[ torture, huh. wash just looks back at him, still pressed so close, feeling how mch he trembles, how his fingers shake, his voice unsteady like his grip is. his answer is immediate, eyes lidded, voice still thick with arousal and want, rumbling with a growl. ]
Doesn't mean you don't want it.
[ there's a calm, quiet confidence in that. not quite certainty that it's what pietro wants, in specific, but just. knowing. knowing that calling something torture doesn't mean someone can't want it, thrive in it, knowing that the line between pleasure and pain is thin and bright like a knife's edge. ]
And you do want it, don't you? [ he keeps pressed close. pietro's legs still wrapped around him, forced to hold onto him to stay upright, cock still buried deep, he keeps his grip tight on his jaw, adjusting his hand so the heel of his palm presses against his freshly bruised throat, a steady, even pressure even as he yanks again at his hair. ] I could tie you up. Carve you open with a knife. Feed you cock and come until you can't think of anything else.
[ with his thumb and ring finger pressed into either side of his jaw, the fingers in between graze up over his chin, pushing at his lips and hooking into his mouth. it scares him, wash can tell. on some level, all of this scares him, not what wash is doing to him but what it makes him learn about himself, what he knows he wants. and its a feeling he knows well because what he wants scares him all the fucking time, but he's learned to lean into it, wholly, fully. for better and for worse. ]
no subject
Doesn't mean you don't want it.
[ there's a calm, quiet confidence in that. not quite certainty that it's what pietro wants, in specific, but just. knowing. knowing that calling something torture doesn't mean someone can't want it, thrive in it, knowing that the line between pleasure and pain is thin and bright like a knife's edge. ]
And you do want it, don't you? [ he keeps pressed close. pietro's legs still wrapped around him, forced to hold onto him to stay upright, cock still buried deep, he keeps his grip tight on his jaw, adjusting his hand so the heel of his palm presses against his freshly bruised throat, a steady, even pressure even as he yanks again at his hair. ] I could tie you up. Carve you open with a knife. Feed you cock and come until you can't think of anything else.
[ with his thumb and ring finger pressed into either side of his jaw, the fingers in between graze up over his chin, pushing at his lips and hooking into his mouth. it scares him, wash can tell. on some level, all of this scares him, not what wash is doing to him but what it makes him learn about himself, what he knows he wants. and its a feeling he knows well because what he wants scares him all the fucking time, but he's learned to lean into it, wholly, fully. for better and for worse. ]