#Laura Warren

[urdreamydoodles]

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

X-MEN CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You bite them playfully

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

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

Logan Howlett

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

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

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

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

Remy LeBeau

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

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

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

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

Kurt Wagner

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

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

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

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

Scott Summers

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

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

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

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

Jean Grey

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

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

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

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

Ororo Munroe

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

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

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

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

Rogue

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

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

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

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

Erik Lehnsherr

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

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

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

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

Charles Xavier

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

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

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

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

Wanda Maximoff

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

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

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

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

Pietro Maximoff

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

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

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

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

Hank McCoy

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

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

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

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

Emma Frost

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

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

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

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

Laura Kinney

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

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

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

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

Wade Wilson

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

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

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

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

Victor Creed

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

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

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

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

Julian Keller

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

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

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

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

Kitty Pryde

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

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

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

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

Nathan Summers

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

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

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

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

Warren Worthington III

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

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

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

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

Kevin Sydney

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

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

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

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

Raven Darkhölme

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

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

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

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

Illyana Rasputina

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

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

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

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

Alex Summers

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

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

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

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

[wickedwitchofthesouth]

Really specific X men headcanons I can't get out of my head :

Scott is colour blind and can't really tell what colour jeans hair is. It's also the reason why he's so shit at Flying the Blackbird

Logan likes milo. Chocolate milk in general actually

Kurt is a super super massive ABBA fan

Scott is autistic and OCD (Scott being OCD is canon)

Bobby doesn't like watching horror movies. Warren is the biggest horror movie buff you'll ever meet

Scott is claustrophobic, and it's like.... really bad, like - doesn't like to close his rooms door - bad.

Storm loves Boygenius

Pietro is actually really into literary classics but pretends he isn't because it doesn't fit his cool guy aesthetic

Bobby lies and tells everyone his favourite movie is Pulp fiction, but it's actually Frozen 2

Warren and Laura went to watch barbinheimer together. Warren cried during barbie. Laura shed one single man tear during the ending of Opinheimer

In the same vane- it's impossible to watch Historical Films with logan because he will fact-check everything with his own experience of those historical times. Like an old dad screaming at a football game on the TV.

Jubilee introduced Scott to mitski. Its the worst mistake of her life.

Jean uses her powers to cheat in family boardgame nights

Peitro is the kind of person to predict the whole plot of a movie in the first 2 minutes without even having to watch it.

Charles doesn't wear sunglasses because too many kids have called him mr worldwide for it.

Erik is actually a really good cook.

Logan watches Supernatural (unironicily) wade makes fun of him for it (he's the reason logan started watching it at all)

Thats all for now Thank you for coming to my Ted talk.

[why-i-love-comics]

All-New X-Men #30 (2014)

written by Brian Michael Bendis art by Sara Pichelli & Marte Gracia

[warningsine]

Orange Is The New Black | Season 1

[riveatstoes]

the x-men as chats with my friends, pt. 4

this is probably going to be the last part i’m running out of chats to use (also the last two things are a bonus because i couldn’t find 10 screenshots to use this time)

[luna-bimborina]

Finally after so many years I have a nice picture of a kiss with Julian and it's official!!!!

Finally I have all three!

I know I know if there is a comic with a masterful drawing style in which they kiss, but Liu's writing ruins it

As a bonus I also have this image of which I am conflicted but ironic at the same time

[comicsgallery-marvel]

X-Men: No More Humans (2014) #1

[strangenewwords]

All New X-Men #1 Monsters Unleashed

[newx-menfan]

Me, when people try to argue “Hellion was the worst X-23 ship EVER”….

Sorry, but this panel still grosses me out, ngl…

Seriously, even SYNCH was better.

[lastnightinnewyork]

Photographs of the cast of TWIN PEAKS. Taken by Richard Beymer.

[urdreamydoodles]

Alright hear me out…

X-men x Teen!reader who joined the brotherhood for vengeance after loosing a friend to a sentinel??

Imagine the reader and X-men had a parental bond. Like they were the readers real first loving father/mother figure?? (Maybe a sibling like bond for the younger characters?)

Possibly a hurt/comfort trope?

May I also ask for it to be with characters: Hank McCoy, Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Logan Howlett, Remy Lebeau, Kurt Wagner, Jubilee, Erik Lensherr + [any of your personal favs!!]





[Feel free to ignore this, but for what it’s worth…

You’re so much stronger than you know and I wish the best of luck on your future operation and speedy recovery 💕 Your a wonderful writer and you brighten so many peoples day. WE LOVE YOU!!!]

X-MEN CHARACTERS X GN!TEEN!READER

You leave the X-Men and the person closest to you to join Brotherhood after you lost a friend to mutant-hate

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

Reply to Beatle: Someone asked for platonic hurt/comfort headcanons? HERE IT IS AND I FUCKING LOVE IT! Thanks for your words, I also hope the surgery goes well... "Brighten so many people's day" Oh my god, I'm going to cry. I'm so happy that my passion makes people as happy as it makes me. LOVE ♡

Logan Howlett

- He never believed in fate, never put stock in the idea that people were meant to be in each other’s lives, but then he lost you, and something inside him twisted, snapped, and reformed into something unrecognizable. He was supposed to keep you safe. He had held you close when you were small, when the world still felt like it had softness left in it. He had promised you, in that gruff and clumsy way of his, that no one would ever take you from him. Then the Sentinels came, and in their cold, unfeeling metal grip, they didn’t just take your friend—they took you too, in a way far worse than death.

- He had known grief. He had known rage. But when he saw you standing beside Magneto, eyes filled with something distant and sharp, he felt something worse than anger. You, who once curled up beside him on the couch, who followed him like a shadow and made jokes about how he smelled like cigars and trees—now you stared at him like he was nothing. He never thought anything could hurt worse than the sound of metal on bone, but the look in your eyes cut deeper than any blade.

- He never stopped watching over you. Even when you hurled your anger at him, even when you screamed that he hadn’t been there when it mattered, he stayed. He let you rage because he knew it wasn’t really him you hated. You were drowning in grief, and the Brotherhood was the only place that let you breathe. But he saw the way your hands trembled when you fought, the way your shoulders curled inward at night. You weren’t as far gone as you wanted to be. And Logan—stubborn, unyielding, impossibly protective—was going to make damn sure you found your way back.

- One day, when the war had quieted, when the rage had burned itself out, he would be there. He would open his arms, and whether you crashed into him like a wave or simply stood there, hesitant and brittle, he would wait. Because love, the kind he had for you, wasn’t something that faded. It was adamantium, unbreakable, buried deep in his bones. And no matter how far you ran, he would always be home.

Remy LeBeau

- You were always quick. Quick with your hands, quick with your words, quick to laugh. But grief had stolen that speed, replacing it with something heavy and leaden in your limbs. He saw it in the way you moved now—slower, sharper, less like the bright ember you used to be and more like a knife, waiting to be drawn. It hurt, cher, more than he’d ever admit. He missed the way you used to grin at him, full of mischief and warmth, the way you’d steal the cards from his deck when you thought he wasn’t looking. Now, the only time he saw you smile was when fire danced in your palm, ready to be thrown.

- He called you mon cœur once, absentmindedly, like he always had, and for a moment, just a flicker of one, your breath hitched. But then your expression hardened, and you sneered, called him a traitor, told him he didn’t understand what it meant to lose. His easygoing smirk faltered, just for a second. He wanted to tell you that he knew loss too well, that he had spent a lifetime running from ghosts, that the weight of regret sat heavy on his shoulders. But he just tucked his cards into his pocket and let you go. For now.

- Remy had always been patient. He knew that love—real love—wasn’t about forcing someone to stay. It was about waiting, about showing up again and again, even when it hurt. So he left small reminders, little things that only you would notice. A card slipped into your pocket, a joke thrown your way in the middle of a fight, a whispered “Take care, cher,” just before he vanished into the night. He wanted you to know that no matter where you stood, no matter how far you strayed, he wasn’t letting go. Not really.

- And when the day came, when the storm inside you finally broke and you stood before him, tired and aching, he would only smile, lazy and warm, like you had never left. "Took you long enough," he’d tease, but his eyes would be soft, filled with all the words he never said. He would deal the cards again, slide one across the table to you like an invitation. "Stay awhile, mon cœur. Ain’t no rush."

Kurt Wagner

- You were the first person to tell him he was beautiful. Not in a passing way, not as a joke or a hollow reassurance, but as if you truly meant it. You had cupped his face in your hands once, traced a fingertip over the indigo skin of his cheek, and smiled. "You're like the night sky," you had said, "full of stars." And he had laughed, unsure how to carry the weight of that kind of kindness. But he held onto those words, tucked them somewhere safe in his heart.

- When you left, he prayed. Every night, he prayed for your safety, for your heart to find peace. He prayed that one day, you would look at him again the way you used to—not with anger, not with grief too heavy for your young soul, but with love. It wasn’t fair, losing someone before you even had the chance to fight for them. But faith, his faith, told him that love did not die so easily. You were lost, not gone. And the difference between the two was hope.

- He never stopped reaching for you, even when you recoiled. He never flinched when you lashed out, never turned away when you called him naive. You told him he didn’t understand vengeance, that his faith made him weak. But he only smiled at you, that same soft, unwavering smile, and said, “I understand love, mein Schatz. And I know it still lives in you.”

- The day you returned, you did not fall into his arms. You stood, hesitant, uncertain, your fingers twitching at your sides. And Kurt, with all the patience of the heavens, simply reached out a hand. No pressure, no demand—just an invitation. And when you took it, his fingers curling around yours, he whispered, "Welcome home, my star."

Scott Summers

- You had always looked up to him. He had been the steady presence in your life, the one who taught you how to stand your ground, how to lead with both your heart and your mind. But grief had torn through you like a wildfire, and in the ashes, you had found something sharp and unyielding. You had traded caution for recklessness, traded kindness for anger. And Scott, ever the strategist, ever the careful one, saw you slipping through his fingers like sand, and it terrified him.

- He had never been good at emotions. He wasn’t like Logan, who could weather your storms with quiet strength, or like Kurt, who could soften your anger with warmth. He was rigid, controlled, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel. It meant that when you called him a coward, when you told him the X-Men’s way had failed you, he didn’t have the words to make you stay. He could only stand there, jaw tight, fists clenched, watching you walk away.

- But Scott Summers did not give up on his people. Not on his team. Not on you. He watched from a distance, saw the way you fought with fury instead of purpose, saw the exhaustion in your stance when you thought no one was looking. And so he waited, standing at the edge of the battlefield, offering you not empty words but a promise. "When you're ready," he told you once, voice steady despite the storm between you, "I'll be here."

- And when you came back, not as the same person you once were but as someone tempered by loss and experience, he only nodded. No lectures, no demands. Just quiet acceptance. Because that’s what family did—they waited. And Scott had always been willing to wait for the people he loved.

Jean Grey

- You had always been bright, vibrant, full of fire. She remembers how you used to lean against her shoulder, laughing at something she said, your energy like a spark catching onto everything around you. But when the Sentinels took your friend, they took more than just a life—they took the light from your eyes. Now, you burn in a different way, not as a star but as a wildfire, reckless and untamed, swallowing everything in your path. And Jean, who has seen what unchecked power can do, aches to pull you close before you consume yourself.

- She feels your pain like it’s her own, even when you refuse to speak it. Your thoughts, sharp and jagged, bleed into her mind despite the walls you try to build. She hears the echoes of your grief, the quiet whispers of doubt that haunt you in the dead of night. And no matter how far you run, no matter how fiercely you try to sever the thread between you, Jean holds onto it. Gently, patiently, like a mother refusing to let go of her child’s hand in the dark.

- There are moments, rare and fleeting, where she sees glimpses of the you she once knew. A joke muttered under your breath, the way your fingers twitch like you want to reach out but don’t. She never forces it, never pushes. She simply remains—an anchor, a presence, a warmth you can always return to when the cold becomes too much. "I’m not asking you to forgive," she tells you one night, voice as soft as the wind outside. "I’m asking you to remember who you were before the pain."

- And one day, when the anger has settled and the grief is no longer a wound but a scar, you come to her. You don’t say anything at first, just press your forehead against her shoulder like you used to. She exhales, a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and wraps her arms around you. "Welcome home," she whispers, voice thick with unshed tears. And in that moment, she feels it—your fire, no longer burning out of control, but warming, steady, alive.

Ororo Munroe

- She always knew you were a storm waiting to break. Even before the Sentinels, even before the Brotherhood, there was something untamed in you, something raw and powerful that the world never quite knew how to handle. But where you once raged like a summer thunderstorm—brief, intense, but passing—now you were something colder, a hurricane that never ended, a sky that never cleared. She watched you from a distance, a goddess unable to interfere, aching to call you back before you lost yourself completely.

- Ororo was never one for begging. She did not plead, did not chase. But that did not mean she did not care. She simply loved like the sky—constant, unwavering, always waiting. She sent rain when you were exhausted, let the wind carry her presence to you when she could not stand by your side. And when you looked at her with resentment, with the weight of your pain pressing against your bones, she did not flinch. "I do not blame you for your anger," she told you once, voice steady as the earth beneath your feet. "But I will not let it destroy you."

- She saw it in the way your shoulders sagged after a battle, in the way your hands clenched when someone spoke your friend’s name. You were tired, but you did not know how to stop. So she waited, standing at the edge of your storm, arms open but never forcing. And when the first crack of lightning faltered, when your rage finally gave way to exhaustion, she stepped forward—not as a leader, not as a mentor, but as the woman who had loved you like her own from the moment you first called her family.

- The day you returned, there were no words. Only the sound of the wind shifting, gentle and warm, as you fell into her embrace. She said nothing as she ran her fingers through your hair, as she held you like she had so many times before, letting the weight of your grief settle between you. She did not promise that things would be easy. But she did promise, in the silent way that only she could, that she would never let you stand in the storm alone again.

Rogue

- You had always been stubborn, always had that fire in your gut that made you stand taller, fight harder, push forward even when the world tried to knock you down. She admired that about you. Looked at you like a little sibling she never had, someone who reminded her of herself when she was younger—raw, reckless, full of fight. But grief had turned that fire into something else. Something colder, sharper. And it killed her to watch you go.

- She tried to stop you, back when you first left. Grabbed your wrist, held on tight, told you that revenge wasn’t gonna bring your friend back. And you had looked at her with eyes so full of pain it almost broke her. "Then what will?" you had asked, voice shaking. She hadn’t had an answer. And so you left, and she let you, even though it tore something inside her apart.

- But Rogue wasn’t one to give up easy. She still found you, still reached for you in the only ways she knew how. An old jacket left in your path, a song you used to love playing on a distant radio when she knew you’d hear it. She was never good at words, never good at convincing people to stay. But she was damn good at loving people even when they didn’t want to be loved.

- When you finally came back, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet moment, the two of you sitting on the steps of the mansion, looking at the stars like you used to. She nudged your shoulder with hers, let a slow grin spread across her lips. "’Bout time, shug," she said, like you had just been gone for a day instead of months. And in that moment, you knew—she had never really let you go.

Erik Lehnsherr

- He had seen many children lost to war. Had watched bright, hopeful souls turn into weapons, into shadows of the people they used to be. And yet, when he looked at you, something inside him twisted in a way it never had before. You were young, too young to know the true weight of vengeance, but still, you carried it like a soldier. He recognized the fire in your eyes, the hunger for justice that had consumed so much of his own life. And so, he welcomed you into his ranks, not as a leader taking in a follower, but as a man who saw himself in the child before him.

- He did not coddle you. Did not tell you to grieve gently or to find peace where there was none. He trained you, sharpened you, molded your anger into something useful. He taught you that the world would never be fair, that mercy was a weakness, that power was the only way to ensure you never lost another loved one again. And for a time, you believed him.

- But even as he strengthened you, as he guided you into becoming something unstoppable, he saw the cracks forming. The hesitation in your strikes, the moments where your fury wavered, the late nights where you sat alone, staring at nothing. And Erik—who had spent his life convincing himself that vengeance was all he had left—wondered if he had done you a disservice.

- The day you left, he did not stop you. He watched, silent, as you turned back toward the people who had once been your family. And when Charles asked him why he had let you go, why he had not fought to keep you, he simply closed his eyes and said, "Because they deserve a chance to heal in a way I never could.”

Charles Xavier

- He had always seen such potential in you, long before tragedy turned you into someone unrecognizable. He remembers the way your mind used to shine—full of curiosity, full of dreams, full of questions that made him smile. You had been more than a student to him; you had been a light, a reminder of why he built his school in the first place. And then, the Sentinels came. And in their wake, they left you hollow, bitter, distant. He had reached for you, but grief had made you untouchable.

- He had tried to speak to you, tried to offer solace in words he had spoken too many times before. But you had looked at him with eyes that burned, accusing, shattered. "You weren’t there," you had said, and it had struck him deeper than any blade. Because it was true. He hadn’t been there. He had failed you, as he had failed so many others. And so, when you left, when you turned your back on everything he had taught you, he did not stop you. He only hoped—prayed—that the path you walked would not destroy you.

- Still, he never let go. He kept you in his thoughts, in his dreams, in the quiet corners of his mind where he held onto those he could not save. He followed your movements, not as a spy but as a man who could not bear to lose another child to war. And when your thoughts occasionally reached him—flashes of regret, of uncertainty, of loneliness—he did not intrude. He simply sent back warmth, a reminder that you were not as alone as you believed.

- The day you returned, it was not with words, not with apologies or explanations. It was simply a presence, a step through familiar doors, a quiet acknowledgment that you had found your way back. He did not demand answers. He did not ask for promises. He only smiled, eyes soft, and said, "It is good to see you home." And in that moment, he knew—you had been lost, but not beyond reach. Never beyond reach.

Wanda Maximoff

- She understood loss better than most. Understood how grief could shape a person, twist them into something unrecognizable. When you left, she had not blamed you. How could she? When she had once stood where you stood, when she had once believed that pain could only be answered with more pain? She had watched you go with a heavy heart, with the aching knowledge that sometimes, love was not enough to keep someone from walking into the fire.

- But she had never stopped looking for you. Never stopped listening for your voice, even in the quietest moments. Magic had a way of finding what was lost, of revealing truths that words could not. And in the echoes of the universe, in the spaces between time, she felt you—angry, lost, searching. And oh, how she longed to reach through the veil and pull you back, to tell you that vengeance would never fill the emptiness inside you. But she knew. She knew you would not hear her. Not yet.

- So she waited. Watched from the distance, sent quiet spells of protection when she thought you would not notice. She never intervened, never forced her presence upon you. But when the nightmares came, when the weight of everything became too much, she was there—in dreams, in whispers, in the way the wind carried her voice when you needed it most. "You are not alone," she murmured into the spaces between reality, hoping—praying—that one day, you would believe her.

- And when that day finally came, when you stood before her with uncertainty in your eyes, she did not demand explanations. She only stepped forward, cupped your face in her hands, and smiled—soft, knowing, full of understanding. "You found your way back," she whispered, and it was not a question, not a reprimand. It was only love, unconditional and unshaken.

Pietro Maximoff

- He had never been good at patience. Never been good at waiting, at letting things happen as they would. When you left, when you turned your back on the X-Men, he had wanted to chase after you, to shake sense into you, to demand that you stay. But he hadn’t. Because he knew what grief could do. Knew how it could turn a person inside out. And for all his arrogance, for all his sharp words and sharper wit, he had understood that this was not a battle he could win by force.

- That didn’t mean he didn’t worry. He watched from afar, always keeping track, always knowing where you were. He told himself it was just habit, just a precaution, but deep down, he knew the truth—he missed you. Missed the way you used to laugh at his stupid jokes, the way you used to roll your eyes when he bragged, the way you had never treated him like he was just a fast-talking nuisance. You had been his friend, his sibling in all but blood. And losing you had felt like losing a part of himself.

- He never said it outright, never admitted how much it hurt to see you on the other side of the fight. Instead, he did what he always did—he covered it up with sarcasm, with teasing remarks, with challenges thrown your way whenever your paths crossed. "You’re slower than I remember," he’d quip, even when he could see the exhaustion in your eyes. It was easier that way. Easier than saying, I miss you. Please come home.

- When you finally did, when you stood beside him instead of against him, he didn’t make a big deal of it. Didn’t get emotional, didn’t ask for explanations. He just nudged you with his shoulder, smirked, and said, "Took you long enough." But later, when no one was looking, he stood next to you in the quiet, a rare moment of stillness, and murmured, "Don’t scare me like that again." And for once, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could go back to the way they were.

Hank McCoy

- He had always admired your mind. You had been sharp, inquisitive, eager to learn. A student not just of textbooks and science, but of the world itself. He had enjoyed your questions, your endless curiosity, the way you challenged even him to see things from new angles. You had been brilliant. And then, grief had stolen that brilliance, turned your hunger for knowledge into a hunger for vengeance. And that had broken something in him.

- He had tried to reason with you. Had tried to make you see that revenge would not bring back what you had lost. "Justice and vengeance are not the same," he had told you once, voice heavy with the weight of experience. But you had looked at him with eyes full of sorrow and rage and said, "Then tell me what justice looks like when they’re already dead." He had not had an answer. And so, you had left. And he had let you go, because what else could he do?

- But he had never given up hope. Even as you fought against them, even as you stood with those who did not share his ideals, he had never truly believed you were lost. You were too bright, too thoughtful, too full of something deeper than just pain. And so, he waited. Watched. Hoped. And when you stumbled, when the weight of your choices became too heavy, he was there—not to scold, not to lecture, but to remind you that you had always had a place to return to.

- "It is never too late to choose a different path," he told you when you finally came back, his voice warm, steady. "No one is beyond redemption." And though you said nothing, though the guilt still sat heavy on your shoulders, you let him lead you inside. And for him, for the man who had always seen you as brilliant, that was enough.

Emma Frost

- Emma had always been good at reading people, at peeling back the layers of their minds and seeing the truth beneath. And you—once bright, once full of so much untapped power and potential—had been one of her most promising students. Not because you were eager or obedient, but because you questioned things. Because you had never accepted easy answers. And then, the world had turned cruel. Had taken something from you that could never be replaced. And instead of questioning, you had chosen rage.

- She had watched you go, arms crossed, face unreadable, offering no words of comfort or dissuasion. Because Emma knew better than anyone—when someone decided to burn, there was little anyone could do but wait for the fire to run its course. She had been there herself, once. Had felt the sharp edges of grief carving through her, turning her into something ruthless. But still, she had wanted—hoped—that you would not lose yourself entirely to the flames.

- When you crossed paths again, when you stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, she did not waste time with lectures. She only looked at you, eyes cool, sharp, assessing. "I see you’ve grown bolder," she remarked, voice almost lazy. But underneath, there was something else—something softer, something worried. She did not say it outright. Did not tell you that revenge would never satisfy, that grief would never truly fade. Because she knew you wouldn’t listen. Not yet.

- And so, when you finally found your way back—battered, exhausted, uncertain—she did not greet you with warmth, but neither did she turn you away. She simply placed a perfectly manicured hand under your chin, tilted your face up, and said, "Are we finished with the self-destruction phase, darling? Or should I prepare for another dramatic exit?" And when you laughed—shaky, real—she allowed herself a small smile, the kind that meant I knew you’d come home.

Laura Kinney

- Laura had never been good with words, had never known how to give comfort in ways that weren’t sharp and blunt and a little too honest. But when you had still been with the X-Men, she had understood you in a way others hadn’t. There had been something familiar in you—something raw and wounded and angry at a world that had taken too much. You had never feared her, never looked at her like she was a weapon instead of a person. And in turn, she had allowed herself to see you as something like family.

- When you left, she did not chase you. She knew what it was to be consumed by pain, to feel like the only thing left was the urge to strike back. She had seen it in herself, in Logan, in too many others. But that didn’t mean she had stopped caring. She still kept track of you, watching from the distance, stepping into fights she had no reason to be in just to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed. She never made it obvious. Never let you see. But she was there, always there.

- When she did see you again, it was in battle—claws out, movements precise, eyes locked on yours with something unreadable in them. "You're being reckless," she told you, voice flat. And when you scoffed, when you accused her of being a hypocrite, she only tilted her head. "Maybe. But I’m still alive. Will you be?" It was not a threat. It was a warning. A quiet, desperate plea that she would never say aloud.

- And when you finally returned—not with words, but with bruises and exhaustion and a weight in your eyes that had nothing to do with battle—she did not ask why. Did not demand explanations. She simply stepped beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, and muttered, "Next time, don’t make me wait so long." It was the closest thing to I missed you that she could say. And for you, it was enough.

Wade Wilson

- Wade wasn’t the sentimental type. At least, that’s what he told himself. And when you left the X-Men, when you joined the Brotherhood with vengeance in your eyes and grief clawing at your ribs, he had pretended it didn’t bother him. "Kid’s gotta go through their rebellious phase," he had joked. "I give it six months before they realize villain monologues get really old." But underneath the jokes, underneath the wisecracks, there had been something else—something that felt a lot like worry.

- He checked in on you more than he cared to admit. Showed up to Brotherhood hideouts just to cause trouble, just to see how you were holding up. "How’s the whole ‘vengeance’ thing working out for ya?" he’d ask, grinning, leaning too close. But there was something in his eyes—something sharp, something real. And when you snapped at him, told him to leave, he only sighed, exaggerated and dramatic. "Fine, fine, I’ll let you have your little angsty villain arc. Just… don’t get too murder-y, okay?"

- And then, one day, you were on the ground—wounded, bleeding, caught in a fight that had gone wrong. And Wade was there, standing over you, guns still smoking, mask tilted slightly to the side. "Wow, look at that," he mused. "Turns out I do care if you get yourself killed. Who knew?" And when you tried to argue, when you tried to push yourself up, he just crouched beside you, voice unusually quiet. "You’re not as alone as you think, kid. You never were."

- When you finally came back, when you hesitated at the mansion’s doorstep, unsure if you were still welcome, Wade appeared beside you like he had been expecting you all along. "So, does this mean I get to say ‘I told you so’ or is it too soon?" And when you actually laughed, tired but real, he just slung an arm around your shoulders and grinned. "C’mon, let’s get you inside before one of the serious ones gives you a dramatic redemption speech. I promise mine will be way more fun."

Kitty Pryde

- You had been like a sibling to her. Had shared late-night talks, had trained together, had whispered about dreams and fears in the quiet moments between battles. And when you left—when the weight of loss became too much and you turned your back on the X-Men—Kitty had felt it like a wound. Had wanted to reach out, to shake you, to tell you that running wouldn’t make the pain go away. But she hadn’t. Because she knew what grief could do. Knew that sometimes, words weren’t enough.

- Still, it didn’t mean she stopped caring. She watched from afar, always hoping—always believing—that you would come back. And when you crossed paths again, on opposite sides of a fight, she had hesitated. Had looked at you with something raw in her eyes. "Is this really who you are now?" she had asked, voice shaking, half-daring you to prove her wrong. And when you hadn’t answered, when you had only turned away, it had felt like losing you all over again.

- But Kitty was stubborn. And she refused to believe that you were gone for good. So, she left reminders in the places she knew you’d see—old photos, scrawled notes in places only you would think to look. "You’re not alone," one had read, written in the messy handwriting you used to tease her about. "We still love you." She didn’t know if you ever read them. But she hoped.

- And when you did return, when you stood in the doorway of the mansion with uncertainty in your eyes, she was the first to reach you. No hesitation, no anger, just arms wrapping around you in a hug so fierce it knocked the breath from your lungs. "Took you long enough, dummy," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. And when you clung to her just as tightly, she knew—you had been lost, but never truly gone.

Warren Worthington III

- Warren had always been something untouchable—golden, radiant, too bright for the world to dim. But you had been one of the few who had seen past the perfect façade, past the easy smiles and effortless charm. You had known him before the weight of expectations had settled fully on his shoulders, before the world had tried to clip his wings. And in return, he had been your light—your first real glimpse of warmth, of family, of something good.

- And then, you had left. Had walked away with fire in your eyes and vengeance in your heart, and Warren had watched it happen, powerless to stop you. He had wanted to go after you, had wanted to remind you that pain didn’t have to be carried alone, that grief didn’t have to turn you into something unrecognizable. But he hadn’t. Because he knew what it was to feel lost. Knew what it was to crave control when the world had taken everything from you.

- When he saw you again, it was mid-battle, and for a moment—just a moment—his breath caught. You were still you, still fierce and beautiful and untamed, but there was something new in your gaze. Something hardened, something tired. "This isn’t you," he had said, voice quieter than it should have been. And when you had laughed—bitter, sharp—he had only clenched his jaw, wings flaring behind him. "If this is what revenge is doing to you, then maybe it’s not worth it."

- When you finally returned, he was waiting. Not with anger, not with lectures, but with an understanding that settled deep in his bones. "Took your time," he murmured, wings folding around you like a shield, like a promise. And when you leaned into him, exhausted and undone, he simply held you there, unshaken, unwavering. Because he had lost you once, and he would not make the mistake of letting you go again.

Morph

- He had always been the first to make you laugh, the first to pull you out of your worst thoughts with some ridiculous joke, some exaggerated impression. He had been your safe place, your soft landing, the one who made the weight of the world feel just a little lighter. And then, in the wake of your loss, in the wreckage of everything you had once believed in, you had turned your back on all of it. On the X-Men. On him.

- But Morph wasn’t the type to let go so easily. Even when you had stormed off, even when you had sworn you weren’t coming back, he had never truly left you alone. He popped up in the strangest places, appearing as the most absurd disguises—a Brotherhood grunt, a news anchor, a lamp post, for God’s sake—just to remind you that he was still watching out for you. That he still cared. "You miss me yet?" he’d ask with a grin, but his eyes were always too serious, too knowing.

- And when battle forced you face-to-face, when you found yourself staring at the one person who had never stopped believing in you, he had only sighed, shaking his head. "You look terrible," he said, shifting into a mirror image of you, exaggerated and over-dramatic. "All broody and tragic. Really not your best look." But then, softer, quieter, he had added, "You know I’d still choose you, right? No matter what side you think you’re on?"

- When you finally stumbled back into the mansion, worn and weary, he didn’t make a big show of it. He just grinned, opened his arms wide, and said, "Took you long enough! I was this close to staging a dramatic rescue mission." And when you actually laughed—small, tired, real—he knew. Knew that, even after everything, he had never truly lost you.

Jubilee

- She had idolized you once, in the way younger siblings idolize their older, cooler counterparts. You had been the one to teach her things the others wouldn’t—the best ways to sneak out undetected, the secret stash of candy hidden in the mansion’s walls, the perfect balance between mischief and heroism. She had loved you big, had looked up to you like you hung the stars. And then, just like that, you were gone.

- She had been angry. Had felt betrayed in a way she hadn’t known was possible. "Fine," she had muttered to the others when they tried to comfort her. "They wanna be a villain? Let them." But even as she said it, even as she crossed her arms and pretended not to care, she had found herself keeping track of your name in news reports, hoping—praying—that you weren’t beyond saving.

- When she saw you again, her first instinct had been to blast you with fireworks, to demand answers, to shake you until you listened. But instead, she had only stared at you, wide-eyed and wavering. "Did it help?" she had asked, voice smaller than she wanted it to be. "Did joining them make the pain go away?" And when you hadn’t answered—when you had only turned your gaze to the ground—she had known.

- And when you finally came back, hesitant and uncertain, Jubilee did not hesitate. She threw herself at you in a hug so fierce it nearly knocked you both over. "Don’t you dare leave me again," she whispered, voice choked with something dangerously close to tears. And when you promised—soft, raw, real—she only held on tighter, refusing to let go.

Alex Summers

- He had always understood you in a way that few others did. Had known what it was to live in the shadow of grief, to carry anger like a second skin. He had seen the way loss had shaped you, had recognized something too familiar in the sharpness of your gaze, the set of your jaw. And when you had turned your back on the X-Men, when you had chosen vengeance over family, he had not chased you. But he had understood.

- That didn’t mean he had forgiven you easily. When you faced each other again, when battle had forced you to opposite sides, his expression had been unreadable. "This is really the path you wanna take?" he had asked, arms crossed, jaw tight. And when you had met his gaze—defiant, unyielding—he had only exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Do what you have to. Just try not to die being stubborn."

- And then, one day, you had almost did. Had nearly let yourself be consumed by the very fire you had been chasing. And it was Alex who had pulled you from the wreckage, who had stood over you with an expression torn between fury and relief. "You’re a damn idiot," he had muttered, helping you up. But his grip had been steady, his hands warm, grounding. And when he added, "Come home when you’re done running," you had almost believed you could.

- When you finally did, he was waiting. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Took you long enough," he said, but there was no real bite to it. Just relief, just familiarity, just the silent understanding that had always existed between you. And when you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, he only bumped his shoulder against yours and muttered, "Welcome back.”

[dykesynthezoid]

Laura and Warren getting together is like. Disappointingly not the first time they’ve made a traumatized lesbian date one of her bisexual uncles. Unfortunately

[why-i-love-comics]

All-New X-Men #30 (2014)

written by Brian Michael Bendis art by Sara Pichelli & Marte Gracia

[drodysseyupdates]

Quackers | 1x08 official bts

[mikupepsi]

Random au stuff I didn't post :33

[luna-bimborina]

Top of my favorite Laura's (X-23) ships and which one I think is best

Trigger warning: this contains a lot of text and is more of a vent so I ask for patience, some may count as crack ships and some you may not like, every opinion is valid as long as it is given with respect this just things that I like and that is my opinion.

Please all from respect and understanding 💖.

9. Local

We haven't seen much of this character, that's why he's the last one, but he still has a certain charm that reminds us of Gambit, which fits Laura's personality in my opinion.

8. Jordan

Same case only appeared once but still the way they manage to understand each other is quite adorable, going from hate to understanding being that in the end both try to fight with the trauma, although I can also see it as a sisterhood relationship.

7. Jubilee

Emphasizing this is my opinion, I know many love this ship and I don't really judge them the way Jubilee seeks to support Laura can be fascinating, plus she never judges her just accompanies her, the only thing I think sometimes she tends not to listen to her much out of that I can also see them as sisters.

6. Mercury

I know this may sound weird but in general the way they both grow since they meet is slow but effective, being that even coming from absolutely different lives they seek to connect and manage to understand each other in the end, honestly I hate that Marvel won't continue their friendship.

5. Wind Dancer

I made this one up and it's an absolute crack ship, I mean I know they haven't interacted but I legitimately believe that if they had it would have been a nice friendship or relationship, between Sofia's compression and Laura's overprotection... I'll understand if I'm cancelled or judged for this...

4. Angel

Here we start with strong things, I know that many do not like this ship or its author, but in my opinion it has strong points.

Warren was one of the few people who tried to help Laura when she was clearly not well mentally, especially when she was surrounded by people that he barely knew, the way he enjoys seeing her smile and takes care of her says a lot about him, to the point that he prefers to sacrifice everything to change the destiny and have time with her, plus they both manage to make each other grow. While it has a bit toxic points I also like how they manage to solve things by communicating perfectly and learning to talk to each other being that while it's not perfect they manage to get to solve things just with communication at the end of it all, not to mention the adorable moment where he caresses her head and how he was for her in such strong moments as the funeral of her "mother" and Kimura's death.

It would be higher but I think Warren's only flaw is that he thinks more about Laura changing or reducing her wild personality a little bit which lowers his points in my opinion, plus as such we didn't see an end to this relationship.

3. Kiden

She has been the most recent to give us this ship, the first person to meet Laura and from what they let us see the first to try to understand her, by the dialogues of Nyx #8 she shows us the love she has always had for her, seeing her not only as a friend but as one of the most important people in her life.

She loves her and I'm sure that whether she accepts her feelings or not, it won't affect that she still wants to protect Laura and just be in her life.

2. Synch

I know many don't like this ship either but personally, even though we didn't see much of it, there are things that say so much.

Just starting with spending a thousand years together and constantly protecting each other to the point of preferring to die for each other, not to mention that after leaving the vault Synch still loved his Laura but he knew that the one he saw in front of him was not her, even with that he could not avoid looking at her nor could he live the mourning because.... Do you really know for sure that she is dead? How can you grieve for someone who simply disappeared? The psychological point in this ship is powerful, when they meet again is one of the most emotional moments, even after having spent a thousand years together they don't separate, they treat each other with love and look at each other as if no one else in the world will matter, for me without like those grandparents couples that you want to see together always and even after so much together they still treat each other like two teenagers who just met and treat each other with love.

This ship doesn't have the best of endings however it is still poetic, as to whether I would like to see it with this current Laura? No, he himself says so, maybe she looks like his wife but she is not the one I love.

1. Hellion

Wow in first place? It must be a surprise for those who follow my blog.

Getting serious talking about this ship is a long but interesting one, I would say it is one of the most natural relationships since from the first meeting it is imperfect, however Julian from the first moment he meets her although he doesn't fully understand her he doesn't judge her, for both it is as if they feel a genuine curiosity for each other, being Julian the first person who even seeks to integrate her to his group.

Something that Julian shows many times throughout the comics is his willingness to break the rules or lose everything in exchange for helping her, this even not exactly with feelings involved but because "she's important too" being the first person to make her feel worth it if you ask me; In Nyx's most recent comic #8 she lets us see more of their relationship, talking about the constant support that there was a genuine and pure love, however maybe it wasn't the time to be, after all they were two broken people that no matter how much they wanted they couldn't depend on each other and needed to heal separately.

However, even though this hurt at the time, there are comics that give us to understand that they could at least remain as friends, I will highlight one of the most important moments in Laura's life, which is the funeral of her "mother", where there was only immediate family, important people for her... And Julian, someone who managed to understand her and even when things were over decided to support her, although there is no dialogue in the scene the simple fact of his presence says a lot.

This already became long but Julian in short for me deserves the number one spot for being the first to see her clear and transparent, deciding to love her like that.

As an extra to add I want to say that Marjorie Liu wrote the characters so badly that only two things can be rescued, and also highlight that in an alternate future if they remained a couple and only ended because Julian died, and yet Laura still loved him, so if that is not love, what is?

Honorable mentions

Elixir, Spiderman and Surge

I'm not going to explain my guilty pleasure for these three because this could have been the thesis of my career, I'll just let the images explain themselves.