#the secret history imagine

[sketches4mysw33theart]

To Indeed Be A God

The title has almost no bearing whatsoever on the writing, I'm just obsessed with the Dead Poets Society right now.

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A drowsy morning at the country house with Henry Winter involves a row around the lake, a breakfast picnic, and falling asleep in the boat.

Warnings: Google translated phrases, please let me know if these are wrong!

I awoke to a throbbing in my head, a contrasting harmony to the soft twittering of birds floating in through the open window. I couldn’t resist the groan that forced its way from my mouth. It felt as though my head was being split open repeatedly, like a misguided executioner was standing at the head of my bed and swinging an unsharpened axe.  

It was several moments before I moved at all after I had rolled over, my body feeling scarily heavy yet weightless at the same time. I had little desire to so much as breathe manually, let alone open my eyes and face the merciless joy of the sunlight.  

As I lay there, eyes closed firmly, hands grasping the thin silk duvet, flashes of the previous night came to me as though through a camera’s lens.  

The dinner, a large affair to mourn the passing of the twin’s beloved dog. The wine sloshing in the Abernathy’s prized crystal wine glasses. Those same glasses raised in multiple toasts and clinking together like blood-soaked moths in the candlelight. Charles at the piano playing melodies of sweet summers past. The bottle of Bourbon passed between us without a care for tumblers. Francis plucking Camilla from the armchair she had curled herself up in to stumble around the library in a clunky dance. Bunny’s face, lined with confusion and acidity, watching us all through rolling eyes. Richard’s reflection, gaping at the chandelier-lit room through dazed eyes, as I stared out of the window, looking for stars but finding only my own distorted face.  

And Henry, tall and proud and stoic and quiet. Him I could picture clearly, as sharp and focused as a still life portrait. He’d drank as much as us, more, yet he’d never fizzed over like we did. Only watched from the sofa as we exploded like fireworks, flashing reds and yellows reflected twofold in the whites of his eyes through his glasses.  

Then, me falling into place beside him, head spinning in dizzying circles even as I laid it back on the plush sofa cushions with my eyes shut, light popping behind my eyelids.  

Then, him whispering to me, the soft, cold anchoring of his deep voice, but either I couldn’t tell what he was saying, or I was not in tune enough to listen.  

Then, I was there, waking up in bed. 

I opened my eyes when the pounding in my head began to lessen, allowing the bird song to wash over me rather than suffocate me. The thick curtains were open, weak sunlight creeping across the oak floor and furnishings, lighting them up like whisky. It was cool, that early morning chill before the last of the lingering summer heat could settle in again.  

I watched the floor for several minutes, praying for my headache to cease. Of course, praying never did anyone much good. Henry would be disappointed.  

I didn’t have a clock in the room I stayed in during nights at the country house. Francis’s great aunt, whose room that used to be, couldn’t stand them. She felt they made her rush.  

Still, I could guess it was early. There was no noise. Francis wasn’t singing in the kitchen as he made breakfast, Charles and Camilla weren’t bickering meaninglessly in the depths of the house, Bunny wasn’t honking his laugh at some ridiculous jibe. There was nothing except pure tranquillity.  

I knew of one other person, for certain, who would be up so early. That was motivation enough to get out of bed. Still, it was a struggle. My body fought it as I sat up, pushed myself to my feet, scrabbled through my bag for clothes, and checked myself over in the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. 

Finally, I exited the room, closing the door with a soft click behind me. The hallway was quiet, eerily so, and I paced down it, focusing on the soft, luxurious carpet against my bare feet over the pounding of my head. 

On the stairs at the end of the hallway, Francis was curled up, still fully dressed, like a small child unable to stay conscious on a drive back from the beach, snoring obnoxiously and fiercely cuddling a near-empty bottle of whiskey. His overcoat tails were tangled between his bent legs, pale, slender ankles poking out conspicuously from his half pulled-off socks. In the country house, this was not an uncommon occurrence. 

I clambered over him, trying not to catch his limbs or face with my foot. As though sensing my presence as he slumbered, Francis uncurled his body, spreading himself out across several steps and out of the way of my bare feet. Smiling, I leant down to pat him gently on the cheek, careful not to disturb him. He looked incredibly peaceful, for once.  

I left Francis on the stairs, snoring in the shadows of the half-shuttered windows, and headed towards the library. There was a fair chance Henry would be there and, if not, I would likely spot him on my way over. 

As expected, it did not take me long. Henry valued the morning hours, the weak light illuminating the thick pages of his books, the quietness of a dawn tainted only by the songs of the birds.  

He was sat outside, of course, fully dressed, a suited silhouette through the ornate glass doors, a splatter of ink against the canvas of autumn. Although I pushed open the doors as softly as I could, his head shot up as soon as it began to squeak. 

“Good morning,” he said, with a smile. “Drink up.” A slight gesture of his hand brought to my attention a full glass of water and a sleeve of ibuprofen sparkling in the cool, creeping light. 

“Good morning,” I mumbled, fumbling with the package in my desperation to push out two of the pills. When I managed to do so, I swallowed them quickly with a large gulp of water, which I drained gladly straight after.  

Once I’d swiped at my lips, I took the few steps to his seat. Standing behind him, I rested my hands on his broad shoulders and bent down to press a kiss to his cheek. I caught the smile on his face, which did little to lessen the furrow of his brow. 

“How’s the translation going?” 

This question elicited a heavy sigh from him. “It’s all wrong, unfortunately. The verbs won’t translate well, and these sentence structures are ridiculously tricky.” 

“Boreís na to káneis éfkola agápi mou,” I breathed into his ear, bringing my fingertips to his sharp shoulder blades. You can do it easily, my love. 

He laughed. “Óchi ótan eísai étsi, den boró.” Not when you’re like this, I can’t. 

I hummed humorously, spreading my massaging fingertips along his taut shoulders. Spread out before us was the house’s garden, as pure and fierce as Eden, coming swiftly to life in front of my eyes. The sun was just emerging, lingering in the far east like God, watching His creations come to life as on the seventh day. Henry was watching it too, finally relieving himself of his books in favour of the glitter of the autumnal flowers, Gomphrena and Didiscus and Goldenrod. 

It wasn’t often I was up early enough to catch Henry on mornings like this. Despite our circumstances, we never shared a bed during our stays at the country house, primarily because Henry didn’t want to disturb me during our short vacations, or so he said. But also, because, I believe, he was rather shy about our activities around the rest of the Greek class. They knew, of course – we were never as subtle as we thought - but, still, there was something prudish lying within Henry. Or perhaps it was possessive. Not that it matters now, I suppose. 

“Let’s go to the lake,” he said, suddenly, startling me from my observance of a large bee bumbling its way drunkenly through a flowerbed.  

“Now?” I questioned, surprised. Henry enjoyed the mornings because of the quiet solitude they offered him, the time to be alone with his books and his papers. Things he valued even more, I think, than me. 

“Would you like to?”  

I was still sleepy, even more so after taking the ibuprofen Henry had laid out. Still, I could picture how lovely it would be: the drowsy, sun-laced walk through the dandelions and uncut grasses, the heady smell of nature flourishing around us, the somniferous sound of waves lapping at the gently rocking boat, the mesmerizing feeling of floating on air. 

“Yes,” I said, “I would, actually.” Henry was always confidently persuasive. Eerily so. Not that I would have needed much persuading, really. I just liked to think there was something magic about him.  

He sighed, stretching out his aching limbs as he got to his feet. Pre-emptively, he removed his jacket and folded it meticulously, leaving it on the seat of his chair. “Good. Perhaps we should take breakfast with us?” 

It was a wonderful idea, and we slipped back inside to prepare a breakfast picnic: a full bottle of orange juice, a half-full stoppered bottle of champagne left over from the previous night, a package of strawberries, a selection of pastries bought from Camilla’s favourite bakery on our way to the country house the previous morning, and a packet of large blueberry muffins.  

With our breakfast packed in an old wicker basket, we set off into the morning sun, meandering through the budding flowers and tall grasses, clasped arm in arm. It wasn’t a particularly long walk to the lake, but we lingered meaninglessly on the way, I to admire the nature and wildlife, and Henry to momentarily relieve his arm of the picnic basket and watch me with a smile when he thought I couldn’t see him. 

Eventually, we made it, and eagerly hopped into the lonesome boat oared at the makeshift jetty, picnic basket still in hand. Considering it was so early, Henry was alive with vigour, and rowed eagerly, pushing us quickly to the centre of the lake. He had been somewhat withdrawn over the last few weeks, particularly during our days at the country house, so seeing him come to life among the falling birch leaves was a gift.  

We covered one lap of the lake at a fairly quick pace, talking about our latest classes, Julian’s theory of Dionysiac architects (which was, essentially, that the secret language they spoke was more akin to modern day English than any other language throughout history), and the startling resemblance that morning of the pond and surrounding countryside to Jan Brueghel the Elder’s ‘Odysseus and Calypso’ - one of my favourite paintings.  

Henry slowed as we began our second lap of the lake, and I watched his concentrated expression in the water’s reflection.  

“Aren’t you tired?” I was feeling a little peppier now, despite the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping gently at the boat, and I knew Henry had been up significantly longer than I had. “Can I take over?”  

“No, you don’t have to do anything.” I was still watching him in the warped shine of the water, and he caught my eye through the fairy-dust covering of birch leaves. “Just sit right there and look like you do.” A smile flittered across his face briefly, and I shook my head, laughing.  

“If you say so,” I said, still laughing. Henry rowed on and began to fill the silence with his stream of thoughts on Heraclitus’ ideas of opposites, and how the philosopher decreed Hades and Dionysus as the same God, a belief Henry was strongly against. Occasionally he’d break his speech to mumble a suggestion for his translation, which he no doubt tucked away into another corner of his mind for later. 

At some point, I lay back across the seat of the boat, head coming to rest on the lip, one hand stretching over to trail in the lukewarm water. Francis had said once that one of the neighbours had seen leeches in the lake, and Bunny always swore blind that there were water snakes in there. Yet, still, we all went out on it as often as we could, swimming and fighting and trailing our hands through the ripples.  

Listening to Henry speak tantrically and feeling the warm water kiss my fingertips was as delicious and satisfying as being carried in Charon’s boat across the rivers separating the worlds of the living and the dead. I wanted it to last forever. The best kind of purgatory. Psuche. 

But eventually, we did come to a stop, once Henry, with some difficulty, had managed to turn the boat and situate it towards the centre of the lake. I sat up and stretched, groaning at the creak of my bones.  

As I heaved the picnic basket up on to the seat, Henry balanced the oars properly, wiped at his brow, and rolled up his sleeves, eying the cutlery and plates I was laying out. He must have been starving.  

I looked to him to ask if he had any preference for pastries as I began doling out them onto our plates, but the question died on my lips when I saw a constellation of bruises flowering in a strange pattern along his freshly revealed arm. They were fresh, a shocking purple tinted with red. 

“Henry,” I exclaimed, croissant held in one frozen hand. “What in God’s name have you been doing?” 

He furrowed his brows at me, following my eye line quickly. I saw him flounder for a moment, but in a flash, he was as composed as the Queen’s Guard.  

“Don’t fuss, it’s nothing. I fell in the garden yesterday morning, those damn dogs left more garbage on my front path. Is that for me?” 

I believed him, of course. It was a perfectly sensible answer, and certainly not the first time something like that had happened. If only I’d known... 

I gave him the croissant, and finished plating up the food as he poured two Mimosas into the old teacups we’d packed, using far more champagne than orange juice. We ate in a comfortable silence, broken sporadically by random thoughts and anecdotes; we were both slipping into fatigue once more now the sun was fully risen, not too warm against our skin, and the inebriating smells of flowers and the birch trees were reaching out to us, woody and smoky like winter night’s gone by.  

Four Mimosa’s later (between us), we had finished our breakfast, and were lying, nearly unconscious, in the boat, which was very slowly bobbing its own way around the lake once more. Henry was stretched out completely, arms acting as a pillow, and I was tucked in on my side next to him, resting my head on the broad stretch between his shoulder and chest. 

God knows how long we stayed there in the boat, moving listlessly without direction or need, bumping lightly against the bank until one of us made the effort to lift a foot and push us away, listening to the birds' tweet and fly above us, feeling the gentle caress of the birch leaves across her skin, hearing the soft intermingling of our breaths just over the gently lapping water as it granted us passage, seeing the shades of light and dark through the shield of our eyelids. Zoe. The divine life of God. 

When we were roused, the air, the very nature around us felt different, alive, charged. The sun was crawling towards the centre of the sky, but several dark clouds were on its heels. Hours must have passed.  

I came back to life first, awaking as though from death’s sleep, drowsy and confused. What came to me, however, was the distant call of my name, the familiar cadence of the voice. Francis. It was Francis.  

As his shouting got closer and slightly more frantic, I pushed myself up with one hand braced against the smooth wood of the boat’s sole, using the other to first wipe the sleep from my eyes and then shield them from the sun.  

Francis was on the far bank, heading towards the small jetty, and waving his arms as though welcoming in a plane. He was, I noticed with some amusement, still wearing the same clothes he was in when I’d stepped over him that morning. I waved my free hand at him, and he shouted my name again. “Are you insane? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is Henry with you? It’s gone 12, you know.” 

I couldn’t muster up the energy to respond to him, but I did lay a hand on Henry’s shoulder to shake him awake. With a bit of resistance, he came to, and sat up in the same sluggish manner as me, stretching out his arms, back, and neck. 

Francis called to him now. “Henry? Henry! Bring the damn boat in, will you? Julian’s coming to dinner tonight, and I need everything to be ready.” 

Henry waved his fingers at him, a dismissive acknowledgement, a king sending away a disobedient courtier. Finally, he opened his eyes, landing his gaze directly on me. He smiled, pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth so quickly I did not have time to respond. “Piso ston politismó,” he said lowly, a melancholy look setting in his features. Back to civilization.  

He situated himself carefully on the seat while I stayed where I was watching him like I was at the feet of one the post-Socratics. He picked up the oars once more and started rowing us back to bios. Back to life. 

#dead poets society #the secret history #tsh donna tartt #henry winter #camilla macaulay #bunny corcoran #richard papen #francis abernathy #charles macaulay #donna tartt #imagine #the secret history imagine #henry winter x reader #julian morrow #dark academia #charles and camilla #dark academia books #odysseus

[timhalamet]

Write anything for Charles please<3 (only if you wish)

-☔

RUNAWAY

Pairings- charles macaulay x fem!reader

summary- after the death of bunny and Henry, you and Charles decided to runaways to Italy and start afresh

warnings- none, just a tooth rotting fluffy blab

a/n- I hope you enjoy lovie <3. Thank you for requesting!

you slightly shuffled in the white soft bedsheets, snuggling in the warmth, basking from the sun shining through the double panelled windows and from the human radiator behind you.

After the tradegy of the death of bunny, guilt consumed both you and Charles, causing life in Vermont to not be the same as it was.

So with scraping every single penny the two of you had left, you fled secretly to crema, Italy to pursue life again peacefully. However there was one problem, leaving vermont meant leaving everything your parents, camilla, francis, and Richard. Although you didn't regret running away, you couldn't help the what ifs in your head.

which leads you to this moment.

Charles nuzzled his head into your shoulder, arms wrapping around from your back to your stomach and he tried to get as close as possible to you. Smiling, you turn around in his arms facing him, as you watch him snore peacefully, his blonde hair falling into his eyes.

You admired his long, thick lashes and his perfectly sculpted nose.

He's so perfect

You couldn't resist but trace your fingers along his soft skin, caressing his cheekbone with your thumb.

Leaning closer to his face you pepper soft kisses to his forehead, nose, cheeks, eyes, and lastly his lips.

As your lips being to pull away, you feel strong hands grabbing your face pulling you deeper into the kiss.

seconds later, you pull away breathlessly, your eyes widening as charles chuckles to himself, tucking the astray hair behind your ear. Kissing your collarbone he smiles at you.

'If waking up means waking up like this, by all means don't let me stop you,' he jokes smirking.

maybe running away wasn't a bad decision after all.

#charles macaulay #fem!reader #charles macaulay x reader #charles macaulay fluff #charles macaulay imagine #the secret history #charles macaulay blab #charles macaulay x fem!reader #charles macaulay fanfiction #charles macaulay oneshot #the secret history imagine #the secret history oneshot #the secret history fluff

[liseenle]

Skin and Bones by David Kushner x Henry Winter.

#henry winter x reader #the secret history #the secret history imagine #henry winter

[betryl]

One of the things that most stuck with me is Bunny's nails having dirt under them when they find his body. Not only because the image of him desperately trying to claw at anything he could find not to fall down is very raw – but also because it means it really wasn't as immediate as I thought at first. It was fast but he absolutely did have enough time to think 'he's pushed me down I'm falling I'm going to die'. He didn't die painlessly on the spot but rolled all the way down the ravine bumping into rocks, bushes and everything else fully aware of what was happening and doing everything he could to stop it, and then eventually hit the ground.

#and then he spent 10 whole days buried in the snow so just.... imagine the state he was in when they pulled him out #also reading his letter to julian we learn that bunny had the feeling they wanted to murder him #so i'm sure he KNEW from the moment he saw them at the ravine #happy bunny corcoran month #tsh #the secret history #bunny corcoran

[archonsbane]

AND I TRY TO TALK REFINED

The one time Il Dottore speaks to you in another language, the one time he speaks to someone else in another language, and the one time you give him a taste of his own medicine.

pairing. dottore x reader

tags & content warnings. gn!reader. reader is the tsaritsa's child. reader is referred to by they/them. there's one (1) mildly suggestive sentence (and it's in a different language lol).

word count. 2.9k

author's note. so. i'm back from the dead. i have two fics for pantalone and one for diluc, around 8k+ words. (none of them are finished LMFAO) but of course i drop everything for this stupid ass man. the reader here is my tsaritsa’schild!reader, though this takes place before beauty is terror. this is set in the early days of their relationship and the start of dottore’s involvement in the fatui. reader's backstory is also implied here, but not outright stated. also i got inspiration from @fatuismooches lovely headcanons, though i strayed a bit far HAHA. thank you for letting me write this! and thank you to my two lovely delulu friends (you know who you are) bc i suddenly got into the mood to write because of them.  also, what is heavily implied to be the script of khaenri'ah in-game is based on latin, so i headcanon that latin is the language of khaenri'ah. also i had to sneak in a tsh reference lmfao it was too perfect not to. i promise i don't include it in all my fics it just so happens to be perfect for certain situations huhu. also i hope you guys catch all the little details i put in! reader and dottore have always been like this lol the title is from 'talk' by hozier.

You are undoubtedly the worst teacher Dottore has ever had, bar none. 

Flighty, distracted, and prone to seamlessly maneuvering to an entirely different topic without blinking an eye, leaving him dumbfounded. Your teaching sessions, if they could be called that, are filled with constant interrogations of his life and large infusions of food. Half the time you aren’t even teaching him, you’re simply rambling about whatever it is you ramble about (he’s learned to tune you out, partly because he doesn’t care and partly because he can’t understand what you’re saying). He is truly reconsidering forgoing learning Snezhnayan — at the pace you're going, he might as well take his chances and learn by himself.  

“But Mother said,” you remind him, petulantly, like a small child. Yes, the Tsaritsa commanded him to learn Snezhnayan, and commanded you to teach him, but he is greatly tempted to ask her to send another teacher. It has only been two weeks since your lessons begun and he might truly go mad. Sometimes he thinks this might be the worst thing a divine being has ever inflicted on him.

In truth, he already knows Snezhnayan, but only enough to hold a polite conversation. It is his least favorite of the languages he learned from his teachers in the Akademiya, and anyway, he never quite had a deftness for tongues. He is always most at home working with his hands, destroying and creating physical matter, covered in dust and soot, cracking open the world’s secrets like an egg. But the Tsartisa willed him to learn, and he is nothing if not a scholar. 

“But Mother said,” he mocks, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. He’s learned that you have no convictions about his personality. If anything, you seemed to embrace it. Whereas he dons a respectful — as respectful as he can conjure, anyways — mask with the Jester and the Tsaritsa, it’s… looser, with you. Still, he is careful not to cross the line. He is only allowed this because he amuses you. You've been treating him like some sort of pet to be played with whenever you desire since his coming here. “Your mother also said to teach me how to speak Snezhnayan, but this is the third time you’ve called for snacks in three hours.” 

You flash a lazy glare at him and go back to eating your beloved pastilas. “You require a tremendous amount of effort to teach.” You’ve switched back to speaking the common tongue, obviously for his sake. “You’re a horrible student.” 

“You’re a horrible teacher!” 

You sniff and take another bite of your pastry. “You’re just really bad at learning.” 

For that, you get a glance heavenward. He is tempted to simply throttle you and be done with it. Treason seems like a fair price to pay for shutting you up. But he considers his options and decides that he would rather not be on the receiving end of your mother’s wrath — it’s too fucking cold here already. Still, greatly offended by this statement, he vents out his anger by cursing at you.

In the language of Sumeru. 

He does not really think of it; his use of his mother tongue has greatly decreased since coming here, but even then, it simply rolls off his tongue as naturally as water flows from a river's mouth.

Your brows shoot up. You open your mouth, pause, and for a moment he fears he is in danger of being exiled or thrown in the dungeon. But then you cock your head to the side. “What does that mean?” You ask. 

An idea unravels in his mind, sparkling with mischief. “It means you’re bad at teaching.” 

You frown. “For some reason, I feel like you’re lying.” 

He curses at you again. Your frown deepens. There is something so satisfying about the way those frustrated lines burrow into your face. When he does it a third time, you actually put down the pastila. 

“What does it mean?” You demand. “You aren’t saying anything bad, are you?” 

It means you’re an insufferable little bastard of mean intelligence and he hopes you fall into a ditch, so yes, he definitely is saying something bad. “It means you’re the most gorgeous, most wonderful person in the world,” he says, sarcasm dripping from the syllables. When you look genuinely taken aback, he lets out a cruel, derisive scoff. “It means you should trust me more.” 

“That seems like a horrible idea.” 

He shrugs and reaches over to take one of the pastilas, light pink with a white, foamy top, vaguely aware that another one of your language lessons has gone considerably off course. Perhaps that was too light a description. It shot in one direction and came speeding back the other way. “Suit yourself, Your Imperial Highness.” 

You smack his hand away, gently. Almost too gently. “Those are mine.” 

He eats it, anyway, and learns many new colorful Snezhnayan curses for it, though he detects no real annoyance in your voice. You ring for another batch of desserts. He counts it as a successful lesson. 

He continues speaking in Sumerian when you're near. It’s the greatest of treasures, seeing you frown and demand to know what he had just uttered in your presence. Sometimes he just says the first phrase that enters his head, most times he insults you and relishes in your clueless blinking. You can't do the same to him — he's been picking up on Snezhnayan at an exponential pace, and he's made sure to memorize all of the insults and swears first. Obviously. It’s his talent for machinations that he prides himself on, but lately, he’s been deriving vicious pleasure from the fact he can speak twenty languages, though it never mattered much to him before. It’s a good, safe outlet for his annoyance whenever you’re near, which you seem to always be, nowadays. 

Even outside the language ‘lessons’ (the word lessons being used extremely lightly) you seem to trail him wherever he goes. Ambushing him in the halls, materializing in the laboratory, and in general trailing him like some attention-starved puppy. He resents it, resents the stars that float through your eyes whenever he enters your view, resents the way you immediately disengage from whatever it was that you were doing to attach yourself to him, all smiles. 

He actively avoids you, but somehow you keep running into him. On purpose or accidentally, he has no idea. He suspects it is the former.

Today is one of those days. You’re by his side, again, chatting happily about… something. He’s trying to tune you out, focusing on the long walk back to his laboratories after a meeting with the Tsaritsa. He needs to do something about that, it’s woefully inconvenient to have to walk a mile every time she calls on him. Some sort of contraption that could go up and down easily would be of great use, and he wouldn’t have to climb so many fucking stairs.

Then — it happens. In your excitement, you bump into some government official accompanied by another, what his role is Dottore does not know and does not care to, but he must be quite high up if he allows himself to glare at you for an instant before it disappears into a cool stare. Or maybe he just has a lot of gall.

"Oh, my apologies sir," you murmur, ducking your head. 

"Quite alright, Your Highness," he says smoothly, "have a good day." He turns his back and starts to mutter to his companion, their heads bent together, completely unaware that with your godly senses and his recent enhancements to his body, you both can hear every word.

"How clumsy," the first man tuts, "what does their mother teach them? She's been too soft on them."

"She lets them run amok doing whatever they please. The other day, they—"

"—yes, I heard. Look at those clothes, aren't they too plain for the heir?"

His companion makes an agreeing noise. "And the company they keep… " 

Dottore doesn't particularly care about what other people think of him, and perhaps if it was only the last sentence that had been uttered he wouldn't have said a word, but the tirade of their complaints makes irritation, absurdly, flare inside him. He whips his head back to their retreating figures, and you throw him a glaring warning, so he clenches his jaw and stays where he is. He isn't one to do nothing, however. 

“Kol khara,” he says to them, viciously. Eat shit. He hears you stifle a sound that might be a laugh and briefly wonders why exactly you would laugh. 

The men turn back around. “Excuse me?” The first one says. 

“Nothing,” he says, curtly, his eyes like sharp daggers, “go on." They throw each other confused glances but say nothing further, going further down the hall until he can no longer see their backs. You both stay in the middle of the now-empty hallway, staring silently off into the distance.

You’ve never been able to contain your curiosity for long. After a good minute of silence, you turn inquisitive eyes on him. He’s been expecting your question.

"What did you say?" You ask.

He shrugs; makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. "I know it isn't nothing. It was something bad, right? You've said it to me before.” Clever you, he thinks briefly. Nothing gets past you. When he stays enclosed in icy silence, you press on further, “I won’t be mad. It doesn’t bother me — I think it’s funny. Just tell me.” He has no idea why you would ever think it’s funny. Nonetheless, he stays silent. 

You try again. “Tell me.” 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

“No.” 

“Tell me,” you say again, but this time you slip into the voice of the noble, unshakeable heir to Winter. The two words are a command, and they leave no room for argument. He must follow. 

He sighs and runs a hand down his face. “It means I want them to eat shit.” 

A moment of silence passes and Dottore wonders if he should start running. Then, you start to laugh. A small laugh, so small he almost thinks he could cup it in his hands and never let it go. But he recognizes it as different from the laughs you’ve given him before. This one is warm and sweet, conjured from the belly upwards. Summer in a sound. 

He tries very hard not to smile when he says, “you aren’t mad?” 

“No,” you say, still laughing, “I suppose I do deserve it.” He silently agrees. “Anyways, after coming to my defense, I forgive you.” 

He snarls, that sudden irritation reviving itself. “I wasn’t coming to your defense.” 

You shrug, not looking bothered at all. “Fine. Defending yourself and by extension — and complete coincidence — me.” 

He decides it is best not to argue, and listens quietly as you walk with him back to his laboratory, chatting happily away once more. If you notice that over the next few days, his outbursts toward you decrease, you say nothing of it. And if you notice he is insulting other people more in other languages, seemingly for the sole purpose of making you laugh, you say nothing of it, too. 

You’re speaking Sumerian. 

Fluent Sumerian. Rapid-fire Sumerian, without blinking or stumbling over your words. Clean, pure Sumerian, speaking everything with the perfect enunciation of a noble. You don’t notice him behind you, utterly bemused, as you speak to a foreign dignitary from his homeland. The First drags him out of the underground labs from time to time in order to socialize and familiarize himself with the political atmosphere, but Dottore lets you do all the work for him. You engage in polite small talk, though delivered with much more enthusiasm than necessary. But the words are barely intelligible in his head. It isn’t possible that you’ve learned how to speak fluent Sumerian in such a short about of time. He will begrudgingly admit your brightness, small as it is, but even he cannot master a language within a few months. Which means there must only be one conclusion. 

When you notice him, your face morphs into one of surprised panic. Oh. He’s sure his fury is plain to see. It’s at that precise moment the dignitary — Dottore does not see the point in blessings but, Archons bless her — chooses to excuse herself, leaving you open and without a proper excuse to escape with. 

“You can speak Sumerian,” he says, plainly, having immediately taken the empty spot at your side. You take  cautious, half-step backwards. 

You look both amused and slightly abashed. 

He grits his teeth. “For how long?” 

“... since I was five." A pause. You look thoughtful. "Actually, it was your Greater Lord Rukkhadevata who first taught me."

This new piece of information surprises him so much that the flames of his anger are snuffed out, if only for a second. Then they come back raging, and he cannot contain it.

"You knew what I was saying this entire time!" He rages, jabbing an accusing finger at you. You cringe away. "You could understand all of it!"

"Not all of it—" When you see the exasperation that crosses his face, you smile. "Alright. Most of it." 

You begin to walk away, but he furiously follows you. "You lied to me!"

"You were cursing me to my face. I think it's a fair exchange." You shrug with one shoulder, eyes sparkling with mischief. "It was funny, anyway. Your cluelessness, that is." And then, "you should know, now that you know — I can speak the main languages of each nation." 

"I can too," he says haughtily, raising his chin up at you. 

"Really?" You laugh. "Cubitum eamus?"

"What?"

"Nothing." 

"What does that mean?" He demands, only half aware he's repeating the interaction you once had over a plate of pink and white sweets. He's never heard a language sounding quite like that. Perhaps it could be a dialect, but it doesn't sound similar to any currently existing language. "What language is that?"

You deliver your coup de grâce with such smooth smugness on your face. "It's Khaenri'ahn." The dead language. 

He blinks. Opens his mouth dumbly. And lunges.

As he chases you through the halls, your laughter floats warm and clear in the frigid winter air. You easily outpace him, but perhaps out of pity, you let him catch you and drag you to — well, he doesn't exactly know where he's going, only that he does not want to let you escape his rage. You thrash in his arms like a trapped animal, still controlled by a laughing fit all the while. 

"I hate you," he grumbles later, when you've calmed him with a slice of strawberry cheesecake from the kitchens. He's still quite angry, but not angry enough to not accept your peace offering. "You're horrible."

"So are you." 

A pause, then, "Teach me Khaenri'ahn," he says, leaning forward, a bright idea sparking in his chest. "There's so many texts I have yet to decipher — you have no idea the knowledge I can grasp if you teach me." He thinks of the old Ruin Golems in Sumeru. How hard it was to learn how to control them! But with your help, with your knowledge, he could crack the world open like an egg and watch its secrets spill like yolk. 

"I thought I was a bad teacher."

"Bad is better than none at all."

The utterly offended look that flashes on your face teases a grin from his mouth. "You're horrible."

"So are you."

He thinks he sees the corner of your mouth involuntarily curl upward. You twirl your fork in your fingers, humming thoughtfully. "Why should I?" 

"... For the pleasure of contributing to my research?" The look you give him tells him you're not at all convinced. He continues, "My research that is so very essential to the success of this nation?"

You scoff, but you cannot deny it. He would not be alive if he wasn't useful to Snezhnaya.

"You'll owe me," you tell him. 

He shrugs. "There's worse things in the world. Let's start."

It startles you somewhat. "What, now?"

"Yes, now. Unless you have other things to do?" 

You don't. Your language lessons with him already ended when he reached an acceptable mastery over Snezhnayan according to your mother, and he knows that though you have a schedule (mysterious and utterly incomprehensible though it is — not even he has been able to figure it out), you'd drop everything in an instant if something else interests you. Your other engagements are often boring things, too, and the only duty you ever truly commit to are the strange missions your mother sends you on, ones that could go for months on end. He's fairly certain you'll acquiesce to his request.

You pretend to consider it, before shrugging with hardwon carelessness and saying, "Fine."

You're exactly the same. Flighty, distracted, and prone to seamlessly maneuvering to an entirely different topic without blinking an eye. Half the cheesecake is eaten before you even start on the alphabet, and the journey to that is filled with endless detours that consist of bickering, fighting over the (large) cake, and kicking each other like children under his work table. His intelligence is insulted more times in half an hour than in his entire years of study at the Akademiya.

Dottore decides, with solid determination, after eating the last slice of cake, finally learning the pronunciation of the vowels and consonants, and being on the receiving end of an onslaught of Khaeri’ahn curses he truly cannot understand — which is horribly ironic considering the past few weeks — that he might as well beg the Jester for lessons instead, and no one can do a damn thing about it. He tells this to you, chin up, resolute and unwavering in his declaration. 

He never does get around to doing that. 

#— ficlets. #genshin imapct #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #fatui x reader #the cubitum eamus question is a reference to the secret history for those who don't know #reader is asking dottore to sleep with them lmfao #also the full lyric for the title is #'so I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how i'm imaginin' you' #so that's something :))

[liv-333]

THE SECRET HISTORY HEADCANNONS

⁃ Everyone in the class loved Camilla romantically at some point, Francis often used her as a way of denying his sexuality. ⁃ Henry’s roses bloomed every year after his death, despite not being taken care of very well, on the rare occasion Richard visited Vermont, specifically Hampden he looked at the roses and found peace in the fact that nature fulfilled Henry’s wish of immortality. ⁃ Julian died not long after Henry did, the shock and disparity of the situation led him to madness and heartbreak only cured by death. ⁃ By the time Bunny was found he should’ve been already rotting, his skin grey and shrivelled. Due to the weather his body had been preserved. I can’t remember whether it states what funeral type he had in the book but since his parents were rich it was probably open casket; The sight of bunny’s body in death disturbed the class deeply, haunting them and fearing that somehow, someday he might come back, they all had mild paranoia for weeks, Henry more so than the others. ⁃ Camilla adored ‘the picture of Dorian Grey’ she read it many times, she could practically recite the first few chapters by the time she was 19, yet after Henry’s death she couldn’t read it without thinking about the at the time insignificant link he made between beauty and terror, she tried many times to read it but couldn’t without feeling physically ill. ⁃ Camilla never fell in love again the same way, she picked her men carefully, based on their similarities to Henry, although it’s mentioned in the book and is therefore cannon; she never did fall in love again, she found it, but never accepted it.

#the secret history #donna tartt #henry winter #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #henry winter x reader #richard papen #imagine #aesthetic #hampden #vermont #francis abernathy #judy poovey #books and reading #classics #fluff prompts #angst prompt #museums #angst #edmund corcoran #bunny corcoran #tsh donna tartt #books #studying #college #enemies to lovers #imagine your comfort character #dark academia #dark academia outfit #ancient greek

[an-architect-of-words]

We need to talk about Tartt’s character descriptions

More Donna Tartt praise.

She writes human physical descriptions in the most genuine and true-to-life ways. I didn’t even realize how many books do not go into the actual nuance of human appearances until I read TSH and Goldfinch.

I think most books kind of categorize people as pretty, ugly, or plain then lean into what generally makes people pretty, ugly, or plain plus hair and eye colors. I love how Tartt’s books make characters appear how the majority of people really do: an assortment of specific details. There’s Boris’s bitten nails and how Henry is big and square but does not carry himself as if he is. Bunny is a once-muscled guy (now more chubby) whose naturally good looks are starting to get a little sloppy. His nose is also a bit small/sharp for his face shape. Camilla is pretty, and we hear about her thick ankles and the way her curls rest at her temples. Francis is nice-looking because he carries and styles himself well, but we hear that those things compensate for his kind of beaky nose and boney angles.

Pippa is another great example! Theo describes her looks as tender and precious. She comes across as very cute in a homely way. But we hear that her eyes look “naked” because her lashes are so pale (I can imagine this so well!) and that her nose is long. Her cheeks are thin. Theo notes these things, and thinks she’s pretty anyway; he assumes he must have some personal affinity for her and is given a wake-up call when Everett also finds these traits cute.

OH actually let me squeeze in Mr. Barbour here. Because lol???

His eyes were a queer unstable gray and his hair was pure white, which made him seem older than he was until you noticed that his face was young and pink — boyish, even. His ruddy cheeks and his long, old-fashioned nose, in combination with the prematurely white hair, gave him the amiable look of a lesser founding father, some minor member of the Continental Congress teleported to the twenty-first century.

This is so specific and so easy to see. It stuck out to me when I read it, and my mom mentioned it to me when she read it. She said she was really hit by Andy’s dad’s description and thought it was funny but did a really good job delivering an image.

It’s just so real and gets at how normal people actually are: not always pretty in a “safe” way. Tartt has the guts to give you a description of an actual unique, textured person and say “This is nice.” Or, in Bunny’s case, give someone who is basically handsome but not necessarily pleasant-looking. Theres so much nuance, and it’s honest.

It kind of made me rethink how I write human descriptions. There are “safe” things to point out that become a little insubstantial if you combine too many of them: “The pretty girl has glossy hair and curves and bright blue eyes.” And then there’s going into actual shapes and the way people carry themselves and how some features look against others. It honestly just makes the characters really pop and they’re easy to envision.

#Kitsey and Charles are the only ones who seem kind of straight-forwardly attractive #Donna Tartt is SO observant about people #she nails how people actually act and feel #and how they actually look #I can imagine that she could actually see her characters in her head while writing them #it’s all so charming #the secret history #donna tartt #tsh #bunny corcoran #henry winter #francis abernathy #the goldfinch #boris pavlikovsky #pippa blackwell

[macaulaytwins]

Henry Winter should have taken the Saltburn approach to Bunny’s funeral fine I’ll say it

#he should have fucked the grave! yeah! #can you imagine richard trying to spin that to us??? #tsh #henry winter #the secret history #bunny corcoran #saltburn #homoeroticism #henry x bunny #richard papen

[astrum-aetherium]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ astrum's the secret history & henry winter thirst masterlist ⋆｡°✩

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

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

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

˚₊· ❥ general — sfw, informative, personal

my opinion on tsh / addressing the problematic aspects of tsh / henry's middle name being 'marchbanks' and a possible explanation / what henry might've whispered to camilla / my opinion on whether or not henry and camilla were in love / my fancast(s) for henry / my favorite books / my opinion on dorian gray as a character (+ parallels with tsh) / comparing henry to marble statues / modern media henry would be into / elaboration on camilla macaulay / will i be writing about other tsh characters? / tips on getting into classical studies / country house daydreams

˚₊· ❥ henry winter nsfw scenarios

general headcanons about henry's sexual preferences / summer thigh riding / car sex / study date sex / mating press position with henry / riding henry / scratching his back during intimacy / bondage with henry / henry being into bdsm / henry's dirty talk part one / henry's dirty talk part two / neck teasing & biting / henry and cnc / dumbification with henry / henry sucking his partner's fingers / sucking henry's fingers / henry & cigarettes after sex / henry physically responding to pleasure / henry being distracted by your moans while studying / henry & the smell of gasoline / henry muffling you due to your volume / relentlessly teasing henry / cockwarming during studying / sex at bunny's funeral / henry calling you 'good girl' / henry and aftercare / giving henry head to cure his headache / size kink with henry / ignoring henry while he gives you head / clit spanking with henry + coming from your clit being spanked / you and henry at the beach / doggy style position with henry / henry with an inexperienced partner / inexperienced henry with an experienced partner / being bratty with dom!henry + being bratty and fighting henry back / henry burning you with his cigarette / shotgunning a cigarette with henry / jacking henry off with pretty nails / henry using his diary for dirty entries in latin

-> own category — sub!henry: general headcanons / ignoring needy sub!henry / sub!henry punishing you back / making sub!henry beg + reaction to his begging / mirror in front of sub!henry / henry still being dominant while subbing

˚₊· ❥ henry winter sfw / mildly nsfw scenarios

henry & hanahaki disease au / henry with a polar opposite partner / henry with a partner similar to judy / spoiling his partner / getting off on spoiling his partner / enemies to lovers with henry / best friends to lovers with henry / academic rivals with henry / henry being soft(er) with his partner / henry during your period / henry's birthday party at francis' country estate / falling asleep on henry whilst reading / owning a locket with henry's face in it

˚₊· ❥ general satiric / amusing scenarios

gay hampden / list of pop culture scenarios flea wants the greek class to go through / henry holding a baby / playing roblox with the greek class / greek class barbenheimer feud / locking the greek class in a room with the percy jackson movies / the greek class' opinions on percy jackson / being locked in a room with henry / henry watching reality shows with you / henry turning up at your house / showing the greek class colleen ballinger's apology video / keeping the greek class in a glass terrarium / forgetting henry in the cereal isle at walgreens / the greek class being actual people (+ bunny shitting headcanon) / bunny possibly being okay (they revoked their statement) / henry writing smut in his diary

˚₊· ❥ henry winter scenarios inspired by songs

taylor swift — last kiss / taylor swift — illicit affairs / dead girl walking part one + part two

˚₊· ❥ bonus: prose and poetry shared by my saturn anon

one — marble / two — divinity / three — dancing in the rain / four — intimacy overseas

#astrum masterlist #astrum asks #the secret history #dark academia #henry winter imagine #henry winter x reader #henry winter thirst #indulgent thoughts #henry winter smut

[sleepy-gee]

love how francis canonically has short hair and the entire fandom decided to ignore that

#i always imagine him with a lil ponytail tbh i get it #sleepy.rambles #francis abernathy #the secret history

[idontknowhsh]

okay. you know the story about that one painting of jesus, that supposedly was ?da vinci’s?? lover? okay. i know there’s not much evidence but

imagine being so loved and admired that your lover depicts you as The Messiah and you pass onto history as the face the son of The Creator simply because someone thought you were a worthy muse

#artwork #art #classical art #renaissance #dark academism #dark academia #romantic academia #light academia #chaotic academia #academia aesthetic #classic academia #the secret history #donna tartt #idk how to tag this #hozier #imagine being loved by me #kinda vibes

[betryl]

Along with Camilla's and Bunny's, another pov I would love to see is Charles'. He had such a tragic development throughout the book, but we get to know very little about what he actually went through, and it makes it easy to put all the blame on him – of course, he was an abuser and that doesn't change, but it would still be so interesting to actually get his own opinion, without Henry, Camilla or Francis speaking on his behalf. Not to justify him, but just to see things the way he did and get yet another interpretation of the whole story.

We'd get to know what his and Camilla's relationship was actually like – and it would probably look even worse from his perspective. His encounters with Francis, too. He puts the blame on Charles taking advantage of him, even though they were probably both taking advantage of each other in some ways – but we never got to hear how Charles felt about the situation.

We'd get to see him slowly lose his mind to alcohol, and it would probably be even more subtle than how it felt from Richard's pov, making it even the more chilling. Him getting progressively more depressed, more irritable, more violent (and therefore, I believe, more guilty about his own behavior too), to the point of being basically drunk all the time, and feeling like a totally different person to how he was at the beginning.

And then we'd get to see him get more and more paranoid about Henry. I would have loved to see more of their dynamic, because while I've seen some people reducing it to a love triangle with Camilla (?), it wasn't just that, and Charles had quite a few valid reasons to hate him. Henry pulled Charles into the whole mess basically against his will – he was the only one who, more than once, tried convincing the others the murder was a bad idea, and no one listened to him and listened to Henry instead. He was depressed for Bunny's death. He got coerced by Henry to get involved with the police too, having to bear the weight of everyone possibly ending up in jail if he did something wrong.

He realized that all of this was mostly Henry's fault, but then the situation with Camilla came along, and Charles suddenly understood he had just become the next target Henry might have wanted to get rid of – and he even tried to. He had every right being scared of him, but the others barely even believed him. So the paranoia turned into genuine fear for his life, until he eventually snapped, and we know what happened next.

All of this was hidden behind Richard's pov, which definitely made it difficult to understand his actions or how he was feeling. As much as I don't like him as a person, he really grew on me and genuinely became one of my favorite characters. And seeing it all from his perspective would be terrifying.

#the secret history #tsh #charles macaulay #henry winter #camilla macaulay #bunny corcoran #francis abernathy #richard papen #charles..... #but can you imagine how he must be doing after the ending #it would have been so heartbreaking to see him again in the epilogue #kinda happy he didn't show up that would've been my last straw tbh #actually nevermind i just want to read the story from everyone's pov

[smol-soop-spoon]

imagine being the guy who supposedly inspired Henry's character and discovering thousands of complete strangers on the internet are violently thirsting over your fictional alter ego

#good lord i hope the poor man rejects modernity as much as henry and doesn't have an internet connection #imagine if he found out about ao3 #idk for you but im suddenly very aware of my socks #the secret history #henry winter #tsh #also i listened to a tiny bit of The Podcast (u know the one) and he has a really soothing voice #but alas i have the attention span of a ferret and the journalist (?) was annoying as hell so like #i guess that's about as far as this endeavour goes #but yeah the man has a really nice voice like wow #read to me señor

[kuroscrud]

I wonder what the conversation between Richard and Henry’s father would have been like if the Greek class had actually fled to South America…I think about this like once a month

#blab #the secret history #tsh #dark academia #henry winter #richard papen #I imagine Henry’s father with anger issues idk why #just some big mean red faced construction guy

[miroana]

Torn between being:

- rather upset that the Secret History is viral and therefore not written for solely me to think about and base my personality on, and

- extremely delighted at how enraged the greek class would be upon learning that their gorgeously aesthetic classical tragedy (which depicts how their lives were marred by hubris, illusion, and excess, inevitably leading them down a path to madness and death) has become mainstream

#their entire vibe is based on being niche #outside the bounds of ordinary life capitalism and you know… mortality #can you imagine their reactions to some of the tsh content out there?? #richard would be so heated lmao #I doubt they would be huge fans of modern adaptations of greek myths either #henry winter vs the percy jackson novels #they would take him out like a small victorian child #I’m certain he wouldn’t hesitate to push RR into a ravine given the chance #the secret history #tsh #richard papen #henry winter #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #francis abernathy #bunny corcoran #dark academia #donna tartt

[lavendermaelk]

Pomegranate Proposal

Henry Winter x GN!Reader, The Secret History  Word Count: 824 Content Warnings: Fluff, Kissing, Slightly Suggestive Themes Summary: Henry comes over to help you with homework and you end up as his partner.

It was a rather quiet day for [Y/N], staying inside their apartment to keep warm and catch up on some of their work that had been abandoned the night before in favor of a more lively scene, tagging along with Richard to a party he’d been nearly dragged to by Judy Poovey. They were flipping through the pages of the book that Julian had assigned for the term when the phone that was near the front door rang. They let out a soft sigh before rising from their place on the couch, setting the book aside and walking over to pick up the phone. 

“Hello?” they spoke as they pressed the  cold speaker end of the handset to their ear. 

“Oh good, you’re home,” It was Henry, his deep, cold voice immediately recognizable. “Would you mind if I stopped by? I suppose you might want help with your Greek since you were out all night.” There was a hint of a smirk in his usually flat voice and the corners of [Y/N]’s lip’s turned up a little at the sound of it. 

“Not at all, I’ll leave the door unlocked.” They replied, quickly exchanging their goodbyes before setting the phone down on the base and happily making their way back to the couch. They decided to tidy up a little more, give space for Henry to sit when he came over and all. It was no secret that the two Greek students had grown closer over the two years they had known each other, longing glances across the round table during class, an idle hand lingering on one’s arm or shoulder. 

It wasn’t long until [Y/N] heard the door open to reveal the tall, broad shouldered scholar with a book in his hand as well as a small bag. Henry closed and locked the door behind him, making his way to the couch and sitting next to [Y/N] as he always did when the group got together in someone’s home. He set the bag down in their lap and peered at their book to flip to the page they were on. 

“What’s in the bag?” [Y/N] asked, nudging him playfully and pulling their notebook a little closer to show him what they’d accomplished so far. 

“Pomegranates. They’re in season now and I thought you’d like a few.” He said, as they opened the bag to see three softball sized, plump red fruits. [Y/N] let out a soft chuckle and set their notebook in Henry’s lap to get up. 

“Why don’t I open one? We can snack on it while we work. Do you want something to drink too?” they asked, walking over to the kitchen. 

“Anything’s fine,” He called after them, busying himself with finding where they’d left off in the homework. They hummed softly, putting on a kettle and preparing a pot of tea to steep while they pulled out the seeds into a bowl. It didn’t take long for them to come back to the couch with their tea and a bowl of pomegranate seeds on a tray, their fingertips stained a faint crimson from opening the gifted fruit. He cleared some space on the coffee table for the tray and poured them both a cup of tea. 

Henry hesitated a little after he set the teapot back down onto the tray before he picked up a few of the plump seeds with his slender fingers, turning to [Y/N] and cupping their face with his free hand. 

“Open.” he said softly, [Y/N] obeying without objection. Their lips parted, tongue jutting out slightly to blanket their bottom teeth as Henry dropped the seeds into their mouth. “Swallow.” He ordered again, his hand never leaving their cheek. [Y/N] did as he told, again with no protest as they chewed on the juicy seeds, a tart sweetness flooding their mouth followed by the slight crunch of the seeds before they swallowed. A bit of a smirk tugged at their lips, their hand coming up to hold onto Henry’s wrist. 

“You know, you could have just asked me like a normal person.” They chuckled a little, pulling a humorous scoff from him. 

“I thought we’d established that we’re far from normal.” He jested, his voice barely above a whisper as they slowly closed the gap between them. [Y/N] leaned in just a bit more, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. He could taste the tartness of the pomegranate as his other hand settled on their thigh, almost pulling them closer. The silent bliss came to an end as [Y/N] pulled away to look at Henry’s eyes, little pieces of the sky taken and gifted to him in the form of his bright irises. 

“I suppose I’m stuck with you forever then?” They licked their lips with a soft laugh.

“Why? Does that not appeal to you?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#lavender writes~🖋️ #i love henry so much #i need more of him #henry winter #henry winter x reader #henry winter imagine #the secret history #donna tart #x reader fanfic #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #dark academia #francis abernathy #bunny corcoran #richard papen #gn!reader #they/them #minors dni #minors go away