#comic deadpool

Wade Wilson. God, there were days you wanted to permanently shut him up—maybe wrap him in enough webbing to look like a silk mummy and hang him from the Brooklyn Bridge until all the blood rushed to his scarred head. It wouldn't kill him; you were fairly certain at this point that nothing short of a supernova could actually stop Wade. But, unfortunately, you’d developed a bit of a localized Stockholm Syndrome. You actually liked hearing him talk.

​It wasn't like that at first. He had been a jagged thorn in your side—constantly yapping, questioning your moral judgment, and narrating his life like he was the lead in a R-rated sitcom. You’d lost count of how many times you had webbed his mouth shut just to get a moment of peace. Back then, it was too much talking and not enough work—if you could even call being a spider-themed vigilante work.

But Wade had grown on you, like a particularly charming fungus. It happened in the quiet moments: the late nights he’d find you perched on a rooftop overlooking Manhattan, or the time he followed you home after a grueling, bone-breaking encounter with Taskmaster. Eventually, the mask came off. He found out who you were—not a legend, just a guy in his twenties working a dead-end coffee shop job and living in a cramped apartment that smelled like cheap laundry detergent and old pizza. Oddly enough, Wade found it comforting.

​He knew both versions of you now. There was the masked version: heroic, selfless, the guy who had once tackled Wade out of the path of a speeding car before realizing Wade would have just bounced off the bumper and kept walking. Then there was the real you: the one who was surprisingly nerdy, who actually listened to his nonsensical rambles, and who let him crash on the sofa—provided he promised not to bleed on the cushions or watch you sleep like a pervert.

You let out a jagged breath, your ribs screaming in protest as you swung toward your building. You stuck the landing on the fire escape with a dull thud, your feet hitting the metal harder than usual. Exhausted, you slid the mask up past your nose, ready for the stale air of the alleyway. Instead, you caught a whiff of….pizza?

​Why does my apartment smell like a Lucci’s Extra-Large?

​You slid the window open, slipping inside with a quiet click. The silence was immediately broken by the sight of Wade’s suit—red spandex and reinforced carbon fiber—discarded unceremoniously on your bed. His katanas were leaned against the wall next to a pair of mud-caked boots.

​“Sweetheart!” Wade beamed, popping up from behind your kitchen island like a deranged jack-in-the-box. “You’re back! How was the war? Did we win? Did you bring me a souvenir, or just more of that delicious, delicious trauma?”

​You stood frozen, mouth agape. Wade was wearing your grey sweatpants—which were stretched dangerously thin over his frame—and a white t-shirt that definitely wasn't yours. It featured a bold font that read: I LOVE DILFS.

​“Wade,” you rasped, rubbing your eyes. “Where did you even get that shirt?”

​Wade glanced down, then looked at a spot about three inches to the left of your head. “What, this? The readers love a good wardrobe gag. Besides, it fits the demographic.” He turned back to you with a grin that you could practically hear through his scarred tissue. “And before you ask, I’m here because the cable’s out at my place and I knew you’d miss my sparkling personality.”

​You huffed, looking at the pizza box and then at the mercenary who had effectively colonized your living room. “I don't think a restraining order would even stop you.”

​“A what? No, those don’t work on protagonists,” Wade giggled, shuffling after you as you headed for the bedroom to change. He stopped at the door, leaning against the frame. “I would never watch my best friend change. That’s a gross invasion of privacy!” He looked at the empty air next to him and whispered loudly, “That’s a lie. I totally would, and the commenters are already shipping it.”

The bedroom door wasn't quite shut, leaving a sliver of golden light from the hallway to spill across the floor. You stripped off the spandex with a series of hissed breaths and winces. Every inch of skin felt like it had been tenderized by a mallet. You didn't need a mirror to know your ribs were turning a deep, angry plum color, or that the old jagged scar across your shoulder from a run-in with the Vulture was throbbing in sympathy.

​You knew Wade was there. You could feel the weight of his gaze through the crack in the door. He wasn't technically watching you change—at least, that’s what he’d tell the judge—but he was lingering. Every time he caught a glimpse of a new bruise or the way you favored your left side, his usual manic energy seemed to dip, replaced by a heavy, quiet frequency that hummed in the air.

​You’d seen him fully, too. You knew the roadmap of his skin—the ridges and valleys left by the cancer and the cruel hands of Weapon X. To the rest of the world, he was a horror story; to you, he was just Wade. There was a rugged, tragic handsomeness to him that he didn't believe in, which was probably why his mask was currently discarded on your duvet like a piece of trash. He felt safe enough to be "ugly" here.

​Finally, you pulled on a loose, oversized hoodie and sweat pants, the soft fabric a mercy against your skin. You turned, catching him dead-on in the doorway. He didn't jump. He just stood there, leaning against the frame, his brown eyes tracing the line of your jaw with an expression you couldn't quite pin down. It wasn't pity—Wade didn't do pity. It was something closer to reverence, or maybe a quiet sort of heartbreak.

​“You got pizza?” you asked, your voice a bit raspy. You stepped toward him, expecting him to make a joke about the hoodie, but he just stepped back to let you pass, his shoulder brushing yours for a fleeting, grounding second.

​“Only the best for my favorite web-head,” Wade murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft before he ramped the volume back up to a ten. He bounced after you into the kitchen. “I had to threaten the delivery guy. I told him if there was a single stray mushroom on that pie, I’d make him watch the Green Lantern movie on loop. He cried. It was moving.”

​You reached the kitchen island and flipped the lid of the box. The steam hit you first—yeast, grease, and spice. It was exactly your drunken order from three months ago: extra cheese, green peppers, bacon, and enough jalapeños to burn a hole through your chest. You hadn't even realized you’d mentioned it to him.

​“Sit, sit, sit!” Wade chirped, pulling out the rickety wooden stool. He practically shoved a cold can of ginger ale into your hand. “Drink up. Doctor Deadpool’s orders. Besides, the writer had this exact meal two nights ago while staring at a blank document, so we’re basically just victims of self-projection at this point. It’s very meta. Very chic.”

​You popped the tab on the ginger ale, the carbonation stinging your throat in the best way possible. You weren't really processing the words—the "writer," the "meta," the usual Wade-isms. It was just background noise, a familiar, comforting hum that filled the silence of your lonely apartment.

​Wade hopped onto the stool next to you, his knees bumping against yours. He grabbed a slice, the cheese stretching in a long, golden bridge. He didn't eat it right away. Instead, he watched you take a bite, his head tilted to the side. For a second, the jokes stopped.

​"You look like hell, sweetheart," he said, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of the usual snark. He reached out, his gloved thumb hovering just an inch away from a fresh cut on your cheekbone, hesitating as if he was afraid his touch would break the spell. "The bad kind of hell. Not the fun kind with the fire and the demons in bikinis."

​You looked at him, a jalapeño-induced heat rising in your chest that had nothing to do with the pizza. "I'm fine, Wade. Just a long night."

​"Yeah," Wade sighed, finally pulling his hand back to gesture vaguely at the ceiling. "Tell that to the guys in the yellow boxes. They’re currently screaming for a fluff chapter, and honestly? For once, I agree with the voices.”

​The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of your aging refrigerator and the occasional clink of your ginger ale can against the countertop. Wade had stopped mid-bite, his slice of pizza hovering near his mouth. The "I Love DILFs" shirt was absurdly tight across his chest, but the joke felt thin now.

​"You’re staring," Wade said. He didn't look at you; he was focused on a stray piece of green pepper. "The boxes are telling me to say something charming and slightly suggestive, but my mouth is currently disconnected from my brain. Technical difficulties. Please stand by."

​You leaned back, the wooden stool creaking under your weight. "Wade. You’ve been here for an hour. You haven't tried to sell me stolen tech, you haven't asked for a 'team-up' that ends in a lawsuit, and you’re actually....quiet. What’s up?"

​Wade dropped the pizza back into the box with a wet thud. He finally turned his head, his scarred face illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen. Without the mask, you could see every flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

​"I hate it here," he blurted out. He gestured wildly to the cozy, cramped corners of your apartment. "I hate the smell of your cheap laundry detergent. I hate that you have a 'favorite' pizza order that involves jalapeños—which, by the way, is a cry for help. And I really, really hate the way you look at me when I’m being a complete disaster."

​You blinked, confused. "You hate being here? Then why—"

​"Because I hate being away from here more!" Wade cut you off, his voice cracking with a manic sort of honesty. He hopped off the stool and began to pace the small kitchen, his hands flying through the air. "It’s a glitch in the system, sweetheart. Every time I’m around you, my internal organs do this....this weird, fluttery, synchronized swimming routine. Butterflies? Is that what the kids call it? Because it feels more like a swarm of very confused moths trying to eat their way out of my ribcage."

​He stopped pacing and pointed a finger at a spot in the air—presumably at one of his 'readers.' "Don't you laugh! This is a serious character arc! I’m experiencing pathos!"

​He turned back to you, his shoulders sagging. The bravado was gone, replaced by a raw, uncomfortable sincerity.

​"I'm here because I'm a glutton for punishment," he whispered, stepping closer until he was standing between your knees, looking up at you. "I enjoy being around you. You’re the only person who doesn't look at me like I’m a ticking time bomb or a sideshow freak. You look at me like I’m....just a guy. A guy who wears your sweatpants and eats your pizza."

​He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he finally touched your shoulder, right where the bruise was darkest.

​"The butterflies? They’re terrifying. I’ve survived being melted, decapitated, and fed to sharks, but three minutes of sustained eye contact with you and I feel like I’m going to pass out. My healing factor doesn't know what to do with 'feelings.' It keeps trying to knit my heart back together, but you keep breaking it open just by existing."

​He let out a sharp, dry laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I’m here because I’m addicted to the flutter. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not just a bunch of ink and bad jokes.”

You sat there for a long beat, the silence of the kitchen stretching out until the only sound was the distant siren of an ambulance somewhere on 5th Avenue. Wade was still standing between your knees, looking like a man awaiting a death sentence—or at least a very harsh editorial rejection. His hand was still on your shoulder, his thumb tracing the seam of your hoodie with a rhythmic, nervous twitch.

​“Butterflies, huh?” you finally murmured. Your voice was low, devoid of the teasing edge he probably expected.

​Wade’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Aggressive ones. Like, Mothra-sized. They’re currently staging a coup in my lower intestine. It’s very distracting. I can’t even concentrate on the dialogue tree! I’m pretty sure my next line is supposed to be a dick joke, but all I can think about is how your hair smells like rain and cheap espresso.”

​He started to pull his hand back, his habitual defense mechanism kicking in—the need to retreat before he could be pushed away.

​But you didn't let him. You reached up, catching his wrist. His skin was warm, the scar tissue rough against your palm, but you didn't flinch. You never did. You pulled his hand back to your shoulder, anchoring him there.

​“Stay,” you said. It wasn’t a web-swinging command; it was an invitation. “The 'writer' can wait. The boxes can shut up for five minutes. Just....be here.”

​Wade froze. A slow, genuine tremor ran through him. “You’re doing that thing again,” he whispered. “The 'looking-at-me-like-I’m-human' thing. It’s very bad for my reputation. If the fan-fic community finds out I’m being pampered by a guy in a hoodie, I’ll lose my street cred.”

​You let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning forward until your forehead rested against his chest. The "I LOVE DILFS" text was right there in your field of vision, a ridiculous contrast to the heavy thumping of his heart beneath the fabric. It was fast—way too fast—matching the frantic energy of those butterflies he was so terrified of.

​“I’m tired, Wade,” you admitted, closing your eyes. “I’m bruised, I’m hungry, and I’ve spent the last six hours being shot at by guys who don’t know when to quit. I don’t want a team-up. I don’t want a monologue.” You paused, tightening your grip on his wrist just a fraction. “I just want the guy who bought me my favorite pizza and followed me home to make sure I didn't pass out in an alleyway.”

​Wade’s other hand came up, hovering uncertainly before finally settling on the back of your neck. His fingers slid into your damp hair, gently massaging the tension out of your scalp. It was a shockingly tender gesture for a man who made his living with katanas.

​“Well,” Wade breathed, his voice vibrating against your forehead. “Technically, I followed you home to see if you had any of those high-protein granola bars left, but....yeah. Okay. I can do the ‘staying’ thing. I’m very good at overstaying my welcome. Ask any of my exes. Or the X-Men. They have a restraining order with my name on it in three different languages.”

​He leaned his chin on the top of your head, his body finally losing that 'fight-or-flight' rigidity.

​“Just so we’re clear,” Wade added, his voice regaining a hint of its usual snark as he looked over your shoulder at the empty kitchen, “if this turns into a slow-burn montage with soft indie music playing in the background, I’m charging extra for the emotional labor.”

​You smiled against his shirt, the heat of the pizza and the heat of the man in front of you finally starting to thaw the chill of the night. “Shut up and eat your pizza, Wade.”

​“Sir, yes sir,” he chirped, but he didn't move. He just kept his hand in your hair, holding you close in the quiet of the kitchen, while the butterflies in his chest finally stopped fluttering and started to settle.

Wade let out a sharp, barking laugh that echoed off the tiled backsplash. It wasn't his usual "I just blew something up" laugh; it was lighter, breathless, and filled with a frantic sort of relief. He leaned back just enough to look at you, his thumb still tracing patterns at the nape of your neck.

​Then, he did that thing again. He jerked his head toward the dark corner of your apartment—right where the shadows of your coat rack met the ceiling—and squinted like he was looking through a two-way mirror.

​"Can you believe these guys?" Wade chuckled, his voice thick with conspiratorial glee. "They really thought we were going to end on a 'fade to black' after a hug? In this economy? The pacing was dragging, the subtext was becoming just plain 'text,' and I’m pretty sure the person reading this was about to throw their phone across the room if I didn't do something 'Main Character' worthy."

​You looked up at him, one eyebrow cocked so high it disappeared into your messy fringe. You didn't move away, but the sheer absurdity of his rambling was starting to override the exhaustion. "Wade....who are you talking to? There is literally nothing in that corner but my vacuum cleaner and a couple spiders.”

​"Oh, ignore them, sweetheart," Wade said, turning his focus back to you, his eyes suddenly intense and dangerously wild. "They’re just here for the 'Shipping' tag. But they’re right about one thing—I’ve been doing way too much talking."

​Before you could even open your mouth to ask what the hell he meant, Wade closed the distance.

​It wasn't a movie kiss. It was messy, sudden, and tasted faintly of jalapeño and ginger ale. His skin was rough, the scar tissue a tactile reminder of everything he’d survived, but his lips were surprisingly soft. He moved with a desperate, clumsy hunger, his hands cupping your face like you were something fragile he was terrified of breaking.

​The shock lasted for a heartbeat—the realization that Wade Wilson was actually kissing you—and then your brain finally caught up. You melted into it, your fingers tangling in the collar of that ridiculous "I Love DILFs" shirt, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air left between you.

​Wade groaned into the kiss, a sound of pure, unadulterated "butterfly-killing" satisfaction. He broke away just an inch, his nose brushing yours, his breath hot against your skin.

​"See?" he whispered, his eyes flicking back to that empty corner of the room for a split second with a triumphant smirk. "Five stars. Great engagement metrics. Now shut the door, I think we’ve given them enough of a show for one chapter."