𝒞𝓎𝓃

every time your period comes, it is unbearable. that much is certain.

you hate the way your stomach twists when pain shoots up your spine, sparking in places you never knew could ache. most months, the cramps leave you bedridden for a week, sometimes two, depending on the heaviness of your flow. you have tried everything: heating pads, painkillers, pressure applied where it feels bearable until the pain surges back. it hurts so badly that you sob. cry. wail like a child, twisting onto your back, your knees, your haunches ‐ anything to find relief that always fades too soon.

had jacob known the extent of it, he would have taken care of you long ago. and no, not by pumping his babies into you. but actually taking care of you.

ever since he learned how brutal your cycles are, he has made it his mission to treat you like something sacred each time.

it is strange, not seeing him between your legs, not feeling him fill you when he comes over. he is actually... sweet. caring. it is a shame you used to call him careless, mean, for leaving once he was done during your hook-ups. but could you blame him when you were the one constantly pushing him away?

that was until one day, when the cramps were practically killing you.

your back is turned to him, your face soaked with tears from the pain. every time he tries to touch you, to hold you, you sneer, snarl, snap like an angry pup.

but that is not what keeps him at a distance. in fact, that is precisely what draws him in.

a large, calloused hand snatches your ankle, tugging you onto your back as his larger frame invades the space between your hips. he drapes your knees over his own, cradling your chin between thumb and index finger alone.

“don’ like when you’re in pain,” he admits, running his palm up the length of your leg, your thigh, squeezing until you shudder and arch into the gentleness of it.

jacob is not usually gentle in bed. he loves to see you squirm, wail, cry; but never from pain. that was never under his terms. he likes making you feel good. if he ever hurts you, he apologizes. he is not heartless - you know this to be true. but he can be a dick sometimes.

“jacob..” you start, but he does not let you finish. he leans down to kiss your lips, cradling the side of your face, then trails his mouth down the column of your neck, lower and lower, stopping at the hollow of your collarbone.

“let me make you feel better.”

it is not an offer. it is not a question. he will make you feel better. that much is certain.

you are not sure if he realizes it could get messy, but he does not look like he cares. he moves his hand from your thigh to the top, then the inner part, dragging his knuckles there. he knows your weak spots - it earns a shaky whine from you.

his fingers glide downward, hooking at the hem of your shorts. he glances up, checking for permission, and god, it makes you melt when his eyes soften at your vulnerable figure - brows drawn tight, lower lip caught between your teeth.

bit by bit, he peels the fabric down, exposing you. the beautiful, soft complexion of you. he discards the shorts aside as amber hues lower to the sodden flesh between your knees. you had been trying to keep it in, but his touch alone feels so right, so natural. it is enough to get you turned on.

perhaps the crimson discharge that makes your cunt glisten carries an odd odor, but that does not bother him at all. he drags his thumb over the sensitive flesh of your folds, pulling the labia aside to reveal more crimson that seeps from inside you.

you are embarrassed, covering your face with one hand as his thumb presses to your clit. he rolls cruel, slow circles over the engorged pearl: swollen, twitching from how many times you touched yourself before he arrived, trying to keep yourself under control.

“gorgeous, baby,” he praises, gliding his knuckles over your sensitive slit before withdrawing from your clit. he rubs his index and middle fingers along the seam of your folds, stretching them apart to glide his thumb over your entrance.

he looks like he wants to see you unravel on his fingers, wants to fuck you with his hands alone until you are begging for more.

he does not wait for you to beg. not this time. his middle finger presses against your entrance, slick with arousal and blood, and sinks inside with a slow, deliberate push that makes your breath hitch in your throat. the stretch burns in the best way, a distraction from the cramping ache that has been clawing at your insides for days.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, watching your face with an intensity that makes you want to hide and bare yourself to him all at once. “let me feel you, baby. want you to take it.”

you nod, desperate, your hips tilting upward to meet the intrusion. he adds a second finger, scissoring them gently to open you up, and the wet sound that follows should mortify you – but it does not. not when he groans low in his chest, not when he looks at you like you are the most exquisite thing he has ever touched.

his thumb returns to your clit, circling in tandem with the slow, deep thrusts of his fingers. the dual sensation makes your toes curl, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you as your back arches off the mattress. the pain in your abdomen is still there, a dull throb, but it is fading - overwhelmed by the pleasure building in its place.

“jacob,” you whimper, and he hushes you with his free hand, brushing sweat-damp hair from your forehead.

“right here, sweetheart. got ya.”

he curls his fingers, finding the spot inside you that makes your vision blur, and your cry is sharp and broken. he does it again, and again, setting a rhythm that is unhurried but relentless. you can feel the mess you are making, slick and hot against his palm, smearing across your thighs, but he does not flinch. if anything, he seems more undone by it.

his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide as he watches you fall apart.

“y’ gon’a come for me?” he asks, voice rough like gravel. “wanna feel you squeeze my fingers, baby. wan’a make it better.”

you are nodding before you can form words, your body chasing the release he is offering, the relief that has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with him. when the orgasm crashes over you, it is violent and cleansing - a wave of heat that starts where his fingers are buried deep and radiates outward, melting the tension from your muscles, dulling the cramping pain to nothing more than a memory.

you cry out, your body seizing, your cunt pulsing around his fingers as he works you through it, slower now, gentler, drawing out every aftershock until you are trembling and boneless beneath him.

he withdraws slowly, bringing his hand to his mouth without a moment's hesitation. his eyes never leave yours as he cleans his fingers with his tongue, savoring the taste of you: blood and arousal and something uniquely yours. you should look away, should feel shame, but the way he groans, the way his eyelids flutter, makes heat pool in your belly all over again.

“you taste fuckin’ divine,” he says, and he means it. you can see it in the reverence in his gaze, in the way he leans down to press soft kisses to your trembling thighs, your hipbones, the curve of your stomach. “feel better?”

you manage a weak nod, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “yeah,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “thank you.”

he crawls up your body, gathering you in his arms and pulling you against his chest. he is still fully clothed, you realize, while you are naked from the waist down ‐ a detail that makes something tender and warm bloom in your chest. he had not come here for himself. he had come here for you.

“stop thanking me,” he says into your hair, his hand tracing idle patterns against your lower back, right where the pain had been most brutal. “i want to take care of you. want you to let me.”

you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him ‐ woods and sweat and something unmistakably male. “m’ sorry,” you mumble. “for pushing you away. for calling you—”

“hey,” he interrupts, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently over your kiss-bitten lips. “none of that. we were different people then. but we’re here now, yea?”

you nod, feeling the prick of tears again ‐ but these are different. these are gratitude, relief, something frighteningly close to affection that you have been denying for too long.

“mhm,” you hum. “we’re here.”

he smiles, rare and genuine, and presses a kiss to your forehead. “then let me draw you a bath. warm water, maybe some of those salts you like. and then m’ gon hold you until you fall asleep.”

you raise an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite your exhaustion. “no round two?”

he laughs, a rich sound that vibrates against your chest. “oh, there will be a round two. and three. but not until you're not hurting anymore.” he taps your nose with his index finger. “priorities, baby. you come first. literally and figuratively.”

you swat at his chest, but you are grinning now, the last remnants of pain ebbing away to be replaced by a languid, heavy warmth. “that was terrible.”

“y’ love it,” he says, standing and scooping you up in his arms before you can protest. you yelp, wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you toward the bathroom with an ease that speaks to his strength.

and maybe you do love it. maybe you love him ‐ this surprising, tender version of jacob that you never knew existed beneath the casual hook-ups and the careless exits. the version who does not flinch at your blood, who holds you through the pain, who makes you feel worshipped even at your most vulnerable.

maybe it is time to stop pushing away the things that feel good. maybe it is time to let him stay.

i wrote because i think jacob would absolutely be the type to not give a single fuck about a little blood if it means taking care of his partner. soft jacob rights, am i right? 😝

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