[Wash just looks at him, and Pietro knows, again, that his attempts to claim some sort of superiority or hold over him do not work. Those fingers curl under his jaw and tilt his head up, and all Pietro can think about is wanting them around his throat or in his hair, tight and forceful, and he hates himself for it. Yeah. Fuck. Wash has no apparent shame to expose and Pietro doesn't know how to work with that, how to poke at it in a way that won't just backfire and have his stomach twisting uncomfortably.
Pietro whines as Wash starts his driving rhythm again, and he writhes unconsciously with the need to move in a restrictive position. Despite his efforts to choke it down, a pleased mewling sound escapes his throat as Wash's fingers tighten around it. He can almost feel the bruises as if they were fresh, and his muscles tighten and twitch when it gets harder to breathe easily. A visceral pulse of heat travels down to his cock. Wash thumbs the cut on his chin, the sting coming back and making Pietro think about the knife again, splitting his focus in too many ways, the low growl mocking him, he can feel Wash's hot breath at his lips. It's a struggle to speak, throat working, strangled noises and wheezing, but when he manages to painfully force something through, it's simply:]
Yes.
[Yes, he wanted Wash here. He wants this, asked for it, and he knows that. He presses his heels harder into Wash's back, twists his fingers more tightly into his hair before letting that hand drop to Wash's forearm, where his trembling fingers hold firmly.]
no subject
Pietro whines as Wash starts his driving rhythm again, and he writhes unconsciously with the need to move in a restrictive position. Despite his efforts to choke it down, a pleased mewling sound escapes his throat as Wash's fingers tighten around it. He can almost feel the bruises as if they were fresh, and his muscles tighten and twitch when it gets harder to breathe easily. A visceral pulse of heat travels down to his cock. Wash thumbs the cut on his chin, the sting coming back and making Pietro think about the knife again, splitting his focus in too many ways, the low growl mocking him, he can feel Wash's hot breath at his lips. It's a struggle to speak, throat working, strangled noises and wheezing, but when he manages to painfully force something through, it's simply:]
Yes.
[Yes, he wanted Wash here. He wants this, asked for it, and he knows that. He presses his heels harder into Wash's back, twists his fingers more tightly into his hair before letting that hand drop to Wash's forearm, where his trembling fingers hold firmly.]