[ offered freely and easily, there for pietro to take. he's not there yet, and wash knows that. it'll probably take a lot more time. but for as long as pietro wants it wash will push him to get him there. pietro's shaking stills slightly under his grip -- he can tell it takes him a few attempts, that its still not quite there, one hand mostly stilling while the other keeps twitching, moving. but pietro had tried, responded. wash can't tell how much he'd done it on purpose, but there's something there that ne notes and files away, as always, his grip shifting to soothe his thumb briefly over pietro's left hand. a slight touch, brief, and wash doesn't say it or even make a sound but the intent of that is clear: a whisper of praise without a word. good.
pietro stares up at him, and he can see it in his eyes, arousal, want -- and even then he looks away, scoffs, rolls his eyes. wash hums a little in response, letting that knife shift in his grip, holding it so that as he lets his hand drag down over his front, the blade just barely skims his skin, too. down over the curve of his throat, to where that first cut starts at his clavicle, stilling briefly there to feel his racing heart as he follows the line further and further down to the mess of cum spilled across his abdomen, fingers smearing through it, knife gliding through. ]
I have options.
[ he keeps his weight braced over him with that hand pinning pietro's wrists down to the bed, leaning over to the beside table. wash keeps a spartan, practical apartment, has a few selections of belongings, has resisted the need to settle in or get anything more. in all honesty, many people he brings home don't usually make it to the bedroom, and he has less in here than one might think. but he did live here with someone especially fucking difficult. there's a drag and clink of metal from the bottom drawer wash is fishing through, but what he eventually returns with, as he leans back, is a length of rope. thick, corded, and doesn't really look like the kind of rope one might associate with bondage play if only because it looks more like the rope that a man might use to do more real, practical work, different from the more brightly colored lengths that pietro may distantly remember wash using in a classroom. it works for his purposes. a pragmatic man, in the end.
he doesn't wait or ask permission, shifting on the bed. he never lets go of the knife ( more an ingrained habit than anything else, an instinct, why would he let go of it when there's someone else here who might take it ) even as he drags pietro's bound wrists up to the barred headboard. he only needs one hand to undo the belt, fingers nimble and deliberate as always as he releases the buckle, and while he will let pietro have some amount of movement and freedom he immediately grabs one of pietro's writs and starts to bind it to one of the bars on the headboard. he lets pietro have his other hand, for now, for him to move or even to feel at the bonds that wash is putting in place, every loop of rope, every drag of it against his skin somehow feeling just as deliberate as wash's own touch. ]
no subject
pietro stares up at him, and he can see it in his eyes, arousal, want -- and even then he looks away, scoffs, rolls his eyes. wash hums a little in response, letting that knife shift in his grip, holding it so that as he lets his hand drag down over his front, the blade just barely skims his skin, too. down over the curve of his throat, to where that first cut starts at his clavicle, stilling briefly there to feel his racing heart as he follows the line further and further down to the mess of cum spilled across his abdomen, fingers smearing through it, knife gliding through. ]
I have options.
[ he keeps his weight braced over him with that hand pinning pietro's wrists down to the bed, leaning over to the beside table. wash keeps a spartan, practical apartment, has a few selections of belongings, has resisted the need to settle in or get anything more. in all honesty, many people he brings home don't usually make it to the bedroom, and he has less in here than one might think. but he did live here with someone especially fucking difficult. there's a drag and clink of metal from the bottom drawer wash is fishing through, but what he eventually returns with, as he leans back, is a length of rope. thick, corded, and doesn't really look like the kind of rope one might associate with bondage play if only because it looks more like the rope that a man might use to do more real, practical work, different from the more brightly colored lengths that pietro may distantly remember wash using in a classroom. it works for his purposes. a pragmatic man, in the end.
he doesn't wait or ask permission, shifting on the bed. he never lets go of the knife ( more an ingrained habit than anything else, an instinct, why would he let go of it when there's someone else here who might take it ) even as he drags pietro's bound wrists up to the barred headboard. he only needs one hand to undo the belt, fingers nimble and deliberate as always as he releases the buckle, and while he will let pietro have some amount of movement and freedom he immediately grabs one of pietro's writs and starts to bind it to one of the bars on the headboard. he lets pietro have his other hand, for now, for him to move or even to feel at the bonds that wash is putting in place, every loop of rope, every drag of it against his skin somehow feeling just as deliberate as wash's own touch. ]