[He can feel the glass shake under his back, a slow undulating movement. People on the street are looking, and unlike Wash, Pietro's focus is on it, on them, on being watched. It fuels his irritation and his arousal and he squirms. Wash's voice draws him back, and he rolls his eyes again. He knows he wasn't asked for details of his entire life. Wash had one simple question, and Pietro will not answer it, will not tell him what he's afraid of, what he's apprehensive about. It's simplistic, to him, and he doesn't understand why he needs to. Wash crowds him again, looms, and the same sort of oppressiveness returns, that blade against his skin, and all Pietro wants is to grab Wash's wrist and turn it, to have the sharp edge of the blade slide across his skin, feel that sharp pain and heat of arousal he knows he can achieve. Ororo hadn't wanted to cut him, had been forced to, but Wash does want to, and it could be so much better with him because of it.
Pietro knows where Wash's hand is, when it had been there before, and that both annoys and excites him. Wash makes those same statements, what he could do for Pietro, and he starts to form a response, to be belligerent about it and say something along the lines of Wash promising those things, not delivering, and lecturing him instead, but the first word is only half formed before Wash's fingers are under his chin, the knife visible, and Pietro just wants again. The point of the blade presses right to his skin, on the edge of sinking in. You're the one holding yourself back. Is he? He fights when he doesn't want to, he knows this, it's a compulsion, ingrained in him so hard, he'd needed that so long just to survive that giving that up, giving in so completely, seems impossible. He thinks of it that way, pointless to try because he will wrench control back every chance he gets if it starts to feel like it's slipping away to a degree he can't tolerate.
He doesn't see the way 'lines in the sand' help with this, all of this sort of experience far out of his wheelhouse as someone who hadn't touched kink or even thought about it before arriving in this city. His experience fairly vast, but narrowly focused. And he is too proud to admit how clueless he is. He just knows what he wants for an endgame and the means of getting there don't matter to him. Wash pushes the knife into his skin, finally, only a little, a hint of that deeper pain Pietro craves and desires, and it stops him from considering just running home, which he hadn't quite realised he had been. He savours that feeling, the crackling nerves, the bloom of blood that starts to trickle down his throat. Wash's lips brush his, then he pulls the blade away and gives Pietro his space back, and he's only frustrated and agitated about it. He glares and huffs as Wash just starts for the apartments, playing with his knife in a way Pietro interprets as mocking. Wash expects him to follow, he knows this, and he hates himself for doing it. Once the door closes behind them though, and they're halfway through the lobby, Pietro finally speaks again, voice quiet, toneless, and with that same half-awareness over whether he's actually saying it, like his utterance of 'please' there on the roof weeks ago, he issues something of a limit.]
no subject
Pietro knows where Wash's hand is, when it had been there before, and that both annoys and excites him. Wash makes those same statements, what he could do for Pietro, and he starts to form a response, to be belligerent about it and say something along the lines of Wash promising those things, not delivering, and lecturing him instead, but the first word is only half formed before Wash's fingers are under his chin, the knife visible, and Pietro just wants again. The point of the blade presses right to his skin, on the edge of sinking in. You're the one holding yourself back. Is he? He fights when he doesn't want to, he knows this, it's a compulsion, ingrained in him so hard, he'd needed that so long just to survive that giving that up, giving in so completely, seems impossible. He thinks of it that way, pointless to try because he will wrench control back every chance he gets if it starts to feel like it's slipping away to a degree he can't tolerate.
He doesn't see the way 'lines in the sand' help with this, all of this sort of experience far out of his wheelhouse as someone who hadn't touched kink or even thought about it before arriving in this city. His experience fairly vast, but narrowly focused. And he is too proud to admit how clueless he is. He just knows what he wants for an endgame and the means of getting there don't matter to him. Wash pushes the knife into his skin, finally, only a little, a hint of that deeper pain Pietro craves and desires, and it stops him from considering just running home, which he hadn't quite realised he had been. He savours that feeling, the crackling nerves, the bloom of blood that starts to trickle down his throat. Wash's lips brush his, then he pulls the blade away and gives Pietro his space back, and he's only frustrated and agitated about it. He glares and huffs as Wash just starts for the apartments, playing with his knife in a way Pietro interprets as mocking. Wash expects him to follow, he knows this, and he hates himself for doing it. Once the door closes behind them though, and they're halfway through the lobby, Pietro finally speaks again, voice quiet, toneless, and with that same half-awareness over whether he's actually saying it, like his utterance of 'please' there on the roof weeks ago, he issues something of a limit.]
I need to move.