100 Marvel One Shots✔️

Fanfic Is Just Wobbly Canon >> Wade "Deadpool" Wilson X Male!Reader

"Isn't that from a motivational cat poster?" Neena wonders.

You throw your hands up, exasperated, and leave the room to find Wade's kitchen. When you were but a young boy, a blind boy a little older than you roomed with you at the orphanage. He might have been blind, and at night, covered his head with pillows because everything was too loud, but you learned something from him, even when you discovered your mutation.

Tea makes everything better. Of course, two teenaged boys didn't learn this by themselves – you'd sneak down to the kitchens after sunset for a mug of warm milk that Sister Constantine would permit, but, when your friend came with you this time, she declared that it wouldn't be tea this time for the both of you.

"How old are you boys, again?" she asked in her matronly tone.

"Fifteen," you replied.

"I'm sixteen." Said his friend.

"Well, you're much too old to have warm milk at night. Yes," she repeated, busing herself with boiling a pot of water upon the cast iron stove. "Milk is for children or calves suckling at their mothers' teat in the farmyard. You boys are nearly men, and men drink milk, yes, but with other things."

"Do you mean biscuits?" you questioned.

You had no clue as to what men drank. You had been found as a baby upon the orphanage doorstep, swaddled in a raggedy scarf in a box that had allegedly smelt of cat pee and cigarettes. The nuns raised you, and so, apart from the occasional school teacher who was male, you had few as role models.

"No," Sister Constantine replied. "Tea."

Returning to the living room with several cups looped over your fingers, it isn't until you look up and realise that almost everyone there has a gun cocked to where you were just standing. Because standing there is the man who had just been trying to kill Russel. It's then your mutation kicks in with the adrenaline that's racing through your mind, and the cups drop, hitting the floor. Kersch-plash.

"Sorry," you apologise, "I just – he's – what?"

"Cable. The mother-trucker who was – hey, who's censoring my words?" Wade frowns, looking at you. No, not you, the you who's reading. "Did the writer put you up to this?" he asks, growling. "I am the Merc with a Mouth, not one of those lame-o's from The Good Place." He bring his hand down upon his baby leg in frustration, and winces. "Fork! Bench." He turns his gaze from you back to you, standing in the doorway with several broken mugs of tea at your feet, and continues, "He's the guy who wanted to let Russel get blown up like a piñata on the Day of the Dead."

"Oh," you say, "hi."

The other man says nothing. But it's what happens next that says more words.

You see it happening, perhaps, before he did.