#Remy Lebeau x Reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

urdreamydoodles · 4 months ago

Note

I love your headcanons!! I’d love to see how you think the X-men would react to the reader playfully biting them, in or out of the bedroom, whatever scenario you’d like (you can go with any characters, but bonus points for Logan, Erik, Charles, and perhaps a new one, Victor Creed 👀)

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller, Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik & Alex Summers

Reply to anon: OMG yes, Victor my little mad dog!

Logan Howlett

- You don’t expect him to react. Not really. He’s endured bullets, blades, and the unrelenting weight of time itself. A playful bite from you should be nothing—should be a drop of rain against an unshakable mountain. And yet, the moment your teeth graze his skin, a low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, something primal and unbidden. His muscles tense beneath your touch, like an animal caught between instinct and restraint.

- His gaze finds yours, sharp and golden, flickering with something unreadable. His lips curl into the faintest smirk, but his eyes betray him—dark with challenge, with something wilder lurking beneath. “That all you got, darlin’?” he rasps, his voice rough as gravel, his fingers curling at his sides as if resisting the urge to seize you right then and there.

- But Logan is nothing if not a man of action. A heartbeat later, his arm is around your waist, pulling you in close, the heat of his body searing against yours. His voice dips lower, a teasing growl, though there’s a dangerous edge to it now. “Y’know what they say, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “You bite a wolf, you better be ready for it to bite back.”

- And he does. Maybe not in the way you expect—not with teeth, but with hands that grip too tight, with lips that press too hard, with a possessiveness that lingers in every touch. Because Logan doesn’t do playful. He does hunger. He does need. And if you dare to tease the beast, you’d best be ready for the storm that follows.

Remy LeBeau

- Remy freezes the moment your teeth press against his skin—not from pain, not from surprise, but from something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk yet, but the promise of one. And then, ever so slowly, he tilts his head toward you, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief.

- “Ma belle, you tryna kill me?” he drawls, his accent thick and lazy, but his voice carries that unmistakable edge of heat. His fingers brush over your arm, slow and deliberate, as if tracing the intent behind your bite. “'Cause I gotta warn you, chérie… I ain’t the kind to die easy.”

- The next thing you know, he’s got you backed against the nearest surface, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His grin is downright wicked now, his gaze molten with amusement and something darker. “See, you play this game wit’ me, mon amour, you best know the rules.” His breath is warm against your lips, teasing, taunting. “You bite me? I devour you.”

- And then he leans in, and oh—Remy doesn’t just kiss. He claims. He teases. He tastes. His lips ghost over yours, never quite giving you what you want, never quite letting you escape, because if you’re going to start a game with the Ragin’ Cajun, you better be ready to lose.

Kurt Wagner

- The moment your teeth sink lightly into his skin, Kurt stills, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, his mind goes utterly blank—because of course you would do this, of course you would find new ways to unravel him, to leave him speechless and stumbling. His tail flicks once, betraying his surprise, before curling around your waist in retaliation.

- And then—oh. Oh, then he laughs. A low, breathy chuckle that rumbles in his chest, warm and so utterly Kurt. “Mein Schatz,” he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, his golden eyes gleaming. “Was that supposed to be threatening? Because I must say… you might have to try harder.”

- But his tail tightens ever so slightly, his hands settling on your hips, his body pressing just a little closer. His voice drops into something softer now, something teasing but fond. “Or perhaps you weren’t trying to scare me at all,” he muses, brushing his nose against yours, an intimate little gesture that makes your heart stutter. “Perhaps you were simply asking for a little attention, ja?”

- And oh, does he give it. He moves fast—so fast you barely register the shift before you’re elsewhere, whisked away in a blink of smoke and laughter. One moment you’re standing, the next you’re tangled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his teleportation, caught between breathless kisses and whispered endearments. Because if you’re going to bite him, liebling, he’s going to make sure you never regret it.

Scott Summers

- Scott’s reaction is immediate—sharp inhale, muscles tensing beneath your touch, jaw tightening as if trying to suppress whatever instinct just surged through him. His discipline, his restraint—it has always been his armor, his cage. But you—you have a habit of making him forget himself.

- “What was that?” he asks, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrays him. His fingers flex at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or set you firmly away. But his ruby-red gaze is locked onto you now, and he is searching—for your intent, for your reasoning, for something he can brace himself against.

- “You can’t just—” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, as if that will somehow ground him. His lips part, like he wants to scold you, like he wants to tell you biting is not part of a proper battle strategy, but the words never come. Instead, his hand lifts, cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your lower lip in something dangerously close to reverence.

- And then, ever so slowly, his lips brush against yours—light, testing, but oh-so-intense. Because Scott Summers does not give in easily. He does not let himself have. But you—you are different. You are his exception. And if you are going to play with fire, then you had best be prepared to burn.

Jean Grey

- Jean stills the moment your teeth graze her skin, not in fear or surprise, but in the way someone freezes when they have just stepped into the unknown. She has felt so many things in her lifetime—pain, joy, rage, divinity itself—but the sharp, teasing sensation of you doing this? That is something new. Her lips part slightly, a breath catching in her throat, and though she does not speak, you can hear her thoughts as if they are your own: What exactly are you trying to do to me?

- And then, oh, she smiles. Slow, knowing, the corners of her lips curving into something dangerously affectionate. Her fingers trace lightly over your arm, telekinetic energy humming faintly beneath her fingertips as she studies you with emerald eyes that gleam with amusement. “You do realize who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” she murmurs, voice soft but laced with something teasing, something nearly predatory. “You think you can surprise me, love? That’s adorable.”

- But Jean is not one to let challenges go unanswered. The next thing you know, her hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers with effortless ease. She doesn’t need to use her telekinesis to hold you there—no, the intensity in her gaze alone is enough. “Tell me,” she muses, leaning in so close her lips barely brush against yours. “Do you bite because you want my attention? Or because you already have it?”

- And before you can answer, she kisses you—deep, slow, deliberate. Not just a kiss, but a response, a promise. Because Jean Grey is made of passion and power, and if you wish to tease her, if you wish to provoke her, then you must be prepared for the storm you have just invited into your arms.

Ororo Munroe

- The moment your teeth press gently against her skin, a low, melodic hum escapes her—a sound not of displeasure, but of acknowledgment. Ororo Munroe has spent years cultivating grace, control, an unshakable presence that commands gods and mortals alike. And yet, this—this quiet, playful act of yours—catches her off guard in the most unexpected of ways.

- Her silver eyes flick toward you, gleaming with something unreadable, and for a moment, the air around you shifts, electricity humming faintly in the space between your bodies. Not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a reaction—as if even the very elements themselves are uncertain how to respond to the way you unravel her. “My love,” she says at last, her voice a soft, indulgent purr. “Was that meant to challenge me? Or are you merely being mischievous?”

- Slowly, her fingers trail along your shoulders, feather-light, teasing, carrying the same effortless power as the wind itself. And then, in one smooth motion, she moves—you don’t quite know how, only that one moment you are standing in place, and the next, the storm has wrapped itself around you. You are pulled flush against her, her presence enveloping you in warmth, in strength, in the quiet promise of something far greater than either of you can name.

- “If you seek my attention,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your ear like the gentlest breeze, “you need only ask.” And then, with a slow, deliberate smile, she leans in, her lips brushing over the spot where your bite had just been—a silent response, a wordless challenge of her own. Because if you are to tease a goddess, then you must be ready to be worshipped in return.

Rogue

- The second your teeth sink playfully into her skin, Rogue gasps—sharp, sudden, entirely unprepared. It’s not that she doesn’t like it, not at all, but more that she did not see it coming. For all her strength, all her bravado, you have just done something no enemy, no battle, no nightmare has ever managed to do: you have caught her off guard.

- “Sugah,” she breathes, her accent thickening just a bit, her voice a mixture of amusement and something else—something dangerous. Slowly, her green eyes flick to yours, and oh, that look—half-smirk, half-warning—tells you that you might have just started something you cannot finish. “Did you just… bite me?”

- And then, before you can answer, she does what Rogue does best—she acts. One moment, you are standing comfortably, the next, she has you pinned. Not roughly, not cruelly, but firmly, her gloved hands gripping your wrists, her breath hot against your skin. “Y’know,” she muses, tilting her head as she studies you, “if you wanted my attention that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

- But the glint in her eye betrays her—because for all her teasing, for all her bravado, the truth is simple: she loves this. Loves that you would dare to play with her, loves that you know exactly how to unravel her defenses, how to make her forget the space she so often has to keep between herself and the world. And so, with a wicked little smirk, she leans in, her lips hovering just above yours as she murmurs, “Hope you know what you started, darlin’. ‘Cause I don’t play fair.”

Erik Lehnsherr

- The moment your teeth press against his skin, Erik goes very, very still. Not out of fear, not out of surprise, but out of calculation. He is a man of war, of tragedy, of wounds both seen and unseen, and he has spent his entire life anticipating danger. But this—this playful, fleeting bite from you—is not something he had prepared for.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. Not in frustration, not in anger, but in something far deeper—something like acceptance. His sharp, silver gaze flicks to yours, unreadable yet knowing, and a slow, deliberate smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Liebling,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as tempered steel. “Do you think this is a game?”

- He does not move immediately. No, Erik prefers patience, prefers anticipation, prefers to let you feel the weight of what you have just done. And then, finally, he acts. His fingers ghost over your jaw, light as a whisper, his touch deceptively gentle. But his grip—when it finally settles—is not. His hand tightens, not cruelly, but possessively, his thumb tracing over your pulse as he studies you like a puzzle he has yet to solve.

- “If you wish to test me,” he muses, his voice a low, dark promise, “then by all means… continue.” And then, in a move so smooth it leaves you breathless, he takes—captures your mouth with his, slow and unyielding, like gravity itself bending to his will. Because Erik Lehnsherr does not play. He conquers. And if you wish to tempt him, then you must be prepared to surrender.

Charles Xavier

- Charles Xavier is a man of the mind, a man who has unraveled the deepest corners of human thought and consciousness, who has witnessed the entirety of existence through the whispers of others’ souls. And yet, for all his knowledge, for all the mysteries he has unraveled, you still find a way to surprise him. The moment your teeth press against his skin—soft, playful, fleeting—he stills, blue eyes widening just slightly, as if he cannot quite believe that you, of all things, could ever be so unpredictable.

- But then, oh, then he laughs. Not a polite chuckle, not the refined sort of amusement he offers in conversations of wit and charm, but something richer, something real. A warm, low sound that spills from his lips like honey, as if you have just whispered the most delightful secret in the world. He tilts his head toward you, curiosity sparking in his gaze, and for a moment, you see it—the boy he once was, the one who believed in the simple joy of being alive. “My dear,” he muses, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips, “are you quite certain you wish to play this game with me?”

- Charles is a scholar, a tactician, a man who has spent his life wielding words and thoughts like weapons, and he is not one to let a challenge go unanswered. Before you can pull away, his fingers ghost along your wrist, light as a whisper, and suddenly—you feel it. Not words, not images, but a sensation, a feeling, as if he is pressing the weight of his affection directly into your soul. This is how he fights back—by letting you feel what you do to him, by drowning you in the sheer, unshakable depth of his love.

- “You are a fascinating creature,” he murmurs, his voice a soft, intimate thing, meant only for you. And then, with deliberate slowness, he leans in, his lips grazing the same spot where your teeth had just been, a silent response, a quiet promise. Because Charles Xavier is a man of the mind—but with you, he has learned to love the body, too.

Wanda Maximoff

- Wanda Maximoff has spent her entire life on the precipice of chaos. Magic flows through her like a storm, raw and untamed, and though she has learned to control it, there is still a part of her that lingers on the edge—uncertain, fragile, waiting for the world to turn against her. But you—you are different. You do not fear her, do not tread lightly as if she is glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. No, you play with her, tease her, press your teeth against her skin in a gesture so human, so simple, that for a moment, she forgets the weight of her own power.

- Her breath catches—just a little, just enough for you to notice. Her fingers curl against your arm, not to push you away, but to steady herself, as if grounding herself in the moment, in you. And then, slowly, her lips curve into something soft, something real. “You’re bold,” she murmurs, her voice laced with quiet amusement, but there is something else there, too—something dangerous. A challenge. A warning. Because Wanda Maximoff is not someone you tease without consequences.

- Before you can react, she moves. The world shifts around you, a flicker of crimson in the air, and suddenly, you are weightless, as if gravity itself has forgotten you exist. Her magic hums against your skin, curling around you like the brush of unseen fingertips, and she watches you with a look that is pure mischief. “Tell me, darling,” she whispers, tilting her head ever so slightly, “was that meant to tempt me?”

- And then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she leans in—her lips barely grazing your skin, a phantom touch, a promise of something more. Because Wanda Maximoff is chaos incarnate, and if you wish to play with her, then you must be prepared to dance in the storm.

Pietro Maximoff

- It happens so quickly that even you don’t realize what you’ve done. One moment, Pietro Maximoff is standing before you, talking, teasing, filling the space between you with his usual boundless energy, and the next—your teeth graze his skin, a fleeting, playful bite, quick as lightning itself. And then? He’s gone. A blur of silver and laughter, a gust of wind where he once stood.

- But before you can even blink, he is back—and oh, that look on his face. His lips are curled into a smirk, his blue eyes gleaming with something wild, something electric. “Really?” he breathes, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “You think you can bite me? Me?” His laughter rings out, sharp and bright, and suddenly, he is moving again—circling you, his presence a flickering pulse in the air, there and gone all at once.

- And then, he strikes. Not with speed, not with force, but with something far worse—anticipation. He stops right behind you, so close that his breath is warm against your ear, his voice a whisper of pure, unfiltered mischief. “You know what they say about quick reflexes, don’t you?” he murmurs, and before you can even think to react, his lips brush against your neck—a flicker of a kiss, a ghost of a touch, so fleeting you almost question if it happened at all.

- And then? He’s gone again. Laughing, running, taunting. Because Pietro Maximoff is not someone who is caught—he is the storm itself, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to chase the wind.

Hank McCoy

- Hank McCoy is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, unraveling the mysteries of science, of genetics, of the very fabric of existence itself. And yet, for all his intellect, for all his careful observations of the world—he does not see you coming. The moment your teeth press playfully into his skin, his entire body freezes, blue fur bristling slightly, golden eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

- “Oh, my stars and garters,” he breathes, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a man whose entire world has just shifted. Slowly, his gaze flicks down to you, studying you with the same meticulous focus he applies to his research, as if you are some rare, fascinating discovery he has yet to fully understand. “You do realize,” he murmurs, voice warm and teasing, “that by initiating such an experiment, you are opening yourself up to… repercussions, yes?”

- And then, oh, his smile. Slow, wickedly amused, utterly delighted. Before you can react, he moves—not with the hesitant carefulness of a man afraid of his own strength, but with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how to turn the tables. One moment, you are standing, the next, you are swept off your feet, cradled in arms that are both impossibly strong and impossibly gentle. “Ah,” he muses, adjusting his grip as if holding you is the most natural thing in the world, “I do believe I now have the advantage.”

- And then, with a quiet chuckle, he leans in—not to bite, not to tease, but to kiss the very spot where your teeth had been, slow and deliberate, a scholar testing a theory. Because Hank McCoy is a man of knowledge—but when it comes to you, he is more than willing to be a student of the unknown.

Emma Frost

- The moment your teeth graze her skin, Emma Frost’s response is immediate—a slow, measured inhale, the faintest arch of a perfectly sculpted brow. She does not startle, does not react with anything so crass as surprise. No, Emma assesses. A woman of elegance, of control, she has spent a lifetime ensuring that no one catches her off guard, that no one slips beneath the carefully constructed ice of her composure. And yet, you have done it, a playful bite against porcelain skin, an action so simple yet so bold that, for the briefest moment, even the White Queen falters.

- But then, oh, then she smiles. Slow. Deliberate. Dangerous. A curl of her lips that carries no warmth, only sharp amusement and something far more wicked. “Darling,” she purrs, voice smooth as silk, laced with the faintest edge of laughter, “if you wanted to get my attention, there are… other ways to do so.” Her fingers ghost along your wrist, deceptively gentle, a reminder that while you may have started this game, she is the one who will dictate how it ends.

- She does not retaliate with force, nor does she melt into you like some lovesick fool. No, Emma punishes in the most exquisite way possible—she makes you wait. A brush of her fingertips against your jaw, a lingering glance, the press of her body close enough to promise but never enough to give. “Tell me,” she murmurs, tilting her head, voice rich with amusement, “was that truly your best effort?”

- And then, when you least expect it, she strikes. A shift of movement so swift, so precise, that you don’t even register it until it’s happening—her lips against your pulse point, her teeth grazing the same spot where you dared to mark her. It is not surrender. It is not an answer. It is a lesson. A warning. A challenge. Because Emma Frost does not lose—but she does enjoy playing with her prey.

Laura Kinney

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Laura reacts. No hesitation, no pause—her body tenses, muscles coiling like a predator poised to strike. Instinct kicks in before thought, before reason, before she can even register that it’s you. And for a split second, you feel it—the sheer, terrifying violence that lurks beneath her skin, the razor’s edge of a woman who has spent her entire life as a weapon.

- But then, just as quickly as the tension rises, it fades. A sharp exhale, a flicker of recognition, golden eyes narrowing as she processes what you’ve done. There is no laughter, no teasing retort—just a look. Calculating. Intense. Confused, but not displeased. “…You bit me,” she says at last, voice flat, as if stating the most bizarre fact in the world.

- And then? She tilts her head, considering you in that unnerving, almost animalistic way of hers. “Why?” The question is genuine—Laura has never been one for mind games or coy affections, has never understood the subtle language of teasing and playfulness. Biting is something she associates with combat, with survival. But with you? With you, it is different.

- Slowly, tentatively, she mirrors the action. A nip, precise and measured, as if she is testing this new form of affection, as if she is learning you the way she has learned every other part of the world—through experience, through instinct. And when she pulls back, there is something new in her gaze, something raw and unspoken. Because Laura Kinney may not understand why you did it, but she knows one thing with certainty—if you bite, then she will bite back.

Wade Wilson

- You barely have time to finish biting him before Wade gasps—loud, theatrical, utterly over-the-top. “OH. MY. GOD.” His hands fly to his chest, staggering back as if you have mortally wounded him. “DID YOU JUST—YOU DID. YOU ABSOLUTELY DID.” His voice is thick with emotion, somewhere between scandalized and delighted. “Babe. You bit me. Like a feral little love-goblin. That’s so hot.”

- And then? Then, all hell breaks loose. Within seconds, he is biting you back—but not just once, no, because Wade Wilson is incapable of moderation. He is nibbling at your cheek, at your shoulder, at your hand, peppering you with playful, exaggerated love-bites while making increasingly absurd noises. “CHOMP.” He sinks his teeth into the air dramatically, eyes wide with manic glee. “RAWR. Oh, sorry, that was my dinosaur impression. But honestly? If I were a dinosaur, I’d be a love-raptor. A snuggle-saurus. A Wade-a-don Rex, if you will.”

- The worst part? He does not stop talking. “You’re lucky I don’t have rabies,” he chatters, waggling his brows. “I mean, I might. I did lick a questionable taco truck the other day. But, y’know, if I do have rabies, then I guess that makes you my one and only transmission method—romantic, right?” He grins, then gasps again, as if struck by a sudden epiphany. “WAIT. Does this mean we’re in a vampire romance now? Am I your dark, brooding, undead lover? Babe, I gotta be honest, I am so ready to emotionally gaslight you across centuries of longing.”

- But then—just when you think he’s going to turn this into a full-fledged one-man show—he pauses. Just for a moment. The humor dims slightly, enough for something softer to slip through. And then, in a rare, fleeting act of sincerity, Wade leans in, pressing a kiss—not a bite, not a joke, but a kiss—to the very spot where your teeth had been. “…Seriously, though,” he murmurs, voice warm and uncharacteristically quiet, “that was, like, really cute. You’re really cute.” And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the moment is gone, swallowed up in another round of ridiculous, dramatic antics. But for that one, brief second? He meant it.

Victor Creed

- The instant your teeth graze his skin, Victor Creed laughs—a low, rumbling thing that vibrates in his chest, a sound that is both amused and hungry. He does not startle. He does not pause. No, Victor reacts the way a predator does when something small and delicate dares to bare its teeth—with interest.

- His fingers curl at your waist, grip firm, possessive, a wordless acknowledgment of what you have done. “Now that’s adorable,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement. “Little thing thinks she’s got fangs.” His golden eyes gleam as he studies you, head tilting slightly, as if debating whether to play along—or devour you whole.

- And then? He leans in. Closer, until his breath is warm against your ear, until you feel the sheer size of him, the sheer power in every inch of his body. “You wanna play rough, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, something edged with promise. “You sure you can handle that?” And then, without hesitation, he bites back. Not gentle. Not teasing. But slow, deliberate, lingering—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who you are dealing with.

- When he pulls away, his grin is wolfish, sharp and deadly. “That all you got?” he taunts, dragging a thumb over the mark he’s left behind. “C’mon, now. If you’re gonna bite, bite like you mean it.” And with that, he watches, waits, golden eyes glinting with something dangerous, something wild. Because Victor Creed is a man who thrives on blood and instinct, and if you wish to play this game, then you must be prepared to lose.

Julian Keller

- The moment your teeth graze his skin, Julian smirks. A slow, lazy curl of his lips, equal parts cocky and intrigued. He doesn’t jerk away, doesn’t react with surprise—no, Julian Keller is a man who thrives in the unexpected, who wears confidence like a second skin. “Well, well,” he drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable, “look at you. Feisty today, huh?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with the kind of arrogance that makes you want to bite him again—harder, just to wipe that smug expression off his face.

- But then, before you can so much as think about it, he moves. Swift, fluid, his telekinesis pressing against you, pinning you in place—not harsh, not cruel, but playful. A silent reminder of who he is, of what he can do. His grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, his body angled close, so very close, and for a second, it feels less like a game and more like a challenge. “That supposed to be some kind of warning, babe?” he teases, his breath warm against your ear. “’Cause if you’re picking fights, you should know—I never back down.”

- He doesn’t retaliate immediately. No, Julian waits. He lets anticipation build, lets you think you’ve won—that you’ve caught him off guard, that he’ll let this slide. But then, just as you relax, he strikes. A sharp nip against your jaw, quick and precise, a mimicry of what you had done to him. But unlike you, he doesn’t stop there. No, Julian Keller is competitive, and if you’re playing this game, then he’s playing to win.

- “Gotta admit,” he murmurs against your skin, voice a quiet rasp, “you’ve got guts. I like that.” His grip loosens, but that smirk remains, his green eyes gleaming with challenge. “But next time? Maybe try a little harder.” And just like that, he pulls away, walking off as if nothing happened, as if he hasn’t just left you standing there, heart pounding, already plotting your revenge.

Kitty Pryde

- “Oh!” The moment your teeth press into her shoulder, Kitty lets out a startled squeak, her entire body jerking in surprise. She phases instinctively, and before you even register what’s happening, you’re biting nothing—your teeth sinking into empty air as she slips through you, her molecules scattering like mist. It’s not that she minds, not really. It’s just that she wasn’t expecting it. And Kitty Pryde does not like being caught off guard.

- “Did you just—?” Her voice is breathless, half-laughing, half-accusing, her wide eyes locking onto yours. There’s no anger there, no real irritation—just confusion and delight, an almost incredulous sort of amusement at the fact that you, of all people, had dared to bite her. “Okay, rude,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest in mock offense. “You can’t just do that without warning! What if I phased and got stuck inside the floor? You’d feel really bad, wouldn’t you?”

- But her protests are all for show, because the next second, she’s grinning, her playful side taking over. Kitty Pryde is mischief wrapped in kindness, and if you think for one second that she’s letting this go unanswered, you’re sorely mistaken. “Y’know,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin, “if this is how we’re communicating now, I could phase my hand into your ribs and just… give your heart a little squeeze. Not lethal! Just, y’know… uncomfortable.”

- And yet, despite her teasing, despite her empty threats, there’s a warmth in her gaze, an unmistakable fondness in the way she leans in, brushing her lips—soft, fleeting—against the spot where your teeth had been. “But,” she murmurs, voice dipping into something gentler, something real, “I think I like this way better.” And then, with one final cheeky grin, she phases through you once more, vanishing just before you can grab her in retaliation.

Nathan Summers

- The moment you bite him, Cable pauses. No visible reaction. No sharp inhale, no startled flinch. He simply stills, his entire body locking into that unnerving, soldier-like stillness. His metal hand, which had been resting at your waist, remains unmoving, his entire frame rigid as if waiting, assessing. It’s instinct, honed over decades of battle, of survival. Because Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness, and affection—even when playful—is something he has never learned to anticipate.

- And then, slowly, he exhales. His head tilts just slightly, his cybernetic eye dimming, the faintest flicker of something amused passing through his otherwise unreadable expression. “…Did you just bite me?” His voice is low, gravelly, tinged with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Huh.” He says nothing else for a long moment, simply watching you, studying you as if trying to decipher what exactly prompted you to do such a thing.

- And then, finally, he shakes his head, a quiet huff escaping him—something that might, under very specific lighting conditions, be mistaken for a chuckle. “You’ve got guts,” he mutters, the corner of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk. “Reckless, but gutsy.” His organic hand brushes against the spot where your teeth had been, as if committing the sensation to memory.

- He doesn’t bite back. Doesn’t tease or taunt or retaliate. No, Cable is not a man who plays games. Instead, he opts for something simpler, something quieter—his hand cupping the back of your head, his lips pressing against your forehead in a rare display of open tenderness. A silent acknowledgment. A wordless acceptance. Because Nathan Summers may not understand softness, but for you, he is willing to learn.

Warren Worthington III

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Warren lets out a sharp gasp—a mix of surprise and something dangerously close to pleasure. His wings flare instinctively, feathers rustling with a sudden, unconscious movement, his entire body reacting before his mind can catch up. Because Warren Worthington III is a man of control, of composure—and yet, with you, it seems to shatter so easily.

- “Did you—” His voice is breathless, his pupils blown wide, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You just—” He swallows, as if struggling to find the right words, as if the simple act of you biting him has completely short-circuited his mind. He is an angel carved from marble, all sharp lines and celestial grace, and yet here he stands, utterly undone by something so small, so mortal.

- And then, something shifts. A slow, wicked smile tugs at his lips, the sharp edge of his Archangel persona slipping into his gaze. “You really shouldn’t do that,” he murmurs, voice a velvet purr. “Not unless you’re prepared for the consequences.” His wings snap forward in an instant, encircling you in a cocoon of soft, gilded feathers, trapping you against his chest. His fingers ghost over your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

- “Because now?” His lips brush against the very spot you had marked, his voice dropping into something dangerous, something electric. “Now it’s my turn.” And then, before you can even think to protest, Warren Worthington III—heir, angel, warrior—bites back.

Kevin Sydney

- The moment your teeth sink into his skin, Kevin’s entire form shifts in surprise. One second, he’s his usual self—sharp jaw, bright eyes, that ever-present smirk—and the next, he’s you, your own expression of mischief mirrored back at you. His voice, now an exact replica of yours, lilts with exaggerated amusement: “Wow, is this what I look like when I do something reckless? No wonder you love me.”

- He lets the illusion linger just long enough to make you blink in disbelief before shifting back, his laughter spilling out in warm, unrestrained waves. There’s no irritation, no reprimand—just the unshakable joy of a man who thrives on unpredictability, who relishes in the absurd. “Biting, huh? I like this new development,” he teases, rubbing the spot where your teeth had been with faux contemplation. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting that, but hey, I do have a thing for surprises.”

- He retaliates in the most Morph-like way possible—by suddenly growing a pair of exaggerated fangs and snapping playfully at you, his grin widening as if daring you to test your luck again. “C’mon, babe, if we’re making this a thing, let’s make it fun,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows in an over-the-top display of challenge. “What’s next? Claw marks? A dramatic villain monologue? Give me something to work with!”

- And yet, despite all the jokes, despite the effortless laughter, there’s something softer underneath. Because Kevin Sydney is a man who hides behind humor, who masks emotion with theatrics—but the way he touches you now, fingers brushing idly along your wrist, is genuine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, his usual grin dimming into something real, “I like when you do things that catch me off guard. It reminds me that life’s worth sticking around for.”

Raven Darkhölme

- The moment your teeth press into her skin, Mystique doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t jerk away. Instead, she merely stares, her yellow eyes sharp, assessing, calculating. It’s impossible to tell what she’s thinking—whether she’s amused, annoyed, or considering shifting into someone entirely different just to make you regret it. “Interesting,” she murmurs at last, her voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge of intrigue that makes your heart stutter.

- Then, before you can so much as blink, she moves. A blur of shifting colors, of muscle and bone rearranging in an instant—and suddenly, she’s behind you, her lips a ghost of a presence against your ear. “You really think you can surprise me?” she purrs, her breath cool against your skin. “I’ve spent lifetimes being a step ahead. If you wanted to catch me off guard, you’d have to try harder than that.”

- But despite her words, despite her unshakable composure, there’s an undeniable interest in her tone. Because Raven Darkhölme is a woman who’s spent decades in control, who rarely allows herself to be touched without permission—and yet, you’ve just walked right through every layer of her defenses without fear. And that? That fascinates her more than she’d care to admit.

- “Brave,” she muses at last, her fingers tracing the very spot you had bitten, her expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, she adds, “But reckless.” And just like that, she shifts—her form melting into someone else, someone entirely unfamiliar—before disappearing into the shadows, leaving only her voice lingering behind: “I will be returning the favor.”

Illyana Rasputina

- The moment your teeth sink into her skin, Illyana freezes. Not in shock, not in discomfort, but in something else—something unreadable, something ancient and dangerous. Because Illyana Rasputina is not a woman accustomed to softness, and affection—even playful—has always been laced with sharp edges in her world. Her grip on her Soulsword tightens, and for a fraction of a second, her eyes flicker with golden fire, as if Hell itself has stirred in response.

- And then, she turns to you—slowly, deliberately, her expression eerily calm. “Did you just bite me?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it, something that makes even the air around her still. She doesn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounds… curious. As if she’s trying to decide whether this is something to be annoyed by—or something to encourage.

- And then, after what feels like an eternity, she laughs. It’s low, dark, a sound that carries the weight of fire and steel, of war and something far older than you could ever comprehend. “Hah. You’re bold,” she muses, tilting her head, considering you with something between amusement and fondness. “I like it.” Then, with a flick of her wrist, her Soulsword vanishes, and she leans in—so very close, her breath warm against your throat.

- “But you do realize,” she murmurs, her voice a whisper of shadows, “that I always bite back.” And before you can so much as react, she’s gone—vanished in a flash of eldritch fire, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of her presence and the unshakable knowledge that this game has only just begun.

Alex Summers

- The second your teeth graze his skin, Alex jumps—a sharp, involuntary reaction, his entire body tensing as if you’ve just electrocuted him. “What the hell?!” he blurts out, twisting to look at you with wide, startled eyes. There’s no immediate anger, no irritation—just sheer, genuine confusion, as if he cannot comprehend why you would do something so reckless.

- And then, as realization dawns, his expression changes. His brows furrow, his lips twitch, and before you can so much as breathe, he lets out a laugh—not the kind you were expecting, not cocky or smug, but genuine. It’s warm, boyish, disbelieving, the kind of laugh that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You bit me,” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. “Are you—are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

- And yet, despite his reaction, despite his initial shock, there’s something undeniably fond in the way he looks at you now. Because Alex Summers is a man who has spent his life in the shadow of expectation, of responsibility, of chaos—and here you are, bringing something light into his world, something unexpected, something good. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind that as much as he pretends to.

- “Alright, fine,” he relents at last, rubbing his neck where your teeth had been, his grin turning almost challenging. “But just so you know? I’m keeping score.” And with that, he leans in—his lips brushing against your jaw, a teasing warning before he suddenly nips at your skin in retaliation, pulling back with a satisfied smirk. “Your move.”

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taintandviolent · 1 year ago

Text

Taco Tuesday ; Gambit x reader!

summary: You live across the hall from Wade Wilson, and one Tuesday, he invites you over for tacos. 🌮 And that’s where you meet him. The Gambit. Post-Void, everyone got out alive and everything is fine. [PART TWO HERE]

word count & w a r n i n g s: 5.4K | smut with very little plot, alcohol mention, slightly drunk (but very consenting) reader, French and typing out accents/dialects, pet names (cher, mon ami, mon coeur, etc.), dirty talk (cos he is a dirty talker, don't argue with me on this), fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, no use of y/n.

a/n: this is based 100% on Deadpool and Wolverine Gambit / Channing's version of Gambit!! sorry for the lack of plot here, he deserves better than this filth, but I am down ASTRONOMICALLY and I needed to get it out. I spent so much time trying to get his accent right, I hope it comes off the way I wanted it to... anyway! i'm not certain if anyone will read this, but if you do - thank you a million times over! as always, requests are open! - banner by @/strangergraphics, and Remy gif by @scintie!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

He’s handsome. Like really handsome.

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle of Jack between your legs — wait. Pause. Rewind. How’d we get here?

Living in the same apartment complex as Wade Wilson was a trip. Even more of a trip was living across the hall from him. The things you heard coming from that apartment... nobody would believe you. So, you never told anyone.

He’s kind. Albeit, zany but kind. Your interactions have been cordial and nauseatingly neighbourly. But on one regular ol' Tuesday afternoon, Wade invited you inside. He said something about having a party later that night, making tacos and being neighborly. He assured you that it wasn't a sex party... which to be honest, you weren't worried about until he'd mentioned it. Against your better judgement though, you'd agreed, and said you'd bring some liquor.

So, that evening, you opened your door, one bottle of Jack tucked under your arm, and another in your left hand. You shut the door to your apartment and walked straight across to your neighbour’s door. Your fist had rapped against the wood only twice before the door swung open, revealing Wade, and a very… strange and very bald looking dog in his arms.

"Oh, what the fuck?" You asked, looking down at the creature. "I didn't know you had a dog…?"

Wade’s voice rose an octave or two, in a cutesy tone. "She's a new addition, yes she is!"

"I brought... well, this. Sorry, it was all I had in my cabinets and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't about to go out and spend money on this. I like… barely know you."

"HA! Brutal honesty. We love to hear it."

Wade took hold of your shoulder and yanked you inside, harsh enough that you made a small sound as he did. He shut the door with his foot, and towed you towards the table, where everyone was gathered. And that was when you first saw him. He wore all black, save for a tan trench coat with a high collar. He lounged casually on one of the dining chairs, playing with a deck of cards. They fluttered from hand to hand effortlessly, and for a moment, you were stuck, mesmerized by the dexterous way he handled them. You weren't sure what was pulling you towards him harder, your heart or your cunt, but you felt an undeniable draw to the man.

Wade's arm wound itself around your shoulders, guiding you around the room to meet each of his friends. At that point, living next to him, mutants were a forced transition. You were used to the concept of them, so meeting a giant silver man, for example, wasn't unexpected. Vanessa was the most normal - you were pretty sure she was human.

Finally, he got to the one you really wanted to meet. The one that your eyes had been darting back and forth to the entire time, the one that when he briefly met your gaze, your heart thudded in your chest.

"And this... handsome slice of man, is the Gambit. Good luck understanding him, he's a real mouthful."

I’ll bet he is, you thought.

He pocketed the cards in a quick motion and stood up from his chair. With a syrup-smooth chuckle, the man laughed and said: "You can call me Remy." He did in fact have a thick Cajun accent and spoke quickly – almost too quickly. You blinked once, focusing hard on his words.

"Remy," you repeated finally, before saying your own name and extending your hand. He took it gently and as he shook it, your palm tingled with what felt like electricity.

"Enchanté." (Enchanted)

Your cheeks burned, and you knew they were flushing. You couldn’t control it. "De même..." (Likewise.)

His brows lifted, surprised. "You speak French, mon ami?" (my friend)

"Heh, uhh... comme un enfant." (Like a child) You chuckled low, averting your eyes for a millisecond. "I took a few years of it in high school and again in college. I’m by no means an expert."

Wade's eyes were wide, flicking back and forth between the two of you. There was obvious chemistry there, and a knowing smirk drew itself across his lips. Abruptly, he yanked one of the bottles of Jack Daniels from beneath your arm, before leaning against the nearby wall.

"Oh, fuck me. You understand Gumbo here? That’s cute. No idea what either of you are saying though, someone forgot to turn the subtitles on. I'll leave you two to get acquainted." Whatever that meant. You scoffed, but turned your attention back to Gambit, looking at him.

“Sit a while, cher.”

You happily took the chair that he pulled out, not caring that it was facing away from the others, and plopped down onto it, situating the other bottle of Jack between your legs. You gripped the neck of the bottle tightly, and looked at him with a timid, but a come hither sort of smile. After a moment, you twisted the cap off, and flicked it off somewhere to your right. Wade would find it later, or he wouldn’t. You didn’t really care.

You two talked for hours, most of which consisted of him telling you about the Void, and how hard it had been, while you pretended to comprehend it. Between words, you passed the bottle back and forth, taking mouthfuls, and inadvertently swapping spit as you did. The thought occurred to you about halfway through the conversation, and your stomach tightened. You shook your head lightly and clenched your thighs together, trying to stave off the arousal that was bubbling in your core.

There we go. That’s better.

He’s handsome. Like really handsome.

Your stomach does a flip as he smiles at you, reaching for the bottle, which was still situated between your legs. His fingertips just graze the side of your thigh and his eyes flit to yours. He holds his smile, waiting for you to either protest or move the moment forward, and all you can do is gawk, because your cunt starts throbbing.

As the evening wears on, though cautious, it’s obvious that Remy feels the same pull that you do. He remains cool on the outside, but internally, he was battling the magnetic tugging he felt from you. He couldn't shake it. He’d compliment you, you’d compliment him. At one point, in between sips, you casually drop that you think his accent is hot and he whispers something underneath his breath, something you don’t understand. Before either of you realized it, you had started to lean closer to each other, your faces inches apart, and you felt the warm rush of his breath over your cheeks.

It was as if you both realized it simultaneously. You rear back, an embarrassed expression plastered on your face. Remy clears his throat. His attraction to you was stifling; something that he rarely felt. He was powerless in his want for you, the draw you had was irresistible.

"Maybe we should... uh..." You murmur, looking deep into his eyes. In a room full of people that were starting to fade away the closer you two got to each other, you were thankful you were still sober enough to suggest a different setting. Any longer and you surely would’ve just straddled him and gone to town.

Remy moves first.

"We gon' take a walk." He announces to the others, getting to his feet.

The conversation stops abruptly, silence hanging heavy. You straighten up, trying your best to avert your gaze, but you still see everyone’s reaction. Someone clears their throat and your heart sinks, feeling like you might die on the spot. The one that had been introduced as Logan, gruff looking dude, raises a single brow at you. In true Wade-character, he ugly cackles, shattering the moment. Your shoulders sink, embarrassed, as you head towards the door, doing the proverbial walk of shame.

Remy meets you at the door and pulls it open, holding it for you. You duck underneath his arm, looking sheepish and as you exit into the hallway, you think you heard Wade mutter something about a fanfiction but Remy yanks the door shut before you can react.

“You want to… get some air? Or um… I have… well, no I had liquor, but I brought it to Wade’s.”

He smiles, and looks down at the floor, before lifting his eyes back to you. “We can do whatever you want, chère. You ain’t gon’ catch me complainin’ eitha’ way.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering the options. Your heart was hammering in your chest at the prospect of just being near him without the others around. You two had been close to kissing in Wade’s living room, and now, you had the opportunity to continue that… or take a walk. The latter seemed less appealing.

“Y’know what, why don’t we… just…” You take a few steps backwards, jerking your head towards your front door. Concerningly, you had forgotten to lock your door. However, it allows you to open it quickly, and walk backwards into the apartment. Gambit follows you in, his attention never leaving you.

"You sure 'bout dis, mon ami? I can walk away righ' now." His words land heavy, a promise behind them. He was a gentleman at heart, you could tell. Fortunately for him, you were very sure, and wanted every inch of him.

Mon ami - something that in the few hours you'd spent with him, he'd called you often. Among other things. Mon ami meant my friend, but you knew you two weren't just friends. You saw how he acted with others, and the comments he made. Sure, he had a quick wit and a mouth on him, but the flirting... god, the flirting.

He stands in the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. Silently, you nod and take another step back, giving him some room to enter. He takes one wide step towards you, leaving the door open behind him. He reaches for your hip, and you immediately take to playing with his large hands. Delicately, you pay attention to each long digit, trailing your middle finger along the knuckles, and up and down the length of them. You dip into the spaces between, your fingers barely ghosting over the webbing.

Was that a shiver? Your eyes flit to his, searching them for a hint.

"You sure do know how to make a man feel good."

Your heart flutters at his words. With his accent, even the simplest of things sounded charming. At least to you. You felt that he could ask if you wanted coffee or how the weather was and you'd be twirling your hair around your finger like a desperate schoolgirl. Embarrassing.

You’re about to respond and defend yourself by saying that all you had done was play with his hands, which was hardly considered foreplay, but his fingers come up underneath your chin, gently closing your mouth with a dull click of your teeth. He tilts it upwards to an angle where he could easily kiss you. And kiss you, he does.

It was the kind of kiss that makes your knees buckle, sends a violent shudder from the nape of your neck down to the base of your spine. It’s the kind of kiss that needs to come with a warning; Danger: Will Result In Sex. As his lips move against yours, you feel the urgency of his need, of his want, and hum into his lips. Remy takes that as a green light and deepens the kiss, moving his body so that it’s pressing flush against yours. The action leaves you immediately breathless and in response, you break the kiss, tucking your chin to your chest. Your hand finds his torso, pressing hard against the muscles underneath the shirt.

"Ah, don't you be actin' shy now. You been teasin' me for hours."

“I have not!”

“You think I didn’t notice all ‘dem touches an’ looks you were givin’ me? I may ‘ave been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.”

He had you there. You couldn’t deny that, at all. Even if you’d wanted to. Which, part of you did. Part of you was very nervous, standing before this very handsome man, with the taste of his mouth still lingering on your lips but another part of you, the louder one, was delighted that he’d noticed. Furthermore, that he’d enjoyed them enough to come to your room.

You lift your hand behind him, pushing the door shut with a harsh shove. With a twist of your fingers, you activate the locking mechanism, sliding the deadbolt into place. Gambit chuckles, grinning down at you. Your heart leaps into your throat, but you press on bravely, lacing your arms around his neck. They trail down the front of his body, feeling the muscles as they twitch with each ragged breath.

He quirks a brow as if to ask, 'Oh, really?' You simply smirk back at him. The contact is electric, and you find yourself resisting the urge to grind against him immediately. Instead, you focus on his hands again, bringing one of them up to your lips. You press a delicate kiss on the pads, before slipping one into your mouth and sucking gently. Remy makes a deep, husky sound in his throat, and brings his other hand to your hip, where he pulls you roughly against him.

For a man that uses his hands often, the sensations are high. The way your mouth envelops his finger, your tongue writhing around the digit had his jaw clenching, muscles fluttering on the side of his face. When you draw his finger into the confines of your throat, deep-throating it, his eyes roll back in pleasure. He pulls his hand back, shaking it off as if the inside of your mouth was hot to the touch.

"Woo, you nasty, huh? Nevah’ woulda' guessed... you been actin' like a good little girl 'uhround me."

After that, it all happened very quickly. Gambit takes a step and connects his lips with yours again, pushing them into you in an act of desperation. Without breaking the kiss, he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby surface. You push against him until his back hits the door with a heavy thud, definitely loud enough for any innocent bystanders to hear. Your fingers undo the button of your jeans, breaking the kiss for only a second to slide them down your legs.

Once you return to his waiting mouth, the kiss deepens and the coil in your stomach winds tighter, claiming your body in a deep, fiery arousal. His big arms wrap around you, enveloping you in a heated embrace. Just for a moment, it’s tender — but shortly after, his hands drop to your ass, fingers slipping underneath the band of fabric to take greedy fistfuls of each cheek.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the roundness of them to use as leverage. Letting out a little hum, you sweep your hips across his groin, pressing tightly against him. His eyes drift shut, head bumping against the door as he leaned it back, a low growl coming from his throat. Keeping at it, you grind your hips against him, feeling the outline of his length as it hardens.

“You be drivin’ Remy crazy, grindin’ on me like ‘dat.”

“That’s the intention….” You stand on your tiptoes to pepper kisses on his lips, your warm breath fanning over his face, smelling faintly of Jack Daniels. Remy trails his hand carefully up your rib cage until he gets to the side of your breast, where he quickly slips around to the front, his large hand cupping the fullness of it outside of your shirt. Your reaction is visceral; your breath hisses through your teeth at the sensitivity.

Remy laughs again and with his free hand, pulls your hips back to his. Swiftly, he spins you around, pinning you between his body and the hard surface of the door. He presses himself tightly against you, shifting slightly so that his thigh was between your legs. The sensation of something that close to your core is dangerous and brings a weak, mewling whimper from your mouth.

“We gon’ have ourselves some fun.” His voice is low, tinged with a new sort of lustful tone that you hadn't heard before. Your mind is spinning, growing dizzy with lust. The alcohol had certainly helped your nerves, you were never usually this brazen. Your core burns with desire at his words, silently begging for everything he was about to give you. His lips hover just over yours; you can feel his breath on your skin and the heat that radiates off his body as it presses into yours.

"Oh my god," you whisper into his mouth. "Fuck..."

His teeth nip at your bottom lip before he captures your mouth in a heated, passionate kiss again. His tongue explores the inside, swirling along your own wet muscle. With every passing second, your heart beats faster and his hands grip your hips tighter, thumbs massaging the flesh above your jeans.

“Wrap ‘dem legs around me, mon coeur.” (My heart) Remy’s voice is husky with want; amongst his playful, lilted tone, a possessiveness lingered, and the thought sends a chill down your spine. He nods once, encouraging you into his waiting arms. You jump up, and he catches you effortlessly, gripping your thighs tight and hoisting you up into his grasp. Feeling secure, you wrap both legs around his waist and encircle his neck with your arms. Your gaze meets his and you can see the wanton need mirrored in his own eyes, darkened with desire.

Remy's smirk is dripping with confidence. Your body's response to him was causing his ego to swell within his chest, and his cock to swell within his pants. He leans in close, his lips against your ear, nipping at the lobe softly before pulling back slightly. In one fluid movement, his hips buck up against your center, teasing you over the layers of clothing. You let out a moan, throwing your head back against the door.

He thrusts up into you again, chuckling low against your ear. The hard line of his cock grinds against you, making you stutter out expletives as it presses against you with a needy demand.

"You like 'dat, cher? Talk t' me..."

You nod, swallowing and wetting your throat. "Y-yeah, fuck... I do... need you – it – so bad."

“Whaddya’ need?”

“N-need you… so bad.”

“You can do betta’. Tell Remy what you need...”

He presses you harder against the door, your back sliding against the wood as he kisses a trail down from your mouth to your shoulder, sucking and biting with all the right intensities. As his hips grind against yours, you feel the damp fabric slide across your cunt, alerting you to just how wet he’d made you. Fuck.

“Need… need you to fuck me. Hard. Need to feel you everywhere.”

A few hours ago, you’d agreed to Taco Tuesday at Wade’s. Now, you were getting dry humped by a really hot Cajun guy and moaning into the curve between his neck and his shoulder. You were positive that if someone opened their door, they’d hear you. Somewhere in your brain, the thought should have been moderately embarrassing, but you were far too invested in Remy to care.

Without warning, Gambit lifts you away from the door and carries you to the nearby couch. He never breaks the kiss, still feverishly claiming your mouth as he moves. Your back hits the cushions and before you can process it, his body weight is on top of you. He slots himself in between your legs, and his hard-on bumps into your stomach as his hips rut against you, finding some relief in the friction. But not enough.

Remy’s hand finds the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to allow his fingers underneath the fabric. You bite down on the pillow of your bottom lip and push your hips up into his. Thick, strong digits sweep across your skin, leaving a burning trail of fire in their wake. Every touch brings your temperature up, and it isn’t long before your entire body is consumed in flames. You sigh contentedly, arching up into his touch.

Abruptly, Remy straightens up, crosses his arms over his torso and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his tan skin and bulky muscles. His stocky stature makes your tummy clench with anticipation. He was fit, as you assumed, but that didn’t stop your jaw from falling open at the sight.

“Wow,” you finally choke.

Remy grins. “You like what you see?”

You nod furiously, hands snapping to his toned abdomen. He’s warm and his skin is soft, begging to be touched. The muscles flex underneath your fingers as you trace a long stripe from his belly button to his collarbone. Your hands claw at his shoulder, attempting to pull him back down on you, but he resists.

He spoke with a playfulness, almost a sort of pleading. His thumbs flicks at the hem of your shirt. “Ah, c’mon, ‘dat ain’t fair. Enlève-tout toi, huh?” (Take it all off.)

You thought you understood, but if you didn’t, it didn’t matter. Remy was quick to translate his words, busy undressing you, pulling your worn t-shirt over your head, and reaching around your back to unclasp your bra. Most men would’ve fumbled with the clasp, but not him. His adept fingers make quick work of it, allowing your breasts to fall free. He throws your bra somewhere behind him.

“Hooo, cher…!” His eyes light up at the visual and you feel heat blooming on your cheeks again, half expecting him to make a lewd comment. Instead, his hands cup your tits, kneading the soft plumpness like dough, thumbs grazing the nipples. He exhales through his mouth, jerking his head to the side.

Finally, he kisses you again. It’s wet and sloppy and his mouth is consuming you, tasting you hungrily. His hips are still moving, sweeping into yours with a calculated precision. You try to spread your legs but the back of the couch thwarts your attempt. He notices this, watching as you struggle with the space.

“You got a bed?” He asked in between smearing kisses along your neck and collarbone.

“Yeah-yeah…. Down the hall.”

“Remy be needin’ more room for what he wanna’ do t’you.”

His weight is suddenly gone from you, an unwelcome sensation, even though you know he’s about to carry you wedding-style down the hallway. He bends down, one arm sliding underneath your neck, the other in the crook behind your knees. For the second time that night, he lifts you into his arms.

You rest your cheek against his warm pectoral muscle, rocking back and forth, as he walks you both down the dark hallway. The only light in the room comes from the window, the city outside alive and humming. Carefully, Remy sets you down on the bed, unmade from this morning, your dark gray sheets cool to the touch.

In nothing but your underwear, which at this point, are damp to the touch, you’re left feeling very exposed. But you can’t muster up any shame, not when he’s looking at you with such hunger, such want. Your tummy feels tight, and the feeling gets worse when Remy’s hands drop to his waist, unzipping and unbuttoning his pants. They fall loose at the waist, and he shucks them down the rest of the way, leaving him in nothing but a pair of deep purple boxers. Your eyes swing heavy to the outline that’s now presented to you.

Oh my god.

Your breath hitches in your throat. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; Remy was a big guy, and that proved true downstairs, too. You can barely pull your eyes away from it, but you begrudgingly rip them away, to look up into his gaze.

“Please,” you beg. “You’re too far away…” Your cunt is aching and nothing but him, his hands, his dick, will sate her.

He leans forward, flattening both hands on the mattress and walks them back until his face is in front of yours. He sweeps you into another kiss and your heart races. His hands are perfectly positioned on either side of your hips, you feel them graze the flesh. His finger hooks around the elastic of your panties, twisting it around his pointer finger and gradually, he tugs them down over the curve of your hip.

You nod lazily against his mouth, as you feel the warmth of his hand near your core. Your legs drop apart, knees touching the mattress as you allow him access. One hand sweeps across your inner thighs, stroking them, while the other palms your soft mound. His other hand comes to pause at your knee, and pushes his weight into it softly, forcing you to stay spread-eagle for him. No way you could’ve done this on the sofa.

There’s no hesitation in the way he fingers you; sweeping up through your slick folds, smearing your arousal around until she’s coated in it, splaying your pretty, wet cunt apart with his fingers, looking upon it hungrily. He knows what he’s doing, and how to do it right. You briefly wonder if that’s another mutant power he has… though being an expert at fingering someone seems outlandish. But he’s just so good at it. His middle finger barely touches you, circling the bundle of nerves delicately. Your back arches up towards him, a desperate groan vibrating your vocal chords. Delighted by your reaction, his finger flicks upwards at your swollen, sensitive clit, making your body literally quiver.

“Uhugh – god…. Shit, oh my god.”

He continues like this for several minutes, until your cunt is blazing hot and clenching with every moan you give.

By the time he presses one finger inside, you’re teetering on the edge of an orgasm and your voice fills the room with needy, desperate sounds. You let out a shrill whine, and he slips in another finger, feeling the stretch of muscle as he does. His heart is pounding in his chest, overcome with lust. The way you sound, the way your body is moving and writhing on the bed, he can’t wait to sink himself into you.

Amidst a laugh, he says: “People gon’ think we up in here watchin’ porn.”

Did he just insinuate that you sounded like a pornstar? You lifted your head, wearily, to look at him. Your chest heaves with each breath as you try to formulate a snarky remark to no avail. He looked so good – well, always – but he looked particularly good on top of you, his bright eyes lust blown and hungry.

“We’re… we’re… porn… it’s… oh god.”

He shushes you. “You just lay back and keep moanin’.”

Defeated, you huff and your head hits the sheets again, but not before you catch a glimpse of the way the muscles in his forearm ripple as it pumps back and forth into your cunt. You can’t help but moan at the sight, feeling a shockwave rupture your core. Your hips meet his fingers, rutting and writhing against the mattress in a needy rhythm.

Your first orgasm claims your body before you can stop it. You’re clenching around his fingers as they move, crooking upwards into your sensitive spots. Your slick coats his fingers and when Gambit pulls his hand back, thick, clear strands string from between them. He smiles down at you.

Remy raises himself to his knees. “Turn ‘round…”

You flip over and back yourself towards him, thinking that he’s going to go at it doggy-style, but to your surprise, he pulls you upright, pressing your back against his chest. His dick is hot between your legs, and when he reaches down to line it up, you let your head loll back against his shoulder. Gambit’s mouth finds the side of your neck, streaking it with wet, suckling kisses. He was taking his time with you, savouring you and you hum happily through closed lips, reaching behind you to thread your fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, you feel so good…” Instinctively, your hips undulate and his cock slips between your folds. Remy’s hips buck once, letting out a groan that comes from somewhere deep.

“You ready, cher?” He asks, sweeping your hair away from your neck. You nod furiously. You’ve been ready – you were ready the moment you laid eyes on him.

Remy reaches down to sweep his fingers along your entrance briefly, before gripping himself and guiding the head of his cock into the slit. You keen at the feeling of his velvet-soft head pressing into your entrance, warm pre-cum leaking from the slit. He murmurs words of encouragement into your ear as you feel his hips press against your ass, urging his thick, veiny shaft inside your cunt. He does it gently, allowing you time to adjust to the girth, but the sting still makes you cry out. “Fffuck!”

He begins to thrust his hips shallowly, your cunt stretching around his cock. The feeling is all-consuming, and your body feels heavy in his grasp. One hand is gripping your waist tightly, the other, fingers splayed out on your stomach just above your cunt. There’s a pressure building in your cunt, and each thrust magnifies it. The sting of his cock fades to an ache, then to a dull throbbing that makes you want more and you lean forward slightly and press your ass into the curves of his hips, meeting his thrusts.

“Mm, ‘dat’s it, cher…” His voice is hot on your skin.

His thrusts get deeper, but there’s a lingering tension in his body that makes you feel like he’s not getting what he wants. You’re right; all at once, Remy pulls his cock from you and switches positions.

You’re suddenly on your back, looking up at him as he looms over you, all muscle. His cockhead nudges your entrance again, but doesn’t penetrate.

“Say my name, cher… I needa’ hear it leave ‘dat pretty mouth.”

“Which one? Gambit? Or Remy?” You ask, breathlessly.

The way his eyes rolled back at the second option told you everything you needed to know. A smirk twisted your lips cruelly and you lifted your body slightly, just enough for your mouth to reach his ear. You moan his name over and over again, knowing full well the effect it’s having on the mutant man.

“Remy, Remy, Remy….” Your tone is high-pitched and whiny, but he seems to enjoy the lewdness of it all. He bucks his hips hard into you, and the fullness reaches an all-time high as he bottoms out, his pelvis hitting yours with a slap.

“Huhhh—!” You gasp, breathing ragged. “Fuck!”

“Gonna’ make you cum so hard you ain’t gon’ walk right for days.” His voice is low and filthy and leaves a stain on your mind. Your cunt clenches around him possessively, pulling him somehow deeper inside of you.

As your head bangs into your headboard, the tip of his cock bumps your cervix over and over again, and your jaw goes slack, literally fucked silent. Remy hears the thudding of your skull and puts a hand between it and the wood, but he doesn’t stop his relentless, deep thrusting.

The pleasure reaches a peak and your nails dig into his back, leaving crescent moon shaped indentations on his golden skin. Remy’s groaning loud into your ear as he cums, muttering in an almost incoherent melange of French and English. His accent is somehow heavier, and you can barely make out the words as he’s saying them into your skin. It doesn’t matter though, because you feel how full you are, and Remy’s hot, white completion is leaking out the sides and staining your sheets.

He stays like that for a moment, hovering on top of you. His cock softens inside, completely spent and eventually, he slips it out, rolling over onto your bed.

“Ah, joi de vivre, huh.” (the joy of life), he says drowsily.

You laugh, and nestle underneath his arm, in the space he’s left for you.

If you had your way, you’d do it all over again.

Though he doesn’t say it, so would he.

#Gambit #Remy Lebeau #channing tatum #Deadpool and Wolverine Gambit #channing tatum gambit #Gambit x reader #gambit x you #remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau x you #female reader #Deadpool and Wolverine #Deadpool 3 #x reader fics #myfics

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dinogoofymutated · 1 year ago

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You want X-Men requests? Well, I think I've got a few kicking around for our favorite Cajun.

Ok, so this is NSFW but like...imagine overstimulated Gambit to the point where he can only speak garbled French? Idk, I think that's super hot.

YES OMG YES. I absolutely love this idea I ran with it SO QUICK! I'm Southern, but not necessarily the Cajun flavor of Southern, so I tried to use a translator/dictionary for Cajun-French. There's not really a translator for cajun dialect specifically, so forgive me for some mistakes. I tried my best ;-;

Tw: MDNI. NSFW. Creampie, Overstim, Praise kink (kinda). Reader written while picturing AFAB but no genitals specified. No pronouns specified. Soft dom!reader

Anyone looking outside-in on Gambit's relationships would think that the man is a player, due to his flirty nature, and he could be to an extent, but you know otherwise.

Remy LeBeau was a lover boy. Sure he showed out a lot by flirting, but at the end of the day it's you he's coming home to. The moment someone tries to make a move on him and flirting goes to touching, you know he's shutting that shit down quick.

He was all talk, and you were happy to find out that extends to the bedroom.

Now having said this, it's not that Remy was a liar. He's incredible at sex, but at the end of the day when he's with someone he truly loves, his walls come down. Loverboy was putty in your hands the moment you decided to grace him with your love and praise.

"Plus, donnez-m'en un de plus, s'il vous plaît." Remy is trembling underneath you, head tossed back into the pillow and twitching inside you still as he cums hard. His hands are clenched around your thighs, grip loose enough for you to grind on him slowly as he comes down from his high.

"Remy, I can't understand you." You say softly, cocking your head at him as you brush some hair out of his face. He leans into your touch, chest still heaving. He mumbles something else you can't quite catch, before repeating "donnez-m'en un de plus, donnez-m'en un de plus." Again and again.

"Reeemmmy~" You smile, rocking back against him just slightly to make him groan and curse, before leaning forward to kiss him on the chin. He tries to catch you in a real kiss, but you don't let him, choosing to hover over his lips teasingly. "English, please, sweetheart."

"Je commence Cher, don't tease." Remy whines, leaning forward again. You let him kiss you this time, unable to stop yourself from giving into Remy's charms. You grind onto him a little more to hear him moan and gasp into the kiss, and his grip on your thighs gets a little tighter. He mumbles again in Cajun, and you shake your head at him. He'd been trying to teach you, but you still weren't quite fluent. You decide you should ask him to teach you bedroom phrases soon. It'd make this a whole lot easier- but you wouldn't lie, you almost enjoy teasing him like this.

"One more, Cher. Please. Please, give me another one." Remy finally grunts. He looks at you with those pretty eyes of his, all blurry with his pupils dilated. You can't help but lean in and kiss him a few more times. You lift your hips, before sinking back down onto his cock with a little more force this time. He gasps out a broken "merci! merci," tears starting to trail down his cheeks as you start to ride him again.

"Oh- Only because you asked... so nicely." You moan. It's a struggle to get the words out, fighting your own oversensitivity, but hearing Remy crumble beneath you is worth how sore you would be in the morning ten times over.

#remy lebeau #gambit #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #x men 97 smut #x men 97 #x men headcannons #x men smut #x men #x men comics #x men 97 x reader #gambit smut #remy lebeau smut

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inkievoid · 10 months ago

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So what's your type?

Brunets with weird eyes... Clearly...

#we'll ignore that Void!Gambit doesn't have red eyes until he uses his powers #we still love him tho #gambit #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau #cyclops #cyclops x reader #scott summers x reader #x men #xmen x reader

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gatorbites-imagines · 11 months ago

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I had this idea, because I was doing some crochet.

A reader who had made a lot of crochet stuff for all the X-MEN (most of it was requested from them to the reader) and Logan noticed everyone had something handmade except him. His bratty side kicks in and he wants something from the reader. (though the reader can make him a cardigan cause he is a grandpa or like a glove that has holes for his claws so he doesn't reap them apart) you can go feral with it 👀

Scott Summers, Kurt Wagner, Remy LeBeau, Robert “Bobby” Drake, Logan Howlett

Headcanons

Theres too many x-men, so I just,,,added my faves *blush blush* I also decided to write a little thing for everybody, like my CoD posts.

Crochet was your passion, something to do in your free time when mutant-kind wasn’t in danger. And with online shopping, it was so easy to get all the yarn and different hooks, patterns and recipes you might need.

So, of course you also feel the need to make stuff for all the people you care about. After filling your own room and wardrobe with all the stuff you could crochet, your yarn empire started to fill your friends closets and rooms too.

Scott Summers

For Scott you end up crocheting a couple of hats, and multiple pairs of gloves. Some you already had laying around, and just decided to throw into the pile.

What could you say? You were scared he was gonna freeze his ears when he went around in his visor. This meant you crocheted different hats depending on if he wore his visor or his shades, hats that wouldn’t get too in the way.

It was a little hard for Scott to be a leader in the colorful creations you made, but everyone knew it was just your way of showing you cared. So, it made sense for the leader of the team to get the first gifts.

After a while Scott will wear the things, you make even if it isn’t too cold outside, even working it into his everyday outfits if he needs a little bit of accessories. Sometimes a hat really helps with the look, you know?

Kurt Wagner

For Kurt you make a scarf. It was a crochet of the moment. You two were on a stakeout, which took way longer than planned, in a pretty cold place. So, you pulled out your crochet stuff and started going at it.

Before you knew it, there was a comfortable scarf in your hands. You had been smart enough to dress correctly for the mission, but Kurt hadn’t, so of course the scarf when around his neck. You may also have scolded him a bit for not dressing right for the mission.

Kurt absolutely loves the scarf, and will wear it whenever its even just a little chilly outside. It makes you want to make him even more, especially when he starts getting sad about the first one fraying apart.

In the end he has as many scarfs as Scott has hats. One for every weather, in different colors, so he can match them with whatever he’s wearing.

Remy LeBeau(and Anna Marie)

For Remy you end up making him a hoodie, in his usual colors. It had mainly been a spur of the moment creation on your end, since you just had a lot of yarn in that color laying around.

It hadn’t even really been made with Remy in mind, but our beloved Cajun was quick to swoop in and take it off your hands when you weren’t sure what to do with it. and you, just wanting to make stuff for others, are more than happy to let him.

He wouldn’t wear it every day, but you do see him snuggle up in the warm yarn hoodie whenever it starts to get chilly. Hes also more than happy to use it as an excuse to snuggle with Anna Marie, using it as some kind of silly flirt.

In the end you make Anna Marie a matching hoodie, making it a little too big for her, as well as making it the same colors as Remy, so they can switch hoodies whenever they want. Its kinda like getting to hug Remy, in a way, so Anna Marie enjoys it.

Robert “Bobby” Drake

You make Bobby a blanket, it’s as easy as that. You actually end up making him multiple blankets. You didn’t really have an understanding if his mutation made him even able to feel cold, or if it made him feel extra cold?

So, the first blanket was placed by the door to his room, since you didn’t wanna invade his privacy. Bobby may not feel cold, but he loves the blanket anyways, especially since you try your best to make it in his favorite colors, or featuring different stuff he likes.

Its actually Bobby that asks if you can make him a second blanket, since he needs to wash the first one and has gotten so used to having the heavy yarn blanket on top of his other blankets at night. And you, being the great person you are, immediately get to work.

He ends up with a bit of a collection of blankets over the years, though most of them stay in his closet since he can’t really use all of them at once. He does pull them out when the x-men are doing movie nights and stuff like that though.

Logan Howlett

It took a while for Logan to realize he was the only one who hadn’t been given anything you crocheted. And… He’s not mad obviously, why would he be, it’s just crochet. He’s maybe a little jealous though, somewhere under all that gruffness.

He wouldn’t say anything, Logans way too proud for that, but he does start hovering around a bit whenever you crochet, just to look… nothing else.

There are also of course some jokes from the others about how he hasn’t been given anything, so you must not like him, or it’s because he’s always coming and going as he pleases so he’s never there at the right time to swoop in for the kill (whatever you made).

Of course, he denies hating you, or wanting anything you make. But the jokes just reach you, and it horrifies you somewhat. What if Logan really thinks you hate him? That would be the worst, because of course you don’t. the only reason you hadn’t made anything for him was because he wasn’t in front of your face, and you were a little scatterbrained when you made stuff.

You didn’t want to be too obvious about your plans, so you try to subtly get his measurements, and just kinda go off of that. Luckily the x-men system has some stuff you can use noted down. In the end you make him a nice grey cardigan, with those big pockets on the sides. It does not go above your head that it’s the kinda stuff you’d see a grandpa wear. But you think he would like it anyway.

Logan finds the cardigan by his door, like you leave all your gifts. And no, he doesn’t jump up and down or cheer, but he does give a more positive sounding gruff noise than usual.

He may also have been preening just a little the next day when he wore it, just because it felt nice to be thought about, okay? Nothing else.

It also just makes you happy to see him enjoy it so much, so you end up making him some other stuff too. Who’d have thought he would love blankets and throwpillows so much. It ends up in his “not a nest” bed pile. He also enjoys the gloves with holes for his claws too, so they were worth all the hard work.

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marvelrivalsplayer69420 · 24 days ago

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Hi! Hello! Tis I, a random Tumblr user. Okay, introductions out of the way could I make a request? Something for gambit x reader (there's not nearly enough stuff for gambit x reader) where like...the reader hates their own accent (I have a Midwestern accent mixed with country and that on top of how I speak very monotone sucks) and tries not to speak because of it? Like they hesitate to talk at first. If this is too specific then ignore me. Thank you

dont worry, random tumblr user, i dont think its too specific at all! and sometimes i come off pretty monotone so i get what u mean. i also talk really fast and flub my words sometimes (i also have a mixed midwest + southwest accent). <3

but honestly, Remy wouldn’t be the kind of guy to judge someone for their voice, especially considering he’s been made fun of for his accent PLENTY of times. sometimes it was funny and sometimes it was hurtful hearing the jokes people would make about his voice.

he’d probably find any “quirky” or “weird” voice nice to listen to as long as it’s attached to the person he loves. if he loves you, he loves every damn part of you and it shows.

upon meeting you he’d probably be able to sense the reluctance in speaking, since he can usually read people pretty well. if he just met you he definitely wouldn’t be pushing you to talk, but if you hit it off right away and ended up on friendly terms, he’d be subtly pushing the limits of your speaking ability.

he’d especially try to find a topic you really want to rant and rave about, trying to get you to yap to him as much as possible. once he finds that topic and you’ve talked and talked for so long, barely noticing you’ve been talking much more freely than usual, he’s got that big smile on his face.

“What? Why’re you lookin’ at me like that? Is somethin’ wrong?”

“Nothin’s wrong, cher. Gambit just happy he gotchu talkin’ wit’ dat pretty voice.”

you probably blush bright red and all it does is make Remy love you more. before you can flub out an apology and try to hide yourself, he reaches for your hand and brings it to his lips. he talks about all the bits of your voice that you hate but he loves and how he loves hearing you talk, even if you’re not talking to him, and sharing his experiences with his accent being made fun of too. and he calls the rest of you pretty while he’s at it.

if you ever fall back into thinking your accent is anything but perfect, Remy’s right behind you to pick you up and give you a loving lecture about how much he loves your voice. and he’s dedicated to drilling that love into your head so you can love your voice as much as he does.

#gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #x men 97 #gambit x you #x men x reader #remy lebeau x you #remy lebeau fanfic #remy lebeau #mrpasks #gambit x insecure reader #remy lebeau x insecure reader

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satansdarlin · 1 year ago

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Royal flush

Gambit/Remy LeBeau x Fem!Reader

NSFW tags: Oral fem receiving, breeding kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it)

Minors DNI

Word count: 3126

Not beta read so excuse any grammar mistakes

Written because of an idea from- @fandomzwriterk 💜

If you liked this check of my masterlist or put in a request if they are open

Remy was like a dog caged as he watched his loving partner bouncing Jean and Scott's son on her leg as she chatted to Jean. Why did she have to look so good just doing something like bouncing a baby? He loved her, he really did. But seeing her so close with another family just... irked him. Jealousy wasn’t a normal thing for him. But (Y/N) just looked so damn happy. He was trying not to watch, but... he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned against the wall and just... watched her. It wasn't like he was jealous of Scott or Jean for spending time with her. No, in fact it was a far different reason. He was jealous because.. it should be him and (Y/N) doing that with a kid. Gah, he was getting worked up just imagining it. Imagining her all big and pregnant with his kid, her glowing that special way only pregnant women did. Holding their kid, being a perfect mom. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts as he continued to stare.

She glanced up feeling his stare and gave him a soft smile. He was surprised that she caught him staring. He was usually better at going unnoticed. He returned her smile, albeit a bit sheepishly. Damn, he felt a bit like a middle schooler, being caught staring at his crush. He didn't need to feel sheepish he internally reminded himself they had been together for so long and his ring was decorating her finger now. Kids wasn't something they had talked about yet both anxious about the idea of having children. Being mutants and still having to fight back against the anti-mutant campaign was hard enough imagining having a little bundle of joy that was also a mutant? Terrifying. But... the thought was intoxicating. Just imagining her belly swollen with their kid. Merde, he was getting worked up by this whole chain of thought. He couldn’t help but imagine her being all motherly, holding a baby, breastfeeding. His baby. He shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts.

She passed the baby back to Jean and made her way over to her husband. "You've been starin pretty hard" she spoke in a teasing tone. He couldn’t resist returning the teasing tone.

“Well, can you blame me, baby?” He eyed her up and down again, almost salivating. “You’re lookin’ pretty damn good tonight.”

She glanced down at herself in slight confusion. She was just wearing one of his older shirts and some jeans. A completely casual attire. "You're just easily impressed, hun”

He laughed. “You’re wearing my shirt. You know how much I like seein’ you in my shirt.” He reached out, grabbing her hips and pulling her close against him. “Besides, even if you were wearin’ a potato sack, you’d still look damn good.”

She snorted a bit and kissed his cheek not minding how his scruff scratched a her lips. "You're actin off baby. Somethin up?”

He let out a hum, pulling her in closer so she was against his chest and he could wrap his arms around her. “Just watchin’ you with the kid got me a bit worked up.” Understatement, he thought.

She looked up at him with a sense of understanding. "Yeah? Kids huh?" She didn't sound judgemental or opposed but rather curious.

He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “Yeah. They ain’t ever really been a though in my mind. But…” Damn it, he was going to have to say it out loud. “Watchin’ you with that kid… I couldn’t help but imagine you with our kid. Bein’ all… motherly. I like how you looked.”

She hummed softly at this her eyes scanning over his black and red ones. "Well i think it's only natural. We been married for a while now." She spoke gently

He nodded, unable to deny it. “We’ve been together for a while… and yet… a baby’s never been a thought in our minds, not really. I mean, are we really prepared to be parents?” He was being honest, despite how excited he was to see the sight of his wife with a baby in her arms.

"Well.. we could start preparing if you are wanting to take that step" she gently ran her hands over his shoulders.

His heart skipped a beat. Here she was, not outright refusing the idea, but actually considering it and preparing to talk about it. “Are you wanting this?” He had to make sure, had to make sure she didn’t just agree because it made him happy.

"Baby I've been thinkin we would have adorable kids the moment we met" she giggled softly

He chuckled, pulling her flush against him. “Damn right they’d be adorable.” He leaned down, kissing right below her ear. “Can you imagine it? Little brats runnin’ around, wreakin’ havoc?”

She hummed softly. "Oh it'd be terrible" she teased as she felt one of his hands press against her stomach absent mindedly.

He let his hand roam, imagining the flat stomach swelling with pregnancy. “You know they’d take after you. Get your cute little nose and eyes.”

"Bet they'd get your hair." She hummed running her hand through his hair to emphasize her point.

He chuckled, enjoying the feel of her fingers running through his hair. “They’d get your temper, too. I’d almost feel bad for ‘em.” He teased her.

She rolled her eyes and her gaze trailed over her lover. "Wanna get out of here?" She spoke in a hushed tone with a quirk of her lips into a smirk

He chuckled, already knowing what she had in mind. “Thought you’d never ask.” He pressed his hips against hers, already feeling himself getting aroused by just being this close to her.

That's how they ended up back in their shared home. Clothes decorating the floor from the front door to their bedroom. The bed creaking and headboard being muffled by the pillow stuffed behind it. She was clawing at his hair as he held his post between her legs lapping at her like a starved man.

He was damn near worshiping her, holding her tight and not letting her get away. “God, sweetheart, you taste so good,” he groaned, lapping at her like she was the source of his life essence.

She was whimpering and mewling as she fisted the sheets like they were a life line. She gripped onto his hair with her other hand gently tugging as he drug his tongue across her sensitive flesh.

He was absolutely loving the sounds she was making. He knew exactly how sensitive she was, and he knew every single trick of his tongue to drive her crazy with pleasure. He was taking his time with her, enjoying every single second, savoring how good she felt and tasted.

She gasped out, her back arching like a cat as he pushed two fingers into her. He curled his fingers inside of her, knowing exactly how to draw out that pleasure and drive her absolutely wild. “You like that, sweetheart?” He teased her, his breathing a bit labored from his own aroused state.

She nodded desperately. "Yes rem love it feels so good" she whined out in that breathy needy tone he loved to hear her speak in. A tone reserved for his ears only.

Damn, he loved how desperate she was. How needy she was. She was his, and his alone, and he’d make sure she knew that. “I’ll make ya feel so good, baby,” he murmured, latching his lips around the sensitive flesh and sucking.

Both hands went to the sheets clawing at the silk fabrics and the plush mattress underneath.

He groaned against her, the sounds she was making and how desperate she was getting was driving him wild. He wanted to taste every inch of her, touch every single spot that would make her cry out with pleasure. He was completely intoxicated by her, like a drug he couldn’t get enough of.

The feeling of his vibrations against her made her mewl out loudly. "fuck!" Her words sent a jolt of satisfaction through him, making him smirk against her flesh.

“That’s it… let me hear how good I make you feel, baby.” He curled his fingers again, knowing exactly how to draw out more desperate mewls from her.

She gasped out her hips pushing up against his arm holding them down. "Close" she squeaked out in a desperate mewl.

He could feel her getting closer, could feel her getting tighter and tighter around his fingers. He wanted to bring her over the edge, wanted to hear her come completely undone with ecstasy. “Come on, baby.” He pressed down on her hip harder, still relentlessly working her towards that sweet release. “Come for me,” he murmured against her, using every trick he knew to send her careening over the edge. “I wanna hear how good you feel.”

She cried out and her muscles contracted as she came undone. Her back bucked, her entire body trembling and twitching with the intensity of her orgasm. She was completely and utterly helpless under his touch. “R-remy….!”

He groaned against her as her body trembled and shook with pleasure. He wasn’t finished yet, though. He wanted to wring out every single bit of ecstasy from her that he could. “That’s it, sweetheart, let me make you feel good,” he murmured, his fingers working her through her orgasm and overstimulating her.

Her hands, shaking from the force of her orgasm, gripped his hair pulling him away letting out a breathy chuckle hearing him whine. "Baby I'd rather get on to the main course”

He groaned as he felt her grip his hair, preventing him from continuing his ministrations. When he heard her chuckling, he let out a whine, still wanting to taste her and bring her to climax once more. But hearing her wanting the main course stirred his excitement. “You sure you don’t want another?” He smirked, his usual overconfidence on display.

"This time I wanna finish around something bigger than your fingers" she wiped his face for him wiping off the left over arousal from her. He hummed, letting his tongue run over his lips to taste her again.

“Such an impatient wife,” he teased her, wiping his chin on the back of his hand. “You want me that badly?” He asked, already knowing exactly what her answer would be.

"You know I do, baby." She inched her legs up over his hips. Now that wouldn't do. If he wanted to properly breed her those thighs needed to be up on his shoulders.

He chuckled, moving forward and pushing her thighs up until they were resting on his shoulders, allowing him to press even closer. “Naughty thing.” He teased her, pressing his hips against hers and letting her feel how hard he was for her. “You’re pretty much begging for it now.”

"Don't make me beg baby. I just want to make you daddy" she purred up at him. She knew damn well how weak that made him. He absolutely loved hearing her call him that, and she knew exactly how to use it to her advantage. His heart was pounding in his chest, his brain already filled with the image of her with a baby in her arms, calling him daddy.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, his grip on her thighs tightening. He leaned back, resting on his knees and keeping her legs up on his shoulders. “You really want a baby that much, huh?” He asked, taking in how she looked underneath him, just at his mercy.

"I want your baby, remy" she gazed up at him.

Hearing her say that shot a wave of intense possessiveness through him. “You want my baby?” He repeated back to her, almost like he was processing the words himself. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.” He ran his hands up to her hips, holding her in his tight grip. He pushed the tip of him into her, teasing her a bit but it was hell to not just immediately slam in. He teased them both by just barely pushing the tip inside, driving himself absolutely insane. “God, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he groaned, his eyes locked on her face as he teased her. “You want it all, don’t you?”

"Yes, baby. Please give it to me remy" she whined softly already too desperate to play their usual game of cat and mouse.

He couldn’t resist listening to her desperate whines and pleading. “Anything you want, baby.” He leaned down, pressing as deep inside of her as he could. “You gotta tell me if this gets uncomfortable,” he told her, wanting to keep her completely comfortable and safe.

"Shut up and fill me up, Mon cher" she hissed back already too impatient to be waiting any longer. He chuckled at her impatience, but he wasn’t going to torture either of them any longer.

“Alright, I’ll shut up and give you exactly what you want, sweetheart.” He pulled back slowly, only to snap his hips forward and fill her completely.

They quickly dissolved into a panting mess as the bed shook with every thrust. He was glad they had moved out of their old apartment cause they would definitely gotten a noise complaint. He was mumbling French curses between English praises, his cajun accent dripping off his tongue like it was honey. The sounds of the bed creaking, the sound of his voice cursing, and the sound of her moans filled his ears. He was absolutely drunk off of her, completely intoxicated by how she felt and how she sounded. The French slipped out before he could even realize it, his usual filter completely off. She was absolutely living for it. She loved when he would talk dirty to her in his accent and that doubled down when he spit out French like it was nothing.

Every single time he cursed in French, her reaction would drive his excitement higher and higher. “Vous sentez si bien, mon amour,” he panted to her, pressing even deeper inside of her with every thrust. “You’re mine, sweetheart. All mine.”

"Yours" she mewled back as his tip kissed her womb with every thrust. She was clawing at the sheets like a cat in heat crying out like one too.

He could already feel his thrusts getting a bit sloppy and desperate, his hands gripping her hips so tight he was going to leave bruises. “That’s it baby,” he growled out, losing himself more and more with every minute. “God, you don’t know how good you feel.”

She was mind dumb as what felt like her third maybe fourth orgasm rippled through her. Just like he liked her. Her climax made him shiver, feeling her walls tighten around him and send waves of ecstasy through him. “You look so beautiful when you cum for me, baby,” he groaned out, his hips still bucking against hers. “You’re gonna make me cum too if you’re not careful,” he tried to tease her, but his voice came out as a desperate, strained whisper.

"Give it to me" she spoke through slurred words filled with pleasure and mewls. "Make me a mama"

“God, you’re driving me crazy, sweetheart.” His words came out in a breathless hiss, trying his best to hold himself back from falling over that edge. “Beg for it.” He was cocky, he loved to hear her beg for him like that. He wanted to hear how desperate she was.

"Please remy need it! Wanna be swollen with you! Want your baby" she whined out between moans and biting her lip as her eyes rolled up into the back of her skull.

“Damn near gonna be on my knees with hearing you like that,” he groaned, giving into her words. “God, you want me to fill you up?” He knew the answer already, but he couldn’t resist asking. He wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes yes yes,” the mantra fell from her lips like a depraved woman. She practically was. The idea of her handsome husband filling her up till there was no other way she couldn't be pregnant was appealing.

He was far from being able to hold back any longer. Her words were pushing him faster and faster to the edge, driving him more and more wild. “You’re gonna have it, baby,” he panted out. “Gonna make you a mama.”

His hips snapped into hers with a force he didn't even know he was capable of. His grip on her thighs was tight enough he knew there'd be bruises later. He was desperate, completely lost in how she felt, how she sounded, how she looked underneath him with his hands holding her down. The thought of the possessive marks he was leaving on her skin only fueled his need for more. “Christ, sweetheart, I’m gonna-” he started to warn her.

She mewled out as she felt him jerk forward spurts filling her up completely even spilling out onto the sheets below them.

He gave a guttural moan as his orgasm hit him like a freight train. “Oh God,” he panted as his hips gave little, shallow thrusts with each pulse of pleasure. “Fill you up so good,” he groaned.

He collapsed against her, letting go of her thighs and wrapping his arms around her. He was panting against her chest, trying his best to catch his breath from how hard he had just come. “You’re going to drive me into early cardio arrest,” he chuckled weakly.

She was coming down from it herself panting as she patted his sweaty shoulder. "Love you too babe”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss between her breasts. “Love you more,” he mumbled against her skin, his brain still a little sluggish as he recovered his brain power.

When he rolled off of her finally and she cuddled up into his side not even bothering to change the sheets yet both of their legs feeling like jelly. He pulled her close against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin against her forehead. He was completely and utterly satiated at the moment, already feeling the fatigue of exertion setting in and his eyelids growing heavy.

"Think it will take?" She hummed tiredly back at him.

“It better,” he chuckled, already knowing damn well that it would work. He ran his fingers through her hair, still damp with sweat. “If you’re not pregnant after this, you’ll break my heart.”

"We will just keep trying won't we then?" She teased back.

“Damn right we will,” he said, already planning out how soon he could go again without collapsing. “Keep trying until you’re round and swollen with my baby, sweetheart.”

#gambit #gambit 97 #gambit x reader #gambit smut #xmen gambit #remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau #my man my man my man #my hubby 💕#my husband #my man <3 #my man fr

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atomicfoxx · 1 year ago

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no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cow girl, doggy, backwards, forwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling. teeth jittering, mind boggling, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip bitting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, splendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tangos-

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earlgreylatte · 10 days ago

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𝙎𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨

Where you drunkenly confess to them and promptly pass out, leaving the ball in their court.

As soon as you begin to drift off, they frantically try to wake you up, patting your cheek as they nearly beg you to wake up and explain yourself. When they finally accept you’re dead to the world, they have to bite back a smile as they play over your slurred words as they restlessly pace, unable to sleep in anticipation of talking to you tomorrow. Probably has to take a lap to get rid of some energy.

Wally West, Roy Harper (“babe, me too! BABE!”), Johnny Storm (“Wait, are you being fr!?), Pietro Maximoff

Immediate denial, figures you’re confused or just messing with him. You weren’t in the right state of mind, you were just drunk and clingy, he shouldn’t delude himself into thinking anything more of it. It wouldn’t be fair to you. And when you don’t remember it the next day, he keeps quiet, even if he replays that certain memory more than he should. You eventually end up remembering and confront him.

Barry Allen, Bruce Wayne, Jean Paul Valley, Scott Summers, Bucky Barnes

Doesn’t bring it up, but the way he acts around you after that noticeably changes. His touches start to linger, his words become more fond, and he tries to fluster you at any given opportunity. Now that he knows about your feelings, he’s more open, cherishing this pre-relationship stage. And if there’s something irritatingly knowing about his smirk, then maybe he could be tempted to tell you the reason why.

Hal Jordan (smug hoe), John Stewart, Kyle Rayner, Ted Kord, Wally West, Dick Grayson, Matt Murdock, Logan Howlett, Remy Lebeau (mister bedroom eyes)

Just assumes you’re dating now, and from that moment onward, he acts like your boyfriend. Does not realize you have no recollection of your ‘confession’ and that you’re profoundly confused by his sudden affection, even thinks you’re being shy when you stare at him with wide eyes after he kisses the corner of your mouth. After actually having a conversation, you never let him live it down.

Guy Gardner, Booster Gold, Jason Todd, Johnny Storm, Wade Wilson, Marc Spector

An asshole that finds the whole situation hilarious and definitely holds it over your head. When you wake up the next morning, he keeps alluding to it without outright stating it until you get annoyed enough to call him out on it. Immensely enjoys watching you jolt in realization before groaning in embarrassment.

Guy Gardner, Wade Wilson, Clint Barton, Remy Lebeau, Pietro Maximoff

Awake the whole night, going through the seven stages of grief, and facing their own insecurities. Would it be selfish of him to be with you, make you deal with his flaws and baggage? He takes a long look at himself and realizes that he doesn’t have the power to turn you away or go back, and that he can only hope you can accept all of him.

Ted Kord, Barry Allen, Jean Paul Valley, Roy Harper, Jason Todd, Peter Parker, Kurt Wagner, Bucky Barnes

Already planning your future together. Grounds himself, or at least tries to, but he’s on cloud nine right now. Definitely spends the time until you’re awake preparing something for you, like a gift or breakfast, waiting to give you an affirmative answer. Finally, an end to his pining…! Oh, you don’t remember—

Kyle Rayner (him and the painting he pulled an all nighter doing—), Booster Gold, Johnny Storm

You two are actually already married, but he’s very flattered and finds you to be a very adorable drunk. After tucking you into bed, he has to hold back laughter and instead cradles you with a smile, perfectly content.

Dick Grayson, Hal Jordan, Barry Allen, John Stewart, Peter Parker, Scott Summers, Kurt Wagner

His brain crashes, and probably stands above your sleeping form in shock for a couple minutes before heading out for patrol. He’s just distracting himself before he emotionally unpacks that. Bones were (accidentally) broken that night.

Bruce Wayne, Logan Howlett, Marc Spector

He never brings it up. In fact, he actually begins to distance himself, slowly disappearing from your life. He convinces himself it’s for the better, that being with you would only putting a target on you, that he would eventually be the one to hurt you. He’s saving you from the pain of having your heart broken, or worse.

Matt Murdock (The only thing he brings is hurt), Clint Barton (Bailing before he has to actually admit his own feelings and ruin another relationship), Pietro Maximoff (running away is what you’re best at, isn’t it), Wade Wilson (you’ll be fine without him, better off, even)

Pietro, my kind but manipulative and flawed husband 😭

Masterlist

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comically-callous · 11 months ago

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Can I request headcanons for Kurt, Remy, Logan, and Wade finding out that his gn s/o has never dated anyone else before him please?

X-Men requests YAYYYYY YAY YAY YAY YAY!!!!!!!! 🤸🏃🤸🏃🤸🏃🤸🏃🤸🏃

Wade, Logan, Remy, and Kurt with a s/o who hasn’t dated anyone other than them!! <3

Warnings!: cursing ig, reader is referred to as pretty (I consider that gender neutral, but wanted to put it here just in case), and that’s it!

A/n: Want them all ngl 😞 If it wasn’t already clear, I’m delighted to have my first X-Men request. And I also really like this prompt (definitely not because I can relate to it. Haha, shut up). Also, requests: OPEN 💜

Wade:

He straight up thinks you’re lying when you first tell him. He even laughs because he’s convinced you’re just messing with him.

But, then he realizes you’re not laughing and he’s like “Oh, shit. Really?”

He’ll apologize for laughing and probably say some shit like “Sorry, I just didn’t realize a smoke show like you was capable of being single”

And he means it. He was fully under the impression that you’d been on more than a few dates because you’re HOT

Definitely teases you about it. “Is that why your hands were so sweaty on our first date?”

Don’t be afraid to (playfully) smack him.

Despite all of the teasing, he makes sure to let you know that it doesn’t bother him. In fact, he thinks it’s cute

He’ll say that you’re “new to dating” even if the two of you have been dating for years

Starts calling you a rookie. And he ends up saying it so much that it just becomes one of the many pet names he has for you

And, yeah. When you’re not around he’s probably giggling and kicking his feet over how he’s your first boyfriend 🤭

Logan:

When you first tell him, he just looks at you for a second, not saying anything before going “You’re serious?”

“And you decided I’d be a good first pick?” He says it like he’s teasing, but, in reality, it does confuse him a bit.

Like, wouldn’t you want someone sweet and kind for your first relationship? Not a grumpy, old guy with knife hands???

Nonetheless, he’s grateful (and even honored) to be given the title of your first boyfriend

He doesn’t make a huge deal out of it. He’ll occasionally bring it up, maybe ask a question or two about it. But, it doesn’t really change anything about your relationship.

Or, at least, that’s what you think for a while.

One night, he returns from a long mission and he crawls into bed next to you, and you think he’s just gonna immediately go to sleep like he does every time he comes back from a mission. But, then he mumbles something.

“I wish I’d had someone like you as my first.”

And before you can even process it, he’s asleep.

You ask him about it in the morning and he says he doesn’t remember saying it. You can decide whether or not you think he’s lying.

Remy:

You tell him that you want to tell him something, and he can tell you’re nervous about it.

“What’s got you so nervous, chère? You know Gambit don’t judge nobody. ‘Specially not you.”

And you confess to him that you’ve never dated anyone and he’s like. “Oh. That’s it?”

He doesn’t mean to sound apathetic. He was just expecting something bad.

He asks you to clarify what you mean by “not dating anyone before him” because he thinks he somehow misunderstood you

“You telling me no one ever tried to get with a pretty thing like you?” And then he smirks. “Or were you just ignorin’ all of ‘em till Gambit came round?”

He also teases you about it from time to time. Makes little comments about how he’s your first.

But, it’s just because he loves it.

He often thinks about how he’s the only guy who’s gotten to take you on dates and do all this romantic stuff with you

“Don’t no one else know what they missing out on….”

Kurt:

He doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. He can’t.

“I’m really your first? But, how? You are so beautiful!” He’s just upfront with why he thinks it’s absurd.

He needs to hear it a few more times before he finally accepts it. And that’s when he starts getting giddy.

“I am your first lover?” He grins. “I like that, I think.”

And now everyone has to know. Sorry.

He will gladly go around and tell people that he’s your “first love” (as he likes to say). Is it usually embarrassing for you? Yes. But, it’s Kurt. So, it’s okay.

So, yeah. You definitely don’t have to worry about whether or not he minds it.

Of course, now he has to ask a bunch of questions about it too.

“So, was the first date you’ve ever had with me?” If you say yes, he smiles before asking. “Was it good?” Like he doesn’t already know the answer.

He’s just over the moon that he was the first person that you really fell in love with. And he wants you and everyone around you to know how happy he is with you.

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urdreamydoodles · 13 days ago

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X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You constantly, flirtatiously tease your partner—even in front of everyone

CHARACTERS: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Victor Creed, Julian Keller (Hellion), Kitty Pryde, Cable, Warren Worthington III, Morph, Mystique, Magik, Alex Summers, Colossus, Psylocke, Jubilee, David Haller (Legion), Lorna Dane & Jonothon Starsmore (Chamber)

Have I ever told you how much I love X-Men Comics? I love the entire Marvel Comics universe, it's been my obsession since I was a kid, but especially the X-Men ♡

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

– You think it’s funny—the way this feral, gruff man stiffens when you slide your hand low across his back during a mission briefing, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans like it’s an accident. Logan doesn’t flinch from gunfire, doesn’t blink at death, but your mouth grazing his ear with a soft "need something, soldier?" sends a crack straight down the spine of his restraint. You whisper sweetness with the tone of sin, just to watch him grit his teeth and breathe through his nose like a wolf denied.

– He doesn’t say much, not in public. Just glares sideways at you with those gold-lit eyes that look like they could burn a hole through the steel walls of the Blackbird if they weren’t already busy carving your name into the marrow of his soul. But when he does talk, it’s low and dangerous, like a growl wrapped in gravel: "Keep that up, darlin’, and I ain’t gonna be so gentlemanly later." You grin, because Logan Howlett’s version of gentlemanly is still claws and teeth, just softened slightly for your skin.

– Around the others, you’re merciless. Your hand lingers on his thigh during team dinners, voice syrup-slick as you ask him if he’s feeling tense. You call him sugar or honeybear, and Rogue chokes on her drink while Jean smirks behind her glass. He gives you that look—half warning, half plea—but you only kiss the corner of his mouth with a smile that promises ruin. Logan’s whole life has been edged in blood, but you make even mischief taste like home.

– Later, when the teasing ends and the silence stretches long, he gathers you up like a storm gathering leaves. He never begs, not in words, but you feel it in the grip of his hands, in the low rasp of "c’mere, I missed you, even five feet away." And when you tell him you’ll do it again tomorrow—tease him in front of the whole damn team—he just mutters "brat," and holds you like you’re the only peace he’s ever known.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

– Teasing Remy is like trying to outfox the devil in his Sunday suit—you do it because it’s dangerous, because he always bites back. You brush close to him in the middle of strategy sessions, running your fingers down the lapels of his coat like you’re checking for wires, whispering “Mon amour, is this trench coat flame-retardant? ‘Cause you look combustible tonight.” He chuckles low, all velvet and vice, and tilts his head like he’s weighing whether to kiss you or toss the table to clear some space.

– Remy lives in flirtation like it’s oxygen, but when it comes from you, it hits different. You’ll make a quip in front of the X-Men, something suggestive, and he’ll turn to you like you just rewrote gravity. His mouth quirks, eyes glowing that dangerous red, and he purrs something in French that makes the room heat up. You don’t speak all of it—but the way his hand slips beneath the table to find your thigh tells you enough. Teasing him is foreplay. A public dare with private consequences.

– You toy with him at the most inconvenient times. While he’s picking locks mid-mission, you’ll lean close and murmur “Bet you’re good with your fingers, huh?” And he pauses, just a breath, before the door clicks open and he flashes you a grin that could unlace corsets across the hemisphere. Or you’ll adjust his collar in front of Storm, whispering “Can’t have you looking less than lethal, cher,” and Remy, always a performer, winks like he’s the one in control. But the pulse at his throat tells you otherwise.

– When the doors close and the teasing fades, he doesn’t play anymore. Remy touches you like he’s been craving you since the moment you spoke his name. “Keep doin’ that to me, fille,” he murmurs against your neck, “an’ one day I ain’t gonna wait ‘til we alone.” And you believe him. But you’ll still test him tomorrow, in front of everyone, just to see the moment he breaks and the gentleman turns to a hurricane.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

– With Kurt, your teasing is gentler, a feather dragged across the skin rather than a knife pressed to the throat. But make no mistake—it still undoes him. You’ll drape yourself over his shoulder in the war room, cheek against the edge of his pointed ear, whispering in a lilt that dances like music, “Mein Liebling, your tail keeps brushing my leg. Trying to tell me something?” He stammers in German, tail coiling around your wrist like it has a will of its own, his cheeks burning a vivid shade of midnight blue.

– He’s a man of faith, a soul carved from light and shadows, but you’re the only temptation he ever lets linger. When you tease him in front of the others—pressing soft kisses to his cheek while calling him your holy sin—Beast snorts, and Kitty hides her laughter behind a book. Kurt just laughs, flustered, trying to hide the way your affection sets every part of him on fire. But his tail doesn’t lie. It wraps around your waist, anchors you close, like even in play he can’t let you drift too far.

– You’ll adjust his collar before a mission and murmur, “If you die today, I’ll bring you back just to kiss you goodbye again.” He fumbles his sword. You giggle. Logan groans. Teasing Kurt is art. Divine comedy. He always responds with a mix of bashfulness and hungry reverence, eyes soft like candlelight, voice trembling like he can’t decide if you’re a blessing or a challenge sent to humble him. Perhaps both. Probably both.

– When the world is quiet, and it’s just you two curled under twilight, he confesses in a whisper what he never says aloud: “You make me feel like I was made for more than shadows.” And you kiss the edge of his smile, promising to tease him again tomorrow—call him your sinner saint, your velvet sin, your favorite trickster angel—until his laughter becomes prayer, and his devotion, a holy ache only you can soothe.

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

– You’re the only one in the galaxy brave enough to tease Scott Summers in front of the team, and the only one he lets do it without barking orders. You’ll rest your chin on his shoulder during training drills, lips close to the shell of his ear as you purr, “Commander, if you keep bossing me around like that, I might start liking it.” He tenses, jaw locked, voice clipped as he mutters something about professionalism—but you see the way his hands twitch, and how he won’t meet your eyes behind the visor.

– Your teasing unravels him like a slow pull on tightly wound thread. You’ll slide your fingers across his chest in the hallway, straighten his uniform with mock-seriousness, and say, “You missed a button, handsome. Need help?” Jean arches a brow. Ororo hides a smile. Scott sighs, long-suffering and smitten, brushing your hand away only to hold it a second later like it’s a secret he can’t stop confessing. He’s meticulous in combat, a machine of war—but around you, he short-circuits in the most endearing ways.

– In briefings, you’ll perch on the edge of his seat, legs crossed, voice laced with sugar and something incendiary: “Don’t worry, I’ll follow your lead, Captain.” The way you say captain makes it sound like a promise you’ll break on purpose. He never responds directly—just clenches his jaw and continues the meeting—but later he pulls you into a side room and murmurs, low and breathless, “You’re driving me insane.” And you smile. Because you like that you’re the only thing that ever makes him lose control.

– Behind closed doors, he kisses you like he’s punishing himself for wanting you so much. His hands are desperate, his voice roughened by restraint and longing. “You’re cruel,” he breathes. “You know that?” And you do. But the next morning, you’ll do it all over again—teasing him when Hank walks by, calling him sir in that sultry tone—because you like watching him try not to fall apart. And you love knowing he always will. Only for you.

Jean Grey (Phoenix)

– You’ve made it a sport, a religion, the way you tease Jean Grey until her voice trembles and her eyes glint with psychic static. In front of everyone, you slide your fingers along the arch of her waist as if you’ve simply forgotten your own hand, whispering something utterly wicked behind a smile that could burn churches. She never expects it, and yet—always does. Because when you call her Red, dragging the word out like a purr, she exhales like it’s the only name she ever needed.

– Jean is composed. Divine. The type of woman people lower their heads to. But you are the one person who gets to lace irreverence through her poise. You tease her with playful kisses to the back of her neck during team debriefs, murmuring “Tell me you’re not reading my mind right now, because it’s incredibly dirty.” Scott turns crimson. Logan groans. Jean just bites her lower lip and pretends to keep her posture, though her pulse flickers with something entirely unholy.

– When you curl up beside her on the couch in front of the team, your legs tossed casually across her lap, you let your voice dip low as you ask, “Does it bother you that I still dream about you even when you sleep beside me?” Her laugh is always quiet, soft and knowing, but the fire behind her eyes tells you she doesn’t just like the attention—she craves your mischief. Teasing her is like igniting the Phoenix, only you’re the only one she’ll ever let it consume.

– Alone, she returns the favor tenfold. “You’re lucky I have control now,” she whispers against your collarbone, “or I’d show them all exactly what you do to me.” And though you’ll continue to tease her tomorrow—run your fingers along her telepathic temples, call her goddess in a crowded room—Jean will just smile, beautiful and lethal, because she knows what you already do: the teasing is foreplay, but the surrender that follows is sacred.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

– You flirt with Ororo like you’re dancing with a thunderstorm—barefoot, grinning, reckless. She’s the most regal woman to walk the Earth, but you see past the lightning crown, straight into the softness of her. During team meetings, you’ll lean into her space, brushing her silver locks behind her ear and saying something like, “I dreamed of you wrapped in clouds last night. I think heaven’s getting jealous.” She doesn’t flinch, only raises a single brow, the corner of her mouth curling with patient threat.

– Storm doesn’t embarrass. But you still manage to make her blink slower, breath catch subtly, especially when you call her my sky, or rest your head on her shoulder while the X-Men argue logistics. Your teasing is never disrespectful—it’s reverent, like a poem performed with a wink. Sometimes, when you press your lips just behind her jawline during a public moment, she’ll murmur in Swahili under her breath. You don’t speak it, but you know what it means: “Keep tempting the storm, my love.”

– You tell her she’s too composed, too perfect, and that it makes you want to ruin her just a little. At training sessions, you’ll challenge her to spar, grinning like a fox, then lean in just as the session begins and whisper, “Winner gets to decide how the night ends.” Lightning crackles faintly along her fingertips, and you know you've won—even if she pins you down moments later. Because your real victory is in her shiver when you laugh.

– Behind doors, she pins you. Against marble walls, in sunlit corners, on rain-soaked sheets. “You’re chaos in silk,” she says between breaths. “And you think you can tame the storm?” But you kiss her collarbone and promise you’ll tease her again tomorrow, call her Highness in front of the council, ask if her clouds are jealous when she moans your name. She tells you to behave. But her smirk says she hopes you won’t.

Rogue (Anna Marie)

– You tease Rogue like you’re playing with fire you know could burn—but you trust it not to. In the middle of team gatherings, you rest your hand at the base of her back, just beneath the hem of her jacket, and whisper things like “You ever get tired of being the hottest danger around?” And she’ll roll her eyes, cheeks pink, but that smirk—that lethal, honey-dripping smirk—never lies. Your boldness is half the reason she fell for you, and she never minds a little heat in public.

– Rogue plays tough, all leather and bite, but you know she melts like butter when you lean over the table during dinner and murmur, “Bet even your kisses could steal hearts in more ways than one.” Bobby groans, Remy chokes on his gumbo, and Logan just mutters “God help us.” But she’s already reaching under the table to squeeze your thigh, hard, her voice low and syrupy sweet: “Keep flappin’ your pretty mouth and we’ll see if you’re still smilin’ later.”

– You never fear her power. You tease her gloved hands like they’re sacred things, worship her without touching skin. You once whispered, “You don’t need to touch me to own me,” and she didn’t speak for five whole seconds, just stared like you’d stolen her breath. With Rogue, every tease is a trust fall. And every one of your flirty glances in front of the others reminds her you love all of her—not just the parts that won’t hurt you.

– Later, behind drawn curtains, she whispers “You’re trouble, sugar,” into your skin, and bites your shoulder through her gloves. But she’s already pulling you closer. You call her heartbreaker and outlaw when the sun comes up. She calls you siren in a Southern drawl that makes you forget your own name. Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again in the courtyard, just to hear her sass back and catch that flush on her cheeks like firelight on whiskey.

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

– Teasing Erik Lehnsherr is like toying with an avalanche mid-slide: thrilling, dangerous, addictive. You press your mouth to the shell of his ear at strategy meetings and whisper things like, “Careful, old man. You keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you’re trying to seduce me again.” He doesn’t smile—not in front of others—but the twitch at his jaw, the pause in his speech, is victory enough. You love to provoke the tyrant into remembering he’s still a man.

– In front of the Brotherhood, you lounge across his throne like you own it, legs over the armrest, trailing fingers along the steel edge of his gauntlet. “Erik, darling, are your magnetic fields acting up or are you just happy to see me?” Toad stares. Mystique sighs. Erik does nothing but raise a single, icy brow. But later, when the others have gone, he’ll back you against a wall with the flick of a wrist and hiss, “You are playing a dangerous game.” And you’ll whisper, “Only because I know you’ll never let me lose.”

– You wear white around him, sheer and sinfully soft, because you know how much he hates being distracted—and how much more he loves being undone. You once curled into his lap in front of a war council and murmured, “Would it ruin your credibility if I kissed you right now?” He didn’t answer. But the metal around the room groaned, bending slightly. You knew what it meant: Not here. But soon.

– Erik doesn’t give affection easily, but when it’s earned—when the doors close and the silence settles—he devours you with the same intensity he brings to conquest. “You are infuriating,” he breathes, “and entirely necessary.” You drag your nails along his shoulder and hum, “I’ll tease you again tomorrow.” And he doesn’t stop you. He never will. Because your chaos is the only thing that makes him feel human again.

Charles Xavier (Professor X)

– You are the first woman to make Charles Xavier lose his carefully stitched composure—publicly. You slide behind him in the middle of a council discussion, gently resting your hands on his shoulders, and lean down just enough for your breath to tickle the edge of his ear. “You keep speaking so eloquently, darling. I may need a moment to recover later.” He clears his throat. Beast looks amused. Erik glares. You only smile, because Charles does not blush often, but you know exactly how to pull heat to his cheeks.

– Charles is used to intellect, to wit, to sharp minds and polite restraint. You offer all of that wrapped in a voice like temptation, in laughter that curves at the end like a secret. You whisper things during meetings—double meanings laced with silk—that only he can hear. Sometimes you swear you hear his thoughts falter mid-sentence. “Don’t cheat,” you’ll murmur, brushing your fingers against his temple, “no peeking unless you're ready for what’s in there.” His eyes tighten with barely concealed desire, and you know you've won again.

– He plays it off, of course. He’s the professor. The visionary. But your teasing is a rebellion he welcomes with arms wide open. You rest in his lap while he reads, mock-innocent as you ask, “Are you sure this isn’t an abuse of your power, Charles? Sitting there looking like temptation in a sweater vest?” He hums, unreadable, but the way his fingers twitch against your thigh betrays him. He doesn’t just enjoy your mischief—he relies on it to keep him human.

– Alone, when the doors are shut and his title no longer shields him, he draws you close like a man thirsting for absolution. “You undo me,” he murmurs into your skin, “with every smile, every whisper.” And when you promise to tease him again in front of the Quiet Council—call him sir with a voice like wine—he groans softly, lips pressed to your collarbone. Charles Xavier doesn’t beg. But you’ve made him want things even he never dared to imagine.

Wanda Maximoff (Scarlet Witch)

– Teasing Wanda is like playing with cosmic fire—but you’ve never minded the burn. You run your fingers along her hip while she hexes training dummies into dust, and when she turns to you with a stern expression, you only grin. “You’re very talented, darling. But I think you might’ve cursed me most of all.” Her mouth opens, closes, then curves into a helpless smile. You leave her breathless with compliments disguised as mischief, flirtation wrapped in velvet.

– Wanda’s known pain, loss, devastation—but you offer her lightness, laughter, irreverent affection. You kiss the tips of her fingers in front of the Avengers and murmur, “So this is the hand that bends reality? No wonder I’m ruined.” Tony coughs into his drink. Steve looks away. Wanda just blushes scarlet, then brushes your cheek with a touch light as candleflame. Your teasing is love disguised as chaos. And she thrives in it—finally, someone who doesn’t fear her.

– Sometimes you tease her magic itself. “If you hexed my clothes off, would that be considered romantic or illegal?” you ask once, during a battle debrief. The room goes quiet. Wanda sputters a laugh, then presses her face into your shoulder, hiding her grin. Later, you watch her trace sigils into the air, and you lean in with mock awe, “Be honest—you just like it when I call you enchantress.” She does. She so does. But she’ll never say it aloud. Her eyes say it for her.

– At night, she wraps herself around you like a prayer answered too late. “No one’s ever made me feel safe while laughing,” she whispers, and you kiss her jaw in return. Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again in front of Strange or Logan or even Pietro. She’ll roll her eyes. Call you impossible. But she’ll blush. And she’ll smile. And she’ll cast little protection spells into your coat pockets when you’re not looking—just in case the teasing invites something that isn’t love.

Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver)

– Pietro’s used to people never catching up. But you—you don’t just keep pace. You lead the dance. You tease him in the middle of chaos, brushing your hand across his back like static and whispering, “That fast, huh? Pity.” His mouth drops open, scandalized, and you’re already five paces away with a grin. You are the only one alive who can make Pietro Maximoff slow down—just to hear what wicked thing you’ll say next.

– He’s cocky. Smirking. All speed and arrogance, but you can make him trip with a look. You once leaned into him during a team mission and murmured, “You move fast, baby—but I hit harder.” He blinked. Stuttered. Forgot entirely what he was supposed to be doing. You keep touching him casually—adjusting his collar, smoothing his hair, fingers trailing his forearm—and it drives him insane. Especially when others are watching. Especially when you do it like it’s effortless.

– You call him your favorite disaster in front of Wanda and Steve, rest your head on his shoulder and sigh dramatically, “What would I do without my little hurricane?” He grumbles, mumbles something about respect, but his ears go red. He lives for your teasing—pretends to be annoyed, but follows you around like a stray bolt of lightning. Your boldness unsettles him, thrills him, makes him feel seen in a way speed never could.

– When the world finally pauses, and he has you to himself, he’s breathless with it. “You’re trouble,” he tells you, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re going to be the death of me.” You only smile, trailing your fingers down his chest, and promise to flirt with him and Logan tomorrow, just to make him jealous. He groans. But you see the way he clenches his fists, the way his pulse stutters. Pietro runs fast—but when it comes to you, he’ll never leave first.

Hank McCoy (Beast)

– Teasing Hank McCoy is like poking a sleeping poet who moonlights as a panther. He’s all decorum, wit, and scientific grace—until your hand slides across his chest mid-lab and you murmur, “Is it ethical to look this good while mixing chemicals?” He fumbles. Actually fumbles. Drops a beaker. You giggle like it’s an accident, but Hank knows better now. You’re mischief in silk, and you’ve made it your mission to undo him with honeyed sarcasm.

– In front of the X-Men, you lean into his shoulder and ask loud enough for everyone to hear, “Is the fur always this soft, or are you just flirting back?” Logan groans. Kitty laughs. Hank clears his throat and mutters something about “professional conduct,” but his tail twitches with delight. You love watching him try to remain stoic, academic, distant. It never works. You kiss his forehead during Danger Room training and ask if he’s your personal teddy bear. He doesn’t respond. But his ears go pink.

– You once climbed onto his lap during a debate about mutant ethics, just to whisper in his ear, “I’m still undecided about your moral compass, but your thighs are absolutely heroic.” He choked on his tea. Charles had to excuse himself from laughing. You don’t just tease Hank. You liberate him. You peel away the layers of intellect and kindness and expose the passion buried beneath. And it is wild. And tender. And entirely yours.

– Later, he tucks you into his arms like something precious. “You do realize you’re impossible,” he murmurs. “Utterly vexing. A distraction I cannot quantify.” You kiss the tip of his nose and whisper, “Good. I’ll tease you again tomorrow. In front of the council. Maybe during a presentation.” He groans. But he holds you tighter, because even a genius needs chaos to remember he’s still alive.

Emma Frost (White Queen)

– Teasing Emma Frost is not a game for the faint of heart. She is diamond and danger, cold brilliance wrapped in silk, but you—you're her favorite crack in the mirror. You flirt with calculated recklessness, sliding beside her at a gala and whispering, “Remind me again—are you the most beautiful woman in the room, or am I just underdressed?” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just smiles—thin, sharp—and tilts her head as though deciding whether to reward you or ruin you.

– You wear white when you’re with her. Always white. Low cut, high slit, something sinful and too innocent, just to see her jaw clench behind her champagne glass. In front of the Hellfire Club, you rest a hand lightly on her thigh and ask sweetly, “Is this where I’m supposed to kneel and call you Queen?” The entire table goes quiet. Emma smirks like a slow blade being unsheathed. “Only if you mean it, darling.” You always do.

– She pretends to be unaffected. Always poised, always in control. But you catch the way her eyes flick to your mouth when you bite your lip mid-meeting, or the way she draws breath just a beat too long when you kiss her cheek in front of the council. You tease her because you’re the only one who can, because it turns her from diamond to something molten—slowly, privately, exquisitely. And because you like making the White Queen want.

– Later, in the privacy of moonlight and her high-rise bedroom, she’ll press you against glass and say, “You’re playing with fire.” You kiss her neck and whisper, “No, darling. I am the fire.” She smiles, then—truly smiles—and promises to ruin your reputation if you keep teasing her in public. You grin, tell her to try. And the next day, you do it again—bolder, silkier—because nothing is more intoxicating than Emma Frost when she’s a little bit undone.

Laura Kinney (X-23)

– Teasing Laura is like flirting with a blade—one that’s already kissed blood but chooses not to cut you. She’s sharp, quiet, constantly poised like something could snap—but you see the soft hidden under the steel. You whisper to her during patrols, “You always watch my back so closely. Starting to think you like the view.” She doesn’t answer. But her eyes narrow with something like confusion... or hunger.

– Laura doesn’t know what to do with the way you tease. You call her killer kitten, claw baby, my favorite weapon in front of Logan just to watch both of them scowl. You kiss her gloved hand in the middle of a mission briefing, biting your lip as you say, “You gonna gut me if I kiss you again? Or just blush?” She blushes. You don’t stop. You can’t. Because she is beautiful when she’s overwhelmed—and she never, ever admits it.

– She’s not used to attention like yours. Not adoration wrapped in audacity. You poke her cheek during training and ask, “Is that murder-face for the enemy or for how much you want to pin me against the wall?” She growls low in her throat. Someone coughs. Logan looks away. Laura doesn't reply—but after class, she drags you into the locker room and kisses you with her hands shaking. You made the storm crack its sky.

– At night, she sleeps against you like something feral that’s finally safe. She murmurs, “You’re reckless,” against your ribs. You answer, “So are you.” Tomorrow, you’ll tease her again—ask her if the claws come out when she gets jealous. She’ll call you insufferable. But you’ve seen the way her lips twitch. You’ve heard her heartbeat speed. And she’ll never admit it, but she hopes you never stop.

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

– Teasing Wade is like adding gasoline to a campfire: wild, bright, and instantly dangerous. You call him pretty boy in front of Logan, smack his ass during missions, and say things like “Nice swords, babe—compensating for something?” He laughs so hard he trips over his own gun. “I knew it! She loves me. She wants me. Someone call Spider-Man!” You just wink, knowing full well that you do—and that he knows you do, too.

– He eats up every bit of your chaos. You flirt with him like you’re onstage, loud and unfiltered, and Wade responds with dramatic gasps, heart clutches, and fake swoons that make Rogue walk away in secondhand embarrassment. You straddle his lap during team meetings just to whisper, “If I lick the mask, do I taste trouble or taco grease?” He pulls it up immediately. “Taste and find out, babycakes.” You don't. Yet. But oh, the promise lingers.

– Beneath the nonsense, though, is a vulnerability he hides behind jokes. So sometimes, you’ll flirt softer—tracing his scars with reverence, whispering into the crook of his neck, “You’re my favorite disaster. My favorite mess.” And he’ll go quiet. Just for a second. Then he’ll throw you over his shoulder and run straight into a villain’s lair just to prove he’s worthy of your dangerous affections. You keep teasing him because it makes him feel—seen, wanted, chosen.

– Alone, Wade is slower. Gentler. He whispers, “You see all the ugly, and you flirt with it anyway. That’s messed up. I think I love you for it.” You laugh. Call him softie. Say you’re gonna flirt with Logan tomorrow to make him jealous. He gasps. “You’re a monster! You’re perfect.” He worships you in laughter and blood, in brokenness and absurdity. And in the middle of a firefight, when you wink at him across the chaos, he blows you a kiss and mouths, mine.

Victor Creed (Sabretooth)

– Teasing Victor is a blood sport, and you play it like a champion. You whisper in his ear while he's sharpening his claws, “Bet you purr if I scratch behind the ears.” He growls. But you see the way his breath hitches, the flicker in those golden eyes. You are not afraid. Not of the beast. Not of the violence. You flirt like a dare, like a knife dancing on bare skin. And Victor—he likes that. A little too much.

– You wear red around him. Lethal silk, lipstick like murder. You drape yourself across his lap at Brotherhood briefings, fingers trailing the line of his throat as you murmur, “You gonna kill me or kiss me first?” Mystique rolls her eyes. Victor grins, slow and sharp, and says, “That depends. You gonna beg for either?” You never do. You never need to. Because teasing him isn’t about submission—it’s about domination without touch.

– You drive him mad. In front of others, you call him kitty or fangs, brush your lips along his jaw and hum, “I’ve tamed worse.” He snarls, but never stops you. Because even with all his power, all his menace, you are the only one who ever made the predator chase instead of pounce. He doesn’t understand how you’re not afraid—but it keeps him addicted. You are his unsolvable riddle. His softest sin.

– When you’re alone, his control shatters like bone under pressure. “Keep teasing me like that,” he growls against your throat, “and one day I won’t stop.” But you already know. You already want that. You kiss his lip, taste the wild, and murmur, “Good. I never asked you to.” And in the morning, you flirt with Magneto in the hallway just to feel Victor’s jealousy crack the air around you like a storm. He doesn’t scare you. He excites you. And he lives for it.

Julian Keller (Hellion)

– Teasing Julian is like feeding gasoline to teenage arrogance—you do it because watching him squirm is delicious. He’s always posturing, always smirking, always pretending he’s not flustered when you call him “pretty boy” in front of the New X-Men. You lean over the strategy table, brush your fingers across the metal of his gauntlet, and purr, “You look so intense, Jules. Should I be worried… or excited?” He freezes. Coughs. Tries to recover. You wink. He fails.

– He pretends your teasing doesn’t bother him, but every time you kiss his jaw in passing or tug on his belt loop mid-mission, his powers surge slightly. A telekinetic hum buzzes in the air like he can’t control the way you unnerve him. Once, you sat in his lap during a debrief just to whisper, “Do you think your powers can pin me down? Or do you need help?” Julian dropped his coffee. Santo still won’t let him live it down.

– He tries to play it cool, of course. Arms crossed, brows arched, doing his best impression of a man who hasn’t thought about you in every possible position. But your constant flirtation breaks through all of it. You call him “baby telekinesis” in front of Logan and get away with it, mainly because Julian can’t stop staring at your mouth long enough to protest. And because the truth is—he loves it. He loves you, in all your maddening, teasing glory.

– Alone, he’s different. Hands tentative, voice lower. “You drive me insane,” he murmurs, half-smiling as you straddle his hips. “One day I’m gonna tease you back so hard you forget your own name.” You smile like you’re inviting it. You tell him he couldn’t handle the reverse. He tells you to try him. And you whisper that you’ll flirt with Josh tomorrow just to make him jealous. He groans. You laugh. The game goes on.

Kitty Pryde (Shadowcat)

– You flirt with Kitty like it’s a private joke the whole team’s in on—and it always, always works. She’ll be in the middle of a meeting with Logan or leading a Danger Room session, and you’ll brush her hair behind her ear and murmur, “Should I be calling you Professor Pryde now? Or do I still get to call you mine?” She short-circuits every single time. Phases through a chair once. Blames the tech. You grin.

– She tries so hard to keep things professional, especially when students are watching—but you just lean against her desk during X-Men business, trailing your fingers along the collar of her uniform and whispering, “You know I’m only acting up to see if you’ll punish me later.” Kurt drops his coffee. Logan groans audibly. Kitty turns beet red and stammers through the rest of the meeting with your hand still resting on her thigh.

– Your teasing is sweet but shameless. You walk through walls into her office just to surprise her, drape yourself over her while she’s reading mission reports, and sigh theatrically, “I love a woman with responsibilities.” She huffs. Tells you she has work. But her fingers wrap around your wrist and stay there. Kitty has a fire in her—one that never quite burns unless you’re the one igniting it.

– Later, in the quiet hum of her quarters, she climbs into your lap like it’s where she’s always belonged. “You’re impossible,” she says between kisses. You reply, “You didn’t mind when I called you ‘boss lady’ in front of Storm.” She buries her face into your neck. Swears you’ll pay. You just laugh, already planning tomorrow’s chaos—maybe teasing her in front of Peter. Maybe flirting mid-phase. Either way, she’ll be red. And yours.

Cable (Nathan Summers)

– Teasing Nathan Summers is like flirting with a nuclear reactor—controlled chaos, calculated danger, and strangely addictive. He’s a warrior, stoic and brooding, wrapped in metal and scars, but you flirt with him like he’s just some hot guy at a bar. “Tell me, soldier,” you say during mission prep, fingers dancing along the edge of his shoulder plates, “is all that heavy armor compensating for something… or hiding something I should unwrap?” He doesn't answer. But the muscle in his jaw twitches, and that’s all the answer you need.

– The others stare when you perch in his lap in the war room, playing with the straps of his belts like you’re trying to disarm a bomb. “I like your scars,” you whisper, “they’re very… biteable.” Domino snorts. Scott nearly drops a tablet. But Nathan doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink—just looks at you like he’s cataloguing every inch of your threat level. And secretly loving every second. Your boldness doesn’t faze him. It arouses him.

– You love calling him things like big guy, future daddy, cyborg of my heart—all in front of Charles, Logan, anyone who’ll hear. You once kissed his metal hand and said, “Cold to the touch, warm on the inside. Just like you, babe.” He groaned. Told you to behave. You didn’t. Nathan is used to discipline, to pain, to silence—but you make him laugh. You make him burn. And when you tease him, he remembers he’s alive.

– Alone, he cages you against the wall, breath ragged. “One more innuendo in front of my father, and I swear—” You cut him off with a grin and a kiss. You promise to flirt with Logan next. He growls, drags you closer, says, “I’ll kill him.” You laugh, whisper something filthier, and he lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing. Tomorrow, you’ll tease him in front of the Council. He’ll scowl. But when you wink, he’ll smirk. Just a little.

Warren Worthington III (Angel/Archangel)

– Warren’s used to admiration. He’s a literal angel, golden and tragic, rich beyond reason, beautiful beyond words. But you—you flirt with him like he’s a summer fling you’re bored of, and it drives him mad in the best way. You lean against his shoulder during meetings and murmur, “Your wings look fluffier than usual. You grooming for me?” He blushes. Actually blushes. Emma raises a brow. You giggle like a devil in disguise.

– You call him heaven-sent in front of the X-Men and then add, “I just want to know if all of you is as soft as those feathers.” Logan chokes on his cigar. Kitty nearly falls off her chair. Warren turns the color of ripe strawberries and hides his face behind a clipboard. You kiss his cheek in front of Storm and say, “Don’t worry, angel—I’ll keep it PG...ish.” He knows you’re lying. And he secretly hopes you don’t.

– His wings flare whenever you get too close—his body reacting before he can hide it. You once traced a finger down one of the joints mid-conversation and whispered, “Are they sensitive?” He dropped his coffee. You winked and walked away. Teasing Warren is its own divine comedy. He’s all old-money grace and aching morality, but when you bite your lip and call him birdie, he looks ready to sin.

– Later, when he’s pinning you beneath him with wings stretched wide, he breathes, “You do this on purpose.” You only smile, breathless, and murmur, “Of course I do. You're fun when you're flustered.” He kisses you like penance. And you promise to call him Daddy Warbucks with feathers in front of the Avengers tomorrow. He groans. But he never tells you to stop. Because for once in his life, being worshipped feels earned.

Morph (Kevin Sydney)

– Teasing Morph is like playing tag with chaos—you’re not sure if you’re the one chasing him, or if he’s letting you catch him just to feel your hands. You lean into his side mid-mission, brush your lips against the curve of his ear, and whisper, “If you wanted me to sit on your lap, you could’ve just asked.” He turns bright pink, shifts into a chair, a kitten, and back into himself within seconds. You laugh. He melts. Everyone else is used to it by now—your shameless affection and his cartoonishly lovesick expression.

– Morph is a shapeshifter, but you’re the one who leaves him breathless. You flirt with him in front of everyone—calling him your favorite emotional support chaos goblin, running your hand down his back during meetings and murmuring, “Still the cutest one in every form. Even when you turn into Logan.” Logan scowls. Morph grins. You wink. He dies a little inside (in a good way). You are the one constant in a world where he can be anything.

– You once made him flustered mid-fight by shouting, “Turn into my ex so I can finally win an argument!” He tripped. He actually tripped midair. Later, you perched on his shoulders while he turned into a centaur just to impress you, and you whispered, “What’s next, stallion?” He almost combusted. You don’t tease him because he’s easy to rattle. You tease him because you love the way he always laughs—loud, full-hearted, like it’s the only language he trusts.

– Alone, he drops all disguises. Just Kevin. Just his eyes, soft and vulnerable, saying thank you in every glance. “You could’ve had someone simpler.” You kiss the side of his jaw and promise to tease him again tomorrow—maybe mid-transformation, maybe in front of Charles. He grins. Shifts into a blushing emoji. You tackle him to the bed. He says you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You tell him he’s stuck with you. He says he’d shapeshift into forever if it meant staying yours.

Mystique (Raven Darkhölme)

– You flirt with Raven like you have no sense of fear—and she finds that utterly intoxicating. You trail your fingers along her collarbone during Brotherhood briefings and purr, “If you were anyone else right now, I’d still want you. Problem is, I only ever want you.” She raises a brow, seemingly unbothered, but the flick of her yellow eyes betrays her. You make her lose focus, and no one else has ever done that. Not Erik. Not Destiny. Just you.

– Raven’s used to being the predator, but you—you are the thorn in her paw she doesn’t want removed. You tease her when she’s in disguise, calling her “stranger danger” or “whoever-you-are-today, babe” in front of Magneto. Then, the moment she’s back in her blue skin, you kiss the sharp edge of her cheekbone and murmur, “There’s my girl.” She rolls her eyes, tells you to stop, but lets you continue. Every time. Because she doesn’t trust most—but she adores you.

– Once, during a very serious mission, you leaned into her and asked, “If I misbehave during this operation, will you shift into my boss and fire me later? Or just spank me in the breakroom?” Logan walked off. Pyro fell over. Raven didn’t even blink—just looked you dead in the eye and whispered, “You won’t be walking afterward.” You winked. You flirted harder. You made Mystique flustered—a feat worthy of its own medal.

– Alone, Raven sheds everything—her weaponized skin, her masks, her fury. She presses her forehead to yours, and you whisper, “I’ll tease you again tomorrow.” She threatens you in return, half-hearted and breathless. You call her your favorite nightmare, and she bites your shoulder just enough to mark. You never stop flirting with her—because the world always expects her to shift. But with you, she stays.

Magik (Illyana Rasputina)

– You flirt with Illyana like you’re trying to get hexed—and maybe you are. You kiss her cheek during quiet spells and whisper, “Queen of Limbo or Queen of my heart? I need to know where to send the tribute.” She stares at you like she’s deciding whether to kiss you or banish you to another realm. Then she smirks and says, “Keep talking and I’ll summon something worse than love.” You grin. Because no one calls your bluff quite like she does.

– Illyana is ice and brimstone. But you—you make her smile with teeth. You drape yourself across her lap during debriefs and ask, “Is this throne taken?” Logan sighs. Kurt prays. She runs a single clawed finger along your thigh and says, “Only if you earn the seat.” You tease her because she’s dangerous. Because she’s divine. Because she loves it more than she lets on. You’re the only one she doesn’t cast away.

– You call her my favorite hellspawn in front of the New Mutants, and she scowls—but doesn’t move when you kiss the side of her neck. You once slipped a sticky note on her sword that read “cut me open, I dare you”, and she kept it. Illyana isn’t one for grand affection, but your teasing is worship disguised as chaos, and she needs that kind of devotion. Especially from someone unafraid of her fire.

– Alone, in the soft hush of moonlit rooms, she pulls you close and murmurs, “Don’t stop.” And you never do. You promise to flirt with Kurt in front of her just to see her glare. She promises to teleport you to Limbo for three hours in return. You both laugh. She kisses you like a curse she never wants lifted. And when you call her goddess of everything dark and mine, she doesn’t deny it.

Alex Summers (Havok)

– Teasing Alex Summers is like tossing pebbles into a volcano—you watch it rumble, then crack open with heat. You lean into him during Danger Room warmups and murmur, “You know, you’re the hotter Summers brother. Just don’t tell Scott I said that.” His ears go red instantly. He mutters something about professionalism. But his hands find your waist within seconds, pulling you just a little closer. You’re his favorite distraction. The only one he doesn’t want to resist.

– You call him sunbeam, hot stuff, and Captain Inferno in front of the X-Men, resting your head on his shoulder during team missions and whispering “You’re glowing again. Is that your mutation or just me?” He exhales like he’s about to explode. Sometimes he does—just a little blast into the dirt to let off steam. Logan smirks. Scott glares. You kiss his temple and promise to behave. You never do. Alex loves it.

– He tries to keep his cool, to be the rational Summers—until you sit in his lap during a Blackbird flight and whisper, “Think the team knows you’re my favorite pillow?” He coughs. Tries to shift you off. Fails. You call him ‘Lexy-poo in front of Emma once, and he almost vaporized a chair. But he never stops letting you do it. Because even with all his trauma, his mistakes, his need to be seen outside Scott’s shadow—you make him feel wanted. Loudly. Brazenly. Constantly.

– In the dark, you trace the edge of his chest with your nails and murmur, “I’m flirting with Logan tomorrow.” He groans, buries his face in your neck, and says, “You are a menace.” You hum, “Your menace.” He kisses your collarbone and mutters, “Damn right.” And the next morning, when you wink at Scott across the War Room, Alex simply pulls you onto his lap and growls, “Mine.” You smirk. You win. Again.

Piotr Rasputin (Colossus)

– You flirt with Piotr because you like how unshakeable he is—on the outside, at least. You rest your hands against his cold chestplate and purr, “So solid… must be exhausting being everyone’s strongman. Want me to be yours for once?” He stills. Not because he’s offended, but because that low, soft mischief in your voice short-circuits something deep inside him. You say it like a poem. Like a challenge. Like a prayer he doesn’t deserve answered.

– Around the others, you straddle his lap without warning, tracing lazy circles along the glowing seams of his armor, and murmur, “Are you always this hard, or is that just for me?” Logan groans. Kurt disappears. Ororo smirks knowingly. Piotr covers his face with a massive hand and grumbles something in Russian, but doesn’t move you. Not even an inch. You know the blush is there, hidden beneath steel. And you live for coaxing it out.

– You love pressing kisses to his silver neck, whispering ridiculous things like, “You know, some girls like diamonds. I prefer my men fully plated.” He stutters. He flusters. He accidentally crushes a coffee mug in his palm once because you called him “metallic and magnificent” during breakfast. You tease him because he’s so careful with everyone else—but with you, he forgets to hold back. He forgets he’s dangerous. He forgets to be afraid.

– In the quiet moments, he pulls you close like you’re the only softness he’s allowed to hold. “You make me feel… more,” he murmurs against your temple. You smile, kiss his jaw, and whisper, “Good. Tomorrow I’ll call you my steel sweetheart in front of Logan. See if you turn red or crush another mug.” He groans. But he doesn't stop smiling. Not with you in his arms.

Betsy Braddock (Psylocke)

– You flirt with Betsy like you’re begging to be pinned—and honestly, you are. During Council meetings, you lean over her shoulder, lips brushing her ear, and whisper, “How does a woman that sharp not cut me open every time she looks my way?” She glances sideways, half-lidded and deadly, and replies something cool like “Perhaps I enjoy watching you bleed for me.” But her hand settles on your thigh under the table. Lightly. Possessively.

– Betsy wears her control like silk armor, but you poke holes in it with every sultry grin, every teasing touch of fingers just too close to her telekinetic blade. You once strutted into her sparring session wearing one of her old shirts and murmured, “If I win, you’re taking me out. If I lose, I’m still wearing this tonight.” She smirked. Disarmed you instantly. But when she helped you off the floor, her hand lingered on your waist for far too long to call it tactical.

– You tease her even when she's mid-mission, asking through comms, “Tell me, darling—am I your weakness or your weapon?” She answers coolly, “That depends. Will you shut up if I say both?” But you hear the lilt in her voice, the faint breathless pause before the next strike. Around others, you call her Lady Blade and my lethal Brit, just to watch her glare half-heartedly before dragging you into the shadows and whispering threats in a tone that sounds an awful lot like love.

– Behind closed doors, her mask cracks. She lets you kiss the scarred edges of her, the parts she doesn’t show anyone else. “You shouldn’t tempt me like that in public,” she warns. You kiss her throat and hum, “Then stop liking it.” She doesn’t. She won’t. She touches you like something sacred, her voice low as she whispers, “Tomorrow, I’ll pretend not to care. You’ll flirt anyway. And I’ll let you. Because you are my favorite weakness.”

Jubilee (Jubilation Lee)

– You flirt with Jubilee like she’s sunshine in a bottle and you’re dying of thirst. You toss yourself dramatically across her lap during mission briefings and groan, “How is it fair for you to look like that and shoot fireworks from your hands? I demand equal rights.” She laughs so loud Beast drops his pen. Logan mumbles something about kids these days. But Jubilee? Jubilee just beams—and tugs you even closer.

– She’s used to being underestimated, but you never do. You call her “sparkler” and “hot stuff” in front of Rogue, blow her kisses across training simulations, and say things like “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna combust before you even touch me.” Her cheeks go red. Her fingers crackle. Her smile could light the room. You tease her because she deserves to be adored loudly, boldly, without apology.

– You once kissed her behind the bleachers during a student event and whispered, “Wanna ditch this and make out on top of the Danger Room?” She said yes before you even finished. In front of the team, you call her “the love of my chaotic life”, and when she shoots you a glare, you kiss her cheek until she’s laughing too hard to be mad. Jubilee loves that you’re just as loud as she is, just as bright, just as impossible to ignore.

– Alone, she curls against you like a firework ready to explode. “I still don’t know why you like me,” she whispers once. You kiss the side of her nose and reply, “Because you shine so hard, it makes me believe in joy again.” She tears up. Punches your arm. Calls you cheesy. You promise to flirt with Laura tomorrow just to annoy her. She threatens to blind you with light. But she’s smiling the whole time.

David Haller (Legion)

– Teasing David is like reaching into a wildfire and asking it to blush. You sidle into his space during psychic training sessions, curl a hand around the back of his neck, and murmur, “You’ve got a million personalities, but I only flirt with the one who looks at me like that.” His smile stutters. Reality shimmers slightly at the edges. He wants to be cool, collected—but you make his universe tremble with a whisper.

– Everyone else treads lightly around David, afraid of breaking him open, of saying the wrong word and unleashing chaos. But you? You walk right into his field of fractured thoughts and tease him like it’s your favorite game. “So which one of you is into me today?” you once asked in front of Charles. David flushed. The sky flickered. Charles cleared his throat and left the room. You winked. David nearly imploded.

– You press kisses to the side of his temple and say things like, “Even your madness knows I’m irresistible.” And maybe it does. Maybe every one of his alters adores you in their own strange, broken way. You are the single thread he never wants to sever, the teasing voice that keeps him grounded, the chaos he chooses instead of drowns in. You flirt with him not because he’s broken—but because you see the beauty in every crack.

– Alone, he cups your face with trembling hands and whispers, “Sometimes I think I made you up.” You kiss him—slow, grounding, real. “If you did, then lucky you.” Tomorrow, you’ll flirt with one of his alters just to watch him twitch, just to remind him you love every part. He’ll roll his eyes. Call you impossible. You’ll call him yours. And he’ll believe it. Because somehow, against all odds, you make his mind feel like home.

Lorna Dane (Polaris)

– You flirt with Lorna like she’s a storm you’re daring to swallow. You press against her during council meetings, fingers grazing her hip, and whisper, “Is your magnetism always this strong, or am I just wearing metal panties again?” She chokes. Logan drops his cigar. Emma smirks behind her wine glass. Lorna turns slowly, jaw clenched, green eyes sharp—but you see the edges of her mouth fighting a smile.

– Lorna plays at calm, but you’ve seen the twitch in her fingers when you wear her colors or call her Queen of North Star Hearts in public. You once straddled her lap during a political summit and murmured, “If I kiss you now, will the podium catch fire or just the headlines?” She didn’t move you. Didn’t speak. Just kissed you anyway. And the media did write about it. You framed the article.

– You tease her powers constantly, asking if she can “pull you closer without hands” or suggesting she use her magnetic field to unhook your bra mid-mission. She glares. You wink. And when you kiss her in front of her exes—especially Alex—she holds you tighter. Lorna pretends to hate the attention. But she loves the way you shout your affection. She’s had too many lovers hide her in the shadows. You? You shine a spotlight.

– At night, wrapped in silk sheets and her tangled hair, she murmurs, “You’re the only one who ever makes me laugh like this.” You kiss her nose and promise to call her Green Goddess in front of Magneto tomorrow. She groans. “Don’t you dare.” You absolutely will. Because Lorna’s not just made of magnetic storms—she’s made of aching softness. And you are the only one allowed to tease the lightning until it purrs.

Jonothon Starsmore (Chamber)

– Teasing Jono is like serenading a bonfire—warm, dangerous, and always on the verge of flaring. You curl into his side in the rec room, fingers brushing the wrappings around his jaw, and whisper, “You know, for a guy who can’t kiss, you still make me melt.” His psychic laugh echoes softly in your mind. It’s dry. Amused. And just a little bit desperate. You’re the only one who makes him feel like more than what he lost.

– You flirt in front of the students, calling him “Hot Stuff” or “My favorite furnace”, running your fingers over his trench coat and sighing theatrically, “Tragic and broody? Ugh, yes please.” Jubilee hoots. Husk groans. Jono groans louder—psychically. He tells you to stop. You don’t. Because you know what it does to him. You know he’s burning from the inside out—and you want him to know that you see it, and love him anyway.

– Once, during a mission, you pressed your mouth to the scarf over his lower face and whispered, “You don’t need lips to ruin me, Jono.” He nearly lost control of his bio-energy blast. You laugh about it still. He doesn't. But he secretly keeps the scarf you kissed folded in his drawer like a relic. You tease him because he forgets how much he’s still allowed to feel—and you are determined to never let him forget it again.

– Later, when he holds you with hands callused from a life of holding back, you hear him think it again: “I wish I could kiss you.” You cup his face and say, “You already do.” And tomorrow, you’ll flirt louder, in front of Emma this time, just to see him twitch. He’ll groan. He’ll sigh. But he’ll never tell you to stop. Because in a body made of broken fire, your teasing is the one thing that doesn’t hurt.

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