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[httpstwilight]

[httpstwilight]

[httpstwilight]

I support perverts. Like all of you for example

[httpstwilight]

Fire Of Zaun Part 2

Silco doesn’t trust you.

Doesn’t like you.

But your skills?

Too dangerous to let the other chem-barons have.

So he hires you.

Keeps you at a distance.

Under surveillance.

Criticizes everything.

And hates that every move you make echoes louder than he wants to admit.

[httpstwilight]

hi Mae, can you write something with John Walker and thunderbolts!reader who has a cat like physiology (claws, speed, senses etc) and experiences heats and him helping her through it? If you're not comfortable with this I completely understand or if you need more information about heats then I can provide more details

when you first explained the concept of heat to him — eyes low, tone even, unwilling to let it sound as desperate as it always became — john had blinked once, twice. you watched the gears clunk slowly behind his eyes. and then, with the sort of dry certainty that could only come from a man who thought himself reasonable, he'd asked “have you ever thought about getting neutered?”

you stared at him for a long, long time. not speaking. not blinking. he stared right back, that damn brow cocked in that signature john walker way that made your tail twitch with irritation.

he was dead serious.

you didn’t respond. not at first. just turned away and let the silence steep. but you should’ve known it wouldn’t stop there — not with him. john had always been too curious about your physiology, too hands-on. clinical, sometimes. not cruel, but not exactly gentle either. the kind of man who touched things not out of affection but experimentation. he prodded the soft fur behind your ears once during briefing — just to see if they’d twitch. later, dragged the pad of his finger across the base of your spine under the excuse of checking a scratch, and grinned when your claws came out by reflex.

“you purr?” he’d asked, amused.

you didn’t answer that either.

but when it happens — when the pressure starts coiling low in your belly, the kind of full-body heat that makes your skin feel two sizes too small, makes your senses burn — you don’t have the strength to keep that same cool distance. not this time.

and of course he notices.

you start small. subtle, you think. brushing past him a little too often. leaning in closer than necessary to look at a mission tablet, chest nearly brushing his bicep. he grins, slow and smug, like he knows exactly what this is. and when you wrap your tail around his thigh — not even trying to hide it now — he laughs. soft. mean.

“you needy, kitty?”

you hate the way your breath catches. hate the sound of your own voice when you mutter shut up and roll your hips forward to brush against his leg, just a little.

he doesn’t shut up, of course. he never does.

he leans in, voice all syrupy drawl. “didn’t know you could get like this. always so pissy on mission. now look at you, fuckin’ purring on my leg like you need me to stuff it outta you.”

you hate him.

you hate how he looks at you. like you’re some twitching little thing in heat, crawling to him because biology demands it — and he’s right.

he’s right, and that’s what makes you clench around nothing.

his hand finds your hip. firm grip, grounding. almost nice. almost. until he says, “what? you want me to fix it? huh?” with that voice, all mock-gentle. like he’s indulging you. like he’s helping.

and god, you let him.

because you can smell the want on him, taste it under your tongue. he’s hard, twitching against your thigh through his pants, and still pretending he’s the one doing you a favor. like he isn’t about to fuck you so slowly, so lazily, that you whine and sob against his neck and claw bloody crescents into his back.

he stretches you open with his fingers first — even though you’re already dripping, already grinding down onto anything he’ll give you. he hums like he’s testing something. watching your cunt clench around his fingers like it’s a lab study, like he’s taking mental notes.

“you always this wet during heat?” he mutters, nuzzling against your jaw. “jesus. i barely touched you.”

he talks the whole time. can’t help himself.

smirks when your hips buck, when your tail lashes and tightens around his thigh. “didn’t even fuck you yet, sweetheart. ‘s this just instinct or are you actually this desperate for me?”

when he finally thrusts in — slow, cruel, to the hilt — you’re already shaking. head thrown back, body slick with sweat, claws dragging along his arms for something to hold. and all he does is groan, roll his hips forward, and say there we go. that’s it. let me help you, baby. like he isn’t using you as much as you’re using him.

he tells you he’ll take care of it. that you’re just worked up. he can help.

you want to spit in his mouth.

instead, you bare your teeth and moan for him, tail curled tight, scenting the skin of his throat.

later, he’ll act like it was all a public service. like he was doing you a favor, even as his hips stutter and he fills you, hand still wrapped around your throat.

he won’t stop grinning for days.

and neither will you.

(thinking about him warping your tail around his hand as leverage and forcing you into and arch while he pounds into you)

[httpstwilight]

@oporayamm the kind of shots I like 😔❤️

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)

[httpstwilight]

do u have any like nsfw hcs about walker too 😪 your bob stuff is great and primarily what im here for but now im thinking

he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.

like everything he’s doing—every thrust, every grip of your hip, every filthy word spat through clenched teeth—is another performance. another mission. and underneath it? there’s a hunger he doesn’t know what to do with.

you notice it early on.

how touch-starved he is without even realizing. how he jolts—visibly—when you first run your hand over his lower stomach, just under the edge of the suit. how he always seems to be bracing for disappointment before you even open your mouth.

and then you praise him.

“you’re doing so good for me, john.”

that is when he breaks. because that’s the kink he’s never been able to admit to—not even to himself.

being told he’s good. being enough. being held down or ridden hard or fed praise like water in a desert. that kind of tenderness short-circuits him. it cuts deeper than the rough stuff ever could.

he doesn’t start off submissive—not in the traditional sense. he’s used to being in control, to leading with physical dominance.

he’ll pin you fast, growl commands in your ear, fuck you face-down on the bed like he’s trying to pound all the doubt out of himself.

and god, is he strong.

the serum didn’t just heighten his strength. it amplified everything—libido included.

he gets hard constantly. it’s frustrating to him, how often he’s thinking about you. the way your thighs look when you’re relaxed. the little gasps you make when he brushes his hand too low. the smell of you when you sweat.

he’ll get half-hard just from hearing your voice over comms.

by the time he gets his hands on you, it’s like something inside him’s been uncaged.

but once you learn what makes him tick?

once you figure out how to press your mouth to his ear and say things like—

“my handsome soldier.”

“you’re so good when you listen.”

“let me take care of you, john.”

—he melts.

he can go from snarling dominance to needy, stuttering mess if you ride the edge of his control the right way.

like, he’ll try to stay in control.

he’ll growl that he’s not going to come yet.

he’ll promise he’s in charge—

and then you moan, call him a good boy, and suddenly he’s gasping out, “fuck, baby—please—,” hips bucking like he’s never been fucked before.

and don’t even get him started on oral.

he’ll fist the sheets, groaning with your mouth around him. he can’t decide if he wants to shove your head down or beg you not to stop.

he doesn’t always say it, but he needs to be wanted.

he gets off on your hunger for him.

some nights, he’s the one guiding you by the hips, whispering how much he missed your pussy, how tight you are, how he wants to fill you up till you’re leaking down your thighs.

other nights, he’s sitting back against the headboard, wide-eyed and flushed, letting you straddle him and fuck yourself on his cock like he’s yours.

and that serum-high libido?

it makes him insatiable.

multiple rounds. sometimes he doesn’t even need recovery time.

he’ll be half-hard again just watching his cum drip out of you.

he’ll pant against your chest, still inside you, voice hoarse as he mutters, “one more. just… just one more.”

he has a thing for being teased, too.

edging.

you cupping him through his pants, dragging it out until he’s growling through gritted teeth, fucking into your hand like he’s about to lose it.

he hates it—until you say:

“that’s it, john. just like that. you’re doing so good for me.”

he’s coming in your palm like a virgin, flushed pink to the tips of his ears, thighs twitching under your grip.

he tries to act like it’s just stress relief. just a way to blow off steam.

but the second your hand goes to his hair, your voice softens, your mouth brushes his ear—

he’s begging, not with words. but with his body.

with the way his hips buck up. with the way he follows your every touch like it’s orders.

heavy, heavy breeding kink as well. he's so mean with it too, pinning you down and using you.

and he always—always—asks afterward:

“was that good?”

even when he’s just left you a mess of slick and bite marks and come. he still needs to hear it. needs you to tell him he’s good. because he is.

but he won’t believe it until it’s coming from your mouth—voice raw, eyes half-lidded, wrecked and whispering it into the curve of his neck.

[httpstwilight]

[httpstwilight]

haven't been posting for a WHILE but i drew my man yesterday

posts reach anyone only when he is there i wonder why

[httpstwilight]

Is this how he looks like if you're on your knees???

[[ I'm sure the tags and reblogs will be super normal about this one ✨ ]]

[httpstwilight]

[httpstwilight]

Hello???? Do you see the thigh muscle??? Also calf??? And bulges in other places??? 😭 Wrap your legs around my neck, sir 🫡

[httpstwilight]

Silco Headcanons

Unfortunately..I like slightly toxic old men that look like they could kill me.

Sfw and NSFW

Silco who doesn’t believe he deserves softness, but finds himself craving yours anyway. He watches the way you pour tea, the way you sit beside him instead of across from him, and every time you reach for him without flinching, he shatters a little more quietly inside.

Silco who lets you touch the scar. The first time, it startled him. But now? He leans into your hand when your thumb grazes beneath his ruined eye. “Don’t look at it like that,” he grits, but his hand is gripping your wrist, not pushing you away.

Silco who lets you sit on the windowsill of his office while he monologues or plans. You hum or play with a ring on your finger while he talks about territory or loyalty. You always listen. Always. And he pretends it doesn’t matter… but he plans better when you're there.

Silco who remembers everything. Your favorite drink, how you like your collar straightened, that offhand comment you made about stars three weeks ago. He doesn’t bring it up but you’ll find his jacket over your shoulders, or a new constellation map pinned to your shared wall, and he’ll simply say, “It was nothing.”

Silco who never raises his voice at you. He commands rooms. He shouts at enemies. But never at you. If you argue, it’s cold, sharp, controlled, but he rarely ever lets it slip. Not with you. You’re the only person in the world he doesn’t want to frighten.

Silco who lets you take his gloves off for him. He could do it himself, but he waits, silent, watching you with sharp eyes while you peel the leather from his fingers like it’s something intimate. It is. He doesn’t say it aloud, but his breath always catches on the last finger.

Silco who listens better when you say things while straddling his lap. Something about your weight grounding him, your fingers in his hair or on his chest while you talk about your day. He nods slowly, his hands on your hips, thumbs rubbing little absent-minded circles. Focused. Tethered.

Sub!Silco who loves control, but adores the power you have over him. The way you can make him wait. Squirm. Beg, even through gritted teeth, pride thick in his throat. “You think I’ll fall apart for you?” he gasps but you already feel him trembling under your touch.

Dom!Silco who commands without raising his voice. A tilt of the head. A quiet, “Come here.” You obey not because you’re afraid, but because his presence wraps around you like smoke..thick, inescapable, and laced with desire.

Dom!Silco who marks you not with bruises, but with memory. Fingers tracing your jaw after he kisses you, lingering on your pulse like he’s branding it with the heat of his palm. He doesn't need the world to see the marks, you know exactly who you belong to.

Sub!Silco who can't help but whisper your name like a prayer when you touch him gently. Your fingers along his scar, your lips against his temple, his breath hitches like it hurts to be loved that softly.

Sub!Silco who trembles under praise like it’s something he's not allowed to have. "Good boy," and he whimpers. Just once. Eyes shut, mouth open, undone by two words like you tore down his defenses with a whisper.

Silco who switches mid-scene sometimes. When he’s on top, commanding, but you push him just right—he flips so fast, biting his own lip as you straddle him. “You really think you can—”

“Yes.” And just like that, he’s yours again.

I need this old man too. Vander and Silco AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. Sorry. The voices are getting to me.

[httpstwilight]

[httpstwilight]

His hands are so caressing…

How can be so good and so bad at the same time?

Literally two different sides, good and evil - like his face.

Yes, like his face.

It’s like two different people - and both sides are beautiful.

Her private monster

[httpstwilight]

he smiles while jinx talks about not wanting time for herself in the same way he smiled listening to felicia’s bravery and raising a child in zaun.

i wonder if he was thinking of that moment, like here i am trying to parent one of yours now… and she reminds me of you.

[httpstwilight]

Just. These. Magnificent. Elegant. Delicious. Perfect. Doing something inexplicable with me. HANDS.

Well just look at this

LOOK AT THIS MAGNIFICENCE

Show me the one who held the owner of these beautiful hands in the mines, I will explain to this person what such hands are really created for.