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m-3-rcil-3-ss · 25 days ago

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Omfg

pairings: robert reynolds x reader, slight void x reader cw: smut, afab reader, mention and usage of drugs, food play, oral (male and female receiving), messy sex, unprotected sex, trauma responses, nursing, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum).

a/n: im not taking specific requests but if you have any other characters you want me to write for send them in my asks!

bob was a consuming person.

so much so that when he enjoyed something, he’d try—truly try—to take it in little pieces. like a child with sugar, licking the edges before the center. like a user with a final hit, drawing it out even as his body screamed to finish it. as if savoring was a form of prayer—an act of desperate hope that the thing he loved wouldn’t vanish when it was gone.

you think it’s a condition carved into him from the inside out, from years of addiction that had rewired the marrow of his being. he’d whisper the stories when he couldn’t sleep, his voice cracking as he spoke into your skin. the first time he smoked meth—how the world sharpened and dulled at once, like standing on the edge of a lightning bolt. how it ate time. how he stopped knowing when the sun had set. when his own name had last sounded human.

he only talks about it when you’re holding him. always in moments where your skin is touching his, like he needs the reality of your body to anchor the unreality of his memories.

like now.

you’re both submerged in the bath, the water thick with oils and salt. it’s not warm anymore, but neither of you cares. you’re straddling him, your thighs trembling against his sides, facing him—always facing him, as he asks. he tells you it keeps him here. grounded. you don’t question it anymore. his eyes are closed, lashes wet and golden, his mouth parted just enough for steam to kiss his lips. you rake your nails through his scalp, the conditioner lathering with a gentle foam as your fingers work slow circles into his head.

he moans—not from lust, not yet—but from the sheer relief of it. as if even this, even the gentle tug of your fingers through his curls, is a high he’s trying to stretch until it snaps.

and it always snaps.

bob needed coping mechanisms. dr. cornish, the one they assigned him after the thunderbolts briefing, liked to call them “rituals.” anchor points for an unstable mind. repetitive comforts that warded off the noise. he tried to adopt some of the healthier ones—you’d find him pressed against your chest like a child some mornings, nursing at your nipple with a single-mindedness that stole the breath from your lungs. the fifth time that day, no less. sometimes with tears drying on his cheeks, sometimes with a smile against your skin.

other times, it was baking.

that's one you could get behind. he was good at it—shockingly so. quietly focused, movements precise like he was defusing a bomb instead of folding batter. maybe it was the control. the order. the step-by-step promise that if he did everything right, sweetness would come out of the wreckage.

but there was still something wrong with how he looked at you when you ate it.

not just hunger. not just lust. reverence. the kind of look that should’ve been reserved for a god—if bob believed in anything higher than your moan when the spoon hit your tongue.

“this is so good, bob,” you’d said once, mouth full of still-warm vanilla cake. you were just being honest. it was good. light, soft, and impossibly fluffy.

but his face went red. and below the counter, you caught the twitch of his cock in his sweatpants. the way his fingers clenched the edge of the marble so hard you heard it creak.

he got hard from that.

from your praise.

and now?

now you’re sat in front of bob, bob’s legs slightly spread on the bed, his cake frosting is everywhere. slicked across his stomach, smeared over his thighs. he’s got a piping bag discarded on the nightstand, and the tip of his cock is flushed deep pink, glistening with milk pre and vanilla-sugar cream in a mess you can’t tell apart.

his mind is like a bee hive, he’s high, high off your touch, the mere thought of this moment. you want to taste what he made. you want to taste him. every pass of your tongue makes him sob.

“love when y—you do that,” he gasps, hips jerking up to meet your mouth. his fingers tangle in your hair, frosting slicking your scalp. “wanna bake for you more. wanna feed you. wanna be ‘s good for you.”

it’s breathless. mindless. the kind of manic devotion you used to hear in his voice when he described scoring meth on a dirty downtown corner, how it made the sky fall away and time collapse into a tunnel of white.

only now, it’s you. your praise. your mouth on him like some kind of holy retribution for all the years his body went unloved.

you take him deeper, and the milk pre leaks out in thick drips that mix with the frosting. it’s obscene. sticky. it clings to your lips, your chin, your tongue. bob groans like he’s being sanctified.

yeah, baking was good.

healthy. normal. or at least whatever normal meant for the two of you. a rhythm that made sense, something you could explain if ross’s team ever asked how he was coping. you could say, he’s staying clean. he’s baking. he’s using his hands for something that doesn’t kill people or break bones. and it would be true.

but what you couldn’t explain—what wouldn’t make it into his logs or therapy sessions or mission briefings—was bob’s infatuation with your arousal.

that wasn’t healthy. it wasn’t even about sex, not really. it was closer to need, the same primal, destabilizing kind that used to claw up his spine when he was coming down off meth. back when his body would turn inside out trying to chase the next high, chewing through hours, days, memories, just to feel anything again.

it’s obscene. sick, even.

the way his golden eyes gleam when you’re spread out for him like an offering, the slick between your thighs catching the light like it’s sacrament. he stares like a man who’s found god at the bottom of a spoon. he shudders when you drip—literally shudders, full-body tremors rolling down his spine—and then his mouth is on you like nothing else matters.

he’s whining into your core, greedy and wet, his mouth messy with your slick. not dainty licks. no performance. just raw hunger. sloppy and animal. his nose grinds into your clit with every upward drag of his tongue, breath sharp and hot as he pants against your folds.

pink lips swollen and glazed with arousal—your arousal—he moans like he’s being spoon-fed ambrosia.

you feel the mattress jolt rhythmically beneath you, and that’s when you realize his hips are rocking into it—humping like a teenager, rubbing himself against the sheets with frantic, desperate friction. he’s not touching himself. not really. his arms are locked around your thighs, hands bruising your hips as he holds you in place, but his cock drags uselessly against the bed, leaking precum onto the sheets in long, creamy smears that soak into the fabric.

the bed is wet beneath him—obscenely so—and you don’t know if it’s spit, slick, or that heavy stream of milk-pre that keeps dripping from the flushed tip of his cock.

you try to pull away once—just to breathe—but his arms tighten instantly, almost bruising.

“no,” he gasps against you. “no, baby—need it. please. i’ll be good, i swear—i just need to finish—need to taste all of it—”

you go still at the tone. that shaking, stuttering panic in his voice that sounds exactly like the way he spoke the first time he described a come-down. that same hoarse terror of having tasted heaven and knowing it would leave him.

and now? now your body is his new fix.

“what do i do?”

your voice cracks slightly, softer than you meant it to be, but you don’t take it back. “is there anything i can do?”

you’re in one of the old auxiliary lounges, where the plaster is peeling from water damage and the overhead light flickers like it’s choosing its own rhythm. the thunderbolts base isn’t exactly warm—ross’s money goes to suppression collars and clean containment zones, not comfort—but the space here feels lived-in. abandoned cushions scattered across the floor. a broken projector in the corner, dust covering the lens. the scent of weed hangs heavy in the air like incense from another world—slow-burning, warm, and strangely grounding.

ava and yelena are here already, sunk low into mismatched cushions. you didn’t expect to find anyone when you pushed open the door. least of all them—yelena with her ever-present smirk and chip on her shoulder, and ava, distant as a half-finished ghost. the air is thick with smoke and the quiet echo of some half-finished conversation. you catch it in fragments—something about schedules, about the facility’s restrictions tightening again after he broke through another training room wall.

you hadn’t planned to talk about bob. not really. but the words slipped out like a loose thread you pulled too hard. thankfully you hadn’t told them everything, not the titty sucking, not his unusual obsessions, just the necessary.

“i need bob to develop a habit,” you said, pacing slightly, arms folded tight across your chest. “a healthy one. something small. something that helps.”

ava didn’t say anything for a moment. you thought she was ignoring you, lost in whatever tension was holding her shoulders so rigid. but she looked up, and her gaze was steady, the kind that makes you feel like she’s already weighed your heart on a scale and found it just barely balanced.

“well,” ava finally said, lifting the blunt in her hand and eyeing it like it was a practical tool rather than a vice, “this is something.”

you frowned. not out of judgment—but hesitation.

“it’s still weed.”

yelena raised an eyebrow. “and?”

“he used to be an addict.” you didn’t say the drug. you didn’t need to. they both knew. the shadows of bob reynolds’s history clung to every whispered briefing and side-eyed glance from new agents. “i’m not sure it’s safe. what if it’s a slippery slope?”

yelena exhaled sharply, not annoyed—more like someone trying not to laugh at something that isn’t funny. she leaned back, arms draped over the edge of the couch, her russian accent thicker than usual as she said, “you know what else is a slippery slope? repressing everything until he explodes a ceiling panel.”

you didn’t smile, but your lips twitched.

“he’s… overwhelmed,” you admitted. “there’s nothing between him and the world anymore. not even the wrong things. no armor. no filter. just him.”

that quiet you always feared settled over the room. the kind of quiet where everything that needed saying sat too close to the surface.

“he’s not going back to that,” you added quickly. “the meth. i know him. he’s—he’s past that. but the rest of it… i don’t know how to give him something to hold onto.”

yelena tilted her head. “you don’t. not alone. he has to want to hold it.”

then ava shifted, and for a moment you thought she was going to disengage again. but instead, she reached beside her into a small tin box. quietly, without drama, she took out a slim, clean blunt wrapper, a soft brown papery roll, and held it out.

“don’t light it,” she said. “don’t smoke it, not until he’s ready at least, just—hold onto it. think about whether it’s worse to give him nothing than to give him something small.”

she handed you a small sealable bag too. not heavy. just enough flower to roll a tight, simple blunt.

the paper crackled slightly in your hands.

“does this help you?” you asked.

ava’s expression didn’t change. “sometimes. when i phase too much, i can’t feel gravity. can’t feel my own weight. this pulls me back. not always. not perfectly. but enough.”

that stayed with you.

not perfectly. but enough.

you looked over at yelena. her eyes were sharper than usual. maybe she’d smoked less than she let on. maybe she was always sharper than she acted.

“i’d rather him have a little control over something,” you murmured, “than none at all.”

yelena smiled faintly. “then you’re already ahead of half the people who’ve tried to manage him.”

the weight of the blunt paper in your palm felt strange. like it carried more than it should. but it wasn’t loaded yet. not with meaning. not with history. not until you brought it to him.

you didn’t know what he’d say. if he’d flinch. if he’d beg for it. if he’d refuse.

but maybe this wasn’t about curing him. maybe this wasn’t about fixing a man who could crush continents and still wake up crying in your lap.

maybe it was about giving him a moment. just one moment where the static faded and he could feel something gentle.

you slide the window open with both hands, the metal frame groaning softly as it gives way.

the air outside is cool, not cold, but crisp in that way that promises storm clouds far off on the horizon—maybe days away. it smells like ozone and dirt and trees that have long since surrendered to the lab-converted facility grounds. you leave it wide open, enough for the scent to reach the bed and lift the heaviness from the air inside.

two weeks.

two weeks since ava gave you the small little bag.

you reach into the drawer like it’s something sacred, fingers curling around the soft bag ava gave you and lifting it out with quiet reverence. you don’t speak, not yet. just move with purpose. calm. like this is a habit you’ve done before. like you aren’t still caught somewhere between guilt and resolve.

bob watches you from the bed.

he’s stretched out across the mattress, loose grey t-shirt tugged slightly at the hem from the way he’d been curled there moments ago. there’s always a quiet tension in him, even now—like his body doesn’t know how to be still unless it’s pressed to yours, wrapped around you like a question he can’t stop asking. his eyes follow your every move, curious but cautious, like he’s trying to decode something you haven’t said aloud.

you climb onto the bed beside him, moving slowly. no words. you place the small bag between you like it’s something fragile. not a drug, not a solution—just something else. something new. it sits there, nestled in the folds of the comforter, light as air and heavier than guilt.

it feels like offering something at an altar. just the two of you. a very, very small cult of your own design.

bob stares at it.

then at you.

a slow smile breaks across his face—gentle at the edges, stretched thin with something heavier beneath it. it isn’t mocking. not quite playful, either. it’s soft and cautious, the kind of smile someone offers after surviving a collapse. his gold-flecked eyes seem to flicker with recognition. not of the bag itself, but of what it means for you to give it to him. to trust him with it.

there’s history behind that look. shared history. unearthed in your bed, in the quiet tension of his comedown nightmares, in every time he’s reached for you instead of something chemical.

“i’ve smoked weed before, if that’s what you’re stressed about,” he says, voice featherlight and teasing, though there’s a question buried somewhere in it. “when did you leave—to get it?” his tone shifts. less joking. a flash of something a little wounded. like he’s asking, did i lose time again? did you go somewhere and i didn’t follow?

you settle beside him again, the mattress sinking slightly under your weight. the room is quiet in that specific, padded way it always gets when bob is calm—calm enough not to break it. you glance at the bag, then back at him.

“ava gave it to me. she said it helps her come back into her body. when she phases too much.”

bob nods, just once, slow. his hands don’t move. they stay crossed over his chest, protective, hesitant. like if he reaches too fast, the intimacy will collapse and he’ll shatter something.

you hesitate. “i thought it might help you. i didn’t want to push anything. that’s why i waited.��

he stares at you for a long second, then lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “i already have things that help me,” he mutters, lips pink and pouting, breath catching a little. “can we just do what we usually do?”

and you hear what he’s really asking: are you getting sick of me? am i too much today?

your answer is immediate.

“yes. of course.”

his next question is soft, almost startled by your quickness.

“now?”

you barely nod. but that’s all he needs. the moment doesn’t erupt—it dissolves, like a sugar cube dropped into hot water. melting on contact. losing shape. sweet, cloying, overwhelming.

bob melts into you with a desperation that feels ancient, almost reverent. his cock is flushed, leaking, and slick with need already—just the sight of you has him soaked and sticky, dribbling messily onto the dip of his stomach. your fingers wrap around him like muscle memory, and he chokes on a whine, thrusting helplessly into your palm. his head buries into your chest as though he could crawl inside your skin, mouth wet and needy against your breastbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses over your sweat-damp skin.

you stroke him slowly, firmly, and his hips stutter. but after a long, trembling second—he pulls away.

“wait,” he gasps, his voice tight and hoarse. “wait—wait, i want—”

you expect him to say he wants you to keep going. or to finish him. or to ride him until he forgets his own name. that would’ve been simpler. expected.

but he slips from your grasp like something slithering down a drain and drops between your thighs with the urgency of a man crawling to an altar.

you suck in a breath.

bob’s fingers hook into the band of your underwear and he pauses when he feels it—how soaked it is, how ruinously wet. his eyes flutter. a tremor runs down his spine. when he breathes out, it sounds like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

then his tongue flicks out—just once. a single taste against the damp fabric. a sample. a test.

the moan that follows is guttural. obscene. he shakes like something short-circuiting.

then he tears the fabric aside entirely.

two fingers push into you fast, curling upward immediately like he’s been here before, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. and he does. you feel it in the way his breath catches, in the way his shoulders hunch as he groans into your inner thigh.

“fuck,” he chokes, voice thick, reverent. “fuck, there it is. there you are—give it to me, please, i promise i earned it—”

his fingers are soaked in seconds. slick strings down his knuckles, dripping messily onto his wrist, his forearm, pooling into the pale hairs of his arm. he doesn’t stop. he watches it coat his skin with wide, worshipful eyes—like he’s just been handed a chalice of liquid salvation.

he slides his fingers back through your folds. deliberate. tender. dragging every last drop out of you and smearing it across his palm, like he’s anointing himself with it.

“i need all of it,” he murmurs. “please. don’t—don’t stop me. i need all of it.”

and you let him. because it’s not want in his voice anymore—it’s need, low and cracked and vulnerable. as if this isn’t sex anymore. as if this is what keeps him tethered to his body. to reality. to you.

then he’s off the bed. ungraceful, stumbling a little as he moves. his boxers cling halfway down his thighs, and his cock bobs with every shaky breath he takes—angry red and shining with precum, twitching like it’s still reaching for your hand. but he’s focused now. possessed.

he reaches for the tin on the nightstand with trembling hands. opens it with care, reverence. fingers still glossy with your slick, he spreads the weed. adds more with a shake of the tin. he doesn’t wipe his hands before rolling. he doesn’t want to. instead, he drags his wet fingers along the paper, smearing your arousal into the crease with slow, circular motions. the mixture is darkened, muddied. his hands are filthy with it.

there’s no hesitation. no shame. he groans as he does it, low in his throat, the sound pure and broken.

the weed darkens. your slick coats it in glistening trails—milky and viscous, seeping into the crumbled flower like a slow infection. he mixes it with methodical slowness, hands dirty and glistening, not bothering to clean himself. he doesn’t want to. every movement is a sacrament.

then he lays out the paper. flat and clean. a blank page, soon to be rewritten in you.

he spreads the weed. presses it down with your wetness still on his fingers, dragging sticky circles into the paper’s seam. it stains dark. faintly pink, faintly cloudy. a corrupted ritual.

he doesn’t wipe off the excess. just rolls, slow and precise. the blunt comes together loose and heavy with wetness, a messy thing wrapped in prayer. and when it’s time to seal it, he doesn’t even blink.

his tongue drags along the edge—coating it with spit and come, warm breath misting over the paper. his lips are glossy with arousal and resin when he pulls away.

the lighter clicks. orange glow catching on his trembling hands.

he brings the blunt to his lips. inhales. deep. like he’s starving.

the first hit makes his chest jolt. he coughs once, eyes squeezing shut—but when he exhales, the smoke rolls out slow and thick, spiraling upward in a fog of earthy haze tinged with something more intimate. the air smells like resin and sweat. like sex and something holy. he’s breathing you in, you’re in his lungs.

he climbs back onto the bed like a man crawling toward god.

you’re spread open still, thighs parted. his eyes go glassy again when he sees you. the glowing end of the blunt smears ash across your stomach as he lowers himself, one hand gripping your thigh like he needs grounding.

“just gonna slip inside,” he murmurs, voice cracked and boyish. “i’ll be good. gentle. i promise.”

you nod. his whole body shudders—no, convulses—like something bigger than lust is tearing through him. his hips twitch forward involuntarily, like muscle memory dragging him to where he already imagines himself buried. his cock nudges between your folds, and the sound he makes isn’t a moan so much as a whimper. half-formed. desperate.

then he blinks, eyes glassy, realigning his body like it’s hard to remember what’s real. his cock, flushed deep red and sticky with precome, slides against you, dragging through the mess you’ve made together. your slick coats him in thick strings, clinging from his shaft to your cunt like a second skin. he gasps. the sound is hoarse—cracked from smoke and begging. it’s the same kind of noise he used to make coming down from a binge, the same full-body tremble, the same too-much-too-soon terror. only now, it’s you. your heat. your wetness.

and then he presses in.

it’s not graceful. it’s raw. sloppy. his tip catches, then pushes past with a sticky squelch that’s downright filthy, like your body’s too wet to offer any resistance. his breath catches, lips parting in a silent cry as your walls clamp down. he twitches already, cock jumping in your grip like it’s surprised you took him in. every vein, every pulse, every thick inch pushes through you with painstaking slowness, like he’s trying not to overdose on the sensation.

you see it in the way his face contorts—forehead drawn tight, mouth slack, golden eyes flickering. awe, horror, worship. all tangled together. like he thinks he’s desecrating something sacred just by being allowed inside.

“fuck!—oh god, you—” his voice breaks into a sob. “you feel better than anything i’ve ever—fuck—better than light, better than flying, better than—than meth—”

he chokes the last word like it burns his tongue, but he means it. you can feel the sincerity in his shudder, the way he buries himself deeper, inch by inch, until your hips meet. his balls press flush to you, soaked now in your slick, and the wet heat of his release chamber rests low and full against your cunt. his whole body curls around you like you’re shelter, like he needs to get closer than skin.

he’s still holding the blunt between trembling fingers, the cherry burning low. ash trails across your thigh from the way his hand keeps jerking with every little pulse of your cunt around him. he tries to raise it to his mouth, but his arm won’t stop shaking—his thrusts have short-circuited his motor control, his need so overwhelming it’s shorted him out completely.

so you guide him—gently, wordlessly—taking the blunt from his fingers and pressing it to his lips like a mother nursing a fevered child. his mouth opens instantly, compliant, hollowing his cheeks around the inhale. he whimpers as he takes it in. then he grabs your face, pulling you close with trembling urgency.

“let me… give you something too.”

he kisses you with smoke still in his lungs, and the moment his lips touch yours he exhales. the heat rushes into you, tasting like weed and sex and something rawer—saliva and your own arousal still smeared across his tongue. the kiss is soaked, wet and messy, full of smoke and spit and want. he moans into your mouth as he exhales, and the sound vibrates down your throat like a tremor. you can taste the thc on him, sharp and bitter, but what coats it is unmistakably you. you’ve become part of him, even in the air he breathes.

he doesn’t let you go.

“wanna stay inside you forever,” he mumbles, delirious now, starting to thrust. the rhythm is nothing—just a series of shallow, broken movements, like his hips can’t remember how to fuck properly because all his focus is on not exploding. “don’t wanna leave. don’t make me leave—please, don’t—”

“i’m not,” you whisper, holding his jaw. his pupils are blown wide, but the rims glow gold. he looks unhinged. beautiful. gone.

somewhere in that molten light, the void watches from behind his eyes. lurking. curious.

“he likes when you’re like this,” bob murmurs, voice strained and breathless against your throat. “when i’m begging. ruined. he thinks it’s fucking hilarious.”

you grip his jaw tighter, eyes blazing. “then let him watch.”

bob’s whole body jolts. the sound he makes is obscene—nearly a sob, loud and broken. his hips stutter as he fucks you harder now, with more desperation than finesse. the blunt is still clutched between your two fingers, smoke leaving a sooty trail along your belly, on your sheets. ash clings to sweat. your skin is sticky with it—damp with his heat, your slick, his come beginning to leak out with every snap of his hips.

his forehead presses to yours. sweat drips from him in hot rivulets, staining the sheets beneath you both. “i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” he’s sobbing now. “you’re gonna make me come. you’re gonna ruin me. don’t stop—don’t stop squeezing—feels so good, so tight, so fucking wet, i can’t—”

you squeeze down on him. deliberately. relentlessly.

and bob lets out a sound which seems like a choked scream.

his orgasm hits him like a convulsion—hips jerking, cock throbbing violently inside you as his come spills out in thick, gushing pulses. it’s messy. it’s gross. you feel it flooding you, leaking down your thighs almost instantly. hot, viscous, obscene. like his body couldn’t hold it in a second longer. like every drop is penance.

he clings to you with the rawness of a man who’s lost everything before and is terrified to lose it again. his arms wrap around you, crushing you to him. he doesn’t pull out. his cock stays buried inside, twitching with aftershocks, like it doesn’t know what to do without you wrapped around it.

he slumps against you, full weight bearing down. you let him. you adjust him to your side when he finally softens, and you raise the blunt to his mouth every few moments as his body tries to come back down. he doesn’t even notice when more come leaks out of you, pooling under your thighs. doesn’t flinch at the way the sheets are soaked. he wants it. he needs the mess.

and from somewhere deep—lower than sound—the void stirs once more.

bob doesn’t flinch. not anymore. he just breathes against your neck, still panting like a newborn, lips parted, skin flushed with something that doesn’t fade.

“i love you,” he mumbles, over and over like a chant. “i love you. don’t make me go back to being alone. please—please.”

“you’re not,” you say, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “you’re not alone. i’ve got you.”

the room is thick with smoke, pungent and heady. the air is dense with sex and sweat, the cloying scent of arousal still sticky on your skin. ash streaks your thighs, smeared in lazy handprints. but none of it matters. what matters is bob. in you. on you. of you.

and he holds onto that like a man who has finally found a drug that doesn’t rot him. something pure. something feral.

something that wants to be inside him just as much as he wants to stay inside you.

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