Prompt: NON-POWER AU. Wade is a freelancing merc [per ushe] and Peter is an 'exotic dancer' at the strip joint Weasel attached to the back of Sister Margarets. Wade ventures to it in curiosity [its a strip joint cmon] and spots a dancer by the name of 'Bambi' -Peter- and thus, Peter finds his highest tipping customer, and Wade finds a great way to spend his nights off (submitted by anon to spideypool-prompts on tumblr)

Notes: Peter wears make-up, high heels, thigh highs etc. in this fic because he wants to. Always wear what makes you feel comfortable, happy and confident :)

Weasel often has the dumbest ideas, but expanding Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children by buying and renovating the neighbouring house's basement into a strip joint might be the best, dumbest idea of his to date.

Wade's most recent educational round-the-globe business trip to "acquire more international work experience", taking down an arms dealer there and a rich asshole here, but also sipping margaritas on the beach and enjoying the view from his top floor hotel room balconies, lasted for four months tops. In that time, Weasel managed to turn his business into a goddamn entertainment empire, where he showers his customers (AKA half the local crooks, but also oblivious civilians) in not only liquor, but also sex, as long as they cough up the money for it. And he didn't even share the news with Wade before he returned! Wade, who is the number one reason Weasel has the money to buy a whole-ass fucking building in the big apple. Without Wade, Weasel would be out of business; even better, without Wade Weasel wouldn't have been in the business to begin with. But he is now, so uh, whatever. Besides, none of the other mercenaries frequenting Sister Margaret's have enough balls (or crazy) to take on the jobs Wade takes – and completes with flying colors, thank you very much. That should count for something, right?

As punishment for Weasel's secrecy, Wade snatches two bottles of Finlandia from behind the bar counter and makes his way down to check out the new quarters (strip joint!). Weasel hits the back of his head with a dirty rag and Wade flips him the bird.

"Why are you stealing my stuff, Wade? You can't get drunk, Wade," Weasel screeches behind him. "You're an asshole, Wade." Blah, blah, blah and so on.

Wade uncorks one of the bottles, pulls his hood further down his eyes and takes a deep swing. He's about to have a real fun time to fuel his less real fun times later on. Sex is great, fantasizing about sex with strippers is great, but it's not like a scarred boogie man like himself can expect the real thing. Merely looking is fine, and later in one of his run-down safe houses he can allow himself a touch, maybe a fantasy or two . . . but that's a private show, ill-suited for other people's eyes, lest he traumatizes some poor fucker's soul.

Wade chugs the rest of the vodka and throws the empty bottle at the bartender he passes on his way toward the main stage. The man catches it without blinking an eye and Wade laughs. Weasel employs the funniest people. Such as himself.

It's darker in the basement than in the upper section of Sister Margaret's, but simultaneously everything is more colorful. Strobe lights dance around the room, washing the walls, floors, tables, customers and strippers (exotic dancers!) alike with explosive life that circles around the room at a manic pace. Whoever's responsible of the damn things must've been on acid while installing them. So probably Weasel? Yeah, who else could it have been than Weasel, the cheap bastard would never pay an electrician for a shitshow like this. It's good though. Wade doesn't look as hideous when you can't see him.

Gaze wandering over the customers (mostly men, some women and a few who akin to himself don't want to be seen and opt to hide their identity with baggy clothes) grouped around the three elevated stages in the room, Wade searches for a corner that is a) close to the bar (and thus the booze), b) close to one of the stages (and thus the sexy kind of fun to update his spank bank with) and c) far away from everyone else, so that he can't be roped into conversation (because he's a hermit. Like a more violent and less wise Gandhi. Ha!)

He settles for a sofa in the back corner with a view of the entire basement. The bar is too far away for his taste, but on the plus side all the seats are vacant, so the privacy points compensate for the lack of close-to-the-bar points.

Two dancers twirl around their poles and run their manicured nails along their exposed thighs and bellies, but neither light a flame of yearning in Wade's chest. Not enough for him to elbow his way over to ogle closer anyway. They're not worth the attention he'll inevitably get from the surrounding crowd when they recognize him. After his four month work trip, people will beg for favors from him when they notice he's returned.

A third dancer rises onto the island of a stage closest to Wade and grabs the pole there when a new song (Rihanna questioning a rude boy's ability to "get it up", a condition Wade thankfully doesn't suffer from, though it wouldn't matter even if he did because hello, he's the unsexy boogie man) comes on, relieving one of the other dancers. He's a lithe, brown-haired man in nothing but a blue thong and a matching tie, and when he spins around the pole his muscles ripple across his body. Wade stares at the man and empties his second bottle of vodka. Feasting on the bulge at the front of the dancer's tiny underwear, the way his fluffy hair bounces and how delectably tight his ass is. Oh yes, here's something that sets Wade's insides aflame. This is a dancer Wade would elbow his way over to, just to get a better look, maybe brush his knuckles against the bare skin when he sticks his fat wads of cash into the dancer's pretty thong (if he's allowed to, that is. Weasel has a no-touchy blanket rule in place, but sometimes heaps of money buys you permission to break the rules).

Wade stumbles over to the bar, not once tearing his gaze off the stage and the dancing man in the blue thong.

"Who's that?" he asks the bartender when he orders a tray of shots, motioning to the dancer hanging upside down from his pole.

"Him?" the bartender asks. "That's Bambi."

"His name's Bambi?"

"Sure."

Wade shakes his head and tosses a bill on the counter before throwing back shot after shot where he stands. A burp bubbles up and he adjusts his hood. The money in his pocket burns the back of his thigh, urging him to move, but Wade licks his lips, hesitating.

Come on, Wilson! He's an (erotic) exotic dancer, right? He wants money. Fuck, just give him the cash and stop loitering.

Wade rounds the crowd gathered around the dancing man – Bambi, dear God, called after a baby stag – until he finds an open spot by the stage. This close to Bambi, Wade realizes how well the name fits. It's barely a man who alters between grinding and gyrating his pelvis against the pole, but more like a boy in his early twenties. His brown locks are a wild mess, and his back is covered in freckles that shift along with the muscles underneath. And those eyes, goddamnit, the eyes-

Bambi slides down the pole and throws his head back, exposing his slender neck. His chest heaves when he drops on all fours, his face turned toward Wade. His eyes are huge and framed by thick, long lashes. Dark brown, reflecting a stubborn will, but a will to do what, Wade doesn't know. He extends the wad of cash and Bambi stretches forward to accept it, his back arched and practically bare ass in the air. His mouth opens and a pink tongue sticks out between his lips, his eyelids lower . . .

Until the lights hit just right and illuminate Wade's monster mug. Bambi's eyes widen, his hand freezes, only for a split second, but it's enough. Wade meets Bambi's gaze, drops his cash and lets the crowd swallow him. His spank bank is sufficiently updated for tonight.

Wade doesn't return to Sister Margaret's the following night, but is back the next one again. It's not like he has much of a social life beyond that place, those circles and people. And Bambi, he haunts Wade's waking dreams. Despite that Wade knows his game is over before it ever began, he has to see the dancer again. Even if from a distance. He can give his tip to Weasel instead and ask (threaten) him to deliver it, as not to further disturb the poor boy, the young prince of the forest.

With a trusty, unlabeled bottle of rum swiped from Weasel's collection under his arm and enough money to feed a small family for a month, Wade seats himself in the corner with the view of the whole room, the one with the privacy, but few close-to-the-bar points. Bambi dances on the main stage, rocking pink booty shorts and high heels. He's foregone the poles in favor of getting it on with a chair, rolling his hips against its legs in time with the steady beat booming from the stereos. One other dancer is up besides him, climbing a pole on one of the handy island stages. Two blondes rise onto another island stage with twin poles, opting to dance together to the next song, and Bambi ends his routine with the chair, money raining down on him when he flashes a smile. God, he had dimples too.

Wade's so focused on the show he forgets to drink while creeping in his dark corner. He doesn't feel like gurgling liquor tonight anyway. It's pointless to chase drunkenness, hangovers and relief when he can't have any of those things. But Bambi's dancing, that he can have, even if only from afar.

The boy steps down from the stage and into the crowd. Wade follows his fluffy sex hair and swaying ass, but loses him in the masses of patrons buzzing around him. Weasel's business blossoms. At this rate, he won't need Wade's help to keep his head above the surface.

. . . Just kidding, Weasel is a greedy little bitch and he wouldn't survive a week without Wade banging the money taps open for him and filling his pockets with blood-stained bills. Poor guy, but not everyone is meant for independent entrepreneuring. That's life for you.

Bambi reappears on the island twin pole stage when H.E.R.'s Could've Been comes on. He pairs up with one of the blondes and they swing around their respective poles together, before he joins the girl to swirl around the same pole, the blonde at the top and him close to the ground. They show off their strength and flexibility in synch, until Bambi abandons the routine to let his partner down. She drops in a crouch close to the pole, so when he slinks up behind her to grab her hips and push her up against it with his body, she's sandwiched between the two. It's hot, but what makes Wade shift and adjust his front is how the blonde's gel nails dance across Bambi's collarbones when it's her turn to grind him against the pole. The way he moves, lighter and more pronounced than her, his neck craned back against her shoulder and lips parted, is erotic in a way the blonde could never be and Wade can't explain it. He loves women, he loves men, he loves them all, but this dancer, this young man, Bambi, is like nothing he's seen before. (And he'll jack off so hard he'll sprain his wrist tonight, and it'll be so worth it, so can he get a hell yeah?)

Bambi is the perfect performer. Not one person in the room can deny fantasizing about fucking him, which is exactly what he wants because that's how he earns his living. By making people desire him.

When the song is over, both dancers join the patrons to mingle and spy for potential, rich customers looking for more time with them. Except this time Wade doesn't lose sight of Bambi. How could he, when the dancer sets course right toward him. He sinks deeper into his hoodie, pulling it down over his crotch.

"I was hoping you'd show again," is the first thing Bambi says when he reaches Wade in his corner. "Mind if I sit?"

"If you can squeeze yourself in." Wade gestures to the empty seats surrounding him.

Bambi smiles and slides into the seat across from Wade, keeping a small table between them.

"So, you remember me?" Wade asks.

"Oh yeah, wouldn't forget. Never gotten a tip that large from a tall, dark and handsome stranger before." He laughs. "I almost feel bad. Do you even know how much you threw at me?"

Tall (check), dark (with the hood drawn low, check) and handsome? Well, color Wade baffled out of his goddamn mind, because that's the first time since The Transformation that anyone's called him anything half as flattering in such a sultry tone. He's about seventy-five percent sure Bambi asked him a question, but uuuuh, what?

All Wade does is wheezes.

"Seriously? You don't know? You tipped me one month's rent, dude." Bambi licks his lips, tip of his tongue darting out and back in. Wade's pulled out of his daze, honing in on the slight movement. "Sorry, what should I call you?"

"DP. Short for Deadpool, short for Wade Winston Wilson. But DP doesn't waste as much breath. Though I wouldn't mind you calling me handsome as long as I can't hear the sarcasm in your voice."

"Handsome slash DP it is." Bambi's smile widens. "I'm Bambi. But you must know that already." This close, from across the table and out of the worst strobe lights, Wade can distinguish the light freckles scattered across Bambi's nose and the thick mascara coating his eye lashes. "So, you gave me quite the tip. I hope you weren't planning to cash in any extras for it."

Wade chokes. "No of course not, I just had the money and liked watching you. I thought you might have more use for it than I do."

Bambi cocks his head. "You sure it's just that? Because I'm not for sale. I dance, nothing more."

"I swear I didn't and still don't have any intentions of demanding any extra services from you."

"Great. Though I'd say one month's rent in tip is worth a free lap dance, right? I do those, if you want one."

Wade shakes his head. Before his eyes flashes Bambi's wide eyes and taut body when he glimpses Wade's face in the crowd. Despite the compliments, Wade's ego can't handle a possible rejection so soon again. "That's sweet of you, baby boy, but you don't have to. I didn't expect anything when I gave you the money. You've earned it by being alone. I mean, being on stage, dancing, and stuff. You're an awesome dancer."

"Thanks, but I still feel bad. Maybe I can give you an air dance?"

"Nah, we're fine."

"I dance even better up close, you know."

Oh, Wade is convinced, all right. But before he can vocalize his thoughts, Bambi purses his lips, a fine wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows as the current song (Grace's Dirty Harry) approaches its end. He rises from his seat.

"I have to go. Medusa didn't show, so I'm pulling more sets tonight. But hey, if you're around, make sure to ask for that lap dance later on, okay, handsome?"

"Sure. Nice talking to you, Bambi Eyes."

"Likewise. Watch me up there?"

Wade's lips stretch in a grin. "Will do."

Bambi climbs onto the main stage, slim, muscular legs confident in the pink heels, tight ass filling out the booty shorts, his long arms ready to work the pole and abs flexing when he bends himself in half. Wade has never seen anyone as flexible as him before. Or as sexy. Dear God, he hopes Bambi is a legal dancing queen (only seventeen . . . and some). He has to be; Weasel wouldn't employ kids. He knows what Wade thinks of that, and more importantly – what Wade does to people who exploit the vulnerable. As long as he's not the one doing it. But that goes without saying.

Wade passes the stage and lets his pocket change soften the floor for Bambi's shiny high heeled sandals. He makes a pit-stop by Weasel's bar and pockets a card on his way to the closest safe house around. The job (some dude who pissed off another, richer and more sinister, dude by fondling his wife and daughter at a Christmas party, the usual corporate dick measuring contest stuff, except in Lethal Edition) is in the city, so he'll do recon tonight, be back for tomorrow's show again and hopefully deal with the target too.

Bambi is on a later shift the next night, but Wade doesn't complain about the wait when he struts onto the main stage in a button-up and slacks, completed with a tie and a jacket slung over his shoulder. If it wasn't for the pole and the high heeled boots on his feet, Bambi could've passed for a white collar customer who took a wrong turn on his way to the bathroom.

"It's Britney, bitch," Spears announces through the loudspeakers and Bambi grabs the pole with one hand, the other stroking his tie. Wade abandons his corner seat in favor of getting closer to the dancer. The louder the crowd hollers and hoots, the more buttons Bambi opens, exposing his toned chest inch for inch. When the shirt hangs open and the tie loose, Bambi works his belt open and drops the slacks, exposing the boy shorts and sheer thigh highs underneath, before mounting the pole and bending backwards with nothing but one knee wrapped around it. The last of his clothes fall off, and the patrons seated closest to him go ape-shit. Bambi twists upwards, his hooded eyes meeting Wade's for a moment while Britney's insistent "gimmie"s boom around them.

Wade returns to his corner seat once the first set is over. Bambi remains on stage for another 00's song, but soon enough he's on his way to the bar. When he pops out again from the masses, it's with a red drink in his hand.

"No tip tonight?" he asks Wade when he's close enough to be heard without yelling.

"Are you getting spoiled?"

Bambi laughs. "Just curious."

"Later," Wade says and leans back.

"I got enough to pay rent for two months now, you know. If you tip me any more I'll have to seriously consider picking up some summer classes. Thinking about it will give me a headache." Bambi sips his drink and motions to the sofa Wade's occupying. "Can I sit?"

"Yeah, if there's room, it's- whoa!"

Bambi drops into Wade's lap and shifts to cross one leg over the other. His hip bone digs into Wade's stomach. "Okay?"

Is it okay, he asks? Wade's eyes might as well roll back in his skull and kill him on the spot. Cause of death: intense euphoria. "Yes."

"Cool."

This close to him, Wade can't resist studying Bambi's face. The light layer of pink lipstick covering his lips versus the sliver of his own lip color on the inside of his mouth. The white eyeliner smeared around his tear ducts and the subtle unevenness of the black lines along his waterline. Sprinkles of mascara below his eyes after sweating on stage. His jawline and the cute upturn of his nose.

Is this what angels look like?

"Can I touch you?" Wade asks. "Put my hands on your waist?"

"Go ahead. But the underwear stays on."

Bambi's skin is soft and warm against Wade's ginger fingertips. Flawless, as expected for a young man like him. When Wade's thumb brushes against his hip, he doesn't shudder or jerk away. He doesn't even get goosebumps.

"Tell me if it feels bad or weird or anything. My scars-"

Bambi grips Wade's wrist and places his hand on his own waist, curling Wade's fingers firmly around the curve. "It's fine. You feel fine." His voice is strong, but the smile is gentle. "I like it."

"You do?"

"Positively."

"And the looks of them, of me, does that bother you?"

Bambi blinks down at Wade, establishing direct eye contact. He doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate. "No. I can't lie, at first I was-" his gaze flickers away, only to return bolder "-surprised. But it doesn't change anything. You have nice eyes. And I like your smile." Bambi quirks an eyebrow. "And don't think I'm lying, I'm raised better than that."

Wade can't deal with the sincerity Bambi radiates so he forces himself to look away. He reaches for words, grasps them, but they slink away and stock his throat. He coughs and nods to the glass in Bambi's hand. Aaw, Wilson is embarrassed.

"Did someone get you a drink?"

"A Negroni." Bambi raises his glass in cheers. "It's a perk of the profession. Free drinks."

"I should do that."

"Nooo. I already have one, see?"

"Maybe later then."

"Mm, sounds good." Bambi throws his head back and empties the glass. "I should work now. But hey, what about your lap dance? I still feel like I owe you one, for the rents. I wanted to check with you about that first."

Wade's voice is low and his grip soft around Bambi's waist. "You owe me nothing."

"Yeah, you say that. But I'm serious, you can't honestly give me that much for dancing for the whole crowd?"

For a heartbeat Wade wonders if Bambi truly wants to dance for him or if he's just desperate to secure Wade's return (and with him, his wallet, and Bambi's potential tip for a third month's rent). But looking at him, his eyes, his calm breathing and relaxed muscles beneath Wade's scarred fingertips, he decides that it can't be a play. And if it is, it's a damn good one, because he would pay all the money in the world to get to hold Bambi in his rough fists, to be the sole thought on such a gorgeous man's mind even for a minute, to watch Bambi dance, have him on his lap and touch his waist. Wade craves the attention, no matter how costly of an illusion it is. He can and will pay for an act this believable. So he says:

"You know what, I'd love some private dancing."

Bambi's lips part, but Wade shushes him.

"No, snookums, not right now. Or here, for the matter, but in the backrooms. I'll pay more for that, obviously. You've earned your tips already and I don't pay in advance unless we got a written contract. But I do have a request."

"I don't do extras."

Wade grimaces. "Not that kind of request. A dance thing." He pulls out a roll of cash from his sweatpants pocket and waves it in Bambi's face. "Next set you do, blow a kiss and I'll pay for a few hours of your company next time I'm around."

"Not today?"

"As much as I want to, I can't. Got some work to do." Got a sexual harasser to shoot between the eyes. Wade's looked into the guy's track record and it looks like he's a serial offender, but has avoided all sanctions so far under the cover of his daddy's name. He doesn't regret his future kill.

Bambi purses his lips.

"Please?"

"I don't take requests. Any kind of requests. It's a principle thing. But . . ." A small smile curls on his lips, exposing a dimple. "No one has to know, right? I'll blow you a kiss."

"Good boy." Wade shoves the money in Bambi's face. "Here, consider it a tip in advance. No written contracts required for this one."

"I'll bite." Bambi makes a show of licking his teeth before clamping down on the cash in Wade's hand.

Outwards Wade chuckles, but on the inside he's collapsing before Bambi's feet. Shit! How can a man be so adorable and awkward and attractive all in one? Wade's dick stirs in interest, but it's too late, Bambi has already slunk to join the patrons by the bar. Not long later he's circling his hips in some giggling and blushing middle-aged woman's face, while her friends cheer him on from the sidelines. Wade tries not to stare too intensely or at least not imagine what it would be like if it was him receiving that lap dance.

When Bambi performs his next set on one of the island stages, he seeks out Wade's gaze and holds it while shaking his hips in time with the beat. And at the end of his routine, he blows a kiss directed at Wade.

After that night, Wade can't stay away, not unless he gets an interesting job offer. Not only is working fun, he now also has a beneficiary deserving of his monetary support: Bambi. All the more reason to accept the cards Weasel throws at him. The more dangerous and wild the job, the better the pay is. And the tips he gives the young forest prince stay consistent. Heh.

Bambi dances and Wade tips him. He swaggers over to the corner of the room to sit in Wade's lap and drink the drinks someone else pays for and make tempting offers to lap dance and whatnot, and Wade accepts them all as long as they're given in private (to avoid prying eyes) and not free (because he got money to burn). It's an enjoyable way of spending otherwise wasted evenings, when Wade would usually a) try to get wasted or high, b) watch Golden Girls reruns or c) shoot himself in the head.

Bambi works five or six nights a week and has no regular day offs, but Wade wouldn't be a top mercenary if he couldn't pinch a measly work schedule from Weasel. With Bambi's hours taped to his refrigerator, Wade can maximize his own time off by working when his beneficiary doesn't.

In less than a month, he's learned plenty about Bambi: that he freelanced as a photographer for a year after having dropped out of university where he had studied biochemistry, that he would've completed his Bachelor's degree if it wasn't for his aunt's cancer diagnosis, that he went into stripping to earn money to support them both and to pay for her treatments, that he wears contact lenses at night, but dorky glasses during the day, that he identifies as bisexual with a preference for men and that he enjoys wearing make-up, high heels and the whole shebang (a man after Wade's own heart), but only does so for work, because at home he's too lazy for it and the tight underwear quote "makes it harder for me to scratch my balls, but you're free to imagine me looking however you want all day long, that's the point here, DP" unquote.

And Wade? He doesn't imagine Bambi in much anything, not since he a couple of weeks ago saw him pull down his skimpy thong. What he does imagine is Bambi sitting at his kitchen table, eating pancakes and drinking coffee with milk and two sugars, because that's how he likes it. Sex hair unrulier than ever and healthy flush on his cheeks (because they're fucking, hah, get it?). The stripping and dancing are great, but the best about his bought hours with Bambi is talking to him, connecting with Bambi's core and who he is. Wade doesn't know when he fell, can't remember the last time he had a crush on a real person at all, but here he is now.

They're in a backroom, Wade sitting in a plush armchair, caged by Bambi's arms and warm breath, his swaying hips filling Wade's vision. Awakening by Empire of the Sun plays in the background, the vocalist making love to the lyric. Bambi, sweet Bambi, in a black bowtie, lacey underwear, high heeled boots and smokey make-up. He leans away and rotates his hips, away from Wade and off the chair, to stand between Wade's spread knees. A step and another backwards, and he's beyond Wade's reach, his head tipped sideways, his eyelids lowered and fingers playing with the edge of the lacey underwear.

Wade's gaze follows his fingers and up his forearms, the curve of his elbow and his muscled arms. His collarbones and chest, lean waist. If he wasn't half-naked, Wade would never guess what strength he hides beneath his clothes. Bambi has one of those body types, he looks slim and delicate, but in a fight would probably hold his own more than well. Maybe not against Wade, the infamous merc with a mouth, that he can't promise, unless they're wrestling naked. The sight of Bambi would alone be enough to disarm Wade and have him on the ground.

Bambi is drop-dead gorgeous. And smart, so fucking smart. Wade can tell, even though Bambi is too humble to boast. He's a nerd, the kind who gets straight As in all subjects, graduates with top marks and enrolls at the best universities with the biggest scholarships. And he's kind. Gentle with Wade's scars, and loves his aunt so much he would do anything for her well-being. Wade's seen how Bambi sashays over to the barely legal patrons at Sister Margaret's and teases them, but not too much to embarrass them or scare them away. He doesn't mind people stumbling and bumbling and flushing beet red around him. But when the customers test his boundaries, he pushes back. He pushes them back in their place and helps his co-workers do the same. No one harasses anyone if Bambi is around to rein them in.

He looks misplaced in the small lounge-like room. The table between the chair and the loveseat is too rickety next to him, the black carpet beneath him too thin – the sensual portrait of a naked woman on the wall is too cheap, like something bought at a NSFW IKEA (and knowing Weasel, it is). Bambi doesn't fit in. He's richer, deeper, better.

Wade's fingers twitch.

"You know the rules," Bambi breaths out. "No standing up, no touching me. Stay still."

"I know."

His voice sounds rough even in his own ears.

Bambi hooks his fingers in the underwear and pulls at it, revealing more skin. He shaves for the job, but Wade wishes he didn't – between the two of them, Wade is hairless enough. With teasing tugs at the lace, Bambi sways side-to-side, slowly turning in place. The underwear slides down more, caught on the curve of his ass. And what a glorious ass it is.

Wade stares with drool pooling in his mouth. He's sat in these backrooms before, in these chairs, fingers digging into the cushions. He's seen Bambi dance before, strip before, and yet it's just as exciting each time around.

Bambi turns sideways, the base of his dick visible before he snaps the underwear back on where it belongs. He leans in over Wade and climbs his lap. Hips circling, his ass barely gracing Wade's crotch, hands behind his neck. One finger traces his shoulder and down his chest. His lips are hot on Wade's ear when he whispers "I love the way you look at me when I dance for you."

Bambi pulls away from Wade's ear, cocking his head to the side, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Wade's. They're soft and taste faintly of strawberry. His tongue swipes across Wade's lower lip, asking for permission to enter, which Wade grants greedily. Bambi licks his way into his mouth and moans.

. . . It feels like Wade's falling into a dream.

Bambi kisses him. Sweet Bambi's lips are on Wade's, tongue swiping along the inside of his teeth. But it's not one of his daydreams, not with the way he nips at Wade's lower lip. The cushion beneath his fingers creaks when the last cords of the song play.

The dance is over and so is the kiss when Bambi cranes his head back. Wade's fingertips already hover over his waist.

"Shit, honey, you're so lovely. Way too enticing to be normal. You sure you're not half-fae or something? No? Can I touch you now?"

Bambi nods, and with shaky hands, Wade settles his palms on his hips, to hold him in place. He can't let Bambi move, not further away, not closer.

"Sweetums," he breathes out. Bambi's relaxed in Wade's lap, legs spread and one hand around his neck. "Bambi Eyes. This is out of place, but I have to ask. Just once, so I'll know."

Wade swallows and meets Bambi's gaze, steadfast and patient for him to choke out his question.

"Would you go out on a date with me? Tonight, after work? I'll buy you tacos and breakfast food. Please. If it doesn't work out, I promise I'll keep tipping you through Weasel or something, so you won't lose me as a customer."

In case it's all about the money after all and Wade's fallen for the most seductive scam ever. But Bambi tips his head forward, never breaking eye contact. "I thought you'd never ask me, DP."

"Just call me Wade."

"Wade. Want to call me by name too?"

"Yes." He tightening his grip of Bambi's waist, sliding him closer.

Keep it together, Wilson!

"Thought so. It's Peter."

"Peter?" Bambi. Peter. They sound nothing alike, but they're identical in Wade's mind (because he's a known dumbass). Possible nicknames pop up in his head for future use. "I didn't know you give out your name."

"I don't."

"But then why-?"

"Because I want to." Peter smiles a lopsided smile, dimple and all. His eyes twinkle with kind determination. "We're going on a date tonight, after all. I've been promised tacos and breakfast food."

Wade wants to marry this man. How many dates until it's socially acceptable to propose?

Notes: I thank my lovely friend Robyn for beta'ing this fic for me. All remaining mistakes are mine.

If you enjoy my writing, remember to leave me some some feedback, thank you :)

You can also find me on tumblr as sweetsoursugarcube