Writing a First Touch Birthmark Soulmate AU for Wade and a self-conscious reader who has the ability to possess people and objects (and therefore doesn’t spend a lot of time in their physical body, so his mark is ‘activated’ before theirs.) I’m at a point where I’m equally split into a lot of different directions for how it could go, so help me out…
He sees you in your body when you aren’t expecting (funny, sweet)
He sees you in your body when you aren’t expecting (hurt/comfort)
He doesn’t see you in your body (smut, let’s get freaky)
He sees you in your body when you’re ready (sweet)
He sees you in your body when you’re ready (sweet & smut)
Comparison is the Thief of Joy (And Orgasms) (18+)
warnings/tags: Porn WITH Plot, Miscommunication, Oral Sex - Both Parties Give and Receive, Minor Angst, Insecure!Reader, Mutant!Reader, Wade Gets some Bones Broken (on Accident), Canon-Typical Swearing
notes: This is the sequel to Summa Cum Laude that no one asked for, but I felt like writing some smut for Wade and this reader. I was not expecting to go to ~that drama place~ with them. I’m open to writing a 3rd part with PIV but when I tried to do it at the end of this one, it just didn’t flow right. This might be the first time ever that I've plopped an image— which I wrote some pretty detailed alt text for, do give me some pointers if it's not quite right —in the middle of a fic, but honestly, it makes the whole fic worth reading imo.
synopsis: You and Wade finally have sex, then cockblock yourselves by overthinking it.
Part 1!
“Oh, god… Please, Wade, please,” you whimper so sweetly that he thinks he’s gonna need dentures by the end of the night. His boxers— the only thing he’s wearing right now, after some coaxing from you —are feeling tighter and tighter by the minute.
He looks up at you from between your propped-open legs. You’re trying desperately not to squirm and you fail when your eyes meet, biting your bottom lip and curling your fingers in the sheets a little tighter.
“Please?” you ask again, softer. He grins against your inner thigh before nipping at it and making you yelp softly. The flush of the bite fades quickly, just like the dozens of hickies he’d tried to give you before realizing dinner (his blood) was still coursing through you enough to ensure that no wound, no matter how lovingly given, would remain for a meaningful amount of time.
“Oh, you are just too much. I should be the one begging you to let me do this,” he says with a chuckle, hooking his fingers in your last article of clothing and pulling it off. With your soaked underwear out of the way, he can see what soaked it — a rose between your legs in a delectable shade, dripping with nectar.
He eases closer. You two have talked about this subject enough for him to know he’s not your first, but he’s still got an edge over you in age and experience, so he’s not in any rush. This is just the beginning.
But then, as soon as his breath is fanning over your most delicate, private place…
You shriek out a “No!” and kick him in the face.
Resetting his nose, he gets up from where you launched him off the bed.
“I’ll take ‘Under-Negotiated Kinks’ for $500, Alex,” he remarks, but seeing your stricken expression, he quickly realizes humor really isn’t the way to deal with whatever the fuck just happened. “Are you okay? You could’ve just said something if you’re not feeling it, babe.”
“Sorry, I- I panicked.”
“I… Figured that one out, hon.”
“Right,” you sigh, burying your face in your hands with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just- It just occurred to me that you might not be able to do that.”
“Uh, princess, let me assure you, I most certainly am able to do that. I’m quite good at it, actually. I have a 4.8 star rating on Yelp.”
“No, I meant-” You look up at him with a groan before shuffling further back on the bed and curling up defensively, to hide yourself from him. That certainly won’t do. “Fuck, this is humiliating…”
“It smelled fine, I’m sure it tastes even better. And I like it the way you’ve got it; honestly, I’d be cool with it if you didn’t shave or trim at all, let it grow out! Makes a man feel rugged, and besides, at least one of us should have hair.”
“Not- Not that, Wade, I mean- The- The stuff down there, the… Organic lube, discharge, whatever you wanna call it… It’s got plasma in it. Y’know. Like blood.”
“Oh,” he squeaks. “So, there’s a good chance I literally won’t be able to do that.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, still grimacing. “I’m so sorry.”
“Whoa, hey, wait a minute,” he chides you. “First of all, you might have just saved my life. Secondly, as much of a cunning linguist as I am, I can live without it. Thirdly, we don’t know for sure. Have you ever gotten someone’s powers from mumbling in the moss?”
“Mumbling in the-” Despite your mortification, you giggle, shaking your head. “That’s a new one. I… Actually kind of love it. But no, not unless they were on their period.”
“Well, it doesn’t burn you, as far as I can tell. Has anyone ever gotten healed up by going pearl diving with you?”
“Not that I know of,” you admit, seeing what he’s getting at. “But-“
Your concerns, while valid, are swallowed by him as soon as he effortlessly drags your bottom half to the edge of the bed and his mouth engulfs your pulsing heat. It doesn’t take you long to get close, every poke and flick and swirl of his tongue making your thighs press harder against the sides of his head.
You moan between gasps, your grip on the sheets only growing tighter.
“Fuck, ‘m gonna… So…”
He draws back and you have to bite back a groan at the denial, though it emanates from your throat just enough for your frustration to be heard.
“Just wanted to point out how alive and well I am,” he assures you, standing over you now, but his grin is far too mischievous. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“And what a relief it is,” you sigh out, because yes, it is a relief, but you’re going to need a different form of it. Then he slides two fingers in and once he curls them, you let out a noise that is the most devastatingly needy thing either of you has ever heard.
“Uh-oh, did I find your good girl button? Not that I really need to press it, you’re awfully sweet, but I sure do like to watch your brain melt out of your ears. What do you think?”
“Ghk, mmn, fuh-uck, Wade…” Your legs part wider as your hips twitch against him, seeking more, more, more.
“Not thinking much at all. Perfect!”
He sinks back down to his knees, still coiling his fingers deep inside, before reintroducing his tongue to your most sensitive place.
You get quieter as you get closer, keening whines devolving into precious little squeaks as your legs twitch and stutter around him.
Then, with a harsh gasp, you break his fingers. He holds in the reflexive whimper just long enough for you to do it again. And again.
Not that you mean to, of course. Your walls are closing in on him, your insides pulsing with the force of your orgasm, and again, your dinner was his blood. The superstrength has not worn off yet.
Once he’s worked you through it, he carefully pulls his shattered digits out. The crackling of him orienting them back into place snaps you out of your post-orgasm daze in the blink of an eye.
You sit straight up, hand flying to your agape mouth.
“Oh, my god, Wade, I’m so sorry, are you-“
“Still alive and well, beautiful. Totally worth it… But I’d rather not see the same happen to my undercarriage — you understand, right?”
You nod fretfully before you gesture to the aching bulge in his boxers, a soaked spot of precome prominent.
“I can still, uh… Return the favor. Just no deepthroating, I’m guessing,” you suggest with a sheepish smile.
“Much appreciated,” he concurs as he climbs up onto your bed. He’s under you in an instant, and you’re kissing him, ravishing his neck just as fervently as he did yours at the start of all this. You trace your tongue along the ridges of his scarred skin with an intoxicating mix of reverence and lust that only makes him throb harder.
Your drenched core is pressed against him through his boxers, and it’s tempting to just give in to the urge to bury himself in you, as excruciating as it would come to be once you reached the peak of bliss. You tease his neck with your teeth, and his hands tangle in your hair. Simultaneously, a delightful moan escapes him.
“Oh, I can’t possibly take another bite,” you rasp against his swirled skin. “I’m already so full… And I’d really like it if I could be filled up with something else later, wouldn’t you?”
He lets out a string of breathless, incoherent babble, his hips lifting to press himself harder against you.
It’s a rush unlike anything else you’ve ever known. He is. It was always him. There was never another option — you even had the foolish idea to try, more than once, to make it work with other people.
But no. No. This is everything you’ve ever wanted, even if you’re having to take things slower than you’d planned tonight.
You tug down his boxers, deftly teasing his length with your slick cleft.
“Gotta season the meat before you eat, huh?” he asks shakily, his brown eyes wide with need as his chest heaves. His hands snap to your hips, stilling them. Bruises left by his force appear before swiftly cycling out: red, purple, yellow, gone. A whiny sigh escapes him.
“I do quite enjoy my own cooking,” you reply in a murmur. “Especially the way it tastes on you. But you gotta let go if I’m gonna get down there, Wade. Can you let go?”
“Let it marinate,” he says just as quietly, still staring at your core, pressed against him in the most torturously tantalizing way, before he looks up to meet your eyes. “Fuck...”
“In a bit. Maybe I can down some water to speed up the process. Not before you’ve had your turn, though.”
“No, just- Is it even possible? For two people to be this perfect for each other? This doesn’t even feel real.”
“I broke your nose. And your fingers,” you remind him with a soft chuckle, if only to make sure he doesn’t completely lose himself; if only to confirm once more that he really doesn’t mind.
“Small price to pay to know you’re well-fed and comfortable, I’d say,” he replies, and while a bit of his usual lightheartedness returns, there’s an undercurrent of something in his tone that tells you that he means it wholeheartedly. His grip on your hips finally loosens, and you work your way down his body before taking him into your mouth.
Wade’s hands return to your hair, less haphazardly than before. He pushes it out of your face, before reaching down to caress your cheek.
“Easy on the suction, baby,” he warns you in a rushed squeak. You hum in acknowledgment and look up to watch the way his soul nearly leaves his body.
Even with you being careful not to literally suck him off, it doesn’t take long for him to unravel — his grip tightens in your hair, but he courteously doesn’t force himself deeper. He just needs something to cling to as his ecstasy pumps into you.
Once he’s no longer audibly shuddering and you can see more than the whites of his eyes, he gently tugs you away just to pull you back in, though higher up than before. He wraps you in his arms with a long, pleased sigh.
“Our strengths and skillsets continue to be complimentary to each other,” he remarks, nuzzling the top of your head and breathing in the sweet musk that is you. He’s seemingly sated.
You’re practically vibrating. From your perspective, it’s a miracle you didn’t turn into a useless, blushing mess the second he got hard — the rest is just icing on the cake. And now you’re cuddling. Naked.
It’s by no means the first time you’ve done this, but it’s the first time with him, and that… Well, that means a lot, considering you’ve been pining after him for basically as long as you’ve had the capability to be truly attracted to someone.
That restless energy ebbs away as he continues to hold you in place, the silence becoming tense after the first five minutes.
“Surely, I’m not that good,” you softly prompt him. “What’s going on? I didn’t hurt you again, did I?”
He shakes his head, holding you a little tighter.
“No, just still stuck on the fact that you’re… Well, you. And you actually want… Well, me.”
“Think you’ll ever get unstuck on that? I haven’t managed to escape the inverse, I could use some tips,” you reply, smiling against him.
Soon enough, though, you’re tapping out by gently patting his chest. He loosens his grip, a wrinkle of concern between where his eyebrows would be.
“Showtime. Be right back,” you tell him in a giddy whisper, wriggling out of his embrace and heading to the attached bathroom.
When you return, though, he’s pretending to be asleep. You can tell he’s pretending by the way his breathing sounds, the way he holds himself. It’s too measured, he’s too still.
You really messed up, didn’t you? You’d asked if he was okay multiple times, and he brushed you off, so clearly he wanted this, but…
Were you too eager? Too nervous? Too loud? Too quiet? Too needy? Too aloof?
You look down at your body. Maybe you’re not his type? Even if the emotional connection is there, if you’re big and small in the “wrong” places, he might’ve been trying to force himself to enjoy the physical.
You turn back around and head for the shower, still balmy with sweat and not wanting to disturb him with the scent of your tears burning your cheeks.
As you scrub yourself down, self-deprecating thoughts continue to plague you. You’re never gonna feel fully at home in this body. You still haven’t had it for as long as you were the way you were before. Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe he could sense that you aren’t fully in tune with yourself, and that turned him off.
He’s actually asleep when you return, and you settle down on the opposite side of your bed feeling more alone than if he weren’t there at all.
The sound of Wade saying your name in a careful, inquisitive tone is what wakes you. You're not sure why he sounds so concerned until the memories of last night come rushing back in. Damn it, you’d hoped you’d wake up before he did, that you’d eat before he could see how you felt.
“Damn it. This is exactly what I was worried about,” he mutters, and your stomach drops. You’re too emotional, then? Was that the issue? You didn’t think you’d been exceptionally difficult last night, well, other than panicking and kicking him in the face, but he didn’t seem to mind that too much once he understood… Or maybe he just pretended he didn’t mind. “We don’t have to do anything like that ever again.”
“O- Okay,” you stammer in the face of his disappointed expression. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, pulling you into his arms just as he did last night.
“No, I am,” he says. He really hated it that much? Why didn’t he say anything?
“Do you want me to, uh, make you breakfast? Or we can go out?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ve got a job to get to. Honestly, I probably should’ve left sooner, but I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving my little cuddlebunny on her lonesome,” he coos, his embrace tightening around you before he lets go. He presses a big kiss to your cheek, then heaves himself out of bed to suit up.
“There’s a spare toothbrush and all that in the bathroom,” you tell him. He nods, heading that way. At least he doesn’t hate you, even if he apparently hates having sex with you. He did put it off for a while… Maybe you two can have an open relationship or something.
When he comes back, you’re sitting up in bed and contemplating everything that’s happened over the last 12 hours. It must show in your expression, because he hums fretfully, smooching your forehead.
“I’ll be back before you know it, ‘kay? Get some more rest.”
With that, he’s out the door.
He returns a few days later, baddies unalived and wallet bulging, to be smacked upside the head by a rolled-up issue of Fangoria.
“You fucking moron,” Ellie spits at him.
“Jesus Christ on a bike, the fuck did I do?! I literally just got here!”
Ellie scoffs, rolling her eyes.
“You know what you did.”
“Oh. Right. Girls talk about that stuff. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t really realize until after that it probably wasn’t a good idea to add my name to that list.”
“That list? Seriously?! You literally almost married a sex worker, and now you’re acting like she of all people is, what, too much of a slut for you?!”
“Whoa, whoa, no! I meant that list of people who always fucking- They take and they take and they don’t even think about it! They’d drain her dry if it didn’t mean she’d fucking die, they keep her alive just so they can take more! They use her body for their own selfish benefit, I can’t stand it!”
Ellie’s furious expression dissipates.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “We have a problem. You have a problem. Do you know where Conference Room E is?”
“I could probably find it, yeah.”
Ellie scoffs and rolls her eyes.
“Just follow me. I should probably check on them anyway, and if they think it’s just me, they’ll unlock the door without erasing the evidence.”
“Evidence?” Wade echoes inquisitively, but Ellie just shakes her head as they proceed.
“You’ll see. Still a fucking moron, by the way.”
“What-"
“Shh!” she hisses. They pass the library and make a right in silence, reaching the last door on the left, the placard outside reading Conference Room E as promised. Ellie knocks.
“We have the room booked until three, sorry!” Yukio chirps.
“It’s me,” Ellie speaks up, and Yukio opens the door. Ellie gently nudges her aside, and Wade enters to see you standing in front of a whiteboard.
There’s a multi-Venn Diagram, the outer ring of circles listing Wolverine, Stefan Salvatore, Bowl of Cherries, Vanessa, Stuffed Unicorn, and Spider-Man. He can’t read what’s in the center, but the intersections have notes in different colors — pink is clearly Yukio, yellow is Ellie, and there’s notes in your favorite color, too.
“I’m stumped. I think it’s clear based on this sampling that I have things in common with the people, fictional characters, and inanimate objects he’s expressed sexual attraction to, but what do they all have in common that I don’t have?”
“Um,” Yukio squeaks, looking between you and Wade. He steps forward, resting his head on top of yours and his hands on your shoulders.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding here,” he says, finding “Me,” written smack dab in the middle of the center circle.
“Shit,” you murmur. “You’re back.”
“Uh-huh... Now, I can draw my own conclusions based on what I’ve already heard, but how about you explain all this to me, yeah?” he asks, releasing one of your shoulders to gesture to the board.
“Well…” you start, and he can practically hear the grimace in your voice. You flinch when the door shuts loudly behind you, and Wade turns to see that Ellie and Yukio have left. “The other night, y’know… You weren’t happy. With what we did. With me. I just thought maybe if I could figure out why-”
He opens his mouth to argue, and while that alone stops you from continuing, you silence him with a look.
“You pretended to be asleep,” you insist, finally fully turning around to face him. Thankfully, there are no more scarred tear trails down your cheeks, but that doesn’t tell him much considering your thermos is on a nearby stool.
“Right. Again: Misunderstanding. I… I didn’t want to be- Everyone’s always taking stuff from you, from your body. Using you. You even told me that when you first started looking like this, you were having to deal with people ogling you. I didn’t- I don’t- I can’t… I would hate myself even more than I already do if I ever made you feel that way.”
You stare up at him in shock, perhaps even awe. He reaches past you and starts erasing the board, huffing in amusement at a few of the notes as he goes. As soon as he sets the eraser down, you’re hugging him.
“Just talk to me next time,” he says through a sigh, running his hands over your hair.
“I could say the same to you,” you grumble into his chest. “There’s a big difference, y’know, between you and the people you’re comparing yourself to: I love you.”
“I could say the same to you.”
You hug him tighter, chuckling against him.
“So… Maybe it’s a bad time to ask, but-“
“Yes,” you interrupt him. “As soon as possible.”
“Awesome, do you want to drive or should I?”
“Drive?”
“Yeah? I mean, we could have we could have the pizza delivered, but then we run the risk of somebody intercepting it, so…” he trails off, noticing the way you step back from him and your poorly-hidden glaring. “Oh. You were saying yes to something else. Really?”
“Yes, really, I’ve been waiting for the last half decade!” you huff, cheeks flushing at his skepticism as you defensively continue: “I’m in peak physical condition all the time, you know what that’s like!”
“Yep, understood. I’ll clear my calendar for the next thirty-six hours.”
“Make it seventy-two.”
“In that case, pizza first? We can’t all have a liquid diet.”
Notes: We are so back, y’all. The Yukisonic x reader relationship kind of takes a backseat in this one, to the point where I considered posting this on @dpimagines as platonic!WW & reader, but I felt like y'all here might appreciate it more.
Synopsis: You confront your father's killer and get a lot more than you bargained for.
Link to Part 2!
One moment, Wade has baited Ellie into a heated debate— literally, she looks like she’s about to blow any second —about astrology; the next, he’s trying to get one of his katanas back and somehow failing.
You match every blow, parrying with ease, and it occurs to Wade that you’re fighting exactly the way he would, so he does something he ordinarily wouldn’t do, to great success. You’re disarmed, the stolen katana knocked far from your reach; at least, in your current position.
“You’re good,” he chirps down at you, but you’re just looking up at him with nothing short of pure rage, burning so hot it feels cold. The look on your face, oddly enough, terrifies him for one blinding moment before he shakes it off. He could swear he’s seen it before, on someone specific, but at this rate, who knows?
You grip the blade of the katana he’s got pointed down at you without hesitation.
“No, you are,” you reply cooly, before forcing it back towards him hard enough that the pommel strikes him in the forehead, prompting him to release the weapon. You pick up both, blood still dripping from one hand. “I’m better.”
Ellie hisses your name, glaring at you.
“The mission is over,” she says firmly. “It’s a dead end. There’s no leads left.”
“Because of him,” you snarl, pointing one of the swords at Wade with confidence and ease, as if it’s yours.
“And so, on top of that, you’re going to hurt yourself, hurt me, because of him?” Ellie presses. That gives you pause. You take a deep breath and sigh it out.
“Plainclothes next time, Deadpool. No weapons, and no her. Then, we’ll really have some fun,” you declare, dropping the katanas to the hardwood floor with a clatter before storming off.
“That’s your soulmate?” Wade asks, watching you retreat to the staircase. “Who the fuck-?”
“Vestige, A.K.A… Y/N Freeman.”
Oh. Oh.
“She’s not like him,” Ellie clarifies, rubbing her temples. “The opposite, really. Psychometry, to an extreme degree. That’s how she was able to, y’know…” Ellie gestures to his katanas, still haphazardly crossed on the floor between them. “Personally, I’m glad that he’s… I’m glad it’s over.”
Ellie unconsciously rubs at her forearms, a place your sweater sleeves covered.
“He hurt her?” Wade asks reflexively.
Ellie nods.
“She’s capable of the inverse. Making people feel things through skin-to-skin contact. Hurting her served a dual purpose: it made her stronger, and it kept her in line so she wouldn’t hurt him. She was the only one who could make him feel pain.”
“And I’m guessing she’s not too pleased that I robbed her of the opportunity, huh?”
“Something like that,” Ellie confirms with a nod. “You should know… Mrs. Freeman lives here, too. She’s a teacher. I don’t think she’d have quite the same reaction, but you should steer clear.”
“I think I can probably handle-”
“She’s perfect. That’s her, y’know, mutation. Perfectly symmetrical physically, never trips, all that. You think someone like Ajax could tolerate anything less?” Ellie asks with a scoff.
“The perfect woman and the man who couldn’t feel pain… There’s a joke in there, or maybe a poem.”
“Maybe, yeah,” she replies with a thoughtful frown that reminds him that this is his friend’s soulmate’s parents he’s talking about, before she heads off in the same direction you did.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next time Wade sees you, it’s years later. You’re wearing a tee shirt and gloves that almost meet the sleeves of it. You smile at him, something shy and sweet and so very different from the last time he saw you.
“So…” he starts, and your smile falters.
“I’m, uh, I’m here to… Buy a car. I think. I’m very picky,” you tell him, shifting from foot-to-foot awkwardly. It hits him then that you have no idea who he is. He’d carried on with Ellie and easily befriended your later-discovered soulmate, Yukio, and he’d ask how you were on occasion, but you’d never actually learned his real name, never saw him without the mask.
“Oh!” he yelps, trying to play it off. “Right! Sorry, zoned out there for a sec and forgot where I was. What’re you looking for?”
You open and close your mouth a few times, eyebrows knitting just a little bit closer each time you do.
“Small, but… Decent trunk space. Maybe a… Coup?”
“A coupe,” he corrects you with a toothy grin.
“Right, that,” you concur, sheepishly smiling back. You’re actually kind of adorable when you’re not stealing his weaponry, or maybe he was just too pissed off to notice back then.
“But, if you’re wanting small with good trunk space, you’d be better off looking for a compact sedan with a hatchback, like a Toyota Yaris or a Chevrolet Spark. Luckily, we have a few of both!”
“A Chevrolet Spark… Are those the ones with eyeliner?” you ask.
“Eyeliner?” he echoes, squinting with confusion. A car… With eyeliner? You’re definitely weirder than he initially gave you credit for.
“The… The headlights, um…” you mumble, your cheeks only flushing more with the awkwardness of it all. “Sorry, that probably doesn’t make sense… Stupid.”
“Oh! Yeah, wait, no! I totally see that!” he realizes, now that he thinks about it. “Yeah, we’ve got a 2015 with only ninety-nine thousand miles, right this way.”
And so, you follow him, right that way, circling the car with interest, nodding when he uses technical terms that he doesn’t even understand.
“Wanna pop the hood?” he suggests.
“I’d have no idea what I’m looking at,” you admit, and it’s only a reminder to him that a woman your age should have someone in her life that she could call up to accompany on an excursion like this, typically her father. And he killed yours. Did Francis help you pick out your first car? No, he probably picked for you, if he let you drive at all. God, did Francis teach you how to drive? Did he sit in the passenger seat while you got your hours in, giving tips? The domesticity of it all clashes violently with, well, the violence in his own memories of the man.
“Me either!” he chirps after a silence that went on for far too long. “Wanna take it on a test drive?”
“Oh, um…” you start, fidgeting with your gloved hands. “Uh, yeah, sure, thanks.”
“I’ll go grab the key. Sit tight.”
But when he’s back, you’re gone, like you were never there at all. Probably some X-emergency, he dismisses it, but finds himself feeling oddly disappointed…
…Which is why he’s pleasantly surprised when, exactly one week later, you’re standing in the midst of the used car lot again, still in those gloves.
“Hey! Sorry about last week. Something came up. Uh… How about that test drive?”
“It sold,” he informs you with a grimace. “But… We do have a 2018 Honda Civic hatchback with only a hundred and twenty-eight thousand miles on it!”
“That… Sounds like a lot of miles,” you hesitantly point out.
“Not for the used car business, honey. C’mon, let’s go take a look at it,” he insists, subtly adjusting his hairpiece. “I’ll spare you the jargon this time, now that I know neither of us knows what the fuck I’m talking about.”
You bark out a laugh at that, nodding and following him over to the car.
“I like the color,” you say, nodding towards the flat gray known as Sonic Gray Pearl.
“Black interior, too,” he says, before he remembers that he’s not supposed to know about Ellie.
Thankfully, you don’t catch the subtle allusion, replying with a simple: “Nice.”
“If I go get the key, are you gonna disappear on me again?” he ribs you. You chuckle, shaking your head. As promised, you’re there when he returns, passing you the key. You stare at it with widened eyes, like it’s a foreign object, before clearing your throat and unlocking the car. He hops in the passenger seat and buckles in while you do the same in the driver’s seat. “Might wanna take those gloves off, grip strength won’t be as good.”
“Germaphobe… And I’m used to it,” you disagree with a more forced smile as you start the car. You pull out of the spot slowly, braking hard when you get to the outlet.
“Sensitive brakes,” he half-heartedly reassures you.
You join the flow of traffic, keeping the wheel in a death grip at 10 and 2. Your nostrils flare, your jaw is clenched. You’re also driving like a grandma, several cars passing you as you chug along.
“Relax, we keep insurance on these… I think. Is that legally required?”
“I think?”
“Eh, it’s a tax write-off if you total it, anyways,” he assures you. “Live a little. What kinda music do you like? This bad boy’s got Apple Carplay, or just plain ol’ Bluetooth.”
“Whatever’s fine,” you murmur, so he connects his phone to the radio and puts on some “older” music— radio hits from his youth, that is —commercially-friendly without being nausea-inducing.
Heaven is a Place on Earth by Belinda Carlisle plays over the speakers, and you seem to loosen up a little bit. That is to say, you look less like you’re fighting the urge to scream.
“That’s the spirit! This is one of my favorites, too! Shh, don’t tell anybody.”
After a couple more songs, you make a U-turn and park the car back in its original spot.
“So…? What do you think?” he asks as the two of you get out of the vehicle. You quickly give him the key back, but he perseveres: “Is this the part where we start negotiating? Let’s be real, this car’s nice, but I think we can get ‘em down to twelve grand instead of fifteen-and-a-half.”
“We?” you ask with a snicker. “Isn’t it your job to tack on bullshit fees to get me to spend more money?”
“Yeah, but I dunno. I like you!”
Something about that gives you pause. Maybe you do know who he is. You dispel that passing thought with your response:
“Um… Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I don’t think this is the one, and I’ve got to head out now. Same time next week?”
“Sure,” he says with a nod, his own smile becoming just as forced as yours. He’s not the best of used car salesmen, but he could’ve at least tried with someone else if you hadn’t shown up again.
But you keep showing up, and you keep test driving cars, and you keep telling him no.
Until, of course, he complains to Ellie and Yukio about it in the rec room. He’s wearing his suit— for the first time in a while, just to air it out, definitely not to keep you from finding out that the Deadpool you despise and Wade, the used car salesman you’ve formed an odd, tentative friendship with, are one and the same —and lounging in an armchair while the two women are snuggled up on the loveseat.
You’re on the other side of the rec room, standing next to a freakishly symmetrical woman just like Ellie described, the two of you teaching a handful of kids how to make what appears to be paper snowflakes in the shape of butterflies. Yours comes out wonky. It’s cute. The older woman’s eyes narrow with displeasure whilst Ellie’s eyes widen the more he speaks, until she eventually barks out your name.
You see him, and your eyes narrow the same way your mother’s did, with displeasure, if not downright detestation. You march over.
“Yes, dear?” you sardonically address her.
“Are you harassing Weapon X survivors?” she asks, and your eyes immediately cut back over to him. “No, uh-uh, you’re not gonna have another dick-measuring contest with him. For the millionth time, it’s over, at least for now. You’re not going to learn anything.”
“You have no idea what I’ve learned,” you snap back, before fully turning towards him and pointing accusatorily. “And you, you stay the fuck away from Wade Wilson, or I will find a way to kill you.”
You’re already halfway across the room by the time Yukio lets out a squeak of protest.
“Nope,” Ellie says, raising a hand to silence her other soulmate. “Just let her do her thing. Whatever keeps her from sneaking off and…”
“But shouldn’t we at least tell her-?”
“Nope,” Ellie repeats. “Honestly, at this point, I’m just impressed that she’s driving.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wade wonders.
“She’s fucking terrified of it. Like, an actual phobia. Look, can you just put up with it for a little bit longer? She’ll let it go once she realizes she’s not going to get anything out of it.”
“Do you even like her?” he can’t help but ask. Ellie’s petulant expression drops into one of guilt.
“I… I do. I just don’t like when she gets like this,” Ellie admits. “When she treats his actions like they’re her responsibility. She didn’t even know until she got put on that fucking task force. Neither did her mom. He’d always told them that he worked in… It doesn’t matter anymore. They thought he was helping people.”
“They told me that’s what they were doing, too,” Wade replies with a bitter scoff. “Well, I think the suit’s been sufficiently aired out. You two are still coming to my birthday party this weekend, right?”
He leaves once they confirm as much, and the next day, like clockwork, you appear at the dealership.
It’s different this time, though; or, rather, it’s the same as it was the first time. You’re shifty, uncertain.
“Someone reminded me that most of your income comes from commission,” you say in lieu of a greeting, before presenting him with an envelope. “It’s not much, but, uh… I’m sorry. And I won’t be coming back until I know exactly what I want.”
“I can’t accept tips,” he says, feeling rotten at the sight of this “kicked puppy” version of you. Whenever he senses that you’re unsettled or otherwise feeling down, it makes him think of Francis. How many times did he put that look on your face?
“It’s not a tip,” you say with a shrug. “It’s a gift. A parting gift. Hopefully by the time I’m back here, you’ll be in New York doing stand-up or something. You’re a funny guy, and you’re nice, too. You’ve got a lot more to offer the world than this, um, no offense.”
You continue to avoid eye contact… Then, he realizes, you’re not doing that at all — you’re looking for him. Not Wade-him, no, but Deadpool-him.
“Anyways, I’ll be out of your hair now,” you say with an airless chuckle, turning away and hopping back in the cab that brought you here. Wade cranes his neck, trying to see if Dopinder is the driver, but the tint of the windows is too dark.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next time he sees you, you’re both in your super-suits. You’re not wearing your gloves, or long sleeves. The suit you wear almost reminds him of his old tactical suit, your arms fully exposed. They’re covered in a variety of scars: striations from different tools, burns in different shapes, cuts, places where stitches used to be…
“You look like a piece of forensic clay,” he remarks as the three of you deboard the quinjet and begin stalking through the forest, if only to cover up the fact that it sickens him. What’s worse? Some are fresh. It’s obvious that you took up the mantle of inflicting pain on yourself once there was no one left to do it.
“Fuck you,” you retort, but his orders (translation: desperate pleading from Yukio) are clear — he needs to look out for you.
“Clever!” he sarcastically chirps back.
“You two,” the new Wolverine cuts in. “Bickerin’ like old hens is pretty counterintuitive to a stealth mission.”
“Look, I’m never gonna apologize for what happened to your pops, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a truce,” Wade attempts civility.
“My- Oh. You think I’m pissed about Francis dying because he was my father?” you ask, punctuating the question with an incredulous giggle. “No, you fucking moron, there was information only he knew about the program that died with him. You didn’t just kill him. You killed hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent people, Deadpool. If I could’ve gotten my hands on him-“
“What, like you didn’t have the opportunity before? He was your dad.”
“He’d break a finger every time he caught me without my gloves. And if I ran out of fingers to break, well…” You raise a hand, a spiral-shaped scar swirling out from the center of your palm. The eye of a stove, unmistakably. “That’s when we really had fun.”
“Fuck,” Logan hisses. You grin.
“All good. Not saying it for sympathy points. We all know what we need to do, yeah?” you ask. “I’ll take point on clearing the place out until you two ahold of the… Other Deadpool, or whatever… And join me. Solid plan. Y’know, I wonder if there’s another me, too. Probably nicer.”
“Probably,” Wade concurs, but only to save face. You are nice. You felt so bad about potentially preventing him from getting commission that you gave him a thousand-dollar check that last day, and, true to your word, never bothered him again. Part of him is tempted to ask what you were hoping to glean, but based on your interactions, he gets the feeling that you mostly just wanted to know he was okay, safe, and maybe even happy.
“How did you know?” you ask quietly as you get closer to the coordinates given for entry to the bunker.
“Know what?” he asks.
“About Wade,” you reply, still looking forward. Wade shakes his head at Logan as soon as the latter man’s mouth opens.
“We, uh… We kept each other company back then. When we both got out, we stayed in touch. We’re friends,” he fibs. Your head whips around to look at him, your expression deadly serious.
“You’re… And he mentioned me to you? What did he say? Other than the whole harassing him at work thing.”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Just tell me, asshole, you killed my dad,” you dodge the question as you turn away and continue to march forward.
“Fine, fine. He said you, uh, had that smart kind of humor where you didn’t even fully understand the joke until two hours later, and that you were awkward, but also patient and kind. Happy?”
You sniffle.
“Are you crying?”
“No!”
“Shh!” Logan shushes you both, pointing down to the hatch. You immediately jump to it, holding your hands on the wheel for a few seconds before twisting it this way and that— determining the way to unlock it via the psychic imprints of everyone who did before —then, fully turning it.
With the hatch open, you’re first in before either of them can say anything, and they scramble down the ladder after you.
Two guards are already waiting in this facsimile of a hospital — really, it looks just like a standard hospital, only… Dingy. Darker.
“Are those t-shirt cannons?” Wade asks incredulously. The guards fire said t-shirt cannons, but not at Wade or Logan. At you.
Every single shot lands on your exposed arms, or your head.
Their ammo isn’t exactly commemorative. You drag the bloodied hospital gown caught on your hair away, pulling it down to reveal a tear-soaked face, but also a wicked grin.
“Well, that was certainly creative,” you say with a chuckle, striding towards one of them while Logan goes for the other.
“That- That was supposed to incapacitate you,” the guard stammers weakly. You grab his face, and he howls in pain.
You let go. The guard instantly melts to the floor, still and quiet and undeniably dead.
You snatch the hand of the one Logan’s working on, and he drops, too.
“We don’t have time to play with these pawns,” you huff, charging forward with or without them.
“Fuck,” Wade hisses. “Slow down, Vestige.”
“No,” you say firmly. Your eyes are wide, your hands are shaking. “I meant what I said. We’re clearing this place out. Especially now that I know she’s here.”
“She?” Logan asks.
“Angel Dust,” you groan. “Goddamn it, why couldn’t you have killed her instead? Annoying little bitch.”
“Jesus Christ, didn’t Colossus turn her in?” Wade asks.
“And she got out. You think the government’s gonna investigate themselves and actually admit they did something as atrocious as this?” You chuckle bitterly. “No. No, the only solution is to get as much info as you can out of these people, then put ‘em down.”
“Do your soulmates know you think that way?”
You don’t respond, looking at some nearby signage to determine your next steps before heading left. Wade and Logan look at the same navigational sign to try and see not only where you went, but where the Deadpool variant might be:
↑ Pediatrics
↑ Cafeteria
↑ Restrooms
← Admissions
← Security
→ Imaging
→ Surgery
→ Rehabilitation
“Security,” Logan says. “Smart kid, but we’ll see how that goes.”
“And we both know ‘Rehabilitation’ is code for ‘trial by fire,’” Wade concurs. “So he’s probably the opposite way.”
They head right, finding the testing room with ease, but there’s no one there. It’s empty, there’s not even so-called doctors and nurses milling about the wide open space.
“Wait,” Logan says, pointing up to an elevated observation room, almost like a tech control booth in a theatre. Bingo. Wade can see a gaggle of lab coats hovering around Angel, who’s looking at something on a laptop screen and grinning.
Wade’s phone starts ringing as they begin mounting the stairs, a bubblegum-pop song for a bubblegum-haired woman.
He picks up at the same time that Logan glares.
“Kinda in the middle of something!” he scolds Yukio in lieu of a greeting. Yukio shrieks in pain, and he has to hold the phone away from his mask-covered ear for a moment.
“Where is she?! What’s happening?!” she asks through sobs.
Shit.
Wade’s head swivels between the door to the “Rehabilitation” department and the door he’s halfway up the stairs to, where Angel, where more vengeance is on the other side.
“I’ll circle back and get her. She was just supposed to be- It doesn’t matter, one of us’ll-”
“Then go!” Yukio cries out, and the line disconnects.
“Go!” Logan echoes the sentiment. “I’ll see what I can get out of them.”
Wade starts back down the stairs, but an all-too-familiar voice crackles over the intercom.
“Don’t bother. He’s bringing her back this way,” Angel announces, waving to him from the booth. “He’s really great. Everything you are and more.”
“So, why use him to take her down instead of using him on us? You guys were never into wasting resources like that.”
“You… You don’t know.” Angel’s laughter is manic, but she steadies herself before continuing: “You were never just Weapon 11, Wade. No… No, this was personal for Ajax. And now we can honor his memory by finally putting that wretched thing down.”
But when what must be the variant of him comes in with you slung over his shoulder, Wade can’t help but wonder which wretched thing Angel is referring to. He looks at his other self, mouth fused shut, eyes wide and unblinking, ink drilled into his skin in a strange design that follows the curves of his otherwise unblemished body…
“Wow. Gives butterface a whole new meaning,” Wade remarks.
“He’s perfect,” Angel says with a chuckle. “Someone finally figured out a way to shut you up. Not to mention, well, the chip in your brain makes you a lot more compliant. Doesn’t it, buddy?”
They can see from their position on the stairs that Angel is typing something into the laptop. Other Wade unceremoniously drops you to the ground, and your injuries are more apparent. You’re battered, bruised, and bleeding. Beaten to a bloody pulp, but still breathing, barely.
Before Wade knows it, he’s easing down the stairs, assessing every aspect of the environment, of the other him, of the way you’re not even writhing in pain. You’ve given up. You, the one who stole his katanas and had the audacity to say you were better than him, the one who told him you’d find a way to kill him if he laid a hand on just one Weapon X survivor, the one who had the pain of dozens shot at you as soon as you entered the facility and still marched forward…
You… Have given up. It can’t be. Not now.
Shnk.
Katana blades extend from the arms of the other him.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Logan hisses, right behind him, and the two race down the stairs. Other Wade is already on the defensive, disappearing into thin air and reappearing closer to block their path. They fend him off as best as they can, trading blows and slices and insane feats of strength and flexibility.
They somehow find their way back over to where you’re crumpled on the floor, and you grab his ankle. Not Other Wade. Wade Wade.
“Don’t…” you croak, your grip tightening with impossible strength, given your condition. “Don’t hurt him… It’s not his fault… It’s- It’s all my fault.”
“Your fault?! Don’t be ridiculous, this has nothing to do with you!” Wade cries out, parrying a swing from Other Wade.
Angel’s mocking laughter fills the room through the speakers.
“The chip,” you whisper, softer than air — he wouldn’t even hear if it weren’t for his superior senses. “Get the chip out. That’s all you have to do. Don’t hurt him.”
“Easier said than done, peaches. Now, let me-” He doesn’t finish the demand before you reflexively let him go to cough violently. Blood sprays over the tile floor.
Logan sinks his claws into Other Wade, holding him in place.
“Get him!” he shouts, and without hesitation, Wade cleaves his other self’s head clean off. Easy-peasy, now to fish out the chip and-
“What have you done?” you snarl, starting to drag your broken body up off the floor. Even as you wince with every little motion, you’re already on all fours.
“We can put it back on! Look!” Wade says. holding his hands out in a placating gesture before pointing to the way Other Wade’s body ambles around, aimlessly swinging his arm blades. “Stay down, okay?” He presses a gloved hand flat against your back, and that alone sends you down with a smack against the tile and a soft unph.
Wade’s already fishing around while Angel attempts to bark orders. If he had to guess, which he does, Other Wade’s chip is probably where they put the tracking chips in this universe, and his guess is correct. He fishes the chip out, plopping the head right back on the body. Skin knits together, and the other Wade’s eyes shoot open, pure panic in them before he scrambles over to you.
He cradles you in his arms, wails trapped behind his lips as he starts pushing your blood-soaked hair away from your bruised face.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you choke out. “It’s not your fault, it’s all my fault, I’m so sorry…”
Other Wade, fervently shakes his head, tears pouring from his eyes. He presses his forehead to yours insistently, still running his hands over your hair with muffled whimpers.
He looks up at the booth, his eyes glowing red before releasing beams of pure kinetic force, obliterating it.
“I did get some things done before he found me and beat the brakes off of me,” you remark, spluttering out more blood afterwards. Other Wade lets out an alarmed sound, lifting you up off the floor as he stands to his feet. “Get- Get the- The variant, and- And the survivors, okay? Wade and I can- We can head back up, radio for retrieval, backup. Get the records, too. Whatever you can.”
And so, they do, not bothering to correct the misunderstanding — not that they have the opportunity, considering Other Wade was off like a shot. They tear their way through lab coats, guards, and locks, and by the time everyone makes it out, Piotr’s there to inform him that you and Other Wade were the first to be flown back, given your condition and his variant’s inability to leave your side. They’re the last, but Wade doesn’t mind. It gives him time, for the first time since you opened that hatch, to think.
He tries. He pushes past the voices, past the blood he’s covered in, past everything but the brick wall of: why are you so protective of Wade Wilson, and why would a variant of him be what it takes to take you down? Not only that, but why would said variant be so distraught at doing so? Sure, you’re young, but you’re not an actual kid. You’re a grown ass woman, capable of killing someone with a touch!
A grown ass woman, capable of killing someone with a touch, who’s now in a medically-induced coma, he finds out upon his arrival to the school. He stops by the medbay to check in on his favorite sapphics, not to mention his doppelganger.
Ellie and Yukio are sitting at one side of your bed, appearing understandably shaken by the ordeal, while Other Wade stands guard on the other.
“Do we, um… Do we know what his deal is?” Yukio asks Wade, gesturing to the man.
“He’s the one who put her in this condition.”
“What?!” Ellie exclaims, rising to her feet.
“Easy! I don’t- Look, maybe you guys can help me put the pieces together. Angel was there, and she said I- What they did to me, it was personal for Francis. That I was made like this to kill her. And she kept telling me, even when was- Even as she was coughing up blood and could barely move, she was telling me it wasn’t his fault. That it was her fault. That I shouldn’t hurt him.”
“Oh, no,” Yukio says, getting choked up. “Oh, god, she thought he was you. And you’re- Oh, no-no-no-no-no…”
“What?!” Wade snaps. “Spit it out!”
“She’s adopted, Wade!” Ellie barks back. “Her mother died in childbirth, no one knew who the father was, and Ajax and LMP adopted her. When she was originally put on the school’s Weapon X task force, she found out what he was doing, and that her biological father was one of the test subjects — specifically so Francis would be able to sic him on her, not to mention the psychological damage of it all. Relatives of mutants with psychic powers usually have some level of immunity. You killed Francis before she could find out who her father was, or, I guess I should say, is. She, apparently, found out some other way, because of course she did, because that’s what she always does.”
“So, what you’re saying is… He’s- I’m-”
All those times you opened your mouth like you were going to say something, then closed it. All those times you stopped in the middle of a sentence, and finished it in a way that didn’t sound like what you’d planned to say when you first started speaking. All those times you smiled a little bit more genuinely when he let a casual term of endearment slip out. All those times he’d share some tidbit about his life, and you’d give him your undivided attention.
All those times you test drove a car, when you’re terrified of driving.
It was all for him. You were gathering the courage to tell him the truth, but instead, you gave him a check for a thousand dollars, some words of encouragement, and a promise to not come back until you knew exactly what you wanted. He was the reason you gave up. In the fight earlier, and in the attempt at reunification before that. It was him.
“Shit,” he whispers. It’s an underwhelming response. He should have a million things to say, he always does, but that’s all he can think right now. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
And then he does what he does best, when his heart drops and his stomach curdles.
He leaves. This time, he is the one to walk away from you.
Summa Cum Laude (OR: 3 Times Wade Turned You Down + The 1 Time He Finally Didn’t)
warnings/tags: Reader is Underage When She First Develops Feelings for Wade, Canon-Typical Violence, (Past) Suicide Attempt, (Past) Underage Drinking, Alcohol, Reader is BFFs with Yukisonic, Pansexual Reader, Slow-ish Burn, Reader Falls First Wade Falls Harder, Takes Place Post-DP2 and Pre-D&W
notes: Please let me know if I missed any warnings! I literally wrote all of this today. (My fiancée graduated yesterday and I got inspired.) Much like Blind Date, I could be persuaded to write a part 2 for Wade and this reader if there's demand.
synopsis: Wade has always turned you down, and for good reason. He's... Who he is, and the age gap is questionable at best. The problem, though, is that he never really said no. He just kept adding conditions to his willingness to say yes.
The first time, you didn’t even have to say anything. He’d donated a few pints to the blood bank— your food bank —and you’d skipped up to him, bestowing him with a rather exquisite (and handmade!) thank you card and a smile that, if he was faced with it for much longer, might actually cure his cancer. Too cute for a girl they call Bloodplay.
He’d opened the card, read your (innocuous, to the untrained eye) words, and looked back up at you.
“No,” he said, reflexively. The sparkle in your eye was more than just gratitude. It was innocence— something he could absolutely not handle —and the beginnings of affection, something he could handle even less.
You’re Ellie’s best friend (it’s how he knew about your peculiar diet in the first place) and you’re sixteen and while you’re certainly shaping up to be a beautiful woman, you’re not a woman — you’re a girl. A plaid, pleated skirt is swishing around your thighs with your restless shuffling, paired with a Nine Inch Nails tee shirt with the neck cut out and utterly impractical knee-high platform boots. You’re a good match for the artistic punk pixie.
“No?” you echoed. Your head tipped to the side with confusion, a thoughtful pout sprouted on your face… But the flush on your cheeks told a different story, told him you had at least an inkling of what he was getting at.
“No. Check back when you’re eighteen.”
And so, roughly two years later, is the second time — Russell’s saved, Cable’s sticking around, and you, well…
“Today’s my birthday,” you told him as soon as he drew his wrist away from your mouth, as soon as your eyes opened. You’d gone too far; you’d run out of the capsules that had been filled with small amounts of your blood for you to distribute as a medic and just started cutting yourself open to heal people, to save them.
You were still lying in the rubble, the aftermath, covered in bruises and burns. Your red-and-white X-Men medic outfit, patterned more like Ellie’s but unmistakably similar to Wade’s, is dirty and littered with slashes.
“Well, happy birthday, vampy,” he said, bemused by the fact that that’s the first thing you wanted to tell him. “I think saving your life’s a pretty good gift, yeah? Given the short notice, I didn’t exactly have time to grab a Hot Topic gift card.”
“I’m checking back,” you clarified, unamused for once. You always laughed at his jokes, sparing a chuckle at even the mildest of his remarks.
“Oh,” he blurted. He hardly remembered the throwaway comment, and you two had fostered a pretty decent friendship— or what he thought was friendship —in the time since then. You didn’t judge him as much as the other X-Men. You made steps to understand him, and it didn’t take many. You’re the apex predator. Even he is a meal to you.
“Well?”
“Come on, vampy, you can’t even buy me a drink,” he brushed you off again. Your eyes were still too glittery, catching the sun— even under an overcast sky like today —in a way that made him hurt.
You just groaned and rolled your eyes, but nodded, being a good sport just like the first time as you started to sit up. Ellie cackled. Yukio gave a sympathetic smile, if a bit pitying. Piotr shook his head and scooped you up off the ground.
“We will find you nice boy. Or nice girl! Or nice… Other! Deadpool cannot handle such an intricate thing as you, trust me,” Wade heard him advise you as the four of you made your way back to the quinjet.
Three years pass in the blink of an eye. Your birthdays are in the same month, so the budget-friendly plan to celebrate the milestone birthdays of two pansexuals— your 21 to his 30 —was, naturally, to head to the closest gay bar and party.
It was getting close to last call. Ellie and Yukio Ubered away about thirty minutes ago, Neena and Nathan snuck off to a bathroom with a unicorn about an hour ago, Piotr left about three hours ago, and Dopinder gave Vanessa a ride to work after someone called out at the last minute in the first hour of the event.
It was just you two. A rare occasion, something he’d started deliberately avoiding. You were fretfully nursing “a Pink Fetish with a dash of peach syrup, a spray of whipped cream, and a sugared rim,” which told him this was not your first time in a bar, especially given that you tried to order it as “The Y/N” before remembering where you were, and even more especially given that you were still coherent at 2 AM.
With a sigh, you finally spoke up to say, “Whatever he’s having.”
“I’m good,” he said, “We should be heading home.”
You didn’t turn your head, just cut your eyes over to him. It wasn’t quite a glare, or maybe it just couldn’t be taken seriously as one given the glitter in your hair and the shifting colors of the lights casting your face in blue, green, yellow, orange- Wait, you were talking.
“…So, what’s the next goalpost, then?” you finished your rant(?) with a question.
“Um,” he started. You are really determined, aren’t you? But why? You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re sweet, you’re… Well, you’re perfect. You’re young, you still have so much life ahead of you! Why him? What about him made you latch on and never let go? Was it just a matter of pride at this point? “Graduate… College,” he finally spit out.
He wasn’t even sure what your major was. As soon as you, Ellie, and Yukio got to talking about that stuff, he zones out. Ellie had completed her Associate’s in graphic design early due to dual enrollment and was whittling away the days of a tattoo apprenticeship, Yukio had used him as a case study for multiple projects in her Psychology program, and you… He didn’t want to know. Because if he knew, he might have become more endeared to you, and if that happened, he might not have been able to make himself say no anymore.
You nodded, downing the rest of your drink before closing out both of your tabs; not that either of you had to pay for very many of your own drinks, given the occasion.
The two of you shared a cab, and it was normal again. That was the thing about you, once you got the ‘no,’ you seemingly moved on. There were never tears, there was never a whiny “but why?” None of that. The two of you could still joke, you could still take a bite out of him as needed, it was fine. Commendable, really, because he’s sure you’re not used to rejection, to being told no. Yet, there was never a sense of entitlement in your approach to him; at least, nothing beyond the terms of the deal he’d made with you five years ago, the one he kept extending.
Five years. It’s been five years. You got a little taller, filled out a little more (not that he was staring or anything, he just noticed, he notices things, it’s nothing!) and yet, that terrible, awful, no-good sparkle never went away — not when you were looking at him, at least.
It’s another year later, it’s now when you knock at his door. He’s not Deadpool anymore, he’s just Wade: used car salesman, Avengers reject, X-Men dropout, utilizer of a hair system.
“Look, you guys are adorable, and I don’t mind feeding you, but I am really not interested in hearing about the Nephites and the Lamanites!” he insists as he opens the door.
It’s not missionaries.
It’s you. Cap and gown, shimmering tassel swaying with remnants of force from your steps to his door, diploma cover tucked under your arm, and a red envelope in your hand. It’s you.
Something about the look on his face causes you to pass him the envelope wordlessly, blinking tears away— that’s new, he wasn’t even sure you could cry —before turning away to head back down the hall.
“Wait!” he calls after you.
“What now?” you ask in a trembling voice— he didn’t know you could sound like that, either, and he thinks his heart might’ve stopped beating when he hears it —not walking away anymore, but not turning around. “Half your age plus seven? Because I am, exactly. I did the math. Just… Read the card, okay? It’ll explain everything.”
And so, Wade, just Wade, now, but somehow still the apple of your eye, just barely manages to say “Okay,” as he watches you be the one to walk away this time.
He shuffles back into his apartment, locking the door behind him and sitting on the couch.
Wade, the envelope says in black, in a Celtic-inspired calligraphy font that looks painstaking. He hasn’t been this nervous to open a piece of mail since 2001. Were you even alive then?
It’s a thank you card. A handmade thank you card.
Still exquisite, but this time, a little more personalized. Stars, his favorite shape, adorn the black card, each little one stamped in white ink while Thank you for everything, screams at him in shimmering, metallic red ink and more meticulous calligraphy.
He holds his breath, opening the card to reveal, as promised, your handwriting. You wrote small, to fit everything you had to say, but that’s not an issue for him.
Dear Wade,
I went back and forth on what to say here. There will be a whole army of birds, squirrels, and chipmunks waiting for me at the gates of Hell when my time comes, considering what I’ve contributed to deforestation just by drafting this out. I suppose I should start by saying I’m not angry with you. Last year, it seemed like you thought I was. You were twitchier than usual. I felt bad about that. I still do.
I really do mean it. What the front says, that is. You probably didn’t realize it— or maybe you’re an absolute mastermind and totally did, in which case, my bad —but I really don’t know what I would’ve amounted to without you setting goals for me. When you told me to check back at 18, that meant I had to live to see it. When you told me I had to be able to buy you a drink, that meant I had to get a real job to be able to afford to. When you told me I had to graduate college, that meant I had to, well, graduate college!
So, I did. Summa cum laude. I hope I’m actually present to hear whatever dirty joke you just said. I’m sorry if I ran away. I’m not good with stuff like this. Maybe you know that. Maybe you don’t, because you’re the one person that doesn’t look at me like I’m two seconds away from ripping out your still-beating heart with my bare hands and chowing down. Or maybe you’re just the one person who doesn’t look at me like they’re AFRAID of me doing that. Either way, it’s usually easier to be around you.
All of that is to say, thank you. I don’t know why you didn’t just tell me no, considering at this point it’s obvious you don’t have any interest in me that way, but thank you. I needed that hope. It’s been fun, loving you. The thrill of hearing that you’d be paying the mansion a visit, the rush of a compliment from you, even if it was just a throwaway line, the adventures we had… Whether it was sneaking off to get breakfast using the emergency credit card from the school, conspiring to throw Yukio a surprise birthday party, or saving someone from themselves, every moment has been priceless to me. I made friends. I graduated high school and college. I lived. I owe that to you.
I still remember you remarking about how you saving my life was my 18th birthday gift. I need you to know that you didn’t just do it that day. It was every day. Every day that I got to look forward to meeting the next requirement, every day you’d stop by and make some joke about me being jailbait and pretend it hurt when Ellie punched you in the arm just so she wouldn’t break her hand by trying again, EVERY DAY.
So, again I’ll say, thank you for everything. I’m sorry. I’ll never bother you about it again.
Sincerely,
You signed your full name. He didn’t even know your middle name. It’s cute, it suits you.
He closes the card, noticing on the back:
P.S. Accidentally skipped a paragraph when I was copying the letter over. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna write it all out here. But… I need you to understand that I understand. There’s a picture of me in the envelope. From before.
Before. Before is a time Wade doesn’t know about, a time alluded to in hushed tones even by cheerful Yukio and brash Ellie, a time that makes your whole face go blank and your shoulders sag at just the thought. It makes you feel something he hasn’t yet been able to pinpoint despite having a pretty good grasp on all your little expressions. Is it shame? Disappointment? Homesickness?
Something happened to you that changed you, deeply. He sees it in the way you occasionally jump at your own reflection, or even your own shadow. Could you have possibly been more beautiful before? No, that can’t be. Did someone hurt you? Is that why you’re so attracted to him, does he remind you of them? Those are questions that have plagued him for a long time, ever since the last time you gave him a thank you card.
He carefully squeezes the sides of the envelope in one hand, opening it wider to pinch and slide out a photograph with the other.
A little girl. A little girl who looks just like him, but scrawny, visibly malnourished. She sits between Ellie and Yukio, forcing a smile, eyes hazed over with cataracts, or maybe just more scarring. She wears a wig and a sundress, but he can tell by her posture that she doesn’t like the way she looks.
Ellie and Yukio look to be about 14 in this picture, but that can’t be right, because that little girl- You, he corrects his thoughts in a gut-punch of a realization, you don’t look older than 10. He flips the picture over. Nope. You were 14 in the picture, based on the date written on the back.
What the fuck?
What happened to you?
He blinks, and he’s at the door of the mansion, pounding on it like it has the answers.
When no one answers, he tries it — unlocked. He’s too focused on the task at hand to feel stupid, especially when he hears you yelling:
“No, I don’t want to! Just leave me alone!”
…Followed by a slammed door and a long-suffering sigh that is distinctly Ellie, then a whiny, commiserative hum from Yukio.
“She’ll do it when she’s ready,” Yukio says, and Wade can hear her patting Ellie’s shoulder.
“She’s gonna make herself go blind again, if she hasn’t already.” Wade can’t see the petulant expression on Ellie’s face, but he can picture it.
“Maybe that’s what she wants. Maybe she doesn’t want to see right now,” Yukio suggests.
“Well, if she’s feeling that nostalgic, how long’s it gonna be until she tries to kill herself again, huh?” Ellie retorts, and Wade’s blood runs cold. You… Again?!
“Don’t say that! She’s just sad, she’s allowed to be sad!” Yukio insists, but it’s too late, he’s already up the stairs and shoving past them to force his way into your room. The sound of the door being forcefully opened seems to startle you more than his presence.
Every version of you he’s ever seen passes through his mind’s eye: pruned, smooth, shy, confident, hesitant, eager, reckless, cautious, hopeful, resigned, blossoming, bloomed- You. Just you. It’s just you.
But it’s never just you, is it? That’s the scary part. That he might feel something he’s not supposed to, want something he doesn’t deserve.
“You’re a real fuckin’ narcissist, huh?” he blurts, and it’s wrong, now’s not the time, not if you’re hurt, not if it’s all his fault, not if you’re going somewhere he can’t follow.
“Yeah,” you say through a watery chuckle. You’re sitting in the center of your bed with your knees pulled to your chest.
Wade can smell it in the air, sweet and cloying and wrong. Burnt flesh. Your burnt flesh. He sees the trails down your face, following the lines of the tears you’ve shed, splotches of inflamed skin. Your hands are burnt, too, from wiping them away.
“I don’t understand,” he admits. “I get that you- You give me more credit than I deserve, and that makes sense, kind of, but… What is this? Why did… Before?”
“I didn't know what my dietary needs were. And, as you know by now, my blood burns me. Nature’s balance. When I was born…”
“You were covered in it,” he says. “And this?”
“Hemophilia. Blood in my tears.”
“And me? Why me in the first place, what, six years ago, now? You didn’t even know what I looked like back then.”
You chuckle bitterly, shaking your head at yourself.
“You’re tall. Funny. Nice. Different. It doesn’t take much to impress a sixteen-year old girl who doesn’t even recognize her reflection. It was all the more swoon-worthy when you didn’t jump at the opportunity.”
He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way one of his eyebrow muscles raises that he needs you to elaborate.
“When I… When I got better, I went through puberty overnight, literally. I was trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine, none of my clothes fit, no one was treating me the same way as they did before. Pretty much everyone who knew me before… They were always staring, practically foaming at the mouth. Not you, though. You treated me like… Like I needed to be protected, right when pretty much everyone else had stopped doing that.”
“And how did you get better, exactly? ‘Cause, uh, hello?” He gestures at himself, and you shake your head again.
“I… Tried to end my life. I was blind, cold, and everything hurt all the time. There was a blood transfusion,” you explain quietly. Clearing your throat, you continue, trying to lighten the mood: “When I came out of the medbay, I asked Ellie if she was alright, because she was crying. She hadn’t heard the news that I was okay yet, and she didn’t recognize me, ‘cause even my voice… She clocked me right in the jaw.”
Wade clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the guffaw that wants to escape him, but you laugh, too.
“Yeah. I’m… Sorry,” you say, and he knows what you mean — you’d cut yourself open right now if it’d save him. That’s the other scary part:
You can actually kill him.
Yukio had been the one to let that slip, or maybe she was just the one who figured it out out loud, that night in the courtyard at some point between your eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays. He knows it was then, because that was when you had red dip-dyed hair that you’d always fuss with whenever he was around, like you were simultaneously embarrassed by it and hoping he’d notice.
He’d jokingly asked for a sample to help his headache, and Yukio had seriously answered, rambling on about how your blood accelerates cancer and reverses the changes made to mutates while everyone else was digging into their Taco Bell and you sipped on a pint of someone sweet.
“Don’t be. It’s the last thing I’d want.”
You whimper, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders start to shake.
“No- Wait- Fuck! I’d love to- I’m sure you taste- I just meant- I don’t want you to be hurt, I hate how they just take it outta you without a second thought and-“
“I know.”
You know. You know. Good.
Then why are you crying again?
“I just love you so much,” you weep. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, at least so sincerely.
It makes it real. Well, it was real before, but… Realer. Impossible to ignore, impossible to deny.
No longer paralyzed by shock and fear and a million other emotions, Wade steps forward until he’s sitting on your bed with you. It’s more rigid than he expected. He’d imagined yielding softness, a cloud for an angel to rest her weary little self upon, but no. It’s firm support, cradling you every night like he dreams of doing when the state of half-sleep nullifies his inhibitions and— just for a dreadful, sinful, much-needed second —the pillow in his arms is you.
He peels your hands off of your face, your skin sticking together just for a second. You nearly melted it together. That realization has a whole new wave of pure ache rolling through him, especially when he smells that horrid sweetness. He leans in closer.
“Don’t,” you whisper, and that sparkle in your eye that he’s always had a love-hate relationship with is gone, replaced by the haze of corneal scarring from your tears. Can you even see him right now, or are you just relying on your other four senses? “Not if it’s just to make me feel better.”
Then, you can’t, because you’d know. You’d know that he’s not looking at you with pity, or resignation, or some twisted form of mercy. He’s looking at you with realization. Acceptance. Need.
And so, he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he takes out his pocket knife and slices open his palm. The scent hits your nose as the motion registers. He watches your pupils blow wide and your lips part just slightly, as if to taste it in the air. He sees the way your breath catches in your chest. That anticipatory look of yours easily ranks in his top five ranking of your facial expressions.
He holds his hand up to your lips, and you lap at him in a way that’s always made him tense up — not out of fear that you’d hurt him, but fear that he might not be able to stop himself from hurting you, from wanting too much.
You pull back and blink a few times, and there it is again. The sparkle. It matters more than the fact that the burns have faded, it matters more than anything. You’re smiling sadly, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Still the best,” you quietly remark, trying to play it cool. You’d told him that a few times. Everyone’s blood tastes different, considering different genetic compositions, different diets, and so on. He’s your favorite flavor.
“Still not sure if I should say thanks to that or not,” he replies just as softly. Then, he remembers he has something to prove, because he cannot have you thinking that he was only about to kiss you because he felt sorry for you. He takes your face in his hands, the cut from before already closed up.
“I told you not to-“
“-if I was doing it to make you feel better. I was there. Look, sweetness, I’m not gonna pretend I felt the same as you the whole time, because that would make me even more of a disgusting freak than I already am. But! But-but-but… You’ve got me. You do. You have for a while. I was just, y’know… Dealing with the uncomfortable implications of that. Capische?”
“Capische,” you murmur, still stupefied by the fact that holy shit, this is really happening when his lips carefully meet yours.
You’re too hungry for careful. You’ve needed this too long for careful.
You deepen the kiss, your hands fisting into his zany-patterned button-up and tearing through the material with his strength — a usually beneficial side effect of the consumption of his blood.
That’s when Yukio squeals at the top of her lungs.
The two of you part with surprise, turning towards the door Wade left open, where Ellie is grimacing and Yukio is rocking on her heels. The latter woman still wearing an open graduation gown, much like you were when you showed up on his doorstep earlier. Were they there the whole fucking time?!
“The Bloodpool group chat is gonna go crazy!” Yukio cheers. Your whole face burns.
“You coined a ship name for us?” Wade asks in a delighted coo before you can get the courage to turn and see his reaction. You sigh, half in relief that he’s cool with it, half in annoyance at the interruption.
“C’mon, babe,” Ellie finally pipes up. “Let’s give them some privacy.”
With that, Ellie closes your bedroom door. You hear their retreating footsteps, Ellie’s grumbling, and Yukio’s excited chatter.
You go to kiss him again, but he stops you.
“Nuh-uh. You’re juiced, and with my blood, too. There's enough horniness between the two of us to make the world implode. Let’s go on a date first. A real one, just us.”
Logan wasn’t exactly subtle. He wasn’t loud about it either, but anyone with two eyes and half a brain could tell he was into you.
Anyone but you, apparently.
He’d sit next to you even when the whole damn room was empty. Offer you the last beer, even though you knew he was craving it all day. He’d grunt and roll his eyes when you asked if he wanted to come with you on errands—but he always came. Always carried your bags. Always walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic.
And still, you thought he was just being nice.
“You look beautiful,” he muttered one day under his breath, watching you giggle at something on your phone while curled up in his flannel. You’d taken it weeks ago, claiming it was “comfy,” and never gave it back.
You looked up at him, blinking. “Did you say something?”
He just sighed, leaned back on the couch, and tossed an arm over his eyes.
One time, he even bought you flowers. Like, real ones. No occasion. Just saw them at the market and thought they reminded him of you. You took them with a beaming smile and said, “Aww! These are so pretty. I should get you something too—you’ve been such a good friend lately!”
Friend.
He nearly growled.
But he still gave you rides, still patched you up when you scraped your knees, still stood a little too close every time you were upset—like his presence alone could protect you from the world.
One night, he stood in your doorway, jaw tight, eyes stormy. You’d been talking about some guy who asked for your number at the bar.
“I said no,” you assured him, laughing. “I don’t even know if he was my type.”
Logan looked at you then. Really looked at you.
“What is your type?”
You shrugged, completely missing the tension in his shoulders. “I dunno. Strong, protective. Kinda broody, I guess? But sweet. Like... quiet sweet. If that makes sense?”
His voice was gravel when he spoke. “So me.”
You paused. Laughed. “Yeah, kinda like you.”
He raised an eyebrow. Waited. Nothing.
You stared at him, clueless.
He turned and muttered under his breath as he left your room, “Unbelievable.”
But the next morning, there was coffee waiting for you.
Summa Cum Laude (OR: 3 Times Wade Turned You Down + The 1 Time He Finally Didn’t)
warnings/tags: Reader is Underage When She First Develops Feelings for Wade, Canon-Typical Violence, (Past) Suicide Attempt, (Past) Underage Drinking, Alcohol, Reader is BFFs with Yukisonic, Pansexual Reader, Slow-ish Burn, Reader Falls First Wade Falls Harder, Takes Place Post-DP2 and Pre-D&W
notes: Please let me know if I missed any warnings! I literally wrote all of this today. (My fiancée graduated yesterday and I got inspired.) Much like Blind Date, I could be persuaded to write a part 2 for Wade and this reader if there's demand.
synopsis: Wade has always turned you down, and for good reason. He's... Who he is, and the age gap is questionable at best. The problem, though, is that he never really said no. He just kept adding conditions to his willingness to say yes.
Part 2!
The first time, you didn’t even have to say anything. He’d donated a few pints to the blood bank— your food bank —and you’d skipped up to him, bestowing him with a rather exquisite (and handmade!) thank you card and a smile that, if he was faced with it for much longer, might actually cure his cancer. Too cute for a girl they call Bloodplay.
He’d opened the card, read your (innocuous, to the untrained eye) words, and looked back up at you.
“No,” he said, reflexively. The sparkle in your eye was more than just gratitude. It was innocence— something he could absolutely not handle —and the beginnings of affection, something he could handle even less.
You’re Ellie’s best friend (it’s how he knew about your peculiar diet in the first place) and you’re sixteen and while you’re certainly shaping up to be a beautiful woman, you’re not a woman — you’re a girl. A plaid, pleated skirt is swishing around your thighs with your restless shuffling, paired with a Nine Inch Nails tee shirt with the neck cut out and utterly impractical knee-high platform boots. You’re a good match for the artistic punk pixie.
“No?” you echoed. Your head tipped to the side with confusion, a thoughtful pout sprouted on your face… But the flush on your cheeks told a different story, told him you had at least an inkling of what he was getting at.
“No. Check back when you’re eighteen.”
And so, roughly two years later, is the second time — Russell’s saved, Cable’s sticking around, and you, well…
“Today’s my birthday,” you told him as soon as he drew his wrist away from your mouth, as soon as your eyes opened. You’d gone too far; you’d run out of the capsules that had been filled with small amounts of your blood for you to distribute as a medic and just started cutting yourself open to heal people, to save them.
You were still lying in the rubble, the aftermath, covered in bruises and burns. Your red-and-white X-Men medic outfit, patterned more like Ellie’s but unmistakably similar to Wade’s, is dirty and littered with slashes.
“Well, happy birthday, vampy,” he said, bemused by the fact that that’s the first thing you wanted to tell him. “I think saving your life’s a pretty good gift, yeah? Given the short notice, I didn’t exactly have time to grab a Hot Topic gift card.”
“I’m checking back,” you clarified, unamused for once. You always laughed at his jokes, sparing a chuckle at even the mildest of his remarks.
“Oh,” he blurted. He hardly remembered the throwaway comment, and you two had fostered a pretty decent friendship— or what he thought was friendship —in the time since then. You didn’t judge him as much as the other X-Men. You made steps to understand him, and it didn’t take many. You’re the apex predator. Even he is a meal to you.
“Well?”
“Come on, vampy, you can’t even buy me a drink,” he brushed you off again. Your eyes were still too glittery, catching the sun— even under an overcast sky like today —in a way that made him hurt.
You just groaned and rolled your eyes, but nodded, being a good sport just like the first time as you started to sit up. Ellie cackled. Yukio gave a sympathetic smile, if a bit pitying. Piotr shook his head and scooped you up off the ground.
“We will find you nice boy. Or nice girl! Or nice… Other! Deadpool cannot handle such an intricate thing as you, trust me,” Wade heard him advise you as the four of you made your way back to the quinjet.
Three years pass in the blink of an eye. Your birthdays are in the same month, so the budget-friendly plan to celebrate the milestone birthdays of two pansexuals— your 21 to his 30 —was, naturally, to head to the closest gay bar and party.
It was getting close to last call. Ellie and Yukio Ubered away about thirty minutes ago, Neena and Nathan snuck off to a bathroom with a unicorn about an hour ago, Piotr left about three hours ago, and Dopinder gave Vanessa a ride to work after someone called out at the last minute in the first hour of the event.
It was just you two. A rare occasion, something he’d started deliberately avoiding. You were fretfully nursing “a Pink Fetish with a dash of peach syrup, a spray of whipped cream, and a sugared rim,” which told him this was not your first time in a bar, especially given that you tried to order it as “The Y/N” before remembering where you were, and even more especially given that you were still coherent at 2 AM.
With a sigh, you finally spoke up to say, “Whatever he’s having.”
“I’m good,” he said, “We should be heading home.”
You didn’t turn your head, just cut your eyes over to him. It wasn’t quite a glare, or maybe it just couldn’t be taken seriously as one given the glitter in your hair and the shifting colors of the lights casting your face in blue, green, yellow, orange- Wait, you were talking.
“…So, what’s the next goalpost, then?” you finished your rant(?) with a question.
“Um,” he started. You are really determined, aren’t you? But why? You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re sweet, you’re… Well, you’re perfect. You’re young, you still have so much life ahead of you! Why him? What about him made you latch on and never let go? Was it just a matter of pride at this point? “Graduate… College,” he finally spit out.
He wasn’t even sure what your major was. As soon as you, Ellie, and Yukio got to talking about that stuff, he zones out. Ellie had completed her Associate’s in graphic design early due to dual enrollment and was whittling away the days of a tattoo apprenticeship, Yukio had used him as a case study for multiple projects in her Psychology program, and you… He didn’t want to know. Because if he knew, he might have become more endeared to you, and if that happened, he might not have been able to make himself say no anymore.
You nodded, downing the rest of your drink before closing out both of your tabs; not that either of you had to pay for very many of your own drinks, given the occasion.
The two of you shared a cab, and it was normal again. That was the thing about you, once you got the ‘no,’ you seemingly moved on. There were never tears, there was never a whiny “but why?” None of that. The two of you could still joke, you could still take a bite out of him as needed, it was fine. Commendable, really, because he’s sure you’re not used to rejection, to being told no. Yet, there was never a sense of entitlement in your approach to him; at least, nothing beyond the terms of the deal he’d made with you five years ago, the one he kept extending.
Five years. It’s been five years. You got a little taller, filled out a little more (not that he was staring or anything, he just noticed, he notices things, it’s nothing!) and yet, that terrible, awful, no-good sparkle never went away — not when you were looking at him, at least.
It’s another year later, it’s now when you knock at his door. He’s not Deadpool anymore, he’s just Wade: used car salesman, Avengers reject, X-Men dropout, utilizer of a hair system.
“Look, you guys are adorable, and I don’t mind feeding you, but I am really not interested in hearing about the Nephites and the Lamanites!” he insists as he opens the door.
It’s not missionaries.
It’s you. Cap and gown, shimmering tassel swaying with remnants of force from your steps to his door, diploma cover tucked under your arm, and a red envelope in your hand. It’s you.
Something about the look on his face causes you to pass him the envelope wordlessly, blinking tears away— that’s new, he wasn’t even sure you could cry —before turning away to head back down the hall.
“Wait!” he calls after you.
“What now?” you ask in a trembling voice— he didn’t know you could sound like that, either, and he thinks his heart might’ve stopped beating when he hears it —not walking away anymore, but not turning around. “Half your age plus seven? Because I am, exactly. I did the math. Just… Read the card, okay? It’ll explain everything.”
And so, Wade, just Wade, now, but somehow still the apple of your eye, just barely manages to say “Okay,” as he watches you be the one to walk away this time.
He shuffles back into his apartment, locking the door behind him and sitting on the couch.
Wade, the envelope says in black, in a Celtic-inspired calligraphy font that looks painstaking. He hasn’t been this nervous to open a piece of mail since 2001. Were you even alive then?
It’s a thank you card. A handmade thank you card.
Still exquisite, but this time, a little more personalized. Stars, his favorite shape, adorn the black card, each little one stamped in white ink while Thank you for everything, screams at him in shimmering, metallic red ink and more meticulous calligraphy.
He holds his breath, opening the card to reveal, as promised, your handwriting. You wrote small, to fit everything you had to say, but that’s not an issue for him.
Dear Wade,
I went back and forth on what to say here. There will be a whole army of birds, squirrels, and chipmunks waiting for me at the gates of Hell when my time comes, considering what I’ve contributed to deforestation just by drafting this out. I suppose I should start by saying I’m not angry with you. Last year, it seemed like you thought I was. You were twitchier than usual. I felt bad about that. I still do.
I really do mean it. What the front says, that is. You probably didn’t realize it— or maybe you’re an absolute mastermind and totally did, in which case, my bad —but I really don’t know what I would’ve amounted to without you setting goals for me. When you told me to check back at 18, that meant I had to live to see it. When you told me I had to be able to buy you a drink, that meant I had to get a real job to be able to afford to. When you told me I had to graduate college, that meant I had to, well, graduate college!
So, I did. Summa cum laude. I hope I’m actually present to hear whatever dirty joke you just said. I’m sorry if I ran away. I’m not good with stuff like this. Maybe you know that. Maybe you don’t, because you’re the one person that doesn’t look at me like I’m two seconds away from ripping out your still-beating heart with my bare hands and chowing down. Or maybe you’re just the one person who doesn’t look at me like they’re AFRAID of me doing that. Either way, it’s usually easier to be around you.
All of that is to say, thank you. I don’t know why you didn’t just tell me no, considering at this point it’s obvious you don’t have any interest in me that way, but thank you. I needed that hope. It’s been fun, loving you. The thrill of hearing that you’d be paying the mansion a visit, the rush of a compliment from you, even if it was just a throwaway line, the adventures we had… Whether it was sneaking off to get breakfast using the emergency credit card from the school, conspiring to throw Yukio a surprise birthday party, or saving someone from themselves, every moment has been priceless to me. I made friends. I graduated high school and college. I lived. I owe that to you.
I still remember you remarking about how you saving my life was my 18th birthday gift. I need you to know that you didn’t just do it that day. It was every day. Every day that I got to look forward to meeting the next requirement, every day you’d stop by and make some joke about me being jailbait and pretend it hurt when Ellie punched you in the arm just so she wouldn’t break her hand by trying again, EVERY DAY.
So, again I’ll say, thank you for everything. I’m sorry. I’ll never bother you about it again.
Sincerely,
You signed your full name. He didn’t even know your middle name. It’s cute, it suits you.
He closes the card, noticing on the back:
P.S. Accidentally skipped a paragraph when I was copying the letter over. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna write it all out here. But… I need you to understand that I understand. There’s a picture of me in the envelope. From before.
Before. Before is a time Wade doesn’t know about, a time alluded to in hushed tones even by cheerful Yukio and brash Ellie, a time that makes your whole face go blank and your shoulders sag at just the thought. It makes you feel something he hasn’t yet been able to pinpoint despite having a pretty good grasp on all your little expressions. Is it shame? Disappointment? Homesickness?
Something happened to you that changed you, deeply. He sees it in the way you occasionally jump at your own reflection, or even your own shadow. Could you have possibly been more beautiful before? No, that can’t be. Did someone hurt you? Is that why you’re so attracted to him, does he remind you of them? Those are questions that have plagued him for a long time, ever since the last time you gave him a thank you card.
He carefully squeezes the sides of the envelope in one hand, opening it wider to pinch and slide out a photograph with the other.
A little girl. A little girl who looks just like him, but scrawny, visibly malnourished. She sits between Ellie and Yukio, forcing a smile, eyes hazed over with cataracts, or maybe just more scarring. She wears a wig and a sundress, but he can tell by her posture that she doesn’t like the way she looks.
Ellie and Yukio look to be about 14 in this picture, but that can’t be right, because that little girl- You, he corrects his thoughts in a gut-punch of a realization, you don’t look older than 10. He flips the picture over. Nope. You were 14 in the picture, based on the date written on the back.
What the fuck?
What happened to you?
He blinks, and he’s at the door of the mansion, pounding on it like it has the answers.
When no one answers, he tries it — unlocked. He’s too focused on the task at hand to feel stupid, especially when he hears you yelling:
“No, I don’t want to! Just leave me alone!”
…Followed by a slammed door and a long-suffering sigh that is distinctly Ellie, then a whiny, commiserative hum from Yukio.
“She’ll do it when she’s ready,” Yukio says, and Wade can hear her patting Ellie’s shoulder.
“She’s gonna make herself go blind again, if she hasn’t already.” Wade can’t see the petulant expression on Ellie’s face, but he can picture it.
“Maybe that’s what she wants. Maybe she doesn’t want to see right now,” Yukio suggests.
“Well, if she’s feeling that nostalgic, how long’s it gonna be until she tries to kill herself again, huh?” Ellie retorts, and Wade’s blood runs cold. You… Again?!
“Don’t say that! She’s just sad, she’s allowed to be sad!” Yukio insists, but it’s too late, he’s already up the stairs and shoving past them to force his way into your room. The sound of the door being forcefully opened seems to startle you more than his presence.
Every version of you he’s ever seen passes through his mind’s eye: pruned, smooth, shy, confident, hesitant, eager, reckless, cautious, hopeful, resigned, blossoming, bloomed- You. Just you. It’s just you.
But it’s never just you, is it? That’s the scary part. That he might feel something he’s not supposed to, want something he doesn’t deserve.
“You’re a real fuckin’ narcissist, huh?” he blurts, and it’s wrong, now’s not the time, not if you’re hurt, not if it’s all his fault, not if you’re going somewhere he can’t follow.
“Yeah,” you say through a watery chuckle. You’re sitting in the center of your bed with your knees pulled to your chest.
Wade can smell it in the air, sweet and cloying and wrong. Burnt flesh. Your burnt flesh. He sees the trails down your face, following the lines of the tears you’ve shed, splotches of inflamed skin. Your hands are burnt, too, from wiping them away.
“I don’t understand,” he admits. “I get that you- You give me more credit than I deserve, and that makes sense, kind of, but… What is this? Why did… Before?”
“I didn't know what my dietary needs were. And, as you know by now, my blood burns me. Nature’s balance. When I was born…”
“You were covered in it,” he says. “And this?”
“Hemophilia. Blood in my tears.”
“And me? Why me in the first place, what, six years ago, now? You didn’t even know what I looked like back then.”
You chuckle bitterly, shaking your head at yourself.
“You’re tall. Funny. Nice. Different. It doesn’t take much to impress a sixteen-year old girl who doesn’t even recognize her reflection. It was all the more swoon-worthy when you didn’t jump at the opportunity.”
He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way one of his eyebrow muscles raises that he needs you to elaborate.
“When I… When I got better, I went through puberty overnight, literally. I was trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine, none of my clothes fit, no one was treating me the same way as they did before. Pretty much everyone who knew me before… They were always staring, practically foaming at the mouth. Not you, though. You treated me like… Like I needed to be protected, right when pretty much everyone else had stopped doing that.”
“And how did you get better, exactly? ‘Cause, uh, hello?” He gestures at himself, and you shake your head again.
“I… Tried to end my life. I was blind, cold, and everything hurt all the time. There was a blood transfusion,” you explain quietly. Clearing your throat, you continue, trying to lighten the mood: “When I came out of the medbay, I asked Ellie if she was alright, because she was crying. She hadn’t heard the news that I was okay yet, and she didn’t recognize me, ‘cause even my voice… She clocked me right in the jaw.”
Wade clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle the guffaw that wants to escape him, but you laugh, too.
“Yeah. I’m… Sorry,” you say, and he knows what you mean — you’d cut yourself open right now if it’d save him. That’s the other scary part:
You can actually kill him.
Yukio had been the one to let that slip, or maybe she was just the one who figured it out out loud, that night in the courtyard at some point between your eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays. He knows it was then, because that was when you had red dip-dyed hair that you’d always fuss with whenever he was around, like you were simultaneously embarrassed by it and hoping he’d notice.
He’d jokingly asked for a sample to help his headache, and Yukio had seriously answered, rambling on about how your blood accelerates cancer and reverses the changes made to mutates while everyone else was digging into their Taco Bell and you sipped on a pint of someone sweet.
“Don’t be. It’s the last thing I’d want.”
You whimper, burying your face in your hands as your shoulders start to shake.
“No- Wait- Fuck! I’d love to- I’m sure you taste- I just meant- I don’t want you to be hurt, I hate how they just take it outta you without a second thought and-“
“I know.”
You know. You know. Good.
Then why are you crying again?
“I just love you so much,” you weep. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, at least so sincerely.
It makes it real. Well, it was real before, but… Realer. Impossible to ignore, impossible to deny.
No longer paralyzed by shock and fear and a million other emotions, Wade steps forward until he’s sitting on your bed with you. It’s more rigid than he expected. He’d imagined yielding softness, a cloud for an angel to rest her weary little self upon, but no. It’s firm support, cradling you every night like he dreams of doing when the state of half-sleep nullifies his inhibitions and— just for a dreadful, sinful, much-needed second —the pillow in his arms is you.
He peels your hands off of your face, your skin sticking together just for a second. You nearly melted it together. That realization has a whole new wave of pure ache rolling through him, especially when he smells that horrid sweetness. He leans in closer.
“Don’t,” you whisper, and that sparkle in your eye that he’s always had a love-hate relationship with is gone, replaced by the haze of corneal scarring from your tears. Can you even see him right now, or are you just relying on your other four senses? “Not if it’s just to make me feel better.”
Then, you can’t, because you’d know. You’d know that he’s not looking at you with pity, or resignation, or some twisted form of mercy. He’s looking at you with realization. Acceptance. Need.
And so, he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he takes out his pocket knife and slices open his palm. The scent hits your nose as the motion registers. He watches your pupils blow wide and your lips part just slightly, as if to taste it in the air. He sees the way your breath catches in your chest. That anticipatory look of yours easily ranks in his top five ranking of your facial expressions.
He holds his hand up to your lips, and you lap at him in a way that’s always made him tense up — not out of fear that you’d hurt him, but fear that he might not be able to stop himself from hurting you, from wanting too much.
You pull back and blink a few times, and there it is again. The sparkle. It matters more than the fact that the burns have faded, it matters more than anything. You’re smiling sadly, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Still the best,” you quietly remark, trying to play it cool. You’d told him that a few times. Everyone’s blood tastes different, considering different genetic compositions, different diets, and so on. He’s your favorite flavor.
“Still not sure if I should say thanks to that or not,” he replies just as softly. Then, he remembers he has something to prove, because he cannot have you thinking that he was only about to kiss you because he felt sorry for you. He takes your face in his hands, the cut from before already closed up.
“I told you not to-“
“-if I was doing it to make you feel better. I was there. Look, sweetness, I’m not gonna pretend I felt the same as you the whole time, because that would make me even more of a disgusting freak than I already am. But! But-but-but… You’ve got me. You do. You have for a while. I was just, y’know… Dealing with the uncomfortable implications of that. Capische?”
“Capische,” you murmur, still stupefied by the fact that holy shit, this is really happening when his lips carefully meet yours.
You’re too hungry for careful. You’ve needed this too long for careful.
You deepen the kiss, your hands fisting into his zany-patterned button-up and tearing through the material with his strength — a usually beneficial side effect of the consumption of his blood.
That’s when Yukio squeals at the top of her lungs.
The two of you part with surprise, turning towards the door Wade left open, where Ellie is grimacing and Yukio is rocking on her heels. The latter woman still wearing an open graduation gown, much like you were when you showed up on his doorstep earlier. Were they there the whole fucking time?!
“The Bloodpool group chat is gonna go crazy!” Yukio cheers. Your whole face burns.
“You coined a ship name for us?” Wade asks in a delighted coo before you can get the courage to turn and see his reaction. You sigh, half in relief that he’s cool with it, half in annoyance at the interruption.
“C’mon, babe,” Ellie finally pipes up. “Let’s give them some privacy.”
With that, Ellie closes your bedroom door. You hear their retreating footsteps, Ellie’s grumbling, and Yukio’s excited chatter.
You go to kiss him again, but he stops you.
“Nuh-uh. You’re juiced, and with my blood, too. There's enough horniness between the two of us to make the world implode. Let’s go on a date first. A real one, just us.”
Whoever requested yan Logan needs an award or something, it’s straight gold. But speaking of, I don’t actually have any specific ideas for it? but it’s so good. What a concept. Sooo we yes we are patiently for whatever you would feed us??? You have never done us wrong it’s literally like sorcery. I’m here to ask for more yan Logan in whatever way, shape, or form you’re willing to give us. Okay bye ily
synopsis 𖥧 you're not his you, you don't love him, he doesn't know you. except you smell like his you, you could love him, and he knows you better than you know yourself.
content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, reader died in worstie's universe !!
💬 : I AM DROOLING THIS IS SUCH A GOOD DYNAMIC SOMEONE SEDATE ME PLEASE
🏷 : @luna-kait , @mavixgirl
The scent hits him first.
That’s the thing about having senses that can track a deer through three miles of dense forest, that can pick up the chemical signature of fear from a block away, that can distinguish between fifty-seven different brands of cheap whiskey by smell alone. The scent hits him first, and Logan’s hand freezes on the door handle, his entire body going rigid in a way that has nothing to do with the healing factor knitting together the gash across his ribs from last night’s bar fight.
It’s impossible.
He knows it’s impossible. He knows that because he buried you. He stood in the rain (because of course it was raining, because the universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to him) and he put you in the ground with his own hands. He’d dug the grave himself because he wouldn’t let anyone else touch you, wouldn’t let anyone else’s hands be the last thing to hold you, and he’d filled it back in with dirt that had soaked through his clothes and caked under his fingernails and he’d sat there until the sun came up and then until the sun went down again and then-
And then he’d gone to a bar.
He always goes to a bar.
But this scent. This impossible, impossible scent.
It’s lavender and vanilla and that particular brand of laundry detergent that you’d always used because the cheap stuff made your skin break out in hives. It’s the faint undertone of pencil lead and paper, because you were always drawing, always sketching, always leaving little doodles on napkins and scraps of paper that he’d find weeks later tucked into his jacket pockets. It’s the sweetness of the lip balm you were addicted to, the one with the honey flavor that he used to tease you about because it made bees follow you around in the summer.
It’s you.
It’s you.
His claws punch out before he can stop them, the familiar snikt echoing in the small entryway of Wade’s apartment, and he stares down at them like he’s never seen them before, like they belong to someone else entirely. The adamantium gleams in the shitty fluorescent light, and his knuckles are white where he’s gripping the door handle so hard the metal is starting to bend.
Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe, you fucking animal.
But his lungs don’t seem to remember how to work. His chest is caving in, the same way it did when Charles’s voice went silent in his head for the last time, the same way it did when he found your body, the same way it’s done every single day for however long it’s been since he lost everything.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He stopped counting.
There’s a knock at the door. Another one. He can hear the impatience in it, the way your weight shifts from foot to foot on the other side of the door, the way your breathing is slightly elevated from walking up the four flights of stairs because the elevator’s been broken for three weeks and Wade keeps forgetting to call the landlord.
You’re imagining this, the rational part of his brain screams. You finally fucking cracked. You’re standing in Wade’s apartment hallucinating because you haven’t slept in four days and you’re bleeding out from a stab wound that’s taking too long to heal because you’ve been drinking yourself stupid and your healing factor is shot and-
The knock comes again, and this time there’s a voice attached to it.
“Hello? Wade said I could come over today, is he- oh, I hope I got the right apartment, I always get turned around in this building, the numbers are all-” It’s your laugh, that specific breathless little giggle that he’s heard a thousand times, that he’s replayed in his head a million times, that he’s tried so desperately to forget because remembering it is like pressing on a bruise that never heals. “Okay, if this is some random person’s apartment I am so sorry, I’m looking for my friend Wade? Wade Wilson? He’s- he’s kind of hard to miss, honestly, he’s like six feet and always wears a red spandex suit, but if this isn’t his place I’ll just—”
He opens the door.
He doesn’t mean to. His hand moves without his permission, the way it’s always moved when it came to you, because from the very first moment you’d bounced up to him in the mansion’s kitchen with a drawing you’d made of him and a smile so bright it hurt to look at, his body had stopped belonging to him. It had become yours, in the same way a dog’s body belongs to its owner, in the same way a weapon belongs to the hand that wields it, in the same way a heart belongs to the person who holds it.
And there you are.
There you are.
You’re wearing a yellow hoodie, the one with the fraying drawstrings that you always said you were going to replace but never did. Your hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, the same way you always wore it when you were doing something casual, when you were just hanging out, when you were curled up on the couch next to him watching old movies because you said the new ones relied too much on CGI. You’ve got a sketchbook tucked under your arm, the same battered leather-bound one you’d carried everywhere, filled with drawings of birds and flowers and the faces of people you loved.
And you’re looking at him.
You’re looking at him with those eyes, that same shade of brown that reminded him of the whiskey he used to drink before he started drinking the cheap stuff, before he stopped caring about the taste entirely. Those eyes that had looked at him like he was something other than a monster, something other than a weapon, something other than a man who had failed everyone who had ever loved him.
Those eyes that had looked at him with love, with trust, with a faith so pure it made his chest ache.
And then you smile.
It’s the same smile. The one that starts small, just a tiny quirk at the corner of your mouth, and then grows, and grows, until it reaches your eyes and they crinkle at the corners and you’re looking at him like he’s the answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.
“Oh!” you say, and your voice is the same, it’s the same, it’s the voice that he has saved in three different places on three different devices because he can’t bear to lose it, the voice that says love you at the end of a voicemail he’s played so many times he’s worn grooves into his memory. “Hi! I’m looking for Wade? Is this—are you Wade’s roommate? He mentioned he had one but he didn’t say it was-” You tilt your head, studying him with that curious expression you used to get when you were trying to figure out how something worked, when you were trying to understand a person, when you were trying to understand him. “Wow, you’re tall. like really tall.”
He can’t speak.
His throat has closed up, his vocal cords locked tight, and there’s something happening behind his eyes that feels like the world is ending and beginning at the same time. His claws are still out, he realizes dimly, and he can see your gaze flick down to them, can see the way your eyebrows rise, can see the way your smile doesn’t falter for a single second.
“Cool,” you say, and it’s so you that he thinks he might actually die right there, his heart might finally give out, his healing factor might finally throw in the towel and say okay, that’s enough, we’re done here. “Are those, like, retractable? Like Wolverine's? You kinda look like him- well, when he was younger- last time i saw him on the news he was kinda grey and- sorry i'm rambling, I meant to say that your claws are so cool. Wade has katanas, which are also cool, but he doesn’t have them in his hands, you know? That’s next level.”
He hears Wade before he sees him, the familiar patter of socked feet on linoleum, the way he always manages to be too loud in a space even when he’s not trying to be.
“Okay, who’s at the door, did Al finally order that pizza I’ve been waiting for because I swear to god if she got pineapple again I’m going to—” Wade rounds the corner, coming up behind Logan, and then he stops. “Oh my god.”
He shoves Logan.
Not gently, not with any kind of consideration for the fact that Logan is still standing there with his claws out and his brain broken and his heart cracking open in his chest. Wade shoves him, hard, and Logan stumbles sideways into the doorframe, his claws scraping against the wood, and he doesn’t even register the pain because all he can see is Wade’s arms opening wide, Wade’s whole body leaning forward, Wade’s voice rising in that particular pitch he uses when he’s genuinely excited about something.
“KID!” Wade yells, and then he’s scooping you up, lifting you off your feet like you weigh nothing, spinning you around in a circle that makes you laugh that laugh, that laugh, the one that sounds like wind chimes and sunshine and everything good in a world that has never been good to Logan. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would’ve cleaned! I would’ve made the place presentable! I would’ve hidden all the weird stuff Al keeps in the bathroom!”
You’re laughing, your arms wrapped around Wade’s neck, your sketchbook falling to the floor in your enthusiasm, and you’re looking at him with that expression. That expression that Logan knows, that he’s memorized, that he’s dreamed about, that he’s woken up gasping from because he’d almost forgotten what it looked like.
It’s the look of someone who loves unconditionally. The look of someone who has found their person, their safe place, their home. The look you used to give him.
And now you’re giving it to Wade.
Something tears inside Logan’s chest. Something primal, something animal, something that doesn’t understand variants or different universes or the fact that this isn’t his you. Something that only understands mine, mine, mine, something that only understands the scent of your skin and the sound of your voice and the way you fit against Wade’s body like you used to fit against his.
His claws sink deeper into the doorframe. The wood splinters under the pressure, and he can hear it cracking, can feel it giving way, but he can’t stop. He can’t stop because if he lets go, if he pulls his claws back in, he’s going to do something worse. He’s going to grab you. He’s going to pull you away from Wade. He’s going to drag you into his arms and press his face into your hair and breathe until his lungs remember how to work.
It’s not her, the rational part of his brain whispers. She’s dead. You killed her. You left her alone and you went to a bar and you didn’t pick up the phone and she’s DEAD and this is some other universe’s version of her and she doesn’t know you and she doesn’t love you and she’s not YOURS.
But the animal part of his brain is louder.
The animal part of his brain is roaring.
SHE SMELLS THE SAME. SHE LOOKS THE SAME. SHE SOUNDS THE SAME. SHE IS OURS. SHE WAS OURS. SHE SHOULD BE OURS. TAKE HER. TAKE HER BACK. DON’T LET HIM TOUCH HER. DON’T LET ANYONE TOUCH HER. SHE’S OURS. SHE’S ALWAYS BEEN OURS. WE LOST HER ONCE AND WE ARE NOT LOSING HER AGAIN.
Wade finally sets you down, but he keeps his arm around your shoulders, keeps you tucked against his side, and you’re looking up at him with that smile and Logan wants to kill him. He wants to grab Wade by the back of his stupid red mask and slam his head through the wall. He wants to wrap his hands around Wade’s throat and squeeze until the healing factor kicks in, and then keep squeezing, over and over, until even Wade’s ridiculous regenerative abilities can’t keep up.
He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t because somewhere, buried deep under the centuries of violence and the decades of grief and the weeks of sleepless nights, there’s still a man. There’s still someone who knows that Wade is his friend, his roommate, the closest thing he has to family in this universe. There’s still someone who knows that killing Wade would be wrong, that it would be monstrous, that it would make him the thing he’s always tried not to be.
But oh, how he wants to.
“Logan!” Wade’s voice cuts through the red haze, and Logan blinks, forcing his claws to retract with a wet shink that leaves four thin lines of blood on his knuckles. “Logan, this is the kid I was telling you about! From the school! The one who draws the little comics about me that make me look incredibly handsome and heroic and definitely not like I accidentally set myself on fire three times last week!”
You’re looking at him again, and there it is. That open expression. That curiosity. That willingness to see the best in someone, to assume they’re worth knowing, to give them a chance even when they don’t deserve it.
It’s the same expression you’d worn the first time you met him. The first time he’d growled at you to go away, to leave him alone, to stop looking at him like he was something other than a broken old man with blood on his hands. And you hadn’t listened. You’d never listened. You’d just smiled and sat down next to him and started talking, filling the silence with your voice, your presence, your light.
“So you are Wolverine!” you say, and there’s no fear in your voice, no hesitation, no caution. Just genuine interest, genuine warmth, genuine you. “Wade talks about you all the time. Well, okay, he talks about your claws a lot, and your healing factor, and the time you stabbed him in the- actually, maybe I shouldn’t repeat that part.” You laugh again, and it’s the same laugh, the same exact laugh, and Logan’s hands are shaking. “Anyway, it’s really nice to meet you! I’m—”
You say your name.
Your name. The same name. The same first name, the same last name, the same everything.
And Logan thinks he might be sick.
Because that’s the name he’s whispered into empty rooms a thousand times. That’s the name he’s carved into his heart with his own claws. That’s the name that follows him everywhere, that haunts his dreams, that echoes in his head every time he closes his eyes.
Hey Logan, I know you were upset today and that’s why you went to the bar, when you come back maybe we can watch a movie if you want? Love you.
Love you.
Love you.
Love you.
Love you.
He has that message saved in three places. He has a backup of a backup of a backup. He’s memorized every inflection, every pause, every breath. He’s played it so many times that the audio is starting to degrade, and he’s had nightmares about losing it, about the file corrupting, about the silence that would follow.
And now you’re standing in front of him. Alive. Whole. Smiling at him like he’s someone worth smiling at.
“You okay?” you ask, and your voice is softer now, concerned, and you’re stepping toward him, one hand reaching out, and he can see the intent in your eyes, the desire to comfort, to help, to fix. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He has.
He’s seen a ghost. He’s seen his ghost, the ghost of everything he’s ever loved, everything he’s ever lost, everything he’s ever destroyed.
“I’m fine,” he says, and his voice comes out rough, scraping, like it’s being dragged over broken glass. “Just. Fine.”
You don’t believe him. He can see it in your eyes, that same uncanny ability you’d always had to see through his bullshit, to know when he was lying, to push past the walls he’d spent a century building. Your hand is still outstretched, still reaching for him, and he wants to grab it. He wants to pull you into him and never let go. He wants to lock you in his room and keep you there, safe, where nothing can ever hurt you again.
No, the rational part of his brain screams. NO. This isn’t HER. She doesn’t KNOW you. You can’t—you CAN’T.
“So!” Wade’s voice shatters the moment, his arm sliding back around your shoulders, pulling you away from Logan, pulling you out of reach. “What brings my favorite underage X-Man to my humble abode? Please tell me you’re here to babysit Mary Puppins because I’ve got a thing tonight and Al is-”
“Colossus sent me!” You’re beaming up at Wade, that same expression, that same light, and Logan’s claws itch under his skin again. “He said I needed to get out more, meet new people, you know how he is. And I wanted to see you! And I wanted to meet your roommate!” You glance back at Logan, and there’s something in your eyes now, something curious and bright and interested. “Wade said you were cool, but he didn’t say you were, like, cool cool.”
“I said he was a grumpy old man who smells like whiskey and regret,” Wade corrects cheerfully. “Which is, in its own way, very cool. Very edgy. Very much the aesthetic that teenage girls go for these days, apparently. Which, speaking of, don't go for because I have and it's not worth the effort-”
You laugh, and it’s the same laugh, and Logan’s chest feels like it’s being torn open from the inside.
“Well, I think he’s cool,” you say, and you’re looking at him again, and there’s a warmth in your eyes that makes him want to fall to his knees. “I’ve always wanted to meet Wolverine. The one in my, well, our, universe is—” You pause, something flickering across your face, a shadow of something he can’t quite read. “He’s not around anymore. So it’s nice to meet one who is.”
Not around.
Not around.
The words hit him like a physical blow, and suddenly he remembers. This universe’s Logan. He’s gone. Dead. He died the way all Logans had died a thousand times, the way Logan always died, in violence and pain and blood but doing it for someone and something that would redeem their image. Or maybe not.
Which means you don’t have a Logan.
Which means you’re alone, alone in the way someone is alone in the bus because they are waiting for someone to sit down on the seat next to them to remind them it was empty.
There's a Logan-shaped gap in your world.
He can fill it.
He will fill it.
This is your chance, the animal part of his brain whispers. She doesn’t have one. She needs one. She needs you. She always needed you. She needs you to protect her, to keep her safe, to keep her close. You can be her Logan. You can be the one she looks at like that. You can be the one she smiles at. You can be the one she loves.
She’s not YOURS, the rational part fights back. She’s not the same person. She’s a variant. A stranger. You don’t KNOW her.
But he does know you.
Because he knew her.
He knows her favorite movies and her favorite songs. He knows she hates thunderstorms but loves the rain. He knows she can’t swim but refuses to admit it. He knows she has a birthmark on her left shoulder blade that looks like a little heart. He knows she cries at the end of old movies, even the ones with happy endings, because she says happy endings make her sad too. He knows she doodles in the margins of everything, filling empty spaces with tiny flowers and stars and cartoon animals. He knows she leaves her shoes in the middle of the floor and her books on every surface and her jacket draped over the back of chairs. He knows she hums when she’s concentrating, a little tuneless melody that he’d learned to recognize from rooms away. He knows she has nightmares, the same ones he has, the ones about losing people, about being alone, about the dark.
He knows her. He knows her better than he knows himself.
And she’s standing in front of him, alive and whole and real, and every instinct he has is screaming at him to take, to claim, to keep.
“So!” You’re saying something to Wade, something about Colossus and a mission and something else that Logan can’t hear over the roaring in his ears. “Anyway, I was hoping I could hang out for a while? Maybe watch a movie? I brought snacks!” You hold up a bag he hadn’t noticed before, and inside are the same chips you used to bring, the same candy, the same weird fizzy drinks you’d always said were an acquired taste. “I figured we could make it a thing. You, me, Mary Puppins, and—” You look at Logan, and your smile softens into something gentler, something sweeter, something that makes his heart stop. “—Logan, if he wants to join us. No pressure, though! I know meeting new people can be weird. I’m weird about it too, sometimes.”
He can’t breathe.
He can’t think.
All he can see is you, your face, your smile, your eyes. All he can smell is your scent, lavender and vanilla and honey lip balm. All he can hear is your voice, the same voice that says love you in a voicemail he’s played a thousand times.
“Yeah,” he hears himself say, and his voice doesn’t sound like his own. It sounds like someone else’s, someone who isn’t falling apart, someone who isn’t coming undone. “Yeah, okay. Movie sounds good.”
Your face lights up like the sun coming out from behind clouds, and for a moment, just a moment, it’s like nothing ever happened. It’s like he’s back in his universe, back in the mansion, back before everything went wrong. It’s like you’re his again, like you never left, like he never failed you.
“Awesome!” you say, and you’re bouncing on your heels, the same way you always did when you were excited, and he wants to scoop you up the way Wade did, wants to hold you and never let go. “What kind of movies do you like? Wade said you were more of a Western guy, but I brought a bunch of options, we can pick something everyone likes!”
He knows what movies you like. He knows you like old musicals and animated films and anything with a happy ending. He knows you pretend to like action movies to make him happy, but you always fall asleep halfway through. He knows you cry at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life every single time, no matter how many times you’ve seen it.
“Whatever you want, bub” he says, and the words come out rough, tender, wrong for someone who’s only just met you. But he can’t help it. He can’t pretend. Not with you. He’s never been able to pretend with you.
You tilt your head, studying him with that same curious expression, and for a terrifying moment he thinks you’ve seen through him, that you know, that you know.
“Okay,” you say, and your voice is soft, understanding, the same voice you used to use when he was having a bad day, when he’d come back from a mission with blood on his hands and grief in his heart. “We’ll find something good.”
Wade is saying something, something about popcorn and Al and the dog, but Logan can’t hear him. All he can hear is your voice. All he can see is your face. All he can think is mine, mine, mine.
You’re here.
You’re real.
And he’s not letting you go again.
Not this time.
Not ever.
So Logan sits on the couch, Mary Puppins curled up on his lap—she’d gravitated toward him immediately, the same way she always does, the same way every animal seems to gravitate toward him, like they can smell something in him that’s familiar, something that recognizes their wildness—and watches you move around the apartment like you’ve been here a hundred times before.
You know where the glasses are. You know where the remote is. You know which side of the couch has the best view of the TV, and you settle into it with the ease of someone who belongs here, someone who’s part of the fabric of this place.
You don’t belong here. You belong with him. You belong in his apartment, in his space, in his arms.
But you’re here, and that’s enough. For now, that’s enough.
“Okay,” you say, holding up three DVD cases. “Options! We’ve got The Princess Bride, which is a classic. We’ve got The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, which Wade said you liked.” You look at him with those eyes, and there’s something in them that makes his chest ache. “And we’ve got Spirited Away, which is my personal favorite, but it’s subtitled so if that’s not your thing we can-”
“Spirited Away,” he says, and he doesn’t mean to cut you off, doesn’t mean to sound so certain, so knowing. But that was her favorite movie. That was the movie she watched on your birthday, on Christmas, on the days when the world was too much and she needed something beautiful to remind her that there was still good in it. That was the movie she'd begged him to watch with her a dozen times, and he’d always said no, always grumbled about cartoons being for kids, until finally one night he’d given in and she’d curled up against his side and fallen asleep halfway through and he’d watched the rest of it by himself, in the dark, with her hair tickling his chin and her heartbeat steady under his hand.
You blink at him, surprised. “Oh! Okay! I didn’t think you’d be into anime, but cool! It’s a really good movie, you’ll like it, I promise.”
I know it is, he wants to say. I know I’ll like it. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it with you. I’ve held you while you watched it. I’ve listened to you explain the symbolism and the themes and why it’s so important to you. I know you better than you know yourself.
He doesn’t say any of that. He just nods, watching as you put the DVD in the player, as you settle back onto the couch with a bag of chips in your lap, as you glance over at him with a smile that makes his heart stutter.
“You can come sit over here if you want,” you say, patting the cushion next to you. “I don’t bite. Well, I do, but don't worry, I have all of my shots.”
It’s the same joke. The exact same joke she’d made the first time she’d asked him to sit next to her, back in his universe, back when everything was still okay.
He moves before he can stop himself, settling onto the couch beside you, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body through his clothes, close enough that he can smell you without even trying. Mary Puppins follows him, resettling on his lap, and you reach out to pet her, your fingers brushing against his hand.
The touch is electric.
It’s barely a touch, just the barest graze of skin against skin, and yet it sends a jolt through him that makes his breath catch. You don’t seem to notice, too focused on the dog, on the movie, on the easy comfort of the moment.
But he notices.
He notices everything.
He notices the way your breathing changes when you’re concentrating. He notices the way your fingers tap against your thigh in time with the music. He notices the way you lean slightly toward him, the way your body naturally seeks out his warmth, the same way it always did.
He notices when you fall asleep.
It happens about halfway through the movie, the way it always did, your head drooping, your eyes fluttering closed, your body tipping sideways until your head comes to rest against his shoulder. Your sketchbook slides off your lap, landing on the floor with a soft thud, but you don’t wake up. You just sigh, snuggling closer, your hand curling into the fabric of his shirt like you’re holding onto him, like you’re not going to let go.
He stops breathing.
For a long, long moment, he just sits there, frozen, afraid that if he moves, if he breathes, if he does anything at all, you’ll wake up. You’ll realize what you’re doing. You’ll pull away.
But you don’t. You just keep sleeping, your weight warm and solid against his side, your scent filling his lungs with every breath he forces himself to take.
She’s here, the animal part of his brain purrs. She’s here and she’s safe and she’s OURS.
She’s not, the rational part whispers. She’s asleep. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t love you.
But you could.
You could love him. You could look at him the way you look at Wade. You could smile at him the way you smile at everyone else. You could be his again, the way you were always meant to be.
He just has to be careful. He has to be patient. He has to play this right.
He knows her. He knows everything about her. He knows what makes her laugh and what makes her cry. He knows what she likes and what she hates.
He knows how to make you trust him, how to make you need him, how to make you love him.
He can do this.
He will do this.
He reaches up, slowly, carefully, and brushes a strand of hair away from your face, her face. His fingers are trembling, the same hands that have killed a hundred men, the same hands that have held the world together and watched it fall apart, and they’re trembling because he’s touching you.
You don’t wake up. You just make a soft sound, a little murmur of contentment, and lean into his touch like you’ve been waiting for it your whole life.
His heart cracks open.
You’re going to be his.
And this time, he’s going to do it right. This time, he’s going to keep you safe. This time, he’s going to be there. He’s going to answer the phone. He’s going to come home. He’s going to be the man you always thought he was.
❝ 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 ❞ P.P & W.W ( comics )
pairing ADULT! peter parker x wade wilson & fem! reader 🪽.
synopsis 𖥧 you had a rough life when certain merc and spider found you in the streets, you were in a rough situation when they found you. they never thought that your life before that could have been rougher than the one you had when they came across you. but they are about to find that fights between people that were supposed to love each other are not a first with you.
content 𖥧 fem/afab reader, it's implied reader had a rough homelife before moving in with Peter, domestic fights tw.
💬 : MY DARLINGS I LOVE THEM THE SILLIES
🏷 : @mavixgirl , @luna-kait .
The apartment was quiet now.
That was the worst part, you thought, the silence. Because quiet had never meant anything good in your life. Quiet meant the storm was building. Quiet meant someone was about to throw something. Quiet meant your mother was giving your father that look, the one that said you're sleeping on the couch tonight but really meant I'm going to make you pay for existing.
But this quiet was different. This quiet was empty.
You pressed your forehead harder against your knees, your arms so tight around your legs that your fingers had gone numb five minutes ago. The blood was starting to come back in sharp, prickling waves, but you barely noticed. You couldn't feel much of anything right now except the echo of their voices bouncing around inside your skull like trapped birds.
"You always do this, Wade. You always-"
"Do what, exactly? Care? Because last I checked, caring about whether you come home in one piece isn't-"
"It's not caring, it's smothering. It's you projecting your own issues onto me and expecting me to just-"
"Oh, here we go. Here we fucking go. Pull out the therapist words, why don't you? Make me sound crazy. That's new. That's never happened before."
"I'm not trying to make you sound crazy, I'm trying to make you see that you can't just kill everyone who looks at me wrong. That's not how this works."
"How what works, Pete? How what works? Enlighten me. Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one who's been pulling away for weeks and I'm the only one stupid enough to still be trying."
You'd heard it all. Every word. Every pause. Every sharp intake of breath that preceded something worse. You'd been on the couch when they came in, still in your nightgown. A ridiculous, frilly thing with tiny roses printed on it that Wade had bought you from some vintage shop downtown, because he'd seen it in the window and said it looked like something his mother would have worn in the seventies, and hadn't that been a whole conversation about his mother and you'd held his hand while he talked about her and tried not to cry.
But that was before. Before the bickering. Before the bickering turned into snapping. Before the snapping turned into fighting.
You'd been curled up on the couch with a book, something from the eighties, a battered paperback of The Shell Seekers that you'd found at a thrift store and fallen in love with because the cover was so pretty and the story was so sad and happy all at once, and you'd heard the door open and known immediately that something was wrong.
Their footsteps were wrong.
Peter's footsteps were always light, almost silent, the kind of footsteps that belonged to someone who had spent years learning how to move without being heard. But tonight they were sharp. Deliberate. The kind of footsteps that said I'm trying very hard not to slam this door.
And Wade's footsteps- Wade's footsteps were usually loud, careless, the kind of footsteps that said I'm here and I don't care who knows it. But tonight they were heavy. Dragging. The kind of footsteps that said I'm tired and I'm angry and I don't want to be having this conversation.
You'd looked up from your book just as they came into the kitchen, still in varying states of their costumes. Peter had already pulled off his mask, his hair a disaster, sweat still drying on his temples. Wade was in his full suit, mask still on, which meant he didn't want you to see his face.
That was the first sign.
Wade only kept the mask on around the apartment when he didn't want you to see what he was feeling. When he was upset. When he was scared. When he was anything other than his usual loud, obnoxious, safe self.
You'd marked your page with a scrap of ribbon and set the book aside, drawing your knees up under your chin, watching them through the gap between the back of the couch and the wall. You knew you should probably go to your room. Give them privacy. But your feet wouldn't move. Your body wouldn't cooperate.
And then they'd started.
"I'm just saying, maybe you should think before you act for once in your goddamn life."
Peter's voice was low. Controlled. That was how he got when he was really angry—he went quiet. He went still. He became something cold and hard and untouchable, and you'd seen it happen before, but never directed at Wade. Never like this.
"Think?" Wade's voice cracked on the word, went high and brittle in a way that made your chest hurt. "Think? You want me to think? Okay. Okay, fine. I'm thinking. I'm thinking that I just saved your ass from getting turned into a fucking shish kebab by some two-bit thug with a vibranium knife, and instead of saying 'thanks, Wade, you're my hero,' you're standing here lecturing me about-"
"About killing him, Wade. About killing him in front of witnesses. About leaving a body in the middle of the street with his intestines hanging out like some kind of-"
"Like some kind of what? Statement? Warning? Yeah, actually. That's exactly what it was. Because now everyone who saw it is going to think twice before pulling a knife on Spider-Man."
"I don't need you to protect me."
"Well, too bad, because I'm going to do it anyway."
"That's not- that's not love, Wade! That's obsession. That's control. That's you trying to make yourself feel better by-"
You'd flinched at the word love. Not because it was bad, but because it was true. Because you'd known for months now, maybe longer, that what they had was something real and deep and precious, something you'd never seen before in your life. Something you'd started to believe might actually last.
And now Peter was using it like a weapon.
"Don't." Wade's voice had gone strange. Flat. The kind of flat that meant something was breaking underneath. "Don't do that. Don't psychoanalyze me. You're not my therapist. You're not even my-"
"Your what, Wade? Your boyfriend? Your partner? Because you've never actually-"
"Because I've never what? Said it? Used the word? Is that what this is about? You need me to say it out loud? Fine. Fine. I love you. There. Happy now? I love you and I'm fucking terrified every single night that you're not going to come home, and I know that's my problem and I know I need to deal with it, but I don't know how, okay? I don't know how to not be scared. I don't know how to not want to kill everyone who even looks at you wrong. I don't know how to be normal about this. I don't know how to be good."
And Peter had said. God, what had Peter said?
"Then maybe you should figure it out before you ruin this. Before you ruin us. Because I can't keep doing this, Wade. I can't keep watching you tear yourself apart and expect me to just stand here and pretend it's not happening."
"So what, then? What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I need you to get your shit together. I'm saying I need you to be someone I can actually be with without feeling like I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"The other shoe."
"Yes. The other shoe. The one where you finally decide I'm not worth the effort and you disappear. The one where you get yourself killed and I have to explain to-"
Peter had stopped then. You'd felt the pause like a physical thing, a hand reaching out to grab you by the throat. Because you knew what he'd almost said. Explain to her. Explain to you.
"Oh, that's rich." Wade's laugh had been horrible, nothing like his real laugh, the one that made you smile even on your worst days. "That's really rich, coming from you. The guy who won't even say the word. The guy who's been keeping me at arm's length for two and a half years because he's too scared to admit that this is real."
"This is real."
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're the one who's been looking for an exit. It looks like you're the one who's been waiting for me to fuck up so you can have an excuse to-"
"That's not fair."
"No? Then what is it? What do you call it when someone picks a fight over nothing and then acts like I'm the problem?"
"It's not nothing. It's never nothing with you. Everything is a production. Everything is a crisis. Everything is life or death because you can't just- you can't just be, Wade. You have to be everything all the time, and I'm tired. I'm so tired."
"Then go to bed."
"That's not what I-"
"Go to bed, Peter. Take a nap. Take a week. Take a year. I don't care anymore."
"You don't mean that."
"Don't I?"
And that was when you'd started sinking.
Not physically, not at first. You'd already been low on the couch, curled into yourself like a pill bug trying to hide from the light. But something inside you had started to drop. A cold, heavy feeling in your chest, like swallowing stones one by one.
Don't I?
The way he'd said it. Flat. Empty. Like he'd already given up. Like he'd already decided that this was the end, that he was the end, that he was going to do what he always did and burn everything down before anyone could leave him first.
You knew that pattern. You'd lived that pattern. Your mother had done the same thing, pushed and pushed and pushed until your father finally snapped, and then stood there with tears in her eyes like she was the victim, like she hadn't been the one holding the match the whole time.
And your father had done it too, in his own way. The silent treatment. The cold shoulder. The way he'd look right through your mother like she wasn't there, like she was already a ghost, and then turn to you with that awful smile and say at least I still have my little girl.
Don't make me choose, you'd thought, pressing your forehead harder against your knees. Please don't make me choose. I can't. I can't do it again. I can't.
But they kept fighting.
"You know what your problem is, Pete? You think you're so much better than everyone else. You think you're so good. But you're not. You're just as messed up as the rest of us. You're just better at hiding it."
"I never said I was better than anyone."
"You don't have to say it. It's in everything you do. The way you talk to me. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. Like I'm a problem to be solved. Like I'm a project."
"That's not-"
"It is! It is, and you know it! You've been trying to fix me since day one. And the thing is, Pete? The thing is, I don't want to be fixed. I like who I am. I like being messy and loud and wrong. I like killing people who deserve it. I like making bad jokes and worse decisions. I like-"
"You like pushing me away before I can push you away."
The silence that followed was the worst one yet. Because it wasn't angry. It wasn't even sad. It was just… empty. Hollow. The kind of silence that happens when something irreparable has been said, when a door has been closed that can't be opened again.
You'd heard that silence before. The night your father had packed a bag and walked out, and your mother had stood in the doorway watching him go, and neither of them had said a word.
No, you'd thought, your hands shaking where they were wrapped around your knees. No, no, no, no, no.
And then Wade had said, very quietly: "Maybe you're right. Maybe I do."
And you'd stopped breathing.
You didn't remember sliding off the couch. You didn't remember hitting the floor. You just remember suddenly being there, curled up in the small space between the couch and the wall, your back against the baseboard and your knees pressed so tight against your chest that your spine ached.
The fight continued above you. Around you. Through you.
"So that's it? You're just going to-"
"What do you want me to say, Peter? Huh? What words would make this better? Because I don't have them. I don't have the right words. I never do."
"I don't need the right words. I just need you to-"
"To what? Stop? Change? Be someone else? Because that's what you're asking. That's what you've always been asking. You just never had the balls to say it out loud until now."
"That's not fair."
"Life's not fair. You taught me that."
"Don't. Don't do that. Don't twist my words."
"I'm not twisting anything. I'm just saying what you're too polite to say. You want a partner who's clean and neat and normal. You want someone who comes home at a reasonable hour and makes you dinner and doesn't have blood under their fingernails. You want-"
"I want you, Wade! I just want you to-"
"To what? What, Peter? Use your words."
"To stop acting like you're already gone!"
The shout had rattled the windows. You'd felt it in your bones, in your teeth, in the hollow of your chest where your heart was supposed to be.
And then—nothing.
No more words. No more shouting. Just the sound of breathing, heavy and ragged, and the creak of floorboards as someone moved.
"I'm going to bed."
Wade's voice was exhausted. Defeated. The voice of someone who had given up on being heard.
"Wade, wait-"
"No. You're right. I need to calm down. I need to- I need to not be me for a while. So I'm going to bed. And you can sleep on the couch. Or don't. I don't care anymore."
"That's not what I meant."
"It never is."
Footsteps. Heavy. Dragging. Coming toward the living room.
Coming toward you.
And then-
Wade stopped.
You heard it. The exact moment his foot hit something that shouldn't have been there. The exact moment he looked down and saw you.
"What the-"
Silence.
And then: "Pete."
His voice was different now. Not angry. Not defeated. Something else. Something you couldn't name.
"Pete, get over here."
More footsteps. Faster this time. Peter's light tread, but urgent now, worried.
"What is it? What's—"
And then he saw you too.
"Oh, God. Sweetheart-"
You couldn't look at them. You couldn't look at anything. Your eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor, a small stain that might have been coffee or might have been blood or might have been nothing at all. Your whole body was shaking, fine tremors running through your muscles like you were standing in a freezing wind.
"Hey. Hey, kid. Look at me."
Wade's voice was soft now. Softer than you'd ever heard it. But you couldn't. You couldn't look at him. Because if you looked at him, you'd see the anger still lingering in his eyes. You'd see the frustration. You'd see the end of something, the place where love turned into resentment turned into nothing.
"Sweetheart, can you hear me?"
Peter. Closer now. You could smell him, sweat and city air and that weird soap he used, the one that smelled like nothing in particular but felt nice on your skin when he hugged you.
You couldn't answer. Your throat had closed up. Your voice was gone, lost somewhere in the panic that was still swirling through your chest like storm clouds.
"I'm not gonna grab her. I'm not- fuck. Fuck. How long has she been there? How much did she hear?"
"I don't know. I don't-"
"She heard everything. Look at her. She heard everything."
A sound escaped your throat. Not a word. Just a noise. A small, wounded thing that you couldn't hold back.
"Okay. Okay. Sweetheart, I need you to try to breathe for me. Can you do that? Can you take a deep breath?"
You couldn't. Your lungs wouldn't cooperate. Every breath you took was shallow and fast, too fast, the kind of breathing that made your chest hurt and your head spin.
"She's hyperventilating."
"I can see that, Wade."
"What do we do? What do we-"
"We stay calm. We stay calm and we talk to her and we wait for her to come back."
"And if she doesn't?"
"She will. She's strong. She's- she's been through worse than this and she's still here. She's still-"
"Don't. Don't do that. Don't pretend this is fine."
"I'm not pretending anything. I'm just-"
"You're just what? Optimistic? Hopeful? Because look at her, Pete. Look at her. She's—"
Wade's voice cracked. Broke. Went silent.
And then he was crouching in front of you.
You didn't see him move. You just looked up—or maybe you didn't, maybe your eyes just finally focused on something other than the floor—and there he was. Wade Wilson, in his full Deadpool suit, mask still on, crouched down on the floor in front of you like he was trying to make himself smaller. Less threatening.
"Hey, kiddo."
His voice was rough. Wrecked. The voice of someone who had been shouting and was now trying very hard not to.
You blinked at him. Once. Twice. Your brain was slow, sluggish, like trying to wade through molasses.
"There you are. There's my girl. Can you- can you look at me? Really look at me?"
You tried. You really did. But your eyes kept sliding away, sliding over to where Peter was standing a few feet behind Wade, his face pale and worried in the dim light.
"No, no, no. Look at me. Just me. Come on, sweetheart. You can do it."
Wade snapped his fingers in front of your face.
The sound was sharp. Loud. It cut through the fog in your brain like a knife, and suddenly you were there, really there, present in your body in a way you hadn't been for- how long? Minutes? Hours? You didn't know.
And you flinched.
You flinched hard, your whole body jerking back against the wall, your shoulders hunching up toward your ears, your eyes going wide and wild. You tried to scramble away, to push yourself backward through the wall, to disappear into the plaster and the lathe and never come out.
Wade froze.
His hand was still in the air where he'd been snapping his fingers. His whole body had gone still, the way a predator goes still when it realizes it's been misidentified as a threat.
"Oh, kid." His voice was barely a whisper. "Oh, kid, no. No, no, no. It's me. It's just me. I'm not gonna- I would never-"
But you couldn't hear him. Not really. You could hear the words, but they weren't landing. They were bouncing off the panic that was still clawing at your chest, the fear that had been building since the first raised voice, the first sharp word, the first hint that this was all falling apart.
"Wade, back up."
"I'm not-"
"Back up. You're scaring her."
"I'm not trying to-"
"I know. Just- give her some space."
Wade shifted back, just a few inches, but it was enough. Enough for you to see Peter's face more clearly. Enough for you to see the worry there, the fear, the desperate need to fix whatever was happening.
"Sweetheart." Peter's voice was so gentle. So soft. The kind of voice you used with frightened animals and small children. "Sweetheart, can you hear me? Can you understand what I'm saying?"
You nodded. A tiny movement, barely perceptible. But they both saw it.
"Okay. Good. That's good. Can you- can you tell us what's wrong? Can you use your words for me?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
"It's okay. Take your time. There's no rush."
But there was a rush. There was always a rush. Because if you didn't say something soon, they were going to start fighting again. They were going to start throwing words like knives, and then maybe real knives, and then-
"Hey. Hey, look at me."
Wade again. Still crouched, still trying to make himself small. His mask was still on, but you could imagine his face underneath. The scars. The worry. The fear.
You looked at him. For a whole second this time. Maybe two.
"There she is." He almost smiled. You could hear it in his voice. "There's my girl. Okay. Okay, we're getting somewhere. Can you- can you tell me what's going on in that head of yours? Because I gotta be honest, kiddo, you're scaring the shit out of us."
"Wade."
"What? She is. I'm not gonna lie to her."
"Maybe soften the language a little."
"She's heard worse. She's heard us."
That hit. Right in the chest. You flinched again, smaller this time, but they both saw it.
"Fuck." Wade's voice was barely audible. "Fuck, Pete. She heard us. She heard everything."
"I know."
"How much? How much did you hear, sweetheart? Can you—can you tell us that much?"
You couldn't. You couldn't tell them anything. Your voice was still gone, still hiding somewhere deep inside you where the fear lived.
But your eyes moved. From Wade to Peter. From Peter to Wade. Back and forth, back and forth, like a tennis match played in slow motion.
They were both looking at you. Both worried. Both scared.
"Okay." Peter took a breath. Let it out slowly. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm going to try something. Wade, stay where you are."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Peter moved. Slowly. Carefully. Every movement deliberate, every step announced. He came around the side of the couch, giving you a wide berth, and then lowered himself to his knees next to Wade.
Now they were both in front of you. Both kneeling. Both looking at you with those matching expressions of concern and fear and love.
Love.
Did they still love each other? Or had that fight been the end of it? The final straw? The last word?
"Sweetheart, I need you to try to breathe for me. Can you do that? Just one deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like we practiced."
You tried. You really tried. But the breath got stuck halfway down, caught on the knot of fear in your chest.
"That's okay. Try again. Take your time."
Another try. Another failure.
"Come on, kiddo. You can do it. I believe in you."
This was Wade's voice. Soft. Encouraging. The voice he used when you were trying to do something hard, like reach a high shelf or open a stubborn jar or admit that you were sad about something.
You took a breath. A real one. Deep and shaky and not quite enough, but close.
"Good. That's good. Another one."
Another breath. Better this time. The knot in your chest loosened just a little.
"There you go. That's our girl."
Peter reached out. Slowly. Carefully. His hand hovered in the air between you, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand.
You stared at his hand. At the calluses on his fingers. At the small scar on his knuckle from that time Wade had accidentally cut him while demonstrating a new knife technique.
"Can I touch you? Is that okay?"
You didn't nod. You didn't shake your head. You just kept staring at his hand like it might bite you.
"Okay. That's okay. I'll wait."
He waited. They both waited. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, but different now. Not the silence of an ending. Something else. Something that might have been patience.
And then, without meaning to, you leaned forward. Just a little. Just enough for your forehead to brush against Peter's palm.
"Oh, sweetheart."
His hand curved around the side of your face. Gentle. Warm. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, wiping away tears you hadn't realized you were crying.
"I've got you. I've got you. You're okay."
You weren't okay. You were so, so, far from okay. But for a moment, with his hand on your face and Wade's presence a warm weight at your side, you almost believed you could be.
"Can you tell us what's wrong now? Can you try?"
You shook your head. Tiny movements. But they saw.
"That's okay. You don't have to. We can just sit here for a while. However long you need."
Wade shifted, settling more comfortably on the floor. His knee bumped against yours, and you didn't flinch this time. You didn't pull away.
"Yeah, kiddo. Take your time. We're not going anywhere."
But they were. They were going to leave each other. They were going to break up and split apart and you were going to have to choose, and you couldn't, you couldn't, because choosing meant losing and losing meant-
"Hey. Hey, hey, hey. You're doing it again. You're going somewhere else. Come back. Come back to us."
Wade's voice. Sharp now. Worried.
"Sweetheart, look at me." Peter's hand tightened on your face, not painfully, just present. A anchor in the storm.
You looked at him. At his kind eyes and his worried mouth and the small crease between his eyebrows that only appeared when he was really scared.
"There you are. Stay with me. Can you stay with me?"
You nodded. A lie, probably, but you nodded anyway.
"Good girl."
Wade made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Something in between.
"What? She is. She's sitting here looking like a scared rabbit and we don't even know why. We don't know what we did. We don't know how to fix it."
"Maybe we should start by not fighting in front of her."
"Oh, don't. Don't you dare. Don't you dare make this about me."
"I'm not-"
"You are. You're doing it right now. You're-"
"Stop."
The word came out of nowhere. Out of your mouth, your voice, small and cracked and barely there. But it was enough.
They both stopped. Turned to look at you.
"Please." Your voice broke on the word. "Please stop fighting. Please. I can't- I can't do it again. I can't-"
"Do what again, sweetheart? What can't you do?"
Peter's voice was so gentle. So careful. Like he was handling something fragile, something that might shatter if he spoke too loud.
You shook your head. You couldn't explain it. You didn't have the words.
"Is this about the fight? About what you heard?"
Wade. Blunter than Peter, but not unkind.
You nodded.
"How much did you hear?"
Another nod. Not an answer, not really, but they understood.
"All of it." Peter's voice was hollow. "She heard all of it."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
They looked at each other. Something passed between them, something you couldn't read. An agreement, maybe. A truce.
"Sweetheart, I need you to understand something." Peter leaned forward, his hand still on your face, his eyes locked on yours. "What you heard- that wasn't- we weren't-"
He stopped. Swallowed. Tried again.
"Couples fight. Even couples who love each other. Especially couples who love each other. Because when you love someone, you care about the things they do. You care about whether they're safe. You care about whether they're happy. And sometimes that caring comes out wrong. Sometimes it comes out as anger, or frustration, or fear."
"We weren't trying to hurt each other." Wade's voice was rough. "We were trying to- I don't know. We were trying to figure something out. And we did it badly. We did it really, really badly."
"But we weren't-" Peter stopped again. His thumb was still moving on your cheek, wiping away tears that kept coming. "We weren't breaking up. We weren't ending anything. We were just… having a bad night."
You wanted to believe them. You wanted to so badly. But you'd heard those words before. From your mother, after a fight with your father. We're not breaking up, sweetheart. We're just having a disagreement. And then a week later, the dishes had started flying.
"I don't believe you."
The words came out before you could stop them. Small and scared and honest.
They both froze.
"What?"
"I don't—I don't believe you." Your voice was shaking. Everything was shaking. "You were saying- you were saying such mean things. To each other. And you looked so- so done. Like you didn't even want to look at each other anymore. Like you were-"
You couldn't finish. The words got stuck in your throat, tangled up with all the other words you'd never said, all the other fights you'd witnessed, all the other times you'd watched love turn into something ugly.
"Oh, kid." Wade's voice was barely a whisper. "Oh, kid, no. That's not-... we weren't-"
"You said you didn't care anymore." The words were pouring out now, unstoppable, a dam breaking. "You said you didn't care if he went to bed or not. You said- you said you were tired. You said-"
"I was lying." Wade's voice cracked. "I was lying, okay? I say things I don't mean when I'm scared. I say horrible, awful, unforgivable things because I'd rather push someone away than have them leave me first. It's what I do. It's what I've always done."
"But you can't-" You were crying now, really crying, ugly sobs that shook your whole body. "You can't do that. You can't say things like that and expect them to not mean anything. Words mean things. They hurt."
"I know." Wade's voice was wrecked. "I know they do. I know."
"Then why do you do it? Why do you-"
"Because I'm broken, sweetheart. Because I'm damaged and wrong and I don't know how to be any different. Because every time I get close to someone, every time I start to care about someone, I get scared. And when I get scared, I get mean."
"That's not- that's not an excuse."
"I know it's not."
"Then-"
"But I'm trying." His voice broke on the last word. "I'm trying so hard. I'm trying to be better. For you. For him. For- for all of us. I'm trying."
You looked at him. Really looked. At the mask that hid his face. At the hands that had killed so many people. At the man who had held you while you cried more times than you could count.
"I don't want you to be different." The words came out before you could stop them. "I don't want you to be- to be fixed. I just want you to stay. I want both of you to stay. I don't want-"
Your voice gave out. The tears were too much. The fear was too much. Everything was too much.
"You don't want what, sweetheart? What don't you want?"
Peter's voice. Gentle. Patient. Waiting.
"I don't want to have to choose."
The words fell into the silence like stones into still water.
"Choose what?"
"Choose between you." You were shaking now, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. "When you- when you break up. When you stop- when you stop loving each other. You're going to make me choose. You're going to make me pick one of you to live with and one of you to- to visit. Like- like parents in a divorce. And I can't. I can't. I can't choose. I love you both. I love you both so much and I can't-"
"Sweetheart."
"-I can't do it again. I can't watch two people who love each other turn into two people who hate each other. I can't watch you throw things and say mean things and use me to hurt each other. I can't-"
"Sweetheart, stop. Please. Stop."
Peter's hands were on your face now, both of them, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were bright with tears.
"No one is making you choose. No one is breaking up. No one is going anywhere."
"But you were fighting. You were saying-"
"We were being stupid. We were being scared and stupid and we forgot—we forgot that you were here. We forgot that you could hear us. And I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
"But you-"
"We love each other."
The words came from Wade. Quiet. Certain. Like he'd finally found something he was sure of.
You turned to look at him.
"We love each other," he said again. "We love each other, and we're not going to stop. Not tonight. Not ever. We're too stupid to stop. We're too stubborn. We're too- too in it."
"But you said-"
"I say a lot of things. Most of them are lies. But this-" He reached out, slowly, and took one of your hands. His fingers were warm through the fabric of his gloves. "This is the truth. I love him. I love him so much it scares me. And I love you. I love you so much it scares me even more."
"Then why do you fight?"
"Because we're human." Peter's voice was soft. "Because we're scared and imperfect and we don't always know how to say what we mean. Because love is hard, sweetheart. It's the hardest thing there is. And sometimes we mess up. Sometimes we say things we don't mean. Sometimes we hurt the people we love most in the world because we don't know how else to be."
"That's- that's what my parents did." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "They said they loved each other. But they fought all the time. And then they started throwing things. And then- and then they started using me. To hurt each other. Like I was a- like I was a weapon."
The silence that followed was different. Not empty. Not hollow. Horrified.
"Oh, God." Peter's voice broke. "Oh, God, sweetheart. We didn't- we didn't know. We didn't-"
"How could we not know?" Wade's voice was rough. "How could we not—she's been living with us for a year. A year. And we never-"
"Because she didn't tell us."
"Because she shouldn't have had to tell us! We should have—we should have asked. We should have-"
"Stop."
Your voice was stronger now. Not much. But enough.
"Stop fighting. Please. I can't- I can't take any more fighting."
"We're not fighting." Wade's voice was gentle again. "We're agreeing. For once. We're agreeing that we're idiots who should have asked more questions."
"We're agreeing that we're sorry." Peter's hand was still on your face. "We're so sorry, sweetheart. For scaring you. For making you think.. for making you think we were going to be like them."
"You're not." The words came out before you could stop them. "You're not like them. You're- you're good. You're both so good. Even when you're mean. Even when you're scared. You're still good."
"We're not good, kiddo." Wade's voice was sad. "We're just two broken people trying to do our best."
"That's what good is." You looked at him. At both of them. "That's what good is. Trying. Trying is what matters."
Wade made a sound. Something between a laugh and a sob.
"When did you get so smart, huh? When did you get so wise?"
"I learned from you."
"That's terrifying."
"Wade."
"What? It is. I'm a terrible role model."
"You're not." You reached out, grabbed his hand. Squeezed. "You're not terrible. You're just- you're just you. And I love you. I love both of you. And I don't want to lose either of you. Ever."
"You're not going to lose us." Peter's voice was fierce. "Do you hear me? You're not going to lose us. We're not going anywhere. We're not breaking up. We're not making you choose. We're just- we're just going to be here. Both of us. For as long as you want us."
"Forever?"
The word came out small. Hopeful. Childish.
"Forever." Wade squeezed your hand back. "Or as close to forever as two morons like us can manage."
"That's not-"
"It's a yes, sweetheart." Peter was smiling now. A real smile. The kind that reached his eyes. "It's a yes. We'll be here forever."
You looked at them. At Wade, still in his mask, still crouched on the floor. At Peter, kneeling beside him, his hands still on your face.
And something inside you broke. Not the bad kind of breaking. The good kind. The kind that happens when you've been holding something together for too long and finally, finally, you don't have to anymore.
You lunged forward.
Not away from them. Toward them.
You crashed into Wade's chest, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face burying itself in his shoulder. He caught you, of course he caught you, his arms coming up around your back, holding you tight.
"Oh, kid." His voice was muffled against your hair. "Oh, kid. I've got you. I've got you."
And then Peter was there too, his arms around both of you, his chin resting on top of your head. The three of you huddled together on the floor, a tangle of limbs and tears and something that felt a lot like hope.
"I'm sorry." The words were muffled against Wade's shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. About my parents. About- about everything."
"You don't have to be sorry." Peter's voice was soft. "You don't have to tell us anything you're not ready to tell us."
"But I should have-"
"You should have done what you needed to do to survive." Wade's voice was rough. "That's all any of us can do. Survive. And then, when we're lucky, we find people who make surviving feel like living."
You cried. You cried and cried until there were no tears left, until your whole body was limp and exhausted and empty. And they held you. Both of them. They held you and didn't let go.
Eventually, the tears stopped.
Eventually, your breathing evened out.
Eventually, you lifted your head from Wade's shoulder and looked at them with red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was definitely running and a face that was probably a mess.
"I'm sorry," you said again. "I got snot on your suit."
Wade laughed. A real laugh this time, the kind that made his whole body shake.
"Kid, I've had way worse things on this suit. Trust me."
"That's not comforting."
"It's not supposed to be."
Peter was smiling too, even as he wiped at his own eyes with the back of his hand.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "Really okay?"
You thought about it. About the fight. About the fear. About the memories that had come flooding back.
"Not really," you admitted. "But I'm better than I was."
"That's something."
"Yeah." You sniffled. "That's something."
Wade shifted, adjusting his hold on you. "So. What now?"
"Now we get off the floor," Peter said. "My knees are killing me."
"Your knees are always killing you. You're old."
"I'm thirty-two."
"Exactly. Old."
"You're older than me."
"Yeah, but I heal. You just complain."
You laughed. A small, watery sound. But a laugh.
"Can we-" You stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "Can we watch a movie? Something with a happy ending?"
"Anything you want, sweetheart." Peter was already getting to his feet, reaching down to help you up. "Name it."
"Something stupid," you said. "Something where no one dies at the end."
"So, a rom-com," Wade said, climbing to his feet with considerably less grace than Peter. "You want a rom-com."
"Yes."
"You know I love rom-coms."
"I know."
"You know Peter pretends to hate them but actually cries at the end of every single one."
"Wade."
"It's true and you know it."
Peter sighed. But he was smiling.
"Fine," he said. "One rom-com. But I get to pick the snacks."
just thinking about WADE WILSON getting mean in bed ..
When Wade Wilson decides to take charge, it’s not about power. Not really. It’s about quiet. For once in his godforsaken life, the voices in his head (the yellow one, the white one, the one that sounds like Bea Arthur) all shut the hell up, because every ounce of his fractured attention zeroes in on you. And you are about to become the most important noun in his vocabulary.
It starts slow. Deceptively so. You’d expect the scarred hands to shake, for the bravado to crack. But it doesn’t. He’s got you flat on your back before you can even finish your snarky come-back, your wrists pinned in one of his massive palms above your head. He doesn’t need rope. He is the rope. His other hand trails down your sternum, nails scratching just hard enough to leave pale trails that bloom red a second later.
“Aww, look at you, baby.” he coos, and the sound is pure, unadulterated poison. Syrupy sweet. Venomous. “All spread out and pretty. You were runnin’ that mouth of yours a second ago, weren’t you? Talkin’ aaall that big game.”
He grinds down against you, and you feel it—the heavy, scorching heat of him through the thin cotton of his boxers. His cock is already half-hard, twitching against your inner thigh like it has a mind of its own. He doesn’t suffer from performance anxiety. His accelerated healing factor means the man recovers faster than a Golden Age superhero, and his libido is a runaway freight train. By the time he’s got your pants off, he’s leaking a shiny, clear smear of pre-cum onto the waistband, a tiny, desperate pearl that catches the lamplight.
“What happened to all that sass, huh?” he murmurs, lowering his face to your neck. He doesn’t kiss. He bites. A sharp, proprietary sting right over your jugular, worrying the skin with his teeth until you whimper. The sound makes his whole body shudder. A thick, heavy bob of his cock against your slick entrance—just the head, just a taste—and he groans, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates from his chest directly into your bones.
“There she is, fuck.” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes, the only unscarred part of his face, are blown wide and dark. Feral. “There’s my girl. Gettin’ all quiet and dumb for me already? And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
When he pushes inside, it’s not gentle. It’s never gentle with Wade. He’s a creature of friction and overwhelming sensation. He slides home and the sound you both make is obscene. His head drops forward, forehead pressing into the pillow beside your ear. For a second, he just stays there, letting you feel the insane stretch, the pulsing throb of his length seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.
“Fuuuuck..” he breathes, his hips twitch, and his cock jumps inside you, a thick, involuntary spasm that makes your eyes roll back. The heat is immediate. He runs hot, his healing factor keeping him at a constant, feverish temperature, and inside you, it’s like being filled with molten gold.
Then the mating press happens.
He hooks his arms under your knees, pushing them up and out until your thighs are crushed against your stomach. It folds you in half, opens you up so wide, so vulnerable, and the angle shifts. Now every single brutal thrust hits that spot, the one that makes your vision white out, dead on.
“There.” he hisses, his voice a wrecked snarl. “There it is. That’s my favorite face. The one where your brain turns into goddamn scrambled eggs.”
He sets a pace that is inhuman, just like him. Fast. Hard. The headboard slams against the wall in a rhythm that’s more demolition than romance. Sweat slicks his scarred chest, and a drop falls onto your lips. He leans down to lick it off, groaning into your mouth.
“You feel that?” he grunts, never slowing. “Feel how hard you make me? You think I get this hard for anyone else? No. No, no, no.” Each ‘no’ is punctuated by a deeper, meaner thrust. “This cock? It only gets hard for you.”
You’re already past the point of words. Now, as his thumb finds your clit rubbing fast, messy circles, not caring about technique, just about pressure, you feel your orgasm building. And it’s not a wave. It’s a seizure. A system failure.
He watches it happen. Watches your pupils blow, your mouth fall open on a silent 'o', your whole body locking up and then dissolving into violent, helpless shakes. And he loves it. You can see it in the feral grin that splits his face.
“Oh, there she goes!” he coos, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Bye-bye, big thoughts. Bye-bye, degree. Bye-bye, ability to form a sentence. Hello, cock-drunk little mess.”
Your orgasm wrings you dry. Your brain has liquefied. You’re not a person anymore; you’re just a receptor. A collection of nerve endings wrapped around his relentless, pistoning cock. You mumble something and he laughs, a bright, unhinged sound.
“That’s right, sweetcheeks.” he whispers, leaning his sweaty forehead against yours. His balls slap against your ass with every drive, wet and rhythmic. You can feel them tensing, drawing up tight. He’s close.
“My little cocksleeve,” he purrs, and the degradation is so sweet, so wrapped in the reverence of his gaze, that it makes you clench around him involuntarily. “Just a warm, wet, perfect little cocksleeve. That’s all you are right now, isn’t it? Can’t think. Can’t talk. Just gotta take it. Gotta take what I give you.”
He speeds up. Unhinged. The bed is creaking a death rattle. His breath is a ragged, staccato beat against your cheek. “And you’re gonna take all of it,” he growls. “Every. Last. Drop.”
you’re in the ugliest clothes you own, hair a wreck and he still thinks you are so gorgeous. your hair in a clear cap, covered in hair dye, he still thinks you look so cool. smudged makeup, messy eyeliner, he still thinks it looks great on you. messy hair, dirty nails, unwashed clothes, he still thinks you are the most beautiful being in the world.
summary: Wade wants to get closer to you, and you want to get closer to Wade. Neither of you know how to do that. PART 2 TO PRETTY.
warnings: Some language, dialogue about insecurities and typical Wade innuendos. No use of Y/N.
word count: 1.8k
______
Wade liked keeping an eye on you.
Not in a “you might need a restraining order against this man” way, at least, he didn’t think so. He actually wasn’t sure how you would feel about him watching over you the way he did.
Wade just had to make sure that you were safe, that’s all. Surely you’d understand that if you ever found out.
Right?
He lowered his hood as his gaze trained on you hurrying up the steps of your apartment building, trying to avoid the rain that was beginning to fall. You were not dressed properly for the incoming storm, your T-shirt doing nothing to keep you dry. Wade could see the fabric darken in some spots as the rain bled through to your skin, no doubt chilling you to the bone.
When you reached the door, you came to a sharp stop, whipping your body around and staring behind you, narrowing your eyes as if in search of something. Wade ducked near the awning of the restaurant opposite your street, angling his body away at your sudden change of movement.
You’d probably seen him.
Shit.
What was wrong with him? Losing his edge, being careless. Wade did not want you finding out that he stalked watched over your well-being. His face wasn’t even covered. You’d put together that it was him, his marred skin would be a good clue considering that you’ve seen how the rest of his body looks like.
But maybe he wanted you to see his face.
And maybe you wouldn’t care?
Wade, you are so incredibly stupid.
“Shut up,” he mutters, shaking his head at his inner voices, risking a glance back over his shoulder, not being able to stop the droop of relief in his shoulders at the sight of you gone, disappeared into your building.
The phone buzzing in his pocket nearly gave him a heart attack. Shit shit shit shit shit you had caught him you had caught him-
Wade turned his back towards your building again and pulled his phone out with shaky hands. Tapping on the screen twice brought it to life and only one notification stared back at him:
Pumpkin
Hey are you coming by later? Some weird stuff’s been goin on and I honestly miss you
Okay, so maybe you were onto him, but you had no clue that it was him. That wasn’t so bad, and Wade could easily BS his way out of this. Perfect.
A second message came through:
Pumpkin
Oh and if you are, bring Chinese food :)
Wade couldn’t help the smile that cracked his lips as he fired off a quick reply in confirmation.
About a half hour later, he was bursting through the doorway of your apartment, arms piled with Chinese take-out from your favorite place down the street. He had his mask on, even as regular clothes covered the rest of his body- a pair of sweatpants, a black zip-up hoodie, and a shirt with Spider-Man’s mask in a heart.
This had become normal for him- allowing the rest of his body to be vulnerable around you, but his mask stayed on. As much as you wanted to see your dear friend’s face, you didn’t push the issue. This was already a big gesture of trust on Wade’s end and you didn’t want to ruin it.
A shitty reality dating show played on your TV while you two ate your food on the couch, your legs draped carelessly on his.
Another thing that had become normal- casual intimacy.
You weren’t completely aware of when it had become acceptable to be this close to Wade. Sure, he was naturally a bit touchy and he made crude jokes, but there was still a basic understanding and respect for your personal space. Ever since you had first seen his body, and he had slept in your bed however, he had become way more affectionate than before. Warmth and embarrassment flooded your insides as he casually shifted your legs atop his to get more comfortable.
Rain battered the windows, the sky dark and unforgiving. The gentle smattering of rain from an hour ago has turned into a raging, and frankly concerning storm. Severe weather alerts had already popped up on your phone, but you didn’t pay much mind. You were trying furiously to ignore the face of the man sitting next to you.
When you two began your friendship, Wade had made you pinky-promise to not watch him eat. Eating required him to pull up his mask, and what lay beneath wasn’t for your eyes, so whenever you shared a meal with him, you kept your eyes trained firmly forward on the TV in front of you.
The more affectionate he got however, the more difficult this task proved to be.
“So-” Wade broke your train of thought, his voice muffled around the egg roll he had stuffed in his mouth, “What’s the weird stuff that’s been going on?”
You swallowed, lowering your food container to your lap. “It’s gonna sound dumb,” you said quietly, drumming your fingers nervously on the sides of the container.
“Lay it on me Pumpkin. Hard and fast, the way I like it.”
Your skin flushed at the comment but you ignored it. “I feel like someone’s stalking me,” you said, aware of how silly you must have sounded.
The words hung in the air, an awful weight settling deep in your gut. Great, way to sound paranoid. You couldn’t even gently lead into the topic.
“Why do you say that?” Wade finally asked. There was a sense of restraint to his tone, one that made you pause.
“I just- well-” You sighed, shaking your head. “Just feels like I’m being stared at all the time. I don’t know how to explain it. And earlier, before I texted you, I swear I actually saw someone standing across the street.”
Wade gave a laugh, but it seemed like a tinge of nervousness clung to it. “Anyone can stand on the street, Pumpkin.”
Thunder boomed outside, temporarily shaking your apartment building, and mirroring the frustration inside of you. “No no, I felt like someone was staring at me, so I turned around, and some guy with his hood pulled up just happened to dodge near the alley at the same time. It was weird, Wade. That’s why I wanted you here tonight,” you said. You put your food on the end table, appetite lost now. “It kinda scared me.”
Wade remained uncharacteristically silent as he mulled your words over. You were beginning to speak up again, when he did.
“Perhaps it's time for that psych evaluation we always talk about.”
“Wade, please, I want to be serious about this. I know you mean well but-”
Darkness enveloped the room, thunder shaking the walls once more, and lightning streaking through the window. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears at the newfound silence, the TV screen now completely devoid of any reality show shenanigans.
“Oh, fucking great,” you mutter, trying to remember where you had last stashed your candles and flashlights. You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will your ever-growing annoyance away.
“I was following you.”
“What?”
You whipped your body towards Wade, your prior agreement forgotten. Good thing it was dark now.
“What do you mean you were following me?” You ask, no, demand. This has got to be another one of his horrendous jokes. He can’t be serious, right?
Right?
“Well Pumpkin-”
“No. No nicknames until you tell me what you meant. And no jokes either, Wade. I’m serious.”
There was a beat of hesitancy, then a heavy sigh. You could see the outline of his figure, but his exact features were still unknown. His shoulders slumped forward, almost as if in defeat.
Wade’s voice was soft, and he honored your demand of leaving humor out of the conversation. “I care about you. Like a lot. And I get worried that you’ll be put in danger because of my work.” A streak of lightning lit up the room, and on instinct, you darted your eyes away from his face. “Sometimes, I keep an eye on you, make sure no one’s following you, or waiting for you here. There’s some really fucked up people that would hurt you or even-” He shook his head, not allowing his mind to entertain anything more sinister. “They’d use you to get to me, and if anything happened to you, I couldn’t live with myself.”
This admission should piss you off or leave you scrambling to get a restraining order. But this was Wade, your Wade, and this was his version of checking in on you, in his own messed up, nonsensical way.
You rested a hand on his, tracing his knuckles lightly. “Why didn’t you just tell me? And why did you dodge away? If you were honest about it, it would’ve been fine, I understand.”
Wade’s scarred fingers gripped your own. “I don’t know… didn’t want you gettin’ freaked out. My suit, while it brings out my curves-”
You roll your eyes, suppressing a smile. Can’t expect him to drop all humor.
“Doesn’t exactly blend in, and I dodged you ‘cause my face is all fucked up.”
“Wade, listen,” you said, taking both of his hands now. “I know this is your way of looking out for me , but just be honest, okay? It's sweet that you care so much.” You let go of his hands and rested them gently on either side of his face. He stiffened. “I’ve practically seen you naked, Wade. We skipped, like, bases one through three. I don’t think you look fucked up, and I would love to see the face of my best friend.”
Slowly, you curled your fingers under his mask. “Is this okay? It's still dark in here.”
Wade nodded, the action so small, you almost missed it.
You slowly but surely peeled his mask off, and dropped it on the couch cushion behind him. His face felt just as scarred as the rest of his body, the raised and wounded flesh twisting beneath your fingertips. He didn’t have hair, something that slightly surprised you, but that was okay. You brought your hands back down to cup his cheekbones again, which were sharp and angular.
Thunder boomed. Lightning flashed.
And you saw him. Briefly, but it was enough.
Fear swarmed his eyes at your possible rejection, even as his words held the opposite. “Hotter than you imagined?” Wade asked, giving a wink and a cheeky grin, an attempt to squash the anxiety swirling in his chest.
“Honestly…”
His lips pulled down in a sharp pout, eyebrows creasing at the fact that you may be disgusted by him.
“Yeah, you are hotter than I thought you’d be,” You said, smiling as you held his face. “I care about you too, Wade. I mean it.”
Wade’s mouth parted in surprise, then a grin split into his face. “I think I’m in love with you,” he blurted.
WADE WILSON has a lot of bad habits. running his mouth, for one. killing people, obviously. but his worst—his absolute favourite—is fucking with you. which is why you’re not even surprised when the cold press of a gun barrel kisses your cheek. “aww, will you look at that,” he croons, his voice jovial. chillingly, unnervingly sane. “a little bead of sweat right there—uh oh, is somebody nervous? or is it just my devastatingly sexy charm? i mean, i do have the face of a sexier ryan reynolds. and, statistically speaking, a bigger dick. not that you needed a reminder.” the barrel of the gun drags lower, tracing the curve of your cheekbone, down your throat, pausing in the dip of your collarbone. steel on skin, a teasing chill that leaves goosebumps blossoming in its wake. “relax, baby. pinky promise, i wouldn’t dream of pulling the trigger.” cue a dramatic pause.
“unless, y’know, you did something really naughty. like—oh, i dunno—ate the last chimichanga. or, worse, called me spider-man.” wade whistled, shaking his head emphatically. “actually, that one might get you shot and edged for hours.” the gun dips lower, skimming between your erect nipples. his free hand follows—hot where the metal is cold, fingertips barely ghosting over your stomach, lower still, grazing your inner thigh before pulling away.
“but real talk, is it fucked up that i’m turned on right now? not in an ‘oops, almost shot my partner’ kinda way, but more like a ‘we should film this and make a small fortune catering to a very specific audience’ kinda way.” the last part is addressed to the side of the wall where the tv is mounted, along with some sort of invisible camera. you roll your eyes, because what the fuck.
“man, this is fifty shades of fucked up. but hey, we like what we like. and i like… you.” his free hand catches your jaw, tilting your head up. the gun clatters to the floor, forgotten, as he leans in and planted a obnoxiously wet smooch to your cheek. he’s hard beneath his red and black tactical suit. you can feel it, thick and hot where he’s pressed up against your thigh.
then, just as quickly, he’s off you, flopping onto the couch with his feet propped on the coffee table. “alright, your turn, hot stuff, make a grown mercenary beg.” he purrs, stretching his arms. “or we can just skip to the part where you climb on top of me and ride me til i see god. no pressure though.” he shoots finger guns and a wink. “unless you like pressure. in which case, i am more than happy-”
“oh my god, wade.” you groan.
“aw fuck yeahh—baby, just like that. moan my name.” another conspiratorial wink at the invisible camera. “hey, kevin feige, buddy, let’s really push that r rating, huh?”
being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald
no thoughts just moving to a new apartment complex and meeting Wade in the hall at three in the morning a few days after settling in.
He’s coming back from the laundromat with his fuckass suit in one of those plastic bag thingies, wearing neon green crocs, a crop top that says “Dog mom” and a pistol tucked into the waistband of his sanrio pajama pants. As he walks past, he realizes he hasn’t seen you around before.
“Ohh, you must be the new neighbor!” He realizes, looking you up and down.
You’re much too sleep deprived to have any sort of filter at this time of night, so without thinking, you reply, “And you must be the reason rent is so low.”
Of course, you start mentally kicking yourself as soon as the words leave your mouth. That definitely should have been an inside thought.
Fuck. Why did you say that to a gun-toting stranger?? In an empty hallway during the night, no less!?
The guy- to your surprise and relief- seems delighted by your response, his eyes lighting up.
the four times they asked about his sidekick, and the one time he realized why. (pt.1)
worst!logan + d&w!deadpool x suicidal!reader
a/n : okay this is sad and emotion-driven asf, so if you're sensitive to suicide mentions or emotional trumoil and problems of self-worth please do not continue reading this. Also warning for suicide description for the other universes' sidekicks.
first part out of five!
wc : 2k
TW FOR SUICIDE , TW FOR DEPRESSION , SOFT!WADE , SOFT!WORST!LOGAN , WADE BEING UNABLE TO LOOK AFTER A KID , HEAVY/MULTIPLE BATMAN AND JASON TODD REFERENCES , DEADPOOL VARIANTS FUSSING OVER READER.
soft!worst logan . overprotective!deadpool . only-deadpool-still-with-sidekick!wade wilson
Think of Batman and Robin.
Yup. Now turn and twist it around some more and make it.. more chaotic, more unhinged. More morally questionable.
And then think of Deadpool.
The merc with a mouth.
The dude that chose a red suit just so he didn't have to bother about the red stains.
And then add up a teenager to the recipe. As chaotic as the man, maybe a bit naïver. And you've got Deadpool and his sidekick.
Because if all cool superheros had sidekicks, then Deadpool —albeit while not actively being a superhero. Had to have one too, didn't he?
And that's how you had ended up roped into all of his unethical adventures, killing off the bad guys that had the highest price above their head and helping Deadpool run the official Spideypool fanwebsite.
But, despite how many masks you put on, despite how many bad guys you killed, despite how many times you had saved someone. You were still just you.
A teenager.
A teenager paired up with an older, unhinged, mercenary that ran his mouth way too much and that got you into way too much trouble.
A teenager paired up with an irresponsible adult without emotional responsability was the fucking equivalent of throwing a trained lab mouse inside the first maze that didn't have an exist.
Wade cared about you. Yeah, you knew that.
But the problem was that you were a teenager and teenagers needed a certain amount of care to grow healthyly.
Because physically you were great, with how much running around and being-at-the-verge-of-death you did.
But mentally?
God, then you were the messiest mess in the planet.
Spending so much time with someone that had so many intrusive thoughts, that spilled his thoughts without filter, had rubbed off on you.
And sometimes you scared yourself when sudden thoughts popped up in your mind. Like the sudden pull in your legs anytime you walked near the edge of a roof, the "jump!" that flashed across your head. Or the way you wondered, asked yourself, what it would feel to be stabbed when you were cleaning Deadpool's katanas.
Or the way you started to throw yourself at danger's way just for the thrill of it. And if you died, well, there went nothing.
It was wrong.
It was bad.
And it was a totally unhealthy and toxic vice.
You knew you were self-destructive.
But you didn't know how to do doing anything about it.
You see, if Deadpool wasn't so reckless and careless maybe you would've told him. But since he did it, you grew into your late teens thinking it was okay.
,,
Lately, your thoughts had grew more dangerous.
More specific.
And you were starting to get scared of yourself. In movies, that was how villians started —with destructive thoughts. And you didn't want to become a villian.
What would Wade think of you?
He'd be disappointed in you, hate your guts, despise you.
So your mind jumped to the quickest—and most self-destructive—conclussion. Offing yourself before that happened.
And you had nearly 10 pages of your pink diary written with ways of carrying on with that plan. Glitter gel pen words scribbled about the knifes in the house—their lengths and sharpness—, about the belts stacked away in Wade's closet, about the height of the fall from the balcony to the ground. You had everything planned.
And Wade hadn't caught onto anything of it, except for the fact you seemed more twitchy and on edge than usual. He tied it to the usual teenage anxiousness that came with your age.
He didn't know this was the last mission he was going to have you in.
,,
He had just brought you along on this 'adventure' just like he had did with all of the ones before, except in this one there was another.. —reluctant—companion.
Logan Howlett.
The Wolverine.
And not the dead hero that Wade had unburied a few days before. No. This one was the worst variant of Wolverine in the whole multiverse, the one from the timeline where he killed all of the X-Men.
And that Howlett was smelling something coming.
He could smell the irony scent of blood whafting off of you, a bitter scent choking his airways. Your scent was way too bitter for how cheerful you were, except maybe you weren't.
This Logan had only barely known you for two days, but if something were to happen to you he'd kill the responsible, then find a way to kill the mercenary and then find a way to kill himself too.
But, first.
Stop, pause, rewind.
How this did even start?
,,
You groaned as you helped Wade drag the uncounscious body of the drunk Wolverine you had found in a random timeline —the only one in which the dude hadn't tried to kill you at first sight. Entering through the door-shaped orange portal to the TVA room.
"one anchor being coming right up!" Wade's voice rang through the air before the merc, fully dressed in his suit, had crossed the portal.
You let out a startled squeak when the antihero pretty much threw the uncounscious body of the Logan on the ground, wincing at the metallic sound of his skull against the floor.
"Wade!" you hissed. "c'mon pumpkin', don't sweat it. He's full metal, remember?" he said as he gave the drunk Logan a kick in the side, the metallic sound echoing his words.
"listen here, babygirl" the merc started, looking at the unimpressed man before him. "this Wolverine has the he-can-do-anything-even-musical-stuff look to him and bonus he's actually wearing the accurate comic costume. So, uh yeah, there, timeline saved"
The silence coming from the dude that had called Wade here in the first place didn't sound too good get it?. And as you sat there, poking the drunk man's face with your index finger while whispering for him to "wake up, Wolvie, rise and shine, wakey wakey?"
"I don't understand"
"You said my, our" he pointed at you "universe is dying because this nutsack died, well, problem solved" he now pointed at Logan.
"oh my god" Paradox breathed out. "you actually think you can replace an Anchor Being with this?"
Oh, great. A rant was comming.
Like the ones your mother goes on when you mess up too many times.
"I wouldn't have accepted any other Wolverine BT dubs. But you.. have outdone yourself and brought me the worst Wolverine in the whole multiverse!"
It looked as if the dude's temple vein was going to pop, and you weakly interveened. "what do you mean the worst one..?" you breathed out.
"This Wolverine let down his entire world, he's the stuff of Legend but not in a good way and what he did.. well, some things are just beyond forgiveness"
A beat of silence followed, you knew the Wolverine on the floor had been awake and listening for the whole time. But then, you saw Paradox finally looking at you.
"wait"
"what?"
"is that your little sidekick?"
The incredulous, and cruelly amused, tone of the man in uniform made Wade quirk an eyebrow under his mask.
"yeah, why?"
His words were followed by a booming laugh coming from Paradox. His hand going to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, as chuckle after chuckle it just confused Wade and you even more.
"I can't believe you've still got her"
That was like a titty-flash for Wade, and not the good kind.
He stood there, mouth gaping like a fish as he wildly and overexageredly gestured towards you.
"I gave you a chance at greatness, because my superiors deemed you special. But, I did my duty. I gave you the opportunity and you refused, so there's no more bussiness to do here"
And with that, and a strange remote control in his hand, he pressed a button and zapped you three off to somewhere. Leaving Wade with a strange taste lingering in his mouth.
Well, at least it seemed like your last adventure wasn't going to be boring.
