Chapter Text
Author: 白梅鷺鹿.Lenocy (LOFTER) ; CryingLadyBirdLoveSpideypool (AO3)
1. A different writing style from previous works.
2. Peter's heart is genuine, and Wade's is even more so.
3. POV is always deceptive; don't trust Peter, and even less so Wade.
Chapter：Whispers in the Vacuum
When they handed Deadpool's file to Peter, he didn't refuse, nor did he have any grounds to refuse. He needed money, a lot of money. And those who would be handed over to him were essentially a few types, ultimately converging into one: those who deserved this fate.
It's understandable that the boy felt uncomfortable when first encountering this kind of work; no one is born a liar, but his obsession with excellent grades probably extended to this point as well. Peter certainly had a sharp mind.
In retrospect, that probably gave Peter a bit of arrogance. When he treated Deadpool as merely a slightly challenging calculus problem, a surge of genius-level pride and a pragmatic need for money overwhelmed the whispered murmur of risk in his heart.
As a high school graduate about to enter college, what better asset did Peter possess than his vibrant energy and easily reassuring smile? In the vast sea of humanity, everyone is just a rolling stone, whether round, angular, or smooth as mutton fat; one thing is absolute: people will always favor the rose that might belong to them, in an era where everyone sees themselves as the Little Prince.
Perhaps this is precisely the best way to 'live,' to adopt the posture of being the protagonist in the crowd. This was quite evident when Deadpool was 'Deadpool,' so much so that Peter only observed him from afar once before immediately daring not to peek again—he would be discovered. The man's sharp gaze pierced through the crowd almost instantly. Even as blood dripped from the blade, it was likely a mercenary's instinct that prompted the burly man to perceive someone in the crowd daring to assess him with the eyes of a predator. His two white eyes narrowed in an extremely harsh and mocking way, reminding Peter of the descriptions of stepmothers in fairy tales—as if there was nothing left in the world worthy of their love, not even themselves. So, the hedgehog, who had been relatively agreeable, had become a hideous warthog, just waiting to hurt someone else or be hurt by someone else.
The two knives were probably made of nano-ceramic material. Peter, still inconsiderate of the situation, easily concealed himself using his still-developing physique and followed the panicked crowd towards the intersection.
Therefore, in what could be considered their first face-to-face encounter, Peter immediately understood how difficult this job would be. He possessed the least valuable resource in society, but the employer clearly demanded that he swallow an elephant whole.
Besides bluffing, what else could Peter do? He'd put in a tremendous amount of effort learning latte art, so when someone came to the Blind Man's Cafe for a break, he could present Wade, clad in a black hoodie, with the cutest little white cat.
That probably startled the person, who hadn't expected the shop, always run by the manager alone, to have hired a part-time worker. Looking up, they were like a deer staring blankly at headlights.
Blank—a subtle description; it could be dazed or utterly bewildered. Those were beautiful blue eyes, much purer than in pictures. Now Peter understood why some of his classmates always emphasized how baby-blue their eyes were as infants, no matter how cloudy and dull they seemed to Peter.
"Hi."
The boy's face showed a hint of discomfort from being stared at, his young skin flushed a natural pink, adding a touch of shyness.
"Uhm, I hope you like it... This is my first week at work. The manager can't see and isn't sure if my latte art skills are genuine, so he thought he'd let the VIPs come and give me a free evaluation first."
A brief silence followed.
While Peter observed the other, Wade also observed him. He had the most common brown hair, but it was unusually tousled, as if birds had decided to build a nest on his head. Boys this age are clearly still not very good at grooming themselves.
Or perhaps he had tried a little; Wade could smell a faint scent of hairspray, but even with the boy's efforts, he hadn't managed to get anything out of it. This artificial fragrance only accentuated the boy's immaturity. Wade's gaze moved down, noticing the boy's brand-new brass name tag slightly askew on his black barista's robe.
"Peter, uhm."
Usually, Deadpool should be noisy, clamorous, even jarring and annoying.
But when he was alone, Wade was quiet, even timid. Despite his imposing size, he seemed to want to minimize his presence beneath his completely black hoodie, like an old, abandoned house yearning for closeness, yet burdened by too many rumors, so he helplessly sought a desert to simply settle himself in.
While Wade was still slightly bewildered, he heard the boy's voice pierce through an oasis and a clear spring.
"That's my name."
"So, uh...would you tell me if you like it, big guy?"
Wade looked down.
It was a wobbly kitten, white bubbles even forming paw pads and tiny whiskers, followed by two coffee-colored eyes that revealed the same harmlessness as the boy.
"Hum, it's cute, I think."
He heard the boy laugh at his desk. Even without looking directly at him, Wade could imagine how those doe-like eyes must be, curved and moist. Not a creature of the desert, not one of those cute yet sharp-toothed fennec foxes, Nick Wilde's cunning friend—no. It was something soft and fluffy, like cotton candy, always arriving with light steps at dusk.
“Kind man, your answer has earned me a raise.”
The boy twitched his nose like a little jerboa, his eyes indeed curving, as if even Wade's dirty face couldn't spoil his good mood because of Wade.
“Although you'll have to charge next time, if it's still me.” Peter leaned closer to Wade, not very close, but enough for Wade to begin to smell the boy's true scent: a mixture of the aroma of toasted bread, very young, contained in his voice and breath: “You can specify more varieties, how about it?”
Wade seemed slightly surprised, as if he didn't understand why the boy continued to be friendly to him after he got what he wanted. Accustomed to taking lives, but even more accustomed to being taken from—a useful gun. Peter narrowed his eyes, though it was barely perceptible in his smile; his thoughts, like a drop of water falling into a lake, didn't even cause a ripple.
'What a pitiful man.' Peter commented this way upon closer inspection, not only because of his appearance, but also because of the man's completely different demeanor behind the mask. A man both pitiful and hateful enough wasn't uncommon in the cases Peter had handled.
Summer offered a perfect vacation for romance.
Wade didn't change his habit of going to the blind café for Peter; perhaps he only saw the boy as a chattering little squirrel, and occasional interactions in the park didn't interfere with his regular life.
But when chaos reigned outside the border town, and the wind and sand eroded everything, leaving people and things vulnerable to the weariness of time, a spring within the small fence seemed rare. Perhaps everything had only changed within the clockwork of time that Wade thought hadn't changed. He had simply grown accustomed to this boy smiling when he ordered, joking while serving him, and calling Wade's name lightly as if it had never crossed Satan's list.
He learned that the boy had a seriously ill foster mother, was about to be burdened with enormous student loans, and lived a life even more hectic than Cinderella's, juggling three jobs in addition to housework.
Despite these circumstances, Wade later willingly paid. It was a sticky day; the recent rainy season hadn't yet dried the air, and Wade rarely felt so constrained by his hoodie around his neck, like his dry throat and restless toes. He rarely hated the stuffy confinement of his boots, yet he had to rely on them to hide his last shred of pride.
What if the boy rejected him? Wade thought. All the latte art in the world could no longer embellish his mood. He'll also need to take a long trip—Dubai, Nepal, Bangladesh—anywhere that might take him far away from New York, so his heart will probably be pounding for a while longer without disturbing the boy.
Wade knew himself all too well what a creepy he was. He had imagined the worst-case scenario before anyone else could even conceive of it: at best, he'd start monitoring the boy's wakefulness and sleep; at worst, he'd drag the boy into his house and rape him day and night. That's why the boy no longer dared to smile at him so unguardedly, no longer dared to lean so close to him, exposing his delicate neck, no longer dared to let his breath, like a fawn, intrude into Wade's decay. Damn it, just thinking about the boy, forever confined to his bed, his sofa, his carpet, his kitchen counter, under the cover of the long grass in his garden... uttering pitiful, delicate moans, his once-smiling doe's eyes would become tearful, his legs would sway like a drifting boat in the endless thrusting, his once-full lips would only be able to utter Wade's name, forced to swallow and mark along with his plump buttocks—...it was just a thought.
Just imagining it was enough to make Wade painfully hard. Before officially leaving, he had to thoroughly "chicken" (his penis) until it was completely spitting out white foam. At least until Wade officially invited Peter out on a date, he could only hope that his refractory period would be longer, much longer, so as not to taint his feelings for the boy. When Wade finally spoke to Peter with his sticky palms...
The boy grasped his hand with his equally sticky hand, his ears turning bright red.
It was a sticky hand, as if afraid its owner's thoughts hadn't been discovered enough. Peter scrutinized Wade with almost a critical eye. His bald head couldn't stop the dense beads of sweat from sliding down his temples, tracing a path into the dark stained areas of his black hoodie. Those areas were also damp with sweat. This was Deadpool, a dull, parched man, when faced with love.
As for bed, Wade was aggressive; they were always like that. Peter didn't sleep with every man, but he easily deduced a pattern through his arrogance: they were always like this, filling a room with a jumble of traits, neglecting to paint the peeling paint, to clean the dust and the praying mantis crawling at the basement entrance, even standing menacing thorns at the desolate garden gate, yet still yearning—fragilely begging for a robin.
So, dropping the feathers onto the other's porch, Peter let out an extremely melodious cry from the bed, as if he were about to be killed, his waist collapsing, his toes gripping the sheets and his calves taut like ballet blades. He didn't draw his sword. He didn't believe he could defeat the other, not even in his delusional dreams. Peter knew perfectly well that every goal he set had the power to absolutely bind him.
Occasionally, in moments of despair, Peter would reflect on each choice he had made in his life, what had driven him to tread such uncharted paths, to explore the deepest secrets of those untouchables, and then realize that even if he could do it all over again, he would still do the same.
He couldn't beat anyone, but he didn't need to.
Wade wanted to shove Peter's knees into the blankets, into the mattress, on their first time together. Let the other do it. If a few scratches on the bedpost could provide the other with a sense of security, then what a pitiful yet incredibly lucky fellow.
Peter, lost in these inopportune thoughts, climaxed under Wade's expert caresses. This man definitely masturbated regularly… honestly, how long had he been single? Peter felt himself choking on his own saliva and tears, panting like a pony overloaded.
And as he ejaculated deeply and thickly into the boy's body, feeling Peter's tight opening twitching as it continuously swallowed and pushed his penis, taut and almost white, swollen and slightly red, with extremely erotic white foam gradually seeping from the edges, Wade still couldn't quite believe he had actually done it.
Like a crude beast, he dragged the boy back to his den. They hadn't even had many formal dates. Like a hungry vampire, he couldn't resist the boy's tender nape for long. In an instant, Peter's buttocks, which had haunted Wade's dreams countless times, ripened into a juicy peach right before Wade's eyes, overflowing with sweetness. Those two plump lobes, which Wade had glimpsed and lewdly defiled during countless coffee breaks, once firmly encased in sturdy denim, now trembled and convulsed before Wade's eyes.
"Uhmm…hum."
The boy's eyes were wet when he turned back. His eyes, his lips, the shapes of his tears soaking the sheets resembled flower buds that should have been blossoming.
"Wade."
The boy was so alluring, it was as if every heart in the world was obliged to bloom for him as compensation.
"Kiss me."
They turned over, as if turning their rage over as well. A dragon, always unsure how to express its true desires, always plunders the kingdom's most precious treasures, always hoping people will offer up its true desires. How arrogant. Wade resolved not to reveal his secret identity to Peter, wanting this stolen time to last longer. He mentally reviewed countless faces from the nursing home and kindergarten, trying to make his refractory period seem normal, only to find himself hardening even faster, like a swollen, bursting sweet potato pressed against Peter's navel. The boy was kissing him.
It was a deliberate kiss. Like the gentle knocking of a doorbell, reminding the old monster in the basement: Alright, alright, now that you've fully proven your conquering power, you can now plunder the reward you truly desire!
Wade kissed Peter, his tongue no longer possessive, only the most sensitive antennae touching, occasionally a kitten's lick. They kissed, kissed, kissing for longer than Wade could penetrate again. Time slowed, filling the air with the scent of vanilla. Peter thought his prophecy had come true. It had to be until his legs were weak, his throat burning with the inability to sing a single note, before Deadpool finally, sparingly, loosened his armor on the bed.
"I never dared to ask before, Wade, where did all this come from?"
The boy asked, his fingers tracing Wade's waist and broad shoulders, finally cupping the man's face, his doe eyes meeting the sky's color.
"Was it a fire?"
The most reasonable deduction came from the most normal worldview: how could Wade allow such a boy to intrude into his world? After much thought, the mercenary blamed the coffee.
"...When I was about eight, my dad dumped a charcoal grill on my head, and all the embers slid down—but modern industry doesn't have much cotton that can be easily torn off anymore."
Wade, slow and deliberate, chose to lie with remarkable efficiency.
"So polyester wrapped me up in a scorching cocoon. And Canadian hospitals didn't have the American time to let me naturally emerge from that cocoon," Wade waved his arm self-deprecatingly, "So you see, Petey, I became an ugly worm, forever unable to take flight."
"It's sad."
He saw a glint in the boy's eyes. Not the usual pity, tolerance, and sympathy, nor some indifferent pitifulness, but simply listening to a terrifying giant's booming voice, still nestled against the giant's unkempt shoulder.
"Hearing this makes me feel sorry, Wade."
Expressing his apology, Peter let himself ride on Wade. He didn't possess superhuman boundless energy, but the vibrancy of youth was a boy's advantage. Despite being nearly twice the size of a boy, Wade yielded to Peter, allowing him to devour her completely.
They would also go hiking like any normal white couple, parking their car in a desolate, shady corner, choosing rocky outcrops where ropes couldn't reach. Clearly, both of them harbored a touch of absurd adventure; it had to be, otherwise, there was no reason Peter could still kiss Wade so deeply despite her rugged face. They would drive straight to the mountaintop, from the fiery golden sunset to the blue-purple Milky Way like a ribbon, the night sky generously squeezing out stars as they escaped the city's light pollution. The slow, white noise of breathing made it seem as if only the other person existed, tickling Wade's palm and making her heart itch too, wishing she could continue their lovemaking on the picnic mat.
"No."
But the boy smiled and refused, his little tongue mastering the art of hooking.
"Be my gentleman, Wade."
So Wade could only whimper and bury his head in Peter's chest, feigning pitifulness like a hairless mangy dog.
"Oh, baby boy…You’re going to break my heart."
There was no need to remind Peter of this.
He had already searched high and low while Wade was away, but the man was clearly determined to cut ties with Deadpool. Not even a single gun was hidden in the study drawer. What kind of American man wouldn't even keep a .45 caliber gun in a safe? Had the man never even considered suicide? *(Statistically, the most common ultimate use of a gun)
Complaining angrily like a pot of witch's soup, Peter had to put in the effort of preparing for a major exam, becoming the most annoying calf, a possessive house cat, demanding the right to freely poke at the other's phone, demanding location reporting, and always ready to get stuck on trivial matters. But once the scales were unfurled, the once-evil dragon displayed an unbelievable indulgence. This, in turn, made Peter feel constrained, as if some part of his skin remained stiff and unable to bristle.
Fortunately, people sometimes need money, or perhaps a case is simply too good to pass up. What kind of case could only Deadpool handle? His phone went unanswered easily. Looking at the dozens of unanswered calls on his screen, Peter initially felt a surge of confidence, but it quickly turned into a heavy weight in his stomach. This was the first time Wade had allowed something else to interfere in their time together; did this mean Peter's chances of success were beginning to waver?
As it turned out, Peter was overthinking—and underthinking. When a deluge of fresh and dried flowers surrounded the boy, and rented, rescued, or even kidnapped kittens crawled haphazardly on the café floor, the blind owner chuckled in his recliner, letting himself be buried in the fluff. Since Peter joined the shop as an assistant, the old lady has become increasingly retired, and the boy occasionally receives cookies as a reward.
"What's this for?"
Peter asks amidst the cat hair and floral scent. A long-haired calico cat begins rubbing against his legs, while a black and white cat plays with the wind chimes and roses by the shop entrance.
"Jesus, Wade, did you rob the flower shop and the shelter?"
"To celebrate the promotion of our most dedicated little barista!"
Wade shouts excitedly, wearing a pointed little party hat, and lifts Peter up like a little lion—not like a dragon, but simply a man beginning to decorate his home with vibrant colors.
"From today onwards, this is your shop, little sir."
"...What?"
"You heard me."
Like a golden retriever finally welcoming its master from heaven, Wade wags its tail.
"So from now on, you won't need to do those jobs that give you dark circles under your eyes anymore, and you'll have more time to spend with me, Petey!"
The tinnitus was like a whale swimming in his mind; the pressure of the seawater made Peter dizzy and his limbs numb. His plan, before it even took shape, dissolved like bubbles in his stomach. Wade bought him the coffee shop. Besides the exorbitant price, the owner's only two requests were that one seat be permanently reserved. This place was visibly going to be upgraded. Did they even have enough space to do that? At most, it would be a tiny, cramped place in an alley, barely enough to squeeze a dozen people in… Aw, did Wade buy the place next door too? Aw, then it's alright.
Yeah, right.
Peter threw himself into Wade's arms from above, trembling all over.
"Thank you."
The boy's voice choked with emotion.
"Thank you so sooo much, Wade."
They strolled around while waiting for the renovations to finish. The market around the museum, which had been on display since the beginning of the year, was new to the boy. Peter told Wade he couldn't remember the last time he'd had such leisure. It was like a garden that had been weeded and replanted; the campus air smelled of damp earth after watering. Young students, entering another semester, wandered past Peter sporadically. The boy turned and saw a hunched-over, large figure in the shadows waving slightly at him.
A classmate asked him who that was. Peter said it was his boyfriend. Perhaps he had underestimated his classmate's good intentions that day; maybe the other person had secretly taken a picture with their phone, as if it were a rare species in a zoo.
After all, the boy was quite certain that the group he contacted through his employer wasn't so violent. A punch landed on Peter's face, causing his gums to swell rapidly. He could only be thankful that he regularly drank milk and took calcium supplements. The pain was also felt in his bound hands and feet. While honestly filming himself holding today's newspaper, Peter's fingertips were cold from lack of blood flow, making him look pitiful in the video. A swallow, unfortunately, had fallen for a mercenary's trap; oh, and they planned to slit its trembling throat in front of Wade.
"Do you know why we captured you?"
Peter shook his head matter-of-factly.
The thug with the motorcycle bandana whistled, exchanged knowing smiles with his accomplice, and interrupted one of his companions before he could speak, his eyes gleaming with interest.
"Shhhh."
The thug leader grinned, revealing several gold teeth, his tone mocking.
"Don't ruin this little moment...—at least make it big."
The big moments people imagine are always noisy, with shouts, roaring runs, and people brandishing machine guns while clenching their teeth. There must be blood, preferably accompanied by unseeing, glaring eyes and relentless explosions.
Deadpool appeared in such a setting: a head popping up, heavy military boots tumbling from the ceiling, a shaky light bulb in the basement illuminating dust and debris. The dragon brought fire and smoke, the rapidly spreading smoke burning Peter's throat, instantly turning him into a limp, brown-furred bunny.
It would be a lie to say he wasn't nervous; Peter genuinely thought he was going to die there, until the mercenary shoved a mask over his face, the bunny still coughing up blood finer than dandelion seeds.
"...Who are you?"
With red eyes, Peter persisted in asking in this state.
But holding his massive frame, he remained utterly silent, like a mountain from Game of Thrones, obeying only his queen's commands, occasionally crushing enemy heads, fully utilizing his enormous body as both target and shield.
Even when he finally awoke, groggily in a hospital bed, Peter could only stare silently at Wade, who had come to visit him. After a long while, accompanied by an electrocardiogram and a breathing mask, he finally spoke.
"A strange person rescued me."
Peter asked, puzzled: "...Why did they even arrest me, Wade?"
"IDK, babe."
Wade said worriedly: "But let's trust the police will find the answer. You can always trust the NYPD."
In retrospect,
Peter could easily lie; since the hunters who surrounded him had probably all perished in the fire, there was no reason he couldn't play the innocent victim whose lover's secrets had been exposed. But he didn't. He was willing to continue this love game with Wade, even if only out of pity.
After a sexual encounter, Peter would pull the big guy into his arms, letting Wade's head rest on his heaving chest, kissing the other's bald scalp, letting the other listen to his still-beating heart.
"Is this what it feels like to be loved, Mommy?"
Wade uttered in an extremely childish voice, like a dragon shrunk down for Sleeping Beauty's love affair with the prince, lying in the boy's arms sucking on his thumb. Regardless of whether the guy who had just been a thug pinching Peter's waist red was him, regardless of whether Peter's butt still contained a mature man's semen, Wade blinked his blue eyes at Peter.
"...Do you really, really love me...moi, this guy? The little old me?"
"I love you."
Peter affirmed.
"There are three things in the world that people can't hide, Wade. At least you can trust your own judgment."
"..."
"And, why are you hard again?"
The boy slowly replied, "Did I do anything, big guy? Tell the truth, what's going on with your refractory period?"
"IDK, Petey, maybe my little Wade is just the fourth thing in the world that can't be hidden."
<3
(Rubbing hands in anticipation of a comment)
Next chapter would coming soon, and you're already be Warned by tags...