 💙
My dearest,
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader
Summary: (request)
Warnings: soft!Henry, virgin!reader?, smut but not described, suggestive, fluff.
Henry had always been struck by the way she spoke. Not because of what she said-although she was brilliant, he'd noticed that from the first day in advanced Greek-but because of how she said it. As if every word came out bathed in something ancient, something soft and ethereal. There was an aura about her that reminded him of statues: not because of coldness, but because of the impossible.
And yet you were alive. In such a tangible way that it was disconcerting.
That afternoon, the light fell on the library like a veil, and Y/n talked about Sappho and the immortality of words while she moved her hands as if they had wings. Henry pretended to read. In reality, he was watching her. He marveled at how she could seem so sure of the world and yet so oblivious to it.
Then it happened.
You were so engrossed that you didn't realize how close you were leaning over him to show him an underlined verse in the book. Your shoulder brushed his arm. A tiny touch. But enough.
And you jerked away, as if you had been burned. The book almost fell out of your hands.
“I'm sorry," she muttered, cheeks burning. “I didn't mean to... I didn't know you were so close.”
Henry looked at her with a slight raised eyebrow, surprised not by the brush, but by her reaction. You, who quoted Catullus with your eyes closed and spoke of death with chest-pounding gentleness... were trembling from a simple touch.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice lower than usual.
“Yes, of course. I'm just... clumsy with these things," you said, without looking at him.
He frowned, and not out of impatience. It was more curiosity. Pure observation.
“What things?”
“This.” You pointed to yourself, vaguely, as if that explained everything. “The close. The intimate. I'm out of practice.”
There was a silence. Not awkward, but deep. Like when you find a crack in a perfect stone and wonder what made it.
“But you talk about love as if you've lived it in every previous life," said Henry, at last.
You smiled, a little sadly.
“I've read it a lot. I've dreamed it more. But in reality..." you shrugged. “Sometimes I don't even know how to hold someone's hand without thinking about it too much.”
That disarmed him. He, who thought you were beyond the reach of human insecurities, now saw you as truly human. Fragile. Beautiful in another way.
Carefully, he reached out his hand on the table. Not touching you. Just offering it. And you, hesitantly at first, placed yours over hers.
It was a simple gesture.
But you stood very still.
And Henry - the same one who could read four dead languages effortlessly and talk about wars with the impassivity of a historian - felt that there was nothing more delicate at that moment than you.
———
They had been together for a few months now, although the word together always seemed too simplistic to Y/n. Nothing about Henry was simple. Not his way of watching her in silence, not the way his fingers hovered halfway between caress and restraint, not his voice, low and measured, that sometimes spoke her name as if it tasted like something sacred to her.
That night, they were at Francis' house, refugees from the world as so often. The others had gone to bed early after a slow supper plagued by lazy conversation. Henry, as always, did not sleep. And Y/n, as always, felt it.
The library was a room of dark wood and thick carpets, with a desk lamp burning as the only source of light. Henry was reading quietly, in Latin, an ancient edition of De Rerum Natura. He was not surprised to hear Y/n's soft barefoot footsteps, nor to see her enter in a thin robe over her white nightgown, her hair loose, somewhat disheveled.
“I couldn't sleep," she said, quietly, as if the library air demanded respect.
Henry closed the book slowly. His gaze, calm, went straight to her.
“Did you have another dream?”
She denied, approaching with timid steps.
“No. I just...don't like to be alone at night.”
He nodded. He didn't say I didn't either, but he moved aside in the wide armchair where he was sitting, inviting her wordlessly. Y/n sat down, legs tucked in first, her back very straight, as if she didn't quite know how to position herself next to him. Henry watched her out of the corner of his eye: there was something deliberate in her posture, as if she were measuring every inch between them.
And then something small happened. Something tender. Something awkward.
Y/n leaned her head on his shoulder with a sigh. It was an unsure gesture, a little hurried, as if she had been mentally rehearsing it. As if her body didn't yet know how to take up space in another's body. Henry felt her tremble just barely, and it was that trembling that unnerved him.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, but didn't look at him.
“It's just... I'm not used to this.”
“To what?”
She was slow to answer.
“To trust. To getting close. I feel... like I'm learning a language I've only read poems about.”
Henry barely turned his face, chin on her hair. He closed his eyes.
“And yet you speak it with a beauty that frightens.”
She laughed, but her voice was shaky.
“That's because you haven't seen how clumsy I can be.”
“I have," he said, without sarcasm. “And I find it... endearing.”
Y/n barely sat up to look at him. His eyes were big, dark, like wells of night. She was about to say something else, but when she saw his expression -attentive, serene, patient- she remained mute. And then, awkwardly, she brought her hand to his. Their fingers entangled, but without the fluidity of those who already know each other's bodies. It was a sweet, hesitant knot.
“Sometimes I think I'm good with words but not with bodies," she said, with an apologetic smile.
Henry looked down at their intertwined fingers. He squeezed them gently.
“The body is also a language," he murmured. “And you're learning it with me.”
There was silence. Then Y/n kissed him. It was a soft kiss, the kind that doesn't seek to take anything away, only to stay. And when they broke apart, her cheeks were aflame as if for the first time. Henry caressed her face, barely with the back of his hand.
“You're the brightest creature I've ever known," he said. “And the most innocent. I didn't expect that combination.”
“Neither did I," she whispered, hiding a little in his neck. “But with you... I like being new at this. You make me feel safe. And that gives me courage to be wrong.”
Henry rested his chin on her head and hugged her to his chest. They stood like that, in the dim light of the library, as if the world were just a background note.
And in that instant, in that suspended space between love and tenderness, Henry knew he could never turn away from that innocence that was not ignorance, but pure honesty.
Like the first line of a poem. The simplest. The truest.
The house was silent. Francis slept upstairs, the library windows fogged by the mist outside. Y/n was still lying against Henry's chest, listening to his slow breathing, his heart rhythmic as a metronome.
“Henry," she murmured, not moving.
“Mm.”
“Does this frighten you?”
He didn't answer right away. He only looked down at her face, that unique blend of delicacy and intensity, as if it were made of warm alabaster. He stroked her cheek with his fingertips, barely.
“It scares me how much I care.”
Y/n nodded with a small smile, as if that were her own answer as well. She sat up gently and looked into his eyes. There was something in her face that trembled between assurance and fear. And then, in an unexpected gesture, she sat up on her legs, her nightgown slipping off one shoulder unintentionally. He said nothing. He just looked at her.
“I want-" he began, then interrupted himself, "I want you to teach me.”
Henry frowned barely.
“Teach you what?”
“To not be afraid of what I feel. Of this. Of being so close that you no longer know where you begin and I end.”
He swallowed slowly. The silence became thick, as if something sacred was about to break or be born. He didn't kiss her right away. He just reached up and stroked her neck, her shoulder, with reverential gentleness. As if she were a living statue. As if she herself were a verse he dared not mispronounce.
She shivered. Not from cold, but from vertigo. The vertigo of being looked at like that.
“I don't know how to do this," she said. “Not like the others. Not as expected.”
“There is no right way," Henry murmured, bringing his forehead close to hers. “There is only us.”
And then he kissed her. Slowly, firmly. With the assurance of one who has waited long. She responded awkwardly at first-the brush of their noses, the ragged breathing, the hesitation in her hands that didn't know where to go-but also with a gentleness that disarmed Henry completely.
He guided her calmly, unhurriedly, as if each small gesture were a prayer. The way his fingers trailed down her back, the way she closed her eyes and clung to his shirt as if she were afraid of losing herself.
The nightgown fell to the floor like the last petal of a flower. And Henry looked at her, carefully, as if contemplating a work of art. There was no judgment in his gaze. Only awe. Devotion.
“You are beautiful," he said, simply.
Y/n wanted to laugh, wanted to hide, but he held her by the hips, firm, and added softly:
“In you there is something that has not been corrupted. Something I've never touched. Something I didn't even know I needed until I saw it.”
She leaned in, hugged him, kissed his neck shyly.
“You're not what I expected either.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It's... terrifying," she whispered. “And wonderful.”
They lay on the wide sofa, their bodies awkwardly falling into place, like pieces of a puzzle they'd just discovered fit together. The lamp remained on, casting long shadows on the ceiling, as if the whole world was contained only in that room, only in the two of them.
And when their bodies finally met at last, there was no rush, no perfection, no certainty. Just a gentle trembling, a mutual recognition. A dance made of whispers, of hands seeking each other, of breaths mingling.
Y/n cried a little. Not of sadness. Not even of fear. But of something more primal: the beauty of surrendering like this, of being looked at without judgment, of learning through love.
Henry said nothing. He just held her, as if he could hold the soul itself. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her pulse. And when she later fell asleep in his arms, he contemplated her in silence, as one contemplates a mystery.
———
Dawn came slowly, as if the world did not want to interrupt them yet.
In the library, the lamp was still lit, now barely dimmed by the rising light that crept through the cracks in the curtains. There was a special stillness in the air, a calm so delicate that it seemed suspended, as if time itself were holding its breath.
Y/n was the first to move.
She was nestled against Henry's chest, her head resting just below his collarbone, her breathing still deep, slow. The blanket-the one he had reached for sometime in the early morning to cover her-had slipped a little, leaving her shoulder exposed. The skin had a faint golden glow in the morning light.
She blinked slowly and looked up at him.
Henry was already awake. He hadn't moved, he didn't want to. He was looking at her with that intensity of his, quiet and grave, as if he were contemplating something he feared he might break if he breathed too hard.
“Good morning," she murmured, barely audible.
“Good morning, darling," he replied.
She smiled, still sleepy, and hid a little more in his arms. She was warm, wrapped in a warmth that came not only from her body, but from everything they had shared the night before: the vulnerability, the surrender, the surprise of discovering each other so close and so real.
“Did you sleep at all? -she asked, noticing the wakefulness in his eyes.
“Not much. But I'm fine," he answered, stroking her hair. “I like having you like this.”
Y/n looked up at him, searching for something in his expression.
“Do you feel strange?”
Henry shook his head softly.
“No. I feel... at peace. And that's weird, actually. But with you," he added, with that frankness he only used with her, "I'm not afraid.”
She blushed, soft and pretty, and closed her eyes for a moment. Then, slowly, she sat up a little, sitting down on the couch with the blanket still wrapped around her body. Henry followed her with his eyes, as if he didn't want to lose any detail of how the light caressed her shoulders, her neck, her bare back.
“It was good. I enjoyed it” she admitted quietly, blushing slightly.
“Me too” Henry sat down next to her and hugged her from behind, wrapping both arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Everything changed," he said. “But not in a scary way. Just... more real.”
Y/n turned her head slightly and kissed him on the cheek, light as a feather.
“Do you think anyone will notice anything?” she asked, laughing softly. “Francis has a radar for these things.”
Henry smiled for the first time that morning, brief but sincere.
“He'd been suspicious even before we were.”
They stood like that for a while, not speaking, listening to the noises of the field slowly awakening: a bird at the window, the creak of the old house, a light breeze rustling the branches. Everything seemed to fit.
“I'm hungry," said Y/n suddenly.
“Then let's go to the kitchen. Francis will leave some coffee ready. I'm sure he will.”
“Just like that? With the blanket?”
“Just like that.” He looked at her calmly. “You look beautiful. Even half asleep.”
Y/n rolled her eyes with a shy smile, got up and looked for her nightgown, untidy on the floor. She put it on and waited for him to sit up too. Before leaving the library, she turned once more and looked at him.
“Henry.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for being so good to me.”
He didn't say anything right away. He reached over and cupped her face with both hands, gently, with the same devotion as the night before.
“I'm not good, dear. Not in general. But you... you make me want to try.”
And so, on a quiet morning, after a night that changed them without fuss, they left together for the kitchen, like two people who have just discovered not only love, but the language that comes with it.
Summary: a slow morning with their three year old daughter and their newborn daughter.
Warnings: super soft Henry (hard to believe it’s the same Henry from TSH), domestic, fluff, use of Y/n.
It was still very early, and the light was barely filtering in the form of golden threads through the slits in the curtains. A warm silence reigned in the room, interrupted only by Y/n's soft breathing and the rhythmic sound of the antique clock in the hallway. The baby, wrapped in a white cotton blanket, slept peacefully on her mother's chest, who rested on her back, exhausted but serene.
Henry slept on his side, one hand outstretched toward them, as if even in sleep he wanted to make sure they were both still there.
Until he heard the faint creak of the door.
His eyelids heavy and his mind still floating between dreams, Henry slowly opened his eyes and saw a tiny figure, with tousled curls and bunny pajamas, peeking in the door.
"Daddy," Sophia whispered, standing with her hands clasped in front of her chest, as if asking the whole house for permission to enter.
Henry sat up carefully, without waking his wife or the baby, and smiled at her with that expression that was only seen on him when he looked at his daughters. He gestured gently with his fingers, inviting her to come closer.
Sophia walked slowly, with short steps, until she was beside the bed. She looked at her mother and the newborn with huge eyes, full of fascination.
“Can I come up?” she asked in an excited whisper.
Henry gently took her in his arms and placed her between him and Y/n on the quilt. The girl immediately snuggled against her father, but kept her eyes on her sister, as if she were seeing something magical.
“Her name is Gracie," Henry reminded her softly, stroking her hair. “Remember?”
Sophia nodded solemnly.
“She's so tiny.”
“Yes," he replied, with a faint smile. “Very. She still needs to sleep a lot with Mommy. But soon she'll grow up, and you can teach her your stories. And the songs you know. And how you make castles out of sheets.”
Sophia looked at him as if he had just entrusted her with a sacred mission.
“Can I teach her how to put hats on cats, too?”
Henry held back his laughter so as not to wake anyone.
“Maybe later.”
Sophia was silent for a while, watching her mother and the baby. Then she leaned a little closer to Henry, covering her mouth with her little hand to whisper:
“Mommy is very pretty asleep.”
Henry turned to look at them and nodded.
“She always has been.”
The little girl laid her head on her father's chest, wrapped in that warmth of home that you don't learn, you just feel. Henry draped part of the blanket over her shoulders and rested his chin on her little head.
Hours later, Y/n opened her eyes slowly, still enveloped in the sweet slumber of a dream without nightmares. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was, until the light weight on her chest anchored her back to reality. She looked down gently and there she was: Gracie, her newborn baby, sleeping soundly on her chest, her little head turned to one side and one little hand peeking out from the blanket wrapped around her.
Her little sighs, warm and moist, caressed his bare skin between the unbuttoned buttons of his nightshirt.
And as she turned her head slightly to her left, she saw the image that made her heart complete: Henry was semi-recumbent on the bed, his hair slightly disheveled, his eyes already awake and calm on her. Above him, sound asleep, Sophia - their first daughter - rested with her cheek pressed to his chest, wrapped in her bunny pajamas, her hair disheveled from sleep.
Y/n gave Henry a slow smile, full of tenderness. He looked back at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“Have you been like this for long?” She whispered, not moving her body too much so as not to wake the baby.
“A while," Henry replied, gently stroking Sophia's back. “She snuck into bed at dawn. She wanted to see Gracie. I told her she was still asleep, like you. And then... well, she stayed here.”
Y/n laughed very softly. She stretched slowly, feeling her body still somewhat weak but full, placid. She caressed with her fingertips the arm of her eldest daughter, who barely moved in her sleep. Then her eyes fell on Henry again.
“She's like a kitten. So cute.”
“A snoring kitten," he said, looking at Sophia with transparent tenderness. “But yes. A little.”
Y/n looked down at her little daughter, who was still sleeping on her skin as if the world could not reach her there. She caressed with her fingers her tiny back, feeling that soft and perfect warmth.
“I love the way she's settling in...like I'm still part of her," she murmured.
“You are," Henry said, and his voice was so soft it barely broke the air. “And she's part of you, too.”
Y/n looked up at him again. There was no hurry on his face. Just that serene expression she sometimes saw on his face when he looked at his daughters. That mute peace that seemed to grow from his chest.
“Thank you," she whispered.
He frowned slightly, not understanding.
“For this," she explained. “For mornings that don't feel empty. For this quiet love. To you.”
Henry reached out his free hand to her. And though he could not move much with Sophia asleep on top of him, he intertwined his fingers with Y/n's and held them thus, loosely, with a tenderness that spoke of years and decisions.
The baby stirred slightly on her mother's chest, but did not wake. She made a tiny little noise and settled back down, as if she knew there was no safer place in the world.
“We're going to have to move soon," Henry said quietly. “Before the two of them wake up and declare chaos.”
Y/n laughed very softly, and that made the baby cower even more, like a warm little animal in a burrow.
“Five more minutes," she asked, gluing her cold feet to his legs, as she used to do. “I'm too well off here.”
Henry smiled.
“I'm not moving.”
And so, with one girl on her chest, another on the bed, and the woman he loved in front of him, Henry closed his eyes for a moment. Not to sleep. Just to keep the image. In case someday he needed to remember what it was like to have it all.
His girls.
His whole world, breathing slowly, by his side.
—————
Hey angels! Hope you like this little post. I personally do, but actually anything involving a cute family is just what makes me happy. 😆
Anyway, I just realized I have more requests and I didn’t notice 😭. I’m already working on one of them so I will be publishing them. Sorry I didn’t notice.
Summary: a little portrait of a relationship in ruins, beautiful and sad, where love still exists but is no longer enough. Inspired by the new song by Lana, “Henry, come on.”
Warnings: none, slight angst, breakup, sad.
Y/n did not know why she had decided to start packing that afternoon.
Maybe because the sky was the exact color that sadness had when it hid in the bones. Because it had been raining, and everything smelled of wet earth and finals. Or because, after so many silent nights, Henry still said nothing.
She put things away slowly, as if each folded shirt was a farewell. The house was dark, barely illuminated by the murky light from the window. She had stopped playing music, because even that seemed to force a mood that no longer fit. The only sound was the creaking of old wood under her footsteps, and from time to time, the sound of her gasping for breath.
There was no shouting. No arguments. Everything had gone out in a subtle way, like a candle burning itself out while no one was looking.
Henry watched her from the doorframe, leaning with his hands in his pockets, as if he didn't know if he had permission to enter. Or to speak. He had his coat on, as if he had just arrived, even though he had been there for hours.
“Are you leaving?” he asked at last.
Y/n did not answer at first. She finished zipping up one of the suitcases. Only then did she look up. Her eyes were not red. She had cried before.
“I got tired of waiting for you, Henry" she said in a soft voice, and that was worse than if she had shouted.
“You don't have to. Not this time.”
She smiled, sad. She walked over to the window and leaned against the frame. From there she could see the wet city, the lights of the cars reflected in the puddles like broken constellations.
“You always say "this time," as if it hadn't been all the times. As if you haven't left me alone when I needed you most. As if you didn't know I've been sleeping with a ghost for months.”
He came closer, very slowly, as if any sudden movement could break her.
“You know I love you," he murmured.
“And what good does that do me?” She asked without harshness, only with weariness. “What's the use of your loving me if you're not there? If you are always locked up in your books, in your thoughts, in your world?”
Henry looked down. He didn't know how to explain to her that he was broken too. That he didn't know how to love any other way. That his love was an ancient language, with no possible translation. That sometimes he loved her so much that he dared not touch her, for fear of contaminating her.
“Remember when you said we would always be together?” Y/n asked, without looking at him.
Henry nodded, but his silence was more eloquent than any answer.
“Words are lost in the wind, Henry. And I can't wait any longer for you to change.”
“When I'm with you, I feel better," he replied, almost in a whisper.
“And when you're not with me, I feel lonely," she replied. “And lately, you're much less so.”
A silence stretched between them. Dense, heavy. She came closer, and for a second, she thought of touching his face. To run her fingers across his eyebrows, to kiss his forehead, as she used to do. But she didn't.
“It would have been enough for me if you had really come," she said. “Not just with your body. With the mind, with the heart. But you are always somewhere else. And I'm standing empty here, waiting for you.”
Henry didn't know what to say. Because he was afraid. Because he had grown up among marble, discipline and coldness, and her warmth overwhelmed him. Because he loved her so much that it hurt, and he hadn't learned to turn that into daily gestures.
“I don't want to go," she whispered, almost to herself.
And that was what hurt him the most.
Because she still loved him. But she knew that wasn't enough.
Y/n took her coat. She put it on with slow, unhurried movements. She looked at him for the last time and then, as if something was breaking inside her, she said:
“Henry, come on. But come well. Not half-heartedly. Not when it's too late. Don't look for me when I'm gone.”
And she went out.
The door closed with a soft click, like a tearless goodbye.
Henry stood there, in the half-dark living room, surrounded by books and silence, the rain pattering on the glass.
Thinking, for the first time in a long time, that he had lost something irretrievable.
_________
Hey, my loves! So I listened to the new Lana song and I immediately thought of our Henry Winter, so I had to write something inspired by the song. It’s not very long but I hope you enjoyed it! Xx 💙
Hiii! I love your writing style! I wanted to request, if possible, Henry with a slightly plump girlfriend, like in a "ancient greek beauty" way, I think he would be head over heels because of it. Maybe he enjoys that she's not really insecure about it, and that instead of rejecting the "girly" part of it, she embraces it. I think he would be "sweet" (well, as much sweet as Henry Winter can be, which is barely tender lmao)
I absolutely adore this idea. Thanks for requesting, babe! 💙
Venus in marble and flesh.
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader
Warnings: none I believe, soft!Henry, use of Y/, as said in the request; reader is described as being plump.
It wasn't the first time Henry had observed her as if she were a sculpture, but it was the first time she had noticed him.
Y/n was sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, her legs crossed under her skirt and her hair pulled back in a messy way. They were at Francis's house, as so often, with the others scattered among the garden, the couches, or in private rooms where conversations grew thicker.
She was laughing at something Richard had said-a soft, enveloping laugh, like wind chimes-as she leaned back slightly, leaning on her arms. It was then that she felt the stare.
She raised her eyes and Henry was watching her from across the room, a book in his hand that he was clearly no longer reading. His expression didn't have the fierce intensity he displayed when discussing philology or strategy. It was something else. Something quiet, restrained. Something that made her feel... seen.
“What?” she asked, smiling, one eyebrow raised naturally.
Henry took a second before answering. He closed the book leisurely, set it down on the low table, and walked over.
“It's nothing," he said at last, standing in front of her, "I was just thinking about how you'd fit perfectly into a Hellenistic bas-relief.”
She let out a little laugh, amused.
“Are you saying I look like a fat marble goddess?”
“I'm saying that classical beauty has nothing to do with lightness," he answered, in his low, slow tone. “And that there's something about you... round, serene. As if the centuries did not touch you.”
Y/n looked at him with narrowed eyes, half amused, half surprised. The way he spoke was so uncommon, so utterly devoid of superficiality, that it disarmed any defense before he could even raise it.
“I don't mind you seeing me like this," she said, looking down at her own body, where the soft curves of her hips and thighs filled the space like a Botticelli painting. Then she looked at him again, "I suppose some people would be embarrassed. But not me.”
Henry bowed his head barely, as if approving of what he had just heard. Then, in a gesture as simple as it was revealing, he sat down behind her on the rug, and with studied slowness, placed both hands on her shoulders.
“Good," he murmured, as his fingers began to massage her neck with methodical clumsiness. “Because I like it that way.”
She let out a restrained laugh, closing her eyes with a sigh.
“You know, if you were anyone else, I'd think you were trying to seduce me.”
“And if you were anyone else," Henry replied, his voice low, "it wouldn't work.
The fire crackled between the two of them.
And though Henry was not the kind of man who kissed lightly, that night-in the shared silence, with the firelight dancing on his classical forms, with her warmth enveloping him like an ancient spell-he allowed himself to lean into her cheek and brush her skin with his lips. Barely an instant.
A simple gesture.
Almost imperceptible.
But for him, more intimate than anything else.
———
It was Sunday morning and Francis' house was still sleeping under the weight of the collective hangover. Outside, the sky was overcast with low clouds, but inside it was warm, permeated with the smell of wood and freshly brewed coffee.
Henry was in the kitchen, white shirt rolled up and hair messier than usual. He was slowly moving a teaspoon inside a porcelain cup, almost mechanically, as if he had been doing that for her for years already.
Y/n entered quietly, her face still sleepy and her body wrapped in a thin robe that didn't belong to her, one of those she wore when she was at Henry's or Francis's house. She walked to him barefoot, with that quiet, confident gait he had learned to recognize without looking. He noticed her before she spoke.
“Is it for me?” she asked, her voice still numb.
Henry simply extended the cup to her.
“You know it is.”
She took it in both hands and smiled against the hot rim.
“You're going to spoil me.”
“You already are," he muttered, sipping his own coffee. “Which isn't necessarily a bad thing.”
They stood in silence for a few seconds, leaning against each other on the counter, not needing to fill the space with words. It was one of those routines they had started unintentionally: he would get up earlier, make coffee, and wait for her to come seeking warmth and comfort in his arms or in the cup he extended to her.
“Are you going to keep reading Plotinus all day?” Ophelia asked after a sip.
“Yes" he answered, without irony. “But only if you stay with me.”
Y/n turned her face to look at him. The way Henry said those things, so simple and so clear, without embellishment, without posturing, still disarmed her a little. As if it were impossible that this man, so hermetic to the world, would let her see so clearly that he needed her near.
“I'll stay. But only if you read aloud to me afterwards.”
“Done.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, and Henry, without thinking, slipped his free arm around her waist.
And there, in that silent kitchen, with the alien world still asleep, she felt more loved than anywhere else. For with Henry, love was not fuss or declaration; it was presence. Routine. Permanence.
Later, they were both in the library, which smelled of old dust, leather and paper, with that unmistakable perfume of the eternal. Outside it was raining with an almost monastic constancy, but inside silence reigned.
Y/n was sitting on the window sill, with a blanket covering her legs and a book in her hands. The fogged glass softened the gray light coming in from outside, and enveloped her in a milky, almost dreamlike glow.
Henry was at the desk, presumably taking notes on a Greek treatise he had been meaning to review for weeks. The pen rested in his hand, but the ink had begun to dry without his noticing.
He watched her.
He wasn't just watching- he was observing her.
The way her hair fell, still damp, in soft waves over her shoulders.
The delicate curve of her cheek, rounded, smooth.
The slight fold of her belly under the blanket, natural, unconcealed.
Her hips, wide and calm, as if they belonged to another era.
A baroque goddess wrapped in wool and books.
Y/n did not hide. She never did. There was something about her that offered herself to the world with serene firmness, with that gentle confidence of one who knows and accepts herself. There was no shame in the way she moved, or in the way she pulled her sweater across her chest, she carried herself with confidence.
Henry had spent years surrounded by marble, by perfect ideas, by impossible symmetries. But now...this.
Her.
She lived in his body like a living sculpture, but with more than form: with warmth. With laughter. With soul.
“Are you going to keep looking at me like that, or do you want me to read aloud?” Y/n asked without looking up, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Henry blinked. He hadn't noticed that she had stopped writing, or that the pen had dripped a dark stain on the paper.
“Both of those things sound good to me," he replied with complete seriousness.
She let out a soft laugh, closing the book carefully.
“You're a mess, Winter.”
“I am a man distracted by his muse," he replied, as if reading a passage from Herodotus.
Y/n rose from the windowsill, dropping the blanket at her feet. She walked toward him unhurriedly, the soft creak of the floor accompanying her steps.
When she reached the desk, Henry leaned over without a word and rested his forehead against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist. Y/n stroked his hair tenderly, silently. Then, she sat on his lap and nestled her cheek on his chest. Henry read to her as he stroked her hair.
There, among bookshelves full of dead voices and rain pattering on the glass, Henry Winter allowed himself a moment of total surrender.
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Please, please write a part 2 to “the softness in the cold marble”!!! It is gorgeously written and so dreamy. I wonder how they got together - how did Henry woo her? Little gifts? Oh and their size difference is probably something at the front of the mind, it would be so cute.
I’m so glad you liked it, angel! Thanks for requesting 💙
The softness in the cold marble. Part 2.
Summary: How Henry and Y/n got together. Part two of this.
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader.
Warnings: use of Y/n, slight description of Y/n, soft Henry. Most of this is settled in Francis’ country house, I was also thinking this takes place during spring break (?).
It was gradual.
Henry and Y/n had always spent time together, but after the night he came to her door with Bunny's death weighing on his shoulders, something changed.
At first, it was just a matter of companionship. Henry found himself looking for any excuse to see her: stopping by her house after class, staying in the library until she finished her reading, walking beside her in silence without needing to talk too much. It wasn't planned or intentional, but over time, every free space in his routine was filled with Y/n's presence.
And she never turned him down.
It was as if she knew, as if she understood without him having to say anything. She didn't ask questions he wasn't prepared to answer. She didn't push him. She was just there, with her silent warmth, with her inexplicable tenderness, with that infinite patience that puzzled him and reassured him at the same time.
There were small moments when Henry realized that what was happening between them was different.
The first time he felt that certainty was one afternoon in the library.
Y/n was sitting next to him, reading with her head resting on her hand, dark waves falling over her forehead. Henry was barely aware that he had stopped concentrating on his own book, watching out of the corner of his eye the way she turned the pages with light movements, the way her lips curved just barely when she liked something.
There was nothing special about that instant. No dramatic revelation. Just a sudden, crisp feeling: he wanted to be near her. Always.
The second time was at her house.
Y/n had begun to stay up late some nights, sometimes reading, sometimes simply in silence, sitting beside him, having a drink and a smoke, while the fire in the fireplace crackled in the background.
One night, after a quiet conversation about some old book, she had fallen asleep on the sofa. Henry, without thinking too much, took the blanket he had nearby and carefully covered her. He stood watching her for a moment too long, noting the way her breathing rose and fell.
He was tempted to touch her face, to slide a finger over the curve of her cheek.
He didn't.
But something inside him moved irreversibly.
The third time was clearer.
They had gone for a walk in the woods, something they did often since the snow had begun to melt. Y/n walked beside him with her hands in her pockets, her coat slightly open, revealing the thick wool sweater she wore underneath.
“There's something different in the air when I'm out here with you,” she commented, turning her face toward him.
Henry looked at her.
“Different how?”
“Cleaner, warmer. As if winter had left something behind.” She responded softly.
He nodded, but he wasn't really thinking about the answer. Only about the way the wind gently ruffled the strands of her hair, about the faint light of the sun reflecting in her eyes.
And then, almost without realizing it, he took her hand.
Y/n did not react with surprise. She said nothing, made no abrupt gesture. She only intertwined her fingers with his, as naturally as she had always touched him.
Henry felt something strange in his chest, something that had no name.
They didn't talk about it when they got home, but from that day on, the way they were together changed.
The spaces between them became smaller.
The silences became more comfortable.
And Henry stopped questioning the inevitable.
———
The clock on the wall read two o'clock in the morning.
Francis's country house was in complete silence, plunged in gloom, with the sole exception of the library, where the light from a table lamp illuminated a corner with a golden warmth.
Henry was awake, as usual.
He had spent the last few hours in the same place, with a book in his hands, though he had long since stopped reading. His eyes roamed the lines, but his mind was far away, caught up in thoughts that even he couldn't sort out.
The faint creaking of wood made him look up.
Y/n appeared in the doorway, her hair disheveled from sleep and a linen robe draped over her shoulders.
“I knew you'd be here,” she murmured with a soft smile.
Henry watched her silently as she entered the room and approached him unhurriedly.
“You couldn't sleep,” he said, closing the book calmly.
“I could say the same for you,” she replied, leaning over slightly to see what he was reading.
Henry put the book down on the table.
Y/n said nothing more. She just sat down next to him, swinging her legs over the armchair, with the air of someone who had done this many times before.
The fire in the fireplace had dwindled to orange embers, casting soft shadows on the shelves full of books.
Y/n picked up the book Henry had left on the table and began to leaf through it silently.
Henry watched her, as her hair fell over her shoulders, as the fire reflected on her face.
He began to lowly explain to her what the book was about, about a slow and pure love, about two people united by a sincere feeling.
Y/n put the book back on the table and looked into the fire.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked after a while, turning her face toward him.
Henry looked at her.
There was something in the stillness of the night, in the intimacy of the moment, that made the question feel deeper than it seemed.
“Nothing,” he finally said, with a slight exhale.
Y/n arched an eyebrow, as if she didn't quite believe him, but didn't insist.
For a moment, they just stood there, silent, their breathing slow and the warmth of the fireplace enveloping them.
And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Henry reached out a hand and gently brushed Y/n's cheek.
She did not pull away.
She said nothing.
She only leaned her head slightly against his palm, closing her eyes for a moment, as if the contact was as inevitable to her as breathing.
Henry felt the air grow thicker between them.
He could hear his own pulse, feel the warmth of Y/n's skin beneath his fingers, the quiet throbbing beneath the curve of her jaw.
And then, without much thought, he leaned into her.
The kiss was slow, almost hesitant, as if they were testing something that deep down they already knew to be true.
There was no urgency in the contact, just the quiet certainty of two people who had been getting close to this for a long time.
When they parted, Y/n looked at him with a soft expression, her eyes shining in the dim light of the room.
Henry gently took her arm to lift her off the couch and guide her toward her room.
They both lay down on the bed, and Henry turned off the lamp on the bedside table.
“I knew it would happen at some point,” she whispered with a light smile, referring to what had happened in the library, which had been just the consequence of all the feelings that had built up during all the time they had spent together.
Henry didn't respond.
He just pulled her gently to him, letting her settle against his chest, their bodies fitting together with an almost disconcerting ease.
Gradually, silence filled the room again, with the rhythmic sound of two breaths mingling in the stillness of the early morning.
And so, without realizing it, they fell asleep together for the second time, but this time in a completely different context.
———
The next morning, as the sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains of the room, Henry awoke to Y/n's warm weight against his chest.
For an instant, he lay still, watching her breathing slow and leisurely, her face relaxed by sleep. There was something strangely intimate about seeing her like this, so close, so real.
Then, he felt her begin to stir slowly, awakening from her lethargy. Her eyelashes trembled a little before she opened her eyes, and for a moment, they just looked at each other in silence.
There were no startles, no hurried words.
Y/n only smiled a light, sleepy smile, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to wake up in his arms.
“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice still sleepy.
“Good morning,” he replied, without looking away.
Neither of them made any sign of moving immediately.
The world still existed outside the room, but at that moment, it seemed distant and irrelevant.
When they finally parted, there was nothing awkward in the silence that followed. Y/n stretched languidly before sitting up, and Henry stood watching her in the morning gloom, as if trying to etch that instant into his memory.
Afterwards, they simply walked out of the room to go with the others downstairs, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
———
The following days were filled with small moments that, as insignificant as they seemed, were tracing the outline of something new between them.
There were glances that lingered a little longer than usual, as if in their eyes lurked a silent understanding that no one else shared.
There were accidental brushes - or not so much - when they passed each other in the kitchen or in the garden, when their fingers met on the table without either of them intending to move away.
There were nights when Y/n would stay up longer than usual, and when the others went to sleep, she would simply find her way to Henry, as if it had always been her natural place.
And Henry, for his part, stopped fighting the inevitable.
He found he liked her constant presence, the way her voice filled the empty spaces effortlessly, the ease with which her laughter made him forget everything else.
He found that he couldn't help but look for her in every room, that he felt restless when she wasn't around.
One afternoon, as the sun was beating down on the golden lawn of Francis's house, Y/n was sitting on the porch with a book in her hands.
Henry watched her from a distance for a moment before approaching.
She looked up when she felt his shadow, and without a word, he sat down next to her, too close.
“What are you reading?” he asked, though he didn't really care about the answer.
Y/n smiled sideways, aware that Henry rarely asked questions out of mere politeness.
“Plato,” she answered matter-of-factly.
Henry leaned in slightly, just enough for his arm to brush against hers. Y/n did not pull away.
A few seconds passed in which she simply looked at him, as if waiting for him to say something else.
And then Henry did.
“Last night,” he began, with studied calm, ”do you regret it?”
There was no hesitation in Y/n's reply.
“No.”
Henry nodded slowly.
Then, with quiet assurance, he took her hand and entwined it with his own.
And this time, there was no hesitation in what that meant.
———
After that afternoon on the porch, their relationship took a turn that neither of them verbalized, but both understood.
There was no conversation in which they told each other clearly what they were to each other. There were no promises, no grandiose declarations. They simply continued to be together, as if it had always been that way.
Y/n no longer slept alone every night. Sometimes she stayed in her room, sometimes in Henry's, sometimes in the library when they both ended up too tired after a long conversation.
The others began to notice the difference.
Richard, always a silent observer, watched out of the corner of his eye when Henry and Y/n sat together on the couch, their bodies closer than necessary, the way he looked at her when he thought no one was paying attention.
Francis had stopped being surprised. He didn't say anything, but sometimes his gaze had a glint of restrained amusement when he saw them.
Camilla sensed it, though she never asked directly. And Charles... well, Charles was too immersed in his own maelstrom to notice much at the time.
But none of that really mattered.
———
One night, while the others were asleep and the house was engulfed in silence, Henry and Y/n were in the kitchen.
She was sitting at the wooden table, her legs dangling, and he was standing next to her, leafing through a book he had brought with him, though he was barely paying attention to it.
“You look tired,” Ophelia murmured, watching him closely.
Henry looked up.
“I'm not.”
She narrowed her eyes, as if she didn't quite believe him.
Then, without a word, she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair in a slow, leisurely gesture.
Henry closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the contact without question.
“Rest a little,” she whispered.
He exhaled softly, but did not respond. Instead, he simply leaned in and kissed her, with unexpected tenderness.
Y/n smiled against his lips, and Henry thought, not for the first time, that he had never felt anything like this for anyone.
That he didn't want to be anywhere else but there, with her.
That perhaps, without needing to say it out loud, Y/n had become the only real certainty he had in his life.
“I love you” he said, resting his forehead on her forehead.
“I love you too” she responded looking at his eyes.
Just found your blog - it’s so lovely! I love how you write soft!Henry and the reader. I like to imagine the reader as a bit of an antithesis to the ‘cold marble’ that is the Greek class; so a soft, gentle, affectionate, calming and soothing type of person bewilders Henry at first. Until he starts developing a need for it xD
Love the request! Thank you so much, lovely! xx
The softness in the cold marble.
Summary: Henry ends up finding comfort in Y/n kind and gentle affection.
Pairing: Henry x fem!reader
Warnings: use of Y/n, mentions of death and murder (Bunny’s), conflicted Henry, soft!Henry, comfort.
Part 2
He hated her.
She didn’t fit. How could she? She was the light when everything he saw was dark.
He didn’t understand how someone could be so kind and calm, how someone could be so innocent about the cruelty of the world.
She didn’t fit and he didn’t liked that. He noticed it from the start, there was something about her that was out of tune with the rest of the group, not in knowledge or intelligence-for in that she equaled, if not surpassed them- but in the way she existed. While the others moved with the rigidity of ancient statues, with the aloof elegance of Greek gods sculpted in cold marble, Y/n was something else. Something softer, warmer.
It unsettled him. She was the messiness in his life.
It puzzled him how she looked at him, with a tenderness without judgment, with an infinite patience that no one had ever had with him. It confused him how her hand reached for Francis's in automatic gestures of affection, or how she arranged Richard's coat on his chair without even thinking about it, making sure it didn't get too wrinkled.
It stunned him, most of all, the way she touched him.
Henry was used to touch, yes, but always with a purpose. A handshake, a casual nudge, the pressure of a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. Nothing more. Nothing that couldn't be logically justified.
But she… she did it without an apparent reason.
Once, while he was reading in the library, she passed behind him and slid her fingers gently down his back in a distracted gesture, without even pausing. Another afternoon, while they were discussing Catullus in Latin, she took his wrist in her hands without warning and turned his watch to check the time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She offered him contact without demanding it. She offered him gentleness without expecting anything in return.
At first, Henry didn't know how to respond.
He stood still, rigid, waiting for her to realize that this was pointless. But she didn't. She never did.
And then, without realizing exactly when it had happened, he found himself looking for it.
Looking for her. He hated that even more.
He found himself looking for -missing- her comfort and soft smile.
He would linger beside her more than necessary, allow her hand to brush his as he walked, pretend not to hear when her voice softened as she spoke to him. There were times when Y/n would look at him with her unwavering gentleness and Henry would feel something inside him break and rebuild at the same time.
He hated that he felt like that with her, and hated how he would think about her every day, every hour.
Then, everything went downhill.
There was something about the way the silence stretched through the trees that made everything seem denser, more unreal. As if the world had been suspended in an endless instant before shattering into a thousand pieces.
Bunny's body lay at the bottom of the ravine. A jumble of flesh and bone, almost unrecognizable amidst the blood-stained snow.
Henry watched him motionless.
He felt nothing at first. No horror, no relief, not even guilt. Just a strange stillness, as if time had stopped at the exact moment Bunny ceased to exist.
He turned around to look at the group, then he hated himself. She was standing there without moving, anyone would have thought that she was serene, that this didn’t affect her at all, but Henry, Henry had spent way too many days observing her, spending time with her. She was scared, he could see it in her eyes.
That day, she went to his house, something about borrowing a book. In any other circumstance he would have been somehow happy that she visited him, but not today, he didn’t want her to be involved in what they were going to do, didn’t want her to see what they were going to do.
He offered to drive her home, of course she said it was okay, and one thing lead to another and know she had just witnessed the death of Bunny.
Henry hated himself for that.
He didn't come home that night.
He couldn't.
The air inside the car had become stifling, and though the others were talking quietly, organizing alibis, rehearsing answers, he could only hear the dull echo of Bunny's fall echoing in his head.
When everyone returned to their homes, he parked his car in front of Y/n’s house. He wasn't sure what he expected to find there. He just knew he needed it.
He waited a bit inside the car and then walked towards the house.
When he knocked on the door, it took her a few seconds to open it. She was wearing a light robe and had her hair in a messy updo, as if she had just woken up. Her eyes met Henry's and her expression changed instantly.
“Henry...” she whispered.
He said nothing. He just stepped forward, crossing the threshold as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Y/n closed the door behind him and stood watching him, as if trying to figure out what to say to him, how to comfort him without breaking down herself in the process, how to make him see that she was there for him and always would be.
He didn't know how to start.
He had spent weeks planning every detail, every possibility, every consequence. And yet, at that moment, in front of her, everything seemed to fall apart.
Y/n took a step toward him.
She didn't ask any questions.
She didn't press him.
She just lifted a hand carefully and rested it on his cheek, a barely perceptible brush.
It was then that Henry felt something crack inside him.
An imperceptible tremor ran through his body, and before he knew it, Y/n was already embracing him. Her arms closed around him with unexpected firmness, her hands running up and down his back in an instinctive gesture of comfort.
Henry didn't move at first.
But then, almost without realizing it, he allowed himself to lean into her, to drop his weight into her warm body, into her familiar perfume, into the one thing in the world that didn't feel broken.
“I’m sorry” he finally said, in a low voice. He was sorry, sorry for what he did, sorry for how he did it, sorry because she was part of it too.
“I’m scared” she responded. Her voice was a murmur against his neck.
He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, as if to say that he knew she was scared and that he was even more scared.
For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the slow, heavy beat of Henry's heart, Y/n's warmth wrapping around him like a shield against the cold of the night.
“Do you want to stay?” she asked, after a while.
Henry closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Y/n nodded and took him by the hand, leading him to his room as gently as one would lead a frightened child. In that moment, he was so grateful of her comforting and gentle presence.
That night, Henry slept for the first time in a long time.
———
A/n: hey angels! This took me more time to write because I wasn’t sure how to approach it, but I ended up really liking the result. I was going to continue writing how they started to date and etc but realized it was already pretty long, but if anyone wants to read that I will gladly do a second part.
Let me know if you want 2 part. Have a nice day, my loves!! 💙
Summary: You get sick and Henry takes care of you.
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader
Warnings: Use of Y/n, mentions of sickness.
The storm had begun in mid-afternoon, when the Hampden sky turned leaden gray and the trees shook with the force of the wind. By evening, the rain was pounding insistently on the windows of Henry's house, and cold air was seeping through the cracks in the old building.
Y/n had not been feeling well since morning. At first she had attributed it to fatigue, to the persistent cold of the last few days, but when Henry saw her that afternoon in the library, her forehead resting on her hands and her eyes heavy, he knew it wasn't just exhaustion.
“Y/n” he said softly, approaching her desk, ”What's wrong, darling?”
She looked up with an effort, and Henry instantly noticed the faint feverish gleam in her eyes.
“Nothing” she replied, but her voice sounded duller than usual. “Just a little headache.”
Henry frowned. He leaned down slightly and brushed his fingers across her forehead, not caring that they were in public. She was hot, much hotter than she should be.
“You have a fever,” he said, pulling his hand away.
“It's no big deal,” she murmured. “It'll pass.”
Henry said nothing, just watched her with his usual impenetrable expression. Then, without warning, he closed the book she had open in front of her and gathered her things.
“Let's go.” he said holding a hand out for her to take
She looked at him with surprise.
“What?”
“To my house,” he said simply, as if it were the only logical choice. “You're not going to stay here feeling bad. Come on”
She hesitated for a moment, but the truth was she barely had the strength to argue. She sighed and nodded her head, taking his hand to help her stand up. Henry took her coat and draped it over her shoulders before leading her out of the library with a hand on her back and the other holding an umbrella.
The walk to Henry's house was a bit of a challenge. Thin, freezing rain was falling on them, and although Henry was holding an umbrella, Y/n was shivering under her coat. By the time they arrived, her hair was damp and her breathing a little labored.
Henry closed the door behind them and set the umbrella aside.
“You can't stay like this,” he said, gently removing her coat. “Go take a hot shower.”
Y/n blinked, exhausted.
“I don't want to move...” she protested.
“It's not an option,” he replied calmly, leading her out into the hallway. “You're not going to get better if your hair is wet and your clothes are damp.”
Y/n sighed, but didn't argue. “Alright “
Henry led her into the bathroom and left her a towel and some comfortable clothes, one of his shirts and a pair of loose-fitting pants, before closing the door. While she showered, he made a cup of tea and pulled out a thick blanket for when she came out.
When he stopped hearing the water running, he entered the bathroom. Y/n was already dressed and was combing her damp hair. Henry reached for a dryer she left there a couple weeks ago and started drying her hair softly, she closed her eyes while he worked. Once he finished, he combed her hair one last time and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek and she opened her eyes.
“Come on, darling, I made you a cup of tea” he placed his hands on her shoulders to guide her to the living, once she was seated on the couch, he passed her the hot cup.
“Drink,” he ordered gently.
She looked up at him with a faint, tired smile.
“You like giving orders, don't you?”
“Only when the other person is too stubborn to take care of himself.” he responded jokingly.
Y/n let out a soft laugh and took a sip of her tea. Henry sat down beside her, watching her carefully.
“You should have told me earlier,” he murmured.
She looked down, rubbing the hot pottery between her hands.
“I didn't want to bother.”
Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m afraid you bothering me is not a possibility, darling.”
Y/n felt a warmth other than fever spread through her chest.
She finished her tea in silence, and Henry watched her carefully as she set the cup aside and sank a little deeper into the sofa.
“Do you want to go to bed?” he asked while running a hand through her hair slowly.
She shook her head.
“I'm fine here.”
Henry nodded and got up. He walked away for a moment and returned with a book in his hand. He sat down next to her and turned the pages calmly before beginning to read quietly.
At first, Y/n tried to follow the words, but the sound of his voice, the leisurely rhythm and perfect cadence with which he pronounced the Latin, enveloped her like a lullaby.
She rested her head on his shoulder and her eyes closed without her being able to help it.
Henry noticed her breathing slowing, the slight movement of her chest under the blanket. He closed the book and set it aside.
He was silent for a moment, watching her relaxed face in the dim light of the lamp.
With a careful gesture, he ran his fingers through the side of her face.
“Rest,” he whispered.
After a few minutes, when he was sure she was sleeping soundly, Henry turned off the lamp and stood watching her a moment longer.
He knew she would say she was fine there, but he didn't want her to spend the night on the couch. With careful movements, he picked her up in his arms, feeling how light she was against his chest. Y/n made a small sound of protest, but didn't wake up.
Henry carried her to the room, where he gently laid her on the bed. Then, without much thought, he slid in beside her, covering them both with the blankets.
Y/n, still asleep, instinctively turned toward him, resting her forehead against his shoulder.
Henry slipped an arm around her, feeling her quiet breathing against his skin.
He wasn't going to say it out loud, but in that moment, holding her in the dimness of the room, he felt there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
___
A/n: this is a little thing I wrote between exams, it’s not great but I wanted to share it; also I don’t know how to do titles, this one is awful. Thanks for all the support. Sending lots of love, Helena. 💙
Hi lovely! I found your page today absolutely love your writing!
I think a scenario where the reader is close friends with Francis might be fun. Perhaps Francis has just found out about the nature of Henry and the reader’s relationship?
Thanks for the request, angel! I love your idea and really enjoyed writing this. Hope you like it! Xx
Nothing’s going to change
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader
Summary: Francis finds out about Henry and Yn’s relationship.
Warnings: Use of Y/n, fluff, soft Henry cause we love him.
Summer at the Abernathy cottage had always been the same: endless afternoons in the sun, card games by the pool, the sound of Y/n's laughter mingling with the clink of ice in the lemonade glasses. For Francis, she had always been there, like a natural extension of his life. Their friendship was one of those things that required no explanation, that existed so organically that it was hard to imagine a time before they were inseparable.
Now, at Hampden, things were not so different. They still shared cigarettes and confidences in the corners of the library, and there were still early mornings when Francis would sneak into her room just to complain about the unfairness of life while she listened to him, patient, as always.
But lately, there was something different. Something that Francis couldn't quite define, but that he was beginning to notice in small details.
It was one night at the twins' house when the suspicion began to take shape.
There were too many people, as usual. The room smelled of liquor and cigar smoke, and the light from the lamps cast long shadows on the faces of the guests. Y/n was sitting on the sofa next to Henry, a glass of wine in her hand. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then, Francis saw something: Henry reached out a hand and, without even looking, brushed his fingers against Y/n's wrist, almost unconsciously.
It wasn't a particularly intimate gesture, but what made it different was the way Y/n reacted. She didn't startle, she didn't pull away, she didn't even change her expression. She just bowed her head slightly and let her arm relax under Henry's touch, as if it were second nature. As if they were used to touching each other like this.
Francis narrowed his eyes.
The conversation continued, music played in the background, but he was no longer listening. His eyes traveled from Henry to Y/n and back to Henry, trying to remember if he had ever seen anything like this before.
___
Later, as the party died down and some guests began to retire, Y/n got up and walked out onto the balcony to get some air. Francis followed her.
“You're strangely quiet today,” she said without turning around, leaning her elbows on the railing.
Francis lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. “I'm just observing.”
Y/n smiled, still not looking at him. “And what have you observed?”
Francis was silent for a few seconds before speaking. “You and Henry.”
She blinked, turning her head toward him. “What about me and Henry?” She took the cigarette from his hand and inhaled.
Francis tilted his head, assessing her. He knew her too well not to notice the way her body tensed just a little.
“I think there's something between you,” he finally said, taking the cigarette back from her hand.
Y/n kept her expression calm, but said nothing.
Francis took another puff and smiled, with that half-smile of his that wasn't always kind. “You don't have to tell me anything. I know.”
She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. Then, she turned fully around to face him squarely. “Does it bother you?”
Francis let out a soft laugh. “No, darling. It just bothers me that I didn't figure it out sooner.”
Y/n smiled slightly, and for the first time all evening, her expression was completely sincere. Francis knew her too well to feel betrayed. Perhaps he had even known it all along, in some corner of his subconscious. But now that it was real, that he had confirmation, he couldn't help but feel amused by the secret they had apparently been keeping.
“I hope you'll at least tell me the details,” he added, stubbing out his cigar against the railing.
Y/n laughed while she rested her head on his shoulder, and for a moment, it was as if they were back in those endless summers, when all that mattered was the sun on their skin and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore.
— — —
It was already autumn, and although outside the wind stirred the dry leaves against the windows of the twins' house, inside, the warmth of the fire and the murmur of conversations created an almost cozy atmosphere.
Y/n, Francis and Henry were secluded from the rest, in a corner of the living room where the light from the fireplace cast long shadows on the wall. Francis was leaning back in a chair, with a cigarette between his fingers and an amused look on his face, while Henry stood with his hands in his pockets. Y/n, sitting on the arm of the sofa, looked at Francis with the familiarity of one who has shared too many summers with him.
The conversation had drifted into childhood anecdotes, and Francis, with his usual lighthearted air, recounted a particularly ridiculous episode from his vacation at his family's home.
“...and then, when my mother came in and saw the lamp smashed to pieces, instead of blaming me, she looked at me hard and said, 'This was Y/n's doing, wasn't it?' As if she was a demon who possessed me in the summer and made me do stupid things.”
Y/n laughed softly, shaking her head. “I wasn't even in the room.”
“But you were the influence, my dear,” Francis replied, lifting the cigar to his lips. “The funny thing is, you admitted it without complaint, just so my mother wouldn't kill me.”
Henry, who had remained silent until then, looked at Y/n with a curious gesture. “Have you always been this lenient with him?”
Y/n smiled. “Always.”
Francis watched her for a moment, his expression more calculating than usual, and then, without taking his eyes off her, he said lightly:
“Well, it seems that such indulgence is not exclusive with me.”
It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Henry noticed it. The way Francis looked at him after he said it, the barely perceptible pause in Y/n's breathing. It was only an instant, but it was enough.
Henry narrowed his eyes slightly, appraising Francis, who smiled with his carefree air, enjoying his little revelation.
“How long?” asked Henry quietly.
Francis let out a chuckle. “Oh, don't worry. It hasn't been long.”
Henry didn't answer, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something that said he didn't like others knowing more than he thought he did. Y/n gently touched his arm, a gesture that seemed casual but which Francis interpreted instantly.
“Easy,” Francis added with a shrug. “It's not like I'm going to tell the others. I'm just amused to see how long you were planning to keep it a secret.”
Y/n sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Francis...”
He held up a hand in a peace sign. “There, there. I won't say anything.”
Henry watched him a moment longer before relaxing his expression. There was no hostility between them, just a sort of silent game in which Francis, as always, enjoyed having the upper hand.
———
Later, as the house began to grow quiet and the others dispersed to their rooms or lost themselves in extraneous conversations, Henry and Y/n went out into the back garden.
The cold was more intense now, but Y/n didn't seem to mind. She was leaning against a stone pillar, her arms folded and her gaze lost in the darkness of the forest.
Henry stopped in front of her, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“You knew he knew, didn't you?”
Y/n smiled thinly. “I suspected it.”
Henry tilted his head. “And why didn't you tell me?”
She looked up at him, with that calmness of hers that sometimes made him despair and other times made him feel as if nothing else mattered. “Because I didn't think it mattered. Francis would never have said it if I didn't want him to say it.”
Henry looked at her for a moment, then, with a sigh, took a step closer, close enough that he could touch her cheek with his fingertips.
“Does it bother you that he knows?” he asked softly.
Y/n rested her hand on his and closed her eyes for a moment before answering. “No.”
Henry slid his fingers up to her neck, feeling her pulse under his skin. “Are you sure?”
Y/n smiled slightly and, instead of answering, leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest. Henry wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, breathing in the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his.
“It doesn't bother me,” she whispered against his shirt. “I just...I don't want anything to change.”
Henry tightened his embrace a little more. “Nothing's going to change.”
Y/n sighed softly, and though she said nothing more, Henry felt her body relax against him, as if he could finally let go of an invisible weight.
For a moment they lay like that, motionless under the dark sky, with the cold wind tangling through their clothes and the distant sound of the forest around them. Henry lowered his head and rested his chin on her hair, feeling the warmth of her presence as something almost tangible.
“You're tired,” he murmured after a while, not needing to look at her to know.
Y/n nodded slowly against his chest. “A little.”
Henry slid a hand down her back in a quiet gesture. “Come with me.”
She didn't ask where. She didn't need to.
With a slight nod, Y/n let Henry slip an arm around her shoulders and lead her back down the dark path, away from the twins' house, away from the muffled murmur of the party that still continued inside.
The walk home was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Henry walked slowly, keeping his hand on Y/n's back, making sure she didn't stumble in the gloom. She, for her part, leaned her head against his shoulder in an almost sleepy gesture, trusting him so naturally that Henry felt an unexpected warmth in his chest.
When they arrived, Henry opened the door gently, letting the warmth inside envelop them. Y/n took off her coat and dropped onto the bed with a sigh.
“I'm going to find you something more comfortable,” Henry said, taking off his own coat and laying it on a chair.
Y/n smiled, sleepily, not strong enough to argue.
When he turned from the closet with one of his clean shirts, she was already with her eyes closed, but still awake. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers over her cheek with unexpected gentleness. Then he helped her out of her clothes and slipped his shirt over her head.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured as he pulled the sheets over her.
Y/n half-opened her eyes and looked at him for a moment before whispering, “What would I do without you, Henry.”
He didn't respond, just ran a hand through her hair in a slow, meticulous gesture.
Minutes later, when her breathing became deep and leisurely, Henry stood there, watching her sleep. Then, with a barely audible sigh, he turned out the light and lay down on the other side of the bed, draping his arm around her waist and allowing himself the rare luxury of closing his eyes and sharing the stillness of the night with her.
Summary: the slow life of the couple living in Italy after the events.
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader
Warnings: use of Y/n, soft Henry.
A/N: Hey! This is just a little idea I had in my mind for a while but didn’t had time to write since exams are killing me. Hope you like it! Xx
The house was built on top of a hill, with windows open to the sea. From the terrace, one could hear the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the rocks, a sound that over the months had become a constant heartbeat, a reminder that time was moving forward, that life went on, even if its course was never the same.
Y/n was barefoot, standing at the railing, her light linen dress flapping in the salty breeze. She held a cup of coffee in her hands, still hot, letting the bitter aroma mingle with the sea air. She gazed unhurriedly at the horizon, as if expecting to see something that only she could perceive.
Henry watched her from inside the house, leaning against the doorway with a cigarette between his fingers. He didn't smoke as often as he used to, but there were days when the habit would return, like an echo from another life. He didn't care if Y/n noticed; she never said anything to him, she just looked at him with that expression of hers, somewhere between understanding and resignation, as if she knew that there were things that one never completely leaves behind.
“It's warmer today,” Y/n commented without turning around, her voice calm, almost as if she were speaking to herself.
Henry nodded, though she couldn't see it. He took a slow puff before answering. “Yes.”
The silence between them was never awkward. They had understood each other for too long without words. But today, Henry felt something different in the air. A longing, a kind of invisible weight that hovered between them.
He left the cigarette in the marble ashtray on the table and walked out onto the terrace. He stopped behind Y/n and, without much thought, wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. She leaned against his chest without resistance, letting her body fit into his with the ease of those who have shared too many nights together, too many sleepless nights, too many invisible wounds.
Henry lowered his head and rested his chin on her shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”
Y/n tilted her head slightly toward him, never taking her eyes off the sea. Her voice was barely a whisper when she answered. “About how we got here.”
Henry closed his eyes for a moment. The breeze ruffled his hair, and the smell of Y/n-salt, coffee, a trace of lavender-was the only thing keeping him anchored.
“We've arrived,” he said simply. “We had to, eventually.”
Y/n smiled slightly. “Yes.”
She said nothing more, but Henry felt her free hand slip over his, tangling her fingers with his, their matching rings shining under the warm rays of the sun. He tightened his grip slightly, as if by that gesture he was reassuring her that he was there, that he would continue to be.
———
After breakfast, Y/n suggested they walk down to the beach. It wasn't too far, but the path was steep and surrounded by wild vegetation that tangled around their ankles as they descended. Henry walked a few steps behind her, watching the sunlight filter through the leaves and draw shadows on her bare back.
When they finally reached the shore, the heat of the day had become more intense, and the sand, still damp from the early morning tide, clung to their bare feet. There was no one else there. The beach was small and secluded, with dark rocks on either side shielding it from the rest of the world.
Y/n walked to the shore and let the waves touch her feet. Henry followed her, hands in his pockets.
“Shall we go for a swim?” she asked suddenly, turning to him with a mischievous smile.
Henry arched an eyebrow. “The water's freezing.”
“And? Since when does the cold bother you?” she replied, tilting her head.
Henry watched her for a moment. Her dark eyes glistened with the reflection of the sun on the water. Her skin had a golden hue from the days under the Italian sun, and the breeze stirred her hair like a living creature. She looked so light, so free in that instant, that Henry felt something akin to peace.
Without a word, he took off his shirt and dropped his pants in the sand. Y/n smiled before doing the same, dropping into the water before him. Henry followed her, feeling the icy crash of the waves against his skin.
For a while, they swam in silence, dipping in and out of the foam, floating on their backs as the blue sky stretched infinitely above them, Henry occasionally reciting lines from a poem in his head as he watched Y/n. At one point, Y/n came up to Henry and slid her arms around his neck, the water covering them up to their shoulders.
“What's wrong?” he murmured, feeling her cold hands against his warm skin.
“Nothing,” she said, resting her head on his chest. “I just wanted to hug you.”
Henry closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. His hands rested on Y/n's waist, holding her as if she was something too precious to let go, as he rested his chin on top of her head.
The past still existed in some dark corner of their minds, in the dreams that sometimes woke them up in the middle of the night, in the memories that seeped in at the most unexpected moments. But there, on that hidden beach, with the sound of the sea enveloping them and their bodies fitting together in a silent embrace, everything else seemed far away. As if it were just the two of them, floating in time, in a suspended instant that no one else could touch, feeling the peace of being in each other's arms.
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Summary: in which Richard meets the group and becomes fascinated with one of them, not knowing that he is not the only one.
Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader
Warnings: none I think. Use of Y/n. Richard POV.
A/N: I pictured Y/n being from another country, so there’s this slight comment about her having a little bit of an accent, but it can be ignored. Hope you like it! Xx
We were all gathered in the library, on one of the last afternoons of September, when Henry introduced me to the group. They were all there:
Francis, the twins, Bunny, and her, Y/n.
The first time I saw Y/n, she seemed like an apparition. It was not so much her beauty - although it was undeniable - but the way she occupied the space, as if she belonged to a world different from ours.
There was something in her that reminded me of the Greek sculptures that I had seen on Julian's Books. Not for polished perfection, but for that timeless quality, a mystery that extended beyond flesh and bone. Her dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and when she looked up to look at me, her eyes had a burning glow, as if they contained the reflection of a knowledge the rest of us could barely comprehend.
"You must be Richard", she said with a smile, her voice was low, sweet, with a slight accent I couldn't quite identify. Her tone wasn't just from pure courtesy; there was a genuine interest in it, a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the others. I felt observed, analyzed, as if somehow she already knew who I was before I opened my mouth.
As time passed, I noticed that Y/n had that effect on everyone. It wasn't just her appearance, it was something deeper, an energy that made people gravitate around her. Bunny tried to impress her with jokes, Francis looked at her with admiration, Charles tried to engage intellectual conversations with her, while Camilla found in her a confident and a friend to rely on. But the one that impressed me more was Henry.
Henry, always cold, distant and calculated, seemed different when he was with her. It wasn't just affection or attraction, his whole demeanor changed around her. You could see it in his eyes, it was devotion. At first I thought it was intellectual interest only, but there were times when I saw them in moments when they thought no one else was looking, and I comprehended that it was something else. A secret bond, a connection, although never explicit, was undeniable.
___
It was late at night, in October, we were all staying in Francis' country house, when I saw Henry letting down his guard for the first time with her.
We were all gathered around the chimney, with half-empty glasses of wine andd the night breeze coming through the open windows. Conversation hung in the air, fragmented, and I, sitting in a corner, observed.
Y/n was beside Henry on the couch, her posture was relaxed, her hand around the neck of her glass while she talked in a low voice. Henry, who rarely allowed physical for no reason, had his arm resting on the back of the couch, so close to her that the slightest movement would have made his fingers touch her shoulder.
It was subtle, but it was there. In the way he looked at her when he thought no one was watching, in the way his words were meticulously measured when she was near. It wasn’t just interest. It was something deeper, as if he had met her in the afterlife and now he was meant to found her again.
Y/n seemed conscious about it. She didn’t openly encouraged it, but didn’t declined it either. There was a calm in her, a certainty that contrasted with the tension barely contained of Henry. But still, they fitted into each other in a way that seemed almost impossible, surreal.
That night, while the rest of the group got lost in conversations and laughs, I comprehended something that, until then, I had only suspected: Y/n wasn’t just another one of us, she was an important piece, like an anchor that kept us in the real world, with the calm and gentle determination that she carried.
And the most important thing that I noticed, is that Henry seemed like a different person near her, softening whenever she was around, and that, was not normal in Henry Winter.
Hi guys! It’s a bit short, but it was something I had started writing a while ago, but in my native language, so I tried to translate it as best as I could, I used DeepL translator in some words. It’s not perfect, so let me know if you see some mistakes.
I hope you liked it despite being short and feel free to request if you want to read something specific.
I’m almost finishing my first work, it’ll be published soon!
It’s written in Richard’s POV and it describes the first impressions about the group and fem!reader. We also see that Henry and fem!reader have something going on.
“I am an angel who dreams and gives love to all the tortured souls, I live side by side with gods and monsters in the garden of evil or so called earth.”
