harryyloverr

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Then your phone buzzed again, and you lazily stretched to reach for it, barely taking your eyes off the TV as you fumbled across the cold surface. When you brought the phone to your face, you squinted at the bright screen and read:

Grace: Girl! You’ll never guess who just showed up at this freaking party, Dude!!!!

Y/N: Who?

You watched as three dots appeared, then disappeared, and appeared again.

Grace: Harry fucking Styles

As you read the text, the name sent a bolt of lightning sparking through your limbs, and you sat up, grabbing at your chest like your heart had forgotten how to beat or something, like it had stopped, and stuttered back to life, then thrashed against your ribs like it was trying to escape, and you reread the name just to make sure you read that right. 

Grace: Soooo…I guess you might want to rethink staying in…

Suddenly, you couldn’t think; you just stared at the message—Harry was back? After almost three years of silence, and him only existing when you stalked his Instagram, your heart desperate in those hopeless moments at 2 in the morning, most times just to see what he was up to, to see if he was taken, like your life hadn’t become you masquerading through your life since him, pretending like you had forgotten all those memorable moments—like the way he looked above you, all those times you had been beneath him, the way his eyes would catch yours right before he pushed inside you, and god, after all this time, you had yet to match that feeling. Ever.

Y/N: I’m already in pajamas.

Grace: Bitch don’t lie. Get your ass over here!!!

She was right, of course. Because you were already standing, already mentally rifling through your closet, while simultaneously trying to talk yourself out of it. It wasn’t like you cared what you looked like. It wasn’t like that. Because it had never been like that, except for all the ways it had actually been exactly like that, and now, it was even more different, because you had changed, and you were guessing he had too. So, did that mean you would actually have to try this time around?

When you got to the party, it was already in full swing, and you started working your way through the familiar chaos of shitty beer and loud music blaring through the creaky off-campus house. Your hands were shaking as you maneuvered through the entryway of bodies, and you shoved them in your jacket pockets, trying to look like someone who hadn’t just spent twenty minutes changing outfits and another twenty trying to talk yourself out of coming at all.

Around you, the air was thick with the heat of too many bodies, and the lack of air was already starting to suffocate you. You scanned the crowd, trying to appear subtle, but the truth was, your eyes were hunting. It was ridiculous, the way you had to remind yourself to breathe, and how every tall figure seemed to make your pulse spike, as you waited for even the slightest hint of a British accent to cut through the noise. But he was nowhere to be found as you made your way to Grace.

“Thank god you’re here,” Grace said, pulling you closer and pressing a red solo cup into your hand. “I saw you looking…he’s in the kitchen. Or he was… but he was with some blonde girl—I think—I don’t know, I’m a little drunk.”

As your eyes met hers, you took a long drink, suddenly wishing you had something stronger than the cheap beer filling your cup. “That’s cool…good for him.” You told her, trying to shrug off the hint of jealousy already inching up your spine, though you had no right to be.

She gave you a look then, arching her eyebrow at you—that sly look that said she remembered everything: the mess you were when he was gone, all the times she had knelt beside you on the bathroom floor, holding your hair back while you drunkenly cried those first few months after he left. How many times had you tried to convince her you were fine? That it wasn’t a big deal, that you always knew it would be temporary—the classic friends with benefits situation—but how were you supposed to know that you would get attached like that? That you wouldn’t get over him, even now that the feeling was fresh again.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Sure you are.” She countered, right before some guy was snagging her attention from across the room, signaling her over, “Come on, that’s Chase from my Eco class, I’ve been trying to bag him all night, you can be my wingman.”

You laughed, ready to lie straight through your teeth, “Actually, I might go look for something stronger than this…” You answered, downing the rest of your drink in your cup, and she shrugged, rolling her eyes.

“Ugh, fine, but if you see him, come find me…” And she gave you a knowing look, as if she could already see past your bullshit, then turned, and you watched her walk over to Chase, the two of them sharing a smirk, and you knew she wouldn’t have needed your help even if you went.

It had been a lie, yes, and as you wandered through the party, slyly searching for the guy who once held your heart, you found yourself talking to people you knew when they stopped you, effortlessly playing your part and laughing at jokes you couldn’t quite hear, all while your body stayed on high alert. Every room you entered, you scanned with your eyes first—starting with the kitchen, but he was gone. Then, the living room, still no Harry, and almost hesitantly, you checked the back porch where the smokers gathered, hoping he wasn’t a smoker now, yet still no Harry.

After a while, you thought maybe he had left, that maybe Grace had been wrong. Maybe that was until…

And then you saw him—randomly leaning against the wall near the stairs, and yes, there was a blonde girl with him—Kayla—from your English Lit class. And damn, even though you didn’t have a problem with her, you knew she was the kind of girl who was pretty in that effortless way some girls are, you know, the ones who usually get the guys, with annoyingly long legs and perfect teeth, always flashing a perfect smile. You watched as she laughed at something he said, moving her hand to his arm, while he smiled down at her with that easy charm that you could never forget—because even as you stood there, you could feel yourself about to get pulled in, and you were all the way across the room.

Because fuck, three years had been good to him. His hair was longer now, and you stood there googly-eyed watching him push it back from his face and off to the side, in wavy strands that made your fingers itch, because it wasn’t just the hair—he had filled out, too, his shoulders broader under his plain white t-shirt, and as you took in his stance, his body language was etched with the kind of casual confidence that only came from growing into yourself with time away, as he shoved a hand into his pocket, so cool, still so fucking attractive. 

You had to force yourself to look away before he could catch you staring, your heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you thought, this was fine—you had seen him, and now you could check that box. Now you could have a few drinks, stay an appropriate amount of time, and leave this place; it was simple.

But just as you were starting to believe your own plan, and move forward with it, you felt it—that prickle at the back of your neck that felt like you were being watched, and you risked one more glance over your shoulder, and when you turned, there he was, looking right at you, making your heart stop in your chest for the second time that night.

Then you watched as the recognition hit his face in stages: First surprise, then something fainter, then that goddamn grin. The one with the dimples that used to make your brain so fucking silly. Then he did something that nearly made you faint—he raised his cup in a silent toast, and you, on autopilot, raised yours back, trying to ignore the tremor racing to the tips of your fingers.

That’s when Kayla turned to follow his gaze, and she waved, brows furrowing in confusion as her own recognition kicked in, and you quickly looked away, busying yourself with a conversation you weren’t even part of, while trying with all your heart to pretend like he didn’t exist behind you.

But that was easier said than done, because that only made the hour that followed pure fucking torture. It was like he was planting himself in your vision, the way you kept catching glimpses of him, whether it was getting another drink or laughing with a group of guys you vaguely recognized—Kayla always hovering nearby like she had just set her hands on her prize for the night, and hell, maybe she had, but even so, without fail, every time you looked his way, he was looking back—the two of you playing this weird game of cat and mouse, both of you circling each other, yet, neither willing to make the first move, as you both pretended that you weren’t hyperconscious of where the other was at any given moment—because the eye contact was saying it all.

“We need two more for beer pong!” Jake’s voice boomed from across the room, and then he called your name. It’s not like you guys, we’re good friends or anything, but for some reason, he liked to pick on you, and that’s when you found yourself being dragged toward the table that had been cleared for the game, as Jake smiled, already resetting the cups, “Come on, you’re good at this…I’ve seen you in action.”

This made you laugh, because you weren’t particularly good at any game, but you let yourself be pulled along anyway, just for the distraction. “Ok! fine…But I need a partner!” you yelled over the music.

“I’ll play.”

And the voice that sounded from behind you hit your ear with a British drawl. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was—because there was something about that slow, careful way he always spoke, his accent now thicker after years of being back in London, that rasp. You had it memorized and could play it over and over in your mind like a broken record.

“Harry…right? We met in the kitchen…” Jake said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Perfect, Man. You two against me and Marcus. Sound good?”

As he nodded, you finally looked over at him, taking in his perfect features up close, seeing the changes more clearly, all the new tattoos that he had added to his arm, some hidden under the sleeve, only hinting that they were there, or the thin scar on his eyebrow that hadn’t been there before. But through all the changes, his eyes were the same, still that same seafoam green under the lights, eyes that had always seen you through all your safeguards.

“Hi,” he said softly, just for you.

“Hey.” You forced, taking your positions at the opposite end of your opponents, trying to ignore how aware you were of him and his every move. As Jake finished setting up their cups, Harry moved closer, and you caught his scent, something different than before, but underneath it, still him, still the guy you had pressed yourself to, your bodies flesh to flesh all those nights without a care in the world—Was he still the same in any way? What did he think of you now?

And just as you were feeling the sudden wave of insecurity trying to take way, he leaned in, pushing a warm breath against your ear, and said, “Finally.”

For a second, you forgot what you were doing or where you were, that single word sending a shiver down your fucking spine—Finally, like he too, been waiting—Finally, as if these three years had been just a pause this whole time, not an ending you thought you had to endure.

Then he sent you a quick wink, nudged your shoulder, and handed you your ball, all in time for the game to start, and suddenly it was like no time had passed at all, the way you both seemed to fall into that easy rhythm—him setting you up for your shots, the way you both were trash-talking the other team with such ease, or the two of you laughing when Marcus completely missed the table. All these little inside jokes rose to the surface over time, making it feel so easy, so right.

“Wow—someone’s gotten worse at this,” you told him after he missed his second shot.

“Or you’ve just gotten better…” he shot back, watching you sink another cup.

“I mean—I’ve had plenty of practice...”

“Yeah?” he questioned, trying to sound casual, but as you looked him in the eye, you caught the faint edge of something else, as his eyes searched your face.“I’d love for you to show me who you’ve been practicing with?”

You shrugged, lining up your next shot, loving the hint of jealousy peeking through his tone. “I don’t know…just people...”

He laughed as the ball arced perfectly into the cup you were aiming for, and Jake groaned. “Damn, guys! How are you two so good together?”

Fuck—Together, you repeated in your mind, the word now hanging in the narrow space between your bodies, as Harry’s hand brushed yours when he reached for the ball, and you nearly jumped out of your freaking skin, because if he only knew…

“Sorry mate—” Harry shouted, making another cup, and then he looked at you, and added, “we’ve always been a good team,” his voice only loud enough for you to hear with that last line, and you knew he wasn’t talking about the game.

Before long, the game was nearing its end, your mind racing as the tension grew, adrenaline flowing through you as you and Harry got closer. That’s when Jake and Marcus rallied, pushing the game to a near tie. Suddenly, everything was at stake—not just the game, but this moment with Harry, like there was another ending coming—because you kept wondering what would happen next. As the small crowd that had gathered kept cheering and placing bets, the pressing thoughts loomed, all the tiny touches making it worse, all the laughter—your entire body caught up in the competition and the familiarity that Harry brought—the way he made you feel like the old pieces of yourself you thought you had lost. It was all so fucking much.

“Shit—fuck—Last cup. I have to make this!” you blurted, the ball feeling light in your hand. “No pressure...at all…”

“You’ve totally got this,” Harry encouraged, moving behind you to get a better view of your shot, as the tips of his fingers grazed over your waist, his body so close now that you could feel the heat of him. “Just like that time at Bryan’s graduation party…” He whispered, leaning in closer.

Then he was stirring a memory you almost forgot, and you remembered how you had made the same shot then, winning the game, and Harry had picked you up and spun you around, both of you dizzy from all the cheap vodka, and the high you guys were both still tangled in—when you were both so wrapped up in each other that you couldn’t see the ground beneath your feet.

Then, the ball left your hand, arcing through the air, and landed perfectly in the last cup—just like that night. As the room erupted, you both yelled out. Harry’s hand reached for your elbow, and before you could think, you turned and leaped into Harry’s arms as they wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground. Like muscle memory, your arms went around his neck, and he spun you just like before, both of you laughing.

Except it was nothing like before…

Because his body was different now—stronger, more manly, holding you with a strength that made you feel like you weighed nothing, like he could hold every piece of you that had ached for him since the day he left, as your mind ran over every point where your bodies touched, basking in the solid warmth of him, the way your heart was ready to beat its way out of your fucking chest, because you couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe how dizzying it all was, as the booze finally caught up with all the excitement.

Yet, as he started to set you down slowly, the world seemed to slow down too, as if you suddenly weren’t sure if there would be a ground to hit, as your body slid against his. Then, they were actually hitting the floor—your hands still on his shoulders, his on your waist—and for a moment, you just looked at each other—your whole history flashing across your mind, friends to lovers, lovers to friends, to strangers—and all you could think about was that last time, that night in his room—clothes on the floor, his sheets tangled around your bodies for the last time—the night before he left for London. The way he held you so close, so tight, hands silently tracing the planes of your body and the features of your face, as if he was already trying to remember the shapes and curves of you, and all the while, you had been doing the same. Yet neither of you were brave enough to say it then—Could this be your second chance? Was this what the universe was handing you right in the palm of your hands? 

This boy, this guy—This man, and as he gazed back into your eyes, you swore you saw it in his, like he was remembering too.

“Harry!” Kayla gushed, appearing at his elbow, all smiles as she anchored a possessive hand on his arm. “That was amazing! You two make such a good team.”

Feeling awkward, you both dropped your hands as the moment shattered, and you stepped back, forcing a smile. “Yeah…good game,” you told him, feeling proud that your voice hadn’t betrayed you.

“Yeah…” Harry said, as Kayla tugged at his arm, but his eyes were still on you. “Good game.” And you watched as the two of them walked off, Harry ripping his eyes from yours, as your heart sank. As they rounded the corner to the kitchen, he looked over his shoulder, and you forced yourself to look away, knowing that your chance was gone. Because she was going to get your guy, because you had come too late and missed your chance.

After that letdown, you only lasted another fifteen minutes. Because you knew as soon as they walked back in the room, you wouldn’t be able to watch Kayla continue to hang on Harry’s every word. You wouldn’t be able to pretend you were having a great time with people you hadn’t even wanted to be around in the first place. This was stupid. You were stupid. What had you expected? That he would see you and realize he had been waiting for you all this time? That what? Those three years would just disappear? Yeah right. That wasn’t how life worked.

As you were saying your goodbyes, you found Grace in the kitchen. “I’m heading out.” You told her.

“What? No! Did you talk to him?”

“I mean—We played beer pong.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We didn’t really get a chance to talk. He’s here with someone. It’s fine. I’m fine, you know. Things change.”

Grace looked like she was ready to argue, but you were already moving, weaving through the crowd toward the front door. You just needed to get out, to get air, to get home, back to your blanket and your show, and your life where Harry didn’t show up and make you feel like you were eighteen and confused again—back to that time when you still had more questions than answers, when you were completely lost.

As you pushed through the door, the biting chill of the night hit you like a slap across the face, and you realized you had forgotten your jacket, but you weren’t going back for it. It didn’t seem worth it in this moment, not when your apartment was only a few blocks away. You could make it. So you bounded down the steps, trying to move fast, and just as you headed in the direction of your apartment, you heard the door crash open, and someone yell your name—

“Hey! Wait!”

When you turned, it was Harry running down the steps, no jacket either, his breath visible in the cold night air as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Hey... are you going already?” He asked, finally catching up to you, because it wasn’t like you had gotten far, but he was nearly out of breath when he reached you, and you watched a puff of vapor dissipate between you.

“Yeah… I’m trying to beat traffic,” you joked, gesturing at the completely empty street, trying to hold back your smile, as your mind muttled with the fact that he was standing here before you, when he should have been inside with Kayla.

You listened to the raspy laugh slip past those heart-shaped lips, a soft sound you had tried so hard to forget. “I was kind of hoping I’d get a chance to catch up with you, but you left…and you didn’t even say goodbye…”

His words left you stunned as you stood under the streetlight, both of you shivering slightly while the strange feeling of this whole situation swarmed your mind. Because this was fucking surreal—who was this guy? Because even in the dim light, you could see every change, see the man he had grown into—more certain with every move, more solid, but still with that sweet underlying current of something gentle, and you realized you had to stop trying to force the guy you once knew into the mold of the man standing before you, because you would never get that back, the time lost, but you had right now, you had this moment, and that had to matter more. 

You shook your head, trying to shake the racing thoughts from your mind. “I mean... I don’t know…this was kind of weird…and you kind of seemed occupied,” you confessed, looking down at your feet, hating how jealous you sounded.

“God... her?” He breathed, running a hand through his hair. “Umm…to be honest, I can’t even remember her name. She told me right before I saw you... And my mind kind of went blank. I’ve been trying to fake it all night…which for some reason only made it harder to get away cause I was trying to be polite… because all I’ve wanted was to get you alone.”

You turned away then, biting your lip to suppress the smile that was quickly taking over your face, but Harry caught your arm gently, turning you back.

“The truth is...” He paused, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of his old self as he gathered courage, “I’m nervous, and I’ve missed you, and it’s all been really confusing…coming back, but more than anything, right now, I just really want to kiss you.”

“Yeah?” You swallowed hard, then you took a step closer, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Yeah.” He answered, closing the distance between you, until you could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, so close that you could count the freckles and moles scattered across his beautiful face.

“Then what are you waiting for…kiss me,” you said, as your hands found the front of his shirt, and you gripped hard as if you already needed the stability of his strong body to hold you up.

That’s when his gentle hands came up to cup your face, so fucking gentle, you could have cried. He took his time, and you let him, his thumb skimming across the delicate skin of your cheek, his eyes searching yours for something, for permission, maybe, or just for the hope of the same want to be reflected back at him—and when his lips finally met yours, he made the softest groan that hummed across your lips, and you whimpered, the sound so faint it died behind your sealed lips as he kissed you like he had been thinking about this very moment for the last three years.

Because god, it was nothing like the kisses before he had left—the ones that had been tinged with endings, and marked the bitter taste of goodbye. This was different—This was all new, all hunger and hope, as his hands found your hair and you felt your whole body come alive in ways you had forgotten he could spark.

Then, suddenly, you were the one shifting the energy, your body pressing closer, harder, as you opened your mouth against his, testing your tongue across his upper lip, teasing him, and he followed your lead immediately, as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush to him. You could feel how much he wanted this too, feel it in the way he held you, could feel it in the composure that was barely hanging on as he kissed you back—and when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, breaths ragged in the cold air, as you stared at one another—

“I—um—only live a couple blocks away,” you huffed out, your voice not quite steady yet. “And my roommate is out of town.”

You both smiled then, knowing exactly what this meant. “God, you still know how to get me, don’t you? He grinned at you, “Lead the way, Darling.” Then he reached for your hand, and you both rushed off.

When you got to your apartment, you barely made it through your door before his hands were on you again, his body pressing you against the wall, his mouth hot on yours, as you fumbled for the light switch and missed, then decided you didn’t care, and you started walking backward toward where you thought your bedroom was.

“Wait,” you laughed against his mouth as you nearly tripped over your coffee table. “I think I just forgot the layout of my own apartment…Fuck—”

“Your mind always did get a little fuzzy before sex—” he teased, his voice rough, his hands shaking as they found the hem of your shirt.

“Shut up—That’s not true…that was you.” you shot back, then pulled him down for another kiss, walking sideways now, as one hand used the wall as a guide.

Your shirt hit the floor somewhere near the kitchen. His shirt followed, tossed vaguely toward the bathroom, and by the time you reached your bedroom door, you had no idea where the rest went. All you could remember was how he had walked you into a few walls along the way, knocking a frame to the floor that you would have to deal with later—both of you laughing between the sloppy kisses, hands everywhere—trying to touch and undress and navigate in the messy storm of need. 

“Smooth,” you said as he accidentally kicked your laundry basket.

“Um…I thought you were the one leading,” he pointed out, then crashed into your dresser. “Ow.”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, pulling him further into your room. “We’re a fucking disaster.”

“I think we’ve always been a bit of a disaster, yeah? That’s nothing new, love,” he quipped, looking down at your body, and then you weren’t laughing anymore, because his hands were on your skin, and his mouth moved to your neck, and everything slowed as the realization of him standing in your room, nearly naked, hit.

All you had was the moonlight streaming through your window, but it was perfect, the way it was catching the planes of his face, and turned his skin silver-pale, and you stood there in the middle of your room, both of you down to your underwear, so in awe of one another, that all you could do was just look at each other.

“You’re different,” you said softly, your hands tracing the new tattoos, then the broader lines of him.

“So are you,” he said, as his fingers ghosted over the filled curves of your body. “More... yourself, I guess if that makes sense...”

And you knew what he meant. Because you were nothing like your eighteen-year-old self. She would have fought the figure filled out before him. But now, who you were today, you felt settled in your own skin, even as it hummed under his touch, because this, you knew now, was the power you had been gifted—you knew how to use this body, how to yield to or control the pleasure you sought. You knew that once you had him in that bed, what you could offer, and this was the side of you that he didn’t know—the parts of you that you had noticed in him now, that were so sure and certain, you also had in you.

“I was hoping this was where I would end up tonight,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “With you...”

“Harry,” you breathed, and he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed, and he laid you back with a gentle ease, like he was ready to take his time with you, and in the silver moonlight with his eyes on yours, you finally let yourself believe that maybe you would finally get your chance to say all the things you wish you had.

But instead of the frantic rush as before, it started with you both laughing, tripping over the edge of your mattress, as your bodies collided and came together—his knee catching awkwardly between your thighs, his chest pinning you gently, and the two of you pressed nose-to-nose, totally breathless as you took stock of where you landed and realized, holy fuck, this was really happening, and it was him and you and it was so much worse and so much better than you remembered.

Because in the glow of moonlight, with his naked body on full display, what looked different before, now seemed familiar, the feeling... Because, yes, he was more of a man now, naturally, his body larger. But as you blinked up at him, touching his hair, his face, running your hands down his arms and over the swell of his chest, all the new muscles, there was still the old Harry there in some ways, even if every part of him was stretched out and magnified. 

But before it got serious, it got silly fast, the two of you bumping foreheads, muttering “shit, sorry” as your underwear came off, and then laughing so hard your whole bodies shook the bed. his cock was already hard, so fucking hard, that the outline nudged your thigh, making you both gasp and fumble your kiss, like you were still those drunk kids again, trying to get away with something in the dark, except now he was this, everything and more—and you were…well, you were everything better than before, your intentions more sure than ever, body and curves more appetizing, and he was eating it up, hands greedy on your tits, squeezing, then thumbing your nipples until you shuddered, until your chest was burning for more.

“Since when…” he breathed, eyes awestruck and hungry, as your bra came off, his focus now on the boobs spilling out, “Damn—love, when did you get these?” You could tell he was already obsessed, the second his mouth started drowning in your cleavage, and before long, his tongue and teeth were making a moaning mess of your tits, as your body arched greedily to meet his, like every nerve in your body was coming alive again, like fucking fireworks bursting through your body, and you needed more, needed his hands everywhere, needed his dick—

“Wait—Harry, I think you’re bigger, like I don’t remember you being this big,” you blurted, as your hand gripped around the girth of his dick, thoroughly shocked as you took note of his size. You wanted to see what you were dealing with, wanted to remember, and he groaned, proud, already jutting his hips forward like he was starved for your touch—and god, maybe you should have been embarrassed by how wet you were, how desperate your body had become for his, but it was impossible to feel anything but triumph, knowing you had gotten him here, and as you took him in your hand, reveling in the weight and heat of him, you stroked his thick cock, watching as his eyes fluttered and his jaw tensed, like he couldn’t believe how easily you were handling him. 

“Christ,” he rasped, voice ragged as your hand glided down his dick softly, then back up, “You really don’t remember taking this much, darling? Fuck—that feels so good already. Do you think you’ll be able to take me? You were always one for a challenge…”

Nervous, you swallowed hard, shaking your head, as you both giggled like idiots trying to laugh off the nerves, and your laughter grew muffled as you kissed down his chest, letting your tongue trail over some of the new tattoos—the salt of his body washing over your taste buds. That’s when you decided to take charge, not hesitating for another second, and you climbed on top, straddling him, your wet pussy hitting his pulsing dick as it pulsed against your soaked entrance—the gesture filthy and natural, as if you had never been apart at all.

Except now he was thicker and throbbing in your hand as you guided him in, your whole body needy for it, deprived in a way that nostalgia couldn’t touch. Because you wanted it so bad, and when you sank down on the tip, the stretch snatched the breath from your lungs, the pure shock of it. Because you were already feeling it in that first insatiable drag, the way his dick was splitting you open, ready to stretch and fill you—and god, it was even better than before, you thought, as his groan ran through your body and you trembled, desperate to take all of him—inch by slow stretching inch, the burn so sweet, so painful it punched right through your fucking chest, and all you could say was, “Fuck, Harry, you’re huge… I can’t believe this dick was ever inside me…” every word rolling out on a moan, as your head tilted to the ceiling, trying to find focus through all the sensations, and your eyes flitted closed, letting yourself get lost in it for a second.

When your eyes finally met his again, he was staring, completely bewitched, both hands braced on your hips as you worked him deeper, then they moved to your breast as they spilled into his large palms, his grasp firm, his cheeks already flushed—everything so much more than last time—as compliment after compliment rolled off his british tongue—sweet, filthy praises that only spurred you on, as his thumbs teased your nipples, and you rocked your hips, gasping out, “You gonna break me open, yeah? You know no one’s ever fucked me like you…I want you to make this pussy remember.”

Without warning, he bucked his hips up, forcing his dick completely inside you, making you cry out his name—a single word puncturing every motion you both were making in unison, as your hips ground down against him, ready to take your pleasure. “Harry…baby, fuck, it’s—I don’t even know how to—I mean shit, it’s already so good…” and then you were laughing through the pain and pleasure, your desperation possibly awkward, but honest, because your past selves had never been this vocal—this part was new and it only seem to amplify everything that was already happening inside you—all the emotions, all the confusion, all of the fucking disire that had never left your bones, and here was his voice awakening it all as he said—

“I want you to take it all—you’re taking this dick so good—such a fucking good girl. Just like that…” 

Your entire body was singing with pleasure, aching with a want to have it all, torn with the shock of missing something so good, because Jesus, you were barely moving, Yet, the whole of him was slowly stretching you open with every difficult thrust, making your cunt clench at every drag, the tension making your jaw tight as the sensation moved through you, the feeling so delectable and bright, that you knew there was no way of playing it cool, nor did you want to, fuck, you wanted him to know. 

So you kept telling him, “God, I need you to break me in, I swear, nothing has felt this good since you,” and Harry leaned up then, rasping a light laugh into your ear, his body curving under your hands, and they slid up to his shoulders, and you circled your arms around his neck, as he thrusted uppward, forcing his dick deeper, and he wrapped his arms around your middle, pressing your body to his—and in one smooth motion he was pulling you down hard to meet his next thrust, your bodies quickly finding a rhythmn each time he slammed into you.

 “Good—fuck—want you to remember—want you to feel it for days—god, baby, you look so fucking hot taking this dick, love.

That’s when the pace picked up, as that familiar tingle climbed up your spine, that knot steadily coiling deep in your belly, because everything about this moment, about him, about this—about the two of you was already bringing you to that edge, and you weren’t sure how long you would last if you both kept saying exactly what you wanted, taking each other exactly like you had dreamed about if this moment were to come to fruition and here it was, perfect—because it had been so long since you had been this turned on. 

“Love, this pussy is so tight for me… I don’t know how long I’ll last.” He told you, pushing the words into your shoulder, as your fingers tangled in his long hair. 

You moaned out a laugh, taking his next thrust up like a champion, his dick so deep it had you gritting your teeth, and the pleasure ripped through you like a bolt of lightening, making you cling to him with all your might, already frantic not to lose hold of him, as your pussy flexed on instinct with each push and pull, taking him each time his hips rolled back up, and he had to fight against the tightness of your cunt. It was insane, pure insanity, just how good it was. You swore you were seeing stars, real, actual, spinning stardust, bursting behind your eyes from the stunning wonderment of it all—because it was all so fucking much, this frenzied wanting and the way he was forcing himself inside you, or the way you met him in return, your pussy wet and sliding, the friction dizzy as you raked your nails across his skin for more. 

Skin, and sweat was all you knew in those moments, your entire body pleading with every gasp for air, with every whimpered moan begging for every inch he gave, moving your hips each time to meet his, always trying to steal another, taunting him with dirty, shameless whining, “God, baby, just like that, I need it, fuck me like you used to, til’ I can’t think straight…I’m yours.” 

And you meant it; meant every plea that you forced with a sense of urgency—the need raw and animalistic, the stretch so addictive your body seemed to vibrate with the growing pride of taking it, the pleasure, because nothing had ever matched this, not even close. Because you had craved him, had yearned for his praises, had even begged the universe at one point for the hot, filthy string of them—for his large hands to be touching you just like this, for his mouth to be bruising your tits, leaving marks that would echo the same sentiment as the words “I was here.” To be so enveloped in him that you didn’t know where your body ended, and his began.

That was all it took, because then you were there, right at the ledge, as the feeling of your encroaching climax swelled so deep that your whole body went rigid, “Harry don’t stop, please—fuck—”

“I’m going to—” You bellowed out.

“Fuck, me too—” 

“Yes! Please, just like that—please!” You screamed.

The second the final plea flew from your mouth, he slammed you down on his dick to meet his bucking thrust up, forcing his name from your mouth and, holy fuck, the crest that swormed your body was so unadulterated, and so stupidly earth shattering—that you cried out for him, your voice breaking right as the rush of pleasure flooded your entire body, your rushing orgasm sharper than any you could remember, ragged and ripping through you unrestrained, as you lost your mind with it—so good you thought you might cry.

It was consuming you whole, everything in you seizing and fluttering, as your body clenched tight around his cock, milking it, every inch of you selfish for everything he had. As he moaned your name, loud and deep, fighting to hold on, you felt it—felt the last frantic roll of his hips, the way his grip ached over your skin as his fingers dug into your flesh. One last time was all it took for him, as he fucked up into your dripping pussy, and he broke. 

It was all happening so fast, that momentary second of silence, of realization, of coming undone—only the sound of your hard breaths, eyes locked, as Harry spilled inside you, forcing himself deeper, only amplifying the stretch—the heat and the slick all crashing together, and this time, when he tried to move, you scraped your nails down his arms and said, “Don’t pull out of me yet…not unless you plan on fucking me again,” and the hoarseness in your voice made his pupils blow wide, as his own pleasure seized through him, your cunt still fluttering so tight around his cock that his next moan was nothing but a broken, feral sound. 

You couldn’t let him go, and even though you were partly joking, you just kept clinging to him, taking all of it, slowly rocking your hips as he stilled beneath you, your body still moving with every intent to wring out every last drop of pleasure the universe would let you take—and then he was stilling your hips, sinking his face into your neck as your arms wrapped around him tighter.

 His dick was still pulsing inside you when he pushed his lips to your neck, and there was something about it, a tenderness that had always felt so fragile in the past. This was the moment when you would always hold your breath, wishing that it would last forever, this feeling of being one—that delicate moment that always seemed to blur the line between friend and lover, but you were old enough now to know he was never just your friend, that what you had was never casual, and while it still felt delicate, you knew better, and you could feel the words budding at the knot forming in your throat.

“Harry…” You forced, feeling the sting of tears already burning in your eyes.

“Yeah…” he whispered into the shell of your ear, and as his reply lingered in the silence, you thought for a second that you could swallow it, fight what was pressing at your chest, that you could breathe around the stinging tightness building inside you, because as you were crashing back to earth with him—skin to sweat-slick skin, still full of his cock, your own pulse pounding fearfully in your ears. You just sat there, not sure if you could trust your own voice, or if you could keep yourself from weeping all over him, right then and there—if it was even okay for you to say what you wanted, now that the madness of nostalgia was over. 

All you could do was hold him tighter, press your cheek to his shoulder, letting his heartbeat race against yours, trying to find the strength. But the sadness of losing him all over again was slowly creeping in as if you were going to let it steal this moment—Because it was scary, because every fiber of your being had missed him, had needed him, just like this, and for the first time in forever, you felt like you had your whole self back again—like you finally had hold of the pieces you had splintered off and let go, three years ago.

But then he shifted beneath you, wrapping you up tighter, tucking you in close, his jaw rough with stubble as he pressed a hard kiss to your temple, so soft it almost didn’t feel real, and you couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words clawing like wildfire up your throat, “Harry, I missed you,” you blurted, and you flinched, hating how desperate and messy it sounded, but then he nodded, and his grip tightened, so fucking tight, like maybe if he just gripped you tight enough he could anchor you both to this very minute if he tried.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he whispered, and it was the first time you heard his voice like that, truly devastated, bleeding with an honesty that felt safe, that felt completely sure, not holding anything back, like he was admitting something he hadn’t even let himself feel until he said it out loud. 

Fuck, you wanted to hold that feeling forever, wanted to crawl inside it, wanted to wrap yourself inside every word, and bury every old ache in that sound. Yet, it still wasn’t enough, and as your body shook against his, you lifted your eyes to his and said, “No, I mean, I really fucking missed you—not just the sex, not just the way this feels, but you, all of it, your dumb jokes… the way you always listened to my silly stories, and—I don’t know, you were my best friend, you know? I guess I always thought the friendship would outweigh everything else.”

His eyes widened then, and you saw it, all the hurt, all the longing, yet the softness of the past was still there, and he shook his head, his lips barely moving, “I’m sorry,” he breathed, as the apology vibrated against your chest, “I’m sorry I just stopped calling, or texting, or I don’t know… everything. I thought it would be easier that way, you know, less painful…”

“Yeah, well,” you huffed, half-laughing through the ache of the truth, “I think it just made it even worse, like not hearing your voice, not having the friend anymore. I mean, the hookups were fun, but then it got confusing, and then I just wanted my friend back, and god, I don’t know, then I realized maybe all I really wanted was all of you… like, I wanted to be yours. I wanted you to want me, because maybe if I would have been yours, you would have been too afraid to let me go… to afraid to lose me.”

And as the final words left your mouth, you realized that you had just told him everything you had been pressing to say since the day he left. For a minute, there was just your shared breaths, your hearts thumping wild and exposed, your pussy still trying to cling to him, your bodies fused tighter than you ever thought possible.

But even in his lack of words, you found yourself questioning everything, wondering if you were the only one who ever wondered. So you let it go, let it slip right out of your mouth before you lost the nerve, “Did you ever think we could have been more?” 

As soon as it left your lips, the question hung there in the silence, your truths no longer disguised, these fragile, delicate morsels, cracking open in the space between you like the crumbs you were always desperate to gather in the past, the tears welling in your eyes, the feeling utterly ridiculous, yet you couldn’t stop the hurt swelling beneath your ribs, all the years of never asking, never saying, all the goddamn aching that had split you open over and over, all because you had been so sure that he could never want this as much as you did.

Then, maybe, just for a second, you wanted to take it back, wanted to bury it somewhere he would never find it again, tell him you were young and dumb then, tell him you didn’t know what you were talking about. But before you could even move, he was already reaching for your face, those big hands so gentle, thumbs brushing the tears away, as his voice cracked, and he finally answered— 

“I’m sorry I hurt you like that, because god, love, you have no idea how much I’ve thought of you… and of us. All the time, I swear.” And that’s when you lost it, that dam of fear breaking wide, and all you could do was cry, blinking through the tears at this boy who used to know everything about you, and at the man who was holding you like he never wanted to let you go.

“You did?” You asked, barely able to get the words out, every syllable trembling, as you searched his face for any sign that he was bluffing, that this wasn’t real, that you hadn’t just poured out your entire fucking soul and doomed yourself to become a punchline.

But no, you knew that wouldn’t happen, because he was watching you, now, with those sea-glass eyes, his stare unwavering, his gaze so fucking sincere it made everything hurt more, “I did for a really long time…” and his words were so quiet you had to guide his face to your ear, then you hugged your arms around his neck, squeezing him flush to your body, as your body trembled with silent sobs—and you sat there, vibrating with the kind of hope you had sworn off years ago, the tears only a silent relief to everything unfolding.

 You sniffled, lifting your mouth to his ear, your voice taking on that same needy plea from earlier, “And now?” You asked, knowing you had nothing else to lose.

And you listened as Harry took a deep breath, chest slowly rising and falling against your heated skin, your cheeks warming, the two of you still wrapped up in one another, as the naked truth plummeted through the pit of your stomach, knowing that you were literally connected in every way possible—two desperate hearts still beating as one, and yet somehow, there was still room for that fucking distance that you both had been holding onto, right up until that very second, then you heard him clear his throat—

“Now? I think I’d really like to stick around and try… if that’s okay with you?” he finally breathed. And you could see the terror on his face, as if he had never meant anything more, as if you were dangling him over the same cliff he had unknowingly kept you on for years, and god, wasn’t that the most beautiful, frightening thing about all of this? To have taken any risk at all?

And as you pulled back, eyes roaming over his face, taking in this beautiful man, you thought, there’s no one else you would rather risk this terrifying leap of faith with, and you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, while gripping a handful of hair at the nape of his neck, “Harry… there’s nothing I want more…and the truth is…I think I’m in love with you…” you confessed, knowing there would be no going back.

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As the light flickered on in Harry’s flat, Y/N took in the familiar environment that she hadn’t been to in months. His place looked the same, a bit more messy but still organized. She flinched as Harry threw his keys down on the table, running his fingers through long, chestnut curls. She became mesmerized as he bit into a thin, black hair tie holding it between his teeth. His large hands grabbed the hair at the base of his neck and started to place it up into a bun at the back of his head.

“Get comfortable, I’ll be back.” With that, he turned and disappeared down the long corridor. Y/N shrugged off her jacket, fixing her skirt as she sat down on his sofa. His flat held a familiar masculine, musk scent that caused her reminiscing about their relationship. Now that she was back at his, it was a haunting feeling. She knew exactly what Harry was capable of — his ability to manipulate the situation, ghosting her without notice, find his next play thing and break her heart without any care.

And there she was, sitting on his sofa — waiting for him. She always waited for him.

When he returned, he changed from his black hoodie into a muscle tee that showed off his arms, the ink a stark contrast against his olive skin. He held a small baggy, a old card and a bottle of water in his hand. He sat down next to her, invading the space as his thighs stretched out. He remained silent as he carefully lined up the white, powdery substance in thin lines.

One.

Two.

Three.

Fuck, how did this become so normal to him? To her?

Y/N thoughts broke as she witnessed him leaned down against the table, using an note to sniff the powder into his nose. He made an audible groan before glancing back at Y/N.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he snorted, his gaze was dark and controlled. They seemed to run over her whole face, taking in her expression. “Not everyone can fix their problems with a expensive, little shrink.”

This comment made Y/N snap back into reality. Harry always had an issue with Y/N seeking out therapy. He’d tell her it’s a weak thing to do, go speak to some random stranger, get some shitty advice and pay for the time too.

Y/N leaned back against the sofa, arms crossed. “Stopped seeing her months ago, actually.” Y/N admits, wondering if Harry would press further but he kept his focus on the coke that smeared across his table. She watched as his large hands held the small paper, repeating the same action as before. Those were the same hands that use to hold hers so gently. Y/N remembered when Harry use to kiss each of her finger tips, marking her body with delicate contact while they made love.

Now, he was cold.

“Want a line?” He questioned, on his very last one. She shook her head, letting out an audible sigh. “So, did I come here just to watch you get coked up or what?” Her voice cut through the silence. Her eyes followed him as he sat back, resting his head against the back of the sofa.

“Come here,” he muttered, his eyes remained close as his fingers twitched in her direction. Y/N didn’t move right away, stared at him reluctantly.

“Did you come here jus’ to stare at me?” He questioned, his voice holding the same amount of energy as hers.

Y/N let out a sigh, climbing over him. Her thigh rested against the rough material of his trousers, her skirt rolled up higher against her skin. Her eyes traced his angelic face, a pained expression crossed her face wished he could’ve been sober when with her.

“Harry,” she called out, her voice cracked into the silence of the flat. Harry blinked his eyes open, grabbed at her hips to pull her closer. The light emerald color was replaced with a quiet emptiness, his pupils shot.

Just as Y/N was about to speak, Harry leaned up and crashed his lips onto her own. His tongue demanded entrance, taking what was his. His fingers clawed at the fat on her hip. His kiss was all consuming, making her forget his empty promises and the way he would continually hurt her.

Y/N hands wrapped around his neck, pulled him closer as he kept control in their heated make out. Her tongue fought against his, ultimately losing the battle. Harry was easily more rough than her. His hands began to wander, under her shirt, hooking his nails into her skin. Her body instinctively arched into his own. Her fingers found the seam of his teeshirt, pulled it over his head. His skin was felt hot as she ran her hands down his chest.

They broke contact for a few seconds as Harry worked at his belt, undoing his trousers. Y/N hovered above him, connecting her lips to his neck. She pressed soft love bites to his skin, a stark contrast to his rough touches with her. His erection stood tall against his boxer briefs. Y/N heard a hearty groan escape Harry as he eased them down his thighs. Her breathing hitched as he pulled her down onto him again.

“You want this, kitten? You want me to fuck you?” His voice rushed out as his fingers hooked under skirt.

“Please,” she begged, breathless against his hold. “Oh, Harry.” She moaned out as he pushed her underwear to the side, his fingers rubbed against her clit. A smirk extenuated his face as he watched her become greedy for more. He situated the head of his cock to her entrance.

“I’m not going to be gentle,” he muttered against the soft fabric of her shirt, driving into her with a sudden force. His mouth curved into a grin, satisfied with Y/N reaction.

“Always mine, always come back to me, hm?” He taunted, thrusting his hips along with her own. Y/N focused on the pleasure coursing through her body, her hands gripped at his shoulders. “Always such a little brat,” he growled with authority.

“Fuck, Harry,” she cursed out, rocking against him. As his speed increased, Y/N became relentless — failed to match him. Harry took control, used his anger from the beginning of the night to make her scream out in pleasure.

“Think some random bloke could fuck you like this? You’re bloody wrong, love.”

Y/N moaned out, her breathing hitched as the sound of the skin colliding together filled the room.

“Nobody gets you this wet, nobody makes you feel like this,” he said, his own movements becoming increasingly sloppy.

“Can I come? Can I come, please?” Right on the edge of euphoric desire.

“Go on,” he told her, watched as Y/N came undone around him. Her moans filled the quiet space, arching her back so, she could be as close to him as possible. The connection between them was electric, never left despite their distance.

Harry released into her seconds later, the tightness of her core sending him over the edge. He let out a low groan and a spree of curse words. Y/N collapsed onto his skin, as they both laid lazily against one another. Y/N could feel his heart race as she focused on her own breathing.

After a few second, Harry patted her ass. “Get off,” he demanded. Y/N sat up slowly, breathing heavily still. Her eyes searched his, confused but climb off his lap. He stood up immediately, reached for his clothes that had been discarded.

Y/N tracked his movements with her eyes. He grabbed the water bottle, Y/N almost reached out thinking he’d offer her some but never did. Y/N sat on his sofa cushion, watched as he gulp down the clear liquid.

“You can see yourself out,” he turned, walking towards the kitchen.

“What?” Y/N asked, completely caught off guard. Harry never kicked her out after sex. If he had somewhere to be, he’d go on about his day and leave a key for her. He didn’t care if she stayed at his for the night but that was all before. “You want me to leave and trek across London half past three?” Her tone held firm as she fixed herself up.

“It’s not like I asked you to stay, did I?” His voice slurred, just enough for Y/N to notice. Y/N stood defensively, crossed arms.

“Harry, why do you do this?” She rushed out, “Y-You just use me for sex, for a little distraction, for whatever you want… My feelings never matter, do they?” She realized.

“Takes two to fuck, you were perfectly willing minutes ago.” He muttered, rested his hands against his countertop. “You didn’t seem to care much ‘bout my feelings when you were about to fuck that guy!” He half yelled, “Don’t make yourself a fucking angel, we both know how fucked up you are.” He mouth forms a thin line as he shakes his head coldly.

“No wonder why you always have to be so coked up, you can’t stand your pathetic, useless self… That’s why you treats me like shit, use me for what? For pleasure? That’s all this is for you?”

His hand slammed against the countertop. “You don’t know anything about me! We weren’t anything, Y/N, get over it.”

“You get over it!” She yelled back, “You told me you loved me…Did you forget that? Has all that coke fried your brain?” As she spoke, Harry wondered closer to her.

“I was just saying shit, didn’t mean a thing.” He told her flatly, grabbing his phone. “I’m calling you a cab,” he muttered. His body turned away from her own.

“So, you just lie? Manipulate me? Then when I finally move on, you beg for my attention just to push me away again?” She let out a humorless laugh. “Get some fucking help, Harry.”

Y/N grabbed her jacket, tears fell as she turned the knob to his front door.

“I loved you, you were just too fucked to notice.” Y/N left without any other explanation, wishing she went on that stupid walk instead back into the arms of someone she use to love.

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The terrain emerged around him in sickening waves of dread, as the vast cavern of obsidian and bone came into view, lit by rivers of molten blood that cast everything in crimson shadow. As his mind gained agency, the air grew thick with the screams of the damned, though Harry had long since learned to block out their endless cries of torment, and at the center of this vicious hellscape sat a throne carved from a single massive skull, its eye sockets burning with green flame, and upon it lounged the creature that had cursed him with existence—his father.

Harry knew his father’s cunning tricks, how Susurrus could appear differently to every soul that beheld him—to the lustful, he was their deepest desire made real; to the pure, he was temptation incarnate, but to those that were fated, he appeared as the very person tethered to there heart—a cruel trick to acquire trust and take what he wanted.

But to Harry, his own son, he appeared in his truest form—a creature of horrific beauty, with skin like polished obsidian that seemed to shift and writhe with the trapped souls waning beneath its surface. His glorious wings, when unfurled, spanned the width of the cavern, each feather a razor-tipped blade of darkness. But it was his face that held the most horror—pure perfection, each edge perfectly sculpted with features that would have been beautiful if not for his absolute absence of anything resembling even the faintest hint at love or compassion in those wretchedly handsome eyes that held such ancient power that sometimes Harry wondered if he was born at the dawn of life itself.

“Ahh…My son,” Susurrus spoke, his tone a cacophony of seduction and damnation, a voice that had lured countless souls to their destruction over millennia. “To what do I owe, yet another visit?”

Harry kept his eyes focused and forced himself to stand tall, though every instinct screamed at him to kneel, to cower, to beg at the feet of Susurrus—a feeling that had been ingrained in him since he was old enough to conjure the realm. He hated the fact that thirty years of conditioning wouldn’t simply vanish, even now that he had tasted what real tenderness could be in the arms of someone who wanted to see the human in him—not just as prey devoted against his will—a dutiful puppet playing his role for a legacy he hadn’t chosen.

“I’ve come to inquire after your well-being. It appeared to me that you still remain agitated about the wife I have taken,” Harry replied, trying to keep his voice steady, and his thoughts veiled behind the mental walls he had learned to construct when engaging with his father. 

“The marriage…like I knew it would has solidified my standing among New York’s elite. The facade is perfect. Keeps me close to the possible encounter you spoke of…the witch. You sensed her near that night at the ball, had you not? I sensed her too. I have it in my mind that it may be my wife’s friend—”

“Your wife—?” Susurrus scoffed, “She’s barely of the title, son. I would hate for you to lose sight of the plan.” He mocked, rising from his throne with an arrogant grace that had Harry wanting to spit out the vile taste Susurrus’s words were leaving in his mouth, as he descended the steps carved from bones collected as souvenirs. As he approached, Harry felt the temperature drop even further, frost forming on his breath despite the rivers of fire surrounding them.

“I want to make it very clear to you that there is no mate set in your destiny. That you were placed on that earth for one thing, and one thing alone—am I speaking clearly?” He yelled out, already riled up, as he circled Harry like a predator, each step leaving smoldering footprints in the pitch-black stone of the obsidian floor. “Do you think taking a wife without my approval is truly the perfect scenario? You call binding yourself to some unknown woman whose mind is shrouded even from my sight, perfect? Who is she? Do you even know?”

“She was necessary,” Harry forced out, holding his composure even as his father’s power pressed against his mental barrier like a heavy weight. “Her father’s name, her connections—they’ll provide the cover I need to move freely among potential targets.”

“Targets?” Susurrus stopped directly in front of him, and Harry had to crane his neck to meet those horrific eyes—eyes that held the death of stars, and the birth of sin, the very essence of corruption. “Tell me, my son, what do you know of your purpose? Your true purpose?”

And as he asked, Harry knew it was a test. Everything with his father was a test, and failure meant agony beyond mortal comprehension, even for a dutiful “son”; there were never any exceptions.

“To serve your will,” Harry answered carefully. “To be your instrument in the mortal realm. To be of duty in all manners of life—”

Susurrus laughed, a sound that scraped across his consciousness like the glass of a mirror shattering and the deathly scream of a mortal losing their life. “Such a simple answer from my greatest creation. But tonight, I think it’s time you understood the full magnitude of why you exist.”

With the wave of his clawed hand, the air shimmered before Harry’s eyes, as illustrations began to form, bringing to life the ancient prophecies written in blood and starlight, sacred visions of battles waging between heaven and hell, and, at the center of it all, a figure enveloped in silver light.

“The year of the Cambion birth, the focal point of my reign,” Susurrus intoned, his voice taking on the cadence of a prophet, who was speaking wisdom as old as time, “This very birth was to set in motion the rise of the Incubus King, ruler over all demons, the master of carnal sin itself, whose sole purpous is to drag souls to damnation, and with each soul gain the power I deserve.” 

Harry observed as he gestured to himself with mock humility. “I WILL rise, for it is my destiny to reign just as powerful as my own creator, for these are the very words spoken from the devil himself—and you, your birth, my son, was to be the herald of my ascension.”

As Susurrus spoke, the images shifted with the narration of his words, showing Harry as an infant, his mother’s corpse still warm as Susurrus cradled the newborn cambion with something that would have looked like fatherly love if Harry didn’t know better. The thought sent an ache to the back of Harry’s throat as he gazed at the image of his beautiful mother, so innocent and young, another endless victim slain by his father’s hand once he got what he wanted. 

“But don’t be fooled…for every prophecy has its shadow,” Susurrus continued as his beautiful features twisted with the rage that filled the air around them. “The Devil himself—” He spat, his knarled teeth gleaming, making Harry’s stomach pitch.

“The Devil and his infinite cruelty added a warning to my triumph… blasphemy if you ask me…He spoke of a witch, born of the sacred heritage—not just some hedge witch or childish parlor trickster, but one with power enough to end my reign, to turn my own blood against me.”

And as he said the words, Harry’s blood ran cold, though he kept his expression neutral. 

“For all your thirty years, I have hunted them,” Susurrus snarled, and the images shifted to show the visceral carnage of every woman throughout the years, some young, some old, all dying at Harry’s hands under his father’s command. “All these women that you see—all these witches were taken before even a spark of true power, our job is to eliminate them before they could grow into their strength. And you’ve been my perfect weapon, designed specifically to walk among them, to seduce them, to destroy them before they even knew what they were.”

“Yet, I have never failed you, Father,” Harry stated, though the words tasted putrid on his tongue. Suddenly, he could feel each and every one of those deaths weighing on his soul, each innocent life that he had taken, thinking they might have been the witch they sought.

“No—” Susurrus agreed, moving closer until Harry could smell the ancient evil that clung to his breath, like sulfur and blood and the sweet decay of evil. “But now it seems you’ve complicated matters with this... wife.” He declared, forcing the words as if they were more foul than the rot of his universe. “Do you not think that I can’t see the shield of her mind—the walls I can’t pierce, her past only shadows and whispers to my powers. Not a single memory that I can make sense of. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“She’s nothing—” Harry lied smoothly, thanking whatever power had taught him to protect his thoughts. “A socialite with a modest inheritance…that’s hardly a threat.”

“NOTHING—?” Susurrus’s hand shot out, grasping Harry’s throat with enough force to crack a human’s spine. “Then tell me why I cannot penetrate her mind? Tell me why her dreams slip through my fingers like smoke? Why does she smell of moon-touched power, yet I cannot sense it?”

Harry gasped, trying to choke in a breath as his hands instinctively went to his father’s wrist, though he knew better than to truly fight back. “I... I haven’t noticed...”

“LIES!” Susurrus shouted, tightening his grip and lifting Harry off the ground with an effortless tilt of his arm. “Do you not think I’ve noticed the frequency with which you’ve been calling upon me in the dark hours? Distracting me with false leads and phantom witch hunts? You’ve been protecting her, haven’t you—!”

Outraged, He thrust Harry across the cavern, and his body slammed into a pillar made of bone. As he collided, the sounds echoed with a sickening thud, hauling him with enough force to shatter the post, as fragments scattered around him. Harry lay there only long enough to cough in the gust of air that was knocked from his lungs, the taste of copper washing over his tongue, but Harry, angry and strong-willed, forced himself to his feet, unwilling to fold that easily.

“The prophecy spoke of how the witch would enchant and trap you…that evil bitch,” Susurrus continued, amused by his son’s unshaken resolve, and he stalked toward him. “That she would speak your name and gain power over you. She would make you believe in love—the most poisonous illusion of them all—and through that false sense of hope, of love, she would turn you against your own blood—TURN YOU AGAINST ME!”

“She hasn’t—” Harry began, but Susurrus was upon him again, even more furious, his patience worn thin as one clawed hand wrapped around Harry’s throat while the other pressed against his forehead.

“Let me see for myself what hold she has on you,” his father hissed, and Harry felt the wicked talons of Susurrus’s powers slip into his psyche in a matter of seconds, digging into his mind, already sifting through memories—through all the days Harry had spent away from you longing, and through every sleepless night he spent calling upon his father with false embelished leads to keep him distracted, until he saw the memory of your hand—

Then Harry, with all his might, slammed his mental barriers closed, “No—!” Harry snarled, and for the first time in his existence, he pushed back against his father’s invasion, just before Susurrus could reach the memories of your consummation—the one memory Harry already held sacred, one he hadn’t yet had the chance to savor as his own.

Stunned, Susurrus stumbled back a step, genuine surprise flickering across his perfect features. “Do you dare DEFY ME—!”

“You will not lay another one of your cursed hands on her,” Harry growled, and he felt his own demonic nature rising—not in service to his father, but in challenge to him.

For a rapturous heartbeat, Harry saw something he had never seen before in those ancient eyes; for gazing back at him, he saw fear—actual living fear, and for a moment, Harry reveled in it, knowing in that instinct that he no longer wanted to enact the role he was given. All this time, he had done what he was told, but for what? To give more power to a creature who wasn’t capable of love? Who would never see Harry as anything other than an instrument in his grand, orchestrated plan—the prophecy wasn’t about any witch destroying Susurrus directly; it was about her turning his greatest weapon against him, and for a moment, he felt his infinite power, the power you seemed to give him, the confidence he felt burning under his skin. 

But just as quickly as the moment arose, it passed, and as Susurrus’s face contorted with a venomous wrath beyond any fury Harry had ever witnessed he screamed out, “Do not forget your place and who holds the power here, boy!” he roared, his voice vibrating through Harry’s entire body and shaking the very foundations of hell, as the solid ground rumbled under Harry’s feet, and the temperature plummeted until even the rivers of blood began to freeze. 

“Hell hath no fury LIKE ME.” He continued, and all at once, Harry felt every torture his father had ever inflicted on him echo through his bones like searing lightning—every lesson in pain, every moment of agony used to forge him into the perfect weapon.

“Do not forget your place. You are nothing more than a MONSTER, and monsters are not worthy of love nor are they capable of the love you seek,” Susurrus spoke, his hand shooting out to grip Harry’s throat again, this time with enough force to begin crushing his windpipe, “Let us not forget that just as much as I had a hand in making you, I can surely take you out.”

Harry clawed at his father’s grip, his vision beginning to blur as Susurrus’s jaw unhinged, stretching inhumanly wide, and from the depths of his throat, Harry saw it emerging—the moth. Not just any moth, but THE moth of death, the symbol of Susurrus’s claim, the mark of ownership that bound Harry to his father’s will, the weapon he used to manipulate mind and soul—its wings were colored from dried blood, its body bloated with the souls of the damned, and its eyes... its eyes were the same lifeless black as the empty void echoed between stars—a nothingness, only death being reflected back at you. 

As the rotting creature crawled up his father’s throat, Harry felt Susurrus pushing past his mental barriers again, and this time he was too weakened to resist, and with a devastating hold of power, felt him rifling through the memories like pages in a book, getting closer and closer to the sacred vision of your body, which would only draw him closer to the moment you had looked int Harry’s red eyes without a trace of fear, to the feeling of being inside you, to the—

Harry woke with a violent gasp, his body convulsing with the violence of the fear invoked upon him, and he rolled off the sofa and onto his hands and knees, trying to retch the smell of decay and smoke from his body, though nothing came up but bile and the lingering taste of sulfur. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hands shaking as he pressed them against the cool wooden floor of his study, and even though he was shaken to his core, he had made it out. 

He had done it—somehow, impossibly so, he had forced his father out before he could see or take anything of use. Before he could see the truth that Harry was only just now beginning to understand—that you weren’t just any witch. You were THE witch—not his enemy but his saving grace, and Harry knew without a doubt he wasn’t going to kill you.

He was going to protect you with every fiber of his damned existence.

Bringing himself up to his knees, his ears caught the sound of the birds chirping, pulling his attention to the window, where the first rays of dawn were painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. He had done it, kept his father occupied for yet another night, and now he could breathe knowing you had slept safely, free from the nightmares that Susurrus would have sent.

With shaky limbs, Harry pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself against the heavy wooden desk. He needed to compose himself before seeing you again, to rebuild the facade and ensure his mask would hold. Now he thought that even if Hell had no mercy on his soul, for the first time in thirty years, he no longer cared, because for the first time in his life, he had a reason beyond mere survival.

He had you.

Harry didn’t make an appearance until the noon sun reached its highest peak in the clear blue sky. He had bathed, dressed in fresh clothes, and managed to assume a semblance of his human guise, though it felt more fragile than ever. He stood on the terrace overlooking the sea, watching the servants set the table for lunch, trying not to think about how Susurrus’s words still seemed to resound in his mind… “Monsters are not worthy of love, nor are they capable of the love you seek…” He repeated as he took his seat at the table.

Was his father adept at seeing his heart’s true intent? Would this be another barrier Harry would have to learn to enforce, but just as his mind had begun to fixate on the terror, you appeared in the doorway, and every dark thought seemed to flee to the shadows of his mind. 

There you stood, wearing a soft lavender dress that hugged the curves of your body and showcased the length of your neck—the very neck he had pressed such anguished kisses to mere hours before. As he searched your face, his eyes landed on the small scratch he had left on your cheek, a painful reminder of his loss of control.

Harry rose immediately to his feet, dismissing the hovering servants with just a raised hand—a gesture that would have seemed imperious if not for the way his eyes never left your face, as he drank in the sight of you like a man dying of thirst, as your scent picked up with the breeze of the ocean air. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them, but just as quickly as they escaped, a slight flush of color spread up your neck, becoming a delicate reward for Harry to gaze upon.

Desperate to close the distance, Harry moved to pull out your chair, standing possibly too close than necessary, but perhaps needed in this moment, and as you settled into the chair, he caught the faint smile you were trying to hide.

When he settled back, just as he was placing his napkin in his lap, you both spoke at once, the question, “Are you well?” overlapping one another’s attempt at speaking, and the shared concern brought a shy smile to your face, and you lifted your napkin to your mouth to hide it—a gesture so endearing that Harry felt his heart tighten in his chest.

“Please, you first…” Harry voiced, motioning with a gentle hand to continue.

“I was only wondering if you slept well,” you asked carefully, and there was something in your eyes that suggested you knew more than you were saying. “You seemed... troubled when you left…”

Troubled… he repeated in his mind, if only you knew the half of it, he thought, as images from his torment flashed with an unbidden force through his mind—not the horror of his father’s realm, but the moments from last night. The way your body had yielded to his, the little chased gasps and moans you had made, the way you had looked at him when his eyes turned red, with no contempt but only kindness...His eyes drifted to the scratch on your cheek, as the guilt crashed over him anew—he had lost control. He had let his demon rise, partially manifesting enough to hurt you.

You must have noticed his stare because you reached across the table then, your fingers covering his clenched fist with a gentleness that threatened to undo him all over again.

“It was perfect,” you told him softly, as your thumb traced small circles on his hand. “Last night was everything I could have wished for...truly”

And you squeezed his hand, a small smile playing at your lips, “Well, considering everything…” 

“And you promise that you’re okay, you’re not in any discomfort?” He questioned, the ask bursting from him with such urgency that it surprised you both. “I didn’t... I never meant to...”

“Please…there is nothing to worry about. I can assure you that I am more than satisfied…I promise…” You ensured him, and in your eyes was the heated warmth from last night, that same desired affection you had granted him in the small moments when he wasn’t sure he could persist while he was inside you. “Thank you, truly... I’ve never—”

“Would you care for more wine?” And just as you were about to continue, the server’s voice interrupted the moment. Harry realized with a start that his hand had turned beneath yours, your fingers now interlaced together, his grip perhaps a bit too tight, and his brain was paralyzed for a brief moment at how easy this all seemed—how effortlessly you made it feel.

You laughed a soft, whimsical laugh that Harry, too, this moment wasn’t sure if he had ever heard, and the sound went straight to his heart—and then you gave his hand a couple of gentle squeezes before he forced himself to pull away, clearing his throat as he wiped his mouth with his napkin, trying to regain some act of composure.

“James, if everyone could please clear the terrace after collecting the dishes,” he said to the server, his voice rough with the need to have you to himself. “I’d like to be alone with my wife.”

And this made him smile, a fresh shyness creeping into his cheeks at the words ‘my wife’ —instantly, taking on a new light as the phrase sent an incredible rush of gratitude through him. Yet, the hitch in your breath had not gone unnoticed at the mention, and before he could dwell on the meaning, a new thought surfaced—you were the mistress of this house as much as he was master, and you should have just as much say in the setting of the life around you.

“I’m sorry, Darling, is there anything else you may need?” he asked, turning to you with genuine concern.

“No, I am quite satisfied, thank you,” you replied, and your gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips, as a shy smile curved at the corner of your mouth. “There is nothing that can be offered at this moment, Mr. Styles…at least not presently…but perhaps later…” You concluded, locking eyes with Harry. 

He had just taken a sip of wine, and almost choked on the harsh liquid burning his throat as he processed the implications in your words, the subtle emphasis on ‘Perhaps later,’ the way your teeth caught your lower lip...

“That... that will be all,” he ordered to all the servers, his voice nearly strangled.

“Thank you, James,” you said sweetly to the young man as he collected your plate, as if you hadn’t just made the most scandalous suggestion Harry had ever heard slip past the lips of a proper lady.

As each servant finished their task, they filed inside, leaving the two of you alone with only the sound of the waves below and the cry of seabirds sounding in the distance. Harry’s mind, the traitorous thing that it was, immediately delivered him with the most generous memories of your evening—how you had called his name as you came undone beneath him, how your walls had clenched around him like a glove, how, when you could take no more, you had bitten his shoulder to muffle the sensuous cry rising...and in moments, he felt his demon stir, curious, but Harry forced it down, his hands balling into fists on the table.

“I was thinking,” you said suddenly, breaking through his dangerous thoughts, “that after a rest, I might work in the greenhouse some more, glimpse the sunset through the open door. I know you’re usually busy, but if you would like to join me... I would very much like to show you how beautifully it’s coming along.”

He had heard the chatter of the ‘Greenhouse,’ where you had been spending your days while he was gone—according to Agnus—and supposedly nursing dead plants back to life with just your touch, based on Agnus’ inner monologue. Harry had also heard the gardener’s thoughts as he passed by on his way into the house upon returning from New York. It seemed you and Harry brought a very strange aura to the home, as gossip would have it, around the mansion. 

“Yes,” Harry said, perhaps too quickly. “Agnus has mentioned your growing enthusiasm. I always thought it had potential.” He paused, looking down at his clenched fists. “I don’t think I have a gentle enough touch to tend to such delicate things.”

“I think,” you said softly, and he looked up to find you leaning forward slightly, your eyes intent on his, “you should give yourself more credit. I believe there is more tenderness in you than you may know.”

The kindness knocked the air from his lungs… Tenderness… The word felt mocking. His father would have laughed at the very suggestion. Demons weren’t tender. Cambions weren’t gentle. He was a weapon created to destroy, corruption made incarnate.

But right now, in this moment, the way you looked at him suggested otherwise.

“May I walk you to your room?” he asked, needing to move, needing to do something—anything, before he could say or do something that would reveal too much.

“You may,” you replied, rising gracefully from your chair.

In a breath, Harry was beside you, offering his arm, and when you placed your hand on it, he was well aware of that spark, that recognition that made his bones ache for you, and as you both walked toward the door, it swung open before Harry could even signal—something that should have been impossible. For just moments before, the servant had been waiting with his back turned away…Harry could see it through the door. It was like he had been called, wordlessly summoned. 

As the door opened, Harry took in the dazed look on the boy’s face, his features giving his confusion away, and when he looked to you he caught a curious, almost mischievous gleam in your eyes…yet somehow he knew you were responsible, and he found himself trying to hold back a laugh. 

“Shall we continue?” you asked innocently, though there was nothing innocent about the way your fingers tightened on his arm, the look in your eyes saying you were already past this moment, as a new hunger stirred.

The walk to your room was comfortable, though Harry was acutely aware of every point of contact being made—your hand on his arm, the occasional brush of your skirt against his leg, the warmth radiating from your body, and when you finally reached your door, he stopped, suddenly uncertain.

“I’d like to conclude my work for the day while you take your rest,” he said carefully, though what he really wanted was to follow you inside, to lose himself inside you all over again, until he couldn’t remember his father’s words, couldn’t remember the blood on his hands, couldn’t remember anything but the feeling of being yours. “Could you have Agnus call on me when you’re ready for me in the greenhouse?”

“That sounds lovely,” you replied, but then Harry caught the sparkle in your eyes that might suggest that you might want the same thing. “I’d love that very much... sir.”

“Please,” he said quickly, the word escaping before he could stop it. “I’d like for you to call me Harry from now on...”

Then, realizing how that might sound—commanding, or controlling, something he didn’t want, and he quickly added, “If that is something you’d like.”

“I’d love that very much...” you paused, and when you said his name—“Harry”—it was with so much warmth and intimacy, that he felt his horns threatening to break through his skin, his heart racing so fast he was certain you must be able to hear it.

“Very well…Then I must be off,” he said, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to stay, and he felt the need rise, and he was unable to resist it. He lifted your hand from his arm and brought it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles while holding your eye, watching as your pupils dilated, as your lips parted slightly, and your breath quickened.

“And I hope you know,” he said against your skin, “that I will always make time for you. All you have to do is ask.”

“I’ll remember that,” you whispered, and he could feel the want you were holding back, could see it in the way you swayed slightly toward him.

“Then I bid you a peaceful rest,” he said, starting to pull his hand away.

But you didn’t let go.

Instead, you held his gaze as he found himself slowly backing you against the door, his free hand coming up to brace against the hardwood, needing stability as he crowded into your space, drawn by a force much stronger than him, stronger than gravity itself, because then he was asking:

“May I...” he started, then his eyes dropped to your lips.

And you were nodding before he could finish, and Harry lifted a gentle hand to your cheek, watching as your chest began to rise and fall, each breath coming faster than the last. He had wanted to do this last night—to kiss you—but everything about the moment was overwhelming—Had what you shared truly been just duty? Or had you went beyond? Had it just been sex for you? Because it was more for him; Because every feeling it had left him with felt far beyond anything he had ever experienced, anything he had ever thought himself worthy of, or capable of giving.

Harry’s eyes roamed over your face, taking in each delicate feature, trying to press them to his memory—to take in the way your eyes rounded and searched his, darting back and forth, as the delicate edge of panic rose, your nervousness painting the most beautiful need aching through the tender lines of your face, as your lips parted and you drew in a soft breath. Harry felt it too—felt the need so desperate, so needy that his dick was already pained with the restraint of his trousers. 

He wanted to push inside you, could feel the demon threatening to take over as he drew in a long, silent breath through his nose, bringing his face closer to yours. He needed to taste your kiss, needed to know what that soft mouth felt like against his, not just on his neck. 

When he felt you grab a handful of his shirt and yank him closer, his mouth crashed into yours, and it was nothing like he had imagined a proper kiss between a husband and wife should be. It was frantic, hungry, what thirty years of loneliness had acquired, and poured into the connection with just as much longing that Harry was desperate for you to feel. Your lips parted beneath his, and when you made a soft sound of need, he pressed you harder against the door, his control breaking as he made a painstakingly, slow grind against your body, his entire being in anguish as he tried to take it slow. 

Your hands were just as needy, trying to spur Harry’s body in motion, grasping at his jacket, pulling him closer, and when your hips bucked forward, seeking his—seeking that same friction you had both shared before, and he nearly lost his mind. He pressed against you again, this time forcing your body back with a hard thud that echo in the hall around you both, as a breathy gasp filled Harry’s mouth, and he pinned you to the door with his body, swallowing each gasp as the kiss grew more frenzied.

Before long, his hand was fumbling with your skirts, yours reaching for his belt, pulling so hard it gave way in seconds, metal scraping open, both of you getting lost as teeth nashed in sloppy collisions of desperation, and suddenly he was slipping too far gone to care that you guys were in the hallway where anyone could see. All that mattered was getting closer to you, being inside you again, claiming you in every way possible—

“Oh dear, please forgive me!” A voice sounded, yet distant, but Harry knew it wasn’t yours. Agnus’s voice had shattered the moment like hot water scolding the skin, and you broke the kiss with a soft whimper, turning your face away as your chest heaved with frantic breaths. Harry let his forehead fall to the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid, as he trembled with every need and frustration ripping through his whole existence.

“Would you mind,” he gritted out against the hot flesh of your neck, unable to look at Agnus, “turning away for a moment?”

He listened for her footsteps as she complied, already facing away, and with an enormous amount of effort, Harry pulled back enough to look at you, taking in your kiss-swollen lips, your tousled hair, that desire that was still burning in your eyes.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, cupping your face gently.

“Yes,” you breathed, then let out a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Your admission was so honest and vulnerable that it seemed to break through all his frustration, and he found himself laughing too—a real laugh, perhaps the first genuine one in decades, one that wasn’t forced, one that wasn’t an act waiting to be perceived. 

“I liked it quite prudently…” he whispered into your ear as he helped you straighten your dress, and your hips bucked forward to meet his, and he pushed them to the door with a firm hand, watching as you pressed your hands behind your back as if you, too, needed to physically restrain yourself from reaching for him again.

As he fixed his belt, he was painfully aware of your eyes on him and how you unconsciously leaned toward him even now, your hips jutting forward again as your back pressed against the door. It was admirable how your shyness seemed to fade. When he looked up, adjusting his shirt, you couldn’t resist one more touch, and you reached out with your poised hand to tuck a strand of his hair that had come loose back into place, making Harry ache for you even more. 

Your hand dropped to his cheek, cradling it in your palm, then you traced your thumb along his plumped bottom lip, and he watched you lick your own lips in response, clearly fighting the urge to kiss him again.

“Agnus,” you called, your voice shifting, growing admirably steady as you dropped your hand and clasped them both in front of you, the perfect picture of propriety once more. Harry’s eyes moved from your hand back to your face as you gave Harry a small nod—offering permission to leave, though every line of your body suggested you wanted him to stay.

You both stepped back, allowing Agnus to open the doors, and he watched your gaze follow her inside, as your chest slowly deflated in the slow rhythm of defeat—Harry knew that feeling, could feel it too, knew the anguish of being torn between two worlds, two different mindsets. The moment was slipping away from you both, and you were stepping inside, as Harry was readying himself to take his leave…but then…you were turning back to look at him, meeting his eyes with a sly smirk on your face; and he knew it—could feel the knowing between you now, that fevered desire—a thickening promise being forged with just a single glance, and it nearly broke his resolve entirely.

As the door closed behind you, Harry stood in the hallway for a long moment, trying to reconcile the monster his father claimed him to be, to the man you seemed to see in him as the prophecy rang in his ears—the witch who would turn him against his father, who would make him believe in love.

If you were that witch, then the prophecy was already coming true, and Harry found he didn’t care at all. In fact, he wanted it; he wanted you. 

You stirred from what felt like the depths of an ocean of sleep, Agnus’s voice echoing somewhere in the distance of your conscious mind, her Scottish lilt familiar and calling for you to wake. Yet as your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the afternoon light filtering through the lace curtains, the room stood empty. No Agnus bustling about with the usual task at hand, no gentle touch on your shoulder, no soft murmur of “Time to rise, ma’am.” 

Just silence, thick and peculiar, as if the very air had been drained of all vitality of life.

Sitting up slowly, you pressed a hand to your temple as a dull ache of pressure pressed against your skull, and you tried to shake the lingering fog of sleep, but it seemed to have a heavy hold on your mind. 

You yawned, your jaw stretching and agitating the scratch on your cheek, and the faint throb echoed a series of reminders from last night—Harry’s touch, and of everything that had transpired between you and your bodies. You let the memories play out as you looked around, but there was something else, a feeling, something that made the fine hairs on your arms rise despite the warmth of the room and the thoughts that should have warmed you. There was something about the marker of the light that seemed wrong somehow—not quite the golden cast of late afternoon but something flatter, as if viewed through a dust-covered lens.

When you rose from the bed, your bare feet met the cold marble with a shock, something that should have fully awakened you, yet that strange dreamlike haze persisted. Moving to the window, you gazed out at the grounds, searching for what felt amiss. Still, everything appeared exactly as it should—the manicured lawns stretching toward the cliffs, the ocean just beyond glittering under the dipping sun with motionless waves, as the gardeners moved about their tasks with a purposeful stride…No, wait…and when you blinked, you focused harder…The gardeners were nowhere to be found; in fact, the grounds stood completely deserted, though moments ago you could have sworn...

Shaking the confusion from your mind, you turned from the window and reached for your shawl, wrapping it around your shoulders, though you didn’t feel particularly cold. Your eye swept to the door, as the house seemed to beckon you forward, and you found yourself moving toward it without conscious thought, and your hand turned the knob with an odd detachment, as if watching yourself from somewhere just behind your own eyes.

Stepping into the hallway, it stretched before you, bathed in the same flat light, and your footsteps made no sound on the runner—or perhaps they did, but the sound seemed to come from far away, muffled and distant, like a mirage of sound and light. You passed window after window, each offering the same view of empty grounds and an ocean that lay too still, and with each step, that sense of wrongness grew stronger, pressing against your chest with that same strange pressure as when you woke.

Room after room stood empty as you descended the main staircase, your clammy hand trailing along the banister, the same question repeating through your mind—Where were the servants? Where was the constant, quiet bustle that usually filled the house during afternoon hours? Even the dust motes hanging in the air seemed frozen, suspended in their tracks as if time itself had slowed to a crawl, as if the whole world had stopped around you. 

The greenhouse…

It was all your mind could conjure, and the memory sprang forth as if it were a reminder of where you were meant to go. The thought rose unbidden and unavoidable, an absolute destination, though you couldn’t recall it being spoken aloud. Nonetheless, your feet carried you through the mansion and to the east wing garden passage entrance, where a long hallway stretched, lined with stained-glass windows from floor to ceiling—a place that once seemed touched by magic,a dreamlike vision of colors that danced across the pale stone path. Yet now, it felt strangely airless, as if the wind beyond the windows stood perfectly still, like the ocean itself frozen in time. Not a single hue shimmered with the breeze, and the shadows of the trees just beyond the glass remained dormant. How long did it take for you to get here? Had it been minutes or hours? Suddenly, time felt boundless and uncertain, stretching and compressing in ways that made your head swim with that eerie sense of confusion.

As you ventured down the long corridor to the greenhouse, you saw a tall figure through the glass walls—your husband—easily recognizable even from afar. He was faced away from you, hands behind his back, studying something among your newly tended plants, and a stunning sense of relief flooded through you at the sight—finally, something real, something reverent to anchor yourself to in this strange, drifting afternoon, and your pace quickened, with your heartbeat at the sight.

When you pushed through the doors, the greenhouse’s humid air embraced you with the rich, vital sensation of life, as the warm flesh of earth filled your nose. “I didn’t know you would be here,” you breathed, reaching for his attention as you moved toward him with quick steps, already eager to feel the solid presence of the man you longed for, your whole body ready to ground yourself in his reality—to shake the murky feel of your confused thoughts finally.

He turned slowly—almost too slowly, as if the motion required a conscious train of thought—and when his eyes met yours, something cold slithered down your spine. At first glance, those green eyes you gazed into with such passion mere hours ago now seemed lackluster and distant, like looking at a painting of eyes rather than eyes themselves.

“You’re awake,” he said, and though it was Harry’s voice, the inflection was wrong, but you shook it from your mind, blaming it on the leftover fog of your nap.

“Yes, I...” Then you paused to study his face, yet every feature was exactly right—the strong jaw, the heart-shaped lips you had kissed with such desperate hunger, the thick chestnut brown hair falling just so across his forehead. “I thought Agnus was to call on you when I was ready?”

“Was she? Well, I’m here now, am I not?” He asked with a slight bite to his tone as he tilted his head slightly—the gesture nearly off-putting. 

“How presumptuous of me to forget such plans…”

Presumptuous? What an odd word choice you thought, nearly too formal in a way Harry never was with you, not even in your earliest interactions. But you forced a smile, moving to the potting table where your thriving plants were showing signs of new growth. 

“Well, never mind the plan. You’re here nonetheless, and that pleases me so. Would you like me to show you what I’ve accomplished? The transformation has been quite remarkable.” You told him joyously, reaching for his arm.

But just as you were reaching, Harry pulled back a step, creating distance between you both. “I’ve made the time to be here, haven’t I? and I haven’t much of it,” he replied, as his eye slid over the plants with an uninterested gaze.

Disappointed, you dismissed the act, even though your heart dropped, and began explaining your work, pointing out each specimen you had coaxed back from near death, but as you spoke, his attention seemed to drift, those green eyes still wrong in some way—focusing on you rather than your words. Still distant, not in the heated way they had earlier when he had pressed you against your bedroom door, and your hands were unfurrowing his belt…no…this was cold, his dark eyes observing, making you want to wrap your shawl around you tighter.

“Your knowledge of botanical matters is quite extensive,” he said suddenly, interrupting your explanation of a particularly delicate fern. “Where did you acquire such learning?”

“I’m unsure, to be honest, maybe my mother,” you replied automatically, though as the words left your mouth, you realized you couldn’t actually recall not one specific memory of such lessons. “I think she had a garden when I was a little girl...”

“Did she?” He asked, and this knowledge seemed to sharpen his interest; those flat eyes suddenly intense with a strange sense of curiosity. “Tell me about her. You haven’t spoken much of your family.”

You laughed, skimming the fuzz of a leaf with the tips of your fingers, “I could say the same for you…Though we haven’t really had much time to speak of such things…” You told him with a playful smile. 

“Well, I’m asking now…and I don’t see how this could humor you?” He nearly snapped as he swiftly forced his features back into place. 

Startled, you opened your mouth to answer, then closed it again, as a frown creased your brow. Unexpectedly, you couldn’t remember a thing about your childhood. Not a single memory pertaining to your mother—her family, not even her maiden name, and as you reached for the knowledge, you found only a curious blank space, as if someone had taken scissors to that portion of your memory.

“I...” you began, then shook your head. “I’m sorry…how strange. It seems to have slipped my mind.”

“Strange indeed...” He answered, moving closer, and you caught a whiff of something that wasn’t Harry, a smell of sulfur and decay sweetened with the false cover of faulty perfume. “So are you to tell me you know nothing of your mother? Your grandmother? Surely you must know something of your maternal line.” 

The line of questions aimed like an attack across your senses, as if he was pushing against your mind with each word. That’s when the cold dread from earlier crept higher, wrapping around your throat. Why these questions? Why now? Did he want to know about the entirety of your family or just of your mother’s, and why was it that when you searched your mind for answers, did you find only that same troubling emptiness, as if whole chapters of your history had been torn away? All you could remember was the face of your father, your sisters’ voices, and the childhood bedroom you shared with them, yet even the walls in these memories were blank.

“The sunset,” you said abruptly, needing to change the subject, needing to move away from his looming presence. “The door here offers the most perfect view of the ocean. We could watch it together, like we discussed.”

Then you forced your feet to the glass door that opened onto the small terrace, reaching for the handle with relief. You needed fresh air, open space, anything to dispel this growing sensation of being trapped. But when you turned the handle, it refused to budge, and when you tried again, putting more force behind it, nothing happened as you rattled the knob.

“It seems to be stuck,” you said, trying once more, and then his shadow fell across you, blocking out the light as he moved behind you with a looming force, close enough that you could feel the cold radiating from his body—a chill where Harry had always run so warm anytime he was near.

“Allow me,” he said, but made no move to help; instead, he caged you against the door with his presence, his breath on your neck lacking the heated urgency you would have expected with such close proximity.

“Harry…” you said, and the name came out thin and frightened.

“That’s no way to address your husband,” he finally snapped, his tone harsh and unjust, and in that moment, you knew with absolute certainty—this wasn’t Harry.

Your mind began to race as you drew in the smell of his breath when it pushed past you with the force of his delivery. You knew it was wrong, felt your intuition screaming warnings even as you fought to keep your expression neutral, and you slowly turned, creating what little space you could between your body and his—this creature’s—dominating form.

“What a pity,” you said, surprising yourself with how steady your voice had emerged. “The door must have swelled from the humidity. I should wash up, and perhaps we could take a walk instead. How does that sound, husband?”

The thing wearing Harry’s face said nothing, only hissed out a dark laugh, gazing at you with empty eyes as you forced yourself to move casually across the greenhouse to the small washbasin, though every instinct screamed at you to run. You could feel its stare like cold fingers trailing down your spine, evaluating and calculating, as if you were prey, studying you like a specimen pinned to a board.

“You know,” it finally spoke, Harry’s voice, but you knew better now, “I find it quite strange that you don’t know anything about your past. I figured a prominent socialite like yourself could speak on your entire lineage. Don’t you humans pride yourself on that?”

That’s when your hands stilled on the basin’s edge, knuckles growing white as you gripped the porcelain—Humans—there it was, you thought, the confirmation that made your blood run cold even as your mind worked furiously to understand what was happening.

“Humans?” you asked, turning to face the creature with a mindful calm. “Are you not human yourself, my dear husband—”

“Has that been your interpretation of me? Is that what you’re choosing to believe? Surely you’re much more

Inquisitive than that, you naive girl.” He sneared.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, as a sinister smile rose, familiar and terrifying, as the question hung between you like a blade, and you forced yourself to meet those counterfeit eyes with a steady stare. “Well, yes…I don’t think a monster could have made our consummation as delicate as you made ours. It was rather beautiful, if you’re asking.”

“Beautiful?” He spat with a snarl, and then—between one blink and the next—Harry’s flawless facade shattered like glass. 

Now, what stood before you defied every rational description ever spoken by man. It was death and beauty all at once, the way its skin turned black, shining like polished obsidian, as something seemed to writhe beneath the surface, strange beings that howled their silent screams, pressing against the dermis like hands against fabric. Then the creature unfurled its massive wings—enormous, terrible things that blocked out the glass ceiling, closing you into darkness as the sun fought to cut through each time they moved, shining light on each feather and gleaming along the razor-shape edges of their darkness. But among every gruesome detail, it was its face that held you spellbound—as cruel as it was heartbreakingly beautiful in its horrible perfection, and yet despite all its magnificence, it was utterly devoid of anything resembling humanity or kindness—sin and fury so harsh it stole the breath from your very lungs.

“Is THIS beautiful?” it roared, shaking the glass panes of the greenhouse in its wake, and with one sweeping motion of its clawed hand, it destroyed everything you had spent days nurturing, as its claw swept across the table of potted plants. You watched in horror, your heart pounding, as pots crashed and shattered, soil spilled everywhere, and you turned away to protect your face, as the delicate green life of your plants were crushed and buried—the creature’s rage manifesting in pure destruction.

You flinched at the violence, at the casual brutality of destroying what you had worked so hard to bring back to life, and in that moment, for the first time since walking into that greenhouse, real fear filled your chest—not because of the creature’s appearance, but because of its capacity for cruelty and complete disregard for life and growth.

“Do you find monsters beautiful?” it growled, making you jump again.

But instead of cowering, instead of giving it the terror it so clearly craved, you did something that seemed to surprise even the monster seething before you—you drew closer, dropping to your knees to gather the broken pieces of pottery, and cradling what you could of the destroyed plants with gentle hands, the same gentle touch as you had before, as you fought back the tears ready to betray you.

“You’re not him,” you said quietly, focused on salvaging what little you could. “Harry would never destroy something I loved just to prove a point…He’s not a monster.”

This made the demon laugh, a horrible sound that would haunt you later. “Harry? That pathetic half-breed? You think you know him?” and it crouched down beside you, bringing its hideous mouth to your ear, as the smell of sulfur and rot overwhelmed your senses. “Shall I tell you what your precious husband really is? What he’s done? Shall I speak of all the blood on his hands?”

“I don’t—” You tried.

“That precious husband of yours…He’s nothing more than a killer,” it hissed, rising to circle you now like a predator. “And shall I tell you his favorite bitch to kill? He laughed out.

“Witches—!” He spat, coming down to your ear, and you felt the word vibrate through your entire body, spreading and blooming like the sacred power the moon had filled you with.. 

His voice rose as he began orbiting you again, “Witch after witch—their blood on his hands, their last dying breath in his ears as he fucked the life from their very body. Did he tell you that? Did he mention how he seduced them first? The promises he made to earn their trust, maybe even promises of love, before he tore their beating hearts from their chests—his dick still inside their bodies…talk about pain and pleasure…tell me—how does it make you feel to know you spread your legs for such a foul creature? But you wanted it, didn’t you? A little whore aching for something pressed between those pretty thighs.” He finished with a humorless laugh. 

His words gnashed across your skin like fire; you couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. Yet, your hands trembled at the thought as you continued gathering the ruins of your plants, refusing to look the creature in the eyes, as your shame rose with your anger, and you yelled out. “You’re lying —You’re a liar!”

“Do not make me angry, girl! You do not want to see me angry.” He yelled back as the room shook around you. “Listen to me, now…” And the monster yanked you to your feet, and you cried out in pain as his claws sank into your skin through the fabric of your shirt. 

“Harry…the man you’re putting your faith into—will never be capable of love. Do you even know why he married you? It’s nothing more than a convenient cover, not for the hope of love that fills your putrid heart. You are only meant to provide respectability and a name.”

“Every kindness, every gentle touch—all for show to keep that stupid mind of yours docile and unsuspecting. You’re nothing but a tool, a stepping stone to power. Though I must admit,” the demon leaned closer, its breath like grave dirt against your cheek, “you’ve proved surprisingly resistant to my influence. That blank little mind of yours, so mysteriously shielded. It’s almost... intriguing...” He breathed, grabbing hold of your neck, and licked a slow, filthy stripe across the scratch on your cheek, and you winced with its burn.

“If I’m so insignificant,” you said, finally meeting its wretched gaze, “then why are you here?”

Your question was simple, yet something in the way you delivered it—your tone completely unshaken—had the demon’s perfect features twisting into something that might have been frustration. “To warn you, perhaps. Or to test you. To see if you’re the one we seek—the witch who’ll either save my son or damn him entirely.”

“I’m no such thing,” you whispered, but even as you said it, you thought of the door that had opened at your will, of the plants that flourished under your touch, and the power of the moon that had taken you. 

“No?” The demon questioned, moving with inhuman speed, as a clawed hand wrapped around your throat, lifting you from the ground as easily as one might lift a doll. “Then you won’t survive this again.” He shouted as his red eyes went black and lifeless.

You watched, your whole body trembling as its mouth hinged opened—widening with a sickening crack—a scene straight from your nightmare—and you realized, with a panicked breath, that this was a dream, and as you gazed up into the depth of the creature’s throat, came the moth, that same monstrous creature as before, and somewhere deep in your subconscious mind you knew you couldn’t let it consume you.

As it slowly emerged from the demon’s mouth, you pressed your lips shut as each leg found purchase on your lips and chin, blindly probing, then launching itself at your face. When you tried to scream, the claw around your throat tightened, cutting off your sound before you could make a noise. As you attempted to turn away, the grip kept you still, and you felt your control slipping away. Desperate, the moth’s wings brushed at your cheeks, leaving trails that burned like ice held too long, as you struggled to breathe through your nose, and before long, you felt its head press against your mouth, angrily forcing itself against your lips, seeking entry.

Fearful for your life, you sealed your lips tighter, fighting with every ounce of will, but you could feel its legs scrabbling at your mouth as your breath grew thinner, its fat body pulsing with a dreadful eagerness to burrow itself inside you—to take root in your mind and soul as your lungs burned for air, and when your vision began to blur at the edges, you knew—knew with horrific certainty—that if you opened your mouth to breathe, it would crawl inside and you would be lost.

Frustrated, the demon’s grip tightened, cutting off even the thinnest stream of air you were managing, and you knew with every fiber of your being that you needed oxygen, as the lack began to override your will, and just so, your lips began to part against your frantic attempt to keep them closed, and you felt the round head of the moth bud and press forward in a frenzied scurry—

And just like before, you woke with a violent gasp, hands clawing at your throat, as the phantom sensation of those horrible legs still crawled across your lips. Your dress was drenched with sweat, your skirts twisted around your body like a blanket, and for several long, desperate moments, you could do nothing but gulp in air, reassuring yourself that your mouth was empty, that nothing had crawled within your throat.

As every limb shook, you moved from the bed, dropping to your knees beside it as you reached beneath the mattress with hysterical hands that shook something fierce. There, tucked between the layers, was the forbidden book, and the moment your fingers made connection with the ancient leather, it began to tremble as if alive, vibrating with such vigor that you nearly dropped it.

When it fell from your hands, it landed open, as pages fluttered and turned of their own accord until they settled on an illustration that made your blood chill to your bones. There, painted in exquisite detail, was the same obsidian demon from your dream—no, not dream, a vision—with a complete description in Latin surrounding the image.

You brought the book to your lap, crossing your legs beneath you as you traced the words, your educated mind allowing you to piece together enough of the meaning to make sense of it: The Incubus King, ruler of the demons of lust and consumption, master of the carnal sins. Below, in smaller text: Known by his mark, the moth of death, which he uses to breach the barriers of mortal minds, consuming soul and will entirely.

You sat there reading feverishly, absorbing every detail that you could: The cambion—a half-demon, half-human offspring, born of an incubus and a mortal woman. Stronger than their pure-blooded kin in some ways, weaker in others, forever caught between two natures. The text spoke of their creation as weapons, tools for their demon fathers to use in the mortal realm, where full demons could not always tread freely.

But when you turned the page, seeking more about the prophecies hinted at in the margins, you found only torn edges. Someone had ripped out entire sections, leaving only fragments: “...the year of the Cambion’s birth.” Was that Harry? and then you saw, “...she who bears the moon’s blessing shall...” Shall what? Shall what? You nearly yelled out, frantically flipping back and forth between the worn pages. The rest was gone, leaving you with more questions than when you started, which burned like acid in your throat as your stomach churned.

The moth—that was in great detail and the text that you could read spoke of it extensively—how the Incubus ruler could summon it to invade the minds of mortals, taking complete control, turning them into hollow puppets for his will. Once the moth entered, the text warned, there was no escape. The soul would be consumed, your mind enslaved, and the body would become merely a vessel for the demon’s intentions.

Two times that moth had nearly breached your lips, you thought, and how close you had come to losing yourself entirely, and with a violent shudder, you shook the image of its bloated body from your mind.

Without warning, the door opened, and you slammed the book shut, shoving it behind you as Agnus bustled in with her usual business.

“Ah, you’re awake, ma’am!” she said, moving immediately to the windows to draw back the curtains fully. “You’ve slept longer than usual. It’s nearly sunset now.”

Sunset… you thought as a chill rushed through you and you remembered the dream—the vision—whatever it had been, and you found your fingers moving unconsciously to your throat, where you could still feel the phantom ache of those vicious claws.

“Agnus—Where is my husband?” you asked, surprised by how normal your voice sounded even though everything inside you was screaming.

“Just finishing up some correspondence in his study,” Agnus replied, turning from the windows with a warm smile. “He asked me to tell you he’ll meet you in the greenhouse when you’re ready, just as you discussed.”

Your heart plummeted even as you kept your expression as neutral as you could… Just as you discussed… Just like in the dream.

“Thank you, Agnus,” you forced. “I’ll need just a moment to make myself presentable. I’m not feeling quite myself. Hopefully, I won’t keep him waiting too long.”

“Of course, ma’am. Shall I walk you there when you’re ready?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and Agnus busied herself with tidying the already pristine space as you slid the book back beneath the mattress when her back was turned away, and then you forced yourself to move, though mechanically as you moved through the motions of smoothing your hair, changing dresses—this time skipping the corset all together, even if it wasn’t proper, you still felt like you couldn’t breathe, and all the while your mind raced with every horrid possibility.

When you could delay no longer, you allowed Agnus to guide you through the house, and with each step, your dread grew. Because everything was playing out exactly as it had in your vision—except now there was life, the servants going about their evening tasks, the light beaming in truly golden this time as the sunset approached nearer, and when you looked out the windows, you could see the gardeners finishing their work for the day, as the ocean swayed with soft waves just beyond.

“Here we are, ma’am,” Agnus said as you reached the long, colorful hallway leading to the greenhouse. “Would you like me to—”

“No—I—,” you said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. “No…thank you, Agnus. I can make my way from here.”

Politely, she bobbed a curtsey and left, and you stood there frozen at the threshold, staring down that long, magical corridor of glass and light, a strange contradiction to what you felt inside. Yet, even this far away, you could sense him—truly sense him this time—and knew without a doubt that this was real. That was Harry, your Harry, waiting for you, not the creature that had worn his face like a mask.

But as you took your first step, you wondered how you could be sure? How could you trust your senses when reality itself seemed to warp and blur around the edges? 

Even still, your feet carried you forward despite your fear, each step a measured act of will and longing. Because you needed answers. You needed truth. You needed to know what your husband really was, what you had truly bound yourself to, what forces circled you both like hungry wolves waiting to attack.

Through the greenhouse door that stood before you, you saw him exactly where he had been in your vision—standing with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, studying your rescued plants that were whole and thriving, not destroyed as they had been in that awful dream.

And you pushed open the door, the humid air embracing you just as it had before, but this time you could feel the difference—the warmth that was truly warm, not the cold that masqueraded as heat, and you drew in the smell of earth and life, but beneath it, another scent you were learning, a scent that you knew belonged to you—

“Harry?” you called softly, and watched as he began to turn toward you, with the graceful motion of a true gentleman—fluid and natural—and real. 

When he turned fully and his green eyes met yours, they were alive with that heat you had come to know, had come to crave—passion and desire, but there was also something else, not something that you could see exactly, something that you could feel humming across your skin, hope maybe, fear, you didn’t know, all you knew was that you had to figure it out. 

“Hello, love,” he said, and in those two words, you heard everything that you needed in the moment to push you forward—the warmth, the want, the worry, the truth of him, monster or not.

And just before you took a step further, you stood there taking in the sight of your husband, and somehow you still found yourself caught between running toward him and running away, between trust and terror, between the truth you desperately needed and the lies that might be kinder, and as the sunset painted the greenhouse in shades of gold and crimson, you thought, whatever he may be—cambion, killer, savior, destroyer—he knew, and he was waiting for you to choose.

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All that day, you had toiled among your cherished plants, whispering gentle wishes into their tender leaves, as you softly brushed your fingers over the velvet buds of unbloomed flowers, savoring their beauty at every step—and as it was it seemed the very life of your flora was beginning to flourish and give way in such little time, and you found your dirt-stained hands were becoming a testament to your journey—of this new beginning, as it seemed the life around you, too, was budding and blooming into something entirely apart from the person you were before. 

From the moment you stepped into that greenhouse that morning, the metal tools seemed almost too invasive, as if the natural beauty around you had taken on a dreamlike glow, whispering secrets of an era long past—you quickly realized that the best tools were the very hands given to you. Never in your life had you connected with nature in such a way, or ever felt its calling as you did the moment you breathed in the humid air of the greenhouse or the breeze of the ocean air that morning when you opened your window, wondering what the magnificence of the sun would bring you. 

Now, with the sun at rest and the moon shining full in the night sky, you sat quietly, your window open to the gentle darkness as you gazed upon the stars that cloaked the heavens in a silvery abundance. Tiny flecks of luminous light danced endlessly in your vision, while the calm ocean beyond seemed to stretch beyond the reach of your thoughts, as if it too were boundless. What a wondrous sight you thought. For never before had your eyes beheld the night sky away from the city’s clamor, so clear, so pure—like the diamond set into the gold band on your finger, sparkling with all the mystery of the universe.

The longer you gazed, the more that silent knowing seemed to whisper—an intuitive knowing like an ancient, otherworldly voice that pressed upon your sealed lips, urging you to speak. The feeling swelled and hummed through your veins, a calling reminiscent of the enchanted plants and dusty old books. That’s when the ache in your belly began its gentle, pulsing thrum, rising in harmony with every sensation you had felt over the past week, as you beheld the breathtaking scenery before you. You felt both exhilarated and overwhelmed, and in that enchanted moment, your mind seemed to bid your eyes to remain still as you peered into the round, boundless glow of the full moon—so enormous in the night sky that you almost believed you could reach out and touch its mystical surface. 

In the depths of your spirit, you sensed its enchantment, felt it course through your veins like a luminous stream of power, as if a new spark of life were radiating through you with each breath, replenishing your very soul. Because was it not indeed performing that very miracle? Because you felt its faint restorative vitality stirring within you—a strange sense that seemed to flourish, to thrive, yet you felt its weakness just as well, felt its untamed authority weaving through your mind, appearing as a sensation that lacked any sense of control. 

Because you only seemed to sense its potent magic in those charged moments that seemed to forge the fragile tether between you and Harry. Whatever mysterious essence dwelled within him appeared to stir and rattle the resilience within you—a whisper, a shiver within your womb, a tingling phenomenon that rose to the tips of your fingers, a knowing like an untapped well that was waiting to be unsurfaced. 

What could all this mean, you wondered as the question formed deep within your belly, now aching with a curiosity so severe, you almost cried out with a newfound eagerness to know…and then you felt a new word rise with your thoughts, your womb trembling as your mind uttered it first…Goddess…

And then you spoke it aloud, “My Goddess…” you forced, your voice ragged as it scraped past your throat.

You sat up, bringing a shaky hand to your throat as you stared up at the moon with wide eyes, as if the moon itself was speaking the words forming in your mind—‘Goddess.’ You had only heard that name in fiction, never as something real or a word that filled your vocabulary, yet here, as you spoke it into your existence, you felt its force—the power in just saying it aloud brought forth other words that seemed to be forming in your mind as you started again. “Goddess of the moon…” You spoke again, but this time with more conviction. 

“Please, if you hear my call… behold in me a vessel, and infuse into me the divine strength I now recognize as your hallowed divinity...”

 With each word incited, your throat ached with its power, stirring every emotion you had ever suppressed as you gazed up at the luminous moon before you. When the tears found you without warning, they softly gathered in your eyes, as a tidal wave of clarity washed over your skin, chilled by the caress of the night breeze pouring through the open window. Your mind, gentle and open, began to see the moon’s beauty in a new, sacred light, as if bewitched by its celestial glow—and before your eyes, that very glow formed a halo around the entire circumference of the moon, slowly expanding outward to create its own ring separate from the moon. 

Again and again, you repeated the phrase, eager to solidify the clarity it carried to your mind, and with each pass, what you seemed to find was power. That power itself lived in the words you uttered, or the thoughts you kept—that a strange sense of duality could prosper in both the words you spoke aloud and the thoughts that lived within your mind—That you were power.

That you, yourself, had held power all along.

This was the power that you felt that morning in the dining hall. Was it not the power of your words that ignited a flame within you when you held your ground? You saw what your power could do, felt it in Harry’s reaction. Felt it rupture through your entire body when you stood to speak your peace and when you took your leave, your mind had willed the door to open—felt it coursing through every shaky step as you journeyed back to your room, falling to your knees with the effort when the door finally closed you in with your own silence, and at last you could breathe, gasping in breath after breath as your hands came down to the ground, your body ravaged with a silent sob that spoke beyond the triumph of your spirit. 

With every tear spilling onto the marble floor, you also felt the solitude of your triumph, because one victory didn’t erase the years of silence you had been forced to endure as a woman in a world dominated by the very men Harry seemed to emanate in those dark moments when he thrust his blazing power. Because was it not his intent to scare you in those moments? Yet was it strange that you scared yourself more than any performance he could provoke? With each sob, your entire being seemed to plead through the ache of sadness and a longing so deep that even as clarity rose, you still couldn’t put into words what you felt for the man your body seemed to ache for—a longing so desperate you wondered how it could steal the very breath from your body just by invoking his presence to your mind. 

One last time, you spoke the words, wiping the tears that fell, begging to a moon that seemed to cradle your sadness and strengthen your very essence just by existing, and when you heard the knock at your door, the chill that haunted you earlier rose from your bones with a knowing so clear that when you stood from the window seal, silently thanking the moon for her grace, you knew what your hearts path was.

So when you straightened your posture and smoothed out your nightgown, you heard the drum begin to beat, calling to you, booming with the beat of your heart as you uttered the words, “You may enter…” A common phrase that now held a new power. For when you heard the click of the door, you knew exactly what you were allowing, knew that the very man you were ushering in with your words was the call that had been calling out to you this entire time. 

A calling you knew you were ready to heed.

Your voice had drifted through the heavy wooden door like a siren’s call, that singular word—“Enter”—carrying with it a pull so overpowering that Harry’s hand was turning the handle before his conscious mind could even intervene, and before he knew it the door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a sight that threatened to shatter every barricade he had built around his rapturous demonic nature.

There you stood by the open window, your sheer nightdress catching the ocean breeze, the delicate fabric billowing and shifting around your body like seafoam kissing the glittering shore, as each faint gust carried your scent to him, melding with the salt air and whispering of its depths and mysteries, of a complete unknown to you both, in this breath of time. The moonlight streamed through the window with an intensity so severe that Harry in all his years had never witnessed before, as if your very presence had drawn the celestial body closer to earth, demanding its attendance at this moment of reckoning.

It was like a dream—your silhouette marked against the luminous backdrop of the moon, seemed to humble him, rendering him breathless, the vision nothing short of divine torment as the silver light yielded the thin material nearly transparent, tracing the gentle curves of your body with an artist’s touch, creating shadows and highlights that would have brought the masters to their knees in despair, knowing they could never capture such ethereal beauty, that in this moment, you were both unveiled and concealed, a righteous vision of contradictions that spoke to both sides of his nature, as he felt the demons want to devour and the calm of the man that wanted to worship.

Harry had lived for thirty years, had witnessed beauty in all its forms across continents and centuries of art, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this. You were not merely beautiful; you were beauty unreckoned and made into flesh, a living, breathing manifestation of every poem that had ever been written about the art of desire and a goddess’s divinity interwoven, as he stood there waiting, watching as the moonlight seemed to crown you with its approval, casting a haloing shimmer that should have been blasphemous given what he was. Nonetheless, your presence felt like the most sacred truth he had ever witnessed—timid yet commanding, and calling out to him in such a way that had his knees weakening, as a new enchantment seemed to shift the space around him, as if this were the first time he had ever set foot in your sight. 

Without breaking his gaze from yours, Harry pushed the door closed behind him, the soft click of the latch sealing you both into this moment—the moment of no turning back—because Harry knew there was no running this time; that any distance he forced again would only push him back to you. Your eyes, those remarkable, unknowable eyes, held his with that same steady regard as every time before. There was no fear present, only that quiet observation that seemed to see through every pretense, and miraculously, as if he knew it would, as your gaze held his, Harry felt the writhing demon within him grow motionless; your very presence had indeed become the very liniment to the monster that had plagued him since his first breath on this earth.

“I was just closing the window,” you said, your voice carrying across the space between you both with a gentle certainty that belied the tremor he could detect beneath the words. 

“The breeze is starting to pick up. I’d hate for either one of us to catch our deaths.” Then you paused, eyes sweeping over your shoulder back at him as your fingers stilled, resting on the window frame. Harry caught the slight tilt of your head as you continued and turned back to the window, your shaky hands missing the latch, and then you disregarded it entirely. 

“I know that you’re a busy man; you seem to work hard for us all, and I know we are all grateful for it.” You finished. 

Your kindness seemed to permeate through his body as your words left him astonished, the tremor in your voice becoming unmistakable to his heightened hearing. Yet, Harry found himself momentarily distracted, his hand unconsciously moving to his wrist to check that his markings hadn’t prickled to the surface. Because suddenly, inexplicably, he was just as nervous as you appeared to be. Indeed, he had walked through that door with a sure determination, but now, standing in the glory of your moonlit presence, he realized that perhaps he hadn’t reasonably thought this through—hadn’t considered what it would mean to be naked before a woman whose presence was far from temporary—and as these thoughts arose, he found his focus shifting to the glow cloaked around you, because was it in fact strange just how much the light of the moon seemed to envelop you, he wondered, the way it seemed to coat the room in a holy veil, nearly sanctimonious in the feel of its nature.

The truth of the matter was that, yes, he had been with women before, of course. But never like this. Never with a woman of his own social standing, never with a wife, never with someone who seemed to matter over his entire being. His previous encounters had been transactions of a different sort—women who wanted things from him, whose greed called to the demon within him and brought it surging to the surface with only filthy intent. 

He has spent countless empty encounters in the shadows of unremarkable places in cities like London, Paris, and Rome. Time with women whose names he didn’t care to remember, whose faces blurred together in a haze of temporary satisfaction that always left shame in its wake—never in America, where he had been so careful to maintain his facade, knowing that one mistake could destroy everything he had built and wanted to continue building.

But you—you were different. This he knew without a doubt. He knew that greed had always been his greatest downfall, the one craving he rarely denied himself. Whether it was money, power, or pleasure, if Harry wanted something, he took it. It had been that way from the moment he had first seen you, his curiosity igniting that familiar greed. He had wanted you, had to himself even justified his intentions, even up to this very moment, with this orchestrated arrangement to take what he desired. 

Yet now, standing here, you served as a reminder, and he realized, with alarming clarity, that this was different. Because you were separate from everything—because from his bones he felt you howling, felt you beckoning him, knew you would be his greatest undoing. 

Even if the call was undeniable, he knew he couldn’t just take from you, because somehow, mysteriously so, you were the one taking from him—not harmfully, but in a way that seemed to tame the cruel greed of the demon within. The part of him that wanted to ravish you, to scrape his hands across your tender flesh, to taste the beating heart that drummed in his ears like a melody so pure and poetic that the thrumming seemed to grace his ear like a song he had known his entire life. It was the same melody that played on the wind every time he stood at his mother’s grave, as if Anne—sweet Anne who had died bringing him into this world—had been telling him about you all along, that fate itself had brought you to him, and perhaps he had just been too cowardly to heed the calling.

“Would you like me to light a fire?” Harry asked, his voice rougher than he would have liked as he took a step toward the fireplace, already bending to stack the logs, desperate for any action that might ease that tethering thread that was stretching between you both, waiting to snap, nearly at it’s breaking point, as a storm of emotions stirred within him at the contemplation of his mother. He found himself once more overwhelmed by the thought of you, and even more so by the idea of Anne, who would have loved you, that her kindness, which he had only ever imagined, would have matched yours in its immensity.

Your kindness was perhaps the most beautiful thing about you—those kind eyes that were constantly assessing but never judging, always observing but never condemning, and he knew it to be true; it was why he could breathe in your presence, why even maintaining his Shrouded form felt effortless around you when it had always been such a struggle beforehand.

His eyes darted over his shoulder just as you shook your head no, and in a single breath, Harry felt his nerves spike higher, wishing desperately for the distraction of building a fire, for any effort that might ease this strange, awkward dance you both were performing. This wasn’t how he had imagined it would be—this stilted pleasantry, this painstaking distance. It felt like what it was, and what he knew it had to be—two strangers approaching consummation as a duty rather than an act born from pleasure.

Did you even find him attractive? This was the question that plagued him as he straightened and brushed imaginary dust from his trousers. Would you ever find him attractive as he truly was? Because you didn’t look at him with the lust-filled eyes he was conditioned to seeing in women. There were no naked glimpses of desire in your gazes, no sensuous appraisal of what you might gain from bedding him. Instead, there was that endless curiosity, that combing inspection that implied you were searching for something more resounding than the shell of his beauty or wealth.

What was it that you were truly looking for behind that inquisitive gaze?

Because, now louder than ever, the question echoed through his mind as he stood frozen in place, watching as you moved closer to the bed, your hands clasped in front of you in that same gesture from before, reminiscent of that night when you had first told him what you wanted. His weary eyes followed as the moonlight ensued each of your movements, refusing to release you from its silver spotlight, and Harry found himself dwelling on the most dangerous question of all:

 Could such beauty ever love a monster like him?

Not just accept him through obligation, or to tolerate him as the dutiful wife you were proving yourself to be, but in all matters, truly, actually love him? Could those remarkable eyes ever look upon his honest form—horns and markings and all the darkness that came with his legacy—and see something worthy of love? And to him the possibility seemed as remote as the moon itself, yet here you stood, ready to fulfill your role, and something in your approach suggested a strength that might—just perhaps—be enough to withstand the truth of what he was, and always would be.

Harry walked toward you slowly, each step gauged and attentive, as if drawn to the majestic beauty of a cautious deer in an open meadow brushed full of flowers that might flee at any sudden movement, as the silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of the wind picking up outside—which in his mind was odd, he thought, because just before he arrived, the sky had shown no telltale signs of approaching weather, as the window seemed to rattle with it’s ascending decree, bringing a taste of something earthly sweet, of change, of something momentous approaching.

“I think you must know that I’ve never done this before,” you said abruptly, your voice cutting through the levied silence with the clean precision of your truth. “I feel I must speak plainly, to be entirely transparent.”

Quickly, Harry spoke, “If you had, there would be no harm. I must tell you that I’m no saint, but if you can live with the shame of my past. Then I will promise henceforth that there will be no other woman…that I am certain of.” He vowed, without deliberation, the words emerging with an assurance that surprised even him. He watched your shoulders go slack at his response, some tension leaving your frame, though he couldn’t read your expression, couldn’t determine if it was relief or disappointment or something else entirely. Since that moment in the dining hall, he had stopped trying to pierce your thoughts, finding that each attempt only seemed to crack at the mask he was desperate to maintain.

A shy glimmer of recognition flickered on your face, and your gaze shifted downward, hands still clasped. Harry felt it too—an implicit uncertainty growing between you like a tangible presence—shame transforming into a living thing that breathed its awkward, undeniable weight into the space, until the air grew so thick with it that he could hardly breathe, each breath becoming a willful effort just to stay upright.

Your silence only amplified his shame, and when you didn’t say another word, he asked, “How would you like us to proceed?” his voice was scarcely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile understanding you seemed to be forming.

You shook your head silently, swallowing hard, and when you finally looked back up at him, your eyes were glossy with unshed tears. The sight was soul-crushing, as if someone had sent a spike through the tender flesh of Harry’s chest, and just as you opened your mouth to speak, he found himself interrupting—

“If there is any fear, please know that I would be honored to follow your lead,” he expressed, the words tumbling out with a gentle urgency that he had never heard leave his mouth, not without a tremendous amount of effort. “I promise I will be as gentle as I can, and if at any moment you wish me to stop, we will not have to go any further…even if now that we are both here and you wanted to wait. I would not hold it against you. Like I have spoken before, I do not have any expectations of you.”

Your eyes roamed his face, then held his gaze for a long moment as something shifted in your expression that still left question. You gave another wordless nod, as your eyes swept down his body with a nervous curiosity that sent heat pooling to the pit of his stomach, his dick pulsing as he watched you shift on your feet, moving to the steps of the bed, and waiting with a quiet expectation for Harry to help you up, your answer was clear, even without words as his body seemed to sing with the anticipation of what was to come.

Because there was no more question now.

The moment your hands touched, it was like a spark of lightning retained in flesh—that same electric connection from the carriage, but somehow more intense, more knowing. Your eyes locked with his, and he caught the slight smirk you were trying to hide, the corner of your mouth quirking up just enough to let him know that you felt it too. Like a flick of candlelight in the darkness, you were both aware of the feeling, and this time, neither of you would pretend otherwise.

As you stepped into the bed, your nightdress shifted nearly off your shoulder, and your grasp loosened on his hand, as if ready to fix it. In that moment, Harry found himself unable to let go, and as you tried to pull away, he held tighter, his grip gentle but insistent. In the motion, your nightgown slipped down completely, exposing the soft skin of your shoulder to the moonlight, while revealing the evidence of your body’s response to Harry, as the peaks of your hard nipples pressed against the sheer fabric, your breath quickening, causing your chest to rise and fall in a rhythm that matched his own racing heart.

Yet you didn’t stop him. Didn’t continue to pull away.

You were holding your breath—Harry could tell by the way your chest had stilled, by the slight parting of your lips as his eyes trailed over the smooth surface of your revealed flesh. The moon had transformed the bed into a spotlight, illuminating your presence like a Renaissance painting, hinting at something the light of day could never capture—because God Almighty, you weren’t just beautiful—you were beauty itself, and nothing in heaven or hell could compare.

Surrendering to an impulse he didn’t fully understand, Harry brought your hand to his nose, drawing a faint, delicate line over the surface of your skin with the tip of his nose, and closed his eyes, breathing in your scent without caring what the hell it might look like. You had stolen him entirely, and when he felt a tremble quake to the tips of your fingers, he lost all conscious boundaries, and ever so slightly, he pressed the most tender kiss he could manage to the warmth of your palm, drawing a low, breathless gasp from you that sent fire racing through his veins, and straight to the rising bulge between his legs. 

It was agony, his horns burning beneath the tight skin of his forehead as he brought the top of your hand to his heated cheek, holding it there like a man seeking some kind of blessing. Even though he felt exposed and vulnerable, there was something strangely and wonderfully safe about the moment. It was an odd thought for a demon to have—this feeling of safety in the presence of what should be prey. Yet, there it was—undeniable and absolute, and everything he had longed for since the moment your hands collided for the first time. He thought that in this moment, this could be enough for him—that he could live with this and know he could keep you safe from the demon aching to press his dick inside you. 

When Harry opened his eyes, you were gazing back at him with an expression that stole the very breath from his lungs. Your bottom lip was drawn between your teeth, a gesture so unconsciously sensual it made his control waver as your gaze shifted from curious to something he recognized with absolute certainty—a soft hint of hunger that suggested perhaps, and impossibly, that you might want him as much as he wanted you.

When you finally pulled your hand away, Harry found himself nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to follow, climbing the steps to the bed just to maintain that treasured closeness you had allowed. He watched you, mesmerized, as you crawled beneath the blankets, then pushed them to one side in a gesture that seemed all too innocent and knowing, as your eyes spoke of something more. It was almost too much; the simple action gave him a perfect view of your body through the sheer nightgown as the moonlight rendered the fabric all but invisible, and that’s when Harry stopped controlling the way his body responded to the sight.

You must have noticed him looking—he saw the moment you became aware of his gaze traveling over your shape, catching him in the act of observation, of lust, of a hunger the demon was pressed for. Yet instead of covering yourself or showing embarrassment, you simply adjusted the pillow beneath your head with a careful composure that sent him reeling, then fixed your eyes on the ceiling, holding completely still in the classic position of a duty-bound wife awaiting her husband’s attention.

The sight of it—the resignation, the sudden mindful preparation for obligation rather than pleasure—sent a wave of nausea through Harry’s stomach, quickly bringing him back to the present. This wasn’t how it should be. This wasn’t what he wanted, even as his body demanded he take what was being offered.

Yet there you were waiting, and Harry, just as dutiful, tugged at his trousers with hands that shook slightly, removing everything from the waist down while keeping on the thin black shirt that hid the moth marked at the center of his chest. It was the one marking he could never fully conceal, the one that would appear no matter how strong he held to his Shrouded form—the shirt would have to stay, he thought, looking down at the tented fabric of his long shirt, hating that his body was still responding to the anticipated pleasure, even though he knew this was wrong. 

What had he gotten himself into?

Just as he was about to climb into the bed, Harry took a deep breath that felt like it might be his last human breath as the creature tried to surge, and he hoped to all that was good and holy for any semblance of control, as he willed his Shrouded form to hold, knowing with a bone-deep conviction that this was the riskiest thing he had ever done, because he knew without a doubt that he was risking everything by getting into this bed with you—his well crafted life, his secrets, and even more so potentially your very life if he lost control.

As the demon rose, he pushed it down, closing his eyes as he stroked a hand down his length, trying to prepare himself for what was about to happen, as he bit back the growl rumbling deep in his belly, the hunger swelling to the surface with a rekindled violence he could barely tame. He could sense the demons ‘want,’ ready to claim, to possess, ready to mark you as his in every way that would be visible to every supernatural creature that might cross your path.

Still, he couldn’t shake the reality of it all, the feeling of climbing into bed with a stranger. Sex was awkward enough in most cases, but the added weight of approaching this as a duty rather than an act of love made it almost unbearable. Harry shifted onto his knees, hesitating as he awkwardly moved over you, his limbs feeling clumsy and unsure, as he positioned himself above you, arms already shaky as he held himself up. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell you no—that the thought of forcing himself inside you when you were doing this out of responsibility rather than desire was making him physically ill. He wanted to wait until you were truly ready, until your body sang for his touch the way his sang for yours, until—

“It’s okay,” you encouraged softly, as your hand moved between your bodies. Harry drew in his stomach to create space, holding back the billowing fabric of his shirt, as you lifted your nightdress, and gathered it at the base of your stomach with a gesture that was almost too practical and yet somehow heartbreakingly vulnerable, as the bareness of your body grazed his. “I’m not scared anymore.”

The words struck Harry as if they were fire blazing over his flesh, his entire body heating, stealing his breath and any protest in equal effort. Grabbing hold of his arm for stability, you spread your legs with a hushed resolve, already making room for him between your thighs, as Harry followed your lead, aligning his body with yours, as if he were being pulled by invisible strings. The heat of your skin, so close but not quite touching, sent tremors through his mask as Harry lifted his shirt, letting his erect dick fall against the mound of your warm center, causing you to squirm, as the shock of the weight surprised you both, and Harry let himself rest against you until he saw you take a breath.

Wrapping his hand around his thick girth, he gently nudged your thighs wider, then delicately brushed his tip down your folds, eliciting a startled sigh from your parted lips, and he watched your eyes close as he positioned himself at your entrance. 

Harry gazed down between your bodies as the heat began to build. When you looked back up, your eyes were back on the ceiling, but this time no longer vacant, no longer resigned. There was something else there now, anticipation maybe, and as he began to push forward, you licked your lips and pressed them together, until they were sealed, as he prepared himself mentally, taking that as his cue that you were ready for him to breach that final barrier between you. 

As Harry’s tip pushed past the threshold of your surprisingly slick entrance, he sent one last desperate prayer to any power that might be listening—God, devil, or something in between—that he would have the strength to be gentle, to be human, to be worthy of the trust you had just entrusted in him.

And as the wind howled outside, rattling the windows with a growing brutality, as if the very universe itself was holding its breath for what was about to happen, Harry began to push inside you, feeling the tension go rigid in your body as that first contact of flesh against flesh sent lightning through his veins, and you gasped out, gripping at the sheets as if they could ground you in this moment, as your eyes slammed shut, and he knew with absolute certainty that after this moment, nothing between you could ever be the same again.

You understood that pain would be inevitable; you were no fool to that truth. Truly, how does one convey the sensation of a man, a stranger, pressing into your most sacred space, when every fiber in your being ached to repel the intrusion? You heard the whisper in your mind, that chant calling, telling you, “to remain unafraid,” yet your heart raced with a fear you couldn’t unclaim, as fear itself seized control, and in that fleeting moment, all that remained was the haunting realization that there was no turning back.

And still, as he pushed ever so slightly, your body fought, even though deep in the thunder of your belly, you were seeking this very action.

When the moment arrived, the sudden initial breach forced its way inside you, igniting like a searing spark of pain that lit your senses, and it brought with it a burning stretch that stole the very breath from your lungs as your body instinctively clenched against Harry’s invasion. You were taken by surprise as his substantial length and girth quickly exceeded what your untouched body had been prepared to accommodate, and as he pressed forward with an agonizing slowness, you wondered with a fierce mounting panic if he would even fit entirely or if this torment would continue indefinitely. Was this what you were to expect each time? How long would it take for your body to yield and accept what your mind had already consented to?

The questions churned in your mind like the howling wind outside the window, uproaring the calm of your spirit, each one more distressing than the last. Was this normal? Were you doing something wrong? Should it hurt this much? Every doubt and uncertainty made your stomach lurch with a growing sickness, that this wasn’t just a physical discomfort but an emotional vulnerability, not just of not knowing what to expect, but also of not having a single reference point for this most intimate of acts, when he so clearly had the knowledge. 

Your words had abandoned you entirely, trapped behind teeth clenched so tightly that your jaw ached with it. All you could manage were shallow, desperate breaths through your nose as your body trembled—not from the cool night air but from the fear of every unknown in this moment, as the ache in your womb transformed into a continuous hum, and something stirred with a power you didn’t fully understand. It was as if your very essence was awakening, responding to this moment with a force that made your entire frame quake as though you had been plunged into the icy waters of the sea.

Harry must have noticed your distress, for he stilled completely, his body hovering above yours with a mindful distance that ebbed some of the pain, each movement gentle and thoughtful, as he reached for the velvet blanket that had been pushed aside, drawing it around both of your bodies—the gesture unexpectedly, yet tender, creating a cocoon that remade the vast bedroom into something smaller, more personal, narrowing your focus to just the two of you, now hidden from the world, even from the moon’s watchful gaze.

“Would you...” He tried, and his voice came out rough and strained, then he cleared his throat before trying again. “We don’t have to continue? We can stop. There’s no shame in—”

As his attempt died in his throat, you heard the fight in his voice, saw it in the way his arms trembled with the effort of holding himself almost motionless—he was battling for control just as desperately as you were fighting through the pain. His body shook with it, that scarcely restrained need, yet he somehow managed to conserve that careful space between you, as though afraid that any additional touch might cause you more anguish. He seemed terrified to go any further, frozen in a moment of indecision that was at once endearing and agonizing.

That’s when your eyes met his in the darkness, the moonlight finding its way beneath the blanket, and in that searching look, something seemed to pass between you—a simple moment of clarity passing between one another, bringing forth a clear understanding where words became unnecessary. You could see your own uncertainty reflected in those green eyes, but beneath it, something else—a desperate want that matched your own, a need that went beyond all the physical desire, transforming into something far more powerful. He was asking permission not just with his words but with every line of his tensed body, with every controlled breath, as you too, felt his fervor. 

You gave him a silent nod, the slightest inclination of your head, but it was enough, and you drew in the deepest breath your tight chest would allow, forcing your body to relax, to comply, muscle by muscle, willing yourself to let go of your instinctive resistance. As your breath eased from your lungs, you felt the instant your body yielded, the moment the threshold finally surrendered. Harry, feeling it too, pressed forward in one smooth, inevitable motion until he was fully seated within you.

A pained moan ripped from your throat, answered by a growl from deep within Harry’s chest—a primal sound rendered from you both, yet something else rose from Harry, something so vicious and inhuman that your eyes flew open in alarm, and he had stilled himself again, his entire body going rigid with the exertion to hold control, as he gave you time to adjust to the overwhelming fullness of him inside you, your walls burning around his girth, as your eyes pricked with tears. 

As you drew in a shaky breath, Harry pressed his forehead to yours, releasing a heavy sigh that spoke of everything he was trying to fight—a single breath drawn from the depths of his lungs, passing between you, carrying the heat of his desire as he pressed deeper and deeper. Your body relaxed, the ache in your belly trembling and spreading until it blossomed into a tender pleasure that still teetered on the edge of pain. Your thighs spread wider for him, drawing him in further, and you felt his body press fully against yours, bringing with it that last twinge of pain as if your very essence was being filled—your body now respectfully his.

The truth of your surrender overwhelmed you entirely, and you gasped out, tearing your hands away from the sheets, finally filling your lungs with the sweet air of your bodies becoming one, as silent tears gathered and fell, spilling past your ears and staining the pillow, as your arms laced around his neck, seeking stability, seeking that unseen tether, as every sense in your body tensed, your whole body fevered by the silent force of this man above you.

Harry drew his hips back slowly, and you felt every inch of his retreat, your body clinging to him as if reluctant to let go. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths as if he too was fighting his very own battle of will, his body heating under your touch like an enclosed inferno. You circled your arms tighter around him, drawing yourself up enough to press your face into the crook of his neck, his skin like waving a hand too close to a flame, and you breathed in his scent, grabbing a desperate handful of his hair, as you released a hard breath against his throat.

When the tears continued to fall, you understood they weren’t born from fear; they came from the overwhelming sense of this union, that what started as a commitment to duty now felt like a chasm of unexplored desire being offered like an altar of sacrifice—your pain the lamb, and as the bounty of its offering began to usher in the fruitful tides of pleasure, he pressed back into you, and you felt yourself transforming, becoming something new.

He froze again, pulling back from your grip to meet your gaze, his eyes evaluating your reaction as his hard body remained still with cautious control. You tugged him back to you, moving your mouth to the shell of his ear, your lips brushing against his sensitive skin, and whispered, “It’s okay...” urging him to continue. 

When you pulled away this time, your eyes met his, and the green of his eyes seemed to darken, his pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris entirely. You gave him a few quick, silent nods, as if desperate to permit him to continue, and he lowered down to one arm, exhaling shakily as the weight of his body slowly melded into yours and he drew his hips back again, and out of instinct, you widened the space between your legs, bracing for the impact of his next thrust in. 

His eyes searched your face with an intensity that made your heart race, as he slowly pressed back into you, and you both seemed to relax into one another by degrees. Your mind still couldn’t capture in words what it felt like to be as one, to come together in such a way that no space existed between you, to have the length of this beautiful man pushing in and out, in such a magnificent way. Was it strange that in his warring gaze, you felt alive, perhaps even the most alive you had ever felt? And even more profound was the fact that even with the magnificence of his body, yours reigned just as powerful.

Because as you stared up at this man, this strong and powerful man, you realized your own strength held just as much magnitude. That your presence alone was enough to undo him, because you could feel it in the pulse of his manhood, throbbing against your walls as if any second he might lose control entirely—the subtle thrusts enough to make you want to shed every layer between you, to feel his skin against yours with nothing to separate you.

Could he feel your own pulse—the throbbing ache of that bundle of nerves that seemed to ignite with even the slightest touch or pressure? Would it be acceptable to lift your hips, even just enough to taste the pleasure you had sparked once before? That one and only time you had brought your fingers to the heated core between your legs—had it been wrong? Was it wrong to want more now? You still didn’t know. But as the drumming beat began sounding its call, growing louder with each pound of your beating heart, the pulse between you grew, your gaze set on Harry, seeing the same plea reflected back at you, like looking into a mirror of every desire you had ever ached for. 

Because you wanted him, wanted everything he could give, and when you forced out the word, “Please,” you immediately closed your eyes and turned your head away, as if your plea had burned through your entire body like the untamed flames of a wildfire that couldn’t be contained—your shame of wanting, of asking, scorching across your skin, not sure if it were your place to want such things. 

With the heat came the chill of the night air rushing over the sensitive flesh of your neck as your nightgown slid down further, exposing one of your breasts to the cool air and his burning gaze. You heard Harry draw in a sharp breath, the expanse of his stomach pushing into yours with the depth of his inhalation. When he exhaled, you felt your body lift slightly, hips rocking just enough to create that stirring sensation of friction as your bodies met again. His chest deflated, belly drawing back as your walls pulsed around his hard mass, and your hands found the sheets again, fighting the urge not to move your hips any further.

Your whole body shuddered as you tried to compose yourself, and you squeezed your eyes shut tighter, torn between the shame and pleasure coursing through your veins as you kept your head turned away, and Harry silently sank the weight of his body back to yours, pushing deeper inside you, and you gasped in a breath, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth to suppress the cry aching at the back of your throat.

Already, your body wanted more—you wanted to cry out, to speak of all the things you desired. To tell your husband to take you entirely, that you could handle whatever was to come. To plead to the goddess of the moon, who was shining her sacred light with such brilliance that even with your eyes pressed closed, the glow still remained bright behind your eyelids. 

Then Harry moved again, this time bringing the tip of his nose to the pulse point of your neck, his hot breath like a flame across your skin, and you held your breath, feeling your heartbeat pulsing like that wild drum that only beat for him, so insistent that surely he must feel it.

He nudged the tip of his nose against your fluttering pulse, then dragged it along the surface of your flesh with such deliberate, slow intent that it brought a tingle to the tips of your toes as he drew in your scent like a beast seeking its prey, and you grasped at the sheets harder, forcing your hips back into the mattress, trying to still any movement. 

It was all too much—the growing pleasure, your head spinning from every missed breath—as your entire body began to shiver. When you felt a guttural growl vibrate through Harry’s chest into yours, there was something about the growl that you seemed to resonate with, something ancient and binding in this act, in the hidden knowledge your body held without your awareness, a primitive instinct in the way your body ached to move with his. But as the growl rose, deep and primal, something else told you to stay completely still. As if your intuition sensed danger, and you lay there, not wanting to risk losing the chance you felt so close to.

“If you want it...” he rasped, his tone carrying a dark, familiar edge that made your skin prickle with a strange recognition, as he forced out the rest, “you’ll have to take it—” He finished, pulling his length almost completely out, his tip throbbing at your entrance as his whole body shuddered above you, and you choked in a breath as quiet as a whisper, locking into the feeling of his nose nuzzling against the lobe of your ear. 

Your body was reeling, desperate to remain filled as your hips twitched. When Harry drew a slow, straight line to the corner of your mouth, he pulled completely out, as if it were too much, as if he could barely hold on. He rested the warmth of his lips on your skin, trying to compose himself, yet all you could think about was his mouth, how close it was to yours, and how all you needed was to turn your head just a little to meet him—to finally taste his kiss.

You felt your mind beginning to drift, growing dizzy as his voice sounded again, apologizing for his escape. When he realigned himself with your entrance, the sound of his voice, with its familiar edge, pulled back visions of the monster posing as the man you married. It was the same voice, the hunger just as real as the beast’s hunger that had stood before you in that dream, and you conjured the vision of the marking that had bloomed on his skin, the horns that had pierced the soft skin of his forehead.

“Please...” he breathed at the edge of your mouth, pushing back inside with the slowest, most painstaking thrust that made your teeth ache, as his lips quivered against your skin. His entire body tensed once he hit the hilt, your body more prepared for him, as your legs spread of their own accord, his body vibrating with a deprived need that you knew was stealing you too, as the beating of the drums grew louder, that same rhythm climbing with the beat of your heart, and you wondered—if you opened your eyes, would you see the beast, the demon from your dream? Would you be scared? Would you finally fear the man who had been doing everything in his power to evoke such fear?

And still, as his lips pressed a pained kiss to the corner of your mouth, so soft and tender—a kiss so achingly delicate that you didn’t even care if he was the monster. For in your heart, you knew that even if he were the beast, this beast did not want to hurt you. Because truly, was a monster capable of such self-control, to hold every frayed edge together that you seemed to evoke in him? Another growl rumbled deep at the base of his sternum, vibrating through both your bodies, and this time when he spoke again, he whispered, “Take it, I’m yours…”

His words were like fire across your skin, as your heart pounded, and you balled the sheets in your shaky grasp, your chest rising and falling with the effort to control the ragged breaths filling your lungs. You willed yourself to look at him, already missing the warmth of his mouth as he pulled away, leaving you yearning for more. Yet, there was something in his gaze that triggered the image of the moth marked at the center of the demon’s chest as the impression seared into your vision—the burn making your eyes water and fill with tears until all you saw was the stencil of the moth, marking every blink, stamping its outline on everything your eyes caught as you slowly turned your head.

The second your eyes caught sight of his face, the demon flashed—eyes glowing red like burning coals—and in the blink of an eye, his perfect face was back before you, all trace of the demon gone. Was it a trick of your imagination? Had you willed the face of the monster to appear with your mind? Was it strange that perhaps you almost preferred it? Because at least then there would be no question, and this time, when you allowed yourself to blink again, the inked moth blurred across his face, then disappeared from your vision entirely.

Did you react? Was there a tell in your confused thoughts that gave you away? Had you flinched? You couldn’t remember a single second other than the face that had flashed before you. Could you will it back? Was it in your power, or had his calm composure slipped? Who was this man above you, the man you were giving your entire self to? Should there be fear?

With trembling fingers, you reached up and brushed the tips across his forehead, following the path where you had seen the horns emerge in your dream. The skin was smooth, perfectly human, yet somehow you sensed what might lie beneath, feeling the tingling sensation at your fingertips when your hand rested on his cheek, cupping his face with a tenderness that made him close his eyes. Your thoughts were a jumble of confusion. You thought he would flinch away at your touch; instead, he had only looked with eyes ready to surrender, as if he would rather trust your curiosity than fight it. 

That new knowledge seemed to spark a new sense of curiosity, and with a courage you didn’t know you possessed, you began to move your hips, spurring Harry to open his eyes, as he stayed completely still above you, frozen as if your motion had turned him to stone, as you began to take what you wanted. The movements were small at first, hesitant, as your body grew used to the idea, but you quickly found a rhythm that seemed to send sparks of pleasure through your core, as you grew bolder, more curious.

“You won’t hurt me,” you spoke, as your voice strained with a wave of pleasure, stating the words as if they were an indisputable fact, and as the words left your lips, you felt your womb tighten with that familiar power, as if the moon was filling you with her vitality. 

As Harry gazed down at you, his pupils expanded as if your words had effect, “You’re not capable of hurting me...” you told him, feeling the essence of your power rise with each word, flowing from your womb to the tips of your fingers, and into his skin where your hand rested.

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes, catching the moonlight like sacred gems, and he brought his forehead to yours again with such reverence that you felt your own tears rising. For in his silence, you found understanding—a recognition that passed between you that felt far deeper than words, and you released the sheets and encircled his neck again, drawing your bodies impossibly closer together, as your hips moved against him with growing conviction as you felt the slickness of your want easing each movement.

And for a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in it, tasting the selfish gesture as if it were a treat, a gift, taking each movement at your own pace, until the bounty of his intrusion no longer felt foreign, rocking your hips up and down, slowly gaining your own knowledge of the mechanics of your bodies until it made sense—and you realized—that you, in fact, liked what you were seeking, reveled in it even. 

As you took breath after breath, the sensation grew, spreading through your body until any pain you had felt transformed entirely into pleasure, and you let go of every reservation, every proper thought telling you this was wrong. Because this was yours—he was yours—and in this moment, you would take what belonged to you. Because all you could think was how devastatingly beautiful it all was; the power of it growing just as intoxicating, as it was devastating, your mind bound by the way he was allowing you to use his body for your own pleasure, and when he throbbed inside you, you found an angle that made stars begin to burst behind your eyelids.

But then, as the pleasure climbed to a nearly excruciating peak, you realized with breathtaking clarity that you wanted him to feel this too. You needed him to experience the same earth-shattering sensation that was building in your core. 

“I need you,” you breathed against his cheek, as you drew yourself closer, and when he hesitated, still fighting with that iron control, you wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, drawing him deeper, so deep that a pained moaned slipped past your lips, but you didn’t loosen your grip, only kept him close.

The action forced him to move, and something clicked, like a barricade breaking—his walls finally crumbling. He began to move with you, his movements no longer passive but an active participant in a dance that your body was growing in tune with—a steadying push and pull that stole your breath as the tension climbed up your spine, as pain and pleasure seemed to give and take, your body in a tug of war between the lingering pain of his stretch and blossoming pleasure of each gentle stroke in and out, as you both grew lost, your bodies colliding, until each motion was in sync with one another—you wanted the pleasure to win, needed it to prevail over everything else no matter what pain may come later.

When you both picked up the pace, just slightly, just enough, ready to lean into the pleasure, something inside you snapped, like a jolt of electricity rushing through your veins, like a tide of water sweeping you under, an uncontrollable force that knocked the air from your lungs as the shock of the current ran up your spine, making your vision go white. You didn’t understand what was happening, only that every nerve ending in your body had caught fire all at once—white hot bursts of pleasure that had you crying out Harry’s name, with not an ounce of trepidation. You wanted to pour your entire being into this man, to merge your body with his completely, as the tide persisted to sweep you under, until you couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, your bodies pressed as one—his mouth on your cheek, your neck, your shoulder, hands needy and grasping as you clung to him, hands tangling in his hair as he thrust in and out of you.

Harry’s movements became erratic, his control finally splintering as he drove into you with a desperate need, and in the pain, you bit down on his shoulder hard, completely overwhelmed by sensation as you both yielded to another swell of pleasure, and your body clenched around him, pulling him deeper as each wave of ecstasy crashed over you, and you felt him pulse inside you, his own release tearing a sound from his throat that was neither fully human nor entirely beast.

Your mind was lost in a haze as Harry nuzzled his face into yours, as your bodies continued to move together through the aftershocks, slower now, gentler, until finally you both stilled. It was only then, as the daze of pleasure began to clear, that you felt a burning sensation on your cheek, like the sting of a paper cut, and out of instinct, you brought your hand up to your cheek, resting it there, your mind momentarily distracted as Harry carefully withdrew from your body, and you saw his eyes fix on your hand, his gaze searching your face with a sudden horror.

He reached out with trembling fingers, gently pulling your hand away from your cheek and cradling your face as shame washed over his features with stark panic. You didn’t understand until you saw the telltale red on his fingertips, and when he withdrew his hand, there was blood. Just a trace. “I think I scratched myself,” you told him, trying to soothe his nerves, not sure if you had actually done it.

 “I hadn’t realized how long my nails had gotten. I apologize; it’s my own fault.” Yet as you spoke, his panic seemed to worsen, as he brushed a thumb back and forth, over his forehead in concentration, nearly lost in a thought that felt leagues away from where you had just been with him, “I’ll call Agnus...” was all he managed and this time, Harry bounded off the bed in terror, reaching for his trousers with hands that shook violently.

It was all so confusing—the alarm, and now the sudden absence of his warmth, which only left you feeling exposed and powerless—strange in the raw aftermath as you pulled the blanket up to cover your body, and sat up, as the pain between your legs forged a startling reminder of what you had just shared. Then Harry was pacing to the door, and you watched in growing bewilderment as Harry rang the bell for Agnus with excessive force, then reached for the doorknob as if the room were on fire, as if he couldn’t get away from you faster.

“Wait—Are you...” you began, then had to clear your throat, your voice suddenly hoarse with all the rising emotions of what just happened. “Are you coming back?”

For a long, desperate moment, the question hung in the air between you, your weary heart frantic as tears gathered in your eyes, threatening to fall. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You had just shared something immense, right?—something that had changed you both irrevocably—and now he was running away.

“I’m sorry, but I have done what you have asked of me, and I fear I must take my leave,” he emitted without turning around, his hand gripping the doorknob so tight that his knuckles were turning white. “Agnus will be in shortly to help with whatever else you may need.”

“Harry... please,” you cried, the tears finally falling, streaking down your cheeks, with a salty burn, slipping past your scratch with a sharp sting, making you wince.

That’s when he stormed back to the bed so suddenly that you flinched, and for a moment, you couldn’t tell if he was angry or something else entirely. It was like he was still at war with himself, torn between fleeing and staying.

“Please…He started.

It was a plea, only spurring more tears to fall from your eyes, “Hear me please, I promise, Love…” and as he said the word ‘Love,’ his whole demeanor changed, softening like wax near a flame. He brought a gentle hand to your marked cheek, his thumb careful not to disturb as he traced just under the sensitive sting. 

“I promise, I just need one night... I just... I don’t know. There’s something...” 

He began, then shook his head with frustration, as his thumb slowly traced near the scratch on your cheek again. Then he turned your face carefully to get a better view, and you winced at the sting.

“I wish...” he tried again, tears swelling in his green eyes, making them look like sea glass. “I have to go. I promise I will not leave again... I just... give me one night, okay? May I have just one night? There’s something I have to do?” 

It was a request, but felt like the most anguished plea you had ever heard leave another’s mouth, so helpless that your anger seemed to melt into a knowing, you were too scared to face. You grabbed his wrist, pressing your cheek into his large palm despite the pain, then brought his knuckles to your mouth, and pressed a kiss into his heated skin, as the salt of your tears stained your lips.

And as you gazed into his eyes, that knowing look— that shared recognition you had shared earlier was back. It was as if he knew exactly what you needed to ease your suffering, and suddenly, like a flash of lightning, his eyes gleamed red, burning a harsh crimson that should have terrified you. But to your own amazement, you didn’t flinch or react in any way other than tightening your grip on his hand, as if you couldn’t bear to let him go. For a long beat, his eyes remained that way—demon-red and beautiful—as you both shared that perfect moment of wordless understanding—Harry giving you a glimpse of himself, and you were not afraid.

A knock sounded at the door, breaking the spell, and Agnus let herself in with a gentle, “You called, sir?”

Harry’s eyes shifted back to green in the blink of an eye, as he slowly pulled away from your grasp, his fingers trailing against your palm until the last possible moment, fleeing in an instant as he pushed past Agnus without a word, his bare footsteps heavy on the marble floor, leaving you alone again, but this time it was different. This time, you would carry with you a new sense of hope and understanding. He had let you see a glimpse of the monster, and you hadn’t run—you had stood strong in your knowing, had felt his darkness, and with it had met it headstrong with your own light—and tomorrow—tomorrow he would return, you thought as the drumming quieted to a gentle rhythm, like a lullaby, like an oath, like a promise that spoke louder than any words could. 

And as Agnus began her duties, you crawled off the bed, and over to the window where the moon continued to shine brighter than ever, and you could have sworn you heard a whisper on the wind—the goddess’s voice, perhaps, or maybe just your own heart, finally understanding what it meant to belong to someone, monster and all.

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To your astonishment, you observed him utterly absorbed as he paused, his head tilting to the side as if he had caught the faint whisper of your quiet plea, as if he could sense the pounding of your harrowing heart across the vast lawn. For a fleeting moment, you almost wished for him to turn toward the window and grant you one final glance; yet, in your hesitation, he moved—vanishing into the carriage, and amplifying the ache of his departure—knowing full well he would brave the harshest elements to place distance between you. What mistake had you committed? Why did the image of a meek moth evoke such visceral revulsion, when he had just uttered words—words that kindled within you a towering hope for a future where you might be more than a wife—perhaps, dare you say, even a partner?

Because if you had not witnessed his leave, you might have thought it but a mere dream—words spoken with such pure intent that no question arose within you in that moment. The only answer you sought was that your bodies moved as one, husband and wife forming a union under the watchful eyes of God—a righteous duty which he, too, seemed eager to uphold.

Yet, as the days moved slowly, one sedentary day after another, every query you imagined had been sufficient was swallowed by a new breed of questions that seemed equally distant and unfathomable, much like his presence felt within the space surrounding you. Should it appear strange that, on the very night of his departure, the dreams of torment ceased to come? Or that the sun had yet to shine brightly in the sky, not a single day since your arrival, for to gaze upon the ocean was like holding up a mirror; every stir of emotion was as severe as the tide crashing against the rocks of the shoreline—the dismal grey sky a gloomy longing, awaiting the sun’s bright light to pierce the thick clouds of confusion, to end the chaos that had entrapped you the moment you uttered the words ‘I do.’

For nearly a week, your evenings had been spent gazing out at the night sky, aching for a blanket of stars, yet all your longing heart was met with was the shrouded veil of darkness as the rain prevailed. As you reflected the final lines of your thoughts in your journal, you released a knowing curiosity that had been stirring from the moment your gaze met Harry’s—a deep, wild sense that the life you were meant to live was only just beginning to wake inside you as the memory of his eyes and the unsettling red flash, became a quiet understanding in your heart. Perhaps he was a creature, but even you yourself felt like a creature, so far from the woman you had been when you stepped past the threshold of your new home. You knew these strange happenings were not things you could dismiss as “anxiety,” as Agnus had suggested. No, these were facts requiring an explanation you simply hadn’t possessed the language for, at least not in this moment. Just then, a low, gentle knock on the door broke your concentration as Agnus entered, her movements a quiet sigh of relief after a long day of service.

“Are ye ready for bed now, ma’am? I’m settin’ out yer fresh nightgown and turnin’ down the covers.”

At the sound of her voice, you closed your journal swiftly, the leather-bound cover cool beneath your fingertips. “Yes, Agnus, thank you.” And you paused, your gaze lifting to her weary face. “Please, do tell me, Agnus, has there been any word from my husband, Mr. Styles?”

Evading the news you knew was coming, Agnus busied herself with the bed linen, avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a long-serving maid who knew exactly how to dodge a question when needed. When finally she spoke, she said, “No direct word, ma’am, not a telegram, but we know his journey began safely. I’m sure he’s about his business, as he must be.” She sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly. I promise you, ma’am, that the moment I hear anything at all, you'll be the first to know, indeed. Now, darlin’, try to rest your mind, and let me help you get ready for bed.

When Agnus finally left for the night, the sudden silence was no longer heavy with apprehension, but rich with a strange, blossoming energy. Without the nightly torment of the dreams, you were less exhausted, your mind operating with a keen, rousing clarity. You had been using your nights to write and draw, your pencil moving with a determined urgency, thrillingly translating the chaos of the past nearly two weeks into quiet lines on paper.

It was as if your mind, no longer battling an unseen force in your sleep, had shed a protective veil. Your memories—usually a dense terrain of scattered thoughts—were now startlingly clear. You realized after days of conjuring the inked moth, that just by simply closing your eyes, you could step back into time, or so it felt, like you could walk through the spaces of your past—the scent, the light, all the muted words that had ever been spoken left to turn to ash were all retrievable. Each one was like sorting through old letters, every detail down to the very conversation, every room you had ever known, seemed to exist in a perfect, vivid landscape within your mind’s eye.

Yet the more you tried to dig deeper into your past, the more you noticed a strange and frustrating resistance, as if any memories preceding the onset of your womanhood were cocooned in an impenetrable, dark fog of mystery—all time before your first bloods was a blank wall, while the time after was a crystal stream, suggesting a pivotal shift, perhaps, one you hadn’t even noticed that seemed now both key to something lost within you and terrifyingly subtle in the way you had missed it.

But the strangest sensation, however, was reserved for Harry, and Harry alone, because in the moments you allowed your mind to linger on him, a gripping ache bloomed deep in your womb—not the familiar cramping pain of your recent courses, but a dull, insistent tremor in the boom of your belly, a feeling nearly as deep and magnetically familiar as the longing that ached in your bones for a man you truly knew nothing of—the feeling a physical, undeniable response to the man who had abandoned you, a silent pulse stirring that throbbed with the knowledge of a resounding, unseen thread that seemed to be connecting your core to his very presence, and even if this were not a fact, your spine tingled with it, your fingers twitching to write the words on paper, solidifying their realness in your mind. 

And the more you dwelled on this knowledge, the relentless, unspoken draw became a compass for your nightly activities as your mind wandered the halls as you lay in bed, and when your body could no longer bear the stillness of your room. You rose, your mind and body driven by an overwhelming intuition you couldn’t quite rationalize, and you began to sneak down the hallway to Harry’s private study. The room, now unoccupied, seemed to call out to you, a chilled, cultivating beacon of his essential being, daring you to enter.

That night, you crept through the dark house, your bare feet silent on the marble floors, the thrill became the illicit journey, a blunt, electric antidote to the humiliation you had suffered the moment Harry rushed from your room. When you slipped into the study, the lingering scent of Harry hit your senses with a brutal awareness that had your head spinning with an unforeseen longing you hadn’t spoken aloud, and as the smell of leather and earthly spices filled your nose, your knees weakened. It was like you had known it your whole life, could close your eyes, and the staggering sense of his presence was there, almost intoxicating, as if you could reach out and touch him, giving you a strange, humming focus that stole the very breath from your lungs.

Overwhelmed, you took a seat in his enormous, wingback desk chair, the leather cold and stiff beneath you, yet strong and firm, like you would imagine the engulfing spans of his arms, and you dared not move. Instead, you allowed your curiosity to roam, losing track of time as you explored and memorized the sweeping scroll of his signature across documents you read inch for inch, your head spinning anew, and each time you finished a page, there was Harry’s name, and each time you repeated, Harry, the syllables became a quiet, rhythmic mantra that whispered through your mind like an echo from the past. As your mind grew tired of reading, your fingertips began to tingle with a desperate, instinctive need to translate your focus, and when you finally crept back to your room, with Harry’s pen in hand, you brought it to your nose, inhaling what was left of his scent, and then you covered a sheet of paper with the swirling, intricate lines of his name, your belly trembling with that familiar, dull ache. 

The next night, as his scent enveloped you like a glove, a chill ran over your skin, and suddenly, the books seemed to demand your attention. Your ears perked up the further you walked into the study, as a low, chanting whisper began to emanate from the dark, recessed shelves—a heavy murmuring reverberating around you that seemed to press directly on your mind the more you focused on it. In the stir of your belly, you knew no human ear could register this sound, yet something in you felt the sheer pressure of the knowledge contained within. As you approached the darkest section, the whispers grew louder—a howl so insistent, so terrifyingly non-human in its authority that you didn’t know if you should fear it or follow its command. Maybe it was your heartbeat pounding in your ear, but you swore you saw a section move, and when the noise filled the space, you fled the room, your heart striking a frantic rhythm against your palm as you slammed the door behind you, your body trembling as you paced down the corridor to your room.

With barely any sleep, the next day, as you woke to the dark gloom of another rainy morning, the unsettling experience became a quiet obsession, playing through your mind as you wandered the vast, chilly house, unable to focus. Eventually, you found refuge in the abandoned greenhouse attached to the home, which you had grown very fond of over the past week. It was the only place where you seemed able to escape the confines of your own mind—the only place where you could let your guard down. The humid air, rich with the scent of damp earth and abandonment, guided you away from the cold granite of the house. Like a newfound ritual, you strolled through the greenhouse, absentmindedly touching the dry, brittle leaves of the neglected plants. The more time that you spent with the plants, the more the soothing certainty of your curiosity seemed to tingle to the tips of your fingers, becoming a quiet sense you hadn’t realized you possessed. It was as if you understood the needs of the nature around you, knowing exactly what each plant required.

It grew instinctive; day by day, your hands reached for tools you had never used, working with a natural, unhesitating knowledge over each plant. As you tended to the neglected ones—each nurturing action seemed to flow into your consciousness—your mouth hummed a faint whisper of words that bloomed in your mind, so pure and honest that you knew them to be true. As if they were a fundamental language you had forgotten you spoke. It felt more natural, more genuine, than any polite conversation you had ever had to endure.

That night, when the house had finally fallen silent, armed with a calm confidence from your work in the greenhouse, you gathered the courage to return to the study. This time, when the books called out, you allowed the unbearable resonance to guide you, accepting the pressure over your mind, not as a threat but as your curiosity demanding a challenge of will. Pushing your fear aside, you followed the low, humming murmur until you reached the hollow shelf and jumped when the books began to shake. Your eyes landed on a thick black book—the leather edge dried and cracked, and as your hand finally rested on the cold binding, a sudden vibration shot through your entire body, as the familiar ache in your womb worsened, doubling you over. The pain was so intense, so tied to the object in your hand, that you cried out, clutching your stomach, dropping the heavy book to the floor with a loud thud, as you fumbled back, searching for stability as the blinding pain overtook you.

Breath after heavy breath, you finally regained some composure, your hand trembling as you leaned heavily on the desk. Your dizzy gaze shifted to the dark, leather-bound relic, reading the dense title that seemed to confirm the terrifying quest to retrieve it: The Nocturnal Doctrine of the Serpent’s Shadow. As you pushed yourself up, you reread the title, feeling the ominous words run through you, and you sensed the danger lurking within without even opening the book. Its presence was like a whip cracking through your chest, speeding your heartbeat, and lashing your senses. 

As if you couldn’t last another minute in the study, you gasped for air and snatched the book up, not daring to open it or even examine the cover any further, as the need to possess it overwhelmed every muscle in your aching body, and every instinct within you urged you to flee. You hurried back to your room, your heart hammering not with fear but with the exhilaration of a secret too enormous to keep. You shoved the forbidden book under your mattress, hiding it alongside the other Moth sketches and markings you hastily drew from memory just days before, now determined to forget the book ever existed. Right now, you only knew you were meant to have it; you knew it wasn’t the time to read it. 

After another dreamless night, you woke to a startling silence so serene it felt like waking in a dream. When you opened your eyes, the room was bathed in a blinding, silver-white light as the sun broke through the lace curtains, bringing with it a new hope—silence and light had returned. The storm had passed, bringing forth the sun and all its glory, shining for the first time since you arrived in Newport. When you were called for breakfast, you walked down the stairs, drinking in the light as it streamed through the large windows lining the hall. You soaked it in as the sudden warmth of the light stirred that strange, new energy that seemed to be flowing through your veins all week. 

As your foot hit the first step, a drumming began in your ears, and you listened to the thunder of your heart—the thrill pounding like a steady drum, like a call you had heard many times before. The sound grew louder as you neared the dining hall, beating so loudly you wondered if the staff could hear. Still, as they carried on around you, not paying any mind to you, the sound grew more piercing, quickening until you paused dead in your tracks, eyes widening at the figure sitting at the head of the long, carved table, impeccably dressed in dark wool, and just as his eyes met yours the beating, rhythm of the drums ceased all at once.

Because there was Harry, his green eyes holding you in place, and you stood mesmerized in the doorway, taking each other in as the slow, low drumming started pounding in your ears again. Still, this time it was different, no longer the frantic beat of your heart, but indeed a calling—a powerful, soul-deep thrumming that felt like the earth waking under your feet, pulsing a silent, echoing chant that felt like the wind pushing you toward the man you called your husband. This time it wasn’t the music of fear, like it had been in your nightmare; it was the magnetic pulse of something you knew inside you, like an unseen tether finally drawing taut. 

And as you glided into the room, moving with an elegance born from a resounding weariness to draw any closer and a will to harness a quiet control, you settled into the chair across from him. Your eyes stayed fixed on his, and in that moment, you promised yourself you would not let him see the ache or the longing you endured; he would know the strength you had felt swelling, the power of self that you were more certain of than ever before, for when he spoke the words of his intentions into your mind that night, he filled you with a power you had been waiting for your entire life. 

“You look well,” were the first words that left his mouth, as your plates were presented in front of you, but you didn’t say a word, only nodded your approval to the waitstaff, as you straightened your posture, ready for Harry to ache with the silence you had weathered for days. 

Only silence filled the space between you both. A silence unlike anything Harry had ever experienced in his entire life, rendering him powerless, or what felt powerless. This silence itself was altogether something devastating and hopeless—a void opening up inside him where your thoughts should have been, your mind a mystifying wall that left him more isolated than any prison he had constructed around his demonic nature—to his one true self, he hid from the world.

Completely unbothered by his existence, you sat across from him, delicately cutting into your poached egg with a casual grace that seemed almost to mock him in its normalcy, as if his world hadn’t shifted the moment you entered the dining hall, as the morning light streaming through the tall windows caught in your hair, creating a halo effect that would have been laughable if it weren’t so cruelly fitting—you, the unreachable angel, and he, the demon desperately clawing at the gates of heaven.

Harry watched as you brought the fork to your perfect lips, the simple act becoming a form of exquisite torture. How could you sit there, consuming your breakfast with such apparent tranquility, while he fought every instinct screaming within him? Fighting the demon beneath his skin that writhed and pulsed, demanding he breach the distance between you, demanding he take what now felt more than ever to be promised to you both. But it was the silence—that damnable, suffocating silence—that threatened to undo him entirely.

When he tried to press deeper with his inner perception, that cursed gift that had always allowed him to slip past the mental barriers of every human he had ever encountered, he listened to the noise of thoughts around him as the servants bustled quietly around you both, broadcasting their thoughts like beacon fires: “The master seems agitated this morning,” from the footman; “Poor lamb, she deserves better than this cold marriage,” from the serving girl; even Agnus…sweet, sweet Agnus stood sentinel by the door, projecting her fierce maternal protectiveness toward you with crystal clear clarity.

But you—you remained a fortress of nothingness.

The scene unfolding around him only seemed to set the first burning within him as Harry’s fingers tightened around his silver fork until he felt the metal begin to bend. How was it possible? He could sense the very essence of your soul, that intoxicating energy that had nearly shattered his control from the moment he had touched your hand, yet your thoughts remained cocooned in an impassable fog. It was as if something more powerful than himself guarded the sanctity of your mind, something that recognized the demon and barred the door.

The longer the silence stretched, the more it became a living thing between you, growing teeth and claws that raked across his consciousness—an agony he could barely contain. You reached for your teacup, the fragile china meeting your lips in another moment of devastating normality, and it was just enough to have Harry’s Shrouded form flickering at the godforsaken edges, forcing a tremor to the tips of his fingers as he felt the onset of throbbing along his hairline, his small horns aching with the effort to remain hidden, the demonic markings beneath his shirt burning like brands against his skin.

In desperate focus, he attempted once more to penetrate the barrier of your mind, pushing with a force that would have sent most humans reeling. Yet you merely dabbed at your lips with your napkin, your expression as serene as the fairest Madonna, giving no indication you felt not a single ounce of his psychic assault. The failure of it, the complete and utter inability to reach you, sent a spike inching through his chest, inching toward the dangerous edge of panic.

When you set down your teacup with a gentle clink against the saucer—a sound that might as well have been a gunshot ringing through the stifling quiet—Harry could stand it no longer.

“Leave us,” he barked, standing to his feet, his voice carrying a demonic edge that had every servant in the room freezing mid-motion—dishes rattling, as a serving spoon clattered to the floor, and the footman stumbled back a step, bumping into the wall behind him.

Every soul in the room jumped at his command—every soul except yours.

You merely lifted your gaze to meet his, those analytical eyes studying him with the same startling intensity that had first captured him across the ballroom floor. There was no fear there, no surprise, just that quiet observation that made him feel more exposed than if he were standing before you in his truest form, horns and markings and all.

The servants fled like water through a sieve, Agnus casting one last worried glance at you before pulling the heavy doors shut with a definitive thud. The sound echoed through the cavernous dining hall as Harry took his seat, sealing you both in together, predator and prey—though Harry was no longer certain which role belonged to whom.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, his voice rough as he tried to conceal his barely controlled desperation, “but I cannot sit in this silence any longer.”

Your head tilted slightly, a gesture so subtle yet somehow more commanding than the stunt he had just pulled to command even a sliver of power back to himself. “There is no silence,” you replied, your words carrying that quiet strength that seemed to emanate from your very core.

“I cannot hear—” Harry caught himself just before the damning confession could spill forth, his jaw clenching as he redirected, “Are you angry with me?”

“Should I be angry?” And yet the question was posed with such genuine curiosity that it sent another wave of frustration through him—the simplicity of your words like lashes across his skin. 

“It’s just...” he struggled, searching for words that wouldn’t betray the unearthly perception he wielded, “It’s just that it’s so quiet.”

And as if his cryptic words meant nothing, you set down your fork with that same graceful ease, folding your hands in your lap as you regarded him. “Forgive me, but I’m not quite sure of your meaning.”

“Everything. about. you. is quiet,” Harry ground out, feeling the demon surge beneath his skin, his control fraying like rope against sharp stone. “I can’t—”

Harry bit back the rest of his words as the frustration, the need, the unbearable pressure of your unreachable presence finally shattered his restraint, and with a devastating force, his fist came down on the table with the sole intention of fear, sending the china jumping and crystal singing as the sound cracked through the air like thunder, and this time—finally—you jumped.

When you brought your napkin up to your mouth, eyes cast down at your plate, Harry caught the slight tremor as he watched the slow release of your controlled breath deflate your chest, yet your perfect posture didn’t waver, and this seemed to stem more fear than he had just momentarily inflicted, and he wondered if you seemed to wield a power of your own. But just as he was trying to make sense of it all, your eyes met his again, this time blazing with a focus so unmistakable it seemed to make his demon rear back in recognition, as tears gathered at the corners of your eyes, not of fear but of something far more treacherous—a righteous fury that even he understood he deserved. 

Silently, you forced your chair back with a harsh scrape that seemed to echo in his very bones, and when you stood, when you looked at him with that same piercing gaze, in that moment, his demon didn’t just quiet—it cowered. “I wish to get one thing clear with you, Harry Edward Styles,” you said, and the moment his full name left your lips, something impossible happened.

It was as if an invisible force wrapped around his throat, not crushing but undeniably present, firm enough to make its warning absolutely clear. Harry’s eyes widened, his hand instinctively rising halfway to his neck before he forced it back down. Yet, the touch wasn’t demonic—no, this was something else entirely, something that hummed with an authority that was just as unearthly as his own power.

“I will tell you this…I have no intention of cowering around you in fear,” you continued, your voice steady despite the tears that threatened to fall. If it is fear that you seek to evoke within me, I shall keep my distance. Should you wish to imprison me, I will play my part, but if you meant a single breath of what we discussed before you stormed off the other evening, you will never speak to me in such a manner again.”

For a second, the grip around his neck tightened, just enough to remind Harry of its presence, as you held his eyes. The longer you maintained his gaze, the more Harry felt as though you were looking straight through his illusion, past the perfect human facade and directly into the writhing darkness beneath. Then the grip went slack, but it remained a constant presence, neither tightening nor loosening, only becoming a steady reminder of a power he couldn’t name or understand.

“If I’ve spoken out of turn,” you said, though your tone suggested you knew very well you hadn’t, “please speak now, and I will know where we stand.” And as the words left your mouth, a flicker of pain crossed your features, and your hand moved to press against your lower belly, a gesture that sent an unexpected ache of concern through Harry’s chest.

His eyes tracked the movement, noting the way your fingers pressed into the fabric of your morning dress, and suddenly the fight drained from him entirely. He cleared his throat, and miraculously, the invisible grip released. When Harry’s eyes flicked to yours, the power ebbed and slowly faded, as if you, too, no longer wanted to fight, your features softening just enough for him to lay down arms. 

Harry finally spoke then, “I am clear on the words you have just expressed.” And out of instinct, his hand rose to his neck, massaging the phantom sensation that lingered there. He cleared his throat again, trying to banish the rasp from his voice. “I’m sorry for my unseemly outburst. Please forgive me. I will do my very best to tame it next time.”

Wordlessly, you nodded, granting him a single, commanding inclination of your head that somehow contrived to make him feel both pardoned and condemned—carried with all the grace of a queen dismissing a subject, and you placed your napkin beside your unfinished plate.

“If you’ll please excuse me,” you said, your voice returning to that maddeningly calm register, “I would like to get changed to work in the greenhouse. I have plans to be there most of the day.”

Harry stood abruptly, then immediately questioned the wisdom of it. He didn’t want his height, his presence, to seem like another form of intimidation. But you didn’t flinch, didn’t step back, merely waited with that boundless patience that was somehow more disturbing than any show of fear would have been.

He gave you what he hoped was a sufficiently grave nod. “I truly am sorry. Please tell me if there is anything I can do to make it up to you, and I will do my best to accommodate it.”

Just as you reached the door, you paused, hand clutching at your lower belly, but you didn’t turn around fully, only offered him your profile—a sight that inexplicably reminded him of that first night in the carriage, when you had removed your gloves and nearly unmade him entirely.

“I told you what I wanted,” you said, and then you looked over your shoulder at him, your eyes carrying the weight of your meaning, sending a flash of heat pooling in his stomach. “You’ll know where to find me…when you’re ready.”

Just as your words settled, a servant opened the door as if summoned by your very presence, ushering you out and leaving Harry standing alone in the vast dining hall, staggered by the remnants of every unfinished thought torturing him and the echo of a power he couldn’t comprehend.

When Harry climbed the stairs after breakfast to his study, his feet heavy and leaden with each step, as he meditated on the disaster he’d made of the morning, and he was struck with a new surprise. The moment he crossed the threshold, your scent hit his senses, giving you away, like it had seeped into every surface you had touched during his absence. Curious, he moved to his desk, sinking into the chair where he knew without a doubt you had sat. His eyes roamed over the surfaces where yours had run, and probably ran your fingers across. He gathered the neat documents in his hands, eyes tracing over his signature with a new curiosity, looking for any clues you may have found interesting in his mundane life. 

Should he see the act as a violation, yet as he searched for the anger, he found he had nothing to hide. On paper, he was a normal man, handling his business affairs like any other man in his position. Still, as he calmed the human, the demon stirred, your scent rousing his fleshly want—an animal in search of its mate. Was that what you were? Had you both been fated to meet that night, was this the draw silencing his demon in your presence—the magnetic pull that defied every ounce of his control, could you be the fated connection that terrified him more than any prophecy his father had ever spoken, because that was never spoken. He was never meant for anything more than the role he was created for.

Should he dare to dream of such happenings, he asked himself as he closed his eyes, allowing himself the dangerous indulgence of imagining what it would be like to shed his human mask entirely, to stand before you in all his monstrous truth. Would you run? That warlike spirit you had displayed this morning suggested otherwise. Would you recoil at the sight of his horns, the demonic markings that told the story of his cursed heritage? Or would those remarkable eyes of yours simply observe and accept, as they seemed inclined to do with everything else about him?

Nevertheless, the gravest question, the one that sent a shiver of genuine apprehension through his very soul, was whether he could maintain control if he gave into your desires—what you had made so painfully clear you wanted, as you held fast to the sacred duty to consummate the marriage—a marriage he had crafted as a mere facade, a convenient arrangement that had become anything but convenient the moment you had taken his hand in that carriage—because it truly was so much more. 

His demon had harbored a desire from the very first touch—a wish to devour, to claim and possess in a manner most mortifying to any proper lady… or even any human being, for that matter. Yet you were no ordinary lady, were you? There was something decidedly otherworldly about you, a mysterious aura that called to both sides of his nature with equal infatuation. The human within him longed to cherish and protect you, even from himself, while the demon yearned to worship you in ways that would cause the angels above to weep in despair.

The question that haunted his thoughts most was whether he could lie with you—to take you as his wife in truth—without succumbing to the beast within. Could he trust himself to be gentle when every fiber of his being yearned to claim, to mark, to possess? Could he maintain his illusion of control? Did he require more time, or was his time already slipping away? Because then the memory of his father’s presence in your room, the lingering scent of Susurrus' breach, sent a fresh wave of panic as a protective rage surged through him. If he couldn’t even keep his father at bay, how could he trust himself not to harm you?

Yet, what choices remained? To persist in this distance, this meticulous routine of avoidance, which only seemed to be gradually draining your spirits. He could see it in the shadows under your eyes, in the way you tenderly pressed your hand to your belly, as if seeking relief from an ache that mirrored his own. Beyond your shared desires, he longed to ask you so many questions—curiosities that hovered like delicate paper notes around him, waiting to be unfolded. 

Just as Harry was forming another thread of thought, a knock at the door shattered his trance. Agnus entered, her weathered face attentive and neutral, though her thoughts rang clear… “The poor master’s as tortured as his bride. What a pair they make, both too stubborn to see what’s plain as day.”

“Is there anything you’ll be needing before I settle the missus for the evening?” she asked, though Harry could hear the real question beneath… “Will you finally stop this foolishness and go to your wife?”

“No,” Harry said, standing to make it seem as though he had been working rather than lost in another round of tortured contemplation. Yet he knew the movements looked stiff and uncertain, nothing like his usual steady refinement. 

And as Agnus turned to leave, Harry found himself speaking before he could think better of it, the words emerging with a pained hesitancy that even he knew was uncharacteristic of himself. 

“Please tell her...” he paused, the weight of the decision pressing down on him like weighted pockets full of stones in the ocean, and when he spoke, he felt the demon writhing in anticipation while the human within trembled with the magnitude of what he knew this would cost him. “Please tell her she will get what she wants.”

Harry watched confusion flicker across Agnus’s features, stunned only for a moment, and though the confusion lingered, she merely nodded, and just as she was about to close the door, Harry called out her name. She paused in place, gazing at him again, “While I was away, did my wife suffer any more terrors?”

Agnus spoke quickly, even though Harry already pulled the answer from her mind, “No, terrors, sir, she was perfectly rested every night.”

“Very well, Agnus, that will be all, thank you—,” Harry answered, gathering a stack of papers into his hands as he listened for the sound of the door, but when he didn’t hear the click, he glanced back up. 

“Excuse me, sir, just in case the missus asks. When should she be expecting you this evening?” And the joy that rang out in Agnus’s mind nearly swallowed his thoughts completely, as if Agnus had just understood Harry’s intentions in the message she was to convey. 

Harry ran a hand over the sleeve of his jacket, his markings burning beneath, “Within the hour. I’m just finishing up here. I shouldn’t be long.” He told her, pulling at his sleeve, being sure everything was concealed at the wrist. 

“Very well, Mr. Styles…I will bid my leave now…” She said, trying to hide the smile pressing at the corners of her mouth as Harry listened to her inner monologue, and the great details she would take to make this evening perfect for both of you. 

As she finally took her leave and closed the door, Harry was left alone with the consequence of the promise he had just made; now the die was cast. Tonight, he would go to you. Tonight, he would risk everything—his control, his methodically conserved facade, possibly your very life—based on the growing certainty that you were meant to be more than just this convenient arrangement. That in your presence, you could silence the beast, but if there were a God above, please grant thy will of safety, he nearly whispered, allowed, as the demon gnarled its ugly head.

Could you both be strong together? Were—you—strong enough? Were you meant to be his salvation, or were you the very damnation his father spoke of?

Could you be both?

And though these thoughts should have terrified him. Instead, for the first time since you took his hand, Harry felt hope rise enough to tame the monster.

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