[ any kind of restraints has pietro immediately testing them, and that makes sense, with who he is, what he can do. pietro has told him that he needs to move, and wash will respect that line -- but it does also tell him that restricting movement in any way is something that pietro is somehow sensitive to. it might be wholly negative, but that's what this is going to be. pushing at lines, finding out, exploring and learning. messy and imperfect.
as always, wash is watching, learning -- he doesn't pull too much against it until he has his hands behind pietro's head, and there's an anxious quality to it, a panic, his breathing reaching something shallow. he can see every muscle in him twitching and straining to move, that little wanting whine -- and whimper, as he starts to drag the knife down over his front. his words tumble out, clipped and hurried, and wash answers him immediately, easily, his hand briefly stilling over their cocks to squeeze over them both, his own cock hard and aching, throbbing against pietro's. ]
Yes.
[ wash is, in fact, making him wait. that one line he's drawing down over his front stops, and he lifts the knife -- one clean red mark from his clavicle to down to stop just short of his navel. he settles the tip of the knife near his collarbone, again, hips grinding forward to rut their cocks against each other, his hand fisted over them, rough and slick with pre, leaning close yet again. biting at his lower lip, drawing him briefly into another harsh, brusiing kiss, making some soft, pleased noise at the taste of him as he growls against his lips. ]
If you want that belt anywhere else? [ that tease over his neck and throat, had of course, been wholly intentional. ] We start with this.
[ he kisses him again, and to his credit he doesn't seem to wait too long before he starts to move the knife again -- but he knows, by now, that pietro's impatience doesn't seem to just be a function of personality, but of biology, that things are slower, last longer. this time he cuts out at an angle, starting near the clavicle, digging the knife in. trailing toward his nipple -- and stopping just short. again, a lift of the knife, back to the collarbone, another diagonal line, cut in the other side. it's geometric, perfectly symmetrical, almost too inhumanly precise. another display of wash's exacting control, over his own body, over the knife -- and in this moment, clearly trying to exert that over pietro, too.
its subtle, but maybe more noticeable for someone like pietro. wash doesn't seem to mind the squirming and writhing, but he is paying attention to how he's reacting to the restraint of the belt around his wrists. the more he pulls against it, the more the knife seems to just barely pull back, the pressure getting lighter, and if he ever stills more, that pressure returns. barest fractions of an inch worth of difference, the tiniest adjustments, but wash is doing them anyway, paying close attention even as he draws those perfect lines, as he keeps tonguing hungrily into his mouth. ]
no subject
as always, wash is watching, learning -- he doesn't pull too much against it until he has his hands behind pietro's head, and there's an anxious quality to it, a panic, his breathing reaching something shallow. he can see every muscle in him twitching and straining to move, that little wanting whine -- and whimper, as he starts to drag the knife down over his front. his words tumble out, clipped and hurried, and wash answers him immediately, easily, his hand briefly stilling over their cocks to squeeze over them both, his own cock hard and aching, throbbing against pietro's. ]
Yes.
[ wash is, in fact, making him wait. that one line he's drawing down over his front stops, and he lifts the knife -- one clean red mark from his clavicle to down to stop just short of his navel. he settles the tip of the knife near his collarbone, again, hips grinding forward to rut their cocks against each other, his hand fisted over them, rough and slick with pre, leaning close yet again. biting at his lower lip, drawing him briefly into another harsh, brusiing kiss, making some soft, pleased noise at the taste of him as he growls against his lips. ]
If you want that belt anywhere else? [ that tease over his neck and throat, had of course, been wholly intentional. ] We start with this.
[ he kisses him again, and to his credit he doesn't seem to wait too long before he starts to move the knife again -- but he knows, by now, that pietro's impatience doesn't seem to just be a function of personality, but of biology, that things are slower, last longer. this time he cuts out at an angle, starting near the clavicle, digging the knife in. trailing toward his nipple -- and stopping just short. again, a lift of the knife, back to the collarbone, another diagonal line, cut in the other side. it's geometric, perfectly symmetrical, almost too inhumanly precise. another display of wash's exacting control, over his own body, over the knife -- and in this moment, clearly trying to exert that over pietro, too.
its subtle, but maybe more noticeable for someone like pietro. wash doesn't seem to mind the squirming and writhing, but he is paying attention to how he's reacting to the restraint of the belt around his wrists. the more he pulls against it, the more the knife seems to just barely pull back, the pressure getting lighter, and if he ever stills more, that pressure returns. barest fractions of an inch worth of difference, the tiniest adjustments, but wash is doing them anyway, paying close attention even as he draws those perfect lines, as he keeps tonguing hungrily into his mouth. ]