Work Text:
“Hey, do you want to go hiking today?”
Wade sighed in Peter’s general direction, not bothering to look up from his comfortable belly-flop on the soft carpet. “Not particularly?”
He flipped to the next page in his Teen Vogue. Ooh, Top 5 Glitter Brands to Throw at the Alt Right!
There was a whisper of movement as a pair of black leather boots appeared in Wade’s view. His gaze slowly crept up black tac pants, slid with a happy shiver past a thick leather belt, lingered over a dark tee that hugged all the right places, and finally came to a rest on Peter’s angelic face.
“Let me rephrase that,” his boyfriend said sweetly. “We’re going hiking today.”
Wade suddenly found himself feeling a lot more compliant—although perhaps not about hiking. He certainly felt enthusiastic about whining and showing his belly in hopes that he could entice Peter to be mean to him at home instead. Peter just laughed and literally threw him at the closet (hot!), which led to Wade crawling back and trying to unbuckle that belt with his mouth, which led to Peter moving towards the door and threatening to go hiking all by himself if Wade didn't get ready. After that, Wade started to warm up to the hiking idea a teeny bit.
“I’m gonna go grab the car share,” Peter said, ducking out of the apartment. “If you’re not downstairs in 20 minutes, I’m leaving without you.” Wade whined. Why was Dom Peter so unfair? But, like a good boy, he was out on the sidewalk in 18 minutes. Well, maybe it was more like 20 on the nose. Maybe a wee bit closer to 23 minutes. Wade felt a thrill run up his spine as he hopped into the car, wondering how much those three minutes were going to cost him.
“Couldn’t help but notice we’re not going to the Staten Island trail,” Wade observed casually, as Peter drove them out of the city.
“Mmm,” responded Peter. “I heard good things about Black Mountain Loop. Thought we could check it out.” He briefly turned considerate eyes towards Wade. “If that’s okay with you?”
“It’s great!” said Wade. “Love it. Probably the fourth most ominous hiking trail name, and—actually, I’ve never heard of it. Every time I hop on the hiking forums I get so distracted. All that talk of harnesses, knobs, and gear makes me start thinking about gear that’s far less practical, but way more flattering.”
Peter just smiled, hands firmly on the wheel. His thigh flexed in those rough tac pants as he switched between the gas and the brake, and Wade couldn’t keep his eyes off the thick muscle. There were mere inches between his hand and that exquisite hunk of man meat and he itched to close the distance, but he held back. He may have been dumb enough to be three minutes late coming downstairs, but even Wade ‘Bad Decisions’ Wilson wasn’t dumb enough to touch Peter without permission when he’d gone and got himself in a domly frame of mind.
Wade sighed. He’d waited a whole 2.7 seconds and Peter still hadn’t taken the ‘gear’ bait. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“Soooo… that’s a pretty big pack for a day hike…”
“Sure is!” Peter agreed. He turned up the radio.
Aside from the sexy, sexy air of mystery and the positively scrumptious Junior Leather Daddy uniform, Peter was his usual, sweet-tempered self. The trailhead was about an hour out of the city and the time passed quickly as Peter attempted valiantly (if unsuccessfully) to explain his latest nerdy science work stuff, and Wade gave a play-by-play of how he would break into the various facilities that flew by the window. By their third horrible rendition of Dear Theodosia (Wade as Burr and Peter as Hamilton, obviously), Wade had almost forgotten his concerns about the day.
He still cast a suspicious look as he allowed himself to be strapped into a hydration pack, Peter lifting a much larger pack over his own shoulders. Peter was still all smiles and sweet nudges, slipping his hands around Wade’s waist and pulling him in for laughing kisses.
It was a good hike, with enough of an elevation change that they didn’t see many others on the trail. Once it leveled out, Peter started looking around until, with a mischievous grin, he pulled Wade by the hand down a barely-visible side path. Wade had to duck and dodge the branches threatening to whack him in the face—some people don’t have super special psychic spider senses, Peter.
The overgrown path went deeper than Wade had expected (kinda like he was hoping Peter would do, very soon). It was cooler in the dim forest than it had been on the sunny trail, and the calm air was a balm on Wade’s sweaty skin. It was unsettlingly quiet to his big-city ears, the silence only interrupted by the rustle of their bodies through the brush and the wind in the leaves. Peter hung back as they broke through, watching Wade as he took in his surroundings. They were in a small, overgrown clearing, something that may have been a campground in a past life. A picnic table sat on the far side, the coarse wood as gray as driftwood from long years abandoned to the elements. Diffuse sunlight flickered and danced across ground lightly scattered with gravel and bark. Everywhere Wade looked, the evidence of human perseverance was slowly being erased by the inevitability of nature.
Wade turned to Peter, looking to him to take the lead. And Peter did, pulling him in for a deep kiss, pressing his body against Wade’s until Wade was weak in the knees. He barely registered Peter pulling the hydration pack off of his back and letting it fall to the forest floor, too caught up in Peter’s kisses and the sweet tangle of his fingers.
Peter’s fingers tightened, and he gave their joined hands a small shake. Wade felt something slide over his hand and before he knew it, a rope cuff tightened hard around his wrist. Peter spun him around, torquing his hand up behind his shoulder blades. The thin rope whipped around his neck and into Peter’s hand, biting into tender skin. The heel of Peter’s fist pressed tight against the side of his neck. Wade wheezed and arched his back to avoid the slowly increasing sting.
He grasped back with his free hand and fumbled at the front of Peter’s pants in a sloppy appeasement. “At least,” he coughed, pawing in the general direction of his favorite cock, “buy me, hrk, dinner first.”
“Yeah?” Peter’s voice at his ear was smooth as honey and hard as steel. “It sure doesn’t feel like your hand is on my dick right now because I’m being nice to you.”
The rope around Wade’s neck tightened, yanking the hand behind his back up further, until his shoulder started to protest. His unbound hand shot up to flutter at the thin strand biting into his neck.
“Oh no, no, no,” chastised Peter. “You wanted to touch my dick, so go ahead and touch my dick.” He gave the rope a little tug, a little more pressure on the system, a sweet breath of relief when he released. Wade froze for a moment, stunned, and then his free hand dropped and felt blindly back, struggling to reach Peter’s crotch. Peter’s answering hum was less than impressed. Wade tried harder, spots growing in the edge of his vision. Just as everything was going a little grey, the rope suddenly released and the world spun. Wade hit the ground like a drunk woo-girl stepping off a sidewalk at 3am, rubbing at the cuff still around his wrist and gazing adoringly up at Peter.
Peter was not gazing adoringly down at him. He looked indifferent. Bored.
Wade squirmed.
Peter sighed. “Well if you’re not good for that, what are you good for?”
“I make the best tacos you’ve ever had, and I’m a spectacular shot.” Wade paused when Peter’s eyes darkened and quickly tacked on, “Which helps with taking out elbows and knees non-lethally. Have I mentioned my charming personality? That’s always a winner—”
Peter clicked his tongue and Wade’s jaw snapped shut. His tiny dom reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick leather collar. At the first clink of the buckle, Wade shot to his knees, sitting pretty. Peter waved the collar in front of Wade’s face a few times. Wade dug his fingers into his thighs to keep from reaching for the thick strip of leather. “Do you want this?” Peter asked.
“Oh, please, sir, please, please can I have it? Please?” Wade quivered with excitement, eyes wide.
Peter tilted his head, considering.
“Clothes off. Meet me at the picnic table. Convince me you deserve it.”
And then he was across the clearing, taking off his pack and stepping up to sit on the table, feet planted firmly on the bench. He spread his legs and set down the collar with precision, spreading it directly between his boots.
Wade wanted so badly to rip off his clothes and rush over, to bury his face in Peter’s lap and touch and be touched. But he also wanted to be good. So instead, he forced himself to toe off his boots and place them neatly side by side. He pulled his long-sleeve shirt over his head, carefully working it over the cuff tied around his wrist, coiling the long end of the jute rope in his hand for safe-keeping. He folded his clothing into a crisp pile, item by item. He felt Peter’s eyes on him the entire time, knew they were measuring him up and finding him wanting.
Wade was painfully hard already, just from a little bit of mean rope and the jangle of his collar and Peter’s calculating gaze. He shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable on the scattering of gravel, fighting the urge to cover himself. The gravel dug into his bare feet, soft and squishy without their protective combat boots. But… Peter was over there. It was only ten feet. He took a tentative step, wincing as the sharp rocks bit into his foot, then looked up at Peter for approval.
There was no approval to be found.
Wade whimpered as Peter’s eyes slowly flicked to the ground and then back up at him. No, but—crawling was for the bedroom, not for nature. For soft carpets, not mean sticks and gravel and dirt. He looked longingly at Peter again, wanting nothing more than to have his mouth on the crotch of those pants, the heel of one of those big, heavy boots pressing on his spine from behind, his collar tight around his neck.
Peter’s voice echoed in his ears. Convince me you deserve it. Wade took a deep breath and dropped to his hands and knees.
“Fucking shit,” he yelled, hands and knees and shins bright points of pain. A few offended birds burst out of a nearby tree. “Holy cock-looting fuck-snakes, this fucking sucks.” His head darted up. “... Sir,” he added. He swore Peter’s mouth twitched the tiniest bit.
“Is there a problem?” called Peter.
“Nope!” he hissed. “Everything’s fine! Just peachy. Hated these kneecaps anyways.” He glared at the rude, pokey ground in betrayal. “Maximum effort,” he whispered, and began the long, painful crawl to his owner.
~~
Peter watched Wade struggle. He allowed himself a small smile as soon as Wade’s head ducked down, and he reached down to fondle his dick through the thick canvas of his pants. Each whimpering drag of Wade’s body buzzed across his skin and made the base of his cock ache. Every fiber of his being wanted to be across the clearing, slamming Wade to the ground, pressing him onto the sharp, biting rocks. He wanted to force into him and hear the cries of pain with every thrust, as Wade’s back bruised and healed, over and over and over again. Wanted to slap Wade bloody and step on his dick until he was sobbing. He squeezed himself again, breath coming faster, hips rocking involuntarily. It took all the discipline he possessed to pull his hand back.
Fuck.
He had to get himself together. He had plans, and none of them involved coming like a teenager all over Wade’s face in the first five minutes. His cock twitched again (he should not have thought about his come on Wade’s face) and he took a shuddering breath, feeling each pained grunt as a hot, bright spark deep in his belly. One more breath to compose himself, and Wade was on his knees in front of him, eyes hovering somewhere near Peter’s shins.
It was a struggle to take his time as he pulled a pair of black gloves from his pocket. He dragged them on with exaggerated care, tugging his fingers into place one by one. Wade’s eyes bore into the leather, mouth going lax. Peter leaned forward and pressed a smooth, black thumb to those lips, tipping Wade’s chin up, mouth ghosting just shy of a kiss. He felt the tension in Wade’s body, the strain as he held back from lunging up those last few inches. Peter breathed for a long second as Wade’s whimpers got more desperate. Then he leaned back abruptly. Wade slumped, letting his breath out in a huff.
“Good,” Peter said. Then, “Hands.”
Wade sat back on his heels with a wince, hands going to the small of his back, clasping left wrist in right hand. He arched his back and pulled his shoulders together, pushing his broad chest out for assessment. Peter bent down to the picnic bench and picked up the collar. He held it in his hands, gently stroking the leather. Wade’s eyes were up like a shot at the sound of the buckle, following his every move like a pup waiting for a treat. “Do you want this?” asked Peter.
Wade nodded enthusiastically.
“Words, please,” said Peter.
“Yes, sir,” came the whisper.
“Mmm,” said Peter. “Do you know what today is?” Wade shook his head. “It’s Arbor Day.”
Wade froze.
“Mmhmm,” said Peter. “Arbor Day. A national holiday established by J. Sterling Morton in Nebraska City in 1872. It encourages the planting of trees and stewardship of our natural resources. And this year,” Peter paused for effect, “it’s the closest holiday to Easter.” He eyed Wade. “I thought it might be nice to celebrate it, since you went so out of your way to make our Easter so… memorable.”
Wade shivered, breathing fast. His eyes never left the collar.
Peter leaned in, gripping Wade’s chin with one hand, his other fist wrapped around the collar. His voice was low in Wade’s ear. “What I mean to ask is, knowing all that… do you still want to wear this collar today?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wade without hesitation. “Remind me who I belong to.” He ran his tongue over his lips and added a soft, “please.”
Peter laughed, a harsh thing that made Wade’s shoulders tense and his balls ache. Wade shifted back and forth, knees already stinging unbearably. His eyes closed as Peter wrapped the leather wrapped around his neck, tightening into place with a jerk. He couldn’t help but remember the fear in Peter’s eyes as he was bent over the bathroom counter on Easter, stark terror reflected back at him in the mirror. Today was gonna fucking hurt.
“Thank you, sir,” Wade whispered. They both knew he didn’t just mean the collar.
“You’re welcome,” Peter said, and then slapped him hard across the face.
Wade’s head snapped and he gasped wetly, eyes clenched as he came back to center. His clasped hand tightened around his other wrist, pushing the rope cuff into the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. This time, he heard the rustle of Peter’s sleeve. He had to force himself to be still in the split-second before Peter’s hand cracked across his other cheek. He whimpered, “Thank you, sir.”
Peter hit him like he meant it, hard slaps that set his ears ringing and his teeth on edge. He hit him until Wade was stupid with it, tears rolling down his cheeks, gratitude tumbling out of this mouth. Wade didn’t realize he was babbling until Peter started to slow down, “... thank you, sir, please, let me suck your cock. Fuck, this is straight out of Tom of Finland, you been talking to Cable? Please can I suck you, can I bend over for you, please? I’ll take you better than I take a switchblade, take you till my kidneys bleed, please…”
Finally, Peter slowed to a stop. Wade slowly cracked his eyes to gaze adoringly through the tears. “Did you want something?” Peter asked, almost sweetly.
“May your boy please suck your cock, sir?”
Peter smirked. “Nope,” he said, popping the word. Wade whined. Peter sat back. “Boots.”
Wade was well trained—he didn’t need further instruction to lean down and press a dry kiss to the top of one boot, and then the other. His eyes fluttered closed and he just barely heard Peter’s low sigh, quiet and content. Peter’s boots were grimy from the trail, their soft shine dulled. These trusty boots carried Peter up and down New York city streets every day, jeans tucked adorably into folded-down tops. They carried him from his favorite hole-in-the wall diners to the cozy corners of his favorite bookshops. They protected him from the elements as he rushed laughing through puddles to catch the last train.
It didn’t even cross Wade’s mind to hesitate before putting his mouth on them.
Wade licked Peter’s boots like he cleaned his guns, with dedication bordering on obsession, with a far greater degree of care than he ever took for himself. His brain slowed to molasses with each long, meticulous stroke. The leather was smooth under his tongue, the dust giving way to the taste of leather and polish, tasting more like home and safe and content the longer he worked. His feet ached beneath him, losing sensation even as they screamed about the harsh surface. The rope bit into his wrist under his clenched hand. He ignored it all, mouthing wetly at the boots with a single-minded purpose until they shined.
Wade gave a confused blink when Peter’s hand stroked over his cheek and around the back of his head. His brain was pleasantly floaty, his legs unpleasantly numb. How long had he been down here? The boots shifted in Wade’s view and disappeared as Peter jumped lightly down from the picnic table. Warm leather stroked Wade’s spine, strong hands moving to his shoulders to knead out tension he hadn’t realized was there. Peter pulled Wade to standing. He wobbled, hissing as the sensation came back into his feet.
Wade still clasped the coil of rope tied around his wrist. Peter gently pried his fingers open and took the rope back, leaving his wrist bound. He stalked around Wade, assessing him. Peter always did this, and Wade never knew what he was looking for—the tension in his shoulders? The minute slant of one hip hitched slightly higher than the other? Whatever he saw, the result was always a tie that cradled and supported and hurt in all the right places.
This time wasn’t any different, as Peter finished his internal calculations and crossed Wade’s arms in front of him, each hand on the opposite shoulder. Once he started he was lightning fast, turning Wade this way and that as he haphazardly wrapped the rope around Wade’s chest. Like the web of a brown recluse, Peter’s rope was sloppy but viciously efficient. Before Wade could catch his breath he was bound, straining against a sturdy tie. He flexed his arms, surprised as always at how completely a few passes of thin rope could immobilize him. The rope already cut painfully into the soft flesh of his forearms, straining against his back muscles.
“How’s that feel?” asked Peter, circling behind him. He assessed Wade like a blueprint, adjusting the ropes a half inch here, a quarter inch there.
“Hurts, sir,” Wade replied. “Nobody warned me that torture rope was gonna suck. Gotta say, sir, I’m glad you’ve decided to use your powers for good. If the villains of the world ever realize how much shittier thin rope is, they’ll stop using those comically large ropes that are so easy to escape from.”
Peter snorted and shoved him forward. He landed on his crossed forearms on the picnic table, crying out as the impact jolted up his shoulders. Peter was on him, thumbs kneading into the muscles of his ass until he hissed in pain. Pushing on his lower back until it flattened, pulling his hips up, kicking his legs apart, placing him just so until he met Peter’s precise, impossible standards. Wade keened at being handled so impersonally. He needed Peter, needed to make him feel good. He pushed his hips back, hoping for the grounding pressure of Peter hard and erect against him, hoping for the promise of being used and being useful.
Peter stepped back, otherwise ignoring him. He fingers pressed callously into the tendons on the outside of Wade’s thighs. Wade gasped in pain, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to focus on being good, on taking what he was given and being grateful for it. Every press on a tender spot made him want to flinch away, or shift from foot to foot to process the pain. He quivered with the tension of staying still. Peter patted his flank, a bland acknowledgement of Wade’s efforts. And then he was gone and Wade sagged, missing even the cruel touch already.
The stillness was broken by the soft click of a lube bottle, and by Wade’s loud grunt as Peter slid two fingers into him without preamble. “Fuck, sir, didn’t anyone ever teach you to warm up the speculum first? Wait… are you still wearing the gloves? You’re still wearing the gloves, that so ho- ahh!” He cut off in a wail as Peter curled his fingers down harshly.
Then Peter’s other hand was fisting down Wade’s cock, slick and tight, and Wade couldn’t breathe. Peter released his hand at the bottom of each stroke, coming back up to tighten on the downstroke, and Wade felt like he was fucking in and in and in and in, and the fingers in his ass were targeting exactly the right spot, hard, and Wade wanted to crawl out of his skin.
He could tell he was going to come, and he could tell it was the kind of orgasm that was going to hurt. Too fast and too hard, bright behind the back of his eyes, leaving him sore and unsatisfied, and fuck, he was too fucking close.
“Sir,” he gasped, barely able to get the words out, “Sir, please, can I come?”
“No,” said Peter. His hands didn’t slow.
“Please,” wheezed Wade. “You need to stop, I need you to stop, please, I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.”
“Let me make this clear,” said Peter. His voice was matter-of-fact, level in a way that sent a cold spark straight down Wade’s spine. “You do not have permission to come. My silence is not permission. My hands continuing to move in or on your body is not permission. If you come without permission, you will not enjoy the consequences. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand, sir,” Wade gasped. He squirmed, wishing he could pull his legs together to help stave off his impending orgasm. He started to panick, breath coming shallow and fast. Peter’s hands didn’t slow down. “Please, sir, I need you to stop touching me, please.”
“If you’re getting too close, ask for the switch,” Peter continued. “If you’re done with the switch, ask me to edge you. Clear?”
“Please, may I have the switch, sir?” Wade shouted, body starting to clench. Peter’s hands disappeared abruptly, leaving his cock to twitch against the cold air. The swift withdrawal of Peter’s fingers turned him inside out, leaving him cramping hard around nothing. His hips stuttered as they chased the lost sensations and he started to cry, sore and ashamed, as an unsatisfying spurt of liquid dribbled out of his cock. His balls clenched, aching like he’d been kicked. Peter patted his flank.
“We won’t count that one, since it looked like it sucked. But we’re going to ask sooner next time, right?”
Wade drew a breath through his tears. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
Then there was a swish through the air and he was screaming. A line of fire cut across his ass, and the thin ropes cut lines into his arms as he struggled.
“You know what to say when you’re done,” said Peter, and then he didn’t say much of anything at all.
The switch was unbearable, painting a blaze of agony across his ass and thighs as he writhed. The strikes were measured and meticulous, a slow but continuous onslaught until Wade’s throat was hoarse from screaming. He held out as long as he could, until the queasy anticipation before every stroke was almost as bad as the stroke itself.
“Please edge me, sir,” he pleaded. The sweet, shining moment of relief was rapturous, but regret almost immediately set in.
Peter’s hands were just as unbearable as the switch. Between the switching and the ruined orgasming, Wade’s dick had lost a little bit of its mojo. It didn’t matter. Peter worked him up painfully fast, unrelenting prodding and vice-tight heat working in tandem to yank an orgasm out of him as quickly as possible. From his position over the table, Peter was out of his line of vision. Wade felt alone and adrift. It was exceptionally demeaning to be ravished so thoroughly in such a vacuum—like a trussed up piece of meat, no purpose but to take and take and take. His body and his owner were in league against him as he felt the sick curl of orgasm tugging behind his naval, much too hard and much too soon. “Please, sir, may I have the switch?”
The air rushed out of him as he was left empty and cold once again, the evil switch slicing into him and making him forget that there was ever a time when he had wanted to come.
~~
Wade made it through one more vigorous switching and was halfway to a ruined orgasm when it somehow managed to get worse. Peter’s indifferent hand worked inside him, sending a chill through his gut even as it stoked him to boiling. He babbled, squirming as he was stretched uncomfortably wide. “Please, sir, please fuck me, I’ll make it so good for you, please.”
“You think you deserve my cock?” Wade just whined. Peter growled, “I asked you a direct question.”
“I don’t know, sir?”
Peter hummed. “Not the worst way you could answer. The correct answer is that it’s always up to me. So. Do you think you deserve my cock?”
“It’s not up to me, sir, it’s up to you,” gasped Wade.
“Good,” said Peter, and Wade gave a happy shiver despite himself. “And the answer is no. You don’t deserve my cock and you’re not getting it today. I’m just getting you ready.”
Wade collapsed in on himself, wriggling and despondent. His brain scrambled to parse Peter’s words. “What are you getting me ready for, sir?”
Peter hummed. “I’m so glad you asked. You see, after Easter, I had a little time to think through what you deserved for coming up with such a… creative celebration for us. And I figured, well, if Easter is about hiding eggs…” The hand on Wade’s cock disappeared and he sighed at the brief reprieve, though Peter’s other hand still probed unerringly at his prostate.
Peter’s face came into his view. Wade couldn't help the desperate moan of pleasure at the sight of his owner. Then Peter set down… a pinecone?
Wade’s mouth went dry. “…Sir?”
“If Easter is about hiding eggs, Arbor Day is about planting trees,” Peter explained matter-of-factly. Wade searched his face for the joke. A cold tendril of fear curled in his stomach. The obscene sound of Peter’s hand working slickly in and out of him was loaded with sudden foreboding.
Wade swore. “What’s my- what’s my other choice, sir?”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Wade’s eyes were pleading. “I gave you a choice, I gave you another choice. Please, sir! Even if it’s awful, I just need to know.”
A cold laugh fell out of Peter’s mouth. “You made your choice when you let me put that collar on you today.”
He stood back up, and his hand wrapped tight around Wade’s cock, and fuck, it was too much, it was so intense it hurt, and Wade started begging for the switch. He gasped sharply as Peter pulled out. Peter’s tacky hand rested heavy on Wade’s lower back. With a sick jolt, Wade realized how easily Peter could hold him down. No matter how much Wade struggled, Peter would make him take whatever he chose to give. He was alone in the wilderness with someone much stronger than him, tied up, a fucking pinecone staring him in the face, and there was no one around for miles to hear him scream for help.
“Look at the pinecone,” Peter said.
Wade looked at the pinecone, and the switch landed, and Wade screamed, and Peter gave no quarter.
~~
By the time Peter had four fingers in him, Wade was done. The inside of his ass was sensitive enough to feel Peter’s lockscreen passcode. The tight circle of fingers around his cock felt electrified. His skin chafed under the rope, and he had slowly and painfully begun to realize that his clever, evil boyfriend had crossed and stacked the ropes very precisely over some very sensitive pressure points. The mere sound of the switch rushing through the air was enough to have him begging for a hand on his cock, and the slightest brush against his cock made him plead for the switch. And of course—the pinecone.
Art by Atemy
The pinecone blurred in and out of his vision. It was what one might call a standard pinecone, if there was such a thing. Not giant, but definitely neither cute nor decorative. Just… average? Its dried-out scales spread menacingly, and Wade was sure it was glaring at him. He had no idea how such a thing was supposed to go inside a body without causing serious damage.
At least the egg had been smooth, okay? Wade wasn’t a monster, though he was starting to have his suspicions about his sweet Petey-pie.
Speaking of that boy—Wade’s world tilted and his head spun as he was hauled up. To say he was standing would be an overstatement. His feet were technically under him as Peter supported him. “That was a nice break, wasn’t it?” Peter asked.
He shook Wade a little when he didn’t get a response. Wade managed to slur, “That was a nice break, thank you, sir.”
Peter carefully but swiftly unwound the rope, and Wade’s arms flexed in agonized relief as the blood rushed back into compressed skin. Peter pulled him back against his chest, giving his arms a few brusque squeezes and humming in satisfaction as Wade obligingly let his limbs be moved, joints bent and unbent, hands and fingers squeezed. Wade leaned back, desperate for the contact.
Peter hummed. “Good. Now that you’ve had a little break, time to spend some more time on the ground, hmm?”
Then Peter stepped out of range and Wade’s knees buckled and he fell the fuck down, gravity rudely reasserting itself. He tried to catch himself on weak arms, but mostly just succeeded in curling into a little ball of misery.
Peter walked around him in a slow circle. Wade didn’t bother to straighten, just lay there scrunched up like a bug under a magnifying glass. Finally, Peter’s boots made their way back into Wade’s line of vision. Then one word. “Present.”
With a groan, Wade forced himself onto hands and knees, cursing as the gravel bit into his skin. Even so, he held his back straight, neck in line with his spine, displaying himself. Peter walked around him again, nudging his legs apart a hair, pushing at his belly with the toe of one boot.
Then Peter was kneeling next to Wade, hand stroking down his spine. “I would suggest,” he said gently, “that you relax. A lot.”
And then Wade dropped to his elbows because something very pokey was pressing in somewhere very intimate, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was completely fucking terrified. He whimpered and tried to relax, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Please, sir,” he started, but was shushed.
“No begging,” said Peter, and that was that. No begging, because Peter said so, and because Peter wasn’t going to stop. Wade cursed and whined instead, chest heaving as the pinecone jabbed at his sensitive tissues. That Peter hadn’t skimped on the lube was a mercy, but it meant the hard spines were sliding freely, no friction to keep them from digging deep into his flesh.
Then there was a push and Wade was screaming into his crossed arms. There was no adjusting to this. The more his muscles tried to accommodate, the deeper the evil thing bit. Wade’s every instinct was to push against it, but he knew that would hurt him more. He was pinned down by a pinecone, unwilling to move a single muscle for fear of jostling it. It was the worst kind of bondage, self-induced by terror and with the consequences of failure astronomical. He shook uncontrollably as his confused body twitched this way and that in a desperate and futile attempt to find reprieve.
Peter’s voice was in his ear again. “Don’t clench,” he said, and then he ran a fingertip down Wade’s cock and Wade bellowed. His hips tried to thrust forward, then immediately snapped back. Peter laughed.
He moved around Wade, touching him here and there. Sliding his hand around Wade’s cock. Running fingers down his chest and sides. Twisting his balls lightly. With every touch, Wade flinched despite himself, crying out as the pinecone worked its way deeper with every shudder. He yelped when Peter tapped on the base of it, forcing it into his flesh.
Wade breathed shallow, terrified gasps. The sensations were bad, but the fear even worse—if it was this bad now, what would happen if he clenched down for real? Would it actually rip him open? What if Peter got bored and just shoved it the rest of the way in? Every little tap on his body worked him up more, every stinging stroke along his cock. He imagined Peter abandoning him, packing up, leaving him here all alone, kneeling here unable to get the pinecone out by himself. He imagined Peter making him crawl, eyeing him with a cruel gaze as he reclined casually back on the table and stroked his cock, ordering Wade to drag his wrecked body over for worship.
“I’m going to be honest, I’m impressed,” said Peter. “I really expected this to break you. Guess I’ll have to give you something you can’t help but clench around.” He put a warm, heavy hand on the back of Wade’s neck.
Wade couldn’t breathe, couldn’t begin to parse what Peter might mean, could only stay frozen as the long seconds stretched on. There was a swish through the air and then the back of Wade’s thighs were pure fire, and he howled in agony as his body locked around the pinecone.
Peter stilled, watching and waiting. He let Wade take his time, let him try to slow down his panicked breathing on his own. Wade thrashed his head, muttering under his breath, hands clenching and unclenching against bark and gravel and dirt.
Peter waited. Anticipation curled in his stomach—arousal, power, and a heady dash of fear. This was a razor’s edge he was walking, pushing Wade as far as it was possible to push him… and then just one step more. It was intoxicating, the long, uncertain breath as he waited to see if this was the time he had gone too far. The moment stretched on, even the forest paying rapt attention to Wade’s struggle, birds quiet and breeze still.
Finally he heard it, tiny and ashamed. “Yellow.”
Peter released a shaking breath, the only external acknowledgement of the near-painful wave of arousal that shot through his gut to press hard and bright against the bones of his pelvis. If he hadn’t already been on his knees beside Wade, it would have taken him to the ground. His grip tightened on Wade’s neck, and then he kissed Wade’s shoulder blade. “I’m going to take the pinecone out, okay?” he soothed.
Wade shook his head hard. “No! I don’t need it out. I just can’t get hit like that with it in. Please sir, I can do it, I can take it for you.” His hands clutched at the ground, shoulders tied in knots, tension pushing out and out and out in glorious ripples across his back as he relaxed his core through sheer willpower. He shook with effort.
After taking a selfish moment to appreciate the view, Peter tsked and dropped fluidly to the ground, rolling to his back under Wade’s body until their faces were inches apart. Wade’s eyes clenched tight with misery. Peter cupped that sweet, crumpled face, stroking soothing lines down Wade’s cheekbones until his eyes slowly cracked open.
“Hey, you,” Peter smiled, crunching up to kiss Wade. Wade kissed back like a dying man and Peter let him. Eventually, Peter pulled back. This time, Wade met his eyes and gave him a watery smile. “You’re doing so good,” Peter informed him.
Wade shook his head, trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Why are you sorry for taking care of what’s mine?” asked Peter. Wade groaned and then winced. Peter laughed gently. “Yeah? You like being mine? You like it so much you tightened up a little?” Wade’s cheeks went pink. Peter gave the ring on his collar a little tug. “Who decides what happens to you while you’re wearing this?”
“You do, sir.”
“That’s right. So I’m going to take the pinecone out because I’m done with it. And then I’m going to do whatever the hell I want. Okay?”
Peter held Wade’s gaze until Wade gave a tiny nod. With a quick kiss, Peter rolled back up to his knees. Grasping Wade’s neck, he gave the pinecone one last fond look. It looked absolutely obscene, half-buried in swollen pink flesh. It wasn’t even all that far in, really. It probably felt ten times scarier than it actually was. Just the tip, just for a second… Peter had to hold back a giggle. He dipped his fingers around the edges, wincing in sympathy as Wade hissed. “Give me a little push, baby,” and then the pinecone was coming out with the slightest of tugs. Wade made a shamed little sound.
Peter set the pinecone on the ground between Wade’s hands, allowing himself to laugh out loud at Wade’s low cry at the sight. He admired Wade’s fluttering, abused hole, dipping the tips of his fingers in and out of the swollen ring of muscle. The slick shine on his gloves as the black leather disappeared and reappeared was hypnotizing, and a little bit disgusting. Drizzling a little more lube into his hands, he firmly pressed two fingers into Wade’s ass, sliding his other hand fast and tight down Wade’s cock.
Wade shouted as Peter hit his prostate dead on, slick hand moving fast on his cock. “Please,” he begged, “Fuck, please, please, sir.”
“You want something?” Peter asked.
“May I—fuck—may I please come, sir?” Wade gasped, barely able to string together the sentence.
Peter felt like a god with this much power held hostage between his two hands. His head spun with it—an unstoppable force had met an immovable object, and Peter had won. He had disciplined Wade’s resisting, uncooperative chaos into exacting order. Wade was at the edge, sculpted into a begging mess, fragile and insignificant, and Peter could play him with a press of fingers and a single word.
“Come.”
Wade groaned and convulsed, shooting strands of white over the forest floor. It was like everything came abruptly into focus: every cruel strike, every detached stroke from uncaring hands, every screaming discomfort from ropes and rocks. The pain coalesced in an energy that zinged down his spine and out his cock, pulsing out until he was scraped bare.
Peter didn’t slow up as Wade shuddered in his hands, wringing it out of him until he was just short of screaming, begging for Peter to stop. Wade dug his fingers into the dirt to hold himself back from grabbing Peter’s wrist. He knew that if he laid hands on Peter while wearing his collar, the consequences would be astronomical. But he couldn’t take this.
“Please,” he slurred, unable to catch his breath, “Please stop, please, sir, please, fuck, I can’t, sir, I can’t, please, I’ll do anything.”
Peter’s clever, wicked hands paused, and Wade trembled. Every shiver made him twitch into Peter’s fist in a cycle of agony. The moment stretched on as Peter kept him there, whimpering helplessly as he jerked back and forth between Peter’s hands, eyes locked to the ground in shame. There were a few shiny glimmers of come on that fucking pinecone, and Wade glared at it with a hatred that transcended the ages. He quivered.
“Are we forgetting something?” asked Peter.
Wade’s brain was slow and sluggish as he tried to think it through. Peter let him take his time. Finally, he figured it out. “Thank you for letting me come, sir,” he mumbled.
“Good,” Peter purred above him, and then his hands were pulling off and out of Wade, and Wade wailed at the sudden friction. Then his boot pressed heavy between Wade’s shoulder blades. “Now clean up your mess.”
Wade whimpered. He couldn’t even think as he shuffled back, knees screaming, to dab his tongue at the ground. Pine needles stuck to his tongue and stabbed at the roof of his mouth, filling his mouth with the taste of dirt and come. Tears had been prickling the corners of his eyes since he had safeworded, and now they overflowed. First a sniffle, then full on sobs, heaving in great breaths as he continued to lick at the forest floor.
Peter’s boot on his back grew heavier until Wade’s ass was in the air, his entire upper body pressed to the forest floor. The weight lifted for a brief moment, then Peter’s boot came back down on his face, trapping him like a vice between the filthy rubber and the mess of come and dirt and spit.
He heard the sound of a zipper and he whined, fingers twitching, wanting to wrap literally any part of his body around that cock. He shuddered as he imagined Peter pushing easily into his oversensitive hole, hating the idea but at the same time needing it. He needed Peter to use him, hurt him, he didn’t care as long as Peter touched him.
“I am touching you,” Peter said, grinding the boot harder onto his face. There was a breathiness to his voice, and a slick, rhythmic sound, and Wade wanted to see, to watch Peter get off, even if he couldn’t touch. Peter kept talking. “Do you have any idea the things I want to do when you get like this? Fuck, every time you scream I just want to hurt you more. I almost came in my fucking pants when you safeworded, you know that? Just made me want to shove that thing into you harder, hear the sounds you would make if I really hurt you.”
Wade was babbling again and Peter couldn’t make it out, but he found he didn’t much care to.
The things Wade made him want to do… sometimes the darkness of his fantasies scared the hell out of him, even as they made him come harder than he had in his entire life. It went straight to his dick to hear Wade plead like this, to hear the garbled mix of ‘please’ and ‘sir,’ and utter nonsense. To press his boot ever so conscientiously against that dumb, begging face and to imagine pushing down hard, grinding until tissue bruised and bone crunched.
“Fuck,” Peter said, “I should make you hump the gravel, if you want something to touch you that bad,” and it wasn’t a responsible thing to say, he knew it wasn’t a responsible thing to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit, because he hadn’t even given the order but Wade was sliding his knees painfully back and his pelvis hit the ground and he howled, the agonized sound muffled in dirt and rubber and leather.
A responsible top would be putting an end to this. Would be recognizing how fucking deep Wade was, so deep he would try to do absolutely anything Peter said, no matter how harmful. Would recognize that, with the shame of a safeword fresh in his mouth, Wade was going to push himself too hard. Peter did understand all these things. He watched Wade’s ass flex as it stuttered against the ground, and listened to the absolutely inhuman sounds pouring from Wade’s throat.
He didn’t stop. He pressed his boot down harder, and he gasped, and he came.
Wade twitched as the wet drops landed across his back. He stopped humping and his body went lax, except for the soft hitches in his chest as he continued to cry.
Peter tipped his head a bit, pursing his lips. He yanked off one glove with his teeth. Reached into his pocket for his phone. Framed up Wade’s back splattered with his come, his own boot, the forgotten pinecone just barely in the top corner of the shot.
The click of the camera was loud in the tranquil clearing.
~
~
There was a little meadow just off the camp ground, and Peter had a thin blanket rolled up tight in his pack. He unfolded the blanket in a sunbeam and went back for Wade, carrying him over in a heavy little ball and unfolding him onto the blanket. Shucking his clothes and sitting, Peter manipulated a thigh under Wade’s head with a happy hum. Wade blinked as he was fed an apple slice, then a handful of trail mix. “You’re too good to me,” he mumbled.
“I’m exactly good enough,” grinned Peter.
“I can’t believe you fucked me with a pinecone.” Wade’s voice was dreamy as he gazed at the sky.
Peter hit his shoulder with a gentle bap. “I can’t believe you gang banged me with marshmallows.”
They lay like that for a long time. Wade dug his fingers in the warm grass, picking wildflowers and twirling them into a chain. Peter settled on his back, running absent fingers under the edge of the collar.
“Do you ever think we’re… too weird?” Peter blurted, interrupting the silence.
“Define ‘too weird,’” Wade blinked.
“Like… can’t we have normal kinks? Like normal people? Whips and bondage and all that stereotypical stuff?”
“Do you want to stick to the stereotypical stuff?” Wade asked.
“I don’t know,” said Peter slowly. “Just… do you ever feel like we’re just being weird for the shock value? Or, like, just doing stuff to be edgy.”
Wade rolled over onto his stomach and propped up on his elbows, looking down on Peter’s thoughtful face. He gently twisted his flower chain into Peter’s unruly hair. “I think,” he said slowly, “I think that you’re the kind of person who thought it was a good idea to put on a spider-themed supersuit and fight crime. And I’m just… I’m just me. I think we both have a pretty strong novelty fetish.”
Peter huffed. “So we’re just doing weird shit for the sake of being weird.”
“No, baby. We’re doing weird shit because that’s the kink. The knowledge that we’re doing something new, that we’re pushing the boundaries. It gets us off.” Peter didn’t look satisfied. Wade scrambled for an example. “You just… you remember that time, with the ice swan?” Peter squeaked, cheeks going pink. “I took a picture of you, right when I was telling you what I was about to do. Your face, in that photo. You just had this look of shock. Just… absolute betrayal. And jesus, I’m getting hard right now just thinking about that face. I jerk off to that picture all the time, and it’s not even showing anything. Just your face. So yeah, that thrill of doing something new, and the reaction to it. That’s real. And that’s just as legit as getting off on spanking or bondage or any of the rest.”
Peter sat up on his elbows so he could look properly at Wade. “I think… I think I get what you’re saying. But…” His eyes were worried. “But how do we know when to stop escalating?”
“I think we’ll be alright. Honestly, I think we’ve both about hit our limit as far as intensity goes.” Wade grinned. “I expect we’ll just get more and more creative. And that, my little love nugget—well that’s something to look forward to.”
Peter nodded to himself. “It is fun. I’m having fun. And it makes for a great story.” The sun hit him from behind, lighting up the wildflowers in his wispy hair into a halo. Wade’s heart skipped a beat.
“Sir?” he asked. “Permission to give you a completely vanilla blowjob?”
Peter laughed. “Are you even capable of that?”
Wade grinned wickedly. “Anything could happen, sir.” He scooted in to shoulder Peter’s thighs apart, settling between them and nudging at Peter’s thickening cock. He nosed around the base, mouthing up and down the shaft as it started to harden.
“Fuck, baby,” Peter sighed, “you are so fucking good at this.”
Wade had his mouth around Peter’s cock now, and his pleased hum vibrated Peter to the core. Wade looked fucking phenomenal. The muscles in his shoulders rippled as he languidly worked up and down Peter’s cock. Peter’s eyes followed the groove down his spine, every feature defined and gorgeous. Thick shoulders gave way to a broad waist to a muscular ass, slowly flexing as Wade rutted against the soft blanket. The dappled sunlight shifted over him as a gentle breeze rocked the top of the trees, shadows and scars winding and unwinding over the broad planes of his skin. Peter blinked hard, eyes suddenly wet.
As he watched, one of Wade’s hands crept underneath himself. His sudden groan vibrated through Peter’s cock, and Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Wade’s bicep flexed, the motion coiling down the corded muscles of his forearms and down into strong hands as he slowly jacked himself. Peter would never get tired of this, of seeing the brutal, unrelenting man that was Wade Wilson melting into sweet compliance beneath him.
Wade shifted, propping up on an elbow so he could reach between Peter’s legs. There was enough spit in play that it was an easy task to slide a finger inside of Peter, to pulse it gently in time with the slow undulation of his throat. Peter tipped his head back and looked at the sky.
Wade was at it for a long time, all slow slide and long swallows. When Peter finally began to feel his orgasm build it almost took him by surprise. Sweet, gentle tension stretched soft across his pelvis. Wade’s forearm shifted faster under his body and he started to cry out around Peter’s cock, each muffled word winding him minutely tighter.
“You wanna come, babe?” Peter asked softly, the sound of his own voice surprising him. He got a stifled, desperate whine in response, and said, “You can come when I do, baby. Just keep doing what you’re doing, it’s so-” He couldn’t even describe how good it was. “It’s perfect, just like that.”
His orgasm, when it came, was a long sigh, a slow flex of muscles. His hips stuttered forward into the exquisite warmth of Wade’s mouth, trembling as he chased the sensation. Through the haze of bliss he managed to whisper, “come,” and Wade moaned around his cock, hips twitching sporadically towards the ground. Peter took a breath, shifting his weight so he could stroke his fingers down the back of Wade’s head, over and over, until they were both mesmerized.
Eventually Peter’s arm started wearing out and he eased himself back onto the blanket. Wade’s mouth came off his cock, and a shiver ran from his tailbone to the crown of his head as Wade’s finger pulled out in a slow slide. Wade gathered him up tight and kissed the side of his mouth.
“See?” Wade whispered. “We can totally do vanilla.”
Peter turned in his arms and pressed his face to that beautiful, strong chest. The meadow was shady and he was starting to feel the chill; they’d have to head back soon, before they lost their light. His fingers came up to tangle in the ring on the collar.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back. “That didn’t feel very vanilla to me.”