pairing: robert reynolds x reader
cw: smut, afab reader, breeding, nursing, dry humping, mommy kink without the use of the word ‘mommy’(?).
bob had many bad habits—and calling them “bad” felt almost reductive. it wasn’t so much that they were wrong, but that they were inevitable. necessary evils, like antidepressants that cured one demon only to awaken another—sleep 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 wasn’t dominating you; that would have implied control. no, this was desperation.
you felt the weight of him—solid, large, always too warm. his hips moved in slow, needy grinds, rutting into the softness of your thigh with a barely contained whine. he didn’t 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 who’d finally found shelter from the storm.
“please… just stay still,” he whined into your neck, voice thick with need, cracked around the edges like a man seconds from breaking. “i need this… need you so bad…”
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 wasn’t trying to get off fast—he 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 didn’t 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 bar—yelena’s had already been poured, predictably flat beer, though you’d sometimes coax her into a frozen piña colada on hot nights when the mission weight cracked her shell—and the next, bob was there.
you hadn’t even noticed when he moved in front of you. but there he was, subtly grinding the outline of his cock—half-hard, already leaking—against 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 in—letting 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 didn’t even need to look to know there’d be another dark patch soaking through the front of his pants soon.
he wasn’t much for words, at least not when he needed you like this. maybe it was psychological. maybe some freudian reflex—except 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 wouldn’t stop.
but that wasn’t even the worst of it.
no, the worst was bob’s obsession with your breasts. or more precisely, the act of nursing from them. you weren’t sure how it started—maybe a mission had gone sideways, maybe something in the void had cracked open inside him—but 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. he’d nurse himself to sleep on you, mouth slack and warm, eyelashes kissing your skin like they did when he wept.
he’d 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, he’d hum—soft, broken sounds that made your stomach clench and your thighs tighten.
it wouldn’t have been a problem, really—until bob started asking for more.
nursing wasn’t enough anymore. he wanted milk.
when you tried to gently explain to him that your body didn’t 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 hips—and 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 you’d disappear if he let go, his hips bucking up to meet yours with a helpless rhythm. you were riding him—gripping his broad shoulders, gasping each time he hit that perfect angle—and 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.
“please,” he sobbed, voice wrecked with sincerity. “please take my cum. i need it—i need you to have it. keep it inside, don’t waste it. don’t let it go, please—!”
the way he said please—like a dying man gasping for water—made 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 didn’t last long. he never did when the idea of forever was involved.
and when he came—god, when he came—it 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 he’d 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 didn’t move. you let him be there—in 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 reality—and 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, you’d never stop him.
