summary: bob had been helping you out by occasionally doing your laundry, but when you come back early from a mission, you find out he might've had some selfish motives
contents: panty thief bob, kinda perv! bob, m! masturbation, caught in the act, handjob
author's note: i'm so glad i have time to write again, i have so many wips just sitting in my google docs (dw one is survival of the fittest p3), and hopefully i will get them finished soon. i've been completely captivated by bob/lewis pullman for the last month but five hargreeves still has my heart dw
proofread, enjoy!
Years ago, you’d always imagined what it would be like for the Avengers to return to their glorious tower in the middle of Manhattan after a mission. Landing on the side of the sparkling skyscraper in a quinjet seemed like such an inaccessible fantasy when you were just starting out as a lowlife vigilante.
You never would’ve imagined that years later, you would live that very life you’d dreamed of.
The mission had gone rather smoothly, so smoothly in fact that instead of returning to the tower by late afternoon, you, Walker, and Ava made your way off the jet about twelve hours earlier than expected.
Since the task had been completed without casualties and was rather inconsequential, Walker decided that the three of you should wait until breakfast for a mission report with the other avengers.
“Now you can get back to your boyfriend that much faster, you’re welcome,” he had said smugly to you on the way to your quarters.
You knew exactly who he was talking about.
While you were still warming up to living with your new somewhat reclusive and impolite roommates, Bob was different. Yes, he was shy, but he did seem to be the most respectful of the bunch. He had his flaws but that didn’t stop him from trying to be a good person, for his new teammates and for himself.
Out of everyone, he was the one you turned to the most, the one you felt most comfortable with. You could tell he had grown accustomed to you as well, often finding him spending time reading or napping in your room. Of course, you didn’t mind.
Knowing how tempted he was to rot in his room, you were glad he could find comfort in your space. Occasionally, he gained the motivation to do the dishes or a couple loads of laundry, anything that would give him a sense of accomplishment, and possibly some praise from you.
“He’s not my boyfriend, Walker,” you said, exhaustedly rolling your eyes before bidding Ava goodnight as she disappeared into her room.
“Right, he just does chores for you and follows you around like a lost puppy because he’s just a loyal teammate,” Walker sarcastically retorted as he opened his bedroom door, giving you a smirk before he disappeared for the night.
You ignored his comment as you made your way to your bedroom, stationed farther down the hallway. Passing by Bob’s room, you noticed the door was slightly ajar, the darkness from the room seeping into the dimly lit hallway.
You stopped in your tracks as you tried to peek in the small opening to the room before walking closer, slowly creaking the door wider to see inside. With a quick flick of the lightswitch on the wall next to the door frame, the room illuminated before you to reveal Bob’s empty bed, sheets messy and pillows scattered.
If he wasn’t here, there was only one place he could be.
You flicked the lightswitch, darkening the room once again before gently pulling the door closed and continuing your way towards your room.
Bob had slept in your room many times before, but he had never stayed the night. He would nap during the day while you were downstairs training in the gym or in a conference with the team, since he wasn’t quite ready yet to participate.
Occasionally, you would lie next to him as he flipped through a novel, sometimes asleep from the exhaustion of your work as an avenger, other times awake and admiring his concentrated face as he consumed each page with a deep enthusiasm.
You approached your bedroom door with caution. The door was completely shut, the darkness and utter silence seeped under the door. An image of Bob flashed across your mind — him laying in your bed, his book still open in his hand, his thumb holding his place between the pages, mouth slightly open as his head lay peacefully on your cotton pillowcase.
Half of you wanted to just let him be and just sleep on one of the many couches in the living room, where several pillows and blankets had accumulated from the team’s movie nights.
The other half of you however was so exhausted from your mission and ached to retreat to your own bed that you didn’t mind sharing it, especially with Bob.
As quiet and gentle as you could be, you twisted the silver door knob and pushed your bedroom room open. The dim hallway light created a small path of sight in front of you, before it was outmatched by the darkness. You quickly tip-toed into the room and closed the door behind you, the faint click barely audible as the door shut completely.
The rooms in the compound were quite large – with their own personal bathrooms and a good amount of floor space.
It took you a while to get used to the new layout, but after some time you memorized it enough to navigate your way to your bed in the darkness. There was a small hallway when you first walked in, and as you calmly walked through, you expected to turn and faintly see Bob, illuminated by the faint moonlight shining through your window, completely oblivious to the world as he lay asleep.
But what you actually found when you turned the corner, well, you definitely could not have expected it.
Splayed across your bed, wearing a black shirt that lay high on his abdomen, exposing his toned abs, and a pair of grey sweatpants that were tugged down almost to his knees. His eyes were shut tight. Not with sleep, but with devoted concentration.
You froze in place for a moment, before quietly moving to hide behind the corner of the wall, peeking out of the darkness to witness the scene before you.
His lip was bitten between his teeth, head thrown back as he worked his hand, stroking himself. You noticed something in his hand as you stared, a familiar pair of underwear you hadn’t realized had been missing till now.
Now that you thought about it, you had been missing quite a few pairs since Bob had started helping you out with your laundry.
The soft cotton of your white panties wrapped around Bob’s cock was a sight unexpected, but not unwelcome.
As he lay in your bed, whines slipping through his teeth, bucking into his fist, you stood quietly across the room.
Your thighs squeezed slightly as you watched him, so needy in your own bed, completely unaware you had come back early to catch him so vulnerable.
His curls had fallen over the beads of sweat on his forehead, and his pace was growing more reckless. He brought his hand that had been grabbing at your comforter to his face, covering his mouth as his moans became harder to stifle.
You would’ve loved to watch as he made himself come undone in your bed, but where would that leave you?
Leaving your hiding spot, you stealthily made your way over to your bed. His eyes were still closed tightly, so he didn’t notice your presence until you spoke.
“So, that’s where those went.”
His eyes flew open, looking up to see you looking down at him, and he froze. One hand stayed put around his cock, and the other moved to cover as much of his face as possible, hiding his utter embarrassment.
“Oh– I’m sorry – I-”
Bob had no idea how to explain himself.
Yes, he had been sleeping in your room while you were away on missions. His room was just too lonely and your bed smelt like you. He just felt so much more comfortable surrounded by everything that reminded him of your presence even when you weren’t there.
Yes, he had taken a few pairs of your underwear from your laundry. He didn’t want to seem weird, he was so afraid of scaring you off. He just wanted . . . some material, and surely you wouldn’t notice just a couple items going missing, right?
And yes, he had been . . . relieving himself in your room. Again, it smelt so much like you. He had already spent a majority of his time there. He was just too nervous to tell you how he really felt about you, how much he really needed you, craved you even. He made sure his visits were completely undetectable afterwards, and he always locked the door. Almost always, anyway.
He was mortified. The one time he realized he forgot to lock the door, there you were, staring down at him in his most vulnerable moment.
Your hand threaded through his brown locks as you looked down at him. He peeked between his fingers to watch your face – you didn’t seem that upset.
Your pupils were dilated as your eyes scanned over him, stopping to watch his still hand around himself, before looking back up to meet his eyes.
“Can I help with that?”
His eyes grew wide as he groaned, his shoulders dropping their tense stance as his hand dragged down his face, “Please.”
You motioned for him to scoot over, as he quickly scrambled to give you room. He watched with wide, anticipating eyes as you climbed onto the bed with him, laying directly to the side of him.
With one hand, you turned his chin towards yours, and encapsulated him in a kiss.
The kiss was smooth, soft, yet he almost embarrassingly whined into your mouth. He finally had a taste of you, and it would be impossible for him to let go.
His free hand pulled you closer from the back of your neck, as you reached down blindly and replaced his other hand with yours.
As your thumb carefully brushed over his tip, he moaned through your lips. You kept moving your thumb in slow circles, and he had completely fallen apart. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, attempting to hide his flushed face and you kept working your hand so perfectly around him, especially with your own panties now in your grasp.
You felt his breathy moans against the skin of your neck as he tried to bury himself into you, tugging you as close as possible as he moved his arm around your waist, bucking into your hand.
His moans turned into whines as he grew more sensitive by the second, and it wasn’t long before he gently bit into your neck, and spilled all over your fist. He could’ve melted into you as he came, having never felt so blissful in his life. His hips kept shaking until he stilled, no longer able to handle the overstimulation.
Reaching over to your bedside table, you pulled a couple tissues from their box and gently cleaned him up, as well as your hands, before tossing your panties across the room into your laundry basket.
You admired his face for a moment, eyes closed and mouth left slightly open, as his head lay back against your pillow, before carefully tugging up his boxers as his sweats.
You thought he had already fallen asleep, as his chest was steadily falling and rising with every breath, however when you went to rest by his side, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, resting his chin on the top of your head as you smiled into his chest, a bit more thankful that he’d been doing your laundry.
Summary. A year after the events in New York City, the memories of that dreadful day come back to haunt you. Luckily, this time you have Bob with you and he will not let your pain drag you down, the same way you won’t let him blame himself for it.
Word Count. 3.8k
Tags/Warnings. Hurt to comfort, slight angst, SMUT, mention of Bob’s father and trauma, female receiving penetration, use of pet names such as honey, sweetheart and baby. Reader calls him Bobby during sex.
EXPLICIT CONTENT AHEAD, MUST BE 18+ TO READ, I WILL BE CHECKING. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
Notes. My comeback to being a fic writer since I abandoned my writing blog back in 2023. Shoutout to Mr. Bob and his pathetically charming self for dragging me back to my writing ways. Also… I created and pushed the Inexperienced!Bob agenda in this fic. Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always welcomed.
You could feel the darkness trying to consume you. It worked slowly, yet it felt as if it was rapidly trying to drown you, robbing the air straight out of your lungs and leaving you without any air left to breathe. It was an all-consuming feeling of dread — except this wasn't a feeling, it was a person. He had a face and a name. The exact same face of the man you would eventually come to fall in love with, but it wasn't him, not really.
It was the silhouette of the darkest parts of him. The dark side of him that wanted you to feel the exact same type of pain he was feeling. All of the abuse and suffering. He wanted you to feel it, too. He wanted every living person to feel it.
He was nothing more than a void — and he wanted you to drown in it. He wanted you to understand that there was nothing more in this world than the neverending feeling of numbness and agony.
His darkness was consuming you and there was nothing you could do about it.
“Honey, you have to wake up,” a worried sleepy voice urged you while a warm hand wiped the sweat off your forehead, carefully brushing and putting away the strands of hair that were stuck to it.
You opened your eyes so fast it felt like your heart was about to give out. Your breathing came out in quick, unsteady gasps that made it hard to figure out where you were. Your heart was beating just as hard as last year, back when the man next to you wasn’t the one he is right now.
“Bob?” you asked, trying to catch your breath and reaching out to him with a shaky hand.
“Hey, it was just a nightmare. Can you, uh.. can you take a deep breath for me?” he asked, sitting up in your shared bed and turning on the bedside lamp next to him before taking your hand in his, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. You didn't reply, all you could do was close your eyes and sit up next to him, bringing your free hand to your racing heart.
Your lack of an answer didn’t help soothe the worry he was feeling. “C’mon, sweetheart. Please,” Bob begged you, squeezing your hand two times.
I’m here. He’s gone.
You nodded once and opened your eyes, turning your head to the right and meeting the soft blue eyes of your boyfriend who was sitting next to you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice raspy and strained. He shook his head. “It’s okay. We can do it together,” he answered with a small smile.
Bob took a deep breath, held it in for a few seconds, and then exhaled. You copied his movements, keeping your hand in his. “Again,” he said before taking another deep inhale and then letting it out, never taking his eyes away from you.
You weren’t able to count the number of times you breathed in and out with Bob, but he stayed with you through it all. Holding your hand until you were finally able to breathe normally.
You stayed silent for a while, but Bob didn’t seem to mind. All of his focus was on you, and he would wait for you for eternity if that was the time you needed to get a word out. “I’m sorry,” you croaked.
“None of that, honey,” he answered, not missing a beat. “Does it hurt to speak?” He thought of things he could do to help, rummaging through his head for any useful advice when his eyes lit up as he remembered something from his childhood.
“Do you want me to get you a glass of water?” He asked, his eyes shining as if he had finally gotten the right answer to an unsolvable paradox.
“Please,” you whispered. Bob took hold of the covers that were discarded away to the bottom of the bed and brought them up to your chest, standing up with a small groan as his feet met the cold floor and he stretched his arms above his head, giving you a clear view of his toned shirtless figure.
“I’ll be right back,” he replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead before moving to your bedroom door and walking out.
Bob didn’t take long walking to the kitchen and grabbing you a cold glass of water, yet every second he spent outside of your shared room made you remember your awful nightmare, which you wouldn’t even describe as a nightmare — it was a terrible fucking memory.
You anxiously chewed on your bottom lip as you stared at your door, impatiently waiting for your boyfriend to come back. The door eventually opened after a few minutes and Bob walked in with a glass of water in his right hand, you took notice of the metallic straw inside of it.
“It’s, uh… so it’s easier for you to drink,” he explained.
“That’s nice, thank you,” you replied before taking the glass from him and taking a small sip. The coldness that seeped through your body and the feeling of the condensation on the glass helping you ground yourself back to reality.
“Better?” He asked, climbing back onto the bed and placing a hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. You hummed and leaned your body closer to him, leaning your head against his toned shoulder.
“I’m sorry for waking you up.”
“You really need to stop apologizing, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he replied, turning his head to the left and kissing your temple.
You stayed silent for a while, taking small sips of your water. Finding comfort in each other’s presence and the sound of his steady breathing next to you. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.
“It was—,” you started.
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But my mom used to tell me that talking about these types of things could help make you feel better,” Bob rambled, moving his free hand as he spoke to try and make his statement seem casual.
Bob had once shared with you that his mother used to help him out whenever he’d wake up terrified from nightmares about his father. She would give him a glass of water — with a straw to make it easier to drink — and comfort him through it all. He mentioned those moments were what eased his mind whenever he had one of his Low Days.
You let out a soft sigh, setting the empty glass on the bedside table next to you. “It was about last year,” you said softly.
“Oh,” Bob whispered, his shoulder going tense beneath your head. You didn’t have to look up at him to know there was a look of worry in his eyes.
You placed your hand over his on your thigh. “It’s not your fault,” you tried to comfort him, only to be quickly cut off by him.
“But it was me who did that,” he stated, his head hanging low.
“You weren’t in control, Bob. God, you didn’t even remember what happened once we got you out,” you said, slightly turning your head to press a kiss against his shoulder blade, causing Bob to let out a shaky breath.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I.. he,” Bob corrected himself, “He hurt you. He hurt every civilian in the city,”
“It wasn’t you, baby. I mean, now you're considered a hero. A goddamned Avenger, for fuck’s sake.”
“A pretty useless one. All I do is clean up after everyone and be Walker’s gym buddy,” he said, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips.
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You also helped Alexei get that Red Bull sponsor for his ugly New Avengerz merch,” you replied, trying to lighten the mood.
That caused Bob to let out a genuine smile and it was enough to make you feel like you had single-handedly caused world peace. It felt like the sun had shone straight through your heart. An infinite sunbathe.
“You’re a good person, Bob,” you lifted your head from his shoulder, sitting up to meet his gaze and bringing a hand to caress his cheek. Bob closed his eyes at the feeling, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he felt your touch on his skin. “Once you learn how to control your powers — how to control him.. you’ll be the most powerful member of this team.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the one comforting you, honey” he replied, opening his eyes and turning his head to give the palm of your hand a kiss, his eyes not leaving yours as he did it.
“Knowing you’re next to me is enough to make me feel better.”
A bright blush took over Bob’s cheeks. He wasn’t fully used to all of this, to the way you seemed to love him despite his darkest moments. Two months into your relationship he had shyly confessed to you that he had no romantic experiences due to his addiction and Low Days. That didn’t change the fact that he was eager to learn and make you feel just as loved as you made him feel.
He was about to open his mouth to say something along the lines of you being too sweet for a messed up man like him when he was distracted by the yawn that escaped you. A soft smile adorned Bob’s features.
“Oh, honey. You must be tired,” he said in the softest voice he could muster. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”
“Is it that obvious?” You joked, another yawn leaving your lips, causing Bob’s smile to get even bigger. “Nope, not at all, sweetheart.”
Bob extended his arm to turn off your bedside lamp with a small sigh and moved to lay down facing you, you followed his movements, laying on your side and pressing your back to his strong chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist and gently pressed a kiss to the back of your head.
You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of his beating heart against your back to lull you to sleep. It didn’t take long for you to notice that your attempt to slip back into dreamland was futile. You had no idea how long you spent trying to go back to sleep, it could’ve easily been fifteen minutes or an hour, but that didn’t matter. You just couldn’t.
You were so fucking exhausted, your body knew that but your brain wasn’t cooperating. You couldn’t fall back asleep. You tried to switch positions and move around, but it was useless. Nothing was working. Maybe your nightmare shook you up more than you thought.
“You okay over there?” You heard Bob’s tired voice behind you.
“Yeah… No. I don’t know why I can’t fall back asleep,” you answered, frustration lacing your tone.
Bob’s right arm that was gently wrapped around your waist moved down as his warm hand traveled beneath the sleeping shirt you were wearing — his sleeping shirt to be exact. His hand rubbed slow circles on your skin.
He used his free hand to move away the hair that was covering your neck and began to trail sweet kisses up your throat, moving slowly until he reached your jaw. “Is this alright?” He asked. You hummed and closed your eyes as he continued scattering soft wet kisses against your jawline until reaching your earlobe, causing a shiver to run down your spine.
“Let me help you, honey,” he whispered in your ear, his warm breath and wandering hand under your shirt causing a heat to build up in your core. A whimper escaped your lips as your hips involuntarily pressed back against his. The feeling of his hardening member against your ass and his toned, strong chest right behind your back making you feel dizzy.
“Bobby,” you gasped, slightly turning your head to meet his eyes. “Tell me what you need,” he replied, licking his lips and pulling his hand away from under your shirt to use it to lift himself up and hover above you. You weren’t able to get any words out so you did what your body was begging you to do.
You pressed your lips against his and kissed him. Bob eagerly kissed you back, using his free hand to hold your face and lift it up towards him, a small moan leaving his lips. You two had been in this position several times, yet it always felt like the first time for him, because due to his inexperience: every feeling was new to him. Moans and whimpers would always escape him whenever he found himself making out with you.
His hand moved from your cheek to your hair, tangling his fingers in it and pressing himself closer to you. The kiss was heated but still soft — still so Bob. He pulled away to take a breather before saying, “Wait, I, uh.. I think I know of something that could help.”
He shifted his position to lay on his back, spreading his legs and manhandling your body, moving you to sit between his thighs. “Is this.. Is this alright, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you answered, letting out a sigh of comfort as you laid your head on his chest, your back pressed against his shirtless figure, his head above yours and his legs keeping you in place, spread next to yours.
“You tell me if you want me to stop.. or if it’s too much,” he rambled “Oh! And also if I do something wrong—“
“It’s fine, Bobby,” you replied with a small smile. “You’re pretty good at what you do, don’t worry too much about it.”
Your statement brought a bright blush to his cheeks, the second of the night — which wasn’t strange because he always got shy whenever you praised him during your intimate moments. He still wasn’t used to being praised, especially not on times like this.
He lets out a nervous laugh as he uses his left arm to hold your waist, pulling you closer to his chest and his right hand smoothes over your covered abdomen, the tips of his warm fingers making you shiver and internally beg for more.
“Can I.. Is it okay if I take this off?” he asks, slightly pulling your shirt up, your eyes close as you feel his lips against your ear.
“Please,” you exhale. Bob slowly pulls your shirt over your figure, causing the cold air of your shared room to hit the soft skin of your bare chest, making your nipples harden. Leaving you almost completely naked, the only thing covering your body being your panties that were getting wetter by the second.
“Jesus,” Bob whispers, bringing his hand up to softly trace the outline of your right breast. Taking his time as he trails the tips of his fingers through its underside, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He slowly brings his fingers up to play with your hardened nipple, pinching it slightly before using his whole hand to grope your breast.
“Stop teasing.”
“I wasn’t trying to tease,” he replies. You didn’t have to see his face to know there was a huge smile adorning it. “I’m just admiring my beautiful girlfriend.”
You try to move closer to him, wanting to feel something — anything that could help ease the burning in between your legs. You dropped your hand over his left arm that held your waist in place and pushed your hips back against his, a moan escaping you as you grind your ass against his hard cock.
Bob’s self-esteem boosted at the sweet sound you let out, giving your breast a last squeeze before trailing his fingers downwards to where you wanted it the most.
“Please, Bobby,” you pathetically whimpered, your hips involuntarily jutting upwards towards his hand as your body begged for more of his touch.
“Shh, I know, honey,” he hushed your pleas. He trailed his fingers through the plush of your thighs before letting them linger along the hem of your drenched panties. He slowly brings his hand down to cup your covered pussy over the fabric of your underwear, causing another moan to escape you.
You threw your head back against him, your breathing coming out in unsteady pants. You could feel and hear his heavy breathing, too. Feel him getting worked up over the sight of your begging body. He slowly pressed his fingertips down to touch you through the drenched fabric of your underwear, the pressure of his fingers against your covered folds feeling just right.
“God, look at that,” Bob panted. Quickly taking his hand off of your needy core to stare at his fingers, watching them glisten with your slick wetness. “Can’t believe all of this is because of me, sweetheart.” You whimpered at the loss of his hot touch, your hips bucking towards him in a desperate way of trying to get closer.
“Only for you, Bob. Fuck.”
Bob’s chest swelled with pride at your reaction. “Lift your hips, honey,” he ordered, his breath fanning against your cheek as you swiftly lifted your hips and watched him slowly bring your underwear down, finally letting you completely spread your legs as your naked pussy met the cold air of the room.
Bob’s entire world stopped spinning the second he saw your bare body laying against him. He could see your wet pussy glisten with arousal due to the dim light that entered your room through the small crack underneath the door. He had seen you naked a bunch of times already, but it still felt new to him to see a woman’s body be this needy for his touch. It still surprised him that he could be the cause of the wetness that dripped on your bedsheets. He was nothing more than a recovered addict with a shit ton of mental issues and yet… he could cause this. He could somehow make you trust and love him completely.
“Touch me, Bobby,” you begged.
Your boyfriend happily obliged, swiping his long middle finger in between your folds and spreading your wetness through your pleading pussy. “Bob,” you warned.
He let out a shaky laugh, “Sorry, I got you.”
He slowly eased his middle finger in you, feeling the way your walls clenched against it, begging for more. Both of you moaned at the sensation. “You’re so warm, honey,” he moaned.
“More, please.”
Bob used his thumb to press your clit and give it slow circles, feeling the way it pulsated under his finger. Making his blood flow straight to his hard member. You mewled at the feeling of his middle finger pumping in and out of you as his thumb worked on your clit. Your wetness covering his hand.
He took his time pumping into you in an easy rhythm, waiting for your begging body to be ready for him to add a second one. Remembering everything you taught him about pleasing your body. Bob’s free hand came up to grope your tits as he began to drop wet kisses on your neck, sucking on your skin, forgetting that you’d wake up in a few hours to a purple bruise sitting there.
“So good, Bobby,” you whimpered, closing your eyes and letting the pleasure he was causing you take all over your body. His strong hand groping your breasts and his other one working on your pussy making you feel drunk on him. The length of his finger pumping against your soft walls made your body melt against him.
Bob slowly entered his thick ring finger inside your wet heat, causing a moan of his name to escape you. He began to push it in and out, matching the rhythm he had created with his middle finger. Your body shook against him. He added more pressure to his thumb on your clit, circling it faster as he felt your breathing hitch and saw a blissful expression take over your face.
“Just like that, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me, you always do,” he praised.
Your body kept shaking and your breathing came out in short gasps. “Relax, honey. Breathe,” Bob reminded you, but it was useless. You could feel him all over your body. Only him. Not The Void. Not your suffering. Only Bob and the love he felt for you.
You could smell your arousal and hear the lewd sounds of his fingers moving in and out your pussy, it all felt too much and too right. The fire you felt in your belly got bigger, causing your hips to buck against Bob’s fingers, wanting more. “I think I’m gonna—” you exhaled.
“I know. I got you,” Bob whispered in your ear. Bob put more pressure on your clit the moment he felt your walls clench and shake against his fingers. You closed your eyes and let the pleasure you were feeling wash all over you.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” you whined. A hot feeling taking all over you as Bob continued to ease his fingers in you, helping you ride your orgasm. Seconds later, you come all over his fingers, your wet and hot fluids soaking his hand and spilling over your sheets. It was all so hot, Bob couldn’t help but moan at the sight.
Your body shuddered and your legs shook as you kept your eyes closed and came down from your high. Trying to catch your breath and focus on the whispered praises you were getting from Bob that seemed light-years away.
“Are you with me?” Bob asked. You hummed and buried your head on his chest, making him chuckle. Bob slowly pulled his fingers out, making you whine at the overstimulation you were feeling. “I’m sorry, honey,” he apologized before raising his soaked fingers to his lips and groaning as he tasted your hot juices.
You could feel a wave of exhaustion lulling you to sleep. “It’s okay if you fall asleep, I’ll just run to the bathroom real quick for a towel to clean you up. I’ll be right back,” he spoke softly, remembering how you taught him about the importance of aftercare.
Just as he was about to leave for the bathroom you said, “Hey, Bob?” stopping him on his tracks.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I love you. I’m thankful that Valentina almost killing me brought us together,” you replied in your sleepy state.
“I love you, too. You have no idea,” and you really didn’t. Because he would never let the darkness consume you. He wasn’t going to let you drown in it, the same way you wouldn’t let him drown either.
Bob admired your naked body for a bit more before walking to the bathroom for a towel. He wondered if life had always been this beautiful.
How about something smutty for the Thunderbolts headcanons 😳 Like how each of them would react to you making them cum in their pants
thank you so much for requesting and feeding my hyperfixation!! below you will find four separate baby blurbs for bucky, john, yelena, and bob. each section will have it's own summary, warnings, and whole lotta smut! enjoy :D
BUCKY BARNES X READER — you're with him in wakanda when he's cured of the trigger words in his head. he's able to touch you for the first time without feeling scared of himself. (established relationship, post-cacw | 1k words)
Bucky Barnes can’t remember the last time he felt this free. Maybe sometime in 1942, he guesses — before he got drafted, before Hydra captured him, before they put those goddamn words in his head. It feels weird that they’re gone now; to be without the dark cloud of impending doom that, at any moment, someone could utter the words and he’d just snap.
But now, freshly cured and living on the Wakandan countryside, he can touch you for the first time without being terrified of himself.
“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles as his vibranium hand trails up the expanse of your bare back. He keeps his flesh one on your thigh, smoothing his thumb over the plush skin there, and tilts his scruffy chin to smile up at you. He’s got you straddled over his lap, barely clothed and bathed in golden candelight, like some kinda angel brought to life.
“You’re pretty,” you correct with a lovesick grin, raking your hands through his silky, growing locks.
Bucky leans instinctively into your touch. “Don’t make this about me,” he says, squinting.
“It is about you,” you remind him with a giggle, ducking down to kiss his neck. “I’m supposed to compliment you—” Your lips brush his pulse in a chaste kiss. Bucky fights back a shiver. “—Supposed to make you feel good.”
“You do,” Bucky sighs a contented moan, pulling you further into him. “You always do…”
His vibranium hand curls up your back and towards your shoulder. His other one holds tightly to your hip. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck until your bare chest is flush with his scruffy one — until your clothed cunt brushes his cock, half-hard and throbbing within the confines of his boxers.
A moan rumbles in Bucky’s throat. You feel it against your lips when you press them to his adam’s apple. “Do you want to?” you murmur against him, voice low like honey. “‘Cause it kinda seems like you want to.”
Bucky’s head is too clouded to respond properly to your teasing. He just nods his heavy head and flexes his hips beneath you in a desperate attempt to relieve the pulsing ache in his boxers. You let him, and with his consent, begin to rock slowly over his lap.
“Say it,” you whisper in his ear.
“Want it,” he pants in yours. “Want you.”
“You have me, Buck,” you slur, trying to peer at him through the haze in your vision. Your panties drag over his stiffening cock and leave a damp spot at the center of them. You find yourself chasing your high just as much as Bucky’s.
You snuck a few sips of alcohol to quell your worry before watching Ayo recite the wretched words back to the man haunted by them. You feel the consequences creeping up on you now and find yourself rambling before you can stop it, half-deluded with pleasure.
“‘M already yours. My pussy’s already— shit,” you whimper in time with Bucky’s groaning when your clit drags over his lap. Through pants, you beg him, “Say you wanna fuck me. Please. Don’t wanna cum ’til you’re inside me.”
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky whines, face screwed and eyes shut tight. He tries to form the words in his head, but all he can think about is how wet you are — and how his leaking cock has left a damp spot in his underwear — and how the combination of both makes the friction between you so dizzying. “I wanna… fuck—”
“Uh-huh,” you tease with a slow nod when you sense he’s getting close. “You can do it, Buck. C’mon. There you go.”
He can’t tell if you’re trying to coach him into saying the words or push him headfirst into an orgasm. He hopes it’s the latter, ‘cause he feels himself bursting into his boxers a second later.
“Fuck!” he blurts when he cums, half-muffled and half-whined, like it pains him.
He holds your hips in both hands, keeping you still above him in a crueler grip than he means to. The quiet bedroom fills with the sound of crackling candles and his groaning. He tilts his face to the ceiling and moans into the golden darkness with his eyes squeezed shut. The sudden orgasm racks through his body in so many shivers up his spine, three warm ropes spit into the confines of his boxers.
“‘M sorry,” he pants when it’s done, still slightly airy from the aftershocks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— Didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay,” you promise with a soft laugh as your own building pleasure begins to subside. You cup his scruffy face in your palms and try to kiss him through the smile on your lips. “You deserve it, Buck,” you whisper against his mouth, between your delicate kisses. “You deserve everything.”
Bucky shakes his head between your palms and smooths his fingers over the bruises he unknowingly stamped into your skin. “Don’t care about everything,” he murmurs lowly. “Just you.”
Your eyes narrow in a sarcastic squint, though you can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Do you think we can get Shuri to erase the cheesiness from your brain, too?”
“Sure,” Bucky scoffs, smiling still, as he shoves you playfully onto your back. You giggle when you hit the mattress, caging your smile between your teeth as the man crawls back between your legs. He lies flat on the mattress, face-to-face with your clothed pussy. “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You nod, obviously sarcastic. “Mhm. Very much.”
“Maybe I’ll just go get her then,” Bucky murmurs, punctuating his quip with a kiss to your inner thigh as he spreads them apart. You shiver when his scruff scrapes your delicate skin. “Tell her to put me back under the ice—”
Your feet lock behind his back to keep him against you. Bucky laughs and curls his arms around your thighs as you prop yourself on your elbows to shoot him a death glare. “You’re not going anywhere, Sergeant Barnes.”
And, truth be told, Bucky’s exactly where he wants to be.
JOHN WALKER X READER — john hates when valentina pairs the two of you on missions together. until he doesn't. (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)
John Walker can’t stand you most days. You’re too reckless, too impulsive, too quick to put yourselves in situations that might kill you. He hates that Valentina paired you together just as much as he hates that he cares so much about your well-being.
He knows it’d be easier to let you get yourself killed, to have one less thing to worry about, but he somehow ends up kissing you instead.
“I can’t fucking stand you,” he grumbles through labored breaths, with your spit still shining on his swollen mouth. He cages your body between his larger one and the unforgiving wall behind you. The men guarding the vault outside surely won’t mind the sexual tension rising inside it, seeing as they’re half-dead already.
You smile in the face of his anger until the fresh cut on your mouth starts to sting. “But you can fuck me?” you pant, eyes glazed over as they dart back and forth between his dilated ones. “I mean, you want to, right? ’S why you locked me in here, isn’t it?”
“I locked you in here because there were three guys outside trying to kill you, if you forgot.”
“Two,” you correct in a witty deadpan. “I killed the third one.”
“And I killed the other two, who gives a shit—”
“You’re obsessed with me, Walker,” you grin, pulling him close by the belt loops on his suit.
Despite his near palpable rage, he melts into you with ease. The blonde man stumbles closer until he’s towering over you — hair messy from his helmet, face bruised, ocean eyes staring daggers into you.
“Well, that’s very presumptuous of you,” he gripes.
“I don’t think it is,” you lilt lowly and nudge his clothed crotch with your thigh.
You watch the words of an argument form and dissolve on his tongue all at once. John exhales hard through his nose as his eyes go glassy. He hadn’t realized how hard he was until you pressed yourself against him — how sensitive he was — how long it had been since he’d had any sort of release.
“Admit it—” you whisper, pulling him closer until his stiff cock is pressed between your bodies. He smells like cologne and copper pennies, likely from the blood darkening his navy blue suit. You’re almost sure you’d be able to feel his racing heart from here, if it weren’t for the thick layers separating you. “—You love me…”
“I hate you,” he corrects, though his dark eyes cloud with lust.
Your smile widens. The cut on the corner of your mouth begins to weep all over again. John reaches for your jaw without thinking, cupping his palm there and swiping the crimson away with his thumb.
“No, you don’t,” you coo with a shake of your head. The room goes quiet then, filled only by John’s heavy breaths and the clinking of his belt as you undo the buckle. You keep him close with one hand around his belt loop while the other creeps around the front of him. His breath catches in his throat when your fingers dip beneath the hem.
You don’t think he realizes how he’s rocking himself against your thigh. Or the way he subconsciously shakes his head in agreement.
“You’ve always thought about this, haven’t you?” you continue mercilessly, grinning when your fingertips meet the coarse thatch of hair above his cock.
John nods his heavy head and leans further into you, propping himself on the wall as his eyes flutter shut. He deserves this, he tells himself, for saving your ass a hundred times over. You owe him one, really.
“I know you have,” you whisper in his ear. “I bet you’ve gotten yourself off to the thought of me a thousand times.”
Again, John nods in response without ever really noticing it. Just like he doesn’t really notice the release building within him — like a creeping hand up his spine, or a tightening knot in his lean stomach. He just keeps rubbing himself against you, chasing a high he barely knows is there.
“But I think when you imagined me making you cum…” you trail off and smile when John moans against your pulse. “…You always thought it’d be inside me.”
John tenses at the thought of fucking you. He’s left trembling above you as a sudden orgasm racks through his body. The quiet room fills with his poorly heldback groans and your giggling while he cums in his pants. He feels the evidence, warm and wet, blooming in his boxers — just like the red-hot embarrassment exploding in his chest.
He pulls away to find you grinning like the devil.
“Told ya,” you monotone and pull your hand from his boxers, only slightly mourning the fact that you never actually got to touch him. “You’re obsessed with me.”
John scoffs, like he has any room to be ambivalent after humping your thigh like a dog. He zips up his pants, belt buckle clinking as he fastens it again. “You ruined my suit,” is all he can think to say as you walk past him.
You roll your eyes and wrench open the heavy door to the vault, stepping over the bloody bodies littered on the other side of it. “Bill me,” you call over your shoulder.
YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena is full of adrenaline after a mission, and you only know one way to calm her down (established relationship, post-thunderbolts, cw for very brief mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)
Yelena Belova has you flat on your back. The rest of the Avengers tower is dark, quiet, and asleep — each of you recovering from the latest mission in the sanctuary of your bedrooms. The blonde Russian girl is too full of adrenaline to rest, though, never mind how much she could probably use the sleep. She’s a relentless force on top of you — because of the adrenaline, of course, and not because she nearly lost you.
She tugs your pants down your legs with a pair of merciless hands, bruised knees digging into the foot of the mattress across from you. The mattress squeaks with each of your movements, and you fight back a laugh. “Be gentle, Belova!” you scold in a whisper. “Walker’s gonna hear.”
(John had the misfortune of his bedroom being one story below yours. And the floors were surprisingly thin. Or so he says.)
Yelena scoffs, face screwed. “I don’t care,” she mutters, voice accented and low like honey. “Let him hear.”
She makes a big show of climbing back over your body, moving much more violently than normal over the worn bed frame, so it creaks louder beneath her. “Yelena!” you snap quietly through gritted teeth, but hold her gently by the hips when she straddles you just the same.
“What?!” she exclaims, louder than necessary for the late, late night, as she tugs her shirt over her head. She throws the fabric to the side, discarding it with the rest of your pajamas littered on the floor — leaving both of you in mismatched sets of old, cotton underwear.
“God, you’re such a child,” you grouse and cross your arms beneath your head.
Yelena grins. “Stop flirting with me,” she lilts lowly and ducks down to kiss you.
Your eyes flutter shut when her plush lips trail from your jaw down to your neck. “We should rest, Lena…” you tell her, sighing when her teeth scrape your pulse. “We’re gonna be sore in the morning.”
You feel her mouth curl into a smile against your skin. “I hope so.”
“Child,” you repeat.
Yelena gets relentless rather quickly, feral in a way only a previous world-class assassin could be. She forgets about the exhaustion and the bruises that ache to the bone, littered across both your bodies. Her head fills only with thoughts of making you feel good, touching you like it could be the last time she ever gets to.
“Lena, Lena, Lena—” you echo, reaching for her wrist where her hand’s shoved into your panties. “Slow down,” you laugh.
“Why?” she whines.
You find her pretty face contorted in a girlish pout when you cup her cheeks in your hands. “Because we have all night,” you coo, smoothing your thumbs over her flushed jaw. “We don’t have to rush.”
Your words strike something deep in her chest. She refuses to let the vulnerability show.
“I know that,” she scoffs, trying to look unbothered as you smooth the top of her tank top down her chest. You tuck it beneath her breasts, and her pink nipples perk when the cool air hits them.
“Good,” you hum, lifting your head to take her left breast in your mouth.
“I just— I wanted to make you feel good—” she whines in her low Russian accent, voice cracking when you nudge her clothed cunt with your thigh. “—Oh…”
You smile into her chest, teeth scraping her sensitive nipple. Yelena keeps you pressed against her with a hand on the back of your head. Your arms curl around her back to keep her flush to your thigh. You feel the warmth of her cunt against your skin, and the wet spot slowly forming there.
The stubborn girl turns into a puddle above you, in more ways than one. You feel her shuddering as she buries each of her moans in your hair. Your mouth leaves her nipple with a quiet pop, and a thin string of saliva threatens to connect you when you pull away.
“Are you gonna cum, Lena?” you coo, swollen mouth curling into a soft smile. “I’ve barely even touched you—”
Her fingers tighten in your hair. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she pleads in a broken voice.
You return to her chest, sucking on her sensitive nipple until she keens. She exhales a hoarse moan above you, flexing her hips over your thigh to keep her clit flush to your skin. She lets out several pretty “Uh, uh, uh”’s before tensing suddenly above you.
Yelena holds her breath, grips you tight by your shoulder and the back of your neck, and begins to tremble over your thigh. “Oh, shit…” she moans, then sighs. “Oh, shit—”
It comes out more disappointed the second time, as she pulls back from you to flash you a girlish pout. “What?” you laugh, mouth shining with spit, as you smooth a rouge blonde tendril behind her ear.
“I was supposed to make you feel good,” she whines, Russian accent sounding deep in her mouth. “I had it all planned— I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“Well, then it’s a good thing we’ve got all the time in the world, right?”
Yelena’s frown curls into a more devilish grin at your words.
Neither of you get any sleep that night. Walker, included.
ROBERTY REYNOLDS X READER — a year after the void nearly destroyed new york, you're still teaching bob that it's okay to feel good (new-ish relationship, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)
Robert Reynolds is still getting used to touching you. He’s spent nearly every day with you since you found him — learning how to use his powers for good, how to touch you without hurting you, how to be human again. It’s been a year since then, and he’s starting to get the hang of it. But sometimes he thinks you have more faith in him than he does in himself.
You kiss him hard enough to bruise him on the center of the living room couch, with Sunset Boulevard playing quietly on the large TV behind you. Bob’s anxiety is only partly quelled by the rest of the Thunderbolts’ absence, but he’s still slightly scared of himself — what if The Void returned and swallowed him whole again? Who would be there to stop him from hurting you if it did?
You don’t seem half as panicked about the whole thing as your lips stamp wet kisses up and down the expanse of his long neck. “You’re so pretty, Bobby,” you murmur into his warm skin. “Such a pretty boy…”
Bob swallows hard at your praise, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He shifts uncomfortably beneath you on the sofa when he feels his cock twitching in the confines of his sweatpants. There’s a need for release inside of him that he can’t ignore, but he cares more about keeping you safe. Safe from himself.
You pull back, mouth swollen from your assault on his neck. “Can I…?” you smile and trail off, hands sliding down his clothed, lean chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.
Bob doesn’t know what you’re planning. It excites him as much as it frightens him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish until he finds the words. “Oh. I— I don’t— I don’t know,” he stammers through an awkward chuckle.
You shrug despite the pang of disappointment in your chest. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”
“It’s not that!” Bob blurts, rushing to hold you by the waist when you threaten to move off him. (He forgets, for maybe the first time ever, to be scared of touching you.) He swallows hard at the look you give him, blinking wildly with glassy eyes. “I just… I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” you assure him with a pretty laugh. “You don’t even have to touch me.”
Bob’s brows furrow. “What?” he wonders aloud.
You don’t answer him with words. You just flash him a mischievous smirk and shift on the couch until you’re no longer straddling him. You press your lips to his — once, twice, and then a third time — in a silent reminder to relax before your mouth trails down his neck once more.
You move past his jaw, to his pulse, and down towards his collarbone, sinking further onto your knees as you kiss down his body.
Bob exhales a shuddering breath and tilts his heavy head towards the back of the couch. He feels his hands start to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists, instead.
“Relax, baby,” you murmur between the kisses you press to his clothed sternum. “Let me make you feel good.”
Bob tenses beneath you when your hands brush his cock, growing harder in his boxers by the second. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ignore the need swelling inside him. “Um… Maybe we should…” he stammers, voice shaking. “Maybe we should, like, slow down?”
He covers his desperate plea with a wavering half-smile.
You nod, now fully on your knees between his spread thighs, and give him a kind, tight-lipped smile in return. “‘Course. I’ll go slow. Promise.”
You feel Bob trembling beneath your hand when you lift the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fine hair sprinkled on his lean stomach as you press chaste kisses to every inch of revealed skin. He takes in a shaking breath, burning red hot under your touch.
He doesn’t know how to tell you how sensitive he is — how, if he thinks about you and your soft touches for too long, that he’ll explode. So he doesn’t. He just squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about anything other than the way you’re making him feel just now.
“I’ll take care of you, Bobby. I promise,” you slur between languid kisses, holding his shirt up with one hand while your other teases the hem of his boxers. “I’ll make you feel so good—” Your lips brush the coarse hair peeking from his waistline. You flash him a pair of glassy, mischievous eyes.
“And maybe—” A kiss. “If you’re real good—” Another, a bit lower this time. “I’ll let you fuck me—”
Bob face twists. His brows furrow, his eyes shut tight, his nose scrunches at the bridge. He makes a strangled noise in his throat, growing so tense beneath you that it makes him tremble.
You just freeze, frightened that you might’ve done something wrong. You did just promise to take it slow, after all — and here he is now, cumming in his boxers.
He feels the warmth of his orgasm wetting the plaid fabric and sticking awkwardly to his skin. He fails to stave off the pang of embarrassment searing his chest.
“I’m sorry,” both of you blurt at the same time.
Bob’s eyes snap open, still slightly glazed over. “You’re sorry?!” he gapes. “What are you sorry for?”
You falter for a moment. “I don’t know,” you answer and start to laugh.
The pretty sound fills the quiet tower, and Bob can’t help but laugh along with you. He tilts his heavy head back against the couch as you rise from your knees, straddling him once more and avoiding the sensitive mess in his pants.
“Did it feel good, at least?” you ask, smoothing your palms over his trembling shoulders.
Bob nods and swallows hard. “Yeah,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “I haven’t— Haven’t been with anyone in a while, so… I guess you could say I’m… a little out of practice.”
“Don’t worry about it, okay?” you coo, ducking down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Even with his eyes closed, he can hear the smile in your voice as you whisper, “I’ll whip you back into shape in no time, Reynolds.”
Warnings - 18+, smut, fingering, orgasms, squirting, cursing, kissing, void is technically a warning lol
Word count - 2773
a/n - this was just supposed to be a quick little imagine because I wasn’t completely sure where to go with this, but then it just kept going, and I wrote the majority of this in one sitting💀 I'm also a little behind on posts so I shouldn't have even written this lmfao. It's also been a while since I've written smut. Thanks for ready and I hope you enjoy :) (not fully edited so minor things may change)
Summary: Just when you think you can have a relaxing evening in the tower with Bob all to yourself, his other half decides that he deserves to come out and play.
You’re sitting on the couch next to Bob when the team announces that they’re leaving. The two of you were doing a marathon of classic movies since they seemed to comfort Bob, and you just happened to also enjoy them.
You and Bob wave and say your goodbyes to everyone as they leave, but you don’t notice the way Bob’s arm smoothly goes to rest on the couch behind you. Once the last person is out the door, the energy in the room seems to shift.
You look over at Bob to see his face void of emotion as he looks at the front door, but when he feels your eyes on him, he turns to look at you. No.
Void turns to look at you.
You roll your eyes at him, before asking, “Mind telling me why you’re here and Bob isn’t?”
Void smirks. “Oh, come on, you’re telling me you want to continue watching these boring ass movies with him? He’s seen these plenty of times.”
“That doesn’t matter. Bob likes them, and quite frankly so do I,” you say before turning your attention back to the tv.
Then you feel Void’s arm move from its place on the couch behind you to wrap around your shoulders, bringing the two of you closer.
Your breath hitches as you feel Void’s on your neck. He nuzzles his nose into your neck breathing you in, before placing a few light kisses on the skin. He places one right below your ear making you shiver, before he brings his lips to your ear.
“So you’re telling me, you don’t want to do something else? Have a bit of fun? The team will be gone for hours, and I say we take advantage of it,” Void suggests.
“And what would Bob say about this?” you ask as you feel his other hand teasingly trail up your leg, getting closer and closer to the bottom of your pajama shorts.
You hate the way your body reacts under his touch. Goosebumps appear on your skin behind his active hand, giving you away. Void smiles at this. You try to move out of his grasp, but his firm hold causes you to fail.
You swallow.
“What makes you think he doesn’t want this?” Void scoffs and pulls his face away from your neck to look at your face. “Bob and I are the same. I’m just the other half with more confidence, more nerve. This is what Bob wants, and I’m just making sure it happens. Is that so…wrong?”
You feel Void’s travel higher until it reaches your core over your pajama shorts. Your thighs part just a smidge to make room for his hand.
Your breathing stops for a moment and your eyes flutter as he lightly begins to tease you through the fabric. Your panties begin to dampen with your arousal at Void’s movements.
You try to keep your eyes on the tv screen in front of you, but Void’s presence is making it hard to concentrate. The room suddenly feels warmer and the voices coming from the movie sound muffled.
Trying to collect yourself and seem unaffected, you breathe out a small laugh. “And what makes you think that this is what I want? Don’t tell me you’re getting turned on by Casablanca,” you joke.
“So you’re telling me that if I reached inside these tiny little shorts of yours that I won’t find not even the slightest trace of your wetness?” Void raises an eyebrow.
He doesn’t wait for a response, though, instead quickly dipping his hand inside your shorts and cupping your through your panties. The dampness is evident.
You quickly stifle the gasp that tries to escape your throat as he grabs you in his large hand.
A sinister smile grows on Void’s lips as he finds exactly what he expected. “See, I was right. Would you look at that?”
Void’s presses into you and begins to rub meaningful circles into your clit. One of your hands instinctively goes to wrap around his wrist. This time you’re not able to prevent yourself from making any noises as a soft whine leaves your lips, your hole clenching around nothing.
“You mean to tell me that all this sweetness is for little ol’ Bob? C’mom sweetheart, admit that you want this, and I’ll give you what you want,” Void tells you, his tone condescending as he watches your reactions to his fingers.
You clench your jaw and give him a glare.
“No need to be stubborn, it’s just you and me,” Void smirks.
When he notices that you’re not budging, he dips his hand into your panties. Your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter as he trails his up and down your soaked slit gathering your slick. He teases your entrance, before going up to your clit with the newly found wetness and stimulating it.
Your hips buck into his hand, wanting him to add more pressure, wanting him to do more.
You regret looking down at the sight of Void’s hand inside your shorts because the lewd sight alone causes another flow of arousal to leave you.
You feel yourself begin to grow more desperate. You’re not going to be able to resist much longer.
“The choice is yours. I have to say, though, I would just hate for the team to come back and you don’t end up getting what you want,” Void adds. “I mean, what kind of man would I be to leave you hanging.”
His tone sounds sincere, but there’s a fake pout on his face that you just want to smack off.
Void leans in, his lips almost connecting with yours as turns your face for you to look at him. The close proximity makes your mind reel.
“Just say the words and I’ll make everything feel better. Tell me that you want my help.”
Suddenly, you feel his movements on your clit stop, but he doesn’t remove his hand from inside of your shorts.
Fuck.
“Fine,” you mutter.
Void playfully tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “Fine…what?”
You give him a look, and Void just innocently shrugs in response.
“God, fine,” you sigh, “I want your help.”
“God? How wonderful of you to finally notice me for who I really am,”Void smiles.
This smug son of a- oh.
You’re caught off guard when Void moves forward to close the between you two. The kiss starts like any other kiss with Bob, but then it becomes rough, more demanding—both are characteristics of his darker half.
Void hums into your mouth as you lean into his touch and kiss him back.
Without notice, Void stuffs a long finger into your leaking entrance before quickly pulling it back out. Void pulls away when your mouth parts at the unexpected intrusion.
“Fuck, you’re dripping. Bob doesn’t deserve all of this, he doesn’t deserve you,” Void comments, bringing his hand out of your panties to hold it up in front of both of your faces.
You watch the way your slick coats his finger and threatens to drip down. You don’t know whether to feel ashamed or more aroused.
Void is trying to contain his emotions and stay on track, but the way his cock continues to harden and leak precum inside the confines of his underwear threatens to get to his head.
Suddenly, Void sticks the contaminated finger into his mouth and hums in approval at the taste. His jaw clenches and holds back his own moan as he feels his cock twitch.
Your throat goes dry at the sight.
“Take off the shorts,” Void instructs with a nod of his head.
You hate how you don’t hesitate.
You lift your hips to shuffle your pajama shorts down your legs and then move to take off your panties, but Void stops you.
“Leave them on, I wanna see them stretch around my hand.”
Oh.
Void’s mouth almost waters at the beautiful sight of the damp, dark patch on the crotch of your panties.
Another wave of warmth flows through your core. At this rate your panties are going to become translucent and disintegrate in no time.
Void wastes no time in attaching his fingers back to your core, gathering more slick and plunging his middle and ring finger into your awaiting hole and thrusting them inside of you.
You gasp at the suddenness, but your wetness easily allows for his fingers to move in and out of you. Your mouth is left ajar as you allow your head to tilt back and your eyelids to lower.
Any other time, the band of your panties digging into your skin would annoy you, but at this moment the feeling just adds to the experience.
Void groans at the way your warm walls flutter around him.
“This is kind of a snug fit, isn’t it? Bob’s not taking care of you like he should. He has no initiative…he has no idea how to take care of someone such as yourself,” Void rasps.
Void leans back a little to inspect how your face contorts when he moves his fingers a certain way.
It takes you a moment to ignore the squelching sound coming from your pussy and gather yourself enough to speak.
“But aren’t…you…technically still Bob?” you stammer.
“Don’t compare me to him,” Void says. A look of disgust flashes across his face.
“It’s not really a comparison, just fact,” you tell him. When he doesn’t respond, you add, “Do you…feel threatened by Bob?”
The way his fingers falter inside of you almost goes unnoticed by you, but as your eyes look up at Void, you can tell by the expression on his face—or lack there of—that he’s displeased with the accusation.
Void quickly contemplates on whether to respond or not, and then decides to speak, “How dare you.”
Hearing his voice get lower and his tone deepen along with the feeling of his breath tickling your neck is almost enough to make you come on the spot.
Void wipes away the little smile you had forming on your lips by digging deeper and curling his fingers in a way that causes a loud moan from you. He uses his thumb to gently swipe at your sensitive clit every once in a while, making you clench around his fingers.
Your eyes roll closed as your back arches away from the back of the couch and your legs twitch but they still spread even more.
You can feel your slick slipping out of you and pooling into your panties. There’s no doubt that everything isn’t going to leak through the fabric and onto the couch, that is, if it hasn’t already.
“Fuck,” you breathe out.
The arm he has around your shoulders tightens in response to your squirming body, caging you in and making sure that you don’t get away. He smirks as you whimper and twitch in his hold.
“Is that your spot? Yeah?” Void whispers to you in that condescending tone.
He chuckles as you mewl in response.
“You talk too much, did y’know that? I’m surprised your mouth doesn’t get you in more trouble.”
You blindly reach out for something to hold on to, not being able to decide whether you should hold on to Bob’s
Void’s shirt or the throw pillow on the couch beside you.
“I think you can handle another finger. What do you say?” Void asks, this time waiting for your answer.
Bob usually only uses two fingers on you, but the thought of a third sounds perfect right now.
You nod, but that isn’t enough for Void.
“No, use your words. You got it.”
“Yes, yes, just do it!”
And that’s all it takes for Void to quickly pull his fingers out, throw your left leg over his lap to spread you open wider, and slip that third finger inside your dripping hole alongside the others.
“Oh, my god,” you pant.
Your face pinches at the stretch from the new addition, but your expression quickly changes back into pleasure as Void continues to steadily pump into you, using his palm to attend to your sensitive clit.
Your jaw slacks as you feel your orgasm building deep in your core. Your body feels like it’s on fire as your senses are being consumed by him. Your skin grows hotter and you can feel the backs of your legs sticking to the couch.
When Void notices your thighs beginning to close around his hand, he speaks up. “No, no, no. Keep your legs open, you said you could handle this remember? Don’t be rude.”
You whimper in protest, but still spread back open.
Void begins trailing kisses on your neck, and when he hears a noise leave you when he reaches your sweet spot, he focuses his attention on that area.
It’s all too much.
“Fuck, Bobby, please,” you cry out.
“I’m not Bob,” Void reestablishes.
Whatever.
You feel yourself ready to tumble over the edge, your squirming and wriggling becoming more frequent as you climb higher and higher. One of your hands fist Bob’s Void’s shirt to help ground you.
“You’re squeezing the hell out of me. You’re ready to let go, huh,” Void speaks into your neck. “Well, go ahead, sweetheart. I’m not stopping you.”
His words were the last thing you needed to help you finally come.
Your eyes roll towards the back of your head as you feel the damn break inside of you, your walls clenching repeatedly around Void’s fingers. Your body tenses up and your toes curl while Void continues to thrust his fingers in and out of you, helping you ride out your orgasm with a long, high-pitched moan.
Void slows down the pace of your fingers as your high begins to subside and your noises start to reduce, and right when you think he’s about to pull out, he suddenly picks up speed again.
“W-what are you doing?” you gasp out, reaching down to grab his wrist again.
“I know you have another one in you. If you can do it for Bob, you can do it for me,” Void explains, his tone leaving no room for discussion. He smirks at your expression.
“But-,” you start to say, but Void just shushes you.
“You got this, I know you do. Relax for me,” Void coos.
You can’t help the way your body tries to wiggle its way out of Void’s hold, but it’s no use. Even when your thighs close around his wrist, Void still carries on with getting you to your next climax.
You feel it almost instantly, your orgasm swelling deep in your core. You can tell that this one is going to be stronger, but something feels different. With your mind nearly empty and the only thing floating around in your head is him, it takes you a moment to figure it out.
But then it hits you.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
“Wait, wait…!” you squeak, but Void doesn’t care.
Void’s voice is hushed and low as he says. “Go ahead, make a mess for me. The couch can be cleaned later, your needs are more important right now, don’t y’think? Now cum.”
You’re trembling as you feel yourself gush, the liquid absolutely drenching your underwear as it escapes you. With Void still fucking his fingers into you, your squirt splashes onto his palm and back onto you.
Your body feels like it’s locked up as Void forces the rest of your mess out of you. Your eyes squeeze shut while you let out scream when he finally pulls his fingers out and goes to frantically rub at your ruined bud.
Void chuckles as he pulls his hand out of your panties, but keeps his arm around your shoulders. A shiver runs through you as you finally close your legs.
A shiver runs through your spine as Void pulls his hand out your panties but keeps his arm around your shoulders. He chuckles at your dazed out expression, watching as you try to bring yourself back down to earth.
Voice has to clench his jaw when he takes a look at the couch below you, seeing the remnants of your orgasm splattered around the area.
He can feel himself throbbing inside of his pants, ready to be released. Maybe he’ll just leave that for Bob to handle.
“Who’s cleaning this up,” you breathe out, “because it won’t be me.”
Void hums as is if he’s thinking it over, before glancing at the clock on the wall.
There’s still more time. His face shifts.
Maybe he won’t leave his little problem for Bob to deal with.
synopsis: seperated by miles, bucky barnes is out on a mission when he gets a late-night text message from you, and suddenly, he just can't do distance anymore.
rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mdni, unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, fingering, breast play, sexting, mutual masturbation over video call, praise kink, bucky is all rough and desperate, and he struggles a bit with tech lol, …dog tags, motorcycle this smut has it all.
w/c: 3,885
masterlist | submit a request
The glow of your phone screen is the only light in your bedroom, casting soft shadows across the empty sheets. It’s 11:47 PM, and your desire for Bucky has you restless, your body aching with the need for him. He’s been gone three weeks, on some mission with Yelena and John keeping him a whole state away, and the distance is a cruel tease. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, then type out a message, heart already picking up speed.
You: Can’t sleep, soldier. Bed feels too damn big without you.
His reply pings almost instantly, like he’s been staring at his phone, waiting.
Bucky: Doll, you’re killing me already. Missing you so bad, I can’t think straight.
You smile, warmth curling in your chest. Bucky’s always been a little slow with tech—his texts are short, sometimes autocorrect mangles them—but the effort he puts in makes it sweeter. You can picture him, brow furrowed, big fingers fumbling on the tiny keyboard in some nondescript motel room.
You: What’s keeping you up, huh? Thinking about me?
Bucky: Every damn second. You in that little tank top you wear to bed? Or… less?
Your breath catches, a flush creeping up your neck. He’s bold tonight, and you love it.
You: Just a tank top. Barely. Wish you were here to see it.
There’s a longer pause, and you can almost hear the low groan he’d make.
Bucky: Sweetheart, you’re gonna make me break this phone. Tell me what you’d do if I was there.
Heat pools low in your belly, and you shift on the bed, thighs pressing together. You type slowly, savouring the anticipation.
You: I’d climb into your lap, kiss that spot on your jaw that makes you growl. Slide my hands under your shirt, feel those muscles… you’d be begging me to keep going.
His reply takes a minute, and when it comes, it’s a little messy, like he’s typing too fast.
Bucky: Fuck, doll. I’d pin you to that bed before you could tease me. Kiss you till you’re dizzy, hands all over you. That tank top wouldn’t last five seconds.
You bite your lip, pulse racing. The image of Bucky—broad shoulders, dog tags dangling, blue eyes blazing—has you squirming.
You: Oh, you think you’d have control? I’d have you groaning my name first, Barnes. Bet I could make you lose it just by grinding against you.
Bucky: You’d feel how hard you’re makin’ me already. I’d rip those panties off, make you scream for me.
Your fingers tremble as you type, the words coming faster now, dirtier.
You: I’d let you, Buck. Want your hands on me, your mouth… want you to fuck me till I can’t walk.
His next text is a single word, raw and desperate.
Bucky: Fuck.
Then, a follow-up.
Bucky: Call me. Now. Need to see you.
You hesitate, heart pounding. A call means FaceTime, and the thought of seeing him, hearing him, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
You: FaceTime? You sure you know how to work that, old man?
Bucky: Shut up, doll. I figured out the damn button. Answer when I call, or I’m ridin’ to you tonight.
The threat—or promise—makes you grin, your body buzzing with anticipation. You adjust your tank top, letting one strap slip off your shoulder, and wait for the call.
Your phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call, and your heart leaps into your throat. You swipe to answer, and there’s Bucky, filling the screen, looking like sin itself. He’s shirtless, sprawled on a motel bed, the dim light catching the glint of his dog tags and the sheen of sweat on his chest. His hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes, and those blue eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on you.
But there’s a flicker of frustration on his face as he fumbles with the phone, tilting it at an awkward angle.
“Damn it,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “This thing keeps—hold on, doll, I think I got it.” He props the phone against something, probably a pillow, and the view steadies, giving you a full shot of his broad shoulders and the taut muscles of his stomach. He squints at the screen, like he’s not sure it’s working. “You seein’ me okay? Or did I break this already?”
You laugh, the sound breathy with nerves and desire. “I see you, Buck. Looking like a damn dream.” You shift on your bed, letting the silky camisole slip further down your shoulder, the thin fabric barely covering you. You angle the phone to give him a teasing view of your collarbone, the curve of your chest. “Like what you see?”
His groan is instant, low and guttural. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.” He shifts, and you catch the way his hand moves off-screen, adjusting himself. “That top’s barely holdin’ on. Show me more.”
Heat floods your body, and you oblige, sliding the camisole down to reveal the tops of your breasts, your fingers lingering there. “Better?” you tease, voice husky.
Bucky’s jaw tightens, his metal hand flexing on the bed. “You’re playin’ dirty, doll. Keep goin’. Wanna see all of you.” He’s trying to sound commanding, but there’s a plea in his tone, raw and desperate.
You bite your lip, emboldened by his reaction. “Only if you give me something too, soldier.” You nod toward his lap, where his hand is resting just out of frame. “Show me what those texts were doing to you.”
He huffs a laugh, half-embarrassed, half-turned on. “Demanding much? Alright.” He adjusts, sliding his hand into his sweatpants, and you catch a glimpse of the bulge there before he eases them down just enough. He’s hard, and the sight of him touching himself, slow and deliberate, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Your turn, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Touch yourself for me.”
Your breath hitches, and you don’t hesitate. You slip a hand under the hem of your camisole, pushing it up to expose your stomach, then lower, dipping into your panties. The first brush of your fingers against yourself makes you gasp, and Bucky’s eyes darken, his own hand moving faster.
“Fuck, doll, look at you,” he groans, voice thick. “So damn pretty. Keep goin’. Imagine it’s me touchin’ you.”
You do, your fingers circling as you picture his hands—rough, warm, and relentless. “Bucky,” you whimper, your hips shifting on the bed. “Wish it was you. Want your fingers, your mouth…”
He curses under his breath, his strokes growing rougher. “God, I’d devour you right now. Lick every inch of you till you’re screamin’ my name. Tell me how it feels, baby.”
“It’s so good,” you moan, your free hand gripping the sheets. “But not enough. Need you here, Buck. Need you inside me.” The words spill out, unfiltered, and you see the effect they have—his head tips back, a low growl rumbling from his chest.
“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna lose it,” he warns, but his hand doesn’t stop, and neither does yours. You’re both chasing the same high, the phone screen a cruel barrier between you. “Tell me what you’d do if I was there. Right now.”
You’re panting now, the pleasure building fast. “I’d climb on top of you,” you say, voice shaky. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name. Kiss you till you can’t breathe.”
“Fuck, yes,” he growls, his eyes locked on you, intense and wild. “I’d flip you over, fuck you into the mattress. Make you come so many times you’d beg me to stop.”
The filthy promises push you closer to the edge, your fingers moving faster, chasing the release.
“Bucky, I’m—” you gasp, unable to finish the sentence as the pleasure crests.
“Me too, doll,” he grits out, his voice breaking. “Come for me. Let me see you.”
It hits you like a wave, your body arching as you cry out his name, trembling under your own touch. Bucky follows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he spills over his hand, his chest heaving. For a moment, you’re both silent, just breathing, the intimacy of the moment hanging heavy between you.
Then he laughs, rough and a little sheepish. “Well, damn. Never thought this phone thing could be that good.” He grabs a tissue, cleaning up, and you giggle, pulling your camisole back into place.
“Still hate technology?” you tease, your voice soft, sated.
He smirks, but his eyes are serious. “Not when it’s you on the other end. But this ain’t enough, sweetheart.” He leans closer to the screen, voice dropping. “I’m comin’ to you. Tonight.”
You blink, still hazy from the high. “Buck, you’re in—wherever you are. You can’t just—”
“Watch me,” he says, and you see him grab his leather jacket, tossing it over his shoulder. “Got my bike. I’m ridin’ to you. Be there by dawn.”
Your jaw drops, but the determination in his eyes tells you he’s not kidding. “You’re insane,” you whisper, but your heart’s racing again, thrilled.
“Insane for you,” he shoots back, already moving. “Get some rest, doll. You’re gonna need it when I get there.”
The call ends, leaving you staring at the blank screen, your body buzzing with anticipation and disbelief.
Bucky’s breath is still uneven as he ends the FaceTime call, the image of you—hot, panting, whispering his name—burned into his mind. His body’s buzzing, sated but nowhere near satisfied.
The phone’s screen goes dark, but it doesn’t matter; he can still see you, feel the ghost of your voice in his ear, your words pulling him apart. “Need you inside me.” Fuck. He’s done waiting.
He’s on his feet in seconds, the motel room’s stale air doing nothing to cool the heat coursing through him. His leather jacket is slung over his shoulder, but he shrugs it on, the familiar weight grounding him. His duffel’s already packed—a habit from decades of moving fast, never settling. He grabs it, slings it across his chest, and heads for the door. The keys to his Harley jingle in his pocket, a promise of freedom, of you.
Outside, the night’s crisp, the motel’s neon sign buzzing faintly. His bike’s parked under a flickering streetlight, all black chrome and raw power, just like him. He swings a leg over, the leather seat creaking under his weight, and kicks the engine to life. The roar tears through the silence, vibrating in his chest, matching the thrum of his pulse. He’s in Pennsylvania, but you’re in New York, a good five-hour ride if he pushes it. He’s pushing it.
The highway stretches out, a dark ribbon under a sky smeared with stars. Bucky leans into the wind, the speedometer climbing as the bike eats up the miles. His mind’s a tangle of you—your teasing texts, the way you looked on that call, your body arching as you came for him. He grips the handlebars tighter, the metal of his left hand glinting in the moonlight. He’s not built for distance, not when it comes to you. Every mile feels like a taunt, every second a reminder of how bad he needs to touch you, taste you, feel you under him.
He replays the call in his head, your voice a siren song. “Ride you so hard you’d forget your own name.” His jaw clenches, a low growl escaping his throat, lost in the wind. He’s half-hard again just thinking about it, the memory of your fingers slipping into your panties, the soft moans you made. He shifts on the seat, trying to focus on the road, but it’s no use. You’re in his blood, and no amount of miles or cold air can shake you out.
A gas station looms ahead, the only light for miles. He pulls in, the bike’s rumble dropping to a low purr as he cuts the engine. His boots hit the gravel, and he stretches, rolling his shoulders. The attendant, a kid barely out of his teens, eyes the metal arm warily but says nothing as Bucky fills the tank. He checks his phone—2:37 AM. A text from you, sent just after the call.
You: You’re really coming? Be safe, soldier. I’ll be waiting…
He smirks, typing back with one hand, still clumsy with the touchscreen. Bucky: Damn right I’m comin’. Don’t sleep too deep, doll. Gonna need you awake.
He sends it, pockets the phone, and swings back onto the bike. The kid mutters something about “crazy night riders,” but Bucky’s already gone, the Harley roaring back to life. The road’s emptier now, just him and the hum of the engine, the world blurring past. He thinks about what’s waiting—your apartment, your bed, you in that flimsy camisole or maybe nothing at all. His foot presses harder on the throttle, the needle pushing past 90.
Dawn’s starting to bleed into the horizon when he hits the outskirts of New York, the city’s glow a faint promise. His body aches from the ride, but it’s nothing compared to the ache for you. He weaves through early traffic, the bike’s growl turning heads, but he doesn’t care. Your address is burned into his brain, every turn taking him closer. The thought of you, warm and waiting, maybe still flushed from earlier, has his heart pounding harder than the engine.
He pulls up to your building as the sky turns pink, the Harley’s rumble echoing off the brick. He cuts the engine, the silence sudden and heavy. His boots hit the pavement, and he takes a moment, catching his breath, running a hand through his wind-messed hair. The duffel slung over his shoulder, but all he can think about is you—steps away, behind that door, real and his.
He’s here. And he’s not leaving until you’re screaming his name.
The stairwell to your apartment is a blur as Bucky bounds up, boots thudding on the creaking wood, his pulse a war drum in his ears. The five-hour ride on his Harley—wind tearing at him, miles bleeding into the night—has only sharpened his need. Your door looms at the end of the hall, and he’s there in seconds, fist hovering for a soft knock. It’s 6:13 AM; he won’t wake your neighbours. The rap is quiet but urgent, his metal hand twitching, impatient.
The door flies open, and you’re a vision that stops his heart. That silky camisole clings to you, one strap slipped off your shoulder, barely containing the curves he’s been dreaming of. Your hair’s tousled, eyes wide with shock and want, lips parted like you’re about to speak. But Bucky doesn’t give you the chance. His duffel hits the floor, and he’s on you, hands cradling your face as he crashes his mouth to yours. The kiss is raw, all-consuming, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, weeks of pent-up longing spilling out. He tastes you—mint toothpaste and something sweeter, something you—and it’s better than any fantasy.
“Bucky,” you gasp when he pulls back for air, your fingers knotting in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him growl. He kicks the door shut, the slam echoing, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist, thighs tight against his hips, and he groans as your heat presses through his jeans. The leather jacket’s cool against your bare arms, but his body’s a furnace, searing where he holds you.
“Told you I’d come, doll,” he rasps, voice rough from the road and desire.
He carries you to the bedroom, lips trailing fire down your jaw, nipping the pulse point on your neck that makes you shudder. Your nails rake his shoulders, shoving at his jacket, and he shrugs it off mid-stride, dog tags jangling as it hits the floor. You’re clawing at his shirt now, and he yanks it over his head, tossing it aside, leaving him in just those damn tags and jeans slung low on his hips.
He sets you on the bed, stepping back to drink you in. The camisole’s riding up, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, your thighs parted just enough to make his mouth water. Your eyes are dark, pupils blown, and the way you’re looking at him—like he’s everything—has his chest tight.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, voice thick with praise, the words wrapping around you like a caress. He crawls over you, caging you with his body, his flesh hand snagging both your wrists and pinning them above your head. The restraint sends a spark through you, and he feels it, sees it in the way you arch. “Gonna make you scream for me, sweetheart. You’re mine.”
The possessiveness laces his tone, and you shiver, lips curving into a defiant smirk. “Prove it, soldier.”
That’s all he needs. His mouth claims yours again, deep and filthy, tongue stroking in a way that promises what’s coming. His metal hand slides under your camisole, cold against your fevered skin, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—just rips the fabric down the middle, the tear loud in the quiet room. You gasp, but his lips are there, soothing, kissing the sting away as the scraps fall. “I’ll buy you another one,” he murmurs, but you’re too far gone to care, your hands straining against his grip, wanting to touch him.
His mouth moves lower, hot and deliberate, sucking at the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple until you whine. He laves it with his tongue, then moves to the other, leaving marks you’ll feel tomorrow. “So fuckin’ responsive,” he growls, voice vibrating against your skin. He trails kisses down your stomach, each one slower, teasing, until he’s settled between your thighs. His hands—flesh and metal—grip your hips, spreading you open, and he just stares, eyes black with hunger. “Look at you, doll. So wet for me. Been like this since our call, haven’t you?”
You nod, breathless, and he chuckles, dark and dirty. “Good girl.” The praise hits like a drug, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, just a slow, devastating lick through your folds. You cry out, hips bucking, but his metal arm pins you down, unrelenting. He groans, the sound rumbling through you, and it’s like he’s starving, tongue circling your clit, sucking hard, then dipping lower to taste you deeper. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he says, voice muffled, and you’re already trembling, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.
His flesh hand joins in, fingers teasing your entrance, circling until you’re begging, voice broken.
“Bucky, please, need you—” He doesn’t make you wait, sliding two fingers inside, thick and curling just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.
You moan, loud and shameless, as he pumps them slow, then faster, his tongue never stopping, sucking your clit like it’s his mission to ruin you. “That’s it, doll,” he says, lifting his head just enough to watch you writhe. “Love those sounds. Keep makin’ ‘em for me.”
You’re close, too close, the coil tightening with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue. He senses it, doubles down, sucking hard as his fingers twist, and you’re gone, screaming his name as you come, body arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop, working you through it, licking every shudder until you’re gasping, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to pull him up.
He crawls over you, kissing you deep, and you taste yourself on his tongue, the intimacy making you dizzy. “So damn beautiful when you come,” he whispers, and the praise sinks into you, warm and perfect. His jeans are still on, tented painfully, and you reach for him, fingers clumsy with need as you pop the button, drag the zipper down. He helps, kicking them off with his boxers, and you pause, just looking—his cock’s thick, hard, leaking at the tip, and the sight makes your mouth water.
“Need you, Bucky,” you say, voice raw, reaching for him. “Now.”
He smirks, but his eyes are soft, reverent. “Gonna give you everything, sweetheart.” He settles between your thighs, teasing your entrance with his tip, dragging it through your slick until you’re whining. “You want me to fuck you, doll? Want me to make you mine?”
“Yes,” you breathe, legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer. “Please, Bucky.”
He doesn’t tease anymore. He pushes in, slow and relentless, stretching you inch by inch, and you both groan, the feeling overwhelming. He’s big, filling you completely, and he stills, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grits out, voice strained, his dog tags dangling, brushing your chest. “Feel so damn perfect, doll. Like you were made for me.”
You clench around him, and he curses, low and filthy. “Keep doin’ that, and I won’t last,” he warns, but you just smirk, rolling your hips to take him deeper. He growls, pinning your wrists again, the restraint making you burn. “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that, sweetheart.”
He starts moving, and it’s everything—deep, powerful thrusts, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking under the force. You meet him thrust for thrust, arching up, the friction perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. “Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, and he leans down, sucking a bruise into your neck, marking you as his.
“Mine,” he growls, each word punctuated by a thrust, his metal hand gripping your hip, anchoring you. “Say it, doll. Tell me you’re mine.”
“Yours,” you gasp, the word a prayer, and he rewards you, angling his hips to hit even deeper, the pleasure blinding. His pace quickens, relentless, and you’re both panting, sweat-slick and desperate.
“Love how you feel,” he groans, voice rough. “So wet, so tight, takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”
The dirty talk pushes you higher, and you claw at his back, nails digging in, making him hiss.
“Harder,” you beg, and he delivers, fucking you into the mattress, the headboard rattling. His flesh hand releases your wrists, sliding between you to rub tight circles on your clit, and you cry out, the added sensation too much. “Bucky, I’m gonna—”
“Come for me,” he commands, possessive and fierce. “Wanna feel you, doll. Let go.”
It hits like a freight train, your body convulsing, clenching around him as you scream his name, pleasure tearing through you. He groans, thrusts growing erratic, chasing his own release. “Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants, and then he’s coming, spilling inside you, hot and deep, his hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt.
You’re both trembling, locked together, and he doesn’t pull out, staying close, kissing you slow and deep, tongues lazy now, sated. His weight is grounding, his tags cool against your chest, and you feel every shudder of his breath. “No more distance,” he murmurs, voice a vow, his lips brushing yours. “I’m not leavin’ you again, sweetheart.”
You smile, fingers tracing his jaw, his stubble rough under your touch. “Better not, soldier. I’m keeping you forever.”
He chuckles, soft and warm, rolling to his side and pulling you with him, still inside you, like he can’t bear to break the connection. “Forever sounds good, doll.”
────✪────
Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world
pairings: robert reynolds x reader, slight void x reader
cw: smut, afab reader, mention and usage of drugs, food play, oral (male and female receiving), messy sex, unprotected sex, trauma responses, nursing, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum).
a/n: im not taking specific requests but if you have any other characters you want me to write for send them in my asks!
bob was a consuming person.
so much so that when he enjoyed something, he’d try—truly try—to take it in little pieces. like a child with sugar, licking the edges before the center. like a user with a final hit, drawing it out even as his body screamed to finish it. as if savoring was a form of prayer—an act of desperate hope that the thing he loved wouldn’t vanish when it was gone.
you think it’s a condition carved into him from the inside out, from years of addiction that had rewired the marrow of his being. he’d whisper the stories when he couldn’t sleep, his voice cracking as he spoke into your skin. the first time he smoked meth—how the world sharpened and dulled at once, like standing on the edge of a lightning bolt. how it ate time. how he stopped knowing when the sun had set. when his own name had last sounded human.
he only talks about it when you’re holding him. always in moments where your skin is touching his, like he needs the reality of your body to anchor the unreality of his memories.
like now.
you’re both submerged in the bath, the water thick with oils and salt. it’s not warm anymore, but neither of you cares. you’re straddling him, your thighs trembling against his sides, facing him—always facing him, as he asks. he tells you it keeps him here. grounded. you don’t question it anymore. his eyes are closed, lashes wet and golden, his mouth parted just enough for steam to kiss his lips. you rake your nails through his scalp, the conditioner lathering with a gentle foam as your fingers work slow circles into his head.
he moans—not from lust, not yet—but from the sheer relief of it. as if even this, even the gentle tug of your fingers through his curls, is a high he’s trying to stretch until it snaps.
and it always snaps.
bob needed coping mechanisms. dr. cornish, the one they assigned him after the thunderbolts briefing, liked to call them “rituals.” anchor points for an unstable mind. repetitive comforts that warded off the noise. he tried to adopt some of the healthier ones—you’d find him pressed against your chest like a child some mornings, nursing at your nipple with a single-mindedness that stole the breath from your lungs. the fifth time that day, no less. sometimes with tears drying on his cheeks, sometimes with a smile against your skin.
other times, it was baking.
that's one you could get behind. he was good at it—shockingly so. quietly focused, movements precise like he was defusing a bomb instead of folding batter. maybe it was the control. the order. the step-by-step promise that if he did everything right, sweetness would come out of the wreckage.
but there was still something wrong with how he looked at you when you ate it.
not just hunger. not just lust. reverence. the kind of look that should’ve been reserved for a god—if bob believed in anything higher than your moan when the spoon hit your tongue.
“this is so good, bob,” you’d said once, mouth full of still-warm vanilla cake. you were just being honest. it was good. light, soft, and impossibly fluffy.
but his face went red. and below the counter, you caught the twitch of his cock in his sweatpants. the way his fingers clenched the edge of the marble so hard you heard it creak.
he got hard from that.
from your praise.
and now?
now you’re sat in front of bob, bob’s legs slightly spread on the bed, his cake frosting is everywhere. slicked across his stomach, smeared over his thighs. he’s got a piping bag discarded on the nightstand, and the tip of his cock is flushed deep pink, glistening with milk pre and vanilla-sugar cream in a mess you can’t tell apart.
his mind is like a bee hive, he’s high, high off your touch, the mere thought of this moment. you want to taste what he made. you want to taste him. every pass of your tongue makes him sob.
“love when y—you do that,” he gasps, hips jerking up to meet your mouth. his fingers tangle in your hair, frosting slicking your scalp. “wanna bake for you more. wanna feed you. wanna be ‘s good for you.”
it’s breathless. mindless. the kind of manic devotion you used to hear in his voice when he described scoring meth on a dirty downtown corner, how it made the sky fall away and time collapse into a tunnel of white.
only now, it’s you. your praise. your mouth on him like some kind of holy retribution for all the years his body went unloved.
you take him deeper, and the milk pre leaks out in thick drips that mix with the frosting. it’s obscene. sticky. it clings to your lips, your chin, your tongue. bob groans like he’s being sanctified.
yeah, baking was good.
healthy. normal. or at least whatever normal meant for the two of you. a rhythm that made sense, something you could explain if ross’s team ever asked how he was coping. you could say, he’s staying clean. he’s baking. he’s using his hands for something that doesn’t kill people or break bones. and it would be true.
but what you couldn’t explain—what wouldn’t make it into his logs or therapy sessions or mission briefings—was bob’s infatuation with your arousal.
that wasn’t healthy. it wasn’t even about sex, not really. it was closer to need, the same primal, destabilizing kind that used to claw up his spine when he was coming down off meth. back when his body would turn inside out trying to chase the next high, chewing through hours, days, memories, just to feel anything again.
it’s obscene. sick, even.
the way his golden eyes gleam when you’re spread out for him like an offering, the slick between your thighs catching the light like it’s sacrament. he stares like a man who’s found god at the bottom of a spoon. he shudders when you drip—literally shudders, full-body tremors rolling down his spine—and then his mouth is on you like nothing else matters.
he’s whining into your core, greedy and wet, his mouth messy with your slick. not dainty licks. no performance. just raw hunger. sloppy and animal. his nose grinds into your clit with every upward drag of his tongue, breath sharp and hot as he pants against your folds.
pink lips swollen and glazed with arousal—your arousal—he moans like he’s being spoon-fed ambrosia.
you feel the mattress jolt rhythmically beneath you, and that’s when you realize his hips are rocking into it—humping like a teenager, rubbing himself against the sheets with frantic, desperate friction. he’s not touching himself. not really. his arms are locked around your thighs, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, but his cock drags uselessly against the bed, leaking precum onto the sheets in long, creamy smears that soak into the fabric.
the bed is wet beneath him—obscenely so—and you don’t know if it’s spit, slick, or that heavy stream of milk-pre that keeps dripping from the flushed tip of his cock.
you try to pull away once—just to breathe—but his arms tighten instantly, almost bruising.
“no,” he gasps against you. “no, baby—need it. please. i’ll be good, i swear—i just need to finish—need to taste all of it—”
you go still at the tone. that shaking, stuttering panic in his voice that sounds exactly like the way he spoke the first time he described a come-down. that same hoarse terror of having tasted heaven and knowing it would leave him.
and now? now your body is his new fix.
“what do i do?”
your voice cracks slightly, softer than you meant it to be, but you don’t take it back. “is there anything i can do?”
you’re in one of the old auxiliary lounges, where the plaster is peeling from water damage and the overhead light flickers like it’s choosing its own rhythm. the thunderbolts base isn’t exactly warm—ross’s money goes to suppression collars and clean containment zones, not comfort—but the space here feels lived-in. abandoned cushions scattered across the floor. a broken projector in the corner, dust covering the lens. the scent of weed hangs heavy in the air like incense from another world—slow-burning, warm, and strangely grounding.
ava and yelena are here already, sunk low into mismatched cushions. you didn’t expect to find anyone when you pushed open the door. least of all them—yelena with her ever-present smirk and chip on her shoulder, and ava, distant as a half-finished ghost. the air is thick with smoke and the quiet echo of some half-finished conversation. you catch it in fragments—something about schedules, about the facility’s restrictions tightening again after he broke through another training room wall.
you hadn’t planned to talk about bob. not really. but the words slipped out like a loose thread you pulled too hard. thankfully you hadn’t told them everything, not the titty sucking, not his unusual obsessions, just the necessary.
“i need bob to develop a habit,” you said, pacing slightly, arms folded tight across your chest. “a healthy one. something small. something that helps.”
ava didn’t say anything for a moment. you thought she was ignoring you, lost in whatever tension was holding her shoulders so rigid. but she looked up, and her gaze was steady, the kind that makes you feel like she’s already weighed your heart on a scale and found it just barely balanced.
“well,” ava finally said, lifting the blunt in her hand and eyeing it like it was a practical tool rather than a vice, “this is something.”
you frowned. not out of judgment—but hesitation.
“it’s still weed.”
yelena raised an eyebrow. “and?”
“he used to be an addict.” you didn’t say the drug. you didn’t need to. they both knew. the shadows of bob reynolds’s history clung to every whispered briefing and side-eyed glance from new agents. “i’m not sure it’s safe. what if it’s a slippery slope?”
yelena exhaled sharply, not annoyed—more like someone trying not to laugh at something that isn’t funny. she leaned back, arms draped over the edge of the couch, her russian accent thicker than usual as she said, “you know what else is a slippery slope? repressing everything until he explodes a ceiling panel.”
you didn’t smile, but your lips twitched.
“he’s… overwhelmed,” you admitted. “there’s nothing between him and the world anymore. not even the wrong things. no armor. no filter. just him.”
that quiet you always feared settled over the room. the kind of quiet where everything that needed saying sat too close to the surface.
“he’s not going back to that,” you added quickly. “the meth. i know him. he’s—he’s past that. but the rest of it… i don’t know how to give him something to hold onto.”
yelena tilted her head. “you don’t. not alone. he has to want to hold it.”
then ava shifted, and for a moment you thought she was going to disengage again. but instead, she reached beside her into a small tin box. quietly, without drama, she took out a slim, clean blunt wrapper, a soft brown papery roll, and held it out.
“don’t light it,” she said. “don’t smoke it, not until he’s ready at least, just—hold onto it. think about whether it’s worse to give him nothing than to give him something small.”
she handed you a small sealable bag too. not heavy. just enough flower to roll a tight, simple blunt.
the paper crackled slightly in your hands.
“does this help you?” you asked.
ava’s expression didn’t change. “sometimes. when i phase too much, i can’t feel gravity. can’t feel my own weight. this pulls me back. not always. not perfectly. but enough.”
that stayed with you.
not perfectly. but enough.
you looked over at yelena. her eyes were sharper than usual. maybe she’d smoked less than she let on. maybe she was always sharper than she acted.
“i’d rather him have a little control over something,” you murmured, “than none at all.”
yelena smiled faintly. “then you’re already ahead of half the people who’ve tried to manage him.”
the weight of the blunt paper in your palm felt strange. like it carried more than it should. but it wasn’t loaded yet. not with meaning. not with history. not until you brought it to him.
you didn’t know what he’d say. if he’d flinch. if he’d beg for it. if he’d refuse.
but maybe this wasn’t about curing him. maybe this wasn’t about fixing a man who could crush continents and still wake up crying in your lap.
maybe it was about giving him a moment. just one moment where the static faded and he could feel something gentle.
you slide the window open with both hands, the metal frame groaning softly as it gives way.
the air outside is cool, not cold, but crisp in that way that promises storm clouds far off on the horizon—maybe days away. it smells like ozone and dirt and trees that have long since surrendered to the lab-converted facility grounds. you leave it wide open, enough for the scent to reach the bed and lift the heaviness from the air inside.
two weeks.
two weeks since ava gave you the small little bag.
you reach into the drawer like it’s something sacred, fingers curling around the soft bag ava gave you and lifting it out with quiet reverence. you don’t speak, not yet. just move with purpose. calm. like this is a habit you’ve done before. like you aren’t still caught somewhere between guilt and resolve.
bob watches you from the bed.
he’s stretched out across the mattress, loose grey t-shirt tugged slightly at the hem from the way he’d been curled there moments ago. there’s always a quiet tension in him, even now—like his body doesn’t know how to be still unless it’s pressed to yours, wrapped around you like a question he can’t stop asking. his eyes follow your every move, curious but cautious, like he’s trying to decode something you haven’t said aloud.
you climb onto the bed beside him, moving slowly. no words. you place the small bag between you like it’s something fragile. not a drug, not a solution—just something else. something new. it sits there, nestled in the folds of the comforter, light as air and heavier than guilt.
it feels like offering something at an altar. just the two of you. a very, very small cult of your own design.
bob stares at it.
then at you.
a slow smile breaks across his face—gentle at the edges, stretched thin with something heavier beneath it. it isn’t mocking. not quite playful, either. it’s soft and cautious, the kind of smile someone offers after surviving a collapse. his gold-flecked eyes seem to flicker with recognition. not of the bag itself, but of what it means for you to give it to him. to trust him with it.
there’s history behind that look. shared history. unearthed in your bed, in the quiet tension of his comedown nightmares, in every time he’s reached for you instead of something chemical.
“i’ve smoked weed before, if that’s what you’re stressed about,” he says, voice featherlight and teasing, though there’s a question buried somewhere in it. “when did you leave—to get it?” his tone shifts. less joking. a flash of something a little wounded. like he’s asking, did i lose time again? did you go somewhere and i didn’t follow?
you settle beside him again, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight. the room is quiet in that specific, padded way it always gets when bob is calm—calm enough not to break it. you glance at the bag, then back at him.
“ava gave it to me. she said it helps her come back into her body. when she phases too much.”
bob nods, just once, slow. his hands don’t move. they stay crossed over his chest, protective, hesitant. like if he reaches too fast, the intimacy will collapse and he’ll shatter something.
you hesitate. “i thought it might help you. i didn’t want to push anything. that’s why i waited.”
he stares at you for a long second, then lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “i already have things that help me,” he mutters, lips pink and pouting, breath catching a little. “can we just do what we usually do?”
and you hear what he’s really asking: are you getting sick of me? am i too much today?
your answer is immediate.
“yes. of course.”
his next question is soft, almost startled by your quickness.
“now?”
you barely nod. but that’s all he needs. the moment doesn’t erupt—it dissolves, like a sugar cube dropped into hot water. melting on contact. losing shape. sweet, cloying, overwhelming.
bob melts into you with a desperation that feels ancient, almost reverent. his cock is flushed, leaking, and slick with need already—just the sight of you has him soaked and sticky, dribbling messily onto the dip of his stomach. your fingers wrap around him like muscle memory, and he chokes on a whine, thrusting helplessly into your palm. his head buries into your chest as though he could crawl inside your skin, mouth wet and needy against your breastbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses over your sweat-damp skin.
you stroke him slowly, firmly, and his hips stutter. but after a long, trembling second—he pulls away.
“wait,” he gasps, his voice tight and hoarse. “wait—wait, i want—”
you expect him to say he wants you to keep going. or to finish him. or to ride him until he forgets his own name. that would’ve been simpler. expected.
but he slips from your grasp like something slithering down a drain and drops between your thighs with the urgency of a man crawling to an altar.
you suck in a breath.
bob’s fingers hook into the band of your underwear and he pauses when he feels it—how soaked it is, how ruinously wet. his eyes flutter. a tremor runs down his spine. when he breathes out, it sounds like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.
then his tongue flicks out—just once. a single taste against the damp fabric. a sample. a test.
the moan that follows is guttural. obscene. he shakes like something short-circuiting.
then he tears the fabric aside entirely.
two fingers push into you fast, curling upward immediately like he’s been here before, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. and he does. you feel it in the way his breath catches, in the way his shoulders hunch as he groans into your inner thigh.
“fuck,” he chokes, voice thick, reverent. “fuck, there it is. there you are—give it to me, please, i promise i earned it—”
his fingers are soaked in seconds. slick strings down his knuckles, dripping messily onto his wrist, his forearm, pooling into the pale hairs of his arm. he doesn’t stop. he watches it coat his skin with wide, worshipful eyes—like he’s just been handed a chalice of liquid salvation.
he slides his fingers back through your folds. deliberate. tender. dragging every last drop out of you and smearing it across his palm, like he’s anointing himself with it.
“i need all of it,” he murmurs. “please. don’t—don’t stop me. i need all of it.”
and you let him. because it’s not want in his voice anymore—it’s need, low and cracked and vulnerable. as if this isn’t sex anymore. as if this is what keeps him tethered to his body. to reality. to you.
then he’s off the bed. ungraceful, stumbling a little as he moves. his boxers cling halfway down his thighs, and his cock bobs with every shaky breath he takes—angry red and shining with precum, twitching like it’s still reaching for your hand. but he’s focused now. possessed.
he reaches for the tin on the nightstand with trembling hands. opens it with care, reverence. fingers still glossy with your slick, he spreads the weed. adds more with a shake of the tin. he doesn’t wipe his hands before rolling. he doesn’t want to. instead, he drags his wet fingers along the paper, smearing your arousal into the crease with slow, circular motions. the mixture is darkened, muddied. his hands are filthy with it.
there’s no hesitation. no shame. he groans as he does it, low in his throat, the sound pure and broken.
the weed darkens. your slick coats it in glistening trails—milky and viscous, seeping into the crumbled flower like a slow infection. he mixes it with methodical slowness, hands dirty and glistening, not bothering to clean himself. he doesn’t want to. every movement is a sacrament.
then he lays out the paper. flat and clean. a blank page, soon to be rewritten in you.
he spreads the weed. presses it down with your wetness still on his fingers, dragging sticky circles into the paper’s seam. it stains dark. faintly pink, faintly cloudy. a corrupted ritual.
he doesn’t wipe off the excess. just rolls, slow and precise. the blunt comes together loose and heavy with wetness, a messy thing wrapped in prayer. and when it’s time to seal it, he doesn’t even blink.
his tongue drags along the edge—coating it with spit and come, warm breath misting over the paper. his lips are glossy with arousal and resin when he pulls away.
the lighter clicks. orange glow catching on his trembling hands.
he brings the blunt to his lips. inhales. deep. like he’s starving.
the first hit makes his chest jolt. he coughs once, eyes squeezing shut—but when he exhales, the smoke rolls out slow and thick, spiraling upward in a fog of earthy haze tinged with something more intimate. the air smells like resin and sweat. like sex and something holy. he’s breathing you in, you’re in his lungs.
he climbs back onto the bed like a man crawling toward god.
you’re spread open still, thighs parted. his eyes go glassy again when he sees you. the glowing end of the blunt smears ash across your stomach as he lowers himself, one hand gripping your thigh like he needs grounding.
“just gonna slip inside,” he murmurs, voice cracked and boyish. “i’ll be good. gentle. i promise.”
you nod. his whole body shudders—no, convulses—like something bigger than lust is tearing through him. his hips twitch forward involuntarily, like muscle memory dragging him to where he already imagines himself buried. his cock nudges between your folds, and the sound he makes isn’t a moan so much as a whimper. half-formed. desperate.
then he blinks, eyes glassy, realigning his body like it’s hard to remember what’s real. his cock, flushed deep red and sticky with precome, slides against you, dragging through the mess you’ve made together. your slick coats him in thick strings, clinging from his shaft to your cunt like a second skin. he gasps. the sound is hoarse—cracked from smoke and begging. it’s the same kind of noise he used to make coming down from a binge, the same full-body tremble, the same too-much-too-soon terror. only now, it’s you. your heat. your wetness.
and then he presses in.
it’s not graceful. it’s raw. sloppy. his tip catches, then pushes past with a sticky squelch that’s downright filthy, like your body’s too wet to offer any resistance. his breath catches, lips parting in a silent cry as your walls clamp down. he twitches already, cock jumping in your grip like it’s surprised you took him in. every vein, every pulse, every thick inch pushes through you with painstaking slowness, like he’s trying not to overdose on the sensation.
you see it in the way his face contorts—forehead drawn tight, mouth slack, golden eyes flickering. awe, horror, worship. all tangled together. like he thinks he’s desecrating something sacred just by being allowed inside.
“fuck!—oh god, you—” his voice breaks into a sob. “you feel better than anything i’ve ever—fuck—better than light, better than flying, better than—than meth—”
he chokes the last word like it burns his tongue, but he means it. you can feel the sincerity in his shudder, the way he buries himself deeper, inch by inch, until your hips meet. his balls press flush to you, soaked now in your slick, and the wet heat of his release chamber rests low and full against your cunt. his whole body curls around you like you’re shelter, like he needs to get closer than skin.
he’s still holding the blunt between trembling fingers, the cherry burning low. ash trails across your thigh from the way his hand keeps jerking with every little pulse of your cunt around him. he tries to raise it to his mouth, but his arm won’t stop shaking—his thrusts have short-circuited his motor control, his need so overwhelming it’s shorted him out completely.
so you guide him—gently, wordlessly—taking the blunt from his fingers and pressing it to his lips like a mother nursing a fevered child. his mouth opens instantly, compliant, hollowing his cheeks around the inhale. he whimpers as he takes it in. then he grabs your face, pulling you close with trembling urgency.
“let me… give you something too.”
he kisses you with smoke still in his lungs, and the moment his lips touch yours he exhales. the heat rushes into you, tasting like weed and sex and something rawer—saliva and your own arousal still smeared across his tongue. the kiss is soaked, wet and messy, full of smoke and spit and want. he moans into your mouth as he exhales, and the sound vibrates down your throat like a tremor. you can taste the thc on him, sharp and bitter, but what coats it is unmistakably you. you’ve become part of him, even in the air he breathes.
he doesn’t let you go.
“wanna stay inside you forever,” he mumbles, delirious now, starting to thrust. the rhythm is nothing—just a series of shallow, broken movements, like his hips can’t remember how to fuck properly because all his focus is on not exploding. “don’t wanna leave. don’t make me leave—please, don’t—”
“i’m not,” you whisper, holding his jaw. his pupils are blown wide, but the rims glow gold. he looks unhinged. beautiful. gone.
somewhere in that molten light, the void watches from behind his eyes. lurking. curious.
“he likes when you’re like this,” bob murmurs, voice strained and breathless against your throat. “when i’m begging. ruined. he thinks it’s fucking hilarious.”
you grip his jaw tighter, eyes blazing. “then let him watch.”
bob’s whole body jolts. the sound he makes is obscene—nearly a sob, loud and broken. his hips stutter as he fucks you harder now, with more desperation than finesse. the blunt is still clutched between your two fingers, smoke leaving a sooty trail along your belly, on your sheets. ash clings to sweat. your skin is sticky with it—damp with his heat, your slick, his come beginning to leak out with every snap of his hips.
his forehead presses to yours. sweat drips from him in hot rivulets, staining the sheets beneath you both. “i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” he’s sobbing now. “you’re gonna make me come. you’re gonna ruin me. don’t stop—don’t stop squeezing—feels so good, so tight, so fucking wet, i can’t—”
you squeeze down on him. deliberately. relentlessly.
and bob lets out a sound which seems like a choked scream.
his orgasm hits him like a convulsion—hips jerking, cock throbbing violently inside you as his come spills out in thick, gushing pulses. it’s messy. it’s gross. you feel it flooding you, leaking down your thighs almost instantly. hot, viscous, obscene. like his body couldn’t hold it in a second longer. like every drop is penance.
he clings to you with the rawness of a man who’s lost everything before and is terrified to lose it again. his arms wrap around you, crushing you to him. he doesn’t pull out. his cock stays buried inside, twitching with aftershocks, like it doesn’t know what to do without you wrapped around it.
he slumps against you, full weight bearing down. you let him. you adjust him to your side when he finally softens, and you raise the blunt to his mouth every few moments as his body tries to come back down. he doesn’t even notice when more come leaks out of you, pooling under your thighs. doesn’t flinch at the way the sheets are soaked. he wants it. he needs the mess.
and from somewhere deep—lower than sound—the void stirs once more.
bob doesn’t flinch. not anymore. he just breathes against your neck, still panting like a newborn, lips parted, skin flushed with something that doesn’t fade.
“i love you,” he mumbles, over and over like a chant. “i love you. don’t make me go back to being alone. please—please.”
“you’re not,” you say, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “you’re not alone. i’ve got you.”
the room is thick with smoke, pungent and heady. the air is dense with sex and sweat, the cloying scent of arousal still sticky on your skin. ash streaks your thighs, smeared in lazy handprints. but none of it matters. what matters is bob. in you. on you. of you.
and he holds onto that like a man who has finally found a drug that doesn’t rot him. something pure. something feral.
something that wants to be inside him just as much as he wants to stay inside you.
Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader
Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.
Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disaster—Valentina's controlling, the team’s a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like he’s one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesn’t stay quiet. And he definitely doesn’t stay good.
Word count: ~4k
Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore. if you want to be added to my tag list just comment! <3
masterlist.
"Quiet, Bob."
The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows where—somewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.
It had been a long, brutal week.
Valentina had decided that the Thunderbolts—the shiny New Avengers—needed a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?
You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.
Like a fucking boy band.
You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.
"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."
Bucky didn’t even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.
Valentina didn’t stop there.
“You,” she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. “Need to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what I’m paying to make you likable? Not that you aren’t—you’re a doll, really—but come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.”
It was all bullshit. She’d even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.
Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.
Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.
Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearance—literally phased through the floor and didn’t return for hours.
Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."
Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.
And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.
You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.
"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"
You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.
Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.
So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.
And now—
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. “The way you looked in that suit—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”
You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. “You could’ve said something.”
By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in seconds—knees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.
You thanked God for wearing a dress.
He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.
He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.
Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.
Bob swore, loud and wrecked—“Fuckfuckfuck—” his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.
“God, you feel so fucking good—tight—perfect—I can’t—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth.
“Quiet, Bob.”
He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your ass, your thighs—like he didn’t know what to hold onto first.
You started to move—fast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.
Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldn’t help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.
Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.
“You’re so—fuck,—you’re so perfect—need this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like this—God, yesssss"
You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.
“You like being under me like this?”
He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.
“Mhm—yes—fuck, please—you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. “Been thinking about this—every night—every time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my knees—wanted to ruin you or be ruined, didn’t even fucking care—just needed you.”
You grinned, filthy and pleased. “And now you’re ruined under me.”
He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.
“You feel that?” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. “That’s how deep you are. You’re so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. God—you feel so fucking good."
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. “Such a good girl. God, you take me so fucking well—look at you—riding me like I belong to you—”
“You do,” you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. “You’re mine right now. You hear me?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck—yours—always—please god don’t fucking stop—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.
“Quiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."
He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept moving—fast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.
And just when he was seconds away from breaking—
Hiss. The door slid open.
“Oh my fucking god.”
Yelena’s voice hit like a bullet.
You froze. Bob’s eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.
Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “The armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, not—whatever the hell this is.”
Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.
Yelena pointed without looking. “Oh my god, this can't be happening. You’re—on top of him. And he’s—Jesus Christ, Bob!”
“Yelena!” you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.
“Alright, alright!” She held up both hands, backing away. “I’ll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.” She snorted. “Real in-depth work going on here.”
“Yelena! GET OUT!”
“Leaving! Leaving!” she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. “Just make sure no one ends up disarmed.”
Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelena—and her mouth—on the other side. You didn’t move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.
“You okay?” you asked, teasing, one brow raised. “She didn’t scar you for life, did she?”
Bob’s chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.
“No,” he said—low, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.
“Bob—?”
His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.
“You tease me like that,” he growled, voice rough and frayed, “and expect me to behave?”
Your breath hitched.
“You told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.”
His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.
“You think I’m gonna ask again?”
You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.
“Bob—”
“No,” he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. “You don’t get to be in charge now.”
He fucked into you like a man possessed—deep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.
“You wanted this,” he hissed against your ear. “Wanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.”
You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to you—over and over again.
“You feel that?” he growled, pounding into you. “That’s not deep. This—this is deep.”
You couldn’t even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.
And he loved it.
He didn’t stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.
He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.
pairing: thunderbolt!bucky barnes x f!thunderbolt!younger!reader
summary: daily sparring sessions with bucky always toe the line between playfulness and tension. but today, that tension snaps. when another round ends with you straddling him on the mat, it sets off a chain reaction of confessions, teasing, and desire too long buried. bucky finally stops holding back, and so do you.
word count: 8.8k
warning(s): 18+ explicit content warning, smut, mature themes, light swearing, some power dynamics, dry humping, unprotected p in v, semi-public setting, mention of thunderbolts*, age difference, reader is described with afab anatomy
a/n: so bucky is officially my current fictional man of the month. like i was always a loki girly, but tumblr has converted me... anyways, i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please feel free to like, comment, or reblog! <3 also, requests are open!
killshot - magdalena bay
“again,” bucky grunted as he got to his feet, breathless but stubborn.
the two of you were in the thunderbolts training facility, doing your daily sparring. strength wise, you were both pretty much on the same level. but, for some reason, you always seemed to come out on top. literally. it was usually you pinning him down.
you rolled your eyes from where you stood across the mat. “you sure? that’s the third time i’ve had you on your back today.”
his lips twitched. “don’t flatter yourself.”
"too late for that…" you chuckled, backing into your stance. “c’mon, grandpa.”
that got him moving.
he hated when you called him that. grandpa? sure, he was over 100 years old, but he sure didn't feel or seem like it. plus, a lot of those years he didn't even remember.
he didn't want you to think of him as too old for you.
the two of you danced in circles, boots quiet against the padded floor. it wasn’t serious, just the usual, but there was always an edge when it came to you and bucky. teasing. testing. a little too much eye contact.
he lunged. you dodged. your leg hooked around his, and with a twist and a push, he hit the mat again with a thud.
you landed straddling his hips, pinning his shoulders with your hands, grinning down at him.
“fourth time,” you said smugly. “you getting rusty, barnes?”
he didn’t answer right away. just blinked up at you with that unreadable expression, metal fingers twitching at your sides like he was debating something.
then, without warning, he moved.
in a blur of motion, he twisted under you, caught you off balance, and the next thing you knew, you were the one flat on your back. his body hovered over yours, one knee braced between your legs, hands pinning your wrists to the mat.
your breath hitched. why was that so hot?
trying to compensate for the blush creeping onto your cheeks, you scoffed, “cheap shot.”
“all’s fair,” bucky replied, his voice low. you could tell he was partially lost in thought, like he was still debating something.
you shifted under him, pretending like your pulse wasn’t hammering in your throat. “you gonna make a move, or just hover like a weirdo?”
his grip on your wrists didn’t tighten, but his gaze did… sharp, focused, like he was searching for something in your face.
“i think i just did,” he said, letting out a dry, short laugh.
your breath hitched again.
you knew what he meant.
the words hung there for a beat too long.
his eyes were bracing for rejection, like he’d already decided he could handle it.
then, breaking the silence, he gave a small smirk, “you know, i usually just let you pin me.”
you laughed, short, breathless. "oh, so you're saying you don't even try?"
"maybe i just like the view when you're on top of me."
you stared up at him, feeling like your heart stopped beating.
then you swallowed, speaking in an unsure tone. "you being serious?"
"i'm not the messing-around type. you should know that by now."
"good," you smiled, "neither am i."
his smirk turned into a grin, “so… rematch?”
you hummed, “maybe. only if you’re playing for keeps.”
then your grin turned into a smirk, your eyes darkening. "or… we could do something else."
he snickered, the challenge in his eyes shifting into something deeper, more intense. he lowered his voice, just enough for you to barely hear him.
“something else, huh?”
you nodded slowly, heart racing, the heat between you suddenly more than just from exertion. his metal fingers brushed against your jaw, light as a feather but enough to make you catch your breath.
“tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice husky, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin.
you swallowed, eyes looking up into his almost innocently, words barely a whisper. “right here. right now.”
he chuckled low, a sound that sent shivers down your spine.
then, his lips were on yours. rough. passionate. heated.
he pulled your bodies up to a sitting position, you in his lap, straddling him.
your hands were all over each other. hungry.
“tell me if i’m moving too fast,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with desire but a hint of hesitation.
you whispered against his mouth, “don’t stop.”
his lips curled into a slow smile before dipping down to kiss the sensitive skin along your neck. the roughness of his stubble mixed with the softness of his touch made your skin shiver.
you grounded your hips down on him, aiming for his growing bulge, causing him to let out a low grunt.
“i’m right here,” he murmured, voice low and whiny. “just tell me what you want.”
your hands explored the broad planes of his chest beneath his shirt, feeling the steady beat of his heart. your fingers curled into the fabric as you pressed closer, bouncing on his lap slowly.
"you, bucky. i want you."
he unraveled before you. his hands were on your hips, guiding your grinding to hit where he need you most just right. his face was in the crook of your neck. you could feel his quick breaths against your skin.
you whined, making yourself feel good against him. one of your hands snaked around the back his neck, moving up slowly to tangle your fingers in hair. the other moved down from his chest to his abs slowly, stopping right at his belt.
one hand remained on your hip, while the other had already unclasped your bra and pulled your shirt over your head.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and searching. “god, you're beautiful."
then his gaze softened ever so slightly, "we don’t have to rush.”
you shook your head, breathless but sure. “i don’t want to wait.”
his smirk deepened, “then let me show you how much i’ve been holding back,” he murmured, voice thick with need.
his lips found your jaw, trailing hot kisses down to your throat. you tipped your head back, giving him better access, grinding on him in a faster pace now. you tugged on his shirt, pulling it up slightly.
he chuckled as he moved his hand to pull his shirt the rest of the way over his head.
his lips went back to your neck, leaving a trail from your throat back up to your mouth, where he captured your lips in a kiss that was all tongue and heat and longing.
“fuck,” he breathed against your lips, “i’ve wanted this for so long.”
you smiled against his mouth, fingers trailing down his chest, feeling every muscle tense beneath your touch.
“then don’t hold back,” you whispered.
he grinned as his hands roamed lower, "i know you like having me on my back, but it's your turn, again."
his smirk widened as he eased you back onto the mat, hovering over you with that smug face.
“payback’s a bitch, huh?” he murmured, voice low and teasing as he brushed his lips along your jaw. “but don’t worry… i’ll make sure you enjoy every second of it.”
he slid your pants and panties down your legs, his mouth following the path of his hands, slow and deliberate, worshiping every inch of skin he revealed with eyes drinking you in like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. you were breathless under his gaze.
you tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with need, and he let out a soft, breathless laugh, helping you shed the last of his clothes.
he captured your lips in another kiss, before pulling back to position himself in front of your entrance. "you sure about this? we can slow down."
you looked up at him, "i'm sure, bucky." your voice was confident and firm.
his jaw tensed at your words, like restraint was hanging by a thread.
“okay,” he breathed, voice husky and deep. “okay.”
he kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. his hands smoothed down your sides, grounding you, and you couldn’t help the way your breath hitched as he finally pushed into you.
his movement was slow, deliberate, patient…
he smiled, soft, lopsided, nothing like the usual cocky smirk. just him.
his name fell from your lips in a whisper, and he caught it with another kiss, like he’d been waiting to hear it just like that.
bucky held you like you were something precious, like every inch of you mattered. and maybe, to him, it did.
your bodies moved in rhythm. his hands mapped your body with quiet touch, no rush, just the kind of intent that said this wasn’t just want, it was care. maybe even more.
the air between you was heavy, warm, laced with the sound of shared breaths and quiet murmurs of each other’s names.
it wasn't long before you both unraveled in each other's arms, your movements halting.
your bodies laid tangled in one another. bucky let out a quiet chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “so… still think i’m getting rusty?”
you laughed, breathless and content. “nah. you’re just finally playing to win.”
he smirked, brushing sweaty strands from your face, his tone teasing but his gaze full of something much softer. “then i hope you’re ready to keep losing.”
summary: Jerking off Professor Moore in his classroom for extra credit
a/n: request are open!
wc:500+
With a confident hand, you reached for Jonathan’s pants, slowly unzipping them while maintaining eye contact. He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening as you teased him with a sly smile. You could see the way he tensed, the anticipation palpable between you.
“Do whatever you want with me,” he breathed, his voice low and inviting yet laced with a hint of vulnerability.
You slipped your hand inside, wrapping your fingers around him, Jonathan gave a soft whimper, frustration evident on his face as he struggled to suppress himself.
“You’re so sensitive,” you teased back, a smirk tugging at your lips. You watched as his cheeks flushed, and you could tell he was battling to keep himself steady.
The way his body responded to your touch was intoxicating, each movement eliciting more heat from him. You enjoyed how he fought to contain himself.
Jonathan’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling with the effort to keep quiet. You slid your hand up and down his cock, the sensation eliciting soft whimpers that he desperately tried to suppress.
"You're close, aren't you?" you murmured, leaning in closer and capturing his gaze. The intensity in his eyes reflected the overwhelming pleasure racing through him. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the way he clenched his fists as he fought for control.
"Yeah… just—fuck" His voice betrayed him, breaking into a needy whine. You could feel his pulse quickening under your touch, each stroke bringing Jonathan closer to the edge.
You felt Jonathan throb in your hand, cum spilling over your fingers as he came undone, moaning your name in a breathy pitch that sent shivers down your spine. The throes of pleasure washed over him, and you savored every moment, every sound.
“God, yes…” he breathed, the last of his energy spent as he leaned back, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
You admired the sight, a small smile playing on your lips as you watched him collect himself, still trembling from the intensity of it all.
what if i asked for a joe goldberg x fem reader (kinktober) against the wall sex?? and praise?? it feels so awkward requesting this— is it okay 😭 dom reader maybe??
it's absolutely okay! I know that sometimes requesting smut can feel a little weird, but you're perfectly fine so don't worry <3 thanks for the request!
Kinktober 2024 Day 19: Joe Goldberg x fem reader against the wall sex and praise kink
Warnings: smut/nsfw content, sex against a wall, penetrative sex (p in v, please make sure to use a condom irl), praise kink, partially clothed sex, sub Joe, dom reader, the reader's a massive tease/Joe has a slight humiliation kink, brief hair pulling, hickeys mentioned, the reader is implied to be as obsessive and crazy as Joe is
The pictures hanging on the nearby wall shook as Joe slammed you against it, his mouth meeting yours in a flurry of teeth and tongue. Even after being together for all this time, it was still hard for him to keep his hands off you.
"You look so gorgeous today," he breathed out, his voice sounding a little raspy when he spoke. His eyes roamed over your body, his hands planted firmly on your hips as he held you trapped between him and the wall behind you.
You couldn't help but think about just how pathetic he looked, especially when he got so desperate for you- which happened so frequently it was hard to keep track of. If you had a nickel for every time he pounced on you the second you got home for the day, neither of you would need to work for the rest of your lives because you'd be filthy rich.
"You flatter me," were the words you purred back in response, your arms wrapped around his neck to ensure he stayed as close to you as possible, not that he planned on pulling away anytime soon. "Maybe you should take a look into the mirror sometime, then you'd see that you're not so bad yourself."
He practically whined at your lighthearted teasing, hiding his face in the side of your neck as he hands clutched onto your hips even tighter. He could feel his already hard cock straining against the fabric of his jeans.
Luckily for him, your pants had already been discarded long before this point, so all he had to do was pull your underwear to the side if he wanted to slip in. But first things first, he needed to take a deep breath, otherwise he'd bust the second he was inside.
The sound of you chuckling is what broke him free from his thoughts. "You're so cute when you try acting like you're not as affected as you really are," you cooed in a tone that was mostly affectionate and only slightly condescending.
Regardless of whether you were mocking him or not, it still turned him on to hear you say that. Any of the blood that wasn't causing his face to flush had already rushed further downwards, making him impossibly harder. He needed you, and he needed you now.
With one hand still pinning your hips to the wall, the other moved down to unzip his pants, pushing both them and his boxers down far enough to be able to pull his cock out. He was already panting by this point, and if you didn't know any better you'd have thought the sounds you were hearing was a pug trying to breathe after taking a walk on a hot summer day.
"Easy, baby. I'm not going anywhere." The teasing comments coming from you certainly didn't help matters.
The hand that wasn't still on your hips wrapped around his aching cock, pumping it a few times before he reluctantly let go and pulled your underwear to the side, slowly but surely slipping in. A noise that was something between a whimper and a groan left his lips as he felt you clench around him, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.
"I'm surprised you've been able to last this long. Usually you'd had finished before you were even inside," you mused in a slightly breathless voice, not having lost the certain air of cockiness about you that you always gained whenever the two of you had sex.
He whined loudly in response, his hips forcfully bucking up into yours, pushing him in deeper. God, you were always such a tease. It drove him crazy in the best possible way.
"I- I didn't want to leave you hanging," he muttered as he started to thrust at a relatively quick pace, one that had your nails digging into his back through his shirt as your own back arched up off the wall behind you.
You bit your lip while moving your face in a little closer to his, speaking next to his ear in a low and sultry tone. "How thoughtful of you. You're always so considerate, huh? Always so good for me."
He felt his knees buckle at your whispered words, his legs almost giving out. The impact you had over him was tremendous, and you were well aware of it.
"S- Stop." He hid his face in the side of your neck again, hoping you hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of how red his face had become. He let out a soft grunt when he felt your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer and pushing him deeper within you, the tip of his cock brushing against your sensitive velvety walls.
"I don't think you're in any position to be making demands right now." Your hands moved up his back, one of them finding its way to the nape of his neck as you laced your fingers through his dark, curly hair.
Before he could protest, your fingers tightened their grip and tugged his head back, pulling his face away from your neck. His eyes were wide with a mixture of arousal and humiliation, though the first one was clearly winning out of the two.
"Now, behave."
The stern tone of your voice was enough to snap him out of whatever sort of flustered, somewhat bratty mood he was in. "Y- Yes, ma'am," he breathed out quietly, desperate to please you.
The strict gaze in your eyes softened as you loosened your grip on his hair, gently running your fingers through it instead of gripping onto it tightly like you had before. "That's it, good boy."
Joe could feel his cock twitch as a jolt of pleasure ran through him at your praised, but he held off on finishing, wanting to make you feel good first. He kissed you in a way that was much more tender than earlier, his hands holding onto your hips with affection rather than possession.
As much as you enjoyed it when he allowed his lust to take control of him and guide his actions, you had to admit you liked it when he mellowed out even more. He was much more agreeable that way.
"Good boy, good boy, that's it," you spoke out loving words of praise as his mouth went from your lips to your neck, carefully marking up the area as he purposely rolled his hips against yours. You needed him the same way he needed you, even if you'd never say it out loud. The two of you completed each other in the best (and worst) ways possible.
After all, who else would be able to love him as unconditionally as you did? No one, that's who. You shuddered to think about the woman after you who might try to take your place.
There wouldn't be a woman after you, there couldn't be. You refused to even toy with the notion. It was you and him, forever. And you'd rather die than allow someone else to take your place.
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Being a pro censorship ao3 user is so insanely cringe. Either use the (incredibly effective and well designed) filtering system to avoid seeing the shit you don't like or stop complaining. Leave the pro censorship rhetoric to Wattpad or smth
