#this season was a mixed bag for me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 3 months ago

Text

all's fair in love and viscera...

pair: logan howlett x mutant!fem!reader wc: 6.7k contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, violence, blood, gore (more so thoughts of gore) nat probably blatantly ignoring canon, fighting as foreplay, bleeding as foreplay, written with X2 logan in mind, p in v, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), finger sucking hehehe, light choking, hair pulling, blood play, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, scent kink, pain kink, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n. author’s note: i have a rotting note that says "logan spar fic turned face sitting" so that's what this is but it kinda got a little weird lol i also just wanted an excuse to write more about the mutant ability that's been bopping around in my brain since watching season four of the boys. kisses!

logan wants to spar...

You can smell him before he even opens the door to the training room.

It’s funny, because almost all blood smells the exact same. It melds into one coppery, metallic tang that stings your nose everywhere you go.

Mutant blood is only slightly different, something sharper with a tartness that lingers in the air longer, that tingles along the edge of your senses and burns the back of your throat.

Logan's blood is something entirely different.

The first time you met him it almost brought you to your knees. It was so overwhelming, the smell swarming you so intoxicating and all encompassing that it made you feel dizzy.

Logan’s blood is a wild mix of earthy musk and something like charred wood. His scent carries an electric charge, like the smell of air right before a thunderstorm, like ozone after a lightning strike.

It's like nothing you've ever encountered before—hot and acidic, with a barely there underlying sweetness that never fails to turn your insides to liquid. It seems to defy normalcy, bending the rules of what you know about blood and biology.

You know in the back of your mind that it's the adamantium. It's been fused to his skeleton for so long, it must be something chemical. A reaction happening in his body that makes it so distinctly different.

Part of you likes to think that it's just Logan, that the scent is a reflection of everything he is. The raw, untamed essence of his nature, something primal that’s deeply ingrained in his being.

The door creaks open behind you, you make it a point to keep your focus on the punching bag. You've been here for hours, your arms only finally starting to burn with exertion. The bag feels solid and grounding under your taped knuckles, swinging lightly with every hit.

Logan's heavy footsteps get closer and closer, echoing through the empty room until he's striding past you to lean against the wall next to the bag's rig.

You don't look at him, but you can feel his gaze—an intense, almost palpable thing.

“Figured you’d be down here,” Logan's voice is the familiar rough and gravelly rumble you've become used to, cutting through the silence between the two of you with a barely there teasing edge. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Logan has an even better sense of smell than you do, and he can sniff out a lot more than blood. You're sure he knew you were here this whole time, that he could smell you from his room two stories up.

You give a small, noncommittal grunt, ignoring him as you throw another punch. Sweat is dotted across your hairline, it drips down the small of your back and the column of your throat. It's not that you don't like Logan, that you don’t want him here, you have the complete opposite of that problem.

You like Logan too much, more than you should.

Every time he’s near, you’re intensely aware of how much his presence affects you, of the way all the blood in your body starts to sizzle under your skin with a throbbing need that's getting harder and harder to ignore. It’s like a constant, low-grade fever that only flares up when he gets too close.

“Come on, kid. You can’t ignore me all night,” he says, thick arms crossing over his chest. "Don't make me beg."

You let out a breath, more exasperated than anything else, and finally turn to face him. Logan’s standing there, all broad shoulders and rugged confidence in his white tank and gray sweats, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

That smirk—it's almost as dangerous as the claws hidden just underneath his skin.

“Didn’t know you were the begging type.” Your attempt to sound casual is overpowered by the slight breathy edge of your voice. You blame it on the workout.

Logan's smirk widens just a fraction, and you can tell he's caught the hitch in your voice. His eyes, sharp and knowing, narrow in on you with that familiar mix of amusement and something you can't quite place, something that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Only when I really want something," he replies easily.

Your form falters, just barely, but it’s enough for Logan to notice. You can hear the amused huff he lets out.

You throw another punch at the bag, more to steady yourself than anything else. The impact reverberates through your knuckles, but it doesn't do much to dispel the heat pooling low in your stomach.

"Back to ignoring me?" he asks, needling. You can see the raise of his brow in your peripheral vision.

“Trying to,” you mutter under your breath, though it's more to yourself than to him. You keep your gaze locked firmly on the bag, willing your pulse to steady.

"What's that?" he leans in closer, his scent wafting over to you as he does. Somehow stronger than before, an assault on your senses. You barely conceal a shiver.

"It’s not my fault you’re here when I'm at my least chatty," you retort blandly, a little louder, willing your voice to sound as steady as it can.

"Looks to me like you’re always at your least chatty,” he shoots back, not showing any signs of backing down.

"It's late,” you reply tersely.

"Yeah," he says. "It is late."

The words hang in the air, laced with a double meaning that neither of you acknowledges.

"Too late to be up hounding the bags like they owe you money," he adds, the tone of his voice almost gentle in a way that catches you off guard. Nothing like the Logan you're used to.

“Yeah, well,” you grunt, throwing a particularly sharp jab. “Some of us don’t need all the beauty sleep."

Logan lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, you can feel the vibration of it in your bones. "Funny," he muses to himself, voice going quiet like he's turning your words over in his mind. "I can see why Charles keeps you around."

You huff, sweaty brows knitting together in frustration. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

“Babysit?” He smirks, clearly amused. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Your resolve finally cracks, your fists sore when you drop them to your sides and turn to Logan with a questioning look on your face.

"What do you want, Logan?”

It sounds harsher than you meant it, rough and exasperated as you start to catch your breath for the first time since he walked in.

Logan doesn't respond, just pushes off the wall to step closer. His scent hits you like a truck now that your focus is solely on him, you can feel your blood start to thrum under your veins. The sweat dripping down your back feels like it’s igniting the tension in your body, and Logan’s only making it worse the closer he gets.

He stops a little less than a foot away from you. It’s too close, he evades your space until all you can see is him. The width of his shoulders, the strong muscle of his chest and torso filling your view.

Logan doesn't say anything for a few beats, just stares down at you with a studying look on his face. It's a struggle to keep still under the intensity of his gaze. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the rhythmic thud loud in your ears as the silence stretches between you.

He tilts his head to the side slightly, eyes narrowing as he trails them over your sweaty face. You're seconds away from saying something, from turning and running with your tail between your legs, when he beats you to it.

He lets out an amused scoff, shaking his head as he walks past you to the large blue training mat in the middle of the room.

"C'mon," he calls over his shoulder, "Try hitting something that hits back, might help clear your head."

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift, but Logan’s already made his way to the center of the mat, turning to face you with a challenging glint in his eye.

You shake your head slowly, not moving from your place across the room. "I don't want to fight you."

Logan chuckles wryly, “Could’ve fooled me, sweetheart.”

The nickname sends a jolt through you, your pulse skipping in response. It’s always the way he says it—rough around the edges but with a softness that’s almost affectionate. You clench your fists tight, as if the simple act of it will keep your thoughts in check.

"Think you can keep up?" he teases, rolling his shoulders in that casual, self-assured way of his. But there's something in his tone, a challenge that makes you want to prove yourself.

You cast your eyes to the ceiling, exasperated, a bemused laugh bubbling from your chest as you do. "You know I can," you reply, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. "This isn't about that."

You should just say no. You should say no and go back up to your room so you can go to bed and forget all about this in the morning. You can barely stand to be in the same room with Logan for more than thirty minutes at a time, training with him is too much of a risk.

"What's it about then? You scared?" Logan's voice snaps you out of your thoughts, a playful smirk curling his lips. He raises an eyebrow, daring you to join him.

That does it. A spark of defiance flares in your chest, overriding the nervous tension that’s been building since he walked in. You’re not one to back down from a fight, especially when Logan's practically begging for one.

Without thinking, you stride over to the mat.

Logan watches you approach, his stance relaxed but ready, like a predator sizing up its prey. You try your best to ignore the smug look on his face as you kick off your shoes and join him.

"Not scared," you shrug, running your fingers over the tape on your knuckles. "I just don't need you getting all pissy when I win." You roll your shoulders, shake out your arms, and square up, focusing on the way Logan’s eyes are locked on yours.

Logan's grin widens, a flash of sharp teeth that makes your pulse quicken. "We'll see about that."

You drop into a ready stance, the tension in your muscles coiled tight like a spring. For a moment, neither of you moves, just sizing each other up. The silence between you stretches taut like a bowstring. Your eyes lock onto Logan's, each of you reading the other, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The air between you feels like it's vibrating, charged with a mix of tension, anticipation, and something else—something unspoken, simmering just beneath the surface.

Then, in a blur of motion, Logan makes the first move, just like you expected him to. He lunges, fast and strong, but you're ready for him, sidestepping the blow and bringing your forearm up to deflect his fist away from your body.

"Slow start, old man?" you quip, a sly smile tugging at your lips as you regain your footing. "Speed isn't what it used to be?"

Logan chuckles, a low and throaty sound. "Just warming up, sweetheart. Don't want you crying unfair when I take you down too quick."

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically before launching your own attack. You swing a swift roundhouse kick aimed at his midsection. He anticipates the move, catching your ankle with one hand while his other reaches out to grab your wrist.

But you're quicker. Using the momentum, you twist your body and slip free from his grasp, landing lightly back on your feet a few steps away. The brief contact sends a jolt up your leg, his touch searing even through the thick layer of your sweats.

"Stop holding back," you say roughly, your lips turned down in a displeased frown. "Hit me."

Logan's eyes flash with amusement. "Careful what you wish for."

He advances again, this time more aggressive. He throws a combination of punches—left, right, left—each one precise and controlled. You block the first two, but the third grazes past your defenses, skimming your rib cage hard enough to sting.

You hiss softly at the impact but don't back down. Instead, you duck low and sweep your leg out in a wide arc, aiming to knock him off balance. Logan slides back just in time, your foot swiping through empty air as he evades the attack with a kind of brute grace that you wouldn’t expect.

"Getting fancy now?" he remarks, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

You don't respond, springing to your feet with a raised fist in a swift uppercut. This time you connect, your knuckles catching his stubbled jaw with a loud 'crack'. Your whole hand throbs, you can feel the break in your thumb snap back together in a sharp pinch.

Logan stumbles back a step, his head snapping to the ceiling with the force of your hit. When he turns back to you, there's a large bruise blooming along the sharp cut of his jaw. You watch the color of it spread across his skin, angry reds and dull purples that fade as fast as they appear.

There's a glint of something dangerous in his eyes as he meets your gaze. The brown of them darker than before, his pupils blown out and glossy in a way you've never seen.

With a low growl, he comes at you again, faster this time. His movements a blur of muscle and intent. You manage to block the first hit, but not the second, his fist catches your side with enough power to make you stumble back a few steps. Pain flares white hot through your ribs, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

You lose yourself in the rhythm of the fight. The world narrows down to the two of you, the sound of your breaths and the feel of his skin brushing against yours in fleeting moments of contact.

There's a thrill in it, in the way you challenge each other, in the way you push past your own boundaries.

But there's also something more, something deeper. Every time your eyes lock, you can feel the electricity between you, the way your heart skips a beat, the way your breath catches in your throat. It's not just about the fight anymore.

You feel more alive than you have in a long time. More alive with every sting of each new blow, with the way your muscles burn, with the stray hairs that stick to your forehead.

The heat between you is almost tangible, mixing with the sweat and exertion. Every punch, every block, sends a jolt of adrenaline through your system, making it both exhilarating and maddening.

The scent of him—earthy, electric, and utterly intoxicating—growing stronger with every second. Your senses are on high alert, every part of you tuned in to his presence.

It wraps around your whole being, making it hard to think straight. But you don’t need to think—you just move, letting your instincts take over.

Logan feints to the left and uses it to sweep your legs out from under you in the same move he mocked you for. Your back hits the floor with a hard thud, the give of the mat not doing much to soften the hardwood underneath.

All the breath in your lungs rushes out of you in a sharp gasp. Before you can recover, Logan is looming over you. He cages your body under his own, thick arms on either side of your head, his weight pressing you further into the floor. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans in close, his voice a low, almost growling murmur.

"Gotcha."

You try to come up with a witty comment, a snarky line, a petty insult. Anything at all really—but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you just stare up at him, your chest heaving violently, your heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.

The whole room feels like it’s spinning, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the intensity in Logan’s eyes, the heat of him against you.

Suddenly, your entire body feels like it's on fire. Phantom flames lapping at every inch of your skin that send your head reeling quicker than you can blink. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, but you've only ever felt it outside of a mission once, and it didn't end well.

For a few heart stopping seconds, you're more than confused. Panic starts to set in at the thought of having another "accident" and not even knowing what's triggering it.

Through the messy haze of your panic, you finally see it. The tiny cut above Logan's brow leaking a thin trail of red down the side of his face.

Everything around you dissolves into static, your eyes zeroing in on that single bead of crimson. The cut's long gone by the time it drips from his jaw to the mat right next to your shoulder. Logan's skin stitching back together and leaving no trace that it was ever broken in the first place, but it doesn't matter.

The damage is already done, and you can feel your body start to react.

You can feel your resolve crumbling, the edges of your self-control fraying with every passing second. Your own blood pulses beneath your skin like liquid fire as your stomach churns and twists. The intense need to feel, to taste, to take claws at your throat.

You let out a low, guttural sound, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, as you lose the last of your control.

Hank had called it a frenzy, but that wasn't a technical term.

"You're not in your right mind. You've essentially been conditioned to react strongly to the scent and sight of blood, particularly when you're already in a heightened emotional or physical state. The combination of adrenaline, exertion, and the scent triggers this...well, this 'frenzy' for lack of a better term."

It's like you blackout, and when you wake up, you're straddling Logan's chest with your hand wrapped around his throat in a vice-like grip. The tan column of his throat glowing red beneath your hand, a map of blue veins inked along his skin like spiderwebs as you watch the blood pulse through them.

Your grip tightens instinctively, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you try to reign in the storm swirling inside you. Everything narrows down to the pounding in your ears, the blazing heat of Logan's skin under your fingers, and the urge to let go, to give in.

Logan's voice starts to trickle in around the static buzzing in your ears, your name falling from his lips sounds strained, but there's a calmness to it. The fog of your instincts begins to fade, the world around you slowly starting to piece back together.

You blink, the haze in your mind clearing as you try to focus on his face, the way his eyes are locked onto yours. Intense, but not clouded with fear like you expected.

Your chest heaves with every breath, ragged and short like they're being ripped out of your lungs. Your wide eyes dropping to where your hand is still locked around his throat, panic surges in your chest like ice freezing over a lake.

But before you can do anything, Logan's reaching up, his hand catching your wrist in a tight grip. His thumb brushes over your pulse point—the touch sends a jolt through you, as if he’s touched a live wire.

“Don't,” he says, like he knows what you're thinking, his voice a rough whisper. The rasp of it vibrates against your hand. “Don't stop now."

Logan’s other hand comes up to rest on your hips, his touch firm but not forceful. He doesn’t try to wrestle control away from you; instead, he holds you steady. His fingers dig into your skin, grounding you.

“Come on,” he coaxes, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends a shiver of anticipation through you. “I can take it. Give it to me.”

The world around you blurs, your focus entirely on the man beneath you, the way his body feels under your hands, the way he’s willingly surrendering to your control.

You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. You search his eyes, dark and full of want. There's a heat there, a spark that crackles between you, and it only adds fuel to your fire.

If he wants to push, you're ready to push back.

Silently, you slide your hand up the expanse of his throat, feeling the way his pulse beats strong and fast under your palm. The glow under his skin dissipates as you make your way up, tracing your fingers over his jaw and up to his bottom lip.

Logan’s breathing is rapid, his chest rising and falling under you quicker than before. His lips are slick and red, parted so enticingly that you can help but slide your index finger over them. Your nail digs into the fat of his bottom lip, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to let him feel it.

Logan lets you toy with him, meets your gaze head on as you push further. Your finger presses deeper, pushing past the seam of his lips to feel the warmth of his mouth, the wet glide of his tongue against your skin.

The sharp bite of Logan's teeth pinches your skin as he closes his lips around your finger and sucks.

Your breath catches in your throat, heat blooming in your core as his tongue brushes over the pad of your finger. You can feel the ache of your cunt between your legs, arousal leaking wet and sticky in your panties.

Your other hand rises up to rest on the side of his face, your fingers grazing over his cheekbone. The touch feather-light but filled with a fierce, unspoken energy. Logan’s breath hitches slightly, his eyes darkening even further.

Your palm splays over the skin of his cheek, the heat of his face seeping into your hand. Logan’s eyes close for a moment, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he tilts his head into your touch.

In a quick move, you dig your fingernails into the fat of his cheek roughly. Logan’s body arches under you, his back snapping off the mat with guttural groan ripping from his chest as you pierce his skin.

You gasp at the scent of him wafting up through the air, at the feeling of his teeth digging into your own flesh. His blood leaking onto the tips of your fingers feels like a shock to your system, both electrifying and terrifying.

His skin glows even brighter than before. A mix of reds and oranges that light up just beneath his skin, the blue of his veins like rivers on a map. Your nails dig deeper into his skin, drawing more blood, the warm, sticky liquid coating your fingers. You watch, mesmerized, as the glow under his skin pulses in response, as if feeding off your energy, amplifying the connection between you.

Logan’s breath hitches, his body tensing beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into your touch, his eyes dark and hooded with desire.

it takes barely any energy from you. The faintest traces of your power used for something none of those demented scientists in white lab coats intended.

None of that matters. All that matters is the raw, animalistic connection between you—the way his body is responding to your touch, the way his eyes shine with want, the way his blood sings in harmony with yours.

You could boil Logan alive in less than a second, burst every vessel and capillary in his body until he's nothing more than a copper stain on the floor. But his hands only tighten their grip on your waist to drag you impossibly closer.

"More," Logan growls, his voice vibrating against your palm as his teeth sink a little deeper into your finger, the heat of his breath searing against your skin. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging your body up his chest until your legs are spread on either side of his head.

Your hands fly to his hair, steadying yourself with two fist fulls of the brown tufts that sit atop his head. You’ve always been curious if Logan styles his hair this way on purpose, or if it just grows like that naturally. You don't have time to ponder it for long before he's letting out another ragged groan and burying his face between your thighs.

You can feel the heat of his breath over the clothed expanse of your cunt, his nose trailing along the inseam of your sweats as he inhales greedy lungfuls of your scent.

"Logan," you gasp, voice gone high and breathy around the edges.

"Tell me what you want," he says lowly, his lips brushing over you with every word.

It's muffled slightly, but the demand in his tone still sends a shock through you. Your grip on his hair tightens as your mind falls into a whirl of sensations and emotions you couldn't possibly confront.

He presses a heated kiss against the fabric of your sweats, right over where your aching clit pulses with need. The sensation sends an electric jolt straight through your core. Your whole body hums with an intense craving, a need that burns hot and fierce.

"Tell me," he repeats, his voice a rough rasp that vibrates against your core.

You swallow hard, your breath hitching as you try to form a coherent thought, let alone speak.

"I want..." you start, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and desire. The words are there, lodged in your throat, but saying them out loud feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re ready to cross.

"I need you,” you breathe out, the confession slipping from your lips like a secret finally set free “I need everything.”

Logan’s eyes flare with something fierce and wild. Without a word, he pulls you closer, his hands surging up to tear through the fabric of your clothes like it's nothing but tissue paper. The tattered remains of your panties and sweats pool to the floor in a crumpled mess.

The heat of his breath is replaced by the pressure of his mouth, his tongue sliding through the wet slit of your cunt. He lets out a filthy groan at the first real taste of you, the flat of his tongue lapping eagerly through your dripping slit.

The thrill of his mouth against your most sensitive spots sends a jolt through your entire body, your back arching taut as you grip his hair even tighter. Logan’s groan reverberates through you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your core.

Logan is relentless, devouring you like he’s been starving for this, starving for you. The wet sounds of his mouth working you over mix with your breathless whimpers and the low growls rumbling from his chest. He works his tongue expertly, tracing every inch of you, mapping out every spot that makes you tremble and moan.

Your thighs tighten around his head, hips grinding against his face almost unintentionally as heat starts coiling tight in your belly. The scruff of his jaw rubs against the sensitive skin of your thighs with each drag of his head, the sting of it just adds to the assault of pleasure. You wish he could leave his mark on you, wish that your skin wouldn’t work overtime to fix the angry red blotches of raw skin he leaves in his wake.

Logan grips you hard enough that you can see the bruises decorating your skin every time you look down. His arms firm and strong where they’re locked around your thighs to keep you pressed against his mouth. His nose bumps against your throbbing clit each time he fucks his tongue into your leaking cunt.

“Logan,” you moan, your voice a breathy plea that only seems to spur him on. He flicks his tongue over your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a harsh pull that makes you cry out, your whole body shuddering with the intensity of it.

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he murmurs against you, the words muffled by the slickness of your folds. “Could eat you all night.”

“Logan, I’m—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as he sucks hard on your clit, sending you careening over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, your entire body convulsing with the force of it as you cry out his name, your nails digging into his scalp as you hold on.

Logan doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. He licks you through your release, his mouth working you over with a single-minded intensity that has you writhing against him, overstimulated and desperate for more.

“Fuck, Logan, please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for, just knowing you need something, anything to ease the ache that’s still throbbing deep inside you.

Logan pulls back just enough to look up at you, the bottom of his face slick with your arousal, eyes dark with a hunger that matches your own. He licks his lips, savoring the taste of you.

Logan’s hands slide up your thighs, his touch gentle now but still impossibly firm. He trails his fingers along your skin, tracing the sensitive lines where your skin starts to heal the damage he left behind.

“Still with me?” he asks, his voice is softer than before but there’s still an unmistakable rough edge coating his words.

You nod, your voice barely a whisper as you try to collect yourself. “Yeah...I’m here.”

“Good,” he growls softly, his hands squeezing the sore skin of your hips. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You’re on your back in less than a second, Logan flipping your positions so fast it has your head spinning. His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, all sharp teeth and bruising pressure.

It’s a kiss that feels like a fight, like a challenge, like a promise of something much darker and more consuming just beneath the surface. His stubble scrapes against your skin, adding to the raw, visceral feeling of it all. Your teeth clack together violently, you can taste the faint coppery tang of blood on his lips.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all the pent-up frustration, all the desire, all the fear and anger and need into the contact between you. Your hands are everywhere, clawing at his hair, his shoulders, his back—needing to feel him, to mark him, to claim him as yours in a way that’s as undeniable as the blood pulsing through your veins.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him to fill the ache that’s building inside you. Logan grinds against you, his hard cock still trapped in the fabric of his sweats rubbing against your spit soaked cunt. You can’t help the desperate whimper that escapes your throat. “Please, Logan,” you gasp out against his lips, your voice trembling with need. “Fuck me, I need it, please–.”

He growls low in his throat, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. “You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice rough, his breath hot against your skin.

You nod frantically, your hips bucking up against him darkens the fabric tent of his bottoms. He feels huge, heavy and hot where he pushes against your slick folds. “Yes, please, just—” Logan doesn’t let you finish.

With a swift, almost feral move, he pushes the hem of his sweats down roughly, the sound of seams ripping rings through the room. You barely have time to gasp before he’s pushing his cock into you, stretching you wide, filling you so completely that all you can do is cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he immediately sets a relentless pace.

You don’t have any time to adjust to the thick length of his cock carving its way inside of you, the sting of it has your eyes screwed shut. It’s only barely straddling the knife's edge of where pain and pleasure meld together, but it has you crying out his name all the same.

Logan fucking sounds identical to Logan fighting, guttural groans and growls that are ripped from somewhere deep in his chest to pierce through the air between you. That ring in your ears and shake through your very soul like thunder.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grates, his voice thick with lust as he holds himself still for a moment, eyes glued to where you’re stretched around him. The puffy, abused lips of your cunt slick with his spit and the pre-come steadily leaking from his dark red tip. “Feels like heaven, sweetheart.”

You moan, high and loud in the back of your throat as your ankles lock around his lower back. Your heels dig into the skin just above his ass as your cunt trembles around his cock, your spongy walls working over him desperately, milking him.

“You like that don’t you?” Logan taunts, starting to snap his hips with purpose. “You like getting fucked like this, princess?” He leans down enough to growl directly into your ear, “I can smell how much you want it, how bad you're aching for it."

He slides his hands up your sides, rough palms gliding over your sweat-slick skin as he continues, "You drive me fucking crazy, sweetheart. I can barely think straight with you on top of me, with your scent all over me. You know what you're doing, don’t you? Getting me all riled up like this."

You can’t respond, can’t speak. You can barely form a coherent thought, your lips falling open in a stream of desperate moans and whines as you bury your face in his neck.

The pulse of his carotid artery under your lips is maddening, each beat of his heart like a drum driving you further into madness. You want to sink your teeth into the skin there, to pull flesh and muscle from bone so you can watch the blood run in rivers and streams down Logan’s body.

The taste of him fresh and heady on your tongue as you watch the layers build back up from nothing, nerves and veins weaving themselves back together grotesquely.

“Fuck,” Logan groans, the sound vibrating through your mouth as you press your lips against his throat, your teeth scraping against his skin with barely restrained hunger.

You nip at his throat, your teeth leaving small indentations that fade almost as quickly as they appear. Logan’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving with every shallow breath as he leans into your touch, his body taut with anticipation.

"Atta girl, that's it," he growls, voice thick with desire as his hands grip your hips even tighter, nails digging into your skin as he ruts into you like a beast. His hips snapping against yours hard enough to sting, the loud slap of it bouncing off the walls to echo lewdly in your ears.

He’s fucking you like he wants to break you, reinforced hips heavy as he pounds you into the floor mercilessly. “Taking my cock so well, best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You can feel the way Logan’s cock jerks and pulses inside of you, the taut heaviness of his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. You know he’s close, the brutal rhythm of his hips gets sloppier by the second.

You press your body up against his, your chest flush with his own as your hands wander over the hard planes of his back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his skin. You dig your nails into his shoulder blades roughly, basking in the way his muscles roll and flex underneath your greedy palms.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, the pulsing glow of his blood under your fingertips as you explore every inch of him with a hunger that’s almost feral.

And then, with a low, guttural sound that you barely recognize as your own, you sink your teeth into his neck.

Logan’s reaction is immediate and visceral. His entire body tenses above you, a sharp hiss escaping his lips as you bite down, hard enough to draw blood. The taste of him floods your mouth, metallic and rich, and it sends a wave of heat crashing through you.

You can feel his blood on your tongue, warm and thick, the taste of it driving you wild. It’s everything you’ve been craving, everything you’ve been trying to resist. And now that you’ve finally given in, it’s like a dam has broken inside you.

Logan’s growl is pure animal, his hips bucking up hard as he thrusts into you one last time, burying his cock as deep in you as he can. The force of his orgasm rips through him, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as he unloads inside of you. It’s so much, pulse after pulse of hot come that floods your insides. His hips don’t slow, still pumping and fucking like he’s trying to stuff you as full of himself as he can.

The feeling of it pushes you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you in a wave of white-hot pleasure that leaves you gasping and trembling above him. Your shaking cunt gushes over his cock as you swallow the blood pooling on your tongue.

Logan’s hips finally still, slotting flush with yours as he slumps onto the floor next to you, dragging you along with him so you can lay flat on his chest. The coarse hair scattered along his pecs scratches the skin of your cheek, you bury your face in the sweaty crook of his neck. You feel hazy, like you’re floating through the air, completely weightless.

You think you could live here, plastered to the strong planes of Logan’s body, stuffed full of his cock and leaking his come in messy trails down your shaking thighs.

But eventually, you have to pull back, your breath coming in short bursts as you lick the blood from your lips. Logan’s eyes are on you, shining under the chandelier light, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing. The wound on his neck is already healing, the skin knitting itself back together, but the blood still stains his skin red, a vivid reminder.

There’s a moment of silence, the air between you thick with tension and something else—something new and unspoken. You’re both panting, bodies still trembling with adrenaline.

Logan’s hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips, smearing the remnants of his blood across your skin. His eyes are locked on yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

Finally, he reaches down slowly, like you’re a cornered animal that might turn and run any second. He takes your wrist in his hand, dragging it from the middle of his chest to the muscle directly over his heart. He presses your palm flat against him, blanketing your hand with his own.

“What do you feel,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a breath.

The question catches you off guard. It’s a challenge, but it’s also an invitation—a chance to confront whatever’s swirling inside you instead of running away from it. You hesitate, searching for the right words to encapsulate the storm of emotions you feel thrumming through your bones.

"You," you whisper back, your palm sliding over the sweaty plain of his bare chest. "All I feel is you."

Logan’s eyes soften, and a rare, genuine smile tugs at the corners of his lips. The intensity of the moment seems to dissolve, leaving a quiet understanding between you. He leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, and you can feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a tender caress against your ear. His thumb brushes along your pulse in a feather light touch. “That makes two of us.”

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

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lovelytsunoda · 4 months ago

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my fun // oscar piastri

(gif is by @/oscarcito!)

summary: it’s not every day that a first date lands you in the emergency room, or gives your date a concussion before the food has even left the kitchen

pairing: oscar piastri x female reader

warnings: hospitals, blood, the awkwardness of a first date. low key inspired by season 1 episode 3 of the big bang theory when leonard and penny go on their not-date

yn yln must have been dreaming.

as she sat on one side of the wooden table inside the smokehouse, arms crossed in front of her as she looked over at her date, there was a part of her that kept telling her that there was no way it could be real.

she was quiet and smart, and could recite the entire periodic table in order from memory, and the boy sitting across from her was leagues prettier, with an athletes body and the ability to control a room with one singular lame joke.

he’d moved in across the hall from her earlier that year, and she and her friends had immediately dropped everything to watch shamelessley as the young man and his chiseled athlete friends and carried cardboard boxes up four flights of stairs.

oscar piastri was thinking the same thing. how a big famous athlete like him got someone as sweet and humble as yn to agree to date with him. sure she was awkward, and sometimes very shy, but at her core, she was sweet and funny and kind. not to mention the simple beauty of someone who never wore makeup (not to say oscar wouldn’t have adored it if she did, he just knew that she was pretty without it as well).

neither party really knew what to say, sitting in a nervous silence with the menus spread in the table, a glass bottle of water from the waiter sitting next to two half-full glasses.

oscar reached for the popcorn, a sweet and salty mix he quite enjoyed, trying not to tip the bag over as he contemplated what size brisket to order.

“hey, do you want to see something neat?” oscar blurted, picking out for decently sized pieces of the sweet popcorn. “do you know how to juggle?”

“juggle?” his date asked hesitantly, eyeing him over the popcorn. “you do?”

“went to a circus camp when i was seven.” oscar shrugged. “there’s not much to do in my part of australia to be fair.”

it took a few tries for oscar to get started, but soon enough, he was juggling with the popcorn, the kernels delicately passing through his pale, calloused hands.

and believe it or not, yn was impressed. she broke out in a wide smile, giggling from her seat as she watched the young man in front of her. he had a goofy smile on his face, and seemed well in his element. he caught her eye across the table, stuttering his movements as he shot her a wink, losing two kernels. the kernels rolled under the table, and the boy cursed.

“don’t worry about it, that was really impressive.” yn laughed. “nobody has ever juggled popcorn for me on a first date.”

oscar laughed. “glad to be of service.” he took a small bow before accidentally knocking the steak knife off the edge of the table, wincing at the sound of metal hitting floor.

he cursed, pushing his chair back. “I should probably pick that up, shouldn’t I?”

“can you reach it with your foot? it might be easier.”

“don’t worry, I’ve got it!” oscar insisted, slipping off the chair.

“are you sure?” yn asked hesitantly, bare knees pressed against the cool cast iron that was holding the slats of the table together.

oscar slipped under the table, on his hands and knees in the dark smokehouse as he fumbled around the the steak knife, crushing two kernels of popcorn underneath his khaki pants in the process.

yn, meanwhile, was hyper aware of the fact that her date, who she barely knew, was crawling around under the table, in public, near her slightly parted legs.

oh my god, she thought. do they think he’s going down on me?

there was a bang under the table, the slats shaking. she reached over the menus to grab the glass water bottle as it threatened to topple over.

“oscar?” she shouted “you alright?”

“yeah.” his voice came out strained, almost as if he was hurt. “hey, did you happen to spill any ketchup?”

she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, as a droplet of something warm fell against her toe through the lip of her sandals. “no. there isn’t any on the table.”

“fuck. I think I might need an ambulance.”

————

the emergency room is not where she wanted to spend her first date. it smelled like antiseptic soap, the lights too clinical and the plastic chairs too stiff. her neighbour looked pale, skin stained red from where he had bled.

as she understood it, oscar had hit his head on the cast iron hard enough to draw blood, but not enough that he was at risk of trauma or hemorrhaging.

or at least, that’s what the off-duty medic seated two tables over had said.

“how much blood do you think I’ve lost?” oscar wondered aloud, almost certain he was concussed. “if it’s less than a pint, I should be fine.”

yn laughed, rubbing him on the shoulder. “oscar, you’re fine. you still have most of your blood.”

“I’m so sorry our date ended like this. I ruined everything.” he exhaled, leaning to rest his head against the wall, still clutching g the bag of frozen peas given to him by kitchen staff against his cut.

she smiled to herself, reaching for his free hand. “what makes you think you’ve ruined anything?”

“the fact that there’s blood streaming down my face? or that were in the emergency room instead of sharing a hot chocolate fudge cake?”

they both laughed at the sheer absurdity of their situation, and yn resisted to urge to rest her head on his shoulder.

“you’re quite the man, oscar piastri. maybe you can make it up to me? I’m sure the smokehouse will be tripping over themselves to give us a free meal after tonight.”

oscar laughed lowly, a look of pain crossing his eyes. “you’d still want to go out with me after tonight?”

“of course I would, you adorable idiot.”

oscar looked like he was about to say something else when a tired-looking nurse in pink scrubs came rushing out of a hallway.

“mr and mrs piastri?”

yn flushed, her face heating up under the nurses gaze. “oh no, we’re not married. not even together, really.”

with all the energy he could, oscar winked at her before shakily getting to his feet in the sterile room. “wait for me, my love.”

yn laughed, watching him walk towards the nurse.

as far as first dates go, this one wasn’t bad at all, was it?

#oscar piastri x reader #formula one x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x you #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 x reader

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nhlclover · 22 days ago

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𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 | 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐒

— cozytober masterlist !

summary: your first halloween spent in your new house together becomes unforgettable after a trick-or-treater brings unexpected joy for you and jack

warnings: literally so much fluff it's crazy, jack kind of having a revelation

word count: 1.36k

notes: tenth and final fic of cozytober! hope you enjoy i thought this was such a cute idea.

As October settled in, the air grew crisp, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves. Your neighborhood began to glow with an eerie charm — orange and purple lights strung along rooftops, spider webs draped haphazardly over bushes, and grinning jack-o'-lanterns perched on porches, their flickering candles casting shadows on the pavement. It was your first Halloween in your new home, and excitement buzzed in the air. You and Jack had spent the last few weeks transforming your house into a Halloween wonderland, determined to embrace the spooky season in full.

“This is going to be such a good Halloween,” you said, standing in the kitchen surrounded by packages of candy. You poured another mountain of treats into the bowl, feeling like a kid yourself.

Jack, lounging against the counter, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You know we’re probably gonna be that house, right? The one that gives out so much candy the kids talk about it all year?”

You grinned back, unbothered. “Good! We never got to do this in the apartment. We’re going all out.” You tossed another bag of chocolates into the mix, the bowl overflowing now.

Your previous apartment building didn’t have many kids, and handing out candy was never part of your Halloween traditions. But this year, nestled in a family-filled suburb, it felt like you were finally getting the Halloween you’d always wanted — the decorations, the costumes, the eager trick-or-treaters. You could hardly wait.

When the doorbell rang for the first time, you practically leapt off the couch. “They’re here!” you squealed, racing to the door like a child on Christmas morning. Swinging it open, you were greeted by a group of tiny witches, superheroes, and a very tiny dinosaur with a tail too long for his legs. Their eyes widened at the sight of your candy bowl, and you couldn’t resist giving them extra, their excitement contagious.

You watched them scamper off down the walkway, their candy bags bouncing, before collapsing onto the couch next to Jack, who had Ghostbusters queued up on the TV. “There was this little dinosaur, and his tail kept dragging behind him,” you laughed, snuggling under his arm. “It was adorable.”

“Is that what happens every time the door opens? You’re going to give me a recap of all the costumes you see?” Jack smirked, pulling you in closer.

“Absolutely,” you grinned, poking him playfully. “I don’t want you missing out on all the cuteness.”

And that’s exactly what you did. Each time the doorbell rang, you bounded up, eager to meet the next batch of trick-or-treaters. After every encounter, you’d return to Jack, excitedly recounting the different costumes — witches, zombies, fairies, and one memorable kid dressed as a very squishy marshmallow. Jack would laugh at your eagerness, but you could tell he enjoyed each one of your recaps.

Between the rounds of doorbell dashes, you and Jack sank into the movie, the Halloween vibe settling in like a comfortable blanket around you. The evening was perfect — the glow of the porch lights, the hum of neighborhood excitement, and Jack’s arm wrapped around you, making it all feel just right.

As the night began to slow and fewer knocks came, the doorbell rang one last time. You jumped up, still full of energy. “I’ve got it!” you called, already halfway to the door.

Opening it, you were greeted by a sight that made you freeze — a kid fully decked out in hockey gear, pads, helmet, gloves, and all. But what caught your attention was the jersey. The black, white, and red jersey stood out in the dark, the 86 on the sleeve glimmering under the porch light.

“Trick or treat!” the small voice squeaked from beneath the helmet.

Your jaw dropped as you let out a small gasp. “Oh my gosh, you look amazing!” you gushed. “Hold on—there’s someone who has to see this.”

You darted back into the living room, grabbing Jack by the arm. “Come on, you’ve gotta see this!”

Jack, confused but curious, paused the movie and followed you to the door. The second he saw the mini-hockey player in his own jersey, his eyes widened in surprise. The kid looked up, eyes shining as he recognized Jack.

“You’re Jack Hughes!” the little boy said, his voice filled with awe.

Jack crouched down to the kid’s level, smiling. “Looking good out there, bud,” he said, adjusting the boy’s helmet so it wasn’t covering his eyes.

The kid's dad, standing at the end of the walkway, waved his phone. “Would it be alright if we got a picture?” he asked, clearly as excited as his son.

“Of course,” Jack grinned. He knelt beside the kid, who raised his hockey stick proudly. You quickly snapped a few photos, capturing the pure joy on both their faces.

Before they headed off, you grabbed two fistfuls of candy and dropped them into the boy’s sack. “You get some extra candy for having the best costume we’ve seen all night,” you told him, smiling as he skated on his roller blades down the walkway.

Jack stood there for a moment, still processing what had just happened. You could see a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched the boy skate off.

“That was seriously cool,” Jack admitted, sliding his arm around your waist.

You nudged him playfully. “You’re a little stunned, huh?”

Jack chuckled, his eyes still lingering on the street where the kid had disappeared. “Yeah, I mean, it's one thing to see people wearing my jersey at games, but that little guy was really into it. He looked like he was having the best night of his life.”

There was a warmth in his voice, a mix of pride and disbelief. “It’s gotta feel pretty surreal seeing a kid look up to you like that,” you said, guiding him back into the house, his eyes still going back to the kid who was far down the street now.

Jack nodded, his smile widening as you took your places on the couch once more. “It just… it reminds me that this whole hockey thing is bigger than just me, you know? Seeing him so pumped, dressed as me for Halloween… it kind of makes it all feel worth it in a different way. A way that’s not just for me.”

You could tell that moment meant more to him than he let on. His eyes glinted with that same spark he had when he was passionate about something, and you loved seeing him like that.

As you both settled back onto the couch, you leaned your head on Jack’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of the moment settle in. “You made that kid’s night,” you said softly, glancing up at him.

Jack’s arm tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I think he made mine too,” he replied, his voice filled with a contentment that made your heart swell.

As the credits rolled on the movie, you sighed happily. “Best Halloween ever,” you murmured, smiling to yourself.

Jack chuckled, resting his chin on your head. “You always say that,” he teased.

You laughed, looking up at him. “Well, this time I mean it.”

He grinned down at you, his eyes twinkling with affection. “Good. Because I kind of want to make this our new tradition. Decorating, handing out candy, watching you light up with every costume… I could get used to this.”

You leaned up and kissed him softly, feeling that familiar, comforting warmth between you. “Me too,” you whispered. “Me too.”

As you both sat there, the last remnants of Halloween fading into the quiet night, you couldn’t help but think about how special this first Halloween in your new home had been. It wasn’t just the decorations or the candy or even the costumes — it was the moments, big and small, that made it unforgettable. Moments like Jack seeing a kid in his jersey, or the way you both had embraced the evening together, fully present and happy.

And you knew that no matter how many Halloweens came after this one, this would always be the one that set the bar.

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #new jersey devils #halloween #clover's cozytober #jh86 #fluff

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muniimyg · 1 month ago

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𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!jungkook (22)⋆𐙚₊˚⊹*nsfw*

series m.list // taglist request closed

🏷️ permanent taglist: @joonsjuice @pamzn @defzcl @maryy1300 @whoa-jo @taetaecatboy @jksusawife @un06 @firesighgirl @rrosiitas @butterymin @parkinglot-nights @musicjournalsjdb @kissyfacekoo @jkslvsnella @vampcharxter @bloopkook @somehowukook @bbystarcandykoo

"honey?"

with wide eyes, jungkook rushes toward you, a mix of surprise and relief washing over his face. you open your arms, and he crashes into them with a sigh, melting against you like he's finally letting himself breathe.

his familiar scent, a comforting mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him, wraps around you, making your heart race.

it's only been two nights, but it feels like forever.

your arms tighten around him, clinging, needy, because this is your husband after all. the warmth of his body against yours makes you realize just how much you missed this—missed him.

"what are you doing here? where’s zion—" he starts, his voice a little rough, but you cut him off by pulling away slightly, just enough to place the back of your hand on his forehead. your eyes widen as you feel the heat radiating from his skin, a small gasp escaping your lips.

"yoongi and jaehyun told me you were being a complete douche to them," you snicker, trying to hide the concern creeping in. "said you're sick and refusing to rest or go home. what good is it being here when you're sick and being mean, huh?"

jungkook opens his mouth to defend himself but you cut him off to continue.

"so, i dropped zion off at my parents and drove three hours to tell my husband to get his ass home."

jungkook pouts, his lower lip jutting out in that familiar way that always gets to you, but you hold firm.

"i’m not that sick—"

"i packed your bags and took everything from your hotel room," you interrupt, crossing your arms. "let’s go home."

he hesitates, glancing to the side like he’s about to argue, but then you give him a sharp look. your gaze says everything—there’s no way he’s getting out of this one.

he lowers his head in defeat, his voice dropping to a soft murmur, “no, you’re right. my wife is always right.”

when you get home, jungkook heads straight for a hot, steamy shower. the sound of water rushing through the pipes filling the quiet house. while he’s in there, you start on the soup you promised. truth be told, you’ve been feeling unwell, too. nothing too serious, but enough to worry about zion getting sick. that’s why you dropped him off with your parents before making the long drive.

you aren’t exactly sure what’s wrong with you.

food poisoning? flu season? you don’t know.

but today, you’re feeling a little better than yesterday, which is something. after all, you only threw up twice during the three-hour drive to jungkook and—surprisingly—none on the way back. that’s a win in your book.

as you stir the soup, you hear the shower turn off, signaling that jungkook’s done. turning off the stove, you wipe your hands and head back to your room where jungkook is changing into comfier clothes. he’s standing in front of the bed, pulling on a baggy white t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. his hair is still damp, clinging to his forehead in little dark strands, and he gives you a tired smile as he crawls into bed.

you walk over, lifting the covers and tucking him in like he’s a child who needs pampering.

“yoongi said you ate before i came,” you say softly, brushing his hair out of his face. “let me know when you get hungry, and i can reheat the soup—”

“i’m all better,” jungkook cuts in, his voice a little congested but determined. “come here, please.”

you shake your head, raising an eyebrow. “if we’re both sick, zion is gonna have to stay away for—”

“no, no,” jungkook interrupts, mimicking your head shake with a frown. “i’ll be better by tomorrow. i promise.”

“you’re literally congested right now,” you tease, pulling the covers up to his chest. “just get some rest, kook. don’t be grumpy with me because you’re sick.”

“i’m not grumpy,” he protests, his brows furrowing. “you just like bossing me around.”

you roll your eyes, smirking. “right. i love playing nurse for my dramatic husband who refuses to admit he’s sick.”

“i’m not dramatic,” jungkook mumbles, though the pout on his lips says otherwise. you try to pull your hand away from his, but he grips it tighter, tugging you toward the bed. “rest with me.”

“jungkook, you need to—”

before you can finish, he tugs harder, and you topple into bed with a soft laugh. he wraps his arms and legs around you, holding you hostage in a cocoon of warmth. his chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he holds you close.

“thank you for coming to get me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the grumpiness fading. “i can’t believe you drove six hours. aren’t you feeling sick, too? how are you feeling today, honey?”

you nuzzle closer, finding comfort in his embrace.

“i feel okay. i threw up twice on the way to you, but nothing on the way back. only felt nauseous… what did we even eat?”

jungkook chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. but then, silence falls between you two, and a sudden thought crosses your mind. it’s almost like the same thought hits both of you at once.

the possibility—no, the likelihood—starts to settle in, making too much sense to ignore.

you haven’t eaten out in a while, and everything he eats, you do too. if it was food poisoning, zion would’ve been sick by now, right? but he’s fine.

jungkook shifts slightly, his hold on you tightening as if he’s bracing himself.

“do you think—”

“maybe,” you whisper. "honestly? probably."

“okay. ___? i think so too.... should we take a test later?”

you blink, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. “yeah,” you breathe, feeling the weight of the moment. “s-should i just take it now?”

jungkook lets out a deep sigh, his thumb brushing gently against your hand. “let’s just... take a minute. lie here for a bit."

when the morning comes, you realize you and jungkook slept the entire time.

as you stretch and are about to get out of bed, jungkook holds onto your shirt.

“no.”

jungkook’s groggy voice breaks through the stillness of the morning, his arm tightening around you as if to hold you in place. the warmth of the sheets and the weight of his body against yours make it hard to resist staying in bed.

“no?” you yawn, blinking your eyes open as sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. “come on. let’s get something in your stomach so you can take medicine—”

“no,” he groans, pulling you closer. his voice is raspy with sleep, a slight whine in it as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. “stay here. too weak to get up. give me kisses.”

you let out a small scoff, still half-asleep but amused by his childishness.

“what do kisses have to do with you being sick and all?” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes.

“they give me strength,” jungkook mumbles into your skin, his breath warm against your neck as he shifts slightly, trying to coax you into staying in bed. “come here. kiss me and find out for yourself—”

you roll your eyes, though you can’t help the soft laugh that escapes your lips. jungkook, even sick and groggy, is relentless.

“seriously? that’s your excuse now?”

he groans again, dramatically this time, as if he’s on the verge of collapse. “please, honey. i'm too weak to move. only your kisses can save me now.”

his hand lazily reaches for yours, his fingers intertwining with yours as he gives you that pouty look, half-lidded eyes and all.

despite yourself, you feel your resolve softening.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, watching as his lips curl into a small, satisfied smile.

“see? i’m already feeling stronger,” he murmurs, eyes still closed but his grin widening.

you can’t help but roll your eyes again, though the smile tugging at your own lips betrays you. “fine. one more kiss, then you’re eating, okay?”

he hums contentedly, already shifting to make room for you to snuggle closer, completely ignoring your terms. “oh, right... totally forgot but did you know that morning sex heals me?"

jungkook keeps his shirt on while you’re completely naked on top of him.

as you straddle yourself on top, he rolls his eyes back at the feeling of you sinking into his cock.

“s-so tight,” he hisses. “god, i love you.”

you laugh.

“i can’t believe that even when you’re sick, you’re still horny.”

jungkook shrugs. “can’t help it. my wife is divine.”

you shiver at his words. he hasn’t said that in a while.

divine.

every time he calls you divine, it feels like the first time. it’s such a simple word, but the way he says it—like it holds all the meaning in the world, like he believes it in the deepest parts of himself—makes your heart race. it’s like the ground slips out from under you, like you’re falling in love with him all over again, and it’s almost too much to handle.

you’ve heard him say your name a thousand times, but divine? it’s different. it feels sacred like he’s seeing something in you that no one else ever could. it’s not just a compliment; it’s a kind of worship. the way he looks at you, like you’re something more—like you’re untouchable. truly, he leaves you breathless.

and each time he says it, you feel that familiar rush of love deepening, like he’s pulling you closer in a way that goes beyond words. it makes your chest tighten and your heart race, as if you’re falling for him all over again, but in this softer, more certain way.

as you lift your hips, you drag out how you ride him.

jungkook loses his mind every time you ride him but right now—god, is he going insane.

the way your curves are a perfect fit when he holds you—insatiable. the way your breasts bounce in front of him—is mindblowing. he especially loves watching himself cup and squeeze them. they’re always so full. again, perfect for him. they fit in his hands perfectly.

you fit in him perfectly.

picking up the pace, you ride him with soft moans escaping your lips. you murmur his name, leaning every now and then closer to him. you take a handful of his shirt, scrunching and gripping onto it as you throw your head back. jungkook follows the curves of your body with his eyes, tracing the way your stomach winces with every bounce. he notes how you squirm when he thrusts, meeting your high halfway.

when you let go of his shirt, you hold onto his hair. your fingers get lost in it, and he smirks at every tug you pull. he reaches for you, wanting a kiss.

“no kissing.”

his heart drops. “you kissed me yesterday—”

“you’re sick.”

jungkook, near tears, whines; “you’re sick! no kissing while you ride me like this—”

lowering your gaze, you look at him with a serious look. “do you want me to get off?”

jungkook freezes.

“are you sick?” he glares. “why are you so mean to me?”

laughing, you cup his face and squish his cheeks together.

“do you want to cum?”

he nods, eyes wide. his lips part like he wants to speak but can’t. he looks desperate—unguarded, vulnerable as if he’s silently begging for reassurance, fighting the urge to pull you close. you’ve never seen him like this, and it grips your heart.

should he just kiss you?

“if you love me then you’d be a good boy.”

“i am—”

“then just be thankful you’re in me.”

jungkook gulps. you let go of his face and tilt your head.

"honey, i am—"

“are you sure?”

he nods again.

you blink at him. “use your words, honey.”

“what you say goes, mama.”

with that, you and jungkook continue.

at one point, your hands are planted on the walls behind him for stability. then, his are glued to your ass. the position doesn’t change—he’s too weak to do more than this. either way, you make him cum twice and he apologies over and over for only making you cum once. you tell him it’s okay, and it’s no big deal.

he doesn’t have to prove anything to you.

you know what he’s capable of.

when you two finish, he asks for a kiss. you tease him, telling him he’ll get one after he takes some medicine. quickly, he gets out of bed, gets ready in the bathroom, and rushes to eat breakfast. the minute he finishes, he swallows a few pills and drinks some water.

just as you finish getting ready and step into the kitchen to praise him, jungkook pulls you in and kisses you as deep and as long as he can.

you laugh against his lips. when you pull away, you check his temperate with the back of your hand again. tilting your head in confusion, you say;

“w-wait. wow, your fever went down so much. you’re almost back to normal—”

“see what i mean, mama? morning sex heals me.”

#bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook dilf #jungkook married au #bts x yn #jungkook x reader #jk x yn

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