I just wanted to let you guys know that my inbox is open for something very special.
send me your most unhinged thoughts about any kit harington character.
no judgement. no shame. this is a safe place for questionable taste and bad decisions.
anon is on. NSFW content is totally allowed.
I will be reacting to them because I know some of you are just as far gone as I am😭.
And lets not be personal. We Love and respect Kit Harington more than anything. It's just we're getting a little freaky over his fictional characters 🥹🙈.
There was a knock at your door and when you go and open it, you were met with the sight of your comfort character, face tear stained and their eyes blood shot. He gives you a weak smile before falling apart in your arms.
You're on the bed, cuddling with you your comfort character, a comfortable atmosphere surrounding you two. "I wish you were real" you whisper to them and they look at you with a confused smile before saying "I wish you were real" You chuckle, brushing it off as a joke but you notice the sad look in their eyes. "What do you mean? I'm real. You're fake" That makes them look at you with furrowed eyebrows. "No, you're fake, I'm real" And after a while of this chaos, you're both left wondering if any of you were real
You're sleeping peacefully in bed but get woken up by the feeling of two arms wrapping around you. Your eyes snap open and they meet another pair of eyes. You try screaming but you couldn't seem to find your voice. Something about the person seems familiar. "I finally made it" they whisper in disbelieve, and that's when you realize it's your comfort character (they shifted to you. And even tho this is not how shifting works, just remember the keyword being 'imagine')
You come back home after a hard day at school and you're met with the sight of Voldy sitting on an arm chair, knitting. "Hello, Grandma" you say as you let your bag drop to the floor. "How's your day been?" he asks, giving you a look which you assumed was just him trying to smile genuinely. You smile in amusement. Ever since he had adopted you as his grandchild, he been feeling these 'feelings of vulnerability'. You explained to him what those feelings were and that he was just using his heart. He disapproved of those 'weak' feelings at first, but he couldn't hide them forever. I'm too lazy to finish this. You have a happy life living with your adoptive grandma. The End.
Okay 🥺🥺I thought of a different person for each imagine I was like😭😭😭😭 this is so cute I love it!!!
I can't believe my comfort character traveled through dimensions to be with me😫 is 7:30 in the morning and I'm fucking SOFT!
Angst au. Imagine being a Vampire's lover, he/she refuses to turn you. So instead whenever you die. He/She looks for your reincarnation each time. Each time your different sometimes ale then female. Sometimes a witch or a ill human
OOF. Right in the feels. But there’s something about your mortality and the brevity of your life that makes things so much sweeter, you know? Like, they’ve seen what an actual eternity can do to people.
And sometimes it’s years, or centuries between when you die and they find you again. Sometimes they find you and you’ve got a whole happy life built, and they just sit back and watch you live. And it’s hard for them, but they know that you’ll come back to them next time around, so they let you have it.
The best time was the time they found you right at the cusp of adulthood and your spirit recognized something in them, and you pursued them. They only got that once, but they loved every moment of it. They keep hoping that’ll happen again.
One day, maybe. They have an eternity to experience this. And you? You get as many lifetimes as you get in an eternity.
It had all started with the soft strums of his Oud. The woman before him was captivated and they soon lead to Sigurd's hut, soft moans filled the air as their hands travel over each other before Sigurd laid her on his bed, worshipping her thick body like the goddess she was. Not long after her pleading filled the air while he rocked his hips into her hot core, her nails gently brushing over his back in pleasure.
Oh finally an anon ask about my beloved Sir Vulnerable Muck.. well.. Sir Henry loves to Creampie... I honestly don't think he has ever used condoms in his entire life.. he loves it raw and vulnerable.. Sex is basically a psychological gateway for Henry... I deeply feel like he uses ejaculation as a form of emotional release too.. so ofcourse he'd cum inside you.. and he definitely loves it when you give him oral pleasure.. he'd love to see you starstruck on your knees when you take his cock in your mouth.. he'd groan loudly when you'd suck his perfect cock and then he'd cum in your mouth or probably all over your face if you let him jerk it off in that way. He'd pull you up from the floor and then return the favour by latching his mouth on your nipples.. and Henry would dirty talk a lot if he's drunk.. like “these tits are the only means to keep me alive when my life and my public image both are falling apart ”. But it shouldn't only be about sexual desires but unconditional love because that's what he has been craving for all these years.. maybe one day you'd run to his arms and tell him that you're carrying his child.. Henry would love nothing more than being a Dad.. so that he can prove he's not his father... He'd like “I'm going to be a dad?” and that would probably be the happiest moment in his life🥹🫶🏻!
i finished got like a month ago and i physically can’t stop thinking about kit like it’s embarrassing
Ahhh the big brown eyed curly haired pretty crow has captured your heart.. and it's not embarassing at all instead you should be proud.. I mean how can we not fall for this sweet face of him? Kit made Jon Snow completely irreplaceable in our hearts.. so keep imagining and keep thirsting for our beautiful King 👑.. we're on the same page..🫂
Thinking about a fanfic plot where Henry Muck is an actor playing Jon Snow (season 7-8) and he knows you secretly like when he’s dressed up in the costume, so one night he brings Jon home to you
Title: The Baronet in Black fur
Pairing: Sir Henry Muck x Female Reader (you)
Genre: AU Domestic Romance, Fluff, Light Smut, Cosplay, Found Family
Fandom: Industry / Game Of Thrones
Rating: Mature / Explicit (18+)
Warnings: Established marriage with young children, consensual Jon Snow cosplay/roleplay (seasons 7-8 accurate), tender power play, Henry’s canonical mental health struggles & self-deprecation, swearing, soft domestic fluff turning steamy, explicit sexual content, brief mentions of past trauma/addiction. No dark themes.
Summary: For your third wedding anniversary, Sir Henry Muck surprises his soft, caring homemaking wife by coming home fully dressed as Jon Snow in custom seasons 7-8 leather, cloak, and Longclaw. With the kids away for the night, Henry blends his aristocratic wit and charm with the brooding northern honour you adore, giving you a deeply loving, playful, and intimate evening where your husband and the King in the North both worship the queen of your cozy home.
The house smelled of roasted cheeze, garlic, and the faint sweetness of Heather’s baby lotion that still lingered from her afternoon nap. You’d spent the day in that gentle rhythm you’d perfected over the last few years—chasing three-year-old Henry Junior around the garden while he waved a wooden sword and declared himself “Lord of the Wolves,” then rocking one-year-old Heather through her teething fuss until she finally dozed off against your shoulder. Your hands were still a little flour-dusted from the simple anniversary cake you’d baked earlier, the one with the tiny direwolf piped in icing that made you smile every time you glanced at it.
Henry had texted that he’d be late. “Boardroom bollocks, darling. Don’t wait up. Or do. Your choice.” Typical Henry—equal parts evasion and affection. You knew the weight he carried. The divorce from Yasmin had been messy, public in all the worst ways, and when he’d found you—soft where his world was sharp, steady where he spun—he’d moved fast. You’d been seven months pregnant with Junior when he proposed in the middle of the night, half-drunk on whiskey and clarity, kneeling in your tiny flat like a man who’d finally seen something worth fighting for. Three years of marriage now. Three years of you loving him through the moods, the late nights, the way he sometimes stared at nothing as if the ghosts of Lumi and board meetings and frozen fictional battlefields still whispered.
You were just wiping down the kitchen island when the front door clicked open.
Not Sir Henry Muck in his usual silk robe or rumpled Tom Ford suit. Jon Snow stood in your hallway, cloak heavy and dark, leather doublet fitted across his chest, Longclaw’s hilt visible over one shoulder. The direwolf pin gleamed under the warm light. His dark hair was tousled exactly right, longer than he usually wore it these days, and those grey-blue eyes locked on you with that signature mix of Jon’s brooding intensity and Henry’s sparkling, self-aware mischief.
You froze, dishcloth in hand, heart doing a ridiculous little flip. “Henry…?”
“Evening, love,” he said, voice low and gravel-edged with that perfect northern inflection he’d honed for the role, but still threaded through with his crisp aristocratic drawl. He stepped inside, boots quiet on the hardwood, cloak swirling dramatically behind him. “The King in the North received word it was a rather important occasion. Couldn’t very well leave his queen to celebrate alone in this… exceedingly warm Winterfell you’ve built us, could I?”
You let out a soft, surprised laugh, covering your mouth as tears pricked your eyes. He always knew. You’d confessed it once, early in your relationship—how Jon Snow’s quiet honour and steady loyalty in those later seasons had been a silly comfort during lonely nights. Henry had filed it away like he did everything about you: carefully, possessively, like a man who’d lost too much and refused to lose more.
He crossed to you in three strides, leather creaking softly, and pulled you into the heavy folds of the cloak. Up close he smelled like home—sandalwood cologne, a trace of whiskey from whatever liquid courage he’d needed for this, and the warm, lived-in scent of leather. His gloved hand cupped your cheek with surprising gentleness.
“Three years, darling,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. The cloak enveloped you both, creating a private little world in your own hallway. “Three years since I dragged you into this mad life of mine. Pregnant with my heir, no less. Christ, I still don’t know what I did to deserve you standing here looking at me like that.”
You reached up, fingers tracing the direwolf pin, then sliding into his hair. “You came home. You keep coming home. That’s what you did.” Your voice was soft, the gentle tone you always used with him—the one that coaxed him out of his darker spirals. “Henry Junior asked about you all day. He’s your carbon copy, he looks just like you, you know those big brown eyes, dark curly hair, the same widow's peak, same dramatic flair, same way of looking at the world like it owes him something but he’ll fight for it anyway. And Heather… she’s been saying ‘Dada’ more clearly. She missed you.”
Henry’s eyes softened, the Jon facade cracking just enough for the real man to show through. “The little wolves are with your parents until tomorrow afternoon,” he said, echoing the plan he’d clearly orchestrated with military precision. “I may have bribed them with promises of future baronetcies or whatever it is grandparents want these days.” He smirked, pure Henry Muck. “Figured we deserved one night where the only howling comes from… well. Not the children.”
You laughed again, pressing your face into his chest, feeling the leather warm from his body. “This is insane. You had this made? For me?”
“Custom fitted, of course,” he replied, voice dropping into that theatrical register he used when he was both performing and utterly sincere. “Couldn’t exactly steal one from the old set without triggering another tabloid frenzy about my ‘unresolved trauma’ or some such nonsense. The production owed me after those final seasons anyway. Thought I’d bring the King in the North home to the woman who actually makes me feel like one.” He tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours. “You still fancy him, then? The brooding pretty bastard with the sword and the weight of the realm on his shoulders? Or has three years of actual marriage to this posh disaster cured you of that particular fancy?”
“Both,” you whispered, rising on your toes to kiss him. “I love my husband. And I love when he surprises me like this.”
“Ah this wig did a hell of a good job.. well my hair is just as dark and curly like your Jon Snow.. I probably didn't needed one” he chuckled.. “well I just wanted to keep it authentic.. well I've been having a mad thought to grow my hair longer for you.. but fuck.. that requires too much maintenance for my patience.”
You kissed him... “no you're gorgeous the way you are babe. Your hair is perfect.”
He kissed you back slowly at first—reverent, almost honorable in that Jon way—then deeper, hungrier, the baronet’s need breaking through. The cloak shifted around you as he lifted you onto the kitchen island with ease, Longclaw clinking against the edge. His gloved hands slid under your soft knit jumper, calloused thumbs stroking the skin of your waist like he was mapping territory he already knew by heart but never tired of claiming.
“God, you feel like home,” he breathed against your lips, breaking character just enough. “After everything—after Yasmin, after the firm, after all the fucking nights I thought I’d ruin this too—but you’re still here. Soft and gentle and looking at me like I hung the bloody moon instead of nearly burning down half my life.”
You cupped his bearded face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Because you’re trying, Henry. Every day. You read to Junior even when you’re exhausted. You rock Heather when she wakes up screaming. You chose us.” Your voice stayed loving, steady—the anchor he needed. “Now let me celebrate my husband properly. King in the North or not.”
He chuckled, low and fond, the sound vibrating through the leather. “As my queen commands.” Then, slipping back into the role with effortless grace: “I’ve sworn oaths before, love. But for you… I’d break every one of them. You’ve been loyal through every winter I’ve faced. Let me warm you the way you deserve.”
Dinner was forgotten on the counter. He carried you upstairs to your bedroom—the one you’d filled with soft blankets, family photos, and the faint scent of lavender from the diffuser you kept running for his restless nights. The cloak draped over the bed like a makeshift canopy as he laid you down, peeling off his gloves piece by piece with deliberate care.
The roleplay unfolded tenderly, never crossing into anything but playful devotion. He kept the doublet on for a while, the leather cool against your heated skin as he kissed down your neck, murmuring lines that blended Jon’s honour with Henry’s filthy eloquence. “You know nothing, my lady… but I’ll teach you how a king worships his queen.” His hands were everywhere—reverent on the stretch marks from carrying his children, appreciative of the softness you’d never tried to hide from him.
You laughed when the sword belt got tangled, tugging at the laces of his doublet. “Careful, Your Grace. Wouldn’t want to damage the royal armour.”
“Fuck the armour,” he growled, half Jon, half Henry, voice rough with laughter and want. “I’ve worn worse through actual battles. This is nothing compared to board meetings with people who still think I’m going to implode.” He paused then, forehead against yours, vulnerability slipping through. “Three years, darling. I married you when you were carrying my son because I couldn’t wait another bloody second to make you mine. And every day since, you’ve made me better. Gentler. Less of a complete disaster.”
“I love you,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair. “All of you. The baronet. The actor who played Jon. The father who sings off-key lullabies. The man who surprises me with cloaks and Longclaw just because he knows it makes me happy.”
He made love to you then—slow and deep at first, the heavy cloak draped over both of you like a private Winterfell, then faster as desire overtook the tenderness. Leather creaked, your soft gasps mixed with his low groans, the posh accent fracturing into raw need. “My queen… fuck, you feel perfect. Always have.”
Afterward, you lay tangled together, his head on your chest as you stroked his hair. The costume pieces were scattered across the floor, but he’d kept the cloak wrapped around your bare shoulders. Henry Junior’s stuffed direwolf sat on the dresser, watching over the room like a silent guardian. Heather’s baby monitor was quiet for now.
“You know,” he said softly, tracing lazy circles on your hip, “I used to think happiness was some grand merger or another successful exit. Then I met you. A soft little thing who looked at my wreckage and decided it was worth rebuilding.” He lifted his head, eyes warm. “Best decision I never deserved.”
You smiled, pulling him closer. “We built this together. Our little family. Our home.”
He shifted then, rolling you beneath him again with that effortless strength. The kiss started slow—his lips brushing yours with the same reverence he’d shown all night—then deepened, hungry and claiming. One hand tangled in your hair, the other cupped your breasts then went lower gripping your waist as he poured everything into it,: gratitude, love, the lingering heat of the evening, and the promise of many more anniversaries. Jon Snow’s brooding intensity melted completely into Sir Henry Muck’s passionate devotion, mouths moving together like they had all the time in the world and nowhere else they’d rather be.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, then he leaned his head down and kissed the swells of your breasts, breathing ragged, he whispered against your lips, “Happy third anniversary, my love. Jon can visit anytime… but I’m the lucky bastard who gets to keep you every single night.” He took you to the bed after both of you got undressed, his black fur cloak, the costume everything was on the sofa.. then he buried his face on your bare breasts for the rest of the night.
Yes Henry deeply wants to be mothered by someone.. well henry never talked about his own mother so tbh so it explains why he so deeply craves maternal affection.. he loves to be taken care of and pretty treated like a child because his childhood was so traumatic and he probably never got to be close with his mum when he was a child.. so it's sad.. and that's probably the reason behind his kinks...
