[ wash doesn't answer verbally -- everything he's doing is answer enough. a low rumble as he mouths against the length of his shaft, feeling him throb and pulse under his tongue, the taste and scent of him settling heavily into his lungs. pietro is stubborn, and wash is patient, and wash already knows he's worn him down before. many times, by now, more than pietro would like to remember or admit, but wash can hear that first please on the rooftop perfectly in his ears, can still remember how he'd been so desperate to fuck into his fingers but how wash had always just barely pulled away, kept him right on the edge -- and just a while ago, against the wall with a belt wrapped around his wrists, a flurry of begging and pleading like a dam breaking. just from drawing it out. just from overwhelming him. he'll wear him down, more and more over time.
the way his mouth moves over him is lazy, languid. teeth dragging over too-tender skin, biting lightly at his balls, his tongue dragging between them -- this, too, he knows, like he's memorized so much about pietro. remembering how he'd gripped him tight enough to hurt, how he'd left bruises on his cock, racing those sensitive areas with his mouth and tongue now, every now and then he lifts his head to just barely draw the head of him into his mouth, one brief suckle, hard enough that his cheeks hollow around it, but then he's pulling free immediately.
everything else he does, though, doesn't slow down. that knife at his thigh is lifting and beginning to draw another cut, parallel to the first, steady despite the way pietro's thigh trembles and quivers under him. his other hand still working those fingers deep, deeper, pushing against every fraying nerve he already knows is there. and the only thing that changes, after too long, is the lift of the knife after another perfectly drawn line, the tip of it skimming dangerously over too-sensitive flesh as he runs the back of the knife down over his balls, as he follows it with his mouth with sharper kisses, bites.
he doesn't need to say anything. this is a promise, too. he shows no signs of slowing down, if anything seems to be shifting to different ways of stimulating him, none of them ever, ever enough. not until he says something. ]
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the way his mouth moves over him is lazy, languid. teeth dragging over too-tender skin, biting lightly at his balls, his tongue dragging between them -- this, too, he knows, like he's memorized so much about pietro. remembering how he'd gripped him tight enough to hurt, how he'd left bruises on his cock, racing those sensitive areas with his mouth and tongue now, every now and then he lifts his head to just barely draw the head of him into his mouth, one brief suckle, hard enough that his cheeks hollow around it, but then he's pulling free immediately.
everything else he does, though, doesn't slow down. that knife at his thigh is lifting and beginning to draw another cut, parallel to the first, steady despite the way pietro's thigh trembles and quivers under him. his other hand still working those fingers deep, deeper, pushing against every fraying nerve he already knows is there. and the only thing that changes, after too long, is the lift of the knife after another perfectly drawn line, the tip of it skimming dangerously over too-sensitive flesh as he runs the back of the knife down over his balls, as he follows it with his mouth with sharper kisses, bites.
he doesn't need to say anything. this is a promise, too. he shows no signs of slowing down, if anything seems to be shifting to different ways of stimulating him, none of them ever, ever enough. not until he says something. ]