[Wash shifts his grip on his thigh, brings his other leg up, and Pietro makes a loud frustrated noise, aimed at himself as he hooks that leg around Wash's hip too, digs his heels into his back again. He has little leverage to do anything, but there are still efforts made to get Wash to fuck him harder, squeezing around his cock, trying to push his hips forward faster. His nerves are on fire, and it's getting difficult to distinguish sensations from each other, an overall state of heightened sensitivity and perception that makes him want to scream, or cry, or both. Wash keeps fucking him, running his fingers over those shallow cuts and reigniting the sting, and Pietro squirms underneath that touch. He whines in a sharp distressed way that's a mix of agitation and need when Wash grabs his hair. That sharp tug sending heat down his chest and sparking both more obvious struggling at everything, and more defiance as Pietro gets close to his breaking point. Wash's rumbling voice Pietro can't get out of his head, out of his body as it reverberates through him in slow waves, that knife at his throat, there like a promise that won't be fulfilled, just out of reach. His cock throbs hot and his abdominal muscles twitch uncontrollably, but he can't do it. He can't beg. Won't. Not after he'd almost slipped into that moment of weakness, that moment Wash immediately pounced on. Wash is close, his face barely inches away after that kiss, presence oppressive and he's ready to pull at and unravel any thread of acquiescence Pietro will give him.
It's none. Wash gets nothing. Pietro spits in his face, a cornered and feral response on instinct.]
no subject
It's none. Wash gets nothing. Pietro spits in his face, a cornered and feral response on instinct.]