Chapter Text
Tuesday mornings are always slow. There are the normal regulars, of course, ordering their usual assortments of coffees and pastries and donuts, but as 10 rolls around Peter finds himself the only person in the little bookstore cafe he works at.
He collects dirty plates and mugs from tables and wipes them down, puts books that have been left out back on their shelves and then settles down behind the counter to do some chemistry work that he’s been meaning to get to. Workbook and textbook spread out, pen in hand, calculator at the ready and glasses perched on his nose, he sets out to get at least an hour of work done before the lunch crowd starts trickling in.
Ten minutes tick by on the clock, and he’s so engrossed in a complicated chemical equation that he doesn’t hear the little bell over the door chime. It’s only when somebody leans down over the counter with their chin in their hand that Peter realises that a customer has come in.
He springs up straight, fumbling his glasses off. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you come in!”
The man grins up at him, all rugged stubble, dimples and bright blue eyes. There’s a scar over his left eyebrow, a black and red plaid jacket stretched over his broad shoulders, and when he straightens up he’s almost an entire foot taller than Peter’s meagre 5’6.
“Don’t mind me, cupcake,” he says, rough voice making Peter’s toes tingle. Peter’s toes have never tingled in his entire life. “I was just enjoying the view.”
The view? Peter thinks to himself, glancing over his shoulder. The drinks board is rather nicely done up with cute chalk drawings of books and cats, thanks to MJ, but it’s not particularly spectacular in any way.
The man laughs a little. “You’re the cutest thing I’ve seen this Millenia.”
Peter goes bright red and tries to push his glass up his nose, a nervous habit. He meant me? Of course, he’s not wearing his glasses, so all he manages to do is poke himself between the eyes. Going even redder, he drops his hand to the counter. His palms are sweating. “Um,” he says, because he has no idea how to respond to that. “Can I get you… anything?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the man says, grinning widely. He’s so handsome that Peter’s sure if he wasn’t bracing himself on the counter his knees would’ve given way. “Maybe your number?”
Peter’s pretty sure his face is on fire. “Um,” he says again, eloquently.
“Or a kiss,” the man says, “I’m not fussy.” He winks a sky blue eye.
Okay, yeah, if it wasn’t on fire, it certainly is now. Peter drops his gaze down to his workbook, because looking at the man any longer is going to give him a heart attack. Either from embarrassment or from how hot he is, he’s not sure. “I- uh- I’m sorry, those things aren’t, um, on the menu currently.”
“Not currently,” the man states, scarred eyebrow arching. “So there’s a chance that they might become available?” His voice is doing things to Peter. Fluttery, warm things.
Peter can feel himself start to sweat. “I don’t- I wouldn’t- I… maybe?” He says, stumbling over his words, and wow, that’s the boldest he’s ever been. He glances up through his lashes and then back down again, chewing at his lip. His stomach is all twisted up with nerves and butterflies.
“Hmm,” the man hums. “Well, I guess I’m just going to have to try my luck another time, won’t I, sweetheart?”
“Prob- probably,” Peter stutters. He’d never thought that the word sweetheart could turn him into a half melted mess. He’s pretty sure his heart is about to escape through his rib cage.
“In that case, I’ll have a large triple shot mocha with whipped cream and sprinkles, and oh, oh could you put some marshmallows on the side, pretty please? I love me some marshmallows! Especially the pink ones.”
“Um, sure.” Peter nods, hastily ringing the order up. How did this guy stay so in shape if he drank these kinds of drinks? “Anything, uh, else?”
The man leans over the counter, just enough for Peter to catch a whiff of his cologne. Rich, deep and smoky, with a hint of citrus. “Your name? I could keep calling you baby boy in my head, but I’ve got an inkling that your name would be even better.”
I don’t know, Peter thinks to himself, I kind of like the sound of baby boy. And then promptly internally combusts because who is he? He’s never been like this around somebody else, not even when he had a huge crush on MJ in high school.
“Um,” he says, fiddling with the string of his apron. “Peter. Uh, my name’s Peter.”
“Peter,” the man basically purrs, and Peter’s stomach somersaults at least twice. Possibly gets a backflip in there as well. “That’s a wonderful name. Peter. Petey. Petey-pie. Officially my new favourite name. My name’s Wade, which is obviously not as a supremely amazing name as Peter. Wade Wilson Winston, at your service. Nice to meet ya,” he says, holding out a hand.
Peter glances at it, blinking, before hurriedly holding his out as well. Wade takes it firmly, his palm warm and dry. His hand immediately dwarfs Peter’s, his skin rough and calloused, but instead of shaking he brings the back of Peter’s hand to his lips and kisses it with a smile.
Peter snatches his hand back, the imprint of Wade’s lips and the scratch of his stubble burning into his skin. His blush can probably be seen from space at this point. “Um,” he says again, “um.” And then he abruptly turns back to the cash register, fumbling with the buttons. “That’ll be $4.45 all together.”
Wade pulls a ten dollar bill out of a beat up Hello Kitty wallet and hands it over. “Keep the change,” he says, perfect white teeth practically sparkling in the dim cafe lighting.
Peter takes it, jolting a little as their hands touch again, and stares down at it. He cannot math right at this point. His brain is mush. He just shoves the note into the register to figure out the tip later. “Thanks,” he squeaks, and then clears his throat. He tries to look back up at Wade’s face but can’t, too embarrassed, and ends up settling his gaze somewhere in the middle of the man’s chest, which honestly isn’t that much better because Wade is ripped. “Um, take a seat wherever you like. I’ll bring it down to you.”
“Thanks, honeybun,” Wade says, and wanders off to find a table. Peter watches him go for a second, dazed, and then breaks himself out of it to step to the coffee machine.
He’s so flustered that he fumbles for a second, but then the routine of grinding the coffee beans takes over and he quickly makes up the drink, running the coffee machine and frothing up the milk. If he spends a little more time making sure that the whipped cream and sprinkles look perfect, nobody has to know. And if he puts more than the mandated two pink marshmallows on the saucer, nobody has to know that either.
Wade’s sitting in a little table in the corner next to the bookshelves, his back to the wall. He’s already got a book spread out open in front of him, and he’s flipping through it, looking amused. He looks up as Peter approaches, and his smile is so bright that Peter really has to concentrate on not getting stunned and tripping over his own two feet.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” he says as Peter slides the drink in front of him. “Oh my god, you got me all pink marshmallows! You’re a dream, baby boy.”
Peter wipes his hands on his apron nervously. “Um, you’re welcome?”
“I’m more than welcomed,” Wade purrs. “Mark me down as besotted and completely obsessed with your freckles. I’ve never wanted to lick someone’s face more than yours.”
Right, Peter thinks to himself. Okay. Am I sure that I’m not dreaming right now? “I don’t usually let people, um, lick my face…?”
“I could be your exception?” Wade asks. “I could be your everything,” he winks.
Peter cannot take anymore of this. He’s going to actually die. Just like, right where he’s standing. Blushing madly he spins on his heel and escapes back to behind the counter, only tripping a bit over the little step in front of it. He can almost feel the amusement in Wade’s gaze as he puts his head down to stare at his workbook, heart beating a million miles per hour.
The moan that Wade lets out when he takes the first sip of his drink makes Peter very glad that he’s currently standing behind a counter with absolutely no way to see below his waist.
For a while Peter and Wade are the only ones in the little bookstore cafe. Peter’s acutely aware of every sound and movement the other man makes, and every time he looks up from his work Wade is looking at him, blue eyes sharp and sparkling.
Peter gets none of the work he’d wanted done.
But after what seems like forever but in reality is only ten minutes, a slow trickle of the early lunchers begin to walk in and soon Peter’s busy enough with coffee and pastry orders that Wade slips from his mind. The next chance that Peter has to catch his breath he looks over to the little table in the corner and is disappointed to find it empty, only a drained coffee mug and a napkin with a love heart scribbled on it in black sharpie left behind.
The next day Peter has the same morning and lunch shift. He may have spent a few extra minutes in front of the mirror before leaving his tiny apartment, but he tells himself it’s just because he wants to look nice for all the cafe’s customers, and not just for one customer in particular.
Every time the bell dings above the door and another person walks in he perks up and then deflates a little when he doesn’t see a scarred eyebrow or a plaid red and black jacket. 10 comes and goes, and with no sign of a beefed up Canadian with a smile like sunshine Peter resigns himself to the fact the man isn’t going to come in again (it was a small chance anyway, he tells himself) and disappears into the bookshelves at the side of the cafe to tidy up.
He’s just straining up to the top shelf to put a book back where it belongs when the bell chimes over the door. “Sorry!” He calls out, “I’ll be right out in just a sec!”
Damn it, where did I put that step-stool? He thinks to himself, up on the very tips of his toes. So. Close!
And then there’s a warm hand on his hip and a deep chuckle in his ear and Peter goes very, very still. The book is plucked out of his hand and slid into its spot between the other books.
“Hello again, baby boy.” The words are purred into his ear and Peter spins around with a gasp, leaning back up against the bookshelf as he looks up at the familiar wide grin.
“Um,” Peter squeaks. “H- hi.”
Wade taps him on the chin, smiling. His rich, smoke and citrus scent envelopes Peter and makes him go lightheaded. “You’re wearing glasses,” Wade says, nudging the frame of them with the back of his finger. He’s so close.
“Oh,” Peter says, fumbling to take them off. But before he can even touch them Wade has grabbed his wrist and Peter freezes again, eyes huge behind his lenses.
“I didn’t mean you should take them off,” Wade says, leaning in closer. He’s so much taller than Peter that Peter has to bend his neck right back, his head bumping against the books behind him. “You look practically edible.”
Peter gulps, and Wade’s eyes follow the movement of his throat. He still hasn’t let go of Peter’s wrist.
“I’m going to let you in on a secret, sugar,” Wade says, moving in closer. “I was supposed to leave town last night. Just got a job done, you see, and I never stay in one place long. But I couldn’t get the cute little barista from the quaint little cafe out of my mind, or his pretty blush when I flirted with him, or his perfect brown curls.” He tugs at a strand of Peter’s hair, not gently, but not enough to hurt either. Peter’s legs go weak.
“I couldn’t get his big brown bambi eyes out of my head either,” Wade continues, and Peter eeps when a muscular thigh is slipped in between his, and Wade’s grin widens. “Or the way he tripped over his own words, or how when I caught him looking at me he looked away every time with the sweetest, shyest little smile.”
He’s so close now that Peter can see small flecks of gold in his blue irises and can feel Wade’s body heat through both their clothes. He’s got Peter’s wrist pinned up beside Peter’s head, his other hand playing with a stray brown curl, his thigh between Peter’s legs so Peter can’t go anywhere. But Peter doesn’t want to go anywhere.
“Do you think the menu might have changed since yesterday?” With every word, Wade’s breath brushes over Peter’s skin, spreading goosebumps. His breath smells like raspberry liquorice.
“It- it might’ve,” Peter whispers, eyes jumping between Wade’s lips and his eyes. He feels like he’s too big for his skin, like he might burst. His free hand is sweaty where it’s gripping the bookshelf behind him, holding on for dear life.
Wade’s smile turns into something dark and pleased. It sends a sharp jolt of heat right through Peter’s stomach. “Do I get a kiss then, sweetheart?”
Peter gulps again, his heart beating like a small bird is fluttering against his rib cage. “I-” He starts, biting his lip. “Um.”
“You can say no, baby boy,” Wade says, and this time his expression is serious. “You say no and I’m gone. No harm done.”
Peter blinks. He hadn’t even considered that. Not that he couldn’t have said no, just that… he hadn’t even thought of wanting to say no. “No,” he says, without thinking, and Wade’s expression drops and he takes a step back, letting go of Peter immediately. Peter’s heart stops and he stumbles forward, hand reaching out.
“No- no, I mean, I meant yes,” Peter says hastily, face burning as Wade catches him against his chest. “I meant yes.”
Wade’s face is graced again by one of his smiles. “Good boy,” he purrs, and Peter melts. He lets Wade press him back against the bookshelf, one hand in his hair and the other at his waist, tilts his head up and lets Wade kiss him.
Wade’s stubble rasps against the skin around Peter’s lips, and his mouth his hot and firm against Peter’s. He presses Peter into the bookshelf behind with the hard line of his body, trapping Peter in, his leg slipping between Peter’s again, pushing up between Peter’s thighs and making Peter gasp into Wade’s mouth. Wade chuckles, the sound vibrating through their joined lips, and suddenly Peter has another tongue in his mouth, warm and wet, and then teeth biting at his lips, and a hand inching up under his shirt.
He holds onto the fur lining of Wade’s jacket like a lifeline, squirming as a calloused hand finds one of his nipples. He arches and whines, the sound muffled by Wade’s mouth on his, and Wade chuckles again, rolling his nipple between his fingers.
“Christ on crack, you’re a treat,” Wade tells him, voice gone rough like gravel. His blue eyes are velvet dark as he licks his lips clean of Peter’s saliva and then leans down to nuzzle under Peter’s chin. Peter lets out a desperate sound, one that he’s never heard himself make before, as Wade’s stubble scraps over his sensitive skin. And then there are teeth against his throat and a mouth sucking hot and hard, making the side of Peter’s neck ache and sting and turning Peter into a loose-limbed mess in Wade’s hold.
Wade pulls back with one hard, last suck, and then dives back in for Peter’s mouth. Peter had hardly been able to catch his breath from before, and he whimpers into the kiss, breathing fast through his nose. He’s slipping down the bookshelf, riding over Wade’s thigh. Wade has to hoist him up, making an amused sound.
The way Wade manhandles Peter into the position he wants makes Peter dizzy with arousal. He ends up with his thighs spread wide, hitched over Wade’s hips with his apron bunched between them, his glasses askew on his nose and his arms over his head with one of Wade’s wide hands holding his wrists in place. The shelves of the bookshelf behind him are digging into his back, and he knows he’s probably going to come out of this with bruises, god he hopes he comes out of this with bruises, but the way that Wade steals his breath from him has him uncaring of anything else. The world has narrowed down to him, Wade, and the gasping breaths they take as their mouths part and then meet again and again.
“I could do this to you all day,” Wade says against his mouth. “Such a sweet thing, baby boy, so pretty,” he says, and he almost sounds sad for some reason.
Peter doesn’t like the sound of sad in Wade’s voice. “Please,” he begs, and he’s completely forgotten that he’s at work, that there could be customers waiting, that he’s supposed to be manning the counter, that he hardly even knows this man. “Please, Wade.”
“Shit,” Wade hisses, pressing Peter further into the bookshelf. The hardness in his jeans pushes against Peter’s and Peter mewls, hands clenching into fists where they’re held over his head. “Say it again, darling, say my name.”
“Wade,” Peter breathes, looking up at the man through his lashes and over his glasses. He sees Wade’s gaze intensify on him, something in his eyes giving way and letting something dark and fierce through. It pins Peter in place, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable, like something close to prey.
“I wanna keep you,” Wade says, voice rough, “all to myself.” And despite the ferocity of his gaze he leans his forehead against Peter’s and closes his eyes, pressing a chaste kiss against Peter’s lips. Peter doesn’t want to think it, but it almost feels like a farewell.
The bell above the door chimes and suddenly Peter’s left leaning against the bookshelf, cold and alone, his feet unsteady against the floor, mouth bruised and shirt untucked and glasses lopsided. Wade takes another step back from him, face carefully blank. “See you ‘round, baby boy,” he says, takes one last look at Peter’s flustered face, and strides out from between the bookshelves.
“Wait-” Peter stumbles after him, but he only sees Wade’s broad back as the man leaves the cafe, the bell chiming over the door. Peter wants to go after him, ask him why, why did that kiss feel like a goodbye, but there’s a girl standing at the counter, her nose buried in her phone.
Damn it, Peter thinks, biting his lip. He brushes his hair down and hurriedly tidies his shirt, pushes his glasses up his nose and thanks any deity out there listening that his apron is hiding his hard-on, and heads shakily for the counter.
“Sorry, what can I get you?”
Peter doesn’t have work the next day, but in between morning and afternoon classes he makes the excuse that coffee on campus is too shit for him, an accomplished barista, to drink, and walks the ten minutes to caramel. He gets an employee discount after all, he tells himself.
“Pete!” Gwen says happily when he walks in. There are a few customers milling about between the shelves and drinking coffee at the tables, but they’ve all been served and Gwen isn’t too busy behind the counter.
“Hey Gwen,” Peter greets, leaning on the counter. “How’s things going?”
“Pretty good,” she says, brushing a blonde lock of hair behind her ear. “Not too busy. No tips though,” she pouts. “I’m losing my touch.”
“You could never,” Peter replies, grinning.
“None of that,” Gwen says, rolling her eyes, but she’s smiling as well. “Honestly, you’re so smooth around girls, but as soon as a hunk of a man walks in you’re tripping all over yourself. It’s such a waste,” she sighs. “Oh, did you want a drink?
“Yes please. Just a latte.”
Peter watches Gwen grind the coffee beans, idly fiddling with his fingers. When she flicks the hot water on he looks down at the wooden counter, tracing the whorls in the grain with his eyes. “Hey… A guy with a scar on his left eyebrow hasn’t come in today, has he?”
“Hmm, I don’t think so,” Gwen says before she starts throthing the milk. She whacks the bottom of the metal jug on the counter to get rid of any bubbles before pouring it over the shot of espresso. “Though I haven’t really been paying that much attention. What else does he look like?”
“Tall, blue eyes,” Peter says, fighting the blush over his cheeks. “Dark blond hair. Um, wears a red and black plaid jacket. He really likes marshmallows.”
Gwen puts his coffee in front of him, humming. “Anything else?”
“He’s got a Canadian accent. And uh, a really nice smile. And a dimple in his left cheek.” Peter can feel his stomach flipping just thinking about it.
“I meant did you want anything else,” Gwen says, eyes laughing. “But I’ve changed my mind. Tell me more about tall, blue eyed, Mr Canadian with a nice smile.”
Peter goes bright red and grabs his coffee. “No. You’re mean,” he whines.
“Aw, don’t be like that!” Gwen calls after him, but Peter ignores her, settling down in his favourite plushy armchair and hiding his face with his drink.
He sits there for as long as he can before he’s late for his next class, but whenever the bell chimes and he looks up, there’s no sparkling blue eyes or broad shoulders to be seen.
Friday is also another day that Peter doesn’t have work at caramel. He fights the urge to go in for another coffee and ask if Wade has turned up again, and tells himself that he’s not that desperate that he’s going to sit in the cafe all day waiting to see if Wade will walk in.
Instead he spends the day running his thumb over the deep bruise Wade has left on the side of his throat as he studies, running the pads of his fingers over it lightly and then pressing in harder, just to feel the ache and sting of the mark again, reminding himself that what had happened actually had happened. The bruises on his back from the bookshelves are already fading, only faint purple lines across his shoulder blades and lower back, and the shadows of Wade’s firm grip around his wrists are hardly even noticeable. He’s glad that he bruises so easily, but equally as upset that he tends to heal quicker as well.
He’s pretty sure he dreams of Wade’s stubble rasping against his skin at night, the way his voice had dipped low and rough when he’d said the words ‘good boy’ to Peter, and he wakes with one of the hardest erections he thinks he’s ever gotten, except of course for when he’d been pinned up against a bookshelf by a man twice his size.
He thinks that there might be something wrong with him as he jerks off to the image of Wade’s smile on the back of his eyelids, face hidden in his pillow and cheeks glowing red with shame, because is it healthy to be this obsessed with someone he’s only met twice? But then when he comes all over himself and the sheets below him he decides that he doesn’t really care.
That weekend he works the lunch and closing shifts. Since lunch on the Saturday and Sunday are always busy MJ and Gwen both are working as well, with Ned in the back helping with the dishes and food plating.
“Seriously, Pete, what’s up with you today? You’ve messed up like four coffee orders,” MJ says as she picks up a tray and frowns when she finds long blacks instead of flat whites. “And you keep jumping whenever the door opens.”
“It’s nothing,” Peter says, cheeks red. “Just didn’t get much sleep last night. Sorry, I’ll do them again.”
“He’s just distracted because he’s hoping Mr Tall, Dark and Likes Marshmallows will come in,” Gwen teases as she breezes past, three plates of pastries and salads balanced in her hands.
“Gwen,” Peter whines, but she’s already off between the tables, laughing.
“Oh?” MJ says, eyes narrowing. She’s scented blood, and Peter knows now that he’s not going to get any peace around here. “Tell me, Parker. Tell me everything.”
Peter shakes his head, face burning, and turns back to the coffee machine. “There’s someone at the counter,” he says.
MJ curses under her breath, turning around and pasting on her customer smile. “You’re not going to get away that easily,” she says out of the corner of her mouth, and steps up to the counter.
Wade doesn’t come in that weekend, or the week after. By the next weekend Peter has resigned himself to the fact that Wade has gotten what he’d wanted out of Peter, and isn’t going to come back. The bruises have long since faded from Peter’s skin, and so is the memory of Wade’s outrageous flirting, the way his mouth had felt against Peter’s, and the scent of his smoke and citrus cologne. Peter finds it hard to remember the exact shade of blue of Wade’s eyes, and stops looking up with hope whenever the bell above the door chimes.
And life goes on.