summary : ̗̀➛ There's only three days until Henry leaves.
warnings・❥・small town!au, bittersweet, angsty (but dw..), hurt/comfort, henry letham is conflicted asf, he's sweet as usual, brief SMUT, no p in v, oral f!recieving, canon references, some religious imagery, petnames, established relationship, no use of y/n
wc: 3.5k
a/n ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ i ditched the nsfw headcanons bc they were feeling soulless + this fic came to me in a prophecy (waco x house in nebraska mashup). inspired by ethel cain (obv), specifically how willoughy leaves ethel. im really pleased w how this turned out so i hope u all enjoy too :3 thx for reading & any feedback is welcome and extremely appreciated!!
“I know. I know. And it’s okay.”
Henry hears your voice replaying over and over in his head as he lays on his dingy mattress. You said it like it was nothing, like it was no big deal. You hardly blinked nor furrowed a brow nor sulked. You smiled as you said it, watched as he frowned.
“I just wish you gave me sooner notice,” you said, laughing. “But I know. And it’s okay.”
Then, maybe four or so hours ago, he couldn’t find anything more to say. You bid him a goodnight after seconds went by without so much as a sigh from him. Now, he pouts at the irony. He almost thinks that it was intentional — you taking the opportunity to leave the conversation first as he told you he’d be leaving town at last.
Contrary to him, you’ve always been one to voice your conflict, or really anything else for that matter. It was one of the initial things he noticed about you since that day your family moved into this little nook of the rural south. You were blunt and unphased by his mysterious solitude. He pointed it out one day, several weeks into finally getting used to your company.
“You talk a lot, too,” you told him, taking a petite puff of his blunt.
Henry pushed open his bedroom window wider to air out the thick smoke, looking over at you incredulously. “Do I?”
You laughed at his sharp sarcasm. “I’d say so. It’s not in the conventional way of talking, but they’re similar enough.”
“Like what?” he asked, looking at you upside-down as half his body hung off his bed. “With my ears? With my ankles?”
“No,” you scoffed. “Everything’s written on your face, Henry. One look at you is all it takes to know what you’re thinking.”
He was almost defeated by the disclosure.
He stifled a smile and stretched his arms above his head, the hem of his shirt rising to expose the pale plane of his abdomen. “Okay. Tell me.”
“About what you’re thinking?”
“About what I’m thinking.”
You tilted your head and tapped a finger on your chin, feigning deep thought. “Probably how you want this annoying girl out of your room and how you wish you would’ve never given her the time of day.”
He reached a wiry arm towards you and plucked the rolled paper from your lips and put it in his own. He took a long drag, long enough for it to be construed as a yearning desire to never breathe in the clear, humid air of this place again.
“How accurate am I?” you asked.
“As horribly accurate as any lousy oracle could be.”
Hence why your lack of communication is bothersome. Or maybe it’s purposeful. Or maybe there’s nothing behind it at all. Thinking about the latter makes his stomach ache. But in a way, Henry’s glad that you didn’t put up a fight. He knows deep down, like the back of his hand or the sound of your voice, that you’d be able to convince him.
There could not be a ‘sooner notice’. Sooner notice would mean bailing out and not leaving at all.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
3 days before Henry leaves, routine occurs like normal. Almost.
He wakes up earlier than he’s used to, just by the jolt of his body. He fumbles with his keys as he leaves the lonely expanse of his residence for yours that’s a short distance away. He doesn’t even know if you’ll be up at this time, but he drives anyway. And to his surprise, he sees you trudging up the rugged street as he’s halfway to your house.
He leans over the console to open the car door. You slip in with a tired ‘good morning’ smile as he reminds you to click on your seatbelt.
“Can you do yours, too?” you say, flicking at the woven strip of fabric.
“I’ll think about it,” he murmurs, drumming his fingers along the ridges of the steering wheel. “Why were you out there? You know I’ll come and get you.”
“I didn’t want to be waiting. Why were you?”
He decides against responding. You’re courteous to his silence and shrug as you pull his seatbelt on for him. Despite his stubborn front, he helps guide your hand to the buckle.
He takes you to the broad, placid river near the end of town, hidden by a short hike into the woods. Like always, you trip over some uprooted vine and chide at your clumsiness. He catches you by the crook of your elbow and tells you to slow down.
You shake your head and tell him to speed up. “We’re on limited time, Henry. If it happens again, just let me fall. I’ll cover more ground.”
For the first time since he’s met you, he hates how you make him laugh.
You’re in the water as quickly as you can kick off your shoes and strip off your shorts. The water runs murky yet clear, though it counts just the same as you thrash through it until it wades up to your thigh.
Henry settles on the shady, sparsely green bank and sifts through the pebbles for flat ones. He watches you for a while, eyes your knees pushing against the thick current. When he’s content with his gatherings, he folds up the baggy ends of his jeans and comes in after you.
Your eyes widen as he plods over. “What’re you doing? You never get in with me.”
“I’m getting in with you now.”
“No, don’t. You like the view from over there.”
He smooths over your sun-warmed hair. “I like the view from here, too.”
He sighs a heavy, held breath when he sees the first signs of conflict arise on your face.
“Please don’t act like this is different from any other day that we’ve been here.”
Your words carry the same bark as a dog who knows that they’re going to be put down.
“You said that we’re on limited time.”
“I know, but that’s just, that’s just me talking. That’s for me to say.” You look down at where his denim darkens with the sloshing river. “Please don’t make this feel different.”
He offers you a rueful smile and lowers his head to try and catch your flitting gaze. “It is different, baby.”
He hugs you, and he can tell that you have a hard time doing it back.
The rest of the day is comfortably quiet as he teaches you how to skip rocks.
When he drives you home, long after the sun sets, you stay in his car just to sit. The air between is tense. It sends prickles up the side of his leg, all the way up to the expanse of his neck to settle between his collar bones. Something in him wants you to leave already, like you had yesterday. It’s only fair, he thinks, to let him feel what that’s like, too.
“Are you angry at me?” he asks, voice tenderly cutting through the silence.
You look at him pained. “I couldn’t be.”
He grips at the dried, mud-stained rim of his shirt from when he wiped your calf clean after you staggered into a dip in the river.
“It’s okay if you are.”
“I’m not,” you say sternly. “Because I know that you’re dying in this town. Just one look at you, Henry. You dream like no one I’ve ever seen before. You dream and paint of oceans and stinging cold and somewhere, far, far away from here.”
He bores a hole into the night outside of his windshield.
You turn to look at his clenched jaw. “Do your parents know?”
“You’re the only one,” he says curtly. “I’m not going to tell them. I forget their faces the second that they’re out of sight.”
You nod and move to slip out of the car. You hold the door open, bending awkwardly to look at him. “They’ll come to me and ask. You know, when you’re gone.”
“What’ll you tell them?”
“What I told you,” you whisper. “That it’s okay. And that they can’t convince you to be satisfied with the greatest of mountains when you see waves the moment you close your eyes. I’ll say that I know you’re happier out wherever you are. So it’s okay.”
You stand there, waiting again for a response that won’t come. You bid him goodnight and turn on your heel.
It’s only when he drives off does he see the thin trail of blood dribbling onto his lap from where his teeth are sunken into his own cheek.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
2 days before Henry leaves, he piggybacks you through the woods to his weathered shed.
A week prior, he took advantage of the winding summer rain and came out here without you knowing. He took down every colorful quilt, every deflated pillow that bordered the small space inside, every remnant that proved the existence of two people. He blinked hard as he did it. Every item he picked up and shoved underneath his arm was just another act of treason.
The feat could not be upheld, so he spent the remainder of last night undoing his undoing of the interior. And more so, as he hung up lights for one final hurrah.
He lays you down onto the covered Earth and begins kissing a path down your sternum, sucking and nipping at whatever part of you he can get to next. You pull the cotton of your underwear down to pool at your ankles and bunch the white fabric of your dress at your waist.
Your hands bury themselves in his hair and tug faintly at his nape as he wraps his arms around your thighs to bring them over his shoulders, pressing his fingers hard enough to make imprints onto the plush.
“You’re so beautiful,” he groans into your skin, eyes locked on your brows scrunched, your mouth agape. “So, so beautiful, my girl. Mine, all mine.”
You whine and jut your hips up against his mouth, and he thinks that he’d be happy dying here. Just like this, with you on his lips and the warmth of your flesh pressing around his head, constricting his mind from wandering to any place else but here with you.
You take a hand away from his hair to find his own splayed on your pelvis. He turns his palm face-up to give you free reign over the satiny, calloused skin. When you link your pinky with his, he notices that he’s crying.
He brings the promise up to his lips. “I wish,” he kisses, “that I,” you gasp breathily, “could have,” he kisses, “you forever.” Your thighs tremble as he licks over your swollen clit, remorseful for stopping.
“And I’m sorry,” he says, because he knows that it’s an unfair thing to admit, especially now. And he hates, more than anything, to be mean to you.
“You have me, Henry,” your voice hitches as he lowers his head again, the ridge of his nose bumping into you. “You’ve always had me.”
When you come undone, tightening stickily around his fingers, he whines your name over and over as he helps you ride it out. He sounds each syllable out like it’s a prayer because, in a way, it is one.
There’s no such respiteful absolution like the one that he gets whenever he’s with you.
He pulls your dress over his head as though hoping that you’d let him remain between you. When you tell him that you’re tired, he nods and props himself against the mildew-soiled, wooden walls. He ghosts his touch along your hair, supporting your head in his lap.
“We can stay a while,” he mutters.
And so, he’s left to his own devices. He thinks of how much he hates the suffocating warmth of this town. But you’re warm, too. And he enjoys the feeling of basking in it. And that throws him for a loop.
For a moment, Henry mulls over a troubling thought. Stay. Staying. He entertains the concept, kicks it between the ratted up soles of his shoes. He entertains a better one, an incredibly impulsive, gluttony-filled one.
“Baby?”
You stir. “Yeah?”
“Would you come with me?”
One beat of silence.
“You’re a good boy, Henry,” you say. “But being here doesn’t kill me like it does you.”
He grimaces. He wants to tell you that it’ll get to you, one way or another. That it preys on smiles like yours, because they’re real and ingenuous and guileless. So he decides to push just a little bit harder.
He drags a hand down his face and continues to stroke your hair. Soothing you, soothes him. “Would it kill you to come with me?”
Two beats of silence. Then a third. “No. It would not.”
That’s all you leave him with before you fall asleep. In his own daze, he swears that he can feel the single, thorny sensation of a tear burning through his jeans.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
1 day before Henry leaves, things feel heavier.
The feeling is everywhere. It’s literally in the luggage that rests stiffly by the side of his nightstand. It’s buried in his chest, radiating outwards towards his limbs so that every move he makes is sluggish. It burdens him as he contemplates if your words were just blown smoke.
He doesn’t know why, but his father ruffles his hair on his way out to work. Henry goes rigid as he feels the older man’s fingers on his scalp. His cereal spoon is suspended mid-air in shock. The rare act of affection is rough, like how any father is towards his son, and causes Henry’s head to cave forward to the pressure.
But the gesture doesn’t bring him the deluded protection of nostalgia. In fact, it feels belittling and slapdash and painful. All it does, all it serves to do, is to remind him of your touch.
Gentle.
Fond.
Purifying.
Henry thinks of an angel, speaks your name on his lips, and fate herself brings you knocking on his door.
“I brought some stuff for your journey,” you say, flopping down in front of him on his bed. “Small stuff, ‘cause I know you’ll pack light.”
He’s happy that he only has a twin. Any larger of a bed would mean that your knees wouldn’t brush against his even half as much.
You pull out several miscellaneous items: his favorite cigarettes, a portable paint set that he left at your house, and a cinch bag of candy.
“For my sweet tooth?” he muses, fidgeting with the drawstrings.
“For your sweet tooth.”
He goes for something sweeter and kisses a trail down your lips to your jaw and neck. “Thank you, baby. You didn’t have to.”
“Oh, and another thing.” You pull away to rummage through your purse. “I got back into sewing.”
You hand him your creation — a small stuffed-animal walrus made up of differing scraps of burlap, taupe, and hickory-colored fabric, all held together by thread of your favorite colors.
Its embroidered mouth grins up at him and its beaded eyes stare. They’re filled with such a soul that could have only been produced at the hands of your craft.
He toys with its flippers as a familiar conflict comes back to him. That heaviness weighs on him every time he catches you glance at his alarm clock, a flicker of a frown appearing every time you become aware of the time.
Henry wonders about it, about how maybe meeting you was a predestined obstacle meant to keep him here forever. But he figures that he’s just listening too closely to the devil on his shoulder. Because you’re not anything to overcome. Because it’s never truly been your fight that he’s worried about.
He has enough of it for the both of you.
He realizes that you’ve made things difficult, just inherently. He realizes it as he finds himself wishing that you’d made him a hundred more walruses, so that maybe he wouldn’t have to go so far for the real thing.
“It’s cute, huh?” you say, voice lilting with pride.
Henry nods and looks at it intently, then looks at you. “He’s got your smile.”
He spends the rest of the day with you in his room, laughing until you cry, crying until you laugh.
When the time comes to begin your last departure, you drop a pristinely crisp envelope face-down onto his luggage on your way out of his room.
“Don’t open it until you’re on the road,” you instruct. “I mean it.”
His hand is firm on the small of your back. “I won’t.”
The journey back to your house seems more difficult than any cross-country trip could ever be. It’s quiet and deliberately slow. Henry likes silence with you, almost as much as he does talking.
When the glimpse of your porch finally comes into view, you stop in front of the curb. You stand facing him, rocking back and forth on your heels.
“Well, this is it,” you say, then quieter, “This is it.”
He watches the lowering sun cast its glow on you. He’s seen this sight thousands of times, and every time, he can’t help but blink over and over as if his eyelids were the aperture blades of a camera.
He closes the distance between you and holds your face in his large hands. He stares until he can no longer handle seeing the tears well up in your eyes. And so he hugs you, and this time, you hug him back and allow yourself to surrender in his arms.
“A year isn’t enough, Henry,” you sob, crying into his chest. “I just got to know you.”
He smiles, rests his head over your shoulder. “You know me more than anyone ever will.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The next morning after Henry leaves, you find a strung-up bundle of scrolls and sketch paper outside your door.
You bring it to the consolation of your room. As you begin to undo the string, a notecard falls to the ground. You squint to try and decipher the message, for Henry’s penmanship was never one of his strong suits.
Sometimes I don’t have to close my eyes to dream. Sometimes they’re right in front of me. And I paint them — her — too.
Your tear-stained cheeks are soon washed away by fresh ones as you uncover the mementos one by one and see your own candid expressions staring back at you.
You’re frozen in time, page by page, painting by painting. There’s sketches of you centered by intangible sceneries. Others are of more intimate things.
There’s little comments with Henry’s thought processes scrawled all over, and you read them in his voice. Some pages even have the rounded remains of teardrops, evident by the wrinkled surface.
You choke out a laugh when you see that he’s stolen the way you write your arrows — a single loop in the middle. The doodle points to his favorite details, noted by a terse ‘I like’. You guess that he got tired of labeling everything because at some point through the sketchbook, he’d circled the whole image of you and wrote ‘I just like her’.
On the back of one of them, a painted portrait that displays various depictions of you as a mermaid, he’s written Forgive me.
It’s crossed out with panicked scratches of a dull pencil. You can tell that they’re fresh.
Under it reads:
Don’t
^ Forget me
You think of his offer to come with him.
You think of how you didn’t say no.
You think again of the note.
Sometimes I don’t have to close my eyes to dream. Sometimes they’re right in front of me.
And you just know. You know. And it’d be foolish not to try.
You carefully stuff his art into a duffle, as well as your clothes, shoes, and whatever money you have shoved in the depths of your dresser.
And you run with your laces untied and your dire refusal to be too late, your refusal to walk back home with a grief that you know you won’t be able to subdue. You run until your lungs burn, you run until you see that Henry hasn’t left at all.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
Henry drums his knuckles along the edges of his steering wheel, eyes focused on the empty expanse ahead. The windows are rolled down completely to allow the thrashing freedom of a tempest to flesh out the inside of his car.
“Did you open it yet?” you ask.
He smiles and shakes his head. “It’s in the glove box.”
You fish out the envelope and prance your fingers over where you licked it closed.
He looks over at it. “What’s in it?”
“They’re just stuff that I’ve written about you. In chronological order, of course.”
He hums curiously. “We have a long way to go. Why don’t you read them for me, baby?”
And as you do, he hates that he can still hear the subtle hissing of the devil on his shoulder. But he focuses on the sound of the angel beside him instead. He focuses on how he can breathe better, focuses on his hand intertwined with yours.
So Henry Letham lets them battle it out, because in the end, he knows that you always win.
Hiiii idk if you write for him but would you ever able to write some Henry letham fluff???? Like maybe Henry and reader go on a date or something like that. I'm DESPERATE 😭😭
ouuugh don't get me started... i haven't watched stay in a fat minute so please excuse me if he's ooc... but i CAN do!! thank you for the ask!!
vv
henry takes you on a date <3
" x reader, including henry letham : stay (2005.) ★ " -> no smut, only sweet fluff as prompted <33!
tw: mention of burn marks
henry had never been on many dates. not before being with you; you've been together for a few weeks now, a month almost. you adore henry, love him with your whole heart—and henry? he's growing slowly infatuated with you in return. tonight, you had politely asked him if he'd want to go on a date with you. it definitely took him off guard. his dim eyes stared deeply at you for a long moment, processing the question for a while, before his lips curl slightly, “a date?” he'd repeat lowly. you've started to see him smile more often with you. not a lot, but enough to be considered improvement for sure.
you give a little nod, a small smile showing on your own face in return. “yuh-huh.” you confirm verbally. he lets out a very brief huff, almost a little laugh under his breath, before getting up from the bed and crossing his arms. “alright. sure.” he said with a little shrug. deep down, he's honoured you want to go on a date with him. he thinks you're too good for him sometimes. you're an angel, and he's just a sad art student with burn marks on his arms. you still love him anyway, and it makes his heart both ache and warm in a bittersweet mix of emotion.
“where do you wanna go?” he asked, blinking down at you. you think for a moment, before tilting your head sweetly. “maybe the café?” you offered. though, really, you'd be happy to go anywhere, if it meant being with him. he thinks, processing yet again. he does that a lot around you; as if thinking of the perfect thing to say. you chime up again, wanting to offer more, “or maybe... the diner?” this time, it took him less processing. he gave a nod, a bit more eager for that option. “yeah. that works.” he affirms, before looking down at your body, your clothes. “put on something nice, 'kay?”
☆
it didn't take you long to change; it was a simple, cozy, but quite pretty outfit, that you feel nice in, and are happy to head out for a date in. henry threw on his usual dark clothes, nothing fancy. you both headed out, and after what wasn't long, you both found yourself at that little, cute diner you both adored. you took a seat on a stool by the windows, him following right after. he always makes sure to follow right behind you.
the diner plays the usual pop tunes you'd hear on the radio; loud, cheesy, but also annoyingly catchy. your eyes skim the menu on the table, quietly noting down what you'd like to order before the waiter arrives to serve. henry isn't looking at the menu himself, though. he's looking at you. he adores you, really. while he's not great at showing it, he surely wants to. everything about you—your pretty eyes, the way your eyebrows furrow in concentration, or how your fingers open and shut pages of the menu in a sort of delicate manner, alike an angel...
he really is smitten.
his gaze breaks when he realizes you had asked him something, your voice only just echoing back to him. he swallows thickly and puts on a smile; only because you adore it. “sorry, what?” he asked you. you give a brief little laugh—the one he loves—asking what he wanted to get. you noticed his cheeks turning a brief pink colour, his smile growing a little more genuine now that you're looking to him and giving him attention. “ah... i'll probably just get a coffee.” he says simply. “you?”
you laugh. of course he's gonna get a coffee. black, most likely. you expected nothing less, you're used to all his mannerisms by now. before you could actually open your mouth and answer, he smiles a bit more, looking out the window, “chocolate milkshake 'n fries, right?” he said.
and yeah, that was your order. he knows you too well. he's too observant. your cheeks glow a soft rosy, and you snort; “you know me too well.” you'd state. he'd just exhale quickly as a laugh in return, staring at the world outside. “good.” he simply says, his eyes then darting to the hand resting on the menu, fixated on your pretty fingers. you notice. you always notice. so, you decide to lace your fingers in between his.
his hand is cold and lanky, yours warm and soft. you don't have to think about the contact. he, on the other hand, flushed red immediately. he clears his throat a bit too intentionally, eyes darting away extremely quickly. he says nothing, but you know he's enjoying it. enjoying your lovely, warm touch. it makes both of your hearts fuzz in sync, in a lovely, sweet fashion that makes blood rush to both of your faces. it's... loving. and god, does he love it when you're loving.
neither of you say much for a while. you order and get your drinks—you, with your chocolate milkshake and fries, of course, and him with his black coffee. you have a little sip from the straw happily, still holding onto his hand as you let the sweet taste of the drink settle on your tongue. he watches in quiet awe, as he always seems to do. how your pretty lips wrap around that straw. you notice, but this time, you assume he wants your drink. not your lips.
with a small smile, you offer him the straw, and he almost laughed. it's nice how giving and kind you are. it makes him want to give more to you in return. instead of denying you, he opens his mouth and sucks the straw, where your own lips had just been. an indirect kiss. it's a childish thing to note, but you do anyway.
he breaks away from your drink, smacking his lips together only slightly. then he playfully wrinkles his nose, “so sweet...” he mutters, feigning disgust. you giggle, and 'wipe' milkshake away from his lip with your thumb. not that there was really much there, you just wanted an excuse to touch him. “well, it's much better than your bitter coffee.” you jest right back. he smiles.
now his eyes were just glued to your lips. your smile. your thumb touching his mouth just ignited that want to kiss you, his heart thumping. “mm, i guess you're just too sweet for me.” he says quietly under his breath. an awful flirt, but he's flirting nonetheless. you eventually take the hint. he wants a kiss. and a kiss he will get.
reluctantly, you lean forward, and place a soft, loving kiss to his mouth. it was warm and full of delicate affection, bringing a sparkly tingle to his chest and a weird, floppy feeling in his stomach. this was so sappy, he knew that. yet, his lips still pressed against yours, ever so slightly tasting the sweetness of your beverage in the kiss. his palm moves up to your cheek, and after a few seconds, you pull away.
he's blushing. so are you. and you're both smiling like lovestruck fools. you being more obvious, and him trying to force it down. you then laugh lightly. that kiss made you feel so warm and giggly. “you're so stupid.” you muse, lovingly despite the words said. he just stares, his dim eyes having a brightness you haven't seen before. “i love you too.” he whispers in jest, but meaning it entirely.
original idea: putting the rygos characters into medieval fantasy roles
summary: you were invited to stay at the royal palace with the other influential people. there's a strange man who you end up having a quiet relationship with throughout. he also happens to be gifted with abilities of foresight.
rating: mature (suggestive), mdni 18+
word count: 2.2k
content: purely fluff, medieval fantasy au, nobility!henry x nobility!reader, no use of y/n, some misogyny towards reader, suggestive, inaccurate rep of medieval times, henry is codependent(?), henry is prophetic, mentions of death/prediction of death, protective/caring henry, some world-building, henry has extended family, not proofread
a/n: i haven't been up to writing bc ive been busy but i have favorites. can you tell? i love sweet prophetic henry letham
It’s been a month since you came into the royal court for the festivities. A month of agonizing never-ending socializing and fake-pleasantries, it’s grueling. It’s a yearly convention to gather the kingdom’s most influential minds. The only reason you are here is because of your ports, it’s helped flourish the kingdom’s economy, but it also means everyone wants access to your successful trading company.
It’s exhausting having old men argue with you all day about numbers. The majority of the men choose to believe you don’t even know math, but they have no other choice, they have to bite their tongues and suck up to you.
When you wanted to get away from it all, you left the comforts of the castle and took a midnight stroll into the large palace gardens.
That’s when you met your future lover, Henry.
Painting under the moonlight in light clothes despite the frigid temperatures. If you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t know who he was. He was always hiding in the shadows, he never said more than a few words, and he made sure not to attract attention to himself by always making calculated and slow movements.
He’s odd, not like the other young men who are competitively seeking for the attention of young women in the court. A merchant’s son with a dark past. His family died a while ago which left him in the care of his extended family, who are as greedy as every nobleman doing favors for you to get in your graces. But even with the facts laid out, he still remains odd, the black sheep of his family and society.
You didn’t think anything of Henry until you both started spending more time together at night in the gardens. You would watch him paint and he would enjoy your company. That was mostly the extent of your relationship.
His paintings were a lot more different than the ones he’s been commissioned for. It’s raw and full of emotion. Unexpected for how Henry displays himself. His usual work is mostly biblical or portraits, but the ones you watch him paint every night are like distant memories.
Your relationship is odd. If this was a tactic to court you, then it was working, and if not, then it was pleasant either way. He rarely spoke sentences, most of his responses were quiet hums of approval or of disapproval, but you didn’t mind.
But he has an odd way of knowing what you were thinking or… Predicting it.
There are people gifted with abilities and people with such abilities end up going to the head church to use their powers for the betterment of society, but it’s rare.
You thought Henry was one of those people, gifted with the ability of mind-reading, but you didn’t report him to the court for having such abilities. You kept quiet and continued your little ritual with Henry at night.
Your conversations were mostly in your head, but it felt like it was happening out loud with how he responds.
If you think in your head that you are cold, he would throw the wool blanket over your lap. If you think that there’s a detail he should add onto the painting, he’s quick to add it. If there’s something gnawing at you about your day, Henry will turn his attention to you suddenly with an anticipating look.
It wasn’t until the day you were saved that you got confirmation of Henry’s abilities. He pulled you into his own carriage instead of the one you were assigned to and you watched that same carriage fall down a cliff. It wasn’t that Henry was a mind-reader, he’s prophetic.
He knew everything that was going to happen, what you could possibly say in every moment, what events could befall, and more. And instead of reporting about his abilities, you stayed quiet.
Henry knew he could trust you from the beginning, he was only waiting for it to play out.
And since that very day, Henry has been glued to you.
Your lover, Henry, an artist with prophetic sight. It was a bit taboo how you two are going about your relationship. You, a noblewoman, and him with his gift, should be at the royal church. Instead you both canoodle around the royal palace without a proper establishment of your relationship to the court, as if his family would let him. They would rather see you with their legitimate sons than their extended family.
… … …
You’re sitting on the chair next to Henry while he paints. The blues on the canvas were deep under the moonlight. There’s a layer of fog over the frosty grass and your breath is visible in these conditions.
You’re both wearing thick clothes, knowing that winter is around the corner, it’d be foolish to come out here in sleeping clothes, but even with the wool blanket over you, it’s freezing. Your body warmth is dissipating by the moment. The easier choice would be to go inside in the comfort of your room, but these are the rare moments that you can spend only with Henry.
Henry seems to hear the conflict in your head. He slips the brush on the shelf of the easel and gives his attention to you.
You slowly glance up at him with confusion.
”You’re cold.” He states it without you even saying it.
You go tight-lip.
Henry sighs, “You’re cold?” This time he asks you instead of stating the fact.
You frown, “I’m cold, but I know you’re not done and I don’t want to go anywhere.”
”Come here.” He loosens his coat open and pats his thigh.
You quickly get up from your cushioned seat for his lap and he swiftly covers you into the warmth of his coat, holding it down against your body by wrapping an arm around you.
He presses his face to the crook of your neck as he leans forward to pick the brush back up to continue painting.
You shift in his lap to take in the warmth his body is providing. Your face is still exposed to the frigid temperatures, but you feel flustered to the fact that you’re flush against his body.
If anyone catches you two like this, it would be the next gossip of the court.
”No one is going to catch us.” He whispers softly into your neck, his breath tickling your skin.
You furrow your brows, “I didn’t even say anything.”
”You were going to. Every version of you was going to say it.” He gently kisses your neck.
You lean your head against his, “You never told me how it works. Tell me. Do you only see one path?” You ask softly.
He pauses the movement of his hand on the canvas to think for a moment, then he continues again, “It’s too confusing.”
You turn your head and press a kiss onto his temple. ”I still want to hear.”
He keeps his eyes forward and he pouts.
You kiss him on top of his ear, “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it.”
He looks at you in the corner of his eyes, “I can hear voices.”
Your eyes widen, ”Oh?”
”I don’t really see the future. I hear it. There isn’t one path like people like to believe. The voices are people in every individual moment. If there’s a significant conversation, they all repeat it. That’s how I know, I only address it before you can say it.”
”Does my voice get annoying?” You ask, not bitterly, but with genuine curiosity.
He smiles softly. “No.”
”What’s that smile for?” You tease.
”You still make conflicting decisions, but you mostly harmonize. Like you are sure of everything.”
”So… You heard my voice harmonize because I was going to tell you I’m cold?”
He responds with a soft hum of approval. “You sound pretty.” He says effortlessly.
You fight the smile growing on your face and quickly shy away. His arm tightens around you and he places a soft kiss at the nape of your neck.
.. … …
It’s been another grueling day and it’s barely afternoon. You’ve been in the council room all day with all the other influential men and women. It’s mostly people arguing and speaking over each other unless it's the king speaking.
As much as you want Henry at this moment, you have other matters to attend to. One of those matters is resting before heading to another meeting.
You’re about to step into the turret stairwell when you’re pulled forward from the view of the entrance. You yelp in surprise, only to be met with Henry. His eyes half-lidded and pupils blown.
”Jesus— Henry?” Your hands fall to his chest.
Henry pushes you against the curved wall, hungrily kissing you over your collarbone and neck.
”Henry—“ He gently bites your neck and you unintentionally let out a moan. “Henry- It’s broad daylight.” You shudder at the feeling of his hands roaming the small of your back.
”I don’t care.” He groans into your skin. He tugs your collar down roughly to expose your skin more for him to place hot open-mouthed kisses.
You push your palms against his chest firmly, ”Henry… What’s this about?” You manage to breathe out.
He freezes then solemnly lowers his head to your neck. Your hand moves up to his hair and you brush your fingers through.
You’ve known him long enough to know when something is up. He’s not one to take risks around the palace unless he needs distraction from his mind.
“You’re leaving today.” He states quietly.
Your eyebrows crease, “Henry, I’m not supposed to leave for another month.”
His arms tighten around your waist and he dips his head further into your neck like he’s trying to melt into you.
”You’re going to receive an order today to return.” He mutters.
”Did you just hear it?” You hold his head tighter against you.
He shuts his eyes close to focus, “I can hear them talking tonight. A messenger is going to arrive at the council.”
You wipe your face with your other hand, “That’s bad news.” You sigh.
“Don’t go to the port.” He mutters in caution.
Your other hand wraps around his neck, ”I can’t not go to the port, Henry. I live there.”
He shakes his head, “When you return, stay home, don’t go to the port. When you’re called to the port, don’t go. Send someone else, stay put.”
“You’re worrying me, Henry.” You say quietly.
He pulls away from the embrace and holds your wrists, “Do you love me?” He asks almost defeatedly, his voice cracking at the last words.
Your eyebrows deepen and you stare at him in concern. You’re quiet for a moment before speaking, “Henry, you know my answer already.”
His face shifts into worry, ”I want to hear you say it, not as a voice in my head, but the real you.”
”I love you, Henry. I love you.” Relief washes over him when you say the words.
He tightens his grip around your wrist to emphasize his words, ”Then when you return, don’t go to the port.”
“Okay.” You sigh. “I won’t go to the port, but you can tell that yourself when we are at that moment.” You say simply.
His head jerks back in surprise, “What?”
You take his hands into your own. ”Come with me. You will like the view of the ocean.”
He seems genuinely surprised. For a man who knows the future, you weren’t expecting such a reaction.
He blinks a few times, ”You want me to come with you?”
”Did you not hear that with the voices?” You jest.
”It’s a small voice. I didn’t think you would say it.” He mumbles.
“Then will you? Come with me? Even if it upsets your family?” You intertwine your fingers with his and you kiss his fingers softly.
”Happily.” He grins before leaning in to kiss you.
You lean into his lips. It’s tender and full of love, a kiss you would never expect from a man that hides in the shadows. In this stairwell, he’s lit up from the sunlight and flushed from emotions. You bring out a different side to him, the soft and kind hearted version of him shines only with you.
You both pull away hurriedly when you hear someone step into the corridor. He hides his hands behind his back while you press your back to the wall to hide. The person passes and turns into the corner.
”You didn’t predict that one?” You tease.
”I didn’t care.” He grins slyly.
You hum approvingly.
“Prepare your things and say your farewells. I’ll have someone prepare my luggage while I attend the next meeting.” You say before stepping down a step.
”Before you go…” He reaches out for your arm and you snap your head to him. He presses a passionate kiss onto your lips before letting you go.
”I expect more of that later.” You smile widely which he returns with his own smile.
”I’ll gladly give it to you until you get sick of it.”
You raise your eyebrow. ”You know I won’t.”
”I know.” He states.
And he truly knows. Now that he can see where your life is headed with him, he can see himself kissing you openly unashamed around your home. He can see the night walks that you’ll take with him around the beach. He can see himself painting you in your shared bedroom with the windows open to let the moonlight shine and salty ocean air breeze in. He doesn’t have to worry while he’s with you.
I love the way u write Henry I fear we need more😓😓
OH MY GOSH tysm anon!! Sorry to be so chalant and wtv but like im so thrilled at how many people have been reading my fics this is genuinely a dream come true LMAO. Im actually working on some nsfw headcanons for him rn and am playing around w the idea of an ethel cain inspired au heh but am just waiting for the right “moment” to get me going. but yeah if u or anyone else wants to send me ideas id LOVE it so pls feel free!! Hes such a beautiful character and i get so much joy from writing abt him :,)
warnings・❥・typical henry letham feelings, overall fluffy, henry is soo sappy, protective henry, needy (maybe a little codependent?) henry, petnames, descriptions of vomiting/being sick/henry taking care of u, henry just loves u, no use of y/n
wc: 1.7k
a/n ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ everything in this is lowk just based off him saying "that's my girl" but yeah idk i've had a bunch of free time and he's been on my mind nonstop (positive). also sorry if this kinda corny, i just wanted to write abt him being happy LOL. thx for reading and all the support on my previous fics!! any feedback is welcome :3 (fr this time, i figured out how to turn on comments)
Beneath the wounding pits of bitter and vengeful loathing, Henry knows that he’s gentle. He might go as far as to think that he’s made up of the softness almost entirely. There’s years and years of it accumulating unused, unwilling to be spent on giving himself grace. He refuses to let it go poisoned. It’s concreted in his sanity that there’s no other way to go about it other than to wait for someone worthwhile.
And by God does the while prove worth it when you come along, stumbling into his sight.
You’re a sweet thing, like the dew at dawn or a kiss on the cheek. You give him your grace, you introduce him to what gentleness feels like when received, just as his own eagerly reaches out to graze you. You trace patterns on his skin and caress his face and tell him that he’s beautiful without crossing your fingers behind your back.
It’s not long before his mind quiets down. The voices become muffled, outshined by yours. He hears your laughter, your reassurances, your whines against his lips.
In return, he gives you everything he has. He’s guilty and sometimes ashamed that he doesn’t have much more to offer other than his love or his mind or his soul or his body. He’s even more guilty when he thinks like this. Henry loves you despite, no matter, regardless. And though he knows that he is gentle, it’s in his wildest dreams that he’ll believe that his love amounts to anything at all.
“I wonder what’d it’d feel like to be rich,” you asked him one night as you both laid on the floor, staring up at the ceiling of your shared bedroom.
Henry hummed, swallowed thickly. “I could tell you some.”
You scoffed, amused. “Really?”
“I could tell you all about it,” he said easily. “I have everything.”
You turned on your side to look at him, interest piqued.
“I’m lying with her right now,” he whispered. His eyes refused to meet yours. “She makes me the richest man in the world, the luckiest boy to ever live.”
And, maybe because you were drunk or maybe because his voice was so solemn, you made the wounded noise of a sob.
Like no time passed at all, he rolled onto his chest and settled against you. He smiled and caught your hands before you could shield your weeping. He found the vulnerable expression to be extra pretty. Henry kissed over your knuckles, kissed over your tears as though to try and swallow the excretion of your pain so he could feel it with you.
“Don’t say things like that,” you gasped. “You can’t just say things like that.”
He brought an arm across your stomach and rested his head there, hands coming up to caress the delicate hollow underneath your eyes. “Why not, baby? It’s true, you know. Money is just paper. You’re you.”
And like one would naturally guard their valuables, Henry does the same towards you. He’s come to accept that he can’t be completely normal about anything, that sometimes, his sanctities are pure contradiction. As you’d put it, he’s “recklessly caring”.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, holding your hand tightly as you took your usual nightly stroll around Manhattan.
You sighed, pulling him to you. “I mean, look, even now you’re basically hugging the curb.”
He gestured fervently at the asphalt like the answer was clearly written on the surface, though to Henry, it was. “Well, the sidewalk is narrow. I’d rather some asshole swerve and hit me instead of you.”
You pulled him impossibly closer to you, away from the possible dangers of vehicular manslaughter. You sneaked your arm around his middle so that your waists were flushed together. “I’d rather that you not chance that. Besides, it’s more romantic like this.”
“How so?”
“Like, getting hit together.”
“That’s horrible, baby. Why do you think I do what I do?”
You ignored him with a kiss to his shoulder. “There’s nothing more ardent. We’d bear the suffering together.”
He shook his head, but didn’t inch away from your grasp. “Suffering isn’t something that you’re supposed to go through. Especially not if I can help it.”
“You leaving me here alone would be the greatest suffering. I know that you’d do anything for me, Henry. So all I’m asking you to do is to have regard for yourself too.”
He made a thoughtful sigh and reached over to tug the open flap of your jacket closed. “Okay. I can do that.”
It’s not entirely a lie. He can and will comply, gladly so, even when every urge in his body angrily fights against the withdrawal from his sacrificial protection. After some thought, the compliance soon becomes agreement.
It really would be the greatest suffering, he thinks. If he’s not there, who would take care of you? Well, it’s not really a hypothetical because he knows that there will be somebody else. People are so drawn to you, to every capacity of the cliche, like magnets. How could there not be somebody else?
But, it wouldn’t be Henry if he didn’t find a way to take his recklessness somewhere else. It’s a mellowed version, supple and honeyed. It’s something that you’ll accept because you know that it’d be cruel to reject it.
Morning sunlight harasses Henry as he groans awake. Though groggy and half-conscious, he reaches over to your side of the bed and feels around. His fingers search frantically, but feel nothing save for the cold, empty sheets.
It was unusual for you to leave unannounced. On days that you had class early, you’d never slip out the door before waking him up to say goodbye. That was his one ask of you, no matter how deep of a sleep he was in, no matter if you’d fought the night before. The promise went unbetrayed until today.
In a panic, he calls out to you. It’s only when he staggers into your small, shared bathroom does he find you. You’re hunched over the toilet, hair a frizzy mess behind you. Your eyes are closed and scrunched in concentration and his presence goes unnoticed. He drops to his knees next to you, frowning at the unmistaken sight of dulled, feverish skin.
“What’s the matter?” he says lightly, cupping your face.
Despite your stupor, you lean into his touch, a touch that seems perpetually cooled. You mumble incoherently, face twisted in discomfort. “I’m bugged,” you manage. “Nauseous.”
“Okay,” he huffs, nodding. “Okay. That’s okay. You just do what you need to do and I’ll be here, yeah?”
You nod.
There seems to be an instant sense of serenity the very second he strokes your hair, the motion continuing down the valley of your back and stopping to rub circles at the most prominent curve of your spine.
For a moment, Henry thinks that he’s cured you. It’s a sick notion, selfish and naive, though he can’t help but indulge in its wonder. That even the seldom good thoughts he has about himself are all just good things that he could do for you. Where his self-worth is reliant on nothing more than whether or not he can make you happy.
As you wait for another wave of nausea to come, you whisper apologies about how you’re sorry that he has to see you like this, how it’s gross, how he doesn’t have to. Then you brush it off and tell him that your words are just drama.
A frown spreads over his face, hurt and confused. “None of that stuff means anything. I like you all the time,” he tells you. “Even like this, you’re like the eighth wonder of the world.”
You smile and shake your head, though you can’t hide the snort of your laughter.
He quirks a sheepish brow, glad to see you ease up. “I’m not trying to be funny, baby.”
You laugh even harder, despite your lethargy. “You’re such a dork.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s nice,” you sigh. “You’re nice.”
Henry watches you, sorely observant. Your eyes widen, seemingly cleared from their muddled cloudiness. He thinks that he might have to be dork more often, but that’s quickly disproven when you put your head over the opening of the toilet with dread.
“Henry,” you plead, breathing heavily as spit begins to fill your mouth, “don’t look.”
He turns his head away as you begin to gag, frowning at the sound of your heaving. He finds himself wincing with you, muttering his own strained apologies under his breath as though he were at blame for this.
“I know, I know, I know, baby,” he coos, “That’s good, it’s good to get it out. All that bad stuff, honey, there you go.”
Your knuckles go white as you grip desperately at the porcelain. His are blanched just the same as he holds your hair steady at the nape of your neck. “My poor girl. Sweet, sweet girl.”
And when it’s over, he helps you wash up. He enjoys how domestic it feels to bring a glass of water to your mouth, to pat a wet towel over your forehead and under your bloodshot eyes, to pick up your tired body in the cradle of his long arms to lay you back in bed. He lays with you, though it’s much to your defiance.
“I’ll get you bugged, too, Henry,” you grumble, though your resistance is a mere facade as you allow him to nestle between your legs, the warmth of his weight draped over you.
Henry finds comfort in the rise and fall of your chest growing slower against his. And before you can change your mind and really push him off for good, he sinks his head into the crook of your neck and kisses the soft skin behind your ear.
You accept it graciously, smiling at the shivers that remain in his wake. “None on the lips,” you warn. “Your Victorian immune system would be wrecked.”
He hums an amused acknowledgement and bites on his own instead, just because he’s greedy.
“It’d be fine with me,” he mutters. “We’d bear the suffering together.”
titsay
snowghoul
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stormborns
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