#i hope i can do it justice if/when i write this

[satellite-evans]

all I need

Pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary: Lando gets furiuos when you get fined for swearing after your crash.

Word count: 2.9k+

Warnings: fluff, swearing, injuries, angry lando

Request : Hi could I please request a lando x reader fic where the reader is a driver and she gets in a big crash and the team radio is like asking if she is okay and shes like answers after a bit and is in pain because she just CRASHED and then she accidentally swears on radio and she gets fined and the media is going crazy and like lando is just being a good protective boyfriend and is defending her in interviews and stuff? Thanks!! xoxo - anon 🍟

A/N:

Hi love, thank you so much for sending in a request and trusting me enough to write your idea!! I hope I did it justice xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

One moment, everything is fine—you’re fighting for position, pushing the car to its absolute limit, heart pounding with adrenaline as you navigate the treacherous corners. The next, it all goes horribly wrong.

The rear tires lose grip. A sharp twitch, then a full spin. Time slows, but your mind races. Your hands react on instinct, desperately trying to correct, but it’s too late. The world outside the cockpit blurs in a sickening whirl of colors—track, barriers, sky. Then nothing but gut-wrenching weightlessness as the car lifts off the ground.

The impact is catastrophic. Metal shrieks against metal, carbon fiber shatters like glass. The force slams through your body, rattling bones, squeezing air from your lungs. Pain flares—sharp, immediate—radiating from your ribs, your shoulders, your skull as the cockpit jolts to a brutal stop. Static crackles in your helmet.

For a moment, everything is eerily still. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the stunned gasps from the crowd, the commentary scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Your breath is ragged, shallow. The world tilts nauseatingly around you.

Then, the radio buzzes to life.

"Y/N, Y/N, are you okay?!" David's voice is urgent, bordering on frantic. There’s a tightness to it you’ve never heard before, and that alone terrifies you more than the crash itself.

You try to respond, but pain flares when you shift. A groan escapes before you can stop it. Your fingers fumble for the radio button, and when you finally manage to press it, your voice comes out weak, breathless.

"Fuck—yeah, I think so." A cough, a wince. "That hurt."

Across the track, in his car, Lando watches it all unfold in real-time. His stomach drops, breath catching as he sees your car crumple against the barriers. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The images flash across the big screens, slow-motion replays dissecting the crash from every angle. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Is she okay? Is she responding?!" His voice is laced with panic, the desperation evident.

His race engineer hesitates. "We're waiting on confirmation, Lando. Focus on the race."

But how the hell is he supposed to do that? The car, the track, the championship—all of it fades. Right now, none of it matters except you.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Please—can you keep me updated? I need to know if she's okay." His voice wavers just slightly, the emotion threatening to spill over.

A pause. Then, softer, "We will, Lando. Just focus for now."

He exhales sharply, forcing himself to keep driving, but his eyes keep flicking to the screens around the circuit, searching for any sign of movement from you. His heart pounds as he waits—praying to hear your voice again.

A beat of silence stretches after your message. Then, Race Control’s voice cuts through.

"Y/N, reminder that all radio transmissions are broadcasted live. Watch the language."

Despite everything, a strained, breathy laugh escapes you. "Yeah, yeah, noted. Ow."

The medical car is already pulling up, orange lights flashing, marshals swarming the wreckage. You can hear them shouting, their voices urgent but professional. Someone taps on the side of your cockpit, checking for a response. Your fingers twitch, slow and uncoordinated, but you give them a thumbs-up.

The crowd, stunned into silence, exhales as one. The commentators try to fill the dead air with reassurances, but the tension is thick. On social media, the crash is already going viral—clips looping endlessly, speculation running rampant.

The straps of your harness dig into your bruised shoulders as the adrenaline begins to wear off, replaced by a dull, spreading ache that makes every breath feel like a struggle. The world around you is a cacophony of noise—sirens wailing, the frantic chatter of the marshals, the dull roar of the crowd beyond the barriers—but it all feels distant, muffled by the ringing in your ears.

"Try not to move too much," one of the medical staff instructs gently, his gloved hands already working to unbuckle you from the mangled remains of your car. "Can you feel everything?"

You give a small, shaky nod. "Yeah," you breathe, wincing as you shift slightly. "Just sore. Really sore."

The relief on his face is immediate, but the tension in the air remains. They move carefully, extracting you from the cockpit as gingerly as possible. As soon as you're free, your knees threaten to buckle, but strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

"You’re alright, we’ve got you," another voice reassures, steadying you as they guide you toward the waiting medical car. The flash of cameras in the distance, the low hum of anxious murmurs from the pit lane—it all feels surreal.

The moment the checkered flag waves, Lando doesn’t care about anything else. Not the debrief, not the podium celebrations—none of it matters. His car screeches to a halt in parc fermé, barely lined up properly, but he’s already halfway out before the engine even fully shuts down. His hands rip off his steering wheel, then his helmet, tossing it aside as he breaks into a full sprint toward the medical center.

His lungs burn, but he doesn’t slow down. The only thing driving him forward is the sheer panic gripping his chest. His mind replays the crash on an agonizing loop—the way your car crumpled, how long it took for you to respond, the thought of losing you was eating him alive. He pushes past team personnel, ignoring their calls, shoving the medical center doors open with enough force to make them slam against the walls.

"Where is she?" His voice is sharp, almost desperate.

A nurse barely has time to react before he spots you. Sitting on the edge of the examination bed, bruised and battered, your race suit scuffed with streaks of dirt and dried blood. Your arm is wrapped around your ribs, and there’s a gash just below your glove, crimson seeping through the fabric. Your right knee is swollen, and every inhale looks like it stings.

But you’re alive.

Lando exhales a shuddering breath, his entire body sagging with relief. He crosses the room in seconds, reaching you like you might disappear if he doesn’t move fast enough. Without hesitation, he takes your hand, gripping it tightly like an anchor. His fingers ghost over your bruised knuckles, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Jesus, Y/N…" His voice is hoarse, cracking under the weight of the fear still clinging to him.

You manage a small, tired smile despite the pain. "I’m fine. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks."

His jaw clenches, eyes scanning you like he doesn’t quite believe you. "Not as bad as it looks? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again. Ever."

The intensity of his words makes your chest tighten—not just from the bruises, but from the raw emotion behind them. You squeeze his hand, grounding him.

Later, after the doctors clear you—bruised ribs, mild concussion, but nothing broken—you limp out of the medical center, Lando’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Every step sends a dull ache through your body, but at least you’re standing.

David intercepts you, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "So, uh… don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re getting a fine for the team radio."

You blink. "You’re kidding, right?"

Before David can even answer, Lando scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. "She just survived a high-speed crash, and they’re fining her for swearing? Seriously?"

David sighs, handing over the paperwork with an apologetic shrug. "Yeah… FIA wasn’t too happy. Regulations and all."

You stare at the notice for a beat before letting out a tired, incredulous laugh. "Yeah, okay. Next time I crash at 200 mph, I’ll be sure to say ‘gosh darn it’ instead."

Lando shakes his head, jaw tight with frustration. "Unbelievable."

But instead of dwelling on it, he just pulls you in closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of his embrace eases some of the lingering tension in your body. "Don’t worry about it, love. If they want to fine you for being human, let them. You’re still the toughest person I know."

You smile, leaning into him, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Because at the end of the day, a fine means nothing when you still have Lando by your side.

And, as expected, the media goes absolutely wild.

"Formula 1 Driver Y/N Y/L/N Fined After Shocking Radio Message Post-Crash!"

"Did Y/N Deserve Her FIA Penalty? Fans Debate Over Radio Outburst!"

"Y/N’s Crash Sparks Controversy: Was the Fine Justified?"

The headlines flood every social platform within minutes. Slow-motion replays of the crash loop endlessly on TV screens, side-by-side with grainy images of you wincing as you climbed out of the wreckage. Every angle is analyzed, every expression dissected.

Your post-race hospital visit is barely over when reporters start circling like vultures, bombarding you with questions before you even have the strength to face them, but Lando was having none of it.

Seated in front of the media, still in his race suit, Lando’s jaw is tight, hands clenched on the table as microphones are shoved toward him.

"Lando, there's been a lot of discussion about Y/N’s penalty for language over the team radio. Do you think the FIA was justified in issuing the fine?"

He scoffs, jaw tightening. "Are we seriously focusing on a fine when she just survived a massive crash?" His voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. "She was in pain. She was shaken up. And she swore—who wouldn’t? It's ridiculous."

The journalists shift uncomfortably, but another one presses on. "Rules are rules, though. FIA has strict guidelines about profanity on public transmissions. Do you think it sets a bad precedent if they don’t enforce them?"

Lando lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Mate, if your first thought after seeing a crash like that is to talk about a penalty, maybe rethink your priorities."

Another journalist jumps in. "But don’t you think it’s important to maintain professionalism on the radio? A lot of young fans look up to drivers."

Lando rolls his eyes. "Right, because what’s really damaging to young fans isn’t the fact that someone just had a life-threatening accident, but the fact that she said ‘fuck’ while trying to breathe properly again." He leans forward, voice lower but no less cutting. "If we’re talking role models, maybe start by making sure the sport actually supports its drivers instead of fining them for reacting like a human being."

His words are already making waves, clips spreading across social media.

And while you’re still exhausted, still aching from the crash, there’s something about seeing him so openly, fiercely in your corner that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Even after the official interviews, the media frenzy doesn’t stop. Paparazzi crowd outside the paddock, desperate for a statement. Team members act as buffers, but there’s only so much they can do.

As you slowly make your way out of the motorhome, Lando’s arm firmly around your waist, cameras flash, voices overlapping as reporters shout over each other.

"Y/N, do you think the FIA’s decision was fair?"

"Do you regret your words on the radio?"

"Lando, how did it feel watching the crash happen live?"

He tenses beside you. "How do you think it felt?" His voice is sharp, protective. "I watched someone I love crash at full speed. So no, I don’t really give a damn about some radio penalty right now."

You squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. He doesn’t have to be this involved, but he is. Always.

Another journalist turns to you, voice softer but no less intrusive. "Y/N, how are you feeling after the accident?"

You exhale, trying to keep your expression neutral despite the lingering pain. "Sore, obviously. But I’m okay."

"Will you be racing in the next Grand Prix?"

Lando answers before you can. "She’s focusing on recovery first. That’s the priority."

It’s not a direct confirmation, but it’s enough to hold off the speculation—at least for now.

The chaos of the day finally starts to feel like a distant memory as you curl up on the couch in Lando’s apartment. An ice pack rests gently on your ribs, offering some comfort against the bruising, but it’s Lando’s presence that truly calms you. His arm drapes protectively around you, pulling you in close like he never wants to let go, his warmth surrounding you in a way that makes you feel safe. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles on your arm, the rhythm gentle and steady.

It’s such a contrast to the frantic energy of the day—the flashing cameras, the endless questions, the tension in the air—but now, in this moment, all of that feels like it belongs to another world. This is where you’re grounded.

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder, letting the quietness of the room wrap around you like a soft blanket. But there’s something still heavy in the pit of your stomach, a lingering feeling that something was unsettled. You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes tracing the faint lines of worry still etched across his face, the tension that’s only now starting to ease from his features.

"You didn’t have to go that hard for me," you murmur, your voice soft, though you know the words don’t quite do justice to what you’re feeling. You had been overwhelmed by everything that happened, but he—he had been beside you every step of the way, his every move showing how deeply he cared.

He scoffs, shaking his head slowly like the idea is completely foreign to him. "Of course I did. It’s bullshit," he mutters, his voice laced with frustration that hasn’t quite gone away. "You should be getting support, not fined for a stupid word." The words come out with a little more heat than he intends, but it’s the underlying softness in his voice, the way he’s speaking to you like he wants to protect you from the world’s unfairness, that makes your heart flutter.

You chuckle softly, a tired sound that makes his grip on you tighten just a fraction, like he’s afraid you might slip away. "Guess I owe you, huh?" you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Lando’s response is immediate—he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. His hands shift, cradling you with a tenderness that almost feels too gentle, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. "Just don’t scare me like that again," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, as though the thought of you being hurt again is more than he can bear. "And we’ll call it even."

You smile up at him, heart full of warmth for this man who always seems to put your well-being before his own. But you can’t promise him that. You know how the sport works, how unpredictable it is. You’ll never be able to give him that guarantee.

But there’s something you can promise him, something more important. You squeeze his hand, the simple act grounding you both in this moment. Your voice is steady as you look up into his eyes, locking your gaze with his. "No matter what happens," you say, the words firm but soft, a promise from the deepest part of you, "you’ll always have me. I’ll always have you."

His expression softens in a way that makes you think he’s heard every unspoken word in your statement, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels full—full of shared understanding, full of the love you have for each other, full of the promise that no matter the challenges, no matter the risks, you’ll face it all side by side.

For a long moment, Lando is quiet, his thumb still brushing over your skin in slow, absentminded strokes. But then his breath catches slightly, and when you glance up, you see it—the way his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. His jaw tenses as if he’s trying to hold it all back, but the emotion is too heavy, too raw.

"I thought I lost you," he admits, his voice breaking just enough to reveal the fear he’s been holding in. "When everything was happening, and I couldn’t reach you..." He trails off, shaking his head as if trying to push the memory away, but his grip on you tightens like he never wants to let go again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—"

"Hey," you interrupt softly, your hand moving to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the dampness on his cheek. "I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m not going anywhere."

That seems to break whatever wall he was trying to hold up. Lando lets out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against yours as he closes his eyes. "I just... I can’t lose you," he confesses, the words raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Not you."

You press a soft kiss to his lips, hoping it conveys everything words can’t. "You won’t," you promise against his mouth, your voice unwavering. "I’m right here."

He nods slightly, like he’s trying to believe it, and when he pulls you into his arms again, it’s with a desperation that speaks to how close he felt to losing you. But in this moment, with his heart laid bare and your arms wrapped tightly around each other, there’s nothing else that matters.

Lando kisses you gently on the forehead, his lips lingering there for just a second longer. "That’s all I need," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. Then, his arms pull you even closer, his warmth radiating through your bones.

[literally-12]

DPxDC Summoning Gone Wrong

Hi! Long time reader, first time writer. Please don't hate me if it's not super in character. Also I know this trope is overdone but oh well. I was inspired by a text post by @phiniusandjelly

Constantine felt the shift in power instantaneously and all at once. It manifested itself in the form of a cold shiver that started at his hairline and seeped throughout his body bringing with it goosebumps and a cold sweat. Something was deeply wrong. No. Something had changed and unfortunately, as the Justice Leagues’ resident expert on the supernatural, he felt as though somehow he was going to be responsible for getting to the bottom of it. 

Getting all the right information and sigils took longer than he wanted and convincing the rest of the Earth’s mightiest that he hadn’t finally slipped and cracked the fragile state of his already questionable mind took nearly as long. Luckily, Constantine knew if he needed to, he could get tall, dark, and spooky to back him. 

“I’m telling you, Bats, there has been a very large and significant shift in the forgotten realms and it is in your best interest that we follow up with all the gravity that this situation requires”. Constantine took a deep drag of his cigarette, pointedly ignoring Bruce’s scowl as the tip flared in front of him. Magically stepping into the Bat Cave was not something any wise man would consider doing on even their worst days, but Constantine had never claimed to be wise. 

“Explain”. Grunted Bruce, never one to put too much stock in the occult.

“Here’s the thing, Brucie, we’re talking a massive shift in power, like king of the infinite realms being dethroned type of power. The forgotten realms operate on a combat inheritance and I had the misfortune of meeting Pariah Dark once and he was about as unpleasant and violent of a bloke as they come” he flicked the ash onto the cave floor, beginning to pace, he hoped his unsettled demeanor would enforce the severity of the situation. “The one good thing about Dark was that he tended to mind his own business and stick to his dimension but now we’re dealing with an unknown. An unknown and immensely powerful being who could, if they wanted to, unravel the threads of our very reality”. He sensed more than saw Bruce’s eyebrows furrow, just a fraction of a centimeter, he was sure, but that was enough to let Constantine know that he was being taken seriously now. 

“I propose we bring this new king in and figure out their whole schtick. It’s going to be dangerous but it’s better to know what we’re dealing with in this sort of situation, maybe we can even make a deal, plead for our continued existence and all that.”

“You want to bring an exceedingly powerful, extra dimensional being into our universe and trap them to try and make a deal?” Batman grunted, his mind already racing through the many, many ways that this plan could go incredibly sideways. 

“Think of the children, Bruce, that’s your whole thing, right? You don’t want your gaggle of deplorable orphans growing up and adopting even more sad and blue eyed children in a world that no longer exists”. 

“What’s the probability that you can actually contain this all powerful being?” Constantine tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his heel, pulling out a second and bringing it to his lips. One look from the Bats and he sighed, putting it back in the carton. 

“Optimistically? Eighty percent”. 

“Realistically?” 

“You’re such a buzzkill. Sixty five at best”. The dead-pan he received in lieu of a reply told him that even though the plan would be going forward, Bruce was anything but happy. 

When the summoning came about, it was an all hands on deck situation. The sigils were drawn and checked and rechecked and then checked a third time just for giggles. The writing was done in some viscous red liquid that Bruce was hoping was paint. The red circle was about five feet in diameter and smack in the middle of the conference room at the watchtower. The symbols were not in any language that Bruce could recognize but even without a magical bone in his body, he could feel the power radiating from them. 

“Everybody ready?” Asked Constantine, gesturing for them to stand back, he held a thick, weathered tome in his left hand, flipped to a seemingly random page. At confirmation from the gathered heroes, he began to chant. 

The atmosphere changed immediately. The first thing that Bruce noticed was the sudden drop in temperature. Ice crystals began to form in the center of the now glowing circle, snaking their way lazily out towards the perimeter in hypnotizing patterns, the very air in the room also changed dramatically, becoming charged with the smell of ozone and the feeling of lightning about to strike. Every hair on his body stood at rigid attention. He looked at Constantine who now sported a grimace but did not halt his chanting, his tone began to take on an echo, seeming to come from all around him, words overlapping as his face was lit up by an eerie red glow. Bruce had half a mind to call the whole endeavor off as all their shadows began to defy logic and stretch towards the glowing sigils. His teeth gritted, he tried to move, tried to say anything but found himself powerless to move, beginning to drastically regret his choice of allowing Constantine to invite this being into their universe, he debated closing his eyes as a sense of unease washed over him and with the electricity in the room seeming to reach a breaking point, with a loud pop, suddenly everything stopped. 

The quiet and the light that returned to the room was almost as jarring as the whole summoning ritual and when Bruce’s eyes refocused on the circle in the center of the room, he was shocked to see a teenage boy floating there. He had snow white hair that seemed like it couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to gravity, floating as though he was underwater and being pulled by a gentle current. His glowing green eyes were wide and he looked almost as shocked as the team by him appearing in the room. 

“Who are you?” demanded Constantine, never once putting down his thick book. The teen tilted his head, seeming to consider the question. 

“Shouldn’t you know that? Considering you’re the one who called me here and all that. These sigils don’t just say 1-800-dial-a-ghost, you know” his voice further enunciated his youth, however it had a weird, echoey quality, sounding almost as if he was talking directly into Bruce’s ear. He pulled his legs up underneath him, sitting criss crossed midair, looking entirely too relaxed at the situation.

“Answer the question, specter” Constantine demanded, “we’re not fooled by this guise you put on”. To this, the being frowned and flipped upside down. 

“You mean my outfit? I thought it was pretty chic but then again, I wasn’t necessarily given the opportunity to pick out my death day fit, it was just sort of chosen for me”. He gestured at the black and silver jumpsuit he was wearing that betrayed his slight frame. 

“Constantine…” Superman spoke up for the first time, taking a step closer to the man. “He’s just a kid”. 

“That’s what the bugger wants you to think.” the man grit out “you think a being this powerful can’t do something as minute as changing his appearance to try to get us to drop our guards?” Clark looked torn but resumed his place in the line of heroes behind the occultist. 

“Listen to big blue, I’m just a harmless kid!” said the floating being, flashing a pearly white set of teeth that were just on the wrong side of being too sharp. 

“Bullshit! We know you’re the new king of the infinite realms. Play nice and we’ll let you go back to doing whatever it is you do in your dimension. We just want to know what the terms of your rule are.” 

“Oh, that” he flipped himself back upright and floated closer to Constantine, as he approached the perimeter of the trap, the sigils on the floor glowed brighter at his presence. Hesitantly, with one hand he reached out a finger, jerking it back a red spark zapped the tip. Sticking it in his mouth, in pain, he managed to talk around the digit saying “you know, this meeting could’ve been an email” pulling his finger out and giving his hand a test shake, he narrowed his eyes at the man in front of him. “Plus, isn’t it only polite that you introduce yourself first? I am a guest.”

“While you are here, you are our guest,” said Batman diplomatically, “we intend to extend all proper grace to you while you are in our presence. They call me Batman”. 

The teen snorted. 

“Yeah, I sort of gathered that by the whole bat symbol and pointy ears thing you’ve got going on”. He held his fingers up on either side of his head in a mimicry of Batman’s cowl. “I was talking about Mr. all powerful British magic man over here”. He stuck his hand out again, clearly not having learned his lesson, he withdrew it with a hiss as the invisible barrier sparked again. 

“There’s no escape for you, your highness, these sigils are specially made to contain any ghost within them” Constantine sounded smug. “You’re just going to hurt yourself by trying”. 

The child in the circle mouthed ‘any ghost’ mockingly, but floated backwards towards the center of the circle. Batman sighed, seems like he’s going to have to have all the manners around here. 

“John Constantine, Superman, Wonder Woman” he pointed at each of his teammates as he went. “And what name should we refer to you with?” 

Without moving his eyes from the man in the trenchcoat, the kid began to smile, just a little too widely for Bruce to feel comforted. 

“They call me Phantom”, he said off handedly, “Constantine, you say?” The man in question narrowed his eyes. “You know I have a full file cabinet stuffed with paperwork for you, I was hoping we would get the pleasure of meeting. I would’ve gotten it to you sooner but there's surprisingly a lot of work that has to happen in the first few days of a new reign”. He put his feet back firmly on the conference room floor. “If you’ll just allow me to go grab that, we can get started post haste!” He was way too chipper for anyone to be talking about paperwork. 

“So you are the new ghost king then” Constantine said accusationally, narrowing his eyes. “And we’re not letting you leave until we know what your intentions are with this dimension”

“Yeah, yeah” said Phantom. “You don’t have to ‘let’ me do anything. I know how you occultists work. You made one mistake though in this whole summoning slash kidnapping scheme”. With that, a blinding white light overtook the teen, forcing everyone to look aside to save their sight. When they looked back, Phantom had changed his appearance, gone was the ethereal floating white hair, replaced with normal, albeit messy black. His jumpsuit was also gone, replaced by a deceptively normal looking NASA hoodie and jeans with tears in the knees. 

Constantine’s eyes widened as he took in this new sight, he began to flip rapidly through his spell book, as Bruce watched the boy take one step forward, and then two, and then with a graceful hop, he was outside of the circle. 

“This circle only holds in ghosts” and with a devilish smile and another flash of brillant light, he was gone. On the floor where he had been standing only moments before, was a thick stack of loose leaf papers written in a language Bruce couldn’t decipher, text glowing an eerie green. On top of the stack was a post it note with messily scrawled handwriting. ‘Please return completed paperwork to the infinite realms ℅ Phantom at your earliest convenience’ another flash and another post it note ‘also I come in peace- Phantom’. 

Batman, as well as the others turned to Constantine to watch him drop his head into his hands, his large book tumbling to the side. He didn’t even protest when the man pulled out and lit another cigarette. 

“You have a lot of explaining to do” was all he said.

[crossfandomskylines]

Backseat Fever

Summary: Award season is in full swing, and Hollywood’s golden boy, Glen Powell, is at the center of it all. By his side? You. The woman who’s captured his heart. From the flashing lights of the red carpet to the electrifying energy of the after party, Glen keeps you close. But behind the glitz and glamour there’s a different kind of tension building, one that crackles like electricity between you. And when the night winds down and the two of you are finally alone…well, some things just can’t wait until you’re back at the hotel.

Warnings: 18+. 🍸Alcohol Use. 🔥Explicit Sexual Content. (Fingering, Semi Public Nudity, sex in the backseat of a car, Unprotected PinV). 🔥Semi Public Intimacy (They get a little frisky in a bathroom and have sex in a car.)

Word Count: 9,417 (I don't even know what to say about this. 9k words of pure filth.)

A/N: Thank you to @hunterthecharmer for giving me the idea for this one (and for giving me the blessing to go ahead and write this). I really hope I did your idea justice. And yes I am still not over the look we got at the GG so of course I had to use that in this story. Also this story is basically pure filth and I swear I had an out of body experience writing this because I’ve never felt this confident writing smut, nor have I ever written something this long in once sitting. (I started working on this starting this morning after getting the okay from Hunter and spent most of today working on it.) I blame it on ovulation and not having a release for all those hormones on the smut for everything that happened in this story.

The hotel suite is bathed in a soft light as the afternoon sun shines in through the window. Outside the muted hum of cars passing by can be heard, but it’s mostly drowned out by the low music playing in the suite. Your hair cascades in soft waves down your back as the stylist’s fingers curl each section. The makeup artist in front of you hums quietly to herself as she applies the finishing touches of your look.

Your eyes move to where Glen is lazily lounging on the bed nearby. He’s already in his tuxedo pants and a charcoal colored silk shirt is stretched across his frame. He has the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms as his fingers move idly against his phone. 

“Do you always take this long to get ready or am I distracting you?” Glen teases, his voice smooth and warm like honey, as he looks up and catches your gaze.

You roll your eyes. “I’m just making sure that you’re not the only one that turns heads tonight.”

He raises an eyebrow as the corners of his mouth curve into a half-smile. “Don’t think you need to worry about that, sweetheart. I think I’ll need to fight off half the room with the way you’re looking.”

A few minutes later both the hair and makeup artists are finished with your look. You make your way into the bathroom and gently close the door behind you. You glance at the dress hanging on the shower rod. It’s a shimmering Elie Saab gown in tones of gold and silver, the slit running high up your thigh. It was a gift from Glen or more accurately a recommendation from his stylist that Glen paid for, the dress designed to complement Glen’s look perfectly.

You slip your hands into the fabric of the dress and admire it as you pull it off the hanger. The weight of it is luxurious against your fingers and the fabric glides easily as you step into it. It’s tailored to fit you perfectly, and hugs your curves in all the right ways. But the last step of putting it on, the zipper, proves to be a challenge. 

You hesitate knowing it’s a one of a kind dress and not wanting to tear it by jerking on the zipper too hard. And truthfully, a small part of you doesn’t mind asking Glen to help you.

“Glen, can you help me with the zipper?” You call out as you crack the bathroom door open just an inch or two.

He glances up at you and immediately stands up. He makes his way into the bathroom, softly closing the door behind him. You turn away from him, your back now facing him.

There’s a long pause before he smirks. “Need some help, huh?”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, your lips curving into a sly smile. “Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

His fingers reach out and brush over your skin as he takes the zipper in his hand. You can feel the heat of his body close behind you. The scent of his cologne hits your nose, notes of sandalwood and vanilla but something deeper and richer that you can’t quite identify is there too. 

Your heart skips as he starts to slide the zipper up, but then he stops. You can feel the slight shift in his posture, and the way his breathing catches just the slightest.

“Damn…” he mutters, his voice low and hushed almost like he’s saying it to himself.

You glance at him over your shoulder with an eyebrow raised and a smirk on your face. “What?”

His eyes lock with yours before his gaze lowers just enough to catch a glimpse of the lingerie set you’re wearing underneath - a delicate black lace set he bought you a few months ago. A set that you purposely planned to wear tonight.

His lips curve into an almost devilish smile as he looks at your eyes again. “Sweetheart, that’s just cruel.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, but you refuse to let it faze you. “What, you don’t like it? I thought you liked this set.”

His fingers tighten slightly around the zipper, pulling it up just a little more. “Oh, I like it. I just might not be able to focus on anything else knowing this is what you’ve got on underneath.” As he says it his voice drops an octave, edged with something darker.

Once the zipper is fully secured Glen steps back, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary against your back. A teasing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but before he can say anything your gaze flickers towards the vanity. Sitting there glinting under the lights is the necklace he gave you for Christmas last year. A delicate piece made of fine yellow gold with a small but beautiful diamond. It’s understated yet elegant, which is what you loved about it. You’re secretly a little happy that the Glen’s stylist chose that piece in particular to pair with your dress for the evening given the sentimental meaning behind it.

“Can you put this on for me?” You ask picking the necklace up and turning to face Glen.

His expression softens as he takes it from your hands. “Of course.”

You gather your hair, lifting it off your neck as he steps behind you. His fingers brush against your skin as he secures the clasp, and the warmth of his hands sends a shiver down your spine. Instead of stepping away immediately he lingers, letting his hands drift down to your shoulders.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp in your ear. Then he presses a lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin.

You exhale as the heat of the moment settles between you as his arms slip around your waist from behind. He pulls you closer, his chest flush against your back as his thumbs idly stroke over the fabric of your dress.

“You know,” he whispers, his tone laced with something dark. “If you wanted me to take this dress off you later, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to tease me like this.”

You bite your lip, tilting your head slightly to meet his gaze in the mirror. “And here I thought you liked when I tease you.”

His smirk widens, fingers flexing against your waist before he finally releases you with a reluctant sigh. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You turn, smoothing your hands over his silk shirt before adjusting the collar. “Only because I know you’ll play along.”

He chuckles as he shakes his head, and his hands settle at your hips. 

“Behave for me tonight,” he says as his thumb brushes over your hip bone, just barely grazing the slit of your dress as he leans in and brings his mouth to your ear. “And then I promise I’ll give you whatever you want when we get back.”

With one final glance, he turns and makes his way out of the bathroom. You take a deep breath and then follow behind him. 

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the heels that Glen’s stylist had chosen to finish your look for the event. But before you can slip them on, Glen is already in front of you sinking onto one knee. His fingers brush against your ankle as he takes the first heel from your hands.

“Let me,” he says softly, sliding the shoe onto your foot. 

His gaze flicks up to yours, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he secures the strap.

You swallow, watching as he repeats the motion with the other shoe, his fingers grazing along the curve of your calf before he finally leans back on his heels.

“Perfect fit, Cinderella.” His voice is warm and rich, with just the hint of something more playful lingering just beneath the surface.

Before you can respond, he pushes himself to his feet in one smooth motion and turns toward the suite’s open closet. He shrugs into the jet black velvet tuxedo jacket, the fabric seemingly molding perfectly to his broad shoulders as he adjusts the cuffs. There’s something about the way he carries himself with an effortless confidence that makes you stare for a second longer than you probably should.

Glen catches you staring. A smirk returns to his lips, slow and smug, and he moves toward you extending a hand. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You place your hand in his, and he helps pull you effortlessly to your feet. You slide your arm through his to ensure you keep your balance as you walk.

“Ready,” you say as you let him start to lead you toward the door.

As the two of you step into the hallway the energy between you changes slightly. The night is only just beginning and yet you already know neither of you will be able to keep your hands off each other.

Glen’s hold on you remains firm yet easy, his fingers brushing lightly over your knuckles as you approach the waiting car once you’re downstairs. The driver moves to open the door, but Glen is a second too quick. He takes a step forward and pulls the door open himself and then extends a hand toward you.

“After you, sweetheart.” His voice is warm, edged with amusement, but there’s something deeper in his gaze as he watches you step forward.

You slide into the plush leather seat, the slit of your dress shifting as you settle, baring nearly the full length of your leg. Glen eases in beside you and pulls the door shut behind him.

The car hums to life, the city lights outside casting fleeting shadows across his sharp features. Glen’s eyes sweep over you, lingering where the gown parts at your upper thigh. A quiet exhale slips from his lips, his palm finding your leg with an easy familiarity. His fingers press lightly as he starts tracing absentminded circles of your skin.

He leans in, the warmth of his breath tickling your ear as he murmurs, “I should tell you to behave tonight…” his voice then drops an octave. “But we both know you won’t.”

A slow knowing smirk tugs at your lips. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze beneath the soft glow of the passing streetlights. “I promise not to do anything your PR team will have to handle tomorrow.”

Glen chuckles a deep husky sound that vibrates through the space between you. His fingers tighten slightly against your thigh before he leans back, stretching an arm along the back of the seat.

The air outside the car is filled with electricity as the car pulls into the long procession of sleek black vehicles, each one filled with celebrities and their teams preparing for their turn on the red carpet. Camera flashes flicker in the distance, a chaotic yet dazzling rhythm of cameras waits outside.

Glen’s thumb strokes idly against your thigh, his grip still warm and firm. He glances out the tinted window, his expression easy, but you can tell from the way his fingers tap against your skin that he’s ready to get out of the car.

After several minutes your car inches forward, and it’s finally yours and Glen’s turn. The driver steps out first, moving around to the side of the car facing the red carpet. The door swings open and Glen steps out first. He nods to the driver and thanks him with a polite nod before turning his full attention to you.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he offers you his hand. His fingers close securely around yours, guiding you out with a level of care that makes your pulse race in your veins.

The moment you step onto the carpet a wave of flashing cameras erupt around you. Photographers call Glen’s name, their voices blending with the hum of the event. Glen’s hand slides to your lower back with a possessive warmth that grounds you amid the chaos.

His agent appears from the side, flashing a practiced smile as he steers you both toward the first stop on the carpet. Glen moves effortlessly, but even as the cameras and lights demand his attention, his focus remains on you.

You feel his gaze before you turn your head. When you do turn and meet his gaze his eyes are dark and filled with something you can’t quite pinpoint. He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him. “You’re making it impossible to look at anything but you.”

A smile tugs at your lips. You shift slightly, your hand rising to rest lightly against his chest. His shirt is already unbuttoned at the top two buttons, revealing just enough of his chest hair and the gold necklace he has on. 

Your fingers hover over the third button, the pad of your fingertip barely brushing it. To the cameras and anyone watching it looks like you’re simply smoothing out his shirt in a casual gesture. But Glen knows better. His body tenses just slightly, his breath catching for half a second. His gaze sharpens, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. But he doesn’t move. He just watches you, waiting to see if you’ll actually do it.

But you don’t. Instead you drag your fingertips over the fabric once more, feigning innocence before resting your hand lower against his stomach.

Glen’s jaw flexes for the briefest moment, but then he regains his composure and slips effortlessly back into that easy charming persona as the cameras flash again.

After the final interviews are done and the last of the camera flashes are snapped you and Glen are guided inside by his manager. Inside the venue, the atmosphere is intimate. Low flickering candlelight from the centerpieces on each table reflect off of the crystal glassware, the quiet hum of conversation blends with the soft notes of the music playing overhead. The gold sequins of your gown catch the light as you settle into your seat beside Glen. His presence is warm and familiar next to you.

His hand finds your thigh almost immediately, fingers resting just beneath the slit of your dress on your thigh. It’s nothing overt or inappropriate, just a familiar touch between partners. 

At least, that’s how it starts. Glen is effortlessly charming as he talks with the others at the table. He laughs at a particular joke from someone across from him at the table, engaging in conversation as though he’s completely at ease. 

But every so often his fingers tighten against your skin in a slow, possessive squeeze that makes your breath hitch. He plays it cool though, never letting on that his focus is split between the discussion at the table and the slow absentminded circles his thumb is tracing on the inside of your thigh.

You take a slow sip of your wine, the deep red coating your lips. Then you lean in slightly. The movement shifts your dress in a way you know Glen notices, offering the faintest peek at the top of the lace strapless bra you both know is underneath. His hand tightens just barely on your thigh.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, meant only for him. “You’re awfully quiet tonight, babe. Something distracting you?”

Glen doesn’t answer right away. His expression doesn’t even shift. If someone were watching the two of you right now, they’d see the same composed, award winning smile he’s worn all night.

But under the table his fingers start to slide higher, his touch slow and deliberate, teasing at something for too bold for a setting like this where a camera could be on the two of you at any given moment. Your breath catches and your gaze flicks to him. His eyes are locked on you now, dark with amusement. 

And then, just as his fingertips dare to brush higher, just as heat starts to pool low in your stomach…someone at the table calls his name, pulling him back into conversation. 

His hand stops its movement, sliding back down just enough to keep things appropriate. But you catch the smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he turns back to the discussion at the table.

The venue is buzzing with excitement as the 2025 Golden Globes officially kicks off. The stage is bathed in warm golden light, the audience a sea of glamorous gowns and sharp tuxedos. Glen sits beside you, one arm draped casually along the back of your chair, his fingers idly tracing the bare skin of your shoulder.

Nikki Glaser takes the stage with ease, her opening monologue sharp and quick witted, sending waves of laughter through the audience as she points out several celebrities in attendance. 

You’re sipping from your champagne flute when she suddenly shifts her attention to Glen. “Glen, you were in everything this year…Hit Man, Twisters…my head when I’m having sex with my boyfriend.”

The room erupts into laughter, a mix of surprised gasps and delighted applause. Glen, ever the good sport, flashes a grin and shakes his head slightly as the camera captures his reaction. 

You’re laughing too. But then the way he takes it in stride, not letting it fluster him, sparks an idea. As soon as the camera moves away from him you lean in. Close enough that your lips almost brush the shell of his ear. 

“Funny,” you murmur, voice low enough for only him to hear. “Because you’re in my head when I’m touching myself.”

Glen inhales sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. The subtle movement is barely noticeable to anyone else, but you catch it. His fingers twitch against the skin of your back as if resisting the urge to react. 

You let the words settle. Then as if nothing happened, you press a soft, lingering kiss to the edge of his jaw, letting your lips brush just enough to make his pulse jump.

To the outside world, it’s nothing more than an affectionate moment between a couple…just you whispering something sweet to your boyfriend before kissing him.

But Glen knows exactly what you’re doing. And judging by the way he exhales again, slow and controlled as he shifts slightly in his seat, you know it’s working.

Satisfied, you smile against his skin before pulling back, returning your attention to the stage as if you hadn’t just began to unravel him with a single sentence.

Nikki’s monologue ends and the applause fades as the first presenters takes the stage. But Glen still hasn’t fully recovered from your whispered confession. You can feel the tension in his body. The way his fingers flex subtly against the back of your chair, his breathing just a little deeper than before.

Then, as the announcer reads off the nominees for the award, Glen leans in. His voice is even, but there’s an edge to it. “I’m gonna hit the restroom,” he murmurs. “You want anything from the bar on my way back?”

You turn to him feigning innocence, and your lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Another glass of champagne would be perfect. Thank you, babe.”

He nods, but just as he stands and steps away from the table you catch it. The quick yet subtle movement of his hand adjusting the front of his dress pants as he disappears into the hallway.

Satisfaction hums through you. You lift your nearly empty flute to your lips, holding your smirk behind the rim as you take another sip as you settle back into your seat.

A few minutes later Glen still hasn’t returned. You glance at the hallway and then back at your table. You politely excuse yourself before slipping into the hallway. 

The hallway is a quiet, stark contrast to the hum of conversion and laughter that spilled from the ballroom where the award show was taking place. Your heels click softly against the polished floor as you head to the end of the hallway where the restrooms are.

Just as you reach for the door handle of the ladies’ room, the men’s room door wings open. Glen steps out, his shoulders broad in the jet black tuxedo, his hair slightly mussed like he ran a hand through it in frustration after leaving the ballroom. 

But it’s his expression that stops you in your tracks. The way his gaze locks onto you.

You don’t have a moment to even react before his fingers curl around your wrist, and in one fluid motion, he pulls you into the women’s restroom. The door clicks shut behind you, and your back meets the cool wood as Glen presses close. Glen fingers slide the lock into place before his hands brace on either side of you, caging you in. The air crackles between you, thick with everything unspoken.

He leans in, his lips brushing just below your ear as he exhales, his voice low and laced with amusement. “You like driving me insane, don’t you?”

A small smile tugs at your lips before you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. You let your fingers trail down the front of his shirt, hovering just above the third button from the top before smoothing over the fabric.

“Maybe just a little.”

His laugh is quiet but rough as he exhales through his nose. But then he’s kissing you. It’s hungry and impatient, like he’s been waiting all night for this. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress as he deepens the kiss, his body warm against yours.

The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from outside the door, and it’s enough to break the spell. Glen pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. His breathing is uneven, but there’s a teasing glint still there.

“As much as I’d love to keep going,” he murmurs, “we should probably head back before someone comes looking for us.”

You let out a breathy laugh knowing he’s right. But as Glen takes a step back and you both straighten your clothes like nothing happened, you catch the way Glen’s jaw tightens when he looks at your lips, like he’s still thinking about the way they felt against his.

You’re just starting to catch your breath when Glen’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. His expression shifts as he pulls it out and looks at the screen.

“I need to take this,” he murmurs holding a finger to his lips as if warning you to stay quiet.

He takes another step back, answering the call with a curt professional tone. You can barely make out the voice of his agent on the other end, but as Glen’s nodding along his gaze never leaves you. 

After a moment, he pulls the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, I’ll be right back in. She had a…wardrobe malfunction,” he smirks as if he’s dealing with a minor inconvenience. “We have it taken care of, no worries. Give me sixty seconds and I’ll be right there.”

Glen looks at you for a beat, his expression softening as he steps closer. “You okay with me heading back in? They need me for something.”

You nod quickly, giving him a smile that’s more genuine and supportive than any of the others you’ve given him tonight. “Thanks for the help with the zipper,” you say, your words thick with playful innuendo.

His lips twitch for just a second. He glances toward the door, and then takes a deep breath.

“Of course. Wouldn’t leave you hanging.” He grins at the subtle double meaning before straightening up and heading back towards the ballroom.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left standing in the ladies’ restroom, an impish smile playing at your lips. Because you both knew this wasn’t the last of your teasing for the night.

Back in the ballroom the atmosphere is still buzzing with excitement. The laughter and clinking of glasses mix with the soft hum of conversations that fill the room. But for you it feels quieter as you settle back into your seat next to Glen.

Glen is quiet for the first few minutes after you return. His hand rests gently on your thigh, his thumb drawing slow absent minded circles over the fabric of your gown. It’s less of a possessive touch than earlier, more like a subtle yet comforting reminder of his presence. His gaze flickers over to you as you sip your champagne, eyes warm with a tenderness that matches the calmness that’s overtaken him.

“Are you okay?” Glen’s voice is low enough that only you hear, almost as if he’s checking in on you after all the teasing that had unfolded throughout the evening.

You nod and offer him a soft smile that’s a mixture of affection and gratitude. “I’m fine just…taking it all in,” you murmur, your hand reaching up to smooth a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

Glen’s smile is small but genuine. He leans in slightly, his lips brushing your temple in the most casual of kisses. The gesture isn’t some public display, it’s just for you. And you know that. It’s a reminder that no matter how much you tease each other, there’s a deeper connection that holds you together. 

“Good,” he says softly.

You smile, catching the way his thumb continues to trace along your leg, gentle but firm as he offers you reassurance. Over the next half hour, despite the attention on him like his name being called for several photos or other actors, actresses, and directors finding their way to your table to chat with Glen, he keeps a small part of his focus on you. Whether it’s his arm draped protectively around the back of your chair or his hand on your thigh, there are subtle reminders to you that he’s there.

It’s moments like this, when you truly see a side of Glen that few others do. Even when he’s the confident and playful man everyone else sees, a part of him is still right there with you. He’s attentive and undeniably present as his hand stays on you.

After the award show you step out into the cool night air. The crowd outside the venue is beginning to thin, and the flashing lights of cameras dim as the chaos of the evening starts to subside. The contrast between the glamor of the show and the calm that begins to settle around you is almost surreal.

Glen’s hand is warm on your back as he leads you to the car. His steps are confident and steady. The door to the car is already open when you reach it, and Glen helps you slide in with the kind of gentlemanliness that you’ve come to love in Glen. 

The car hums to life and the city lights start to streak past as the vehicle pulls onto the street. Inside the atmosphere is quieter, the tension of the night melting away. For the first time all evening you let your guard down, and lean into Glen’s side. The faint scent of his cologne is mixed with the crisp air coming in from outside where the window is cracked. The air settles around you and you find yourself breathing a little easier.

Glen notices immediately, his arm gently wrapping around you to pull you closer. “You okay, sweetheart?”

He knows how draining these events can be, especially to you who isn’t used to it yet. He’s been through them a thousand times before, but it’s different for you. The flashing cameras, the endless small talk and mingling, the constant attention…it can be overwhelming.

You nod slowly, closing your eyes for just a moment. The exhaustion starts to creep up on you now that the adrenaline has started to wear off. “Just a lot. You know how overwhelming these things can be,” you murmur in a volume that’s just above a whisper as you press yourself a little further into his side, seeking the calm you always seem to find in him.

Glen looks down at you, his expression softening and concern flickering in his eyes. “I can have the driver take us back to the hotel if you want. We don’t have to go to the after party if you’re not feeling it.”

You know his offer is genuine, but you can’t bring yourself to take it. You know how important the after party is for him to network and meet others in the industry. You just need a minute, another moment of peace before facing the chaos again. And then you’ll be okay and ready for the next stop of the night.

Shifting slightly you look up at him, your voice quiet but filled with sincerity. “Just hold me for a minute, yeah?”

It’s simple, but the request means everything. Glen nods without hesitation, a small smile tugging at his lips. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively as you settle into his embrace. The car ride, the noise of the night, and the rest of the world all fade into the background as Glen holds you, the steady beat of his heart a grounding presence beneath your cheek.

For a moment there’s no red carpet, no cameras, no crowds. Just the two of you in the quiet of the car, sharing something far more intimate than anything the public could ever see.

The after party is a completely different world. The buzz of excitement from the award show has transformed into an electric energy that fills the entire venue. The music is loud and pulses through the air. The space is alive, full of laughter, clinking glasses, and filled with well dressed guests mingling.

Glen stays close to you, his presence steady by your side as you navigate the crowd. He talks to a few people, exchanging polite words with other actors, producers, and directors. But his eyes are constantly flicking back to you.

He’s aware of the ever watchful eyes around you both. The buzz from the whirlwind year he had in 2024 has left the media and the fans hungry for any new details about him. Add in the fact that your relationship is still fresh enough to be interesting, and it’s like you’re a constant topic of conversation in any room you’re in.

You catch him glancing at you every so often, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It’s like a silent agreement between the two of you. You’re here for the networking that Glen’s manager wants him to do, but neither of you can quite keep your focus entirely on anything other than each other.

At one point you stand at the edge of the dance floor,and Glen’s gaze shifts as the beat of the music picks up. Without a word he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He gently tugs you toward the center of the floor, and you follow, your heart picking up its pace as you leave the edge of the room behind.

Once you're in the midst of the dancing crowd, Glen’s hand slides to your lower back, pulling you closer until your bodies are nearly pressed together. The heat from his touch sends an immediate rush of warmth through you. The proximity makes everything feel heightened, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks of electricity through you.

His lips hover near your ear, his voice low and suggestive as he speaks, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “You look so damn good tonight, baby.”

His mouth is still near your ear, and his next words are even more suggestive, a whisper that sends a chill down your spine. “You’re killing me, you know that? Every time you touch me, I feel like I’m about to lose control.” His breath is warm against your skin, the words almost a promise, a warning.

The subtle shift in his touch sends a thrill through you, your own body responding to the heat building between the two of you. You lean into him and feel the hard press of his chest against yours, and you can’t help but push back against him just a little, teasing him with every move.

Each time you “accidentally” brush against him, his grip tightens. The pressure on your lower back sharpens, his hands now bold as they slide around your waist. The energy between you two builds with each passing second, like an unspoken game that neither of you wants to end.

The music continues to pulse around you, bodies swaying in the dim light, the room alive with energy. But all you can focus on is Glen. You lean into him, the warmth of his body a steady presence behind you. His hands find their place on your hips, holding you close, his fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress. The closeness feels intoxicating. 

With a playful smirk, you decide to test the limits. You spin in his arms, your back now pressed against his chest. The action is fluid, and before you know it you’re tucked into him, your head resting against his chest.

You can feel his breath catch, his body stiffening for just a moment. His lips hover near your ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. The press of his body against yours becomes undeniable now. There’s no mistaking what’s happening. His tuxedo pants tighten at the front, a subtle shift that makes you smirk to yourself. Because you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

Your fingers reach up behind you and graze over the hair at the nape of his neck, barely brushing the collar of his shirt as your lips curve into a mischievous grin. You stay like that for a moment, enjoying the power you have over him, the way his breath quickens, how his grip on you tightens just slightly as if trying to control himself.

But then, just as you’re about to lean in and whisper something playful back, his voice comes out low and commanding, the heat in it unmistakable. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Glen doesn’t give you a moment to respond, his hand gently but firmly pressing against your lower back as he guides you through the crowd. His touch feels urgent, yet controlled. You can feel the eyes around you, the whispers of the people still enjoying the party, but none of it matters. All that matters is the man beside you guiding you toward the exit.

When you reach the doors, Glen’s hand slips to the small of your back, urging you forward. You glance up at him, heart pounding, his expression a perfect mix of hunger and determination. Without a word, he opens the car door and helps you inside, his hand still lingering on your waist as he follows you in. The moment the door closes behind you, the tension that had been building throughout the night snaps.

Before you can fully settle into your seat, Glen is already there, his lips crashing against yours with a desperation that leaves you breathless. It's fierce, unrestrained, and everything you’ve been craving since the moment you stepped into that ballroom. His hand moves to cradle your jaw, holding you firmly in place, while the other slides under the hem of your dress, fingers curling against the soft skin of your thigh, dangerously close to where you ache for him.

The world outside the car window blurs into streaks of light as you lose yourself in him. You reach up, your fingers running through his hair, the length just long enough for you to tug. And you do, you tug enough to draw a deep, guttural groan from his throat. His body presses into yours, every inch of him impossibly close.

But just as the kiss deepens, Glen pulls back, his breath ragged against your lips. His eyes, dark with desire, search yours, his voice rough, thick with need. “Think you can last until we get to the hotel?”

You smile, that teasing spark in your eyes. “I don’t know...you seem a little impatient right now.”

The air between you crackles with the raw, undeniable tension. His thumb brushes over your lower lip as if trying to memorize the feel of you, his gaze never leaving yours. 

“You have no idea,” he mutters under his breath, leaning back in for another kiss, but this time, he’s taking it slow, savoring every moment before the storm that’s clearly coming.

Glen leans forward, his movement smooth and deliberate, and taps the control panel between you and the driver. His voice is low, almost too calm as he says, “Raise the partition.”

You watch as the tinted glass slides up, cutting you off from the rest of the world. It’s just the two of you now, a world of your own where nothing exists but the heat between you and the air thick with unspoken promises.

His hands return to you almost immediately, his fingers grazing the zipper of your gown with a quiet, assured touch. The movement sends a rush of warmth through you, and for a split second, doubt flickers across your mind. You pull away, just enough to catch your breath, unsure about what Glen’s suggesting.

His lips brush against your ear, and the soft whisper of his words cuts through the haze. “Windows are tinted. Partition’s up. No one can see you but me, promise, baby.”

You can feel your pulse quicken, and your heart skips a beat. You bite your lip, torn between desire and hesitation. “But what about the driver? What if he hears?”

Glen’s chuckle rumbles against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His thumb gently strokes your hip through the fabric, his touch somehow soothing and electrifying at the same time. “He’s got an NDA. Even if he hears anything, he legally can’t say a damn word.”

He leans back slightly watching you with that infuriatingly confident smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “But if you’re worried about that...guess you’ll just have to be quiet.”

His words hang in the air between you, daring you to give in. There’s no turning back now, and the space in the backseat of the SUV seems to close in around you. You know you want this, want him…right here, right now.

The final wall inside you crumbles, and before you can second guess yourself, your hands are on him. You pull him closer, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that burns with the intensity of everything you’ve been holding back all evening. Glen smiles against your lips, that cocky grin of his still there even as he feels the shift in you. His hands move with practiced ease, the zipper of your dress sliding down a few inches under his touch.

His lips leave yours, but the loss of contact is only brief. Glen’s mouth moves to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trail downward, sending a shiver through you. You tilt your head back to give him more access, and in that instant he pulls the bodice of your dress down, exposing the black lace beneath.

You gasp at the sudden exposure, the cool air against your skin a stark contrast to the heat between you. Glen takes a slow breath, eyes dark with want as he gazes at you, drinking in the sight. His hands, so sure, push the dress further down, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at the top of your chest, making you bite your lip to keep from letting out a sound as his hands squeeze you through the cups of the lingerie.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and raw, his hands reverently tracing the curves of your body as if memorizing every inch of you. His eyes flicker between your face and your exposed skin, his desire evident.

His lips return to your skin, his kisses slow and deliberate, as if savoring every reaction he draws from you. The ache between your legs deepens, the pressure unbearable as Glen’s touch continues to tease and tantalize. 

You can’t hold back the soft whimper that escapes your lips, the sound a mixture of need and frustration. Glen hears it and smirks, a knowing look flashing across his face as his fingers slide higher, moving up the slit of your dress, where you’re aching for him most.

His touch is slow and deliberate, and it drives you wild. The heat between you builds, and as his fingers reach the spot you crave, you bite down on your lip to stifle a moan. He’s tormenting you, and you’re helpless to stop it. The way his fingers move, his touch just shy of where you need him most, makes you feel like you’re losing control.

As if sensing your desperation, Glen’s hand shifts, pressing firmly against the little bundle of nerves where you ache for him most. A gasp escapes your throat, the tension inside you winding tighter with every passing second. You feel yourself melt against him, lost in the sensation, every inch of your skin burning under his touch.

At the same time, your hands move with urgency, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his silk shirt. One by one, you undo them, your breath shallow and erratic as the anticipation builds between you. Each button undone is like a countdown to the inevitable moment when you’ll finally have him, just as he has you.

His lips brush against your ear, his voice a low rasp as he watches you, his fingers never faltering in their pursuit of your pleasure.

"God, I love you, baby," he murmurs again, and the words send a shiver down your spine, making the ache between your legs even more unbearable.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingertips grazing over warm, newly exposed skin. The contrast of soft silk against hard muscle makes your breath hitch, and without thinking, your nails dig in just enough to get a reaction out of him. Glen groans, his head tipping back slightly, the sound deep and raw, sending a thrill through your body.

Emboldened, you let your hands wander lower, reaching for his belt, but before you can undo it, Glen’s hand catches yours. His grip is firm but gentle, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand as he gives you a look that sends a new wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

"I want you to give me one first," he murmurs, his voice rough, filled with quiet command.

Your breath stutters as his fingers move faster, his touch growing more insistent, purposeful. A shiver rolls through you as realization dawns, your body tensing in response. Glen’s gaze softens, sensing your hesitation.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your cheek, trailing toward your ear. "Just let go," he whispers, coaxing, encouraging. "I’ve got you, baby."

The knot in your stomach tightens, the tension coiling like a wire ready to snap. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your nails pressing into his skin as you try to steady yourself against the mounting pleasure. Glen’s touch is relentless now, and you can feel yourself slipping further, the world around you fading until the only thing that exists is him. His hands, his voice, the way he’s completely unraveling you.

You close your eyes, surrendering to the sensation, to the way he makes you feel utterly weightless and lost all at once. And then it snaps. Your orgasm washes over you. Glen is right there, coaxing you through it as your hips move against his fingers. His voice is a low murmur of praise and reassurance, grounding you even as you come undone in his fingers. Your body shudders, fingers clutching at his open shirt, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Just as you begin to regain control, Glen withdraws his fingers, his eyes locked onto yours as he brings them to his mouth, his lips wrapping around them to taste you. A satisfied hum vibrates in his throat, and the sight alone sends another rush of heat pooling in your core.

Your hands fumble with his belt, fingers shaking slightly as you undo the button of his pants. Glen shifts beneath you, helping as much as he can while his own hands remain possessive on your hips. When you finally free him, wrapping your hand around him, his breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

"Fuck," he exhales, his head tipping back against the seat for a moment before his gaze darkens, zeroing in on you.

With a teasing smirk, you shift, straddling his lap, the fabric of your dress pooling around you. One of Glen’s hands moves to your waist, guiding you as you position yourself over him. The other reaches up and pulls the lace of your underwear to the side.

Then as you sink down, a soft moan slips from your lips at the delicious stretch, Glen’s grip on your hips tightening as he exhales a sharp curse.

His head rolls back against the sat, his breath warm and uneven. "You’re gonna be the death of me," he rasps, voice filled with both adoration and hunger.

The air in the car is thick, charged with heat and longing, the rhythm between you and Glen pushing you both closer to that inevitable breaking point. His grip on your hips tightens, guiding you as your breaths tangle in the small space between you.

And then it happens. That tension inside you snaps, the knot in your stomach unraveling as a wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you breathless. Glen isn’t far behind, his movements growing erratic as a low, guttural groan leaves his lips. His hands grip you tighter for just a moment before he stills, his chest heaving against yours as the last remnants of pleasure pulse through both of you.

For a while, neither of you move. The only sound in the car is the heavy mix of your breaths and the faint  distant hum of the city just beyond the glass. Your forehead drops to his shoulder, your body still trembling slightly in the aftermath. Glen’s head is still rolled back against the seat, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on your hips, grounding you both in the quiet.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, holding you as if you might disappear if he lets go. The heat of the moment fades into something softer, something deeper. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, steady and strong, mirroring the way he makes you feel.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a beat, his voice rough, but there’s something tender in the way he asks.

You nod against him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "Yeah," you breathe. "You?"

His lips press against your temple, lingering there for a moment. "Never better."

Neither of you rush to move, to pull away. Instead, you stay wrapped in the quiet, in the warmth of each other, savoring this moment that feels entirely your own.

As the rush of the moment fades, you shift in Glen’s lap, still catching your breath. That’s when you feel it. The cool brush of air conditioning against your lower back. Your brows furrow as you reach behind you, fingers grazing over the fabric of your dress…The zipper. Or rather, the complete and utter lack of one.

Your head snaps up. "Oh my God."

Glen who’s still recovering with his head tilted back against the seat, lifts his chin at the alarm in your voice. 

His lazy grin fades the second he sees your expression. "What?"

You turn slightly, trying to get a better look, and that’s when he sees it. The once seamless zipper now split wide open, the expensive fabric pooling loosely around your waist, revealing the lace underneath.

Glen blinks. Then drags a hand down his face. "Shit."

A beat of silence.

Then, his lips twitch. "Babe—"

You groan, dropping your head against his shoulder. "Tell me you did not just rip a designer dress."

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh. "Okay, I won’t tell you."

You smack his arm. "Glen!"

He winces but doesn’t even try to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “In my defense, you looked really, really good in it."

You lift your head to glare at him, but his boyish grin makes it impossible to be truly mad. He exhales a guilty chuckle, eyes scanning the damage before shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s…that’s not fixable.”

Another groan leaves your lips as you sit back, attempting to gather the fabric around you. “What am I supposed to do? Walk through the hotel lobby like this?”

Glen doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs off his suit jacket and carefully slides it onto your shoulders, his fingers brushing your arms as he adjusts it into place. The warmth of it, the scent of his cologne, wraps around you instantly. He lingers for a second, his hands resting against your arms as his eyes flick over you. He then buttons the jacket up in the front to cover the front of you since without the zipper you run the risk of people seeing both the front and back of you.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “No one’s gonna see a thing.”

You then become acutely aware of just how thoroughly wrecked you both look. The lipstick smudged at the corner of his mouth, the way his once styled hair is a mess from where your fingers had been in it. And of course the disaster that is your dress.

You reach up, swiping the smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, and he lets you, his gaze locked on yours. 

“You’re a mess,” you tease, smoothing down his shirt where it had bunched up.

He smirks then rolls his shoulders to straighten up. “So are you.”

“We should…probably fix ourselves,” you say, already reaching up to run your fingers through your hair, trying to smooth it down.

Glen huffs out a low chuckle, tilting his head back against the seat. “Yeah, probably.”

He moves to button his pants back up first, then starts redoing the buttons of his shirt, though his movements are slower, lazier like he isn’t in a rush at all. You catch the way his fingers fumble slightly, and without thinking you reach over, taking over the task of smoothing the fabric and fastening the last few buttons for him.

His gaze flickers up to yours, something softer in his expression now. You don’t acknowledge it, just keep working, pretending like your fingers aren’t slightly trembling from everything that just happened. As you finish, you notice his hair is a complete mess from where your hands had been tangled in it earlier. With a quiet hum, you reach up, smoothing the ends of his hair back into place.

Glen watches you the whole time. Then, just as you start to pull your hand away, he leans into your touch, just for a second, eyes half-lidded.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “I’m that much of a wreck, huh?”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “A little bit.”

He huffs a laugh and rolls his shoulders, like that’ll somehow make him look more put together. “Well, you’re no better, sweetheart.”

You scoff, but before you can fire back, the car slows, the city lights outside flashing across Glen’s face as you near the hotel. His smirk fades just slightly, his eyes scanning the entrance ahead. His hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

“You good to make a run for it?” he asks, voice low.

You let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

Glen smiles that same playful, heart melting grin, and without missing a beat, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Stick close to me, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And just like that, he’s back to being your Southern gentleman. Even after all that just transpired in the backseat, his priority is making sure you feel safe, covered, and comfortable.

The car eases to a stop, and before the driver can even step out, Glen is already moving, one hand reaching for the door handle, the other finding yours. He squeezes your fingers gently before slipping out, standing tall as he subtly scans the entrance for any wandering eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he turns, offering you his hand with a smirk that’s all charm, all Glen.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you inside before we cause another scene.”

Glen keeps a firm arm wrapped around you as he helps you inside, his tux jacket draped over your shoulders, shielding you from any further wardrobe malfunctions. His grip is steady, protective, and despite the teasing glint in his eyes, there’s an unspoken possessiveness in the way he holds you close.

The hotel lobby is dimly lit, elegant, but you barely register it. Your focus is on Glen. The solid warmth of him against you, the subtle flex of his muscles beneath your fingers as you clutch onto his shirt. He walks with confidence, guiding you past the check in desk and toward the elevators, ignoring the way the night staff sneaks curious glances your way.

When you reach the elevator, Glen reaches out and presses the button with his free hand, keeping you tucked against his side. The silver doors slide open, and the moment you step inside, the tension crackles back to life. The doors close, and before you can take a breath Glen moves.

His hands are on you again. They’re fast, desperate, but never rough. He presses you gently but firmly against the cool metal wall, one hand tilting your chin up just as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is hungry and all consuming, reigniting the fire that had barely simmered down.

You gasp against his lips, your hands flying to his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt. His breath is hot and uneven as he kisses you deeper, his tongue sweeping against yours with a level of skill that leaves you lightheaded.

Then his lips trail lower, ghosting over your jaw, down the side of your neck.

His voice is low, rough against your skin. “Think you’ve got enough energy left for one more round?”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you tug him closer, fingers curling tighter in his shirt. You let your lips graze his, teasing. “With you? Always.”

Glen exhales sharply, his grip tightening on you. Just as his hand slips beneath the jacket, tracing the curve of your waist with slow deliberate intent, the elevator dings.

Your floor. The doors begin to slide open. Glen barely pulls back, his forehead resting against yours as his chest rises and falls, his smirk a little breathless.

“Guess we’ll have to pick this up inside,” he murmurs.

You bite your lip, eyes locked onto his as you slide your hand down, lacing your fingers with his. “What are you waiting for, then?”

Glen doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you down the quiet hotel hallway, his stride purposeful, filled with anticipation. You can still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin, the way his lips had moved against yours in the elevator just moments ago, leaving you breathless and wanting.

The tension between you is electric, a live wire humming with energy, ready to spark the second you’re alone again.

Reaching your room, Glen presses you against the door for just a moment, his hands resting on your waist as he leans in, his voice a husky whisper. “Last chance to back out.”

You smirk, eyes locked onto his as you slide the key card from his hand, the smooth plastic cool between your fingers. “Not a chance, babe.”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, but before he can respond, you swipe the key card and push the door open. The moment it clicks shut behind you both, Glen’s hands are on you again, his lips grazing your ear as he murmurs, “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[bitchface24-7]

hiya! idk if you do mlm but could you do tmasc reader x viktor comfort for dysphoria?

or trans vik x tmasc reader scissoring if you’re comfy :)

EUPHORIA IN DYSPHORIA - VIKTOR X FTM!READER

synopsis: you've had good days and you've had bad ones. Today is a bad one. Everything feels wrong. Your body, your skin, your mind, and your soul. You just want to rot in bed. Keep away from any mirrors and society itself. Good thing Viktor is here to comfort you.

warnings: body dysmorphia, negative self-talk, comfort, fluff, angst, reader is FTM, Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/m

p.s. I hope I did this request justice. I myself am a CIS woman, I don’t know the struggles and lives of those who have transitioned. I am queer, and I've always wanted the ability to take off my big knockers so outfits fit the vibe I wanted and be able to put them back on when I want cleavage. Idk what that makes me but… yeah.

Today's a bad day.

You feel it deep in your bones. Your body, your skin, your mind, and your soul. Everything feels wrong. You want to shed your skin like a snake, you want to break free of your cacoon like a butterfly. You want these feelings to go away.

You burrow deeper into your bed. Trying your best to cover from the rest of the world, like a child hiding under the blankets; trying to protect yourself from the monsters you saw in the corner of your eye.

A sigh escapes you, you're exhausted. This is all exhausting. You've done everything you can to soothe the ache in your soul, the ache you got from friends and family breaking your heart. You cut your hair, you finally wore the clothes you've always wanted, you stopped doing things that made you miserable. Yet your soul still cries sometimes.

It's sobbing today.

You can feel your throat closing up as your eyes burn. No. You're not crying today. Not here, not now.

A dip in the bed startles you. The blanket getting removed from your face even more so.

“Darling, are you okay? You've been cooped up all morning.”

Viktor's sweet yet concerned tone finally causes the dam to break, and a sob escapes you.

You curl up into Viktor’s arms and cry into his neck. Viktor wraps his arms around you and lightly sways back and forth.

“I just— I just feel awful. Everything feels wrong. What if I am a fraud? A liar? What if there is something wrong with me?”

Viktor tsks at you, “Oh my love, there’s nothing wrong with you. You're not liar or a fraud, your brain is just being an asshole to you.”

“Viktor!”

“What? It’s true!”

You slap his chest lightly and laugh as he peppers kisses all over your forehead and cheeks. Your laughs turn into giggles due to his overwhelming love. You squirm a bit but Viktor doesn't let you go.

“I'll be here to fight the bad days with you. Remind you how wonderful you are, even if your brain tries to trick you.”

A light sniff escapes you and you lean forward to kiss Viktor on the lips, he reciprocates sweetly.

The kiss eventually breaks and you lean back down to cuddle into Viktor’s chest. His arms wrap around you tightly and you snuggle up as closely as you can, as if you were trying to merge into Viktor.

Your mind and soul settle at the comfort and love Viktor is raining on you. Your eyes feel heavy as the rhythmic thump of Viktor's heart lulls you to sleep.

The bad days are inevitable, but Viktor helped make this bad one a good one.

I hope I did this justice, even though it's much shorter than anticipated. I know how sensitive this topic can be, and I tried my best to write a story from my own understanding as a cis queer woman. Xoxo love ya ❤️

[captain-roger-that]

"I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from."

"If you’re reading this, it means time has carried my words far beyond the world I know. I write to you from the 1940s, in the middle of a war that has tested the strength, courage, and heart of countless men and women. Every day, we fight for something bigger than ourselves—freedom, justice, the right for people to live without fear. I don’t know what kind of world you live in now, whether the sacrifices of my time made a difference, whether peace has won, or if you’re still fighting battles of your own. But if history has taught me anything, it’s that the fight for what’s right is never truly over.

I’ve seen firsthand what hatred, greed, and fear can do to people. I’ve seen good men lose their way, and I’ve seen others stand firm even when it would have been easier to give up. The truth is, the world isn’t black and white. It never has been. It’s made up of choices—hard ones. And sometimes, the right choice doesn’t feel like a victory. Sometimes, it costs you everything. But that doesn’t mean you stop making them.

Being strong isn’t about having power. It’s not about carrying a shield or wearing a uniform. It’s about knowing what you stand for, even when the world is telling you to back down. It’s about doing the right thing, even when no one is watching. It’s about standing up, not just for yourself, but for the ones who can’t stand up for themselves.

I don’t know if my name means anything in your time, if people remember what we fought for, or if history has turned me into nothing more than a footnote. That’s not what matters. What matters is that you don’t forget the principles we stood for—the belief that every person deserves the chance to be free, that no one is beneath you or above you, that the measure of a person isn’t in their wealth or their power, but in their honor and decency.

The world will always be changing. There will always be new battles, new challenges, new fears. But the values that define us—the ones that truly matter—never go out of style. Honor. Integrity. Compassion. Sacrifice. They’re not just words; they’re the foundation of a world worth fighting for.

So if you ever feel like the world is too dark, too broken, or too far gone—don’t give up on it. Because as long as there are people willing to stand up, willing to believe in something better, there’s always hope. And hope… hope is the most powerful thing we have.

You don’t have to be a hero to do what’s right. You just have to decide that today, you’re going to stand. And when tomorrow comes, you’ll stand again. One step at a time.

I may not be there to see the future you live in, but I have faith in you. In your strength, in your heart, in your willingness to carry the torch forward. The fight never really ends—but neither does the good in the world, as long as there are people like you to protect it."

With faith in the future, Captain Steve Rogers United States Army

[ MOD ]

[luigilore]

hi, so in relation to your post about physical touch when you’re someone who’s used to being touched clinically and stuff.. i wanted to tell you that it moved me a lot, so thanks <33 i’m the anon who wrote a few days ago abt chronic pain, idk if you remember

but it got me thinking about how when you’ve lived most of your life in pain, your perception of sensations is so messed up. enjoying basic things like touch can be a very difficult task, and it sort of feels like you have to unlearn so many pain patterns just to be able to feel certain stimuli normally. like for me, i’m just a girl w a lot of issues in my pelvic area, and just speaking from experience, it was so hard to learn to tolerate and later enjoy sexual sensation and touch, just because your body is so used to pain there. and that’s kind of what moves me so much about lu, just the fact that i know he understands. cause pain in those areas is so stigmatized and isolating (for men and women, i think), so it really takes someone who really cares for you to work with you through it. like i just really hope there was someone in his life who he could trust with that, who was gentle with him and patient and touched him with care. it just got me feeling this strong (very emotionally charged) urge to touch him so gently and softly that he can doze off. to just touch and hold him with so much care that he can release all the tension. could be sexual or not, it doesn’t matter. just being close to him and taking care of him however he wants. kind of breaks my heart a little bit :(

ah omg hi dear im so glad to hear from you again! ofc i remember you!! i'm very sorry i have been moving at snail pace answering ur request (and this ask), i just really want to do it justice! i so appreciate your kind words from last week <3 and i am so happy that you enjoyed it, that feeling was def drawn from my own personal experience...

you really put it in such a lovely and eloquent way, you have a way with words!!! you articulated a lot of feelings i've had but struggle to express... when i got a massage earlier this year, i realized how adverse i am to touch now and it was so unenjoyable like i was tense the entire time bc im so used to expecting pain! (so that inspired that blurb)

and ugh yes... my heart... i also sooo hope he had someone like that (as i would love someone like that in my life lol)!!! but yes i think like something im so stuck on w lu is just physical (and emotional) intimacy with him in particular would be so important in ur relationship and something i think he would really value... maybe he didn't even know he valued it until he met you but...

you always seem to just know and if you don't, you always gently ask, you're patient and soft but your touch is never tentative, it's always entirely filled with love. i feel like he would struggle at the beginning of ur relationship to be this vulnerable physically bc he's never had that opportunity before, like feeling so safe/comfortable in someones arms that he can fall asleep?? i think he really craves this closeness even taking chronic pain out of the equation but yes, the layer of your patience and kindness and softness with his back would mean sm to him... i think he would sometimes get in moods where he feels like he doesnt deserve u (tbh kind of relevant but after learning about stoicism in class i totally see how he went down that rabbit hole as a man with chronic pain) i think he would struggle to articulate his needs/wants ESP related to his pain but ur so good at reading him that that's honestly okay... u can always tell when he grits his teeth or furrows his brows, or subtly rubs at his back or hip....

but i think the trust and love would just be really beautiful... and the communication; being there, listening to him, just validating the existence of his pain and struggle... <//33 my heart

sorry this is all over the place... anon i promise i am writing something about lu and chronic pain... it started off as hcs but i have sm ideas that i am currently drafting/writing an actual fic! i used to write like 5-10k wc fics so i am dipping my toes back into that hehe <3 but also i might end up posting some hcs too! thank you again for ur asks and kindness, it's really great to connect with someone else with chronic pain! <3

[bayofwolves]

i fully support rhaena claiming sheepstealer but i so badly want to write a fic where she and nettles both exist. nettles rides sheepstealer and rhaena rides grey ghost and they meet and bond over their wild dragons and fly together and fall in love

[plusultraetc]

Have you published this yet? 😭 i NEED IT

I have not, I'm so sorry 😭 I am a very slow writer and fake dating real feelings turned into a longer fic than I anticipated!! I do have a tag for it now where I post snippets, and here's some more of The Phone Call as an apology for how long this dang fic is taking (little language warning for anyone who needs it!):

[chappellrroan]

best song that was ever made

[businesscasualart]

I’m curious if you have any thoughts or headcanons about Onslaught and alcohol. I imagine being a semi-functioning evil team is stressful and if Psimon is chucking everyone’s vapes then cigs and 420 isn’t an option, then alcohol is the second best thing right? Besides drinking together is team building and leads to this wonderful thing called “actually talking about your trauma instead of bottling it up for once”.

AAAA sorry about taking so long to get around to this.

I need to stop checking my inbox until I’m FULLY ready to yap and ramble. I need that lil blue dot reminding me I have asks so bad.

That IS a good question and I’m so flattered that y’all bother with my content. <3 I think they’d be at least somewhat different about alcohol.

(Sorry for any typos in advance, I wrote this mostly at various doctor’s appointments. ALSO. Last thing to apologize for. I’ve never vaped or smoked when I wrote the last part, but I also have never consumed alcohol and that fact may be more evident in this one)

Cw: Alcohol and some references to alcoholism, uh…references to angst but maybe more comfort than angst, kinda all over the place <\3

Okay so, in the beginning, Onslaught was Mostly teens. Psimon was BARELY even old enough to drink in America at the ripe young age of 21, flat. And I thinnkkkkkk Psimon is American? Even if he’s not, it seems the rest of Onslaught is, so I think  Psimon would probably step up and be all “No, no,” confiscate all the bottles and cans and it’d make the teens so mad and indignant. Literal felons are being BABYSAT. Even when they travel where the drinking age is lower. 

But when the teenagers turn old enough to drink, they have a whole little birthday celebration with what they can get, and of course, offer the first taste of alcohol. Their choice for what it is, as long as the team could afford it. Of course, they laugh and tease if they recoil from the taste. 

Most of the team is pretty fond of drinking, usually together. It’s nice bonding.

Devastation is the only exception to the “Psimon Says no alcohol until you’re 21” rule from the beginning. The team can argue “She is LITERALLY one (1) year old” all they want. She is LITERALLY built different, Psimon is fine with her drinking. 

Idk if she particularly has a preference for any kind. She’s probably one of those who subscribe to the belief of “It ain’t right if it doesn’t burn a bit going down”. Wine is probably somewhat…nostalgic. For some reason. Takes her back to someplace she can’t name, someplace she’s never been, but I think that’d be one of the only reasons she might prefer wine. Her taste may be all over. May be whatever’s strong and good. I’m no alcohol savant, what do I know? 

She likes to drink to celebrate and to bond, sometimes to ebb at stress. It takes a LOT to get her drunk, but that’s not gonna stop her from getting drunk when she has the time and money burn on it. She gets drunk and gets even more jovial and warm and open, though she’s usually relatively open. Also, haphazard. She becomes a big fan of violating people’s personal space. Hugs, patting backs, throwing her arm around them, leaning on people shorter than her, etc.

It can annoy a lot of people if she does it too much, Psimon strangely doesn’t seem to mind too much tho…aheem…

Besides that, Psimon’s generally against the team drinking to the point of drunkenness, but there’s little to actually do about it; he struggles to track all of their limits, and when he’s focusing on one, that leaves all the others alone. He tries to avoid getting drunk himself instead. Someone has to stay sober, and his psionic powers don’t mix well with too much alcohol. And he’s the leader. It makes the most sense that it’d be him to keep his wits about him.

The Terror Twins are hearty drinkers; they also can drink a lot and get very warm and jovial when drinking, like Devastation. Any outing to a bar feels celebratory with them. They decided they don’t like to get fully drunk though, not too regularly. First Tuppence decided this, then Tommy when she pointed it out to him. They don’t want to open up more quickly than they intend. Psimon can relate to that, so he defends them when they drop out. That doesn’t stop them from having fun with everyone else though, or helping when things get bad. They’re usually decent at opening up on their own time anyway. 

Shimmer and Mammoth like to follow Psimon’s lead and keep excess drinking to a minimum. A couple of shots, a glass or maybe two, it really depends on what it is, but that’s it. Mammoth can take more than his sister, just by merit of him being so much larger, but he doesn’t like the taste of alcohol at all while his sister does. However, the second either of them get any kind of buzz ebbing at their senses is the second they quit. 

If they’re found sitting down and downing drinks, something is wrong. They’d only let go so much if they’re trying to drown their problems. Then, they can use some company. Someone lending an ear to their sorrows doesn’t sound half bad. 

If another team member is in a similar situation and needs someone to simply sit next to them and just be, or listen, Baran and Selinda are quick to be there for them.

Junior drinks for fun, he’ll seize any opportunity to drink. That man is getting “Krunk” as the kids say. He doesn’t know his limits and if he did, there’s no telling if he’d actually adhere to them. He WILL blackout if no one keeps an eye on him. He will be puking in the trashcan. The rest of the team has to steer him away from opportunities to drink lest he develop alcoholism at the tender age of 5-minutes-into-being-able-to-legally-drink. 

His mood becomes turbulent and fragile. He’ll typically be happy, loud, reckless, aggressive; but at the mention of the wrong thing or at the sight of something that takes him way back, he can breakdown rather easily. It’s actually pretty common for his drunken stints, when they get out of hand, to end in tears. Junior has to be one of the least repressed members of Onslaught, due in no small part to moments like these; where he lets his emotions run rampant and they go down a bad path. 

He’d expect ridicule, but Onslaught is actually very sympathetic to his struggles and complaints, whatever they may be. He can air his dirty laundry as much as he wants with little to no judgement, something he’s not used to. Once he starts, it’s hard to stop, but the team will listen until the end and it’s something he’s really grateful for. Despite being a troublemaker and general criminal, he tries to pay the team’s kindness towards him forward as much as he can.

If Psimon does end up drinking to lose his troubles, he usually does it alone, when everyone else is asleep. Or at least when he thinks everyone else is asleep. Sometimes someone will wander about looking for a late night snack or a glass of water, or even search for him himself. He dislikes being caught like that, dislikes not being so impervious and put-together for the team. 

Without fail, they’ll sit with him awhile. They’ll ask, they’ll listen, they’ll joke or comfort or sit in silence. Psimon will wither in place or try to get them to leave him be, but they’re a stubborn lot. They’re far from the most “upstanding” of company, but they treat him with the same care, empathy, and concern he tries to treats them with; and Psimon finds afterwards that, despite not enjoying being caught in a state of weakness or forced to open up, he wouldn’t have rather it have gone any other way.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Hey!

So I actually found your college!miguel fic on AO3 and I just wanted to sincerely thank you for making it! I'm indigenous latino and I've seen too many fics and drabbles reducing miguel to disgusting racial stereotypes for latino men and your fic was one of the few that made him an actual person instead of a fetish and actually treated our language with respect (you worked the spanish in really well!) ! So thank you :)) I'm excited if you do a pt 2 to it! 

[pyrriax]

Ok so I just read the latest chapter of wtds. and I just have to say, Haunt you FUCKING OUTDID YOURSELF!!!! omfg it is literally one of the best things I've ever read, I cried and they were semi happy tears!! AND OMFG PANDORA IS SO FUCKED UP I LOVE HIM. that demon has demons and I'm FUCKING living for it.

in short Haunt, thank you for existing and making that amazing work of art. /genuine

IM ACTUALLY GONNA SOB DANE . I WILL CRY!!

i promised good things happening soon and i meant it!!! :D he is SO fucked up and we're getting to the point where things start unraveling and IM SO EXCITED for the next chapter its gonna be FLUFF (with angst at the start but then its FLUFF!)

ALSO a small thing i changed because i NOTICED a thing is that i adjusted "is he the animal, or the hunter?" to "is he the hunter, or the hunted?" :3

and im so glad to hear you enjoyed the chapter!! <3

[winnie-the-monster]

Me at the legacies writers

[orcelito]

Honestly I have realized that 99% of my shipping of vashwood comes from trimax. Yea I vibed with it while watching tristamp but trimax is what took my utter heart and soul

It's to the point where I just don't rly enjoy tristamp vashwood that much anymore hfkshfjd like. OK? Those sure are some dudes. Not My dudes tho, sorry.

[bayofwolves]

thinking ab how the shaneke confession is gonna go... oooh i am so ready for this

[whysamwhy123]

Oh God, I'm actually doing it?? I'm actually attempting to write this trashy Ricky/Christian idea?? 😫

This is such a bad idea, I am not equipped to handle this, LOL. It doesn't help that I'm still pretty under the weather and for some reason I decided to go ''Fuck context!'' and just started writing a random scene with no explanation of how they got there. I'm trying to write on Vibes alone but I have no idea if these Vibes are good or not?? I have a strong suspicion that it's cringey as hell already. And yet I still want to try? Maybe this'll be my way of learning my lesson about staying in your lane.