more bob smut please!!!!!
Sweet Treats and Side Effects ✩ Bob Reynolds pt. 1
Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader
Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. found family, accidental aphodisiac, chaotic prank war, slow-burn, mutual pining, thunderbolts frat house energy, dubious influence (consensual but under a magical substance), yelena’s chaotic best friend energy, overstimulation, rough sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f receiving), praise kink, slight dom!bob, bob whimpering!!! (yes godddddd)
Summary: When Yelena kicks off her next move in the Thunderbolts prank war with a bag of questionable aphrodisiac chocolates, you agree to help her “prank” Bucky Barnes into a very inconvenient eight-hour erection.Unfortunately, Bob Reynolds gets there first. Now the most powerful man in the tower is red-faced, sweating, and very, very desperate for one thing—and it’s not chocolate. It’s you. And when the side effects kick in full-force, you’ll have to decide if you’re helping your friend… or completely, shamelessly indulging his deepest, filthiest desires. Chaos. Horny chocolate. Yelena being the worst. And Bob being the sweetest, softest, most absolutely feral man alive.
Author's Note: you ask, i deliver. here's another one 'cause i really can't get enough of bob. i love him so much it hurttttsssss. i had this idea while I was showering and I kid you not I jumped out off the shower and grabbed my phone sooooo fast to start typing on my notes cause I have adhd and I forget things so fast LOL. also thank you soooooo so much from the bottom of my little heart for all the love and support in don’t let go and ruined <33 i appreciate all of your comments and messages and screams in the reblogs, it really warms my heart<3 i hope you guys like this first part. yelena my beloved my beautiful girl i cant i love her so much!!!!!! if you want to be added to the taglist just comment below<3 part 2 will be posted later today!!
The Thunderbolts Tower wasn't built for this kind of chaos.
At least, not this kind. The late Stark Tower—once a monument to genius, ambition—had now been refitted as the New Avengers' headquarters. High ceilings, soundproofed rooms, high-tech gadgets, sleek black interiors, furniture that probably cost more than all of their salaries combined, and reinforced windows that could withstand a helicarrier crash—it all screamed “elite modern high-tech paramilitary chic."
But then Yelena moved in, and the whole place became a "deranged prank way frat house battlefield." Everything went to hell. In a good way, though. In a really good way.
She brought with her 17 leather jackets, around twenty pairs of brass knuckles, an entire crate of Bulgarian wine, and a feral grin that had everyone—Valentina especially—deeply concerned. Yelena had called Bucky “grandpa,” told Walker his jaw looked like it was Photoshopped, and challenged Alexei to a sparring match while doing vodka shots.
By week two, she had both Bucky and Walker in such a vicious prank war that Valentina personally installed panic buttons in every room and a 24-hour hotline staffed by two overworked interns.
"Listen," she'd said to Bob one evening, slouched across the common room couch holding a vodka cranberry in one hand and a glitter bomb in the other, "if you're not part of the prank war, you're part of the problem."
You, curled in the armchair with your Cosmopolitan, just snorted and shook your head. “Don’t engage,” you whispered. “That’s how it starts.”
But it was already too late.
By week four, someone—probably Yelena—had rigged the gym's ceiling vents to explode with glitter every single time music was played. It looked like an ABBA concert every time anyone tried to work out. Walker was victim number one. It took him two weeks to clean out all the vents. He was still finding glitter in places no man should.
By week six, Bucky's protein powder was replaced with powdered sugar—Walker's doing. The next day, Walker's toothbrush was swapped for a hot pepper-infused prank toothbrush so strong he almost wanted to rip his tongue out—Bucky's doing. Yelena claimed no responsibility, but laughed out loud until her tummy hurt. Alexei said nothing, but looked immensely pleased. Ava just walked away every time, muttering "children" and "imbeciles" in every single language.
And you? You opted out of everything.
You were the “normal” ones—if “normal” meant tired, trauma-bonded, and one missed therapy session away from losing it. You liked your body not covered in glitter. You liked your food unsabotaged. You liked your showers dye-free. You liked your clothes not sewn together by a super-soldier with a grudge. You liked peace. Quiet.
Bob, too, had retreated from the chaos the moment it started. He was quiet, nervous, so polite. The Sentry—the most powerful being in several galaxies—was also the one who carried I <3 New York mugs with two hands, murmured “sorry” when he sneezed too loudly, and apologized to furniture when he bumped into them.
You once caught him whispering "sorry" to the coffee machine. You hadn't recovered since.
And then there was Yelena—your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your disaster twin, your ride-or-die with a taser in her boot and a flask in one of the many pockets on her vest. She thrived in these situations. Like a vengeful little chaos gremlin.
You loved her like family. Like a sister. You also wanted to strangle her at least once a day.
You’d lost count of how many times you’d bailed her out of prank-related disasters. You had a permanent, invisible sign that read “Yelena’s Damage Control” stamped on your forehead. Once, you caught her trying to set up a trap involving a pulley system, three buckets of Jell-O, and a pressure sensor under Walker’s mattress.
“Yelena,” you had deadpanned, “this is a war crime.”
“I know,” she’d whispered, eyes gleaming.
You couldn’t stop her. But you could try to contain the fallout.
She'd always been the troublemaker, and you'd always been the one holding the broomstick, ready to clean up after every single mess.
Which is how you found yourself curled up on the couch one lazy, peaceful evening, blanket over your legs, a movie playing quietly. Peaceful, until it wasn't.
Yelena burst into the common area with the chaotic glare of a feral racoon who had just tried McDonalds for the first time.
She had a pouch in one hand, and that look in her eye. The one that meant she was either going to kill someone, or make them cry. The look of someone who had Googled "legal prank weapons" and actually found something.
You didn't look up from your phone. "If that's another glitter bomb, I swear to God Yelena I—"
She grinned, flopped on the couch beside you, and dropped the pouch in your lap.
You frowned. "You bought chocolate?"
"Yes and no," she said, vibrating with excitement. "It's not regular chocolate, silly. It's special chocolate."
You narrowed your eyes. "So... you bought weed chocolate?"
"What? No!" she scoffed. "Not weed. They're sex chocolates.
“I found them online,” she said proudly, holding up the tiny pouch like she was unveiling a horcrux. “Not technically illegal. Just... wildly inappropriate.”
Your mouth had opened and closed a few times before you got a full sentence out. "You bought aphrodisiac chocolate."
“Yes,” she continued nonchalantly, as she dramatically placed it in your palm, like this was completely normal and not a felony, “chocolates that make you horny. The bag said you should only eat half of one ‘cause otherwise—" she wiggled her eyebrows, "side effects. And it might make you horny as hell.”
"You're going to poison Bucky Barnes with horny candy? Jesus Christ, Yelena."
“It’s not poison,” she snapped, snatching the bag back. “It’s hilarious. He put fucking green dye in my shampoo, I looked like Shrek’s third cousin for three weeks. Like a fucking radioactive lizard. That shit didn't come out for three weeks. This is justice.”
“You looked adorable with green hair,” you offered.
“Not the point.” She held up a wrapped chocolate. “The point is this—” she pressed it against your cheek “—is going to drive him insane. I leave this out. He eats it. Gets inconveniently boned for eight hours. I laugh. You laugh. We all laugh. Valentina cries. Justice is served. The universe realigns.”
“Or,” you offered, “he kills you.”
You sighed, already in too deep. “Okay fine, I approve.”
“Good, ’cause I’m giving it to him right now.”
You frowned. “Isn’t it too suspicious for you to give him the chocolate? He’s gonna suspect you’re up to something.”
“You’re right…” Her eyes lit up again. “I’ll leave it on the kitchen island. The man can’t resist abandoned snacks.”
“No no buts. This is gonna be fun.”
“Shush. He’s gonna come back any minute.”
You leaned back onto the couch again as she bolted to the kitchen, dropped the chocolate in plain sight like bait in a trap, then sprinted back and threw herself dramatically onto the couch beside you, both of you pretending to watch the movie playing on the screen.
“Shut it!” she hissed, elbowing you. “He’s gonna suspect if you giggle like that.”
“I can’t help it,” you wheezed. “I just— I can’t wait to see his face.”
You tried to calm down, but you couldn’t stop picturing it: Bucky, scowling and always so suspicious, wandering into the kitchen, finding the lone piece of chocolate on the island like a bear stumbling across a candy bar in the woods, sniffing it, probably poking it, and then—against all logic—eating it.
And fifteen minutes later? Uncontrollably, catastrophically horny.
It was horrible. It was perfect.
And yet… the common room stayed quiet except for the hum of the TV. The chocolate remained untouched. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Still no Bucky.
“Where the fuck is he?” Yelena hissed under her breath, peeking over the back of the couch. “He’s usually sniffing around by now. Post-workout fridge raid is like, a sacred ritual.”
“Maybe he’s actually working for once,” you offered, scrolling lazily through your phone. “You know. Doing his job.”
Yelena groaned like you'd personally insulted her. “Ugh. What a nerd.”
She flopped sideways dramatically, letting her head land on your thigh with a little oof. You chuckled and absentmindedly ran your fingers through her hair, brushing it out of her face while she mumbled something about "uselessly punctual super-soldiers" and “flirting with dietary supplements.”
Eventually, her mumbling trailed off. Her breathing evened out. She fell asleep in your lap, curled like a cat, snoring softly.
You stayed like that, warm and peaceful, letting the TV flicker in the background while your thumb scrolled mindlessly over your screen. The prank chocolate glinted under the kitchen light.
Bob Reynolds stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, soft curls slightly tousled, wearing a black T-shirt that read sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come in lowercase comic sans, and his usual grey sweatpants that hung low on his waist.
"Hey, Bob," you said, smiling.
He gave you a soft smile—shy, unsure, always like he was surprised you were still happy to see him. “Hi.”
His eyes flickered to Yelena, then back to you. He lingered there—just long enough to make your heart flutter.
It wasn’t the first time.
He always did that—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to greet you. Like saying your name out loud made something flutter in his chest.
And God, he had no idea how obvious he was. At first, you thought it was just nerves. Bob was quiet, thoughtful, shy. But then you started noticing the patterns.
How he always looked for your laugh when the room was loud. How his eyes lingered on your mouth when you were focused on something. How he watched you when he thought you weren’t watching, gaze soft, warm, wanting—not greedy or possessive, just… curious. If you spoke, he listened—not just politely, but curiously, like your words mattered more than anyone else's in the room.
There was always a slight delay when he smiled at a joke—like he waited to see if you were laughing first.
And when you caught him watching? He looked away so fast it was like his thoughts had been yanked straight out of his brain.
You’d noticed. Of course you had.
"I—uh—I just came to grab a snack," he said softly, motioning toward the kitchen.
"Sure," you smiled, turning your attention back to scrolling on your phone, trying so hard not to think about him.
A moment later, Yelena stirred, mumbling into your thigh, “He’s so into you.”
You rolled your eyes. “He’s not.”
“Babe. You’re so blind,” she mumbled. “I say this with love. Wake me up when Bucky eats the chocolate.”
She was out again within seconds.
You resumed your doom scrolling, ocasionally chuckling at stupid videos on the internet. A minute passed. Then another. Then you heard soft footsteps.
Bob was back. Glass of milk in one hand. Torn silver wrapper in the other. And—oh no.
A smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.
“Uh, Bob… where did you…?”
He blinked, startled. “Oh—this?” He held up the wrapper. “I, uh, found it on the kitchen island. Was it… was that yours?”
“What?” he said, confused. “Was it like, fancy chocolate? I didn’t mean to—was it yours, Y/N? I’m so sorry—”
You slapped Yelena awake. “Wake up. Wake up right now.”
She groaned, glaring at you. “What the fuck, Y/N! Why would you—”
She blinked and puffed. “What? Ugh, Y/N! I told you to wake me up when Bucky came!"
You stood up, grabbing her chin and physically turning her toward Bob like you were revealing a murder suspect. “He ate the chocolate.”
Her jaw dropped. A full gasp escaped her. “Oh my god. BOB.”
Bob backed up. “I’m sorry! I just— I saw it— I thought it was for everyone—was it yours, Y/N? I didn’t mean to—”
Yelena stomped over and grabbed his face with both hands like she was inspecting a crime scene. “How much did you eat?”
His eyes darted between you and her. “I—what’s happening?”
“Answer the question, Bob.”
“WHAT?!” you shrieked, vaulting to your feet.
“I didn’t know!” Bob said quickly. “I thought it was just normal chocolate—I was hungry—”
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Yelena spun toward you. “Get the bag. Read the label.”
You fumbled with the pouch, hands shaking, and scanned the fine print.
Recommended dose: HALF a chocolate. Effects last 6-8 hours depending on metabolisim. Fast-acting, onset in 10-15 minutes. Possible side effects: increased sweating (short-lived), spontanous arousal, inability to regulare desire, increased physical sensitivity, touch dependency, increased stamina, vocalization, elevated body temperature, hypersensitivity, desire fixation and obsessive focus on most recent object of desire.
You looked up. Your throat went dry.
Bob was already sweating.
He stood in the middle of the room like he’d just wandered out of a sauna, shirt clinging to his chest, breath coming in short little bursts. He tugged at his collar, blinking rapidly like he was trying to remember how air worked.
"Oh fuck," you whispered.
“Uh…” Bob said, weakly. “Is it… is it warm in here?”
Yelena clapped her hands. “We’re so fucked.”
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