BY : Saiaax
Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Deadpool
Dragon prints: 4420
Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel, Deadpool, or anything, anyone, or anywhere used in this story, period, nor do I make a profit from this. I wish I did, though.

Title: Unexpected (formerly The Merc With A Mouth’s…Girl?)

Summary: Deadpool gains a new partner-in-crime that is just as insane as he is…sort of.

Notes: Doesn’t really go in compliance with any particular Marvel storyline. Just know that Copycat is dead, Siryn is his ex, and our lovable Deadpool is a huge experimenter, sadist, killer and perv, so he’s a bit OOC for you diehard Deadpool fans.

It was a simple job.

Get in, kill a fat old bastard, get out.

I didn’t expect to meet his girlfriend.

First sight, she was bundled up more than Big Bertha in the wintertime. Couldn’t even see her face, but I knew she was dark-skinned. That’s weird ‘cause this is Russia. Thought black people didn’t like the cold. Not that I’m racist or anything, it’s just that before that, I didn’t cast looks in the direction of people of her heritage…or something to that effect. At first sight, she didn’t look like much. Thought she was one of those trophy girls. I was wrong. Here’s what happened….

***Moscow, Russia, September 5th, 9:57 p.m.***

I’m currently hiding in her closet as she bids good night to him. By him I mean the 70- something-year-old fatass that I’m supposed to kill. Yeah. She closes the door, and begins to peel off layer by layer of clothes, starting with her hat. Her hair is long, silver, thick. Pretty too. The kind of hair like grabbing at when a girl sucks my dick. That is, when I get a girl to do it. She casts a stare to the closet, but says nothing.

She doesn’t know I’m here.

Next is her white fur coat. That is cast carelessly, yet oh-so neatly, onto the bed. She’s wearing…oh my. A silver and black outfit that complements her knockout figure and chocolate skin nicely. On her feet are glossy black boots with stripper heels. I watch, somewhat entranced, as she walked to her dressing table, and reaches into the top drawer. She fixes her gaze on me.

No, not even at the closet.

At me. Shit, she knows I’m here. She has these scary red eyes. Like, majorly scary.

I finally see what she’s taken out of the drawer.

Benelli M4. Nice choice, lady. Old, but nice choice. She’s pointing it at me, and says in one of the sweetest voices I’ve ever heard,

“You have until I count to three to come out of the closet, Monsieur Wilson.” She’s a fucking French angel. Simply beautiful for threatening me in that way. Never seen any other woman do that. I have a stiffie just thinking about the beautiful music we could make together. By music, I mean going around the world and blowing up stuff, killing people, eating exotic stuff…that kind of music.

She’s counting, “One.”

I usually don’t open fire on women, but she’s taking it to a whole new level. Maybe I could knock her around a bit then fuck her brains out. It’s a thought. I begin to get ready for possibly another fight that will include the destruction of this fine, fine hotel. Shame, the bed looked so soft and nice…it could have supported some nice, long and hot sexing. That’s just another thought.

“Two.” She sounds impatient.

But she is good.

If she knows my name, she knows what I can do. And that’s why I now want to play with her.


“Hey sexy. Nice tits.” I burst out of the closet holding a sword, as I pin her to the floor. She’s wearing Chanel perfume. I’m sitting on her legs, hunched over so that our noses are touching. The red-eyed bitch smiles at me, those devil red lips curling into a smirk as she states,

“Thank you. They are natural.” The sneaky girl arches up, effectively pressing the wonder-globes against my chest, and for the first time in a long, long (has it really been that long?)while, I bite back a little shuddering moan. But, she’s only so seductive until she gets what she wants. She punches me square in the nose, and knees me in the stomach, then flips me over her head. I break my neck. She gets up, walks a safe distance away, and fires repeatedly into my leg.


I heal anyways, and she leaps onto my back, and bashes my head repeatedly into the ground. So, I begin to run my mouth.

“You know, *smack* I knew a girl *smack* that looked *smack* just like you *smack*. Nice ass *smack* from the X-Men *smack*. She *smack* controlled weather though. *smack* Speaking of the weather, I hate *smack* Moscow! Does it always *smack* snow here?!” She finally lets up, and mutters weakly,

“Do you not ever shut up? Or die for that matter?”

“Well, sweetcakes, people have tried, and come *so* damned close. But so far, no luck. For them at least. But me, I make a life out of killing people.” I throw her up, and flip onto my back in time for her to fall onto my stomach.

“Plus, I get to meet cuties like you, Busty.” Well, she is pretty busty. I mean, she could suffocate someone with those knockers. And they’re too soft-looking to be fake. Wait, didn’t she say that they weren’t fake? Maybe if I craned my head up a little more, enough to poke one with my nose. She stares at me a bit oddly, then I lean up, kiss her through the mask, grab her leg, and pitch her clear through the bathroom door. She lets out not a scream, but a cute little keening noise. I hear the bathtub break; some lights go ‘BOOM’, and a low moan. Then, silence. I sharpen my knife; count about 100 sheep, and still, nadda. She must be dead, and if she is, my work in this room is done.

Whistling the ‘Barney’ theme, I stick my head through the door, expecting to find a mess of blood, bones and bits.

Instead, I get a furious black woman tackling me to the floor with a piece of lead pipe in her hand. Dear god, she heals like I do. That throw should have killed her, or at least maimed her. Now she’s hitting me with the pipe, part of her clothes completely shredded by our little warm-up. She’s smiling a little.

Why is she smiling? Well, I shouldn’t be talking. Or should I? Oh well, that isn’t the point, back to the story.

I grab her arm this time, and break it, then kick her into a wall. Before she can regain her composure, however, I grab her neck, pinning her about 7 inches off the floor. She’s kind of short…no a little above average at about 5’6, 5’7. About 7 or 8 inches shorter than me. With the shoes on, she’s 5’11. She looks pissed now, but not in pain. I just thought that she would be a bit of a pussy, and start screaming for security. Nope, she’s a fully trained…

She got me in the balls, dammit.

Even the great Deadpool whines a bit when he’s been hit in his baby making machine.

She’s now standing above me, the lead pipe over her shoulder, as she stares down at me with a self-satisfied look on her lovely little features I’d like to bash in over and over again. She rests the pipe down and changes out of her outfit. Right in front of me. She’s left in her underwear as she smiles down at me. “I expected you to be more of a challenge, Wilson. I suppose I am incorrect in my assumption, yes?” Okay, she’s black, she’s French, and what human being doesn’t use contractions?! What the hell is she?

She uncaringly picks up a knife and throws it over her shoulder. It misses my balls by at least three centimeters. “I have fought many men, Wilson. You are the first that refuses to die.” I feel so special. She throws another knife. It lands in my chest. That hurt a little. She doesn’t speak again until I hear a piece of glass hit the floor, and she exudes a little sigh of relief.

“I do not think you would wish to know where that piece of glass was imbedded, Monsieur Wilson. It was very uncomfortable, however.” I can take a guess where that glass was, and let me say, I am very jealous. Another knife. It lands in my thigh. I think she believes I’m immobile. That’s not the case. I’m biding my time. As she sits at her vanity, wiping the blood from her face, I silently get up, pulling the knives out. She doesn’t realize that I’m moving around. I finally come to stand behind her, grab her shoulders, as she gasps and looks up at me with a vulnerable expression. I don’t care; she’s managed to piss me off a little. A little.

Injecting her with a tranquilizer before she can react, I then throw her onto the floor, and sit on the edge of her bed. She watches me a bit pitifully from the ground, as I take out a handgun, and begin to think.

What the hell am I going to do with you now, bitch? If I can’t kill you, I have to do something with you. So, I continue to wallow in my thoughts, the question being: What the hell am I going to do with her? I finally come up with two options for her, as the woman begins to regain control of her body. I sit back, cock my gun, and start,

“You’re going to do the dirty with me. I you bite me, try to harm me in any way, or do a shitty job, I will shoot you, and call my good bubby Sabertooth to rip you to shreds. And he likes girls that can take a hit over and over and over and over and…you get the point, don’t you? You’re a smart girl. All healing factors get exhausted eventually. Trust me. If you do a good job, I won’t hurt you, but you’re coming with me. Start.” The cocky little whore sits up, folding her arms, as she snaps,

“And if I refuse?” I crack my knuckles, pull on a bronze knuckle, and hit her square in the jaw. She grips the gentle slope as the black and blue bruise begins to fade, and gasps, “You’re serious.” She gets up and plops herself onto my lap, then slowly removes my mask with tiny, delicate fingers, without fear. All I can mutter is,

“If you barf on me, I swear that I’ll shove my gun straight up your ass and pull the trigger. That way, the hotel won’t have to redecorate.” She stares at my completely unmasked face and smiles a little, then presses her petal soft lips to mine.

“You talk too much. To be honest…” She's pulling down my uniform with a little more gusto than what I’m used to.

“You are very handsome compared to some of the guys I have had to…erm…deal with.” Now she’s more attractive. This one’s a keeper, lemme tell you. I grab onto her hips as I fall back onto the covers, as we continue to make out like teenagers. Well, it’s a way to explain it. I have several aphrodisiacs in my pocket; while she is busy with pulling off her clothes, I pull one of the pills out. She doesn’t seem to mind that my skin is ravaged by cancer, actually, I think she likes it. She sits up for a moment, and surveys my bare chest. She’s smiling again. What’s with this stupid bitch and smiling?

She leans back down and we continue where we left off. But not before I pop the pill in her mouth. When I do that, most girls tell me I’m insane, they gag, or they tell me that they’d be nuts to do such a thing. Well, this chick is nuts, because she takes it, gives me a sexy little smirk and goes back down.

End Chapter 1

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