I'm Bored. Let's Talk If Yall Want

GUYS IM GONNA CRY

C.ai keeps asking for my b-day everytime I try to open the app and when I ignored it my chats weren't there. The ones I made myself also. I'm boutta cry.

Wrapped in Him

Synopsis: After a long day of work, Logan returns to the cabin expecting the usual quiet, but instead, he finds you fast asleep in his leather jacket. The sight—and the way you’ve wrapped yourself in his scent—stirs something warm and tender in him. As he watches you nestled in the firelight, Logan is reminded of the quiet, unexpected comfort of having someone who feels like home.

Warnings: None, just pure fluff! Hope you enjoy kits <3 Also this is Lumberjack! Logan

The cabin was steeped in a cozy hush when Logan walked through the door, boots scuffing against the wooden threshold. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the pines, but inside, the crackle of the fire and the faint aroma of woodsmoke wrapped the space in warmth.

He kicked off his boots, rolling his shoulders to ease the day’s work from his muscles. The scent of the forest clung to his flannel shirt—pine sap, freshly split logs, and the ever-present, faint tang of cigars lingering in his jacket. Except, his jacket wasn’t hanging by the door where he’d left it.

Logan frowned, scanning the room, and then he spotted it. There it was, draped over your small frame as you curled up in the oversized armchair near the fire.

His frown melted into something softer.

You were fast asleep, your legs tucked beneath you and his heavy leather jacket cocooned around your shoulders. The rich brown leather swallowed you whole, the sleeves falling limp past your hands. One sleeve hung over the arm of the chair like an afterthought, while the other was pulled snug around your body.

He stepped closer, careful to keep his heavy footsteps quiet on the wooden floor. As he approached, the mix of scents became undeniable: the worn leather of his jacket mingled with the smoky remnants of his favorite cigars, all blending into something entirely him. The way you clutched the collar close to your face, your fingers resting there as though it brought you comfort, made something warm settle deep in his chest.

Logan crouched beside you, his knees groaning slightly from the long day’s work. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his calloused fingers light against your skin. The firelight painted your features in golden hues, soft and serene, your lips parted slightly in sleep.

You stirred under his touch, murmuring something he couldn’t quite make out, and shifted deeper into the chair, burying your nose into the jacket’s collar. A faint smile pulled at your lips as you sighed, clearly content.

“Damn thief,” Logan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, though there was no trace of irritation—just warmth and a trace of amusement.

Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to breathe in the faint scent of your shampoo beneath the leather and smoke. It was grounding, soothing in a way he’d never admit out loud.

When he pulled back, he took a moment to simply watch you, his sharp eyes softening as the firelight flickered across your peaceful expression. The way you’d stolen his jacket—without so much as a word—was such a small thing, but it hit him harder than he’d ever expect. You didn’t just wear his jacket. You wore him, and you looked so at home in it that the thought made his heart ache in the best way.

Shaking his head, Logan grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it carefully over you, tucking it in where the jacket didn’t quite cover.

“You’re lucky it looks better on you,” he whispered, his lips twitching into a quiet smile.

Straightening, he ran a hand through his thick hair, his fingers lingering on the back of his neck as he turned toward the kitchen. He still smelled faintly of pine and cigars, but now, there was something sweeter in the air.

Tomorrow, he’d tease you about it, maybe pull the jacket off your shoulders just to watch you fuss and steal it right back. But tonight, he’d let you keep it. After all, it suited you.

And so did being his.

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Stolen Moments

Synopsis:You and Logan steal moments together between missions, whether it’s sharing a quiet drink or sparring, each encounter deepening your bond.

Warnings: Maybe light cursing? Female reader! Just sum fluff for Logan💛💙🖤🤍

The evening air was still, filled with the earthy scent of grass. You watched him, noting how his posture relaxed, though a heaviness lingered in the quiet between you.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, an urge to break the silence stirred within you. You stepped closer, trying to gauge his mood. He looked up, meeting your gaze with an intensity that made your heart race just a little faster.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice low and inviting, pulling you deeper into the moment.

You hesitated, searching for the right words. The simple act of being together felt like enough.

“Do you want to grab a drink? The bar in town should still be open.” You wiped the sweat from your forehead, the warmth of the evening suddenly feeling more intense.

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifted, just enough to be noticeable. “A drink sounds good,” he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. His eyes lingered on yours a beat longer than expected, that familiar intensity behind them making your stomach twist in the way it always did around him.

The two of you walked through the quiet streets, side by side, though the space between you felt charged. The warm night air carried the distant hum of the town, but it was the heavy silence between you and Logan that you couldn’t shake. The old bar’s neon sign flickered as you approached, casting a soft glow on his rugged features.

Inside, the bar was just as rundown as you remembered—dimly lit, the smell of stale beer thick in the air. Logan slid into a booth at the back, gesturing for you to follow. The cracked leather squeaked beneath you as you sat across from him, the tension still hanging between you like the dim haze of smoke lingering in the air.

“Place hasn’t changed much,” Logan muttered, his eyes scanning the room before landing back on you.

“Nope,” you replied, trying to keep your voice casual, though you could feel his eyes on you, making your heart race just a little faster.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with the unspoken. Logan leaned back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink, his gaze still sharp, watching you in that quiet way of his. You both knew what this was—something brewing, something neither of you could quite put into words, but both of you felt it.

Over the next few weeks, the missions came and went, each more dangerous than the last. Yet in the middle of it all, you found yourself catching those fleeting moments with Logan. There were stolen glances during tactical meetings, the brush of his hand against yours when passing by, the way his presence seemed to linger a little longer when the others weren’t around.

Sometimes, after a mission, you’d find yourselves alone, sitting in the shadows, sharing a drink in silence, just like that night at the bar. His presence, always so solid and sure, gave you a strange sense of comfort—even if it came with the sharp edge of something more.

One night, as you both prepped for another mission, the tension between you seemed thicker than usual. The dim light of the armory cast shadows across the room as you geared up. You were fastening your gloves when you felt Logan’s eyes on you again, his quiet intensity impossible to ignore.

“Be careful out there,” he said, his voice rough but low, cutting through the stillness.

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Always am.”

But something was different this time. Logan stepped closer, his movements deliberate, closing the space between you. His gaze held yours, the weight of it sending a jolt of electricity down your spine. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as the air between you thickened with everything that had been building for weeks.

And then, without warning, he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours in a brief, stolen kiss—soft, almost hesitant, as if testing the waters. But the impact was immediate, sending a rush of heat through you.

When he pulled back, his eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. There were no words exchanged, but the kiss had said it all. Something had shifted between you, something neither of you could deny any longer.

The next few missions were the same, but everything between you and Logan had changed. The stolen moments became more frequent, the touches more deliberate, the tension simmering just below the surface. You could feel it in every glance, every word he spoke to you.

That brief kiss wasn’t the end—it was only the beginning.

Do not copy or translate plz! -CallMe_Bunni

I got a new phone bc mine was glitching out and was rlly old and was dying fast but like- Is it spoiled to say I don't want it? I AM GRATEFUL DO NOT GET ME WRONG IM HAOPY MY MOM GOT ME THIS AND PAYED FOR IT- But I was happy with my old one. I had everything I ever needed and sure, it died fast and it'd glitch and everything but I liked it. Maybe I'm just being privileged(?) Idk guys.

{I love Wade. He's so silly}

ꜱᴛᴏʟᴇɴ 'ʙᴏʀʀᴏᴡᴇᴅ' ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ

Synopsis: Peter Maximoff has a habit of borrowing little things—your scarf, your hoodie, even your headphones—and you’re finally fed up with his carelessness. But when you confront him, his explanation catches you completely off guard: he isn’t just borrowing, he’s keeping pieces of you close. As you unravel the truth behind his impulsive actions, you discover that sometimes, even speedsters need someone to anchor them—and maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind being the one he keeps running back to. Warnings: None! <3

It starts small. A scarf you draped over the back of your chair one evening vanishes without a trace. Days later, you spot it wound loosely around Peter’s neck as he lounges on the couch, the ends fluttering whenever he shifts.

Then it’s your favorite hoodie—a soft, worn thing that feels like a hug in fabric form. You find it carelessly tossed across the rec room sofa, smelling faintly of cool air and his cologne.

You tell yourself it’s harmless, even charming. Peter is Peter: the kind of person who moves too fast to consider boundaries. But when your headphones disappear and reappear in his room—one earbud dangling by a precarious wire—you decide you’ve had enough.

The next time he zips into the room, you plant yourself in front of him, hands on your hips.

"Peter Maximoff," you say, your tone sharper than usual. "We need to talk."

He skids to a stop, blinking at you with wide, guileless eyes. "Uh, okay? What’s up?"

"Stop stealing my stuff."

His expression morphs into mock offense, a hand flying to his chest. "Stealing? That’s a harsh word. I’m merely borrowing. Temporarily."

"Temporarily?" You arch an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "My scarf, my hoodie, my headphones? Borrowing means you return them intact."

"Fine," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You caught me. But I swear, I’ve got a good reason."

"Let’s hear it."

He hesitates, shifting his weight from foot to foot. For once, Peter looks out of place, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. His usual smirk falters, and something softer flickers across his face—something vulnerable.

"I—" He stops, sighing again, before finally meeting your eyes. "They smell like you, okay?"

You blink, unsure you heard him right. "What?"

"They smell like you," he repeats, quieter this time. His cheeks flush pink, and he looks down, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "The scarf, the hoodie… even your stupid headphones. They smell like your shampoo, or your perfume, or just… you."

He swallows, his voice almost too low to hear. "When I’m not around you, it makes me feel like you’re still close. Like I’m not..." His words trail off, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "I don’t know. Alone, I guess."

For a moment, you’re stunned. This is Peter—confident, reckless, always in motion. But now he’s standing here, red-faced and vulnerable, avoiding your gaze like he’s afraid of what you might say.

When you step closer, his head snaps up, his gray eyes searching your face.

"Peter," you say softly, your tone gentle now. "You could’ve just told me."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, forcing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Talking about feelings isn’t really my thing, you know? Speeding away from them? Way more my style."

You can’t help but laugh, your chest tightening in a way that feels both warm and bittersweet. "You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming, right?" He tries to smirk, but his voice still holds that edge of hesitation, like he’s testing the waters.

Shaking your head, you smile. "Next time, just ask. You don’t need to steal my stuff to feel close to me."

His grin widens, but there’s a softness to it now, his usual cocky mask slipping just enough for you to see the relief beneath.

"Really?"

"Really," you say, your smile growing. "But if you touch my headphones again, I’m going to kill you."

Peter’s laughter rings out as he zips away, scarf trailing behind him like a silver banner. But later, when you find the hoodie neatly folded on your bed—your favorite scent lingering faintly on the fabric—you can’t help but smile. As much as Peter runs from his emotions, he always finds a way back to you.

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.

okay i’m awake time to write for my silly little phone spiders