If getting felt up in the forest by a oral-hygiene-impaired hippie wasn't a 'Dear Diary' moment then Wade wasn't a heavily armed merc with dynamite areolas. As she leaned in, he couldn't help the shiver that squirmed its way up his spine. He spent his afternoons talking to the Man-With-The-Typewriter and running around armed to the teeth; and she was making him look sane. There goes half his readers. Sure, they both had naughty bits that stiffened at the sight of that purple clad skellington with the pouty lips but at least Wade had the good sense to keep it in the boudoir where it belonged. The only thing woods were used for were Blair Witch huntings, Skeet Shooting and Bear shittings.
"Well then I'll just keep those Benjamins tucked safely in my g-string for later." Wade quipped, wondering just what exactly this broad wanted with his gal. He had a tendency to be over protected and last time he checked, Death wanted him. Not her. Though it wouldn't surprise him if she swung both ways.
"Really?!" Deadpool slid his sleeve up, exposing scarred flesh. He found a patch that wasn't too sore or disgusting and gave it a lick. "I think I taste like 7-Up and Slim Jims. Maybe death tastes like Slim Jims. They certainly make you want to die." The merc kept his gun in hand should this playful pussycat routine turned into some sort of a trap. He may have been the energizer bunny on crack but he knew what he was doing. His eyes scanned the tree line while this lady tried to get off on his scent alone. "Someone call Ripley's, We may have a new entry. Olfactory ejaculation."