[Something shifts in Pietro's eyes then too, and what Wash is actually saying, what he meant, falls more into place. He won't stop, and Pietro knew this, but didn't fully comprehend the spectrum of what it applies to. No matter Pietro's other reactions, obvious pain or distress, even if he blacks out again, Wash isn't going to stop whatever he's doing at any point. If Pietro doesn't say no, he'll keep going, and if Pietro lets himself get to the point where he's too far gone to say no, he's fucked. Shit. That's a revelation somehow, and still, he's not sure if he won't just let it pass him by, the moment he knows he should stop. He won't know that until he gets there, unable to make these kinds of decisions ahead of time.
Pietro has so much time to think about it, processing it in the back of his mind while his most immediate thoughts and focus are on the knife at his shoulder, the incredibly slow push of the blade further into his flesh. He whines and writhes slightly once it gets a little deeper, through the layers of skin and pressing against muscle, the type of writhing where he's indecisive, wanting to both push himself forward from the wall and drive the knife in quickly, and where he wants to tear himself out from under it to get away from that incessant and continual pain, now beginning to pulse deeper as Wash pushes the knife through the first threads of muscle relentlessly, but excruciatingly gradually from Pietro's perspective. It changes from something that brings arousal and the heightened crackling nerve endings with shallower cuts to a more overwhelming sensation of broad, profound, and unbroken acute and vivid pain that sparks behind his eyes. Pietro twitches, his fingers shake almost violently, suddenly, and a keening noise that isn't quite pleasure builds up in volume.
It hurts. It hurts. The sort of pain Pietro hasn't felt since he'd died, was dying, felt it all over, as every bullet drove into his flesh so slowly and all at once at the same time, digging deeper and deeper like the knife. It will cut right through the entirety of his muscles, tendons, to the bone if he lets it. He can't breathe, but somehow keeps making that noise he can't quite hear himself over the rushing blood in his ears, panic building and his instinct to live flipping like a switch. Pietro grabs Wash's wrist quickly, forcefully, to tear that blade from his shoulder.]
no subject
Pietro has so much time to think about it, processing it in the back of his mind while his most immediate thoughts and focus are on the knife at his shoulder, the incredibly slow push of the blade further into his flesh. He whines and writhes slightly once it gets a little deeper, through the layers of skin and pressing against muscle, the type of writhing where he's indecisive, wanting to both push himself forward from the wall and drive the knife in quickly, and where he wants to tear himself out from under it to get away from that incessant and continual pain, now beginning to pulse deeper as Wash pushes the knife through the first threads of muscle relentlessly, but excruciatingly gradually from Pietro's perspective. It changes from something that brings arousal and the heightened crackling nerve endings with shallower cuts to a more overwhelming sensation of broad, profound, and unbroken acute and vivid pain that sparks behind his eyes. Pietro twitches, his fingers shake almost violently, suddenly, and a keening noise that isn't quite pleasure builds up in volume.
It hurts. It hurts. The sort of pain Pietro hasn't felt since he'd died, was dying, felt it all over, as every bullet drove into his flesh so slowly and all at once at the same time, digging deeper and deeper like the knife. It will cut right through the entirety of his muscles, tendons, to the bone if he lets it. He can't breathe, but somehow keeps making that noise he can't quite hear himself over the rushing blood in his ears, panic building and his instinct to live flipping like a switch. Pietro grabs Wash's wrist quickly, forcefully, to tear that blade from his shoulder.]