[ most of wash's life he's shuffled from place top place, living wherever he's sent and posted and wherever the moment brings him. he's resourceful, adaptable, able to fit himself anywhere, but he's always known better than to believe anything he has would last. the city is no different.
he watches the way he runs his finger around one of those scars -- wash could map them all out by now, whether pietro likes that or not, marks he recognizes as bullet scars. he can hear that disappointment in that answer, but something else has his attention, instead. its that pause before he answered, the sharpness in the way he'd looked up at the question, along wth his tone. considering. for a moment, he'd thought of lying.
wash moves almost immediately. pushing pietro back against the nearest wall, some shelves nearby rattling from it. the knife is lifted to pietro's throat, the flat of it pressed just underneath his chin and jaw to force his head up so he's meeting wash's gaze, hungry, wanting, seeing everything. ]
You don't know me. So understand this.
[ he tips the knife, pressing right into that nick he'd made before in the street just outside the apartment building, still wet with blood. just a little more pressure, and he deepens that wound, ever so slightly. he's keeping a bit more distance between them than he has so far, but it doesn't stop him from pressing in, pushing his knee between pietro's thighs, pressing up, his voice easing even lower on a quiet rumble. ]
I've hurt people, doing this. Broke bones. Choked into unconsciousness. Stabbed them. Killed them. [ while fucking them. giving them what they want. it does not come with the tone of regret, like he's believes he's a monster who needs to be restrained -- he does struggle with that. often. all the time. but here, he's focused, and he's using that example to prove a damn point. sometimes he wants to do terrible things. sometimes people want terrible things done to them. and maybe sometimes it'd be better to not indulge that, but sometimes no one wants better. ] You don't need to lie to me because you think I'll go easy on you.
The more you lie to me, the less you tell me, the more careful I have to be.
[ he turns the knife, angles his grip. he doesn't press that one wound any deeper, and instead starts to trace the metal down from under his chin. lightly grazing over skin, only a whisper-soft pressure from that too-sharp metal, following the curve of his throat. down over a trickle of blood left there from before. over fresh bruises, already forming from his hand locked tight around his throat in the alleyway. ]
cw: references to eroticized violence, and also belatedly there's knifeplay in here, whoops
he watches the way he runs his finger around one of those scars -- wash could map them all out by now, whether pietro likes that or not, marks he recognizes as bullet scars. he can hear that disappointment in that answer, but something else has his attention, instead. its that pause before he answered, the sharpness in the way he'd looked up at the question, along wth his tone. considering. for a moment, he'd thought of lying.
wash moves almost immediately. pushing pietro back against the nearest wall, some shelves nearby rattling from it. the knife is lifted to pietro's throat, the flat of it pressed just underneath his chin and jaw to force his head up so he's meeting wash's gaze, hungry, wanting, seeing everything. ]
You don't know me. So understand this.
[ he tips the knife, pressing right into that nick he'd made before in the street just outside the apartment building, still wet with blood. just a little more pressure, and he deepens that wound, ever so slightly. he's keeping a bit more distance between them than he has so far, but it doesn't stop him from pressing in, pushing his knee between pietro's thighs, pressing up, his voice easing even lower on a quiet rumble. ]
I've hurt people, doing this. Broke bones. Choked into unconsciousness. Stabbed them. Killed them. [ while fucking them. giving them what they want. it does not come with the tone of regret, like he's believes he's a monster who needs to be restrained -- he does struggle with that. often. all the time. but here, he's focused, and he's using that example to prove a damn point. sometimes he wants to do terrible things. sometimes people want terrible things done to them. and maybe sometimes it'd be better to not indulge that, but sometimes no one wants better. ] You don't need to lie to me because you think I'll go easy on you.
The more you lie to me, the less you tell me, the more careful I have to be.
[ he turns the knife, angles his grip. he doesn't press that one wound any deeper, and instead starts to trace the metal down from under his chin. lightly grazing over skin, only a whisper-soft pressure from that too-sharp metal, following the curve of his throat. down over a trickle of blood left there from before. over fresh bruises, already forming from his hand locked tight around his throat in the alleyway. ]
Got that?