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“Quiet.”
Patch takes a long drag from his cigar and considers the man sprawled on the ground. Flicking the end between his fingers, he sends ash tumbling down onto Deadpool’s black suit. He exhales and the cloud almost reaches the Merc’s fully masked face, but dissipates into the ambient haze of the room.
Deadpool hasn’t moved since he had been roughly dumped out of Patch’s lap and onto the floor. The fresh claw wounds on his thighs quickly close, but the gashes in the expensive fabric remain.
He keeps his head down; the eyes of his mask obscured by his hood. The silver cage of his muzzle catches the low lamplight of the room.
Across the table, some no-name dealer clears his throat. Patch turns his good eye towards him, eyebrow quirked as he’s taking another drag on his cigar.
It's quiet, neither seated man saying anything. Deadpool doesn’t dare move. After a moment, Patch leans back in his chair, he gestures towards the dealer, indicating for him to continue, which he does–obviously glad for the break in tension–talking about the latest acquisition at his company, and starts in on a clearly rehearsed pitch explaining why it would be of benefit for Patch to sign on.
Deadpool shifts slightly, one dress shoe sliding a couple inches across the carpet, and Patch looks down. Another drag on his cigar.
“Come here, pup.”
Deadpool quickly moves to his hands and knees, crawling on all fours towards Patch, who is spreading his legs farther apart and patting the inside of his thigh.
The dealer across the table trails off, and Patch turns his head sharply to look at him.
“Continue.”
The dealer stutters a bit, nervously eyeing the top of Deadpool’s hood inching closer to Patch; it’s the only part of him visible from across the table.
“Ah… yes, well, like I was saying… The potential for multiple new high revenue streams is astronomical, and that’s on top of the already existing channels. I’ve predicted that–”
Patch looks back down at Deadpool, letting the dealer continue talking but only half listening. The muzzled merc has made his way fully between Patch’s legs, and is nervously raising his hands to rest them on top of Patch’s thighs.
“Those paws better be fucking clean,” he growls around the cigar, “this suit is new.”
Deadpool looks up at him quietly. His voice is gravely when he goes to use it.
“I can take my gloves off-”
Patch tangles fingers into the steel and yanks his muzzle. He leans down to growl.
“What kind of dog fucking talks?”
Something like a whimper pushes through Deadpool’s mask.
“Should I come back later?” The dealer, Patch doesn’t remember his name or even his affiliation, is wringing his hands and looking nervously towards Patch’s white-knuckled grip tangled in the bars of the muzzle.
“Finish your pitch now, or leave and don’t come back. Those are your only two choices.”
The dealer stutters, but eventually folds his hands in his lap and continues talking.
Deadpool slumps back down between his thighs when Patch lets his fingers loosen and fall from the muzzle. He curls his fingers under Deadpool’s chin instead, cradling the metal cage, and strokes a thumb over the sharp corner of Deadpool’s jawbone near his ear as he watches the nervous man across the table stumble over his words. After a few moments, the hand under Deadpool’s jaw pulls him forward and deposits his face into Patch’s lap. There’s a thumb tracing the thick leather strap attached to the top of the metal cage, and it follows the leather all the way behind Deadpool’s head. The buckle of the strap clinks softly as Patch undoes it, one handed, and when Deadpool takes a chance to peek up, Patch isn’t even looking at him; still humoring the dealer with his attention and a scowl. The muzzle slips down Deadpool’s mask as soon as it is unbuckled—the bottom strap remains latched snugly around his throat—and Patch hooks a finger in the cage and tosses it behind Deadpool, where it dangles between his shoulder blades.
The hands on Patch’s thighs twitch when he runs his fingers down to tuck under Deadpool’s shirt collar and tug his mask up only so far as his nose to expose his mouth. One claw slowly extends and drags along the soft skin of Deadpool’s cheek, drawing an angry red wet line that quickly closes.
Deadpool whines into Patch’s lap.
Patch tsks and looks down.
”Annoying, needy thing,” he rumbles. He takes a deep drag of his cigar and puffs it down into his lap. He takes a moment to consider something, before demanding—“Tongue.”
Deadpool drops his mouth open and lets his tongue hang out.
Patch takes another drag from his cigar. He takes it out of his mouth, rolls it between his fingers before grabbing Deadpool’s jaw with his free hand and presses the lit tip into the center of Deadpool’s wet, waiting tongue. It sizzles audibly and he exhales a dense cloud of smoke into Deadpool's wincing face.
A loud whimper follows the removal of cigar from burnt tissue. The grip on Deadpool’s jaw tightens, thumb digging into cheek meat roughly enough to keep Deadpool’s jaw hanging open. His head is jerked up, and Patch watches as the flesh on his tongue shifts and heals, returning to its original soft pink state. Deadpool’s hips shift, and Patch yanks his head to the side by the grip on his jaw, peering down between Deadpool’s legs. He presses his fresh—so fresh that the scent of wax hangs thickly around them—shined shoe into the tent he finds there. He continues to press into it until Deadpool makes a choked sound, and then he grinds his toe in a bit further for good measure.
“Disgusting mutt, you’re actually enjoying this?”
Deadpool nods stupidly.
“Of course you are,” Patch growls, sounding thoroughly annoyed, “I’d wonder why I keep such a freak like you around, but I already know the answer.” He puts the cigar back into his mouth and reaches down to undo his belt and suit pants. “That smart mouth of yours has much better uses, doesn’t it?”
The room is dead quiet as Patch pulls his cock out. It lays heavy on his thigh, half hard and growing thick with interest. He looks at Deadpool’s healed tongue, still hanging out of his mouth, and grabs his cigar to burn it again. He keeps the cigar pressed into the twitching flesh until he stops hearing the sizzle. Pulling the cigar away, he pulls Deadpool farther into his lap and drops his grip on his jaw. His voice is a deep rumble in the silent room.
“Lick.”
Deadpool’s tongue is rough from the burn as he drags it from root to tip slowly. He briefly tucks it back in his mouth to get it wet before repeating the motion. Patch feels it become softer as it heals, the rough texture giving way to an increasing smooth wetness with each slow drag. He attempts to take another drag but the cigar is out. A quick flick of flame re-lights it. There’s a clink as he flips the lighter closed and tucks it back into the chest pocket he grabbed it from as he looks over the table at the dealer. He thinks his name started with a D. Dominic? Derrick? Not that it matters. D-name dealer looks like he’s about to keel over from sheer embarrassment.
“What’s the exact ratio of profit vs investment that I’m looking at here?” Patch asks, taking a long drag on his cigar.
There’s wet licking and slurping sounds coming from his lap.
D-name dealer is red-faced and stuttering. Trying to answer Patch’s question while also looking anywhere but in his direction. “T-thirty five percent investment compared to returns we expect to see in the first month.”
Patch’s eyebrow raises. “That’s a very generous estimate. Almost unbelievably so.”
D-name is nodding his head hard enough that Patch can hear his brain cells rattling around.
”It’s an unbelievably fortunate opportunity we have created here and—“
Deadpool moans loudly when he takes the tip into his mouth. Patch growls.
“Who’s that whore performance for, huh? I’m not even looking at you.”
His claws slide out with a slick snikt! and he sinks them into Deadpool’s temple. Twisting his wrist, he tilts Deadpool’s head up. Deadpool whimpers.
”Can’t be quiet with the muzzle on. Can’t be quiet with your fucking mouth full. What am I going to do with a dumb bitch like you?”
Deadpool hangs his mouth open, letting his tongue loll to the side and panting slightly. Patch scoffs and tilts his head back down. He closes his mouth over Patch’s leaking cock eagerly, and Patch gives his head one last rough shove down, before sheathing his claws. Blood leaks from the wounds before they close, running down the side of Deadpool’s mask and dripping in perfect little circles on his white pants. Of his new suit. Patch sighs, and Deadpool takes that as encouragement, sinking down as far as he can at this angle. He pulls up and bobs back down again, and his tight lips drag divinely smooth over the soaked length. And, damn, the little bit of blood is worth it. He puts his spare hand on top of Deadpool’s hood, and keeps moderate pressure on it, not letting Deadpool lift more than halfway off.
The room is quiet again, aside from Deadpool’s obscene slurping sounds, and when he whines loud around Patch’s cock again, Patch growls. He pulls him up and off, so far up that Deadpool is stoop-standing between his legs, and then leans him backwards against the table. He slices down his torso to cut the clothes open, smirking when Deadpool squirms and whines in protest at his ruined suit.
His squirming quickly becomes aggravating, though, and Patch uses this as an opportunity to sink one set of claws through Deadpool's inner upper thigh and into the table, pinning him in place. The angle requires Deadpool’s legs to spread and forces him to lean back on his hands, pressed flat against the tabletop, to keep his balance. Spread and pinned like a butterfly specimen in an insect exhibit.
Patch is appreciating the view from his seat when his assistant walks over. She doesn’t spare a second glance at the state of undress either man is in. Her straight hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail, she has a clipboard tucked in her arms, and she adjusts the thin glasses on her nose before she leans down to talk quietly.
“Your 8pm meeting has been canceled, Archie rescheduled for tomorrow.” She glances in D-names general direction, “In case you anticipate this to run long?”
Patch grunts and takes another long drag on his cigar. His eyes flick between Deadpool’s bare chest and the dealer across the table. Smoke flows out of his nose as he exhales. He grabs the cigar and presses the lit tip into the soft dip of skin on the inside of Deadpool’s hip bone. Deadpool’s stomach muscles tense and roll as he makes a pitiful choked sound.
“If you have any paperwork, hand it to Eve.” Patch says, looking at the dealer for a short moment. His assistant, Eve, moves to the other side of the table and takes a thick envelope from D-name’s outstretched hand.
“Should I take this as a favorable reception of my proposal?” The Dealer asks. He smiles at Eve, apparently happy to have something more comfortable to look at.
“You can consider me interested.” Patch continues slowly burning up Deadpool’s torso while he talks, and Deadpool twitches and whines pathetically with each new hot press into his bare skin. Patch puts the cigar back in his mouth and takes a couple rapid drags on it; the tip glows hotter.
Deadpool’s front half is practically naked, the tatters of his suit frame his hips and torso–the skin there already back to its normal scarred texture, free from any evidence of burns–and his cock is hard and leaking, waving with every flinch.
“Well, ‘interested’ isn’t exactly what we are looking for…” The dealer trails off for a moment when Patch looks over at him with a glare, but he surprisingly possesses enough bravery(or perhaps lacks enough intelligence) to continue, “we do have other potential investors and this is a time-sensitive endeavor.”
Patch just looks at him.
D-name manages eye contact as he looks back.
Deadpool wiggles and then, when that doesn’t make Patch look at him, he whines, and when that still doesn’t work, he fucking barks.
With a snarl, Patch stands up, ripping his claws out of the thigh meat they were buried in. He shoves roughly at Deadpool, who makes a surprised little yip, and maneuvers him until he’s bent over the table, half exposed face pressed against the thickly lacquered wood. Claws slowly slide from between Patch’s knuckles. Deadpool tries to push up, but the hand on the back of his neck prevents any movement. It keeps his face pressed against the table, and the cigar balanced between two fingers leaks heavy smoke down around his face. Patch’s other hand drags its claws along the exposed curve of lower back and Deadpool arches as far up into it as he can and moans. The cuts made are shallow, but a few enterprising drops of blood make their way out of the wounds to run and pool together in a dip in Deadpool’s spine. Dragging the claws farther, Patch cuts through Deadpool’s slacks until his ass is fully exposed.
“Woof,” Deadpool says.
Patch can see the corners of Deadpool’s mouth turn up, and he rolls his eye. Fucker thinks he’s funny.
Deadpool stops smirking when Patch removes the hand from the back of his neck in favor of pinning him to the table through a shoulder with his claws. Deadpool hisses and pushes back until he’s flush against Patch’s hips. The movement tugs against the claws sunk into his shoulder and his thighs start to shake. Whether from pain or excitement, it’s impossible to tell. Knowing his red clad freak, Patch guesses it’s probably both.
“Both of you, get out,” Patch growls, grinding against Deadpool’s bare ass. He doesn’t watch them leave, too busy admiring the quivering cheeks and thighs in front of him that twitch with every drag of his cock across skin, but he hears the door click shut.
“Logaaan.” Deadpool whines, as soon as they’re alone.
”I’ve never had a dog that addressed me by name before… and you know better than to call me that here.”
“Fucking- Patch,” He's trying to grind back against Patch, but Patch shifts, preventing him from getting any meaningful friction, “please?”
Patch just slides his wet cock along the crack of Deadpool’s ass again, making a non committal hum as he does.
“Please fuck me, Ive been good. Haven’t I been a good puppy for you?”
“Good?” Patch leans over to growl in his ear, “You think you’ve been good?”
Deadpool whimpers and pushes back again.
“Good dogs don’t talk.”
“Oh, come on, I taught myself ‘speak’. And also beg and play dead. Doesn’t that impress you?”
“I should just gag you. Or maybe sew your mouth shut.”
“Uh-oh! That’s definitely animal abuse. Someone call PETA.”
“It’s not abuse when you like it.” Patch snakes a hand around to close a rough fist around the dripping head of Deadpool’s rock solid cock, and Deadpool keens. “Listen to that fucking mouth. I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already whining like a bitch in heat.”
Claws slide out of Deadpool’s body with squelch. Patch grabs the muzzle strap still latched around his neck and yanks him backwards by it. Bending him sharply until Patch is able to hook his chin over a shoulder and look at Deadpool’s face.
Deadpool grins, but Patch wipes it off his face by stroking him firmly to the base, watching intently as the grin is replaced by an open mouth letting out a shaky moan.
“Now listen up, pup. I’m going to work you open.” His hand squeezes uncomfortably tight at the base of Deadpool’s cock. “Then I’m going to use that tight hole until you’re nothing but a pliant, shivering mutt—begging to come— and you’re going to let me. You’re going to let me do whatever I want to you, in fact.”
Deadpool nods as Patch speaks.
Patch strokes him a few more times with a fist that’s just slightly too tight.
“And if you’re a good boy for me, I’ll let you come.”
Deadpool grins at him again.
“Woof.”