[ collars have an appeal. there is something about something simple that has to be framed against where the human body is most vulnerable, drawing attention to and emphasizing the lines of the neck and throat -- even better that by nature they're attachments points for leashes, for fingers to pull at, and tugging someone by their very throats carries an air of threat and control to it that nothing else quite carries. all the associations with leashes and collars, too. ownership. possessiveness. objectification. wash is comfortable with what he enjoys, and natasha surely isn't naive to how she looks wearing it, especially with how goddamn quickly she sees straight through him.
terrifying. or it should be. there's part of him that tenses instinctively, anyway, hackles raised, but. he admires it about her. appreciates it, likes it, even directed to him, and. when did he learn to trust her enough?
a question he'll have to linger on later. right now, with natasha so close, her hand on his, pulling him down. he looks back at her, a small nearly imperceptibly slightly too-sharp draw in breath that he knows she'd notice, and her hand lifted to her collar does exactly what she intended it to, his gaze immediately flicking to follow the movement.
he meets her eyes again. a slight lean forward, turning his hand against hers but not pulling away, his other hand lifting to touch two fingertips just against the side of her neck, just under the collar. he follows the line of it around to her throat, holding her gaze the entire time as he does, fingers tucking just behind the ring. ]
It's nice.
[ said so very, very mildly. less because he's trying to obfuscate how much part of him clearly sees the appeal, but more because -- well. big brother is watching. and natasha certainly didn't ask for big brother to fit a pretty collar around her neck. a pause, and he shifts his hand more under hers, fingers curving slightly around her wrist. ]
-- You wanted to talk?
[ he gets stalling. but he also knows it when he sees it. they can stall more if she wants. ]
no subject
terrifying. or it should be. there's part of him that tenses instinctively, anyway, hackles raised, but. he admires it about her. appreciates it, likes it, even directed to him, and. when did he learn to trust her enough?
a question he'll have to linger on later. right now, with natasha so close, her hand on his, pulling him down. he looks back at her, a small nearly imperceptibly slightly too-sharp draw in breath that he knows she'd notice, and her hand lifted to her collar does exactly what she intended it to, his gaze immediately flicking to follow the movement.
he meets her eyes again. a slight lean forward, turning his hand against hers but not pulling away, his other hand lifting to touch two fingertips just against the side of her neck, just under the collar. he follows the line of it around to her throat, holding her gaze the entire time as he does, fingers tucking just behind the ring. ]
It's nice.
[ said so very, very mildly. less because he's trying to obfuscate how much part of him clearly sees the appeal, but more because -- well. big brother is watching. and natasha certainly didn't ask for big brother to fit a pretty collar around her neck. a pause, and he shifts his hand more under hers, fingers curving slightly around her wrist. ]
-- You wanted to talk?
[ he gets stalling. but he also knows it when he sees it. they can stall more if she wants. ]