Ruined ✩ Bob Reynolds
Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader
Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.
Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disaster—Valentina's controlling, the team’s a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like he’s one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesn’t stay quiet. And he definitely doesn’t stay good.
Word count: ~4k
Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore. if you want to be added to my tag list just comment! <3
masterlist.
"Quiet, Bob."
The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows where—somewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.
It had been a long, brutal week.
Valentina had decided that the Thunderbolts—the shiny New Avengers—needed a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?
You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.
Like a fucking boy band.
You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.
"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."
Bucky didn’t even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.
Valentina didn’t stop there.
“You,” she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. “Need to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what I’m paying to make you likable? Not that you aren’t—you’re a doll, really—but come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.”
It was all bullshit. She’d even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.
Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.
Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.
Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearance—literally phased through the floor and didn’t return for hours.
Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."
Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.
And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.
You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.
"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"
You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.
Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.
So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.
And now—
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. “The way you looked in that suit—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”
You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. “You could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve snapped.” He laughed, breathless, voice fraying. “I nearly did.”
He didn't even make it to the bench.
By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in seconds—knees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.
You thanked God for wearing a dress.
He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.
He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.
Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.
Bob swore, loud and wrecked—“Fuckfuckfuck—” his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.
“God, you feel so fucking good—tight—perfect—I can’t—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth.
“Quiet, Bob.”
He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your ass, your thighs—like he didn’t know what to hold onto first.
You started to move—fast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.
Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldn’t help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.
Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.
“You’re so—fuck,—you’re so perfect—need this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like this—God, yesssss"
You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.
“You like being under me like this?”
He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.
“Mhm—yes—fuck, please—you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. “Been thinking about this—every night—every time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my knees—wanted to ruin you or be ruined, didn’t even fucking care—just needed you.”
You grinned, filthy and pleased. “And now you’re ruined under me.”
He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.
“You feel that?” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. “That’s how deep you are. You’re so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. God—you feel so fucking good."
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. “Such a good girl. God, you take me so fucking well—look at you—riding me like I belong to you—”
“You do,” you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. “You’re mine right now. You hear me?”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck—yours—always—please god don’t fucking stop—”
You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.
“Quiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."
He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept moving—fast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.
And just when he was seconds away from breaking—
Hiss. The door slid open.
“Oh my fucking god.”
Yelena’s voice hit like a bullet.
You froze. Bob’s eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.
Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “The armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, not—whatever the hell this is.”
Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.
Yelena pointed without looking. “Oh my god, this can't be happening. You’re—on top of him. And he’s—Jesus Christ, Bob!”
“Yelena!” you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.
“Alright, alright!” She held up both hands, backing away. “I’ll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.” She snorted. “Real in-depth work going on here.”
“Yelena! GET OUT!”
“Leaving! Leaving!” she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. “Just make sure no one ends up disarmed.”
Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelena—and her mouth—on the other side. You didn’t move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.
“You okay?” you asked, teasing, one brow raised. “She didn’t scar you for life, did she?”
Bob’s chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.
“No,” he said—low, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.
“Bob—?”
His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.
“You tease me like that,” he growled, voice rough and frayed, “and expect me to behave?”
Your breath hitched.
“You told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.”
His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.
“You think I’m gonna ask again?”
You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.
“Bob—”
“No,” he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. “You don’t get to be in charge now.”
He fucked into you like a man possessed—deep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.
“You wanted this,” he hissed against your ear. “Wanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.”
You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to you—over and over again.
“You feel that?” he growled, pounding into you. “That’s not deep. This—this is deep.”
You couldn’t even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.
And he loved it.
He didn’t stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.
He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.
“Now tell me who’s fucking ruined.”
taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos
