[Pietro makes note of every shift and unsteady moment that he can, holding tight to the idea that he's managed to put some cracks in Wash's near relentless display of control. His hand at his throat doesn't change, the same pressure and force, and without a moment of reprieve from it, Pietro finds it more restricting both physically and mentally in the way he can't escape the sensation that seems to linger for long minutes. A strangled whine lodges in his throat as Wash changes angles and strikes in the same spot that Pietro knows is rubbed raw and his nerves crackle and make his entire body twitch. The air he can grasp is stifling, hot, dragged from Wash's mouth and not enough. The edges of his vision darken, and things blend together into a background haze of overstimulation while his cock throbs with need, a release to make it all stop, but Pietro doesn't struggle for it, plead for it, because he wants to remain on the edge for as long as he can stand it, get to the point he can stop thinking altogether. He's close to it, can almost taste it, but something keeps snapping him back. His own apprehension of reaching it, the difficulty of fully letting go, he isn't sure.]
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