#sweetdreamsofgelato writes

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

Intrusive Thoughts

(gif from google)

Pairing: Henry x Reader (You)

Summary: Henry's feeling self-critical. Hurt/Comfort; fluff with mildly spicy undertones; see author's note below

Rating: T/M just to be safe

Word Count: 1378

Warnings/Content: RPF; mild references to body image issues/body dysmorphia

A/N:

I saw this post earlier reblogged by @itsrubberbisquit and this is me giving Henry an internet hug 🥺

It's barely edited. I'm quite literally yeeting this into the hellscape and running.

Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own.

Reposting my works on any other sites or platforms is strictly prohibited (my official AO3 is linked in my master list). Likes, comments, and reblogs are always greatly appreciated.

“Henry! What’s going on? I keep hearing thumping.” 

You swung the bedroom door wide to find Henry standing in front of the wall-to-wall wardrobes, the once neatly organised contents of which were haphazardly spilt forth across every surface. A soft, woollen jumper dangling from a lone hanger fell onto a pile beneath it. You caught Henry’s eye in the full-length mirror as he let out a low, frustrated growl and ripped his shirt over his head.

“What in the world happened in here?”

“I’ve nothing to wear. Everything looks awful.” He threw the crumpled shirt in his hands across the room.

“Ah, I beg to differ…” you replied, your eyes scanning the debris and then him. “On both accounts.”

“Nothing fits!” Hurt underscored the annoyance in his tone. “I’m spilling over my trousers and everything makes me look…lumpy.” His fingers pinched at the perfectly normal amount of flesh above his waistband. 

His struggle, whilst not new, was clear and your heart ached for him. Was his body as chiselled as it appeared on screen? No, but that’s because he was sufficiently fed and hydrated as he ought to be. 

The unhealthy lengths actors went to for what passed as on-screen perfection were no secret and a constant point of contention. The industry only fed his insecurities, and you always butted heads over his insistence to adhere to the ridiculous standards for the sake of remaining competitive. The extremity of the comments and practices made you worry about the toll on his mental and physical health. It was terrible and you had a mind to find every person who was rude or unnecessarily critical of his appearance and give them a proper verbal thrashing. 

Instead, you sighed and walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his torso. You pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades before resting your cheek against the warm expanse of his back and murmured, “You’re absolutely gorgeous, Henry.” 

Henry let out a disbelieving grunt. “I’ve taken too much time off at the gym. I need to get back to the grind.” He squeezed your hands as he manoeuvred out of your embrace. “Also, have you seen the state of these wrinkles?” He leaned in and inspected his face in the mirror. “I need to do something about them. Perhaps some new skincare. Maybe do something with my hair too. Too many greys…” he muttered to himself as he toed through piles of clothes until he found a pair of joggers and quickly changed. He snapped the waistband and grimaced.

You took a steadying breath and quelled the rage that welled in your chest. It wasn’t directed at Henry; it was reserved for every twat who ever made him feel unworthy in any way. 

“Sit,” you said, rather more firmly than you intended.

“Sorry?” he asked, confused.

“Sit.” You pushed the clothes off the edge of the bed and patted the downy duvet. “Please.”

Henry gave you a curious look as he pulled a hoodie over his head and shuffled to the end of the bed. You promptly stood between his knees, pointed to his lap and asked, “May I sit?”

He smirked. “I’ll be sorely disappointed if you don’t.”

Rather than letting him cradle you into his arms, you planted one knee on either side of his hips and straddled his lap. His sharp inhale signalled his surprise, but the sly wing of his eyebrow indicated he was not disappointed and was—you hoped—sufficiently distracted as well.

“Well, this is unexpected,” he murmured as his hands slowly ran the length between your knees and hips. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your bottom. 

You squirmed. Henry made an approving noise in this throat and your brain fought your baser urges for domain. You wrapped your arms around his neck and settled into a comfortable position. “Calm down, Cavill.” 

Henry groaned into your ear. “You’re not making it easy.”

“Good.” You ground down on his lap for good measure. “That’s payback for the cheeky arse-grab.” He shamelessly groped you again and you laughed. “Stop. I have something to say and you’re going to listen.”

“I do appreciate when you take charge.” His lust-darkened eyes flicked to your lips and his tongue darted out to moisten his own. “Is it something sexy?”

“Henry…” you warned, mostly because if he kept looking at you like that, your mind would cease functioning altogether.

“Ok, fine.” Henry’s hands gently rested on your hips. “I’ll be good…for now.”

You dropped a quick kiss on the tip of his nose and speared your fingers through his hair. Henry always let it grow out when on a break and toying with the soft curls was a favourite pastime. He hummed contentedly, his head dropping back as his eyes fluttered shut.

“I love your hair,” you said, “and every grey one is a uniquely special thread of wisdom marking the passage of time.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but they crinkled at the edges with humour. “How poetic.”

You scrunched your nose and gently tugged on an errant curl. “Shush. I’m trying to flatter you.”

He suppressed a smile and pulled you in closer. “Do continue.”

“And these,” your fingertips traced the delicate creases across his forehead and around the corners of his eyes and mouth, “are a record of all your happy memories, imprinted each time you laugh wholeheartedly and your smile reaches your eyes.” 

Henry awkwardly cleared his throat and sounded somewhat embarrassed to be under your scrutiny. “You’re making me blush.”

He wasn’t lying. You smiled smugly at the tinges of pink dusting his cheekbones. 

“Good.”

You kneaded his tense shoulders and followed down the hard lines of his biceps until his muscles relaxed. Your hands snaked under his hoodie and you indulged in a bit of tender groping of your own. The colour in his cheeks deepened. His throat bobbed and his lips parted, and it took every ounce of your will not to nip at them with your teeth. 

“When I look at you, I see the strength of will and your determination, but also the softness of finding simple pleasures that life would be meaningless without.” 

He flinched when you smoothed over the supple sides of his abdomen. “I’m pretty sure that’s last Sunday’s roast.”

“Which was utterly delicious,” you answered without hesitation, placing a kiss on the side of his neck. “You spent all day preparing that magnificent feast and deserved to enjoy every bite.”

“I did, but—”

“No buts, and I’m not done admiring.”

He tsked. “You’re bossy.”

“And you love it.”

“You may be right,” he grumbled.

You extracted your hands and brought them to cradle his face, tracing a thumb over his bottom lip and across his sharp jawline. Henry’s gaze finally met yours. Behind the fiery want, you knew he battled with his demons and you wanted nothing more than to help him vanquish them. 

Your forehead rested against his as your hand drifted down and stopped in the centre of his chest. “But the best bit is that none of that really matters because the most beautiful thing about you is right here. No matter what you look like, you’ve got a heart that loves fiercely and endlessly, and I’m thankful every day that it loves me.”

“Jesus…” Henry’s voice wobbled under a sudden rush of emotion. He yanked you against his chest, nestled his face into the curve of your neck and breathed deeply. 

A protracted silence settled as you held him, gently stroking the base of his neck as he processed. When he finally looked up, he was blinking back the moisture that threatened to spill over. He brought your hands to his lips and gingerly kissed your palms. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You don’t need to do or be anything to deserve love, Henry. You are, just as you are, and I can't help but love you.”

Henry dragged your lips to his and kissed you so long and hard that you risked becoming a barely sentient puddle. He released your mouth with a gasp, his voice ragged as he asked, “Do I have permission to grab your arse now?”

“Oh, yes,” you laughed, pulling his mouth back to yours. “Please do.”

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry x you #henry cavill rpf #rpf #sweetdreamsofgelato writes #fic: intrusive thoughts

[deandoesthingstome]

Hall Pass - Masterlist - Complete

Paring: Henry Cavill x Reader (RPF) NO MINORS!!! (Please do not read or interact if a) you are a minor or b) this isn't your thing. Nothing against you, as I hope you hold nothing against me for this.)

Series Summary: You run into Henry Cavill at the start of a two-week house-sitting vacation. You had some previous plans. Some were ruined by your now ex-boyfriend. Some were made better. Guess by whom? See also: this ask

Series Warnings: I’ll be honest, this whole thing is just self-indulgent smutty fluff. Here’s what I offer: meeting, making out, and having sex with Henry Cavill (rpf). I’m probably NOT going to be adding chapter warnings unless I get a bug to re-write and something worms it’s way into the story that I wasn’t expecting.

A/N: I edited this teaser post to act as the masterlist for this story and so I could take the novel out of the remaining chapters. ;)

A/N 2: I started this story shortly after the fiasco of The Witcher and Superman announcements. I thought about how great it would be to try and cheer him up a little. For the purposes of this story, he is single. No hate to anyone in his life right now, in whatever way you imagine that to be. I also understand if you do not read rpf. Feel free to scroll on by. I don’t need to hear about it.

This was going to be a looooong one-shot, but solicited feedback prompted me to break it up for you. 

Playlist: I will add to Spotify with each chapter.

Word Count: 15K over 4 5 chapters (if you were here before, it said 12K; what can I tell you?)

Posting Schedule: Based on the responses to this post, I decided on a series instead of single post. Every Tuesday and Thursday at 6 am Eastern time, starting February 14th.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Epilogue

Tag Info Below the Cut (I have not updated this original detail at all; if you are on the current tags for Ch 1 and 2 you will be tagged in the rest, as well as if you've asked after the fact.)

Current Tag Lists: Please let me know if you want on or off. @liveoncoffeeandflowersss I moved you off Other Stories as I assume from our chat about "horse boy Henry shit" you want in on this.

Anything - If you are on Anything and I don't hear from you, I'll assume you DO want the tag: @sillyrabbit81 @kittenofdoomage @mayloma @kebabgirl67 @fvckinghenrycavill @beck07990 @mysweetlittledesire @itsrubberbisquit @feelmyroarrrr

Other Stories - If you are on the Other Stories taglist for my other stories and I don't hear from you, I'll assume you DON'T want a tag for this: @angelcavill66 @lizzystuffsthings @augustsprincess @alexakeyloveloki @enchantedbytomandhenry @kingliam2019

@henryownsme @littlefreya @marantha @angelcavill66 @sweetdreamsofgelato @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @greensleeves888 @dinoswierdmom @geralts-yenn @wabi-sabi1090 @bourbonwithice

#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill rpf #henry cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill fanfic #hall pass #hall pass teaser #mine #deandoesthingstome #god did i put enough instructions in this post? #wtf??? lol!!! sorry!!! #hall pass masterlist

[nerdzzone]

what are your fave fics to read?

I don't read as much as I'd like to because most of my time for fics is spent writing.

But for Chris Evans I would recommend everything by @k-evans-reads! With a special shout out to On Deck as a personal favourite.

And for Henry Cavill I recommend everything by @sweetdreamsofgelato!

#fic rec

[northerndownpourswildchild]

List five things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box of the last ten people who reblogged something from you. Spread the positivity ✨💛🌻

Omg, thank you for asking😸

1. When it’s warm and bright and sunny outside

2. My friends

3. Seeing my parents laugh (preferably about something I said😉)

4. The Beatles‘ music

5. @sweetdreamsofgelato writing!😽

[rmtndew]

List five things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box of the last ten people who reblogged something from you. Spread the positivity ✨💛🌻

Thank you @sweetdreamsofgelato 💜

Rainstorms (when I don't have to get out in them). I love how they sound

The smell of honeysuckles. The ones on my fence have finally bloomed and I can smell them every time I step outside

My growing collection of 'princess' dresses ✨

My grandmother's blackberry cobbler

When a story or chapter goes according to plan and actually makes it easy for me to write it. It's very rare but when it happens it makes me very happy!

#ask

[sillyrabbit81]

I was wondering if you had any recommendations for some angsty stories? It can be Chris Evans, Sebastian Stan, Henry Cavill or any of their characters or others. I am willing to widen my horizons. Thank you! ❤️

Hi Anon

Ahhh you have discovered my weakness! I'm not really into angsty stories. I cry at the drop of a hat and I really hate crying. So I called in some help from my friends in the Hoe Coven and Syverson's Privates to throw me some recs. Thank you all for your recommendations!

First though, I do have some Henry Cavill fic recs here. Most are smutty but there's a few angsty stories in there if you want to check them out. They are stories I have read and recommend. The ones listed below are stories I haven't read... because... well angst hahaha.

Recs under the cut

Henry Cavill Angst Recs

Henry Cavill

@cruelfvkingsummer - The Folklore Break-Up Series

@cruelfvkingsummer - Mob!Henry Series

@radaofrivia - Soon

@somethinginthewayiam - Cherry Lips

@sweetdreamsofgelato - Midsommer Misadventures

@thelastsock - Unsettled

Sherlock

@cruelfvkingsummer - What It Would Be Like To Love You

@youvebeenlivingfictional - When We Were Young

Captain Syverson

@cruelfvkingsummer - Duke!Sy Series

August Walker

@nashibirne - Desperado

Anthony Mackie Angst

Sam Wilson

@divine-mistake - 'Till Death Blooms Us Art

Sebastian Stan Angst

Bucky Barnes

@divine-mistake - You Fracture Light Again

@justreadingfics - Bad Match

@maladaptivexxdaydreaming - Stay

@maladaptivexxdaydreaming - I Know Time Will Tell If We're Meant For This

@mallowswriting - Salt the Earth

@pellucid-constellations - Voicemails To an Unmanned Inbox (Alternative Ending)

@pellucid-constellations - Undisclosed

@tuiccim - Solace

@turbolisedcomet - Whirlwind

@wkemeup - A Twice Broken Man

@wkemeup - Delicate Edges

Chris Evans Angst

Chris Evans

@maroonsunrise83 - All the Praise

@ysmmsy - They Say The Things You Say When You're Drunk...

@ysmmsy - What If You Were?

Steve Rogers

@maladaptivexxdaydreaming - Love Can Only Hurt Like This

@the-soot-sprite - Restless Spirits

Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes

@heli0s-writes - As It Was

And finally...

https://tuiccimsangstyrecs.tumblr.com/ A whole blog dedicated to angst fics

There you go Anon,

I hope this list keeps your angsty little heart happy for some time!

❤️ Rabbit

#ask sillyrabbit81 #anon ask #fic rec request #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #anthony mackie #anthony mackie fanfiction #sam wilson #sam wilson fanfic #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #august walker #august walker fanfiction #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes fanfiction #henry holmes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barns fanfiction #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

for the follower ask song would be tupelo honey by dusty springfield fluffy slightly smutty. right now in real life i need a hug. a long hug. but thank you ahead of time for whatever happens.

Fluff Fluff Fluff with shadowy allusions to smut. My big bear internet hug to you, darling. Thank you so much for always being so supportive and encouraging. I truly appreciate it.

Pairing: Henry x Reader (You)

Rating: E for Everyone

Word Count: 975

Warnings/Content: RPF

You closed the front door and immediately sagged back against it. The sigh you expelled was so heavy that you wondered if it took your soul with it. Exhaustion was a perpetual state of being and you wondered how much more you could survive before your body and mind finally gave up the ghost and checked out completely.

Pinching your eyes shut, you crumpled to the floor. Your belongings fell in heaps around you in the entryway as you drew your knees up and rested your forehead against them. No will to move. May even camp out here for the night.

“Tough day?”

You glanced up, blinking blearily through stress and fatigue to find Henry kneeling before you. You were so out of it that you’d not heard him approach. His brow knitted with concern as he leaned forward and cradled your head in his hand. His thumb ran soothingly over your cheek. 

“Tough day. Month, year. Entire existence…” you murmured as you leaned into his touch. You rubbed at your eyes to release the steadily growing pressure. “Can’t seem to catch a break.”

Henry gingerly removed each of your shoes and set them aside. His strong fingers slowly kneaded up your calves and you groaned as the tightly-knotted tension began to unfurl at his touch. 

You cast him an apologetic look. “Sorry, I know we planned to go out tonight but I don’t think I’ve got it in me.”

He patted your knees lightly before untangling you from your bags and coat. “A night in sounds perfect to me. Want some tea?”

“Tea would be lovely.

“Consider it done,” Henry answered. He chuckled at your squeal of surprise when he scooped you into his arms and lifted you from the floor. 

“Henry, you don’t need to carry me,” you half-heartedly admonished. It felt good to be in his arms. “I can manage to the living room at least.”

“I disagree. I absolutely need to carry you.” Henry squeezed you tighter against the broad line of his chest on the way to the living room, and you couldn’t resist snuggling against his warmth. The familiar, woodsy scent of his cologne was profoundly comforting. 

“And maybe I just want an excuse to fondle you.” His hand not-so-subtly sneaked up your thigh under the guise of adjusting his grip.

Your lips ticked into a smirk. “As if you need one.”

“True, I don’t,” he answered smugly. 

Henry dropped a quick peck on your cheek as he deposited you on the sofa. He dimmed the lights, fluffed a couple of cushions and tucked them behind you, then leaned in and kissed you chastely on the mouth. After putting your favourite playlist on the speakers, he disappeared into the kitchen. 

Before you had a chance to settle, Henry quickly reappeared, his jaw set firmly with determination as he strode purposefully toward the sofa. He slowly leaned down over you, his gaze dark and hot on yours as he grasped your chin firmly in his hand and kissed you with an intensity that lit your nerves on fire.

The kettle whistled and Henry growled his disapproval. With one last parting drag of his lips on yours, he disappeared again.

You bonelessly collapsed against the pillows with a dreamy, contented sigh. No lie, it felt good to be fussed over. And lusted after, even if you didn’t have the energy to capitalise on it at present.

Henry returned with tea in your favourite mug which you accepted with much gratitude. It diffused a soothing warmth through your limbs as you held it. You took a restorative sip and sighed happily. “Perfect.”

Henry graced you with a self-satisfied smile before snagging his phone and departing on stern instructions for you to sit back and relax whilst he ordered delivery. Not one to argue, you curled into the cushions and sipped, your mind drifting along with the music all the while. It was the most relaxed you’d felt in ages and just what you needed. The playlist shuffled and the smooth rhythm of Dusty Springfield’s Tupelo Honey floated through the air. A personal favourite. You set your tea aside and got lost in the music. “Dinner’s ordered. How’re you feeling?”

You opened your eyes and found Henry leaning against the doorway into the kitchen. He watched you with a boyish love-struck grin and your heart did a funny flip. All this time together and he still managed to make you feel the butterflies usually reserved for new love.

A flush heated your cheeks. “Much improved, thank you.”

“Excellent.”

Henry swiftly crossed the room. You made a startled squeak when he snagged your hand and gently tugged you to your feet. He snaked an arm around your waist, tucked your entwined hands snuggly against his chest and began idly swaying you both with the music.

You couldn’t resist melting into his embrace as you danced. Henry led you in slow, measured circles; the deep melodic rumble of his hums filled your ears and everything became intensely tactile: the soft brush of his cotton shirt on your skin, the steadying heat he radiated into your bones, the squish of the carpet between your toes as you moved along. It was a kind of grounding that really fuelled your soul. 

“Ready?”

“Ready for wha—” There was a contented sleepiness to your voice, but you didn’t get to finish your question before he encouraged you into a spin. And then another, and another, not drawing you back to him until you were breathless and alight with joy.  

“How is it you always know just what I need?" You beamed up at him. “You’re the absolute best.”

Henry kissed you tenderly before tucking your head under his chin. “Only because you love me.”

🎊FOLLOWER MILESTONE CELEBRATION🎊

FEEL FREE TO SEND ME A FAVOURITE SONG OR LYRIC AND I WILL WRITE YOU A DRABBLE/ONE SHOT FOR HENRY OR ANY OF HIS CHARACTERS BASED ON IT!

🍦CHOOSE YOUR PAIRING

🍦 CAN BE FLUFFY, SMUTTY, ANGSTY, OR ANY COMBINATION THEREOF. PLEASE INCLUDE ANY DETAILS YOU WANT TO BE INCLUDED WITH YOUR ASK.

I’m keeping this open all week so if you have a request, don’t be shy! Thank you all for celebrating with me ❤️

#Henry Cavill #henry cavill fan fiction #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #rpf #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill rpf #fic: follower milestone celebration #sweetdreamsofgelato writes

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

Ebb and Flow

(image shameless taken from google)

Pairing: AU!Henry Cavill x Reader (You)

Summary: see the prompt below

Rating: E for everyone (maybe T for a little mild language?)

Word Count: 4261 (I know, I KNOW. Yes, I got carried away and no, I don't want to talk about it)

Warnings/Content: AU!RPF; mild adult language; pining 💋 Emotions with a capital E

A/N: 

I was presented with two kissing prompts (#66 and #67) from this list and whilst I mulled over both, this idea took hold, so I combined them. I hope you don't mind, @jolly-polly! To my dear Bonnie Nonnie, I know you requested Henry but I hope that AU!Henry will do. Apologies in advance for deviating from the course.

I'm afraid I might've gone a little overboard with the imagery in this one, but I was IN MY FEELS so I soldier on without regret.

A side note for anyone who enjoys instrumental music: I was utterly consumed by Ludovico Einaudi's In a Time Lapse album the entire time I wrote this. I can't recommend it enough. Time Lapse, Run, Brothers, Experience, and Burning were particularly inspiring.

Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own.

Reposting my works on any other sites or platforms is strictly prohibited (my official AO3 is linked in my master list). Likes, comments, and reblogs are always greatly appreciated.

Working at a charming little bookshop on a leafy corner of the local high street was certainly not your dream when you accepted the job, but the elderly couple who owned it were incredibly kind and desperately needed help, and you were in the market for a job that didn’t completely crush your will to live. 

For a small business, it had a large and fiercely loyal customer base and most days you felt positively run off your feet. Not long after you started, it was plain the shop needed more help. You were only one person, and the Cavills were on the dark side of their golden years—both neither quick moving nor technologically inclined, which made keeping up with demand a daunting task indeed.

Which is why it came as much of a surprise a few months later when you’d expected Mr Cavill to inform you that he was hiring another shop clerk, that he rather announced he and his wife were taking off for the Mediterranean. Truth be told was Mrs Cavill had been not- so-quietly longing for sandy beaches and warmer climes for some time and Mr Cavill finally agreed to dip his toes into retirement.

For a brief moment, you thought you were going to lose a job you’d come to really love. Gratefully, Mr Cavill was not yet ready to shutter the doors or sell off the business. It was still profitable, after all, and the shop had been Cavill-owned for four generations, so he was (rightfully) reluctant to let it pass out of familial hands. It was a relief when a few weeks later, he informed you that though he was taking a “sabbatical” (as he liked to call it), his grandson, Henry, would be stepping up in his absence.

If there was anything you learned over the time leading up to said grandson’s arrival, it was that the Cavills loved him fiercely. Mrs Cavill spent most afternoons regaling you with memory after memory, sparing none of the normal flattery all the while. He was kind, tall, polite, generous, handsome, intelligent, athletic, hard-working, handsome, and friendly. A true gentleman.

And did she mention handsome?

Yes, she had. So much so you were concerned that this all was possibly a set-up. You didn’t think so highly of yourself to suspect that the whole thing was an elaborate ruse, but rather perhaps convenient opportunism was at play. Wouldn’t be the first time some well-meaning grandmother tried to pair you up with a beloved grandson. By Mrs Cavill’s account, Henry was quite lovely and you didn’t look upon him uncharitably, but the fact was that loving grandparents tended to regard their grandchildren through rose-coloured glasses. 

That morning, you were still brainstorming how to gently let them down without making the atmosphere at work irrevocably awkward when the little bell over the shop door tinkled someone’s arrival. You assumed it to be the first customer to drop in on this unusually quiet morning.

“Grandad? Gran?” 

You froze over the box you were unpacking and furtively glanced at the calendar on the back of the door, then at your watch and cursed. Okay, not a customer. It was him. 

“Anyone here?” Henry’s voice was deep and warm and smooth as velvet; you were horrified by the rogue tingle that ran up your spine.

Ever so quietly, you tiptoed around the boxes at your feet and poked the swinging door open just enough to get a glimpse. Your jaw dropped. 

“Oh no,” you gasped. His back was to you, but even at a distance, he cut the exact image Mrs Cavill described: statuesque. Tall and broad, like a rugby player or perhaps a professional lumberjack, if either wore perfectly-tailored tweed suits.

“Hello?” he called out again. He turned and searched the shop for any sign of life. You caught a glimpse of his profile and your knees threatened to turn to jelly.

Shit shit shit! You quickly drew back and caught yourself against the shelves. This was bad. This was really bad. Mrs Cavill had not exaggerated in any way. If anything, she’d criminally understated her description. One could be blind as a bat and still tell that he was exceedingly handsome. He had an aura.

What a fool you were. Here you’d spent the better part of a fortnight coming up with gentle ways to tell the Cavills that you weren’t interested in their grandson, and now here he was in the flesh and you were a sharp jawline away from proposing marriage. You’d not even officially met. 

Horror struck; you slowly sniffed your armpit and your nose wrinkled at the offence. What were the odds that he’d leave if you kept quiet? Not good, you reluctantly admitted. Surely he’d expect that you were expecting him—and you were, it’s just that time had gotten away from you, as it always did when you were focused. Still, after three hours sequestered in the store room doing inventory, you were undoubtedly a smelly and sweaty mess, and you did not want his first impression of you to be that of a wilted shop clerk. 

For purely professional reasons, of course.

You frantically, but quietly—very quietly, hunted for your bag and rummaged for that fragrance sample you’d chucked in for odorous emergencies. You spritzed under each arm as you huffed into your palm. You immediately searched for a mint. 

“Hi.”

It came from the doorway right behind you, and you very nearly hit the ceiling in surprise. The noise that escaped your lips was positively Jurassic.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Nope,” you squeaked, threw your bag across the room and turned to face him. So much for first impressions. You cleared your throat and did your best to school your features into something less spooked. “Nope, you didn’t.”

He watched you with a placid sort of look. The kind someone wears when they absolutely don’t believe you but they’re far too polite to call you out on it.  He leaned against the door frame and gave you a little wave. “I’m Henry.”

“I know,” you blurted. Fuck.“I mean, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” And all of it bloody true, apparently. You held out your undoubtedly clammy hand and made your introductions. 

“Nice to put a face to the name,” Henry said. He gave your hand a firm squeeze and your forearm erupted in gooseflesh. “I’ve been hearing all about you for weeks.”

You laughed nervously, rubbing your palms over your skin and desperately willing it back to normal before he noticed. “All good things, I hope.” 

“Only the best,” Henry answered with a reassuring smile.

Your heart did a precarious little wobble. 

He’s just a man, you scolded yourself, and though he may look like he walked straight off an old Hollywood movie set and could charm the pants off a nun, certainly he couldn’t be everything his grandmother made him out to be. No one was that perfect. 

***

He was. He was so bloody perfect you wanted to cry. 

As a universal rule, men like this didn’t actually exist. It was a commonly known fact that they were myths. Legends. Exaggerated and unattainable fabrications conjured from the imaginations of gothic novelists and social media experts.

You assumed Henry (as kin to the owner) would take up the role of Boss Man, and if a lifetime of anecdotal evidence dealing with attractive men in positions of power proved correct, he’d immediately start throwing his weight around like a proper egoistic tyrant. 

But that was so far from the truth that you still felt ashamed for prematurely judging his character. He was just as described. Handsome and kind in equal measures. Impeccably well-mannered, even when he rang and told off the couriers when they stuffed up deliveries. Generous. Most days he offered to grab lunch or make a coffee run and he always offered a helping hand no matter how menial the task.  Not to mention the thrice-a-week homemade treats. 

It was his way to decompress, he’d said, and you didn’t complain.

Henry’s even-tempered disposition notwithstanding, he wasn’t above throwing around his impressive weight when he deemed it necessary. He pulled off mean and scary quite effectively when he’d chased off a creep who decided it was their life’s purpose to come in every day and pester you. Henry had even offered to escort you home until you felt comfortable walking on your own again.

The man was a damned unicorn and he was the best non-boss boss you’d ever had. 

***

You stood in the doorway to the admin office—which was really a glorified broom cupboard not much wider than the breadth of Henry’s shoulders—and chewed around an overly-large bite of homemade pastry. It was all you could do not to moan. He had no right to be this skilled in the kitchen. It was almost as much a turn-on as watching him assemble one of the shop’s shiny new computers.

One always appreciated a man who was good with his hands.

To add to his ever-growing list of positive qualities, he was also a bit of a nerd. Henry had taken one look at the existing system and had been downright horrified by the outdated technology. He was adamant about bringing the shop up-to-date, but instead of ordering a prefab computer, he’d custom-ordered an entirely new system which he planned to assemble himself. After much anticipation, the equipment had finally been delivered. It would solve a lot of headaches, but not all of them.

As Henry’s arrival more or less coincided with the Cavills' departure, the shop was down one net member of staff, and whilst Henry was more than capable of doing the work of three people, he shouldn’t have to. You both agreed that the shop needed more help. 

“Know anyone who might want a job?” Henry murmured around the tiny screwdriver clenched between his teeth.

Your mouth went dry as you watched his lips move around the tool. “You’d leave that decision to me? 

“Why not?” He adjusted his headlamp, pushed his glasses up his nose and resumed fiddling with the computer’s internals. “Technically you’ve got seniority, so you understand the shop’s staffing needs far better than I do.”

“I just thought, being related to the owner and all, that you’d be in charge of these sorts of decisions.” Of all the decisions, really.

Henry looked visibly uncomfortable at the suggestion. “I like to think we have more of a horizontal organisational structure here.” He fitted the computer cover back in place. “A purely collaborative and democratic effort.”

“Oh.” How refreshing. “Not worried I’ll just hire an irresponsible friend and run the business into the ground?” You stuffed the rest of the pastry in your mouth and gingerly sucked the sugary remnants from your thumb. Not good manners, you knew, but it was too delicious to waste on a napkin.

Henry stuttered to a pause as if his mind momentarily blanked. He cleared the grit from his throat and continued, “I trust you. Not to mention it’d be rather hypocritical to accuse you of nepotism.” Henry graced you with a sly smile and you never felt closer to swooning. “Besides, you don’t strike me as the self-sabotaging type.”

Generally, you weren’t but you’d argue that steadily falling head over heels for your coworker could certainly categorise you as such. Still, the fact that he’d thought of you in any sort of capacity left your cheeks overheated. 

“I know just the person.”

***

“He’s a serial killer.”

“He’s not a serial killer.”

You stepped back from the small rosewood display table to both admire your handiwork and question the intelligence behind hiring your eternally paranoid flatmate, Sarah. 

The timing had been rather serendipitous, as Sarah had found herself suddenly out of work—which was no fault of her own. Her ex-boss was an absolute cretin and deserved the throat punch he’d received for groping Sarah in the office lift. Not to mention Sarah’s ability to keep paying rent benefitted you both, but it was possibly at the cost of your sanity.

“Has to be.” 

“He can’t be,” you insisted testily. This was the third time she’d brought this up. Sarah angled you an expectant look that read explain and you fumbled around your brain from some logical reasoning. 

“He bakes,” you added weakly. Surely being able to produce delightfully sugary bits of heaven didn’t preclude one from being a serial killer, but you still liked to think the likelihood of association was relatively low. 

“All the more reason to suspect him,” Sarah replied as she continued boxing online orders behind the counter. “Some of the most notorious serial killers were all described as charming, handsome, or talented in some way. Henry’s all three at least. There is such a thing as too perfect.”

Be that as it may. “You need to lay off the True Crime.”

“Absolutely not.” Sarah pointed the tape gun in your direction. “It’s a prerequisite for modern-day survival.”

You weren’t going to argue; it was too exhausting. “He can’t be all bad if he let me hire you no questions asked.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Sarah admitted. “I know just the way to show my gratitude.”

“By being ferociously dedicated to your job?” you asked hopefully.

She made a vague motion around her face. “Hannibal Lector mask.”

Sarah actually got it for him, and instead of reprimanding her as he ought, he kept it displayed under glass next to the till with a sign reading:

For Emergency Use Only 

In Case of Rude and Unruly Customers or Serial Killers Masquerading as Gentlemen

Break Glass

It was quite the conversation piece. 

Did you mention his wickedly subversive sense of humour?

Ugh, you were in love.

 ***

It was official. You were pining. 

Like properly pining. The can’t eat, can’t sleep, thrown into existential crisis kind of pining.

“You need to do something about it.”

The computer monitor came back into focus as the delightful little daydream about snogging Henry in the storeroom evaporated in your mind. You sighed ruefully; it’d been a good one. 

“About what?”

“Your Henry situation.”

You slanted a sidelong glance in her direction and mumbled, “I thought you said he was a serial killer.”

“I may have been a bit hasty with my judgments,” Sarah conceded as she adjusted the rucksack on her shoulder. “Seriously. I am begging you to go for it, if not for your sake, then for mine.”

Your brow furrowed; you swivelled in your chair to face her.

Sarah took the opportunity to squish your cheeks between her palms, lest you flee the conversation as you’d done on at least two other occasions. “I can’t watch you torture yourself anymore.”

“I’m not torturing myself.” At least not deliberately. You batted her hands away. “I’m being pragmatic.”

“By torturing yourself.”

“He’s my boss.” 

He was more than that, you knew. It hadn’t taken long to pass into the realm of friendship. You didn’t dare presume more than that though, despite having incrementally fallen in love with him since the day he walked into your life. That was the fastest way to a broken heart.

“He’s far more than.” Sarah echoed your inner thoughts and you wanted to crawl under the counter and hide. 

“He’s still my boss.” Was he, though? Henry had adamantly refused the mantle whenever you mentioned it, so you weren’t really certain anymore. The lines had always been a bit blurry. Made for a convenient excuse though. 

“Didn’t Henry give you the whole “horizontal organisation” speech?” Sarah asked cheekily. “Sounded euphemistic to me.”

“Regardless, it’s ethically unwise.” You loosed a long, beleaguered exhale and rested your chin in your palm. “Weren’t you leaving?”

Sarah pointedly ignored your dismissal. “Office affairs are a beloved modern literary trope and a cornerstone of the romance genre.” 

You cast her a wry smile. “Traded True Crime for fan fiction, then?” Not that you were judging. You could go down an Ao3 rabbit hole and easily not come up for days. 

“It’s more common than you think.”

“Reading fan fiction?”

Sarah’s expression flattened. “Shagging your coworker.”

That was a leap you’d not even dared in your own dreams. “The man is three eyebrow hairs away from Adonis.” 

Freak kitchen accident apparently and he’d been afraid to make crème brûlée since. You couldn’t suppress a dreamy smile at the memory of that conversation, because Henry’d relayed it one early morning whilst presenting you with—crème brûlée. It was the best damn thing you’d ever tasted. He’d even let you eat half his portion.

“Why on earth would he want me when he could have literally anyone else?” you lamented.

“Have you seen the way he looks at you? He practically worships the ground you walk on.” Sarah looked about two seconds away from reaching across the counter and shaking you. “The man’s in a desperate state but much too polite to make the first move. Honestly, you two are hopeless.”

You were definitely hopeless, there was no denying that, but the rest of it sounded a bit of a stretch. If that were true, surely you would’ve seen the signs. 

“It’ll make things weird,” you said. You left off the last bit of that thought: when he says no.

Sarah looked suspiciously smug. “Not if he says yes.”

The shop door swung open and in strode your personal greek tragedy, two paper cups of tea in hand. 

“Hey Sarah, I thought you were already off on holiday,” said Henry, who glanced awkwardly between you, Sarah, and the two cups in his hands. He set one on the counter for you and offered Sarah the other—the one that you were sure he’d intended to drink himself. 

The pining intensified.

“No, thanks. On my way out as we speak.” Sarah confirmed as she gave him a mock salute. You picked up your tea and took a sip. From the corner of your eye, you caught her silently mouthing Do it! before she slipped out the door. 

“I appreciate you picking up Sarah’s shifts,” said Henry. He came around the back of the counter and rifled through a few bits of post resting next to your elbow. “When she told me Cassie surprised her with a Norwegian cruise, I couldn’t say no to the last-minute request for holiday leave.”

“Mhmm,” you murmured absentmindedly, then turned to Henry in confusion. He was very close and smelled amazing. Warm and spicy, like a smoky campfire in autumn. You swallowed hard, your voice rough when you asked, “Cassie?”

“Her girlfriend,” he prompted with a quizzical raise of his brow.

“Oh, right.” Your eye’s narrowed toward the door. Sarah and Cassie split up two months ago and as far as you knew, she wasn’t dating anyone new. Norwegian cruise but only packed one rucksack? This reeked of subterfuge.

Henry’s eyes swept over towering stacks of boxes and growing piles of books destined for new shelves. The shop was closed to customers for the day and it was all hands on deck for a seasonal inventory catalogue and reshuffle, but you were two hands down and hadn’t made much progress. 

The daydreaming hadn’t helped. You let out a resigned sigh.

“Looks like it’s gonna be a late night.” He nudged his shoulder gently against yours. It took all of your willpower not to lean into the touch. “Let’s order takeaway.”

***

The bookshop was rather magical at night. It was one of many reasons you loved working evening shifts. With the shades drawn and the lights dimmed to a warm glow, it had a sort of natural cosy ambience of a private library. Then again, it could just be the company. 

As you reached up to shelve another book, your focus drifted along the instrumental music still playing through the shop and back to just hours before. The vision swam into view, entrenched on the horizon of your mind’s eye as, now, a core memory:

Henry perched on the edge of the window display opposite, you tucked into a plush armchair he’d dragged over from the reading corner for you. Between you, the remnants of a feast spread over a makeshift cardboard box table because the man didn’t know the definition of restraint when it came to food. He pushed the sleeves of his cobalt knit jumper to his elbows and set aside his steaming mug, the contents of which threatened to splash all over him as he animatedly recounted yet another story that had easily reduced you both to shared fits of laughter. 

You rested your elbow on the side of the armchair and leaned your fist against a cheek so delightfully sore from the near-constant smile Henry so easily coax forth. Watching him at that moment, you knew no matter how much you tried to ignore or deny it, you were in love.

In the present, warmed from the memory, you slid the book home onto the shelf and fought to breathe. 

It was definitely the company.

You forced your way through the haze of your thoughts as you hopped off the railed step ladder. If you lost yourself in work, you couldn’t think about the rest. Or so had been the plan, but it seemed fate had other ideas. With a frown, you inspected the collection of boxes nearest. 

“Henry, do you have Young Adult S2? I don’t have it.”

You heard thumps and shuffling from across the shop, and then Henry answered, “Got it! Stay put. I’ll bring it to you.”

With Young Adult S1 under your arm, you were back up the steps and shelving the last stragglers whilst you waited. When you turned around to descend, you accidentally smacked Henry across the face with the empty box.

“Shit!” you cursed and threw the cardboard aside. “Henry, I’m so sorry!” 

“No worries,” Henry chuckled graciously as he set down the box in his hands and gingerly rubbed his face. “No harm done.”

“Nonsense,” you fussed. By your own terribly unscientific analysis, Henry’s only toxic trait was belying the truth for the sake of others’ feelings. “Let me see.”

Without thinking, you leaned down and gently grasped his chin. He allowed you to tilt his face to the side and inspect the damage. His jaw flexed under your fingers when you traced a fingertip over the faint pink mark blooming across the stubbled skin of his cheek. Even with the superficial scratch, he was still stunning. All beautifully sculpted angles in such sharp contrast to the softness of his nature. Your gaze naturally drifted to his mouth when it parted on a sharp intake of air. 

Your eyes flicked back up; your breath caught and the gooseflesh returned, and this time it was head to toe. Your hand dropped but your entire body rooted to the spot. Henry watched you with piercing intensity. The bright blue of his eyes gone dark as lapis. Sharper and clearer than you’d ever seen before.

It happened all at once, or maybe it hadn’t. People often talk about points of no return, but this was different. Not so much before and after, but rather with a single intimate touch, the barrier between two parallel realities dissolved. They slowly bled together, coalescing in a heavily charged anticipation that swelled unbidden in the space between. It surged through you and kicked up your heart into a frantic pace.

This is where desire lived. 

You bowed into it. An ebb to the flow, unable to resist the pull of its fulcrum. The step ladder shuddered under Henry’s weight as he moved onto the bottom step, his arms bracing the railing on either side of you. He’d not laid so much as a finger on you, but you felt him everywhere. A delicate counter pressure pressing in. You nervously chewed at your bottom lip; Henry’s eyes followed the movement and you saw it again. A flicker of something only just restrained. Barely perceptible, but the shift was undeniable now that you’d had glimpsed behind the veil. 

Henry reached up with one hand and cupped your face as he narrowed the distance. His thumb reverently traced over your bottom lip and across the curve of your cheek. Henry release your name in a breathy oath just before his mouth found yours.

First kisses were funny things. They come with such high expectations. Metaphorical explosions, fireworks, and seismic rifts in space and time. Some sort of divine reordering of the cosmos. But this kiss…

It was gentle and cautious. A greeting between two souls stepping fully into the light and meeting for the first time. Like a camera coming into focus, everything fell away and there was just Henry, and he was absolutely breathtaking. 

His mouth angled against yours and you returned in kind, urgency threatening to take hold, but Henry suddenly broke away. You despaired at the loss.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He was winded. His eyes searched yours, and they were wounded in a way that made your chest ache because you knew where it came from: anticipated rejection. “Are you sure?”

You wished to pour your heart into his. To fill all the cracks from which his vulnerability broke through. You wished to tell him that this little bit of paradise you both somehow managed to discover was safe. Here was a home where he’d only find warmth, joy, and love. 

Your fingers brushed through curls just as soft as you’d imagined and you sank into his embrace. Gently drawing his lips back to yours, your smile melded with his, and you answered without words, in a space between hearts where none were required. 

#Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill Fan Fiction #Henry Cavill AU RPF #AU RPF #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill x You #Henry Cavill fanfic #Henry Cavill Fanfiction #sweetdreamsofgelato writes #fic: ebb and flow

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

Tis the Season

(gif shamelessly stolen from google)

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader (You)

Summary: Henry takes Christmas decorations a little too seriously

Rating: T-M for language and innuendo and the lightest sprinkling of spice, but nothing explicit. Mostly just snarky, fluffy nonsense.

Word Count: 2160

Warnings/Content: RPF; Adult language and very mild sexual innuendo

A/N: AUish; could easily fit into my Midsummer Misadventures universe, though it was not written with that intent.

This is a product of a conversation with my neighbour who asked, rather bluntly, how I planned to decorate the outside of the house for Christmas. Not if, but how. Moved to a new area earlier this year and this is my first holiday season here. Apparently, the neighbourhood takes decorating very seriously. Anyway, this idea popped into my head and snowballed into a day lost to hyperfixation. Hope you all enjoy it!

Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own.

Reposting my works on any other sites or platforms is strictly prohibited (my official AO3 is linked in my master list). Likes, comments, and reblogs are always greatly appreciated.

All was not calm on the Yuletide front. 

A collapsed polar vortex brought with it uncommonly cold temperatures and a sudden heavy snowstorm that thickly blanketed the majority of the county. Henry had just returned from a shoot he’d left for at the beginning of autumn. He’d assumed he’d return in time to string up lights and set up decorations before the winter weather set in, but mother nature had other ideas. 

On the harrowing drive back from the airport, you’d tried to talk him out of his ridiculously overwrought plans but had been resoundingly unsuccessful.

“It’s not worth breaking your neck. I’m pretty sure unnecessary risks to life and limb violate your contracts anyway.” Your grip tightened on the steering wheel when you felt the tyres glide across an icy patch in the road. You'd not even put the winter tyres on yet. 

“This is unbelievable,” Henry breathed against the window. He quickly wiped away the patch of fog to take in the steadily growing snow drifts. “Winter's barely begun.” 

“All the more reason not to tempt fate.”

Henry let out a noncommittal grunt and then squinted out the windscreen. “Turn up here.”

“Are we at our turn-off already?” The windscreen wipers worked overtime, but the steady torrent of fat snowflakes still hindered visibility.

Henry didn’t answer, and then the lighted sign indicating the direction to Highgrass Hill Manor (your closest neighbour) came into view.

“No, Henry. Absolutely not. I am not driving up to Highgrass.”

“It’s on the way, and I just want to see.”

“It’s out of the way and it’s already late, but that’s beside the point.” You firmly shook your head. “I am not encouraging this absurd rivalry.”

“C’mon, just a quick peek.”

“No.” You watched the turn-off to Highgrass Hill disappear in your rear-view mirror then turned down the road that led home. This was precisely why you insisted on driving. Henry kicked up quite the fuss about it when he saw the state of the roads, but you knew if he was behind the wheel, he’d take a detour to scope out the Highgrass holiday display. You’d made the mistake of mentioning it when you’d last talked and he’d been overly eager for details, none of which you’d felt inclined to provide at the time.

“Fine,” Henry pouted, folding his arms and settling back against his seat. He lasted all of two minutes (you timed it) before he turned to you and asked, “Do they have the elf workshop? I tried to buy it before I left but it was sold out everywhere.” He looked supremely annoyed. “No time to order a custom build either…”

“Henry…”

“How about the life-size Santa sleigh and full reindeer team?” he asked eagerly, his lips curving with a self-satisfied smirk. “I managed to get that one just before I left.”

“I know,” you grumbled, “it was delivered on ten pallets.” That’d been a fun morning. The poor garage was bursting at the seams.

“I reckon he’s doing the ice palace again this year,” Henry remarked bitterly, completely unfazed by your lack of enthusiasm. 

You angled him a serious look. “You need help.”

“I could probably bribe one of my brothers to drive out.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The man’s tunnel vision was formidable. Despite his late night return, he bounded out of bed at some obscenely early hour that morning. You hoped against hope that it was simply jet lag, but the incessant banging about outside forced you from bed a few hours later. You swore groggily when you discovered the remnants of his breakfast: an oversized bowl coated in dregs of congealed porridge, three shrivelled banana peels, two empty yoghurt pots, and what looked like the scraps of a six-egg steak omelette. 

He fuelled for battle.

You got on with your day and ignored it the best you could, repeatedly reminding yourself that this year’s “Cavillmas” festivities were to raise money for a new ward at the local children’s hospital. You were positive it was a conveniently cooked-up cover for his annual decoration war with Highgrass. You knew Henry already arranged the needed funding for the hospital in full. Proceeds from any public donations were just icing on the cake. 

"A win-win,” he’d called it. 

Another jarring thump sounded from above, followed by three loud bangs. Chunks of dislodged snow showered down outside the front window. A long string of violent curses—though out of your earshot—surely followed. 

You set down your book and scowled through the ceiling. This would end in one of two ways: either Henry would finally end up in hospital or yet another Christmas display would meet an untimely end. Frankly, you weren’t keen to deal with the aftermath of either. With one more sip of steaming tea for fortitude, you jammed on your coat, boots, and knit hat and trudged outside. 

Last night’s storm had finally blown through, leaving brilliantly clear skies and frightfully cold temperatures. You pulled your coat collar tighter around your neck, your breath billowing from your lips as you stomped through the innumerable winding tracks Henry had already left in the snow. Damp bit through your fleece joggers as you assessed the carnage. Pallet after overturned pallet was haphazardly discarded across the lawn. Bits of torn boxes and wrapping drifted from the overstuffed bins next to Henry’s work table. Various tools were scattered about the surface and fresh sawdust danced in the air. Your head tilted to the side as you caught sight of a crumpled piece of paper secured under a fresh offcut of wood, the free corner flapping in the frigid wind. You tugged it into full view; it was a preliminary sketch of something you could only assume was obnoxiously large. 

Speaking of obnoxiously large. 

“Henry!” you called out with renewed urgency.

There was another thump and this time you did hear the cursing. “Get back inside! It’s freezing.” 

The command drifted down from the roof. You looked up and Henry’s head was just visible over the ridge. Snow caked the collar of his puffy coat and knit benny hat and his cheeks and nose were ruddied by the cold. His mien, even at a distance, was utterly defiant. If the man didn’t end up hospitalised from injury, surely it would be from catching his death in the cold. 

“Pack it in!” you shouted back, “you’re going to get yourself killed!”

“The only one at risk is dear Rudolph here,” Henry shouted as he wrestled a large, festively painted 10-point plastic stag into a headlock. “Bloody thing refuses to stay put.”

“You’ve gone absolutely mad!”

“You know what’s mad?” Henry’s tone grew increasingly manic as he crawled across the ridge and toward the ladder perched against the edge of the roof. The reindeer’s hooves cut a sharp line through what was left of the snow as Henry dragged it behind him. “Highgrass installed an ice rink in the middle of his circular drive, and he’s got not one, not two, but five—” He lifted a hand and splayed five gloved fingers in the air. The motion made him wobble precariously and loosed Rudolph from his grip. The reindeer ricocheted down the roof and ended lodged, hooves to the sky, in the tall holly hedge below. Henry thankfully remained safely on the roof. “—fully trimmed fir trees lining the drive. Each one has to be at least fifteen metres tall.”

“How terribly asymmetrical of him,” you deadpanned. You knew all this already and kept mum about it, rightly fearing it would send him into a tailspin.

“Exactly what I thought!” Henry visibly brightened and you groaned toward the sky. “Horrid design plan. Quantity over quality, I say,” he continued. “He’s added a winter wonderland adventure golf to Santa’s grotto, but that isn’t even the worst of it…” 

You briefly wondered if Henry had even taken a breath. His hat had gone askew in the scuffle with Rudolph and he looked properly unhinged.

“Henry, will you please come down before you hurt yourself? You can rant to your heart’s content once you’re on the ground.”

He waved off your concern. “I just want to finish the roof display and then I promise I’ll come in for lunch, but you won’t believe it…” he scoffed as he toed for the ladder, and that’s when you noticed them. 

“Are those rugby boots?”

He glanced at his feet and grunted affirmatively. “Needed extra traction.”

“Henry…”

“...he’s converted the old stable for a live nativity. I saw the donkey! I bet he hired the local acting troupe as well. The absolute cheek of it!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and willed forth every last ounce of your patience. “Please tell me you did not trespass into Highgrass’s stables.”

“I…” Henry sheepishly cleared his throat, having suddenly realised he’d openly incriminated himself. “I, erm, went for a run this morning and took the…scenic route.”

“Henry!”

“He stole my idea!”

“We don’t even have stables!”

“It’s the principle!”

That was it. Enough was enough. Time to break out the big guns. Henry was officially in A State™ and it was time to snap him out the best way you knew how.

“Well, if you aren’t going to come down then I shall just have to manage by myself.”

Henry was halfway down the ladder and trying to yank Rudolph out of the holly by the leg. He was so far gone that he didn’t even look up when he asked, “Manage what? Are you finishing the indoor decorations? I’ve got a great idea for the Blue Room. I’ll help once I’m done with this.” He gave the reindeer’s leg another firm tug and the force very nearly sent the whole ladder over.

Your nerves would never survive him.

“Manage my way onto Santa’s naughty list,” you ground out with as much mystery and allure as your frustration allowed.

That got his attention. He stilled but kept a hand on the reindeer. “How do you intend to do that?” Henry tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice dropped an octave at least, as it always did whenever his interest was piqued. 

“Oh, you know…I was thinking of doing that thing.”

Henry fully focused on you and you graciously afforded him a sly smile. He abandoned Rudolph and his knuckles whitened around the ladder rung as he descended a step. “Which thing, precisely?”

Whenever he went off on a shoot, your nightly phone calls and texts almost always ended naughtily, and you’d be the first to commend the man for his creative mind. This most recent stint away produced a sizable list of new and wicked endeavours. 

“The thing we talked about whilst you were away…” you answered as you casually undid the front of your coat. It was the last thing you wished to do the bleeding cold, but you weren’t about to chance losing him now.

“The thing…” he mused aloud, his voice gritty. “In the…” 

“Mmhmm.”

“On the…”

“Yes,” your voice was intentionally smokey as he descended three more rungs.

“With or without the…”

“Oh,” you shrugged your coat from your shoulders and shivered, only half from the cold air, “definitely with.”

“Alone?” Two more rungs. His eyes narrowed accusingly. “You wouldn’t.”

“I can see you’re a busy man.” You edged backwards toward the front of the house. “Would hate to distract you.”

Henry leapt the remaining distance to the ground and landed crouched in the snow. He slowly rose and when his shadowy gaze locked on yours, the corner of his mouth pulled into a predatory smile.

You had him. 

You immediately turned tail, squealing as you sprinted across the snowy lawn. You did your best to dodge pallets and crates as he gave chase, the thudding of his heavy footsteps keeping pace with your rabbiting heart. You just managed to reach the front door when he grabbed you from behind. 

He spun you about. The chase left you panting, but not nearly as much as the sight of him. His eyes, hot and alight with want, greedily roved over you. His broad chest heaved as he pushed you back against the door frame; he brought his hands to rest heavily against the column of your neck. Your throat bobbed under the possessive weight, and he hummed appreciatively as he drew your face up to claim his prize. The feral, bruising kiss stole what little oxygen remained in your lungs and left your mind deliciously hazy. 

His thumb roughly grazed your cheek; he dropped a quick kiss on your forehead before your world turned over. His low, chesty growl rumbled through your bones as he tossed you over his shoulder. Even upside down, you could see the dents his rugby boots left on the bottom of the door when he kicked it open.

You half-heartedly tried to squirm out of his grip, which earned you a playful slap on the arse when he crossed the threshold. “Never too busy for this.”

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill x you #Henry Cavill RPF #RPF #henry cavill fan fiction #sweetdreamsofgelato writes #fic: tis the season

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

about the kiss prompt 3, 7, or11 with either Sy, Walter, or August. or Charles if we are feeling Tudory. lol

The #7 “I’ve missed you” kiss screamed Walter to me. This is slightly angsty, but I hope you enjoy it!

(gif from google, if it's yours pls let me know so I can properly credit)

Pairing: Walter Marshall x Reader (You)

Rating: T for angst; hurt/comfort vibes

Word Count: 667

It was no secret that Walter was a gruff man. His oft-sullen and monosyllabic nature were rather notorious, and whilst no one ever appreciated being on the receiving end, most colleagues made allowances for something they deemed personally beneficial. His apparent ability to emotionally detach meant he was routinely saddled with the worst of the worst: the cases no one else wished to touch because of the inescapable knock-on effect on one’s mental health. Most assumed he was impervious to the foulest dregs of humanity and the horrific emotional gamut he ran each day. Believed that as if by some innate magic, he was able to simply absorb the repeated exposure to an endless parade of tragedy and defuse it all away into nothingness.

How wrong they were.

Walter felt everything and the trauma was acutely visceral. It lived in the permanent dark smudges under his haunted eyes, made its home in the unyielding tension in his every muscle, and burrowed into his soul where it inevitably metamorphosed into the existential exhaustion he continually suffered. His very essence was scarred, and it was a burden he bore without complaint so that the abysmal darkness never touched those closest to him.

His stoicism was how he survived and protected his peace.

It was how he protected you.

And whilst some took exception to his compartmentalisation by accusing him of being unnecessarily cold or distant, you understood and accepted it because you knew one thing with the utmost certainty:

No matter how far gone he may seem to be, Walter always came home.

It wasn’t easy, and the latest case had been particularly gruelling. Most evenings he stumbled in well past midnight and immediately collapsed on the sofa without touching the food you’d left wrapped on the kitchen worktop or taking a shower. Sometimes without even bothering to undress. After a paltry bit of sleep, he awoke before the sun and did it all over again. Days went by without seeing each other, let alone speaking, and it wasn’t for lack of wanting on his part. You knew it was because he was in the thick of it and processing that left him feeling tainted in many ways, and he never wanted that anywhere near you.

But you kept on making meals he could eat in passing and leaving extra cosy blankets and fresh clothes in the spaces he most frequently dropped. Held his hand in companionable silence when words were all but impossible. You continued to ease his burden the best ways you knew how because:

Walter always came home.

Just as he did that night. You were stretched out on the sofa enjoying a bit of television and a warm drink when Walter swept into the house on a wave of energy unseen in recent weeks.

You caught sight of his coat and hat flying through the corridor. His bag quickly followed, the lot chucked and forgotten at the bottom of the stairs. He finally came into view, hopping on one socked foot whilst desperately tugging at the boot on the other. He gave a triumphant whoop when he finally got it off. You made to rise, but he motioned for you to stay put and beelined for the sofa.

He collapsed into your open arms with a contented groan, and even though he was a beast of a man, you relished the weight of him. So solid and reassuring and real.

He enveloped your body with his and cradled your face in his hands. His fingertips sank into the soft column of your neck and yours dragged through his dark curls. Foreheads met, and in the barest moment of mingling sighs, his nose gently nudged yours before taking your mouth with his. His overgrown scruff scratched and stung with every drag of his lips but you cared nought. He was here, and that's all that mattered.

Neither desperate nor impatient, this kiss was slow and deliberate. By pouring himself into you and allowing you to return in kind, it was a recharging of the soul. Checking back in.

He reluctantly broke away, breathed into your neck and whispered, “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Welcome back, Walter.”

#henry cavill #walter marshall #detective walter marshall #night hunter #walter marshall fan fiction #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall x you #sweetdreamsofgelato writes #fic: kissing prompts

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

Unexpected Visitor

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader (You)

Summary: The title is pretty self-explanatory

Rating: T-M for language and innuendo, but this is a pretty tame bit of FLLLUUUUFFFFF

Word Count: 3242

Warnings/Content: RPF; Mild alcohol consumption; Adult language and mild sexual innuendo

A/N: Just a fun bit of silly fluff that I hope you all enjoy! I'm really sorry some of the images are fuzzy. It's pushing 1 in the morning and I've fiddled with them for so long that I'm going wonky-eyed and I can't be bothered to try to fix them. I hope they are readable though.

Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own.

Reposting my works on any other sites or platforms is strictly prohibited (my official AO3 is linked in my master list). Likes, comments, and reblogs are always greatly appreciated.

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Henry threw open the double doors to the garden and Kal rocketed out. A small, satisfied smile stretched across Henry’s lips. He briefly watched Kal’s rollick around the grassy lawn before he returned inside, leaving the doors open to encourage the fresh spring air through the rental house. 

It was the first day of Henry’s Holiday of Undetermined Length. The official title left much to be desired and was hardly alliterative enough for his tastes, but there it was. The most important thing was that he was taking some much needed time for himself after coming far too close to burnout for comfort. 

Rental house halfway to the middle of nowhere: check. Gaming rig: check. Cupboards full of snacks and the numbers of every takeaway in the nearest villages: double check. Gym equipment locked away in a faraway garage to be out of sight and out of mind for the duration: absolutely. Let the rest and relaxation commence. 

And so it did, and it was glorious. 

He settled quickly into his new routine of lazy lie-ins, steady diet of favourite foods, and hours-long gaming sessions. All wrapped up in sweet, sweet solitude. To his credit, he did remember to bathe regularly and—when the weather was fine—he got out for some fresh air, exercise, and an occasional nap in the hammock on the back terrace. Whenever possible, he left the garden doors open and let Kal come and go as he pleased. (He made that mistake on a drizzly day only once. If he ever saw a mop again, it would be too soon.) 

All in all, life slowed to a delightfully indulgent pace. All quiet on the Henry front.

That was until he received an unexpected guest. 

Henry was mid-raid when the sound of Kal’s barking filtered in through the open windows. He mostly ignored it, assuming Kal had chased yet another squirrel up a tree. However, the barking continued and became increasingly more intense as the minutes passed. 

A paranoid sort might be concerned that his location had been leaked, but he didn’t consider himself as such. He could count the number of people aware of his whereabouts on one hand, and they were all fiercely loyal. He hadn’t even been out and about where anyone could spot him and he was also on a social media blackout, so the likelihood of any adventurous paps was low. 

Still, best to investigate.

Henry logged off and tossed his headphones down next to his rig. He stood and leisurely stretched the stiffness from his muscles as he pondered his desk. He refused to feel remorse as he pushed an objectively shameful number of empty crisp packets into the bin. Even less so as he gathered an armful of dirty glasses and plates destined for the dishwasher and deposited them in the kitchen on his way out into the garden. 

Kal was running circles around the great, gnarled oak tree at the far end of the fenced garden, pausing only briefly here and there to prop his front paws up the large trunk before resuming his noisy revolutions around the base.

“If that squirrel is taunting you, then you likely deserve it,” Henry called out as he trekked toward the tree. 

Kal stopped but barely registered Henry’s presence before carrying on with his mad, incessant barking. 

“Lay off, Kal,” he said more sternly when he reached him.

Kal whined and impatiently rested on his haunches as Henry looked up into the branches and came face to face with a mildly harassed but mostly unimpressed calico.

“Well, hullo there,” said Henry. He reached up and it watched him with a cautious but curious eye. It gave Henry’s fingers a tentative smell before allowing him a few chin scratches. “You’re not what I expected.”

Henry fetched a garden chair to stand on and tried to get close enough to pull the animal down off the bough, or at the very least get a look at the tag on its collar, but it sidled out of reach before leaping away and scampering over the back fence.

“Can’t say I didn’t try to help,” he muttered as he listened to the jangle of the cat’s bell fade into the distance. He rested an arm on the branch and glanced down at Kal, who looked hopefully deserving of all manner of accolades and rewards. “Do us a favour and stop terrorising the local wildlife.”

Henry didn’t think much of it until a few days later when his raid was once again interrupted. This time he found Kal bounding the length of the side fence as the same calico ran back and forth across the tops of the wooden slats with preternatural balance. It stopped periodically to rest atop the larger support posts to stare down at Kal with a level of feigned indifference that was purely feline. 

It let Henry close enough for some ear scratches, and as he ran his hand down its speckled neck, he noted the lack of collar this time.

“You’ve dispensed with the bell, I see.” The cat tetchily flicked its tail and disappeared over the side of the fence. Henry stretched over to try to see in which direction it went, but it was already long gone. “All the better for skulking about.”

On the third visit, Kal raced after a vaguely cat-shaped blur and nearly overturned the grill (whilst Henry was cooking up some choice steaks) and Henry had to ask, “Who’s terrorising who, hm?”

It jauntily capered away on a musical jingle.

And this was how it continued for weeks. He would find her (it was almost assuredly a female, or so Henry had learnt after a little internet research) in all sorts of places. Sunny window sills were a particular favourite if she was able to sneak in through an open door or window, but he also found her in flower pots, sometimes atop the kitchen cupboards, and once curled up in the hammock. That had been a close brush with disaster, as he only found her because he nearly sat on her. 

He even awoke one night at the height of a particularly bad heat wave, absolutely certain that he was suffocating from the humidity, only to discover the cat sleeping on his chest. It wasn’t the soupy air that had choked him, but rather the cat’s tail.

Henry wasn’t even upset about it, and that’s when he knew he was getting attached. Even Kal had grown used to having her around and no longer chased the little devil up trees.

Henry eventually named her Trixie (short for Trixter) because he was never able to get a glimpse of her magically disappearing and reappearing tags. He’d noticed a pattern that she tended to stick around longer when she was sans collar. Less likely to be ratted out to her owner, he supposed. Based upon periodic replacements and her general good health, she obviously had an owner, or at the very least was cared for. Perhaps she belonged to a nearby farm or was simply a bored house cat in possession of an irrepressible urge for adventure.

When it was time to stock up on dog food, Henry drove to the nearest village high street. As he perused the small pet shop, he spied a toy mouse and threw it in his basket. The same with a bubbling drinking fountain, several boxes of tinned cat food and treats, and other feline essentials.

Oh, he was definitely attached. 

At the till, the woman ringing up his purchase asked if he’d adopted a cat and looked quite perturbed when Henry said no.

“A local cat has taken a liking to my house,” he clarified.

The cashier paused then asked, “Calico cat? Looks like an inkpot upended on its head?”

Henry gave her a startled look. “Yes, actually.” 

“You’ll be wanting this.” The woman picked up a business card from a stack next to her till and handed it to Henry. 

Henry glanced at the card, the front of which read a single sentence in elegant script:

Have you seen my Arsehole?

He chuckled. On the back was a picture of Trixie, along with a phone number and email address.

On the drive home, the business card burned a hole in his pocket. He was conflicted. Obviously, the right thing to do was to contact the owner and let them know their beloved cat was holidaying at his house, but if he narked, perhaps the owner wouldn’t let her out anymore. On the other hand, the existence of the business card led him to believe that this was a fairly common occurrence. Henry was not the only one playing host to…

…Arsehole could not be her real name. 

Henry felt a peculiar twinge of heartbreak but convinced himself that even though Trixie may get around, she obviously liked him best. 

He then cursed to himself when he realised he’d completely forgotten to buy Kal’s food and drove back to the pet shop.

After finally returning home, he stuck the business card upon his fridge, and then made quick work of setting up the drinking fountain and other odds and ends. On his hunt for the perfect spot for the cosy cube, Trixie was nowhere to be found, so he set out a small dish of food in hopes of coaxing her out. That was if she was even around and not out adventuring with someone else.

The effort not to feel jealous was herculean. 

Weeks went on, and the weather turned crisp and cool. Trixie kept on with her highly irregular schedule of visits and Henry kept ignoring the business card on his fridge. It wasn’t his fault that Trixie liked to hide in piles of leaves and jump out to startle Kal and it was also certainly not his fault that he enjoyed the ensuing spectacle. He very nearly binned the card, but his conscience inevitably won that battle. 

The days grew darker and damper and as such he was no longer able to leave doors and windows open without the risk of suffering frozen bollocks.

Henry may or may not have built a heated cat shelter in the back garden.

He hammered the last nail and determined that he was definitely too attached.

Trixie found Henry’s lap one chilly evening when he was sat out on the back terrace sipping his second hot buttered rum, and he finally, after months and months, got a glimpse of the cat’s tags. 

“Oh my god, your name really is Arsehole.”

Henry wasn’t sure if it was second-hand indignation or the rum that instigated the text exchange that followed.

He was laughing so hard he had to put what was left of his drink down lest he spilt it. 

Henry (grinning like an absolute fool) needed a moment both to compose himself and decide if he was going to give his real name. Perhaps he'd simply eschewed human contact for a touch too long because it was dangerous how much he was already invested. Yes— it was just a short text exchange, and yes—he didn’t know your name and knew even less about your personal circumstances, but that didn’t stop the immediate connection on his end. From a security standpoint, it was a bad idea to get any more involved, but lying about something as simple as his name still felt morally objectionable.

He stewed a moment in his conflict; this was likely a mistake but he was doing it anyway.

This is how it continued every day for weeks. Amidst your good-natured, increasingly flirtatious raillery, Henry learnt that Trixie (he regularly campaigned for a name change, to no avail) was both infamous and beloved amongst the locals but unfortunately suffered from the chronic inability to stay within the bounds of home. She’d also developed the unfortunate skill of slipping out of her collar when getting into mischief, hence the business cards—in case Trixie happened upon someone who wasn’t already familiar with her, like Henry.

Apparently, she’d never pestered anyone as much or as long as Henry, and he was inordinately pleased by the revelation. 

Your conversations became his favourite daily ritual and as the holidays drew closer, Henry knew he was in trouble. He woke and checked his messages with much anticipation, and with his morning coffee in his hand, he leisurely wandered and looked for Trixie. He was always disappointed when she wasn’t around, as it was today. Kal, having fully embraced her company, visibly missed his new playmate.

There was no denying Henry was really in the shit when he drummed his fingers on the kitchen worktop that frosty morning and seriously contemplated asking you to spend Christmas Eve with him. It was an absurd notion; the holiday wasn’t far off and surely you’d already have plans of your own. After hitting send with a shaky thumb, he was overcome by an overwhelming combination of embarrassment and foredoomed rejection and promptly shoved his mobile into his back pocket.

Henry distracted himself with a trip into town for some provisions. Enough for two, just in case. He was stringing up festive lights and decorations and nearly wobbled straight off the ladder in shock when he got a return text accepting his invitation.

Disbelief was quickly overcome by dread. Oh lord, how was he going to explain…well…him?

He’d exchanged names and other safe, nondescript personal details with you, but no photos. You’d never asked and he never dared, secretly fearing the consequences that would inevitably follow. Henry—rather futilely it felt at times—wanted a person to like him for who he was and not who he was, and wasn’t disappointed to leave out of it completely the ever-looming fame monster from which he was currently hiding.

The pitfalls of sentimentality. Remaining a hermetic gremlin would’ve been a more intelligent choice. He’d been down this road too many times to count and was never left better for it. Henry frowned at his phone; no time like the present to torpedo his chances.

At that point, Henry was frankly informed that unless he was a smarmy politician or a serial killer, he needn’t worry on your account. He idly scratched at the scruff on his jaw and mulled over telling you anyway, but perhaps the worry was just a nonsensical bit of self-sabotage on his part, so he let it lie. 

Truthfully, the chemistry in the texting was off the charts and he was desperate to know if it was the same in person. He just didn’t want to ambush you with his celebrity, but if you were okay not knowing, then he was okay with leaving it a surprise. If just to humble himself, he clung to the possibility that he may not be recognised at all or at the very least, it wouldn’t matter. 

The fateful evening arrived and he was an absolute mess. He wore the floorboards thin with his pacing. Restless energy had him straighten and re-straighten the star on top of his tree, stoke the fire for the umpteenth time, and—in a fit of undeniable madness, presumptuously hang a bit of mistletoe under the garden doorway, though he’d already thoroughly convinced himself at least two dozen times that you wouldn’t show. 

As such, he nearly jumped out of his ugly holiday jumper (your suggestion for the evening’s dress code) when he finally heard a knock at the door.

Kal rushed past Henry’s legs, nearly tripping him in the process, and skittered across the entry hall. Henry bit back a colourful swear and lurched toward the door, wrangling Kal out from underfoot along the way. He composed himself and reached for the latch, then paused to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers. After a deep breath, he swung the door open and immediately came face to face with Trixie-Arsehole, held aloft and blocking his view of your face. 

She was decked out in a cat-sized ugly jumper and brand new jingle bell collar around her neck. The cat let out an aggrieved meow that conveyed nothing short of utter embarrassment.

She wriggled in your grip and you leaned over to let her make her escape without plummeting to the floor. When you rose, Henry’s breath caught. He’d had no clue what to expect, and though he tried to envision what you might look like a million times over, nothing his mind produced came close to reality.

It made no sense, but you looked like home.

He was stunned, quite literally. Henry scrambled to collect himself, only to be hit with the same dread that had almost sabotaged him before. Your gazes locked for a stretch that felt like an eternity. Henry stood awkwardly and braced himself, searching your eyes for some flicker of recognition. A dawning of realisation. 

The beginning of the end.

It never came. If you did recognise him, you mercifully gave no outward acknowledgement of it. Instead, you simply smiled, a kind and genuine thing, and Henry very nearly melted into the floor. 

Trixie-Arsehole let out another disgruntled meow from the floor and brought Henry back to sense. 

“I think she has a few opinions about her outfit,” he finally said.

“You know what they say about opinions. Like arseholes: everyone’s got one.”

“Except you,” Henry replied as he stepped to the side to let you in. The track of the conversation was already full of amusing promise. “You’ve got two if I recall. Perhaps three.” He pointed to your jumper; the front of the chunky knit, garish multi-fluro fair isle monstrosity was taken up by a large embroidered cat arse with an “x” under the tail. 

“I do believe I never confirmed the actual number.”

“Well,” Henry said as he looked down at the cat with a lopside smile; she was dramatically flailing about in a vain attempt to wriggle out of her collar, all whilst Kal sat by and watched with rapt attention. “That’s a festive Arsehole if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I could say the same to you.”

He turned and gave you a curious look as he took your coat and hung it on a hook on the wall. His eyes followed your finger, which pointed toward his chest, and he let out a bark of laughter. 

“Eye of Sauron,” he corrected, “Though I suppose he is very much an arsehole in a less literal sense.”

“Actually, it kind of looks like…” your voice trailed off.

Henry stopped in front of the full length mirror on the wall and took a moment to contemplate why you were at such a loss for words. After a moment it hit him, and he felt a blush bloom across his cheeks. “Ah yes, I see what you mean. Less arsehole and more…um…”

“I suppose it’s a good thing this isn’t a family event.”

“Who do you think gave me the jumper?”

You laughed and it flooded every crevice of his cynical, battered heart. Smoothed the jagged edges left by repeated disappointment and heartbreak. At that moment, he made it his mission to hear it as many times as possible. 

And after losing yourselves in hours filled with rich food and drink and delightfully subversive conversation by the fire, and after you dragged him under that cheeky bit of mistletoe and kissed him senseless, he hoped to be privileged enough to hear that laughter and indulge in those kisses for a long time to come. 

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The inspiration for Henry's jumper, in case anyone was curious

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill x you #Henry Cavill RPF #RPF #sweetdreamsofgelato writes #fic: unexpected visitor

[sweetdreamsofgelato]

Midsummer Misadventures: Chapter 7

(Henry pic credit. The rest are Google.)

[CH 1] [CH 2] [CH 3] [CH 4] [CH 5] [CH 6] [CH 7]

Pairing: Henry x Female!Reader (you)

Word count: 4942

Warnings: RPF; Enemies to Lovers. Slow Burn Smut (not yet). Snark. So much snark. Olympic-level bickering. Adult language and themes, etc. Somewhat arrogant Alpha-male Henry because I have questionable taste in men. Plot holes and predictability abound.

Disclaimer: Henry is probably nothing like this IRL. This is 100% fiction. Don’t take it seriously and don’t come at me with hate.

Summary: Henry hires you as his property solicitor and you go on a misadventure in Scotland.

A/N:

Happy Bank Holiday! Enjoy an unexpected update because my chapter was once again getting too long and had to be split. The good news is that means the next chapter is already half done. 😂

I hope you all enjoy ❤️

Unbeta-ed. All mistakes are my own.

Reposting my works on other sites or platforms is prohibited. Reblogs, likes, and comments are, as always, greatly appreciated.

The dress proved as much difficult to put on alone as it looked ridiculous, and just as you were about to find something with which set the horrid thing alight, Annie serendipitously appeared to tidy your room and volunteered to assist. 

More’s the pity, because the thought of using it for kindling had been the one bright spot of your morning.

Henry had casually offered to help too, loftily prattling on about his expertise in corsetry. Completely overblown, you suspected, and likely had more to do with taking them off than tying them up (you had seen The Tudors, under acute duress at the time). The thought alone sent your mind on a dangerous spiral, and you swiftly ejected him from the room upon the pain of excruciating death. 

After your body’s earlier shenanigans, you didn’t want his hands anywhere near you. 

Much hemming and hawing, three corset lace-tightenings and loosenings, and a shameful amount of stalling later, Annie forced you through the doorway—literally and figuratively. You let out an audible oof when your skirts got caught in the frame. Upon reaching the end of the landing, you wiggled your toes in your rebellious flats and contemplated (with newly-found, sizable respect for the women of yesteryear) the best way to descend without breaking your neck. Your choice in footwear may not abide by the prescribed costumery, but at least you wouldn’t risk needing to be rushed to the nearest hospital at the slightest stumble. 

Now, if said hospital was next to the airport, then you’d seriously reconsider the hideous heels you left back in the room.

A familiar whoop of laughter and a high-pitched excited titter floated up from the ground floor and broke the rather gruesome reverie. It wasn’t until you reached the very last flight of stairs that you spied Henry. His back was to you as he waved to someone just out of sight. He idly reclined back, one elbow propped atop the railing. 

The step under your foot creaked.

He turned.

Your breath caught.

He smirked.

The glimpse you’d gotten of the costume earlier had been extremely misleading, or perhaps, now it was simply to full effect because it was fitted to his body rather than being thrown over the back of the furniture. 

This was no tin can suit of armour. There was certainly enough well-placed shiny pomp and circumstance to give it a sense of knightly authenticity, but there was also something substantially tactile about it. A dark and dangerous utility favoured over princely show. Henry stood straight, squared his impossibly broad shoulders, and looked as if he was plucked straight out of Arthurian legend. Even his mannerisms were less languid insouciance and more measured lethality. 

His was not just some backwoods community theatre costume like you’d thought. There was a definite whiff of quality about it, and it suited him to a ridiculous degree. Kudos to Caroline for sourcing something so infuriatingly befitting Big Lad Henry. Too bad that enthusiasm hadn’t extended to Arts and Crafts hour you were forced to wear, though Henry had always been a more motivating presence. 

Henry watched the rest of your wobbly descent with something that vacillated between cautious curiosity and thinly-veiled amusement. When you reached the bottom step, he bent with a grandiose bow and raised one hand palm up. 

“My lady.”

An odd shiver ran all the way to your toes.

“You look radiant,” he added, choking back barely restrained laughter.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.” 

The retort hadn’t come out nearly as acrimonious as you would’ve hoped and verged far too close to stunned and breathy for comfort. Henry looked up and his smile was nothing short of devastating. Your mind suddenly felt perilously woolly, and for the first time, you held genuine sympathy for anyone caught in the crosshairs of his (apparently) not-so-alleged charm. It was becoming clearer why he always seemed to get his way. 

Which irritated all the same. Finding your head, you dodged his proffered hand, lifted your voluminous skirts and flounced past, all on the silent hope that you didn’t trip on the excess of lace trimming. There was something steadying in the simmer of annoyance. A calming sense of equilibrium. Balance restored to the universe.

“I am more than entitled, given the circumstances,” he said from behind you.

“To indulge in a bit of schadenfreude?”

He fell into step. “Just desserts, Cupcake. Just desserts.” 

You stopped short and the pendulous weight of the skirts nearly toppled you. You held your arms out to regain your balance, one finger raised for emphasis. “Do not call me that.”

“Your words.” His eyes made a leisurely pass from head to hem and with it came an irrepressible urge to squirm. “And not wholly inaccurate.”

You immediately pulled a face far beneath your years; he responded in kind. Your parents would be so proud.

Henry was definitely enjoying this.

In a horrifying sort of way, so were you.

Rather than risk unearthing any more new weaknesses, you put Henry safely in your peripheral vision and hastened through into the main pub. It was positively hivelike, buzzing with excited energy but still with distinct synchronicity of purpose. A few familiar faces mingled amongst strangers who you suspected were local volunteers. Some bustled about, boxes bursting with ribbons, streamers, and decorations in hand. Others sat and chatted animatedly whilst putting the finishing touches on their projects or braiding fresh summer flowers into garlands and wreaths. The air was so heavily perfumed that it bordered on overwhelming. Beyond the tables lain with jugs of lemonade, half-drunk pints, and light refreshments was Gavin. He was stationed, pail and rag in hand, by the pub’s rather impressive wall of antique windows, evidently on cleaning duty and looking quite discontent for it.   

You felt a fleeting pang of sympathy and asked in passing if he wished to trade places. One startled look at your unfortunate get-up and he swiftly resumed wiping the wavy glass with renewed vigour. 

No one shall accuse you of being uncharitable. 

Jack was nowhere to be found, to your eternal gratitude, as your dignity was already on the ropes and you hadn’t even made it to the stage. Some curious eyes followed you on the way to the back exit, though most appeared too preoccupied with their preparations to do anything other than give you a nod or abbreviated greeting before moving on. Henry hovered closely, likely to ensure you didn’t try to make a run for it (as if you could in skirts this wide) but, nonetheless, you were relieved he was large enough to break lines of sight.

To your face, anyway. There was absolutely no hiding the dress. 

Out the back door, you were greeted by another brilliantly sunny day. The striking view from the terrace revealed the lush fields now studded with the half-assembled beginnings of a sprawling maze of colourful marquees. It was pushing noontime, and given that the same fields had been completely empty the previous evening, the festival crew must have started in the early hours to be this far along. 

The gentle breeze tickled your cheeks as you lifted a hand to shade your eyes. Beyond the tangle of small marquees, you spotted two fenced pitches in the distance. Off to the side were piles of smoothed poles, mounds of coiled rope, and other suspiciously sporty oddments. 

Highland games. Technically, Muirford wasn’t in the Highlands, but what better than something quintessentially Scottish to attract tourists, especially those less inclined to venture further north during high midge season.

Your eyes moved beyond the pitches to another higher, far more prominent marquee. Only the top was visible, but if you hazard a guess, that was the entertainment stage.

“This way,” said Henry as he led you down the steps. 

Evidently, the festival was a much bigger deal and more far-reaching than you’d originally anticipated. The conversation you’d had with Gavin when you first arrived came to mind: that midsummer celebrations were an annual tradition and brought in visitors from many of the surrounding villages, but there seemed to be a heavy emphasis on attracting tourists as well, and now with the undeniable draw of Henry’s presence…

You swallowed thickly and wiped your damp palms over your skirts, knowing full well that the sweat was only halfway caused by the heavy costume. 

There was a sharp thwack against your side, dragging you back into the moment. You grimaced and looked down; the sheathed stage sword attached to Henry’s thick leather belt smacked against your well-padded side with each step, like a slow and steady prod. 

The fact that he got a sword and you got eighteen layers of glittery fluff was an egregious affront. 

You shuffled out of range of the sword and your thoughts and kept pace with Henry. He wove in and out of lanes with confidence that ascribed some knowledge of where to go and you briefly wondered if he’d done some reconnaissance this morning. That, in turn, ultimately made you also wonder where he spent of his evening. In spite of his generally conspicuous existence, he was proving quite adept at skulking off, and you were beginning to wonder where he disappeared. 

Tch, banish the thought. Curiosity certainly never did the cat any favours.

Your interest was diverted by stall after stall dedicated to all manner of offerings, with signage boasting traditional local delicacies and modern speciality street food, both of which you absolutely planned to partake in when you weren’t being publicly humiliated. When you took a fork in the path, Henry’s hand caught your lower back. It was merely to redirect you in the right direction, but the touch branded you through the thick corseted bodice.

Your face and neck immediately warmed, and it had nothing to do with the bright midday sun.

Henry’s hand quickly disappeared from your person, the disappointment from the loss of its warmth on your skin was downright startling. The breeze kicked up. It whipped through your many layers, whirling upward to cool your cheeks. It caught Henry’s hair and gave it a ruffle; he closed his eyes and breathed in, serenely savouring the freshness, and you hastened to look away. 

Down another offshoot was a central circle, the circumference of which was reserved for local artisans who carefully prepared their booths. You passed set-ups for blown glass trinkets, hand-knitted wool jumpers and mufflers, soaps and candles, carved wooden children’s toys and various curios. You peered around in hopes of spotting your new favourite Fraser jam when you heard it, pealing through the air like a death knell:

“WHERE ARE MY UNICORNS?”

You blanched. The urge to bolt edged on violent.

“Don’t even think about it.” Henry caught you by the shoulders and spun you around, and in the process, smooshed the over-puffed sleeves into your face. You swatted at his hands as he not-so-gently encouraged you forward. When you broke through the last line of marquees and the rogue tuille, the raised stage came into full view.

It was chaos worthy of Accidental Renaissance.   

Stagehands rushed hither and thither, organising props and rudimentary scene settings in front of the painted fairytale backdrop whilst dodging others who futilely attempted to wrangle a gaggle of children into their costumes. Two youngsters with rugby helmets far too big for their heads were mid-combat, the dull thudding of their wooden swords and shields coming together in a frenetic rhythm, and some poor helper trying to break up the scuffle was knee-capped for their effort. At opposite ends of the stage, two men upon wobbling ladders struggled to hang a heavy crimson curtain; they shouted after a group of breakaway youths (suspected source of the wobbling) who clambered en masse after a horde of sheep hell-bent on escaping their clutches.

Relatable and oddly mesmerising.

It was a proper scrabble. The children swarmed—strappy, glittering unicorn horns held aloft the fray—and dove after their quarry, but the sheep proved quicker. The terrorised animals broke ranks and scattered, much to the delight of their pursuers, who squealed excitedly as they chased the bleating sheep—exit stage right, down the steps, and out into the field. 

A few harried helpers clutching armfuls of costumery hurried after them.

You stared, mouth agape, but your attention snapped to by the piercing screech of a megaphone:

“Bout time ye showed up.”

You looked down.

A miniature Caroline stood before you. Far too young to be her daughter—couldn’t be past the latter half of primary school, but the familial resemblance was plain as day. Right down to the ruthless glint in her eye. 

“Who are you?” you asked, taking a wary step back.

The lass flicked her dark plaited hair over her shoulders, adjusted the aviators on her nose, and lifted the megaphone to her mouth. As imperiously as a child could, she answered, “Yer director.”

You shot Henry a hard-pressed look that plainly read This is a joke, right?

He returned your unspoken question with a lazy shrug.

“Och, guid, yer here!”

The voice came from behind and you made a startled spin. It was apparent that there was little chance you’d end the day without suffering whiplash.

“Dinna let this wee one give ye a fright. She’s harmless. G’on, Gracie.” Caroline shooed the girl toward the chaos on stage and then turned and smiled between you and Henry. “I’ll introduce ye tae awbody. Juist so ye ken, given the circumstances, we’v made some changes tae the performance.”

You must’ve looked peaky because Caroline immediately bustled to your side to offer reassurance in the form of incessantly patting your hand. “Ye must be a ball of nerves, but ye look — er lovely. Henry took an age tae pick a dress but he wis absolutely right that it’d fit perfectly.”

“You picked this?” The question definitely sounded as accusatory as intended.

Before Henry had a chance to plead his case, Caroline cut in. “Aye, he took great care in chuisin it. Insisted the original dress wouldnae fit. I dinna ken yer size, but wha better to than yer man.”

Caroline smiled broadly in that Cheshire way of hers and proceeded toward the stage, carrying on completely unaware of the fact that you’d fallen back with Henry and were three seconds from ripping off one of your many ribbons and throttling the male lead.

You waited for Caroline to get just out of earshot and hissed, “You are unbelievable. I suppose you chose your own costume then?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Henry motioned innocently toward himself. “Called in a favour with a costumier in Edinburgh. Worked with them a few years ago and they had this collecting dust in storage so I drove there last night to borrow it.”

That explains the realistic appeal and impeccable fit. For the sake of remaining functional, your brain bypassed the fact that he’d driven to Edinburgh and back in the middle of the night and rather got straight back on the path of indignation.

“And you couldn’t have found anything in that storage for me?” You wanted to think it a shock that he would choose something so horrid but it really wasn’t. If the situation was reversed, you would’ve done the exact same thing.

“Revenge is sweet, C—”

“Don’t you dare call me cupcake,” you cut in and then groaned, “This whole thing is utterly humiliating.”

“Be positive,” Henry drawled in a smarmy saccharine tone that did nothing for your mood. He prodded you toward the stage, where Caroline was now frantically waving you over. “Try to think of it more as a selfless act for the greater good.”

“Your greater good, you mean.”

“For Muirford.” 

The hours that followed went just as well as you expected. In order to accommodate your inability to memorise an entire script in less than a day, the story was to be narrated with the actors more or less miming the action in the background. Henry, show off that he was, volunteered to recite his own lines and you were relegated (blessedly) to a primarily non-speaking role, with only fitful sighs, genteel gasps, and girlish shrieks to break your vow of silence. Whenever you didn’t know what to do, you simply feigned a dramatic swoon. No one had commented on it thus far, which said a lot about the general direction of the afternoon. 

Henry muttered a curse as he once again caught you just before you crumpled to the ground. A fine sheen of sweat dampened his brow and his mouth was firmly set in a scowl. You did your best to ignore how he effortlessly held your weight; the way his muscles tensed as he anchored you against his chest; the way your breasts strained further in your bodice from the pressure.  

Jesus fucking Christ, you needed to get a grip. Now was not the time to go method.

“If you swoon one more time, I refuse to catch you,” grunted Henry.

You went slack in his arms, to both grant some space to find your head and to irritate him. “It’s fine. Just let me die here. It would be a kinder fate.

There had been no shortage of chaos as the play progressed, and the anxiety of being centre stage for most of it wasn’t as bad as you’d anticipated. Probably because the whole ordeal was so outlandish that it felt rather like a dissociative experience.

You’d survived a village being burnt to the ground (dark), a plague (even darker), and an evil witch’s curse. Your noble steeds had abandoned you. Most of the flockherd of sheep-unicorns had once again escaped to the fields, along with the majority of the children—most of whom were dressed as various bits of landscape and scenery so things were looking bleak indeed. The brave few (sheep not children) that remained had at one point taken turns seeking refuge under your skirts.

You were sweaty, irritated, and probably smelled like a fetid barn stable on a hot summer's day, but you were too exhausted to care. 

Henry fully committed to his part, much to the delight of the crowd of picnickers who’d come to watch the bedlam unfold. He pulled it all off with aplomb you didn’t feel gracious enough to acknowledge. The crowd ate it up, of course, so his ego was well-fed without any praise needed from you.

But now, after a medically-concerning amount of swooning, you were mercifully at the final act. Slumped on the stage floor, you leaned your head back against the post to which you were loosely tied and tried not to think about how your life had gone so far off the rails. After the pillaging, pestilence, and evil sorceress, you’d been kidnapped. By whom, you still weren’t sure, but Henry was now undertaking a grand rescue.

The End wouldn’t come soon enough. 

“Cue the dragon!” Gracie bellowed into the megaphone.

After hours of that pint-sized tyrant barking orders, you were more than ready to take that bloody megaphone out into the fields and smash it with a rock. 

Yet still, you wondered what poor barn animal was forced to take the role of Dragon. 

A cow, perhaps. Maybe a donkey.

Wild applause and hoots of laughter broke out across the lawn of spectators. You were still mulling over casting possibilities when you heard a rhythmic slapping against the stage. The sound was odd if only because it sounded weirdly familiar. 

You looked up and let out your first genuine gasp of the day. 

Jack stood on the opposite end of the stage. He was dressed head to foot in a bright green hooded bodysuit. It was covered in hand-drawn scales all generously crusted in glitter. His hands were hidden in oversized keeper gloves painted and adorned to match the rest of the bodysuit. Horns hung limply to the sides of his head and resembled rabbit ears more than anything else. The snout on the hood seemed out of proportion with that of a typical dragon and definitely gave more crocodile. You had absolutely no clue what to make of the lime green swim fins on his feet or how they were remotely dragonesque. 

Henry proved a true professional and kept a straight face. The only break in character was a quick wink toward Jack before he drew his sword and gave it a playful swish through the air. 

“Swoop in!” The megaphone screeched, “Guard your prey, Dragon!”

Jack sighed and trudged across the stage, flip flapping through a cloud of flaking glitter all the way, and crouched down next to you. 

“Fancy meetin' ye here.”

You let out a commiserating groan and whispered, “I thought I’d saved you from all this.”

“Aye, so did I.”

The dragon costume really was unfortunate all around. You cast him a sympathetic look. 

“Nae need tae suffer on my account. Looks like yer awready sufferin’ enough.” Jack’s smile was half-hidden by the felt-toothed, stuffed snout that flopped over his face. He lifted a finger and pushed it out of way. “Repurposed from a production of Peter Pan, if yer wonderin’.”

Explained a lot, actually. “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack shrugged. “The things we dae for family.”

You nodded and settled back against the pole. “I don’t even have that excuse.”

“Whit’s yers?”

“Misplaced sense of honour. A healthy fear of cosmic retribution,” you sighed.  “Deeply repressed masochism, even.”

“Oi ye two, this isna bloody tea party!”

Caroline’s voice rose over the echo of the megaphone. “Gracie, mind yer tongue!”

Gracie mumbled something probably far worse out of the register of the megaphone before lifting it to her mouth again. “More fearsome, Jack!”

Jack rose with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Best get this over wit.”

He made a valiant effort. He and Henry played well off each other, and at one point looked as if they were actually having a good time of it. Jack made quite a spectacle of the dragon’s eventual death.

Rightfully so. Wouldn’t want to risk resurrection.

Jack let a few of the remaining children amuse themselves by dragging his lifeless form off stage, leaving a scraggy iridescent trail in his wake.

“Awricht,” Gracie snatched up the script from the narrator's hands and read into the megaphone. “Lord Thane, weary and battle-worn, unties his beloved Lady Mariella and gathers her intae a luving embrace.”

Henry huffed and puffed across the stage, adding a bit of a limp for effect. You slipped your hands from the loosely tied scarf around your wrists and Henry feigned great effort in pulling you up. 

“If you lovingly embrace me, I shall forcibly remove your limbs from your body.”

“Don’t make the rest of this harder than it needs to be.”

That sounded ominous. “The rest of what?”

A high-pitched whine cut you off and Gracie’s voice boomed forth. “Center stage. Someone mark their spots.”

You and Henry both took three large steps to the left and a helper marked your positions with bright yellow tape before scurrying back off stage. 

“I said luving embrace. Closer. Closer. Och, for fu—”

“Gracie!” Caroline hollered, on cue.

“Will you relax?” Henry muttered as he wrapped his arms around you and hugged you closer. 

“I’m trying!” you spat. Your back curved as much as the bodice would allow and your head dropped back. Your arms were pinned to his chest, fingers splayed across the faux plated armour. The position forced you to lean into him for support lest you slip to the ground. The whole ridiculous image had to resemble the inner cover of a steamy romance novel. 

“Arms around his neck!”

You grumbled but acquiesced. 

“Perfect!” Gracie finally bellowed. “Adoring gazes.”

You swore under your breath and made your best attempt at moony half-wit. 

“Are you having a stroke?” asked Henry as he watched through heavy, half-lidded eyes. You knew he was acting; this was his profession after all, but his gaze had slipped so quickly and convincingly into sultry and love-soaked that it was unsettling. 

You trod on his toes. His eye twitched.

“Now kiss!”

Your head whipped to the side, just in time to connect hard with Henry’s nose. With no thought to the children, you and Henry cursed loudly and wildly. Some of the spectators gasped, others hooted and laughed. Gracie let out a long, frustrated howl. 

Henry’s arms disappeared from around you as he staggered back.

You gingerly held the side of your head to ease the throbbing. “Excuse me, what?” Directed at Gracie.

Henry muttered something unintelligible through his hands, but you knew it was scathing. His eyes were furiously watery.

Gracie shot you an impatient look, then mimed a motion as if squishing two dolls together. “Kiss!”

“No.” You shook your head and it made the throbbing worse. 

Gracie strode to the front of the stage, which was a good head and half taller than the girl, and fixed you with the most intense glare you’d ever seen on a child. She balled her fists on her hips, which thankfully meant the megaphone was nowhere near her mouth. “Whit dae ye mean, naw?”

“I am not kissing him.”

The lass looked genuinely confused. “I thought ye two wis married.”

“You have been misinformed.” You glowered at Henry for good measure.

“Weel, ye hivtae kiss. This is a luve story and the Happily Ever After is the most important bit.”

“Surely a children’s play does not need a kiss.” This was a lousy attempt to pull rank as the adult in the conversation, though your argument didn’t sound the least bit convincing. Given that almost all the children had abandoned the stage before the end of the second act, you weren’t even sure it could be classified as a children’s production. 

Gracie's jaw dropped; she glanced at you, then to Henry (though he offered no explanation), and then back to you. She looked positively mind-boggled. “Hivna ye ever read a fairy tale?”

“How on earth is this a surprise?” Henry added as he held the bridge of his nose and sniffed, then promptly winced. 

In truth, it shouldn’t be, as it was a fairy tale (or some twisted hallucination masquerading as one), but you honestly hadn’t thought that far with your anxiety caught up in everything else.

Henry tilted his head back and dabbed at his nostrils. “Didn’t you read the script?” 

“Er—not in its entirety.” Embarrassment heated your cheeks. After the seventh scripted swoon, continuing seemed a moot point at the time.

“I ought to sack you for negligence.”

You gave him a withering look. “That’s not what that means and you know it.”

Jack wandered up from behind. The slap of the swim fins was unmistakable. 

“Sorry tae break up this meetin’ of creative minds, but Gracie, it’s time tae pack it in for the day.”

“But we’v no rehearsed the final scene!”

“They’ll sort it oot for the morn.”

“But it’s the kiss,” Gracie whined dramatically. It was the first time all day that the lass actually sounded her age.

“It’ll be fine. I guarantee these two ken how tae kiss.” 

Oh God, if someone could just put you out of your misery that’d be grand.

Gracie crossed her arms over her chest and aimed a piercing, unconvinced look down the line: Henry, Jack, and then finally you.

“Go’n,” Jack insisted. “Ah remember hearin’ yer Gran sayin’ somethin' aboot weel-earned ice creams.” 

“Fine,” she sniffed indignantly, “but the kiss better be perfect.”

She spun on her heel and made it only a few steps before turning to give you all one last glare of disapproval. “Nothin’ less than a true luve’s kiss!” she barked, then stomped the rest of the way to the craft tent. 

“She’s going places,” said Henry after a long, stunned moment passed. He loosened the ties on his armour.

“Straight to the naughty step, I hope,” you grumbled. You enviously watched his fingers fiddle with his costume, knowing full well you wouldn’t get relief from the corset until you were back at the inn and managed to track down Annie.

“Mark my words, one day she’ll be bossing me around on a proper set.” 

“You can’t be serious.”

“She’s got vision and a commanding presence. Both are vital for making a good director.”

“Vision?” Your voice rose in tandem with your disbelief. “This is a fever dream!”

“I’m with the Lady,” interjected Jack as he leaned over and removed his swim fins. “Best no tae encourage madness.”

“Lady,” Henry scoffed. “A swoony, unconvincing trainwreck if you ask me. You didn’t even try. I had to carry you, quite literally, the entire rehearsal.”

You took a minatory step toward him. “I will skewer you with your own sword.”

He mirrored your step forward. “Good luck with that. It’s as dull as that bloke you dated back in Sixth Form.”

“Excellent, then it shall be all the more painful when I jam it up your—”

“Awright, tae yer corners,” Jack cut in, jerking his reptilian hands in opposite directions. His voice dropped as he nodded meaningfully between you. “Impressionable ears and watchful eyes.”

Your chest rose and fell as rapidly as Henry’s. His neck was flushed, cheek colour high, and his gaze sparked. Irritation fizzled your blood. So much for keeping things publicly civil; both of you looked ready to go for the jugular and there was little doubt to the growing number of onlookers that you were mid-row. They all tried (and failed) to appear completely disinterested in your public spat. 

Henry ran a hand through his hair and released an agitated breath, then gingerly inspected the budding bruise on his nose with his fingertips. “I need a drink.”

“Yer in luck.” Jack smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “I can help ye wi' that.”

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill fan fiction #henry cavill fan fic #henry cavill rpf #rpf #sweetdreamsofgelato writes #fic: midsummer misadventures