Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
18+ MDNI
John Walker is the press's favorite punching bag until an even more controversial hero joins the team. Even if you don't get along, he won't stand by while you're bullied.
Game Day Ready (4.1k words)
18+ MDNI
As a New Avenger, you are expected to make an appearance on the Super Bowl broadcast. There's just one problem--you don't know the first thing about football. Luckily, state champion John Walker is available to educate you.
Like An Old Married Couple (3.5k words)
Somehow, you keep falling asleep on John Walker's shoulder. He'd be angrier about it if he wasn't secretly head over heels.
What Happened in Tokyo (8k words)
18+ MDNI
After a surprise kiss on an undercover mission, John spends three months thinking you regretted it. John's silent treatment leaves you convinced he isn't interested, but when your ex shows up to a New Avengers cocktail hour, John can't help but make his feelings clear.
Father's Day (8.1k words)
18+ MDNI
John finds a puppy in a dumpster and discovers a few things about himself when you accidentally call him "daddy."
Big and Heavy (3.6k words)
18+ MDNI
You accidentally use some choice words to describe John's new shield at a press event, and he's going to make it a gaff to remember.
Until the Wheels Come Off (9.2k words)
18+ MDNI
(w/Bob Reynolds)
After an experimental weapon detonates on a mission, you are put into a very awkward, very steamy situation with your crushes. AKA The Sex Pollen One
The First to Know (3.9k words)
18+ MDNI
John's anxiety and insecurities get the better of him when you're sent on a mission alone to Afghanistan.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: Filled request in response to @witchygagirl
Can I request “Do you want me to beg? Is that what this is?” For John Walker please
John's anxiety and insecurities get the better of him when you're sent on a mission alone to Afghanistan.
A/N: This got angstier than I anticipated, but I promise there's still some romance and a HEA.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.9k (complete)
CW: Angst and fluff, light on the spice, established relationship, no use of y/n, john's first thirst trap, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, discussion and depiction of ptsd, minor blood, hurt/comfort, romance, pinv, oral sex (f receiving).
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
It wasn’t that John didn’t think you were capable. He knew you were capable; it was what made him sit up and take notice of you in the first place. You had saved his ass plenty of times in the field—seven but who was counting? Certainly not John—and you came alive under pressure, calm and collected, not reckless but maybe chronically under stimulated by normal, civilian life. You needed to be tested and challenged as much as he did.
And it was hot, until Barnes decided to send you on a mission completely alone. Then it was paralyzing.
John couldn’t let you see that it was breaking him apart. Alone. You alone. Zero room for error. No backup. Most importantly: No John. If you knew how fucked up he was about it, it would just rattle you, and if you were rattled then you could make a mistake, and if you made a mistake—
“John, I can hear you breathing.”
He stared at the back of your head, statue still in the middle of the room while you packed your small allotment of personal items. Extra socks and underwear, a single softcover book, a plastic bag of toiletries…
“I’ve been to Zangabad,” he said. ‘Been’’ was the wrong word. Survived, maybe. Endured. If he let himself get near those memories, he’d have to feel the hostage bleeding out against his chest, the blistering sunburn on his cheeks, the sand that had trickled into his boots that was rubbing his heels raw.
“I know.” You kept packing, your voice steady.
“Twice.”
“I know.”
John’s hands flexed against his legs. “I should be the one doing this.”
“And yet.”
You were almost finished stuffing your shit into the duffel. John had to make himself useful or he was going to scream. He went to your closet, pulled out the well-worn Custer’s Grove High School Bears sweatshirt of his you had stolen and made your own, then crossed back to the bed, looming for a second before carefully folding the sweater and placing it on top of the bag.
He wrapped his right arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close, pressing a kiss to your left temple. “It’s freezing at night.”
One more thing, just one more thing…
He fished out the spent bullet he kept on a chain around his neck, the one he had taken out of your shoulder on a mission that felt like it had happened a thousand years ago. In reality, it was just last month. Sighing, he draped it over your head, letting the lucky charm dangle over your chest. You turned and faced him, taking his hands.
“Jonathan.”
He winced.
“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, venting a stale breath at the carpet. “I’m being too much.”
“I’ll be back in three days,” you assured him, more patient than perhaps he deserved. “It’s nothing I can’t handle; you know that. And yes, you’re being too much, but it’s okay, I’d be a mess if you were the one leaving on your own.”
John pulled you into his embrace, kissed you, grateful for the permission to be as crazy as he needed to be. His mind was a maze of intrusive thoughts as he fell with you onto the bed, tearing at your clothes, the lucky charm bullet cold against his cheek as he kissed his way down to your breasts. What if this is the last time? What if I never get to feel this again? When he pushed inside you, the noise you made was only satisfying for about five seconds. He needed more. You clung to him, nails burning down his shoulders as he pummeled you into the mattress.
Afterward, after he had shouted his terror into the pillow while he spent inside you, you held him like two hundred and seventy pounds of spidering glass. Like a single wrong word would make him shatter. The orgasm didn’t help. He felt closer to you but not close enough. You were telling him something, pushing his hair back from his forehead, murmuring into his ear; John wanted to focus, wanted to hear it, but he couldn’t. He was gone, in the nightmare, in the haze of memories that all tasted like blood and sand.
When you were showered and dressed, kissing him goodbye outside the quinjet, you were kind enough not to point out the obvious truth—that they couldn’t send John, that it wasn’t fair or tactically sound to send a war vet back to the nexus of so much boiling pain.
Instead, they sent you.
John was pretty cool about it for the first six hours. He worked out until he couldn’t think. He helped Bob fix a busted hinge on his closet door. He forced himself to make a balanced dinner and only stress ate three peanut butter cookies. But once night came around and darkness fell and the tower went quiet, once it was well past the time you should’ve landed and texted him, the quiet made the whispering anxieties louder and louder.
He sat on the edge of the bed, glaring down at where your mollifying ‘landed safe’ text should’ve been. The last thing in the chain was a picture you had taken after a workout, glistening with sweat, eyes hot in the mirror because you knew the little shorts and bra set would drive him crazy. He had hearted the picture, no other response required because the minute you walked through the door he had pinned you to the wall.
Check in when you can, he typed. Too cold, maybe. Too dad. He sighed and rolled his shoulder, realizing then how bunched up his entire body had become.
Everything okay?
Too paranoid.
He looked at the picture again, gears turning. Maybe the most nonchalant thing he could do was just get you back. He tried to imagine your roles reversed, him being the one landing in a foreign country to work in total secrecy for three grueling days. How would he feel if a hot picture from his girl came through, a little gift from halfway across the world? John stood before he had even completely decided to do it.
John Walker, who had married his high school sweetheart, who had never joined a dating app, swiped right or left, or sent a racy nude in his life, John Walker who would have scoffed and rolled his eyes at doing exactly that until he was faced with the agonies of a long, lonely night and nothing but his trauma for company.
When he got to the full-length mirror next to his closet, the prospect of posing struck him as innately humiliating. What was he supposed to do with his hands? God, or his face? Horrible. Briefly, he considered asking Ava and Yelena for input, then came to his senses and whipped off his sweatshirt before he could overthink it. He felt like a weird lumberjack in just his jeans, so he took those off, too. Socks, obviously, could not be part of this. John kicked the pile of clothes out of frame, standing there in his black boxer briefs and a stunned expression like a man who had been shaken down for everything he owned.
John sidled closer to the mirror, clamped his hand above it, took a deep breath in to make his chest look as wide as possible, and took the picture. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened, so he sent it to you. Then, already stripped to his underwear, he shuffled to the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and got into bed.
In the cool, shadowy emptiness of the bedroom, he stared up at the ceiling, then groaned and checked his phone. Nothing. He forced himself to put the damn thing on the charge cord, closed his eyes. A few hours later, he clawed his way out of a nightmare, panting as he shot up in bed. He wouldn’t dignify the dream by dwelling on it. Instead, he reached for his phone, convinced that by now you would’ve responded.
Nothing.
Nothing.
You should’ve landed hours ago.
He waited until his alarm went off at 5:30AM to text again, because the panic building inside him had nowhere to go but out through his thumbs. That stupid fucking picture was right there, too, his own dumb mug smirking back at him while he typed out a frantic: Can you check in with me, please?
Yes, it sounded overbearing. Yes, it sounded irritated. And yes, he knew that he could go to Bucky and demand to know if you had made contact via the jet or the satellite phone, but he wasn’t ready to let the entire team know that his heart beat to the rhythm of your wellbeing. He checked the tracker app, finding your little green dot on the map. Green. Green was good.
But if green was good, why were you icing him out?
John dragged himself out of bed, exhausted. He phoned in a few laps at the pool, showered, shoveled egg whites into his mouth until it felt like he would puke, then allowed himself another glance at his phone, even though he knew there would be nothing there, no change, because he had changed it over from silent mode to vibrate to full sound notifications.
Noon came around. Everyone was somehow busy, even Bob. John seemed to be the only person in Manhattan with nothing to do but worry and spin out. You were usually so communicative, texting him nonstop, dumb memes, selfies, weird shit you found in the bleakest corners of the Internet. And now, the first time you ventured out alone on a mission, you suddenly couldn’t give him even a “hey what’s up?”
Baby. I need you to message me.
John felt like he was losing his mind. Why was this so hard? If the mission had gone sideways, Bucky would tell him.
Wouldn’t he?
“Jesus Christ,” John groaned, pacing in front of the common room television like he was afraid to stand still.
When twenty-four hours of no contact came and went, John hit his limit. He was actually so sweaty, just all day, in a way that deodorant was not invented to handle. Someone finally came back to the tower around dinner time. Yelena. She found him at the bar, on his third whiskey and fifth peanut butter cookie.
“Why are you wet?” she asked, taking the last cookie in the plastic tub before John could polish them off.
“Long day,” was all he managed.
“Her first time away, yeah?” Yelena tilted her head to the side, then rubbed his forearm sympathetically. “She’s a big girl, John. She’ll come home in one piece.”
His eyes squeezed shut at the word home.
John’s attention slid slowly across the granite to the phone lying face up next to his tumbler of bourbon. Yelena’s eyes followed.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Yeah,” John muttered. “Fine.”
“Wanna talk?”
“Not even a little bit.” John took his whiskey and his phone and retreated across the common room to her shouted protestations.
“You don’t look fine, Walker. Like, you seem terrible actually. I’m here, you know?”
He raised his glass to acknowledge that but didn’t turn around. The emptiness and the anxiety collapsed in on him the second he was back in his bedroom. He couldn’t get drunk, but something possessed him, a cold, mean streak that he knew had come from the pit growing in his stomach. Knowing didn’t make it easier to deal with.
He had lost so many people, so many good people, and the fear turned to bitterness, and the bitterness turned to the sickening swirl of rejection. John slammed the glass down on his nightstand, pacing again as he texted you furiously.
Do you want me to beg?
Is that what this is?
Hot, stinging pressure built behind his eyes. Fuck, he was going to actually fucking cry.
Someone knocked on the door, yanking him out of his masochistic pity party.
“Hey, man, you awake?”
Barnes.
John shoved his hands into his eyes until it hurt, then rearranged his expression into something neutral, opening the door with a casual twitch of his eyebrows. He had already analyzed Bucky’s tone a dozen ways just in the time it took him to move from nightstand to door. He listened for the folded flag in his voice. He listened for the preemptive sorrow.
“Something up?” John asked; he couldn’t help himself.
Bucky didn’t look uneasy or tortured in the way a man delivering bad news ought to. He crossed his arms, looking John up and down. “With you, maybe. What’s going on? Yelena said you were sweating yourself to death in a bucket of cookies.”
“She’s exaggerating.”
“Okay.”
John sighed and avoided Bucky’s eyes. “She hasn’t checked in with me.”
Bucky snorted like that wasn’t a fucking disaster, like it wasn’t killing John hour by hour.
“Yeah, I know, man, because she can’t.”
The world brightened at the edges, just briefly. John’s shoulders lowered, his hand landing on the doorway as he leaned out. “What?”
“She said she told you. No comms. No cell. Totally dark. This guy she’s taking in has a crack surveillance team. She’s been instructed not to touch her phone until the job’s done.”
John froze, brain revving into overdrive as he meticulously replayed every conversation the two of you had before the mission. And then he got there—he was face down in your neck, breathing you in one last time, committing the feel of your body squished against his to memory, and you were combing his hair back with your fingers, telling him something, but he was distracted by all the god damned what ifs clogging his brain, he couldn’t hear it—
“Shit,” John whispered. “I, uh…” There was no excuse, just a tense silence between the two men.
“She’s fine, John. We have eyes on her.”
“Great. Good.”
“Yeah.” Bucky gave him a strange look, then patted his shoulder, turning to go. “Anything changes, you’re the first to know.”
You couldn’t say what you were expecting when you unlocked your phone after three days of crawling through vents and crouching inside of shipping containers, but it wasn’t this.
Six missed texts from John.
The first one felt like divine intervention, exactly what you needed after a brutally lonely three days--John Walker’s first official sexy mirror pic, and all for you. He looked delicious in his little shorts. Huge chest. Grabbable waist. Biceps you could just bite. And had, actually, on many occasions. You fiddled with the lucky charm around your neck. Shit, it was getting awfully hot in the cockpit.
You sat back in your leather seat on the jet, strapped in, wondering what else he had in store for you with the rest of the messages, then watched as John’s mental health deteriorated in front of your eyes, and with timestamps.
Can you check in with me, please?
Baby. I need you to message me.
Do you want me to beg?
Is that what this is?
Disregard.
That hanging Disregard at the end was the funniest one, but only until you let yourself consider how miserable he must have been to say the other stuff. His temper sometimes got the better of him when he couldn’t find the words for his hurt. Anger was easier. Anger was comfortable.
You waited until you had cleared international airspace to message back.
I’m on my way home. Are you okay?
John’s text bubbles popped up almost immediately. Your heart clenched. It would be easy to give him shit, but not when he was this dredged in his feelings. It had taken you getting shot and almost dying for him to soften up enough to admit he wanted something more than a toxically competitive friendship. Every bit of emotional ground you gained with him was a hard-won thing. But you had been so clear about the no contact parameters, unless…
You sighed. Oh, John.
He wasn’t listening that night, was he? He couldn’t hear you, not when he was busy drowning.
His text came through.
Better now.
Then: I’ll meet you in the med bay.
You smiled down at your phone. We should leave that to the professionals.
Sure. I get you after. Six hours, beautiful.
The nurses made him wait outside in the lobby. Even with the tinted privacy glass of the exam room, you could feel him out there, pacing like a caged panther. You followed the light in front of you with your eyes, dutifully going through the steps demanded of you. There was a gunpowder burn on your right hand. A bullet had grazed your cheek, leaving behind a straight, shallow cut. Your wounds were cleaned and disinfected, but none of them needed bandaging.
You were checked over from top to bottom. After, the nurses gathered up your clothes for the laundry service. You gathered the Bears sweatshirt onto your lap, holding on.
“Not this,” you told them. “This one comes with me.”
They gave you a pair of plain sweats to wear. You took a deep breath at the door, not sure what state you would find him in. The pacing had gotten louder and faster as you cleared concussion protocol. While the picture of him was memorable and you were grateful for it, the other messages were concerning, to say the least.
The door clicked open. John pulled up short, turning back toward you with an audible huff. You didn’t get a word out before you were in his arms, crushed in a warm, muscular vice. He cupped the back of your head, nose tight to your jugular.
“John, honey,” you murmured. “I can’t breathe.”
“Shit. Sorry.” He set you down on the ground, took your hand, kissed it. His eyes, wide and blue and buzzing, searched your face. “I’m sure you’re beat.”
Which meant sleep. Which meant the bedroom. He walked you there, never letting go of you, hand threaded through yours or around your waist. You could feel him working up to an apology, a confession, and it made your neck itch.
You were tired, but sleep was the furthest thing from your mind.
“John,” you said, as soon as the door closed, cutting off whatever he had prepared to say. “What happened?”
He strode to the center of the room, hands on hips. “Yeah. I…uh, I lost it.”
“I can see that.”
“That day you left? I didn’t have my head screwed on straight, and I…missed the part where you couldn’t have your phone with you.” John glanced at you, sheepish, head hung. “Not sure I can explain the picture.”
You smiled, arms crossed as you watched him from the door. “Try.”
John studied the carpet between you, eyes scanning like he was reading the inside of his mind. “My shrink would call it self-soothing behavior through attention seeking.”
Okay. That was something. That was progress. You took a tiny step toward him. “You wanted my attention and when you didn’t get it you started crashing out?”
“Yes.” He breathed it out like poisoned air.
“And instead of asking someone for clarification on the mission protocols you decided I was ignoring you and punishing you?”
John rocked onto his toes, staring up helplessly at the ceiling. “Yep. Yes.”
“Why would I do that?” you asked, approaching like he was a cornered bear.
He pushed his hands through his hair, leaving it a frazzled mess. “Because I guess I’m waiting for you to agree with the rest of the world. That I’m…that I’m a fuck up. That I can be discarded.” His hands folded in front of his face, knees bending inward. “Fuck.”
You went to him, tried to peel his hands back but he wouldn’t budge. But he did lean into you, shuddering when you slid your arms around his neck.
“And then the first thing you say is are you okay,” he whispered, tears shredding the back half. “You’re the one in danger, and you’re worried about me, you’re the…you’re the…”
“I had everything to come back for,” you told him, kissing what you could of his face behind his hands. “So I did. And if I had my phone on me, I would’ve sent you the nastiest photo, baby, you can’t even imagine…”
John’s tears broke apart into unsteady laughter. He finally let his hands fall away, then used them to take you by the waist, gathering you to the bed, pulling you onto his lap. “I don’t know,” he murmured, wiping blindly at his face. “I can imagine quite a bit.”
You settled your head onto his shoulder, humming softly at the comfort of his big hand moving up and down your back. “Thank you for my picture, John. I will not be disregarding it."
He groaned deep in his chest.
“You can’t take it back, Walker. It’s already saved.”
John kissed your forehead, and you could feel the beginnings of a smile.
“And maybe I do want you to beg.”
His hand stilled on your back, face shifting until he could see you there tucked against his shoulder. “Oh yeah? For what?”
“For whatever you want, for whatever would make you feel better right now.”
John lifted you easily off his lap, depositing you on the bed before swiveling to push your legs apart and crawl between them. The mattress springs shrieked. Your hands fell on his shoulders as soon as they were close enough to touch. John’s eyes brightened at the sight of his sweatshirt hugging your body. He lifted it inch by inch, kissing his way up your stomach, sighing when you arched and your hands tightened on his shoulders.
“Please, beautiful,” he said, nosing up the fabric until it bunched around your chest. His breath skittered across the tender skin of your ribs, his wet kisses working the sweater higher until he could lick and suck the warm, swelling curve of your breast. “Please, please delete that god damned picture…”
You snorted, swatting his nose. “No.”
“Please,” John drew out the word, eyebrows rising as he kissed back down your body, hooking his fingers in the loose waistband of your sweats and easing them over your hips. His big baby blues were imploring as he scraped his nails lightly down your abdomen, catching the top of your panties and dragging. “I’ll kiss this pretty pussy so sweet, baby. You’ll forget all about that picture, I promise.”
You let him think you were considering it, closing your eyes and moaning as he mouthed lower, pulling on the fabric of your panties until the wet suction gave and he could lay eyes on you. He kissed up and down the damp seam of your sex, just teasing, just admiring.
“I’ll turn you inside out tonight,” he added, licking you gently to sweeten the pot. “Make you forget everything but my name, make those little toes curl…”
“Mm…” You blinked slowly, smiling down at him. “No.”
John groaned, flattening himself on top of you. Even so, you could hear his resigned chuckle as he gave it against your thigh.
“No, John,” you repeated, taking a handful of his hair, pulling until he had no choice but to look up with his exaggerated pout. Poor baby. “It’s mine forever,” you told him. “Just like you.”
C’s corner: Umm… yeah. So this happened. 🤔🫠 I’m not saying I planned for John Walker to end up here, but I’m also not complaining. Enjoy, loves. Behave yourselves… or don’t. John clearly won’t.
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, intoxication, dubcon due to alcohol, rough sex, brat/brat tamer dynamics, dirty talk, choking/breath play, unprotected sex.
The door to the apartment clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it for a second, giggling as the room tilted just slightly.
The night out with the girls had been loud, fun, and full of too many cocktails. Your cheeks were warm, your dress a little rumpled, and your inhibitions... somewhere back at the bar.
John was still up, sitting on the edge of the couch in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest. He looked up the second you walked in, blue eyes scanning you with that familiar mix of concern and something hotter.
“Hey, spitfire,” he said, voice low and rough from the late hour. “You have a good time?”
You kicked your heels off and padded straight toward him, not bothering to hide the sway in your hips. “Would’ve been better if you’d come with me.”
You climbed right into his lap without asking, straddling him, your hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders. “Missed you.”
His hands settled on your waist, steadying you. “You’re drunk”
“Mmm, maybe a little tipsy.” You leaned in and kissed the side of his neck, then dragged your lips up to his jaw. Your fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his stomach. “But I know what I want.”
John exhaled slowly, thumbs stroking your sides like he was trying to behave. “You’re drunk, sweetheart. Not tonight.”
You rocked your hips once, deliberately, feeling him twitch beneath you. “I’m not that drunk. Just... warm. And horny. And you’re sitting here looking like that.”
Your hand drifted lower, palming the growing bulge in his sweatpants. “Come on, John. Don’t be boring.”
He caught your wrist gently but firmly, lifting you off his lap with that easy strength that always made your stomach flip. “Bed. Now. I’m putting you to sleep before you do something you’ll regret in the morning.”
You pouted but let him guide you down the short hallway to the bedroom, his arm solid around your waist.
The room was dark except for the city glow through the half-open blinds.
John pulled the covers back on the bed, all gentlemanly control, and turned to face you.
“Arms up,” he said quietly, reaching for the hem of your dress like he was going to help you change and nothing more.
That’s when the alcohol and the ache between your legs made you bold.
You stepped in close instead of obeying, pressing your body to his and sliding both hands under his shirt again, nails dragging lightly over his abs. “You always do this. Treat me like I’m gonna break.”
Your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his sweats, then cupping him again through the fabric, bolder this time. “I’m not made of glass, Walker. I’m wet, and I want you to fuck me. But you’re too much of a pussy to do it.”
The word landed like a spark on gasoline.
John went very still. His jaw flexed. Those blue eyes darkened to something dangerous and hungry.
“What did you just call me?” His voice had dropped an octave.
You grinned up at him, defiant and a little drunk-brave. “Pussy. You heard me. Always trying to be the good guy, the gentleman... scared to take what you want when I’m offering it.”
For one heartbeat he just stared at you.
Then the restraint snapped.
In one smooth, powerful motion John had you backed against the bedroom wall, your wrists pinned above your head in one of his big hands. His other hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to his.
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. It was deep, rough, claiming, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he was punishing you for the word and rewarding you for it at the same time.
You moaned into it, hips arching forward instinctively.
He broke the kiss just enough to growl against your lips, “You want to see what happens when I stop being a gentleman?”
His hand left your chin and slid down, yanking the neckline of your dress down hard enough that the fabric tore a little at the seam. Cool air hit your bare breasts before his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing.
You gasped, back arching.
John released your wrists only to spin you around so your front was pressed to the wall. He shoved your dress up around your waist, hooked his fingers in your panties and ripped them down your legs in one impatient tug.
Two thick fingers pushed into you without warning, and the wet sound they made was obscene.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pumping them deep and curling. “Soaked. All that attitude because you needed my cock this bad?”
You pushed back against his hand, whimpering. “John..."
He pulled his fingers free, and you heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved his sweatpants down. Then the thick, hot head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.
“You called me a pussy,” he said, voice dark with lust and something almost amused. “Let’s see if you’re still saying that in five minutes.”
He thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. You cried out at the sudden stretch, the perfect fullness.
John didn’t give you time to adjust, he set a deep, punishing rhythm, hips snapping against your ass, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up your back and into your hair, pulling your head back just enough.
“Still think I’m a pussy?” he rasped in your ear, pounding into you so deep you could feel him in your stomach. “Feel that? That’s me proving you wrong, baby.”
Your moans turned into broken little sounds every time he bottomed out. The alcohol made everything sharper, hotter, less filtered.
When his hand left your hair and slid around to rest at the base of your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding, controlling.
You didn’t flinch. You moaned louder, pushing back into every thrust.
John noticed.
His rhythm faltered for half a second. The hand at your throat eased immediately, thumb stroking gently over your pulse point.
“You like that?” he asked, voice suddenly rougher with concern even as he kept fucking you. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You shook your head, pushing his hand back into place. “Don’t stop. Please... feels good.”
A low, filthy groan tore out of him. He tightened his grip just enough to make your head spin in the best way, and his other hand reached around to rub tight circles over your clit.
“Come on then,” he ordered. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Show me how much you wanted this.”
You shattered with a cry, walls clenching hard around him.
John fucked you straight through it, relentless, until your legs were shaking and you were babbling his name.
Only then did he let himself go, thrusting deep one last time and coming with a guttural sound, hot pulses filling you as he buried his face in your neck.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant city noise outside.
John eased out of you carefully, turned you around, and caught you when your knees wobbled.
He lifted you like you weighed nothing and carried you to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness after everything that just happened.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a warm cloth, cleaned you up with soft strokes, then stripped off the rest of your torn dress and his own clothes before climbing in beside you.
You curled into his chest automatically, still buzzing. His arms wrapped around you, one big hand stroking slowly up and down your back.
“You okay?” he murmured against your hair. “I got... carried away.”
You smiled into his skin, sleepy and satisfied. “More than okay. That was... really hot. And I meant what I said. I'm not that drunk.”
John huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Still shouldn’t have called me a pussy.”
“You proved me wrong.” You tilted your head up, eyes half-lidded. “Love you, Walker.”
His expression softened, the dominant edge melting back into the man who’d tried so hard to be a gentleman earlier.
“Love you too, troublemaker.” He pulled the covers over both of you and tucked you closer. “Get some sleep. We’re talking about that mouth of yours in the morning.”
You were already drifting, warm and full and thoroughly satisfied.
The last thing you felt before sleep took you was John’s lips brushing your forehead and his quiet, amused mutter
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader
Rating: T
Warnings/Tags: Fluff, accidental nudes, bob is having a breakdown. No smut in this one
Word Count: ~2,791
Summery: Reader sends Bob a nude by accident and he is being TOTALLY cool about it ( NOT)
Authors Note: This was my first request! Im on a fluff train right now I love soft Bob...also i dont know how to end stories so... sorry
She texted him a lot. That was something she did now….a lot. For a while.
Bob didn't think about it too hard. Thinking about it too hard meant thinking about why she texted him, and why it was more than she texted anyone else (he'd noticed, not that he was going to do anything with that information, but he'd noticed), and why every time his phone buzzed and it was her name his whole chest went warm like a pilot light catching.
So…. He didn't think about it too hard.
Tuesday. Kitchen. Sandwich. He was building something involving turkey and an ambitious amount of mustard when her name lit up his screen. A photo of the sunset from the roof. Then a complaint about Yelena that was mostly exclamation points. Then a link to a golden retriever falling off a dock, no comment attached, because she knew he'd click it and she knew it would fix whatever needed fixing.
(It did.)
He was smiling. Standing in an empty kitchen, smiling at his phone, mustard knife in one hand. He clocked this about himself and moved on.
Does this work? I can't tell if it's too much.
Another photo incoming. She was getting dressed and she was asking him. That was... she wanted to know what he thought. About how she looked. She was standing in front of a mirror somewhere in this building right now, thinking about him while deciding what to wear, and his neck was already warm and she hadn't even sent it yet.
He typed back one-handed. For what?
Three dots.
Just out. Drinks maybe. Is it too much?
He could feel the reply building. Something easy. Something that was almost flirting if you tilted your head, but deniable, always deniable, because that was the game and he was very good at it and very tired of it and… not brave enough to stop.
Her next message came through.
He opened it the way he'd opened every message she'd ever sent. Thumb on the screen, no thought, the same muscle memory as breathing.
It wasn't the outfit.
in fact it was… no outfit at all
His brain didn't catch up. There was a gap... half a second, maybe less... where he was just seeing her. Taking in information.
Oh.
Warm light, from the lamp on her desk. Her mirror was filthy which under different circumstances might have been funny or ironic. And she was...
Oh no.
The phone was face-down on the counter. Both of his hands were flat on the granite. The mustard knife was on the floor.
His heart was beating so fast, in a medical context, it would involve someone using the word event.
The phone buzzed against the counter. And again. And again and again and again, her panic arriving in pieces he could feel.
He didn't turn it over. He didn't need to. The texts lit up the edges of the screen, fragments he caught sideways without meaning to.
WAIT
BOB
WRONG PHOTO
OH MY GOD
THAT WASN'T
BOB PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN'T OPEN THAT
He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was fine. The ceiling had never made him feel like his skeleton was trying to leave his body.
He left the kitchen. Didn't clean up the sandwich. Didn't grab the mustard knife. Walked to his room at a speed that he was going to call "brisk" because the alternative was admitting he was fleeing and that's a bit embarrassing.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
His room. Door shut. Phone in his hand because somewhere between the kitchen and here his body had made that call for him.
He put it face-down on the nightstand. Sat on the edge of the bed.
Stood up.
Sat back down.
Okay.
He had seen her. Not the way he normally saw her, the way that already made his hands stupid and his thoughts go sideways. Not the across-the-kitchen way. Not the she-just-laughed-and-now-he-couldn't-remember-what-year-it-was way, which was already more than he could handle on a given Tuesday.
He had seen her the way you see someone when there is nothing in the way.
And his brain had... it had just...
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. His face was still hot. It had been hot since the kitchen. It was possible his face was going to be hot for the rest of his life, maybe he would develop some sort of cool face melting powers…
Oh God
The phone buzzed on the nightstand. Her messages were still coming. He could feel the shape of them without looking... the apologies stacking on top of each other, building a tower of mortification he recognized.
I'm so sorry.
I was sending you the outfit one and I grabbed the wrong photo.
Please delete it.
I want to die.
Like actually die.
Bob are you there?
He needed to reply. She was panicking and it was because of him. Because he hadn't said anything. Because he was sitting on his bed like a malfunctioning appliance instead of being a normal person who could type normal words with his normal hands.
Normal…normal…normal
He could do this. He could type a response. Something easy and reassuring. Something that said hey, no big deal, accidents happen, already deleted it, we never have to speak of this again.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
The problem was that he… hadn't deleted it.
The problem was that his thumb was already on the screen, already opening it, before the responsible part of his brain could file an objection.
Don't.
He looked.
She was sitting on her bed, legs folded under her, her weight settled back on her heels. The light was warm and low and it caught the curve of her waist, the soft dip where it met her hip, the way her stomach rounded just slightly below her navel. Soft. Everything about her was soft. The fullness of her thighs pressed together, the way her breasts sat heavy and natural without anything holding them, the slope of her shoulders where the light ran out and her skin disappeared into shadow.
Fuck shes so beautiful
She wasn't posing. That was the part that was going to kill him. She was just looking at herself. Her chin was tilted up, her lips barely parted, her eyes on her own reflection with an expression he had never once seen on her face. Not for him. Not for anyone in any room he'd been in.
Like she had caught herself in a private moment and captured it. So soft and very naked and….
Dont Look…
Bob's mouth was dry. His hands were shaking. He could feel his pulse in places that had no business having a pulse right now, and he was very aware, that he was hard. From a photo. On his phone. That she hadn't even meant to send him.
He closed it. Pressed his palms into his eyes so hard he saw colors. Maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the image from his brain.
Dont want to erase it
She took that photo for herself. Not for him. She'd been alone and she'd felt good and she'd wanted proof. And she'd been texting him. About an outfit. Because what he thought mattered enough to ask. Both of those things lived in the same phone and neither of them had anything to do with each other except that they were both her and she was...
perfect
He wasn't sorry. He felt a lot of things right now... panicked, overwhelmed, hot in the face, something big and unnamed living behind his ribs... but sorry was not in there. He'd looked and he'd looked again and the worst part, the part that the cold voice in him would use later, was that given the chance he'd look again.
He did not know what to do with that.
He picked the phone up. Put it down. Picked it up again.
He started typing.
He typed no worries and stared at it.
No worries. Like she'd bumped into him in a hallway. Like she'd accidentally taken his coffee. No worries. Two words so aggressively casual they were practically wearing sunglasses.
He deleted it. Tried again.
Hey. Don't worry about it. Seriously. These things happen
These things happen. To who? To who did these things happen? In what universe was he drawing on a wealth of experience where beautiful women accidentally sent him photos that should be hung in museums? These things happen.
He was going to throw his phone into the sun.
Delete.
Haha no big deal! Already forgot about it 👍
The exclamation point alone was a felony. The thumbs up was a war crime. And "already forgot about it" was the most transparent lie he had ever constructed, which was saying something, because he'd once told Bucky his chili was "amazing" before purposefully knocking the pot over for everyones sake.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
He went with: Hey. It's okay. Don't worry about it. Happens to the best of us
Sent it. Read it back. Wanted to die. Happens to the best of us. What did that even mean? What was he referencing? His extensive history of accidentally sending nudes? The time he didn't do that because he had never done that because he had never in his life...
She was typing.
Oh my god Bob I'm SO sorry. I was trying to send you the outfit pic and I grabbed the wrong one from my camera roll. I'm literally going to move to another country. I'm going to learn Portuguese and start a new life and never look anyone in the eye again
Something in his chest loosened. She was funny when she was panicking. It got him every single time.
You don't have to learn Portuguese
I'm already looking up flights
I hear the language isn't that hard actually
Bob…I'm serious I'm so embarrassed I could die
He typed back too fast, the way he always did when she was spiraling and he needed her to stop. Hey. Seriously. It's fine. I'm not weird about it. You're fine.
He was so weird about it. He had never been more weird about anything in his life.
You swear?
I swear
You deleted it?
His thumb stopped moving.
The cursor blinked. He watched it blink. It blinked like it had all the time in the world, like this wasn't a yes-or-no question that was going to determine the entire trajectory of his evening and possibly his life.
Yeah, he typed. And then sat there. Looking at the word. Not pressing send.
Because he still hadn't.
He switched to his photos. The image was still there, in his recently saved, sitting between a screenshot of a recipe Ava had sent him and a blurry photo of a pigeon he'd taken for no reason.
Her. The warm light on her skin. The soft curve of her stomach, the fullness of her thighs. That expression. The one that wasn't for him.
He stared at it for three seconds. Four. Five.
He deleted it.
It felt like pulling out something that had only just started growing roots, and his chest ached in a way that was completely disproportionate to what had actually happened, which was deleting a photo from his phone, which people did every day, all the time, without feeling like they'd given something back they weren't finished holding.
He sent the yeah.
Thank you, she replied. Can we just... pretend this didn't happen?
And there it was.
The thing that was worse than the photo. Worse than the panic, worse than the guilt, worse than the little commentary in the back of his skull. She wanted him to pretend. She wanted to put this back in the box where it was before, the easy, deniable, just friends who text a lot box, and he was supposed to help her close the lid.
Pretend this didn't happen.
He couldn't.
He could delete the photo and he could swear he'd deleted it and he could type yeah of course and send a laughing emoji and go back to being the version of himself that functioned. But he could not un-know what she looked like when she was alone and felt good about being alive. That was in him now. Underneath the panic, in the place where the jokes ran out and there was just the want. The big, stupid, undeniable want that he had been folding into smaller and smaller shapes for months so it would fit inside the deniable box.
It didn't fit anymore.
He put the phone down. Picked it up. Put it down.
Picked it up.
Yeah, he typed. Of course. Already forgotten.
He sent it. Read it back. He hated it.
He put the phone on the nightstand. Stared at the ceiling. The ceiling looked back, unhelpful as ever.
Something was building in his chest. Steady…rising…
He sat with it for thirty seconds. A minute.
He put his shoes on.
He didn't remember the walk. Hallway, stairs, another hallway. His shoes were on and then he was standing in front of her door before he had the chance to talk himself out of it.
His hand was raised to knock.
He could still leave. He could turn around, go back to his room, text her something funny in the morning, and they could both pretend that the last hour hadn't cracked something open that was never going to close on its own. He could do that. He was good at that. He had been doing that for months.
He knocked.
Silence. Then footsteps, soft and quick.
The door opened.
She'd changed. Oversized shirt, sleep shorts, her hair pushed back like she'd been running her hands through it. Her eyes were red in a way that could've been crying or could've been the specific exhaustion of wanting to disappear and not being able to. She looked at him, and whatever crossed her face was too fast for him to catch.
"Bob?" Quiet. Confused. A little afraid, like she wasn't sure which version of this conversation he was here to have.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
All the way here. All the way down the hallway with something building in his chest that felt like the truth, and now he was standing in front of her with his hands at his sides and absolutely nothing to offer except the fact that he'd shown up. That he'd chosen to be here instead of somewhere easier. That the phone in his pocket was empty but the image was still in him, warm and close, and he didn't want to pretend.
"I cant forget," he said. Quiet. To the doorframe, not to her. "I tried. I can't."
She stared at him. He made himself look at her.
Whatever was on his face, she saw it. All of it. The want and the guilt and the terrified, no-jokes-left thing underneath both of them. Her hand tightened on the edge of the door.
Her lips parted. She didn't say anything.
He didn't say anything else.
The hallway was very quiet.
She stepped back. Opened the door wider.
He went in.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Her room was dim. One lamp. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, standing in the middle of the floor like she didn't know what to do with her own body, and he recognized that, because he didn't know what to do with his either.
"You weren't supposed to see it," she said.
"I know."
"It wasn't for you. It wasn't for anyone. I just..."
"I know." He looked at the lamp. Made himself look at her instead. "That's the part I can't forget."
Her arms tightened.
"You looked..." He stopped. Started over. "You looked like you'd caught yourself being happy. Just you, by yourself, happy. And I deleted it. I swear I deleted it. But I couldn't delete that I saw it, and I didn't want to lie to you about that. I've been lying about a lot of... adjacent stuff. For months. I'm very tired."
Silence.
"Months?" she said.
"So many months."
Something in her face came loose. Not the mortification. Underneath it. And there it was... the expression from the photo, or the beginning of it, aimed at him this time.
She laughed then. Wet and sudden, like it got out before she could check it. Then she crossed the room and put her forehead against his chest, and his arms went around her without checking with him first.
"Maybe we just stop pretending then," she said into his shirt.
"Okay." A breath. "Okay."
They stood there. Behind his rib cage, the pilot light had ignited. It wasn't going out.
TagList: @my-name-is-baby
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hiiii!! I didn't see. Prompt on the list you reposted like this, but I have an idea...
Bob Reynolds who doesn't have a lot of sober experiences/ones he actually truly cares about the other persons pleasure, and he's so overwhelmed with wanting to make her feel good? Liiiiike sub Bob on his knees basically begging her to tell him what to do??
ilyyyy hope your welllll
Hello anon! Sorry this took a minute, but I thought it was such a cute idea I really wanted to do it justice. Hope you enjoy the fic, it's posted here! <3
Bob Reynolds who doesn't have a lot of sober experiences/ones he actually truly cares about the other persons pleasure, and he's so overwhelmed with wanting to make her feel good? Liiiiike sub Bob on his knees basically begging her to tell him what to do??
Bob seems pathologically incapable of taking things to the next level; when you find out why, you both have a memorable "sober first."
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 5.5k (complete)
CW: Porn with plot, no use of y/n, established relationship, light angst but happy ending, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader swears, flirting, use of pet names (good boy/baby), banter, romance, discussion of drug use, discussion of STI status, discussion of p*rn, subby bob, soft dom reader, switchy bob, switchy reader, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, pinv, unprotected sex.
Suggested Listening (referenced in the fic): Afterglow by Lynnic
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
The date was going well, and it was written all over Bob’s face. You liked that about him. It was never a guessing game. Sometimes he retreated behind the deep blue darkness of his eyes, to a place he didn’t want you to follow, but never without warning you first. Woke up weird, he would say, or: Everything’s a lot today, you know?
And you did know. But this was one of his good days, when everything made him laugh, when his memory was sharp and your anecdotes were met with a dozen follow-up questions. The zany neon lighting in the barcade dyed him pink and purple, like he was a cotton candy version of himself. It was a Thursday, and the place wasn’t too packed, which meant you had the pick of the cabinets after finishing your food.
Bob shoved his hand into his jeans pocket under the booth table, then slowly slid it toward you, eyes dancing with mischief.
“What’s this?” you asked, heart skipping up to your throat at the thought Bob had gotten you a gift. He didn’t really have money to throw around; his stipend was minimal until he actually got his suit back and joined the team in earnest.
“It’s a surprise.”
Your brows lifted, grabby hands scuttling across the table toward where his rested in a firm lump. “Can I see?”
“I don’t know, it’s pretty sweet,” he said with a proud little sigh, lips pursed.
You pawed at his hand, which was futile; even if Bob had little to no active control over his Sentry powers, he was still ambiently enhanced by the serum. You were never going to get those fingers pried open, but damn was it fun to try. He enjoyed it, too, dissolving into quiet laughter as you put all of your weight behind a yank on his thumb.
“Hey,” he teased, clearing his throat like he was all business. “That tickles. You’re gonna give me a hangnail.”
“Bob. Come on.”
He snorted, uncupping his hand, lifting it away to reveal a shiny pile of quarters.
“Not bad, right?” he asked, playfully cocky as he crossed his arms and kicked back in the booth. “That’s enough to last us hours. Maybe the whole night.”
“Wow,” you said. You were kind of hoping for, like, racy panties or a bracelet or something, but this was life with Bob. It took some adjusting, but so far, it was worth it. Maybe you weren’t being wined and dined, but you had never been with someone so willing to attune to your emotions, someone who listened, really listened, and often couldn’t remember where he left, well, anything, but kept a clean mental inventory of your favorite pizza toppings, favorite songs, favorite coffee mug, favorite movies.
“I know. I take care of my girl.” He winked, then flicked a few quarters off the pile toward you, scooping up the rest, flicking his head toward the rows of arcade cabinets lining the wall to his left, your right. “Come on, show me what you got.”
You picked the closest game with a name you recognized.
“Hell yes,” Bob whispered, tugging his lip between his teeth like he was getting turned on. “Mortal Kombat II, classic. Who are you gonna pick?”
You sidled up to him, leaning in a little close, head tilted to the side as you considered the lineup. “Well, there’s like two girls so not a ton of options…”
“You don’t have to play as a girl,” Bob pointed out, inserting the quarters and moving the stick over to pick Scorpion.
“Yeah, but I’d like to.” You decided on Kitana, since her outfit was fierce and her fans were cool.
“Man, Kitana is so hot,” Bob whispered, glancing at you askance, blushing. He fiddled with the joystick. “Sort of a formative crush.”
You swiveled, leaning against the cabinet. “Maybe I should ask Valentina for a redesign on my outfit…”
“No,” he blurted out, startling toward you. His hand closed gently over your wrist, eyes huge and imploring. “Please don’t do that. I mean, you’re kidding? You’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding.” You watched his shoulders relax as he blinked slowly, then turned his attention back to the screen. “Unless…”
Bob stilled, brows tense. “Unless what?”
Shrugging, you selected your character, stubbornly fixing your attention on the game instead of Bob, even as he stared directly at the side of your face. This was date number eight, not that you were obsessively counting. And all of those dates had gone well, and they all ended at the same place: the door to your bedroom in the tower dormitories. Bob would lean in, your heart would cram itself into your throat, he would kiss you sweetly on the lips, sometimes the kiss would deepen, and you would think: this is it, he’s going to ask to stay over. But then he would pull away abruptly and come up with an excuse to end the night there.
Sometimes he didn’t even bother with an excuse, just squished his mouth to one side and said goodnight.
You were starting to wonder if this was something beyond shyness or chivalry. You were beginning to wonder if there was something wrong.
“It’s just…” You trailed off, suddenly nervous. Guilty. Bob was dealing with enough; he didn’t need to be pressured into a physical relationship he wasn’t ready for. Maybe his therapist had recommended he avoid that kind of thing. Maybe the serum had done something weird to his libido. Maybe he was a virgin, and he was worried about being judged. There were a hundred possibilities and none of them were your business unless he felt like sharing, though on Date Eight it was really starting to feel like your business… The disappointment was beginning to feel like rejection. “Sorta sucks, I guess, to hear that from you.”
Bob detached from the joysticks altogether, losing interest in the game as you stumbled your way through this hot-faced confession.
“Wait, what’s going on?” he asked, carefully placing one hand on your hip, turning you toward him.
You twitched moodily at his touch. “She’s hot,” you said, in disbelief at the situation as you gestured toward some fucking pixels. “Formative crush. Whatever. It would just be nice to feel like you…” You took in a big breath, bracing to lay out the truth. “Like you wanted me. Like you wanted to fuck me.”
Bob froze, face shattering like you had slapped it.
“What? Babe, I do, I…” he whispered, stricken. Bob looked down at his shoes, then at you, then at the door. “Can we do this somewhere else?”
You nodded, letting him take your hand.
It was a long walk back to the tower.
Bob held on to you, fingers laced tightly through yours, refusing to let go. He blew out a halting breath, glancing up at the milky film of light pollution over the city. You didn’t say anything, feeling him build toward something you needed desperately to hear. The insane number of quarters in his pocket jangled quietly on every step.
“So, here goes,” he said, with the kind of gentle courage that had won your heart in the first place. “I want to do this right, satisfy you, all that stuff, be the boyfriend you want me to be, but…” He shook his head, venting a dry laugh down at the sidewalk. “I don’t know if I remember how. I didn’t get girls because I was rich or a bad ass, you know? I got them because I knew how to score drugs.”
His hand was wet with sweat against yours, but you didn’t care. You waited, you let him say it at his own pace. He was walking faster now, like maybe he could outrun all of the difficult things that had to be said.
“And then we did those drugs,” Bob went on, pale, eyes searching the darkness ahead of you. “We got high together. We drank. We got black out. Maybe I had a good time, maybe they came, maybe not, maybe I did, maybe not. I don’t remember, I don’t—” He almost laughed again, but it came out tortured, terrified. “I asked Mel to email me my file a few weeks ago, because I didn’t know what my status was. It’s actually unbelievable that I didn’t contract anything, living like I was. I wasn’t thinking about that. I wasn’t thinking about anything but getting high, tuning out.”
He wiped his free hand down his face. Your fingers tightened around him.
“And now I have this. I have you. And it’s like…starting over again.” The tower loomed, and both of you noticed. Bob’s steps slowed until you were standing together under a tree half a block from the corporate glass box you both called home. “It’s fucking crazy,” he finished, unable to meet your eye. He stared down at the sliver of grassy dirt between you. “I don’t even know what I like because I’ve never had it in a way that meant something.”
You took his other hand, moving closer.
“Romantic, I know,” he sighed.
“It is.”
Bob’s head twitched up.
“It’s always romantic when you trust me. Can we talk upstairs?” you asked, nodding toward the building spearing up to your left. “We don’t have to do anything--”
“I wanna do things,” Bob interrupted, leaning down to brush his lips against your cheek. The skin of his face was burning hot. There was a hungry tremble in his voice. “I wanna do everything. With you. To you.”
You closed your eyes with relief, tugging him into you. Bob hooked his arm around your waist, following you inside the tower, up the elevator. It all got tremendously real once he was actually in your room, the door shut and the bolt thrown. You dropped your keys in the dish on your bookcase, then flicked the lights on to a warm, dim setting. Once you shucked your jacket and threw it on a reading chair in the corner, you turned to find Bob inspecting your bookcase, then your walls and everything you had up on them, then your bed…
“It’s so you,” he said with a shy, dorky laugh. He came back to you, middle of the room, hands looped together in front of his waist.
“Thanks?”
“Complimentary,” Bob assured you, rolling one shoulder. Silence barricaded him in, color seeping up from under his nubbly sweater. It was time, again, to return to the conversation that had started outside. No pressure.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bob nodded, lips pressed together in nervous anticipation.
“You said that you don’t know what you like, but do you, you know, watch anything or—”
“Like porn?” Bob smirked, reaching for you, flattening his hand to run it horizontally across your waist, then rest it over your hip. Heat fluttered in your stomach. Okay. Okay. This was escalating. Your heart knocked against your ribs. “Yeah, I watch some stuff.”
You ran your hands up his chest, tangling them in the front of his sweater. With your throat drying up, you asked in a rasp, “Recent searches?”
Bob shakily took his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, navigated to his PornHub account before handing you the device. You couldn’t believe he was trusting you with it.
“Bob, are you sure? This is so private--”
“Yeah,” he swallowed with the difficulty of someone who was very not sure about the decision he had just made. His brows tented as you slowly scrolled through his latest watched videos. His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was holding himself back from coming to his senses and snatching the phone back. Tattooed Big Booty Goth Slut Dominates Me After Beating Me in Mario Kart. Making My Boyfriend Worship My Pussy and Ass. Worshipping My Hot Slut Goddess Superhero Wife. When Men Lose Control.
In the quiet that followed your scrolling, Bob began to shake. You angled the phone back toward him while certain things slotted into place. Letting you see his porn history wasn’t just inspiration or instruction, it was foreplay. It was submission.
“Which of these did you like the most?” you asked, half to step into character, half because you were genuinely curious.
Bob swallowed noisily again, pointing.
But by now, it was clear to you what he wanted. You suspected he knew, too, but was too shy to come right out and say it. Something dark and delicious stirred inside you, a need to see him reach a bliss nobody had ever given him before. To not just be his sober first, but his safe harbor. Someone he could trust. Someone that could make him come undone with the lights on, no judgment, just pleasure, just dirty play time for two very willing adults.
“No. Say it,” you told him, firm. His eyes widened; the command jolted through him, and that recognition that you understood, that the car was driving in a higher gear, thrilled you, too. His eyes searched back and forth across your face.
“I’d like to hear you say it,” you added, sweet but insistent, pushing the edge of the phone against his stomach.
“Fuck,” he murmured, closing his eyes briefly before forcing them back open. “Okay.” He leaned down slightly, and from the time it took him, it seemed like he was remembering how to read. “W-Worshipping My Hot Slut Goddess Superhero Wife.”
You hadn’t heard him stammer like that in a long, long time. He straightened, staring at the wall beyond your shoulder, spine tight enough to snap.
“Incredibly specific,” you said, looking down at the phone.
“Yeah, although I don’t like that word,” Bob murmured, wincing.
“Which one? Slut?”
He nodded, flinching again.
“That’s okay.” You gave him his phone back and he wordlessly shoved it in his pocket. Gently, you cupped his face, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. The sound he made startled you both, a pained whimper from the top of his throat. It came out automatically, like it had been lodged there for eight dates. “Why don’t you like saying it?”
Bob whetted his lips, digging for courage once more. “That’s not what you are.”
“No?” You shook your head and he did it back, sliding into his role so effortlessly it made you shiver. Carefully, you slid your hand further, cradling the back of his head, exerting gentle downward pressure until he lowered himself to his knees. “No,” you said, knowing this was it; one more step and you were both in it for keeps. “That’s not what I am,” you agreed, petting his hair back from his face. He listed forward slightly, chasing your touch. “I’m your goddess.”
You skirted around the other descriptors, which felt loaded in a way neither of you were ready for. It wasn’t a question, but Bob pushed his face against your thigh through your dress, planting it there, rubbing against you. “Yes.”
“That you want to worship.”
“Yes.” He shifted back slightly, kneeling on his haunches. “Tell me what to do. Please.”
“Why would I do that?” you teased, still combing his hair back with your fingertips, enjoying the stubborn expression that crossed his face.
“Because I—because I want to make you feel good.” He looked up and down your body. “So good.”
“Bob.” You couldn’t help but wobble; his eyes were liquid desire as he gazed at you, chest pumping, lips parted as he waited for you to help him. This was new for you, too, having a man on his knees who was desperate to learn, desperate to please. The vast number of options before you were somewhat intimidating. You closed your eyes, remembering all the times you had crawled into bed after a date with him, wet and wanting and lonely. The fantasies that sprang to mind in those moments would have to be your guide.
“Push my dress up,” you heard yourself say, even before your eyes were fully open.
He did, readily, big, expressive hands gliding up the tops of your thighs, thumbs hooking in the stretchy fabric and peeling upward, higher, higher, until the colorful edges of your panties were exposed. He groaned, eyes flicking to you, awaiting instruction.
“This is kind of intense without weed,” he whispered.
“Nothing to take the edge off,” you agreed with a laugh, having had your share of tipsy hookups. “Nowhere to hide.”
He nodded.
You drew in a shuddering breath, locking eyes with him. “Are you okay? Should we keep going?”
An enthusiastic nod.
“Take my panties off.”
“Okay, yeah,” Bob murmured, blinking rapidly. His hands slid under your dress, then around the waistband of your thong underwear, tugging until the wetness sealing them to your sex gave and they dropped to the floor. “We’re doing this.”
“We’re doing this.”
“It’s so pretty,” Bob whispered, eyes flickering from your face to the heated skin right in front of him. “You’re so pretty. I…I want to taste you.”
You snorted softly. “I thought this was about what I want?”
“It is,” he hurried to say, wrapping his arms around your legs, chin tucked against your pubic mound as he gave you his best impression of a total innocent. You knew better. For all of his sweetness and light, he could be mischievous, sly, acerbic. “But also, I want to taste you. Can I?”
What were you, heartless? “Mmhm.”
“Hell yes.” He dove toward you face-first, kissing frantically across the tops of your thighs before pushing his cheeks across the front of your pussy, rubbing against it like he could mark it with his scent, claim it. “Fuck, I want it so bad.”
You took a fistful of his hair, tugging gently, stalling him before his lips could collide with you again. Bob’s eyes seared up your body, a frantic muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Say please.”
“Please,” he whimpered, leaning into the hand pulling his hair. “Please, baby, let me taste you.”
You guided his face closer by the hair, his breath warm and humid against dripping wet flesh. Bob did the rest, leaning into you, licking the soft outer seam of your sex before his fingers rose to meet his mouth, urging you open. At the tentative lick, he gave a groan that sounded like it had been building since your first kiss. His hesitation vanished, hands pawing at you, opening you wider so he could drive his tongue inside, lapping like a parched animal.
“Just like that,” you murmured, breathy, grinding his head against you, hitching one thigh over his shoulder. “F-Fingers here,” you told him, taking your free hand and clapping it over one of his, positioning it at the apex, his thumb following yours until both were nestled against your clit. “Oh, shit, um…” Those words didn’t tumble out with much authority. You were closer than you thought, the sight of him on his knees, begging to please you, had been tugging a hot cord tight around your spine.
Bob didn’t notice you shivering and swearing until you started working your hips faster and faster against him. He moaned into your body, the eyes he had closed in ecstasy snapping open as you blurted out his name.
“Hey, it’s okay, it’s good,” he whispered, breaking only long enough to mumble out those words. “Wanna see you let go, wanna taste it…”
You tossed your head, biting down on a damning noise. You were supposed to be the one teaching him, the one in charge, but damn, eagerness certainly made up for inexperience, or forgetfulness, or whatever this was. “N-No. Have to make you work for it.”
He groaned, pressing his face more firmly against you, meeting your thrusts, gone, his chin wedged between your thighs and mouth so tight to your pussy you were starting to worry he would suffocate. And if anyone could accidentally suffocate eating their girlfriend out, it was Bob Reynolds.
His eyes found yours across the undulating span of your body. “So make me,” he whispered, right into your body, then closed his eyes again and went back to work.
It had been an empty, stupid threat, but now you had to make good on it. Now you had to hold yourself back from a brink that had been powering toward you since he dropped to his knees. How the fuck were you supposed to clamp down on that feeling?
Especially when he was starting to figure you out, and fast, already realizing that the smooth, deep circles around your clit were making you buck harder, and the hum of his voice against your entrance drove you insane, too, and then his fingers joined his tongue, fucking into you on long, squelching strokes so filthy and noisy you both moaned like it was a total surprise, like you hadn’t been covering his face in sticky slick for the last five minutes…
You clutched his head with both hands, holding on for dear life.
Not a single cell in your being wanted him to stop, and yet, if he didn’t, you would unravel so, so quickly.
You caught your breath, you forced yourself to focus, and you were doing pretty well, clenching your stomach and thinking about taxes and not looking at the way he licked you like his favorite sweet, but Bob was learning on his own, branching out. Trying things. Clever boy. He kissed his way up to his left hand, sucking your clit between his lips while the fingers of his right hand searched deeper, curling, petting you with an insistence that was borderline unfair.
“Holy shit,” you whispered. “Oh my God.”
Fuck it, let him take this round.
You stopped holding back, allowing yourself to really take it in—his grunts of effort, the way he moaned into you like driving you wild was just as pleasurable for him, like the sensation pooling in your belly was mutual, shared between you. You let yourself see him as he really was—a desperate man on his knees with only worship on the mind.
“You’re really, really g-good at that,” you managed to bite out, and he shuddered at the praise. “Good boy—” He moaned, wrecked. “Such a good boy making me…making me…”
Bob’s hands let go, then smoothed around your thighs to your ass, cupping both cheeks and forcing you harder against his face, tonguing your clit like he was trying to medal in it. He had invented a new sport, a new passion, and fuck if he wasn’t going to be number one at it. Your nerves buzzed. His fingers on your ass sank in, possessive. Grinding back against him, there was nowhere to go but down, falling into the swirling hot whirlpool just tantalizingly at the edge of your perception.
You let him push you there. You clamped down on a scream that would get you both a lot of raised eyebrows in the morning, hands deep in his hair, nails tight to his scalp.
Weightless, drifting, you gently let go of his hair, his grip on your butt loosening as he smiled up at you, dreamy-eyed and perhaps slightly smug. You settled down slowly to the floor, cuddling into him, pressing your face into his neck. His sweater was so warm, he was so warm. “Were you by any chance a professional lollypop tester in another life?”
Bob chuckled, eyes bright, smoothing his hands down your back. He grabbed the neck of his sweater and pulled it up wiped off his chin, then kissed your forehead. “You were making all these sounds so. I just kept going.”
“Strong instinct.”
“They were interesting sounds.” He smiled. “Won’t be forgetting those.”
Bob tugged your dress off the rest of the way, eyes moving over your in sweeps as he reached behind you and unhooked your bra, then tossed it away. There was no way you were going to let him stay fully clothed.
“This has got to go,” you teased, leaning into him again to hook your thumbs under his baggy sweater and fling it over his head. Bob glanced away, red-faced, chewing the inside of his cheek, like maybe you had a secret, deep-seated loathing for hard, lean musculature and rippling abs. Like he wasn’t perfect.
“These, too,” you said, and reached for this belt buckle.
Bob helped you undo it, blowing out a ragged breath, hands shaky as he tugged his jeans open and kicked them off. When he was done, he glanced off to the side again, fingers stilling around the waistband of his boxer briefs. He was so hard his shorts couldn’t contain him. You kissed the corner of his mouth and his eyes fluttered shut as your hands met his, helping him roll the shorts lower.
“Got a little excited,” he said, laughing anxiously.
“I can see that.”
“How do you…how should we…” Bob watched you take off his underwear, blinking fast like his brain couldn’t keep up with what he was seeing. It probably would’ve been better to get off the floor, but you were aching for him, and the carpet burn would just be another reminder tomorrow of how hot he looked with his big, gooey eyes asking all the right questions and his hands reaching for you.
You reached right back, pulling him toward you, hard enough to communicate just how much you wanted him. And Bob let you do it, because he could be solid as a concrete wall, but just then he was only hard and firm where he needed to be. He tumbled over you, pinning you to the floor, hair shadowing his face as he pressed his body against yours, kissing you with the fervor of a man starved. You could’ve stayed like that, making out with him in a tangle of your discarded clothes forever, but Bob had other ideas, feeling you up, his left hand already going right back to where it was before, rubbing through your soaked folds until he teased out your clit again, still swollen and too sensitive.
Arching into his kiss, you flung one arm over his shoulders, gasping up at the ceiling while Bob revived his new favorite trick. There had never been a time in your life when a guy had tried to double down on an orgasm that fast, ignoring his own throbbing erection, all attention on you.
It was too much. Near side of painful. It shouldn’t have felt so good, intoxicatingly weird, like something you weren’t meant to know about yourself, like a secret your body had been keeping until now. It would’ve hurt if you weren’t so wet, the glide of his fingers a blow to your composure on every completed circle.
“C-Can’t,” you whispered, hips betraying you, making you chase the deep, dark pull you felt behind your stomach. “Too much, it’s too much, I can’t…”
“I think you can.”
Your mouth dropped open. Jesus Christ, Bob.
“I think you like it.”
You just held on. You just let him do it. If this was worship, then it was time to trust the supplicant.
“I think you need it.”
You wailed his name, heedless of the social consequences, of what it would bring down on both your heads in the group chat. You didn’t care. You couldn’t think. This was an orgasm from hell, dragging you down into fire. You clung to him, legs soft and open, body his for the taking. The speaker on your nightstand crackled to life; Bob groaned something you couldn’t understand as he flattened his fingers, palming you while you rode out the last of the thickening waves; a warm, wet gush bloomed across your upper thigh.
“Should we?”
You had about five seconds to rearrange your melted brain into a solid state. Bob was over you, kneeling between your thighs, dick in hand as he leaned down to nibble along your jaw.
The music threaded itself through your bleary thoughts.
𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵
𝘐𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭
𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸
Bob’s mouth slanting across yours filled you with enough heat to defrost your brain. You jerked upward against him, nodding. When he broke the kiss, your eyes skipped down from his tense, focused eyes to his chest, further to where his spend was cooling on your leg. Oh. His dick was hard again, thickening in his hand as he dropped his hips lower.
“Yes,” you finally told him, finding your voice, just a rasp. “We’re doing this.”
“We’re doing this,” he agreed, a single, firm nod and another kiss brushed across your lips, and then he was pushing inside.
“Good,” you mumbled, head falling back against the carpet. Good God. The stretch was exquisite; you had never felt so ready to open for someone. It felt like he went on forever. “Good boy,” you added, absorbing his excited shudder. “Good boy, just like that, harder.”
Bob pushed his fists into the floor on either side of your head, dragging in and out with his eyes stuttering closed.
“Just like that.”
“Like that?” he asked, voice cracking as he bottomed out, holding himself there with his arms quaking.
“Yes.”
The music dipped, then got louder again. Bob pressed his sweaty forehead to yours, finding his rhythm, driving after the end of you both. “Like that?”
“Fuck yes.”
You hitched your legs up snug to his hips, sucking him deeper on every stroke, squeezing around him to match his building speed. And if you tilted your lower half just a bit, friction and his pelvis and his stamina would do the rest. You couldn’t believe you had a third one in you, but Bob clearly believed, sliding his forehead down your temple until he could suck and bite on your neck.
“One more for me, baby,” he murmured. “Wanna hear you go again.”
He was close, too, you could feel the tension in his abdomen, the frantic snap to his hips, his little rising gasps, the sudden, swelling pressure as he wound up to blow. That was enough, knowing he was right there with you, that he knew what to do now, that he wasn’t afraid.
The overhead light dimmed and then flashed as you slammed into a sensation too bright. No sound came out of you at first, not as the first waves hit, but as the tide came slower you heard yourself whining and panting, pathetic things falling out of you, senseless until you could manage, “That’s my good boy, making me cum so much—”
Bob stilled and then drove back into you, forehead tight to your jaw as he lengthened his strokes, every one of them devastating as he gathered you close in his arms and burst.
“Jesus, agh.” It felt like he might crush the life out of you, holding you in the spasming vice of his arms. His warmth flooded into you. His hips slowed until he was just sort of wiggling in place, groaning. When his grip on you loosened and you could breathe again, you gently unfolded your arms and helped his hair back behind his ears.
“We did that,” he whispered, leaning onto one elbow to keep from crushing you. He gazed down at your face, laughing as his chest worked to get more air. “We really fucking did that.”
“We sure did.” You smiled up at him, lazily tracing the line of his cheekbone to his nose, then down to his lips, tracing their shape. “You were amazing.”
Bob’s cheeks appled, his eyes squishing shut. “I was?”
“You know you were.”
“Yeah, but it only counts when you say it.” He leaned down, kissed you. His head perked up as he noticed something, squinting. “Radio’s on.”
“Yes, Robert, you did that.” You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Almost blew the bulbs in my lamps, too.”
“Whoa. Shit.” He ducked his head. “I was, uh, somewhere else. Didn’t notice.”
“That’s okay.” You craned up onto your elbows, letting your bare breasts rest against his chest. He looked down at that with a thoughtful smile. “That wasn’t too scary, was it?”
Bob shook his head. “No. I knew you would make it easy, I just…care.” He sighed.
“I know.”
“A lot,” he added, brows flicking up.
“I know.”
“I’m getting better,” he said softly, one finger following the trajectory of your ear down to your shoulder, outlining you. “Every day I get a little better, and this helped.” He looked up suddenly, gazing beyond your head to the bed behind you. “Can we…Can we get off the carpet? Kinda making my ass itch.”
You smirked, laughing. “Mine too.”
“God, I can’t imagine.” He reached for your thigh, flipping you over slightly. “Ooh, yeah, yikes. That’s gonna leave a mark.” He smoothed his hand over your carpet-burned backside. "Sorry about that."
You glanced over your shoulder with a shrug. “We could try the bed. See if it’s softer?”
Bob scooped you closer, touching his nose to yours. “Oh we are definitely doing that.”
Writer confidence is not a thing you build and then have. It's a thing you have for about eleven minutes after writing something good and then it evaporates and you have to make more. There is no reservoir. There is no saving it up. You produce it fresh each time from scratch like some kind of emotional artisan bread and if you don't write for a few days you run out and have to start the whole process over again from flour.
robby rats you out for calling jack a "daddy figure" during a father's day joke
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS implied age-gap, sexual innuendo / 'daddy' kink language, public teasing and humiliation, flirty jack, caffeine levels that qualify as a controlled substance, threatening elders with sub-par retirement homes
WC 0.8k
REQUEST here!
Jack manages to intercept you before you’ve even made it to your third iced coffee.
You’re standing at the desk with a chart half-open in your hands, whispering to yourself as you read, because sometimes the information only becomes real if you say it under your breath in a running little stream of nonsense commentary.
To be fair, this is not remotely out of the ordinary for you.
At hour thirteen of a double, very little about you resembles a person operating under regulated conditions. Your ponytail is in the late stages of collapse, your notes look like they were taken mid-exorcism, and your whole body has that bright, fried, over-caffeinated buzzing to it, like if someone touched your shoulder right now you might either diagnose a patient or burst into glitter.
What is out of the ordinary is the shit-eating grin Jack is wearing when he steps up beside you and drops his forearms into the space to your left.
“Y’know,” he says, entirely too pleased, eyes skimming your face while his spoon clinks a slow waltz through the mug, “I had a really interesting handoff this evening.”
Your pulse skips a beat, already bracing for impact. “Did you?”
“Mm.” He takes an appreciative sip. “Robby’s a great storyteller.”
You had known, in the aftermath, that what you had said in a moment of fun might come back to bite you. You just hadn’t expected it to boomerang back this quickly. Or with Jack looking downright delighted to wield it.
Slowly, like it’s made of nitro, you lower the chart to the counter. “It was a joke.”
It’s not a good excuse, but it’s all you have on such time constraints.
“Was it?”
You lift your gaze to find him already studying you, lip curved in that infuriating almost-smirk, just enough teeth to say jackpot. Luxuriating in your discomfort. Wallowing in it, even.
“It was funny in context,” you insist, defensive squeak slipping out.
“Then by all means,” he says, lifting one hand. “Give me context.”
You skewer him with a glare. He merely idles, waiting like he has all night.
And yes you technically have the entire shift to burn, but unlike him you’ll be spending it duck-and-covering through live psychological artillery if the story’s made it to any of your other co-workers.
It started near the end of your first twelve, right as the ER tends to slide into a carnival of cranky zombies.
Espresso counts climb, call lights chorus, and every resident sprints on whatever’s left in their IV of vending-machine sugar and unfiltered determination.
Robby was hunched at the nurses’ station, glasses slid halfway down his nose, peering over Santos’s shoulder with that chronically jet-lagged look he wears like a spare ID. You shambled past, juggling a granola bar and a dog-eared chart, when the date finally flicked.
So you paused, gave the counter a jaunty little tap, and chirped, “Happy Father’s Day, Robby!”
He glanced up, weariness sharpening to confusion. “I’m… not a father.”
“Right, but you still do the whole dad-energy thing, so… honorary title.”
Santos snorted from behind the monitors. “Wouldn’t Abbot make more sense as your father figure substitute? He enforces nights like a walking curfew.”
You flicked her away with a granola-crumbed hand.
“Jack is… a daddy figure. Totally different classification. No offense, Robby.” Robby only blinked, owlish and exhausted. So, naturally, you plunged the shovel deeper, aiming a finger right at him. “And before you tell him, remember I’m technically one of the few people in this hospital who’d be willing to choose your nursing home.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You are to me.”
And then you had floated away thinking, stupidly, naively, beautifully, that maybe the moment had passed.
It had not passed.
It had apparently been preserved in amber and delivered word-for-word at handoff to the one man on earth who would enjoy it most.
Now Jack parks his coffee, arms cinching across his freakishly broad chest.
“So,” he deadpans, “daddy figure?”
You make a mental note to reserve Robby a retirement home where ‘recreation’ is a single dusty puzzle and reach for anything coherent you can muster, ignoring the impeding lump in your throat.
“Strictly taxonomy, Jack. Think kingdom-phylum-class. Father figure is, like, sensible minivan and Roth IRA energy. Daddy figure is an entirely different genus — high-performance emotional support with optional leather interior. Totally complimentary, I swear.” His eyebrow arcs; your hands start semaphore-panicking. “Not, like, kink compliments — just, you know, admiration for your, uh, management style.”
He’s silent for a second, eyes making slow work from your mouth to your nose to your own eyes. He leans in closer.
You try to dampen the fiery feeling prodding at the tips of your ears until his intense gaze. It’s hard to do.
“For the record, kingdom-phylum-class is an incomplete taxonomic ranking. You skipped order, family, genus, species. If I’m your daddy genus, what does that make you? Under the same umbrella, or something considerably more… subordinate?”
You sputter. Suddenly it’s a hundred degrees and you’re a busted radiator.
“That’s, um, well… I think we’re, uh, past my flash-card set.” You laugh-hiccup, cheeks on fire.
You wonder if he can feel the heat emitting from them.
Jack’s smile unfurls into full smirk. One finger hooks under your chin, tilting until panic meets espresso-dark amusement.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, stepping back. “Now run along, kid — Daddy’s got rounds to patrol.”
MARIA NOTE happy father's day to any who celebrate and especially mr dr jack abbot... clock out and come home, babe; the kids miss u ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌼🧺˚˖𓍢ִ🌿˚.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
