Here lies a vibrant collection of fics—every page brimming with chaos, heart, and a little magic from my imagination. I hope you enjoy every story.
THE REQUEST BOX IS CLOSED
YOU CAN SEND ANY REQUEST FOR ANY CHARACTER PLAYED BY LEWIS PULLMAN.
Enjoy, with all my thanks! 𖹭
LEWIS PULLMAN CHARACTERS REACT — HEADCANONS — NSFW
| Bob Reynolds! Sentry! Rhett Abbott! Todd Stevens! Miles Miller! Ben Mears! Calvin Evans! Bob Floyd! |
Honey how you just saw Lewis with a beard!!? ... Where have you been?
I haven't really had time for a lot of stuff heheh my last fic I think was in January and lately I've been up to my neck with exams, my work and I admit I was watching Walking Dead again and I got lost in it.
And I've tried to write again but many of my wips are half-finished and I feel terrible because I said I would publish them but in the end.. I couldn't ( Damn writer's block) then I quit and because lately I've been thinking about my writing (not a big deal) so I didn't think if it would matter if I left it (writing) there are a lot better authors around here and that's why I disappeared.
Darling, it's been a long time since I've seen you post anything, and I just wanted to know if you're okay ... And your opinion or stance on Bob Floyd eating the reader and squirting on their face.
Do you think he would be wearing his glasses or not?What do you think his reaction would be... I couldn't stop thinking about it hehe 🙂↕️
Hope you're okay 🥺🩷
Hello darling, I'm alive!! hahaha 😚
Bob Floyd is a munch (I'm almost sure Lewis is one 😏). His reaction would be a low growl while his tongue traces circles on your clit. When the first spurts hit his mouth, splashing onto his cheeks, he pauses for a second before burying his face, overstimulating you while his hands hold you firmly. When he's finished, he'd wipe the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, adjust his glasses (now smudged), his cheeks flushed and a smug smile on his face.
JAN 10TH | WEEK SIX | Lewis Pullman Characters: Mirror Sex / Smut Without Much Plot! Bob Reynolds! Bob Floyd! Rhett Abbott! Todd Stevens! Calvin Evans! |
Pairing: Lewis Pullman Characters x Fem! Reader
Summary: Caught between them, in a whirlwind of possession and tenderness, each flash of the camera is chaotic, raw, a desire that knows no bounds. But in every wild caress there is a whisper of love, and in every tear they wipe away with their fingers, a promise.
They love you in the only way they know how, claiming you completely.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With Plot | Group Sex/Gangbang | Oral Sex | Explicit and DirtyLanguage Positions of Domination and Submission | Sexual Documentation (Photography) | Exhibitionism (Through The Mirror) | Intertwined Tenderness and Aftercare
Word Count: 934
The camera's first shot was a blinding flash, a sharp metallic sound that cut through the heavy air. But before the shock could fade, Bob Reynolds's broad, firm hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to keep your gaze fixed on the fogged mirror.
“There, baby,” he whispered, his voice a rough murmur against your ear. “Look at yourself.” “So fucking beautiful and broken.” That first flash blinded you, but it also turned you on.
Trapped between them, their hot bodies. And it's so fucking messy and wet, so full of cum that you've lost count. It drips from your mouth, your ass, your pussy, covering your skin. The hardwood floor was hard beneath your knees, which were starting to burn, reddening from the constant rubbing and jostling as you positioned yourself for them. The room smelled of sex, salty sweat, and the static electricity in the air. Your breasts, free and soft, were covered by Bob Floyd's large, calloused palms, which kneaded them with a possessiveness that made your skin tingle, his thumbs rubbing rough, deliberate circles on your sensitive nipples until you moaned pitifully.
“So soft,” Bob Floyd growled, his hot breath on your neck. “Perfect,” he says as he squeezes them between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at them in the mirror, baby.”
Behind you, Bob Reynolds has traded the camera for a more intimate position. He holds you, one arm wrapped around your torso, his other hand tangled in your hair. He pulls you back, against his chest, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance, kissing that deep place that makes you see stars.
“Look, love,” he orders softly, his breath on your temple as he points his phone at the mirror. In the reflection, you see his face buried in your neck, your expression of torn ecstasy, and the flash that freezes the moment: a selfie of absolute possession. “So you won't forget,” he whispers. “So you remember how it feels to be so full, so loved by us.”
It's a whirlwind of sensations: the crunch of your knees against the rough carpet, the burning that mixes with pleasure; the sweat that binds your back to Calvin's chest; the taste of salt and skin; the sight, you strained to see how the strands of semen connect their bodies to yours, how your breasts, soft and jolted with each thrust, are covered and uncovered by hands that adore them, that possess them. Floyd and Calvin take turns nibbling on them, sharp teeth turning into soft kisses, an “I'm sorry, baby” followed by “but you're just irresistible.”
You feel a warm, thick trickle running down your shin. Todd Stevens had been the first, his explosive cum marking your wet insides. And now, Rhett, always the most playful and vocal, slid forward from your side. With one hand still on your chest, he used the other to guide the flushed, shiny tip of his cock to your lips, which were already stained and glistening.
“Open up, beautiful,” he commanded, and there was no disdain in his tone, only deep desire in his voice. His sun-darkened hands marking your waist. “Come on, baby, open those pretty lips wide for me,” he growls, and before you can prepare yourself, you feel the thick, hot tip of his cock pushing between your lips. He penetrates your mouth with a firm thrust, filling your throat. Another flash. He holds the camera with one arm, capturing from above the spectacle of your hollowed cheeks, the tears tracing crystalline lines across the mess of your face. “God, baby, look at you… swallowing me. You're perfect,” Rhett gasped, his thumb wiping away a tear. “You love us, don't you? You love this. You love being ours.” His pride is palpable, almost as tangible as his cock stretching your mouth.
It was chaotic, it was wet, it was a fusion of sensations that erased any coherent thought. You had lost count of the times, of the origin of each new stream that covered you. His cum dripped from the corners of your lips, seeped between your sore and sensitive legs, glistened on your skin in the dim light.
Calvin Evans, who had been watching with his characteristic scientific curiosity and voracious appetite, could resist no longer. He approached, and where Rhett and Bob had claimed, he explored. He lowered his head and licked a drop running down your sternum with a grunt of approval, then moved to your parted lips, from which small moans escaped, and kissed you hard and hungrily, savoring you.
In the way Todd strokes your hair after he comes, whispering “I love you”; in how Calvin wipes your forehead with a damp cloth between photos; it was Rhett's “are you okay, honey?” between moans as he kisses the top of your head with heartbreaking tenderness; the way Bob Reynolds holds you when your legs give way and caresses you tenderly; the way Floyd would slow down to let you catch your breath when he saw your eyes glaze over, or when Bob would wipe away more tears with his thumb before kissing your cheeks repeatedly.
When you finally lay between them, a trembling, exhausted heap of limbs on the floor, covered by their bodies and their semen. With your eyes half-closed, you saw the photos on the floor: your eyes glazed with pleasure, your mouth full, your body arched between the shadows and the light, their faces of absolute devotion around you in that wet chaos and desperate fucking, there was a mirror, and in it, the reflection of how they love you.
PS: There may be a next time, you seeing yourself in every blessed photo…
Tag List: ☃⋆꙳•̩̩͙ @i-put-the-homo-in-homocidal @werewolfgirl1995 @kawaiicannibalbimbo @msfirth, @otherworldlyguerilla @imonabitchparade @hi-res-training-montage @automaticllamacycle @kikipanda1001 @iristheplanet16 @musicislove3389 @cuddlygoose ❅‧͙ * ‧͙
Autor's Note: It’s official, this is the last Fic of my FicMas, the Christmas event. I want to thank each and every one of you for joining me in every story. I hope you’ve enjoyed them.🙂↕️😉
JAN 10TH | WEEK SIX | Lewis Pullman Characters: Mirror Sex / Smut Without Much Plot! Bob Reynolds! Bob Floyd! Rhett Abbott! Todd Stevens! Calvin Evans! |
Pairing: Lewis Pullman Characters x Fem! Reader
Summary: Caught between them, in a whirlwind of possession and tenderness, each flash of the camera is chaotic, raw, a desire that knows no bounds. But in every wild caress there is a whisper of love, and in every tear they wipe away with their fingers, a promise.
They love you in the only way they know how, claiming you completely.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With Plot | Group Sex/Gangbang | Oral Sex | Explicit and DirtyLanguage Positions of Domination and Submission | Sexual Documentation (Photography) | Exhibitionism (Through The Mirror) | Intertwined Tenderness and Aftercare
Word Count: 934
The camera's first shot was a blinding flash, a sharp metallic sound that cut through the heavy air. But before the shock could fade, Bob Reynolds's broad, firm hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to keep your gaze fixed on the fogged mirror.
“There, baby,” he whispered, his voice a rough murmur against your ear. “Look at yourself.” “So fucking beautiful and broken.” That first flash blinded you, but it also turned you on.
Trapped between them, their hot bodies. And it's so fucking messy and wet, so full of cum that you've lost count. It drips from your mouth, your ass, your pussy, covering your skin. The hardwood floor was hard beneath your knees, which were starting to burn, reddening from the constant rubbing and jostling as you positioned yourself for them. The room smelled of sex, salty sweat, and the static electricity in the air. Your breasts, free and soft, were covered by Bob Floyd's large, calloused palms, which kneaded them with a possessiveness that made your skin tingle, his thumbs rubbing rough, deliberate circles on your sensitive nipples until you moaned pitifully.
“So soft,” Bob Floyd growled, his hot breath on your neck. “Perfect,” he says as he squeezes them between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at them in the mirror, baby.”
Behind you, Bob Reynolds has traded the camera for a more intimate position. He holds you, one arm wrapped around your torso, his other hand tangled in your hair. He pulls you back, against his chest, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance, kissing that deep place that makes you see stars.
“Look, love,” he orders softly, his breath on your temple as he points his phone at the mirror. In the reflection, you see his face buried in your neck, your expression of torn ecstasy, and the flash that freezes the moment: a selfie of absolute possession. “So you won't forget,” he whispers. “So you remember how it feels to be so full, so loved by us.”
It's a whirlwind of sensations: the crunch of your knees against the rough carpet, the burning that mixes with pleasure; the sweat that binds your back to Calvin's chest; the taste of salt and skin; the sight, you strained to see how the strands of semen connect their bodies to yours, how your breasts, soft and jolted with each thrust, are covered and uncovered by hands that adore them, that possess them. Floyd and Calvin take turns nibbling on them, sharp teeth turning into soft kisses, an “I'm sorry, baby” followed by “but you're just irresistible.”
You feel a warm, thick trickle running down your shin. Todd Stevens had been the first, his explosive cum marking your wet insides. And now, Rhett, always the most playful and vocal, slid forward from your side. With one hand still on your chest, he used the other to guide the flushed, shiny tip of his cock to your lips, which were already stained and glistening.
“Open up, beautiful,” he commanded, and there was no disdain in his tone, only deep desire in his voice. His sun-darkened hands marking your waist. “Come on, baby, open those pretty lips wide for me,” he growls, and before you can prepare yourself, you feel the thick, hot tip of his cock pushing between your lips. He penetrates your mouth with a firm thrust, filling your throat. Another flash. He holds the camera with one arm, capturing from above the spectacle of your hollowed cheeks, the tears tracing crystalline lines across the mess of your face. “God, baby, look at you… swallowing me. You're perfect,” Rhett gasped, his thumb wiping away a tear. “You love us, don't you? You love this. You love being ours.” His pride is palpable, almost as tangible as his cock stretching your mouth.
It was chaotic, it was wet, it was a fusion of sensations that erased any coherent thought. You had lost count of the times, of the origin of each new stream that covered you. His cum dripped from the corners of your lips, seeped between your sore and sensitive legs, glistened on your skin in the dim light.
Calvin Evans, who had been watching with his characteristic scientific curiosity and voracious appetite, could resist no longer. He approached, and where Rhett and Bob had claimed, he explored. He lowered his head and licked a drop running down your sternum with a grunt of approval, then moved to your parted lips, from which small moans escaped, and kissed you hard and hungrily, savoring you.
In the way Todd strokes your hair after he comes, whispering “I love you”; in how Calvin wipes your forehead with a damp cloth between photos; it was Rhett's “are you okay, honey?” between moans as he kisses the top of your head with heartbreaking tenderness; the way Bob Reynolds holds you when your legs give way and caresses you tenderly; the way Floyd would slow down to let you catch your breath when he saw your eyes glaze over, or when Bob would wipe away more tears with his thumb before kissing your cheeks repeatedly.
When you finally lay between them, a trembling, exhausted heap of limbs on the floor, covered by their bodies and their semen. With your eyes half-closed, you saw the photos on the floor: your eyes glazed with pleasure, your mouth full, your body arched between the shadows and the light, their faces of absolute devotion around you in that wet chaos and desperate fucking, there was a mirror, and in it, the reflection of how they love you.
PS: There may be a next time, you seeing yourself in every blessed photo…
Tag List: ☃⋆꙳•̩̩͙ @i-put-the-homo-in-homocidal @werewolfgirl1995 @kawaiicannibalbimbo @msfirth, @otherworldlyguerilla @imonabitchparade @hi-res-training-montage @automaticllamacycle @kikipanda1001 @iristheplanet16 @musicislove3389 @cuddlygoose ❅‧͙ * ‧͙
Autor's Note: It’s official, this is the last Fic of my FicMas, the Christmas event. I want to thank each and every one of you for joining me in every story. I hope you’ve enjoyed them.🙂↕️😉
JAN 10TH | WEEK SIX | Lewis Pullman Characters: Mirror Sex / Smut Without Much Plot! Bob Reynolds! Bob Floyd! Rhett Abbott! Todd Stevens! Calvin Evans! |
Pairing: Lewis Pullman Characters x Fem! Reader
Summary: Caught between them, in a whirlwind of possession and tenderness, each flash of the camera is chaotic, raw, a desire that knows no bounds. But in every wild caress there is a whisper of love, and in every tear they wipe away with their fingers, a promise.
They love you in the only way they know how, claiming you completely.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With Plot | Group Sex/Gangbang | Oral Sex | Explicit and DirtyLanguage Positions of Domination and Submission | Sexual Documentation (Photography) | Exhibitionism (Through The Mirror) | Intertwined Tenderness and Aftercare
Word Count: 934
The camera's first shot was a blinding flash, a sharp metallic sound that cut through the heavy air. But before the shock could fade, Bob Reynolds's broad, firm hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to keep your gaze fixed on the fogged mirror.
“There, baby,” he whispered, his voice a rough murmur against your ear. “Look at yourself.” “So fucking beautiful and broken.” That first flash blinded you, but it also turned you on.
Trapped between them, their hot bodies. And it's so fucking messy and wet, so full of cum that you've lost count. It drips from your mouth, your ass, your pussy, covering your skin. The hardwood floor was hard beneath your knees, which were starting to burn, reddening from the constant rubbing and jostling as you positioned yourself for them. The room smelled of sex, salty sweat, and the static electricity in the air. Your breasts, free and soft, were covered by Bob Floyd's large, calloused palms, which kneaded them with a possessiveness that made your skin tingle, his thumbs rubbing rough, deliberate circles on your sensitive nipples until you moaned pitifully.
“So soft,” Bob Floyd growled, his hot breath on your neck. “Perfect,” he says as he squeezes them between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at them in the mirror, baby.”
Behind you, Bob Reynolds has traded the camera for a more intimate position. He holds you, one arm wrapped around your torso, his other hand tangled in your hair. He pulls you back, against his chest, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance, kissing that deep place that makes you see stars.
“Look, love,” he orders softly, his breath on your temple as he points his phone at the mirror. In the reflection, you see his face buried in your neck, your expression of torn ecstasy, and the flash that freezes the moment: a selfie of absolute possession. “So you won't forget,” he whispers. “So you remember how it feels to be so full, so loved by us.”
It's a whirlwind of sensations: the crunch of your knees against the rough carpet, the burning that mixes with pleasure; the sweat that binds your back to Calvin's chest; the taste of salt and skin; the sight, you strained to see how the strands of semen connect their bodies to yours, how your breasts, soft and jolted with each thrust, are covered and uncovered by hands that adore them, that possess them. Floyd and Calvin take turns nibbling on them, sharp teeth turning into soft kisses, an “I'm sorry, baby” followed by “but you're just irresistible.”
You feel a warm, thick trickle running down your shin. Todd Stevens had been the first, his explosive cum marking your wet insides. And now, Rhett, always the most playful and vocal, slid forward from your side. With one hand still on your chest, he used the other to guide the flushed, shiny tip of his cock to your lips, which were already stained and glistening.
“Open up, beautiful,” he commanded, and there was no disdain in his tone, only deep desire in his voice. His sun-darkened hands marking your waist. “Come on, baby, open those pretty lips wide for me,” he growls, and before you can prepare yourself, you feel the thick, hot tip of his cock pushing between your lips. He penetrates your mouth with a firm thrust, filling your throat. Another flash. He holds the camera with one arm, capturing from above the spectacle of your hollowed cheeks, the tears tracing crystalline lines across the mess of your face. “God, baby, look at you… swallowing me. You're perfect,” Rhett gasped, his thumb wiping away a tear. “You love us, don't you? You love this. You love being ours.” His pride is palpable, almost as tangible as his cock stretching your mouth.
It was chaotic, it was wet, it was a fusion of sensations that erased any coherent thought. You had lost count of the times, of the origin of each new stream that covered you. His cum dripped from the corners of your lips, seeped between your sore and sensitive legs, glistened on your skin in the dim light.
Calvin Evans, who had been watching with his characteristic scientific curiosity and voracious appetite, could resist no longer. He approached, and where Rhett and Bob had claimed, he explored. He lowered his head and licked a drop running down your sternum with a grunt of approval, then moved to your parted lips, from which small moans escaped, and kissed you hard and hungrily, savoring you.
In the way Todd strokes your hair after he comes, whispering “I love you”; in how Calvin wipes your forehead with a damp cloth between photos; it was Rhett's “are you okay, honey?” between moans as he kisses the top of your head with heartbreaking tenderness; the way Bob Reynolds holds you when your legs give way and caresses you tenderly; the way Floyd would slow down to let you catch your breath when he saw your eyes glaze over, or when Bob would wipe away more tears with his thumb before kissing your cheeks repeatedly.
When you finally lay between them, a trembling, exhausted heap of limbs on the floor, covered by their bodies and their semen. With your eyes half-closed, you saw the photos on the floor: your eyes glazed with pleasure, your mouth full, your body arched between the shadows and the light, their faces of absolute devotion around you in that wet chaos and desperate fucking, there was a mirror, and in it, the reflection of how they love you.
PS: There may be a next time, you seeing yourself in every blessed photo…
Tag List: ☃⋆꙳•̩̩͙ @i-put-the-homo-in-homocidal @werewolfgirl1995 @kawaiicannibalbimbo @msfirth, @otherworldlyguerilla @imonabitchparade @hi-res-training-montage @automaticllamacycle @kikipanda1001 @iristheplanet16 @musicislove3389 @cuddlygoose ❅‧͙ * ‧͙
Autor's Note: It’s official, this is the last Fic of my FicMas, the Christmas event. I want to thank each and every one of you for joining me in every story. I hope you’ve enjoyed them.🙂↕️😉
JAN 10TH | WEEK SIX | Lewis Pullman Characters: Mirror Sex / Smut Without Much Plot! Bob Reynolds! Bob Floyd! Rhett Abbott! Todd Stevens! Calvin Evans! |
Pairing: Lewis Pullman Characters x Fem! Reader
Summary: Caught between them, in a whirlwind of possession and tenderness, each flash of the camera is chaotic, raw, a desire that knows no bounds. But in every wild caress there is a whisper of love, and in every tear they wipe away with their fingers, a promise.
They love you in the only way they know how, claiming you completely.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With Plot | Group Sex/Gangbang | Oral Sex | Explicit and DirtyLanguage Positions of Domination and Submission | Sexual Documentation (Photography) | Exhibitionism (Through The Mirror) | Intertwined Tenderness and Aftercare
Word Count: 934
The camera's first shot was a blinding flash, a sharp metallic sound that cut through the heavy air. But before the shock could fade, Bob Reynolds's broad, firm hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to keep your gaze fixed on the fogged mirror.
“There, baby,” he whispered, his voice a rough murmur against your ear. “Look at yourself.” “So fucking beautiful and broken.” That first flash blinded you, but it also turned you on.
Trapped between them, their hot bodies. And it's so fucking messy and wet, so full of cum that you've lost count. It drips from your mouth, your ass, your pussy, covering your skin. The hardwood floor was hard beneath your knees, which were starting to burn, reddening from the constant rubbing and jostling as you positioned yourself for them. The room smelled of sex, salty sweat, and the static electricity in the air. Your breasts, free and soft, were covered by Bob Floyd's large, calloused palms, which kneaded them with a possessiveness that made your skin tingle, his thumbs rubbing rough, deliberate circles on your sensitive nipples until you moaned pitifully.
“So soft,” Bob Floyd growled, his hot breath on your neck. “Perfect,” he says as he squeezes them between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at them in the mirror, baby.”
Behind you, Bob Reynolds has traded the camera for a more intimate position. He holds you, one arm wrapped around your torso, his other hand tangled in your hair. He pulls you back, against his chest, and you feel the tip of his cock at your entrance, kissing that deep place that makes you see stars.
“Look, love,” he orders softly, his breath on your temple as he points his phone at the mirror. In the reflection, you see his face buried in your neck, your expression of torn ecstasy, and the flash that freezes the moment: a selfie of absolute possession. “So you won't forget,” he whispers. “So you remember how it feels to be so full, so loved by us.”
It's a whirlwind of sensations: the crunch of your knees against the rough carpet, the burning that mixes with pleasure; the sweat that binds your back to Calvin's chest; the taste of salt and skin; the sight, you strained to see how the strands of semen connect their bodies to yours, how your breasts, soft and jolted with each thrust, are covered and uncovered by hands that adore them, that possess them. Floyd and Calvin take turns nibbling on them, sharp teeth turning into soft kisses, an “I'm sorry, baby” followed by “but you're just irresistible.”
You feel a warm, thick trickle running down your shin. Todd Stevens had been the first, his explosive cum marking your wet insides. And now, Rhett, always the most playful and vocal, slid forward from your side. With one hand still on your chest, he used the other to guide the flushed, shiny tip of his cock to your lips, which were already stained and glistening.
“Open up, beautiful,” he commanded, and there was no disdain in his tone, only deep desire in his voice. His sun-darkened hands marking your waist. “Come on, baby, open those pretty lips wide for me,” he growls, and before you can prepare yourself, you feel the thick, hot tip of his cock pushing between your lips. He penetrates your mouth with a firm thrust, filling your throat. Another flash. He holds the camera with one arm, capturing from above the spectacle of your hollowed cheeks, the tears tracing crystalline lines across the mess of your face. “God, baby, look at you… swallowing me. You're perfect,” Rhett gasped, his thumb wiping away a tear. “You love us, don't you? You love this. You love being ours.” His pride is palpable, almost as tangible as his cock stretching your mouth.
It was chaotic, it was wet, it was a fusion of sensations that erased any coherent thought. You had lost count of the times, of the origin of each new stream that covered you. His cum dripped from the corners of your lips, seeped between your sore and sensitive legs, glistened on your skin in the dim light.
Calvin Evans, who had been watching with his characteristic scientific curiosity and voracious appetite, could resist no longer. He approached, and where Rhett and Bob had claimed, he explored. He lowered his head and licked a drop running down your sternum with a grunt of approval, then moved to your parted lips, from which small moans escaped, and kissed you hard and hungrily, savoring you.
In the way Todd strokes your hair after he comes, whispering “I love you”; in how Calvin wipes your forehead with a damp cloth between photos; it was Rhett's “are you okay, honey?” between moans as he kisses the top of your head with heartbreaking tenderness; the way Bob Reynolds holds you when your legs give way and caresses you tenderly; the way Floyd would slow down to let you catch your breath when he saw your eyes glaze over, or when Bob would wipe away more tears with his thumb before kissing your cheeks repeatedly.
When you finally lay between them, a trembling, exhausted heap of limbs on the floor, covered by their bodies and their semen. With your eyes half-closed, you saw the photos on the floor: your eyes glazed with pleasure, your mouth full, your body arched between the shadows and the light, their faces of absolute devotion around you in that wet chaos and desperate fucking, there was a mirror, and in it, the reflection of how they love you.
PS: There may be a next time, you seeing yourself in every blessed photo…
Tag List: ☃⋆꙳•̩̩͙ @i-put-the-homo-in-homocidal @werewolfgirl1995 @kawaiicannibalbimbo @msfirth, @otherworldlyguerilla @imonabitchparade @hi-res-training-montage @automaticllamacycle @kikipanda1001 @iristheplanet16 @musicislove3389 @cuddlygoose ❅‧͙ * ‧͙
Autor's Note: It’s official, this is the last Fic of my FicMas, the Christmas event. I want to thank each and every one of you for joining me in every story. I hope you’ve enjoyed them.🙂↕️😉
JAN 04TH | WEEK FIVE | Sticky Frosting · Unresolved Tension · Kitchen Mess · Sweet Chaos · No Arguing Back · Clean It Now! Bob Reynolds |
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds x Aveger! Fem! Reader
Summary:Between the sugar of the cookies and unresolved tension, an argument over a messy kitchen turns into a battlefield where resentment and attraction finally explode. Bob won’t take no for an answer. And you’ve had enough. After all, there are far sweeter—and dirtier—ways to clean up a mess.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With a Little Plot | Oral Sex (Male Receive ) | Rough / Angry Sex | Cum Play / Swallowing | Degradation a Little Bit | Face Fucking | Dirty Talk |
Word Count: 2,411
“Don’t you think that’s too much frosting?” Yelena watches you as you smear the heart-shaped cookie like your life depends on it.
“Lena… there’s never too much frosting,” you reply, piping a little more onto the cookie and sliding the loaded tray toward her.
She takes one, turns it between her fingers, examines it with a critical eye.
“You put effort into these,” she finally says, before taking a bite. “Oh God, they’re really good.”
“You know… it helps with the stress from the last mission.”
Yelena sighs.
“Ah. Him.”
You roll your eyes.
“Yes. Him.”
Bob and you have never exactly been friends. You talk when necessary, exchange brief greetings… and nothing more. And the last mission proved that. You were supposed to follow his orders. He wanted you to advance from the left. You knew the route was compromised. He insisted. You gave in, jaw clenched. That’s where the disaster began.
Mid-operation everything fell apart: an unexpected ambush, crossfire, a sniper no one saw coming. You weren’t where he expected you to be; he wasn’t watching where he should have. The shot went straight for your chest. For a fraction of a second, you saw the flash—the end.
And then he appeared.
Not Bob.
The other one.
The light that lives under his skin.
Sentry came down on you like a golden lightning strike, energy vibrating through the air, deflecting the bullet with a movement so fast you barely registered the impact hitting the ground. He looked at you with those ringed golden eyes—intense, almost offended—as if your very existence had been put at risk by human clumsiness. As if he were asking: Why didn’t you listen to him?
After that… well. Coordinating became impossible. Bob was tense, frustrated. You were even worse. Every order sounded like criticism. Every decision you made sounded like defiance. And every time his fingers curled into a fist, you felt the memory of that golden light that almost wrapped around you completely.
“Enough to get you stuck in the kitchen with therapeutic frosting,” Yelena says, biting off another corner of the cookie.
“Exactly,” you reply, grabbing another piping bag like it’s a weapon.
“Then keep going,” she says, leaning against the counter. “That fight with Bob isn’t going to resolve itself. But at least the cookies are good.”
“Of course they’re delicious,” you say. “The frosting turned out perfect—smooth, thick, with that exact balance of butter and sugar that melts the moment it touches your tongue. Sweet, but not overwhelming… just the way it should be.”
Yelena smiles at you, amused. She finishes her cookie without a hint of guilt and stands up. In her hands, at least five cookies are stacked neatly.
You follow her with your eyes, one eyebrow arching.
“Hey… where are you going?”
“I’m escaping before you get the brilliant idea to ask me to help clean all of this up,” she says, nodding toward the mess with her chin as she heads for the door.
You look around.
The counter is splattered with tiny drops of frosting—used bowls, sticky spoons, the piping bag dripping in the center. Flour in one corner. Powdered sugar in another. A dishcloth that has very clearly given up.
You watch her when she’s already standing in the doorway and say, smiling,
“Hey… it’s not that bad.”
You lie to yourself.
From the hallway, out of sight, Yelena lets out a laugh.
“Yeah… good luck with that, girl.”
...
“What the hell happened here?” Bob stands in the doorway, his broad silhouette blocking the hallway light. His voice is harsh, irritated—a cold blade slicing through the sticky calm you’d taken refuge in.
You turn halfway, still holding half a cookie in your hand, chewing slowly. You watch him as he scans the mess: bowls stacked with leftover dough, flour scattered everywhere, white icing dripping off the counter and drying into sweet puddles on the surface. His blue, icy eyes track every stain, every crumb, as if he were inspecting a crime scene. And you are clearly the culprit.
You swallow at last, the sweetness now cloying in your throat.
“What’s your fucking problem, Reynolds?” you snap back, your voice heavy with irritation you don’t bother to hide. That reproachful look—his silent judgment—sets you on fire from the inside.
“My fucking problem,” he replies, stepping further into the kitchen, his tone even lower now, the irritation thick in the air, “is that you made a damn mess in the kitchen I cleaned this very morning. You see this?” He gestures sharply at the whole place.
Anger floods you—hot and fast. You don’t like where this is going. You try to calm yourself, to breathe.
“I’m going to clean it. Fine. Just give me a few minutes,” you say, forcing a fake smile, lips stretched tight. Your shoulders stay tense.
But there’s something else in the air now… more than anger. It’s thick. Heated. Closing in around you both.
“A few minutes?” he says, stepping closer at last. His presence is a wall of heat and resolve, crushing. “No. You’re going to clean this. Now.” His voice is hard, controlled, barely contained. “And don’t think batting those lashes and putting that sweet smile on your pretty lips is going to get you out of it.”
His words, spoken in that commanding tone, make your blood boil. Heat rushes up your neck, igniting your cheeks.
“You know what, Reynolds?” you spit, your control slipping. “I was planning on cleaning it after eating my damn cookies.” You step into his space, defiant, invading him just as much as he’s invaded you. “But now… now I’m not doing it. Fuck you, Bobby.”
You spin on your heel, determined to leave, to abandon him mid-sentence. But before you can take a second step, his hand shoots out. It isn’t violent—but it’s unyielding. His fingers close firmly around your wrist, stopping you cold.
“What the hell is wrong with you, damn it, Bob! Let me go!” you struggle, furious, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“No,” he says, firm. With a sharp, precise tug, he pulls you toward him. You crash into his chest—solid as stone—the air knocked from your lungs in a soft oof. He looks down at you, his breath heavy against your forehead, then your cheekbones.
“Clean it.”
His breath brushes your lips. He’s so close you can see the faint flush of anger across his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something deeper than anger in his blue eyes. It’s an order.
You’re angry, yes. Furious. But also… overwhelmed. His presence looms over you—the heat of his body, the strength in his grip, the intensity of his gaze. Pure rage twists, tangles with something more primal. Something dangerous.
With the hand still holding your wrist and the other on your shoulder, he pulls you back. Your back hits the cold edge of the island counter. The contact makes you jump. A bowl with leftover frosting falls to the floor and shatters with a dull thud.
He doesn't seem to hear it. His gaze is fixed on yours.
“You're going to clean it up. Now,” he says, his voice now a hoarse whisper, laden with a threat that no longer has anything to do with scrubbing floors.
You open your mouth to spit out another insult, but no sound comes out. Your heart is beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your temples, in your throat, between your legs. The anger still burns, but it has transformed, merged with an electric, terrifying anticipation.
He interprets your silence, your trembling, your gaze fixed on his lips, as the only answer he needs.
In one fluid, brutal motion, he spins you around. Your hands land on the sticky surface of the counter, staining themselves with sugar and food coloring. Before you can react, he pushes you down.
“Do you want me to clean it, Bobby…?” you manage to say, trying to sound haughty, but it comes out as a faint whisper, drowned out by the ringing in your ears.
You slide off the bar onto the floor. The tiles are cold, unforgiving, against your knees. You look up at him from below, your breath coming in gasps. He unbuttons his pants with sharp, efficient movements, never taking his eyes off yours. There is no tenderness here. There is no request. It is the physical consequence of the tension that has been boiling between you since the mission, since the stray bullet, since every charged glance.
A muffled moan escapes you, filling the room. Your mouth is full of him, of his heat, of his weight, of a salty, clean taste that has nothing to do with the cloying sweetness of the frosting. His skin is taut, you can clearly feel his veins, thick and pronounced, throbbing hard against your tongue. He fills you, stretching the limits of your lips.
It's too much. Too big, too deep. Your hands reflexively cling to his thighs, anchoring themselves to his sweatpants. He lets out a guttural sound, a growl that vibrates from his chest and runs down your spine.
His hand buries itself in your hair, to hold you, to guide you. In a relentless rhythm that suffocates you, fills you, erases all thought except the raw, searing sensation of this happening. The taste of his skin, the salt of his sweat, his pure, masculine essence flood you, mingling with the sweet aftertaste of cookies and the bitterness of your own tears, now falling freely, splattering the floor mixed with crumbs and frosting.
Each thrust is an affirmation, a silent reminder of his strength, his authority, the line you crossed. You swallow, choke, cling on, and amid the dizzying sensations, a part of you, the very part that defied him, is loving this.
The sound is obscene in the silent kitchen, a ragged gasp, the wet rubbing, the slight crackling of his knuckles gripping the edge of the counter. He looks down, his deep blue eyes surrounded by a bright golden ring, fixed on the spectacle you offer, on your used mouth, on your tears, on the mess you have both created.
The air stops the moment you pull back, defying the rhythm he imposes. You remove his cock from your mouth with a wet, audible pop, holding it in your hand, throbbing and red-hot between you.
A string of saliva and precum connects his shiny tip to your swollen lips. You look him straight in the eye, without blinking, and run your tongue in a long, slow, deliberate lick along its length, from base to head. The taste is salty, sweet, addictive.
“Do you want to come in my mouth, Bob?” you ask, your voice hoarse from the effort, but laden with a poisonous sweetness. “To dirty my tongue.”
You tilt your head and kiss the dripping tip, a soft, obscene kiss, holding his gaze.
A violent tremor runs through his entire body. His abdominal muscles tense like ropes. He sees you, your used mouth, your bright eyes, the false submission. The sight takes his breath away and sets his blood boiling. His cock throbs hard in your hand, an urgent, primitive beat that betrays how close he is.
“Damn you…” he growls, but the word is drowned out by a gasp.
His reaction is instant and fierce. His hands fly to your head, burying his fingers in your hair in a firm grip, but one that conveys a desperate, almost pleading urgency.
It's no longer just control; it's need.
He pulls you back toward him, and this time you really choke when his length fills your throat in one deep thrust. He begins to thrust, a brutal rhythm abandoning any pretense of patience.
“Oh, yes…” he pants between thrusts, his voice broken with passion. “Swett girl… I'm going to come in your sweet mouth… I'm going to dirty you with my cum… on those pretty lips…”
His words excite you and you stop fighting him and take him. You close your eyes halfway, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the sound of his gasps, the smell of sex and frosting.
His orgasm hits like thunder. A long, guttural growl that seems to tear through his chest. You feel his whole body convulse, his fingers clutching your hair. Inside your mouth, his member throbs hard, and the first wave of cum, hot, thick, and salty, hits the back of your throat. You swallow instinctively, then for pleasure, receiving each hot jet with an eagerness that surprises even you. It is salty, bitter, deeply masculine.
When the spasms begin to subside, you open your eyes. You see him from the floor, his face contorted in agonizing ecstasy, his muscles still trembling.
You pull his cock out of your mouth with a final plop, but you don't let go. With your hand still wrapped around it, you begin to gently masturbate him, extracting the last drops of his cum, the last spasms of pleasure. They drip, not in powerful spurts now, but in thick, lazy strands that paint your skin. They fill your cheeks, drip down your chin, stain the top of your tits above your neckline. The sensation is warm, sticky, and marks you with him.
With his member now semi-hard and sensitive in your hand, you use your other hand. You collect some of his cum glistening on your chin with two fingers. You raise your hand slowly, maintaining his gaze, now dark, exhausted, and fascinated.
You smear your lips with it, opening your mouth slightly so he can see the glisten on them. Then you put your fingers in your mouth and suck them slowly, cleaning them completely, your eyes closed in a gesture of apparent delight. You pull them out clean.
“You taste so delicious, Bob,” you admit, drunk on his flavor, your tongue wiping a remnant from your lower lip.
He lets out a growl, but it turns into a pitiful moan, almost of pain, at the sight of your obscene submission.
You leave your fingers clean and bring your stained, smiling face closer to his cock, which is already going limp and ultra-sensitive.
“Very good,” you say, teasingly, playfully, sweet victory in your tone. “I think I still have a lot to clean up.”
And, without giving him time to react, you put the sensitive, red head of his cock in your mouth, surrounding it with your lips in a warm, wet circle, cleaning it.
P.S.: this was me while writing it 🫠🤤🫣 and yes, I’m proud haha.
Honey... I saw your last post and... are you a fan of The Walking Dead?!!!!
Oh, I totally am. When I watched the first season at 10 years old, basically forced by my brother, that was my very first crush. Daryl Dixon—that man is just ughhhh 😫. Norman Reedus had me on my knees from day one 🔥
Hello dear, just wanted to say hi 🫶 Can you give us a hint on what you're currently working on? 👀
Hi, sweetheart! 🩷 Oh, I’ve been a bit behind, but I’m writing the final fic of my Ficmas “…‘A White Christmas 😏’ (you know the vibe 🤭)”, and I’m also writing for Bob Floyd and a camgirl reader :D
JAN 04TH | WEEK FIVE | Sticky Frosting · Unresolved Tension · Kitchen Mess · Sweet Chaos · No Arguing Back · Clean It Now! Bob Reynolds |
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds x Aveger! Fem! Reader
Summary:Between the sugar of the cookies and unresolved tension, an argument over a messy kitchen turns into a battlefield where resentment and attraction finally explode. Bob won’t take no for an answer. And you’ve had enough. After all, there are far sweeter—and dirtier—ways to clean up a mess.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With a Little Plot | Oral Sex (Male Receive ) | Rough / Angry Sex | Cum Play / Swallowing | Degradation a Little Bit | Face Fucking | Dirty Talk |
Word Count: 2,411
“Don’t you think that’s too much frosting?” Yelena watches you as you smear the heart-shaped cookie like your life depends on it.
“Lena… there’s never too much frosting,” you reply, piping a little more onto the cookie and sliding the loaded tray toward her.
She takes one, turns it between her fingers, examines it with a critical eye.
“You put effort into these,” she finally says, before taking a bite. “Oh God, they’re really good.”
“You know… it helps with the stress from the last mission.”
Yelena sighs.
“Ah. Him.”
You roll your eyes.
“Yes. Him.”
Bob and you have never exactly been friends. You talk when necessary, exchange brief greetings… and nothing more. And the last mission proved that. You were supposed to follow his orders. He wanted you to advance from the left. You knew the route was compromised. He insisted. You gave in, jaw clenched. That’s where the disaster began.
Mid-operation everything fell apart: an unexpected ambush, crossfire, a sniper no one saw coming. You weren’t where he expected you to be; he wasn’t watching where he should have. The shot went straight for your chest. For a fraction of a second, you saw the flash—the end.
And then he appeared.
Not Bob.
The other one.
The light that lives under his skin.
Sentry came down on you like a golden lightning strike, energy vibrating through the air, deflecting the bullet with a movement so fast you barely registered the impact hitting the ground. He looked at you with those ringed golden eyes—intense, almost offended—as if your very existence had been put at risk by human clumsiness. As if he were asking: Why didn’t you listen to him?
After that… well. Coordinating became impossible. Bob was tense, frustrated. You were even worse. Every order sounded like criticism. Every decision you made sounded like defiance. And every time his fingers curled into a fist, you felt the memory of that golden light that almost wrapped around you completely.
“Enough to get you stuck in the kitchen with therapeutic frosting,” Yelena says, biting off another corner of the cookie.
“Exactly,” you reply, grabbing another piping bag like it’s a weapon.
“Then keep going,” she says, leaning against the counter. “That fight with Bob isn’t going to resolve itself. But at least the cookies are good.”
“Of course they’re delicious,” you say. “The frosting turned out perfect—smooth, thick, with that exact balance of butter and sugar that melts the moment it touches your tongue. Sweet, but not overwhelming… just the way it should be.”
Yelena smiles at you, amused. She finishes her cookie without a hint of guilt and stands up. In her hands, at least five cookies are stacked neatly.
You follow her with your eyes, one eyebrow arching.
“Hey… where are you going?”
“I’m escaping before you get the brilliant idea to ask me to help clean all of this up,” she says, nodding toward the mess with her chin as she heads for the door.
You look around.
The counter is splattered with tiny drops of frosting—used bowls, sticky spoons, the piping bag dripping in the center. Flour in one corner. Powdered sugar in another. A dishcloth that has very clearly given up.
You watch her when she’s already standing in the doorway and say, smiling,
“Hey… it’s not that bad.”
You lie to yourself.
From the hallway, out of sight, Yelena lets out a laugh.
“Yeah… good luck with that, girl.”
...
“What the hell happened here?” Bob stands in the doorway, his broad silhouette blocking the hallway light. His voice is harsh, irritated—a cold blade slicing through the sticky calm you’d taken refuge in.
You turn halfway, still holding half a cookie in your hand, chewing slowly. You watch him as he scans the mess: bowls stacked with leftover dough, flour scattered everywhere, white icing dripping off the counter and drying into sweet puddles on the surface. His blue, icy eyes track every stain, every crumb, as if he were inspecting a crime scene. And you are clearly the culprit.
You swallow at last, the sweetness now cloying in your throat.
“What’s your fucking problem, Reynolds?” you snap back, your voice heavy with irritation you don’t bother to hide. That reproachful look—his silent judgment—sets you on fire from the inside.
“My fucking problem,” he replies, stepping further into the kitchen, his tone even lower now, the irritation thick in the air, “is that you made a damn mess in the kitchen I cleaned this very morning. You see this?” He gestures sharply at the whole place.
Anger floods you—hot and fast. You don’t like where this is going. You try to calm yourself, to breathe.
“I’m going to clean it. Fine. Just give me a few minutes,” you say, forcing a fake smile, lips stretched tight. Your shoulders stay tense.
But there’s something else in the air now… more than anger. It’s thick. Heated. Closing in around you both.
“A few minutes?” he says, stepping closer at last. His presence is a wall of heat and resolve, crushing. “No. You’re going to clean this. Now.” His voice is hard, controlled, barely contained. “And don’t think batting those lashes and putting that sweet smile on your pretty lips is going to get you out of it.”
His words, spoken in that commanding tone, make your blood boil. Heat rushes up your neck, igniting your cheeks.
“You know what, Reynolds?” you spit, your control slipping. “I was planning on cleaning it after eating my damn cookies.” You step into his space, defiant, invading him just as much as he’s invaded you. “But now… now I’m not doing it. Fuck you, Bobby.”
You spin on your heel, determined to leave, to abandon him mid-sentence. But before you can take a second step, his hand shoots out. It isn’t violent—but it’s unyielding. His fingers close firmly around your wrist, stopping you cold.
“What the hell is wrong with you, damn it, Bob! Let me go!” you struggle, furious, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“No,” he says, firm. With a sharp, precise tug, he pulls you toward him. You crash into his chest—solid as stone—the air knocked from your lungs in a soft oof. He looks down at you, his breath heavy against your forehead, then your cheekbones.
“Clean it.”
His breath brushes your lips. He’s so close you can see the faint flush of anger across his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something deeper than anger in his blue eyes. It’s an order.
You’re angry, yes. Furious. But also… overwhelmed. His presence looms over you—the heat of his body, the strength in his grip, the intensity of his gaze. Pure rage twists, tangles with something more primal. Something dangerous.
With the hand still holding your wrist and the other on your shoulder, he pulls you back. Your back hits the cold edge of the island counter. The contact makes you jump. A bowl with leftover frosting falls to the floor and shatters with a dull thud.
He doesn't seem to hear it. His gaze is fixed on yours.
“You're going to clean it up. Now,” he says, his voice now a hoarse whisper, laden with a threat that no longer has anything to do with scrubbing floors.
You open your mouth to spit out another insult, but no sound comes out. Your heart is beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your temples, in your throat, between your legs. The anger still burns, but it has transformed, merged with an electric, terrifying anticipation.
He interprets your silence, your trembling, your gaze fixed on his lips, as the only answer he needs.
In one fluid, brutal motion, he spins you around. Your hands land on the sticky surface of the counter, staining themselves with sugar and food coloring. Before you can react, he pushes you down.
“Do you want me to clean it, Bobby…?” you manage to say, trying to sound haughty, but it comes out as a faint whisper, drowned out by the ringing in your ears.
You slide off the bar onto the floor. The tiles are cold, unforgiving, against your knees. You look up at him from below, your breath coming in gasps. He unbuttons his pants with sharp, efficient movements, never taking his eyes off yours. There is no tenderness here. There is no request. It is the physical consequence of the tension that has been boiling between you since the mission, since the stray bullet, since every charged glance.
A muffled moan escapes you, filling the room. Your mouth is full of him, of his heat, of his weight, of a salty, clean taste that has nothing to do with the cloying sweetness of the frosting. His skin is taut, you can clearly feel his veins, thick and pronounced, throbbing hard against your tongue. He fills you, stretching the limits of your lips.
It's too much. Too big, too deep. Your hands reflexively cling to his thighs, anchoring themselves to his sweatpants. He lets out a guttural sound, a growl that vibrates from his chest and runs down your spine.
His hand buries itself in your hair, to hold you, to guide you. In a relentless rhythm that suffocates you, fills you, erases all thought except the raw, searing sensation of this happening. The taste of his skin, the salt of his sweat, his pure, masculine essence flood you, mingling with the sweet aftertaste of cookies and the bitterness of your own tears, now falling freely, splattering the floor mixed with crumbs and frosting.
Each thrust is an affirmation, a silent reminder of his strength, his authority, the line you crossed. You swallow, choke, cling on, and amid the dizzying sensations, a part of you, the very part that defied him, is loving this.
The sound is obscene in the silent kitchen, a ragged gasp, the wet rubbing, the slight crackling of his knuckles gripping the edge of the counter. He looks down, his deep blue eyes surrounded by a bright golden ring, fixed on the spectacle you offer, on your used mouth, on your tears, on the mess you have both created.
The air stops the moment you pull back, defying the rhythm he imposes. You remove his cock from your mouth with a wet, audible pop, holding it in your hand, throbbing and red-hot between you.
A string of saliva and precum connects his shiny tip to your swollen lips. You look him straight in the eye, without blinking, and run your tongue in a long, slow, deliberate lick along its length, from base to head. The taste is salty, sweet, addictive.
“Do you want to come in my mouth, Bob?” you ask, your voice hoarse from the effort, but laden with a poisonous sweetness. “To dirty my tongue.”
You tilt your head and kiss the dripping tip, a soft, obscene kiss, holding his gaze.
A violent tremor runs through his entire body. His abdominal muscles tense like ropes. He sees you, your used mouth, your bright eyes, the false submission. The sight takes his breath away and sets his blood boiling. His cock throbs hard in your hand, an urgent, primitive beat that betrays how close he is.
“Damn you…” he growls, but the word is drowned out by a gasp.
His reaction is instant and fierce. His hands fly to your head, burying his fingers in your hair in a firm grip, but one that conveys a desperate, almost pleading urgency.
It's no longer just control; it's need.
He pulls you back toward him, and this time you really choke when his length fills your throat in one deep thrust. He begins to thrust, a brutal rhythm abandoning any pretense of patience.
“Oh, yes…” he pants between thrusts, his voice broken with passion. “Swett girl… I'm going to come in your sweet mouth… I'm going to dirty you with my cum… on those pretty lips…”
His words excite you and you stop fighting him and take him. You close your eyes halfway, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the sound of his gasps, the smell of sex and frosting.
His orgasm hits like thunder. A long, guttural growl that seems to tear through his chest. You feel his whole body convulse, his fingers clutching your hair. Inside your mouth, his member throbs hard, and the first wave of cum, hot, thick, and salty, hits the back of your throat. You swallow instinctively, then for pleasure, receiving each hot jet with an eagerness that surprises even you. It is salty, bitter, deeply masculine.
When the spasms begin to subside, you open your eyes. You see him from the floor, his face contorted in agonizing ecstasy, his muscles still trembling.
You pull his cock out of your mouth with a final plop, but you don't let go. With your hand still wrapped around it, you begin to gently masturbate him, extracting the last drops of his cum, the last spasms of pleasure. They drip, not in powerful spurts now, but in thick, lazy strands that paint your skin. They fill your cheeks, drip down your chin, stain the top of your tits above your neckline. The sensation is warm, sticky, and marks you with him.
With his member now semi-hard and sensitive in your hand, you use your other hand. You collect some of his cum glistening on your chin with two fingers. You raise your hand slowly, maintaining his gaze, now dark, exhausted, and fascinated.
You smear your lips with it, opening your mouth slightly so he can see the glisten on them. Then you put your fingers in your mouth and suck them slowly, cleaning them completely, your eyes closed in a gesture of apparent delight. You pull them out clean.
“You taste so delicious, Bob,” you admit, drunk on his flavor, your tongue wiping a remnant from your lower lip.
He lets out a growl, but it turns into a pitiful moan, almost of pain, at the sight of your obscene submission.
You leave your fingers clean and bring your stained, smiling face closer to his cock, which is already going limp and ultra-sensitive.
“Very good,” you say, teasingly, playfully, sweet victory in your tone. “I think I still have a lot to clean up.”
And, without giving him time to react, you put the sensitive, red head of his cock in your mouth, surrounding it with your lips in a warm, wet circle, cleaning it.
P.S.: this was me while writing it 🫠🤤🫣 and yes, I’m proud haha.
JAN 04TH | WEEK FIVE | Sticky Frosting · Unresolved Tension · Kitchen Mess · Sweet Chaos · No Arguing Back · Clean It Now! Bob Reynolds |
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds x Aveger! Fem! Reader
Summary:Between the sugar of the cookies and unresolved tension, an argument over a messy kitchen turns into a battlefield where resentment and attraction finally explode. Bob won’t take no for an answer. And you’ve had enough. After all, there are far sweeter—and dirtier—ways to clean up a mess.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content | +18 | Porn With a Little Plot | Oral Sex (Male Receive ) | Rough / Angry Sex | Cum Play / Swallowing | Degradation a Little Bit | Face Fucking | Dirty Talk |
Word Count: 2,411
“Don’t you think that’s too much frosting?” Yelena watches you as you smear the heart-shaped cookie like your life depends on it.
“Lena… there’s never too much frosting,” you reply, piping a little more onto the cookie and sliding the loaded tray toward her.
She takes one, turns it between her fingers, examines it with a critical eye.
“You put effort into these,” she finally says, before taking a bite. “Oh God, they’re really good.”
“You know… it helps with the stress from the last mission.”
Yelena sighs.
“Ah. Him.”
You roll your eyes.
“Yes. Him.”
Bob and you have never exactly been friends. You talk when necessary, exchange brief greetings… and nothing more. And the last mission proved that. You were supposed to follow his orders. He wanted you to advance from the left. You knew the route was compromised. He insisted. You gave in, jaw clenched. That’s where the disaster began.
Mid-operation everything fell apart: an unexpected ambush, crossfire, a sniper no one saw coming. You weren’t where he expected you to be; he wasn’t watching where he should have. The shot went straight for your chest. For a fraction of a second, you saw the flash—the end.
And then he appeared.
Not Bob.
The other one.
The light that lives under his skin.
Sentry came down on you like a golden lightning strike, energy vibrating through the air, deflecting the bullet with a movement so fast you barely registered the impact hitting the ground. He looked at you with those ringed golden eyes—intense, almost offended—as if your very existence had been put at risk by human clumsiness. As if he were asking: Why didn’t you listen to him?
After that… well. Coordinating became impossible. Bob was tense, frustrated. You were even worse. Every order sounded like criticism. Every decision you made sounded like defiance. And every time his fingers curled into a fist, you felt the memory of that golden light that almost wrapped around you completely.
“Enough to get you stuck in the kitchen with therapeutic frosting,” Yelena says, biting off another corner of the cookie.
“Exactly,” you reply, grabbing another piping bag like it’s a weapon.
“Then keep going,” she says, leaning against the counter. “That fight with Bob isn’t going to resolve itself. But at least the cookies are good.”
“Of course they’re delicious,” you say. “The frosting turned out perfect—smooth, thick, with that exact balance of butter and sugar that melts the moment it touches your tongue. Sweet, but not overwhelming… just the way it should be.”
Yelena smiles at you, amused. She finishes her cookie without a hint of guilt and stands up. In her hands, at least five cookies are stacked neatly.
You follow her with your eyes, one eyebrow arching.
“Hey… where are you going?”
“I’m escaping before you get the brilliant idea to ask me to help clean all of this up,” she says, nodding toward the mess with her chin as she heads for the door.
You look around.
The counter is splattered with tiny drops of frosting—used bowls, sticky spoons, the piping bag dripping in the center. Flour in one corner. Powdered sugar in another. A dishcloth that has very clearly given up.
You watch her when she’s already standing in the doorway and say, smiling,
“Hey… it’s not that bad.”
You lie to yourself.
From the hallway, out of sight, Yelena lets out a laugh.
“Yeah… good luck with that, girl.”
...
“What the hell happened here?” Bob stands in the doorway, his broad silhouette blocking the hallway light. His voice is harsh, irritated—a cold blade slicing through the sticky calm you’d taken refuge in.
You turn halfway, still holding half a cookie in your hand, chewing slowly. You watch him as he scans the mess: bowls stacked with leftover dough, flour scattered everywhere, white icing dripping off the counter and drying into sweet puddles on the surface. His blue, icy eyes track every stain, every crumb, as if he were inspecting a crime scene. And you are clearly the culprit.
You swallow at last, the sweetness now cloying in your throat.
“What’s your fucking problem, Reynolds?” you snap back, your voice heavy with irritation you don’t bother to hide. That reproachful look—his silent judgment—sets you on fire from the inside.
“My fucking problem,” he replies, stepping further into the kitchen, his tone even lower now, the irritation thick in the air, “is that you made a damn mess in the kitchen I cleaned this very morning. You see this?” He gestures sharply at the whole place.
Anger floods you—hot and fast. You don’t like where this is going. You try to calm yourself, to breathe.
“I’m going to clean it. Fine. Just give me a few minutes,” you say, forcing a fake smile, lips stretched tight. Your shoulders stay tense.
But there’s something else in the air now… more than anger. It’s thick. Heated. Closing in around you both.
“A few minutes?” he says, stepping closer at last. His presence is a wall of heat and resolve, crushing. “No. You’re going to clean this. Now.” His voice is hard, controlled, barely contained. “And don’t think batting those lashes and putting that sweet smile on your pretty lips is going to get you out of it.”
His words, spoken in that commanding tone, make your blood boil. Heat rushes up your neck, igniting your cheeks.
“You know what, Reynolds?” you spit, your control slipping. “I was planning on cleaning it after eating my damn cookies.” You step into his space, defiant, invading him just as much as he’s invaded you. “But now… now I’m not doing it. Fuck you, Bobby.”
You spin on your heel, determined to leave, to abandon him mid-sentence. But before you can take a second step, his hand shoots out. It isn’t violent—but it’s unyielding. His fingers close firmly around your wrist, stopping you cold.
“What the hell is wrong with you, damn it, Bob! Let me go!” you struggle, furious, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“No,” he says, firm. With a sharp, precise tug, he pulls you toward him. You crash into his chest—solid as stone—the air knocked from your lungs in a soft oof. He looks down at you, his breath heavy against your forehead, then your cheekbones.
“Clean it.”
His breath brushes your lips. He’s so close you can see the faint flush of anger across his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something deeper than anger in his blue eyes. It’s an order.
You’re angry, yes. Furious. But also… overwhelmed. His presence looms over you—the heat of his body, the strength in his grip, the intensity of his gaze. Pure rage twists, tangles with something more primal. Something dangerous.
With the hand still holding your wrist and the other on your shoulder, he pulls you back. Your back hits the cold edge of the island counter. The contact makes you jump. A bowl with leftover frosting falls to the floor and shatters with a dull thud.
He doesn't seem to hear it. His gaze is fixed on yours.
“You're going to clean it up. Now,” he says, his voice now a hoarse whisper, laden with a threat that no longer has anything to do with scrubbing floors.
You open your mouth to spit out another insult, but no sound comes out. Your heart is beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your temples, in your throat, between your legs. The anger still burns, but it has transformed, merged with an electric, terrifying anticipation.
He interprets your silence, your trembling, your gaze fixed on his lips, as the only answer he needs.
In one fluid, brutal motion, he spins you around. Your hands land on the sticky surface of the counter, staining themselves with sugar and food coloring. Before you can react, he pushes you down.
“Do you want me to clean it, Bobby…?” you manage to say, trying to sound haughty, but it comes out as a faint whisper, drowned out by the ringing in your ears.
You slide off the bar onto the floor. The tiles are cold, unforgiving, against your knees. You look up at him from below, your breath coming in gasps. He unbuttons his pants with sharp, efficient movements, never taking his eyes off yours. There is no tenderness here. There is no request. It is the physical consequence of the tension that has been boiling between you since the mission, since the stray bullet, since every charged glance.
A muffled moan escapes you, filling the room. Your mouth is full of him, of his heat, of his weight, of a salty, clean taste that has nothing to do with the cloying sweetness of the frosting. His skin is taut, you can clearly feel his veins, thick and pronounced, throbbing hard against your tongue. He fills you, stretching the limits of your lips.
It's too much. Too big, too deep. Your hands reflexively cling to his thighs, anchoring themselves to his sweatpants. He lets out a guttural sound, a growl that vibrates from his chest and runs down your spine.
His hand buries itself in your hair, to hold you, to guide you. In a relentless rhythm that suffocates you, fills you, erases all thought except the raw, searing sensation of this happening. The taste of his skin, the salt of his sweat, his pure, masculine essence flood you, mingling with the sweet aftertaste of cookies and the bitterness of your own tears, now falling freely, splattering the floor mixed with crumbs and frosting.
Each thrust is an affirmation, a silent reminder of his strength, his authority, the line you crossed. You swallow, choke, cling on, and amid the dizzying sensations, a part of you, the very part that defied him, is loving this.
The sound is obscene in the silent kitchen, a ragged gasp, the wet rubbing, the slight crackling of his knuckles gripping the edge of the counter. He looks down, his deep blue eyes surrounded by a bright golden ring, fixed on the spectacle you offer, on your used mouth, on your tears, on the mess you have both created.
The air stops the moment you pull back, defying the rhythm he imposes. You remove his cock from your mouth with a wet, audible pop, holding it in your hand, throbbing and red-hot between you.
A string of saliva and precum connects his shiny tip to your swollen lips. You look him straight in the eye, without blinking, and run your tongue in a long, slow, deliberate lick along its length, from base to head. The taste is salty, sweet, addictive.
“Do you want to come in my mouth, Bob?” you ask, your voice hoarse from the effort, but laden with a poisonous sweetness. “To dirty my tongue.”
You tilt your head and kiss the dripping tip, a soft, obscene kiss, holding his gaze.
A violent tremor runs through his entire body. His abdominal muscles tense like ropes. He sees you, your used mouth, your bright eyes, the false submission. The sight takes his breath away and sets his blood boiling. His cock throbs hard in your hand, an urgent, primitive beat that betrays how close he is.
“Damn you…” he growls, but the word is drowned out by a gasp.
His reaction is instant and fierce. His hands fly to your head, burying his fingers in your hair in a firm grip, but one that conveys a desperate, almost pleading urgency.
It's no longer just control; it's need.
He pulls you back toward him, and this time you really choke when his length fills your throat in one deep thrust. He begins to thrust, a brutal rhythm abandoning any pretense of patience.
“Oh, yes…” he pants between thrusts, his voice broken with passion. “Swett girl… I'm going to come in your sweet mouth… I'm going to dirty you with my cum… on those pretty lips…”
His words excite you and you stop fighting him and take him. You close your eyes halfway, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the sound of his gasps, the smell of sex and frosting.
His orgasm hits like thunder. A long, guttural growl that seems to tear through his chest. You feel his whole body convulse, his fingers clutching your hair. Inside your mouth, his member throbs hard, and the first wave of cum, hot, thick, and salty, hits the back of your throat. You swallow instinctively, then for pleasure, receiving each hot jet with an eagerness that surprises even you. It is salty, bitter, deeply masculine.
When the spasms begin to subside, you open your eyes. You see him from the floor, his face contorted in agonizing ecstasy, his muscles still trembling.
You pull his cock out of your mouth with a final plop, but you don't let go. With your hand still wrapped around it, you begin to gently masturbate him, extracting the last drops of his cum, the last spasms of pleasure. They drip, not in powerful spurts now, but in thick, lazy strands that paint your skin. They fill your cheeks, drip down your chin, stain the top of your tits above your neckline. The sensation is warm, sticky, and marks you with him.
With his member now semi-hard and sensitive in your hand, you use your other hand. You collect some of his cum glistening on your chin with two fingers. You raise your hand slowly, maintaining his gaze, now dark, exhausted, and fascinated.
You smear your lips with it, opening your mouth slightly so he can see the glisten on them. Then you put your fingers in your mouth and suck them slowly, cleaning them completely, your eyes closed in a gesture of apparent delight. You pull them out clean.
“You taste so delicious, Bob,” you admit, drunk on his flavor, your tongue wiping a remnant from your lower lip.
He lets out a growl, but it turns into a pitiful moan, almost of pain, at the sight of your obscene submission.
You leave your fingers clean and bring your stained, smiling face closer to his cock, which is already going limp and ultra-sensitive.
“Very good,” you say, teasingly, playfully, sweet victory in your tone. “I think I still have a lot to clean up.”
And, without giving him time to react, you put the sensitive, red head of his cock in your mouth, surrounding it with your lips in a warm, wet circle, cleaning it.
P.S.: this was me while writing it 🫠🤤🫣 and yes, I’m proud haha.
