#german cannon

[militarymodeller]

Nr.332, The German PAK 41/43 Scheunentor ( Barn door )

The Pak 43 (Panzerabwehrkanone 43 and Panzerjägerkanone 43 was a German 8.8 cm anti-tank gun developed by Krupp in competition with the Rheinmetall8.8 cm Flak 41 anti-aircraft gun and used during World War II. The Pak 43 was the most powerful anti-tank gun of the Wehrmacht to see service in significant numbers, also serving in modified form as the 8.8 cm KwK 43 main gun on the Tiger II tank, the open-top Nashorn and fully enclosed, casemate-hulled Elefant and Jagdpanthertank destroyers.

The 43/41 proved heavy and awkward to handle in the mud and snow of the Eastern Front and gunners referred to 43/41 as the "barn door" (German: Scheunentor),a reference to the size and weight of the gun. Nevertheless, the improvised Pak 43/41 proved an effective substitute for the Pak 43 until sufficient numbers of the more complex cruciform mounts could be manufactured to replace it in service.

[armthearmour]

A small breech-loading Cannon,

Barrel Length: 14.4 in/36.7 cm

Bore: 1.3 in/3.4 cm

possibly Germany, late 15th century, from Olympia Auction House.

[illustratus]

Fellow Artists Unleash a Cannon Shot at the Michele Fortress near Ostia (Ferdinand Jagemann and Peter Krafft) by Johann Peter Krafft

[thegothicviking]

Excuse me, Richard?? When were you ever gonna tell us!?!? Also...Rüde!?

[postcard-from-the-past]

German cannons exhibited in the courtyard of Verdun, Lorraine region of France

French vintage postcard

[capsensislagamoprh]

"They are being unreasonable," Victor cried.

"If I may," Christophe purred in his lilting way, "it is not unreasonable to require care and tending to... well, anything really."

"It would just come with me," came the huffed reply.

"Victor, min vän." Christophe took a careful sip of his drink, waiting for the silver head to raise, blue eyes glaring balefully into the camera. "Animals do not tend to themselves when domesticated. Not here. No matter what these animated films may say."

"Why not?!"

It was Christophe's turn to freeze. "I'm not really sure. I think it has something to do with the eternal cycle and being removed from nature?"

"They are pets! There nature is to be in a home."

"I'm not sure that's how it works. What got you so interested in an animal companion anyway?"

"One stood on me."

The long, complicated stair Victor receives encourages him to elaborate, which he promptly does. "The thing is, since I've been here, nothing has seemed to shock me. There is so little glamour. It's like wonder in the land of winter is in short supply. I just don't get it, Chris. Winter is the time of rest and cozy joy. Crystal wonders, castles made of ice. Why is it not like this here?"

"None of us have it easy, Victor. The material world is far more locked. How locked depends on who's around you. The more you can make them dream, make them follow - there eyes wide, heart open - the less the world tells you no. People are desperate to dream. That doesn't mean those dreams aren't about predictable things."

A low groan escaped the ice king's lips as he melted into his roll-wheels desk chair. As it slid, he tossed his arms out, letting one fall across his eyes, the other a decorous extension of his lament. "I see you've been working on your program. What's the theme?"

"Languishing. Forlorn. The ever extending existential crisis of faith in this mundane world!"

"So... changes?"

"Yes. Changes."

"You are so dramatic."

"Awe, thanks!" Victor slid back to the desk, his smile big. "What's yours?"

"Growth."

"Little on point for a spring fey, isn't it?"

"Literal growth, Victor. I am ridiculously short. I am looking forward with great passion to the day I regain my splendor in the Material Realm. As it stands I can only reach high shelves at the embassy."

"If you had a pet, they could do that for you."

"Only particular pets, and I do not think I want something so dependent on me. I move about to much. I need something independent."

"Like the familiars or like the pooka?"

"Pooka hear you talk like that and we may well have to get a new Ice King while we're looking for Yuri and the Hero." Christophe paused, head tilted. "Why do we call him that anyway. I know it's his title, but doesn't he have a name name?"

"His title is Duke of Shadows, actually. Hero is a moniker. Though, come to think of it, I don't know if he has a name. I mean, he must. I hear Yuri whispering something to him all the time that tickles the ears like one, but it's never really said out loud."

"We're fey, Victor. Would you tell your name to just anyone when you're bound by the title of Hero? Also, when did he become a duke?"

"End of the second age, I think. When he created the Dawn."

"Yuri?"

"Sort of. It's complicated. I think Yuri was always there, just kind of hidden by shadows. I suppose it's more accurate to say he 'removed the shadows from' Yuri. The previous Unseele left a lot of things confusing on purpose. My head still has a hard time wrapping about all that occurred."

"Hum. Well, about this dog," Christophe said casually.

"Yes! You must help me find one! I require a little chaos in my life. I am so bored with out it."

Christophe nodded, fully intending to help his friend, refusing to let him know the chaos he was missing was his terrifyingly brilliant cousin. Victor was missing that spark of 'life'. He only hoped to keep Victor's unspoken burden of guilt from drowning him in banality before they recovered his fire brand relative - and that mania would not result if they didn't find the Hero before that.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23

[fentonphoto]

Kayaks on the Elbe River Dresden Germany. @travelandlovelife-blog

[cantankerouscatfish]

Pilea depressa flowers exploding. 🤷‍♂️

[ofdetonation]

good afternoon gentle reminder that katsuki (canonically?) wants to be appreciated “with all the dreadnought love” people have. it was at the end of the dynamy comic strip so i mean it’s kinda up to you if it’s canon or nah, but it’s such a good way of describing it.

basically: he wants to be smacked in the goddamn face with a whole artillery gun/cannon. in the form of love. very on brand for him.

[crankydevon]

prev tags: I knew this guy was going to be either from Wisconsin or Germany

[ifartconfetti]

I'm convinced if you employed american anti swearing rules to literally every other language it would cease to exist because normal everyday words get banned

[militarymodeller]

Nr.338, The German 10 cm schwere Kanone 18 (10 cm sK 18)

The 10 cm schwere Kanone 18 (10 cm sK 18) was a field gun used by Germany in World War II.

The German army wanted a new 10.5 cm gun as well as 15 cm howitzer which were to share the same carriage. Guns are heavier than howitzers due to the longer barrel.

This also led to the 15 cm sFH 18. As such both weapons had a similar weight and could be carried by a similar carriage. By 1926 Krupp and Rheinmetall had specimen designs, and prototypes were ready by 1930, but was not fielded until 1933–34.

Both Krupp and Rheinmetall competed for the development contract, but the Wehrmacht compromised and selected Krupp's carriage to be mated with Rheinmetall's gun.

[wordstome]

kosovo maiden (könig x reader)

Well, I did it again, gang. I wrote another story based on a painting. This one is by Uroš Predić in 1919, and was posted to Tumblr here (thanks to arcana-imperii for posting!)

I don't know anything about Kosovo, so the reader here isn't explicitly Serbian ;; please forgive me. Also, apologies for possibly inaccurate ambiguously late-1800s setting, medical information or German. Please enjoy!

2.2k words

There are soldiers in the field.

You heard the sounds of battle early in the dawn, the piercing explosions of gunfire and cannons ringing out as the sun rose. You weren’t concerned at first: it was far enough away that you felt safe enough to carry on as usual. But the gunfire drew closer and closer, and by noon you could hear the shouting and the battle cries, driving you trembling into your attic with terror. Mercifully, the fighting peters out as the sun sinks lower in the sky, but when you finally work up the nerve to peek out of your window, you find to your horror that the grassy field adjacent to your humble little home is littered with the bodies of dead and dying men.

Without a single further thought to your own safety, you grab a lantern and a pitcher of water and rush into the night.

It’s awful. Most of the men left behind are already cold, some whose eyes you have to shut yourself. The ones who were able to be saved were likely evacuated by their comrades, so the only ones left to face the cruel nighttime are the ones who won’t see the morning after. A few are still conscious when you find them, but you have little more to offer them than a gentle touch and one last drink of water. Their eyes are what will haunt you most after today: slick with tears as grown men weep, all semblance of courage and proud masculinity stripped from them as they face down their imminent demise. It’s terrible, heart-wrenching, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. You’re the only living thing left that can offer them comfort in their last moments.

The jug of water dangles from your hand as you trudge through the field, looking for anyone at all that you can provide help to. You’ve long abandoned any hope of finding someone you can save when you come across him: the giant in the grass.

It’s well and truly nighttime at that point, your lamp the only source of light upon what seems like a sea of human misery. The light hits his face, and you gasp. Your first thought is of how huge he is, at least 200 centimeters if he were standing. Your second thought is of how handsome he is…

You jolt to attention as he shifts and groans. He’s alive! Shaking some sense into yourself, you don’t hesitate to rush to his side. Your hands roam across his body, assessing the severity of his injuries. To your surprise, he doesn’t seem to be mortally injured. They’re severe, to be sure—he won’t be able-bodied for weeks. But he’s far from at death’s door, only confused and dazed…had his comrades only left him due to his sheer size?

Using your hand to support the back of his head and neck, you tip some water into his mouth in an attempt to revive him. The man cracks an eye open, regarding you with feverish wonder.

“Ein Engel…” he murmurs. You’re too elated that he’s alive, so you don’t actually properly hear what he said. With light, deft fingers, you tear strips of his tattered shirt and use the cloth to wrap up a scrape on his arm and stem the flow of a very nasty-looking wound up along the broad plane of his torso. To your alarm, however, the man seems to slump, his head laying back as if he’s about to lose consciousness.

“No, no,” you cry in panic, shaking him without heed of his injuries. “Sir, you cannot sleep here, I am unable to carry you…you will die out here!”

He mumbles something inaudible, and you breathe a sigh of relief. He hasn’t passed out on you yet, but you have to act quickly to properly care for his wounds. You shift your body so you can maneuver his uninjured arm onto your shoulders. Luckily, he seems to comprehend what you’re trying to do, and manages to stumble to his feet while leaning his weight on you.

It’s an awkward, fumbling dance, considering your earlier assessment of his height was correct—he’s a huge man, and his torso alone nearly dwarfs your entire figure. But with a good measure of patience, you manage to get him moving towards your house. It’s high time you returned home, as well: your stomach roils as you remember what happens to corpses left outside for scavengers to find.

The two of you stumble through the doorway of your home, you murmuring soft affirmations and encouragement to the man. He makes no indication that he understands what you’re saying, but he’s nodding along, responding to your gentle tone. You guide him to lay on your bed, his body visibly relaxing as he sinks into the mattress.

You bustle around, lighting candles, stoking your fireplace, and rummaging around for medical supplies. You return to him with a basin of warm water, a cloth, and some bandages—before stopping dead in your tracks.

In the low lamplight out in the field, you hadn’t noticed the color of the man’s uniform, much too preoccupied with his signs of life. But now the truth is laid bare in front of you as you take in his attire, eyes traveling over his broad body—

You’ve just taken in an enemy soldier.

The man has seemingly fallen asleep, likely exhausted by the battle and the effort it took to get into your home. That does nothing to assuage your fear, though: what are you going to do if he passes away right in your bed? Even worse, what are you going to do if he wakes? Will he be hostile? Will he attempt to take you as a hostage to secure safe passage out of his enemy’s territory?

It's clear to you, though, that if you don’t help this man, he will die. His wounds could easily turn septic, and then he’s a goner. You steel yourself and approach him, kneeling at his bedside.

You work slowly and carefully to reveal his injuries, wincing when they’re completely exposed. He’s no longer bleeding profusely, but he will absolutely need stitches. For now, you settle for cleaning them with a damp cloth, trying to keep infection at bay.

He must be well and truly knocked out, because he doesn’t even stir as you wrap his arm securely with clean bandages. You’re much more hesitant to deal with his chest wound: if he wakes and struggles, he could make it much worse. But his unconscious state affords you the best opportunity to stitch him up…

You furrow your brow and go to find a needle.

You’re awoken by a gentle touch on the shoulder.

You stir from your sleep, wondering what your mother could possibly want at such an early hour. At least she put the fire on—you can hear the crackling. But why is your bed so hard? Did you fall asleep on the floor? Actually, now that you think about it, you do recall dozing off on your sheepskin rug last night, because—

Your eyes shoot open to see a huge, hulking figure standing over you.

The soldier startles when you scream, scrambling to move away from him. He cuts an intimidating figure in the early morning light: he towers over you in a state of undress, the bandages you put on him last night splotched with rusty dried blood. But you calm down as you realize he means you no harm, his hands outstretched in front of him as a show of peace: no weapons.

“Wo bin ich?” he asks. You squint at him. That sounds like German, but you can’t speak a word of it.

“I don’t speak German,” you try. He tilts his head, looking as puzzled as you feel right now.

“Never mind all of that,” you say, shaking your head and pushing yourself to your feet. “You shouldn’t be out of bed!” The soldier watches with amusement as you press your hands against him, careful to avoid touching his chest where you know his wound lies, in an attempt to get him back into bed. He allows you to do so, lying back down like an obedient dog.

“Muste pissen,” he murmurs as you fuss over him. You shoot him another confused look as you check the stitches you put in his chest wound. All seems well, you note with relief.

“What?”

He huffs a sigh. He gestures towards the door, and then then to his…oh.

“I see,” you say, cheeks feeling hot. You can’t bear to look at his face, but when you do, you find he’s watching you with amusement.

You tap his chest with a finger, then mime a sewing motion. “Don’t get up on your own from now on, you could tear your stitches,” you tell him, pointing to the door and then to patting your own chest. “I’ll help you.”

He snorts, but nods. You start to unfurl the bandages on his arm, heart twinging with sympathy as he grits his teeth in pain. You bite your lip in chagrin as the wound is revealed. It was much less severe than the one on his chest, but it’s doing much worse: pus and fluids are leaking everywhere, and to your horror, you think some parts of the torn flesh might actually be turning green.

“Es sieht schlecht aus?” he asks, concerned. You put on a smile you hope is comforting and rise from his bedside to go downstairs and rummage through your cupboards.

You return to him holding a bottle of liquor, the strongest you could find. He seems to realize what you intend to do, and shifts slightly to allow you better access to his arm.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. “This is going to hurt.” Without further warning, you dump a good amount of alcohol on his wound.

“SCHEIẞE!” The bellow of pain that rips out of his throat seems to shake the very foundations of your home. You wince as he hollers and lays back heavy against your poor little bed, forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. That can’t have been pleasant…

“Das tat schlimmer weh, als die verdammte Wunde überhaupt zu bekommen,” he grits. You give him a sympathetic little pat before withdrawing to get the bandages.

He’s calmed down by the time you return to him. He watches you curiously as you wrap him up nice and snug, then turn your attentions to his chest wound. The stitches are still in place—it seems he was careful when he relieved himself—but you still need to clean and dress the wound. He lets out a sigh of relief when you opt for a clean cloth to dab away the dried blood instead of the liquor bottle.

You work quickly and efficiently, worried about him catching a cold with his chest out like this. You also can’t deny that the whole situation is starting to make you a bit shy—a foreign man, and an attractive one at that, is in your bed, shirtless, and you’re all but sprawled out on top of him to get up close to his injury. By the time you’re done, you’re fully blushing at the closeness of the contact between the two of you.

“You should be alright, it’s a good sign that you lasted through the night and haven’t developed a fever yet,” you tell him as you gather up the soiled bandages to be washed. “You’ll need to stay in bed so I can keep an eye on you—”

You’re drawn up short when you look up to see his face. Far from the angry scowl he wore when you disinfected his wound, his expression now is almost…admiring? You shift slightly, caught off guard by the adoration in this stranger’s stare, and your arm brushes against something solid and warm.

You stand up as if burned, turning to see what you just touched. To your chagrin, you find that the soldier is…well, he’s hard.

You whirl around to fix him with an outraged look, but he only laughs at you with obvious delight. What a pervert! You’re so flustered you don’t know what to do or where to look, but you’re stopped by the sensation of him reaching up and pressing a hand to your face.

You stare at him, wide-eyed, as he strokes your cheek with a sort of reverence that stops you in your tracks. “Mein Retter…” he murmurs. “Entschuldigung. Ich konnte nicht anders.”

You huff, recognizing that he’s trying to apologize. “You don’t act like an injured man at all,” you complain. A spark of mirth comes into his eye at your pouting tone as he just chuckles at you. You turn to walk away, yelping when you feel his hand brush against your bottom. You shoot him with a deadly look as he laughs again.

You scurry away, feeling awkward and hot all over. You had been so concerned last night about whether you should stay in the same house as the potentially dangerous soldier, pacing the floor and biting your nails as you pondered whether you should give him up to the local authorities. In hindsight, you’re glad you didn’t—they would surely have locked him in a cold cell with nobody to look after that festering gash on his shoulder, to say nothing of his chest wound. It was worth it to risk waking up to a man angry and spitting hatred at you, if you could save his life.

But now you’re realizing that you hadn’t considered the opposite possibility: that the soldier might like you a little too much.

ein Engel = an angel Wo bin ich? = Where am I? Muste pissen = had to piss Es sieht schlecht aus? = Is it bad? Scheiße = shit Das tat schlimmer weh, als die verdammte Wunde überhaupt zu bekommen = That hurt worse than getting the damn wound in the first place Mein Retter = my savior Entschuldigung. Ich konnte nicht anders = I'm sorry. I couldn't help it

Once more, I wrote this in a frenzy akin to being possessed, so it's a little short. But there will definitely be more! Thank you for reading <3

@kneelingshadowsalome @danibee33 @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @keiva1000 @waves-against-a-cliff @channelsoph @cutiecusp @itsagrimm @dins-riduur-anthe @mantishymns @lexuria @complexivelovely

[bamfkeeper]

Cooking with Kurt.

RQ: 'So, I’ve been thinking lately about cute ideas, and one of them is about cooking. Could you write a head-cannons (or a fic if you like the idea and want to be more in-depth) of Kurt and the Reader cooking? Kurt teaches the reader how to make certain German foods, and the Reader teaches Kurt some tricks too. Just the two bonding over cooking and praising and complimenting each other for their good jobs. I just find this to be adorable since cooking is a great way to share cultures and bond 🥧😋.' - @hulkingharbor

pairing: Kurt Wagner x GN!reader | warnings: None

a/n: Stuck with headcannons because those are easy for me to write up. I have been neglecting this blog a bit I'm so sorry. I wanted to get some stuff out before I left for my trip. Unedited.

Kurt was over the moon when you expressed interest in his German heritage. Your curiosity about his roots had always been genuine, but when the topic turned to cuisine, his excitement reached new heights. The prospect of sharing his culinary traditions with you filled him with joy.

He saw cooking and baking together as a meaningful way to connect and create lasting memories, it was one of his love languages for sure.

The kitchen became a space where cultural exchange and personal bonding intertwined. Kurt's eyes would light up as he described the myriad of German dishes he was eager to introduce you to, each recipe carrying a story or a cherished memory from his past.

From hearty sauerbraten to delicate apfelstrudel, he had an extensive repertoire of flavors he couldn't wait to explore with you.

Kurt stood beside you, his lean body adorned with a whimsical apron that seemed almost comically out of place on his athletic frame.

His nimble fingers worked the dough with practiced ease, kneading it into submission. "I am beyond thrilled to be baking with you, liebe," he exclaimed, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "This is something I've been longing to do for quite some time now."

His golden eyes sparkled with joy as he spoke, his hands never ceasing their rhythmic motion on the precious dough. Meanwhile, you busied yourself with the task of slicing apples, the crisp sound of the knife against the cutting board.

"You look absolutely ridiculous," you chuckled affectionately, your eyes crinkling with mirth as you took in the sight of him in his frilly apron. The appearance of his muscular form and the dainty kitchen wear was too amusing to ignore.

Kurt was never one to back down from playful banter, he responded by sticking out his tongue at you in a childish gesture. His graceful tail swished mischievously behind him. You noticed that the tip of his tail had somehow managed to acquire a light dusting of flour.

Before you could react, his tail flicked swiftly in your direction, sending a small cloud of white powder flying towards you. It landed on your nose, a tiny puff of it exhaling as you snorted.

Kurt's laughter filled your ears, and you picked up some flour to combat him, his hands went up as he playfully begged you not to. "Nein! Nein, liebe! Flour and my fur do not mix!"

His pleading didn't deter you.

Flour collided with him and you both began a play fight of tossing the white ingredient at each other until you were covered in it.

Besides your little food fight, you both learned how to cook each others favorite meals. Kurt gladly taught you special recipes, and you baked delicious cookies and made warm meals to eat together.

You were surprised at how hearty his meals were, despite him being fairly lean. He blamed it on his metabolism.

Kurt loves to cook you food. Whenever you request a dish, he gets right on it and is so proud of the outcome. He always does his best and is very specific about the ingredients he uses. It has to be fresh and perfect for you.

Cooking and baking together became a cherished ritual, a delightful exploration of flavors and cultures. You take turns introducing each other to your respective backgrounds, eagerly sharing family recipes and cooking techniques passed down through generations.

The kitchen becomes a messy playground of creativity as you collaborate on fusion dishes, blending elements from both your culinary heritage.

Kurt's enthusiasm for cultural exchange is endearing, his natural curiosity and open-mindedness make him an eager student of diverse traditions and customs. He approaches each new experience with childlike wonder, whether it's trying an exotic spice or learning a traditional method of cooking. He's always ready to sample new dishes, no matter how unfamiliar.

Kurt's eyes always light up as he tastes your food. "Mein Gott, liebling! This food is absolutely wunderbar!" he exclaims, his voice filled with genuine awe. He affectionately nuzzles his head against yours, his tail instinctively curling around your waist to draw you closer.

The gesture of his tail is protective and intimate, a habit he formed long ago and you never broke it from him. "You must write down this recipe for me. I'd love to surprise you with it someday when you least expect it."

You can't help but smile at his enthusiasm, your heart warming at his sincere appreciation. "Of course, I'll write it down for you," you assure him, your voice soft with affection. "But I expect detailed instructions for all your culinary masterpieces too."

Turning in his embrace, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tracing the unique patterns of his skin. "After all, I need something to tide me over when you're away on missions. Can't have me pining away with an empty stomach, can we?"

A mischievous grin spreads across Kurt's face, his golden eyes twinkling with a mixture of humor and desire. He leans in close, his lips barely brushing against yours as he speaks. The feather-light touch sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a familiar warmth in your core.

"Oh, liebling," he purrs, his accented voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "When have I ever left you wanting for anything? I always make sure you're well-satisfied in every possible way~"

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight | Images found on Pinterest, I did not look for the specific comic Kurt's pic is from.

[postcard-from-the-past]

German cannon by the Australians by Chuignes during the First World War, Picardy region of northern France

French vintage postcard

[yellowballoondogs]

My x-men teacher headcannons

Scott Summers

The kids have a dumb nickname for him that he only tolerates because he wants them to think he’s cool (none of them think that)

Now hear me out. He’s the drivers Ed teacher. (Yes this extends to the X-jet) I just think it fits him- I can’t even explain it

Every-time a student asks him to sponsor a club he just says yes. He ends up with a variety of random clubs to sponsor

Rouge

The kids are afraid of her at first but love her by the end

She teaches auto-mechanics and gym

She really wants to coach some kind of sports team but hasn’t had the time for it

Remy Lebeau

The kids love him. They trust him and think he’s cool. None of the adults do.

He teaches sex-Ed (canonically) but I think he’d also teach home ec. He loves cooking and spent the entire krakoa era househusbanding- he’d love it.

He really wants to run a cooking club but can’t get enough students to join

Kurt Wagner

In cannon most students think he’s creepy but it’s a school for mutants so fuck that. They love him in my heart. They just also think his jokes are stupid and he’s cringe.

He started out teaching German but got bored of it pretty quickly

I could’ve see him as a kinder garten teacher. He loves working with the little ones and they love him. He’s definitely one of those teachers who has a classroom theme every year that they overdecorate for.

If he’s not a kindergarten teacher he’d do theater. Man would go all out for a Shakespearean play,

He also runs a ton of extracurriculars- baseball (which he canonically loves), Bible study, and gymnastics. He really wants a sword fighting club but was rejected because it was too dangerous.

Colossus

He has a gaggle of kids that hang out in his room during lunch

He teaches art class (I’m fairly certain that’s already cannon)

He runs an art club and does the school musical every year, which he runs like the goddamn navy

Kitty pryde

Tries to stay hip with the kids and lets them call her by her first name.

She teaches any tech related class or club you could think of. Even if only one student is interested she will beg for it to be on the curriculum

I don’t think she’d actually enjoy being a teacher all that much. Maybe later on she’d go on to be a dean or social worker, and much later the headmistress.

She runs a robotics club that she’s been trying to bypass anti mutant laws to bring to state competitions every year. She also runs the Jewish student union

If you want me to do anyone else please just ask (: