hi!! Could you do a Deadpool x Reader, where Wade walks in on reader self h4rming? (It's completely okay if not! Do wtv makes you comfortable :D) Lots of comfort, and fluff please!!
not paper
deadpoolxgnreader
a/n : why of course I can sweetheart! <33
I'm totally comfortable with writting about this in case anyone wants to send in a req like this one
wc : 1.4k
S4LF H4RM TW! , SH DESCRIPTION , FLUFF COMFORT , PLATONIC! .
soft!deadpool . post d&w!deadpool . r lives with deadpool and wolverine.
The feeling of being a stranger in your own body wasn't new to you.
No, it was a recurring —excruciating— ache that settled deep within your bones, bones that didn't feel yours.
Ever since you had been sent to the void things had taken a darker turn. You were young, and now all of your dreams for life were long-gone and destroyed because of the desertic setting that you had been teleported to by the TVA.
You had stopped wondering why they had sent you here a very long time ago. Simply focused on surviving Cassandra and her strange smoke-y pet.
Or that was until two strangers, one Deadpool —another one— and one Wolverine had been teleported. You had found them in a blood-covered and distroyed Honda Oddyssey that looked way too similar to Nicepool's car.
Well, in summary, those two dudes had managed to get themselves and you out of that horrible cage for failed attempts at characters that nobody remembered anymore.
That was what your mind focused on most days.
You had been sent to the void because nobody remembered you anymore, because nobody loved you enough for your departure to be significant, because you didn't raise the numbers, simply because you weren't important enough.
You sometimes wished you had been a teen idle.
Would they have remembered you if you had gotten the prom queen title?
Wasn't youth supposed to be beautiful?
You were living with Wade, Logan and Mary Puppins in Blind Al's appartment. Had been living with them for a while, but it maybe was the first time you had been truly alone in here.
Blind Al had bingo night, Logan was off drinking in the bar down the street, and Wade was walking Dogpool. You were alone.
You didn't like the silence that had settled on the lived-in appartment.
Didn't like how still everything was. How everything had it's place in the appartment yet it felt as if you were just a piece of a different puzzle kept in the same box.
You were very conscious of your heartbeat —feeling each thump against your ribs. You could feel the way it's rythmic started to sped up little by little for the longer you stayed in silence.
You recognised the dull feeling starting to claw low at your gut, creeping up until it got a grip of your stomach —almost making you feel queasy. Until it reached your heart.
And squeezed.
And with that you were back with the same energy buzzing low beneath your skin, with your brain slowly starting to whisper things —harmful things. In your ear.
You were sitting on the couch, facing the TV yet there was no show on. The screen as black as the void starting to grow within you.
Your eyes dipped low to the exposed skin of your legs, there were a few fading purple bruises on your skin —like accidental splatters of paint on an empty canvas. You had managed to pass them as accidental bumps against furniture, nobody had pondered if the hits had been pruposeful.
And at that you were suddenly on your feet, driven by an anxiety that didn't quite seem fitting or yours. As if something bad would happen if you didn't do as your brain was telling you to.
Nobody was home.
It was okay.
Nobody was home.
Nobody would see.
It would be okay.
Before you even knew what you were doing, processing what you were doing, your hand was around the handle of the kitchen uttilery drawer. You pulled, the clinking sound of metal from spoons and forks sounding distant —as if underwater.
Then, you were sitting on the floor, back against the kitchen table and knife in your hands. You traced the sharp blade against your skin, not quite cutting yet, the cold making gosebumps grow on your skin.
And then you sliced.
You could feel the stinging of your skin breaking under the blade, but you didn't care. It was a need to do it, you didn't even stop when the metallic scent of blood whafted into your nostrils, nor when the red started to taint your skin.
Your hands were shaking.
You were shaking.
Driven by an anxiety that wasn't quite real, feeling trapped in a body that wasn't quite yours, feeling the pain that didn't feel real enough.
You just stopped when you heard a startled gasp from behind you.
Just like that the knife —bloodstained. Was on the floor, the clinking sound echoing in the kitchen. Eyes wide and head snaping to see who it was at the door.
Being met with Wade standing there, still with his Deadpool suit on, staring right at you with the white in his mask's eyes wide.
The man saw the way your hand reached behind you, finding support on the cold floor, and he catched onto the clear signal that you were about to flee.
"hey—hey hey, no. None of that, no." his voice was firm, stern, acting in control even if he didn't have a fucking clue on what was going on. "oh god, does the writer want me to have a heart attack or something? gezz-"
He muttered some words under his breath as he quickly tugged off his red mask, walking over to where you were sitting and crouching right infront of you with a strained smile. Talking to you right now was going to be like talking to stray dog, right?
"okay, give me the knife, pumpkin', c'mon"
He stretched out his palm, making a grabing motion for visual, as he stared at you expectingly. You were far too confused and equally scared of his reaction to protest right now, so you simply reached for the bloody knife and placed it on his open palm with shaky hands. "alright, good, very good" he hummed.
Then, he was uncrouching for a small second to place the knife on top of the table before crouching down and this time actually sitting next to you on the floor.
"now, c'mere sweetums" he whispered before he opened his arms and pulled you into a hug. His gloved hand on the back of your head, fully enveloping you with his body.
When his warmth surrounded you, it was as if that stupid fog that had been clouding your mind all day —that numbness— had dissipated, and you felt yourself choking on a sob before starting to cry in his arms.
He held you all the way through, craddling you and whispering gentle praises in your ear. His voice was softer than usual, gentler, and without a single sexual innuendo.
It was odd for him to be like that.
But it was also odd for you to have acted the way you did and that had worried him sick.
Your tears slowly dried up, sobs quieting down into soft sniffles, when you felt the warmth from his breath puffing against your forehead. It was a fleeting second, you looking up with your teary eyes and being met with his brown eyes, before he was pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. 'The writter is so gonna have to make me a real ass in the next fanfic to compensate this' he thought to himself.
Once you had calmed down, he gently moved your face out of his chest. Hushing and sushing you when you let out a little distressed noise at the separation.
His hand settled for staying tangled in your hair, his thumb gently rubbing circles under your eye —wiping away the tears. Before he spoke.
"you calm now, cupcake?" he whispered, breathed out, softly. He didn't know what had driven you into self-harming so actively, but he wasn't about to trigger anything by speaking in a loud voice right now.
At your little nod and "uh-huh" he noded his head and sighed in relief before smacking another kiss on your forehead.
"alright babybird, up you go" he huffed out, voice straining in the last three words by the effort of picking you up into his arms. "we're gonna clean those boo-boos, yeah?"
When the little baby-voice he put on got a small chuckle out of you, he finally smiled for the first time since he had walked into the appartment to the tacky smell of blood.
"hey, kid"
"yeah?"
Once he had set you down in the bathroom, wet rag tenderly wiping away the blood in your raw and damaged skin, he dared to speak again.
"your skin's not paper, so let's not cut it, 'kay?
