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slitherss · 1 month ago

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Signed, Sealed, Unspoken

Rhysand x Reader

summary: Following a long and brutal war, the Dusk Court has finally reclaimed the lands seized by the Night Court generations ago. Yet its new capital, Velaris, remains tangled in the Night Court's intricate trade agreements. Now, negotiations are underway. word count: 21.3k (you're welcome, it's worth it) content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, alcohol, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of war (& like one descriptive scene) ] author's note: important! this fic takes place in an AU where the Night Court absorbed the Dusk Court forever ago, this is where the borders are (<- google drive link lol, do u like my ramiel rendition). i've never written a fic formatted like this but i'm super duper mega obsessed with how it turned out :D i always wanna hear yalls thoughts but i EXTRA wanna hear your thoughts on this one, its kinda my baby not to be dramatic, ive been working so hard on it im sad its over :( ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a dash of blaze & a splash of venom enhanced with echo leaves stirred THANK YOU SO SO MUCH @raccoonworld FOR THE REQUEST I LOVED LOVED LOVED WRITING THIS!!!!! i saw enemies to lovers and tension/banter and RAN with it >:) I REALLY HOPE YOU LOVE THIS

To the Most Esteemed High Lord of the Night Court,

I will dispense with pleasantries, as I doubt either of us have the patience for them.

It has come to my attention that despite Velaris now falling under Dusk Court rule, the existing trade agreements with the other courts remain bound to the Night Court’s discretion. As it stands, merchants who once conducted business freely within Velaris now find themselves unable to do so, citing the stipulations you have so conveniently chosen to uphold.

This impasse benefits no one. The artisans and traders of Velaris are not pawns to be maneuvered at your whim, nor should they suffer disruption simply because the Night Court has yet to accept the reality of the shifting landscape. I am certain even you can see the impracticality of maintaining such restrictions.

Thus, I formally request the reopening of Velaris’ merchant ties—with full autonomy under Dusk Court governance. This is not a demand, but an offer to facilitate an arrangement that benefits both our courts. As a gesture of good faith, I am prepared to waive all tariffs for Night Court merchants entering our borders for the first decade of this renewed arrangement. Should you find yourself inclined toward reason, I trust we can discuss terms that do not waste either of our time.

I await your response.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To Her Radiance, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

Your request has been received and thoroughly reviewed. While I appreciate your concern for Velaris’ merchants—and your attempt to frame this as an act of mutual benefit—I must remind you that these agreements were established with the Night Court for a reason. The conditions under which they may be altered are, as I’m sure you know, not so easily dismissed. To shift its economic ties without careful negotiation would be careless at best and disastrous at worst.

That said, I am not unreasonable. I am willing to entertain a renegotiation of these trade restrictions provided certain terms are met. Surely, a ruler as pragmatic as yourself can appreciate the necessity of thorough discussion.

I trust you’ll give the matter due consideration—after all, I’d hate to think the High Lady of the Dusk Court acts on impulse alone.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Most Generous High Lord of the Night Court,

I must commend you on your impressive ability to complicate what should be a simple matter.

The conditions you mentioned remain conveniently vague, and your insistence that this requires “thorough discussion” feels less like prudence and more like a deliberate attempt to stall. You claim to appreciate the merchants’ concerns, yet your actions suggest otherwise. Whatever terms you are withholding, I suggest you present them plainly rather than wasting both our time beneath the guise of diplomacy.

This trade arrangement is not the delicate, volatile affair you’re attempting to make it. It is, as I said before, a practical solution that benefits both our courts—one that should have been resolved by now had you been willing to engage in good faith.

If you are not prepared to negotiate in earnest, I suggest you say so plainly. Otherwise, I await your response—and your so-called conditions.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the Illustrious and Ever-Gracious High Lady of the Dusk Court,

I assure you, I have no intention of stalling—only ensuring that all necessary terms are made clear. Since you’re so eager for my conditions, allow me to offer them plainly: full claim over Ramiel.

I assume, of course, that you understand the significance of Ramiel to the Illyrians, though I wonder if sentimentality is a concept the Dusk Court is capable of recognizing. Perhaps you’ll manage, when thousands of Illyrians take it upon themselves to storm your borders, demanding they’ve nowhere for their Blood Rite.

Of course, if you’d prefer to drag this out further, by all means keep posturing. I don’t mind waiting—I hear patience is a virtue, though I doubt that’s a concept you’re particularly fond of, either.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Self-Appointed Arbiter of Illyrian Tradition, High Lord of the Night Court,

Your terms have been received—and rejected.

Ramiel is not yours to bargain with. Its ownership was divided between the Night and Dusk Courts long before either of us held our titles, and I have no intention of surrendering what is rightfully mine. Whatever misplaced sense of entitlement has led you to believe otherwise is your burden to bear, not mine.

If you are truly so desperate to appease your Illyrians, I suggest you find another solution—one that doesn’t involve attempting to strong-arm me under the guise of negotiation. Or did you imagine I’d be too naïve to recognize a pathetic attempt at leverage when I see it?

Next time you attempt to disguise arrogance as diplomacy, do try harder.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the Tireless Defender of Lost Causes, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

Your refusal, while unsurprising, was disappointingly predictable. I had hoped you might be capable of recognizing an opportunity when presented with one.

But I understand. Ruling can be… overwhelming. Perhaps the burden of leadership has clouded your judgment—or perhaps you’re simply too proud to admit that the Dusk Court cannot stand alone. Without those trade routes, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before your court’s merchants start looking elsewhere for stability. I wonder, how long will your people’s loyalty last when faced with empty pockets?

Of course, I’m more than willing to assist you in finding a solution—if you’re willing to discuss this matter in person. Surely, a female as capable as yourself wouldn’t shy from a real conversation. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to keep trading letters instead. I can’t say I’d mind. Your insults are far more entertaining than I anticipated.

Do let me know.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Adriata, Summer Court

The meeting had been set. The Summer Court had been Tarquin’s suggestion—one neither you nor the High Lord of Night could easily refuse. Neutral enough ground, given the mess of alliances during the war to take back your court. Enduring his insufferable theatrics under Tarquin’s watchful eye was unpleasant enough. The thought of tolerating them indefinitely only soured it further.

The air was thick with salt and sun, the Adriata breeze rolling in from the open sea as you ascended the marble steps of the Summer Court’s palace. The gates were already open, a silent invitation—and the two Summer Court guards flanking them did not so much as twitch as you approached, their expressions impassive.

Inside, the refreshing chill of the palace provided welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside, a reprieve that might’ve been pleasant had your mind not already been preoccupied with thoughts of the impending meeting. Your footsteps echoed against polished floors as a familiar figure emerged from the arched hallway ahead.

Tarquin approached, dressed in deep blue, the color of a tide just before dusk, his crown of pearl and gold glinting beneath the glow of the faelights suspended above. He had never been one for ostentatious displays of power, and yet there was something effortless about the way he carried it—shoulders squared, chin high, every inch the High Lord of Summer.

A polite, knowing smile curved his lips as he bowed in greeting. “High Lady.”

“High Lord,” you returned, dipping your chin in greeting. “I appreciate you hosting this meeting.”

His smile deepened, but there was something almost conspiratorial behind it. “I can’t say I object to the entertainment.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That makes one of us.”

Tarquin’s amusement lingered as he extended his arm toward you. Without hesitation, you slipped your arm through his as he led the way inside. “I take it the correspondence has been… eventful?”

“That’s a word for it,” you muttered.

He chuckled, leading you through the wide halls of polished coral and pearl, sunlight filtering through arched windows that overlooked the sea. The sound of distant music drifted through the corridors—a low hum of strings and laughter.

It took you half a breath too long to place it.

You glanced at Tarquin, brow furrowing. “I was under the impression this was a private meeting.”

He exhaled, something wry tugging at his mouth. “It was.”

Was.

You dropped your arm and stopped walking.

Tarquin turned to face you fully, sighing as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I had planned for it to be a quiet discussion,” he admitted. “Apologies, truly. My cousin’s… enthusiasm often precedes her judgment.”

Of course. Cresseida and that damned mouth of hers.

A headache threatened at the base of your skull, and you pinched the bridge of your nose. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” He shook his head, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Cresseida only meant well, but—well, you know how quickly word spreads. The moment it was known you and Rhysand would be in the same room together, the interest became… considerable.”

Your lips parted slightly, incredulous. “How considerable?”

A swell of noise—laughter, voices, the unmistakable hum of a gathering—rose from deeper within the palace, as if in answer. Tarquin’s eyes widened slightly, his expression caught between amusement and resignation.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together, willing patience into your voice. “And how many High Lords are in attendance?”

Tarquin’s gaze flicked toward the crowd, then back to you, his lips quirking up at one corner. “All, and at least half of Prythian, by my count.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment.

Wonderful.

Of course it wouldn’t be a simple negotiation. Of course this had turned into a spectacle. All of Prythian must have been abuzz with curiosity, all eager to see if the rumors were true—if the Dusk Court’s High Lady and the Night Court’s High Lord could even stand to be in the same room without bloodshed.

And now, you’d have an audience.

You sighed, smoothing a hand down the front of your skirts. The dress was a deep violet-black, and shimmered with a subtle, shifting sheen that caught the light as you moved, like twilight settling over the horizon. The bodice was intricately designed with delicate lace, while the long, sheer sleeves flared gently at the wrists, trimmed in silver embroidery. And resting atop your head, a slender tiara of dark metal, woven with amethyst and moonstone—like the first stars pricking through the evening sky.

At the very least, you wouldn’t look out of place.

Tarquin studied you for a moment before offering, “You could always turn back and we’ll reschedule.”

You arched a brow, both of you knowing that was not an option. “And let him spin his own version of events? I’d rather suffer the evening.”

A low chuckle. “I thought you might say so.”

Tarquin turned, resuming his path toward the open doors far ahead—toward the golden light and music spilling from the grand hall beyond.

You squared your shoulders and followed.

The noise struck first—a soft roar of conversation that swelled as you stepped through the open doors. Laughter rippled beneath the clink of glasses and the steady rise and fall of music. Strings sang from somewhere across the grand hall, their notes weaving through the air, bright and lilting—completely at odds with the tension coiling in your chest.

The room was bathed in gold, sunlight spilling through towering windows that overlooked the sea. Gossamer curtains billowed with the breeze, carrying the scent of salt and citrus. The palace’s coral-hued walls seemed to glow beneath the faelights suspended like stars above, glittering and warm.

Nobles clustered in tight groups, each dressed in silks and jewels that shimmered like fish scales in the light. A delicate blend of perfumes clung to the air, mingling with the faintest trace of seafoam. Glasses gleamed in their hands, wine swirling dark and rich as they murmured in low voices.

And there—by one of the open archways that overlooked the distant cliffs—stood Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court.

He stood tall and commanding as ever, his usual confident smirk playing on his lips as he engaged in some pointless small talk with a cluster of nobles from some court you couldn’t be bothered to identify. His smile was sharp and easy, his laugh a low rumble that you somehow knew managed to sound genuine. He looked entirely at ease—all dark elegance in his finely tailored attire, the night-black fabric swallowing the warm light around him.

You watched as he sipped from his glass, his fingers curling around the delicate stem with calculated ease. Ever the picture of charm—poised, composed—as if he hadn’t been hellbent on driving you to the brink of madness over the past several weeks.

A hush rippled across the room, subtle but unmistakable. Not silence, not entirely, but it was enough. They’d seen you. And the whispers that followed? Soft, barely audible beneath the music, yet you could feel the weight of their stares. Curious eyes flicked between the two of you, waiting, wondering.

You bit back a sigh and crossed to the nearest drinks table, letting the cool stem of a wine glass rest between your fingers. You busied yourself casually moving through the hall, eyes drifting over the various High Lords deep in conversation, striking deals in hushed tones, some more conspicuously than others. A few were already exchanging knowing glances, clearly eager to witness the first public encounter between you two since your courts had ended their bitter conflict. You could practically feel the weight of their eyes, even from across the room.

The air was thick with pretenses, with politics, with old alliances shifting beneath carefully constructed smiles. The longer you lingered in the thrumming hum of the palace, the more you realized just how much was at stake in this charade.

You spent the first hour engaged in clipped, careful conversation with Tamlin and Lucien. Tamlin, all tense shoulders and tight-jawed restraint, spoke little beyond what was necessary. Lucien, at least, filled the silence with dry wit, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. There was a flicker of curiosity in them, a silent question he did not voice: What exactly is your endgame here? You only smiled, noncommittal, and let him wonder.

Then came Beron and Eris—an exercise in endurance more than diplomacy. Beron played at civility, but you could see the sneer behind his eyes, feel the weight of his disdain curling in the air between you. Eris, ever the sharper of the two, was all smooth words and knowing smirks, his amusement a blade he wielded with practiced ease. His compliments were barbed, his observations keen. And though you had no doubt he enjoyed watching you hold your ground against his father, there was a lingering watchfulness in him, a game being played that you had no interest in deciphering.

Eventually, your glass was empty, the wine gone as quickly as the patience you’d started with. You set it down carefully on a nearby passing tray before you straightened. Taking a slow, steadying breath, you steeled your spine and finally began the long walk toward him.

He noticed you before you reached him.

Of course he did.

Violet eyes flicked to yours—a brief, cutting glance that held no warmth. Then he turned back to his group, murmuring something that earned a round of soft, agreeable laughter. By the time you reached him, his companions had scattered, as if sensing the change in the air—like birds taking flight before a storm.

“High Lady,” he greeted smoothly, taking a slow sip from his glass. His eyes gleamed above the rim—cool, knowing. “I was beginning to think you’d avoid me all evening.”

You smiled tightly. “And miss the pleasure of your company, High Lord? Please.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Dangerous words,” he warned, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “I may begin to think you enjoy it.”

“I enjoy watching you run your mouth,” you countered, feigning disinterest as you reached for another drink from a passing tray. “It’s remarkable, really. You hardly need anyone else in the conversation.”

His lips twitched. “Efficient, wouldn’t you say?”

Then his gaze dipped, tracking the movement as you took a slow sip from your glass. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, something sharp and searching—a silent dare.

And for a heartbeat, you nearly smiled.

Okay. The bastard was funny. You’d give him that much.

“Among other things.”

That smirk of his deepened, and you felt the annoying tug of frustration tighten in your chest. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he reveled in it. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Oh, I wouldn’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “I’d sooner pay a compliment to the tableware.”

“I’ve been told I’m just as sharp,” he countered smoothly, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

“Only half as useful,” you muttered, the words slipping out the moment his toast was raised, brows lifting as you took a slow sip from your glass.

The High Lord chuckled darkly, stepping just a fraction closer—not enough to break propriety, but enough that the air between you felt thinner. Warmer. “You’ve always had a fondness for sharp things. Trouble is,” he added, with a pointed glance at your glass, “you haven’t quite learned how to hold them without cutting yourself.”

You arched a brow. “And yet I’m still standing.”

His smile widened, slow and feline. “For now.”

“High Lord,” you said, voice dripping with dry formality, “if you think you can rattle me with such feeble attempts, you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, sounding almost bored. “We’ve spent decades at each other’s throats, (y/n)—surely, you can address me by my name.”

You blinked, glass halfway to your lips.

“...No, thank you,” you said primly, taking a slow sip. “I’d hate to give you the satisfaction.”

His gaze danced over you, sharp and glittering. “Coward.”

“I prefer to think of it as prudence.” He wouldn’t be getting a reaction out of you tonight.

“Is that what you call it?” Rhysand mused, swirling his drink. “I was beginning to think you avoided me out of… shyness.”

You let out a breathy laugh, tasting the remnants of wine on your tongue. “I’d hardly call avoiding you a loss.”

“And yet,” he countered, voice all lazy arrogance, “here you are.”

“Only because I’m certain you’ve already cornered half the room,” you said sweetly. “I figured someone should check that you haven’t charmed them all into some terrible bargain.”

Rhysand’s smile turned cutting. “Now you’re giving me too much credit.”

“You’d take it if it were offered.”

He chuckled under his breath, gaze flicking down your face—searching, calculating. “Perhaps I just wanted to see how long you’d last before you came to find me.”

“If I knew it’d only encourage you,” you said coolly, “I may have waited longer.”

Something gleamed behind his eyes. “You wound me, High Lady,” he said smoothly, tilting his head just so. “I’d hate to think the conversation is so unbearable.”

“Oh, no. You mistake me,” you countered, gaze flicking over him with mock deliberation. “It’s not the conversation that’s unbearable. Only the company.”

His laugh was a low, knowing thing, and you hated how easily it slid down your spine. “That almost sounded personal.”

“Take it however it helps you sleep at night.” You lifted your glass to your lips, only to find it empty. Annoying.

Rhysand followed the movement, watched as you set it down on a passing tray and took another. His gaze lingered for half a beat too long—so brief you might have missed it had you not been so attuned to the way he moved, the way he studied.

You’d already drained a glass during this conversation, never mind the two others throughout the evening. He’d barely touched his—just one sip, if you’d been paying attention. And Rhysand certainly was, if you knew him at all. Which meant you wouldn’t be having another—at least, not until you were free of his watchful gaze.

You let the silence stretch between you, just long enough to suggest boredom. Let him wonder if he’d lost your interest already.

He only smiled, unruffled. “So?” he drawled, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Shall we play nicely and discuss what we’re actually here for?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tipping your head slightly. “And here I thought we’d already abandoned that pretense.”

Rhysand’s lips curved. “I suppose we have.” his gaze flicked briefly over your shoulder before settling back on you, heavy with implication. “Not that we truly have the luxury of privacy, do we?”

Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as you looked over your shoulder, following his line of sight. “The High Lords have never been particularly skilled at minding their own.”

“No,” he mused, swirling the wine in his glass. One of these times, it would spill, Cauldron-willing. “But usually they’re more subtle.”

Across the room, Beron leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as he murmured something to his eldest beside him. Helion, a few seats down, wasn’t even bothering with discretion, openly entertained as he twirled his glass between his fingers. And Tarquin—Tarquin, for all his efforts to seem engaged in a separate conversation, kept glancing toward the two of you like he was expecting the walls to crack beneath the weight of whatever game you and Rhysand were playing.

“That would be too convenient,” you murmured, gaze sweeping the room in one slow, deliberate pass.

Rhysand huffed a quiet laugh, low enough that only you could hear. “Pity. I was looking forward to seeing how many veiled threats you could fit into a single conversation before Tarquin stopped you.”

“Five, at least.”

His brows lifted, mouth curving in a mockery of admiration. “Ambitious.”

You turned to him fully now, tilting your head. “Concerned?”

Something flickered behind his eyes, too quick to name, before that infuriating smirk returned. “Hardly. I just prefer results over theatrics. And right now, I’m afraid we won’t be getting any.”

You exhaled slowly, glancing once more at the gathered High Lords, at the nobles who clearly had no intention of keeping to their own business.

Cresseida had been clever—forcing this into a public spectacle rather than a quiet, controlled negotiation. But if her goal had been to force you both into some kind of amicable resolution, she was bound to be disappointed.

You met his eye. “Then it seems we’ve wasted an evening.”

Rhysand tilted his head, studying you with a lazy sort of amusement, fingers tapping idly against the stem of his glass. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Your jaw tightened. “No?”

“No,” he said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his wine. “I’ve had quite a bit of fun. I’ll give you credit, you’ve made it almost enjoyable to watch you stew.”

Bastard.

You shifted forward just enough that it could be passed off as casual to any onlookers. Just enough that the space between you thinned, that he had no choice but to notice the shift in proximity.

“Tell me, Rhysand,” you said, voice dipped in silk and steel. “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” You studied his face for any sign of a reaction, a flicker in his eyes—something, anything— at the sound of his name on your tongue. You swore you saw his jaw tighten ever so slightly.

He smiled as he leaned in, matching you breath for breath. “Tell me, (y/n), would you find my voice tolerable if I took the more subtle route?” he said, voice barely above a murmur.

You felt the faint pressure at the edges of your mind, like the brush of something sharp testing the barriers you’d carefully constructed for this very reason.

Your answering smile was slow, sweet, and entirely false. “Try it and see how fast I rip out your tongue.”

Then… he laughed—really laughed, low and rich, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. He leaned back with it, head tilting, and the shift sent you bristling, spine straightening before you could think better of it.

His laughter faded, tapering into a breath that still carried the ghost of mirth. “Careful, High Lady,” he said, eyes alight with something dangerous. “I might begin to suspect you’re attempting to entice me.”

Your nails pressed into your palm. Self-satisfied prick. As if you’d waste the effort.

“Rest assured,” you said, voice smooth as glass, “if I meant to entice, you would not be left wondering.”

His brows lifted, just barely, before his weight shifted away, as if to study you. “Ah,” he said at last, a touch too light. “Then I must have misjudged your intentions. My sincerest apologies.”

Your breath felt too shallow, your skin too warm. Unacceptable. And of course, he knew it.

So you only smiled again, slow and sharp, before turning on your heel. “Enjoy your night, High Lord.”

You didn’t wait for a response, only tossed the words over your shoulder and kept walking, leaving him standing there. Watching you go.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

To the High Lord of the Night Court, whose lack of talent in negotiation is rivaled only by his truly abysmal attempts at seduction,

It seems our time in the Summer Court was just as unproductive as our letters, though I suppose I should commend you for attempting a new strategy. Unfortunately for you, whatever effort you put into wooing me was wasted—I can assure you, I am not so easily swayed by charm, nor will I be seduced into accepting an entirely unreasonable deal.

Now, unless you’d prefer to spend more time failing miserably at that endeavor, perhaps we can return to the actual purpose of these discussions. You proposed a meeting to negotiate, yet I’ve still heard nothing of what—aside from the absurd—might convince you to release the other courts from their trade agreements with the Night Court. So, tell me, Rhysand: do you have any real terms to offer, or should I expect another pointless conversation?

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the High Lady of the Dusk Court, whose wit remains as swift as her refusal to entertain reason,

I see your patience is as thin as ever. I was hoping you’d save your biting commentary for after our negotiations, but I should have known better. Your sharp tongue is always ready to make an appearance, even when the subject is far more pressing than whatever petty barb you think will get a rise out of me.

As for this wooing nonsense you insist on mentioning, had I wanted to spend the evening trying to seduce you, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed on the Summer Court. I’d have taken you somewhere far more secluded—perhaps an estate along the Day Court’s southeastern coast, where the sunsets are golden and endless, and the warmth of the air would make it all too easy to lose yourself in far more pleasant distractions.

I’d even go so far as to arrange a romantic candlelit dinner. A small, intimate table set for two, close enough that you’d have no choice but to brush against me whenever you so much as reached for your glass—the first, second, and third. Though, knowing you, I’d likely have to wait until your eighth before you finally deemed my shoulder worthy of supporting that insufferably high-held head of yours. Roses, of course, scattered in excessive, bordering-on-ridiculous abundance. A personal violinist to serenade us—no, perhaps an entire string quartet, just to ensure the moment is properly insufferable. I’d be remiss if I didn’t include poetry of course—something overwrought, preferably recited under the stars with all the solemnity of a male professing his undying devotion. Really, (y/n), if seduction had been my goal, I’d have made sure to leave you with no doubt about my intentions.

We’d have had plenty of time for meaningful conversation, uninterrupted by the chaos of Cresseida’s “enthusiasm”—which, I might add, was the delicate (I say delicate with the utmost sarcasm) term Tarquin managed to muster for the spectacle she orchestrated. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect any self-respecting High Lord to take command of his own palace and dismiss his unwanted guests, though I’m sure you’d prefer to dismiss such reasonable suggestions as impractical, as is your way.

But, of course, I digress. As it stands, my terms remain unchanged: Ramiel. The western half. You’ll find that without it, there’s little incentive for the Night Court to make concessions. No amount of your desperate little dramatics will sway my stance. I think we both know this is the only real term on the table.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

P.S. I must thank you for the satisfaction—I believe that was the term you used—of hearing my magnificent name fall from your lips the other night. And now, to see it written by your delicate hand as well… Truly, I must be the most Cauldron-blessed male in all of Prythian.

✦

To the ever-persistent High Lord of the Night Court, whose ego remains as unshakable and misplaced as his faith in his own charm

It seems I underestimated just how much time you’ve spent considering the matter of seducing me. Such detail, such effort—few males would go to such great lengths to convince a female of their supposed disinterest. If I didn’t know better, I might think it’s been occupying that scheming mind of yours far more than you’d care to admit. Though I have to wonder… Do all your fantasies involve me drinking myself into some pliant, starry-eyed fool? Or is that your way of compensating for the fact that I would never find you charming of my own accord?

And here I thought you were merely insufferable—imagine my surprise to learn you’re a gossip as well. I should have guessed. You seem precisely the type—sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, always poised to collect whatever little scraps of intrigue fall into your lap. I can only assume you relish hoarding such information, tucking it away until it serves some greater purpose. I wonder, do you find as much satisfaction in keeping secrets as you do in sharing them? Or is it just my ability to match that insufferable wit of yours that has you so eager to write?

Speaking of which, your remarks about Tarquin were as predictable as they were shortsighted. I’m sure it must be easy business to force out fae who have ruled for millennia when you yourself have only been alive for a fraction of that time. Even easier when one in particular has a habit of reducing things to ash.

Tell me, Rhysand, do all your enemies receive such personal attention, or am I special? I must be, considering how quickly you seem to find time to respond to me. It’s impressive, really—your letters reach me in a fraction of the time I typically receive correspondence. You’re either woefully impatient or remarkably eager, and I’m not sure which is worse.

But since you’re so determined to keep the discussion of rights to Velaris’ trade agreements at a stalemate, perhaps I could put my delicate hands to some use. That is, if you can manage to set aside your fixation on Ramiel long enough to consider alternatives. I wonder if I ought to bring something else to the table—something of more… immediate value to you.

That being said, you’ll have to quell your impatience for the time being. I’ll be away on business, which means you’ll have to find some other means of entertaining yourself for the time being. As much as I hate to deprive you of my company, I suspect you’ll manage. Try not to let your restlessness get the better of you. I’d hate to return to a stack of letters detailing all the ways you ‘could have’ won me over, if only I’d let you.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

P.S. As lovely as your rose-petaled fantasy sounds, I much prefer mirabilis. I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate the significance.

✦

To the High Lady of the Dusk Court, whose ability to misinterpret my intentions is truly something to behold,

I hate to shatter your illusions, but you are not special—not in this regard, at least. The speed of my letters has nothing to do with my enthusiasm and everything to do with geography. Our courts share a border, after all—an unfortunate reality, considering how much of it you carved from my own. Proximity is a rather mundane explanation, but if you’d prefer to believe I spend my days waiting by the window for your next scathing remark, far be it from me to rob you of that fantasy.

On the subject of fantasies: You do love to twist my words, don’t you? If I recall, you were the one to pose the question—am I not allowed to entertain it? I simply offered you the scenario that seemed most realistic. And yet, you seem quite fixated on the idea of me seducing you. I wonder—do all your rebuttals involve projecting your own preoccupations onto me? Or is this your way of compensating for the fact that I’ve gotten under your skin more than you’d care to admit?

What you refer to as gossiping, I prefer to think of as being well-informed. A skill you should appreciate, given your own sharp tongue and penchant for gaining leverage. But I’ll admit, secrets do make for excellent company—particularly when the alternative is a conversation as dull as this stalemate of ours. And I have yet to decide whether the pleasure of matching wits with you outweighs the agony of your stubbornness.

Now, as much as I’d love to ignore the blatant baiting in your letter, I find myself… curious. I can certainly imagine the lovely image of those delicate hands of yours being put to use—after all, I distinctly recall them attempting to drive a sword through my neck not long ago. I’ll admit, I’m rather torn between dreading the thought and finding it intriguing. And if that amuses you, then by all means, enjoy yourself. I’m sure you will.

I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass the time. Perhaps I’ll spend it in quiet reflection. Perhaps I’ll take up a new hobby—painting, poetry, composing terribly romantic ballads in your honor (for the string quartet to play, of course). Or perhaps I’ll simply use the opportunity to reclaim what’s mine. Ramiel, for instance. Wouldn’t that be amusing?

Enjoy your business, (y/n). Try not to miss me too much.

Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. The mirabilis is an exquisite flower. I had a bed of them at my townhouse in Velaris—I always admired them for being the only flora wise enough to appreciate the beauty of night in the Night Court.

✦

To the High Lord of the Night Court, whose delusions of grandeur are as endless as they are exhausting,

I must confess, I almost missed these letters in my brief reprieve from them. Almost. Though I must say, I imagined your anticipation a little differently. Not waiting by the window, pining for my response, but rather rifling through your mail, skimming past important matters of state in search of your name in my handwriting.

I’m right, aren’t I?

As amusing as it is to imagine, you’ll have to forgive me for not sharing in your enthusiasm. You’ll find I have more pressing concerns than indulging whatever thrill you get from these exchanges.

And yet, despite that eagerness, you still managed to disappoint me. You dodged my question so artfully, I almost didn’t notice. Again, almost. You say I’m not special ‘in this regard, at least’—which begs the question: in what regard do you believe me to be special, Rhysand? Go on, amuse me. Though I imagine you’ll find a way to dodge the question, just as you so skillfully sidestepped my last.

On the matter of your other fantasies, I do hope you weren’t too attached to the idea of reclaiming Ramiel. I’m surprised I wasn’t informed of an attempt while I was away. Either you truly were joking, or you failed spectacularly. I suspect the former—if only because the latter would wound your pride too much to keep quiet. But don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll let you take it so easily. Should you ever try, I suggest you prepare for far more resistance than the last time your court made an attempt at mine. I suggest you spare yourself the embarrassment and resign yourself to the reality of the border as it stands.

And speaking of revisionist history, I see you’re still clinging to the notion that I carved something from your court. Let me remind you that I took back only what rightfully belonged to Dusk. Not an acre more. The distinction may be an inconvenience to your pride, but I assure you, it’s quite important to me.

As for the truly pressing matters—you say you can imagine my hands being put to use, torn between dreading the thought and finding it intriguing. How very dramatic. I only meant to say I would see what strings I could pull. What exactly did you imagine I was referring to?

Speaking of which—I do have another portion of my reacquired land that I might be willing to bring to the table. But before I entertain any offers, I think I’d like answers. To all of my questions.

Try not to let the anticipation distract you too much.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

P.S. A poetic interpretation, though an inaccurate one. The mirabilis does not bloom for night, Rhysand. It blooms for dusk. I’m hardly surprised you managed to make it about yourself. Though, I suppose I can’t fault you for finding familiarity in beautiful things.

✦

To the unshakable guardian of borders, both territorial and personal—though one seems far less impenetrable than the other, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

I’ll admit, my evenings were far quieter in your absence. Dreadfully so. I found myself quite bored without your charming insults—perhaps I should be worried? I fear I may have grown too accustomed to your scrutiny.

I did have an enjoyable time speculating about what, exactly, could have kept you from writing. Was it boredom? A newfound commitment to your so-called pressing concerns? Or were you simply trying to teach me the virtues of patience?

A noble effort, if so. Though I must say, for someone with more important matters to attend to, you seem remarkably preoccupied with my pride. Your fixation on it would almost be endearing—if it weren’t so transparent. Are you hoping to wound it? Searching for some weakness, some bruise you might press your thumb against? If my ego is as fragile as you imagine, why are you working so hard to shatter it?

On the matter of Ramiel, I’m flattered by your assumption that I would go about reclaiming it in such an underhanded way. But contrary to popular belief, I am not entirely cold; I can make a joke. I make many of them, really. And taking Ramiel back with anything less than a true effort would be disgraceful to it. A sacred mountain deserves a worthy battle, don’t you think? I can only assume you agree, given how fiercely you cling to what you’ve taken—excuse me, what you’ve reclaimed. I’ve found myself agreeing with you on this front—revisionist history is an unfortunate thing. Perhaps we should compare records sometime, particularly those regarding the last time our courts clashed. Preferably over a bottle of that wine we had in Adriata. Seven glasses that night, was it? Or was I too distracted to count? Either way, I’m sure the discussion would prove enlightening—it may remind you history has a habit of repeating itself.

Speaking of indulgences, I find it fascinating that, of all the questions I so skillfully evaded, the one you’re most intent on prying an answer from is what I think of your hands and what you’ll do with them? An interesting choice, considering your previous insistence that you have far more pressing concerns than indulging me. But who am I to question your priorities?

I suppose I can be merciful and share the long-awaited answers you so demandingly requested (Mother help whatever poor male ends up as your mate, if this is how you insist on getting your way):

Partially. Matters of state demand priority, but I do allow myself certain distractions.

If I told you, I’d lose the pleasure of watching you try to figure it out yourself. But since you seem desperate for an answer, I’ll offer a hint: it’s not your modesty. Or your patience. Certainly not your generosity.

I thought it was quite evident what you meant to imply. But if you insist on feigning innocence… Truthfully, I assumed your offer was one that would require privacy. And a great deal of generosity on your part. This is something, I now realize, you certainly wouldn’t have put into writing if only to uphold the charade that you’d never find me charming. And now that I’ve said as much, I do hope you’ll allow me the dignity of never having to elaborate further. For both our sakes.

Yours in anticipation, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. Can you blame a male for admiring fine calligraphy? The way you curl the R and y on the envelope—it does wonders for an already stunning name. Almost makes me forgive the rest of your letter.

Almost.

P.P.S. You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful things? It seems I’m beginning to grow on you.

✦

To the High Lord of Night, who wields wit like a blade yet underestimates the sharpness of my own,

I should make one thing abundantly clear: I did not call you beautiful. I merely acknowledged your tendency to find yourself in the presence of beautiful things—an unfortunate distinction you seem determined to misinterpret. Your ego has always had a habit of bending words to its will.

As for your supposed concerns over my absence, rest assured—I had no ulterior motive for not writing. No grand scheme to test your patience or see how long you’d last before you wilted from neglect. I was simply occupied. The life of a High Lady is not one of idle indulgence, after all. I leave that to you.

And yet, you speak as though I spend my precious time working to shatter your ego. An interesting claim, considering I’ve done nothing but respond to the words you so generously provide me. If anything, you’re the one offering up your pride, Rhysand. If it’s cracked, I certainly wasn’t the one to drop it.

On the matter of history, I must say, your memory is sharper than I gave you credit for. Seven glasses, was it? And here I thought I’d lost track. I wonder—does an obsessive enemy count each sip so meticulously, or only a male in love?

Speaking of unanswered questions, you’re still avoiding mine. And until you decide to remedy that, I see no reason to disclose what I plan to bargain with (a term I use loosely, as I know your court has a rather… rigid interpretation of the word). But since you seem so desperate to know, I’ll offer you a choice: either admit there are too many ways in which you find me special to list, or do your best to name them all.

And regarding your… interpretation of my offer, I’d suggest you check your assumptions. Whatever it is you imagined, that was entirely your own doing. A slip of the mind perhaps? A rather telling one, if so.

(Y/n) High Lady of Dusk

P.S. Since you seem so taken with my calligraphy, I made some additions in honor of your rather devoted attention. A fitting touch, don’t you think? Do let me know if you’d noticed before reading this.

✦

To the most self-important High Lady in all of Prythian,

Love? You flatter yourself. A male in my position would be reckless not to keep a close eye on his greatest adversary. And a sharp memory is hardly a crime—though I suppose I should be grateful you only accuse me of counting your drinks and not of slipping something into them. It would not be the first time you assumed the worst of me.

And since you’re so eager for me to list them—very well. The ways in which you are special:

You wield words like weapons, yet claim innocence when they strike true. A fascinating contradiction. I’d almost admire it, were I not so often on the receiving end.

Your dedication to antagonizing me is truly unparalleled. The effort, the commitment—it’s impressive. One might even say admirable.

You’ve managed, against all odds, to make even silence feel pointed. A rare skill. Not one I’d expect of someone so supposedly burdened with more pressing concerns.

You have an impeccable memory for every instance in which I’ve stalled or withheld negotiation details for my own gain—yet here you are, doing the very same. Hypocrisy has never looked so graceful.

I could continue, but I wouldn’t want you to mistake it for admiration. And besides, I believe I’ve humored you enough.

I am not going to argue the wording of your offer with you. You chose your words carefully, as you always do. And I am but a male. Where, exactly, did you expect my mind to go?

And if I were to claim that you, of all people, would never be so sentimental as to embellish my name with hearts—would you deny it? You accuse me of obsession, of something more, yet only someone utterly besotted would go to such painstaking effort. Curious isn’t it?

Yours in ruthless scrutiny, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. You can spare yourself the trouble in your next letter—I will not be listing any more. I wouldn’t want to inflate the ego of my greatest admirer lest she believe me to be interested.

✦

To the most infuriatingly self-satisfied High Lord in all of Prythian, who so skillfully dodges a direct answer while pretending it’s beneath him to do so,

Besotted? I would have thought a male in your position would be reckless to mistake a simple acknowledgement of his shortcomings for something so tragic as infatuation. But if it soothes your ego to believe I spend my waking hours consumed with thoughts of you, I suppose I shouldn’t deny you that small comfort. The fragile need their delusions.

Where did I expect your mind to go? If my phrasing left room for your mind to wander, it says far more about you than it does me. Projection is an unbecoming look on a High Lord—though, lucky for you, it seems to suit you well.

And if you were to claim that I—of all people—would never be so sentimental as to embellish your name with hearts, I’d wonder what you’d do if I denied it. But alas, I have no need to lie. It was not painstaking to do the calligraphy, nor did I waste away hours perfecting it. It comes quite easily to someone as skilled as myself. But if you prefer to imagine me blushing, lovestruck, ink-stained fingers pressing to my lips as I sigh over the flourish of your name—far be it from me to rid you of such a fantasy. We all must have our amusements, mustn’t we?

Now, I ignored it the first time, but I can’t any longer. Twice now, you’ve signed off your letters, “yours, Rhysand.” A rather bold choice, don’t you think? Unless, of course, I’ve missed something and you are. Mine, I mean. Seems an odd habit for a male so determined to deny any particular interest in me.

Not yours, in measured indifference, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-distractible High Lady, whose selective attention is as impressive as her deflections,

You seem to have overlooked a few key matters in your last letter. Namely, any mention of our negotiations. I upheld my end of your demand by providing the list you so graciously insisted upon. And yet, curiously, I find myself still waiting for the slightest indication of what land you intend to put forth in this bargain. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Or perhaps my entirely accurate assessment of your infatuation left you so flustered that you simply forgot?

And speaking of such flustered states—you made quite the fuss over how I sign my letters, yet in your haste, you seem to have neglected to properly sign off your own. Are we abandoning such formalities now? A shame. I had so been looking forward to seeing what you might come up with next.

Yours, as ever, Rhysand

✦

To the most persistently arrogant High Lord, whose ability to fixate on trivialities is truly unmatched,

Oh, I do apologize—was there something important hidden between all the self-satisfaction and baseless accusations? How careless of me to overlook it. You’re right, of course. I should have addressed the matter of our negotiations. It’s just that I found myself distracted by your transparent attempt to shift the conversation. A flimsy strategy, Rhysand. I am ashamed it hit its mark.

You claim to have upheld your end of the deal, and yet, all you’ve provided is a list dripping with backhanded compliments and veiled frustration. Hardly the fair exchange you make it out to be. But fine. Since you’re so desperate to discuss it, here it is: shared rights over the Prison. The island was, historically, my ancestors’ land, after all. You should consider it an honor—and a rare olive branch—that I’m willing to grant you even that much.

As for your signature dilemma—what an astute observation. If my lack of a formal sign-off has rattled you so, I can only imagine how unmoored you’d be if I started leaving my letters entirely unsigned, much in the same way you have a habit of leaving my questions unanswered. A terrifying prospect, I’m sure. But since you so clearly long for my parting words, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.

Still not yours, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-elusive High Lord,

It has now been a full week past when I expected your reply—an unusual delay, given not only the geography of our courts (as you so helpfully pointed out before), but the sensitive nature of my last correspondence as well. Surely, by now, you have some response, unless, of course, there is truly so much to discuss with your advisors? I would have thought a male of your remarkable intelligence could have reached a decision long before now.

But perhaps you are merely searching for the perfect way to tell me what I already know—that this is a wonderful opportunity for the Night Court. I have no doubt your brilliant mind will find some way to convince the Illyrians that they only need half the mountain for their precious Blood Rite. Surely, their warriors will be just as fearsome without every inch of Ramiel beneath their feet.

Patiently (for now), (Y/n)

✦

Rhysand,

I sincerely hope my last letter has reached you. It would be a shame to have to fire someone over such a careless mistake. But since I have yet to receive a response, I must now assume one of two things: either my words were lost twice, or you are deliberately ignoring them. Neither is particularly reassuring.

That said, I have reconsidered a portion of my last letter. In hindsight, my suggestion was both insensitive and entirely wrong. It was not my place to suggest forcing the Illyrians to alter a sacred tradition they have upheld for generations. I recognize that now. So let me be clear—I have absolutely no problem allowing them full access to Dusk’s half of Ramiel for the duration of their Blood Rite. It is not my intent to rob them of something so integral to their history.

I trust this correction will not go unnoticed. And I expect to hear from you soon.

Yours (less patient than before), (Y/n)

✦

To (y/n), the High Lady whose patience, it seems, is as thin as her restraint in letter-writing,

I appreciate the flood of correspondence awaiting me upon my return—truly, it is touching to know that my absence was felt so… acutely. Though I must say, I expected better of you than to jump to the most uncreative conclusion. Ignoring you? Deliberately? You wound me. And here I was, under the impression that you enjoyed a bit of mystery.

I am sure you will be surprised to find that I, in fact, do not have the luxury of spending my days hovering over my desk, eagerly awaiting the arrival of ink-stained letters. I have been occupied. Surely, a mind as sharp as yours can deduce that certain matters require my undivided attention—ones that, regrettably, cannot be shared in writing. Or perhaps you’d rather I neglected those responsibilities to promptly return your ever-charming correspondence?

As for the contents of your latest correspondence—finally, some substance. Shared rights over the Prison. A bold proposition. I find it endearing how you frame it as an honor rather than the calculated power play it truly is. Your generosity is noted, as is your gracious concession regarding Ramiel. I suspect the Illyrians will be deeply relieved to know you have found it in your heart to grant them access to land they have fought and bled upon for millennia. How lucky they are to have your benevolence.

And now, to address the most pressing concern of all—I do wonder if you are more fixated on our negotiations, or on me. I will grant you the mercy of answering your most burning question. Am I yours? A dangerous thing to suggest, especially from someone so insistent that she feels nothing at all.

Yours, as always, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I had no place to suggest altering a tradition that is not mine to change. It was careless, and I regret it. Please consider this my formal apology—to you and to the Illyrians. I will ensure that my future propositions are made with greater thought.

As for the matter with the Prison, I will not waste either of our time dressing it up as anything but what it is. A necessary arrangement. One that, should you still wish to discuss, I will be available at your convenience.

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

How uncharacteristically… restrained. I confess, I find myself at a loss—where has the sharp-tongued, impossible-to-rattle High Lady gone? I was rather enjoying our exchanges, yet now you write to me as if I am nothing more than a bureaucrat awaiting your next trade proposal. It does not suit you.

Something must be weighing on you to make you forget our less stately topics of conversation. I wonder—should I be concerned? Or will you insist, as always, that nothing at all is amiss?

Yours, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I regret to inform you that I am currently preoccupied with matters of importance. Your musings about the missing High Lady of Dusk, while charming, do not qualify. I have neither the time nor the energy to explain, but rest assured—it’s nothing that requires your concern.

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I’m not asking for the inner workings of your court. Only some assurance that the High Lady I’ve been painstakingly coaxing into a negotiation hasn’t decided to throw herself into the abyss. A waste, truly—in more ways than one. I’d hate to lose the only opponent who’s ever managed to keep pace.

Yours (against my better judgment), Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

If you must know—though I suspect you already do—I’m fine. Truly. Or at least as fine as one can be when balancing the weight of a court that seems determined to pull itself apart at the seams.

I wanted this. Fought for it. Sacrificed for it. I would do it all over again if I had to, if only to reclaim what was stolen from my ancestors and restore Dusk to what it once was. But I can’t say I anticipated how steep the price would be.

Beron, for one, seems intent on ensuring I feel every thorn in the crown I now wear. I knew his help would come with strings—but I misjudged how tightly he’d be willing to pull them. He’s been pressing me for greater trade rights along the southern border, a thinly veiled attempt to undercut Velaris’ control over the merchant routes. I refused, of course. Which only gave him an excuse to retaliate—restricting shipments of raw materials that my court requires to rebuild. He knows exactly how far he can push before I’m forced to give him something in return.

And then there’s the matter of Thesan’s generosity. Or rather, the staggering debt it left me with. His support during the war was invaluable, but now the treasury is running thin. I’ve already levied new taxes, cut court expenses, not to mention countless other efforts, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

As for Tamlin—he’s been… circling. Watching for weakness. He hasn’t demanded anything outright, not yet, but the implied threat is clear enough. I suspect he’s waiting for Beron or Thesan to draw blood first, hoping I’ll come crawling to him when Dusk begins to buckle under the weight of their demands. And I’m certain he’ll enjoy every moment of it.

And through all of it, I’m expected to smile and remain composed. To reassure my people, my advisors, my allies—that I have it all under control. That their High Lady is not unraveling beneath the pressure of debts and threats and politics. That I am not coming apart at the seams from the sheer exhaustion of being tugged in every possible direction.

I know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’m sure you’ll eventually use it against me—some leverage to play when it suits you best. Hopefully I’ll come to my senses and burn this letter before it reaches you. If you’re reading this, then evidently I need to be evaluated for hurling my court’s politics into the hands of my enemy.

I knew this would be difficult. I was not naïve about the cost. But there is something uniquely punishing about knowing I fought so hard for this crown, only to find myself bound by a different set of chains.

And yet, I’ll keep going. Because what other choice is there? Because this is what it means to rule—to carry the weight alone.

You understand that don’t you?

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I can’t decide whether I should be flattered or insulted that you think me capable of using this against you. If I were going to exploit you, I would have done so long ago—by making sure everyone knew just how fond you are of me.

Beron is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. His entire approach relies on you needing him more than he needs you. Which means you need to make it clear that you don’t. If he’s restricting raw materials, look elsewhere. There’s a port in Day, just south of your shared border, that could cover the loss. Speak with Helion. It’ll be more expensive, yes, but not so much that it’d justify letting him think he has the upper hand.

And Thesan is not unreasonable. He wouldn’t have extended his aid if he didn’t believe Dusk was a worthy investment. But debts of this scale aren’t meant to be paid off in coin alone. Offer him something softer: diplomacy, information, a trade route that benefits both courts—perhaps the one Beron is panting after. Show him that aiding your court wasn’t charity—it was a strategic decision. If you position it correctly, you can turn him from a creditor into an ally.

Tamlin—well. I wouldn’t waste too much thought on him. He’s not bold enough to make the first move, and even if he were, he’s too predictable to catch you off guard. Let him watch. Let him wait. He’ll tire of it eventually. And if, by some miracle, he proves otherwise—you won’t be the only one handling it.

And you’re right—this is what it means to rule. To be pulled apart, worn down, tested until there’s nothing left but steel and bone. But you’re not as alone as you think. And if you ever tire of pretending you have everything well in hand, you know where to find me. I’ll even provide the wine (Eastgate Ruby, Tarquin tells me, is what was served at our “meeting”).

You should know—you’re doing well. Better than well, actually. They wouldn’t be pressing this hard if you weren’t already a threat.

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. Take your time responding—see to what needs seeing to. But do keep in mind, every day we linger in this stalemate is another day merchants are kept from Velaris. And I do hate to keep good wine waiting.

✦

Rhysand,

I imagine I owe you an apology for how curt I’ve been. If I were you, I wouldn’t have bothered replying, much less with actual counsel. And yet, here you are. I won’t pretend to understand why, but I’d be a fool not to recognize the value of what you’ve given me.

Your assessment of Beron was correct. Helion has surprisingly agreed to supply what we need, though not without cost. I suspect I’ve a certain High Lord to thank for that…

But that’s not why I’m writing. You said my offer of the Prison was something— but is it enough? You were adamant before about Ramiel. Has that changed, or are we only delaying the inevitable? I’d rather know where we stand than waste time circling the same conversation.

And despite my better judgment, I’ll say it again—thank you, Rhysand. Truly.

Yours, (Y/n)

P.S. I am not fond of you. Do not spread baseless rumors.

✦

(Y/n),

The advice was nothing—really, if this is all it takes to earn such enthusiastic gratitude from you, I almost feel guilty for not demanding more in return. Try to keep your wits about you, will you? It’d be a shame if our negotiations were cut short because you keeled over from sheer appreciation.

Speaking of—the High Lords’ meeting next week seems as good a place as any to finalize our discussions. I doubt we’re the only ones eager to put this matter to rest.

Let me know if I should move your place card beside mine.

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. The rumors would not be baseless.

P.P.S. I’ll see about officially changing them to High Lords’ & Ladies’ Meetings.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The marble gleamed gold beneath the afternoon sun, intricate carvings twisting along each column of the Day Court’s grand hall. Sunlight spilled through arched windows, catching on the etching along the ceiling—everywhere you looked, there was radiance, warmth. But the mood within the room was anything but bright.

Tamlin and Tarquin were already at it.

“I don’t give a damn what your scholars have said,” Tamlin bit out, his fingers curled into the polished wood of the table. “Your dam project diverts water away from the Riverlands, which directly impacts all of—”

Tarquin exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “You mean it impacts Spring. The other Courts seem perfectly content with—”

The argument barely cut through the layered hum of conversation. The hall was packed—High Lords, High Ladies, emissaries, and advisors all seated along the sprawling table or just behind the leaders of their court, quiet but watchful. Courtiers lingered at the edges of the chamber, murmuring among themselves. Further down the table, the room had splintered into smaller conversations, hushed discussions carried between tilted heads and subtle glances. Viviane murmured something to her counterpart in Autumn, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Eris murmured something low enough that only Azriel could hear. Whatever it was made the shadowsinger’s mouth curl. Some spoke of alliances, of shifting borders and trade disputes, while others engaged in idle pleasantries, weighing their words with careful calculation.

You hadn’t spoken to each other yet. Hadn’t needed to. But his attention settled over you all the same, a quiet pressure against the edges of your awareness.

Rhysand lounged beside you, one arm slung over the back of his chair, fingers drumming idly against the carved wood. His expression was the perfect mask of boredom, his violet eyes sweeping the table as if merely observing, gathering.

But each time you spoke, each time your voice wove into the discussion, something in him tensed. Not noticeably, not even in a way you could explain, but you felt it. The way his fingers stilled against the chair, the way his head tilted just slightly.

Your place card was, in fact, next to his.

You hadn’t asked him to move it. Hadn’t responded to that letter of his.

You’d gone to read it, expecting nothing more than the usual formalities, maybe a carefully chosen turn of phrase or two. But the first page had barely contained a paragraph, just a handful of neatly penned lines before cutting off entirely. You’d frowned, turning it over, checking for more—only to find the second page clinging to the back.

The moment you saw it, you realized the second page wasn’t part of the letter. Not officially.

The stray notes scrawled in the margins, phrases crossed out and rewritten, thoughts scattered between lines of unfinished sentences. Lists, reminders—half a to-do list squeezed into one corner, a set of numbers you didn’t recognize. And then, amid all of it, a letter. A real one. One that had never been meant to leave his desk.

The handwriting was messier, less composed, as if written in haste. He hadn’t redrafted it. Hadn’t refined the words or arranged them carefully. It was raw. Unpolished. And as you read, a slow, twisting pressure built in your chest.

You still didn’t know what to do with any of it.

So you did what you always did: you kept your expression unreadable, smoothed down the silk of your sleeves, and shifted just enough to let yourself feel the weight of his attention.

You’d chosen your dress carefully. The rich midnight blue of Dusk, the embroidery catching faintly in the afternoon light, shifting between silver and violet in the right angles. The fabric was sheer in places, opaque in others, with delicate beading that traced the bodice and sleeves like constellations. The silhouette was deceptively simple, fitted through the torso before cascading in effortless folds, pooling slightly where you sat. Your jewelry was understated—a bracelet of woven platinum and black diamonds, earrings and a necklace to match. But the tiara was another thing entirely.

Dusk’s coronet was a thing of starlight and shadow, its intricate metalwork impossibly delicate yet undeniably strong. Bands of dark silver twisted together, slender but unyielding, their curves resembling the arms of a crescent moon. Small gems were inlaid at precise points, catching the light like scattered stars, a constellation mapped in precious stone. At its center, the design wove into an intricate lattice, almost imperceptible unless one looked closely—a reminder, woven into its very structure, that not everything of Dusk could be seen at a glance.

Still, there was business to be done.

“The borders between Dusk and Night remain unchanged,” you said when the conversation made its way to you. Your voice was even, measured. “The western face of Ramiel remains under Dusk’s jurisdiction, but the Illyrians retain access for the Blood Rite.”

There was a beat of silence. Agreement, consideration.

Then from beside you—

“My Court shares access to the Prison,” Rhysand said smoothly. “And as long as there are no tariffs imposed on the Night Court, trade will resume with Velaris at Dusk’s discretion.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His voice was cool, each word delivered with the sharp precision of someone well-versed in negotiation. Nothing in his tone hinted at the letters he’d sent—not the formal, measured ones at the start, but the later ones, where the careful mask had begun to slip. Where the words had become… something else.

You weren’t sure what unsettled you most—the contrast, the deal, or the fact that, beneath all of it, you still hadn’t decided how to act on that letter.

“That brings us to trade,” you continued, your gaze sweeping the table. “After lengthy discussions, the Solar Courts have reached an agreement regarding our eastern waters.”

A ripple of interest passed through the room. Some leaned forward slightly, others tipped their heads, listening. Across from you, Helion and Thesan exchanged glances with you and Rhysand—subtle, knowing.

“Only the Solar Courts may conduct trade with one another through the eastern waters,” you announced evenly. “Any trade between the Seasonal and Solar Courts must be conducted through land or the western waters.”

The statement settled like a stone in the room’s collective understanding.

Tamlin, Tarquin, and Kallias looked largely unbothered. The arrangement changed little for them—they had ample access to the western coast of Prythian and had conducted most of their trade through those routes already.

But Beron.

You turned your attention to him then, the barest trace of a polite smile tugging at your lips.

“Surely, you all understand the desire to avoid unnecessary hassle,” you mused lightly, watching as the realization sank in.

Autumn had no western coastline. No direct route to the western waters. Which meant Beron’s merchants would now be forced to transport goods through other courts to access those trade routes—incurring delays, additional taxes, and the general headache of relying on the goodwill of neighboring courts.

Beron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed slightly where they rested against the table, and though his face remained carefully neutral, you caught the flicker of something sharp in his eyes.

A quiet hum of approval came from Helion, his grin barely restrained. Tarquin exhaled a soft chuckle, though he masked it with a sip of wine. Even Kallias looked vaguely entertained, his cool blue stare flicking toward Beron before settling back on you.

Rhysand, however—

Your peripheral vision caught the slightest tilt of his head. The slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against the arm of his chair. But it was the glint in his violet eyes that held your attention, the way his lips parted just slightly, as if he might say something. It seemed you’d surprised him.

You smoothed an idle hand over your skirts and said simply, “This arrangement best serves the Dusk Court’s interests.”

And you settled back in your chair, your expression unreadable, the matter closed.

The meeting stretched on for another few hours, dragging through the usual political pretense, minor disputes, and long-winded proposals that wore your patience thin. Rhysand, ever the picture of relaxed authority, lounged in his chair as though he hadn’t a single concern in the world. But every so often, when some lord made a particularly absurd suggestion, his gaze would flick toward you—dry, incredulous, as if waiting to see if you’d heard the same nonsense he had.

When it finally ended, the room shifted from rigid diplomacy to something looser, easier. Wine flowed, platters of food were brought in, and the stiff atmosphere gave way to quiet chatter, laughter, the clinking of glasses across the grand table.

You turned to Rhysand, leaning slightly toward him as you picked up the thread of conversation from the meeting. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to guide the negotiations with Kallias in your favor,” you said, voice smooth.

He exhaled a soft laugh, setting down his glass. “You wound me, (y/n). I did nothing of the sort.”

Your brows raised. “Mmm. You’re insufferable when you lie.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do it often.” His eyes glittered with that infuriating look, the one that made you want to roll your eyes—or perhaps throw your glass at him, just to see if he’d still be smirking afterward.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Lying is a delicate art. You, Rhysand, are a hammer.”

His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in those violet eyes. “And yet, I always seem to get the job done.”

“Blunt force trauma has its uses, I suppose.”

That earned you a low chuckle, the sound curling through your spine. Before you could savor your victory, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room. “I believe they’ve got Eastgate Ruby here somewhere. I requested it—for your sake, of course. I’d hate for you to suffer the effects of withdrawal.”

You exhaled a sharp laugh. “How thoughtful. I assume you’ll be the one administering the cure?”

Rhysand’s grin was slow and wicked as he stood from his seat and reached for your chair, pulling it back with an easy grace. “It’s the least I can do.”

You didn’t move at first, just arched a brow at the gesture. He only held out a hand, expectant.

When you finally slid your fingers into his, his grip was warm, steady. He helped you up with an ease that felt almost practiced.

You gave him a look. “Chivalry, Rhysand? Really?”

“I’m not uneducated, (y/n),” he murmured, the edge of his thumb brushing against your knuckles before he released your hand. “I do know how to treat a lady.”

“And yet, I remain unconvinced,” you replied dryly.

His smirk deepened, but he said nothing.

The two of you strolled toward the side of the room, the low hum of conversation filling the space between you. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt civil—but then Rhysand tilted his head slightly, considering you. And you wondered, fleetingly, if he was thinking about you the way he claimed to in that letter. If his mind lingered on the words he’d written, just as yours had.

“I have to admit,” he mused, “I’m impressed with how you handled Beron.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Are you?”

“I know people who’ve sat at this table far longer and wouldn’t dare speak to him like that,” he said, pouring wine into both of your glasses. “I suspect you may have even rattled him.”

A slow, satisfied smile curled at your lips. “Good.”

His gaze flicked toward you, unreadable. “Good,” he echoed softly.

You took a sip of your drink, then tilted your head. “I’ll admit, your advice was… helpful. As was your agreement to reroute your Seasonal Court imports through Dusk.”

Rhysand let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“But,” you added, “I don’t recall asking for it.”

His lips twitched. “Oh, forgive me. I should have realized that underneath all the pitiful complaints about the other Lords, you were just waiting for an excuse to take his head off.”

“Precisely.”

Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, his tone turned deceptively light. “Speaking of being offended—imagine my surprise when I wrote to you and received no reply.”

You merely blinked at him. “A tragedy.”

“Indeed.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “So, I took it upon myself to move your place card.”

You gave him a look. “That explains the seating arrangements.”

His smirk was nothing short of wicked. “Did you really expect me to let you sit anywhere else? Besides, you were originally meant to be seated next to Beron. I imagine you wouldn’t have spoken quite so freely had you been within arm’s reach of his fire.

You huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the wine in your glass. “You assume so much, Rhysand. Maybe I would have enjoyed the warmth.”

His brows raised slightly. “Oh? Should I tell him he missed an opportunity?”

You gave him a pointed look before taking a slow sip, letting the dry sweetness of the wine sit on your tongue. Then, with deliberate ease, you murmured, “I prefer a more tempered heat. The kind that lingers, burns slow.”

His grip on his glass tightened—just slightly.

But he didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

The conversation wove effortlessly between sharp-witted remarks and veiled barbs, the hum of the room growing livelier as tensions fully eased. The air felt lighter, laughter ringing out across the space, and for once, there was no pressing matter to discuss. So you let yourself settle into it—just a little.

Rhysand, too, seemed comfortable, the usual sharp edge of his presence dulled by wine and something more elusive. A sense of ease, perhaps, though it didn’t stop him from watching you carefully over the rim of his glass.

“I must admit,” you said idly, swirling your wine, “I expected Adriata to be a far greater distraction than it was.”

He hummed. “Did you?”

You nodded, tilting your head ever so slightly. “I thought the festivities would be enough to hold my attention but… I was proven wrong.”

The words were casual—innocent, even—but something flickered across Rhysand’s expression, so brief you might have imagined it. He only chuckled, eyes glinting in the light of the setting sun. “Tragic. Was it boredom, then, that drove you to linger?”

You leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle in front of the other. “I wouldn’t say boredom. More like—” your fingers trailed along the stem of your glass, “—an unexpected tether.”

That time, you were sure you saw it—the way his fingers paused against the base of his own glass, how his posture remained utterly poised save for the slight shift of his jaw. But he recovered quickly, that ever-composed mask slipping easily back into place. With a quiet, breathy laugh, he tipped his head slightly, eyes briefly shutting as he exhaled through his nose—the kind of laugh meant to brush something off.

You knew that laugh. You knew it well.

It sent a slow thrill curling through your chest.

He drained his glass and set it down. “You’re in rare form tonight, (y/n).”

You feigned innocence. “Am I?”

Rhysand only looked at you, an unreadable half-smile playing at his lips. The silence between you stretched, tension coiling beneath it, but then the conversation carried on—seamless, effortless, that undercurrent still thrumming between you both.

It wasn’t until later, after another glass of Eastgate Ruby each, when the moment felt right, that you finally struck.

“Tell me,” you mused, leaning in slightly. “Do you ever think back to Adriata?”

Rhysand stilled—just for a fraction of a second.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he set his empty glass down with a quiet clink. “Fondly,” he said smoothly. “Why do you ask?”

You only smiled. “Oh, I was just wondering—if you make a habit of spending your nights consumed by thoughts of me.”

That time, he definitely froze. It was brief, but it was there—the faintest hitch in his breath, the subtle clench of his jaw.

And gods, you could see it, the way his mind must have been racing, trying to determine how you were able to see straight through him.

Then, slowly, his smirk returned—lazy, measured, meant to convey utter indifference. He exhaled, almost pitying. “Really, (y/n), all this just to get my attention? You could have saved yourself the trouble, darling.”

You hummed, unimpressed. “Is that what you think this is?”

“An obvious bid for my affections? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Gods, Rhysand. You must really enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

“Say it, (y/n),” he teased, voice a near-mocking whisper. “Go on. Say it.”

“Oh, I’ll say something.” With a flick of your wrist, a small, folded parchment materialized between your middle and forefingers. You held it out to him, watching as his smirk faltered ever so slightly.

He eyed the paper, then shot you a dry, unimpressed look. “What’s this?”

You didn’t take your eyes off his. “Read it.”

He scoffed, plucking it from your fingers with a lazy flick of his own. “If this is a declaration of your love,” he said, unfolding the paper, “I’m sorry to say I’ll have to decli—”

He went silent.

You watched the exact moment realization struck. How his mouth parted just slightly, how his posture stiffened, fingers tightening around the parchment.

The letter.

His letter.

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

roses mirabilis candles Eastgate Ruby!!! violin serenade? string quartet. 6 - 2 -2 -1

To the relentless archivist of my supposed delusions, High Lady of the Dusk Court

(y/n) Dearest (y/n) My Dearest (y/n) My Dearest, (y/n) My (y/n)

To the relentless scholar of my every flaw, whose thoroughness borders on devotion, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

“burden of leadership clouded your judgment?” Insufferable, Rhys? Sexist, even? I think so. I thi—why the fuck did I send that High Lady, do you ever stop scheming?

(y/n) of Dusk. High Lady (y/n) (y/n) (y/n) (y/n) (y/n), High Lady of the Night Court (y/n) Why can’t I write (y/n) properly…. (y/n)...

To the incomparable, unparalleled High Lady of Dusk,Arriving in Adriata, I’d presumed the festivities would be the distraction. Yet, as usual, you managed to prove me wrong. Your presence, always commanding, kept me tethered to that place far longer than necessary, though I suppose there are worse ways to spend one's time.

Find better excuse to avoid bets with Az… You always lose. looked godsdamned good today. Fuck that dress.

That dress—fuck. I could hardly believe you had the nerve to wear it. Of course, you couldn’t have known how impossible it would be for me to focus on anything but the way it clung to your body. But it was your eyes, the way they met mine with that knowing gleam, that reminded me why I can’t entertain these thoughts. And gods, when you leaned forward—deliberately, no doubt—I had to force myself to remember that there were other matters at hand. That I had a court to oversee, another war to stave off, and yet—yet—all I could think of was the way your body moved. Send Amren report. Or don’t. Let her stew. Draft something strong for Beron. Or just set him on fire. 37690 And your lips. The way you licked the wine off of them, tempting me to be the one to trace them with my own. I should have been horrified, or at the very least, unnerved enough to turn away, but instead, I found myself imagining what it would be like to kiss you, to pull you close, to feel you press against me, hard, and feel that warmth only you seem to emit.

^What would you taste like, sound like And then I could not shake the image. That night, in Adriata, it was as if you knew. Every movement of yours, every glance, every gesture, it felt like you were feeding the very thoughts I dared not admit to myself. Pen test.. . . .

I spent the rest of the night consumed by you. By the memory of your body, the way you moved, the way you tensed when our eyes met. I couldn’t stop picturing it—your fingers digging into the sheets, your mouth parted, breathless, wrecked. The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. I fisted my cock for hours that night to the thought of you. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t you. My grip, my own touch—pale imitations of what I craved. I wanted those delicate hands you offered, your body beneath mine, shattering for me. I wanted to hear it, the little sounds you’d make, the way you’d gasp as I buried myself in you.

I bit out your name into the dark, over and over, as if saying it aloud might summon you. Might let me taste you, feel you. Might let me have you the way I wanted. 985 87396 696543I’m reminded of a night many years ago, one I’d rather forget. The war camp. The way the rain had turned dirt to sludge beneath our boots, the way the air reeked of steel and blood and something burnt. Our magic was drained. The battle had gone on too long, had stripped us of our elegance, our strategy. And there was only raw will left—yours against mine, fury against fury. You struck first. Your blade hissed past my ribs, slicing through my leathers, leaving a gash in my skin. I don’t even think you meant to miss.

I threw you into the mud, pinned you there. You fought like an animal, snarling, kicking, teeth bared as if you would sink them into my throat given the chance. And for a moment—for a sickening, electrified moment—I wanted nothing more than to break you. To press you into the dirt until you yielded, until you spat out my name with a curse and finally, finally, it would be over.

I hated you then. Hated you.

And yet—when I lay alone in my tent, it was not the war I relived, not the blood or the near-miss of your blade. No, it was you. The heat of you against me, the way your body had fit against mine even in our struggle. The wild, frenzied way you fought, like a storm given flesh. I thought of you pressed against me in the mud, of the way your breath had mingled with mine, the way my body responded to yours despite everything, despite knowing you would have killed me just as easily as I would have killed you.

I dealt with it that night the same way I dealt with it after Adriata. Even then, I couldn’t explain it. I should have wanted to hate you. You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful things? It seems I'm beginning to grow on you. Infatuated, obsessed, besotted No, I couldn’t help it. Every time you glanced at me, every time you spoke, I could feel that pull. And when you left, I won’t lie, I was relieved. You were leaving before I did something monumentally reckless. But don’t for a moment think I wasn’t wishing for a different outcome.

The matter at hand remains. Perhaps, next time, if you find yourself at my side again, I can be of service to you in a more personal way.

Consider it, my lady.

Eternally at your feet, if only you’d let me, Bound to you in ways I have no right to claim, Yours, in every way I shouldn’t be,

Yours, Rhysand hair gel ear plugs cufflinks assorted chocolates an apple (for balancing the chocolate)

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something between incredulity and resignation. Then, slowly, he looked up at you.

You only sipped your wine, waiting.

For the first time since you’d known him, Rhysand had nothing to say. It was a rare thing, to see the High Lord of the Night Court like this. Unmasked. Uncomposed.

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His jaw worked , muscles tightening, and you swore you saw the flicker of something else. A sliver of vulnerability, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Then he exhaled, long and slow, the sound almost amused. “And here I thought you lacked a sense of humor.”

You merely hummed, watching him, your patience infinite. You wouldn’t grant him an out so easily.

Carefully, deliberately, he folded the letter, pocketing it. “How, exactly, did you come by this?”

“Oh, Rhysand,” you purred, feigning sympathy. “Would it wound you further to know that I didn’t have to try very hard?”

His gaze darkened, sharp as a blade. “You couldn’t have rifled through my things…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said smoothly. “It was sent to me. By accident I assume, considering the look on your face.”

Silence. A long, stretched moment of it.

Then, at last, he smirked—but it was different now. Subtler. Wry. “I’m touched,” he murmured. “You kept it.”

You let your lips curve just slightly. “Of course. I’d be an idiot not to.”

A quiet hum left him, his violet gaze tracing your face, searching for something—perhaps for any sign of what you truly wanted from this. But you gave him nothing.

Rhysand’s tongue ran over his teeth, considering you. Then, without warning, he laughed. Low, quiet, a thing of disbelief and wicked amusement all at once. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

You leaned in, voice a whisper against the space between you. “I can’t help it. You’re so much more fun when you lose.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head again as though you were impossible. “You think this is a loss?”

You only smiled. “I think you should choose your next words carefully.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh before pinning you with a look so cutting it nearly stole your breath. But there was no true bite behind it. No sharp edges—only something molten, something simmering. His voice, when it came, was soft. Dangerous. “Tell me, my lady—do you make a habit of inciting war in the middle of a crowded room?”

You only smiled. “I prefer my battles to be fought in private.”

His pupils flared.

It was all you needed.

You turned without another word, setting your glass down as you slipped through the crowd. You didn’t have to look back to know he would follow. You felt it—that tether pulling tight, that unrelenting weight of his gaze pressing into your spine as you wove through the bodies, effortless, deliberate.

You led him out of the hall, past the open archways leading to the moonlit balcony, past the guards stationed at the entrance. Only when you reached the dimly lit corridor beyond did you glance over your shoulder.

Rhysand was already there. Already close.

You barely had a second to register it before he was moving. And then… gods.

Then you were pressed up against the cool stone wall, his body caging yours in, his hands braced on either side of you. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his scent wrapped around you, intoxicating, dark and rich, and when he leaned in just slightly, his breath fanning against your cheek, your entire body tightened.

A pause. A deliberate, torturous moment where neither of you moved, where the space between you became razor-thin, humming with something volatile. His head dipped, his lips hovering near the corner of your mouth, as if he could taste your breath, as if he was considering closing that final inch.

Then, lower. A shift, a slow drag of heat down the line of your jaw, until his mouth hovered near the hollow of your throat. Not touching. Not yet.

His breath was steady, infuriatingly controlled. “Was this your plan all along?” he murmured, so soft it was almost a whisper.

Then he lifted his head, the movement slow, measured. When your eyes met, you saw it—the strand of midnight hair falling across his brow, the way his gaze flicked over your face, dark and searching. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight part of his lips, as if he were only just remembering to breathe.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Gods, this close, he was—No. You shoved the thought away, locking onto his stare instead.

“If you’re asking whether I planned for you to humiliate yourself tonight,” you said at last, “then yes.”

A quiet, dangerous laugh. His body didn’t move, but the sound of it wrapped around you, coiling tight in your stomach. “And yet,” he mused, “you’re the one against the wall.”

Your heart was a war drum in your chest. “I led you here, didn’t I?”

Something flickered in his expression, something deep and molten that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core. And then, faster than you could react, his hands were no longer braced against the wall. Fingers brushed your hips, featherlight. A test. A warning.

Then his grip tightened. A firm, possessive press as he pinned you, properly now, his body a wall of heat against yours. His hands dragged up until his thumbs skimmed the barest sliver of exposed skin between the fabric of your dress and the curve of your waist.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it slip, didn’t let him see how the warmth of his hands against your skin sent heat curling low in your stomach. But he felt the way your ribs expanded with a sharp inhale you couldn’t quite control. And he liked it. You could see it in the way his smirk softened into something lazier and edged with indulgence. Like he was savoring this. Savoring you.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, itching to move.

So you did.

You let your hands drift upward, skimming over the muscle of his forearms, his shoulders. You weren’t gentle. Your nails scraped against the fabric of his jacket, dragging just hard enough to make him feel it. You weren’t going to stand there and let him have the upper hand.

Rhysand stilled, just for a second, a breath caught between his teeth. “Careful, (y/n). You’re starting to seem a little desperate.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “That’s rich, coming from a male who’s been standing here breathing down my neck instead of doing something about it.”

A flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fingers flexed against your waist, his thumbs pressing in, dragging ever so slightly along the curve of your hips. Not enough, never enough. And you wanted to see how far he’d let you go before he snapped.

You rolled your neck with a sigh, all patience and unbothered amusement. “Surely you don’t need me to spell it out for you,” you mused, voice just shy of mocking. “Not when you so generously did so for me.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a warning. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable.” You dragged your hands down, fingers skimming the hard places of his chest, settling just at the lapels of his jacket. Your nails caught the fabric, a teasing little pull. “Always talking. Always circling. But when it comes down to it, you—”

A sharp inhale from you, which made his hands tighten.

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You hesitate.”

And whatever tenuous thread of restraint was holding him together snapped.

It happened too fast for you to do anything but gasp as Rhysand surged forward at the same time you yanked him down. A collision of heat and breath and hands grasping, dragging, pulling. His mouth was on yours, fierce, consuming, and you met him with equal fire, teeth clashing, nails digging in, every ounce of restraint gone.

His hands were everywhere—on your hips, at your back, tangling in your hair as he pressed you further into the stone. His lips moved against yours like he meant to ruin you, and you let him, let him take because you were taking just as much, matching every rough kiss, every sharp inhale, every fevered touch.

Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, yanking him closer even as you arched against the press of his body. His answering growl sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

“See?” you breathed against his lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His teeth scraped against your bottom lip before he bit down, just enough to make you gasp. “Hard,” he growled, “isn’t the problem.”

Heat flooded your cheeks—not from embarrassment, never that, but from the way he pressed against you in proof of his words.

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow, teasing, until you reached the buckle of his belt. A light touch, the barest flick of your fingers against the leather. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Rhysand dipped his head with a low chuckle, pressing his mouth to the curve of your throat. “And here I thought we were past pretending.” His hands were doing their own exploration, fingers tracing the curves of your waist and hips before skimming lower, his grip firm, insistent, like he was committing the shape of you to memory.

You sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall, only to jerk it forward a moment later when you heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. But Rhysand didn’t move. He didn’t even lift his head, only kept pressing slow kisses along your throat.

You scowled, pressing your palm against his chest. “Someone’s coming.”

“Mm.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “So will you, if you’d stop interrupting me.”

You shoved him, but he barely budged, only laughing quietly as he nipped at your jaw. “Rhysand,” you hissed, your breath uneven. “They’ll hear us.”

He pressed his hips against yours. “Let them.”

You almost choked. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, all wicked teeth. “And you’re loud. But lucky for you…” His fingers skimmed your spine, sending a shiver straight through you. “I have a solution for that.”

And before you could say another word, darkness curled around you both, swallowing the hallway, the stone wall, the distant sound of footsteps—

And then, you were somewhere else. The air was warmer here, laced with the scent of citrus and jasmine.

You looked at your surroundings. Velvet sheets, intricately carved furniture, and an unmistakable large, luxurious bed. From beyond the balcony, the distant murmur of the Day Court’s nightlife carried through the air.

Your lips parted as you took it all in, realization creeping over you.

He’d winnowed you straight into his bedroom.

You turned your head sharply, meeting his gaze. “This,” you said, voice rich with disbelief, “was your solution?”

He only grinned, unrepentant. “Would you have preferred I left you there? So you could step out, all flushed and breathless, and explain to whoever came wandering that your hair isn’t a mess, your lipstick isn’t smudged, and that your dress has absolutely been this rumpled all day?”

Your glare was sharp enough to cut. “I would’ve managed.”

Rhysand hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t doubt it. You always do. Though I can’t say I’m not enjoying this alternative.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “What, dragging me into your room so you can avoid being caught acting like a depraved bastard in a public corridor?”

He clicked his tongue. “And here I thought you appreciated efficiency.”

You rolled your eyes, but the effect was somewhat ruined when he reached for you again, his fingers gripping the curve of your waist. “Besides,” he murmured, dipping his head, “if you were truly so scandalized, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

Your lips parted, a sharp retort forming—only for it to dissolve as he kissed you again, stealing the words straight from your tongue.

It was different now. Less reckless, more intent. Like he was savoring the feel of you, like he knew how to dismantle every bit of your composure. His hands dragged down your back, gathering the fabric of your dress, pulling you flush against him. Clothes vanished between desperate, grasping hands. His jacket went just fine, the thud of it hitting the floor soon followed by the quiet, unmistakable sound of your tiara slipping from your hair, landing in a delicate clatter of metal against stone. His shirt had been the first casualty, though. Your fingers tore at the buttons, sending a few flying before you shoved the ruined thing from his shoulders. His hands weren’t much kinder to your dress, the delicate clasps at your back coming undone with infuriating ease, the fabric pooling at your feet.

You found yourself pressed down onto the edge of the bed, his body still caging yours in. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stood before you now, bare-chested, his hands moving to the fastening of your heels.

Your breath caught, though you’d die before admitting why. The way his fingers brushed against your ankle, the slowness with which he undid the first clasp—it was infuriating. And the entire time, he held your gaze, eyes dark and intent.

You exhaled, leveling him with a look. “Strange, for a male so fond of his dramatics to feign chivalry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he finished undoing the strap and slid the shoe from your foot, his fingers pressing into your calf as he set it aside. “Can’t a male show some courtesy?” He shifted his attention to the other.

You arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I could always leave them on, if you’d prefer.”

Your eyes flicked to the heel still dangling from your foot, then back to him. Slowly, you lifted your leg, pressing the pointed toe just beneath his ribs, applying the barest hint of pressure.

“I think,” you mused, “you just want an excuse to be on your knees for me.”

His pupils flared. “Oh, darling,” he purred, fingers wrapping around your ankle as he tugged the shoe free, tossing it carelessly behind him. “If you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.” Then his grip shifted as he pushed your legs apart.

The sight of him there, settled between your legs, dark and utterly unrepentant, sent a sharp pulse of arousal straight through you. You barely had time to work through the implications of that before his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he mouthed over the thin scrap of lace still covering you, heat and pressure teasing, tormenting. His tongue pressed against the damp fabric, moving in slow, devastating circles, tasting you through it, his grip keeping your thighs spread as you instinctively tried to move.

“Fuck,” you breathed, fingers curling into the sheets beneath you.

“So soon?” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the soft heat of you through your underwear. “I know I’m irresistible, but I thought you’d at least try to play hard to get.”

A retort formed on your tongue, something sharp and scathing, but it died the moment he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down. His mouth followed the movement, his breath hot against your skin, and you shivered, unable to stop the anticipation that spiraled low in your stomach. The soft drag of his lips against your inner thigh had you clenching the sheets, the heat building inside you before he’d even touched you properly.

He took his time, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh, making your breath catch. The lace of your underwear was dragged down the rest of the way, and your body tensed, the slow movement of his hands almost maddening in its gentleness. Your eyes fluttered shut, and before you could make a sound to make your frustration known, he was there—his mouth, warm and wet, pressing against your skin, tasting you slowly.

A breathless gasp escaped you, your hips instinctively trying to press closer to him as his tongue moved over you, teasing and tender at first. He wasn’t in a rush. Each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips, felt like it stretched on for eternity, drawing out the pleasure until it became a slow, aching burn. His grip on your hips tightened as he angled himself better, his movements becoming firmer, more purposeful.

The heat in you intensified, the building pressure almost unbearable as his tongue worked you, flicking and teasing at just the right moments, just the right way. You could feel your body growing more desperate, each brush of his lips drawing out a soft moan from deep within you. His hands dug into your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you like a male starved.

You fisted the sheets beneath you, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could bring him even deeper into you. The pressure was tight and unyielding, but still, he took his time, savoring you as if he had all the time in the world.

“Gods,” Rhysand groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending a shudder down your spine. “I could get drunk off you.” His voice was thick, dark with something near reverence as he pressed another slow, deep kiss to you.

A sharp tug to his hair was the only response you could manage, desperate now. His only response was a low hum, the sound reverberating against you as he doubled his efforts—his tongue pressing deeper, more insistent.

The pleasure was unbearable now. Every movement, every stroke of his tongue, pulled you closer and closer to the edge. You were trembling beneath him, your fingers scraping at the sheets, your body writhing.

His voice was a dark whisper against your skin. “Come for me,” he said, and it wasn’t a request.

And when he sucked that sensitive, aching part of you into his mouth, it was like the world exploded. The coil inside you snapped, and you shattered, your back arching off the bed, a strangled cry escaping your lips as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. You felt like you were drowning in it, unable to breathe, unable to think—just lost in the feeling of him.

Because he didn’t pull away immediately. No, he lingered, his mouth working slowly, indulgently over you as you trembled beneath him, trying to ride out the aftershocks. His lips glistened with you as he finally pulled away, his pupils blown, a wicked satisfaction playing across his features.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his gaze never left you, taking in the way your body still trembled, the way your breath came in ragged gasps. “You taste like heaven,” he murmured as he leaned down to press lingering kisses to your inner thigh, as though savoring the aftermath of what he’d just done.

Your breath still came fast, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, but as the haze of pleasure began to clear, your focus settled elsewhere. You propped yourself up on your elbows, the movement slow and shaky as your gaze tracked lower, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away. Rhysand was still kneeling between your legs, his hands braced against your thighs, but your attention dropped to the front of his pants—where he was still painfully, achingly hard, the outline of him straining against the fabric.

Your lips parted slightly, and the barest flicker of amusement crossed his face as he followed your gaze.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Are you finally taking pity on me?”

You said nothing, just arched a brow and let your eyes drift back down again, pointed.

A low sound slipped from his throat, rough at the edges, as he stood to toe off his shoes, then his socks, before finally working the buttons of his pants. His fingers were deft, practiced, and within moments, he was shoving the fabric down his hips, taking his underwear with it.

And gods.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and heavy, the flushed head already leaking, the sheer size of him reigniting the heat in your core. Your mouth went dry, then immediately watered.

He must have noticed, because his lips curved—lazy, smug, as if he could already hear the thoughts racing through your head. But he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he wrapped a hand around himself, gave himself a few slow pumps, and exhaled roughly through his nose.

“Strange,” he mused, voice like silk. “I don’t recall you ever being this quiet.”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, leveling him with a look even as warmth licked at your skin.

“Savor it while you can,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’d actually prefer you be loud.”

His hand left himself, and in the next breath, he was reaching for you. His touch was firm but unhurried as he guided you further up the bed, his palms skating over your skin, coaxing you into the pillows. The mattress sipped as he followed, settling between your legs, his body radiating heat against yours. Then his fingers found the clasp of your bra, undoing it with one deft flick. The straps slipped down your arms, the fabric falling away, but he didn’t move to touch. Just looked. Took his time. The hunger in his eyes was palpable, the weight of it pressing heat into your skin. The intensity of it made warmth crawl up your throat, but you held his gaze, refusing to be the first to break.

But as the seconds stretched, a thought coiled through you, unbidden. The words from his letter ghosted through your mind, teasing, taunting. He’d imagined this before. Imagined you.

Your heart stuttered as the realization settled fully in your bones.

Because when he looked at you now, he wasn’t just seeing you. He was seeing every thought he’d already had—every fantasy he’d already spun in that scheming, insufferable mind of his. You could almost feel it in the way his gaze traced over you, in the way his chest rose and fell, in the way his fingers flexed as if resisting the urge to reach for you.

What you would taste like, sound like—

The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined.

A slow, satisfied smile curled your lips. You wondered if you were anything like what he’d imagined. If you matched the image he’d conjured those nights alone, all those moments he’d spent thinking of you when he shouldn’t have.

Then his grip tightened on his cock, just slightly. He gave one more slow pump before lining himself up against you. And then, barely above a whisper—

“Tell me to stop.” His eyes bore into yours.

You could.

You should.

But instead, your hips tilted ever so slightly forward—an invitation, a challenge.

And Rhysand, the bastard, took it.

A sharp inhale left him as he pushed forward, sinking into you with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine. His head tipped back slightly, lips parting on a groan, and gods—just the sight of it, the way his chest heaved, the way his fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, sent a slow, molten ache unfurling through you.

He stretched you in a way that had your nails biting into his arms. His gaze snapped to yours as if he felt it too—that unbearable, perfect tension wound so tight between you. He bottomed out, holding there for a moment, his jaw clenched, the muscle feathering in restraint.

Then his grip tightened. And he moved.

A slow, dragging pull before thrusting back in, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body arched into him, a choked sound escaping before you could swallow it down. The answering smirk that flickered across his face was nearly as infuriating as it was devastating.

“Oh, you can do better than that,” he murmured, punctuating the words with another deep thrust, the movement sending a delicious shockwave through you. Your fingers found purchase in his shoulders, nails raking down his back, but it only made him groan, his pace quickening as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips.

“Much better,” he praised, voice rough. “But I want to hear you.”

As if to prove his point, his hand skated down your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist, angling you just right—and stars exploded behind your eyes as his cock slid deeper, filling you completely. The pleasure was almost too much, each thrust dragging a gasp from your mouth, each move of his relentless.

Your fingers dug into his back, nails scraping over his skin as you pressed yourself up into him, matching the rhythm, desperate for more. “Rhysand…” The name escaped in a broken gasp, barely audible over the sound of your breaths and skin slapping on skin.

His eyes glittered with satisfaction, his pace steady but unyielding as he watched you. “Tell me what you need,” he demanded, his thrusts pushing harder, deeper, each one making your breath stutter in your chest.

You swallowed, barely able to think straight with the overwhelming pleasure flooding your senses, but the words came anyway, whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop.” A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving marks on his skin. Rhysand’s pace was relentless, pushing you higher and higher, but you needed more.

“Tell me,” you gasped, “how often did you think about me like this?”

His breath hitched, but he didn’t slow. His hand tightened on your thigh, pushing you even further into him, and the tension in the room seemed to snap tighter. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You smirked, feeling emboldened. “How many nights did you spend alone, imagining me underneath you? How many times did you get off to the thought of me?” Your voice dropped low, a teasing edge creeping into your tone. “And that night in the tent… did you picture me like this then too?”

His cock slammed deeper into you at your words, and you could feel him shudder, his control faltering for a moment. He leaned down, lips grazing the curve of your neck, his hand sliding up to palm at your breast, fingers teasing over your skin.

“I’ve thought about you more than I should,” he confessed, his voice a growl. “Your body, your voice—gods, the way you look at me, like you know exactly what I’m thinking. Every letter you’ve sent, every word you've written has been etched into my mind. You’ve kept me awake more nights than I care to count. So many nights I’ve imagined you… ached for you.”

The words came fast, like he couldn’t stop them, like they’d been building up. “Every damn letter you wrote—I read them more times than I’ll admit. I’d catch myself thinking about you when I shouldn’t, remembering your words when I tried to forget. And I’d get lost in it… lost in the thought of you. That night in the tent…” He growled, pulling you closer, slamming into you harder. “I couldn’t forget how you moved, how you fought, how you looked at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And I hated it—hated how badly I wanted you.”

His hands tightened on your hips, controlling the pace as his thrusts grew more demanding. “I would lie there, late at night, thinking about your fingers on my skin, your mouth—thinking about how you’d taste. How you’d feel under me, desperate, ruined for me. I pictured it all—what you’d look like when I finally had you, when I could take you in every way that I wanted.”

His voice dropped to a whisper as his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, even when I wanted to. Every time we wrote, it only made it worse. I’d catch myself craving more—more words, more of you—before I even realized what I was doing.”

Another thrust forced a moan from your lips. His mouth curved against your skin, savoring the sound, reveling in the way your body clenched around him. His grip on your thigh was bruising as he angled your hips just right, dragging another helpless cry from you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him. His forehead dropped to yours, his thrusts growing rougher, more insistent, as if he were chasing the very thoughts that had plagued him for so long. “You feel better than I ever could have dreamed.”

“Gods, Rhys—”

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his hand slipped between your bodies, fingers pressing where you needed him most. Your head fell back against the pillow, pleasure cresting so fiercely it left you dizzy.

His breath caught. Just for a second.

Not at the way you shuddered beneath him, not at the way you tightened around him—but at the way his name had slipped from your lips, unfinished, softened.

Rhys.

You barely registered it, too lost in the pleasure as his pace faltered for the briefest moment, a sharp inhale through his nose before he recovered, his free hand grabbing your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. But you felt the shift, the way his lips brushed over your jaw—softer now, lingering.

And then, quieter, rougher: “Say it again.”

Not a command. Just… a request.

It took a moment for your mind to catch up, to realize what he meant. Heat curled in your stomach—not just from the way he was moving inside you, but from the way he wanted it. The way he needed it.

You turned your head, breath mingling with his. “Rhys,” you whispered.

A wrecked primal sound from his throat as he shifted suddenly, rolling and pulling you with him until your thighs framed his hips. The world tilted, pleasure still rippling through you as your palms found his chest, heat meeting the inked whorls of black that curved over muscle. He leaned back against the pillows, gaze dark, ravenous, drinking you in like he’d never get enough.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his grip firm on your waist, fingers pressing into heated skin as if to memorize the way you felt in his hands. “Look at you.”

Your cheeks burned under his gaze, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to devour every inch of you, like he was worshipping the sight of you above him.

A slow roll of your hips had him swearing again, jaw tightening, his head pressing into the pillow for a brief moment before he lifted it again, eyes locked onto the way your body moved above him. The way you trembled. The way your chest rose and fell, glistening in the dim light, every bounce, every shift of your body against his making his hold on you tighten.

His fingers slid lower, curving over the swell of your ass as he pulled you down hard, meeting you with a sharp thrust that sent you keening.

“Oh, fuck—Rhys—” The words left you in a breathless gasp, pleasure knocking through you, but he only smirked, his grip flexing.

“Yeah?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something unraveling.

You wanted to reply, something sharp on your tongue, but the words never made it out—lost the second he drove into you again, harder, faster.

His smirk told you everything—he knew exactly what he was oding to you. Dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he thrust into you, each movement sharper, more insistent.

“I—shit—” You barely knew what you were trying to say, only that your body felt like it was on fire, that you could hardly breathe, that he was fucking you so good you couldn’t think. “Rhys, I—”

He wasn’t letting you work for it, wasn’t letting you do anything but take it. His hands gripped you tighter, fingers pressing into your skin—just shy of bruising, just enough to make you shudder, to make the ache feel just as good as everything else. He dragged you over him like he couldn’t get enough, guiding you exactly where he wanted. His chest heaved beneath your palms, every breath ragged, every sound punched from his lungs with each thrust.

Your head tipped back, pleasure cresting, every nerve in your body alight. But he wasn’t done.

One moment you were gasping, hands bracing against his chest as he drove into you with deep, relentless thrusts, and the next—his arms wrapped around you, dragging you down, pressing you flush against him as he buried his face in your neck.

And then he fucked you like he meant it.

Hard, deep, his grip unyielding as he drove into you, hips slamming against yours with a pace that stole the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, Rhys—” You weren’t even sure if you were saying his name or just gasping it, like it was the only thing you could cling to in the onslaught of pleasure.

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked, sending shivers skittering down your spine. “Just like that, just take it. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking against his scalp as a broken moan tore from your lips.

“Feels—too good,” you gasped, a half-delirious laugh slipping out before another sharp thrust stole it from you. “Fuck—you’re so—”

“So what?” he teased, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, anywhere he could reach. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to force the words through the haze clouding your mind, through the pleasure threatening to consume you whole. “So—fuck, Rhys—so deep—”

A groan rumbled in his chest, low and satisfied, before his grip on you tightened. “Yeah? You like that?” His voice dropped, rough, nearly smug. “Like the way I feel inside you?”

Pleasure surged through you, coiling hot and deep, making every nerve in your body tighten in anticipation.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, at his hair, desperate to ground yourself against the intensity of it all. “You—” Your breath caught as he snapped his hips up, hard and precise. “You already know.”

“Maybe.” He smirked against your skin, then his voice dipped, quieter, raspier—”Say my name again.”

Rhys. Rhys. Rhys.

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, everything felt different. More than just pleasure. More than just bodies moving together.

“Rhys,” you gasped, the word slipping out without a second thought. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so deep. So—so fucking perfect.”

He moaned at that, a low rumble of a sound, his chest rising and falling against yours as his hips snapped up to meet yours with relentless rhythm. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way his movements were both precise and utterly frantic. The pleasure had your head spinning, but the way his name tasted on your tongue—how it felt to say it again and again—was a drug in itself.

His eyes locked onto yours, something wild in them now, a primal hunger that only grew as you spoke. “You feel so good,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders as you moved against him, feeling every flex of his muscles beneath your fingertips. “I can’t—I can’t get enough of you, Rhys.”

The words spilled from you now, breathless and unfiltered. “You’re everything I need,” you whispered, voice a little desperate. “So fucking deep, so good, Rhys. You make me feel—gods, you make me feel so good, so full of you.”

His body responded to your words like a switch had been flipped. His fingers dug into your flesh as he pulled you down against him again and again, each thrust now more forceful, as if he couldn’t get enough either. His lips found your throat, kissing and biting his way down your collarbone.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, his voice a rasp in your ear. “Tell me how I make you feel.”

“Like I’m falling apart, Rhys, like I can’t take it—can’t think—fuck, Rhys” Your breath caught as his thrusts deepened, hitting the perfect spot, and your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the sensation overwhelmed you. “I never want to stop feeling this—never want you to stop. I’m so fucking close. I—”

His groan cut off your words, a sharp sound of pleasure as his hands moved to your ass, pulling you down harder, faster. You could feel his body tightening beneath you, and it sent a shockwave of heat through your own, pushing you to the edge.

“Gods, (y/n),” he gritted out, his voice raw, strained, and low. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

Your chest heaved, your body trembling as you struggled to keep yourself steady, meeting his thrusts with everything you had left. The intensity of it all had your head spinning, the pleasure so overwhelming that you barely noticed the words slipping from your mouth until they were out.

“I’m on the tonic,” you gasped, your voice unsteady as you focused on the way his body moved against yours. “I don’t want you to pull out—please.”

A rough, breathless curse left him, his hips snapping into you with a new urgency. Your body responded instantly, your thoughts dissolving into sensation. The tension in your body was at the breaking point, every inch of you coiled so tightly that you felt like you might snap. You could feel him losing control, each thrust harder, faster, the desperation mirrored in his eyes.

Then his hips jerked up into you one last time, and as you heard the low, guttural sound of his release—his breath hitching, his hands gripping you like a lifeline—you couldn’t hold back anymore. The sensation of him finishing inside you was all it took. You exploded, the orgasm rushing over you in waves so intense you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel him, feel his body trembling beneath you.

“Rhys,” you gasped, your voice raw as you rode out the waves of your release, still trembling in his arms.

He groaned your name, holding you against him as your body shuddered with the aftershocks. He kept you close, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of you just yet.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Gods, you drive me insane, (y/n).”

You huffed out a laugh, your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his chest, still catching your breath. “I should drive you insane more often.”

Rhysand let out a low chuckle, fingers brushing lazily along your spine. “Oh, you already do enough for a lifetime.” Then, after a beat—”You’re a handful.”

You raised an eyebrow as you propped yourself up just enough to meet his gaze. “I thought you liked it.”

His gaze locked onto yours, no trace of humor in it now. “I do.”

“Then maybe you’d do well to stop your incessant talking.”

He smirked, but it was soft, almost like he was holding back something—something he knew better than to say right then. “Fine.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting to climb off him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist.

“Stay,” he murmured, a little too smooth, a little too comfortable.

You hesitated. The air between you was heavy, charged, but the moment was already slipping away, back into something more familiar, something edged with unspoken things neither of you dared put a name to.

“Fine,” you muttered, feigning exasperation as you let yourself settle against him once more. “But if you start snoring in my ear, I’m gone.”

His laugh rumbled beneath you. “Noted.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

(Y/n),

I trust you’ve arrived safely back in Velaris. The final terms of the agreement regarding the Seasonal Courts’ trade routes through Dusk have been sent with this letter for your review. Barring any objections, we should be ready to move forward by next month. I assume you’ll have thoughts on the restructuring of the second clause—if only to disagree with me on principle—so let me know where you’d like to make your changes.

On a separate note, I expect my bed will feel unusually empty tonight. A tragedy, really. Let’s hope I can bear the suffering.

Do try not to miss me too much.

Rhys

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You let the letter fall to your desk, lips pressing together as you read the last few lines again.

Despite yourself, a quiet scoff escaped you. Typical.

Shaking your head, you reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Whether he deserved a response was another matter entirely.

738 notes · View notes

slitherss · 4 months ago

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I am a WHORE for “the love is requited, they’re both just idiots”

239K notes · View notes

slitherss · 4 months ago

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track one: i wanna get off

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.” Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm. “I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it. But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well.

Summary: a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (argyle)

Words: 15.4k

Before you swing in: SHES HERE !!! MY BABY !!!! ever since writing lonely hearts club ive been craving more band aus and then joe covered gasoline by haim fundamentally altered my brain so naturally i blacked out and outlined an entire series surrounding rockstar!steve so ,,, here we are lmao. this series is different from come home. steve is a bit edgier, more rough and mean but also still the same charming asshole. later there will be some excessive alcohol use and this is a slowburn of weird twisted feelings and messy situationship so ,,, prepare for that !

enjoy :)

The usual Sunday morning crowd has staked its claim in the cafe by the time your boots click softly on its tiled floors. Baristas call out names belonging to men in wool jackets and women with small children bundled beneath layers of scarves.

Freshly fallen snow lines your own wool jacket and falls to the tiled floor when you take it off, draping it across the chair of the first empty table you find. It’s a bit further back in the shop than you would’ve preferred, but it will have to do. Setting your scarf across the other seat in front of you, claiming the chair for yourself, you catch a barista’s eye and smile as you walk to the register.

You order a black coffee, no milk, only sugar, and a simple vanilla coffee for yourself. The barista tells you the drinks will be ready in a few minutes and you thank her. Heading back to your seat, you hope that you’ve correctly remembered Jonathan’s coffee order.

The last time you saw the man had been at your graduation back in May. You’ve loosely kept in touch since then through sporadic phone calls and gallery openings. Both having majored in photography and the visual arts, your friendship had been built upon red rooms and empty film canisters gallery halls.

Now, as snow falls and coats New York in pristine white, he’s asked you to meet for coffee. The sudden proposal admittedly confused you, though you accepted the invitation without any hesitation.

The barista calls your name right as Jonathan stumbles through the cafe’s door. His skin is flushed from the cold and snowflakes ravage his messy brown hair. Hearing your name, Jonathan grabs the drinks from the pick-up counter, spots you sitting in the corner, and quickly makes his way over to you.

He places the drinks down, wincing when a few drops spill onto the table. “Sorry.”

You wave his apology away and stand, pulling him into a quick hug. “Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “I got you black coffee with sugar. I hope that’s alright?”

“God, of course it is.” Jonathan sits down and takes his scarf off. “You didn’t need to get me anything, you know.”

“Figured you’d be running a little late.” You tease gently, fiddling with the straps of your camera.

“I’m only five minutes late. I’d consider that a new record in my book.”

“And would Nancy agree?”

You have fond memories of Nancy from your few interactions with her. She had been majoring in journalism and was in the running for a position at the New York Post the last time you spoke with her.

“No, probably not.” Jonathan snorts, now taking a sip of coffee. He sets the cup down and then leans over the table, arms bracing his weight. He raises his eyebrows at you. Smiles. “So, catch me up. What’ve I missed?”

“Nothing much,” you admit. “Still doing freelancing.”

“I thought you hated freelancing?”

“Oh, I do. The pay is shit and the clients are almost always shittier. Theater majors are really annoying about ‘capturing their good side’.”

Jonathan frowns. “You’re way too talented to be stuck photographing wannabe actors.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. “We live in New York, Jonathan. We’re surrounded by wannabe actors desperate for camera time.”

“It still feels like a waste of your talent.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You wink at him playfully. “What about you, though? I think you were everyone’s favorite street photographer at the studio.”

Jonathan blushes at the praise and looks down at his coffee. “Well,” he clears his throat and looks back up. “I’m actually in a band now. A drummer.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re kidding, right?”

It’s hard to imagine Jonathan Byers as anything other than a photographer. He was arguably one of the best in your class. His work was beautiful with such a natural edginess to offset the delicate scenery. Your professors raved about him whenever they could. His senior thesis gallery was such a success that the school had to prolong its exhibition dates an extra week.

Jonathan laughs at your disbelief. He’d been expecting it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Sure, I love photography, I always will, but…”

“Music was your first love.” You finish for him, remembering the times you were in his apartment with soft rock records filling the silence as the two of you developed film together.

“And I don’t regret it.” Jonathan’s fingers tap against the table. A nervous habit he was never able to break, and now you suppose that maybe he was never meant to break it. He shifts slightly in his seat, coughs as a sudden unease settles over him.

You tilt your head at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to walk into a confessional with a priest?”

“Christ, Y/N.”

“Correct. He’s who you usually confess your sins to.”

Jonathan sputters out a laugh and his shoulders fall, relaxed after being drawn tightly together moments prior. “Alright, you got me. I didn’t ask you to coffee just to catch up.”

Intrigued, you forward. “If you’re about to ask me to take engagement photos for you and Nancy, please know that I’m too broke to offer you a friend’s discount.”

“We aren’t engaged,” Jonathan’s face is even more red now. “Not yet, at least. But what if I asked if you were interested in being my band’s photographer?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I’d ask you to elaborate.”

“Look, my band, we’re good, Y/N.” Jonathan tells you, eyes alight more than you’ve ever seen them before. “Sure, we’re still relatively small and you definitely haven’t heard any of our music, but we’re consistently booking three gigs a week. I mean, we can’t pay you any better than freelancing can, but we’d definitely be less shitty than your other clients.”

“Jonathan…”

“I’m not just asking you because you’re painfully talented.” Jonathan shakes his head. “I’m asking you because you were my closest friend in college and we always had fun working together. You have to admit, we made a good team.”

You throw a napkin at him. “Way to guilt trip.”

“I’ll say whatever if it means you say yes.”

And Jonathan’s sincerity is almost overwhelming. You’re hesitant, but not because you don’t believe him or the offer doesn’t interest you. If anything, you’re actually incredibly interested in being a band’s photographer. Portrait photography was never your favorite medium, and the mundanity of it is slowly driving you insane.

You’re hesitant because you really, really need money. Freelancing, as unreliable and shitty as it is, at least guarantees enough money to cover rent. But being a photographer for a band no one’s heard of? Not so much.

“As much as I want to say yes, I meant what I said earlier. I’m too broke, Jonathan. I have to sneak out the backdoor of my apartment building to avoid my landlord because she’s days away from evicting me.” Your head rests in your palm, sighing. “It’s grim.”

Jonathan, however, doesn’t seem to think that your current financial situation is bleak. If anything, he perks up and fucking smiles at what you’ve said.

“I’m sorry,” your eyes narrow at him. “But why are you smiling while I’m talking about getting evicted?”

Jonathan flinches at your brewing anger and quickly tries to explain himself. “Sorry, I just-it’s kinda a perfect dilemma?”

“You have five seconds to explain before hot coffee falls in your lap.”

“My bandmates are looking for a roommate!” Jonathan blurts out, unconsciously covering his lap with his hands. Surprised by his own outburst, he clears his throat and lowers his voice to a more neutral tone. “That’s why your dilemma is so perfect. I can talk to them for you, set up a time for you to meet them.”

Seeing that he has your attention now, Jonathan holds a finger up. “But only if you agree to be our photographer.”

Your head spins. It’s almost too perfect of a circumstance. The flesh on your lip stings as you bite down on it, uncertain. You’re tempted. Unbelievably tempted, but you don’t want to say yes just yet.

“Did I mention that they live in the same building as me?” Jonathan smirks, knowing the effect his words will have on you.

His apartment building is gorgeous. Positioned perfectly in the East Village with Tompkins Square a block away and lush green grass in the communal outdoor area reserved only for residents. You’ve complained to him a million times about how you’d kill to have as much outdoor space as he does in your own apartment building.

That, and it’s one of the few remaining goddamn rent controlled buildings in Manhattan.

“You’re evil, Jonathan Byers.” You stick your hand out and he laughs, knowing he already has you before you’ve shaken on the deal. “I better not regret this.”

“You won’t.” He promises.

–

A few days later you’re checking your watch nervously every few seconds. The silver on your wrist reflects in the moonlight. Small hand on the seven and long hand on the five, you curse under your breath. They’re still not here.

“Y/N!” A feminine voice, familiar, surprises you as two bodies round the corner.

Recognizing Nancy’s lithe figure and Jonathan’s awkward footsteps, you greet them, relief flooding through you. “Oh, thank god. Thought I was getting stood up.”

Nancy looks pointedly at her boyfriend. “Blame him. We would’ve been here ten minutes earlier had he not insisted on popping into a record store on the way home.”

“It was worth it.” Jonathan holds the record up. The Talking Heads bright and alive in the dim dusk light. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“Save the apologies for later. We still aren’t sure if I have a place to live after tonight.” You remind him.

Nancy rolls her eyes at the two of you before grabbing your hand. “C’mon,” she says, now opening the apartment building’s door. “In less than twenty-four hours this will be your home, too.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Jonathan pokes your side to shut you up and you swat his hand away. A doorman tips his hat at you and the others as you walk past, his smile kind and warm. The apartment’s lobby is the same as you remember it being. Plush sofas pushed against a soft white wall. A grand mirror across from the elevator that has a few scuffs in it, yet is charming nonetheless. Simple, though elevated enough that you can’t help but feel that you don’t belong here.

Inside the elevator Nancy presses the sixth floor. When she sees your slight confusion, she laughs. “We may live in the same building, but they’re two floors below us.”

“Mike says it’s physical proof that he’s better than Dustin.”

You turn to Jonathan with a slight frown. “Mike is Nancy’s brother, right? And he lives with you guys?”

Nancy nods encouragingly. “And Dustin is one of his friends from high school”

Jonathan pokes his head between the two of you. “And soon to be your roommate.”

“Hopefully.” Your tight lipped smile looks more like a grimace. Your stomach twists with every floor you ascend. You try to remember all the names you’ve been told. There’s Dustin, Mike’s friend. Then there’s… Rachel? Robbie? You think you remember Jonathan mentioning someone named Stephen.

Already the names are floating around your head. There are so many of them to remember. New faces you’ll be meeting tonight and desperately trying to impress. And you’ve already forgotten half of them.

The elevator comes to a stop. Nancy and Jonathan step off, but you’re rooted to the floor, unable to move. “Please tell me this is a good idea.”

“It’s a wonderful idea, Y/N.” Nancy reassures you, grabbing your hand and gently pulling you from the elevator’s closing doors. Her eyes trace over your tense figure and she smiles sympathetically. The hand she isn’t using to hold yours plucks lint from your jacket, smoothing over its folds. “I promise you’ll love them.”

You really want to believe her. “And ‘them’ being…?”

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve.” Jonathan supplies. He’s smoothing your jacket down as well. The couple frets over your appearance in the narrow hallway and you almost feel like a lost child under their nurturing gaze.

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve,” you repeat under your breath, over and over again. Their names roll over your tongue and you like how the weight of it feels. “Okay, I can do this. I’m fine. This will be totally fine.”

Jonathan nods eagerly and then shoves you towards a door at the end of the hall. In faded gold plating reads 6B on the door’s purple frame. There’s a cheesy floor mat that greets you in cursive lettering.

“Ready?” Nancy asks you.

You inhale, close your eyes, and exhale the remaining fear from your bones. Opening your eyes, you nod at her.

Three soft raps against the door. There’s shuffling on the other side. Voices talking to one another. A set of footsteps running towards the door before a girl your age swings it open and lunges into your arms as if you’re lifelong friends.

“You’re here!” She exclaims happily, arms clasped tightly over your neck. You stumble back at the sudden embrace.

Jonathan sees your obvious overwhelm. “Ease up there, Robin. You can’t kill Y/N yet.”

The girl, Robin, you remind yourself, quickly releases you. Her freckled cheeks blush a pretty pink that matches the faded pink streaks in her choppy hair. “Sorry,” her blue eyes are wide and youthful. “I just-Jonathan and Nancy have been blabbing about you for weeks now and it’s just crazy that this is finally happening! I mean, you’re real! You’re here!”

She’s speaking a mile a minute and you’re trying your best to keep up with her, but you’re still nervous and deeply overwhelmed now and all you can say is, “Your hair is really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Robin’s bashful smile is beautiful. Her fingers tangle through her shoulder-length hair. “It was Steve’s idea. He helped me dye it.”

“Steve sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the conversation going as Nancy and Jonathan watch the two of you quietly.

Robin laughs as if you’ve said something funny. She doesn’t say anything, though, and instead grabs your arm to pull you inside. She hardly gives you any time to look around the apartment before she’s talking a mile a minute once again.

“This is the kitchen,” she waves her arms out with a flourish, giggling when your jaw drops. There’s more counter space than you ever thought possible in a New York apartment. A kid, maybe a few years younger than you, is taking pizza out of the oven. “And that, my dear and new friend, is Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dustin sets the pizza down before giving you a thumbs up. “Pizza?”

Jonathan and his brother Will are already grabbing plates and cutting into the still hot food before you can even say yes. Jonathan hands a slice to Nancy while Will passes a plate to you. You thank him kindly, recognizing him from Jonathan’s senior thesis photos.

The moment you have your food, Robin yanks you away again.

“This is the living room.” Giant floor to ceiling windows that you definitely can’t afford replace the walls that should be in their place. The entire skyline of lower Manhattan winks back at you.

“No fucking way…”

A scrawny kid, maybe Dustin’s age, who looks a lot like Nancy snorts from the sage green couch that wraps around the area. “Isn’t it obnoxiously nice? I hate it.”

Robin flicks his head. “Ignore him. He isn’t relevant to our tour.”

“I take it he’s Mike?” You ask, again being at the will of Robin’s strong grip as she parades you through the apartment.

The decorations, though minimal, make the place feel like a home. There’s art hanging on the walls. Photographs of faces you recognize, though most are people you don’t. Belongings strewn throughout the space that tell you there’s stories and love within these walls.

“Unfortunately,” Robin stops in front of a set of doors. “We only keep him around because we like Nancy. Anyways, here’s the bathroom.”

Though small, it’s nice, and you nod appreciatively. Satisfied with your response, Robin flings open another door. Inside are piles of screws and wires belonging to various unfinished technical exploits and it takes you a moment to realize that there’s even a bed in this room.

“Dustin’s room?” You guess, remembering the City College of Technology logo that was on his hat.

“Correct,” Robin then opens another door, this time revealing a room full of rosie pinks and deep purples and blues. A keyboard rests on a bed. There are vinyls everywhere and pink hair dye spilled on the small desk. “My room. Admire her while you can. I deeply hate people in my space.”

You laugh. “Noted.”

Robin slams the door and turns to the next one, though she hesitates. “Technically, Steve also really hates people in his room, but the douchebag is late even though he promised he’d be here on time so,” she opens the door. “Voila.”

While you want to respect the wishes of the roommate you still have yet to meet, curiosity wins. You peek inside. The room is a mess of guitar picks littering the floor. You see a dark blue acoustic guitar in the corner, its edges almost midnight black, and an unmade bed full of vinyls. On the walls are photos. Some are of bands that you’re familiar with. Most aren’t. In between it all, however, are photos who you can only assume are Robin and his other friends.

There’s a desk shoved to a corner that has pen marks and papers with messy writing scrawled on them. Everything inside the room is used, worn, though somehow there’s still a sense of calm within the chaos of it all.

“None of you are neat freaks, huh?”

Robin winces. “No, but I promise we’re clean. Scout’s honor. Please just ignore the blatant oxymoron of our rooms.”

You laugh and shake your head, telling her it’s fine. Robin beams once again and takes your hand one last time to guide you back to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the counter, pizza in their hands as lazy conversation fills the room.

And even though an hour prior you were afraid that you were in way over your head, you fall into conversation easily with everyone else. Dustin is charismatic and asks for your thoughts on the apartment. Will’s soft spoken nature is comforting. Mike is witty and enjoys that you play into his jokes. A little later a young girl named Max appears and she’s just as enigmatic as her red hair and asks you a million questions about photography.

Robin doesn’t stop poking your skin and clothes and fretting over you the entire time. You adore her within minutes.

“Alright,” you say after finishing the last of the pizza. “Tell me. Who’s in this alleged band I’m putting all my blind faith in?”

Dustin throws his head back and groans. “God, don’t get them started.”

Mike hits his shoulder. “Dude, shut up.”

“We call ourselves the Februarys.” Jonathan ignores the boys bickering.

“The Februarys?”

“Guess which rocket scientist thought of it.” Dustin snarks.

Mike hits him again and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, I like it. It’s a bit odd, but interesting. Unique.”

“You’re perfect. Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” Robin throws her arm over your shoulders. “Anyways, I play the keyboard. I’m good with my fingers,” she wiggles them at you with a sly wink, “and sometimes lend my voice to songs if Steve allows it.”

“He’s the lead vocalist,” Jonathan explains. “He also plays the guitar, but he mostly just likes how cool it makes him look.”

“It doesn’t, by the way.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Not unless it’s an electric guitar, which I do play.”

You raise your eyebrows in shock. “Aren’t you a little… young to be in a band?”

Loud cackles tumble out of Dustin and Robin while Jonathan tries to hide his own snickers behind Nancy’s amused smile and Will’s soft laughs. You look around with wide eyes, terrified you’ve said the wrong thing, when Max crosses her arms at you.

“Find someone who can play the bass as well as I can. I dare you.”

Her unwavering confidence in her ability leaves you breathless. Your uncertainty crumbles the moment her knowing smirk spreads across her face. She knows she’s good. She doesn’t need your approval.

“My apologies, Mayfield.” You nudge your shoulder against hers.

Mike scowls. “Do I get an apology, too?”

“No,” you and Max say at the same time.

This time everyone laughs and you’re amazed by how easy this is. Talking to them, laughing and teasing them with the shared understanding of respect. You’ve been welcomed into something warm and precious, friends who seem to have years stretching between them.

A series of clicks and the scraping of metal before the front door swings open. A man stumbles inside, cursing and swearing under his breath when his foot catches on a stray shoe and he nearly falls. It’s a cacophony of sound and discarded energy and Robin watches it all with a bored frown.

“You’re late.” She greets the intruder.

He hunches over, hands on his knees. “Give me a second,” his breaths are heavy and brown hair falls in his face. He brushes it aside haphazardly with a practiced habitual ease. “Christ, I ran ten blocks to make it here on time.”

“And yet you’re still late.” Robin turns to you, frown etching her soft features. “I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Hearing your name, the guy’s body suddenly snaps up from its prior hunched posture. Brown eyes land on you. Curious, excited, and then slowly interested. They travel up your body once, twice, then a third time. He fixes his hair again and smiles at you. “Is this our new roommate?”

“Possible roommate.” You correct him, a hint of a smile back at him. “You must be Steve.”

His smile widens. “The one and only.”

Strong jawline, doe eyes that are soft enough to be vulnerable, yet teasing. Hair that’s just long enough to curl over the nape of his neck. Classically handsome, Steve’s delicate features are juxtaposed by the silver nose ring that catches the light, by the matching latch earrings that parallel the moles that line his neck and jaw.

Steve knows he’s beautiful. And he knows how to use it to his advantage as he drapes an arm over you, grabs a piece of pizza from your plate, and sits in your chair that is already too small for one person. It forces him to be pressed tightly against you. His jeans dig into your waist, his thick silver bracelet on his wrist cools your heated skin.

“Hi, beautiful,” he winks at you, taking a bite of the food he’s stolen. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Robin gags and everyone else rolls their eyes at Steve’s exaggerated charm. They’ve seen this before. They’re used to his theatrics and need to be the center of attention for every girl he meets.

“Steve’s a bit of a flirt, if you couldn’t tell.” Jonathan shoves his friend away from you with a slight eye roll. “If he gets too much, just spray him like a cat.”

You watch Steve, studying him. He’s charming and beautiful, putting on a show for you, and underneath the performance is a shallow surface. He’s exalted by the attention. It’s not that his actions aren’t genuine, but they border on fictitious.

The fictitiousness is intriguing.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” to everyone’s surprise, you pull Steve back into the chair. He makes a startled sound, caught off guard by your forceful hands, and completely infatuated with them already. Pleased, you pinch Steve’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, handsome?”

You feel him lean into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s studying you the same way you’ve been studying him. A pause, your fingers linger on his cheek. Just before you exhale, Steve grabs the hand that strokes his face. His grip is loose on your wrist. He kisses the inside skin that’s the thinnest, veins beating.

“You’ll move in tomorrow.” He murmurs against your skin. “And your first gig with us is Friday.”

It isn’t a question, and you don’t correct him.

Already it’s been decided.

–

The heater in your apartment broke a year after you moved in. Your landlord promised she would fix it come winter, but as pockets of snow fill the window’s ledge, your hands are numb from the brisk air and lack of heat.

Packing is easy enough, though seeing your small assortment of belongings piled into boxes causes a tug of longing in your stomach. The brick walls of your apartment are worn and scuffed from previous tenants and the floorboards creak with every breath you take. It’s an awful, old and frigid apartment, but it was also the first place you ever called home in New York.

“This really all you have?” Steve looks at the handful of boxes with skepticism. Being the only one who doesn’t have classes or a day job, he happily volunteered to help you move your things to the new apartment.

You tape the final box shut. “For the most part, but there’s a box or two in the bedroom.”

“I get to see your bedroom?” He wiggles his eyebrows and you throw a balled up wad of tape at him. He dodges easily, laughing. “Want me to go get them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous. Beautiful. Babe. All compliments Steve has showered you in since meeting him fifteen hours prior. They fall from his lips without any hesitation, always accompanied by a charming smile or sly wink.

If it were anyone else, you would’ve told them to fuck off by now. But with Steve there’s no weight behind his praise. No expectation of you to return them. He praises you because he wants to, compliments you because he likes the way you blush afterwards.

You’ve only known Steve for fifteen hours, and yet you’ve never felt this comfortable alone with anyone else.

“I know this may sound like I’m sucking up considering I’m trusting you to make my band look cool, but,” Steve carries two boxes, arms straining under the weight and you watch as his biceps ripple under his tanned skin. He sets them down, opens the top one, and then pulls out a collection of your photographs from within it. “You’re insanely talented, Y/N.”

“I sent you to get my boxes, not go through them.” You try to take the photos away, but Steve is fast and holds them out of your reach.

“No, I’m serious. I mean, Jonathan is cool and all and we all cried seeing his thesis show, but you?” He holds up one of your favorite photographs. He huffs in disbelief, eyes roaming over the image with a hunger of amazement and awe. “I almost feel bad that we can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

The photo is one you took when you first moved to Manhattan. Eighteen and naive, you viewed the city through your lens greedily. Your first few months in the city all you did was carry your camera around with you and use up canister after canister of film. The images were fine, nothing monumental, until one day, somehow, they were.

An older woman sitting on a park bench. There is no one sitting next to her. Her head is down, hands clasped in her lap. There is a bird mimicking her downward posture beside her. Almost out of view, almost a shadow, and there’s something tender in the image that you’ve never quite managed to capture again.

“The apartment makes up for it. I mean, floor to ceiling windows? Fucking insane.”

Steve chuckles, agreeing silently. “How’d you get into photography, anyways?” He picks through some more of your pictures, uncaring of the fact that you’re shy of your work.

“My mom was a photographer and gave me my first film camera when I was nine.” You shrug, a nostalgic smile on your face. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I get it,” Steve hums, still admiring every image of yours that he finds. “That’s how music was for me. I was eleven and my parents weren’t home so I snuck into their room. They had this giant record player. I remember being so amazed by it, but God forbid I touch it.”

Steve looks down at his hands, tight smile and narrowed eyes. “Anyways, one day they weren’t home, so I ran right up to their room, laid my head right next to the record player, and played the first record I found.”

“What was it?” You ask softly, curious.

“The Velvet Underground. I inherited a lot of things from my father, but thank god he gave me my music taste. The moment I heard Sterling Morrison’s guitar strings in Heroin, I was a goner. Begged the old man for my own guitar the very next day.”

“And did you get it?” The question is more to keep the delicate look on Steve’s face. He unravels when he talks about music, almost softens at its melodies. He’s beautiful, he always is, but music only makes him glow.

“I did,” Steve nods, proud. He walks up behind you, arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you in, his chest solid and warm. He kisses your hairline, smiling into your skin. “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” your body leans closer to his.

“I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.”

Steve’s childish declaration mirrors every other young boy’s dream. Every artist’s dream since they were a child. Dreams of grandeur, recognition, of creation and passion and freedom. You twist your head around, wanting to look at the man holding you. His face is calm, open and unapologetic. He believes what he’s said. There isn’t a hint of uncertainty or hesitancy within the lines of his cheeks.

And you believe him, too. Steve has the charisma to set the city on fire, an ease to his movements and beauty that’s addicting. Devastatingly handsome. It’s inevitable that the world falls to its knees before him one day.

“Think you’ll ever write a song about me?” It’s meant to be a joke, a tease, but when you turn to face him your nose brushes his cheek. This close, you can count his freckles. The proximity catches your breath.

Steve wraps his entire body around you. The kiss he places at the base of your neck burns. “I think all my songs will be about you, angelface.”

And yet another name, this time accompanied by his fingers digging into your ribcage to get you to squeal out laughter. You twist in his grasp, shrieking at Steve to stop, but he has you right where he wants you.

“Ow!” Steve rips his body away from yours after you land a particularly hard pinch to his arm. He rubs the forming bruise, glaring at you. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re the one who started it!”

He sticks his tongue out and all you can do is roll your eyes at him. Catching your breath, you remember where you are. There are still boxes everywhere. You sigh, bend down, and start sliding them against the wall.

“What are you doing? Don’t do that.” Steve swats you away, offended you’ve even considered moving the boxes yourself.

You blink at him. “Did you just hit me?”

Steve ignores you, focusing on the boxes instead. He stacks them one by one in front of the door. Hair falls in his face and you have to remind yourself to look away. After he’s done, Steve studies the boxes before him, their appearance deceptively multiplied when piled all together.

Dropping his head, he groans, “This is going to suck.”

The two of you will have to carry all the boxes down five flights of stairs and into a taxi that will almost definitely be too small to sit in. In the February snow and midday commute.

“Yup,” you pat Steve’s chest. “It’s a good thing you’re so strong, right?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that how you’re supposed to talk to your subordinate? I mean, I am working for you now, right?”

“Please pick up a box and shut up.”

–

Robin helps you unpack everything in your room. The space itself is beautiful, arguably the biggest room in the apartment. Wood flooring, cream walls, and even a window that overlooks the park. You ask her who died for you to be able to live here, and she confesses that the only reason she and the others didn’t claim your room when their old roommate moved out is because they didn’t feel like keeping the large space clean.

Who knew laziness could get you a giant room with a view?

Except Steve’s room is next to yours, and after a few days of sharing a wall, you quickly realize that one: he brings a new girl over every night, and two: Robin is a liar. Her and Dustin weren’t lazy, they just didn’t want to share a wall with Steve.

And you can’t blame them. The first night it’s jarring hearing the subtle thuds and moans that leak through the thin plaster. The second night, you roll over, hit the wall once to signal to Steve to keep it down, before grabbing your walkman and slipping on headphones.

Soon you learn the signs. The slam of a door, feminine giggles, his breathy voice as he guides them past your room to his. After the second night and your annoyed thud, Steve starts playing music to drown out the unwanted sounds.

The third night, you’re in the kitchen working on some film when the front door slams. You look up at the clock, cursing the late hour. You’d been so engrossed in your work that you forgot that any minute Steve would be home with yet another girl.

They don’t see you at first. Her face is buried in Steve’s neck and he’s caressing her bare skin that her small top doesn’t cover. They’re laughing, slightly intoxicated as they stumble through the living room.

“Wore this just for you,” the girl murmurs against his lips. Her hands yank her top down, to bring his attention to it. “I remember you said you liked green.”

Maybe they aren’t new girls every night, you think. Then, promptly remembering that you aren’t supposed to be here right now you then think, oh God, do I need to duck behind the counter?

Steve doesn’t bother looking down at her top. “Cute,” he says simply. Nothing more. Like he doesn’t care to say anything further.

He tries to kiss her instead, impatient and done with the attempt at conversation. It’s odd seeing him like this. Displaced, almost cold in a calculated way that you suppose can come off as charming.

Only the girl pulls away, obviously displeased with the throwaway comment. Her eyes squint at him, but before she can either tell him to fuck off or to keep kissing her, her unhappy gaze lands on you.

“Who the hell are you?”

You should’ve ducked behind the counter. “I-uh. Live here.”

“I was here last week. You weren’t.”

“Quick turnaround period?” You’re awful with confrontation and Steve isn’t helping, arms crossed and smiling like a goddamn saint while you’re drowning. You glare at him. “A little help would be nice.”

Steve grabs the girl and spins her once, twice, before pulling her into a kiss. Not at all caring that you’re watching, he slips his tongue into her wanting mouth and moans. She clutches his chest, and the second he has her pleading, he pulls away.

“Go wait in my room, I’ll be right there.” He tells her, kissing her again before she can argue. “Promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t I always?”

The girl sighs, as if he’s taken her ability to say anything else away. She nods at him, starts walking to his room, and she’s gone without another word.

“Charming,” you shake your head at Steve, who now leans against the counter and looks at the film developing. “Not the way I would’ve handled the situation, though.”

“So I wanna get off, doesn’t everyone?” He’s coy, peering over your shoulder and his hair tickles your skin. “New project?”

“Testing aperture settings for Friday.” You point at a grainy photo, ignoring his previous words about getting off. “Too dark. I need to figure out how to get the best lighting out of a dim venue.”

“You’re cute when you try to impress me.”

You pinch his side. “Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

“Do I sense jealousy, Y/N?” Steve bites the inside of his cheek, looking you up and down.

“Not in the slightest.”

And there really isn’t any jealousy. You don’t mind that Steve has a different girl in his bed each night; you knew that he was this way before Robin even had to warn you. You saw through him the moment you met him.

You’ve known men like Steve. Their wanting ways and sugar coated praise; he isn’t any different.

The outline of Steve’s figure becomes blurry when he’s with these girls. A thin layer of film over how he normally is, like his words and actions aren’t quite real. Superficial, putting on a show for them that you somehow know he only reserves for the stage.

“Anyways, I’m exhausted.” You rub your eyes, vision blurred from staring at images for hours. You ruffle Steve’s hair fondly. “Try not to keep me up tonight, please.”

He catches your hand that falls and kisses the same spot on your wrist that he’s come to inhabit. Soft eyes and honest lips, he promises you, “whatever you ask, angelface.”

Soft. Steve is always soft with you, genuine to the raw way in which he looks at you. For some reason he’s different this way with you.

“Goodnight, Steve.” Though you linger for just a second. He sees it.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Tomorrow you’ll inevitably find him in the kitchen making breakfast for the apartment. He’ll be shirtless because he gets hot when he cooks. You’ll see the scratches down his back and the hickeys on his neck and the physical reminder of the marks on Steve’s body will be a reminder to step away.

The flirting is fine. You enjoy being adored by him and making him laugh at your quick responses. Even if the adoration is fake, even if sometimes Steve’s eyes make you wonder how you can capture them with your lens, he’s quickly becoming your best friend. Robin, too. And Dustin and Jonathan and everyone else entangled in your life now because of Steve.

You don’t want to jeopardize this, even if you still aren’t really sure what this is. The Februarys, the apartment, the people within it.

But whatever this is, something tells you that Steve doesn’t want to jeopardize it either.

–

The heat of the apartment coats the loud buzz of the people in the crowded space talking over one another the next night. It’s full capacity in the apartment. Voices mix together and there’s hardly any room to breathe.

Steve had warned you it’d be like this. The night before a performance is always this way: bodies crammed into the apartment, all intoxicated on the rush of figuring out a setlist and chords.

The intoxication leaks into your blood, too. Cheeks aching, you can’t stop smiling. The excitement, the giddy curiosity, now fulfilled as you finally get to see the band in action.

Steve’s curled around you on the couch, his body heat only overheating you more, but his insistence of crawling into every seat you inhabit is easier to let happen than fight. He’s talking animatedly with Robin and Jonathan as they agonize over a list of songs while you and Nancy watch, silent.

“We could play Clear and Void?” Robin suggests to the boys, pencil in her mouth with her eyebrows knit together. “Or maybe Happening New?”

Neither songs are songs you’re familiar with, though you remember Jonathan telling you that the Februarys had a working collection of four of their own songs. The problem is that most venues require a minimum of six for a gig.

“We played both of those last week.” Steve shakes his head. “Isn’t Higgy’s more of a cover venue, anyways? Shouldn’t we just pull from our covers set?”

Jonathan bites his cheek. “I say we do Clear and Void, Happening New, and then mix in a few covers before closing with Limerick. Three of our most popular songs and three covers. Balance it out.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but a shout from the corner of the room pulls your attention.

“I’m not crawling through a goddamn cellar to get to our gig!” Max scoffs at Mike, both of them hunched over the kitchen counter with a paper between them.

“Got any other brilliant ideas, then?”

A girl, who you’ve been introduced to as El, places a hand on Mike’s shoulder in what you can only assume is a feeble attempt at calming him down. He tries to say more, but El shakes her head softly, so he curses again and messily erases whatever he’d been writing on the paper.

“This is stupid.” Mike spits out. “Why the hell is twenty-one the deemed age to get shitfaced?”

“Prohibition,” Dustin says, as if it’s obvious. He swings an arm around Will and grins. “What are the odds they make it in?”

“Pretty terrible.”

Lucas, who you've also met tonight, looks wearily at Max and Mike, scared they’ll overhear the taunts. He lowers his voice and turns to his other friends. “Can we not piss them off more? You’re not the ones who have to go home with them.”

Max, however, does hear this. “Insinuate I’m a pain in the ass when I’m angry again, Sinclair. Go on.”

Lucas shuts his mouth and the boys all snicker at his misfortune. Max and Mike go back to their metaphorical drawing board of figuring out how to sneak into a twenty-one and up venue. Their situation is amusing, even if you do feel slightly bad that they have to jump legal hurdles to perform.

“What if we just get Dustin to print us fake IDs?” Mike proposes, a glint in his eyes.

“No!” Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all shout at once.

Mike lets out an obnoxiously loud groan and Max flips off the older adults, though none of them pay them any attention. Instead, they go back to their list of songs and resume their own argument from earlier.

“What do you think, Y/N?”

Steve’s question surprises you. He’s turned to you and he’s expecting a response, wanting your input on a matter that you have no knowledge in. He knows you’re more interested in photography than music, he knows you’re still figuring out the music scene with the Februarys.

Yet Steve still wants to consider your input.

All eyes on you, your dry mouth swallows sticky saliva. The only thing you can think of is the length of Steve’s neck when he recounted a childhood memory to you in your snowy apartment.

“I guess, uh. Cool It Down?” You stumble slightly, worried you’ll embarrass yourself and suggest a song everyone hates.

Steve, however, is so in love with the idea that he practically crawls into your lap to take your face into his hands and kiss your cheek, loud, wet, dramatic and infatuated. “God, I’m in love with that angelface of yours.”

Robin and Nancy look at each other in disgust.

Jonathan doesn’t share this disgust. His eyebrow jumps in interest, watching the two of you. “The Velvet Underground?”

He doesn’t ask as a way to clarify who sings the song. He asks because he knows that the band isn’t the usual music you listen to. He’s had their albums playing before and not once have you ever showed any interest.

“Higgy's once had them play a gig there.” It could be a lie. You aren’t really sure. All you know is that Jonathan seems far too interested in your sudden change in music taste. “That’s why I suggested it.”

“I didn’t know they played there.”

Steve’s nose presses into your neck. “Leave her alone, Byers. She’s a born and bred musical genius. Don’t be jealous.”

Jonathan ducks his head, surrendering, and you exhale a shaky breath. In being a photographer, Jonathan has learned to see the smallest details that often go overlooked. It’s a quality you both share, but now, with his knowing eyes on you, you’re really pissed off he graduated top of your class.

“How should we arrange the chords?” Robin breaks the remaining tension between you and Jonathan. You don’t think she’s even noticed it, but you’re grateful for her nonetheless.

“Chords?” Mike’s head pops up from the crowd of his friends. “Did we get a setlist arranged?”

Robin holds up the list. “Read it and weep, Wheeler. Help us figure out tuning.”

Mike runs over and Max isn’t far behind him. Soon they’re all talking over one another again. You’ve lost the Februarys to the lyrics and chords that swarm around them. They all come alive when they talk about their music. They’re beautiful when they talk about their music.

Nancy catches your eye, thinking what you are. She smiles. You smile back.

A little while later the apartment’s buzz dies down. Mike and the young teens all crowd themselves in Dustin’s room. Robin tells you that they all grew up together in Indiana. Inseparable then, inseparable now.

Steve is with her in the kitchen. She had a craving for ice cream and he had a craving for caramel. Naturally, they’re now rifling through the pantry for sundae ingredients at nearly midnight.

You’re sorting through film cartridges on the couch with Nancy and Jonathan sitting beside you. They’re whispering to themselves, lost in their own world, and you almost forget they’re there until Jonathan’s voice reminds you.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he shifts a bit closer to you so that he can look over your camera set up. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Do you need to borrow any of my equipment?”

You shake your head. “No, I did some test trials a few nights ago and I think I’ve finally figured out the right aperture for the venue. The photos came out pretty good, actually.”

“They were amazing!” Steve butts in, voice carrying from across the room.

Jonathan and Nancy snort and you pretend you didn’t hear him. “As for the plan, I was thinking some behind the scenes photos, you know? Take some of the band while you’re getting ready before the show and then once you’re up I just, I don’t know. Glue myself to the barricade and pray?”

Jonathan hums, pleased with what you’ve come up with, though Nancy pokes your knee. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time, so don’t worry about getting lost in the crowd.”

“Thank god.” Then an idea comes to you. “Oh, what about taking pictures of the crowd, too?”

When Jonathan and Nancy tilt their heads at you, not quite following, you’re quick to explain. “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool to have documentation of a growing crowd? Compare your earlier gigs with hopefully bigger and better ones in the future.”

“I’d kiss your face, but I’m afraid Steve might throw a spoon at me.” Nancy says, voice purposefully loud so that the intended audience will hear.

“I’m armed, Wheeler.” Steve holds a spoon up and glares at her.

You all laugh and she reaches over to squeeze your hands excitedly. “I think documenting the crowd is a brilliant idea.”

Jonathan kisses his thumb, presses the finger to your nose as you giggle, and ruffles your hair. “A stupidly brilliant idea.”

You bat his hand away as Nancy laughs at the two of you. From the kitchen, in between your laughter, you hear Steve’s disgruntled, “What did I say about being armed, Byers?”

–

Higgy's is a shitty venue in an even shittier location with a history so rich and complex that you can’t help but admire its delicate and stained walls as you walk around the dressing room. Signatures from artists like Hendrix and Joplin line the walls. Someone has signed the mirror in thick ink with the words, know your history and then tear it apart.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Nancy murmurs, standing next to you as you both admire the walls.

“It is,” you softly agree. Raising your camera, you take a picture of the mirror. “I can’t believe your boyfriend is performing here.”

“Neither can my boyfriend.”

A pounding noise can be heard from beneath you. You look at Nancy, silently asking her what the hell the sound could be, but she shrugs at you, also confused. The pounding happens again, this time forceful enough to rattle the floor, and you jump back and find that you’d been standing on top of a hidden hatch beneath the purple carpeting.

The hatch’s door swings open, revealing a very angry Mike and Max.

Guess they found a way into the venue, then.

“Did you really have to stand on our escape plan?” The boy sneers, his glare deepening when he sees you and Nancy holding back laughs. “This isn’t at all funny.”

Only he looks so small down below the hidden cellar routes that remain from the prohibition days, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing excessively.

“Just help us up.” Max pleads, annoyed and sweaty and covered in god knows what.

Taking pity on them, Nancy offers her hand and helps them crawl out from the hatch of death. “If mom ever asks,” she says to Mike. “Tell her I’m taking really good care of you here in New York.”

“Ha, ha.” He responds drily, though he shrieks in upset when a flash goes off and he realizes you’re taking pictures of his and Max’s situation. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“Well, children.” You take another photo. “I’m capturing behind the scenes content.”

Max scoffs and steps past you, her shoulder clipping against yours, leaving Nancy to deal with her brother’s outrage so that she can help him get ready. You wish her luck and she waves you off, focusing on Mike now.

Camera in hand, you take pictures of anything that your gaze lingers on. More signatures on the wall. The bands only sign that hangs above the door frame. Robin’s platform sneakers that lay abandoned next to her chair. Steve’s guitar next to the sneakers.

And even though there is so much history within these walls, so many intimate details that you know you want to capture forever, your lens draws you to Steve. Body turned to his, you find him through your viewfinder.

Robin sits at the vanity. Her eyes are smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and the blue of them shine. Steve stands next to her, styling his hair with sticky pomade and hopeless fingers. A silver chain hangs from Steve’s neck, his white t-shirt strains against his back, muscles outline faintly in the dim lighting as he bends towards Robin to tangle his fingers in her hair, too, styling it as she wants.

They don’t see you at first. It isn’t until you’ve brought the camera back up to your face, eye squinting in the viewfinder to focus on the expanse of Steve’s taut back, do they see you. Robin winks into the mirror and Steve tips his head back, smiling lazily at you.

Something tight grips your throat, but you swallow it down.

In the corner Nancy is fixing Jonathan’s jacket and you take a picture of her tender hands around his waist. You photograph Mike and Max tuning their instruments; the girl’s red hair almost glows besides the boy’s fluorescent skin. As Robin and Jonathan go over the setlist for any last minute changes, you take a picture of their downcast heads, their similarly colored hair blurring into one body.

The excitement in the room is tinged with tension, with apprehension, but still there is a breathlessness to it.

Steve watches your every move as you walk around the room. His eyes are a pleasant warmth that simmers on your skin. You take a photo of his hands wrapped around his blue guitar neck. His fingers picking at the strings. His lips humming a song.

He lets you.

“Five more minutes.” A man, tall and large, knocks on the dressing room door. “Get ready.”

The static in the air multiplies at the announcement. Steve jumps up from his seat, clapping his hands. “Alright, everyone. You know the drill.”

They fall into formation. Jonathan, Mike, Max, and Robin all in a circle facing Steve.

He brings his arms around them, forcing them into a huddle. Their eyes are bright and smiles wide and you take one final photo of them, just like this, just like little kids, grinning mischievously at one another and flushed faces.

“It’s just us.” Steve tells them. “Just us up there on stage. No one else. Not one fucking any person but us.”

They repeat him. Just us. Just us just us just us.

Steve licks his lips at the sound, coating the cheshire smile on his face. He leans closer, impossibly closer to his bandmates, words edging his lips as they wait, dangling before them, desperate, waiting, before finally, finally–

“Showtime.”

–

The cold metal of the barrier digs into your stomach. Nancy stands next to you, her own body flush against the railing that separates the barricade from the main stage. The small section is reserved only for you and Nancy, separate from the rest of the crowd, yet hardly big enough for the two of you to stand comfortably.

Loud, disorienting noise surrounds you. Higgy's is one of those smaller venues that insists on cramming as many people as possible inside. Your heartbeat pounds along to the sound of drunken conversation and Nancy’s reassuring glances.

“You ready?” She shouts into your ear, barely heard above the crowd.

“Not at all,” you admit to her. Your camera is poised in your hands. You’re anxious to see the Februarys perform, to see who exactly you’ve chanced your career on. “I swear to god, if Steve can’t sing I’m making him pay me double what he’s already–”

Your words get drowned out by a deafening wave of cheers and screams. The sound vibrates your skin, rattles your bones, and when you look up, all you see is the stage flooding with color as Steve and the others fill it.

Jonathan sits at his drum set, its white reflecting the stage’s fluorescent purple lighting. Max plugs her bass to an amp and its deep maroon hue ignites the dark around her. Next to her Mike’s sage green electric guitar makes a small click sound as he connects it to its own powersource. Robin places herself behind her keyboard, its effervescent multitude of colors that she’s painted onto its body a commotion of everything that exudes who she is.

And then there’s Steve, standing front and center on the stage, holding the same acoustic guitar you saw in his room the day you met him. Dark blue, its edges black, the fingers wrapped around it tanned and rough.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Steve grabs the mic, still engulfed in the colors. You think you see him smile at the crowd’s excited response. The flash of his white teeth vivid against his pink mouth.

Steve extends his arms out towards the band. “Over here we have Robin Buckley on keyboard,” she playfully bows. “Jonathan Byers on drums,” deft fingers twirl drumsticks before colliding them onto cymbals. “Playing bass we have Max Mayfield,” the girl smiles coolly at the crowd, completely at ease. “And Mike Wheeler on electric guitar,” he twists the instrument and releases a cacophony of sound and the venue explodes into howls.

“And finally,” Steve presses his mouth against the mic again, eyes only on the crowd. He lets his words hang, the cheers become feminine, the howls become wanting. He laughs at the reaction. The sound is infectious. The flex of his arms ripples in the lighting. The beauty of his features only melts into the air, cages your lungs, and you see, in the end, just what every girl he takes to bed sees.

Only when he has the crowd in the palm of his hand does he finally introduce himself, “I’m Steve Harrington.”

Your voice joins the screaming chorus and Steve grabs the mic with both hands and shouts, “We’re the Februarys, let’s go!”

No buildup, no anticipation, the band dives right into their first song.

And they’re fucking incredible. They flow together well, losing themselves in the songs and chords they’ve created, and it isn’t their talent that makes you believe they’ll be a sensation one day. It’s the genuine compassion they have for one another on stage.

Steve and Robin trade off on vocals easily, without any mixed cues or forgotten lyrics. Steve never strays away from her during the entire performance, always right next to her, always sharing his mic with her just because he can, because he enjoys her presence.

Mike and Max harmonize and their voices mix so well together that you’re momentarily stunned. During every song Mike plays his chords to Jonathan, always looking to the older boy for a reaction, always eager to please, and Jonathan plays right back to him.

Max and Robin do an intricate handshake between the songs. The quick movement of their hands are a blur on stage but their smiles are vibrant and saturated in clarity.

The Februarys are addicting to watch, they’re indescribable, even, but Steve is too unspoken to even capture on camera.

His body sways with the beat, singing in a whiskey colored tone that hits you like a sucker punch to the heart. The dip of his nose runs against the mic’s edge. The veins in his hands contrasted by the flash of lights.

You take what feels like endless pictures.

Your film roll becomes overwhelmed with images of the crowd, alive and swarming to get closer to the stage. With images of Steve, beautiful and raw. Nancy and her fondness and pride watching Jonathan. Max’s hands interlaced with Robin’s during their handshakes. Robin’s pink streaks in her hair and their vibrancy in the purple light.

More, your body screams at you, humming with the images that you’re aching to capture. More, more, more.

The lights shine down and you crawl over the security barrier, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder. Nancy doesn’t realize what you’re doing until your body is already over the railing. You think she calls out to you, but you’re gone before you can question what the hell you’re doing.

A security guard steps towards you but you quickly flash him the flimsy VIP badge you and Nancy were given when you were placed into the security area.

You press against the edge of the stage with your camera angled up and as close as physically possible to the music.

Steve finds you immediately.

He bends down, peers over the edge of the stage as he continues to sing. He’s dripping in sweat and his t-shirt clings to his wet skin. His chest heaves every lyric and his voice, this close, this full, makes you bite your lip to steady your shaking hands.

“Don’t you know, honey, you can get it so fast?” He sings into the camera, silver chain dangling in front of the lens. He’s close enough for you to smell, to feel the heat of his body as he performs. “But of course, you know it makes no difference to me.”

Steve sings into the camera, looks right through its lens, finds your eyes through its viewfinder.

He’s performing for you.

Only for you.

–

In the dim, cramped hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the main stage, you wait with Nancy after the show. You’re both exhilarated and still riding the post concert high and you’re showing her all your pictures and she’s breathless and her hair is wild and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this type of adrenaline.

A mixture of cheers and celebratory shouts echo down the hall and you hear, before you see, the Februarys returning. They’re equally drunk on the adrenaline that courses through your veins.

“Did you see that?” Mike flies straight to Nancy, a little kid in his older sister’s arms. “I swear, the crowd was a fucking monster.”

Jonathan is by Nancy’s side in an instant, throwing his arms around her and joining Mike’s excited ramblings.

“They were singing our songs!” Robin screeches at the top of her lungs as she runs straight towards you, Max not far behind. “Y/N, did you hear them? God, please tell me you took a picture of the crowd–”

Suddenly you’re weightless, feet lifting from the ground as your body spins recklessly around. You scream, hands clutching your camera in alarm, until a rough and familiar voice kisses into your ear, “Angelface.”

“Steve!” You hit his arms playfully, belly full of laughter. “Put me down!”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night,” his hands slide down your waist and your feet touch the ground once more. “Christ, you look fucking amazing in the purple lights.”

Standing on the tips of your toes, you fix the messy pieces of Steve’s hair. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the entire night, I mean, look,” giddy, you shove a small camera in his face. “I shot some digital, I knew you’d be too impatient for the film to develop. And as much as I hate to admit it, the stage loves you.”

Steve’s mouth parts, momentarily surprised you’ve done this small, unnecessary thing for him. You only agreed to shoot the band in film, that was all they could afford to pay you for, and yet here you are, once again surprising him.

“God, you’re my favorite fucking person ever.” Steve hungrily grabs the device, licking his lips. He flicks through the images in a maddening frenzy and his heartbeat almost deafens his ears. “Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.”

He says it as if to gloat, to exude your talent once more, but deep down, Steve’s stomach twists a feeling he’s never felt before. Screaming crowds and late night lyrics felt cliche, ingenuine, but now looking at the pictures you’ve provided solely for him, this is the first time he’s ever truly felt like a rockstar.

Your perfume invades Steve’s senses. Your cheek presses against his bicep and he can feel your grin. You point to his face in one of the pictures. “You get really red when you perform.”

“I’m going to pretend that’s your poor attempt at flirting with me.”

You laugh. “No, it wasn’t. You get all rosie,” you look up at him and your smile softens slightly, more tender, delicate. “I think it’s cute.”

“Rosie, huh?” Steve’s heartbeat spikes again. The haze your perfume has left him in threatens to overspill into his wandering hands. His eyes wander to your lips; you see it.

“Share with the class, Harrington,” Robin snatches the camera from him. “Quit hogging Y/N’s talent.”

Steve immediately tries to grab the camera, but Robin is fast. She runs to the others, ducks behind Jonathan, and Steve glares at her. “Buckley, I wasn’t done–”

“Let them look, Steve.” Your fingers wrap around his wrist, gently pulling him back. “You’re not the only one paying me, you know.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes, to say that actually your pay comes out of his bank account, but then he sees the pure joy in your eyes as you watch the Februarys pour over the photos. You try to suppress your obvious pride by biting your lip and all arguments die in his throat.

There aren't a lot of pictures, not nearly as many as you’re sure you took on your film camera, but watching the band’s eyes light up as they see your work is like molten chocolate coating your stomach. Syrupy and indulgent and lovely.

“I’m framing this one,” Robin announces, holding the camera up. “Because holy fuck do my tits look great from this angle.”

“Wasn’t my artistic intent, but please feel free to frame your tits.”

Max points to an image of her with her eyes closed, fingers soft and poised over the bass strings. “I look so… holy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way, right?”

“I think so.”

“Good enough for me.”

Mike smacks Jonathan’s shoulder, not even bothering to look up from the camera. “Why the hell did you hide Y/N from us for so long?”

Nancy pinches her brother and Jonathan rubs his sore skin, and while he tries to explain that no, he hadn’t been hiding you this whole time, Steve’s lips graze your head and he wraps himself around you, steadying your body that sways with amused and childish laughter.

–

Life becomes a blur of venues and gigs and flashing lights and developing film and Steve and his lips and soft voice humming to himself most mornings.

He’s always awake before the others. Your habit of working on your film late into the night leaves you the only one up when he rises.

It’s become a sort of tradition, spending quiet mornings together. Steve makes you coffee and goes over the film with you from the night before. When he’s done admiring your work, he prepares a lazy breakfast and you sit at the counter and listen to his soft hums.

“What do you think of the lyric, ‘left for want and wanting’?” Steve asks you one morning, the sizzle of eggs on the greased pan threatening to burn his exposed chest.

“Is it a play on ‘left for want and nothing?’” He nods and you tilt your head. “I think I like it, though Robin might say it’s redundant.”

Steve sighs. “Every time I show her what I’ve written it’s like sophomore English all over again.”

His annoyance makes you laugh, though you do pity him. Following the gig at Higgy's, Steve and the others decided that they needed more than their four original songs. The crowds are getting bigger, demanding more than just covers and a handful of songs.

With this demand came late night bickering between Steve and Robin over lyrics and chord progressions and, more often than not, Mike frantically running down to the apartment at odd times with a line he’s thought of to insist they write it down.

“If it’s any consolation, I like the stuff you guys are coming up with.” Steve and Robin are a good team and Mike’s sudden strikes of inspiration only add to their music. From the little you’ve heard, the new songs are already more mature, even better, than their old ones.

“You’re biased,” Steve sets a plate down in front of you and kisses your cheek. “You’re supposed to like everything I do.”

“The only thing I like about you is your face, rosie.”

Steve snorts, going back to the stove so that Dustin and Robin have their own meals to wake up to, and a comfortable silence falls over the two of you once more.

In the blur of gigs and venues and music comes another blur of barely legal teens and their symphony of adolescence.

Max and Lucas stop by the apartment often with El in tow. Somehow Will and Mike are never far behind despite having their own apartment upstairs.

“Why do you guys always take over my apartment? Why can’t you go upstairs?” You ask the teens, eyeing your kitchen counter that has been buried underneath mounds of school assignments.

“We like it here better.” Will shrugs. “Plus, you and Dustin help us with our work.”

You and Dustin do, unfortunately, enjoy helping them figure out math problems and essays, so you can’t really argue with that logic.

Dustin becomes your accomplice in more than just assignments, though. Being the only one not in the Februarys, he’s your solace when the apartment fills with Mike and Steve arguing with Robin over a chorus or bridge or whatever else they’re stuck on that night.

“If I didn’t enjoy the idea of knowing rockstars, I would’ve moved out by now.” Dustin pounds on his bedroom wall, connected to Robin’s, where yet another argument floods the silence, and shouts, “Knock it off!”

A thud, then a door slams, before Steve comes barreling into the room and collapses at your side. “Robin said I’m trying too hard with my lyrics.”

“Oh, sure, come right in.”

Steve ignores Dustin’s sarcasm and pouts at you. “I mean, can you believe her? Me? Trying too hard?”

Then Robin launches into the room, nearly trips on the wires that litter the floor. “He’s too in his head right now! The songs all sound like slimy poetry!”

You frown. “Isn’t that what songs are–”

“You guys got rid of my seafoam gloom line?” Mike’s agitated voice is the only warning the precedes his stumbling presence into the already overflowing bedroom and yet another argument rises between the three band members.

Dustin is pinching the bridge of his nose and you’re sympathetic to his lost cause of a room. Standing up, you grab his hand. “C’mon, let’s hide out in my room. My door at least has a lock.”

“You’re leaving me?” Steve cries out, betrayed, but his voice is muffled by the door’s closing.

A lot of nights follow a pattern like this, bickering between friends, torn scraps of paper left throughout the apartment, slamming doors and laughter that follows. Sometimes the monotony is broken by Jonathan’s comforting presence helping you develop the film as Nancy brews tea.

Tonight is like any other night. Robin has gone to bed, Mike left with his sister and Jonathan a while ago, Dustin is in his room hunched over a project for school, and Steve is in your bed, tired fingers plucking over guitar strings as you go over your photos from a gig the night before.

Along the walls of your room are a series of photos, some film, some digital, varying in size and shape. Though some of the images are from recent performances, most aren’t even of the Februarys themselves.

One photo is of Dustin laughing about something with Will. There’s a few of Max, one with her hand shyly clasped in Lucas’ as they watch a movie. Multiple images are of Robin and Steve, always eager to pose for you whenever your camera is near. Nancy, her beautiful side profile admiring Jonathan.

Your room has become a collection of images of everyone you love, and slowly, it becomes Steve’s room, too.

He tells you he prefers your room over his because it’s cleaner, though really you know it’s because he also enjoys being surrounded by everyone he loves.

Soft acoustic notes float through the room. The silence is comfortable, as it always is with Steve. His eyes are closed and he simply plays whatever comes to mind. He’s the most at ease when he’s playing music, and truthfully, tucked in your bed with his hair framing his face, you think he’s the most beautiful this way.

“I have a question.” Steve rolls his head to look at you. The song he’s playing doesn’t waver and this act of talent, albeit small, still amazes you.

“When don’t you have a question?”

He pokes your thigh. “Be nice, it’s a serious question.”

Placing your film down, you give him your attention. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s up?”

Steve places his guitar down and rolls onto his side. He stares up with tired eyes and he hesitates for a moment. Opens his mouth, closes it, looks away.

“Steve?” You don’t like the uncharacteristic hesitancy.

Sighing, he faces you again. “Why did you take this job?”

Your confusion must spill over your face because Steve inhales and tries again, tries to articulate something that you can tell has been bothering him for a while. “What I mean is, why did you decide to put your faith in the band? Work for shit pay, live with complete strangers? Aren’t you, I don’t know, worried that we’ve somehow jeopardized your career by making you stay?”

A part of you wants to deflect, to make a joke about how you never really had a career anyways. Except Steve is looking up at you and you see a flicker of insecurity in his eyes, doubt that has never been there before.

“Because,” you tell him, easily and without any doubt yourself. “One day everyone will know your name. You’ll be known as Steve Harrington, lead member of the Februarys, a band that will be remembered for generations to come.”

You reach out, tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear. “And, selfishly, I want to be a part of the history you make. Even if only as the photographer.”

“You really believe that?” His golden smile is bashful.

“I do,” your lips fall to his cheek, a fluttering reassurance. “The Februarys, you guys are special. There’s something in your band. Something good. I can feel it.”

Steve grabs your ankle, skims the flesh there with the pad of his thumb. He watches himself trace your skin, smiling still golden and youthful. “I can feel it, too,” he admits to you as if it’s a secret. “Thank you, you know. For believing in us.”

Removing your ankle from his grasp, you curl your body into itself, falling against his chest, forgetting about the photos and guitar and simply laying on him. Listening to his heartbeat. Music somehow innate within him.

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.”

Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm.

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it.

But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well.

–

After a month of multiple arguments, insults, tears, midnight snack runs, and emotional outbursts, the Februarys’ EP, creatively titled The Februarys, is finished.

“You agonize over these songs for weeks on end and then you name the EP The Februarys?” Dustin makes a face. “Were you too burnt out to think of anything better?”

Robin throws a pillow at him and Steve has to leave the room before he screams.

“Is now a bad time to ask how you guys plan on recording an EP without, you know, a studio or any connections to a studio?” The death glare Robin sends you immediately shuts you up. “Yeah, okay. Bad time.”

The dilemma of not having a studio or even a record label to help produce the EP is quickly solved by the grace of one Jonathan Byers.

“Okay, I have a plan.” He sits everyone down a few nights later, looking like King Arthur at the head of the round table. “I can get us into a studio.”

Max tips her chair back and crosses her arms. “If it involves anything illegal, I’m out. My mom said I can’t keep abusing the family lawyer.”

“You have a family lawyer?”

“Focus, Y/N.” A pen gets thrown at you and Jonathan sets his gaze on Max. “And no, it isn’t illegal. Technically.”

“I’m listening.” Mike leans forward in his seat.

Nancy frowns. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

You nod in agreement, eyeing her brother, to which he scoffs at you both.

Jonathan either doesn’t see this or he simply doesn’t care. “Do you guys remember my old coworker Argyle? It was back when I worked at that deli on fifth.”

Everyone nods, you included. You vaguely remember the stories Jonathan told you about his time at the deli. It was run by an old man who didn’t care about labor rights but in a way that only benefited the employees. Unlimited breaks, a disregard for public health codes, and free food if you worked overtime.

You never set foot in that deli for obvious reasons, though Jonathan loved every second of it.

“Well, turns out he managed to bypass mandatory state drug tests and got a job working security at Major Tom’s.”

A lot of things happen at once.

Robin, who had taken a poorly timed sip of her water, spits it out all over Steve. Cringing at the attack, his knee hits the table, eliciting a pathetic yelp from him. Mike slams his hand on the table and screams something about fate, and Max, who had been tempting the limits of how far her chair could tip back, is so surprised by the news that she leans too far and ends up on the floor.

“Oh, Jesus.” In dire need of damage control, you quickly stand up and help Max off the ground. On your way you toss a roll of paper towels to Steve and tell him to clean himself up.

“Major Tom’s?” He screeches, a wet paper towel hanging from his face.

Jonathan gulps, nods. “Yeah.”

Robin’s rapid breathing borders on hyperventilating and Mike and Max are in stunned awe. Meanwhile, you’re getting ice from the freezer to ease the sting of the girl’s fall, completely caught off guard by everyone’s startled reactions.

“In fear of looking like a moron,” you hand the ice to Max. “What the hell is Major Tom’s?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, just the most culturally significant recording studio in the world.” Steve sputters a laugh. “It’s where every fucking rock band who’s recorded there becomes a household legend.”

You sit back down. “Oh, so this is like. A pretty big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Robin exclaims. She clasps her hands in front of Jonathan, goes flying to her knees before him. “Byers, light of my life, love of my beloved Nancy Wheeler, apple of my sour eye, please, for the love of god, talk to Argyle.”

He gently grabs her arm and forces her back into her seat. “I thought I told you to stop begging for things like that. It creeps me out.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“Nancy said I need to work on expressing how I’m feeling, and I really dislike that you continue to do something that makes me feel–”

Now it’s Max’s hand that slams down on the table. “Hey! Assholes! Can we go back to Argyle finally being useful?”

“I’ve always thought he was useful.”

“You’re about to be banned from this conversation, Y/N.”

Steve, who has been shockingly quiet throughout all of this, calmly says, “Byers, you need to talk to Argyle.”

“That’s the thing.” Jonathan leans his weight against the table, crosses his arms in a smug manner. He looks around at everyone and shrugs. “I already did. He agreed to sneak us into the studio for three days. For free.”

This time there’s an even bigger reaction and it isn’t until hours later, deep into night with Steve staring up at your bedroom ceiling, does the adrenaline finally die down.

Argyle’s deal with Jonathan is simple. The Februarys get three straight days of studio time. That’s all he can afford to give them before he risks his own job. All they have to do is record, edit, and mix eight songs in three days.

All for the price of Jonathan’s film canister so that he can sneak weed to work.

And while the three day limit seems impossible, it’s more than enough for the band. This is too big of an opportunity to fuck up. They’ll stay up those entire three days, work themselves to the brink of death, if it means that they finally have a chance.

Which is ultimately what ends up happening.

A maddening rush settles into the band’s veins and they spend the rest of the night drawing up a plan.

Day one will be recording all eight songs. Steve won’t say a single word unless needed so that he can preserve his voice. Extra guitar strings will be stashed in Robin’s bag. Bandaids. Aspirin, whatever they can possibly need. No one leaves the studio until the final lyric has been sung and the final chord has faded.

Day two will be the production day. With Mike and Steve mixing the songs, they’ll be at the mercy of Robin, Max, and Jonathan. Everyone gets a say in what happens. Every soundbite, every amplification of bass or keyboard gets approved by everyone. If they don’t agree with each other, they get one veto each. That’s it. There won’t be any time for arguing or stale compromises.

Day three, the final day, will be the last minute edits. They’ll re-record if needed. Change a progression or note. It has to be perfect; it has to feel perfect. There is no other option.

“We’ll see you and Dustin in a few days.” Steve throws a few more things into his bag. He’s called a taxi that will be at the apartment any minute. “I’ll leave some cash so you guys can order out. Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

Dustin looks offended. “Why are you making it sound like Y/N is my babysitter?”

“Because technically she is.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Which puts the ‘baby’ in ‘babysitter’.”

“Not to interrupt this groundbreaking conversation but,” your bag, which you’d been hiding behind your back since coming into Steve’s room, lands on the bed beside his. “I’m coming with you, Harrington.”

Both Steve and Dustin look at you as if you’re insane.

“You’re leaving me all alone for three days?”

“Thought you didn’t need a babysitter, Henderson?” Dustin closes his mouth and glares at you. Meanwhile, you flash Steve a wide smile. “Any complaints from you?”

“No,” there’s still an odd look on his face. “I mean, definitely not. I get you for three straight days? Heaven. I just… we can’t pay you for whatever pictures you take. It isn’t in our budget. You know that, right?”

“Keep your money,” Steve’s concern of valuing your work melts your skin. “I meant what I told you. I want to be a part of your history. And your first recording session at Major Tom’s? That’s history, rosie.”

Early morning sunlight streaks the hardwood floor of Steve’s room. His guitar is packed away in its case. His bag overflows with more than he probably needs. He’s kneeling on his bed, one leg in front of you, body angled towards yours, and the raw and vulnerable way his eyes soften when he looks at you, it’s worth more than anything he could ever pay you.

“Taxi’s here!” Robin bangs on the doorframe. “Let’s go, wombats.”

Steve tosses your bag and grabs your hand, spinning you as he tugs you out the door. You’re used to his boyish antics by now, but still you laugh like a schoolgirl and follow him wherever.

“So I’m really gonna be alone for three days?” Dustin calls out, following right behind.

“I’ll call Luas and have him stay with you.” You placate. “And Steve will leave even more money for food.”

“No I won’t–”

“Bye, Dustin!” You kiss his head, ruffle his hair, and then extend your arm out towards Steve, palm facing up, expectant. “Cough it up.”

His amused smile betrays his downturned eyebrows. “Why do you treat me like the bank?” “You grew up rich. This is financial compensation for everyone who is poor.”

Dustin nods. “Yeah. It’s economics.”

Steve sighs, knowing he won’t win this fight, and hands the kid an extra five dollars on top of the twenty he’s already left on the counter. “I hate you both.”

“Guys!” Robin’s scream can be heard from the street below. She’s outside the taxi now and her glare can be felt from six stories up. “Let’s. Go.”

“That’s our cue.” Steve grabs your hand, cocks his head at you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

–

Major Tom’s recording studio is deep in the West Village. A few blocks away resides the Hudson. The building itself is small, no more than five floors, yet it’s a maze within its lush walls. Deep red lines the velvet walls. Amber wood flooring, gold plated chandeliers, and records spanning decades.

Similar to Higgy's, so much history can be felt within the walls. Icons from eras passed, their music transcending their vitality.

No one has time to admire the studio’s beauty, though. The second Argyle sneaks everyone inside, they scatter like bugs. Steve runs straight to the first recording booth he finds. Jonathan grabs a drum set base, Max digs through drawers for music stands, and Mike and Robin pick at a locked door to see what’s inside, hoping for at least a few mics.

Knowing better than to get in their way, you stay back. Keep to the shadows in their chaos. All you do is silently take pictures, documenting it all.

Before you know it the band has managed to cram their way into the booth and they’re performing the first song in minutes. Seeing them working together so fluidly is beautiful. Argyle, with limited knowledge of how music production works, monitors the soundboard.

Despite the time constraints and the pressure to get everything right in just one take, Steve performs every song as if he has all the time in the world.

His smooth voice and dropped vowels coat the soft hums of Robin. He moves slowly, his eyes closed for every song. He gets lost in the music and you get lost watching him.

The Februarys finish recording all their songs right as the sun starts to set. By this point, Steve’s voice is raw and the flesh of Max’s fingertips and Mike’s palms are cut up and bleeding. Jonathan has splinters from his drumsticks. Robin’s feet ache from standing.

But they’ve never been more alive.

They talk over each other and surround the soundboard, itching to hear what’s been captured and even more anxious to pick it apart and stitch it back together again.

Throughout the night they tear over melodies and chords. They work until they can hardly keep their eyes open, and still they insist on listening over and over again to the songs. Late into night they take turns sleeping, never allowing for more than two of them to sleep at the same time in fear of losing daylight.

The second day follows this pattern. By the end of the night, they can feel the exhaustion in their bones. And yet, despite this, there has never been more laughter, more quips and tears and sentimental smiles, between them.

The third day is slower, easier. The final stretch. Somehow they manage to stay on track and with only a few more songs to finalize, the energy in the room shifts. The once manic, frenzied static that coated the room becomes mellow, calm, like quiet acceptance.

“We’re really good.” Steve murmurs to you, resting his head beside yours against the wall. He was forced to take a break a while ago and sits down next to you on the ground.

“You are.” Though you’re not sure if you’re affirming a belief of doubt or a belief of quality. “Everything you’ve done is incredible.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice thick with tears. “We’re really good.”

In his brown eyes you see a dream being fulfilled. A realization that more will come from this. That years of sleepless nights and strained vocal cords has amended him this: a quiet moment between childhood friends getting everything they’ve ever wanted.

The final song plays over the speakers. There isn’t a breath released during its entirety. Robin's keynote fades. The key evokes an image of goodbye. The clapping that follows from behind you evokes terror.

Everyone turns around. The room stills.

Leonard Branham, manager and producer of Major Tom’s, stands in the doorway.

He’s a short man, more belly than body. His white hair is almost translucent against his pale skin. Large sunglasses rest on his veiny head. A cigarette dangles from his wrinkled mouth and when he smiles, his teeth are yellowed, aged.

“Well, what do we have here?”

Steve is the first to react, scrambling to his feet. “Mr. Branham, sir, I–”

“Do not.”

The silence turns into terror. For three days the Februarys have been using the studio without explicit permission. They snuck in through the backdoor and illegally used equipment worth thousands.

And now, just as they’ve completed their mad dash to the finish line, the owner of Major Tom’s has caught them, quite literally, red handed.

Maybe Max’s family lawyers will be useful.

“Mr. Leonard, uh. Branham. Sir. Sorry, do I call you sir?” Robin’s squeaky voice of fear rings in your ears. “I-okay. Not important. Can I just ask you not to arrest us–”

“Please don’t arrest us. My sister will kill me and she’s really annoying–”

“I know a good lawyer.”

“God, my dad is an asshole and I know I’m twenty-four but he’s fucking terrifying and–”

“My step dad is a cop, I know my rights–”

Leonard hands up his hands and his loud voice booms, “Enough!”

Silence. Pure, utter silence.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man puffs out smoke. Flicks the ash onto the expensive carpet like it’s nothing. “You’re not getting arrested, alright? I’ve known you were using my studio since the first day your asses got here. Your little friend over here,” he waves his cigarette at Argyle. “Can’t keep a secret to save his chubby little life.”

“It’s true, dudes.”

Steve’s mouth tightens. “So we’re… fine?”

“Fine?” Leonard cackles. “I don’t know, boy. You tell me!”

“Full transparency, sir, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.”

Leonard exhales more smoke. “Now that, my boy, better be the nerves talking. I don’t sign druggies to the label. It’s a bad image when they kneel over and I’m the one managing them.”

Steve pales and for a split second you really do think he’s having a heart attack. “I-I’m sorry. Did you say sign?”

“Told you. I’ve known you were here the entire time. I have cameras. This equipment cost more than my third fucking divorce.” Leonard kicks at a speaker and huffs. “But that’s besides the point. I’m here because I like you guys. Your songs sound like the colors blue and yellow and I fucking love that they make green. You understand?”

Robin laughs nervously. “Can’t really say I do. Personally.”

“Christ, doesn’t anyone listen these days?” Leonard flicks ash off his cigarette and stares at the group. “I’m giving you guys a chance. I want you to join my label. Is that English enough for you?”

Mike screams. Full on, knees to the ground, screams. Max isn’t any better, joining him immediately and grabbing onto his body to try and support her own failing one.

Robin’s eyes roll back and she nearly faints. Jonathan has to be the one to catch her, because Steve just stands there, eyes wide, shell shocked and unmoving. His entire body tenses up and you wouldn’t be surprised if ends up fainting as well.

In the midst of everyone’s overwhelmed reactions, you’re the only one coherent enough to step forward and shake Leonard’s extended hand.

“I hear you loud and clear, Lenny.” He smiles, impressed with the confidence to call him by his name. “The Februarys will happily sign with you.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Leonard clasps his hand over your intertwined ones, shaking it aggressively.

A weight gets thrown upon you and Steve’s arms tear you from Leonard. He clings onto you from behind, nearly sending you to the floor, as he laughs and cries and screams. He’s in your arms and around your waist and in your neck and your stomach and he’s swallowed entirely by the bliss that erupts in the room.

The beginning of it all.

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slitherss · 5 months ago

Text

Little Lies

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem! Reader

Summary: James asks Sirius and Y/n to pretend to date after he blurts out they are to Lily.

Word Count: 11.4k

Warnings: smut 18+, male masturbation, oral fem receiving, fingering, unprotected sex (pls be so careful!), reader wears a bikini top, and jealousy

A/N 💌 Hope you all enjoy this; it's been my baby for a while!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I may have severely fucked up.” James sighs, his features tight with guilt as he stands before you. His chest is heaving like he has run all the way to you—it’s a likely theory.

Remus glances up from beside you; the two of you had been buried in your homework in the common room when James came racing in. He’s disappointed that James has disrupted the productive atmosphere. There’s no way that you or Remus will be continuing to work on your essays.

His admission doesn’t surprise you; James has come to you countless times seeking assistance after making a mistake. Being best friends since you were born, you’ve grown accustomed to being the one to untangle his messes.

Your parents were best friends, which meant that you and James were also raised to be. There wasn’t a memory that you could recall that James wasn’t in. It ended up working; to both of your mum’s excitement, you and James were inseparable. As the levelheaded one between you, you often found yourself trailing after James, tasked with picking up the pieces.

It was in the aftermath of pranks spiraling out of control, times when he impulsively voiced things he really shouldn’t have, or instances when he procrastinated excessively on his work, inevitably turning to you for help with his essays. Surprisingly, it’s become almost amusing to you, a reliable routine in your friendship.

You undeniably held the title of James Potter’s best friend.

Your eyes narrow skeptically, folding your arms over your chest, “Define severely.”

His demeanor turns sheepish as he nervously rubs the back of his neck, his gaze drifting away from you. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, “I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“You’re not starting off strong.” You snark, an amused smile finding its way onto your lips. Remus chuckles next to you.

“Y/n.” James sighs, his expression urging you to stop your teasing.

“James.” You mimic.

He shoots you a glare, eyes narrowed in mock irritation, “Lily and I were chatting, like really chatting,” He begins, sighing obnoxiously as he settles into the chair opposite you, his expression a grimace. “She told me why she hasn’t taken me seriously when I flirt with her.”

You pause, confusion etching into your features, “And where exactly did you severely fuck up?”

“She thought we were a couple.” He says, his hands gesturing wildly between the two of you, his expression a mix of incredulity and amusement. “Can you believe that? You and me?”

You can believe that, actually. You and James have been mistaken for a couple more times than you can count. Even your parents were convinced the two of you would end up together. While you had told them it wasn’t going to happen, you were convinced they were still holding out hope.

You furrow your brows as you watch him a tad uneasy, “Okay, and where did you severely fuck up in this?”

“I panicked, okay?” James looks guilty when he blurts this out. He nearly shouts it, and Remus hushes him. “She said it wasn’t fair for me to flirt with her because of you. She didn’t want your feelings to be hurt and wouldn’t listen when I said we were just friends. And I panicked.”

“Mate, get to the bloody point.” Remus huffs out, tired of James dragging out the story. Nothing bothered Remus more than when James or Sirius took an eternity to get to the point of their story.

“I told her you’re dating Sirius.” James grimaces, shifting nervously.

“What?” You hiss, your palms smacking onto the table, causing James to flinch, “Have you taken too many hits to the head? James, we are not dating!”

James protests, panicking, “But Lily doesn’t know that! If you two could just pretend-“

“No, absolutely not! That is going too far.” You snap, sending James a frustrated look, while Remus is chuckling to himself next to you.

“Y/n, please. This could be it! My chance with Lily!” James pleads. He’s desperate to try and salvage the plan he had put all his hopes on.

“Starting your new relationship with a lie, are we?” You snap, massaging at your temples. Most of the stress is from spending too many hours studying, but James is undoubtedly making it worse.

James shrugs, a mischievous smirk starting to form, “Well, not really. You and Sirius already flirt a lot. It’s not that far off from the truth.”

James was well aware of your feelings for Sirius; he had watched how you nervously stumbled over your words the first day you met Sirius. He had never seen you like that before, eyes lit up with inflation at first glance.

While he occasionally teased you about it, he understood that what you felt for Sirius was deeper than just a crush. Though you would never admit it out loud.

Your frustration grows, “It absolutely is far off from the truth. Lily probably didn’t even believe you! There’s no evidence for her to believe the idea that we are together.” You cry, disbelief evident in your voice. James’s casual attitude only adds to your frustration. He doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

Remus interjects, an amused scoff escaping him, “There’s evidence to believe it.”

“Are you joking?” You deadpan, your voice full of incredulity. Remus sends you a teasing smirk. He considers how Sirius flirts with you more than anyone else, but he doesn’t want to deal with Sirius furious at him.

Ever since you met Sirius, you have had a crush on him. Realistically, you knew it was pointless; Sirius had a fan club of admirers. So, you counted yourself lucky that you were one of his closest friends. Being his friend was manageable, and quite honestly, kept your expectations in check.

But Sirius acting like he had feelings for you? You wouldn’t handle that well.

James interjects, “Lily believed it. She even said she wasn’t surprised.”

“But she thought you and I were together?” You ask, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Your tone was snippier than you intended, but you could feel the stress building. The mere thought of pretending to be with Sirius made you feel nauseous.

“She might’ve just been jealous, wanting to know if you had feelings for James before she finally goes for him.” Remus says casually, and James’ eyes light up in excitement.

James is positively giddy as he leans forward, “You think she was jealous?”

“Does Sirius even know?” You interrupt, catching James’s eye. He glances at Remus, clearly hoping to hear more about Lily’s supposed jealousy.

James shakes his head, and you scoff, opening your mouth to enlighten James on why you think this is a bad idea. Before you can say anything, Remus cuts you off, “Here’s your chance to tell him.”

You glance up to see Sirius walking through the library, and you resist letting out a lovesick sigh at how effortlessly handsome he is.

Your stomach plummets at the sight of a stunning girl effortlessly chatting with him. His laughter rings out, causing unease to settle in your stomach.

If he was close enough, you probably would’ve tried to eavesdrop.

Despite not knowing her name, you know she’s a Gryffindor; you’ve seen her in the common room. James nudges you, and when you glance at him, he sends you a knowing look.

“Glad to see you guys are having study dates without Peter and me.” Sirius calls, settling into the seat next to James and patting him on the shoulder in greeting.

Relief washes over you as you notice that the girl who was with him a second ago is long gone. He glances over at you, and pauses in surprise at your disgruntled expression, “You okay?”

Remus chuckles at the question, finding the harsh look you shoot James hilarious. It’s clear that he’s finding this entire situation entertaining.

“Ask James about what he told Lily.” You say, voice strained with irritation. James sends Sirius a nervous smile, and Sirius looks at him oddly.

“What’d you do?”

Sirius asks, his eyes darting back to you, taking note of your frustrated expression. Your stomach tightens with nerves, scared of Sirius’ reaction. Remus leans back in his chair, excited to see how this will all play out.

“Lily and I were talking today,” James sighs, “and she wouldn’t stop going on about how she thinks Y/n is in love with me and that it’s not fair for me to flirt with her because I could be hurting her.”

“She thinks I’m in love with you?” You shriek, oblivious to the barely visible flinch on Sirius’ face at James’ words. Remus catches it, his grin getting bigger.

James ignores you, “Anyways, I said that it’s not a problem because you and Y/n are dating.” James finishes cautiously, his gaze locked on Sirius, curious for his reaction. Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes fixed intently on Sirius, awaiting his reaction as well.

“You told Lily that Y/n’s my girl?” Sirius inquires casually, causing your stomach to somersault at his words. You force yourself to focus on James instead of the warmth creeping into your skin.

“I panicked, and that’s what came out. So, if you guys could pretend you’re madly in love, that would be great!” James claps his hands together, and you feel the urge to wack him. You’re prepared to snap at him, to explain why asking this of you both isn’t right.

But then Sirius shrugs, “Sure, shouldn’t be too hard, right, sweet girl?” He says, and your legs feel like jelly.

You’re floundering, not having expected Sirius to agree. He’s never maintained a steady relationship, so pretending that he’s dating you is a big ask. His agreement sends your mind spiraling with different scenarios. For a brief second, you wonder if he agrees so easily because he has feelings for you. But you quickly shut down that thought.

You’re delusional. You truly are.

“Sure, that shouldn’t be too bad.” You agree, hoping you appear casual about this.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I need you two to amp it up. Lily is eating breakfast with us today.” James directs, causing you to glance up from your breakfast, disbelief etched into your features. He takes a bite of bacon and casually observes you as though his request is perfectly normal.

“We’ve switched spots, is that not enough for you?” You ask sarcastically, and Remus shakes his head, wearing an entertained smile as he continues eating breakfast. He can tell you’re panicking about pretending to be with Sirius; it’s painfully obvious to everyone at the table.

You’re usually seated between James and Peter, but when you attempted to slide into the seat this morning, James slammed his hand down on the seat and instructed you to sit next to your boyfriend, wearing a smug smile. Peter snorted softly but quickly replaced it with a sympathetic smile, silently apologizing for his reaction.

“I mean, we all know Sirius is into PDA, and you look terrified to even be sitting next to him.” Peter points out, and you find yourself scrabbling.

Were you two supposed to be super affectionate? Would Sirius find it weird if you initiated it? Questions are flooding your mind leaving you feeling overwhelmed.

“I am not terrified. I just don’t know how to act.” You insist.

“Act like you’re in love with him; it shouldn’t be too hard, right?” James quips, earning a glare from you. He responds with a playful wink.

“The boys are right. You need to sit closer to me.” Sirius declares as his arm slips around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You squeak his name in surprise, flustered at how easily he moves you. The boys chuckle at your bewildered expression, finding your embarrassment hilarious.

You feel disappointed when he releases you. Even more so when he doesn’t pull you flush against him. Instead, your shoulder to shoulder, the distance between you both feeling more pronounced than ever.

“I’m still waiting on the PDA.” Remus says with a playful smirk; his eyes are full of mischief when you glance at him.

You elbow Remus in the side, and he playfully nudges you back, causing you to bump into Sirius’ side. Sirius surprises you by wrapping his arm around you, keeping you against him while playfully calling out, “Oi, back off, mate.” Being pressed against his side causes warmth to spread through you as you lean further into him.

James watches as Sirius’s cheeks flush, a soft smile on his face as he gazes down at you. You appear flustered but content, being so close to him, and James can’t help but grin at the two of you.

“We’re not going to be all over each other.” You say, attempting to distract yourself from the fact that you’re pushed up against Sirius.

“Why not?” James leans forward with a grin, clearly finding everything about this entertaining. “That is what most couples do. Plus, Sirius openly flirts with everyone. But he won’t kiss his own girlfriend? It’s not believable.”

“Merlin, we should have talked about this last night.” You mumble under your breath, and Sirius chuckles beside you. He’s entirely at ease. It doesn’t seem like he has any worries about pretending to be your boyfriend. With that observation, you try not to let your worries spiral out of control.

“Listen, we can do whatever you’re comfortable with. If you don’t want to kiss, then we don’t have to,” Sirius tells you gently, “but it would be sort of odd for us not to be somewhat affectionate.”

The last thing he wants to do is make you feel uncomfortable. But there’s a rush of exhilaration at the thought of holding you close and calling you pet names that were once off-limits. And the thought of possibly kissing you?

Surviving that would be inconceivable for him.

“You’re right,” You nod. “Let’s just start off slow. It will be weird if we’re all over each other today when we didn’t even sit together yesterday.”

“Yeah, yeah! Flirt, be a little touchy, throw some cute pet names in here, will you, Sirius?” James calls out with great enthusiasm. You send him a look that you hope he understands as shut the fuck up. He doesn’t acknowledge your discomfort. Instead, he makes a heart shape with his hands, which adds to your annoyance.

Sirius presses a quick kiss to your temple, “Fuck off, mate. I know how to flirt with my girlfriend, right baby?” You freeze, your eyes widening in disbelief, while the boys laugh at your reaction. How exactly were you supposed to survive this?

You fall into a comfortable silence, happy to enjoy your breakfast as James issues his warnings to the boys, ensuring they behave themselves. Remus, with a subtle eye roll, acknowledges James’s words while Peter nods emphatically in agreement. While, Sirius simply outlines every embarrassing memory he plans to share with Lily.

“Y/n, get your man in check.” James complains in mock irritation, throwing a grape at Sirius, who dodges it.

“Good morning.” Lily greets quietly. You all turn to see her approaching, her expression a mix of embarrassment and hesitance, as if she’s debating whether to turn around and go to her usual spot down the table.

James abruptly stands up, his hip thumping into the table. He stifles a wince, trying to maintain his composure as he greets Lily, who tries unsuccessfully to suppress a smile at his reaction. Remus cringes and turns back to his breakfast, unable to look at James.

“Y’ready for this?” Sirius leans in, his voice lowered to a hushed tone meant only for you, effectively pulling you away from eavesdropping on James and Lily’s conversation. You glance up at him, surprised to find you’re a mere inches away from him.

You’re so close that you could individually count each of his eyelashes if you wanted.

You still feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, creating an intimate connection between the both of you.

It feels like a magnetic pull draws you closer, tempting you to tilt your head forward and touch his lips with yours. The urge to kiss him is so strong that it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You clear your throat, attempting to push the thought from your mind. “I think so. We’re newly dating, so don’t go overboard with it.” You remind him, a gentle smile playing on your lips.

“When have I ever gone overboard with anything in my life?” The smile he gives you is teasing, and it makes your heart pound to have him this close, his eyes sparkling as he smiles at you.

You hum softly in response, “I can think of quite a few times.”

His voice carries a flirtatious tone, “Can you?”

“Good morning, Lily.” Peter’s gentle voice steals your attention away from Sirius. Disappointment and longing settle in his stomach as he watches you pull away and turn to greet Lily, that sweet smile now directed at her.

Lily settles between Peter and James. For a quick second, you feel a pang of jealousy because that’s your spot. But when you notice James’s pink cheeks and flustered expression, you forget all about it. All you want for James is for him to be happy, and having Lily near seems to do just that.

Breakfast goes smoothly. Lily fits seamlessly into your group, and you can tell it makes James giddy. He doesn’t even mind not getting to talk to Lily much. He simply enjoys seeing the girl he’s so hopelessly infatuated with getting along so well with his best friends.

You and Sirius aren’t acting much differently than you normally do, just sitting close to each other and chatting. However, when Lily turns to you and Sirius, a wave of nervousness washes over you.

“I was so excited to hear you guys were together!”

“Oh yeah? So you can finally go for James with a clear conscience?” Sirius grins, teasing Lily, who looks thoroughly embarrassed. You nudge Sirius in the side, and he responds by giving your hip a gentle squeeze. James sends Sirius an incredulous look, which he pointedly ignores. While Remus and Peter chuckle at the playful banter.

Lily tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and clears her throat; her cheeks tinged with a hint of pink. “Uh, no, just that you two have obviously had feelings for each other for years. Everyone knew.”

You’re at a loss for words. Is that really what people thought? Clearly, they read you right, but you weren’t sure what to think about Sirius having feelings for you. Maybe he did, or maybe they were mistaking it for how he constantly flirted with you. But that was just how Sirius was; it didn’t necessarily mean he had romantic feelings for you.

“Haven’t gotten her out of my head since the day I met her.” Sirius says casually, his right elbow resting on the table as he pops a piece of bacon into his mouth. His other arm remains securely wrapped around your waist, holding you close to his side with a gentle yet firm embrace.

You look at him in shock, your eyes widening at his unexpected confession. Even the boys look slightly startled at Sirius’ words, their eyes darting between you and him.

“That’s so sweet.” Lily says softly, her eyes glowing with genuine happiness as she sends you a warm smile. The sight tugs at your heartstrings but also stirs up guilt in the pit of your stomach. Lying always made you feel uneasy like a weight was pressing down on your chest.

“Sirius, I can’t believe you thought that she—“Lily begins, her voice trailing off as James interjects, his interruption tinged with a hint of urgency.

“Okay, love! I think I should walk you to class, don’t y’think?” James stands up from the table, extending his hand towards Lily.

Lily looks slightly confused, but she takes his hand nonetheless. As they walk away, James glances back and sends a wink in Sirius’ direction. Your attention immediately shifts to Sirius, curiosity written all over your face as you’re about to ask about Lily’s interrupted comment.

Sirius cuts you off before you can ask, shaking his head with a gentle smile and flushed cheeks, “Don’t even bother asking; I’m not telling you what she was talking about.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You’re curled up next to Peter on the common room couch, both of you chatting quietly together. For the last twenty minutes, he has been feeding you details about the Ravenclaw girl he has a crush on. He’s sworn you to secrecy. Hoping for your advice on asking her out without enduring the teasing of the rest of the Marauders. Your gasp of excitement nearly gives away the secret, but you quickly compose yourself, offering a reassuring smile to Peter.

“Who is she?” You ask, excitement laced in your voice, but Peter sends you an apprehensive look.

“I’m going to keep that to myself. Your squeal almost let the boys know..” He teases, though his tone also carries a note of seriousness.

A laugh escapes you, “I promise when you’re ready to tell me I’ll be so careful about keeping it a secret.”

“Oi! Are you two sharing secrets over there?” James calls out, his voice immensely curious. He’s sat with his back to the flickering flames, his palms flat against the floor as he leans back on them. Peter tenses beside you, but you maintain an easy smile. Remus and Sirius are lounging in the armchairs nearby, their attention piqued by the exchange.

“All my deepest darkest secrets.” You tease, flashing James a grin. He furrows his brow and sits up, clearly riled up by your response.

“Y/n, as your best friend, I better know all these secrets.” James lips are pouted, his expression tinged with a hint of concern, as if he’s genuinely worried that you and Peter are sharing secrets that he doesn’t know.

James has always been fiercely protective of your friendship. Despite being close to the boys, your bond with James was stronger. There was nothing that the two of you didn’t confide in each other; he honestly did know all your secrets.

“You do.” You smile reassuringly, and James’s expression breaks into a satisfied grin.

The boys continue their soft conversation by the crackling fire, the warm glow casting flickering shadows across the room, while you and Peter sit in comfortable silence. Both of you are lost in thought as you relax in the cozy atmosphere.

After stifling a good five yawns, you glance at the time and decide it’s probably best to head to your room, the quiet of the common room signaling just how late it had gotten.

You inch closer to Peter, before finding the courage to lean over and envelop him in a friendly hug, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.

He’s momentarily taken aback, his body tenses at your touch, but soon he relaxes, reciprocating by wrapping you in his arms. It’s a gesture that feels somewhat out of character for you, but after he trusted you with his secret, it seems like the most natural thing to do, a silent affirmation of support for him.

“I think I’m going to go to bed.” You tell him softly, “But I promise we’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“I’d like that.” He smiles at you as you pull away. You grab your bag and make your way in the direction of the stairs.

“Goodnight boys!” You call out softly over your shoulder before disappearing up the stairs. Sirius watches you go, his gaze lingering on your figure, his thoughts full of you long after you’ve left the room.

Ever since you moved to hug Peter, his eyes have been on you, curiosity and jealousy settling in his stomach.

“Why the hell did you get a hug?” Sirius asks, his tone laced with bitterness as his gaze shifts to Peter, who appears taken aback by Sirius’ sudden question. Remus and James exchange amused glances, before they refocus their attention on Peter, waiting expectantly for an explanation to ease the tension.

“I don’t know, she just hugged me.” Peter squirms uncomfortably in his seat, his confidence quickly dwindling as he’s put on the spot.

Sirius nods slowly, his lips pursing in contemplation. His carefully measured tone betrays the longing and a hint of possessiveness that he struggles to conceal, “What were you guys talking about over there?”

Remus interjects with a teasing tone, “Careful, Pads. You sound jealous.” A playful glint dances in his eyes as he notices Sirius’ furrowed brows and the discontent on his face.

“He’s got the boyfriend role down.” James quips, and Sirius sends them both a glare.

“I’m not jealous,” Sirius repeats quite grumpily. “I just don’t understand why Peter got a hug, and we didn’t.”

James barks out a laugh while Remus shakes his head, a chuckle escaping him in sheer disbelief.

“You’re jealous because you have feelings for her.” James states matter-of-factly.

Sirius begins to shake his head in denial, but Remus promptly interjects, his voice firm and unwavering, “’ Haven’t gotten her out of my head since the day I met her.’ What the fuck was that then?” Remus repeats Sirius’ words from the other day, perfectly mimicking his tone.

James bursts into laughter, the sound hearty and infectious, while Peter offers a small smile, observing Sirius as he struggles to respond.

“Not to mention, you’ve been staring Peter down ever since Y/n touched him.” Remus remarks while Sirius gazes blankly at him, his expression unreadable as he nervously chews on his bottom lip.

“You really have.” Peter adds with a grimace.

“You like her, mate.” Remus concludes, his words carrying a sense of finality that lingers in the air.

Sirius sighs heavily.

The conversation weighs heavily on him as he sinks down in the armchair, his brow furrowed in deep thought. The boys’ words replay in his mind. He was jealous, and he did like you. He already knew all of this. But he had always been cautious around you, mindful of the unspoken boundaries because of your friendship with James. A nagging worry in the back of his mind that James would be against any relationship between the two of you. James was his greatest friend, and he worried he could lose him if he attempted to go for you. The idea of James being unfazed by a romantic relationship between you and Sirius threw him off balance. It vastly differed from the scenarios he had envisioned, where James would react with fierce anger upon learning of Sirius’ affection for you. The realization left Sirius feeling torn. Did that mean he could actually go for you?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

As the air is warm and balmy, birdsong emanating from the trees while the leaves rustle in the gentle breeze. The sun casts everything in a golden haze, letting you know summer is near. The boys are certain of their decision: today is the perfect day to spend at the lake.

Laughter and chatter echo across the shimmering waters as the boys swim around the lake, reaching where you’re draped over a soft towel next to Lily. You have been trading gossip back and forth for the last couple of hours. It’s refreshing since usually you’re glued to the boys’ sides. You were constantly in the company of at least one of the four.

You feel a twinge of regret in your chest, realizing you haven’t made an effort to have a close friendship with the girls. And you really should have. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; James had always been your go-to person. Then, when you met the boys, you naturally formed close bonds with them, too. The thought of branching out and making more friends never really crossed your mind.

Though you value your friendships with the boys, you decide you desperately need to spend more time with the girls. The possibility of James and Lily getting together has you hopeful.

“You realize Sirius can’t take his eyes off you, right?” You choose to remain silent, only giving a shrug, fully aware that Sirius is merely pretending to be in love with you. To his credit, he’s played the part convincingly throughout the entire week. There have been moments when you’ve found yourself questioning the authenticity of his actions, wondering whether his affection is genuine or merely his acting skills.

For someone who hasn’t had much practice with relationships, he possessed an innate ability to treat you like you were the only girl in his world. Whether it was a reassuring hand on your lower back as you maneuvered through the crowded halls, a tender kiss planted on your forehead when you parted ways, or the subtle exchange of flirty smiles whenever your eyes met across the room.

Sirius’ laughter drifts over from the lake, reaching your ears, and a subconscious smile graces your lips. Lily must have seen your reaction, “Merlin, you really like him, don’t you?”

It was driving you to the brink of obsession. If this was the experience of being Sirius’ girl, you wanted it more than before.

Despite your efforts to contain it, a sigh slips from your lips, “Yeah, I really do.”

Confessing this feels uncomfortable. You’ve never talked to anyone about the depth of your feelings for Sirius, and now you’re doing so under the guise of a fake relationship. You had come close to telling James, but you really didn’t need to. He had an uncanny ability to read you like an open book. Guilt churns in your stomach once more as you think about lying to Lily. What will her reaction be when you reveal that you and Sirius were never actually together?

The silence lingers for a few moments before you gently break it, “What were you about to say at breakfast the other day? Before James interrupted?”

Lily’s expression shifts from confusion to excitement, her eyes lighting up, “Oh, in Charms! I finally wrangled it out of Sirius that he had feelings for you. But he insisted that nothing was ever going to happen because you didn’t like him back.”

It feels like you’ve been plunged into a tub of cold water. Your mind goes momentarily blank, a surge of disbelief flooding your senses as you struggle to comprehend Lily’s words. Your body freezes in place, grappling with what this could possibly mean. There’s no possible way you heard her correctly.

“What? When was this?” Your voice escapes breathless and startled, yet Lily appears oblivious to it.

“Just a couple of weeks ago! I’m so glad he finally told you how he felt.” Lily smiles sweetly before laying back on her towel. If she notices you’re in a state of shock, she doesn’t say anything.

You hear a whistle, and no surprise, your best friend throws himself between you and Lily, “Don’t you two look pretty!”

Lily gasps as James leans down, playfully pressing his lips against her cheek, his hair dripping water onto her. Though she protests, you both can tell she doesn’t truly mind it.

As James and Lily become wrapped up in their own world, you find yourself drifting back to the conversation from a moment ago. Your mind spins, still muddled by Lily’s words. Sirius had feelings for you. Why hadn’t he spoken up? Did he not want anything to come of it?

Your heart nearly stops when Sirius drops down and hovers over you, his hands propping him up on either side of your head. You barely register that he’s shirtless and above you just before icy water cascades from his hair onto your skin. A startled cry escapes you as the cold droplets trickle down your cheeks, tracing a chilling path along your neck and chest.

“Sirius Black!” You had intended to sound angry, but laughter slips past your lips, betraying your emotions. Sirius grins at your reaction, his eyes trailing down from your eyes to shamelessly check out the bikini top you have on.

The boys had been teasing him relentlessly after witnessing how he practically fell to his knees when you walked into the common room wearing a bikini top and tiny denim shorts. You were oblivious to his gaze, heading straight for Lily and conversing about who knows what.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you all day.

He feigns ignorance as you whine at him, responding with a sweet smile instead, “What?”

“Get off!” You squeal, though your tone lacks any real irritation. Deep down, you’re secretly enjoying having him so close, enveloping you in his presence.

“Whatever you want, sweet girl.” He mutters as he rolls off of you, repositioning himself so he’s sitting behind you. With a gentle tap on your shoulder, he prompts you to sit up, then guides you until your back hits his chest. Once you’re settled, he loosely wraps his arms around your shoulders before placing a kiss on your head.

Remus catches your eye as he and Peter make their way to their towels. Unlike Sirius and James, they hadn’t hurried over to you and Lily. Instead, they took their time, chatting lazily while the sun warmed their skin. Remus sends you a sly, suggestive glance, and you respond by narrowing your eyes at him playfully.

Sirius and Remus engage in their own conversation, their voices blending into the background as Peter gestures for you to follow him. Sirius protests lightly, his eyes following you as you pull away from him to walk down to the lake with Peter.

You’re gone for no more than twenty minutes, offering Peter advice on establishing a friendship with the girl he likes, perhaps making it easier for him to ask her out in the future.

Despite Remus’ attempts to draw him back into the conversation, Sirius remains preoccupied, his gaze fixed on you until you eventually return and settle onto the towel beside him, seeking the familiar comfort of his presence. Only then does Sirius relax, draping his arm around you protectively.

He despises the twinge of jealousy that creeps in every time Peter has you to himself.

“Mate, you’re fucked.” Remus chuckles, and you assume it’s due to something amusing said during their conversation. Sirius simply rolls his eyes and playfully extends his middle finger in Remus’ direction, a gesture of mock annoyance that elicits a smirk from both of them.

The rest of the afternoon is spent wrapped up in Sirius as you chat with your friends and bask in the sun.

You spend the remainder of the afternoon draped over Sirius, basking in the warmth of the sun as you chat with your friends. It’s been a while since you’ve felt so at ease.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After lounging by the lake all afternoon, the thought of cleaning up for a party you had little interest in attending felt like an unnecessary chore. However, after an hour of James’ persistent pleading, you eventually gave in and agreed to go. You were confused about why he insisted on your presence, especially when he’d be busy spending the evening with Lily. You couldn’t help but think you could have been snug in bed with a good book instead.

“How long do you think it will take before they get together?” You turn to Remus, who is leaning against the wall next to you. He wasn’t thrilled about coming tonight, either. The full moon was approaching, and he could already feel the effects beginning to take hold.

You scan the bustling room, eager to catch a glimpse of James and determine Lily’s proximity. Impatience simmers within you as you wait for them to get together. Their relationship seems overdue, and you’re desperate for it to happen, bringing an end to the relationship you and Sirius are forced to maintain. Though being Sirius’ girlfriend has its perks, the artificiality of the situation weighs on your conscience.

After a lazy afternoon enveloped in Sirius’ arms, you had returned to your room feeling unsettled. The comfort of being held by Sirius felt genuine, yet it was all fake, and that realization deeply unsettles you. The longer this relationship goes on, the more you worry about your heart being left in pieces at the end.

“Probably any day now. Why? You aren’t having fun being Sirius’ girl?” Remus asks, casting a knowing smirk in your direction. You huff and give him a playful nudge, causing his drink to slosh around in his cup. He chuckles in response, amused by your reaction.

“It’s not that, and you know it.” You respond, frustration evident in your tone.

Remus turns towards you, a genuine smile on his face this time, “You guys are doing quite the job of looking infatuated with each other.”

You shoot him a warning look, sensing where the conversation is headed.

But Remus persists, his gaze steady, “You should consider telling him how you feel.”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? What have you got to lose?”

You meet his gaze, incredulous, “Our friendship, for starters.”

Remus shakes his head, “Do you really think Sirius would end your friendship? I doubt you could get rid of him if you tried.”

You meet Remus’s gaze, your brow furrowed with uncertainty, “Okay, maybe he wouldn’t end our friendship. But things would definitely get awkward, and who knows where it could lead.”

Remus offers a small smile, “Or it could go well. You could end up together.”

You remain silent, the weight of Remus’s words sinking in as you contemplate the idea of confessing your feelings to Sirius. Your stomach churns with anxiety at the mere thought of opening up to him. The fear of rejection and the potential fallout from confessing weighs heavy on your chest.

But Lily had shared with you that Sirius had opened up about his feelings for you. Maybe there was a possibility that confessing your own feelings might not be as far-fetched as you had assumed. Maybe being with Sirius wasn’t entirely out of reach.

Remus observes the slight furrow in your brow as you chew on your bottom lip, a clear indication of your spiraling thoughts. The dim light of the common room highlights the unease on your face. “Do you want a drink?” He offers, his voice gentle and reassuring.

You pause, considering his offer, grateful for the distraction, “Yes, please.” You respond with a small smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

As Remus leaves to fetch you a drink, you’re left alone with your thoughts, the chatter and laughter of the crowded common room serving as a backdrop to your contemplation. Your eyes wander over the sea of bodies, each occupied with their own conversations and activities, creating a lively yet chaotic atmosphere.

“Y/n, hi!” You startle as Max Townsend stands beside you, his sudden presence catching you off guard. You recall being partners in Charms a couple of weeks ago, but beyond that, your interactions had been limited.

“Hey, Max.” You greet with a soft smile, noticing how his shoulders relax slightly at your acknowledgment. He settles against the wall, his posture casual yet attentive, as if genuinely interested in chatting with you.

“I know we haven’t talked much since Charms, but I’ve been meaning to catch up with you.” Max says, his voice earnest as he breaks the silence between you.

You’re surprised by his remark, “You have?” You ask, genuine curiosity coloring your tone.

“Yeah! I enjoyed spending time with you.” Max admits, his voice slightly shaky as he offers you a shy smile. You notice the faint blush coloring his cheeks, a sign of nervousness.

“I enjoyed spending time with you too! I don’t think I could have passed the last exam without your help.” You respond sincerely, returning his smile with warmth. His face lights up at your words, visibly relieved.

He regains some confidence and continues, “Actually, Y/n, I was wondering if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade sometime?”

Your smile falters, and you feel a pang of guilt. You have the excuse of having a boyfriend, at least. It makes things a little easier for you. For a second, you debate if you should say yes, go on a date, and move past your feelings for Sirius. But then you think about Lily’s words and how he might possibly like you back. Not only that but you’re supposed to be in a relationship right now.

You can’t bring yourself to say yes; truth be told, you don’t really want to, anyway.

“That’s really sweet of you to ask. But I’m dating Sirius.” You reply though the words feel heavy on your tongue, wishing they were true.

Max looks taken aback, “Sirius Black?”

“Yes.” You confirm, feeling a wave of discomfort wash over you; turning someone down is always an awkward and uncomfortable experience.

Max shakes his head, looking confused, “I didn’t know Sirius-“

“You didn’t know what, Townsend?” Sirius looks hard at him, slipping his arm around your waist and handing you a drink. “Here, baby, Rem said you wanted a drink.”

You thank him quietly, settling into his side with ease. Glancing up at him, you notice Sirius isn’t looking at you; his gaze is fixed on Max. His jaw clenches tightly, and his usual friendly smile is absent. The message to Max is clear: back off, she’s mine.

Max looks uneasy, eyes darting from you to Sirius, “Uh, I didn’t know you and Y/n were together.”

“And why were you talking about that?”

“Uh,” Max looks at you briefly, his expression tinged with panic. He lets out a sigh, reminiscent of a child caught in the act and resigned to confessing. “I asked her out.”

Sirius’ entire body tenses, his tone laced with mock curiosity, “Did you?”

He feels sick at the thought of you going on a date with another guy. Images flash through his mind – Max holding your hand on a walk through Hogsmeade, flirting with you over dinner, and the possibility of him kissing you goodnight before you head back through the portrait at the end of the night.

A surge of intense emotion floods him, an overwhelming desire to lash out, to throw a punch and convey the unmistakable message that you are off-limits.

But then the reality hits him: you’re not off limits. You’re perfectly single, and maybe you actually wanted to go out with Max. The realization sinks in, gnawing at him from the inside, intensifying the ache in his chest.

“But look, man, I didn’t know she was your girl! Honest.”

“Max, it’s okay. Really.” You interject gently, offering him a reassuring smile. Max nods frantically, clearly relieved, before hurrying off in the opposite direction and disappearing into the crowd of Gryffindors.

“What the hell was that?” You turn to Sirius, but he refuses to meet your gaze. Instead, he drops his arm from your waist and leans back against the wall, taking a long sip from his drink, his expression unreadable.

“Playing the part of your boyfriend. You should go find James, he was looking for you.” His mutterings reach your ears, and your stomach clenches with irritation as hurt flashes over your features. He’s never shut down before you, and it hurts your feelings deeply.

You don’t bother saying anything; instead, you scoff and walk away. Sirius’s eyes follow you the second you leave, watching as you walk away with a heavy feeling settling in his stomach.

Maybe he did need to express his feelings to you. There might be a chance that you felt the same way. And if you didn’t, at least he would know and could attempt to move on from you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I think you need to check on Sirius.” James murmurs into your ear as you stand in the common room, waiting for Lily to join you. You’re flanked by the boys, but Sirius is conspicuously absent.

You glance over at him, confused, “Why? Is he not coming down?”

“He bailed, said he isn’t feeling good.”

“He isn’t coming to Hogsmeade with us?” You all had meticulously planned your trip to Hogsmeade during the lake outing yesterday, discussing the shops you wanted to visit and the Butterbeer you couldn’t wait to taste.

“Oh,” You mutter, “I’ll check on him and catch up with you guys then.”

You still harbor concern for his well-being, a lingering sense of care that remains despite the the frustration you feel about last night. You ascend the stairs, faintly catching Peter’s inquiry about your destination and James’ response that you won’t be joining them anymore. You contemplate turning around, half-tempted to inquire with James about his statement, but decided against it, choosing not to waste your energy.

You’re so deeply immersed in your thoughts as you walk through the hall that you don’t even notice the sound at first.

The muffled noise filtering through the boys’dorm door catches your attention, causing you to pause in front of the door. You briefly entertain the idea that Sirius might be genuinely unwell, but skepticism lingers in your mind. The persistent groans don’t quite fit the pattern of someone who’s just sick.

You were on the verge of turning around, genuinely considering it, until you caught a muffled moan that distinctly sounded like your name.

You pause, questioning the authenticity of what you just heard, wondering if it was a figment of your imagination or if you truly heard your name. But then you hear it, “Fuck, Y/n. Feels so good.”

Your legs turn to jelly, the words coursing through your veins like an electric shock, leaving you feeling stunned and breathless.

Without a second thought or even a plan forming in your mind, you find yourself knocking on the door. Inside, you hear a muffled curse followed by shuffling before Sirius swings the door open nearly a minute later, clad only in pajama pants. His hair is tousled, his cheeks flushed, and he’s breathing heavily. The surprise on his face is evident as he takes in your unexpected presence.

“What were you just doing?” Your words spill out more confrontationally than you intended, catching Sirius off guard. The surprise flickers across his face, evident in how his eyebrows knit together and his eyes widen slightly.

“Uh, I-” He glances back into his room, searching for a believable excuse among his belongings. Flustered, he struggles to come up with a convincing lie.

“Sirius,” You press, and his eyes flicker back to you. He appears guilty, aware that you’ve caught on. “I just heard you.”You add, your tone that is firm but not accusatory.

“Merlin, Y/n. I’m sorry I-” He stammers, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach at the mere thought of you possibly feeling disgusted with him or worse, refusing to remain his friend because of what he’s just done.

“What were you thinking about?” You ask instead, taking a deliberate step closer to him. The room feels charged with tension, and you can sense Sirius’s unease. His breath hitches as your presence draws nearer, his eyes flickering with a mix of apprehension and anticipation.

He glances over your shoulder, his gaze flicking to the empty hallway outside before he answers, “You.”

“Me?” You take a tentative step closer, your voice barely a whisper compared to before, its tone huskier, laden with curiosity and perhaps a hint of intrigue. You fix him with a daring look, a glint of challenge in your eye, as if silently daring him to take action.

He remains silent, his gaze fixed on you for a fleeting moment before he takes action, grabbing your hand and pulling you into the dorm without a word.

As soon as the door shuts, he presses you against the door, his movements swift and urgent. You let out a gasp in surprise, feeling the sudden shift in atmosphere as Sirius’s intensity envelops you. His eyes, usually filled with mischief, now bore into yours with a mixture of seriousness and vulnerability.

“Y/n. Why did you knock on the door?”

You don’t answer at first, your eyes locked with his for a few heartbeats before you let out a sigh, “Because I heard you say my name, and now I know you want me the same way that I’ve always wanted you.”

Sirius doesn’t hesitate, his lips meeting yours with a sense of urgency that sends a shiver down your spine. The moment his touch connects with yours, you exhale softly, feeling the warmth of his lips against yours. With gentle pressure, you draw him closer, your arms wrapping around his shoulders while Sirius’ embrace envelops you, pulling you closer as if he never wants to let go.

He initiates with a tender kiss on your lips, then gently nibbles on your bottom lip, eliciting a gasp. Seizing the opportunity of your parted lips, he intensifies the kiss, pressing forcefully into your mouth. Sirius kisses you as if each moment is the first and last time, molding you into pliancy. You willingly surrender, allowing him to kiss you into a state of blissful oblivion.

As he withdraws, a soft whimper escapes your lips in protest. He casts a questioning glance your way as he lifts the hem of your shirt, and you respond with a nod of affirmation. Slowly, he peels it off of you and lets it drop at your feet. Shamelessly, he admires your breasts and how they sit so pretty in your black bra. For a moment, the thought of apologizing for the simple garment crosses your mind, but the way his gaze lingers on you halts any inclination to do so.

He leans down, pressing kisses and nipping at the exposed skin on your neck and trailing his way down to your chest. It steals your breath away, prompting you to weave your fingers through his hair as you tilt your head back, reveling in the sensation. He’s murmuring praises against your skin, ranting about how beautiful you are, how sweet your moans are, and how you drive him crazy. Your heart pounds within your chest, and for an instant, you fear its thunderous rhythm might betray you, considering how near he stands.

“Take it off.” In a hushed tone, you speak, prompting Sirius’s gaze to swiftly rise and lock with yours.

He encircles you with his arms, quickly undoing your bra, and you deftly push the straps down, allowing the garment to cascade down, unveiling your skin. Swiftly, you toss it into the growing pile that appears to be taking shape by the door.

Sirius gazes intently, his bottom lip captured between his teeth, and a subtle furrow forms between his eyebrows, “Fucking hell, y’have the prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.”

Before you can utter a word, his mouth is on your breasts. Pressing the softest kisses onto your nipple before gently biting it, causing your breath to hitch. He bends down, mirroring the gesture with the other one.

His hands, possessively grip at your hips, act as anchors, momentarily keeping you in place. However, a growing restlessness takes hold, and you start to squirm, a subtle plea for more of his attention. Silently comprehending your unspoken desire, he wordlessly responds. A gentle tug on your hand is all the communication needed, and without a moment’s hesitation, you obediently follow his lead.

Guiding you, he directs you to settle onto his bed, a silent request you readily heed. Your legs dangle over the edge of the bed as you rely on your elbows to bear all your weight.

Sirius kneels in front of you, easily slipping off both of your shoes and tossing them to the side. He reaches up, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your skirt before tugging it down and off of your legs. You’re left in a pair of gray panties that easily show how soaked you are for him.

He pushes on your knees until your legs are completely spread for him, and he can get a clear view of your soaked underwear. A hushed curse escapes his lips, the words slipping out quietly as his gaze lingers on you.

“You’re fucking stunning. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.” You bask in his words, your body thrumming with warmth and delight as his sweet sentiments wash over you.

He glances up at you, and he nearly loses it right then and there. You’re watching him through hooded eyes, your pupils dilated wide, a silent reflection of your anticipation and desire. He doubts he could ever erase the image of the way you’re gazing at him, etching it into his memory with the fervent wish to witness it for the rest of his days.

He caresses his hands along your thighs, fingers gently squeezing and kneading with each pass. Occasionally, he leans down, planting tender kisses on your sensitive skin, each one a whispered promise of affection. The closer he gets to your core, the more you squirm and let out soft whimpers.

“Can I take your panties off?” He asks, glancing up at you from between your thighs. The pad of his thumb brushes against your clit, and you jolt in surprise.

A gasp escapes your lips as you’re overtaken by the sensation, yet swiftly, you find yourself nodding frantically in response, “Please.”

Overrun with desperation, Sirius pulls at them with such fervor that they nearly tear as he tugs them off. You can’t help but giggle at his fervor, amused by his frantic actions and the unmistakable look of pure desire written across his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was drooling, staring the sight of your glistening pussy.

“I want to be inside of you.” He declares, standing up from the floor, leaning over you to firmly grasp your jaw before capturing your lips in a heady, intoxicating kiss. The moan that escapes you sounds so foreign, so unlike yourself, that it catches you by surprise, leaving you momentarily taken aback. You don’t bother vying for dominance, allowing him to take control of the kiss. He withdraws from you leaving your chest heaving and breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Take your pants off.” You demand, reaching desperately for the band of his pajamas to shove them off. Sirius beats you to the task, swiftly shoving them off himself in a display of impatience.

“Sirius.” Drool pools in your mouth at the sight of him. Long, thick, and pretty. Your lips part slightly, and you look up at Sirius in surprise, caught off guard by him. For a fleeting moment, you sit there, eyes locked, contemplating whether you’ll be able to take him or not. He’s bigger than anyone you have ever been with before.

Sirius doesn’t let you stare for too long before his fingers are sliding through your soaked folds and brushing over your clit. Whimpers and moans tumble past your lips as Sirius rubs firm circles over you to get you adjusted before dipping down and pressing two fingers into you. A cry escapes you at the intrusion, and your hand instinctively reaches down to grip his bicep firmly.

Sirius startles you by leaning down and pressing the softest kiss to your clit, before licking you the bundle of nerves softly. Your body tenses with pleasure, hands gripping the sheets beneath you.

“I’ve always wanted to taste you.” He confesses a surge of heat courses through your body, igniting every nerve ending as you absorb his words. He doesn’t waste another second before leaning down and gently sucking on your clit.

“Please don’t stop.” You plead softly, and Sirius complies, continuing with unwavering determination. He nips and sucks, licking through your folds and holding your thighs open for him. His fingers continue to slide in and out of you; the sounds you’re making are obscene.

You’re struck by the thojught that this doesn’t compare to any other times that you’ve been eaten out. But maybe it’s not just his technique that feels good; it might be the fact that its Sirius who’s between your legs.

Your thighs tremble, and a euphoric sensation begins to build up in your stomach, making it feel like you are floating on a delightful high.

“Sirius, I need you.” You gasp sharply, your fingers instinctively tugging on his hair, signaling for him to ease up. You wanted to come together for your first time, as cheesy as it may have been.

As he rises to his feet, your eyes meet, and contagious, goofy smiles spread across both of your faces. In this shared moment, a mutual understanding passes between you—acknowledging the absurdity of the situation yet reveling in the fact that there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

You watch as he wraps his hand around himself, dragging his hand up and down a few times. He whispers for you to scoot back until your head rests against the pillow, and with a gentle nod, you comply. He follows suit, settling on his haunches before you, creating a comforting, intimate space between you both.

“Y’ready?” He asks in a hushed tone, leaning in to hover over you, and at that moment, a rush of memories floods your mind, reminiscent of yesterday by the lake. You’re convinced you must look rather pathetic with the speed of your nod, but Sirius only responds with a sweet smile.

With a grip on his cock, he slides the tip through your slick, both of you sucking in a breath at the sensation. He gently pushes at your entrance. Sirius steals a glance up at you, silently seeking reassurance, and you respond with a simple nod and a warm smile, letting him know that everything is perfect. Sirius catches you off guard as he leans down, tenderly pressing the gentlest of kisses to your lips, a gesture filled with unexpected sweetness.

His gaze shifts, watching as he pushes his cock inside of you, letting out a string of curses as your pussy grips him tight, pulling him deeper inside.

“Fuck,” Gritting his teeth, he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing deeply through his nose, determined to regain control and prevent himself from losing composure. He’s sitting fully inside you, and he has to take a breather because you feel better than he could have ever imagined. The last thing he wants is for this to end as soon as it begins.

His voice sounds utterly shattered, “You’re so wet, fuck.”

You entwine your fingers in his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingertips as you pull him closer, urging him to meet your lips with his own. The anticipation builds as his warm breath mingles with yours, creating an intimate connection before the gentle press of his lips against yours. Parting your lips, you deepen the kiss, and Sirius eagerly reciprocated.

“Sirius. Fuck me, please.” You exhale softly against his lips, and Sirius responds with a low, guttural groan of longing and desire.

He doesn’t waste any time before dragging his cock along the sensitive walls of your pussy, before thrusting back into you, “God, your pussy feels incredible.” The cry that escapes you resonates loudly in the room, and you’re immensely grateful that everyone is out at Hogsmeade. The absence of others allows you the freedom to be as uninhibited as you are, knowing that the full dorms would never afford you the same level of privacy and volume.

“Feels so good.” You gasp, head rolling to the side, your cheek resting against the pillows. Sirius’ hands rest against the back of your thighs, holding your legs against your chest, giving a clear view of the way his cock is so seamlessly slipping inside of you.

He watches you, transfixed on the way your brows pinch together in pleasure, lips parting to let moans slip past. It’s as if a dam has burst within Sirius, an unstoppable torrent of words and emotions pouring forth as he finds himself unable to contain everything he’s been holding back.

“Fuck, you sound s’pretty, sweet girl,” The groan that leaves his lips is downright sinful. “Thought about this pretty pussy all day. Pretended to be sick just to get off to the thought of you.”

“Sirius.” You whine, reaching out to thread your fingers through his hair and pull him down to you. You’re soaked and aching, desperate for Sirius to fuck you faster. However, much to your disappointment, he remains insistent on maintaining a slow, teasing pace.

“Pictured tugging that fucking bikini top down. Watching your tits bounce while I fuck you. Fuck, cumming all over them.” The whine that escapes you feels pathetic, and under different circumstances, you would’ve been embarrassed by it. However, given the situation you’re in, embarrassment takes a backseat.

“I know, baby. I know.” He complies, adjusting his position so that his right arm supports him above you while his left hand gently traces your skin. Brushing over your nipples, trailing up and over your tits, before placing his hand loosely around the base of your throat.

“You’re fucking perfect,” He grunts, admiring how ruined you look for him. Your mascara smudged beneath your eyes from tears, and your lips swollen from his earlier kisses. He loved seeing you like this. Being the one to ruin you, to smudge your makeup and bring you to tears. “Taking my cock s’well.”

You’re incoherent, begging for Sirius to go harder, to fuck you faster. Hands pawing at his ass, desperately trying to bring him closer.

His hand squeezes your throat gently, “Tell me you want me to fuck you harder. C’mon love, wanna hear you beg for it.”

A smug grin tugs on Sirius’ lips as he watches you struggling to form words. You’re getting close if the way you’re squeezing him so tight and rolling your hips is any indicator.

But then a desperate, needy whine with the words he so badly wants to hear slips past your lips. Babbling about needing his cock and wanting him to ruin you. The second he hears your pleas, he thrusts into you harder, setting a brutal new pace that has you crying for him.

“I’ll give you anything you ask for, m’love.” He speaks so sincerely that you feel a surge of emotions welling up inside, an overwhelming urge threatening to bring tears to your eyes.

Overcome with your emotions, you reach for Sirius’ hand and interlace them together before Sirius presses your clasped hands into the sheets. His headboard thumps against the wall rhythmically.

“Need you to fill me up. Please.” You plead desperately, and Sirius curses, his voice rough and strained.

“Shit, that’s my girl. Want me to fill you with my cum?” It’s the praise that pushes you over the edge. Your back arches, pressing your breasts into Sirius’ chest and your legs tremble.

“Doing so good f’me.” He’s close behind you. Your tight, wet walls clenching around him is what does it for him.

“Fuck, baby. Gonna cum. Fuck.” Sirius moans, burying his head in the crook of your neck as his hips stutter and you cry out at the feeling of his warm cum filling you up. You clench his hand tightly, your nails likely leaving imprints on his skin. A sob escapes your lips, and your fingers weave through his hair, a desperate attempt to draw him closer.

You both remain entwined, lost in each other’s embrace as you gradually come down from the euphoric highs. The room resonates with the sound of your intertwined breaths, each one heavy and labored. Your body feels utterly slack, every muscle loosened, and you’re so relaxed that you could easily doze off at any moment.

Sirius presses a couple of tender kisses against your neck, eliciting a satisfied hum from you. When he withdraws from you, a wince escapes you as you feel the separation, and Sirius’ eyes dart up to you in concern.

“Y’okay, sweet girl?”

“I’m okay, just sore.” You grace him with a sweet smile, and Sirius leans in, gently pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Gonna get a towel, one second.” He assures you, rising from the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. You listen to the faucet running and the faint sounds of the cupboard opening and closing. Lying back, you gaze up at the ceiling, absently nibbling on your thumbnail until a smile breaks across your face at the thought of what just happened.

“Here, love.” Sirius says, sitting on the edge of the bed holding a washcloth in his hand. He’s got a fresh pair of pajamapants on, you didn’t even notice him grab clothes from his trunk, too lost in your thoughts.

Sirius gently grips your ankle, encouraging you to spread your legs. His breath hitches at the sight of his cum dripping out of you and onto his sheets, desperately hoping to see this sight again. He murmurs a curse under his breath, his touch gentle as he delicately uses the warm washcloth to clean between your thighs.

“There.” He whispers softly before aiding you to sit up. As you glance over, you notice the t-shirt and pajama pants laid out beside him, meant for you. Your heart swells with warmth as he assists you in slipping it over your head. With a grateful smile, you slide into the pajama pants. Meanwhile, Sirius utters evanesco to fix the sheets up, before joining you in bed.

“C’mere.” He beckons to you, sinking into the pillows, and you nestle against him, finding solace as you rest your head on his chest.

In the silence, you both relish the comfort of each other’s embrace, enveloped in a cocoon of intimacy. Lost in contemplation, your mind wanders, grappling with what just happened and what that meant for the both of you.

“That wasn’t just a one-time thing, was it?” You inquire, the hopefulness evident in your tone.

“No,” Sirius responds, tilting your chin so you can meet his gaze. “I want you to be mine, for real this time.”

The fluttering butterflies that dance through your stomach are overwhelming as you absorb his words. A lovesick grin spreads across your lips, unable to contain the rush of emotions coursing through you, “Then I’m all yours.”

You settle back into Sirius, and his arms hold you against him. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your head lull you into a serene state, the sound of his steady heartbeat serving as a soothing lullaby that guides you into a peaceful sleep.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“I’m sorry, so you asked us to fake it not for Lily, but for Sirius and I to get together?” You gaze at James, confused, knitting your brows, while he sits opposite you at the table. Remus and Sirius are absorbed in their own conversation, and Peter is having breakfast with the girl he harbors a crush on. Despite their current status as friends, Peter seems overjoyed nonetheless.

James grins, casting you a smug look. “I mean, Lily genuinely thought you and I were a thing. At first, it really was because Lily thought we were together, but then I realized that this was the perfect way to get you and Sirius together.”

“James! So you lied to us?” You huff in disbelief.

James shrugs nonchalantly, his demeanor radiating an air of casual indifference, “You already knew I lied to Lily; what’s the difference?”

You sigh softly, “That’s true, but what about you and Lily? Are you two getting together?”

James smiles, “We’ll get there eventually. This was more about you and Sirius. And before you start, yes, I’ll tell her the truth.” He sends you a pointed look, and you chuckle, already preparing to remind him to come clean to Lily.

“You’re certifiably insane.” You tease, exhaling a laugh.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? You got the guy.” James watches with delight as a lovesick smile effortlessly graces your face before you steal a glance at Sirius.

“Oh, hey. Pick up your clothes next time you’re napping with Sirius,” He remarks casually, but the emphasis on the word napping lets you know that he’s fully aware there was more happening than just sleep. “My shoe got tangled in your bra.”

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