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marvelstoriesepic · 4 months ago

Text

In too deep

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After Bucky calls, and you come running, you end up locked in his bathroom, trying to get rid of the evidence that something hasn’t gone well this time.

Word Count: 7.4k

Warnings: 18+ (mdni) blood; descriptions of sex; feeling pain during sex and not saying anything; friends with benefits; mentions of periods; mutual pining; miscommunication; self-doubt; self-loathing; worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing something more suggestive. It is not outright smut, but there’s lots of talk about sex, so if you are a minor, please stay away. And if you are not, then I hope you enjoy and I'd be happy to know what you think ♡

Part Two

Masterlist

You are bleeding.

The sting between your legs is sharp. Like a wound still weeping after the blade has been pulled away.

The yellow light above the mirror of Bucky’s bathroom hums and flickers slightly, ghostly shapes of shadows draping against the walls.

Your breath is shallow.

The bleeding won’t stop.

With toilet paper in your hands, you press your trembling fingers against the inside of your thigh. It soaks, leaving your skin warm and sticky. The scent of iron is in your nose.

You know your body. You know how it shifts and bends beneath pleasure, how it aches in the aftermath and you know that this is different. It’s wrong.

A breath shudders out of you at the pulsing pain.

Bucky is still in his bedroom.

Probably waiting for you to come out and leave.

That’s how it’s always been.

He calls, you come, you make him feel good, then go.

He never asks you to stay. Not really. He asks you to come over, to press your lips against his, to carve his pleasure into your skin, but he never asks you to stay thereafter.

But you still keep running. Every time.

The sting flares up again and you clench your fists against your thighs, your body curling inward on instinct.

You don’t know how long you usually take to freshen up, but it certainly takes too much time right now.

You don’t want to be a burden. You want to be something simple, something easy.

But fuck, it hurts.

You glance down again, lifting the hem of your shirt you pulled over quickly before retreating to the bathroom. Crimson smears against your skin, staining the inside of your thighs and you curse under your breath.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you exhale slowly.

You need to get up. You need to clean yourself up, put on your clothes, and walk out of his apartment like nothing happened. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter.

The thought is a sour taste on your tongue.

Bucky had a bad day. That’s why he called. That’s why you came. That’s why you let him take and take, why you let yourself pretend it was more than just relief and release.

And now, you are bleeding in his bathroom, barely able to stand, barely able to breathe without wincing.

Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you haul yourself up. The room tilts for a moment, and you grip it tighter, knuckles whitening.

You look in the mirror. You look ruined - cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen from kisses.

You press your hands to the cool porcelain.

One more breath.

Then another.

Then you reach for the toilet paper again, dabbing at the blood, pretending you don’t see the way it just keeps coming. Pretending it’s not seeping through the white thin fibers. Pretending it doesn’t matter.

Because if you want to keep coming back, it can’t.

It’s not like he hasn’t been nice to you.

Bucky is always nice.

You were friends first, after all.

Before the weight of need, before his hands started lingering a little longer, before the heat and the fleeting contact.

Things had been easy, light, and simple.

You had inside jokes, late-night conversations that bled into mornings, you even cooked together - well, you cooked, while he hovered, occasionally stealing a bite, occasionally setting the table with that soft little smirk. It was comfortable. Safe.

Until he kissed you one day. So many weeks ago.

It was an accident. Or maybe it was inevitable.

You were both drunk. You were both in a good mood. There is not much you remember about that night. All you remember is how close you two were and that all your friends from the party were gone already.

You remember the way his knee had brushed yours, sitting on his couch, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you. And then you remember that he did. He kissed you. And your heart stuttered, his breath caught, he hesitated for a second, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. You should have.

Because there was no stopping from then on.

You left the moment you woke up in his bed to him snoring in your ear and leaving drool in your hair.

But you keep coming back when he calls.

He is careful with you, always. Slow and attentive. He never lets you leave without asking if you are okay, without pressing a bottle of water into your hands, without brushing his fingers against your wrist as if needing something. Maybe a reminder that this is real. Maybe something that’ll hold him back from saying something.

But today was different.

He didn’t ask you how your day was when you walked through his door. Didn’t wait for you to slip off your shoes, to drop your bag onto its usual spot by the couch. Didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before his hands were on you.

He had you pressed up against the wall next to his door and claimed your mouth in a searing kiss that almost tasted desperate.

His fingers curled around your waist and pulled you to him so tightly, you felt every single one of his ragged breaths against your chest, the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

Then he lifted you, carried you over to his bedroom, and basically tossed you onto his bed, his body following. He pressed you down, caging you in, his weight and scent and whole behavior dizzying you.

There was no hesitation. No slow unraveling. No playful touches and teases meant to draw things out. It was pure and unfiltered need.

His hands gripped your hips so firmly, not enough to leave bruises, but hard enough to tell you that he needed this.

He fucked you like you were the only thing on his mind.

He fucked you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

He fucked you like it’s you he craved.

He fucked you like it was making him blind.

It did.

Because he didn’t see the way you gritted your teeth, the way your nails dug into the sheets beneath you, the way the dull pain at the beginning began to sharpen, spreading with every of his hard thrusts.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips tracing the curve of your skin, his breath warm and heavy against your pulse.

He was lost in it, consumed by the feel of you, the way you were wrapped around him, the way your body clenched.

Normally; his weight, his deep groans, the heat of him, his sheer presence pressing you into the mattress would be grounding, would be something good. Something addicting.

But it wasn’t today.

Because the pain only grew.

The stretch felt wrong - too much, too sudden. He gave you time to adjust, asked if you were ready with that husky tone of his, and you only nodded. You lied.

You thought you were able to push through the pain and that it would soon turn to pleasure. But that wasn’t the case, and every snap of his hips only had you fighting to keep from flinching.

Your breath stuttered as he shifted, angling deeper, hitting something that made you gasp. It must have sounded like pleasure to him because he then groaned into your hair, but it was a sound stemming from startled pain.

You felt that deep, bruising pressure that shot up your spine, making you bite down hard on your lip to refuse a cry to slip out that would surely make him stop out of concern.

You only squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will it away. But it didn’t.

It kept spreading, kept tearing, kept building with every thrust.

You know you should have said something.

You know you should have told him to stop, to slow down, to give you a second to breathe.

But then he panted against your neck, breathing into your skin how good you feel, whispering praises and words that sounded a little too affectionate for the kind of arrangement you are having and you felt him let go of whatever was plaguing him.

So when he checked in again, asking if you were alright, you nodded once more. Forcing your lips into a shape that could resemble a yes, and you felt him shudder, felt his grip on your waist tighten as he dived into you again, lost in the feel of your walls.

And you let him.

Because you didn’t want to ruin this.

Because this is what he needed, what he asked for, and if you had told him to stop, what if it changed something? What if it broke that thing between you? What if he would have ended up being disappointed? Unpleased? What if he stopped calling?

So you swallowed the pain. You kept biting your lip and tried to focus on his breathing, the warmth of his skin, anything but the way your body protested, the way the ache morphed into something unmanageable.

You still don’t stop bleeding.

It’s not your period.

You had your period last week. It’s what kept you away from him, what had you say no when he asked you to come over. The thought of bleeding on his sheets, on him, was enough to make heat run along your neck, mortified at the very idea.

But Bucky had just shrugged, voice low and unbothered when he told you he didn’t mind.

But you did, so you declined. And when he asked you, soft and caring, if there was anything he could do for you, you declined as well.

There is a limit to his affections you can take. A limit to the sweetest things he can tell you, the lovelies things he can do for you, and the softest ways he can touch you because you believe none of them mean as much to him as they do to you.

So you stayed home, curled in your bed with a heating pad, ignoring the way you ached for something that had nothing to do with cramps.

And now, here you are, bleeding anyway.

God, you hate this.

Thankfully, the blood started coming when you already sat down on the toilet. When your thighs pressed together and you felt the wetness along the sharp sting that made your breath catch.

But you tell yourself it will stop soon. It has to.

You just need a few minutes - just long enough for your body to calm, for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Long enough to clean yourself up and pretend like everything is fine.

You take another breath, pressing your palm against the cool porcelain of the sink. Your time is running out. You can’t stay here too long or Bucky will notice. You never take this long. And you certainly can’t let him see this. Can’t let him know. Can’t let him ask questions you don’t want to answer.

A knock comes. Soft and firm, rapping against the wood of the bathroom door. Once, twice, before his voice follows, rough but laced with something gentle. Careful.

“Hey, you alright in there?”

Your stomach drops. Shit, you took too long.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply, trying to keep yourself from spiraling. You force your voice to steady, to keep the waver out, to sound normal.

“Yeah,” you call back, trying to make it sound light, breezy, unbothered. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Silence. Just for a second. Then, another knock, a little firmer this time, a little more insistent.

“You sure?” Bucky’s voice carries through the door, and there is something new in it now. A crease in his tone.

You can practically hear the way his brows furrow, the way his jaw ticks, that little frown tugging at his lips and deepening the line between his eyes.

Normally, you would think it’s cute. Normally, you would have to suppress the urge to press your finger to that little divot and smooth it out like your touch could unravel the tension in him.

But right now, thinking about it only makes your pulse halt, makes you feel like there is something thick and choking in your throat.

Bucky shifts on the other side of the door, his voice lower, softer when he speaks again. “Do you need-”

Panic flares in you. “I’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” you blurt out, too fast, too sharp. “Just- just give me a minute.”

There is a beat of silence.

The air in this small bathroom seems to be thinning out. You stare at your own reflection in the mirror, at the wide eyes, the parted lips, the tension in your shoulders that pulls them up.

“You don’t gotta leave, doll.”

It’s quieter. His words are careful, almost hesitant, but there is something insistent in them too. Him trying to piece something together.

“I just-” He exhales, and you hear the way he scrubs a hand down his face, the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he is trying to keep himself still, trying to keep himself from pushing open the door and looking at you. “Is everything alright?”

It’s the way he asks, the way he lingers on the words, like he already suspects the answer but is hoping - praying - you will say or do something to prove him wrong.

And you want to. You want to smooth it over, to push away his worry before it sinks too deep, before it turns to annoyance or impatience. But before you can get a single word out, he keeps going.

His voice turns tighter. Faster. His knuckles still seem to rest on the door.

“Are you hurt?”

Your breath stays caught in your throat.

“Did I-” He stops. Starts again. “Did I hurt you?” The words rush out of him, like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth, but he still continues talking.

“Shit,” he exclaims, as if it hits him square in the chest. His voice dips lower, rawer, tinged with something like guilt, something thick and pressing. “Doll, was I too rough?”

You can hear it all in his voice - the worry, the guilt, the panic, that desperate need to fix something before it even fully breaks. And there is no impatience, no annoyance, none of the things you were afraid of.

You should have known, but somehow you keep lying.

“No, Bucky,” you say, and you hate the way your voice wavers, the way it doesn’t sound that much convincing. “Don’t worry.”

The door handle rattles.

“Doll.” Bucky’s voice is closer, pressed right up against the other side of the door, low and urgent. The knob jerks in his grip, testing it, trying to keep his touch gentle but unable to stop himself. “Can you let me in?”

You swear you can hear your own heartbeat, a dull, thrumming thing pounding in your ears.

“I’m fine, Bucky.” The lie stumbles out too fast, but you don’t know what else to say.

The knob shakes again, this time harder. “C’mon,” he breathes out, and you hear the strain in his voice, the way his words come tighter. “Please, doll. Just open the door.”

You don’t move. Your knees are weak.

“Fuck.” He is frantic. His breath is ragged and sharp. You hear him shift, pressing more of his weight against the door as if he is fighting the urge to force it open. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-” he stops himself, and you can almost picture his hand running through his hair, his jaw clenched tight, his brows pinched together so deeply. “I didn’t mean to be rough with you. Fuck, I- I swear, I-” His voice falters, cracking on something heavy.

You swallow hard, but your throat is closed up and it can’t pass through cleanly. “You weren’t rough, Bucky,” you try to assure him.

But he only lets out a troubled sound. “Yeah?” His voice turns gravelly. His tone turns desperate. “Then why the hell won’t you open the door?”

You can’t answer that. You can barely stand, gripping the sink so hard you feel your fingers might start to cramp. The pain flares up again and you grimace.

“Doll,” he tries again, his voice frenetic. “Please, let me see you.”

The door handle tugs again.

“I need to see you.”

You blink rapidly, trying to keep the frustrated tears from welling up your eyes.

“Bucky-”

“Please.”

That word is laced with a plea so deep, you feel it in your bones.

“Buck, I need a second, okay?”

You force a slow inhale through your nose as you rip off another wad of toilet paper and press it between your legs. The crimson smears against the white. You do it again. Again. Until there is nothing left to wipe away and nothing more is coming. For now.

Your thighs sting where you rub at the dried streaks, the skin tender, hypersensitive. You force yourself to ignore it. You just have to get out. That’s all. If you can get out of his apartment before it starts bleeding again and without crumbling to the floor in pain, there is nothing to worry about.

“You’re scarin’ me here, baby. Please. I need to see you. Need to make sure-” His voice catches.

You toss the balled-up paper into the toilet, reaching blindly for the handle, flushing it down, and cutting Bucky’s desperate words off for a moment.

The pain gets worse, dragging along your nerves and making you lose your balance slightly. You grip the sink again. Your vision goes dark for a short second. The floor is cold beneath your bare feet.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be rough with you. Y/n! I- I needed you, and I got lost in it, and fuck- I didn’t-” he chokes out, not able to continue. His words sound like a confession.

You grit your teeth, twisting the faucet of the sink too hard, too fast. Water rushes out, scalding against your skin as you scrub your hands, scrubbing at the blood, scrubbing at the proof, as if that will make it disappear.

Your lungs feel too tight, too small to hold enough air. Your heart beats against your ribs like it wants out.

You don’t know if it’s because he went too deep, or too hard, or if something inside you just wasn’t ready for him, but it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that you don’t let it show.

On the other side of the door, Bucky exhales vehemently.

His fist knocks twice again before curling around the door handle. “Baby, please let me in.”

“I’m fine,” you call out, but it doesn’t sound right.

Bucky’s breath shudders out.

You try to straighten, try to compose yourself, and open that door to pretend you are fine, but a sharp, searing pain rips through your lower abdomen and you gasp. Your vision swims and the ground beneath your feet feels wobbly, shifting like it might fall out from under your feet.

Bucky’s breath is rough and broken through the crack beneath the door. His palm presses flat against the wood, a low thud that makes your stomach churn.

“Y/n,” he warns, voice low, but so incredibly distressed. So incredibly worried. “If you don’t open this door, I swear to God-”

Your legs give out.

It’s not a full collapse, but it’s enough. Your knee buckles and you stumble, hip knocking hard into the edge of the sink before you pitch sideways, shoulder crashing into the shelf beside you.

The impact rattles the whole thing.

A bottle of cologne topples over, then a razor, then something heavier - a glass jar filled with cotton pads - shattering on the tiled floor with a violent crack.

“Alright, I'm coming in.”

Bucky doesn’t wait for permission.

The door bursts open with a bang, the hinges groaning under the force of his shove. He is on you in an instant, all broad shoulders and frantic energy, filling the small space with his presence before you even have time to react.

Bucky’s hands find you - not grabbing, not pulling, just there, at your back, your arm, holding you together, holding you up before you can fully meet the ground.

His breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the sight of him nearly knocks you off your feet once more.

His eyes are wide, pupils blown, that storm of worry you have heard in his voice through the door now a full-blown hurricane.

“What’s goin’ on? Doll, what is it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your own gaze shifts to the glass jar at your feet, fractured lines spiderwebbing through the surface from the fall.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks.

“Shit, Bucky, I’m so sorry.”

You barely recognize your own voice - thin, trembling, too damn weak. You grip onto him, the shirt he must have pulled over when you disappeared into the bathroom, and you hate it. You hate how bad of a burden you are to him right now, when all he wanted was to let off some stress of the day.

But Bucky doesn’t even seem to hear you.

He doesn’t seem to see anything else than you. Doesn’t look at the glass, doesn’t blink at the mess.

His eyes are on you.

And the way he is looking at you makes something inside you crack even deeper than the broken jar at your feet.

His eyes are sharp and they trace over you, cataloging everything.

He doesn’t just look at you, he dissects you. His gaze maps every inch of your body, searching, calculating, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying.

The way your shoulders are drawn tight. The way your chest stutters on each inhale, as if even breathing is too much right now. The way you clutch at him, your knuckles white, not even trusting your own legs to hold you up.

You swallow hard, shifting your weight in his hold, and the pain flares again, enough to make your body involuntarily tremble. You clamp down on a wince, but he notices.

Bucky’s jaw is tight.

You tug at the hem of your shirt, yanking it lower, bunching the fabric between your fingers as if that will do anything.

Bucky’s gaze snap to your movements. He narrows his eyes, drinking you in with an intensity that makes you want to shrink.

“Doll,” he lets out, voice hoarse and rough, like the single word is punched out of him.

His hands skim over your arms, your waist, searching.

Then he stills.

His fingers twitch against your hip. His shoulders stiffen.

His gaze drops.

The storm behind his eyes turns feral.

You know what he is seeing.

You feel it before you even look down - the slow, unwelcome warmth trailing down your inner thigh.

The blood.

A single, thin ribbon of red against your soft skin.

For a second there is nothing. No sound. No breath. Just his stare.

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice comes in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s rather a harsh croak of sound than his normal voice.

You try to move, do anything to shift his focus, to stop the way his grip on you tightens as if he’s afraid, in pain himself.

But the second you move, another sharp pang shoots up your core, stealing what little breath you have left and you gasp.

Strong arms wind around you tightly, pulling you into his chest firmly.

“Bucky-”

“Hush.”

It’s not an order. It’s not a demand. It’s a plea, soft and urgent and broken, whispered against your hair as he holds you like you might break. No, like he might break.

“You’re hurt.” There is an aching note of guilt hanging between each syllable. It’s so thick and pronounced, you wince. “Fuck- I hurt you.”

You shake your head against him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. “No, Bucky, you didn’t-”

“Don’t.” His voice breaks on the word. His grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin. “I hurt you. God, fucking hell, I hurt you.”

His grip on you is firm, but not rough.

His arms cage around you, holding you as if you might slip right through the cracks of his fingers if he lets go.

Large fingers press into your hip, your thigh with a feverish desperation, enough for you to feel the slight tremble in them.

His breathing is so ragged, like he’s been running. Chasing something he’s already lost.

He is shaking.

A whisper of his lips presses to the side of your temple, lingering. A contrast to the way he has been claiming your mouth moments before.

It feels like he is pressing his regret into your skin, hoping you’ll absorb it.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. It’s hoarse. Nearly choking.

You hear the fracture in his voice, something splitting open inside him.

Another kiss, this time on your forehead. Another apology, spoken in the warmth of his mouth against your heated skin. Another kiss, soft, like he’s praying to you, trying to breathe the apology into you.

“Shit- I'm so sorry, baby.” The words rasp out of him, broken, spilling into your hair, against your forehead, over your cheek.

His hands won’t stop moving. You feel them everywhere - gliding over your back, skating down your arms, searching. For what, though you are not sure. A sign that you’re okay? Proof that he hasn’t broken you?

But perhaps he has. Just not in the way he fears right now. Not in a way that bruises or cracks like a bone, but in the way that has you swallowing down the shame rising thick in your throat.

You don’t want him to see you like this.

It’s humiliating. It’s too much. The way he is looking at you is making you lose control over your limbs and you really can’t afford that right now.

Heat pools beneath your skin, then it vanishes, leaving you cold, your body not able to decide whether to fight or flee.

He gathers you and lifts you in the air, pulling you to his chest. He does it slow. Careful. Looking at your face for any indication that he hurt you some more.

With that, he walks you out of his bathroom.

You should fight him, tell him you can walk, but you’re not sure you can. Your legs are trembling in his hold, unsteady, and the deep throb of pain is still biting at your insides.

And Bucky is holding you like you are the most important thing he ever carried.

You whimper in pain and his hold tightens instinctively. His hands shake against you.

You hate the way your stomach spins in on itself at the thought of staining him. At leaving blood on his clothes, on his skin, on his belongings.

But Bucky does not seem to care at all. He does not seem to think about that at all.

None of it seems to matter.

Only you.

He sits you down carefully, on the edge of his bed. The very same one he just fucked you raw in. His hands hover even after he lets go, still gripping at your waist, brushing along your arms, your knee.

Then he takes off.

You can hear the frantic rustling - the opening and shutting of drawers, cabinets, his movements fast and panicked.

And when he returns to you, he is kneeling in front of you with a damp cloth.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just opens your legs slightly, with gentle hands, for better access and begins to swipe. Soft, slow drags over your sensitive skin, barely any pressure at all, afraid even the slightest touch might make this worse for you.

But the thing is, he is already making this worse.

Not in the way he thinks.

Not in the way that physically aches in your body but in a way that fills you with something barely manageable.

Bucky is not annoyed, or exasperated at this turn of events. He is not disgusted. Not even a little.

He is not wincing at the blood smearing on your thighs, isn’t hesitating when it stains the cloth, and also might stain his hand, the sheets on his bed. He just keeps wiping. Keeps caring. Keeps frowning with that expression of utter concern and remorse.

And this hurts so much more.

It would have been easier if he had been an asshole about it. If he had sighed in annoyance, rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and told you to just go if you were gonna act weird. Maybe you would have been able to handle that.

But Bucky Barnes is anything but an asshole.

He is kneeling before you, hands still cautiously wiping at your skin. Each motion is so slow, painstaking, like an artist restoring a ruined masterpiece, knowing no stroke of his hand can undo the damage.

His touch is soft, but his body is anything but.

His spine is a pillar of strain, each muscle wound so tightly, even the act of breathing seems like an effort to him, like something he must force past the knot in his chest.

His jaw is hard, teeth pressed together in a pressure you can almost hear.

Rigid shoulders don’t really move with his breaths, as if the guilt inside of him has turned to iron and settled deep in his bones.

Every inch of him seems to be screaming with the need to undo something that has already been done.

His blue eyes are flooded with regret. With something heavier than guilt, something closer to self-loathing.

It feels like he is bleeding grief.

And it would have been easier if he didn’t care so much.

Because if he was indifferent, if he brushed it off, if he let you go, then at least you could pretend this didn’t mean anything. At least you could convince yourself that this arrangement was just that - an arrangement. A convenient thing. A way to feel wanted without asking for more.

But this makes it impossible to lie to yourself.

This makes it impossible to stop falling for him over and over again.

And that is what really hurts, what dives deep into your insides to carve out a room and stays there.

His fingers brush over your knee as he cleans.

And then, after a long, silent moment, he speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is rough. Not accusing. Not angry. Just wounded. Pained.

He lets out a sharp breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. He looks away for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out what he did to you.

His gaze flicks back up to yours and the way he looks at you nearly takes you apart.

“Why didn’t you stop me, doll?” His voice breaks, as if it physically pains him to say it. “I- Jesus, I- why didn’t you tell me?”

You shake your head, your throat tight, trying to find the words. Trying to explain. But the shame, the embarrassment make it hard to pull in a full breath, making it impossible to speak.

Bucky waits.

And again, that makes it worse.

Because he is patient with you, even now. Even when he desperately searches you for something, when he looks like he wants to rip himself apart with his bare hands.

He is still waiting for you, waiting for you to think about your answer.

You push past the lump in your throat and force up something. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit quietly.

His brows pull further together, face twisting. His hand stays on your knee. “Ruin what?”

You exhale shakily, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “For you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to ruin it for you. I just- I wanted you to feel good.”

Bucky might have stopped breathing in front of you. Might have just died and come back in the same second.

A sound leaves him. You can’t make out if it is a word or something else, but it is deep and gravelly and it slams into your chest like a fist.

His head dips forward, his hands flexing into fists on his thighs before he drags them over his face. The stained cloth lay discarded.

He shakes his head, not believing what he is hearing. Not even knowing what to do with himself.

He looks at you again. His eyes are darker now. So full of pain.

“Doll,” he breathes, and the way he says it - like it hurts him, like it breaks him - have you staring at him helplessly. “You think I’d rather you suffer through it? That I’d rather have you- have you just take it? That I’d rather get off than-” He stops. He has to stop. His breath hitches in a gasp. His fists shake. “Fuck.”

You can’t look at him.

You want to. But you can’t.

Because he is too much.

Because he is everything.

Because he is making it impossible to pretend like this isn’t something more than what it is.

There is a deep, pulling sensation in your stomach, a hand reaching inside and twisting and turning everything around.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. Your bottom lip trembles and you fight against tears welling up in your eyes.

Bucky moves instantly.

He is on you in a heartbeat, as close as he can possibly get, as if he could crawl into your skin if it meant keeping you from hurting.

His head shakes, frantic, desperate. “No, hey- no.”His voice sounds like it has been dragged over broken glass. Fractured.

“Don’t apologize, baby. Please, don’t.” He cups your face, his palms warm against your skin. He forces your eyes to his, refuses to let you look away, refuses to let you hide in your shame.

His brows are pulled together, his jaw is tight. His entire body vibrates with something fierce.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who is. I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

His thumb catches a tear.

His hands tighten, like he can physically hold all of you.

“God, I gotta apologize, baby,” he breathes, and the sheer pain in his voice has your heart pounding. “I shouldn’t have- I should’ve never let you think this was all it was.” His fingers flex against your face and he drags in a breath that seems to hurt him.

His forehead almost touches yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he croaks out, words something like a confession. “That first night. That next morning. Should’ve told you then. Should’ve never let you leave thinkin��-” He stops himself, his eyes so blue, so damn intense, burning into yours with something so vulnerable it has your ribs crack open.

He regains a firmness in his voice when he speaks next.

“I should’ve never let you walk out thinkin’ you were just some good time to me.”

You choke on your next breath.

Your mind blanks.

He shakes his head, like he hates himself.

“I thought-” He exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw, his stubble rasping against his palm. “You were gone so fast that first time, baby. So fast. And I- I thought maybe that’s how you wanted it. Maybe that’s all it was for you. It broke my heart, but hell, I thought that’s all I was gonna get. And I didn’t wanna risk it. Risk losin’ that with you.”

You didn’t feel your lips part. You just know that they are gaping.

Words are lost on you.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, squeeze at your elbows, needing to ground himself, needing to feel you solid beneath his fingers. His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if trying to memorize the beat of it.

His voice lowers. Softens.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

His fingers tighten.

“Not- not like this.” He swallows hard. “Not when it’s hurtin’ you. Not when I-” His throat tries to work around the words, his gaze searching. “Not when I’m hurtin’ you, and giving you the impression you’d just have to take it. That you couldn’t tell me to stop when you need me to.”

His voice splinters.

You stare into the glossy sheen of his eyes and only see sincerity and the utter despair he is in.

Something pushes against your ribs, trying to carve out space where none existed before. A deep heat blooms low, not the kind that you knew to ignite in the dark between tangled sheets and intertwined limbs, but something slower, something deeper.

“I left that morning because I thought it’s what you wanted, Bucky.” Your voice wavers, but you hold his gaze, watching the way his entire body tenses, the way his brows draw together.

Your hands move to his shirt, nails pressing into it, eyes moving away from his, but he keeps them on you so firmly.

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “I was scared you would wake up, look at me, and regret it. That you’d think it was a mistake. And then, you never asked me to stay-” You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to slow the tears. “And I thought that meant I was right. That you didn’t want me to.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

He looks broken.

His body jerks forward as if you hit him. His mouth is parted and his lips are trembling. His throat works words up.

You watch as something dark and agonizing moves through him. He blinks fast, breathes in sharp, and exhales even sharper.

Then he shakes his head, over and over again, lips moving to a curse he doesn’t speak out loudly. His hands adjust themselves on your skin.

“You thought I wanted you to leave?”

The sheer disbelief, the sheer devastation in his voice makes your chest cave in on itself.

“I-” You try to answer, try to explain, but he continues.

“No. No, sweetheart, no.” His hands slide down, gripping your arms, your hands, begging you to listen. “I never- Fuck. I never wanted you to leave.”

His eyes are wild, urgent, stormy.

“I wanted you to stay. Every damn time. But I thought it’s what you wanted.” His voice hitches, his shoulders rigid with tension. “You were gone so fast, doll, you didn’t even-” He swallows, his expression shattering. “I figured you didn’t wanna wake up next to me.”

You feel everything crack open inside you.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, in your wrists, in your ears, in the very tips of your fingers, both in a wild and certain way.

“You never told me to stay,” you whisper.

Bucky’s face contorts in pain.

“I was terrified,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. “Terrified that if I asked, you’d tell me no. And I- I couldn’t-” He exhales a profound breath, shaking his head. “I couldn’t stand hearin’ that, doll. I couldn’t stand losing even the little of you I had.”

Something harsh tugs at your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You had it all wrong.

And so did he.

You want to laugh, maybe, or cry, or press your hands to his face just to make sure this moment is real, to make sure he won’t take back what he just told you.

You let out a shaky breath. A finger lifts gradually and brushes against his jaw. He leans into your touch like he is starving for it.

“I always wanted to stay,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers twitching against you. His lips are parted.

With a long and drawn-out breath he moves to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you to him.

His lips press against your forehead, once, twice, a third time, his breath warm and unsteady against your skin.

“I fucked up,” he mutters, voice thick with regret.

You shake your head, but he won’t have it.

“No, baby. I shoulda told you from the start. I should’ve never let you walk out that door.” Another kiss. Another released breath. “But you ain’t walkin’ out now. Not this time. Not ever. M’ not gonna let you.”

His voice is low and rough, filled with something sore.

“You’re stayin’ right here.”

You pull him in, needing him closer, needing his arms around you and his warmth against you.

And Bucky melts.

Completely, he folds into you. His arms wrap around your body, pressing against the small of your back, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you.

He buries his face into your hair, leaving kisses there, his breath strained against your scalp. He smells like soap, like something faintly sweet, like safety.

His hand smoothes over your back, tracing slow and grounding patterns, memorizing every inch of you, needing you to be okay.

“How do you feel, baby? You still hurtin’?” he whispers against your temple.

Your stomach flips at the care in his voice. How much he wants to know. How much he needs to know.

You hesitate for a second, words sticking to your tongue.

Bucky pulls back slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes sweep over your face, over every tiny micro-expression, over every little glimmer of pain you can’t quite hide.

His gaze drops lower, assessing you, thoroughly. The bleeding seems to have stopped and relief washes over his features. But it’s fleeting.

“I’m okay,” you assure, even though the soreness still lingers, the ache still exists beneath your skin.

Bucky gives you a warning look.

“It only hurts a little.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a beat, and when he looks at you again, you get uneasy. It seems he wasn’t quite done with confessing things.

“Please don’t do that again, baby. Don’t ever put me before you like that. Don’t ever let me hurt you just ‘cause you think it’s what I want. I could never feel good at the cost of your hurtin’.”

His face is twisted with pain, the idea of you suffering in silence unbearable to him.

He is looking at you like you are everything.

“I promise, Buck,” you tell him reverently. Softly. “But I really am okay.”

“Doll.” His voice is low, firm. “We need to get you checked out. We ain’t just sittin’ on this and hopin’ it’s fine. We’re going to the ER.”

You sigh.

“Bucky-”

“Not up for discussion,” he retorts, shaking his head. There is tension around his mouth, pulling it taut. “We’ll let a doc check you over, and gonna let ‘em tell us you’re okay. And if you’re not, we’re gonna figure out what to do. But we won’t ignore this, sweetheart. Not when it’s you. Not when you’re in pain and bleedin’.”

Your chest is filling with something warm, something fond, something that hurts and heals all at once.

Still, you try. “It’s better now, Buck-”

He doesn’t even let you finish.

He is already moving, already reaching for clothes. He grabs a new pair of his boxers for you to pull on, seemingly not caring about the remnants of blood that will stain them, along with sweats and one of his hoodies.

And before you can argue, or can even fully process what he is doing, he dresses you in those clothes and immediately lifts you into his arms when he is done.

His hands are strong, gentle, so cautious, one cradling your back, the other under your knees. He holds you like you weigh nothing, but also like you are the most precious thing in the world.

You let out a startled noise, but Bucky shushes you tenderly, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple.

“I got you, baby,” he soothes, voice so warm and full of something so achingly deep you don’t know how to hold it.

But you try to.

Because you want to.

“Real love doesn’t meet you at your best. It meets you in your mess.”

- J.S. Park

Part Two

#bucky barnes fanfiction #fuck buddy #fuck buddy!Bucky #bucky barnes x reader #buckybarnes #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x reader onshot #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes comfort #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x female yn #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes one shot

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missdynamighttt · 6 months ago

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⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⇢"but kia! how do i know what is-" ࿐ྂ

HONEY, YOU'RE A STAR ☆ ! - smut ༉‧₊˚.

BABY, YOU HAVE MY HEART ♡ ! - fluff ༉‧₊˚.

SHINE BRIGHT LIKE A DIAMOND ✧! - angst ༉‧₊˚.

LONG FICS (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ ᯓᡣ𐭩

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ honey..come back to me. please. | k. bakugo (first ever fic)

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ IN WHICH, you and your ex-boyfriend katsuki bakugo can't seem to resist each other no matter what. even if you're only supposed to be friendly at the class reunion party.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ there's no one like you, sweets. | k. bakugo

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ IN WHICH, you make what feels like the worst decision of your life—getting into a hot tub with your fake boyfriend, katsuki bakugo.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ fat ass like hers needs a real man to fuck it | k. bakugo

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ IN WHICH, you get tangled up with your boyfriend's arrogant, infuriating, and devastatingly hot rival, katsuki bakugou and ended up fucking... one too many times.

SHORT FICS ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´- ᯓᡣ𐭩

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ convincing bf! katsuki to do the sticky cover

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ shoulder-biter bf! katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ beach with older bf! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ new year with bf! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ jacked AND kind with bf! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ crying in a movie with bf! katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ watching porn with bf! katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊ bf! katsuki pays for your nails and you thank him

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ bf! katsuki convincing you to go on a date with him

*ੈ✩‧₊ bf! katsuki does your eyeliner

*ੈ✩‧₊ backshots with enemies, pro hero! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ pro hero, husband! katsuki's greatest achievement

*ੈ✩‧₊ old bro's bsf! katsuki catches you masturbating (1k special)

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ using bf! katsuki's face to test out your lipsticks

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ shamelessly seducing boss! katsuki as his secretary

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ husband! katsuki had a dream you divorced him

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ sitting on bf! katsuki's shoulders while he cooks

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ husband! katsuki SO in love with the way that you smell

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ husband! katsuki on twitter for texting you while fighting

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ husband! katsuki asks for a kiss after an argument

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ acidentally snooping on freaky, bf! katsuki's phone

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ asking bf! katsuki about prenups

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ twitter porn links with katsuki (2k special)

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ pro hero, husband! katsuki hears he needs to bone his wife

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ovulation week with bf! katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ shit to try w/ her masterlist (3k special)

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ filipina gf! arguing with bf! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ texting old bro's bsf! katsuki part two

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ husband! katsuki taking out his frustrations on you

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ husband! katsuki takes care of you after a long day

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ bf! katsuki pays for his girlfriend tax

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ bf! katsuki helps you with procrastinating

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ bf! katsuki pranks you for april fools... differently

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ shopping w/ bf! katsuki for the first time

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ missing frat boy, bf! katsuki's calls

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ part two of enemies, pro hero! katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ easter birthday special (late 4k special)

REQUESTS (˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶) / / ᯓᡣ𐭩

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ life with husband! katsuki and kids

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ arguing w/ bf! katsuki being reckless

*ੈ✧‧₊˚ single father! katsuki finds daughter's drugs

*ੈ✧‧₊˚ pro hero! katsuki meeting villain! reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ internet goes wild over mature photo of pro hero! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ mature interview with pro hero! katsuki and his wife

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ bf! katsuki's first time hearing you moan

*ੈ✧‧₊˚ falling in love with fantasy! katsuki over and over again

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ missionary bear hug with bf! katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ hyena! reader and pro hero! katsuki nsfw

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ bf! katsuki cooks your favorite filo dish

*ੈ✧♡‧₊˚ situationship with katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ husband! katsuki with a big dick

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ bf! katsuki's favorite place: your thighs

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ gym rat! needy bf katsuki

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ brat tamer! katsuki

*ੈ♡‧₊˚ dating frat boy! katsuki

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ kia thanks you for making it to the end (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

#bakugou x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #bnha bakugou #katsuki bakugo mha #bakugou katsuki x reader #mha bakugo katsuki #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugou #mha #bakugo katsuki smut #masterlist

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teabunniics · 2 years ago

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♡ ── QUIET STARGAZING . . . | KLARKSTELLA'S VERSION

As both of you seeing the glimmering sky having their stars dancing like what children used to do so... Holding each other by hands and simply having fun without the fear of judgement and many things... That's what Klarkstella used to do with his brother back when the starry twins were younger at that time... It seems like time is moving pretty fast at the point... Oh, how fun it was... A tiny smile painted on his face as he keeps looking at the stars, I assumed that to him... The stars will always holding the memories until the end of time... Including... Yours.

#♡ ── SMALL STICKY NOTES...#fragaria memories x reader #fragaria memories #klarkstella #drabble #imagine

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purple-plum-petals · 8 months ago

Note

Hi!! I love your homicipher fics! Have you thought about writing nsfw hcs? Specifically for Mr. Crawling and Silvair? I hope your night / day is going well! :)

⊱ Mr. Crawling and Mr. Silvair ⊰ || NSFW Alphabet (A-Z) Headcanons

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Character(s): Mr. Crawling, Mr. Silvair (Homicipher/文字化化, Separate) Reader Type: Human (Gender-Neutral Pronouns, No Sex-Specific Genitalia is Mentioned but it was Written with an AFAB Reader in Mind) Warning(s): 18+ Content, Virgin Asexual Author, Cum Eating, Facials, Minor Objectification, Cuckoldry, Mutual Masturbation, Face-fucking, Sexual Fantasies, Tickling, Praise/Degradation Kink, Breeding Kink/Creampies, BDSM, Overstimulation, Orgasm Control/Denial, Dumbification, Dacryphilia, Hair-pulling, Light Impact Play, Light Breathplay, Implied Cunnilingus/Blowjobs, Cock Warming, Mention/Discussion of Sex Toys… If I missed anything, please let me know! Genre: Headcanons, Smut (Minors Do Not Interact), Fluff Word Count: 7,200 words Request: “Hi!! I love your homicipher fics! Have you thought about writing nsfw hcs? Specifically for Mr. Crawling and Silvair? I hope your night / day is going well! :)” Author’s Note: I’m still very much working on getting better at writing spicier content, and I had no clue how to start writing these kinds of headcanons from scratch, so I went ahead and just filled out the NSFW Alphabet for both Mr. Crawling and Mr. Silvair as a jumping off point! It’s definitely interesting to think about how both of these characters would be in a sexually intimate setting, especially since – at least in my mind – they’d be quite different from each other in a variety of aspects even if they did have some overlap on a few of the points. I did my best to keep each of their headcanons at a similar word length (which was kind of hard to do with my Mr. Crawling bias, but I think I accomplished it haha). Anyway, I hope you enjoy these headcanons! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated! ♡

╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

A: Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

👣: Mr. Crawling is immensely clingy after having sex, holding onto you and pretty much refusing to let go as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck or your hair. While he doesn’t want to get up from the bed or leave after the two of you have been intimate, if you’re hungry or thirsty or if you want to go take a bath, he’s happy to go fetch you something to restore your energy or help you to the bathroom to clean up. He’s quite good at aftercare, even if he doesn’t realize what he’s doing counts as it. Mr. Crawling just likes making you feel good, and he wants to keep you safe and happy! His favorite thing to do is help you bathe; he enjoys the way the warm water feels on his skin while he washes your back for you.

💉: Mr. Silvair isn’t too affectionate after the two of you are intimate, but he’ll check up on you and ask if you need him to get you anything. If your wrists were rubbed raw from the restraints he had placed on you, he would make sure to carefully wrap gauze around your irritated skin. If you were thirsty or hungry, he would locate something safe for you to consume to get your strength back up. If you feel sticky or gross afterward, he’ll carefully wipe your body with a wet cloth to make sure you are clean and comfortable. He lets you sleep and typically goes about his own business. Sometimes, though, Mr. Silvair finds himself watching over you to make sure you’re breathing steadily, carefully combing his fingers through your hair.

B: Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

👣: Mr. Crawling doesn’t have a favorite part of your body since he honestly enjoys every aspect of you but, if he had to choose, he loves your hands. He knows that they can hurt people and cause a lot of pain, but he loves the way they feel when you cup his face to softly caress it or whenever you thread your fingers through his hair. For himself, Mr. Crawling loves his hair the most (I know it’s not technically a body part, but I think it makes the most sense for him); he pretty much melts whenever you play with it, and his head is quite sensitive, so he blue screens whenever you pull at his hair or rake your nails across his scalp. I also feel like Mr. Crawling would be proud of his arms since they’re fairly toned considering they’re his primary means of getting around. Because of his impressive strength, despite what his thinner frame may portray, he’s able to hold you up and move you around with relative ease (he 100% can manhandle you, but only will if you’re cool with it).

💉: Mr. Silvair finds every aspect of your body fascinating, and he could probably explain why each part of you was interesting from a medical perspective or that everything was pleasant to look at in one way or another. If he had to pick a favorite part of your body, though, he would have to say it’s your head (I know, kind of weird, but he does appreciate your intelligence and, well… Ending 06 is my other piece of reasoning haha). Specifically, though, he likes your mouth. He enjoys being able to hold your head in place while your jaw hangs open, all while he just goes to town while you drool and choke around his cock. Don’t worry, though – he’ll find some remedy to lessen the soreness you feel in your throat afterward. For himself, he’s quite proud of his hands. Mr. Silvair is skilled at many things, and being able to make you come undone with his fingers alone makes him feel a sense of power (plus, you called them pretty once, and it made him feel good).

C: Cum (Anything to do with cum)

👣: Mr. Crawling gets extremely flustered whenever he sees his cum on any part of your body, from your hair to your face to your stomach. The sight of it alone on your skin makes his brain short-circuit and body flare up – it only makes him want to touch you even more. He likes being able to clean you up, too, leaning forward before he runs his tongue along your body or face, making sure there wasn’t a single drop of his cum left on you (even if now it meant you were covered in saliva…). He doesn’t mind tasting himself, but it most certainly doesn’t compare to your flavor.

💉: I probably need to ask you to stay with me on this one, but I think Mr. Silvair would probably keep your cum stored away in a sample tube or something along those lines, having a desire to run tests on it to see what he could create. Views your cum as a valuable resource in his research...yay? Maybe he could even use your release to invent some kind of lubricant since that’s not easily accessible in the other world and make having sex much more streamlined… or he just keeps it around to show you later and see your reaction to the fact he keeps your cum stored away in his laboratory to tease you.

D: Dirty Secret

👣: The thought of taking you in public, in a space where no one but you could see him, makes his mind race and his body feel like it was on fire – this man can act like a feral dog sometimes. I mean, even you sometimes forgot he was there, unable to see his form unless you concentrated hard enough, so imagine if the two of you went out somewhere in public and he (with your consent, of course), just started touching you? Groping your ass, his face between your legs as he runs his hands along your inner thighs… no one can see that it’s him making your face flush and not the excuse of a fever you told the concerned stranger in the hopes they would leave you alone. When you half-heartedly glare at him to try and get him to lay off for a bit, he just laughs at your expression… how rude!

💉: Mr. Silvar wouldn’t be opposed to having a threesome with another resident of the other world. After all, he would be curious to see how differently you acted when another person was there with the two of you, or if your body reacted in an unlikely way if another were to touch you. While I will not write NSFW for Mr. Chopped (the power dynamic there isn’t my favorite thing in the world), he would be the one Mr. Silvair would feel most at ease sharing you with; Mr. Crawling or Mr. Hood would be his second and third choices respectively since he knows how deeply you trust them. He might not even partake in sex either, just sitting off to the side while he lets another use you like a toy. As long as you know your his, though, he doesn’t mind watching you enjoy yourself with another (he has to be there, though).

E: Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

👣: Mr. Crawling has absolutely zero experience with this kind of stuff, so he would need someone willing to walk him through the whole process, show him what you like, and teach him what and what not to do. What he lacks in experience, though, he makes up for in pure enthusiasm. It’s quite flattering how determined he is when it comes to making you feel good, even if it’s a bit sloppy and unpracticed. His thrusts are extremely unpredictable, never quite finding their rhythm… It’s alright, though; he’ll definitely get better with more time and the more he gets to understand what your body likes. You just have to give him the time to improve, and he’ll be certain to leave you breathless.

💉: Mr. Silvair also has no experience when it comes to sex, or at least not any while he’s resided in the other world. He is a life-long learner through and through, though, and there’s nothing in the universe he’s not willing to learn about, especially if it has to do with humans and their anatomy. His thrusts are frighteningly accurate, being able to hit your most sensitive inner spots with ease to have you begging him to give you a moment to breathe. He’s an almost terrifyingly fast learner, too, being able to apply whatever new information he’s observed and gathered within moments. He can do it perfectly, too, and he does it in a way that has you questioning whether he was telling the truth when he said this was his first time doing anything like this.

F: Favorite Position

👣: When it comes to favorite positions, Mr. Crawling loves being able to hold you close to him while also being able to see your face (he has to kiss you during sex – sorry, I don’t make the rules). He enjoys the rocking horse position since it allows him to be able to hold you close while still being able to maintain eye contact with you and easily have access to cover your face in kisses. While he prefers being the one making you feel good, Mr. Crawling would also enjoy the cowgirl position. He’s happy to let you use him to your heart's content while being able to look up and soak in the pleased look that’s plastered across your features while you slam your hips up and down on his cock.

💉: Mr. Silvair personally enjoys the butterfly position, having you lay on your back atop his operation table all while he can watch and take mental notes on every single facial expression you make and every single twitch of your muscles while he drives you absolutely insane. He would also enjoy missionary, but he would spice it up a little bit by having your hands or wrists tied to something. After all, he doesn’t want you to touch him unless he says you can – just lay there quietly while he completely wrecks you with that annoyingly calm expression on his face. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy when you touch him, though. Mr. Silvair simply prefers being the one in charge and determining when and where you’re able to feel his skin beneath your hands.

G: Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

👣: Acts goofy most of the time during sex, even if he doesn’t mean to. He likes being able to make you happy, and he finds your laughter to be music to his ears. Sometimes you two will be having sex, and he’ll suddenly start giggling completely unprovoked, just finding the experience with you so joyful. Being with you in any capacity makes his chest feel light and fluttery as a sense of giddiness flows through his veins. He’ll wrap his arms around you and nuzzle into your neck, causing your body to spasm and tighten around him while his long hair drapes over you and tickles your skin. Overall, Mr. Crawling enjoys being more playful when the two of you are intimate since it adds to the overall experience for him.

💉: Prefers to be serious while having sex. He treats the whole process of intercourse like one would treat a research project which, honestly, can make you feel a bit annoyed in some instances (Mr. Silvair still doesn’t quite understand why, though). He’s methodical in everything he does, and being light-hearted or purposefully humorous isn’t high on his list of things to do. He has no problem if you want to be silly, however. He finds it cute when you try to see if you can make him chuckle. It endears you to him more, and it makes him want to keep you around for even longer. The only goofy thing he does is gently run his fingers up and down your sides while thrusting into you, finding the way your body wriggles and writhes away from his touch to be adorable.

H: Hair (How well-groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

👣: I think Mr. Crawling would have fairly long hair beneath the metaphorical belt. His pubic hair would be thick, curly, and a very dark shade of black. He doesn’t really keep himself groomed (kind of hard to do in his world, plus it was never a priority for him), but if you would prefer him to keep it trimmed, he’d be happy to! He doesn’t care one way or another.

💉: Mr. Silvair comes off to me as someone who would enjoy keeping themselves groomed and their appearance well-maintained, and I mean every inch of his body. I think he would have either no pubic hair or pubic hair that was trimmed to be the perfect length. If he did have any hair below the belt, it would be a gray color, one that was a shade darker than his regular hair and wavy in texture.

I: Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

👣: One of the more human-like members of the cast when it comes to his affections; he’s as romantic as a non-human being can be. Mr. Crawling loves holding you close as he ruts into you like a wild dog, whispering praises against your skin. He even tries his best to learn phrases in your language so he can tell you how much you mean to him without you having to try and decipher it. He’s always so, so soft with you when you two are having sex. He’s honored that you’d let him have you in such a way, and finds your trust in him heartwarming – he trusts you, too, with his entire heart and soul.

💉: Mr. Silvair canonically doesn’t comprehend the concept of “liking” or loving someone, so that also translates into sex with him. All he knows is that he finds you entertaining to be around and that he’s somewhat endeared to you at this point. He’s not romantic but, in between teasing you and making you cry (whether it be in frustration or overstimulation), he’s checking in on you to make sure that you’re still comfortable. He knows sex can be invasive, and he’s aware of how much regard the act is held in by some people in your world, so he does his best to respect that... Even if he does need to check himself every now and again.

J: Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

👣 and 💉: Neither of them masturbates much because they simply don’t have a desire or time to do so. Mr. Crawling would rather wait for you to be there so you two can enjoy yourselves together, and Mr. Silvair simply has more important matters to attend to. That’s not to say they never masturbate, though, it’s just typically a rare occurrence.

👣: Mr. Crawling typically masturbates by rutting up against something, like a pillow, rather than taking himself in his hand. His thoughts before meeting you were just focusing on the physical sensation of his cock sliding against the fabric of his clothing, but now he finds himself thinking of you – the way your voice sounds when you coo sweet words in his ear, the warmth of your body. Imagining your hands gently touching his chest and hips makes him cum right then and there, almost embarrassingly quickly… Yeah, he’s down bad.

💉: Mr. Silvair treats masturbating as a chore. He’d much rather be doing something else than leaning against the wall of his operation room while his hand goes absolutely ham on his dick. He knows which areas on his body get the most reaction, so he purposefully presses all of his buttons just so he can be done with it quicker. This doesn’t change after meeting and getting to be intimate with you, though, he still sees it as a chore… Just now he imagines cumming on your face or inside you whenever he finally reaches his climax.

K: Kink (one or more of their kinks)

👣:

Mutual Masturbation: He likes spending time with you and doing things together, so why not spend some time watching each other explore yourselves? He likes observing you as you touch yourself, making mental notes of every spot on your body that have you biting your lip and furrowing your brows. While I wouldn’t say he’s into voyeurism since he does like being with you while you touch yourself instead of tucked away in the shadows just watching, he focuses more on the way your hands touch and caress your skin instead of focusing on the way he moves his hands across his body. Doesn’t last very long doing this, though, eventually pouncing on you and touching you himself.

Overstimulation (Giving): Mr. Crawling loves overstimulating you, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it half of the time. He just enjoys seeing you become a blabbering mess all because of him; he takes great pride in being able to make you feel good. However, the first time you started crying because he was simply giving you too much, he felt so guilty – the poor man was on the verge of tears thinking he made you feel bad.

Praise Kink: While praising you is a bit more difficult considering the language barrier and the limited amount of words and phrases he has to choose from, he still loves doing it. Muttering against your skin how you’re doing such a good job, how he loves you so much, how you make him so happy. Mr. Crawling definitely makes sure to reassure you both inside and outside of the bedroom.

Hair Pulling (Receiving): He loves, loves, loves it whenever you take his hair in your hand and give it a firm tug. Mr. Crawling enjoys it whenever he’s going down on you and you take his hair into your hands and push him even closer, making him become fully immersed in your scent and taste.

Sensation Play: While Mr. Crawling may not enjoy more painful experiences, he does like general sensation play quite a bit. He likes the feeling of your breath fanning against his skin while you pepper his flesh with gentle kisses and nips. He enjoys tickling you while his hips sensually thrust in and out, feeling the way you squeeze around him as breathless and airy giggles escape past your lips. He loves whispering into your ear while running his tongue along it before taking your lobe between his teeth and lightly tugging.

💉:

Breeding Kink/Creampie: Mr. Silvair, after learning more about human reproduction, has a deep-seated curiosity regarding whether or not the two of you would be able to have offspring. That’s kind of what starts this particular kink for him – he wants to know if you both are sexually compatible in that aspect, and he is curious what the resulting child would look and act like if they were born in the other world. If you’re unable to give birth or get pregnant, even if his initial interest in breeding is certainly from a more scientific aspect, he still finds the image of you full of his seed while it drips down the curve of your ass to be quite arousing.

Bondage/Shibari (Giving): He enjoys tying you up and pinning you down, being able to have full control over you in the bedroom. He’s perfectly content if you agree to light bondage, like having your hands restrained, and would never ask you to do anything more than that. However, if you trust him enough and feel comfortable doing some more intense bondage, he’s not going to complain. Would definitely be interested in the art of shibari, finding the way the rope looks pressing into your skin tantalizing.

Orgasm Control/Denial (Giving): Another kink that feeds into his desire for control. Mr. Silvair enjoys being the one in charge of your release, and he likes seeing how far he can push you until you finally break and plead for him to let you cum. He loves seeing how stupid and desperate he can make you, sometimes with just his fingers alone.

Overstimulation (Giving): Much like orgasm control/denial, he likes pushing you to your breaking point. However, unlike the previous bullet, he likes seeing how much stimulation you can take until you’re crying for him to stop. He thinks it’s fascinating, seeing how quickly your desire for his touch can change – one moment you’re begging for him to touch you, and the next you’re weakly pushing his hand away. He does eventually relent, of course, but only after letting you cry for a bit.

Dacryphilia: There’s something about seeing your tear-streaked face that makes it feel like he’s just been hit with an arrow in his chest. It’s endearing and oh-so cute the way you look while you sob all because he’s making you feel that good. It makes him feel proud, in a way, seeing you in such a pathetic state all because of him.

L: Location (Favorite places to do the do)

👣: He enjoys having sex with you on a bed (boring, I know), but he likes the softness of the mattress and the many pillows and blankets that can be used to bring even more comfort by keeping the heat from your bodies trapped. He also likes taking you in small, enclosed spaces, like an empty locker or cabinet (sorry folks with claustrophobia). Much like the reasoning with the bed, he likes how the smaller space forces you both to be immensely close to each other. Plus, these spaces bring him comfort, so why not mix the two things that make him feel safe together?

💉: Either in his laboratory/operation room or in one of the many different cages or prison cells that he has access to (bonus points if you allow him to chain you up hehe). Mr. Silvair doesn’t need a soft mattress or pillows to enjoy sex with you. He’s fine taking you on his operation table or the cold concrete floor of the small prison cell, even if your back moving up and down across the ground rubs your skin raw. He’ll patch you up after, no worries, but he doesn’t need a lot of bells and whistles to have an enjoyable time.

M: Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

👣: Sweet words and gentle touches. The other world is one full of violence and death, one where survival trumps all else. While there are entities like him who only resort to violence when either their safety or the safety of someone they’re fond of is in danger, it’s still not a happy or bright place to exist. Mr. Crawling does what he can to enjoy life, laughing in situations that probably aren’t even that funny just to try and make existing more enjoyable. Then you come along and make him feel cared for – loved – and safe, and he’s never been happier. Being able to lay with you, to feel you clench around his cock with your warmth while you pepper kisses across his face and let him know how good he is… Yeah, this is the life.

💉: Power and control. He enjoys being able to restrict your movement, being able to dictate when and where you’re allowed to cum and, if you disobey him, he’ll punish you with a sadistic smile on his face. However, he would be lying if he said that was all. Mr. Silvair thinks the fact you trust him with your safety – your life, your heart, your existence – gets him going, whether he realizes it or not. Trusting another in the other world showcases how much two people believe in the fact the other would not do anything to purposefully harm them, and you feel that way toward him (and he feels the same toward you). Whenever you call out his “name,” the one you had given him, he finds his hips unconsciously moving even faster at the sound...

N: No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

👣: Anything involving pain would be a hard no for Mr. Crawling, both giving and receiving. Even though his senses are dull and what would be extremely painful for a human wouldn’t be for him, he still doesn’t particularly enjoy being harmed. When it comes to hurting you in any way, that’s pretty much something he will never concede on. He doesn’t want to do a single thing to hurt you, even if it’s an enjoyable kind of pain.

💉: Pretty much nothing is off the table for him – Mr. Silvair enjoys experimenting, and that’s no different for him in the bedroom. The only extremely hard no would be coprophilia since he just doesn’t see the appeal nor does he want to test to see if he would like it or not. I also feel like he wouldn’t necessarily want a bratty partner or a partner who is constantly trying to take control back in the bedroom.

O: Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

👣: Loves giving oral 101%, and he will give it to you anywhere – in public, in private, while you’re sleeping (with your consent, of course). Mr. Crawling adores having his mouth on you, being able to taste every single part of you while his tongue forces its way inside you, feeling your release dripping past his lips or dribbling down his chin… You taste good, too, better than anything he’s ever had before; he might get addicted to it, to be honest. He eats you out/blows you like a man starving, wanting a chance to have a taste and make you cry out his name while you pull harshly on his black locks and encourage him to keep going. He’s very enthusiastic about it, too, putting in so much effort and energy to get you cumming on his face or in his mouth.

💉: Prefers giving oral over receiving it, but it’s not his favorite thing to do either way. It’s nothing personal, he just prefers using his hands, his cock, or a toy to get you off rather than his mouth. If he does allow you to give him a blowjob, he’ll place a collar around your neck and pull on the chain if you get cheeky – after all, he’s the one in charge here. Mr. Silvair enjoys making you kneel in front of him, watching you with a small smile as you take him into your hands and pump once or twice before taking him into your mouth. If the rare occurrence happens when he gives you head, you better thank the universe. He looks so hot, holding your thighs apart while he slowly runs his tongue along your length/slit and teases you until you’re asking him to touch you more.

P: Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

👣: Enjoys the slower and sensual side of things, but he typically can’t control himself as soon as he’s inside of you, so he ends up being somewhat fast and rough (not all the time, though... his thrusts remain immensely unpredictable no matter what, and he never seems to find a good rhythm to follow). Mr. Crawling enjoys the intimacy of sex, and he finds comfort in the closeness of your bodies while you two are connected at the hips. He loves being able to hold your hands and place kisses across your cheeks. Sometimes, he’s so caught up in the act of showering you with words of praise and sweet displays of affection that he forgets the fact he’s currently inside you and is supposed to be moving. He does see the appeal of rougher sex, though – it makes him feel almost animalistic whenever you two decide to set the pace for the night.

💉: Mr. Silvair can quickly switch between the two, sometimes almost at a break-neck speed, to the point it feels like you got whiplash from the sudden change of deep and slow thrusts to fast and somehow even deeper ones (he’s very precise when it comes to hitting those sweet spots inside of you – it’s actually kind of terrifying how quickly he can locate them). He pretty much does whatever he thinks will get the most reaction out of your body and acts accordingly – nothing more, nothing less. He tends to prefer rougher and faster sex, enjoying the noises the quick snap of his hips can draw out of your mouth. However, sometimes, he finds himself preferring a slower and softer pace. This way, he’s able to focus on and truly soak in the expression on your face and appreciate the way your body feels under his palms (this sometimes just leads to you cock warming him).

Q: Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

👣: Mr. Crawling is down for anything at any time. Pretty much, if you ask him to have sex, he’ll happily do it for you. Need him to eat you out or give you a blowjob, he’ll gladly oblige! After all, he is always pretty much kneeling, so he’s not being made to go out of his way to do it (even if he would go out of his way to please you). Want something more than just his tongue? That’s perfectly fine, too! There’s a private room over there he’ll gladly take you in, or maybe you’d want to try doing it in the empty locker? He’ll try not to take too long, but it’s hard since he loves being able to enjoy you to the fullest. So, Mr. Crawling can do quickies for sure, but he likes being able to take his time with you.

💉: While he’s not opposed to quickies, he prefers being able to have proper sex with you to get the most out of it. After all, he can’t exactly see how long it takes for you to break or how much time it takes for you to start crying and babbling if you only have a few minutes to enjoy one another. However, he does make it a little challenge for himself to see how quickly he can get you to climax. Mr. Silvair will even make educated guesses on how fast you’ll finish just by making note of your current expression, body language, etc. He likes seeing how flustered you get if you think someone is going to enter the room the two of you are in, begging him to go faster which only makes him want to slow down – how mean!

R: Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

👣: Mr. Crawling is down to experiment but, as stated before, he doesn’t want to try anything that causes him or you harm, even if pain is something you enjoy. He just has no desire to hurt you in any way, something which is quite different from other members of the cast who are definitely more sadistic (cough, Mr. Silvair and Mr. Machete, cough). I feel like he would be down to partake in certain aspects of BDSM, specifically B/D (bondage and discipline) and D/S (dominance and submission). He just wants to have a good time and be close to you, both physically and emotionally.

💉: 100% down to experiment with anything (except the previously mentioned coprophilia). If you wanted to try some breathplay or impact play or even blood play, he’d be down for it. I honestly think he would enjoy breathplay since it adds more to the differential in power that he enjoys so much (there’s also a stirring in his chest when he sees how much you trust him with your life, but shhh…). Mr. Silvair is a man hungry for information and new experiences, so yes, he’s willing to try a variety of different things even if they could potentially be dangerous – he’ll always make sure you return to your original form.

S: Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

👣 and 💉: Both of them are inhuman, which means that neither of them need any food, water, or rest to survive. Honestly, the two of them have unlimited amounts of stamina, and they can go for as long as you need them to (which could be two rounds or even eight – nothing is holding them back in the stamina department).

T: Toys (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

👣 and 💉: Neither of them owns any toys because, well… you can’t access them easily in the other world. If they do end up there, though, they’re probably dirty or damaged beyond repair (please do not use nasty sex toys, people – infections and diseases are no joke).

👣: Mr. Crawling would be down to use toys on you! After all, why not? It’ll just make the experience more fun, right? You’ll probably have to explain what he’s supposed to do with them, though, since he’s not quite sure what some of them are for. If you want to use toys on him, he’s completely fine with that! Want to wear a strap and give him backshots? Go right ahead! Want to tape vibrators to him until he’s whining and writhing? He’d be happy to oblige! Overall, he’s pretty chill about it and is somewhat enthusiastic about adding toys into your sex life.

💉: Mr. Silvair enjoys using sex toys on you, some of his favorites being cock rings/chastity belts, strangely-shaped dildos, and vibrators. He loves being able to secure the variety of different vibrators he owns to your body, making sure to cover every erogenous zone he’s noted. He doesn’t typically want toys used on him (but he’d probably try out a variety of different sex toys on himself after a while, though, curious about how each of them felt or what they did), however, and the only one he’d be willing to use consistently would be fleshlights. He’d make you watch him use it, never once allowing you to use them on him.

U: Unfair (How much they like to tease)

👣: Mr. Crawling is very fair, and he always makes sure to give you exactly what you want in the bedroom. However, that’s not to say he never teases you, he just doesn’t do it very frequently. Sometimes when he’s going down on you, he’ll pause his minstrations to nip at or kiss the fat of your thighs, keeping your hips held down so you can’t buck up against his mouth. When you start getting antsy, he just giggles at your expression before returning his attention to that oh-so-needy part of you.

💉: If the word unfair was personified, it would be Mr. Silvair. I’d argue teasing you and making you cry – either because you can’t cum or have cum ten times in a row – are the aspects of sex that he enjoys the most. Edging you is one of his favorite things, though, watching you whine and try to move your hips on your own when he stops moving… bad move, though, because now he’s just going to make you wait even longer for release.

V: Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

👣: He’s not loud, per se, but he does make quite a variety of different noises whenever the two of you are intimate. He whimpers and whines frequently while you’re having sex – they’re barely audible, high-pitched, and come out sounding as though he’s completely out of breath. Sometimes you wonder if he’s in pain with the noises he makes, but he’s not. He just really enjoys being able to feel you like this as he pants like a dog in heat.

💉: Completely quiet most of the time. Really, the only noises you’ll probably get out of him are barely audible sighs or the sound of his breathing hitching when he feels you stretch/tighten around him. It’s not that Mr. Silvair doesn’t enjoy having sex with you, he just doesn’t express that feeling verbally. You can tell in the way his hand squeezes the fat of your thigh or the way his hips stutter when he moves in and out that he’s having a good time.

W: Wild Card (Random headcanon)

👣: Mr. Crawling loves taking showers or baths with you, though he leans more towards baths since it’s less painful on his joints (I headcanon that Mr. Crawling can stand, but walking for extended periods of time is painful for him – ambulatory wheelchair user Mr. Crawling when?). While yes, he can technically sit in the shower, having water spray his face isn’t exactly pleasant… He doesn’t view bathing with you as sexual, he just finds it relaxing as he helps you wash your back or you help him make sure all the soap is out of his hair. His favorite scent would have to be lavender – it’s very calming for him.

💉: He keeps a journal tucked away full of terms and gestures from your world. Mr. Silvair has a deep desire to understand humans and everything they have to offer, even if he believes it's from a stance of craving knowledge (really, he wants to be able to express his endearment of you in a manner you can understand). He has a page on kissing and different kinds of kisses, a page on gestures of endearment, another on hugging and cuddling… The fact that humans’ bodies release a hormone whenever they simply spend time to bond with another socially, a hormone that turns the dial on their brain for whatever emotion they’re currently experiencing, is fascinating to him.

X: X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

👣: Mr. Crawling is tall – and I mean extremely tall whenever he stands up (my man has got to at least be seven feet), so I can assume that he’s probably relatively proportionate under the belt. I feel like he would be big, almost concerningly so, clocking in at around 8 inches in length. Even though his size is impressive, his dick doesn’t have much girth to it and is on the thinner side, but it is thicker towards the base compared to the head (not that you can take all of him – you can certainly give it a try, though). It’s on the veinier side, too, with a very distinct and present one on the underside of his cock.

💉: Much like pretty much the entire cast, Mr. Silvair is also on the taller half of the height spectrum. However, I feel as though he would have a more modest, yet of course still impressive dick size. I imagine him to be 6 ½ inches in length and relatively thick from the base to the head with very little change in girth. Whenever you see his cock, you’re kind of awestruck for a moment because how can a man have such a nice-looking dick?? It doesn’t make sense! There’s barely any hair, there’s no visible veins or bumps, and it’s long and thick enough to drive you wild… Plus, it’s just really nice to look at, honestly.

Y: Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

👣 and 💉: Okay, so I know others probably will not agree with me here… but I honestly don’t think anyone in the cast has much of a sex drive, let alone a high one. I mean, they’re not human, so their cultural/social norms are different than ours, and I wouldn’t hold them to “typical” human desires on a biological/psychological level either. As I said before, I doubt any of them have been laid because sex just isn’t something the residents in the other world partake in – they’re too busy killing/fighting others, eating humans who find themselves lost in the other world, etc. Is this my asexual and world-building brain working? Probably haha.

👣: Mr. Crawling really only wants sex whenever you want it, but he’s always enthusiastic and does get aroused whenever you ask if he wants to be intimate. While he does love feeling the warmth around his dick whenever you’re clamping down on him, almost like you were hugging him and not wanting to let him go, he enjoys the emotional connection during the moment more than anything else. I headcanon him (and all of the cast, to some degree) as existing somewhere on the aroace-spectrum. For Mr. Crawling, I see him as being reciproromantic/sexual with an average libido – he gets riled up whenever you’re riled up, though there are times he does get horny without you needing to do or say anything.

💉: Much like Mr. Crawling, Mr. Silvair will have sex if you ask him to – he’ll make you beg for it, though, so he’s not as nice as the former. He prefers the control/power he gets from having sex rather than the sole act of intercourse (not to say he doesn’t enjoy the feeling, though). Plus, he finds the activity interesting since he knows it’s something most humans partake in with one another for a variety of reasons, from procreation to recreation. If you ask him to have sex and he isn’t in the mood, he’ll just use his hands or some toys and play around with you until you’re satisfied. I headcanon Mr. Silvair as being quoiromantic and eegosexual with a low libido.

Z: ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

👣: Mr. Crawling doesn’t need to sleep (you know… being non-human and all), but he’ll curl up next to you on the bed and hold your body close to his while pretending to sleep alongside you. It’s kind of adorable, the way his head is nuzzled under your neck while his legs and arms are wrapped around your body, holding you close to him like you were a bodypillow or large stuffed animal. While you sleep, though, he’ll eventually place his head against your chest, listening intently to the sound of your heartbeat and the feeling of your chest rising and falling with each breath. Moments like this, laying there with you in silence, make his mind wander to scenarios with you he’ll never be able to fully experience.

💉: Does not rest often, finding it a waste of time that could be spent doing something else. He understands you need your sleep, though, so he lets you do it in peace after you both have had sex. Mr. Silvair always manages to somehow make sure you have enough pillows to keep you comfortable or blankets to keep you from getting cold (you can’t help but wonder where he finds clean linens in such a grimy place…). Occasionally, however, he finds himself sitting next to you on the bed, fingers absentmindedly combing through your hair before he pulls his hand back as though you had burnt him – he doesn’t understand it, and he’s desperate to figure out an answer.

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rafesangelita · 6 months ago

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…DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER AU

⋆𐙚₊˚🐇⊹♡

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who spend their days fucking like rabbits. whether rafe had her clinging onto his bed sheets for dear life, or muffling her screams while he drilled into her poor cunt, he knew he had hit the jackpot when she was deemed useful in more ways than one. housebunny!reader who worked as a cart girl at the country club for only two days before rafe whisked her away and turned her into his pretty maid. with his kid out of the house for school, rafe enforced a strict dress code that kept her catering to him in mini skirts, thigh high stockings, heels, and maybeee a lacey bra (he preferred her to be topless most of the time). dilf!rafe who took care of absolutely everything; hair appointments, lash appointments, nail appointments, wax appointments, he made sure to always have his bunny in tip top shape, according to his liking.

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who always get concerning glares whenever they’re out in public. here you have rafe always dressed in business casual, his clothes ironed flat without a single wrinkle in sight, courtesy of housebunny of course, and then you have the girl at his side that’s all glitz and glamour, her outfit drawing the attention of every single person in the same room. dilf!rafe who has an intense housewife + breeding kink, always telling bunny that he’s gonna keep her in the house forever while he’s balls deep inside of her. she never opposed the idea, the vision only making her warm, velvety walls clench around him even tighter. housebunny!reader who made rafe’s favorite meals, loving the way he nodded approvingly while he chewed. “you’re just too good to be true.” her heart is fluttering in her chest at his words, the praise not going unnoticed. dinner was always delicious, but dessert was even better.

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who are sooo playful behind closed doors, rafe finds himself full on giggling before he’s masking his laughter with a serious expression so bunny doesn’t think he’s too soft. dilf!rafe who has the music taste of a frat boy in college, cursing under his breath as bunny sings along to the explicit lyrics booming throughout the house. “pretty girls don’t have filthy mouths.” he’s reminding her, smirking to himself when he see’s her sparkly lips come to a stop. housebunny!reader who does literally everything rafe asks her to do. “..sooo you want me to walk around with bunny ears, and that thing?” rafe is living for the hesitation on her face, and the fact that he knows she won’t tell him no. the following night, he manages to get the cute little bunny tail right where he wants it, housebunny!reader loving it more than she thought she would..

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who plan bunny’s outfits for the week (it’s just an excuse for her to give him an unsolicited fashion show). “i would rather you wear nothing at all..” rafe grumbles when she comes out of his closet in an assortment of clothing. housebunny!reader who slips pink sticky notes into rafe’s pocket before going to work so he could find them throughout the day. ‘can’t wait to be your slutty lil’ bunny later ♡’ rafe is excusing himself from his meeting, sending her a text message that easily gets her needy. ‘just read your note. you‘re gonna be so fucked out by the time i’m done with you.’ she shoots him a quick ‘promiseee? ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა’ before squealing in excitement when he reacts to her message with a thumbs up. it’s not long before rafe gets home and has her legs on top of his shoulders, her knees knocking against her chest while he’s wiping away her tears of pure unadulterated pleasure with his thumb.

DILF!RAFE X HOUSEBUNNY!READER who are equally as nervous to have rafe’s son back home, unsure of what the small boy might think. housebunny!reader who nearly cries when she overhears little ray say she looks like a princess with her ‘pink puffy dresses’. dilf!rafe who is relieved and overjoyed that his boy adores her so much, since that was all he was waiting for in order to make her his, officially at least, since he already thought of her as such. housebunny!reader who wakes up to the smell of breakfast wafting up from downstairs, her eyebrows knitting in confusion as she wraps her fluffy robe around her body. “what are you doing?” she’s taking in the view of a shirtless rafe drinking out of a coffee mug, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. “making you breakfast since you’re not just my house bunny anymore..” at his words, you smiled. “just bunny then?” he hummed, “just bunny.”

୨୧ telling rafe you didn't use his credit card ୨୧ when dilf!rafe and bunny!reader first met ୨୧ dilf!rafe loves to make his pretty bunny squirm.. ୨୧ bunny comes home from all of her beauty appointments!

4K notes · View notes

jkwrites-m · 15 days ago

Text

Daddy Kookie (1)

Pairing: idol!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: childhood lovers to exes to lovers, parents au, idol au, smut, angst, fluff

Word Count: 8.9k

Summary: After Jungkook dropped all contact, Y/N was left broken - and pregnant. Seven years later, fate brings them back together.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, smut, angst, abandonment, ghosting, young (teenage) pregnancy, mention of parental death, mention of absent parent, brief homelessness, shelters, unintentional parental neglect, resentment, anger, fighting, arguments, jk is an ass, depression, betrayal, heartbreak, cursing, struggle,, explicit: PRAISING, kissing, missionary, oral (f. & m. receiving), breastplay, unprotected sex

Note: remember! bold is jk’s pov - regular text is y/n’s

A/N: happy father’s day! here’s part 1 of Daddy Kookie! i love this fic and hopefully you do too! part 1 was originally 15k but apparantly i hit a limit 🙄 enjoy! 🫶

MASTERPOST ♡ MASTERLIST

♡ next

═══════

The summer air was thick, like it always was in late July. Sticky and slow, like time itself didn’t want to move. I sat on the old swing at the edge of the neighborhood park, the rusting chains and wood chips always got stuck in my sandals. My fingers twisted the hem of my dress, over and over, and I tried not to check my phone again.

But I did.

He was late.

Again.

Kookie: omw. don’t cry just yet lol

Y/N: shut up

Kookie: make me 😏

I rolled my eyes and bit back a smile, but my chest ached anyway.

This was the last night.

The last night before everything changed.

I heard his footsteps before I saw him. His sneakers slapping pavement, short breaths from running too hard. When I looked up, there he was. Jeon Jungkook, all sweat-damp hair and crooked grin, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder.

“Y/N!”

“You’re late,” I called out.

“I’m never late,” he panted, bending slightly as he reached me. “The world just hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

“You mean you stopped for bubble tea.”

He held out the cup proudly. “Mango with weird tapioca things. Just how you like it. Don’t say I don’t love you.”

God.

Love.

That word hit differently when you knew it might be the last time you’d hear it.

“I don’t need bubble tea to know that,” I murmured, fingers brushing his as I took it.

He smiled that soft, boyish smile- the one that had ruined me since I was thirteen.

“Come on. Let’s walk.”

═══════

We walked past all our usual places. The school where we shared our first kiss behind the gym building, the corner store that stayed open late just for us, the alley where he told me he wanted to be more than just another small-town kid.

The whole world felt like it was holding its breath.

“You packed everything?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at me. “Manager-hyung’s picking me up at 7 tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

“I still can’t believe it,” I whispered.

He glanced at me. “I know.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I am.”

My throat burned. “What if… what if we don’t make it?”

His steps faltered, just for a second. “What?”

“What if Seoul changes you?” I stopped walking. “What if you forget about me?”

He turned to face me, forehead creasing. “Y/N…”

I hated how my voice trembled. “It happens, Jungkook. People grow apart. You’re gonna be around beautiful idols and trainees and fans, and I’ll just be here.”

“You won’t be just anything,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re everything to me.”

I wanted so badly to believe that.

“But what if-”

“I won’t forget you,” he cut in. “I couldn’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’m promising it anyway.”

His arms wrapped around me. He always smelled like detergent and skin and something warm, something that felt like home. I buried my face in his chest, trying to freeze time. I didn’t want the night to end. I didn’t want this part of my life to end.

“I’m scared,” I admitted into his shirt.

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Because you’re mine. And no matter where I go, you’re still gonna be mine. Okay?”

I nodded, even though I didn’t really believe it.

“Come with me,” he said. “Someday. I’ll bring you out. You’ll see. We’ll be together again.”

I looked up at him. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

We didn’t go home after that.

Instead, he led me across town, through the short forest trail that led to the old abandoned greenhouse- the place we used to run to when we skipped class or fought with our parents or just wanted to disappear for a while. The glass was broken in places, the air smelled like earth, and the moonlight poured in through the jagged skylight above us.

He laid down the blanket. I took off my shoes. We said everything with our eyes before our mouths could catch up.

It happened slowly.

His hands on my skin like he was learning me all over again. My lips on his jaw, his throat, the space between his ribs where he always twitched when I kissed him. We undressed like we were unraveling something sacred. We moved like we had forever, even though we both knew better.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against my collarbone. “You don’t even know.”

I tried to memorize the weight of his words. The way he said my name, like it was his favorite song. I kissed him like he was the only boy I’d ever love.

Without breaking our embrace, I shifted, my hands moving to the waistband of his jeans. His breath hitched as I undid the button, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his lower abdomen.

The "Y/N," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and surrender. I looked up at him, my eyes sparkling with mischief, and he chuckled softly, his hands tangling in my hair.

"You’re going to be the death of me," he teased, but there was no real complaint in his tone.

I didn’t respond, instead sliding down his body, my lips trailing kisses along the way. His chest, his stomach, the trail of hair that led downward- I savored every inch of him, my touch deliberate and worshipful.

When I reached the hem of his boxers, I paused, looking up at him through my lashes. His eyes were dark with desire, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You look so good," I murmured, my fingers hooking into the elastic band.

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard. I pulled them down slowly, revealing his thick, hard length. My mouth watered at the sight, and I leaned in, my tongue flicking over the tip.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, his hands gripping the blanket tightly.

I smiled against his skin, my lips wrapping around him, my tongue swirling and teasing. He tasted like salt and desire, and I moaned softly, the sound vibrating against him. His hands moved to my hair, guiding me gently, his praise washing over me like a wave.

"You’re incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with need. "So fucking beautiful."

I hummed in response, my mouth moving slower, deeper, my hands cradling his balls. His hips twitched, and he let out a sharp breath, his body tensing.

"Baby, I- I don’t want to come yet," he managed, his voice strained. I pulled back slightly, my lips brushing against his sensitive skin.

With a gentle push, he flipped me onto my back, his eyes never leaving mine. His hands moved to my waist, sliding up to cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. I arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips.

"You’re so perfect," he murmured, his lips trailing down my neck, my collarbone, his kisses leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

His hands moved lower, his fingers traced the lace of my panties, his touch feather-light, before slipping beneath the fabric. I gasped as he found my core, already wet and throbbing with need.

"You’re so ready for me," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear.

His fingers dipped inside me, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing against my clit. I moaned, my hips bucking against his hand, my body already on the edge.

"Jungkook, please," I begged, my voice desperate.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving lower, kissing down my stomach, his beard scratching my skin in the most delightful way.

"Impatient, aren’t we?" he teased, his breath ghosting over my sensitive flesh.

Before I could respond, his mouth was on me, his tongue pressing into my cunt, his fingers still moving inside me. I cried out, my hands tangling in his hair, my body arching off the blanket. He ate me out with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his tongue firm and insistent, his mouth devouring me. My breath came in short gasps, my body tightening as pleasure coiled low in my belly.

"Jungkook, I’m close," I panted, my voice shaky.

"Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice muffled against my skin. "Let me feel you fall apart."

His words sent me over the edge. My body shook as my orgasm ripped through me, my cries echoing in the greenhouse. He drank me in, his mouth relentless, his fingers still moving, milking every last drop of pleasure from me. When I finally came down, I was trembling, my body boneless and sated.

He looked up at me, his eyes dark with love and desire, his lips swollen from his efforts.

"You’re so fucking beautiful when you come," he murmured, climbing up to hover over me.

His eyes held mine, his expression intense, as he positioned himself at my entrance.

"I love you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."

I reached up, cupping his face, my thumb brushing over his cheek. "I love you too," I replied, my voice soft but steady.

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he slid inside me, filling me completely. I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body welcoming him like a missing piece. He moved with a rhythm that was both tender and urgent, his hips rocking into mine, his breath coming in short gasps.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his forehead pressing against mine. "So fucking perfect."

I wrapped my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. His hands moved to my hips, guiding our movements, his thrusts becoming more insistent. The blanket rustled beneath us, the only sound in the greenhouse aside from our ragged breaths and soft moans.

"Jungkook," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I’m close again."

"Me too," he admitted, his voice strained. "But I want to last, want to feel you come apart again."

His words sent a fresh wave of desire through me. I tightened around him, my body clenching, and he groaned, his pace quickening.

"Fuck, baby, you’re going to make me lose it," he warned, his voice a rough whisper.

"Then lose it with me," I urged, my hands gripping his shoulders. "Together."

His thrusts became frantic, his body pouring into mine, his breath coming in sharp gasps. I met him with equal urgency, my hips rising to meet his, our bodies moving in perfect sync. The world narrowed to just the two of us, our hearts pounding, our breaths mingling, our bodies intertwined.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice breaking. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

His words were my undoing. My body shattered around him, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave, my cries filling the greenhouse. He followed soon after, his hips stuttering, his body tensing as he came, his seed spilling deep inside me.

"Baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his forehead pressing against mine. "I love you."

Afterwards, we just lay there, tangled together, breathing like we were still trying to catch up with what we’d done. I rested my hand over his heart and closed my eyes.

“I want this to last,” I whispered.

“It will.”

“You can’t promise that either.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But I’ll try.”

═══════

The sun came up too soon.

And the goodbye was worse than anything I imagined.

We stood at the train station platform, my fingers gripping his tightly like maybe I could anchor him here if I just held on hard enough.

His manager honked from the van. He glanced back, and I knew this was it.

“I’ll text you tonight,” he said. “And every night after that. Until you’re with me again.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too.”

The kiss was desperate. Rough. Shaky. Everything we didn’t say poured into it.

Then he was walking away.

And I was standing alone with warm tears streaking down my cheeks, mango bubble tea now melting in my hand, watching the boy I’d loved since middle school disappear into a dream that didn’t have room for me.

═══════

The first few days weren’t so bad.

He texted me every night, just like he promised.

Kookie: made it safe. dorm is small but nice. i miss you already. ❤️

Kookie: long practice today. i thought about you the whole time.❤️

Kookie: you’d laugh at how sore my legs are rn lol.

I’d fall asleep with my phone pressed to my chest, rereading his words until my eyes burned. I’d replay our last night together on a loop- his breath, his voice, his promises. I believed them. I really did.

But by the third week… something changed.

The texts started coming later. Sometimes not at all. I’d wake up to a half-hearted reply.

Kookie: sorry long day love you

No punctuation. No emojis. No “good night” kisses made of letters.

The first time I called him, it rang until voicemail. I remember pacing my bedroom, eyes fixed on the screen like maybe I could will it to light up with his face. Maybe I could make his voice come back through sheer force of want.

It didn’t.

I left a message.

Then another one.

And another.

By the fifth one, I just hung up without saying anything. My voice felt stupid anyway. Useless.

“I’m just tired,” he told me when I finally got a hold of him. “Training’s intense, no breaks, you know how it is.”

I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t. How could I?

“You still think about me?” I whispered.

“Of course,” he said, but his voice didn’t smile like it used to. “I just… I gotta focus right now. It’s only temporary, okay?”

Temporary.

That word haunted me.

═══════

Two months passed, and I could feel him slipping further and further away, like trying to hold onto water with my bare hands. Every time I reached, there was less of him.

And then…

He disappeared completely.

No texts. No calls. His name grayed out on my phone like a ghost I wasn’t allowed to summon anymore. I tried finding him on Instagram. Nothing. I tried calling again- straight to voicemail. I stared at my screen, at the message that wouldn’t deliver.

Blocked.

He blocked me.

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized it. I just remember dropping my phone onto the carpet and staring at it like it had betrayed me. Like he had reached out of it and slammed a door in my face.

It didn’t feel real.

I sat there on the floor for what felt like hours. My chest was tight, my throat raw from screaming into the silence of my room. My mom had died the year before, and my dad was never in the picture. I didn’t have anyone to run to, no one to sit me down and tell me it would be okay. No one to curse him out for me. I was just a girl. Alone. Heartbroken.

I wanted to hate him.

I tried to.

But I loved him more than I hated what he was doing to me.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t already chewed me up enough…

I noticed I missed my period.

Twice.

At first, I blamed the stress. The sleepless nights. The crying. The nothingness.

But deep down, I knew.

I bought the test alone. Shoved it into the bottom of my bag like it was a weapon I wasn’t ready to use. I waited until I was home, shaking hands and knees pressed to the bathroom tiles.

I cried the second the result showed.

Two pink lines.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Eighteen years old.

No family.

No boyfriend.

No plan.

I curled up on the bathroom floor, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and I sobbed until I felt sick. I kept whispering his name, like maybe he’d walk through the door and tell me it was a mistake, that he was still here, that we were still “we.”

I didn’t even know who he was anymore.

Still… I tried.

I called him one last time. I held the phone so tight my fingers went numb. It rang once. Twice. Then-

This number is unavailable.

I texted him again, even though I knew it was useless.

Y/N: please. I need to talk to you. this is important.

Not delivered.

I switched apps. Tried emailing. Messaging. Searching his schedule online. I was grasping at digital smoke.

I had no one left.

Even his parents never liked me. They were polite to my face, but always made it clear Jungkook had bigger things ahead. “You’re young,” his mom had once told me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t hold him back.”

I never wanted to.

I just wanted to stand beside him while he flew.

Instead, I was falling, alone.

I packed what little I had. Took a bus to the airport. I didn’t even leave a note behind. There was nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto. Nobody to even tell. Just me… and this tiny, silent thing growing inside of me.

My baby.

Our baby.

I didn’t know their name yet. I didn’t know anything. But I made a promise that night, curled up on a stained mattress in a cheap airport hotel far from everything I’d ever known:

I would protect them.

I would never let them feel like I did.

Unwanted.

Forgotten.

Blocked.

═══════

I arrived in the new city with a duffel bag, two hundred and twelve dollars, and a baby growing inside of me, 6,000 miles away from home.

No plan. No apartment. No friends.

I stepped off the bus into the kind of summer heat that clung to your skin and made your clothes stick to you like regret. My phone was nearly dead, the screen cracked at the corner from how hard I’d thrown it across a motel wall two nights ago. I didn’t care. No one was calling anyway.

I sat on a bench at the edge of the terminal, one hand pressed over my stomach like I could already feel them there.

My baby.

They didn’t have a name yet, or a nursery, or a crib. They didn’t even have a dad anymore. All they had was me- and that was the scariest part of all. I didn’t feel like enough.

The first shelter I tried was full.

The second told me I needed a referral.

The third let me in. I shared a room with four other women, one of whom cried in her sleep and muttered something about her ex hurting her. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t tell them anything about me either. It was safer that way.

At night, I curled up on the bottom bunk and held my belly, whispering things I wasn’t sure they could hear yet.

“It’s just us, okay? I’ll figure it out. I swear.”

I found a job cleaning tables at a twenty-four-hour diner two blocks from the shelter. The manager was a woman in her forties with no patience for excuses, but she handed me a uniform and didn’t ask about my belly.

“You’re not showing yet,” she said, like that was a blessing.

I kept my head down. Worked the night shift. Saved every penny.

Eventually, I found a room to rent. It was in a basement Concrete floors, mold in the corners, no real windows. The shower only had cold water and the radiator made a noise like it was coughing up ghosts.

But it was mine.

I taped a picture of the city skyline to the wall and called it home.

I went to free clinics. I got checkups. I downloaded baby apps that told me how big she was each week. “This week, your baby is the size of a lemon.” I started drinking more water. I learned how to cook cheap meals with frozen vegetables and rice. I worked two jobs. I stopped checking social media. Stopped googling his name. Stopped looking for his face in crowds.

I stopped crying. Mostly.

There were still nights I’d wake up gasping, hand pressed to the place where he used to be. Still dreams where I heard his voice calling my name, the way he used to when he was late and running through the park.

But I didn’t answer those dreams anymore.

I just turned over and held my stomach tighter.

Months passed like smoke. Time blurred. The city didn’t care who I was. And maybe that was good. I could be anyone here. I could rewrite my life.

By the time I was seven months pregnant, I found a tiny apartment above a corner bakery. The floor creaked with every step. The walls were too thin. But the landlady was kind and let me paint the spare room a soft pastel yellow.

“This for a little one?” she asked one day.

I hesitated, then nodded.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she said.

No one had ever said that to me before.

I cried after she left.

═══════

Eun Ae.

That was the name that came to me one morning, soft and sudden like sunlight through a dusty window. It means grace with love.

She would be both.

The last month of pregnancy was the hardest. I didn’t have anyone to hold my hand. No baby shower. No prenatal classes. Just me, standing in line at a dollar store, buying diapers and bottles and a secondhand crib I found online.

I gave birth alone.

The nurse held my hand. She told me I was strong. That I was doing great. That my daughter was beautiful.

And she was.

God, she was.

Tiny, red-faced, wailing like she’d been waiting her whole life to meet me. When they laid her on my chest, I couldn’t stop crying. I whispered her name over and over, like maybe that would make it real.

“Eun Ae,” I said. “My Eun Ae.”

She looked nothing like me.

She had his eyes. His mouth. His hair.

She looked like every part of me that still wanted to believe in love and every part of me that remembered how much it hurt.

I pressed a kiss to her forehead and made another promise.

“You’ll never have to beg anyone to stay.”

═══════

The first night home with Eun Ae, I didn’t sleep at all.

She screamed the way newborns do- without rhythm, without reason, as if her tiny lungs couldn’t believe they were real. I sat in the corner of the room on a second-hand rocking chair, blinking through exhaustion and cradling her in my arms. My entire body ached. My stitches throbbed. My back felt broken.

But I rocked her anyway.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over, whispering songs I only half-remembered from childhood. She didn’t care. She just needed a heartbeat.

I gave her mine.

The first few weeks were chaos.

Feeding every two hours. Diapers like clockwork. Sleepless nights. Leaking milk. Guilt every time I thought I wasn’t doing enough. Or worse- when I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

But then she’d curl her hand around my finger.

Or smile in her sleep.

And I’d remember that none of this was her fault.

I called her “my tiny storm.” Because that’s what she was: chaotic and wild, but somehow still beautiful.

═══════

I returned to work when she was six weeks old. The bakery downstairs hired me as a morning assistant. I wore Eun Ae in a wrap across my chest while I sliced bagels and filled coffee orders. No one complained. Most people tipped me extra.

“She must look just like her daddy,” one customer said one morning.

I froze.

Smiled too hard.

Changed the subject.

The truth was, I never said his name out loud anymore.

Not even to Eun Ae.

He had vanished so thoroughly that even the word “Jungkook” felt like a spell I couldn’t afford to speak.

But he was there- in her face, her laugh, her temper. She had his eyes. Big and dark and full of questions she couldn’t ask yet. She furrowed her brow like him. Pouted like him. And when she cried, she had this broken, breathy hiccup at the end, just like the way his voice cracked when he used to tell me goodbye.

She was her father’s daughter.

Even if he’d never meet her.

═══════

By the time she turned one, we’d found a rhythm.

I was back in school part-time. Community college courses at night while she slept in a donated crib beside my desk. I studied until my eyes burned, filling notebooks with marketing notes, dreaming of someday doing more than just surviving.

I wanted to build something for her.

She deserved that.

Every birthday, I bought a cupcake and lit one candle, even when she couldn’t understand it. I sang softly and held her hand and whispered promises into the night.

I kept a photo of him in my drawer.

The last one we ever took together. He was in his hoodie, arms around me, and I looked so… happy. I barely recognized myself.

I never showed it to her.

But I couldn’t throw it away either.

Sometimes I wondered if he knew.

If he felt it.

If, somewhere on some stage with flashing lights and screaming fans, his chest ever ached the way mine did.

I didn’t hate him anymore.

I just couldn’t afford to miss him.

Six years passed.

Eun Ae was smart. So smart. She talked early, walked early, and made up songs about things like cereal and socks and the moon. She loved animals, especially tigers. She called me “Mama” with this bright, sing-song voice that made strangers smile in grocery store aisles.

And still, no one knew about him.

I kept her away from the internet. I didn’t play their music. I never watched interviews or read the headlines.

It was better that way.

Cleaner.

═══════

Until one day, while organizing an event at the university concert hall where I worked as the assistant event coordinator, my supervisor slid a folder across the desk.

“Biggest show we’ve ever booked,” she said. “This one’s yours to coordinate.”

I opened the file.

And my entire body went still.

BTS. Three nights. Sold out.

I stared at the name in big, bold letters.

And below it, the list of members.

Jeon Jungkook.

The air rushed out of my lungs.

My supervisor didn’t notice. She was already rattling off logistics and budget numbers.

“Great exposure for us,” she said. “They’ll be here for four days total- day one for setup and press, then two shows. You’ll be their point of contact. Got it?”

I nodded, because what else could I do?

“Yes,” I said.

But inside, I was unraveling.

Seven years.

It had been seven years since he looked at me and said I was his forever.

Now he was coming back.

And he had no idea that his forever was already here.

Alive.

Walking.

Talking.

Waiting.

═══════

The day they arrived, I wore my best poker face.

I dressed in all black clean, simple, professional. My badge clipped to my belt. Hair up. Lips-red, pressed into a neutral line. I stood at the edge of the venue loading dock with my clipboard, reading the itinerary like it could anchor me.

It didn’t.

My heart was a riot in my chest.

I kept telling myself I could do this. That seven years was long enough to kill any feelings I once had. That I was over it. Over him.

But then the black vans pulled in, and I felt every nerve ending ignite.

I kept my eyes fixed on the roster list in my hand as the van doors slid open.

BTS spilled out like lightning in motion- laughing, stretching, waving at the crew. They looked like the versions of themselves I had seen in posters and screens from far away but never allowed myself to truly absorb.

Namjoon stepped out first, tall and calm. Then Jimin, soft smile already charming the camera crew nearby. Taehyung followed with a bored yawn and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

And then-

Jungkook.

He jumped down from the last van like it was nothing. Hoodie pulled over his head. Headphones around his neck. Black jeans, chunky boots, silver rings on his fingers. He looked older now. Sharper. His hair was longer, his jaw more defined, his tattoos visible beneath his sleeves.

But it was still him.

Still the boy who once whispered that I was his forever.

Still the boy who disappeared.

His eyes scanned the lot casually- and then locked on mine.

Time stopped.

His whole body froze.

For a moment, the chaos around us blurred. Managers shouting, equipment wheeling past, cables being dragged across the ground. I couldn’t hear anything. Just the thump of my heart. The blood in my ears.

And those damn eyes.

He took a hesitant step forward.

“Y/N…?”

His voice hit me like a sucker punch to the stomach.

I turned away before he could say anything else.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” one of the coordinators called. “Can you walk the manager through the setup list?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice too steady. “Right away.”

I didn’t look at him again.

I didn’t acknowledge the way the air had shifted around me. I didn’t let my expression crack, even as I felt his gaze burning into the back of my head like a secret trying to claw its way out.

I shook hands with BTS’s manager. Bowed politely to each member.

Taehyung smiled at me. “You’re the event coordinator?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m managing your team’s tech logistics while you’re here.”

“Cool,” he said. “You look familiar.”

I forced a smile. “I get that sometimes.”

Jungkook hadn’t moved.

He just stared.

I could feel him behind me- silent, motionless, stunned.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” the manager said again, “can we review the dressing room assignments?”

“Of course,” I replied. “Right this way.”

As I walked toward the venue entrance, clipboard in hand, I could hear Jungkook’s footsteps start and stop behind me like he didn’t know what to do. Like the weight of the past was catching up to him too fast to carry.

I didn’t let him catch up.

I stayed with the manager. I kept my tone clipped. Professional. Distant.

He didn’t deserve anything else.

═══════

That night, I put Eun Ae to bed and sat on the couch in silence.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I stared at the TV without watching it. The screen glowed, casting soft shadows across the living room. I could still hear his voice. That tentative, stunned way he said my name.

Y/N.

I hadn’t heard him say it in seven years.

I hadn’t wanted to hear it ever again.

And yet…

I had.

I brought my knees up to my chest and rested my chin there. The silence of the apartment buzzed in my ears. My phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark.

He hadn’t reached out.

Not that I expected him to.

But he had seen me.

Really seen me.

And tomorrow, we’d be back in the same building again- for rehearsals, for the show, for more pretending.

I looked down the hall where my daughter slept soundly in her room. Her small night light flickered against the soft yellow walls. She didn’t know.

She didn’t know that her father had stood not twenty feet from her today.

She didn’t know that the boy who left me all those years ago… was back.

And I didn’t know what I was going to do about it.

═══════

I didn’t believe it was her at first.

It was like seeing a ghost- only sharper. More real. Like memory had morphed into skin and bones right in front of me. She wasn’t a thought anymore. She was standing there, alive, breathing, clipboard in hand.

Y/N.

After all these years. After everything.

My heart stopped when our eyes met.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t even flinch.

She looked right through me.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The rest of the world faded into static as she turned away and walked past me like I was no one.

I didn’t know what to do.

So I did nothing.

I stayed quiet through sound check. Missed two cues. Forgot lyrics I’ve known for years. My hands shook on the mic. Jimin kept shooting me glances. Namjoon gave me a look like, we’ll talk later.

I couldn’t focus.

Because there she was- just feet away, giving stage directions to the crew, typing something on her phone, hair tied up, face calm.

She was even more beautiful now.

Older. Stronger. Softer in the eyes but sharper in the jaw. The kind of beautiful that made you regret ever looking away.

After rehearsal, we went back to the hotel.

Dinner was quiet until Taehyung broke it.

“So…” he said, glancing at me. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer.

Jimin raised a brow. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“Like, weirder than usual,” Hoseok added.

Jin leaned in. “What happened at the venue?”

Namjoon sat back. “That woman- the coordinator. You knew her, didn’t you?”

I stared down at my plate. My appetite was gone.

“Her name’s Y/N,” I said softly.

Yoongi’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

“No fucking way,” he said.

They all froze.

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “That Y/N?”

“From Busan?” Jin added.

“The one from… before you left?” Taehyung asked carefully.

I nodded.

“Holy shit,” Hoseok breathed. “She’s here? She’s working the tour?”

“I didn’t know,” I said quickly. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“She looked… fine,” Namjoon said slowly. “Like, completely put together.”

“She’s not fine,” I murmured. “I can tell.”

Yoongi crossed his arms. “Well, what did you expect? You ghosted her, man.”

“I didn’t-”

“You blocked her,” he cut in. “You changed your number. You dropped off the face of the Earth to her.”

“I panicked!” I snapped. “I didn’t know what I was doing. Everything was moving too fast, the training, the company, the rules. They didn’t want me in a relationship, especially not one that serious. I didn’t know how to tell her. So I didn’t.”

“You emotionally cheated on her dude,” Taehyung said, not unkindly. “And then what? You blocked her?”

“I thought…” I exhaled. “I thought she’d be better off.”

“No one’s better off being abandoned,” Jimin said flatly.

I gritted my teeth. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” Jin said.

I didn’t say anything.

There was nothing left to say.

Silence stretched across the table.

Then Namjoon asked quietly, “Do you still love her?”

The words caught me by surprise.

But the answer came easy.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Yes, I still loved her.

Even now.

Even after all this time.

Even after everything.

“She looked right through me,” I said, more to myself than to them. “Like I didn’t exist.”

“Maybe to her,” Yoongi said, “you don’t.”

Those words hit harder than I expected.

I left the table first.

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like hours.

I scrolled through old photos. Scrolled through pain. Tried to find her number in my blocked contacts. Unblocked it.

I stared at her name like it would bring her back.

Jungkook: Y/N. Can we talk? Please.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

Not delivered.

I tried again.

Same result.

Her number was gone.

Or changed.

Or… both.

I dropped my phone onto the nightstand and buried my face in my hands.

Seven years.

And I still loved her like I was eighteen and scared and stupid.

Now?

Now I was twenty-five.

Still scared.

Still stupid.

But I wasn’t running this time.

Tomorrow, I’d find her.

Tomorrow, I’d try again.

Because I had to.

Because maybe I couldn’t fix the past…

But I could fight for the future.

═══════

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of little feet sprinting down the hallway.

“Mamaaaaa!”

Before I could sit up, Eun Ae launched herself onto the bed like a missile. Her tiny body landed across my stomach with an “oomph,” and she laughed like she was the funniest person alive.

“You’re heavy,” I groaned.

“I’m growing,” she declared proudly, scooting up until her nose was pressed against mine. “You said if I eat all my strawberries I’ll grow big. I ate three yesterday.”

“Three strawberries, huh?” I mumbled, still half-asleep. “Better call the Olympics.”

She giggled again and flopped next to me, tangling her legs in the sheets.

I stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath.

It was a new day.

The day after seeing him.

And somehow, the world hadn’t ended.

I glanced at the clock. 6:43 a.m.

Too early. Always too early.

But I was used to it. Motherhood didn’t care about sleep.

“What’s today?” Eun Ae asked, her voice soft now. “Is it a school day?”

“Nope,” I said. “School’s closed for the teacher training day, remember?”

Her eyes lit up. “So I get to go to work with you?”

I hesitated.

Technically, no. Technically, she wasn’t allowed backstage. Technically, I was supposed to find childcare.

But my sitter canceled last minute. And I didn’t have family to call. No backup plan.

And this morning wasn’t just a setup day for any show.

It was BTS’s first rehearsal.

Jungkook’s first rehearsal.

My stomach turned.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “You’re coming with me.”

“Yay! Can I wear the sparkly pants?”

“Maybe not sparkly, baby. Let’s go for comfy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Boring.”

“Functional.”

“Boring,” she repeated dramatically.

We argued for five more minutes before I managed to get her into soft leggings and a hoodie. I packed her a lunch- pb&j, apple slices, string cheese, a juice box- and stuffed her favorite drawing notebook and markers into her backpack.

═══════

By the time we got to the venue, I had mentally rehearsed every scenario in which she might accidentally wander into rehearsal. And every possible excuse I could use to explain why she looked so much like one of the men on stage.

I didn’t let my brain go there.

Instead, I signed us in, clipped her a visitor badge, and made a little “kid corner” backstage with a blanket and her supplies.

“You stay right here,” I told her, crouching in front of her. “No running. No exploring. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, but her smile was mischievous. “What if a famous person talks to me?”

“Then you smile and say hi. And you don’t tell them your life story, got it?”

She crossed her arms. “You never let me do anything fun.”

“You drew on the toaster last week.”

“I was decorating it!”

“Stay. Here. Please.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

I kissed her forehead and stood up just as the crew radio crackled to life.

“Band arriving in 10. Sound check team on deck.”

My chest squeezed.

It was happening again.

I checked the stage layout, ran over the day’s order, made sure tech had their mics and cue sheets ready. I moved like a machine.

Anything to avoid thinking.

But then I saw him.

Out of the corner of my eye.

He entered with the group, dressed in joggers and a white tee, hair tied back, a calm focus on his face. He looked… unshakable. Like he belonged here. Like he didn’t have seven years of silence hanging between us like an invisible wall.

Jimin saw me first and waved politely. Taehyung gave a half-bow. Namjoon offered a quick nod.

Jungkook… slowed.

But he didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

I stayed behind the crew as the members took the stage and warmed up.

I didn’t see Eun Ae sneak away until it was too late.

“Mama, look- !”

She ran directly onto the stage, arms wide, like it was the playground.

My heart dropped out of my chest.

“Eun Ae!”

Every member of BTS stopped.

Music cut. Mics echoed. Heads turned.

She stood center-stage, grinning, completely oblivious to the silence she’d caused.

Jungkook turned.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And everything inside him changed.

I saw it happen in real-time.

His eyes went wide. His body locked up. His mouth parted, and then shut again. He stared like she was a ghost. A hallucination. Like his brain was trying to catch up with something his heart already knew.

Eun Ae spun in a circle and shouted, “Hi! I’m Eun Ae! This place is so BIG!”

Namjoon chuckled awkwardly. “Hello, Eun Ae.”

One of the techs looked at me like do you want us to stop her?

But I was frozen.

Because Jungkook hadn’t moved.

He just stared.

And I knew, without him saying a single word-

He recognized her.

He knew.

═══════

I managed to get her off the stage before the silence crushed us all.

Eun Ae didn’t understand, of course. She just laughed when I scooped her up into my arms and whispered too sharply into her ear.

“You can’t run out there like that, baby.”

“But I wanted to see!”

“You can’t.”

Her little face folded into confusion. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I whispered, my voice catching. “No, sweet girl. You’re fine. It’s me. I just- I wasn’t ready.”

I carried her backstage as quickly as I could, ignoring the weight of all their eyes.

Especially his.

I dropped her back onto her blanket, handed her a snack, and told one of the interns to keep an eye on her while I stepped outside for “fresh air.”

It was a lie.

I just needed to breathe.

The service hallway was dim and cold and smelled like industrial cleaner. My footsteps echoed along the concrete as I pressed a hand to my chest and leaned against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.

I couldn’t cry.

Not here.

Not when he might-

“Y/N.”

His voice hit me like a gust of wind, and I flinched.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

Jungkook stood at the other end of the corridor like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer. His hands were at his sides, fingers twitching. His brows were drawn, his mouth parted, but no words came out fast enough.

“You’re really here,” he said finally, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

I didn’t move.

He stepped closer.

I took a step back.

He stopped.

“Don’t,” I said. “Not here. I’m working.”

“I-” He swallowed. “I didn’t know you were in this city. I didn’t know you worked here. I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, Jungkook,” I snapped, my voice too loud, too raw. “You don’t know anything.”

He winced like I’d slapped him.

“I deserve that,” he whispered.

“You deserve a hell of a lot more than that.”

Silence swelled between us.

He looked like he wanted to run and stay and scream and cry all at once. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted back toward the door like he half-expected someone to interrupt this moment- or save him from it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I laughed.

It was sharp and bitter and ugly. “You blocked me.”

“I know.”

“I tried to call you. I begged you to talk to me.”

“I know.”

“You disappeared. You walked away like I didn’t matter.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend himself.

He just stood there, mouth trembling, eyes wet.

“I was scared,” he said finally. “I didn’t know how to handle any of it. I was young and selfish and… stupid.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

I stared at him for a long moment.

There was a time when I would’ve given anything just to hear his voice again. Now I just wanted him gone. I didn’t want to unravel here, in this hallway, in this job I fought to earn, while my daughter waited in the next room with her coloring book and juice box.

“I can’t do this right now,” I said, my voice low.

“Y/N-”

“I’m at work.”

He took a shaky breath. “Can we talk later? Please. Just… later. Whenever you’re ready.”

I didn’t say yes.

I didn’t say no.

I just stared.

And then I turned and walked away.

Because I knew if I stayed, if I looked at him one second longer, I’d break in a way I couldn’t afford to.

Not here.

Not now.

Not with her so close.

═══════

I didn’t sleep that night.

I laid there with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the air conditioner hummed like static in the corner. I could still feel his voice on my skin. Still see his face when he realized.

When he knew.

I hated that he looked heartbroken.

Like he had the right.

He didn’t get to be the victim in this story.

Morning came fast.

I got Eun Ae dressed in her favorite hoodie, tied her hair back with a rainbow scrunchie, packed her snacks, and kissed her forehead before handing her off to my night sitter. She clung to me a little longer than usual, her tiny hands fisting the fabric of my sleeve.

“Are you okay, Mama?”

“Of course,” I lied with a smile. “I’m just tired.”

She looked like she didn’t believe me, but she nodded anyway.

═══════

At the venue, I kept my head down and my steps quick. I met with the stage managers. Double-checked the lighting schedule. Confirmed the camera angles. BTS was set to perform the first of three sold-out shows tonight, and it had to be flawless.

I didn’t have time for ghosts.

But of course, he found me again.

After the final stage tech test, I was checking headset frequencies backstage when he walked in from the far corridor. Alone this time. Hoodie up. Head down.

I saw him before he saw me.

I slipped behind a crew cart and took the long way around the scaffolding, heart pounding in my chest like I was seventeen again.

I wasn’t ready.

Not for another talk.

Not for his eyes.

Not for the way my body still reacted to his with heat and tension and this deep ache of things never healed.

The first fans started trickling in. The venue buzzed with electricity. Excitement in the air like a current. BTS prepped for the show. Hair and makeup. Wardrobe. Rehearsal cues.

And I stayed invisible.

Until I couldn’t.

Just before the house lights dimmed, I ran into Jimin.

He was alone, drinking water near the monitor station. When he spotted me, he gave a small, tentative smile.

“Hey,” he said.

I nodded politely. “Hi.”

He looked like he wanted to say more.

“He’s a mess,” he said instead.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Jungkook,” he clarified. “He hasn’t slept. Barely talked. He’s… not okay.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.

Was I supposed to care?

Jimin’s eyes softened. “He knows he fucked up. He’s never forgiven himself.”

“That makes two of us,” I said quietly.

He hesitated. “He didn’t even stay with that girl. The one he- after you. It didn’t even last a month. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about what he lost.”

I closed my eyes. “It doesn’t change what he did.”

“I know,” Jimin said gently. “But maybe it explains it.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the lights cut out before I could.

Cue time.

Showtime.

BTS took the stage and the world screamed.

The entire arena lit up like a galaxy.

And for two hours, I focused only on the logistics. The transitions. The audience flow. The safety of the crew. I spoke into the headset, gave instructions, moved like a storm on autopilot.

But I still saw him.

On stage.

Sweating, shining, dancing, singing.

He looked like he belonged up there.

Like he was born for this.

Like everything he left me for had bloomed exactly the way he dreamed.

But then his eyes found me in the wings.

And they broke.

I looked away.

After the encore, while the cheers still echoed, he stepped off stage and tried to approach.

I turned and walked in the other direction.

═══════

I didn’t plan to say yes.

When I walked into the venue the next morning, I had every intention of ignoring him again. Of slipping past with my badge and my fake smile and my shoulders squared like I couldn’t still feel him watching me.

But then he was there.

Waiting by the staff entrance with a hood over his head and both hands deep in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t say anything. Just looked up when I passed.

And softly, like it wasn’t a plea:

“Please. Just one hour.”

I kept walking.

But by the time I reached the control booth, I’d already decided.

An hour.

That’s all he was getting.

I didn’t owe him more.

I texted my sitter and arranged a little extra time that morning. I found a café across the street from the venue. Quiet. Tucked between a record shop and a florist. The kind of place no one would think to look.

He was already there when I arrived.

Sitting in the corner booth, black hoodie pulled low, fingers tapping the edge of a coffee cup like he was trying not to shake.

I didn’t say hi.

Just sat down across from him and folded my arms.

We didn’t speak for a long time.

Finally, he looked up.

“Thanks for coming.”

I stared. “Start talking.”

He flinched like the words hit.

“I messed up,” he said. “That’s the bottom line. I fucking ruined everything.”

“You did.”

“I was scared,” he went on. “The company told me I couldn’t be in a relationship. I didn’t know how to balance you and the dream I was chasing and- ”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t make this about your dream.”

He swallowed hard. “I thought maybe if I let you go, you’d move on and be happy. I didn’t want to drag you into it- into this world, the chaos, the distance.”

“So instead you dragged me through abandonment.”

His throat worked. “I know.”

“And then you blocked me.”

“I know.”

“While I was trying to tell you I was pregnant.”

That landed like a punch.

He blinked. “What?”

“I called you. I texted. I tried everything. You’d already cut me out of your life. So I moved.”

“You… you were pregnant?”

“I am a mother.”

He looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“I have a daughter,” I said. “She’s six. She’s bright and smart and stubborn and beautiful. She likes animals and cereal and drawing on walls. She’s yours.”

He gripped the edge of the table like he needed something to keep from falling apart.

“She…” His voice broke. “She’s mine?”

“Biologically, yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I tried. You made it impossible.”

His eyes filled with tears he tried to blink back.

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”

I looked away. My throat burned. My chest was tight with everything I’d kept locked away for so long.

“I haven’t been with anyone,” I added. “Not once. I haven’t had time to fall in love. Or heal. I’ve been in school, working, raising her, paying bills. Alone. While you…” I gestured toward him. “Got to live the life you wanted.”

He closed his eyes. A tear slipped free.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said.

I didn’t respond.

“I think about you every single day.”

Still, I said nothing.

“I dream about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

He looked up again, broken open. “I want to be in her life. I want to meet her. Be her dad.”

I paused.

“You don’t get to come in just because it’s convenient now,” I said. “You shattered me. You left a crater behind that I’m still crawling out of. And I won’t let you break her the way you broke me.”

That made him flinch harder than anything I’d said yet.

“I understand,” he said softly. “But please… just one chance. Let me meet her. Just once.”

I sighed.

The silence stretched again, taut and heavy.

“She has a playdate this afternoon,” I said. “But tomorrow morning? I’m free.”

His eyes lit up.

“I’ll bring her to the zoo,” I said. “You can meet her. As a family friend.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I stood up, ignoring the tremble in his voice.

“I’m not doing this for you, Jungkook. I’m doing it for her.”

Then I walked out before he could say anything else.

═══════

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These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 06/15/2025

#jkwrites m #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook ff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #bts #bts ff #bts ffs #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook idol au #daddy kookie m

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