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theegoldenchild · 2 days ago

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Chapter Five: The Devils Tongue (Part 1)

Warnings: Smoke is horny | Stack is horny | Sera is horny | I am horny

Whispers through Mississippi started slow, the way southern rumors always did. Nothing more than a tilt of the head and a hushed breath passed between hands full of laundry or mouths full of honey butter cornbread.

“They say they bringin’ music out to the north field…”

“One of them juke joints… with dancers and shine and God knows what else…”

“Right behind the preacher’s house, Lord have mercy…”

Sera heard them all. At church. At the water pump. Through the walls when her father met with the deacons. The same words repeated like scripture passed down the wrong way.

The SmokeStack twins were opening a juke joint, and not just anywhere. Not thirty miles up the road like they said they would. Not on neutral ground with enough distance to keep peace in the state. But right there. On the north field. A heartbeat away from her father’s back porch. Like a slap in the face to Pastor Samuel.

And legally? There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Because that land… the north field… was no longer his. Smoke and Stack had drawn up papers before the battle and slipped them in the mouth of war like a knife beneath a blessing. Pastor Samuel had signed off on it, too proud or too desperate to read the fine print. It was theirs now. All of it.

Sera stood in front of the open window of her upstairs bedroom, watching the transformation unfold in the distance. She hadn’t been outside in weeks due her restricted freedom and the schedule of a housewife with no husband. She scrubbed. She stitched. She read. She prayed. She was finally being seen as good again.

She didn’t allow her hands to touch herself anymore. It was a one time occurrence even though the protective shadow stood outside her door every night waiting for more. Instead of giving in she would sit on her hands until they went numb. The only true form of relief she received was when she went to sleep. It was the only time she felt free enough to let the twins cloud her mind without judgment.

But now… the world was moving again, just beyond the edge of the tree line. Where once there was wild grass and silence, there were now men. Men building a frame out of reclaimed wood and intention. Men hammering under the sun, smoking cigarettes and singing in low voices while Stack strutted across the foundation like a carnival ringleader. His suspenders hung loose at his hips, white button-down open at the collar, gold tooth flashing every time he tossed his head back and laughed.

Sera watched as he pulled a flask from his pocket and toasted a man twice his size. He wasn’t helping, just directing. Giving out orders with a grin that suggested he was halfway drunk and still the smartest man on the field.

Smoke, on the other hand, worked in silence. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, his undershirt clinging to the hard shape of his back as he dragged barrels of supplies from their truck. No smiles. No jokes. Just labor.

Downstairs, Pastor Samuel paced the parlor like a man waiting for fire to walk through the door. “They mean to shame me,” he murmured under his breath, hands clenched behind his back. “To tempt God right on holy land!” He stopped in front of the window and scowled out toward the north field. “Liquor. Dancing. Woman’s legs flashing under red lights. Music that stirs sin up from the bones.”

“Then why sell them the land?” one of the deacons asked.

Samuel’s jaw tensed. “They didn’t say nothin’ about this when they signed. Said it was temporary. Said they just needed it for defense.”

“They defendin’ something now,” another deacon sighed. “Their right to party, I reckon.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Samuel broke it with a slam of his fist on the window frame. “They’ll burn in hell for what they’re doing!”

That night, when Sera crept out of bed and pulled back the curtain again, the bones of the juke joint had been raised. The walls stood. The dance floor was built. And a glowing sign leaned against the steps, freshly painted in blue and red:

The Devil’s Tongue

The name itself felt like a dare. A joke that clung to her skin like cigarette smoke she wished to smell again. She touched the window glass, fingers lingering. She couldn’t hear the music yet. Couldn’t smell the liquor or see the women in low-cut dresses. But she felt it somehow. A slow, wild heartbeat starting to stir beneath the soil. One that matched her own.

The heat never left Mississippi, not even when the sun gave up and the stars pulled their blanket across the sky. It clung to the ground like sweat to skin, curling into the roots and pressing against windows like a watchful ghost.

Sera stood barefoot on her back porch, fingers clutching an empty pail, her eyes fixed on the silent well pump. It had coughed and sputtered all morning and now it was nothing but a rusted hunk of metal. Dry, breathless, useless. Just like yesterday. And the day before that… And the day before that…

She shifted, looking out past the trees toward the north field. The juke joint was almost finished with lanterns that glowed in the distance like a row of watchful eyes, flickering against the frame of the new structure. She could hear hammers still ringing out in the distance and the low thrum of voices too far away to decipher.

Her stomach turned in knots. She shouldn’t go. She knew she shouldn’t. But her skin itched with the stick of the day. Sweat clung beneath her arms, behind her knees, at the curve of her back where the cotton of her dress stuck like sin. Her hair, pinned tight beneath her scarf, felt heavy with dust and oil. She needed a bath. But she needed forgiveness more. And so she made herself pure the only way she knew how before walking into the lion's den.

She layered her body in silence. First, a slip, plain and soft, yellowed with age. Then, the second dress, brown, thick muslin with sleeves that reached past her wrists and a collar that scratched against her throat. Then, a third, black, starched and long, hanging loose down to her ankles. It swallowed her whole.

She took a black scarf and wrapped her curly hair tightly, then draped another across the lower half of her face. All that was left were her eyes. A pair of tired honey orbs that flicked to the heavens one last time. “Lord, please don’t let no one see me.”

The pail creaked in her hand as she stepped off the porch and began the slow walk toward the north field. The woods whispered around her as she moved, branches brushed her shoulders while grass crunched underfoot. The trees thinned the closer she got, replaced by an open field and smoke curling upward from the juke joint chimney. She stayed to the edge where the shadows were thickest. Somehow the pail felt heavier the closer she came.

Laughter drifted across the breeze and boots scraped against wood. She saw them now, men sitting on crates and barrels, some smoking, some drinking, some talking low with the slack confidence of those who knew they owned the night. Sera kept her head bowed, steps slow and cautious, skirts rustling as they brushed her ankles.

“Now what’s this?” one man called out, voice slurred with liquor. “Ain’t that the damn preacher’s girl?”

She stopped dead in her tracks like a deer caught in headlights.

Another man leaned forward, squinting at her. “Lord have mercy, she look like she tryin’ to scare the devil himself in all that black.”

A low ripple of laughter erupted amongst the men and her eyes stayed on the ground. She moved again, feet whispering across the dirt with embarrassment latching onto her like a second skin.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouths or I’ll slit your throats and use them vocal cords for catfish bait.” That voice didn’t laugh. And it didn’t have to. Smoke was tucked off in a corner sitting on a crate and watched Sera’s every step. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t even stand from the crate he was resting on. All he had to do was turn his head towards his men, give them a look, and silence followed.

Sera reached the water pump, hands shaking like a leaf as she tried to make the water come out. Her eyes darted once towards the porch just long enough to see the slant of Smoke’s jaw under the red lantern glow and the way he watched her.

Stack appeared from inside the juke and leaned against a post, arms crossed with the glint of his gold tooth flashing beneath his smirk. “Pretty girl… my little dove… we missed you,” he drawled. “You goin’ to a funeral, or tryin’ not to tempt a soul on God’s green earth dressed in all that black?”

Like always the sound of Stacks voice caught Sera off guard and her hands jerked the handle too hard. Water splashed everywhere, soaking through all three of her dresses and the cold water clung to her now wet stomach. Her cheeks flamed. “I’m just gettin’ water Mr. Stack,” she mumbled, voice muffled by fabric.

Stack said nothing as he stepped off the porch with an unhurried and deliberate movement. He closed the distance between himself and Sera, merging their shadows together under the moonlight. His fingers came up slow, the way a wolf would approach a skittish rabbit. No rush. No threat. Just intent.

And for some reason Sera didn’t flinch when his hand touched her scarf. But she did stop breathing for a moment. Delicately, he slid his fingers beneath the scarf that covered her face and loosened the knot at the back. The cotton slipped under his touch and the damp air kissed her skin as he drew the scarf away and dropped it into her trembling hands.

“There,” he whispered, voice deep and soft. “That’s better.”

Soon as the scarf came off she diverted her eyes away from him. Everything about this was too intimate and Sera wrestled with the idea of touching herself again tonight. Her lips were red and full from biting them too much. And Stack couldn’t help himself. He lifted her chin and guided his thumb over her swollen bottom lip… just once. Her shoulders twitched at the contact, and she gasped so quietly it almost sounded like a moan.

“Too pretty to stay hidden, little dove,” he said. “It’s a sin, really. Coverin’ all this up like God didn’t take His time makin’ you.”

Behind them, Smoke stilled completely. Not a muscle moved. His eyes were locked on Stack’s hand on Sera's lips. And the way her body stiffened before quivering under the weight of attention she’d never been taught how to carry.

“I—my daddy says…” she stammered, eyes flicking toward the pump like it might save her.

“That nigga says a lotta things,” Stack chuckled, stepping just slightly to the side still holding her chin and forcing her to face him. “And I bet you ain’t ever questioned a single one.”

Sera made eye contact then, just for a second. Enough for Stack to see her eyes, all stormy and lost. Like he was driving a ship filled with her emotions and could guide her back to shore.

“You don’t gotta answer to no man out here,” he rasped. “’Cept’ maybe us.”

“Stack,” Smoke finally warned before walking near the two of them.

Stack didn’t take his eyes off Sera. His voice dropped to a murmur, almost sweet. “I’m just admirin’ her, Elijah. A man can’t enjoy lookin’ at his woman?”

Sera blinked as her mind started racing a million miles a minute. His woman? Stack was claiming her as HIS woman? And that name…. Elijah. It tangled in her thoughts like a loose thread. It felt sacred and forbidden.

“…Elijah,” she whispered, tasting it like something sweet she wasn’t supposed to have. “Is that really your name?”

Behind her, the pump creaked once in the wind. The lantern’s glow flickered on the porch and casted both twins in molten amber. Stack turned his head just slightly, watching the chaos he created unfold. He knew better than to say Smoke's real name, but seeing his older brother lose his composure around Sera was becoming entertaining.

Smoke moved without speaking before standing beside his brother—broad shoulders brushing Stack’s, both of them now a wall of muscle and firelight.

They weren’t in their suits tonight. Just white undershirts clinging to sweat-slick coca butter skin. Broad chests rising steady and deep. The cotton stretched tight across every sharp line… hard work and violence carved into the shape of two men who didn’t belong to God or the law.

And Sera… she couldn’t help it. Her eyes wandered. First to Stack’s chest… then to Smoke’s stomach. The way his shirt clung to the lines carved just above his hips. The faint dusting of dark hair there. She quickly looked away and mentally prayed to the high heavens.

“You don’t say my name like that,” Smoke said suddenly, voice sharp enough to snap her attention back to his eyes.

He stepped closer, just enough to greedily capture her full attention. And then his hand came up. The same hand that has been infiltrating her dreams for weeks. He took her chin from Stack like passing a torch, holding her face now between his own fingers. And gently his thumb dragged across her bottom lip.

A shiver rolled down her spine and Smoke’s eyes didn’t move. “That name’s dangerous in your mouth,” he warned, thumb still teasing the seam of her lips. “You say it again and I might forget I’m tryin’ to be good.”

Sera’s chest rose in a shaky breath. Her lips quaked under his thumb.

“I—I didn’t mean to tempt you,” she whispered, her voice catching like a prayer half-swallowed. “I just never heard it before. It’s a real nice name…”

“Don’t matter if it’s nice,” Stack cut in, his voice smooth and wicked like all this wasn’t his fault. “It belongs in the mouth of a woman who’s ready to own it. You ready to own our names, little dove?”

Sera didn’t answer. The air between them was heavy, like moments before a hurricane when the sky forgets how to breathe.

Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the wet fabric on her stomach. The water had splashed more than she realized drenching the front of her dresses. Now the fabric uncomfortably clung to her skin as she kept trying to pull it away.

Smoke’s eyes dropped to her twitching fingers and lingered as unholy thoughts and flashbacks filled his mind. Tonight would be another night of self-control he isn’t sure he has anymore. He exhaled through his nose before letting Sera’s face go and pinched his bridge.

“Come on,” he said roughly, voice edged with something he didn’t bother hiding. “You can’t go home like that.”

Sera blinked up at him. “What?”

“I said, come on.” His jaw worked like he was fighting with his own teeth. “You’re soaked. Ain’t decent. Come inside the barn. Dry off fore’ your daddy sees you like this.”

Stack’s grin grew. “Or don’t,” he teased, cocking his head. “Let the preacher get a good look at my woman… wet, breathin’ heavy, and wearin’ all these damn dresses like modesty might save her.”

Sera’s mocha freckled face flushed scarlet. “I didn’t… I wasn’t tryin’ to—” She stuttered over her words, eyes flicking between the twins, too flustered to run but also too nervous to stay.

“My daddy’s comin’ home soon,” she said quickly, breath tight. “He’ll notice I’m not at the house.”

Smoke leaned forward, his face unreadable in the lantern light. “Then move fast.” He turned without waiting and started toward the barn, his broad back cutting through the dark like a blade. Stack gave her a playful smile and followed behind, whistling low.

Sera hesitated while looking at the twins and the road back to her home. The walk back would be uncomfortable with a wet dress, but then it would be difficult to explain to her father how she accidentally got three dresses wet tonight.

The water sloshed in her bucket. The wet fabric clung to her skin. And every inch of her burned with bubbling rebellion. Just for tonight, she would willingly follow the lions into their den.

The barn loomed ahead, once quiet and forgotten, now pulsing with music and light. Opening night was tomorrow and the twins had turned it into something else entirely. The thrum of a distant record played on the phonograph. Dim lanterns glowed from the rafters. Tables lined the edges. The scent of tobacco, moonshine, and heat hung in the air like a warning.

Smoke held the door open. “Inside,” he ordered, voice firm and cracking with irritation. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you. We just don’t want nobody seein’ you like this.”

Stack leaned in close to Sera's ear and whispered before glancing down at her clinging skirts. “Though if you ask me, they should see you. You might convert half the sinners in town just by walkin’ past.”

Sera ducked her head and stepped in. Heat rolled through her as the door shut behind her and trapped her inside with two men who didn’t know how to pray… but sure as hell knew how to sin.

The barn’s music was a low hum in the distance now, muffled by the walls that separated the front room from the back. Smoke didn’t speak as he led her deeper into the converted juke joint, past crates of bootleg whiskey and mystery crates that smell of gunpowder and metal. Stack followed behind, quiet but not silent, his presence was felt more than heard.

Sera’s eyes adjusted slowly to the shadows until they reached the rear of the barn, an unmarked door tucked between a record shelf and an old upright piano. Smoke opened it with a worn key he kept on a chain around his neck.

The space inside was nothing like she expected.

A faint drop light flickered in the middle of the room revealing a simple iron-frame bed in the corner covered in dark sheets, thick quilts, and pillows. Lots of pillows. Too many for one man.

A steam iron hissed faintly from the far table, a white mist rising above a freshly cleaned pair of slacks. Before Stack joined his brother outside, he was back here ironing their clothes for tomorrow. Unlike the rest of the converted barn, this wasn’t a room for entertaining. This was Smoke’s room, where he would privately wind down after fighting the world.

“Sit,” Smoke ordered gently, nodding toward the edge of his bed.

Sera looked between the welcoming bed and Smoke before slightly shaking her head no. “My clothes are wet. I’ll mess ya bed up,” she whispered.

“Won’t be wet for long… or maybe you will,” Stack answered from behind, already walking towards the steam iron. “I’ll take care of the dresses. You just sit tight, little dove.”

Sera gripped onto the wet fabric of her top dress and hesitated. Her arms folded tight over her chest, and her eyes landed on the oak floor, to the bed, to the iron… to anything besides the twins. “I… I don’t know if I should.”

Stack turned halfway, glancing over his shoulder. “Ain’t no one askin’ you to strip down bare, darlin’. But sittin’ in soaked fabric don’t do nobody no good. Go on, take the top one off. I know you got fiddy’ more under it.”

She still didn’t move. Her spine was rigid with uncertainty, like a deer in a snare, not sure whether to flee or surrender.

“That dress stickin’ to your stomach like that?” Stack murmured. “You’re gonna catch cold before you get home. You want to go home to ya daddy snifflin’?”

Sera scrunched her face and quickly fixed it, “I’m fine… can’t nobody catch colds bein’ wet in the summer,” she said quickly and defensively.

“You’re not,” Smoke cut in quietly, his voice an authoritative thread of reason in the thick air. “You ain’t fine. You’re cold, and wet, and tremblin’ even though it’s a hunnid’ degrees tonight. Let us help.”

Nibbling on the inside of her cheek Sera looked over at Smoke who was sitting in a chair across his bed and taking his boots off. Like he didn’t just give her the final push she needed to comply. Hesitantly, her fingers rose slowly to the ties at the back of her neck. Her movements were stiff and nervous, but also determined… determined to show Smoke she knew how to follow directions. Why? Well, she wasn’t quite sure about that yet but it felt natural to do so. The first dress came loose with a reluctant sigh, and she peeled it off, water dripping from the hem as she folded it in her arms.

Stack moved forward to take it, but not before letting his eyes travel over the second dress now revealed. This one clung closer to the skin but not enough for his liking. He took the garment from her hands, his fingers brushing hers for a split second longer than they should’ve. No smile. No teasing. Just a pause before he turned back to the iron.

Sera swallowed and turned her back to them as she shyly lifted the second dress at the hem. Her hands shook with trepidation. The wet cotton stuck to her thighs, refusing to come off easily. The sound of it peeling from her skin was deafening in the silence. Keeping her eyes glued to the wooden floor she avoided handing Stack the second dress and instead placed it next to his work station.

“You wearin’ another under that one too?” Stack asked, quieter now.

Her voice was tight and she nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost to himself.

She didn’t respond. The third dress came off slower. For some reason she didn’t feel as shy giving him her final gown of armor. But she still wasn’t able to make eye contact as she placed this dress next to the other one. She stood there in her plain white chemise and form fitting bloomers, the thin cotton clinging to her every curve. Modest by any standard. But not to them.

Stack turned his back under the pretense of adjusting the iron’s dial, but his hands clenched tighter than they needed to. Smoke stared a moment longer before letting his eyes drift up to her frazzled face.

“You don’t gotta be nervous,” Smoke said quietly while pushing his desires down. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch you unless you ask us to. You safe here.”

Sera’s eyes lifted and she bit down hard on her bottom lip almost drawing blood to conceal her shock. “I’m not askin’ for that,” she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not askin’ for nothin’,” Stack replied, in a hushed tone. “That’s the part we don’t like.”

She blinked and turned her head. “What?”

Stack sighed and shook his head, “You don’t ask for what you want. You wait for someone to give you permission. That ain’t livin’, dove. That’s just breathin’ quiet.”

The tension settled between them again. Smoke crossed to the dresser and pulled out a white button-up shirt… his. It looked soft and worn, sleeves rolled just above the elbow and a faint scent of sandalwood still clinging to it. “Put this on,” he said, offering it without looking directly at her. “Till your things dry.”

Sera reached for it carefully, fingers brushing his as she took it. The shirt hung heavy in her hands, and when she slipped it on, it swallowed her tall curvaceous frame falling to mid-thigh, the collar open, and sleeves trailing past her fingertips.

Stack watched her move from the corner of his eye while working the steam iron over her first dress. “Don’t get too comfortable in that shirt, pretty girl. You’re liable to turn a man religious walkin’ ‘round like that.”

Smoke ignored him and sat back in his assigned seat for the night and continued rolling a cigarette. Sera watched him curiously before sitting on the edge of his bed. “Why… why do you have so many pillows?” she asked softly, her voice colored with innocent confusion. “Ain’t just you in here, is it?”

Sera didn’t mean to ask an intrusive question but she genuinely was curious about the pillows. Stack burst into a laugh behind her, not cruel but full of wicked delight. “Ain’t no woman in here, if that’s what you mean,” he chuckled, pressing down on the fabric. “But them pillows sure seen their share of sins.”

Sera blinked, face heating. “I— I don’t understand—”

Smoke ran a hand down his jaw and finally looked up, his cold gaze cutting through her to glare at his twin. “I use ’em when I can’t sleep,” he said evenly, ignoring his brother’s grin. “That’s all.”

But Sera didn’t miss the tick of his jaw… or the way he refused to look at the bed when he said it.

Stack gave a low hum and chuckled to himself. “He sleep just fine when he’s got the right thing in his hands.”

Sera turned her face away, but not before the brothers saw the flush rush up her cheeks, blooming high across her cheekbones. She tucked her knees in tighter beneath the oversized white shirt, trying to disappear into the fabric but the effect only made her look more precious and touchable. Like some delicate secret wrapped in cotton and candlelight.

Smoke said nothing at first. He sat with one ankle resting on his knee, elbows on his thighs, a tin of tobacco in one hand and paper in the other. His gaze flicked toward her, completely indecipherable. “You ever rolled a cigarette before?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Sera blinked. The question seemed ridiculous considering her background but she let her sarcastic answer die on her tongue. “No, sir.”

He gave a short nod and tapped the tin open with his thumb. “C’mere,” he said, in a detached yet seductive tone. “I’ll show you.” Stack raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say a word. Instead he focused on his task and continued this best to dry Sera’s dresses.

She didn’t move at first. Her amber eyes searched Smoke’s face for mischief or cruelty, but found only that mysterious calm, shadowed by the golden glow of a nearby oil lamp. Her fingers clutched the shirt tighter. “I—I’m fine over here…”

“Like I said sweetheart… You’re safe,” Smoke reassured, still focused on the paper in his hands. “If you gon’ be sneaking around here with us sinners, you might as well learn new skills.”

The room went quiet and Stack stopped what he was doing to turn and glare at his brother. Smoke and Stack haven’t fought for the attention of the same woman since they were little. And right now it seemed like he was three steps behind as his brother effortlessly took all of Sera's attention. His signature grin dropped and twisted into something quieter… almost possessive.

Sera’s breath came a little quicker, heart thumping like it wanted to jump out of her chest. She shifted again, then slowly climbed off the bed. So many sins had been committed in one night and she tried to keep a mental list of everything she’d have to repent for.

1.) Being alone in a room with TWO dangerous men.

2.) Stripping down to her undergarments in front of these men.

3.) Sitting on a man’s LAP…

4.) LEARNING TO ROLL A CIGARETTE!!

The list seemed never ending, and she didn’t even include how the forbidden wetness had returned between her thighs. Her bare feet padded across the floor, the oversized shirt falling around her knees like a curtain. She stood in front of Smoke for a moment, unsure what to do next.

Smoke looked up at Sera and lowered his leg back down before spreading his thighs wide, “Sit,” he said gently, patting his thigh. “I don’t bite, sweetheart.”

She obeyed, carefully lowering herself into his lap. Even though Sera wasn’t a petite woman, her thick thighs draped over one of his and she felt so small… and protected. Her back stayed stiff as a board as she tried not to let any part of her touch more than necessary. But he was so warm and solid, and her juices were flowing through her underwear leaving little droplets on his slacks. Smoke made no mention of it but let one of his hands drape across her waist and maneuver her on his lap so she couldn’t feel his growing secret.

“Relax,” Smoke muttered near her ear, speaking more to himself than her. “Ain’t no sin in sittin’. Now watch.”

Sera nodded and leaned forward slightly, her side brushing against his chest. The scent of smoke, iron, and something faintly woodsy wrapped around her as he guided her hand gently to the tin.

“This here’s the tobacco. You pinch it like this…” His fingers brushed hers rough, but patient like he wanted to cherish this moment. “And you roll it gentle. Real slow. Gotta feel it. Not just use your hands—use your senses.”

Sera nodded, her breath catching every time his fingers touched hers again, every time the soft rasp of his voice fell too close to her ear. Her whole body was trembling and she subconsciously clenched her thighs together. Smoke noticed, just like how he noticed everything but he didn’t comment on it.

Stack watched them from across the room, no longer focused on ironing and his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re doin’ fine,” Smoke murmured again. “Just like that, baby.” The cigarette was shaped, ready to light. But Sera didn’t move. Her fingers still lingered over his, eyes still focused on what they’d made. “You’re a fast learner,” Smoke added, voice rougher now.

The sound of her soft voice, the way she shifted shyly in Smoke’s lap, the trembling curve of her thigh under the hem of that white shirt, all of it twisted something hot and mean in Stack’s gut. “Didn’t know we was givin’ private lessons tonight,” he chimed as his jealousy blatantly radiated off of him. “Tell me, ‘Lijah… how many other little doves you taught that trick to?”

Smoke’s hand stilled where it had been guiding Sera’s fingers. His jaw flexed as he looked up, not moving her and definitely not letting go. “I ain’t gotta teach anyone but her,” he said low. “Ain’t my fault you too busy flirtin’ to make things stick.”

Stack sucked his teeth and without another word, he walked to the edge of Smoke’s bed, and made himself at home. He sat down with his legs wide and posture relaxed like he wasn’t deliberately intruding. From his back pocket, he pulled a worn silver tin and cracked the lid open with a flick of his thumb.

“You know,” Stack said as he packed tobacco into his palm, “I ain’t never had trouble teachin’ a lesson when it mattered. Some folks just learn different.”

Sera looked between them, her fingers twisting shyly in her lap. She was still perched on Smoke’s knee, now with less certainty like she could foresee the chaos waiting to erupt.

Stack didn’t look at his brother when he spoke, and focused his eyes on his redhead angel. “Maybe she wanna learn from me next,” he said, voice quiet and teasing. “See how different the teacher makes the lesson.”

Smoke let out a slow breath through his nose and leaned back in the chair as he tightened his grip on Sera’s hip. He didn’t move Sera, didn’t rise to meet the provocation. Instead, he set the cigarette they made aside and looked up, his posture calm but his eyes told how he was tired of the game. “There ain’t no need to start trouble,” he said evenly. “Not in front of her.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back as Stack and Smoke began bickering like children that didn’t know how to share their new shiny toy. Smoke was losing his patience with his brother.

“Nigga, you got some nerve sittin’ here runnin’ ya mouth like I won’t whoop your ass from here back to Chicago.”

“Ain’t nobody fuckin’ scared of you, Elijah!”

While Smoke and Stack continued to bicker and exchanged biting words between them like flint to steel, Sera sat silently in the middle, unsure where to place her hands, her thoughts and her shame. In the heat of the moment, Smoke unintentionally shifted Sera directly onto his growing erection before picking up a nearby ashtray and chucking it in the direction of Stacks head.

“THROW SUM ELSE I DARE YOU!”

“WATCH YA MOUTH YOU LYIN’ SUMMA’ BITCH!”

It was subtle at first, just a small movement, his hands still steady at her waist. He realigned her to keep her out of the crossfire and placed her soft covered heat directly over the firm ridge of his arousal. The contrast made her breath leave her body and she almost arrived at heaven’s gate. It felt good. Too good. Her thighs tightened instinctively and a dangerous warmth flooded to her lower belly. This was a level of sin she wasn’t sure a night of repentance would fix.

She hadn’t touched herself since that night. That night when Smoke’s voice had stirred something buried deep. Since then, she’d refused to look inward, way too frightened to explore what waited behind her curiosity. Too afraid of what she might become if she gave in.

But tonight… the air hung thick with desire. Like a storm rolling slow and low across the fields. It whispered to her, beckoned her. Promised that if she dared to dip a toe into darkness, she wouldn’t fall alone. Smoke would catch her and Stack would comfort her.

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Their arguing faded, reduced to static on the edge of her mind as she gave in to the devilish sensation. Smoke’s arms, strong and unmoving, bracketed her body like pillars. His chest rose and fell behind her back, steady and unbothered. Too consumed with arguing with his twin. She exhaled slowly and began to move. Barely. Just a cautious shift of her hips back and forth to test the friction. The thick line of him nudged through his slacks up against her blooming flower that pulsed with each movement.

It was maddening. Up and down… an inexperienced grind… back and forth. Each motion of her hips was gentle and full of exploration. She inhaled sharply as Smoke's shirt rustled over her succulent thighs, letting both men see the wet spot forming on her panties. Her hands found Smoke’s thighs, and she gripped them lightly as she sought the pressure her body craved.

The pleasure was delicate at first, like the flutter of a moth’s wings. But it built slowly and steadily. This was different from when she touched herself. Back and forth… up and down… A warm flush crept up her chest and neck. She no longer heard their voices. She closed her eyes and just focused on her breathing and the wet heat gathering between her legs.

Back and forth… left to right… right to left… up and down… Sera gasped again, her breathing ragged and shallow. Her hips moved with more purpose now testing limits she’d never dared explore. The heat expanding between her legs was damn near unbearable, soaking through her cotton underthings and making her acutely aware of every sensitive inch pressed to the twitching hardness beneath her.

She didn’t hear the creak of the chair when Smoke leaned in closer and didn’t sense the room shifting. Not until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Whatcha doin’ sweet girl?” he whispered, voice husky. “It feel good don’t it? Keep goin’ for me… don’t stop this time… I’ll be here to guide you.”

Her body gave a soft shiver at his words. Her thighs tensed around his trying to close but he slid his hands down to them and held each one open. She didn’t speak, she couldn’t. She just moved, driven by the need curling tighter and tighter low in her belly.

Smoke’s grip on her thighs flexed, then eased, guiding her rhythm ever so slightly, like he was tuning a song only he could hear. “Don’t rush it,” he whispered again, “Just like that… Take your time…”

Then she felt another presence approach. Stack had gone quiet for too long and that was never a good sign. Sera’s eyes opened slowly and the haze of desire clouded her vision as she saw his boots come into view. She tilted her head upwards just slightly and that was all he needed.

Stack crouched down in front of her, his towering frame folding like a wolf preparing to pounce. His eyes were dark and for a split second Sera had to question if she was looking at Smoke or Stack. His firm fingers lightly gripped her chin, tilting her face toward his.

“You don’t stop now, darlin’,” he ordered in a rough tone with something more dangerous than lust. “You keep goin’.” Sera opened her mouth hoping to respond but no words came out, just another whimper and silent moan.

“You hear me?” he growled, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Ain’t no shame in takin’ what you want. Not here. Not with us.”

Smoke’s lips still lingered near her ear. “You’re doin’ so good,” he purred, his tone a complete contrast to Stack’s rough edge. “Look at you… our little church angel learnin’ how to move.”

Stack’s hand slid down her throat until it rested just above the curve of her chest. “You keep rocking’ on him ‘til we say stop.”

Sera’s heart thundered behind her ribs. Their voices tangled around her like tobacco in the lungs, addictive and dangerous. Both men were hard enough to cut diamonds. Their bodies coiled tight and strained beneath their clothes. Yet neither gave in… they just watched.

Every subtle twitch of Sera’s hips, every stuttered breath and delicate shift, each pass of friction seemed more delicious than the last. This was a show. One she wasn’t even aware she was performing. Smoke’s jaw clenched, his hands steady where they gripped her, guiding just enough, allowing her to find her pace on her own. Stack watched like a hawk pretending to be unaffected but the pulse on his neck betrayed him. He was barely breathing. And Sera? She was unraveling by the second. If this addicting sensation and dizzying pleasure was possible with her undergarments still clinging damp between them, what would happen if her bare skin touched his? Would it break her? Would she survive it?

She whined quietly. “E-Elijah… I… I ca—”

But she didn’t finish. Smoke growled, like the sound scraped up from the pit of his stomach. His hands slid to her inner thighs, thumbs spreading her open just enough to stop her motion cold. She whimpered at the loss of pressure. Then, slowly, he leaned her back against his chest, angling her hips forward and exposing the damp fabric stretched over her pulsing center. Her head lolled back on his shoulder with her eyes glossed over with lust.

Smoke’s grip was firm and controlled. His mouth brushed the crown of her head with a tenderness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “You made such a mess, my love,” he teased, tone deceptively soft. “Bet he’s wonderin’ how you taste now.”

Stack’s eyes darkened then and Smoke’s voice dropped lower and colder. He didn’t look at Sera as he spoke, he looked at his brother, a smirk curling his lips. This was payback. “If you need help to finish,” he said, slow and condescending, “ask Elias real nice and he might help.”

The tension snapped taut like a drawn bowstring. Sera shivered hard, the sound of Stack’s real name crackling through the room like a match being struck. Her body ached, her thighs quivered and she was now wide open in Smoke’s lap with her sanctified pussy soaked and pressed forward, like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Like a turkey laid bare for carving on Thanksgiving day.

And Stack—no, Elias—was starving. That cool, collected mask cracked, if only slightly. His nostrils flared. His tongue darted across his bottom lip. His fists flexed at his sides like he was fighting himself not to take. The silence grew thick between them, as if the very walls were waiting.

Sera looked between the two of them with her breath ragged, skin flushed, and her innocence in tatters. And then she turned her attention to Stack. Her voice though soft carried a weight that made the room hold still. “…Elias,” she whispered, eyes wide and vulnerable. “Please… help?”

His name, sweet and unsure on her tongue, shattered whatever restraint he had left.

And the devil in him stirred.

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idkyetxoxo · 2 days ago

Text

Five | Burning Cold | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2k

Warnings - Parental abuse, angst (who's surprised x)

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"You embarrass me beyond reason."

Beron's voice struck like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

The dining room was almost eerily quiet. The candles had burned low, casting elongated shadows across the table, and the fireplace crackled behind him like it too knew what was coming.

Rhysand and Azriel had already been shown to their respective rooms. The staff had long since been dismissed.

It was just him, Eris, and me now. A ritual in cruelty. One we'd all rehearsed too many times.

Beron remained seated at the head of the long table, one hand curled around a glass of wine he hadn't touched, the other drumming slow, deliberate fingers against the polished wood.

I stood before him, hands twisted together in the front of my dress, heart rattling against my ribs like a prisoner trying to escape.

Eris stood beside me. Tense. Too still. His eyes locked on our father like he was calculating exactly how much defiance he could get away with before he was forced to watch me bleed.

I knew this was coming.

I had felt it simmering beneath Beron's skin during dinner, even before I'd forgotten the name of my supposed betrothed. Even before I stumbled over my words like some foolish, fidgeting girl.

My silence, my trembling hands, my avoidance of wine—all damning in his eyes.

But I hadn't anticipated just how bad it would be.

"I apologise," I said, voice low and tight. "It simply caught me off guard. I didn't know—"

"You didn't know?" he repeated, his tone mockingly aghast. "And is that not the root of your failings? You do not know. You never know."

He set the wine down with quiet precision, then leaned forward, voice lowering into a pitiless rasp. "What use is a daughter who crumbles under pressure? Who flinches like a whipped dog and forgets her place like a simpering maid?"

I swallowed, hard. "It was sudden. I was just shocked."

"Shocked" he echoed, voice thick with derision. He laughed once, a sharp, joyless sound. "Does the battlefield offer surprises, girl? Do alliances form and break without warning? And what then? Will you stammer your way through strategy while your enemies slit your throat?"

He stood. Slowly. With the terrible weight of inevitability.

"You are weak," he said flatly. "Weaker than before. I see it in your shoulders, the way they slump. In your eyes—there's softness now. Contamination. And you reek of something else. Something foreign. Untrustworthy."

Beside me, Eris stepped closer. His hand found the small of my back in a subtle, silent gesture. A warning not to provoke. A tether, so I didn't float too far away from myself.

But it was too late.

With one violent sweep, Beron's hand smashed across the table sending silverware and glasses crashing to the floor. The force of it made me flinch, and before I could recover, he was there.

His fingers were in my hair, twisting and yanking my head back until I was forced to look up at him. The pain was sharp. White-hot.

"You dare flinch from me now?" he snarled, his breath hot and thick with wine and rot. "You've forgotten what fear feels like? Let me remind you."

"Father—" I gasped. "I'm sorry," I cried out, the words choking on my tongue.

Eris's hand dropped from my back as he stepped between us. "Stop. Just—wait," he said quickly, voice low and firm, but Beron didn't even look at him.

"Eris, leave." His voice was razor-edged.

Eris didn't move. His jaw clenched, his eyes flashing. "No."

"Eris, leave now!" Beron roared, and a ball of flame exploded near the door, bursting in a rush of heat and smoke. The flames danced along the stone walls like predators hungry for more.

For a long heartbeat, Eris stood rooted. Then, with eyes that burned with guilt and helpless rage, he turned and left. I watched him go, just for a second and the look he gave me... It undid something in me.

It was sorrow. It was apology. It was useless.

Beron yanked my face back toward him, his other hand grabbing my chin so tightly I could barely speak.

"You are no daughter of mine when you falter like this," he snarled. "You've gone soft. Frail. Sluggish. And I will not have it." His breath was hot and sour. His grip turned bruising.

"You're hurting me," I sobbed, voice cracking as tears slipped down my cheeks.

"Good," he hissed. "Maybe pain will remind you what's expected of you. Maybe fear will shake this lethargy out of your bones."

I tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened, nails digging into my skin. He shook me, hard enough that the room spun.

"You think tears will save you? That Eris's pity will shield you from what you are meant to become? No. You will not be soft. You will not be weak. You will be what I command you to be."

His nails dug in. My legs buckled.

"You are not a creature of sentiment," he growled. "You are not soft. You are not kind. You are Autumn's flame, and you will burn when I say burn."

He released me so suddenly I stumbled back, clutching at the edge of the table to keep from collapsing completely. My scalp screamed. My lungs heaved for breath.

The doors to the dining hall burst open with a force that echoed through the room like thunder cracking through frost.

But it wasn't Eris this time.

Azriel stood in the threshold, shadows slipping off him like smoke from a smothered fire, writhing toward me in instinct—those tendrils of darkness already reaching, already knowing. They curled around my ankles, my wrists, brushed the bruised corner of my jaw with ghostlike care.

Of course they knew. Of course he knew.

"High Lord," Azriel said coolly, voice devoid of emotion, like he was carved from ice and steel.

Beron turned slowly, irritation flickering like flame behind his eyes. "What?"

"Rhysand wishes to speak with you before you retire for the night," Azriel replied, words casual but precise.

It was quiet. Polite. Submissive. It was also a lie. To Beron, it must have sounded routine. A servant simply doing his duty.

But not to me. To me, it was code. It was calculated interference.

Beron stared at Azriel for a moment too long, suspicion simmering behind his gaze. Then he glanced at me, my flushed face, trembling hands, the way I stood too still, too quiet. His mouth curled in distaste.

But he turned and left. His footsteps disappeared into the corridors like the closing of a cage.

Silence followed in his wake.

"Rhysand doesn't want anything," I rasped, my voice cracking like dried leaves.

Azriel took a single step toward me, and in it was restraint, fear, reverence. "Well," he replied softly, "he does now."

I let out a breath that shook on its way out. My hands fumbled to smooth the bodice of my dress, to pull my sleeves back into place. Anything to look less ruined. Less broken.

When I looked up, I wished I hadn't.

Azriel's expression was... shattered. Quiet, steady Azriel, the male who never let a single crack show—he looked at me like something inside him had just died.

The devastation on his face made me feel like I was drowning in it. It made me angry. Made me ashamed. I looked away.

He reached toward me slowly, gently, as though approaching something wild and wounded. His fingers found my arms first, featherlight on the sleeves of my dress.

A breath later, his hand moved to my face. He brushed back a strand of hair, one of many that had been yanked free just minutes ago.

The contrast of it, kindness after cruelty was too much.

It undid me. I almost crumpled. Almost collapsed into him right then and there.

"How long?" he asked, his voice roughened with emotion.

I looked up at him, and my eyes betrayed me. The tears welled, then spilt, despite everything in me that tried to hold them back.

His jaw clenched. His eyes turned stormy.

"It's nothing," I whispered. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters," he said, voice firmer now, edged with something dangerous. "But you shouldn't have to take—"

"Do not meddle in our family's affairs," I snapped.

I meant it to be sharp. Meant it to push him back where he belonged. But the words fell flat. Brittle. Useless.

His shadows recoiled as if wounded. I felt the space between us widen, the silence become unbearable.

And still, I couldn't stop my body from leaning forward, couldn't stop my hands from curling into fists just to keep from reaching for him.

I wanted his arms around me. I wanted to bury my face in his chest and pretend the last twenty minutes hadn't happened.

But I couldn't.

Because if he touched me like that, I might not be able to let go. Because if he comforted me, truly comforted me, the illusion of strength would fracture for good.

And that would be dangerous.

For him. For me. For the tiny life inside me that I hadn't even dared to speak of.

"Is this why you've pulled away—" Azriel began, his voice quieter now, no longer edged in frustration but something softer. Something close to hurt.

But he didn't get to finish.

Pain—sharp and sudden ripped through my abdomen. A jolt that stole the breath right from my lungs.

I doubled over without meaning to, a sharp gasp tearing from my lips as my hands flew to my stomach—my glamoured stomach still concealed beneath layers of illusion and silk.

My knees buckled, and I gripped the edge of the table beside me to steady myself.

"What's wrong?" Azriel was at my side in an instant, shadows coiling around me like a net ready to catch me if I fell. His arm reached for mine, his hands steady and sure.

I shrugged him off before his touch could truly land. Because I knew what it was.

Because the baby—his baby had just kicked. For the first time.

It had been subtle, not the kind of thing someone else would notice. A ripple, a flutter like wings brushing against skin from the inside.

But to me, it was seismic. A soft little tumble inside me that sent everything reeling.

My heart stuttered. My fingers splayed protectively over the illusion hiding the small curve that had begun to show beneath the glamour.

I straightened slowly, schooling my expression as best I could, even though I felt like my world had just shifted off its axis.

Azriel was still watching me, concern carved into every line of his face.

"I'm fine," I managed though the words were hollow.

"You doubled over in pain—" he started again, voice tight, jaw clenched.

"It's nothing," I snapped too quickly. "I just... I hadn't eaten. Probably a cramp."

It was a terrible lie, one that passed my lips before I could think better. But it was all I had.

If I told him the truth, if I let it slip—what then?

His child. The one I hadn't planned for. The one he hadn't planned for. The one who had just made themselves known, as if to remind me they were real. Alive. Growing.

Azriel was still watching me, too perceptive for his own good. His shadows hadn't recoiled either they hovered close, sensing the deception, the tension, the truth I refused to let free.

"Every time I try to speak to you, you shut me out. Now you're in pain and you won't even look at me—"

"Because you don't get to know everything," I bit out. My voice was harsher than I intended, cracking at the edges. "You don't get to demand pieces of me just because you decided to care too late."

That stunned silence again. The kind that cut deeper than shouting.

I hated this. I hated the look on his face—of ache and confusion and maybe even guilt. I hated how part of me wanted to fall into his arms and just tell him. Tell him everything.

But I couldn't. Because once he knew, he'd never leave.

And I wasn't sure I could protect him, not from my father, not from this court, not from the consequences of what we'd done.

So I turned away. Clutching my stomach as gently and secretly as I could, fingers spread over the place where life had just moved for the very first time.

My chest ached with everything I couldn't say.

The baby kicked again, just a flutter this time, almost as if they were responding to my heartbreak. As if they already knew they'd have to be strong, even inside of me.

And behind me, Azriel stood in silence.

Still waiting. Still not knowing.

A/n - This part is a bit shorter than usual, but intentionally so—I didn't want to rush into the next part just yet. Next part, well, the beginning of it is my fav so far (hint hint kinda?).

Azriel finally sees the abuse firsthand and, of course, steps in. He assumes it's the reason reader has been pulling away—understandably, but it's not!!

And then... the baby makes their presence known. For the first time. The timing couldn't be worse, but in some small, bittersweet way, it matters that both parents were there x

It's definitely one of the more graphic ones with the abuse so I apologise for that.

Thank you for reading <33

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff @lilah-asteria @smol-grandpa @shinyghosteclipse @rachelnicolee

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nadvs · 16 hours ago

Text

escapism .* part one

pairing rafe cameron x socialite! female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you live a turbulent life in the public eye as an unruly heiress from a controlling family. you thought you had your future all planned out, until you learn that your trust fund hinges on marrying a stranger.

tags arranged marriage au. canon divergence. reader is bratty and volatile. rafe is the calmer one for once (but not by much). they hate each other at first. six-year age gap. plot contains alcohol abuse, toxic family dynamics, chronic illness, trauma bonding, mentions of death, and smut that starts off as hate-sex oops!

» masterlist

author’s note i typically make reader inserts vague for relatability, but this is the most detailed one i’ve written. she’s misunderstood, guarded, and has a short fuse. she has trauma from childhood neglect and lives with a chronic illness, resulting in poor coping mechanisms and a desire to feel free. i enjoyed exploring a fmc like this and i hope you enjoy the read just as much <3

Rafe sits in the backseat, fingers grazing the edge of his jaw. The wrought-iron gate creaks open to reveal a long, manicured drive that curves out of sight, the estate lingering beyond the bend.

His loyalty to his father knows no limits. It’s why he agreed to go along with this ridiculous publicity stunt.

Yesterday, Ward told him about the unusual proposal one of his business partners made. Kal is the powerful patriarch of a high-profile family and apparently, now that his wife is entering politics, his family’s reputation has never been more important.

The only thing standing in their way to a respectable image is their daughter.

Rafe thumbed through every tabloid he could find last night. The headlines followed the same formula, all about a spoiled, wild socialite, the epitome of old money royalty, getting wasted at parties, dating around, and never backing down from any sort of altercation.

Kal had promised that with his corporate influence, this arrangement would give Cameron Development an edge it’s never had before.

And Rafe is determined to pull it off. He wants to make his dad proud. He’s been working for him for a few years now, eager to prove himself and move up the ranks.

This is an unorthodox way to do it, but he’ll take what he can get. And he might even like you. You seem like you have some charm to you to say the least, even if it is centered in chaos.

The driver pulls up to the front doors of your family’s home right on time for the meeting. When a butler welcomes Rafe into the foyer, every footstep and shuffle of clothes echoes through the manor’s enormous, gleaming frame.

The butler rushes away to fetch Kal. Rafe stuffs his hands in his pockets and takes in the vacuous, characterless space. His eyes land on a thick-framed image hanging between two rounded staircases.

He squints, sizing up the five figures. It’s not a photo, but a painting of the family that calls this place home.

He studies it from afar, already having committed your face to memory from all the research he did on his phone last night, eyes travelling over the brushstrokes of an older couple, two men, and his future wife.

Wife.

This is insane.

“Great to meet you,” Kal’s voice booms through the foyer. He crosses the room, offering a tight handshake.

Rafe follows him to his office. He expected you to be here, but the only other person in the brightly lit room is an older woman typing on a laptop. Kal introduces her as Celeste, the family’s publicist.

The door shuts and Kal settles in his place behind his desk, tearing right into business before Rafe even takes his seat.

“I know this is unconventional,” he says, “but Nora is announcing her intention to run for public office in two days, and it’ll be a rigorous campaign.”

Celeste nods with widened eyes, gaze still glued on her screen.

“I’m sure your father has told you that we need all the good press we can get,” he continues. “I don’t know how familiar you are with my daughter, but she isn’t the representation we want for our family.”

He clasps his hands together.

“And before we bring her in, there is something I need you to do.”

Rafe waits, tense.

“She’s unpredictable and secretive. It leads to bad surprises and even worse press,” he says. “I need to know her plans, her activities, absolutely everything you can find out. Can you keep me informed without her knowing?”

Rafe imagines his father’s expectant stare, the one he’s sure he’ll be wearing when he asks him how this meeting went. The familiar ache to impress him radiates through him, a desire he’s shouldered all his life.

He still remembers the look on Ward's face when he told him about his plans to go back to college, long after he’d dropped out as a freshman. It was the first time he seemed convinced that his son was turning his life around, that earning a solid education wasn't just another stint Rafe would give up on.

With enough time and effort, finally, Rafe had a shred of his father's approval. He graduated and was back on track to take over Cameron Development. The job had practically been lined up for him since birth and he'd nearly squandered it through his rocky adolescence, a trainwreck in response to losing his mother.

He refuses to fuck anything else up. He crawled his way out of the hole he’d once been in and he has no intention of falling back into it. He won’t stop for anything.

“I can do that,” he agrees.

Kal nods, then presses a call button on his desk, instructing the butler to bring you in. As the air fills with silence, the suspicion that you haven’t even been told about the arrangement yet gnaws at Rafe.

“Does she know about any of this?” he asks, a slightly disbelieving chuckle spilling from his lips.

“She’s about to,” your father says.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Your eyes follow the words in your textbook as you type on your laptop, music softly buzzing from your speakers. The house is always so quiet, forcing you to listen to your own thoughts.

You need the noise. Any distraction.

You’re in your last few months of working towards a master’s degree in business, taking advantage of the schooling you have access to, all in an effort to prove yourself and be set up for success for when you can finally leave this place in the rearview.

Most of your life has been a waiting game, and you’re in the homestretch to getting your trust fund. All you need to do is make it to your next birthday. You can’t survive without that money. Your medical expenses are too high.

The dream of walking out the front door and never stepping foot in this house again consumes you. You long to be your own person, away from the gossip rags, free from your family’s restrictions.

You’re not proud that you don’t have the self-restraint to quietly wait out your time. You’re driven by anger, by the pull of escapism, constantly getting out of control with your drinking.

But it's too addictive and the spiteful side of you enjoys knowing you’re a PR nightmare, publicly embarrassing the people who gave you your last name.

A month ago, as a result of your mother’s sudden interest in politics, you’ve been put under harsh restrictions to avoid any and every risk of unfavorable press. You were ordered to give back your credit card and live at home instead of on campus, with no access to transportation unless a driver has been appointed to take you somewhere.

You’ve still found ways to rebel, sneaking out to see friends, partying to numb your pain. Your parents try to keep you under control because they care about public perception. About notoriety. Not you.

You learned long ago that you’re just a thorn in the family’s side.

Knuckles tap on your bedroom door. You stand and swing it open to meet Mathieu’s tired eyes.

“You’re needed in your father’s office, miss,” the butler says.

“You know my name, Mathieu,” you say with a gentle smile. “I can’t. I’m in the middle of an assignment.”

“He said your attendance is required, miss.”

He winces, correcting himself for calling you that again, saying your name instead. You’ve seen your father’s staff on edge all your life. He runs a tight ship, and it’s one you’ve wanted to jump off of for a long time.

Because of that, you have a soft spot for the people who work in your home. At least they’re nice to you. Even though it’s their job to be.

You agree, simply because you don’t want Mathieu to have to deal with the collateral damage of your father being told no.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Three heads turn towards you when you enter the office.

You meet your father’s eyes immediately, clenching your fists at your sides because, like always, being in the same room as him triggers an onslaught of anger through you.

“What is it?” you say curtly.

“Have a seat,” Kal says, his voice clipped.

“I’m busy,” you answer.

“Sit.”

Rafe’s gaze follows you as you cross the room and settle in the chair next to him. There’s a sudden heat in his chest, a frustration in how he can’t pull his eyes off of you.

The photos he saw online, the painting in the foyer, they do you no justice. You’re stunning, radiating confidence, moving like you expect the world to get out of the way for you.

Maybe liking you won’t take much pretending after all.

“You know Celeste,” your father says.

You return her pointed frown. You didn’t mind her at first, but then, she realized she could get away with ridiculing you, safe from any of your family members coming to your defence.

Once she knew that her job was secure, she’s passively jeered at you many times, calling your antics fodder for the rags, calling you shameful and childish.

“And this is Rafe.”

Your eyes flitter towards the stranger. You’re in awe of how near impossible it is not to melt under his gaze, his eyes piercing, every plane of his face strong and refined.

You didn’t know what you were expecting coming in here, but it wasn’t him, staring like he’s waiting for you to do something.

“Hi,” you say stiffly, then look at your father. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been an embarrassment,” Kal says.

You remain perfectly still, no stranger to your father scolding you no matter who’s in the room.

“You’re kidding,” you say, your tone flat and sardonic. “What is it this time?”

Rafe gathered that you’re difficult, and he’s no saint himself, having had many disputes with his own dad, but he always had the sense to argue behind closed doors. He didn’t expect you to be so bratty from the get-go, so openly abrasive towards someone you’re supposed to respect.

“We can’t have you causing any trouble,” he says. You sigh, feeling Rafe’s gaze on you. He must be the latest bodyguard your father’s hiring, yet another man you’ll drive to quit his job. “I refuse to let my wife’s campaign be ruined.”

“Wait, so, if she loses, it’s my fault?” you breathe a laugh.

Your mother’s step into politics is just another line on the list of her meaningless ventures. It reeks of boredom masked as ambition; a move made only because she can afford the luxury of trying everything once.

“I’ve had the conditions to your inheritance amended,” Kal says.

Rafe watches your smugness fade away, your brows pinch together.

“What?” you say. The cockiness you wore has slipped, nothing but unease in your features now, as if the existence of your trust fund was the only thing granting you any sense of poise. “What do you mean?”

“You’re tarnishing our reputation,” he says. “I’m not allowing you to continue to drag our name through the mud. Your brothers have set good examples. It’s time you do the same. If you don’t, your inheritance is void.”

“No,” you say. “The terms are that I get access to it when I turn 25. You can’t just change that.”

“Yes, I can,” Kal says. “The new conditions–”

“This is all because Mom decided she wants her name on people’s lawns?” you interrupt with a humorless laugh, straightening in your seat. “You’re insane.”

Rafe catches on that you call her your mom, while your father refers to her as his wife.

“It’s important to her,” Kal says evenly.

“Sure,” you say in a huff. “Whatever. Fine. I’ll be good.”

Rafe would laugh if this wasn’t so awkward. He wants to get the hell out of here. It’s bullshit that this isn’t already all settled. But when he thinks about his dad, who’d told him how important his cooperation in this is, he doesn’t budge.

“You think I can believe you?” Kal asks. “You need to convince the public you’ve grown up. Represent us well for once. You won’t have access to your trust unless you get married.”

“Married?” you echo.

Kal’s eyes dart to Rafe.

“Rafe has already agreed to pose as your husband.”

“What?!” you half-shout, glaring at Rafe. “Are you serious?”

Your father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Either have your tantrum and lose your trust,” he mutters, “or agree. Everything’s already in place.”

“We have appearances scheduled and an engagement announcement and a wedding in the works,” Celeste pipes up. “All you have to do is show up. And behave.”

Dread sinks into you slowly, wretchedly. Everything’s already in place. And you’re just the pawn expected to go along with this.

Your heartbeat thumps in your ears, any safety you felt when you entered this room erased. Your trust fund is your ticket out of here. Now, that ticket is being torn to shreds right in front of you.

“How long would I have to go along with this?” you say, blinking.

“Until the end of the election cycle,” he says.

“About six months,” Celeste clarifies. “And we can’t risk faking it. Marriage licenses are public records. It’d take one diligent reporter to blow everything. It will be real. And quietly annulled afterwards, of course.”

Half a year of pretending you’re fond of the stranger sitting next to you, of acting like you’ve suddenly been tamed because you fell in love, with your trust fund hanging in the balance. This has to be a bad dream, a nightmare you’re having up in your bedroom.

“Why a marriage?” you breathe.

“Cameron Development is a distinguished company,” Kal says. “They’re respected by our community, and our families publicly joining will benefit their bottom line and our reputation.”

“A wedding is a great photo op,” Celeste adds. “And an opportunity to invite everyone with influence. It’ll help with polling, too.”

You stare down at your lap. This is unhinged. Your hunger for an upper hand, for some kind of rebuttal, twists in your core. You refuse to just stomach this.

You do have some power here. You know how bad it’ll make your father look if you outright defy him and leave everyone in the lurch. He cares about his reputation way too much.

This is how all your communication with your parents goes. It’s a battle. A struggle for control.

“I have terms,” you say, an imperceptible tremble in your voice.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” your father responds.

“Actually, it is,” you say, staring at him. “If you don’t level with me, I’ll leak things to the press that would never redeem this family. I’ll do so much damage that you can never fix it.”

Rafe is floored by your viciousness, by the way you have no loyalty to the people who raised you. Now he can see why your father had to go to such extreme measures.

“Your inheritance will be gone,” Kal states.

“And Mom will lose,” you threaten. “And we’ll all be left with nothing.”

Your father’s silence is enough for you to know he’s backed into a corner, waiting to hear your demands.

“I can move out immediately,” you state. “I get my credit card and my car back. And the second this is over, I get full access to my trust fund.”

You lean forward, your rage deafening. You reach for the quiet thread of strength buried deep inside you, grasping it the way you always have, even as a child.

“I’ll follow the rules,” you say. “I’ll go to every event, pretend I want to be there, and stay out of trouble. I’ll go along with this only if you agree.”

Kal sucks his teeth, frustrated, but left with no choice but to comply.

“Fine. You’ll do everything Celeste says, do you understand?”

“And you can’t tell a soul,” Celeste explains to you. “One leak could ruin everything.”

She pulls out two stapled stacks of paper, neatly placing them on the desk in front of you and Rafe. The words at the top are heavy and bolded: Confidential Marital Agreement.

Another chill floods your system. You’re being controlled in yet another way, jammed under your parents’ thumbs, all while everyone else is acting like this is completely normal.

“You need to convince everyone that this is real,” Celeste emphasizes. “The public has to believe that you’ve grown up and had a complete change of heart.”

“Yeah, I got it,” you mutter.

You look at Rafe again, this time with nothing but disgust. You regret having thought anything good about the man who’s helping your father humiliate you like this.

“But don’t expect me to be civil about it in private,” you say to Rafe, rising from your seat, swiping the contract in a tight grip. “You’re an asshole for doing this.”

You storm out, itching to punch something.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

You sit in the front study of your home as the smooth, plastic clamp squeezes your forefinger. Iris notes the numbers on the small monitor.

You know the order of the tests, how each one feels, how the fifteen-minute appointment is bookended by the worst part. It’s a cycle you go through with your nurse every month.

After a string of respiratory infections as a child, you were diagnosed with a chronic lung disease. Your treatment plan calls for frequent check-ups, aggressive medication, and an inhaler on you at all times.

It’s apparently genetic, and why your lungs won’t work right while your two older brothers breathe easy in every way is a constant, twisted reminder of your place in your family.

All you know is the feeling of limitation, of being near suffocation. In every possible way.

“Time for the worst part,” Iris says. You pull up your sleeve, giving her access to the inside of your elbow.

She sanitizes your skin and you make a fist, staring out the window into your family’s enormous, manicured backyard, a sliver of the sea visible behind the trees lining the back of the estate.

The prick of the needle makes you wince, and she apologizes, and you tell her it’s not her fault, just like every other time. You usually make conversation with her, but you’ve been in a daze since the ambush in your father’s office this morning.

“How’s Milo?” you finally ask.

“Good,” she says proudly. “He made the basketball team.”

You can only imagine the excitement her fourteen-year-old must have felt.

You wish you were a better person, that you could just be happy for others, but your chest pinches in jealousy. You fear your envy will always remain a wound, a flaw in your character you can’t rid yourself of.

And you know how out of touch it is to be jealous when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, but there are some things money can’t buy, like a parent’s love, like the freedom to play a sport without worrying your lungs will give out, and the emptiness rooted in your soul is proof of that.

“That’s amazing,” you tell her. “Can I get him anything?”

“Absolutely not,” she quips, gently pulling out the needle. “You’ve spoiled him enough.”

You smirk. Your track record for spoiling her son started the day she became your nurse over five years ago. There’s satisfaction in spending money this way - not for show, but for joy, for the quiet delight of a little boy and his mother who never ask for anything.

“How are you, sweetheart?” She puts a cap on the tube, putting away the blood sample and shutting her case. “You’re quiet today.”

You look away and think of Rafe’s heavy gaze, of the edges of his face, of how you didn’t even hear him speak.

It’s absurd that you’re expected to pretend he’s someone you fell into a whirlwind romance with, a man whose voice you don’t even know, a man who conspired with your father to degrade you, to rip away your free will.

You’ll have to deceive everyone, even the people you care about. And it makes you feel rotten.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Rafe likes to think that he’s improved over the years. He’s not as helpless against his own temper, not giving into impulse every opportunity he gets, not as reckless as he was when he was younger.

He’s better. Not perfect, but better. Yet when you called him an asshole yesterday, it’s the closest he’s come to snapping in a long time.

You’re beautiful, but you’re a nightmare.

He didn’t think it would be like this. Yesterday caught him off guard. It left him speechless, and nothing leaves him speechless, but the weight of what’s at stake hit hard. One wrong move, and everything, his career, his future, could start to crack.

He didn’t know you’d be threatened into this arrangement. But putting your trust fund on the line was obviously necessary if you’re this unwilling to stay out of trouble.

He’s not looking forward to dealing with you.

You enter one of the spare offices in your home, the scowl on your face hard as you settle at the desk next to Rafe, across from Celeste.

“Hello,” Celeste says. “How are you?”

“Don’t pretend like you care,” you murmur. You’ve been dreading this meeting since you were told about it just last night. “Just get on with it.”

Celeste’s brows inch up in irritation, but her shrug tells you that you’re right. She slides two pages across the desk, housing identical color-coded calendars.

“This is how everything will play out,” she explains. “You’ll pretend to meet for the very first time at the investor gala on Thursday night, where Nora will announce that she’s running for office. You’ll be seated next to each other.”

It’s been so long since you were last seen with your family that you can’t even picture it. Back when skipping out wasn’t an option, you were dragged along to countless events, ordered to pretend like everything behind the scenes wasn’t fraying at the edges.

It makes your stomach turn, thinking of sitting with your parents and older brothers, subject to their vitriol.

“And then, you two will fall so in love,” she says, the sarcasm in her tone thick, “that you’re constantly spotted together. You’ll get engaged two months in, and have a beautiful, quaint summer wedding three months later.”

“God,” you sigh in frustration, sick just thinking about what a stupid farce this is going to be. You hate that you have no say, that you’ve always been smothered by what other people want, that you’re just a puppet on a string.

“You’ll need to look the part,” Celeste says flatly, her eyes darting between you and Rafe. “Right now, you two couldn’t look more miserable.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate being called an asshole,” Rafe mutters, his gaze catching yours.

You scoff as his deep voice reverberates through you. It’s more cutting than you anticipated: cold, precise, aimed to dominate.

“I don’t appreciate you being an asshole,” you reply, your features strained in anger.

“I thought you knew the plan,” he says. “I came here yesterday thinking you were ready to do this.”

You still for a moment, the hatred you have for him almost dulling. Almost.

“You just assumed that?” you ask, eyes narrowed.

His hesitant glare makes it clear that he did.

“If you knew my dad, you’d know he’d never give a shit about who’s ready when he wants something done,” you scoff. “You should take the time to see who you’re working with instead of blindly kissing ass.”

The stab at his ambition, his pride, makes his blood boil.

“You don’t know shit about–”

“Please,” Celeste interjects, her palms up. “Can’t you be adults about this?”

“Can’t you admit that this is idiotic?” you say to her. “All for what? Good press?”

“You’ve made it clear that you don’t care about how you represent your family,” she says evenly. “But your actions affect them. And they affect the business that gives you the amazing life you live.”

“Amazing,” you echo with a snarl. “Give me a fucking break.”

Rafe grits his teeth. The tabloids are right. You’re nothing but an ungrateful princess, and you’re damn near unbearable to be around.

“Classy,” Celeste mumbles under her breath, handing you a small manilla envelope. “Let’s just get through this. Your credit card. You’ll notice the limit’s much lower than before.”

You sigh, taking it from her. She pulls out two envelopes next.

“And here are the keys to your condo,” she explains. “It’s confidential that you’re living together. Keep it that way. We’ll make it look like you moved in after the engagement.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the point of us living together right away, then? When I said I wanted to move out, I didn’t mean with him.”

Celeste’s eyes flash to Rafe, the promise he made to Kal an unspoken secret between them. You can’t know Rafe has been tasked with keeping an eye on you.

“I just relay your father’s decisions,” she says. “You know that.”

You sneer. Of course he finds a way to only partially meet your demands, while ensuring your misery. You can’t believe you considered doing this. Nothing will be on your terms, not entirely. It’s how it’s always been.

“It’s a sizable penthouse,” she says. “You practically have your own wings. All you share is a kitchen.”

“And it’s not like I’ll be there much,” Rafe mutters. “Some of us work.”

This earns a snort from Celeste and a murderous look from you. He can usually keep this type of disdain in, especially in what’s technically a business meeting, but it’s like you undo all the work he did on himself.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket before you can ream him out. You check who’s calling, tilting the screen towards you, but Rafe sneaks a look at the contact name to see Family Law at the tailend.

“I have to take this,” you say, rushing out of the room.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

When you come back into the office, you’re even angrier than you were when you left.

Your lawyer just confirmed over the phone that your father’s amendments were entirely fair, that he had failsafes set up in case he needed to make changes to the conditions of your inheritance.

You settle next to Rafe, listening to Celeste continue to drone on about how you’re expected to present yourselves as a couple in the public eye.

Every bit of you aches. You hate that you’ll have to pretend you’re fine being around your family, when all they do is hurt you.

You hate that you’ll have to fake happiness at Rafe’s side, a man who’s a prime example of the type of smug, heartless opportunist that you’ve been avoiding all your life.

You hate that yet again, you’re powerless.

There’s no getting out of this. Not unless you get Rafe to back out. It’s worth a try.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

“That should cover everything,” Celeste says, concluding the meeting. “Contact me if you have questions, but if you follow the schedule, you’ll be fine. I’ll be in touch.”

She smooths down her skirt and collects her things.

“And I still need both of your signed contracts,” she says, but her eyes are fixed on you, the only person in this equation making things difficult.

Her heels click as she strides out of the office. You’re still in your seat, the lump in your chest refusing to dissipate.

You can’t allow your parents to weaponize your trust fund just to satisfy their own ruthless agendas, just to appease their malicious need for control.

And living with Rafe isn’t an option. If he witnessed your steady rotation of medical visits, it’d shatter your carefully maintained illusion. You’ve hidden your illness from everyone outside your family, even close friends and past boyfriends. Not out of shame, but survival.

The press would twist it into something ugly, weak, marketable. It’s the one thing you’ve managed to keep private, and you’re not about to hand Rafe and the press another piece of you to tear apart.

You can’t go through with this. You’re too consumed by the price you’d have to pay.

There’s always been a voice whispering to keep going, that the finish line is close. But another angrier one is so much louder, demanding to know what the point is if you leave your self-respect behind. Screaming at you that without dignity, you’ve already lost.

Rafe stands, adjusting the lapels of his jacket, rounding his seat to leave.

“Wait,” you say, your voice thin.

He stops, his hand on the back of his chair.

“What?” he says sharply.

You don’t make eye contact. You continue to stare ahead, settling into the realization that this is the first private moment you’re having with the man you’re expected to marry.

But he hasn’t signed his contract. There’s still time.

Rafe lingers. The fierce anger he’s seen in you has shuffled away, replaced by quiet tension.

“Do you really have to do this?” you say.

He gets the sense that you rebel against everything you’re told to do just for the sake of it. And he’s not a fool who’ll give in to you after all you’ve done is insult him. He can’t believe he thought he would like you.

“It’s just showing up to a few things,” he mutters, his grip tightening on the chair.

You stiffen, frustration etched into your face as you turn to look up at him.

“How do you not see how ridiculous this is?” you ask, your anger back in full force.

“I do,” he scoffs, “but it’s a smart move. It benefits everyone.”

You stand up to face him, crossing your arms. Anyone who calls something your father thought up as smart is an idiot in your book.

“Back out,” you say evenly.

He smirks. It’s satisfying, getting revenge on someone who’s done nothing but make digs at him, telling her no when she’s so used to getting her way.

“So, you don’t want that money?” he says, his tone teetering on mockery.

You groan, infuriated.

“What are you really gaining here?” you snap, your chin pointed up at him. “Is he paying you? Does he have something on you?”

If Rafe ever were to admit to someone just how badly he wants to impress his father, to prove his allegiance to him and the company, it wouldn’t be to you. Someone who would never get it, who has no sense of loyalty, who is so childishly spiteful.

“It’s just six months,” he replies curtly.

You’re desperate, willing to say anything to get him to refuse. Willing to beg as much as your pride will allow you to.

“Please,” you say. “If you refuse, they’ll respect it. They won’t respect me.”

He glares down at you. Of course they won’t respect you. You’re intolerable. You’re trying to sweeten him up, make him pity you, and it’s not working.

You stiffen under his stare, uncomfortable that you have to plead. He’s not giving in. You can tell by the coldness in his eyes.

“I’ll make your life hell if you do this,” you threaten. “Just six months will feel like an eternity.”

He dismisses you, stepping away with a condescending chuckle. But he wholeheartedly believes you.

(to be continued)

new parts of this series drop at 9 pm eastern on thursdays. my update account is @xorafe-library if you want post notifications.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and reader #rafe cameron and y/n

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lumosflairr · 3 days ago

Note

Since you're absolutely brilliant with long, detailed Harry James Potter fics, I've got a long request here (only if it's cool with you):

After the war, Harry and the reader reconnect as adults (after Harry & Ginny break up). The reader always had feelings for Harry during their Hogwarts years but the time was never right for them. Eventually the reader met someone else and tried to move on but is not 100% happy with the relationship. Harry eventually admits his feelings for the reader, but she rebuffs him saying she feels like she's second to Ginny (or Cho) and thinks he's settling for her. That night, Harry and the reader are visited by James and Lily respectively in their dreams, telling them that true love is worth fighting for. The reader realizes she's the one who's settling, so she leaves her current boyfriend and gives Harry a chance.

All This Time - Harry j. Potter

warnings: 18+ smut! fem!reader, angst, fluff, mentions of violence, mature themes and languages, unprotected p in v.

as always, thank you for your request! I fell in love with this idea and I apologize it took so long🥲!

The war didn’t end in a single moment — it bled out slowly, painfully, leaving behind more ghosts than survivors.

The final battle may have marked victory on paper, but the cost echoed far beyond the walls of Hogwarts. Rubble was cleared, bodies buried, names carved into marble, but no spell existed that could stitch back the parts of you the war had carved out.

It took months to clear the Forbidden Forest of dark magic. Years for families to recover — if they ever did. And longer still for the silence to return to Godric’s Hollow, where grief had made a permanent home in the walls.

You could still hear the screams if you let your mind go quiet long enough.

Sometimes, you did. Just to remind yourself it was real.

You weren’t a war hero. Not like Harry, not like the names people whispered with reverence now — Neville Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt, even Ginny Weasley. But you fought. You survived. And that, somehow, had to be enough.

Every morning, you still walked past the wall of the fallen in the Ministry atrium — names etched in charmed stone, always glowing faint gold. Some days you read them. Most days you couldn’t bear to look. Too many friends. Too many if-onlys.

You worked in the Department of Magical Cooperation now. Diplomatic, polished, quiet. The kind of work that made your mother proud and let your father sleep at night knowing you weren’t in danger anymore. You were good at it — pleasant, reliable, untouchable. People liked you. They always had.

You kept your robes ironed, your reports punctual, and your grief tucked away behind a polished smile. In a world desperate for normalcy, you were the poster child of moving on.

Samuel helped with that.

He was kind, thoughtful, charming in a quiet, dependable sort of way. The kind of man who brewed your tea the way you liked it and remembered your meeting schedules without being asked. His family had money, his flat was in a good part of London, and his laugh never reminded you of someone you’d lost.

You didn’t love him.

But it was easier to pretend you might than to admit you probably never would. You told yourself that after everything — after blood and fire and watching friends die with wands still clutched in their hands — comfort was enough.That love was for people who hadn’t already used up all their heart.

And once, you had.

Years ago — back when you were just a girl with ink-stained fingers and too much hope folded between your class notes — you’d been head over heels for Harry Potter.

It had never been loud or obvious. Not like the girls who giggled behind their hands when he passed in the corridor. You kept your feelings tucked beneath quiet smiles and shared looks across the common room, in moments when he laughed too hard at something Ron said, or when he’d catch your eye after practice and nod like you did well, I saw you — even if you hadn’t been trying to impress him.

He made you feel like you mattered — not because you were extraordinary, but because he noticed even the ordinary things. Like how you bit your lip when you were thinking. Or how you always brought an extra quill to class in case someone forgot theirs. Or how you never backed down when Snape tried to humiliate someone just because he could.

He had a way of making the chaos around him feel quieter when you were close. And in the little stolen moments — between DA meetings, library study sessions, and late-night conversations by the fire — you started to believe maybe, just maybe, he felt it too.

Then one day, he walked into breakfast hand-in-hand with Ginny Weasley.

And just like that, every hope you’d carefully tended over the years crumbled with a smile on his face that wasn’t meant for you.

You remembered sitting two seats down from them at the Gryffindor table, trying not to stare, trying to swallow the burn behind your eyes. Telling yourself you were happy for him. That Ginny was brave and bright and right for someone like him.

After that, you avoided him.

Not out of bitterness — you could never hate Harry — but because looking at him felt like staring directly into the sun. Too warm. Too much. Too painful.

You stopped sitting near him in the common room. Stopped volunteering for DA meetings where you’d be paired up. You even stopped going to Quidditch matches, though you used to love them, just so you wouldn’t have to see him flying high and grinning down at her in the stands.

You smiled when he passed you in the corridors. Spoke when spoken to. Kept your distance with the precision of someone trying not to bleed.

And no one noticed, not even him.

That was the part that hurt the most.

He didn’t even seem to notice you were pulling away. As if the quiet girl who had once stood by his side, who had carried feelings for him like secret spells whispered to herself in the dark, had never really mattered.

You carried on like that for months. Holding yourself together with threadbare strength and pretending that the hollow feeling in your chest was normal — that the ache would pass. That you’d wake up one day and find it had melted away like frost on the window.

But it didn’t.

It sat there. Quiet. Heavy. Constant.

Like something inside you had been stolen without permission.

So, when the war came — when everything you knew crumbled beneath fire and fear — a part of you welcomed it. At least then, the ache had company. At least then, everyone was broken.

Afterward, when the dust settled and people began picking up the pieces of their lives, you tried too. You went where it was safe. You chose the path that didn’t hurt. You let go of what could have been.

You told yourself Harry was your past, and Samuel could be your future. But even now, years later — surrounded by peace and normalcy and a man who never raised his voice or forgot your birthday — you still woke some mornings with that same old hollow ache.

The kind of emptiness that didn’t ask to be filled.

Just endured.

You saw Harry sometimes. Not often. Just quick glances across the atrium or in a lift he stepped out of as you stepped in. Always brief. Always distant. He looked different now. Broader. Older. But his eyes were the same — still too green, still too honest.

You told Samuel you were staying late at work, but really, you just needed air — real air. The kind that didn’t smell like paper or ink or polite conversation.

You ended up at a little wizarding pub tucked between two record shops in Camden — a place you used to frequent in the months right after the war, when forgetting felt easier than remembering. It was dim and smoky, with charm-tarnished sconces and cheap pints. No one cared who you were. No one asked you to smile.

You slipped onto a barstool in the corner and ordered something stronger than wine. You weren’t sure what you were trying to feel — or forget.

The fire crackled lazily behind the bar, casting flickering shadows across the scuffed floorboards. A few witches laughed in the far corner, their voices softened by the haze of cigarette smoke and old enchantments. Somewhere near the back, a Muggle record played quietly — something slow and aching. You took another sip.

And then you felt it.

That prickling awareness, like being watched. Like some invisible thread tugged tight through the thick of the room and stitched itself to you. You turned your head — slowly, cautiously, like maybe you already knew what you’d see.

And there he was.

Harry.

Sitting alone in a booth, a few tables across the pub. His hand rested around a glass of something amber and untouched, eyes downcast until, like some quiet inevitability, he looked up.

The world didn’t stop — the pub still buzzed, music still played, your drink still sat half-full in your hand — but something in you did. Froze. Caved inward.

For a second, he just stared. Like he couldn’t believe it was really you. And you — you couldn’t believe how much he still looked the same.

Tired, yes. Worn down in ways the war never stopped demanding. But still Harry. The curve of his jaw, the crease between his brows, the unmistakable way he carried his silence like a second skin. You wondered where Ginny was. You wondered why he looked so alone.

He blinked once. Then, slowly, deliberately, he stood.

Your fingers tightened around your glass. Instinct screamed to look away — to pretend you hadn’t seen him, to protect whatever fragile thread of peace you’d built inside yourself. But you didn’t.

You held his gaze, even as he crossed the room with hesitant steps — like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

When he reached you, he didn’t sit. He didn’t speak right away either.

Just looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in years.

Which, really, he hadn’t.

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice low, rough-edged in a way it hadn’t been back then.

You swallowed. “Hey.”

You looked down at your drink. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, voice gentler now.

You nodded, unsure why your heart was thudding so loudly in your chest. He slid into the seat next to you, just close enough for you to feel the warmth of him — the same warmth that had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you in battles and libraries and corridors that now only existed in memory.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, eyes scanning the room like it might explain something. “Thought you didn’t come to places like this anymore.”

“Neither did I,” you replied, a slight smile tugging at your mouth. “But apparently, I lied to myself today.”

That made him smile too. Small, tired, real.

“How have you been?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Busy. Work’s been… steady. Long days. Paperwork. Peace treaties.”

“Sounds thrilling,” he said with a smirk.

You glanced sideways at him. “Didn’t know you kept tabs.”

“I don’t,” he said honestly. “Hermione mentions you sometimes. Says you’re one of the only competent people left in your department.”

“That’s dangerously flattering coming from her,” you muttered, raising your glass to your lips.

“She also says you look tired. Worn thin,” he added, quieter now.

That made you pause.

“Well,” you said, setting your glass down. “Peace takes more out of you than war sometimes. At least in war, the pain is obvious.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just watched you with that same quiet focus he used to wear when he thought no one noticed. Like he was trying to see beneath the skin of your words.

“You still with—Samuel, right?” he asked, eyes flickering to the ringless hand resting on the bar.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is it… good?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question — by the way he asked it. Not like he was prying. More like it hurt him to know but hurt him more not to.

“It’s… safe,” you said finally.

He nodded like he understood. But he didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, softly: “You used to laugh more.”

The words hung between you like breath on a windowpane — fragile, fading. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. So you just looked at him. And for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. Like you were seventeen again, and the world hadn’t ended yet.

And then, just as quickly, the moment cracked.

“What about you?” you asked, clearing your throat. “How’s Ginny?”

He looked down at his drink.

“We’re not together anymore,” he said. “Split up a while ago.”

you sat in silence, somewhat stunned.

“Sorry,” you said softly.

He shook his head. “Don’t be. Some things… just end.”

“Still,” he added, looking at you again. “Some things don’t.”

That was too much.

Too close.

Your throat tightened around something unnamed, and suddenly the room felt too warm — the walls too close, his eyes too familiar.

You pushed your chair back, slow and careful. “I should probably head out,” you said, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Long day tomorrow.”

He blinked, like maybe he hadn’t expected the conversation to end there. But he nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

A pause settled between you, heavier than it should have been. You both stood, and the rhythm of conversation shifted — the way it always does when the moment is over but no one really wants it to be.

“I’ll grab the bill,” he offered, reaching into his coat.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you replied. “We’re not at Hogwarts anymore — I make my own money now.”

That earned the faintest laugh from him. “Right. Sorry. Forgot you’re a responsible adult.”

“Someone has to be,” you said lightly, though your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You paid your tabs, standing side by side at the counter like nothing had just cracked open between you. The bartender gave Harry a nod of vague recognition. You didn’t look at him again until you were back outside. The air had cooled. The night wrapped around you like a quiet excuse to end this.

“It was… really good to see you,” Harry said, his voice softer now, almost careful. “I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m glad it happened.”

You nodded, arms folded loosely in front of you. “Yeah. It was nice.”

Another silence — not awkward, just fragile. He hesitated like he might say more. But he didn’t. Instead, he just gave you a small, tentative smile.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

And then he was gone — Disapparated with a quiet crack — leaving you standing under the dull streetlamp, feeling like a version of yourself you hadn’t let surface in years.

The flat was warm when you walked in. Samuel always kept it that way — said the cold made the place feel lifeless.

“Hey, love,” he called from the kitchen, voice easy and content. “I thought you were working late.”

You forced a smile, setting your coat on the hook. “Finished earlier than I thought.”

He was plating dinner. Something creamy and rich, smelling of herbs and comfort. Two glasses of wine already poured. A lit candle flickered gently in the center of the table, like he’d tried to make the night special without asking for anything in return.

He was always like that.

Thoughtful. Steady. Good.

He crossed the kitchen and kissed your cheek, his hand resting warmly against your back. “Missed you today,” he murmured. “You look beautiful.” You smiled again, the motion mechanical now. “Thanks.”

You let him guide you to the table. Sat across from him. Talked about small things — work reports, one of his coworkers getting promoted, the weather — all while feeling like your ribs were a cage too small for the ache growing inside. You laughed when he said something funny. You touched his hand when he reached for yours.

You pretended.

And when dinner ended and the dishes were done, you let him hold you on the couch while some Muggle show droned on in the background. His hand brushed your hair, his thumb sweeping soft, rhythmic circles over your shoulder.

You’re quiet tonight,” he said against your temple.

You shook your head gently. “Just tired.”

He kissed the top of your head and pulled you closer. You didn’t move, but you didn’t relax either. When he finally fell asleep beside you— breathing slow, arm still wrapped around your waist, you slipped free and padded quietly down the hall to the bathroom.

The light was harsh when you flicked it on.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror like it belonged to someone else. Like the girl in the glass should be happy with this life. Shouldn’t still be haunted by green eyes and words that came too late.

You sat on the edge of the tub and let yourself cry.

Not loud, not messy — just silent, helpless tears that trailed down your cheeks without permission.

You hated this.

Hated that you couldn’t love Samuel the way he deserved. That no matter how good he was, your heart still ached for someone who hadn’t payed you any mind since sixth year of school.

You hated that one conversation with Harry had unraveled you. That his voice still echoed in your chest.

That part of you wanted to believe he meant it — that it wasn’t just loneliness, or nostalgia, or regret.

But the other part… the part still bruised from the day he forgot you existed the moment Ginny touched his hand… that part wasn’t ready to forgive. And yet… you still loved him.Through all of it. Quietly. Desperately. And it was killing you.

You didn’t sleep much that night.

By the time the sun rose, your eyes were dry, but your chest still felt heavy — like someone had carved out space behind your ribs and left nothing in its place. You didn’t mention the tears. Not to Samuel. Not to yourself.

Instead, you went through the motions — you got dressed, combed your hair, kissed him goodbye. Told him you’d be late again, even though you weren’t sure if you were lying this time.

Work passed in a blur. Paperwork. Meetings. Smiles you didn’t mean. Your hands shook slightly when you poured yourself a cup of tea, and you almost spilled it. But no one noticed. They never did.It was nearly 7 p.m. when you left the Ministry. The rain had started sometime after dusk, drizzling softly at first, then opening up into a steady downpour. You hadn’t brought a cloak — hadn’t checked the forecast — so you stood under the nearest enchanted awning just outside the Ministry, arms folded, watching the streetlamps smear across the wet pavement.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Maybe not at all.

You watched people rush past you — cloaks pulled over their heads, hoods charmed against the rain. Everyone moving. Everyone with somewhere to be.

And you just… stood there. Alone in the crowd.

Until a voice, low and unmistakable, spoke behind you.

“You always hated the rain.”

You turned.

Harry stood a few feet away, water dripping from his hair, his glasses slightly fogged. He looked soaked — like he hadn’t cared enough to shield himself. Like the storm didn’t bother him anymore.

Your heart skipped in your chest — painful and sudden.

“I didn’t hear you,” you said quietly.

“I saw you from across the square.” He nodded to the awning. “Didn’t want you standing here freezing.”

You looked away. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he stepped closer and extended a small, half-charmed umbrella — one of those awkward, flickering ones Muggle-borns favored. It was barely working, but the gesture was kind.

“I can walk you home,” he offered. “If you want.”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

You walked in silence for a while. The only sound was rain tapping against stone, the splash of puddles under your shoes. His umbrella barely covered both of you, which meant his arm brushed yours occasionally — enough to make you feel every inch of space and every unspoken word between you.

“I used to imagine this,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Just… walking with you. Somewhere normal. Somewhere safe.”

You didn’t respond.

He looked down. “That night in the pub. I wasn’t expecting to see you. But it… it meant something.”

You clenched your jaw. “Harry…”

He slowed. “I just— I need you to know I didn’t come to you because Ginny and I ended.”

Your footsteps faltered.

He stopped walking, looking at you now — in the half-light, rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella, green eyes clearer than they had been in years.

“I should’ve said something a long time ago,” he went on. “But I didn’t. I was scared. Of everything. Of losing more. And I was stupid enough to think burying what I felt for you would make it go away.”

You blinked, breath catching.

He stepped closer. “But it didn’t. It never did.”

You shook your head. Not angrily — just tired. Tired in your bones.

“I can’t do this, Harry,” you said softly. “Not like this.”

His face fell, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m not going to be your rebound,” you continued. “You didn’t talk to me for years. You chose Ginny. You abandoned me. And now that it’s over, you show up, and—” your voice cracked despite you “—and you say these things like it didn’t wreck me when you forgot I existed.”

“I didn’t forget,” he said quickly, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t forget.”

“But you did,” you whispered. “When she walked in, I disappeared.”

He was silent.

You looked away, rain blurring your vision. You couldn’t tell if it was tears again or just the storm.

“I’m still trying to be okay with that,” you said. “Still trying to love someone else. Still trying to stop hoping you’d come back.”

A long pause.

And then Harry — voice barely audible — said, “I don’t want you to be someone I come back to. I want you to be where I belong.”

That nearly broke you.

But instead, you took a step back, gently out from under the umbrella. “I need time,” you said. “Please.”

Harry didn’t argue.

He just nodded, jaw tight, eyes dim.

“Okay.”

And with a soft crack, he was gone.The rain fell harder now. And for the first time that night, you let it soak you through. Because at least it covered the sound of your heart breaking all over again.

⸻

That night, sleep came only after exhaustion did. You didn’t remember lying down. Only the feeling of rain still clinging to your skin, and the ache in your chest like something had finally split open.

Then — somewhere between midnight and dawn — you found yourself standing in the middle of the old Hogwarts courtyard. But it wasn’t ruined. It was how it used to be.

The stone was warm under your feet. The air smelled of damp earth and ancient magic. The sky above was soft, painted in shades of twilight.

You turned slowly, disoriented by the stillness.

And that’s when you saw them. Two figures sitting on the low stone wall beneath the archway, bathed in gentle light. You knew who they were before you could speak.

Lily Potter smiled first — her eyes unmistakably green, her presence like warmth from a fire you hadn’t felt in years. James stood beside her, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he already understood everything you were feeling.

“Hi,” Lily said gently.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

“It’s alright,” James added. “You don’t need to say anything yet.”

You blinked at them, heart pounding — not in fear, but in something like awe. “Is this real?”

“As much as it needs to be,” Lily said with a soft laugh. “Dreams are just another kind of magic, after all.”

You stepped forward slowly, like the moment might vanish if you moved too fast.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you said. “Why now?”

Lily tilted her head. “Because you’re hurting. And sometimes, the people we’ve lost — and the ones we’re meant for — can feel that, even from far away.”

James nodded. “Harry’s hurting too.”

Your breath caught. “I don’t want to be something he runs to because he’s broken,” you said. “I don’t want to be a second choice.”

“You’re not,” James said quietly, stepping toward you. “You never were.”

“But he forgot me,” you said. “He found someone else. He moved on, but I never did. I never could.”

Lily’s eyes softened, glowing in that impossible, dreamlike way. “He tried. People move in the wrong direction all the time when they’re scared. That doesn’t mean their heart wasn’t always facing the right way.”

You looked down, shame curling in your chest.

“I still love him,” you whispered. “And I hate that I do.”

“That’s not hate,” Lily said. “That’s fear.”

James gave a soft smile. “And you’re allowed to be afraid. But don’t confuse fear with truth.”

For a moment, you just stood there in the courtyard — surrounded by the ghosts of your own heart.

Then Lily reached forward and took your hand.

“Real love doesn’t show up only when it’s convenient,” she said. “It returns. It fights. It chooses. And Harry—he’s choosing you. Not because you’re left. But because you’re right.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” James added. “But don’t shut the door just because it hurts to open it.”

The world began to blur around the edges — colors softening, sound falling away.

You looked at them one last time. “Tell him…” your voice cracked. “Tell him I’m scared.”

Lily smiled. “He already knows.”

And just before the dream faded completely, she whispered:

“Be brave, sweetheart. You always were.”

⸻

You woke with damp cheeks and a weightless feeling in your chest — like something had lifted.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel stuck.

The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, warm and golden, casting soft light on the countertop where Samuel stood making coffee.

You watched him from the doorway, your coat still on, hands clenched around the strap of your bag.

You hadn’t touched your tea. You hadn’t said much since waking up.

But you’d made your decision.

And now it was time.

He turned to you with that familiar, gentle smile — the one that never reached deep enough to stir your heart, though you always wished it had.

“You’re quiet again,” he said softly. “Everything alright?”

You inhaled slowly. “Samuel… can we talk?”

He paused, the smile fading. He set the mug down. The quiet clink of porcelain was louder than it should have been. “Of course,” he said carefully. “What is it?”

Your throat tightened. You looked down at your hands — then back up at him.

“I’m sorry,” you began, voice already shaking. “I should’ve said this sooner. I’ve tried to convince myself I could keep pretending, but I can’t. I’m not being fair to you.”

His eyes searched yours. “What are you talking about?”

You stepped closer, but not too close. “I care about you,” you said. “You’re kind. You’ve been good to me. And I wanted so badly for that to be enough. But it’s not.”

He stared at you, hurt flashing across his features. “Is this about him?”

You didn’t have to ask who he meant. You nodded once. “It’s always been about him.”

Samuel exhaled, looking away for a moment like the truth physically stung. “You told me it was over.”

“I thought it was,” you said. “For years, I thought I had let him go. But I didn’t. I just buried it. And now that it’s surfaced again… I can’t lie to you. Not anymore.”

His shoulders slumped slightly. “Do you love him?”

“Yes,” you said, because you owed him honesty now more than ever. “I think I always have.”

A long silence passed. One that ached with finality.

“And what am I, then?” he asked, not accusing — just tired. “Was I just… filling the space?”

“No,” you said quickly. “You were the first person who made me feel safe again. But safety isn’t the same as love. You deserve more than what I’ve been able to give you.”

He looked down, jaw tight. “So that’s it.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never wanted to.”

He nodded slowly. Then, with a quiet, broken smile: “I know.”

You took a shaky breath. “I’m going to go. I’ve already packed some things. I’ll come back for the rest later, when it’s easier.”

Samuel didn’t stop you. He just stood there, heartbroken and still, as you opened the door. And before you left, you turned back one last time.

“Thank you,” you said. “For everything you gave me. I hope one day you find someone who gives that back to you. Fully.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he nodded.

And you walked away — into the morning light, with your heart heavy, but your future finally clear.

⸻

The cab stopped just outside the quiet lane in Godric’s Hollow. His house sat at the end of the street — modest, ivy-covered, familiar in a way that made your heart lurch.

You hadn’t told him you were coming. You hadn’t given yourself time to overthink it. You just knew.

It had always been him.

The sky was soft and gray above, a breeze brushing your skin as you stepped out of the car, barely hearing the door shut behind you.

And then — the front door opened. Harry stepped out onto the porch and froze.

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure you were real. His hair was messy, his shirt rumpled, like he hadn’t planned on anyone seeing him today — but his eyes… those eyes were lit with something you hadn’t seen in years.

Hope.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he. You just ran. Feet hit gravel, breath caught in your throat — and then he was moving too, meeting you halfway down the path like a storm finally breaking.

And when you reached each other, everything else vanished.

His hands cupped your face as your mouth crashed into his — desperate, deep, like he needed to memorize the taste of you all over again. Your fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself in the heat of him.

The kiss wasn’t slow. It was hungry. All the years you’d spent apart, the silence, the heartbreak, the aching what-ifs — it all poured into that kiss like magic finally unleashed.

Harry groaned against your lips, his thumbs brushing your jaw, your cheeks, as if he couldn’t stop touching you — couldn’t believe you were really here. You gasped when his lips parted yours only to kiss you deeper, hotter, tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to undo the years with his mouth alone.

Your hands found his chest, gripping fistfuls of fabric as he backed you gently against the porch railing, his body pressing into yours like he needed to feel every inch — like being close still wasn’t close enough.

His breath was ragged when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You came,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours, his voice rough and thick with emotion.

“I left him,” you said. “Because I couldn’t lie anymore. Not to him. Not to myself.”

Harry’s eyes searched yours — burning, open, undeniably full of love. “I wanted to wait,” he said. “To give you space. But I’ve been hoping every day since that night you’d walk through that door.”

You smiled softly through the sting in your eyes. “So I used the front gate instead.” That made him laugh, shaky and breathless. And then he kissed you again, His lips moved against yours like he was trying to relearn you. Like he’d never forgotten. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and the low sound that rumbled in his throat made something flutter between your legs.

His hands, large and warm, skimmed down your sides, stopping at your waist — but the grip there tightened, like he was holding back.

“Harry…” you breathed, your voice unsteady.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, lips red, eyes darker now — stormy with want. “Tell me to stop. If you want me to—”

“I don’t,” you said quickly, eyes searching his. “I don’t want you to stop.”

His jaw clenched. “If we go inside…”

“Take me upstairs,” you whispered. “Please.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again — rougher this time, messier — all tongue and teeth and groaned breaths as he pulled you against him fully. You could feel just how much he wanted you, hard and pressing through his jeans, and the friction sent a sharp jolt straight through your core.

Then suddenly you were moving — his hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together as he led you inside. The door slammed behind you with a thud, and he didn’t waste a second.

His mouth was on yours again before you reached the stairs, pushing you gently against the wall near the banister. You gasped as his hands found your thighs, lifting you effortlessly so your legs wrapped around his waist. He carried you like you weighed nothing, like letting go even for a second wasn’t an option.

“God,” he murmured into your neck, “I’ve thought about this. So many times. What it’d be like to feel you again. To have you.”

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, arching into him. “I want this, Harry. I want you.”

That was it — the last thread of restraint snapped.

He carried you up the stairs with a kind of urgency that made your heart race, your back brushing against the wall at every landing until you finally reached his room. The second he kicked the door shut, his lips were back on yours. His hands tugged at your coat, then your shirt, moving like he couldn’t decide whether to strip you slow or tear everything off in one go.

You helped him decide — pulling your top over your head and tossing it aside, your bra gone with one flick of his fingers like he’d never forgotten how to undress you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring down at you. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You pulled him in again, kissed him like you were starved for him — because you were. And when he groaned into your mouth and ground his hips into yours, you felt exactly how much he needed this too.

You pulled him in again, kissed him like you were starved for him — because you were.

And when he groaned into your mouth and ground his hips into yours, you felt exactly how much he needed this too.

He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “Lie back.”

The rasp in his voice sent a tremble through you.

You obeyed, settling against the pillows, chest rising and falling with every breath. He moved slowly — not out of hesitation, but reverence — hands trailing down your sides as he kissed his way down your neck, your collarbone, lower.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, lips brushing over your skin. “More times than I can admit.”

You shivered as his hands slid down your stomach, thumbs teasing along the waist of your trousers. Then, with slow, skilled fingers, he peeled them down — along with your knickers — and tossed them aside.

He knelt between your legs, eyes dark and hungry.

“Open for me.”

The second you did, his mouth was on you.

Warm. Wet. Unrelenting.

Your back arched as his tongue moved with sinful precision — slow circles that had your breath catching, then fast flicks that made your thighs tremble. He moaned against you, like you were the one driving him mad, and the vibrations sent sparks pulsing through every nerve.

You grabbed the sheets, gasping his name as his hands held your hips down — like he knew you’d try to lift off the bed. Like he wanted to take his time unraveling you.

“Harry—oh, God—please…”

He didn’t stop. He just grinned into you, then sucked — slow, deep pressure that sent you spiraling. The tension coiled fast, tight, and your cries broke into broken syllables as the wave crashed over you.

Your release hit like fire. And he didn’t let up — not until you were spent and shaking beneath him, panting like your lungs couldn’t keep up. Then he kissed his way back up your body, slow and adoring, like he was savoring every inch.

His mouth crashed into yours again, messier this time, all tongue and teeth and hot breath. You felt him — hard and heavy against your thigh — and reached down to free him, your hand wrapping around him with a touch that made him groan deep in his throat.

He grabbed your leg and hitched it over his hip, lining himself up — but didn’t move yet.

Instead, he looked down at you like this was everything he’d ever wanted.

“I love you,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I always have.”

“I know,” you whispered, pulling him in. “Show me.”

And then he pressed inside.

The stretch, the heat, the feeling of him filling you completely — it stole the breath from your lungs. He moved slow at first, burying himself deep, groaning at the feel of you wrapped around him.

You clung to him, nails in his back, moaning softly as he began to thrust — slow, deep rolls of his hips that made you see stars.

Every movement was a confession. Every moan a promise.

He kissed your lips, your neck, your shoulder, whispering your name like a prayer as your bodies moved together — faster now, harder — until nothing else existed but this.

Until the only thing that mattered was the way you both came apart together.

⸻

The room was quiet now. The storm outside had passed, leaving only the hush of wind rustling the trees beyond the window. The moonlight spilled in through the curtains, pale and silvery, casting soft shadows across the sheets — across him. Harry layed beside you, one arm tucked beneath your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist. His skin was warm against yours. His breath slow, steady. Grounding.

You turned toward him, resting your head on his chest, listening to the soft, rhythmic thump of his heart.

“I almost didn’t come,” you whispered.

His fingers traced lazy circles along your back. “I know.”

You looked up at him. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

You both went quiet again, not because there was nothing to say, but because for the first time… there was no pressure to fill the silence.

Then Harry tilted your chin gently, making you meet his eyes. “I need you to know,” he said softly, “that it was never about Ginny. Or Cho. Or timing. It was always you.”

Your eyes stung again, but not with pain — with the ache of finally being seen. Being chosen. “I used to think you forgot about me,” you admitted, voice cracking. “That I was easy to leave behind.”

His expression shattered with tenderness. “I never forgot you. I just… didn’t believe I deserved you. You were always this light — and after the war, I was so lost in the dark.”

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” you said. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He kissed your forehead — slow and reverent. “And neither do you.”

You smiled, tears slipping silently down your cheeks as you tucked your face into the crook of his neck.

It was quiet again for a moment. Then he whispered, “I love you.” Your heart fluttered.

“I’ve loved you since the train ride to fifth year,” he continued, his voice thick. “You had ink on your cheek and you were defending Neville in front of a seventh year like it was nothing. I was gone from that moment on.”

You laughed, breathless, overwhelmed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was fifteen. Stupid. And terrified of messing it up.”

You shook your head, brushing your nose against his jaw. “Well… we still took the long way.”

He smiled, holding you tighter. “But we made it.”

You nodded against his chest, closing your eyes.

“We made it.”

And for the first time in a very long time… you believed it. Not because he said the right words. Not because the kiss was perfect. Not even because of Lily and James in your dreams.

But because you were here.

With him.

With nothing left to prove, and everything left to build.

And as Harry’s fingers threaded through yours beneath the sheets, you knew this wasn’t just an ending.It was the beginning of something real.

Something worth fighting for.

#harry potter #wizarding world #fluff #smut #lumosflair #hogwarts #mature theme #harry x reader #x reader #harry james potter x reader #harry potter x you #harry potter x reader #harry potter x reader smut #harry potter x reader fluff #harry potter x reader angst #harry james potter #post war

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handweavers · 1 day ago

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it is very funny how much work i've put into understanding my father's psyche and exactly how his mind works and trying to grasp why he is the way he is based on what i know of his life and my conclusions are always spot on like i understand that man to his very core i could puppeteer a clone of him and it would be just like the real thing. i know him better than anyone else ever has and ever will and it has always terrified him because i see through him and a lot of the time he can't handle it lol

but it takes him x3 as long to figure out these things about himself because he's emotionally stupid so he's in his late 60s and he very meaningfully tells me as though it's a revelation like "i think losing my father a few years before you were born fundamentally broke me in some way and i never figured out how to deal with that in a healthy way and i still haven't" and i'm like "i know, i figured that out when i was like 7 years old because you'd get completely wasted drunk and cry so hard you couldn't see talking about how much you missed your dad every night for hours at length and i had to sit there and comfort you and you still do that every time you talk about him" and he's like "wow you are so wise and beyond your years" and i'm just head in hands laughing

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lelet-draws · 20 hours ago

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There was a concept in Miraculous where Adrien needed crutches and frankly I hate that they didn't move forward with this concept.

Apart from adding so many layers to Gabriel's overprotection and to his alter ego as Chat Noir, it's a missed opportunity having a main disabled character in a children's show.

Little disclaimer here, I'm not physically disabled (only neurodivergent). Don't take my word as absolute truth cause while I do have a lot of experiences in common with physically disabled people, I'm not physically disabled and therefore do not speak for them.

If you are physically disabled and want to add something or feel like I said anything problematic feel free to comment, I'm happy to hear your thoughts.

I'm not sure if they intended to go the route of the miraculous temporarily "curing" his disability (not a fan of that), but it would be interesting if they used a "the miraculous offers him more endurance, so he is still disabled but can support himself without his crutches for more time than usual" approach.

This is only one idea of the multiple storylines possible, the writers could make it so that Adrien's way of rebelling against his father overprotectiveness is still somewhat rooted in internalized ableism. He wants Chat Noir to be everything he's not (sassy, cool, confident enough to disobey authority, free and also physically strong), it's basically a form of escapism.

But at the end of the day even with powers Chat Noir is still him and so he forces himself to go way beyond his body capacity (+ the additional miraculous bonus). It's an unhealthy way to rebel his father idea of him being weak and fragile.

Unsurprisingly it ends up being detrimental to him and his health, which Gabriel notices and prompts him to become even more controlling, worsening Adrien's mental health and leading him to a vicious cycle.

It's the power of love that ends up saving him. He learns to accept himself through the friendship and partnership he develops with Ladybug and later the other miraculous users. That it's ok to have limitations and need help, real friends won't judge or infantilize you for it.

Later on it could even add more emotional weight to the story when Marinette hides the fact that Hawkmoth is his father, since it can be easily interpreted as infantilization. Big missed opportunity, really.

#rambles #miraculous ladybug #mlb #adrien agreste #chat noir

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thepeaklegendoffirstgen · 1 day ago

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Can I request something bittersweet?

Headcanons about the Lookism guys (1st gen Kings, Allied, Big Deal) breaking up with their girlfriend!

Not because they lost feelings but because they're afraid being around them could hurt her.

Thanks for always making me smile with your writings 💕

I'll do it in parts and take up ALLIED and others afterwards. Oh, and thanks for your lovely words it made me so happy 🥹🥰

Characters: James Lee , Kitae Kim, Jaegyeon Na, Jinrang, Jichang Kwak , Seongji Yuk , Taesoo Ma.

JAMES LEE

He changed identities, changed names, changed his hair color, and in all these transformations, you were the only constant. But now, everything feels harsh. Almost impossible. Even if he is the legend, the one-man circle, he can't bear the thought of being the reason something happens to you. He never could.

So, he lets you go.

With his hair now black and his heart bruised a deep, painful purple, he lets you go—even as you cry and pound your fists against his chest. He holds still, says nothing, and a single, solitary tear rolls down his cheek.

He has let you go.

KITAE KIM

It started with him pushing you aside. Then his hand rose, just a little higher than your voice, and the fear, the horror on your face, told him everything.

You were his…

And he was still his father's son.

A bitter truth, no matter how anyone tries to sugarcoat it. Even if he is Kitae Kim, people will always add the last part: son of Gapryong Kim.

After endless arguments and cold silences, after long nights and bitter memories, he remembered what his mother had gone through. He realized, perhaps too late, that women suffer most at the hands of those closest to them, not strangers.

So, with cold eyes and sunken cheeks, he barks at you to leave. Tells you to piss off. Pushes you away.

And it breaks his heart even more… because he sees that flicker in your eyes.

Not happiness.

But relief, tinged with sadness.

JAEGYEON NA

It started with sneak attacks. Then came the tracking. He thought he had it all under control, but no, he was still just a young man. And how much can one young man protect?

Still, for you, he tried. Went above and beyond.

But it was never enough.

They kept tabs on you. Your name was still on their lips. James Lee, that bastard—even said your name.

So Jaegyeon made a decision.

With a heavy heart and a swollen cheek, after you'd slapped him in disbelief when he said it:

He was bored of you.

You stood there, horrified.

But he knew this lie was safer than the truth.

You left in silence.

Later, alone in his car, he broke down.

Fists clenched, voice trembling, tears falling, he cursed the world again and again, for being so damn cruel.

JINRANG

After losing his brother and comrades, he refused to lose you too. He couldn't bear the thought of standing at your funeral.

But what good was his strength now? With only one hand left to fight, how could he protect you?

So he begged you. Pleaded with you to find someone better. Someone whole.

Even as you told him again and again that you only wanted him, he stood his ground. Said he couldn’t bear to watch you get hurt. He said he’d rather lose you now than forever.

Tears streaked down his face as he broke, and for the first time, you did what you never thought you could: you let go.

JICHANG KWAK

He told you plainly, straight and simple, that he couldn’t be the man you could spend your life with. Not even in the countryside.

Holding your hand firmly, he said it couldn’t go on like this. His dream had always been to keep you and his brothers safe and happy. But reality was cruel, and he couldn’t keep dragging you into this muddy world, no matter how loudly his heart screamed otherwise.

And so, he got on his knees, not to propose, but to explain. A desperate, trembling explanation for why he had to let you go. He was on his knees, but for all the wrong reasons.

You just stood there, dazed. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You simply said your goodbyes, knowing, deep down, that he meant it with love.

SEONGJI YUK

The Shaman was spiraling, sending people, monsters. God knows what. And that last kid? Seongji barely won.

So what happens next time?

That fear festered into resolve. He made the decision: he had to let you go.

Coldly, bluntly, he told you to stop playing house. To get the hell out of there.

And you, furious, heartbroken, you threw his deepest insecurity back in his face. Told him an animal like him would never be able to hold on to happiness.

Then you left.

Left behind the man.

Left behind the broken thing.

And Seongji collapsed onto the floor, tears soaking into the dirt as he cried, for everything he ruined and loved.

TAESOO MA

It was frustrating. Agonizing. Humiliating.

No matter how hard he trained, no matter how far he pushed himself,he could never defeat James Lee. That bastard remained out of reach, untouchable.

And now, it wasn’t just about him anymore. New enemies were rising on the horizon. A war was brewing on the sidelines. And in war, people became animals. In war, decency wasn’t even an afterthought.

So, after returning from Busan, bloodied, weary, and too aware of the stakes, Taesoo made a decision.

As a man who truly loved you, as someone who once vowed to protect you at all costs, he chose to do the hardest thing.

Let you go.

Even if it meant playing the villain.

Even if it meant watching you cry, scream, beg.

Even if it meant you’d hate him.

Because in the long run, he believed, no, he knew, you’d be safer, happier without him.

And that’s what love meant to him.

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axl-ion · 2 days ago

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OK, I was writing up on the contrast principle between Spy and Medic (since this is a very interesting class contrast), but one thing that is also important for the contrast principle that I haven't mentioned is looking for the traits that characters share.

So let's do that now with Speeding Bullet of course.

Scout and Sniper are both some of the youngest members of the team, both being in their 20s at the time of taking the job. Despite Sniper's professionalism, they could arguably have similar amount of experience (given that Scout was pretty young when he and his brother were fighting people). We can also logically deduct that you don't take a Mercenary job for Mann Co./Redmond/Blutchard/The Administrator unless there's something fundamentally not OK with you. Since it's pretty apparent that everyone there is a nutjob, just on a different scale (can't stress enough how bs the discussions around which one of them is the normal person are, like... No, none of them are normal, they are all just different kind of insanity, the closest to normal is Heavy and that's only off hours).

They are actually both pretty proud people, even if it manifests a bit differently. But not too much, they are both pretty boastful (if that's the right word) when it comes to their accomplishments. They are both runts, Scout as the youngest sibling of 8 and Sniper as like... The only Australian that isn't a super-powered, pub-fighting macho with a lot of body hair and Australia shaped chest hair (although it's later revealed he is actually from New Zealand, which kinda makes him more of a runt than he already was). They are also rude to all the other classes, just kinda have a different main target (for Scout I think it's mainly Heavy, for Sniper... Guess who)

Also can't go without mentioning that they are both connected by the character of Spy, even if in different ways. Sniper is one of the few characters who knows about Spy being Scout's father and Spy is also the class specifically designed to be as anti-Sniper as possible (although still allowing for counterplay). Scout meanwhile shares quite a bit of his deadbeat father's gameplay - he's a Pick class, he closes distance, but he doesn't like Spy and will never admit they are related. And Sniper doesn't like Spy either at first! It's only later on that all 3 warm up to eachother (please do NOT take this as shipping all 3, you can warm up to a person without it meaning anything beyond a platonic or familial bond). Speaking of family, they are actually pretty family oriented people, with their goal being to not be a disappointment (which they also share with Demoman).

They are also pretty frequent picks amongst players and I have seen a lot of people (including me) who are both Scout and Sniper mains. And their biggest foes are a lot of the times... Themselves. Or well opposing Snipers and Scouts. Scout on Scout match is the closest in pure skill demonstration as you can get with it often coming down to who can actually aim as a Scout. Sniper on Sniper is also a demonstration of quick scoping (which I don't know how to preform at all) or if you can shoot and cover before the other Sniper. Like... I've told you about 2Fort Tenis before. They also both rely on the player being somewhat capable in positioning themselves. Good sightline for Sniper is key and nothing is as annoying as you thinking you have it secured only for some random Scout to appear from some sort of random hole or something. Both classes are either very difficult or surprisingly easy to kill, they + Spy and Engineer have the lowest HP pool and are pretty specialised at what they are doing, but have some diversity options available to them (like, you could go Huntsman Sniper to be a bit more mobile, Shortstop, Cleaver Scout to gain a bit more distance, supporting options in Jarate and Mad Milk respectively).

To close this essay, let me make a call for suggestions as to Who gets compared next? I know I said I am working on Spy and Medic, but also Who should I do after? So far I'm thinking about Heavy and Scout, but tell me your tips!

#tf2 #tf2 shipping #tf2 scout #tf2 sniper #tf2 speeding bullet #speeding bullet #axelion blurbs

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alarwynnwhispers · 3 days ago

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🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 31: ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀʏ 🧡

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀᴘᴀʀᴀᴢᴢɪ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴇx-ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴜᴛ (ᴍᴀɢᴜɪ)

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ꜰᴀᴍᴇ, ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴄʀᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴀʀɪᴇꜱ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀʜᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ

ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴘᴀɪɴ, ᴛᴡɪɴꜱ ᴋɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ)

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʟɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙᴀɢɢᴀɢᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴇʀ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ

ʀᴇᴀʟɪꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀɪᴛʏ’ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ

The villa was quieter now. The laughter had faded, the last of the champagne flutes collected and rinsed, the glow of the party replaced by the golden hush of morning. But even with the sun up, the warmth of the previous night clung to the space.

(Y/n) stretched as she padded barefoot through the open hall, her robe brushing softly over the tile floor. In the kitchen, she found Zak pouring himself a second espresso.

"You’re up early," he greeted warmly.

"So are you," she smiled, hand instinctively resting over her belly.

He nodded toward it. "They keeping you up, or just the headlines?"

"Both. And my back. And Lando snoring."

Zak chuckled. "He does that?"

"Like a lawnmower," she said, grinning. "But a very endearing one."

Zak sipped his coffee. "You handled all of it yesterday... with real grace."

(Y/n) glanced toward the garden, where remnants of the party still clung to the chairs and lanterns. "I didn’t think it would happen this fast. But I guess I was wrong."

He offered a more serious look. "This sport doesn’t slow down for anyone. But you’re part of this family now. That means we take care of our own. If you need anything, discretion, security, help, you let us know."

She blinked, touched. "Thank you, Zak. Really."

He gave her a quiet nod and excused himself, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the soft fluttering movements of the twins within.

Outside, the cameras were already beginning to stir. Media vans, long lenses, voices echoing from beyond the villa's entrance.

Lando rejoined her later that morning, a box of pastries in one hand, the other reaching to press against the small of her back.

"We’re officially the headline couple," he murmured. "You okay with that?"

She leaned into his touch. "It was bound to happen. Better now than later."

He hesitated before adding, "Magui watched the race."

(Y/n) raised a brow. "How do you know?"

"I got a message. Just dots. No words. But... it was her."

A silence hung between them. Then (Y/n) exhaled and looked him square in the eye. "You ready for all of that too? The ghosts, the drama, the past?"

Lando didn’t waver. "I chose you. All of this. I’m not looking back."

She kissed him then, soft and sure, just as the twins gave a small kick between them.

Later, back in the room, as the windows flooded with morning light, (Y/n) sat at the vanity brushing her hair. Her phone buzzed. Carla.

No reply. Just a photo attachment: her on the grid, bump showing, Lando glancing at her like she was the only person there.

Then the text followed: Mother of the Grid. You're trending in Brazil.

She smiled. She hadn't planned on this life. But now that it was here, messy, public, joyful, terrifying, she wouldn't change a thing.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 32: ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴛʟɪɢʜᴛ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Fourth post for today!! Yes, still scheduled. Yes, still somehow posting while drowning in schoolwork 🥲 Someone please remind me why I thought taking advanced electives and writing a multi-part AU at the same time was a good idea?? Anyway—

Thank you all for still reading this mess of a beautifully chaotic timeline 😭🧡 I’m seriously overwhelmed by your love for this AU.

✨ Quick Recap of What Just Went Down™️ ✨ – (Y/n) vs. Lando's snoring habits 😌💤 – Zak Brown making me cry with father-in-law energy 🥹 – Lando showing up with pastries like a man who knows peace offerings 🍩 – Magui... sending ominous dot messages like she’s in Morse code 👀 – Twins kicking just in time for dramatic emotional punctuation 🍼🍼 – Brazil officially adopting (Y/n) as their own 🇧🇷 #MotherOfTheGrid

Still more to come. The chaos is not done. Neither is the fluff. Or the drama. Stay tuned.

With love, me 🧡

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unabashegirl · 3 days ago

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Vicious — 18

After his father's death, Harry Styles must take control of the family mafia while dealing with his unpredictable brother, Silas. He meets Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, and learns about their arranged marriage.

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The week leading up to the wedding was a whirlwind of final arrangements. The manor, once a place Y/N dreaded, was slowly transforming into the grand venue for her and Harry’s marriage. Florists bustled in and out, caterers confirmed every detail, and Giana, ever diligent, moved from one end of the house to the other, coordinating everything with Charlie and Lex.

Despite the chaos, a strange heaviness hung over the preparations. Y/N sat by her window in the guest room, watching workers carry more arrangements into the garden, their bright colors a stark contrast to the gloomy air that seemed to fill the manor. Her thoughts drifted to Harry’s confession about sleeping with other women, a wound that hadn’t quite healed.

She hadn’t seen much of Harry over the past few days. He had been consumed with finalizing security arrangements and meeting with his men to ensure everything would run smoothly. He said it was necessary, given the threats looming from Augusto’s side, but Y/N couldn’t help feeling he was avoiding her. His confession about being scared of caring too much still lingered in her mind, yet there was something deeper gnawing at her. Something darker.

The feeling of unease persisted. In her brief moments with Harry, she sensed a tension in him that wasn’t just about their relationship—it was about something more dangerous, lurking just beyond their control.

That afternoon, while reviewing seating charts, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She reached for it, expecting another update from Giana or perhaps a message from Harry. Instead, it was from an unknown number. Frowning, she opened the message.

You think you’re safe with him? How foolish.

Her heart raced as she stared at the words. Who would send something like that? Was it a cruel prank, or was there some truth to it? Y/N’s stomach churned. She had already accepted Harry’s confession, but this? It felt like someone was watching her, trying to tear them apart.

Before she could process the message, another one followed.

Ask him about last week. About the girl. He won’t deny it.

She dropped the phone onto the table, her mind spinning. Was Harry still seeing someone else? Or was this just another attempt from Federico or Augusto to shake her trust in him? Y/N buried her face in her hands. Every time she tried to convince herself that things were on track, something new pulled her back into doubt.

A knock at the door startled her.

"Come in," she called, hurriedly shoving her phone away as Giana entered, holding a clipboard.

"You alright?" Giana asked, raising an eyebrow as she scanned Y/N’s face.

Y/N forced a smile, nodding. “Yeah, just... overthinking as usual. Is everything set for the ceremony?”

Giana glanced at her clipboard. “Almost. I’ve been running through the final checks with Charlie and Lex. Security’s tight, especially with Augusto lurking in the shadows. They don’t want to take any chances.”

Y/N nodded absently, her thoughts still on the messages.

Giana tilted her head, scrutinizing her friend. “What’s really going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Y/N hesitated. She hadn’t told Giana about the messages, about the nagging doubts that were pulling her apart from Harry. But keeping it in was suffocating her. She sighed, rubbing her temples before finally speaking. “I’ve been getting these... messages. From an unknown number. They keep telling me that Harry is not to be trusted”.

Giana’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t seem surprised. “And do you believe them?”

Y/N shook her head, conflicted. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks it’s just another way for Augusto or Federico to mess with my head. But another part... it keeps gnawing at me. I mean, Harry told me he slept with other women before, but now... I don’t know.”

Giana sat down beside her. “Y/N, you need to talk to him. If there’s something going on, you need to hear it from him, not some anonymous number. You’re about to marry the guy, for heaven’s sake.”

“But do you want exclusivity?” Giana asked, her voice soft but probing.

Y/N stared at her friend, unsure how to answer. Did she want it? The truth was, deep down, she had started falling for Harry, despite all the complications and despite everything they had been through. But she was scared—scared that she was just building fantasies in her head, scared that Harry didn’t feel the same way.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted. “I’m terrified that I’m just making it all up in my head. I’m scared that he’ll never care about me the way I’m starting to care about him.”

Giana took her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Then you need to find out. Don’t let anyone else tell you what’s going on. Go to him. You owe yourself that.”

Y/N nodded, feeling a little stronger from Giana’s words. She knew Giana was right. But before she could find the courage to confront Harry, she had to get through the wedding and everything that came with it.

As the day went on, Y/N found herself distracted with last-minute tasks, but the messages remained in the back of her mind, gnawing at her. The unsettling presence of the unknown sender lingered, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her, waiting for her to falter.

Harry stood in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the lapel of his finely tailored suit. It was black, made of the finest material money could buy. Every detail had been meticulously altered for him, down to the sharp edges of the cuff and the perfect line of the trousers. He had always appreciated precision, and his suit for the wedding was no exception.

He tugged at the jacket slightly, inspecting how it sat on his shoulders, turning to glance at himself from different angles. The wedding was now just days away, and though the pressures of the day loomed heavily over him, he had to admit—the suit made him feel like everything was under control, at least for now.

The soft click of the door opening behind him was the only warning before Silas strode into the room, a familiar smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth. Harry caught his reflection in the mirror—Silas, ever the snake, looking like he had something to say.

"Well, don’t you look dashing," Silas teased, his voice laced with amusement. He strolled in as if he owned the place, taking in the sight of Harry adjusting the suit. “I see you’re really going through with this whole charade, then. Quite the sight, seeing you playing dress-up like some groom out of a fairytale.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn’t bother turning around, continuing to fiddle with his cufflinks as Silas circled him like a predator eyeing its prey.

"Got nothing to say?" Silas drawled, leaning against the wall with an air of nonchalance. "I figured you’d at least try to defend yourself by now. Or is it that you know I’m right? That this wedding is a mistake? A bloody farce.”

Harry finally turned, his eyes narrowing at Silas. "You don’t know a thing about it," he said coolly, his voice low and controlled. "And it’s not your place to try to sabotage this. Not anymore."

Silas chuckled darkly. “Oh, come on. We both know you're no saint. Does Y/N know about the others? Or are you banking on her never finding out what you get up to when you're not playing the dutiful fiancé?”

Harry’s fists clenched momentarily, but he held his ground. “What I’ve done in the past isn’t your concern, and it won’t be hers either. Why are you still hanging on to this idea that I should walk away?”

Silas pushed himself off the wall, taking a few slow steps toward Harry, his smirk widening as he saw the flash of anger cross Harry's face. “Because I know you. I know what you're like when you feel cornered. You’ll sabotage this just like you’ve sabotaged everything else in your life”

Harry turned away, staring into the mirror again, but this time the reflection that stared back at him felt different—strained, tired. He could feel Silas’s words worming their way under his skin.

“You think Y/N is different, but she's not. Sooner or later, you'll push her away too”.

Harry’s fingers tightened around the edge of the dresser. He took a breath, keeping his voice steady. “She’s not, Silas. And that’s why I’m marrying her.”

“Oh, is that what you tell yourself at night?" Silas' voice dripped with mockery. “That this one is different? That she’ll somehow fix all your flaws? Give me a break. You’ve got skeletons in your closet that would make anyone with sense run for the hills, and you’re hoping Y/N never looks too closely.”

Harry turned sharply, his patience wearing thin. “Stop”.

Silas laughed bitterly, running a hand through his slick hair. “You’re in love with the idea of Y/N, not the reality. You’re just scared of being alone, of facing your demons on your own. You think she will save you.”

“You don’t know a thing about what I feel for her,” Harry snapped, his voice hardening as he took a step toward Silas.

Silas raised an eyebrow, that same infuriating smirk plastered across his face. “Is it? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve done nothing but run from the truth. And what truth is that?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “That you don’t deserve her. You never did.”

There was a brief, taut silence. Harry could feel his pulse quickening, the old anger rising within him, but he forced himself to calm down. Losing his temper wouldn’t fix anything. It never had.

“Do yourself a favour, Silas,” Harry said in a low voice, his back still to the man who had tried to tear him down for years. “Leave”.

Silas chuckled one last time, heading toward the door. “You’ll never deserve her” he said, pausing at the threshold. “It will all crash and burn”.

With that, he was gone, leaving Harry alone in the room. The suit felt heavier now, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a breath. Whatever demons Silas thought he was running from, Harry knew that the only thing that mattered now was Y/N. And he wouldn’t let anything—not his past, not Silas, not Augusto—stand in the way of protecting her.

He exited the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click, and walked down the corridor. The manor was alive with preparations for the wedding, a buzz of energy filling every room. Servants moved quickly with floral arrangements, caterers brought in supplies, and decorators fussed over details Y/N had been careful to plan.

Just a week until the wedding. A week until everything changed.

Turning a corner, Harry made his way outside to the garden. He needed fresh air, space to think. The sun was low in the sky, casting golden light over the expansive grounds. The scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, and the gentle breeze offered some relief from the weight on his shoulders.

As he stepped into the garden, he noticed Y/N seated on a stone bench beneath a large oak tree, going over some final details for the wedding. A notebook and pen were in her hand, and she was deep in thought, her brow furrowed as she focused.

Harry’s heart swelled at the sight of her. She had always been strong, calm under pressure, even when things felt like they were falling apart. She didn’t need the grandeur of a wedding to prove her worth or loyalty. She just expected respect—and he had nearly shattered that.

He approached quietly, not wanting to disturb her thoughts, but as he drew nearer, Y/N looked up and smiled, her eyes softening when they met his.

“There you are,” she said warmly, setting her notebook aside. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

-> chapter 19

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