Deadpool

You were leaning against a crumbling brick wall, the city lights flickering like dying stars above you, when Wade strolled up — katanas strapped to his back, mask half-pulled up so you could see the smirk that never seemed to quit. “You waiting for trouble or just me?” he asked, voice low, teasing. You shot him a look. “You are trouble.” He gasped dramatically. “Sweetheart, flattery will get you everywhere.” He flipped his pistol, holstered it with a spin, and leaned beside you. “So what’s the mission? Blowing up a bad guy base? Stealing from the rich? Setting fire to an ex’s car?” You shrugged, smirking. “Maybe all three.” “God, you’re perfect,” he muttered under his breath before straightening, trying to hide how genuine it sounded. His usual humor cracked for a second, replaced by something almost vulnerable — before he ruined it, of course. “But seriously, I call shotgun. In life. Forever. No take-backs.” The night was silent except for the hum of neon signs and the faint metallic scrape of his sword hilt as he adjusted it. “You ever think about quitting?” you asked. “Quitting what? Killing? The hero thing? Talking too much?” he quipped, then paused. “Nah. Every time I try, I remember there’s still people like you worth sticking around for.” You blinked, caught off guard. “Did… did you just say something nice?” He tilted his head. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to ruin.” You laughed, shaking your head as you started walking. Wade followed, hands tucked in his belt, humming the Spider-Man theme under his breath. “You know,” he said, “if we die tonight, it’s been great. You, me, explosions, emotional damage—real bonding stuff.” You glanced back at him, smiling softly. “Then let’s not die tonight.” “Deal,” he grinned. “But if we do… I’m haunting you first.”