death to bad fic!

It was rather like watching a trainwreck, Sven thought. There was something so gruesome, so disgusting, so disturbingly fascinating about the whole thing that it was impossible to tear his eyes away from the sight of Keith and Lance gazing soulfully into each other's eyes, no matter how much his retinas screamed in agony.

"What about a June wedding," Keith was saying and Sven tried to block out the words but he couldn't.

"That would be nice." Lance wiggled his way further into Keith's lap. Sven considered whether or not it was too late to go back to the Pit of Skulls. "What about kids? I was thinking that you'd make a beautiful mother."

"This is so very, very wrong," Hunk muttered. "Even I can't stand it and I'm an angel and we're supposed to get all gushy over this sort of," he waved his hands ineffectually, somehow managing to convey both disgust and despair, "thing."

Sven raised an eyebrow and looked at Hunk's back. "An angel?"

Hunk rolled his eyes. "Long story. Suffice to say that the Powers That Fuck Us Over like to think of me as 'a paragon of understanding and happy loving feelings'."

"Ah." Sven understood completely since he was, after all, the paragon of psychotic killers. Or he was supposed to be, at any rate. Certainly the sight of Keith and Lance doing unspeakably sappy things to each other made him feel like taking them both out with a semi-automatic. He turned his attention back to the Couple of Doom on the couch. It would have been all right, he thought, if they'd just made out like normal people. But no. They insisted on sitting there, sighing in perfect contentment and soulful bliss.

"A little house in the country," Lance said. "Two kids and a dog and a little picket fence."

"Sounds like heaven."

"Don't suppose you have something heavy to throw at them," Sven said. "Say a gas tanker? Or even a frying pan. A brick? A shoe?"

"Sorry," Hunk said. "I'm afraid I'm weapon free."

"I'm not."

Sven turned at the sound of Pidge's voice--which happened to coincide with the dull, familiar click of a shotgun being primed--and then recoiled from the bang and the blood. He stared at what had once been the Couple of Doom and then at Pidge and the smoking shotgun he held. "What the fuck?"

"It had to be done. They were sick and had to be put down. Like Old Yeller." Pidge reloaded and slung the shotgun over his shoulder. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some other fandoms to see, other people to kill." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and consulted it. "I don't suppose either of you know the way to the Delta quadrant?"