Might Paint These Instead Of Just Drawing Pen On Them

A Little Light in the Dark

Synopsis; Bruce Wayne invites you to Wayne Manor for an intimate dinner, a rare glimpse into his world beyond the mask. But when a sudden blackout plunges the mansion into darkness, his chaotic family takes over the evening, and you see the unpolished, human side of the Wayne household. Amid the teasing, laughter, and chaos, Bruce’s quiet moments with you shine brightest, proving that even Gotham’s Dark Knight has a soft side reserved just for you. Warnings; Damian being a little sassy brat

Bruce invites you to Wayne Manor for dinner, promising a quiet, intimate evening. When you arrive, the sprawling estate is even more magnificent than you imagined, but Bruce’s warm smile and the way he takes your coat quickly dispel your nerves.

The dining room is grand, yet the table is set simply, with just two settings and soft candlelight. It’s a surprising contrast to the billionaire’s public persona, and the subtle care he’s put into the evening makes your heart flutter.

"Not as intimidating as you expected?" Bruce asks, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he pulls out your chair.

"I wouldn’t go that far," you reply, but your smile is teasing. "It’s... cozy, in a billionaire kind of way."

The conversation flows easily as the two of you eat, laughter mixing with the soft clink of silverware. Bruce is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him—his usually guarded demeanor slipping just enough to reveal glimpses of the man behind the mask.

But just as dessert is being served, the lights flicker—and suddenly, the room is plunged into darkness.

"That’s odd," Bruce mutters, standing immediately. "Stay here. I’ll check the breakers."

Before he can even leave, chaos erupts.

From the hallway, Damian’s sharp voice cuts through the dark. "Grayson, stop bumping into me! You’re going to break something."

Tim appears next, holding his phone up like a flashlight. "Did Gotham’s most powerful man forget to pay his electric bill?" he asks, smirking.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering, "Not now, Tim."

Then comes Dick, cheerfully stumbling in with a handful of candles. "Who needs power when we have ambiance? Romantic, right?" he says with a wink, grinning at you.

"Romantic?" Damian scoffs, stepping into the room and giving you a critical once-over. "Father, your standards are slipping."

"Damian," Bruce growls in warning, his tone sharp.

The teasing only escalates when Jason arrives, flashlight in hand, shining it directly at Bruce’s face. "Relax, Bats. Power outages build character. And hey, it’s not my fault you didn’t warn them about the chaos they were signing up for."

Bruce shoots him a glare that would terrify anyone else, but Jason just smirks and leans back against the doorframe.

In the midst of the family’s antics, Bruce is uncharacteristically quiet, his focus flickering between them and you. When the others drift off to investigate the outage—arguing and teasing each other the whole way—Bruce returns to your side, the shadows from his flashlight dancing across his face.

"Sorry about all of this," he says, voice low and almost hesitant. "I wanted tonight to be… better. Less chaotic."

"Bruce," you say softly, placing a hand on his arm. "This? It’s perfect. It’s you—all of you. I don’t think I’d want it any other way."

His gaze lingers on you, and for a moment, the weight he carries seems to ease. "You’re something else," he murmurs, almost to himself.

As he steps closer, the space between you shrinks, the candlelight casting a golden glow over his features. You feel his hand brush yours—a tentative, unguarded gesture—and when your fingers intertwine, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

"Next time," he says softly, his voice a low promise, "I’ll make sure it’s just us."

"Next time," you agree, your smile warm.

The power finally comes back on, the lights revealing Damian glaring at Jason, Dick grinning triumphantly, and Tim tinkering with the breaker box. Alfred breezes into the room as if nothing unusual has happened, asking if anyone would like a fresh pot of tea.

Bruce lets out a quiet sigh, giving your hand one last squeeze before releasing it.

As the family chaos continues around you, Bruce’s attention remains on you—his expression soft, his smile rare and private, meant only for you. And as much as you enjoy seeing this side of him, you can’t help but look forward to the quiet moments when it’ll be just the two of you.

(God Damian is a little shi-)

A Taste of Spice

Synopsis; While cooking jambalaya together, Remy and you share playful banter, a little dancing, and a growing connection simmering as warmly as the dish on the stove. With every shared glance and teasing touch, the flirtation turns into something deeper, until one kiss finally seals the promise of what could be.

Warnings; None, enjoy kits! ♡♡♡

Requested by @hulkingharbor

The scent of spices fills the kitchen as Remy guides you through the ingredients for jambalaya, his Cajun accent thicker than usual, adding to the warmth in the room. He's leaning close, too, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for the chopped bell peppers, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You keep stirrin’ it like that, chérie, we’re gonna end up with mush,” he teases, eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

Rolling your eyes, you hand him the spoon. “All right, show me, Mr. Expert.”

He takes it, giving the pot a confident stir, his hands moving with an ease you can’t help but admire. “See? It’s all about finesse,” he says, glancing at you. “But I guess that just comes natural to some of us.”

You laugh, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Finesse, huh? Next time, I’ll let you chop the onions with that ‘finesse’ you’re so proud of.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. “Now, now, don’t get jealous, chère. Tell you what—if you chop the next round, I’ll let you have the first taste.”

“Deal,” you say, sliding him a sly smile as you reach for the knife. As you start chopping, you can feel his gaze lingering, warm and appreciative.

When the jambalaya is finally simmering, he takes a spoonful and offers it to you, his gaze softening as he waits for your reaction. You take a taste, savoring the rich, spicy flavor.

“It’s perfect,” you say, smiling. “Must be that ‘finesse’ of yours.”

He raises a brow, pleased. “Or maybe it’s just the company.”

Remy grins, his gaze holding yours for a beat longer than usual. Then he sets the spoon down, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, studying you with an intensity that makes your heart skip.

“Y’know,” he says, his voice low, “this ain’t half as fun when I cook alone.”

You glance up, feeling your cheeks warm. “Is that right? I didn’t know cooking could be so… entertaining.”

He laughs, the sound soft and smooth. “Depends on the company, chérie.” His hand reaches out, a little smudge of flour on his finger, and before you realize it, he dabs it gently on the tip of your nose, his grin widening as he watches your reaction.

“Remy!” You laugh, reaching for a dish towel to swipe at him, but he sidesteps with a fluid ease, his laugh deep and genuine.

“Don’t worry,” he says, still chuckling, “I’ll make it up to you. How ’bout a dance while we wait?” He extends his hand, his fingers warm and inviting, his eyes glinting with that playful, dare-you look.

You hesitate, glancing at the stove where the jambalaya simmers, but something in his gaze is too hard to resist. So, you take his hand, and he pulls you close, his other hand settling comfortably on your waist.

With a practiced grace, Remy leads you in a slow sway across the kitchen, his hand never leaving yours, his eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the room. For once, there’s no playful teasing, just a quiet sincerity that catches you off guard.

“You’ve got a good rhythm, chère,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Feels like I could dance with you all night.”

Your breath catches, and before you can think twice, you lean in, your lips brushing his cheek, then lingering at the corner of his mouth. Remy’s breath hitches, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist, his gaze falling to your lips.

For a moment, the kitchen fades away, and it’s just the two of you, close, warm, and wrapped in the quiet promise of something more.

“Hope you like spicy,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble against your skin.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you whisper back, smiling as he finally closes the distance, his kiss as warm and full of sweetness as the jambalaya simmering on the stove.

(I fuckin love Remy)

IM SO SORRY TO WHOEVER JUST MESSAGED ME- I marked it as spam I didn't know why you were messaging me 😭😭😭 I'm a fucking dumb ass I'm so sorry

X-Men Christmas Scenarios

Scott Summers (Cyclops): Decorating the Tree

The living room was filled with the scent of pine and the soft hum of Christmas music. You were perched on a step stool, reaching to hang a snowflake ornament on one of the higher branches. Scott stood behind you, holding the box of decorations, watching you with an amused but cautious expression.

“You know,” he said, “if you fall, I can’t catch you. I’m holding fragile glass ornaments here.”

“You could try to catch me,” you shot back, placing the snowflake and hopping off the stool. “Besides, I’m nimble.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Nimble enough to handle the tinsel? Because last year, it looked like a five-year-old threw it on the tree.”

“Hey!” You grabbed a handful of the shiny strands. “It’s called artistic expression. Watch and learn.”

He didn’t have to watch long before you gleefully tossed the tinsel into the air, letting it cascade haphazardly onto the branches.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said, smirking as you grabbed more tinsel. “And if you don’t like it—”

You flung another handful, this time deliberately aiming for his head.

Scott sighed dramatically, pulling a stray strand off his visor. “You do this to torment me, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.” You laughed, leaning in to kiss his cheek before grabbing another handful of tinsel and sprinting to the other side of the tree.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler): Christmas Morning Surprise

The soft glow of fairy lights framed the edges of your room as you stirred awake, blinking against the dim light. Before you could properly sit up, a burst of brimstone filled the air, and Kurt appeared at the foot of your bed, arms overflowing with brightly wrapped presents.

“Guten Morgen! Merry Christmas!” he exclaimed, his tail wagging behind him like an overexcited puppy.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “Kurt, it’s barely six in the morning.”

“But it’s Christmas!” he insisted, depositing the pile of gifts at the foot of your bed. His golden eyes sparkled with excitement as he plopped down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing slightly. “Come, open them! I cannot wait to see what you think.”

You yawned, smiling at his enthusiasm. “You carried all of these in one trip?”

“Of course! I teleported. Efficient and festive,” he said proudly, his tail curling in contentment.

You reached for the first gift, marveling at the careful wrapping. “You wrapped these yourself?”

His ears turned a deeper blue. “Ja...well, mostly. Jubilee helped me tie the ribbons.”

As you opened the first present—a beautifully carved wooden trinket—you couldn’t help but laugh. “This is amazing, Kurt. Did you make this too?”

He beamed. “Ja, but there’s more! Keep going!”

You shook your head fondly, already knowing this would be the best Christmas morning you’d ever had.

Logan (Wolverine): Building a Fire

You found Logan crouched in front of the fireplace, carefully stacking logs with an intensity that made it look like he was preparing for battle rather than a cozy evening. His plaid flannel shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing his scarred but capable hands.

“Need some help there, lumberjack?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“Not unless you can make the wood light itself,” he shot back without looking up.

“Matches are a thing, you know.”

“Matches are cheating.” He struck a piece of flint against steel, and sparks flew. After a few more tries, the fire roared to life, casting a warm glow across the room.

“Very impressive,” you said, walking over and sitting cross-legged on the rug. “What’s next? Are you going to chop more wood with your claws?”

He smirked, finally turning to look at you. “If you ask nicely.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a Santa hat and plopped it onto his head. He frowned, his hand immediately going up to pull it off.

“Leave it,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “It’s festive.”

“It’s ridiculous,” he grumbled but didn’t take it off.

You tilted your head, grinning. “You secretly love Christmas, don’t you?”

“Don’t push your luck, kid,” he muttered, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told you otherwise.

Peter Maximoff (Quicksilver): String Lights Disaster

You should’ve known asking Peter to hang the lights would end in chaos.

“Peter, slow down!” you yelled, watching as he zipped back and forth across the room, leaving a blur of glowing string lights in his wake.

“This is efficient,” he called back, draping the lights haphazardly over the furniture. “You said you wanted them up fast, right?”

“I also said I wanted them to look nice!”

He stopped abruptly, standing in the middle of the room with the lights tangled around his torso. “Nice is overrated. Messy is more... artistic.”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. “You’re tangled, aren’t you?”

Peter looked down, as if just noticing the strands wrapped around him. “Uh...no?”

“Uh-huh.”

He sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Fine, maybe a little.”

Laughing, you walked over and started untangling him, trying not to laugh too hard when he pouted like a child.

“You know,” he said as you freed him, “if you’d just let me do my thing, we’d already be done.”

“And if I let you do your thing, the mansion would probably catch fire.”

He shrugged, smirking. “Worth it."

Yall, im trying to post a new fic (Kny fans, gather) and for some reason, idk if its my internet or my computer but its not saving and/or posting

I'll keep trying, stay tuned

CHAT I'M BOUTTA-

AAAHHHHHHJAJAJAJAJAJAJJAJAJAJAAAAAAA-

It's stuck. I'm trapped in the loop. RELEASE MEEEE

Unseen Beauty

Synopsis; After hearing cruel comments about his appearance, Kurt begins to doubt himself, feeling like he’s something less than human. But with your gentle words and unwavering belief in his beauty and kindness, he begins to see himself through new eyes—eyes that reflect the warmth and worth he truly holds. Warnings; None! Love you and enjoy kits! Requested by @hulkingharbor

You find Kurt sitting alone on the mansion’s steps, his tail curled tightly around him, head lowered as he absently traces patterns in the stone. His usual cheerful demeanor seems to have vanished, replaced with a quiet sadness that tugs at your heart.

“Kurt?” you say softly, sitting beside him. He looks up, and there’s a flicker of surprise in his yellow eyes before he quickly glances away.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he mutters, trying to muster a smile. “I did not mean to be such… gloomy company.”

You shake your head. “You’re never gloomy company. But something’s obviously on your mind.”

For a moment, he hesitates, and then, as if he can no longer hold it in, he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “It’s just… some things people said,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with lingering hurt. “That I look… frightening. A ‘monster’.” He swallows, the words barely audible. “Sometimes it is hard not to see myself that way, too.”

Your heart aches at the pain in his voice. Without thinking, you reach over, gently touching his hand, offering silent reassurance until he finally meets your gaze.

“Kurt, that’s not true. You’re not frightening; you’re beautiful.”

He blinks, caught off guard, and a faint blush colors his cheeks. “You don’t have to say that, you know,” he says, half-smiling, though there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes.

You smile, holding his hand a little tighter. “I want to say it. The way you smile, the kindness in your eyes, the way you care about everyone around you… that’s what makes you so beautiful. And anyone who doesn’t see that? They’re the ones who are missing something.”

His eyes soften, and he looks down, a small, genuine smile breaking through the sadness. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” you say, your voice firm. “Every part of you—your laugh, your heart, even your tail—makes you who you are. And who you are is beautiful, Kurt.”

Slowly, his hand relaxes in yours, and his smile grows, warmer now, with a hint of his usual brightness. He lets out a deep breath, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you,” he whispers. “You do not know how much it means to me.”

You squeeze his hand. “Anytime, Kurt. You’re precious to me. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

As he smiles back at you, the sadness fades, replaced by a quiet gratitude and a spark of confidence you hope will stay with him long after tonight.

彡Allies (or Roommates 😉)彡

Synopsis; Basically, reader with Deadpool's personality

Warnings; Deadpool's personality.

“Can you stop bouncing around for one damn second?” Logan growled, his claws halfway extended as he glared at you.

You peeked out from behind a tree, grinning like you’d just found a box of explosives labeled do not touch. “Stop bouncing? Bouncing on what exactly, honey badger? You naughty bear! But anyways, bouncing is literally my thing. Well, that and making grown men cry. Speaking of which, do you need a tissue for all that gruff man pain you’re radiating?”

Logan ran a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “I should’ve left you back at the mansion.”

“You say that every time, and yet, here we are. Together. Like peanut butter and jelly. Or whiskey and bad decisions. Or—you’re gonna love this one—claws and quips.” You spread your arms dramatically. “See? Perfect pair.”

Logan glared. “I’ll give you ten seconds to start acting serious before I—”

“Snikt me into ribbons? Oh, Logan, you romantic devil.” You clasped your hands over your chest, batting your eyelashes. “You’re always threatening me. It’s like foreplay.”

He groaned audibly and turned back to the trail, trying to ignore you.

“Aw, don’t walk away, sugar bear!” you called, jogging to catch up. “We’re just getting to the good stuff. I had, like, three more zingers about your height lined up. Oh, wait—four if you count the one about the step stool.”

Logan didn’t even pause. “I’m too old for this.”

“You’re right. You are ancient.” You walked backward in front of him, ticking off points on your fingers. “Wrinkles, grumpy attitude, that permanent smell of cigars and regret—classic ‘dad who went out for milk and never came back’ vibes. Except you came back, and now we’re stuck with each other. It’s poetic, really.”

Logan stopped, his claws popping out with a loud snikt.

You held your hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Easy there, Freddy Krueger. I’m on your side, remember? You handle the claws, and I’ll handle the witty one-liners.”

“You mean the non-stop verbal diarrhea?” Logan growled, his claws retracting.

“Potato, po-tah-to,” you said with a shrug. “Besides, you love it. Admit it, Logan—you’d be bored out of your mind without me. Who else is gonna make jokes about your weird fetish for flannel?”

Logan’s lip twitched—just barely—but you caught it.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, pointing at him. “You’re smiling. That’s it. I’ve broken the Wolverine. Next stop: Hallmark movies.”

He turned and started walking, muttering, “I need a drink.”

You zipped in front of him again, walking backward with your hands on your hips. “You’re stuck with me, bub. Just think of me as your wise-cracking, ridiculously attractive conscience. Except I don’t actually care if you do the right thing, as long as we get to blow something up along the way.”

Logan gave you a long, tired look. “You keep this up, and I’m gonna let the bad guys have you.”

“Aw, you say that now, but wait until I save your hairy butt with my ingenious improvisation skills. You’ll be begging to team up with me again,” you teased, leaning in with a wink.

“Not a chance,” he replied, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You love me!” you called after him, skipping to catch up. “Admit it!”

“Shut up,” Logan muttered, though he didn’t sound entirely convincing.

Worlds Apart, Minds Connected

Synopsis; After a mission goes disastrously wrong, you and Charles are separated, trapped in an unstable facility with only a telepathic link to guide you back to each other. As he navigates you through the darkness, your minds grow closer in ways neither of you expected, creating a bond that will be hard to let go once you finally reunite. The question lingers: will the connection forged in crisis survive beyond the danger?

Warnings; None but kissing the LOVELY James McAvoy uggghhhhh-

Requested by @kaley612!

The last thing you remember is Charles shouting your name before the explosion. The impact threw you back, slamming you against something hard and cold. Dazed and aching, you pushed yourself up, trying to make sense of the chaos around you. Dust settled like snowflakes, a reminder of the blast that had ripped through the building.

The connection flares to life—a warmth, gentle and insistent, nudging at the edges of your mind.

“Can you hear me?”

Charles’s voice is like a balm, familiar and grounding. Relief floods through you as you close your eyes, focusing on that connection.

“Yes, I’m here,” you answer, your mental voice steadier than you feel.

“Are you hurt?”

You swallow, taking quick stock. A few bruises, a splitting headache, but nothing broken. “I’ll survive. What about you?”

“Just a scratch,” he says, though you sense he is holding back. “Listen, we’re separated. I can’t get to you from where I am—there’s debris blocking my path. But I’ll guide you. If we keep this link open, I can see what you see. All you have to do is keep going. Can you do that?”

Your heart pounds, but Charles’s steady presence brings an odd calm over you. “I trust you.”

And, for a beat, there’s silence. You feel a brush of something—warmth, reassurance, and a trace of something deeper that he quickly shields.

“Then let’s go,” he says, his voice like a hand reaching through the darkness.

You stand and begin to move, Charles’s presence a constant pulse in your mind. Each step is careful, shadows twisting as you make your way down the broken hallways, Charles murmuring directions and gentle encouragements, his voice steady even when your path grows perilous. If you could be with him right now, you'd kiss him. As a thank you of course. Nothing more.

“You’re doing well,” he says softly, his tone dipped in admiration. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Somehow, with him there—though only in your mind—it feels true.

"Thank you, Charles. Where do I go now?"

"Charles?" Your heart dropped before you heard him again.

"I'm here, I'm here. Just... Do you really want to thank me with a kiss?"

Huh. Shit.

You freeze, heat rushing to your cheeks as his question settles in.

“I… thought you couldn’t see thoughts I didn’t direct to you,” you stammer, trying to push the words out as smoothly as possible.

There’s a soft chuckle on his end, warm and teasing. “That’s true… unless you think it loudly.”

You huff, half-embarrassed, half-defiant. His voice is quieter now, almost reverent. “I’m waiting.”

With renewed determination, you make your way down the dark hallway, Charles guiding you through each step and turn until you see the faint light of an exit. Your heart races, each footfall bringing you closer to him. And then, just as you round a corner, there he is, waiting—dust-covered, scratched, but alive and whole.

Without thinking, you run to him, and he opens his arms, catching you before you even realize you’ve thrown yourself into his embrace. His hands settle around you, firm and reassuring, as he lets out a sigh of relief that mirrors your own.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you press a kiss to his lips, a gesture of thanks, of everything left unsaid. Charles freezes for a fraction of a second, then responds, his lips gentle but warm against yours, his hands cradling you like something he never intends to let go.

When you pull back, breathless and unsure, he offers a small, tender smile. “I think we both needed that.”

“Maybe so," you whisper, a smile breaking through your own exhaustion.

And as you stand there, safe and together, the unspoken promise of something more lingers between you, fragile but very, very real.

(JAMES MCAVOY JUST GIVE ME A CHANCE-)

Plz do not copy or translate! -Callme_Bunni