#scope rings

[attackcopterblog]

Hawkins Precision: Feather weight Scope Rings for Defiance Machine Actions

Hawkins Precision has expanded their popular Featherweight Scope Ring series with new support for Defiance Machine, AllTerra Arms, FALKOR Defense and Mack Brothers EVOII & Element actions. Hawkins Precision states “Our new Featherweight scope rings are Hawkins Precision’s answer to the call for a premium, lightweight direct scope mounting solution that won’t break the bank. With a stripped down…

[seaofreverie]

Today I want to share the joy that Reading A Newspaper has brought me recently (yesterday).

Because you see, it's not very often that I can read a several pages long good quality feature on a band that I'm something of a fan of, considering that until last year at best, all and any musical favourites I had were next to unheard of in the, let's call it, professional music business. And said feature also gave a few mentions to the one and only fav band of all time which I'm also still not used to being able to read about in my language (because it only happened like 5 times in total so far anyway, but still). And I can buy the newspaper in my local store in this minuscule town and find Sparks inside, like wow, it really is My Sparks, in this real life physical newspaper that I just got. This was like a belated but very epic christmas gift for me and I'm not kidding.

But well yeah getting to the point now, Franz Ferdinand are starting their tour soon promoting their upcoming new album and they're stopping in Poland too, so there was this whole 14-pages long overview of their whole career, and while I was obviously interested in the whole thing I was most hyped about the fact that there would have to be something about FFS and Sparks there and this brings me to my delighful observation that wow, all of this is so, connected in a way. Like how there are these connections in inspiration and collaborations between many of my favourites that I didn't even think about probably being a thing before, but when I think about it it just makes so much sense. Like how in this interview with Alex Kapranos, the interviewer brings up Talking Heads and specifically Fear of Music, because the new Franz Ferdinand album also has this sort of overarching theme of fear. And it's funny because that's the first Talking Heads album I've ever listened to and still my favourite from them to this day and overall one of my all-time favourite albums. And I guess it shouldn't be that shocking that it'd come up here because Talking Heads were super influential and inspired thousands, but also until now I didn't think about how both these bands share the general direction of creating dance-able type of rock with lyrics that are often on the more reflective and "intellectual" side. And also that album has been recommended to me as the most TMBG-like of theirs so. Wow I wonder why I like it.

Ok there were also all these other things that I want to mention too, so, other miscellaneous points of interest:

In the debut album review, the reviewer said that during Tell Her Tonight Alex sings a lot like Russell Mael, who likes to sing in falsetto. And well I know there's also the Sparks connection in the form of FFS to come later but still, this was such a great SPARKS MENTION!!!! moment for me anyway. But also they got one thing wrong, because it's not that Russell likes singing in falsetto, Ron forced him to sing in falsetto by writing all of his songs in this crazy uper range of notes, and that's a very important detail !!!!!!

And ok I had no idea that Piss Off already existed in some form as far back as 2004!! Or I knew about this and then I forgor. Either way, fascinating piece of information

I need to know more about how these star-based ranking systems work because why would you call FFS an "excellent album" and then rate it 4 stars. Instead of, I don't know, 4 and a half or 5 maybe?? Especially since it apparently has only 2 "weak songs". And I have some major objections when it comes to this too, because we're calling Things I Won't Get a weak track now?? It's just underrated as heck, and that's a hill that I will die on

Also I could never be a music reviewer because these people can fit their whole commentary on one song within one sentence and I feel like I would have to write at least 3 paragraphs on even the least exceptional of songs on a given album before I can feel like I did it justice. I mean, this whole post itself shows how much of a problem this is for me, lol

Also guys were we all aware that FFS turns 10 next yeah. Oh god. Well I need to remember to keep my tradition and preapre a cool piece of fanart for that occasion then. Maybe they should give us FFS 2 to celebrate, I'm pretty sure there'd be lots of interest among the fandom in something like that. Anyway

Well also this wasn't the only article in this whole thing of course and CAN YOU BELIEVE IT, there was a little bit on the Harrison & Belew Remain In Light Tour, which I will also be attending!!! Lots of great stuff is cooking for the first half of 2025 for me musically I can't lie

And also CAN YOU BELIEVE IT, that a year and a half since it was supposed to be released "worldwide" and long after I already lost hope that I'd ever see it in a cinema, they're releasing Stop Making Sense in cinemas over here too. Fucking finally!!! By gods and heavens, that rare moment when you learn about something crucial through a goddamn instagram ad of all places. And then they also reminded me about this in an actual article so well wow. Can you believe this. I can't. So stocked for next saturday when i'm seeing this movie the way it was always supposed to be seen hehehe

Ok I think that's it. Thank you for reading and maybe I should really make that personal website for my rambles in the new year. I'd definitely put that thing to use.

[luxurysystems]

Irwin,

I’m probably the last person you want to hear from. You’re also probably wondering how I got your email address—blame Ken. I know how you are so I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve come across a lucrative deal that I just can’t ignore, and I need you. I need you for one last job.

Even though we’ve ignored each other for— God knows how long— I just had to reach out because you’re the only one I trust. Should you choose to accept this job, I’ll split everything down the middle and I swear this’ll be the last time that you’ll have to protect me.

-Ted

P.s. If all goes well, I’d love nothing more than to catch up. I’ve missed you. There is so much that I need to tell you.

<-previous

[lastoneout]

hi idk if you're a huge kalos fan but how are you feeling about the direct

I haven't watched it yet, but ngl Kalos wasn't my favorite OR my least favorite pokemon game, I was pretty neutral on it overall. My main complaint was how annoying the map was to traverse before you got fly, but aside from that it was fine, introduced some cool pokemon and had a decent plot. Tbh for the next Legends game I would have preferred Jhoto, but eh. It's not a huge deal to me.

My real issue is that it's a little hard to get excited about it when I know how bad crunch is at Game Freak and that despite saying they were reevaluating their tight release cycle bcs like, ScarVi was borderline unplayable at launch and Arceus got abandoned the second they were done with it despite being the most popular game in years....I just have no faith that this game will be good, or at least it won't be anywhere near as good as it has the potential to be :/

I hope I'm proven wrong tho, and I don't think it's wrong to be excited about the game, something something no ethical consumption and I'd be a major hypocrite if I told people to drop any game company that has bad practices bcs almost all of them do, I just can't get hype. I was really, really hoping Game Freak would slow the hell down and stop making new games for a couple of years, put all of their focus on gen 10 and release that maybe in 2026 or 2027, but nope gotta make that money even if the games we release are falling apart at the seams and our devs are working on two or three projects at once.

And like, given the current trend in decreasing quality I'm genuinely unsure if the game is even going to be functional enough to be worth playing, especially since I figure to hit a 2025 release they probably started working on this right after Arceus came out, and there has simply not been enough time to make this game good. Plus there were a lot of points in ScarVi where I legit just wanted to put the game down and stop playing entirely bcs the graphics and glitches and framerate drops started to make me annoyed and dizzy, and once I was done with the main story I lost like all motivation to keep playing(I like finishing my dex, I did it in Sw/Sh and Let's Go and have almost done it in BDSP and Arceus, but I don't care about ScarVi's dex at all), and I haven't even bought the DLC yet. Tbh I'm probably not even gonna pre-order this, I'm waiting till it's out to decide if I want to buy it or not.

Anyway sorry to be a buzzkill, I don't fault anyone for being excited, I've loved Pokemon for more than half my life, it helped me meet my fiancé, it really means so SO much to me, so I get it, but like....I think I love the series too much to get excited for this. Seeing what Pokemon is turning into is just...painful and sad. I hope y'all enjoy it tho, and who knows, I could be wrong, maybe it will be fantastic and super polished and we can all breathe a sigh of relief bcs they got their shit together! That would be nice.

Edit: I do want to say I'm glad it has been 3 years instead of the usual 2, and I'm VERY glad they didn't announce gen 10, but unless the scope of this game is narrow as fuck and they also don't release until like November-December 2025 AND this team was NOT the same team who worked on ScarVi's DLC that is still not enough time to make a game with the scope they've been establishing as their new baseline. TOTK took SIX years to finish. Elden Ring's DLC was built on top of an existing game and it still took TWO whole years just to make it. Most open-world games take a really, really long time. Adding an extra year is great, but they need to be taking a lot longer than that between games. This is a step in the right direction, but it's not enough to inspire confidence.

[roobylavender]

you know what would automatically change my hatred to love for sasusaku? If their genders were reversed. Majority of the reason why I hate sasuke and sakura relationship is because the type of environment and the culture I grew up in where it's been fed to women since basically birth to always be faithful to her man no matter how terrible he treats her, even after marriage. The pharse, "Just be patient and he will change", infuriates me to another level. Seeing sakura chasing after sasuke throughout the series after numerous rejections and an attempted MURDER on her by him made me roll my eyes so hard like girl just move the fuck on omfg. And even after their "marriage" sasuke's treatment towards her doesn't get better lmao, leaving her alone with a whole ass child to take care by herself?? BYE sakura's patience for him is outmatch cus I would've divorced his ass for that. Though, the more I mature, little by little I begin to understand the complexity of their relationship after putting my gender issues aside for a second and look deep into them. And especially now, after reading your perspective on their whole relationship, it really did made half of my hatred go away and understand the relationship wholeheartedly. Like yeah, I absolutely love the trope of one person saying they don't deserve the other person's love but the other person keep loving them anyway, that stuff makes me giggle and swing my legs in the air and shit. It's just that the only way this trope would work for me if the person loving them has enough self-respect for themselves AND if it's a girl in the former & the guy in the latter. And honestly, I found naruto being borderline obsessed with sasuke annoying too but the reason why I can digest it more well is because naruto can go head to head with sasuke without backing down. Like, I wanted to see at least ONCE sakura having a heated argument with sasuke, or punch him in the face in the series. I feel like sasuke deserves a punch from her at the very least 🤷🏽‍♀️

Sigh, I really did wanna love their relationship and their journey to love (that scene of him catching her when she was about to fall and then having that iconic eye contact had me feeling butterflies ngl) since it has all the tropes I love but the execution is just so...

i mean if it helps any i absolutely hate post-canon and that's where my primary divide with most sasusaku fans lies 😭 i'm not sure if you read the blue-plums post i reblogged but it's a good dissection of why exactly it fails as a conclusion to both their individual arcs and their relationship arc generally. the post-canon we see is a direct answer to what sasuke's and sakura's dreams are at the start of the series, but the problem with this is that sasuke and sakura are nowhere near being the same people at the end of the series as they were at the start. generally, i don't think post-canon really takes the individual arc of any character into much account. its primary goal is maintaining the status quo with a slight veneer of friendship power draped over it for aesthetics. but nothing at the root is changed despite every traumatic development the characters were relentlessly subjected to. resultantly, you're left with a portrayal of sasuke as a neglectful father who glorifies the lone-wolf hero trope, which goes against everything he could possibly have learned from itachi; and you're left with a portrayal of sakura as someone content to keep house despite the bulk of her character arc being grounded in her ability and desire to take initiative not only at home, but abroad. it's not true to who either of them is by that point and, even more than that, it's a disservice to everything they've put themselves through for the sake of the love they were vying for. so while i love sasusaku as it progresses up through 699, i tend to wholeheartedly ignore whatever comes after and relegate that instead to either my own imagination or blue-plums's in her fics

what i will say about the naruto and sakura distinction is that a lot of people are more comfortable with how sasuke reacts to naruto bc they believe what naruto is doing is right. it's kind of like: if the only thing sasuke will realistically respond to is violence then obv naruto can resort to that violence without dwelling on it too much. but if you think about violence in the context of sasuke's entire life, it's not actually helpful at all beyond its ability to physically bring him to a grinding halt. even when naruto finally breaks through to sasuke, it's not the violence that makes things click for him. it's the words he says after, and it's the words he's always said before that that have stayed in sasuke's mind. violence, in contrast, is a poisonous thing for sasuke bc it's the only thing that has defined the parameters of his entire life. it robbed him of every person he cared about prior to his meeting team seven, and inevitably it intimidated him into seeking out more violence once he realized that he was incapable of saving the new people he'd come to care about as well. everything, at the root, was driven by sasuke's traumatically-exacerbated response to love and loss. the idea of losing naruto and sakura to the hands of anyone else was unbearable. so he decided that he'd rather have killed them himself. it was absolutely irrational. but a twelve year old child put through that kind of successive, relentless trauma was never going to think rationally, and certainly not after being exploited by people like orochimaru and obito (and to an extent itachi) in turn

all of this to say: there is of course a gendered aspect to the fact that sakura's response to sasuke is markedly not violence. but i also think people sort of refuse to dissect her response any further and esp in context of the narrative itself. despite being the hallmark of rationality within the team and perhaps even the series, sakura was inevitably always driven by the value she placed on humanity. it would've been so easy and rational and "right" to kill sasuke bc he was an insurgent, a terrorist, a danger to public safety, etc. but sakura knew it was more complicated than that. even without knowing about the intricacies of the uchiha massacre she'd been a witness to his suffering and struggle and helplessness. she was as much unable to kill him bc of her love for him as she was unable to kill him bc she knew it wouldn't be right. bc really, what would it solve. sasuke being written off or dying would accomplish nothing bc he would become one more person in the long line of victims to nationalism and the military-industrial complex. while naruto's desire to retrieve sasuke was driven by his love for him it was also driven by the fact that he was stubborn and relentless and refused to give up on people. if you won't believe in yourself i'll beat the belief into you. it's a very shounen-esque trait. in contrast, sakura's desire to retrieve sakura, while also driven by her love for him, was significantly driven by her ability to see that sasuke needed help. in fact, that's all she ever wanted him to get: help. and it would be one thing for this to be an isolated desire but when you read it in context of her own goals as a medic and a mental health professional, her unwavering belief in sasuke is a lot more striking. she was the only person in the entire narrative who never resorted to violence as a solution to sasuke's problems. and she was angry, to be sure. much as she loves him the struggle to bring him back and convince him that he was worthy of love and healing left her emotionally exhausted. but they're also children at the end of the day. she could've been angry at him, or naruto could've been angry him, and in the end none of it would've mattered in the face of knowing they'd finally gotten through to him. he had a smile on his face, he didn't have an arm anymore, and for the first time in his life he met a loss with utter peace and content. it was a thing of miracles after six years of relentless grief and sorrow, and nothing else could've been on their mind.

at the end of the day, team seven's love for sasuke isn't rational. the farthest thing from it, really. but that's what makes it so radical in context. if love in naruto was only ever meant to be rational then hardly anyone would survive. love was always written as an act of defiance and for however subtle the depiction sakura exemplified it

[olives-and-lilies]

I wanted to play with modern clothing, so I pulled the boys into a fashion show. Building something that reflected their personalities was a little harder than I had originally anticipated. I hadn’t realized how much I relied on changing bodies to reflect character. This was a good lesson. Scopes and his warm neutrals and soft textures. Sprays and his wild colors and layers. I’m still not sold on Voc’s outfit, the hat feels right, and the skull hoodie. The more cyberpunk pants feel…. Not wrong, but not right? Airlock however is spot on, worn leather jacket and beloved knit sweater. Last is Rings and Jayk, Rings is all soft comfy academia, and Jayk has his little skater vibes. I’m happy with them all. Especially Jayk and Rings.

[miirshroom]

Limgrave is a nice place to watch the weather change

Depending on the day, can get some of the most magnificently coloured clouds and sunsets in Elden Ring.

[menaceborn-a]

the telescope adventures continue

[attackcopterblog]

WARNE ANNOUNCES HYPERLITE SCOPE RINGS

Warne has announced their latest in optic mounting solutions with the their new HyperLite Scope Rings. Warne states ” Warne, a leader in premium firearms accessories, is proud to announce the HyperLite Scope Rings, the latest innovation in lightweight optic mounting solutions. Designed for hunters, competitive shooters, and shooting enthusiasts alike, the HyperLite rings offer an unparalleled…

[sixeyesonathiel]

yearning nerdjo x shy reader, fluff & humor.

a/n: this is so embarrassing bc this is literally how miserable i am irl.

satoru is down so bad it’s starting to rot his brain. like. visibly. tangibly. his leg’s bouncing under the desk like it’s on fast-forward, the heel of his sneaker thudding rhythmically against the floor tile like a metronome set to desperation. his fingers are drumming nonsense rhythms onto his scratched-up laptop case like he’s trying to decode the algorithm of your absence—tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap, like morse code for where is she. his eyes—red-rimmed behind silver-rimmed glasses with one slightly crooked arm—keep flicking to the lab’s entrance like he expects you to materialize in a puff of soft pink mist.

his hoodie’s three days old, and it shows: the sleeves stretched from him pulling them over his hands, the fabric bunched at the elbows. his white t-shirt underneath has a tiny ketchup stain from wednesday’s lunch. the keychain you gave him—blue enamel cat, chipped at the ear—dangles off his pencil pouch like a beacon. his code’s running fine. tabs are hyper-organized. debugging queue nonexistent. he even fixed suguru’s late-night python spiral that nearly bricked the department printer and summoned the wrath of the IT gods.

but it doesn’t matter. because you’re not here.

he’s been looking. he’s always looking.

in the hallway, in the cafeteria, in the reflection of vending machine glass. he leans his stupid giraffe neck around corners like he’s expecting a spontaneous reveal. he scopes out lecture halls he’s not even enrolled in, notebook in hand just in case. every time he hears the soft shuffle of flats in the distance, his head snaps toward it like a bloodhound. he’s started recognizing the rhythm of your steps versus every other pair on campus. your soft-soled shoes tap lighter. more deliberate. his ears practically perk up when he hears a backpack zipper. once he dropped his pen and nearly dislocated his neck looking up, thinking it was you.

and every time it’s not you, his expression glitches—eyes dimming, mouth tightening like his soul just flatlined. it's pathetic. it's art.

he sits sideways in group study like he’s waiting for you to pass by the window. laptop askew. chair half-turned. a ridiculous image—this lanky nerd in a grey hoodie and cargo pants with one pant leg caught in his sock, white wires tangled in his ears and dark under-eyes that make him look like he’s been stress-coding in a cave. (he hasn’t slept. not really. he keeps replaying the way you laughed that one time you dropped your highlighter. it echoes like holy scripture.)

his glasses are smudged. he keeps adjusting them, even when they’re fine. his knuckles are red from resting his chin on them too hard. he keeps fidgeting with your keychain when he’s not typing. thumb brushing over the worn metal, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep touching it. a nervous tic disguised as reverence.

“dude,” suguru says, from two monitors over, voice dry, hair tied up in a lazy half-bun. “you haven’t scrolled in thirty minutes.”

suguru’s slouched in his chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows, rings tapping against his thermos. his screen's frozen on a meme. he hasn’t blinked in five minutes.

“maybe she’ll walk by,” satoru murmurs, eyes locked on the frosted glass wall outside the lab, hunched forward with his chin on his palm, as if willing your silhouette into existence.

“you said that an hour ago.”

“maybe she’s shy today. maybe she’s building up the courage. maybe she dropped her student ID and fate’s guiding her back here. what if the universe is lining up our pixels right now, suguru? what if—”

“she’s shy every day.”

“and that’s what makes it beautiful,” satoru sighs, dreamily. he stares out the window like a man in a tragic romance film. “she’s mysterious. like a foggy horizon at sea. you don’t know what she’s thinking, and that’s the best part. she could be plotting world domination. she could be drawing cats in the margins of her notes. it’s art.”

suguru groans into his hoodie sleeve.

and then like a glitch in the matrix. like god reached down and clicked “unmute” on the simulation—you pass by.

no footsteps. no warning. just a blur of your jacket sleeve on his left peripheral, and he flinches so hard he nearly spills his water bottle. the water sloshes. he slaps the bottle upright. you’re so close. the scent of your shampoo—jasmine and something warm, like vanilla and late-night bookstores—floods his senses. his head whips around before he can even think, pupils blown wide behind his crooked glasses, mouth parted like a cartoon character seeing a pie on a windowsill.

your gaze meets his.

not one second.

two.

wide eyes. startled. curious. the slope of your brows twitch upward slightly, and your lashes flutter—a beat too long, like a reflex or a stutter in time. your lips part just slightly, like you meant to say something—but don’t. your fingers tug at your sleeve, pulling it over your knuckles in that way you always do when you’re flustered. a half-step pause. your mouth twitches, just barely, like you might’ve smiled. then your gaze drops, your shoulders stiffening as your pace quickens, like you’re embarrassed to have looked at all. your fingers curl tighter around your binder. there’s a sticker on it he hadn’t noticed before.

and that’s it. you’re gone.

satoru slaps both hands over his face and releases a sound that is one part gasp, one part squeal, one part glitching modem.

“oh my god,” he whispers. “oh my god, she looked at me. TWO SECONDS, suguru. TWO. that’s statistically significant. that’s a scientific breakthrough. that’s… that’s eye contact with depth. it had nuance. it had arcs.”

“you’re not well.”

“no, listen. the way her eyes flickered? like she wasn’t sure if she should look away or say something? and her lashes twitched, just a bit. like she was nervous. did you see her hand? she pulled her sleeve down. she only does that when she’s flustered. i know. i’ve studied her. i’ve got timestamps. i’ve got spreadsheets.”

“you’re insane.”

“i’m in love.”

satoru slumps in his chair, limbs sprawling dramatically, glasses askew. he exhales like he’s just seen god. his knee knocks into the desk. his sock has a hole in the toe. the corner of his laptop screen catches the light and reflects a faint shimmer onto the ceiling, and it feels, to him, like stars. his fingers are still frozen mid-air, clutching the keychain like it’s the only proof the moment happened.

“i’m gonna marry her,” he says. “drop out, become a florist. i’ll propose with baby’s breath and carnations—those are her favorites, don’t ask me how i know. maybe a little lavender tucked in. something gentle. delicate. a bouquet that says ‘i know your soul.’”

“you need help.”

“i’ve named our cats already. ichigo, milky, and toblerone. toblerone’s the shy one. milky’s chaotic evil. ichigo wears a little red bow tie. we’ll live in a little flat above a cafe and drink lavender lattes. she’ll wear soft sweaters. she’ll draw comics on sticky notes. i’ll iron her lab coat. it'll be perfect.”

“she doesn’t even know your name.”

“wrong,” satoru says smugly, lifting a single finger like he’s presenting hard evidence. “she knows me as the guy who always looks left and right like a cracked-out meerkat. that’s recognition. that’s brand awareness.”

“romantic.”

“don’t be jealous just ‘cause she didn’t look at you.”

“she’s cute, i guess.”

“NO.” satoru jolts upright like he’s been electrocuted. “DON’T even THINK about perceiving her. your eyes? shut them. your brain? turn it off. opinions? delete them. she’s too good for this world. if anyone’s going to romanticize her, it’s me. with accuracy. and passion. and nuance. only i’m allowed to think she’s cute. and i do. constantly. it’s my full-time job.”

“fine, jeez.”

“say she’s ugly, then.”

“what?? no??”

“exactly. you can’t. because she’s perfect. ethereal. a goddess walking among midterms and overpriced coffee. and she blinked slow, too, did you notice? it was like… like a signal. maybe morse code. she’s trying to tell me something. she’s reaching out. spiritually. through kinetic energy and eye twitches.”

suguru closes his laptop with the tired resolve of someone preparing for battle.

satoru, still glowing with delusion, goes back to staring at the glass wall, head tilted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“she looked left,” he murmurs. “that’s my side. she always looks left.”

he swears his hoodie still smells like you.

[yungistiny]

I 🖤 NERDS

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: you and your best friend wooyoung have a game you play, picking each other’s next hookups. when wooyoung chooses none other than your secret crush, the nerd that is jeong yunho, you might be in for more than you can handle

warning: dom yunho, possessive yunho, size kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, cum play, choking, squirting, creampie

pairing: nerdy yunho x afab reader

genre: smut

word count: 3.4k

note: this was requested anonymously and when it comes to nerdy yunho with a freak side I might of gotten a little carried away 🤭

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

“My turn.”

Wooyoung was smiling madly, tongue darting out to poke at his lip ring, rubbing his hands together as he scoped out everyone in the quad. “Not anyone creepy or weird this time!” You exclaimed, already regretting agreeing to your best friend’s little game again.

“Hmmmm….” Wooyoung grabbed your hand, dragging you along with him, eying Kang Yeosang who was busy asleep at a bench, head lolled atop his bag. “No.” He stopped and glanced towards Choi Jongho, a drama major, who was at the moment reading over a script. “No.”

You rolled your eyes, huffing in annoyance before colliding into Wooyoung’s back as he abruptly stopped. “Him.” Wooyoung was smirking now, deviously. “Oh, definitely him.”

Him, was Jeong Yunho. A science major, sitting by himself at an empty table, hand pushing his thick black framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he was busy reading a book.

“Oh!” Wooyoung giggled when he saw you smirk. “You are going to enjoy this!” You ran your tongue across your bottom lip, watching as Yunho reached down into his bag to pull out a bag of chips. “Getting to corrupt the nerd that is one Jeong Yunho?” You bit your bottom lip. “Maybe a little.”

Yunho may be a total nerd but he was a hot nerd. Tall, soft brown hair and matching brown eyes. His lips were the perfect shape of a cupids bowl and his hands….. his hands were absolutely sinful. You might of found yourself staring at them from time to time in your shared language studies class.

You cleared your throat, put on the most flirtatious smile you have ever had and made your way over to Yunho, Wooyoung following behind but keeping just enough distance that he could still eavesdrop.

Yunho jumped, slightly startled when your hand landed on the table in front of him, covering the page of the manga he had been reading. “Yunho, just the guy I was looking for.”

He blinked behind his glasses, gulping a little. “I am?” Now Yunho was confused and nervous. He didn’t know you personally exactly, only really talked to you once, but he certainly knew of you. One of the most popular students on campus, your clique that consisted of you, Jung Wooyoung and Song Mingi, were known all around campus.

You smirked at him, running a hand up his back, dancing your fingers across his shoulder and stopping to play at the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re coming over to my place tonight.”

“I am?” He repeated, was this a joke? A prank? “Well, see,” you smiled at him, batting your lashes. “Wooyoung and I are taking on a challenge of picking each other’s next….. you know….” You glanced back at your best friend and smirked before looking back down at Yunho. “I picked Choi San for him.” Choi San was a performance major that you knew Wooyoung had been eying for a while now.

Oh. So it was like a game for you? You didn’t want Yunho, you were just asking him because Wooyoung picked him. “Why should I go?” He challenged which seemed to take you by surprise. You could hear Wooyoung snickering somewhere behind you.

“Why shouldn’t you?” You arched a brow at him, why was your face blushing? You could feel the warmth in your cheeks and held Yunho’s gaze, his eyes narrowed at you behind his glasses as if he were analyzing you, calculating you like one of his science projects.

“Ok.”

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You’re nervous and you don’t know why. You and Wooyoung do this little game all the time, picking out each other’s next hookup. This was no different. It was just nerdy Yunho.

It was after 9:00 when a knock came from the front door of yours and Wooyoung’s off campus apartment. Wooyoung himself was back on campus at the dorms with San so you would have the entire apartment to yourself and Yunho. Apparently, according to your best friend, you could get way too loud.

Yunho stood outside the door, hands shoved into his jean pockets after rolling the sleeves of his light pink and brown flannel shirt up. He was a little nervous, not like he was a virgin or anything, far from it actually, but he might of sort of had a crush on you since freshman year of college.

Now, here you both were, seniors and Yunho was finally getting his shot with you and he was a bit scared he would fuck it all up. Sure, you were just looking for a hookup and Yunho would certainly give you just that, but he was also determined to make you his by the end of the night.

Only his.

When you opened the front door, Yunho’s gaze automatically drifted, eyes trailing down your body behind his glasses, stopping at your exposed legs and thighs. He wanted to mark every single inch of them, leave possessive bites so everyone knew who you belonged to.

You were only wearing a black pair of boy shorts and a plain white t shirt, no bra and Yunho wanted nothing more than in that moment than to ruin you. “Are you going to come in or set there and stare all night?”

Yunho blinked, removing his gaze from where it had been staring at your chest, the white shirt no bra combo driving him crazy. He cleared his throat, stepping past you and into the apartment.

You shut the door, gaze trailing up and down his tall frame, thighs clenching at the sight of his hands, he was using one to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Do you want..”

“Were you disappointed that Wooyoung picked me?” Yunho interrupted you, he needed to make sure that you wanted him first, that he wasn’t just some choice that you got stuck with because of your little game with your best friend.

“What?” You were gliding your hand around his back to his front, slipping it up his chest. “Disappointed?” You smirked, Yunho might be a complete nerd but he was still one of the hottest guys on campus. Tall with a dancers body, broad shoulders and the hottest set of hands you ever seen. A voice dripping like warm honey, all deep and soft and delicate at the same time.

Yunho grabbed your wrist when your hand trailed lower, almost able to touch the very prominent bulge in his pants. He had to be big if that bulge was anything to go by. You pouted playfully at him, looking up at him through your lashes. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since freshman year.” You admitted. It’s probably why Wooyoung picked him.

Something about the big tall nerd just had an effect on you since he helped you that first year in college. You had thought you were gonna pledge for this sorority and one of their pranks during hell week had been making you run across campus in only your underwear. Payback you were sure had to due with how the president of the sorority’s boyfriend had blatantly flirted with you in front of everyone. Like that was your fault he was a douchebag.

Yunho had literally crashed into you on his way back to his dorm from the library. His cheeks had turned the brightest shade of red, his ears too, as he helped you back up from where you both had fell into a hedge bush.

“I am so sorry!”

“It’s fine, you’re…..” you might of checked him out shamelessly because he was really tall and really hot. “you’re fine.”

He had even given you his hoodie to wear as he walked with you back to the sorority where he waited as you got your clothes back on, used your keys to carve CUNT into the driver’s door of the president of the sorority’s car.

Yunho winced at the sound of the key scraping the steel painted door. “Oh…. that’s…” he looked around to make sure no one saw you. “that’s nice. Beautiful artwork.”

Seems your little confession was all Yunho needed to hear. He smirked, something you’ve never seen him do before, a gesture of his pretty lips that had you clenching your thighs together before gasping when he grabbed you, pulling you to him by the wrist he held.

Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest and you knew he could feel from how you were pressed against him, his bulge pressing into your stomach as he removed his glasses. “I’ve had almost 4 years to think on all the things I want to do to you.”

What? Yunho’s change in attitude, his words, had you shocked, words stuck on your tongue for a minute before you matched his smirk with one of your own. Oh, you could kiss Wooyoung for choosing him. “Then show me.”

Yunho wasted no time in sitting his glasses down, gripping the backs of your thighs with his hands, lifting you and letting you wrap your legs around his waist. He was fucking big, that alone had you going crazy with the way he carried you with one arm, opening your bedroom door with the other.

He lowered himself down with you onto your bed, one of his hands spraying across your stomach, gripping at your shirt as he sat back on his knees, eyes dark, face so fucking pretty that you wanted him to hurry up and kiss you or devour you, preferably both.

“You’re so tiny beneath me…” his smirk grew, poking his tongue into the inside of his cheek. “you sure you can take me?” He was teasing you, the hand that wasn’t gripping your shirt, trailing down your thigh, stopping just where you needed him to touch you most.

“Yes!” You practically exclaimed, wrapping your smaller hand around his wrist, pushing his hand farther, moaning when he finally made contact with you, warm hand now rubbing his fingers over your aching bundle of nerves through your soaked panties. “I can take it. You can make me take it.”

Yunho closed his eyes, you were so fucking perfect.

You watched as he pulled your panties down your legs, your walls clenching around nothing when he shoved the wet lacy material into his back pocket of his jeans. He’s a little pervert. As soon as your shirt was gone, you now completely bare below him, Yunho took a minute to take you in, all of you.

“Why am I the only one naked?” You once again playfully pouted at him, Yunho chuckled deep, the sound almost rumbling in his chest. You sat up, reaching for the buttons of his flannel shirt, popping them open and pushing the material over his shoulders and down his arms. You almost groaned at the white tank top underneath that still kept his top half concealed. “You wear too many clothes.”

Yunho snorted, pulling his tank top off, tossing it to the side, landing somewhere on your bedroom floor. You bit your bottom lip, hands starting at his bellybutton, tracing the well defined muscle of his abs before stopping at his shoulders, he was fucking perfect. You almost wanted to slap yourself for waiting so long for this.

Yunho reached a hand up, gripping your chin, thumb brushing your lips, you darted your tongue out, lapping at it before pulling his thumb into your mouth, sucking it and eliciting a moan from Yunho, a sound sound so good you wanted to hear it over and over again.

Yunho pulled his hand back, wrapping it around your throat and your eyes almost rolled into the back of your head as he squeezed a little, a moan tore from you, needy and desperate. “Please…”

“Please?” Yunho squeezed his grip on your throat again, tighter this time, his eyes dark as he held your pleading gaze. “Please what?” His voice was so much deeper, almost heavier, wrapping around you like pure sin.

“Please..” you moaned again, hands reaching for the bulge still hard and locked away in his jeans. “please ruin me.”

Yunho pushed you back down, hand trailing from your throat to your breast, leaning forward to finally kiss you, tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting your own as one of his thumbs brushed your hardened nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and finger.

His other hand was sliding between you, finally slipping into your aching cunt, other thumb rubbing at your clit, a growl escaping Yunho when he realized just how wet, how soaked and ready for him you really were. “After I’m done, you’re mine.”

He chuckled to himself, breath tickling your ear as he started to trail kisses down your neck. “Not like any other dick will be able to satisfy you after me anyways.” He said it so sure of himself, a little cocky and you weren’t going to argue or deny him.

Yunho gripped your hips, holding you down in place as he kissed your inner thigh, leaving marks from your neck, breast, to your stomach to your hip. Taking his time to make sure he didn’t miss a spot.

And Yunho felt on cloud nine. He couldn’t believe he was finally getting to have you. To be able to do all the things he’s wanted to do to you that up until now he could only do in his dreams.

He moaned at the feeling of you clenching around the two fingers he thrusted inside of you. You were so tight he could barely scissor his fingers in you, the tips of them brushing your g spot causing you to start moaning again, his dick aching in anticipation.

Yunho wanted to devour you, eat you out until you were a shaking mess but he would save that for later, he waited long enough to be with you and he had grown impatient. “Look at you…” he added a third finger, fucking you with them at a quick pace, the lewd noises of your wetness echoing around your room, little sprays of your juices splashing Yunho’s hand, his arm, your bedsheets below you. “you’re already a such a fucking mess for me.”

You were clenching the sheets with your fists, whimpering cries, almost gasping screams, leaving you as you felt your orgasm ready to hit you, legs starting to shake, Mind blanking out to nothing but the feel of his beautiful fucking fingers destroying you, wrecking you into a complete fucked out mess and he hasn’t even given you his dick yet.

You came with a scream that muffled into a whine of his name, Yunho grinning like a mad man as you squirted all over the bed, your thighs, his arm, drenched and he needed more. He needed to drown in you.

You were breathless, panting as Yunho brought his hand up to his mouth, sucking, licking every last drop of your juices on him clean before taking his pants off, kicking them to the side on the floor followed by his spiderman boxers that garnered a giggle from you, he glared at you playfully.

Yunho gripped his dick, stroking his hand up and down himself a few times before lying it over your pelvis, reaching over your lower stomach and to your bellybutton. It was heavy against you and you would be lying if you weren’t just slightly nervous because he was big, really big. “Still think you can take me?” He teased you again, waiting to make sure you really wanted this.

You reached down, your fingers tracing the prominent veins, hand gripping to stroke him, thumb tracing the tip where precum leaked out onto your stomach, dripping some into your bellybutton. “I told you to make it fit, didn’t I.”

Yunho grabbed your hand that was stroking him, interlocking his fingers with yours, holding your hand as he used his other to guide himself to your entrance, the first inch pushing in, a moan leaving you both, your hand tightening against his as he pushed more and more until he was fully bottomed out, dick brushed directly against your spot, that little spongy spot that had you clenching, whimpering and crying at the stretch and pleasure.

He was right, no dick was ever going to compare to him after this. “I….” you shuddered, back arching a little. “I want on top.” You breathed, Yunho gripped your hip, letting your hand go and pulling you up a little with his other arm as he moved the two of you up a little farther on your bed, flipping you, dick still buried inside of you, his head now hitting a pillow as you gasped.

“Fuck!” You moaned deep, shakily, because with you on top, he felt so much bigger, so much deeper. Yunho reached up, pressing against your lower stomach. “Feel that?” He waited until you reached to see what he was talking about and you almost came then and there at the feel of him literally inside you. “Fit me so good. So perfect. Fill you so fucking full. Made for me.”

His words encouraged you to start moving, hands now both gripping his own as he held his up to let you have something to hold yourself up and leverage with, hips moving, clit making constant contact with his pelvis, moans and a mantra of his name pouring from your lips as he bent his knees, pounding himself up into you.

Your second orgasm hit you by surprise, the shocks of it causing you to lose your grip on his hands, falling forward, Yunho wrapping his arms around you as he pulled you up, his dick sliding out of you as you once again made a mess, squirting all over the two of you, your poor bed was just soaked at this point.

Yunho held you with one arm, reaching his other down, grabbing his dick and swiping it up and down your pussy, tapping it against your swollen and overstimulated clit. You cried out as he moved half his length in and out, teasing you, a little aftershock orgasm making you scream.

Yunho kissed you hungrily, you whimpering into it as you weren’t even given enough time to come down from your high before he was flipping you again, your back hitting the damp sheets. He gripped himself again, tapping his tip against you, swiping it back and forth against your clit before burying himself back inside you in one thrust.

“You got one more orgasm in there for me?” He teased you once again, hands gripping your thighs, pulling you against him, making him feel as if he plunged much deeper, filling your cervix and making cry, moaning, a complete fucked out mess with your back arching up off the bed as he thrusted hard, relentlessly chasing his own high and one last more for you.

“Where….” Yunho was losing himself, that familiar tightness in his stomach and balls making his thrusts become sloppy. “where do you want me..”

“Fill me up.” Though you had been on the pill since high school, you’ve never let anyone cum inside you before but right now, all you want was for Yunho to fill you as full as he could. “I’m on the pill….” Your last orgasm hit you. “Please! Cum inside me…. PLEASE”

And he certainly did. Yunho came so hard he felt himself shake, painting every last part of your cunt inside white, breathing hard as he pulled out, replacing his dick with his fingers, pushing, fucking his leaking cum back inside you until you began to spasm, feeling like you were in a never ending orgasm, screaming his name, black spots in your vision, feeling as if you could pass out.

“Shhhh.” Yunho soothed, grinning tiredly down at you as he used one arm to hold his weight off of you while the other rubbed at your side. “Mine.” He kissed your neck as you calmed down, catching your breath.

“Yeah… yeah…” you nodded, one of your hands reaching up to play in his messy hair.

“I’m yours, you nerd.”

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permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗚𝗙 lewis hamilton x  fem! genz! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You never meant to fall for a man twice your age, but somehow, Lewis Hamilton makes thirty-something age gaps feel like background noise. In a world of fast cars and faster headlines, you become the softest scandal on the grid—his controversially young girlfriend (2.3k words)

( my master list | more of lewis hamilton ) ( requests )

You spot him across the room like a plot twist in a book you didn’t mean to start reading—one of those late-night, one-more-chapter choices that end with your sleep schedule in ruins and your heart a little dented.

He’s standing by the bar like he owns the concept of cool, leaning one elbow against the counter, glass in hand, dressed like he just got off a jet and into a Vogue spread. Chunky rings flash with every movement. A silver chain rests on his collarbone like it was born there. Sunglasses inside—normally a red flag—but on him? It’s working. Unreasonably well.

He doesn’t look real. He looks curated. Like someone who’s used to being watched. Someone who doesn’t have to try to be interesting, because the world already decided he is.

And the weird part? You don’t know who he is.

Which makes him fair game.

You down the last of your drink like a dare, swipe your thumb across your bottom lip in case there’s gloss out of place, and march toward him like the protagonist of your own little fever dream.

“Hey,” you say, voice dipped in confidence, grin hooked to one corner of your mouth. “Quick question. Are you this hot all the time, or is it just the lighting in here doing community service?”

He turns his head slowly, like he knows he’s about to be entertained. Looks at you over the rim of his sunglasses with those lazy, almost amused eyes. Then lowers them altogether, letting you see the full scope of his expression.

Blink. Slow blink. Smile.

Then—laughter.

A warm, surprised kind of laugh. Like you just opened a window in a room that hadn’t been aired out in a while.

“You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilting, eyebrows raised.

“Nope,” you chirp, popping the ‘p.’ “But judging by that look, you clearly think I should. Celebrity? Secret agent? CEO of Hot Men, Inc.?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he lifts his drink to his lips. It’s whiskey, neat. Of course it is. “I like you.”

“Obviously,” you reply, deadpan. “So, what’s your name, mysterious man with excellent bone structure and suspicious levels of swagger?”

“Lewis,” he says. It rolls off his tongue casual and smooth, like he’s said it a thousand times to people already impressed.

You repeat it slowly, like a sip of something expensive. “Lewis. You got a last name, or are you trying to stay mysterious on purpose?”

“I’m trying,” he says, smirk tucked behind his glass. “But now I’m curious. How old are you?”

You narrow your eyes in playful suspicion. “Why? You tryna check if I need parental permission to flirt with you?”

He laughs again, and it’s even better this time—less surprised, more like he’s starting to settle into the rhythm of you. “Just making sure I’m not getting arrested.”

“Relax, officer,” you reply, pressing a palm to your chest with mock innocence. “I’m twenty-four. Legal, unproblematic, and only occasionally unhinged.”

But his smile shifts—just slightly. A flicker of something cautious flashes behind those honey-brown eyes.

“Damn,” he mutters, not unkindly. “I’m too old for you.”

You arch a brow. “You can’t be that old.”

He gives you a small shrug. “I’m forty.”

There’s a beat.

A pause long enough to pour another drink in.

Your jaw drops. You step back, press a hand to your mouth in mock horror.

“Wowe,” you gasp. “You’re a fossil. How were the dinosaurs? Did you ride a pterodactyl to school?”

He throws his head back and cackles, catching the attention of the bartender and a couple people nearby. It’s not just amusement—it’s delight. You got him.

“Ruthless,” he grins at you.

You shrug, unapologetic. “What can I say? I like my men aged like wine and slightly traumatized.”

He raises his glass. “Well. You might be in luck.”

You clink your empty glass against his full one, eyes never leaving his.

Somewhere in the background, a bass-heavy track starts to play. But the real beat is in the space between you—charged and golden and humming with the promise of something very, very interesting.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in the paddock. Not wearing borrowed sunglasses and an oversized McLaren jacket that smells like someone else's boyfriend. Not sipping on a bottled water like you belong, casually trying not to gawk at multi-million-dollar cars or the people walking around like they own oxygen.

But you’re here.

A friend’s plus one, a last-minute invite when her PR-boyfriend flaked on escort duty. So you tagged along—because hello, free food, hot people, shiny cars, and maybe the chance to flirt with a driver or two. You figured worst-case scenario, you'd leave with a selfie and a new screensaver.

What you didn’t expect was to see him again.

Lewis.

Mysterious Lewis from the bar. GQ-cover Lewis. Ring-wearing, chain-glinting, forty-year-old fossil Lewis who made you laugh so hard you almost forgot your own name.

He’s walking through the paddock like he’s parting the sea. Everyone moves around him like he's made of something sacred—crew nodding, fans whispering, someone with a camera backing up just to get the shot. He looks… different today. Like he’s not just dressed cool, but armored in it. Like confidence stitched into a race suit.

Your jaw almost hits the gravel.

You don’t even think—your feet just move.

“Lewis!”

He turns.

Sunglasses again, of course. But when he spots you? That smile. Slow, warm, like he knew you'd show up eventually.

You grin, planting yourself right in front of him, toe to boot.

“Okay,” you say, breathless but smug, “you cannot turn me down this time. This is clearly fate.”

He laughs. It rumbles in his chest, head tilting like he’s trying to drink you in without making it obvious.

“You really didn’t Google me, huh?” he says.

You raise a brow. “Should I have? Wait, are you, like, a famous pit crew guy or something? The energy drinks guy?”

He just smiles. The kind of smile that hides a hundred secrets and a thousand wins.

“I gotta go,” he says, stepping closer for just a second. “But I’ll see you on the podium.”

You blink. “What podium?”

But he’s already walking away.

Helmet under one arm, swagger turned up to eleven, disappearing into one of the Mercedes garages like some kind of very sexy magician.

You look to your friend. “What podium?!”

Your friend is pale. “You don’t know who that is?”

“Should I???”

“That’s Lewis Hamilton.”

You snort. “No it’s not. His name is just Lewis. He didn’t even give me a last name.”

“BECAUSE HE’S LEWIS HAMILTON. SEVEN-TIME WORLD CHAMPION. THE GOAT. LITERAL SIR.”

You freeze. Fully buffer. Brain spinning like a car on slick tyres.

Cut to three hours later, and you’re in the Mercedes unit, watching on the big screen as the man you once called a fossil overtakes two cars and wins the freaking British Grand Prix like it’s casual.

The crowd explodes.

Your heart does too.

You're on your feet, half in disbelief, half in awe. You just watched a man drive like a myth, and all you can think is: he told me he was forty and I made a dinosaur joke.

And just as you start contemplating crawling into a hole forever, he finds you again.

Post-race glow. Hair half-flattened from the helmet. Fireproof suit half-unzipped to reveal that chain you remember from the bar. Sweat and champagne still clinging to his skin like stardust.

He looks at you with that same grin.

“Still think I’m someone’s manager?” he teases, voice low, eyes shining.

You gape at him. “You won. Like, you—won. Your name’s on the trophy. That podium. That—your home race??”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Must be fate. You show up, I win. Gotta say… you might just be my lucky charm.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I—I called you a fossil.”

He laughs. Full, delighted, Lewis-laugh. “And you humbled me before I got cocky. We make a great team.”

You bite back a grin, cheeks burning. “So… you celebrating tonight, or what?”

“Obviously,” he says. “You’re coming.”

it’s supposed to be a quick trip. A flash visit, blink-and-you-miss-it, in-and-out kind of thing. You’ve been swamped—deadlines, drama, flights rerouted like bad karma—but something in you ached to be there. For him. For Lewis.

So you made time. You chose time.

And now? Now you’re stuck in Austrian traffic, inching toward the Red Bull Ring in a car that’s doing more idling than moving, hair frizzing in the heat and hands white-knuckling your phone.

You press it to your ear. “I swear to god, if I miss your race because a literal cow is blocking the road—”

Lewis laughs on the other end, warm and fond. “A cow?”

“A cow, Lewis. Just standing there. Living her truth. Meanwhile, I’m two bad songs away from losing it.”

“You sound stressed, babe.”

“Gee, what gave it away?” you snap, then sigh. “Sorry. I just wanted to be there before lights out. Front row, proud girlfriend, full ensemble.”

His voice softens. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

“Barely.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still my lucky charm. Even if you’re watching from the parking lot.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go win something, fossil.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He gets P2.

You watch the final laps on your phone screen, pressed against the parkinglot gates, heart in your throat and hands half-numb. The crowd erupts. Flags wave. You swear you can hear the champagne pop all the way from the parking lot.

And then—

There he is.

Striding out from the gates like he owns Austria, still in his suit, curls damp under his cap, smile already loaded like a secret.

“Hey,” he calls out, just loud enough for you to turn.

You do. And then you forget how to breathe.

Because Lewis Hamilton kisses you like the cameras aren’t watching. Like the whole world doesn’t know his name. Like you didn’t just call him a fossil two weeks ago and now you’re wearing his hoodie like a badge of honor.

You pull back, dazed and pink. “That was… public.”

“Could’ve made it more dramatic,” he teases. “Want a dip next time?”

“You’re so cocky for a man who came in second.”

He grins. “I’ll take second if it means I get to see that blush.”

You're about to fire back—something witty, something flirty—when someone from Mercedes runs up, breathless. “Lewis, mate. You need to come back to the unit. Now.”

He frowns. “Everything alright?”

The guy looks between the two of you, eyes wide. “George got disqualified.”

You both blink.

“What?” you say, at the same time Lewis mutters: “No way.”

“Track limits. Deleted laps. It just came through.”

Which means—

“You’re P1,” you whisper, eyes wide.

Lewis turns to you, slow and stunned. Brows raised. Smile blooming like he knew.

“Guess you really are my lucky charm,” he says, low and gleaming.

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “I didn’t even see the race.”

“Didn’t have to,” he murmurs, already pulling you into his arms. “Just had to show up.”

Thursdays are usually soft-launches. Media day. Press conference drip. Everyone pretending they’re not sizing each other up, that they’re not itching for Sunday, that they’re not clocking every outfit and wink and subtle little flex.

But this Thursday?

You walk in and the whole paddock blinks.

Because Lewis Hamilton—Sir Lewis Hamilton—is already waiting by the entrance like a man on a mission. Like the sun rises wherever you land. And he’s dressed like a dream dipped in platinum, silver shirt half-buttoned, rings glinting, pants tailored within an inch of heaven.

But it’s the way he looks at you that melts reality a little.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs as you reach him.

You grin, a little breathless, fixing the collar of his shirt even though it’s perfect. “You’re overdressed.”

He eyes your outfit—slick and sharp, Prada shades and knee-high boots like you own the grid—and hums, “Nah. We’re matching.”

And you are. Silver and black, sleek and dangerous. A walking power couple with zero subtlety. Someone snaps a pic. Then another. Cameras start clicking like popcorn.

He slips his hand into yours. Casual, confident. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

And then the tweets start.

You scroll a few of them while waiting outside hospitality, phone buzzing like a feral bee. You snort-laugh at the “get it grandpa” one. Lewis peeks over your shoulder and raises a brow.

“They’re obsessed with you,” you say, smirking.

“They’re obsessed with you,” he corrects, tugging you closer by the waist. “You okay?”

You shrug, leaning into him. “I mean, people think I’m either your niece or your mid-life crisis.”

He snorts. “You’re my win.”

Your smirk falters—just for a second—because god, he’s so earnest. So warm. Like a damn sunbeam with abs.

You recover quick, flicking your sunglasses down. “Damn right I am.”

He laughs loud, head tipping back. “There she is.”

All day, people stare.

Team members smile politely. Fans whisper behind phones. Media pretends not to mention it while asking if you're enjoying your "first F1 paddock experience" (you’ve been to three, thank you very much).

You pose for a few pics. Kiss Lewis on the cheek when he heads into the garage. Sip your overpriced iced coffee like nothing rattles you.

But every so often—when it’s quiet—you hear the whispers again. About the age gap. The headlines. The way you don’t look like you belong next to someone as legendary as him.

So when you catch your reflection in the hospitality glass—twenty-four and glowing but clearly young—you take a breath.

And then you smirk at yourself. Flip your hair. Take a selfie.

Caption it:

“idk i just think i’m a slay.”

And Lewis? He reposts it.

voice notes 🔊. . . ( im so writting a p2 for this when he moves to ferrari and the disqualifying in china )

[blacktabbygames]

The script for Episode 5 is finally DONE

The script for Episode 5 of Scarlet Hollow is finally finished, bringing the total word count for the game up to 884,000 words. This is the longest and most complicated chapter of the game to-date, coming in at 250,000 words, or 31% larger than the entirety of Slay the Princess, including its expansion. This won't be the final word count, either, since the script usually grows in length by a fair bit while I make edits and additions during implementation. For reference, Episode 4 was ~185k words in total, and for broader cultural context, the entirety of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit and The Silmarillion altogether comes in at 700,000 words.

So! What's next? When Episode 5? Give it to me now?

There's still a lot of work to be done before it's ready, but we're confident it will be finished before the end of the year. Walking you all through what we have so far, and what we still need to do:

Art! Episode 4 had 129 new full page background illustrations and 1,424 new sprites. I would assume a roughly similar number of assets for Episode 5. This is what Abby will be focusing on in the coming months, though I (Tony) also get to draw a few this time around >:]

Episode 5 (plus the new ending for Episode 4) is split across 46 script files. On top of adding audio and visual assets to these files, we also need to format them and add in variables and checks against relationship and prior systems. That part of the work is finished for 8 of those files at the time of this writing.

Music and audio design! Brandon has already finished a few tracks, and the music and SFX have always been finished ahead of everything else (thank you Brandon and Phil!)

Now that the script is finished, we'll be able to start providing more regular content updates — before we had hard numbers on us, the best we could say was "more writing was done," which doesn't feel like saying much of anything, but now we can let you all know as individual scenes get finished finished. We'll be posting monthly progress updates on Steam, as well as our newsletter, which I'd recommend subscribing to! (We don't get spammy with it.) Here's the link to sign up for that!

Thank you all so much for your patience while we've pushed ourselves this far. Scarlet Hollow is a beast of a game in scope and the deeper we've gotten into its narrative, the more demanding it's become, both in terms of the quantity of writing we have to do, and also the care we have to take in balancing the game and making sure that player choices feel like they actually matter.

Scoping out the rest of the game, I believe that Episode 5 will ultimately be the longest individual chapter of the story, so the wait shouldn't be quite as long after its release until we reach our conclusion.

[sentrryy]

—-- windchill

john walker x ex-avenger!ex-widow!reader

—- summary: walker doesn't seem too excited about the fact that captain america just saved your life. arguing ensues. and then making out follows. —- wc: 5.4k —- warnings: no use of y/n, john walker is an asshole, canon-typical violence, reader is also a bit of an asshole, actually everyone is kind of an asshole, jealous john walker, arguing, making out, spontaneous confessions, everybody lives in the tower because i said so —- notes: thunderbolts made me want walker and i will make it everyone's problem. first time writing this freak so hopefully you guys like it lmao.

[тётушка (tyot-oosh-ka) - auntie]

"lost visual on the fourth, anyone got him?"

walker's voice comes through your earpiece, the only sound beside the thrum of the wind in your ears. you shift to look down at him from your vantage point, perched on the roof of a nearby building.

"nothing from up here," you respond, giving the streets another quick once-over through your scope, but between the overturned cars, the only movement on the street is from your team. "must've ducked into an alley somewhere."

he huffs, and you watch him run a hand through his hair. "copy that."

"copy this, copy that, lost visual– you can just say you let him get away, you know that right?" ava's grumbling earns a quiet chuckle from you which you're careful not to broadcast over the radio, but yelena isn't so considerate.

naturally, the three of them start to bicker. as entertaining as it is to listen to them go back and forth, you tune them out as best you can while you continue to watch for the last target. or, that's what you intended to do, but despite your efforts your gaze seems to naturally gravitate to john no matter where you look.

his helmet had been lost a while ago, and you have to admit, he looks good with his hair a mess like that. the blood smeared on his face, the dirt and grime marring his skin – in the back of your mind, you're glad everyone else is too busy to notice you ogling him through your scope.

it crept up on you, how quickly you came to like walker. you weren't expecting to care for him any more than you did when you were chasing the flag smashers, but he's a lot more tolerable when he's not being an egomaniac. lately, though, just being near him is enough to distract you. and when you're twenty stories up and still can't seem to focus? you realise it might have become a problem.

there's a crunch behind you, the unmistakable sound of gravel under heavy boots, but your reaction is too slow. the moment you twist around to face your assailant, you're met with a hard strike to the temple. 

your vision blurs from the impact, a trail of warm blood falling down your face, a yelp passing your lips before you can stop it. the blow knocks you onto your back, dangerously close to the ledge, and sends your rifle clattering to the ground below.

you grunt, your fingers immediately reach for the pistol at your thigh, pointing it at him the best you can through the disorientation, but he grabs the barrel and forces it upwards.

there's a struggle, an agonising moment where you fight for the upper hand with him on top of you. voices in your earpiece are white noise in the background, your team no doubt having noticed your situation by now.

your assailant shifts his weight, and you take the split-second opportunity to swipe his legs from under him. the gun slips from both of your hands, sliding just out of reach as he hits the ground next to you.

you lunge for it, and so does he, your breathing ragged. the trigger, taut under your finger, the barrel flush to his chest, the blood roaring in your ears, a hard pressure against your stomach.

a single shot rings through the air, and then you're falling.

the weightless feeling makes your stomach turn, the ground is coming up fast, too fast to think – it all happens quicker than you can react.

you vaguely hear a shout of your name, multiple voices, though one is louder than the rest, but it falls on deaf ears.

then, the air is forced from your lungs by a solid force colliding with your ribs, and suddenly you're not falling anymore. you blink through your dizzy confusion, finding what caught you isn't just a force, but a person – and not just any person, it's sam wilson.

with the wind whipping around you, you can just about discern his voice as he calls out, "happy to see me?"

he'd swooped in and plucked you out of the air, holding you close as he cuts through the air with a speed that makes your head spin.

"holy shit!" you cry, holding the back of his suit with a vice grip. the skyscrapers fly by, and, yes, you've known sam a long time, but you've never been in the sky with him before.

you feel his laugh rather than hear it, the vibrations under your palms as he gradually banks back around to where the other (new) avengers were. and honestly, now that you're not in immediate danger, the feeling of the wind in your hair is actually quite pleasant.

when your feet are finally back on the ground, you're not prepared for how your knees give out from under you. sam catches you, again, his arms winding around your waist to steady you, an amused grin on his face.

"woah, you okay?" he asks, the wings of his suit retracting into themselves, and you nod.

"yeah, i'm good – nice catch, by the way." you grin up at him, breathless. a hand still rests over the star on his chest as you find your balance, and the other cradles the new ache in your side, "even if you did break all my ribs in the process."

he chuckles, finding the humour in your words and returning it easily. "hey, i don't accept responsibility for injuries sustained while i'm saving your life, and you're more than welcome for that, by the way."

you're still reeling from the shock of almost falling to your demise, but you can't help the breathless laugh that escapes you. it's slightly delirious and adrenaline fueled, a reflex of sorts. near-death experiences weren't uncommon for you, but you have to admit, this was one of the more fun occasions.

steady enough now to stand on your own, you take a step back and meet sam's eyes once more with a sincere expression. "seriously though, thanks."

"any time." he smiles again, softer, and releases your waist, sliding one arm up to rest around your shoulders instead. "just don't make a habit of falling off buildings, okay?"

you chuckle, patting his chest as you take notice of the rest of your team rushing over, "alright, if you insist."

yelena calls your name as she skids to a stop in front of you, taking your face in both her hands and thoroughly checking you over for cuts and bruises.

"тётушка, you okay? you don't have a concussion?" she frowns, tilting your head to meet her concerned gaze. she brushes away the blood at your brow, and the incredulous look she sends sam, as if it was his fault, almost has you laughing again.

you manage to hold back your amusement though, mostly for her sake, and reassure her, "i'm fine, lena, i promise."

her eyes dart to the way you're holding your ribs as you shift uncomfortably in place, and clicks her tongue at you. "no, you're not fine, look at you – you're more injured than before he got to you!"

"ah, captain america, a rookie mistake!" alexei's voice echoes through the empty street, and he's still yelling even as he lands a hand on sam's shoulder. "you are not very good at whole saving people business, eh? that's okay, red guardian forgives you!"

"wh–" sam pulls a face, half offended, half confused, "you didn't see me catch her mid-air two minutes ago?"

"bah! child's play!" alexei dismisses him with a wave of his giant hand, and he's about to continue until he's interrupted by another one of your team arriving.

"yeah, we all saw you wilson, jesus christ…" walker huffs, rolling his eyes as he comes to a stop a little ways from where you stand.

the air instantly thickens. his jaw is clenched hard, the death glare he's sending sam unsettling in a way that's not like him.

"what's the problem now, walker?" there's annoyance in sam's voice, but you can't shake the way john is locked onto sam; like a predator to prey, he hasn't taken his eyes off him once, and it worries you.

something about the way his eyes graze sam's arm, still around you, sticks in the back of your mind. the way his jaw clenches and his fists tighten at his sides, it unearths something more to his anger.

john scoffs, and rolls his eyes again. "my problem is we're the avengers, and yet for some reason you're always right there whenever we're trying to do our jobs!" he throws his arms out to the sides, his breathing fast and heavy. a moment passes where no one moves, just watching him in stunned silence. "look– we get it, you think you're better than us, but you're not, okay?"

"walker, you need to calm down." yelena leaves your side to get between them, but the staredown just continues over her head.

sam drops his arm from your shoulders, holding his hands out as he takes a step towards walker, an attempt to placate him that has little effect. "hold on, i don't think I'm better than you guys–"

"but you do think you're better than me, don't you wilson?" he's shouting, invading sam's space now, his fists twitching with the effort of holding back. the way his voice cracks, subtle but clear as day to you, sends a twinge through your heart.

you hesitate to break the thick silence that follows. part of you wants to shut him up, to defend your friend – but a larger part, the part of you that cares about john, says that this isn't like him.

"walker." you murmur, a low warning just loud enough to catch his attention.

his glare snaps to you, an undertone of something undeniably hurt beneath his burning anger, but then it's gone just as fast as it appeared. "what? you're on his side now?"

there's a deep sting in your chest when he meets your eye with that same piercing scowl. "i'm not on anyone's side–"

"really? 'cause you're supposed to be on ours– your team's!" he spits, "but i guess it's just whatever you feel like in the moment, right widow?"

if he notices the way your face falls, he doesn't show it. 

"alright enough!" bucky yells. he gets in-between the two of them, next to yelena, and puts his metal hand sternly on john's chest. "walker, go back to the car."

john scoffs again. "right. i'm the bad guy – as per usual." he spits, the energy fading from his voice with every word until he just sounds defeated. "why is he even here?"

"just shut up and start walking." bucky growls, pushing him away with the hand on his chest. walker huffs, hesitating like he's debating if he should argue, but eventually spins on his heel and marches off. bucky looks over his shoulder at you, sending sam a somewhat apologetic look, before wordlessly following behind him with alexei in tow.

"sorry." you sigh, massaging the furrow from your brow, and offer sam a regretful look of your own. "he's not always that much of an asshole."

"why do i find that hard to believe?" sam grumbles, watching walker's form retreat. he looks back at you, his expression softening, and shakes his head. "you don't have to apologise."

"sorry anyway." because you are. yelena is waiting for you, her hands on her hips. you pat sam's arm, that guilty feeling still lingering. "i'll see you around?"

he gives you a nod, already starting to walk away. "of course. take care of yourself, alright?" 

and with that, his wings extend and he's in the sky before you can blink.

you watch him go a moment longer, before turning back to yelena and gesturing for the two of you to get moving. the others have already turned the corner up ahead, leaving just you and her walking side by side. 

"you want to talk about that?" she broaches, looking at you from the corner of her eye with a certain delicate tone that really doesn't make you feel any better.

a grimace crosses your face. no, you wanted to say, not particularly, especially since you're shouldering most of the blame for it. "...what is there to say? i think it might've been my fault anyway."

"don't say that." yelena scolds, her brows pulling into a frown, but you shake your head.

"if i'd been paying attention, then that guy wouldn't have snuck up on me, and then sam wouldn't have had to come and save me, and we could've avoided this whole thing." you release a deep breath, ignoring the sting that radiates from your ribs. "now the energy's all… weird."

she clicks her tongue, and lays a comforting hand on your back. "it's not your fault walker is an asshole, тётушка, nothing we can do about that."

you catch her smile and huff, a weak attempt at a laugh, but it falls flat.

it was more than that, you could tell. more than just walker's typical asshole shtick, but, again, you were hesitant to think about it. he always toed the line, pushed his luck with comments and insults, but that was malicious, meant to wound. you really thought walker had moved past his feud with sam – he didn't seem to harbour the same animosity for you, or even bucky, though maybe you were wrong about that too, since you'd just gotten the same treatment. you shake your head to rid yourself of that train of thought; that's not an idea you want to confront.

so you settle for something vague, a plausible deniability you hoped she would let you keep. "did he seem… off to you?"

yelena lets out a sharp laugh, "oh, so you noticed this time, thank god for that."

"what's that supposed to mean?" you shoot her a puzzled look, your eyes narrowing. she holds herself like she knows something you don't, and it's unsettling.

she chuckles to herself again, a knowing glint in her eye. "it's not all about that shield with him, you know that, right?"

"uh…" you swallow hard, vaguely remembering that odd flash of emotion you'd noticed in john earlier, but you're still confused. "no?" 

she doesn't elaborate any further, simply holding your gaze with an expression that reveals absolutely nothing. there's no time to interrogate her further, though, bucky's call of your names from just ahead cutting your conversation short. one last attempt to meet yelena's eye before you climb into the back of the truck, which she shoots down, and you're left with only the rumble of the engine as bucky pulls away.

the drive home is eerily quiet. even ava – who usually jumps at the chance to make a sly comment, at john's expense especially – refrains from speaking.

despite what yelena said, and despite knowing she's right, it still feels like you could've avoided this. you all knew john wasn't really a fan of sam, but he was a good friend of yours, you weren't going to drop him just because one member of your team didn't like him; even if it was the same teammate that held your heart in his hands.

and speaking of walker, he has yet to acknowledge any of the rest of you, taking instead to boring holes in the wall opposite him with his red hot glare. you've been trying to meet his eye the whole ride home, but he fails to notice, like he's somewhere else entirely. with every minute that passes in uncomfortable silence, you're less and less sure that it's not you he's angry at.

when bucky finally pulls into the tower's basement garage, after fifteen minutes that could have easily been hours, he's the first to move. the car has barely even rolled to a stop before walker's standing, hunched over awkwardly as he crosses the length of the truck and throws open the back doors.

the heavy sound of his footsteps echos through the garage, and he's gone before the rest of you can clamber out. the urge to follow him is strong, but you hold off. you're not even sure what you'd say if you caught up to him.

"what crawled up his arse and died?" ava grumbles, sending you a sideways glance as she passes you. "thought i was about to suffocate in that tension…"

you frown, watching the door to the stairwell slowly fall shut, the only indication that john was even there at all. 

"just give him some space." you follow her towards the elevator, and she cranes her neck to roll her eyes at you over her shoulder.

"right. like i was planning on spending the rest of my evening in his glowing company…"

a few paces behind you yelena snorts, ignoring the warning look you give her as the rest of you load into the elevator. it's a squeeze with alexei and bucky taking up most of the space, leaving you and yelena facing each other from opposite sides of the box.

"don't worry, тётушка will talk to him," she begins, leaning back against the cool steel and crossing her arms over her chest.

"i will?" you quirk a brow at her as the doors slide shut and the elevator begins to rise. you're not sure if the way your stomach sinks is because of the elevator, or the thought of having to face walker after what happened earlier. "i don't know if that's a good idea."

"yes, it is. seeing as this whole thing is kind of your fault, i think that's fair." she continues, shrugging in response to the look of betrayal you send her. "what? you said it yourself!"

you throw your hands out to the sides, as emphatically as you can in the confined elevator. "you weren't supposed to agree with me!"

"she's got a point, though." ava chimes in, then leans back to hide from your glare behind alexei's arm. "you did let your guard down, quite critically if you ask me."

"hey!"

"you were distracted, yes?" alexei now grins down at you, a gesture you pointedly do not return, and continues, "too busy watching red guardian's heroic moves, i understand, it happens."

you bring a hand up to cover your face, massaging the bridge of your nose, and mutter a quiet, "oh my god…"

a nudge against your foot draws your attention, and you look up to find bucky looking at you too. "it's not a bad idea."

you stare at him, an image appearing in your mind of the fury in walker's eyes earlier, but then bucky tilts his head at you and you really can't resist that sad puppy look he puts on. you breathe a deep sigh, rolling your eyes at all of them, "...fine. i'll talk to him. but if it backfires and he just yells at me again, it's your fault."

"thank fuck," ava replies, a subtle smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, and as the elevator dings she's already phasing through the doors with a call over her shoulder, "spare the rest of us from his terrible mood."

the conversation dies there. one by one, the others filter out on their respective floors, until you're left standing by yourself in the elevator which suddenly seems far too big.

you press the button for walker's floor, and the doors slide shut again.

he was angry at you, even if you didn't fully understand why, he made that abundantly clear. that scathing omment directed at you – you know he's referring to the sokovia accords, the fight in germany, and even though you know he was just lashing out, a defence mechanism you're accustomed to from him, it was a low blow.

and it stung that little bit more coming from him, because you trusted him. it had come up, late one night when you had bumped into each other in the kitchen during a bout of insomnia, the topic of the previous avengers. in the early hours of that morning you'd confided in him your worries about being part of a team again, how you couldn't handle losing another family like that. and he had reassured you, that the new avengers wouldn't be like that – only to use it against you in a petty argument.

the elevator dings. the doors slide open.

the hallway feels unusually cold when you step over the threshold. something within you tells you this is a bad idea, that you're only going to get hurt again, but you can't walk away.

your hand is poised to knock, hovering centimetres from his door and staying frozen there. no light seeps through the cracks from his room, making the cool fluorescent lights in the hall seem that much more suffocating. you're still not sure what exactly you're here to say.

as if the universe could sense your indecisiveness, the door abruptly swings open, revealing john with a look on his face that sends a shiver down your spine.

but when his eyes land on you, he pauses, his expression going blank. your name falls from his mouth in a whisper. he'd shed the top half of his suit, leaving him in that skin-tight undershirt that does absolutely nothing to help your already scrambling mind. you blink at him, trying to find something to say, but you draw a blank.

and then he goes to shut the door on you. you manage to wedge your foot in the gap before he can fully close it, a small frown taking over your features.

"john," you begin, your tone something almost pleading. "i want to talk."

hesitation dances across his face, and you briefly wonder if hes just going to jist the door on you again. but, to your surprise, he lets the door falls back open, screwing his eyes shut as you move to lean in the doorway.

"about what?" he avoids your gaze as he mumbles, a distinctly defeated feel to his voice. he looks so tired, even more so than he did when you last saw him not even an half an hour ago. 

you frown, and answer in a murmur, "you know what."

"yeah, i screwed up, okay? i know that!" he snaps, still dutifully avoiding your gaze as he lets go of the door and turns back into his room. "you don't have to rub it in!"

"i'm not– what's going on with you?" you follow him in, leaving the door ajar behind you, and stare at his back a few steps away, "and don't try and give me the 'i'm just tired' excuse, because i know it's more than that."

he sighs sharply, running a hand over the back of his head, but doesn't turn to face you when he answers, "you wouldn't get it."

it's a lame excuse, and he knows it – it's why he refuses to look you in the eye – but you're not discouraged by his attempt to brush you off.

"oh, come on, john." you roll your eyes, your concern quickly morphing into frustration the more indignant he becomes. "it's something to do with sam, right? i know he's my friend, but if you have something to say, or–"

finally he whips around to face you, his eyes wide with the same kind of anger as before. "right– everything's always about sam! you can't even stop for five seconds to back me up when you know I'm right!"

"why the hell would i back you up when you're being a complete asshole to the guy who just saved my life?" you retort, standing your ground against him despite the way it prickles the hairs on the back of your neck. "he's my friend, i'm not gonna let you, or anyone, talk to him like that!"

"it's not about him– it's about none of you guys ever having my back like i have yours!"

"so i'm the problem? seriously, what did i ever do to you? and bringing up the accords thing, really john?" you glare at him with a scoff, exasperation bleeding into your expression. he goes to turn his back to you again, but you grab his arm before he can, forcing him to hold your gaze. "you're lashing out, you're pissed at me, i know you are, so just tell me what i did!"

he groans, a deep rumble of frustration in his chest as he presses the ball of his hand into his eye. "you didn't do anything!"

"so it is sam?" you press him further, but he just grits his teeth. "i thought we were over this, why do you have such a problem with him?"

a beat passes, a fleeting second where he seems to hold himself back, but the words spill from his mouth against his better judgment.

"because it should've been me!"

you don't say anything. something changes in the air as he catches his breath, feeling thicker than before with the weight of everything still unsaid. he takes your wrist in his hand and brings it between you, taking a tiny step forward.

"...because i could've saved you! he's not–" his voice catches, breaking in a way that squeezes your heart, and his gaze is just short of desperate. "...i could've saved you, and then maybe you would've looked at me the way you looked at him!"

his eyes gloss over, you catch a glimpse just as he drops his head to hide it from you. it's hard to find a single word to say.

"...how did i look at him?" you whisper, hesitant to disturb the fragile air between you.

against your skin, john's fingers twitch, a barely noticeable tremble. there's another oppressive pause where he doesn't speak, just holds you there in unbearable silence. you can almost feel the embarrassment, the shame, radiating from him, see it in the way his shoulders are bunched up.

"like he was your hero. like– like he was everything…" he finally answers. he tilts his head back up, his eyes darting between yours and looking beyond you.

"john…" you murmur.

it seems so obvious now, what all of this has been about – the weird feeling about him you got earlier, yelena's cryptic remarks, you're embarrassed it took you this long to realise.

warmth rushes to your face as you come to the conclusion; john was jealous of sam, not because of the shield, but because of you.

"...how is it fair? that he gets the shield, the fame, the life, the legacy…" the hand on your wrist moves up to grasp your own, his thumb pressing into your palm. his voice is low and raspy, a jarring contrast to his usual blunt confidence. "he already has everything, how is it fair that he gets you too?"

your mouth falls open, confusion replacing the surprise from his confession. "i don't…"

"it doesn't matter." he mumbles quickly, releasing your hand and taking a step back from you. his eyes are still glassy as he turns away, a strain to his voice when he continues, "it doesn't fucking matter, you don't see me that way."

you step forward with him, reaching for his hand that drags through his hair. "you don't need–"

"no, don't do that. don't try to make me feel better." he pulls away from your touch, back to avoiding eye contact, his brows pulling tightly together.

he's spiralling, that much is clear, but you can't manage to get a word in without him interrupting you. "i–"

"just get out, okay? i need to be alone!"

"will you listen to me!" you yell, taking the front of his shirt in your fist to force his gaze back on you. he freezes, his jaw clenched tight, but he stays quiet. "you don't need to save my life in some grand gesture for me to look at you like that!"

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. the way the light from the hall catches in his eye, you can't bring yourself to look away, even when the vulnerability feels too much.

"you don't need to be the hero, john, i don't care about any of that. is it so hard for you to understand that i might just like you how you are?" your voice is quiet again now, the room closing in around you as if you're the only two people in the world – and in this moment, you might be.

the air is warm, bordering on stifling, but your skin prickles under the ghost of his touch on your waist. he lets it hover there for a moment, as if he was afraid you'd change your mind. you don't, though, and a shiver rolls through you as he plants his hand firmly there. the bruising is just a distant ache under his touch, all but forgotten as you gaze deep into his eyes.

"i like you how you are." you utter. the words are little more than a whisper, reverence in the miniscule space left between you.

he walks you backwards – one, two, three large strides, until his hand can reach to shut the door and crowd you against it, plunging his room into total darkness.

"you shouldn't…" he mumbles, his breath fanning over your lips, tantalisingly close but still much too far, "...i'm not a good person, everything i touch… just…"

you huff, bringing a hand up to curl around the back of his neck, grazing your nails over his skin. "don't care."

the press of his lips to yours is hungry, and it steals the air from your lungs. the force knocks your head against the door, earning a muffled groan into his mouth.

"sorry," he breathes against you, a hint of a smirk in his voice that you can picture even without the light. you click your tongue, fighting a smile of your own, sliding your hand up through his hair and use it to pull him back in. he doesn't resist, following your unspoken command with the diligence of soldier.

then he's on you again, gentler this time but no less desperate. he brushes his fingers over your cheek, moving to cup your jaw and tilt your head to close whatever distance was left between you. the feel of him is overwhelming; the maddening scratch of his beard, how his broad shoulders box you in and his arm snakes around you to pull your body flush to his, it's so much but still not enough at the same time. his skin under your hands is hot, and you absently wonder if he always runs this hot, or if it's just for you.

he sighs against your lips, rough and needy, barely moving away to draw in ragged breaths. your other hand flattens across his chest to feel the rapid pace of his heart, pounding out of control beneath his sternum just like your own.

there's nothing else, in this moment, just him and you. the argument from before is long forgotten, replaced with the feeling of his mouth on yours, his hands all over you, seared into your mind even after he finally leans back.

you can't help the bashful smile that spreads across your face as you catch your breath. you're thankful the room is dark enough to hide it, though you're not sure it matters with his super soldier eyesight.

"i'm…" john murmurs lowly, feeling the vibrations from his voice under your hand as he continues, "...i'm sorry, i shouldn't have yelled at you, earlier. you didn't deserve that."

you sigh, resting your head in the crook of his neck. "i wish you'd just talk to me."

"i will." his hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and he presses a soft kiss to your hairline. "i'll try. i promise."

"then i'll hold you to that." you grin against his neck, placing a kiss of your own against the barest stubble there. "...so, are you gonna apologise to sam, too?"

john scoffs. "what? no, i stand by what i said." you tighten your grip in his hair, drawing a sharp breath from him before he begrudgingly continues, "...but i guess i could thank him, y'know, for not letting you die?"

an airy laugh escapes you, not surprised by his stubbornness. "y'know what? just don't talk to him."

"probably for the best."

[ellewritesx]

cruising altitude (a sequel to ''cabin pressure'')

Summary: Professionalism takes a nosedive while mutual tension hits cruising altitude.

Warnings: teasing, fingering, oral (f!receiving), post-show sex, overstimulation, some degradation, slight praise kink, choking, dom!Harry, just generally really filthy honestly

A/N: ahhh it's finally here! i wanted it to be perfect for you guys. i've linked the first part of this in the title in case you missed it :) let me know if i've forgotten any warnings, i have a tendency for that, oops. hope it lives up to your expectations!

Word Count: 3,892

...

The Lisbon venue is buzzing with electricity. Crew members are scattered across the stage, marking spots, checking cables, adjusting lighting cues. You're sitting beside Harry in the nosebleed seats in the back of the stadium, clipboard in hand, walking him through the final pre-show rundown as he scopes out the venue before the show, but your mind is nowhere near the itinerary.

Not when he looks like that, black embroidered trousers clinging to his muscular thighs, sheer blouse half unbuttoned, showing off the tattooed swallows adorning his collarbone, hair a mess of curls from running his hands through them over and over again (much to the dismay of his hair stylist). And not when he hasn't stopped glancing at you with that look in his eyes all day.

Not long after your activities on the jet on the way here, the team had woken up to eat the (crappy) airline breakfast. You'd picked up the menu, and Harry had leaned over discreetly and lowly whispered in your ear something sinful. ''Gonna make you wait for it today.'' You hadn't realized he'd meant all day.

...

Soundcheck is unbearable. His voice is angelic, almost distracting you from the way he blatantly stares at you, undressing you with his eyes. His hands run up and down the microphone stand seemingly innocent, but you know better. It's sinful. You never thought you'd be jealous of an inanimate object, but here you are. Just terrific.

You're walking around the stage with Lloyd, showing him a few angles in which you'd like photos taken that'd be good for press. You catch the ghost of a smirk when Harry struts across the stage during Little Freak, mouthing, ''That's you, love.''

You barely make it to lunch.

The green room smells like him. Even before he arrives, there's something in the air, the vague presence of his warm cologne, expensive and woody, mixed with leather and citrus and a hint of vanilla. You take a seat, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really you're just breathing him in. It's stupid, you know. Pathetic. But he smells like comfort, like home.

You've worked with Harry long enough to know things about him no one else does. Not the fans. Not the press. Not the crew. You know that when he gets anxious before a show, he paces, not fast, but with a sort of steady rhythm, like he's trying to match his breathing to the beat of his footsteps. He rolls his shoulders four times before going on stage, left, right, left, right. Always in that exact order. It's not for posture, it's superstition. He never skips it.

You've seen him unravel in quiet ways. He doesn't talk about being homesick, but when he gets that faraway look in his eyes, you can tell he's thinking of his mum's kitchen, or the flower garden behind his childhood home. He's never mentioned it out loud, but you've noticed how he keeps a folded photo of his family tucked into a pocket inside his backpack. On the really hard days, with long travel, cancelled plans, and exhaustion written into the lines under his eyes, you've caught him pulling it out, just for a second. Just long enough to be able to breathe.

You know his habits like they're etched into you. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's overthinking. How he taps the edge of his rings against a table when he's bored, or how he hums under his breath when he's in a good mood, usually something old, something soulful. You know that he loves quiet mornings and hot tea with too much honey, that he hates waking up to alarms, and that he writes little ideas down on scraps of paper because the apps on his phone make him feel ''too digital.'' You've found those notes around the tour bus, crumpled and forgotten, full of half-finished songs and poetry that make your chest ache.

The media paints him in broad strokes: the rockstar, the fashion icon, the flirt. But you know the smaller, softer truths. The way he's careful with people's feelings. The way he listens, really listens, when someone talks to him. You've seen him sit backstage with a crying crew member, hand rubbing comforting circles on their back, voice low and soothing. You've seen him spend twenty minutes helping a lighting tech with a busted cable because he ''just likes to understand how things work.'' You've seen him come alive when the crowd sings his lyrics back to him, and dim a little when he walks off stage and the noise stops.

And you… you read him like no one else. You know when his smile is real and when it's a mask. You know when his laughter comes from his stomach and when it's just a polite response. You can tell when he's carrying something heavy he doesn't want to talk about. You see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. You see it in the way he exhales, shallow and short instead of long and full. You see him, even when he doesn't want to be seen. Especially then.

That's what makes this complicated. The fact that you're not just his assistant or his friend or even his secret hook-up. You're the one who knows him. The real him. And even when he's in full showman mode, belting obscene lyrics, swinging his mic, thrusting into the air like sex personified, you can still feel the pulse beneath the surface. The tension in his hands. The flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. You catch it all. Every goddamn time.

And sometimes… when he looks at you across the room, when he smiles at you so brightly his dimples pop out, like there's an inside joke lingering in the air that only the two of you are in on, you wonder if maybe he knows you just as well.

...

Not much later, the long table is crowded with crew, conversations blending into a white noise you can't focus on. Harry slides into the seat next to you and rests his large palm on your thigh under the table. No one sees. He's careful, maddeningly so. His thumb lazily strokes slow circles… then dips between your legs.

You jolt, barely managing to cover it up by taking a quick sip of your water. He leans closer, face stoic like you're discussing stage cues.

''You're so warm,'' he murmurs. ''So wet. Poor thing.''

You try to breathe normally, try to keep your hand steady as you cut into your salad, but it's impossible when he's pressing two fingers against your panties, applying a gentle pressure. He doesn't slip beneath them, not yet. You've noticed he likes the build-up. The denial. He rubs slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble and your fork clatters against the plate.

''You gonna be a good girl and stay quiet, Y/N?'' he asks lowly, eyes zeroed in on your lips like it's taking everything in him not to kiss you right in front of the entire team.

You nod quickly, but it's humiliating how quickly your body betrays you. You can't focus on anything but his hand. His fingers move lower, dragging down the soaked cotton just enough to brush bare skin, making your breath hitch.

Then suddenly, he pulls away.

You're breathless. Empty.

''See you after the show,'' he says lightly, and he's gone before you can even protest.

...

The concert is torture.

He performs like a sin in velvet and glitter, hips rolling with obscene precision. You're near the wings with your headset on, pretending to be focused on the crew chatter, but every time he growls into the mic or grips it like you imagine he would your throat, you're subconsciously pressing your thighs together.

And he knows it. He glances over mid-set and catches your eye; it's not the usual glimmer of showmanship or crowd-charming sparkle, but that burn of intensity that he saves just for you, the same one he'd given you on the jet, and you know you're in for it tonight.

When the end of his set nears and the intro to Kiwi starts, he steps to the edge of the stage, curls clinging to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, and he pins you in place with a look that makes your knees buckle. It's not subtle. Not even close. His brows twitch just slightly as he sings the filthiest lines while making direct eye contact, daring you to keep watching.

The way he slinks across the stage, hips loose, shoulders rolling, one hand gripping the mic while the other runs through his hair, is pure sex. He throws his head back at the bridge like he's losing himself in it, and you know damn well it's calculated. Everything is. Every thrust of his hips, every stomp of his shoes, every teasing smirk. He doesn't just perform the song, he weaponizes it.

When the crowd enthusiastically douses him in water, he's soaked, his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, completely see-through, the fabric stretched tight across his torso. You can see the outlines of his abs, the ink swirling over his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath between lines. His curls drip over his forehead, lips parted around heavy breaths. The crowd roars at the sight of him. He looks wild. Ferocious. And so fuckable.

He finishes the encore drenched in sweat and water, chest heaving, curls dripping on the floor. As soon as the lights drop and the crowd screams, he sprints off stage, straight to you.

You barely get a word out before he grips your wrist and drags you down the corridor.

The green room is empty now. Quiet. And as soon as the door shuts behind you, you're shoved back against it, mouth claimed in a rough, desperate kiss.

''You've been such a good girl today,'' he whispers against your lips, voice low, husky. ''Didn't even touch yourself, did you?''

You shake your head, breathless. ''No, Harry.''

''Need me that bad, don't you?''

Your knees nearly buckle when he grins. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, tugging on it lightly before releasing you with a low chuckle that makes your stomach flip.

His hand finds your throat, thumb brushing over your pulse as he walks you backwards toward the dressing table. Lights flicker in the mirror behind you, harsh, glowing, bathing you both in a golden haze.

''Get on the table,'' he orders softly. ''Hands behind you. Legs open.''

You scramble to obey, heart pounding, perching yourself on the cool marble with your knees separating for him. The air hits your thighs, making you shiver. The dress you'd chosen to wear this morning is modest enough to be professional and practical enough to allow you to move freely despite the heat here in Lisbon, but you've seen the way Harry has been eyeing your bare legs all day, and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of your motivation behind the choice of clothing. He steps between your legs, tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he's already tasting you in his mind.

''Look at yourself, Y/N,'' he says, hand returning to your throat. He presses, gently. Dominant. It's subtle enough to not be particularly constricting of your airflow yet, instead making you feel deliciously light-headed. ''Look how fucking desperate you are.''

His hand trails down your body and slides your dress up your thighs, before pushing your soaked panties to the side with two fingers, making a vulgar sound when he taps at your drenched slit.

''You've made a mess,'' he mutters. ''Think you need to be punished for it.''

He grips your thighs to push them further apart, then drops to his knees on the floor, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact.

The first lick makes your vision go white.

You gasp, hands uselessly gripping the edge of the vanity as he devours you like a man starved. His tongue is ruthless, lapping, circling, sucking your clit until your knuckles turn white. He groans into you, the vibrations sending jolts of almost unbearable pleasure through your core.

''Keep your legs open,'' he growls. ''Or I'll tie them open for you.''

You nod, choking on a moan as his fingers push into you, two at once, rough and cruelly deep. He crooks them just right, licking your clit in sync with the the thrusts of his fingers, building your high up so fast you're panting his name like a prayer. The slick sounds, the obscene way he groans into you, it's filthy, raw, addictive.

''Fuck, Harry, please—''

''You don't come until I say.''

But it's too much.

His tongue flicks faster against your clit, his fingers drive deeper, and your orgasm slams into you before you can stop it. You cry out, thighs clenching around his head, but he doesn't relent. Doesn't even slow down until you're whining pathetically in overstimulation.

He smirks.

''Guess you do need to be punished.''

You're ruined. He keeps going.

He brings you to the edge again, fingers and tongue unrelenting, dragging every last sound out of your throat as he whispers filth against your core.

''You taste like heaven,'' he pants, pulling back for breath only to spit on your clit and start again. ''So fucking sweet, love. Gonna eat you every night if you keep being this good for me.''

Your thighs are twitching, your hand burying in his hair as he devours you, makes you cry into the curve of your elbow, desperate to stay quiet even as he eats you out mercilessly. Some of the curls on his forehead are soaked with your slick. You whine at the obsene sight.

He kisses the inside of your trembling thigh when he's finally done, lips soft and wet, the tendernes of it a stark contrast to what he was doing to you just seconds earlier.

''You ready, baby?'' he asks deceivingly sweet, grinning up at you.

You're still trembling on the dressing table, thighs sticky and shaking from orgasm after orgasm, when Harry rises to his feet. His lips are glossy, his cheeks flushed, and his pupils are blown wide with hunger. He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. Doesn't say a word.

The veins in his arms stand out as he yanks his shirt over his head, exposing every taut, glistening muscle. He's a fucking masterpiece. Cut from marble, bronzed by the sun, inked like a sinner.

You'd seen him shirtless before. Too many times, if you were honest with yourself. Quick, stolen seconds you weren't supposed to linger on. Like the time you'd walked into his dressing room door to update him on a last-minute setlist change and caught him mid-change, pants slung low and unbuttoned on his hips, chest bare and glistening with sweat from soundcheck.

Or worse, the time you'd passed the training room and caught a glimpse of him pulling himself out of an ice bath, water cascading down his body in rivulets, tracing every cut line of his abs, dripping from his tattoos like holy water. His muscles flexed with the effort, every inch of him flushed pink from the cold, breathing hard, eyes scrunched shut, and you'd had to physically force yourself to keep walking despite your knees feeling weak, to swallow the desperate little noise that almost escaped your throat.

But back then, you were just his assistant. Invisible. Untouchable. You'd trained yourself to look away, to keep your hands steady, even when all you wanted was to touch him, to trace the ink of the ferns hung low on his hips, to kiss the sparrows perched beneath his collarbones, to worship the body you weren't allowed to want.

Now, with his abs flexing, chest heaving, water from the show still dripping down the delicate black lines of his tattoos, he's standing right here in front of you, looking at you like he's starved for you, and you don't have to pretend anymore.

You don't even realize you're reaching for him until he catches your wrists midair and pins them behind your back with one hand. His eyes flash with dominance.

''Desperate little thing,'' he murmurs, stepping between your spread thighs again. ''Already wrecked and you're still begging for it.''

''I need you,'' you beg softly, your voice hoarse from moaning. ''Please, Harry. Need all of you.''

His free hand undoes his belt with one quick, sharp snap.

''You're gonna take all of it,'' he growls as he shoves his pants and briefs down just far enough to free himself. ''Every inch. Keep your hands behind you, or I'll tie them.''

You nod frantically, mouth watering at the sight of him. He's thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip, veins running up the shaft. Your walls flutter in anticipation when you glance down, wide-eyed, dazed. You can see the way he's leaking for you, how painfully hard he is, and you realize he's just as desperate for you as you are for him.

You used to think he held all the cards, that he was this larger-than-life figure who was unbothered while you struggled with wanting something you could never have. But now, pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum against your skin, seeing the raw need etched into his face, you realize he's just as wrecked as you are. Every twitch of his aching cock, every shudder of his body, every ragged breath he takes, it's for you. It knocks something loose in your chest, a quiet, aching insecurity you hadn't even known you were carrying, because it's not just you losing control tonight. It's him, too. And he's not hiding it anymore.

When he strokes himself once and presses the head against your entrance, dragging it slow and teasing over your soaked folds, it jolts you out of your epiphany.

''You want this?''

''Yes, fuck, yes—''

He slams into you in one sharp thrust.

Your head falls back against the mirror with a loud thud, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just grips your hips and fucks into you, deep and rough, his cock stretching you so good you can't think.

The table rattles violently with every ruthless snap of his hips.

''Look at yourself,'' he pants, glancing down at where you're connected, where your slick coats his cock. ''So fucking wet for me. You hear that?''

You can. It's obscene, the sound of him driving into you, your soaked cunt sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He grabs your jaw, turning your head at an uncomfortable angle to face the mirror.

''Watch.''

It's filthy. Your mouth is parted, eyes dazed, tits bouncing with every thrust. You're a mess: smeared lipstick, flushed skin streaked with mascara stains, a few bite marks already blooming on your neck. He watches too, groaning at the sight.

''Fuckin' made for me,'' he grunts, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make you dizzy. ''You like this, don't you? Being fucked like a good little toy?''

''Yes, Harry, please, harder—''

He growls, snapping his hips faster, harder, sweat dripping down his temples. The sound of your skin slapping together echoes off the walls.

And then... he pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness, aching, clenching around nothing.

''Bend over the vanity,'' he commands.

You scramble off the table, barely steady on your legs. He manhandles you into position, pressing your face into the cool marble, your ass high in the air.

The mirror in front of you reflects it all, your ruined expression, the curve of your back, the dark look in his eyes as he slides back inside your cunt from behind.

He grabs your hips, surely leaving bruises, and starts to fuck you again, deep and punishing, every stroke angled perfectly to wreck you. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as your body jolts forward with every harsh thrust.

''I could watch you like this forever,'' he grunts, snapping his hips. ''Split open and begging.''

One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you can see yourself in the mirror again. His other hand slides between your legs, rubbing ruthless circles over your clit. When you let out a choked moan, the hand in your hair moves to wrap around your throat again, pulling you back slightly so you're upright, your back against his chest. Your eyes meet in the mirror.

''You're mine now,'' he growls in your ear, voice gravelly and dark, his cock driving into you so deep you don't even realize you've been holding your breath. ''No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you.''

''I'm yours,'' you cry, voice breaking. ''Only yours.''

''That's right, baby,'' he whispers. ''All fucking mine.''

He keeps driving into you, each thrust harder than the last, the sound of your skin slapping obscene.

''You gonna come for me again, Y/N?''

''Yes, yes, please, fuck, I'm gonna—''

He slams into you harder, biting down on your shoulder as your orgasm rips through you and you shatter around him with a scream, convulsing, clenching hard around his cock.

He works you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy before he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, heat flooding you as he buries his face in your neck, panting, hips jerking against your ass.

You're both silent for a long moment.

He stays buried inside you, hand stroking your thigh soothingly, lips pressing gentle kisses to your spine. His breaths come heavy and uneven against your skin, but even now, everything about his touch is so careful, so heartbreakingly loving. It's jarring, how gentle he is, after fucking you like that. But of course he is. It's Harry.

Your whimper softly.

Finally, he pulls out with a low, reluctant sound, hands steadying you as your legs threaten to give out. Without a word, he slowly spins you around, lifts you onto the dressing table, and presses his forehead against your shoulder. He clutches you like he needs you to breathe, like he's terrified you'll slip away if he lets go for even a second, one hand stroking lazy, tender patterns along your back.

''You good, love?'' he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse but so, so sweet. ''Wasn't too much, was I? Tell me you're good.''

You hum your answer, too blissed out and overwhelmed to find the words, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you hold him closer. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your cheek, another to your jaw. Like he can't stop. Like he doesn't ever want to.

And when you finally glance up at him, drunk on him, dizzy from it all, he smiles, soft and a little shaky.

''This was always gonna happen, you know,'' he says softly, pressing his forehead against yours.

Like it was inevitable. Like it's just the beginning of something neither of you will ever be able to walk away from.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

general taglist

@2601-london @mads3502

...

[zae-heeyyy]

Evanesce

Summary: You try to runway. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 3,673 Tags: angst, smut, mid-low honor Arthur, handjob, unprotected p in v, oral, breeding kink, tb? Don’t know her. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, toxic relationship

An: I feel like I ran a never ending marathon with this one. Drafted it a month ago, but I never really vibed with it. Challenged myself to just get it done and make sure I was proud of it. Once again, I'm trying to step out of my comfort zone. Shout out to @googoolies for the note idea! As always, I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Tagging @hihomeghere because you asked ❤️

Evanesce: to dissipate like vapor

Worn floorboards of Shady Bell wailed under Arthur’s weight as songbirds began their morning melodies. The gunslinger scoped the eerily empty, quiet camp for traces of you, but all he found was a folded letter on his pillow.

Echoes of your last conversation flashed in his mind as he tramped across the narrow room to retrieve the note. Two nights ago, The Old Guard overlooked their kingdom from the second-floor balcony as they discussed their plans to wage war against Angelo Bronte. Bile stung the back of your throat as two-thirds of the trio outruled the other. Hosea’s final words to Dutch and Arthur, “You’ll damn us all,” filled you with dread and the overwhelming feeling of impending doom.

Arthur avoided your shadowed eyes as he reloaded his weapons and ignored your outcry against Dutch’s plan. Your desperation had turned swiftly to indignation, and an argument commenced, your voices clashing like swords. You begged him not to go, pleading with the enforcer to listen to reason for once, to listen to you. But he pushed back with the shield of obstinance he had long forged for survival. 

“I don’t take orders from you, woman, and keep your goddamn voice down.”

Thousands of tiny needles pricked at the backs of your eyes at the harsh directive, but you held firm. 

“Arthur, if you go I’ll–” 

“Don’t,” he warned dismissively, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and ambling to the door. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye as he twisted the knob. Your last words fell on ears deafened from years of gunfire. 

“If you leave, I won’t be here when you come back.”

Two days later, Arthur masked his guilt with anger as he skimmed over the last piece of you left in the room. Four words in the polite loops of your handwriting taunted him: Saint Denis. Train. Running. 

After a quick check of the cinch, he found himself begrudgingly engulfed in the city of smog and greed he’d come to hate so much. Riding through the maze of cobblestone, brick, and vermin was like laying under a guillotine, staring up at the blade and waiting for it to drop. Law on every corner, people jammed together, and now, Bronte’s men out for revenge–none of it felt right. 

Taking in a breath that didn’t reach deep enough, he started his search for you in this hornets’ nest of a city. Most of the hotels and saloons served him with nothing but a heavy dose of adrenaline and dead ends. As he approached Doyle’s Tavern, his last stop, he dug his nails into his trembling palm, savoring the sting of apathy that came with the pain.

Arthur made a beeline to Gabe Doyle, reciting his rehearsed description of you. A woman standing beside him, whose garments had seen cleaner days, tapped him on the shoulder. The outlaw didn’t even look at her, didn’t give her time to speak before he rejected her with razor-edge disdain. When Arthur finished, Gabe only shrugged his shoulders, but the woman, still standing close by, let out a derisive giggle.

“He won’t be of no help, mista’. Coulda’ told ya’ for free, but it’ll cost ya’ now.”

Ire made his ears ring, drowning out all the other sounds in the slum’s saloon. He drummed his fingers hard on the worn wooden bar, the taste of pride sour on his tongue. 

“How much?” 

Cleavage spilled over her top as she leaned towards him and twiddled brazenly with the collar of his shirt. 

“Well, for clients that play nice, seven dollars, but for you, rotten dirty bastard––times it by ten.” 

A minute later, he exited Doyle’s Tavern not a cent lighter, heavy with an indefinite ban, but finally, a real lead on you. Four new mocking words overshadowed ones from the letter: Whore house; Courtenay Street. 

A brothel—a goddamn brothel. 

Instinct lured him to the debauched inn, and your name frothed from his muzzle in more of a growl than speech. Like a rabid dog, he snapped and barked orders at the women unlucky enough to be trapped with the beast on the arena floor.

They tried futilely to stop his march down the hall, tried to keep him from getting to you, but the chaos drew you into the colosseum and into the lion’s direct line of sight. You yanked the man-turned-animal by the sleeve and sealed yourselves away before he could do any more damage. 

More tame now, sea storm orbs surveyed you in a quick but covert once over, then he spun on his heel, searching for anything else to focus on.

“Christ, been looking for you all day, woman,” he bit out through clenched teeth. 

The lone wolf prowled the new territory for a threat but was only met with a vacant cave and the empty feeling of shame. Deflecting, he found your luggage, lifting the bags with the practiced ease of carrying buckets of water to and fro. His biceps flexed with the weight of your whole life in one bag, but he nodded at you, matter of fact. 

“C’mon. M’taking you home.”

Home. You could’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. None of these places had ever been home.

“I ain’t going nowhere with you,” you fired back, grabbing for the suitcase in his hand. A brief game of tug-of-war ensued, your grip relentless, Arthur’s unwavering, until he finally let you pull one of the bags free. He dropped the other and exhaled with the sharpness of a saber but stayed silent at the conclusion of your weaponless duel. He’d fallen in love with that gnawing defiance, but now it was tearing him to pieces, bit by bit until it exposed the marrow of pure anger.

“Runnin’ off is one thing.” His nostrils flared, and the timbre of his voice deepened as he carried on, “But running off t’here–– selling yourself?” He shook his head and blew air through his teeth, “Yer crazier than I thought.”

You whirled away from him, swatting your hand like he was as insignificant as a fly.

“And you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Ain’t selling myself, you damn fool! And I’ll do whatever the hell I please. Right now, I want to get far away from this shit city and you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, dragging out the words. “I know you just as well as you think you know me. If you wanted away–really wanted away–you wouldn’t’ve left this pretty little letter, and sure as hell wouldn’t’ve told me where to find ya’.” He retrieved the letter from his satchel, held it up just long enough for you to see, and crushed it in his fist before discarding it on the floor.

“That’s what I think of your pretty little letter.” 

You had started a slow involuntary backtrack during his monologue, the flight response pushing back against the fight. He followed, sandwiching you between himself and the door.

“Screw you.” Scorn was hot on your breath.   

Just as you thought to turn the knob, to free yourself from the prison of flesh and wood, the iron teeth of a bear trap, his fingers, clamped around your wrist, bringing your hand to eye level. 

“And you still got something of mine.”

Both pairs of eyes landed on a small round sparkling opal set in a gold band on your left ring finger.

You’d never forget finding it on your pillow along with a letter from Arthur that just said, “One day…”

He had made promises he didn’t keep. First, you just had to wait for the Ferry Job. Next, you needed to survive Colter. Then you had to get far away from the Pinkertons, and most recently, all you needed to do was help case the Lemoyne National Bank. One last job, he’d told you. It was the same thing he said before leaving for that boat in Blackwater.

Contempt flowed through your veins as you tried to wrench free. God, you hated him right now, but you hated yourself more for letting him fool you.

“Let go.” You hissed, seething. 

Your hand throbbed as he gave your wrist another squeeze.

“You first.” Then he nodded towards the stone on your finger. “My ring,” he demanded.

Your knuckles collided with the wood of the door with a hard knock as you freed your hand. You flattened your palm against the wood behind your back, guarding the ring from the career thief’s piercing gaze.

“No,” you shot back, sinking into yourself. “It’s mine.” 

Your finger throbbed around the ring you’d seldom taken off. It had become part of you, melded to your skin like a vine coiled around a tree in a beautiful and deadly embrace. 

“Yours?” he huffed incredulously, shaking his head, trying to form your words into something he could understand. For a short beat, the heavy huff and puff of his breath was the only thing you could register. 

You had mined forever to find something other than cold coals of anger within him. You thought you’d found it—thought you’d finally struck gold when he confessed his feelings for you somewhere out west all that time ago. Now, you were left wondering if it was only fool’s gold you had stumbled upon. The cowardly knight was far too proud and far too afraid of getting stabbed to lay down his armor. But you were having a silent conversation with those sad eyes, reading words he’d never speak or ask aloud. What does that make me, then? 

“Yours.” He answered his inner thoughts without hesitation.

Mine. You thought back but only stared at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of cracking under his scrutiny. 

“Yours.” He repeated assuredly, final. 

It was your turn to shake your head now; you could hear his vocal cords vibrating, generating sounds you were supposed to understand, but he may as well have been speaking another language because what the hell did he know about being anybody else’s? You repeated your thoughts bluntly.

For a moment, he looked stunned, but then his hand shot out, cupping your jaw and tilting your face toward his. He was so close, you could smell him now. The scents of liquor on his breath and leather in his hat permeated your whole being.

“You don’t think–” His voice was low and trembling with fury. “I been yours since the goddamn day I laid eyes on you, and you know it.”

Fight, flight, freeze, and now fawn all warred for dominance. Twin mirrors of blue cosmos peered into your soul, but you didn’t look back, knowing that black holes of destruction ruled in the center and could swallow you in the blink of an eye.

“You have to go, Arthur.”

You tried to reach for the knob again, but Arthur imposed on you further, his chest brushing against yours. 

“No,” he said. “I ain’t going nowhere without you, and you ain’t going nowhere without me. M’done talking about it.”

It’s like he couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t respect what you wanted. He only ever responded to shouting and violence. So you dipped down to his level, anything to get him to understand. Your open hand pushed full force against his chest, knocking the wind from him and making him stumble backward.

“You don’t own me, Arthur Morgan!”  

But the shouting was no use. He closed in on you again, and you reached out, clenching your fists in his shirt to stop his advance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on, talking with a tight jaw.

“No, dammit, cause you own me.” 

You balled your fists around cotton fabric and pulled him down into you, inhaling like you were bracing for the worst. This game, Predator and Prey, had become second nature to you. You would always be his fawn, thrashing and wailing, yet never escaping the salivating jaws of the coyote. And it always ended the same: a clash of heavy breathing and snarls before you surrendered.

Tobacco and whiskey never tasted so good, and they were just as addictive as him. Your teeth clashed together, and his left hand fell to your hip while his right twisted the lock on the knob. 

He was never gentle, but now, he was almost crazed. Rough hands that were trembling only an hour ago were all over you, gripping your jaw, sliding under your blouse, pushing and pulling you to his whim.

“Falling in love with you was the dumbest thing I ever did,” you confessed as he removed his hat and set it aside; he had better access to you without it. Heat surged through you as his hands bit into your hips, pinning you in place against the locked door. 

You mumble under your breath, “Bastard.”  

So far, he was ignoring your attempts to rouse him; you were his pretty little doe, caught in his chops, and a few barbs wouldn’t keep him from utterly devouring you. Dipping his head into your neck, he fixated on that pulsing artery, taking no time to roll the flesh between his teeth.

“Goddamn asshole,” you huffed but cradled his head as he claimed you.

He brushed over the ruptured blood vessels with his knuckles, and the bastard was smiling, eyes glazed over with lust and self-indulgence. Electricity sparked down your legs as he looped his fingers in the waistband of your skirt. 

You swore to yourself two nights ago that it was all over, that you wouldn’t let him slither back, yet here you were, Eve, being tempted by the serpent. Teeth sank into the forbidden fruit with the lift of your hips off the door, giving him permission to snatch both your skirt and bloomers down in a swift pull. Arthur didn’t need much persuasion to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; a man like him could have never lived for eternity in The Garden of Eden. 

The pair of you wore pride like heraldry, but neither of you was as honorable as you’d led the other to believe. You, provoking him with the threat of leaving, knowing you’d let this happen as you always did, and him never changing and never stopping the cycle of broken promises. 

Your scent was intoxicating, but he held off from relishing it, studying your face like he’d done many times before. Something was different this time, though. Only for a heartbeat, you saw something in his eye, a minuscule hint of vulnerability. You blinked, and it was gone like it was never there, replaced by an unabashed smirk. You kept the insults flying. 

“Jerk.”

Hearing the laugh rumble in his chest made your skin prick up the same way it did when a thunderstorm was brewing on the horizon. The cowboy braced his hands against your thighs and peeked up at you, his lips still curved in the corners.

He lifted his eyebrow in question, “You done?”

“Shut up,” you responded, tangling your fingers in his hair and guiding him, not so gracefully, to the heat between your legs. 

Obeying, he flicked his tongue out to lap at you, drawing you closer in a hug, his palms resting on the curve of your ass cheeks. Steadying yourself against the door, you tugged on his hair like reins, but fuck, you didn’t want him to stop. You grunted and cursed under your breath as that gluttonous, greedy grifter feasted on you. 

Blasphemous sounds rose up from your chest as you rocked your hips feverishly with every swipe of his warm wet tongue against your clit. Every tug of his locs and bump of your mound into his nose sent blood pulsing full speed to the bulge in his pants. He knew you were dancing dangerously close to the cliff’s overhang by the way you were keeping him in place, right where you wanted him. But the brute stopped and locked eyes with you, lips curved downward. That slight glimpse of vulnerability you thought you’d seen earlier was now on full display.

“Say you won’t go,” he choked out. 

Down on his knees, looking up at you with genuine sincerity was the closest he’d ever get to prayer or penance. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat but didn’t answer him.

Instead, you ushered him back to his feet and crashed your lips into his again, tangling your tongue with his.

In a swift motion, you popped his suspenders loose while you walked him backward. The backs of his knees hit the bed, and he shimmied off his multiple layers just as quick as you unfastened the buttons on your blouse. You stood before him, a goddess, determining his eternal fate. And he waited, fixated on you, languidly stroking his engorged cock while you decided.

You replaced his fisted grip with yours, bending to meet his eye. The almost frown on his face made you wonder what he was seeing staring back at him. You imagined your pupils blown out, your lips swollen, and your hair disheveled. Arthur was the only man in the world who could turn you into a vixen. 

“You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.” Your noses were almost touching as you tightened your grip and stroked him painfully slowly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded, his face downright solemn. 

“Mhm,” you went on, rubbing circles atop his hot, leaking pink tip. Your pace quickened as your cheek grazed his. A shiver ran through him as the vibrations of your voice tickled his ear.

“No good, thieving, murderous bastard.” 

“I know.” He drew out, tightly clutching the sheets. With a firm nudge, you urged him onto his back. 

“You don’t deserve me. Never did,” you continued. His hips jutted in time with your wrist, his climax sitting low in his balls.  

“I–dammit–I–kn–know.”

The muscles of his stomach constricted as he fought for breath, damn near suffocating under your touch. 

“I’ll change.” He gasped, eyes closed, and brow furrowed. “I’ll change. But–ahh–I ain’t ever gonna be good enough for you, woman–nghh–no matter how much changin’ I do.”

Air finally flowed back through with the halt of your pumping. The mattress sunk with your added weight as you slung your legs on either side of him. Neither party stalled. You gave him a quick nod before he could even ask, and he sank his length into your warm, wet pussy. There were no hushing kisses, no waiting for you to adjust, no cajoling, just the smacking of skin and the aroma of sex in the room as he molded you to his girth. Bashfulness had never even crossed your mind. You rode him tirelessly, whimpering, gasping, and filling the air with his name. 

The roles reversed; you were the animal now, a lioness pursuing a buck. Chasing the high, you galloped hard and fast and grinding your hips against his to relieve the throbbing ache in your clit. You massaged the sensitive nub between your thighs, indulging in the pleasure you were giving yourself and receiving from him. The tip of his cock bumped that sweet spot inside of you, the one that made you tense and cry out over and over again. 

You didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want him to know what he was doing to you or how he was making you feel–how he always made you feel when he was burrowed deep inside of you. You couldn’t hide from him, though. He knew you–knew the faces and sounds you made, knew the way you tightened around him, knew how you stiffened, knew how your breathing shallowed when you were on the edge. He knew the control he’d have over you forever.

“You ain’t going nowhere.” He grunted as he pounded up into you, the knot in his stomach tightening with his own upcoming release. 

“Fucker,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, and you love it.” 

You couldn’t deny it.

He took your hand in his and felt for the ring on your finger, stroking it, all while keeping eye contact and hammering relentlessly into your velvety walls. Four more thrusts and your eyes rolled back as the lightbulb of tension burst.

“That’s right, let it go, there it is.” Muttering, his upward ruts got sloppier as you rode out your body-spasming orgasm. Then he started babbling, lost in your sweet heat,

“Shit, I’m–bout t–m’close.”

The cowboy tried to lift you up, tried not to spill inside of you, but you buried your head in the crook of his neck and lowered yourself back down, taking him balls deep.

“Goddamnit,” he growled, hugging you to his chest, “the hell you doing, t’me, woman?” He panted and stared up at the ceiling like a man condemned. 

“Ain’t going nowhere,” you echoed breathlessly, still bouncing, before adding, “Yours.” 

In a few more strokes, he filled you up, grunting through his teeth and cursing up a storm that’d make even the most seasoned sailors look on timidly.

Outside noises of the establishment and the streets of Saint Denis droned back in as both of you came back to your senses. An ocean of things was left unsaid as you redressed and let Arthur lead you out of the room and to a proper hotel for the night. The next morning, you took Arthur up on his offer to get away for a few days. As the train you had boarded for your trip chugged on, something in the distance piqued your interest, a small homestead. You could vaguely make out a woman sitting on the porch and a man, presumably her husband, tending to a horse nearby. Of course, you didn’t know their life or their struggles, but if you could write your own happily ever after, it would be that. Arthur nudged you with his elbow, interrupting your daydream.  

“M’sorry...about everything,” he said, low, barely audible. The perpetual ache in your chest had almost gone numb after so long. Almost. 

“I know.” You replied and turned back to the window. The house was out of sight now, and you had a feeling your fairy tale ending had vanished with it.