X-Men Preferences and Imagines

They come home injured from a mission

Logan Howlett:
You hear the door creak open and Logan's familiar heavy boots hit the floor, but something about the sound makes you pause, heart racing as you sense something's off. You rush into the hallway, gasping as you see him leaning heavily against the wall, his shirt shredded and blood seeping through his clothes. "Logan!" you cry, rushing over. His eyes flicker to you, pain etched across his face, but he grits his teeth and shakes his head. "Don't worry, darlin'. I heal fast, remember?" His voice is rough, but you can see the strain in his eyes. He's not invincible, no matter how much he likes to pretend. "That doesn't mean you can just waltz in here like nothing happened," you scold, your hands moving quickly, trying to assess the damage. He chuckles weakly, but the sound turns into a low grunt of pain. "Told ya. Just a scratch." His tone is light, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. You gently guide him to sit, your fingers trembling as they brush over the deep gashes. "Logan, you need to rest." He meets your gaze, a flicker of something soft in his usually tough expression. "I'll rest if you're here with me." The vulnerability in his voice surprises you, but you nod, knowing that right now, he needs your presence more than anything.

Scott Summers:
When Scott stumbles through the door, clutching his side, you drop everything, rushing over with wide eyes. "Scott, what happened?" you ask, panic lacing your voice as you see the blood seeping through his uniform. He grits his teeth, removing his visor briefly to wipe the sweat off his forehead before looking at you with a forced, reassuring smile. "It's nothing. Just a small complication." He's trying to downplay it, but you see the way he winces with every movement, his hand shaking slightly as he tries to adjust his stance. "Small complication? You're bleeding!" you exclaim, already moving to get the first aid kit. "Please, sit down." Scott sighs, letting you guide him to the couch, though his pride clearly makes him resist. "I should be able to handle this on my own. I've been through worse," he murmurs, but you're not having any of it. "Scott Summers, if you don't let me take care of you, so help me—" He chuckles, though it's strained, and finally relents, allowing you to clean his wound. "I don't like being taken care of," he mutters softly, but you meet his gaze, brushing a thumb gently across his cheek. "I know. But I do." There's a moment of silence before he sighs, closing his eyes. "Thank you. I guess it's not so bad, letting someone in."

Young Charles Xavier:
When Charles finally wheels through the door, his face pale and drawn, you're already waiting, having felt his pain through the mental link you share. "Charles," you breathe, rushing to his side, your heart aching at the sight of him looking so fragile. His hands are trembling slightly, blood staining the sleeves of his jacket. "I'm fine," he says quickly, though his voice wavers, and you can feel the pain he's trying so desperately to hide. "You don't have to pretend with me," you whisper, kneeling beside his chair, reaching for his hand. He hesitates, but when you gently brush your thumb across his knuckles, he exhales shakily. "I didn't want you to see me like this," he admits, his voice low. "So human. So... broken." You shake your head, fighting back tears as you cup his cheek. "You're not broken, Charles. You're strong. And you don't have to do this alone." He looks at you, a mixture of relief and sorrow in his eyes. "I hate this, you know," he says quietly. "Coming home like this. I don't want to burden you." You press a soft kiss to his forehead. "You could never be a burden." He finally relaxes, letting you help him out of his jacket, and for once, he allows himself to lean on you, trusting you to hold him up when he can't hold himself.

Young Erik Lehnsherr:
When Erik steps into the room, his shirt soaked with blood and a fierce scowl on his face, you feel your stomach drop. "Erik, what the hell happened?" you ask, rushing over, your eyes darting over his body, trying to figure out where the blood is coming from. He growls, shrugging off your concern as he stumbles toward the sink, turning on the faucet to wash his hands, the red staining the water as it swirls down the drain. "It's nothing," he snaps, but you can see his hands trembling, his jaw clenched tight. "Erik, stop," you demand, your voice firm as you grab his arm. "Let me help." He yanks his arm away, glaring at you. "I don't need help. I've handled worse." The tension between you is palpable, but you refuse to back down. "That doesn't mean you have to do it alone," you say, stepping closer, your voice softer now. His eyes darken, but there's a flicker of something else—something more vulnerable—beneath his hard exterior. "I hate this," he admits in a low, bitter voice. "Being weak." You reach up, gently cupping his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. "You're not weak, Erik. Needing help doesn't make you weak." He doesn't respond, but after a moment, he lets out a slow, shuddering breath, finally allowing you to tend to his wounds, even though you know it's not just the physical ones that need healing.

Young Hank McCoy:
Hank comes stumbling into your shared space, his oversized hands covered in blood and his glasses askew, a look of frustration and embarrassment on his face. "Hank!" you gasp, rushing to him as he awkwardly tries to shrug off his lab coat, which is torn and stained with dark red streaks. "I'm fine," he mutters, clearly flustered, but you can see the way his body trembles slightly as you guide him to sit down. "You're not fine," you counter, your voice soft but firm as you kneel in front of him, inspecting the deep gash on his arm. "Why didn't you tell me?" His eyes flicker with shame as he glances away. "I didn't want you to worry," he admits, his voice low. "It's not... that bad." You shake your head, biting your lip as you start to clean the wound. "You always say that, but you're not invincible, Hank." He sighs, watching you work in silence for a moment before speaking again, his voice hesitant. "I don't like being seen like this... It's embarrassing." You pause, looking up at him with a soft smile. "It's not embarrassing. It's human." He seems to relax slightly, his usual awkwardness returning as he gives you a shy, appreciative smile. "Thank you... for always knowing how to calm me down." You grin, finishing up. "What would you do without me?" He chuckles softly. "I don't want to find out."

Peter Maximoff:
You hear the telltale sound of Peter stumbling through the door, and when you turn, you find him holding his side, blood seeping between his fingers and his usual cocky grin replaced with a wince. "Peter!" you exclaim, rushing over. He tries to wave you off, but you're already pulling his hand away to inspect the wound. "It's fine, babe," he says, though his voice is tight with pain. "Just a little scrape." You glare at him, crossing your arms. "A little scrape? You're bleeding all over the floor!" He chuckles weakly, leaning against the wall for support. "Yeah, but you should see the other guy." You roll your eyes, grabbing the first aid kit. "You're ridiculous, you know that?" He watches you with a soft smile as you clean the wound, his hand brushing yours lightly. "I'm sorry for worrying you," he says, his usual playful tone dropping for a moment of sincerity. You glance up, surprised by his serious expression. "Just... don't do it again," you mutter, focusing on bandaging him up. He laughs, wincing slightly. "No promises. But I'll try." You finish patching him up, leaning back with a sigh. "You're going to be the death of me, Peter." He grins, pulling you in for a soft kiss. "I hope not. I kinda like having you around."