#colossus x reader

Logan Howlett:

Logan likes to pretend like he isn’t the jealous type, despite him being the most possessive man alive. You’re his, and only his, and he’ll make damn well sure everyone knows it. His scent is definitely all over you.

If anyone is getting a little too close to you for his liking—making you laugh too much, maybe getting a little touchy—Logan is on his feet in an instant, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. 

Maybe gets a little too handsy, hands travelling lower to cup your butt, canines grazing the side of your neck. He won’t say anything, he’ll just loom there so incredibly ominously until whoever was with you gets the message and leaves.

“Logan,” you warn.

He just grunts, “you’re mine, you know that?”

And you sigh, suddenly weak in the knees, and nod along to his words. He keeps you extra close afterwards, usually sitting you in his lap and looking sideways at anyone who so much as glances your way.

Wade Wilson:

Wade is absolutely the jealous type but it takes a lot to actually get him going, and when he does, he hides his insecurity behind humour and substances. Still, it gets the best of him sometimes and he just can’t help it.

If someone’s flirting with you, he’s inserting himself into the situation immediately. He’ll sidle up next to you, prop an arm on your shoulder and grin at whoever you’re talking to.

“Excuse us for a moment.”

He won’t even give you a chance before he’s pulling you in for a bruising kiss, tongue swiping along the backs of your teeth. His hands roam your sides, maybe cheekily pinching your butt. 

You pull away gasping, hands on his chest. “Wade!”

“What?” He grins goofily, “I couldn’t help it, you look so fuckable.”

Kurt Wagner:

Kurt’s not really the jealous type, and when he is jealous, he just gets sad. He’ll watch someone else hit on you and wonder if he’s enough, if you would prefer someone less blue.

He’ll go quiet for a while, maybe get a little distant while he thinks it over. He does his best to reassure himself, remind himself that you love him and you don’t want anyone else, but it only gets him so far.

Finally, he’ll cave and come to you, dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your stomach. You rest a hand on the back of his head, tilting yours to the side, “Kurt, baby, is everything alright?”

He sighs, words muffled by the fabric of your shirt. His words all come out in one big jumble, each one mumbled and bleeding into the next. Still, you get the gist of it: he’s feeling insecure, and he wants to know if you’d be happier with someone else.

You blink, stunned. “Of course not,” you frown. 

“Really?” He pulls away, looking up at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, really.” You reach for his hands, helping him to his feet, “c’mere, silly.”

And Kurt sighs, letting you pull him in for a kiss.

Scott Summers:

Scott either gets really quiet or really arrogant when he’s jealous.

He’s analyzing the situation, watching you talk with a friend. He’s focused on the way they get a little too close, the subtle contact they make on your arm, the way your smile changes ever so slightly.

When he can’t take it anymore, he’s sidling up to you and throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, doll.”

He’ll plant a sloppy kiss to your lips, lingering just a little too long until whoever’s talking to you gets the message. If he’s feeling extra devious, he’s making a snide comment.

You smack his bicep once they’re out of earshot. “Really?”

“What?” He smiles, feigning innocence, “I just missed you.”

Remy LeBeau:

Remy is so clingy when he’s in love with you so it’s only natural he’d be jealous too. But not the angry jealous type, no, Remy gets sad when he’s jealous.

Someone comes up to flirt with you while you’re at the bar and he’s sitting in the corner pouting, nursing his drink and watching. Someone calls you cute right in front of him and he’s not letting it go for the rest of the day.

“Oh that’s cute of you.” “Mhm, yeah, très mignon.”

However, if someone gets handsy with you, Remy’s on his feet in an instant, cards in hand. Is it too far? Maybe, but he doesn’t care.

“This guy bothering you, amour?”

You take a step back into Remy, letting him wrap an arm around you. “Yes,” you say quietly.

That’s all he needs to hear before he’s sizing him up and sending him on the way, hand clenched around the desk of cards in his palm.

Warren Worthington III:

Warren’s jealousy is a lot more low key, but it’s definitely there. He shrugs it off and pretends like he doesn’t care but inside, he’s in shambles. The minute someone else tries to flirt with you, he’s at your side, wrapping an arm around you and leaning his head on your shoulder. 

He smiles but there’s no humour behind it as he stares down whoever’s coming onto you.

Sometimes, if he’s been drinking a little or you’re in a safe space for mutants, he’ll even go as far as to wrap his wings around you, creating a shield between you and the other person. You roll your eyes, turning to face him in the trap of wings he’s created for you.

“Baby?”

“Hm?” His jaw is clenched but his eyes are soft when they find yours.

“Can you let me go?”

He tilts his head down, wings ushering you closer to him for a slow and soft kiss. “No.”

Piotr Rasputin:

He’s not really a jealous person to begin with. He knows you’re his and he trusts you enough to believe you’d never do anything behind your back. The rare times he does get jealous is when someone is doing something for you that he could do.

Someone else holds the door? His brows are knitting together. Someone lifts something heavy for you? He’s frowning for the next hour and a half. He’s your partner, he should be the one doing all that for you. He’ll spend the next few hours trying to show off, flexing his muscles and doing everything for you. 

He gets a little sad when he’s jealous, too. Is he not enough for you, would you rather be with someone like that? As secure as he likes to think he is, that all melts away in the face of jealousy.

Finally, he’ll come to you, tail between his legs. “Do I make you feel loved?”

You blink, looking up from your book. “Of course you do.”

“Really?”

You dogear the page altogether, putting it down to look at him properly. His lips are pursed in a frown, eyes big and wide with emotions. You rise to your feet, placing your hands on either bicep.

“What’s this about, Petey?”

He sighs and admits to his jealousy, head hung low in shame. It’s only when you cup his cheek and force him to look at you, planting a soft kiss to his lips, that he starts to feel like himself again.

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LOGAN HOWLETT (WOLVERINE)

- The night is quiet, but there’s a storm beneath Logan’s skin. It’s always been that way—rage coiled tight in his ribs, old wounds that never quite close, ghosts that never quite leave. But here, with you, there is something else, something that softens the sharp edges of him. He watches you from the porch of the cabin, a cigar burning low between his fingers, his gaze steady, unreadable. You don’t push him to speak—Logan’s never been a man who talks about feelings, but he feels them all the same, deeper than most, heavier than most. And tonight, those feelings are pulling him under.

- "You don’t scare easy, do ya?" he mutters, and there’s something like admiration in his voice, something rough and unpolished. He’s used to people keeping their distance, used to the way they flinch from the weight of what he is, but not you. No, you stay. You meet his gaze with quiet certainty, as if you see something beyond the blood, beyond the beast. It unsettles him. It grounds him. He isn’t sure which one is worse.

- He moves before he can think better of it, closing the space between you in a heartbeat. His hand cups the back of your neck, calloused and warm, and then his mouth is on yours. Logan doesn’t kiss like a man who’s uncertain—he kisses like a man who has spent lifetimes waiting, like a man who doesn’t know softness but is willing to learn. It’s possessive, a growl at the back of his throat, the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the sheer force of him overwhelming in the best way.

- When he finally pulls away, his forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven. "You sure about this, darlin'?" The question is low, gruff, but there’s something hesitant beneath it, something almost fragile. And when your fingers tighten in his shirt, pulling him back in, Logan exhales like he’s found something worth holding onto.

REMY LEBEAU (GAMBIT)

- The game has been going on all night—the dance of glances, the teasing words wrapped in silk, the unspoken challenge between you and the infamous Gambit. Remy thrives on this, on the art of pursuit, on the thrill of a gamble. But this? This is different. You’re not just another conquest, another momentary pleasure to chase and leave behind. No, you are something far more dangerous. You are a risk that he is terrified to take—but he’s never been one to back down from a high-stakes game.

- "You know, chère," he drawls, voice smooth as whiskey, "I t’ink you enjoy makin’ me wait." His fingers brush over yours where they rest on the poker table, a barely-there touch that sends heat skittering up your spine. He’s been flirting with you for months, every word a promise, every touch a question. But you’ve held him at arm’s length, making him work for it, making him want it. And oh, does he want it.

- The moment happens fast—one second, he’s watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk, and the next, he’s got you pressed against the wall of the dimly lit bar, his body caging yours in. His hands are warm, his eyes burning with something deeper than mischief. "No more games, mon amour," he murmurs, and then his lips are on yours. It’s devastating, slow but demanding, a thief taking exactly what he wants. He tastes like danger and something achingly sweet, like the promise of trouble you never want to escape.

- When he pulls back, he grins, his forehead resting against yours. "Worth de wait, non?" And the way your fingers tighten in his coat tells him everything he needs to know.

KURT WAGNER (NIGHTCRAWLER)

- The air is thick with laughter, with warmth, with the quiet kind of joy that comes from simply existing beside someone who makes the world a little lighter. Kurt has always been light, despite the weight of the world, despite the way people see him as something other, something monstrous. But you have never looked at him that way. Never once. And tonight, beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns strung across the Xavier mansion’s garden, he realizes just how much that means.

- "Do you ever wonder if things happen for a reason?" he muses, his tail flicking idly as he leans beside you against the railing. His accent makes the words sound almost wistful, almost like something out of a fairytale. And you, ever his willing audience, tilt your head in curiosity. "Like destiny?"

- He hesitates only a moment before reaching for you, his three-fingered hand curling around yours. His skin is warm, his touch hesitant, reverent. "I do not believe I deserve such a gift," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "But if I did… I t’ink it would be you." The words linger between you, delicate, uncertain. And then, as if drawn by something beyond himself, he leans in. The kiss is soft, almost shy, the kind of kiss that speaks of quiet longing, of devotion that has been waiting for its moment.

- When he pulls away, his golden eyes search yours, as if waiting for permission to believe this is real. And when you smile—when you pull him back in, your hands tangling in the soft curls at the nape of his neck—Kurt exhales, a prayer answered.

SCOTT SUMMERS (CYCLOPS)

- Scott has always been a man of control, of discipline, of walls built high enough to keep even himself out. He has to be—leadership demands it, survival depends on it. But when it comes to you, control is a battle he is losing. The way you look at him, the way you challenge him, the way you make him feel like something more than just a soldier—it unravels him in ways he is still struggling to understand.

- "I shouldn’t," he says, voice tight, almost pained. You are standing too close, your fingers brushing against his wrist, grounding him in a way that makes his head spin. His ruby-quartz lenses shield his eyes, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the way it lingers. "It’s not safe." He means the words—Scott has spent too long holding himself back, afraid of losing control, afraid of what he might destroy. But it’s too late for that. He’s already falling.

- The moment is inevitable. He moves with the careful precision of a man who is both afraid and desperate, his lips finding yours in a kiss that is searing, controlled, but barely. His hands frame your face, steady despite the war waging beneath his skin. It’s overwhelming—the heat of it, the weight of years spent denying himself anything that felt this real.

- When he pulls away, he exhales sharply, as if catching his breath after a battle hard-fought. His fingers linger at your jaw, his touch hesitant. "Tell me to stop," he says, but there’s no conviction in it. And when you shake your head, when you pull him back in, Scott lets himself fall, for once surrendering to something other than duty.

JEAN GREY (PHOENIX)

- There are moments when Jean feels like she is too much. Too much power, too much feeling, too much of something vast and unknowable. She has spent years keeping herself restrained, learning control as though her heart beats to a metronome rather than a wild drum. But when she is with you, she wonders if it is safe to be unguarded, if it is safe to be simply Jean and nothing more.

- Tonight, she lets herself be soft. The two of you sit beneath the vastness of the stars, the Xavier mansion looming behind you, distant and forgotten for now. The night is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees, but inside Jean’s mind, there is no quiet—not when you are near. She doesn’t need to read your thoughts to know what lingers there. She can feel it, in the way your fingers brush against hers, in the warmth of your presence.

- "I don’t want to be careful with you," she murmurs, and there is something raw in her voice, something aching. And then she kisses you—not hesitant, not restrained, but with the kind of intensity that burns. Her fingers thread through your hair, her breath stolen between heartbeats, between the desperate need to be close, to feel something beyond the weight of what she is. It is both gentle and consuming, a force of nature wrapped in something heartbreakingly human.

- When she pulls away, her hands linger against your jaw, and she smiles—something small, something meant only for you. "Tell me I don’t have to hold back," she whispers. And when you answer her with another kiss, she knows she has found something worth surrendering to.

ORORO MUNROE (STORM)

- The sky has always been an extension of Ororo, a reflection of the emotions she keeps locked beneath careful serenity. But tonight, there is no storm. No restless wind, no rolling thunder—only the gentle hum of the night and the warmth of your presence beside her. She watches you in the dim glow of candlelight, her eyes filled with something unreadable, something vast.

- "Do you ever wonder how small we are?" she muses, her voice as soft as the breeze that dances through your hair. The two of you stand on the rooftop of the Xavier mansion, the city lights glimmering in the distance, but all she can see is you. Ororo has spent a lifetime above the world, both in spirit and in form, but with you, she feels grounded in a way she has never known before.

- She reaches for you, her fingers tracing a path along your cheek, as though memorizing something she never wishes to forget. And then she leans in, her lips brushing against yours like a whispered secret, like the first breath before a storm. The kiss is deliberate, reverent, like the way the rain kisses the earth after a long drought. There is patience in it, tenderness, but beneath that—something deeper. A quiet promise, an unspoken devotion.

- When she pulls back, the night is still, holding its breath as though the world itself has taken notice of this moment. Ororo’s lips curl into a small, knowing smile. "I think," she murmurs, "that you are the only thing that has ever made me want to stay on the ground."

ROGUE

- She has spent her whole life fearing touch. It is a cruel thing, to want something so deeply and yet never be able to have it. But with you, the longing is unbearable, suffocating, twisting in her chest like something wild and restless. She has kissed before—quick, fleeting moments stolen behind barriers, through gloves, through layers of caution. But never like this. Never real.

- "Ah don’t wanna hurt you," she says, and there is a tremble in her voice, something vulnerable hidden beneath her usual confidence. You are standing too close, and she should move away, should create distance like she always does—but she can’t. Not this time. Not with you.

- The decision is made before she can talk herself out of it. Her gloved hand curls around the back of your neck, and then she kisses you. There is something desperate in it, something that tastes of loneliness and longing, of a girl who has spent her whole life reaching for something just out of her grasp. It is bruising, filled with everything she has never been able to say, everything she has been too afraid to feel.

- When she pulls back, her breathing is ragged, her forehead resting against yours. "Tell me you ain't scared," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. And when you don’t pull away—when your fingers tighten in her jacket, grounding her—Rogue exhales like she has finally found a place where she belongs.

ERIK LEHNSHERR (MAGNETO)

- Love has always been a dangerous thing for Erik. It is weakness, vulnerability—something that has been used against him too many times before. But you are different. You have always been different. You do not flinch from the sharp edges of him, from the darkness that lingers in his eyes. And that terrifies him more than anything.

- "I have lost too much already," he confesses, his voice low, rough. The two of you stand beneath the ruins of something long abandoned, a place Erik has brought you to without thinking, without realizing how much it means. He does not let people in, does not allow himself to want—but with you, want has become an inevitability.

- And then he kisses you. It is not gentle. It is not sweet. It is a claim, fierce and unyielding, filled with the kind of hunger that comes from a man who has spent his life fighting for something just out of reach. His hands grip your waist, his touch firm, possessive, as though trying to convince himself that you are real, that this moment is not something that will be ripped away like all the others.

- When he finally pulls away, his breathing is uneven, his gaze sharp as steel. "You should leave," he says, but his hands do not let go. And when you press your forehead against his, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, Erik exhales—because for once in his life, he does not want to be alone.

CHARLES XAVIER (PROFESSOR X)

- Charles has always known the power of words. He wields them like a scalpel—precise, careful, capable of shaping the world with nothing more than the way they are spoken. But for all his eloquence, for all his careful consideration, he finds himself at a loss when it comes to you. There are no words vast enough to encapsulate the way he feels when he looks at you, no sentence that could hold the quiet reverence that settles in his chest whenever you are near.

- Tonight, the mansion is quiet, the hum of distant thoughts nothing more than a murmur in the back of his mind. You are seated beside him in the library, the warm glow of lamplight casting shadows across your face, and Charles cannot help but admire you as one might admire a great work of art. "You are always in my thoughts," he confesses, his voice as soft as the turning of a page. "Even when I try to quiet them."

- The admission hangs between you like something fragile, something waiting to be touched. And then, with a slowness that is almost agonizing, Charles reaches for you. His fingers brush against your cheek, a gentle caress, before he leans in. The kiss is hesitant at first, delicate, as though he is memorizing the feel of you in increments, but then it deepens—controlled, measured, but filled with something infinite. He is not a man prone to indulgence, but in this moment, he allows himself to want.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "You are the only thought I never wish to quiet," he murmurs, and in that moment, you realize Charles Xavier, for all his wisdom, has finally found something beyond the realm of his own understanding.

WANDA MAXIMOFF (SCARLET WITCH)

- Wanda has spent her life surrounded by chaos. It follows her like a shadow, whispering in the language of things broken and rewritten, of destinies unraveled and reshaped. But when she is with you, there is quiet. Not silence—never silence—but a kind of stillness she has never known before, as though the world itself pauses when you are near.

- The two of you stand in the remnants of twilight, the air thick with the scent of rain, the horizon streaked in shades of crimson and gold. Wanda’s fingers are entwined with yours, her grip hesitant, uncertain. "I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I think—when I’m with you—it feels like something I don’t have to be afraid of."

- And then she kisses you. It is not tentative, nor is it rushed. It is deliberate, the kind of kiss that unravels something deep within, the kind that reshapes and remakes. Her hands cradle your face, her touch featherlight yet unyielding, as if afraid you might slip through her fingers like all the things she has lost. There is magic in it, something ancient and aching, something that feels like the bending of time itself.

- When she pulls back, her lips are parted, her breath unsteady. A flicker of red dances in her eyes, the remnants of something too vast to name. "Don’t let me become a ghost," she whispers. And when you pull her close again, when you press your lips to hers once more, you promise that she never will.

PIETRO MAXIMOFF (QUICKSILVER)

- Love has always been something fleeting for Pietro. He moves too fast, lives too fast, feels too much—always chasing, always running, as if afraid that if he stays still for too long, the world might catch up and swallow him whole. But with you, time slows. It bends in a way he never thought possible, as though the universe itself concedes to your presence, as though you are the one thing in this world worth pausing for.

- "I don’t do slow," he says, his voice laced with something teasing, something deflective—but there is honesty beneath it, a quiet confession hidden between syllables. The two of you sit on the rooftop of the mansion, the night air cool against your skin, the distant sounds of the city humming like a heartbeat. Pietro is never still, even now—his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his knee, his body humming with energy he cannot quite contain.

- And then, in a moment of stillness so rare it feels almost sacred, he leans in. The kiss is electric, filled with the kind of urgency that comes from a man who has spent his life moving at the speed of light. His hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, as if trying to memorize the shape of you, the feel of you, before the world inevitably pulls him away. It is messy, breathless, real—a collision rather than a meeting, an unstoppable force finally finding something worth stopping for.

- When he finally pulls back, his lips are curled into a smirk, but there is something soft in his expression, something unspoken. "You make me want to stay," he murmurs, and for the first time in his life, Pietro Maximoff does not feel the need to run.

HANK MCCOY (BEAST)

- Love has always been an intellectual thing for Hank. He understands it in theory, can dissect it like a scientist studying a phenomenon, can quote poetry and philosophy on its nature. But experiencing it? That is something else entirely. With you, it is not logical. It is not something he can quantify or analyze. It simply is.

- The two of you sit in his study, the air thick with the scent of old books and ink, the soft glow of candlelight casting golden hues across the room. Hank watches you from behind his glasses, his fingers curled around the spine of a worn-out novel, though he has long since abandoned the words on the page. "There is a passage in Shakespeare," he muses, his voice thoughtful, almost absent. "That speaks of love as an ever-fixed mark. Something that does not falter, even in the face of the storm."

- And then, as if compelled by something greater than reason, he reaches for you. The kiss is slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that speaks in volumes unspoken. His hand cradles the back of your head, his touch reverent, almost disbelieving. It is a scholar studying the divine, a man who has spent his life in books finally understanding the very thing poets have written about for centuries.

- When he pulls away, his breath is uneven, his glasses slightly askew. He chuckles—warm, a little self-conscious—before resting his forehead against yours. "For once," he murmurs, a smile playing at the edges of his lips, "I find myself at a loss for words." And for Hank McCoy, that is perhaps the truest testament of love.

EMMA FROST (WHITE QUEEN)

- Emma Frost does not give her heart easily. She wears her love like she wears her diamonds—pristine, untouchable, something to be admired from a distance but never possessed. She has spent a lifetime fortifying herself against weakness, constructing walls of ice so thick that even the warmth of devotion could never hope to melt them. And yet, when she looks at you, she feels them crack, just a little, just enough to let the light in.

- The Hellfire Club is a gilded cage of smoke and opulence, but tonight, it is just you and her, the world reduced to the quiet hum of distant music and the press of your bodies too close to be innocent. “You make me reckless,” she murmurs, her voice honeyed, edged with something sharp, something dangerous. There is a challenge in her gaze, as if daring you to step closer, to be foolish enough to reach for something that others have burned trying to touch.

- And then, with the kind of certainty only Emma possesses, she leans in. The kiss is not soft; Emma Frost does nothing softly. It is precise, calculated, as if she is determining just how much of herself she is willing to give. But then—then—you respond, and she forgets all about restraint. Her hands fist in your clothing, pulling you against her, her lips parting against yours in something that feels like surrender, like the slow unraveling of the woman who has never allowed herself to want.

- When she pulls back, her breath is even, her expression unreadable. But there is something different in her eyes—something raw, something that should not exist in a woman who has spent her life perfecting the art of emotional detachment. "Tell anyone I did that first," she drawls, smoothing a hand over her pristine white attire, "and I’ll turn your mind inside out." But the way she looks at you after—the way her fingers linger against yours—is softer than any words she will allow herself to say.

LAURA KINNEY (X-23)

- Love has never been gentle for Laura. It has been ripped from her hands, shattered and rebuilt into something unrecognizable, turned into a weapon like everything else in her life. She does not trust easily, does not give affection freely, but you—you are something different. Something that doesn’t demand, doesn’t take, but simply waits. And that terrifies her.

- It happens in the aftermath of a fight, blood still drying on her knuckles, the air thick with the scent of adrenaline and gunpowder. You are close, too close, inspecting a wound on her arm that she doesn’t care about, but you do. "You’re bleeding," you murmur, and Laura doesn’t understand why those words make something in her chest hurt more than any wound ever could.

- And then, without warning, she kisses you. It is rough, almost desperate, her hands gripping the sides of your face as if trying to confirm that you are real, that this feeling—the way you look at her like she is more than the violence carved into her skin—is real. She does not know how to be soft, does not know how to ease into things gently, so she kisses you the way she fights: with everything she has, with an intensity that could break ribs.

- When she pulls away, she does not speak. Her breath is unsteady, her expression unreadable. But then she presses her forehead to yours, her fingers still curled around your collar, holding on as if she expects you to disappear. "If you leave," she finally murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, "I’ll find you." It is not a threat. It is a promise.

WADE WILSON (DEADPOOL)

- Wade Wilson falls too fast and too hard. He loves like he fights—messy, reckless, throwing himself in headfirst without caring if he’ll get hurt. He makes jokes because the silence is unbearable, because the thought of you looking at him too closely is enough to send him spiraling. But for all his bravado, for all his crass humor, Wade has never been kissed in a way that wasn’t a joke, a mistake, or a transaction. Until you.

- "Okay, so I’m about to do something really stupid," he announces, standing far too close in the neon glow of a shitty diner sign, the night air thick with the scent of grease and rain. "Like, really stupid. Stupid on a level that would make even Deadpool go, ‘Dude, bad idea.’ And that guy makes terrible life choices."

- And then, before you can say anything, he grabs you by the collar of your jacket and kisses you. It is not smooth, not elegant. It is Wade Wilson, which means it is all-in, no hesitation, no half-measures. His hands are shaking, but his lips are sure, as if he has been waiting for this for a lifetime, as if he is afraid that if he doesn’t kiss you now, he’ll never get the chance.

- When he pulls away, he is breathless, eyes searching yours as if waiting for the inevitable punchline, for the moment where you’ll laugh and tell him it was all a joke. But when you don’t—when you just look at him, like he is something worth holding onto—he lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. "Holy shit," he mutters. "That was actually kinda romantic. Mark it down in history, babe. First time for everything."

CABLE (NATHAN SUMMERS)

- Nathan Summers is not a man accustomed to softness. His hands have known war for too long, his body a graveyard of scars from battles fought across time itself. He does not waste energy on things that are fleeting, does not allow himself to indulge in things he cannot keep. And yet, with you, all of that certainty wavers.

- It happens after a mission, the two of you holed up in some abandoned safe house, the air thick with the remnants of exhaustion and unspoken words. He is injured—nothing fatal, but enough to make you worry, enough to make you press a damp cloth to his temple with a tenderness he does not deserve. "You need to let people take care of you sometimes," you murmur, and Nathan exhales, something heavy settling in his chest.

- He does not speak. Does not offer some poetic declaration. Instead, he reaches for you, fingers rough against the smoothness of your jaw, and pulls you in. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he is trying to memorize the shape of you, the taste of you, before the world inevitably takes him away again. There is no desperation in it, only certainty—the kiss of a man who has seen the end of everything and still chooses to hold onto this, onto you.

- When he pulls back, he does not move far, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing steady despite the storm raging inside him. "I don’t know what happens next," he admits, voice low, rough. "But I know I’m not letting go." And when you kiss him again, you make sure he understands—he won’t have to.

COLOSSUS (PIOTR RASPUTIN)

- Piotr is careful, always careful. He holds back without realizing it, even when the world is falling apart. There is a gentleness in him, buried beneath the steel of his body, a softness that has nothing to do with flesh. He fears his own strength, fears the way his hands, built for war, could break something as delicate as love. And yet, when he looks at you, he wants—needs—to touch, to hold, to feel.

- The battlefield is quiet now, the fight won, though the ruins around you still smoke from the echoes of destruction. You are weary, dust clinging to your skin, but Piotr—Piotr is unyielding, a silver sentinel standing guard over you. He reaches out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and you feel the weight of it, the solidity, the way he is always there, always enduring. “Are you hurt?” His voice is deep, thick with the accent that makes his words sound like poetry.

- You shake your head, but his expression is still storm-dark with concern. And then, as if something inside him finally snaps, he kisses you. His lips are unrelenting, unyielding metal against the warmth of your mouth, yet it is the gentlest thing he has ever done. He does not pull you close—he is afraid of hurting you—but his hands hover, trembling, aching to hold, to claim, to love without fear of breaking.

- When he finally pulls away, he presses his forehead to yours, and for the first time, you feel the heat of him, even in his steel form. “I will be careful,” he promises, voice thick, barely more than a whisper. “But I will never hold back from you again.”

MAGIK (ILLYANA RASPUTINA)

- Illyana does not love easily. She has been carved from darkness, tempered in the heat of Limbo, sharpened into something lethal. Love is a weakness—or so she has always believed. But then there is you, and the way you see her, past the demons, past the blades, past the girl who spent too many years clawing her way through the dark. You make her feel human, and that terrifies her.

- You are standing at the edge of a summoning circle, watching as she mutters an incantation, her voice a low, rolling thing that feels like ancient power wrapped in velvet. “You are distracting me,” she accuses, though there is no real bite in her words. You smirk, unrepentant. “You like it,” you tease. Illyana narrows her eyes. “Do not push your luck.”

- And then, before you can react, she steps forward, seizes your collar, and kisses you. It is sharp, heated, a wildfire consuming the space between you. Illyana kisses like she fights—with precision, with confidence, with the knowledge that she is taking exactly what she wants. There is no hesitation, no fear, only the surety of someone who has walked through hell and come out the other side.

- When she finally pulls away, she lingers, her forehead pressing against yours, her breath warm against your lips. “You make me feel alive,” she murmurs, almost reluctant, almost as if admitting it gives you too much power over her. And then, with a smirk of her own, she adds, “Try not to let it go to your head.”

KITTY PRYDE (SHADOWCAT)

- Kitty has always been in motion, always slipping through things—walls, expectations, relationships that never seemed to stick. She is the girl who walks between worlds, never quite settling, never quite stopping. But with you, something is different. With you, she doesn’t want to run. She wants to stay.

- It happens in the quiet of the X-Mansion, long after the others have gone to bed. You are both sprawled on the couch, the glow of the TV flickering against the walls, some old movie playing that neither of you are paying attention to. Kitty is curled up beside you, her head resting against your shoulder, and you feel her exhale, long and slow, as if breathing you in.

- Then, without warning, she phases through you—just enough to shift, just enough to turn, just enough to press her lips to yours in one smooth, effortless motion. The kiss is soft, almost hesitant, but there is something fierce beneath it, something hungry, something that says finally. She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t disappear. She stays, fingers tangled in your collar, grounding herself in you as if anchoring herself to something real.

- When she pulls back, she grins, breathless, eyes bright. “Guess I finally figured out how to stop running,” she murmurs. And this time, when she kisses you again, it is certain.

MORPH (KEVIN SYDNEY)

- With Morph, love is never boring. He is laughter in the middle of a crisis, mischief hidden behind a smile, a shapeshifter who wears a thousand faces but only one when he looks at you. He is always changing, always adapting, but his feelings for you? Those are the one thing he has never wanted to change.

- You are in the middle of an argument—not a real one, not the kind with anger or pain, but the kind that is all teasing and playful jabs. “I totally won that fight,” he declares, arms crossed over his chest. You arch a brow. “You got thrown into a dumpster.” Morph smirks. “And I made it look good.”

- Then, without warning, he shifts—his features morphing, softening, contorting into your own face. “See?” he teases, voice now identical to yours. “How could you be mad at this?” And then, still wearing your face, he leans in and kisses you. The sensation is strange, uncanny, like kissing your own reflection, and yet—it’s him. You can feel it in the way his lips curve into a smirk, in the way his fingers curl around your wrist.

    The house is silent, brightly decorated with pictures of your close friends lining the walls of the hallway. The sounds of your husband quietly shushing your infant son gradually become easier to hear when you reach the cracked door of the nursery, pushing it open as quietly as you can.

    Warren’s back is facing you, fluffy wings almost glowing where the sunrays touch his feathers. Your newborn is sleeping in his arms, napping after a lunchtime bottle. He’s bouncing the baby just slightly, and you swear you can see his smile without ever having to see his face. It’s a sweet moment you want to crystalize in your memories. You lean against the doorway, smiling just as bright as you’re sure he is.

    "Hi~" You say sweetly after a moment. You were right. Warren’s happy smile is bright and blinding when he turns to look at you.

    "Hey," He says quickly, lifting your sleeping son so that you can see him better. "Hi Mama, say hi Mama!" Warren whispers as he lifts the baby’s pudgy little hand to wave at you. You can’t help but giggle, walking forward to kiss both of them on their cheeks- your little one not stirring from his nap. You take a breath afterward, leaning against his side as you debate telling him.

    “Something wrong?” Warren asks, one of his wings stretching out to wrap around your side and pull you closer to him. Normally you giggle, but today you bite your lip, unsure.

    "Your dad called." Your words are soft when you say it, and Warren immediately laughs in a way that sounds more like a scoff.

    “His secretary, you mean.” Warren attempts to correct, and his joking tone makes you frown a little, rubbing his upper arm in an attempt to be soothing.

    “No, not her, honey.” Warren stays silent after you say it, his brow furrowing as his face turns into a reflection of confusion and sadness. You can see the conflict as he turns the words over in his head, cooing and shushing your son back to sleep when he starts to stir a little, feeling the atmosphere shift. 

    “...what did he want?” He asks, voice low and quiet.

    “He left a message on the answering machine if you want to listen to it.” You tell him. “He, well… He wants to meet his grandson.” Warren scoffs at that, shaking his head as he starts to pace the room a little. You stand there, grounded as you watch him process the sudden contact.

    “He really said that? After all he’s put me through, he wants to meet our son… What a joke.” You grimace when Warren starts to laugh. He finally stops pacing to gently lay your son back in his crib. He leans against the side with one hand as the other rubs his eyes before it slides up to run through his hair.

    “Do you want him to?” You ask after a moment, stepping over to his side. He leans into your touch when you reach out to hold his cheek.

    “I-” Warren stops himself, taking a deep breath as he takes your hand in his own. “What do you want to do?” He asks instead. You shake your head at him, taking hold of his hand in both of yours, tracing the wedding band on his finger.

    “He’s your dad, love. It’s your choice.” You say softly. Warren is still frowning, and he lets out a long breath, deflating a little bit. He turns around to face you, pressing a kiss to your temple and holding you there for a long moment. You wish you had even a fraction of Jean’s or the Professor’s power, if only you could see what was going on in that head of his. He pulls you into a side hug, and the two of you spend a long while looking at your infant in the crib. The perfect mixture of the both of you. Certain to be a mutant in his own right. You can tell Warren spends every second thinking about it.

    When he steps away from you, He’s silent.

    “Warren?” You call out for him as he leaves the room. You’re about to follow when you hear the distinct sound of your son about to wake up, the little whine catching your attention as you coo him back to sleep instead. The door to the nursery is open, and just faintly down the hall, you hear the sound of the landline starting to ring.

    “Hey, Dad, it’s Warren. Is Saturday okay?”

Piotr Rasputin

GOD this man is so good with kids. I mean, have you seen those comic panels with him and his sister??

This man was made, built, forged to be a dad. He's protective but encouraging, and although he may be blunt, he knows when his kiddo needs some comfort.

He takes all the classes with you during the pregnancy, and he knows he'd never hurt his baby, but there's always a lil bit of worry in the back of his mind. He's a little too strong, and he hates the thought of slipping up and accidentally harming this fragile little soul the two of you brought into this world.

He gains confidence with time, and when the baby arrives he's always carrying them securely on one thick arm, belly down as they sleep soundly against him.

    His baby is so small when they hand her to him in the hospital. She's tiny. Smaller than the width of his arm. He looks like a giant as he holds her, sat next to your bedside as you recover from her delivery. He's in awe as he looks at her, a tiny little life, the greatest gift you've ever given him besides your hand in marriage. 

    You and others had always joked that his baby would be huge, big-headed, 99th percentile, and he never minded it. It was no secret that he was a big man, and he didn't mind what size the baby was as long as it was healthy, and looking at the little bundle of joy in his arms, he decides he wouldn't have it any other way.

    It's almost comical, how small she is. Hell, even you might have doubted the paternity of the baby girl if it hadn't been for her head of pitch-black hair, and pretty blue eyes. Almost a carbon copy of himself.

    “She has your eyes.” You say once her cries quiet down, and she begins to fall asleep in her father's arms.

    “No.” Piotr hums, gingerly touching his daughter's face. “They look much more like Illyana's.” You hadn't thought about that before, but now that he mentions it, the resemblance is undeniable. You giggle at that, Scooting closer so that you can lean on his shoulder.

    “The nurse said that she's waiting outside, when you're ready. I'm sure she's beyond excited to meet her niece.” You mumble. Piotr has placed a finger in the palm of your baby's hand, both of you smiling when the little fingers do their best to try and close around his fingertip. Piotr cannot wait to see the face of his sister when she sees your baby, but he'll be the first to admit, he'd like it if this moment could just last a little while longer.

Kurt wagner

Kurt is such a good dad oh my god.

He's always talking about you and the kids, bragging about literally everything you do ever. He's the kind of dad that has endless photos of his kiddos in his wallet, car, locker, everywhere.

And he's so devoted, too. He'll do anything you ask him to do during the newborn stage (and after) and is beyond supportive. His goals are happy Spouse, Happy kids, Happy life.

He's also very sentimental :) he thanks god every day for you and the blessing that is your baby.

    Kurt’s side of the bed was empty when you woke up this morning, and despite the normal amount of anxiety you normally feel when that happens, you feel peaceful. You’re smiling at the empty mattress, rolling over to his side to push your face into his pillow, taking a deep breath. Used to, you would be worried. You would wonder where he was, or if he was safe. If he had gone off on some x-men mission without telling you (which he never did). But today, you know exactly where he is. You’re smiling now as you think about it, pressing a kiss to his pillow before standing up.

    There’s a soft humming in the house, quiet and soothing. It’s not hard to figure out where it’s coming from, the path to the spare room having become second nature to you- although, it really wasn’t much of a spare room anymore. You try not to be too loud when you enter the room through the cracked door.

   Kurt is humming sweetly, your son laid out on the changing table as Kurt finishes worming his pudgy little legs through a new onesie. The baby whines a little, squirming around as Kurt attempts to change his clothes. 

    “Patience, Mein kleiner Schatz. This won’t take long.” Kurt says sweetly. Your son isn’t really having this whole changing business, and it makes Kurt chuckle. His tail is wrapped around a bottle of milk, and he sets it to the side right before he snakes his tail over the crib. He brushes the spaded end lovingly over your baby’s cheek as a distraction, and the infant coos as he finishes getting his arms through the sleeves. His tail takes over from there, buttoning the onesie's clasps as he turns to grab the bottle of milk instead- stopping for a split second when he sees you in the doorway. Kurt smiles.

    “How are my boys?” You ask, voice a little rough from sleep.

    “Gut! And lively, it seems.” He tells you. He passes the bottle off to his tail again when you walk over, taking you into his arms as he shakes the formula up a little more. Kurt kisses you sweetly on the lips, pressing his forehead against your own when you separate. 

    “Guten Morgen, Schatz. How are you feeling?” You swear you fall in love with him all over again each day when he greets you like that. You shrug your shoulders in response, smile dropping just a little bit.

    “I’m okay. Still tired, and definitely still bloated, but I’m okay.” You admit. Kurt frowns a little, brushing some hair from your face.

    “Did you see the medicine I left for you on the nightstand?” Kurt asks, and you immediately make a bit of a silly face, remembering that you didn’t exactly get up on your own side of the bed today. Kurt knows what that looks means and begins to laugh, just as your son begins to whimper and whine to be held and fed. You try to go pick him up, but Kurt stops you as he picks your baby up instead, bottle at the ready.

   “Go take your meds, I’ve got him, Liebchen.”

Remy LeBeau

Remy is a little nervous to be a dad.

Not in a flight way!! He's just a little worried that he'll be a bad influence on the kiddo. and well, I mean sure. If you're worried about the kiddo being a little rager and being into a few to many wild hobbies I guess (usually comes with the cajun territory)- but overall, Gambit is such a sweetheart, and if anything his kiddos would be so respectful and loving towards their parents.

Remy's very protective over your baby. The protectiveness is at it's height around 0-3yrs of age, but it never, ever goes away completely.

He might talk some smack about how a little bit of dirt/germs never hurt anyone, but He's actually the kind of dad that makes everyone put germex on before even thinking about holding the baby.

He's on top of feedings, and never fears a blowout when it comes to changing diapers (no matter how much he might gag). He might not have the diaper back stocked and loaded 24/7, but he's doing the best he can.

    When you wake up, It’s about 3am. Your eyes blink oper wearily, and the light from the alarm clock is practically burning into your eyes. You want nothing more to curl up and go back to sleep, and you almost do, until the time actually registers.

    3am. Its 3am, and you went to bed at 10pm. This is the first time you’ve woken up since then. Your veins feel like ice when you realize that you haven't heard the baby cry once. You rip the cover off of you, breaking out in a panicked run across the hall to check on your newborn. You don’t even realize that Remy isn’t even in bed until you slam the door open and see him standing there, your daughter in his arms as he rocks her to sleep in the rocking chair You breathe a sigh of relief as he looks at you with a tired smile, but your anxiety still remains.

    “Remy? Is she okay?” You whisper, practically leaping over to his side to take the little one out of his arms.

    “She’s Okay, Cher.” Remy replies softly. He stands from the chair, wrapping his hands around your back, the infant snug in between your bodies. You sigh again, taking a moment to look at your daughter carefully, eyeing her chest as it rises and falls, and straining your ears to hear her breathing. Remy gives you a second to get situated, yawning just a bit as he sways the three of you as you stand there. You relax as he holds you both, resting your head against his shoulder.

    “Why don’ you go back to bed.” Remy says after a long minute. “That was the longest I’ve seen you sleep in a while.” You frown. He’s not wrong. Your newborn has been a bit colicky lately, crying for nights on end since you brought her home with very few things to keep her comfortable. She has started to grow out of it, but the effects still remained. She cries a lot at nighttime, and it makes you wonder if that’s why you had slept so long, because of Remy staying up to keep her quiet.

    “And leave you here? Remy, how long have you been awake?” You ask, looking up at his face. He shrugs, smiling still as the three of you sway.

    “I’m fine. I can stay up all night if I need to, as long as you get to catch up on some sleep.” If it were any other circumstance, you might have swooned at the words. As sweet is he is, you can’t let him do that! He begins to step away to place your daughter in her crib, and you hold yourself back from trying to take her from him and commanding him to just go to bed.

    “Remy-”

    “Ah ah ah, Cher, don’t wake ma petit, now.” Remy cuts you off with a whisper, turning around to place a finger against his lips in a shushing motion. He almost makes you giggle, but instead, you simply shake your head at him. He pulls you into a loving kiss when he’s close enough, running his hand through your hair. You know he’s waiting for you to pull back, to retreat into the bedroom to sleep like he asked you to, but you’re still hesitant. He knows your stubbornness firsthand and chuckles when he pulls back a little.

It's almost pitiful how freely tears fall from your eyes, the buzz from the night still lingering deeply in your mind. Your legs were tugged to your chest, bending you at angles you never thought possible. Even more impossible, a pressure slowly forcing its way into you from below.

It's even more pitiful how you choke when a hand gentle craddles your cheek, foreign words coming to kiss away your tears as you groan in the darkness - adjusting, regretting, yearning.

A small grunt accentuates in your ear, a mix of Russian muttered into the darkness -a curse or a prayer- as the bed dips near your head. A shaky breathe leaves you, hand flying to his chest before your subconscious can even compute what you're doing. Touching him.

The way he stills has you holding your breathe anxiously, quick breathes leaving you as he gently grabbed your wrist; kissing the palm reverently, like you're something to be treasured - not like the filthy thing you were. The mix of the darkness and alcohol must be messing with his mind, that had to be it.

"Говно-" Piotr mutters, a sharp word you don't recognize from the daily pool of Russian words he used leaving him, "It does not hurt... no?"

You swallow, eyes snapping down before they could even try seeking his face in the pitch black. You're hoping his eyesight is as bad as yours right now, the heat creeping up your neck and drowning your ears all too easily.

You shake your head, soon realizing he can't see you -thank god- and barely keeping the tremor out of your voice as you lie, "No."

Piotr must've caught up on something though. Maybe your voice was too wet, or you stuttered when you didn't mean to because he's quiet, looking over you, waiting. Soon whispering in the dark," Do you want to keep going?"

You swallow, because you shouldn't want to. Not before marriage, not while drunk, and certainly not with another man. It's filthy, disgusting, it's unnatural.

Another sinful sound leaves your lips, first of many that night.

"Yes."

There's a hum above you, and it sounds like a mix of approval and pity before he kisses the hand he cradled again; warming the palm. The kisses soon wander, from your wrist, to your elbow, to your shoulder, to the little spot on your neck he somehow finds far too quickly.

Piotr's hand moves from your wrist to your hand, fingers guiding but not forceful as they curl inwards; interlocking your fingers before causing a dip besides your head. The action feels far to intimate as your fingers dig into his, a small gasp leaving you when he pushes another inch in. Your eyes pools from a mix of pain and shame, and you can only hope the tears somehow drown out the little voice in the back of your head calling you a sin. This a sin.

Each inch fed into you causes a bone chilling burn in you, one that burns worse than the shame that slowly crept up your face. And fuck- fuck it felt so fucking good.

Hand traveling down, you tug at your painfully hard cock; a shaky moan leaving you, your heart quickens when Piotr squeezes your other hand in encouragement.

Your body can't help but try to push him out, the intrusion much too big, and much too overwhelming. Even with your hand stroking, thumb circling the sensitive tip of your cock and encouraging more pre-cum to weep out - your body still pushed back, trying to protect yourself.

"Let me take care of you, моя любовь." He encourages, quiet in your ear, thighs pressing into yours and guiding you to present wider for him.

He doesn't hush you as you begin to whine, only pressing sweet kisses to the side of your mouth as he feeds your body inch after inch. Each bead of sweat is soothed over, kisses peppered between your furrowed brows between his own struggled groans. Trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt, trying not to crush.

Any worry he had before from your hesitance soon melts away as you let out your first moan. He listens as your head falls into the pillow, rustling the sheets, small breathes puffing out of your mouth. Your dick twitches -betraying- turned on by your own erotic motions, not helped by the small chuckle that resonates in the air around you.

With each roll of your hips, a mix of pain and pleasure shoots up your back. Pain at how you swallow his massive dick size inch by inch, pleasure at how you buck your weeping dick into your hand -fucking it- yet pride at how you're finally taking him.

You can't deny you would size him up whenever you got the chance. Every day in the danger room, every mission was just another opportunity. How big was it? Would it hurt? Would it feel good? Kurt would tease you enough to make you realize it -you had denied it before, but now...

"It is alright, breathe, let me hear your noises." He coaxes, thumb coming to guide open your mouth; not realizing you had been biting down on your bottom lip.

You finally get to hear a noise of his own as he experimentally thrusts into you, his body stiffening and straining against you as he holds himself back. Hand squeezing yours like a life line, and you can feel how much his muscles strain to hold himself back; unwilling to break you.

Your cock is left forgotten as you move your messy hand to bunch up into the cotton of his shirt, feeling his muscles strain underneath as he slowly begins to thrust; moving in and out of you.

His forehead presses to yours, comforting you as your legs squeeze around his waist; keeping a vice grip on his body. A rather noisy sound is pulled from your throat, spine curving back as he took to chance to press small kisses up your nape.

You can't hold back the tremor this time.

"P-Piotr-" You whine, sucking in a breathe as a familiar feeling hits your stomach.

"I know." He comforts, kissing all too sweet marks to your jawline to match his thrusts.

"P-Piotr!" Your heels dig into his hips, thighs straining and shaking.

He holds you as you try to pull away from him, body shaking and voice contorting as you come with a loud shout. It's something you've never heard from yourself before, each orgasm shared in the quietness of your room alone paled in comparison to this one. Your eyes rolled back, skull almost rattling as your hand squeezed him - all at the same time trying to push away from him as your back arched.

He doesn't stop, muttering foreign words under his breathe that almost sound comforting before pressing a bruising kiss to your lips. You're confused in your haze -jostled- still being worked through your high with each soft snap of his hips, but your eyes roll back either way; eagerly taking him into your mouth with a sloppily kiss. It's uncoordinated, uneducated, and it probably fucking sucks, but Piotr doesn't seem to care as you slowly reach a boneless state; left panting on the bed, separated by a string of saliva.

You barely register as he pulls out of you with a obscene 'plop', leaving you laying on the bed as your mind slowly begins to spiral at what you had done, at how good it felt.

It hits you how quiet the room had become. Swallowing, your eyes claw to see in the dark; slowly landing on your teammates silhouette, looming over you.

"Piotr?" You groan weakly, eyes struggling to stay awake in your blissful haze.