Chapter Text
Living in New York and attending university had to be some form of new hell for the working-class people, because despite every scholarship that Peter worked his ass off to try and get, he still struggled to make ends meet. He was a full-time student because his scholarships would only work if he was one; he was also working his ass off running around the city to every major event just to get photos he may or may not get paid for. He downloaded every app he could think of to even do side hustles, like so many online boasted that paid their mortgages and rent.
He even spent too many nights a week standing behind a bar in some seedy place called Sister Margaret's of all places. The owner was an asshole, the patrons were somehow worse, but they liked to look at a pretty face or something because the tips were the only thing keeping his fridge stocked. He couldn't even use his real name.
He came in on a random Tuesday afternoon with a resume that looked pitiful, trying to give it to the bartender just for him to take it and burn it right in front of him.
"No real names here," the greasy fucker said, lighting a cigarette and looking Peter over like he was some prime rib on a menu without prices, "Can you serve a beer?"
"Uh… yeah?" Peter said, unsure of how to navigate this entire situation, "I don't know how to make cocktails though," he sheepishly admitted.
"Won't matter, most of these guys just want a cheap beer that tastes like piss anyways," he said, taking a long drag from his smoke, "Show up at seven tonight, your names Bambi, don't tell your real name to anyone here, got it? You can call me Weasel. Any tips you make are yours to keep."
Peter nodded, mystified by the odd encounter, and left the bar to go home and wait until his presumed shift later that night.
Peter shook away the memory as a heavy weight settled into the bar stool in front of him. Wade was one of the few patrons who went by their real name. It seemed every night he worked, he found some reason to sit at his end of the bar and give him this wide grin, "Evening Bambi," he said, his voice low and playful as his eyes trailed over every detail of his face, "Drinks any good tonight?"
The snort that came out of Peter at the question might have gotten him a reprimand in any other job, but here at Sister Margaret's, it was wholly accepted. Everyone knew the drinks fucking sucked, and no one actually came to the bar for the drinks. Apparently, when Peter was looking for a job and just searched up bars in his area, he accidentally stumbled upon what had to be a front for some type of illegal work. It was the only way to justify how this place still functioned when he'd only ever seen Weasel handing out envelopes of cash instead of taking any in.
Wade grinned at Peter's snort and nodded like he got the answer he wanted, "Thought so, my usual, please?" he asked, tapping the bar top and watching as Peter turned to grab the bottle of whiskey on the top shelf behind him. Peter knew the only reason he ordered the Whiskey was to watch him stretch and see his shirt ride up around his hips. The beers were kept in a cooler under the bar, and the other liquors were on lower shelves. Only the Whiskey required Peter to fully turn around and raise his arms.
"Always a lovely sight you make, Bambi," Wade sighed, as Peter poured his drink and set the bottle on the small counter under the bar top, "when are you going to let me get a proper look?" he asked, taking the drink and knocking it back with ease.
"You don't even know my name, Wade," Peter said, rolling his eyes as he refilled his glass, "I'm not letting some stranger who doesn't even know me get a 'proper look' of anything."
"Hmm, one of these days I'll get your name out of you," Wade chuckled, taking his drink and pushing himself to his feet, walking to the other end of the bar to talk with Weasel. It was a short exchange. Weasel handed him the envelope of cash, Wade knocked back his drink again, and then Wade reached into the envelope and pulled a couple of bills out, handing them over to Weasel before walking off.
It didn't take long for Weasel to walk over and give the couple hundreds to Peter, "Remember what I told you."
"I know, I know," Peter sighed, taking the money and shoving it deep in his pocket, "No real names."
~.~.~.~
Working at Sister Margaret's was shockingly not as bad as Peter thought it could be when he first started there. He found a rhythm around his other jobs, and with the number of tips he raked in most nights, he didn't even need to open the delivery apps anymore. Every night that Wade showed up, it was a guaranteed payday to cover at least one expense. His groceries, a credit card payment, books for class, hell, even his hormones. One visit from Wade and one of them would be covered.
Not to say the other patrons weren't generous, apparently, they greatly enjoyed his face because even some of the more grisly men enjoyed tucking money in his hand, often with a comment about wanting to see what his mouth was capable of, but at this point, money was money.
When Weasel told him his new name was Bambi, he thought he was joking until he realized that he was serious. Hell, he even made him wear a sticker name tag the first week until everyone was calling him Bambi. He'd probably respond to it on the street if someone called it. He was never beating the stripper allegation from his friends if he ever whipped his head around to reply to fucking Bambi with them around.
He was standing at the bar doing one of his favorite pastimes as of late of imagining himself on his knees and choking on Wade Wilson's cock when the man of the hour dropped his weight into the bar stool in front of him again. He blinked, slowly taking a moment to absorb the sight before him. Wade wasn't wearing the usual hoodie and jeans he would normally wear. Instead, he was wearing what looked to be military fatigues.
The fabric was well-tailored, fit his bulk like a glove, and if he listened closely enough, he could even hear the soft thud of the tip of his probably shined boots tapping against the dingy floors. "What's all this?" Peter asked, letting his eyes settle on Wade's face after he drank in his fill.
"Old captain wanted to speak to me," Wade hummed, unbuttoning the camo jacket so the thin shirt underneath was revealed. It clung to Wade in a way that had Peter's navel fluttering and clenching. The man was built for the line of work he was in, if the way his pecs strained against the fabric said anything, "My usual, please, Bambi?"
Peter nodded, having to force himself to look away as he turned his back and reached up to the whiskey bottle. It was late in the night, most of the bar was empty, and even Weasel had gone into the back to process the day's earnings. How they had any form of profit, he still didn't know. "Anything else?" he asked, settling the glass down in front of Wade.
"You know what I'm going to ask for," Wade hummed, leaning against the bar and letting his eyes rake over Peter's form, "C'mon baby boy, I just want to get to know you," he said, pouting as he brought the whiskey to his lips.
"Weasel told me never to give out my name," Peter sighed, rolling his eyes.
"Don't need to tell me that," Wade said, setting his glass down and pinning Peter beneath to weight of his stare, "I'm more than happy to keep calling you Bambi."
Before Peter could reject him again, Weasel stepped out of the back and took notice of the mostly deserted bar. "Oh, good, it's just you," he said, tossing a keyring at Wade, and didn't even bother to watch to see if he caught it. "I'm fuckin tired you lock up when you're done," he said, turning back around and leaving Peter and Wade alone.
The echoing sound of Weasel's footsteps traveling up the back stairs into the apartment above the bar felt like a hammer driving nails into the coffin of Peter's sanity. He was alone with the object of his late-night lust-filled desires, with no witnesses, in a filthy bar that was helping to pay his rent and tuition for the low price of being called by a stripper name. Peter wasn't making it out of this building without giving something up, and if he was to be honest with himself, he would not mind at all.
"So…" Wade hummed, drawing Peter's attention back to him, "I can see it in your eyes. Don't even need to touch me, let me take care of you, yeah, Bambi?"
Peter took a slow breath, really thinking over his options. He could just leave. Wade was quick to back off the moment Peter gave him a hard no, but over the weeks of working at the bar, he was shutting him down less often. He could tell Wade to drop it, and while he might pout and make a show of being heartbroken again, he would leave it be. He could do any number of things to shut this down before it became too much. He did none of those.
Instead, he found himself kneeling on the cleanest patch of flooring before Wade, seated in a rickety old chair that sounded like it would give out any moment. His boot was pressed between his legs, the bare heat of his cunt gliding along the rough texture of the laces, bringing tears to his eyes. Wade looked like he won the fucking jackpot as he relaxed back in his seat and let Peter do all the work of riding his boot.
"Being so perfect for me, Bambi," Wade groaned, lifting his foot just a hair to drive the rough laces harder into Peter's aching clit. He watched as he fell apart, clinging to his leg as he rolled his hips chasing a high he was still just acquainted with, "Almost there, baby, you can do it," he cooed, reaching forward and carding his fingers through Peter's hair.
That simple, gentle touch seemed to be the final nail to Peter's sanity as he went tumbling off the cliff of his pleasure. He whined high in his throat as he shook against the solid weight of Wade's leg. He should feel mortified, should be scrambling out of the bar and never showing his face again. Not like Weasel would care if he stopped showing up, not like he was on any official paperwork making him an employee.
Peter's mind felt like it was stuffed full of cotton, his forehead resting on Wade's thigh as he struggled to catch his breath. Just as he was beginning to come back to himself, Wade's voice cut through the cotton like a heated lance, "Now why don't you go ahead and get me cleaned up, Bambi," he hummed, lifting his boot just to press it against the slick heat of his sensitive cunt, "Don't want the leather to get ruined."
Heat coursed through Peter as he pulled away with a shaky breath, struggling to fix his pants as Wade watched him. Waiting to see if he'd obey the request. Peter should have booked it out right then, but instead he found himself leaning down and laving his tongue over the coarse laces of Wade's booth. It was the only part of the shoe he was willing to put his mouth near. No telling what biological crimes were on the rest, but the act of sucking his slick from the fibers seemed to be exactly what Wade had wanted.
"There's my perfect boy," Wade grinned.
Those words should not have felt as good as they did, but Peter was a simple man, and Wade was an addiction that he knew could ruin his life. One he didn't seem to mind the risk for, "I'm Peter," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Wade's grin widened and maybe Peter was making a massive mistake with giving him that information, but he didn't see any malice or ill intent behind his eyes, "Well now that's just a perfect name for you Bambi," he said, "Why don't you give me your number and we can talk some more after you've gotten home."
Peter's sanity was officially six feet deep in the ground as he took the phone offered to him and punched his cell number in, saving the contact under Bambi before giving it back to Wade. Last thing he needed was anyone else finding out his real name, "I should go."
"You be safe now," Wade said, watching as Peter rose to his feet and made to flee the scene of the murder of his sanity, "No telling what kind of dangerous psychos are running around out there."