FUCK THE SACRED TIMELINE
Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.
You may be thinking; “what the actual FUCK is Wade fucking Wilson doing on my screen? I’m just an innocent Marvel fan looking for a little fluff, maybe some hardcore smut with Channing Tatum’s Gambit. I wasn’t expecting to land here, in the land of canon does it all wrong!” and you’d be right!
This is where all the disappointed fans go when they die. This is the world where romance is set right (looking at you Ryan Reynolds with your poor quality romance and heteronormativity). This is a world where I, the sexy Wade Wilson, the MCU Jesus, realise why the fuck Logan has been messing with that tiny little part of me for the past forty-something hours—and I’m not talking about my nips.
See, in this timeline, when Logan grabs my hand, the full surges of matter and antimatter themselves blast through every atom of our bodies, tearing us apart and putting us back together over and over again as they battle inside the meat-suits that are the vessels of bone, muscle, skin, and sinew. But that’s not the important part—everyone knows that that happens in every universal timeline where this event occurs. There is not one timeline where Logan is a horrible, no-good bastard that abandons me to my doom and the probably less important doom of the universe.
No, the important part is when the beautiful, emotional flashback of everyone we care about occurs, it becomes clear. I’m under no illusions that I'm a good person. I mean, I’m saving the fucking multiverse because of eight people. Eight fucking people. Well, nine, actually.
Because for once, maybe the true gift was the gay we found along the way.
I remember all the nice moments of my life. But none of them are of Vanessa. Well, one is (spoilers; it’s the sex), but every other one is someone else. And I’ll give you a clue—it rhymes with Hogan.
It occurs to me that it’s probably very cheesy and first time YA hero to realise that in forty hours I’ve become closer with someone than I have with anyone else. Not Vanessa, not Cable, not Colossus, not Peter, not even Yukio–although she comes very close. But I’m not to blame for my favourite memories, it’s not like I’ve ever had much self-control!
Images of dragging the gruff, grumpy man around the past few days spin over and over in my washing-machine brain like it's on rapid spin cycle–and then there was that beautiful, amazing night of orgasmic, blissful violence.
I’m talking about stabbing-on-stabbing violence, all night, no slowing, no stopping. Just constant movement, always slashing and cutting and bruising. GOD it was soooooo hot.
And I mean, it’s not like it's any secret that Wade Wilson gets his rocks off being tortured slowly and healing over and over and over again and—-Should we be concerned about the author? I mean, are they seeing a psychologist? I mean, this is some heavy, sexual stuff they’re laying down but—-(it’s at this point in time my writing privileges are temporarily taken away).
Anyways, as I was saying.
So when the multiverse doesn’t obliterate itself and the pure wavelengths of matter and antimatter fade into nothing, there isn’t blackness. It isn’t empty or soft or blurred like heaven. It isn’t burning and cruel and cold like hell.
It’s just a room.
It’s the room they were in when they died.
‘Wolvie, correct me if I’m wrong but…..I didn’t think when we died you’d still be stuck with me.’ I say, groaning and sitting up.
Logan huffs, and grins just the tiniest bit and Jesus Christ what an adorable smile that is. ‘You wish you could get rid of me that easy, bub.’
‘Are you concussed? Do we need your cranium checked?’ I laugh, tapping the side of his beautiful head where the mask part of the suit is starting to fall off now that it has no torso section to attach to.
‘I don’t know. Can you hear Paul Simon playing?’ Logan asks, glancing around confusedly.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s just the grotesquely optimistic late teenager with delusions regarding the sexual identities of their favourite characters writing this. They really like “You Can Call Me Al”.’ I reply, pulling myself to my feet and offering a hand to Logan. ‘You’re adorable when you’re all confused, Wolvie. It makes my tummy tingle.’
Logan rolls his eyes but takes the offered hand and pulls himself up, brushing the dust off his bare chest. And Jesus Fucking Christ on Crackers with Wine and Blue Cheese you could bounce a quarter off of those and kill someone with the momentum of those pecs. I’m talking challengers to Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s very own abs and thank Lucifer for Hugh Jackman’s workout routine- I mean who IS his personal trainer?
‘How in the hell did we survive that?’ Logan asks, glimpsing around the wreckage.
I shrug. ‘Couldn’t care less. Science, physics, blah blah blah–who cares! We’re alive and I still have my perfect, perfect ass. I’ll take that win any day.’
Logan raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side, eyes glued to my beautiful buttocks. ‘You may just be right, Wade.’
‘Tell me what you really think, handsome!’ It was supposed to come off light-hearted, jokingly, even. ‘I was not supposed to sound that interested.’ I grumble.
Logan takes another step forward, hands still gripping mine. ‘Weren’t you, bub?’
(WARNING WARNING WARNING; Here comes the convenient scene skip to another character’s point of view in order for the writer to avoid writing graphic erotica because it’s too hard at this point in time and the writer doesn’t want to get too invested when this is a gift for their asexual friend)
***
When Paradox pleads with B-15, they’re rudely interrupted by the sounds of animalistic grunts and cries from another room, and a daring TVA unnamed loser takes a glimpse through the rubble to see what all the fuss is about.
The poor thing immediately regrets it and gets sent to HR for indefinite therapy. Thankfully, the other TVA workers are smarter and wait patiently, desperately trying to ignore every sound coming out of the rubble using anything they can, until the two heroes emerge.
Logan is peppered with bruises and even a few cuts all along his chest that trail into his pants, but Wade Wilson is 400% worse. There’s barely any suit left for him to be wearing, but he still clings to the scraps marked by claw marks, and already-fading hickies practically cover every inch of skin visible. There’s a noticeable limp to his steps, and sharp slices down his back, but despite the obvious half-discomfort in his eyes, there’s a vibrant grin on his lips.
‘Men, we need to talk–’ B-15 begins, but Logan shoots her a glare to kill.
‘We just saved the fucking timeline. Come talk to us after we eat. And maybe fuck more.’ Wade says, and with that, the conversation is over.
B-15 watches them leave, then returns to her office until she decides it's time to speak with them again.
‘You ever had shawarma?’ Wade asks, leaning against Logan’s shoulder.
‘Nope.’
‘Y'know the Avengers discovered it.’ He adds, and Logan chuckles under his breath.
‘Do you take every man who’s fucked you to shawarma?’ The taller man asks.
Wade laughs, nervously, vulnerably. ‘No. I don’t take anyone there.’
Logan hums. ‘Then it’s ok.’
***
So that’s the story of what ACTUALLY happened.
Remember kids; just because Kevin Feige tells you you’re not allowed to have graphic gay sex on screen, or at the very least kiss sloppy style, that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. It just means you’ve gotta find other ways to tell the public it did.
And if the Russo brothers won’t make Stucky canon, the least you can do is write about it.