The Newest Hot Fanfic (Poolverine)

Chapter 14: ''Touch Me, Bub-Wait, No, Don't Touch Me, Bub!''

IT ALL STARTED AFTER that last mission, when Logan had gone full-on "manhandle Deadpool into silence" mode. Not that I'm complaining—well, actually, I am—but you get the point. The dude had me pinned to a wall like I was some kind of misbehaving school kid, hand over my mouth, and I, for the first time in my life, shut up.

But here's the thing: why?

I mean, I'm Deadpool. Wade Wilson. King of sarcasm, the poster child for inappropriate commentary. And yet, the second Wolverine gets all up in my personal space, my vocal cords just... die. I can't come up with one single witty retort. It's like my brain short-circuits, which is not normal. It's unnatural. It's unsettling. And, if I'm being honest, it's seriously pissing me off.

I've spent the last few days trying to figure it out. I've dissected every single second of that encounter in my head—like, maybe I missed something? Maybe it wasn't about him being close to me? Maybe it was the mission stress, the adrenaline, the fact that I had just eaten a questionable chimichanga beforehand? Yeah, that could be it. Bad food can do strange things to the body.

But even as I try to make sense of it, the truth keeps staring me right in the face like a bad meme: Logan. It's Logan that's messing with me. Wolverine, Mr. Stabby McGruffy Pants himself. And it's not just any ol' touching, no—it's when he gets close. Real close. Like "I can smell the Canadian whiskey on your breath" close.

And that's when it hit me. Like, smack-you-in-the-face-with-a-bag-of-flaming-hot-Cheetos level realization.

Wolverine. Flusters. Me.

The thought alone is enough to make me want to rip my own brain out and throw it into the nearest dumpster fire. I mean, seriously, Wade? Logan? The guy who snarls more than he speaks? The guy who calls me "bub" like it's some kind of insult from a 1940s comic book? The man who's essentially a walking human paper shredder?

How. Is. That. Possible?

I pace around my dingy apartment, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. My mask stares back at me, that familiar red and black face that screams "chaos incarnate." But now, behind those mask lenses, there's something else lurking—confusion. A deep, simmering confusion that just won't go away.

"Okay, Wade," I mutter to myself. "Let's just talk this out like a rational human being."

But the second I say it, I snort. Rational? Me? Who am I kidding? I'm about as rational as a raccoon on meth. Still, I decide to give it a shot.

"So, you're saying," I continue, pretending to have an actual conversation with my reflection, "that every time Wolverine so much as gets within a foot of you, your mouth goes on strike. What does that mean, hmm?"

No answer from my reflection. Figures. Mirrors never talk back when you really need them to. I throw my hands up, frustrated, and flop onto the couch, the springs squealing in protest.

"It's probably nothing," I tell myself, but even as the words leave my mouth, I don't believe them. "Just a weird side effect of... of... I don't know, something. Maybe I'm coming down with some rare mutant virus. A 'Shut-the-Hell-Up-When-Wolverine-Touches-You' virus. I'll be the first case. They'll name it after me."

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. Why is this even happening? Why does my brain completely fail me the second Logan decides to go all caveman on me? He's been in my personal space a million times before, and sure, it's always a little awkward—mostly because I enjoy watching him get all riled up—but never like this.

I run through every scenario in my head, trying to make sense of it. Maybe I'm just intimidated by him? Nah, that can't be it. I've gone toe-to-toe with bigger, scarier dudes than Logan. He doesn't scare me. Not in the "oh no, he's gonna kill me" kind of way, at least. If anything, I like pushing his buttons. It's fun. But this... this is different. This is new. And new is bad. I don't like new.

Maybe it's because, deep down, I know Logan could rip me apart if he wanted to. Like, literally rip me to shreds. Not that it'd be permanent—I've got the whole healing factor thing going for me—but the idea of it, of someone having that kind of power over me, is kind of... unsettling. And yet, there's something else. Something I really don't want to admit to myself, even though it's been nagging at me for days.

I sit up on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Do I... do I like it?"

The question hangs in the air like a bad smell, and I immediately cringe at myself. No. No, that can't be it. I'm Deadpool, for crying out loud! I don't like anything. I tolerate things. I deal with things. But liking something? Especially something like this? No way.

But the more I think about it, the more the pieces start falling into place. The way my pulse kicks up when he's close. The way my mouth goes dry, my throat tightens, my mind goes blank. The way his strength feels, not just intimidating, but... solid. Reassuring, even.

"Ugh, no, no, no," I mutter, shaking my head like a dog trying to shake off water. "You're not doing this, Wade. You're not actually thinking these thoughts. These are bad thoughts. These are the kind of thoughts that lead to rom-com situations, and I am not about that life."

I spring off the couch, pacing again, trying to shake off the weird, fluttery feeling building in my chest. It's like I've swallowed a swarm of bees, and they're all buzzing around in my stomach, making me feel lightheaded and nauseous.

"This is so dumb," I groan. "I'm Deadpool. The guy who doesn't get flustered. The guy who's immune to feelings. But noooo, Wolverine has to go and manhandle me like some kind of grumpy lumberjack, and now I'm over here questioning my life choices. Thanks a lot, Logan."

I pause, leaning against the wall, and let out a long, defeated sigh. Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe this weird, quiet, flustered thing will go away on its own, like a bad cold. Or maybe I just need to get laid. Yeah, that's probably it. I'm overdue for some good old-fashioned distraction. Nothing like a quick one-night stand to clear the mental cobwebs, right?

But even as I think it, I know it's not that simple. The truth is, I don't just get flustered around Logan because he's close. I get flustered because, in some messed-up way, I think I actually... like it.

I throw my hands up in frustration, glaring at my reflection one more time. "This is all your fault," I tell myself, pointing an accusing finger at my masked face. "You just had to go and catch feelings like some kind of idiot."

With that, I pull my mask off and toss it onto the couch, rubbing my face with both hands.

Maybe I'm just tired. Yeah. That's it. I'm exhausted. It's been a long few weeks. The stress is getting to me, messing with my head. All I need is a good night's sleep, and I'll be back to my normal, mouthy, irreverent self by morning.

But as I crawl into bed, staring up at the ceiling, I can't shake the nagging feeling that I'm lying to myself.

4o

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