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em1i2a3 · 12 days ago

Text

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

2K notes · View notes

cherienymphe · 6 months ago

Text

Basic Training XVIII

Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, mentions of MURDER/violence/kidnapping, captivity, public sex, degradation, forced pregnancy, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome, ptsd, housewife kink, cop!Peter

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @whimsicalrogers

➥ series masterlist

summary: A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

What had once been a great fear of yours had turned into something akin to a comfort.

The basement was a lot of things—dark, isolating, and creepy to name a few—but in the weeks that you’d been exiled to it’s suffocating walls, you slowly found solace in being left with nothing but your solitude and your thoughts. At least it felt that way. In truth, you didn’t feel much of anything at all and had grown content in that feeling.

Or lack thereof.

The days blended together until it was one long endless stretch of darkness, and it gave you so much time to think. You thought about every decision that had landed you here, all the way from your first conscious memory to that fateful day when you and your friends stopped in some seemingly unassuming town for food. If you thought about it too hard, you could feel a chill creeping over your still form.

Lingering on the day your friends were murdered threatened to put you back in that headspace you’d been in when you were first brought to this house. Your breathing would become shallow at the memory of your erratic emotions and your inability to hold your bodily fluids and the time you’d nearly lost your mind at the mere sight of blood.

You had quite literally lost your mind.

You’d been driven insane by the abuse you’d suffered and had been forced to witness, mind shattering and falling apart from the actions of the same person tasked with putting it back together in whatever manner benefited him. Peter had torn you down and built you back up like some demented caregiver and despite the fact that you knew this—recognized this—you were essentially powerless to do anything about it.

You were in too deep, this was your life now, and such a thought was both comforting and suffocating. On the one hand, you knew what was in store for you. The rest of your days were laid out before you so meticulously, a breakdown of what every single day would be like for the rest of your life. In a way…it was relieving to think that you’d never have to expend any more effort into planning a single thing about your life ever again.

…but in the same breath, that was so tragic.

The excitement of possibilities and opportunities was something you’d never feel again. You’d never have that wonder about what the next day or month or even year would bring. You briefly recalled fleeting thoughts of grad school once and possibly living abroad for a while. Peter would never allow that, and even if he wanted to, Steve would never allow him to even consider the thought.

This was your life now.

Such a simple sentence brought on far too many emotions for you to handle, and so you didn’t. Handle them, that is. You didn’t feel anything and it didn’t just start and end with the complexities of your heart. You didn’t feel the pillow beneath your head nor the thin sheets over your frame. You didn’t even feel the shift in the room when someone—no doubt Margaret or Christine—opened the door and descended the stairs to bring you food.

Surely you ate.

You were still alive, after all, but you didn’t recall eating. Truth be told, you didn’t even recall bathing or using the bathroom. If you thought long and hard about it—struggling with your memory so much that it made you frown in the darkness—you could recollect brief flashes of memories that painted a picture.

Sharon’s worried face before you as she held some orange juice in front of your face, Margaret standing in front of you in the bathroom, tone pleading as she encouraged you to empty your bladder, and even Tony and Pepper standing over your bed as Pepper said something to him, her stricken expression clear even in hazy memories.

The days and everything that happened in them blended together so seamlessly that it all started to feel like a dream. How funny it was that you once feared the basement so much it was enough to give you a panic attack, and now that you were down here you felt the calmest you’d ever felt in months. You felt unreal—untouchable even in a way—and it wasn’t long before you forgot that this wasn’t meant to be forever.

You forgot that a day would come where Peter would come down—likely with Steve in tow—and tell you that your punishment was over and you could finally rejoin him amongst the world above ground. You didn’t know how you felt about that, and you found yourself wondering if you even wanted that.

Of course, you wanted that.

You couldn’t live in darkness and solitude forever, but stepping out of this room meant going back to the problems the basement currently shielded you from. When you stepped through that threshold again, Steve and Bucky and all of the other husbands would likely still be upset with you with the mentioned being more cross than the others. You would have to step back into an atmosphere where you weren’t trusted—again—and you’d have to earn it all back…again.

You supposed you still had friends in the wives, but who was to say. Yes, you’d remained silent when you witnessed Nat escape, but you had a feeling that someone like Margaret likely wouldn’t agree with what you did. You recalled a conversation you had with her once about the needs and sanctity of the house coming first. Allowing one of the wives to escape and possibly ruin everything wasn’t exactly in line with that.

Nat didn’t seem upset with you, at all the last time you saw her, but you didn’t truly know verbatim what Peter had said to Bucky to get him to take her out of the basement. Sure, he could’ve insinuated that keeping her down here and punishing her in a harsh manner after they’d been trying for a baby wasn’t smart, but he also could have flat out said to him that according to you, Nat thinks she's pregnant.

You only wanted to save her, and while you liked to think she’d understand if she knew you told Peter, you also weren’t so sure. You weren’t sure of a lot of things anymore, and your uncertainty about so much—the result of whatever truth you thought you were living being turned upside down—made you retreat into yourself even more.

“Y/N, you need to eat something…”

The familiar voice faintly reached your ears, and as you slowly turned your head, you thought to yourself that you hadn’t even heard Margaret open the door and walk down the stairs. She was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name, and it was only after some time did you register the weight in your lap.

Your gaze landed on a tray of food, and as appetizing as the toast and eggs and sausage looked, you had no desire to eat. You felt lucid for the first time in ages, and you slowly blinked before shaking your head. The words to tell her you weren’t hungry were on the tip of your tongue, but the redhead spoke before you could find your voice.

“You barely ate anything yesterday. And the day before…and the day before,” she breathed. “Steve wants to see an empty plate.”

You blinked again at that, and despite the fact that she was repeating Steve’s words, you could see her own concern in her eyes. You struggled to recall just how long you’d been down here and just how many plates you’d barely touched. You couldn’t recall, and despite the nagging at the back of your mind, you couldn’t bring yourself to want to eat.

Even so, you and Margaret knew better than anyone how Steve could be, and so you slowly reached out for a piece of toast.

“I’ll eat,” was all you said.

She seemed relieved as she left you—albeit reluctantly—and you nibbled on the bread in your hand. The taste of it on your tongue made your stomach twist, and you put the rest of it back down without thinking. You had every intention of finishing it later, but once your food was set aside, all you wanted to do was sleep.

Your sleep wasn’t dreamless, and it rarely ever was. Sometimes you dreamt of your mom and your friends and your life before Peter took you for himself like some villain. Those dreams served nothing more than to torment you, and you often woke from them with tears in your eyes, vision blurry even in the darkness.

More often than not though, you dreamt of Peter and your life here. Sometimes it was awful nightmares about Steve—and even Bucky sometimes—where his handsome face was contorted in that perpetual frown it always seemed to be in when he laid eyes on you. Only it would be so much worse.

Your brain liked to conjure up visions of him where he was absolutely murderous, and it was no secret as to why. There’d been the brief moment here and there where you wondered if Steve would just say ‘to hell’ with all of his rules and get rid of you—in the most violent and dismissive fashion—and force Peter to find a sane wife.

A better one.

That left a bitter taste in your mouth…and you hated it.

You liked to think that the thought of Peter with someone else only upset you because you didn’t think any woman deserved to be subjected to this. You liked to think that righteously and noble of yourself, but the truth was much more demented and depraved and twisted. No woman did deserve any of this, that was true, but the thought of Peter loving someone else made your stomach churn.

You could say it until you were blue in the face that this wasn’t love—it couldn’t be—but it didn’t change how you felt. You couldn’t fathom the thought of being tossed aside and replaced, and being replaced by someone better would only add insult to the injury. It wasn’t fair that they got to break you until there was hardly anything left only to cast you aside because they didn’t like the inevitable results of their choices.

The thought made you want to be sick.

Peter would never, and you knew without a doubt that he would never, but for all that he put you through, the least he could do was remain by your side and look after you forever. Something deep within you hated him so much for what he did—the dark-haired man worse than you initially thought him to be—but a larger part, the part that had been carefully put back together by him, only wanted him to show an endless display of apologies for the rest of your days.

You deserved that.

You deserved to be free, but that was never happening, and as it were, could you even function properly if you were allowed to walk off of this property tomorrow? Your mind didn’t work the way it did before you were brought here. It had been taken apart and scrambled and replaced with one that wasn’t your doing. You feared that you would never be able to function right again, and who would want you?

Who would want you besides Peter?

You were an abused, broken, and genuinely unwell mess…and Peter loved you for it…in his own way. You could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at you that the thought of losing you would send him over the edge, and you knew you felt the same, but you were sure it was for entirely different reasons. At this point in your life…what were you without Peter?

When you weren’t dreaming of your friends and family, and when you weren’t conjuring up nightmares of a familiar blond, you were dreaming about the man who put you into this mess. Sometimes you dreamt about who he actually was and in those dreams there was no doubt about his motives and his actions and you felt the appropriate fear when staring into his eyes.

…but more often than not you dreamt about the man he manipulated you into loving. You dreamed about welcoming him home from work and kissing him and touching him. You dreamed about the days where he simply held you as you cried, conveniently ignoring that he was the reason for your tears. In this house of horrors, Peter was your safe place, and you knew that was purposely done, but again, you felt powerless to do anything about it.

It shouldn’t be that way, but your only other choice was to spend the rest of your days in torment.

“She hasn’t eaten properly in weeks,” the soft words reached your ears, and you knew they weren’t meant for you.

There was a beat of silence, and as you were slowly gripped by consciousness, you took note of the smell of food. It didn’t tempt you, and you almost turned your head away.

“Do you think it’s because of Peter?”

Jane.

You absentmindedly wondered why she was down here and not resting. You hated to think that she’d come down here just to check in on you when she should’ve been looking after herself. You felt her hand on your head.

“She hasn’t seen him in a month…and we know how she—how they can get…”

You squeezed your eyes tight at that, heart aching for the first time in forever at those words. Had it been that long already? Had you really gone a month without seeing him, talking to him, touching him? Was that the cause of this…numbness? You were sure Peter wasn’t the only factor here, but you couldn’t deny that you missed him. You weren’t used to being without him, and this was the longest you’d ever gone without being with him since you first woke up in this house.

…but you knew that this was as much of a punishment for him as it was for you.

What if he didn’t miss you at all? What if you were in hell while each day only brought him more peace not having to be around the crazy one? That thought made your heart ache more, and for a brief moment, you never wanted to see him again.

“Steve only thinks it’s been a handful of times, but she’s not eating. At first, we weren’t too alarmed, especially considering…”

You placed Margaret’s voice now as she trailed off.

“...but then every tray just went basically untouched, and she’s lost a lot of weight. I think we need to tell Steve to contact Dr. Banner.”

You recalled a familiar face with glasses and dark hair.

“She doesn’t use the bathroom every day either. She mostly sleeps,” the redhead added.

“Have you mentioned this to Peter?”

“So he can come barging down here and start a whole other thing with Steve? They’ve only just settled back into being civil with one another. If Peter finds out she’s like this…”

Margaret scoffed, and you detected the unease in her tone.

You had never thought about the aftermath that followed your punishment and how it might have affected things upstairs. You had never thought to, you supposed. You had just assumed that Peter would fall in line with what Steve wanted as usual. After all, no matter how you felt about what you’d done, the household—or more importantly the husbands—did not agree. You’d broken their rules, and rules were rules.

It had never occurred to you that this whole ordeal—and you being at the center of it—might cause friction between Peter and Steve.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of your name, and you were loathed to admit that it took so much of your strength to open your eyes. Jane was as pregnant as ever and glowing, and she gave you a small smile when your gazes met.

“Do you want to try eating something today?

Her tone was light, but you detected a hint of pleading.

Your gaze shifted, and you looked at the tray of food in Margaret’s hands. You eyed it, wanting to eat for their peace of mind if nothing else, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. You swallowed, and Jane must have seen the guilt and conflict in your eyes.

“It’s okay,” she assured you. “You don’t have to.”

You didn’t miss Margaret’s look.

“We’ll leave it here, and you eat when you’re ready.”

She touched your face, and with a few lingering looks, they left you.

It wasn’t long before you dozed off again, but it wasn’t a deep sleep, and you drifted in and out of consciousness. It felt like no matter how much you slept, you just couldn’t shake the feeling of being exhausted. Exhausted, not tired. Your whole body seemed to ache, and you dreaded the moment you’d have to get up and shower.

The next time you were even halfway lucid, you felt a hand at your back and a spoon at your lips. On instinct, you turned your head away, but the person’s hand was firm.

“None of that. You need something on your stomach,” the voice was just as firm as the grip, and it was comfortingly familiar.

Your eyes widened a bit at the familiar face, and you unintentionally parted your lips, allowing her to give you a taste of broth. It took you by surprise, and you coughed a bit, but swallowed it nonetheless. Nat gave you another spoonful, and so in shock at her presence, you accepted it.

“Sharon’s supposed to be in my place…but…Steve and Bucky are at work,” she shrugged, and you couldn’t take your eyes off of her. “...and I had to see you.”

For the first time in a month or so, you felt…something. For a brief moment, your perpetual numbness had lifted, and you both spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

It was said by two different voices, but it echoed as one.

“You’re sorry…?” Confusion filled you. “Why are you sorry?”

Your voice was small and unsure, and Nat looked so like you were unused to seeing her. She was normally so strong and fierce—a great source of envy for you—but now she looked sad…and regretful.

“You felt more obligated to protect me than yourself…and had I thought for a moment that you’d see me…I never would’ve left.”

Your shoulders fell at that, and you hated that Nat felt…guilty over your predicament. Your own choices had led you here, and that was what you told her after clearing your throat.

“It doesn’t change the fact that I thought the best thing that could happen was I’d get help and we’d all leave this place…and the worst was that I’d get dragged back,” she fed you more broth. “Not once had I considered that someone else would get dragged into my mess.”

You didn’t quite know how to respond, because after all, you didn’t really agree with her. You hadn’t felt obligated to do anything. It seemed like a no brainer to you to not say that you saw her that night. It was never even a question, never even a consideration to tell Peter Nat had escaped.

You swallowed, only taking a tiny sip when she offered you another spoonful. The green-eyed woman frowned at that.

“Nat…”

The words were on the tip of your tongue, but she merely shook her head.

“Bucky was practically ready to flog me for leaving him,” she lightly said despite the severity of the topic. “When they threw me down in here, I was prepared for it. Even with my possible delicate condition.”

Your eyes met hers, and she sent you a crooked smile.

“I knew only one person could talk them out of whatever they prepared to do to me…and I knew there was only one thing you could say that would change their minds…” you bit your lip at that. “Thankfully, I thought wrong, but even if I was pregnant, I’d still understand why you did it.”

She gave a small, bitter laugh.

“I may not have agreed with it nor been the biggest supporter of that decision…but I get it,” she shrugged. “After they found out what you did, I think I was scared for you more than I’d ever been scared for anyone…and I imagine that’s what you’d felt like.”

Your gaze found the sheet on your legs.

“If I had known something that could save you too, I might’ve done the same.”

When she offered you more broth, you sadly shook your head. A look passed over her features at that, and her face fell. She set the spoon back in the bowl with a small sigh before standing.

“I had to check on you,” she told you. “They said you haven’t been eating, and I didn’t realize how bad it was…”

You noticed the way she eyed you, and you suddenly had the urge to find a mirror. She set the bowl down, and she looked unsure about it.

“I’m going to leave this here. Just in case…” she trailed off, a bout of worry crossing her features. “I’ll come check on you again when I can.”

You nodded at her words, but the shock from Nat’s presence and the few sips of broth had taken more energy than you cared to focus on, and you were already sliding back down in bed.

It took her a long time to climb the stairs and shut the door behind her.

It could’ve been days later when you heard the low timber of a voice that wasn’t wholly familiar to you. It scratched some part of your brain, but not enough for you to pinpoint where you’d heard the tone before. Unfamiliar fingers were prodding at your face and neck, and the feel had you frowning in your semi consciousness.

The man hummed to himself.

He was speaking, but you were in and out of sleep, so you couldn’t tell—nor cared—if he was speaking to you or someone else whose presence you weren’t aware of. A voice spoke back, and both sounded so muffled and far away to you.

You felt those same fingers on other parts of your body, as well as cold metal, and the intense temperature against your warm skin made you jolt a bit. You pushed at the hand, but a voice shushed you, but it didn’t sound close enough to have the intended soothing effect. Words were exchanged again, but you were already falling back asleep.

It was a dreamless sleep, the first in a long time, and it made the passage of time feel like a blink.

A voice so hauntingly and achingly familiar to you reached your ears, and you thought you were dreaming.

“I don’t give a fuck about what Steve would’ve wanted. His wife is healthy and coherent and probably getting ready to give him another Goddamn baby,” the voice hissed, interrupting a smaller more feminine one. “She’s been like this for weeks, and no one said a word to me.”

“Peter-.”

“Dr. Banner should’ve been here weeks ago. I should’ve known about this weeks ago. I should have seen her weeks ago…!”

Sleep was pulling you back in again, and the louder the voice got, the more it started to fade. The wrathful pitch grew higher and higher but also fainter and fainter until it was gone entirely, and sleep welcomed you again.

Your mind was struggling to put pieces together, and in your sleep, you thought to yourself that those words sounded like they came from some demented doppelganger, the tone sounding so much like Peter but not at the same time. You had never heard him so angry, and a voice in your head convinced you that you dreamt it, used to a sweet disposition from your dark captor, the dichotomy of which never failed to throw you into greater mental turmoil.

When your senses came to you again, you felt stronger than you had in probably two months at this point. You weren’t entirely sure, completely confused by the passage of time. The basement smelled different, and even the bed felt different, but as you shifted, you understood why.

The numbness that you had started to find comfort in was gone, and you could feel the bed and pillows and sheets beneath you…and they felt familiar. Too familiar. They felt like home. They felt like the place where you’d spent hours in Peter’s arms and hours sleeping and hours accepting the affections of the man who’d kidnapped you.

You thought you might have conjured the feeling up, but then you inhaled, and Peter’s scent filled your nose, and you thought of the nights he’d slept here alone in your absence. The faintest of touches disturbed the back of your hand, so featherlight that you could almost ignore it, but the slight pressure in your chest wouldn’t let you.

When you opened your eyes, his face was the first thing you saw.

His hair was a little longer, a little curlier and brushing his ears, and his face was as pretty as ever, but the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed his sleepless nights. Had you the strength to move, you would’ve reached out to touch them.

Peter was knelt beside the bed you shared and his hand was in yours and his brown eyes lit up at the sight of your own. His face shifted so suddenly and seamlessly that you would've sworn he’d been smiling at your sleeping face this entire time instead of with that pinched brow and clenched jaw you’d been initially met with.

“Hey,” he softly and slowly greeted, dragging the word out in a whisper. “...my pretty girl.”

You swallowed, blinking a few times before briefly glancing around to confirm you were where you thought you were. Your gaze caught onto the medical equipment by the bed, blinking at the bag two feet above you with unidentifiable liquid in it. You absentmindedly reached up with your free hand as you traced the direction of the tube.

“Hey, hey,” Peter softly admonished, taking your other hand too. “Don’t touch it.”

You looked down at the feeding tube going into your chest, and you felt your heart skip a beat. Confusion filled you, and you were just about to speak when Peter let one of your hands go to take your chin instead. Still in the process of escaping sleep, you could only blink at him, a million questions running through your mind that you didn’t have the capability to voice.

“You’re really weak and…you haven’t been eating,” you watched his face as he said this, and you took note of the dark shadow that passed over his features, and you thought to yourself that perhaps you hadn’t dreamt that interaction at all. “Dr. Banner gave you that because you need to eat.”

Peter appeared to get choked up, and your eyes widened a tad. Sniffing, he rose a bit to press his lips to yours, fingers brushing over your cheek.

“You need to eat, you need all your strength,” you felt his tears on your face. “...because we’re going to have a baby.”

He pulled away only enough to look into your eyes, his own looking between them as he spoke.

“My pretty girl is going to have a baby,” he whispered more to himself than you. “...and you want her to be healthy and fat, don’t you?”

His thumb brushed over your lips, but it was hard to focus on anything he said after ‘baby’.

“I need you both healthy,” he said, voice cracking, and he kissed you again.

His arms circled around you, and you felt his wet face fall to rest against your neck and shoulder. He kissed the skin there that peeked through above the large shirt, his whispered happy words reaching your ear.

“My baby’s having a baby.”

#peter parker x reader #dark!peter parker #dark peter parker #dark Peter Parker x reader #dark!Peter Parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #dark fic #dark marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 7 months ago

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Loving your JJK men so I'm here to request fics if possible. I'm feeling Nanami, Geto and Megumi mainly, Sukuna for the shits and anyone else you're in the mood for. It doesn't have to be super long either, just sweet supportive men.

You're either on your way to a thing with friends/family or already at an event when your period either starts or takes a turn for the worse (painful enough cramps to cause nausea) and you're asking them to turn back/leave even though you know you agreed to attend.

Period Problems!

Tags: fluff, cursing, period comfort, established relationships, wee bit of crack

An: Thank you! I appreciate the req <3

Incl: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Choso, Megumi, Sukuna

SATORU

You kinda let Satoru do all the talking during reunions at Jujutsu Tech. It’s not that you don’t like your former classmates; you do. You just find so much socialization to be kinda exhausting.

Satoru was the opposite however. He’s a natural born extrovert that can talk to other people so casually for hours on end. Socialization doesn’t tire him out at all, so he’s quick to take over conversations for you when he can sense that your social battery is low.

He’s subtle with it: placing his arm slightly in front of you as he steps up, casually inserting himself into the conversation. It feels fluid and not forced at all.

That’s how you two were right now. You were tucked behind his arm, leaning your head against his shoulder. You had been cramping all day long, so you already wasn’t in too good of a mood. The socialization was really the cherry on top.

A torturous wave of cramps hit, nearly making your knees buckle from under you. Your hand tightened around Satoru’s bicep, and you tried to breathe your way through it, not wanting to take him away from all his friends.

Satoru turned his head towards you, and he could immediately notice how pale you looked. “Hey, it was good seeing you though. Take care of the wife and kids.” Your husband smiled at whoever he was talking to before guiding you away from everyone else.

“What’s the matter, sweets? You alright?” He asks softly as he’s extended his infinity out to you so no one can touch you or even get close to you.

“Cramping… hurts..” was all you could manage to get out.

“Let’s get you home, sweets. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling good?” His large palm rubs at the small of your back as he opens the door for you, allowing you to step out.

“Didn’t wanna ruin your event.” You murmur quietly as tears brim in your eyes. You didn’t want to be seen as an inconvenience to him.

“Hey, heyy… c’mere, sweet girl.” Satoru wraps you up in a tight embrace, petting your hair as you cried into his dress shirt. “My poor baby. What kind of husband would I be if I made my wife who’s in a lot of pain get up and go to something as uncomfortable as a reunion? I don’t even really care about those people anyway. You’re my priority.” He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to the top of your head.

“I feel like I’m gonna throw up.” You murmur quietly, and he steps back away from you.

“Right, let’s get you home. I’ll make some chocolate covered strawberries, and we can watch that reality tv show you really like.” Satoru suggests as he helps you into the passenger seat of his car.

SUGURU

Who said cults couldn’t have bake sales? It brings a sense of community and camaraderie amongst the members. Geto thought you were a literal genius when you came up with the idea.

You had been in charge of planning and organizing the entire bake sale, and today was finally the day. It’s early in the morning, and Geto’s helping the girls in the kitchen bake blueberry muffins so they have enough time to cool before the sale.

You stirred out of your own slumber upon hearing the girls giggling. “Hey now, you two, don’t you wake your mama up. She’s sleeping.” Your husband warns the twins, and they both try to shush each other. The giggling pursues anyway, but you don’t mind. You wouldn’t rather be woken up any other way.

As you slowly eased yourself out of bed, your stomach immediately cramped up, sending shockwaves of pain down your thighs and back at the same time.

Was it really that time of the month already?

Your stained bedsheets said yes. You must’ve started in your sleep. Great.

Upon hearing you rustling around in the bedroom, Suguru walks in, not expecting to find you haphazardly pulling the sheets off yours and his bed.

“I just washed the sheets a couple weeks ago.” Geto said with a curious smile on his face. His head tilts to the side slightly, wondering what you were doing.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Your voice is quiet and full of shame that immediately has Suguru is full-on “fix mode”.

“Hey- what happened, baby?” He asks as he shuts the bedroom door behind him, so the girls can’t come and be nosey.

You sniffle softly and turn to show Geto your poor pajama pants that were now soaked in blood, and he immediately understands.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling. How are you feeling?” He tenderly asks as he comes and takes the sheets out of your hand. He begins to pull them off for you.

“‘m hurting really bad..” You answer him in a quiet murmur.

“Go take a bath, darling. I got everything else. Don’t worry about it.” He presses a small kiss to the top of your head. “Throw your panties and pants in the hamper. I’ll try to get the stains out.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to be grossed out.”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m a grown man. I can handle anything your body does.” He assures you as he carries the sheets over towards the laundry room.

You soak in the warm bath for quite a while, but the cramps still persist. You anxiously check the time on your phone like a hundred times. The bake sale should be starting soon, so you need to get up and start getting ready.

A knock at the door disturbs your track of thought. “It’s me, darling. Can I come in?” Suguru’s voice sounds from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, come in.” You answer back to him, and Suguru carries in a cup of tea before he shuts the door.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, princess.” He sits down on the floor next to the tub, and he carefully hands you the cup of tea.

“Thank you- I’m just trying to muster up enough strength to get up, so we can make it to the bake sale.” You say as you shift in the bath. The warm water and bubbles lap at your skin.

“Mmm, no need. Just focus on relaxing for right now, and we’ll see about making an appearance later on.”

“What do you mean? What about the girls? They’ll be devastated.”

“I had Manami take them to the sale. They’ll be fine.” He informs you as he pets your hair.

“Are you sure things will be alright? What if…”

“Ah, none of that. Things will be fine. You did a perfect job while planning everything. Our members are not incompetent people. They can handle a small bake sale, my love. I want you to just relax for today. Like I said, we might make a small appearance if you feel up to it later.”

“Sugu, I love you.”

“I love you too, darling.”

NANAMI

“Mmm, no can do. Sorry, it’ll have to be another day.” Nanami speaks into his phone as he’s looking at his calendar.

Ino has been begging to meet his wife for far too long now, so Nanami finally offered for Ino to come to yours and his house for dinner one evening. Planning it has been tough due to the vigorous schedules.

“Maybe it will just have to be next month.” Nanami shrugs his shoulders. He’s really not too bothered by not letting Ino meet you as he really tries not to involve you in his work life.

“Hm? Nanamin, what’s wrong with the 18th? We don’t have anything scheduled that day?” You ask curiously while tilting your head.

Your husband makes a face at you before he quickly taps the mute button on his phone. “Darling, according to your cycle, you’ll probably start your menstrual period that day. I highly doubt you’ll want any visitors over.”

Ah yes, you must’ve forgotten that you married a man who is literally obsessed with you and your happiness.

“That’s if my period comes on the day it’s suppose to. It could be late or early. You never know. Just invite him over. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” You assure him, waving away his concerned gaze.

Yeah, that was a fuckin mistake.

You had worked for the better half of the day preparing Katsudon for everyone to enjoy when Ino and Nanami get off work. You had to take frequent breaks: sitting down or lying down to try to weather yourself through your cramps.

Nanami was right — your period started earlier that morning, and you absolutely did not want company over today. You kept trying to persevere — not wanting to admit that Nanami might know your body better than you do. Also, you weren’t a fan of cancelling plans last minute.

Though, when the kitchen started to feel like it was over a hundred degrees in there, and the room started to spin, you knew you had to call and say something to your husband.

“Hey darling, we’re almost there. Sorry we’re running behind. I had to teach Ino how to tie a tie.” Your husband speaks over the phone, and your heart instantly sinks into your stomach. This poor boy is wearing a tie to come and meet you, but you’re fixing to cancel.

“Nanamin…” You mumble sheepishly over the phone. You feel terrible for having to cancel, but there’s just no way you can power through it.

“Are you alright, darling..?” He asks cautiously. His ability to instantly tell when something was wrong with you was still astonishing to this day.

“You were right… I don’t feel good.”

“Oh darling.. I was right? You started this morning, didn’t you?”

“… yeah.” You reluctantly admit with a small pout. It’s bad enough that you’re cramping terribly right now. Now, you have to admit just how right your husband was.

“Good thing Ino’s not with me, and I never arranged for him to come by tonight.” He says with a small huff of amusement. “I’m getting you one of those cheesecakes you really like. Then, I’ll be home.”

Oh, to be married to the king of domestic love.

“Ken, I love you. Hurry home please.” Your heart is immediately melting in your chest. Marrying him was the best decision of your life.

“I love you more, darling.”

CHOSO

There’s nothing worse than being overcrowded while on your period, and currently, that’s what was exactly happening.

Sitting between Choso and Yuji on a too small couch while Yuji lore dumped about Human Earthworm 1 and 2 was literally a nightmare, but it was even worse since your stomach was cramping up so badly to where you couldn’t even hear the words spilling from Yuji’s mouth.

Immediately, you regret agreeing to hanging out with Yuji today, but you hated seeing your cute boyfriend’s face turn to disappointment when you tell him no.

You assured him that he could hang out with Yuji without you — you didn’t mind sharing him with his little brother at all, but Choso would always say that it’s more fun with you involved.

Thus, you’re squished between the oversized males on the couch, watching the third Human Earthworm movie for like the 5th time while Itadori points out every little easter egg.

Your stomach is cramping so badly — making you feel like you’re either about to throw up or pass out or the secret option of doing both. Your cramps are literally reverberating through your thighs.

You didn’t want to make a big deal out of this, but your heart was starting to pound in your chest. You lean your head back, trying to stop the room from spinning in your head.

“Baby?” Choso’s voice echoes in your ear. Yuji pauses the movie, and they both look at you with a concerned look. Your boyfriend could immediately tell that something was wrong with you.

“Yuu, go get her some water.” Choso instructs, and he sits up on the couch. His hands start to fan over your face, wafting air towards you to help out. “Baby, can you hear me?”

Yuji quickly scrambles from the couch, and he jogs to the kitchen to get you a cold glass of water. Choso and Yuji do not look any alike, but they both have the same caring heart.

“Cho, I feel like ‘m gonna throw up.” Your voice is barely a strained whisper.

“Okay baby, hold on. Hold on for me, pretty girl.” Choso brushes your hair back from your face, and he then quickly sprints towards the bathroom to get the trashcan for you.

Choso returns quickly, and he places the trashcan in your lap. “Here you go, baby.” He whispers softly, and he places his hand gently on your shoulder for moral support. He’s not too great at these things, but he wants you to know that he’s here for you.

“What’s the matter? Are you sick or..?” He asks you, still trying to get to the root of what’s got you so ill all of a sudden.

“Cramping..” You murmur quietly, and Choso instantly feels like a fool. You told him you started your period this morning, but he completely forgot.

“I’m so sorry, baby… Do you still feel like you’re going to throw up?” He asks as his eyes never leave your face. Your head is still tilted back, and your eyes are closed.

“No.. I think it passed for now.” You reply quietly, taking the small moment of reprieve that your ovaries decided to give you.

“C’mere, princess.” Choso mumbles lowly, and he scoops you into his arms bridal style before standing up. “Let’s get you into bed, yeah? I’ll get you some pain medicine and your heating pad.”

“Mmm.. love you, Cho.” Your voice is muffled against his shoulder.

“Hey Yuu, don’t worry about that water, kay? I’m gonna get her to bed. We’ll finish the movie maybe sometime next week.” Choso calls out to his brother that is miraculously still in the kitchen.

Yuji was cowering in the kitchen with his ears covered because he heard you say you were going to throw up, and his emetophobia started acting up.

“Great! See you later!” He shouts as he sprints out the house, getting as far away from there as possible.

MEGUMI

Visiting Gojo in his vacation home was something you’ve been looking forward to for months now. Gojo owned a vacation home up towards the snowy peaks, and he invited you and Megumi to come up there and stay for a week during the winter.

You had planned so many fun activities to do with Megumi like snowboarding, skiing, or building a snowman.

Not to mention the thought of cozying up to your boyfriend in front of a fireplace sounded like exactly what you two needed after these past few stressful weeks.

The only kicker was the morning you two were set to leave, you started your period.

Trying not to panic, you packed a whole box of tampons and pads, and you packed like 15 extra pairs of underwear… just in case.

It would be fine, right? Maybe you and him could just spend more time cozied up rather than being out in the snow. Besides, Megumi didn’t really care what you two did. He was happy with whatever you picked out. As long as you two were together, he’d be fine with whatever activity.

You just had to make it through an eight hour car ride…

By hour two, your entire body is screaming at you. Your lower tummy feels like it’s on fire, and the pain is shooting through your back. No matter how many times you shift, you’re not comfortable.

It’s hot in the car, but then, it’s too cold. You’re so damn uncomfortable that you’re nearly in tears.

After your nth time shifting in your seat, Megumi finally speaks up. “Are you already that antsy? We’ve barely started..”

“No, I…” You wince before slightly doubling over in the passenger side seat. “I’m just cramping a lot.”

“Shit, really? Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks as he glances over at you with a look of concern. He’s well aware of how severe your periods can get sometimes. He’s taken care of you enough times to see exactly how much pain you’re in.

“I thought I could power through.” You sniffle, instantly feeling guilty for putting a damper on the trip.

“Hey, hey..” Megumi reaches over and runs his fingers through your hair. He keeps his other hand on the steering wheel — trying his best to drive safely and comfort you at the same time. “It’s alright. You’re really hurtin’, huh?”

“Mhm…” You quietly hum in agreement, and you lean your head on Megumi’s hand.

Without saying another word, Megumi takes the next exit, and he drives for a minute, ignoring your questions. He then pulls into a fancy looking hotel before putting the car in park.

“Stay in here for just a second, yeah? I’ll be right back.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead before leaving the car and walking into the hotel lobby.

A few minutes pass before he returns to the car. By the time he’s back, you can already feel a migraine starting to kick in.

“Can you walk, gorgeous?” He asks tenderly as he unbuckles your seatbelt for you,

“Yeah — I can walk..” You reply in a pained voice.

“Alright. Let’s go in here. I got us a room.” He offers his hand, and he helps guide you out of the car before he grabs both of the suitcases.

“What..? What about Gojo?”

“He can wait. Your health is more important. It’s not like his vacation home will disappear over night. We’ll see how you feel about driving some more tomorrow. If not, we’ll turn back around and head home.”

“Are you sure..? I don’t wanna ruin the trip.” You sniffle before rubbing your face. Your stomach starts to cramp up again, nearly making your knees buckle. Megumi’s hand rests on the small of your back, guiding you into the hotel lobby.

“I already told you, gorgeous. I don’t care what we do. I just want to be with you.”

SUKUNA

Sukuna could smell the exact minute your period started. Blame it on him being a curse.

He avoids you like the plague when he knows you’re bleeding because he truly believes that he will only make your pain worse. He knows he’s not the nicest, so he just tries to stay out of your way.

It’s definitely not because he’s terribly afraid of women who can bleed for seven days straight and not die.

“Ryo?” Dammit. You caught him.

“Yes, woman?” He reluctantly turns to look at you. You were wearing an elegant dress that he usually loved to peel off you before completely ravaging you.

“Are we… not doing tithe today..?” You ask with a small frown. You had gotten dressed up for the purpose of addressing yours and Sukuna’s subjects.

“No… I’ll hold tithe next week.” He nods his head. Truthfully, he had concerned himself so much with avoiding you that he had forgotten all about tithe.

“But… you always do it on the first of the month..” You’re nearly in tears. Why was he avoiding you? Did he not want to be seen with you? Was he embarrassed of you now? So many insecure thoughts and high-running emotions.

Sukuna’s literally sweating. What the fuck did he say to make you upset? “Why do you cry, woman? Don’t cry. I didn’t realize tithe was that important to you. We’ll have tithe right now.”

“You don’t love me!” Fat tears are running down your cheeks. Your hormones making you feel like the worst person on planet earth right now.

“Who the fuck said that!?” Now Sukuna’s shouting too. This is a mess. He just wants you to not bleed and to not be sad.

A moment of silence between the two of you allows him to reflect for a moment. He looks at you as you’re just looking up at him with big teary eyes, and he quietly sighs before pulling you into a hug.

“Let’s go do this tithe, and then, you can explain to me what I’ve done to make you feel so down.”

Your mood changed just as fast. Maybe he did really love you! You sat on his lap at he was sitting on his throne. Curse after curse would come up and give whatever they could spare to the king as tithe.

You were sweet to each and every one, making sure to compliment each unique ‘gift’ that was bestowed upon you two. Truthfully, the curses loved having you as a queen, but even they were avoiding you today. They could smell your menstrual period as much as Sukuna could.

If you weren’t so focused on your cramps, you’d be a bummed out because now your subjects didn’t even seem to like you as much.

The king’s second pair of eyes darted towards you as soon as he could hear your breath shifting, but you still wore a smile. He decided not to question it.

But when you started to grip onto the throne and his arm tightly, your face was pale, and you could barely manage to speak, he immediately ordered everyone out.

“Alright, that’s enough. Get the fuck out.” He barked, and curses went scrambling everywhere. Hell, even Uraume took that as a direct order.

“What ails you, human?” He asks as his full attention is on you now. You’re practically a mess in his lap from the pain — feeling like you might throw up or pass out from how bad it hurts.

“Cramps.” You answer Sukuna lowly, and you try your best to breathe through them.

“How do I make them go away?” He asks, spoken like a true man… always wanting to fix everything.

“Sometimes a heating pad helps…” You wince as you can feel nausea bubbling up from how much pain you’re in.

“You said heat?” Sukuna asks as flames coat his hand.

“Not that much heat-!” You whine and shift in his lap before the flames dissipate.

“Make up your mind, woman.” He grumbles before he rests his palm on your lower tummy. His hand was still very warm from the flames, and you instantly ease in his lap.

His eyes stay fixated on you while you rest on his lap quietly, and he ever so carefully starts to rub your stomach. He finds your behavior very much cat-like. Too bad he really didn’t like cats — too unpredictable.

“How do I keep this from coming back?” He questions more to himself than to you.

“Pregnancy.” You murmur to him, half-asleep due to the immense amount of relief you felt.

“Great. I shall get you pregnant then.”

“What.”

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