Hotter Than The Stage

I cant stop drawing Pete DiNunzio from Eltingville Club...... 😭

(And Jerry)

EDIT: These are my designs of them btw! Jerry just has a lip ring and Pete has gages, nose ring and snake bites bc why not?

↫Midnight Snacks↬

Synopsis: In the middle of the night, you are met with an annoyingly awake speedster. Maybe you could share this small moment with him. And maybe like it...

Warnings; none!!

The mansion was silent at this hour, the kind of quiet that made every creak of the floorboards and every hum of the refrigerator seem louder than they actually were. You shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and headed straight for the fridge.

“Midnight munchies, huh?”

You yelped, nearly slamming your head into the fridge door as you spun around. Peter was leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed and a trademark smirk plastered on his face.

“Peter!” you hissed, clutching the carton of milk you’d grabbed as if it were a weapon. “Do you get off on scaring me?”

“Pretty much,” he replied, zipping into the kitchen and leaning on the counter next to you. “So, what’s on the menu? Leftover pizza? Ice cream? A questionable combination of both?”

“Hot chocolate,” you said, setting the milk on the counter.

“Classic,” Peter said, nodding approvingly. “Mind if I join?”

“Do I have a choice?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” he said, already grabbing mugs from the cabinet at super-speed. He tossed them onto the counter with a flourish. “Allow me to assist.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling as you reached for the saucepan. “Fine. But no super-speed stirring. You’ll spill everywhere.”

Peter gasped in mock offense. “What kind of culinary amateur do you take me for?”

“The kind who’s broken three blenders trying to make milkshakes.”

“That was one time,” he protested. “Okay, maybe three. But this is different.”

While the milk heated, Peter zipped around the kitchen, gathering whipped cream, sprinkles, and a bag of marshmallows. By the time you poured the hot chocolate into the mugs, the counter looked like a sugar-filled battlefield.

“Subtle,” you said, gesturing to the mountain of toppings.

Peter shrugged. “Go big or go home.”

He grabbed a mug, piling on an absurd amount of whipped cream and marshmallows before sprinkling the whole thing with a generous handful of chocolate shavings. He took a sip and promptly got whipped cream on his nose.

You burst out laughing, setting your own mug down. “You’ve got a little something…”

“Where?” he asked, crossing his eyes in an attempt to see the mess.

“Here, let me—” You reached out to wipe it off, but before you could, Peter licked it away at super-speed, flashing you a smug grin.

“Got it,” he said.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“But charmingly so,” he countered, clinking his mug against yours. “Admit it—midnight snacks are better with me around.”

You sipped your hot chocolate, pretending to think about it. “Mmm… debatable.”

Peter gasped dramatically. “Rude! You’re lucky I like you.”

You smirked, leaning against the counter as the two of you sipped your drinks. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, comfortable, the kind of quiet that came with knowing someone so well you didn’t need to fill every second with words.

“Okay,” you said after a while. “Maybe you’re not that bad.”

“Now that’s the spirit,” Peter said, giving you a playful nudge. “Told you—I’m the ultimate midnight snack buddy.”

◯𓇋An Enemy's Kiss◯𓇋

Sysopsis; What happens when there's tension in-between two so-called enemies? What happens when you finally see why this pirate always got back up, because you let him?

----------------------------------------------

The sky was a molten red, the city beneath them reduced to little more than shattered bones and smoking rubble. The wind carried the acrid scent of destruction, howling through the skeletal remains of buildings, as if mourning the ruin left behind.

At the edge of the crumbling tower, you stood, bloodied and breathless, fists clenched at your sides. Across from you, Sanji exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulder, his usual easy grace marred by exhaustion. Ash clung to his tattered shirt, soot streaked his cheek, but still—that damnable fire in his eyes refused to go out.

“You just do not quit, do you?” Your voice trembled with rage, the weight of it pressing into every syllable. “Time and time again, you ruin everything! I build, you break. I rise, you knock me down. No matter what I do, no matter how many times I put you in the dirt, you just keep getting back up—like some cockroach that refuses to die!”

Sanji swiped at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and let out a short, humorless laugh. “You talk like I’m the problem,” he muttered, tilting his head. “Like you aren’t the one leaving wreckage in your wake.”

“You do not get to stand there and preach to me.” You took a step forward, voice sharp as a blade. “Not after everything. Do you have any idea how much easier things would be if you were gone?”

The words hung between you, heavy with something unspoken. The wind howled through the ruins, but neither of you moved, the tension coiled tight as a wire.

Then, after a beat, Sanji exhaled, shaking his head.

“You don’t mean that.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “And what makes you so sure?”

He took a step forward this time, slow and deliberate, his sharp eyes never leaving yours. “Because if you really wanted me gone,” he said, voice quiet but unwavering, “you would have done it by now.”

Your breath caught.

Sanji was close enough now that you could see past the exhaustion, past the bruises and cuts, past the ever-present smirk he wore like armor. His eyes—steady, piercing, frustratingly understanding—locked onto yours, searching.

And damn him, because he was right.

You had the chance before. More than once. A well-placed blow, a single ruthless strike, and he would not be standing here now. But every time, something held you back. Some invisible chain wrapped tight around your wrists, refusing to let you finish it.

You hated him for seeing it. Hated him for the way he still stood there, unwavering.

“You are insufferable.” The words came out as a whisper—low, bitter, almost pained.

Sanji’s lips curled, just slightly, in something that was not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. “Yeah?” he murmured. “So are you.”

The air between you shifted—dangerous, electric.

It was impossible to tell who moved first.

One second, you were standing at a distance, and the next, you had collided—hands fisting in his torn shirt, his grip firm at your waist, and then his lips crashed against yours in something desperate, reckless, inevitable.

The battle had raged for so long, but this? This was its own kind of war.

Fury burned between you, but so did something deeper, something raw and undeniable. The taste of blood lingered between your mouths, the scent of smoke curling in the air, but none of it mattered. Not when he was pulling you closer, not when your hands trembled against him, not when you realized just how badly you had wanted this—wanted him.

The moment stretched, sharp and breathless, before you finally tore yourself away, your forehead resting against his as your breathing came ragged.

Sanji’s fingers lingered at your waist, hesitant but unwilling to let go.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you rasped.

His breath was warm against your lips as he chuckled, low and rough. “Didn’t say it did.”

And yet, as he looked at you—eyes dark, gaze searching—something had shifted. Something had already changed.

And neither of you could take it back now.

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

Papa Emeritus is hot af wth-?

𝚀𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑

You are a low-ranking demon slayer, one who has never slain a demon yourself. Each mission ended with your companions standing victorious - never you. Now healing at the Butterfly Estate, you try to repay kindness with effort, scrubbing bloodstains, replanting flowers, and hauling supplies, hoping not to be a burden. But you are not as invisible as you think. You may not see yourself as a fighter, but they do. ___________________________________________________ 🌸 Tanjiro Kamado – “Kindness is Not Measured in Kills.”

Tanjiro noticed you the way he noticed a falling petal—quiet, soft, easily overlooked by others but impossible for him to ignore. You were always moving at the Butterfly Estate, mopping floors, washing linens, bringing tea to the sick and bandaging up the wounded even though you wore a few bandages yourself.

You weren't loud about your efforts. You never boasted. In fact, you often lowered your eyes when others spoke of battle victories. He overheard one slayer whisper, “She hasn't even killed a demon before.”

That made his heart ache.

He found you in the garden one afternoon, quietly sweeping up fallen cherry blossoms with a woven broom, your fingers trembling just slightly from exhaustion. You looked up when he approached, startled, but gave him a shy nod.

“You do so much around here,” he said warmly. “You do not have to push yourself this hard.”

“I… I do not want to be a burden,” you murmured. “Everyone else is stronger. Braver. I just… help however I can.”

Tanjiro shook his head. “Don't say that. Helping others is its' own kind of strength.” He crouched beside you and smiled, voice gentle. “You save lives here. You bring peace. That’s not freeloading. That’s being part of the fight.”

And when he helped you to your feet, his fingers lingered around yours.

______________________________________________________________

⚡ Zenitsu Agatsuma – “Don't Sell Yourself Short—That’s My Job!”

Zenitsu first noticed you when you accidentally dropped a stack of clean laundry right in front of him, scrambled to pick it up, and apologized like you had committed a crime. His heart stuttered in his chest. Not just because you were cute (you were), but because you looked so genuinely afraid of being in someone’s way.

You reminded him… a little too much of himself kinda.

Later that day, he found you in the hallway trying to scrub blood out of a uniform sleeve, muttering to yourself about not doing enough. He knelt beside you, hands full of soap.

“Need help?” he offered. Then, a beat later, “Please say yes. I’m actually good at laundry. One of the few things I’m confident in.”

You blinked at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. And you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he said quickly, eyes wide with sincerity. “Just because you haven’t killed a demon yet doesn’t mean you’re not a slayer. You’re still here. You’re still trying. That’s more than most.”

You looked down, a little flustered. “…Thank you, Zenitsu.”

He turned bright red. “Y-You know my name?!?”

You smiled. “Of course I do.”

Zenitsu nearly fainted on the spot.

______________________________________________________________

🐗 Inosuke Hashibira – “Why Are You Hiding That You’re Cool?”

You were carrying a tray of rice bowls when Inosuke barreled past you in the hallway, nearly knocking it all over. You did not scold him, just carefully knelt and picked it up again. He paused. Watched. Grunted.

The next day, you were cleaning out the koi pond, knee-deep in water, humming a little song to yourself. He watched again from the roof.

“You!” he finally said later, when he cornered you outside the kitchen. “Why are you hiding that you’re cool?”

You blinked, confused. “I… I do not think I am.”

“Yeah, well I do!” he said, pointing at you with two chopsticks. “You carry heavy buckets. You work like a demon. You are sneaky quiet but fast. That’s awesome.”

You laughed, just a little. “I don't think that makes me cool.”

“Then you are wrong!” he declared proudly. “You’re just like a stealthy boar. Like—like a forest ghost. I have decided you are in my pack now!”

“…Your pack?”

“Yes. So you have to eat meals with me from now on.”

You smiled, ducking your head. “Alright, then. Deal.”

______________________________________________________________

Playin' Hearts

Synopsis; A playful game of pickpocketing with Gambit turns into a quiet evening of jazz, dancing, and stolen moments. As the teasing gives way to sincerity, you find the courage to make the first move, discovering that some risks are worth taking. Warnings; None kits! <3

You frowned as your hand brushed against something unfamiliar in your coat pocket. Fishing it out, you discovered a playing card—a queen of hearts—marked with a small, flourished "R" in the corner. You turned it over, puzzled, trying to figure out how it had gotten there.

“You dropped somethin’, chérie,” came a familiar, honeyed voice behind you.

Spinning around, you found Remy leaning casually against the doorframe, twirling another card between his fingers. That trademark smirk of his was firmly in place, a glint of mischief lighting his red-on-black eyes.

"Did I now?" you asked, holding up the card. "Care to explain how it ended up in my pocket?"

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Can’t blame me for wantin’ to stay close to you, non? Thought you might enjoy a lil’ reminder of me.”

Rolling your eyes, you stepped closer, card in hand. “You’re telling me you pickpocketed me just to leave… this?”

“Not just any card, chère.” He tapped the queen of hearts with his fingertip. “It’s got a meanin’. You’re sharp; I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

You couldn’t help the warmth rising to your cheeks, but you refused to let him win so easily. “If you’re so good at sneaking things into my pockets, guess I’ll have to start keeping them zipped.”

“Aw, now don’t do that,” he teased, his voice a low, velvety drawl. “Would make my job so much less fun.”

Shaking your head, you tried to hide your smile as you walked away, but his chuckle followed you down the hall. When you reached into your pocket later that day and found another card—a joker this time—you couldn’t help but laugh.

Gambit always had a way of leaving an impression.

Later that evening, you wandered into the common room to find Remy sitting on the couch, shuffling his deck of cards with practiced ease. He looked up as you entered, that perpetual smirk softening into something warmer when he saw you.

“Evenin’, chère,” he drawled, sliding the cards into a neat stack and setting them aside. “Come to accuse me of more mischief?”

You crossed your arms, pretending to consider. “Depends. Find anything else to slip into my pockets?”

He stood, hands raised in mock innocence. “Now why would I risk it? You’d catch me red-handed.”

“Maybe I’d let you off easy.” The words escaped before you could think twice, and the flicker of surprise in his expression sent your heart racing.

Remy stepped closer, his movements fluid and unhurried. “Careful, mon cœur. A man could take that as an invitation.”

You tilted your head, trying to keep your composure. “And what if it is?”

For a moment, the teasing glint in his eyes shifted to something deeper, more earnest. Without a word, he reached for the old radio on the shelf and turned the dial until soft jazz crackled through the room.

“Dance with me,” he said, holding out his hand.

Caught off guard, you hesitated. “I don’t—”

“Don’t matter if you can,” he interrupted gently, taking your hand in his. “Just follow my lead.”

Before you could argue, he pulled you close, one hand settling lightly on your waist while the other held your hand securely in his. The warmth of his touch and the way he swayed with effortless rhythm made it impossible not to relax.

The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, moving together in the soft glow of the room. You found yourself smiling as his fingers gave yours a playful squeeze.

“You’re a natural, chère,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety.

Your eyes met his, and suddenly, the teasing facade he so often wore was gone, replaced by something vulnerable and inviting. Heart pounding, you gathered every ounce of courage you had and leaned up, brushing your lips against his.

For a moment, the world stilled. Then, his hand tightened gently at your waist, pulling you closer as he returned the kiss with a slow, deliberate passion that left you breathless.

When you finally pulled back, his lips curved into a grin that could only be described as triumphant. “Took you long enough,” he teased, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d make the first move,” you countered, your boldness surprising even yourself.

Remy chuckled, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Chérie, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time with cards.”

And with that, he spun you back into the dance, holding you close as the music played on

(GAMBIT CONTENT YAY!)

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

BRO WHAT IS THE SHIT MY FRIEND SENDS ME IN THE MIDDLE OF ME VENTING????

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)