#wolverine ff

[rulettebitch]

Masterlist

here is my masterlist darlings ( ˘ ³˘)

pink means smut!

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Robbie Turner

Uncharted Territory

Georgia Clark was changing bandages, gulping at the look of the rushed stitches between his chest. He was asleep, his face was twitching before waking up. His breath hitched, his cold blue eyes searched for something, or someone. One look was enough to tell how harsh war had treated him. TW! angst, hurt/confort, cecilia is dead, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex.

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │ Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Charles Xavier

The night you kissed me

Elora Cuana was born with a gift. She was, what someone would call, a mutant. No one had really noticed her gift, even if it was hard to keep a secret. People would say she had been blessed with beauty, and nothing more. From every side, every angle, she was ravishing to no avail. Her mutancy had been easy to deal with, not even she had noticed the oddness of her angelic features. There was no death count to her power, because she seemed to have no power. Until recently, only one man had neglected her advances. Charles Xavier could not reach her mind, and she could not reach his pants, or can she? TW! tease, m!masturbation, f!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.

A part of us

Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds. But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two? Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6 │Chap 7 │ Chap 8│ Chap 9 │Chap 10 │Chap 11 │Chap 12 │Chap 13 │Chap 14 │Chap 15 │Chap 16 │Chap 17 │Chap 18 │Chap 19 │Chap 20 │Chap 21 │Charles' Ending │ Logan's Ending

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Brian Jackson

Sore Loser

The bottle stopped spinning. You grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met. Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy? TW! tease, first time, m!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Bruce Robertson

Bite me

Bruce Robertson does not give a shit about the weather. In fact, he thinks he’s better. Amanda Drummond has drunk a little bit too much. TW! dubious consent, mention of drugs, angst, in public, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex, asphyxiation.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Tom Lefroy

Out of touch

Tom Lefroy enters a brothel expecting indulgence, but instead finds himself utterly schooled. With sharp wit and a stolen kiss, you leave the arrogant charmer breathless, his confidence shaken, and his education—unexpectedly—expanded. TW! prostitution, in public, making out, mention of f!oral.

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5

[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

Previous - Next

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

[wassupguysss]

literally me when when I'm reading a x reader fic but the reader already has a name(THAT IS NOT MY NAME)

Like,it's not a x reader fic anymore

(Edit:Y'ALL CAN STOP LIKING NOW~23rd February 2025~)

[watmalik]

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

[brainstirfry]

there is so little in the world that brings Wade as much joy as a cozy Logan does. He's just so damn cute, when it's cold in the winter and they bust out that fuzzy-on-the-one-side, fleecy on the other blanket, and for fuck's sake The Fucking Wolverine curls up with everything below his nose and the tips of his ears under it to keep a warm sanctuary for him. He gets comfortable like he's building a goddamn fortress, Wade's seen it. He sets a pillow for neck support and a drink of water before he settles in, like a dog circling a few times before laying down- he makes sure it's just right before he plops down on the couch or the loveseat or the bed and tucks everything in under the blanket and folds the edges under his feet and sides and everything. Wade will do it for him, honest-to-god tucks him in, plants a little kiss on Logan's brow (furrowed in flustered frustration) in exchange for his help.

[wolverinecore]

I wish ppl who clog up the comment section on sabrevine posts with "INCEST?!!?1!1!" "THEYRE BROTHERS??!?1!1!1!" A very kill urself

[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.

[rulettebitch]

A part of us

Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds. But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two? (This is Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine fanfic, with multiple endings)

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ ...

Chapter 01

The day at the X-Mansion had begun like any other—uneventful, heavy, and tinged with regret. Charles Xavier had woken up multiple times during the night, each time pushing back the inevitable moment when he’d have to rise from his bed. His head throbbed, a relentless drumming in his ears that served as a bitter reminder of the two—or was it three? Maybe five—drinks he’d downed before finally collapsing into a fitful sleep. The day was already shaping up to be a disaster, and it hadn’t even truly begun. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, sighing as he realized just how far he’d let himself go.

A few days earlier, Wolverine had shown up at the mansion, desperate for help. With Magneto’s betrayal still fresh, they needed someone to fill the void, someone with a power strong enough to match Erik’s. Wolverine had insisted on making peace with Magneto—or with you. But Charles hadn’t thought of Erik. No, his mind had gone straight to you. Someone whose soul had once been so deeply intertwined with his, someone he’d tried to reach through Cerebro countless times, only to fail miserably every single attempt. You had become unreachable, a ghost in his mind. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh, one that hinted at a plan forming in his mind—a plan that involved you and your mutation. He stumbled through his room, knocking into furniture as he made his way to the bathroom. He had to see you. But not like this—not disheveled and reeking of regret. He didn’t want you to see how much he’d unraveled since losing you—and Magneto—in one fell swoop.

He stripped off his pajamas, letting them fall to the floor as he stepped under the hot stream of water. The heat was a small comfort, a rare pleasure in his otherwise bleak existence. But even this reminded him of you. The water cascading over his scalp, cleansing his body—it was yours to manipulate. The oxygen in the air, the very breath in his lungs—it was yours to control. Your power was terrifyingly beautiful, the ability to strip someone of their breath, to bend water to your will, to look at him with those doe-eyes that once held so much love—and now, he feared, only contempt.

When he was done, he dressed himself, the scent of cologne masking the lingering stench of regret. He slipped into his usual formal attire, the kind he always wore when he needed to feel in control. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror. Should he shave? The hair wasn’t so bad—long, but clean. The beard, though, told a story. Patchy, unkempt, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He trimmed it just enough to frame his face, to make himself look somewhat presentable.

Charles made the decision then and there. If he couldn’t reach you telepathically, he’d go to you physically. 

Manhattan stretched out before him as he walked a familiar path, the neighborhood still smelling of unfiltered smoke and the faint stench of rats. He climbed the stairs to your apartment, skipping steps in his haste. When he reached your door, he rang the bell.

“I’m coming!” Your voice called from inside, sharp and impatient.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, though it was tinged with sadness. You used to say those words often, back when you were together, though the tone was always different—softer, teasing, as you lay bare in his bed. The door swung open, and there you were, wearing an oversized t-shirt that did little to hide your legs. His eyes flickered over you unconsciously, a habit he couldn’t quite shake. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was dry, bordering on hostile.

“Have you ever thought about coming back?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though desperation clawed at the edges.

“Not in your wildest dreams,” you shot back, already moving to close the door.

His hand shot out, stopping the door before it could slam shut. “Wait.”

“I could make you fuck off right this instant,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous. “So do me a favor and go back to where you came from.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Your apartment was as cluttered as he remembered, a reflection of the chaos in your life—and his.

The air between you was thick with tension, a mix of betrayal, anger, and something else—something neither of you wanted to acknowledge. Charles could feel it, the weight of your emotions pressing down on him. But he wasn’t here for a reconciliation, not really. He was here for something far more urgent.

“If you’re here to beg me to join some grand plan of yours,” you began, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “know that I’d help anyone else but you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He should’ve never kissed Raven, should’ve never let things go that far. But he had, and he’d regretted it every miserable second since.

“Look, I’m sorry—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t give me that pitiful look,” you snapped. “I know you’ve been trying to reach me, and I want you to swallow your ego and let me go.”

“It’s not like that—” he tried again, but you weren’t having it.

“Those words sound so familiar,” you spat, your voice trembling with anger. It was the same thing he’d said when you’d caught him with Raven, his face buried between her legs, his betrayal laid bare for you to see.

Charles flinched, the memory hitting him like a punch to the gut. He remembered the look on your face—the pain, the disbelief, the way your doe-eyes had shut as you turned away from him. He’d deserved it, every second of it.

“Get out of my home,” you said, your voice cold. “You’re not welcome here. Get out of my life.”

“Wolverine asked for you,” he said, grasping at straws. “Blame him, not me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Wolverine?”

There was still a soft spot in your heart for the gruff mutant, even if you’d cut ties with everyone else to avoid crossing paths with Charles again.

“Tell him to come himself,” you said, crossing your arms.

But then you noticed him—really noticed him. The long hair, the beard, the way he looked so different yet so familiar. You cursed yourself for finding him attractive, for the way your heart still skipped a beat when he was near. Why had he come here? Why did he have to remind you of everything that had happened? Why couldn’t he just stay out of your life, like he had for so many years? He’d been unfair to you, but not to others. He was a man with a brilliant mind and a heavy burden, and you’d fallen for him despite it all.

Did he regret what he’d done, or did he just regret losing you?

“Please, just go,” you said, your voice breaking. “Go back to where you came from. If Wolverine needs me, he can come himself.”

Charles knew you were stubborn, unwilling to listen, unwilling to forgive. He’d lost so much because of his mistake—his team, his best friend, his love. And now, he was losing you all over again.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t entirely his fault. Raven had manipulated him, played on his weaknesses, and now he was paying the price.

“Whatever excuse you came here with, you can take it and leave,” you said, your voice firm.

“Why won’t you listen to me?” he pleaded.

“Because if I look at you long enough, I’ll remember how you fucked Raven right in front of me,” you said, your voice trembling. It was a lie, and he knew it, but the pain behind the words was real. “Now, if you ever cared for me, respect the fact that I don’t want to see you again.”

“This is bigger than us,” he said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Can’t you understand that?”

“Oh, it’s so big that Charles Xavier himself had to come here and ruin my day,” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Congratulations. I don’t give a shit.” You gestured to the open door. “Get out.”

He faltered as your eyes locked onto his. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse spiking as your power took hold. You were that powerful, even if you couldn’t fully control it. He felt his lungs tighten, his vision blurring as he struggled to breathe. And then, darkness. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious. When he came to, hours later, you were sitting beside him, your face turned away. He could sense your tears, the way they spilled down your cheeks. He hated himself for putting you through this, for letting Raven manipulate him, for losing you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to hurt you. But I can’t bear to see you. Not now. Not yet.”

“Please,” he croaked, his voice weak. His pulse fluttered as your eyes met his, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of the love you once had for him.

But you looked away, standing up and walking to the other side of the room. The memory of that night played in your mind, over and over, a wound that refused to heal.

“Please don’t think I came here because I don’t respect your wishes,” he said, his voice trembling. “I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. You know that. You know me.”

“Apparently, I don’t,” you said, your voice cold.

“There’s a man capturing mutants,” he said, his tone grave. “A mutant himself. He’s been taking them—some have disappeared, others have been found dead.”

Your head snapped up, worry flickering in your eyes. “How?”

“He’s powerful,” Charles said. “He’s been targeting mutants, one by one. We don’t know how he’s finding them, but he’s… he’s killing them. Or worse, experimenting on them. We’ve found bodies, but others… they’re just gone. Vanished.”

Your breath hitched, and for the first time, the anger in your eyes wavered, replaced by something darker—fear. “Who is he? What does he want?”

“We don’t know,” Charles admitted. “But he’s strong. Stronger than any of us anticipated. He’s been able to neutralize their powers, suppress them somehow. We think he’s using their abilities to enhance his own.”

Your hands clenched into fists, your mind racing. “And you think I can help?”

“I think you’re one of the few who can,” he said. “Your power… it’s unique. He won’t see it coming. But you need training. You need to be ready.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. The thought of mutants being hunted, captured, killed—it struck a chord deep within you. You’d shut yourself off from the world, but this… this was different. This wasn’t about Charles or your past. This was about your kind, your people.

“For you?” you scoffed, though the edge in your voice was softer now. “And give up my peace of mind? Absolutely not.”

“I won’t try to reach you,” he promised. “Not like before. I swear.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

“You need to come back to the X-Mansion,” he said.

“You’re out of your mind,” you said instantly. “I’m not going back there. Not now, not ever.”

“You almost killed me,” he pointed out. “Your powers are lethal. You need training. I can’t let you face this alone.”

“Then give me a schedule, and I’ll be there,” you said.

“But it’s so far,” he argued.

“I’m not staying there,” you said firmly. “I’ll come, but I’m not spending more time than necessary.”

Charles nodded, knowing it was the best he’d get. For now, it was enough.

[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.

[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

[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 🥹

[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. 🤍

[teethnstuff]

Wolverine but instead of having multiple claws he just one really long claw like sephiroth

(I've never drew Logan before so it looks like shit but it's still funny)