#i'm here to write my brain is just telling me

[morbid-archive-com]

△Shifting ask game: with Frank⋆˚࿔

⋆˚— What was your first dr? : i know it's cringe but i have to be honest, lt was MHA, i was a very cringy loser kid back in 2020 and watched way too much anime. And for why i switched it: it took a long time but i realized how much o didn't want to be a pro hero and how toxic that dr was. Now my main dr is dead by daylight (my fav game!) and this band dr i really love.

⋆˚— Here my name is Frank Morrison... I stole it! (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) I just didn't have more ideas for names and decided to take one from a fictional character from my dbd dr.

⋆˚— The garage! Just kidding, i stay with my band member in his house but he forgot to tell his parents, his mom saw me on the garage taking a nap and started hitting me with a broom! ರ⁠╭⁠╮⁠ರ

⋆˚— For edits well, it's 2005 so we got AMVs of our songs, clips from concerts going viral and glittery pfp's of my band members. Also stamps and blinkies people use in Myspace about our band! The fandom is pretty chill, mostly people getting wasted and doing pot or teens who hate their parents.

⋆˚— aaw the outfit of the day! I love that part.

well we have alternatives, being a teen fashion icon by the time looks so good.

⋆˚— free time is all the time, if you think about it... Anyways, just hang out with the guys, writing some lyrics or getting in trouble! Setting fire to cop cars is always an option! (I'm joking-not joking)

⋆˚— My non-native english suffered this one... But i think it means like my comfiest and safe dr that feels like a home. Well it's my alt future dr: already 35, life solved, millionare scientist and married to a beautiful husband. It's just the greatest dr i could have.

⋆˚— Punk band dr: 4 junkies with guittars play like shit and go famous.

⋆˚— My brain just spits ideas like a maniac and i make a pinterest board... Everything is in my braing or in notion written down.

⋆˚— i made a post once about it: i met Lu on highschool, Kristen is my mutual on Myspace and Dan works part time at a videoclub i always go to.

⋆˚— family?... what family? you guys scripted a family? The problem is that i didn't have any ideas for parents and it would be a problem for me so i scripted i was an orphan. This is very common so don't act like i'm weird.

⋆˚— the funniest scenario definitely was a my first awarding, i was so out of place between big artists from the time and i was just a little high so i fell asleep. Can you imagine waking up from a nap with your friends screaming and shaking like crazy, spotlights shining on you and a bunch of applause? I genuinely screamed "ALIENS?"... Anyways that was such a cool week, like having 5 star hotels, meeting a lot of people, getting out of jersey to visit Los angeles was something incredible as just a garage band.

⋆˚— Kristens brother, our manager and promoter. Like dude can you not frown and stare at me with hate for once?!? I just had a few shots, definitely not a whole bottle of vodka.

⋆˚— It's a Myspace blog named "The mischief booknote" i just post stuff about music and rebel shit i do for fun, also listing my 46 commited crimes and adding more everytime. Cause setting stuff on fire is cool when you're a teen.

That was fun!!! Thanks for this Asking game @solstices-dreams

ᓚᘏᗢ﹐𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞. ⁞ ˎˊ˗

shifting ask game reblog for asks ↻ ‧₊˚.

i’m bored so here’s another ask game, i’ll try to ask to everyone who reblogs, as long as tumblr isn't too glitchy, but feel free to send asks to others

— 💡 : what was your first dr and what is currently your main dr? How and why have you made this switch?

— 🏷 : what is your name for your dr and why is that your name?

— 👜 : what’s your house look like? Do you have any roommates or people who live with you? What’s your favorite aspect of your house and why?

— 🎞 : what edits of you would there be in your dr? what is your fandom like?

— 🩰 : what is your OOTD (outfit of the day) for a dr and why?

— 🏛️ : what do you do in your free time? Who are you with? Where do you go?

— 🗝 : what is your most niche dr and why did you make it?

— 📜 : summarize your dr in a sentence

— 🧳 : what is your favorite way to script and share your favorite dr script

— ♟ : who’s in your friend group and how did you make this friend group?

— 🕰 : what’s your family like? Who’s your favorite person and what are your relationships with your different members?

— 🎻 : what is a fun scenario you have scripted and you excited for? (be detailed! :)

— 💼 : who is someone you don’t get a long with in your dr? Why?

— 🍨 : what are your socials like in your dr? Followers? Username? What do you post?

[amethystarachnid]

hey! i JUST saw your love is in the air game (and im so happy im online right now)

could i request trope 1. baker with logan howlett and fem!reader? thanks! surprise me with the plot, i love reading your ideas and writing 🤍 (like seriously, you’re a magician) my only plot-wise detail is fluff fluff and more fluff ���

thank you so much!!!

SUGAR & FLOUR

⤷ JAMES LOGAN HOWLETT

ᯓ★ Pairing: James Logan Howlett x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Story type: short story

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Logan keeps telling himself that the reason he keeps coming back at your bakery is because your food is good, defitnely not because you're the most beautiful woman he has ever seen

ᯓ★ TW(s): some spicy scenes, nothing too explicit

ᯓ★ Timeline: modern days

ᯓ★ omg your words are so sweet, I'm so happy that you like my works <3

ᯓ★ From: MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ If you are a Charles Xavier lover click on this link!

ᯓ★ English isn't my first language and this isn’t proof read

It starts with a craving. Not for violence, for once. Not for a beer, though that's a close second. Just a simple, nagging, stubborn craving for something sweet. Something good.

Logan doesn't know why. Maybe it's because dinner at the mansion sucked tonight—something suspiciously green that even Hank avoided. Maybe it’s because it’s been a long week filled with headaches, Charles’s lectures, and Scott being Scott. Or maybe it’s just the damn cold creeping into his bones, the way winter in Westchester always does, no matter how many years he’s been here.

Either way, he’s out, walking through the quieter part of town, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, when the scent hits him. Warm sugar, butter, cinnamon. Vanilla, maybe. It curls in the air, thick and golden, like something out of an old memory he can’t quite place. His stomach tightens in response, and his feet follow before his brain fully catches up.

The bakery is small, tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, the kind of place you don’t notice unless you’re looking for it. A little bell jingles when he pushes the door open, and the warmth inside immediately wraps around him, chasing away the winter chill. Soft light, wooden shelves lined with pastries, and a glass display case filled with enough sugar to put someone in a coma. But none of that is what makes him pause.

It’s you.

You stand behind the counter, apron dusted with flour, a smudge of chocolate on your cheek, completely oblivious to the way you just knocked the air out of his lungs. You’re talking to an older woman, smiling as you tuck a small box into a bag, laughing at something she says. It’s a good laugh. A real one. Logan tells himself that’s not why he lingers.

He clears his throat.

You look over, and damn if it doesn’t hit him again, something warm and strange settling in his chest. You blink, surprised—maybe because he looks like he just walked in from the woods (which, to be fair, he kind of did). But then your expression softens into something friendly, open.

“Hey there,” you greet, wiping your hands on your apron as you step closer. “Welcome in. What can I get you?”

Logan glances at the display case, like he didn’t just come in here because his gut told him to. There are cookies, muffins, little cakes. Delicate pastries that look too pretty to eat. A basket of croissants that reminds him of—

He shakes his head, clearing that thought before it forms.

“What’s good?” he asks gruffly.

Your lips twitch, like you’re holding back a smile. “Everything,” you answer easily. “But if you want my personal recommendation… the cinnamon rolls just came out of the oven.”

Logan considers. He likes cinnamon rolls well enough. But mostly, he likes the way your eyes brighten when you talk about them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Gimme one of those.”

“One?” you tease, already reaching for a paper bag. “You sure?”

His lips twitch before he catches himself. “Fine. Two.”

You flash him a smile as you bag them up, and Logan tells himself the warmth in his chest is just from the damn oven.

That should be the end of it.

Logan has his cinnamon rolls. They’re good—better than good, actually—but he’s not the kind of guy who goes out of his way for pastries. He eats, he leaves, he doesn’t think about it again.

Except… he does.

Because two days later, he’s back.

This time, it’s for the muffins. Blueberry, fresh out of the oven. The way you light up when you see him walk in? That’s not why he comes back.

And then it’s three days later, for the croissants. Then again for something called a bear claw (which he orders just to make a joke, but you smile and say, “Good choice,” like you mean it, and he forgets whatever smartass comment he was about to make).

And, well. He’s not a complete idiot. He knows exactly what’s happening.

So does everyone else.

Because when he shows up at the mansion carrying a box filled with sweets for the third time in a week, he barely makes it two steps inside before—

“Well, well,” Scott drawls from the staircase. “Look who’s got a sweet tooth.”

Logan grunts. “Back off, One-Eye.”

Scott smirks. “I’m just saying, you’re bringing home a lot of pastries lately. Like… a lot.”

Jean walks by, peeking into the box in his hands before glancing up with knowing amusement. “Oh, those are from Sugar & Flour downtown, right?”

Logan frowns. “You been there?”

“Of course. It’s amazing. Their cinnamon rolls are the best thing ever.” Then she pauses, raising a brow. “Wait. How did you find that place?”

“Luck,” Logan mutters.

At that moment, Charles wheels into the hallway, glancing between Logan and the box like he’s already reading way too much into this. “Ah,” he says, amused. “I see we have another delivery from Logan’s bakery of choice.”

“I don’t have a bakery of choice,” Logan grumbles.

“Strange, considering how often you return.”

Logan scowls. “You want a damn pastry or not?”

Charles chuckles. “I wouldn’t mind a croissant.”

With a sigh, Logan drops the box onto the nearest table and stalks off before they can get any more ideas.

You’re wiping down the counter when the bell chimes again, and there he is. The gruff, broad-shouldered, flannel-wearing mystery man who keeps coming back.

Not that you’re complaining.

He’s got that same look—like he’s not quite sure why he’s here, like his feet brought him inside before his brain caught up. You like that look. It makes you want to smile.

“Back again?” you tease, setting down your rag.

He huffs, like he wants to be annoyed but can’t quite manage it. “Yeah, well. That last batch of muffins was pretty good.”

“Uh-huh.” You prop your elbows on the counter. “And what’s the excuse this time?”

He hesitates, like he’s debating how much to say. Then, finally:

“Needed to clear my head.”

Your expression softens. “Long day?”

Something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say much, just nods.

You nod back, understanding. “Then you’re in the right place. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that good food makes everything better.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter. “That so?”

“Absolutely.” You grin. “So, what’ll it be?”

He hesitates again, glancing at the case like he’s searching for something. Then, finally, he looks back at you.

“What do you recommend?”

The words are simple. Casual. But there’s something else in his expression—something warm, something fond. Like he’s not really asking about the pastries at all.

Your stomach does a little flip, and you smile.

“Well,” you say. “I just pulled a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”

Logan’s mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And when he says, “Alright. Gimme two,” you swear you hear something unspoken in the words.

Something you really, really hope is real.

Logan becomes a regular before he even realizes it.

At first, it’s just every couple of days. Then it’s every other day. And then, somehow, it’s every damn morning.

Not that he’s counting.

And sure, maybe at first he convinced himself it was just the food. Because the food is good—ridiculously so. But if that were the only reason, he wouldn’t take the extra five minutes just to make sure his flannel doesn’t smell like cigars before stepping inside. He wouldn’t always wait an extra second after ordering just to hear you talk. He wouldn’t leave the bakery feeling a little lighter, like the weight of the world isn’t quite so heavy.

The fact that you always smile when you see him? Yeah, that’s got nothing to do with it.

Of course, the X-Men don’t let him live it down.

“Tell me, Logan,” Charles says one evening as Logan walks in with yet another bakery box. “Are you purchasing shares in this establishment? Or is there another reason for your continued patronage?”

Logan glares. “I hate you.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Jean, seated at the table, hides a smile behind her hand. “So, what’s today’s selection?”

“Apple turnovers,” Logan grumbles, dropping the box down. “They looked good.”

Scott snickers. “Or someone looked good.”

Logan grabs a pastry and shoves it into Scott’s hand—maybe a little harder than necessary. “Eat your damn turnover, Summers.”

But despite the teasing, Logan doesn’t stop going.

And the more he shows up, the more you two start talking.

At first, it’s just light chatter. You ask him about his day, and he shrugs it off. He asks how business is going, and you smile and tell him about the customers, the new recipes you’re testing, the early mornings that come with the job. Sometimes he just listens, watching the way your hands move as you talk, the way your eyes brighten when you describe the perfect rise on a loaf of bread.

And then, somewhere along the way, the conversations change.

One morning, after he complains about the cold, you tell him how you grew up in a place where it never snowed, and winter still feels like a novelty. Another time, after you mention being up before dawn, he tells you about the long nights on the road, the places he’s been, the years that blur together.

It’s easy.

Easier than it should be.

And Logan? He’s not used to that.

Then February rolls around.

The first time he walks in and sees pink and red creeping into the bakery—heart-shaped cookie cutters on the counter, little pastel sprinkles in glass jars—he almost turns around.

But then you spot him and smile, and, well. There’s no walking away from that.

“Morning, Logan.” You set down a tray of what looks like strawberry muffins. “What do you think?”

He blinks. “About what?”

You gesture around the bakery. “The decorations! I’m getting everything ready for Valentine’s Day.”

Logan eyes the little paper hearts now pinned to the walls. “Huh.”

You tilt your head. “That’s it? Huh?”

Logan shrugs. “Never been my thing.”

You gasp, clutching your apron dramatically. “How dare you. Valentine’s Day is great.”

“Yeah?” He raises a brow. “What’s so great about it?”

“Oh, come on.” You lean against the counter. “It’s a whole day dedicated to love and affection and just… happiness. Even if you’re not in a relationship, it’s nice seeing people make an effort for each other.”

Logan watches you for a moment. You’re serious. You really believe that.

“Huh,” he says again, but this time, it’s thoughtful.

Then you grin. “And also, it’s an amazing day for bakeries.”

That makes him chuckle. “Yeah, I bet.”

You nod, excited. “I’m thinking of doing a special menu for the holiday. Heart-shaped cookies, pink velvet cupcakes, maybe even some fancy chocolates. What do you think?”

Logan exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Dunno if I’m the guy to ask about that.”

“Come on,” you tease. “You’ve basically tried half my menu by now. You’ve got opinions.”

Logan smirks. “That so?”

“Absolutely.”

And, well. He figures there are worse things than helping you brainstorm ideas for heart-shaped baked goods.

So he does.

He listens while you bounce ideas off him, tells you which pastries sound best, even reaches up to help pin some of the paper hearts a little higher when you struggle to reach. He doesn’t let himself think about how domestic it feels—just you and him, alone in the quiet morning, talking about something as simple as sugar cookies.

He definitely doesn’t think about how good it feels.

Then February 14th arrives.

Logan wakes up that morning already annoyed with himself.

Because for the past week, he hasn’t been able to get you out of his head. The way you lit up when you talked about Valentine’s Day. The way you stood on your tiptoes to hang decorations, laughing when he grabbed the tape out of your hands and did it for you.

The way he almost—almost—let himself imagine what it would be like if he had someone like you.

Which is stupid.

He’s never been the flowers-and-romance kind of guy. He doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do soft, doesn’t do happy endings.

Except.

When he walks into town that morning, his feet don’t take him straight to the bakery.

They take him to the flower shop next door.

The bell jingles as he steps inside, and an older woman behind the counter looks up with a bright smile. “Good morning! What can I—”

Then she pauses, eyes flicking over his flannel, his scowl, the whole him of it all.

“Let me guess,” she says knowingly. “Valentine’s Day surprise?”

Logan grunts. “Somethin’ like that.”

She hums, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Roses? Or maybe something softer… tulips? Peonies?”

Logan hesitates, then exhales sharply. “I dunno. Just… something nice.”

Her smile turns warm. “I’ve got just the thing.”

By the time Logan walks into the bakery, there’s a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand. Nothing over-the-top. Just a mix of soft colors, something simple. Something nice.

You’re at the counter, already busy with the morning rush, but when the bell chimes, you glance up—and freeze.

Logan shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Uh. Hey.”

Your eyes flick from him to the flowers.

Then back to him.

Then back to the flowers.

And when you look back up, your expression is—

Oh.

Something in Logan’s chest tightens.

Because you’re looking at him like he just handed you the world.

“Are those…?” Your voice is softer than usual, like you’re afraid to break whatever this moment is.

Logan grunts. “Yeah. They’re for you.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, lips parting like you’re about to say something. Then, suddenly, a customer calls your name, and you blink, snapping back to reality.

“One sec!” you tell them before turning back to Logan, flustered. “I—um. Let me just—”

You reach for the flowers, hands brushing his, and damn it, why is his heart beating faster?

“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

Logan swallows. “Yeah, well.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Seemed like the kinda day for it.”

Your smile turns shy, and Logan tells himself he’s not melting.

Then he exhales, shifting his weight. “Listen. You, uh… got plans tonight?”

Your breath catches. “Tonight?”

He nods, trying not to look as damn awkward as he feels. “Yeah. Figured… maybe I could take you to dinner. If you want.”

For a second, you just stare. Then—

“Yes.”

It’s immediate. No hesitation.

Logan blinks. “Yeah?”

You laugh, still holding the flowers close. “Yeah. Of course.”

And, well.

Logan might not be the flowers-and-romance kind of guy.

But as you smile at him—bright and happy, like he just gave you the best gift in the world—he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

For you.

You don’t consider yourself a nervous person.

You run a business. You wake up before the sun, manage suppliers, handle customers with difficult requests. You can face a crowd and talk about your pastries with confidence, even when the pressure is on.

But as you stand in front of your mirror, smoothing down your dress for the fourth time, you feel nervous in a way that’s completely unfamiliar.

Because this isn’t just a date. It’s a date with Logan.

The gruff, flannel-wearing, cinnamon roll-loving man who somehow wormed his way into your daily routine—and, if you’re being honest, your thoughts, too.

You take a slow breath, stepping back to look at yourself.

The dress isn’t anything over-the-top—simple, flattering, something soft and flowy in a color that makes your skin glow just right. You’d debated going more casual, but… something told you Logan deserved the effort. And judging by how he showed up earlier with flowers, he might be making an effort too.

That thought alone makes your stomach flip.

Then the sound of an engine outside draws your attention.

Not the deep, familiar rumble of a motorcycle.

A car.

You peek through the window, and sure enough, there’s a sleek black car parked outside.

And standing next to it, looking more put-together than you’ve ever seen him, is Logan.

You blink.

Because—okay. He still looks like Logan. But the usual flannel has been swapped for a dark button-up, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and his hair looks… good. Like he actually ran a hand through it with intention. And he’s standing there, leaning against the car like he’s trying so hard to look casual but can’t quite pull it off.

You grab your coat and step outside, feeling the winter air nip at your bare skin.

Logan straightens the second he sees you.

His eyes sweep over you—down, then up again, slower this time. And for a moment, he just looks.

Then he clears his throat. “You look… good.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “Thanks.”

Then you glance at the car. “So, what’s this?”

Logan exhales through his nose, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Charles’ idea.”

Your brows lift. “Charles told you to get a car?”

“He suggested it.” Logan scowls slightly. “Said if you were gonna wear a dress, showin’ up with the bike was a dumbass move.”

Your lips twitch. “I mean, he’s got a point.”

Logan sighs. “Yeah, yeah.” Then, hesitantly, he gestures toward the car. “You ready?”

You nod, and he opens the door for you.

It’s a small thing, but something about it makes your heart do another little flip.

Dinner is, unsurprisingly, very Valentine’s Day-themed.

Which means that when you walk in, you’re immediately hit with dim candlelight, soft music, and an overwhelming number of couples sharing desserts with tiny forks.

Logan pauses just inside the door, scanning the restaurant like he’s sizing up a fight.

You bite back a laugh. “Regretting this already?”

He grunts. “Didn’t think it’d be this… pink.”

You grin. “What, no love for the holiday spirit?”

Logan just gives you a look, and you laugh as the host leads you to a table.

Despite the overly romantic setting, the dinner itself is nice.

Logan is awkward at first—not in a bad way, just in a Logan way. He doesn’t do small talk, and you can tell he’s still getting used to this whole… thing.

But then, as the evening goes on, the tension in his shoulders eases.

You start talking—really talking—and he starts listening.

You tell him about how you fell in love with baking. How, as a kid, you’d sit in your grandmother’s kitchen, watching her mix ingredients with practiced hands. How you saved every penny to open your own shop, how you still wake up every morning excited to do what you love.

And to your surprise, Logan opens up, too.

It’s not much—not at first. Just little pieces of himself, scattered through the conversation. How he’s been all over, seen more than most. How he likes Westchester more than he lets on. How, lately, he’s been feeling a little less like a drifter and a little more like he belongs.

The words are simple. But they settle warm in your chest.

Then dessert arrives—because, obviously, you can’t not have dessert.

It’s a shared plate of something rich and chocolatey, and Logan looks at it like it’s some kind of challenge.

“You don’t have to share,” you tease.

He raises a brow. “Oh, I know.”

But despite his gruffness, you do share—just passing bites back and forth, talking between mouthfuls, laughing when Logan grumbles about the tiny forks.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize—

You’re having fun.

Not just the surface-level kind, but the real, deep kind. The kind that makes your heart feel full.

Then, after you both finish off the last bite of chocolate, Logan shifts in his seat.

He looks like he’s debating something.

Then, finally, he exhales.

“So… this was good.” His voice is rough, but his eyes are softer than usual. “The whole thing. You and me.”

Your heart does a little flip. “Yeah,” you say. “It was.”

Logan nods once, like he’s locking that truth into place. Then he clears his throat. “So, uh… maybe we do this again sometime?”

You smile.

Because of course you do.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d like that.”

And the look Logan gives you in return?

It’s the kind that makes you think this is the start of something good.

Dating Logan is easier than you expect.

Not in the sense that he suddenly turns into some smooth, lovesick romantic—God, no. He’s still gruff, still stubborn, still awkward as hell when it comes to some things.

But there’s something honest about him.

He doesn’t play games, doesn’t beat around the bush. If he wants to see you, he shows up. If he likes something you made, he tells you. If he’s had a rough day, he lets you see the tiredness in his eyes instead of covering it up with grumbles and sarcasm.

And as the weeks pass, “seeing Logan” becomes less about dates at fancy restaurants and more about something real.

Some nights, it’s dinner at a cozy little place in town, where he glares at overly complicated menus before ordering the simplest thing available.

Other nights, it’s takeout at your apartment above the bakery, curled up on the couch while you argue over what movie to watch.

Sometimes, he even helps you close up the bakery—wiping down tables (grumbling the whole time), locking up after your last customer, staying with you until the lights are off and the doors are locked.

And then, one evening, after he walks you upstairs, it happens.

The first kiss.

It’s not some grand, dramatic moment.

It’s just the two of you standing in your doorway, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. The night is quiet, the street below nearly empty. And when he looks at you—his expression just a little softer than usual—you realize you’re standing on the edge of something big.

Logan hesitates for half a second. Then—

He kisses you.

Slow, warm, deliberate.

And just like everything about him, it’s honest.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, pressed close, trading soft, lingering kisses between unspoken words. But eventually, when you pull back, Logan looks at you like he’s never letting this go.

And the best part?

Neither are you.

From that moment on, Logan starts spending more and more nights at your place.

It’s not planned—it just happens.

Some nights, he falls asleep on your couch, arms crossed, head tipped back, snoring softly. Other nights, you fall asleep on him, curled up against his side while the TV hums in the background.

And then, eventually, it stops being falling asleep by accident and starts being something else entirely.

You wake up together.

In the mornings, you find yourself wrapped in Logan’s warmth, tangled in soft sheets, your face pressed into the crook of his neck.

And Logan? For all his gruffness, he’s a cuddler.

You’d never say it to his face (not unless you want a grumbled response and an exaggerated eye roll), but once he’s asleep, he melts into you. A heavy arm slung around your waist, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on your back.

And when you wake up and start moving, trying to slip away for the early bakery shift?

He grumbles, tightens his grip, and refuses to let you go.

Which is how, one morning, you end up exactly where you are now—trapped under Logan’s arm, pressed against his solid chest, while he pretends to still be asleep.

“Logan,” you murmur, shifting slightly. “I have to get up.”

He makes a low, half-asleep noise. “Mm. No, you don’t.”

You laugh softly. “Yes, I do. My customers want breakfast.”

“They can wait,” he grumbles.

You roll your eyes. “You are one of my customers.”

“Exactly. Tell ‘em all you’re busy with your best one.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “You are so dramatic.”

Logan smirks slightly but keeps his eyes closed.

You sigh, relaxing back into the warmth of him for just a few more moments.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Y’know,” you say idly, tracing a finger over his chest, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you bake anything.”

Logan snorts. “That’s ‘cause I haven’t.”

You blink. “Wait. Ever?”

He huffs. “Nope.”

“Like, not even as a kid? Not even boxed brownies?”

“Darlin’, I burn toast.”

You gasp dramatically, sitting up. “This is a travesty.”

Logan groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Here we go.”

“I have to fix this,” you declare. “We’re going downstairs right now.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

And before Logan can argue any further, you grab his arm and drag him out of bed.

Ten minutes later, Logan is standing in your bakery kitchen, looking as out of place as a grizzly bear in a flower shop.

“This is a bad idea,” he says as you gather ingredients.

“This is a great idea,” you correct. “We’re keeping it simple. Sugar cookies.”

Logan exhales sharply. “You say simple, but I know how this ends.”

You smirk. “With delicious cookies?”

“With me screwin’ up so bad the oven catches fire.”

You laugh and hand him a mixing bowl. “I’ll make sure the fire extinguisher is close by.”

Logan groans but takes the bowl.

And, well… you were right.

Sort of.

The cookies don’t catch fire. But everything else is a disaster.

Logan somehow manages to spill flour everywhere. The egg doesn’t crack right. The dough is lumpy, and he absolutely refuses to use the heart-shaped cookie cutters.

“This is ridiculous,” he grumbles, using a knife to chop the dough into rough squares instead.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tease, nudging flour at him with your fingertip.

He huffs. “Why’s bakin’ so much harder than cookin’?”

“Because baking is a science.” You grab his hand, guiding it as he presses the dough onto a tray. “You have to follow directions.”

Logan raises a brow. “You tryin’ to teach me how to follow orders?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away.

By the time the cookies are in the oven, you’re both covered in flour. There’s dough on the counter, sugar on the floor, and Logan has somehow managed to get butter on his shirt.

It’s a mess.

But it’s also… fun.

Then, as you’re cleaning up, Logan suddenly reaches over—

And swipes flour across your cheek.

You gasp. “Logan.”

He smirks. “What?”

“You did not just—”

Before you can finish, you grab a handful of flour and smack it onto his chest.

His smirk drops.

You blink.

Silence.

Then—

Logan grabs an entire handful of flour and pats it onto the top of your head.

You shriek, laughing as he dodges your next attack, grabbing your wrists to stop you.

“You play dirty,” you accuse, breathless.

Logan grins. “Always.”

And then—before you can even think—he kisses you.

Flour-covered and laughing, lips brushing yours in a warm, lingering kiss.

You melt into it, into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

By the time you pull away, you’re breathless.

And Logan?

He just smirks. “Guess bakin’ ain’t so bad.”

You shake your head, smiling.

The cookies might be a disaster.

But this?

This is perfect.

Logan’s kiss is slow at first. Lazy. Like he’s savoring the moment.

But then you shift closer—pressing against him, your fingers gripping his shirt, the warmth of his body seeping into yours—

And that’s when things start to change.

Logan makes a low sound, something deep and satisfied, and suddenly his hands are at your waist, fingers flexing, pulling you in like he’s starving for you.

Your heart pounds as you kiss him back, heat curling in your stomach.

It doesn’t matter that you’re covered in flour. It doesn’t matter that the bakery kitchen is an absolute disaster.

All that matters is Logan—warm, solid, real.

You feel his hands slide up your back, fingertips pressing against your spine, and it sends a thrill through you. Your breath hitches as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his lips brushing yours in a way that makes your knees weak.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your back bumps against the counter.

Logan doesn’t break the kiss. If anything, it just spurs him on—his hands gripping the edge of the counter on either side of you, effectively trapping you between his body and the flour-dusted surface.

And God, you don’t mind.

You gasp softly as his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Logan,” you murmur, tilting your head to give him more room.

He hums against your skin, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl—a low, rumbling sound that you feelmore than hear.

And you swear, if he keeps kissing you like this, you’re going to—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You jolt.

Logan stills.

And for a full second, neither of you move—breathless, flushed, frozen in place as the loud, sharp beeping of the kitchen timer cuts through the moment.

Then, reality slams into you like a brick to the face.

“The cookies!”

You shove Logan away—not forcefully, but urgently—and scramble toward the oven.

Logan blinks, still catching up. “Wait—what?”

You don’t have time to answer. You grab an oven mitt, fling open the oven door, and—

A thick puff of smoke billows out.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh no,” you breathe.

Logan steps up behind you, peering over your shoulder. “That ain’t good.”

You groan, reaching in to pull out the tray. The cookies—if you can even call them that—are dark, charred, and completely ruined.

You set the tray down with a defeated sigh.

Logan crosses his arms, inspecting the damage. “Y’know… I don’t think that’s what they’re supposed to look like.”

You turn to him, exasperated. “Really? I never would have guessed.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying so hard not to laugh.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Logan smirks. “I told you I was bad at this.”

You sigh dramatically. “It wasn’t just you! I got distracted.”

Logan raises a brow. “Did you, now?”

You cross your arms, giving him a look. “You know I did.”

Logan just grins.

And God help you, that grin—all smug and teasing and unfairly attractive—makes your stomach flip again.

You scowl, jabbing a finger at his chest. “This is your fault.”

Logan chuckles. “Oh, mine?”

“Yes.” You poke him again. “You and your stupid, distracting—”

Before you can finish, Logan grabs your wrist, tugs you forward, and kisses you again.

It’s fast, playful, over before you can even react—

But when he pulls back, the smirk on his face is even worse than before.

You huff. “You are impossible.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile.

Then you glance at the ruined cookies and sigh. “Well… at least we tried.”

Logan snorts. “Pretty sure we failed.”

You groan. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

Logan eyes them. Then, slowly, he reaches for one.

You watch in horror as he takes a bite.

There’s a long pause.

Then he chews.

Then he grimaces.

And finally—

He spits it out into the trash.

You burst into laughter.

“I told you they were ruined!” you say between giggles.

Logan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling. “That was awful.”

You’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “I cannot believe you actually tried it.”

Logan mutters something under his breath, but his lips are twitching like he’s trying not to laugh, too.

Then, suddenly—before you can react—he dips his fingers into the leftover flour and flicks some at you.

You gasp. “Logan!”

He smirks. “Payback.”

“Oh, you’re dead.”

And just like that, you’re both at it again—flour flying, laughter echoing through the kitchen, ruined cookies forgotten.

Eventually, when you’re both completely covered in flour and thoroughly exhausted, you collapse against the counter, panting.

Logan glances at you, brushing a bit of flour from your cheek with his thumb.

His touch lingers.

Your heart stutters.

Then he tilts his head slightly, voice lower now—soft, warm. “Y’know… I wouldn’t mind tryin’ again.”

You blink. “What? Baking?”

He nods. “If it means spendin’ more time with you? Yeah.”

And God help you, your heart does another stupid little flip.

You smile. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

Logan smirks. “We’ll see.”

And then he kisses you again—flour-covered, cookie-failed, and absolutely perfect.

[reality-shitting]

Gonna start a tag on my page for these kinds of posts, where im just laying out my thoughts/realizations and seeing if they resonate with others. Gonna call the tag Java jots, cause I'm just jotting stuff down.

I think I just realized that I'm not making an assumption; I'm making a wish. I'm saying "I'm already in my DR!" And then peeking around to see if it's here yet. I'm blowing on birthday candles and stamping my feet when the wish isn't fulfilled.

I haven't read much of Neville's works, mainly just listening to people who study his work and regurgitate his words, but perhaps that's why it's called "the state of the wish fulfilled". It's like ordering a package and looking out everyday to see if it's here yet. When you look, you become frustrated that it isn't there. But when you forget and don't pay attention, you're not so pressed about the package not being in your life yet. When it does show up you're like "oh! Hey! Cool!" But when it doesn't, you're frustrated about it. You want that thing now. And it's coming! It is. But maybe it'll be easier if you just. Let yourself forget about it. Relax.

I write these in the same way that I therapist myself. I write out my thoughts and my brain kinda naturally directs me towards a solution. I've been thinking about going cold turkey w shifting/loa media, so maybe this is my subconscious's way of telling me to do just that and that that is the correct way to go. Idk tho, just think-thunkin

[insurged]

if you want a little something from the stupid asshole astarion ( he has a modern verse *squinty eyes*) , feel free to like. if you want someone else from the roster, you can comment !

[fictionadventurer]

This AV Club comment is making me so desperate to write a romcom, you have no idea.

[illegiblehandwriting1]

i love you flashbacks i love you pov shifts i love you nonlinear storytelling

[lord-squiggletits]

I 1000% don't mean this in a moral judgement manner, or saying ppl aren't allowed to like evil characters, or saying that silly fandom stuff means people don't take analysis/real world parallels/whatever seriously

But honestly I have yet to experience as emotionally/mentally jarring of an effect as I did hearing about MTMTE Megatron so positively from the fandom (best Megatron ever! best character in IDW1! sad grandpa! compelling character arc! tragic villain!) only to actually read MTMTE myself and go "This guy is so fucking annoying, self-righteous, insufferable, and an asshole, what are you people talking about." ladjskfjsdalfk

Like I get that Megatron can't go from fresh off a heel-face turn to being an actual hero, and believe me I know that ppl in this continuity are almost all flawed/jerks in some way. But MTMTE Megatron was a special breed of annoying to me like. It wasn't just "he did bad things so I dislike him." In fact, the moments where Megatron regressed closer to being his old self (such as massacring the DJD during Dying of the Light) were the moments I liked him the most.

I don't really know how to describe it, bc it's not the idea of Megatron being redeemed that bothers me (I love redemption Megatron), and I'm not one of those ppl who postures about how I don't like him because his crimes are evil IRL (I literally like villain Megatron more than I like Autobot Megatron). There are characters who have done things that I found shitty/annoying but didn't have a significant reaction to besides going "omg what a jerk (chews popcorn faster eager to read more drama)". It's literally just Megatron where I have this feeling of being viscerally annoyed/pissed at every other thing he says salkfjsdkaf

[unopenablebox]

people around me online are always disclosing their kinks, like by writing fic about them or writing posts about them or reblogging the same photo of lee pace thirty times. but i can't do that. because my kink is embarrassing

[skrunksthatwunk]

idk if i've discussed it before (i have certainly THOUGHT about it) but someone on my kuwa suffering ep 89 comp mentioned it and i just had to go off about it like. ok. sensui tells yusuke something along the lines of "you heard itsuki" when itsuki's inside the uraotoko, implying that not only can sensui hear those inside the uraotoko, but that he expects yusuke to be able to as well. which means that yusuke Almost Certainly Heard And Kind Of Ignored kuwabara's prolonged mental breakdown and wailing about how much he needs yusuke to live etc. which. guHHH i hate him yusuke you ass but also listen.

the only acknowledgement yusuke gives to this (if any) is when he says something like "sensui you're sooo fucking cooked this plan's going perfectly (my friends are going to get strong and kill you when i die)." he's trash talking to sensui, ignoring the others because, i think, he doesn't want to acknowledge what he's doing to them.

yusuke is explicitly recreating the experience he had with kuwabara's "death" at the hands of toguro, complete with the announcement of intent (and power) to kill, the inability to impede the threat in any way (barring a power-breakthrough), and the target in some way racing towards/volunteering for their death. yusuke learns through doing, and through tough love-style approaches. it's only effective if it hurts. watching kuwabara die like that was devastating to yusuke, but it sure as hell fucking worked. he beat toguro because of that maneuver. so even if he has to (re-)traumatize his friends in the process, this method will make his friends stronger, and he feels confident in that. but he never had to live with the consequences of kuwabara's death, not really. that's something hiei makes clear before they enter the cave as well, that there are no fake-outs ready to make him or anyone else stronger. the only deaths here will be real. the only power gained will come at a high, permanent cost. hiei's warning is an attempt to keep everyone alive, to keep yusuke from being stupid. and then yusuke decides to take that fatality into his own hands, but it's kind of his friends who would pay the price. he's going to make them live through the days, months, years without him, the actual permanency of loss (assuming they survive for that long), something he never experienced with kuwabara (a new facet of that traumatic scenario), AND he's escaping the emotional fallout of this choice through death. he doesn't have to see them mourn, won't get yelled at, won't watch them fail to move on. he's tapping out and choosing to believe they'll be fine.

but i think he feels guilty. just a little. i mean, yusuke couldn't even believe that people cared about him enough to want him alive in episode one. he's staked everything on his friends, which means he still kind of... doesn't value his own life, at least not compared to theirs. but he believes his friends love him and want him around, and we know that because he has to, or else he wouldn't make a plan that depends entirely on that love. he is actively leveraging the care he doesn't think he deserves, trying to hurt them in a way he is intimately familiar with (only worse), for.... what, exactly?

this is kind of my sticking point tbh. i don't think the answer is... super clear, but let's start with what it's not.

yusuke is not doing this because it is the most practical way to save all of humanity; that would be the mafukan, which he stopped. it could be a gamble to save all of his friends? the mafukan strategy would guarantee koenma's death/eternal imprisonment, whereas this strategy gambles all of humanity on the chance that his friends come out of the Easy Break Oven strong enough to avert the end of the world. if the sacrifice of even one friend is completely intolerable, perhaps he'd accept those slim odds and their steep consequences. yusuke tends to take risks like that, especially when he's got fight-induced tunnel vision. he doesn't think things through too much; his schemes are usually dependent on surprising his enemy enough to oneshot them. truthfully, i think this is the closest we'll get to an answer, and it's a more conventional one for this kind of story. but there is another layer i haven't been able to get from my mind.

i think yusuke is gifting each of his friends an honorable warrior's death.

so, in case it needs saying, yusuke, kuwabara, kurama, and hiei all (at least once, if not several times) exhibit a desire to die in combat in a way they deem noble to give their lives purpose (usually by self-sacrifice, but sometimes by another metric of honor, like hiei's duel with shigure and his desire to die in mutual defeat against an evenly matched opponent; or even kurama's decision to fight shigure in his human form, displaying a sort of passive suicidality via placing being true to himself in this (somewhat symbolic/inconsequential) way over survival). they need to make their lives count for something, because they feel guilty for being alive (kurama and hiei feel guilty for their past actions (hiei's is most evident in his distance from yukina, though that's not its primary reason), hiei, kuwabara, and yusuke have all been ostracized and made to feel like burdens on/unwanted by their caregivers and general society; all four of them have felt profound isolation even from their loved ones (yusuke and hiei are rather obvious; kurama can never tell his mother about the majority of his life nor what she truly means to him in the context of it; and kuwabara is separated from his peers for his spiritual awareness and his "stupidity" (plus his parents aren't around? and he is Desperate to define manhood/manliness through a broader pop cultural one which includes the warrior sacrifice thing bc he has no male role models BUT that's for another post) (i will admit kuwa's the most tenuous one here irt isolation)). they want to die for a cause so badly it's actually physically painful to me. it is passive suicidality, and they define their lives and identities by their relation to, engagement with, and skill at doing violence, etc. they live to die by the sword. anyway. nobody talks about it but i think it's very important to understanding what yusuke's doing here.

because i think he knows that about himself and his friends. they're kindred spirits. at the very least he knows this about kuwabara, who literally made a speech about this before diving into toguro's fingers In The Event That He Is Recreating Explicitly. he is dying nobly like they all want to on the chance that they'll get to break out and fight sensui rather than dying without even getting to take a swing. it's about his pride and theirs. but i don't think yusuke necessarily believes they'll win. he knows better than anyone how strong sensui is, and how wide the gap is between sensui and team urameshi. his stated position that humanity is doomed and that he doesn't care about its fate is, i think, not completely genuine, but if we take it at face value, he's not killing himself so that his friends can survive the end of the world. something's going to come around and kill them eventually. he's doing it so they can survive long enough to fight sensui. he needs them (specifically kuwabara) to be strong enough to free themselves to begin round two. but he's given up on their side winning, on humanity surviving, on his own victory---why should he think his friends are capable of winning? this could be another case of yusuke's fight-blinders. it could be another gamble, more blind faith put in his friends. but honestly it reads more to me that yusuke's giving them a chance to die together on the battlefield. them winning would be great, but it's not his goal. it's a pipe dream.

he knows he's going to be killed. they're probably going to be killed, too. but to make it so they last a little longer against sensui, to make the odds a little more even, so they are killed not like livestock, but like worthy fighters, he'd die a little faster. it's the best kind of death someone like them can have; and he'll deprive himself of it just to make their ends a little sweeter. even if the road to that is far more bitter.

but it's not like yusuke's friends know what he's thinking or agree to it, and he can't exactly make his case for it in the moment. he's making that choice for them. whatever his intentions, whatever odds he thinks they have of beating sensui, he's kind of sealing all of their fates. so how the hell is he supposed to acknowledge kuwabara screaming at him not to die, trying desperately to express what yusuke means to him in what could be their final moments together? this plan is going to hurt his friends terribly. it is already doing so, and he can hear it. his choices to stop koenma from using the mafukan and to die for his friends' strength are both selfish in some way, no matter how you read the scene. if yusuke comforts kuwabara, he might not get strong enough. if he twists the knife, well... how could he forgive himself? and either way by responding he would have to face them all and say yes, i'm doing this regardless of your feelings (with the intention of hurting you). so i think he does what he often does. he avoids it. he lets that emotion glance off him and his bravado and his one-liners so he doesn't have to deal with the fact that he's hurting people, that he's scared and guilty and unsure of himself. that he's about to die again, about to put kuwabara through the grief he saw at his wake again, only worse; about to put his quieter friends through something similar.

yusuke is confronted with the responsibility one has to the people who care for them, and he runs from it in an attempt to give them some small peace. just like when he died before and thought hey, at least my mom and keiko won't be burdened by me anymore. because the only thing he can really do for them is die.

[selfinflictedgunshotwound]

men are so disappointing in so many ways i know i shouldn't expect most of them to be dignified humans but it's crazy. i need to get over this guy he's making my sense of self crumble even faster than it usually does. like he's just so unlike my usual type and i'm pretty convinced he's stupid and slutty and not discerning whatsoever. not to mention boring like i know even if i did have a chance with him he wouldn't Get Me at all so it's a bigger waste of time that usual and i'm actually pretty tired of men in general and definitely tired of parasocial relationships because they drive me insane for months typically. thankfully it's only been like 2 weeks if that at this point. idk. sigh. i know literally virtually nothing abt him as a person and ofc liking any public figure who you know nothing about is only setting yourself for heartbreak and disappointment to begin with bc you already know nothing is gonna come from it but. in a way it's almost addictive to become obsessed with someone and not be looked at with the same level of scrutiny. i don't think anyone in real life would ever try to get to know me as much as i try to get to know people who i'll never even meet. lmao! but that's the thing... idk... i have a lot of love in my heart and it consumes me and i reject my pride usually when i'm into someone. i want to know more... like VORACIOUSLY consuming anything with information about them involved simply because i think knowing someone is a very deep form of love but of course you can never truly know anyone. not completely. and that scares me i think which is why it's always probably been easier for me to never really TRY to be with anyone or have anything real. idk. this turned into me psychoanalyzing myself real quick but SOMEONE needs to bc i need to understand what the fuck is wrong w me.

[thefrogdalorian]

Sometimes I find myself thinking about Din Djarin a little too much that I get concerned and think that I really should go to therapy...

Well, I'm finally doing that (again) tomorrow... :)

Feeling pretty nervous about it but hoping that because I now know I'm autistic it will help me understand/explain things a little better! Hopefully this is the start of a journey to finally become a healthier, happier version of myself :)

[mcalhenwrites]

Still alive, writing and editing a lot and even drawing (mostly dragon sketches at work). Seasons has some new chapters now... I saw something earlier about writing being something you can hone by doing lots of reading and writing. I wonder when that will apply to me. I've read a lot of books this year. I have almost hit my goal of 90 books, and while a couple are nonfiction and half are comics, the rest are novels. I expect that to increase again, now that I'm going back to the library. (I stopped with the bed bug scare.) Then I'm setting aside time each week to write. I work on stories at work, even if it's mostly just planning. (My laptop is falling apart so I just gave up taking it to work.) Yet here I am, still the same idiot who doesn't have anything appealing enough for most people to read. I can't get 99% of my followers interested. Sales of Geckos have dropped to next-to-nothing. Nothing else I put out there matters either. The fault lies with me. I'm not good enough. After having this stupid blog for 12 years, I want to delete it. I want to delete my twitter account. I want to delete every single account and shut up for good. There is nothing I can offer. My writing is a good hobby for me. I can get pats on the head for doing a little thing for myself. Aww, look at the cute little dumbass adult doing wittle storwies!!! Isn't that silly!!! They're not good, but he's having fun during the process. Too bad he hasn't figured out that not even 39 more years of practice can save what he's handing out.

[talentforlying]

one of these days i'm going to write up all that i've changed from azzarello's bullshit era and the one (1) piece i've kept from milligan (and also changed) and the only thing currently stopping me is that it is going to be so, so inside-baseball incomprehensible. and i almost never want to go reading/screencapping azzarello and milligan to add references but i Want to add references.

canon is goop, just know that we continue to ride the bus down "hellblazer ended at #250 and looks like swiss cheese before that" street.

[soraeia]

.

[moe-broey]

Guy who doesn't know anything and never learns voice: "Yeah I can work on this smaller project to take a break from my bigger projects. Surely it won't become Another Big Project."