twenty ୨ৎ they/them ୨ৎ roleplayer ୨ৎ writer ୨ৎ minors dni with nsfw content
── ★ ˙ 🍓 ̟ !!
hello, everyone! welcome to my blog <3 i go by namel or chase! i primarily use they/them pronouns and i'm genderqueer. i've been an avid roleplayer/writer for years now, and have recently gotten back into the fanfic writing scene (all thanks to phm)!
most things i write will be either fem or gender neutral, but i tend to write fem the most. i don't write for masc reader (so sorry, everyone), but i love writing about queer / lgbtq+ pairings 🫶
𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗿𝘀 ⋆. 𐙚 ̊ ˊˎ-
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
i do have audhd + bpd (and some other mental illnesses), so i ask you do be patient with me. my writing is often sporadic + i do have a job, so sometimes i'll be a bit slow with things (particularly multi-chapter fics). however, you are totally free to send things into my inbox and i always do my best to respond! knowing people enjoy my writing gives me motivation to keep going, even when i'm in a slump 🫶
do note that i do tend to reblog nsfw content, and i may occasionally write some of my own! minors do not interact with any nsfw i post about, it's my main boundary! while i cannot prevent you from doing so, consuming nsfw media is your choice (just please do not comment, like, or reblog any nsfw i have posted about please).
that aside, everyone is free to interact with my works! though i do roleplay, i prefer not to roleplay with more than a few people at once as it does overwhelm me <3 discord is my primary and most preferred outlet for roleplays. if you're interested, and if my slots are open, you are free to send me a dm! i do oc x canon for fandoms only; i also do double-ups! descriptive and 18+ partners only! i do not roleplay mxm unless with close friends.
── ★ ˙ 🍓 ̟ !!
slots: 0 / 2 (open)
𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗺𝘀 ⋆. 𐙚 ̊ ˊˎ-
꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
anime: fairy tail, jujutsu kaisen, bleach, naruto, saiki k, haikyuu, soul eater, attack on titan, death note
manhwa/manga: solo leveling, sss-class suicide hunter, pick me up, return of the mount hua sect, the devil raises a lady, a stepmother's märchen, the broken ring, death is the only ending for a villainess, raising villains the right way, i became the wife of the male lead (plus many, many others i can't list at the top of my head at the moment!), unholy/white blood
games: code vein (first game), fire emblem (fates, awakening, three houses, three hopes, & engage), overwatch, danganronpa (v1, v2, and v3), nier replicant/automata, honkai: star rail, genshin impact, wuthering waves, dispatch, hogwarts legacy, love and deepspace (i'm very far behind... my phone has no space), mystic messenger, blooming panic, going live!, persona (reload, golden, and p5), pokémon (sword/shield, sun/moon), dachabo, homicipher, obey me, outlast trials (oc x oc only), phasmophobia (oc x oc only), rdr2, mario, fnaf (oc x oc only unless for security breach—humanized animatronics), dol
movies/shows: twilight saga, marvel (i've seen a good majority), project hail mary, interstellar, inside job, harry potter, the walking dead, spiderverse, stranger things, squid game, k-pop demon hunters
misc: creepypasta, ghost (the band)
non-fandom (oc x oc): manhwa themes, reincarnation/isekai/turning time, backrooms inspired, fantasy, supernatural, romance
rude awakening (rocky & gn!reader, slight ryland grace x gn!reader)
summary: your first time meeting rocky doesn’t go well but ryland is oh so happy to have someone to hug
wc: 2.5k
cw: none!
a/n: thank you all so much for the love on all of my fics, your comments make me so happy! here’s a little something goofy for funsies, part 2 to doctor’s visit is up next!
It was dark. So dark.
As the lingering fuzziness of sleep slowly crept out of your head, that was the first thing you noticed.
The rustle of plastic against your lashes was all you felt when you tried to pry your eyelids apart. They felt so heavy, like you had indeed been sleeping for a very long time and for some unknown reason, abruptly fell out of unconsciousness.
In fact, your whole body felt that heaviness. Completely dead weight and useless. The most movement you could manage was a twitch of your fingers. Was this what sleep paralysis felt like? You’d never experienced it before but you figured it probably felt an awful lot like this.
When you swallowed, your throat ached- dry and sore- thanks to whatever was shoved down it.
You managed a whimper, barely audible around the thing in your mouth, and tried to pull your arms up to remove it. They didn’t respond like they were supposed to but you did manage to lift your hand this time. Progress.
Behind the seal of your eyelids, an alternating flashing light of blue and red seared your retinas and a low thrum whirred around you.
You were laying down in a bed of sorts, that much you did know, you could feel the softness of a mattress against your back, but you seemed to be covered in a plastic sheet from your head to your toes.
What was happening?
The loud sound of a zipper followed and you were blasted by the frigid air of a room and bright, bright lights. Squeezing your eyes shut, you wiggled your body some more. You were starting to regain some feeling.
“Body movement detected. What is two plus two?”
A woman’s voice? Except it sounded wrong, too perfect. A computer?
You hummed behind the thing in your mouth.
“Incorrect. What is two plus two?”
You ignored the voice. A whir sounded, followed by a tug on the thing in your throat. The slow drag of the silicone against your esophagus had you gagging, choking around the intrusion. When it fell free, you were racked with violent coughs. For the first time in what felt like ages, you willed your lungs to work on their own without the help of a machine. Chest heavy, choking and still regaining the feeling in your body, you really tried not to spiral. What had happened? Where were you? Who were you?
Your eyes slowly, painfully, began adjusting to the fluorescent lights enough to lift your heavy eyelids.
Shapes were a blur, and all you saw for several seconds was white. After a couple of blinks, a dark blob took form above your head, followed by a web of lines. Tile? A ceiling? It must’ve been.
“Eye movement detected. What is two plus two?”
Blinking your eyes again, you tried to clear them of the layer of film that coated the surface while a soft tune met your ears. It sort of sounded like a hum, a song maybe but there were no words and no distinct rhythm to it. Some clicking followed. Ever so gradually, your vision cleared.
You could see that what you’d thought was the oddly patterned tile of a ceiling was actually some kind of barrier above you. Clear like glass but held together with some sort of darker adhesive that created a geometric hodgepodge of triangles. Beyond the clear barrier, a normal looking white wall could be seen, along with the source of the annoyingly bright lights. You weren’t focused on the lights or walls for long.
On the other side of the glass right above where your chest lay, was a pile of… rocks?
Rough in texture, a mixture of browns with teal green spots and some leathery bands. It was unlike any pile of rocks you’d ever seen. But when the rock moved, tilting this way and that, tapping part of itself against the clear barrier in three distinct taps with something that looked an awful lot like a finger, you realized that the pile of rocks was alive.
You tried to scream; tried to back away. Unfortunately, your raw and scratchy throat was barely able to make a squeak and your body remained prone.
The creature stood from where it had apparently been sitting down, revealing 5 rocky appendages attached to a larger rocky body. A stream of musical sounds erupted from it- somewhat whale like and mixed with trills like a bird. It was dancing around, spinning in circles above you and waving its arms in the air. It didn’t have a face, not one that you could see anyway, so you weren’t sure what emotion it was conveying.
You’d been abducted by aliens?! Oh, God… had you been probed? Experimented on? You couldn’t remember. Hopefully you were unconscious for all of it if you were. In fact, you couldn’t remember much of anything- just your name and basic facts about yourself.
Your tormentor seemed to be talking to you; gesturing to you, to itself, to the room. Your chest heaved in fear. What was it going to do to you? Were more of its kind going to rush in and start conducting ruthless experiments? You could barely move, unable to defend yourself or run away. You would be completely at their mercy.
You pleaded for your body to move, barely able to find the strength in your arms to press against the mattress and push your body up. Doing so, you were able to get a good look at yourself. Tubes were everywhere. In you, on you- electrodes covered your major muscle groups and you were wearing some kind of skin colored, translucent plastic body suit.
What?!
The alien moved some more, walking back a step so you could see it better. It held up a hand (?) and held up one finger (?), repeating a two-noted sound. You shook your head and frantically moved your heavy head around to look for an escape route.
“I don’ kn’w wh’ y’re sayin’,” you coughed, your throat painfully dry and scratchy. Your words were barely words. “Wh’r ‘m I? G’ ‘way fr’m me.” You tried to look over the side of the bed to see how far of a fall it would be if you tried to roll off. You sort of felt drunk… or high… maybe both.
The rock seemed to get a little frantic, again holding up a finger and repeating the notes with more urgency this time. Was it telling you to wait? Well, you weren’t about to wait for some alien scientists to come in and cut you open.
Your head was pounding as you moved to sit up properly, vision swimming as blood rushed from your head for the first time in what felt like years. It didn’t help when your forehead knocked against the clear barrier that separated you from the rock with a loud thunk.
The alien made a sound of alarm and pawed at the glass next to your head like it was worried. You groaned and pressed a wavering hand to the clear surface to avoid hitting your head again as you tried to get your legs to respond. They stayed limp and useless.
“C’mon,” you cried, pounding at your thighs with a fist. You felt like you were running out of time. If the alien was trying to get you to stay, that meant it probably notified the others that you were up and trying to flee. It did make you feel a little better that, for whatever reason, the creature stayed on its side of the barrier and didn’t venture into yours.
No time to ponder! Blinking rapidly to get rid of the stars that danced in your vision you moved to grasp your calves and physically lift them over the side of the bed but pounding footsteps rang through the room and you knew it was too late.
Tears sprang to your eyes as you looked in the direction of the sound, waiting for a hoard of aliens to charge at you to tie you back onto the bed. Instead, a single figure ran into the room from the depths of whatever facility you were in. And it was a man.
A normal looking, human man.
You instantly felt like you recognized him but couldn’t remember how or where. He was tall, wearing a tight t-shirt and what looked like the bottom half of a jumpsuit with the arms tied around his hips. Glasses sat over the bridge of his nose and his hair was damp and wild, like he’d just gotten out of a shower and ran a towel through it. If you weren’t terrified for your life, you would’ve ogled at him.
“You’re awake!” He smiled, a cheesy excited grin that had you momentarily forgetting why you were even scared of him in the first place. He approached your bedside in quick strides and gripped the edge. “I thought you were brain dead in there and the system was malfunctioning thinking you were still alive. I would’ve tried to wake you up earlier but I didn’t want to risk any complications of pulling you out of your coma prematurely so I just held out hope that you were ok in there and-” A disbelieving laugh. “-you were!”
He seemed so happy to see you, this man you maybe knew but didn’t remember. And… a coma? You’d been in a coma? Were you sick or something? Recovering from some horrible injury?
The guy must’ve noticed your racing mind because he nodded like he could read your thoughts. “It’s a lot in the beginning, but I promise your memories will come back with time. I’ll explain everything but I promise you’re safe here… er- I won’t hurt you at least. If that’s what you’re worried about. We can discuss our situation later but for now you need to take it slow and eat something.”
Now that he’d mentioned it, you did feel hungry. And tired. And gross. He seemed trustworthy enough so maybe it would do you well to listen to his advice. You calmed just the tiniest bit and he seemed to notice that too because he suddenly rushed forward to fold you into a hug.
If your legs weren’t useless piles of mush, you would’ve kicked him. But when you felt him sigh, shaky and relieved, you stopped yourself from shoving him away. The way he held you, gripped at the back of your plastic bodysuit and tucked his face against your dewey shoulder, had you wondering how horribly he needed this hug. From how tightly he was doing so, it was probably a lot.
You let him sit there for a while, let him breathe and feel the warmth of your skin under the plastic while you blinked away his hair that poked at your eye. You felt all sorts of awkward but let the stranger do his thing. Wondering how long this hug would last if you didn’t put an end to it yourself, motion caught the corner of your eye.
The alien- you’d completely forgotten about it. Maybe it was a weird trick of your imagination after you’d been asleep for so long and the alien wasn’t real. It was probably some ceiling fan you’d mistaken for a- nope. It was still there. The rock alien, standing close by and, you supposed, watching this long, intimate hug with interest.
Fear kicking back in, you made a sound that sort of resembled a yelp and gripped at the man’s t-shirt. “There’s n’ alien-” you fell into a coughing fit, feeling as the man finally released you to press a comforting hand to your spine. He asked for water- asked a cluster of robot arms that you hadn’t even noticed in your panic, and a pouch was pressed into your palms.
He didn’t seem near as worried as he should be, looking perfectly at ease in the presence of the creature. While he helped you open the pouch and sip water through the straw, he scowled at the alien.
“I told him not to put his tunnels above your bed like a creep but he didn’t want to hear it- he said I wasn’t watching you well enough so he was going to take over. He’s been pretty concerned about you.”
You couldn’t decide what part of his sentence you wanted to mull over.
The man waved his hand at the alien who chirped something and balled one of its claws into a fist. “Sorry, I left the laptop in the control room. Don’t know what you’re saying.”
The alien spun in a circle and sat down again with a thump, looking agitated at the spectacled man’s words, a stream of chords spilling from him. Some that sounded much harsher than others. Your head was truly spinning now.
“I tried to explain what medical comas are but I don’t think he really understands so he’s been pretty diligent at keeping an eye on you when we’re not busy. Rocky’s been watching you sleep to make sure you’re safe. It’s an Eridian thing, I’ll explain it later. He’s been very excited to meet you, by the way- has been ever since he realized there was another human here besides me. He’s interested to see how other humans compare.”
Eridian? Watching you… while you were unconscious? This man talked about this alien, Rocky apparently, like they were best friends. They bickered like best friends. Or an old married couple. You felt like you were going to puke.
“Enough about that, let me go get you some actual clothes. Can you move your legs?”
Right. You were sort of naked. “I-”
“Here, let me help.” The blonde tucked an arm under your knees and helped turn your body so your legs dangled off the edge. Your grip stayed steadfast on his shoulder. When he moved away from you, you didn’t let him go. He paused to look at you in surprise.
“Don’t leave me with…” You didn’t say his name, but you glanced at the thing in the glass tube.
“Oh-” The man blew out a laugh, “Rocky? He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He might run your toes over but other than that, he’s harmless. Don’t try to have a private conversation around him though, because he can and will eavesdrop. Give me two seconds, be right back!”
You had no choice but to let go of his shirt, watching helplessly as he hurried out, but not before turning over his shoulder to yell out, “My name’s Ryland by the way! If you don’t already remember!”
You didn’t.
As the sound of his footsteps faded, you warily turned to look at ‘Rocky’ who’d scooted closer to you again, perching right next to your head. He let out a sound, a coo, and rested a little claw against the barrier.
Tap tap tap. Then a thumbs down.
You had to give it to the guy, he was kind of cute now that you looked at him with a little less fear. Still cautious but… a little less guarded. And the thumbs down was kind of funny.
Rocky perked up and swayed back and forth with a chirp of definite happiness when you hesitantly gave him three taps back.
a/n: what if i said i watched lars and the real girl and lars has charmed me
summary: ryland grace wakes to find that only one of his crew mates has survived. the problem? they're still in a coma.
word count: 1.1k
tags: gn!astronaut!reader; hurt/comfort; pre-relationship; ryland's pov.
a/n: i'm so excited to share the first part of eternal sunshine with y'all! please note: future chapters will primarily be reader's pov (you're kinda in a coma rn, so...)
Ryland has only just learned his name when he discovers the bodies of his crew mates.
Two dead. One still in a coma. He shudders at the mummified bodies, his stomach going ice cold when he discovers their ill fated demise. It’s hard to look at them, these poor strangers trapped in perfectly-sized caskets. Ryland’s only respite is the sight of the coma patient; he tries to wake them up, poking and prodding at their shoulder through the thick plastic body bag containing them in their comatose state. He frantically calls out the name written on their suit to no avail. When nothing works, Ryland leaves them be.
He spends several hours pouring through the belongings of his crewmates — trying to make sense of who these people were, what his relationship to them was — before sending the deceased ones off with their things. Ryland finds his own haphazard pack of belongings next: funky T-shirts with science puns on them, a singular Polaroid photo of himself (with no others), and — buried beneath it all and wrapped in a napkin — a silver ring.
Ryland stares at it for a long time. He can’t recall for certain where the ring came from; the memories are distant. Given his lack of photos with a significant other, though, Ryland doesn’t initially think he has a spouse. Maybe he just likes to wear rings? No, he doesn’t seem like a jewelry guy. A memento from a loved one, then? Well, that doesn’t make much sense. He gets a weird ache in his heart when he looks at the band, though; a tautness in his chest that won’t go away.
Ryland lifts the ring, sliding the pad of his thumb over it. He lifts it to the light, admiring the shine against the sleek, smooth surface. In doing so, he notes an inscription on the inside of the band: “To the moon and back.”
That seems awfully romantic, doesn’t it?
Ryland deduces that — given the photos (or lack thereof), the ring, the ache — he must be a widow. The revelation is somewhat of a good sign — he’s making progress on his sense of self, after all — but it also makes him want to cry again. So he does exactly that: he sits on the floor and hunches over, letting the grief take over him. He holds the ring to his chest and lets it all out, even though the act of crying (again) elicits a headache.
At least he knows he isn’t heartless.
. . .
Ryland likes to talk to his crew mate.
Obviously, they can’t respond, and he probably looks like an idiot for talking to someone in a coma, but he would feel bad to leave them all alone. Ryland doesn’t have anyone else, anyway. He spends his days sitting by their side, sifting through their belongings: a photo of them at the beach. Another of them posing with their NASA badge with the crew behind them. More photos of them, this time with friends and family. At the bottom of the stack, a photo of them at a dimly lit restaurant. They’re smiling with a look of pure adoration, arm stretched across the table as they hold the hand of their lover behind the camera. Ryland stares at that one the longest — he’s not trying to be a creep or anything, but they’re beautiful. Radiant. Stunning. (The adjectives go on.) He imagines it must be nice that they’ll have someone to go back to once this whole mission is over. Ryland isn’t so lucky.
He asks them questions aloud, wondering what their life must have been like back on Earth. Were they scared? Surely they must have been if they had to leave their partner behind. Did they have full support? Were they taken care of? Did they know they would be stranded with an amnesiac schoolteacher who took three hours just to figure out his own name?
When he tires of his own rambling and picking through his comatose comrade’s belongings, Ryland sighs heavily, watching them rest upon the table. The annoying little robot that rudely woke him up from his own coma — which he has aptly named “Armando” for its General Grievous-esque sets of arms — has tended to them nonstop since Ryland found them. There’s a feeding tube down their throat at the moment, keeping nutrients in their body. Ryland doesn’t like to look at it; it makes his stomach feel queasy. He’s always been on the squeamish side. He suddenly remembers seeing one of his students trip in the hallway, and when her knee bled profusely, he nearly fainted.
Thankfully, there’s no blood leaking from his crew mate’s body, only the somewhat horrifying sight of the tube protruding from their mouth. He averts his eyes out of self preservation for his twisting stomach.
By now, Ryland is sure that if they ever wake, he’s made a fool of himself. He has shared every embarrassing story about his life on Earth that he can recall — mostly for his own sanity. It feels good to share his thoughts aloud to someone, even though he’s terrified that they can hear him through their coma. Would they think he’s weird? Funny? Charming? A huge loser? It’s impossible to know.
At the very least, they’re a good listener.
. . .
“Human sleep, question?”
Rocky is nosy. When Ryland comes to check on his comatose friend, the alien just has to come along.
“They’re in a coma,” Ryland explains. “I was in one, too, before you and I met.”
“Coma,” Rocky echoes. His body turns towards Ryland's inquisitively. “Why human still coma, question?”
The scientist shrugs, his shoulders sinking. For a moment, he can’t look at his sleeping crew mate. “I don’t know. Something’s wrong, I guess. I’m not sure if they’ll wake up anytime soon.”
Rocky’s body similarly sinks, drooping within the confines of his ball. His body turns back to that of the unmoving human. “Long time sleep.”
“Uh-huh. Long time sleep,” Ryland confirms with a nod.
His throat feels tight at the thought. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Rocky’s company is wonderful, but being the only walking, talking human for light years is lonely. Once they save their planets and Rocky returns to Erid, Ryland will be on his own all over again. He still hasn’t told Rocky that the Hail Mary doesn’t have enough fuel to return home. He hasn’t told Rocky that he’s scared to take away his crew mate’s life support because he’s clinging to the hope that they’ll wake up soon enough. He’d sooner starve to death than risk pulling the plug on them before they’re ready to wake. He can’t be alone. He can’t.
Beside him, Rocky sits, his little rock body thudding against the ground. “Grace Rocky watch human sleep,” Rocky decides. It is notably not a question.
Ryland smiles, giving his friend’s ball an affectionate pat.
your suit was torn in several spots, the symbolic webbing ripped open to reveal bloodied skin. the window sill of the mansion was slick, the rain doing little to help your case. thunder struck in time with your soft bang against the edge, knocking the window open. you slid inside, quietly latching the lock behind you.
lightning flashed, illuminating the room. you pried the mask off your head, hair bouncing free as you breathed deeply. your wounds ached, and you grimaced when a particularly harsh throb wracked your ribs. you leaned against the wall, grateful for the dark that encased the room.
remy was out for the night, you were certain. he’d left you a note, saying he and the guys went to a gaming hall. you’d smiled fondly at the tiny heart he left next to his name.
you stumbled into the bathroom, blood smearing along the walls and the counter. the toothbrush cup fell over, spilling onto the floor. you went down next, your shaking arms barely able to hold yourself up.
before you could even think of picking them up, lights flicked on as the floors creaked.
“chère?”
you reached for the door, throwing your limp body against it. remy’s shadow appeared from under the door, his knuckles tapping against the wood, “did i wake ya up? y’alright?”
“m’fine, remy,” you shakily spoke, biting back a wince as your fingers dipped into the wound. you felt the hard casing of the bullet. “can’t lie t’remy, mon ami. let him in, please.” your nails grazed the bullet, a quiet grunt leaving your lips at the ache.
your brows knit together when the door you rested on began to rattle. it warmed, and you quickly scooted away when you saw the purple flecks of kinetic energy swirling around the doorknob. “remy—!”
it opened.
and there he was.
dressed casually—in one of those crop tops he adored and jeans—like he didn’t bankrupt other gamblers and win every game of poker. his crimson hair was fluffy.
“where’s your coat?” you asked with a gentle frown. it was cold outside, didn’t he wear one?
“you bleedin’ on our floor ‘n askin’ about some coat?” he knelt next to you, necklaces clinking as he tore his gloves off. you watched him tug the first aid kit from the cabinet, flicking it open and getting to work. remy was uncharacteristically quiet, which worried you deeply. he hadn’t acknowledged the suit you wore, nor gloated about the sheer amount he’d won tonight.
you grimaced when the bullet clinked on the tile, feeling your enhanced regeneration tingle through your cells. “i knew,” remy spoke, resting a comforting hand on your thigh, “‘bout de…spider thing. did’ya think i wouldn’t notice?”
you looked away, silent and ashamed.
“m’not mad at ya, chère. not even a lil,” he soothed, clasping a firm hand under your jaw and guiding your face back to his, “just wish ya told remy sooner. he didn’t wanna see ya like t’is before ya told him.”
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the skin of the wound close. remy stared down at it, dual-colored eyes swirled with confusion. “i heal over time,” you explained, “gunshots take longer, usually.” he shook his head with a fond grin, as if the thought of your wounds taking longer to heal would quell his worries.
remy’s eyes were molten, swirling with sparks of purple and admiration. it was quiet, his thumb simply sweeping over your cheek as your healing tingled your cells. “how much did you win?” you asked after a while, allowing him to scoop you up and carry you to the bedroom. “i’m offended, chère. ‘course i won lots,” he smirked lazily, “wan’ somethin’? remy’ll get it for ya.”
“my suit kinda needs repairs,” you sheepishly admitted, and he laughed. “mm. dunno ‘bout supportin’ such…dangerous endeavors..” he got you comfortably in bed, joining you quickly, and tucked you close. remy was always warm. you buried your face in his chest, hiding from his blazing eyes upon your next words, “and i wanted to go shopping for a dress for emma’s event..”
“ooh, now dat—remy’s got plenty,” his lips pressed against your head, “oughta let me see ev’ryone of ‘em. touch, too. tha’s requirement. needa see if the…quality is worth de price.”
you smiled and giggled, keeping your warm face hidden from him, “required, huh? you sure it’s just to test the fabric quality?”
“guilty as charged,” he mused, dragging his fingers along your spine, “close ‘dem eyes, chère. sleep f’remy.”
you hummed softly, the ache in your bones fading as remy’s touch soothed them. outside, sirens still blared and criminals still ran rampant—but right now? you were simply remy’s.
DAREDEVIL … MATTHEW MURDOCK
you’d learned how to circle matt.
adapted to his schedules, shifted around mishaps, smiled through painful throbs of bruises—you’d perfected it.
until you seen him out.
you were perched on a balcony, fingers barely grazing the iron safety bars. it was 3am, and matt was usually asleep at this time. home from a long day of court, and tonight, he mentioned going out to drink with foggy and karen. he was home at midnight—why was he out now?
you quietly leapt across buildings, pausing every time he paused, moving when he moved. his cane tapped lightly against the concrete, the familiar clicks making your heart rate slow.
then, a hand shot from the darkness.
matt was yanked into an alley, and you launched into action. you watched as the man threw matt to the ground, and before matt could retaliate, you were there. your fist collided with the thug’s face, webs zipping! out. your foot landed on his shoulder, launching yourself and him up as you threw punch after punch and kick after kick. the webs clung to him, pinning his struggling and bruised frame against the brick wall.
your feet touched the pavement, kneeling in front of a winded matt.
“sir, sir, are you alright?”
“i knew it,” he breathed, smiling in that utterly pleased way of his. you tried to subdue your increasing heart rate, handing him his cane, “knew what?” matt’s head tilted knowingly, hands drifting forward to grip your waist.
“i’m not a fool, sweetheart. i know your heartbeat,” matt leaned up, and you had to look away from him, “it got faster. you’re nervous. i know your footsteps—your breaths.” matt pushed himself off the ground, and you slid his cane in his hand. he took a step towards you, lips still pulled into that infuriating smile of his. you tried to pull away quickly, but he caught your wrist, “i know your touch, your hands. even if they’re covered.”
“did you plan this or something?” you embarrassedly asked, keeping your eyes averted as he tugged you closer. his lips curled up further, and you groaned in disdain, “matt!”
“don’t be like that,” he cooed, “i was getting tired of you tiptoeing around it. so, i gave you a reason to tell me.” your head thumped against his chest, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. he swayed you lightly, chin propped atop your head. he smelled like warm sheets and the candle on the nightstand.
“go home, please.”
“come with me,” he countered, bringing both arms around you. his fingers traced the webbing of your suit, trailing around the spider design on your back. “i can’t,” you muttered, tensing when one of his hands dragged up your arm. his fingertips grazed along your mask, and you clasped his wrist tightly, “matt…”
“just for a minute, baby,” he whispered, “please?” you hesitated, nodding briefly. matt lifted your mask over your nose, and you felt his breath tickle your lips.
then, you felt his softness.
matt’s hands held your face, his shoulders dropping in utter bliss. you backed him into the wall, smiling into the kiss. you broke apart, foreheads resting together.
your lips parted to speak—
“hey, can you let me down please? i need to go to the doctor!”
your head jerked up, and matt laughed:
“foggy?!”
SPIDERMAN … PETER PARKER
it was hard being new york’s third spidey.
you usually stayed under the radar, cleaning up when peter or miles couldn’t—but there was one tiny issue.
they had no idea it was you.
peter was at grad school for the majority of the day—miles surely contemplating his existence in high school—so you had opportune time to be spidey during the day. they’d tried to contact you, of course, but you’d made it a point to avoid them at all costs.
right now, you were perched on a rooftop, eyes skimming across the city as you held a large icee in your hand. you sipped casually, flinching when your comms began to ring. your fingers pressed against your ear, a soft hum leaving your lips.
“hi, honey,” you greeted, “what’s up?”
peter didn’t answer.
“peter?”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
“tell you what?” you calmly asked, keeping your voice level despite the panic creeping up your spine. peter sighed, displeased, “delmar’s pickle sub was on sale an hour ago.”
“oh,” you laughed, relieved, “i’m sorry, i didn’t know it was.” peter groaned childishly, and you vaguely heard the bustling sounds of the cafeteria. “are you with miles?”
“yeah. gonna take him to get some actual food for his final week,” you heard him call him over, and then you heard his voice, “hey, pete’s taking me to get actual food. do you wanna go?”
your lips parted to agree, but a loud screech and explosions sounded nearby. you heard the phone rustle, “what was that? baby?”
“nothing—i gotta go, have fun!”
you swiftly hung up, ignoring the way peter called you back instantly. you tugged your mask back on, tossing your empty icee cup in a trashcan as you swung to the scene. you landed atop a streetlight, frowning when you saw a group of men holding women hostage.
their massive guns waved haphazardly, and you teasingly called out, “got a license for those?”
“it’s the spider!”
“which one?!”
you catapulted yourself at them, web bombs flying from your palms. the sticky threads flawlessly coiled around them, pinning them in one webbed up cluster. “huh. that was easy,” you shrugged, walking over to the women.
“hi,” you whispered, “anyone hurt?”
they shook their heads as you gently guided them away. you flinched when a sharp pain pierced your side. you glanced down, spotting an unfamiliar object. the dart’s contents were glowing purple, and your body broke into shivers upon its dispersal into your bloodstream.
“haha! it worked!” the cluster cheered.
you shot a web, barely able to swing properly. you crash landed on a nearby roof, curling up into a ball as your body shook. you were freezing despite the boiling hot weather.
“spidey?” the voice was warbled, but you recognized the familiar red and blue suit, accompanied by the black and red one. you tried to move, to hide from him, but his hand carefully moved you on your back.
“hey, hey, what happened?”
you shook your head, fingers grazing the rooftop’s edge. you were in agony. cold, hot, boiling, freezing, shivering, paralyzed.
“you need fresh air,” miles worriedly said, his hands nearing the hem of your mask. you weakly slapped them away, and he looked at peter for guidance.
“we promise we’ll keep your secret,” peter comfortingly said, “we can help you.”
“i don’t want it,” you heaved, mustering up enough courage to toss yourself off the edge. your body freefell, but your webs missed their landing—
a hand coiled around your wrist, your body dangling against the wall. you tiredly looked up, spotting peter upside down in front of you. he was stuck to the wall, one hand next to your head as the other held you up by your wrist.
“i tried to give you openings, but i seriously can’t take it anymore,” peter reached for your mask, yanking it up and off before you could react, “baby, please. we need to get you to the hospital.”
your mind was rendered to nothing but mush.
you could only hum and grumble, and you grimaced when he swept you up. your vision went dark, all you felt was his arms.
when you woke, he was staring at you with an intensity and a sadness you hadn’t seen since aunt may.
“pete?” you tiredly whispered. he didn’t speak, his knee bouncing rapidly, “are you mad?”
“i’d be a hypocrite if i were mad,” he sighed, shifting from his seat and sitting next to you on the bed. his fingers traced along your cheek, a weak smile on his lips.
“you could’ve told me.”
you didn’t answer to that, lifting your hand to cup his. his warmth permeated the cold of your skin. you shrugged softly, and he laughed as he pressed his lips to yours. “mm. i guess i didn’t tell you either, huh?”
“no, you didn’t,” you mused, “i found out because you left your mask in—“
“you promised not to talk about that!”
WOLVERINE … LOGAN HOWLETT
“she’s not herself—logan!” charles shouted, turning in his wheelchair in an attempt to stop him.
“i don’t give a damn,” he snarled, spinning on his heel, “she’s mine. some fish-bowl headed lunatic ain’t takin’ her from me.” ororo stood instantly, grabbing her jacket and following him out. he briefly shot her a look of gratitude and utter respect, to which she nodded once.
storm always had his back.
the jet rumbled as it zipped through the air, and its screens displayed you in the city. mysterio hovered near you, the sky dim as the people’s symbol of hope ebbed away. “get me as close as you can,” logan grumbled to scott, who didn’t respond with one of his usual remarks.
he understood the gravity of the situation.
you, the girl who swung with webs through new york city, hands outstretched to whoever needed help—a child who fell off their bike, a man kicking a vending machine that took his money, the elderly woman who needs help crossing the hectic street—you were there.
now, you were suspended midair, body lifeless as mysterio’s control seeped into your mind. citizens cried and begged, their fingertips barely able to reach you.
“ah, the x-men,” mysterio cooed, “come to save a fellow hero?”
the jet landed harshly, and logan leapt out. he stormed closer, feeling the soft breeze of ororo’s aura behind him. jean and scott joined them, their eyes blazing with rage.
“where did you take them?” scott shouted. mysterio’s arms stretched wide, “allow me to show you.”
the city faded to black.
bodies were thrown and tossed about, and logan seen you. your suit was shredded to pieces, your mask completely gone. your eyes were black, tears staining your cheeks. blood coated your skin as you stood atop a pile of bodies.
how long had you been here?
what were you seeing?
he turned around, tensing when he realized that he was the only one here. logan sprinted toward you, and your eyes jerked to him. you jumped, webs slinging out to stop him. webs cocooned him in seconds.
your fingertips dug into his face, “sick joke, mysterio. using him against me.”
“bub—“
“stop talking,” you seethed, fresh tears filling your eyes, “i will break your neck.” logan’s claws slid free, slicing through the webs and shoving you against the ground. his hand pressed against your throat—a warning. “listen to me,” his tone was firm, eyes dark with anger, “yer stuck in an illusion. he threw me in here w’you.”
“you’re—lying!” your knee dug harshly into his stomach, but he didn’t move. logan’s claws dug into the asphalt, solidifying his posture, “i ain’t lyin’, stubborn thing. it’s logan,” he stressed, eyes flicking all over your injuries, “look.”
he cautiously raised a hand, reaching for the neck of his white shirt and tugging the collar down. a thin chain with a ring looped onto it—the stupid matching rings you’d bought as a peace treaty after a big argument. you faltered in your fight, hand lifting to further pull the shirt down—
“now yer just pushin’ it.”
then he felt your fingertips brush along a scar.
one that very little knew was there.
the scar that you’d given him for moments like these, moments that needed proof and grounding. logan relaxed, leaning back and pulling you up with him. you traced the tiny X with care, and he frowned when tears filled your eyes. “c’mon, sweets. don’t cry.”
your palms roughly swiped at your eyes, your breaths growing scarce, and his hands easily found your wrists, “stop. breathe.”
you cried apologies, falling into his arms. logan sighed, standing up with you secure in his hold. he rubbed your back as he walked through the domain, ears tuned into finding his comrades.
when he reconnected with the group, ororo greeted you with a soft smile. you stayed in his arms, eyes forcefully averted from the carnage you’d unleashed in here. logan wasn’t worried about getting stuck in the domain, he knew they’d find their way out eventually.
but right now, he had you—his darling spider—in his arms, and you needed him.
HUMAN TORCH … JOHNNY STORM
you’d broken your arm in an intense fight with sandman. you remembered the sick crack, the way your forearm was angled incorrectly as you sheepishly showed it to the emergency room workers. you hadn’t been able to reset the bone, so it had begun to heal like that. the doctors, pitifully, had to re-break the bone just to fix it.
it healed a week ago.
johnny still hadn’t stopped pampering you.
he refused to “hand you over” to peter when the city called, he refused to let you do literally anything. tonight, peter had messaged you, desperate for help on an intel-related task. johnny was sleeping, and so, you’d taken the opportunity.
you quietly snuck out of the bedroom, suit zipped up and ready to go. herbie appeared at the end of the hallway, his little head tilting curiously. you knelt in front of him, gently rubbing his head, “i’ll be back soon, herbie. don’t worry.”
“johnny?” he beeped quietly.
“sleeping. if he’s up before i leave, tell him i went shopping. wait, no don’t tell him that, he’ll be upset,” you considered a proper response, sighing as you shook your head and came up empty, “just tell him i’m helping pete.”
herbie beeped, nodding. he nuzzled into your hand, and you smiled warmly. “bye, be good.”
he followed you to the balcony, watching you closely as you leapt off it. the sky was blanketed with stars as you zipped through the city, landing calmly on the appointed building. peter appeared from around the corner, waving as he landed. “hey, thanks for coming. did johnny let you go easy?”
“i didn’t wake him up,” you admitted, “didn’t feel like arguing and wasting time.” peter hummed knowingly, perching next to you and pointing at the condemned factory.
“kraven’s got stuff in there. need to know all about it.”
“easy,” you mused.
it was in fact, not easy.
you and peter breathed heavily behind cover, bullet wounds coating the two of you. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, wincing at a throb of pain. “uh-huh,” you mockingly replied, flinching when a bullet embedded the wall next to you.
you silently contemplated what to do—
you were cornered, blood dripping from nearly every part of your body. peter was in a similar shape, wounded and exhausted. you groaned, your head thumping against the wood crate, “use the signal.”
“seriously? johnny’s gonna kill us…”
“i’d rather die to him than these guys, pete. just do it.”
peter visibly accepted his fate, thumb pressing against the line of webbing that alerted the fantastic four. within seconds, your comms rang. you pressed your ear against your shoulder, too tired to raise your hands.
“that better not have anything to do with you.”
“i don’t know how to tell you this,” you laughed weakly, “but it kind of has everything to do with me.”
johnny didn’t speak, comms shutting off. peter met your masked eyes, “how bad?”
“he’s dead silent,” you solemnly said.
“shit.”
the glass erupted into shards, and you flinched when rapid gunshots fired. a bright orange glow encased the room, and you vaguely heard the soft thrumming of sue’s barrier.
loud footsteps sounded to your left, and you saw ben standing over the two of you.
“hey,” you and peter greeted casually, as if the two of you weren’t staining the floor red. johnny landed next to ben, expression utterly displeased and furious. he knelt next to you, sending a nasty stare towards peter as he scooped you up.
“i’m sorry, man!” peter shouted as johnny walked away. he didn’t say a word as he ignited into flames and shot off towards the hospital.
“stupid, stupid,” he muttered, “i’m gonna sell out everything he loves.”
“johnny—“
“you scared me, baby,” he admitted, “woke up to the signal going off, you not in my arms.”
you murmured an apology, doing your best to withstand the heat he emitted. your suit was fireproof, courtesy of reed, but some places were torn. “do you wanna know how long i’m keeping you to myself now?”
you sighed, eyes closing as you accepted the inevitable.
“how long, johnny?”
“three months.”
generous, you thought amusedly.
“you’re also prohibited from communicating with peter for a good year.”
the doctors made quick work of you, and you assured them your healing would take care of what they couldn’t quickly fix. they had other people to help, people that couldn’t self-sustain.
now, you were in bed with johnny.
he had you wrapped in his arms, tightly. “are you gonna hold me like this the whole three months?” you softly asked, tapping your fingers on his back to the rhythm of the song he’d chosen.
“if i have to. i’ll hold you in the shower, at dinnertime, while you get ready,” he listed off, eyes sparkling with mischief. you smiled, cuddling closer to him. he kissed your head, gently pulling you away so he can reach the rest of your face. he peppered kisses on your skin, pausing before he reached your lips.
his blue eyes swirled with worry and love, and you nodded.
he kissed you sweetly, embers flickering in his hair. you separated with a shy laugh, and he embraced you again.
“seriously, don’t scare me like that again. especially don’t just…leave.”
could i just request randomly pulling up the shirt of
(im wanting the little blurbs thag you do that are just *chefs kiss* with like peter p, steve, tony, venom, etc etc)
just to look at their abs, lit the only reason.
totally oki if not have a great day :)
marvel men in.. !!
their gf loves their abs !!
🏷 @mavixgirl , @luna-kait
📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, kurt wagner, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, johnny storm, peter quill.
LOGAN HOWLETT
You’re mid-argument. Something about him leaving his dog tags on the nightstand again, something about the smell of cigar smoke clinging to your favorite sweater. He’s doing the thing where he just growls instead of using words, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like a man carved from angry marble.
You are trying to be mad. You really are.
But then your eyes drift down. To the hem of his worn, grey henley. To the way it’s riding up just a fraction of an inch above the waist of his jeans.
“and you never listen, and you just—Logan, hold still.”
He stops mid-snarl. “What?”
You don’t answer. You just walk forward, grab the damp, frayed cotton, and yank it straight up to his collarbone.
Silence.
For a full three seconds, he just stares down at you. Then at your hands on his shirt. Then at your face, which is currently doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that you are openly ogling the geography of his abdomen. The map of scars. The ridges of muscle that look like they were carved by a very angry, very horny god.
“…The hell you doin’?” he finally asks, voice dropping an octave.
“Checking for injuries,” you lie, voice barely a squeak.
He catches your chin with two fingers, tilts your face up. His eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bub. I heal.”
“Then I’m checking for… symmetry.”
He stares at you for another long, agonizing moment. Then he sighs, the kind of sigh that carries the weight of a century of suffering. He gently pulls his shirt down, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.
“You’re a menace,” he mutters, turning back to the argument. But now he’s holding his coffee mug a little lower. And the next time he crosses his arms, he makes sure the shirt rides up just a little more. For the sake of symmetry.
WORST WOLVERINE
You find him on the couch. It’s 2 PM. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s hot pink sweatpants (they were the only clean ones), a stained white tank top that has seen better centuries, and an expression of profound, feral exhaustion. Dogpool is licking his own foot on the floor. Blind Al is somewhere in the kitchen, loudly trying to microwave a fork.
You are supposed to be bringing him a beer. You do bring him the beer. But as you lean over to set it on the coffee table, your gaze snags on the hem of that tank top.
It’s already barely there. But you want more.
So you do it. You just grab the thin, greasy fabric and hoist it up to his armpits.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at you with those dead, tired eyes. His torso is a mess—a spectacular, horrifying, fascinating mess. Hair, scars, the memory of a thousand deaths. You could count his ribs if you wanted to, but you’re too busy looking at the way the muscles in his obliques twitch.
“…You done?” he asks, voice like gravel being dragged over broken glass.
“No,” you whisper.
He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has seen the multiverse crumble and found that this (his girlfriend ogling his post-apocalyptic abs) is the final indignity.
“You’re as bad as the red one.”
“I’m worse,” you admit, not letting go of the shirt.
WADE WILSON
You don’t even get to pull the shirt up. You barely reach for it.
One second your fingers are brushing the hem of his faded, chimichanga-stained t-shirt. The next, he has exploded out of it. The shirt is in tatters on the floor. He is standing in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but a pair of unicorn-print boxers and a triumphant grin.
“BABY! Why didn’t you SAY so?!” he bellows, striking a bodybuilder pose. “These bad boys have been DYING for a curtain call! Say hello to the lads! Upper management! The twins! The abdominal ambassadors!”
You blink. “I was just going to-”
“Shhhh.” He presses a finger to your lips. “No talking. Only looking. Feast your eyes, my little goblin. Feast upon the glistening, scar-riddled, perfectly-healed-from-forty-seven-stab-wounds terrain of TRUE LOVE.”
He then proceeds to do a full, unironic, unhinged strip tease to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on his phone speaker. He flexes. He points at each individual ab (he counts nine, there are four). He makes the muscle dance. He asks you if you want to “leave a tip in the tip jar” while gesturing vaguely below the belt.
By the end of it, you are crying with laughter, curled up on the floor. He takes this as a win, scoops you up, and carries you to the bedroom, whispering, “I knew my degenerative muscle disorder would pay off one day.”
You never did get to pull the shirt up. You didn’t need to. He pre-emptively detonated it.
ORIGINS! WADE WILSON
This Wade is smooth. Dangerously smooth. You two are sparring (lightly) when you trip him—not hard—and he lets you pin him just to see what you’ll do.
You lift his shirt.
He doesn’t flinch. He grins. “Checking for wounds, or checking for weapons?”
“weapons,” you say, eyes on the perfect V-line.
“Plot twist,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “the only weapon I’m hiding is right—"
You slap your hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”
He shuts up and lets you look. He even does a little half-crunch so the lighting shifts. But the second your fingers drift too low, he catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, and flips you effortlessly.
Now he’s on top. His shirt is still up. “Your turn to show me something.”
“I don’t have abs like that.”
“Did I say abs?” He grins, all teeth. “I said ‘something.’”
REMY LEBEAU
You’re sitting on his lap in a booth at some dimly lit New Orleans bar. He’s in the middle of a truly insufferable poker story. You’re bored. So you lift his shirt.
He doesn’t stop talking. He just smirks.
“—and den de man, he say, ‘Gambit, you cheat,’ and I say, ‘Monsieur, I never cheat at cards. Only at love.’ Ah, chère, you likin’ what you see, non?”
You nod, transfixed. His skin is warm. There’s a fine trail of hair below his navel.
He finally looks down, still smirking, and flicks a playing card from his sleeve. He tucks it under his own shirt, right above his hip bone. “Find dat one, and you get a prize.”
You spend the next hour with your hand up his shirt, searching for a card that keeps changing positions via kinetic energy. The bar loves it. He loves it. By the end, you’ve forgotten the card entirely and are just holding his waist.
He kisses your forehead. “You cute when you focused.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Oui.” He pulls his shirt down. Then up again. Then down. Then up. “But you ain’t complainin’.”
KURT WAGNER
You are both in the X-Mansion’s library. It’s late. Rain is pattering against the windows. Kurt is reading a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in German, his tail curled contentedly around your ankle. He’s wearing a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that fits him like a second skin.
You’re not reading. You’re watching the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. The way his biceps flex every time he turns a page. The way his tail flicks.
You lose the battle.
You lean over, grab the hem of his shirt, and yank it up to his chin.
He yelps. Actually yelps. The book goes flying. He bamfs—teleports—out of your grasp and reappears on the other side of the room, clinging to the ceiling like a startled cat, his shirt still bunched up around his neck, his golden eyes wide.
“Mein Gott!” he gasps, a flush spreading across his blue-furred cheeks. “What-why- schatz!”
You are laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He’s still on the ceiling, tail lashing, looking like a very confused, very sexy gargoyle. His abdomen is a work of art. Lean, powerful, dusted with the same velvety blue fur as the rest of him.
“I just wanted to see,” you wheeze.
He drops down from the ceiling in a puff of sulfur, landing in front of you with his shirt still askew. He looks at you, really looks at you, and his embarrassment melts into something softer. Something warmer.
“You could have asked,” he says, his accent thickening. He takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, right over his navel. The fur is incredibly soft. “You never have to steal what is already yours.”
EDDIE BROCK (& VENOM!)
You come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, hunched over a tub of tater tots, looking like a man who has made several poor life choices. He’s wearing a faded Newsies sweatshirt (don’t ask) and sweatpants.
You don’t even say hello. You just walk up, grab the hem of the sweatshirt, and hoist it up.
Eddie freezes, a tater tot halfway to his mouth. His stomach is… well. It’s not a six-pack. It’s a soft, solid, eat-a-whole-pizza-and-still-look-good kind of stomach. A little hair. A little scar from that time he got impaled by a symbiote hater. It’s perfect.
Before either of you can speak, a black tendril shoots out of Eddie’s chest and gently pushes the sweatshirt back down.
“No,” Venom’s voice growls, low and possessive. “Ours. Only WE get to look.”
“Venom, dude, they’re my girlfriend,” Eddie says, still not moving.
“Then WE will look at HER. Not at US.”
Another tendril wraps around you, and before you know it, your shirt is being torn off of you by a very insistent alien goo monster. Eddie chokes on his tater tot. You shriek.
“Better,” Venom rumbles, apparently satisfied with the view. “Now we are even. We will keep the sweatshirt down. You will keep YOUR shirt up. This is the new rule.”
Eddie buries his face in his hands. “This is not the new rule.”
“VOTE.” One tendril raises Eddie’s hand. Another raises an invisible one for Venom. “Two against one. New rule passes.”
You are now sitting on the couch on your bra, eating tater tots, while Eddie pretends to not be staring. You consider this an absolute win.
STEVE ROGERS
You’re in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. Steve is making breakfast: pancakes from scratch, because of course he is. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored henley and an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” You have never wanted to kiss a cook more in your entire life.
He flips a pancake. His forearm flexes. The henley strains across his back.
You crack.
You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, and yank his shirt up.
He doesn’t react violently. He’s Steve. He just freezes, pancake flipper in hand, and looks down at your hands splayed across his bare stomach. His body is a monument. A tribute to the pinnacle of human (superhuman) achievement. Every muscle is defined, even after years of retirement. There’s a light dusting of blond hair below his navel. You could cry.
“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice that low, patient, dangerous captain’s voice. “What are you doing?”
“Admiring American history,” you whisper.
He turns off the stove. Slowly. Deliberately.
“We are in a common area. With cameras. That Tony definitely watches.”
“I wanted to see your abs.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. “You… you see them every day. When I change.”
“Not up close.”
He looks left. Right. Then, very quickly, he lifts his own shirt for exactly 1.7 seconds—then drops it. “There. Satisfied?”
“No. That was a crime.”
“You know,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his perfect lips, “in my day, a lady would simply ask to see a gentleman’s torso.”
“In my day,” you retort, “we just took what we wanted.”
“If I let you look for five seconds, will you stop doing this in transited areas of the Tower?”
“Deal.”
He lifts his shirt. You stare. He counts down from five out loud, but he goes slower on the “two.” And when he says “one,” he doesn’t let go.
You end up with your hands on his waist, him holding his own shirt up like a gentleman, for nearly a minute. Sam walks in. Sam walks back out.
Steve buries his face in your hair. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”
“Worth it.”
TONY STARK
You are in his workshop. He’s under a car (one of his classic convertibles) wearing a grease-stained band t-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips. DUM-E is handing him wrenches. He is muttering about torque ratios.
You crouch down, slide a hand under the car to grab at the plank he's laying on and tug it out, and before he can say “Friday, what the hell,” you grab his shirt and yank it up to his neck.
Tony blinks. He’s on his back, covered in grease, and his girlfriend is now straddling his thighs, staring at his stomach like it’s the last slice of pizza on earth.
“...Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ve been in a lot of situations. Hostage situations. Space situations. That one time in Budapest with a goat. This is… new.”
“Shut up, Tony.”
“I’m not complaining!” He holds up his greasy hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, most people buy me a drink first. You went straight for the home run. I respect it. I’m a little scared, but I respect it.”
You run your fingers down the middle. He shivers. Actually shivers.
“Friday,” he whispers, “cancel my three o’clock.”
“You don’t have a three o’clock, boss.”
“Then cancel my existence. I’m busy.”
He pulls you down on top of him, shirt still up, and kisses you until you taste like motor oil and twenty-year-old guilt. When you finally come up for air, he’s grinning like the man who has everything, and just found out he gets to keep it.
PETER PARKER
He is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Because he’s Peter Parker, and he cannot just sit on a couch like a normal person. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt that says “I ❤️ NY” and has a small hole in the armpit.
You walk under him. He grins, upside-down, all big brown eyes and messy hair. “Hey, my lov—”
You grab his shirt. You pull it up (or is it down?).
It slides down all the way to his chin, revealing his entire torso. And oh no. Oh no. He’s lean. He’s wiry. He’s got that swimmer’s build, all long muscle and narrow hips, and a faint trail of dark hair that makes you want to do things that would make your Catholic grandmother faint.
He tries to flip off the ceiling, but he’s so flustered he miscalculates and falls directly on top of you. You both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His shirt is now down. He is now on top of you. He is very warm.
“I- you—why- my abs?!” he squeaks, his voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. “You wanted to see my- I have- they’re not even- they’re just-muscles!”
“Nice muscles,” you say, reaching up to poke one.
He makes a sound like a deflating balloon. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you’re touching them.”
“That’s generally what happens, yeah.”
He buries his face in your shoulder, ears burning red. But he doesn’t pull his shirt down. And he doesn’t get off you. And after a minute, you feel him mumble into your neck: “…do you want to see the back too?”
You have never loved anyone more.
THOR ODINSON
You are in New Asgard. Thor is on the couch, wearing a flannel shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course), eating a bowl of popcorn the size of your head. He’s in his “comfortable” era, softer around the edges, happier, more him.
You climb into his lap, because you fit there now. He grins, that big, golden, sunshine-in-human-form grin. “Hello, my love! Would you like some popcorn? I have also procured-"
You grab his flannel. You pull it open. Buttons fly everywhere. The shirt hangs off his shoulders, revealing his broad, glorious chest. He’s not as cut as he used to be. There’s a softness there now, a layer of warmth over the godly muscle. It is, objectively, the most attractive thing you have ever seen.
Thor freezes, a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Then he looks down at his exposed torso, then at you, then back at his torso.
“…Did you just… de-shirt me?”
“Button-de-shirted you,” you correct. “And yes.”
He considers this for a moment. Then he puts the popcorn down, leans back slightly, and spreads his arms wide on the back on the couch. His smile turns slow, warm, and devastating.
“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, register-rattling rumble, “on Asgard, it is customary to ask before one disrobes a prince.”
“On Midgard,” you reply, “we do what we want.”
He laughs a full, booming laugh that shakes the couch, and pulls you against his bare chest. He is so warm. So soft. So impossibly huge.
“Then by all means,” he murmurs against your hair, “take what you want, little mortal.”
You stay there for hours. The popcorn gets cold. Neither of you moves.
JOHNNY STORM
You are in the middle of a fight. A real one. He forgot your anniversary. You are screaming. He is deflecting. The Human Torch is currently being verbally immolated by his very angry girlfriend.
“and you said you would remember this time, Johnny, you promised!"
“Babe, I’m sorry, I was fighting a Mole Man—”
“THERE IS ALWAYS A MOLE MAN!”
You are so angry. So furious. Your blood is boiling. And then your eyes drop to his waist. He’s wearing his Fantastic Four uniform, the blue and black one, and the top is slightly untucked from his bottoms.
You grab it. You yank it up.
Johnny stops mid-sentence. His abs are obscene. A perfect, chiseled, airbrushed-by-the-gods six-pack that looks like it was designed in a lab specifically to make you forget why you were mad.
You stare.
He stares at you staring.
“…Are we still fighting?” he asks cautiously.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I forgot.”
His cocky grin returns. Slow. Smug. Infuriating. “So my abs just… saved the day?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m not pushing anything. You’re the one who pulled up my shirt in the middle of a screaming match.”
You drop the shirt. It falls back down. You immediately pull it back up again.
He throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and Johnny. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”
“Shut up and take off the rest of the suit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
PETER QUILL
You are on the Benatar. In space. There’s a nebula outside the window. It’s very romantic. Peter is trying to impress you by playing Come and Get Your Love on his Zune and doing a stupid little dance.
He’s wearing his iconic red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt underneath, and that stupid, gorgeous, annoyingly charming smirk.
You walk up to him. He thinks you’re going to dance with him. He holds out his hand.
Instead, you grab his t-shirt and yank it straight up to his chin.
The music stops. Peter looks down. There’s a faint line of hair from his navel down. He’s suddenly blushing all the way to his ears.
“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I dunno. A slow dance? A compliment about my eyes for once? Not-not a surprise shirt-ectomy!”
You run a finger down his sternum. He shivers violently.
“Dude,” he whispers. “My nipples are out.”
“I’m aware.”
He looks at you. You look at him. The nebula glows purple outside the window. The song is still playing, forgotten.
“…You wanna see the rest?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.
hi hello could i request a platonic fic with "marvel men in .." with a shy teen! reader who hugs them , holds their clothes or just stays behind them when meeting new people ? i really love your johnny writing and i was wondering if you could do johnny with this reader aswell instead of rocket ? :)
thank you , have a wonderful day ! (⑅˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈ )
marvel men in.. !!
shy! teen! reader clings to them around strangers !!
🏷 @mavixgirl , @luna-kait
📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, kurt wagner, scott summers, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, johnny storm, peter quill.
LOGAN HOWLETT !!
The new student at Xavier’s School is a telepath named Julian. He’s loud, confident, and extends a hand toward you with a cocky grin. You immediately freeze.
Logan, who was leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed, feels his chest tighten. He watches you take a half-step back, your fingers finding the worn leather of his jacket sleeve. You grip it—two fingers, then three—and shuffle until you’re almost entirely behind his broad back.
“She’s shy,” Logan grunts, not to Julian, but to you. His voice drops to a low, gravelly rumble that only you can hear. “S’okay, kid. I gotcha.”
He doesn’t push you forward. He doesn’t tell you to be brave. Instead, he shifts his weight so his body is a complete wall between you and the stranger. His hand comes up slowly, palm flat against your side where you’re hiding, a grounding pressure. He’s warm. He smells like cigars and metal.
“This is Julian,” Logan says, still not looking at the boy. He’s looking down at the top of your head. “He’s annoying, but harmless. You don’t gotta talk. Just wave.”
When you give a tiny, pathetic wave from behind his elbow, Logan’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk. He feels your grip loosen slightly. Victory.
Later, Julian will tell the other students that Logan Howlett, the Wolverine, glared at him like he was about to pop his adamantium claws for simply existing near you.
WORST WOLVERINE !!
Wade has brought home a new contact from his odd jobs—a jittery, loud informant. The apartment is small, so there’s nowhere to hide. You’re on the worn-out couch, and the moment the door opens and a strange voice booms, you’re off the cushions like a rocket.
You don’t even think. You just dive behind the Logan, who is currently trying to eat a cold hot dog straight from the packet. You grab the back of his dirty white tank top, bunching the fabric in your fists, and press your forehead right between his shoulder blades.
“Uh,” the man says.
Logan freezes. The hot dog stops halfway to his mouth. He glances down at your white-knuckled grip on his shirt, then back at the man. His eyes, usually tired and sarcastic, sharpen into something primal.
“Back up,” he says flatly.
“I didn’t even-”
“Back. Up. You’re scarin’ the kid.” He sets the hot dog down and reaches one arm behind him, patting your hip awkwardly but firmly. “Hey. Squirt. It’s just a greasy rat-man. He’s not gonna bite. I’ll bite him first if he tries.”
He doesn’t move you. He just stands there like a grizzled, hairy statue, letting you hide for a full two minutes until your breathing slows. Only then does he grumble, “There. See? Still alive. Now go get your blankie or whatever.”
But he doesn’t let go of your wrist until you’re safely past him.
WADE WILSON !!
Wade loves this. He lives for it.
You’re meeting Dopinder’s new cousin, and you’re doing the thing. The Thing. You’ve got both hands fisted in the back of Wade’s red spandex suit, your face buried between his shoulder blades, and you’re using him as a human shield.
“Aww,” Wade coos, loud enough for the entire taxi garage to hear. “Look at my little barnacle! My adorable little anxiety-sucker! She’s latched on, folks. This is a protected species. No photos, please.”
He doesn’t try to pry you off. Instead, he reaches back and pats your head, his gloves squeaking against your hair. He introduces you while you hide. “This is my unofficial daughter, who I would kill for, die for, and also commit several minor felonies for. She’s currently recharging her social battery via osmosis on my very expensive suit. Don’t make eye contact. She’s like a T-Rex—if you look, she’ll freeze.”
When you peek one eye out, Wade gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, she’s emerging! A miracle! Quick, Dopinder’s cousin, compliment her shirt and then look away.”
He winks at you, and even though your face is burning red, you feel safe.
ORIGINS ! WADE WILSON !!
This Wade is handsome, sharp, and devastatingly charming. He’s also a menace. But not with you.
You’re at a team briefing, and a new liaison from the government walks in. You’ve never seen him before. Instantly, you’re out of your chair and glued to Wade’s side, clutching the sleeve of his black tactical shirt. You’re literally using him as a curtain.
Wade doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t even look at you. He just shifts his stance slightly, angling his body so you’re fully blocked from the stranger’s view. His hand comes down to rest on top of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.
“Sorry,” he says to the liaison, his voice smooth as butter and twice as dangerous. “She’s the shy type. You’re gonna have to talk to me first. And through me. And also, you’re gonna have to pretend she’s not there, or I’ll have to pretend I didn’t see you blink wrong.”
He says it with a smile. The liaison laughs nervously.
Wade’s fingers tighten just a fraction in your hair—a silent I’ve got you. He then proceeds to conduct the entire meeting one-handed, the other hand never leaving your head. When the liaison leaves, Wade turns and crouches down to your level.
“Good job, kid. You were very scary. He’ll have nightmares.”
You smack his chest. He grins.
REMY LEBEAU !!
The Xavier school has a new student from Louisiana. Remy is supposed to be the one to show him around, but you’re trailing behind like a duckling. When the new boy—a nervous kid named Caleb—smiles at you, you immediately grab a fistful of Remy’s brown leather duster and hide your entire face in his arm.
Remy’s heart absolutely melts. He doesn’t even try to hide the soft smile.
“Chère,” he murmurs, his Cajun accent thick as honey. “Dis is Caleb. He got a pet tarantula. You like spiders, non?”
You shake your head against his sleeve.
“Ah. Well, he also got no manners, lookin’ at you like dat.” Remy throws Caleb a look that is equal parts playful and I-will-charge-a-card-into-your-neck. “Don’t stare, mon ami. She ain’t a museum piece. She’s a treasure. You gotta earn de right to see her face.”
He takes the hand that’s gripping his coat and wraps your entire arm around his own, tucking you close to his side. He smells like gumbo and something sweet. He walks you both down the hallway like that, with you attached to his hip, and he doesn’t rush you. He just chats with Caleb in that lazy drawl, occasionally squeezing your hand where it rests on his forearm.
When Caleb finally walks away, Remy tilts his head down to look at you. “See? Painless. Now, let’s go steal some beignets from de kitchen. You earned it.”
KURT WAGNER !!
Kurt is the gentlest soul you know. He understands shyness on a molecular level.
You’re meeting a new group of young mutants who have just arrived. They’re all staring, and you feel your throat close up. Without thinking, you shuffle sideways until you’re pressed against Kurt’s side, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his black and red uniform. You bury your face against his arm.
Kurt doesn’t flinch. He simply places one three-fingered hand over yours and squeezes gently. His tail, usually swishing idly, comes up to curl lightly around your ankle: a secret, furry reassurance.
“Mein Schatz,” he whispers, his voice a warm, accented rumble. “It is alright. These are friends. They are more scared of you than you are of them. That is a joke. A bad one. I am sorry.”
He doesn’t try to move you. Instead, he introduces you by describing you as “the bravest one in the room, because she is scared and yet she is still here.” He says it with such genuine reverence that your cheeks heat up. The new kids stop staring.
Later, when you finally let go, Kurt’s tail is still loosely looped around your leg. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. It’s just instinct to keep you tethered to him.
SCOTT SUMMERS !!
Scott is a leader. He’s stoic, strategic, and a little bit stiff. But you have him so completely wrapped around your finger it’s almost embarrassing for him.
A new government liaison arrives at the mansion. He’s a tall man with a firm handshake. You’re standing beside Scott, and the moment the man looks at you, you’re gone. You step directly behind Scott and grab the back of his blue and yellow uniform, your fingers digging into the fabric near his spine. You’re using him like a human wall.
Scott feels the tug and immediately straightens his posture. His hand, which was resting at his side, comes up to press flat against his own lower back, covering your hand with his. A silent don’t let go.
“She’s my… ward,” Scott says to the liaison, his voice even but carrying a subtle warning. “She’s shy. If you need to speak to her, you speak to me first.”
The liaison blinks. “Of course. I just wanted to say hello.”
Scott doesn’t move. He doesn’t step aside. He keeps his body between you and the stranger for the entire conversation. When the liaison finally leaves, Scott turns around slowly, crouching down so he’s at eye level with you. His ruby quartz visor catches the light.
“You did well,” he says quietly. “You held on. That’s good.”
He reaches out and gently untangles your fingers from his suit, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. He holds it as he stands back up.
“Next time, you can hold on as long as you need.”
EDDIE BROCK ( & VENOM ) !!
You’re meeting Eddie’s new editor. The woman is nice, but she’s a stranger, and strangers are terrifying. You’re standing in the kitchen of Eddie’s crappy apartment, and the moment she smiles at you, you lunge.
You grab the back of Eddie’s worn leather jacket and duck behind him, your forehead pressed to his spine. You’re trembling slightly.
Eddie freezes. He knows the drill. “Uh. Hey. She’s… she’s good. Just shy.”
But then a black, gooey tendril snakes out from Eddie’s shoulder. Venom’s head forms, all jagged teeth and white eyes, and he glares at the editor.
“NO. ” Venom’s voice is a low, gravelly growl. “YOU ARE SCARING THE SMALL HUMAN. BACK AWAY. ”
“Venom!” Eddie hisses.
“WHAT? SHE IS OURS. SHE IS HIDING. THAT MEANS THREAT. I WILL EAT HER. ”
“You will not eat my editor!”
While they argue, you feel another tendril detach from Eddie and wrap gently around your wrist. It’s cool and smooth, and it pulses in a rythm that mimics a soothing heartbeat. Venom’s head turns slightly to look at you, and his massive white eyes go… soft. Round.
“LITTLE ONE,” he says, much quieter. “YOU ARE SAFE. I WILL PROTECT YOU. THE LADY IS NOT FOOD. YET. ”
You giggle despite yourself. Venom preens. Eddie sighs in relief. The editor never comes back, but honestly? You didn’t want her to anyway.
STEVE ROGERS !!
You’re at a Stark Industries charity gala. It’s loud, bright, and full of strangers. Steve has his hand on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd. When a senator approaches with a wide smile and an outstretched hand, you immediately pivot.
You grab a fistful of Steve’s suit jacket—the nice one, the blue one—and press yourself against his side, your face buried in his bicep. You’re hiding. Completely.
Steve doesn’t miss a beat. His arm comes up and wraps around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. He’s a solid wall of warmth and starch.
“She’s a bit overwhelmed,” Steve says to the senator, his voice the perfect blend of polite and immovable. “It’s her first big event. I’ll pass along your regards.”
The senator gets the hint and walks away. Steve looks down at you, his blue eyes impossibly soft. He doesn’t tell you to be braver. He just tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to. Just stay close to me. Can you do that?”
You nod against his arm. He smiles that genuine, pre-serum Brooklyn smile, and keeps his arm around you for the rest of the night. He even cuts your steak for you at dinner. No one dares say a word.
TONY STARK !!
Tony is dramatic. He’s loud. He’s extra. But when it comes to you, he becomes a different person.
You’re meeting a potential new team member in the Avengers compound. The guy is huge, built like a refrigerator, and he looks down at you with a curious grin. You immediately grab the sleeve of Tony’s expensive black hoodie and yank it. Hard. Then you hide behind his back, your fingers twisted in the fabric near his waist.
Tony looks down at your hand, then up at the giant. His expression doesn’t change, but his entire body shifts. He plants his feet. He angles his shoulders. He becomes a wall.
“FRIDAY,” he says quietly. “Scan.”
“No threats detected, boss. He’s just tall.”
“Debatable.” Tony doesn’t move. He reaches one hand behind him and finds your wrist, rubbing his thumb over your pulse point. “Hey, kid. You’re okay. He’s not scary. He’s just… vertically excessive. I’ve got a suit that’s taller than him. Wanna see?”
You shake your head into his back.
“Okay. Wanna go to the lab and build a new gauntlet instead?”
You peek one eye out. The giant is now looking very awkward, trying to make himself smaller. You nod.
Tony grins. “That’s my girl. FRIDAY, cancel my next three meetings. We’re having a science day.” He doesn’t let go of your wrist as he walks backward toward the elevator, keeping you hidden behind him the entire way.
PETER PARKER !!
Peter is still learning how to be a hero on his own, but he has one thing down perfectly: being your big brother figure.
You’re meeting his new neighbor, a sweet elderly lady named Mrs. Castellano. She’s holding a plate of cookies and smiling warmly. You want to be polite, you really do. But your feet won’t move. Instead, you shuffle sideways and grab the back of Peter’s hoodie, burying your face between his shoulder blades.
Peter, who is used to this, doesn’t even flinch. He just reaches back and pats your head clumsily.
“She’s shy,” he says to Mrs. Castellano, his voice fond. “Like, really shy. But she’s the best. She just needs a minute.”
He then proceeds to have an entire five-minute conversation with the woman while you cling to him like a backpack. He doesn’t try to pull you out. He doesn’t force you to talk. He just occasionally squeezes your hand where it’s gripping his hoodie.
When Mrs. Castellano leaves, Peter turns around and grins at you. “See? Painless. Also, she gave us cookies. I call dibs on the chocolate chip.”
You smack his chest. He laughs and pulls you into a one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Love you, kid.”
THOR ODINSON !!
Thor is a god. He is thunder and lightning and majesty. But when you hide behind him, he becomes a golden retriever in a cape.
You’re meeting a new Asgardian refugee on the New Asgard docks. The man is tall, scarred, and has a booming voice. You don’t like it. You immediately let go of Thor’s hand and sneak behind him, grabbing onto the back of his red cape, pulling it around you like a shield. You’re literally hidden underneath in his cape, pressed against his massive back.
Thor looks down, sees the lump of you behind him, and his entire face melts.
“Ah,” he says, his voice dropping from godly to gentle. “My little shadow. She is shy. You must forgive her. She is the bravest warrior I know, she simply hides her courage behind my cape.”
The Asgardian looks confused. Thor doesn’t care. He picks you up and settles you on his hip like you weigh nothing.
You’re a teenager. You’re mortified. But you also burrow into his neck.
Thor chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. “There. Now you may greet the nice man from the safety of my arms. He is three feet away. He cannot reach you. I would crush his hand if he tried.”
He keeps you on his hip for the entire tour of the fishing boats. You never have to say a single word.
JOHNNY STORM !!
Johnny is cocky. He’s a show-off. He’s a flirt. But with you? He’s a protective mess.
You’re at a Baxter Building press event. A reporter gets too close, microphone extended, and you immediately grab the back of Johnny’s Fantastic Four uniform. You yank him backward so hard he stumbles.
“Whoa- okay, okay, I gotcha.” Johnny doesn’t complain. He just wraps an arm around you and tucks you into his side, angling his body so the reporter can only see his back. His skin is warm, not hot, just comfortably warm, like a heating pad.
“She’s off the record,” Johnny says, flashing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually, she’s off the planet. You don’t see her. You never saw her. If you write about her, I will fly to your house and leave a flaming bag of something on your doorstep. And I don’t mean poop.”
The reporter backs away slowly.
Johnny looks down at you, and the grin softens into something real. “You good?”
You nod, still gripping his suit.
“Alright. Let’s go bother Reed in the lab. He’s stretchy. You can use him as a blanket.”
He keeps his arm around you the whole walk there, occasionally flicking a small flame off his fingertip to make you giggle.
PETER QUILL !!
Peter is a disaster of a human being. But he’s your disaster.
You’re on the Milano, and the team has picked up a stray alien who needs a ride. The alien is blue, has four arms, and keeps trying to make eye contact with you. You don’t like it. You stand up from your seat, walk over to Peter, and grab the back of his red leather jacket. You hide behind him, your forehead pressed to his spine.
Peter, who was in the middle of explaining something about the navigation system, stops talking. He looks down at your hands gripping his jacket. Then he looks at the alien.
“Okay,” Peter says, pointing a finger. “New rule. No looking at the kid. She’s shy. She’s also the only one on this ship who likes my music, so I will literally throw you out the airlock if you make her uncomfortable.”
The alien raises all four hands in surrender.
Peter reaches back and finds your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. He keeps holding it for the rest of the flight, even when he has to steer with one hand.
When the alien finally leaves, Peter turns around and ruffles your hair. “You did good, kid. Now c’mon. Let’s go annoy Drax by explaining metaphors again.”
He doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re both in the common room. And even then, it’s a close thing.
You constantly, flirtatiously tease your partner—even in front of everyone
CHARACTERS: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller (Hellion), Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik, Alex Summers, Colossus, Psylocke, Jubilee, David Haller (Legion), Lorna Dane & Jonothon Starsmore (Chamber)
Have I ever told you how much I love X-Men Comics? I love the entire Marvel Comics universe, it's been my obsession since I was a kid, but especially the X-Men ♡
Logan Howlett (Wolverine)
– You think it’s funny—the way this feral, gruff man stiffens when you slide your hand low across his back during a mission briefing, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans like it’s an accident. Logan doesn’t flinch from gunfire, doesn’t blink at death, but your mouth grazing his ear with a soft "need something, soldier?" sends a crack straight down the spine of his restraint. You whisper sweetness with the tone of sin, just to watch him grit his teeth and breathe through his nose like a wolf denied.
– He doesn’t say much, not in public. Just glares sideways at you with those gold-lit eyes that look like they could burn a hole through the steel walls of the Blackbird if they weren’t already busy carving your name into the marrow of his soul. But when he does talk, it’s low and dangerous, like a growl wrapped in gravel: "Keep that up, darlin’, and I ain’t gonna be so gentlemanly later." You grin, because Logan Howlett’s version of gentlemanly is still claws and teeth, just softened slightly for your skin.
– Around the others, you’re merciless. Your hand lingers on his thigh during team dinners, voice syrup-slick as you ask him if he’s feeling tense. You call him sugar or honeybear, and Rogue chokes on her drink while Jean smirks behind her glass. He gives you that look—half warning, half plea—but you only kiss the corner of his mouth with a smile that promises ruin. Logan’s whole life has been edged in blood, but you make even mischief taste like home.
– Later, when the teasing ends and the silence stretches long, he gathers you up like a storm gathering leaves. He never begs, not in words, but you feel it in the grip of his hands, in the low rasp of "c’mere, I missed you, even five feet away." And when you tell him you’ll do it again tomorrow—tease him in front of the whole damn team—he just mutters "brat," and holds you like you’re the only peace he’s ever known.
Remy LeBeau (Gambit)
– Teasing Remy is like trying to outfox the devil in his Sunday suit—you do it because it’s dangerous, because he always bites back. You brush close to him in the middle of strategy sessions, running your fingers down the lapels of his coat like you’re checking for wires, whispering “Mon amour, is this trench coat flame-retardant? ‘Cause you look combustible tonight.” He chuckles low, all velvet and vice, and tilts his head like he’s weighing whether to kiss you or toss the table to clear some space.
– Remy lives in flirtation like it’s oxygen, but when it comes from you, it hits different. You’ll make a quip in front of the X-Men, something suggestive, and he’ll turn to you like you just rewrote gravity. His mouth quirks, eyes glowing that dangerous red, and he purrs something in French that makes the room heat up. You don’t speak all of it—but the way his hand slips beneath the table to find your thigh tells you enough. Teasing him is foreplay. A public dare with private consequences.
– You toy with him at the most inconvenient times. While he’s picking locks mid-mission, you’ll lean close and murmur “Bet you’re good with your fingers, huh?” And he pauses, just a breath, before the door clicks open and he flashes you a grin that could unlace corsets across the hemisphere. Or you’ll adjust his collar in front of Storm, whispering “Can’t have you looking less than lethal, cher,” and Remy, always a performer, winks like he’s the one in control. But the pulse at his throat tells you otherwise.
– When the doors close and the teasing fades, he doesn’t play anymore. Remy touches you like he’s been craving you since the moment you spoke his name. “Keep doin’ that to me, fille,” he murmurs against your neck, “an’ one day I ain’t gonna wait ‘til we alone.” And you believe him. But you’ll still test him tomorrow, in front of everyone, just to see the moment he breaks and the gentleman turns to a hurricane.
Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)
– With Kurt, your teasing is gentler, a feather dragged across the skin rather than a knife pressed to the throat. But make no mistake—it still undoes him. You’ll drape yourself over his shoulder in the war room, cheek against the edge of his pointed ear, whispering in a lilt that dances like music, “Mein Liebling, your tail keeps brushing my leg. Trying to tell me something?” He stammers in German, tail coiling around your wrist like it has a will of its own, his cheeks burning a vivid shade of midnight blue.
– He’s a man of faith, a soul carved from light and shadows, but you’re the only temptation he ever lets linger. When you tease him in front of the others—pressing soft kisses to his cheek while calling him your holy sin—Beast snorts, and Kitty hides her laughter behind a book. Kurt just laughs, flustered, trying to hide the way your affection sets every part of him on fire. But his tail doesn’t lie. It wraps around your waist, anchors you close, like even in play he can’t let you drift too far.
– You’ll adjust his collar before a mission and murmur, “If you die today, I’ll bring you back just to kiss you goodbye again.” He fumbles his sword. You giggle. Logan groans. Teasing Kurt is art. Divine comedy. He always responds with a mix of bashfulness and hungry reverence, eyes soft like candlelight, voice trembling like he can’t decide if you’re a blessing or a challenge sent to humble him. Perhaps both. Probably both.
– When the world is quiet, and it’s just you two curled under twilight, he confesses in a whisper what he never says aloud: “You make me feel like I was made for more than shadows.” And you kiss the edge of his smile, promising to tease him again tomorrow—call him your sinner saint, your velvet sin, your favorite trickster angel—until his laughter becomes prayer, and his devotion, a holy ache only you can soothe.
Scott Summers (Cyclops)
– You’re the only one in the galaxy brave enough to tease Scott Summers in front of the team, and the only one he lets do it without barking orders. You’ll rest your chin on his shoulder during training drills, lips close to the shell of his ear as you purr, “Commander, if you keep bossing me around like that, I might start liking it.” He tenses, jaw locked, voice clipped as he mutters something about professionalism—but you see the way his hands twitch, and how he won’t meet your eyes behind the visor.
– Your teasing unravels him like a slow pull on tightly wound thread. You’ll slide your fingers across his chest in the hallway, straighten his uniform with mock-seriousness, and say, “You missed a button, handsome. Need help?” Jean arches a brow. Ororo hides a smile. Scott sighs, long-suffering and smitten, brushing your hand away only to hold it a second later like it’s a secret he can’t stop confessing. He’s meticulous in combat, a machine of war—but around you, he short-circuits in the most endearing ways.
– In briefings, you’ll perch on the edge of his seat, legs crossed, voice laced with sugar and something incendiary: “Don’t worry, I’ll follow your lead, Captain.” The way you say captain makes it sound like a promise you’ll break on purpose. He never responds directly—just clenches his jaw and continues the meeting—but later he pulls you into a side room and murmurs, low and breathless, “You’re driving me insane.” And you smile. Because you like that you’re the only thing that ever makes him lose control.
– Behind closed doors, he kisses you like he’s punishing himself for wanting you so much. His hands are desperate, his voice roughened by restraint and longing. “You’re cruel,” he breathes. “You know that?” And you do. But the next morning, you’ll do it all over again—teasing him when Hank walks by, calling him sir in that sultry tone—because you like watching him try not to fall apart. And you love knowing he always will. Only for you.
Jean Grey (Phoenix)
– You’ve made it a sport, a religion, the way you tease Jean Grey until her voice trembles and her eyes glint with psychic static. In front of everyone, you slide your fingers along the arch of her waist as if you’ve simply forgotten your own hand, whispering something utterly wicked behind a smile that could burn churches. She never expects it, and yet—always does. Because when you call her Red, dragging the word out like a purr, she exhales like it’s the only name she ever needed.
– Jean is composed. Divine. The type of woman people lower their heads to. But you are the one person who gets to lace irreverence through her poise. You tease her with playful kisses to the back of her neck during team debriefs, murmuring “Tell me you’re not reading my mind right now, because it’s incredibly dirty.” Scott turns crimson. Logan groans. Jean just bites her lower lip and pretends to keep her posture, though her pulse flickers with something entirely unholy.
– When you curl up beside her on the couch in front of the team, your legs tossed casually across her lap, you let your voice dip low as you ask, “Does it bother you that I still dream about you even when you sleep beside me?” Her laugh is always quiet, soft and knowing, but the fire behind her eyes tells you she doesn’t just like the attention—she craves your mischief. Teasing her is like igniting the Phoenix, only you’re the only one she’ll ever let it consume.
– Alone, she returns the favor tenfold. “You’re lucky I have control now,” she whispers against your collarbone, “or I’d show them all exactly what you do to me.” And though you’ll continue to tease her tomorrow—run your fingers along her telepathic temples, call her goddess in a crowded room—Jean will just smile, beautiful and lethal, because she knows what you already do: the teasing is foreplay, but the surrender that follows is sacred.
Ororo Munroe (Storm)
– You flirt with Ororo like you’re dancing with a thunderstorm—barefoot, grinning, reckless. She’s the most regal woman to walk the Earth, but you see past the lightning crown, straight into the softness of her. During team meetings, you’ll lean into her space, brushing her silver locks behind her ear and saying something like, “I dreamed of you wrapped in clouds last night. I think heaven’s getting jealous.” She doesn’t flinch, only raises a single brow, the corner of her mouth curling with patient threat.
– Storm doesn’t embarrass. But you still manage to make her blink slower, breath catch subtly, especially when you call her my sky, or rest your head on her shoulder while the X-Men argue logistics. Your teasing is never disrespectful—it’s reverent, like a poem performed with a wink. Sometimes, when you press your lips just behind her jawline during a public moment, she’ll murmur in Swahili under her breath. You don’t speak it, but you know what it means: “Keep tempting the storm, my love.”
– You tell her she’s too composed, too perfect, and that it makes you want to ruin her just a little. At training sessions, you’ll challenge her to spar, grinning like a fox, then lean in just as the session begins and whisper, “Winner gets to decide how the night ends.” Lightning crackles faintly along her fingertips, and you know you've won—even if she pins you down moments later. Because your real victory is in her shiver when you laugh.
– Behind doors, she pins you. Against marble walls, in sunlit corners, on rain-soaked sheets. “You’re chaos in silk,” she says between breaths. “And you think you can tame the storm?” But you kiss her collarbone and promise you’ll tease her again tomorrow, call her Highness in front of the council, ask if her clouds are jealous when she moans your name. She tells you to behave. But her smirk says she hopes you won’t.
Rogue (Anna Marie)
– You tease Rogue like you’re playing with fire you know could burn—but you trust it not to. In the middle of team gatherings, you rest your hand at the base of her back, just beneath the hem of her jacket, and whisper things like “You ever get tired of being the hottest danger around?” And she’ll roll her eyes, cheeks pink, but that smirk—that lethal, honey-dripping smirk—never lies. Your boldness is half the reason she fell for you, and she never minds a little heat in public.
– Rogue plays tough, all leather and bite, but you know she melts like butter when you lean over the table during dinner and murmur, “Bet even your kisses could steal hearts in more ways than one.” Bobby groans, Remy chokes on his gumbo, and Logan just mutters “God help us.” But she’s already reaching under the table to squeeze your thigh, hard, her voice low and syrupy sweet: “Keep flappin’ your pretty mouth and we’ll see if you’re still smilin’ later.”
– You never fear her power. You tease her gloved hands like they’re sacred things, worship her without touching skin. You once whispered, “You don’t need to touch me to own me,” and she didn’t speak for five whole seconds, just stared like you’d stolen her breath. With Rogue, every tease is a trust fall. And every one of your flirty glances in front of the others reminds her you love all of her—not just the parts that won’t hurt you.
– Later, behind drawn curtains, she whispers “You’re trouble, sugar,” into your skin, and bites your shoulder through her gloves. But she’s already pulling you closer. You call her heartbreaker and outlaw when the sun comes up. She calls you siren in a Southern drawl that makes you forget your own name. Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again in the courtyard, just to hear her sass back and catch that flush on her cheeks like firelight on whiskey.
Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)
– Teasing Erik Lehnsherr is like toying with an avalanche mid-slide: thrilling, dangerous, addictive. You press your mouth to the shell of his ear at strategy meetings and whisper things like, “Careful, old man. You keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to seduce me again.” He doesn’t smile—not in front of others—but the twitch at his jaw, the pause in his speech, is victory enough. You love to provoke the tyrant into remembering he’s still a man.
– In front of the Brotherhood, you lounge across his throne like you own it, legs over the armrest, trailing fingers along the steel edge of his gauntlet. “Erik, darling, are your magnetic fields acting up or are you just happy to see me?” Toad stares. Mystique sighs. Erik does nothing but raise a single, icy brow. But later, when the others have gone, he’ll back you against a wall with the flick of a wrist and hiss, “You are playing a dangerous game.” And you’ll whisper, “Only because I know you’ll never let me lose.”
– You wear white around him, sheer and sinfully soft, because you know how much he hates being distracted—and how much more he loves being undone. You once curled into his lap in front of a war council and murmured, “Would it ruin your credibility if I kissed you right now?” He didn’t answer. But the metal around the room groaned, bending slightly. You knew what it meant: Not here. But soon.
– Erik doesn’t give affection easily, but when it’s earned—when the doors close and the silence settles—he devours you with the same intensity he brings to conquest. “You are infuriating,” he breathes, “and entirely necessary.” You drag your nails along his shoulder and hum, “I’ll tease you again tomorrow.” And he doesn’t stop you. He never will. Because your chaos is the only thing that makes him feel human again.
Charles Xavier (Professor X)
– You are the first woman to make Charles Xavier lose his carefully stitched composure—publicly. You slide behind him in the middle of a council discussion, gently resting your hands on his shoulders, and lean down just enough for your breath to tickle the edge of his ear. “You keep speaking so eloquently, darling. I may need a moment to recover later.” He clears his throat. Beast looks amused. Erik glares. You only smile, because Charles does not blush often, but you know exactly how to pull heat to his cheeks.
– Charles is used to intellect, to wit, to sharp minds and polite restraint. You offer all of that wrapped in a voice like temptation, in laughter that curves at the end like a secret. You whisper things during meetings—double meanings laced with silk—that only he can hear. Sometimes you swear you hear his thoughts falter mid-sentence. “Don’t cheat,” you’ll murmur, brushing your fingers against his temple, “no peeking unless you're ready for what’s in there.” His eyes tighten with barely concealed desire, and you know you've won again.
– He plays it off, of course. He’s the professor. The visionary. But your teasing is a rebellion he welcomes with arms wide open. You rest in his lap while he reads, mock-innocent as you ask, “Are you sure this isn’t an abuse of your power, Charles? Sitting there looking like temptation in a sweater vest?” He hums, unreadable, but the way his fingers twitch against your thigh betrays him. He doesn’t just enjoy your mischief—he relies on it to keep him human.
– Alone, when the doors are shut and his title no longer shields him, he draws you close like a man thirsting for absolution. “You undo me,” he murmurs into your skin, “with every smile, every whisper.” And when you promise to tease him again in front of the Quiet Council—call him sir with a voice like wine—he groans softly, lips pressed to your collarbone. Charles Xavier doesn’t beg. But you’ve made him want things even he never dared to imagine.
Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch)
– Teasing Wanda is like playing with cosmic fire—but you’ve never minded the burn. You run your fingers along her hip while she hexes training dummies into dust, and when she turns to you with a stern expression, you only grin. “You’re very talented, darling. But I think you might’ve cursed me most of all.” Her mouth opens, closes, then curves into a helpless smile. You leave her breathless with compliments disguised as mischief, flirtation wrapped in velvet.
– Wanda’s known pain, loss, devastation—but you offer her lightness, laughter, irreverent affection. You kiss the tips of her fingers in front of the Avengers and murmur, “So this is the hand that bends reality? No wonder I’m ruined.” Tony coughs into his drink. Steve looks away. Wanda just blushes scarlet, then brushes your cheek with a touch light as candleflame. Your teasing is love disguised as chaos. And she thrives in it—finally, someone who doesn’t fear her.
– Sometimes you tease her magic itself. “If you hexed my clothes off, would that be considered romantic or illegal?” you ask once, during a battle debrief. The room goes quiet. Wanda sputters a laugh, then presses her face into your shoulder, hiding her grin. Later, you watch her trace sigils into the air, and you lean in with mock awe, “Be honest—you just like it when I call you enchantress.” She does. She so does. But she’ll never say it aloud. Her eyes say it for her.
– At night, she wraps herself around you like a prayer answered too late. “No one’s ever made me feel safe while laughing,” she whispers, and you kiss her jaw in return. Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again in front of Strange or Logan or even Pietro. She’ll roll her eyes. Call you impossible. But she’ll blush. And she’ll smile. And she’ll cast little protection spells into your coat pockets when you’re not looking—just in case the teasing invites something that isn’t love.
Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver)
– Pietro’s used to people never catching up. But you—you don’t just keep pace. You lead the dance. You tease him in the middle of chaos, brushing your hand across his back like static and whispering, “That fast, huh? Pity.” His mouth drops open, scandalized, and you’re already five paces away with a grin. You are the only one alive who can make Pietro Maximoff slow down—just to hear what wicked thing you’ll say next.
– He’s cocky. Smirking. All speed and arrogance, but you can make him trip with a look. You once leaned into him during a team mission and murmured, “You move fast, baby—but I hit harder.” He blinked. Stuttered. Forgot entirely what he was supposed to be doing. You keep touching him casually—adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair, fingers trailing his forearm—and it drives him insane. Especially when others are watching. Especially when you do it like it’s effortless.
– You call him your favorite disaster in front of Wanda and Steve, rest your head on his shoulder and sigh dramatically, “What would I do without my little hurricane?” He grumbles, mumbles something about respect, but his ears go red. He lives for your teasing—pretends to be annoyed, but follows you around like a stray bolt of lightning. Your boldness unsettles him, thrills him, makes him feel seen in a way speed never could.
– When the world finally pauses, and he has you to himself, he’s breathless with it. “You’re trouble,” he tells you, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re going to be the death of me.” You only smile, trailing your fingers down his chest, and promise to flirt with him and Logan tomorrow, just to make him jealous. He groans. But you see the way he clenches his fists, the way his pulse stutters. Pietro runs fast—but when it comes to you, he’ll never leave first.
Hank McCoy (Beast)
– Teasing Hank McCoy is like poking a sleeping poet who moonlights as a panther. He’s all decorum, wit, and scientific grace—until your hand slides across his chest mid-lab and you murmur, “Is it ethical to look this good while mixing chemicals?” He fumbles. Actually fumbles. Drops a beaker. You giggle like it’s an accident, but Hank knows better now. You’re mischief in silk, and you’ve made it your mission to undo him with honeyed sarcasm.
– In front of the X-Men, you lean into his shoulder and ask loud enough for everyone to hear, “Is the fur always this soft, or are you just flirting back?” Logan groans. Kitty laughs. Hank clears his throat and mutters something about “professional conduct,” but his tail twitches with delight. You love watching him try to remain stoic, academic, distant. It never works. You kiss his forehead during Danger Room training and ask if he’s your personal teddy bear. He doesn’t respond. But his ears go pink.
– You once climbed onto his lap during a debate about mutant ethics, just to whisper in his ear, “I’m still undecided about your moral compass, but your thighs are absolutely heroic.” He choked on his tea. Charles had to excuse himself from laughing. You don’t just tease Hank. You liberate him. You peel away the layers of intellect and kindness and expose the passion buried beneath. And it is wild. And tender. And entirely yours.
– Later, he tucks you into his arms like something precious. “You do realize you’re impossible,” he murmurs. “Utterly vexing. A distraction I cannot quantify.” You kiss the tip of his nose and whisper, “Good. I’ll tease you again tomorrow. In front of the council. Maybe during a presentation.” He groans. But he holds you tighter, because even a genius needs chaos to remember he’s still alive.
Emma Frost (White Queen)
– Teasing Emma Frost is not a game for the faint of heart. She is diamond and danger, cold brilliance wrapped in silk, but you—you're her favorite crack in the mirror. You flirt with calculated recklessness, sliding beside her at a gala and whispering, “Remind me again—are you the most beautiful woman in the room, or am I just underdressed?” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just smiles—thin, sharp—and tilts her head as though deciding whether to reward you or ruin you.
– You wear white when you’re with her. Always white. Low cut, high slit, something sinful and too innocent, just to see her jaw clench behind her champagne glass. In front of the Hellfire Club, you rest a hand lightly on her thigh and ask sweetly, “Is this where I’m supposed to kneel and call you Queen?” The entire table goes quiet. Emma smirks like a slow blade being unsheathed. “Only if you mean it, darling.” You always do.
– She pretends to be unaffected. Always poised, always in control. But you catch the way her eyes flick to your mouth when you bite your lip mid-meeting, or the way she draws breath just a beat too long when you kiss her cheek in front of the council. You tease her because you’re the only one who can, because it turns her from diamond to something molten—slowly, privately, exquisitely. And because you like making the White Queen want.
– Later, in the privacy of moonlight and her high-rise bedroom, she’ll press you against glass and say, “You’re playing with fire.” You kiss her neck and whisper, “No, darling. I am the fire.” She smiles, then—truly smiles—and promises to ruin your reputation if you keep teasing her in public. You grin, tell her to try. And the next day, you do it again—bolder, silkier—because nothing is more intoxicating than Emma Frost when she’s a little bit undone.
Laura Kinney (X-23)
– Teasing Laura is like flirting with a blade—one that’s already kissed blood but chooses not to cut you. She’s sharp, quiet, constantly poised like something could snap—but you see the soft hidden under the steel. You whisper to her during patrols, “You always watch my back so closely. Starting to think you like the view.” She doesn’t answer. But her eyes narrow with something like confusion... or hunger.
– Laura doesn’t know what to do with the way you tease. You call her killer kitten, claw baby, my favorite weapon in front of Logan just to watch both of them scowl. You kiss her gloved hand in the middle of a mission briefing, biting your lip as you say, “You gonna gut me if I kiss you again? Or just blush?” She blushes. You don’t stop. You can’t. Because she is beautiful when she’s overwhelmed—and she never, ever admits it.
– She’s not used to attention like yours. Not adoration wrapped in audacity. You poke her cheek during training and ask, “Is that murder-face for the enemy or for how much you want to pin me against the wall?” She growls low in her throat. Someone coughs. Logan looks away. Laura doesn't reply—but after class, she drags you into the locker room and kisses you with her hands shaking. You made the storm crack its sky.
– At night, she sleeps against you like something feral that’s finally safe. She murmurs, “You’re reckless,” against your ribs. You answer, “So are you.” Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again—ask her if the claws come out when she gets jealous. She’ll call you insufferable. But you’ve seen the way her lips twitch. You’ve heard her heartbeat speed. And she’ll never admit it, but she hopes you never stop.
Wade Wilson (Deadpool)
– Teasing Wade is like adding gasoline to a campfire: wild, bright, and instantly dangerous. You call him pretty boy in front of Logan, smack his ass during missions, and say things like “Nice swords, babe—compensating for something?” He laughs so hard he trips over his own gun. “I knew it! She loves me. She wants me. Someone call Spider-Man!” You just wink, knowing full well that you do—and that he knows you do, too.
– He eats up every bit of your chaos. You flirt with him like you’re onstage, loud and unfiltered, and Wade responds with dramatic gasps, heart clutches, and fake swoons that make Rogue walk away in secondhand embarrassment. You straddle his lap during team meetings just to whisper, “If I lick the mask, do I taste trouble or taco grease?” He pulls it up immediately. “Taste and find out, babycakes.” You don't. Yet. But oh, the promise lingers.
– Beneath the nonsense, though, is a vulnerability he hides behind jokes. So sometimes, you’ll flirt softer—tracing his scars with reverence, whispering into the crook of his neck, “You’re my favorite disaster. My favorite mess.” And he’ll go quiet. Just for a second. Then he’ll throw you over his shoulder and run straight into a villain’s lair just to prove he’s worthy of your dangerous affections. You keep teasing him because it makes him feel—seen, wanted, chosen.
– Alone, Wade is slower. Gentler. He whispers, “You see all the ugly, and you flirt with it anyway. That’s messed up. I think I love you for it.” You laugh. Call him softie. Say you’re gonna flirt with Logan tomorrow to make him jealous. He gasps. “You’re a monster! You’re perfect.” He worships you in laughter and blood, in brokenness and absurdity. And in the middle of a firefight, when you wink at him across the chaos, he blows you a kiss and mouths, mine.
Victor Creed (Sabretooth)
– Teasing Victor is a blood sport, and you play it like a champion. You whisper in his ear while he's sharpening his claws, “Bet you purr if I scratch behind the ears.” He growls. But you see the way his breath hitches, the flicker in those golden eyes. You are not afraid. Not of the beast. Not of the violence. You flirt like a dare, like a knife dancing on bare skin. And Victor—he likes that. A little too much.
– You wear red around him. Lethal silk, lipstick like murder. You drape yourself across his lap at Brotherhood briefings, fingers trailing the line of his throat as you murmur, “You gonna kill me or kiss me first?” Mystique rolls her eyes. Victor grins, slow and sharp, and says, “That depends. You gonna beg for either?” You never do. You never need to. Because teasing him isn’t about submission—it’s about domination without touch.
– You drive him mad. In front of others, you call him kitty or fangs, brush your lips along his jaw and hum, “I’ve tamed worse.” He snarls, but never stops you. Because even with all his power, all his menace, you are the only one who ever made the predator chase instead of pounce. He doesn’t understand how you’re not afraid—but it keeps him addicted. You are his unsolvable riddle. His softest sin.
– When you’re alone, his control shatters like bone under pressure. “Keep teasing me like that,” he growls against your throat, “and one day I won’t stop.” But you already know. You already want that. You kiss his lip, taste the wild, and murmur, “Good. I never asked you to.” And in the morning, you flirt with Magneto in the hallway just to feel Victor’s jealousy crack the air around you like a storm. He doesn’t scare you. He excites you. And he lives for it.
Julian Keller (Hellion)
– Teasing Julian is like feeding gasoline to teenage arrogance—you do it because watching him squirm is delicious. He’s always posturing, always smirking, always pretending he’s not flustered when you call him “pretty boy” in front of the New X-Men. You lean over the strategy table, brush your fingers across the metal of his gauntlet, and purr, “You look so intense, Jules. Should I be worried… or excited?” He freezes. Coughs. Tries to recover. You wink. He fails.
– He pretends your teasing doesn’t bother him, but every time you kiss his jaw in passing or tug on his belt loop mid-mission, his powers surge slightly. A telekinetic hum buzzes in the air like he can’t control the way you unnerve him. Once, you sat in his lap during a debrief just to whisper, “Do you think your powers can pin me down? Or do you need help?” Julian dropped his coffee. Santo still won’t let him live it down.
– He tries to play it cool, of course. Arms crossed, brows arched, doing his best impression of a man who hasn’t thought about you in every possible position. But your constant flirtation breaks through all of it. You call him “baby telekinesis” in front of Logan and get away with it, mainly because Julian can’t stop staring at your mouth long enough to protest. And because the truth is—he loves it. He loves you, in all your maddening, teasing glory.
– Alone, he’s different. Hands tentative, voice lower. “You drive me insane,” he murmurs, half-smiling as you straddle his hips. “One day I’m gonna tease you back so hard you forget your own name.” You smile like you’re inviting it. You tell him he couldn’t handle the reverse. He tells you to try him. And you whisper that you’ll flirt with Josh tomorrow just to make him jealous. He groans. You laugh. The game goes on.
Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat)
– You flirt with Kitty like it’s a private joke the whole team’s in on—and it always, always works. She’ll be in the middle of a meeting with Logan or leading a Danger Room session, and you’ll brush her hair behind her ear and murmur, “Should I be calling you Professor Pryde now? Or do I still get to call you mine?” She short-circuits every single time. Phases through a chair once. Blames the tech. You grin.
– She tries so hard to keep things professional, especially when students are watching—but you just lean against her desk during X-Men business, trailing your fingers along the collar of her uniform and whispering, “You know I’m only acting up to see if you’ll punish me later.” Kurt drops his coffee. Logan groans audibly. Kitty turns beet red and stammers through the rest of the meeting with your hand still resting on her thigh.
– Your teasing is sweet but shameless. You walk through walls into her office just to surprise her, drape yourself over her while she’s reading mission reports, and sigh theatrically, “I love a woman with responsibilities.” She huffs. Tells you she has work. But her fingers wrap around your wrist and stay there. Kitty has a fire in her—one that never quite burns unless you’re the one igniting it.
– Later, in the quiet hum of her quarters, she climbs into your lap like it’s where she’s always belonged. “You’re impossible,” she says between kisses. You reply, “You didn’t mind when I called you ‘boss lady’ in front of Storm.” She buries her face into your neck. Swears you’ll pay. You just laugh, already planning tomorrow’s chaos—maybe teasing her in front of Peter. Maybe flirting mid-phase. Either way, she’ll be red. And yours.
Cable (Nathan Summers)
– Teasing Nathan Summers is like flirting with a nuclear reactor—controlled chaos, calculated danger, and strangely addictive. He’s a warrior, stoic and brooding, wrapped in metal and scars, but you flirt with him like he’s just some hot guy at a bar. “Tell me, soldier,” you say during mission prep, fingers dancing along the edge of his shoulder plates, “is all that heavy armor compensating for something… or hiding something I should unwrap?” He doesn't answer. But the muscle in his jaw twitches, and that’s all the answer you need.
– The others stare when you perch in his lap in the war room, playing with the straps of his belts like you’re trying to disarm a bomb. “I like your scars,” you whisper, “they’re very… biteable.” Domino snorts. Scott nearly drops a tablet. But Nathan doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink—just looks at you like he’s cataloguing every inch of your threat level. And secretly loving every second. Your boldness doesn’t faze him. It arouses him.
– You love calling him things like big guy, future daddy, cyborg of my heart—all in front of Charles, Logan, anyone who’ll hear. You once kissed his metal hand and said, “Cold to the touch, warm on the inside. Just like you, babe.” He groaned. Told you to behave. You didn’t. Nathan is used to discipline, to pain, to silence—but you make him laugh. You make him burn. And when you tease him, he remembers he’s alive.
– Alone, he cages you against the wall, breath ragged. “One more innuendo in front of my father, and I swear—” You cut him off with a grin and a kiss. You promise to flirt with Logan next. He growls, drags you closer, says, “I’ll kill him.” You laugh, whisper something filthier, and he lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing. Tomorrow, you’ll tease him in front of the Council. He’ll scowl. But when you wink, he’ll smirk. Just a little.
Warren Worthington III (Angel/Archangel)
– Warren’s used to admiration. He’s a literal angel, golden and tragic, rich beyond reason, beautiful beyond words. But you—you flirt with him like he’s a summer fling you’re bored of, and it drives him mad in the best way. You lean against his shoulder during meetings and murmur, “Your wings look fluffier than usual. You grooming for me?” He blushes. Actually blushes. Emma raises a brow. You giggle like a devil in disguise.
– You call him heaven-sent in front of the X-Men and then add, “I just want to know if all of you is as soft as those feathers.” Logan chokes on his cigar. Kitty nearly falls off her chair. Warren turns the color of ripe strawberries and hides his face behind a clipboard. You kiss his cheek in front of Storm and say, “Don’t worry, angel—I’ll keep it PG...ish.” He knows you’re lying. And he secretly hopes you don’t.
– His wings flare whenever you get too close—his body reacting before he can hide it. You once traced a finger down one of the joints mid-conversation and whispered, “Are they sensitive?” He dropped his coffee. You winked and walked away. Teasing Warren is its own divine comedy. He’s all old-money grace and aching morality, but when you bite your lip and call him birdie, he looks ready to sin.
– Later, when he’s pinning you beneath him with wings stretched wide, he breathes, “You do this on purpose.” You only smile, breathless, and murmur, “Of course I do. You're fun when you're flustered.” He kisses you like penance. And you promise to call him Daddy Warbucks with feathers in front of the Avengers tomorrow. He groans. But he never tells you to stop. Because for once in his life, being worshipped feels earned.
Morph (Kevin Sydney)
– Teasing Morph is like playing tag with chaos—you’re not sure if you’re the one chasing him, or if he’s letting you catch him just to feel your hands. You lean into his side mid-mission, brush your lips against the curve of his ear, and whisper, “If you wanted me to sit on your lap, you could’ve just asked.” He turns bright pink, shifts into a chair, a kitten, and back into himself within seconds. You laugh. He melts. Everyone else is used to it by now—your shameless affection and his cartoonishly lovesick expression.
– Morph is a shapeshifter, but you’re the one who leaves him breathless. You flirt with him in front of everyone—calling him your favorite emotional support chaos goblin, running your hand down his back during meetings and murmuring, “Still the cutest one in every form. Even when you turn into Logan.” Logan scowls. Morph grins. You wink. He dies a little inside (in a good way). You are the one constant in a world where he can be anything.
– You once made him flustered mid-fight by shouting, “Turn into my ex so I can finally win an argument!” He tripped. He actually tripped midair. Later, you perched on his shoulders while he turned into a centaur just to impress you, and you whispered, “What’s next, stallion?” He almost combusted. You don’t tease him because he’s easy to rattle. You tease him because you love the way he always laughs—loud, full-hearted, like it’s the only language he trusts.
– Alone, he drops all disguises. Just Kevin. Just his eyes, soft and vulnerable, saying thank you in every glance. “You could’ve had someone simpler.” You kiss the side of his jaw and promise to tease him again tomorrow—maybe mid-transformation, maybe in front of Charles. He grins. Shifts into a blushing emoji. You tackle him to the bed. He says you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You tell him he’s stuck with you. He says he’d shapeshift into forever if it meant staying yours.
Mystique (Raven Darkhölme)
– You flirt with Raven like you have no sense of fear—and she finds that utterly intoxicating. You trail your fingers along her collarbone during Brotherhood briefings and purr, “If you were anyone else right now, I’d still want you. Problem is, I only ever want you.” She raises a brow, seemingly unbothered, but the flick of her yellow eyes betrays her. You make her lose focus, and no one else has ever done that. Not Erik. Not Destiny. Just you.
– Raven’s used to being the predator, but you—you are the thorn in her paw she doesn’t want removed. You tease her when she’s in disguise, calling her “stranger danger” or “whoever-you-are-today, babe” in front of Magneto. Then, the moment she’s back in her blue skin, you kiss the sharp edge of her cheekbone and murmur, “There’s my girl.” She rolls her eyes, tells you to stop, but lets you continue. Every time. Because she doesn’t trust most—but she adores you.
– Once, during a very serious mission, you leaned into her and asked, “If I misbehave during this operation, will you shift into my boss and fire me later? Or just spank me in the breakroom?” Logan walked off. Pyro fell over. Raven didn’t even blink—just looked you dead in the eye and whispered, “You won’t be walking afterward.” You winked. You flirted harder. You made Mystique flustered—a feat worthy of its own medal.
– Alone, Raven sheds everything—her weaponized skin, her masks, her fury. She presses her forehead to yours, and you whisper, “I’ll tease you again tomorrow.” She threatens you in return, half-hearted and breathless. You call her your favorite nightmare, and she bites your shoulder just enough to mark. You never stop flirting with her—because the world always expects her to shift. But with you, she stays.
Magik (Illyana Rasputina)
– You flirt with Illyana like you’re trying to get hexed—and maybe you are. You kiss her cheek during quiet spells and whisper, “Queen of Limbo or Queen of my heart? I need to know where to send the tribute.” She stares at you like she’s deciding whether to kiss you or banish you to another realm. Then she smirks and says, “Keep talking and I’ll summon something worse than love.” You grin. Because no one calls your bluff quite like she does.
– Illyana is ice and brimstone. But you—you make her smile with teeth. You drape yourself across her lap during debriefs and ask, “Is this throne taken?” Logan sighs. Kurt prays. She runs a single clawed finger along your thigh and says, “Only if you earn the seat.” You tease her because she’s dangerous. Because she’s divine. Because she loves it more than she lets on. You’re the only one she doesn’t cast away.
– You call her my favorite hellspawn in front of the New Mutants, and she scowls—but doesn’t move when you kiss the side of her neck. You once slipped a sticky note on her sword that read “cut me open, I dare you”, and she kept it. Illyana isn’t one for grand affection, but your teasing is worship disguised as chaos, and she needs that kind of devotion. Especially from someone unafraid of her fire.
– Alone, in the soft hush of moonlit rooms, she pulls you close and murmurs, “Don’t stop.” And you never do. You promise to flirt with Kurt in front of her just to see her glare. She promises to teleport you to Limbo for three hours in return. You both laugh. She kisses you like a curse she never wants lifted. And when you call her goddess of everything dark and mine, she doesn’t deny it.
Alex Summers (Havok)
– Teasing Alex Summers is like tossing pebbles into a volcano—you watch it rumble, then crack open with heat. You lean into him during Danger Room warmups and murmur, “You know, you’re the hotter Summers brother. Just don’t tell Scott I said that.” His ears go red instantly. He mutters something about professionalism. But his hands find your waist within seconds, pulling you just a little closer. You’re his favorite distraction. The only one he doesn’t want to resist.
– You call him sunbeam, hot stuff, and Captain Inferno in front of the X-Men, resting your head on his shoulder during team missions and whispering “You’re glowing again. Is that your mutation or just me?” He exhales like he’s about to explode. Sometimes he does—just a little blast into the dirt to let off steam. Logan smirks. Scott glares. You kiss his temple and promise to behave. You never do. Alex loves it.
– He tries to keep his cool, to be the rational Summers—until you sit in his lap during a Blackbird flight and whisper, “Think the team knows you’re my favorite pillow?” He coughs. Tries to shift you off. Fails. You call him ‘Lexy-poo in front of Emma once, and he almost vaporized a chair. But he never stops letting you do it. Because even with all his trauma, his mistakes, his need to be seen outside Scott’s shadow—you make him feel wanted. Loudly. Brazenly. Constantly.
– In the dark, you trace the edge of his chest with your nails and murmur, “I’m flirting with Logan tomorrow.” He groans, buries his face in your neck, and says, “You are a menace.” You hum, “Your menace.” He kisses your collarbone and mutters, “Damn right.” And the next morning, when you wink at Scott across the War Room, Alex simply pulls you onto his lap and growls, “Mine.” You smirk. You win. Again.
Piotr Rasputin (Colossus)
– You flirt with Piotr because you like how unshakeable he is—on the outside, at least. You rest your hands against his cold chestplate and purr, “So solid… must be exhausting being everyone’s strongman. Want me to be yours for once?” He stills. Not because he’s offended, but because that low, soft mischief in your voice short-circuits something deep inside him. You say it like a poem. Like a challenge. Like a prayer he doesn’t deserve answered.
– Around the others, you straddle his lap without warning, tracing lazy circles along the glowing seams of his armor, and murmur, “Are you always this hard, or is that just for me?” Logan groans. Kurt disappears. Ororo smirks knowingly. Piotr covers his face with a massive hand and grumbles something in Russian, but doesn’t move you. Not even an inch. You know the blush is there, hidden beneath steel. And you live for coaxing it out.
– You love pressing kisses to his silver neck, whispering ridiculous things like, “You know, some girls like diamonds. I prefer my men fully plated.” He stutters. He flusters. He accidentally crushes a coffee mug in his palm once because you called him “metallic and magnificent” during breakfast. You tease him because he’s so careful with everyone else—but with you, he forgets to hold back. He forgets he’s dangerous. He forgets to be afraid.
– In the quiet moments, he pulls you close like you’re the only softness he’s allowed to hold. “You make me feel… more,” he murmurs against your temple. You smile, kiss his jaw, and whisper, “Good. Tomorrow I’ll call you my steel sweetheart in front of Logan. See if you turn red or crush another mug.” He groans. But he doesn't stop smiling. Not with you in his arms.
Betsy Braddock (Psylocke)
– You flirt with Betsy like you’re begging to be pinned—and honestly, you are. During Council meetings, you lean over her shoulder, lips brushing her ear, and whisper, “How does a woman that sharp not cut me open every time she looks my way?” She glances sideways, half-lidded and deadly, and replies something cool like “Perhaps I enjoy watching you bleed for me.” But her hand settles on your thigh under the table. Lightly. Possessively.
– Betsy wears her control like silk armor, but you poke holes in it with every sultry grin, every teasing touch of fingers just too close to her telekinetic blade. You once strutted into her sparring session wearing one of her old shirts and murmured, “If I win, you’re taking me out. If I lose, I’m still wearing this tonight.” She smirked. Disarmed you instantly. But when she helped you off the floor, her hand lingered on your waist for far too long to call it tactical.
– You tease her even when she's mid-mission, asking through comms, “Tell me, darling—am I your weakness or your weapon?” She answers coolly, “That depends. Will you shut up if I say both?” But you hear the lilt in her voice, the faint breathless pause before the next strike. Around others, you call her Lady Blade and my lethal Brit, just to watch her glare half-heartedly before dragging you into the shadows and whispering threats in a tone that sounds an awful lot like love.
– Behind closed doors, her mask cracks. She lets you kiss the scarred edges of her, the parts she doesn’t show anyone else. “You shouldn’t tempt me like that in public,” she warns. You kiss her throat and hum, “Then stop liking it.” She doesn’t. She won’t. She touches you like something sacred, her voice low as she whispers, “Tomorrow, I’ll pretend not to care. You’ll flirt anyway. And I’ll let you. Because you are my favorite weakness.”
Jubilee (Jubilation Lee)
– You flirt with Jubilee like she’s sunshine in a bottle and you’re dying of thirst. You toss yourself dramatically across her lap during mission briefings and groan, “How is it fair for you to look like that and shoot fireworks from your hands? I demand equal rights.” She laughs so loud Beast drops his pen. Logan mumbles something about kids these days. But Jubilee? Jubilee just beams—and tugs you even closer.
– She’s used to being underestimated, but you never do. You call her “sparkler” and “hot stuff” in front of Rogue, blow her kisses across training simulations, and say things like “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna combust before you even touch me.” Her cheeks go red. Her fingers crackle. Her smile could light the room. You tease her because she deserves to be adored loudly, boldly, without apology.
– You once kissed her behind the bleachers during a student event and whispered, “Wanna ditch this and make out on top of the Danger Room?” She said yes before you even finished. In front of the team, you call her “the love of my chaotic life”, and when she shoots you a glare, you kiss her cheek until she’s laughing too hard to be mad. Jubilee loves that you’re just as loud as she is, just as bright, just as impossible to ignore.
– Alone, she curls against you like a firework ready to explode. “I still don’t know why you like me,” she whispers once. You kiss the side of her nose and reply, “Because you shine so hard, it makes me believe in joy again.” She tears up. Punches your arm. Calls you cheesy. You promise to flirt with Laura tomorrow just to annoy her. She threatens to blind you with light. But she’s smiling the whole time.
David Haller (Legion)
– Teasing David is like reaching into a wildfire and asking it to blush. You sidle into his space during psychic training sessions, curl a hand around the back of his neck, and murmur, “You’ve got a million personalities, but I only flirt with the one who looks at me like that.” His smile stutters. Reality shimmers slightly at the edges. He wants to be cool, collected—but you make his universe tremble with a whisper.
– Everyone else treads lightly around David, afraid of breaking him open, of saying the wrong word and unleashing chaos. But you? You walk right into his field of fractured thoughts and tease him like it’s your favorite game. “So which one of you is into me today?” you once asked in front of Charles. David flushed. The sky flickered. Charles cleared his throat and left the room. You winked. David nearly imploded.
– You press kisses to the side of his temple and say things like, “Even your madness knows I’m irresistible.” And maybe it does. Maybe every one of his alters adores you in their own strange, broken way. You are the single thread he never wants to sever, the teasing voice that keeps him grounded, the chaos he chooses instead of drowns in. You flirt with him not because he’s broken—but because you see the beauty in every crack.
– Alone, he cups your face with trembling hands and whispers, “Sometimes I think I made you up.” You kiss him—slow, grounding, real. “If you did, then lucky you.” Tomorrow, you’ll flirt with one of his alters just to watch him twitch, just to remind him you love every part. He’ll roll his eyes. Call you impossible. You’ll call him yours. And he’ll believe it. Because somehow, against all odds, you make his mind feel like home.
Lorna Dane (Polaris)
– You flirt with Lorna like she’s a storm you’re daring to swallow. You press against her during council meetings, fingers grazing her hip, and whisper, “Is your magnetism always this strong, or am I just wearing metal panties again?” She chokes. Logan drops his cigar. Emma smirks behind her wine glass. Lorna turns slowly, jaw clenched, green eyes sharp—but you see the edges of her mouth fighting a smile.
– Lorna plays at calm, but you’ve seen the twitch in her fingers when you wear her colors or call her Queen of North Star Hearts in public. You once straddled her lap during a political summit and murmured, “If I kiss you now, will the podium catch fire or just the headlines?” She didn’t move you. Didn’t speak. Just kissed you anyway. And the media did write about it. You framed the article.
– You tease her powers constantly, asking if she can “pull you closer without hands” or suggesting she use her magnetic field to unhook your bra mid-mission. She glares. You wink. And when you kiss her in front of her exes—especially Alex—she holds you tighter. Lorna pretends to hate the attention. But she loves the way you shout your affection. She’s had too many lovers hide her in the shadows. You? You shine a spotlight.
– At night, wrapped in silk sheets and her tangled hair, she murmurs, “You’re the only one who ever makes me laugh like this.” You kiss her nose and promise to call her Green Goddess in front of Magneto tomorrow. She groans. “Don’t you dare.” You absolutely will. Because Lorna’s not just made of magnetic storms—she’s made of aching softness. And you are the only one allowed to tease the lightning until it purrs.
Jonothon Starsmore (Chamber)
– Teasing Jono is like serenading a bonfire—warm, dangerous, and always on the verge of flaring. You curl into his side in the rec room, fingers brushing the wrappings around his jaw, and whisper, “You know, for a guy who can’t kiss, you still make me melt.” His psychic laugh echoes softly in your mind. It’s dry. Amused. And just a little bit desperate. You’re the only one who makes him feel like more than what he lost.
– You flirt in front of the students, calling him “Hot Stuff” or “My favorite furnace”, running your fingers over his trench coat and sighing theatrically, “Tragic and broody? Ugh, yes please.” Jubilee hoots. Husk groans. Jono groans louder—psychically. He tells you to stop. You don’t. Because you know what it does to him. You know he’s burning from the inside out—and you want him to know that you see it, and love him anyway.
– Once, during a mission, you pressed your mouth to the scarf over his lower face and whispered, “You don’t need lips to ruin me, Jono.” He nearly lost control of his bio-energy blast. You laugh about it still. He doesn't. But he secretly keeps the scarf you kissed folded in his drawer like a relic. You tease him because he forgets how much he’s still allowed to feel—and you are determined to never let him forget it again.
– Later, when he holds you with hands callused from a life of holding back, you hear him think it again: “I wish I could kiss you.” You cup his face and say, “You already do.” And tomorrow, you’ll flirt louder, in front of Emma this time, just to see him twitch. He’ll groan. He’ll sigh. But he’ll never tell you to stop. Because in a body made of broken fire, your teasing is the one thing that doesn’t hurt.
☆ summary ryland experiments in the nasa lab, and accidentally creates the mixture for his downfall
☆ word count 2,240
☆ warnings 18+ MDNI smut/fluff, sex pollen, established relationship, cowgirl, breast play, fingering, handjob, p in v, making out, pet names (angel, baby, honey, sweetheart), masturbation mentioned (ryland), use of y/n, both characters are talking each other through it, no scientific accuracy whatsoever (sorry), not proof read.
☆ a/n hey guys, it been a fat while since i've posted a fic, so i guess today is the day i get back on the grind! Idk if this is good, but hey I hope you enjoy. also I just want to add, after i posted that poll a couple of days ago, i discovered there is actually a shit ton of sex pollen ryald grace fics. if there are any similarities to those already out there, pls lmk so i can give creds. thank you!
my blog!
the same routine had continued for the past couple of months had continued. he’d leave for the lab early in the morning, and return late at night, leaving you alone in the name of science. you didn’t mind him being invested in his work, he was always like this, for as long as you had been with him. he was determined, and sometimes stubborn when it came to his work. even when he was just a middle school teacher, he wouldn’t even think of anything (or anyone) else before he graded papers, and finalised the curriculum for the week. but you admit, it wouldn’t be terrible if he paid some extra attention to his wife once in a while.
fast forward to tonight. it was late, later than ryland had ever been. you stayed awake, watching whatever tv show you thought would distract you from the anxious pit in your stomach. none of the witty dialogue or slapstick scenes could pull you from your thoughts. what if something happened to him in the lab? would they save him? i mean they did treat him as if he was disposable-. the lock in the door twisting made you jump, and through the door came your husband.
“ry!” you exclaimed, running towards him. he dropped his things at his feet and pulled you into a tight hug.
“hi sweetheart, i’m so sorry i’m late. things at the lab got a bit complicated.” he responded as he massaged his head,
“complicated?” you questioned. he continued as he held your hand and guided you to the couch.
“yeah, i was trying to mix the astrophage with different chemicals, just to see if any of them had the power to you know, kill it.” you nodded your head and hummed in agreement, as if you knew any of this science-y stuff. “well, i got to mixing it with a gas, and it created this weird dusty stuff. and now i have this headache that’s killing me.” he rubs his temples again. you bring your hands to his cheeks and press a soft kiss to his lips.
“why don’t you go have a nice warm shower, and i’ll make you something warm to eat?” you suggest, hands running through his hair.
“yeah that sounds nice, thank you baby.” he responds as he plants a peck to your lips.
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after ryland headed upstairs to shower, you prepared his dinner. a grilled cheese, and a hot chocolate with extra chocolate, just how he liked it. as soon as you placed the his plate and mug on the table, you heard his footsteps treading down the stairs. he was wearing grey sweats, and using his ‘i had potential’ shirt to clean the fog off his glasses.
“nice shower?” you asked. sitting in the seat next to his on the table.
“eh, i’ve had better.” he sat down next to you, immediately taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “i think you may just be the best wife a man could ask for” your heart felt warm. even after all the time he spent away, it was nice to know he still cared.
“well, that’s always a good thing to know.” you sat slanted on the chair, raising your feet to lay them across his lap like you always did when ryland let out a moan. you jolted up. “everything ok?” you asked, a pang of concern washing across your face.
“yeah, um, i don’t know. i’ve been having some weird…bodily feelings after that whole astrophage compound situation.” ok well now you’re confused.
“i thought you just had a headache?” you questioned innocently.
“well, about a half hour after the incident, i started to get, now how do i put this-“ you interjected.
“oh my god ryland just spit it out!”
“ok ok, uhm, alright fine i’ve been hard!” he confessed, in a manner which was probably ludicrous enough for the whole street to hear. your eyes widened, going straight down to his pants and, oh my god! how did you not notice?! i mean it wasn’t even that hard to tell when ryland was hard because of his size, but you were just so worried about him that you weren’t really paying attention to…him.
“how the hell did that happen!?” yo shouted back at him in a bewildered manner. he stood up fast, adjusting his glasses, and your mind wandered. wow, it really was obvious. your thighs instinctively clenched together, but ryland was too far into his answer for him to notice.
“i must’ve mixed the wrong thing with the astrophage, i mean it is a cell and i guess it slipped my mind to not take that into account.” you tried to keep eye contact with the man while he was talking, but every two seconds you just had to look back. “ugh, and i feel so terrible admitting this and i know its disgusting. but i tried getting rid of it in the shower and i came, like two times! still its not going away. ” he whined, and you let out a tiny whimper. his eyes stopped looking all over the room, and finally locked into yours. “are you even listening y/n?” you snapped back into reality as you heard your name being called.
“yes of course i am honey,” you stood up, walking to stand right in front of him. you bought your arms around his neck. “it’s just hard to concentrate when, you know, we have company.” that made him let out a breathy chuckle as you followed his eyes when his face moved. “what can i do? well i mean i think there is only one thing we can really try,” you proposed, going onto your toes to reach your husband’s lips.
“are you sure?” he replied, and you nodded.
“come on, lets go.” you held his hand and guided him to the bedroom, similarly to the way he had done to you just an hour ago.
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once the two of you had reached the room, ryland’s lips reached yours instantaneously, the chocolate left over from his tiny sip leaving a sweet flavour in his mouth. you moaned as he led you to the bed, laying you down on your back. he started by taking off his shirt, the small lamp’s light reflecting off his skin. he smiled down at you, and moved down again to continue the kiss. slowly, his hands found their way under your (his) old t-shirt. you weren’t wearing a bra, so his fingers had easy access to your breasts, kneading them with his free hand, the other holding him up.
“oh ry.” you moaned out, back starting to arch slightly off of the bed. taking this as a sign for more, ryland moved down, bringing the other breast into his mouth. you tangled your hands through his hair, and a wave of calm settled over you. you had missed this, you had missed him. he bought his head up and looked into your eyes.
“this feel good angel?”
“oh yeah ry,” you puffed. as he sucked harder on your nipples, he reached his hands into your shorts, pushing two fingers into your wet cunt. you instinctively pushed your thighs together, but ryland help your thighs open, continuing his motions. he hadn’t touched you like this in so long, it was all so overwhelming. eventually, his thumb moved to your clit, pressing firmly and rubbing tight circles. “gonna come ry!” you warned him.
“come on my fingers baby,” and you did, arching your back so your chests were pressing. you settled for a few seconds before you reached out for his face and bought it in line with yours. “good?” he asked, like always.
“amazing, but i need to focus on you right now.” you pushed him up and flipped to two of you so that he was laying down and you were straddling him. you started at his neck, kissing over his neck, his chest, and getting to his v-line. you pulled the strings of his sweats and bought his boxers down with them. his cock jumped out before you even pulled them all the way down. his cock was thick, i mean you knew this, but the chemicals must’ve changed something. he was bigger, veinier, a angry red colour was present at the top. you couldn’t help but feel terrible. “does this not hurt baby?” you solicited. ryland’s face tightened as the cool air hit him.
“oh sweetheart, it hurts so bad. please help me.” he said with a moan. you pulled his pants all the way down and discarded them on the floor. as soon as you did, your hand was on his cock, the other massaging his balls. “oh my god y/n!” his eyes squeezed shut as you moved up and down, his cock twitching in your hand. “‘m gonna cum!” you were taken back.
“already?” you blurted out, just in time with his orgasm. cum spilled into your hand, and all over his lower half. you were baffled, how was he still hard? if your calculations were right, this was his third orgasm in the last hour and 15 minutes. you focused back on ryland, who was panting after his finish. “everything okay?” you pushed a strand of hair back from his face. he brings his gaze up to his lap.
“still hurts, the stupid thing just won’t go away.” he lets out, frustrated, before falling back onto the bed. a tear slipped down from his eye onto the pillow and you wiped it away with your thumb. you frowned. seeing him like this, so vulnerable and helpless made your heart crack.
“hey hey, it’s okay we’ll keep trying to get rid of it, okay?” you said, pulling your tiny shorts and panties off so you were now both completely naked. you gave him a small kiss before straddling him again, looking to his eyes for confirmation, and him nodding in agreement. you lowered yourself onto his cock.
“ah fuck!” you both moaned in unison. you looked at each other, and couldn’t help but both let out a small chuckle.
“gonna start moving now, okay?” you told him, grinding on his length. moans and whimpers flooded the room from the both of you. you were a sight for sore eyes, and ryland couldn’t believe how lucky he got. your tits were bouncing, hands planted on his chest, and your hair falling in front of your face. he pushed your hair behind your ears.
“want to see your pretty face.” he breathed out, looking at you as you focused on his chest, like he was your only anchor. you were getting close now, your walls clenching hard around ryland. ryland seemed like he was almost there too, head falling back into the pillow, moans slipping from his lips. you couldn’t help but grin at the sight in front of you. as you were appreciating your drop dead gorgeous husband, his hand came up to your forearm. “wanna come with you,” he pleaded.
“me too.” you moaned, your orgasm becoming imminent. you started to move faster, chasing your high and trying to make sure ryland got there too. suddenly, the white hot pleasure waved over both of you. your hands flew to your husband’s biceps, as his clung to your hips. you continued to move faster onto him. you cried out as you felt ryland’s warm seed shoot into your cunt, and you collapsed onto his chest. the two of you lay there, ryland’s cock still deep inside you. after a couple of minutes, you finally felt ryland’s heart rate slow down, and his cock become softer. you lifted off of him and dropped next to him, curling into his side. “feeling better?”
“the best baby thank you so much.” he kissed your cheek as he turned to face you. “i really meant it when i said you were the best wife i could ever ask for.” you couldn’t help but feel a loose feeling in your chest. even though he affirmed you all the time, he never once faltered in how much he meant it.
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once you both got cleaned up, and ryland had changed the sheets, you fell back into bed. you tucked into his side, laying your head on his big bicep.
“i’m sorry i’ve been away so much.” he finally said. you’d been waiting weeks for just that, and he gave it to you. “surprisingly, it’s quite consuming trying to find a cure for sun aliens.” you let out a giggle.
“it’s okay, i know this is something you have to do. just missed you that’s all.” you went silent again and he could tell there was still something on your mind.
“whatcha thinkin’ hm?” he glanced down at you.
“just deciding if i should say something or not.” you couldn’t hold back your smirk.
“come on, just tell me.”
“i’m kind of happy you experimented like a mad scientist and got yourself infected with “sex pollen” or whatever.”
“excuse me!” ryland acted shocked and you hit his arm.
“only because we haven’t been this close in a while, i miss you dummy.” you loved calling him that, because he was in fact the smartest person you’d ever met.
“i’ve missed you too. i love you, you know?” he curled up against you.
“i love you to the moon and back.” you say before you both fall asleep in each others arms.
summary: getting drunk with grace after saving mankind! a smidge of angst but mostly fluff:)
a/n: so i was reading the book and i got to this part, and boy did a little light bulb appear above my head( but also lowkey not book accurate)
wc: ~1.7k
across the universe. the beatles
SPOILERS FOR PROJECT HAIL MARY BELOW
You wanted to jump up and down in excitement when Grace gave the news, although that wasn’t possible because you were hanging in zero gravity to conserve the ship’s Astrophage supply.
But the answer to Earth and Erid’s problems had been answered! Taumoeba-82.5 was a success.
“Celebrate!” Rocky’s frequency analyzer translated.
“This doesn’t feel real!” You exclaimed, legs wrapped around the metal bridge within the holodeck to anchor yourself from the zero g’s.
Grace had bred the perfect predator for Astrophage and it still meant both you and Grace were going to die!
You shook the thought of dying away.
Now was the time to celebrate, and what better way to do so than with—
“Vodka!” Grace glided into the holodeck holding five one-liter bags filled with alcohol, most likely stolen from Ilyukhina’s personal bag.
He tossed two towards you and kept three for himself.
“Score.” You smiled, reaching for the bags and stuffing one into your suit.
“I like your outfit.” Grace cheesed, looking at Rocky.
Rocky had proudly dressed up for the occasion–his carapace was covered with a smooth cloth, and the top hole where his vents were was ringed with rough gems like some kind of jewelry.
“Thank! Is special clothing for celebration.”
You held up one of the liter pouches of vodka up for Rocky to see. “This is a special liquid for celebration.”
“Humans… eat to celebrate?”
Grace nodded looking up at Rocky who had anchored himself down in one of his many tunnels. “I know Eridians eat in private. I know you think it’s gross to see. But this is how humans celebrate.”
“Is okay. Eat! We celebrate!”
You whooped, raising a fist into the air as you flicked the fastener on the straw of the vodka.
Grace raised his pouch into the air as well. “To Taumoeba-82.5! Savior of two worlds!”
You could feel the confusion radiate off of Rocky.
“You will give that liquid to Taumoeba, question?”
“No,” you giggled, taking a sip of the vodka, wincing as it burned on its way down your throat. “It’s just a thing humans say. He’s honoring Taumoeba-82.5.”
Grace nodded as he took a sip of his own baggy, and he also winced as he swallowed the vodka. Seems you weren’t the only one to have a light alcohol tolerance after four years in a coma.
“Yes. Much honoring!” Rocky replied. “Humans and Eridian work together, save everyone!”
“Yes!” You exclaim, pumping your fist into the air a few times again, before taking a good long sip of more vodka like it was a Caprisun. “Good ol’ ethanol and water. Thank the Russians!”
Grace hiccupped quietly, raising his bag to you.“You can say that again.”
“To us!” You and Grace echoed, both now lifting your bags of alcohol.
Rocky reached for a wrench near him, raising it up with one of limbs. “To us!”
You and Grace took a long sip of your vodka pouches, sighing contently as the liquor made its way through your veins.
“Isn’t this the life?”
“Yea!” He started, enthusiastic.
For a little moment, it was easy.
The two of you could breathe normally without the thought of your pending death creeping in.
Grace had distracted himself with Rocky, talking about some breeder tanks he needed him to create for the beetles.
You drifted slowly towards the holodeck projection—the fireworks had switched to a mountain range, bright against a painted sky. Something about it tugged at your memory.
You took another drink. And another.
By the time you looked down, it was already empty.
You flicked it away, watching it float freely around the room.
Rocky skittered away.
“Where’s he going?” You mumbled.
“Eat. Sleep.” Grace muttered, staring at his vodka pouch.
He seemed distracted.
“Do you think this is all a dream?” He asked suddenly.
You glanced at him. He was never one to ask such a surreal question. Nonetheless, you pondered it for a while. “If it is, I’d really like to wake up. This is the best part, isn’t it?”
“You could say that…” Grace huffed a hiccup. “...if it weren’t for the fact that we’re probably gonna starve to death on the way home.”
You frowned, pulling the next baggy out of your suit to squeeze more alcohol into your mouth. “Way to keep it positive, Mary.”
You coughed a few times as the vodka burned its way down your esophagus, and then let yourself unanchor from the bridge.
Grace watched as you pushed yourself out of the room, towards the entrance.
“Where’re you going?” He murmured, looking at you with those pleading blue eyes.
“Alone time.” You muttered, pushing yourself out and towards the lab.
You entered the lab, stumbling into sealed cabinets and walls as you drifted to the clear window on one side.
Your face was illuminated by the green glow of Adrian as the Hail Mary orbited it.
Grace didn’t like the loneliness.
He took his two and a half baggies out and followed you into the lab, watching you stare out the window for a while.
He pushed himself into the room, miscalculating how much force he used, and colliding with the window.
“Oof.” He muttered, now slowly floating back until he grabbed onto the lab table and held himself still.
Grace looked at his vodka bags and then you.
“I’m… shorry…” he mumbled.
You frowned, ignoring his attempt to brush his negativity away. It wasn’t his fault, but he still ruined the bliss of celebrating.
You glanced at him, and with the mix of alcohol and zero-g’s, your head became light headed.
You let go of the handle and began spinning as you grabbed your temples, trying to help the dizziness subside.
Grace smiled, letting his bag go to drift in front of him. “You… you float funny,” he slurred.
“Y.. you’re the one floating funny.” You shot back, a giggle escaping your lips.
Grace let out a hiccuped laugh and pushed off the wall to follow, nearly colliding with you mid-spin. “We float gracefully.”
You snorted quietly, forgetting the previous indignation he had sparked in you. “I’ll toast to that!” You grabbed your vodka bag. “To floating gracefully…!”
“Gracelessly!” Grace toasted his bag against yours.
You took a long sip of the alcohol like it was a Caprisun.
It was silent for a while.
Before Grace broke it again.
“Do you think about.. earth?” he mumbled, trying to steady himself before the mix of alcohol and zero gravity made him sick.
“Of course,” you sighed, closing your eyes. “But I don’t wanna think about that right now…”
You lifted your alcohol pouch with a lazy grin. “I just wanna drink the best fuckin’ vodka.”
Grace hummed, watching Adrian as the Hail Mary drifted into the planet's dark side. “The best fudging vodka…!”
You turned to look at him then.
His cheeks were pink, eyes heavy-lidded, arms floating uselessly at his sides. He looked so unguarded it made something warm bubble in your chest..
“You…” you smiled faintly. “You’re adorable…”
Grace blinked at you for a long moment, as if your words had to travel through the vodka before reaching him.
“I… I like that,” he murmured.
You laughed softly. “I… like it too,” you murmured.
Silence settled between you again, the hum of the ship the only sound. Something about it felt safe.
You raised your empty pouch. “Gimme some of your extra vodka.”
He glanced down at the third bag hidden in his suit. “Only half.”
“Pinky promise,” you winked, catching it as he let it drift in your direction.
You uncapped it, and he watched as you brought the bag up to your mouth, captivated by the way your lips circles around the straw.
Without thinking much of it, you let yourself drift closer, the half-empty vodka pouch slipping free behind you.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine!– I’m fine– I–” Grace stumbled over his words as you reached him, your hands landing on his shoulders to stop your momentum.
He was warm. Surprisingly warm.
“You're really warm…” you whispered.
The contact sent both of you floating backward until Grace bumped lightly against the lab wall with a startled yelp, and the recoil pushed you both into a slow helpless spin.
You giggled but Grace only stared at your hands on his shoulders, as if he could think of nothing else.
“You’re… really close,” he slurred, eyes widening and a little unfocused.
“I know,” you whispered, heart thudding a little faster. “I wanna be.”
His arms flailed slightly as the dizziness hit him and you caught his hands, tangling your legs with his to steady the drift.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, glasses becoming crooked. “Zero-g’s are tricky…”
“I can handle it,” you smiled, one hand letting go of his shoulder. “Be still really quick…"
“How–”
Your fingers tipped his chin toward you and straightened his glasses. And then you just looked at him.
He was beautiful.
And the way he looked at you made your breath falter.
In all the commotion of slow, pinball spinning, the tension between the two of you seemed to grow thicker.
His lips parted. Yours did too.
For one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then you both leaned in.
The kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated. Your noses bumped into each other, your hands unsure where to move now, but neither of you bothered to pull away.
When you finally did, Grace’s glasses were smudged and even more crooked than before.
“You…” he breathed. “You taste like vodka.”
You giggled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He hesitated, lips twitching.
“Can we try again?” he whispered. “Please?”
You cupped his jaw and nodded.
A smile broke over his face as his hands found your waist.
Then, together, you leaned in again.
Grace made a quiet sound against your lips, almost startled by how natural it felt the second time, and your fingers slipped into the hair floating weightlessly around his forehead.
When you pulled back, only barely, your forehead bumped together.
Grace looked dazed.
“Wow…” he whispered.
You laughed softly.
The two of you drifted, tangled together, neither quite willing to let go.
“Can we maybe… stay like this for a little?” Grace murmured shyly.
