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blindmagdalena · 7 months

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The Cuckoo's Nest

18+ 6.3k siren!homelander x f!reader. dub/noncon, infidelity, mind/emotional manipulation, gaslighting, voice kink, masturbation, penetrative sex, fingering, blood, gore, cannibalism? creampie, stalking, minor character death, praise kink, good girl/pretty girl.

The gentle and pleasing voice of the cuckoo bird has made it a renowned herald of spring, and perhaps one of the most famous of songbirds. One would never guess merely by looking at it that it is a predatory parasite.

What you thought would be a dream job working for Vought as Homelander's very own secretary turns into a surreal waking nightmare as reality and dreams converge in a confusing mess. The only coherent thread that strings it all together is the alluring pull of Homelander's unnatural voice.

written for Monsterlander Mania. fair warning, this fic is fairly dark! thank you so much @anon-nee for this amazing banner art. 🖤

When you were hired as Homelander’s secretary, the gig had been pitched as a cushy desk job. Now that he’s the new face of Vought, and Ashley the company CEO, he needs someone who will keep his day to day affairs in order. Apparently, you’re just the person for that job.

“You probably won’t see much of him,” Ashley tells you distractedly. She rarely ever looks away from her phone for long.

“There are two landlines on your desk. The left one is for general business, and the one on the right, the red one, is exclusively for him. Don’t make calls on it. He has the number memorized, he’s the only one who’ll ever call it, so make sure you always answer it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you say diligently.

Glancing over, Ashley does a double take. “Aren’t you married? Where’s your ring?”

You falter, looking down at your hands. “Oh,” you say, taking said ring out of your pocket. “I put hand cream on earlier, I just forgot to put it back on.”

“Make sure you keep that on,” she says, giving you a critical look before returning her gaze to her phone. “He’s particular.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Nevertheless, you make sure to always keep your wedding ring on while you’re at work.

True to Ashley’s word, you see neither hide nor hair of Homelander during your first three days. You make his appointments, you take calls on his behalf, and you organize his bookings.

In your office, directly across from your desk, hangs a borderline comically oversized portrait of him that stares relentlessly at you as you work. You often find yourself staring back at it, the back of your neck prickling with the irrational feeling of being watched.

You know that it’s just in your head, but you can’t help but be put off by the feeling. Sometimes you consider covering the portrait, but the last thing you want is for the man to appear out of the blue and see a blanket thrown over his likeness.

Your instinct proves correct.

“Hey you,” comes a voice like silk. You startle, looking up from your desk to find a shock of red, white and blue standing in your doorway, his arms folded casually behind his back.

“Homelander,” you say, nearly choking on the name. “Sir, hello. I’m–”

“I know,” he interjects smoothly, cape swaying behind him as he passes the threshold, making his way over to your desk. That voice. He’s not even said five words to you yet, but it lingers in your ears like warm honey, causing a flush of warmth to roll through you. You convince yourself that you’re just embarrassed to have been caught so thoroughly off guard. “My new secretary. Sorry I couldn’t stop by sooner.”

“Oh, there’s no need to apologize, sir. I know better than most how–” you hesitate, watching as he takes a turn and begins walking directly towards you, circling behind your desk. “–busy you are,” you finish, looking up at him as he looms over you. You wonder if you should stand, but he’s so close to you now, you’d just knock right into him.

He smells good. Earthy and slightly sweet, like vetiver.

“That’s pretty,” he remarks, gesturing to your ring finger. “Sapphire, huh? Unusual choice.”

You swallow, trying desperately to reign in the cadence of your breath. Your heart is pattering as wildly as rain drops. “Thank you. My husband chose it, it’s his birthstone.”

To which Homelander giggles. It’s a delighted, slightly off-putting little noise. “P’wow, he gave you a ring with his birthstone, huh? Really staking his claim,” he says, reaching down to take your hand. He looks at you just before he makes contact. His eyes are even bluer than the stone in your ring. “May I?”

Dumbstruck, you nod, lifting your hand and placing it in his upturned palm. He sits on your desk and turns your hand this way and that, watching the way your ring catches the light. Eventually, his gaze slips back to yours. “Happily married?”

“Very,” you say immediately, your throat suddenly dry.

He smiles, and only then do you notice how unusually sharp his canines are.

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he says, giving your hand a gentle pat before he lets it go. You immediately drop your hand into your lap, touching your ring. You feel strangely lightheaded all of a sudden, unable to look away from his piercing gaze. Even when he isn’t speaking, you can still hear the warmth of his tone echoing all around you.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, standing from your desk with preternatural elegance, as if he’d floated more than lifted himself.

“Please, the pleasure was all mine,” you say with a smile, somewhat dazed. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

He looks pleased as punch at that. “I’ll try not to be such a stranger, hmm?” he purrs, reaching out to give your shoulder a friendly squeeze. You feel the rumble of his voice roll all the way down your spine and into the core of you, leaving a light throb nestled between your thighs.

“I’d like that. Thank you, sir,” you say, your voice sounding dreamy and distant in your own ears.

Flashing that same toothy grin, he shoots you a wink before he turns face with a slight flourish of his cape, the fabric billowing in his wake as he takes his leave, disappearing down the hall.

The second he’s gone, it’s like the spell of his presence breaks and you come crashing back to yourself, eyes wide. A hot broil of shame rolls through you when you realize how aroused you are, that throb lingering. You’re equal parts shocked and disgusted with yourself, sickened by the hot prickle lingering on every inch of your skin.

Holy shit. What the fuck was that?

You wind up leaving an hour early, eager to be home. The shame makes you desperate to see your husband, as if touching him will erase the residual traces of the effect that Homelander had on your body.

It doesn’t. In fact, that feeling of being watched follows you all the way home, the feel of it becoming a specter haunting your house. When your husband seeks intimacy from you in your bed later that night, you push his hands away.

“Sorry,” you say softly, shaken. “Not tonight.”

Your body still remembers him too viscerally.

That night, you dream of songbirds.

Two days later, the right landline rings for the first time. You stare blankly at it, your stomach immediately twisting into knots. It rings, once, twice, nearly a third time before you hurriedly snatch it up off the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” comes Homelander’s familiar drawl. His voice falls over you like a wash of sunlight, warm and heavy. “Thought you might be ignoring me for a second there.”

“No, no, never. Sorry, sir,” you say, reaching for your water. You take a quick sip. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing too dire, just a little shuffling. Can you bump tomorrow’s 4pm to Thursday for me?” He asks, voice slipping around your throat like a noose. The press of it makes you slightly breathless.

“Of course,” you say, balancing the phone on your shoulder while you manipulate your tablet. “That’s no problem at all, done.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, the phone turning his voice into an intimate rumble in your ear.

You blink, feeling like your mouth is full of cotton. You can’t seem to form a response.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, and you swear up and down you can hear a smile in his voice. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Was there anything else, sir?” You manage to blurt out, words leaving you in a clumsy spill. You’re breathing shallowly, mouth parched. You snatch up your water and take another quick sip. There’s a long pause on the line, the silence so deafening you think for a moment you must have missed something. “Sir?”

“Touch yourself.”

Your heart falls into your stomach, but that feeling is nothing compared to the unbidden liquid heat that those words erupt throughout your body.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says patiently. Amused, even. “Touch yourself. Take your hand–no, no, the left one,” he says in response to your right hand drifting down. You weren’t even aware you’d started moving. You swap the phone from your left hand to your right, and grab hold of your thigh with your left hand.

“I don’t understand,” you say, the words feeling as thick as molasses on your tongue. “Why are you–”

“That’s good. Now, move those pretty fingers in. Just like that,” he directs, and to your own distant horror, your hand moves, sliding between your legs and lifting up your skirt, your sparkling ring disappearing beneath it. You press your middle finger directly to your beating clit and let go a shuddering breath, massaging it through your panties.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me how you like it, mm? Bet your husband still doesn’t know the first fuckin’ thing about how to make you feel good. He ever watch you do this to yourself, ever bother to learn how you like to be touched?”

Disoriented, you shake your head. Your hips reflexively lift to meet the smooth figure-eights you rub yourself with. You’re sure you’d agree to anything he said so long as he keeps talking.

“Didn’t think so. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, sweetheart. I know exactly what you need.”

The heat of his voice envelops you, makes your whole body feel aflame. You’ve never been so sensitive in your life, already shuddering and squirming in your seat from the intensity of sensation building beneath your fingers.

“Slow down. There’s no rush. You’re as good as mine now.”

His voice is like velvet but his words sting, needling something inside you that squirms. You screw your eyes shut and shake your head more fervently. “No, no, m’not… I don’t…”

“Shhhhh,” he hushes, the hiss of it like a serpent in your ear. “Give it up for me, sweetheart.”

A whimper escapes your throat, the noise all but choked out of you. You can’t move, save for the increasingly frantic stroke of your fingers. His voice is a physical caress that slips down the line of your throat, between your breasts, slinking in serpentine patterns until it spills over your fingers and–

You gasp awake, staring wide-eyed at your blurry ceiling as wave after wave of pure euphoria crashes over you, stealing your capacity for breath. You ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm in a state of delirium, the shadows on your ceiling dancing like a voyeuristic crowd. You’re not sure if it takes seconds, minutes or hours to end, your perception of time distorted by the sheer intensity of sensation.

Looking to your side, panting, you see your husband sleeping soundly beside you. His snores are faint and peaceful. The curtains of your balcony door billow softly with the night’s breeze.

Your day comes back to you in a slow blur. The phone call was real, you’re sure of it… Aren’t you? Reaching for your phone, you hurriedly log into your Vought calendar and check the schedule. Sure enough, in your history, you can see that you bumped his next day R&D meeting to Thursday. That was real.

You wrack your brain for the details of your day, trying to piece together how you got from there to here, and whether or not any of Homelander’s voice cooing lewd commands in your ear was real.

It couldn’t have been.

The more the dream fades from your mind, the more you remember the rest of your day. You remember hanging up the phone, finishing your work day as per usual, and going home to your husband. Though it’s all something of a strange blur, the memories are there.

Even so, the dream somehow feels more real than any of it.

It’s 5am and you doubt you’ll be sleeping again. You get up early, shower, and make breakfast all before your husband even makes it to the kitchen. Your dreams and the haze of yesterday fade with the rising sun, as all dreams and memories often do.

You’re in the process of putting your dishes away when he walks in, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You got an early start today?” He asks, biting back a yawn.

It’s cute. He’s cute. You feel an irrational spike of guilt.

It was just a dream.

“Didn’t sleep well,” you admit, kissing him on the cheek. You wrinkle your nose. “Oof, morning breath,” you say playfully, but there’s an edge of truth to it. You can’t explain it, but there’s something off about the way your husband smells this morning.

Your mind drifts wistfully to the pleasant memory of sweet vetiver.

By the time you make it to work, your morning is nothing but a distant recollection at the peripheral of your consciousness.

Nonetheless, the sight of that bright red landline still makes you blush.

You don’t see Homelander again for another three days. At least, not at work. In reality, you’re more aware of him than you’ve ever been in your life. His face is everywhere, be it TV or billboards. You see him in the grocery store, the post office, and even the goddamn DMV. You never really noticed until now how inescapable Homelander truly is.

It’s no wonder he continues to appear in your dreams, too. You can’t seem to remember any of them very well, but you know without a doubt each time you wake that you were haunted by sapphire blue eyes and a voice as decadent as sin.

Sometimes you recall a gorgeous view of the city hundreds of feet in the air. Other times you recall a blue bed, but the thing you remember most is mirrors. You see yourself clearly in them. You see him with you.

All the while a budding friction between you and your husband continues to grow. You find yourself telling him more often to brush his teeth, shower, anything to combat this bizarre stink he’s taken on. Some days it’s so bad, you swear you smell rotting meat before you realize it’s him. Even the sound of his voice grates on you, both rough and shrill in a way that agitates you further and further into isolation in the house you once happily shared.

On that third day at work, you’re penciling in a meeting regarding a potential collaboration with Superplastic when a rhythmic knock at the door jostles you from focus. You look up to call them in, but Homelander is already striding inside, stealing the words right off the tip of your tongue.

“Goooood afternoon,” he drawls, the door falling shut behind him. For as much as you’ve continued to see and hear of him, you had forgotten how different he sounds in person, the force of his presence instantly a weight upon your body.

Your brain completely malfunctions. Night after night of erotic whispers suddenly crashes down upon you in visceral detail, how multiple times you woke to the throes of an orgasm with his voice still echoing in your ears. Humiliation and arousal flood you in equal measure, turning your skin hot.

Homelander smiles at you from the other side of your desk all the while.

“Cat got your tongue?” He asks slyly. The question hurdles you backwards in time to the moment you were seated in this exact spot with him whispering downright pornographic filth into your ear, coaxing you into touching yourself into a frenzy.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was a dream.

“Good afternoon, sir,” you finally manage to say, wincing internally at the sound of your own voice.

“Don’t be so formal,” he says, giving a dismissive little wave. “C’mon, call me Homelander,” he says, once again circling around behind your desk. Your eyes widen slightly, mouth bone dry when you try to swallow. He sweeps his cape out of the way before taking a leisurely seat on your desk. He lifts his brows, pinning you with an expectant stare. “Go on, try again.”

“Uh, good afternoon, Homelander,” you correct yourself. His proximity to you is making it hard to focus–there it is again, the scent of vetiver. He smells like summer grass warmed by the hot sun, and he has a gravitational pull to him that has you leaning subconsciously towards him.

His smile widens. “Much better.” His eyes narrow a touch, flickering down briefly before snapping back up to meet your gaze.

“So! How’s the office, everything nice and cozy?” He asks, one hand braced next to him on your desk, the other gesturing vaguely about. Before you can even answer, he points to your lap.

“Chair good? I know how important lumbar support is when you’re sitting all day.”

Discussing your lumbar support needs with Homelander certainly had not been on your bingo sheet.

“Uhm, yes, it’s–” Again, before you can get a real answer in, he’s sitting up and making sweeping motions with his hand.

“Let’s see, up, up, lemme take this bad boy for a spin,” he says, making your heart leap up into your throat when he catches you by your waist and effortlessly lifts you up out of your office chair, turning to set you on your feet. With a flourish of his cape, he drops down into your chair, legs spread wide.

You gawk momentarily, watching him spin side to side.

“Oop, there’s that lumbar,” he says, leaning back into it. He’s grinning at you all the while, the moment entirely surreal. You huff an incredulous little laugh, crossing your arms. He’s a little ridiculous, you realize, but personable.

Have you been the problem this whole time, turning him into something he’s not? You’re starting to lose yourself in your thoughts as you watch him.

“How about we test the suspension? C’mere,” he says, giving his thigh a pat. “Sit.”

You snap back to attention, your smile falling away. “Pardon?”

“Sit,” he says again, his smile a predatory curve of his lips. He pats his thigh again “Right here.”

You look down at his lap and then back up, your ears buzzing with the timbre of his voice. Logically, you know that what he’s just demanded is wildly inappropriate, yet the silken tone he said it in leaves you utterly agreeable. Slowly, you lower yourself into his lap, uncertain of why you wouldn’t abide by such a request.

“That’s my pretty girl,” he coos, bracketing your waist with his arms.

”That’s better, isn’t it?” He asks, his hands moving up and down your thighs. You shiver, a chill running down your spine despite the fervid heat of his body pressed along the back of yours.

A distant voice in the back of your mind whispers it wasn’t a dream, though you can barely hear it over the pounding of your own blood in your ears.

“Relax,” he murmurs, the word a warm huff on your neck.

Like a marionette whose strings have been cut, your body goes slack against him. Your heart continues to race even as a wave of calm sweeps through you, the two sensations frantically battling one another. Eventually, however, your pulse succumbs to the warmth seeping from him, and you begin to calm, soothed by the slow sweeps of his palms and the way he’s muttering sweet nothings into your ear.

“Good girl,” he breathes, the smile audible in his voice. “That’s it. Feels good, hmm?” His hands move more firmly on your thighs, closer to a massage.

You make a thin noise of pleasure, tipping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“When I tell you… that I have been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck.

“But I had to be sure you were the one. Most people start to go insane after the first night, maybe the second, but not you.” His teeth, sharp as razors, delicately graze your throat. “You’ve been… perfect.”

“What’re you talking about?” You ask, feeling slightly slow and disoriented.

Homelander chuckles, the rumble of it moving from his chest through your back.

“My voice. It tears apart people's minds… But not yours. Why is that?” His lips are warm on your skin, trailing lower. He lifts a hand to pull your collar askew and kiss at the exposed crook of your neck.

“I don’t know,” you sigh, eyes flickering shut. His mouth feels incredible, the slight dampness that his lips leave behind making you especially sensitive to the air as he exposes you to it. It’s difficult to focus on anything other than the drag of his mouth.

You don’t even realize he’s unbuttoned your shirt and slipped it off of your shoulders until he’s kissing that newly revealed skin, nipping playfully at your bra strap.

“Here I was thinking you were just a pretty, tasty little thing… Turns out you’re so much more,” he purrs between kisses. A jolt of pain makes you gasp and then whimper, the sting of it soothed by the way his tongue drags over the spot afterwards.

It takes you a beat to comprehend that he’s just bitten the junction between your neck and shoulder, sunk his sharp teeth in so deep you smell the faint tang of blood.

“Turns out you were meant for me all along,” he says between slow drags of his tongue, lapping at your soft skin. He moans for the taste of it. “Watching you writhe in your bed, wanting me, touching yourself while your useless husband slept. I thought I was the one going fucking insane.”

Comprehension is a slow, creeping thing to your addled mind. “You were watching me. The dreams, you–”

“Whispered them into your ear while you slept,” he interjects, kissing at the shell of your ear. “You took to ‘em like gasoline takes to a spark,” he says, that voice of his wrapping around your body and limbs like a dozen slithery tendrils.

The touch of his voice is just as tangible as his hands sliding up your thighs, your stomach, cupping your breasts through your bra. You let out a shuddering moan.

“Every night, I was so sure you’d break. But you didn’t. You won’t.”

His confession brings back images in a flood, untangling dreams from memories. You remember a silhouette standing over you, you remember piercing red eyes glowing in the dark, and you remember the filth he spoke over you that made your body twist and sweat and come harder than you ever have.

All of it intertwines with this very moment, with his hands on you, his body against yours. It has you moaning, writhing back against him the same way you did in your bed beneath his gaze.

“Call your husband,” he tells you, hand slipping between your legs, hooking under your skirt.

“What?” You rasp, clutching at his wrists. You shiver at the hot slide of his tongue just behind your ear.

“Call your husband,” he repeats, thick gloved finger rubbing sparks between your thighs. “Tell him you’re coming home early. Tell him to wait for you in the bedroom.”

Leaning forward, Homelander snatches the left landline off the desk and pulls it into your lap, resting it atop his hand while he fingers you in slow, precise circles.

You pick up the receiver and dial unsteadily. It doesn’t sound like something you shouldn’t do. Even as it rings, you feel no dread or apprehension. Just the drive to obey the voice cradling your mind and body so very sweetly.

“Hi,” you exhale when he answers the phone, screwing your eyes shut. It takes everything in you just to focus on speaking.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m coming–” your breath catches as Homelander pushes your panties aside and breaches you with a single finger, sliding into your soaked pussy in one slow, continuous slide.

“I’m coming home early today,” you say, holding both the receiver and Homelander’s wrist in a white-knuckle grip. “Can you wait in the bedroom for me?”

He’s thoroughly confused, but all that does is frustrate you. His voice comes through ugly and nasally over the phone, grating through your nerves instantly. You feel the urge to yell at him, but the breath is stolen from your lungs by the sweet press of Homelander’s thick gloved finger crooking inside you, stroking exactly the right spot to make you see stars.

“Just–just do it, please? Wait in the bedroom, I’ll be–I’ll be home soon.”

You slam down the phone just in time, letting out a cry, lurching forward. The phone tumbles from your lap with a clatter and Homelander catches you with an arm across your chest, pinning you back against his chest.

“Good girl, that’s it. Give it up for me. Lemme feel that pretty pussy come,” he moans, grinding up against you, the sound of his finger pumping into you obscenely loud and wet.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Whet my appetite. Gimme something before it’s time to fucking eat.”

You come loudly, clenching your legs tightly around his hand. He stops just to feel you tighten and convulse through his glove, his lips and teeth and tongue all wreaking havoc at your throat.

“Fuck,” he sighs, followed by the low rumble of a chuckle. Your thighs shake as he pulls his hand away. You can smell the heady smell of your own slick when he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you from it, the sound lewd in your ear.

“You even taste pretty,” he hums, voice frayed like a growl. There’s an inhuman split to his voice, like there’s three of them layered over top of each other.

The whole world feels like it’s spinning. You have no center of gravity, just the sensation of movement as Homelander effortlessly maneuvers you up into his arms. Your head lolls against his chest, vision swimming.

Warm lips press sweetly to your forehead. “Rest up, pretty girl,” he murmurs. The words instantly make you drowsy. “I’ll wake you up when I’m done.”

The world slips into darkness. The last thing you’re aware of is the feeling of flying.

When you come back to consciousness, the darkness remains. You recognize your bedroom ceiling above you, familiar shadows dancing across it, beckoning you awake.

A dream…?

Your limbs are leaden, weighed down to the bed. You try desperately to untangle the fantastical from what is real, walking backwards through what you remember. Touch, smell, sound, and pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever known. You remember Homelander’s hands on you, in you, his body and voice all around you, the sound of–

Sound. What is that sound? It’s close to you, but you can’t move your head to see. It’s a series of wet, soft squelching noises akin to someone manipulating piles of drenched laundry. Then you hear a crunch like a tree branch snapping, and you start to recognize another sound; panting breaths followed by an erotic moan of pure indulgence.

You open your mouth to speak, but your throat is too tight, and nothing escapes it. As you come back to yourself more and more, you realize the bed beneath you is warm and wet.

You manage to force a noise from the back of your throat, a strained sound born of the effort to move. Next to you, something shifts.

“There’s my pretty girl,” coos Homelander’s familiar voice. Your heart crashes against your ribcage, the only part of you that can freely move expressing the shock of hearing his voice here in your bed.

“Shhhshhhh, no need for that,” he murmurs, moving into your line of sight, hovering over you. His face is spattered in something dark, but when he smiles his sharp teeth are white and bright, even in the dim moonlight of your bedroom. His voice soothes your frayed nerves almost instantly.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. You do so easily, as if you were never paralyzed. “Good. Perfect timing,” he tells you, his tongue sliding along his teeth, his lips, threads of saliva stretched between his teeth snapping. “I’m still plenty hungry for you.”

He kisses you, swinging his leg over to envelop your body with his. All at once you can move again, your bones no longer weighed down. You relax beneath the press of his lips and the weight of him, exhaling a breath through your nose.

“Kiss me,” he mumbles fervently. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with everything you have, your lips sliding slickly against one another. He licks the taste of copper into your mouth.

Blood, a distant part of you realizes. Whatever horror you should feel is replaced by building excitement, his touch reigniting heat throughout your body. Like gasoline takes to a spark.

His lips move to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, trailing bloodied kisses down your throat. He has less patience for your clothes now than he did in your office, tearing your shirt and bra from your body with a feral noise. His hands are upon you instantly, spreading the blood on his hands down your chest, massaging your breasts until he works a needy moan out of you.

“Can’t believe I almost ate you, too,” he says with a smile. Before you can respond, he leans down to suck your nipple into his mouth, hands sliding lower. You gasp and push your hands into his hair, slicking it back with what sprayed into it. His mouth is inferno hot on your skin, goosebumps erupting over every inch of you. His tongue is a devilish thing, working your nipple in circles, but it’s the light pinch of his teeth that make your whole body lurch.

He makes quick work of your clothing from the waist down, too, stripping you until there’s nothing left between you and the blood soaked fabric of his suit. His hand disappears from you, and you hear a metallic click followed by the hiss of a zipper. He nudges your legs apart to settle properly between them, pulling off of your breast with a satisfied pop. He licks his lips of the blood he had spread to your breast, eyes wild and glowing faintly red.

“Let’s get rid of this while we’re at it,” he says, lifting your hand. He kisses the tip of your ring finger before taking it into his mouth, gaze flickering up to meet yours as he takes it all the way down past your knuckle, your ring disappearing past his lips. He catches the metal band with his teeth and drags it slowly off, sucking your finger clean of it. A chill runs down your spine at the crunch the metal gives as he effortlessly chews and swallows it.

You stare in numb, abject shock, but even that rapidly fades to the fires rolling through you.

Hands on your thighs, he easily pulls your ass into his lap. You look down to see his cock freed from his suit pants, thick and nicely curved. He bends over you, hitching your legs up over his shoulder, and you feel the flat curve of the bottom of his cock press against your cunt. He grins down at you, rocking his hips to grind through the slick mess he’s made of you.

“Let’s see if you feel as good as you taste,” he says, claiming your lips once more. He pulls his hips back, and you feel the head of his cock drooling precome as it slides over your clit, down to your soaked cunt. The dull stretch of it splitting you open burns, has you keening against his lips. He kisses you again and again and again.

“That’s it, baby. Open up for me. Lemme feel that perfect pussy,” he grits out, voice frayed at the edges like he’s finally beginning to lose that cocky composure of his. Even still, his voice retains that otherworldly aspect to it. He bottoms out with a low moan, hips flush to your body.

“Oh fffffuck,” he groans, cock throbbing against the velvety walls of your cunt. You can feel the pulse of him, even more so when you squeeze. It gives you an unexpected and intoxicating shot of power when doing that makes him gasp. “Perfect. My perfect fuckin’ match, fuck. I knew you would be, I knew you were made for me,” he babbles, bordering on incoherence as he starts to thrust, gripping your ass with one hand while the other goes to the headboard, slamming it against the wall with each snap of his hips.

“H-Homelander,” you moan, tangling both hands in his hair, dragging your nails harshly down his scalp, the back of his neck, throwing your head back against your pillow.

He gives your ass a sharp slap just to feel the way your cunt clenches with it, a growl rolling from his throat.

“Come with me,” he demands, instantly sending the pressure building in you into a soar. He moves faster, deeper, each slam punching out pitchy noises from you. Every drag of his cock feels like a spark inside you, like the strike of a match igniting stars in your peripheral vision. You come with a near scream, nails biting fruitlessly into Homelander’s skin.

He rides your orgasm fiercely, fucking you into the bloody mess of your bed until he, too, succumbs to the clench of your cunt. He lets out a guttural cry, the wood of your headboard snapping in his grasp as his release floods you, so hot that it nearly burns.

You’re both panting into each other's mouths, lips occasionally brushing. There’s a possessive growl to the edge of Homelander’s breaths, as if warning anything that might hear of the danger of approaching.

“You’re mine now, you understand?” He says lowly, his velveteen voice hoarse, almost animalistic. “My match, my mate, mine.”

Deliriously, you nod, mind still lost to the aftershocks of your climax, your pussy quivering around the girth of his cock. It’s not enough for Homelander, who gives another sharp thrust, knocking an overstimulated moan out of you. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” you gasp, meeting his gaze. His harsh expression softens at that, the crimson glow fading from his eyes, leaving only that familiar ocean blue in its wake. He kisses you leisurely, but with no less hunger. He lets your legs slip carefully from his shoulders, but remains buried deep inside you, staking his claim as thoroughly as possible. He kisses your neck, makes you wince when he sucks at the mark he bit into your skin.

“You got no idea how long I’ve been looking for you,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You stroke your fingers through his hair, soaking in the feeling of his superhuman body thrumming against yours. You tighten your grip in his hair and lift his head, bringing his gaze up to meet yours. He looks curiously at you until that curiosity flips to surprise as you kiss him, earning a pleased little hum from him.

When you part, his surprise has melted away into something dazed and soft. Something like love, or maybe satiation. The two look so very similar.

Homelander kisses you a while longer before he nestles down against you.

Your head lolls to the side for the first time, and only then do you see the full scope of the horror resting next to you; bones jut out from the mess of viscera and meat, shredded clothing thick with blood and innards. It looks like the work of a rabid animal, something vicious and hungry.

You know instantly that the mess is all that remains of your former husband.

It occurs to you that you should feel a dozen different awful things about the pile of gore splayed out on your bed, but ultimately, the only thought that lingers is how he finally suits that rotten meat smell.

Looking back to the ceiling, you continue to comb your fingers through Homelander’s hair. His weight is a comfortable thing upon you, and beneath the smell of gore, you’re soothed by the gentle, warm scent of vetiver. Your eyelids grow heavy, and within minutes, you drift to sleep.

When you wake, there is no tang of blood heavy in the air. You sit up in a bed that is both alien and familiar. It isn’t until you see the mirrors around you that you realize that this is the bed from your dreams.

You feel warm, despite the early morning chill beyond the blankets. You feel a tug, and as you look down, Homelander pulls you back down into his arms.

“Mornin’, pretty girl.”

“Morning,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him. He hums pleasantly as you touch him, your hands roaming the naked scape of his body, testing that he’s real. You draw back, brows furrowed.

“Everything alright?” He asks, his voice as rich and creamy as ever.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, a touch uncertain. “Weird dreams.”

He smiles, bringing your hand up to kiss. “Well, you’re awake now.”

Somehow, you’re not so certain.

Regardless, you huff a little laugh and snuggle back into his arms.

“Love you,” you say, losing yourself to the familiar comfort of a partner in your arms, in your bed, in your heart. The longer you’re there, the more the dreams fade away, replaced with the reality of your waking world and the sweet smell of vetiver.

Homelander squeezes you to his chest, stroking idly up and down your back with his knuckles. You can hear the smile in his voice as he returns, “I love you, too.”

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #terato #monster x human #monster romance #monsterlander mania #my writing #Y'ALL THIS KNOCKED ME ON MY ASS LOL #dark fic

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raccoonfallsharder · 6 months

Text

fanfiction masterlist

currently under construction!

about me | what you'll find here (spoiler: it's rocket raccoon all the time) fluff ✮ | spice ✩ | some smut ❤︎‬ | much smut ❤︎‬❤︎‬

recently updated

rocket raccoon prompt week ✷.⁺⋆˚₊ [4/17] ✮✩

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter seven. starlorn. [4/22] ✩

florescence❀ Year Three: Flowering [4/27] ✮✩

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter eight. keep. [5/3] ✩

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter nine. mal de coucou. [5/10] ✩❤︎

the raccoon, the witch, & the roadtrip. part one. [5/14] ✮

cicatrix .⋆☁︎ :･꧂ chapter ten. querinous. [5/17] ✩

what’s the forecast for this month? longterm future projects

masterlists

sfw masterlist | nsfw masterlist | headcanons & imagines art [rocket & your OCs] | writing thoughts & "advice" recommended works (writers, artists, etc)

full masterlist below the cut. banners & dividers are by @saradika-graphics and @v6que ♡ thanks to them!

everything is in alphabetical order with pending works at the end, but if you can think of a better way to organize, feel free to hit me up ♡ what to expect from my fanfiction

Domestic Scenes in Space Travel ✩°｡ ⋆ [UNDER CONSTRUCTION] The Very Boring Adventures of Space Pilot & Sweatshirt Girl 18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | word count: varies. reader x rocket domestic fluff & smut with feelings. comics-based but you don't need any comics background knowledge to ride this ride. collects Installments 1-5 and an Interlude. The Very Boring Adventures of Space Pilot & Sweatshirt Girl | Outer Space Safety & Spaceship Maintenance Training | Reconnaissance for Beginners: An Instruction Manual | Critical Interview Questions for Potential Room & Crewmates [explicit & smut-free versions] | Proof: A Moment in Space | Untitled Installment 6

florescence❀ ˖⁺‧₊˚ (a meetgroot) 18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 3/6 years | wip | word count: pending. Rocket & Groot leave their friends behind on Knowhere, despite the latter’s protests, and end up hiding out on a nothing-planet (with a non-extradition policy) at the edge of the Shi’ar Galaxy. It was the flowers that drew you in. mcu-based, slight au, medium-burn, eventual smut circa Year Four. tentative allies to friends to lovers. the middle is angsty but there are only happy endings here. Year Zero: Seed | Year One: Sprout | Year Two: Growth | Year Three: Flowering | Year Four: Formation | Year Five: Dispersal

˚₊‧✶ headcanons & imagines ✶‧₊˚ smut-free | no use of y/n | gn reader | oneshots & drabbles various guardians of the galaxy headcanons, minifics, and more.

°˖✧˚♡ kinktober 2023 ♡˚✧˖° 18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | oneshots | word count: varies. based on @flightlessangelwings Kinktober 2023 prompt list. please read all warnings.

✩࿐࿔ take what you need smut-free | gn reader | no use of y/n | 11 complete reminders | word count: varies. the world is hard, and sometimes it's difficult to complete daily tasks & take care of yourself. rocket bullies you for your own good. non-smutty. reader is gender-neutral. accepting requests via reblogs, asks, and tumblr & ao3 comments. collects various Reminders (ongoing) ࿔ eat somethin ࿔ go to frickin bed ࿔ get outta bed & get your shit done ࿔ take a damn bath ࿔ leave your frickin skin alone ࿔ take a fuckin study break ࿔ drink some goddamn water ࿔ stop destroying your fricking clothes ࿔ just buy the damn thing already ࿔ it's frickin laundry day ࿔ get some goddamn sunshine ࿔ have you taken your meds today? ࿔ schedule your fuckin appointments ࿔ do the goddamn dishes ࿔ brush your frickin teeth ࿔

⭑˚.⚘𖡼𖥧𖤣 windfall 𖤣𖥧𖡼⚘.˚⭑ (a meetgroot) 18+ only MDNI | no use of y/n | f!reader | 2/3 parts | wip | word count: pending. wind·fall /ˈwin(d)ˌfôl/ noun. an apple or other fruit blown down from a tree or bush by the wind; an unexpected piece of good fortune. semi-shy ultrafeminine touch-deprived reader tries to avoid meeting knowhere’s intimidating captain. is profoundly unsuccessful. Sugared Violets. | Crystallized Ginger. | Candied Apples.

Window Across the Galaxy *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 18+ only MDNI | rocket x f!oc | 27/27 chapters | complete | word count: 235,940. girl falls first; raccoon falls harder. Rocket is captured by a Ravager crew hoping to get rich off the excessively large bounty on his head. Throwing a wrench in everyone’s plans is the Terran girl they hired to do some freelance assessing on a recent haul of goods they’ve seized from a Xandaran luxury liner. Oops. slight AU starting pre-GOTG volume 1 (but will hit most of the same major plot points). slow burn + eventual smut with a lot of pining in the middle. kinda enemies-to-lovers? (but only one of these idiots thinks they're enemies). collects Chapters I-XXVII. *:･ﾟ✧

what's on the horizon? future projects

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thou-babbling-brook · 8 months

Text

Cold Feet

AO3

Rating: G

Word Count: 2216

Tags: Davenport Homestead, Assassin's Creed III, American Revolution, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, "The Wedding" Mission

Summary: Connor convinces Myriam to start her new life with Norris. Set during "The Wedding" Homestead mission between the chase sequence and the wedding scene. Hope you guys enjoy!

Connor would be the first to admit that he knew little to nothing about colonial wedding customs. Aside from a few comprehensive history and culture lessons from his teen years when he first traveled to Achilles, Connor knew nothing about the complexities of colonial weddings. Father Timothy had been kind enough to explain a few key details, such as “giving” Myriam away at the altar (which Connor was more than happy to do for his old friend), but details slipped Connor’s mind from time to time over the next several days of intense planning and preparation.

But there was one thing that Connor was sure they did not include: chasing the bride in question through the snow-covered trees minutes before her wedding.

The day began with as much chaos as one would expect. Before the roosters began to crow, nearly every member of the Homestead bustled about preparing for the joyous celebration. Oliver and Corrine worked hard preparing their finest wines for the occasion while preparing the livestock meat and crops gathered by Warren and Prudence – and of course, little baby Hunter, who cooed excitedly against his mother’s back. Once finished organizing the food, Prudence and Corrine joined the ladies in adorning Myriam in fine, comfortable fabrics suitable for the huntress. Ellen poked needles into the sides to ensure the stitching was up to par, while Diana and Catherine squawked at Connor and Norris for accidentally stepping near the bride’s suite (which Connor did not dare remind the ladies was his home).

In the meantime, Big Dave and Lance worked tirelessly to adorn both the inn and the church with banners and decor fit for the Homestead’s very first wedding. Big Dave lifted the chubby woodworker up to pin the wooden posts on the side of the inn, waving to Terry and Godfrey as the lumberers warned Norris of the horrors of marriage to come.

“You’ll ne’er be right ‘bout anythin’ again, ya hear me, boy?” Godfrey teased as he slapped his palm against Norris’s back.

“Aye, and forget about havin’ the covers to yerself! You’ll be shiverin’ like a leaf!” Terry explained. Norris merely laughed and shook his head.

In the church, Dr. White and Achilles aided Father Timothy in preparing his short sermon, arranging the pews, and finishing the final touches hours before the wedding. Even the Assassin recruits were more than happy to help with the preparations. Stephane set to work in the kitchen alongside Oliver to cater the large meal ahead. Duncan, ever the Catholic, assisted Father Timothy in rehearsing his sermon. Jacob offered his wisdom for marriage while he straightened Norris’s hair, while Dobby stood guard outside Myriam’s dressing room in case of wandering eyes from stray men. Clipper and Jamie helped Mr. Faulkner and the crew of the Aquila find their drunken ways to the church, all while Connor wandered about and assisted where he could.

So, given the day’s chaotic events, it was not surprising to Connor as he announced happily to the pacing Norris that all was in order that Myriam was “missing.” After all, the ladies had only just left her room. How much trouble could the huntress find herself in?

Apparently, thought Connor as he raced through the trees and leapt through the branches, quite a lot.

“Leave me be!” Myriam shouted as she jumped to the next branch, a stray branch slowing her down as it caught on her white dress. It was not enough to stop her, but it was enough for Connor to come within speaking distance.

“Why do you run?!” Connor replied, his voice echoing through the forest with concern lacing his tone. He swung to the next branch, careful not to slip and even more careful to ensure Myriam did not.

“Leave me be!” Myriam exclaimed. She crossed over to the next tree in an attempt to throw Connor off her trail. “I’m no housewife!”

Connor’s brow furrowed. While he could not necessarily speak for the entire Homestead, “housewife” would be one of the last descriptors attributed to Myriam. She was a huntress, and a respectable one at that. Through his confusion, Connor quickly ducked through another tree and sprinted across the large, sturdy branch. “No one thinks you are one!”

Myriam slid down a fallen tree, stumbling into the snow before whirling around to face Connor. “That’s what all of this means!”

A silence passed between the two as flurries of snow cascaded around them. Myriam sighed, grabbing her crown of flowers and tossing it to the ground. She sunk to the snowy ground and hid her face in her knees.

Quietly, Connor knelt beside Myriam. Lifting the flower crown into his hands, he joined her in the blanket of snow. He said nothing, only silently thumbing the daffodils adorning her crown. The two sat for a moment while gazing over the rushing river, watching as it cascaded over weathered rocks. Myriam reached forward and threw one into the water. When it sank to the bottom of the river, she huffed angrily through her nose.

“I don’t want to be some housewife that sits around waiting for her husband to come home,” she explained, tossing her hands into the air in frustration. “That’s not who I am. I’m not… I’m not some lady wanting to be kept pregnant and barefoot!”

“No one thinks you are one,” Connor repeated gently. Myriam shot a glare at the hulking man, Connor shrinking in on himself in response despite his size.

“That’s what this means! This whole wedding! Shoving me into this stuffy dress, preparing me to take vows, giving me away!” She stood, pacing by the riverside. She gave Connor an apologetic look. “No offense. If I want anyone to give me away, it would be you.”

Connor rose and nodded his head. “None taken. But what is it that causes you to believe that you will become a housewife?”

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Myriam groaned before settling her hands on her hips and staring out into the river. “I… I don’t know!” She tossed her hands in the air again, rustling her hair and pacing back and forth. “I don’t belong inside a house cooking and cleaning and caring for a husband and an entire brood of children. I belong in the open air, in my hunting blinds, with my rifle in my hands!” Her hands formed the gesture of her weapon in question. Then, they fell to her sides. “If I marry Norris… I’ll be leaving behind all of my freedom that I worked so hard to gain.”

Stepping closer, Connor laid a hand on Myriam’s back. “That is not true,” he murmured quietly. “You know that better than I. Norris wants only for you to be happy.”

“Do I?” Myriam asked. Her voice faltered and she turned her nose to the rushing river. “What if, when we get married, all he wants is for me to sit at home and… I don’t know, wash his feet?”

Connor unintentionally wrinkled his nose. At the very least, the gesture provided a quick laugh for the two hunters. The uncomfortable silence returned soon after, broken only by the sounds of quiet chirping and rustling bushes.

“Norris did not fall in love with a housewife,” Connor finally spoke up. He met Myriam’s gaze with his own, gentle eyes. “Why would he expect such?”

“All men do,” Myriam sighed.

“I do not.”

“You are not all men.”

Connor glanced down at the flower crown in his hands, thumbing over the white petals. “Perhaps I am not.”

Myriam pinched her nose again. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend–”

“No, it is alright,” Connor assured her. His brows furrowed in thought while Myriam squinted into the horizon. Then, a candle sparked in his mind. “How much do you know of my people, Myriam?”

“I don’t see the point of your question,” Myriam remarked tersely. When Connor gave a serious expression, she sighed. “But to answer it, not much.”

He moved in front of Myriam. “I think you would like it very much. For my people, it is the women who lead. We may have chiefs and war councils, but these men are voted upon by our women. Clan Mothers lead the village. We trace our ancestry through our mothers. For women, marriage is not just a union of the husband and wife, but of the village to the couple.”

Myriam raised a brow. “Your point?”

Placing the flower crown upon her head, Connor continued. “You are not a housewife, but even if you were, it would not change who you are. You are a skillful leader and hunter. Norris knows this. He marries you because of it, not in spite of it. He admires you for who you are. You need be nothing else. And by marrying Norris, you unite our friends as a whole, too.”

Silently, Myriam adjusted the crown and tucked stray strands of hair behind her ears. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so.” He cracked a rare smile. “Besides, you are a better shot than Norris. If anyone will be the housewife, it will be him.”

Myriam snorted. “The bad part is that I think he would enjoy being a housewife.” Her shoulders shook as she began to laugh. “Could you imagine? Me, coming home with a pipe of tobacco sticking out of my mouth, my rifle on my back, and hares in my hands while Norris cooks and cleans?”

Connor chuckled, then gently led Myriam towards the path leading to the church. “But you cannot imagine such a fate until you are wed.”

“No,” Myriam smiled, “I suppose I can’t.” As they reached the church, Myriam turned to Connor with a mixture of fear and excitement.

“I’m scared.”

Connor nodded. “I know.”

“What do I do?”

“What do you do when you face a cougar?”

“I shoot it. Are you suggesting I shoot Norris?”

“No, but I am suggesting that you face him like you would any animal.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “You are a strong, cunning woman, Myriam. He loves you deeply. He would not be marrying you if he had no intention of respecting you.”

Myriam inhaled sharply. “How do I get over it?”

“The fear?”

“No, the weather – what else would there be?”

“You won’t,” chimed a gentle, soft voice. Prudence and Ellen emerged from behind the church. Ellen offered Myriam her bouquet of flowers while Prudence wrapped a white shawl around her shivering shoulders. Prudence patted her cheek. “When I married Warren years ago, I was terrified of our future. But you learn, in marriage, that you are both equally frightened.” She giggled along with Ellen and Myriam.

Ellen took Myriam’s hands in her own. “My marriage was an unhappy one,” she confessed. Connor looked on solemnly, catching Ellen’s somber gaze for a mere second before Ellen mustered a smile. “But I can offer this wisdom: a good husband will cherish his wife for her talents, her wit, her love, her devotion, and her faith. Norris practically worships the ground you walk on. He will make a fine husband.”

Myriam sniffled. “Fuck,” she cursed. “I can’t believe I’m crying like some… some old hag!” Prudence and Ellen laughed, rubbing Myriam’s shoulders before holding her tightly.

“Besides,” Prudence cooed, staring over Myriam’s shoulder into Connor’s watchful gaze, “once we have you and Norris married, we can finally focus our attention on finding Connor a wife.”

Cheeks flushing, Connor brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “That will not be necessary.”

“Oh, hush, Prudence,” Ellen giggled. “We mustn't scare him from the prospect yet.” She turned back to Myriam, kissing her cheek. “We have to go back inside, but we will support you no matter what.” Prudence nodded in agreement before waving goodbye, giggling alongside Ellen as they hurried into the church.

Myriam rubbed her arms and faced Connor, walking with him up the steps. “You will be there every step of the way?”

“Every step,” Connor assured.

“Okay.”

“How do you feel?”

“Terrified. Like I want to run away again,” Myriam chuckled breathlessly. Connor hummed and looped his arm with hers.

“I will be there regardless. I am sure Norris will be as well.”

Myriam smiled. “Thank you, Connor.”

“You do not need to thank me. You are my friend.”

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her frigid lips to Connor’s freckled cheek. “No, but I will. Thank you.”

Blushing, Connor cleared his throat and led Myriam to the entrance of the church, where the guests began to rise as they spotted the bridge.

“Prudence and Ellen are right, though. We must find you a bride,” she whispered, doing her best to ignore the endless amount of eyes upon her and Connor.

Connor chuckled, patting her hand. “I can only hope she is not as fast nor agile as you.”

“Ha, ha. Who knew you had such a sense of humor?”

Years later, when Connor would find himself fidgeting in front of his betrothed’s longhouse, Myriam would loop her arm with his, kiss his flustered cheek, and walk him into the longhouse with the same kindness he had shown her before.

Luckily for Connor, his wife did not run into the trees. How fortunate he was indeed.

#assassin’s creed #ac3 #connor kenway #ratohnhaké:ton #fanfiction #my fanfic #assassin's creed fanfic #davenport homestead #myriam #norris #prudence #ellen #terry #godfrey #pretty much everybody in the damn homestead #that random cut from the chase sequence to the wedding bothers me so fucking much #so I simply decided to fill in the blanks #I hope you guys enjoy!#I love Connor sm he's a good friend

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andydrysdalerogers · 5 months

Text

Cross-Checked ~ Chapter 1

Andy Barber x OFC Leighton "Leia" Andrews

Summary:

Andy Barber is having the best year of his life. His game is on point. It’s gets to play with his best friend and his fiancé just... dumped him?!.

Reeling from a sudden change in status, Andy decides it’s time to just focus on hockey. Until his best friend's sister comes out with news that rock the entire organizations world.,

Andy has always carried a torch for the untouchable Leighton but in her hour of need, is now the time to shoot and score or risk getting cross - checked again?

Warnings: Cheating (but not by the MCs); slow burn; friends to lovers eventually; SMUT!; pregnancy; jealousy; evil exes...

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Banners by me!

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 1: it's supposed to be my year - Andy

Third Person POV

The Red line is a good place to hide from the world.

A dive bar that's only really known by locals and a perfect hideout for the local team, The Boston Bruins. This is where we can find the hero of our story. Or a broken heart reeling from the shock of a lifetime. The bartender puts the third glass of Glenlevet 12 in front of the broken man at the corner of his bar. 

Andy

“You want something to eat Barber?”

I shook my head. The idea of food just made me want to throw up. This must be the worst day of my life. Sitting at our local dive, all I wanted to do was to drink myself to sleep. Maybe then I'll wake up from this nightmare. Have you ever been stood up at the alter? No? Lucky you.

“Knew I’d find you here.” I looked over to my best friend and alternate captain Lukas Andrews. He signaled to Mike, the bartender, and pointed to my glass. “You ok?”

“I'm great. Just perfect.” I pulled at the tie on the collar of my tux. “I mean I paid for an entire wedding and the down payment on a house, but my bride decided to fuck my team mate the night before our wedding and lucky me I overheard them arguing about it right before she was going walk down the aisle.” I slammed back my drink. “Oh, and she runs away with said teammate.”

I signal for another. And dropped my head to the bar. “Andy maybe you should slow down?” Luke said.

“Why? I don't want to feel Luke. I just want to numb the pain.” Can’t he see that I just want me heart to stop hurting. I was betrayed by two people that I trusted tremendously and now have to deal with not just one heartbreak but two.

“I know buddy but maybe you should sleep?”

Luke’s a great best friend to have. He always tries to take care of me and I’d do the same for him. But right now, I don’t want to take care of myself. “No, we drink.”

That's the last thing I remember.

Please let me be dead.

That could be the only explanation as to why I was in so much pain. The alternative is that its a massive hangover and that would suck worse. I cracked an eye and sunlight hit me like fucking a truck. Fuck, I’m alive and it was going to be a hell of a day. It took everything to get to the bathroom and throw up like I’m a goddamm teenager.

I’m a 31-year-old professional hockey player. I don't get drunk anymore.

At least I didn't before yesterday. And it hit me that the love of my life screwed one of my best friends and teammates the night before our wedding and I got listen to him beg her not to marry me.

Fuck Fiona and fuck Craig Bailey.

I wandered downstairs, the aroma of fresh coffee hitting me like water in the Sahara. This is why Luke is my best friend. Fully expecting to see him sitting at the island, I'm stunned when I see my other best friend and Luke's sister making breakfast. “Morning?”

Leighton Andrews.

If there was one girl I wish I could marry it would been her. I’ve known the Andrews siblings since Luke and I were in kindergarten. Hell, I've been around since Leia was just a sweet little baby. She was an annoying brat for most of my childhood. But then when we came home for Christmas our freshman year of college and every change. Leia was only 14 at the time but she grew up way more than that. She had always been short, taking after their mother but everything else had grown up. She had tits that were perfect, a banging ass that I wanted to feel in my hands.

There was just one small problem.

She's my best friend's sister.

To call Luke overprotective would be the biggest understatement in the world. After their dad died in a freak accident, Luke took his job as “man of the house” very seriously. He made sure that his mom didn't feel lonely, and he made it his mission to protect his sister by any means necessary.

As the dutiful best friend, I, of course, helped him in his mission to protect her.

Did I have selfish reasons?

Yes. 

Did I tell him that?

I'm alive so what does that tell you.

“Hey Andy, good morning!” Leia chirped. She had always been a ball of sunshine and it was something that I loved about her. Except, wait, how did she get into my townhome?

“I say this with love, Leia, but what are you doing here? And how did you get into my house?”

She flashed me that goddam smile that makes me give her whatever hell she wants. “Mike called.”

Sadly, that's enough of an explanation.

“Where's lover boy? I thought you guys were attached at the hip?” I poured myself a cup of water, drained it with two ibuprofen and then moved on to coffee.

“Bret is on a business trip right now. He'll be back on Friday.”  

Bret. Blah, the man was a waste of space in mine and Luke’s opinion. He’s a stockbroker for some Fortune 500 company. When Leia started dating him, he was the epitome of douche bag. For the last year, Leia had subtly changed. She used to be a free spirit, dressed however she wanted. But Bret wanted a sophisticated partner that was like the other wives of brokers in his company. He would spend money to upgrade her wardrobe and then they bought a house together six months ago. I hated that. Even when I was with Fiona, I knew Leia deserved better. But she’s happy, and that’s all I can ask for.

“Was he even at my wedding? Or as I call it the implosion of my life?”

Leia came over and wrapped her arm around me and put her head on my shoulder. “He was there. He told me to tell you how was and sorry that Fiona was a complete bitch.”

“He did not say that.”

“Ok, fine, it was me but that's because it’s the truth.” Leia smiled at me sadly. “I’m so sorry, Andy.”

“Thanks, Leia.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I guess I'm just glad I found out before I married her.”

“She's an idiot Andy. I mean who in their right mind ditch a man like you?”

This really wasn't the time to get a semi. Her compliment is doing things to me.

“Please don't tell me she did it because I neglected her or drove her into another man's arms? I mean I know I’ve been busy but I was trying to secure our future, you know?” Fuck, did I screw this up? I was working to be named captain this upcoming season. The Bruins made that announcement a couple of weeks ago. It had been awesome at the time but was it tainted now?

“I don’t know. She’s been with you for like three years. She knows what it's like to be a WAG. She’s a fucking idiot Andy.” She moved to rub my back.

I looked around my townhouse. “I have to move out of this place because I have a new home. That she wanted. Fuck,” I dropped my head onto the kitchen counter with a thud. “Ow.” 

Leia chose at that moment to let out a series of adorable giggles, her second-choice weapon in her arsenal. “Feel better?”

“No,” I mumble.

She came over and kissed my forehead. “Everything is going to be ok. You are the captain this year. Your best friends are right beside you. And we'll always be by your side.”

I looked up at her. “Promise?” I held out my pinkie, something the three of us have done since we were kids. She took it with her own.

“Promise.”

“Fuck, who turned on the brightness?” Luke wandered into the kitchen. He took a seat next to me and lowered his head into his arms. “I’m never drinking with you again Barber.”

“I didn’t say you had to match me drink for drink Andrews.” I looked around, searching for his girlfriend. I vaguely remember her coming with him to the bar. “Where is Miranda?”

“She’s sleeping. I tried to wake her, but she said she’s not getting up unless I can promise pancakes and bacon in bed.” Luke looked at his sister. “I love you.”

Leia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’m doing this because I need to make sure you guys were ok. I gotta get back home for a meeting.”

I smiled at her. “You’re the best Leia.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

After the banging in my head subsided, I went to the new house. I needed to make this place my own. Fuck whatever Fiona wanted. I would make this the home of my dreams, not hers. As I walked up to the front, I saw someone sitting on the stoop. “The fuck are you doing here?” The nerve of this guy showing up to my house.

Craig stood up. “I just want a minute to explain.”

“Explain what? How you "accidentally" slept with my fiancé or how you were trying to convince her to leave me?” I raged. This fucker has balls, I'll give him that.

“Andy, it’s not like that. I'm in love with her. I have been for a long time.” 

“You slept with her once and all of a sudden, you've been in love with her for forever? Bull shit man.”

“It wasn't just once,” he said quietly. 

I stopped. “Wanna run that by me again?” I must have not heard him clearly

“It wasn't just the once. We've been seeing each other for the last year.”

We all heard that right?

“You've got to be kidding me! You've been fucking my fiancé for the last year?” I don't even let him respond. I deck him across the chin and drop him to the floor. Lucky for him, Luke shows up just when I go to hit him again.

“Andy! Stop! He's not worth it.” Luke grabs my arm and pulls me back. Another set of hands takes mine. I look back and see Leia and I calm a little under her touch.

“I fucking hate you! You were one of my best friends and you did this to me. Fuck you! You're dead to me!”

“We are on the same team Andy!” Craig argues. “I’m sorry but I love her, and we didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I don't give a shit. She was mine and you fucked me over. I'll work with you on the ice, but I never want to speak to you or look at you outside of the arena ever again! Go back to your bitch and tell her I'll send her shit to her mother's.” Luke pushes Craig away from me and down the drive. I turned away and Leigh wrapped her arms around me, and I buried my head in her neck, sobbing into her. “Why?” I asked her.

“I don't know Andy but I'm right here.” She rubbed my back as Luke dealt with Craig. “Let it out, I've got you.”

This was supposed to be my year. I had the captaincy, I had a championship caliber team and a fiancé that I thought loved me. 

This was supposed to be my year. 

Now I know what it's like to get screwed over with my pants on.

Life is funny like that.

Taglist:

@patzammit

@texmexdarling

@slutforchrisjamalevans

@firephotogrl74

@tinkerbelle67

@before-we-get-started

@bunnyforhim

@alexakeyloveloki

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@kmc1989

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weddingvendororganizer · 2 years

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feathered-serpents · 10 months

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“What’s the most specific daydream you currently have-“

It’s anywhere between two and god only knows years in the future. It is the night of the Good Omens season 3 premiere, I have managed to organize a fan premiere event where we are all able to watch all six episodes together in an actual movie theater. At least 200 people are there and it’s two minutes till showtime. I’m cosplaying Aziraphale. I get on stage (there’s a stage) and with the sudden charisma and confidence of god I announce the perfect way to kill these next two minutes. I begin to stomp-stomp-clap. The theater joins in. I lead us all in a “We Will Rock You” group jam with the EXACT vibes of that scene from the rain episode of Drake and Josh. On the line “Waving your banner all over the place” I walk into the crowd and flawlessly slight of hand a pride flag from behind a Crowley cosplayer’s ear. We reach the end of the song right as the page refreshes and a big “WATCH NOW” button appears on the screen. I throw the pride flag into the crowd like a wedding bouquet as my best friend in the projector booth presses play. It’s the best night of my life

Y’know. The normal things

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens season 2 #I don’t think this is logistically possible. but I can dream

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weddingorganizerdihotel · 2 years

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weddingorganizerdirumah · 2 years

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st0r-fruit · 2 months

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HEAR ME OUT HAYARYUU SHIPPERS!!

Hayaryuu as girldads. Yes. You read that right.

Kamitani learning to tie his daughter's hair, learning all the styles so she can have variety of looks. (Akdhslkak imagine the visual of him sitting behind his daughter with his sleeves rolled up as his hands parting hairs into sections while the rubber band is hold by his mouth)

Ryuuichi cooking up her favorite things, packing up cute bentos for her lunch. (you can't tell me this man would NOT wake up earlier just to make bunny shaped rice with seaweed face or swan-carved carrots for his daughter)

Kotaro and Taka becomes best uncle babysitters, both being chaotic. Gaming together, eating together. She said "oh i can't play with my uncles tonight they have homework" and people around her are confused as hell. (Age add by 10 years so the kiddos r 12 years old)

Ryuuichi and Kamitani spoiling the hell out of their girl. Tea parties, picnics, outings, pretty outfits, toys, etc. They won't be adopting another kid because they have their little brothers to take care of as well so the little girl was the perfect addition.

Kamitani teaching her handy things in life like how to change tires, which screw is which, how to drive how to shop smart, baking, etc while Ryuuichi teaches her cooking, soft skills like talking to people and handling them, presentation, life lessons and morals, etc.

Both dads being supportive as heck in whatever their daughter does. They're the loudest cheerleaders and you bet they make motivation banners and props. Kotaro and Taka is there too, being their biggest fan aside from the dads.

Getting side eyed by parents in their daughter's class thinking their daughter should need a mother not two fathers but they're one of the PTA organizers and class representative and they're the cool parents kids love.

Ryuuichi bringing snacks to class events, and every kids love them he starts thinking of selling them in school. Kamitani being the competitive sports dad that argues with the coach when the coach gives a yellow card to his daughter cause what the hell. (He almost got into a fight with the coach)

Being protective girl dads, but not to the point it's toxic. Kamitani being the average dad when his daughter brings a boy to their house, very suspicious but is still polite. (Do no harm but take no shit--Kamitani)

They're definitely emotional in their adult daughter's wedding. Surprise surprise Kamitani's crying, sobbing. Ryuuichi having to have tissues by his lap to wipe it away on Kamitani's face.

I have more but this is it at the moment.

#st0r fruit #gakuen babysitters #school babysitters #ryuuichi kashima #kamitani hayato #hayaryuu #kotaro kashima #kamitani taka #gakuen babysitters x reader #reader x gakuen babysitters #child reader #headcanons

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starfall-spirit · 1 year

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On the Edge of Losing You

Thank you @azrielshadowssing for organizing the Summer ACOTAR Writing Circle. This is my first time participating, and my first collab fic in general. I am thrilled to be kicking this off with my OTP, Feysand. Writers of part two and three, you are more than welcome to reuse the banner I created or make your own if you don’t like my theme.

Also a huge thanks to my beta readers, @deepsleep07 and @headcanonheadcase for the critique that really helped form this piece. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy it!

Summary: Feyre and Tamlin are set to say their I dos on the beautiful beaches of Cancún. The problem—Feyre's wedding jitters have escalated to the revival of a crush on her best friend a few days before the wedding.

CW: None

Word Count: 3,318

Part 2 (@thegloweringcastle) // Part 3 (TBA) // Ao3

Chapter I: Do I Say I Do?

“Careful, Rhys. Someone might start thinking you have ill intentions.” He knew Feyre had sensed him the second he appeared on the surf, lingering a few feet from where she lounged in her beach chair that sat low to the ground, her long legs extended so her feet were cooled by the rising tide.

Haloed by the July sun wearing only her bikini she looked… He wasn’t ready to think about how Feyre looked. Not with that sun glinting off an emerald-topped engagement band she never took off. Not with her fiancé throwing a fit every time Rhys was within a ten mile radius of her. For someone who had secured an engagement and was beginning his vacation that preluded a disgustingly grand destination wedding, Tamlin failed to view Rhys as anything other than a threat.

He snagged a camping chair and set it so it sat parallel to hers and he wouldn’t have to get so low to the ground to join her. “You’re looking a bit pink already. You know you’re hopeless when it comes to tanning, don’t you?”

Her lips turned up into a small smile as she rose to a sitting position. “I took a dip earlier. And it’s been a few hours since I applied.”

He took the sunscreen bottle from the pocket of his chair and passed it to her. “No need to be burnt on your wedding day.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, the set of her mouth telling him she didn’t approve of the bitter note in his voice. “Rhys—”

“I know. He’s perfect and hasn’t shown any of the red flags I mentioned from the moment you met, right?”

“Rhys!” She was red-faced for an entirely different reason now. “You are my best friend, but it is not your place to worry about my marriage.” She took his hands in hers. “You are my best friend,” she repeated, “and he will be my husband in a matter of days. I want both of you in my life. But this tension between you has to be resolved.”

This tension. A kind way of putting Rhys’ loose tongue about all of the faults he saw in his best friend’s fiance. And Feyre, stubborn as she was, refused to listen to him this time. He didn’t want to control her. He just wanted her to see sense.

“Right. Call me when he doesn’t find a guy talking to you to be a criminal offense.”

“He’s protective,” she insisted, breaking eye contact as she rubbed the sunscreen into her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with protecting someone you love.” He opened his mouth to argue again. “I’m done with this, Rhys. We can speak pleasantly or you can leave.” She sighed, turning to bare her back to him as lifted her braid. “Help me with my back please.”

Fuck. After the conversation they just had about her “protective” fiancé? He really didn’t feel like dealing with the huffing and puffing today. “Feyre, seriously?”

“Oh stop it. It’s never been a problem before now. I always miss spots if I do it alone. If Tamlin’s your concern he won’t be back for a while. Even if he was, he’d see reason.” He didn’t think either of them really believed that. “It’s not a problem.”

No, it hadn’t been a problem. Then they'd gotten older and he found himself crushing on her. And that crush grew. They hit their teens and his sweet friend who was once all knees and elbows from too few meals was standing in her prom dress, taking his breath away.

His mother had made sure Feyre and her sisters were cared for when she saw the signs the Archeron family tried so hard to hide. Things got better, even if their father took it as an insult until the day he died. Their father’s feelings aside, they made friends and had food in their bellies. And Rhys bonded with all of them. But things had always run deeper with Feyre. Her older sisters teased and teased her for it as children, but there had never been anything to act on.

She had been objectively attractive, of course. More so than her sisters. But one doesn’t think that of their best friend. Rhys didn’t let himself think that way. Not until she came down those stairs on prom night. He could remember every detail, a girl of sixteen attending the school dance in his senior year. She was a vision in a gown of midnight blue and silver.

He finally saw her as a woman he hadn’t been able to look back since. Even after he graduated and the world pushed them apart for years on end. There had been other women, college flings and bar hookups. But none of them were Feyre.

Here they were at twenty-six and twenty-eight, both a little wiser and in control of their own lives. And the honest truth was he couldn’t focus on anything around her. If she hadn’t announced she was dating Tamlin six months ago, he might have acted on those growing feelings by now. Yet here they were, lounging on the private beach in Cancún with a whirlwind romance dropping Feyre at that altar. If she couldn’t see the timeframe as a red flag he didn’t think anything would change her mind.

“Rhys.”

Scanning the beach for the blond bastard, he obeyed, rubbing the sunscreen into her back as quickly as he could, trying very hard not to think about how he really wanted to run his hands over her. Slowly, not leaving an inch of skin unmapped. He shook the thought away. “There. You should be covered.”

“Thanks.” She offered him the bottle. “Need some?”

“Sure.” He came here to hang out, after all.

She leaned back in her chair again, folding one arm behind her head. “So, what took you so long to fly in?”

He chuckled. “Other than the fact I’m a full time professor in the height of summer courses, grading a buttload of essays for Astronomy 101? Some of those students…” He shook his head.

“Girls?” Feyre asked with a knowing smirk. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the rest of her assumption. “You’re the youngest teacher in the department, Rhys. They’re failing because they're staring at your pretty face instead of the whiteboard.”

He snorted, not ready to admit there had been a student or two who scrawled a ten digit number on the back of their final. “Yeah, well, flirting never got anyone an A.” He squeezed her hand. “I got here as fast as I could. Whatever disagreements I may have with Tamlin, you know I wouldn’t miss this. I said I’d be there for you through everything good and bad. This fits the bill.”

Even if he pictured himself on Tamlin’s side of the altar every time he saw the wedding invitation on his apartment’s fridge door. “I wanted to ask you—”

Before she could finish, a high-pitched squeal pierced the air. “About time! Get over here!”

Feyre jumped as white sand sprayed up onto her, clinging to the fresh sunscreen. “Mor, really!”

He saw a flash of blonde before his cousin was barreling into his arms, giggling maniacally. With her traveling so much it had been an age since they saw each other. It had been her dream to explore the best of life overseas and it seemed to do her some good. But then, any freedom must feel like heaven, growing up with a father like Kier. There were many days Rhys still ached to throttle his uncle for keeping Mor on such a tight leash. The stern hand his own father took seemed forgiving when his cousin finally opened up about everything in their early college days. Feyre had been the one to pry it out of her, simultaneously convincing Mor to lean on the found family who cared about her so much.

She was better for it now, bright-eyed and cheerful most days they talked in person or on a video chat. “Where��s Cassian and Az?” she asked. “They were here an hour ago.”

“Looking for some activities. You know it’s a crime asking men to just relax on the beach,” Feyre jested, picking up some sort of fruity cocktail she’d ordered. How she and Mor could tolerate them was beyond him. “This one’s only sitting here because he feels obligated to be nice to me.”

He frowned. “You know that’s not true. I—”

“Rhysand.” He grimaced at the too-familiar voice behind him, ignoring Feyre’s glare and its silent demand that he keep playing nice. “So glad you could finally join us.” Though his gait could almost be considered casual, there was no denying he was once again using his own body as a barrier between Rhys and Feyre. “Enjoying your stay?”

“I just flew in, but I’m sure it will be a delight. Thank you for so graciously inviting me.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“If you two are finished,” Feyre groaned. “Rhys, can you walk with me for a minute? Just down the beach?”

Tamlin’s body locked, a vicious glare in his eyes aimed at Rhys. How could he turn the lady down now? “It would be my pleasure, Feyre darling.”

She smiled, reaching for her dark cover up, despite the lack of wind and the noon sun beating down. It wasn’t his place to comment on that. Even if he felt it very much was his place to characterize the man his best friend intended to spend the rest of her life sharing a home with.

Feyre was silent at first, watching the birds soaring ahead of them. He didn’t pry, waiting until she was ready to share what needed to be shared. “I love you. You’re my best friend.”

“Yes?”

She swallowed. “So much of this has been planned by… friends. I let things go, when it came to the technicalities of the wedding. Ianthe has been… helpful.” He suppressed a snort. Just days ago, Feyre had been moaning and groaning about how Tamlin’s old friend and apparent officiant couldn’t keep her nose in her own business. “I just…”

He paused, gently taking her hand and squeezing it. “Are things okay? Are you having doubts?”

“About marrying Tamlin? No. I’m just feeling off-kilter I guess. Caught up in a whirlwind of planning and out of control. I just want to hit the pause button and make my own choice on something, but I don’t even know the first thing I’d change. I need an anchor. Something they haven’t thought of yet.”

He furrowed his brow. “And you think I can help?”

“Yes. Before Tamlin sticks it on Lucien or something. I don’t want anyone’s feelings hurt.” He cocked his head. “I don’t have my father anymore. And even if I did… things were strained when I got older. And then he died before things could mend. Rhys, would you walk me down the aisle?”

And if that wasn’t a punch to the gut.

He cast a nervous look over his shoulder. “Feyre, are you sure?”

She nodded, lacing her fingers through his. “It’ll be fine, Rhys. He knows I want you in my life. I know things will get better for you two. And I should have some say in my own wedding, shouldn’t I?”

“Of course, but…” He shook his head. He couldn’t and wouldn’t try to stop the wedding. Feyre was smart. She had to know Tamlin well enough to feel safe if she had agreed to marry him. So he would step aside. He would do this one last thing for her, even if he broke his own heart in the process. “I’d be honored, Feyre.”

~~~~~

“You did what?”

She sighed as she opened the door to the bathroom. “Tamlin, you said you were going to try. You aren’t trying. Not even slightly.”

“That arrogant piece of—”

“My best friend, you mean?”

He let out a huff. “Rhysand,” he hissed, “has no place walking you down the aisle. That’s—”

“That’s whose job, Tamlin? Certainly not my father’s any longer. Or did you expect Lucien who I’ve known for a matter of a few months to do it? Rhys and Mor and Cassian and Az will always be my family. They aren’t going anywhere, no matter how many fits you throw about it.”

“Your sisters are an option, of course.”

“Tamlin, don’t. What’s done is done. On our wedding day Rhys will be my escort. And you will keep your mouth shut about it and keep a smile on your face.”

“You have other friends, Feyre. You and Ianthe get along well.”

“Oh do we? I’m sure you know my feelings so well when it comes to tolerating her.” He reared back. “Ianthe will keep batting her eyes and paying compliments as long as you let her leech off of you, Lucien hasn’t even tried to hug me because you probably threatened to cut his arms off for doing so. Tamlin, you will stop this overbearing asshole behavior or I will not marry you.”

Faster than she could react, he lunged, red-faced and wild-eyed. His grip on her arm was bruising. While she was all fired up and ready to lay things out he had been stewing with every word. “I am doing what’s best for you,” he snarled. And that was the wake up call.

God, had Rhys been right? Was it taking the cogs turning just days before her wedding to see the red flags as Rhys called them?

“You are trying to control me. And I will not let you. Now let me go.” Seemingly in a daze, he uncurled his hand from around her wrist, the pale print from his hand beginning to pinken again. “I’ll be back later.”

“Feyre.”

“I said I’ll be back,” she snapped, shoving her feet into her flip-flops. “Do not follow me and do not send Lucien like some hound on my trail. I need some space.”

One thing. She asked one thing of this wedding and it was that her best friend be more than another name on the absurdly long guest list. What a crime it was. Down where the beach started to soften, she removed her shoes, letting the sand sift through her toes. Minutes or miles she walked with nothing more than her thoughts and a nocturnal choir around her. While the silence might have bothered most, She had always found peace in a quiet night.

Feyre sank to the sand, leaning back on her hands and tilting her head to view the sky above her. She was lucky the busy lights were on the other side of the resort. Here on their side, even with the light pollution day and night she had a chance to enjoy the star-flecked unknown. She was hopeless to identify constellations without her favorite astronomy professor of course, but they were still pretty to look at alone.

“You can see Lupus from here.” She jumped slightly, whipping her head over her shoulder. “Sorry if I startled you. Can I sit with you?” Rhys asked.

“Always.” She sat up so they could sit shoulder to shoulder and he reached for her hand, frowning when she jolted away and rubbed it instinctively. The tenderness there scared her more than she wanted to admit. And Rhys was staring. “What?”

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

“Nothing.”

“Feyre.”

“Rhys.”

“I know you too well to fall for your lies.” She bit her lip, casting her eyes to the ground, only looking back up when he gave a heavy sigh. “Ara.”

“What?”

“Ara, it’s almost straight ahead. And there’s Corvus there.”

“You’re speaking Latin to me.” He snorted at the frankly terrible joke, nudging her shoulder good-naturedly. She slumped against him, exhaustion taking over. “You’re going to have to carry me back,” she mumbled. “In the morning.” He tensed beside her. “I can’t go back there tonight. It would just be weird.”

“Why?” She shrugged. “Feyre.”

“He doesn’t like you.”

His lip curled slightly against her head. “I think I’ll survive.”

“We were fighting over it. You. All of you. He has his bubble, and if he can’t control the people in it… I didn’t realize how deep it ran until I told him you would give me away. I’ve never seen him so…”

The word hung between them as he reached for her wrist again. She wondered if it would bruise by morning. If Ianthe would try to dab a bit of powder over it before Mor showed up and had a cow. Feyre didn’t know what she would do at that point.

“He’s been stressed lately. Between the wedding and work and—”

“Do not make excuses for him.” The edge in his voice put a new heaviness between them. “Do not pretend this is okay, Feyre. You want to know why you’ve never seen him so violent? It’s because cowards like that need control to feel they hold the power. That they’re worth something. He let you speak your mind this long to make sure he had you for good, but the second you say ‘I do’ everything is going to change.”

If Tamlin’s anger was the strike of a storm, Rhys’ was the deadly calm before it. Chilled as death even as those violet eyes glinted against the moon. He twisted in the sand, cupping her face and pressing his brow to hers, as he had done so many times to calm her from her panic. This time he needed that calm.

“Do not make excuses. Do not wait for that stress to go away. And Feyre, please do not marry a man who will free his temper the moment you kiss him on that altar.”

She twisted her lower body to face him fully, stroking a hand over the short stubble at his jaw. It had started as a teasing touch when he was just old enough to start growing facial hair, later a habit she couldn’t resist maintaining. Until she met Tamlin and all the fond habits and touches earned scowls and glares. That hand teasing his stubble rose to run through his hair, a touch to sooth. It still seemed to work.

“All I’m saying is that six months is awfully fast for a wedding,”

“Oh, is that all you’re saying, Rhys?”

She pulled at his hair slightly and his eyes fluttered open again. If she didn’t know better, she would say time had turned back for them. They were kids again and he was taking her to his senior prom, despite her only being a sophomore. Coming home from the dance she’d joked on her front porch that they were at the point where he was supposed to kiss her goodnight.

She’d been the typical sixteen year old, crushing on a senior. Except that senior was her best friend. Romantically off limits was an unspoken rule of friendship to them, no matter what their friends and family thought. But for a moment—one fraction of a second—the world paused, giving her a glimpse of a boy that wanted to kiss her back.

She never saw that boy again.

Until now.

Days before her wedding he was staring at her like she hung the moon. Like she was the only thing keeping his world turning, as ludicrous as that seemed. But god, she wanted someone to want every part of her that badly. Looking into his eyes now, she realized all of the things she’d been compromising.

“Feyre, what are you doing?” Her hands slid down to cup his face. “Feyre.”

Every moral she had was screaming for her to stop. She was an engaged woman and kissing her teenage crush could be the biggest mistake of her life. And yet the devil on her shoulder spurred her on.

And Feyre listened, kissing Rhys for the first time. Only the stars could damn her tonight.

~~~~~

AN: I hope this is alright in length and content for the first part. As I said, this is my first writing circle fic.

Taglist: @goddess-aelin // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @reverie-tales // @acourtofwips // @jealousveronya // @darling-archeron // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow

#acotar #feysand #acotar writing circle #feysand fic #collab fic #part 1 #fanfiction #feyre archeron #rhysand #summer writing circle #acotarwritingcircle

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