#wolverine ff

[werdlewrites]

ł ฿Ɇ₵Ø₥Ɇ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ - ₱₳Ɽ₮ ₮₩Ø

masterlist - ao3 - twitter @ djomamma

summary: “Don't you got someone waitin’ for you?” The question leaves an odd taste on his tongue. It's bitter and foul–nothing sweet like her. He's almost begging for her to run out the door and into her lover's arms, just to save him the trouble and give his mind some rest in the night instead of wondering. warnings: alcohol, smoking, anaphylaxis, talks about grief and death wc: 3,671

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Life changes once darkness takes hold. The unstoppable force–the devil just over your shoulder wherever you go. No matter how far you run to hide from it. A reminder of what you've lost and what you'll continue to lose. Even if it's yourself. No matter if the loss digs so deeply that you'll never be whole again–or if you're staring down the clock of your own mortality. Nothing is as it was before Death.

She wonders where she would be now without it. Would she still be inside that little cabin on the hill? Nails coated with dirt and a heart never knowing someone else's love–other than her mother. Would she have known any differently if her mother hadn't become ill? The life that radiated and boomed within such a busy city. The windchimes, once a lullaby, are now replaced by the sounds of sirens. It’s frighteningly loud compared to the quiet of a far-off field. She makes peace with it for the sake of simple company. For the sake of a single voice to fill her space, rather than the emptiness her mother leaves behind.

Would she ever gain the guidance needed to survive what her eyes witnessed? The lingering souls of long-departed strangers as they roamed the earth. Unfinished business leaves them trapped until closure sets in or locked in repeated loops of time with an unsettled heart. Death stands at the girl's side, easing the pain of witnessing so much loss among the living. Unseen by all except for her.

Would she have gained a friend? A girl roughly her age giving up on the idea of finding another soul to share her space. Hoping to lessen the grief of money until Dawn shows up on her doorstep. “What?” She practically spits once the cigarette is pulled from between her painted lips. Dawn is so nervous that she forgets to speak. The paper crumbles in her fingers as she fights for the right words. 

“If you’re sellin’, I��m not buyin’.” Another long drag is taken, held tight in her lungs as she waves down the street to another building. “Don’t ask them. They’ll rob you blind. Buncha hagglers.” She warns. And within seconds, the door begins to shut in Dawn's face.

“Wait!” She cries out–a sudden rush of bravery that leaves the stranger stalled on the other side of the door. “Y-you’re looking for a roommate?”

The woman she would come to know as Charlotte narrows her eyes. “I-I was. How’d you know about that?”

Without hesitation, she offers up the newspaper clipping. An ad was put out for the public in case they were looking for a place to call home. All she ever found were perverts or untrusting women, ready to take all she had of value–which wasn’t much. Charlotte takes the tiny paper, and a smirk is seen on her face as she reads over the damaged print. “This is from months ago. How’d you-?”

“I found a newspaper in the trash,” Dawn states without thought. Thinking nothing of the action or the stares she received while elbow-deep in the bin.

Charlotte invites her in for coffee that day, and Dawn never leaves. They laugh through the brief interview, and it's an easy choice to welcome the girl under her roof. It had been years since she first stepped into that empty bedroom–now decorated with what a low salary could afford. 

Would she have ever met him?

The man with dark hair and a brooding atmosphere around him. An unseen barrier to keep all at bay–including the women who longed for company. They come and they go, and he seems mostly uninterested with his mind elsewhere. His replies are dull and douse the flames of any hope, leaving him by his lonesome at the bar each night. She sees him–but she's unsure if he sees her. Just a stranger too busy drowning his demons so he could survive another day–another second. 

She's lost track of how often he appears. Some nights he's long gone from her infrequent visits. Other times, he is miraculously there each night she makes her way through the front doors. Dawn's lived here for years now–her name comes easily to the bartenders as they smile and welcome her. A drink was already prepped and slid in her direction as she sat at the bar. Following the pattern they’ve built over time. 

“Happy birthday, kid.” Barry greets. His gentle smile was hidden away beneath a thick and aged mustache. His beard was untamed through the long and stressful hours of a rush, his fingers pulling anxiously. “It’s on the house.”

She gawks–jaw slacked with the quirk of a smile. “Really?”

The older man shrugs as he grabs a freshly cleaned glass, cloth wiping along the damp edges. “Call it a birthday gift.”

Dawn smiles and says her thanks, tipping the glass in his direction before he moves on with his shift. Some nights he stays to chat–barking orders in between the kindness he gives her. But with the business only half decorated for the holiday and the flow of traffic neverending, he’s needed elsewhere. She’s simply left to enjoy the comedown of a hectic day, oblivious to the early drunks and rambunctious conversations at her back as they challenge friends and strangers over card games and darts. Peace once looked like a quiet night by the fire–but as the years passed, she favored the noise.

It kept her mind busy.

“Celebratin’ alone?”

She doesn’t anticipate his voice–let alone to be looking in her direction, lips just hardly touching the glass filled with whiskey. Her face is warm–damn near scalding from his attention. For a moment she considers if he was speaking to another, but dark eyes peer just above the tilted glass, studying the lonesome woman with all intentions buried and impossible to read. Maybe the man had finally grown tired of the silence he was drowning in.

“N-no. I’m–well, it’s technically tomorrow.” She averts her gaze. The intimidation of his presence is dizzying, and she forces herself to focus on the chill of the glass in her hand, twirling it back and forth. “This is my ‘I’m stressed’ drink.” She ends with a laugh, risking a glance his way to see a lazy, crooked grin. 

He huffs out a laugh before the glass connects with his lips. The amber drink vanishes in one gulp. His tongue smacks against the roof of his mouth, sighing in questionable relief or bliss of the burn. “I’m familiar with those.” The empty glass sits small in his hand–extended outward in a silent plea for another round. Barry no longer hesitates in filling it, having spent many nights watching him stroll out into the night without swaying or stumbling. “I have a high tolerance,” he would claim, and prove it each time.

He speaks again, but his voice is lost in the excitement surrounding them. She’s not even entirely sure it was him, but the glass lowers with haste and spares a look his way, only to find him still locked on her. “D’you say something?”

His brow quirks in amusement. “I asked what had you so worked up.”

Hot air blows past her lips. The girl's mind scattered and raced as she relived her last few hours of work–and if she should confess it all to a total stranger. She was teaching class–boys and girls at their designated stations with bowls and ingredients, mixing and crushing. Combining everything into something delectable–something they could be proud of and eventually make on their own. 

A young girl takes a bite of her small cheesecake, immediately overwhelmed by the flavor and praise from her teacher, Dawn. But as the seconds tick on, her skin begins to flush. She complains about an odd itch on her tongue, and before anything else is said, Dawn takes the girl by the hand to whisk her down the hall to the nurse's office. The young girl is treated and her parents are called, while the teacher paces back and forth with a flickering focus as she searches for Death to show its face.

“Not this one,” she whispers on repeat. 

Maybe Death had heard her plea and chose grace–or maybe Fate had sewn together a long thread for the child. Expanding out into the universe until she grows old and weak. The girl is given epinephrine and carted to the hospital for overnight observation, but holds great promise for simply walking out by morning as if nothing happened. Despite her recovery, Dawn feels burdened by the guilt, all because of a Goddamn unlisted egg allergy.

“I failed,” is all that escapes her. The tone now shifted from something so lighthearted to something aching and painful. She feels the fist of disappointment clench around her heart, squeezing until it nearly ruptures. It brings a fresh wave of tears to just barely reach the surface before being wiped away. She’s already shed her sorrows once class had finished and on the drive home. It left her second-guessing if all she had worked for–all the trust she had earned–was for nothing. 

The stranger doesn’t seem to notice her sadness in the moment. By the time she looks back his way, he seems equally lost to wandering thoughts. Moving through his own journey that led him to where he was now. Demons were not left behind but instead clawed up his back to force a memory he wanted to forget. “Been there before.”

Dawn knows she should leave it. She should take this moment as a victory. The lone wolf finally peered outside of the shadows and into the light, and to simply leave it be. Corner an animal or push it beyond its breaking point, and you’ll only find the end of its claws dug through your skin and its teeth clamped around your throat. But she sees an opening–one that he’s carved out for her, and she takes the bait, entranced by the mysterious man who’s finally spoken more than six words.

“What about you?” She questions.

“What about me?” His tone is difficult to read–his expression even harder as his gaze lowers to hide in the shadows. 

She shrugs. A look of pure confusion and curiosity is written across her face as she leans in a little closer, folded arms stretched out across the space next to her. “What’s got you so worked up? Out here, drinkin’ by yourself?”

He meets her gaze again, though it’s faulty. Attention flickering between her and the cigar he pulls from a leather case just next to him on the counter. He lights it effortlessly–the flick of the lighter happening so fast, she barely notices until smoke is spilling from parted lips. “Who said I’m alone?”

Dawn reacts without thought–quick in response as she pulls back, swiveling in the stool to fully survey the busy bar and the idiots that cheered over their silly games. Her lips purse and her nose crinkles in dissatisfaction. Beer spills down their flannels and into their mud-covered jeans, eyes filled with the madness of intoxication. “Which one’s yours? I gotta be honest; you seem like a guy with better taste.”

It’s all fun and games–and he catches on quick. By the time she glances back his way, he’s smirking again but says nothing in return. “I mean, no offense.”

He snorts–a refreshing sound, and the sight of his laugh lines gives a certain spark of warmth in her chest. The tall walls he built were breaking down before her very eyes, crumbling to dust in the space between them. “I'm just tryin’ t'find my way.”

There’s an eruption of noise off in the distance. Broken glass scattered along the ground as two men meet with faces red and veins protruding from scarred skin. Some unheard arguments between the pair finally come to a head. But before they can exchange blows, security stands between them and escorts them out with fists locked around their shirt collars. He nearly dusts his hands of the problem once they are gone from his sight.

“You’re sure one of them isn’t yours?” She questions. His toothy grin is vibrant as he takes another long drag of the cigar. Maybe it’s stupid–maybe she’ll live to regret it, but she closes the distance between them; both now sat just at the corner of the bar. “I’m Dawn,” she greets with a timid smile. Half expecting him to slap money on the counter and bid herself and Barry a goodnight. No more pleasantries and forced conversations as the wolf retreats into the night.

To her surprise, he stays, though seems uncertain. She can see the flex of his fingers as they briefly tighten around the glass and the curious raise of his brow. A silent conversation brewing within himself. He releases his drink all too quickly, reaching far down to his right for an abandoned bowl of pretzels, sliding it between their places. “Logan.”

They laugh and drink together. Sharing stories–or rather, she seemed to be sharing stories. Dawn would ask a question to better understand this man named by her side, and he seemed to have some gift of twisting it around to know her instead. He learned she was a teacher, and she managed to squeeze out that he was a freelancer. Anything to make a buck while he looks for a safe place to land. 

“I'm working construction right now,” he confesses in a cloud of smoke, dark eyes on her as she downs the last remnants of her drink. Maybe his gaze lingered a little too long as the tequila and orange juice dripped down her chin. The lick of her lips and the quick swipe of fingers along her skin.

“D'you like it?”

Logan is suddenly embarrassed–ashamed? Caught like a child, red-handed as he studies every delicate feature. The shape of her cupid's bow and the slight indentations of dimples, growing deeper whenever she smiled. He shakes himself out of the daze, leaning forward on folded arms. “The construction? Or working for hire?”

She hums in debate. Her body visibly tilting back and forth in thought before answering, “Both.”

Another stale pretzel, and he answers with a shrug. “It’s good for now. There’s no shortage of busy work, so I don’t think I’ll get bored too soon.” His eyes are wandering at the sudden realization the crowd has somewhat changed, replaced by a more rowdy group–and she doesn’t seem to notice.

But he does, and maybe it's stupid to worry about a girl who's lived here for far longer than him–but he still tries to make her aware of the passing time. “Don't you got someone waitin’ for you?” The question leaves an odd taste on his tongue. It's bitter and foul–nothing sweet like her. He's almost begging for her to run out the door and into her lover's arms, just to save him the trouble and give his mind some rest in the night instead of wondering.

But her face twists up in disgust, laughing almost too loudly, and Logan feels himself deflating from relief in the stool. “No,” she scoffs–but the realization tastes unfavorable for her, too. Thinking back to just how long it’s been since she’s even held someone's hand. “No, I–there's no one. Just my roommate, but she works late.”

“Roomies, huh?”

“Yeah, why? Lookin’ for a place t’crash?”

He smirks against the glass, mumbling a “no” in reply as he envisions nothing but trouble and awkward conversations. Even questionable looks and rumors between neighbors as he moves beyond the threshold.

The girl doesn’t take the rejection to heart, still wearing a kind smile that is quickly pried apart by a sudden yawn. It’s embarrassing, and she knows she’s been caught with her hand raised to conceal it. His brow is raised–amused as he taps the ash away into the nearby tray. “Didn’t mean t’bore you, sweetheart.”

Dawn’s eyes widen at the sudden nickname, her heart pounding as the name sinks in like an anchor in her unsteady waters. Some form of stability as the winds carry waves high into the clouds. Her face is flush, and her fingers are tight around her forearm to remain focused. Nearly getting lost in all of the excitement. “I’m not bored.” She defends. “You try waking up at 6 AM t’take care of kids all day.”

He eyes her carefully, thinking of that certain sparkle of pride seen in her eye when she mentioned working at a school. There was clear passion in it–a love that couldn’t be described. Yet, there’s a twist of frustration in her tone. “Thought you liked it?”

“I do! It–it’s just-”

The young girl’s look of fear fills her vision. Splotchy red skin spreads like a virus as her lips swell up in seconds. If she had waited any longer, her throat would have tightened, and that color would transition to purple and blue as she gasped for air on the floor, in Dawn’s arms. It would have been her fault.

Her fault.

Death meets her when the school bell rings. They stand out in the cleared hallways with the face of someone unknown. A woman–though all Dawn can see is the flickering creature using her as a puppet to make nice with any strangers to pass by. It’s a frightening sight at first. Dawn takes a step back with a hand clutched to her chest, her other arm guarding the door. A protective instinct, despite the room now being empty. 

“Jesus Christ,” she gasps, and with a subtle smile from the well-dressed woman, her shoulders relax, and she pulls at her bag a little tighter. “You couldn't have knocked, or something? Any warning at all.” Dawn moves without hesitation, knowing the space just at her side would fill with the Being that always crept in her shadow. 

“ɎØɄ'ⱤɆ ₦Ø₮ ₩ɆⱠⱠ.” It states in her mimicked voice. Eyes warm and welcoming–a complete contrast to the void of brilliance. The enchanting halo of light you follow into the afterlife. “ł₴ ł₮ ฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₲łⱤⱠ?”

Dawn nearly laughs–just nearly. Her lip twisted up into a scowl with a huff passing through anxiously bitten lips. “I thought you were going t’take her.”

“฿Ʉ₮ ł ĐłĐ₦'₮.” Death states plainly, reaching for the girl's elbow to halt their barely begun journey toward the exit. Their expression is unchanged at the sight of glistening eyes–reliving the fear and what could have been and what eventually will be. “ł₴ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₦Ø₮ Ɇ₦ØɄ₲Ⱨ?”

It was never enough. 

Dawn had put her trust in this Creature–her guidance through the horrors she had been forced to witness at such a young age. A mentor as she bends the darkness she once could not control. Taking a lost girl in a big world and giving her a purpose as the right hand of Death–a master of the undead.

But trust couldn't douse the fear of love and loss. To grow with someone and learn every flaw and gift, only to watch their soul stripped by the very thing that took such a fragile girl beneath its wing, and it was unstoppable. There was no malice or guilt–Death simply acted on what it was made to do. Granting peace to those suffering.

She sees this man as another heartache–whether by his hand or not. Another loss among the friends she gained she would have to tread through if Death didn't take her first. “It can just be tiring.” She continues with a weak smile. “Everyone has a limit, right?”

The man takes another hit, his focus unwavering and all too intimidating. “S'pose they do.”

“And right now…my limit is one Tequila Sunrise. Charlotte is going t'be a force t’be reckoned with by morning.” Regrettably, she’s easing herself away. Stepping down from the stool, though, in his direction to give him a final opportunity to stop her. Yet he doesn’t.

“Your roommate? Not even going t'let you sleep in on your birthday?”

She takes her time. Sliding her coat on with care, just to spare another second before reaching for her heavy book bag, filled to the brim with notes for class and little projects she’s constructed for the children. “It's Halloween. There's lots t'do.” 

Dawn begins to teeter in place–chewing at her lip as the reluctance to leave builds. It’s stupid to be so worried; she may never see him again. He’s still only a stranger and intends to keep it that way by how much he keeps to himself. Yet it doesn’t keep her from grabbing at a napkin and an abandoned pen for tipping and scribles down the address for him. “We’re having a party.” 

The paper is slid in his direction. Brown eyes follow its movements until it’s trapped beneath a single finger, pulling it in closer for inspection. He says nothing, but the smirk around the cigar is telling, along with the raise of a brow. He’s interested–or amused at least that she would be so bold. The napkin is folded up and tucked away into his pocket.

“Please don’t be a serial killer.” Dawn teases. Her knees are weak, legs reluctantly pulling away from the mysterious man who refuses to break eye contact with her. Maybe just to get one last look–not knowing if he'll see her again, despite the invite. “Goodnight, Mr. Logan.”

Finally, he breaks. Head dipped low just to hide a childlike grin as he spares a small wave in return. His fingers hardly lifted from the countertop, keeping it casual regardless of wishing she would change her mind and stay. But is that truly what he wanted? Needed? Another girl to confuse and break on his path of self-discovery, forgetting her name the moment he’s gone from the shared bed by morning.

Her name seems to stick like candy. Sweet with something sour–something to leave him wanting another taste, mouth-watering. Goosebumps of desire race along too-hot-to-touch skin as he speaks it again–just once more. “Happy Birthday, Ms. Dawn.

That was how it all began, but far from where it ended.

[thenon-binaryone]

we had one good day as Marvel fans

[bebx]

[coffeeandjuice]

Multi shippers (me) have been going crazy since deadpool and wolverine came out

[watmalik]

Hugh is such a dad omg this is so fucking cute. Protect this man at all costs

[desperatelyneedcoffee]

I've already mentioned the Batfam being furries and now I'm thinking about Logan being one. Like in my last post I said that Wade would probably get Logan to dress up as Bunnymund from Rise of the Guardians for Halloween.

Now I'm thinking about Logan having a few fursonas. I've only really seen people have 1 or 2 but I think 4 would be so cool. One of them has to be a wolverine for obvious reasons. A second would probably be a dog/wolf or a mixed one with a dog/wolf as part of it. Another should be a cat or mixed with a cat. And then the last one should be a bunny.

I feel like Logan would take inspiration from Bunnymund's markings, the fur colour might be different though. Probably a white colour with dark brown/black patches. If not that then probably a light brown, almost ginger colour. Maybe some white on the chest area and a little white patch right next to the nose. Also white tootsies and fingies and gorgeous black eyeliner. The eyes would be a golden/honey colour. Should the ears be upright or floppy? Or should they be made so you can do both? Idk.

Light colours might be a bad choice considering all the blood that would be in that apartment but it only adds to the character. As long as the fur is taken care of, it should be fine. Maybe.

Idk, I just like the idea of Logan looking less angry and intimidating. The blood would probably make it worse though. Oh well.

[changethecircumstances]

I figured Johnny would get axed in some way. It's Deadpool and Wolverine not Deadpool, Wolverine, and the Human Torch lol, but now I desperately need a fanfic of the three of them interacting for longer

[malavera]

quick let’s look up bub, and see what pops up, a derogatory term, right?? you can’t just change the definition of something💀💀

how many times do i have to explain myself that as i am using the word “Bub” i didn’t mean it in a derogatory term? 🙄 its short from BUBU.

but since you’re so eager for WRITERS to get their dictionaries straight, here i’ll provide “the proof” that you’ve got a point there:

if audience wants to receive the meaning as derogatory because some has those kinks or wants to receive it as something fluff, LET THE IMAGINATION TAKES PLACE.

If your intention here is to spread the word out there, there you go, i helped you out. 🤍

[werdlewrites]

ł ฿Ɇ₵Ø₥Ɇ ĐɆ₳₮Ⱨ

A Logan x OC preview

summary: N/A warnings: MENTIONS OF DEATH & NEAR DEATH. Gotta live up to the title. Logan isn't even in this part but will be later. wc: N/A

He uses caution as he takes a seat just by her side, fingers slipping their way to entangle with her own, and she’s too weak to stop him. “You wear his face, but you’re-you’re not him,” she says in a whisper, lip trembling as she drinks in the sight of a man she loved and lost. “I know you.” The woman spits in a bitter tone, her jaw tight and teeth clenched.

The smile once etched into mimicked features fades, falling to a flat line with eyes staring straight through her soul. Her heart breaks all over again, right before Death. Aching and yearning for the warm touch of her companion. Hollow and desperate for the joy this child would give. The only piece of him that remained.

“Show your face.” 

The Being provides what is demanded without hesitation. Skin and fabric peeled away like old paint to dissipate in the crisp air of autumn. Heavenly strands of gold break away like shards of glass to never meet the ground. Blackened smoke spills out from every crack, enveloping Death and expanding until it towers above her, nearly reaching the angular ceiling of a lonely home. The space suddenly seems much smaller.

There are no defined features left of The Entity, only a shadowy figure buried beneath the haze with piercing eyes in the abyss of nothingness. The body, if it could be described as such, was littered with hundreds of thousands of stars. They flicker in and out–some bigger than others. Some brighter or a different hue. Some say it’s every soul collected in a single night–perhaps only within a few hours, maybe even one. It’s immeasurable. And when you stare into the eyes of Death, it’s the last thing you consider.

The shock of its truth momentarily numbs the pain in her body–or is it the Creature itself that steals away her agony? She finds herself no longer tense from labor but broken at the mere thought of her baby being stolen from her womb. Fresh tears fill tired eyes, pleading once more for her child’s life with hands raised protectively over her abdomen. “She’s all I have left.”

A hand much larger than her own lays across to nearly engulf her entire belly, thumb soothing along the marked skin. Nothing is said between the two. The mother is left in the torment of the unknown, while The Being has already worked its way inside to greet a sleeping baby–unaware of the danger. Her life blossoms within Death’s eye. A child growing into a woman unlike any other gifted soul stolen from this world and moved to the next. A child already born of darkness–burdened by The Sight.

It’s unknown how it all came to be that night. Maybe Death had grown tired. Or was it perhaps some twisted connection? Tangled threads of the universe. The mother doesn’t ask why, or how, and Death would never tell. But, by the morning of October 31st, Dawn Rosalin Kennedy takes her first breath–her first wailing cry–before falling asleep against her mother's chest. She’s finally safe and remains protected throughout her years.

She grows–just as They envisioned. Picturesque with pudgy cheeks and a dimpled smile as small fingers pluck wildflowers. Her mother tends to the garden just nearby, trusting in the universe that her only child is safe from any harm that may lurk beyond the treeline. And that trust does not go misplaced. The Creature has shown itself on more than one occasion. Sitting at the small dinner table in total silence unless spoken to–watching as the two girls eat a homemade meal.

Every visit They come bearing a new mask, and the girl sees right through it. An unknown man standing before her in the same field where her father died. A stoic expression set alight in the summer’s glow as The Entity studied the child. Her doe eyes are on Him–quizzical and bewildered until their true form is seen tall above the husk. The shadow of a monster–a God.

Her smile is full of innocence and love. Entirely unafraid of this otherworldly Creature and the heartache it brings. Dawn Rosalin can only see the beauty within it as stars burn brightly in the darkness. The girl offers out a dandelion in kindness, and Death instructs the body it wears to take it with grace, kneeling to her level with a gentle look in adoring eyes.

[fritzmonorail]

I don't like this ship

It feels really gross and uncomfortable and I keep running into it on AO3.

[bebx]

major Deadpool 3 spoilers!!!!

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there’s just no way that that was the last time we saw Chris Evans as Johnny Storm. I know he’s “dead”, but this is Marvel we’re talking about, especially with the whole Multiverse thing (Wolverine was also dead). but actually… I think he may not even be the same Johnny from the 2005 & 2007 Fantastic Four movies; the suit was different (which I know probably meant nothing) and he was in the void, didn’t that imply he was a variant and therefore he was sent there?

anyway, no, I don’t think that that was the last time we saw Chris as the Human Torch, especially when they’re building the whole multiverse concept up for Secret Wars.

yes, his cameo may appear as a comedic shit and giggles. but I genuinely think that it was actually Marvel’s way of indirectly telling fans he will be back. maybe not this exact variant(?), but there are thousands of Johnny Storm variants and there’s definitely at least one of them with Chris Evans’s face that is alive and waiting for an actual return with his team.

“but Chris’s version is dead” as I said, we don’t even know if it’s the same Johnny from the 2005 & 2007 movies. (there’re at least 2 Loki variants that is Tom Hiddleston; the main timeline Loki and President Loki). or even if that was the same one from the 2005 & 2007 movies then that still doesn’t mean Marvel will let him stay dead, especially when there’re literally endless ways Marvel can bring him back because they know that’s what fans want.

seeing Chris Evans and the rest of the 2005 & 2007 Fantastic Four cast reprise their roles in the upcoming MCU projects (looking at Secret Wars) is something I believe can and will happen.

now imagine Chris Evans’s Johnny Storm meet and interact with Steve Rogers and confuse the hell out of everyone, including each other. imagine experiencing that in cinema 🥹

[traumatizedbymay2016]

I think the real thing that upsets me, as someone who fell in love with the Avengers and the X-Men before I even realized it was an option for them to exist in the same place at the same time, is that "Two superhero groups that hate each other because of a history of writers contriving conflicts between them in the hope of Being Deep and/or creating drama" is way less fun that "Two superhero groups that do nearly the same thing but actually have two very specific specializations and have to balance working with each other in something between 'professional esteem' and 'disdainful rivalry'," which is one of the funniest ideas on the freaking planet.

Like, yes, it's frustrating that it creates a fandom space where liking one group implies disliking the other group. It's frustrating that it results in my favorite characters being mischaracterized over and over again to force a conflict. But it's even worse that we could still be having dorky super hero banter between two teams instead of just one and we keep getting robbed of that in favor of threatening the X-Men's existence.

What I'm trying to say is that Wolverine being an Avenger should be a scandal because Scott is offended and shocked that the Avengers think Logan would be more useful in a world-ending conflict than he is, not because one of the Avengers said that mutants don't deserve rights and another one of the Avengers is heading up a government initiative that forcibly discloses the identities of people with superpowers to the world.

[xmencovered]

Wolverine (1988) #8 / Published: 1988 / Artist: John Buscema

[un-pearable]

So glad to wake up & see a liveblog of a spidey & his amazing friends episode but more specifically the xmen one. 2 staples of my childhood

so glad i could deliver <3

[sbd-laytall]