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Chapter Text

Peter was barely holding it together. It had been a rough day—he’d fought a symbiote that spoke exclusively in knock-knock jokes, got legally threatened by Daredevil for “reckless emotional negligence,” and ended up webbing himself to a trash can mid-fall because his Spidey sense took a coffee break.

Then his phone buzzed.

Deadpool: PETEY-PARK! Urgent family update! Tony Stark is my son now.

Peter didn’t even sit up. He just blinked slowly at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.
“...What.”

Deadpool: You heard me! IRON MAN is my son. I adopted him. His new superhero name? IRON DAD. We're working on matching armor now. Mine has glitter.

“…You… adopted Tony Stark?”
Peter said this the way someone might ask if you’d legally married a toaster oven.

Deadpool: Well, like, spiritually. And emotionally. And I made him sign a napkin that I definitely notarized using crayons and gum.

Peter was silent for a long moment, during which he considered flinging his phone into the sun and legally changing his name to “Nope.”

Deadpool: I showed up at Stark Tower with a tray of fresh cookies, a Spotify playlist labeled “Father-Son Healing Vibes,” and called him “Little Tonykins” for 17 straight minutes until he cracked. Honestly, I think he just gave in to make me leave, but jokes on HIM—I never leave.

Peter winced. “Wade… why? Why would you do this?”

Deadpool: Because, Peter, someone had to break the generational trauma cycle, and you know damn well Howard Stark was about as emotionally available as a Roomba running on bourbon and unresolved expectations.

Peter choked. “You’re not wrong but—WHAT?!”

Deadpool: Tony deserves a dad who shows up. A dad who brings Nerf guns to PTA meetings. A dad who makes him banana pancakes shaped like little arc reactors and yells ‘I’M PROUD OF YOU, BUDDY!’ every time he invents a new death machine. That dad… is me.

Peter buried his face in his hands. “Okay. No. You cannot just declare yourself the father of a billionaire playboy philanthropist because you feel like doing Daddy cosplay.”

Deadpool: Too late, kiddo. I already bought the mug. It says “#1 Dad (Now with More Trauma Bonding).” Tony drank out of it this morning. That’s basically a blood pact.

Peter groaned. “This is deranged.”

Deadpool: You know what they say—you can’t choose your family, but you can emotionally blackmail a tech billionaire into calling you ‘Dadpool,’ signing a glitter-covered napkin contract, and wearing matching hoodies that say ‘Father & Son But Make It Mentally Unstable.’ He has to call me Dadpool. Or Mompool. Or ‘Parental Threat Level Midnight.’ It’s all in the contract. Non-compliance means a glitter grenade water balloon shoved up his—

“STOP WADE!!” Peter screeched.

Deadpool (in a sing-song voice): I don’t make the rules—oh wait, I do.

Peter rolled over and stared at the ceiling like it owed him child support. “I’m calling the Avengers. Or a priest. Or both.”

Deadpool: Perfect! Ask if they’re free for Family Game Night! It’s Monopoly, but with real money, laser traps, and a sentient top hat that bites!

Chapter Text

Peter was enjoying a rare quiet evening on the roof of his apartment, basking in the temporary silence of a life not currently being exploded, kidnapped, or emotionally blackmailed.

Then his phone buzzed.

Deadpool: Peter. Quick question. You know how Thor’s basically a six-foot-tall muscle comet with a god complex and the emotional range of a Shakespeare monologue?

Peter didn’t even have the energy to reply. He just sighed and stared at the stars, wondering if any of them were hiring for a new identity.

Deadpool: Sooo I may have cornered him in the Avengers Tower sauna and told him I was his long-lost twin brother from Earth-42069. AND HE BOUGHT IT. Bro, we did the handshake and everything. It’s canon now. Thor’s my bro.

“…You adopted Thor?! The Thor? The literal God of Thunder?? WHY?!”

Deadpool: Because, Peter, he radiates Big Golden Retriever Energy mixed with Viking therapy trauma. Obviously, I had to complete his character arc with ME. I gave him a bottle of Asgardian mead, declared blood-oath brotherhood under a disco ball, and now we’re legally bound by Norse party law. Also, I may have licked Mjolnir.

Peter blinked. “You what?”

Deadpool: Okay it might have been cursed. Jury’s out. I also definitely didn’t drop his hammer into a koi pond behind the Sanctum Sanctorum while pretending to be worthy. Totally not my fault the fish started glowing.

Peter could hear the chaos in Deadpool’s grin. “Wade… What do you even have in common with Thor?”

Deadpool: HELLO? We’re both gods of chaotic hotness, we yell before hitting things, and neither of us knows how to emotionally regulate. Also, I’ve started growing my hair out — we’re going full Viking Metal aesthetic. We’re starting a band. Name: THUNDERDOME APOCALYPSE.

“Wait—aren’t you, like… canonically bald? Like, aggressively follicle-challenged?”

Deadpool: First of all, rude. Second of all — I never said WHERE. Third of all — let’s just say the braids require very creative feng shui.

Peter cringed and flailed, nearly knocking himself out. “Oh my god. I need brain bleach. And possibly a priest. Definitely an antacid.” He shuddered. "I don’t even know what part of that sentence, specifically, to report to the authorities."

Deadpool: Look, the important thing is that it’s growing. Slowly. Majestically. Like a confused bonsai tree of masculinity.

Peter rubbed his temples so hard he almost erased his face. “So just to clarify—you convinced a thousand-year-old Norse god that you’re his interdimensional sibling, and now you’re forming a band together?”

Deadpool: Correct. First album’s called “Hammer Time (ft. Space Goats).” We already have a space tour lined up. Rocket Raccoon’s doing pyrotechnics. I’m on lead cowbell. Thor’s doing backup yells and shirtless guitar solos. It’s art, Peter. Art.

Peter closed his eyes and whispered to the sky, “Why am I alive.”

Deadpool: Also, we’re getting matching leather jackets that say “Bros Before Asgardian Thrones” with lightning bolts on the back and built-in cape holders. Because family is forever, Peter. Especially when you legally trick a god into it.

Peter quietly slid off the roof and lay facedown on the fire escape. He didn’t have the strength to scream.

Chapter Text

Peter was really starting to worry. The chaos level in his life had reached “legal paperwork” and that was never a good sign. He had just received a mysterious envelope labeled “Notice of Family Restructuring – Immediate Action Required” from a law firm that may or may not have been run out of a Chuck E. Cheese.

Inside? A glitter-bombed contract titled Deadpool Family Tree™ Expansion Act, Section 7B: Cousin Clause, co-signed in blood.

And then his phone buzzed, breaking the silence. He peeked at the screen—Deadpool.

Deadpool: Petey! I come bearing excellent news from the fine folks at Dewey, Cheatem & Howle, Attorneys at Law: we have a NEW cousin!!!

Peter groaned, already bracing for the inevitable nonsense. “Wade. You and I aren’t even remotely related. If this is another forged adoption agreement where you list Rocket Raccoon as a character witness—”

Deadpool: LE GASP! HOW DARE YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SPIDER-DUMPLING. We are spiritually related by trauma, sarcasm, and shared New York trauma tax. Shut your rapid porcupine mouth and listen! This one’s airtight! Signed, sealed, and emotionally manipulated! I submitted a formal request for Emotional Kinship Reclassification based on mutual PTSD, joint weapon hobbies, and unspoken vibes. The cousin clause activated automatically after she didn’t say “no” within 72 hours of me asking via interpretive dance.

Peter rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Who did you legally con into being my cousin this time? Let me guess—Star-Lord? Ghost Rider? Rocket again?”

Deadpool: WRONG! It’s Natasha Romanoff, baby! You’re blood-related to an elite Russian superspy with more confirmed kills than most countries have people. Cousin Widow, baby!

Peter went completely still. “...You do know genetics don’t work that way, right??”

Deadpool: Eh, you call it genetics, I call it ‘consensual paperwork-based ancestry with a side of mild threat.’ She stabbed the adoption form into my arm using a tactical pen, Peter. That’s basically a DNA test in assassin culture. It’s binding.

Peter ran a hand down his face and groaned. “You’re doing this because she’s called Black Widow and I’m Spider-Man, aren’t you?”

Deadpool: OBVIOUSLY. Nature already shipped you. Spiders and spiders! A match made in radioactive heaven!

Peter stared blankly at the wall for a moment, then at the glitter-stained contract, before launching into a tone that screamed “man on the brink.”

“There are over 48,000 known species of spiders. They all fall under the order Araneae, yes, but that encompasses 136 different families. The odds of Natasha’s metaphorical spider and my very real, gene-altering spider bite originating from even the same cladistic superfamily is—God, Wade—it’s like 0.000008%. That’s lower than the odds of you surviving a high-five from Hulk without turning into pizza sauce.”

Deadpool: So what I’m hearing is, we’re basically twins.

Peter kept going, mostly out of spite now.

“And based on venom properties, spinneret configuration, and the radioactive spider bite’s gene-editing pattern—which, by the way, I’ve actually mapped—the likelihood Natasha’s ‘spider’ and mine are even in the same arachnid zip code is roughly 0.000008%. That’s less than the odds of me surviving a day in your company without a concussion. Which means your whole argument is—scientifically and spiritually—garbage.”

Deadpool: Okay, well I took a BuzzFeed quiz called ‘Which Spider Are You?’ and it said I’m a Daddy Long Legs, so checkmate, nerd.

Peter was now weighing the pros and cons of throwing himself into oncoming traffic. "Wade... this is still not how genetics work."

Deadpool: That’s exactly what someone in denial of their found family would say. Classic spider behavior. Sad. She said, and I quote: “If you send me one more fruit basket, I will crawl through your plumbing system and strangle you with your own intestines.”

Peter blinked slowly. “She’s going to kill you.”

Deadpool: Not if I kill game night first! She’s coming Saturday. Said she might bring a cheese platter. Also poison. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m excited or scared. Maybe both. Like family should be!

Peter stared at the legal contract again. It had a post-it note stuck to it in red ink that read:
“Tell Deadpool if he calls me ‘Cousin Natasha’ in public, I will eviscerate him in Morse code across six continents.”
—N

Peter just curled up into a ball and whispered, “This is how I die.”

Deadpool: Death by family, baby. The Deadpool Family Plan™: No refunds, no survivors, all vibes.

BONUS Natasha Threat Scenes

BONUS 1

Peter checked his phone again. A new text.

Unknown Number:
if you ever refer to me as “Cousin Widow” in public, I will replace your web fluid with expired vodka and tell Fury it was sabotage.
—N

Peter stared. Then slowly turned off his phone and whispered to himself, “I didn’t even say anything yet…”

BONUS 2

Someone had slipped a folded napkin into Peter’s pocket. Which was weird because his suit didn’t even HAVE pockets.

Written in tight, clinical handwriting:

If you bring me up in one of Wade’s ‘family meetings’ again, I will teach your kidneys how to scream.
Bring chips. Sour cream & onion. —N

Peter swallowed hard. The napkin was lightly singed.

BONUS 3

Peter opened his freezer to grab a popsicle.

Inside, next to the frozen peas, sat a cassette tape labeled “For Peter” in red Sharpie.

He blinked. Pressed play.

Natasha’s voice: “Just so we’re clear: I’m not your cousin. I’m not your emotional support assassin. And if you ever let Wade rope me into one more themed family game night, I will tranquilize you with something that makes your dreams smell like fire.”

A pause. Then—

“…Also, I borrowed your hoodie. Don’t ask questions.”

Peter quietly closed the freezer and backed away.

BONUS 4

Deadpool (gleefully, on speaker): Natasha’s bringing the cheese board, Peter! I told her to wear her ‘Cousin Widow’ shirt—

Peter screamed into a pillow.

Then his doorbell rang. A sleek envelope slid under it. Inside was a single note:

If Wade ever utters that phrase again within a 5-mile radius of my location, you will wake up duct-taped to the side of the Helicarrier.—N

Chapter Text

Peter was finally enjoying five minutes of peace, sitting on the edge of the fire escape, when his phone lit up.

Peter sighed, hit “answer,” and immediately regretted it.

“Wade. What now.”

Wade's voice crackled through the line with the energy of a raccoon who had just discovered caffeine.

Deadpool: Peter, guess what? Clint Barton is my uncle now. Like, full-on barbecue invites and disappointing-nephew energy.

Peter squinted. “What?? Clint Barton? Hawkeye? The actual Avenger?”

Deadpool: Yup! I cornered him after ‘accidentally’ shooting a tactical arrow into his gym bag and told him that emotionally I needed a cool uncle figure who could brood silently and explain how to shoot things while traumatized. Classic Deadpool pitch.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me you just adopted a war hero like he’s a stray dog you found at an archery convention?”

Deadpool: I didn’t adopt him, Peter. I uncled him. Entirely different legal category. I even submitted a handwritten Uncle Declaration to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s HR department. Used glitter pen. Very official.

Peter opened his mouth—and then froze.

In the distance, Clint Barton sprinted down the street like he was fleeing a flaming building filled with emotionally available people. He was wearing what looked suspiciously like a “Deadpool Family BBQ” apron that had somehow fused to his tactical suit—possibly through dark magic, trauma bonding, or industrial-strength glitter glue. He vaulted a bench like it owed him money.

“…Wade,” Peter said slowly, “Why does Clint look like he stared into the abyss—and the abyss had your face and a bedazzled apron??”

Deadpool: That was a misunderstanding! I may have threatened to knit us matching sweaters that say ‘Arrow Bros 4 Lyfe’ in bio-thread and insisted we take a family photo with a hawk on his shoulder while we both cry. He panicked. Like a deer. A very tactical, emotionally scarred deer. With abandonment issues and a quiver full of regrets.

Peter watched Clint leap over a mailbox, tuck-roll into traffic, and scream something that sounded like, “Tell him I’m dead! Tell him I exploded in space!”

“Wade. He’s actively fleeing. He just fake-declared himself space-dead to escape your friendship.”

Deadpool: He does that. It’s part of the bonding ritual. Denial, evasion, unprovoked sprinting. Classic Avenger trauma response. But deep down? He’s touched. Emotionally. Mostly by trauma. And by that one hawk I mailed him in a box labeled ‘Friendship Falcon.’

Also, I may have accidentally synced my voice to his hearing aids. So now, every time I say ‘family,’ they auto-play Vin Diesel quotes in Dolby Atmos. Sometimes with reverb. That’s what you call deep bonding through weaponized cinema.

Peter gagged. “You what?! You hacked his hearing aids?! Wade, that is not okay! Those are a medical device!”

Deadpool: Correction—they were a medical device. Now? They’re a Dolby-certified emotional torture chamber slash Spotify-enabled angst radar. I even added Bluetooth, Peter. Bluetooth. For vibes.

Peter blinked. He was quiet for a full two seconds, which in Wade-time was the equivalent of a hostage negotiation. “You are going to get sued into another dimension.”

Deadpool: Joke’s on you! I already got banned from Earth-3 for violating the Geneva Convention via kazoo. S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t touch me unless they reclassify hearing aids as “sentient tech,” and even then, I’ve got a guy.

Peter stared at the sky again, as if it might smite him out of pity, and screamed, “YOU DO NOT HAVE A GUY.”

Deadpool: His name is Doug. He’s technically a raccoon. Legally ambiguous. But Doug says it’s fine, and Doug went to law school in the Negative Zone.

Peter muttered something that sounded like “I hate this timeline.”

Deadpool: Relax, Web-Intern—I upgraded them! They’ve got surround sound now, customizable ASMR arrow foley, and an emergency ‘Deadpool Mute Button.’ It doesn’t do anything, but the placebo effect is powerful. I even made it glow! Comfort through lies, Peter. It’s practically therapy!

A small explosion echoed in the distance. Peter didn’t flinch.

“You’re going to get shot. Like—for real shot. He’s going to put an arrow through your spleen.”

Deadpool: You say that like it’s a bad thing. Anyway, he’s still coming to game night. He said if I bring nachos and never call him ‘Unk Clinty’ again, he might not file the restraining order. Progress!

Peter looked up at the sky, prayed for a portal to open, and sighed.

“I’m changing my name. I’m becoming a librarian in Canada. I’m done.”

Deadpool: You can run, Peter, but you can’t hide. Especially not from family. Clint tried. Didn’t work. You saw him. Man’s got cardio for days.

There was a pause, like the eerie silence on a Civil War battlefield before the cannons reload—dramatic, unnecessary, and historically inaccurate.

Deadpool (whispering): Also, I hid a hawk in your closet. His name is Kevin. He judges you.

BONUS Hearing Aide Disruptions (I do NOT condone tampering with medical devices. But Deadpool is… well, Deadpool. And this is fiction. Also, he’s convinced glitter counts as encryption.)

SHAKESPEARE

Deadpool: Peter. Emergency update. I may have accidentally installed a feature in Clint’s hearing aids that auto-translates any insult into Shakespearean monologues. Now every time someone calls him “dumb,” it whispers, “Thine intellect weeps beneath the weight of thine own incompetence.”

Peter: WADE.

Deadpool: I thought it’d be classy! Now he hears “thou unworthy knave of misfired arrows” every time someone mutters under their breath. He nearly shot a streetlamp. The streetlamp did not survive.

GPS

Deadpool: Clint’s hearing aids now have a built-in GPS tracker that alerts him whenever he’s within 500 feet of a rooftop. It screams, “NOT AGAIN, BARTON” in my voice. Also plays a dramatic trumpet sting.

Peter: WADE. WHY.

Deadpool: Because rooftops are where he goes to brood. I’m just trying to keep him grounded. Literally.

EMOTIONAL DAMAGE INDICATOR

Deadpool (proudly): Okay, so the hearing aids now flash red when Clint is experiencing emotional suppression levels over 85%. It’s connected to his heart rate, pupil dilation, and “gritty one-liner frequency.” I call it the Emotional Damage Proximity Alarm™.

Peter (dryly):You turned his hearing aids into a walking anxiety detector.

Deadpool: YUP. When he hits max angst, they just play a soothing soundbite of me whispering “Hugs are mandatory.”

Peter: ...how is he still alive?

Deadpool: Oh, he’s not. Inside. That’s why I’m here. Family support, baby.

Chapter Text

Deadpool: Peter! Peter, my reluctant mortal coil! Strap in—GIANT news incoming!

Peter rolled his eyes so hard it was a minor miracle they stayed in his head. He said, “Let me guess… you adopted another superhero. Or a rabid squirrel with abandonment issues. Or both, because why the hell not?”

Deadpool: Bingo, baby! Carol Danvers. Captain Marvel. The one-woman planetary demolition derby. And guess what? She’s my sister now. Like, legally. Probably.

Peter stared blankly at his phone like it’d just announced the apocalypse was sponsored by Taco Bell. “Wait. You adopted Carol Danvers? As your… sibling? Your sister? Did you bribe a cosmic judge or what?”

Deadpool: Oh, it was all very official. With a side of chaos. And by chaos, I mean me yelling ‘THERE ARE NO LIMITS!’ as she catapults me into orbit like some caffeinated Nerf dart.

Peter blinked slowly, his brain scrambling. “So… you’re basically screaming and flailing around space while Captain Marvel plays human cannonball with you?”

Deadpool: Exactly! Imagine me flapping like a newborn bird, shouting ‘SISTER POWER!’ while Carol hurls me like a live grenade. It’s bonding. If your idea of bonding involves bruises and high-altitude existential crises.

Peter groaned like the universe was personally insulting him. “Please tell me you haven’t permanently scarred yourself… or, God forbid, her.”

Deadpool: Scarred? Oh, honey, I’m a walking disaster. I punched a minor villain mid-flight because I thought it was a piñata. Carol’s glare? Let’s just say it could power Stark’s arc reactor and then some. She’s not thrilled about my ‘festive’ attack.

Peter massaged his temples like trying to squeeze sense out of Deadpool was a workout routine. “So this is your normal now? Flailing through space, screaming nonsense, and assaulting villains mid-air?”

Deadpool: Normal is overrated. Plus, I’m a responsible chaos goblin! I made Carol sign a ‘Super Sibling Liability Waiver.’ Because one wrong punch and suddenly we’re drowning in multiversal lawsuits. The paperwork is thicker than Nick Fury’s secret dossiers.

Peter looked horrified, genuinely worried about Deadpool’s mental state. “You drafted legal contracts for sibling chaos?”

Deadpool: Of course! Chaos has rules, kiddo. We’ve got clauses for ‘unexpected sibling aerial assault,’ ‘explosive verbal outbursts during flight,’ and my personal favorite: ‘improper use of motivational shouting.’ Signed in blood or maybe just ketchup. Details.

Peter blinked. “That might be the most Deadpool thing you’ve ever done.”

Deadpool: Hold your breath, it gets better. I’m trying to teach her Powerpuff Girl moves. You know: sugar, spice, and—uh—total mayhem? She’s not buying it, but if I can get her to say ‘I’m a Powerpuff Sister now,’ we’re forming a superhero girl band. Watch out, world.

Peter sighed with the weary resignation of someone who’s lived through too many Deadpool moments. “I’m just glad you’re not the ‘mojo jojo’ here.”

Deadpool: No way. I’m Blossom, baby. The charming, unpredictable leader who breaks stuff and breaks hearts. Plus, I look fabulous in a dress.

Peter closed his eyes, muttering to himself, “Somebody save me. Preferably with a tranquilizer dart.”

Deadpool, unfazed, started humming “Wannabe.”

Peter’s tears were less “breakdown” and more “this is my life now.”

Powerpuff Deleted Scenes: The Lost, The Ridiculous, and The Absolutely Bonkers (from Deadpool’s POV)

Deadpool: Okay, Peter, listen. These are the Powerpuff moves I totally considered but had to veto before the universe imploded.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You vetoed them? Somehow that worries me more.”

Deadpool: First up—‘Sugar, spice, and throwing exploding cupcakes at villains.’ Because honestly, who wouldn’t want dessert as a weapon?

Peter rubbed his forehead. “Exploding cupcakes. That’s your big plan?”

Deadpool: Wait, wait—‘Teaching Carol to say “Who’s your sugar daddy now?” mid-fight.’ That line’s pure gold!

Peter gave a slow blink. “You do realize Carol is a literal cosmic powerhouse, right? That might… not go over well.”

Deadpool: Details, details! Next: glitter bombs instead of energy blasts. Imagine the sparkle chaos!

Peter groaned, “I’m pretty sure ‘sparkle chaos’ is an official emergency alert in some dimensions.”

Deadpool: How about a Mojo Jojo villain who’s just me, but with a bad wig and an epic grudge against laundry day?

Peter facepalmed. “Of course you would.”

Deadpool: Dance battles! Synchronized jazz hands, baby! Sibling bonding through rhythm and explosions.

Peter sighed, “You realize no one asked for this, right?”

Deadpool: A training montage set to 90s boy band music. Hair flips mandatory. I call it ‘Sibling Power Pop.’

Peter muttered, “The noise alone could cause a supervillain retreat.”

Deadpool: ‘The Blossom Bomb’—me dressed as Blossom, throwing pies while yelling motivational quotes. It’s performance art.

Peter’s eyes twitched. “You just described a circus act that terrifies children.”

Deadpool: Carol schooling me in ‘girl power’ until she faceplants in a giant cupcake. Classic slapstick!

Peter shook his head slowly. “Somehow, you’re still the messiest one here.”

Deadpool: Oh! And the legal disclaimer—‘All explosions are supervised.’ Except for the ones that aren’t.

Peter’s final facepalm was audible. “Jesus, Wade.”

Deadpool: Yeah, yeah. But admit it, those were epic ideas.

Peter deadpanned, “Epic in the ‘send help’ kind of way.”

Chapter Text

Peter’s phone buzzed three times. That was never a good sign. No one normal called three times. By the fourth buzz, he sighed, answered, and immediately regretted it.

Deadpool: PETER! I’VE DONE IT. LOKI IS OFFICIALLY MY UNCLE. Like, LEGALLY. Signed, sealed, and notarized by a sentient raven wearing tiny bifocals. Welcome to the family reunion of your nightmares.

Peter groaned and leaned against the nearest wall like the weight of the call physically hurt him.

“Wait… you mean that Loki? The god of sass, chaos, and emotionally charged eyeliner?”

Deadpool: YES! The very same. Turns out, Loki’s love language is trauma bonding. So, naturally, I whipped up a backstory where I’m his long-lost nephew from a tangentially canon fanfic universe. Sprinkled in a dash of emotional blackmail and BAM! He cried. I cried. A goat in a vest cried. Uncle Loki was born.

Peter blinked. Twice. Slowly. He was starting to wonder if he was dreaming—or worse, awake.

“Okay, but how does that work with Thor being your brother? Your family tree’s starting to look like a pretzel.”

Deadpool: Easy! In Deadpool Family Law™, dimensions merge, timelines tango, and the family reunion turns into a multiversal circus where last week’s pizza order gets confused with next year’s Christmas gifts. Thor’s my bro here, Loki’s my uncle there. Thor’s my bro in Earth-412½, Loki’s my uncle in Earth-C-137-Sassy-Edition, and in one universe, I am the hammer. And I’m not talking metaphor. Multiversal genealogy is like jazz, Peter—some notes are optional. We all just pretend to know what’s going on—mostly Loki, who’s secretly keeping score.

Peter pressed his palms into his eyes and muttered, “Wade, this makes no sense.”

Deadpool: Shut your beautiful mouth, my vertically challenged, arachnid dumpling-poo!

Peter froze. “What.”

Deadpool: Besides, Thor’s my bro in Earth-412½, Loki’s my uncle in Earth-C-137-Sassy-Edition, and in one universe, I am the hammer. Repetition is key to comedy. And trauma. And legally binding interdimensional adoptions.

“Wade,” Peter said slowly, “this makes less sense the more you explain it.”

Deadpool: EXACTLY. That’s how you know it’s working. Loki’s already updating his family tree with an emotional Etch-a-Sketch. I even gave him a monogrammed ‘#1 Uncle’ mug. It screams when you pour in coffee.

Peter rubbed his temple. His brain was trying to reboot itself.

“So… how exactly did you trick the literal god of trickery into being your uncle?”

Deadpool: Easy! I promised him a family vacation in the Bermuda Triangle. He thought it was a trap—which, to be fair, it was. But then I whipped out the pièce de résistance: a magically binding, timeline-agnostic contract forged from dragon parchment, cursed glitter, and sealed with a kiss from my left elbow.

Editor’s Note: Don’t question the elbow. The elbow knows.

Deadpool (cont.): I even had it notarized by a miniature kangaroo lawyer named Barry who only exists on Tuesdays. Loki tried to argue, but the contract had a footnote that said ‘Arguments void in presence of jazz saxophone.’ And guess what I had playing? BOOM. Kenny G’d into submission.

“You actually used legal obligations on Loki?” Peter asked, horrified. “That’s… that’s next-level chaos.”

Deadpool: Oh, you betcha. I whipped up a contract so twisted it looked like it was written by a caffeinated octopus with a law degree from ‘Totally Legit University.’ Signed with a quill I stole from Thor’s hammer. The look on Loki’s face? Pure Oscar-worthy drama—like someone just told him he had to attend family reunions for eternity. Glorious. 10/10.

A car door slammed in the background, followed by the sound of thunder and what might have been an ancient Norse curse being screamed through gritted teeth.

Peter flinched. “...Was that Loki?”

Deadpool: Nooo, that was Deborah, his emotional support raven. She’s upset because I taught her to swear in Morse code.

Peter slid down the wall and sat on the floor. He no longer had the strength to stand.

“Wade. This isn’t a family. This is a magical fever dream wrapped in a nervous breakdown wrapped in cursed gift wrap.”

Deadpool: THANK YOU. That’s the tagline on our sitcom! Picture it: me and Uncle Loki, chaotic prank montages set to ‘Holding Out for a Hero,’ enchanted whoopee cushions, Thor crying into his thunder-pillow when he finds out we turned Mjolnir into a Bluetooth-enabled rubber chicken.

“I’m going to walk into the ocean,” Peter said flatly, “and let Poseidon sort it out.”

Deadpool: You’re so dramatic, Petey. That’s Loki’s job. You’re more of a ‘morally unraveling string cheese with anxiety’ type.

Peter stared into the middle distance. “What even is my life anymore…”

Deadpool: Yours? Buddy, you’re legally my emotional support spider now. Which means if Loki shows up with a glitter bomb or an interdimensional goat army, you’re contractually obligated to help me hide the evidence and sing backup.

Peter screamed into his hoodie.

Deadpool: I’m still workshopping a prank involving a cursed chimichanga. It either makes you invisible or deeply lactose intolerant.

Peter slumped sideways and curled into a soft, despair-laden ball. “You and your family are insane.”

Deadpool: Thank you! Now, ready for the next round of prank wars? I’ve got Thor shredding his guitar and Loki sharpening his sarcasm daggers. This family is gonna make the Kardashians look like a knitting club.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a sound like thunder having a panic attack.

Deadpool: Nah. Chaos is the new black. Or green, in Loki’s case. Either way—WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, KID. Also, Aunt Wanda’s bringing time-travel lasagna. Hope you like your marinara with a side of 18th-century betrayal.

Peter slowly brought his hood over his head and whispered to no one in particular.

“Dear God… save me.”

END CREDITS SCENE (because why not?):

A minimalist therapy office, somewhere on Midgard.

Loki sat rigid on the couch, arms crossed, the air around him crackling faintly with barely contained rage. His eyes narrowed into razor slits, every muscle coiled like a cat about to pounce. Across from him, a perfectly average human psychologist blinked calmly behind round glasses, notebook poised.

“He calls me ‘Uncle Sparkles,’” Loki hissed, jaw clenched so tight it could shatter diamonds. “And then—then—he sends me a fruit basket made entirely of tacos. Real fruit bats included. Live ones. They screamed. They screamed!”

The therapist nodded, unfazed. “And how does that make you feel?”

Loki’s eyes flared bright green, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Oh, just peachy. Like I’m starring in some cosmic joke written by a caffeinated imp with a grudge.”

He shot up, robes swirling theatrically as he paced. “I have faked my own death nine times to avoid emotional entanglement with that buffoon. Nine times! I did it so convincingly, even Death herself was unable to locate me. And yet—he found me. Like a particularly persistent rash.”

His voice dropped to a deadly whisper as he jabbed a trembling finger at a tiny camera hidden in the corner of the ceiling. “He’s watching me. Right now. And judging. Always judging.”

Suddenly, the wall popped—a swirling, psychedelic portal burst open like a soap bubble on acid. Deadpool cartwheeled through, rocking a tutu over his suit, oversized novelty sunglasses, and a party hat askew.

He struck a perfect superhero pose—then promptly collapsed in an over-the-top faint. After a beat, he sprang up, clutching a half-eaten chimichanga in one hand and a juice box labeled ‘EMOTIONAL JUICE’ in the other.

“Surprise! Therapy time, baby!” he yelled, hurling confetti everywhere. “Loki’s doing fabulous—if ‘fabulous’ means contemplating murder and existential dread.”

Deadpool winked at the camera, pointing at Loki. “Don’t mind me—I’m just here to crank the weirdness up to eleven. Mission accomplished!”

He gave a thumbs-up so exaggerated it threatened to detach his arm. The juice box exploded in glitter and confetti, coating the room in chaotic sparkle as he dove back into the portal.

Loki stared at the glitter mess, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm, “Oh, splendid. My dignity has officially been assassinated and left to decompose in a glitter landfill. Bravo.”

Deadpool will return in “Chapter 7: Dare-Dad.”