#mcu x reader

[ziaverse]

‘why do you read “various x reader stories?”’

first, i’m a narcissist and will not read it if it’s not about me

second, I love the feeling of people liking me

third, I was ignored as a child

[sceletaflores]

STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuity, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss. 

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, callused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breath is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounce tent in straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight of it, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides into your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass long gone as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up you body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the say. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[gay-dorito-dust]

bob: *stretching and his sweater rides up, showing off a little bit of his abs and v line*

you: i feel like a someone from the victorian ages seing a glimpse of an woman's ankle, holy shit-

bob: you say something?

you: i'm really am no better then a man.

bob: ???

[fireinmoonshot]

baby fever | johnny storm x reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader Summary: Seeing Johnny Storm playing with his nephew, Franklin, makes you realise just how much you want to have children with him. Warnings: Reader has the ability to fall pregnant and carry a child but I don't think I mention any specific pronouns, references to sex. Word Count: 2.5k A/N: Thank you all so much for the response on my first Johnny fic that I posted last week. I didn't expect it at all and I'm so grateful for that. I've been trying to write another one ever since but I just haven't had the motivation to write anything until I had this idea this afternoon and then somehow just managed to fire it out tonight! I'm so happy with how it turned out so I hope you all enjoy it and I promise there's more Johnny fics coming soon! 😊

The first time you saw your fiancé with his nephew, Franklin, you knew you were in trouble.

You’d seen him with babies before – people in New York had been, in the past, known to give Johnny their babies so he could kiss them. There was a trend at one point, where if your baby was kissed by Johnny Storm, they would grow up strong and well-liked. Johnny just liked it because it meant he got to kiss cute babies.

But seeing him with his nephew is different. You’re standing back stage at The Ted Gilbert Show, which the Fantastic Four are starring on again. Franklin is one year old and mischievous as ever, and clearly taking advantage of his uncle Johnny’s playfulness.

You watch as Johnny plucks Franklin out of Ben’s arms and swings him high up in the air. Franklin is giggling and you smile at the sight of it. He’s easily one of the cutest babies you’ve ever seen, and the fact that his smile is because of the love of your life makes it even sweeter. 

There has been plenty of talk about the future with you and Johnny, when one day you wanted to have children of your own. But saving the world and having children don’t go hand in hand, and you know Johnny is worried about it. He admires Sue and Reed for the way they’re able to handle parenthood alongside their jobs but a part of him wonders if he’ll ever be able to do something like that himself, no matter how much he wants a child of his own with you. He’s also just too afraid to change the dynamic of the team even further.

Sue comes up beside you. You don’t realise she’s there till she speaks. “If Franklin is sick on him after being thrown around like that, I really hope that someone around here is filming,” she hums, nudging your shoulder gently. There’s a smile on her face as she says it. “Though, I’m surprised Reed hasn’t stepped in and stopped this already. He’s been very protective lately.”

“For good reason,” you give Sue a look, as if she’d forgotten about the man last month who had attempted to tunnel underneath the Baxter Building to get inside – just to see the famous Franklin Richards in person. That hadn’t ended well for him. He was currently in a jail cell somewhere in the city, so far away you don’t even know where.

You turn back to look at Johnny as he swings Franklin around again and then pulls him in close to his chest. He presses a kiss to the top of the boys head and your heart melts a little in your chest. You don’t notice that you’re smiling until Sue pulls you up on it.

“What’s that smile for?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

“Hm?” You glance at her, not wanting to look away from Johnny for too long. You want to make sure you remember every moment of the way he’s playing with Franklin and how it makes you feel… warm and happy and… there’s longing, too. Longing to have a memory like this, but featuring your own child rather than Franklin. Longing that also features immense attraction to Johnny that makes you feel a certain type of way that Sue doesn’t need to know.

“The way you’re smiling at my brother and my son…”

Franklin is giggling again as Johnny holds him in the air and starts running around with him, making noises like he’s a plane, zooming through the air. 

“It’s just sweet, that’s all,” you shrug, crossing your arms over your chest. This is not the time to tell Sue that right now, what you really want to do is jump her brothers bones and have a child of your own with him. 

Sue looks at you for a moment, unconvinced, but then the staff are telling them there’s two minutes to show time and to get into their places and she’s being ushered to the stage by one of the assistants. 

You’re meant to be babysitting Franklin for this television appearance. Sue and Reed don’t mind showing him off from time to time, but they also want to keep things private and having Franklin on television with them always raises questions about him. Does he have powers? What are they? Is he going to join and make them change the name to the Fantastic Five, even though he’s barely even a year old? All questions none of them want to have to answer, especially on live television. You never mind when you have to look after Franklin anyway – he’s always an angel for you.

Johnny comes running over to you, still holding Franklin in the air and making plane noises. He comes to a halt in front of you, quite literally screeching to a stop, sound effect and all, and brings Franklin back down, resting him on his hip. Your heart beats a little quicker at the sight of how natural it looks on him, looking after a child.

“It’s time for your aunty to look after you now, kid,” he says to Franklin, who is already pre-occupied trying to pull out a chunk of Johnny’s hair. “Okay, ow. That hurts. Do you have super-human strength? Of course you do, you’re a magic baby. Duh.”

You smile and extend your arms to take Franklin off of him. He doesn’t have long till he needs to get up on stage to be ready for the program to start, but unsurprisingly, Johnny doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush. 

He kisses the top of Franklin’s head again as he passes him over to you, and then leans in and kisses your cheek. “Wish me luck?” He asks, lips quirked up into a small smile.

“You don’t need it, but you know you always have it.”

Johnny flashes you a grin as one of the staff starts counting down from 10 and then turns around, running back towards the stage and taking his place next to Reed. He catches your eye just before the countdown finishes and sends you a wink.

You stand side-stage and watch as the Fantastic Four do their interview with Ted Gilbert, answering questions from adoring fans in the audience. You sway side to side with Franklin, comfortably holding him as he rests his head on your shoulder and naps. 

Then, you hear an audience member direct a question to Johnny that makes your heart skip a beat. There are always questions from fans that they never expect, and personal questions are never unexpected, but this one takes you by surprise. 

“Johnny, we need to know. Have you started planning your wedding? Everyone is looking forward to seeing what sort of event it’ll be, and have you started thinking about another little member of the Fantastic Four joining the family?”

If you’d been drinking, you’re sure you would have choked on it, having heard someone mention the very thing you’d been thinking of only minutes earlier. It’s only natural that the public was going to start thinking about such a thing now that you were engaged and had been for a few months, but that didn’t mean that such a question was appropriate to ask.

You listen in carefully to hear Johnny’s answer. 

“No, no wedding planning yet,” he admits. “Honestly, we’re just trying to soak in the feeling of being engaged for a little bit. There’s no rush. Of course, we’d love a little one of our own, but we’re really just taking each day as it comes.”

The answer is so perfect it almost sounds rehearsed, but you know it’s not. For a man that you know is hesitant when it comes to both children and discussing his personal life with the public, you think he handled it rather well. Even though you could hear the strain in his voice that told you that it was the last question he wanted to be asked. 

Once the interview is over and they all exit the stage, Sue immediately comes over to you and carefully removes the sleeping Franklin from your shoulder. She thanks you for taking care of him as she and Reed head back stage to change out of their suits and get back into their clothes to head home. 

Johnny walks up to you, arms open wide and a grin on his face. “So, how’d I do?” 

“Hm, your public speaking could do with some work,” you shrug, trying to keep the smile off your face as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.

He rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re full of it, gorgeous.”

“Only full of love for you.”

Johnny laughs at that as you start to walk alongside him, one of his arms still wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on your hip as you all head back to the dressing room. 

“Did you watch the whole thing?” He asks, glancing over at you as you turn a corner.

“I did,” you confirm. “Franklin fell asleep on me though, so I’m afraid to say he didn’t see his heart-throb uncle answering all those questions from his die-hard fans. But there’ll still be time for you to teach him how to respond in a similar situation.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “So, you heard all the questions?”

You stop, turning to face him. His hand remains on your hip. “Yes, Johnny. I heard the question that lady asked about if we’ve been planning the wedding and if we’re going to have a baby.” You figure it’s better to just rip off the bandaid and confront the question that Johnny is so clearly trying to ask you without saying it. 

Johnny sighs and rests his other hand on your hip, tugging you a little closer to him. It makes the moment feel more private, as if you’re not in the middle of a crowded hallway of one of the biggest television shows in the country. 

“Did I say the right thing?” He asks, voice soft. “It felt so wrong to answer a question like that without you up there with me. I mean, it’s easy enough for me to say ‘Yeah, we’d love to have a kid’ when I’m not the one that has to carry and give birth to it. When it comes to conceiving a baby, my job is pretty easy. I’m not the one that has to grow it.”

You sigh and tug Johnny out of the main hallway and into a small, empty hall just off to the side. “Honey, I could hear in your voice how much you hated answering that question,” you admit. “But you said the right thing. You told them what they want to hear. They don’t need to know the ins and outs of our wedding planning or if we’re pregnant or not. But for future reference, I am more than happy to carry and give birth to our child.”

Johnny tightens his grip on your hips and swipes one of his thumbs back and forth, a comforting mechanism for both you and him. “Is this you telling me you’re ready?” He asks, eyebrows raised as he meets your eyes. You can see the apprehension in them.

“I know how you feel about having children, Johnny,” you start, “but I saw the way you were with Franklin earlier. You’re a great uncle to him, and I know you’d be a great father one day too. Even if it’s terrifying to try and be a father and a superhero at the same time.”

“Thank you, baby,” he hums, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. The words mean more to him than you realise, but he can’t help but focus on the second thing you said. “You were watching me and Franklin? I thought I saw you talking to my sister.”

You nod. “I was, but I was watching you at the same time.” You scrunch up your nose as you think of the way Johnny had looked, playing with his nephew, and the way it’d made you feel. “I always find you attractive, Johnny Storm, but seeing you playing with Franklin… honestly, it’s one of the times I’ve found you most attractive.”

 The cocky smile that appears on his face almost makes you regret your words, until he re-adjusts his grip on your hips and tugs you closer to him so your chest is pressed up against his and your lips are only inches away from his. 

“You think me playing with my nephew is attractive, huh?” He smirks.

“Oh, get that look off your face, Johnny,” you huff out a laugh, trying to play it cool even though you’re pretty sure your heart-rate has skyrocketed and it’s taking every ounce of self control to not throw yourself at your fiancé right now in this deserted hallway.

He leans in and brushes his lips over yours for only a second before he mutters a few words that make you feel weak at the knees. “Maybe we should head home and get to work on creating a little one of our own, then.” 

You’re fighting to hold onto the last bits of restraint when his lips meet yours. His arms wrap around your back, holding you close to him as he kisses you, your breathing heavy already. It’s when one of his hands starts to drift a little too low that you remember where you are and, regretfully, pull away from the kiss.

You press your hands against Johnny’s chest to push yourself away from him and give the two of you some distance. Laughing, you shake your head. “Johnny Storm, what the hell was that?”

He leans back against the wall behind him and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s me saying that I’m ready if you are, babe.” He says it casually, as if they’re not words that set your heart on fire and make you feel like you’re on cloud 9. 

You open your mouth and then close it again. “You can’t– you can’t just say that!”

“And why not?” Johnny tilts his head to the side, that stupid smile still on his lips.

“Well… we’re in public!”

“Baby,” he says, standing up off the wall and walking over to you. “I just told the entire country that one day, we wanna have sex and make babies together and you think that someone overhearing us in the back corridors of The Ted Gilbert Show is a big deal?”

You gasp, trying not to laugh, and lunge towards him, putting a hand over his mouth to shut him up. The man doesn’t have an inside voice most of the time and even though he’s right and he had essentially just told everyone that on live television, you don’t want someone to overhear you and make things awkward the next time the Fantastic Four is asked back. 

You can feel him smiling underneath your hand as he reaches up and takes your wrist gently, removing your hand from his mouth. 

“Shall we go home?” He asks, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his face.

“Yes,” you murmur, “but no funny business.”

Johnny chuckles, manoeuvring his hold on your wrist so he can take your hand instead. “Of course not,” he agrees. “Not until we’re safely back in our bedroom with the door locked.” 

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I'M GONNA BE A DAD?!l! || Johnny Storm ||

A/n: first part here

This is Part 2. Where Johnny finds out he's gonna be a dad!

The rotary phone on the counter rang just as you were pouring yourself a cup of tea in the Baxter Building’s communal kitchen. You jumped, startled, nearly spilling hot water down your wrist.

“Hello?” you answered, slightly breathless.

“Miss [Y/L/N]?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Dr. Lynn from New York General. I’m calling with your results.”

You felt your stomach twist.

She paused delicately before continuing, “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

The words hit like a comet. You blinked at the wall, unmoving. Pregnant. With Johnny Storm’s baby. Suddenly the room felt both too quiet and impossibly loud.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice tight with emotion. “Thank you, Doctor.”

You hung up slowly. The phone clicked back into place. And then—

“[Y/N]?” came Johnny’s voice from the hallway. “Hey, Reed said you were down here—”

He paused at the doorway, glancing at your face.

Something in you cracked. “Johnny,” you said, barely above a whisper, “I just got a call from the doctor.”

He tilted his head, smile fading slightly, eyes flickering with concern. “What’s wrong?”

You swallowed. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

And then it happened.

WHOOSH!

Johnny flamed on so fast that he scorched the doorframe. The light from his ignited body bounced off the polished tile, casting flickering orange shadows against the cabinets. Somewhere upstairs, you heard Sue yell, “JOHNNY, NOT INDOORS!”

But he couldn’t help it.

“I’M GONNA BE A DAD?!” he practically shouted, laughing with disbelief. “NO WAY—REALLY?!”

You were halfway between laughing and crying. “Johnny, could you not burn down Reed’s kitchen?!”

He zoomed in a quick circle, trailing flames before extinguishing mid-spin, landing in front of you with a wide, boyish grin and hair still crackling with heat.

“You’re serious? You’re sure?” he asked, gently taking your hands, eyes darting to your stomach, then back to your face like he couldn’t decide where to look.

You nodded. “Doctor Lynn confirmed it.”

Johnny blew out a breath, then laughed again—loud and joyful. “Holy smokes—no pun intended—I’m gonna be a dad! We’re gonna be parents!”

He kissed you—twice—then suddenly turned on his heel.

“I gotta tell Ben. No—Sue. No, wait—Reed needs to design a stroller that’s flameproof! And a bottle warmer that works at 3000°F—”

“Johnny!” you called, grabbing his arm before he could dart off. “Take a second. Breathe.”

He looked at you, lit up in every possible way.

You reached up, brushing a stray spark from his hair. “We’ve got time. Let’s enjoy the moment.”

He grinned and leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “This kid’s gonna have the coolest parents on the planet.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Coolest? I thought we were the hottest.”

Johnny smirked. “Touché.”

“Ben!” Johnny bellowed as he sprinted down the hallway of the Baxter Building.

You followed behind, slightly slower, still holding your stomach like that would somehow calm the butterflies. And the nausea. And the surreal reality that your child was now part of this gloriously chaotic world.

Ben Grimm peeked his head out of the lab door with a thick book in one hand. “What? You finally figured out how to fix your hair with science?”

“I’m gonna be a dad!” Johnny practically sang, grabbing the Thing’s massive rocky shoulders and shaking him with the force of a wildfire.

Ben’s book hit the floor.

“You—what?!”

Sue Storm popped out next, wearing her mid-century chic pencil skirt and a lab coat. “Johnny, I swear, if this is another prank—”

“No prank!” he beamed. “She’s pregnant! By me!She just found out. Doctor called her this morning!”

Reed poked his head around the corner, raising a brow, his neck stretching just slightly. “Fascinating… I did detect elevated hormonal shifts yesterday. I should’ve said something.”

You blinked. “You what now?”

Johnny waved him off. “Let’s skip the science breakdown and go back to the part where I’m gonna be a dad! ME! Johnny Storm! The Human Dad.”

Ben looked between the two of you, then broke into a wide, proud smile. Ignoring the fact that Johnny called himself the Human Dad.

“Congrats, kid,” he rumbled, slapping Johnny’s back so hard he nearly went flying.

Sue’s face softened as she turned to you, taking your hands. “Are you okay? Morning sickness? Do you need anything? Ginger ale? A dark room? A spa weekend?”

You smiled, touched. “Mostly I just need time to breathe. But we’re happy. A little shocked, but… really happy.”

Reed had already scribbled something on a nearby notepad. “I’ll start drafting some protective gear for the baby—flame-retardant fabrics, formula bottle insulation… perhaps a rattle that absorbs kinetic energy—”

“Reed,” Sue cut in gently. “Let her finish a trimester first.”

Johnny grinned and wrapped his arm around you. “You hear that, little flame?” he whispered down to your belly. “You’ve already got a super-team in your corner.”

Later that evening…

You caught Johnny in the living room, tongue between his teeth in concentration, knitting needles in his hand.

Or trying to.

“…Are you knitting?”

“I’m attempting to knit,” he muttered. “Sue said it would be meaningful. And relaxing. It’s neither.”

You peered over his shoulder and saw… well, what might have been a baby sock. Or a potholder. Or a… vaguely crunchy ball of yarn that had clearly been singed at least twice.

“Did you burn it?”

He scowled. “No. It got enthusiastically warm.”

You laughed, sliding onto the couch beside him. “It’s perfect. Our baby’s gonna have the only flameproof booties in New York.”

Johnny leaned over, kissed your cheek, and murmured, “I can’t wait to meet them.”

Your heart melted. “Me neither, firebug.”

He beamed.

And you thought—yeah. Chaos or not, this was the start of something truly fantastic.

[rottingpink]

cw. porn with no plot.

yes, the idea of reader getting used as a fleshlight is fantastic, but what about reader using him as a dildo? not worried about his pleasure. you're only fucking him because he's a loser with a huge cock.

you're stuffing your panties (lacy, soaked through, reeking of your perfect pussy) into his face in a failed attempt to stifle his loud, unabashed moans. he definitely hasn't been fucked before, if so, not like this. due to his inexperience, he's probably came way too many times already inside you, and so you're bouncing on his fat, slimy cock with cum sloshing inside you and leaking with every bounce onto his pelvis.

"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.

his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.

"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.

"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.

"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."

your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.

you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.

"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.

he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.

[lizthereader]

I'M IM LOVE 🤩🤩

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

[vinamari]

How it feels going to bed after reading some words

It was angst

[sleepdeprivedfrfr]

im not in love

ex-situationship!bucky x reader

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: minor thunderbolts spoilers? tower fic, exsituationship/relationship!bucky?? reader is an old friend of Natasha and Yelena. mutual pining. bit of a toxic relationship (if you'll even call it that). smut, fingering, p in v. dacryphillia. a splash of angst. oneshot? not proofread. MDNI. NSFW!

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: After your final mission for Valentina ended in you helping the so called 'new avengers' defeat the Void, you've been spending your days in the Avengers tower with the rest of the crew.

𝐚/𝐧: this has been in the drafts since may and I needed to get it out desperately. now ik why I js stick to drabbles lmfao. I also used google translate for the Russian so please correct me if I am wrong!!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.8k

"What is it?"

Yelena's voice snapped you out of your thoughts as you redirected your focus from the window that displayed an illuminating view of the city lights, back to the couch where Yelena and Bob were talking about having a group movie night.

"What?" Him. It's always him.

You noticed the slight raise in her brows before she spoke, "You've been staring at that window for the past ten minutes. Am I boring you or something?" Bob gulped and silently watched the conversation between you and Yelena unfold.

"I was?" God you've only been living in the tower for not even a month and you feel like you're already losing your fucking mind. I mean how could you not? Especially when you were constantly running into him in the kitchen, exchanging awkward glances, and blatantly avoiding each other after each awkward exchange.

Yelena let out an exasperated sigh before starting again, "You know you two should just talk to each other and stop making it awkward for the rest of us. Seriously, it's painful to see how desperate you two are for each other."

You scoffed and crossed your arms in front of you, " 'Lena I have no idea what you're talking about."

She glanced at Bob—who was already looking her way— and let out a hearty laugh. You sat with a blank expression, until Bob joined in and began to stifle a laugh as well. It was uncanny how similar she was to Alexi, you always thought about how absurd it was that they aren't actually related.

Yelena wiped fake tears from her eyes as her laughter died down, "Oh milaya (sweetheart) you are so funny. You know that everyone else sees it too, right? I mean you're both moping around the tower," the sarcasm somehow making her accent more prominent.

Your eyes widened and you tried your best to remain as composed as possible , "I am not moping."

"Oh you so are," She nudged bob who was sitting next to her with a no-so-secret smile on his face, "Bob isn't she moping?"

You cocked a brow at Bob while waiting for his reply. The sudden shift in attention to him suddenly made him nervous, you could see the shoulders stiffen and the hesitant look in his eyes before he began to answer. Bob looked at Yelena before beginning to slightly nod his head, "I think you might slightly be uhm, moping... just a little."

You stood up from the couch across Yelena and Bob and walked to the bar, "Wow. You guys are delusional."

Yelena watched as you began to pour water into a glass and take a sip, "So you're telling me that you think you've been acting completely normal while living with your ex-boyfriend for the past three weeks?"

-

"So what are we?" You gazed up into his deep blue eyes, never failing to notice the way they softened whenever they stared back into yours.

Bucky looked down at you, his right hand caressing your cheek as his lips hovered over yours, "What ever you want us to be. I'll be whatever you want me to be, as long as it means I get to be with you, love."

liar.

-

You choked on the water and wiped your mouth as the memory played back in your head, "He was never my boyfriend."

"Okay ex—whatever he was—he still has that look in his eyes whenever you pass by. Not to mention he is so unbelievably grumpy when you aren't around."

That made you look up from you glass, "Look? What look?"

Yelena groaned and threw her head back on the couch causing blonde strands to fall against her face, "When my sister said the relationship between you two was confusing, she wasn't lying."

You sighed and chugged the glass of water.

Yelena played with the over grown strands of blonde that covered her face and looked over to Bob, whose hair had also grown out quite a bit in the past few weeks. "You know I think it's time for me to get a trim, what about you Bob?"

"Uh, yeah I guess my hair has gotten pretty long." He said quietly while moving the brown strands out of his eyes.

You set your glass down and let out a breathy laugh, already knowing what Yelena was getting at. "If that's your way of asking me to give you two a haircut then the answer is yes."

Yelena smirked and nudged Bob before standing up to follow you into the bathroom.

"W-wait right now? It's almost one in the morning." Bob whispered.

You snorted and nodded as you all headed to the common room bathroom.

It was almost two in the morning and the three of you couldn't stop laughing as you played with Bob's hair and giving him wild hair cut ideas. You had already finished trimming Yelena's hair and you were almost finished with Bob's hair as you all giggled and joked around, until a harsh knock on the bathroom door brought the three of you to silence.

Bob looked up to you and Yelena from the chair you guys had placed in the bathroom, Yelena shrugged and walked over to the door as your ran your hands through Bob's hair and adjusting his new hair style.

The door creaked open revealing a grumpy looking Bucky in a black tank top and black sweatpants. His metal arm and biceps on full display. "What the hell are you guys doing at this hour—" Bucky cut himself off after looking past Yelena and locking eyes with you.

And your hands.

In Bob's hair.

A moment of silence went by. Bob gulped and Yelena turned to look at you then back to Bucky before she spoke, "Uhh can we help you?"

Bucky blinked and brought his attention back down to Yelena while he cleared his throat, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat as he did, "Just— uh, keep it down, it's late."

Yelena turned and looked at you with a smirk.

Oh no.

Oh god no.

You stared at Yelena, pleading for her to not do whatever the fuck she had planned.

"Actually— we were just finishing up in here, me and Bob had a haircut that was long overdue. You should get one too, I mean we do have the best hairstylist in here so."

Fuck you Yelena.

Bucky's expression shifted the slightest bit, most wouldn't be able to catch the way his eyes slightly widened, but you did. "That's... that's okay I just—"

"No really, me and Bob were just leaving." Yelena cut the tall and brooding man off and turned to face You and Bob shooting you a wink, "C'mon Bob!"

Bob shot you a remorseful look as he followed Yelena, "Thank you for the haircut!" He shouted his thank you followed by your name before him and Yelena disappeared in the darkness of the hallway.

Leaving you and Bucky.

Alone.

He stood in the doorway awkwardly and stared at the empty chair beside you before stepping into the bathroom.

"Still awake enough to give me a trim?" He shot you a small smile, the same charming smile that he always gave you when you used to cut his hair in this same bathroom years ago.

You stood there in a daze like an idiot before nodding your head and returning his smile.

Bucky walked the rest of the way over to you and sat in the chair, you felt his eyes staring holes into your back as you rinsed the comb and shears in the sink. You cleared your throat before breaking the unbearably awkward silence,

"Sorry if we woke you."

"Don't worry about it, couldn't sleep anyway."

You turned around to face him, a small pout on your lips that didn't go unnoticed by him. Nothing you did ever went unnoticed by him.

"Still having those nightmares?"

Bucky nodded slowly, watching your eyebrows furrow and a small frown form on your lips as he did.

"You still worrying about me doll?"

That earned him an eye roll from you, "In your dreams metal man."

He huffed out a laugh and carefully watched your reflection in the mirror while you sectioned off his thick hair.

It was quiet again, you focused on nothing but his overgrown mop head. Bucky noticed the way you refused to look in the mirror, not wanting to risk the chance of accidentally meeting his gaze.

"You and bob a thing?"

Of course that was the first thing he would ask. Nosy fuck.

"Does that bother you?"

"So you are?"

"No."

You sighed as his shoulders began to visibly relax after your response, you remained unfazed by his bombardment of questions into your personal life.

"All done."

Bucky watched you in the mirror as you hurriedly cleaned the hair off the floor. Your movements were urgent, like you couldn't breathe with his presence in the room.

"Wait."

Bucky didn't dare to touch you, yet he still reached out towards you before your hand twisted the doorknob, he couldn't waste an opportunity like this.

You faced him, an annoyed look on your face. He knew it was fake. All of it was. The shared glances that you pretended didn't faze you, the unbothered act you put on when you two were partnered up for a mission, or how you acted like his mere presence didn't make the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

He was closer now. Like he was scared of the space between you becoming too great, which frankly, was the least of his problems.

Your eyes met his, awaiting his response. What could he possibly have left to say?

"I— I'm sorry."

You laughed. Like a genuine laugh. The same laugh you always let out when you watched those ridiculous rom-coms. The kind of laugh Bucky would kill to hear again.

Not like this though. This wasn't the same.

"Is that all you have to say Congressman Barnes?" You turned around again to leave, but you were stopped by hand grabbing your wrist gently, like if he gripped you to hard, everything would shatter again.

"I—fuck—please just hear me out." You were against the door now, your eyes staring up into his.

"I know you a shitty apology is the last thing you want to hear, but I mean it. I know it won't fix shit but... it's worth a shot. I'm sorry for everything. For leaving. For wasting your time. For making you think I was ready for a relationship, but I am now. I swear. I get it if you want nothing to do with me, but please, just hear me out."

"Bucky—"

"I can't sleep at night without you next to me. I went to therapy for the nightmares, did all the stupid shit the lady told me. I got better, the nightmares went away for the most part, but now every time I close my eyes I see you."

His voice began to crack, you could see the hurt in his eyes.

"I see the tears in your eyes, the smile on your face, the way you kissed me like I could never do wrong. You knew I wouldn't come back, you knew how much of a coward I was, didn't you?"

Your eyes were glossed over now, before the tears spilled over you put cupped Bucky's face into your hand, your lips smashing onto his.

His hands found their way onto your hips, pushing you up against the door. Your hands slid up his tank top, your fingers running up and down his abdomen. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he pulled you up to straddle his waist before setting you onto the kitchen sink, not daring to break the kiss.

You pulled at his tank top, signaling for him to take it off. Bucky groaned between kisses before he pulled away out of breath,

"Are you sure you—"

"Hurry up and fuck me James."

Bucky smiled at that and wasted no time taking off his shirt, his hands slid down to your little pj shorts you had on before he slid them off, leaving you in your underwear. He slid his right hand over your clothed clit that was soaking through the fabric.

His lips were latched back onto yours as he moved your panties aside, and gently rubbed your clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips as you kissed him hungrily. His fingers were covered in your slick as he broke from the kiss and moved down to where you sat on the sink.

He slid your panties off completely, discarding them to the side, you put your legs over his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair as his head dove in between your thighs. Two of his fingers pumped into your cunt as he sucked on the nub of your clit, the vibrations of his groans making you whimper and bit your lip.

"Fuck I missed you so much pretty girl. Still as sweet as ever." Bucky breathed out against your pussy, sending shivers down your spine.

His tongue worked eagerly at your clit, he licked up your juices as if he'd been starving for days.

"F—fuck, James 'm gonna—" You moaned out as your thighs tightened around his head. His hands gripped onto them, keeping them there.

He could actually die like this. Wouldn't even be mad.

"Go ahead baby, come all over my face."

Bucky ate you out through your climax, groaning each time you tugged onto his hair.

"Holy shit." He beamed up at you, his stubbled covered in your juices,

"You taste just as good as I remember."

You rolled your eyes playfully, as he stood up and kissed you again, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. You pulled at his pants and he took them off with no hesitation, while his lips remained on yours. You palmed his length through his boxers, pre-cum seeping through the fabric.

Sliding his boxers off, Bucky pumped his length before pulling toward the edge of the sink. He teased the head of his cock down your slick folds, before slowly inserting himself into your cunt.

He let out a groan, followed by a mumbled string of words about how much he missed you.

"Oh my god, yer' s'fuckin tight."

You let out a soft cry, before wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulled you in close.

"J-james—ah— go s-slow please."

He wiped away the tears on your cheeks before kissing your forehead, "I will. Just tell me if you need me to stop, okay baby?"

You nodded and locked your legs around his hips while peppering his jaw with kisses. Bucky slowly thrusted up into you, his head thrown back in pleasure,

"Atta fuckin' girl. You take me s'fuckin well. Ain't that right pretty girl?"

You bit down on your swollen bottom lip, and nodded.

Bucky thrusted up into you, increasing his speed with each thrust, causing cries of pleasure to escape your lips while you to scratched at his back.

Bucky grabbed at your tits, squeezing them in his right hand before taking one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over your nipple.

The pace in his thrusts increased, never stopping nor slowing, his stamina was a high as ever. You let out a moan at the cold feeling of his metal fingers flicking your clit.

"J-james m'so close."

Bucky trailed kisses from your tits all the way to your neck, leaving marks and love bites along the way.

"I know baby, I know. Can feel ya'squeezin me—fuck!"

Buckys thrust were faster and rougher now as he sucked onto your neck,

"Cum on my cock pretty girl. Please. I need it. Need t'feel you." Bucky groaned out between thrusts.

Your nails scratched at his back as you both came to your climax. Out of breath, Bucky stared down at you with a boyish grin, leaning down he gave you a peck on the lips and carried you to the shower.

-

After a long hot shower that contained of sweet nothings from Bucky, as the two of you cleaned each others bodies, you walked out and wrapped yourself in a towel. Bucky following you.

You cleaned the steamy mirror and examined the marks that were scattered along your breast and neck, Bucky walked up behind you, towel criminally low on his waist.

"Missed seeing you like this." He wrapped his arms around your toweled body. "I missed you."

You turned around and smirked back at him,

"Good."

Bucky lifted a brow at you before snorting out a laugh, "What's that supposed to mean hm?"

You leaned up and gave him one last peck on the lips,

"It means you'll finally get to know how I felt."

Bucky shot you a confused look, before watching you slip out of his hold, and walking out of the steamy bathroom that now felt frigid.

Leaving him this time.

this is so out of my element LMAO. please lmk if you enjoyed y'all! yes this is based on the song ik its cliche leave me alone.

[musingsofheaven]

THREE THINGS

summary: You hate three things: Johnny Storm, Lucky Charms’ Human Torch Special Edition Cereal, and motion sickness. Unfortunately, you’re stuck in space with the three so try your best not to puke, not to punch him, and definitely not to fuck him. You’re failing at all three.

pairings: johnny storm x engineer!reader

warning: 8.3k words. mature themes. unprotected p-in-v. internal ejaculation. dry humping. d/s dynamic. (light) claustrophobic space. space sex. exhibitionism implication. power imbalance. read responsibly.

note: this one’s for my friends… ! @burymenot and @coffinkissd who helped me build the plot because we are thirsting over johnny. i fear we ate. <3 hope you enjoyed it and reblog if you so !

Johnny Storm loves three things in this world. Women. Space. Sex.

It is not always in that order, but it is close enough. People can always catch him flirting with women, it’s like he’s not picking a date and time. As long as you got his attention? He will charm you. And space, yeah, he loves it for a thrill. Maybe for attention too. He likes the way his stomach flips. He also likes the adrenaline in his system when he’s in the air. Oh, don’t forget when people cheer for him because his grin is so big when he’s witnessing that. And sex? Well, that’s his favorite hobby, if you can call it a hobby when he makes it sound like a public service.

Meanwhile, you hate three things. For starters, Johnny himself, with his cocky grin and the way he tips his head when he thinks he’s charming. Then there’s his cereal. The kind of cereal with marshmallows shaped like little fireballs and his face plastered across the box. He always leaves sugary crumbs all over the counters in the lab. You hate how he always leaves the box open, like it’s waiting for him to come back for another handful. And third, motion sickness. The kind that churns in your gut and makes you want to vomit or shake.

They picked you as a trainee engineer for this mission. A fresh assistant for the Fantastic Four. Reed said you were the top candidate. Sue was excited to have another woman on board. Ben just gave you a gruff nod of approval. Johnny? Johnny has the biggest smile like he won the lottery while leaning against the doorway in his suit. His hair is brushed clean and his eyes are glinting like he knows something you don’t. He must think he’s smooth when he gazes down at your body slowly and lazily sweeps before he throws a wink in your way.

You wanted to throw your knuckles in his face and it also didn’t help that you caught him laughing with other assistant candidates in the hall. It’s always the same grin he throws at women and he has that plastered to his face right now while giving them false promises about taking them to fly sometime. The thing is, it’s also the same shit he told you about you days ago in the cafeteria when you spilled your coffee on your shirt. The way he looks at you during training didn’t also help. It’s like he was waiting for you to mess up so he could enter and make a joke out of it.

What's way worse is when your little overthinking brain starts to wonder if he is only annoying… or noticing you because you were the one who got picked for this mission. Because it’s you who are standing next to him now. You are the one who is strapping yourself into the seat next to him. The one who is holding your breath while the engine is ready for its function and you can feel it under your boots. You feel you’re in some kind of game you didn’t agree to play because of the way he looks, how his fingers brush against you, or the way he says his stupid joke that makes your lips curl up even if you don’t want to.

You hated that too because it’s one thing to stand next to Johnny Storm on Earth while fighting the urge to roll your eyes every time he winks. It’s another to sit shoulder to shoulder when the shuttle left the earth. You can already feel your stomach crawling from there up to your throat. The warmth that sneaking around your neck and sweat beads are already forming under your collar. It’s sticking to the fabric while you are clamping the straps so hard that you feel your knuckles shaking. His low hum of excitement doesn’t help, fingers drumming a beat only he hears.

The shuttle tilts into that first dizzy climb, and a hot and sour wave rolls in your gut. Closing your eyes doesn’t help. The air is thick with plastic and metal. A small groan slips before you can swallow it back. “Aw, don’t puke yet,” Johnny says, leaning closer. His warm breath ghosts across your cheek. “We’re barely at the fun part.” Your glare snaps toward him, but your stomach flips again while forcing your mouth shut as you swallow hard.

When the engines ease, your forehead presses to the cool seat. Breathing slowly helps, but nausea still hangs heavy that pulling another groan from your lips. A rustle drags your eyes open, and Johnny’s smirk greets you like the world’s worst sunrise. “Got you something,” he says, tone bright with that fake sweetness he uses when he’s about to be annoying. A cereal box drops in your lap. Not just any box, but one with his face printed beside a cartoon of him flying with texts saying ‘Get your free Johnny Storm figure inside!’

You can see the bright letters label of Lucky Charms Cereal. There’s also a cheap figurine picture placed on top, its head too big, hair bright yellow and spiky in a tiny blue uniform. He presses the figurine he’s already holding, and a tinny voice echoes, “FLAME ON!” You blink. The figurine’s grin matches his. “Bitchass,” you mutter, pushing the box back toward him with a shaky hand. “What is this?” Johnny waves the cereal closer, ignoring your glare. “A welcome gift,” he says with eyes wide, and a grin stretching. “I heard sugar helps with motion sickness.”

A hand slaps over your face as another groan pushes out as you feel half nausea, and half exasperation. You peek through your fingers just to see if he’s already walked away but you catch him hovering and shaking the box so marshmallows rattle. “You’re unbelievable,” you said while your voice clearly sounded annoyed. He just shrugged lazily and brought the figurine into your face before tilting it so you could see it more. Once he makes sure it’s close enough, he presses the button so it yells “FLAME ON!” in your ear. You nearly choke on a laugh, pressing your lips tight, but they curl up anyway.

Your stomach flips for a different reason when you catch him watching with a grin softening before snapping back bright and smug. “Eat your cereal, rookie,” he says, dropping it back into your lap. “Captain’s orders.” When the cereal stops rattling, you think the worst is over. You survived launch without puking on his boots, and he leaves you alone while Reed walks you through cabin checks. Sugar sits heavy in your stomach, at least giving you something to focus on besides the engine hum.

A small hope sparks that you’ll get a moment to breathe without Johnny in your space. That hope dies fast when Sue finishes crew assignments, tapping her tablet with a small, apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, we’re tight on sleeping quarters for this mission,” she says, and unfortunately already sounds like a death sentence. Tension curls in your shoulders as your gaze skips over the narrow bunks. A tiny piece of you praying Johnny’s is on the other side of the shuttle.

Sue’s finger slides down the screen, eyes flicking to Johnny, who’s lounging near the wall, arms crossed, grin lazy, boots kicked out like he owns the air. “You’ll be bunking with Johnny,” she says. Silence slams so hard your brain takes a second to catch up. Johnny’s eyebrows shoot up, that grin widening like someone handed him a medal. “Hell no,” you blurt. Sue’s smile tightens. “Space limitations. We need you in Engineering and him in Pilot standby. It’s easier if you two are near each other.”

Your jaw hangs open, but Johnny beats you to a response, pushing off the wall with a clap of his hands that makes you flinch. “Sweet. I don’t snore.” You hate the way he says it like it’s going to fix everything. You hate the way his eyes glint while looking at you. “Usually.” Heat travels up to your neck and the irritation prickles under your skin. A small sputter leaves your lips, but you clamp them shut before saying something that’ll get you launched back to Earth without a parachute. He leans to you so close that you can smell the faint scent of his soap before he throws a wink at you. “Guess we’re roommates now, rookie.”

The rooms are small. Maybe it’s just two outstretched arms wide and two narrow bunks are touching the walls. A very tiny round window to see the view and enough floor for you to stand. The ceiling is low enough for you but not tall enough for Johnny so he has to duck. Of course, he already does it. He’s even laughing as he drops his duffel on the lower bunk… Asshole. Claiming it without talking to you, but you can’t fight much about it because what if he toasts you? Or your things. No, thanks. Your stomach sinks while the cereal box is tucked under your arm as you hover in the doorway. You look like you’re praying for Sue to come back and tell you it’s a mistake.

Reed’s voice echoed over the comms and Reed being Reed, he’s listing the safety protocols while Sue’s laughter can be heard in the background. Johnny peeks to look at you with his brow arching as he sprawls across the lower bunk. It looks small to him because it takes every inch of the space with his legs being long and his shoulders just fitting right in. His hand is patting the mattress beside him if he wants you to lie down and cuddle him. “This is the worst,” you say with a voice that sounds annoyed, and stepping inside so the door slides shut. His grin spreads slowly, pushing into that dimple as he props an arm behind his head. “Aw, come on. It’s not like we haven’t been close before.”

Your jaw clenches while you set the cereal on the shelf while ignoring the figurine beside it that he gave you. The room smells like metal and the hint of the shampoo he used before the launch. Also, the sweet smell of sugar is clinging to his clothes because his clumsy ass spilled half of the cereal on his body earlier. By just looking at the bunk above him already earned a groan. It’s narrow and cramped. The ladder wobbles a little when you test it. The launch still feels heavy in your body, and nausea curls in your gut while the world spins a little.

“Why can’t I be with Sue?” you mutter, hauling yourself up onto the top bunk with a thump that rattles the thin mattress. Johnny’s laugh follows, warm and smug, as you flop down and stare at the metal ceiling. Below, boots scrape the floor while the mattress creaks as he unpacks, humming under his breath. “Because, rookie,” he says, voice drifting up, “you’re lucky enough to get the Johnny Storm experience.” The urge to throw the cereal box at his head is strong, but your arm feels too heavy, your stomach uneasy, and your eyes slipping shut as you press your hand over your mouth.

Rustling sounds below. It’s probably him grinning while waiting for you to lean over and glare. “Don’t worry,” he says, softer, words pulling your eyes open as the shuttle hums, “You won’t even realize I’m here.” Another groan crawls out as your arm drops over your eyes. You’re swallowing down a roll of nausea while his laughter drifts up, the cereal box rattling on the shelf, and that stupid figurine’s head that makes you pissed. And just that’s the start because you don’t know how funny a routine builds in space. Mornings mean protein bars and Johnny bragging about only needing five hours of sleep. Afternoons pass with you elbow-deep in wires while he hovers, tossing marshmallows in his mouth, talking too much while you work. Nights end with him flopping onto his bunk, smirking up at you while you pretend he’s not there.

After dinner, Reed reads updates while Sue flicks peas across the table at Johnny, who pretends to catch them in his mouth, while Ben rumbles about wasting food. Zero gravity training comes up again and Johnny swears he can handle it. He even calls himself the “human torch and human rocket” so floating should be easy. He says it with a grin that makes you want to call him an idiot with your foot knocking your boot under the table. Sue rolls her eyes, telling Reed to let everyone have one night of fun. Ben mutters that if you want a good way to bruise a rib then zero gravity sounds fun, but he doesn’t say no. Although you can tell he’s not loving the idea very much. Reed sighs because Johnny won’t stop listing reasons why it should be turned off. You’re sure that Reed only flipped the switch off for Johnny to shut up. Gravity slips out like someone pulls the floor away from you.

The air changes and whooshes in your ear while your body drifts and floats. Your hair is messy, and some of it is going in front of your face while your stomach churns. It feels fizzy in a way that makes you giggle before you catch yourself you just did that. Johnny whoops funnily and pushes off the wall with one foot like he’s in a game. His arms spread while he spins around as if he’s a kid. One of Johnny’s open cereals is now scattered around, and a marshmallow drifts near your face before you swat it away. You grab the rail as your feet lift while knees curl as you tumble softly. At first, it feels like a dream because you are just floating around and fulfilling some kid’s dream and you move like you’re swimming in the air. You push off one wall to drift toward the opposite you. Carelessly bumping into Johnny’s shoulder when he cuts across your path. His laugh vibrates in your ear as he grabs a cabinet edge, curls floating around his head. “Watch it, rookie,” he says. He’s smirking widely as his legs tangling with yours before you both push off, spinning in opposite directions.

“You’re the one in the way,” you fire back, flipping before your elbow thumps against the wall that sends you drifting. Hours pass while you float, push off walls, and try to drink water from a bubble that nearly ends up in Johnny’s nose because he won’t stop making you laugh. Your stomach finally settles. Your body feels light. Air tasted faintly of metal and the sweet scent of cereal stuck in Johnny’s pocket. Floating is fun for exactly twenty minutes. But when it’s time to sleep, the fun dies fast. Your bunk is useless without gravity, the mattress doing nothing but thankfully it’s strapped there so it’s not floating around as your body hovers. You’re drifting the second you exhale too hard. Knees bump the frame while your arms wave, fingers curling around the rail before your legs float up again. You flip until your face nearly plants into the ceiling.

Johnny’s behind you, and trying to get into his bunk. He’s laughing too hard because he’s failing so his feet are kicking while he spins like a slow top. “Get your foot out of my face,” you snap before batting his ankle away when it drifts near your nose. “Stop hogging the air, then,” he fires back, snorting when you shove at his thigh. It sent him drifting in a slow spin. Both of you should have gotten the sleeping bag ready so that you both know how to strap in the railings so you can sleep when the idea of turning off the gravity for the whole night is laid on the table. Now both of you try to hold the rails, but every small movement sends you floating again. You are trying your best to ignore him when an elbow knocks your ribs and his knee bumps your hip. But when it comes to him, you have no patience, so your hand catches his arm to stop him, but you two just spin together slowly. It’s ridiculous and the two of you are now tangled clumsily. Hair drifts across your eyes that tickling your cheek, and you blow it away. You catch a glimpse of Johnny’s face inches from yours and he’s upside down while grinning like an idiot. His laugh is low and breath warm when it puffs across your lips.

“This sucks,” you mutter, trying to untangle your arm from where it’s pinned. “It’s awesome,” he says, spinning you until your head bumps softly against the bunk frame, making you hiss. His calf brushes against your thigh when your legs tangle again with his. Breath caught in your chest while your bodies are hovering over each other. Are you ignoring now how you bump into him with every shift because it’s really not spacious here. There’s the grin you hate but it quickly dies down and is replaced by something soft that also didn’t last long. His throat bobs while he gets closer to you. Noses almost brushing to each other while warm breath grazes your cheek. “Can’t sleep like this,” you whisper. “Yeah,” Johnny says and voice lower, “I know.” Neither of you moves. The ship hums, vibrations running through the metal while your arms and legs drift, tangled around him, floating above the bunk in the tiny room you hate sharing but suddenly don’t hate as much.

No one speaks after that, and for a moment, it almost feels like you could fall asleep. Yeah, you are delusional like that and ignoring the fact that you are floating. Your eyes drift shut, and your hair fanned around your face in the cold air while you let yourself sink into the smallest drowsiness you feel. The soft bump of your knee against the bunk frame barely even registers. Limbs float, legs drifting out, toes brushing the ceiling as you chase the edges of sleep. Your last clear thought being that maybe, just maybe, zero gravity isn’t the worst thing in the universe.

Then the heater dies. There’s the loud sound of a click rattling in the pipes and it is followed by silence. It feels too empty, and the quietness feels too loud, even though you can’t hear anything besides the breathing of you and Johnny. The heat is slowly exiting out of the air like someone banging the window open in space. The coldness slapping on your skin, especially on your stomach, because your shirt is riding up with zero gravity. That leaves goosebumps in its wake. Oxygen from your body puffs into tiny white smoke in front of your face, and you wrap your arms around your body. You try to tuck your knees in but couldn’t hold it because it’s floating back out uselessly.

Johnny’s voice was sliding through the muffled coldness somewhere in the darkness. “Don’t tell me you’re cold already,” he says teasing but it disappears the moment he hears the soft clatter of your teeth grinding together. You sniff before you can stop it, and the environment is too quiet to hide it. Lips pressed together and shivers crept into your system so hard that your body spins a little in the air. Your hands are holding tightly against the rail of the bunk like you are trying to fight the zero gravity but your arms feel wobbly and like a noodle. Especially in the cold so you just end up floating sideways again.

Johnny sighs exaggeratedly, but you can feel the faint concern and softness there while he comes closer to you. He’s drifting until his feet bump your hip. “Come on, you’ll freeze,” he says. The warmth of his body reaches you even in the freezing air, and it’s infuriating how much you want to cling to it. “Don’t you dare,” you mutter, voice shaking, but another shiver cuts through your ribs. It makes your arms fly up as your body twirls again. Your eyes closed when you feel the coldness in your fingertips. But honestly, you just refuse to look at him. “Seriously, rookie,” Johnny says, closer now, breathing warm for half a second as it ghosts across your cheek. “You’re shivering like a Chihuahua.”

The retort dies on your tongue when another shiver runs through your spine. Your body curls instinctively toward the nearest heat source, which happens to be him. Fingers press into the soft fabric of his shirt as you catch yourself steady. Legs bumping his thighs, and your forehead landing against his shoulder. A muffled curse leaves your mouth. Voice low and defeated. “Just for heat,” you grumble. “Sure, just heat,” Johnny says, but his voice dips. It’s teasing in that way that makes you want to smack him, except your hands are too busy clutching his sides to keep from floating away.

Both of you drift in the middle of the tiny room while tangled together, and spinning slowly as your legs bump into his hips. Your arms are hooking around his shoulder tightly. Each tiny movement sends you rotating again and your hair brushing across his face. You can feel his breath fanning over your temple. It’s cold, which is ironic because his power is flame, and he could easily heat up the room, but he doesn’t. He chooses to offer this way. You can feel the heat from his chest that soothes you when you press closer, and it’s enough to ease the coldness for a moment.

The quiet and uneven breathing fills the space. You can hear his heartbeat thudding under the ear that’s pressed to his chest. It’s steady and grounding, even the zero gravity makes you rock in gentle, slow circles. Fingers curl into his shirt, holding tight, and your eyes slip shut against the cold. “This is so stupid,” you whisper. “Yeah,” Johnny says, a grin in his voice as he shifts. He’s pulling you closer until your legs hook around his waist, keeping you steady. “Best stupid idea ever.”

You don’t answer because it’s easier to focus on the heat spreading in your chest. It’s easier to focus on the vibration of his stupid laugh when your bodies bump against the wall. It’s easier to listen to the quiet whooshing of the breaths in the dark. See? You can focus, even every few seconds, there’s a gentle spin that moves your hair across his jaw, and his hand settles at the small of your back. He’s keeping you from drifting too far each time you shift. The heater might be dead, but at least you’re not freezing alone and you’re with this stupid guy.

Floating around him in half-sleep almost works. Your eyes slip closed, warmth pressing against your front, and the sound of the ship mixes with Johnny’s soft breathing near your ear. Every so often your bodies drift in a slow spin with limbs shifting as you try to settle in the cold that is kept away only by the heat trapped between you. For a moment it feels like you could actually rest. Then a small bump jolts through your hips. A warm and solid pressure that drags right between your thighs. It’s sliding over your clit through the thin layers of your sleep shorts. It forces a gasp out of your mouth before you can swallow it down.

“Shit- sorry.” He apologizes quickly like it’s an accident. His voice sounds low and muffled near your neck. The words brushed warm against your skin. The feeling you can’t explain is collecting in your cheeks as your legs tighten around his hips. You try to keep steady so it doesn’t happen again. Breath is choked and stuck in your chest. Your heart is beating so fast, like you are having hypertension, while you wait for the moment for it to disappear. It does, eventually, leaving a silence so heavy you can almost taste it. A few minutes later, the slow spin of your bodies brings you back into alignment. Another shift pushes your hips against his. It’s the same heat and pressure catching you off guard again. Your breath leaves in a shaky puff, and your thighs clench before you can stop them.

“Fuck- okay, that was me this time,” Johnny mutters, a strained laugh rumbling under your palms where they rest on his shoulders. “Sorry. Really.” It’s impossible to answer, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth while you try to pretend you don’t feel how hard he is, and how your pussy throbs at the drag of fabric over your clit. The heat spreads low in your belly. Silence wraps around both of you. It’s only broken by the soft rattle of something shifting on the wall as you spin. Your bodies pressing together again in a way that makes your head spin.

It happens again. For the third time, there’s no apology. You initiate after he does that, and you start chasing the friction before you can even stop yourself. There’s a quiet whimper slipping past your lips. His breath catches, and his arms tighten around your waist to pull you closer. The movement is slow, but bodies glide in the cold air while warmth builds where you press together. “What are we doing?” Your whisper hangs between you, breathless. Your forehead pressing to his as you try to keep your eyes open, try to ignore the way your hips keep moving to chase another drag of the pleasurable friction.

“Fuck if I know,” Johnny says, his voice rough, hand sliding down to your lower back to hold you there. “Feels good, though.” Legs tangling around his waist as your hips roll again while the spinning of your bodies slows down. The movements are not hurried. Fabric dragging against fabric with the heat spreading in your body every time you both repeat the motion. The shape of his cock is grinding right exactly at your clothed clit. The friction makes your breath catch and your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. Every small drag goes straight through your nerves, which makes your thighs twitch while you fight the noise boiling in your throat. Head dropping to your shoulder when a groan slips from his mouth. Every exhale is warm against your neck. “Fuck- sorry, I can’t-”

“Shut up,” you manage to say despite your voice breaking on a gasp. But it’s endearing how he can’t hold himself back. Hips continue to grind down and contact remains. Your clit catching on the hard ridge of his cock again makes your eyes flutter. When you make another roll of your hips, it pulls a needy sound from his throat. His hands grip your waist tighter while returning the movements and rocking up to meet you. It’s slow and shaky. Pressing closer while floating in the cold and chasing every spark both of you can find. The quietness of the environment feels too loud around the two of you, which mixes with the sounds from your mouths. Everything is narrowing down to the way the bodies rub, slide, and catch together again and again. The head builds until it’s too much to ignore. Hands clutch fabric, hips rolling as another breathless whimper slips free, your forehead pressed to his shoulder while you grind again, chasing another slow drag of pressure that makes your clit throb.

A soft curse vibrates in his chest. His breath is hot against your neck while he tries to stay still. It doesn’t work for either of you. The small shift sends your bodies apart, and it’s enough for the cold to get in between you. It makes your skin crawl while your fingers clutch his shirt before it slips away from his body after he removes it. The fabric is floating in the air and twisting in the low light. His chest comes into view, and warm skin catches the dim glow while his hands hover near your waist. Touch feels unsure like he doesn’t know if he’s doing anything right. Your breath comes out in a shaky laugh. “How the fuck does sex even work up here?”

A crooked grin lifts his lips, eyes flicking down between your bodies before coming back to yours. “Wanna find out?” He asks like it’s already decided. You float backwards and your hair lifts around your face while you try to keep your knees pulled up. Thighs pressing together as a tingly feeling is buzzing heavily in you. All you can give him is a nod with your teeth caging your bottom lip when your eyes drop to his chest. You watch how it rises and falls while he breathes.

Johnny’s hand touches the hem of your sleep shirt, and his fingertips brush against your chest when he pulls it up. The shirt slipping over your head and drifting in the air to join his that’s already somewhere settling in the air. You don’t even realize that your bra is also off now on how his hand moves fast. Just realized it when goosebumps scatter across your skin. Your nipples harden when they come into contact with the cold air while your arm floats upwards. Hands are trying to push your hair back from your face. His eyes catch on your tits, pupils darkening before he drags them back up to meet yours. Lips parted as he breathed out a soft, “Fuck.”

Shorts come next, your fingers sliding with the waistband while your body spins gently in the air. The fabric of your shorts and panties slides down to your thighs. He just throws it somewhere that joins the clothes above your eyes. Your cunt is exposed now. It’s wet and warm in the cold at the same time. His gaze drops again and the muscles in his jaw flex as he swallows. “Come here.” His voice has a glint of a perfect mix of roughness and softness that pulls your organs tangled deep in your stomach. A hand lands on your waist to guide you closer to him. His knee makes your thigh drift apart to open.

Your hands are shaking with the waistband of his sweats before you tug it down along with his boxers inside. It’s enough for his cock to spring free. He removes the rest, and your eyes lock at his flushed tip. There’s a bead of precum glistening on the head. It doesn’t stay in his body for too long because it drifts away in a tiny droplet. After all, there’s no gravity right now. “Johnny,” you whisper. Voice sounds broken already. Forehead pressing to his and your body shivering as your cunt clenches around nothing. It’s desperate for friction.

“Yeah.” His breath mixes with yours warmly and softly, while his hands slide down to your ass to pull you closer until your hips align. “Hold on to me.” Fingers clutch his shoulders as your legs wrap around his waist. Your body presses closer as the head of his cock brushes through your folds. It catches on your clit in a way that sends a whimper from your lips. A shiver runs down your spine before your hips tilt to chase the feeling again. Forehead bumps against his white hair floating between your faces.

“Fuck, wait- shit- Johnny,” you stammer as you try to keep your body steady while you adjust. The slide of his cock against your pussy makes your thighs twitch. “I’m trying,” he mutters with a breathless laugh leaving him. His hand slides up your spine to steady you and presses you back against the nearest wall panel. “Just- here, like this.” You could feel the cold metal when your back meets it. The feeling sends electricity to your spine, but it gives you enough leverage to change the position of your hips and tilt them. You start grinding his cock between your folds with your clit catching on the thick ridge as your body rocks. It chases the growing forest in your belly that, at this point, it’s not just butterflies or fluttering you feel right now. His forehead drops to your shoulder as a low groan vibrates against your skin. His hips roll in a slow and shaky motion.

“Fuck, you feel- hnngh- good,” he breathes out, his cock gliding through your slick, and dragging over your clit with each slow thrust. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. Your voice breaks on a gasp as your legs tighten around his waist to pull him close. Hips moving to grind your pussy against his cock while your body starts to tremble. “Not gonna,” Johnny says, his hand slipping under your thigh to hold you in place. The other is bracing against the wall near your head as he thrusts again in slow and careful motion. His cockhead slides against your clit in a way that will make it pulse.

Both of you are floating in the cold with bodies pressed together. The warmth you feel is getting worse with every grind especially how your cunt gets more slicked and needy. Clit throbbing each time the tip drags over it. Every breath he makes comes out shaky. Every small movement you both made sends sparks in your skin. It feels awkward how things are floating around you like it’s some kind of silent witness. It’s also forgotten in the low gravity while your hips roll again, desperate for more. The burn builds the moment his cock slides in slowly. It’s thick and long and it’s splitting you open until your walks flutter around him. It snatches a rough sound from his throat.

Head falling back against the wall while you try to anchor yourself. Knees tight and legs wrapped around his hips while your nails scratch the muscles in his back. Nails digging and clearly will draw red lines that you’ll see tomorrow. The stretch of his cock makes your cunt pulse and clench. There’s a soft gasp that catches in your throat while your toes curl. The small shifts send your body floating a few inches from the wall and the gravity. A small shift sends your bodies floating a few inches from the wall. The gravity is nonexistent in the cold air while your hair drifts around your face. His hands grab your waist to pull you down on his cock again, but the movement only sends you both drifting. A laugh slips from your lips. It’s breathless but it turns into a whimper when his cock nudges deeper.

“Hold on,” Johnny grits out, trying to push you back toward the wall again. His hips roll, pressing you against the cold metal as your thighs tighten around him, ankles locking behind his back to keep yourself close. “Trying,” you manage to say while your fingers are gripping his shoulders. Nails dig into his skin and will create moon shapes when you pull them away. It makes you press them harder when he thrusts again. It’s slow but deep. You can feel all of him. Cunt so slick, so you can hear how it moves, especially since it’s so quiet right now. He drags against your walls and his tip kisses your cervix, which makes your stomach turn upside down.

Your back arches when his hand slips between your bodies and fingers brushing over your clit. The touch is light, teasing, making your hips jerk forward as you chase the pressure. A soft “fuck” leaves your lips when he circles it again, slow and steady, matching the slow thrust of his cock as he fills you. “D-don’t stop,” you whine out. Breathing hitch as your nipples brush against his chest. The friction makes your pussy clench more around him. He managed to drop his mouth to your neck and teeth grazing over your pulse point before his tongue licks it. Doesn’t take long before he bites it like he wants to taste more of you. It pulls another shaky moan from your throat.

When he thrusts, it sends you both to drift upward again. Bodies are moving away from the wall. It made you clutch into him tighter just to try to pull him back down. The movement just makes him press deeper inside of you. Angle hitting it perfectly as your head drops forward to rest against his shoulder. It makes you wetter as the warmth spreads in your stomach. Feels heavy and sweet when your hips roll and trying to keep the pace slow. “Fuck, you feel so good,” Johnny mutters against your skin, breath warm on your neck while his hand keeps working your clit. His other hand grips your ass, pulling you closer as he thrusts again, the slide messy and perfect, your cunt squeezing around him with every slow drag.

“Johnny,” you whimper. Voice breaking when his cock pushes in deep, hips grinding as you feel the ridge of his cockhead catch on your spot. The drag is so good it sends your legs shaking, thighs trembling around him while your toes curl. “Yeah, baby, just like that,” he mutters before groaning. He presses you against the wall again, and it makes a soft thud when your back touches it. The coldness is fighting the heat burning in your body while he’s thrusting in slow and deep motion. Each roll of his hips sends green lights of pleasure through your body while your nails scratch down his back. It leaves faint red lines on his skin. Your body starts to float again with each slow grind, and. your hair drifts while your cunt clenches around him.

It feels wet and tight for him when his cock slides in and out. The pace is impossible to keep steady in zero gravity, but it doesn’t matter when every push sends you both one step closer to finishing. His head dropped down to the ground, and you can feel his hot breath on you. “This is so fucking hot,” he whispers, voice rough, before his mouth catches yours in a messy kiss, teeth clacking softly as your bodies float and bump in the air. Your hips roll again, clit grinding against his hand, heat building and building without letting you fall over the edge. The drag of his cock inside you is too good to stop, each slow thrust making your cunt clench tighter, slick dripping down your thighs while you both breathe each other in, your legs wrapped around his hips like you’ll never let go.

Floating bodies knock together as Johnny tries to thrust, hands braced on your hips while the two of you spin lazily in the room’s low light. A soft laugh breaks from your lips when your back bumps against a panel. The impact made you shove your body to him and you felt him slide deeper. Arms tangled around his shoulder like you are locking him in place. Nails are marking him up on his back muscles. Legs wrap tighter around his waist like you are scared he will go. “Fuck, hold on,” Johnny mutters, shifting to press you back against the nearest wall.

His palm slides between your thighs, fingers slipping down to find your clit. The touch sparks, making your head tip back while a breathy, “nhh- Johnny,” falls from your mouth. A rough moan vibrates in his chest as he continues to thrust into you again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says with his lips brushing against your jaw. Freehand squeezing your thigh hard, enlistment to make it bruise if you don't remove it from there. He’s trying to keep the angle where he can slide deeper as he thrusts into you. Each movement is messy. It’s pushing you both off the wall a little before he drags you back while his forehead pressed against yours.

Pussy clenching around him when he thumbs your clit. It pulsed underneath his thumb while your hips rocked forward to welcome his movements. The weather smells like sweat, sex, and metal and it hangs in the air. When your chest slides against him it feels a little cold because the sweat is cold in your body. The soft, needy moan leaves your mouth while your toes curl in the air. Heels brushing along the hard muscle of his lower back. His lips find yours in a sloppy kiss, all wet heat and breath, muffling your broken sounds as he keeps moving inside you. Hips jerk upward, bumping you both away from the wall, forcing his hand to grab a rail to pull you back into place.

The moment you settle, he thrusts again. It’s harder and makes you gasp. “Johnny, oh- shit, Johnny-” Your voice breaks as your head tips forward with eyes squeezing shut while his cock drags against your walls. He hits the spot that makes your thighs tremble around him. “Can’t- can’t keep us steady,” he pants, but his hand doesn’t stop on your clit, rubbing tight circles as your body tenses. A small laugh breaks between your moans, but it’s cut off by a gasp when he thrusts again. “Feels good,” you whisper, breathless, forehead pressing to him as your hips push back against him, wanting more.

He grins, but it’s strained, his eyes dark as he looks down between your bodies. “Yeah? You like this, baby?” His voice drops, rough, while his thumb presses down, making you jerk. Hands sliding and caressing his shoulders. Nails continue to draw red lines on his skin just to make him closer if that’s even possible. You just want him to fill you again despite him being inside you already. The sound of the skin slapping and wetness fills the space, mixed with his heavy breathing and your shaky moans. Johnny, on the other hand, tries to keep the pace, but every thrust pushes you both away. He just keeps dragging you back and forcing your back to scrape against the wall before he ruts forward again.

The constant push and pull turns everything sloppy, his cock slipping deeper with each grind while your walls flutter, getting close. “Fuck- fuck, Johnny, wait-” Your voice breaks when his hips roll again, cock pressing inside so deep your toes curl. “Not yet,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours as he slows, but his thumb keeps working your clit. “Just a little longer.” Legs starting to shake and knees knocking on the sides of his ribs while you cling to him like a koala. Your mouth falls open, but there's no sound when he thrusts up again into your pussy. His lips catch yours. He’s swallowing your soft and broken moans as you float together in the cold cabin. The heat between your bodies is the only thing keeping you balanced.

Each breath you release feels tight inside your chest. Your body is straining toward him and needing to let go, but trying to hold on just a little longer. The sounds from the ship got silenced by the sounds you are making. The quiet whimpers, the slick slide of your bodies, and Johnny’s rough groans as he tries not to lose it. Your pussy is squeezing around him again and again while you hover on the edge and are almost there. You don’t care if it’s hard to move or when you move around. Or when your back makes a noise against the wall again. A curse leaves your lips when you tighten around him. The stretch has you panting. Nails digging into his shoulders while your legs squeeze tighter around his waist to keep him close.

You try to muffle a moan but each thrust makes out a needy and breathy moan for you. The way your clit has been getting a lot of affection from him. It is catching that spot that makes your hips jerk against him. A soft whimper was made by you when he thrusts again. It’s deeper this time. His cockhead nudging your sweet spot so good it steals your breath. The slide of his skin against yours feels hot, sweat sticking where your chests touch, and the air cold on your skin in the small cabin. His mouth finds your neck, teeth catching your skin in a way that makes your eyes flutter shut while your thighs shake around him.

“Shit- Johnny, please-” The words come out broken as your cunt tightens again, squeezing around him as you chase the edge. His hand doesn’t stop, thumb rubbing fast circles over your clit while his cock keeps pressing deep, making you gasp, “ngh- fuck, Johnny- !” His low groan vibrates against your skin when your pussy finally gives out, fluttering around him as your orgasm hits, sharp and sweet, pulling a cry from your throat. Legs spasm around his waist, body arching into him as your hands claw at his back, leaving red lines down to his hips while you whimper, “oh- oh god- Johnny, Johnny-”

“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he pants, voice rough in your ear. His thrusts get sloppy as your cunt keeps squeezing around him, wetness dripping down your thighs in the low gravity while you feel him swell inside you. Another thrust pushes you up the wall before he drags you back down, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, cock throbbing. A grunt leaves his chest, head dropping to your shoulder as he mutters, “Gonna- fuck, gonna cum-” before his hips snap once, twice, pressing all the way in as warmth fills you, thick and heavy.

His arms locked around your waist like he’s caging you with the way he holds you tight as his cock twitches inside. Your cunt pulsing around him while you both float around and panting into each other’s neck. He can’t feel you clenching from time to time and it’s actually impressive how he doesn't cum yet straight inside your pussy. Your arms loosen so your hand can brush through his hair while your legs stay hooked around him. You're keeping him inside as your pussy throbs with the aftershocks. A small laugh bubbles out of you, breathless and shaky, and Johnny lifts his head, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead while he grins.

His breathing slows down while both of you float in the air and tangle with each other. Legs still clinging tight around him while his cock is softening inside you. Your forehead rests on his chest as you try to catch your breath. Lips brushing against his skin while the sweat cools on your body. The room feels too quiet, your ears ringing from how hard you came, from how loud your moans must have been in the thin metal walls.

Something small bumps against your ankle. Plastic scrapes against the floor before a loud, cheery voice blares into the silence. “FLAME ON!” Your eyes fly open in horror. A groan leaves your mouth, head tipping back as you cover your face with your hand. The stupid Johnny Storm figurine floats near your foot, the one he gave you just to annoy you, its speaker crackling in the quiet.

“Johnny.” Your voice sounds tired, deadpan, while your pussy still clenches weakly around him. “I hate that thing. I hate you for giving me that thing.” A snort breaks out of him, bright and sharp, his chest shaking against yours while his laugh bounces off the metal walls. “It’s my biggest fan,” he says, wheezing through the giggles while his hand slides down to your hip to keep you steady. You glare at him, fingers smacking lightly at his shoulder. “It’s fucking creepy. Turn it off.” The figurine keeps spinning near your feet, repeating in that stupid tinny voice, “FLAME ON! FLAME ON! FLAME ON!”

“Johnny, if you don’t turn it off, I swear-” Your threat dies off when he shifts to stomp it with his heel, but the zero gravity just sends it floating away, still yelling. You burst out laughing, your head dropping onto his shoulder while your body shakes against him. He wheezes, snorts again, and tries to kick it into the corner, but it bounces off the wall, shouting, “FLAME ON!” in a muffled echo. “God, I hate you.” You choke on another laugh, legs still wrapped around his waist, trying not to slip off his cock while you both float.

Johnny’s head tilts back, mouth open with laughter, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. “You don’t,” he teases you before reaching to grab the figurine and shove it into a drawer. It muffles the voice at last. Moment of peace for you. Silence falls again. It’s broken only by your soft panting. Your pussy flutters once more around him and making you both flinch with a small gasp. The last bit of warmth drips down your thigh, floating away in tiny drops before sticking to the wall.

“Do you think the others heard us?” You ask him even though you know they heard both of you. Your voice comes out small, embarrassed, and shy. All three, while your cunt clenches around him one last time, and makes you both flinch. Johnny’s grin widens as he leans in. He presses a quick kiss to your lips while he’s still buried deep. “Nah,” he says but it’s clear he’s just trying to reassure you by saying that, “but if they did, I’m never gonna let you live it down.” You groan, letting your head fall against the wall while he laughs, holding you tight in zero gravity ,your bodies sticking together, your legs wrapped around him, the two of you still floating and warm, close in the cold dark of the cabin.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[kaivenom]

You are like a lost puppy

Summary: Bob doesn't know how to express his feelings for you, at least not with words so... he follows you around everywhere.

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x reader

Masterlist

Since you joined the Thunderbolts, more like New Avengers team, you connected really well with everyone... especially with Bob.

You can spent hours talking with him adn to him, cause most of the time he ends up quiet, just looking at you. He told you that it doesn't matter to him, that he is just a good listener and loves to hear people talk.

But one thing you are starting to notice is that he isn't just one good listener but also an observer and a follower. You supposed it was due to his personality and his trauma, but still was a curious situation.

When you came back from every mission, he was on the couch waiting and then the following began, all around the tower. Sometimes it was quiet, just seeing you from afar, other times he asked you to tell him about his day and in especial ocassions he made up the courage to talk himself.

The thing you always notice is Bob's lost eyes, like a puppy who wants attention.

So, today you are on a somewhat euphoric mood so you decided to fight back his strategy and start following him and start asking him.

"Hi, Y/N." he said with a cute smile while doing the dishes, you lay yourself on the doorframe.

"Hi Bob, how was your day?"

"G-good." he said flustered, looking at the dishes.

"But what did you do?"

"I... i did some chores, and went to the supermarket..." it looked like the dishes were about to slip from his hands, "and I had a walk."

"Where?"

"What?"

"Where was the walk?"

"Around central park."

You are sure that Bob never talked to you so much in one sitting and it was clearly showing due to his nervous mannerism and flustered face but he was smiling even though he wasn't looking at you.

You decided to continue talking to him a little more and leave him alone for a couple of hours, so he can recover.

Then you found him doing some crosswords on his ussual spot and you went to him, lazily putting your hands on the couch and almost placing your chin on top of his head.

"What are you doing?" he just showed you the magazine, muttering the answer. "what are the one that are more difficult?"

And the thing continued again for half and hour and you let him free again.

Then you decided to do it once more, the third one, just to make it perfect.

You spotted him getting out of the shower and you followed him thru the hallway. Suddently he turned around and you ended up crushing onto his chest.

"What are you doing?" he said, blushing at how you bumped onto him.

"I was just doing what you do."

"That's what makes me even more confused."

"I wanted to know why you do it, why you follow me like a lost puppy, how it felt... and it is quite funny in fact, is cute to see you doing things around." you said with a smile, but he was getting reder every second.

"But I don't do it to be fun."

"Then why?" his voice sounded like a small groan, he was on the verge of a small collapse.

"Cause I don't know how to be around you and that's how I end up acting."

"And why would you still try to be around me then..." and then you finally realized. "I like you too... if you want a kiss, just tell me."

"I would like it." he said with a low shy voice, not looking at your eyes.

You laugh a little and put your hands on his cheeks to attract him and kiss his lips slowly.

[of-apollo]

The Fantastic Four: First Socks ₊˚ෆ

PAIRING: Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Babysitting Franklin brings a level of chaos you should expect from a toddler. You and Johnny find that you may want to have that chaos as a constant in your life, even if you’re both too scared to admit it.

WARNINGS: Discussions of having a baby, reader is AFAB, Johnny and reader are oblivious fools.

NAVIGATION | PROMPT LIST | WC: 2K

It starts with Franklin throwing a sock into a potted plant. To be fair, the day had been going fine up until then.

The Baxter Building was quiet, unusually so. Reed and Sue were off on a well-deserved date night, and Ben was out helping with cleanup after a Mole Man tunnel collapse. Which meant that somehow, some way, the task of watching their three-year-old son fell to you and Johnny Storm.

You could handle the end of the world. You could handle babysitting. You could even handle Johnny Storm. Handling all three at once? You were beginning to doubt your own confidence.

“Okay, Franklin, buddy, let’s keep the socks out of the plant. Plants don’t need socks, trust me,” you said sweetly.

Franklin blinked up at you from where he was squatting by the plant. His curls flopped into his eyes. “But he was cold,” he argued seriously.

Johnny snorted from his spot on the couch. “He makes a compelling argument.”

You shot him a look, one eyebrow raised. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m moral support,” Johnny said, lying back with a dramatic sigh and tossing a Lucky Charm in the air to catch in his mouth, “And technically backup. Like a fire extinguisher. Cool, essential, underused.”

“Full of hot air?” you offered.

Johnny grinned sideways at you. “You wound me.”

Franklin used this moment of distraction to climb onto the coffee table and shout, “I’m a bird!,” and promptly belly-flopped into the cushions. Both of you flinched.

“Is he supposed to do that?” Johnny whispered.

“Define ‘supposed to,’” you muttered, half-diving to catch Franklin before he rolled off the couch.

Johnny stood up, finally, and crouched next to you. Franklin giggled as you adjusted him upright, his tiny socked feet kicking the air like an overturned turtle. “You okay, kiddo?” Johnny asked, tapping Franklin’s foot.

“I’m a good bird!” he said, delighted.

Johnny’s mouth twitched into something soft, and he ruffled Franklin’s curls. “You’re the best bird.”

You didn’t miss how gently Johnny handled him, or how he lingered after straightening Franklin’s t-shirt, fingers brushing lightly against the little dinosaur print like he was memorising it. Like he wasn’t the same man who once flew through a sandstorm on fire while quoting Top Gun. And then, he looked up and caught you watching.

Your heart stuttered, and you looked away a beat too late.

The afternoon spiraled like a slow-moving tornado made of board books and stuffed animals. Johnny tried to entertain Franklin with light shows, mini flame animals dancing across his palms, but Franklin declared, “Too orange,” and went back to trying to shove a crayon into his juice box.

You made lunch. Johnny supervised Franklin’s ‘science experiment’ which involved smooshing avocado into applesauce. You took turns doing voices for story time. Johnny was surprisingly good at the grumpy goat in Three Billy Goats Gruff. You’d give him an Oscar if you could.

Around nap time, Franklin began the slow descent into toddler madness. He was tired, but didn’t know it, which meant he flopped dramatically on the rug, declared, “I’m melting”, and refused to wear pants for fifteen horrendous minutes.

Johnny looked mildly horrified. “Do all toddlers do this? Or is Franklin special?”

You laughed. “Both.”

When you finally got Franklin into bed, pants and all, you collapsed on the couch beside Johnny and stared at the ceiling like you’d just survived a war.

“Well,” Johnny said eventually, “I think I have applesauce in my hair.”

You turned your head. “You do.”

He smiled, eyes warm. “I’d let him do it again if it means hearing you laugh like that.”

Your breath caught. The smile on your lips faltered, just slightly. Johnny looked away quickly, fiddling with a throw pillow like it had secrets. “You’re really good with him.”

“So are you,” you said softly.

There was a long pause. Long enough for you to hear the hum of the refrigerator and the distant buzz of some lab equipment Reed had definitely forgotten to turn off.

“I, uh,” Johnny ran a hand through his hair and winced when his fingers hit applesauce. “I’ve been thinking.”

Your heart leapt. Please be thinking what I’m thinking. Please, for once, Johnny, just say it.

“Thinking,” he repeated, now sounding like he regretted ever bringing it up. “You know, about stuff.”

“Incredibly specific.”

Johnny groaned, flopping sideways to bury his face in a cushion. “Don’t make this harder!”

“I’m not making it hard! You’re just you.”

Johnny lifted his head, and something in his expression made your chest ache. Nervous, vulnerable. A rare sight.

“I was watching you with him. Franklin,” he said, eyes fixed on his hands. “And it was like, damn. I didn’t know you could be that gentle. You’re always so tough and brave.”

You tried to smile, but your throat was tight, only able to offer something a bit downturned and halfhearted. “He brings it out in me.”

Johnny nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw that, and I thought, wow. You’d be such a good—,” Johnny cut himself off with a roll of his eyes. He swallowed, “Forget it.”

You reached over and took his hand before he could fully retreat. “Say it.”

“I was thinking… someday, I’d want that. A little one. Maybe a bunch of little ones. Running around and setting things on fire and putting socks on plants. I kept thinking, if I ever did, I’d want it with someone like you.”

Silence. Not heavy or scary. Just soft, like snowfall. You whispered, “You idiot.”

Johnny blinked, frown tugging at his lips. “I mean, yeah, fair. Wait, why?”

“I’ve been thinking the exact same thing all afternoon.”

Johnny stared. You smiled, warmth curling in your chest like sunlight as you squeezed his hand. “Watching you with Franklin, seeing how gentle you were, how patient. I thought, God, if this man ever has a kid, he’s going to be the best dad in the world. And I want that. With you.”

Johnny’s jaw dropped slightly. “Wait. Really?”

You leaned in. “Really.”

Johnny broke into the widest, goofiest grin you’d ever seen. “So, theoretically, someday, you’d be down for, you know, the whole deal? Diapers, playdates, tiny superhero onesies?”

You laughed, joy bubbling up. “Someday? Yeah. Absolutely.”

Johnny scooted closer, expression softening. “With me?”

You kissed him, quick and sweet, and murmured against his lips, “Only you.”

Of course, that’s when Franklin wandered in, hair a chaotic fluff halo, pyjamas rumpled, and a single sock grasped in his hand.

“Can I have more crackers?” he asked, blinking tiredly.

You and Johnny turned as one, stifling laughter.

“Only if you promise not to feed them to the plant,” Johnny said solemnly.

Franklin considered this. “No promises.”

Johnny looked at you. “I love this kid.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Johnny: what’s cooking good looking?

You: Johnny you’re on fire.

Johnny: I know I’ve been flirting with you for a while now and you had been brushing me off so far, does this mean it’s finally working?! I know I’m smoking hot but-

You: no dipshit, you’re actually on fire and I have the solution.

Johnny: and what’s that-*gets blasted in the face with foam*

You: *holding a fire extinguisher* peace and quiet.

[cxsmicbaby]

here's a little johnny storm drabble... smut at the end ;)

read parts two and three here

thinking about being the fantastic four's live-in personal assistant/agent. and of course, johnny’s into you. how could he not be? a pretty 20-something that he sees everyday? it’s like asking the birthday boy not to blow out his candles.

i'm thinking like... behind-the-scenes fifth member sort of thing, like you're not a fighter but you're just as essential to their continued success as the rest of them.

it was reed that hired you—as the group became more famous, he realized they needed someone to handle the publicity affairs stuff, so he could put his focus on all his important cosmic research and whatnot. you were some random celebrity's personal assistant when he found you—late 20s, impressive resumé, and an academic background in science.

you had the potential for a bright future, but it was stunted by having been stuck in the same position for too long, with no promotions available. so reed contacted you, brought you in for an interview, and determined you were the right candidate for the team.

when you meet the rest of them for the first time you're terrified. you'd met many celebrities before, but none with superpowers, and not to mention that they're basically the most famous people on the planet.

but they're all so nice to you. especially johnny.

when johnny first lays eyes on you and your cute little outfit—the way your fingers shake a little, how your eyes keep darting around the room, and that adorable nervous smile—he can't help the giddy feeling he gets. it's been a while since he's been around someone so pretty; life had been stressful lately, leaving him little time to go out and do anything that was really fun.

but now you—such a lovely little thing—would be in the tower, all the time. what reason is there for him to leave?

you have your own room and office, both happening to be quite close to johnny's quarters, which he had thanked reed for so much the man had threatened to move you. don't flirt with her, reed demanded, and johnny could tell he'd meant it.

unfortunately, johnny definitely hadn't meant it when he promised he wouldn't. you're just too cute; when you huff at him for lingering in your office too long, bouncing around your space with a teasing grin you grow to really hate; when you chastise him for being so public with his frequent 'escapades' and think he won't notice the jealous quirk in your brow. it's bad for your image, you argue, and johnny arguesmthe opposite; that's kind of my whole thing, sweetheart.

"well, it's antiquated," you quip, turning back to your computer with an irritated look on your face. "and don't call me that. it's patronizing and very unprofessional."

but you like it. johnny knows you do. you love his attention, and you're bad at hiding it—the best part is, he knows you aren't doing it on purpose, and that you probably think you're doing a good job at concealing your tells.

sometimes, he's an insufferable tease, doing his absolute best to work you up and make you lose your temper. he's heavy-handed with the flirtation then; getting a bit too close to you when he passes by in the hall, winking at you in meetings, flustering you in your office to the point that you raise your voice, then get embarrassed at your outburst.

other times, he's subtle, innocent, not really trying to tick you off. he surprises himself with how genuine he can be then; to be fair, it's a rare occurrence.

you're watching the afternoon news, taking a coffee break, while johnny lounges on the couch. the reporter is talking about your latest publicist achievement with the team, some story about thing, and johnny turns to look at you over his shoulder, smiling.

"you're good at your job, you know?" he says, and you can't help but be a little shocked at how sincere he sounds. he sees that, and laughs, turning back to the screen so he can toss a marshmellow into his mouth.

"no need to look so appreciative. i know you love my compliments."

sorry. he just can't help it.

regardless of how much joy johnny gets out of making you squirm, he can't deny that there are, unfortunately, real feelings behind his semi-obsession with you. this is quite the unwelcome realization, because johnny hadn't had real feelings for anyone in a long, long time. the experience is not one he particularly likes and much preferred to keep things detached, and to the point. it's a lot easier that way.

but johnny can not stay away from you, no matter how he tries. the harder he does try, the worse it becomes.

one night johnny thinks he'll sit on the other side of the dinner table—he always sits next to you, first to tease you, and then because he wanted to. johnny finds you're the most agreeable to his annoyances at dinner, laughing at him instead of scowling. maybe it's the food.

but, in attempts to try putting distance between you, johnny sits on the other side, next to ben, leaving you to sit closest to reed. you're confused, especially because johnny keeps glancing at you, meeting your gaze for a second, and promptly looking away. you're also hurt, even though you try to fight that, because it's dumb. you shouldn't care, anyway.

but you do. you care so much that when you're doing the dishes that night, and johnny creeps into the kitchen, you scoff, ignoring him in a way that can only be purposeful.

"you okay?" johnny asks, even though he's already smiling that insufferable smirk, which you know is there, despite your back being to him.

"why wouldn't i be?" you hate how pathetically irritated you sound. you scrub a little harder at the plate and try to focus on the shine of the foamy bubbles.

johnny circles you, keeping a distance that's on the brink of being too close. "beats me. you just seem a little upset, is all."

you want to scream, but you feel yourself falling into the trap, despite everything. "i'm not upset. that would be silly."

he laughs, and you see him in your peripheral vision, leaning against the counter beside you. watching you.

"whatever you say. careful with that, it's my favorite." like he has a favorite plate.

he sits next to you again the next night, and neither of you say anything, but he swears he sees you smile when he pulls out the chair.

NSFW BELOW! mdni!

most of johnny's tormenting is innocent. he likes to see you a little uncomfortable, likes it making you nervous. but there are other times, where he admires you a little too long, eyes tracing the curves of your body, and he starts picturing things. like how you might look on your knees, staring up at him with your pretty eyes. how you might look with him staring up at you, between your thighs, your plush lips parted while you watched him. that's his favorite.

he wants you, painfully. it gets to the point where he can only think about you when he wants some release; touching himself in the shower like a pre-pubescent teenager, embarrassingly worked up by the filthy things his own mind is conjuring.

four months into your hiring and you're driving him crazy. johnny can barely look at you now without thinking about kissing you, touching you, tasting you; it's ridiculous, and he's beginning to get a little embarrassed about it. he still teases you, but now all his comments have an air of desire to them—something that had kind of always been present, controllable enough for him to bury it in smug smiles, taunting laughs. but johnny can't control it now, can't mask how you effect him.

his only saving grace is that you seem not to notice. not really, at least. you return his yearning gazes with this adorably frustrating, confused expression, furrowing your brows as if to ask him what his problem is. you are my problem, he wants to say, and then he wants to kiss you breathless, take you to his bed, and make you feel so good you take back every snide comment you've ever made about him.

but instead he always smirks at you, turns away. tries to calm his mind before he pops a semi in his pants that always seem just a little too tight.

one night johnny’s sitting in the living room, popping handfuls of cereal into his mouth straight from the box; typical thursday. you walk in, and he turns, but is caught off guard by how good you look—you’re dressed up, a considerable amount of skin showing (at least, more than you do when you’re on the job). he swallows hard and tries to keep his eyes on your face but it proves difficult.

“and where are you headed, missy? it’s almost ten.” his head swivels to follow you as you walk through the living room, into the kitchen, opening the fridge.

“i don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you say, but there’s no real bite behind your words. you search for something in the refrigerator, can’t find it, and close it with a sigh, turning to face him. “johnny, did you drink my cranberry juice?

the frustrated look on your face is sort of cute but it (thankfully) distracts him from studying the way your hips look in your outfit; soft, plush, and very grabbable. well, maybe it’s not really distracting him that much.

he rolls his eyes and turns back to the television.

“no. isn’t that for ladies, anyway? i heard it makes you taste better. that and pineapple juice.” he says it with a laugh, but it’s not nearly as smug as usual. he regrets it immediately, mostly because all he can think of now is getting the chance to taste you, and how sweet he knows you’d be. and warm. fuck. he can see your flustered face in his head even though he isn’t looking.

“ugh, whatever. you’re buying me more.” there's an extra bite in your tone, but he can't figure out what, and you're gone before he can ask any more questions.

johnny's left him with a sinking feeling in his gut—are you going on a date? it’s a little late in the evening but that barely means anything. you could be going out with your girlfriends, but that scenario isn’t great for him either. there are tons of guys that would give anything to get in your pants, and at a club they’re more liable to try it. he can only hope you wouldn’t let them.

johnny’s usually a late sleeper anyway, but he makes it a point to stay up till you’ve returned, keeping himself entertained with dumb tv shows and another box of cereal. the rest of the team are sound asleep when you finally stumble inside, clearly doing your best to be quiet.

it's around 1am, so you're not expecting anyone to be awake—you should've known better.

"past midnight, huh? on a thursday?"

you jump, and you almost let out an exasperated groan at his familiar, grating voice. johnny's sitting almost exactly where you left him, but he gets up when you make eye contact, leaning against the wall as he watches you. he's checking you out again, quite obviously—you're annoyed at the fluttering in your stomach, made worse by the wine you'd consumed at dinner. you may have had a bit too much, but you'd needed it to get through the date; the guy was a total jackass. first and last time you let your friend set you up.

"ugh. have you just been sitting there this whole time?" you huff, slipping your shoes from your aching feet. he doesn't move, just watching you with those infuriating blue eyes, shadowed by the lack of light in the room. "you have a conference tomorrow at noon, johnny. you should be sleeping." today at noon is more accurate, you think, but semantics lose their importance past midnight.

"well, you shouldn't be wasting your time on dates with idiot guys," he says, voice a little hushed, something hidden behind the words that would be simple coming from anyone else. you sigh despite the way your cheeks warm. your lack of a response is a mistake, because johnny's eyes light up and he pushes himself off the wall, circling you.

"so it was a date, then? where'd he take you?"

his interest in your date is off-putting but you can't deny how easy it is to play into it. the remnants of alcohol in your blood make you feel more open, and you decide you don't have the energy to play a game with johnny right now. you tell him the truth.

"doesn't matter. it was horrible. he talked about himself for, like, the whole thing. and he wasn't even that cute."

johnny's brows shoot up at your genuine answer, and he laughs, intrigued by this rare, honest mood of yours. you move past him to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water.

he follows you, taking slow, deliberate steps, standing a little too near. "that sucks. shame you wasted such a pretty outfit on a guy like that."

you scoff, but your ears are hot. "thanks? i think."

johnny is silent for a second, observing you with a glint in his eyes that you read as slightly dangerous and very, very attractive. he looks especially good in this lighting; biceps bulging just slightly as he crosses his arm, slick smile almost calling out to you. you want to wipe it off his face. you want to put him on his back and shut him up. the thought surprises you, but not as much as the visuals that come with it. you look away, embarrassed, like he can see inside your head.

"well, the night's still young," he finally says, with a crooked smile that makes you ill. "you shouldn't go to bed upset, you know. it's bad for you."

you take a sip of water, looking back at him with narrowed eyes. "what are you suggesting?"

that's how you end up sitting in criss-cross-applesauce on the floor in johnny's room, nursing a beer like you're in college. he's in front of you, some inches away, face a little flushed from the alcohol, and a big, bright grin that just won't go away. johnny is insufferable not just because he's devastatingly handsome, but because he knows he is—it makes you hate yourself, and how you can't help but swoon when he laughs.

"honestly, you should've known by the time of day that the date was gonna be shit," johnny blurts, after finishing his third beer. you roll your eyes.

"i'm serious," he continues, and shifts so that he's leaning back on his hand, one knee bent to rest his elbow on. "any guy takes you out past nine, he's not looking to really romance you, if you get my drift."

you scoff, bringing your knees up to your chest, shielding yourself from his disarming gaze. "did you ever consider that maybe i wasn't looking to be romanced? you never heard that song? girls need love too, storm."

you're smiling teasingly at him, but johnny's eyes flash a little dark, and a pit forms in your gut. you wish you didn't say it, but it's already out, and now you've given him an excuse to take the conversation in a direction you very much want to avoid.

"you're really desperate enough to fuck some random guy? must be a bad dry spell, then."

johnny says it because he knows it will piss you off. and you know that, but you let it piss you off anyway.

"i know you're not calling me desperate. you'd fuck anything with two legs and tits." it comes out a little meaner than you intend, but johnny likes it, you can see it in the way he laughs. your stomach twists and you curse the little ache that starts between your legs. it really has been a very long, very bad dry spell.

"i'm just saying, it doesn't have to be that way." his tone of voice is dangerously low and you wish you weren't sitting so close to him. "there are a lot of guys who would kill for the chance to give you 'some love'. and i promise you, you'd be leaving them much happier than you did this other guy."

you exhale a little breath, forcing yourself to make eye contact. he feels much, much nearer, even though you know neither of you has moved. his blue eyes have darkened to a navy—or is it that his pupils have swallowed up all the color? you shift, hoping he doesn't notice the way your thighs involuntarily clench at the movement. god, you're folding pathetically, you think, but you say it anyway.

"and why would that be?" you prod, voice soft and hesitant. johnny's smile falls into something predatory. he's got you right where he wants you.

"well," he starts, moving just an inch closer, under the guise of changing his position. "you're pretty, sweet, put together. and... you know. some guy might think it's hot to watch you fall apart. so, he'd take his time with you. give you everything you deserve."

your breath hitches, but you swallow it down. is he saying what you think he is? the ache in your core is starting to throb dully now, making your cheeks feel even hotter than they already did, your eyelids falling just the slightest bit as you watch him.

god, you're a tease, johnny thinks, even though he knows you're not even trying to be. your reactions spur him on and he continues before he can really think about it.

"he'd probably kiss you first, lay you down, make sure you were comfortable," his voice is thick, like molasses, smile all but gone. he's barely even looking at you; his own words are shaping a scene in his head, and he can't help but get lost in it. "then, he'd touch you, your stomach, under your tits. your inner thighs. careful, controlled. just enough to make you want more."

you're enamored. your throat feels dry, the room so quiet around you the silence presses on your ears. "... and then?"

johnny's eyes dart to you, and he takes in that slightly dazed look on your face, and the way your legs twitch almost imperceptibly. he's already getting hard, just looking at you, thinking about what he'd do to you. he hopes you don't notice, but he can't be bothered to hide it now.

"and then," he draws it out, tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip. "i think... he would want to keep teasing you, just to see that cute look on your face, but... he wouldn't be able to stop himself." he inhales sharply, like the room is running out of air. "so, he'd compromise and kneel between your legs, kiss you over your panties, till you were squirming, begging him to take them off."

johnny is entranced by the way you react to that. he's never pegged you for a prude, but you seem almost mortified at the image, your eyes going a little wide. he lets out a strained laugh, because he's definitely hard now, and can't stop imagining what kind of panties you're wearing.

"what's wrong? don't act all innocent now, you're the one who asked."

your answer almost makes him gasp. "well, it's just—i've never, you know. i've never had a guy go down on me. is that embarrassing?"

johnny's done for. and you are too.

he's got you laid out on your back just minutes later, propped up on your elbows as you watch him between your trembling thighs. he's face to face with your cute little lace panties, one hand wrapped around your thigh, the other pressing down gently on your lower stomach, a toothy grin spread across his face. you're embarrassed by how hard he's staring, eyes locked on the wet spot right in the center of the thin fabric.

"johnny," you start, but before you can continue, he's rubbing torturously soft over your clit, and you're amazed at how good it feels even through the cotton. "quit teasing."

he chuckles breathily, glancing up at you before he focuses on the treasure in front of him. "sweetheart, i'm gonna make you feel so good, you have no clue." he kisses your inner thigh—he can't resist nipping the skin just a little before he pulls away. "i like when you say my name. keep doing that."

you want to argue, but his mouth is suddenly on you, and you forget the words.

johnny kisses you over your panties, just like he said he would, his hand moving to hold your hips down when you twitch into his mouth. soon it's like he's making out with your clothed pussy, tongue hot against you, humming softly at the soft gasps you let out—against your will, because you don't want him to know how good it feels, but you can't help it.

"johnny," you moan, a little humiliated by how desperate you already sound, "just take them off, please."

he doesn't lift his head immediately, but when he does there's a shit-eating grin on his face that makes your stomach twist. his lips are shiny, eyes dark and a little lidded.

"told you i'd make you beg for it."

johnny takes mercy on you, and hooks his pointer under the hem of your now-soaked underwear, pulling it aside far too slowly. you're wet, wetter than you think you've ever been; nobody's ever taken their time with you like this, and you fight with yourself not to mistake it for care. it's just johnny's insatiable desire to see you vulnerable, you tell yourself, even as he stares at your exposed cunt like it's been given to him by the gods.

"fuck. can't believe you were keeping this from me," he mutters, throat bobbing. he makes you lift your hips so he can shimmy your panties off completely. then, he slips his thumb through your folds, like he's studying you, taking samples for further experimentation.

you gasp softly when he brings his thumb to his mouth. jesus christ.

"so sweet. guess that cranberry juice really does work."

you want to slap him, but before you can protest his poor sense of humor, he finally looks back at up to meet your eyes—and he looks possessed. you're throbbing in anticipation, fighting the urge to push your hips up toward his chin.

"mm. you look beautiful like this, sweetheart. all spread out for me." he elbows your legs open a little further to punctuate his words, lifting your thighs onto his shoulders with little effort. you wish you could say something, but you don't trust your own voice.

johnny wants to tease your silence, but he can't wait any longer.

you cry out softly when his tongue lays flat against your pussy, hand coming instinctively to grab at his hair. you sink your fingers into his scalp when he shakes his head gently from side to side, rubbing his hot mouth shamelessly against you. god, does it feel this good every time? you fear he might be spoiling you for any other guy, but push the thought away to focus on the pleasure.

he moans into you when you tug on his hair, lips finding your clit, sucking voraciously for just a second before giving it little kitten licks.

"shit, johnny—feels so good," you breathe, hips squirming against his strong hold. he doesn't come up to taunt you, to show you his smug smirk; he just groans at your words, the vibrations making your back arch into his mouth. when you manage to look down at him you see his ice blue eyes relentlessly staring up at you and you swear he's smiling.

johnny pulls away just a moment, his face gliimmering with your wetness—he turns his face into your thigh, biting, licking, kissing, making you arch into him. then, he's looking back to you; you can feel his hot panting against your pussy.

"should've done this a long time ago," he mutters, mostly to himself. then, his voice goes low, a little raspy.

"i want you to cum on my face, sweetheart. can you do that for me?"

you nod frantically, despite the way heat rushes directly to your face at his request—anything for him to put his mouth back on you.

"you gotta say it, honey. use your words."

you swallow and fight to regain your voice. "i wanna cum, johnny. please, make me cum."

what a pretty voice you have when you're begging. one of johnny's hands stretches up, slipping under your top to play with your tits, pinching through your lace bra. were you wearing a matching set? johnny suppresses a groan, feeling his cock ache at the idea. then, he remembers you wore it for someone else, and is overcome with a possessiveness that makes him look away from your watery, pleading eyes.

he ducks back into your warm cunt instead. you keen into his mouth, and his eyes flutter shut, hot tongue slipping inside you. he can feel you throbbing around him, and his hips twitch against the carpet of their own volition.

your thighs try to clench around his head but he forces them apart, pressing you down with his palm flat on your tummy. you're embarrassingly close to cumming but you feel like you'll die if he stops. his nose bumps your clit every time his tongue fucks into you and it's making your head swim. you're trying to be quiet, but you've never had such trouble doing so.

"i think i'm gonna cum," you whisper, sounding more desperate than you've ever heard yourself. both hands are in johnny's hair now, drawing him closer, using him as leverage to grind against his touch, even if he's making sure you can't move very much. johnny hums, making you yelp, and then the rough pad of his tongue flattens against your clit, and you're gone.

your panting goes a little high-pitched, and johnny knows he's got you. he groans ragged into your cunt and you let out a punctured whine, thighs shaking as you still—you writhe in his arms while his tongue fucks you through it.

johnny regards himself as a good man, but he wonders what specific deed he's done to deserve such a blessing. it must've been a big one.

"oh—johnny, johnny, wait" you cry, despite how your fingers tug on his hair, forcing him deeper. "it's too—ah—too much—!"

he wants to tell you it's not enough, that he could kneel between your legs and worship you like a goddess for hours, make you cum so many times you forget everything but his name, but he knows that's too far. at least, for right now.

"sorry, sweetie. couldn't help myself," he says, so casually, like he wasn't just making out with your pussy. he pulls away, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

johnny eases your shaky legs from his shoulders, and kneels in front of you, chest heaving. his pupils are blown and you can't help but notice that he's incredibly hard, so much so that you think it must be painful. he notices you looking but doesn't say anything, just smiles insufferably. you're too blissed out to get annoyed.

"so? see what you've been missing?" he's still a little breathless, running his hands up and down your thighs as if to calm you down. it's deceptively sweet and makes you smile softly at him.

"i can definitely see the appeal," you decide to say, and johnny presses a little kiss to your knee. you think he's about to ask if you can return the favor, considering you can blatantly see he needs it, but he just keeps smiling down at you.

"good."

he grabs for your panties and helps you slip them back on, sitting you up, fixing your hair.

then, johnny's walking you to your room—across the hall—and right before you get to the door, he tugs you close to him, lips brushing against yours when he speaks.

"you should really let me do that more often. to... make up for all the time you've gone without it."

johnny thought he’d be able to stop thinking about you once he finally had you, but as he lies awake in bed that night, he realizes it’s only become worse.

read part two here!

[angelbelles]

I WATCHED THE MEDIA NOW I CAN READ THE FICS

[lnfours]

LIFELINE | JOHNNY STORM

MAJOR PLOT SPOILERS FOR THE FANTASTIC FOUR: THE FIRST STEPS UNDER THE CUT! PLEASE CONTINUE READING WITH CAUTION!

summary: after defeating galactus, johnny realizes something, and he has to get it off his chest immediately.

warnings: quinn!johnny storm x reader, friends to lovers!au, mention of sue’s resurrection scene, mentions of fear of being alone, johnny being johnny, language, a little teeny tiny bit of angst, fluff and him being 100% down. fucking. bad.

— 💌 message from jordan: i know this isn’t my usual content, but the marvel brain rot has come back after seeing f4 and i simply can’t get johnny out of my head 😅 if you guys like this, maybe ill write some more for marvel again! anyway, i hope you guys love this as much as i do! it was super fun to write :)

masterlist | inbox

the soft yellow glow of the lamp on your nightstand illuminated your bedroom, the tv on as background noise as you rung your hair out in a towel, clad in your robe. you padded back to the room, sitting on the end of the bed and watching the news reporters cover their newest story.

“— and thanks to the fantastic four, the citizens of new york can sleep peacefully in their beds and be surrounded by their loved ones tonight knowing we are now safe from galactus.”

you reached back for your phone, tapping on the screen to see if any new messages came through while you were in the shower. the sight of a blank lockscreen made you frown, tapping to your messages to see if they had even been seen by him.

hey, saw the news. you okay?

delivered, 9:10pm

with a huff you tossed your phone back on the bed and walked back to the bathroom, grabbing your skincare products from the drawers. just as you were about to wash your face, there was a bang outside the room, forcing a jump from you. you furrowed your eyebrows, slowly tiptoeing back to your room.

when you turned the corner, the bright glow of yellow and orange now lit up your entire room. you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding, walking towards the window and undoing the lock to let him inside.

“johnny, what the hell!?” you turned around as he climbed in through the window, “i texted you! i saw the news and i texted you and you never answered and…”

you trailed off when you finally turned around, taking in the man who stood in front of you. his face was wearing an expression you rarely saw. a look of guilt and sadness, mixed with a hint of fear. his hair tousled from the wind, his baby blue eyes heavy and bloodshot. your movements froze.

“i uhm- i saw your text,” he said, taking a deep breath, “sorry i didn’t respond, i just… i wanted to see you. in person.”

“what’s wrong?” your voice softer now as you padded closer to him, now feeling guilty for raising your voice at him. but damnit, he scared the hell out of you.

“i watched my sister-“ he closed his mouth and looked off to the side, his eyes finding the cityscape outside the window as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. his eyes met yours again after a moment, a stray tear rolling down his cheek as he looked at you, “i watched my sister die and then magically come back to life,”

you furrowed your eyebrows, “what?”

“i don’t— i don’t know,” he sighed, flopping down onto the edge of your bed, “she was pushing galactus towards the bridge and it was too much and she…”

he paused for a minute as you sat down, your hand reaching out to his shoulder to comfort him. he took a deep breath, “i mean, reed checked her pulse and everything. she wasn’t even breathing. and then when reed put franklin on her chest to say goodbye, that’s when she came back to life,”

“i’m sorry,” you said softly, eyes soft as you scanned his features, “that’s… a lot.”

he let out a humorless chuckle, “yeah,” his eyes shifted to look at you, the whites of his eyes still slightly red, but you could tell they were still hiding something.

you had always been the one to notice that sometimes, no matter what his mouth said, his eyes said something different. they couldn’t hide the truth from you. no matter how hard he tried, he was an open book to you. completely vulnerable. a side not everyone got to see, but you were lucky you were one of the few.

“you’re sure that’s all that’s bothering you?”

damn it to hell.

he blinked, sucking in a breath and suddenly the air felt different. it felt heavier. like there were unspoken words between the two of you.

“it’s stupid, really-“

“johnny,” you watched as he stood from the bed, suddenly finding interest in the new york night sky once again. you tilted your head, unconvinced.

“no really, i promise, it’s nothing. i’ll go to bed and wake up tomorrow and it’ll be in the back of my mind-“

“c’mon,” your voice was still soft as you stood behind him, “it’s me. you know you can tell me anything and everything, and its clearly bothering you, so please. let me help.”

he turned back around, “when reed tried bringing sue back, and even when she did come back, you could just see how much he truly loved her. how glad he was that his person was back, and it made me realize that i’m a compete fucking idiot. that i’ll never have someone to love the way he loves her, or love me the way she loves him, because i’m an idiot who's too scared to tell the woman i’m in love with that i love her.”

you felt your heart drop to your stomach. sure, johnny had mentioned the long list of women waiting to have their turn with him, but it was never anything serious. never something more than a fling here and there.

but you had always held a tiny sliver of hope that you’d be the one to make it all seem worth it to him. the relationship, the dates, the anniversaries, all of it. you had loved him for so long, wished for just a single chance on every birthday cake candle and shooting star, but you always knew the answer. it was no use.

or so you thought.

“you’re not an idiot,” you said through the lump in your throat, “it’s just unnatural for you. you’re used to the girls lining up to have shot, not the sappy feelings part. and it’s okay to be scared of it. love is scary. but it’s also really beautiful.”

“have you ever been in love?”

you sucked in a breath, ignoring the pit in your stomach. you said you wanted to help, but had you known it was going to be about this…

“once,” you nodded, “i don’t think he ever felt the same way. especially not now.”

he swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing before he spoke, “did you ever tell him?”

you shook your head before he asked another question, “do you regret it?”

he could see it in your eyes. he knew. he knew for a while now, or at least he thought he did, but now he really did. the way you watched him intently, the way your eyes stayed locked on his. you looked at him like he hung the stars in the night sky. like he had all the answers to your problems.

and he hoped he did. because you were the answer to all of his.

you nodded again, this time your heart rising to your throat as he stepped closer, “maybe you should tell him. i’m sure he’d like to hear it right now.”

you pulled your eyebrows together, “what do you-“

“you said it yourself, it’s scary but beautiful,” he said, “so tell him. and i’ll tell her.”

you tried to play it cool, “i don’t-“

“say it,” his voice was soft but pleading, “please.”

you took a breath, now realizing how close the two of you were all of a sudden. your tongue swiped over your lips to wet them as you let out a shaky breath.

“i love you, johnny.”

that’s all it took before he was pulling you in closer by your hips, pressing his lips to yours in a messy kiss. he kissed you like he was drowning and you were oxygen.

like you were his lifeline.

“i love you,” he mumbled against your lips when he finally pulled away, “i’m sorry-“

“you’re here now,” you shook your head, smiling as you took in the smell of his cologne underneath the layer of faint ash, “that’s what matters.”

he leaned down and kissed you again, this time he picked you up off your feet and spun you around, hands gently placed on your back as your giggles broke the kiss.

you wrapped your legs around his hips, hands clutching the burgundy material in your hands. he smirked down at you playfully, forcing a smile on your lips and a chuckle to fall from them, “what?”

“nothing,” he shook his head, placing your back gently onto the mattress, his body scaling yours. he was warm to the touch, always had been since the accident, “just, feeling really lucky.”

you ran your fingers through his blonde strands, “lucky?”

“lucky cause the girl i love never stopped loving me, never gave up on me, even when she should’ve.”

“i would’ve waited a million lifetimes for you, you know,” you confessed quietly, “as pathetic as it sounds,”

he dropped his head to yours, foreheads pressing together, “i don’t deserve you.”

“mm, yeah, probably,” you joked back as he let out a chuckle. his smile lighting up his face. his usual, ‘johnny like’ persona slowly creeping its way back in.

“wanna find out why the ladies call me ‘torch’?” he joked and you laughed, maybe a little too loud but you didn’t care.

“no one calls you that!”

“sure they do!” he argued back, a cocky smile still on his face, “y’know, in their dreams and fantasies or whatever.”

“maybe in your dreams, hotshot,” you mumbled before kissing him once again. his lips slotting with yours almost as perfect and intoxicating as the first time. his free hand cupping your face, thumb slowly caressing your cheek as he kissed you.

he was finally yours. your lifeline.