—DEADPOOL X READER | HAVING MY BABY
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The front door slammed open with a dramatic *BANG*.
"HONEY, I'M HOOOOME! If there’s a murderer in here, please let me know so I can kill you first!" Wade’s voice rang through the apartment, his usual over-the-top entrance in case you were there.
You were.
Standing in the warm glow of the living room, clad in nothing but one of his oversized shirts and a pair of barely-there panties, you smiled as he stepped inside, his suit still streaked with someone else's blood. His mask tilted as he took in the sight of you, his body already moving forward on autopilot.
"Well, hellooo, sexy squatter," he purred, voice muffled under the red fabric.
You padded over to him, barefoot, your fingers slipping under his mask to lift it just enough to meet his lips. His body relaxed instantly, melting into the kiss, hands finding your hips and gripping them like you might disappear. When you pulled back, his eyes fluttered open, half-lidded and dazed.
"You taste like blood," you murmured.
"And you taste like home," he countered smoothly.
You laughed, the sound like a little bell in the quiet space. Behind you, the massive window in his bedroom revealed the glittering skyline, the night stretching wide and endless. The city hummed beneath you, but in this moment, it was just you and Wade.
Your fingers toyed with the hem of his suit, nervous energy buzzing under your skin. "I, um… I have something to tell you."
He gasped dramatically, hands flying to his chest. "Oh my god, did you eat the last chimichanga? Because I swore I left—"
"Wade." You rolled your eyes but couldn't help giggling.
"Okay, okay, I’m listening. Lay it on me, babycakes."
You swallowed, then handed him the small plastic stick you’d been keeping behind your back.
For once, Wade Wilson was silent.
His head tilted. "Huh." He looked at it, then back at you. Then back at it. "Okay. So either this means I’m gonna be a dad, or this is the world's shittiest thermometer."
Your teeth sank into your lip as you studied his expression, searching for any sign of panic, regret, *anything* that might make your heart drop. But instead—
"You’re pregnant?" His voice was quieter now, less Deadpool, more Wade.
You nodded. "Yeah."
A beat. Two.
And then Wade let out an *ungodly* excited screech before scooping you up, spinning you in a circle. "HOLY SHIT! WE MADE A TINY ME! AND YOU! OH GOD, IT’S GONNA BE SO CUTE, BUT ALSO KINDA SCARY! I’M GONNA BE A DAD! BABY, I'M GONNA TEACH IT HOW TO SWEAR!"
You laughed into his shoulder, relief washing over you. "No, you *won’t*."
"Okay, fine, *you* can do that. I’ll teach it how to kill people!"
"Wade!"
"Kidding! …Kind of."
He pulled back, his hands framing your face, his expression soft in a way few people ever got to see. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, his eyes warm. "You’re sure about this? You’re happy?"
You nodded, tears pricking your eyes. "I am."
"Then so am I." He pressed his forehead to yours. "And I promise, I’m gonna be the best, most inappropriate, most loving pain-in-the-ass dad this kid could ever have."
You grinned. "I wouldn’t want it any other way."
It was nearly 3 a.m., and you were curled up on the cool tile of the bathroom floor, absolutely miserable.
Your stomach was waging war against you, twisting in ways that should have been illegal. Morning sickness, your ass—this was all-the-time sickness.
And to make matters worse, you had a phobia of vomiting. The second you felt that awful lurch in your stomach, panic set in. Tears burned in your eyes as you curled into yourself, whimpering under your breath.
From the bedroom, you heard Wade stir, mumbling something incoherent before the sound of bare feet padding on the floor filled the silence. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, squinting, his mask askew from sleep.
"Babe?" His voice was rough with sleep, then cleared when he noticed you on the floor. "Oh, shit, is this a demon possession, or are we just embracing the horror of pregnancy?"
You shot him a look, absolutely pathetic as you whined, "I hate you so much right now."
Wade’s eyes widened. "Whoa, whoa, baby mama hostility—what did I do?"
"You knocked me up," you groaned, clutching your stomach. "You and your dumb, horny self—"
"Okay, in my defense, you were also dumb and horny."
"Shut up, Wade."
"Shutting up."
He crouched beside you, rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back. "You feel like you’re gonna hurl?"
Your whole body tensed at the thought. "Don't say that!"
He bit his lip, watching you. "Ohhh, right, forgot you’re a total wimp about puking."
You shot him a glare that could kill. "It's a phobia."
"Potato, po-tah-to." He sat beside you, pulling you between his legs so he could wrap himself around you like a weird, comforting octopus. His hands rubbed slow, soothing patterns over your belly, barely noticeable but still there.
After a beat, he murmured, "Okay, so what if I, like, punch morning sickness in the face? You think if I challenge it to a duel, it’ll back off?"
You let out a weak, breathy laugh, resting your head against his shoulder. "If only."
His arms tightened around you, voice suddenly softer. "You want me to get you anything? Ice chips? Ginger ale? A priest to exorcise the demon inside you?"
You sighed, relaxing into his hold. "Just stay."
"Always."
And so he did—holding you, rubbing your back, whispering dumb jokes until the nausea faded and exhaustion finally pulled you under.
