My Merc. (deadpool x reader)

The sun was setting in smears of gold and blood-red over the skyline as you and Wade walked home, the junkyard a war-torn memory behind you. The air was cooling off, but not enough to make you shiver—not with the heat of the day's chaos still clinging to your skin.

Wade, ever the clingy bastard, had laced his fingers with yours. His grip was firm but gentle, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythm he probably thought you didn't notice. You hated how comforting it was. Or, at least, you pretended to.

You walked in silence for a while, boots crunching against gravel and broken glass. The city lights were starting to flicker on like stars falling out of order, and your free hand absently brushed over the bloodstains on your torn shirt.

Then—of course—Wade opened his mouth.

"So," he began, his voice just a little too cheerful, "what are we doing when we get home? Make out session? Epic tale time with Blind Al, complete with dramatic reenactments? Or..." He leaned closer, his masked face tilted just enough for his forehead to rest against the side of your head. "Do we do something a bit...spicier?"

He blinked up at you innocently, that fake sweetness in his tone that meant nothing but trouble. His head flopped gently onto your shoulder like he was settling in for a nap, body leaning against yours just enough to be felt.

You rolled your eyes but didn't pull away. "Spicier," you echoed, voice dry. "You mean like hot sauce on our cereal, or the other kind of spicy where you start undressing at the door and I pretend to care until I throw a sock at you?"

Wade let out a dramatic gasp, lifting his head with faux offense. "Excuse me, but my stripteases are a work of art." He turned to face you slightly, still holding your hand like a lifeline. "I'm talking candles, music, my ass in slow motion. Maybe even—"

"You light one candle near the couch again and Al's gonna beat you with her shoe," you cut in, smirking just slightly.

"Worth it," Wade said, swinging your entwined hands lazily between you two. "You know, today was brutal, but... having you there, fighting with me, tearing off that dude's head like a demonic plush toy? That was kinda romantic."

You sighed, the edge of a smile tugging at your lips. "You're messed up, Wade."

"Yeah," he said, bumping his shoulder into yours. "But lucky for me, so are you."

You didn't say anything else—just squeezed his hand a little tighter as you walked under the fading light, knowing full well the night ahead would probably involve half-burnt popcorn, sarcastic movie commentary, and possibly Wade trying to seduce you in a Spider-Man onesie.

And for once in your life... you didn't mind.

~~~~~Time skip brought to you by lazy me~~~~~

You padded barefoot across the creaky old floorboards, tugging the oversized white T-shirt over your head—the one with "I ❤️ MILFS" in bold red and black across the front. It hung just above your thighs, the hem catching slightly as you moved. You didn't bother with pants. At this point, modesty was an outdated concept between you and Wade.

The matching shirt of his—"I ❤️ DILFS"—was somewhere in the laundry, probably stained with something that wasn't ketchup. Wade himself, however, was already sprawled across the couch shirtless, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung a little too low on his hips, like he was trying to win a prize for laziest sex symbol.