oporayamm

[oporayamm]

babe wake up, full canon accurate and up-to-date map of the star wars galaxy just dropped

[oporayamm]

@httpstwilight

all the ways i resist you (and all the ways i don't)

summary: you and silco are arguing, has the couch in his office always been this uncomfortable?

pairing: Silco x reader

w/c: 3.2k

notes: established relationship, angst, couple arguing/fighting, smut ahead!!!, angry sex, biting, fluff at the end, they’re stupid and i love them, your honor

read on ao3: here

You shift again, the couch groaning beneath the movement.

Frustration burns in your chest as the stiff armrest refuses to offer even a hint of comfort. It’s never felt this miserable before—so lumpy, so unyielding—but tonight, every imperfection of the old piece of furniture feels magnified. The room feels colder than usual, as if he’d kept all the warmth with him when he stayed behind in the bedroom.

It should be easy to ignore his absence, you should be able to easily fall asleep out of complete spite. After all, you’ve napped here countless times, waiting for Silco to finish his work. It had never mattered that the cushions were uneven or that the legs creaked beneath the slightest movement. His presence had always been enough to soften the discomfort—the muted hum of his thoughts and the rhythmic scratch of his pen lulling you to sleep.

The blanket you always use—the one draped over the back of the sofa as if waiting for you—offers no consolation. It fails to warm you like it normally does, fails to soften the reality of your own decision, instead punishing you for your pride, for your need for a dramatic exit from the bedroom. 

Silco is usually the one banished to the couch when tempers flare—when neither of you are willing to yield, mutual stubbornness clashing like fire against steel. You don’t fight often, but when you do, the silence that follows becomes its own petty battlefield, neither of you willing to be the first to surrender.

Tonight, though, you had been the first to walk away, with the intention of making a grand exit—storming from the bedroom with sharp words lingering in the air, making sure he felt the weight of your absence. It had felt right in the moment—a dramatic exit, fueled by righteous indignation and the fire of your wrath.

Now, hours later, as a spring from one of the old cushions stabs into your side, you’re regretting everything. Just not enough to swallow your pride and turn back.

It had been a stupid fight, you know that much. But this was about principle now, about proving a point. (No matter how ridiculous that point had become.)

The room is unnervingly quiet, save for the distant hum of the Undercity beyond the iron-clad window. The world outside is his domain—he reigns over it with a brutal certainty, a man who’s mere presence commands respect, who’s voice alone can strike fear. He does not tolerate defiance. He makes and breaks men without blinking.

And yet, here you are—curled up on the sofa in his office, stubbornly clinging to your pride, proving once again that in all the world, you are the only person in this city allowed to contradict him. 

He usually loves that about you. Usually.

The couch is miserable, the silence unbearable. And worst of all—you suspect Silco knows you regret it.

You feel him before you hear him—the measured steps, the slow exhale. Despite everything, your body reacts with an involuntary awareness as you pretend to be asleep. You can feel the deliberate way he stops behind you and waits, as if giving you a chance to abandon your act before calling it out directly.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Silco mutters, voice low and edged with exhaustion. “Come back to bed.”

You keep your breathing slow. Even. The furniture creaks beneath even the smallest of your movements and you can feel a cramp forming in the side of your neck, but you remain stubborn.

He scoffs. “You’re a terrible actress. I know you’re awake—you snore when you sleep.”

The sheer audacity of that statement causes indignation to flare hot and immediate within your chest. “I do not!”

His chuckle is low and laced with something infuriatingly smug. “You do. It’s adorable, in fact.”

“That’s a lie.” You huff, still refusing to turn over.

“If it were a lie, you wouldn’t have responded.”

You glare into the darkness, gripping the blanket tighter, refusing to let him win that easily.

“Scoot in,” he orders. 

You don’t move. 

A pause—and then, without hesitation, his hands find your waist, firm and impatient, and practically shove you deeper into the couch. The motion forces a startled gasp from you, but before you can protest, he’s wedging himself in behind you with infuriating determination, fully committing to this absurd act of retaliation. 

The heat of him is immediate—solid and unyielding as his chest presses flush against your back, his breath skimming the nape of your neck as he attempts to fit into the impossibly small space. The couch groans beneath the added weight, protesting as he tries to adjust his position into some semblance of comfort.

You don’t need to turn over to know how ridiculous he looks—you can already picture it. The way his long legs dangle awkwardly off the edge, one foot braced against the floor in a desperate attempt to balance, limbs bent at angles that cannot possibly be comfortable. 

His arm, trapped between your body and the back of the couch, twitches slightly as he tries not to completely lose circulation, but he doesn’t get up. He exhales again, slower this time, settling into the discomfort like he’s decided that if you’re going to be stubborn, he’ll be worse.

You should be annoyed, livid. But instead, you feel a slow, childish satisfaction creep in.

It’s petty. It’s immature—the satisfaction of knowing that, for all his effortless power—for all the ways people shrink beneath his gaze, how his name alone commands obedience—he is entirely, utterly helpless against the sheer, humiliating inadequacy of his very own couch.

You had stormed out for dramatic effect, meant to exile yourself with purpose, meant to make a statement. And now? Now, he has turned your exile into his own inconvenience.

Serves him right.

You shift just enough to make it worse for him, hearing the faintest grunt of irritation in response. 

"This is ridiculous," he mutters.

"You should’ve let me sleep, then." you hiss, voice barely above a whisper.

The silence stretches, thick with lingering irritation, neither of you ready to let the fight go.

Then, a low, pained groan from the man behind you.

"Has this damned couch always been this uncomfortable?"

You don’t bother hiding your smirk. "Wouldn’t know. It usually belongs to you after a fight."

Silco exhales sharply through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "I’m starting to think I’ve committed some kind of sin against my spine."

"You have," you agree. "It’s called arrogance."

He huffs, adjusting once again behind you as if any amount of repositioning will make the couch tolerable.

(It won’t.)

You could tell him that. But you say nothing, because you are far too pleased with the way he’s struggling to fit.

“I’m still mad at you.” You murmur.

“Likewise,” Silco replies without hesitation.

“We’re still fighting.”

“Obviously.” He grunts.

"I’m still not talking to you," you declare.

"That’s fine," he mutters. "But this arrangement is beneath us. Separate beds will not be tolerated."

Even though he can’t see you, you roll your eyes at his dramatics. It’s hardly the first time you’ve slept apart. Hell, most of the time, it’s his fault—either because of stubbornness, or business, or whatever else keeps him locked away in his office long past midnight. He acts as if the nights he’s spent locked away in his office, wrapped in work and silence, have never existed.

And yet, here he is, declaring it like some unbreakable rule.

Another pause. His body shifts behind yours, adjusting to the sheer impracticality of squeezing himself onto the ancient couch. You should feel victorious about it, should relish the way the situation is entirely his fault for insisting on being here instead of leaving you in peace.

But you don’t feel triumphant. Just restless.

Still, he’s warm against your back—his breath slow, steady, making it impossible to pretend you’re unaffected.

Because no matter how stubborn you are, how much you want to cling to your anger, you simply cannot ignore the way his his body molds so effortlessly to yours despite the sheer impracticality of the sofa beneath you, the way his slow, even breathing betrays exhaustion, causing goosebumps to spread across your skin.

Even as your irritation simmers, there’s a part of you—the smallest, most insufferable part—that can’t help but notice how well you fit together, even here, even like this.

You shift slightly, just enough to make him even more uncomfortable.

It’s petty. It’s immature. But still, it makes you feel just a little better.

You lie there, feeling his body press against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. The silence between you is thick with unspoken words and lingering anger. But as the minutes tick by, you become aware of something else—a growing hardness pressing against your lower back. You freeze, your eyes widening in disbelief.

"You cannot be serious right now," you mutter, exasperated.

He hums softly, a low vibration against the back of your neck. "What can you mean?" His voice is laced with amusement, which only serves to irritate you more.

"You cannot seriously have a hard-on right now," you groan, stabbing an elbow to his side in an attempt to dislodge him, but he only presses closer, his arm tightening around your waist.

He shushes you gently, fingers tracing light patterns on your belly, just below the hem of your shirt. "Quiet, now," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, "you're not talking to me, remember?"

You can feel the frustration rolling off of him, mirroring your own as he continues to touch you. You both know your fight was stupid and petty, but it seems neither of you are willing to back down yet.

“Still mad at me, I see.” you mumble, your voice laced with a mix of desire and annoyance as his fingers trail lightly over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He takes his time teasing you, his touch maddeningly light as he explores your body.

Silco scoffs in response, not stopping his ministrations. “Oh, I’m mad alright. Mad at you for being so stubborn, so infuriatingly proud.”

His lips are on your neck, kissing, sucking, marking you as his. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the hardness of his cock pressing against your bottom, but he makes no move to rush, perfectly content to draw out your torment. 

His touch sparks a familiar heat that spreads throughout your body despite your best efforts to resist. You feel him inch higher, brushing the underside of your breasts. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to ignore the way your traitorous body responds.

You’re still mad at him, so mad, but your body doesn’t seem to care. It’s all too eager to respond to his touch, his kisses. He cups you fully, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, causing you to shiver at the stark contrast of his calloused fingers against the soft, sensitive skin. You bite your lip to suppress a moan, trying to hold onto the frustration that keeps slipping away with every stroke of his fingers, every nip of his teeth.

His hands are skilled, knowing exactly how to touch you to drive you wild. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, pulling gently, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You squirm, trying to press against him to ease the ache building inside you.

His cock is hard and insistent against you, and you can feel his desire even through his anger. He wants you, despite being mad at you. You feel a sense of satisfaction in that—a primitive, feminine pride. You drive him just as crazy as he drives you.

His hips begin to move—a slow, deliberate rutting against your backside, the hardness of him unmistakable through the thin fabric of your sleep clothes. You can feel every inch of him in the way he grinds against you, stoking a fire that you can’t ignore.

“Silco,” you whisper, voice hoarse with need. “Please.”

He chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “Please what, my dear? You’re not supposed to be talking to me, remember?”

You groan, your body arching back against him, seeking more friction, more of him. “You know what I want,” you manage to bite out.

His hands leave your breasts, trailing down your belly, teasing the edge of your sleep shorts. He kisses a path down your neck to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, leaving marks that will linger long after the night is over. You feel your pulse racing, your body aching with need. He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard.

His fingers dip below the waistband of your panties. You hold your breath as his fingers immediately find your center, wet and ready for him. “My, my…Is this all for me?”

He doesn’t wait for a response as he begins to circle your clit, his touch feather-light and driving you mad with need. You push against him, urging him on. Silco obliges, sliding his fingers inside you, his thumb taking over the torment of your clit. You moan, eyes fluttering closed as you give into the sensation, your body moving with his, taking everything he offers.

His rutting becomes more insistent, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. You can feel his desperation, his need, and it only serves to heighten your own pleasure. You’re close, so close, body wound tight and ready to snap.

“Come for me,” He growls close to your ear. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He rides it out with you, his fingers slowing as you come down from your high. “More, Silco, I need more.”

“Tell me what you want.” He grunts, his cock still hard and ready against you as he pulls you close. “Be specific.”

“Your cock,” you beg, grinding back against him, desperate for more. “I want your cock.”

He shimmies your sleep shorts down frantically, fingers brushing against your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He positions himself at your entrance, but doesn't push in, just teases you with the head of his shaft.

"You're so wet for me," he murmurs, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. "So ready."

"Stop teasing," you snap, your voice a mix of desperation and annoyance. "Just fuck me already."

He chuckles, but obliges, just barely—pushing in slowly, inch by inch, drawing it out, ensuring you feel every single inch of him. You moan, your body clenching around him, but you refuse to give in completely. You refuse to let him win that easily.

"Still mad?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in your ear as he moves, slow and deliberate, driving you insane.

"Very," you manage to bite out, your body moving with his despite your best efforts to hold back.

He smiles against your neck, biting down hard with jagged teeth, nearly drawing blood. "Good. I like it when you're feisty."

"Please," you beg again, quickly becoming desperate. You can feel the way he stretches you, fills you, and it's simply not enough. You need more. “I need—"

"For someone who's not talking to me, you have a lot to say, my girl."

Before you can shoot something back, he bottoms out all at once, hitting that perfect, sweet spot that takes all intelligible thought out of your head. You moan—a long, low sound of pure pleasure, clenching around him as he begins to move, drawing out your pleasure and torturing you in the best possible way.

"You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "So tight. So wet. And all mine."

His fingers find your clit, teasing you. You moan, your body arching back against him, seeking more friction, more of him. He obliges, his touch becoming more insistent, more demanding.

He slips the fingers of his other hand into your mouth, and you begin to suck on them instinctively, your eyes fluttering closed as you give in to the sensation. He groans, his member pulsing inside you as he feels your mouth wrap around his fingers.

"You like that, don't you?”

You offer a muffled moan in response as his fingers work their magic. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, only to trail them down once again to your breast, circling the wet digits around your nipple.

He continues pounding into you, his anger and desire a potent mix. You can feel your orgasm building, body tensing as you climb higher and higher, but he's not ready to let you go over the edge, not yet.

"Silco," you cry out, your voice a desperate plea. "I’m close, I—”

He shushes you, finally giving in to what you've been begging for, his cock driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless, clenching tightly around him as you finally, blessedly, come undone—soaking his front in the process. He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you as he finds his release, his body shaking with the force of it.

As you both come down from your high, he pulls you close, his body wrapping around yours possessively. You lie there, spent and satisfied, mind a blur of confusion and desire. You're still angry at him, still frustrated, but in this moment, none of that matters. All that exists is the two of you, entwined and breathless, a tangle of limbs and shared pleasure.

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck—a silent apology, a silent confession.

"I can't sleep without you anymore," he admits quietly, his voice barely a whisper—so soft you almost don't hear it. His voice is vulnerable, raw, and honest in a way you rarely see from him. “I need you with me. Even if we're fighting."

You know he wouldn’t say it if you weren’t facing away from each other. He wouldn’t be able to say it in the light of day, where he’d have to see the admission reflected in your eyes, where you could take that vulnerability and hold onto it too tightly.

You smile and snuggle back against him, your heart aching with a mix of tenderness and frustration. "I feel the same.”

He kisses your neck again, a soft, gentle kiss that contradicts the intensity of what you just shared. "We'll resume our fight in the morning," he promises.

Despite everything, a ghost of a smile tugs at your lips.  Warmth curls in your chest—not forgiveness, not surrender, but something quiet. Something sure.

Neither of you make a move toward the bedroom. Instead, Silco settles deeper against you, still inside you, trapping you in the mess of limbs and bad decisions. His arm curls around your waist, anchoring you together.

The fight isn’t over. The unresolved tension still lingers, settled between you, waiting for its second act. You aren’t ready to let it go—aren’t ready to say sorry.

In the morning, when the sun rises, you’ll resume your fight with sleep in your bodies. You’ll pick up the pieces of the battle, of the stubborn pride that neither of you are willing to cast aside quite yet.

But tonight—tonight, you just sleep, your bodies entwined, anger temporarily forgotten, as you lie on the stupid, lumpy couch, your hearts beating as one. 

And for this moment, it's enough.

if you've read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart!!! i truly treasure all comments, reblogs and feedback. please share your thoughts below <3

[oporayamm]

Silco love memes I made while crying

[oporayamm]

Deadline 24 June

Subject : Collecting the third installment for my university fees for me and my sister

Current process :

USD 12,300 / $13,445

Hello my friends, thank you very much for your donation regarding the university fees. $1,355 has been collected out of $2,500, and $1,145 is still left to pay the third installment in a maximum of 5 days, my friends, so that we can enter the first quiz, please donate so that my sister and I are not deprived of education, almost two-thirds of the amount has been collected and the last third is still left, we can do it, friends, please donate

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[oporayamm]

Update on her design, I decided to change her name to sound more Irish and change up her hair abit because apparently I make my OC's blonde too much--

Everyone meet Aithne Fatima Luciel :D

I think I should redraw my Hogwarts legacy mc it's been awhile

This was back at 2021 or smth

I miss playing the game smh-

These are my old art sksksk oh my old artsyle is something else-

[oporayamm]

REMEMBER. gender is NOT the same thing as sex.

gender is what you identify as, while sex is what i’ll be having with bucky barnes tonight.

stay informed.

[oporayamm]

[AU] The Sea's Lullaby

Silco x Fem OC || Pirate X Mermaid || Tragic love || Slow burn, Forbidden love, Angst, Tragic Ending.

TW: Depiction of violence, Slight gore depiction, Blood, Graphic depictions of violence: including physical combat, descriptions of injuries, and death.

Summary:

On an island of power and man, a cunning young navigator charts the seas with one thing in mind, dreaming of a world unchained by tyrants.

On the waves below, in the hush of coral halls and sun-dappled reefs, a golden mermaid lives untouched by man's greed, her days filled with laughter, lullabies, and the gentle rhythm of tides. When the currents shift and these two worlds—one of rebellion, one of reverie—inevitably collide, creating such a warm yet tragic tale.

──𓆉⋆.˚𓇼⋆.˚𓆟°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧𓆟˚.⋆𓇼˚.⋆𓆉──

The salt clung to his hair like memory, wind curling past his ear in whispers only the sea could speak. The crash of waves against the hull was relentless, a rhythm as familiar as breath. A ship was never truly home—not when it was always moving, always somewhere between nowhere and never. But for Silco, who hadn’t had a home since boyhood, this was close enough.

The deck groaned beneath his boots, the wood swollen from last night’s rain and the day before’s blood. Salt clung to the air, thick and constant, laced with the stench of sweat and gunpowder. Another raid. Another crate looted. Another sunrise too bright for eyes that had barely closed. The days bled together like spilled ink, no beginning, no end—just the endless sway of the sea and the taste of freedom on a knife’s edge.

But it was freedom all the same.

Silco leaned against the rail, notebook in one hand, the other shading his eyes as he stared skyward—watching clouds like a man searching for omens. The wind tugged at his coat, flaring it open like wings as he stood still amid the chaos of men and waves.

At least out here, no banner flew above his head but the one they chose. No crown barked orders. No titles dictated his worth. Just the sea, the stars, and the choices he carved with his own two hands.

A heavy arm dropped around his shoulder.

“Daydreamin’ again, lil’ navigator?” Vander’s voice came like thunder in his ear, thick with laughter and ale from last night’s binge. The captain’s bulk leaned into him, all sweat and warmth and the stench of salt-soaked leather.

Silco grunted in protest, swatting him off with a shove of his notebook. “You’re heavy as a dying whale, Vander. Get off me.”

Vander only roared louder, amused. “Staring at the clouds again, eh? What was it pegasi’s and griff’ns?” 

“Prob’ly thinkin’ ‘bout that maid from Eastcliff, they stayed in the room for hours!” Before Silco could reply, Felicia’s voice cut across the deck, sharp as a cutlass. She hauled a crate onto her shoulder with a grunt. A chorus of cackles rose around them—half the crew now joining in, eager to jeer the ship’s quietest man.

“Hah! Who can resist the charm of this ol' fox?” Vander tousled Silco’s hair like he was a cabin boy, drawing another annoyed groan.

“She was fine,” Silco muttered, brushing his hair back into place. “Not exactly a thrilling night, though.” He jabbed a finger into Vander’s chest, raising a brow. “You’re the one who got two in your bed.”

Vander raised both hands, grinning like a devil. “What can I say? Be rude not to accept a generous offer.”

Silco scoffed and turned away, the amusement tugging faintly at his lips as he climbed the steps toward the quarterdeck. Vander followed, as always, never letting the silence grow for long.

“Still dreamin’ of toppin’ the crown?” Vander asked lightly, though his eyes sharpened.

Silco paused halfway up, glancing over his shoulder. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You know me too well.”

“Aye,” Vander said, catching up with a thud of boots on the steps. “No maid’s ever stayed in that head of yours. But kings and maps? That’s another tale. and 'sides, yer my brother" he added with a shrug

At the top, Silco crossed to the navigation table, placing his notebook beside the salt-stained map spread across the surface. He smoothed the parchment with care, fingers trailing the lines like scripture.

“The Crown ‘s spreading again,” he said, voice lower now, calmer. “Word is they’re claiming more islands—tightening the leash. That village where we resupplied? They’ll be next.”

He marked it with a stroke of charcoal. Vander grimaced. “Another good one falls,” Vander muttered, leaning on the table.

“That’s why I wanted us gone before dawn,” Silco added, glancing at him. “Even if half the crew were still hugging barrels from last night.”

Vander chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “ ‘Ye, the crew weren’t too pleased about that, lemme tell you.”

Silco turned slightly, one brow lifting with practiced ease. “What can I say, Captain?” he replied with a dry smile. “It was rather fun watching you suffer.”

That earned a full-bellied laugh from Vander, “A cruel bastard, you are.” who clapped him on the back with such force that Silco had to catch the railing to keep upright.

Silco calmly straightened his coat, dusting off his shoulder like the weight of his captain’s arm hadn’t nearly caved him in. “Only when I’m right.”

“Well then,” Vander grinned, stepping up beside him, “we won’t be needin’ to settle on another island for a while. But keep your sharp eyes on the waves, oh little navigator.”

Silco shot him a sidelong glare. “Just because you’re built like an ape doesn’t make me little, Captain.”

“Aye, it does,” Vander said over his shoulder, already striding back toward the quarterdeck steps, his laughter still trailing in the salt air.

Silco muttered something under his breath and raised his monocular, scanning the blue horizon. Nothing unusual—just the endless heave of the sea and its ever-changing moods. The occasional flick of water spirits curled beneath the surface, teasing the edge of reality like they always did when the water was calm. Silver-scaled fish darted in schools, swift and bright.

Then something else caught his eye. Fins—long and graceful. Scales that shimmered like stolen moonlight. A movement just below the surface, quick and swift.

Mermaids. Prized by many pirates, feared by smarter ones. Men sang about them with ale on their breath and foolishness in their hearts, but Silco knew better. Everyone worth their life did. Take the sea’s children and you’d bring its wrath upon you tenfold. The deep didn’t forget. And neither did its daughters.

He lowered the monocular, a thoughtful crease between his brows. The sea had its own rules. You didn’t steal from her unless you were ready to bleed for it.

“The weather’s fair,” he called absently to Vander’s retreating back, “and I see no other sails just yet. For now, we’ve got peace—if such a thing exists out here.”

He tucked the monocular back into his coat.

Vander’s voice echoed from below as he vanished down the stairwell to the hold, “Keep watch, Silco! Maybe the sea’ll send you a better jewel!”

Another burst of laughter followed—louder this time, joined by the hoots and jeers of the crew. Silco could hear the telltale rumble of barrels being overturned, the excited shuffle of boots. Probably beetle fights again. Vander never missed a chance to gamble away coin on crawling things.

Silco exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a half-smile. “Idiot.” Still, his gaze drifted back toward the waves, just in case the sea was still watching too.

﹏𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 ❀‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹｡𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 𖦹✩𓇼 ˖°‧𓆉 ｡⊹˚₊𝄞 ♪ ˚₊‧❀ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝﹏

Far below the land of men, where sunlight fractured into beams of gold and sapphire, the sea held kingdoms older than memory. Coral palaces, reef cities, and caves humming with ancient lullabies—home to nymphs, spirits, and the most elegant of them all: the mermaids. Their world was hidden from human eyes by nature’s cunning and a veil of soft sea-magic, cast long ago to protect the sacred waters. And within that unseen realm swam one of its brightest treasures. Her scale’s gleaming with gold that caught the light like polished moonstone sliced through the water as she darted beneath the seafloor, her heart thrumming with the joy of speed. Golden-pale strands of hair fanned behind her, dancing in the current like silk ribbons. Cool water rushed through the gills along her neck and ribs, feeding her lungs with life and adrenaline with a hint of joy.

It was her favorite time of day—when the sea was hers alone, when the horizon glistened with morning and the world had not yet woken to ruin. Her pearl-gray eyes took in the vibrant waters around her. Shoals of fish shimmered in synchronized movement, flickers of silver and blue darting through fields of anemones. It was perfect, she thought, this life beneath the waves. A world unspoiled. She angled upward toward the sunlit shallows, a grin curling at her lips. ‘Oh what song should i sing for the people of the island now?’ she thought in her mind,  Nishita had long become a whispered legend among the island folk. They didn’t understand her words, but they understood the sound of her voice. Her lullabies— soft and otherworldly —had sent countless children to sleep beneath moonlit windows. Parents spoke of the sea-spirit who sang peace into their little ones. They didn’t know her name. But they knew her comfort. And Nishita? She never minded. She loved watching the smiles of sleepy children from afar, tucked safe in their homes. For her, joy was something meant to be shared.

“Nishita! Wait up now!” The voice came from behind, warm and familiar. She knew who and turned mid-swim, twirling backward with a delighted laugh as a slower figure tried to catch up. “Eli!” she teased, her voice echo in the water, swimming in her normal pace with her posture face him, “you’re so slow! Such a guppy!” He pouted, fins flaring slightly as he tried to keep pace. “Not my fault! I’m used to walking now—blame the legs.” Nishita cackled, flipping forward with a flick of her tail that sent a wave tumbling straight into Eli’s face. It knocked him off-balance, his arms flailing for a moment before he recovered, sputtering bubbles in protest. “Serves you right for spending too much time among the land people,” she called, grin wide as a crescent moon. “Your fins have gone soft!” “Have not!” he grumbled, flattening his tousled silver hair. But even through the glare, he laughed—short, sharp, familiar. Her favorite kind. Their teasing was as old as their friendship. Eli—her constant companion since guppy-hood. They had been raised side by side in kelp-woven nests, not of blood but she’s much like a brother to her.  Eli swam beside her now, puffing his chest and flaring the small gills on his neck as he huffed dramatically. “Hey, at least the humans are more advanced in their thinking. And you? Still stuck with your mermaid tail. You’re past of age, Nishy—you could get an enchantment easily. ” Nishita rolled her eyes so hard it nearly turned her upside down. “Oh yes, so advanced,” she said, voice in a thick human accent with mockery.  She surged ahead again, twirling with the current, letting the ocean carry her speed. He followed, slower than he used to be. 

Most merfolk took their enchantments when they came of age. It's not a scared ritual, more of a want than a need, the sea witch or warlock only need pearls and gems for payment, and after that, once a mermaid comes in contact with land, they will have legs. Free to use as long as they keep wearing the enchanted necklace or bracelet.  But magic always came with another price. She could see it in Eli. The way he lagged behind nowadays, where once they’d raced manta rays, selkies, and sea sprites. Now all she can watch is the heaviness in his movement, the slight drag of his tail. Her old friend, quick as a storm current, now felt like he swam through tar. So no—she’d never asked for legs. Never needed to. The islanders rarely saw her—unless she let them. She used to never reveal herself but every once awhile near the beach she would- but she would never come out of the water fully. Humans are still humans her mother warn her, so she’s still careful.  They never heard her words—not that they would have understood. But her voice , they heard. That was enough. All she did every night was slip into the cave behind the island, the one hidden beneath jagged rocks and moss-covered ledges, where seafoam kissed stone and echoes lived forever. There, her melody poured out like a blessing, rising with the tide and curling into the trees. A lullaby with no language—only feeling. And somehow, the humans had known. They built things near her cove—devices with strings and metal that echoed sound. They hung parts of it on branches. And at night, her song hummed through the trees like a lullaby from the sea itself. Children fell asleep smiling. Mothers hummed along, unknowingly.  She hadn’t expected thanks but they left her offerings anyway—fish, still cool from morning catch. Starfruit wrapped in reef leaves. Tiny carved toys, bright as coral, placed carefully at the mouth of the cave as though each was a prayer. It made her heart ache. In the good way. In return, she sometimes left behind pearls, various colors from moonlight to pink ones of coral’s, or shells shaped like stars. Trinkets tucked between the rocks. The island was rich on its own so they dont really depend on her gift’s, but she still saw children wear them sometimes—strung on cords, tucked behind ears. A secret between sea and skin. “Oh! I remember one of the merchants said they’ll be bringing a book about technology,” Eli said breathlessly as he finally caught up to her. Nishita tilted her head, listening. She recognized some of the human words he and her father had taught her over the years—advance , technology, strange syllables with sharp edges that she only half-understood. She could read the marks they used on paper, sure, but human voices still sounded like gargled guppy when they spoke.

“And will it help us sea folk?” she asked curiously. “It could’ve , if the elders weren’t so caught up with tradition,” Eli grumbled, flicking his tail in irritation. “You just have to—what’s the word you taught me— amaze them!” she grinned, making a grand sweeping gesture with her hands, fingers sparkling like sun on tide. Eli laughed, a deep, familiar sound. “Sure, Nishy. Maybe one day. Could help a ton of us, really.” Nishita answered with a crooked thumbs-up, and a grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Then, she turned back toward the surface—where light broke through like shattered glass, and the shape of the island had already begun to bloom ahead. The water grew warmer there, nearer the shallows, the sun shining making her tan-scale skin glow, her lips crept to a smile and swam fast again.

﹏𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 ❀‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹｡𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 𖦹✩𓇼 ˖°‧𓆉 ｡⊹˚₊𝄞 ♪ ˚₊‧❀ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝﹏

“Hey! The mermaid is back! Mama, mama! ” a child shrieked with delight, dashing barefoot across the sun-warmed sand to a house near the beach, voice high and bright with wonder.

Nishita crawls up just at the shoreline, tail sweeping lazily in the tide. Her grey pearl eyes lit up the moment she heard the child’s call. The sun kissed her tan-pearl scale body and she soak the sun in. 

“Hiiiii, mermaid!” another small voice called from farther down the beach.

Nishita perked up, her fin-like ears twitching. She beamed, baring teeth that were a little too sharp, a little too jagged for land folk—but none of the children seemed to mind. If anything, they marveled.

“Oooo! How sharp—!” one was reaching out her hand to her, Nishita flinch slightly, her fin ears drop.

“Now, now—keep your distance,” a woman said gently, appearing with a toddler balanced on her hip. “Our mermaid’s a shy one, remember?”

Nishita gave her a respectful nod and settled in the wet sand, her shimmering tail still cradled by the sea. The tide licked at her scales like it missed her.

“It’s not night yet, dear mermaid,” the woman added kindly. “Why are you here so early?”

But her eyes drifted toward the figure coming up the path behind Nishita—Eli, standing tall and awkward, his gills flattened and his legs were wrapped with a green cloth that was once his scales.

“Hi there, Miss Melia,” Eli said in surprisingly clear human speech.

Nishita, not understanding the words, tilted her head, uninterested in the conversation. She's still studying human languange, but for now her connection to the people is song. So she turned her attention to the children, who now began crowding around her as she opened a small netted pouch from around her waist.

Shells the color of dawn. Tiny glass crabs. Bits of sea-glass smooth as rain-polished stone. She held them up with wide eyes, grinning as the children’s hands reached, gentle and awestruck.

“Oh mer-boy,” Miss Melia said with a knowing smile, “you haven’t been up in a while. You know our golden mermaid here?”

“Friends from childhood,” Eli replied, running a hand through his damp hair. “We don’t usually come up together, but she wanted to see how the kids were doing.”

The woman chuckled as her daughter wriggled free and ran toward Nishita, who welcomed her with open arms and a pearl offered in her palm.

“Well then,” Miss Melia said, “the merchants are just starting to set up. I’ve got to keep an eye on the little ones—my husband’s off at the market. You go enjoy yourself.” She gave Eli a firm pat on the shoulder, then shoved him off in a way only mothers could get away with.

“ KIDS! ” she called out suddenly, hands on her hips. “She is not a horse—get down off her!”

Eli turned with a laugh as he saw the chaos unfold. Two toddlers had somehow climbed onto Nishita one on her lap and the other to her shoulder, one tangling their fingers into her hair while another tugged playfully at her delicate fin. The older children were trying valiantly to usher them off and teach them to be gentle, but Nishita only laughed—a watery, bright sound as she tried to balance all the limbs around her.

Eli shook his head fondly and continued on to the market, the laughter and lull of the ocean still trailing behind him.

He padded barefoot along the winding path toward the market, the earth warm beneath his feet, damp with morning dew. The village was already stirring—doors creaked open, crates scraped against wood, and voices rose in the soft, sleepy cadence of island life.

He greeted everyone in passing with a cheerful wave, standing out in his sea-blue tunic amidst the earth-toned garb of the villagers.

“Oh, mer-boy! ” came a familiar voice, rough as driftwood but kind. “Off to bury your head in books again?”

Eli turned with a grin to see Old Albert, perched on his usual stool, puffing a pipe and watching the morning unfold.

“Yes, sir Albert!” Eli beamed, his fins twitching slightly at his sides, walking closer to where albert is perched up “Is the merchant here yet? I want to get the new book—he promised one about the steam-powered ships this time!”

The old man chuckled, eyes crinkling beneath his bushy brows. “Hold your fins, lad. He’s still setting up. Us landfolk take a bit longer to wake, y’know.”

Eli laughed, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, barely able to stay still. “Oh, I just can’t wait!” he beamed, practically glowing. “He always brings something new—did you know last time he had a compass that glowed in the dark? And it wasn’t even algae!”

Albert chuckled, shaking his head at the boy who still marveled at every odd trinket and charm the land offered. “You and your babble,” he muttered, though his tone was more fond than annoyed. “How ‘bout you wait a spell, eh? Sit your fins down and enjoy the morning. Not everyone’s ready for your firecracker energy just yet.”

He patted the spot on the bench beside him, and Eli sat, still jittery with excitement, but quieter now. The market slowly came alive before them. Stalls creaked open. Baskets of fruit and cloth were hoisted high. Merchants bartered, barked greetings, or clinked cups of morning brew together. It reminded Eli, faintly, of the markets back home—only instead of tailfins slicing through currents, there were boots scraping on dirt. Instead of kelp banners floating on water, there were cloth canopies rippling in the breeze.

Humans weren’t all that different, he thought—not really.

He was halfway through the thought when Albert nudged him and offered a small paper packet. “You eat crackers?”

Eli blinked, eyeing the dry, crumbling biscuit with suspicion. He sniffed at it, cautiously, then took a bite. It crumbled like sand on his tongue—but sweet, and a little salty too. He smiled wide and kept chewing. “Human food is the best! ” he declared, crumbs on his lips.

Albert laughed and handed him the whole pack. “You know, you ain’t supposed to take food from strangers.”

“You’re not a stranger, Sir Albert,” Eli replied, far too earnestly. “You’re a friend!”

That made the old man pause, one brow lifting at the boy’s simple, absolute trust. Naïve, perhaps. But it disarmed him just the same.

“I just wish folks would stop calling me ‘mer-boy,’ though,” Eli added with a frown. “My name is—”

“Ah! Up, up—none of that now!” Albert quickly shoved another cracker into his mouth. “You tryin’ to curse the island, huh?”

Eli muffled a protest behind his chewing, slouching with a sulky pout.

Albert was an old pirate, and old pirates were superstitious down to their bones, well–half since albert has a peg for a leg. You never spoke a sea child’s name aloud. Not yours, not anyone’s. To call the name of a mermaid was to tempt the sea to rise and take back what it lent. That’s what the elders said, anyway. Eli thought it nonsense. Still… he followed the rule. Mostly because Nishita had drilled it into him.

“Our name is only for us to keep,” she’d scolded once, tugging his ear hard enough to sting. “You want to ruin our friendship to the humans over a silly name? You won’t get your books again.”

She’d been furious that day. He remembered that well. But she’d forgiven him, eventually.

“Yes, Sir Albert,” he grumbled, his fins on his arms slumped down, getting another mouthful of biscuit, slumping back on the bench. “I won’t bring… uh… destruction to the island.”

Albert gave a satisfied grunt. 

﹏𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 ❀‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹｡𓆉⋆｡˚⋆❀ 𖦹✩𓇼 ˖°‧𓆉 ｡⊹˚₊𝄞 ♪ ˚₊‧❀ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝﹏

After a while of laughter and sand-covered play, Nishita knew it was time to leave. Night was still far from falling, and the sun hung high above the waves, casting golden ripples through the shallows. She gave the children a final wave and slipped back into the sea, her shimmering tail disappearing beneath the foam. As she swam, letting the cool currents glide over her skin, something caught her eye—movement, fluid and bright, like the flicker of reef colors dancing in the distance. She narrowed her eyes against the sunlight filtering through the water. Then she smiled. “Hey, guys!” Nishita called, recognizing the familiar glint of scales and the echo of laughter just ahead. Three mermaids turned toward her, their forms sleek and graceful as they hovered among strands of drifting seaweed. The one with thick curls and a sunset-colored tail was the first to speak. “Nishita! Were you just coming from the island?” Helia’s voice carried light teasing. “Awfully early for your lullaby shift, isn’t it?” Nishita laughed softly, brushing golden strands from her face. “I was dropping off trinkets for the kids—and Eli. He’s desperate to get his hands on a new book.” Helia snorted. “That does sound like Eli.” Before Nishita could respond, another voice chimed in. “You should come with us!” Clara, bright as sunshine, flipped her lemon-yellow tail with excitement. Her golden hair floated like sea foam around her shoulders. “There’s a cove past the sea stacks where the sirens say some pirates passed through. They’ve already eaten their fill, so we’re just going to pick through what’s left. Jewels, maybe even a trinket or two!” Nishita’s laugh was warm, but her head tilted in apology. “Oh, Clara. I’d love to, truly—but my mother’s waiting near the northern reef. I promised I’d help her today.” Clara pouted and wrapped her arms around Helia’s shoulders dramatically, tail swishing in protest. “I’ll make sure to grab something good for you,” Nyx offered with a sly grin. Her indigo tail shimmered like a twilight storm, and her long, dark hair drifted behind her in lazy ribbons. “A pearl bracelet, maybe? A ring with jewels?”

Nishita rolled her eyes playfully. “That would be lovely, ladies. I’ll see you later, alright? Don’t stir up too much trouble.” The trio giggled as they swam off in the opposite direction, still chatting and teasing among themselves, leaving a trail of shimmering scales in their wake. Nishita turned and glided toward the reef, her thoughts shifting to the gentle rhythm of daily life. With her father away on another journey to the human world—searching for rare herbs and new healing techniques—it was up to her to help her mother. Their coral village relied on her mother’s ointment shop, the only one of its kind, nestled between a cradle of sea anemones and glowing sponge gardens. Nishita didn’t mind. Her mother gave her the freedom to swim as she pleased, so long as she returned to help her out.  “Do you think Eli likes you, dear?” Her mother’s voice slipped into her ears like the current—gentle, teasing, and far too well-timed. Nishita jolted from her thoughts, nearly slicing her fingers on a thick strand of kelp. She had been zoning out, thinking about which melody to sing tonight when her mother’s absurd question tugged her back into reality. “Mom?” she groaned, half-scandalized as she turned sharply toward her. “Eli? Really? All he ever fantasizes about are books and the world above.”

With an exaggerated huff, Nishita swung her obsidian hoe through a clump of seaweed, swift and clean. “And I’m pretty sure his type has legs. I, in case you haven’t noticed, very much do not.” Her mother chuckled, the sound soft like the hush of tide over coral. She was crouched near a moss-covered stone, her fingers gently peeling away the green growth and tucking it into a woven basket. “I was just wondering, my dear. That’s all. It’s just…” Her tone softened. “It got me thinking. I won’t be around forever, but I know the sea will guide you. If it allows it, your match will come.” “Mother, beloved,” Nishita said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She turned, her tail coiling beneath her as she faced her. “Even if a man fell from the sky right now, I still wouldn’t fall in love. Love at first sight is nonsense! Well—except for you and Dad.” Her eyes drifted over her mother’s face, and she paused. Her mother was still beautiful in a way the sea itself envied—hair the color of driftwood and dark oak he sees on the island cascading to her back, skin dark bronzed and scales the color of burnished gold that shimmered when the light caught them. Her eyes, pale and pearlescent, were wise and soft, a contrast to Nishita’s stormy greys. “No wonder Dad folded like wet seaweed,” she muttered, rolling her eyes with a small grin. Her mother laughed. “He was always true to his word, that one. Now he’s walking among humans just to find me better medicine.” A wistful note crept into her voice, then faded. “Just wait, alright, my love? The sea knows what it’s doing. These things—love, fate—they’re unpredictable.”

“I’m not counting on anything, Mom,” Nishita replied with a confident toss of her head, her gills fluttering slightly. “As long as I can take care of myself, I’ll be just fine.” “That’s my strong daughter,” her mother said proudly, lifting the now full basket of moss into her arms. “I think we’ve gathered enough for today. Let’s go home.” Nishita reached for her own bundle of kelp but paused, glancing upward. Above them, the sunlight fractured through the water’s surface, pouring golden beams down like blessings from the sky. It painted everything in shimmer and glow, like a dream she didn’t quite believe in. A fated match. Love at first sight. Destiny. She didn’t think much of it. In her eyes, love was a distraction—a beautifully wrapped illusion. She shook her head with a smirk and pushed herself upward through the water to follow her mother. Let the sea do its magic, she thought. No living soul could ever change her mind.

──𓆉⋆.˚𓇼⋆.˚𓆟°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡°‧𓆟˚.⋆𓇼˚.⋆𓆉──

[ Next Chapter || AO3 ]

[oporayamm]

[oporayamm]

I’m curious to know what YOU think Silco’s kinks are? Any secret fantasies? What gets that old man going? 👀

Just got possessed by the sudden urge to answer this in extreme detail so buckle up pals (ft. gn!reader)

Silco NSFW Headcanons

Disclaimer: I swear I’m not projecting. Hand on my heart. Other hand on the bible. Totally unbiased answers here 🤞🏼

So I was originally on Team That-Old-Man-Would-Not-Fuck-Like-That, but after a very in-depth discussion with my dear wife (ty @cherryrehab), we surmised that this old man would, indeed, Fuck Like That.

High stress + adrenaline job = high sex drive. Who woulda thunk

Dom top (noting that yes, I’m aware of the difference between dom/sub + top/bottom). I personally hc Silco as bi (again, not projecting at all…), but due to his trauma and immense trust issues, I think he would have a lot of trouble handing the reins to someone else. Even if he would enjoy it, I see it as more of a mental block for him.

If it’s with someone he really trusts tho, I could see him subbing or bottoming, but not both at the same time (and even then it’s once in a blue moon)

and ik u said kinks but I’m just gonna cover the whole field lmao

No way bro doesn’t frequent the brothels. Not every day — he’s a busy man — but he would absolutely pay them a visit when the stress hits boiling point and his hand won’t do the trick 🤷🏻‍♀️

In these scenarios, I think it’s a quick ‘done and dusted’ thing. He’s not dumb, he knows he’s paying for something physical, not emotional, so for him it would be about getting his fix and his money’s worth. I don’t think he’d go over the top with bruising/biting/marking here, but it’s absolutely an outlet for him. You can bet he leaves a generous tip every time tho

If it’s a casual ‘no strings attached’ thing, maybe with a secret fling that frequents the club or an employee, which is very much kept on the DL, he would take his time a bit more. Indulge in more kinks, take his time with foreplay.

He would learn their tells, what gets them going. Is it his voice? Hands? Mannerisms? He’d figure it out pretty quickly, and you can bet he’d wield it as lethally as he wields his knife.

Silco also likes holding all the cards. He knows in order to gain power, the fruits of one’s labour cannot be one-sided. For this reason he takes the time to ensure his partner’s enjoyment as well. Their pleasure is his pleasure, and to have them reduced to a desperate mess, only capable of crying his name, is for sure a power trip for him.

Now, if it’s a partner he cares for? That’s a different story. Same as the above point, but 1000% more intense (both physically and emotionally).

First of all, it wouldn’t start like that. He’d see it as something casual in the beginning. And even when he does begin to catch feelings, our boy is way too emotionally constipated to even realise, let alone acknowledge it.

It probably comes on slowly. He finds himself being more gentle during sex; softer touches, gentle kisses, reassuring words. His partner would probably piece it together before he does, and if they mention it to him he’d just 👁👄🔴

fast-forward cos this isn’t a fic lmao In a committed relationship, he would still let his feral side loose. It would be even more unhinged, now that boundaries and preferences have been discussed in-depth.

I’m also switching to 2nd person cos ik we’re all just a bunch of self-indulgent simps here <3

Now onto the kinks lmao

He isn’t jealous so much as he is possessive. If someone is flirting with you, he’s not gonna plonk down the stairs like a little kid and demand they stop touching his things. He will give them the evil eye tho, but he knows your heart is heart is firmly in his hands. It took him a while to convince himself of this. He’s secretly terrified that you’ll find someone better, not that he’d ever admit it.

But if he’s feeling particularly possessive, he will put a hand on your waist and give the person flirting a glare that chills their blood.

If they lay a hand on you tho? That’s a different story. Now he’ll intervene. Not violently, but more like a monster emerging from the shadows. He’s like a slow-acting poison. By the time his victims realise they’re fucked, it’s too late.

He also loves whispering filth to you in public. Makes you blush for his sick enjoyment. Will tell you exactly how he plans to bend you over his desk later, so you’re stuck with horny brain fog all day.

Back to the jealousy thing. Like I said, he’s not gonna be immature about it, but he will absolutely remind you exactly who you belong to behind closed doors. It’s in these situations that the beast truly gets unleashed.

He’s for sure into bdsm. Having you tied up beneath him (bonus points for being gagged and blindfolded) never fails to get him going.

Edging and orgasm denial pair together with the above like an expensive cheese and fine wine.

He’s big into marking too. Bruises and bite marks are his tools, and you’re his canvas. He will mark you up so there’s no question about who you belong to. And as much as you love it, there are times when you need to cover them up, for professional reasons. Cue pouty kingpin. He worked so hard, why are you covering them up :((( never mind he’ll just leave more right before you leave

We’ve seen those hands. Them’s some long fingers. He knows exactly how to use ‘em 👀 Plus he’d be obsessed with putting his hands all over you. Around your waist, on your thigh, on the small of you back while you’re walking together 🥰 aaand around your neck, in your hair, pressing into your hips 😈

Such a tease. Will taunt you with whispered words and fleeting touches all day long. Then he plays dumb when you beg him to fuck you.

Logically, teasing him should be fair game, right? Wrong. Loves when you wear something special for him, but if you dress down when he knows you know that he can’t do a thing about it for hours… both your dignity and whatever you wore are gonna be in tatters by the time he’s done with you.

And if you tease him by giving someone else attention? Be prepared for a very long night. He won’t stop until his is the only name you know.

Loves when you know your place. He’s big into titles: sir, daddy, etc.

Sometimes he just won’t leave his desk, no matter how late it is or how much you tempt him. It’s moments like these you drop a softly whispered ‘please, daddy’, and you’re being dragged into bed before you know it.

A sensual ‘yes sir’ works too, if you want to speedrun getting his dick hard.

This man does not shut the fuck up. Ever. He talks so smug during sex. You’d slap him if you weren’t so turned on and if your hands weren’t tied up

On the flip-side, he’s also into name calling. Loves degrading you. ‘Whore, desperate, filthy, pathetic’, etc. are some of his faves. During softer moments though, he’ll opt for ‘beautiful, handsome, perfect, gorgeous, stunning’. Throws ‘darling, sweetheart, my love, lovely’ around in both scenarios tho.

S+ tier head game. If you can walk by the time he’s done, best believe he’s pulling you back down for round 2 or 10

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. That man gives head like it’s the last god damn supper.

He has a god complex. Nothing improves his mood (or strokes his ego) more than you sucking him off under the desk.

Really enjoys getting head while smoking a cigar. It’s his little treat <3

He will also never get enough of hearing you scream/cry/moan his name over and over. Makes him feel so powerful.

He’s into knife play. It’s where things get more intense, even for him. It’s more of a control thing; he likes to run the blade tip over your body, press the flat of it against your neck. He’d even fuck you with the handle if you were into it.

In the heat of the moment he starts talking about carving his name into you. He wouldn’t do so without express permission, but if you did ever say yes…

Loves bending you over the desk, or when you ride him in his chair. Again, total power trip. Anywhere in the Last Drop is fair game tbh — it’s his bar, after all.

For the titty havers: they’re like a magnet for his teeth. Will never not bite them. Sucks those fuckers raw, bites the underside, leaves bruises, and doesn’t stop until your hand’s in his hair, tugging him back because fuck, you’re too sensitive now.

That’s when he switches things up and soothes every red spot with his tongue, and you decide to let him stay there a while longer.

And for the titty haven’t-ers, he’s still gonna be on them nips.

He’s just a biter in general and that chip in his teeth ain’t just for show

Have you guys had an argument? Are you annoyed at him? Do you wanna sit down and talk it out like mature adults? lmao, good fkn luck mate. He’s gonna slut his way out of an argument 🤷🏻‍♀️ Tell me I’m wrong.

You approach him to settle things, ready to stand your ground— wait why is he looking at you like that? He’s coming closer, too close, his finger is lifting your chin, he’s speaking in that horribly divine low tone, his lips are on your neck, hands on your waist…

Next thing you know, you’re lying in bed and staring at the ceiling after several mind-blowing orgasms and…… what were you mad about again?

Fucks his anger out. Get ready to be an outlet. Like I said before, high stress ➡️ high sex drive.

After a particularly shitty day or overcomplicated meeting, he needs to get that rage out. This is the only time he’ll prioritise his pleasure. Very rough. Very degrading. If you ever tease him when he’s like this, then that is a mistake you make precisely once (he will, of course, make sure you’re satisfied once he’s done tho).

Traffic light system always in use (green = all good, orange = slow down/pause, red = immediate stop). He would die before he didn’t listen to you here (and, of course, it goes both ways. You check in with him too).

Aftercare king. No one will ever change my mind about this. The harder he went with you, the more meticulous his aftercare is. Kisses every mark, does not stop complimenting you. ‘You were wonderful, you were perfect, you did so well, I’m so proud of you,’ after every kiss.

And whatever you need afterwards, he’s on it. Loves bathing you when you’re done. Cleans every inch of your skin like you’re a statue in a holy temple. You could just melt into him <3

If you’re too spent, he’ll still grab a towel and clean you up. Makes sure you’re hydrated and fed, too (you have to remind him to do the same). And unless it’s really warm, he insists you wear one of his shirts to bed after.

Curls up with you and holds you like glass. You’re always knocked out in record time, but he likes to stay awake for a bit longer and keep whispering sweet nothings, thanking you, kissing your hair, stroking your cheek. Then you nuzzle closer to him in your sleep and his heart just explodes.

Packing at least 8 inches. We’ve all seen episode three. Argue with the wall.

He’s also really into @insult-2-injury’s nasty smelly feet but don’t tell him I tol— ohfuckohno he’s in my kitchen

btw, big ol’ thank you to @ihatesilco for the ‘getting out of an argument’ and ‘falling for his casual fling’ ideas. There’s basically an entire fic in our DMs 💀 ty for always enabling my simping 💕

And now, time for some shameless fic plugs 😎

Silco slutting his way out of an argument

Teasing Silco gone wrong

[oporayamm]

[oporayamm]

We don’t talk about Leia killing Jabba enough. Her grandmother and father were born into slavery. Her blood was that of the desert sand and the shackles of bondage. Leia was never more a Skywalker than the day she strangled her slave master with the very chains he used to bind her. The daughter of Anakin Skywalker was the one who killed Tatooine’s most notorious slaver, and I find that really beautiful.

[oporayamm]

anybody else . can anyone hear me

[oporayamm]

Not Tumblr calling me out 😭😭🤣🤣🤣

[oporayamm]

@httpstwilight this you so bad sis- you can't write fluff without taking awhile BUT YOU DON'T BLINK WHEN KTS ANGST--

me being asked to write smut: easy.

me being asked to write angst: you got it.

me being asked to write fluff: *blanks*

[oporayamm]

girlie that's not a random headache u are dehydrated malnourished over caffeinated over stressed and sleep deprived

[oporayamm]

No further explanation

[oporayamm]

@httpstwilight

eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde