[ there he is, again, that defiance, that bite. wash isn't disappointed to hear it, likes that bite and challenge in him even as he seeks to tear through it, but that difference is there. in his voice, in his gaze, a definite change. an awareness, maybe, that he's in over his head, and pietro definitely is far in over his head, lets himself be goaded on deeper and deeper. wash won't let him get away with any of it so easily. that amused sound, that moment of self-satisfaction doesn't escape wash's ears, and it doesn't bother him, not at all, but.
his tongue wets at his lower lip. one moment where he lifts his head, his hand tightening through his hair, looking straight into his eyes with nothing but deep-driven hunger and want. ]
More than you know.
[ that slur to his words abruptly disappears. that little crack, that break, that slip into something deeper had been, and is, entirely genuine, a glimpse into the visceral need and instinct wash has that fuels him for this just like it fueled him on the rooftop. but pietro being able to see it, hear it, wash letting any of that through -- he does that on purpose, even the parts of him that he allows to fall apart some measure of calculated and precise. the words themselves, too, again like what had happened the last time they met: what pietro tries to reach for for a sense of control, gloating over how much wash wants him, is desperate from him, wash doesn't shy away from. instead wash leans into it fully, whole-heartedly, and he would love it, absolutely fucking love it, taking pietro home and keeping him all for his own, breaking him down slowly piece by piece. pietro might get barely any time to think on that, to register it, because wash is already moving on, thinking, that voice sliding into that wanting instinct again.
there are so many things he could do. his searching mind latches onto one. ]
Remember class, Pietro?
[ feels like so long ago now but wash remembers it clear as ever. pietro may have been forced to take that class, but since everything that's transpired wash can't help but wonder if there was at least some purpose in that, too, signing up for something with an experienced dominant, a lesson about rope and bondage and the depths of loss of control. at the time, especially under the mandate of the city, wash had taken a gentler hand that pietro had never responded to. but he has wondered, since then. what if he hadn't held back. ]
Was there something you wanted in that there? [ his words come heated and deep and rumbling, punctuated with bitten-back shivers and gasps as pietro's body tightens around his hardening cock. wash himself is still raw and oversensitive, usually paces himself out by stimulating people in other ways while he allows himself time to recover, but -- here he's pressing on. starting to rock his hips harder, that hand sliding up over pietro's throat, smearing his skin with come and sweat, thumb and ring digging in painfully at the hinges of his jaw. ] Can you imagine, speedy little thing like you all bound up in rope, coiled so tight you can't even fucking move, can't see, can barely breathe. None of your fidgeting, just those sweet little sounds you make, empty of everything except being kept full of cock and come.
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his tongue wets at his lower lip. one moment where he lifts his head, his hand tightening through his hair, looking straight into his eyes with nothing but deep-driven hunger and want. ]
More than you know.
[ that slur to his words abruptly disappears. that little crack, that break, that slip into something deeper had been, and is, entirely genuine, a glimpse into the visceral need and instinct wash has that fuels him for this just like it fueled him on the rooftop. but pietro being able to see it, hear it, wash letting any of that through -- he does that on purpose, even the parts of him that he allows to fall apart some measure of calculated and precise. the words themselves, too, again like what had happened the last time they met: what pietro tries to reach for for a sense of control, gloating over how much wash wants him, is desperate from him, wash doesn't shy away from. instead wash leans into it fully, whole-heartedly, and he would love it, absolutely fucking love it, taking pietro home and keeping him all for his own, breaking him down slowly piece by piece. pietro might get barely any time to think on that, to register it, because wash is already moving on, thinking, that voice sliding into that wanting instinct again.
there are so many things he could do. his searching mind latches onto one. ]
Remember class, Pietro?
[ feels like so long ago now but wash remembers it clear as ever. pietro may have been forced to take that class, but since everything that's transpired wash can't help but wonder if there was at least some purpose in that, too, signing up for something with an experienced dominant, a lesson about rope and bondage and the depths of loss of control. at the time, especially under the mandate of the city, wash had taken a gentler hand that pietro had never responded to. but he has wondered, since then. what if he hadn't held back. ]
Was there something you wanted in that there? [ his words come heated and deep and rumbling, punctuated with bitten-back shivers and gasps as pietro's body tightens around his hardening cock. wash himself is still raw and oversensitive, usually paces himself out by stimulating people in other ways while he allows himself time to recover, but -- here he's pressing on. starting to rock his hips harder, that hand sliding up over pietro's throat, smearing his skin with come and sweat, thumb and ring digging in painfully at the hinges of his jaw. ] Can you imagine, speedy little thing like you all bound up in rope, coiled so tight you can't even fucking move, can't see, can barely breathe. None of your fidgeting, just those sweet little sounds you make, empty of everything except being kept full of cock and come.