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k-nayee · 2 months ago

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Like Father, Like Hellspawn Deadpool ii

wc: 5.7k a/n: got carried away and was writing too much🤭

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recap

Finally holstering your weapons, you turned to Deadpool with a grin beneath your mask. A mask that was a perfect mirror image of his.

You practically bounced over to him as casual as someone greeting an old friend.

Then, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice imaginable, you threw your hands up like a child and chirped—

"HI DADDY!!"

BANG!!

Your body jolted violently, the kinetic force of the bullet slamming through your forehead with such deadly precision your head snapped backward and knees buckled.

Time seemed to slow as your limp frame crumpled to the concrete with a thud, limbs folding awkwardly beneath you like a marionette with its strings cut.

The hole between your eyes smoked faintly as a spreading pool of blood bloomed thickly beneath your head into the grime-streaked ground.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

No one moved.

Negasonic Teenage Warhead stared in disbelief, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide behind her dark eyeliner.

Yukio gasped, delicate hands flying to cover her lips.

Colossus stumbled back a step, silver frame somehow pale with horror. His deep voice fractured into a rasped accusation. “Wade...what have you done?”

Even Logan looked momentarily frozen, steel-gray eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare as his drawl cut through like a jagged blade. “Jesus Christ.”

And Deadpool himself?

Well he just stood at the center of the chaos, one arm still outstretched holding the raised pistol. The barrel smoked faintly as his entire stance radiated the universal body language of uh-oh.

His masked gaze dropped to your lifeless form, then up to the stunned team.

Back at you.

Then them.

You.

Them.

He even tilted his head further as if maybe—just maybe—the scene would make more sense from a different angle. (It didn’t.)

“Okay—” Wade finally blurted, both hands raised like a kid caught red-handed next to the empty cookie jar. “You all saw that right? She jumped at me. She said the D-word! Who says that unironically?”

He basically barks out, somewhere between hysterical panic and righteous indignation as he points a shaky finger at the blood-streaked heap that was your body.

“That’s terrifying! You don’t just vaporize a whole warehouse of criminals and then skip over like Mary Poppins and say, ‘Hi, Daddy!’ like this is a goddamn trauma-themed tea party! That’s not normal!”

Negasonic slowly crossed her arms tightly across her chest, jaw tight. “You shot her in the face Wade.”

Colossus loomed closer with a solemn nod, eyes still locked on the corpse. “You shot your daughter. Right between the eyes. Very clean.”

“Allegedly and thank you,” Wade proudly answered automatically, then caught himself. “NO! Not thank you! The shot was a reflex! A panic shot! It happens! You guys remember the pancake incident of ’23!”

No one laughed.

Yukio cautiously knelt a few feet from you, caught somewhere between concern and disbelief. “I think...I think she was actually trying to hug you...”

Wade rounded on her, flailing both arms like a malfunctioning windmill. “Hugs kill too Yukio! Emotional vulnerability is a weapon!”

From behind Logan sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose with the weariness of a man who had seen things. “She's wearing your mask Wade.”

Wade spun to face him in retaliation. “Lots of people wear my mask! Ever heard of merch? I’m iconic! There’s literally a bobblehead of me somewhere in Topeka—”

A low and wet revolting crack interrupted causing every head to whipped toward the source....you.

Your back spasmed once—then twice—as vertebrae realigned with an audible pop. A shudder rippled through your lifeless frame.

Head lolling grotesquely from side to side, your fractured and pulped skull began knitting itself back together with sickening crunches of bone and cartilage; shrinking slowly under the fabric of your ruined mask as the surrounding blood retracted unnaturally back into your veins.

Then, with a deep guttural gasp of a diver breaking the surface of water, your body arched violently off the ground as if pulled by an invisible force and sat up.

“OH GOD IT’S ALIVE!” Wade shrieked like someone had shoved an ice cube down his suit.

Groaning, you lifted one gloved hand to your forehead, rubbing absently at the nearly closed bullet wound.

"Ugh... that tickled my frontal lobe," you muttered under the battered mask. It hurt to move your mouth, muscles stiff with the lingering echo of death, but you grinned anyway.

Because he shot you.

Of course Deadpool—your father in any universe—responded to overwhelming emotional vulnerability by putting a bullet in your face.

God. You missed him.

The others, however, did not seem as charmed by your resurrection. They stood frozen in a semi-circle around you like statues, their expressions a medley of disbelief, horror, and (in Logan’s case) thinly veiled annoyance.

You rolled your neck slowly, vertebrae popping and crackling with each careful tilt of your head. It sounded like a bonfire chewing through dry kindling.

Finally, you turned your gaze on Wade.

"That really hurt ya know," your voice was sweet and syrupy with mock hurt. "Right in the ‘daddy issues.’"

The noise Deadpool made was somewhere between a dying blender and a cat choking on a hairball.

Logan could only give a single slow nod. Voice flat and unimpressed as he turns to Wade. “You still think it’s alleged now dumbass?”

The last syllable barely left Logan’s mouth when a ripple of horrified realization swept through the group.

Because he was right. The bullet had gone clean through your brain. You should be dead.

You could almost hear the mental gears grinding inside Wade’s head as he processed the undeniable truth staring him in the face: the truth that only he and a select handful of freaks could survive a bullet through the brain like it was an inconvenient paper cut.

The truth that somehow... impossibly... undeniably—

You were his daughter.

For a single glorious heartbeat the carefully built walls around Wade seemed to crumble.

His posture softened, shoulders drooping like a deflated balloon as his eyes flicked between your eerily calm form and the shredded corpses of the gangsters strewn across the warehouse floor.

And then—

Wade suddenly drops his weapons entirely, spreading his arms wide in mock-tragic overexuberance. “MY BABY GIRL!”

You didn’t hesitate.

In fact you doubled down.

With all the dramatic flair of a star-crossed heroine reuniting with a long-lost parent on the fields of battle, you got to your feet and staggered toward him with a theatrical limp.

“Oh Father!” you cried in perfect melodramatic agony. “How I have longed to see you again!”

The impact sent Wade staggering back a step but he caught you easily. He squeezed you tight like a kid gripping a teddy bear mid-nightmare, practically vibrating with pent-up emotion and chaotic joy.

Behind you the rest of Wade’s ragtag team watched in varying states of horror, discomfort, and mild nausea.

Negasonic brows raised in trademark disdain, scowling at the display. “As much as I hate this sickening-ass Lifetime Original reunion,” she interrupted dryly, “that still doesn’t explain who the hell you are or the absolute shitstorm of chaos you’ve been causing all over the city.”

You were about to reply in feigned offense when Wade beat you to it. He whirled around dramatically, shielding you behind his frame like an overprotective bulldog. His voice dropped into an offended snarl.

“How dare you?” he barked, pointing a gloved finger at her. “That’s my daughter! She knows exactly what she’s doing. Don’t question her methods. It’s rude.”

Then, under his breath, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper only you could hear. “You do know what you’re doing right?”

You tilted your head toward him, replying softly and sweetly, “Most definitely.”

Wade straightened up with renewed bravado and announced to the room, “See?! She knows what she’s doing!”

Logan exhaled loudly through his nose, utterly unconvinced and clearly desperate to distance himself from the nonsense.

Colossus (bless him) stepped forward, steel armored skin glinting under the flickering warehouse lights. His booming Russian-accented voice was warm and brimmed with sincerity.

“Oh how wonderful! A family reunited is always a beautiful sight...” he rumbled, massive hands clasping together in front of his chest. “To witness such joy is a blessing.”

Logan waved a hand at the carnage that surrounded them—the bullet-riddled bodies, the wrecked vehicles, the shattered crates. "We're literally standing in a puddle of dead gangsters that she was a part of. This ain't no Hallmark moment, bub."

"Hey!" You pulled back slightly from Wade and wagged a matter-of-factly finger at Logan. "There are over eight billion people on this rock. I couldn’t exactly go door-to-door asking: ‘Hi, are you Wade Wilson? Do you have regenerative abilities? Did you ever father a child and abandon them to the winds of fate?’”

You gesture vaguely at Logan’s massive frame. “And here I thought even you, Mr. Wolverine, with your brooding scowl and criminally hot muscle-bound body, would appreciate that logic. Tch.”

Logan stared. Blinked once. Twice. Without a word, he takes a full step away from you, almost as if proximity alone might trigger further chaos. “Yeah...you’re his kid all right.”

You laughed lightly at that and sauntered toward him. “Oh don't be so uptight wolvie!” You slowly drag a single finger down his chest, tracing the seam of his muscle as if admiring a marble sculpture. “Wanna massage to help? I'll even give ya a happy ending—free of charge~”

Before you could trace any higher Logan’s claws shot out violently. He slashed downward in a warning swipe, severing your hand clean at the wrist.

The gloved appendage fell to the ground with a soft wet slap, fingers curling slightly in postmortem spasm as blood immediately gushed from the wound in hot crimson spurts.

You stared at the severed hand lying on the concrete floor, blinking once...then twice.

Wade stared.

Logan stared.

Negasonic stared.

Everyone stared.

Then calmly, you bend down and scoop up the limp hand and rotate it in your remaining grip. With an exaggerated flourish, you twisted and shaped until it forms a clumsy but unmistakable finger heart with the thumb and index finger.

“Here you go!” You shoved it toward Logan with a bright and chirpy voice. “Not my real heart, but it’ll do.”

A tiny spray of blood splattered across Logan’s scowl as he glanced at the dismembered hand and your cheesing smile.

Behind you Wade was practically vibrating with glee, clapping his hands like a proud dad at a kindergarten recital. "That's my girl!" he cooed.

The bleeding slowed to sluggish drips as your body’s regenerative magic kicked in with gory efficiency. Thick sinew and bone began the grisly process of reconstructing itself beneath the torn sleeve.

Still...you didn’t have a hand nor wrist. (Minor details.)

You dusted your hand(s) off, turning back toward the group

—just as the wail of sirens rose sharply in the distance, growing louder with every second.

Wade’s whole body sagged with a loud groan. "Ah shit. I forgot we made that deal with the cops to take out the DeLuca gang. They’re on their way.”

You glanced around at the sea of corpses. "...I mean...they’re dead but go off I guess."

Negasonic rolled her eyes. “That includes you too dipshit.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a blood-smeared stub over your chest. “Moi?! Well then she" You accusingly jab the stump at Yukio "She’s going in too. She was just as much in cahoots!”

The team was taken aback by the revelation.

Wade turned to you, eyes wide behind his mask. "Wait, you knew she was a mole?"

You opened your arms in mock defiance. "Hell yeah I ran this place! Well..." you kicked over a crate, sending a head rolling out. "Not much left to run now."

You shot Yukio a smug look. "And by the way...you might wanna be more careful with your phone settings. Wasn't too hard to bug it. And oooh! All the spicy text messages between you and your girlfriend over there."

You waggled your eyebrows suggestively as Yukio’s face flushed a deep furious red.

“I mean that embarrassing thing you did at the pier? Oh c—”

A sudden surge of blinding firepower cuts your words off, bursting through your chest as a scowling Negasonic's extended hand still pulsed with a violent atomic energy.

She shook her head and turned to the others. “We’re gonna let her get arrested.”

Wade threw his hands in the air as your convulsed steaming body collapsed. “And let them take away my perfect and indestructible sassy-as-fuck child? Hell no!”

The rest of the team groaned in unison at his predictability. But none of them moved to stop him.

As the sirens grew ever nearer, Wade cheerfully hoisted your limp and semi-charred frame over his shoulder with surprising tenderness.

Straightening, he adjusts you like a sack of potatoes before casually strolling toward the exit with a whistle.

"We’ll just say she died in the massacre," he called over his shoulder lightly. "And we burned the body out of spite. Everybody cool? Cool."

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The first thing you felt was softness.

A warm worn couch cradled your aching body, the cushions sinking beneath your weight as though trying to swallow you whole.

Limbs heavy and muscles sore, skin was tender where the atomic energy blast had danced through you. You groaned softly, shifting just enough to pull your legs up and curl your stiff fingers against your chest.

Your healing factor worked fast. The worst of the pain was already fading. But the exhaustion? That was bone-deep.

You peeled open your eyes.

The first thing you registered was the familiar grandiose design: sweeping staircase, polished hardwood floors, stained glass windows filtering soft morning light across expensive-looking antique furniture.

A giant oil painting of some dead white guy stared down at you from the far wall, his expression permanently locked in judgment.

Your brows knit beneath your still-cracked mask.

"...What the actual hell?"

You sat up slowly, eyes scanning the oversized lounge with growing suspicion. The room was eerily familiar. It had the air of old money meets superhero boarding school.

A sharp inhale escaped you. 'No way.'

Your heart gave an odd little flip of excitement. "Oh shit....Am I in Xavier’s Mansion?" Like...the actual X-Mansion!?

You’d only ever heard about it in rumors and messy side mission reports. Were you really about to meet the real Professor X, Storm, Jean Grey, maybe even Nightcrawler? Gosh you’d always wanted to pet his tail—

Joy deflated in record time the moment your eyes landed on the cheap Ikea lamp duct-taped to a corner table. The peeling leather recliner patched with bright pink Hello Kitty duct tape. An half-eaten burger left abandoned on the expensive Persian rug.

You sighed heavily, flopping dramatically back into the cushions. "Of course."

Of course you weren’t in the X-Mansion. This wasn’t the prestigious, state-of-the-art mutant sanctuary. You’d been brought to the Wish.com version.

The knockoff team base.

The Dollar Store X-Men.

"Figures," you muttered bitterly, throwing your arm over your eyes. Before you could spiral deeper into self-pity a familiar voice broke through the silence.

"Heads up!"

Instincts kicked in. You snapped your hand out just in time to snatch an object sailing toward your face.

A warm chimichanga, still wrapped snugly in foil, rested in your palm.

You stared at it blankly as a shaky huff of laughter escaped your throat. 'Same as always...' “Thanks...” you breathed weakly.

Across the room, Wade Wilson stood framed in the doorway. Gone was the red and black suit; instead he wore threadbare gray sweatpants and a dingy stretched-out white t-shirt that had seen better decades.

With the mask off his scarred hairless head caught the warm light. Sunken eyes and a twisted mouth...a deep roadmap of burns and lumpy scar tissue that resembled a melted candle with attitude.

"Don’t mention it kiddo," he said through a full mouth of his own chimichanga, flopping bonelessly into a sagging recliner across from you.

He spread his legs wide, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other lifting for another obnoxious bite, sauce and crumbs falling freely.

"For god’s sake Wade! Stop eating like a damn pig."

You craned your neck to see a woman standing in the hallway struggling to balance several overfilled bags, narrowed exasperated eyes that softened only slightly when they locked on Wade.

Predictably, the animated mercenary ignored her plight entirely with a lazy finger wave of his free hand.

"Hey babe! This is who I’ve been telling you about." He jerked the foil-wrapped food in your direction like it was an extension of his arm. Sauce and shredded meat flung violently onto the rug. "Child, meet the love of my life, my light in the darkness, my ride-or-die..." he lowered his voice dramatically, "Vanessa."

The woman—Vanessa—paused mid-step. Her eyes flickered toward you as if only now realizing you existed. You froze, holding the chimichanga awkwardly in both hands, still curled on your side like some startled raccoon.

Vanessa's expression softened and her lips quirked into a quick polite smile. "I'd give you a proper hello, but..." she tilted her head toward the bags, "...I’m a little full."

Dark eyes sharply flicked back to Wade. "Someone decided to go ahead and inhale the takeout instead of helping me carry anything."

Wade stuffed the rest of the meal in his mouth and spoke around it. “Now you know I’d never stand in the way of your independence babe. Besides, gotta make sure my seed is fed after all.” He jerked a scarred thumb toward you proudly.

You stared, blinking at the surreal sight, the still-warm chimichanga resting heavily in your hand.

Before Vanessa could skewer him with her glare—

"Let him keep eating. Maybe the bastard’ll choke."

Logan.

The man appeared in the doorway, bags slung effortlessly in both arms, his massive shoulders filling the frame. His grizzled features twisted into the permanent scowl of someone forced to tolerate Wade’s existence for far too long.

Without ceremony, he snatched two of the heavier bags from Vanessa’s grip. She gave him a grateful look.

“Okay...” Wade finished his meal with a loud swallow and suddenly popped up from his seat with forced enthusiasm. “Now I’ll help!”

Logan and Vanessa both immediately shifted out of his way, scowling in perfect unison as they dodged his flailing hands.

“Too late for that,” Vanessa muttered under her breath as she dropped the bags on the coffee table in the center of the room.

Logan followed, brushing past Wade deliberately with a shoulder-check so hard it sends the mercenary stumbling sideways.

Wade, true to form, spun and collapsed onto the floor with a drawn-out wail. "ASSAULT!" he cries. "I’VE BEEN ASSAULTED BY A HAIRY CANADIAN!"

The chaos only escalated as more familiar faces walked in.

"Shut the hell up you whiner!" Negasonic barked as she stomped into the room, Yukio and Colossus trailing close behind, arms also loaded with bags as well.

Without missing a beat, she sends a sharp kick directly into Wade’s side. The vigilante groaned and rocked gently on the floor.

"My child...avenge me!" He whimpers weakly.

“Nah.” You waved him off, casually taking a massive bite of the chimichanga as you stretched luxuriously across the long armchair, your mask fully off and tossed onto the couch beside you revealing the sweat-slick hair clung to your temples.

The room froze once they realize this; all eyes turning to you in varying degrees of surprise, confusion, and curiosity.

You blinked, chewing slowing down. "What?" you asked flatly, lowering the half-eaten food. "Do I have something on my face?"

That snapped Wade out of his daze. He lurched to his feet with a gasp, hand slapping across his mouth in shock as his eyes bulged cartoonishly wide. "...Oh my god."

"...well damn." Your stomach sank slightly at the reaction. "I must be hideous or something."

You reached calmly for your mask, fingers brushing over the familiar texture. "Welp. There goes a major blow to my ego. Lemme just put this back o—"

"W-wait! Don’t!" Wade blurted out.

You froze.

"You’re not ugly," he insisted. His voice was softer this time, almost panicked. "You’re just....not what I expected." He turned to his teammates, eyes narrowing threateningly. "Back me up. Now."

The group shifted uncomfortably. Logan scowled deeper. Negasonic crossed her arms tighter. They all knew better than to poke the Wade Wilson bear when he got like this.

Colossus spoke first, earnest and sincere as ever. “You are very striking,” he said kindly.

Yukio nodded enthusiastically. “Very cute!”

Even Logan, jaw clenched, forced out through gritted teeth, “You look... fine.”

Negasonic gave a long suffering sigh. “Yeah sure. You’re pretty. Whatever.”

You beamed, preening at the half-hearted praise as you dramatically tossed the mask back onto the couch and took another satisfied bite of chimichanga. "Mmm. Thank you Ellie~"

Ellie's eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. “You don’t have permission to use my civilian name,” she snapped. “It’s Negasonic to you.”

You pretend to consider it, licking a stray glob of sour cream from your thumb as you tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Yeah...no. Prefer to call people by their actual government names. Sowwy.”

Colossus chuckled warmly as he continued unpacking and arranging boxes and containers across the low table with delicate care despite his massive steel hands. "I do not mind. Names bring companions closer together."

You smiled, turning your attention to him. "Exactly Piotr." You paused and added warmly in perfect Russian, "Спасибо тебе, мой стальной брат." (Thank you, my brother of steel)

Piotr blinked, visibly surprised. His metal brow lifted slightly, mouth parting for a half second before softening into the faintest smile. His entire body seemed to relax with pleased astonishment.

He replied with matching warmth, "Не за что, маленькая звезда смерти." (your welcome, little death star)

Your grin widened. It was hard to catch the team’s stoic tank off-guard, and you considered that a small victory.

As the others busied themselves, Vanessa, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the exchange, continued to watch you from across the room. Finally, as if coming to a decision, she stepped forward.

You froze as she approached. The room felt suddenly smaller, the soft buzzing of a nearby lamp growing louder in your ears.

Closing the space between you with slow deliberate movements, Vanessa leaned down, slender fingers reaching out to gently tilt your chin up, brushing lightly against your jaw as her thumb rested against the curve of your cheekbone.

Your breath hitched faintly as you stared up at her wide-eyed, caught somewhere between confusion and fascination.

Brows furrowed deeply, she studied your face in absolute silence for what felt like an eternity. Her dark lashes cast long shadows beneath her eyes as she scrutinized every angle.

Once satiated, she leans back and nod. “I can see some resemblance to Wade in there.” she says at last.

You let out an groan as you dramatically tossed your head toward Wade. “Goddamn...” you muttered dryly. A slow smirk spread across your lips, eyes narrowing with wicked intent. “Would you be mad if I tried to fuck your woman old man?”

The room came to an immediate crashing halt.

Vanessa sputtered, mouth falling open as she reared back with a choked half-laugh half-gasp as Logan groaned audibly and turned away with a grimace.

Wade didn’t even flinch. He swallowed a bite of another chimichanga and waved a dismissive hand, still chewing as he spoke. “As much as I would give you everything kiddo...you can’t have Vanessa. Them’s the rules.”

You held up your hands in mock defeat. “Understandable. Have a nice day.”

Logan let out a guttural bark of disbelief. “How low-down can you be?!” His heavy boots thudded as his face twisted somewhere between irritation and mild disgust. “Isn’t Vanessa basically like your mom or something?”

You nearly doubled over laughing, slapping your thigh as you wiped a stray tear from the corner of your eye. “Shawty? Hell no,” you snorted. “Vanessa’s most definitely not my mom. Doesn’t look a damn thing like her.”

You stood and motioned dramatically at yourself, fingers running theatrically along the outline of your features; from your fluffy hair down to the gloved hand against your toned skin. “Look at me! You really think this woman popped me out?”

Logan’s mouth snapped shut. He grimaced and narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to find the words and failing miserably. He finally pressed his lips into a thin line and muttered, “...Whatever. Still weird though.”

Wade, never one to pass up an opportunity, immediately swung a heavy arm over your shoulder and pulled you into his side like a proud dad showing off his kid at a science fair.

“Can’t help it Wolverine,” he stated smugly. “It’s in our DNA to have impeccable taste.”

You nod along solemnly .“Agreed. No discrimination over here. If you’re hot? Game over for me. It’s a wrap: Man, woman, non-binary badass, alien demigod, vampire dominatrix, whatever.” You paused thoughtfully and let your lips curl into a smile. “Even heroes. Like... I don’t know...”

You drew it out intentionally and syrupy-sweet, watching as Wade narrowed his eyes suspiciously at your tone like a hound catching scent until you finally said it:

“...Spider-Man?”

The reaction was immediate.

Wade’s head snapped toward you so fast you half-expected a cracking sound. His eyes widened comically. “Shut up!” he gasped, between disbelief and something dangerously close to excitement.

Before you could even blink, he yanked you to sit down beside him on the couch, scarred hands framing your face firmly, holding your cheeks in place like a gossip-starved aunt who had just cornered you at a family wedding.

“Tell me every-fucking-thing!” he demanded, shaking you lightly with each word.

You slap at his arms as you wheezed, “Okay okay, stop! Jesus Wade!”

He finally let go but didn’t move far; sitting cross-legged and hunched forward, his hands clasped tightly on his lap, rocking slightly like a kid awaiting storytime.

You settled comfortably into the cushions as you took another chomp of chimichanga, savoring the center of attention.

“It was freshman year of college when we ran into each other,” you started wistfully, like a storyteller remembering the beginning of an epic legend. “Literally. Stormed into the lecture hall chest-first into this scrawny nerd with coffee and a backpack twice his size. Dumped his drink all over my brand-new hoodie.”

You paused for dramatic effect, watching Yukio and Vanessa lean in ever so slightly. Even Logan had subtly shifted his weight toward you, arms crossed, jaw tight but listening.

“Of course we argued. I told him off. He babbled apologies. Classic meet-cute disaster.” You sighed dramatically. “It should’ve ended there but fate had other ideas. Because a week later? We crossed paths again. Only this time he was in full spandex swinging across rooftops. Turns out both of us had been operating under masks the entire time. Him, Spider-Man. Me, Deadpool.”

“Um actually,” Wade immediately raise a finger up at that. “You can't be Deadpool because I—”

“Yeah, yeah.” You waved him off with a grin. “But it got really interesting when I found out his secret identity.” You wiggled your eyebrows. “Crime-fighting date nights. Web-swinging across Manhattan at 2 AM. Dude has stamina like you wouldn’t believe.”

Wade was practically vibrating next to you, his hands squeezing your shoulders hard enough to almost pop a joint. “You fucked Spider-Man?!”

You gave wistful sigh and popped the last bite of your chimichanga into your mouth. “Oh most definitely. Many times in fact! Did you know that man likes going at it on rooftops? Bridges too. Apparently it’s the thrill of heights and getting seen.” You snorted. “The freak.”

There was a stunned silence, then the room practically tilted toward you.

But you weren’t finished.

“And...I may or may not have taken Captain America’s V-card during one of me and Spidey's little ‘off-again’ phases.”

The bomb dropped like a thunderclap.

Wade sputtered violently like a broken espresso machine, eyes bulging as he choked on absolutely nothing.

“EXCUSE ME?” he shrieked. “No. No, absolutely not. Steve Rogers is America’s ass, not yours. There’s no way. You’re full of it.”

You nodded enthusiastically, head lifted with an indignant sniff. “Oh hell yes. I tapped that. Turns out he only told people he lost it during the 1943 USO tour to keep Stark and Thor from bullying him. And let me tell ya: guy’s built like a Greek statue but soft as a marshmallow inside. Total sub. Puppy man all day.”

The team erupted again, everyone talking over each other in disbelief. Yukio had collapsed into Vanessa’s lap, giggling hysterically at this point while the brunette doubled over in laughter. Ellie on the other hand simply groaned loudly with a slap to her forehead, ignoring the way Piotr made a strangled metal noise and looked away awkwardly.

Wade, all the while, was still flailing. “No. No. No. No! Steve Rogers does not bottom. I refuse to believe this. My soul rejects this!”

Unfortunately, Logan had to be the one to end the fun. “Not possible anyway. They don’t exist.”

You froze.

For just a moment, your teasing bravado faded. Your lips parted slightly, breath catching faintly as the weight of reality slip back into your chest.

“Right...” You rubbed the back of your neck. “They’re not here because they're just in my universe.” You looked back up and offered a weak grin. “From Earth-617.”

The collective silence was deafening.

Wade, halfway through unwrapping his third chimichanga, froze completely. His jaw hung slack as the tortilla slipped limply from his fingers and plopped onto the table. “...you what?”

You bit back a grin. Straightening up a little to throw your arms open with an exaggerated shrug, the worn leather of your suit creaking slightly with the motion.

“C’mon!” you teased. “You really think I’d take over an entire crime syndicate, impersonate the city’s most wanted antihero and fight your team—” you pointed at the group with a lazy spin of your wrist “—all because I was bored? If I were local?”

You watched as realization slowly dawned across each face.

But it was Wade who sat back against the couch like he’d been sucker-punched, shoulders sagging as he dramatically wiped a nonexistent bead of sweat from his grotesquely scarred forehead. “Holy shit...” he whispered faintly. “You're serious.”

You nodded. “Yup. I’m from another Earth. Earth-617 to be exact.”

Casually unzipping the pocket on your tactical belt, you pull out a sleek black phone and unlock it with a flick of your thumb. The cracked screen glowed softly as you swiped through a series of photos.

There he was.

Your Wade.

Your father.

The ache that wrapped around your heart was bittersweet and unrelenting the longer you glanced at each image: you on rooftops at sunset with your Wade during a stakeout. Another of him ruffling your hair as you scowled playfully and tried to bat his hand away. Another of him carrying you piggyback during a gang shootout.

You paused on a particular image. It wasn’t as polished. It was slightly blurry, a selfie your Wade had taken on some random Tuesday before a job with your stolen phone. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, making a stupid kissy face with a peace sign raised.

You smiled softly.

Without looking up, you spun the phone around to face the others.

They all leaned in to get a closer look.

“Almost forgot….he had the most luscious blonde hair back in the day,” you murmured with a fond grin, swiping to an even older photo of your Wade before Weapon X ravaged him, probably no older than you were now. Rugged and handsome, his golden hair spilled messily over his forehead as he smiled effortlessly at the camera. “Total heartthrob. I mean look at this.”

The room couldn’t help themselves.

Logan let out a low grunt of reluctant approval as Vanessa's eyes widened. “Damn,” she murmured. “He’s fine as hell.”

You turned your head just in time to see Wade physically recoil backward as though he’d been shot point-blank. His scarred face twisted into an almost cartoonishly wounded grimace as his hand flew to his chest.

“Vanessa?!” he nearly wailed. “Are you seriously thirsting over alternate me?!”

You hid your smirk behind your hand. “Relax old man.”

Wade was in full pout-mode, his arms folding tightly across his chest as he mutter under his breath. “He’s not even that different…” he grumbles. “I'm sure there’s some resemblance between us.”

Dragging your gaze slowly and deliberately over Wade’s scarred face, you squint before shaking your head. “Nah. My dad and you look nothing alike.” You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “If anything...you kinda look like Ryan Reynolds.”

Wade pointed an accusatory finger at you with offended indignation. “You shut your filthy mouth!”

You shrugged with a wide grin. “I just call it like I see it.”

Wade let out a long suffering groan and slumped deeper into the couch, throwing his scarred arms dramatically over his face.

“I hate the multiverse,” he muttered. “First I get dragged into timeline shenanigans. Now I’m related to a sassier version of myself? What fresh cosmic bullshit is this?”

You smirked, leaning back into the cushions beside him, warm and weirdly comfortable for the first time in what felt like years. “You love it,” you said quietly.

Wade peeked at you from under his arm. His voice softened just a little. “...Yeah. I kinda do.”

You let your playful grin fade just a fraction as you stare down at the photo of your father still glowing faintly in your hand. The edges of the screen flickered softly. You thumbed it off and slipped the phone back into your belt with a soft click.

You didn’t say it aloud. You didn’t have to.

Different Earth. Different Wade. Different world.

“Hey kid,” Wade’s voice broke the quiet, back to full dramatic chaos. “Just so we’re clear... if any more alternate versions of you show up, I am not paying child support.”

You shook your head as you reached over to slug him lightly on the arm. “No promises old man.”

Off in the distance, sirens wailed faintly once again. Another mess waiting for you both. Another day, another ridiculous chapter about to begin.

You stood and stretched lazily with a grin. “C’mon Dad. Let’s go cause some responsible mayhem.”

Wade jumped up like an overexcited kid. “BEST. DAY. EVER.”

The two of you strode out together, the dysfunctional team trailing behind, bickering already. A new world. A second chance.

And maybe... just maybe... this was exactly where you were meant to be.

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k-nayee · 5 months ago

Text

Like Father, Like Hellspawn Deadpool i

wc: 3.6k a/n: soooo I got a little inspired by Eleanor Camacho aka (Earth-616) Deadpool's daughter 👉🏾👈🏾 hope ya likely☺️

Traveler M.List

| Next

You stand still in front of the memorial, arms crossed tightly over your chest, fingers digging into the thick red-and-black fabric of his suit. Well, not exactly.

It’s yours now; tailored to fit your frame, stitched up more times than you can count. But it’s identical to his in every way that matters.

The mask is already on, the lenses hiding your eyes, but you swear if you weren’t wearing it you’d probably look like a kicked puppy right now.

(Not the aesthetic you’re going for really.)

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s the kind of silence that wraps around you like a weighted blanket, but instead of comfort it’s suffocating—pressing down and making it hard to breathe.

But then again maybe that’s just you.

Your gaze locks onto the suit hanging on the mannequin. A perfect, untouched replica of what you’re wearing now. The fabric is pristine, the colors vibrant, and the mask—God the mask—stares back at you, hollow and empty.

Just an empty shell meant to honor someone who used to be here but isn’t anymore. (Because he's dead. Duh.)

Your fingers tighten around the worn edges of his mask—your mask now. The piece that still smells like gunpowder and...is that a hint of chimichanga grease? You wouldn’t be surprised. The guy could find a way to snack in the middle of a fistfight.

It’s been years since you lost him.

Since your Wade Wilson—your father, your mentor, your occasional bad influence but with good intentions—left you behind in Earth-617.

A framed photo hangs above the suit. You know that image by heart: Your dad giving the camera a peace-sign in front of a completely unnecessary explosion, his mask pulled up just enough to show his stupid lopsided grin.

You’d snapped that picture yourself, back when things were still good. Back when he was still alive.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

You never really stopped missing him. Even after taking up his mantle. Even after convincing the world that you were nothing more than a simple storeowner-slash-businesswoman, all while secretly doing what he did best—kicking ass and saying jokes at wildly inappropriate moments.

Hell you even had a thing going with Spider-Man for a while. Oh God. If your dad had been alive for that one...

You exhale, shaking your head at the thought. Wade would have been jealous, and not just in the “you stole my bro” kind of way.

No he’d be throwing a full-on tantrum because you—his own flesh and blood—got to go on date-night web swings and crime-fighting rendezvous with Spidey. He’d have demanded details.

You smile at that. A real one. The kind that doesn’t last long before reality sets back in.

Because Wade’s not here. He never will be. No matter how many mercenary gigs you take or how many people you save—there’s still that gaping hole inside of you where he used to be.

None of it filled the void.

Which is where the shiny, probably unstable, possibly explodey Dimensional Warp Generator comes in. You look at the clunky questionably wired contraption humming behind you.

Its design is...questionable at best.

The thing looks like a cross between a busted washing machine and an overworked coffee maker, but according to the stolen blueprints it should technically work.

Hopefully.

Probably.

Maybe.

"Okay so best-case scenario: I step on, press the button and BAM—multiversal road trip baby!" You gesture dramatically, speaking to no one but the memorial and the ghost of your own questionable decisions. "Worst case scenario: I get turned into a fine red mist. Meat confetti if you will." You pause. "Or maybe I just end up in some dimension where everyone is a sentient toenail. Ew."

The mannequin doesn’t respond. Obviously.

You know it’s a gamble. A one-way trip. A ticket to somewhere, anywhere Wade Wilson is still breathing. The multiverse is full of infinite versions of him after all.

Maybe you’ll find one that never lost his healing factor.

Maybe you’ll find one who retired and opened a taco truck, living his best chimichanga-filled life.

Or maybe you’ll land in a world where he never had a kid at all...where he never even knew you existed.

Would that be worse?

You don’t know.

But what you do know is that standing here filled with 'what ifs' feels worse than any multiversal mishap could ever be.

So, you made your peace. You left instructions and planned for it all. Your family business? Taken care of. Your assets? Secured. Your people? Safe. You made sure of it before you even considered pushing this far.

Because if it works...

If it actually works...

You’ll see him again.

Not your Wade—no. He’s gone. But a Wade.

You sigh, shaking your head as you let your fingers trail lightly over his display suit. It feels wrong that it’s here. Because Wade Wilson was never meant to be preserved like some historical artifact.

He was meant to be alive—chaotic, reckless, cracking wise even when everything was going to shit. So maybe...just maybe...if you find another version of him you can make sure he stays that way.

You don’t care about changing events. You don’t care about destiny or timelines or multiversal consequences. This isn’t about that. This is about you.

And what matters to you is that he exists somewhere. Somewhere you can see him again. Where you can hear his voice. Where you can fight side by side. Where you can...

You swallow hard.

Where you can patch up the hole in your chest just a little bit.

You roll your shoulders, exhaling a slow breath through your mask. Then, because old habits die hard, you give the photo on the wall a lazy finger gun. "Well Dad...guess I’m about to make the most irresponsible decision of my career. You’d be so proud."

Then, because you have to, because it wouldn't be right not to, turn to the mannequin and slap its ass.

"Good game," you say, nodding in solemn approval.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Right. Time to go.

You turn and walk toward the generator, boots thudding softly against the concrete floor. Your heartbeat picks up, an anxious drumbeat in your ears, but your hands stay steady as they hover over the big suspiciously red button.

This is it.

This is the moment.

With one last deep breath, you press down.

The machine roars to life. Lights flicker wildly, the air crackling with static. The world itself seems to shudder and twist at the edges of your vision.

"Geronimo motherfu—"

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The world comes back in pieces.

For a second—maybe longer, maybe shorter—there's nothing. No sound, no sensation. Just empty darkness that wraps around you like a suffocating blanket.

Then suddenly—

Your body lurches forward as reality slams back into place.

A rush of cool air bites through your suit, your boots scrape against concrete, and the dull hum of a city fills your ears. The scent of exhaust, street food, and something vaguely unpleasant—sewage?—hits your nose.

You blink as you try to steady yourself.

The world is intact. Not torn apart, not an apocalyptic wasteland. Normal.

Which is...weird.

You were prepared for something worse. A wrong world maybe. Something out of sync, a reality where everything was twisted just enough to feel unnatural. But this? This just looks like...

Home.

Except it isn’t.

Your muscles stay tense, fingers twitching slightly at your sides. The city looks familiar—too familiar. A near-identical match to the one you left behind, yet it isn’t yours. You can feel it deep in your bones, the way the air hums just a little differently.

You’re here....wherever here is.

A flicker of movement catches your eye. You turn your head slightly, noticing the large glass windows of a bank to your right. The reflection stares back at you.

Red and black.

The Deadpool suit—your suit—fits snug against your body, every stitch and fold in place. A mirror image of the one your father used to wear save for the minor adjustments that made it yours.

Then—

REEEEEEEEEEE

A sharp shrill alarm slices through the air, shattering the illusion of calm like a bullet through glass. Your head snaps to the source—the bank's heavy doors swing open as men in ski masks stumble out, their arms weighed down with overstuffed duffel bags.

You blink.

Oh. Well that’s convenient.

Their frantic adrenaline-fueled energy shifts the second they see you. They freeze, eyes widening beneath their masks. You can practically hear their thoughts scrambling like rats in a sinking ship.

They stare.

You stare back.

For a long awkward beat nobody moves.

Then one of them shouts something—probably a curse—his wide eyes locked onto you like he’s just seen a ghost. The others panic, some reaching for weapons, some just freezing like deer in headlights.

But then their eyes actually see you. The curves..the way your body fills out the suit differently.

"Oh shit wait...it’s a chick."

The tension visibly loosens. The men relax, confusion overriding fear, realization settling in. You can feel the shift in the air.

You tilt your head. "Wow. Sexism and crime? Y’all are multitaskers—love that. But hey before we go any further—uh...did any of you happen to rob a father figure along with that bank? Maybe a guy, about yay high, real talkative, looks like a diseased avocado? Asking for...me."

They don’t get the chance to answer.

The sharp screech of tires cuts through the moment. A police cruiser skids to a stop just feet away. Two officers leap out, hands on their guns, voices sharp. "Stop! Put your hands where I can see—"

You sigh dramatically. "You cops always ruin the moment. Like seriously, we were having a thing here. And now it’s all guns and arrest warrants."

They weren't listening. One of them reaches for his radio. “We’ve got a situation here down at the bank wit—”

BANG

A bullet tears through his skull before he can finish the sentence.

The second officer barely has time to react before a blade pierces her throat, slicing cleanly before you yank it free. She chokes, gurgles, then crumples like a puppet with its strings cut.

You wipe a bit of blood off your arm, flicking it onto the ground like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

Ugh. Police blood. The worst kind.

As you stand up, you hear a low rasp leaving the officer as blood pools out her mouth. "Deadpool..."

You perk up.

Bingo.

So he does exist here.

Your fingers flex, heart pounding as your mask hides the slow wicked grin stretching across your lips.

Well...

That makes things easier.

Before you could say another word—

More sirens. More cops, pulling up fast.

The robbers panicked. Shouts leave them as their loaded guns suddenly became shaky. They weren’t ready.

But you were.

The moment the cops the slammed open their doors with raised weapons you moved.

And oh did you move.

You weren’t just fast. You were precise.

Every step, every motion, every flick of your wrist was calculated. The first officer barely took a step before you immediately fired three shots—knee, shoulder, wrist.

Two other officers went down before their fingers even tightened on their triggers.

You pivoted low and swept a leg out—an officer hit the street, head cracking against concrete as you relieved him of his gun and smoothly tossed it into the air, catching it in a backward grip as you fired behind you—

BANG

Another officer. Another down.

They kept coming. You welcomed it.

The world blurred into sharp adrenaline-fueled focus. Bullets zipped past your head, but your body moved on its own, your enhanced cognition picking up details faster than they could react.

A cop adjusting her stance—she’s aiming for your ribs. A twitch of a finger—someone’s about to fire. A shift in balance—someone’s going for their radio.

Nope. No ma'am. Not today.

Your guns clicked empty. Doesn’t matter. You threw one with perfect accuracy—CRACK. It slammed into an officer’s temple knocking her out cold. The other?

You flipped in your grip, grabbed the barrel, and used it to bludgeon another into unconsciousness before spinning and delivering a brutal elbow to the last one standing.

A dozen officers. All neutralized in less than ninety seconds.

It was messy. It was brutal. It was quick.

And it was fun.

"Alright boys," You turn back to the robbers, a new glint in your eyes as you sheath your katana and gun. "Change of plans. I was gonna spend the next however-many-months hunting my old man down, but honestly? That sounds exhausting. So instead—" You throw an arm around the nearest criminal, pulling him in. "—how ‘bout I just do crimes until he finds me?"

They exchange hesitant glances.

You can see the skepticism. The weighing of pros and cons. The uncertainty of letting some Deadpool knockoff join their ranks.

Then you sigh and make the decision for them.

With an almost lazy kind of efficiency, you move—disarming, subduing, killing one just for fun. Within seconds the ones left standing know better than to say no.

"Okay okay you can join!" he wheezes, clutching his newly dislocated shoulder. "Damn lady what’s your deal?! You tryna be Deadpool’s copycat or something?"

You grin beneath your mask.

"Oh honey," you coo, "I'm so much worse."

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Turns out they weren’t just bank robbers.

This wasn’t just a handful of small-time criminals looking for a quick payday—it was an entire crime organization clawing its way up the underworld ranks.

And with you in their arsenal, business was booming.

Crime sprees ran rampant. It wasn’t long before your exploits—masked, bloodstained, and unapologetically violent—became the subject of city-wide gossip.

Tabloids screamed about Deadpool’s sudden change.

You loved it.

Scrolling through online gossip forums was your new favorite pastime, watching people spiral into conspiracy theories:

"DEADPOOL MIND-CONTROLLED?"

"DEADPOOL GOING THROUGH HIS VILLAIN ERA™️?"

"DEADPOOL TIRED OF THE HERO CHARADE?” Some people swore it wasn’t him—“DEADPOOL...SHORTER?!”

Others didn’t care. To the world you were Deadpool. You’d made sure of that, hiding your figure under a long trench coat, avoiding any direct combat with Wade’s team whenever they did get involved in your organization’s little...projects.

You were a ghost. A rumor. A nightmare with guns.

And Wade? He was pissed.

You’d seen the interviews, the tirades he’d gone on during what should’ve been simple bounty jobs. Wade Wilson, the Deadpool, losing his shit on camera about some asshole using his name and ruining his “hard-earned” reputation.

(As if he ever fixed it in the first place? Please.)

You laughed every time. It was almost too easy.

Shame you couldn't use your own phone to watch it all—unable to connect to this world’s satellites (frequency issues, because of course) so you had to acquire other means. Luckily criminals have great taste in stolen electronics.

Speaking of criminals, seems you’d made yourself too valuable to the organization to get thrown out. The boss—a greasy smooth-talking bastard named Salvatore "Sal" DeLuca—liked results, and you brought them.

But there was one rule you made clear the moment you took the job: Nobody mentions your gender.

And if they ever had to refer to you, they called you Deadpool.

Sal agreed without hesitation. He was good at playing the long game and you were the biggest wildcard he had in his deck. His men though? They whispered....wondered.

But the rule was ironclad; if they let slip that Deadpool was anything other than what you projected—they disappeared. Simple as that.

And so, for three months, it worked.

Until her.

You’d been watching her for some time.

A new recruit—quiet, kept to herself. Didn’t quite fit the mold of a career criminal.

You noticed her immediately.

Maybe it was the way she held herself, too rigid and restrained. Maybe it was the way she avoided eye contact when people talked about bigger plans. Or maybe it was just instinct.

So you bugged her. Literally. Tiny discreet surveillance planted in her things, her living space, her routine. And what do you know?

You were right. She was a full-blown informant. A mole who worked for the police.

Correction: she worked for Wade’s team. And her name was Yukio.

You could’ve exposed her. You could've warned Sal. But you didn’t. Because this?

This was what you’d been waiting for.

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

A deal.

A simple trade-off of drugs, weapons, and money. The usual.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of cheap cologne. Low voices murmured across the space from dealers to the occasional trigger-happy lackey trying to prove himself.

You didn’t care.

Lounging lazily in a rickety chair nearby, your legs were kicked up up on a table littered with money and gun magazines, eyes glued to your real priority: beating the final boss in Pokémon.

The Nintendo 3DS glowed faintly in your hands. (You’d robbed a nerd for this. He cried. It was great.) Its tiny speakers crackled with the upbeat jingle—stark and ridiculous contrast to the hard-edged criminals around you.

They often looked to you for some kind of assurance, that everything was going smoothly. But you weren’t their leader. You were just the guarantee.

The insurance that ensured the deal went well—because if it didn’t, nobody walked out.

And you were bored.

Yukio stood nearby, hands tucked into her sleeves with an unreadable expression. She was small and unassuming. Harmless to most eyes.

But not to you.

You knew what she was. Who she was. And that meant this deal wasn’t going to finish.

Just as you were about to land the final hit to the boss—

BOOM

The front doors detonated inward, a shockwave of dust and debris sweeping through the warehouse like a tidal wave.

The rival gang didn’t even have time to react.

Bullets ripped through them, splattering red against the walls before most even reached for their weapons. The few that did weren’t fast enough—a streak of yellow and black tore through their ranks like a living razor blade.

Logan.

The Wolverine’s claws sang through the air, slicing through flesh and bone with gruesome efficiency. A man screamed was cut short as his head separated cleanly from his shoulders and rolled to the floor with a wet thud.

Yukio moved the second the attack began.

One moment she was among your men. The next her hand sparked with electricity and she tore into them like a ghost of lightning.

The criminals you had worked beside for months were dying.

And you?

You didn’t move.

In fact you barely heard the scrambling panic around you. Your grip on the 3DS went slack, it tumbled to the ground, clattering loudly. You didn’t even notice.

Because he was here.

Deadpool...

Your father

He stood there at the center of the chaos; twin pistols raised, blades strapped to his back, mask tilted just slightly in that familiar cocky way.

The exact same mask as yours.

Your pulse spiked. You should’ve done something—anything—but you couldn’t move.

The mask...the stance....the voice.

God the voice.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Wade bellowed as he shot through a particularly unlucky gangster. “For years—YEARS—I have been trying become a better, CLASSY respectable mercenary!!”

(He absolutely did not.)

“Yet somehow, someway some ASSHOLE decides to drag my name through blood-soaked crime-encrusted filth like we’re in some goddamn GTA roleplay server?!” His arms flailed wildly as he stomped forward, stepping over a twitching half-dead body without a second glance.

“DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DEATH THREATS I’VE GOTTEN THIS WEEK?!”

(As if that wasn’t normal for him.)

Everything around you had blurred at this point. The violence didn’t matter. The screaming didn’t matter. The years of grief and loss and loneliness—

None of it mattered.

“—and what really gets me—truly grinds my gears—is that some DICKHEAD is using my likeness to make me look bad when I’ve worked so hard to be good! I HAVE A BRAND TO UPHOLD!”

Sal was hissing something at you to snap you out of it. Hell all of the men in the entire organization were looking at you. Because for the first time in three months, you weren’t moving.

“WELL??” Deadpool’s rant came to an abrupt end as he threw his arms out. “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

Silence.

Then—

You stood up.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The chair scraped against the concrete floor as you pushed away from it, the tension so thick it could suffocate.

Your hands came together and you began clapping.

One slow clap.

Another.

Then faster until it built into an exaggerated standing ovation. "Wow." Your voice dripped with emotion. "I..am speechless. A performance worthy of the Oscars really. I truly have no words except—"

Before anyone could react, you drew both guns in a single fluid motion and opened fire.

BANG

The first gunshot took Sal’s head clean off. His body was still standing, nerves firing uselessly even as his brain matter sprayed across the crates behind him.

BANG BANG BANG

Bullets fly and bodies drop.

The remaining rival gang? Erased.

Your so-called allies? Wiped off the map.

Some ducked for cover. Some tried to run. None of them made it far. You moved through them like a force of nature; spinning between targets, every shot landing with surgical precision.

Deadpool’s team flinched. For a split second they genuinely believed you were about to shoot at them.

Instead?

You erased every last member of the organization—the very one you had helped build up for weeks—in a perfectly executed, single-handed massacre.

The only sound left was the ringing echo of gunfire.

Your guns clicked as you brought the smoking barrels to your face to inhale the scent like it was oxygen. "Oh yeah, that's the good stuff..."

Finally holstering your weapons, you turned to Deadpool with a grin beneath your mask. A mask that was a perfect mirror image of his.

You practically bounced over to him as casual as someone greeting an old friend.

Then, in the most cheerful, sing-song voice imaginable, you threw your hands up like a child and chirped—

"HI DADDY!!"

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