Ch: 1 [Reborn as Deadpool] (Patreon)

AN: Something I wanted to do for a long time. Let's see if I can create a Deadpool ff. And something exclusive for the higher tiers.

Synopsis: Jason died a funny death on his own set and woke up as Deadpool? Nope. Nicepool with Deadpool's all power and baggage, like those endless voices in his head. Oh, an interview for a hero's position... What could possibly go wrong?

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Jason didn't believe in karma. Not until it dropkicked him into the afterlife wearing clown shoes.

It was a Thursday. Thursdays were always cursed for comedians. The crowds were thin, laughs were cheaper, and the two-drink minimum brought out the worst hecklers. But Jason was on fire that night. His timing, razor-sharp. His new set, polished. For once, he wasn’t bombing. He was killing.

Then came the banana peel.

He didn’t even see it. One minute he was strutting offstage, grinning ear to ear, soaking in applause like a human sponge. The next, his foot met the slick ambush of potassium doom. Physics did the rest.

Jason’s leg shot up like a spring trap. His arms pinwheeled. His microphone flew into the crowd and smacked a guy square in the forehead. He went airborne, twisting mid-fall like some tragic ballet dancer. His skull hit the edge of a metal chair with a hollow crack.

Lights out.

Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. Another person laughed. The irony wasn't lost on him.

Death, it turned out, was less dramatic than he’d expected. There were no tunnels of light. No choirs. Just a cold black nothing and a sense of cosmic embarrassment.

Seriously? A banana peel?

He half-expected God to show up wearing a fake mustache and holding a sign that said “Gotcha!”

Instead, there was silence.

And then, a voice:

"Wow. You managed to die like a cartoon character. That’s got to be a first."

Jason blinked. Or thought he did. Hard to tell in the void.

“Who's there?”

“Let’s just say... you made an impression. Slapstick deaths are rare in the afterlife queue.”

He tried to sit up, but he didn’t seem to have a body.

“Am I dead?”

“Yep.”

“Permanently?”

“Not necessarily.”

Jason paused. “Wait. You’re saying I get a do-over?”

“Kind of. Think of it more like… a reboot. New world. New body. Regeneration perks included. Oh, and you’ll still be you. Stand-up comic, snark and all.”

Jason grinned in the darkness. “Do I at least get to keep my hair?”

“No promises.”

Before he could crack another joke, everything went white. Not warm, fluffy white—blinding white. Like someone dropped him inside a light bulb.

And then he was falling.

Not again.

This time, no banana peels.

Just a second chance.

Maybe he wouldn’t die like an idiot next time.

Maybe.

...

Jason woke up with a headache that felt like a jackhammer tap-dancing on his brain. His mouth tasted like expired tequila. The air reeked of cheap perfume, stale alcohol, and something faintly… buttery?

He groaned, sitting up slowly, the sheets clinging to his bare skin like shame. The room looked like a motel’s idea of romance. There was a pink neon light buzzing in the corner, and wallpaper that hadn’t been cool since 1982.

Then he saw it.

Sprawled next to him on the bed like a dead raccoon was a red-and-black suit. Not just any suit... the suit. Tattered in some spots, patched in others, with the familiar mask resting neatly on the pillow like it had been tucked in for the night.

Jason blinked.

“No. Freaking. Way.”

He picked it up. The fabric was real. Smelled like leather, sweat, and blood with a hint of tacos. He flipped it over, half-expecting it to dissolve into a prank. It didn’t. This was Deadpool’s costume. Like, screen-accurate, bloodstained, smells-like-regret authentic.

He stared at it.

"Okay, what the hell kind of reboot is this?"

The door creaked open.

Jason turned, ready to scream, fight, or cry—maybe all three.

In walked a familiar woman. She looked exactly like the actress from the Deadpool movie. Morena Baccarin. But considering the situation, too many thoughts ran through his head.

Vanessa.

As in the Vanessa. Curves, dark eyes, short hair, sexy as fuck, plus the kind of confidence that made you want to apologize for being born male. And she was wearing nothing but a black see-through bra and panties.

She smiled when she saw him.

“Well, look who finally woke up. You were out cold. I was starting to think you really couldn’t handle your liquor.”

Jason opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brain tried to catch up. Vanessa. Deadpool suit. Hangover. Motel room. No banana peel.

“Are you…” He started.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed under her chest, tilting her head. “What? Surprised? Do I look sexy?”

“Yes. Very. No. I mean, yes. I don't remember anything. It's all a buzz in here.”

“Don't remember last night?”

“I remember... dying.”

Vanessa laughed heartily, not just a giggle, but a full, throaty laugh as if he had just delivered the best punchline of his career.

“Well, that’s new,” she said. “Usually you say ‘I love you’ or ‘Where are your boobs?’ But ‘I remember dying’? That’s a first.”

Jason rubbed his temples. “Okay, this has to be a dream. Or some weird comic-con fever dream. Or I’m in a coma.” 

Vanessa walked over, her hips swaying like she knew exactly what kind of power she carried, which, to be fair, she did. She climbed onto the bed, straddled him, and kissed him hard, no hesitation. It wasn’t romantic. It was grounding. Like she was yanking him out of his own mental tailspin with her mouth and a little teeth.

When she pulled back, she was grinning.

“Get your ass up, Wade. You’ve got an interview to bomb.”

Jason played along.

He smiled the way he imagined Wade Wilson might: too wide, too smug, with just enough mischief to mask confusion.

“Right. Interview. Gotta bomb it with style.”

Vanessa laughed again, rolling off him and heading for the closet. “I cleaned the bloodstains, but it still stinks. You really need a new suit. Try not to put your pants on backward this time.”

She then climbed out of the bed and walked over to the closet. She pulled out a black dress and heels, tossing them on the bed. She caught his eye as she adjusted her bra in the mirror. Then she quickly put them on and added some makeup.

“I’ve got the café to run. Don’t wreck the apartment while I’m gone. Again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jason said with a smile.

She winked, grabbed her purse, and was out the door with a whistle. The second it clicked shut, Jason jumped down from the bed and went straight to the mirror.

"Please no fucked up face. Please no fucked up face."

He looked in the mirror and slowly touched his cheek. Smooth. No scars. No Freddy Krueger nightmare flesh. Just a handsome, slightly hungover guy with three-day stubble and haunted eyes.

He exhaled in relief. “Okay. That’s something. Sexy Deadpool variant. I can work with that.”

Then it hit.

Wade Wilson's life poured into him. It was filled with violence, jokes, love, loss, tacos, explosions, orgasms, more violence, chimichangas, blood-soaked revenge, unicorns, cancer, death, sex, screaming, regeneration, guns, blades, Spidey, Cable, Hydra, Bea Arthur, more death, and...

Jason grabbed his head and fell to the floor. Voices shouted in his head. Too many. They all sounded like Wade. Or like distorted versions of Wade with worse punchlines.

“OH GOD I’M INSIDE ME.”

“No, you’re inside ME.”

“Are we doing this again? Are we merging? I hate when we merge.”

“Who even ARE you, bro?”

“Jason. His name’s Jason. Banana Peel Boy.”

Then silence.

And then, memory.

Last night.

He and Spidey. Yes, actual Spidey, red suit, endless quips, tight ass. Well, they took down a drug cartel in the Bronx. Guns blazing. Bodies dropping. One goon tried to escape using a smoke bomb and tripped over a Vespa.

Jason remembered laughing. Wade would’ve laughed harder.

After the shootout, Spidey left with a sarcastic “Try not to get arrested this time, and you really need to learn to hold back,” and Jason—Wade?—went back to Vanessa’s.

Then came the sex.

Cream. Butter. A lot of slipping. Some strategic whipped cream. Something with a spatula. He didn’t even want to ask where the funnel came from.

“Oh God,” Jason whispered. “I had Deadpool sex. That’s like Cirque du Soleil meets R-rated Looney Tunes.”

He backed away from the mirror, breathing hard.

“Okay. This is my life now. I’m in Wade Wilson’s body. I’m Deadpool. But hot. And sane. Ish.”

He looked down at the bloodstained red-and-black suit still lying on the bed. It looked like it had been through World War Taco. Then he remembered. He has an interview at a Shield's HQ. He heard they are recruiting people with powers.

“Right,” he muttered. “Guess I’ve got an interview to bomb.”

He picked up the suit and sighed.

He was mentally rehearsing his new mantra:

'You are Wade. You are sexy Wade. Sexy. Wade. Do not mention banana peels.'

He had one leg in the suit when the voices started up again.

Voice #1: "Okay, first of all, you reek like you wrestled a burrito in a strip club. Take a damn shower."

Voice #2: "Agreed. I can smell you through our collective consciousness. And I’m imaginary."

Voice #3: "Screw hygiene. Just Febreze your crotch and keep it moving."

Voice #4 (sultry): "Or… skip the suit. Go casual. T-shirt, jeans, leather jacket. Add a katana strapped to your back for flair. Give them ‘mystery man with issues’ realness."

Wade froze mid-pose, one arm halfway jammed into a sleeve. He looked like a drunk Power Ranger giving up halfway through morphing.

“You guys wanna maybe shut up for a second?” he hissed at no one, then immediately regretted it because yes, he was talking to the voices in his head. Again. Out loud.

Voice #1: "Ooh, feisty. I like it. But seriously, you need to shower. You smell like ass, and buttered popcorn."

“I do not smell like ass,” He snapped, then paused and sniffed his armpit. “Okay. Maybe lightly toasted ass.”

He dropped the suit like it personally offended him and staggered into the bathroom. The motel shower groaned to life like it was legally dead and still paying rent. The water came out lukewarm and angry.

Voice #2: "Quick rinse or full existential cleanse?"

Voice #3: "Just hit the danger zones. Pits, bits, and the ol' taco holster."

“Shut up,” He muttered, scrubbing like the past forty-eight hours owed him money. “You’re all me. Why are you like this?”

Voice #4: "You’re the one who got banana-yeeted into this reality. We’re just along for the moist, emotional ride. Now your name will be changed to Wade without any explanation or warning whatsoever by that guy with headphones behind that screen."

He got out, towel-dried with something that could generously be called a beach rag, and stared at the pile of red spandex on the bed.

Wade sighed. “It smells like someone bled out during a Taco Bell run. I'm not wearing that to an interview.”

He flung open the closet. Inside: one t-shirt that read “ASK ME ABOUT MY WEAPONS CACHE”, a pair of black jeans, and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen at least two bar fights and a divorce.

Perfect.

Voice #1: "Now that’s sexy Deadpool energy. James Dean meets stabby raccoon."

Voice #3: "Don’t forget to jerk off before you go. You don’t want surprise boners during questioning."

“I’m not...” Wade started, then paused. “You know what? Later. Interview first. Boner anxiety second.”

He threw on the outfit, shoved a pistol into a shoulder holster, sheathed a short blade down his boot, checked himself in the mirror, and gave his reflection a finger gun.

“You’re Wade Wilson,” he said. “You’re hot now. Use that. Smirk more. Shoot less. Unless they’re dicks. Then shoot slightly more.”

Voice #2: "And don’t say anything about banana peels."

“Right. No peels. No potassium trauma.”

He swung the motel door open dramatically and stepped into the blinding daylight like a man with purpose, weapons, and only a vague idea of where the hell he was going.

The voices fell quiet.

Until...

Voice #4: "You forgot deodorant."

Wade paused. Sniffed. Cursed. 

"FUCK!"