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Holy, Sick, Divine Nights

Summary:

At the end of the bar, the two off-duty cops don’t even move, still entranced by the way the dancer is moving. Wade’s certain they’re off-duty. There’s a certain glazed expression in their eyes, a laziness in how they hold themselves. They’re not a threat.

The cop up on the stage, though, is a whole ‘nother fucking story.

Now complete!

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Shh, baby, baby. Don’t cry. You knew the rules, didn’t you?”

In response, the man tied to the chair sobs. It’s quiet, though. Resigned. It’s oh so different from the wails he’d let out when Wade pulverized his fingers with the croquet mallet. The poor bastard is still trying to move them, even though his wrists are bound to the chair he’s sitting in and anything that used to be a muscle or ligament is now a bloody, bony mess.

The guy, Johnny or Jimmy or something like that, doesn’t answer Wade’s question. Shaking his head in disappointment, Wade swings the mallet up onto his shoulder, sliding his other hand into his pocket. Cool, collected. That’s him. He’s not fuming, not at all, not because someone he trusted tried to go behind his back and destroy everything Wade has spent years building up.

Wade is fine and dandy, thank you very much.

The guy gets out something that sounds like an apology, like a plea, but it’s high-pitched and desperate. It’s whiny, and the sound grates on Wade’s ears. He’s high off the pain, off his own fear, and he’s past the point of making sense. Dammit. Wade should have questioned him before he started breaking bones.

“Useless,” he mutters. “Not even worth the bullet it would take to end you, you know that?”

The guy looks up, hope in his eyes and snot and spit on his face. Wade’s lip curls into a snarl, and then, almost immediately, evens out into a smile. “Good thing we don’t need a bullet, then, right?”

The guy’s relief is palpable, and he’s halfway through gasping out a, “Thank you!” when the mallet connects with the side of his head.

Wood and bone both splinter with the force of the blow. It’s gratuitously violent, and completely unnecessary, but the loud crack! that fills the room is satisfying, and the blood that sprays out of the fissures in the guy’s skull is beautiful in its own gross, repulsive way.

It’s not a quick, painless death by any means, but Wade doesn’t stick around to watch the light fade out of the dead man’s eyes. Instead, he ducks out of the soundproof room, closing the door behind him, and, with a bit of a wry grin, flips the stolen hotel sign on the outside to “Please Clean the Room.”

Weasel will chew him out later for not cleaning up his own messes, but for now, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Outside the room, Wade can hear music blaring, can feel the steady beat of the bass in his chest. There’s a smattering of applause, barely audible over the music, but that’s okay. It’s amateur night - not everyone who gets up on the pole has any talent. But the cover charge is waived on amateur night, and both the crowd and the performers tend to drink a little faster, a little stronger. Worst case scenario, Wade breaks even. Best case, he can recruit some hot young thing who can actually recognize a beat.

He ducks behind the curtain that separates the club from the business portion of the building. No one looks at him, and to be fair, Wade doesn’t look at who’s performing, either. Instead he makes his way across the room to the bar, sliding onto one of the stools. Almost immediately, a drink appears in front of him. It’s electric blue, ice cold, and the glass looks more like a miniature fishbowl than anything else, but Wade just leans in and sips from the straw, humming when the sweet drink splashes over his tongue.

“Jesus, dude, you’ve got blood on your shirt.”

Weasel’s voice is exasperated, but low enough that even Wade barely hears it over the music. The other patrons at the bar remain blissfully unaware, most of them too focused on either their own drinks or the performances that are happening to care about a hushed conversation between a bartender and a scarred man in a suit. People are like that. It’s not that they don’t see Wade - they do. They see him, and then they decide to ignore him, some ingrained self-preservation instinct deep in their psyches telling them he’s trouble.

“Jamie?” Weasel asks.

Ah, right. That was the guy’s name. Wade shrugs, taking another sip of his drink. “He broke the rules,” he replies after a moment. “Was I supposed to just let him get away with it? What kind of precedent does that set? ‘Yeah, Wade Wilson, real tough guy there, he’ll let you get away with damn near…’”

Weasel’s not listening anymore, already moving down the bar to top off someone’s drink, so Wade trails off. He’s not sure where he was going with the sentence, anyway. But he does know that Jamie did deserve his fate. He broke one of the cardinal rules, Rule #3, the jewel in the crown of Wade’s empire.

Rule 3: Only one snitch.

Now, Wade knows it’s an odd rule. One snitch? Why not no snitches? No snitches makes more sense. Snitches are bad, generally speaking, generally because they speak too much and always to the wrong people. Jamie was a snitch, the bastard, which is why Wade doesn’t feel bad about caving his head in with a mallet.

But Wade has a snitch. One snitch. And that one snitch is why he’s all but untouchable, why there’s two cops sitting at the bar amidst the rest of the crowd. That snitch is why they’re drinking there, off duty, winding down on a Thursday night like Wade’s club is a legitimate business.

See, Wade has an understanding with the cops. He snitches to them, not about his own operations, but about the ones his rivals are running. He gives them dates and times, and the cops do their copper job. In return, they leave Wade the fuck alone, as long as he doesn’t go around shooting up street corners or dropping drugs into the water supply. So, sure, it’s a weird arrangement, but it works: Wade gets to let his little criminal empire grow, and the cops get to make their arrest quotas.

But Jamie hadn’t been snitching about another crime lord. He’d been snitching about Wade himself, or trying to, at least, eager to spill secrets in exchange for the ‘protection’ the DA promised him. She’ll be pissed when the guy’s body turns up, but hey. That’s showbiz, folks. She shouldn’t have broken the rules, either.

Wade is briefly entertaining the idea of taking a croquet mallet to the DA’s head when the music changes from something deep and sultry to something upbeat and poppy. It’s enough of a drastic change to grab his attention, and, raising an eyebrow, he turns on his stool to face the stage.

A few wolf whistles come out from the crowd as the performer takes the stage. His outfit is cute, Wade notes. Little black leather shorts, fishnets, a black halter top. It makes the muscles in his shoulders pop a little, highlights his masculinity instead of detracting from it. It’s a good look. Wade likes it, at least. He wants to lick those muscles.

“He’s legal, right?” Wade asks over his shoulder.

“Fuck if I know,” Weasel responds. “He got in, didn’t he?”

Wade throws a glance down at the cops at the end of the bar, but they don’t seem to care about the dancer’s age. They’re too busy watching him, eyes wide and focused, when they’re not darting away and looking around, like, who, me?

Pretending to be straight looks like so much damn work.

Satisfied this isn’t some sort of ill-conceived sting, Wade turns back to the dancer. He hasn’t done much other than prance around the pole, grinning at the more vocal members of the audience, waving at the shy ones. The kid (kid, because there’s no way he can legally buy a drink) knows how to work a crowd, at least. He’s got them on the edge of their seats, waiting, wanting. And Wade’s not too hung up on his image or his sexuality to admit he’s waiting, too.

The music swells, and the kid raises his arms up over his head. He throws out a wink, and then he spins, back to the crowd. One leg comes up, hooking around the pole, and then he’s bending backwards, arms bowed out over his head, until his fingertips touch the damn stage. The top rides up over a smooth, pale stomach, and there’s no happy trail for Wade to follow even though the shorts are slung low enough that there should be.

It’s enough of a show that Wade almost misses the way the kid’s eyes scan the crowd as he’s upside down. He almost misses the way those eyes evaluate every face they pass over, almost misses the way they land on Wade’s face and linger, far longer than they have any right to, before finally moving on.

“Goddamn,” Wade mutters. He draws his jacket in around himself, covering up the blood spatters on his shirt. “Dammit, Christ, this is the last time I let Colossus be a doorman. He’ll let fucking anyone in if they smile pretty enough.” He turns to the person next to him, pointing to the guy up on the stage. “And he’s pretty, isn’t he? He’s about as pretty as they get.”

“Boss?” Weasel asks behind him. Wade sighs, spinning his stool back around. He doesn’t need to watch the rest of the kid’s routine. He doesn’t want to watch it, even if he is still a little curious about that hyper-flexibility, about what those hands would look like sliding down over black leather, about…

“Christ,” he repeats. At the end of the bar, the two off-duty cops don’t even move, still entranced by the way the dancer is moving. Wade’s certain they’re off-duty. There’s a certain glazed expression in their eyes, a laziness in how they hold themselves. They’re not a threat.

The cop up on the stage, though, is a whole ‘nother fucking story.


It’s not a situation Wade has dealt with before, okay?

The cops have tried to send people in undercover, sure. That’s not new. Whoever Wade has on doorman duty will turn them away with a smile and a polite next time, boys, and that’s the end of that.

If they do get in, they tend to lurk in the background. They don’t draw attention to themselves. If they’re stupid, they try to talk to the dancers, and if they’re less stupid, they try to talk to people at the bar. Sometimes they make Weasel offers, and he laughs and throws drinks in their faces.

But in all the years Wade has been running the club, he’s never seen one of the cops get up on the damn stage.

The kid’s routine is over, but he’s still lingering by the stage, still dressed in all that shiny, black leather. He’s scouting, Wade realizes. If he were actually one of Wade’s dancers, he’d be looking for someone in the crowd who wanted a little more of a private show. But he’s not - the guy doesn’t work there, so what is he looking for?

Wade ignores Weasel’s muttered, “Boss?” as he strides across the room. As soon as he starts moving, the dancer’s eyes fix on him, and he doesn’t even have the fucking common sense to look scared. Instead, he just looks smug as Wade slips his way through the audience, toward the edge of the stage. When he gets there, the kid is resting against it on his elbows, hips thrust out in front of him, and he’s grinning in a matter that’s positively salacious.

“See something you like?” he asks, like Wade is some john just looking for a good time.

Like it’s not Wade’s fucking club.

Instead of answering, Wade grabs the guy’s wrist, and maybe he’s a little too rough, a little too agitated, because he feels bones shift under his hand. But the kid doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he just raises an eyebrow and lets Wade tug him forward.

“We have an agreement,” Wade spits out. His voice is low, hushed, angry. “And part of that agreement is that you fucking pigs stay out of my business.”

He doesn’t know what he expects the kid to say, what he expects as an answer. But he absolutely doesn’t expect to be pulled in closer by the front of his shirt and have that perfect, plush mouth whispering in his ear.

“You’re making a scene,” the cop murmurs, and his voice is soft, but his grip on Wade’s shirt is like iron. They’re close, almost touching at the jaw; if Wade turned, he’d be able to press his nose into the mess of dark brown hair on the other’s head. “If you want to talk, let’s talk. But not out here.”

Wade growls something like agreement, jerking back and smoothing down the front of his shirt when the guy lets go. There’s no hiding the blood now, but the kid, the cop, doesn’t seem to care.

“Come on,” Wade mutters, spinning on his heel and stalking away from the stage. He doesn’t look back to make sure the cop is following him. Half of him wants the guy to put up a fight, to give Wade an excuse to throw him out. Or, try to, at least.

He’s about to go to his office when he remembers that Jamie is still in there, very much murdered and very much not something Wade wants to deal with. So instead of shoving the office door open, he turns down a different hall, kicking open the door to the men’s bathroom.

There’s a guy washing his hands at the sink, but he takes one look at Wade’s face and books it, elbowing past the kid to get out of the bathroom, his hands still dripping wet. Before Wade can move to close the swinging door, though, the cop reaches out, pushing it shut, and then flips the lock into place.

“See?” he says. “Privacy. So much better.” Then he turns, crossing his arms over his chest, and Wade’s eyes are drawn to his shoulders, to the way the position accentuates the musculature there. It’s stupid, the attraction. But Wade can’t deny the fact that the cop is attractive, perhaps as much as he is annoying.

In the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, Wade can see that the guy is wearing makeup. Not much, just some eyeliner and a little glitter, over his cheeks, enough to accentuate but not overwhelm. It’s pretty, and Wade hates that it’s pretty, because the pretty is distracting.

“The fuck are you here for?” he asks. He doesn’t shove the cop up against the wall, but he thinks about it. He thinks the kid probably wouldn’t mind, probably would even fucking blink at being thrown around, not since he’s the one who locked them in a room together.

“Not you.”

Wade blinks. When he doesn’t respond immediately, the kid sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What, did you think I was here for you? You think that’s how we would try to take you down? With a fucking stripper?”

“It wouldn’t be the first stupid stunt your department has pulled,” Wade snaps back. Then he pauses, considering. The cop said not you, which definitely wasn’t a nothing. While Wade would have preferred the nothing, he can settle. He’s a 21st century man, after all - he can compromise. “Who are you?”

The kid’s frustrated expression slips into a grin, and he sticks out his hand like they’re meeting at a work function. “Peter Parker,” he says. “31st precinct. You want a business card?”

Wade shrugs, doesn’t take the hand that’s offered. “Not a huge fan of cops, believe it or not.”

Peter’s grin morphs, hardening around the edges. “If you’re going to cause a problem, Mr. Wilson…”

Yeah. Yeah, the kid, the cop, he’s standing there, all five feet eight inches of black leather and fishnets, threatening New York’s most powerful mobster. Threatening Wade, to his face, in his club, behind a locked door. If nothing else, Peter’s got grit.

“Listen, kid, whether or not I cause problems is entirely up to you and whatever cockamamey plan you and the 31st have concocted. So why don’t you tell me who’s got your panties all in a bunch, literally, and I’ll decide whether or not I’m going to have my bouncer kick your bubble butt to the curb.”

Peter cocks an eyebrow at ‘bubble butt,’ but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he nods, almost to himself. “Yeah, fine,” he says. His tone shifts, leaving flirty behind in favor of serious. “Look, he’s a nasty guy, all right? New to the area, but not the scene. Real fucked up.” Peter shivers, and Wade wonders what he’s seeing in his head, what the case files for this one look like, if they’re better or worse than the scene that’s waiting in his office, just a few feet away.

Peter straightens, clearing his throat. “Bastard’s going by the name ‘Ajax’,” he says, casual.

Wade’s hand flies to his own chest, fingers spreading over his heart. Under his jacket, under the shirt, his skin itches and burns, like the scar tissue there can hear the fucker’s name. He rubs at it, wincing when Peter’s eyes slide down to follow the movement.

“You think he’s gonna come to one of my clubs?” Wade asks, dropping his hand. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shut down the idea - he’s not sure he’s too keen about Peter knowing about his history with Ajax. Not yet, at least. That’s the sort of thing that’s definitely third date material.

“You own every joint in the city,” Peter says, drily. “And clubs like this are kind of his MO.”

You don’t know shit about his MO, Wade wants to say. Instead, he nods. “He’s all yours,” he says. “No complaints from this peanut gallery.” This, this is the sort of thing he excels at, the whole reason behind Rule #3. It’s all about finding a mutually beneficial solution, and getting Ajax put in the chair is definitely a fucking beneficial solution. “I’m gonna assume you’re looking for a cover?” He pauses, looking Peter up and down. “Stripper won’t be a hard sell, though I’m sure you already know that.” He feels a grin of his own tugging at his mouth, and he sticks his hand out. “Well?”

Peter nods, grins, and takes his hand.

“Then you’re hired, Mr. Parker.”

Notes:

All right, lovelies! I know I missed the hype train on this pairing, but better late than never, right? And I'm still holding out hope that we'll get a Tom Holland & Ryan Reynolds interaction in some upcoming movie. The sass would be amazing. Be still my heart.

As per usual, here's a link to my poll. Vote on what you want me to work on next!

Song title from Lorde's "Sober II (Melodrama)".

P.S. The newest pairing I discovered is Eddie Brock/Venom and I just want to say I'M SORRY for the inevitable tentacle porn I'm going to write.