[ playing to an ego is far from unfamiliar thing -- for all the types of people he's drawn to, wash knows very well how to play into someone's self-importance when it benefits him, knows how to blunt it when it doesn't. but the truth of it is, really, that -- none of it is ungenuine. this is good, feels fucking incredible, and for as much as pietro may crave the feeling of being held down, trapped, overwhelmed, wash craves doing that to someone, especially someone who wants it. there's a visceral thrill, a raw pleasure to it even beyond the friction and heat and pressure. there's more than a few things about pietro that draw him in, and wash won't deny that pietro feels good beneath him, that pietro feels incredible around his cock, that pietro looks and sounds so fucking good when he has him pushed to an edge.
pietro says it like its meant to be something to hold over his head. wash just lifts his head, meets his eye, letting his hips grind forward and anchor in deep, his hand lifting from his thigh where it was pressing into all those cuts lifts until his hand is braced under his jawline, forcing pietro's head up slightly as he looks at him. ]
-- Yeah.
[ to both those things. wash had waited, patient, like he was supposed to do whenever someone tells him to stop, but the temptation is always there to push him down and make him want it all over again. pietro sought him out tonight, called for him, but wash's revisited the memory of the rooftop more than once in the time since.
that slight break in rhythm doesn't last long, and he falls right back into his hard, rough pace as he lets his hand ease further down. fingers sliding into places where old bruises were left around his throat, almost like he's slotting them back where they belong. not choking him outright, but he starts to push down, enough pressure to force the air from his throat, to make it hard but not impossible to speak -- and one shift in his grip, slight, just enough for him to press harder against the cut wash had left just under his chin with his knife. his voice is low, another rumbling growl as he leans down, folding pietro's body even more as his voice ghosts against pietro's own lips. ]
Just like you wanted me here.
[ pietro had called on him for a reason, after all. ]
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pietro says it like its meant to be something to hold over his head. wash just lifts his head, meets his eye, letting his hips grind forward and anchor in deep, his hand lifting from his thigh where it was pressing into all those cuts lifts until his hand is braced under his jawline, forcing pietro's head up slightly as he looks at him. ]
-- Yeah.
[ to both those things. wash had waited, patient, like he was supposed to do whenever someone tells him to stop, but the temptation is always there to push him down and make him want it all over again. pietro sought him out tonight, called for him, but wash's revisited the memory of the rooftop more than once in the time since.
that slight break in rhythm doesn't last long, and he falls right back into his hard, rough pace as he lets his hand ease further down. fingers sliding into places where old bruises were left around his throat, almost like he's slotting them back where they belong. not choking him outright, but he starts to push down, enough pressure to force the air from his throat, to make it hard but not impossible to speak -- and one shift in his grip, slight, just enough for him to press harder against the cut wash had left just under his chin with his knife. his voice is low, another rumbling growl as he leans down, folding pietro's body even more as his voice ghosts against pietro's own lips. ]
Just like you wanted me here.
[ pietro had called on him for a reason, after all. ]