I don't know, this is my first request. I love your writing about Marvel characters, especially the men; it makes me think like this 👅👅👅
As a virgin loser or winner, I'd like to know the reaction of Marvel's men that a reader who is a virgin, a mature, grown woman, is losing in a sex-related matter 😭🙏🏻
Thank you if you accept this request for you 🍨 (If the reader is dating a mutant, please make her mutant🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻)
Logan Howlett/Reader, Lobo/Reader, Hal Jordan/Reader, Matt Murdock/Reader, Bullseye/Reader, 2.4K
a/n: someone requested Bullseye with pregnant!reader and it got out of hand
cw: smut/18+ ONLY, toxic relationships, refusal of commitment, reader is pregnant but referred to in gender-neutral terms
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
You really know how to pick 'em.
DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader (18+)
Logan Howlett:
Logan’s been offering to help a lot lately, and it worries you. Because there are other people all around the mansion that are eager to help. To lend out their services and have for the past nine months as you weathered the storm alone.
And considering that he had strolled out the door after your one-night stand for reasons unknown—missed the birth of your child—sauntered back into your life a few weeks after the birth—
Well, your expectations were low. Quite low, in fact.
But the way that he stands on the balcony of your room that overlooks the expansive lawn as you watch, your child sleeping in sturdy bassinet beside you—
It’s a reaffirmation of something. A reclaiming of territory, if you will. There’s no other way to describe the way that he leans against the banister of the patio, sans shirt. How it lets you see the fine hair that coats the flex of those impressive muscles.
The way that those jeans have sunken quite low on the v of those powerful hips, framing mouthwatering thighs. Those hands that held you that fateful night clutch in tight knuckling over the railing.
Not to speak of the way that he’s allowed his eyes to rivet you to the spot, expression neutral—no. That’s too sedate for Logan. It’s restrained.
“Y’should let me move into your room with you.” He states in gruff manner—you don’t resist the way your eyebrows jump up your head. This isn’t the proposal that you expected.
“Why? You can come find me anytime,” You return, crossing a leg primly over the other. He makes a grumbling that settles low in his chest.
“How else’m I gonna help take care of ‘em?” He asks, nodding his head in the direction of your—his—slumbering child. And now you don’t resist the disbelieving chuckle that breaks free—though his expression remains stolid. Grows more steadfast at this.
“Didn’t picture you for the child-rearing type,” You respond back with glib humor as you angle a glance down your baby.
“‘S our kid.” He returns in such stark manner, though you don’t look up until he says, “Gonna take care’a you both.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” You return back with cavalier ease as you lean back against the back of your chair. He crosses to you with such alacrity that you’re almost stolen of breath—all you can do is watch him lean down to cage you in with the grasp of his hands, letting you breathe in his scent. Apprasise the stare of those wanting, determined eyes.
“Don’t make a habit of keepin’ secrets from me, darlin’,” He huffs through gritted teeth. “‘F you told me you were pregnant—I woulda come back.”
“On hands and knees?” You ask, still choosing to take refuge in audacity. You’re rewarded with a taut smirk—there’s a reason why he chose you, after all.
“Don’t think I’ll have to beg,” He says, and his hand is familiar pressure as it drapes up your arm. Taking you close as his breath issues in short chuff against your lips.
“Then you’ll have to get back into my good graces somehow,” You return with playful cant. From the way that he chuckles against your mouth, the way that he leans over you—it’s clear he understands exactly how he’ll do it, with great relish.
Lobo:
Honestly, given his track record, you’re surprised that he’s stuck around for so long. Stuck around is also doing a lot of heavy lifting—he’s been waltzing in and out of your apartment as he pleases to check in on you. And ‘check in on you’ is also another phrase with loose interpretation. He’s been sauntering into your shared space to admire the swell of your belly. To press the spread of those massive fingers over it to feel your baby kicking from within.
“Got a fighter in there,” He grins down at you with those eyes that seem to cut through you in such iridescent quality. Those teeth make a ravenous display as he looks down at you.
“Guess they get that from their dad.” He chuckles throatily at the compliment that he pays himself.
“And what do they get from me?” You ask wryly as you look up at him, crossing your arms over your chest. When his eyes drift down to admire the way that your arms push your chest in more appealing display, you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.
“Think I’m a better shower that I am a teller, babe,” He leers as he leans in to press his arms around you, bringing you close. You’re not surprised as you feel the claw of his hands against the curve of your ass—though you are disappointed for the way that you lean into it. For the way that you let a smothered groan eke out against the inside of your lips.
“Why don’t we get in more practice for number two?” He asks you, as his touch wanders further down, igniting desires that are hampered by your belly.
“Hear that it’s good to relieve pain from gettin’ knocked up,” Lobo tacks on for good measure.
“And who knocked me up?” You ask with a dubious look. But your hands, as they drift up the plane of his chest, are telling a different story.
“You mean, who’s gonna knock you up again?” He asks. You barely have enough time to laugh before he takes another kiss from you, the heat of his mouth giving way to another one that ignites between your legs.
Hal Jordan:
“She looks just like you,” Hal says as the two of you lie on the bed, with her in between you, demarcating both union and divide. The summation of something beautiful but emblematic of what has fallen apart.
“She’s got my eyes,” You comment, running the pad of your finger down the velvet-soft apple of her cheek, shifting on your elbow to look at her sleeping form. She took her nap at opportune time, so you had to put her down on the bed. It’s a bed that used to house a different pair than you and she, but try not to think about it. Much
And when Hal sidled on the other side of her to join you both, you didn’t stop him. Even if you should have. But how could you deny a father who looks at his newborn daughter the way that a blind man regards the sky for the first time?
A man draws his eyes up to look at you with a desire communicated beyond the space of verbalization.
“You should let me come back, angel,” He says softly, that familiar siren’s croon that’s seduced you so many times before. You purse your lips, and make the first good decision you can: you rise in slow, careful meter from the bed to avoid waking your daughter.
“You can’t commit to anything, Hal,” You respond with a firmness that is already eroding from the inside-out. To your dread, knowing what it means for you—you hear his easy tread approaching from behind.
“I have two reasons to commit,” He explains with a casual surety that has you turning round to him. To look at the caramelized eyes that are so easy to wear down your willpower, the crooked smile that leaves your gaze loitering on its winsome quality.
“For how long?” You ask, as his hand knuckles at the full of your chin, giving you cause to share the intensity of that stare. The way he communicates volumes that he’ll never say.
“As long as you want me, honey,” He murmurs against the full of your lips—but not crossing the meridian to you. Putting the ball in your court.
“I’m yours.” He continues, his voice ambered honey as it makes frisson down your spine, “Always.”
You should say no. But Hal’s mouth as it presses against the seam of your lips, as his tongue makes entry into the wet heat of yours is oh-so-convincing.
And you let him back in.
Matt Murdock:
“We should get them christened when they’re born.” Matt announces as he paces through the entryway. He’s been taking measured regard of you reclining in pregnant repose on the couch, his eyes darting around the details his perception affords.
But you have different reply prepared in your arsenal as you lean on the couch’s arm.
“Aren’t those for couples that are together?” You inquire casually—without malice, but good humor —“—Instead of ones making children out of wedlock?”
There's a beat of silence that endures as he crosses the room to you. Whatever retort he formulates, you’re unaware until he says it as he stands before you.
“Who says that I won’t make an honest person out of you?” He asks, letting his finger brush against the ridge of your knuckles, hand balled up in defense.
“Think I would have seen a ring on my finger already, Murdock.” You return with good cheer: not that you care, truly.
He’s the one with the Catholic sensibilities, after all—but you can’t resist the chance to rib him. Don’t they have a strict code of morals to adhere to? Though you suppose vigilantism also breaks several of those codas.
“Maybe I’m waiting for the opportune time.” He says, and you shrug with intention to play the game. Perhaps he can tell from the upward tick of your heart for he squares his shoulders, fights a smirk taking root on his expression.
“Maybe you’re just trying to string me along.” You hum, leaning sidelong in the chair to ease the way the baby’s turned in your belly. Kid leans to one side rather than walk the straight-and-narrow. How fitting.
“String you along for what?” Matt asks with dubious, breathy laughter at the very notion.
“The tax benefits, I’m assuming.” You provide him with cavalier shrug, though you feel a smile mirroring his making way.
Matt schools himself directly in front of you, taking bended knee. Though, of course, he lacks the other accessory that would make this moment perfect.
“You assume wrong. I love you—”—And even a cynic couldn’t doubt the verity to his words—“—I want you to live with me—but I’m—”
Words falter, fade, before the most mollifying alternative is provided—“—A liability.”
An excuse that you’ve heard in multitudinous rendition; it almost takes concerted effort to resist rolling your eyes. But the way that he looks up at you with such despondency does while away at any anger you might rightfully feel.
“That pretty face won’t save you from everything.” You take aim with your hand to press against his jaw. His own meets yours halfway to guide it to the finish line.
“Here I thought it was my excellent cross-examination skills.” He smiles, letting the syllables hum through the grasp of your fingers.
“That wasn’t what got me pregnant, Murdock.” You can only supply dryly. He laughs, a note of pure clarity.
“No—”—He admits, and his eyes shine as they stare in the direction you lie before him—“—Maybe it was me saying I love you.”
“And do you still?” You ask, cocking your eyebrow though he’s unaware of the minutiae your face makes.
“Always.” He says with utmost sincerity, though he has yet to commit the ultimate act of doing so. So you settle for second-best.
“Prove it then.” You say, and let your legs tick wider to allow him entrance if he wants. And from the way that his Adam’s apple bobs with tight swallow—he does.
“As you wish.” He says with roguish smirk. Those broad hands spread the ample flesh of your thighs apart so he can make his way to the promised land.
It’s not enough—but for now, it’ll do.
Bullseye:
He’s a very present baby daddy, you’ll give him that. You don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to get out of his sight, once. You don’t know if you’ve escaped the press of his fingers, once. He’s always got to have a hand on you—always has to keep a grasp on you to avoid you from moving out of reach.
“I’ll be fine,” You reassure him as he keeps a hand over the swell of your ass, his fingers sinking in with proprietary clutch. “I’m not going to break.”
“Don’t want you gettin’ away,” Is all he gives you in measured reply. From anyone else, it could be interpreted as innocent, loving response. But not with him: it’s a promise. A threat if you try to test it.
But you don’t want to. In fact, you ejoy way that he gravitates around you, as though he is caught in rotational orbit. The way that he soothes those fingers that are so used to killing in measured way to roll the pain from your back, your shoulders—
You’re surprised, genuinely. The way that he lets his hand rest idly on your stomach when you both retire to bed—a reassurance of safety. Of protection.
You think it might be compensatory, because he has to still work. Someone’s gotta provide while you’re out on leave—he doesn’t make you feel bad for it, surprisingly.
But when he comes back in the early hours of the morning as the shadows still cling to your room, marking everything in dim obscurity—he’s starved. You find yourself awakened by the crude grasp of hands that are pushing your legs apart, by a rough tongue that laps at you, groaning with a necessity to taste you.
You have to clutch into the sheets as he works the cruel pump of his fingers into you. As he summons salacious, obscene noises from you that fill the electric air of the room. As he fucks you into the bed until the sun makes perpetual ascent above the horizon, illuminating that wild cant to his eyes.
He takes his fill, leaving you to carefully hold your belly as you gasp for air on the bed. But he’s quick to lunge across the sheets, to press his mouth against your pulse and suck a bruise into the skin. To take deep breath of his scent commemorated on your collarbone.
To grunt into your skin, “Mine. You’re never leaving.”
A threat if you test it. But you don’t want to. You love him too much. So all you do is let him take his handfuls of you as you smile.
“Never. I promise,” You say—and receive a rugged snarl from your weapon of choice, held close in the span of your arms.
dividers and banners made by me :)
anyways, lmk if i should do a best baby daddy version lmao
Logan Howlett/Reader, 654 words -> cw: smut/18+only, reader has ambiguous genitalia
masterlist ao3 requests
Logan's a surprisingly tender lover. But sometimes, though—he feels the inclination to be mean. To force you to ride him, to sheathe yourself entirely on the length of his cock in a manner that makes you gasp in jagged breath, your legs spread over the width of his thighs.
To feel the pulse of your heart in between your legs as you struggle to rise against gravity with the might of your calves. To have your concentration fractured as he rolls his hips into you.
"Oh, Logan—"—You whimper as he chuckles around the cigar champed between his teeth. He's leisurely as he watches you squirm on his cock. Watches you lean back to grip the muscular flesh of his legs in your hands to adjust.
"Somethin' wrong, darlin'?" He asks, voice rugged and corrugated as he watches you with barely-restrained lust. "Can't take my cock?"
"No, I—"—You try to stall for clemency by speaking. But when his hips roll into you again, his cock drags against your walls in such vivid pleasure you can only make a keening moan. And he's of no help—his laugh is mean as he watches how you can barely handle him, as the embers illuminate him in sharp definition.
"Try harder, honey," he watches you as you try to adjust to the way he's filled you to the hilt, exertion beading at your temple, "Doesn't seem like you have it in you."
"I do," you begin to plead breathlessly, but your voice stutters as he takes a authoritative hand on your waist and bucks his hips up. And the jolt of electric sensation that rockets up your body is perfect, the air punched out of you as you feel deliciously full. You fall forwards and clutch onto the rasp of hair on his chest for balance—and a cruel chuckle thrums through you.
"Too hot to handle?" He taunts, to which all you can do is reply with a moan into the crook of his shoulder. "Guess I can help out."
Before you can voice your thanks, you hear him take a drag—feel the arterial plume of smoke that bathes you—and then the clasp of his hands on the ample flesh of your waist.
You don't have any time to react before he eases his way out of you—and then his hips snap into you with such immense force you can only make a strangled cry into the shell of his ear. And then he's off to the races, his hips thrusting into you with brutal strokes that have you choked for air, clutching onto him for dear life.
"Ah—ah—ah—"—Is all that you can cry out as the plap-plap-plap of his cock pumps into you. The slap of his thighs against yours as he fucks into you render you nonverbal. As he cracks a hand down the curve of your ass to complement the overwhelming pleasure with a bolt of pain.
"Logan—I can't—"—You whimper into his ear, but he's not listening. Both of you know that you can take it—his pace doesn't lessen as he grinds his cock into you.
Makes you take all of him as he spreads your cheeks open with the hungry clasp of his hands. Makes you wail as his cock sinks into that spot that has you muffling your moans into his shoulder.
"Logan, I'm gonna come," you beg, overstimulated, needy, weepy as you feel your orgasm begin to pool in the hollow of your abdomen. As you can feel the way his cock twitches at the inside of your walls, dragging tight in the way you like it.
"Good," he rasps back, "First one of the night."
All you can do is clench your thighs around him as you start to come—and wonder how long the night will go for you. It doesn't seem like it's stopping anytime soon.
I’ve been posseessed by Tucker and cooked up this for you!!
The Fight
Summery: Logan finds out some douchebag from Eastwood was saying stuff about you in the guest team locker room.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Warning: Violence, swearing, douchebags from Eastwood.
John had just gotten out of the showers, dressed in his grey sweatpants and a plain white shirt, damp hair sticking to his forehead as he tied his shoes. He was already worked up after an intense game against Eastwood, barely winning by one goal.
“Logan! You gotta hurry man!” Birdie rushed in. “Those Eastwood pricks are talking shit about your girl in their locker room. I overheard them.”
John was on his feet in a flash, barging past Birdie as Garrett, Dean and Tucker looked at each other before following after Logan. They knew he was very capable of causing damage if he was pissed enough.
Logan shoved the locker room door open and heard four of the Eastwood players talking about his girlfriend. His vision narrowed to the Captain of Eastwood and he lunged before Garrett could stop him. Logan’s fist connected with the guys jaw, sending him to the ground. The other Eastwood players tried to get involved and Garrett got involved along with Tucker and Dean.
Coaches and players alike had to pull the chaos apart. Logan stormed out with bloody hands and a split. His shirt was more red than white at this point.
He went to find you, not caring about the state he was in or what consequences he’d get. He found you standing with Hannah, Jules and Allie. Jules noticed him first, shaking their head as they nudged you. You saw your boyfriend and took in the red covering him. You rushed over and took his hand, pressing your sleeve to his knuckles.
“Why would you do that?” You mumbled and he brushed some hair from your face. “They were talking shit about you and I was alone. The boys had my back.” He winched slightly when you gingerly touched his lip. “Come on, let’s go get you cleaned up.” You lead him to a quieter area and cleaned his knuckles, pressing a kiss to them when you finished. You cleaned his lip, kissing his cheek when you finished.
“You had me worried.” You admitted and he smiled. “That’s what I love about you.” He pulled you closer, resting his chin on your head. You two stayed like that for a while before heading back to his.
Logan, Garrett, Dean and Tucker were lectured but Coash Jensen couldn’t risk benching them all so they had a strict schedule after that.
Don't Stop Believing - Logan Howlett/Wolverine x Reader
Summary: Logan has been a fantastic boyfriend, but after Scott and Jean announce they're getting married things change.
Word Count: 300
Warnings: Infidelity, angst to the nth degree
Song/Lyric Prompt: Don't Stop Believing - Journey / A smell of wine and cheap perfume
Posting three days in a row? Actually having fun writing again? What is this, an alternate universe? Anyway, this the first song I swapped out from @societynsoelsscribbles list since the original (Mack the Knife - Bobby Darin) was giving me no vibes at all. Hope you enjoy some angst and as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated!
June Jukebox Scribbles Original Post
My June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist
You weren't an idiot. You knew Logan had a long-standing crush on Jean, but you thought 'fuck it, ask him out anyway.' He'd surprised you by saying yes, then again when he picked you up at the door to your room with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and again when he walked you to your door and kissed you goodnight.
And he'd continued surprising you ever since. For the last year if you'd asked anyone in the school they'd say that Logan only had eyes for you. He'd leave you sweet notes on your desk, kiss your cheek when you passed in the hallway, hands lingering around you during staff meetings. Romantic picnics in a hidden spot on the grounds. The list went on and on and on and on.
Until Jean and Scott announced their engagement.
He didn't change overnight. The distance started emotionally, Logan insisting he needed some space for a bit. While not exactly happy about it, you respected it.
Then the distance became physical. No more passing kisses in the hall, no more hand on the small of your back as he passed close to you. He started coming to bed later and later, and now it was almost 1 AM and you couldn't sleep for all the thoughts flying around your head and the pit in your stomach.
When Logan finally came in, you pretended to be asleep even though you knew he could tell you weren't. He didn't say anything. All you heard was the soft sound of his belt buckle and the quiet shuffling of him disrobing and sliding into bed next to you.
Then you caught it.
A smell of wine and cheap perfume — the perfume Jean wore, you knew it.
The distance between you crystallized into something solid, silent, impenetrable.
Summary: The school year is over and you're struggling with it.
Warning(s): mental health problems, self esteem problems
Notes: This is very personal as this is how I'm feeling right now, except I have no one like Logan to help me.
Looking around your classroom, you sighed. It was all packed up for the summer. You were exhausted and ready for summer, as you always were when May came around. But there was something different about this year, something small, already festering in your heart and mind. After another sweep over your classroom, you grabbed your bag, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway. The hallway was quiet— only a few teachers and students who stayed at the school over summer could be heard. You weren’t one of those as you had a small apartment about 30 minutes away from the school. Since you were tired and just wanted a nap, you tried to sneak out to the garage without getting caught. You made it there, only for Logan Howlett to be leaning against your car with his arms crossed and an unsurprised look.
You let out an annoyed sigh. “I really don’t have the energy for this, Logan. I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah, figured as much,” he muttered, straightening up. “That’s why I’m here to take you home.”
“I can drive myself.”
“Too dangerous with how tired you are, sweetheart.”
“Logan…”
“Y/N…”
“If you were to drive me, how would you get back here?”
“Walk.”
“You cannot be serious. You cannot just walk back here.”
Logan shrugged. “I’ve done worse.”
“No,” you shook your head. “I can drive myself home. Thank you for the offer.”
He studied you like he wanted to continue fighting, but chose not to. “Text me when you get home.”
You rolled your eyes as you walked around him to get into your car.
Logan gently grabbed your arm. “I’m serious. Text me.”
You nodded. “As soon as I walk through the door.”
He took a second before letting go and stepping back from the car. You finally got in the car, started it, and began driving away. You glanced in the rearview mirror, noting how Logan was watching as you drove away. As soon as you got home, you practically collapsed on the couch. Before falling asleep though, you let Logan know you got home.
~~~
The next few days of being completely alone were perfect. You got to sleep in, take naps, shower when you wanted to, as well as eat and use the restroom when you wanted to. All the perks of a teacher being off for the summer. You cleaned and did laundry and began making a list of things you could do to prepare for the next school year when you finally felt like it. But after almost a week, something began to happen that had never happened before. Your mental health was slipping. Thankfully, you could tell at first. So about a week and a half after school ended, you headed back to the mansion to see if anyone was available for lunch or just a chat. When you arrived at the mansion, you immediately noticed how quiet it was. You stepped in and began looking around for either Storm, Jean, or Logan. You couldn’t find any of them. Eventually, you ran into a student who told you that everyone was out for a government meeting the Professor wanted the X-Men to attend with him.
Instead of going straight home, you decided to go to your classroom and work on planning for the next school year. You stayed there for far too long, trying to distract your struggling mind. By the time you decided to head home, the jet was landing. You paused to watch everyone exit the jet like things had gone well at the meeting. Logan did a double take in your direction when he felt eyes on the jet. He was confused as he didn’t expect to see you.
“Y/N!” He called, jogging over.
“Hey, Logan,” you greeted, trying to act natural.
“What— uh, where are you going?”
“Home. I was just here to get a few things ready for next school year.”
Logan chuckled. “Already? We’ve barely been out.”
“Yeah… well… I don’t have much else to do.”
“I’m sure you have friends that you could catch up with.”
You shook your head. “I only have you guys here,” you motioned to the mansion.
Logan’s brows pinched in concern. “Y/N–”
“It’s no big deal though. You are all busy with X-Men stuff. I’m just the only human teacher at an all mutant school. I should have a life outside of here.”
“Y/N–” Logan tried again, stepping closer to you. But you were too far in your spiral.
“I’m only 28 and should have friends outside of work. But how do you even make friends anymore? And how do you get people to like you? To want to spend time with you or date you or talk to you?” Your breath was now coming unevenly with tears pricking your eyes. “What do I need to change to be likeable? I don’t even need to be lovable. I just need people to like to be around me occasionally. I need—”
“Y/N.” Logan grabbed your shoulders, stopping your rambling.
“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!”
“Hey, hey, hey,” his hands slid from your shoulders up your neck to gently hold your head.
“I shouldn’t have spilled everything like that. I’m so sorry. I need to go.”
“No, darlin’, I think you need to stay here.”
You shook your head from his grip and stepped away. “No, I really need to go home.”
“Y/N, listen to me. I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”
“Just forget I said anything, Logan. I’ll— I’ll see you later.”
You rushed to your car and sped up, leaving Logan standing there deeply concerned. Jean and Storm came up from behind Logan.
“What was that about?” Jean wondered.
“Y/N is not okay,” Logan replied, eyes still focused on where you drove off.
“What’s going on?” asked Storm.
“She doesn’t have anybody besides us. And she thinks she isn’t likable enough to be around.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’ve got to go to her apartment.” Logan turned to go to his bike, only to be stopped by Jean.
“Wait, Logan,” she said. “You can’t just show up. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
He tore his arm from Jean’s grip. “Y/N’s clearly not okay. And I’m not letting her believe that she’s alone.”
“Be smart about this, Logan,” Storm advised. “You can’t let your feelings for Y/N get in the way of what’s going on with her.”
“Feelings? I don’t—”
“The only one at the mansion who doesn't know you have feelings for Y/N is Y/N. That’s how obvious you are. If you go in there the wrong way—”
“I am worried about her ‘Ro! End of story. She is not okay! So I’m goin’ over to her apartment to make sure she realizes she’s not alone. Ain’t nothing else about it.”
~~~
You cried the entire way home, embarrassed by your spiral in front of Logan and the emotions you were already feeling. You were shaking as you struggled to enter your apartment and immediately collapsed on the couch when you got there. You curled up and continued crying. You were so lonely— really no friends besides coworkers who all had lives of their own that you don’t believe you fit in. You don’t know how much time passed before you heard a strong knock on the door that made you flinch.
“Y/N?” Logan’s voice filtered through the door. “Open up.”
You squeezed your eyes closed and curled up impossibly tighter.
“I know you’re in there… I can smell the tears.”
“I’m f-fine!” You croaked, clearly not sounding fine.
“I don’t believe you. If you don’t open up, I’m coming in.”
You grabbed a nearby blanket and pulled it over your entire body, hiding underneath it.
Logan put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. He closed his eyes as he tried to bury his own worries when he realized the door was unlocked. Those types of safety concerns couldn’t be on the top of his list right now, he had to focus on your mental state. “I’m coming in,” he stated. He waited a moment to see if you’d respond and when you didn’t, he slipped into your apartment. His eyes immediately scanned the small living area to find you hiding under a blanket on the couch, heart breaking at the sight. He toed off his boots before slowly coming over to the couch and crouching down near your head.
“Sweetheart…” he rasped.
“Go away, Logan,” you muttered from underneath the blanket.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m gonna.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure coulda fooled me.”
You didn’t respond.
Logan sighed. “I’m just worried about you.”
“You don’t need to be.”
“Really? Because from what you told me, it seems you think you’re alone and unlikeable. Last time I checked, I was the alone and unlikeable one.”
You tossed the blanket off as you swiftly sat up. “You don’t own the rights to loneliness, Logan!” You jumped off the couch.
But before you could get anywhere, Logan gently grabbed your wrist. “I’m not lettin’ you run away again, darlin’. I’m staying until you decide to be honest.”
You closed your eyes, trying to bury your emotions though failing terribly. You finally let out a sob, causing Logan to quickly gather you into him. You willingly turned and hid your face into his neck. The sobs wracked your body quickly. Logan held you close, trying to keep your body as still as he could. Slowly, he moved to sit down on the couch, making sure you ended up curled in his lap.
“I’m just so lon–lonely,” you cried.
“I know, sweetheart,” Logan whispered. “I’m here now.”
“Everyone has obligations after work and I’m… I’m just me. I’m just a human who can’t even make human friends. I hang out with all of you while school’s in session but when classes end, you all have missions and meetings and I just have here. And I’ve really tried to make friends outside of the school. I promise, I really have. But people don’t like me. I’m not the most attractive or the most funny. I’m just a teacher. I’m just me… and it’s never enough.”
“That’s not true.”
You pushed away from Logan’s chest, sitting up. “But it is! I can’t even get a date. I’m not what guys want. I’m not who people want as a friend apparently.”
“Sweetheart,” Logan’s hands moved to cup your face. “All of those people who don’t give you a chance, are idiots.”
“But—”
“But nothing, darlin’. You are amazing. Everyone at school loves you— students and staff members. If you would just ask, any of us would drop everything to spend time with you.”
“That’s a whole another issue… No one invites me to anything… I’m always the one setting things up, so I’ve just stopped to see if people reach out to me… and no one does. So I don’t do anything because no one puts any effort in besides me.”
Logan’s eyes closed as he tried to manage his own heartbreak at your words, especially when he knew there was truth to your words.
You took his silence wrong and scrambled to get off his lap. “I’m sorry. I said too much. Just forget everything I said. I—”
His eyes snapped open as his arms quickly kept you close. “No, stop that. You should not be apologizing. Everyone else should be. I should be.”
You turned your head away, keeping your eyes down.
“I am sorry that no one treats you the way you deserve to be treated. You deserve to be treated with the love you so freely give out. You deserve friends and love and happiness and to not feel like you’re drowning in loneliness. So I’m here and I’m staying and I’m goin’ show you that you are not actually alone, even though it feels that way.”
“I don’t know if I can believe you…”
“That’s okay. I’m not leavin’ ‘til you do.”
You gave him a questioning look. “You’ll live here with me?”
He chuckled. “Okay, I mean that I’ll show you ‘til you believe it. I’ll text and call–”
“You? Logan Howlett? Text and call?”
“For you, I’ll do anything.”
You inhaled sharply, sensing the deeper meaning behind his words. You met his gaze, seeing how serious he was through his eyes.
“Movie nights,” he continued. “At least once a week, here or at the school. Just you and me or whoever else you want. Pizza, popcorn, whatever.”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
“...Are you just doing this to make me feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Then I—”
“And no. You deserve to know you’re likeable and that you’re not as lonely as you believe you are.”
“It’s going to take me a while to believe that.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
Fun question, what kinks do you think the X-Men might have?
ok maybe controversial but i know these to be true in my heart
Logan absolutely has a piss kink, bro loves having you mark his territory on him, bro is also absolutely into a daddy kink
Kurt Wagner loves a priest roleplay with you pretending to be an attendee of the church; some type of forbidden love thing OH i know he's eating this up
Victor Creed loves a 'hunting you in the woods' type of roleplay, he loves pretending that you're a lost sheep that he needs to track and hunt down
Hank McCoy loves bottoming and getting pegged, he's absolutely submissive in bed :)
Piotr Rasputin has a breeding kink even if you are unable to have kids, loves talking about how he's filling you up with his seed as it spills out of you
Ororo Munroe enjoys breathplay and a little bit of electric stimulation every now and then, she enjoys making things erotic
Rogue enjoys blindfolds and handcuffs without a DOUBT!
Remy LeBeau enjoys body worship, nipple play, and clothed sex (for no apparent reason whatsoever)
Emma Frost loves bondage and loves pegging; she definitely loves having a mind connection/swap/melding during sex, she also looooves filming everything
Scott Summers has a competence kink, loves getting stepped on, and has a definite praise kink (and also cucking)
Erik Lensherr enjoys cock and ball torture and choking
that's what i got........feel free to drop more in the comments
The bass from the speakers downstairs was vibrating right through the floorboards of John Logan’s bedroom, but up here, the air was finally cool enough to breathe.
Logan leaned against the doorframe of his room, a half-empty red solo cup dangling from his fingers. He loved the guys, and he loved a good Briar University hockey house party, but tonight, the heat and the sheer volume of people were grating on his nerves. He was just about to head back down to find Tucker and Garrett when a flash of movement at the end of the hallway caught his eye.
You were trying to navigate the corridor, but your shoulder slammed heavily into the drywall.
Logan frowned, straightening up. He knew what a drunk college student looked like—hell, he looked like one most weekends—but something about the way you were moving set off immediate alarm bells. Your head was lolling, your knees buckling as if they were made of water, and your hands were scraping uselessly against the wall to keep yourself upright.
Before he could even take a step toward you, a guy emerged from the stairwell. Logan recognized him vaguely—some frat guy who frequented their parties but wasn't part of their inner circle. The guy had a tight, predatory grip on your waist, dragging you forward a little too forcefully.
"Come on, babe," the guy muttered, his voice slick. "Let's find somewhere quiet. You’re fine. Just a little more."
You mumbled something completely incoherent, your head dropping against his shoulder. You weren't hugging him back; your arms were hanging limply at your sides.
Logan’s hockey instincts—the ones that told him exactly when a hit was dirty—kicked into overdrive. He dropped his solo cup onto a nearby table and covered the distance between himself and the pair in three long, commanding strides.
"Hey," Logan said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that usually made opposing players back off the crease.
The guy blinked, looking up, trying to mask his sudden panic with a cocky grin. "Oh, hey, Logan. Great party, man. Just taking my girl upstairs to lie down."
Logan looked at you. Your eyes were open, but they were completely glassy, pupils dilated, unfocused on anything in the room. You looked beautiful, but terrified—trapped inside a body that wasn't responding to your commands.
"She's not your girl," Logan said flatly. He stepped directly into the guy's personal space, using his massive frame to completely cut him off. "And she's not going anywhere with you."
"Bro, chill, she's just had a few drinks—"
"I know exactly what a girl who’s had 'a few drinks' looks like, and this isn't it," Logan snarled, his jaw clenching. He noticed the slight tremor in the guy’s hand, the way he kept glancing toward the stairs. Logan reached out, his grip like a vice as he wrapping his fingers around the guy's wrist, forcing him to let go of your waist. "What did you put in her cup?"
"Nothing! Look, man, I don't want any trouble—"
"Then move." Logan didn't raise his voice, but the sheer menace in his tone was enough.
The guy let go completely, raising his hands in surrender, backing away toward the stairs. "Whatever, man. She's a buzzkill anyway." He turned and practically bolted down the steps, disappearing into the crowded living room.
The moment the guy's support vanished, your knees gave out entirely.
"Whoa, whoa, I got you," Logan breathed, catching you before you could hit the hardwood floor. He scooped you up into his arms effortlessly, lifting you against his chest. You were heavy, a dead weight, confirming his worst fears. You’d been roofied.
He didn't hesitate. He carried you straight into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and turning the lock. The sudden dampening of the party noise downstairs felt like a relief.
He walked over to his bed and gently laid you down on top of the covers. You groaned softly, your eyes rolling back as you tried to blink him into focus.
"Logan..." you slurred, the syllable barely escaping your lips. You didn't really know him—everyone at Briar knew who John Logan was—but seeing his familiar, handsome face seemed to cut through the terrifying fog in your brain just enough to make you feel safe.
"Yeah, it's me. You're safe, okay?" His voice transformed instantly, losing all of its harsh aggression and turning incredibly soft. He sat on the edge of the mattress, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. Your skin was clammy. "I’ve got you. That asshole is gone."
A tear slipped down the side of your face, soaking into his comforter. "Can't... can't move right. Everything's heavy."
"I know. It's okay. It’s going to wear off," he promised, his heart aching at how vulnerable you looked. It made his blood boil all over again thinking about what would have happened if he had stayed downstairs by the keg. "Just breathe. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."
Logan got up for a brief moment to grab a clean washcloth from his adjacent bathroom, running it under cold water. He came back, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and gently pressed the cool cloth to your forehead and then the back of your neck.
You let out a soft sigh, your eyes closing. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it," he murmured. He grabbed a bottle of water from his mini-fridge, setting it on the nightstand. "I'm going to text Garrett to make sure that piece of shit gets thrown out of our house, alright? But I'm staying right here."
Logan pulled out his phone, typing a quick, furious text to his roommates:
G, guy in a grey hoodie and snapback just tried to slide something in a girl's drink upstairs. He's heading down. Throw his ass out and break his nose if he argues.
A second later, Garrett replied: On it.
Logan tossed his phone aside and looked back down at you. You had managed to curl slightly onto your side, your breathing shallow but steady. The cold cloth had helped a little, but he knew you just had to ride out the worst of the drug.
He didn't try to touch you inappropriately, didn't try to take advantage of the fact that a gorgeous girl was lying in his bed. Instead, John Logan—the smooth-talking, confident hockey star—just pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. He took your limp, cold hand in his own large, warm one, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Just sleep it off, beautiful," he whispered into the quiet room, keeping watch like a guardian line-man. "I've got the night shift."
