pairing: robert reynolds x reader
cw: smut, afab reader, breeding, nursing, dry humping, mommy kink without the use of the word βmommyβ(?).
bob had many bad habitsβand calling them βbadβ felt almost reductive. it wasnβt so much that they were wrong, but that they were inevitable. necessary evils, like antidepressants that cured one demon only to awaken anotherβsleep stolen, thoughts sharpened into blades. you knew the risks. knew that there were layers to him, chasms of light and void so impossibly knotted together that pulling one string risked unraveling everything. and yet, not once did you try to stop him.
especially not when he had you like this.
bob had you in what would have been a mating press. he wasnβt dominating you; that would have implied control. no, this was desperation.
you felt the weight of himβsolid, large, always too warm. his hips moved in slow, needy grinds, rutting into the softness of your thigh with a barely contained whine. he didnβt even seem aware he was doing it at first, too lost in the hum of your skin against his, the scent of your shampoo, the knowledge that you were here, real, and not another hallucination clawing through the fissures in his fragile reality.
his entire psyche was trembling in the cradle of your touch. that heavy body of his, golden-skinned and too warm, was sprawled across yours, pinning you to the plush comforter of your shared bed. all clothes still on, not even trying to make a move for your underwear, and yet rutting into you like a fevered animal whoβd finally found shelter from the storm.
βpleaseβ¦ just stay still,β he whined into your neck, voice thick with need, cracked around the edges like a man seconds from breaking. βi need thisβ¦ need you so badβ¦β
his hips rocked down, grinding the full length of his cock into the soft swell between your thighs, the friction of denim-on-denim only fueling his urgency. you could feel how soaked the front of his jeans already were, a hot patch of pre-cum bleeding through the fabric and clinging to your skin underneath your own clothes. he wasnβt trying to get off fastβhe was trying to feel. the kind of touch-starved desperation that made your breath catch, made your core throb with guilt-tinged arousal.
it always started like this. bob had a serious humping problem, and half the time, he didnβt even seem aware he was doing it. like some old, buried instinct took over and short-circuited everything else. one minute, you were making drinks behind the barβyelenaβs had already been poured, predictably flat beer, though youβd sometimes coax her into a frozen piΓ±a colada on hot nights when the mission weight cracked her shellβand the next, bob was there.
you hadnβt even noticed when he moved in front of you. but there he was, subtly grinding the outline of his cockβhalf-hard, already leakingβagainst your ass while you stirred a cocktail like it was the most normal thing in the world. his hands crept around your hips, fingers splayed wide, clutching you like you might evaporate.
you could feel the thick heat of him behind you, the slow, indulgent roll of his hips pressing that leaking bulge harder against your backside. he buried his face into your shoulder, just breathing you inβletting the scent of your skin fill his lungs while his cock twitched and spilled again. a low grunt escaped him, like a growl caught in his throat, and you didnβt even need to look to know thereβd be another dark patch soaking through the front of his pants soon.
he wasnβt much for words, at least not when he needed you like this. maybe it was psychological. maybe some freudian reflexβexcept his slips came in the form of motion, not speech. whatever it was, it usually ended the same: with bob flushed, breathing hard, and muttering a barely-there apology as he rushed off to change his boxers, the front soaked through with a spill of pre that just wouldnβt stop.
but that wasnβt even the worst of it.
no, the worst was bobβs obsession with your breasts. or more precisely, the act of nursing from them. you werenβt sure how it startedβmaybe a mission had gone sideways, maybe something in the void had cracked open inside himβbut soon enough, it became a ritual. those pink, pouty lips latched onto your nipples with almost sacred reverence. like the act of sucking was anchoring him here, to this world, to you. heβd nurse himself to sleep on you, mouth slack and warm, eyelashes kissing your skin like they did when he wept.
heβd whimper softly while he suckled, hips occasionally jerking when your hand would trail down and cup the growing tent in his briefs. his tongue would lap at your nipple with slow, wet circles before taking it deeper into his mouth, his lips stretched open with hunger that was never quite satisfied. sometimes, heβd humβsoft, broken sounds that made your stomach clench and your thighs tighten.
it wouldnβt have been a problem, reallyβuntil bob started asking for more.
nursing wasnβt enough anymore. he wanted milk.
when you tried to gently explain to him that your body didnβt produce milk unless you were pregnant, something visibly shifted behind his eyes. a glint of understanding mixed with something far more primal. his breathing hitched, his hands went still on your hipsβand the moment stretched out like a wire about to snap.
the next second he was rutting into you with such overwhelming need you could barely stay upright. his hands clenched at your waist like youβd disappear if he let go, his hips bucking up to meet yours with a helpless rhythm. you were riding himβgripping his broad shoulders, gasping each time he hit that perfect angleβand he was falling apart beneath you.
you were bare, both of you. his cock slid into you with such effortless heat you swore he was made for this, for you. your slick dripped down over his balls, already soaked from how much foreplay had bled into full-on worship. every grind of your hips forced a hiss through his teeth, his mouth falling open as he grabbed fistfuls of your ass and urged you down harder.
βplease,β he sobbed, voice wrecked with sincerity. βplease take my cum. i need itβi need you to have it. keep it inside, donβt waste it. donβt let it go, pleaseβ!β
the way he said pleaseβlike a dying man gasping for waterβmade you tremble. he was twitching inside you already, leaking thick pulses of pre so hot you swore you could feel it pool deep inside. you tightened around him and he cried out, high and hoarse, rutting up into you with broken rhythm. the slap of skin on skin echoed in the room, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he chased that final, frantic release.
he didnβt last long. he never did when the idea of forever was involved.
and when he cameβgod, when he cameβit was like watching him detonate in slow motion. his entire body shook, legs kicking slightly under the sheets, and his cock jerked inside of you, spilling thick, hot ropes that filled you to the brim. it felt endless. like heβd saved it all just for you.
he sobbed through it, full-body tremors racking his frame as his arms wrapped tight around you. his tears were hot against your skin, streaming freely as he clung to you like a drowning man.
you didnβt move. you let him be thereβin you, around you, breaking apart and coming back together in the shelter of your arms.
you held him as he cried, brushing his sweat-damp blonde curls back from his flushed face. he mumbled something incoherent against your breast, lips brushing the peak of your nipple before gently latching on again. and just like always, his breathing slowed. his body eased. the storm passed.
he drifted off suckling you, as though your body was the only thing tethering him to this plane of realityβand maybe it was.
maybe, in the end, you were his antidepressant. a dangerous kind. the kind that could save him or kill him depending on the dose.
and still, youβd never stop him.
