LOGAN HOWLETT

The first time you curl into his side on the sofa in the mansion’s common room, he goes ramrod straight. A low growl rumbles in his chest. “What’re you doin’?”

“Cuddling,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“We don’t… I don’t…” He’s looking around like he expects Cyclops to leap out from behind a potted plant with a camera. “People are gonna talk.”

“Let them,” you mumble into his flannel, already half-asleep. He sits there, arms pinned to his sides, for a full twenty minutes before his posture finally, finally softens.

Cuddling Logan is an exercise in strategic positioning. You learn very quickly that a surprise back-hug while he’s sharpening his blades is a bad idea. You develop a system. A verbal cue. “Claws in, please.” He sighs, but you hear the soft snikt of them retracting. This is your equivalent of him saying “I love you.”

Logan runs hot, like a freshly stoked furnace. You run… normally. Cuddling him is like climbing onto a heated blanket set to ‘surface of the sun.’ You will last approximately four minutes before you start sweating. Then comes the dance: you peel yourself off, he grunts in protest, you lie on the cool part of the sheets, he shuffles over until his chest is pressed against your back again, and the cycle repeats.

He pretends to hate it when you insist on being the big spoon on the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. “I can’t move my arms,” he’ll grumble over the roar of the engine. But he always rides a little slower, takes the longer way back to the mansion, and you can feel the tension drain from his shoulders against your cheek.

WORST WOLVERINE !!

The first time you try cuddling the first words out of his mouth are, “What the fuck is this? A petting zoo? I’m not a goddamn stuffed animal.” You just took a look at the blood-soaked, perpetually exhausted, emotionally unstable version of Wolverine and your brain says, ‘I can fix him. But more importantly, I can cuddle him.’ 

You learn soon enough that asking for cuddles results in a tirade about his tragic past and how he doesn’t deserve soft things. So you stop asking. You’ll just be sitting on the couch, and you’ll casually say, “Don’t come near me, I want to be alone right now. I’m definitely not cold or sad.” He’ll stare at you for a long moment, then silently sit down, throw a heavy arm over your shoulders, and pull you against his chest with the force of a man trying to prove a point. He will not make eye contact.

Logan hates Wade. But the one thing he hates more than Wade is when Wade is right. And when Wade sees you trying to coax him into a hug, he’ll yell, “Just let her love you, you sad, hairy avocado! Her serotonin levels are dropping and it’s making me sad, and I can’t be sad, I have a brand to maintain!” Logan will then pull you into the most aggressive, desperate hug you’ve ever received, purely out of spite.

WADE WILSON !!

cuddling with Wade isn’t a quiet activity. It comes with a full audio commentary. “And now, the viewer will see her snuggle deeper into my manly pectoral region, a region so chiseled it could cut diamonds. But wait! Is that a yawn? A yawn of contentment, or a yawn of boredom? The suspense is killing me!” You just shove your face into his chest to muffle him. It doesn’t work. He narrates your muffled protests.

You’ll be drifting off, head on his chest, when he suddenly freezes. “Hold on. Pause the cuddle session. I need to address the audience.” He looks directly at the camera that doesn’t exist. “Yes, I know. She’s adorable. And yes, I am aware of how lucky I am. No, you can’t have her. No, not me either. Get your own emotionally unstable, chimichanga-loving mercenary.” Then he resets, pulls you back in, and says, “Okay, we’re back. Where were we? Ah, yes, being worshipped.”

For the first few weeks, he refused to take the mask off while cuddling. “It’s part of the experience! The texture adds a certain… je ne sais quoi.” You didn’t push. You just started leaving lipstick kisses all over the mask. Forehead, cheek, where his mouth would be. He tried to act disgusted, but the next day the mask was suspiciously clean and he was in a remarkably good mood. He eventually started pulling it up to just below his nose for movie nights. Progress.

He knows you’re a cuddlebug. He uses it against you. You try to be mad at him for leaving his suit in the bathroom sink? He will don his softest, most worn-out hoodie (stolen from you) and sit on the couch, arms wide, and make a sound like a wounded puppy. Your anger doesn’t stand a chance. You’re cuddled up and forgiving him before you can even finish your sentence.

ORIGINS! WADE WILSON !!

This Wade is handsome, charming, and has the ego to match. He doesn’t just cuddle; he romances you into a cuddle. He’ll come back from a mission, spin you into his arms like you’re in a ballroom, and dip you for a kiss before carrying you to the couch. “A hero’s welcome,” he’ll murmur against your lips, before settling you on his lap like you’re the treasure at the end of a quest.

He is a master swordsman, and his hands show it. They are deceptively precise. When you’re cuddling, his fingers are never still. They trace patterns on your skin: lazy figure eights, the curve of your spine, the shape of your ear. He’ll be in the middle of a story about a mission with the X-Team, and his fingers will start gently massaging your scalp, and you will forget what he was even talking about.

He’s a mercenary, so his diet is 90% whatever he can get at a diner. Cuddling with him often involves him trying to eat a club sandwich with one hand while the other is wrapped around you. You’ve learned to accept the stray piece of bacon that ends up in your hair. He’ll pick it out, eat it, and say, “Waste not, want not, sweetheart.”

Cuddling is also his preferred method of decompressing from missions. He’ll lie on his back, you’ll lie on his chest, and he’ll narrate his day like it’s an old-timey radio serial. “—and then, with my sword at his throat, I said, ‘You have something I want. You have ten seconds to hand over the intel and apologize to my lady’s photo.’” He has a photo of you in his wallet. He’s not kidding.

He’s not invincible, and he knows it. This makes him hyper-aware of your safety. If you’re cuddling and he hears something outside, his arms tighten around you like a vise. “Stay down,” he’ll whisper, suddenly all business, even though it’s just a stray cat. His reflexes are so fast that you’ve never once felt unsafe. You just feel like you’re wrapped in a cocoon of swords and charming confidence.

REMY LEBEAU !!

Remy charges everything. Including his affection. When he’s happy to see you, he doesn’t just hug you; he scoops you up, spins you around, and you swear you can see a faint pink glow around his hands. “Chère, you are lookin’ like a sunset I’d like to get lost in.” He sets you down, but keeps an arm around your waist, his thumb tracing circles on your hip.

Remy’s version of cuddling often takes place in the kitchen. He’ll be cooking something that smells divine, and you’ll wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back. He’ll just keep stirring the gumbo, talking to you in a low, honeyed drawl about the Saints, or a card game, or the way the light hits your hair. He’ll occasionally feed you a piece of sausage from the pot. It’s domestic, it’s intimate, and it’s pure Remy.

You’ll be sitting on his lap, and he’ll be playing with a deck of cards, making them dance between his fingers. He’ll hold a card up. “Pick a card, chère.” You do. He doesn’t even look at it, just tucks it back into the deck, shuffles, and then pulls a single card from behind your ear. It’s the ace of hearts. “Seems de cards are tellin’ me what I already know.” He then wraps his arms around you, and the cards are forgotten, scattered across the couch.

His hands are his livelihood. They are also your downfall. When he’s cuddling you, he’s not just holding you. He’s exploring. He’ll find the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver, the small of your back that makes you melt, the inside of your wrist that makes your heart race. He treats your body like a lock he’s trying to pick, and he’s an expert thief. “Jus’ learnin’ ya, ma petite,” he’ll murmur against your neck. “Knowin’ where to find de treasure.”

Despite his charm, he’s intensely territorial. When you’re cuddling in a common area of the mansion, and someone (usually Scott) walks by, Remy doesn’t move, but his eyes follow them with a lazy, dangerous glint. His arm around you tightens almost imperceptibly. He’s not being mean; he’s just reminding the world that this specific cuddlebug is his cuddlebug.

KURT WAGNER !!

Kurt is soft. And not just metaphorically. His fur is lit like velvet. Your first instinct upon meeting him is to pet his face. He allows it, bemused. Cuddling with him is like cuddling with a living, breathing, blue plushie that smells faintly of brimstone and has a three-toed foot in your ribs. You become inseparable. You are the human to his koala, or he is the koala to your human. The roles are fluid.

Cuddling with a teleporter is an adventure. You’ll be reading on the couch, he’ll bamf in behind you, wrap his arms and tail around you, and bamf you both to a quiet rooftop to watch the sunset. He does this constantly. You’ve learned to always have shoes on. “I wanted to show you de stars, mein Schatz,” he’ll say, his tail curling around your leg while you cling to him, laughing.

Kurt is a man of deep faith and deep thoughts. Cuddling is often accompanied by whispered philosophy. “Do you not think it is a miracle?” he’ll ask, his cheek resting on your hair. “This moment. Your heart beating against mine. A gift from God, ja?” You’ll mumble an agreement, too comfortable to form a coherent sentence. He’ll smile and press a kiss to your forehead.

His tail has a mind of its own. It’s an extension of his emotions. When he’s happy, it curls. When he’s relaxed, it’s limp. When he’s cuddling you, it’s wrapped around your waist, or your leg, or sometimes it’s just… there, offering you the tip to hold like a hand. It’s become your comfort object. You absentmindedly hold the spade-tip while you sleep, and he finds it so endearing he almost can’t breathe.

Despite his growing confidence, there are moments where he pulls back. “Are you… comfortable? I know I am not… conventionally… soft.” You look at him, this beautiful, kind, blue-furred man who smells like heaven and brimstone, and you proceed to demonstrate exactly how comfortable you are by wrapping yourself around him so thoroughly that he has to teleport to get a glass of water. He never asks again.

EDDIE BROCK ( & VENOM ) !!

Cuddling is a three-party affair. It requires a pre-snug summit. “We want to watch a movie.” Venom’s voice rumbles from Eddie’s shoulder.

“I want to be the big spoon.” you counter.

“We are always the big spoon. We are the protective one.”

“Eddie, help me out here.”

Eddie, who is already a prisoner in his own body, just sighs. “Can we all just agree to not eat anyone for the duration of the movie?” Followed by a tense silence and a reluctant: “…Fine.”

Once the negotiations are over, it’s the best cuddling experience of your life. Venom forms a living, breathing, temperature-regulating blanket. You are the little spoon. Eddie is the middle spoon. And Venom is the outer layer, a cocoon of inky black tendrils that wrap around both of you, purring like a V8 engine. It’s like being swaddled by a very protective, slightly homicidal weighted blanket.

Venom has a unique way of showing affection. When you’re all cuddled up, a tendril will snake out and… lick your head. Just a long, slow, exploratory lick. “You taste of affection and strawberries. We like it.”

“Babe, your alien is licking my head again.”

Eddie, eyes closed, face smooshed into the pillow: “Just let 'im, baby. It’s easier this way.”

You will often be woken up at 3 AM by a conversation between Eddie and Venom happening inches from your face. “No, we will not let go. She is warm.”

“I gotta pee, man.” “You will hold it.” “I can’t hold it, the symbiote bladder situation is complicated!”

You don’t even open your eyes. You just mutter, “Venom, let him go pee. He can come back.” A pause. A tendril loosens. Eddie practically flies to the bathroom. Venom wraps tighter around you. “He is weak. You are strong. We like you better.”

STEVE ROGERS !!

You learn very quickly that Steve Rogers cuddles like he’s posing for a war bond poster. You try to drape yourself over him on the couch, and he sits there, back ramrod straight, hands in his lap, like he’s waiting for a photographer.

“Steve,” you say, your face squished against his unmoving bicep. “You know you can relax, right?”

“I am relaxed,” he says, with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.

It takes weeks to get him to understand that modern cuddling is not a prelude to a formal proposal. He holds you like you’re made of glass. His hands are always in appropriate, PG-rated places. You once fell asleep with your head on his thigh, and he didn’t move for four hours because he didn’t want to “disturb” you. His legs had gone completely numb. He considered it a sacrifice worth making.

Like Logan, Steve runs hot, but his heat is more… controlled. It’s a clean, radiating warmth. Cuddling him is like lying next to a fireplace. He’s also incredibly solid. You can’t squirm or adjust without him noticing. You try to shift your weight, and his arms immediately tighten. “Are you comfortable? Do you need another pillow?” He’s such a caretaker that you almost feel bad. Almost.

Steve’s primary love language is acts of service, but he’s learning yours. He’ll be in the middle of reading a mission report, and you’ll just crawl under his arm and rest your head on his chest. He’ll pause, put the report down, and wrap both arms around you. “Was this what you needed?” he’ll ask, so earnestly. “Yes, Steve,” you’ll murmur. “This is exactly what I needed.” And he’ll hold you like it’s the most important mission he’s ever been given.

TONY STARK !!

Cuddling Tony is a challenge because he’s allergic to stillness. The moment you get comfortable, he’ll have an idea. “Hold that thought,” he’ll say, already trying to extricate himself. “I just realized how to fix the repulsor efficiency.”

You have a failsafe: you just tighten your grip and call out, “DUM-E, fire extinguisher!”

The little robot will race over and spray Tony with a cloud of foam. He’ll sigh, covered in foam, and settle back down. “Fine. You win. Ten more minutes.”

Once you’ve pinned him down, he uses his resources. The lights dim. The AC adjusts to the perfect temperature. The AI, FRIDAY, will play your favorite movie on a screen that descends from the ceiling.

“I’m creating the optimal cuddling environment,” he’ll say, pulling you against his chest. “It’s a statistical fact that a comfortable environment increases the duration of physical affection by 43%.”

“Did you just run a calculation on how long I’d cuddle you?”

“I ran several. This is the most efficient model.”

The arc reactor in his chest is a small, blue, glowing circle of light. It’s also slightly warm. You’ve discovered it’s the perfect spot to rest your head. It’s like a little nightlight and a heating pad combined. Tony pretends to be annoyed when you nuzzle into it. “You’re using my life-saving technology as a comfort object.”

“Mmhmm,” you mumble, your cheek pressed against the cool metal ring. “It’s very comfortable.”

He watches you for a moment, a soft, unguarded look on his face. “…Yeah, okay. It’s pretty comfortable.”

After a rough mission, Tony doesn’t really talk. He comes home, peels off the armor, and finds you. He’ll sit on the couch, pull you onto his lap, wrap his arms around you, and just… breathe. His face is buried in your hair. You don’t say anything. You just hold him, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of his neck. This is the only time he’s completely still, completely quiet, and completely yours.

PETER PARKER !!

Cuddling with Peter is a delicate operation. He’s been alone, forgotten, and has developed a case of touch-starvation so acute that the first time you lean your head on his shoulder during a movie, he freezes, webshooters instinctively half-raised, before his brain catches up. He doesn’t relax for the entire movie. He just… absorbs it. When you move to get up, he makes a sound like a wounded puppy.

His fingers and toes have a mild adhesive quality. When he’s relaxed and cuddling, he doesn’t always control it. You will be spooning, and you’ll try to roll over, only to find that his hand is gently, but irrevocably, stuck to your hip. “Peter,” you say, muffled by the pillow. “Your hand.”

“Sorry! Sorry!” He panics, flails, and in trying to unstick one hand, sticks the other one to your shirt, and his foot to the blanket. It takes five minutes to detach him. You both end up in a tangled, laughing heap on the floor.

His spider-sense is always on, always buzzing at a low frequency. It’s exhausting. He’s told you that the only time it truly quiets is when he’s with you. Specifically, when you’re cuddled up. He’ll come back from patrol, drop his suit in a corner, and crawl into your bed, wrapping his entire lanky frame around you like an octopus.

“It’s quiet,” he’ll whisper into your hair, and it’s the most vulnerable he ever sounds.

Peter cannot sit still. Cuddling him is like cuddling a golden retriever puppy during a sugar rush. He’ll be holding you, but he’ll also be bouncing his leg, fiddling with your sleeve, and narrating the entire plot of the movie you’re watching. “Wait, no, go back. Did he just—no, that doesn’t make sense because in issue #147, the Lizard’s formula was—” You just hold on and enjoy the ride.

For a skinny kid, he is surprisingly heavy. He doesn’t realize his own strength or density. When he decides to be the big spoon, he doesn’t just wrap an arm around you; he drapes his entire torso over you like a very affectionate, very warm, very heavy blanket. You can’t move. You don’t want to. “Is this okay?” he’ll whisper, his breath warm against your ear. “Is this… is this how you do it?” You give him a hum of appreciation up from underneath his body. It is, in fact, perfect.

THOR ODINSON !!

Thor does not understand the concept of a "gentle" cuddle. His version of pulling you into his lap is akin to a friendly giant picking up a doll. You are lifted, spun, and deposited onto his thighs with a booming, “There! Now you are comfortable, yes?” You are winded, but also deeply, deeply cozy, surrounded by muscle and Asgardian leather.

Thor’s emotions are tied to the weather. When he’s cuddling you, feeling content and peaceful, you’ll notice that the perpetually overcast sky outside your window suddenly clears, and a warm sunbeam streams in, right onto the two of you. When you have to get up to go to work, a tiny, localized raincloud forms over your head. “Do not go,” he’ll say, his arms like vices. “The mortals can wait another day.”

Thor loves to talk. Cuddling is just an excuse for him to regale you with tales of the Nine Realms. You’ll be lying with your head on his chest, and he’ll be telling you about the time he and Volstagg wrestled a Bilgesnipe. His voice is a deep, resonant rumble that vibrates through his entire body and into yours. You could listen to him for hours. You often do.

You’ve learned that braiding his hair is a form of bonding. He’ll sit on the floor, you on the couch behind him, your legs on either side of his shoulders. You’ll braid his golden locks while he tells you about his day, his head leaning back against your knee. It’s one of the few times he’s perfectly still, perfectly content. When you finish, he’ll turn and wrap his arms around your waist, looking up at you with such unabashed adoration that it makes your heart clench.

You cannot cuddle him while he’s holding Mjolnir. It’s impossible. The thing is, by Asgardian rules, also a part of him. If he’s holding it, he’s not fully relaxed. You’ve established a rule: “No hammer in the cuddle puddle.”

He’ll look at you, then at the hammer, then back at you with the expression of a man being asked to choose between his two children.

“It is my weapon, my companion, my—”

“Thor.”

“…Fine.”

He sets it on the nightstand, pouting, and immediately wraps himself around you. He forgets about the hammer within two minutes.

JOHNNY STORM !!

Johnny does not cuddle. Johnny is “too hot to handle” (his words). But you are a cuddlebug, and you are relentless. The first time you ambush him with a hug, he flames on for half a second out of pure reflex, singeing your sleeve. You just stare at him.

“Did you just—?”

“I panicked! You can’t just sneak up on a guy who is literally made of fire!”

Eventually, he learns to control it. But his baseline is still about 102 degrees. Cuddling him is like cuddling a space heater. In winter, it’s glorious. In summer, you have to keep a spray bottle nearby. He thinks it’s hilarious. “What’s wrong, babe? Too hot for ya?” You spray him in the face. He yelps, and you use his moment of weakness to wrap your arms around his neck and plant a kiss right on his lips.

Johnny is a showman. He loves being seen. And he really loves being seen with you. Cuddling with Johnny is never a private affair. He’ll pull you onto his lap in the middle of the Baxter Building’s common room, right in front of Reed and Sue. “What?” he’ll say, with a smirk. “I’m just appreciating my girlfriend.” Reed looks uncomfortable. Sue just sighs. Ben Grimm gives you a slow, deliberate thumbs up from the corner.

Johnny insists he’s the big spoon. “I’m the flame. I engulf things. I’m the dominant force.” You point out that he’s the size of a very lean, very smug string bean, and you can easily wrap yourself around him like a vine. The argument ends in a tickle fight. He loses. You are the big spoon. He’s too busy laughing to care.

PETER QUILL !!

Every cuddle session with him has a soundtrack. Peter will put on his Zune, pick a song (it’s always something from the 70s or 80s), and then pull you against him. “This is a cuddling song,” he’ll explain, as if it’s a specific genre. “It’s got to have the right vibe. Not too fast, not too slow. Good bass. Lyrics you can kinda mumble along to.” Your life is now a montage set to ELO and Hall & Oates.

On the ship, cuddling is a zero-gravity adventure. You’ll be in his bunk, which is essentially a metal alcove, and he’ll have to wrap his arms and legs around you just to keep you both from floating away.

“This is efficient cuddling,” he’ll say, his face pressed into your neck. “It’s multi-dimensional.”

“You’re just holding me hostage so I don’t float into the engine room.”

“Same thing.”

Peter cannot sit still for a cuddle without initiating a dance-off. You’ll be trying to snuggle, and he’ll start tapping your hip to the beat. Before you know it, he’s trying to twirl you around the cockpit. “Come on! Just one song! It’s a classic!” You’ll groan, but you’ll be smiling, and you’ll end up slow-dancing in the middle of the ship while Rocket makes gagging noises from the ceiling vent.

You tried to have a serious conversation with him while cuddling once. You were talking about relationship stuff, and he was listening, nodding, his arms around you. Then, you felt it. His foot started tapping. Then his leg started bouncing. You stopped talking. He was staring at a point over your shoulder.

“Peter.” “…What?” “Are you listening to ‘Footloose’ in your head?” “…It’s a very catchy song.”

You sigh, accept your fate, and just hold on while he quietly hums and air-drums against your back.

For all his bravado, Peter has deep-seated insecurities about not being enough—not Earth enough, not Celestial enough, not a good enough leader. You’ve learned that the best way to combat this is with aggressive, overwhelming affection. When he gets in his head, you simply tackle him onto the nearest flat surface and wrap yourself around him like a starfish. He’ll protest for a solid minute “What are you—hey, I’m trying to brood here!” before his arms come up to hold you, and his body goes limp with a sigh. “Okay,” he’ll whisper against your hair. “Okay. This is good.”

Your legs fidget, trying to wake up like the rest of your body. Just to be met with a growl coming from under the blanket. Mind slowly unfogging, you notice the boulder shape under the covers. Your hand moves to pull them back, Logan's face appearing with himself wrapped around your legs. Face shoved up against your mound through your sleep shorts, beard burning against your thighs while he nuzzles against your clothes slit. Taking in a deep breath, his eyes locked on the growing wet spot on the thin cotton.

"Morin' darlin'," he rasps through a scratchy morning voice. Head not lifting, not even budging as you blink away what you think is a dream.

"Logan, what the hell are you doing?" He shifts to his elbows, pushing the blanket off his head when you notice his eyes are blown wide, pupils nearly swallowing the blue of his eye whole.

"Tryna behave while you're sleepin'... Didn't wanna wake ya, but I could smell it on ya." He pushes back in, nosing at your clit through the thin cotton keeping him away from you. You preen against him with a whine, seem pressing into your sensitive bundle along with his prodding nose. Pressing up onto your elbows, he ruts his face into you. Growling again before looking up at you.

"You must have been sleepin' real good. Dreamin' about me, and what I could do to ya if you’re good for me." The familiar sound of Adamantium claws popping makes your thighs tense around his head.

"You always wanna test my patience, tap dance on my last damn nerve. But I can see it on ya too. She's just slick and waitin’ for me to enjoy her." Shiny silver slides against your skin with a gentle press under your shorts and up against the fabric. His pupils dilate like a predator spotting it's next meal.

"You don't mind me testin' that theory, do ya now? I'll make it worth your while and then some." He looks at you expectantly. Stupid little smug grin on his face. It's, obnoxiously, too inviting for you to say anything but a resounding yes.

You give a single nod before the shorts are shredded, a gasp ripping from your throat as he pounces on you like an animal. Claws retracted with a satisfied groan as he dived it. Tongue diving into your pussy like he's trying to scrape the last piece of meat off a bone. Gliding from hole to clit before driving directly into the exact spot he knows makes your toes curl up. Your feet pull at the hem of his shirt as your legs lock around him with a ragged moan.

His hand goes to your lower stomach, pressing gently to keep you in place. His nose rutting against your clit just right to make your thighs tremble as the knot in your stomach starts to form quickly.

"Logan..." You whisper his name, feeling his hand pull you down the bed closer to him. His tongue leaves your hole as two fingers glide in with ease, his lips move back to suck on the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your fingers curl into his hair out of habit, tugging at his scalp and making him vibrate against you.

A gasp leaves your lips, feeling your hips start to buck, fighting against his firm hold as the build starts to get too overwhelming. Blissful contractions fill your stomach in waves, orgasm crashing with a muffled mixture of curses and his name.

Panting, you watch him lick his own fingers clean, relishing over the mess you've made of yourself as he stands up. Tugging you to the bottom of the bed by your ankles. There's a noticeable wet spot on the front of his boxers before he discards them. Cock slapping up against the thick bushel of hair on his lower stomach, thick and swollen as he grabs it and gives himself a few strokes. A bead of pre cum slipping from the red tip that quickly moves to coat his shaft in his hand. His grip finds your legs, moving them onto his shoulders as he ruts his tip teasingly through your wet folds.

"Hope you weren't thinkin' we were done. We gotta long morin' ahead of us, darlin'. And I'm lookin’ forward to tasting every single bit of you."

Kurt

Fingers glide over your belly in your wake. Gentle and fuzzy like the body wrapped around you. Blue fur pressed against the shimmering skin of your back, a peaceful purr planted somewhere in your hair. Both of your body's bare from the previous night's actions, skin still dewy and his fur rumpled like a feral animal. His lips move when he feels you stir, kissing behind your ear before you can look back at him.

"You're purring."

"I'm very happy, I have every reason to be. Did you sleep well?" You nod with a yawn, stretching your arms with a roll of your neck. Turning your body, you press into him, his tail curling around your waist. His chuckle gracing your ears, his lips ghosting down the side of your face over the trail he's taken so many times before.

Your hand glides over his firm hairy chest, rosary glinting in the early dawn light with it tangled up in your fingers. His teeth nip at your pulse, tail flicking mischievously against your back.

"How'd you sleep?" You finally question, his head pulling back, yellow eyes looking you over with a gentle smile. His head tilts forward, foreheads meeting with a relieved sigh.

"Better next to you. It's been too long since I got to wake up to you like this." He leans in, mouth planting against yours with a sense of hunger that can only come from your mischievous boyfriend. Lips and limbs tangle together. Breaking each other open through a messy clash of teeth and tongues.

Knee pressing up between your thighs with a roll of his hips. His cocks hard and begging for attention against your stomach. You moan into his mouth before he pulls away, face pressing into your neck. Lips latching onto your pulse with a gentle nibble.

"You just had me last night, you haven't had enough of me?"

"I could never have enough of you, mein Engel." You slowly grin, hand gliding down as it wraps around his base. Making him roll into your hand as he moans at the lazy stroke. Thumb teasing along the underside of his tip just how you know he likes it. Your body's lifted, Kurt moving you against the pillows as he climbs over you. Half lidded eyes looking over you with primal hunger, tongue licking over his teeth with a soft chuckle at your startled eyes.

"You're going to be the death of me... Or my fiery descent into Hell. Especially with every sinful thought that crosses my mind when I look at you like this." You smirk, giving him a gentle squeeze and tug.

"Then I guess you'll need to say a few hail marys to make up for it." He lets out a soft chuckle before his hands wander, lips meeting yours as his thick finger glides through your folds. Plunging into your welcoming heat and stretching you open as his tongue slips into your mouth with a soft hum. His hips try to fuck into your hand as his finger curls right into that spot that has the light behind your eyes turning white with bliss.

You huff against his lips, whining when he pulls away from your grip. Shifting up onto his knees, hands guiding your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles in a snug lock. His tail wraps around your ankles to keep you in place as he lines himself up at your entrance.

Slowly, he slips in with a sigh of relief. Snug in your walls as he finds himself laying over you again. Giving you time to adjust with whispered praises against your ear in German. Your arms wrap around him, both hands digging their nails into the flesh of his shoulder blades under fur.

You moan at the first slow but rough roll of his hips. Pelvis rutting perfectly against your body with the practiced expertise of a man on a mission. The sounds of wet skin meeting damp fur fills the bedroom to mix with the blessed sounds of your mixed pleasure. Blunt nails dig into him as a rough thrust meets the perfect angle.

You cry out, feeling him shift into the right position before starting to drill into that spot with zero hesitation. Tail unraveling your ankles and pulling your legs up higher. His hand glides between yourselves, thumb circling over your clit as you clamp down around him with a soft whimper of his name.

"That's it. Take what you need from me die Liebste, it's all yours. Only yours." His forehead leans down against yours, your eyes squeezing shut with the white hot pleasure blooming through your entire body as you crash over the edge. Gripping onto him as you come with a broken moan.

His hips stutter for a moment, rolls getting sloppy before the last few pounds send him to the point of no return. Face pressing into your neck as you feel him painting your insides with a shaky pant against your skin.

Huffing and puffing you both collapse. Kurt's hands smoothing up your thighs to rub circles on your hips as he tries to ground himself against you. Face pressed into your neck with a soft mutter.

"Ich liebe dich." He kisses your jaw, arm sliding under you as he gets comfortable on top of you. Ignoring his fur matting against your damp skin.

"I love you too." You mutter through rough breaths, lips finding his temple as you hold him close. Reveling in his weight against you and him. Your fluids mixing as come slowly seeps out around his soft cock.

Scott

Coming to life in the dim haze of your bedroom, you roll over, your husband's body turned towards the door. Acting as his usual shield between you and the world. A yawn slips through your lips, arm traveling over his side as you kiss between his shoulder blades. Not to wake him, just to show your undying affection. Face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as he gently stirred.

"Down boy, no emergency, I just wanted to hold you." He hums, low and bassy as he turns towards you, meeting his groggy gaze through his sleep visor. Straps twisted from moving against his pillow, his hair puffed up like owl feathers behind his ears. It makes you chuckle as you're pulled in closer.

"What?" He mutters, hand coasting over your back. The cool metal of his wedding band complimenting his rough finger tips against your skin under your nightgown. He slowly blinks, his almost timidness when he's half asleep makes him all the more handsome.

"You're hairs just... It's nothing baby." You give him a peck to his plush lips as he groans with defeat. Returning the gesture with as much as his brain can manage this early. His head slumps into yours, eyes closing as his grip tightens around you. Protective and strong as always. He leans more into you, cutting all distance between your bodies as skin meets skin.

That's when you feel him, morning wood pressed against your thigh through cotton boxers. The faintest twitch of a heartbeat against you flesh. Your leg moves, he groans again.

"Good morning to you too."

"Ignore it." He mutters, shoving his face in your neck, arms tightening around your waist as your fingers go into his hair. Fixing the bunched up strands from under the top strap and back into place.

"What if I don't want to ignore it?" You tease against his ear, watching him shiver as his head lifts slightly, breath leaving his nose as it tickles your collarbone.

"Your liveliness this early in the morning concerns me... You are my wife, right?" You laugh, nodding to his question with a kiss to his nose. He huffs once, arm moving from under you to hold his head up. Leaning in you kiss his lips slowly, hand cradling his jaw as you mumble against his lips.

"When was the last time we had a morning with each other? No rushed kisses goodbye or not waking up together." His hand rubs your side, pondering the thought with a faint peck to your chin. Lips brushing down to your neck with tender presses to your pulse. A faint response nipping at your skin with his teeth.

"I can't remember." You hum against his skin, turning to kiss him again. Slower this time, molding together with a brush of his tongue along your bottom lip. You pull away as he tries to follow, your hand guiding him to layback. You lift yourself up, legs bending to straddle his waist as you reach for his shades off the nightstand.

"Close your eyes." He listens, squeezing them shut in cute little creases, lashes fanned over the pale outline of untanned skin as you pull them off. Leaning down, you carefully kiss each eyelid, sliding his shades back into place. Leaning back over to set the sleep set down, his hands push your nightgown up with a tender rub of your hips with his thumbs.

"There you are," you smile, eyes tracing his face as you lean back in. Lips connecting with his in a patient dance of hunger and need. His hand runs over your curves, fingers tangling into your hair to deepen the kiss. Your tongues melt into each other as your hips rut against him through his boxers. He gasps, head rolling to the side enough to moan away from your lips.

"Feel good?" Scott nods, trying to collect himself when you sit up. Feeling your mound rub against his clothed length with a slow pace that makes his face start to turn red. Your hands glide up and over his sternum, feeling his heart beat pick up beneath your palm. Trying to escape his ribcage by how hard it's pounding.

"You okay baby?"

"Yeah," he blissfully responds, trying to keep himself in check as you keep pressing against him. His hands give a gentle tug to your nightgown, and you give him what he wants without even having to ask. He watches closely, trying to ignore the growing wet patch making his shorts stick to his shaft. You let him take you in completely once the garment hits the bedroom floor. Hips pressing back into him, leaning over his torso with a lazy roll.

Your hand slides down, finger lingering over the vein protruding from the band of his boxers. Gliding over it with a tender press to its blood flow as you grind down. Moaning along with him when his head nudges your clit through the fabric.

"You- you're trying to kill me." He groans, hands tightening around your sides, slowly sliding down to grab handfuls of your ass as you push down again. Leaning in closer, you whisper in his ear.

"You want these off?" He hums in response, gaze not daring to peel away from your naked body as he ogles every curve and trace of skin when you sit up. You tease his waistband, watching his face start to contort with a notch of impatience. Scott usually has some much of it for your teasing, living for letting you rile him up as much as you wanted, but he's exhausted whatever patience he has.

Your back hits the mattress, a little stunned at his sudden switch for dominance. Scott's over you, lips planted on yours with a rough shove of his tongue into your mouth. As quickly as he's there, he's gone. Pulling away and off the bed, boxers coming off with lightning speed. His cock slaps up against his lower abdomen, heavy and dripping from his tip as you look up at him as his knees meet the mattress.

"Someone's excitable so early." He chuckles, lips turning into a little smirk.

"You like pushing my buttons. Don't act like you're surprised." Your little smug smirk turns to a shit eating grin as he starts climbing over you. Grabbing your legs and letting him maneuver you with a gentle touch only he could have for you.

Scott fits your ass flush with his thighs, legs pulled to rest against his shoulders as he kisses your ankle once. His rough hands sliding up your thighs and prying your lips apart with his thumbs. Staring down at your own dripping mess, eyes glancing up with a look that said 'you're as bad as I am'. His hand slides up, ghosting over the sensitive bundle of nerves with the rough pad of his thumb.

You whine, preening into his hand, making him chortle softly. He positions himself at your entrance, pressing in with a slow glide of his hips. Air leaves your lungs with a gasp at the sudden fullness. Scott forces himself to wait, body slowly leaning forward to hover over you. Your knees nearly pressing into your chest from his weight alone, held in place as he braces a hand on the bed somewhere near your head and his other moving to hold yours against the sheets.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your heart as his hips start to rock. Body taking over as you grip him with your walls, his head hitting that angle with his usual laser pin point precision. Your fingers tighten around his grip, holding onto your only lifeline in any way you possibly can.

He grunts, face going flush as his pace picks up, leaning in closer as your eyes lock through his shades. Your hand comes up to curve over his jawline and cheek. He moves your legs off his shoulders and spread out wider over the bed. Body moving to cocoon yours with a needy pound of his hips, wanting to hold you close much more than anything.

"Scott..." You whimper as a warning into his shoulder, his lips finding your ear as he coasts along the skin under it.

"I know, baby. Me too." He catches a noise in his throat, damn near close to a whine. Feeling you clench around him at your impending orgasm, your bodies coil together. Scott feels your teeth dig into the muscle of his shoulder as your high rips through you. Making his body jolt, groan pulled from his throat as he fills you up, deep within your walls before he slumps over. Both of you panting messes clinging to each other.

"Sorry... Sorry I bit you." You mumble through breaths, feeling his head turn to kiss along your neck.

"It's okay... Did it break skin?" You glance at his shoulder, met by the indentation of your teeth. It almost makes you a little bit proud as you shake your head.

"No." He huffs, pulling back enough to look at you, both of you covered in a new layer of sweat and slick. If you weren't so sure, you'd miss that look of recognition at a job well done and his tiny hint of pride.

His lips meet yours in a caring kiss before pulling back as he climbs back, pulling off you with a sigh. Tapping your hip.

"C'mon. We're getting cleaned up." You groan, being pulled up by your arms. Sitting at the edge of the bed you see Scott going into his working mode. Pulling the blanket back enough to tug the sheets off the corners before he's back in front of you. Watching you catch yourself from your own head. His voice quiet, hand cradling your chin to keep your attention.

"Hey, why don't you go start a bath for us? We got another hour before I'm needed anywhere. I'll be in once I'm done." You nod with a hum, feeling him kiss your sweaty forehead with a hum.

"Love you," he mutters against your skin.

"Love you too."

Wade

The light of dawn bleeds into your shared bedroom, sun beating into your profile. You've actively been trying to ignore his antics for the better part of twenty minutes. You heard him come in about half an hour ago, lugging himself into the bathroom to shower and come back out to you, spread out in one of his old shirts and underwear. Curled up in the safe space you thought was your bed until this little shit started poking at you after he laid down.

First it was just snuggling, then his hands got antsy, wandering up under your shirt with a some half baked apology. Cold fingers gripping at your chest like his own personal nipple having stress balls. Muttering something to himself about a "lack of self control" and how you were his own personal fidget toy. Which lasted all of two minutes before he was burying his face between your legs and making it his mission to piss you off.

But you know Wade thrives on attention. Wade knows he thrives on attention, that's why he's been edging you and "helping" you "reach the big O" as he'd so proclaimed before jamming his shit eating grin right into your cunt.

And if anything he's fantastic at achieving things if he tries hard enough. But he also likes pushing your buttons a lot more. So, right as you're starting to flutter around his fingers for what's probably the fourth or fifth time by now. He's pulling away, only to look up at your scrunched up face and kiss your thigh with admiration.

You'd kick him in the face if he actually weren't so sweet...

"Y'know baby, if you just gimme what I want I can make both lips of yours smile in a minute flat. I'm not an amateur when it comes to coming. If anything, some depraved pervert, definitely not me, would love to see you grovel for mercy under their touch." He leans his head against your thigh, watching your eyes crack open in a still moderately tired haze.

"There's my girl. You finally see the voice of reason? I sure hope so. You're scrumptious, don't get me wrong. I could live down here for hours, but I don't want you suffering anymore then you have to. Come on, she's weeping for mercy, give her a break." You give a slow blink, no verbal response as he huffs through his nose with a disappointed tut.

"Have it your way, sugar puss. I'm enjoying my A.M.B., apartment mandated breakfast, either way." He shoves his face back between your thighs, making them lock against his head like earmuffs. Back to breaking you apart piece by piece with his motor mouth. Working you right up to that edge before pulling away with an inquisitive hum. Tongue gliding over his lips to clean your juices from his mouth with ease.

"Have you been eating pineapple? I'm getting a hint of sweet-" you don't let him finish as your legs lock around him. Twisting til he's under you and you're up on your knees. Any normal man you'd have to worry about breaking his neck, or killing him. Thank God that's not a problem here.

He's speechless for once in his life, you stare down at his wide eyes, his mouth slightly parted as your hands come up, pinning his in place above his head with an annoyed glare.

"Shut the fuck up and get me off." You growl, legs spread apart as you hover your cunt over his face with a slow grind down towards him.

"You know how to use your mouth any other time, c'mon." He groans under you, head lifting as his tongue moves to slip into place. His hands tug, your grip letting go. His arms come up, wrapping around your legs to pull you down flat against his face. His nose moves against your clit with a guide before your hips roll. Letting you ride his face like he doesn't need oxygen to live.

"Oh fuck," you whimper, hips grinding down in a smooth fast rut that makes the headboard knock into the wall with a thud. A definite noise complaint coming later. Your breath gets shaky as your orgasm slowly starts to build back up again. Chasing the tingle between your legs for only a few seconds before you're gushing on his face with a sharp cry. Palms meeting the sheets as you slump forward.

You pant, slowly trying to move off him. Wade grabs your hips before you can move, tongue dancing across you as he cleans you up from below. Hand tapping your thigh before you pull off. He lets out a gasp for life, breath shaky too as he looks up at you before grinning. Mouth covered in what remains of your release.

"Jesus Marvel Christ I fucking love you. I think Logan might be right, I am God's favorite idiot." He lets out a harsh sigh, leaning up to give you a kiss before you avoid him.

"No, you're not doing that with shit on your face. It's your turn away."

"Oh no, sugar puss. I'm good. I painted my favorite Hello Kitty jammies. But I guess you could say I really said 'Hello' to your kitty." You blink with a groan, slumping back into your pillows, hand rubbing over your tired eyes as he crawls over.

"What the fuck is wrong with you..."

"A lot. I thought we established that at our first fuck-a-thon. Now, just lay back and relax. Daddy needs his stiff drink of punani after a long hard day at work..." He chuckles under his breath with a quick whisper, "Haha, that's what she said."

"Wade," your hand meets his head before he can assume the position again, "it's five in the morning."

"Yeah? And I wanna get pussy drunk. It's always 5 o'clock somewhere."

“They don't mean five a.m.”

“Great thing I have time blindness then!”