[That one tighter hold over his throat has a spark of heat pulsing hard through his cock, and he almost whines when Wash relaxes his fingers, as if he's being deprived of something, a frustrated half-noise as he fidgets as much as he can with little room to move. The words have him letting out a huffy audible breath from his nose, but he can't manage more than the beginning of a "fuck you" before Wash is kissing him, drowning that defiant protest, fingers tight over old bruises, familiar and effective, and without the build-up to it. Wash has learned too, and Pietro feels a cold shiver down his spine at it. Soon, it's too difficult to breathe, to get enough air into his lungs, and he sputters and chokes on Wash's tongue, but he doesn't tighten his grip on Wash's forearm, and he only clenches harder around his cock, viciously, forcefully, any way to get some control to offset that which he's freely giving up.]
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