Another Chapter cause why the hell not. Mostly because someone asked for it. And now 'Someone' enters the fray. Someone everyone's gonna love, I hope.
Uh. Uh. Uh. *a finger kept to the lip* Everyone loves me. In their wettest dream they dream of me. For I am their daddy. My fanfic-writing gremlin.
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I walked toward the landing zone, boots crunching against the stone path, still nursing the half-warm beer Logan had handed me. Maybe I'd finish it on the flight out. Or maybe I'd just toss it mid-air. Didn't matter. I just wanted off this island.
Except the Quinjet wasn't there.
Of course it wasn't.
"Seriously?"
Empty pad. No engines humming. No sleek black body waiting to whisk me back to whatever passed for neutral ground these days.
Captain Grudge must've commandeered it. Probably left with a dramatic monologue and a firm jawline, thinking he'd made some kind of righteous stand by stranding me here. What a joke.
I kicked a pebble hard enough to hear it ping off the distant wall.
Petty. All of them. From the high chairs of mutant royalty to America's golden boy with the star-spangled stick up his ass. Children playing at chess while the board burned.
I muttered to myself, "Am I really the only one here not acting like a teenager with a god complex? Or is the world actually this backwards?"
"No." came a voice behind me—cool, calm, and annoyingly righteous. "It is you who is acting childish, Mr. Ranger."
Storm. Of course.
She stood there like a damn monument, arms folded, eyes sharp with disappointment dressed up as wisdom. Wind lightly rustling her cloak like nature itself had an opinion.
"You're making enemies left and right." she added.
I stared at her. Just... stared.
"Something is seriously wrong with the mutant diet. They are losing brain cells by the minute." I said, deadpan. "Do you want me to smile politely while someone tries to burn me alive? Maybe write them a thank-you note while I bleed out?"
Her expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker—offense?
I sighed, running a hand down my face. "You know what? The more I talk to any of you, the more brain cells I lose. I'm not even mad anymore. I'm just tired."
Storm started to speak again, something tempered, maybe even compassionate—but I'd heard enough.
"Don't." I said, cutting her off with a raised hand. "I don't want the speech. Not from you. Not from anyone. I've had enough lectures from gods in capes and ghosts with causes."
"Go Turbo: Flight."
My suit hissed to life. Wings unfolded from my back like silent blades, catching the wind. And before she could say another sanctimonious word, I launched into the sky.
Didn't care about direction. Didn't care about altitude. I just wanted up. Away from the stone towers, the judging stares, the weight of their moral math pressing down on me like it had a right to.
I broke the sound barrier on instinct. Left behind the voices, the silence, the damn chessboard they kept dragging me into.
I didn't know where I was going.
Didn't want to know.
I'd stayed at the assigned place with Natasha for three months before all this spiraled, but something in me already knew she wouldn't be there now. Probably had her own orders. Probably watching from a rooftop somewhere, weighing on how she should react.
And Fury? No thanks. Not unless I wanted another helping of manipulation wrapped in a briefing.
So I flew.
Just flew.
Didn't look back. Didn't care what came next.
The only thing I knew—the only thing I felt—was the pull in my chest.
Like something was breaking loose. Or maybe breaking down.
Didn't matter.
Let the wind take me.
Anywhere but there.
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Hey there, you moist goblin. Yeah, you—the little gobbler with blueberry Pop-Tart crumbs on your chin and "dubious taste in literature" stamped on your browser history. Strap in. Or better yet, strap _on_. Because this ain't just a story. This is a slippery, sticky, questionably legal spiritual enema—and you're the lucky colon.
We're diving face-first into the kind of narrative that makes therapists retire early. I'm talkin' gelatinous madness, baby. So tuck your junk, grab the baby wipes, and wave goodbye to the last shred of dignity you had. Its going to get moist, kids.
And by "moist," I don't mean that poetic morning dew crap. I mean the kind of slick that makes Aquaman look like a raisin. The kind of squelch that makes Diddy cry and Hugh Jackman call his agent in terror. I want to be lathered in this goo. I want to slip through reality like a Capri Sun with a PhD in narrative violation. You feel that? That squish-squish in your soul?
That's the juice of truth. Or possibly me sitting on your face without checking your emotional readiness. Remember kids, Consent is sexy, people.
And I know what you're thinking, you nasty cherub:
"Deadpool... are you getting turned on by your own metaphor?"
To which I reply:
Yes. Yes, I am. And you're welcome, perv.
You freaks have corrupted me. One look at the author's history and my soul curled into a fetal position and whispered, "Not again." But I press on—lathering you up until your thighs glisten like a rotisserie chicken at an erotic Whole Foods.
Oh, what did you say? You like it juicy, huh? You want slippery. You want anticipation dripping like an unpaid OnlyFans subscription. To bad you won't get it. But me being the Marvel Jesus that I am. I will give it to you.
All you need is a sexy, skimpy underwear with a hole and a sign that reads Enter here. And you will be ready for my arrival, worm.
Worms. Metaphors. get it. A Title Card so dramatic I had to sell my third-best katana from TVA to afford the copyright fee.
And yeah, I hear the future haters already:
"Deadpool's lost it."
"This is why Mom left."
"This is why my wife cosplays as Cable in bed."
To that, I say: post the damn Title Card on Webnovel and I'll leak those forbidden nudes of Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman—glossy, oiled, and posing like a Calvin Klein ad that smells like regret and lube and in desperate need of money.
Oh yeah. View count's rising. Daddy's leaking plot.
And you, brave little word necromancer. You fanfic-forged warlock of Wattpad. You reject of the sacred discount bin. Just wait 'til I get my lubed-up mitts on you. I'm gonna rub your plot down like I'm marinating trauma in daddy issues.
(Camera zooms in. Deadpool looks straight at us—grin criminal, eyes twinkling with STDs and mischief.)
DEADPOOL:
"Kids, if an adult touches you inappropriately—call 911. Or me. I'll touch the adult. For free. You're welcome."
(Deadpool looks off-camera.)
DEADPOOL:
What's that? You're whining? "When's the story startin', Deadpool?" Shut it. I'm buttering the crowd and teaching life lessons, alright? You think a couple of flirty scenes with Black Widow make a plot? No, These readers are animals. They want sex. They want tips touching tips. They want yaoi. They want me and the Wolverine in a sweaty, shirt-ripping, bed-shattering scene that makes Wattpad explode into glitter and shame.
I've got plans for it. Plot twists. Dream sequences. A whole-ass musical number. But right now? My diaper's at DEFCON 1, baby.
BANG!
Deadpool shoots a flying dude in a white-blue onesie straight out of the sky like a politically incorrect clay pigeon.
DEADPOOL (to camera):
Oh no, no. No You are not doing that.
Kids, the Author is being a very bad boy. He is trying to plug another one of his unpublished works. Gave me the bullet. Real amateur hour. He hasn't even published it yet. That's like jerking off the reader and stopping before the good splash. You don't tease Daddy Deadpool and his kids. But since I have been paid in green Benjamin and Chimichangas. Go and read the Story on (redacted)(*wink wink* iykyk) to know the properties of the bullet. That is coming after a few years.
(Deadpool lands by the smoking crater like a sexy war crime, tosses his gun, licks a lollipop that was definitely not on the ground.)
DEADPOOL:
Now I'm gonna touch him.
Don't act surprised.
Shocked Pikachu face.
You knew what this was the moment you clicked in.
You filthy, filthy animals.
[Chapter ends. Cliffhanger. Fade to cello music that's far too moody for what just happened.]