I really like when people write older readers in x reader, idk why
"Big age gap" "college student reader" "19/50" fuck that porno shit, man, give me a reader who's in their thirties, forties even, give me joint pain and wrinkles and gray hairs
"But that's not relatable at all!!! I'm not forty!!!" Well, neither are you a fucking Avenger, are you? So just roll with it
📎 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.”
