May I please request a “marvel men in” with a reader who’s on their period? Specifically if they’re having bad period cramps and a teen (totally not me projecting, you can ignore the last part if you prefer lol)
୨୧ ִ ࣪ ⋆ ❝ 𝓜arvel men in ... ❞
teen! reader on her period !!
──── platonic !! fluff !!
MARVEL MEN WITH A TEEN! DAUGHTER-FIGURE! READER THAT HAS PAINFUL PERIODS
character/s featured. logan howlett .ᐟ worst wolverine .ᐟ old man logan .ᐟ wade wilson .ᐟ victor creed .ᐟ remy lebeau .ᐟ kurt wagner .ᐟ scott summers .ᐟ steve rogers .ᐟ tony stark .ᐟ peter parker .ᐟ thor odinson .ᐟ reed richards .ᐟ johnny storm .ᐟ peter quill .ᐟ
🏷 ,, ( @reginaphalangelobster , @r4wrr3-xpp , @mavixgirl , @luna-kait ) requesting rules. masterlist.
ℒOGAN ℋOWLETT !!
The first thing you register is the weight of the world pressing down on your lower abdomen, a familiar, crushing agony. You try to curl into a tighter ball, but a low, pained groan escapes your lips before you can stop it.
The door to your room creaks open, but you don't have the strength to look. You just hear the heavy, deliberate footsteps, followed by the unmistakable snikt of claws being sheathed. Logan had been sharpening them in the other room. He must have heard you.
A moment later, the bed dips under his considerable weight, and a massive, warm hand comes to rest on your trembling shoulder. "Hey, kid," he rumbles, his voice a low gravelly whisper that somehow cuts through the fog of pain. "That bad, huh?"
You just whimper in response, tears leaking from your closed eyes. You feel his hand move, gently brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. The calluses on his palm are rough, but his touch is impossibly gentle.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Instead, you hear the soft clink of a glass being set down on your nightstand, followed by the rattle of a pill bottle.
"Jean told me these help," he mutters, sounding almost embarrassed. He gently nudges your shoulder. "C'mon, sit up for a second. Need to get some of this in you."
With a monumental effort, you push yourself up, your face a mask of misery. Logan is watching you with an intensity that makes him look like he’s about to pick a fight with the entire universe. He hands you a glass of water and two little white pills. "There you go. Small sips."
You take the pills, and as you sink back into the pillows, you see him pull a worn, leather jacket from the foot of your bed and drape it over you. It's heavy and smells like him—cigar smoke, whiskey, and something metallic and wild.
"Just rest," he says, settling into the chair by your window, his arms crossed over his chest like a silent, unmovable guard. "I'm not goin' anywhere." The sheer, unwavering presence of him is more comforting than any painkiller. You know, without a doubt, that he would tear the world apart if it meant easing your suffering. He stays in that chair for the rest of the day, silent and watchful, only moving to get you a fresh glass of water or to check if you're still breathing.
𝒲ORST 𝒲OLVERINE !!
You're curled up on the lumpy couch, clutching a pillow to your stomach, trying to will the searing cramps away.
Logan, who was previously complaining about Wade's inability to make a decent pot of coffee, stops mid-sentence. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just sniffs the air in a way that's both animalistic and deeply, deeply weird.
"Jesus, kid," he says, his voice surprisingly soft, devoid of its usual rough edge. "You smell like…" He trails off, a flicker of understanding—and something akin to panic—crossing his face. "Fuck."
He shoots a glare at Wade, who is mid-sentence about the ideal chimichanga-to-filling ratio. "Shut it, Wilson."
Wade opens his mouth to protest, but Logan silences him with a look that could curdle milk. He then turns his attention back to you, slowly approaching the couch as if you were a frightened deer. "Okay. I got this. I got this. Okay."
He kneels in front of the couch, his hands hovering uselessly for a moment before he awkwardly pats your knee. "You need, uh… food? Water? I can make toast. I know how to make toast."
You just groan in response, and he seems to take this as a major mission objective. He stands up abruptly, almost knocking over the coffee table, and starts rummaging through the kitchen with an uncharacteristic sense of purpose. You hear the microwave beep, the tap run, and the sound of something being aggressively torn open. He returns with a warm, damp towel and places it gently on your stomach, and a glass of water.
He sits on the floor, his back against the couch, looking like a grumpy, deeply uncomfortable but fiercely devoted gargoyle. "If that idiot comes anywhere near you, I'm gonna gut him." he mutters, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Now, you just… stay there. And don't you dare die. I don't do funerals."
𝒪LD ℳAN ℒOGAN !!
He’s old, tired, and his body is a map of aches and pains. But when you stumble out of the car, clutching your stomach and looking like a ghost, the years fall away. He doesn't see his own pain, his own exhaustion; he only sees you.
Logan barely makes a sound. He just drops the cigar he was smoking and moves. He grabs you before you can hit the floor, his strong, weathered hands catching you, and then gently placing you into the passenger seat without a word.
You drift in and out of consciousness, the rattling of the old SUV and the hum of the engine the only sounds. When you come to, you're in a motel room. It smells faintly of bleach and stale air, but there's a clean, fresh scent of the blanket he's wrapped you in. The sun is setting, painting the dingy room in a soft orange glow.
Logan is sitting in a chair near the window, watching you. A glass of water and a bottle of pills are on the nightstand.
"Logan... how did I...?"
"You passed out," he says, his voice a rasp. He looks older than usual, the lines on his face deeper. "You need rest, seems like it's a bad one."
He gets up slowly, the joints in his knees popping. He walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes full of a haunting sadness and something fierce. Love.
He reaches out and carefully, oh so carefully, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You scared me," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't do that again."
He doesn't say much else. He just sits there, a silent sentinel. He holds your hand, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles on your skin. He stays with you all night, a quiet, steady presence in the darkness, a protector who has seen too much to let the one person he has left suffer alone.
𝒲ADE 𝒲ILSON !!
"Cramp-pocalypse now! Operation: Warmth & Snark is a go!"
You groan from your position on the bathroom floor, where you've collapsed after a particularly violent wave of nausea. The door swings open without preamble, and Wade's masked face appears in your line of sight, peering down at you upside down.
"Woah there, mini-me. And I don't mean the awkward clone who was in love with me for a hot second. You look like you've been challenged to a 'who can eat the most ghost peppers' competition and lost. But like, with your soul."
He’s already kneeling beside you, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle as he helps you sit up. "Chimichanga? No? Terrible idea. My bad. How about the Holy Trinity of Period Care? We've got chocolate, a whole drawer full, don't tell Al. We've got a heat pack that I may or may not have stolen from a hospital- they had it coming. And last, but certainly not least, we have a 12-hour movie marathon featuring the cinematic masterpiece that is Matrix."
He leads you, half-carrying you, back to the couch, where he’s already set up an elaborate nest of blankets and pillows. He tucks you in with an absurd level of care, shoves a heating pad onto your stomach, and presses a bar of dark chocolate into your hand.
"Now, I'm going to talk about all the different plans and angles used in this movie." he declares, hitting play on the movie. "But seriously, you need anything, you just say the word. I'll fight a demon, rob a bank, or even put on pants if that's what it takes." He gestures to his bare legs, a fact you're trying very hard to ignore.
He stays with you, his constant chatter a bizarre but effective distraction. He mutters insults at the characters on screen, offers his own commentary, and periodically pauses to check on you, his masked face tilting with concern. Beneath the relentless sarcasm and fourth-wall-breaking jokes, his protectiveness is fierce and absolute. He’s not just your friend; he’s your unhinged, deeply inappropriate, but completely dedicated guardian.
𝒱ICTOR 𝒞REED !!
It was a mistake to stumble into the penthouse common area. You were feeling faint, the world spinning, and you just wanted to get to your room to collapse. But you didn't make it.
Victor was there, lounging in a chair, looking like a predator at rest. His nostrils flared the second you entered, a subtle shift in his posture the only warning. His eyes, the color of molten gold, snapped to you, taking in your pale face, your hunched posture, the way you were listing to one side.
"Trouble, squirt?" he rumbled, his voice a deep, gravelly purr. There was a hint of mockery in it, accompained by the usual quirk of his right eyebrow.
"Just a bad day, that's all." you mumbled, trying to walk past him. You swayed, your vision going white for a second.
He was on his feet in an instant. Before you could fall, you felt powerful arms hook under your knees and shoulders, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. He wasn't exactly gentle, but he wasn't seeking out to harm you either, it was just that he was enormous compared to a small thing like you and that never ceased to amaze, amuse and unsettle him in equal measures. He was possessive, a predator securing his prey. But his hold was unwavering.
"Stubborn," he growled, carrying you to the massive, plush couch. He placed you down not on the cushions, but in his own lap, his body a wall of heat behind you. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest.
"You're freezing and you smell like pain," he said, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "I can hear your heart racing."
He knew what was happening. He didn't need to be told. He just held you there, a possessive, frighteningly powerful guard dog. He didn't offer to get you anything, because he wouldn't leave you. Instead, he simply held you, his massive hand resting on your stomach, the warmth of his body seeping into your aching muscles. His clawed thumb rubbed slow, steady circles on the fabric of your shirt. "Breathe," he commanded, and his voice was so deep and resonant that you had no choice but to obey. The feeling of being wrapped in his strength was both terrifying and the most secure you'd ever felt.
ℛEMY ℒEBEAU !!
The scent of Cajun spices and something sweet, like beignets, is the first thing that registers through your pain-fogged mind. You're curled up on your bed, a miserable ball of cramps and chills.
"Chère, you look like you're tryin' to climb into your own skin to get away from de pain." Remy's voice, smooth as honey and rich as bourbon, washes over you. He’s perched on the edge of your bed, a steaming cup of tea in his hand, his eyes full of a tenderness he rarely shows the rest of the world.
He offers you the cup. "A special blend. Madame LeBeau's own recipe. Good for what ails you."
You take it, the warmth seeping into your cold hands. You take a sip. It's soothing, with a hint of ginger and honey, and a warmth that spreads from your stomach.
Remy watches you, a small, sad smile on his face. "I know, mon coeur. It's not fair. A beautiful, strong young thing like you shouldn't have to deal with such nonsense."
He reaches out a hand, and with a soft, gentle click of his fingers, a small, glowing ball of pink kinetic energy dances in his palm. It’s not violent, not explosive. It’s soft and warm, like a tiny, glowing sun. "Here," he says, carefully placing it over your stomach, just above the blankets. "My own special heatin' pad. It's safe. Just a little energy to help ease the pain. All my concentration is on keepin' it nice and gentle, just for you."
The warmth is immediate and profound, seeping deep into your muscles and loosening the knots of pain. You let out a shaky breath, the first one that didn't hurt in hours.
Remy smiles, a flash of white teeth. "There she is. Knew you were still in there. Now, you rest. I'm gonna stay right here. I'll tell you a story from the Bayou. About a little girl who could talk to the swamp cats." His voice is a soothing cadence, a gentle melody that carries you away from the pain, weaving a tale of magic and comfort, a reminder that even in your worst moments, you are deeply, utterly loved.
𝒦URT 𝒲AGNER !!
A sharp bamf of sulfurous smoke, and Kurt was there, his tail swishing anxiously behind him. He'd been on his way to the kitchen to get a snack when he saw you from across the hall, doubled over and crying. He'd teleported without a second thought.
"Mein Gott! Fraulein, what is it?" His yellow eyes were wide with distress, his blue face a mask of worry. He knelt beside you, his three-fingered hand hovering near your shoulder, afraid to touch you for fear of hurting you more.
"I'm okay," you tried to say, but it came out as a choked sob. Another cramp hit, and you gasped.
"Oh, no, no, no," he murmured, his voice thick with compassion. "You are not okay. This is not okay."
He carefully, so carefully, scooped you into his arms. He didn't like to see anyone suffer, but you, his precious friend, his little sister in all but blood, it was unbearable. He bamfed again, and suddenly you were in your own room, on your bed.
"I will fix this," he declared, his voice a determined whisper.
He conjured a fluffy, downy blanket and draped it over you. He fetched a glass of water and some pain medication, his movements efficient yet trembling with concern. He then sat on the edge of your bed, his legs crossed, his three-fingered hands clasped in his lap. He began to pray, his voice a soft, melodic whisper in German. It wasn't a plea to a distant God, but a loving, gentle conversation, a request for comfort for you. He didn't leave the room; he stayed by your side, offering his quiet presence and unwavering faith. He was a guardian angel, his very presence a soft, protective light in the darkness of your pain.
𝒮COTT 𝒮UMMERS !!
Scott Summers is a man of strategy and control. He keeps his emotions in check and his plan B is always ready. So when he finds you white-faced and trembling on the living room couch, the carefully constructed walls around his composure start to crack.
"Y/N," he says, his voice sharp with alarm as he drops to his knees in front of you. He takes your face in his hands, tilting it up to look at him. His eyes are hidden behind his ruby quartz visor, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze. "Talk to me. What's going on? Is it another headache? Did something happen?"
You can barely get the words out between your sobs, just "cramps" and "bad".
His expression immediately softens from alarm to a deep, focused concern. He nods, his jaw tight. "Okay. Okay, we can handle this."
For the next hour, Scott becomes a man on a mission. He’s not just caretaking; he’s executing a carefully planned operation. He places a precisely warmed heating pad on your abdomen, its temperature calibrated perfectly to soothe without being too hot. He brings you two specific pain relievers and a glass of water, explaining, "The doctor said these two work well in tandem."
He then disappears into the kitchen and returns with a tray of food: saltine crackers, a small cup of applesauce, and a glass of ginger ale. "Bland foods are best for nausea," he says, his voice matter-of-fact, but his hands are gentle as he helps you sit up.
He sits on the floor next to you, not taking his eyes off you. "Okay, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. If you need to throw up, just tell me and I'll get the bucket. If you need to go to the bathroom, I'll carry you. If you need to cry, you do it." His voice is steady, a solid anchor in the storm of your pain. "You're going to be fine. I promise you. I'm right here." The pure, unshakeable certainty in his voice is more reassuring than any medicine. He will plan and strategize until you are better, because that’s what he does for the people he loves.
𝒮TEVE ℛOGERS !!
"Miss Y/L/N, you look a little pale. Are you feeling alright?" Steve's voice was always kind, but his blue eyes held a deep well of concern as he looked at you. He'd noticed you'd been quiet all morning, and the slight tremor in your hands as you tried to eat your breakfast hadn't escaped his attention.
You just shook your head, unable to speak without your voice betraying you. The pain was a dull, constant ache, punctuated by sharp, stabbing cramps that made you want to curl into a ball and cry.
"Alright." He didn't push. He simply stood, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. "Come with me."
He led you to the common room's comfortable seating area, a place he knew was quiet this time of day. He helped you settle onto the large, soft couch, draping a thick blanket over your legs. "I'll be right back."
He returned shortly with a glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a small, soft, plush teddy bear—the one you'd seen on his nightstand once, a kid had given it to him as a gift for saving him. "It's not much," he said, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "But I find it helps to have something to hold onto."
He then took a seat on the floor beside the couch, his back against the cushions. He didn't say much. He just opened his sketchbook and began to draw, his presence a solid, reassuring wall between you and the rest of the world. He was the epitome of a comforting father figure, quiet, steady, and filled with an unshakeable, protective warmth. He was just there, a bastion of unwavering stability you could lean on, his gaze frequently checking on you, a gentle smile encouraging you to rest.
𝒯ONY 𝒮TARK !!
"Friday, status report on our patient in distress."
"Subject shows elevated cortisol levels and reports severe abdominal cramps. Given her age and physiology, I would estimate this is a case of-"
"Don't need the medical details, FRI. Just tell me where we keep the good stuff."
You're curled up in the corner of the lab, watching a holographic display of your latest project spin idly, too tired to work. Tony kicks the door open, his expression one of playful concern. "Heard a little birdy say you're having a rough day." He drops a large, sleek-looking device on the table. "Introducing the Stark Industries Patented Crampinator 3000. It uses micro-vibrations to soothe muscle tension."
He presses a button and the device hums to life. "Put it right where the hurt is. You will be pain-free in no time. If not, I’ll blame the prototype and send a very strongly worded email to the R&D department."
He doesn't leave, of course. He just hovers, pretending to be absorbed in his holograms, but you can feel his attention on you. He’s watching to make sure you're okay.
"FRI, queue up her favorite playlist. And order that pizza she likes. The one with the weird toppings. Just have it delivered." He winks at you. "Doctor's orders. I'm prescribing a strict regimen of terrible movies, unhealthy food, and sarcastic commentary. Get ready for a masterclass in avoidance and deflecting emotions with humor." His genius and his humor are a powerful distraction, and his dedication to your well-being is absolute, even if he shows it through flashy tech and witty banter.
𝒫ETER 𝒫ARKER !!
Peter is the king of awkward, overprotective care. He found you in the middle of a study session, your head down on your desk, a quiet sob escaping your lips. He immediately panics.
"Oh no, no, no, no, no. What's wrong? Is it a project? Did someone say something mean to you? Do I need to have a stern talk with someone? Because I will. I will put on the suit and have a very stern talk. I'm pretty good at stern talks."
You weakly explain, and his face flushes red. "Oh. Oh! Right. Okay. Yeah. Got it. That. Yep. I can handle that." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Step one: locate heating pad. Done. Step two: procure comfort food." He disappears for a second and comes back with a bag of your favorite chips. "It's not the healthiest, but it's what we have."
He gently takes your hand and leads you to the couch, where he wraps you in a blanket, creating a human-sized burrito. "Okay. You stay here. You watch whatever you want. I will be your service human." He pauses. "That's a thing, right? They've got animals doing it, why can't a human do it? i'll do it. I can be that. I'm very good at being a service human. I've been a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man for a decade, I am a professional at service."
He sits beside you, a little too close, but you can tell he's worried. He starts rambling about his day, about the new villain he fought who was "ridiculously themed," about Aunt May's new recipe for meatloaf. He doesn't stop talking, his stories a constant, comfortable stream of noise that distracts you from the pain. He checks on you every few minutes, asking if you need anything, his eyes full of the same gentle, earnest compassion that made him a hero in the first place. He’s your own personal, slightly dorky, fiercely loyal guardian in a red-and-blue onesie.
𝒯HOR 𝒪DINSON !!
"Your pain is a palpable thing, my young friend," Thor rumbled, his brow furrowed with worry. He had found you trying to hide in a corner of the Avengers compound's library, your discomfort written plainly on your face. "I have faced monsters and gods, but I find this foe, this.. unseen, silent enemy, is one I am ill-equipped to battle."
He then knelt before you, the mighty God of Thunder looking utterly humbled and concerned. "In Asgard, we have healers, yes, but for this… this monthly trial, what is it you require?"
He listened with grave attention as you haltingly explained. Then, a determined glint entered his eye. "Then you shall have the finest comforts Midgard has to offer."
He summoned a feast of your favorite foods, not by magic, but by ordering the most extravagant spread from a very confused local deli. He had a fire roaring in the fireplace within minutes, and conjured a veritable mountain of plush furs and pillows around you.
"Drink this," he commanded, handing you a mug of hot, spiced mead that he'd heated with a spark of lightning. "It will warm you from the inside."
He then spent the rest of the day regaling you with tales of his many battles, his voice a comforting, booming rumble, while his hand rested gently on your shoulder, a constant, godly warmth that made you feel safe enough to drift off to sleep.
ℛEED ℛICHARDS !!
"Fascinating," Reed murmured, tilting his head as he looked at the biometric data on his monitor. "The levels of prostaglandins your body is producing are significantly elevated. No wonder you're in such distress." He said it with the clinical detachment of a scientist.
But then he looked at you, really looked at you with your pale face and the tears you were trying to hold back, and his expression softened immediately. "Oh, my dear," he said, his voice losing its clinical edge. "I'm so sorry."
He immediately stopped his little research. "Let's see what we can do to alleviate this."
You just sniffled, managing a nod as your lower lip jutted out in a pout.
"Perhaps some tea?" he offered, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I believe I have a chamomile blend in my office."
He sat with you, his body stretching and bending to accommodate his long limbs in a comfortable position.
𝒥OHNNY 𝒮TORM !!
Johnny Storm is a firecracker. He's loud, cocky, and lives for attention. But when it comes to you, his unspoken little sister, his flame burns solely for your protection and comfort. He found you curled up on a beanbag chair in the common room, looking miserable. He’d been planning to annoy his sister but the sight of you stops him cold.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" he says, his usual bravado completely gone. He plops down on the floor next to you, a concerned frown on his face. "Hey, what's wrong? You look like you're gonna spontaneously combust, and I'm the only one allowed to do that around here."
You explain, and his expression softens. "Oh. Man, that sucks. That really, really sucks." He scratches the back of his head. "Okay, I'm not great at this whole comforting thing. But I'm great at heat." He grins, a little of his old self returning. "Watch this."
He holds out a hand, palm up, and a small, controlled flame flickers to life above his skin. He doesn't let it get too big. "Okay, now, put your hands here," he says, gesturing to the space just above the flame. The heat is perfect, warm and soothing. He then positions his hand near your stomach, acting as a living, breathing heating pad.
"How's that? Nice, right?" He keeps his hand steady, his concentration absolute, a rare sight for the Human Torch. "Anything else? Want me to set something on fire? The toaster? Ben's collection of ugly socks?" He stays with you, his hand a constant source of warmth, his chatter a reassuring hum, his concern genuine and warm. He may be a fiery hothead, but he's also a fiercely loyal and surprisingly gentle brother.
𝒫ETER 𝒬UILL !!
"Okay, so the first thing you need is a good playlist." Peter knelt by your bed, scrolling through his Zune with the gravity of a surgeon. "No, scratch that, the first thing you need is for me to say that this is the worst thing ever and that I'm sorry you're going through this."
He'd found you in your quarters, curled into a tight ball, tears streaming down your face. He'd gotten over his initial awkwardness (mostly) and was now in full 'overprotective older brother' mode.
"Alright, I've got the perfect mix," he declared. "We've got some 'Footloose' for when you need to feel awesome, some 'Come and Get Your Love' for general good vibes, and some 'Starman' because... well, it's beautiful and it makes me think of my mom." He put the earbud in your ear, the music a soft, familiar comfort.
He then proceeded to build a pillow fort around you. He would not rest until you were comfortable. He brought you a bowl of what he called "soup" but was mostly just broth and some kind of alien vegetable. "It's good for you," he insisted, not looking entirely sure.
He then told you the story of how he and Rocket once tried to steal a planet. It was a ridiculous, rambling, and utterly amazing story that made you laugh so hard the cramps subsided for a few blessed moments. He was an idiot, a sweet, goofy, and fiercely protective idiot, and his unwavering presence and his determination to make you smile was the best pain relief he could ever offer.
