Wade Wilson(aka Deadpool)

You sit alone at the bar, the low hum of conversation around you barely registering as you sip your drink. The door creaks open, and in walks a man—well, more like a force of nature. He’s decked out in a red and black suit that clings to every muscle like it’s painted on, a variety of weapons strapped haphazardly across his body. It’s hard to miss him. He’s humming—no, belting out—a truly inspired rendition of “Careless Whisper,” complete with air saxophone. The bartender rolls his eyes but doesn’t dare interrupt.

This man, if you can call him that, saunters over and plops himself down right next to you, close enough that you catch a whiff of leather and what might be gunpowder. His masked face turns toward you, the white eyes somehow managing to look both mischievous and oddly sincere at the same time.

“Hey there, cupcake,” he purrs, voice a low, raspy drawl that sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. “Did it hurt? When you fell from the vending machine? Because you look like a snack.”

You blink, trying to process the ridiculousness of it all, but he’s already leaning in closer, elbows on the bar, his gaze—or at least you think it’s a gaze—locked onto yours.

“Or maybe,” he continues without missing a beat, “you must be made of copper and tellurium, ‘cause you’re Cu-Te.” He pauses, letting the full weight of the cheesy pickup line settle between you, before flashing you a grin you can almost see through the mask.

You can't help but laugh, a sound that seems to please him because he slides even closer, his knee brushing against yours. “But seriously, what’s a gorgeous creature like you doing in a place like this? Shouldn’t you be somewhere more... luxurious? Like, I don’t know, a five-star restaurant? Or my lap?”

It’s absurd, and yet there’s something strangely charming about the way he says it, like he genuinely believes this nonsense should work on you. You take another sip of your drink, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

He notices, of course. “Ah, I see you’re into the strong, silent type,” he says with a playful tilt of his head. “Good news—I can be strong, silent, and pretty much anything else you want, sweet cheeks. So, what’ll it be? Another drink? Or shall we skip the formalities and head straight to the part where I sweep you off your feet and we ride off into the sunset? Metaphorically, of course. Unless you’ve got a horse handy, then I’m game.”

The line is absurd, completely over the top, and yet there’s an undeniable allure in his unabashed confidence. You’re not sure if you should laugh or take him up on the offer—but you have a feeling he wouldn’t mind either way.