warren worthington iii and the x-men O5 give me some serious fucking brainrot. so does new x-men vol 2 (2004-2008). if it was 2014 i’d kin peter parker. also currently brainrotted for valorant <3
Communicating with my cat is so crazy, it’s like, you watch my back for predators when I sleep. You meow only because you know that I vocalize often, but the words I use are nothing to you unless they’re associated with things relevant to your little baby life (food, for example). You slow blink at me because you feel safe with me. You point your ass at my face, indicating that you trust me to watch your back for predators, because you feel safe with me. You sit in my lap and sleep pressed against my side because you need to warm yourself up, and you trust me to warm you. I know this because I have access to information. If I didn’t, these things would be weird to me. I call you Lulu, but you don’t need a name for me; you have your senses to identify me. You smell me to identify me. You nuzzle me with your head to mark me as family with your scent. We ARE family. You are both the baby I feed and the elderly little lady who watches over me. It’s a very special and pure interspecies bond. I have a concept of “love” that is metaphysical, conceptual; you have an instinctual bond to those that you “trust” to help you survive (and that you, in turn, help to survive). You DO aid my survival on an emotional level that you can’t possibly understand, because you try to aid me on the physical level that comes naturally to you. Who said survival of the fittest has no room for love? We share the pure love of deep friendship because you and I must survive. My creature, Lulu, my best friend. My stinky.
The comments and tags on this post have been very sweet, I really love hearing about everyone’s cats. Feeling a little self-conscious because this drunken emotional outburst (seriously, I had a few drinks, looked at Lulu, and started crying and writing this) has been tagged as poetry a few times. Now I wish I could go back in time and edit it for flow and word choice, but it’s too late now…
like i know it’s very classic fandom of me to see this rich white hot man and be like. there is a depth to you that no writers are getting. but like no there literally is. it’s literally right fucking there. it’s got neon signs and big blinking arrows pointing at it. one day i’ll actually work more on my half-pitch/half-fic that is now technically useless since it seems we’re moving right along from him getting a wing cut off since he’s magically grown it back (and like to be clear i’m Okay with that since it was clearly some stupid shock factor thing from a writer who gave zero shits about warren, i would much rather them just move past it if nobody’s going to handle it with the tact his history deserves) but like. god. GOD. he’s literally just a goldmine of trauma and angst and ocd and i sit here. staring at this man. and im like. none of these writers right now at m4rvel get you like i get you. i see you in me and i know how you are i know how you exist i know you would rather bury yourself six feet deep in the ground and choke on the dirt than let anyone know you are not okay. but you are actually really fucked up in the head and i am going to put you under a microscope and examine you for the rest of your existence. you will get chocolate sometimes as a treat.
thinking about how warren’s self-worth is so intrinsically tied to his mutation and how he would rather kill himself than live without his wings. and thinking about how archangel was so detrimental to how he saw himself for so long, to the point he tried so hard to bury it inside him, to other it from himself and cage it up like a vile creature that couldn’t be controlled, when all along it was a part of him he just refused to accept, still refuses to accept, will never be able to fully control until he chooses to accept it as part of himself……. just thinking thoughts!
