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logan seeing a picture of wade pre-mutation

he has a weird moment of “why tf is there a picture of that nicepool douche in my house” before he Realizes

and wade is like “oh great now That’s gonna be in his mind forever, what i used to look like before the ground beefing of it all, just what i fuckin needed” and he makes a joke (shocker) to stave off how insecure he is

“i was trying to make lepers fashionable, jokes on me i guess”

and logan just eyes the photo and says, “you look weird.”

wade’s Shocked. he was a fucking Looker back then, thank you very much. “there’s just no winning with you, is there?” he asks.

and logan turns the photo over and over in his hands, dis-fucking-pleased, before he flicks it back from whence it came. and he looks at wade, all green-eyed disarming honesty, and says, “i like my version better.”

and if wade didn’t Know logan, didn’t know the shine in his eye and the sincere timbre of his voice, he’d call bullshit. no one in their right mind would prefer him Now to the Him of 2016, right? nessa only put up with it because he was kinda grandfathered into that relationship and she liked his insides as well as his outsides (hey-o)

but he does know logan, and he knows that logan doesn’t mince words or sugarcoat Anything in the name of “sparing feelings,” so he sits there, digesting the compliment like gas station sushi — which is to say, not fucking well at all.

to make matters worse (or, well, better, he guesses) he finds a picture of Him Now and logan from nessa’s new year’s eve party magnetized to the fridge the next day.

it’s poorly lit, illuminated only by shattering fireworks overhead and a few yellow streetlights, and they’re both clearly smashed — wade’s eyes are glassy and red, logan’s cheeks are flushed, and the finer details of their faces have been smudged away thanks to shaky camerawork.

but they’re happy. wade looks happy — he’s smiling, a big, fat, candid grin, like he’d been laughing, and logan’s kissing his cheek, unashamed. he’d been wade’s first new year’s kiss in a long fucking time.

he buys a frame for that picture - a sparkly pink monstrosity from goodwill - and gives it a home on the nightstand next to their bed. and yeah, whatever, on bad days he looks at it and thinks eugh, still, because goddamn francis really did a number on him —

but most days, he’s just happy he gets to be that guy in the picture at all. the guy logan howlett stayed for. the guy logan kissed in front of dozens of people.

logan’s version.

r/batman comment sections my beloved

Tony: so, if you know, someone accidentally swallowed an air tag…medically speaking, does it pose any-

Stephen: I know where this is going, and no, you can’t have Peter “accidentally” swallow an air tag to keep tabs on him 24/7

Tony: It’s an IF-

Stephen: then why do you have an air tag clenched in your fist

Obsessed with the fact that the spideypool dynamic can be watered down to “miss you pookie bear” “oh lord” mindset

guys.

Tony’s a guest judge on the latest season on Masterchef meant for those in the 18-21 year old category. He’s not sure why the fuck he’s there when he can’t differentiate shit in the kitchen, but he’s definitely there to bump up the ratings.

He’s supposed to be giving insightful comments, maybe give a pep talk or two, comfort a candidate during a meltdown, but goes absolutely speechless when the first person to present his dish is 18 year old Peter Parker from Queens.

“Tony.” Rhodey hisses from the side. “Tony.”

“Absolutely brilliant. Five stars. You know what? Make it ten. It’s fantastic. Cooked just right.”

Beside Tony, Rhodey’s trying not to cuss up a storm, “You haven’t even tasted it, man!”

Tony accepts the fork that’s handed to him, his gaze still fixed on pink-cheeked smiley Peter. Stabs his fork through a piece of chorizo and pops it into his mouth.

“…comments, Tony?” The host prompts him, somewhat nervously.

“Nothing. He’s perfect.”

“I meant…the food. Your comments on the food.”

Peter’s trying to maintain his composure, but it’s obvious he finds the whole situation hilarious.

“Look, I’m not even qualified to judge a cooking competition, but what do you feel about being my personal chef?”

The person behind the camera is yelling “Cut!” and Pepper is in him in a heartbeat, her stiletto heels clacking ominously against the floor.

“Tony-“

“Seriously.” Tony sets the fork down. “You should see my kitchen. It’s state of the art. Pepper.” He turns to his personal assistant. “Tell him how fantastic my kitchen is.”

“Um.” Peter glances uncertainly towards the side where the producers are in the midst of a heated discussion whether that little segment should be left in for airing. “…that’s nice?”

Pepper smiles apologetically at Peter, “I’m sorry. Really.”

“It’s fine. Not everyone can say that they’ve been on Masterchef and got flirted with by the Tony Stark. But seriously, how’s the food? I did spend an hour trying to perfect this.”

“Honestly, kid. I’m gonna maybe need a personal demonstration of how you cooked this dish. You know-“ Tony gestures uselessly with his hands. “-for evaluation purposes.”

“Uh huh. Of course.”

Obviously, it’s a competition and Tony can’t be having favorites, but it’s obvious who he’s rooting for. The episode airs with that little clip of Tony flirting kept in, and the ratings go insane. A couple of episodes later, Peter announces that he’s withdrawing from the competition because of a much better offer and Tony officially interrupts the live episode with a,

“Yes, as my boyfriend.”

"came back wrong" what about Came Back Afraid. You used to be brave. Too brave maybe, defying the odds at every turn, a fighter, cocky, playing with fire, first to throw yourself at the enemy. Until one day it all caught up to you. You came back, somehow, but now you know all too intimately how it feels to lose, to die, to be destroyed. Now you flinch and freeze and cower at the slightest provocation. Who even are you now if you can't be brave? The grave may have let you go, but the mortal fear still grips you tighter than ever.

'ao3 needs a like and dislike button'

what you need, my algorithm-rotten minded friend, is a grip