Anonymous Appreciation of Content Creators!

I'm too shy to do this on main so this is where I shall appreciate all my favourite content creators! (18)

[absolutegibberishandnumbers]

jokes to make after failure that aren’t self-deprecating:

I’m the best to ever do it

Nobody saw that (best if said loudly)

No one’s ever done it like me

I could be President/they should make me President

Behold, a mere fraction of my power!

The public wants to be me soooooo bad

I’m an expert in (thing you just failed at)

How could this have happened to god’s favorite princess?

Nothing ibuprofen and a glass of water cant fix

I’m being sabotaged

[thehappysmiler]

[mixterglacia]

Grace: *has dozed off at his desk, waking up to-* ...Adrian?

Adrian: ...You didn't answer when Rocky came through earlier.

Grace: Oh, shoot I'm so sorry! It's just, I'm still not feeling my best and-

Adrian: I didn't ask for explanations, Ryland.

Grace: *mumbles a further apology.*

Adrian: ...Go lay down. I will observe.

Grace: Uh...are you sure? You don't have to-

Adrian: This is not a debate. Go.

Grace: Sure, okay...*gets ready for bed, watching as Adrian gets settled with something to work on.* ...I'm sorry for inconveniencing you.

Adrian: You are not.

Grace: *getting into bed, unable to get to sleep.* ...Adrian?

Adrian: What.

Grace: Thank you. I know you don't like me-

Adrian: What gave you that idea?

Grace: ...I mean, this is the most we've talked in months, and you always seem like you want to leave whenever I'm around?

Adrian: That's not...Grace, I do like you. Very much...I leave because I thought you didn't like -me-.

Grace: What?! I like you so much!

Adrian: ...Hm...come here, Grace. Bring your blankets and pillows. *Rearranges their limbs to make a nest.* Tomorrow, we will have a better discussion about this. You need to sleep.

Grace: I'll hold you to that. *Settles in their 'lap'.*...Y'know, Rocky's gonna be very jealous of you.

Adrian: Let him.

[witchening]

More "Grace living on Erid" headcanons

Eridian names get longer over time and with accolades. Grace’s full Eridian name translates roughly to "Biology Expert Space Explorer Ryland Grace, Savior of Planets, Destroyer of Star Eater, Welcomed Friend to Eridians, Teacher to All”, abbreviated to “Savior-Friend-Teacher-Grace”.

Rocky is VERY particular about how people refer to him. Only Adrian and Rocky are allowed to call him “Grace”. Grace is oblivious but surprised at how polite and respectful the Eridians are by giving him his medium-length honorary titles every time he's spoken to or about. He assumes it to be an Eridian culture thing

Grace has no idea Rocky straight up threatens other Eridians for not using "Savior Friend Teacher Grace" when talking about him

"PUT SOME RESPECT ON HIS NAME" -Rocky in warbled angry Eridian

[pangur-and-grim]

my house is scary at night

[storyweavingspider]

Interpreted this initially not as shelves, but as your cat having erected defensive fortifications

[dogpuppy]

[kirbyofthestars]

are you in the right headspace right now to receive my big gay dance

[kirbyofthestars]

thank you king dedede

[ripe]

deanmason.wow on ig

[ittybittytatertot]

I don’t think adding nonbinary to Victorian’s gender system would’ve fixed their weird sexism. If anything I think it would’ve made them weirder and sexismier

[ittybittytatertot]

Someone needs to write a satirical etiquette book in the style of a Victorian with rules for Ladies, Gentlemen, and Honorables in Polite Society.

[mrfandomwars]

Oh please someone do this

[ittybittytatertot]

It would go something like

Of course, fashionable Honorables may be consternated by the proper open collar blouses as there is no way to tie a bow or cravat around it. In such cases a bow may be worn upon the top hat. Or a slim ribbon may be tied around the bare neck, however, given the salacious reputation some hold for such an accessory, that is best left to married Honorables.

[ittybittytatertot]

YES. the way this hasn’t left my mind….Like okay they’re still Victorians. They’re still sexist and homophobic. My thought for this alternate history is third gender people are expected to only marry into already married couples. And they’d probably throw in a lot of Christian Holy Trinity and Mary Joseph God imagery to religiously validate triads.

Or three people (of all different genders of course bc again. They’re Victorian) could marry all at once but the courting situation would be a nightmare.

My question is,,, would Honorables have a dowry?

[bemusedlybespectacled]

First thought: coverture. Coverture is the legal idea that a married couple is one entity, with the wife not having an actual legal identity of her own. This is why there's the old-fashioned convention of women taking on their husband's entire name (e.g. "Mrs. Robert Smith"), why men could control any inheritance or money their wives had, and also the origin of some now-obsolete laws (like making it impossible for a wife to sue her husband for damages, because it's as if she was suing herself).

This is why it was so important for women to marry well: even if you worked as a married woman (and many women did), your money wasn't actually yours. It's one thing to have to live with a drunk asshole; it's worse to have that drunk asshole be the sole person who decides if that paycheck goes towards rent or more booze.

So, having a trinity/three parts of one whole entity would totally fit Victorian ideas of coverture. I think you'd still have it be men > everyone else, because they'd expect some kind of hierarchy, and even within the Trinity, God is still the leader.

Second thought: separate spheres. The Victorian era was very heavily focused on men being involved in the "dirty" business of work/politics/etc., and women being more morally pure and better suited to the domestic sphere (the whole "angel of the house" thing). Obviously this wasn't actually or practically true a lot of the time, but it was the aspired-to standard, the thing you'd measure people against to say if they were acting appropriately as members of their gender or not.

So you'd need a third sphere for Honorables to inhabit that is completely separate from the work/domestic dichotomy, or create an entirely different three-way dichotomy. Basically, you'd need a thing to point to, like "X is very ladylike" or "Y is not manly," but for Honorables.

So, extrapolating:

You'd still have "Mr. and Mrs. Robert Smith," it'd just be, "Mr., Mrs., and Mx. Robert Smith" (differentiating by title, not by first name). I could actually see there being a different title for unmarried vs. married Honorables, like Master vs. Mister or Miss vs. Madam/Missus. Mix vs. Max, maybe?

I think Honorables would definitely need to have some kind of dowry. It actually might be even more necessary, because unless the guy is insanely wealthy on his own, you're going to need enough money to support three people, not just two.

I'm having trouble coming up with a third sphere, but whatever that third sphere was, you'd need to heavily police it. "You can't do X, that's for Honorables" has to be part of the culture. And you'd need to police it with as much weird pseudoscientific and/or religious justification as possible. Like, you need "women's brains physically can't handle the strain of learning math" but to explain why Honorables can't swim, or whatever.

[startedwellthatsentence]

Non-leadership admin, teaching, and academia as the third sphere.

The idea of who should be in charge of household accounting has always waffled between a man’s job and a woman’s job. Is teaching the realm of governesses and school mistresses or lecturers and professors. Academics are too weak and frail to be masculine but too logical and rigorous to be feminine.

Clerks and accountants and secretaries and teachers and scholars.

[lwoorl]

I can see it becoming a Mind (Honorable) Heart (Woman) Soul (Man) kind of separation, all three together making up the body. Women are suited for feelings, nurturing, caring. Honorables are suited for the pursue of pure knowledge, but lack the Will to put it to any practical use. Finally men are the one leading force that brings all the parts together and leads it into an action.

Thus, men, even if they're unqualified on whatever area of knowledge they're dealing with, and even if they have no understanding of their or other people's feelings whatsoever, still possess an inherent and intangible quality that makes them the only part truly suited for decision making.

Woman: Caretaker

Honorable: Assistant/Advisor

Men: Leader

[johanneswinstonwileyatmse]

Just gonna leave this here....

[none-ofthisnonsense]

@animate-mush

[burnedouticarus]

@derinthescarletpescatarian did something similar with brennans

[willgrahamscock]

⚠︎ ! your body has kept the score.

[willgrahamscock]

⚠︎ ! hospital ⚠︎ !

[xiaq]

One of the best things about being a writer is thinking of something small you can add to your work that’s just. Devastating. Like you’re sitting there going. Oh. That would be diabolical. People would get really riled up about that. Exquisite. Let’s do it.

[gatorzaeder]

Take my gay cats, Tumblr!

This is part 1, the next part will be gender identity centered :)

[sigmaleph]

every day i am thankful to ancient humans for the domestication of the cat. fucking genius idea. agriculture was a good one too btw but you really outdid yourselves with the cat thing

[jamesdeanbby]

hi !!!

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.

His face, already upside-down, goes nuclear red. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa-!”

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.

“Peter Quill, are you offering to strip?”

“I’m offering to negotiate.”

[classygumi]

spidey! reader x some of my favorite marvel men

GAMBIT … remy lebeau

everything hurt.

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.”

“would you have let me go help pete?”

“no. duh—but that’s not the point!”

[jamesdeanbby]

marvel men in.. !!

having an overly cuddly gf !!

🏷 @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

The first time you curl into his side on the sofa in the mansion’s common room, he goes ramrod straight. A low growl rumbles in his chest. “What’re you doin’?”

“Cuddling,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“We don’t… I don’t…” He’s looking around like he expects Cyclops to leap out from behind a potted plant with a camera. “People are gonna talk.”

“Let them,” you mumble into his flannel, already half-asleep. He sits there, arms pinned to his sides, for a full twenty minutes before his posture finally, finally softens.

Cuddling Logan is an exercise in strategic positioning. You learn very quickly that a surprise back-hug while he’s sharpening his blades is a bad idea. You develop a system. A verbal cue. “Claws in, please.” He sighs, but you hear the soft snikt of them retracting. This is your equivalent of him saying “I love you.”

Logan runs hot, like a freshly stoked furnace. You run… normally. Cuddling him is like climbing onto a heated blanket set to ‘surface of the sun.’ You will last approximately four minutes before you start sweating. Then comes the dance: you peel yourself off, he grunts in protest, you lie on the cool part of the sheets, he shuffles over until his chest is pressed against your back again, and the cycle repeats.

He pretends to hate it when you insist on being the big spoon on the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. “I can’t move my arms,” he’ll grumble over the roar of the engine. But he always rides a little slower, takes the longer way back to the mansion, and you can feel the tension drain from his shoulders against your cheek.

WORST WOLVERINE !!

The first time you try cuddling the first words out of his mouth are, “What the fuck is this? A petting zoo? I’m not a goddamn stuffed animal.” You just took a look at the blood-soaked, perpetually exhausted, emotionally unstable version of Wolverine and your brain says, ‘I can fix him. But more importantly, I can cuddle him.’ 

You learn soon enough that asking for cuddles results in a tirade about his tragic past and how he doesn’t deserve soft things. So you stop asking. You’ll just be sitting on the couch, and you’ll casually say, “Don’t come near me, I want to be alone right now. I’m definitely not cold or sad.” He’ll stare at you for a long moment, then silently sit down, throw a heavy arm over your shoulders, and pull you against his chest with the force of a man trying to prove a point. He will not make eye contact.

Logan hates Wade. But the one thing he hates more than Wade is when Wade is right. And when Wade sees you trying to coax him into a hug, he’ll yell, “Just let her love you, you sad, hairy avocado! Her serotonin levels are dropping and it’s making me sad, and I can’t be sad, I have a brand to maintain!” Logan will then pull you into the most aggressive, desperate hug you’ve ever received, purely out of spite.

WADE WILSON !!

cuddling with Wade isn’t a quiet activity. It comes with a full audio commentary. “And now, the viewer will see her snuggle deeper into my manly pectoral region, a region so chiseled it could cut diamonds. But wait! Is that a yawn? A yawn of contentment, or a yawn of boredom? The suspense is killing me!” You just shove your face into his chest to muffle him. It doesn’t work. He narrates your muffled protests.

You’ll be drifting off, head on his chest, when he suddenly freezes. “Hold on. Pause the cuddle session. I need to address the audience.” He looks directly at the camera that doesn’t exist. “Yes, I know. She’s adorable. And yes, I am aware of how lucky I am. No, you can’t have her. No, not me either. Get your own emotionally unstable, chimichanga-loving mercenary.” Then he resets, pulls you back in, and says, “Okay, we’re back. Where were we? Ah, yes, being worshipped.”

For the first few weeks, he refused to take the mask off while cuddling. “It’s part of the experience! The texture adds a certain… je ne sais quoi.” You didn’t push. You just started leaving lipstick kisses all over the mask. Forehead, cheek, where his mouth would be. He tried to act disgusted, but the next day the mask was suspiciously clean and he was in a remarkably good mood. He eventually started pulling it up to just below his nose for movie nights. Progress.

He knows you’re a cuddlebug. He uses it against you. You try to be mad at him for leaving his suit in the bathroom sink? He will don his softest, most worn-out hoodie (stolen from you) and sit on the couch, arms wide, and make a sound like a wounded puppy. Your anger doesn’t stand a chance. You’re cuddled up and forgiving him before you can even finish your sentence.

ORIGINS! WADE WILSON !!

This Wade is handsome, charming, and has the ego to match. He doesn’t just cuddle; he romances you into a cuddle. He’ll come back from a mission, spin you into his arms like you’re in a ballroom, and dip you for a kiss before carrying you to the couch. “A hero’s welcome,” he’ll murmur against your lips, before settling you on his lap like you’re the treasure at the end of a quest.

He is a master swordsman, and his hands show it. They are deceptively precise. When you’re cuddling, his fingers are never still. They trace patterns on your skin: lazy figure eights, the curve of your spine, the shape of your ear. He’ll be in the middle of a story about a mission with the X-Team, and his fingers will start gently massaging your scalp, and you will forget what he was even talking about.

He’s a mercenary, so his diet is 90% whatever he can get at a diner. Cuddling with him often involves him trying to eat a club sandwich with one hand while the other is wrapped around you. You’ve learned to accept the stray piece of bacon that ends up in your hair. He’ll pick it out, eat it, and say, “Waste not, want not, sweetheart.”

Cuddling is also his preferred method of decompressing from missions. He’ll lie on his back, you’ll lie on his chest, and he’ll narrate his day like it’s an old-timey radio serial. “—and then, with my sword at his throat, I said, ‘You have something I want. You have ten seconds to hand over the intel and apologize to my lady’s photo.’” He has a photo of you in his wallet. He’s not kidding.

He’s not invincible, and he knows it. This makes him hyper-aware of your safety. If you’re cuddling and he hears something outside, his arms tighten around you like a vise. “Stay down,” he’ll whisper, suddenly all business, even though it’s just a stray cat. His reflexes are so fast that you’ve never once felt unsafe. You just feel like you’re wrapped in a cocoon of swords and charming confidence.

REMY LEBEAU !!

Remy charges everything. Including his affection. When he’s happy to see you, he doesn’t just hug you; he scoops you up, spins you around, and you swear you can see a faint pink glow around his hands. “Chère, you are lookin’ like a sunset I’d like to get lost in.” He sets you down, but keeps an arm around your waist, his thumb tracing circles on your hip.

Remy’s version of cuddling often takes place in the kitchen. He’ll be cooking something that smells divine, and you’ll wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back. He’ll just keep stirring the gumbo, talking to you in a low, honeyed drawl about the Saints, or a card game, or the way the light hits your hair. He’ll occasionally feed you a piece of sausage from the pot. It’s domestic, it’s intimate, and it’s pure Remy.

You’ll be sitting on his lap, and he’ll be playing with a deck of cards, making them dance between his fingers. He’ll hold a card up. “Pick a card, chère.” You do. He doesn’t even look at it, just tucks it back into the deck, shuffles, and then pulls a single card from behind your ear. It’s the ace of hearts. “Seems de cards are tellin’ me what I already know.” He then wraps his arms around you, and the cards are forgotten, scattered across the couch.

His hands are his livelihood. They are also your downfall. When he’s cuddling you, he’s not just holding you. He’s exploring. He’ll find the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver, the small of your back that makes you melt, the inside of your wrist that makes your heart race. He treats your body like a lock he’s trying to pick, and he’s an expert thief. “Jus’ learnin’ ya, ma petite,” he’ll murmur against your neck. “Knowin’ where to find de treasure.”

Despite his charm, he’s intensely territorial. When you’re cuddling in a common area of the mansion, and someone (usually Scott) walks by, Remy doesn’t move, but his eyes follow them with a lazy, dangerous glint. His arm around you tightens almost imperceptibly. He’s not being mean; he’s just reminding the world that this specific cuddlebug is his cuddlebug.

KURT WAGNER !!

Kurt is soft. And not just metaphorically. His fur is lit like velvet. Your first instinct upon meeting him is to pet his face. He allows it, bemused. Cuddling with him is like cuddling with a living, breathing, blue plushie that smells faintly of brimstone and has a three-toed foot in your ribs. You become inseparable. You are the human to his koala, or he is the koala to your human. The roles are fluid.

Cuddling with a teleporter is an adventure. You’ll be reading on the couch, he’ll bamf in behind you, wrap his arms and tail around you, and bamf you both to a quiet rooftop to watch the sunset. He does this constantly. You’ve learned to always have shoes on. “I wanted to show you de stars, mein Schatz,” he’ll say, his tail curling around your leg while you cling to him, laughing.

Kurt is a man of deep faith and deep thoughts. Cuddling is often accompanied by whispered philosophy. “Do you not think it is a miracle?” he’ll ask, his cheek resting on your hair. “This moment. Your heart beating against mine. A gift from God, ja?” You’ll mumble an agreement, too comfortable to form a coherent sentence. He’ll smile and press a kiss to your forehead.

His tail has a mind of its own. It’s an extension of his emotions. When he’s happy, it curls. When he’s relaxed, it’s limp. When he’s cuddling you, it’s wrapped around your waist, or your leg, or sometimes it’s just… there, offering you the tip to hold like a hand. It’s become your comfort object. You absentmindedly hold the spade-tip while you sleep, and he finds it so endearing he almost can’t breathe.

Despite his growing confidence, there are moments where he pulls back. “Are you… comfortable? I know I am not… conventionally… soft.” You look at him, this beautiful, kind, blue-furred man who smells like heaven and brimstone, and you proceed to demonstrate exactly how comfortable you are by wrapping yourself around him so thoroughly that he has to teleport to get a glass of water. He never asks again.

EDDIE BROCK ( & VENOM ) !!

Cuddling is a three-party affair. It requires a pre-snug summit. “We want to watch a movie.” Venom’s voice rumbles from Eddie’s shoulder.

“I want to be the big spoon.” you counter.

“We are always the big spoon. We are the protective one.”

“Eddie, help me out here.”

Eddie, who is already a prisoner in his own body, just sighs. “Can we all just agree to not eat anyone for the duration of the movie?” Followed by a tense silence and a reluctant: “…Fine.”

Once the negotiations are over, it’s the best cuddling experience of your life. Venom forms a living, breathing, temperature-regulating blanket. You are the little spoon. Eddie is the middle spoon. And Venom is the outer layer, a cocoon of inky black tendrils that wrap around both of you, purring like a V8 engine. It’s like being swaddled by a very protective, slightly homicidal weighted blanket.

Venom has a unique way of showing affection. When you’re all cuddled up, a tendril will snake out and… lick your head. Just a long, slow, exploratory lick. “You taste of affection and strawberries. We like it.”

“Babe, your alien is licking my head again.”

Eddie, eyes closed, face smooshed into the pillow: “Just let 'im, baby. It’s easier this way.”

You will often be woken up at 3 AM by a conversation between Eddie and Venom happening inches from your face. “No, we will not let go. She is warm.”

“I gotta pee, man.” “You will hold it.” “I can’t hold it, the symbiote bladder situation is complicated!”

You don’t even open your eyes. You just mutter, “Venom, let him go pee. He can come back.” A pause. A tendril loosens. Eddie practically flies to the bathroom. Venom wraps tighter around you. “He is weak. You are strong. We like you better.”

STEVE ROGERS !!

You learn very quickly that Steve Rogers cuddles like he’s posing for a war bond poster. You try to drape yourself over him on the couch, and he sits there, back ramrod straight, hands in his lap, like he’s waiting for a photographer.

“Steve,” you say, your face squished against his unmoving bicep. “You know you can relax, right?”

“I am relaxed,” he says, with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

It takes weeks to get him to understand that modern cuddling is not a prelude to a formal proposal. He holds you like you’re made of glass. His hands are always in appropriate, PG-rated places. You once fell asleep with your head on his thigh, and he didn’t move for four hours because he didn’t want to “disturb” you. His legs had gone completely numb. He considered it a sacrifice worth making.

Like Logan, Steve runs hot, but his heat is more… controlled. It’s a clean, radiating warmth. Cuddling him is like lying next to a fireplace. He’s also incredibly solid. You can’t squirm or adjust without him noticing. You try to shift your weight, and his arms immediately tighten. “Are you comfortable? Do you need another pillow?” He’s such a caretaker that you almost feel bad. Almost.

Steve’s primary love language is acts of service, but he’s learning yours. He’ll be in the middle of reading a mission report, and you’ll just crawl under his arm and rest your head on his chest. He’ll pause, put the report down, and wrap both arms around you. “Was this what you needed?” he’ll ask, so earnestly. “Yes, Steve,” you’ll murmur. “This is exactly what I needed.” And he’ll hold you like it’s the most important mission he’s ever been given.

TONY STARK !!

Cuddling Tony is a challenge because he’s allergic to stillness. The moment you get comfortable, he’ll have an idea. “Hold that thought,” he’ll say, already trying to extricate himself. “I just realized how to fix the repulsor efficiency.”

You have a failsafe: you just tighten your grip and call out, “DUM-E, fire extinguisher!”

The little robot will race over and spray Tony with a cloud of foam. He’ll sigh, covered in foam, and settle back down. “Fine. You win. Ten more minutes.”

Once you’ve pinned him down, he uses his resources. The lights dim. The AC adjusts to the perfect temperature. The AI, FRIDAY, will play your favorite movie on a screen that descends from the ceiling.

“I’m creating the optimal cuddling environment,” he’ll say, pulling you against his chest. “It’s a statistical fact that a comfortable environment increases the duration of physical affection by 43%.”

“Did you just run a calculation on how long I’d cuddle you?”

“I ran several. This is the most efficient model.”

The arc reactor in his chest is a small, blue, glowing circle of light. It’s also slightly warm. You’ve discovered it’s the perfect spot to rest your head. It’s like a little nightlight and a heating pad combined. Tony pretends to be annoyed when you nuzzle into it. “You’re using my life-saving technology as a comfort object.”

“Mmhmm,” you mumble, your cheek pressed against the cool metal ring. “It’s very comfortable.”

He watches you for a moment, a soft, unguarded look on his face. “…Yeah, okay. It’s pretty comfortable.”

After a rough mission, Tony doesn’t really talk. He comes home, peels off the armor, and finds you. He’ll sit on the couch, pull you onto his lap, wrap his arms around you, and just… breathe. His face is buried in your hair. You don’t say anything. You just hold him, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of his neck. This is the only time he’s completely still, completely quiet, and completely yours.

PETER PARKER !!

Cuddling with Peter is a delicate operation. He’s been alone, forgotten, and has developed a case of touch-starvation so acute that the first time you lean your head on his shoulder during a movie, he freezes, webshooters instinctively half-raised, before his brain catches up. He doesn’t relax for the entire movie. He just… absorbs it. When you move to get up, he makes a sound like a wounded puppy.

His fingers and toes have a mild adhesive quality. When he’s relaxed and cuddling, he doesn’t always control it. You will be spooning, and you’ll try to roll over, only to find that his hand is gently, but irrevocably, stuck to your hip. “Peter,” you say, muffled by the pillow. “Your hand.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He panics, flails, and in trying to unstick one hand, sticks the other one to your shirt, and his foot to the blanket. It takes five minutes to detach him. You both end up in a tangled, laughing heap on the floor.

His spider-sense is always on, always buzzing at a low frequency. It’s exhausting. He’s told you that the only time it truly quiets is when he’s with you. Specifically, when you’re cuddled up. He’ll come back from patrol, drop his suit in a corner, and crawl into your bed, wrapping his entire lanky frame around you like an octopus.

“It’s quiet,” he’ll whisper into your hair, and it’s the most vulnerable he ever sounds.

Peter cannot sit still. Cuddling him is like cuddling a golden retriever puppy during a sugar rush. He’ll be holding you, but he’ll also be bouncing his leg, fiddling with your sleeve, and narrating the entire plot of the movie you’re watching. “Wait, no, go back. Did he just—no, that doesn’t make sense because in issue #147, the Lizard’s formula was—” You just hold on and enjoy the ride.

For a skinny kid, he is surprisingly heavy. He doesn’t realize his own strength or density. When he decides to be the big spoon, he doesn’t just wrap an arm around you; he drapes his entire torso over you like a very affectionate, very warm, very heavy blanket. You can’t move. You don’t want to. “Is this okay?” he’ll whisper, his breath warm against your ear. “Is this… is this how you do it?” You give him a hum of appreciation up from underneath his body. It is, in fact, perfect.

THOR ODINSON !!

Thor does not understand the concept of a "gentle" cuddle. His version of pulling you into his lap is akin to a friendly giant picking up a doll. You are lifted, spun, and deposited onto his thighs with a booming, “There! Now you are comfortable, yes?” You are winded, but also deeply, deeply cozy, surrounded by muscle and Asgardian leather.

Thor’s emotions are tied to the weather. When he’s cuddling you, feeling content and peaceful, you’ll notice that the perpetually overcast sky outside your window suddenly clears, and a warm sunbeam streams in, right onto the two of you. When you have to get up to go to work, a tiny, localized raincloud forms over your head. “Do not go,” he’ll say, his arms like vices. “The mortals can wait another day.”

Thor loves to talk. Cuddling is just an excuse for him to regale you with tales of the Nine Realms. You’ll be lying with your head on his chest, and he’ll be telling you about the time he and Volstagg wrestled a Bilgesnipe. His voice is a deep, resonant rumble that vibrates through his entire body and into yours. You could listen to him for hours. You often do.

You’ve learned that braiding his hair is a form of bonding. He’ll sit on the floor, you on the couch behind him, your legs on either side of his shoulders. You’ll braid his golden locks while he tells you about his day, his head leaning back against your knee. It’s one of the few times he’s perfectly still, perfectly content. When you finish, he’ll turn and wrap his arms around your waist, looking up at you with such unabashed adoration that it makes your heart clench.

You cannot cuddle him while he’s holding Mjolnir. It’s impossible. The thing is, by Asgardian rules, also a part of him. If he’s holding it, he’s not fully relaxed. You’ve established a rule: “No hammer in the cuddle puddle.”

He’ll look at you, then at the hammer, then back at you with the expression of a man being asked to choose between his two children.

“It is my weapon, my companion, my—”

“Thor.”

“…Fine.”

He sets it on the nightstand, pouting, and immediately wraps himself around you. He forgets about the hammer within two minutes.

JOHNNY STORM !!

Johnny does not cuddle. Johnny is “too hot to handle” (his words). But you are a cuddlebug, and you are relentless. The first time you ambush him with a hug, he flames on for half a second out of pure reflex, singeing your sleeve. You just stare at him.

“Did you just—?”

“I panicked! You can’t just sneak up on a guy who is literally made of fire!”

Eventually, he learns to control it. But his baseline is still about 102 degrees. Cuddling him is like cuddling a space heater. In winter, it’s glorious. In summer, you have to keep a spray bottle nearby. He thinks it’s hilarious. “What’s wrong, babe? Too hot for ya?” You spray him in the face. He yelps, and you use his moment of weakness to wrap your arms around his neck and plant a kiss right on his lips.

Johnny is a showman. He loves being seen. And he really loves being seen with you. Cuddling with Johnny is never a private affair. He’ll pull you onto his lap in the middle of the Baxter Building’s common room, right in front of Reed and Sue. “What?” he’ll say, with a smirk. “I’m just appreciating my girlfriend.” Reed looks uncomfortable. Sue just sighs. Ben Grimm gives you a slow, deliberate thumbs up from the corner.

Johnny insists he’s the big spoon. “I’m the flame. I engulf things. I’m the dominant force.” You point out that he’s the size of a very lean, very smug string bean, and you can easily wrap yourself around him like a vine. The argument ends in a tickle fight. He loses. You are the big spoon. He’s too busy laughing to care.

PETER QUILL !!

Every cuddle session with him has a soundtrack. Peter will put on his Zune, pick a song (it’s always something from the 70s or 80s), and then pull you against him. “This is a cuddling song,” he’ll explain, as if it’s a specific genre. “It’s got to have the right vibe. Not too fast, not too slow. Good bass. Lyrics you can kinda mumble along to.” Your life is now a montage set to ELO and Hall & Oates.

On the ship, cuddling is a zero-gravity adventure. You’ll be in his bunk, which is essentially a metal alcove, and he’ll have to wrap his arms and legs around you just to keep you both from floating away.

“This is efficient cuddling,” he’ll say, his face pressed into your neck. “It’s multi-dimensional.”

“You’re just holding me hostage so I don’t float into the engine room.”

“Same thing.”

Peter cannot sit still for a cuddle without initiating a dance-off. You’ll be trying to snuggle, and he’ll start tapping your hip to the beat. Before you know it, he’s trying to twirl you around the cockpit. “Come on! Just one song! It’s a classic!” You’ll groan, but you’ll be smiling, and you’ll end up slow-dancing in the middle of the ship while Rocket makes gagging noises from the ceiling vent.

You tried to have a serious conversation with him while cuddling once. You were talking about relationship stuff, and he was listening, nodding, his arms around you. Then, you felt it. His foot started tapping. Then his leg started bouncing. You stopped talking. He was staring at a point over your shoulder.

“Peter.” “…What?” “Are you listening to ‘Footloose’ in your head?” “…It’s a very catchy song.”

You sigh, accept your fate, and just hold on while he quietly hums and air-drums against your back.

For all his bravado, Peter has deep-seated insecurities about not being enough—not Earth enough, not Celestial enough, not a good enough leader. You’ve learned that the best way to combat this is with aggressive, overwhelming affection. When he gets in his head, you simply tackle him onto the nearest flat surface and wrap yourself around him like a starfish. He’ll protest for a solid minute “What are you—hey, I’m trying to brood here!” before his arms come up to hold you, and his body goes limp with a sigh. “Okay,” he’ll whisper against your hair. “Okay. This is good.”

[luna-azzurra]

What helped me write trauma better is remembering that the nervous system learns predictions. If danger used to come after quiet, calm can feel threatening. If kindness used to come with a price, kindness can feel suspicious. So healing is not just “they know they’re safe now.” Healing is the slow, annoying, deeply unfair process of teaching the body that the old prediction is not always the present truth.