ladybug. 🐞

You were very good at remembering birthdays.

Whether it was family, friends, coworkers, or even their pets, you remembered them all. In fact, you were the go-to person everyone ran to when they realized they’d forgotten a birthday. And yet now, standing in your local mall staring at a lit-up directory map, you were completely and utterly lost.

You traced a frantic index finger over the colorful layout—red for department stores, blue for apparel, green for the food court—all while the mental clock in your head aggressively reminded you that the mall closed in forty-five minutes.

It was today.

His birthday was today, and you had completely forgotten.

How the hell had this happened?

You were the type of person who sent a happy birthday text the exact second midnight hit, yet somehow, through the chaotic haze of the past few weeks, your best friend’s special day had slipped right through the cracks until you glanced at the calendar an hour ago and nearly choked on your own spit.

A cold sweat washed over you as you stared at the map. Candles and gift cards were too generic and he always forgot to use them anyway, while clothes and cologne were a total non-starter since that’s what everyone ended up buying for him every single year. You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Shopping for men was bad enough, but shopping for Jimmy Uso was infinitely worse.

Jimmy had been your best friend since high school, back when you were assigned to tutor him to keep him on the football team and in his mom’s good graces. The two of you clicked so well that even after his grades improved, he still came over to study—and come summer, he came over just to kick it. Your parents never minded; he was a sweet guy with a good head on his shoulders, and his family was just thankful he’d finally broken out of his shell and started talking to people outside his household and team.

Your soles squeaked against the polished tile as you broke into a brisk power-walk, weaving past lagging shoppers and stubborn mall kiosks.

You paused in front of a tech store and, after ten seconds of hesitation, walked inside to do a quick sweep. Your search led you down an aisle of high-quality webcams. Jimmy had casually mentioned wanting a new camera since his current setup was quickly becoming outdated. Luckily, he’d texted you a screenshot of the exact model he was eyeing, and an associate helped you hunt for it. Unfortunately, it was a high-demand item and out of stock. While you could order it on the spot, it wouldn't be ready for pickup until tomorrow evening.

Fucking tomorrow.

You paid for it anyway and walked out of the store feeling utterly defeated. The camera would still be the ultimate gift, but you needed something in his hands today. You knew he’d understand, but showing up empty-handed felt embarrassingly amateur—especially for the self-proclaimed Queen of Birthdays.

Especially for your best friend.

As you weighed your options, you passed a group of friends laughing among themselves.

“Bro, let’s go there next,” one of the guys snickered, pointing to a shop across the way. “I need another pocket pussy.”

“Ugh, fucking gross!” one of the girls scoffed, damn near shoving him into the wall. “Why the hell would the mall allow a sex store in here anyways?”

“I heard it’s basically a knock-off Spencer’s, but mostly targeted towards guys,” another girl chimed in, sipping on a milk tea, chewing boba perals as she spoke.

“All the more reason to ignore it! There’s no telling what kind of freaked-out shit is in there,” the first girl huffed, her hair beads clinking as she whirled around to glare at him. “And what the fuck do you mean another?”

They kept walking, their voices fading into the general hum of the mall, but you stopped. You turned to look across the concourse.

Nestled right beside the glass elevators sat The Lion’s Den. The storefront was flanked by two oversized resin lions painted matte black, their jaws wide open as if swallowing unsuspecting shoppers into the store's cavernous, neon-green glow. Fake ivy draped in dusty garlands over the metal security gate overhead, sagging under the weight of artificial moss.

You crossed the path, ignoring the sideways glances from passing shoppers, and stepped through the threshold.

The immediate hit of cold air carried a thick, head-spinning mix of synthetic leather, cheap amber cologne, and burning incense trying—and failing—to cover the smell of fresh rubber. The lighting inside was a perpetual twilight. Violet blacklights lined the top edges of the walls, making every white thread on your clothes glow radioactive, while green neon signs hummed loudly overhead, casting harsh shadows down the narrow aisles.

It was wall-to-wall visual chaos. The front of the store was a wall of sound: tinny, bass-heavy rap blaring from ceiling speakers, occasionally interrupted by the cackling sound of a battery-operated gag prop someone had left running. Glass display cases were crammed with heavy "tactical" survival knives, brass-knuckled belt buckles, and dragon-handled lighters. Above them hung rows of graphic tees—mostly cringey hunting jokes, aggressive gym slogans, and hyper-stylized roaring lions, panthers, tigers, and whatever other big cats that existed.

Further back, past racks of leopard-print novelty robes and rows of blacklight tiger posters, hung a heavy string of wooden beads. A handwritten neon sign taped beside it read: The Prideland: 18+ Only.

“Finding everything alright, or just looking to spend some cash?”

You jumped slightly, turning to see an employee leaning against a glass display case. He wore a faded staff tee with a roaring lion printed across the chest and held a bored, relaxed posture like he'd seen every type of shopper imaginable.

“Oh, nah, I’m just browsing,” you replied, offering a polite smile.

He shrugged, giving a brief nod toward the cramped aisles. “Take your time. We’ve got plenty of stuff depending on what you’re after—colognes, apparel, tactical gear... or gag gifts in the back if you’re trying to mess with somebody.”

Gag gifts.

The words clicked instantly, a sudden spark hitting your brain.

Shortly after high school, Jimmy had needed extra cash for college. He’d earned a solid academic scholarship, but it still wasn’t enough to cover all his living expenses. He hated asking his parents or friends for money, feeling guilty every time he needed help with basic groceries or utilities. Even the work-study job he scored at the campus bookstore was a joke, barely chipping away at his tuition costs.

So, looking for a way to earn extra cash on his own terms, Jimmy signed up to be a camboy.

It hadn't been his first choice—and honestly, it took weeks of weighing options before he actually committed—but he decided to give it a shot for a few months just to see if it was worth the trouble.

Apparently, there was a massive, untapped market for fine-ass, heavily built Samoan men, so "worth the trouble" was a massive understatement.

You’d almost been in disbelief at first. You never judged him for it—a hustle was a hustle and there were far worse things he could have done—but seeing the sheer amount of money he pulled in per stream had been a total eye-opener. Not enough to start your own account, of course, but more than enough to fully back his decision to keep camming part-time, even after he graduated and landed a solid day job.

As the wheels kept turning in your head, a genius plan started taking shape.

The high-end camera wouldn't be here until tomorrow, and handing him a blank card on his actual birthday felt pathetic. But given his side hustle? A wild, over-the-top gag gift from a place like this was actually brilliant. It would buy you time, give him a good laugh, and double as a hilarious, trashy prop he could use on stream if he wanted.

A slow, wicked smile crept onto your face as your eyes drifted toward the bead curtain dangling at the back of the store.

“Actually,” you said, turning back to the worker, “where do you keep the best gag stuff?”

Twenty-four hours had passed since you have Jimmy his gift.

Twenty-four hours since his birthday outing at the club, where he and his twin brother Jey ended up splitting their pile of presents before heading home to their respective places.

At first, you’d convinced yourself that Jey had accidentally grabbed the small purple gift bag in the chaos. But you figured word would have definitely gotten out by now if he’d opened that in front of his family.

So you waited. And waited. And waited.

You waited for a confused call, a chaotic voice message, or a stream of hysterical texts from Jimmy cussing you out while laughing his head off. But nothing came. Instead, you were met with radio silence.

Now, you sat parked in his driveway, engine idling, staring at his front door. On the passenger seat beside you was the high-end camera, wrapped in the exact same shade of purple paper as the gag bag, complete with a cute bow on top. Randomly pulling up at each other’s houses was second nature for you two, but after a full day of Jimmy’s eerie silent treatment, you felt like an intruder.

He was mad. He had to be.

You actually caught yourself wondering if your aim was good enough to just throw the gift onto his porch and book it out of the driveway before he noticed.

Summoning the last scrap of your courage, you took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. You were just about to unlock the car when your phone buzzed violently in your lap, the screen lighting up the dark interior with a blaring notification.

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: hey sweetheart

You practically snatched your hand back from the door handle and grabbed your phone off your lap.

You: hey hru?

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: i’m good thx, u?

You: i’m fine

You were definitely not fine, as evidenced by your heart trying to hammer its way out of your chest, but that was beside the point.

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: ik i didn’t say much today Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: and i am super Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: super sorry for that

You let out a huge breath of relief, leaning your head back against the headrest.

You: u jackass, i was worried… so you aren’t mad at me? you were just busy?

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: i could never be mad at you mamas Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: and busy is a word for it yea

You: oh okay that’s a relief. what were you doing all day?

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: i can show u Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: can i? Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: meant to show u earlier but i needed it to be perfect

You squinted down at your phone. This wasn’t really how Jimmy usually texted—it felt a little too deliberate, a little off—but then again, you didn’t usually buy him gag gifts from low-tier sex shops, so you figured he was just teasing you.

You: what needed to be perfect? wdym? You: and just for the record, you are POSITIVE you aren’t mad at me bc of your gift???

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: yes i am not mad lol

You: that’s good! that’s not your real gift btw, that one i got in my car with me

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: u never answered me. can i show u ?

You tilted your head at the screen, a weird flutter of anticipation stirring in your chest.

You: uhhhh sure? lol

Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: bet. Big Jim 🔥💖🤞🏾: [sent a video]

The video was eight minutes long, and the thumbnail was blacked out, so when you opened it, you expected a funny reaction video or something. Instead, you heard a muffled noise as Jimmy messed with his phone, picked it up, and propped it against something.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the soft, rumpled duvet a stark contrast to the tense line of his tattooed shoulders; sweat on his skin made him glow in the warm, honeyed light of his ring light. All he had on was a pair of black sweatpants that hung low enough to expose the peak of his happy trail. He took a deep, shaky breath, the sound barely picked up by the microphone.

Hey," he said softly to the camera, his voice deeper than usual, rough around the edges. "So. You got my message, obviously, if you're watching this."

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly while he looked directly into the lens, unflinching despite the vulnerability pooling in his stomach.

"I've been thinking about doing this for a while. Sending you something. Showing you..." He laughed, running a hand through his thick black hair. "Fuck, this is embarrassing. I'm literally naked for a living and I'm nervous."

He took a breath and let his hand slip beneath the waistband of his sweats, resting there, feeling his own warmth.

"You know why I kept camboying? It wasn't just the money, though god knows I needed it. It was because I liked being watched. Liked knowing someone was getting off to me. But lately..." His jaw tightened, emotion flickering across his handsome face. "Lately I felt restless like... like there was something missing... someone missing. Out of the thousands of people who click on my streams, there was only one person I wanted watching."

He reached for the purple gift bag next to him and pulled out the vibrating cock ring you had gifted him, the black silicone cool in his palm, and held it up to the camera.

"And then, you got me this gift. And I gotta be honest, when I opened it, I laughed. I thought it was the funniest, most ridiculous thing ever." He paused, a small smile playing on his lips. "But I couldn't stop thinking about it. I figured this isn't the only thing you got me, but I also don't want to waste your money so I... I've been practicing. A lot. I wanted to get it right for you."

He stood up, his movements fluid and deliberate, hooked his thumbs into his waistband, and pushed the fabric down, fully revealing himself. He pushed them down, letting them pool around his ankles. His dick, already thick and impressive in its semi-aroused state, hung heavily between his legs, bobbing slightly as he kicked his pants aside.

Jimmy was built big and strong, courtesy of his athleticism, and his dick was no exception. Its sheer heft is mesmerizing; it lies thick and imposing against his thigh, its weight undeniable. It's uncut, so when he sits back down and strokes himself, the foreskin slides smoothly to bare the glossy, wet tip. The large vein at his base throbbed under his touch, a frantic pulse that matched the one in his throat.

"Figured I should give you the full experience, right? A proper thank you for all the... research I've had to do. Fuck, just thinking about you watching this... it's already making me so hard."

He briefly looked down as he carefully stretched the silicone ring. "Alright, here we go. Moment of truth." He brought the loop to the base of his cock, the cool material a stark shock against his fever-hot skin. He slowly, methodically, worked the ring down until it settled snugly at the very root of his shaft. "Fuck… okay. That's… tight. It feels… more ntense than the other times, probably because you're watching."

He fumbled for the tiny remote. "Let's see what this bad boy can do." He found the small, raised button and pressed it.

A low, powerful hum filled the quiet room. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from Jimmy's throat. His hips bucked involuntarily. "Holy shit!" he breathed, the words a hoarse whisper, his hand tightening around his shaft, stroking once, twice, the vibration making every touch amplified, electric.

Jimmy worked himself slowly, his fist moving in languid strokes from base to tip, the cock ring holding him rigid, throbbing, the vibration a constant thrum that made his thighs tremble where they were spread wide, giving the camera a full view of everything: the sweat beading on his lower abdomen, the way his balls drew up tight, the flex of his hips as he thrust into his own hand.

"Feels like I'm already close," he panted, his voice breaking slightly. "But I can't... right on the edge but he ring is keeping me there. It's torture, mamas. It's fucking torture and I love it."

He clicked the remote again, increasing the intensity.

The stronger vibration hit him hard, and he cried out, arching off the pillows, his free hand scrabbling at the headboard. His cock jumped in his hand, precome leaking steadily now, making his strokes wetter, louder, the slick sounds filling the room alongside his ragged breathing.

"Imagine," he gritted out, his eyes finding the camera again, dark and blown wide with pleasure, "imagine if it was you. If you were here, controlling this. Watching me fall apart because of something you gave me."

He was performing now, putting on his best show just for you. Every word, every gasp, every deliberate roll of his hips was all for you, a love letter written in sweat and desire, a confession he'd been too cowardly to make sober and clothed.

"Earlier when I did this, I thought about you when I came," he admitted, his strokes speeding up, his entire tip glistening with his precum, the wet sound of it punctuating his words. "I do it every time. Even when I'm live, even when there's a thousand people watching, I'm thinking about you. About your pretty eyes, your smile, fuck, you're so damn beautiful mamas."

The vibration pulsed, and he groaned, long and low, his head tipping back to expose the strong column of his throat, a silver chain you got him last year for his birthday catching the light.

"I'm gonna—mmm, I'm gonna turn it up all the way. I want you to see what you do to me, mamas. I want you to see everything."

His thumb hovered over the button. His chest heaved, muscles trembling, skin flushed bronze and glistening with sweat. He was beautiful in his abandon, a man completely undone by desire and the desperate hope that his best friend might want him back.

He pressed the button.

The cock ring surged to maximum intensity, and Jimmy's world narrowed to a single point of blinding sensation. He shouted, a raw, broken sound, his hips snapping upward, fucking into his fist with abandon now, lost to the rhythm, the vibration, your name on his lips.

"Oh shit, I'm—fuck, I'm gonna—"

His words were cut off by a strangled gasp as his body seized up. Every muscle went rigid, his back bowing off the bed, the tendons in his neck standing out like steel cables. He could feel it building, the coiling tension in his groin reaching an unbearable peak, and then—

Nothing.

He let out a frustrated, broken sob, his hips still twitching, thrusting into the air. The cock ring held him in its merciless grip, the intense vibration no longer bringing him closer but just holding him hostage in a state of agonizing, unfulfilled arousal.

"Fuck," he whimpered, his voice cracking. "No, no, no… I was right there. Mamas, I was right there." He looked at the camera, his eyes wide and desperate, pleading. "It won't let me. It won't let me cum." He tried again, his hand moving frantically, his strokes becoming almost punishing in their urgency. The pleasure was so intense it was bordering on pain, a dizzying, maddening loop of stimulation with no release. "Please," he begged, not to the camera, but to his own body. "Please, just… let me…"

He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight with concentration, and tried to force it. He bore down, his entire body focused on that one goal: release. The muscles in his thighs and abdomen screamed with tension. He was panting, his breath coming out harsh and ragged.

It was useless. The ring was too efficient, too perfect at its job of edging him to the point of insanity. He was trapped, soaring higher and higher with no way to land.

"Can't," he finally gasped, slumping back against the pillows, his body trembling uncontrollably. "I can't… it's too much. I need to… I have to…" His hand, slick with his own arousal, fumbled at the base of his cock. His fingers slipped, his coordination shot to hell by the overwhelming stimulation. With a cry of pure frustration, he gripped the silicone ring and yanked.

The second the tight band snapped free, the world came crashing down.

A guttural roar was ripped from his chest as the orgasm, held back for so long, hit him like a tsunami, violent and overwhelming. His back arched violently, his head thrown back, his mouth open in a silent scream. His cock, finally free, pulsed and spurted violently. A thick, hot rope of cum shot from him, landing in a pearly white stripe on his heaving chest and stomach, followed by another, and another. The release was so powerful, so absolute, it was almost painful. It seemed to go on forever, his body wracked by convulsive shudders as the toy's denied pleasure was unleashed all at once.

He kept stroking, milking himself through it, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the intensity, his free hand clutching at the sheets as if anchoring himself to reality.

"For you," he gasped out, his voice wrecked, his body still twitching with aftershocks. "All of it... for you."

When it was finally over, he collapsed onto the bed, utterly spent. His chest rose and fell with deep, shuddering breaths, his skin flushed and gleaming with a fresh sheen of sweat.

He clicked the remote to cut off the discarded ring, the silence sudden and profound, broken only by his harsh breathing.

Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his movements heavy and sated. He looked directly into the camera, his dark eyes soft and hazy, a lazy, utterly fucked-out smile spreading across his face. He was a mess, covered in his own release, and he had never looked more turned on.

"So," he rasped, his voice a hoarse, sated whisper. "Thanks for the gift. I.. can't believe I did that." He let out a weak, breathless laugh. "Love you, see you soon mamas."

He reached for the phone, winked, and stopped recording, the last frame being his handsome face giving a lopsided smile to the camera.

Back in your car, you were staring at the video playback for the third time in a row, mouth agape, just mesmerized, when three sharp taps knocked against your driver’s side window.

You jumped, your eyes widening even more as you fumbled with your phone, dropping it onto the floor by your feet.

Outside the glass, illuminated by the dim streetlights, stood Jimmy. He was leaning over slightly, his heavy shoulders broad against the dark, a low chuckle muffling through the door.

“You gonna sit out here all night, or you coming inside, mamas?”

A/N. Well.. are ya gonna go inside? 🤭🤭

"these numbers are just not adding up," you say, letting out a sigh. he leans closer to the screen and with just a few clicks, he fixes your problem. you stare at the spreadsheet completely dumbfounded.

"how did you do that? i've been struggling with that for like 30 minutes," you say.

"your SUM formula is missing a cell," he says as he stands up straight. you smack your forehead.

"i'm such an idiot," you groan and rub your dry eyes. he smiles and rubs the back of his neck.

"nah you're not. excel is just evil".

sc!roman has major RBF. most people in the office are afraid to approach him for small talk, and it gets even worse when he's focused. you peek over the cubicle wall and see him hard at work.

"you okay?" you ask, stifling a giggle. he stops typing up an e-mail and looks at you. his face remains the same but he raises an eyebrow.

"yeah... why?" he replies.

"nothing... it's just you always look so mad when you focus," you say. his cheeks heat up as he continues typing his e-mail.

"that's just my face," he says, trying to suppress a smile.

sc!roman pretty much does his work and goes home. he went to an office christmas party once and decided he was never doing that again. you try to convince him to attend another one with you.

"pleaseee go with me. don't let me go by myself," you whine, tugging on his shirt. he shakes his head immediately, the corners of his mouth forming a frown.

"uh-uh, no. i can't do that again. no way," he says.

"why not?" you ask. he leans in so no one else can hear.

"barb got drunk and flirted with me," he says, shuddering.

"she did NOT! spill" you say, gasping. you pull up your chair as he spills the tea.

"she was totally wasted and falling all over me, saying how strong i am and shit. i had to leave early," he chuckles, rubbing his neck.

"yikes, barb is usually so put together," you whisper.

"i know, right? and besides, office parties are boring. i could be at home sleeping," he says.

"don't be a sourpuss, if you go with me, i'll protect you from barb" you say. he bursts out laughing.

"you'll protect me from barb?" he asks.

"yep. i'll whisk you away if she comes near. text me your address and i'll pick you up" you say. he rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically. he pulls out his phone and texts you the address.

"fine, but i won't like it," he says as he grins at you.

sc!roman develops a crush on you over time. he starts noticing little habits and tics of yours, like how you bite the tip of your pen while you think, or how he can tell you were rushing that morning because the buttons of your shirt are misaligned. he starts leaving you things he thinks you'll like or need on your desk.

"hey roman, did you leave this granola bar on my desk?" you ask. he leans back in his office chair and plays it off like it's nothing.

"i just thought you might be hungry. you know you forget your lunch at home all the time," he says.

"i do not—"

your stomach growls, cutting you off and you put a hand to your tum. he laughs softly as you open the granola bar and take a bite.

"thanks," you say, blushing.

sc!roman eventually starts eating lunch with you. he's gotten so used to you forgetting yours that he shares his with you. he unwraps a sandwich and offers it to you.

"eat," he says. you smile and hold your hand up.

"i can't keep taking your lunch, roman" you say. he tilts his lunch bag towards you. there are two other sandwiches and fresh-cut fruit in there.

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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