dragon_pamcake (dragon_pamcake) wrote in deadpool_fans,
dragon_pamcake
dragon_pamcake
deadpool_fans

This one isn't mine.

Anyway, I didn't write this one.  My awesome co-worker wrote it for me after I got her into the magicalness that is Deadpool.  Needless to say, I was very pleased.   She gave me permission to post it because she is lazy.  I'm using her disclaimer because it is brilliant.


Title- 'Tis Better...? 'Tis Bullshit
Fandom- Marvel
Pairing- Deadpool/Siryn
Rating- G
Genre- Angsty
Summary- Deadpool watches Dancing with the Stars and reminisces.
Disclaimer- Deadpool is the property of Marvel Inc. He’s used without permission and not for profit, a fact which probably pisses him off.

‘tis Better…? ’tis Bullshit


Contrary to popular opinion, Deadpool did, in fact, know when to quit.

Usually it was after the first shot and before the fourth, which tended to sting like a son of a bitch. Or before the straight razor, which came after the knives, and tickled unbearably. He had discovered years ago that laughing while someone was trying to slice your trachea tended to irritate the person doing the slicing and irritated people never had a steady hand. Sloppy throat slitting never made Deadpool happy.

After the first shot and during the knives, he played. Before the fourth shot or the straight razor, he got to work and made people dead and he talked the whole time because there was never a time to quit talking, frankly. Talking frustrated and annoyed people and he hated all of them, friend or foe, and sort of wanted them all to be miserable.

Generally speaking, though, the time to quit was when there was nothing left to lose.

Which was what he was thinking about as he watched the newest season of that damn dancing show on network television because he’d spaced on the satellite bill and his lackey wasn’t in to fix it up for him.

It was ballroom and none of those assholes was pulling it off. That sports guy, rugby or lacrosse or whatever the hell girly-ass sport it was, had even made a complete hash out of a foxtrot done to ragtime music.

Wade could’ve done it in his sleep.

Except, you know, that part where Wade made Frankenstein look pretty and he’s only a star in the murder-for-hire circles, which sort of operates on the principle of the principles not being well-known to the general public. He’d never get onto the show without killing his way in. And if he was going to do that then he might just as well kill the competition and save everyone some time.

And then there’d be no show to watch, which would mean no ratings, which would mean the network would pull the plug on the show and there’d be no more ballroom dancing.

So he sat on the couch and thought briefly how pretty Red would have been in that gown what’s-her-face was the actress was wearing if he’d had the time to teach her to dance.

But he’d been told in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to give him that time and her friends had let him know that asking was a good way to get his ass kicked until the healing factor gave up, so he didn’t give it more than a passing thought. He sure as hell doesn’t pick up the phone like he sort of wants to and call her over for a quick lesson. She isn’t usual or general and she’s where Wade quits while he’s ahead. He’s got nothing but dreams where she used to be and he’d like to keep at least that much.
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