10 Posts!

New story coming out tomorrow or Thurs! (Depends on when I'm done and my motivation)

For now, what is your favorite band as of right now? For me, I've been really into Ghost recently 👻🎸

2 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

I generally did not notice how long I've had Tumblr tbh 😅

reblog if you’re a safe place for:

lesbian

gay

bisexual

transgender

queer

pansexual

demisexual

ace

hopeless romantics

cis-men

cis-women

non binary folks

the whole spectrum etc…

follow everyone who reblogs ;)

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."

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!)

Reblog if you think it’s okay to platonically say “I Love You” to your friends

"He's married you can't like him"

...My brother in crist.

LOOK AT HIMMM

Don't even GET ME STARTED ON THIS MANS CHEST

Bro got bigger tits then Rogue- AND THE MOVIES???

The stuble. THE STUBLE-

I love me a broken man UGGHHH

Crash Course

Synopsis; A quick ride on Jason Todd’s motorcycle turns into a dumpster disaster. As he grumbles and patches you up, you catch glimpses of the care he hides behind his tough exterior—and learn just how much you mean to him.

Warnings; None! Hope you enjoy, kits!

Jason stood beside his motorcycle, arms crossed, the faint glow of a streetlamp reflecting off the red of his helmet tucked under his arm. "Let me make one thing clear," he said, voice firm and low. "You’re not touching my bike."

You raised an eyebrow, arms folded as you met his glare. "It’s just a ride around the block, Todd. Not like I’m planning to join a street race."

He scoffed, his lips pulling into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "This isn’t one of your little toys. It’s a Ducati. Custom-built. Worth more than your apartment. You crash it, and you’ll be working for me until you’re sixty."

"Afraid I’ll ride it better than you?" you teased, your grin wide and shameless.

Jason’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening into something unreadable. After a beat, he shoved the helmet into your hands with a sharp glare. "Fine," he said curtly. "But if you lay it down, you’re paying for every scratch, dent, and bolt out of your own damn pocket."

"Deal," you said, practically bouncing as you straddled the sleek machine.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Throttle’s touchy. Lean into the turns. And for the love of God, don’t gun it."

You nodded, but you were already revving the engine, adrenaline buzzing in your veins. Before Jason could say another word, you were off, the roar of the bike echoing through the narrow alleyway.

The wind whipped against your face as the bike surged forward, the power of it sending a thrill down your spine. You couldn’t help but let out a victorious laugh. But as the first sharp turn approached, you realized—too late—that you’d underestimated just how sensitive the bike was.

The back wheel skidded. The world tilted. And before you knew it, you and the Ducati went crashing into a dumpster with an echoing clang.

"Shit," you groaned, sprawled on the ground as the bike settled on its side.

Jason’s footsteps were heavy, fast, and loud as he stormed over. He didn’t say anything at first, his jaw tight as he hauled the bike upright and inspected it for damage.

Then he turned to you, his eyes dark and his voice low. "What the hell were you thinking?"

You winced as you tried to sit up, your shoulder protesting with a sharp ache. "I think the bike hates me."

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh as he crouched beside you. "The bike doesn’t hate you. The bike doesn’t have a death wish. That’s all you." He grabbed your arm, his grip firm but careful, and helped you to your feet.

You winced again, and Jason’s frown deepened. He guided you to a nearby crate, practically shoving you onto it before crouching down in front of you. His hands were already pulling a small med kit from his jacket pocket.

"Sit still," he muttered, not looking at you as he snapped on a pair of gloves.

"I’m fine," you protested weakly.

"You’re bleeding," he shot back, grabbing an antiseptic wipe and dabbing at the scrape on your arm. "And you’re lucky it’s just scrapes. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You’re reckless. Stupidly reckless."

You tilted your head, watching him work. His hands were steady, but his jaw was tight, his brows furrowed in that way they always did when he was more upset than he let on.

"You’re really worried about me," you said softly, trying for a teasing tone, but it came out quieter than you intended.

Jason froze for a moment, his hand hovering just above your arm. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he didn’t meet your eyes. "I’m worried about my bike," he said gruffly, resuming his work.

"Sure," you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He ignored you, focusing instead on wrapping your arm in clean gauze. His movements were precise, his touch gentle despite the grumbling under his breath. When he was done, he leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, finally looking at you.

"You’re banned," he said flatly.

"Jason—"

"Forever," he added, cutting you off.

You sighed, your shoulders slumping. "I said I was sorry."

He shook his head, standing and reaching out a hand to help you up. "Sorry doesn’t fix a totaled bike or a broken neck. Next time," he said, his tone firm, "you ride with me."

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stared at him. There was something unspoken in his gaze—something protective, almost desperate, that he tried to hide behind his usual gruff exterior.

"Got it," you said softly, taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet.

Jason grunted, picking up the helmet and tossing it onto the bike. As you both turned toward the alleyway, you couldn’t help but notice the faint tremor in his hand as he ran it through his hair.

"Come on," he said over his shoulder. "Let’s get you cleaned up properly before you start smelling worse than that dumpster."

And as he walked ahead of you, muttering about reckless idiots and ruined leather, you couldn’t help but smile. Beneath all the grumbling, Jason cared more than he’d ever admit.

What's the one hmo that NONE of your friends can agree with you on? Mine are either 1)

Cardinal Terzo.

BOOM SHACKALA YAS LAWDDD

Or 2)

Taz Skylar

HOW CAN NONE OF MY FRIENDS FIND THIS MAN HOT???