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 🥹🙈.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content 18+, recreational drug use (weed), emotional vulnerability, light angst, references to parental suicide, consensual intimacy. Henry Muck x Female Reader (you). Canon-divergent AU where Henry is in his single/post-divorce era, in his sprawling country estate.
Genre: slow burn smut with tender exploration (one shot).
Summary: When a casual weekend invitation to Henry Muck’s sprawling country estate turns into a hazy night of shared weed and deepening conversation, platonic boundaries dissolve into something far more intimate. Tender exploration, raw vulnerability, and the kind of comfort Henry desperately craves—especially when he seeks refuge on your breasts. Slow-burn intimacy with plenty of posh aristocratic rambling, father trauma, philosophical musings, and explicit care.
The invitation had come via a mutual friend in the city — one of those vague “you should come out to the estate for the weekend” texts that usually meant networking or boredom. But when you arrived at the Muck family pile, all ancient stone and rolling green hills under a bruised twilight sky, it felt less like a party and more like stepping into another world. Henry himself met you at the door, barefoot in an unbuttoned linen shirt and loose trousers, his dark curly hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed even though it was past eight.
“Darling,” he drawled, that posh accent warm and a little frayed at the edges. His soulful brown eyes — the ones that had haunted half your late-night thoughts since Industry — crinkled with genuine pleasure. “You came. Thought you might’ve come to your senses and scarpered back to civilisation.”
You laughed, handing over the bottle of decent red you’d brought. “And miss seeing the infamous Sir Henry Muck in his natural habitat? Never.”
He took the wine “ruinart and twiglets” but set them aside almost immediately, guiding you through echoing halls lined with ancestral portraits that seemed to judge every step. The place smelled of woodsmoke, old books, and something faintly herbal. His hand brushed the small of your back — light, polite, but it lingered just a second too long. “Mind the rug there, it’s been in the family since the bloody Georgians. Wouldn’t do to trip on one’s first night.”
Dinner was casual: takeaway Thai eaten cross-legged on the massive Persian rug in front of the library fireplace because “the dining room feels like a bloody mausoleum tonight, old thing.” Conversation flowed easily — you ribbed him about his failed political ambitions and green energy crusades, he teased you about your city job and the way you quoted his more unhinged interviews back at him. “Christ, you’ve been paying attention. Most people just want the title and the scandal.”
The wine loosened things, but it was the joint he pulled from a silver case that shifted the night.
“Fancy a toke?” Henry asked, lighting it with a silver lighter engraved with the family crest. “Proper stuff from the estate gardener. None of that city shite that leaves one feeling like a wrung-out rag. Helps with the… with everything, you know.”
You’d smoked before, but never with someone like him. The first hit was smooth, earthy, and it settled into your limbs like warm honey. Henry watched you exhale, his own drag deep and practiced. His shoulders dropped visibly.
“God, that’s better,” he murmured, passing it back with a lazy smile. “One feels almost human again.” The firelight played across his broad collarbones and the powerful expanse of his chest. You sat closer on the rug, knees brushing.
Time stretched. Laughter came easier, voices softer. The joint passed between you until it was gone, and the air felt thick, charged.
“You’re not what I expected at all,” Henry said eventually. He was lying on his side now, propped on one elbow, shirt fallen open. His gaze traced your face, then lower. “Most people come here wanting something. Money, connections… a story about the sad aristocrat. You just… showed up. Rather refreshing, I must say.”
“Oh I love the sad aristocrat,” you replied, voice husky from the smoke. Boldness from the high made you reach out, brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead. He leaned into the touch like a cat starved for affection.
The platonic line blurred first in small ways. His hand on your thigh as he laughed at something you said. Your fingers tracing the embroidery on his shirt sleeve. Then he sat up, cross-legged, facing you fully.
“May I kiss you?” he asked, suddenly serious, that posh voice dropping low. “Not because I’m high or some pathetic lonely sod. Because I’ve been thinking about your mouth since you walked through the bloody door.”
Your heart hammered. “Yes.”
It started soft — exploratory. His soft full lips were warm, tasting of wine and smoke, and he kissed like a man who’d been holding back for far too long. Gentle at first, then deeper when you sighed into it. Hands wandered: yours into his hair, his sliding up your sides under your top, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
He pulled back, breathing ragged. “We don’t have to rush into anything, darling. We can just lie here. Talk. Touch. Whatever feels right in this rather splendid haze.”
But the high made everything feel right. Intimate in a way that stripped away pretense. You tugged him closer until you were straddling his lap on the rug, the fire warming your back. Henry groaned softly as you settled against him, already half-hard beneath the thin fabric of his trousers.
“Fuck me,” he whispered, hands gripping your hips with surprising strength. “You feel absolutely incredible.”
Clothes came off slowly, reverently. His shirt first — revealing the broad, muscular chest and powerfully built aristocratic body. You kissed down his neck, lingering over the firm planes of his pecs. He returned the favor, peeling your top off and worshipping your breasts with mouth and hands until you were arching against him, moaning.
Later, after your first shattering orgasm — his tongue and fingers working you with focused, almost reverent intensity — Henry shifted. The high had left him raw. He crawled up your body and gently laid his head on your bare breasts, nuzzling into the soft warmth with a deep, shuddering sigh. “May I… just for a bit?” he murmured against your skin, voice thick. “Feels like the only place the world stops spinning, darling. One needs that tonight.”
You carded your fingers through his dark hair. “Of course. Stay as long as you want.”
He settled heavier against you, lips brushing your nipple before drawing it into his mouth. The suckling was slow, gentle, rhythmic pulls that sent warm sparks through you while his broad shoulders relaxed. He switched sides with a soft hum, eyes half-closed. “That’s it… bloody perfect,” he whispered between lazy sucks, one strong hand cupping the other breast possessively.
After a while, still resting there, Henry’s voice grew quieter, more confessional. “you know my dad… Reggie.. he shot himself, you know.. blown his head off. Right here on the estate's front yard. Couldn’t carry the weight anymore — the debts, the expectations, the whole rotten legacy. Walked into the woods one morning and that was that. Left me the title, the mess, and this endless bloody guilt. I was supposed to fix it all, wasn’t I? Instead I just… muddle on, making new disasters.” He let out a shaky laugh against your skin, then suckled again, seeking comfort in the steady rhythm. “Christ, listen to me unloading all this. You must think me a complete wreck.”
You stroked his back soothingly and kissed his forehead. “shhh not at all darling. I’m here.”
He hummed gratefully, nuzzling deeper. The high made his words flow freer, turning philosophical. “Everything feels so… transient, doesn’t it? One builds these empires — money, influence, legacy — and in the end it’s all smoke. Like this fire here. Or us, tonight. Beautiful, fleeting. Makes you wonder what the point of any of it is, beyond connection. Real connection. Not the performative bollocks one’s forced into at galas and boardrooms. My father chased meaning in all the wrong places. Maybe we all do.” His fingers traced idle circles on your side. “You make me feel… present. Grounded. Like maybe there’s something beyond the endless striving and the inherited ghosts.”
He fell quiet again, then instinctively returned to your nipple, suckling with renewed gentleness, almost meditative. The pulls were soothing for both of you, his powerful frame curled vulnerably against yours as the weed amplified every sensation of closeness.
When he finally pushed into you, it was slow, face-to-face, eyes locked. Those deep soulful brown eyes held yours as he filled you perfectly, stretching you with a delicious burn. “Look at me,” he breathed, thrusting deep and steady, voice all clipped posh vowels even now. “Want to see you fall apart around me, this reckless aristocrat.”
The rhythm built languidly at first — exploratory, like the high itself. Hands everywhere: his cupping your face, yours raking down his strong back. He whispered filthy praise mixed with startling tenderness. “So wet for me… taking me so well, darling. Christ, you’re beautiful like this. One could get lost in you forever.”
You rolled so you were on top, riding him with rolling hips while he watched, pupils blown wide from weed and lust. His strong hands guided you, thumbs pressing into your hips hard enough to bruise. Then his hands went to cup your breasts. The second orgasm hit you both close together — yours crashing first, clenching around him, pulling his own release deep inside you with a guttural groan like “oh fuckkk” followed your name.
After, you lay tangled together under a throw blanket he’d yanked from the sofa. Sweat cooled on your skin, but his muscular arms kept you warm. The high lingered in soft waves. Henry soon sought your breasts again, resting his head there with a profound exhale. “Come here, darling. Let me…” He latched on gently once more, suckling contentedly as his breathing slowed.
Later that night, in his enormous four-poster bed draped in silk sheets, the pattern continued. After a second, slower round — him taking you from behind at first with murmured posh endearments like “That’s my good girl, taking me so beautifully,” then turning you to face him — Henry collapsed against your chest. Head pillowed on your breasts, he suckled lazily while talking in that vulnerable, aristocratic drawl. “Father always said one must carry the weight of the name. But after he put that gun to his head… what’s left? Just echoes and expectations. Philosophy at this hour… forgive me. You feel like a sanctuary.”
He switched sides, suckling deeper for comfort. “Stay the weekend, won’t you? No expectations beyond this. Just… us. Away from the whole bloody circus. One could almost believe in redemption here, with you. I was wondering like I just.. Christ I've come inside you twice you know.. umm you're not on birth control are you?” You cupped his bearded cheeks “no sweetheart.. I'm not on contraceptives.”
“Christ.. yet you let me come inside you like that? What if I knock you up? You think I'll be a good dad? I mean I hope to be a good one.. better than my own cunt father.” he buried his face on your breasts again..
“Yeah of course you'd be a good dad.. I believe in you babe..” you gently rubbed his shoulders and pulled him even closer.. letting him rest his head on your breasts.
“Fuck.. you're really high ” said henry almost being half asleep on you.
You chuckled “so are you.. but after all we're here.. together.”
Outside, the estate grounds were dark and quiet. Henry Muck — troubled baronet, failed CEO, beautiful mess of a man — slept with his head on your chest, breathing steady for the first time in what felt like ages, lips still faintly pressed to your skin.
You ran fingers through his hair and wondered how one joint and one night could unravel so much.
