Just a funny sex thought with whoever your fave may be:
You had to sneeze.
You REALLY had to sneeze.
His hips pistoned in and out of you, head buried in the crook of your neck. Slightly higher pitches moans came out of his mouth as his hands tighten on your hips.
You put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him up to meet your eyes and you voice your concern. He props himself on his forearms and stills his hips flush against yours.
But he was close to cumming, reeeeeeally close.
If he had some extensive knowledge of human anatomy, he would have known that your muscles SQUEEZE when you sneeze, including the muscles that was currently stretch around his cock. His mind was clouded with arousal, any other thought other than YOU out of the question.
You turn your head to the side and let loose, 3 sneezes in a row coming out. When you do so, your hole tightens VERY SNUG around him, tight enough to push him out if his wide, strong hips weren't hard against yours.
He collapses on top of you, moaning loudly as the 3 consecutive dick-choking sneezes push him over the edge. His hips move without thought, pushing his cum deep inside you before stilling again.
The room is silent for a few moment aside from his heavy breathing when you ask, "Did you really just cum?"
He props himself up again, eyes wide with a shocked look on his face. You can't help but giggle loudly, a wide smile on your face as you both come to the realization. You hear a few deep chuckles before he groans and pulls out, quick to fill you with his fingers ready to return the favor.
— 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.
Characters : frank castle, matt murdock, peter parker, kurt wagner, wade wilson, eric brooks, scott summers, remy lebeau, logan howlett, johnny storm
You wake up slowly, the first thing you register being warmth. It was solid, steady, protective.
Frank is still asleep beside you.
The room is quiet in that early-morning way, sunlight barely slipping through the blinds and casting soft lines across his bare shoulders. One of his arms is wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His grip isn’t tight, just… certain.
You shift slightly, testing the space, and his arm tightens immediately. Instinct.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, barely conscious.
You smile to yourself.
Last night lingers in the air, not in details, but in feelings. The closeness. The way he looked at you like you were something rare. The way he stayed, instead of pulling away like he usually does.
You trace a finger over the scars on his chest, careful, reverent. He stirs again, eyes fluttering open. For a moment he looks disoriented—then he sees you.
And everything softens ever so slightly.
“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your hip. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
He studies your face like he’s committing it to memory, jaw tense, like he’s bracing for you to regret staying. When you don’t move away, when you lean in instead, he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he admits.
You kiss his shoulder. “I wanted to wake up with you.”
That’s what gets him.
Frank pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. No armor. No walls. Just a man who stayed the night and woke up to someone choosing him in the morning.
He presses a gentle kiss to your hair.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
You wake up tangled in warmth, limbs lazy, sheets a mess that tells a story neither of you are pretending didn’t happen.
Remy’s half on top of you, one leg hooked over yours like he claimed you in his sleep and never let go. His hair is a disaster, eyes still closed, lips curved like he’s already amused by something.
You shift just enough to get comfortable.
He hums immediately.
“Mmm… careful, chère. Dat kinda movement’s dangerous.”
You snort and grumble a grouchy, “You’re the one crushing me.”
One eye opens, cherry red on black, bright with mischief.
“Crushing?” he repeats, offended. “Non. Dis is cuddlin’. Very affectionate.”
“Your knee is practically a weapon.”
He grins wider and adjusts — somehow making it worse on purpose, pressing intentionally against the inside of your thigh.
“Funny. Didn’t hear you complainin’ bout my knee between your legs last night.”
You swat his chest, but he catches your wrist easily, presses a kiss to your knuckles instead. The teasing fades just a notch, replaced by something softer.
“You still here,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your palm.
“Still here,” you confirm.
That earns you a slow, satisfied smile. He leans down, kisses you properly this time — unrushed, warm, smiling into it like he’s got all the time in the world. His hand traces familiar paths, unhurried, like he’s savoring the morning as much as you.
“You know,” you murmur, “most people make coffee when they wake up.”
Remy laughs low in his throat.
“Chère,” he says, voice dropping, “I got somethin’ sweeter in mind.”
He slides down under the blankets, eyes never leaving yours. There’s a crooked smile on his lips now. Pure Remy. But his gaze is soft, reverent, like this isn’t a game so much as a promise. He settles between your thighs, spreading you gently as his breath ghosts warm and slow, hitting your bare cunt, making you gulp in anticipation.
— and he looks up at you like he’s exactly where he belongs. The softness of that crooked grin sending shivers through your body.
“Bon matin,” he murmurs.
Morning comes quietly.
You’re the first to wake, tucked against Matt’s side, his arm slung loose but possessive around your waist. The city hums faintly outside, distant traffic and early footsteps filtered through the cracked window. His breathing is steady, warm against your shoulder.
You shift just a little.
“Mm,” he hums immediately. “If you’re trying to sneak away, you’re terrible at it.”
You smile. “You were asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes,” he says lightly. “Big difference.”
You roll onto your elbow, looking down at him. His head is turned toward you, looking just over your shoulder, lips curved in that knowing little smile that always makes you feel like you’ve already lost.
“You know,” you say casually, “I expected more stamina from the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”
One brow lifts. Intrigue. “Oh?”
“Tapping out after four rounds?” you continue, thoughtful, “Kind of pathetic.”
He hears the lie immediately, hears the amusement threading through your pulse, the way your body gives you away even when your mouth doesn’t.
And he grins like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket.
“Four,” he repeats, savoring it. “That’s tapping out now?”
You shrug, trying to hide your smile so that he wouldn't be able to hear it in your voice,“I had higher expectations.”
He lets out a soft hum, deep in his chest, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“Funny,” he says, voice warm, teasing. “Because your heart says you were very… satisfied.”
“Your hearing is overrated.” you scoffed, tugging his earlobe for emphasis, making him chuckle.
“Mm. Maybe.” He tilts his head, “But you’re smiling.”
Before you can fire back, his hands are on you — confident, gentle — sliding up your bare thighs as he pulls you easily on top of him. You barely have time to register the movement before you’re straddling his hips, his touch grounding, familiar.
His hands settle at your waist, thumbs brushing slow, deliberate arcs that make it very hard to remember your argument.
Matt smiles up at you — innocent, almost angelic, like he isn’t absolutely enjoying this.
“Well,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t want you walkin’ away disappointed.”
That hum again, low and pleased.
“Go on,” he adds, brown eyes somehow finding yours as they scrunch cutely with amusement, “Prove your point.”
Your cup his cheeks and your press your lips to his for the sole purpose that he would be able to feel your smile," You asked for it, counsellor."
You wake up warm, pleasantly sore, wrapped in blue limbs and silk-soft sheets that smell faintly like incense and ozone.
Kurt is curled around you protectively, one arm tucked beneath your neck, the other resting light at your waist like he’s afraid to hold too tight. His face is peaceful in sleep, lashes dark against his skin, lips parted just enough to look tempting.
And then there’s his tail.
It’s draped lazily over your thigh — except not lazily at all. The tip twitches the moment you shift, curling, tightening, giving him away long before his eyes open.
“Kurt.” you murmur.
His eyes snap open immediately.
“Guten Morgen, Liebes,” he says, voice gentle, careful. Too careful.
You tilt your head, “You look… composed.”
He nods solemnly. “I am being very good.”
The tail flicks.
You bite back a smile. “Your tail disagrees.”
He freezes.
Slowly, he glances down. The traitorous appendage tightens around your thigh like it’s trying to make a point of its own. His ears flush a darker blue.
“…It has a mind of its own,” he says weakly.
“Uh-huh.” You stretch deliberately, enjoying the way his breath catches despite his best efforts. “You’re staring.”
“I am not,” he protests.
The tail tightens again.
He exhales, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Forgive me. It is just-” He gestures vaguely, “You look very… happy.”
“Happy?”
He swallows. “Deliciously… content.”
You laugh softly, reaching out to trace the fuzzy edge of his ear. “Well... you were pretty damn good last night.”
That makes him smile — soft, shy, pleased in that uniquely Kurt way. “I tried to be restrained this morning,” he admits, “Out of respect.”
His tail betrays him by sliding higher.
You raise a brow and snort,“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He laughs quietly, giving up, pressing his forehead to yours. “Ja,” he murmurs. “I fear my self-control is… limited.”
The tail curls possessively around your waist now, and Kurt sighs like a man who has accepted his fate. His golden eyes warm, affectionate, absolutely undone by you.
“But,” he adds softly, smiling, “I regret nothing.”
Morning light cuts through the blinds in thin, pale stripes. You wake up first, tucked against a solid wall of warmth that is very much Eric Brooks pretending he isn’t awake.
His arm is heavy across your waist. Protective. Familiar.
You shift and feel him tense instantly.
“You’re awake,” you say softly.
A pause. Then a low sigh.
“…Yeah.”
You turn slightly, catching sight of the faint mark at your shoulder in the mirror across the room. Two small impressions, already fading. You touch it without thinking.
Eric notices immediately.
His jaw tightens. “ fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, quiet but firm. “I didn’t mean to—”
You roll toward him before he can spiral, smiling. “Hey. You stopped.”
He frowns grouchily, “Still shouldn’t have happened.”
“You’re half-vampire,” you point out gently, “And you were hungry.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
You reach up, thumb brushing along his cheek, forcing him to look at you. “It kind of is. And you showed a lot of control.”
That does it.
He snorts softly, shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable with praise. “You’re givin’ me too much credit.”
But you hear it — the tiny hitch in his breathing. Feel it in the way his grip tightens just a little, like the words landed somewhere deep.
You grin. “C’mon. Most people would’ve left more than a mark.”
He leans down abruptly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Right over the bite like he’s trying to erase the compliment before it sinks in. Then another, softer one. Then one to your jaw.
“You talk too damn much,” he mutters.
“And you hate being appreciated,” you shoot back.
A corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.
He pulls you closer, forehead resting against your shoulder, voice low but warm. “You scared?”
You shake your head, “Not even a little.”
That makes him pause. Then he exhales slowly, tension easing, and brushes his thumb across your waist with surprising gentleness.
“…Good,” he murmurs.
You smile, completely content, while Eric Brooks pretends he isn’t glowing inside over being trusted.
You wake up to exactly zero peace.
“Mornin’, beautiful~ wow, okay, still unfairly hot. Did I ever tell you how talented you are with your mouth?”
His mouth is everywhere. Your cheek. Your jaw. Your temple. Each kiss punctuated with commentary delivered at machine-gun speed.
“—seriously, Olympic-level effort last night, ten outta ten, would absolutely risk my life again—”
“Wade,” you mumble, trying to surface from sleep.
“And the confidence? The enthusiasm? The way you—”
You pinch his nipple.
Hard.
“YOW—!” He jerks back, eyes wide, then immediately breaks into a grin," Oh no. Oh wow. File that under unexpectedly into that.”
You roll your eyes. “Please shut up.”
“Can’t. Won’t. I am physically incapable of not praising you for-”
You cut him off by leaning in, pressing a quick kiss to his scarred cheek, softer than all the others.
“Wade,” you say sincerely, “you were really sweet last night. And you make me feel… safe. Wanted.”
Silence.
Actual, honest-to-god silence.
His grin falters. Not gone, just stunned. His eyes soften in a way that makes your chest ache. For half a second, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with something that genuine.
Then-
You blink, and suddenly he’s above you.
Pinned.
Your wrists gently but firmly held over your head, his weight settling between your legs, hips pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.
He’s grinning wildly now, unrestrained joy written all over his face.
You swear - swear - you see little cartoon hearts practically floating in his eyes.
“Well,” he says, delighted, “now I gotta reward you for how fucking cute that was.”
You groan out an amused," you slut.”
He leans down, nose brushing yours before he literally licks the tip of your nose, “And you looove me.”
You do, unfortunately.
You wake up before him, which feels rare enough to be a small miracle.
Logan is sprawled beside you, sheets tangled around his waist, broad chest rising and falling slow and steady. For once, there’s no tension etched into his face. No scowl, no clenched jaw. Just calm. Rest.
It makes your chest flutter stupidly.
You prop yourself up on one elbow, studying him like he might disappear if you look away too long. His dark hair is mussed, lashes resting against his cheeks, brow still faintly furrowed even in sleep.
You reach out carefully, smoothing your thumb over that crease.
He snaps forward without warning, teeth chomping the inside of your wrist — not hard, but just enough to make you yelp.
“Logan!” you gasp.
He doesn’t even open his eyes at first. Just smirks hotly.
“Shouldn’t poke dangerous animals,” he murmurs from having your wrist beteeen his teeth, voice rough with sleep.
“You were asleep!” you accuse with a glare.
“Was restin’,” he says with a snort, “You’re noisy.”
You glare harder at him. “I was being affectionate.”
He releases your wrist, bringing it closer to inspect like he’s deciding whether to apologise for the faint mark he had left. His thumb rubs over the spot, gentler now.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
That’s as close to soft as he’ll get, and it makes you grin.
“You looked peaceful,” you tease. “Didn’t know you were capable.”
“Careful, darlin'. ” he warns. “I got a reputation.”
You lean down and press a sweet kiss to his scarred knuckles — slow, deliberate, affectionate.
That’s all it takes.
Logan’s breath hitches immediately. His eyes darken, and in the next second he’s pulling you down against him, hand fisting lightly in your hair as he claims your mouth in a heavy kiss. All heat and hunger and unmistakable intent, tongue sliding against yours like he’s been waiting for an excuse.
When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he exhales sharply.
“…You do that on purpose,” he growls.
You smile, completely smug. “Maybe.”
He snorts, already leaning back in. “Smart mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
"Well, my smart mouth made you cum three times last night, so-"
His teeth nips your bottom lip, glaring at you but the smile twitching onto his lips told you all you needed to know.
You wake slowly, cocooned in warmth and soft sheets, your body pleasantly heavy. For a moment, you don’t move. Just breathe.
until you realize the weight against you isn’t just the blankets.
Scott.
He’s curled into you, his head resting against your chest, one arm loosely draped around your waist like he belongs there. His face is relaxed in sleep, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly. For someone who always carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks… peaceful. Safe.
Your heart does a small flip.
His hair is a complete mess, dark strands sticking up in every direction, and when your gaze drifts lower, you notice them... two faint bite marks along his collarbone, already blooming into soft bruises.
Heat rushes to your face as last night crashes back into your mind in vivid fragments.
“Oh my god,” you mumble to yourself, mortified and amused all at once. “I’m such a horny mess.”
A quiet snicker answers you.
You freeze.
Scott looks up at you, his eyes shut tight as he gives you a charming smile, “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
You groan, lifting a hand to cover your face. “You were awake.”
“Mm. For a while.” His voice is still rough with sleep, low and warm. He shifts closer, tilting his head so his lips brush your skin. “Couldn’t bring myself to move.”
You reach toward the nightstand, fingers searching blindly, and he takes that as an invitation as your body hovers over him more.
His mouth trails along your collarbone, slow and lazy, punctuated by soft kisses that linger just long enough to make you shiver. A gentle nip here, a teasing suck there - like he’s leaving reminders.
“Scott,” you laugh breathlessly, finally grabbing his glasses and nudging them toward him, “You can’t even see.”
“Minor detail,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss before slipping them on. Once his glasses are secure, he looks up at you properly, that familiar fondness settling into his expression, “Besides, I know you pretty well by now.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “So confident for someone who uses a laser-proof sleep mask.”
“Hey,” he protests lightly, fingers tracing idle patterns along your side. “You like my sleep mask.”
“I tolerate it.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced.
The banter fades into something quieter as you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. Then another. You let them trail lower, over his jaw, down his neck, across his chest, feeling his breath change beneath you.
By the time you disappear beneath the blankets, his breathing is already uneven, a sharp inhale catching in his throat as your breath ghosts against the inside of his thighs.
His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading through gently - not guiding, just holding on. You were his tether.
“God,” he exhales, head tipping back with a pant, “You’re dangerous.”
You smile to yourself and take him into your greedy mouth.
You wake up warm and hazy, reaching instinctively for him—
— and finding nothing.
Your eyes blink open, frown forming immediately as your hand pats the empty space beside you. The sheets are still warm, which somehow makes it worse. You let out a quiet, dramatic huff and flop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling like you’ve been personally wronged.
Then you hear it.
The toilet flushes.
A moment later, the bathroom door creaks open, and Peter pads back into the bedroom in nothing but soft pajama pants and a sheepish grin, chocolate brown hair still damp from splashing water on his face.
“Oh no,” he says immediately, voice amused. “That face. That’s the ‘I thought you disappeared forever’ face.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes narrowed. “You left.”
“For, like, thirty seconds,” he laughs, crossing the room. “I promise I didn’t swing off into the sunset.”
He barely gets back under the covers before you’re on him, arms and legs wrapping around his middle like a sleepy octopus. He lets out a surprised laugh, automatically curling into you, one arm snug around your back.
“Missed me that much, huh?”
You mumble something incoherent into his chest, fingers clutching his shirt. He smiles softly, pressing a kiss into the top of your head, lingering there. His hand drifts lazily over your side, warm and familiar, tracing over your hip and down your thigh.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
“My legs are sore,” you mumble, half-asleep.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Peter stiffens just slightly.
“Oh,” he says, flushing instantly. He clears his throat, ears definitely red now. “Uh— I mean— I can— I can carry you? Today. Around the apartment. If you need. Like, totally heroic bridal carry situation.”
You snort, lifting your head to look at him. “You’d do that?”
He nods earnestly, trying very hard not to think about why your legs are sore. He needs to remember you're not as flexible as he is. You seriously were put through the ringer last night, your legs being manhandled in every which direction.
“Absolutely. Doctor’s orders. I’m the doctor. Of… being your boyfriend.”
You laugh, settling back against him as he relaxes again, pressing another gentle kiss to your hair.
“Stay,” you whisper.
He tightens his hold just a little. “Wasn’t going anywhere.”
You wake to friction and heat, your body responding before your thoughts can form. Johnny is behind you, breath ragged against your ear, every exhale hot enough to make you shiver. There’s a slow, deliberate pressure as he moves, unhurried, like he’s savoring the way you melt beneath him.
You groan, half protest, half invitation.
“Easy,” you mumble, trying to sound annoyed.
He laughs softly, low and dangerous, and shifts closer. One of your legs is lifted with effortless confidence, opening you to him, fitting you exactly where he wants you. The contact sends a spark straight through your core, your back arching without permission.
“Funny,” he murmurs into your ear, voice rough with memory, “you weren’t saying that last night. Pretty sure you were the one pulling me closer.”
Your breath stutters. The words do things to you— do things with him pressed so close, heat radiating off his skin. Johnny always runs warm, but this is different. Sweat gathers along your spine, the air thick, charged. He’s a heater, coiled and barely contained.
A faint flare ripples along his shoulders, light licking through his hair. He swears under his breath and moves quickly, smoothly, rolling you onto your back before the fire can get out of hand. The mattress dips as he settles between your legs, bracing himself above you.
“Hold on,” he mutters, grin flashing as the glow fades. “Don’t need to set the place on fire.”
His hands slide to your hips, firm and grounding. He leans in, forehead resting briefly against yours, breath mingling with yours, the tension unbearable.
Then he shifts — just a fraction — and the world narrows to sensation. There’s a slow, steady press, a shared inhale, the unmistakable feeling of being filled as your cunt welcomes him again. A sound slips from your throat as he stills, eyes locked on yours, heat humming between you.
Johnny exhales, satisfied, reverent. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Just like last night.”
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."
Batfamily x Neglected! Moon Knight's Sidekick! Reader
(CHAPTER V)
Chapter VI
Summary: After a group of students kill you due to hate, you get resurrected by a godly and somewhat childish entity that wishes to use you as a host due to your impressive abilities. Moon Knight, following the orders of Khonshu decides to train you but develops an attachment towards you. Unbeknownst to your family who you begin to slowly ignore due to their neglect and your nighttime activities. THIS IS A CROSSOVER FIC
Author's note: Sorry for the late update. My family member had a medical emergency.
Warnings: Major character death, Major harm, Neglect, bullying, hateful themes, Reader coming to terms with being neglected, violence, jumping from high buildings, PTSD)
“Star Maiden!”
“No."
“Star Knight!”
“Oh god, you are so bad at this.”
“Moon Squire!”
“That's already taken! And my theme is stars! Not the moon!”
“No harm in having doubles.”
“I'll just stay nameless.”
“You can't stay nameless. You need a name! Come on, tell me more about yourself. What are your powers?”
“Who says I have powers?”
“You're literally flying.”
You really enjoy being a hero but It's times like these that have you wondering. Which is pretty insane now that you ponder it; you've literally been kicked to a pulp, punched to oblivion, shot at and stabbed at one point but this is what has you contemplating your choices?
You need to go out more. With people.
“What are your powers anyway? And how did you get them?”
“Don't ask me, Spidey. I don't even know my pow-”
“Telekinesis, telepathy, teleportation and in recent times — tangibility manipulation and abnormal strength.” Moon Knight monotone voice interjected from below.
“Oh wow thanks, Moonie. Glad to know someone keeps a file on me.”
“You need to know these things. Those powers aren't just powers. They're your senses at this point and it's important you keep track of them.”
“Alright, Dad.”
The line was supposed to be humorous. A common clap back to a man lecturing like a dad would. Like your dad should.
So why the hell was his answer-
“No problem.”
Moon Knight confused you. That was totally it. That was totally why you let out a little chuckle while continuing to fly while holding him. He confused you.
And it was hard not to laugh at the sight of you two.
The sight of you three is comically cartoonish.
Moon Knight can't fly, everyone knows that and he can't sling from building to building like Spider-Man.
So when you suggested holding him as a means of transport he had no choice but to allow you to grab him as if he were some overgrown infant and take him on this joy ride.
And to be honest, he didn't put up much of a fight.
“Can we please get back to the name?”
“No thank you, Spidey.”
“What's the press gonna call you? What's your merch gonna be?”
“I really don't care about that stuff. I'm here to save lives, not garner a fanbase.”
“You still need a name. What am I meant to call you? Moon Knight jr?”
“Are you always this talkative?”
“No.”
“Yes.” Moon Knight sighed out.
“Hey I have a name! What about Psyche?”
“That's the name of a Goddess.”
“Psy-Star?”
“Yeah no.”
—
Damian Wayne had been feeling that things were off in the manor lately.
For one, Alfred seemed more worried lately. Not worried about him though. It appeared that he was more concerned with other things.
His suspicions only grew stronger when he overheard something rather… distressing in Bruce's study.
“Master Bruce, I'm afraid you do not understand-”
“I understand perfectly well, Alfred. If Y/N isn't eating while she's home there's a high chance she's most likely eating elsewhere. Maybe she isn't a fan of your cooking.” Damian couldn't miss the sheer dismissiveness of his father's tone.
Was he always this cold towards you?
That level of nonchalance wasn't in his realm of understanding— at least not with Bruce. As much as Bruce loved portraying himself as some emotionless bat, Damian and everyone knew just how much he truly cared for them.
Yet why did it seem like that wasn't the case for you?
“I can assure you, Master Bruce. Miss Y/N has not been eating for weeks. And when she does she eats rather grand portions. It's alarming.”
“It's probably one of her diets. It's a phase, it'll go away.”
“Master Bruce-”
“I'm too busy for this Alfred. Talk to me later.”
That brings Damian to the second thing that's been bothering him lately.
You.
When was the last time he's spoken to you or should he say— you've spoken to him? He can't really recall initiating a conversation with you.
Like ever.
He didn't feel the need to.
You two had nothing in common.
He was a protector of Gotham.
You were some wannabe that Bruce kept around out of pity. If he could even call it that.
So why did he find himself here?
Standing in front of your bedroom door?
Trying to act as if his stomach wasn't going through all sorts of sinks and lurches.
It was just you.
Why would he ever care about what you thought about him?
Why the hell was he so nervous?
Why was he concerned?
He knows about your diets. You're a very accomplished MMA fighter who has to look after herself but the stuff you do to remain at the top never really sat right with him.
There were times where he assumed you were lying for the sake of trying to come across as “one of them”.
He never thought they were real.
At least not until now.
He exhaled a sigh and raised his hand.
Knock
Knock
Knock
You were currently dying.
You have the right to say that, right?
You did die ONCE.
You have every right to joke about it because the Gods know that you can't go to a therapist about it.
Your head was killing you and you felt really soft.
You tried thinking of anything else to keep this growing pain in your skull at bay but nothing was working.
They never got this bad.
Knock
Knock
Knock
“I know you're in there! Open the door now!”
Was that…
No way.
Was that Damian?
Yeah now you've really lost it.
There's no way you're actually-
Knock
Knock
Knock
You could feel the vibrations of the mahogany door.
You groaned in pain and tried to gather the strength to get up.
Your vision began to cloud up.
Taking a deep breath your thoughts shifted to the door.
Boom. You teleported to the front of the door. A bit dizzy but hey, no pain no gain.
Before he could knock again Damian was greeted with you staring down at him.
“Yes?”
“Why did it take you so long to answer the door? It could've been an emergency.”
“Is it?”
“...”
“Hm.”
Damian realised he didn't really know what to say to you.
You were different.
You weren't smiling and your eyes were hyper focused but there was nothing to focus on.
Were you on drugs?
“What's wrong with you?” He yelled accusatorially.
“Nothing…”
You leaned on the door slightly to support yourself. You really couldn't do whatever this is right now.
“Look if you're trying to get me in trouble or something-”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“I really wouldn't put it past you.”
“What's up with you?”
“Leave me alone.” You didn't have the patience for whatever this was.
That stunned him.
“Wait!” He called out just as you were about to shut the door.
“What?” Your movement halted.
Damian let out a sigh and looked down.
“Do you want to go to that insipid café tomorrow? They have somewhat pleasant cakes and tea. I believe you'd enjoy that." He offered, his eyes darting across the area.
You stared at him. You can't have sweets. That goes against your diet.
And you don't trust whatever Damian's on right now. He must have been hit with something, he'll ditch you the second someone else in the family comes around.
And plus
“I have band practice.” You closed the door.
Well. That was a first.
You would've jumped with glee at the chance to spend time with him.
And since when did you have a band? Could you even play an instrument?
He knocked again.
“Can I watch you guys?” He spoke to the door.
You didn't respond.
—
You really hate school.
The work is easy and you now have friends but you still have bullies.
You know, the guys that killed you.
You swear you were just minding your business by the bleachers.
“Hey Mutie!”
And then that happened.
Your face contorted into a harsh grimace.
Memories flashed before your eyes.
“Aww come on, mutie!”
“What do you want?” You sneered.
“You heal fast. Regeneration?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Make her leave.” That familiar gentle firm voice echoed in your mind.
Astraea?
You could barely register what was happening– it all happened so fast.
The girl opened her mouth to scream but whatever voice she had vanished. A mere croak left her before she dropped down to the ground with a muted thump.
She wasn't dead.
You could feel her cold heart still beating in her chest and feel the rush of blood in her veins.
But her mind had been altered.
Well, you should say it's currently being altered.
Whole memories are being rewritten, emotions are being rewired, it's as if she's becoming reprogrammed.
You snapped out of your idle state once you realised what was happening.
“Astraea! Stop it, you're changing her!”
“No, thank you.”
“There is nothing heroic about this.”
“She's going to hurt more people in the long run. We're saving those individuals.” You didn't miss the way her playful tone reverberated.
She enjoyed that.
“This will never happen again. And we need to get out of here.”
“Will you chill out? Nobody is here, which only supports my prior statement. She wanted to hurt you again and make sure nobody was there to witness it.” Astraea hissed out in pure vitriol.
Who the hell taught her the phrase “chill out” ?
—
You were so antsy.
“I quite like the name ‘Star Knight’”
“I don't. Now what?”
“You can't stay nameless forever, my dear.”
“I'll let the press decide.”
“Your choice.”
You were restless, tonight. Honestly, you were quite grateful to have Astraea for nights like these. You're aware you haven't demonstrated it but you missed her.
She filled in a spot nobody else had. Filled it with warmth and gentleness.
Is this what it felt like having a-
No.
That's different.
Don't think that way.
Oh Gods, she's in your head too. She definitely heard that thought. Hope she doesn't say anything.
“I've never had a child before…”
“Forget it.”
“Alright.”
You weren't on patrol today because you let it slip that you had an exam tomorrow and Moon Knight insisted that you stay home.
You needed some action.
You needed to get out of here.
Springing up from bed you walked to your door and sprinted into the window.
Your body felt hollow and you were in the air.
But you knew that meant you were invisible and intangible.
Nobody could see you. Nobody could hear you. Nobody could touch you.
A ghost.
Something you've been your entire life, only in this period in your life you've gotten powers to really show for it.
—
It was pitch black when you went for your night flight. You chose Hell's Kitchen because fuck Daredevil, you do what you want.
You couldn't really see people but you could hear and feel something and someone tailing you?
It wasn't like you were in Gotham so it couldn't be your family.
And it didn't smell like Daredevil either. He always smells like blood.
This scent was metallic and clean.
You stopped.
You couldn't read this person's mind.
“Finally caught up to you.” A deep voice boomed from behind you.
“Who's there!” Your hands were raised and charging up a mean blast.
The light revealed a man. His hair was the whitest thing you've seen, but he didn't look old, not a single wrinkle in sight.
As you scanned him you noticed he had a metal hand peeking from his coat.
So that's the thing you were feeling. It's sentient. Not the hand. But the material the hand is made of, it's moving in him.
your suit was torn in several spots, the symbolic webbing ripped open to reveal bloodied skin. the window sill of the mansion was slick, the rain doing little to help your case. thunder struck in time with your soft bang against the edge, knocking the window open. you slid inside, quietly latching the lock behind you.
lightning flashed, illuminating the room. you pried the mask off your head, hair bouncing free as you breathed deeply. your wounds ached, and you grimaced when a particularly harsh throb wracked your ribs. you leaned against the wall, grateful for the dark that encased the room.
remy was out for the night, you were certain. he’d left you a note, saying he and the guys went to a gaming hall. you’d smiled fondly at the tiny heart he left next to his name.
you stumbled into the bathroom, blood smearing along the walls and the counter. the toothbrush cup fell over, spilling onto the floor. you went down next, your shaking arms barely able to hold yourself up.
before you could even think of picking them up, lights flicked on as the floors creaked.
“chère?”
you reached for the door, throwing your limp body against it. remy’s shadow appeared from under the door, his knuckles tapping against the wood, “did i wake ya up? y’alright?”
“m’fine, remy,” you shakily spoke, biting back a wince as your fingers dipped into the wound. you felt the hard casing of the bullet. “can’t lie t’remy, mon ami. let him in, please.” your nails grazed the bullet, a quiet grunt leaving your lips at the ache.
your brows knit together when the door you rested on began to rattle. it warmed, and you quickly scooted away when you saw the purple flecks of kinetic energy swirling around the doorknob. “remy—!”
it opened.
and there he was.
dressed casually—in one of those crop tops he adored and jeans—like he didn’t bankrupt other gamblers and win every game of poker. his crimson hair was fluffy.
“where’s your coat?” you asked with a gentle frown. it was cold outside, didn’t he wear one?
“you bleedin’ on our floor ‘n askin’ about some coat?” he knelt next to you, necklaces clinking as he tore his gloves off. you watched him tug the first aid kit from the cabinet, flicking it open and getting to work. remy was uncharacteristically quiet, which worried you deeply. he hadn’t acknowledged the suit you wore, nor gloated about the sheer amount he’d won tonight.
you grimaced when the bullet clinked on the tile, feeling your enhanced regeneration tingle through your cells. “i knew,” remy spoke, resting a comforting hand on your thigh, “‘bout de…spider thing. did’ya think i wouldn’t notice?”
you looked away, silent and ashamed.
“m’not mad at ya, chère. not even a lil,” he soothed, clasping a firm hand under your jaw and guiding your face back to his, “just wish ya told remy sooner. he didn’t wanna see ya like t’is before ya told him.”
“i’m sorry,” you whispered, feeling the skin of the wound close. remy stared down at it, dual-colored eyes swirled with confusion. “i heal over time,” you explained, “gunshots take longer, usually.” he shook his head with a fond grin, as if the thought of your wounds taking longer to heal would quell his worries.
remy’s eyes were molten, swirling with sparks of purple and admiration. it was quiet, his thumb simply sweeping over your cheek as your healing tingled your cells. “how much did you win?” you asked after a while, allowing him to scoop you up and carry you to the bedroom. “i’m offended, chère. ‘course i won lots,” he smirked lazily, “wan’ somethin’? remy’ll get it for ya.”
“my suit kinda needs repairs,” you sheepishly admitted, and he laughed. “mm. dunno ‘bout supportin’ such…dangerous endeavors..” he got you comfortably in bed, joining you quickly, and tucked you close. remy was always warm. you buried your face in his chest, hiding from his blazing eyes upon your next words, “and i wanted to go shopping for a dress for emma’s event..”
“ooh, now dat—remy’s got plenty,” his lips pressed against your head, “oughta let me see ev’ryone of ‘em. touch, too. tha’s requirement. needa see if the…quality is worth de price.”
you smiled and giggled, keeping your warm face hidden from him, “required, huh? you sure it’s just to test the fabric quality?”
“guilty as charged,” he mused, dragging his fingers along your spine, “close ‘dem eyes, chère. sleep f’remy.”
you hummed softly, the ache in your bones fading as remy’s touch soothed them. outside, sirens still blared and criminals still ran rampant—but right now? you were simply remy’s.
daredevil … MATTHEW MURDOCK
you’d learned how to circle matt.
adapted to his schedules, shifted around mishaps, smiled through painful throbs of bruises—you’d perfected it.
until you seen him out.
you were perched on a balcony, fingers barely grazing the iron safety bars. it was 3am, and matt was usually asleep at this time. home from a long day of court, and tonight, he mentioned going out to drink with foggy and karen. he was home at midnight—why was he out now?
you quietly leapt across buildings, pausing every time he paused, moving when he moved. his cane tapped lightly against the concrete, the familiar clicks making your heart rate slow.
then, a hand shot from the darkness.
matt was yanked into an alley, and you launched into action. you watched as the man threw matt to the ground, and before matt could retaliate, you were there. your fist collided with the thug’s face, webs zipping! out. your foot landed on his shoulder, launching yourself and him up as you threw punch after punch and kick after kick. the webs clung to him, pinning his struggling and bruised frame against the brick wall.
your feet touched the pavement, kneeling in front of a winded matt.
“sir, sir, are you alright?”
“i knew it,” he breathed, smiling in that utterly pleased way of his. you tried to subdue your increasing heart rate, handing him his cane, “knew what?” matt’s head tilted knowingly, hands drifting forward to grip your waist.
“i’m not a fool, sweetheart. i know your heartbeat,” matt leaned up, and you had to look away from him, “it got faster. you’re nervous. i know your footsteps—your breaths.” matt pushed himself off the ground, and you slid his cane in his hand. he took a step towards you, lips still pulled into that infuriating smile of his. you tried to pull away quickly, but he caught your wrist, “i know your touch, your hands. even if they’re covered.”
“did you plan this or something?” you embarrassedly asked, keeping your eyes averted as he tugged you closer. his lips curled up further, and you groaned in disdain, “matt!”
“don’t be like that,” he cooed, “i was getting tired of you tiptoeing around it. so, i gave you a reason to tell me.” your head thumped against his chest, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. he swayed you lightly, chin propped atop your head. he smelled like warm sheets and the candle on the nightstand.
“go home, please.”
“come with me,” he countered, bringing both arms around you. his fingers traced the webbing of your suit, trailing around the spider design on your back. “i can’t,” you muttered, tensing when one of his hands dragged up your arm. his fingertips grazed along your mask, and you clasped his wrist tightly, “matt…”
“just for a minute, baby,” he whispered, “please?” you hesitated, nodding briefly. matt lifted your mask over your nose, and you felt his breath tickle your lips.
then, you felt his softness.
matt’s hands held your face, his shoulders dropping in utter bliss. you backed him into the wall, smiling into the kiss. you broke apart, foreheads resting together.
your lips parted to speak—
“hey, can you let me down please? i need to go to the doctor!”
your head jerked up, and matt laughed:
“foggy?!”
SPIDERMAN … peter parker
it was hard being new york’s third spidey.
you usually stayed under the radar, cleaning up when peter or miles couldn’t—but there was one tiny issue.
they had no idea it was you.
peter was at grad school for the majority of the day—miles surely contemplating his existence in high school—so you had opportune time to be spidey during the day. they’d tried to contact you, of course, but you’d made it a point to avoid them at all costs.
right now, you were perched on a rooftop, eyes skimming across the city as you held a large icee in your hand. you sipped casually, flinching when your comms began to ring. your fingers pressed against your ear, a soft hum leaving your lips.
“hi, honey,” you greeted, “what’s up?”
peter didn’t answer.
“peter?”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
“tell you what?” you calmly asked, keeping your voice level despite the panic creeping up your spine. peter sighed, displeased, “delmar’s pickle sub was on sale an hour ago.”
“oh,” you laughed, relieved, “i’m sorry, i didn’t know it was.” peter groaned childishly, and you vaguely heard the bustling sounds of the cafeteria. “are you with miles?”
“yeah. gonna take him to get some actual food for his final week,” you heard him call him over, and then you heard his voice, “hey, pete’s taking me to get actual food. do you wanna go?”
your lips parted to agree, but a loud screech and explosions sounded nearby. you heard the phone rustle, “what was that? baby?”
“nothing—i gotta go, have fun!”
you swiftly hung up, ignoring the way peter called you back instantly. you tugged your mask back on, tossing your empty icee cup in a trashcan as you swung to the scene. you landed atop a streetlight, frowning when you saw a group of men holding women hostage.
their massive guns waved haphazardly, and you teasingly called out, “got a license for those?”
“it’s the spider!”
“which one?!”
you catapulted yourself at them, web bombs flying from your palms. the sticky threads flawlessly coiled around them, pinning them in one webbed up cluster. “huh. that was easy,” you shrugged, walking over to the women.
“hi,” you whispered, “anyone hurt?”
they shook their heads as you gently guided them away. you flinched when a sharp pain pierced your side. you glanced down, spotting an unfamiliar object. the dart’s contents were glowing purple, and your body broke into shivers upon its dispersal into your bloodstream.
“haha! it worked!” the cluster cheered.
you shot a web, barely able to swing properly. you crash landed on a nearby roof, curling up into a ball as your body shook. you were freezing despite the boiling hot weather.
“spidey?” the voice was warbled, but you recognized the familiar red and blue suit, accompanied by the black and red one. you tried to move, to hide from him, but his hand carefully moved you on your back.
“hey, hey, what happened?”
you shook your head, fingers grazing the rooftop’s edge. you were in agony. cold, hot, boiling, freezing, shivering, paralyzed.
“you need fresh air,” miles worriedly said, his hands nearing the hem of your mask. you weakly slapped them away, and he looked at peter for guidance.
“we promise we’ll keep your secret,” peter comfortingly said, “we can help you.”
“i don’t want it,” you heaved, mustering up enough courage to toss yourself off the edge. your body freefell, but your webs missed their landing—
a hand coiled around your wrist, your body dangling against the wall. you tiredly looked up, spotting peter upside down in front of you. he was stuck to the wall, one hand next to your head as the other held you up by your wrist.
“i tried to give you openings, but i seriously can’t take it anymore,” peter reached for your mask, yanking it up and off before you could react, “baby, please. we need to get you to the hospital.”
your mind was rendered to nothing but mush.
you could only hum and grumble, and you grimaced when he swept you up. your vision went dark, all you felt was his arms.
when you woke, he was staring at you with an intensity and a sadness you hadn’t seen since aunt may.
“pete?” you tiredly whispered. he didn’t speak, his knee bouncing rapidly, “are you mad?”
“i’d be a hypocrite if i were mad,” he sighed, shifting from his seat and sitting next to you on the bed. his fingers traced along your cheek, a weak smile on his lips.
“you could’ve told me.”
you didn’t answer to that, lifting your hand to cup his. his warmth permeated the cold of your skin. you shrugged softly, and he laughed as he pressed his lips to yours. “mm. i guess i didn’t tell you either, huh?”
“no, you didn’t,” you mused, “i found out because you left your mask in—“
“you promised not to talk about that!”
wolverine … LOGAN HOWLETT
“she’s not herself—logan!” charles shouted, turning in his wheelchair in an attempt to stop him.
“i don’t give a damn,” he snarled, spinning on his heel, “she’s mine. some fish-bowl headed lunatic ain’t takin’ her from me.” ororo stood instantly, grabbing her jacket and following him out. he briefly shot her a look of gratitude and utter respect, to which she nodded once.
storm always had his back.
the jet rumbled as it zipped through the air, and its screens displayed you in the city. mysterio hovered near you, the sky dim as the people’s symbol of hope ebbed away. “get me as close as you can,” logan grumbled to scott, who didn’t respond with one of his usual remarks.
he understood the gravity of the situation.
you, the girl who swung with webs through new york city, hands outstretched to whoever needed help—a child who fell off their bike, a man kicking a vending machine that took his money, the elderly woman who needs help crossing the hectic street—you were there.
now, you were suspended midair, body lifeless as mysterio’s control seeped into your mind. citizens cried and begged, their fingertips barely able to reach you.
“ah, the x-men,” mysterio cooed, “come to save a fellow hero?”
the jet landed harshly, and logan leapt out. he stormed closer, feeling the soft breeze of ororo’s aura behind him. jean and scott joined them, their eyes blazing with rage.
“where did you take them?” scott shouted. mysterio’s arms stretched wide, “allow me to show you.”
the city faded to black.
bodies were thrown and tossed about, and logan seen you. your suit was shredded to pieces, your mask completely gone. your eyes were black, tears staining your cheeks. blood coated your skin as you stood atop a pile of bodies.
how long had you been here?
what were you seeing?
he turned around, tensing when he realized that he was the only one here. logan sprinted toward you, and your eyes jerked to him. you jumped, webs slinging out to stop him. webs cocooned him in seconds.
your fingertips dug into his face, “sick joke, mysterio. using him against me.”
“bub—“
“stop talking,” you seethed, fresh tears filling your eyes, “i will break your neck.” logan’s claws slid free, slicing through the webs and shoving you against the ground. his hand pressed against your throat—a warning. “listen to me,” his tone was firm, eyes dark with anger, “yer stuck in an illusion. he threw me in here w’you.”
“you’re—lying!” your knee dug harshly into his stomach, but he didn’t move. logan’s claws dug into the asphalt, solidifying his posture, “i ain’t lyin’, stubborn thing. it’s logan,” he stressed, eyes flicking all over your injuries, “look.”
he cautiously raised a hand, reaching for the neck of his white shirt and tugging the collar down. a thin chain with a ring looped onto it—the stupid matching rings you’d bought as a peace treaty after a big argument. you faltered in your fight, hand lifting to further pull the shirt down—
“now yer just pushin’ it.”
then he felt your fingertips brush along a scar.
one that very little knew was there.
the scar that you’d given him for moments like these, moments that needed proof and grounding. logan relaxed, leaning back and pulling you up with him. you traced the tiny X with care, and he frowned when tears filled your eyes. “c’mon, sweets. don’t cry.”
your palms roughly swiped at your eyes, your breaths growing scarce, and his hands easily found your wrists, “stop. breathe.”
you cried apologies, falling into his arms. logan sighed, standing up with you secure in his hold. he rubbed your back as he walked through the domain, ears tuned into finding his comrades.
when he reconnected with the group, ororo greeted you with a soft smile. you stayed in his arms, eyes forcefully averted from the carnage you’d unleashed in here. logan wasn’t worried about getting stuck in the domain, he knew they’d find their way out eventually.
but right now, he had you—his darling spider—in his arms, and you needed him.
HUMAN TORCH … johnny storm
you’d broken your arm in an intense fight with sandman. you remembered the sick crack, the way your forearm was angled incorrectly as you sheepishly showed it to the emergency room workers. you hadn’t been able to reset the bone, so it had begun to heal like that. the doctors, pitifully, had to re-break the bone just to fix it.
it healed a week ago.
johnny still hadn’t stopped pampering you.
he refused to “hand you over” to peter when the city called, he refused to let you do literally anything. tonight, peter had messaged you, desperate for help on an intel-related task. johnny was sleeping, and so, you’d taken the opportunity.
you quietly snuck out of the bedroom, suit zipped up and ready to go. herbie appeared at the end of the hallway, his little head tilting curiously. you knelt in front of him, gently rubbing his head, “i’ll be back soon, herbie. don’t worry.”
“johnny?” he beeped quietly.
“sleeping. if he’s up before i leave, tell him i went shopping. wait, no don’t tell him that, he’ll be upset,” you considered a proper response, sighing as you shook your head and came up empty, “just tell him i’m helping pete.”
herbie beeped, nodding. he nuzzled into your hand, and you smiled warmly. “bye, be good.”
he followed you to the balcony, watching you closely as you leapt off it. the sky was blanketed with stars as you zipped through the city, landing calmly on the appointed building. peter appeared from around the corner, waving as he landed. “hey, thanks for coming. did johnny let you go easy?”
“i didn’t wake him up,” you admitted, “didn’t feel like arguing and wasting time.” peter hummed knowingly, perching next to you and pointing at the condemned factory.
“kraven’s got stuff in there. need to know all about it.”
“easy,” you mused.
it was in fact, not easy.
you and peter breathed heavily behind cover, bullet wounds coating the two of you. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, wincing at a throb of pain. “uh-huh,” you mockingly replied, flinching when a bullet embedded the wall next to you.
you silently contemplated what to do—
you were cornered, blood dripping from nearly every part of your body. peter was in a similar shape, wounded and exhausted. you groaned, your head thumping against the wood crate, “use the signal.”
“seriously? johnny’s gonna kill us…”
“i’d rather die to him than these guys, pete. just do it.”
peter visibly accepted his fate, thumb pressing against the line of webbing that alerted the fantastic four. within seconds, your comms rang. you pressed your ear against your shoulder, too tired to raise your hands.
“that better not have anything to do with you.”
“i don’t know how to tell you this,” you laughed weakly, “but it kind of has everything to do with me.”
johnny didn’t speak, comms shutting off. peter met your masked eyes, “how bad?”
“he’s dead silent,” you solemnly said.
“shit.”
the glass erupted into shards, and you flinched when rapid gunshots fired. a bright orange glow encased the room, and you vaguely heard the soft thrumming of sue’s barrier.
loud footsteps sounded to your left, and you saw ben standing over the two of you.
“hey,” you and peter greeted casually, as if the two of you weren’t staining the floor red. johnny landed next to ben, expression utterly displeased and furious. he knelt next to you, sending a nasty stare towards peter as he scooped you up.
“i’m sorry, man!” peter shouted as johnny walked away. he didn’t say a word as he ignited into flames and shot off towards the hospital.
“stupid, stupid,” he muttered, “i’m gonna sell out everything he loves.”
“johnny—“
“you scared me, baby,” he admitted, “woke up to the signal going off, you not in my arms.”
you murmured an apology, doing your best to withstand the heat he emitted. your suit was fireproof, courtesy of reed, but some places were torn. “do you wanna know how long i’m keeping you to myself now?”
you sighed, eyes closing as you accepted the inevitable.
“how long, johnny?”
“three months.”
generous, you thought amusedly.
“you’re also prohibited from communicating with peter for a good year.”
the doctors made quick work of you, and you assured them your healing would take care of what they couldn’t quickly fix. they had other people to help, people that couldn’t self-sustain.
now, you were in bed with johnny.
he had you wrapped in his arms, tightly. “are you gonna hold me like this the whole three months?” you softly asked, tapping your fingers on his back to the rhythm of the song he’d chosen.
“if i have to. i’ll hold you in the shower, at dinnertime, while you get ready,” he listed off, eyes sparkling with mischief. you smiled, cuddling closer to him. he kissed your head, gently pulling you away so he can reach the rest of your face. he peppered kisses on your skin, pausing before he reached your lips.
his blue eyes swirled with worry and love, and you nodded.
he kissed you sweetly, embers flickering in his hair. you separated with a shy laugh, and he embraced you again.
“seriously, don’t scare me like that again. especially don’t just…leave.”
yearner gambit jorking it to the thought of reader like he’s so hopelessly in love he can’t help it he’s a perv with a heart 😩😩😩
gawsh, our hopeless romantic perv. how i love him, poor thing.
gambit's breathing heavily, nuzzling his head stupidly against his own pillows as his chest rises roughly, "ough.. f-fuck.." he lets out a soft whine.
his fist is gripping the base of his cock, just shaking it back and forth before fucking into his fist. he whispers your name, like a sin falling from his bitten lips.
the only reason he has himself all worked up is because of you— you're a vixen. his curse and his blessing all at once. earlier today, you had been sitting next to him, innocently in a cute tank-top. tight shorts showing off your thighs.
he pictures you in front of him, pushing your tits together as the tip of your tongue drags against his swollen cock head.
"it's so.. good— so good." he chuckles out, fist wildly fucking around his cock as he huffs. his thighs tremble, balls tight as his cock twitches in his hand.
"fuck— ohh mon dieu — oui, g'nna fuckin'— cum—"
he lets out broken whines and a sharp moan, his eyes crossing into the back of his head, as he borderline humps his hand. thick beads of cum empty themselves from his, strings landing on his stomach, and chest as he fucks the rest of his strength out on his oversensitive cock.
he had caught multiple glancing of your nipples through your shirt, multiple glances of your ass when you bent over. it was killing him, his chest swollen along with his cock. now here he is— back arching off his bed as he groans, moans, whines— anything. his dick is so sensitive, thick globs of cum dripping from the blushing head of his cock as he continously fucks his fist.
