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fairyysoup · 12 hours ago

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bobert..... *sniff*

i'm so obsessed w how cute this is omggg i haven't even seen thunderbolts!! but i want him now!!! goddd

daylight

bob reynolds x fem!reader

summary: Bob Reynolds thinks the only way to keep people in his life is through being useful; you, however, endeavor to prove otherwise. aka the fluffiest, most disgustingly sweet smut I have ever written

content warnings: smut!!! so minors begone, 18+ (by clicking read more you are saying you're ok seeing adult content), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cowgirl, idiots in love, ridiculously fluffy, reader is wearing a skirt (sorry physics demanded it lol), use of the word "girlfriend"

word count: 3.1k

The afternoon sun dapples the sidewalk, and you can't help but squint in the almost blindingly bright light where it reflects on the shallow puddles dotting the street. It's a slow trek back to your apartment and the heavy grocery bags you’re carrying are slowly but surely digging deeper and deeper into the meat of your arms. You look up, face arching towards the late summer sun, as you try not to think about the fact that said bags are currently very close to completely cutting off the circulation in your wrists.

It’s silly and stubborn, this little mission of yours; you could have split this errand up into multiple trips and saved yourself the struggle. But, you think to yourself as you turn the corner to your building, weather like this is worth just a little pain. It’s certainly better than braving the subway during a month this hot. Now, that is a mistake you only make once, if you can avoid it.

About twenty minutes and a few breathless breaks later, you finally stop in front of your apartment. It's just a momentary pause as you mentally try to do the math of which bag you can most afford to put down to unlock your door before it suddenly opens on its own, as if by some sort of divine intervention.

But no, it’s not magic, instead it's a very familiar dark-haired boy who darts out of your apartment faster than you could even attempt to fumble for your keys. You let out a sound that’s half startled gasp and half laugh, as your boyfriend, one unbearably adorable Bob Reynolds, plucks the bags from your arms with an ease that makes your difficult walk back here feel more than a bit ridiculous.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads back into the apartment, setting the bags down in your sun-soaked kitchen.

You follow him in, nudging the door shut behind you and kicking off your shoes, before rubbing your arms, trying to get the blood flowing back into your hands. “I’ve managed to carry my groceries all by myself for quite a few years now, thank you very much.”

He pads back over, his book abandoned on the couch next to where you’re standing, before he bends over and kisses the angry marks the bags left in the crook of your elbow, the soft press of his lips on your sensitive skin making you giggle.

“But now you have me,” he mutters into your skin, and you cradle the sides of his face, pulling him back up to look up at you.

“Bobert,” you say quietly, the silly nickname that the two of you share like an inside joke slipping out in a soft reproach. You try to school your face into something serious, badly suppressing your affectionate smile. “It’s not like I was carrying an elephant or a bomb or something New Avengers worthy.”

“Yeah, but you should let me help you anyway,” he says quietly, hiding his face in your hair, voice gone soft in a way that you know means this isn’t really about groceries anymore. So, you press your palms against his chest, pushing lightly until he plays along and lets you topple him back onto the couch as you follow him down.

“Bob, baby, look at me,” you prompt, settling yourself on his lap. You straddle his hips, your legs on either side of his thighs as you wrap your arms around his neck. The soft ends of his curls brush against your wrists and you can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in it at the nape of his neck.

It doesn't take more than a second for his hands to come up and rest on your upper thighs, drawn there subconsciously, like magnets, like gravity. The weight of his palms there, on you, feels like something you’ve spent your whole life looking for. His skin is always so warm, you've noticed, but whether it’s some effect of the Sentry drug or just Bob, you don’t know. You can feel the heat of his skin now, even though the thin material of your skirt and it feels almost unfairly nice, warm and comforting like clothes fresh out of the laundry.

“It’s just… I’m supposed to be the strong one,” he says eventually, with the small sort of smile you’re starting to think he reserves just for you alone.

You pull back in his lap so you can look at him, a shaft of golden sunlight reflecting in the deep blue of his eyes. They almost glow like that, warmer and brighter, in a way that his powers could never match.

“Who gives a shit,” you murmur as you brush your nose against his, a not-quite nuzzle that he chases like daylight in a life of dark wintertime.

“I do–” he starts to protest before you press your lips to the corner of his mouth and you feel his fingers twitch on your thighs.

“Mmm, nope, no time for self-deprecation,” you say as you trail your lips over the apples of his cheeks in quick, teasing kisses until you feel the soft puff of his laughter on your neck. “Too bad. You’re out of luck, I’m afraid. You have a mean girlfriend.”

“Say that again,” he murmurs breathily, burying his face in the crook of your neck so quickly that it tickles you.

“What? That you have a mean girlfriend? Rude.”

“No, that I have a girlfriend.”

Oh.

It’s the only word your brain seems able to form, that singular oh, as his sentence hits you straight in the chest, your heart stuttering like some dumb teenager with a crush. You don’t know how he manages to make you feel like this, to catch you off guard with a sweetness you could only describe as golden, to make your stomach feel caught between flying and falling.

You arch your neck so you can look down at him and, fuck, do you wish that you could sear that image into your brain, so you could never stop seeing it, seeing him like this, as long as you live. That light blush of happiness on his cheeks, his hair tousled by your hands, and the soft glimmer in his eyes like he can’t quite believe this moment is real. And honestly, you’re not sure you can either.

That he’s all yours, your Bob.

You smile at him, something stupid and goofy, and you’re not quite sure who starts it, but the next thing you know his lips are pressed against yours. Kissing him isn’t something you think about, not in this moment; it’s an instinct, a reflex. You cradle his face in your palms, pressing your chest against his, as if you can’t stand any air between your bodies and you swear you can feel the racing of his heart.

“You’re just trying to distract me,” you say between slow, open mouthed kisses. “And change the subject.”

“I’ll say whatever you want me to say if you keep kissing me like that.” He chases your lips, before ghosting his mouth over the curve of your jaw.

“Aren’t you sweet,” you tease weakly, rocking against him.

“Sweet for you,” he says, brushing his lips against the spot just behind your ear that makes your entire body shiver against him.

And you want to laugh because it’s just so cliché, this squirming of something like butterflies in your stomach and the way your heart races with these ridiculous electric sparks every time you’re with him, it’s all a part of this incandescent happiness that you thought only existed in the movies. You want to tell him that, want to reassure him in no uncertain terms that he will always be more than enough for you, but when you pull back to look at him your ability to form coherent sentences dissolves like morning mist. Because his eyes are so big and dark looking up at you, because his lips are pink and slick with your spit, because you want him more than you’ve ever wanted anyone in your whole life.

So you don't say anything, instead you rake your fingers through his tangled curls and pull him back to you, slipping your tongue into his mouth, hoping the kiss communicates everything you're too scared to say. And, right then, you swear you can taste his smile in his kiss. His hands slide up from your thighs, rubbing up and down the curve of your hips as his kisses get harder. It’s like he’s trying to breathe the air from your lungs, your bodies moving against each other instinctually.

“It’s not fair that you look like that,” you gasp out as you pull back to drag in a ragged breath and Bob moves to attack your neck with kisses.

“Like what?"

You just groan in response, pulling back just long enough for you to tug your shirt up and over your head and toss it carelessly behind you, before his mouth is on yours again. His hands dive under your skirt, bunching up the material around your waist, as you tug at his shirt. You can feel his fingers digging into the curve of your ass, hungry, always so hungry, before the problem of your situation becomes clear and you pull back laughing.

“Fuck,” you manage to get out between giggles. “I don’t know how to get my underwear off in this position.”

There’s a second where he looks at you with those big, guileless eyes, confused before you see the glint of something mischievous. A small quirk of his lips is the only warning you get before you hear the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric, the tattered pieces in his hands now all that’s left of what used to be your panties.

“Bob!”

“Told you I was the strong one,” he says with a smile that vaguely reminds you of a very self-satisfied cat.

“And how exactly are you planning on getting your pants off, genius? Gonna rip them off too?”

He groans a complaint low in his throat, burying his face between your breasts.

It takes a few tries of him fumbling with the button on his pants before he wraps one arm around you, the other struggling to lift both of your weights and slide out of his clothes. The awkward shimmy he ends up doing as he tries to shove his pants far enough down to free his cock has you laughing hard enough that your eyes are wet, your forehead resting on his shoulder as you gasp for breath.

“I’m sorry,” you manage to get out between giggles.

“Being laughed at isn’t exactly sexy,” he grumbles under his breath.

“Mmm, but I do think you’re extremely sexy. Even when you’re wriggling around like a dead fish trying to get your pants off.”

“God, you’re the worst.”

“Say that like you mean it,” you tease and pull him close for another kiss, laughing into his mouth.

If he does it on purpose to shut you up or he’s just impatient you don’t know, but your laughter cuts off abruptly when you feel the heat of his bare cock pressing against you. The wetness coating your inner thighs betrays how badly you want him, his cock easily sliding against your pussy, teasing you with the promise of penetration. You nip at his lower lip playfully, cunt clenching around nothing, before you start to sink down on him.

Nails digging lightly into his shoulder, you gasp against his lips as he stretches you open on his cock. The weight of him inside you, the thickness that makes you feel just this side of burning, is enough to have your toes curling in your socks. You stay there for a second sitting in his lap, forehead pressed against his, his cock buried all the way inside you. Both of your mouths are open, panting and sharing air, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. And you know, down to your core, that you’ll never get enough of him, enough of this feeling, a lust that burns bright with happiness in a way that you’re not sure you’ve ever felt before.

His body is so still under you, almost every muscle tensed, as if he’s fighting for his life in a losing battle with his own self-control. Fuck, to be wanted this much, by him, it makes you head swim and your pussy clench down on him. You almost feel guilty when you hear him groan in response right next to your ear, a broken noise that sounds torn straight from his throat. He says your name, voice low and rough, nipping at your ear on instinct alone, and you hear it for the plea that it is.

On shaky thigh muscles you rise up, arms wrapping around his neck partly for leverage and partly because you think that if you stop touching him there’s a very real chance you might die. You don’t pull off of him all the way, keeping the swollen head of his cock buried inside you before sliding back down with a stuttered breath. The friction zings up your spine, something electric, and you can practically feel your clit throb in response.

His hands on your waist help your movement; he’s so strong you know he could move you up and down his cock like a toy if he wanted to, he’s done it before when you begged him to, but now his grip is painfully gentle on your skin as he lets you set the pace. It feels reverent, the way his palms slide up your back, settling over your ribs before he slides the strap of your bra down your shoulders and covers your chest in hot, openmouthed kisses. You back arches, as you toss your head back, pressing against his mouth, and it makes the head of his cock bump against that spot inside you that sends white lights exploding behind your eyes.

You move faster, more bouncing on his cock than measured thrusts now, your fingers tangling in the dark curls of his hair as you chase the delicious friction he's making against your front wall. You roll your hips as he thrusts up from underneath you, and you have to brace one hand against the back of the couch to ground yourself from feeling like you'll float away from the feeling, your nails digging into the fabric.

He murmurs praise under his breath, so low you can barely hear it, more talking to himself than to you. “Feel so good, fuck, so pretty and perfect.”

His hands never stop moving, ghosting lightly over every inch of your skin.

“I–” and you manage to cut yourself off right before the confession leaves your lips, but it still hits you with the intensity of a runaway train when your fuzzy brain realizes exactly what you were about to say. Even more when you realize that you meant it. I love you. And, fuck, you really do.

“What is it, angel? Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you say in a wrecked moan.

He looks up at you, messy dark curls in his face that you push back with sweaty palms, before he surges up for a kiss. It’s messy, more just a press of lips and tongue, of sharing air, than anything else. His hands roam restlessly, moving up from your back to squeeze your breast before moving down to toy with your clit in a way that has your hips stuttering.

You can feel your orgasm building almost embarrassingly quickly, the pressure growing at a speed that makes your vision blur and go spotty. It takes only a few desperate downward strokes before the light explodes behind your eyes, and you cum with a gasping moan. He holds you tight to his chest as you shake, your eyes rolling back in your head as the waves hit you so hard your mind goes black. Your whole body buzzes with it, an intensity of feeling that has you struggling to breathe. You can distantly feel your cunt clamp down on his cock, fluttering around him in rhythm with the electric pleasure running through your body until your toes are tingling.

“Beautiful, so fucking perfect,” you hear Bob mumbling in your ear as you come back to yourself.

He lays you down on the couch with a gentleness that would send a shiver through your body if you weren’t so thoroughly fucked out. He moves faster now, that restraint you felt earlier in his body fully abandoned as he chases his own release in you. He gasps out half-coherent apologies and praise into your ear, his fingers digging into your hip. You feel his cock twitch inside you, the shudder that wracks his whole body, and then he’s coming inside you. His hips press forward, getting his cock as deep inside you as possible as the warmth of his cum fills you up until you feel it running down your thighs and the curve of your ass. You spare a passing thought to your couch before you catch a glimpse of his face as he cums and decide you’d be willing to buy a whole new couch just to keep that expression on his face for a moment longer.

“So good,” he groans, voice slurred and lazy with pleasure as you feel him soften inside you.

Bob rolls to the side when he collapses forward as you both try to catch your breath, so thoughtful even half-drunk on pleasure that he doesn’t want to squish you under his weight. He tucks his head into the curve of your neck, breath tickling the hairs at the nape of your neck as his fingers stroke slowly and ever so gently up and down your spine. It’s tempting to just bask in this moment, but the words are out before you can second guess yourself.

“You know you don’t have to do shit for me, right? That’s not what this is,” you murmur gently, pushing up to look at his flushed face. His very, very pretty face. “It’s not like some sort of relationship ATM thing, where you have to put favors in to get girlfriend privileges or whatever.”

“I know, it’s just… I know it isn’t easy. Me. Being with me,” his fingers trace nervous patterns on your skin as he talks. “I want to make it better for you.”

“I don’t care about easy, I care about you.”

He takes a deep breath as if to protest, before you stop him by covering his mouth with the palm of your hand. “Shut up, stop doing things, and get cared for, you idiot.”

“Ok, but you should know that before you got here, I did your dishes,” he replies, voice muffled through your hand.

#ella how could u do this to me #rose loves ella #fic recs

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fairyysoup · 12 hours ago

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leveret

pairing(s): remmick (sinners) x reader

summary: letting your vampire boyfriend fuck you with his big meaty claws. because of woke.

words: 1.5k

cw: explicit, smut, fingering, shy!reader, reader with breasts and vagina, reader referred to as 'little', monsterfucking, predator/prey dynamic, porn without plot, porn with themes, blood kink, pain kink, claws, scratching, spit kink, teasing, humiliation, sort of tender remmick if you squint, a singular pussy spank, vaginal wounds, stigma claws in your pussy

a/n: short but sweet present to myself bc i didn't write as much claw action in hunger stone as i originally meant to 😇

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Leveret: (n.) a young hare (an animal similar to a large rabbit, known for its aggressive libido in springtime)

"Don't… move…"

Hard knuckles rock over your clit— one, two, three— making your hips twitch despite his warning. A startled breath rattles in your lungs. His hand pauses, one knuckle pressed unflinchingly hard against the swollen flesh like a reprimand.

You could hear a pin drop. The room is still, cast with shadows, although there's a glow emanating from around the boards nailed to the window's edge. Everything is blanketed by warm lamplight and a thin layer of dust covers all but the bed (of course not the bed, never the bed). Your hands sink deep into the mattress beneath you. Your bare legs are parted by his, jean-clad, unyielding. The tension curls between you two like a fog.

Remmick's eyes are blue, but they still manage to scorch you where you lay, untethered to reality. He has to hold you there beneath it, because he can't trust you not to squirm away from him. He can't trust himself not to annihilate you at the first drop of your blood. And what he's about to do to you— what you asked him to do to you, mind you— might not end without a bit of it.

He drags the length of one long, impossibly long, clawed finger through your folds with a wet schlick that cuts through the silence and raises the hair on your neck. Your face burns like it's been held to a fire. Your hips fight to buck against his hand.

"D'ya like that, darlin'?" His voice is sinful, smooth and sweet as honey. Remmick's face holds a self-aggrandizing smirk, like it usually does, but behind it is a bit of awe. He's not used to being desired so entirely.

Your mouth, flooded with saliva, refuses to open for your reply. The evidence is right there on his fingers; it was a rhetorical question. Laid out before him, you tremble like some harmless prey animal that can sense its demise and only run away.

Remmick breathes in through his nose, takes a long, indulgent lungful of the scent wafting up at him from between your legs. He groans obscenely, letting his head roll back on his shoulders like it's enough to make him cum.

You finally break. You turn your face away from the sight of him, a lump in your throat, a fever beneath your skin. He loves to tease you, loves to make you squirm— he loves to toy with you and see how long it takes you to lose your composure.

"No-no-no, don't you hide from me," Remmick tsks, spreading his thighs further to splay your legs wide. You feel ever more exposed by the drag of his dirty denim jeans against your bare skin. Above his white undershirt, a trickle of perspiration trails through his chest hair. The gold chain around his neck hangs tantalizingly over you, suspended in the air.

His hand captures your chin and yanks your head back to center. "No gettin' all shy now. You're gonna stay right there and watch while I do this to you."

You don't have it in you to move away again, but you do whimper as you fix him with a glassy stare. "Baby—"

"Shh." His eyes are so deep you could drown in them.

Remmick rears back and spits onto your pussy. You gasp, feeling the hot drip of it, from your clit down to your entrance. He shushes you again, his eyes fixed there between your legs, watching it glisten against your cunt.

"Look a' that," he whispers, to himself more than you. He runs his knuckles through your folds again, kicking up a lewd noise in the silence, getting his hand drenched with it. When you squirm against him, he cracks one palm against your clit, making you yelp.

"Remmick!"

"Told ya not to move," he grits out, and you notice a warning flash of his teeth. It's this that finally gets you to will yourself to stay still— humiliated, but still. He waits a beat, watching to ensure that you don't move again.

So slowly that you barely even feel it at the start, one long clawed finger dips into your pussy. You moan, wanting so badly to rock against the intrusion but unable to. The stretch is unbelievable, his claws thicker than they seem upon first glance. Your walls squeeze around his single digit, greedy and insatiable.

"Fuckin' filthy," Remmick breathes, watching as the long talon disappears inside you, feeling the warmth of your flesh quivering around him. He doesn't dare curl it, but just sinks it further until he feels the end of you pressed against the tip of his nail. He hisses, halting all movement, gauging your reaction.

Your breathing is short, almost frantic, and you scratch at the sheets for an outlet to unload your frustration onto. It's so deep inside you, so sharp, it strikes an electric jolt of fear through you. It's pleasure balanced on the tip of a knife. It only stokes your desire even more.

"Please," you whimper, not above begging and already near blubbering. "Please move."

Remmick quirks a brow. He doesn't understand it, not entirely, but he can smell your fear and your arousal— it's pouring off of you in waves, making the animal part of him hunger for your blood.

He hollows out to the first knuckle, devastatingly slow, twisting as he goes so that you feel the curve of his claw scraping at your walls. You nearly shout, the muscles in your neck tightening with how you grip the sheets.

Remmick plants a hand on your stomach, holding your hips down. His fingers, long enough to reach up to your sternum and prick the skin, press against the curve of your breast. His voice is way too sugary for his words. "Stop fuckin' squirming, honey. Ya wanted it, you're gonna take it like I give it."

He's straining against his jeans; you can see the tent in them when he crowds forward, pressing your hips farther upwards onto his lap. He licks his lips, sighs quietly in concentration.

He adds a second digit beside the first.

You keen loudly. "Oh, fuck—" It's so much, almost too much. They're so long and thick, hard against your softness even when he's careful (and you know that he's trying to be, you know it).

He stills, lets you get used to the intrusion, the stretch. His forearm flexes with his restraint, veins bulging. Remmick is a patient man, in spite of his recklessness. He'll wait you out, sit still until you do what he says, but he'll always give you what you ask for.

You moan. Arch your back just the tiniest bit, the littlest circle of your hips. His hand twitches on your stomach, a quiet grunt leaving his lips. He doesn't have to say it again— you force yourself to lie still. It's harder than it should be. It's unfair, really, that you can't grind yourself on them the way that you want.

But you're so fucking wet. Your eyes shine, watching as he moves his fingers, so slow, so gentle. He feels no resistence except the pulse of your walls around him, hears nothing in the room but the soft hitch of your breath and the slick sounds of his fingers inside you.

Remmick gives you a huff of a laugh that sounds almost disbelieving.

"You're like some horny little leveret," he murmurs, his lips barely moving with how focused he is. "So desperate for it you'll lay down and take these fuckin' things? Not givin' you enough, am I?"

Your face screws up when he pushes in again, until you feel full to the brim, until you can feel the press of his claws up against your cervix. "N— no, you do, I just— I…"

You trail off. He's dragging back out again, until he leaves you empty entirely. The length of his claws glisten with your arousal, and there, at the very tips of them, they're tinged pink with just a bit of your blood.

Remmick smells it. Takes a big whiff like it's some kind of perfume sample, leaving you feeling debased and inexplicably turned on at the same time. Your mouth hangs agape. He wants to spit into it.

"'You just' what, darlin'?" He asks you, and his eyes are red. He traces the length of his claw with his tongue, watching you as he does, and closes his eyes in bliss when he comes to taste your blood. A relieved moan leaves him, like he'd been hankering for it. "Go on. Tell me."

"I just like them," you whisper, finally voicing the truth of the matter. Why you'd asked him to fuck you with his claws. Why you didn't care when he said it would hurt. Why that's part of the appeal. "'Cos they're yours."

He blinks. You've surprised him.

"Bad luck to hurt a hare, y'know," he remarks after a moment, tilting his head matter-of-factly. Like he isn't still licking his hands clean of you, the motion akin to an animal grooming itself. "The aos sí might have a thing or two to say."

You squirm against the unrelenting force of his thighs. He shifts, hooking his ankles around yours to pin your legs apart. You gasp. "Rem—"

"Not like I'm known for good decisions. I'll apologize later."

This time, he doesn't stop until you cum around them.

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