[ pietro stops and wash moves with it, turning around. he doesn't keep dragging him forward, instead just fits his free hand against the other side of his waist as he faces him fully, and pushes him back, moving forward with it until pietro's back hits the glass wall of some cafe around the corner from the public up apartments. the glass rattles in place, it draws some attention, wash doesn't pay it any attention. ]
I'm not asking for a life story, Pietro.
[ getting to know each other outside of this isn't a requirement of this relationship. that knife is still tucked against his forearm and wrist under his sleeve, and he shifts to that the flat of the blade is pressing against pietro's skin, instead. not cutting, in the way he knows pietro would want, and just like that, wash is bearing over him again. ]
You want to let go? You want to stop thinking? [ his other hand is gripping tightly over his hip, now, sliding into a familiar place, old bruises and marks and how he held him when he'd lifted him fully into his arms, away from the wall down in that back room, forcing him to hold onto nothing but him. the hand with the knife hidden in his sleeve lifts -- curling his fingers just under his chin. there, very purposefully within pietro's sightline, is the flash of the blade, how much wash is holding his forearm in line with his wrist a hint to how long it is. its heavier, a darker steel, guided with his thumb against his palm until the tip is pushing right underneath pietro's chin. ] You're the one holding yourself back.
I can take you there. Push you as far as you want and even further. [ a glint of that quiet hunger in his eyes -- he wants that. craves it. ] A few lines in the sand will make that easier for yourself to find, but if you're too proud for that?
[ his arm tips. the tip of the knife just barely knicks pietro's skin, a tiny cut under his chin where it starts to meet his neckline. its smaller, but this time he lets it reach deeper, enough to leave more than a lingering red line, enough for blood to bead to the surface, for it to drip, for that tiny bright pinprick of pain to start to ease into something deeper, leaning forward with it until his lips brush against pietro's own. ]
I'll find them myself.
[ knowing someones limits helps him know where to push and where to hold back and where to push even further until someone breaks. he's already started to learn a good deal about pietro without him telling him anything, and frankly, working with pietro with is hardly unfamiliar. felix was like this, too. and much, much worse.
and then he steps back, lets his arms fall except for the one still at his waist. he gestures with his head. ]
We're here.
[ it really is just the next building or two over, and wash pulls away completely. he lets the knife slip from his sleeve, and this is -- much larger, heavier. not designed to throw, but designed cut straight through metal and armor and still pierce a beating heart beneath it. he twirls it easily between his fingers just like he did with the other knife, even with that difference in weight, and he'll move on ahead and head straight into the public apartment building. ]
no subject
I'm not asking for a life story, Pietro.
[ getting to know each other outside of this isn't a requirement of this relationship. that knife is still tucked against his forearm and wrist under his sleeve, and he shifts to that the flat of the blade is pressing against pietro's skin, instead. not cutting, in the way he knows pietro would want, and just like that, wash is bearing over him again. ]
You want to let go? You want to stop thinking? [ his other hand is gripping tightly over his hip, now, sliding into a familiar place, old bruises and marks and how he held him when he'd lifted him fully into his arms, away from the wall down in that back room, forcing him to hold onto nothing but him. the hand with the knife hidden in his sleeve lifts -- curling his fingers just under his chin. there, very purposefully within pietro's sightline, is the flash of the blade, how much wash is holding his forearm in line with his wrist a hint to how long it is. its heavier, a darker steel, guided with his thumb against his palm until the tip is pushing right underneath pietro's chin. ] You're the one holding yourself back.
I can take you there. Push you as far as you want and even further. [ a glint of that quiet hunger in his eyes -- he wants that. craves it. ] A few lines in the sand will make that easier for yourself to find, but if you're too proud for that?
[ his arm tips. the tip of the knife just barely knicks pietro's skin, a tiny cut under his chin where it starts to meet his neckline. its smaller, but this time he lets it reach deeper, enough to leave more than a lingering red line, enough for blood to bead to the surface, for it to drip, for that tiny bright pinprick of pain to start to ease into something deeper, leaning forward with it until his lips brush against pietro's own. ]
I'll find them myself.
[ knowing someones limits helps him know where to push and where to hold back and where to push even further until someone breaks. he's already started to learn a good deal about pietro without him telling him anything, and frankly, working with pietro with is hardly unfamiliar. felix was like this, too. and much, much worse.
and then he steps back, lets his arms fall except for the one still at his waist. he gestures with his head. ]
We're here.
[ it really is just the next building or two over, and wash pulls away completely. he lets the knife slip from his sleeve, and this is -- much larger, heavier. not designed to throw, but designed cut straight through metal and armor and still pierce a beating heart beneath it. he twirls it easily between his fingers just like he did with the other knife, even with that difference in weight, and he'll move on ahead and head straight into the public apartment building. ]