[ wash likes him desperate, likes him impatient, likes him needy and wanting when that whine reaches that certain pitch, high but irritated like he's angry he isn't already getting what he wants. he answers him easily -- that hand that was gripping over their cocks immediately lifting up to grip over his throat, not hard enough to choke him just yet but hard enough to briefly stop his airflow, to get his breath to hitch and stop, fast enough that pietro is only just barely able to get that last word out of his mouth. he presses close, feeling pietro's cock trapped against the muscle of his own stomach, tonguing over his newly bitten lower lip. ]
Maybe.
[ what if he takes all night again, pietro? what if being in an alleyway instead of a room doesn't stop him, what if he keeps pressing and pushing and taking his time to peel you apart all over again? his gaze as hungry as always, snapping into that absolute focus, and again, it's just a little different. before, he'd been learning his prey, and while there's always more to learn and even more things to tune himself to. now, he knows, already has so much about his body perfectly memorized.
that hand over the back of his thigh grips tighter, leaving new fresh marks in his skin and forcibly angling his hips in just the right way so that when he thrusts forward he hits him just right. he fucks inside him all in one smooth movement, slick and wet and forcing himself inside even with how tight pietro is, immediately turning his head to groan deep and loud, breath ragged against his jawline. he sinks in deep, balls pressed flush to his ass, lingers there only for the barest moment before he's starting to move, building quickly into a rhythm. and not just any rhythm, of course, one that he knows pietro likes, one that he remembers him responding to, his hips snapping against him hard and fast, that hand still around his throat, starting to press in just a little more. ]
[In that space of time between his impatient question and Wash's hand at his neck, Pietro sucks in a breath and tightens his throat instinctively. Wash's grip is lighter than expected, but more painful than it should be for the amount of pressure, his throat raw inside. It's uncomfortable, both physically with those fingers on his throat, but also on some emotional or psychological level that Pietro is starting comprehend, Wash overbearingly close again and taking all of his focus, pressed against his hard cock and scraping that tongue over his bleeding lip. Pietro attempts to swallow awkwardly as a pulse of heat runs through his abdomen, and he doesn't know which uncomfortable thing set it off. That annoys him and he fidgets for a moment, huffy breaths coming out of his nose.
He settles again and takes that 'maybe' as a promise too. Wash's eyes have that intensity in them again, the kind that Pietro had learned quickly to recognise, and it registers with him now, the effects of the brandy nearly out of his system. He's paying more attention, anticipating in a more calculated way, and as Wash tightens his hand at his thigh and shifts his hips, and Pietro feels that first press of his cock into his hole, he brings one hand to Wash's forearm at his throat. Wash pushes forcefully inside him, relentless and hard, that low groan sounds in his ear, and Pietro can only whine and moan for a moment, noises that don't quite make it out of his throat. He shoves his free hand down between their bodies, grasping his cock hard, stroking slightly faster than in rhythm with Wash's thrusts, and uses the wall for leverage to try to push his hips back, tightening his muscles around Wash's cock. His actions come from two incongruent lines of thought, as a part of him still wants to control something in any way, and another seeks more of exactly what Wash is giving him. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Pietro knows he's getting what he wants, that Wash is fucking him how he wants, knows which angles to drive from, where Pietro likes his cock and how fast, focused on him.]
[ wash has taught about this in the time since that eventful might at this same establishment -- how could he not, when the memories are so easy for him to revisit, when he can close his eyes and see it all play out crystal clear. he'd pushed pietro further than he'd been pushed before, he knows, pressed him to a point where he was no longer comfortable or knew what to do, very nearly forced him to reckon with some deep-seated wants within himself, and clearly, given that he's back here again, he'd left marks that seared deeper than the bruises and bites. but wash knows and understands that he'd been pushed that night, too, that much about pietro had drawn him in -- and he understands himself a little too well to be blame that entirely on the aphrodisiac-laced smoke. there's something about this. there's something about him. and god, he wants to push him there again.
pietro might almost be able to feel it, how that hunger is present but -- runs deeper, hits at something primal and raw, just like how all his movements come with a renewed intensity as he benefits from memory. pietro clamps tight around his cock and wash moans, half-hiding the sounds against the crook of pietro's shoulder between kisses and bites, already starting to bruise and mark him all over again. if anything there's an increased ferocity and possessiveness to it now, like now that he's seen those marks faded away, he damn well wants them to stay.
he fucks him hard and fast, one hand still braced against his throat. his other tight over his hip, occasionally sliding down to his thigh just so he can move him how he wants. angling him back into position and pushing him back into place any time pietro might slightly slip against the wall or jolted out of position wash's rutting thrusts, wash moves him back, knows exactly how he wants to fuck him, how deep, how hard. slowly his other hand shifts until pietro's head is forced back against the alley wall, his hand wrapping around his neck, fingertips scraping the brick.
a different time, a different person, wash might give his warning again. but he doesn't, especially when pietro so immediately lifted his hand to his forearm. pietro knows. pietro remembers. and just like before, wash leans in to kiss him, tonguing surprisingly slowly into his mouth as he starts to tighten his grip over his throat. not enough to push him to that edge just yet, but more than enough for him to choke and sputter especially in combination with wash's invading tongue, more than enough to feel his throat jump and struggle under his grip. ]
[Pietro makes a pleased noise that ekes its way out of his throat like an exhale. Wash can try to muffle his sounds, but he feels them against his skin right along with the biting and sucking, penetrating as much as the bruises Wash is leaving behind. He isn't testing or prodding at Pietro like before, having gathered his information that first time, and Pietro grasps that shift, the further lean into possessive behaviour, the urge to claim obviously more present, and he still takes pride in that, the fact that this man wants him so badly he needs to mark again when the evidence has faded. The corner of his lips turn up into a smirk and his throat works like he might want to laugh, but can't. He thumbs the head of his cock, running his nail through leaking precum while he can still coordinate his fingers enough.
The physical sensations build and Pietro focuses on them individually before he gets too overstimulated to enjoy that — his own hand on his cock, the scrape of the brick against his back, the uncomfortable position of his hips that allows for the perfect angle, the force of Wash's cock slamming deep into his ass, reigniting the fiery crackling of his nerve endings at still-sensitive places inside him from their last encounter, and the way Wash manhandles him so easily, with no care for how he might break. Because he won't, not physically. Wash tightens his grip around his neck, fingers slowly pressing harder over Pietro's throat, keeping him pinned against the wall, tongue drifting into his mouth agonisingly slowly. Pietro would whine for it, more of it, if he could make any noise at present besides choked gasps for air as his lungs start to burn.]
[ pietro can't actually make those sounds but wash can almost feel them, when he's pressed this close, when he can feel the way every sound and gasp for air bubbles up in his throat under his palm. his impatience is something wash finds almost -- charming, despite himself, that sense of demand, to get what he wants now. and like he has done before, sometimes he wants to draw that out, force him give into the need, to beg, but right now.
wash's grip shifts further against pietro's neck. an echo not of the first time he'd choked him, but of pietro's hand against his own throat. wash's hand is different, rougher, but he still slides his fingers into the right spaces around his throat, almost like slotting them perfectly into place against old bruises and marks. pietro might barely have the time to realize that's happening, though, because wash is starting to kiss him harder, all teeth and tongue, sucking on his bottom lip. He shifts quickly into kissing him with such a viciousness that that alone might've been enough to cause someone to struggle in discomfort, but that hand against his throat starts to grip tighter, too.
its steady, even, ramp-up of pressure, cutting off what's left of pietro's air even as he kisses him like he means to steal the oxygen from his lungs. pietro's hand over his forearm would be able to feel the muscles and tendons work, how he locks his arm sharply in place, how he makes those minute adjustments. wash is pressed so close now, his presence oppressive as always, surrounding pietro in this, in him, aiming to drown him in sensation, on himself -- and again he's starting to push for that edge. any time pietro starts to lose too much air, wash adjusts, gives him a little bit back, not quite keeping him on the same knife's edge but keeping him damned close.
he's relentless, growling and gasping against pietro's own mouth and tongue as he keeps fucking him, every thrust jolting his body against the wall and causing him to need to adjust that hand on his throat, against his hips. but he does it every time, with almost mechanical precision, a well-oiled machine tuned to a single purpose, that hand over his waist starting to slide to grip over his ass and leave more marks and bruises there even as he keeps using that touch to keep him just where he wants him. ]
[Wash adjusts his grip on his throat, and it's familiar, but in a different way. Pietro can't pinpoint it, that it was where his own fingers had been, so far gone at that point last time that the physical memory of it is fuzzy and just edging into something he knows is significant, but can't piece together in what way. Unconsciously, he does know, and his fingers at Wash's arm shift to mirror that hold, shaking and unstable like they had been against his throat. Barely formed noises die quickly, little huffs of breath that could have been groans or whines, as Wash bites and sucks on his lip, kisses him harder, brutal and violent, and Pietro digs his nails into his cock, abdominal muscles tightening and fluttering reflexively as the heat of arousal pools within him.
His movements become slower as Wash continues to push him, tightening his hand around his throat, taking over his mouth and his personal space, crushing him against the wall even as he continues to fuck him hard and deep. By the time Wash gets his fingers dug into the flesh of his ass, re-imprinting those bruises and marks, Pietro is slipping from his concentration on individual sensations, perceiving it all but unable to process it, shorting out his brain with too much input. He chokes and gasps for breath, his fingers shake more intensely, he writhes in both discomfort and arousal, cock twitching in his hand every time he almost reaches that point of oblivion and gets pulled back. It's not enough to make him black out, not enough that he needs to struggle that much to avoid it, but the euphoric feelings and sense of disconnect are the same. He's getting where he wants to be.]
[ wash knows he's getting pietro where he wants. he's barely making any sound now, all of them dying in his throat, bubbling up and sputtering under his grip against his neck, and all the while wash's grip is tight, unfaltering, perfectly steady. his own breathing gets more ragged, just from all of this, and in a way its like he's almost matching pietro's breaths, his racing heartbeat even as he seeks to throttle it out, honing into everything about him and tuning himself as close as possible. it had taken him a while to get so close, last time, but now.
he keeps that rhythm, that repetition itself drawing him into that in-between space, his entire world narrowed to the heat of pietro around his cock and the feel of him pressed between them and the alley wall, everything else around them forgotten. that pressure in him starts to build, and build, and when he finally breaks that rhythm its to break away from that kiss.
wash's hand drops from his ass, palming roughly down over his already newly bruised thighs, fitting between them to pull pietro's hand away from his own cock. he growls, panting heavily, his thrusts faltering just slightly as he shifts to press pietro further against the wall, until pietro's cock is pressed flush against the hard muscle of wash's abdomen, his next thrust pushing his hips up to rub against it even as he moves to pin pietro's hand against the wall.
now wash is just -- watching him. staring at him, his lips wet and swollen from kissing, eyes lidded but his gaze sharp and boring deep. that hand against his throat starts to work slightly, almost kneading at his neck, shifting, adjusting, pushing him closer and closer to that knife's edge and letting him breathe just enough to keep him there. wash's not able to adjust the rest of pietro's body as precisely, anymore, but he's just watching him, drinking in every reaction, every movement, every tiny tic and twitch of his body, and he doesn't say anything, but the promise is there in everything he's doing, every snap of his hips, every throb of his cock when he slams it in deep, his hand locked tight around pietro's wrist as he presses it to the brick. pietro sought him out for this. for this, everything else, and so much more, and wash is ready to give it to him, make him feel so fucking good and so overwhelmed there's nothing else. over and over again. ]
[Pietro struggles immediately for more air the moment Wash's mouth is off of his, but that hold on his throat doesn't allow much and his breathing is still strangled and choked, the only sounds wheezing and gasping and attempts at whines or whimpers. As Wash moves his hand from his ass, Pietro no longer has that support, and he tightens his leg at Wash's hip. He writhes a bit after Wash grabs his wrist away from his cock, and manages to force some frustrated sound out of his throat at that in protest. Wash pushes him harder against the wall, and Pietro uses that leverage to bring his other leg up and shamelessly hook it around Wash's waist, all that movement making his abdomen twitch and flutter as it shifts Wash's cock inside him. His own now rubs between them, Pietro almost desperate to shove his hand back there, but he doesn't pull his wrist away from where it's pinned against the wall, only those experimental tests of Wash's grip. His entire body feels too hot under Wash's gaze, tingling and burning with the knowledge of being seen in that way, understood. Pietro lets his eyes slide shut, only focusing on physical sensations, which his body his very responsive to, muscles twitching and tightening, quick spasms when something strikes just right on fraying nerves, his fingers at Wash's arm trembling.]
[ both of pietro's legs are wrapped around his waist, now, and wash makes some low pleased sound at that, possessive and wanting all at once, taking the smallest moment in his unfaltering rhythm to adjust how he has him held in his arms in response to that change of position and make sure he's hitting him as hard and deep as he wants. he would step away from the wall just to hold him in his arms, force pietro to hold onto nothing but him -- but he doesn't want to let up on the pressure around his throat, wants to keep pushing this.
for as much as wash may have learned over their first time together, wash is never one to rest on his laurels, and there's always more to chase. every twitch and sudden spasm is followed by wash adjusting himself more, aligning himself to that newest sensory overload. he presses even closer when pietro closes his eyes, almost molding their bodies against each other, pressing his forehead to pietro's own, letting his own eyes fall shut. ]
-- You're so good. [ a breathless murmur, heated against pietro's lips, words slightly slurred between his ragged breaths a ripple of tension runs through his arm, noticeable even under pietro's trembling grip, as he starts to ramp up that pressure even harder around his already bruising throat. ] How hard do I have to choke you to make you fucking come from it, Pietro? We're gonna find out --
[ his grip tightens a little over his throat, just for a moment, a ripple of tension that quickly flickers back into the more steady increasing pressure. its a promise. an enticement. he starts to increase that grip again, starting to squeeze more and more air from him, and his other hand actually slips from pietro's against the wall, just to loop under his thighs, steady him better as he ruts forward hard. wash isn't kissing him, this time, but he's more than close enough to feel all of his sputtering breaths and gasps as he starts to choke him even harder. tighter, harder, throttling him more, little by little, until he can find the bright burning edge. ]
[He finds it even more difficult to breathe with Wash so close, the oppressive and domineering presence sucking all of the air out of the space. Pietro digs his heels into Wash's back, to exert some pressure of his own, to have an illusion of control within his illusion of giving it up. At this moment, he realises exactly how completely fucked up this is, that he wants this, needs this, has to have it ripped from him because he clings too tightly to it and it's impossible to do it on his own. Wash's compliment sends a cold shiver down Pietro's spine despite how hot he feels, and he struggles to speak, automatic response, yes I am, so good. His fingers shake more violently, nearly vibrating, as Wash tightens his grip on his throat.
When Wash lets go of his wrist, Pietro drops his hand to his thigh, digging his fingers in. He could grab for his cock again, but he wants to find out too. His cock is so hard, and leaking, and every rub against Wash's abdomen has his balls tightening. Yes, he could come from just this, just getting to the edge of nothing. After that one hard press of his fingers, Wash is starting in increments again, and Pietro wants to complain about it, his impatient fidgeting just amounts to scraping his back uselessly against the bricks, Wash is too close to allow him room he needs to squirm incessantly. His movements still soon enough, and the first bright sparks bloom at the edges of his vision even with his eyes closed. The harder Wash chokes him, the more pain Pietro takes from it, bruises forming, the inside still raw and now compressed, the reflexive attempts at swallowing that just hurt, it all gives way to a sense of drifting warmth Pietro gets lost in.]
[ its not like wash minds praising him, minds admitting that he's terribly wrapped up in him too -- but there is part of him that might be doing it a bit on purpose just to see the way he responds to it, or the way he tries to. the instinct in him to bask in it, to preen, choked down with everything else, broken into something different, a shiver that wash can feel and that fierce vibration in his fingers that wash definitely feels. he can feel the answer even when pietro can't speak, and when especially when he doesn't move to touch himself -- wash rumbles a little in response, low and pleased. good. they'll see.
wash knows the signs of his impatience by now, too, not that they were too hard to notice even before, the way he writhes and fidgets in a way distinct from the little squirms and shivers from when he's just overwhelmed with sensation, but wash is pinning him almost bodily to the wall, pressed so close that he barely has any place to move, and as pietro starts to still wash moves more in turn. each forward roll of his hips drives harder, deeper, pushing pietro further up the wall before that grip over the back of his thighs drags him back down. his cock throbs hotly inside him, and fuck, he really does feel so good, hot and tight around him, trembling and falling apart as he scrambles to hold on and let go all at once.
that hand over his throat tightens, more and more. veins in his wrist and forearm throbbing, knuckles starting to go white. he shifts his hand again, not following any grip from before but shifting every touch and every point of pressure to squeeze as much air out of him as he can, fingers kneading and flexing into skin and corded muscle. his eyes are still closed, focusing purely on feeling, the heat and warmth of him, the scent of sweat and sex heavy in his lungs, close enough for pietro to feel al of his ragged breaths against his own lips, to feel every rumbling growl as he aims to drive him to the edge. ]
[Something about that pleased rumbling makes Pietro want to fight against it, like giving Wash what he wants is counter to what Pietro wants, even though it isn't. His abdomen tightens hard as he struggles with those mixed feelings. They slip from his mind almost as soon as he focuses on them, as Wash thrusts more intensely, somehow getting deeper inside him and hitting an angle and amount of pressure that makes Pietro reflexively squeeze around him tightly as the increased force in the grip around his throat strangles his loud whines before they fully form. Wash pulls at him again, driving his body down harder onto his cock, and he can feel himself letting go of more control as his muscles quiver and strain with nowhere to release his desperate energy built up through overstimulation. Pietro can feel his lungs burning, like he's drowning in nothing, and with every exhale hot at his lips, he gasps harder for more oxygen. Wash's growls fade to a quiet background noise as Pietro drifts further and loses his hold on the last threads of coherent thought and perception, and with that release comes his physical one, balls and abdomen tightening, muscles stiffening abruptly as he reaches orgasm.]
[ the closer pietro gets, the more wash can feel it, too, the closer he get even as his singular drive turns to doing everything he can to push him to that brink, leaving him teetering before pushing him over. his cock throbs hotly inside him on every thrust, feeling those muscled walls clench and quiver, feeling how hard pietro is too as he's forced against his abdomen, body jolted up each time. when pietro finally comes, spilling hotly between their bodies, wash moans, his hips bucking up reflexively and burying themselves deep, and he comes almost immediately after, almost at the same time. he fills him just as he feels pietro's body lock up and tighten around him, muscles cinching around his cock, and a full shudder runs through his spine.
at the same time, wash's hand only tightens, cutting off pietro's air completely in the moment where he comes. when wash himself is riding it out, waves of sensation rocking through his body, his arm stays tight, locked and firm. his focus doesn't falter, if anything only sharpens in those moments, and his hand over his throat works to keep him there as much as he can. even as the sensation starts to fade into a pleasant weight tugging at his limbs, wash sinks into a different kind of high, just watching and feeling.
eventually, though, wash starts to ease up. the tension ebbing, easing, even as he keeps pietro pressed against the wall. he lifts his head to kiss him again, tonguing deeply and hungrily into his mouth -- in the same way he forces pietro to choke on him and his tongue when he takes his air away, forcing pietro to gasp for air through him. ]
[Pietro is still in the first aftershocks of release when Wash comes inside him, and he tightens his muscles again, clamping down hard as that come splatters his raw insides. It pulls him back enough to be aware of things again for a fraction of a second before Wash's hand tightens at his throat and he can't breathe at all. His fingers tremble at Wash's arm, but he doesn't squeeze, doesn't opt for that conscious release wile he still has the ability to think about it. Once the waves of orgasm have faded, Pietro struggles briefly in that involuntary instinctive way, fighting to breathe, opening his eyes again, sharply focused initially, but quickly glazing over. His fingers pulse with a throbbing heat and tingling, his chest tight and painful, like it might implode. Pietro can feel the edges of oblivion threading through him, and when he's almost on the verge of blacking out and his hand slips from his thigh, he can taste air. It doesn't last, and soon he's drowning again, in Wash's mouth, nearly swallowing his tongue and sputtering around it.]
[ pietro is choking around his tongue and wash keeps kissing him easily, deeply, a little slower now but with no less hunger and need, no less drive and intent to devour him. he could push him over, force him to pass out now, but wash draws him back instead. not fully, still caught up in his arms, legs around his waist, but wash isn't intending to drive him into unconsciousness, at least not just yet.
as pietro sputters back, as he gets more air in his lungs, wash starts to pull back slightly from the kiss. allowing him a little more, here and there, but just like before he'll never be entirely without stimulation, something always going, keeping him permanently on edge. wash's hips are still pressed flush against him, his hips rolling forward to shift inside him even with his softening cock. his hand may no longer be choking him but it's still pressed against his neck, his throat, shifting to knead and press against sharp bruises, forcing his throat to work even in its raw state. his other hand was gripped over his ass, lifting up now as wash shifts to make sure he has pietro's weight braced properly between himself and the wall, it moves up to tangle through his hair. tugging, pulling, forcing his head even further back.
he's waiting, really. drawing this out until pietro shifts and reacts again, in irritation or need or both. sometimes the best way to send someone hurtling into edge is to draw them so so close and then push them back, over and over, until they don't know which side of things they're on anymore. ]
[For a moment, all Pietro can focus on is breathing what little air he's given, and slowly, he becomes more aware of things again, of all points of stimulation flooding back to perceptible levels and overwhelming him. He squirms and shifts, uncomfortable and trapped. Wash's cock is still in his ass, still thrusting inside him. He tightens his hold on Wash's waist, heels digging in hard as Wash moves his hand from his ass. Pietro braces his back harder against the wall as much as he can to further offset the change in weight distribution, almost an automatic response for optimisation.
The grip on his throat is still firm, still there, Wash fingering his new bruises and the ghosts of old ones, and Pietro feels a pull of arousal in his abdomen again. He lets out a strangled whine, forced through his bruised throat once it's open enough, as Wash grabs his hair and yanks his head back against the bricks. That's familiar too, the sharp pain in his scalp just another sensation that has him more on edge, more unsettled. He adjusts his shaking fingers at Wash's arm, and finally finds the coordination to lift his free hand again, gripping Wash's shoulder for more support, groaning in frustration with himself when he realises it could be described as clinging. Something comes out of his mouth that might have been an attempt at 'fuck'.]
[ as wash settles and breathes more of the outside world creeps back in -- the sound of the bar muffled through the door they came through, traffic, passers by outside the alley. that's the opposite of what he wants, too close to reawakening the side of him that's always on the lookout, wary and cautious. they may have different reasons to seek things out, but end of the day what wash wants for himself is a different kind of oblivion, the kind that comes from pure and utter focus.
so he shifts. recenters himself on pietro, his heat, scent, taste, the weight of him in his arms, the rippling reassure around his cock, the whisper of a voice that escapes from his throat, a faint curse, the familiar whining sounds he's learned, that unsteady, shaking touch.
wash likes pulling at his hair, the reactions it always gets from him, likes the way it feels to have those strands sifting between his fingers, so even if he needs to take extra care to support his weight properly while doing so he keeps doing it. a sharper tug, his free hand dropping briefly down between them to palm crudely over pietro's still-sensitive cock, streaking his hand with come, moving up to drag over what pietro had spilled between both of their stomachs, rising and falling with their ragged breaths. ]
-- You know. [ a low rumble on his voice, murmured against peitro's lips between another sharp nip, a dip of his tongue into his mouth to taste him again, brief but hungry. ] I can keep doing this for you. Much as you want.
[ that come-slick hand lifts straight to his throat again, uncaring about the mess, just to emphasize the point, lifting his gaze to meet pietro's own, sharp and intense under lidded eyes. ]
[Pietro makes a quiet yelp of a noise at that harder tug in his hair. It hurts to vocalise things, but he can't help himself, and continues to whine, now bent with irritation, when Wash's fingers leaves his throat. He sucks in a sharp ragged breath, feeling that hand running roughly over his cock. It twitches and Pietro squirms, tries to push into Wash's touch, but that only sparks more immediate arousal with Wash's cock rubbing against sensitive nerves, and he moans. Wash's fingers trail over his stomach, scraping through his come. That rumbling voice draws Pietro's attention back to solely Wash, his presence, and the sharpness of that quick bite has his entire body twitching once. He runs his tongue over Wash's, curling around it like he had his cock, before it's pulled away.
Wash's hand is back on his throat directly, and Pietro can feel the tackiness of his come-covered fingers over fresh bruises. Despite himself, Pietro sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews at the bleeding bite, contemplating things he should be rejecting outright. His thoughts swirl, already a mess before he'd even contacted Wash tonight, and one part of him that screams louder then the rest insists Pietro deserves this kind of treatment, not only wants to be broken, but deserves it. He meets Wash's gaze steadily, but it's not with fierce defiance. An edge of that, lingering, but what reflects most is his desperation and and a pathological curiosity that always has him pushing for more. How far would he go? What would Wash do if Pietro just said —]
[ that surprises him. even if he can see it coming, to an extent, sense the difference in his eyes those few moments of quiet, that genuine consideration. everything wash has seen before has always been primarily colored by his defiance. clear signs of something else running beneath that, deep and true, but always pulled back, always hampered by whatever small thing he can do to attempt to claw back even the tiniest fragment of control. that stubbornness is still there, bold and bright, but something else, too. a desperation, a want, a need. a desire to find out what else could be. and still, even when wash can see it, he expects to get a laugh and a challenge, and instead he gets an answer, breathless, simple.
interesting.
pietro might be able to see it, too. that hunger in his eyes seeming to sharpen, to flare up for a moment just with the thought of possibility, a twist of heat and arousal twisting through him so hotly and suddenly that his cock throbs and twitches noticeably still buried inside pietro's ass. realistically, he knows here in the back alley of jolene's, there's not much else he can do past push him to the brink like this over and over, and maybe that's good, too, the slow breaking and shattering that only comes with bringing someone so close to an edge over and over that the boundary blurs and disappears altogether. but god. there's so much more he could do. ]
Yes. [ wash echoes it, not agreeing himself or mocking it, just -- an echo. considering, thoughtful, but that want and lust and hunger evident in his rumbling tone, almost a purr as he pours over the possibilities in his mind. he pushes his hips against his ass, a brief shove of pietro's back against the brick wall again as he tangles his fingers through his hair -- not a sudden yank, but just a slow, steady increase as he twists the strands through his hand. the more he talks, the more his words almost start to slur into each other, thick and heavy with lust and want, almost like he's letting instinct and desire drive what he's saying more than anything else. ] You want to come home with me, Pietro? You want to let me use you any way I want?
[ a sharper thrust of his hips as his cock slowly starts to harden again, even while pressed inside him, still sensitive. that come-covered hand against his throat squeezes, just a little. enough to punctuate his words. a heated murmur he'd said before ringing in wash's own memory, about how he could keep him, break him on his cock again and again and again, the echoes of that underneath his words now. ]
[Fuck. Shit. He'd said it, and now he can see the fallout already. Pietro has all the time to register each shift in Wash's expression and body language now that he's focused again and not drifting off, and what he sees has his abdomen tightening violently, a mix of fear and arousal locking down his muscles. Wash's eyes darken, spark momentarily, like Pietro hit on something that dredges up more primal and visceral need, and he can feel that in the way Wash's cock moves inside him. Pietro writhes slightly in response, stilling again when Wash repeats that word back to him. Pietro's stomach drops and he knows he's likely far in over his head already, and though his fingers shake more noticeably, his thighs quiver, and he glances down the alley to the street like he's marking an escape route, he stays right where he is, the burning flame of defiance now directed inwards. Pietro won't back down from the accidental challenge he's given himself, to see this out, discover if Wash is capable of driving all of his agonising intrusive thoughts from his mind, where he can forget about his sister and the guilt that comes with it, almost palpable to him still even as he desperately means to shake it in any way he can.
Wash moves his hips, shoves him harder against the wall, those fingers in his hair more considering, twisting and playing. It's dissonant, and Pietro squirms again. Wash doesn't ever seem to be easily provoked or rattled like Pietro, but that's what he can hear now, in the way Wash's words come with less precision, are less clear and purposeful, running on instinct and his own desires he lets come through them. Pietro can't help but feel he's broken through something, and that self-satisfaction of making even a small crack is enough to have Pietro huff a quiet amused noise. Those words echo in his ears, weighing down on him as he tightens his muscles around Wash's hardening cock, licks his lips as those fingers press more firmly into his throat.]
You would love that, yes?
[His voice is almost a whisper, but with a harsh edge to it, tone half mocking and half full of want.]
[ there he is, again, that defiance, that bite. wash isn't disappointed to hear it, likes that bite and challenge in him even as he seeks to tear through it, but that difference is there. in his voice, in his gaze, a definite change. an awareness, maybe, that he's in over his head, and pietro definitely is far in over his head, lets himself be goaded on deeper and deeper. wash won't let him get away with any of it so easily. that amused sound, that moment of self-satisfaction doesn't escape wash's ears, and it doesn't bother him, not at all, but.
his tongue wets at his lower lip. one moment where he lifts his head, his hand tightening through his hair, looking straight into his eyes with nothing but deep-driven hunger and want. ]
More than you know.
[ that slur to his words abruptly disappears. that little crack, that break, that slip into something deeper had been, and is, entirely genuine, a glimpse into the visceral need and instinct wash has that fuels him for this just like it fueled him on the rooftop. but pietro being able to see it, hear it, wash letting any of that through -- he does that on purpose, even the parts of him that he allows to fall apart some measure of calculated and precise. the words themselves, too, again like what had happened the last time they met: what pietro tries to reach for for a sense of control, gloating over how much wash wants him, is desperate from him, wash doesn't shy away from. instead wash leans into it fully, whole-heartedly, and he would love it, absolutely fucking love it, taking pietro home and keeping him all for his own, breaking him down slowly piece by piece. pietro might get barely any time to think on that, to register it, because wash is already moving on, thinking, that voice sliding into that wanting instinct again.
there are so many things he could do. his searching mind latches onto one. ]
Remember class, Pietro?
[ feels like so long ago now but wash remembers it clear as ever. pietro may have been forced to take that class, but since everything that's transpired wash can't help but wonder if there was at least some purpose in that, too, signing up for something with an experienced dominant, a lesson about rope and bondage and the depths of loss of control. at the time, especially under the mandate of the city, wash had taken a gentler hand that pietro had never responded to. but he has wondered, since then. what if he hadn't held back. ]
Was there something you wanted in that there? [ his words come heated and deep and rumbling, punctuated with bitten-back shivers and gasps as pietro's body tightens around his hardening cock. wash himself is still raw and oversensitive, usually paces himself out by stimulating people in other ways while he allows himself time to recover, but -- here he's pressing on. starting to rock his hips harder, that hand sliding up over pietro's throat, smearing his skin with come and sweat, thumb and ring digging in painfully at the hinges of his jaw. ] Can you imagine, speedy little thing like you all bound up in rope, coiled so tight you can't even fucking move, can't see, can barely breathe. None of your fidgeting, just those sweet little sounds you make, empty of everything except being kept full of cock and come.
[Pietro's smirk falters as Wash tightens his hold on his hair and stares at him, that desire naked in his eyes as he blatantly admits it. He's not sure what to do about it, that kind of response to him, and Pietro furrows his eyebrows slightly, confused over it all. Nothing he says has any effect on this man, and it's something he'd figured out before, but the concept of which hadn't fully sunken in. It still doesn't, not entirely, though Pietro notes that Wash's voice is that normal controlled intensity again, no hint of what Pietro perceived as a vulnerability to poke, to prod and unravel. It's no longer there. He glances away for a moment, away from that steady gaze, eyes flicking up to Wash again only when he continues speaking, want and desire in his voice again like before. And Pietro scoffs, rolling his eyes, dismissive about that class they first met in.]
I signed up for a lot of classes.
[An echo of what he'd said then, his excuse for interrupting that class and being a general nuisance about it, that he'd had no attachment to the subject matter. It held no interest any more than the other classes he'd chosen, nearly randomly. It has been a long time, especially for Pietro, and he remembers little of the actual topics at hand. Was there something you wanted in that there? No. No, he could say so then, hadn't even considered such things, still inexperienced and unaware of what it could do for him, unaware he even wanted what he now knows he does. At that time, Pietro never would have allowed himself into that position voluntarily, and it's why he hadn't shown up for the exam, keeping his tight hold on control.
Wash keeps talking, rumbling against his chest, and Pietro listens to the timbre of his voice, takes in the changes in him, how he'd let himself get too stimulated too. Not just taking, giving in to Pietro, to his body, not as intent on breaking him here. He understands that. Wash wants more, and Pietro thinks he expects to get it without question. That irritates him, and he writhes and fidgets as the proposition worms its way inside him. Fuck. He wants to move incessantly just thinking about it, fingers shaking violently, his muscles twitching so fast they're on the verge of vibrating as Wash's fingers dig into his jaw. When Pietro speaks, his voice is unsteady, whether it's from vibrations or fear or something else is difficult to discern, even to him, but his statement is flat, factual.]
[ torture, huh. wash just looks back at him, still pressed so close, feeling how mch he trembles, how his fingers shake, his voice unsteady like his grip is. his answer is immediate, eyes lidded, voice still thick with arousal and want, rumbling with a growl. ]
Doesn't mean you don't want it.
[ there's a calm, quiet confidence in that. not quite certainty that it's what pietro wants, in specific, but just. knowing. knowing that calling something torture doesn't mean someone can't want it, thrive in it, knowing that the line between pleasure and pain is thin and bright like a knife's edge. ]
And you do want it, don't you? [ he keeps pressed close. pietro's legs still wrapped around him, forced to hold onto him to stay upright, cock still buried deep, he keeps his grip tight on his jaw, adjusting his hand so the heel of his palm presses against his freshly bruised throat, a steady, even pressure even as he yanks again at his hair. ] I could tie you up. Carve you open with a knife. Feed you cock and come until you can't think of anything else.
[ with his thumb and ring finger pressed into either side of his jaw, the fingers in between graze up over his chin, pushing at his lips and hooking into his mouth. it scares him, wash can tell. on some level, all of this scares him, not what wash is doing to him but what it makes him learn about himself, what he knows he wants. and its a feeling he knows well because what he wants scares him all the fucking time, but he's learned to lean into it, wholly, fully. for better and for worse. ]
[Pietro glares hotly in response to those words, annoyed Wash can get to him so easily, get under his skin and make him confront things. Torture blended into pleasure for him once, and like Wash's bruises, Pietro still knows where every trace of Ororo's switchblade ran over his chest and his thighs. He bears no scars from it, but he knows all the same. He'd thought about that with Wash last time too, how until him, it had been the closest Pietro had gotten to that space where nothing exists, been where he'd discovered it. A fierce pulse of heat runs down through his abdomen and his cock as Wash asks that question, palm now pushing against his throat, pulling hard at his hair. Yes. Yes, he wants it. Fuck. Pietro bites his lip to keep himself from saying so, because he is scared, not of knives or pain, not of choking on Wash's cock again. Of not being able to move, not having physical means of escape if he needs to, like he does here. It's his primary concern, and the deeper fears of his own self-reflection are buried for the moment.
Wash's fingers slide into his mouth and Pietro sets his teeth on them, not hard, but holding them there while he decides what he wants. If he wants to give up that much control, and that is what it would be, he realises it afterwards. He swallows thickly, and after another moment of indecision, releases Wash's fingers from the press of his teeth and licks at them instead, tasting himself. His words aren't the most intelligible with Wash's fingers in his mouth, but he gets them out, quick and clipped, a terse agreement.]
I do not want to think. Make me forget.
[The last part is issued as an order, but comes out in a heavy breath, shaky and with underlying desperation.]
[ such a good boy. despite everything else. an interesting shift, a sign of just how deep this runs, of how far wash really had managed to push him on the rooftop the last time they met -- and of just how much pietro needs to escape whatever it is he's trying to get away from. he'd ask, except that's not his place, not his role, here. his role is simply to make it happen.
pietro's teeth give way to his tongue lapping at his fingers instead, his words clipped and muffled around his fingers. but clear. perfectly clear. desperate and still clawing at some sense of control, again, but wanting, willing to say the words, and wash will reward him for that.
he drops his hand from pietro's throat, from his jaw, fingers slipping from his mouth. he's quick, but for pietro that moment might last longer, long enough to wonder, to be irritated, impatient.
and then that hand is back, but his fingers are curled around the hilt of a knife. wash is rarely completely unarmed, tends to carry at least one or two knives on his person. Where he'd drawn this one out from it's not clear, but pietro with his legs wrapped around his waist might've felt the movement, the brush of wash's arm. wash brings it in front of him, between them, spinning it a little and letting the hilt land back in his palm, small and deft and balanced for throwing -- and now pressed flush to pietro's throat. what he'd said about the knife had been a guess. an offer, of what wash can do. it didn't go missed just how positively pietro seemed to react to the thought of it.
nothing else about wash moves -- save for the throb of his cock still pressed inside him. he's practiced, fluid with this, the pressure of cool metal against his neck perfect and calculated to not quite be enough to break skin. ]
I will.
[ matter of fact. said not like its a promise, but a statement of truth. he can. and he will. he doesn't glide the knife against his throat, just angles it up, ever so slightly, enough for that edge to bite a little more against his throat. still not quite enough to cut him. ]
I can do more, if I took you elsewhere.
[ simple. the calm practicality of the statement almost seems to make it ring louder, his voice still low and rumbling quiet. it's a question without asking one, a decision for pietro to make, another reminder that its his choice to put himself in wash's hands. there's much that wash can do just armed with a knife -- but for the rest of his promises, they'd need a little more than what he has. he could take pietro home, reconvene a different time . . . but he does hear that desperation in him. see it in his eyes. and the more desperate pietro is, the more wash's own want burns in response. ]
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Maybe.
[ what if he takes all night again, pietro? what if being in an alleyway instead of a room doesn't stop him, what if he keeps pressing and pushing and taking his time to peel you apart all over again? his gaze as hungry as always, snapping into that absolute focus, and again, it's just a little different. before, he'd been learning his prey, and while there's always more to learn and even more things to tune himself to. now, he knows, already has so much about his body perfectly memorized.
that hand over the back of his thigh grips tighter, leaving new fresh marks in his skin and forcibly angling his hips in just the right way so that when he thrusts forward he hits him just right. he fucks inside him all in one smooth movement, slick and wet and forcing himself inside even with how tight pietro is, immediately turning his head to groan deep and loud, breath ragged against his jawline. he sinks in deep, balls pressed flush to his ass, lingers there only for the barest moment before he's starting to move, building quickly into a rhythm. and not just any rhythm, of course, one that he knows pietro likes, one that he remembers him responding to, his hips snapping against him hard and fast, that hand still around his throat, starting to press in just a little more. ]
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He settles again and takes that 'maybe' as a promise too. Wash's eyes have that intensity in them again, the kind that Pietro had learned quickly to recognise, and it registers with him now, the effects of the brandy nearly out of his system. He's paying more attention, anticipating in a more calculated way, and as Wash tightens his hand at his thigh and shifts his hips, and Pietro feels that first press of his cock into his hole, he brings one hand to Wash's forearm at his throat. Wash pushes forcefully inside him, relentless and hard, that low groan sounds in his ear, and Pietro can only whine and moan for a moment, noises that don't quite make it out of his throat. He shoves his free hand down between their bodies, grasping his cock hard, stroking slightly faster than in rhythm with Wash's thrusts, and uses the wall for leverage to try to push his hips back, tightening his muscles around Wash's cock. His actions come from two incongruent lines of thought, as a part of him still wants to control something in any way, and another seeks more of exactly what Wash is giving him. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Pietro knows he's getting what he wants, that Wash is fucking him how he wants, knows which angles to drive from, where Pietro likes his cock and how fast, focused on him.]
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pietro might almost be able to feel it, how that hunger is present but -- runs deeper, hits at something primal and raw, just like how all his movements come with a renewed intensity as he benefits from memory. pietro clamps tight around his cock and wash moans, half-hiding the sounds against the crook of pietro's shoulder between kisses and bites, already starting to bruise and mark him all over again. if anything there's an increased ferocity and possessiveness to it now, like now that he's seen those marks faded away, he damn well wants them to stay.
he fucks him hard and fast, one hand still braced against his throat. his other tight over his hip, occasionally sliding down to his thigh just so he can move him how he wants. angling him back into position and pushing him back into place any time pietro might slightly slip against the wall or jolted out of position wash's rutting thrusts, wash moves him back, knows exactly how he wants to fuck him, how deep, how hard. slowly his other hand shifts until pietro's head is forced back against the alley wall, his hand wrapping around his neck, fingertips scraping the brick.
a different time, a different person, wash might give his warning again. but he doesn't, especially when pietro so immediately lifted his hand to his forearm. pietro knows. pietro remembers. and just like before, wash leans in to kiss him, tonguing surprisingly slowly into his mouth as he starts to tighten his grip over his throat. not enough to push him to that edge just yet, but more than enough for him to choke and sputter especially in combination with wash's invading tongue, more than enough to feel his throat jump and struggle under his grip. ]
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The physical sensations build and Pietro focuses on them individually before he gets too overstimulated to enjoy that — his own hand on his cock, the scrape of the brick against his back, the uncomfortable position of his hips that allows for the perfect angle, the force of Wash's cock slamming deep into his ass, reigniting the fiery crackling of his nerve endings at still-sensitive places inside him from their last encounter, and the way Wash manhandles him so easily, with no care for how he might break. Because he won't, not physically. Wash tightens his grip around his neck, fingers slowly pressing harder over Pietro's throat, keeping him pinned against the wall, tongue drifting into his mouth agonisingly slowly. Pietro would whine for it, more of it, if he could make any noise at present besides choked gasps for air as his lungs start to burn.]
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wash's grip shifts further against pietro's neck. an echo not of the first time he'd choked him, but of pietro's hand against his own throat. wash's hand is different, rougher, but he still slides his fingers into the right spaces around his throat, almost like slotting them perfectly into place against old bruises and marks. pietro might barely have the time to realize that's happening, though, because wash is starting to kiss him harder, all teeth and tongue, sucking on his bottom lip. He shifts quickly into kissing him with such a viciousness that that alone might've been enough to cause someone to struggle in discomfort, but that hand against his throat starts to grip tighter, too.
its steady, even, ramp-up of pressure, cutting off what's left of pietro's air even as he kisses him like he means to steal the oxygen from his lungs. pietro's hand over his forearm would be able to feel the muscles and tendons work, how he locks his arm sharply in place, how he makes those minute adjustments. wash is pressed so close now, his presence oppressive as always, surrounding pietro in this, in him, aiming to drown him in sensation, on himself -- and again he's starting to push for that edge. any time pietro starts to lose too much air, wash adjusts, gives him a little bit back, not quite keeping him on the same knife's edge but keeping him damned close.
he's relentless, growling and gasping against pietro's own mouth and tongue as he keeps fucking him, every thrust jolting his body against the wall and causing him to need to adjust that hand on his throat, against his hips. but he does it every time, with almost mechanical precision, a well-oiled machine tuned to a single purpose, that hand over his waist starting to slide to grip over his ass and leave more marks and bruises there even as he keeps using that touch to keep him just where he wants him. ]
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His movements become slower as Wash continues to push him, tightening his hand around his throat, taking over his mouth and his personal space, crushing him against the wall even as he continues to fuck him hard and deep. By the time Wash gets his fingers dug into the flesh of his ass, re-imprinting those bruises and marks, Pietro is slipping from his concentration on individual sensations, perceiving it all but unable to process it, shorting out his brain with too much input. He chokes and gasps for breath, his fingers shake more intensely, he writhes in both discomfort and arousal, cock twitching in his hand every time he almost reaches that point of oblivion and gets pulled back. It's not enough to make him black out, not enough that he needs to struggle that much to avoid it, but the euphoric feelings and sense of disconnect are the same. He's getting where he wants to be.]
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he keeps that rhythm, that repetition itself drawing him into that in-between space, his entire world narrowed to the heat of pietro around his cock and the feel of him pressed between them and the alley wall, everything else around them forgotten. that pressure in him starts to build, and build, and when he finally breaks that rhythm its to break away from that kiss.
wash's hand drops from his ass, palming roughly down over his already newly bruised thighs, fitting between them to pull pietro's hand away from his own cock. he growls, panting heavily, his thrusts faltering just slightly as he shifts to press pietro further against the wall, until pietro's cock is pressed flush against the hard muscle of wash's abdomen, his next thrust pushing his hips up to rub against it even as he moves to pin pietro's hand against the wall.
now wash is just -- watching him. staring at him, his lips wet and swollen from kissing, eyes lidded but his gaze sharp and boring deep. that hand against his throat starts to work slightly, almost kneading at his neck, shifting, adjusting, pushing him closer and closer to that knife's edge and letting him breathe just enough to keep him there. wash's not able to adjust the rest of pietro's body as precisely, anymore, but he's just watching him, drinking in every reaction, every movement, every tiny tic and twitch of his body, and he doesn't say anything, but the promise is there in everything he's doing, every snap of his hips, every throb of his cock when he slams it in deep, his hand locked tight around pietro's wrist as he presses it to the brick. pietro sought him out for this. for this, everything else, and so much more, and wash is ready to give it to him, make him feel so fucking good and so overwhelmed there's nothing else. over and over again. ]
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for as much as wash may have learned over their first time together, wash is never one to rest on his laurels, and there's always more to chase. every twitch and sudden spasm is followed by wash adjusting himself more, aligning himself to that newest sensory overload. he presses even closer when pietro closes his eyes, almost molding their bodies against each other, pressing his forehead to pietro's own, letting his own eyes fall shut. ]
-- You're so good. [ a breathless murmur, heated against pietro's lips, words slightly slurred between his ragged breaths a ripple of tension runs through his arm, noticeable even under pietro's trembling grip, as he starts to ramp up that pressure even harder around his already bruising throat. ] How hard do I have to choke you to make you fucking come from it, Pietro? We're gonna find out --
[ his grip tightens a little over his throat, just for a moment, a ripple of tension that quickly flickers back into the more steady increasing pressure. its a promise. an enticement. he starts to increase that grip again, starting to squeeze more and more air from him, and his other hand actually slips from pietro's against the wall, just to loop under his thighs, steady him better as he ruts forward hard. wash isn't kissing him, this time, but he's more than close enough to feel all of his sputtering breaths and gasps as he starts to choke him even harder. tighter, harder, throttling him more, little by little, until he can find the bright burning edge. ]
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When Wash lets go of his wrist, Pietro drops his hand to his thigh, digging his fingers in. He could grab for his cock again, but he wants to find out too. His cock is so hard, and leaking, and every rub against Wash's abdomen has his balls tightening. Yes, he could come from just this, just getting to the edge of nothing. After that one hard press of his fingers, Wash is starting in increments again, and Pietro wants to complain about it, his impatient fidgeting just amounts to scraping his back uselessly against the bricks, Wash is too close to allow him room he needs to squirm incessantly. His movements still soon enough, and the first bright sparks bloom at the edges of his vision even with his eyes closed. The harder Wash chokes him, the more pain Pietro takes from it, bruises forming, the inside still raw and now compressed, the reflexive attempts at swallowing that just hurt, it all gives way to a sense of drifting warmth Pietro gets lost in.]
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wash knows the signs of his impatience by now, too, not that they were too hard to notice even before, the way he writhes and fidgets in a way distinct from the little squirms and shivers from when he's just overwhelmed with sensation, but wash is pinning him almost bodily to the wall, pressed so close that he barely has any place to move, and as pietro starts to still wash moves more in turn. each forward roll of his hips drives harder, deeper, pushing pietro further up the wall before that grip over the back of his thighs drags him back down. his cock throbs hotly inside him, and fuck, he really does feel so good, hot and tight around him, trembling and falling apart as he scrambles to hold on and let go all at once.
that hand over his throat tightens, more and more. veins in his wrist and forearm throbbing, knuckles starting to go white. he shifts his hand again, not following any grip from before but shifting every touch and every point of pressure to squeeze as much air out of him as he can, fingers kneading and flexing into skin and corded muscle. his eyes are still closed, focusing purely on feeling, the heat and warmth of him, the scent of sweat and sex heavy in his lungs, close enough for pietro to feel al of his ragged breaths against his own lips, to feel every rumbling growl as he aims to drive him to the edge. ]
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at the same time, wash's hand only tightens, cutting off pietro's air completely in the moment where he comes. when wash himself is riding it out, waves of sensation rocking through his body, his arm stays tight, locked and firm. his focus doesn't falter, if anything only sharpens in those moments, and his hand over his throat works to keep him there as much as he can. even as the sensation starts to fade into a pleasant weight tugging at his limbs, wash sinks into a different kind of high, just watching and feeling.
eventually, though, wash starts to ease up. the tension ebbing, easing, even as he keeps pietro pressed against the wall. he lifts his head to kiss him again, tonguing deeply and hungrily into his mouth -- in the same way he forces pietro to choke on him and his tongue when he takes his air away, forcing pietro to gasp for air through him. ]
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as pietro sputters back, as he gets more air in his lungs, wash starts to pull back slightly from the kiss. allowing him a little more, here and there, but just like before he'll never be entirely without stimulation, something always going, keeping him permanently on edge. wash's hips are still pressed flush against him, his hips rolling forward to shift inside him even with his softening cock. his hand may no longer be choking him but it's still pressed against his neck, his throat, shifting to knead and press against sharp bruises, forcing his throat to work even in its raw state. his other hand was gripped over his ass, lifting up now as wash shifts to make sure he has pietro's weight braced properly between himself and the wall, it moves up to tangle through his hair. tugging, pulling, forcing his head even further back.
he's waiting, really. drawing this out until pietro shifts and reacts again, in irritation or need or both. sometimes the best way to send someone hurtling into edge is to draw them so so close and then push them back, over and over, until they don't know which side of things they're on anymore. ]
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The grip on his throat is still firm, still there, Wash fingering his new bruises and the ghosts of old ones, and Pietro feels a pull of arousal in his abdomen again. He lets out a strangled whine, forced through his bruised throat once it's open enough, as Wash grabs his hair and yanks his head back against the bricks. That's familiar too, the sharp pain in his scalp just another sensation that has him more on edge, more unsettled. He adjusts his shaking fingers at Wash's arm, and finally finds the coordination to lift his free hand again, gripping Wash's shoulder for more support, groaning in frustration with himself when he realises it could be described as clinging. Something comes out of his mouth that might have been an attempt at 'fuck'.]
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so he shifts. recenters himself on pietro, his heat, scent, taste, the weight of him in his arms, the rippling reassure around his cock, the whisper of a voice that escapes from his throat, a faint curse, the familiar whining sounds he's learned, that unsteady, shaking touch.
wash likes pulling at his hair, the reactions it always gets from him, likes the way it feels to have those strands sifting between his fingers, so even if he needs to take extra care to support his weight properly while doing so he keeps doing it. a sharper tug, his free hand dropping briefly down between them to palm crudely over pietro's still-sensitive cock, streaking his hand with come, moving up to drag over what pietro had spilled between both of their stomachs, rising and falling with their ragged breaths. ]
-- You know. [ a low rumble on his voice, murmured against peitro's lips between another sharp nip, a dip of his tongue into his mouth to taste him again, brief but hungry. ] I can keep doing this for you. Much as you want.
[ that come-slick hand lifts straight to his throat again, uncaring about the mess, just to emphasize the point, lifting his gaze to meet pietro's own, sharp and intense under lidded eyes. ]
But you know there's more I could do.
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Wash's hand is back on his throat directly, and Pietro can feel the tackiness of his come-covered fingers over fresh bruises. Despite himself, Pietro sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews at the bleeding bite, contemplating things he should be rejecting outright. His thoughts swirl, already a mess before he'd even contacted Wash tonight, and one part of him that screams louder then the rest insists Pietro deserves this kind of treatment, not only wants to be broken, but deserves it. He meets Wash's gaze steadily, but it's not with fierce defiance. An edge of that, lingering, but what reflects most is his desperation and and a pathological curiosity that always has him pushing for more. How far would he go? What would Wash do if Pietro just said —]
Yes.
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interesting.
pietro might be able to see it, too. that hunger in his eyes seeming to sharpen, to flare up for a moment just with the thought of possibility, a twist of heat and arousal twisting through him so hotly and suddenly that his cock throbs and twitches noticeably still buried inside pietro's ass. realistically, he knows here in the back alley of jolene's, there's not much else he can do past push him to the brink like this over and over, and maybe that's good, too, the slow breaking and shattering that only comes with bringing someone so close to an edge over and over that the boundary blurs and disappears altogether. but god. there's so much more he could do. ]
Yes. [ wash echoes it, not agreeing himself or mocking it, just -- an echo. considering, thoughtful, but that want and lust and hunger evident in his rumbling tone, almost a purr as he pours over the possibilities in his mind. he pushes his hips against his ass, a brief shove of pietro's back against the brick wall again as he tangles his fingers through his hair -- not a sudden yank, but just a slow, steady increase as he twists the strands through his hand. the more he talks, the more his words almost start to slur into each other, thick and heavy with lust and want, almost like he's letting instinct and desire drive what he's saying more than anything else. ] You want to come home with me, Pietro? You want to let me use you any way I want?
[ a sharper thrust of his hips as his cock slowly starts to harden again, even while pressed inside him, still sensitive. that come-covered hand against his throat squeezes, just a little. enough to punctuate his words. a heated murmur he'd said before ringing in wash's own memory, about how he could keep him, break him on his cock again and again and again, the echoes of that underneath his words now. ]
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Wash moves his hips, shoves him harder against the wall, those fingers in his hair more considering, twisting and playing. It's dissonant, and Pietro squirms again. Wash doesn't ever seem to be easily provoked or rattled like Pietro, but that's what he can hear now, in the way Wash's words come with less precision, are less clear and purposeful, running on instinct and his own desires he lets come through them. Pietro can't help but feel he's broken through something, and that self-satisfaction of making even a small crack is enough to have Pietro huff a quiet amused noise. Those words echo in his ears, weighing down on him as he tightens his muscles around Wash's hardening cock, licks his lips as those fingers press more firmly into his throat.]
You would love that, yes?
[His voice is almost a whisper, but with a harsh edge to it, tone half mocking and half full of want.]
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his tongue wets at his lower lip. one moment where he lifts his head, his hand tightening through his hair, looking straight into his eyes with nothing but deep-driven hunger and want. ]
More than you know.
[ that slur to his words abruptly disappears. that little crack, that break, that slip into something deeper had been, and is, entirely genuine, a glimpse into the visceral need and instinct wash has that fuels him for this just like it fueled him on the rooftop. but pietro being able to see it, hear it, wash letting any of that through -- he does that on purpose, even the parts of him that he allows to fall apart some measure of calculated and precise. the words themselves, too, again like what had happened the last time they met: what pietro tries to reach for for a sense of control, gloating over how much wash wants him, is desperate from him, wash doesn't shy away from. instead wash leans into it fully, whole-heartedly, and he would love it, absolutely fucking love it, taking pietro home and keeping him all for his own, breaking him down slowly piece by piece. pietro might get barely any time to think on that, to register it, because wash is already moving on, thinking, that voice sliding into that wanting instinct again.
there are so many things he could do. his searching mind latches onto one. ]
Remember class, Pietro?
[ feels like so long ago now but wash remembers it clear as ever. pietro may have been forced to take that class, but since everything that's transpired wash can't help but wonder if there was at least some purpose in that, too, signing up for something with an experienced dominant, a lesson about rope and bondage and the depths of loss of control. at the time, especially under the mandate of the city, wash had taken a gentler hand that pietro had never responded to. but he has wondered, since then. what if he hadn't held back. ]
Was there something you wanted in that there? [ his words come heated and deep and rumbling, punctuated with bitten-back shivers and gasps as pietro's body tightens around his hardening cock. wash himself is still raw and oversensitive, usually paces himself out by stimulating people in other ways while he allows himself time to recover, but -- here he's pressing on. starting to rock his hips harder, that hand sliding up over pietro's throat, smearing his skin with come and sweat, thumb and ring digging in painfully at the hinges of his jaw. ] Can you imagine, speedy little thing like you all bound up in rope, coiled so tight you can't even fucking move, can't see, can barely breathe. None of your fidgeting, just those sweet little sounds you make, empty of everything except being kept full of cock and come.
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I signed up for a lot of classes.
[An echo of what he'd said then, his excuse for interrupting that class and being a general nuisance about it, that he'd had no attachment to the subject matter. It held no interest any more than the other classes he'd chosen, nearly randomly. It has been a long time, especially for Pietro, and he remembers little of the actual topics at hand. Was there something you wanted in that there? No. No, he could say so then, hadn't even considered such things, still inexperienced and unaware of what it could do for him, unaware he even wanted what he now knows he does. At that time, Pietro never would have allowed himself into that position voluntarily, and it's why he hadn't shown up for the exam, keeping his tight hold on control.
Wash keeps talking, rumbling against his chest, and Pietro listens to the timbre of his voice, takes in the changes in him, how he'd let himself get too stimulated too. Not just taking, giving in to Pietro, to his body, not as intent on breaking him here. He understands that. Wash wants more, and Pietro thinks he expects to get it without question. That irritates him, and he writhes and fidgets as the proposition worms its way inside him. Fuck. He wants to move incessantly just thinking about it, fingers shaking violently, his muscles twitching so fast they're on the verge of vibrating as Wash's fingers dig into his jaw. When Pietro speaks, his voice is unsteady, whether it's from vibrations or fear or something else is difficult to discern, even to him, but his statement is flat, factual.]
That is torture.
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Doesn't mean you don't want it.
[ there's a calm, quiet confidence in that. not quite certainty that it's what pietro wants, in specific, but just. knowing. knowing that calling something torture doesn't mean someone can't want it, thrive in it, knowing that the line between pleasure and pain is thin and bright like a knife's edge. ]
And you do want it, don't you? [ he keeps pressed close. pietro's legs still wrapped around him, forced to hold onto him to stay upright, cock still buried deep, he keeps his grip tight on his jaw, adjusting his hand so the heel of his palm presses against his freshly bruised throat, a steady, even pressure even as he yanks again at his hair. ] I could tie you up. Carve you open with a knife. Feed you cock and come until you can't think of anything else.
[ with his thumb and ring finger pressed into either side of his jaw, the fingers in between graze up over his chin, pushing at his lips and hooking into his mouth. it scares him, wash can tell. on some level, all of this scares him, not what wash is doing to him but what it makes him learn about himself, what he knows he wants. and its a feeling he knows well because what he wants scares him all the fucking time, but he's learned to lean into it, wholly, fully. for better and for worse. ]
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Wash's fingers slide into his mouth and Pietro sets his teeth on them, not hard, but holding them there while he decides what he wants. If he wants to give up that much control, and that is what it would be, he realises it afterwards. He swallows thickly, and after another moment of indecision, releases Wash's fingers from the press of his teeth and licks at them instead, tasting himself. His words aren't the most intelligible with Wash's fingers in his mouth, but he gets them out, quick and clipped, a terse agreement.]
I do not want to think. Make me forget.
[The last part is issued as an order, but comes out in a heavy breath, shaky and with underlying desperation.]
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pietro's teeth give way to his tongue lapping at his fingers instead, his words clipped and muffled around his fingers. but clear. perfectly clear. desperate and still clawing at some sense of control, again, but wanting, willing to say the words, and wash will reward him for that.
he drops his hand from pietro's throat, from his jaw, fingers slipping from his mouth. he's quick, but for pietro that moment might last longer, long enough to wonder, to be irritated, impatient.
and then that hand is back, but his fingers are curled around the hilt of a knife. wash is rarely completely unarmed, tends to carry at least one or two knives on his person. Where he'd drawn this one out from it's not clear, but pietro with his legs wrapped around his waist might've felt the movement, the brush of wash's arm. wash brings it in front of him, between them, spinning it a little and letting the hilt land back in his palm, small and deft and balanced for throwing -- and now pressed flush to pietro's throat. what he'd said about the knife had been a guess. an offer, of what wash can do. it didn't go missed just how positively pietro seemed to react to the thought of it.
nothing else about wash moves -- save for the throb of his cock still pressed inside him. he's practiced, fluid with this, the pressure of cool metal against his neck perfect and calculated to not quite be enough to break skin. ]
I will.
[ matter of fact. said not like its a promise, but a statement of truth. he can. and he will. he doesn't glide the knife against his throat, just angles it up, ever so slightly, enough for that edge to bite a little more against his throat. still not quite enough to cut him. ]
I can do more, if I took you elsewhere.
[ simple. the calm practicality of the statement almost seems to make it ring louder, his voice still low and rumbling quiet. it's a question without asking one, a decision for pietro to make, another reminder that its his choice to put himself in wash's hands. there's much that wash can do just armed with a knife -- but for the rest of his promises, they'd need a little more than what he has. he could take pietro home, reconvene a different time . . . but he does hear that desperation in him. see it in his eyes. and the more desperate pietro is, the more wash's own want burns in response. ]
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cw: references to eroticized violence, and also belatedly there's knifeplay in here, whoops
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