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logaenhowlett · 3 months ago

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I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - L.H.

Summary: The small things are never just small things. For Logan, they're the constellations charting the story of him and you.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff (your heart may not be able to handle this), Established relationship, Domestic AF

A/N: I'll jump at any chance to write for Origins!Logan (he's my man fr). Here's another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was ELATION. Title creds to Shelby Lynne.

MASTERLIST

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the backyard!”

Keys follow a graceful arc as Logan tosses them into the tray by the door. And as always, they land with a soft clink, a quiet exhalation of metal on ceramic signalling the end of his workday.

The tray itself - a chipped, sun-faded thing you'd unearthed at an antique market one afternoon - bears the loving imprint of time. He remembers the way your eyes lit up immediately, declaring it "perfect" before playfully haggling with the vendor, your laughter ringing through the crowded stalls like a cascade of wind chimes.

Boots thud against the floor. As he toes them off, the memory of your gentle chiding surfaces; "Baby..." drawn out in an affectionate warning as you gestured to the offending muddy tracks.

Logan glances down, half-expecting the telltale streaks of dirt. Instead, the polished wood gleams back, pristine and devoid of smudges. And he knows, with a sweet certainty, that you'll be pleased.

His jacket sways the already-leaning coat rack, adding to the precarious balance of hats, scarves and dog leads you insisted on buying for the neighbour's German Shepherds. Those evenings - leash in hand as the dogs bound ahead, your face alight with a smile rivalling the setting sun - nestle warmly in the depths of his heart.

Couch cushions, dented from countless hours of cuddling and late-night reading, yield lightly beneath his touch as he ventures through the living room. On the coffee table, lit candles cast shadows across faint, nearly invisible rings of condensation, ghosts of beer bottles past.

The fireplace crackles merrily, chasing away the frosty air he'd braved last night to gather the wood piled neatly beside it. "Do you have to?" you'd murmured as he reluctantly unwound himself from your embrace. "I'll be quick, darlin'", the promise sealed with a kiss upon your nose.

Framed photographs adorn the mantlepiece above. One catches Logan's eye in particular: your first Christmas together. The ridiculously ugly sweater you'd crocheted with painstaking - and slightly misguided - enthusiasm encases him. He's tucked into your neck, seeking refuge from both the camera's flash and the itchy wool, but a small, happy smile betrays his discomfort.

Warm apple pie, its sweetness a siren's call, beckons him into the kitchen. A traitorous urge tempts him with visions of a generous sliver. But then he remembers your hand, light yet firm, swatting his greedy fingers away. "Dessert's after dinner, Lo," followed by his usual retort: "As long as you're on the menu, baby."

With a chuckle, he retrieves a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge, briefly studying the disarray on its shiny surface. Sticky notes, some containing important reminders such as "Bring eggs please!" and "I love you" scrawled alongside silly doodles, compose a riot of colour and ink.

Just beyond the kitchen's threshold, a laundry basket rests patiently under the hallway light. Messy sheets from the morning spill over the rim, tangling with several orphaned socks and those boxers - the unbelievably soft ones you'd gifted him - that Logan swears he can't live without.

Familiar notes sound from the record player. Whistling along, he heads towards the bathroom, the basket bumping gently against his hip. And soon, the rhythmic whir of the washing machine falls in with the melody.

The chipped bathtub stands as evidence of an incident both clumsy and intimate from last week. Steam billowed in a thick cloud as warm water lapped at your shoulders. And in the heat of the moment, Logan's claws scraped a jagged scar across the smooth porcelain. The sudden snikt had been a jarring interruption, but the shared fit of giggles quickly dissolved any tension.

All these thoughts of you urge him straight towards the backyard. And happiness hits him square in the chest, because there you are - kneeling amidst flowerbeds, hands working the rich soil as you nurture your plants.

And then, the pieces fall into place.

Nights whiled away on the porch steps, dreaming about your lives together. The letter, a clerical error addressing you as Mr and Mrs Howlett, which you'd jokingly hung on the wall, echoing a quiet promise. Musings of tiny footprints padding across the floor of what's currently the spare bedroom.

This is it. This is his future.

Without warning, his arm curves beneath you, sweeping you off the ground. "Logan!" you exclaim, clutching his shoulders.

“Marry me. What do you say, sweetheart?"

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hello-from-nrc-infirmary · 20 days ago

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Spring Equinox

Starting Hours

"What did he say?"

Vern is quiet, his chest aches like his heart is carrying stones. "Koa, I'll go head.. you um.. stay here and wait."

"Pardon? That would be unwise, considering-"

"-I will command it," the sprite shoves his phone away.

The elk stares at him for a few moments, waiting. Firm silence meets the familiar. Taking a step back, Koa flicks his ear. Vern can feel the small pull as the elk gathers magic at his antlers before slicing the air open. He places a reassuring hand on Koa and gives the elk a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Swallowing the dull ache, Vern steps through the portal. His stomach churns with it. Pausing, he takes deliberate breaths, allowing his surroundings to come into focus.

Everything is loud, bustling. The wind from the mountains is a little warmer. Even the sun seems to shine brighter. Another year, another Equinox. He has to see Shirley first, the Southern Street.

His feet carry him down the familiar brick street. It's uneven, easy for grass and flowers to slip through the cracks. He takes his time to talk with any who greet him. Part of him hoping to delay the inevitable.

Humans and fae alike are crammed around Shirley's studio. They're there for the distillery next door. It makes his ears ring and getting to his sister's store difficult. Too many glance overs, too many questions. He sighs heavily when the door to the studio shuts behind him.

"There you are!!!"

Vern lets Shirley abruptly squeeze him. He mentally notes that she seems taller. "I said I would be..."

She releases him, glancing behind him, "where's Sil-Sil?"

"E-excuse me?"

"Oh! Uh, Silver," she laughs and drags Vern towards the back. "I gave him a nickname."

He's quiet as he looks over the two outfits in front of him, "he... will um... be here later..."

"Oh," Shirley almost sounds deflated, "I'm sorry-"

"-What's with the blue dress?"

"I wanted to like get ahead of things so... I started on it," she seems happy as she shows him some floral details. "So like, I don't have the accessories in for it yet, but I'm totally thinking of like... matching it with the details around the neckline! Don't worry, I already thought of silk gloves-"

Vern's chest tightens. His stomach is in knots as it plummets. "Shirley, it's... it's beautiful... but we haven't decided on anything..."

"Er.. w-well... I know, but like... I'll just shove this one back into the closet."

He nods as she steps away. Turning his attention to the glittering gold details of the other outfit. It certainly screams spring. Muted greens with a pop of pale pink. The gold accessories look fairly heavy. Absently, he drags a finger through the tiny bells dangling from the metal hip accessory. The delicate chimes give him a little ease.

"I can help you put that all on! You'll like... totally need it"

"R-right..."

Shirley scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Vern. "Here, the locks for the gold parts can seal with magic. Traditionally, that's like.. a spouse thing to do? Something about a protection spell. So... make sure Silver gets that."

"O-oh..." he nods as she brings him to the changing area. "I will..."

'What's wrong with me today? It's just another Equinox. Just another 24 hours. It's fine. I will be... no, I'm fine. It's just nerves and a bit of dread over Victor.... and mother's Willow's Wane. I'll have to visit Lux, Stravi, Gin, Sasha, Franz, and... I need to focus'

Ooc// hmm... this one is a bit more angsty than I meant... oh well!!!

Hm.. should I release the design for his equinox attire? I have the design version.. I could make a card... I'll have some time soon...

(We just gave them 2 birthday cards)

and? It looks cool!!

(Fair.)

(Tagging): @nrcbookclub @night-raven-miscellany @aurora-retainer-silver

#prescribed post #Vern Arc: Spring Equinox #vern's thoughts #shirley summer #koa the elk #pam the plant

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sleepingelvhen · 3 months ago

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Perfection in Red Rope 🌹 [NSFW] 🌹

Honkai Star Rail

Sunday/Fem!Reader NSFW

Minors DO NOT interact

Masterlist

TW: Bondage, BDSM, Dom/Sub, Hypnotism, Blindfolds

I found this in my drafts and decided to finish it up and post it.

Every night was easy to forget within the Dreamscape. Not because it was boring. No, the nights zipped by filled with revelry and buckets of Soulglad. You were certain there was gambling, the loud sounds of happy-go-lucky chimes going off as prizes flooded your already straining bags.

You were also certain you had gone to see the winding streets of Penacony’s off-limits dreams where walking didn’t make sense, and your mind would play tricks on you. Because those stairs just turned you upside down, and that walkway just transported you to the platform you swore was floating beneath you a second ago.

You knew there were metal dogs that carried Soulglad bottles and creatures made of mirrors and crystals. There were carpeted floors with ceilings you could walk up and alcoves home to birds made of paper that spoke to you as if they were kings. It was all extravagant and beautiful and vivid.

Yet, as vivid as these memories were, you forgot them. Every night, as soon as you stepped into The Family’s mansion, the day was gone, and this home was all that needed to matter.

He was all that mattered.

–

His hands were like velvet as they stroked your skin. Pliant within his gentle but commanding touch, your body bent to his will as did your mind.

It had taken a moment to notice he had wrapped silky red ropes around your arms, knots joining each extra inch as they decorated your skin. It was like you were wrapped in a taught blanket, but you were smart enough to know otherwise.

What time was it? You didn’t know, and frankly, you didn’t care. Once you entered Sunday’s home – his mansion amongst a dream-bound hotel – everything disappeared and all that mattered was you, him, and The Family. All that mattered was this.

With a sharp pull on the apex of his masterpiece, Sunday had your back against his chest. A low chuckle left his lips at the small gasp you had let out. It was easy to imagine the smirk on his face and those low-lidded eyes. Such a familiar sight that was currently blocked out by the blindfold he had so kindly wrapped around your face earlier.

“You are so beautiful, my dove.” His voice was just as kind as his hands, lips so close they nearly seared your skin. The fluff of his hair and wings grazed your cheeks, and a puff of a chuckle followed him as he moved. “If only you could see this. Surely, you are a blessing from The Harmony Themself.”

Your breath wavered as he said that, fingers gliding up and down your sides, making sure to grip each place where the rope dug into your skin. Sunday hummed a melody to himself, one that was familiar but you couldn’t place your finger on. Your brain was too foggy, and thinking was for those fully accepted by The Family – truly chosen by The Harmony. You weren’t there yet, were you? No. No, not yet.

“Soon.” It was like he could read your mind. Sunday nipped at your earlobe, chuckling as you yelped. “I promise you, they will accept you into The Family. You just need to trust me.”

Warm, gloved hands cupped your breasts then, his thumbs rolled each nipple with care.

“You do trust me, right my love?”

There was no hesitation in your response, almost like the decision had been made for you.

“Yes, of course.”

Sunday’s lips latched onto your neck, like velvet as they traveled down in slow increments. Such a simple touch was enough to have you gasping in his hold. Each rub of the ropes only increased the electricity that seemed to travel through every nerve.

“Do you love me?” He murmured against your throat, his hand gliding between your breasts down to your stomach, fingers dancing just above the skin, tempting you with a shiver.

“I do.” Your voice came out too quiet, and Sunday gripped your hair with his other hand, pulling your head back.

“Do you love me?”

“I do,” this time you get the volume right, as you feel his hand loosening its grip. “I love you.”

“Good,” he kisses your cheek, fingers continuing their journey down, down, between your thighs. “I love you too.” That was when his fingers stroked you, pressing those lovely ropes between your dripping lower lips.

The noise was obscene but all you could think was how beautiful it was, knowing it was Sunday making you feel this way. A soft moan left your mouth, joining with Sunday’s own hum of approval.

“You’re perfect.” He whispered, breath warm against the shell of your ear, his gloved fingers pressing the rope so that it parted your lips and dug just barely into your pussy. “Do you like that?”

You nodded breathlessly, small whimpers slipping out when his fingers started rubbing in small increments around your needy, swollen, clit. You wanted to see his face, wanted to glimpse that controlling smirk he no doubt had on his face. Sunday hushed you when you attempted to turn, limbs fighting against the tight ropes.

“Stop moving.” His command echoed in your mind just as he spoke it into reality, one hand digging into your thigh while the other stopped its kind movements in favor of shoving two fingers inside of you.

“Ah!” The suddenness stung, accompanied by a numbing pleasure, and when the warm need was all you felt, Sunday refused to move.

“Will you be good for me?” He whispered again, fingers so still inside of you, it was causing your impatience to grow.

You wanted to move, wanted to roll your hips and feel his fingers hitting the deepest parts of your body. Aeons, you wanted more than just those fingers. You wanted his voice whispering sweet nothings into your ear. You wanted Sunday. He was all you needed.

His other hand digging bruises into your thigh interrupted those thoughts, pulling you back into the unsatisfying reality that was him refusing to please you until you gave him what he wanted.

“Will you be good?” His voice had grown sterner, the voice of someone who wanted pure control over everything you did. And Aeons did it make your body quiver in need, your mind going completely numb.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

His fingers began to move slowly, each meticulous push and pull a strike of lightning through your nerves. There was no stopping the loud moans that left your lips, but you kept your body still just like he wanted. Even when all you wanted to do was ride his fingers until you came undone, you would listen to him forever.

“Such a good girl,” he purred, curling his fingers to hit that spot inside of you that made you scream. “Yes, just like that.”

“Sunday!” You cried out, holding yourself back by a thread. “P-please. May I touch you?”

He hummed to himself, still lazily pumping his fingers in and out of you. You could imagine his eyes glinting in cruel satisfaction.

“How badly do you want to touch me?”

You whimpered, a needy sound that would have embarrassed you any other day. But when you were with Sunday, embarrassment didn’t exist. You felt beautiful when you were with him. There was nothing to be embarrassed about.

Sunday cooed, the affectionate sound sending a thrill up your spine. His lips grazed your cheek again and he slid his wet fingers from you. His fingers touched your lips, tapping them. A request for you to open which you obediently followed. The flavor that coated his fingers were purely you, the tangy almost sweet flavor reminiscent of the sweets you partook in when Sunday wasn’t around. Treats he had so kindly bought you as a gift to show his adoration.

“Such a good girl, how do you taste?”

��Delicious,” you said softly, his fingers pressed against your lips, stroking them.

“Good enough for me?”

“Yes.”

He hummed again, his little noises musical in nature. “I will need to judge that myself.”

You were guided to one of the couches, bid to sit down so that the roped dug into you deliciously, and Sunday’s hands didn’t hesitate to hold you still so you could feel his warm breath against your thighs and core.

His tongue darted out, tasting you briefly to which he moaned in delight at the taste. A small whimper left your own lips and he chuckled, massaging your thighs.

“You are perfection, my dove.”

His mouth worked wonders when he fully partook. Where his fingers stayed planted firmly to your legs, his mouth sucked and licked into your pussy. He devoured you, as if he couldn’t get enough of your flavor. And the moans that left him were equally delicious. If only you could touch him. But he hadn’t given you permission. So you stayed still, bound in your position, and quivering with each swipe of his tongue.

You couldn’t quite hear the noises you made, your mind foggy and warped so that you only felt every movement against your walls and inside of you with increasing pleasure. But you knew you were being loud. Your throat had grown slightly soar, and you breathing was getting heavier and heavier by the second.

In your mind you heard Sunday praising you endlessly. And when his command came, you quivered and finished into his mouth.

The fogginess disappeared, and the blindfold came off. Sunday was disheveled, panting, and ethereal before you. The roped loosened in their hold on you and fell to the ground.

“Divine,” Sunday murmured, kissing you gently as if you would shatter if he were too rough.

“Thank you, Sunday.”

“No, thank you my love.” He whispered against you lips, brushing his fingers against your cheek.

“You may touch me later. I must go now.”

Work called him and he pulled away from the embrace. Your hands clung to his jacket a moment too long before you realized your mistake and flinched away. His eyes softened at that and he patted your head.

“Draw yourself a bath, my dove. You are not in trouble. Tonight, you will have me all to yourself, alright?”

All you could do was nod with a pout as he departed, giving you one last kiss before smoothing his jacket down back to its pristine perfection and leaving the apartment.

As instructed you drew yourself a bath and relaxed, thinking of your lover and how entranced you were by his very existence.

#hsr smut #honkai star rail #fanfic #sunday smut #hsr x reader #hsr sunday smut #sunday x reader #hsr sunday x reader #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #sunday honkai star rail

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 2 years ago

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Prince Malleus Draconia vs Human Pettiness

So we’ve all heard about the trope of angry humans doing petty stuff to avoid their supernatural s/o’s. Like dating a werewolf and wearing silver, or dating a vampire and eating Italian (or entering a house that they haven’t been invited to) or dating a demon sitting in a salt circle or even dating a fairy and wearing iron.

So let’s say you’ve had an argument with your unfairly handsome fae boyfriend and later, being the stubborn-as-a-mule human you are, realise that even though you’ve somewhat calmed down, you’re still very cross with him so you decide to get back in your own way. You may have come into Twisted Wonderland with no magic but you did possess the stories and folklore of your non-magical world. You grew up with the tales of the men and women of yore that whispered horror stories of curses, kidnappings and enchantments, fairy rings and changeling children - and it’s time to put your childhood fascination of the once-fictional-but-now-part-of-your-reality to shine.

Of course, you started with the iron jewellery; any type of bijouterie in your possession that you could possibly wear, you did. Rings, necklaces, bangles, anklets, earrings, chains, studs on your clothing, the prong of your belt, even the clips in your hair - all made out of pure iron (most of them a gift from Leona for reasons you weren’t too sure you wanted to know). You even managed to replace the buttons of your school blazer for shiny new metallic ones.

Next, you fortified your stronghold to ensure that any pesky fairies wouldn’t be able to enter. You hung up an iron horseshoe onto the door of Ramshackle and sprinkled salt all around its perimeter. You found some of your old clothes that were no longer in use and turned them inside out before placing them both inside Ramshackle and outside. Next you hung up bells and deep-toned wind chimes on as many places on Ramshackle’s exterior you could find. Then, after marvelling at your handiwork, you went to your bedroom and relaxed.

*Insert a pouting Malleus sulking ten feet away from you, physically unable to come closer, mentally debating whether or not he should be impressed by your commitment*

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus draconia x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

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Sweet Treat

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You bake one of your favourite fall treats for your coworkers but one of them takes it to mean more than it does.

Characters: Tony Stark

Note: this is the fourth of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The leaves feel more vibrant as you walk along the autumnal street. Clusters sit at the base of street poles and the brisk wind nips at your cheek and nose. You tuck your chin into your woolly scarf and hug the container of treats closer.

You stifle a yawn. Your exhaustion is well worth the output. You spent most of the night baking. It’s a hobby for you and now that you have your first steady job, you have the funds and the space to do it. And as the newbie in the office, it felt right to add a bit of warmth to the office culture.

To be honest, you’re trying to fit in. Since you started your desk job, you’ve felt that pressure. It’s all new to you and you feel like every day is a learning experience. Everyone else seems so settled and sure. It’s not like a retail gig where you’re all just trying to get through another day.

As you get to the front door of the building, your met with a familiar face. Rhodey flicks two fingers in a half-wave and drawls out ‘morning’ as he opens the door for you. You thank him and enter the lobby.

He trails you along the polished tile and you both stop before the metallic doors of the elevator. He taps the button as you tap one heel impatiently. He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“What’s all that?” He asks.

“Oh, it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?” He wonders.

He’s always nice. He interviewed you and helped you on your first day. He’s too busy for you to run into each other very much, but he’s always pleasant.

“Yes, you have to wait until you get upstairs to find out.”

“Oh, maybe I should see if I can beat the elevator,” he kids and looks at the door to the stairs. You chuckle. The doors ahead of you slide apart. “Ah, nevermind, seems like fate is on my side.”

He gestures you in ahead of him. The ascent is smooth enough. You’re never a fan of the rising sensation that makes you woozy. You step off thankfully, clutching the container firmly to your stomach.

“Well, I should find my desk,” you say.

“Hey wait, what about the surprise?” He asks.

“Oh, yeah, fine,” you face him and slide your arm under the container. You peel the corner of the lid back with your other hand and smile, “apple pastries. Hope you like ‘em.”

“Homemade?” He asks as he reaches for one.

“Sure are,” you chime. “I have napkins in my bag but my hands are kinda full.”

“Nah, I don’t mind a mess,” he sniffs the dessert, “think this will go well with my coffee.”

“Let me know if you like it,” you smile.

“Oh, you will know. I might just try to sneak a second,” he says and turns to head off towards the executive offices.

You shut the container and wade through the desks to your own. You put the container down and strip off the layers of your scarf, gloves, hat, and coat. You finally get yourself set as Marissa shows up.

“Do you smell cinnamon?” She asks as she wiggles her nose and plunks her insulated cup down.

“Yes, I do,” you take the lid off and gesture to the container. “Want one?”

“Hm, apple?” She asks and you nod. “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know. I made them so I thought I’d share.”

“Huh, that’s sweet,” she remarks dryly as you offer her a napkin. “Enjoy that optimism while it lasts.”

Your cheek twitches. You notice that about the people here. Even if something good happens, they’re suspicious about it. They want to know why or the expect something horrible to follow.

As more people shuffle in, you offer them a pastry. Everyone seems to like them so far. Yet, you still have lots to go around.

You get up and Marissa glances over, “any more?”

“Well, yeah, I was going to go offer them to the managers.”

“Oh,” she darts her eyes way. “Good luck.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, just... interrupting for a pastry... kinda... non-productive.”

“Oh, right,” you pout, “maybe I could just leave them in the breakroom.”

“Probably a better idea.”

You’re disappointed. You know the execs rarely go that far. Still, she’s right and she would know better than you.

You take the container and pass between the other desk. As you pass the hallway to the exec spaces, you nearly collide with someone else. He barely seems to notice until you squeak and save the desserts from spilling.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you eke out as the man struts by only to scuff to a halt.

He turns back to you, a pinch between his brows and a tick in his cheek. You clamp your mouth shut as his dark eyes penetrate you. It’s him, Mr. Stark, the big boss. You’ve never seen him this close-up. You panic and look around as a hush falls across the office.

“Would you like one?” You ask out of sheer helplessness. You offer up the container and his eyes slowly descend. His expression doesn’t change.

To your surprise, he steps closer. He reaches into the container and takes one of the pastries. He examines it then turns away without a word. You stare after him in fear of your livelihood.

You wait until he’s gone and scurry into the breakroom. You put the container on the counter and catch your breath. Oh gosh. You just blew it, didn’t you? Over something as stupid as desserts. You shouldn’t be handing out treats like Santa Claus, you should be working!

You put your head down and march out. You go directly back to your desk and sit. You feel eyes on you. Marissa wheels closer. “Told you. Don’t bother the big guys.”

🍏

The windows are dark as you finally log off. It’s no coincidence that you’re the only one left in the office. It might be futile but you hope the extra work might save you from the fallout of your unfortunate run-in earlier.

You cross the office floor and dip into the breakroom. You claim the empty container from the counter. You’re happy that your hard work didn’t go to waste, at least.

You return to your desk and snap the lid on. You gather up your coat and pull on your hat and scarf, leaving your gloves in your pocket. You pack up your bag and sling it on your arm, clutching the container against your hip.

You push your chair in and turn. You nearly shriek, instead swallowing it to a squeal, as you find someone else standing across the space. You put your hand to your chest and gasp.

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t hear you,” you gulp. It’s Mr. Stark. Great, you don’t think you’ve done enough to stop the inevitable.

He comes closer, sliding his hands into his pockets as he approaches. He’s silent as he measures you with a long gaze. The silver at his temples twinkles against the darker strands. He stops at the corner of your desk.

“You all out?” He nods to the container.

You flinch, “um, yes, sir.”

“Too bad. Tasty,” he says. “And that little heart in the pastry... nice touch.”

“Oh,” you’re surprised by his praise, expecting a full remonstrance. “Thank you. I... I just thought it was cute but, er, sorry, I don’t mean to chatter. I should go.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, “another late night.” He clucks and glances around the empty office. “You know, that really... made my day. Not much to look forward around here.”

Your brows rise and you smile, unsure how to respond.

“Feel like I owe ya more than a thanks,” his forehead lines as he tilts his head, “and I gotta grab something to eat,” he checks his watch and sighs, “all my meetings went long so could I pay you back?”

“Uh, sir,” you wonder.

“You like shawarma?” He intonses.

“Shawarma?” You repeat, surprised.

“I know, I know, a guy like me is supposed to live off caviar and fine steaks. You ever just get the craving for something....” he pauses and pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Nasty?”

You chuckle, “um, sure. I sometimes order fast food.”

“So? Unless...” he hesitates, “you’re busy? Looks like you’re running behind too.”

“No, sir, that’s very generous. Um, I... yeah, I could... I could go for shawarma,” you agree, relief flowing over you. You don’t think he’s going to fire you unless it’s a trick.

“Great, let me just grab my jacket.”

🍏

Dinner is delicious, though a bit awkward. Your guilt isn’t lessened as Mr. Stark insists on paying for it. You tell him you can handle it but you don’t argue that much. He’s still your boss.

You pull on your jacket as you leave the restaurant. He holds the door for you. You’re already mentally preparing to tuck into bed.

“That was nice. If I don’t have some business lunch or dinner, I usually eat alone,” he scoffs as he comes up beside you.

“Oh? Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Just as much as that special treat you made me,” he says.

“Uh, yeah, well, I like baking--”

“You know, no one ever offers me stuff like that. They all just get quiet when they see me. Can’t even look at me,” he grumbles. “But you smiled at me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s... they’re just intimidated, I’m sure. Because you’re so smart,” you say.

“What about you? You’re not?” He asks as you stop next to his sleek red car.

“No, I am,” you admit. “I’m the newest person in the office, everyone intimidates me.”

He looks at you long and hard, “really?”

“Well, yeah, I’m still learning how to do everything.”

“Who?” He asks.

“Who?”

“Who’s being mean?” He growls.

“What? No, sir. It’s not—no one’s mean. I didn’t say that.”

“Because if someone’s messing with you, I’ll happily have a special meeting with them,” his expression darkens.

“No one,” you avow. “Sorry, I must’ve said it the wrong way.”

“You did nothing wrong,” he counters.

“Right, er...” you peer over your shoulder, “I should go catch a bus--”

“A bus?” He echoes.

“Sure, it’s almost nine o’clock,” you look at your fitbit.

“My car’s right here, get in,” he says.

It’s a command and you’ve pressed your luck far enough. You nod and thank him as he opens the door. You sit in the low seat and hug your bag atop the empty container. He shuts you in and strolls around to the other side.

As he sits in front of the steering wheel, his cologne clogs your nose. It’s definitely expensive. You squirm in the seat. You’re tired and a bit impatient to be home. You still have to go to the office early tomorrow.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” you stifle a yawn and rub your eyes instead.

“Lease I can do,” he says. “Where do ya live, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? The epithet tweaks your ear but you try not react. You worked in retail, a lot of men love that word. You give him your address.

“Really? All the way over there?” He asks. “Girl like you shouldn’t be done there,” he tuts.

“It’s not that bad,” you assure him.

You drag your hand up your cheek, trying to wake yourself up. You’re exhausted. You’re so used to the 9-5 that you’re ready to flop into bed.

You zone out at the engine hums. The soft motion of the turns lulls you and it isn’t until you’re halfway in the other direction to your apartment that your instinct kicks in. You sit up and look around.

“Where are you going?” You ask in a panic.

“I live closer, sweetheart. You can crash at mine,” he says.

“Your-- no, Mr. Stark, I can’t do that. If you don’t want to drive me, I can get an uber.” You pull on the zipper of your purse and he hits the brakes. You lurch forward as he reaches over and clasps onto your hand.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says.

“Mr. Stark?” You babble. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why won’t you take me home?”

He’s quiet. His eyes fall to his hand and he lets you go. He grips the wheel again but doesn’t go. He sighs and tilts his head back.

“You gave me that pastry. With the little heart.”

“I gave them to everyone--”

“No, but you gave one to me.” He insists.

“Sir,” you sniff. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong. Please don’t fire me.”

“Fire you--” He turns to look at you, “no, no, no.”

He fixes his gaze straight ahead and presses on the gas again. He rolls forward and turns down another street. You unzip your purse and once more, he stomps on the brake. You lurch forward and the seat belt digs into your chest as your bag falls onto your feet.

“Don’t touch that phone,” he snarls.

“Sir,” you sit back, rubbing where the belt bit into you, “sorry.”

“It’s just... I can’t see where I’m going with the glare,” he exhales shakily.

“Okay,” you whimper.

He drives on. You don’t move. Your heart is racing. You don’t understand what’s going on.

He enters the nicer neighbourhoods. Where the houses have that modern boxy feel, tall glass windows for walls, and iron gates around trimmed hedges. Their residents spends as much time there as their vacation homes on the next continent.

He hits a button and steers toward one of the gates as it slides open on a motor. He rolls through as you sink into yourself. This must be his house. You’re still spinning with the suddenness of it all. From the office to dinner to this. One moment stoic and silent, the next smiling and kind, and now...

As you look at him, his eyes are so dark that the swallow the glow from the dash and the security lights mounted on the house. He shifts into park and kills the engine. You twiddle your fingers and watch him. He reaches over and presses the button on your seat belt.

You wince and look away as he trails his touch up your arm and to your shoulder. He walks his fingers up over your collar and along you neck. He traces the curve of your jaw as you shiver.

“You gave me something sweet, baby,” he grabs your chin and makes you look at him again. “I just wanna return the favour.”

He leans across the space between your seats and pushes his lips to yours. You murmur and grab onto his wrist. You feel the tendons tense as he squeezes you tighter. His mouth parts from yours and he presses his forehead to yours. You’re locked in his hold, paralysed.

He hums and licks his lips, “You taste just as good.”

#tony stark #dark tony stark #dark!tony stark #fic #iron man #tony stark x reader #mcu #marvel #avengers #autumn

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twizzie-lairs · 1 year ago

Text

My Darling, My Honey

Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 6)

Quick Notes:

This is when both reader/you and Alastor are both alive. (... we'll probably end up in hell later on btw so stay tuned...)

Reader is an artist/painter.

Part 6:

When you arrived at the bar alone, Mimzy asked you where Alastor was, with a look of fake shock on her face which made you squint and scrutinize her lousy attempt at lying. Ironically, Mimzy was always a bad liar despite being the owner of a bar/speakeasy, but you wouldn't ask any questions, if it was a surprise then you'd rather not have anything spoiled for you.

Since Alastor wasn't there with you, you take the opportunity to chat and catch up more with Mimzy and some of the other patrons that you hadn't seen swing by in a while.

Unfortunately, a couple of the patrons in attendance tonight were ones you weren't fond of. Two guys that you could tell always eyed you up whenever they had the chance, there was a reason Alastor was usually so insistent on keeping you right by his side at all times whenever he could- except for tonight.

These two guys were the type that would likely try to follow you home or spike your drink if they didn't know that you were in a relationship with Alastor, who wasn't afraid to pull up his sleeves and get his hands dirty if anyone dared threaten your peace and happiness.

For most of the night, Mimzy was able to keep those two in line. So luckily there were no major incidents and Alastor wouldn't have to worry.

Then it was time to leave.

Unbeknownst to you, the two men followed you out of the bar when you decided to head home for the night.

You had a strange feeling as you walked down the dimly lit streets, heading towards your home with Alastor on the outskirts of town. You even checked your surroundings, to hopefully satisfy your paranoia, but saw no one.

Approaching your home, you start to feel a sense of relief when the forest you've come to know as home comes into view.

However, before you could make it to the path that winded through the forest and led to your house, you felt hands grab you from behind.

You try to call out for Alastor but before you can let even a sound escape, another pair of hands cover your mouth with a rag, and then you fall limp into the men's arms.

When your eyes open, you feel so groggy and dizzy. You lazily and slowly swing your head around to assess your surroundings to the best of your abilities.

You're still in the forest near your home, but you're tied to a tree and there's some cloth tied around your mouth to keep you quiet.

But what you notice next is that your clothes are in complete disarray. Some parts are torn, crumpled, and dirtied, and some articles are completely removed from your body.

It was at this time that your entire body started to ache from god knows what they did to you. Tears start to well up in your eyes when suddenly you feel the cold metal of a pistol barrel pushed up against the center of your forehead, making you gasp.

The owner of the pistol was none other than one of the creepy guys from the bar, "Oh the little bitch is awake now huh? Darn, guess our fun time is over!" The other one chimed in, "Didn't have your little bodyguard to protect you this time, princess. You done fucked up, girlie."

"We know what you did and who you are, don't think you can ever escape your past. Little miss widow."

Tears start cascading down your face as the sobs rack your body and you try to shake your head.

The pistol only presses harder in the center of your forehead, the sinister man's facial expressions warping even further, "Oh yeah, cry all you want. But it'll get you nowhere. The only place you're going? Is hell."

Those were the last words you heard before a gunshot rang in the air, and then everything went black instantly.

You died right then and there.

But this isn't the end of your story.

-> Part 7

#hazbin #hazbin hotel #fanfic #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #radio demon #alastor radio demon #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #x y/n #x reader #x you #alastor the radio demon #alastor hazbin #alastor

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6toru · 5 months ago

Note

hi! I would be down and to see you write something with Dr. Ratio or Boothill. I was thinking something like hate s£x or dub con. Everything is fine...Have a great day tough either way <3

*ੈ✩ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. boothill x fem!reader, smut (mdni), cyborg fucking (his cöck is real tho), hate fucking, public sex, rough sex, pussy slapping, squirting, degradation (reader gets called whore & slut), explicit language / dirty talk *ੈ✩ 𝐖𝐂. 1.7k

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞. thank u for the request anon! please enjoy <3

Now, he knows pretty damn well how strong of a word 'hate' is, and he's pretty damn sure you're the epitome of the one thing he hates — that was the fucking Interastal Peace Corporation. Mission after mission, as if fate is against him, he always manages to cross paths with you; staring up at him teasingly with that coy fucking smile — coming up to him for one reason, and one reason only. He's honestly surprised as to how persistent you are despite his constant circumvents from the IPC's interventions.

"𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋, Boothill." You chime the cowboy's name, making fearless strides towards the cyborg with a piece of paper in your fists, and the other IPC staffs follow suit. Luckily, with his sharp vision, he caught wind of what the contents were in said paper, and of-fucking-course it had to be his wanted poster.

"The hell do you motherfuckers want?" The galactic cowboy raises an eyebrow, staring down at you with a look of scorn plastered across his face.

You tap the wanted poster lightly across his metallic chest, giving him the same coy smile that he's grown to hate. Right, hate. He fucking hates how dry his mouth gets whenever you pull this sort of shit. Just what exactly did you do to tamper with his system? Though, he decides to shrug those useless thoughts off his brain, as he stares down at you with a pointed look in his eyes, and a dry, disinterested chuckle escapes his lips.

"You know what I'm holding in my hand, right? Turns out, you're now wanted for deliberate acts of sabotage against IPC facilities and posing a serious threat to universal public property safety. Got anything to say to that?"

"The IPC deserves all the shit that's coming to 'em," replies Boothill, sparing you a toothy smile laced with venom all whilst adjusting his cowboy hat. You continue to stand your ground, raising an eyebrow towards the male.

"You're wanted," you firmly state, shrugging your shoulders. "Whether you like it or not, you're coming with us. I let it slide multiple times before, but the higher ups are getting rather impatient."

"Give the fuck up, Sapphire or whatever the fuck gem you are. I ain't going anywhere with you IPC shits." The silver-haired man retorts, "I didn't go with you then, and I ain't going with you now."

"If ya keep persisting..." He digs a hand inside his pocket, slowly drawing out his gun. "Then, I challenge ya to a duel. if I win, you gotta let me go again. how's that sound?"

Immediately, your henchmen draws out their weapons. You raise a hand up, signalling the men to lower their weapons. Heaving a sigh of chagrin, you roll your eyes. Crossing your arms, a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "Fine, Cowboy. I'll entertain you one last time."

"If fighting's what you really want, then let's duel." You say, drawing out your weapon. "Though, don't blame me for what's about to come next. I won't go easy on you this time."

The exact words you had uttered are immediately shoved back down your throat when you find yourself pressed against the cool, brick walls along the isolated alleyway; both your weapons are splayed across the concrete, and your little mewls of wanton are muffled by the surprisingly soft plush of his lips. He bites down your lips softly, though it's enough to draw a small amount of blood due to his sharp canines.

"Hey, hey. Don't you care about your little henchmen hearing those dirty noises you're makin' right now, sweetheart?" Comments Boothill, and it's almost as if he's sneering at you – only, if it isn't for the way your walls clench around him so deliciously; making him nearly just as fucked out as you are.

Each rock of his hips sends you closer, and closer to cloud nine. You didn't know exactly how your due transitioned into fucking, but you're too fucked out to even care. The lines between that of hatred and arousal has long since been blurred.

He's supposed to hate you. For god's sake, you're part of the corporate he fucking despises — the very same corporate that reignited his need for revenge and destruction; the very reason as to why he became the way he is now. You're in the fuckin' IPC, but for fuck's sake! But, there's simply no denying that he's getting immensely high off of your pussy, and he can't bring himself to stop. Oh, how he loves the way he can easily wipe that coy smile off your face, only for it to be replaced with that of desperation and pure ecstasy.

"O-Oh fuck, fuck, fuck... Ah! Y-You're so f-fucking deep!" You stammer out, and when he resumes his relentless pace — your lips immediately latch onto his neck, biting at the cool metal plate that coats his flesh. If he continues to fuck you at this pace, you're convinced he's going to destroy you. With the way he's fucking you, it's beyond human.

"Where'd all that venom of yours go? Hm?" Boothill hums against your lips, swiping his tongue along the outlines of your lips; coating his tongue in crimson. "Ya told me moments before you wouldn't go easy on me. Be honest, you wanted this all this time."

With one strong thrust of his hips, the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, and your body jolts forward. A sharp, pathetic yelp escapes your lips as your hands immediately reach towards his shoulders for support. Albeit, as pathetic as you appear beneath his larger frame, shocks of arousal travels straight down to his cock, so much that it almost becomes sore. It almost makes him want to fuck you with thrice the fervour.

A shit-eating grin begins to tug at the corners of his lips, and maybe you would have smacked it off if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s fucking the living shit out of you.

"You dirty fuckin' slut," hisses the male in between staggered thrusts, "can't even deny it too, huh? Hah— Wonder what your higher ups are goin' to think once they realize that their little IPC agent is nothin' more than a cock hungry slut for the wanted guy on the poster."

"Mm — Fuck, fuck. Ngh." You're barely coherent with your words, the climb to your release is inching closer, and closer.

A sharp sting emanates from your swollen cunt, and Boothill repeats the motion once more — placing light, yet firm smacks across your sensitive clit all whilst thrusting his cock inside yours like he's a fucking madman. He clenches his jaw, his brows furrowed as he relishes in the way your pussy squeezes on his cock like a vice.

"Answer me, slut." He orders, his warm breath fanning over your neck as he licks a long strip along your collarbone to your jaw. Without thinking, you lean your head back, giving the cyborg male more access to the spot. Waves of pleasure hits you like a truck when you reach your high for the second time, your juices spraying all over his cock and abdomen along with a shaky moan that slips past your lips.

"F-Fuck you," you manage to gasp out, sending him a death glare following his cruel ministrations. "Y-You... Mmh– You're so fuckin' mean..! Ah!"

"You're sayin' all that, but your pussy's beggin' me to stay." He rasps, his low, baritone voice hitching at every thrust he ruts into you; the little groans that falls past his lips effortlessly inches you closer and closer to your release, and the volume of your moans merely increases.

"Shiiiit," the word rolls down his tongue, his mouth hung open as he revels in the lewd sight before him. "You love bein' fucked by a cyborg man that bad, hm?"

Clenching his jaw and furrowing his brows, the male hoists you up in the air in one swift movement; anchoring your legs with his herculean arms, and when he thrusts his hips back into yours, eliciting a loud, uncontrollable squeak to fall past your lips. You didn't expect him to reach deeper, but he fully surpasses your expectations. Trembling beneath his touches, you swear you're this close to coming for the third time.

"Admit it, sweetheart. You lost." Boothill hums, though his breathing remains hitched – perhaps, even more so with each thrust he plummets into you.

"Shut up," you retort, and a small moan follows, and you fail to realize the small beads of saliva trailing down your lips; viscous like honey. "T-This wasn't... Mmm... part of the duel."

Shit. The sight's enough to get his dick twitching, growing more and more desperate for release.

"Ya do realize how slutty and pathetic you're lookin' like right now?" He huffs out, a guttural chuckle rumbles from his throat. "Besides – Hah, fuck. You think you can still fight right after I'm done with you?"

You bite your lip at his words, "What if I don't wanna?"

"Say it," orders Boothill, "admit I won, and I'll give you exactly what you've always wanted. If not, I'm gonna leave you high and dry, and I have no problem doin' that."

He eventually slows down with his pace, and his eyes slowly trail down your face; relishing in the way your face scrunches in pure ecstasy, your lips quivering as you attempt to mask your strong dismay at his words.

"You asshole..."

Your fingers travel up towards the back of his scalp, running your digits through his silver locks before giving them a harsh tug; eliciting a harsh hiss from your supposed nemesis. "The fuck was that for—?"

"D-Don't you dare fucking stop, Boothill." You hiss at him, cutting him off. It almost sounds pathetic, nearly coming off as a sob as you desperately rock your hips closer to his. Tears are stinging at the corners of your eyes as you begin to ramble off. "Fine, you fuckin' win! I don't care anymore, just make me come!"

Despite being stuffed full with his dick, you're still aching for more. Boothill nearly cums at the sight, but with the little self-control that remains within him, he relents.

"What about the higher ups?" He teases you, his warm breath fanning over your ears before he begins to nibble on the skin with his sharp canines. "Didn't you say they were... rather impatient?"

"I'll..." You try to utter, but another moan threatens to slip past your lips and you gulp, breathing shakily. "Mmm... I'll tell them to be more patient."

"Good girl," he praises you, digging his fingers deeper into the plush of your ass, "just exactly what I wanted to fuckin' hear."

"Fuck," you sob, "Just fuckin' give it to me, 'm so, so close. Please."

"Oh, don't you worry." Boothill hums at you, grinning. "I'll reward you generously."

#★ 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 #hsr x reader smut #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr fanfic #boothill x reader #boothill smut #boothill x reader smut #boothill x y/n #boothill x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x you #boothill hsr #hsr boothill #boothill honkai star rail

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bradleysass · 3 days ago

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bow - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 559

The box was neatly wrapped, which was always the first sign something was wrong. Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t “wrap” things—he shoved them into newspaper and maybe tied them with a shoelace if he was feeling romantic. But this box had crisp corners, blood-red paper, and a silky black ribbon that shimmered in the dim hallway light like something out of a noir film.

Evan stopped in the doorway, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, scrubs a little wrinkled and streaked with powder from his gloves. He tilted his head at Barty, who was leaning against the kitchen counter like a cat caught on purpose.

“No one died,” Barty said immediately, before Evan could even open his mouth. “Well, recently. I didn’t do anything. It’s a gift.”

“That's exactly what someone who did something would say.”

Barty just grinned, crooked and wide, like he was pleased Evan still hadn’t decided whether to scold him or kiss him. “Come on, open it. I worked really hard not to be weird.”

Evan walked slowly to the counter, as if the box might detonate if approached too quickly. “Define not weird in Barty-speak.”

“I didn’t add any fluids.”

Evan stared at him. Then down at the box. Then back at him.

“…well,” Barty added, eyes bright, “nothing wet.”

“That’s not better,” Evan said, sighing with affection as he tugged the bow loose. “If this is another antique embalming tool, I swear to God—”

“It’s not! I mean, not entirely.”

Inside, cushioned in black velvet fabric, lay a miniature skeleton hand. But not real. It was silver, delicate, jointed at every knuckle like a little piece of fine art—bone segments fused with thin metal wiring, as if someone had steampunked a cadaver. The fingers were curled slightly, elegant in a way that was far too deliberate to be accidental. Evan reached in and lifted it carefully, the joints clicking softly like wind chimes.

He turned it in his palm, blinking. “Where did you get this?”

“Online,” Barty said, like that explained anything. “Some guy in Prague makes them. Says they're replicas but, y’know, maybe don’t try to have it x-rayed at airport security.”

Evan looked at the hand again. It was… oddly beautiful. Macabre, yes—but artfully done. Thoughtful, even. He could already imagine it on the shelf next to his collection of antique post-mortem portraits and that one urn Barty bought from a flea market that may or may not still contain human ashes.

Barty was watching him like a puppy that had just dropped a slightly mauled bird at its owner's feet.

“I love it,” Evan said softly.

Barty brightened instantly. “Really?”

“Yes,” Evan said. “It’s grotesque. It's perfect. It's us.”

Barty made a pleased, satisfied hum and came up behind him, looping his arms around Evan’s waist and pressing his face into the back of his neck.

“You get me,” he mumbled.

“I dissect you in my head at least twice a day.”

“God, that’s hot.”

Evan rolled his eyes, but he leaned back into the embrace, one hand still holding the little skeleton hand like it was something sacred. Which, in a strange way, it kind of was. Barty didn’t do traditional romance. No flowers, no chocolates. Just… obscure morbid artifacts and chaos wrapped in red paper and mischief.

And Evan wouldn’t have it any other way.

#rosekillermicrofic #rosekiller microfic #rosekiller #marauders #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #microfic

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