— requested by pookie bear @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
froggi yaps -> these have been kicking my ass for dayssss i'm so happy to finally have finished them :,) wade & logan were kind of hard to do since i've already done this prompt w them but still wanted them to be included. enjoy!
Logan Howlett:
Logan likes to pretend like he isn’t the jealous type, despite him being the most possessive man alive. You’re his, and only his, and he’ll make damn well sure everyone knows it. His scent is definitely all over you.
If anyone is getting a little too close to you for his liking—making you laugh too much, maybe getting a little touchy—Logan is on his feet in an instant, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist.
Maybe gets a little too handsy, hands travelling lower to cup your butt, canines grazing the side of your neck. He won’t say anything, he’ll just loom there so incredibly ominously until whoever was with you gets the message and leaves.
“Logan,” you warn.
He just grunts, “you’re mine, you know that?”
And you sigh, suddenly weak in the knees, and nod along to his words. He keeps you extra close afterwards, usually sitting you in his lap and looking sideways at anyone who so much as glances your way.
Wade Wilson:
Wade is absolutely the jealous type but it takes a lot to actually get him going, and when he does, he hides his insecurity behind humour and substances. Still, it gets the best of him sometimes and he just can’t help it.
If someone’s flirting with you, he’s inserting himself into the situation immediately. He’ll sidle up next to you, prop an arm on your shoulder and grin at whoever you’re talking to.
“Excuse us for a moment.”
He won’t even give you a chance before he’s pulling you in for a bruising kiss, tongue swiping along the backs of your teeth. His hands roam your sides, maybe cheekily pinching your butt.
You pull away gasping, hands on his chest. “Wade!”
“What?” He grins goofily, “I couldn’t help it, you look so fuckable.”
Kurt Wagner:
Kurt’s not really the jealous type, and when he is jealous, he just gets sad. He’ll watch someone else hit on you and wonder if he’s enough, if you would prefer someone less blue.
He’ll go quiet for a while, maybe get a little distant while he thinks it over. He does his best to reassure himself, remind himself that you love him and you don’t want anyone else, but it only gets him so far.
Finally, he’ll cave and come to you, dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your stomach. You rest a hand on the back of his head, tilting yours to the side, “Kurt, baby, is everything alright?”
He sighs, words muffled by the fabric of your shirt. His words all come out in one big jumble, each one mumbled and bleeding into the next. Still, you get the gist of it: he’s feeling insecure, and he wants to know if you’d be happier with someone else.
You blink, stunned. “Of course not,” you frown.
“Really?” He pulls away, looking up at you with wide eyes.
“Yes, really.” You reach for his hands, helping him to his feet, “c’mere, silly.”
And Kurt sighs, letting you pull him in for a kiss.
Scott Summers:
Scott either gets really quiet or really arrogant when he’s jealous.
He’s analyzing the situation, watching you talk with a friend. He’s focused on the way they get a little too close, the subtle contact they make on your arm, the way your smile changes ever so slightly.
When he can’t take it anymore, he’s sidling up to you and throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, doll.”
He’ll plant a sloppy kiss to your lips, lingering just a little too long until whoever’s talking to you gets the message. If he’s feeling extra devious, he’s making a snide comment.
You smack his bicep once they’re out of earshot. “Really?”
“What?” He smiles, feigning innocence, “I just missed you.”
Remy LeBeau:
Remy is so clingy when he’s in love with you so it’s only natural he’d be jealous too. But not the angry jealous type, no, Remy gets sad when he’s jealous.
Someone comes up to flirt with you while you’re at the bar and he’s sitting in the corner pouting, nursing his drink and watching. Someone calls you cute right in front of him and he’s not letting it go for the rest of the day.
“Oh that’s cute of you.” “Mhm, yeah, très mignon.”
However, if someone gets handsy with you, Remy’s on his feet in an instant, cards in hand. Is it too far? Maybe, but he doesn’t care.
“This guy bothering you, amour?”
You take a step back into Remy, letting him wrap an arm around you. “Yes,” you say quietly.
That’s all he needs to hear before he’s sizing him up and sending him on the way, hand clenched around the desk of cards in his palm.
Warren Worthington III:
Warren’s jealousy is a lot more low key, but it’s definitely there. He shrugs it off and pretends like he doesn’t care but inside, he’s in shambles. The minute someone else tries to flirt with you, he’s at your side, wrapping an arm around you and leaning his head on your shoulder.
He smiles but there’s no humour behind it as he stares down whoever’s coming onto you.
Sometimes, if he’s been drinking a little or you’re in a safe space for mutants, he’ll even go as far as to wrap his wings around you, creating a shield between you and the other person. You roll your eyes, turning to face him in the trap of wings he’s created for you.
“Baby?”
“Hm?” His jaw is clenched but his eyes are soft when they find yours.
“Can you let me go?”
He tilts his head down, wings ushering you closer to him for a slow and soft kiss. “No.”
Piotr Rasputin:
He’s not really a jealous person to begin with. He knows you’re his and he trusts you enough to believe you’d never do anything behind your back. The rare times he does get jealous is when someone is doing something for you that he could do.
Someone else holds the door? His brows are knitting together. Someone lifts something heavy for you? He’s frowning for the next hour and a half. He’s your partner, he should be the one doing all that for you. He’ll spend the next few hours trying to show off, flexing his muscles and doing everything for you.
He gets a little sad when he’s jealous, too. Is he not enough for you, would you rather be with someone like that? As secure as he likes to think he is, that all melts away in the face of jealousy.
Finally, he’ll come to you, tail between his legs. “Do I make you feel loved?”
You blink, looking up from your book. “Of course you do.”
“Really?”
You dogear the page altogether, putting it down to look at him properly. His lips are pursed in a frown, eyes big and wide with emotions. You rise to your feet, placing your hands on either bicep.
“What’s this about, Petey?”
He sighs and admits to his jealousy, head hung low in shame. It’s only when you cup his cheek and force him to look at you, planting a soft kiss to his lips, that he starts to feel like himself again.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful weekend /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
could i just request randomly pulling up the shirt of
(im wanting the little blurbs thag you do that are just *chefs kiss* with like peter p, steve, tony, venom, etc etc)
just to look at their abs, lit the only reason.
totally oki if not have a great day :)
marvel men in.. !!
their gf loves their abs !!
🏷 @mavixgirl , @luna-kait
📎 men featured : logan howlett, worst wolverine, wade wilson, origins! wade wilson, remy lebeau, kurt wagner, eddie brock (& venom!!), steve rogers, tony stark, peter parker, thor odinson, johnny storm, peter quill.
LOGAN HOWLETT
You’re mid-argument. Something about him leaving his dog tags on the nightstand again, something about the smell of cigar smoke clinging to your favorite sweater. He’s doing the thing where he just growls instead of using words, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking like a man carved from angry marble.
You are trying to be mad. You really are.
But then your eyes drift down. To the hem of his worn, grey henley. To the way it’s riding up just a fraction of an inch above the waist of his jeans.
“and you never listen, and you just—Logan, hold still.”
He stops mid-snarl. “What?”
You don’t answer. You just walk forward, grab the damp, frayed cotton, and yank it straight up to his collarbone.
Silence.
For a full three seconds, he just stares down at you. Then at your hands on his shirt. Then at your face, which is currently doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that you are openly ogling the geography of his abdomen. The map of scars. The ridges of muscle that look like they were carved by a very angry, very horny god.
“…The hell you doin’?” he finally asks, voice dropping an octave.
“Checking for injuries,” you lie, voice barely a squeak.
He catches your chin with two fingers, tilts your face up. His eyes are unreadable, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Bub. I heal.”
“Then I’m checking for… symmetry.”
He stares at you for another long, agonizing moment. Then he sighs, the kind of sigh that carries the weight of a century of suffering. He gently pulls his shirt down, but not before you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.
“You’re a menace,” he mutters, turning back to the argument. But now he’s holding his coffee mug a little lower. And the next time he crosses his arms, he makes sure the shirt rides up just a little more. For the sake of symmetry.
WORST WOLVERINE
You find him on the couch. It’s 2 PM. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s hot pink sweatpants (they were the only clean ones), a stained white tank top that has seen better centuries, and an expression of profound, feral exhaustion. Dogpool is licking his own foot on the floor. Blind Al is somewhere in the kitchen, loudly trying to microwave a fork.
You are supposed to be bringing him a beer. You do bring him the beer. But as you lean over to set it on the coffee table, your gaze snags on the hem of that tank top.
It’s already barely there. But you want more.
So you do it. You just grab the thin, greasy fabric and hoist it up to his armpits.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at you with those dead, tired eyes. His torso is a mess—a spectacular, horrifying, fascinating mess. Hair, scars, the memory of a thousand deaths. You could count his ribs if you wanted to, but you’re too busy looking at the way the muscles in his obliques twitch.
“…You done?” he asks, voice like gravel being dragged over broken glass.
“No,” you whisper.
He sighs. It’s the sigh of a man who has seen the multiverse crumble and found that this (his girlfriend ogling his post-apocalyptic abs) is the final indignity.
“You’re as bad as the red one.”
“I’m worse,” you admit, not letting go of the shirt.
WADE WILSON
You don’t even get to pull the shirt up. You barely reach for it.
One second your fingers are brushing the hem of his faded, chimichanga-stained t-shirt. The next, he has exploded out of it. The shirt is in tatters on the floor. He is standing in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, wearing nothing but a pair of unicorn-print boxers and a triumphant grin.
“BABY! Why didn’t you SAY so?!” he bellows, striking a bodybuilder pose. “These bad boys have been DYING for a curtain call! Say hello to the lads! Upper management! The twins! The abdominal ambassadors!”
You blink. “I was just going to-”
“Shhhh.” He presses a finger to your lips. “No talking. Only looking. Feast your eyes, my little goblin. Feast upon the glistening, scar-riddled, perfectly-healed-from-forty-seven-stab-wounds terrain of TRUE LOVE.”
He then proceeds to do a full, unironic, unhinged strip tease to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on his phone speaker. He flexes. He points at each individual ab (he counts nine, there are four). He makes the muscle dance. He asks you if you want to “leave a tip in the tip jar” while gesturing vaguely below the belt.
By the end of it, you are crying with laughter, curled up on the floor. He takes this as a win, scoops you up, and carries you to the bedroom, whispering, “I knew my degenerative muscle disorder would pay off one day.”
You never did get to pull the shirt up. You didn’t need to. He pre-emptively detonated it.
ORIGINS! WADE WILSON
This Wade is smooth. Dangerously smooth. You two are sparring (lightly) when you trip him—not hard—and he lets you pin him just to see what you’ll do.
You lift his shirt.
He doesn’t flinch. He grins. “Checking for wounds, or checking for weapons?”
“weapons,” you say, eyes on the perfect V-line.
“Plot twist,” he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. “the only weapon I’m hiding is right—"
You slap your hand over his mouth. “Finish that sentence and I’m leaving.”
He shuts up and lets you look. He even does a little half-crunch so the lighting shifts. But the second your fingers drift too low, he catches your hand, kisses your knuckles, and flips you effortlessly.
Now he’s on top. His shirt is still up. “Your turn to show me something.”
“I don’t have abs like that.”
“Did I say abs?” He grins, all teeth. “I said ‘something.’”
REMY LEBEAU
You’re sitting on his lap in a booth at some dimly lit New Orleans bar. He’s in the middle of a truly insufferable poker story. You’re bored. So you lift his shirt.
He doesn’t stop talking. He just smirks.
“—and den de man, he say, ‘Gambit, you cheat,’ and I say, ‘Monsieur, I never cheat at cards. Only at love.’ Ah, chère, you likin’ what you see, non?”
You nod, transfixed. His skin is warm. There’s a fine trail of hair below his navel.
He finally looks down, still smirking, and flicks a playing card from his sleeve. He tucks it under his own shirt, right above his hip bone. “Find dat one, and you get a prize.”
You spend the next hour with your hand up his shirt, searching for a card that keeps changing positions via kinetic energy. The bar loves it. He loves it. By the end, you’ve forgotten the card entirely and are just holding his waist.
He kisses your forehead. “You cute when you focused.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Oui.” He pulls his shirt down. Then up again. Then down. Then up. “But you ain’t complainin’.”
KURT WAGNER
You are both in the X-Mansion’s library. It’s late. Rain is pattering against the windows. Kurt is reading a battered copy of The Three Musketeers in German, his tail curled contentedly around your ankle. He’s wearing a soft, black long-sleeved shirt that fits him like a second skin.
You’re not reading. You’re watching the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. The way his biceps flex every time he turns a page. The way his tail flicks.
You lose the battle.
You lean over, grab the hem of his shirt, and yank it up to his chin.
He yelps. Actually yelps. The book goes flying. He bamfs—teleports—out of your grasp and reappears on the other side of the room, clinging to the ceiling like a startled cat, his shirt still bunched up around his neck, his golden eyes wide.
“Mein Gott!” he gasps, a flush spreading across his blue-furred cheeks. “What-why- schatz!”
You are laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He’s still on the ceiling, tail lashing, looking like a very confused, very sexy gargoyle. His abdomen is a work of art. Lean, powerful, dusted with the same velvety blue fur as the rest of him.
“I just wanted to see,” you wheeze.
He drops down from the ceiling in a puff of sulfur, landing in front of you with his shirt still askew. He looks at you, really looks at you, and his embarrassment melts into something softer. Something warmer.
“You could have asked,” he says, his accent thickening. He takes your hand and presses it to his stomach, right over his navel. The fur is incredibly soft. “You never have to steal what is already yours.”
EDDIE BROCK (& VENOM!)
You come home to find Eddie in the kitchen, hunched over a tub of tater tots, looking like a man who has made several poor life choices. He’s wearing a faded Newsies sweatshirt (don’t ask) and sweatpants.
You don’t even say hello. You just walk up, grab the hem of the sweatshirt, and hoist it up.
Eddie freezes, a tater tot halfway to his mouth. His stomach is… well. It’s not a six-pack. It’s a soft, solid, eat-a-whole-pizza-and-still-look-good kind of stomach. A little hair. A little scar from that time he got impaled by a symbiote hater. It’s perfect.
Before either of you can speak, a black tendril shoots out of Eddie’s chest and gently pushes the sweatshirt back down.
“No,” Venom’s voice growls, low and possessive. “Ours. Only WE get to look.”
“Venom, dude, they’re my girlfriend,” Eddie says, still not moving.
“Then WE will look at HER. Not at US.”
Another tendril wraps around you, and before you know it, your shirt is being torn off of you by a very insistent alien goo monster. Eddie chokes on his tater tot. You shriek.
“Better,” Venom rumbles, apparently satisfied with the view. “Now we are even. We will keep the sweatshirt down. You will keep YOUR shirt up. This is the new rule.”
Eddie buries his face in his hands. “This is not the new rule.”
“VOTE.” One tendril raises Eddie’s hand. Another raises an invisible one for Venom. “Two against one. New rule passes.”
You are now sitting on the couch on your bra, eating tater tots, while Eddie pretends to not be staring. You consider this an absolute win.
STEVE ROGERS
You’re in the kitchen of the Avengers Tower. Steve is making breakfast: pancakes from scratch, because of course he is. He’s wearing a soft, cream-colored henley and an apron that says “Kiss the Cook.” You have never wanted to kiss a cook more in your entire life.
He flips a pancake. His forearm flexes. The henley strains across his back.
You crack.
You walk up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist, and yank his shirt up.
He doesn’t react violently. He’s Steve. He just freezes, pancake flipper in hand, and looks down at your hands splayed across his bare stomach. His body is a monument. A tribute to the pinnacle of human (superhuman) achievement. Every muscle is defined, even after years of retirement. There’s a light dusting of blond hair below his navel. You could cry.
“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice that low, patient, dangerous captain’s voice. “What are you doing?”
“Admiring American history,” you whisper.
He turns off the stove. Slowly. Deliberately.
“We are in a common area. With cameras. That Tony definitely watches.”
“I wanted to see your abs.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs the back of his neck. “You… you see them every day. When I change.”
“Not up close.”
He looks left. Right. Then, very quickly, he lifts his own shirt for exactly 1.7 seconds—then drops it. “There. Satisfied?”
“No. That was a crime.”
“You know,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his perfect lips, “in my day, a lady would simply ask to see a gentleman’s torso.”
“In my day,” you retort, “we just took what we wanted.”
“If I let you look for five seconds, will you stop doing this in transited areas of the Tower?”
“Deal.”
He lifts his shirt. You stare. He counts down from five out loud, but he goes slower on the “two.” And when he says “one,” he doesn’t let go.
You end up with your hands on his waist, him holding his own shirt up like a gentleman, for nearly a minute. Sam walks in. Sam walks back out.
Steve buries his face in your hair. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”
“Worth it.”
TONY STARK
You are in his workshop. He’s under a car (one of his classic convertibles) wearing a grease-stained band t-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips. DUM-E is handing him wrenches. He is muttering about torque ratios.
You crouch down, slide a hand under the car to grab at the plank he's laying on and tug it out, and before he can say “Friday, what the hell,” you grab his shirt and yank it up to his neck.
Tony blinks. He’s on his back, covered in grease, and his girlfriend is now straddling his thighs, staring at his stomach like it’s the last slice of pizza on earth.
“...Okay,” he says slowly. “I’ve been in a lot of situations. Hostage situations. Space situations. That one time in Budapest with a goat. This is… new.”
“Shut up, Tony.”
“I’m not complaining!” He holds up his greasy hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, most people buy me a drink first. You went straight for the home run. I respect it. I’m a little scared, but I respect it.”
You run your fingers down the middle. He shivers. Actually shivers.
“Friday,” he whispers, “cancel my three o’clock.”
“You don’t have a three o’clock, boss.”
“Then cancel my existence. I’m busy.”
He pulls you down on top of him, shirt still up, and kisses you until you taste like motor oil and twenty-year-old guilt. When you finally come up for air, he’s grinning like the man who has everything, and just found out he gets to keep it.
PETER PARKER
He is hanging upside down from the ceiling. Because he’s Peter Parker, and he cannot just sit on a couch like a normal person. He’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt that says “I ❤️ NY” and has a small hole in the armpit.
You walk under him. He grins, upside-down, all big brown eyes and messy hair. “Hey, my lov—”
You grab his shirt. You pull it up (or is it down?).
It slides down all the way to his chin, revealing his entire torso. And oh no. Oh no. He’s lean. He’s wiry. He’s got that swimmer’s build, all long muscle and narrow hips, and a faint trail of dark hair that makes you want to do things that would make your Catholic grandmother faint.
He tries to flip off the ceiling, but he’s so flustered he miscalculates and falls directly on top of you. You both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His shirt is now down. He is now on top of you. He is very warm.
“I- you—why- my abs?!” he squeaks, his voice cracking like he’s fifteen again. “You wanted to see my- I have- they’re not even- they’re just-muscles!”
“Nice muscles,” you say, reaching up to poke one.
He makes a sound like a deflating balloon. “Oh my God. Oh my God, you’re touching them.”
“That’s generally what happens, yeah.”
He buries his face in your shoulder, ears burning red. But he doesn’t pull his shirt down. And he doesn’t get off you. And after a minute, you feel him mumble into your neck: “…do you want to see the back too?”
You have never loved anyone more.
THOR ODINSON
You are in New Asgard. Thor is on the couch, wearing a flannel shirt (sleeves rolled up, of course), eating a bowl of popcorn the size of your head. He’s in his “comfortable” era, softer around the edges, happier, more him.
You climb into his lap, because you fit there now. He grins, that big, golden, sunshine-in-human-form grin. “Hello, my love! Would you like some popcorn? I have also procured-"
You grab his flannel. You pull it open. Buttons fly everywhere. The shirt hangs off his shoulders, revealing his broad, glorious chest. He’s not as cut as he used to be. There’s a softness there now, a layer of warmth over the godly muscle. It is, objectively, the most attractive thing you have ever seen.
Thor freezes, a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Then he looks down at his exposed torso, then at you, then back at his torso.
“…Did you just… de-shirt me?”
“Button-de-shirted you,” you correct. “And yes.”
He considers this for a moment. Then he puts the popcorn down, leans back slightly, and spreads his arms wide on the back on the couch. His smile turns slow, warm, and devastating.
“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, register-rattling rumble, “on Asgard, it is customary to ask before one disrobes a prince.”
“On Midgard,” you reply, “we do what we want.”
He laughs a full, booming laugh that shakes the couch, and pulls you against his bare chest. He is so warm. So soft. So impossibly huge.
“Then by all means,” he murmurs against your hair, “take what you want, little mortal.”
You stay there for hours. The popcorn gets cold. Neither of you moves.
JOHNNY STORM
You are in the middle of a fight. A real one. He forgot your anniversary. You are screaming. He is deflecting. The Human Torch is currently being verbally immolated by his very angry girlfriend.
“and you said you would remember this time, Johnny, you promised!"
“Babe, I’m sorry, I was fighting a Mole Man—”
“THERE IS ALWAYS A MOLE MAN!”
You are so angry. So furious. Your blood is boiling. And then your eyes drop to his waist. He’s wearing his Fantastic Four uniform, the blue and black one, and the top is slightly untucked from his bottoms.
You grab it. You yank it up.
Johnny stops mid-sentence. His abs are obscene. A perfect, chiseled, airbrushed-by-the-gods six-pack that looks like it was designed in a lab specifically to make you forget why you were mad.
You stare.
He stares at you staring.
“…Are we still fighting?” he asks cautiously.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I forgot.”
His cocky grin returns. Slow. Smug. Infuriating. “So my abs just… saved the day?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m not pushing anything. You’re the one who pulled up my shirt in the middle of a screaming match.”
You drop the shirt. It falls back down. You immediately pull it back up again.
He throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and Johnny. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, sweetheart.”
“Shut up and take off the rest of the suit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
PETER QUILL
You are on the Benatar. In space. There’s a nebula outside the window. It’s very romantic. Peter is trying to impress you by playing Come and Get Your Love on his Zune and doing a stupid little dance.
He’s wearing his iconic red leather jacket, a grey t-shirt underneath, and that stupid, gorgeous, annoyingly charming smirk.
You walk up to him. He thinks you’re going to dance with him. He holds out his hand.
Instead, you grab his t-shirt and yank it straight up to his chin.
The music stops. Peter looks down. There’s a faint line of hair from his navel down. He’s suddenly blushing all the way to his ears.
“…Okay,” he says slowly. “I was not expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I dunno. A slow dance? A compliment about my eyes for once? Not-not a surprise shirt-ectomy!”
You run a finger down his sternum. He shivers violently.
“Dude,” he whispers. “My nipples are out.”
“I’m aware.”
He looks at you. You look at him. The nebula glows purple outside the window. The song is still playing, forgotten.
“…You wanna see the rest?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.
Hello! I saw that your requests were open :)) Would it be possible to get some headcannons for Kurt, Ororo, Logan, Remy, Scott, Jean and Warren with an s/o who has a very high libido and isn’t ashamed about it? Feel free to skip!
High libido!reader x Remy, Kurt, Ororo, Jean, Scott and Logan (NSFW!! 18+!! MDNI)
!!Reminder that if you like this writing, my reqs are open!! Please direct yourself to the pinned post on my profile for more info!!
Synopsis - gender neutral!! how would Kurt, Ororo, Logan, Remy, Scott, Jean and Warren react to reader with high libido. This is sex across the board. Are they into it? + other random stuff about how sex would go (kinks, all that good stuff) + how they’d be after sex for sillies.
C/W - smut/mentions of smut, mention of kurts tail being used during sex, Logan’s claws are featured, f!recieving, m!receiving, gender neutral!reader, ice/temp play, jean using telekinesis to move sex toys, 5’3 wolverine (sorry 6ft+ wolverine truthers)
A/N - hai anon!! i love this, i wanted to make sure i covered all bases of “high libido” i really hope this lives up to your expectations :3
This took me so long with me being sick and I kept feeling a little repetitive, BUT ITS HERE AT LAST! I did unfortunately completely forget Warren though
I feel a little bad that all of them are pretty much a yes, cause I feel like a broken record but genuinely ALL the xmen are freaks with a lot of stamina, don’t blame me—blame people who write for them, I’m simply humbly interpreting
Not proofread…gulp
────୨ৎ──── ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚. ────୨ৎ────
Remy Lebeau/Gambit
- to say he’s into it is an understatement. I don’t think he minds his partners sex drive (was willing to pursue his love for rogue, even when neither of them were sure if there would ever be a solution to their touch problem.) however, I think he’d be more than happy to have a lover with a similar or same libido to him. Sex happens so often it’s genuinely a miracle either of you get stuff done. A morning quickie, date night sex, club bathroom, his car, the couch, kitchen counter. You’ve both mastered the art of getting each others clothes off in record time.
- He’s down for pretty much anything that isn’t hurting you, he’s okay with putting you in a bit of a headlock, maybe a little holding your jaw, but he doesn’t want you ever struggling to breathe, even a little. He has no qualms with you tying him up, giving him a little adrenaline rush, edging him. He’s an adrenaline junkie, he loves that shit. He can be dominant or sitting on his knees begging to go down on you, it’s up to you really.
- Remy is a “ready for sex” whenever kind of guy. You feel in the mood? The dudes already hard. He could go almost anywhere, anytime, anywhere, although his favourite places would be: bed, couch, and his car. He would have no issues keeping up with you, and would enjoy it.
- We KNOW he’s competitive, so occasionally seeing who can overexert each other more is a game. Teasing eachother, seeing who taps out first.
In the case that you win.. what finishes him off is you riding him. Seeing you on top of him, There’s a strange sort of intimacy of it. You moving slowly up and down his overstimulated cock, it makes his eyes glass over a little. He forgets to speak English, clutching onto your hips like it’s all that’s keeping him together. He looks sooo pretty when he finally reaches his climax.
In the case that he wins.. he’s going down on you. He has been for hours. Teasing you, coaxing each edged orgasm after orgasm from you. His hair messed up from your sweaty hands pulling on it helplessly. he gets so fucking cocky with you like this. he could honestly cum just from going down on you. at your final orgasm, on the last leg of his relentless victory, he wouldn’t tease it out of you. instead just letting you cum. Kissing up your body afterward for a brief break before round two.
- Remy can absolutely keep up. no matter how competitive you both get, you end up haphazardly thrown around each other, snoozing together and contentedly exhausted. He wakes before you just so he can make you something to eat, kissing you awake with the gentlest coaxing.
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Kurt Wagner
- Mr.“make more mutants” himself… the dude is a freak. gambit could match your libido, but kurt?? he is THE freak. i don’t think he could go a crazy amount of rounds all at once, BUT i do think he has stamina. so multiple longer, drawn out rounds, a lot of experimenting…if you catch my drift. he is into it!! i think he would be able to manage it pretty well. probably does need a decent amount of recharging time however.
- The tail gets used. (looking at you, Uncanny Spider-Man Issue #3 and legion of x #4..) he can grab with it, he can restrain wrists with it, any wild thing you could think of to do with his tail? he’s not above trying it at least once.
- I feel like he’s a little shy about biting/leaving hickeys, but if you’re into it he doesn’t mind a little grazing of skin with his fangs. i think he would draw the line at drawing any blood on purpose though. He’s SO down for you biting him a little, and would totally be down for you giving him hickeys,..except, he feels bad that they don’t show up and you have to have a mouthful of fur each time you attempt to give him any/
- Slightly off but on topic, i think he prefers sex in a colder environment cause of his fur, not overheating makes him last longer. He also doesn’t mind a little cold temperature play as well. Ice, water, cold hands..as well as having a shower ritual before having sex with you (unless you don’t mind the sulphur smell that clings to his fur, however he would need to be HEAVILY talked into not showering before sex. Dude gets a little insecure of the weird rotten egg smell)
- Again, he’s not one for super fast aggressive rounds, the slower, sensual, drawn out ones are what he’s good at. If you’re both starting to tire it’s not uncommon for you both to end up falling asleep while having sex, waking up and then starting up again.
- He gives the sweetest aftercare, he’s all holding you close, making sure he didn’t accidentally cut you or leave any marks, pressing kisses all over your shoulders while you bathe together (it’s also incredibly fun to lather up his fur. It just feels cool).
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Storm
- The most elegant freak you’ve ever came across. When you guys start having sex I think both of you are mapping each other out. The first few times you both realise you have high libidos and from there, it only gets better. Storm is so lovingly put together and calm, that half the time you can’t fully tell when she’s down for sex until she’s kissing just a little too low down your neck.
- Shes the type to go multiple rounds with you, fall asleep with you—and when you wake up she’s drinking tea and reading a book as if you weren’t making each other cum hard enough to feel a little light headed and seeing stars. She will smile sweetly, pouring you a cup too (if you like tea) and sitting with you for a little while, reading together or she reads and you watch something on TV.
- TEMP PLAY!! or messing about with sensations!! I defo see storm as being somebody who can take both a dominant role, or a more submissive one. However if she’s feeling like being a little dominant: you blindfolded, trailing a thin layer of water over your skin and using her mutation to summon a little breeze to blow over your skin, watching the goosebumps rise on your skin. I also don’t think she would entirely object degrading you a little. Not super cruelly, but more of a “praise and degrading” sort of thing.
- Loves receiving oral or having you either get off on her strap (yes, she has one. it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or woman, or anything in between.) or, other way round and it’s her being on the receiving end of some form of penetration. especially if she doesn’t have the full energy to get into the mood and wants to take a bit of a backseat while you satisfy yourself.
- Honestly, depending on the day I think it’d be you worrying about if YOUR libido could match hers, again. She is so calm and wise but I don’t think she’s shy in the bedroom by any means, if she’s in the right mood she can outlast YOU 😭
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Jean Grey
- Yes. So blatantly yes. Jean is similar to storm in a way, she comes off so calm and lovely, nobody would guess how she could be in the sheets. It even took YOU off guard. You assumed she would likely just able to manage the average, when you guys decided to have your “what to expect from sex” talk (what are hard no’s, kinks, how you like being taken care of after, getting to know what lines can or can’t be crossed) you’d let her know about your high sex drive. Letting her know that she never needed to feel compelled to keep up, and that if she was tired you had no qualms getting off yourself. She just smiles, telling you not to worry.
- When you have sex, she can fully keep up. In fact SHE is the one giggling about slipping in a little morning sex after a night that has tuckered you both out. Shes like..half subtle. Jean is the type of woman people lower their heads to simply out of respect. She can semi keep that air about her when both of you decide to sneak off for a little while.
- A hard no for her is ever using her telepathy on you during sex or using it to manipulate your feelings/consent in any way. Although, she’s not above using her telekinesis to make stuff move. if you’re both women (or a dude into this sort of thing), yes she is controlling the thrusting movement of a dildo for both of you.
- she gives the BEST aftercare, I see her as being very attentive. Again, the telekinesis comes in handy when it comes to getting things for you both from far away. She knows what you want (she may or may not read your mind to figure it out, however she knows you pretty well regardless)
- Neck kisses make her fold, literally for ANYTHING. If she’s contemplating something and you pull out the puppy eyes and a kiss to her neck? She’s a goner. And that includes caving in the bedroom too, if you beg just right she would let you cum in a heartbeat, She thinks it’s sweet even in the most sexual of contexts.
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Scott Summers
- He’s into it but he lowkey plays it off at first. the first time you guys have sex he’s a little awkward, and very much scared of his visor accidentally getting nudged or coming off. “am i doing this right?” “does this feel good” needs a lot of hands on learning, show him where you like being touched, let him watch you masturbate for uh..scientific research, let him learn what you’re into. However once he learns? the dudes a menace. he learns quick and keeps that information locked in his mind.
- He can last a long time, but similar to Kurt loves a sort of soft thought out sex. He’s also not above having sex to de-stress, being a leader sucks at times and sometimes he just wants to have you ride him or let him take over while he mutters about his day under his breath. he gets the habit of pulling on the sheets to the point there’s faint frayed spots all over them where the fabric has been worn down.
- Big fan of cuddling with you after sex, he might sit there working away on stuff while having his arm around you or your head on his shoulder. He needs a good recovery time afterwards. He also unironically loves holding hands during sex. You’re riding him? His hand is lacing with yours. He’s got you down on the bed? You feel his hand creeping up to give yours a squeeze
- Acts like the idea of you giving him head under his desk is scandalous, however does still allow you to do it time to time, only when he KNOWS nobody will walk in. The risk is there, sure. But if he’s expecting somebody it’s a hard no. He’s a freak, a shy one—but he also wants to remain professional when it matters.
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Logan
- Assuming we are talking about Logan when he’s in his prime, not only has he been alive for a long ass time, but we all know he could keep up as well as have a shit on of experience (If it’s old man Logan, I don’t think so. Be careful with that old man, he tries.)
- He’s into it absolutely no question. The dude goes FERAL for it. He has no shame either, that little guy is dragging you away at moments notice if you’re both in the mood (which, pretty much every time you both are) + he can smell when you’re getting a little hot under the collar. He uses that to his advantage as often as possible.
- Hard, Rough, Toe curling, Bed breaking sex. Sure, he’s small for a dude but he packs a punch (not literally. He’s here for a little grabbing your chin to look at him, but never actually hitting you). He can also lift you pretty easy no matter how much taller/heavier you are than him.
- This may be a head canon that gets me jumped by a certain area of wolverine enjoyers, but I don’t think logan is exactly the biggest down under the way I’ve seen others write him (I’m talking, people writing him as if he’s wayyyy above average.) he’s thick and 4-5 inches so kind of average/a little below, a lot of body hair. He knows how to use it, and he’s well past any shame he may face.
- Sex anytime, anywhere, any planet, and he’s pretty much down for anything. He goes between being pretty dominant, purely sweet and loving (when he really wants to appreciate you and love all over you), and being grumpy and slightly reluctant when receiving, not cause he doesn’t like it. But when he’s the center of attention, he gets a little flustered. Instead of flushing pink like the average person, he opts for being grumpy.
- He’s so careful with aftercare, his claws DO come out when he cums, he’s making sure any injuries his claws may have accidentally given you are patched up (he would honestly stop sex mid way to patch you up, even if you like a little pain), hugging you, that gruff Canadian accent giving slightly awkward praise.
⇝ includes ; nightcrawler, gambit, johnny storm, wolverine, loki, spider-man
⇝ a/n ; goodness gracious hello everyone i dyed my hair had a crisis or two and now i'm back. DONT WORRY i will still be writing for genshin & hsr, i just needed to splurge on my current hyperfixation ... enjoy!
kurt wagner is a geniune pleasure to be around, and even more so to be in a relationship with. he's kindhearted, faithful, and observant. in short, the boy is the picture perfect boyfriend. i'd let him date my daughter.
our favorite blue boy would call you names like "liebling", "mein schatz", or "mein engel". he'd bamf into your personal space after a long day, collapse against your shoulder, and mumble ; "i missed you dearly, liebling," into the fabric of your shirt.
he worries that his appearance - his not-quite-human hands and blue skin - will deter you someday. when he touches you, it's light, gentle, like you are glass about to break, and he's ready to pull away at a moment's notice, if you are ever uncomfortable.
if you ask, he'd happily share parts of his faith with you. he would teach you to properly light incense, tell you biblical stories, pray for you. he never presses or pushes, simply shares. late night talks about theology turn into confessions about identity and worship, he's a very good listener.
he likes to lay in bed with you, a book in one hand and his other combing through your hair. his chest is a soft pillow beneath your head, the sound of turning pages is a metronome that lures you to sleep hours before he shuts his eyes. he doesn't mind that you always drift off - kurt's just happy to be included!
if you're a mutant or x-man, he'd be glad to train and spar with you - mostly just to teleport behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. he'd never admit it, but he relishes the way you blush and squirm. if you glare at him, he'd just smile innocently, "schatz, you cannot stay angry when i am this charming."
when you're upset, he goes out of the way to make you smile or laugh again - theatrical voices, exaggerated bows, over-the-top declarations of love, anything to see your lips curve upwards.
his tail wraps around your wrist sometimes on instinct, when you're walking together, or asleep, a simple pressure to reassure you that he's there.
kurt believes you are the only proof he needs that god loves him.
if gambit is your boyfriend, you are cher now. there's no debate about it. that's about the only thing he'll call you - maybe 'mon amour' if he's feeling particularly romantic.
uses his sticky fingers to take things from you, just to tease. he'll swipe a ring from your finger or your wallet from your back pocket without you noticing and hold it just out of reach if you try to get it back. he grins when you lean in close and make a grab at your items.
he physically cannot keep his hands to himself. he's always putting an arm around you, threading your hands together, hooking a finger in your belt loop to pull you close and kiss you deeply ... it's kind of hard to get away from him.
if you nudge him away, he'd raise his hands in surrender, lips swollen from kissing, "alright, alright, i see how it is." and backs off. for now.
teaches you card games (along with how to cheat). if you ask nicely, he might show you how to throw them, too. standing behind you, hands guiding yours. very illegal, very sexy.
sleeping next to you is one of the few times he actually lets his guard down. he slings an arm over your waist, buries his face in your shoulder or chest, and sleeps like the dead til late in the morning. it's a good sign, it means he trusts you entirely.
deeply protective. keeps a hand on your lower back in thick crowds, watches for pickpockets, and always positions himself a little closer to danger. he won't risk you.
opens up about his past to you, and doesn't beat around the bush about it. "i wasn't a good person, cher. still ain't. don't feel like you gotta hang around a thief like me."
you assure him that you don't care, that he is a good person, and you swear you see a visible weight lift from his shoulders.
remy doesn't open up easily, but sharing his guilt with you, hearing your reassurances, it makes him look at you like you hung the stars - like you're an anchor in a storm.
oh, johnny storm, professional playboy, inexperienced partner.
he's used to flings, to pretty girls or guys that he shares a drink or a dance with and then forgets about. but then you come along and all of the sudden he's thrown into something he doesn't want to lose in a few hours.
don't get me wrong. he's still a menace, a flirt, and a kid at heart. he's always showing off, lighting candles or cigarettes with unnecessary flames licking up his arm to impress you - "relax, babe, i got this."
but there are the moments, the things you notice. his shaking hands, the way he cups your face, the way he looks at you - eyes so full of adoration - those are the things that convince you he sees you as more than a fun night.
he gets jealous easily. so easily. and he's not subtle about it. he's petty. if someone gets too close or too forward with you, he'd waltz up beside you and tug you into his side, a forced smile on his face, "hi -" he says to the offender, gesturing pointedly to himself, - "boyfriend." he'd turn to you then, "hey, BABE. remember when you promised to get dinner? let's go."
you never promised anything like that, but he tugs you away anyways, glancing over his shoulder to give that guy a 'i'm watching you' glare.
calls you "babe" or "hot stuff" and means it.
he likes to pick you up. bridal style, over his shoulder, spinning in his arms. he'll trap you in place so he can pepper kisses over your face, relishing in the way you laugh.
he gets competitive over literally anything and everything. video games, cooking, who can kiss longer. unfortunately, he's not the type to let you win. he is, however, the type to pout and whine when you beat him anyways.
johnny sees himself as the weakest link in the fantastic four. the youngest, the most reckless, the problem, so to say. tell him you're proud of him, or that you see how hard he tries, and he melts instantly, all goo-goo eyes and dreamy smiles, "aw, geez, babe - i mean. i know. of course i know that. i'm awesome."
he's hyper, he's active and touchy and reckless and on fire most of the time, but he lets himself cool off around you.
wolverine is prime grumpy x sunshine material. he's the grump. obviously. he pretends not to like your affection, or to be annoyed at any enthusiasm, but he grumbles when you pull away and sighs when things are too quiet.
logan is careful around you. he heals. you don't. he doesn't so much as think about drawing his claws around you. if you get a paper cut, he's hovering, muttering something about 'infections' as he hands you a band aid.
he smells like leather and cedar. you steal his jackets - they're huge on you - and he pretends not to care. he likes when you sit on the hood of a car as he fixes it. what can he say? it's a nice view.
he's kind of feral. he loves when you scratch his scalp or run your fingers through his hair (not that he'd ever admit that). when you're alone, he'll lay his head in your lap with a tired groan, peeking one judgmental eye open until you card your fingers through his tangled locks.
typa guy to bite. do with that what you will.
he's a glorified blanket when he's asleep. he rolls over, resting his entire weight on your body, and doesn't move again til morning.
very domestic boyfriend. he'll wake up before you and slip out of bed to make breakfast. he fixes things around your place before you can get around to it - you'll wake up one day and have a working sink again.
he'd call you "my girl" or "my guy" and then move on with his day.
if someone's getting too close, he shoves at their shoulder so they stumble away from you, "find someone else to bother, bub." he grunts, slinging an arm around your shoulder.
he'd take a bullet or a knife for you, grumbling about how, "next time, you should duck," when you fuss over him. kiss his scars and he'll malfunction.
logan might act like he doesn't do relationships, but he's pretty damn devoted to you.
loki is dramatic, obsessive, eccentric. but, despite all that, he's completely and utterly entranced by you.
pet names are excessive. "my darling", "my heart", "mortal", "dearest", whatever he can think of to fluster you.
he uses his magic to conjure illusions for you. green flowers appear in your hand, his outfit changes to something you offhandedly mentioned you like seeing on men, his words are emphasized by a gust of wind that came out of nowhere.
he also brings you artifacts as gifts - though they may be cursed. "it's enchanted," he says as he presses a glowing stone into your hand. he'll remove it from the premises before it erupts, no need to worry.
jealous in a 'i'm disgusted by any man that isn't me' type of way. "enjoyed his company, did you?" he'll ask, "what horrid taste you have."
he's touchy. but not in that johnny storm, golden retriever way, in a more elegant way. a hand on your waist or at the small of your back, his finger tilting your chin up so you'll look at him, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes by.
definitely recites poetry to you, bowing before you and extending his hand to offer a rose. please play along with his theatrics, he thinks himself very alluring. you'll hurt his feelings if you tell him the truth.
like i said, he's dramatic. he takes every small thing from you as a sign that he's failed and you've fallen out of love. you sigh quietly? he's at your side with a frown in a second, "do you tire of me already, mortal?"
he thinks you're extraordinary. not because you're powerful or strong, though you very well may be, but because you chose to stay with him.
loki is intense, sometimes too intense. but his love for you isn't malicious, it isn't lust or control or anything of the sort. it's love in a "i would choose you in every timeline" kind of way. love that transcends mortality and godhood. though that love is only a small part of your mortal life, it lasts an eternity for him.
peter parker is already anxious. you make it so much worse! but in the best way possible. you make his hands sweat and his mind race and his words slip up. he sometimes forgets you're dating and he's allowed to touch you and kiss you and talk to you.
tries to flirt. trips over his words. "you look pretty today. not that you don't always look pretty - you're always pretty i just .. never mind."
when he remembers he's already you're boyfriend, he still acts like he needs explicit permission. he'll tap your pinky with his when he wants to hold hands, pause inches away from you when he wants to kiss, and slowly, so slowly wrap his arms around you at night, giving you ample time to pull away.
protective in a nervous way. "hey, are you safe?" "text me when you get home - actually call me. actually facetime me." "i can walk you home - if you want, i mean."
type of guy to stick a love letter to your window with a web or sneak into your dorm in the middle of the night to bring you flowers. he tugs his mask off with a grin, "i know, i know, i'll be quick." he whispers, shoving the flowers into your hands, kissing your cheek, and swinging back into the city.
the spider-man kiss happens a lot. he really likes it.
he says 'i love you' first and it's probably on accident. after, he's all, "i just - i mean - i wanted to tell you - you don't have to say it back! unless you want to -"
please cut him off. he won't stop talking unless you do.
nerds out to you about science or movies or video games. he wants you to watch all of his favorites - but he'll talk during them, "did you know that guy is in dune? yeah, and he's also in ..."
he likes when you compliment him. it makes him preen and puff out his chest like a proud bird. tell him "you're really strong." and he'll say, "really? you think so? i mean - yeah, yeah, uh, spiders and their proportional strength and all of that."
falls asleep ALL THE TIME when you two are together. partly because he barely sleeps at home, but mostly because you're just so warm and so easy to lean against and you smell so good .. yeah, poor guy is out like a light.
aunt may approves of you.
peter is the type of boyfriend to kiss you like you'll slip away, to grasp your hands like it's the greatest honor. he's so very proud to have won you over.
Peter Parker: ‘Bug’! I can you two calling each other ‘bug’ and ‘bug boy’ respectively. Definitely has a roster of petnames depending on the mood; ‘sweetie’ to comfort you, ‘champ’ to make you laugh, ‘pipsqueak’ to tease you, etc. Definitely has squished your cheeks and called you ‘chipmunk’ before. Of course, nothing beats your name for him.
Johnny Storm: Don’t let him see you do something embarrassing because he won’t let you live it down. Trip in front of him once, and he’ll be calling you ‘stumbles’ for the next year. Also likes using loveydovey names like ‘firefly’ and ‘good lookin’. ‘Hotstuff’ and ‘boo’ are also some of his favourites, and probably what he refers to you as on his Instagram posts.
Matt Murdock: No one, and I mean no one, says ‘sweetheart’ like he does, whether he says it when he’s comforting you or when he’s about to go down on you, it is so insanely attractive. Definitely a ‘yes dear’ guy. He definitely has a nickname to reflect your nature/dynamic to him, like ‘sunshine’, ‘angel’, etc.
Wade Wilson: Revoke his right to use pet names!! It’s like he wants to give everyone diabetes with the names he comes up with. Hit him so he never calls you ‘pussy cat’ again. ‘Sugar plum’, ‘Carebear’, and ‘Angel face’ are his more tolerable ones. Probably stacks pet names on top of each other, creating an actual Frankenstein of mushiness.
Clint Barton: ‘Birdie’ or ‘dove’ definitely. Less into pet names, and more into making nicknames, I think, but definitely throws around ‘babe’ or ‘angelface’. Definitely makes up a teasing nickname based on your alias if you have one.
Scott Summers: ‘Honey’ or ‘dear’ because he is literally a wife guy. I can see him call you ‘peanut’ somewhat awkwardly when you two first get together. But ‘honey’ really does suit him, the type to rub your arms comfortingly while whispering sweet nothings.
Kurt Wagner: Mein gott, German time! ‘Engel’, ‘Schatz’, ‘liebling’, etc, are his go to. Also refers to you as his heart, his light, and the like because he wants you to always know how much you mean to him and all the ways you’ve changed his life for the better.
Logan Howlett: We all know ‘bub’ is his go to, but he definitely calls you ‘doll’, ‘bunny’, and ‘lovely’. Anything that points out the juxtaposition between how…pretty you are and how…Logan he is. Could also see him going for someone mousy, which of course would come with its own array of nicknames.
