— 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.
⋆˚࿔ Smut/18+ HC's: Summer is here and the beach is always a fun place to hang out and do...fun things (summer event and 800 follower special)
- Characters: Gambit, Nightcrawler, Wolverine w/ Cyclops
- CW: smut, p in v, ass slapping, nightcrawler uses his tail, threesome and ATTEMPTED poly relationship for wolv and cyc, p eating, public / semi-public sex, not proofread, fem!reader
- Thank you @twentytomidnight for helping me choose wolverine and Cyclops :p !!
— Remy Le Beau / Gambit
You aren’t really sure how it happened. One minute you and your husband were with the other X-men, until your husband crooked a finger at you, pulling you behind him toward the changing rooms.
Your hands firmly planting themselves on the wall, Remy’s big palm rests squarely on your ass cheek as you both competitively thrust against each other—Remy’s hips grinding forward and yours slamming back.
“Just like that, chère..” he coos with condescension, teasing a greater reaction out of you through the fake front of dominance.
A rougher slam back of your hips made Remy expel a louder grunt, relishing in the fleshy surroundings of your pussy. In a playful, annoying ploy, Remy put his hands on your lower back, pushing slowly in an attempt to establish his own dominance, and his smile grows wider at your grunted expression of annoyance.
“Remy, you bastard…”
Perhaps he didn’t play his cards right, he realises as he watches you plant a foot to the wall, and push back against him. The force was so strong for the both of you, an exclamation of pleasure escaped you both simultaneously.
The competition persists as Remy attempts to shove you forward to hear that same moan again, but the two strong powers seem to act against each other perfectly, returning to the mutual thrusts back from you and forward from him.
“This poor ass, warming up too much just from a rough fuck. Sure you don’t need a break, minou?”
“Shut up!” you grunt, panting as you slam your ass back, biting back whimpers, and Remy continues smirking down at the display, appreciating the ripple of your ass against him. “Wish you could see this, chere. I bet when they made a list of the seven natural wonders of the world, they shoulda added the way you look when we make love.” he flirts, giving your ass a playful swat, before leaning forward, hands to the wall and roughly thrusting deeply into you.
“Ah, hear how she’s singin’? The likes of a trained singer couldn’t compare to this pussy right here.” He admires your pussy in ways that make you a confusing mix of annoyed and flustered.
— Kurt Wagner / Nightcrawler
Kurt’s teasing never ceased. He was just the type of man that teased more often than not. Maybe that’s why you sat on top of him, your plush cheeks planted firmly on his crotch, however you’re not riding him.
You held back moans with gulps as his tail slithered between your legs, able to manipulate the flared nature of it with extreme, impressive amounts of control.
To anyone else walking past, it just seems like you’re both cuddling. Innocent and intimate, like any happy and affectionate couple. Yet, they couldn’t see Kurt’s cock poking up against your pussy, paired with the firm rubs of his tail from below. It pressed and prodded, yet your husband's simple smirk played it like nothing was going on at all.
“Too much for you mein schatz?” he whispers into your ear, biting a playful canine into the side of your neck, and Kurt shudders at your quiet gasp. “Perhaps if I touch you without that bothersome barrier?” he offers, slipping his tail below the crotch of your bathing suit before you could even reply to him.
You glare at him before turning ahead, then gasping quietly with the dip of his tail into your entrance, only to lube it, messily rubbing itself all over your pussy. “How dirty! You relish in this? You love this” he concludes.
“No…” you sigh out in attempted denial, but the way your hips shifted for a more comfortable fit for Nightcrawler’s unusual appendage to get a better, comfortable amount of room to optimize your pleasure, contrasted your denial.
“If you truly want me to stop, all you need to do is tell me.” he prompts against your ear, but he knows how much you love the way he flicks and rubs at your swollen clit.
With a prompt glare, you turn your head and meet his lips, and he kisses back, dragging his big hands over your hips and up your waist, restraining himself by only tracing the underside of your breasts, rather than cupping them entirely.
— Logan Howlett and Scott Summers / Wolverine and Cyclops
You aren’t really certain how this happened. A certain section of the beach was barren, one of your boyfriends offered to lay down a beach blanket.
Before you knew it, you were laying down on top of Logan, with his agile hips snapping up, and burying his cock into your aching cunt with thrust, after thrust, after thrust.
Your other boyfriend was searching for you, calling to you every once in a while, though when he heard the faint sounds of skin smacking, he stormed over to it. He frowned at the sight of Logan holding your legs up, as if showing off that pretty spot at the apex of your thighs to be subtly sprayed by the sea ahead.
“Logan! What did I tell you about dragging them off for no reason?!” he exclaimed, ever the serious man frustrated by the interruption of an unexpected, unscheduled activity. His hands remained on his hips, but he couldn’t help but stare at the way your pussy looked, stretching around the girth of Logan's raging dick.
Logan could only grin at Scott, “If you’re jealous bub, c’mere and eat their pussy, you know how needy they get when they get their pretty clit played with.”
Scott couldn’t even protest as he listened to the schlick of every drag of cock against you, and the way you looked at him with that ‘come-hither’ glint in your lust glazed eyes. How could he deny you with that look?
So all while crawling along the soft material that contorted along the sand, Scott still found it in himself to argue with Logan, “This is highly irresponsible! How was I supposed to have known you two had been off going at it like rabbits? For all I knew you could’ve been lost or captured!” But despite his angered scolds, Scott dipped his head down, licking at your clit.
You moan out an apology, “Fuck—s-sorry, Scott, honey!” your voice became jagged with the girth of Logan dragging brutally along your insides, and the combined force of Scott’s tongue was euphoric to say the least. And both men relished in your composure breaking.
Scott took over in holding your legs open while denying any need for your apology, and therefore, Logan's hands play with your pebbled nipples, grunting as Scott's tongue preformed kitten licks, dragging along your cunt and the dick that's smacking into you, with Logan's balls slapping against your boyfriend's chin.
“Yeah, you two are so loud mouthed. But one of you liked getting stuffed and the others got a little oral fixation, huh?” He snickers "either way, it gets a moan outta you both."
You and Scott both whimpered, and exclaimed “Shut up” in unison, panting and whining, while you whimpered on your own, but he let out a vibrating groan from the tease that rippled into your sopping cunt and Wolverines cock.
he literally cannot help it. the second you push your tits together and trap his dick in that soft, warm squeeze his breathing is already ragged and he's looking down at you with his big, watery eyes. and you’re just looking up at him so pretty. lips parted, lashes fluttering, the tip of him poking through your cleavage. and you're smirking.
it makes him feel tingly.
he whimpers. he always whimpers first. grabs onto your shoulders or your hair and starts babbling, “wait wait wait, slow down, you’re so—” but you just squeeze tighter and it’s over.
his hips twitch, stutter, and then he’s cumming in hot, desperate spurts all over your chest, your collarbones, a drop catching your chin. the noise he makes is almost painful.
and then comes the aftermath where he can’t even open his eyes, face burning red, mumbling, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, you just looked too good, i couldn’t stop, fuck—”
and you just gather a little bit off your skin with your thumb and suck it clean while he peeks through his fingers and whines. dick twisting.
tell him it’s cute. tell him you wanna do it again. he’ll bury his face in your neck, mumble that you’re gonna kill him, but he’s already grinding soft against your thigh.
he’s just so pathetically in love with you it makes him pop like a teenager. that’s all.
Featuring: Logan Howlett (800+ wc), Kurt Wagner (900+ wc), Scott Summers (1.6k+, can you tell he's my favorite? I wasn't making a separate post just for him), and Wade Wilson (900+ wc)
Content Warning: 18+ NSFW, afab!reader, Logan smells reader, bad German translations for Kurt, switch!Scott (I know ball), switch!reader, not-so-dry humping, teasing, mating press, desperate need for touching, biting, (kinda) forced orgasm with Wade, referring to genitals like they're a person (Logan/Wade), Wade refers to himself as Daddy once, p-in-v sex, unprotected sex (Kurt/Scott), cream pie (Kurt/Scott), oral (f receiving), a lot of swearing, praise and groping.
Note: Following up on a request of (literally quoting) anything with Scott and Kurt with a Fem Reader. Happy Pride Month to my fellow queer people and our supporters. I love you and remember to be yourself ♥️🧡💛💚💙💜
Pt 1 Ft. Remy LeBeau + Anna Marie LeBeau
Logan
Morning breaks through the window next to your shared bed. The sounds of birds outside in the early sunlight draws your attention first as the grogginess settles in. Your eyes blink open, squinted up at the ceiling as you take in a deep breath as they fight the blinding light of early morning sunshine.
Your eyes shift to the right, the space next to you vacant of its usual inhabitant. No hairy lump of a man attached to your side to grumble about you grabbing him while you're sleeping. Acting like he hates it when you want to hold him first thing in the morning but never bothers putting up a fight and clings to you like some kind of attention starved puppy.
Your legs fidget, trying to wake up like the rest of your body. Just to be met with a growl coming from under the blanket. Mind slowly unfogging, you notice the boulder shape under the covers. Your hand moves to pull them back, Logan's face appearing with himself wrapped around your legs. Face shoved up against your mound through your sleep shorts, beard burning against your thighs while he nuzzles against your clothes slit. Taking in a deep breath, his eyes locked on the growing wet spot on the thin cotton.
"Mornin' darlin'," he rasps through a scratchy morning voice. Head not lifting, not even budging as you blink away what you think is a dream.
"Logan, what the hell are you doing?" He shifts to his elbows, pushing the blanket off his head when you notice his eyes are blown wide, pupils nearly swallowing the blue of his eye whole.
"Tryna behave while you're sleepin'... Didn't wanna wake ya, but I could smell it on ya." He pushes back in, nosing at your clit through the thin cotton keeping him away from you. You preen against him with a whine, seem pressing into your sensitive bundle along with his prodding nose. Pressing up onto your elbows, he ruts his face into you. Growling again before looking up at you.
"You must have been sleepin' real good. Dreamin' about me, and what I could do to ya if you’re good for me." The familiar sound of Adamantium claws popping makes your thighs tense around his head.
"You always wanna test my patience, tap dance on my last damn nerve. But I can see it on ya too. She's just slick and waitin’ for me to enjoy her." Shiny silver slides against your skin with a gentle press under your shorts and up against the fabric. His pupils dilate like a predator spotting it's next meal.
"You don't mind me testin' that theory, do ya now? I'll make it worth your while and then some." He looks at you expectantly. Stupid little smug grin on his face. It's, obnoxiously, too inviting for you to say anything but a resounding yes.
You give a single nod before the shorts are shredded, a gasp ripping from your throat as he pounces on you like an animal. Claws retracted with a satisfied groan as he dived it. Tongue diving into your pussy like he's trying to scrape the last piece of meat off a bone. Gliding from hole to clit before driving directly into the exact spot he knows makes your toes curl up. Your feet pull at the hem of his shirt as your legs lock around him with a ragged moan.
His hand goes to your lower stomach, pressing gently to keep you in place. His nose rutting against your clit just right to make your thighs tremble as the knot in your stomach starts to form quickly.
"Logan..." You whisper his name, feeling his hand pull you down the bed closer to him. His tongue leaves your hole as two fingers glide in with ease, his lips move back to suck on the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your fingers curl into his hair out of habit, tugging at his scalp and making him vibrate against you.
A gasp leaves your lips, feeling your hips start to buck, fighting against his firm hold as the build starts to get too overwhelming. Blissful contractions fill your stomach in waves, orgasm crashing with a muffled mixture of curses and his name.
Panting, you watch him lick his own fingers clean, relishing over the mess you've made of yourself as he stands up. Tugging you to the bottom of the bed by your ankles. There's a noticeable wet spot on the front of his boxers before he discards them. Cock slapping up against the thick bushel of hair on his lower stomach, thick and swollen as he grabs it and gives himself a few strokes. A bead of pre cum slipping from the red tip that quickly moves to coat his shaft in his hand. His grip finds your legs, moving them onto his shoulders as he ruts his tip teasingly through your wet folds.
"Hope you weren't thinkin' we were done. We gotta long morin' ahead of us, darlin'. And I'm lookin’ forward to tasting every single bit of you."
Kurt
Fingers glide over your belly in your wake. Gentle and fuzzy like the body wrapped around you. Blue fur pressed against the shimmering skin of your back, a peaceful purr planted somewhere in your hair. Both of your body's bare from the previous night's actions, skin still dewy and his fur rumpled like a feral animal. His lips move when he feels you stir, kissing behind your ear before you can look back at him.
"You're purring."
"I'm very happy, I have every reason to be. Did you sleep well?" You nod with a yawn, stretching your arms with a roll of your neck. Turning your body, you press into him, his tail curling around your waist. His chuckle gracing your ears, his lips ghosting down the side of your face over the trail he's taken so many times before.
Your hand glides over his firm hairy chest, rosary glinting in the early dawn light with it tangled up in your fingers. His teeth nip at your pulse, tail flicking mischievously against your back.
"How'd you sleep?" You finally question, his head pulling back, yellow eyes looking you over with a gentle smile. His head tilts forward, foreheads meeting with a relieved sigh.
"Better next to you. It's been too long since I got to wake up to you like this." He leans in, mouth planting against yours with a sense of hunger that can only come from your mischievous boyfriend. Lips and limbs tangle together. Breaking each other open through a messy clash of teeth and tongues.
Knee pressing up between your thighs with a roll of his hips. His cocks hard and begging for attention against your stomach. You moan into his mouth before he pulls away, face pressing into your neck. Lips latching onto your pulse with a gentle nibble.
"You just had me last night, you haven't had enough of me?"
"I could never have enough of you, mein Engel." You slowly grin, hand gliding down as it wraps around his base. Making him roll into your hand as he moans at the lazy stroke. Thumb teasing along the underside of his tip just how you know he likes it. Your body's lifted, Kurt moving you against the pillows as he climbs over you. Half lidded eyes looking over you with primal hunger, tongue licking over his teeth with a soft chuckle at your startled eyes.
"You're going to be the death of me... Or my fiery descent into Hell. Especially with every sinful thought that crosses my mind when I look at you like this." You smirk, giving him a gentle squeeze and tug.
"Then I guess you'll need to say a few hail marys to make up for it." He lets out a soft chuckle before his hands wander, lips meeting yours as his thick finger glides through your folds. Plunging into your welcoming heat and stretching you open as his tongue slips into your mouth with a soft hum. His hips try to fuck into your hand as his finger curls right into that spot that has the light behind your eyes turning white with bliss.
You huff against his lips, whining when he pulls away from your grip. Shifting up onto his knees, hands guiding your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles in a snug lock. His tail wraps around your ankles to keep you in place as he lines himself up at your entrance.
Slowly, he slips in with a sigh of relief. Snug in your walls as he finds himself laying over you again. Giving you time to adjust with whispered praises against your ear in German. Your arms wrap around him, both hands digging their nails into the flesh of his shoulder blades under fur.
You moan at the first slow but rough roll of his hips. Pelvis rutting perfectly against your body with the practiced expertise of a man on a mission. The sounds of wet skin meeting damp fur fills the bedroom to mix with the blessed sounds of your mixed pleasure. Blunt nails dig into him as a rough thrust meets the perfect angle.
You cry out, feeling him shift into the right position before starting to drill into that spot with zero hesitation. Tail unraveling your ankles and pulling your legs up higher. His hand glides between yourselves, thumb circling over your clit as you clamp down around him with a soft whimper of his name.
"That's it. Take what you need from me die Liebste, it's all yours. Only yours." His forehead leans down against yours, your eyes squeezing shut with the white hot pleasure blooming through your entire body as you crash over the edge. Gripping onto him as you come with a broken moan.
His hips stutter for a moment, rolls getting sloppy before the last few pounds send him to the point of no return. Face pressing into your neck as you feel him painting your insides with a shaky pant against your skin.
Huffing and puffing you both collapse. Kurt's hands smoothing up your thighs to rub circles on your hips as he tries to ground himself against you. Face pressed into your neck with a soft mutter.
"Ich liebe dich." He kisses your jaw, arm sliding under you as he gets comfortable on top of you. Ignoring his fur matting against your damp skin.
"I love you too." You mutter through rough breaths, lips finding his temple as you hold him close. Reveling in his weight against you and him. Your fluids mixing as come slowly seeps out around his soft cock.
Scott
Coming to life in the dim haze of your bedroom, you roll over, your husband's body turned towards the door. Acting as his usual shield between you and the world. A yawn slips through your lips, arm traveling over his side as you kiss between his shoulder blades. Not to wake him, just to show your undying affection. Face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as he gently stirred.
"Down boy, no emergency, I just wanted to hold you." He hums, low and bassy as he turns towards you, meeting his groggy gaze through his sleep visor. Straps twisted from moving against his pillow, his hair puffed up like owl feathers behind his ears. It makes you chuckle as you're pulled in closer.
"What?" He mutters, hand coasting over your back. The cool metal of his wedding band complimenting his rough finger tips against your skin under your nightgown. He slowly blinks, his almost timidness when he's half asleep makes him all the more handsome.
"You're hairs just... It's nothing baby." You give him a peck to his plush lips as he groans with defeat. Returning the gesture with as much as his brain can manage this early. His head slumps into yours, eyes closing as his grip tightens around you. Protective and strong as always. He leans more into you, cutting all distance between your bodies as skin meets skin.
That's when you feel him, morning wood pressed against your thigh through cotton boxers. The faintest twitch of a heartbeat against you flesh. Your leg moves, he groans again.
"Good morning to you too."
"Ignore it." He mutters, shoving his face in your neck, arms tightening around your waist as your fingers go into his hair. Fixing the bunched up strands from under the top strap and back into place.
"What if I don't want to ignore it?" You tease against his ear, watching him shiver as his head lifts slightly, breath leaving his nose as it tickles your collarbone.
"Your liveliness this early in the morning concerns me... You are my wife, right?" You laugh, nodding to his question with a kiss to his nose. He huffs once, arm moving from under you to hold his head up. Leaning in you kiss his lips slowly, hand cradling his jaw as you mumble against his lips.
"When was the last time we had a morning with each other? No rushed kisses goodbye or not waking up together." His hand rubs your side, pondering the thought with a faint peck to your chin. Lips brushing down to your neck with tender presses to your pulse. A faint response nipping at your skin with his teeth.
"I can't remember." You hum against his skin, turning to kiss him again. Slower this time, molding together with a brush of his tongue along your bottom lip. You pull away as he tries to follow, your hand guiding him to layback. You lift yourself up, legs bending to straddle his waist as you reach for his shades off the nightstand.
"Close your eyes." He listens, squeezing them shut in cute little creases, lashes fanned over the pale outline of untanned skin as you pull them off. Leaning down, you carefully kiss each eyelid, sliding his shades back into place. Leaning back over to set the sleep set down, his hands push your nightgown up with a tender rub of your hips with his thumbs.
"There you are," you smile, eyes tracing his face as you lean back in. Lips connecting with his in a patient dance of hunger and need. His hand runs over your curves, fingers tangling into your hair to deepen the kiss. Your tongues melt into each other as your hips rut against him through his boxers. He gasps, head rolling to the side enough to moan away from your lips.
"Feel good?" Scott nods, trying to collect himself when you sit up. Feeling your mound rub against his clothed length with a slow pace that makes his face start to turn red. Your hands glide up and over his sternum, feeling his heart beat pick up beneath your palm. Trying to escape his ribcage by how hard it's pounding.
"You okay baby?"
"Yeah," he blissfully responds, trying to keep himself in check as you keep pressing against him. His hands give a gentle tug to your nightgown, and you give him what he wants without even having to ask. He watches closely, trying to ignore the growing wet patch making his shorts stick to his shaft. You let him take you in completely once the garment hits the bedroom floor. Hips pressing back into him, leaning over his torso with a lazy roll.
Your hand slides down, finger lingering over the vein protruding from the band of his boxers. Gliding over it with a tender press to its blood flow as you grind down. Moaning along with him when his head nudges your clit through the fabric.
"You- you're trying to kill me." He groans, hands tightening around your sides, slowly sliding down to grab handfuls of your ass as you push down again. Leaning in closer, you whisper in his ear.
"You want these off?" He hums in response, gaze not daring to peel away from your naked body as he ogles every curve and trace of skin when you sit up. You tease his waistband, watching his face start to contort with a notch of impatience. Scott usually has some much of it for your teasing, living for letting you rile him up as much as you wanted, but he's exhausted whatever patience he has.
Your back hits the mattress, a little stunned at his sudden switch for dominance. Scott's over you, lips planted on yours with a rough shove of his tongue into your mouth. As quickly as he's there, he's gone. Pulling away and off the bed, boxers coming off with lightning speed. His cock slaps up against his lower abdomen, heavy and dripping from his tip as you look up at him as his knees meet the mattress.
"Someone's excitable so early." He chuckles, lips turning into a little smirk.
"You like pushing my buttons. Don't act like you're surprised." Your little smug smirk turns to a shit eating grin as he starts climbing over you. Grabbing your legs and letting him maneuver you with a gentle touch only he could have for you.
Scott fits your ass flush with his thighs, legs pulled to rest against his shoulders as he kisses your ankle once. His rough hands sliding up your thighs and prying your lips apart with his thumbs. Staring down at your own dripping mess, eyes glancing up with a look that said 'you're as bad as I am'. His hand slides up, ghosting over the sensitive bundle of nerves with the rough pad of his thumb.
You whine, preening into his hand, making him chortle softly. He positions himself at your entrance, pressing in with a slow glide of his hips. Air leaves your lungs with a gasp at the sudden fullness. Scott forces himself to wait, body slowly leaning forward to hover over you. Your knees nearly pressing into your chest from his weight alone, held in place as he braces a hand on the bed somewhere near your head and his other moving to hold yours against the sheets.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your heart as his hips start to rock. Body taking over as you grip him with your walls, his head hitting that angle with his usual laser pin point precision. Your fingers tighten around his grip, holding onto your only lifeline in any way you possibly can.
He grunts, face going flush as his pace picks up, leaning in closer as your eyes lock through his shades. Your hand comes up to curve over his jawline and cheek. He moves your legs off his shoulders and spread out wider over the bed. Body moving to cocoon yours with a needy pound of his hips, wanting to hold you close much more than anything.
"Scott..." You whimper as a warning into his shoulder, his lips finding your ear as he coasts along the skin under it.
"I know, baby. Me too." He catches a noise in his throat, damn near close to a whine. Feeling you clench around him at your impending orgasm, your bodies coil together. Scott feels your teeth dig into the muscle of his shoulder as your high rips through you. Making his body jolt, groan pulled from his throat as he fills you up, deep within your walls before he slumps over. Both of you panting messes clinging to each other.
"Sorry... Sorry I bit you." You mumble through breaths, feeling his head turn to kiss along your neck.
"It's okay... Did it break skin?" You glance at his shoulder, met by the indentation of your teeth. It almost makes you a little bit proud as you shake your head.
"No." He huffs, pulling back enough to look at you, both of you covered in a new layer of sweat and slick. If you weren't so sure, you'd miss that look of recognition at a job well done and his tiny hint of pride.
His lips meet yours in a caring kiss before pulling back as he climbs back, pulling off you with a sigh. Tapping your hip.
"C'mon. We're getting cleaned up." You groan, being pulled up by your arms. Sitting at the edge of the bed you see Scott going into his working mode. Pulling the blanket back enough to tug the sheets off the corners before he's back in front of you. Watching you catch yourself from your own head. His voice quiet, hand cradling your chin to keep your attention.
"Hey, why don't you go start a bath for us? We got another hour before I'm needed anywhere. I'll be in once I'm done." You nod with a hum, feeling him kiss your sweaty forehead with a hum.
"Love you," he mutters against your skin.
"Love you too."
Wade
The light of dawn bleeds into your shared bedroom, sun beating into your profile. You've actively been trying to ignore his antics for the better part of twenty minutes. You heard him come in about half an hour ago, lugging himself into the bathroom to shower and come back out to you, spread out in one of his old shirts and underwear. Curled up in the safe space you thought was your bed until this little shit started poking at you after he laid down.
First it was just snuggling, then his hands got antsy, wandering up under your shirt with a some half baked apology. Cold fingers gripping at your chest like his own personal nipple having stress balls. Muttering something to himself about a "lack of self control" and how you were his own personal fidget toy. Which lasted all of two minutes before he was burying his face between your legs and making it his mission to piss you off.
But you know Wade thrives on attention. Wade knows he thrives on attention, that's why he's been edging you and "helping" you "reach the big O" as he'd so proclaimed before jamming his shit eating grin right into your cunt.
And if anything he's fantastic at achieving things if he tries hard enough. But he also likes pushing your buttons a lot more. So, right as you're starting to flutter around his fingers for what's probably the fourth or fifth time by now. He's pulling away, only to look up at your scrunched up face and kiss your thigh with admiration.
You'd kick him in the face if he actually weren't so sweet...
"Y'know baby, if you just gimme what I want I can make both lips of yours smile in a minute flat. I'm not an amateur when it comes to coming. If anything, some depraved pervert, definitely not me, would love to see you grovel for mercy under their touch." He leans his head against your thigh, watching your eyes crack open in a still moderately tired haze.
"There's my girl. You finally see the voice of reason? I sure hope so. You're scrumptious, don't get me wrong. I could live down here for hours, but I don't want you suffering anymore then you have to. Come on, she's weeping for mercy, give her a break." You give a slow blink, no verbal response as he huffs through his nose with a disappointed tut.
"Have it your way, sugar puss. I'm enjoying my A.M.B., apartment mandated breakfast, either way." He shoves his face back between your thighs, making them lock against his head like earmuffs. Back to breaking you apart piece by piece with his motor mouth. Working you right up to that edge before pulling away with an inquisitive hum. Tongue gliding over his lips to clean your juices from his mouth with ease.
"Have you been eating pineapple? I'm getting a hint of sweet-" you don't let him finish as your legs lock around him. Twisting til he's under you and you're up on your knees. Any normal man you'd have to worry about breaking his neck, or killing him. Thank God that's not a problem here.
He's speechless for once in his life, you stare down at his wide eyes, his mouth slightly parted as your hands come up, pinning his in place above his head with an annoyed glare.
"Shut the fuck up and get me off." You growl, legs spread apart as you hover your cunt over his face with a slow grind down towards him.
"You know how to use your mouth any other time, c'mon." He groans under you, head lifting as his tongue moves to slip into place. His hands tug, your grip letting go. His arms come up, wrapping around your legs to pull you down flat against his face. His nose moves against your clit with a guide before your hips roll. Letting you ride his face like he doesn't need oxygen to live.
"Oh fuck," you whimper, hips grinding down in a smooth fast rut that makes the headboard knock into the wall with a thud. A definite noise complaint coming later. Your breath gets shaky as your orgasm slowly starts to build back up again. Chasing the tingle between your legs for only a few seconds before you're gushing on his face with a sharp cry. Palms meeting the sheets as you slump forward.
You pant, slowly trying to move off him. Wade grabs your hips before you can move, tongue dancing across you as he cleans you up from below. Hand tapping your thigh before you pull off. He lets out a gasp for life, breath shaky too as he looks up at you before grinning. Mouth covered in what remains of your release.
"Jesus Marvel Christ I fucking love you. I think Logan might be right, I am God's favorite idiot." He lets out a harsh sigh, leaning up to give you a kiss before you avoid him.
"No, you're not doing that with shit on your face. It's your turn away."
"Oh no, sugar puss. I'm good. I painted my favorite Hello Kitty jammies. But I guess you could say I really said 'Hello' to your kitty." You blink with a groan, slumping back into your pillows, hand rubbing over your tired eyes as he crawls over.
"What the fuck is wrong with you..."
"A lot. I thought we established that at our first fuck-a-thon. Now, just lay back and relax. Daddy needs his stiff drink of punani after a long hard day at work..." He chuckles under his breath with a quick whisper, "Haha, that's what she said."
"Wade," your hand meets his head before he can assume the position again, "it's five in the morning."
"Yeah? And I wanna get pussy drunk. It's always 5 o'clock somewhere."
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ PAIRING: Scott Summers/Reader, Logan Howlet/Reader, Remy LeBeau/Reader, Kurt Wagner/Reader.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ TAGS: Headcanons, Love Languages, Fluff, Established Relationships, Found Families, Quality Time, Physical Touch
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ SUMMARY: A collection of headcanons exploring how each X-Men member expresses love — what they call you, their primary love languages, and the little details that make their love unique.
𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ Scott Summers
WHAT HE CALLS YOU: Almost always by your name. But when he lets his guard down (or when you're alone), a quiet "Darlin'" slips out. Sometimes, looking away nervously: "Sunshine" (ironic, given his power, but that's his awkward charm).
• ACTS OF SERVICE: He'll silently plan your training schedule, check your suit's seals, bring you coffee while you sleep because "you look tired." For him, love is action. He'll fix your broken things without a word and leave them on your desk. If you're hungry, food appears – even if you didn't ask. He believes love means you don't have to worry about the small stuff because he's already handled it.
• QUALITY TIME: He needs to just sit beside you in silence in the Blue Area. He doesn't talk about feelings, but if he chooses to spend an hour with his plans and you – that's the highest form of devotion. He'll watch you read a book and not look away, because your peace is the only thing that quiets his endless anxiety. He hates loud crowds, but for you he'll go to a party – and keep your hand under the table the whole time.
• PHYSICAL TOUCH: He won't hug you in public, but when you pass each other in the hallway, his fingers always linger a second too long on your waist. He adjusts your collar before a mission, holding on longer than necessary. When he sleeps, his hand always reaches for you – even when he doesn't realize it.
The Little Thing: He always stands so as to shield you with his back from any potential threat, even when you're just doing the dishes.
𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ Logan Howlet
WHAT HE CALLS YOU: "Darlin'" (the highest approval), or just a growl of your name. But when he's angry or worried, it slips out: "Mine." One word that sounds like a threat to everyone else.
• PROTECTION: He won't hug you in public. But he's always between you and danger. If someone looks at you wrong – Logan's claws are out. His love is his body in front of yours. When you walk down the street, he's on the traffic side. When someone raises their voice, he stands and stares until they stop. Protecting you is instinct – stronger than adamantium.
• QUALITY TIME: Sitting by a fire, drinking whiskey, silent, watching stars. He doesn't need words. If he asks you to come to the woods to "breathe" – that's a date. He values silence with you more than any conversation. He doesn't need restaurants or gifts – he needs you beside him when he wakes from nightmares and checks if you're still alive.
• ACTS OF SERVICE: He'll bring you breakfast in bed (grumbling that he "was just passing by"). He sews your torn jacket with surprisingly gentle fingers. He fixes your motorcycle so you won't crash. Everything he does translates to: "I don't want you to get hurt."
THE LITTLE THING: leaves one un-smoked cigar on your desk — just so you know he stopped by to check if you were sleeping.
𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑Remy LeBeau
WHAT HE CALLS YOU: "Chère" — his classic, like "darling" but with an edge of "my woman." When he wants to tease or rile you up: "Petite" (Little one). When he's serious: "Mon cœur" (My heart). He says it with an accent that melts even the walls.
• RECEIVING GIFTS: He brings you jewelry he "found" (won fair and square in poker!), old books from closed libraries, or unusual flowers. He remembers that trinket you stared at in a shop window three months ago. For Remy, a gift isn't about money – it's about attention. He'll pluck a rare flower from a dangerous ledge just because it reminded him of your eyes. Every present is a little adventure, stolen from the world just for you.
• PHYSICAL TOUCH: Dancing is his element. His hands are always on you – your shoulder, your lower back. He loves tossing cards dangerously around you just to make you laugh. Remy can't be in the same room without touching you. It's how he checks you're real. He'll kiss your hand in public with such grace that everyone forgets to breathe, and your cheeks burn.
• WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: Remy is a master of compliments. He'll tell you you're beautiful even when you've just woken up and you're grumpy. He loves teasing you, but behind every "Petite" is pure adoration. He tells everyone around how amazing you are – even when you're standing right there, blushing.
THE LITTLE THING: He never touches you with charged cards. Only regular ones. Because he doesn't want to risk you.
𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑Kurt Wagner
WHAT HE CALLS YOU: In his native tongue. "Mein Schatz" (My treasure) is the baseline. When flirting: "Kleine Teufelin" (Little she-devil). When you're sad, he touches your forehead and says "Engel" (Angel).
• PHYSICAL TOUCH: For him, contact is sacred. He constantly takes your hand in his three-fingered palms, wraps his tail around your waist when passing by, and tucks your hair behind your ear. He needs to feel you with his skin – because his appearance repels others, but you let him close, and that heals him. He hugs you from behind while you cook, rests his chin on your shoulder, and breathes in sync with you. His tail is its own love language – curling around your leg or waist when Kurt is too shy to speak aloud.
• WORDS OF AFFIRMATION: He loves telling you beautiful things. Not cheap – profound: "Your soul shines brighter than my teleport." He leaves you little notes in German tucked into your coat pockets. He always finds the right words to lift your mood, because he knows how heavy it is when the world looks at you with fear. He calls you "light" in every sermon, even if no one but you understands who he means.
• QUALITY TIME: Kurt loves sitting with you on the Institute's roof on clear nights, pointing out constellations and telling stories from his travels. He's never in a rush. He needs you to stay as long as you're willing. Every minute with you feels like a prayer he never wants to end.
THE LITTLE THING: He only teleports when you're looking the other way – so he never startles you with the sulfur smell.
