#ask box fic

[rad1os1gnal]

Prompts if you're still taking them: Crobby - something with Bobby realizing he's basically the prince consort of Hell?

Or for a totally different dynamic, Crowley being worried about Bobby's reaction to seeing his demon eyes?

Finished! Read it Here!

[naenia011]

Since you wanna get back to writing, Charlando with the prompt wearing the others clothes after sex <3

i was just gonna write soft kitchen sex but then it spiraled and turned into this, because obviously i’m incapable of writing normal things 🤷🏻‍♀️ anyway, i hope you like it! i should have been sleeping or studying but i wrote this instead btw, you’ve been warned. if you also have an idea for me to write, you can read here.

you'll always be just a little bit mine

charlando (charles/lando) | 1584 words | rated: e | read on ao3

tags: sharing clothes, kitchen sex, anal sex, smut, friends with benefits, bottom lando norris, top charles leclerc, cheating, married charles leclerc, exes, ex sex, unsafe sex, mentioned lando/max, mentioned alexandra/charles, title from a song, song: mine (allegra jordyn)

Walking into the kitchen and finding Lando wrestling with the coffee machine wasn't exactly unusual for Charles. No, not unusual at all. But the sight in front of him now? That was something else entirely.

Usually, after they had sex, Lando would wander around practically naked, wearing nothing but his tiny boxers that left nothing to imagine while he hunted for something to eat or drink. It was a routine Charles had grown incredibly fond of.

But this morning was different. This morning, Lando was utterly swallowed up in Charles’s boxers and shirt. Charles was a little taller and a little bit bulkier than Lando, and since almost everything he owned was already cut oversized, the clothes looked massive on Lando's frame. The shirt, especially, was long enough to completely cover his cute ass, which was currently swaying right in front of Charles while Lando muttered the lyrics to a song Charles had never heard before.

And the best part? Lando hadn't even bothered looking for clean ones in the closet. Instead, he’d gone out of his way to fish the dirty pile off the floor, slipping into the exact clothes Charles had been wearing since yesterday, right up until Lando had practically torn them off his body the moment he’d barged through the door a few hours ago.

Amused and a bit fond, Charles pushed himself off the doorway and slowly closed the distance between them. He slid his arms around Lando’s waist, pulling him flush against his bare chest. And Lando flinched violently, a sharp gasp catching in his throat as his shoulders jumped. But the panic lasted for only a split second. The moment he realized it was Charles, he let out a long, dramatic groan and he slumped back into the embrace, resting his weight against Charles. “I hate you,” Lando muttered, his voice thick with irritation and exhaustion. “Hate you and your stupid machine.”

Charles chuckled, the vibration rumbling directly into Lando’s back as he leaned closer, sliding his hands beneath the hem of the stolen shirt. His palms were cold against Lando’s warm skin, stroking his stomach before dragging his fingertips slowly down the defined lines of his abs. He didn't miss the way Lando's breath sharply hitched the moment his fingers traced lower.

Leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of Lando's ear, Charles let out a soft, teasing murmur. “Would you rather the one at Max’s place?” Because Charles knew Max had a fancy one in his place.

Lando used to freeze up the moment Max’s name left Charles’s lips, tensing as if Max himself had just walked in on them. But now? He just laughed. Like it was an ongoing joke between them. Entirely convinced that Charles was just teasing, that he wasn't actually jealous.

But Charles was.

There were nights when he knew Lando was staying over at Max’s place, and a frantic urge would claw at his chest. He wanted nothing more than to pound on Max’s front door, and drag Lando straight out of Max’s bed to bring him back where he belonged. Back to his own home. Into his own bed.

Maybe it’d be much easier if they didn't share the same garage. Every time Charles pulled into his spot, his eyes would instinctively scan the rows, half-dreading the nights he’d actually find Lando’s car sitting there in the same garage. It was the ultimate proof that Lando was under this very same roof, just not for Charles. But for Max instead.

Yet every single time Charles took the elevator up to his apartment on those nights, a pathetic shred of hope would still flare up in his chest. He’d find himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, Lando had come over unannounced this time, that he’d step out of the elevator and find Lando waiting by his door.

Charles knew it was stupid. He knew he was setting himself up to face an empty hallway, but he couldn't stop himself from hoping. Every single time.

He knew he had absolutely no right to the jealousy burning in his chest. He had absolutely no right to but he just couldn't help it. He wanted to keep Lando right here, between his arms, always. He knew he had lost that chance months ago but he just wanted, and wanted, and wanted.

Leaning forward even more, Charles buried his face in the curve of Lando’s neck and pressed his lips hard against his skin, seeking for relief, seeking for warmth. And Lando tilted his head instantly, fully baring his throat to Charles and pressing his ass back into Charles’s lap.

Charles let out a shaky breath at the friction, his half-hard cock thickening even further against his shorts, already fattened by nothing more than his clothes, the reality of having Lando right here again, melting back against his chest. Despite everything.

Yes, Charles had lost him, but Lando was still here now. Still, just a little bit, Charles's. Always just a little bit Charles’s, even after everything.

“You stole my clothes,” Charles murmured against Lando's neck.

Lando let out a soft, needy whine. Reaching one hand blindly backward, his fingers tangled into the soft hair at the nape of Charles’s neck, gripping tight as he turned his face just enough to close the distance, blindly seeking Charles’s mouth until their lips were almost brushing. “Shut up and kiss me.”

And Charles did. He caught Lando’s mouth with his own, kissing him hard and he pressed himself forward, trapping Lando completely, caging him between his body and the edge of the kitchen counter.

Lando gasped against Charles’ mouth and the moment his lips parted, Charles took full advantage, sliding his tongue between them to kiss him deeper. Lando welcomed him without a hesitation, tilting his head to drink him in, making those little, breathy, sweet noises into Charles’s mouth that always drove Charles entirely insane.

When they finally broke apart for a desperate breath, Lando let out a breathless laugh, his eyes bright as he looked up at Charles. “You literally came like fifteen minutes ago, you horny freak.”

Charles laughed too, catching Lando’s lower lip in another quick peck. “Like you're any different.”

Lando murmured a breathless “touché” against his mouth before seeking Charles’s lips again and Charles met him instantly, kissing him harder this time. He ground his hips forward, his hard cock slipping between Lando’s clothed ass cheeks. 

Lando let out a muffled whimper straight into the kiss and tried to pull his mouth away, gasping for air, but Charles wouldn't let him. Catching Lando’s chin firmly with one hand, Charles tilted his face up and forced his head to stay right there, trapping his lips. He drank Lando’s helpless noises right back in, leaving him absolutely no room to escape.

There was no pause after that. Just a sudden, messy rush of hands and clothes being shoved out of the way. Charles didn't waste any time. His hands moved down, hooking into the waistband of the stolen boxers Lando was wearing and dragging them down to his knees. He didn't even bother taking his own off, just shoving them down just enough to free his cock. After coating his length with a quick smear of saliva, he bent Lando right over the counter and Lando didn't even need to hear a word from him to spread his legs wide.

Charles sank into him without an ounce of hardship. Lando was still slick inside and already fucked open, leaving absolutely no room for resistance. He fucked him hard and fast right there against the marble, and Lando moaned like a total whore the entire time, his voice broken and loud into the empty kitchen as he gripped the edge of the counter for dear life.

It took shorter than normal for Charles to come. He was already half-sensitive and half-wrecked from the sex before, and Lando’s heat was pulling him over the edge too fast. It took even less time for Lando to break. The moment Charles burried his palm between Lando’s shoulder blades to pin him down hard and slammed his hips forward even harder, desperately chasing his relief behind him, Lando broke completely. He was already coming hard, spilling all over the kitchen floor while Charles buried himself deep inside him one last time to follow him down.

Neither of them moved afterward. Charles just stayed right there, buried deep inside Lando, his chest pressed heavy against Lando’s back, their ragged breathing the only sound filling the kitchen as they rested for a while.

Once the haze finally quieted down, leaving them cold, Lando left for the shower to wash himself clean, leaving Charles alone in the quiet kitchen to half-heartedly wipe himself down with a towel before moving to the coffee machine.

By the time Lando walked out, damp and smelling of soap, two mugs were already steaming on the counter. They drank them right there, talking only about mindless, useless things, the weather, the upcoming race, anything to avoid the past and everything in between. It felt almost normal, right up until Lando pulled his own clothes back on and moved toward the front door.

Holding the handle, Lando paused, turning back with a sharp, slow smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Say hi to Alexandra for me.” And before Charles could even react, the door clicked shut, leaving him hollowed out, staring into the emptiness Lando left behind, just inside the doorstep.

[lilacxquartz]

plot: while working on a case with L to catch kira, you start to catch feelings for him, and so does he. problem is, though, you’re both just… really, really awkward.

this was a request based on this ask 💟 i hope this is what you wanted / themes: feelings realisation with followed up tension, written with an x f!reader in mind, suggestive language towards the end but as a thought, nothing happens! • w.c: 2.8k

When you met L the first time, if you were honest, he did not make a good first impression on you. He was rude, impassive and arrogant, and the way he isolated himself was frustrating at best. Still, your superior officer left no room for argument, telling you, “I just have a feeling that you two will get along.”

As a hopeful detective, still new to the scene and eager to prove yourself, you took what you got. It was so rare for someone your age to get assigned to cases that meant something more beyond being a coffee mule, so you took the opportunity very seriously, regardless. You just didn’t understand why you had to work with someone that everyone else found so difficult.

Although later, you got it: you were perfect for each other.

For if L was the brains, then you were the eyes and the ears.

And the force needed you both, because the Kira case was the most maddening thing it had ever known.

After all, it was a case of endless reports and unexplained deaths, following such precise patterns that were so precise that the whole situation just felt… wrong, in a way that wasn’t natural. You’d seen criminals with all sorts of egos, vendettas and levels, but this was something far more complex and isolated.

It managed to shake even the most hardened veterans on the force nationwide.

Except L—who sat there from day to day—seemingly unfazed.

When you first met him, he was midway through spooning a horrendous amount of sugar into a cup of milky tea, studying patterns on a whole spread of screens that were stretched around a dark room. You thought he looked almost ghostly then, pale with wide, staring eyes with tired bags beneath them that begged him for respite.

His indifference annoyed you at first.

Until you understood that it was just all… focus.

Real and raw determination that glinted behind his tired eyes, that was so strong that he had forgotten how to sleep, how to eat, let alone anything else. His attendants were the ones who were shoving food directly into his mouth when he stayed in there too long—and for cases when he stayed up far beyond what should have been healthy—he was forced to sleep then, too.

And as frustrating as he was, you found yourself admiring him.

Which was why, when he cracked a crucial lead, you decided to do something nice for him:

Something small.

You were so careful with it, too, setting down a plastic container beside him on his desk the first thing in the morning.

“That flaw you caught out in Kira’s behaviour was incredible,” you softly praised before clearing your throat. “Heard you have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I got you something as a sign to keep it up.”

However, L didn’t seem too pleased—turning his nose at the offering—pushing it away.

“I don’t like caramel,” he stated flatly.

You blinked in disbelief. “What? But I was told that—”

“I like sweet things, yes,” he clarified in a tone that was not unkind, tucking his knees against his chest to hide his discomfort in the confrontation, “but… I don’t like caramel. It is too sweet.”

“H-hang on,” you stammered, “I’ve seen you eat sugar cubes straight from the jar.”

L simply shrugged at your accusation. “That’s a different type of sweet.”

You inhaled sharply at his words, forcing yourself to take a long, deep breath, because the alternative meant losing your composure on the spot and potentially getting taken off the case.

“Alright,” you said with a strained smile, “I’ll go for something else next time. Like… a nice, plain sponge.”

“Not plain,” he corrected you without missing a beat.

Your eyes twitched slightly. “Please.”

He shakily blinked at you. “I would actually prefer if you didn’t bring me cake at all, if you intended to reward me.”

“But you did a good job, and I wanted to do something nice for you,” you quickly replied, defending your actions.

“And it was unnecessary,” he corrected you.

Another deep breath passed through you. “Alright. It won’t happen again.”

L tilted his head to the other side that time. “You sound irritated.”

“I wonder why,” you muttered.

He paused for a moment before attempting to continue the conversation. “Did I do something wrong? I don’t always read people so well.”

You forced a smile and shook your head. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you admitted, blinking away from him for a moment. “Maybe I was the one who overstepped.”

Then, as the silence settled between you both, and you returned to work as normal, a deep sense of horror rooted in your gut. It was a feeling so uneasy that it shocked you. A sweeping sort of realisation that vibrated beneath your skin, as you understood that his pushing you away didn’t make you angry, nor sad, but quite the opposite—it pulled you closer.

Had anyone else dared to interact with you in such a manner—had they challenged your gesture, your patience, your kindness—you would have marched into the office of your superior and would have demanded reassignment, the consequences be damned.

L didn’t give you that feeling, though.

He left you wanting him.

Which infuriated you, because you could not understand for the life of you, as to why.

~*~

Fast forward to a couple of days, and the mood inside the workspace felt more suffocating than ever before. A crushing tension had risen and filled the air with an unseen humidity which was thick as it was draining. The Kira investigation had stalled yet again, and the silence between everyone directly working on it had turned brittle; even breathing or clearing one’s throat felt like it might trigger something volatile.

You felt it the most through L, strangely enough. Not that he was too big on talking to begin with, but he had his tells. You just so happened to understand what exactly they were. What you once perceived as an unwavering calm was not the case at all. The fact that he remedied his stressed state with short hums, and fingers that tapped impatiently on his desk with creased brows and bleeding lips—was clear that he was not feeling like himself either.

Then, suddenly, when everyone else had surrendered to the quiet, L stood upright at once.

It made almost everyone, but especially you, jump.

“This might be it,” he muttered, quietly at first, then again, louder that time so that everyone else could hear. “I think that I might have a lead.”

Quickly, he brought up a seemingly insignificant pattern in the timestamps displayed on his screen. At first glance, it seemed like nothing, but in the context of an ongoing investigation, it was a solid thread that could threaten to unravel everything else.

It was a connection.

“Incredible,” someone else leaned in, their words becoming hazy and muffled as you fixated on L with an almost devoted focus, “whoever Kira is… this narrows down the potential identity to a mere handful of candidates.”

The room shifted, and everyone around you seemed to breathe for what felt like the first time in days.

However, you just about collapsed with relief.

All of that pressure—all of that dread—the sleepless nights, the fear that the case was slipping further and further away—broke something inside of you and before you could register what you were even doing, before your thoughts caught up to what you had just committed to—you—you—

—kissed him.

Kissed L.

On the mouth.

His lips were soft, parted slightly in surprise, staring at you with his wide, exhausted, but ultimately shocked eyes.

You froze.

You stumbled back a short moment later, staring back at him with a look that could have perfectly mirrored his own. A bright and furious blush spread across his cheeks—so vivid that it looked almost scalding—as if you had scorched him.

“I’m—I-I I’m so sorry—” you began, gasping wildly, your breath catching on every word. “I-I didn’t— I-I mean, oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Within a flash, you bent over to grab your documents, dropping them a few times in the process. Several curses left your lips as you struggled to retain your composure. Even Watari turned away quietly, avoiding your gaze, like he hadn’t seen what just happened at all.

L, meanwhile, remained quiet.

You tried to skirt around the desks, tripping over nothing, apologising so quickly that the words came out all jumbled. Your voice rose in pitch, and tears pricked at your eyes over the sheer amount of embarrassment you felt right then and there.

“I didn’t mean it—no—I did mean it, but not like—not like that—I wasn’t thinking—I’m so sorry—pretend that it didn’t happen—or—no—”

At that point, too, you were almost ready to fake your own death.

Maybe even move overseas to somewhere new.

Then, you heard a soft voice behind you, just as you were about to leave entirely.

“Wait,” L called out.

You stopped, but you didn’t turn around.

“So… it’s like that,” he followed up, not quite talking to you that time, rather to himself.

You weren’t sure what he meant, but truth be told, L didn’t fully understand either—because it was his first time feeling something like this, too.

Giving it a few more agonising seconds, you slipped out completely that time, letting the door click shut, leaving everyone behind in the awkward, now-charged silence.

All the while, L stared at the space where you had been, his fingers pressed to his lips, a furious blush staining his cheeks, and wondered why, for the first time in his life, his thoughts felt like an unsolved case.

~*~

The next time you saw L, you made sure to set your expression to something that looked professionally unavailable. If anyone would tease you for it, or bring it up at all, you would tell them that it was their tired mind playing tricks on them—anything to disguise the fact that you had kissed him and then fled the room.

You even arrived early, hoping to set the record straight, but then your superior officer intercepted you on your way in.

“Heard you and L had a moment,” he brought up.

Your soul just about left your body, a small, unheard curse uttered out of your lips as your eyes screwed shut for just a moment. You blinked up to meet his gaze, your face suddenly unsure and ashamed. “S-Sir, I can explain—”

Though all he did was wave his hand dismissively. “It’s alright. You’re not in trouble. It’s surprisingly common in high-pressure environments.”

You blinked again. “...What?”

He left out a soft laugh. “But L? That guy? Really? I’m just surprised that’s all. Didn’t think he would be your type.”

“This is so humiliating,” you said, bowing your head in continued shame. “I’d rather have you fire me.”

He patted your shoulder with a shrug. “Relax,” he soothed. “It’s just… surprising. That guy doesn’t notice much beyond the pixels on his screen. If he even looked up from it, then…” he trailed off, his weathered face wrinkling with thought, “perhaps it isn’t as one-sided as you think.”

Then, just like that, he walked off, leaving you frozen in the middle of the hallway, looking mortified.

Swallowing your pride, your panic, and everything else since that fateful incident, you marched back to L’s surveillance room, trying to move on without sacrificing what was left of your dignity even more.

L was sitting inside like usual, hunched over his keyboard, in deep focus. Or, no, he wasn’t. You knew him well by now: his tapping was off-beat, his posture was rigid, he wasn’t even working, but rather staring at a blank spot on his screen.

You cleared your throat. “I’ve managed to triangulate the possible operation zones based on Kira’s patterns. If we combine it with the previous analysis, then maybe we can narrow—”

L nodded quickly. “Yeah. You can leave the files here.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “But you’re not even looking.”

“I am,” he replied, almost mechanically.

You placed down the documents anyway, taking a moment to observe him and just see in general how he was doing. L sifted through the data, skimming idly through the files, but his fingers twitched whenever he heard you shift or breathe or exist. His brain was just as addled as yours, because, well, you kissed him.

He tried throwing himself back into work, just like you did, but every single thought in his head was stuck on that instance.

He had never been this distracted in his entire life.

Not that you were doing any better—no matter how much you tried to move on—your mind drifted to the very same thought, too.

Then, finally, after roughly half an hour of excruciating and tense silence of trying to function and work side by side like professionals, the silence finally broke.

L took a deep breath, sighing.

“About last—”

You froze. “—Oh, that was nothi—”

“Wait,” he tried to catch you again before you dismissed him entirely.

Though you could still only shake your head. “I’m so sorry, okay, I really am. It was unprofessional of me, and I didn’t think—”

Your breath caught, and you couldn’t quite finish your words, nor could L reply for a long time, but then, his throat cleared. “It was… mutual,” he went on to reveal.

You went silent, staring at him, unable to respond at all.

Then finally, you managed to blurt something out. “Wait… what?”

L didn’t dare to look up anymore, choosing to return to work, or at least try to do so.

“No, wait,” you called out, taking a step closer. “Can you please elaborate on that?”

Though he didn’t reply. His knuckles might have tensed and his jaw might have tightened, but he didn’t act on anything else.

“Fine,” you softly scoffed, letting out a frustrated sigh, refusing to be humiliated a second time. “We’ll just move on from this, alright? It never happened. Let’s just… focus on work and then I’ll be reassigned and… you’ll never have to see me again after.”

L’s breath caught and he gulped down everything that raced in his mind that he just couldn’t tell you. He wanted to reciprocate with equal indifference, to pretend that it was all fine, but he internally battled with the part that struggled to confess, because he just wasn’t good with expressing his feelings.

Therefore, L remained quiet, unable to tell you anything else. What he couldn’t tell you was that he was focusing on you—but all of you—your lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered, the way your clothes sat on your body and what must have been underneath. That’s right. He couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t tell you that just the kiss left him wondering what more there was.

And beyond even the lust, how he didn’t want you to be reassigned, how he wanted to work more with you. How he wanted to see you every morning now, how you could probably now get him cake if you wanted to. How he liked having someone that for once, he got along with. How he liked your mind and how it worked—but—he was left frozen on the spot.

Though, it wasn’t just him who was grappling with oneself, for you too, were overcome with all sorts of things.

Had you been a little bolder or if had he hinted towards anything at all that could be deciphered as reciprocated interest, then…

You swallowed it all down, even if you did want to know…

More of what he was like, whether he would be shy in bed or if he would be gentle or if that’s where he would show his passion—whether or not he matched the stereotype of a shy nerdy guy with an absolutely big cock—if he would finish quickly or focus too much on you.

Or, if he was loving, if he was gentle, if he’d notice all the little things about you like he did while at work and life with him would be easier than every other guy you’ve ever come across. You wondered how you’d spend your time with him if you were together, if you’d be more of the indoorsy type or if you’d quietly go places and just… exist together.

That sounded nice.

(But then you choked on your own breath.)

You exhaled deeply, crossing your arms in irritation, trying to hide how you were overcome with a new realisation—different from the one from before—because you had just learned that L liked you too, and that he was equally as terrible at dealing with it.

Which meant that this case just got a hundred times more complicated.

(Because what did that mean for you both from now on?)

(And just how on earth where you going to resolve something like… this?)

[zanazirafanfic]

hiiii zana!! your captivating writing has caught my endless attention since i first read your lovely oneshot of javier/lenny (the cutting edge), since then whenever i think of rdr2 fanfics your name springs to my mind!!

could you maybe do a nice willscuella drabble? nothing too taxing for you, obvs!!

what if they're checking up on each-other after a particularly bad gunfight and they both get very handsy and touchy. javier and bill take this time to just admire and yearn, with javier relishing and savouring his love and devotion for bill, and bill visibly wishing that he had the words and confidence to express his own affection properly.

Here you are, Anon! One plate of Willscuella, hot and fresh. Hope you enjoy! Shoot 'em Up, Baby! - Zana_Zira - Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]

Warnings: None Rating: Teen & Up Audiences Category: M/M Fandom: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) Relationships: Javier Escuella / Bill Williamson Characters: Javier Escuella, Bill Williamson, Dutch Van der Linde, Micah Bell, Arthur Morgan, Sadie Adler, Andrew Milton Chapters: 1/1 Word Count: 2,830

Summary: "'Everyone get down!' Dutch shouted, just as the spongy, molding wood exploded in a hail of gunfire.

Bill moved on instinct, tackling Javier to the floor and using his own body to shield him from the rain of splinters and shrapnel. The younger man cried out in pain as his injured leg was jostled, and Bill's heart twisted with guilt.

'Sorry, Jav-'

'Don't, 'm fine,' Javier gritted out, the waver in his voice belying his words. 'Getting shot in the chest would've hurt worse. Thank you.'

Those two words lit a spark of warmth in his belly, though it didn't last long. 'I can't stay here,' he said regretfully, having to shout to be heard over the hundreds of bullets ricocheting off nearly everything around them. The building wasn't going to hold up for more than a few minutes unless they got rid of these bastards fast.

'I know. Go, help them.' When he still hesitated, Javier turned halfway over, giving his shoulder a rough shove. 'I'm fine, go! And shoot some extra holes through those putos for me!"

A grin spread over Bill's face, wide and eager. 'I got that,' he said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt and chambering a round into his bolt action. 'I have got that.'"

[persephoneggsy]

Hi! 13 or 27 for the Rook Story Time prompts, if you want!

13. Rook visiting a place they love.

After she took her seat, Phryne closed her eyes, letting the familiar sounds and sensations wash over her. The orchestra tuning their instruments, the indistinct chatter of the gathered audience; the luxurious feel of the upholstered seats — velvet, imported directly from Orlais, and just as plush as she remembered.

She heard a low chuckle. Opening her eyes, she saw Emmrich settle into the seat beside her. He was dressed even more finely than usual, trading his professorial coat for a more formal suit, to match the upscale environs they were now in. Phryne herself was wearing a fine dress of sumptuous black silk, and as a rare treat, most of her grave gold was on display.

“Something funny?” she asked. “The performance hasn’t even started yet.”

“Not funny,” he clarified, smiling. “Rather, I’m charmed. You seem so content here.”

She returned his smile, then directed her gaze to the grand sight before them. From their balcony seats, they had an impressive view of the entire Royal Nevarran Theater. It was packed tonight, the crowds clamoring to see a rare treat: a brand new, original production from a famous yet reclusive playwright.

“I was eight the first time I came here,” she spoke softly. “Mother took me to see a performance of The Lady and the Dragon Hunter.”

Emmrich raised an eyebrow, though he looked more amused than anything else. “Many would not consider that particular piece appropriate for a child. As I recall, it’s a bit… convoluted.”

“Mother was confident in my ability to understand the deeper themes and symbolism,” Phryne sniffed, adopting a haughty expression that earned another laugh from her beau.

“And did you?”

Her imperious look dropped, in favor of an impish grin. “Eventually, after a few repeat viewings. At first, I was just dazzled by the dancers, the sets, the costumes… the, dare I say, theatricality of it all.” Phryne sighed dreamily. “I begged my mother to take me to another show practically every month.”

“And thus, the start of your lifelong infatuation with the theater.” Emmrich hummed thoughtfully.

“Meaning, as far as dates go, you picked the perfect place, handsome.” Phryne leaned over and gave him a quick kiss. Though it was little more than a brief touching of lips, and they’d done much, much more than that before, heat rose to Emmrich’s face and he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Yes, well…” he cleared his throat. “I confess I cannot take all the credit. I did ask your daughter for ideas…”

Phryne’s grin grew wider. Her daughter Elke was once Emmrich’s student, and so the topic of his relationship with her mother was still an awkward one to broach. That he’d done so to plan a perfect date both amused and charmed her. But before she could ask how that conversation had gone, the lights all around the theater had dimmed, and the orchestra began to play a rousing opening number.

Her attention snapped to the stage as she leaned forward in her seat, eager to see a show in her favorite theater after being away for over a year. So rapt was she that she failed to notice Emmrich’s fond, adoring smile centered on not the stage, but Phryne herself. She did, however, feel his hand slip into hers, their fingers entwining.

She squeezed his hand. Later, she would thank him properly for this little treat of an evening, a much needed distraction in the hectic maelstrom that had become their lives as of late.

But for now, the actors had taken to the stage, and Phryne let herself feel eight years old again, enjoying the magic of the theater as if it were the very first time.

Rook Story Time Prompts

[zanazirafanfic]

❤️‍🩹 morbell for the ask game?

Have a good day :)

Woof, this one was tough! I love a challenge, though - always good to try something new. I'm pretty happy with the result, so hopefully you enjoy it. (First E-rated fic I've ever written, woo! 😅)

Summary: "Micah Bell was nothing but barbed wire and salt molded in the shape of a man, all calloused, rough hands and sharp bites and bruises sucked a little too hard into places he knew would show the next day. Sex between them could never be mistaken for lovemaking; it was too frenzied, too furious, more a fight than a fuck nine times out of ten. For Dutch, Micah would roll over without hesitation, bare his neck and all but piss himself in the dirt like a scraggly whelp did for its mother. But with Arthur? He bucked and bit and clawed like some kind of rabid polecat, spitting insults until Arthur was tempted to choke him for no other reason than to shut him up for one goddamn second.

He was disgusting, infuriating, completely devoid of any hint of tenderness or affection. He was none of the things Arthur wanted, and everything he deserved. Arthur hated him for it."

Read it here on AO3.

[thelaundrybitch]

*kicks down the door to your inbox, dragging this behind me before dropping it into your lap with a plop and proudly wiping my hands clean*

Whew! Here's that little dribble for ya Mz. Laundry. Sorry its taken such a hot minute. Hope you enjoy!

Addiction

It was supposed to be a simple check in. 

Nothing more. Nothing less. 

They hadn't heard from you in a couple days. Not a text. No phone call. Not even a reaction in the group chat. 

Which was…normal… more or less considering your busy schedule and whatnot, but after everything with the Kraang, Leo couldn't be too sure. So he thought he'd just drop in, you know, just to say hello.

Not that he had worried or anything. The Faceman didn't worry. He just missed you. Not anything like that at alllll…

Still…something in his gut told him something was off. And he had learned time and time again to trust said gut. So he had portaled unceremoniously as he so often did, directly to your fire escape window. Where he proceeded to knock rapidly against the glass like an impatient woodpecker on crack. 

The sight that met his eyes as you all but yanked the window open was…unexpected to say the least. It wasn't your usual bright smile or exasperated smirk. Not even a familiar short quip or returned-fire pun had greeted him. 

No, it was you, looking like you had just rolled out of bed, or just finished fighting your own share of demons. With bloodshot eyes, circles so dark under your eyes that black looked like a cheery color, and a mane full of frizzy bedhead, you had obviously seen better days. Or nights for that matter. If the way you somewhat swayed with your hand against the window seal was any indicator.

Needless to say, you looked worse for wear, and Leo almost panicked. Almost. He totally didn't rush forward, holding onto your arms to keep you steady. Or not so subtly looked directly into your eyes to check for any abnormalities that could indicate a physical struggle or anything. Nope. He totally did not low-key sniff you to check if there was a scent of sickness of some kind. None of those things. Nada.

No, all he did was let out a soft chuckle and very suavely asked “Look at what the cat dragged in. What happened to you?” Because he totally did not care and was not worried, for like even a second. 

What took him by the most surprise was the way you somewhat pulled out of his grip, looking away to sheepishly scratch your cheek as you mumbled out that you had started a new book series. 

Leo could only blink at your response. A…what?

You had let out a little nervous laugh, and he watched with complete befuddlement as your cheeks started to heat up in embarrassment as you repeated yourself. Pulling even further away from Leo, not that he may or may not have held you still for a beat longer than necessary before letting you go, you started to wave your hands animatedly as you did when you got passionate about something.

It was nothing, you had told him. Just a really good book series that you had gotten hooked on earlier in the week that may have been taking up a little bit more of your time than you were expecting.

Leo’s eyebrows (if he had any) would have arched as he folded his arms with a cock of his hip. He had laughed, laughed incredulously actually, at the thought that a mere book series is what had kept your attention long enough to make you go MIA for an entire week. 

He had snickered and leaned in close with that cursed cat-like smirk of his and had asked if you were reading something nAuGhTy. And if you were, maybe he should steal them once you were done, just to see what had captivated you so. 

He then proceeded to watch with undisguised glee at the way your face positively flamed scarlet as you sputtered out indignant defenses on behalf of your beloved series.  

No! It wasn't anything like that at all! You swore up and down. You just had a terrible habit of getting addicted to good literature way too fast, no matter the genre of novel. The tunnel vision when it came to books was something you had struggled with since you were barely a tween, a nearly inescapable pull of a siren’s call. 

Leo had just laughed again, shaking his head with barely concealed mirth as he playfully took you by the shoulders and turned you around, not so subtly directing you towards the bathroom. Telling you that there was no book so interesting that it would  take you away from the coolest attraction here in NYC. AKA him. 

Aaaaaaand maybe his brothers. You know. If you turned your head and squinted long enough. Maybe. But that was just his ego and need for attention talking.

AnYhOo, it was only fair that he as THE hero of said city, should rescue you from a sad book-filled fate, and introduce you back into the world of the living. As such you needed to get ready to go out.

You had squawked at his more or less relentless shoving, clearly taking the hint that maybe some sprucing up was in order, before laughing yourself. With an exasperated but amused shake of your head, you tried to warn him that it was serious. Tried to warn him that addictions shouldn't be taken lightly, that they could be dangerous. 

But Leo of course, took your warning like a speed limit sign, nothing but a friendly recommendation. “Pffft” He had laughed. He had laughed. “Sure. Whatever you say. How bad could an addiction be?” 

How bad could an addiction be?

That conversation was weeks ago. So tell him why he was staring up at the ceiling in the wee hours of the morning with your words echoing around him like a bad dream. 

“It’s the worst, Leo! It’s set my sleep schedule completely out of whack!”  

Well, he was no stranger to weird sleep schedules. Heck, he would even go as far to say that “Insomnia” was his middle name. Leo was no stranger to ghosts eithers. He’s had plenty of nightmarish visions to last him 2 lifetimes over. 

But this was the first time, that you had come to haunt his scared midnight thoughts. Flashes of faces, tendrils of touches, snippets of scents and mere presses of presences snapping through his mind like an old picture show, all with the ever-growing echo of you, you, you in ever fiber.  

Leo didn't wait for anyone, but more often than not he found himself waiting up later or waking up earlier for just one more text, one more moment, one more touch with you before he had to let you go for what ever reason.

“It’s constantly on my mind. I can't even think straight.”

It was with annoying frequency that Leo realized that you were now constantly on his mind to the point that he was struggling to think straight. 

Do you know how many times he'd have to hold back a wandering hand that on instinct reached out to pull you closer? How many times he's bit back a compliment that may have come across a little more serious and vulnerable than he was ready to share? How many times he's had to wrangle back thoughts that had strayed a bit too far to ever be considered innocent? 

He can't deny it even though he is desperately trying to that he thinks about you.

Thinks about trying to unravel the ever-intriguing mystery that is you. Which jokes makes you laugh to the point your eyes crinkle, which pick-up lines make your nose wrinkle, which foods make you hum(could he somehow get you to make that sound again?) which shows make your heart drum, what silly antics make you smile, what kind of clothes make up your style. 

Thinks about how he could convince you match with him one day, maybe get you to casually wear something a little more blue. Thinks about not so casually, intentionally, marking you and painting you in his color too. 

You, You, You.

“It’s like the weirdest rush ever, like I can't get enough.”

Enough. Enough. Enough. You were right. It was never enough. He never has enough of his fill of you. 

Rush was a good word for it too, the way his heart would pick up pace when he would see you. No matter the moment or occasion, his blood thrummed a little warmer in his veins at the sound of your laughter. His breath would catch like he'd been running for too long when you would sit just a little bit closer than before. He would feel strangely empty, cold, and even slow when you weren't around.

It was a completely unnameable feeling… aching? A yearning perhaps? A craving growing need… to see you again just…just be near you for a moment more. 

That would be enough, should be enough, to get himself together again, to get his heart back to a normal rhythm, right? 

Right?

You. You. YOU.

“And like, its the dumbest thing ever right? But I feel like I can't tell anybody. I feel weirdly ashamed? Because nobody would understand.” 

Ohhhhh, Leo was beginning to understand more than you probably know. He knows a thing or two about shame. Because he ashamed about the way he's started to think of you. 

Starting to enter territory that he should never, ever, have entertained. How his hands twitch with the urge to slide up the curves of your body, to carress the warm skin of your ever-flushed cheeks, to explore you and your mysteries in ways he's never wanted to before. To go places with you he's never dared to dream of doing before. To steal back the breath that you had so unknowingly taken away from him everytime he sees you. 

Yes, he's ashamed. Because friends don't think about friends the way he’s starting to think about you.

YOU. YOU. YOU. 

“And you know what the worst part is, is that I can't stop. I-I don't think I even want to.” 

Yeah. That was probably the worst part of it all.  Leo knew, he knew, that he should stop. This wasn't good for him. This...this obsession. It wasn't going to be good for you either. You were his best friend. He couldn't ruin this. He couldn't ruin you. 

It was getting to the point it was dangerous. 

But just like a speedlimit was just a mere suggestion, he was ever the daredevil. And so Leo’s foot remained firmly on the gas. 

Because he didn't want to stop. 

Addiction is the poison that we drink unto ourselves.

So yeah, he had laughed at you, not taking the warning serious in the slightest. 

But how could he laugh now? How could he continue the growing charade when the truth was now staring him directly in the face when he looked into the mirror.

He had laughed. But he could no longer deny.

Leo was addicted to you.

~AnOnYmOuS

*SCREAMING INTO THE ABYSS*

AnOnYmOuS??!!!

*shakes you lovingly*

THIS WAS EXCELLENT

And exactly what I needed after a long ass day of doing homework and going to class.

WOWOWOWOWOWOW

Obsessed and addicted Leo my beloved

I must know... Is there more 👀

No pressure of course.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SHARING THIS WITH ME!!!

Keep being amazing, keep being you 💖🫶🏽🫵🏽

[preromantics]

(had to google common kinks because my brain is dead lol sorry)

But

Starker + voyeurism?

Or

Starker + anonymous sex

Oooh let’s try anonymous (errr kinda I took it to a glory hole place)!

-

It started as a joke. It was definitely a joke.

Someone — Peter can’t even remember, because Thor and Bruce had reverse engineered some long lost Asgardian hard liquor and gotten every person in the compound, enhanced metabolism to Actual God to regular human totally shitfaced — someone had complained about the lack of sexual partner options available to bonafide superheroes.

Peter is 97% sure he did not make the original complaint, but less sure if he privately or verbally agreed with the overall sentiment.

Anyway, someone had complained.

Tony, who fell on the human spectrum of easily-shitfaced-from-Asgardian-jet-fuel but also on the unfortunately superhuman liver side, had indulged his one social drink and promptly disappeared to the lab.

A few hours later, the assorted and still standing heroes of Earth had been led on a little drunken excursion by Tony to the compound sublevels. The group arranged a wobbly and cheerful single-file line ordered by height and wove through the gym and past the boxing rings to the locker room style communal showers.

Peter, who did not have the advantage of height compared to the collection of his coworkers (friends?) who were still standing, had been one of the last to see what all the parading had been about.

The last shower stall had been partitioned into two, with shiny new floor to ceiling doors.

The new middle partition — proudly gestured to by Tony in his best Vanna White impression — sported a single hole in the wall.

“This dial here can adjust the size to your… needs,” Tony was saying, giving a practical demonstration of the lever that opened and closed the hole like the aperture function of a camera lens.

Peter would’ve taken notes, but the rush of the alcohol and the implications and the Tony of it all caught up and deafened him with white noise.

—

So, it was a joke. 30 or so assorted superheroes, Avengers and otherwise, knew that a gloryhole existed in the communal showers on level B8 of the compound.

Theoretically, any of them could use it.

Peter wondered obsessively if anyone had tried it, joke or not.

He found himself lingering after a hard workout or training session, eyes closed under the spray of one of the normal shower stalls, and senses on high alert for the echoey pad of footsteps to the end of the room.

Eventually his curiosity graduated and he found himself walking down to the partitioned and private stalls, too. Ostensively just to look. Just to see if one door was closed and not the other. Just to see if anyone might be paying attention and follow him down.

Not that Peter would use the hole with anyone. Probably.

He wasn’t even sure what side he’d pick, or what he’d do — again, not that he was thinking about it.

He absolutely, definitely did not let his exploration take him into the farthest side, the door shutting with a final-sounding soft close clink, the lighting going dim in the stall.

A small green light, unobtrusive but obvious once you knew where to look, had startled him. Occupied.

(He definitely did not enter the little stall five more days in a row until on the fifth he gathered the courage to drop to his knees to asses the height of the hole relative to his mouth and fiddle with the adjustment knob.

Tony was, if nothing else, always the perfect engineer.)

-

Peter was hyper-aware when he was sharing a workout with anyone else. Waited to see if they’d follow him into the locker room.

Sometimes they did and he showered knowing someone else was a stall away. But no footsteps ever wandered to the end of the line of shower stalls.

He wasn’t disappointed, exactly. It was just. Whoever had complained that superheroes couldn’t get laid easily was speaking the truth.

Occasionally he would be working with Tony in the labs, on the rare occasion they were at the compound at the same time, and find himself wondering if Tony remembered the superhero glory hole he’d created several floors below him.

He’d wonder if Tony ever tried it.

He’d wonder if Tony ever thought about Peter trying it. If he’d seen Peter stumble away from the drunken group field trip presentation with blotchy red on his cheeks.

He’d wonder if Tony knew the height was perfect for the distance from Peter’s knees to his mouth.

He’d wonder if he was going a little crazy about the whole Glory Hole Joke.

-

“If I sit in this chair for another minute my back is going to spontaneously throw itself out,” Tony announces from his lab bench.

Peter smirks at him, sparing a glance up from his pipette and beaker. A quip is on his tongue, the perfect time for an old man joke, but the words die in his throat.

Tony is stretching slowly from a sit to a stand, arms over his head, faded t-shirt scrunching up under his armpits to reveal a few inches of soft belly skin dusted with hair.

“Gonna go get a workout in before lunch. Dinner? Midnight snack? Honesty no idea where we’re falling in the meal spectrum right now.”

Peter swallows around his dry throat. “Dinner,” he says, though he also has no clue what time it is. “Probably.”

Tony jerks his thumb toward the elevator across the room. “Maybe I’ll see you down there,” he says.

It sounds so casual. Maybe he will. Peter wants to die a little with how much he wants to see Tony on Floor B8. A little further past the gym than Tony has in mind.

“Maybe,” Peter agrees, turning back to his pipette, which he’s pretty sure has been steadily dropping too much of the base into his reactive acid this entire time.

-

Peter spends 10 minutes cleaning up his lab bench and another 5 staring blankly at the elevator doors.

The cheerful and non-descript elevator AI asks him what floor he wants three separate times. Peter is glad it isn’t FRI or KAREN. They’d have called him out by now.

“B8,” he says.

He walks out of the elevator with purpose, resolved to head to the rowing machine and get a pre-dinner workout in with Mr. Stark, shake off his nervous and pent-up energy until it’s sweat out of his system.

There’s a small snag in his plan. Tony is running on the omni-directional treadmill, back to Peter. He has Starkphones in, completely sound proof.

Peter licks his lips at the sight of the sweat on Tony’s back, the way it causes his shirt to cling to his spine.

He makes a split second decision, borne maybe of too many late night fantasy scenarios to count. It’s easy to walk past the treadmill and cross to the other end of the facility, past the boxing rings.

It’s easy to walk down the line of shower stalls, the overhead lights pinging on instantly as he walks further and further, steps getting quicker.

It’s — it’s not perfectly easy, he has to stop and take a breath before he walks into the farthest partitioned side of the glory hole. But then it is done: the door softly closes, the little green LED flicking on, and all Peter has to do is sink down to his knees.

All Peter did was walk across a room but his heart is beating wildly like he just went stealth mode on a dangerous stake out.

The reality is Tony didn’t notice Peter even enter the gym. He might finish his workout and go up to his own expansive compound rooms to shower. He might shower here, the echo of water driving Peter insane with mental images, and never even glance down to see the subtle green light.

He might see the green light, know that Peter is there, and leave anyway.

Peter bangs his head softly against the wall, nose catching the human-sized opening awkwardly, and resigns himself to letting his legs go numb from the knees down while he waits with all his hope in his throat, anyway.

-

A soft noise, the woosh of the main locker room door, makes every hair on Peter’s arms stand up.

He swallows, pitching forward in his enclosed stall as if that will bring him closer to the source of the noise.

It could be someone else, though Peter has no idea who could be on the weekend roster.

There’s a rustle of clothing he barely needs to strain to hear. The soft thump of something hitting the ground. The hiss of the pipes, not on a human frequency, before the spray of the water gushes out of a distant shower head.

The shower is over quickly, Peter notes, though time has gone soft and slippy. He closes his eyes.

Footsteps. Toward him. The slight air sound of a door opening. The well-known click of the private stall door shutting.

Oh, god. There is someone across from him. Peter forgets to breathe for a second entirely and has to fight from making a sound as he chokes between two inhales.

He can no longer distinguish the small noises from the rushing in his own ears.

The first movement in the hole nearly startles him; just a play of shadows as someone gets ready on the other side.

Then: a cock. It slides through, half-hard, resting thick and plump along the bottom edge of the hole as it passes through. The owner of the cock feeds it all the way, the fat head bending downward and then bobbing up. Toward Peter.

Peter inhales; the scent is clean and his lungs struggle to fill all the way. He rocks forward, drawn to the half-comical, half-arousing reality of the anonymous cock through the hole.

Is it really anonymous? Statistically, Peter thinks it should be Tony. He was in the gym. Would he know it was Peter on the other side? Tony invited Peter down to workout, so the odds were decent the other way around.

Tentatively, Peter darts his tongue out to lick across the head of the cock. It’s flushed darker than the root, and the salty sweet of it blooms on Peter’s tongue.

He may have just licked Tony Stark’s fat cock head for the first time. The idea of it thrills Peter to his bones, his own cock throbbing against the zip of his jeans.

There’s a chance it isn’t Tony.

Peter licks a bolder stripe across the head, swirling around the ridge. His saliva glands are over active, he’s practically drooling already at the idea of this.

There’s a chance it’s someone else. Peter may never even find out.

His cock twitches at that, too. Fuck. He wraps his lips around the entire head, drenching it with his own slick excitement as he opens his mouth up further and slides down several inches in his eagerness.

He gags, pulls back, and returns immediately.

The man on the other side of the wall is silent, but a slight bang against the wall — the slap of someone’s hand to the partition, as if Peter’s already doing such a good job they can’t help it — makes Peter shove more of the warm cock between his lips to muffle any of his own noises.

If he moaned, he’s sure someone could pick out the octave of his voice and just know. They’d know Peter is twenty seconds into this and already drooling for it.

Tony would know for sure. The thought makes Peter palm his own cock, wishing he’d thought to unzip his jeans while he waited, but not wanting to stop to focus enough to do so now.

He would’ve felt so pathetic, waiting alone, pants undone and cock half-hard with anticipation. Now, he’s stuck curling his fingers against the denim of his fly and worrying he might leak precome through his briefs and jeans by the end of this.

He tongues along the bottom vein of the cock in front of him, marveling at the weight of it and at the stretch of his lips around it as they drag slickly up and down. The angle is decent, but still strange, his neck stiff as he tries to bob back and forth to take the entire thing.

The cock in his mouth is definitely fully hard now, pulsing and flexing against Peter’s tongue, the tip bursting an addictive drop of precome every few passes. The taste is such a contrast to the soap-clean skin of the length that every taste forces Peter to swallow back a moan.

His nose mashes slightly against the wall when he focuses enough to take as much as he can down his throat. It feels deliriously good, a sense of terribly slutty pride coursing through him every time his nose hits the partition over the hole.

He’s slid all the way down when the owner of the cock abruptly slides back out.

Peter’s mouth opens around an unvoiced protest, barely catching a whine from spilling out before the cock slides back in, fucking back between Peter’s parted swollen lips and down his open throat.

He does moan at that, deep and hopefully muffled by his mouth full of cock.

Peter catches on quickly: he can keep his mouth open, his forehead and nose pressed hard against the wall, and the stranger on the other end can simply fuck his mouth.

It’s so simple to stay still, dragging his tongue back and forth and dragging his hand over his own trapped cock while he gets efficiently face fucked. It’s almost dream-like, two pinpoints of focus — the stranger’s pleasure and Peter’s pleasure — taking up all the space in his brain.

A hand slaps the wall on the other side again, harder this time, the cock in Peter’s mouth tensing and pulsing before his throat is coated with come.

Peter comes in his own pants, hips frantically bucking as he swallows down several continuous seconds of anonymous come. He bangs his head on the wall, hard, trying to balance and keep his position at the same time.

When the cock slides out from between hips lips, dragging and lingering on Peter’s bottom lip for a moment before disappearing, Peter falls back against the tile and inhales sharply.

He waits for the click of the door on the other side of the wall and for the padding of the feet to disappear. He doesn’t even have the mental energy to try and figure out if he recognizes the sound and weight of the softly echoing feet.

He forgets about dinner, peeling himself off the floor eventually and floating all the way to his room.

-

In the morning, Peter is slow to rise, feeling heavy-limbed and not awake enough to revisit the previous night.

When he finally manages to roll out of bed and head to the communal kitchens, the line of Tony’s back at the breakfast bar greets him first.

Peter flashes to the sweat-soaked gym shirt from the night before and swallows around a suddenly dry mouth once again.

“Hey shortstack,” Rhodes calls from the other side of the counter.

Peter gives him a tired salute, covering for his slight startle, and heads for the fridge behind Tony.

“You two see any ghosts while you were rattling around this place all by your lonesomes last night?” Rhody asks.

Peter just catches himself from overpouring his orange juice onto the counter as the dots connect in his head. He never did look at the weekend security roster.

Surely Rhody can’t mean he and Tony were the only—

“Ghosts? No, just me and Pete, who ghosted me for dinner.”

Tony turns and grabs the freshly poured orange juice glass from Peter’s hands, catching his finger tips as he pulls it free and sparking heat up Peter’s fingers in return.

“For me? You didn’t have to,” Tony says, catching Peter’s startled glance with a too-wide smile.

He takes a wide gulp, only breaking eye contact to turn around and set the glass down.

Tony slaps the counter with a small, satisfied groan. “Delicious,” he says brightly.

Rhody rolls his eyes and turns back to his phone and eggs.

Peter stands still. The slap echos over and over again in Peter’s head as he flushes. Oh.

——-

WELL I said I was going to answer these on my phone and I did. Oops. Will edit and whatever on my computer tomorrow hahaha.