[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. ]
[He whines as those fingers are pulled form his mouth, even though they had been a hindrance just a second ago. He licks his lips, swallows a couple of times while his throat is completely free, and starts to shift his legs around Wash's waist, in one position for far too long. Pietro sees the knife right away, and hadn't expected Wash to produce one, the unawareness of someone who doesn't have to worry about weapons, could handle himself without them. He watches Wash turn the knife in his hands, and it's familiar in a way, he can tell it's meant to be thrown, optimised for it. He handles knives like that at his gym, sees them all the time, but not like this. Eloise has never threatened him with them, and in the back of his mind, Pietro thinks maybe he should ask her to. Those thoughts slip away as Wash presses the blade against his throat. his abdominal muscles tighten hard again, and he squirms slightly while simultaneously trying not to move too much. And at that statement, Pietro rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, needing to make a show of things and press on fast before he can reconsider his choices.]
Yes, yes, you have said. "Come home with me", was it?
[He speaks quickly, words close to smashing into each other, but he still tries to downplay eager notes in them to irritated impatience. He brings one finger up to run over the knife as if he might push it away easily.]
We would be there already if you thought to take your cock out an hour ago.
[ wash makes a quiet, amused sound, though he doesn't pull away just yet, hearing that eagerness under everything else. pietro lifts a hand to push at the knife with a single finger, and instead wash neatly tips it out of the way, almost rolling it against his skin to keep it pressed to the side of his neck, except this time he does let it bite. just barely, the thinnest of bright red lines. ]
Couldn't help myself.
[ it does feel good, and god part of him does just want to fuck him again right here in the middle of the alleyway while dragging a pretty red line down over his chest -- but he is patient, can wait for it, and if anything, he knows the wait will be far worse for pietro than for him. and so he does, finally, shift his hips enough to let his cock ease from him. the knife twirls slightly between his fingers as he pulls it away from pietro's neck, his other hand moving to his legs to ease them off of his waist. ]
[Pietro inhales audibly as Wash slides the blade slightly over his neck. He feels the tiny prick of it dragging on forever, and his cock twitches. He makes a small frustrated noise at himself, and his reply is more snappish than the mocking he tries for.]
I know. I am irresistible. Established fact.
[He whines softly as Wash pulls his cock out, involuntarily clenching around it and shifting uncomfortably as sparks of arousal get set off again. Pietro braces himself against the wall and unhooks his legs from around Wash's waist. They're stiff and tingly from being there so long, and once his feet are on the ground, he keeps one hand on the bricks, leaning into it, until they stop shaking. It only takes a couple of seconds, but it feels like minutes to him, long enough to annoy him. Slipping out from between Wash and the wall quickly in a blur of blue and white, Pietro finds his discarded pants, and has them pulled up and buttoned, fiddling with the belt before he even turns to looks at Wash again, less than half a second later.]
Are we going, old man, or have you changed your mind?
[ unfortunately wash finds that obnoxious pride a terrible kind of charming -- wash knows the kinds of people he tends to be drawn to, all kinds of insufferable, for better and for worse. even as he some part of him is rolling his eyes at that comment he can't help but be a little entertained by it, especially when he follows it up with a quiet little whine when wash pulls out of him.
he doesn't move to help pietro, lets him take care of himself even if he does keep an eye on him as he fixes his own jeans and belt -- uncomfortably hard, but that's fine -- and pietro moves again. it doesn't catch him quite so off guard this time, but he still hasn't seen too much of it. when the blur of him settles into place and fixes his belt, wash just watches him for a few moments, his expression one of quiet curiosity melded in with that possessive want, with that predatory drive.
he twirls the knife idly in his hand. ]
Its not so far. We can go your way -- or we can ride.
[ they can just walk, or pietro can just run depending on his energy level. wash drove here, though, just not in a car, gesturing with the knife as he catches it back in his grip again. parked further down the alley is his motorcycle, sleek black and chrome. some purple accents that aren't his own choice, but he doesn't protest what makes sombra happy. wash doesn't have any qualms about leaving it here, he'll come back later ( jolene's accidentally becoming a frequent spot for him, apparently ) and is mostly assuming that pietro would rather walk and gripe the whole way about how slow things are, but hey. if pietro wants a ride. ]
[He smirks at that look, knowing he still has Wash thinking about him constantly. Pietro glances down the alleyway. He'd seen the motorcycle when they came out into the alley, but hadn't thought anything of it. Apparently, it's Wash's, and Pietro runs over to it, to run his fingers along the sleek metal.]
I like the purple.
[It could be mocking, but it's not, his taste's aligning more with Sombra's. He crosses his arms and leans against the motorcycle for a moment, like he's making a decision, but it was already made the second Wash spoke. He hates transportation of any kind, all too slow and even if it would get him somewhere faster than walking at a normal person's pace, he moves less and it's therefore more torturous to endure.]
We are walking. Riding is worse. You want to take this? Tell me where you live and I will meet you there. Trust me to show up, yes?
[ there's probably a few sparkly little decals and part of it absolutely lights up purple like a gamer (tm) thing when its running. but he's very fond of sombra, and pretty much immune to the shame of looking ridiculous, and so it stays. soon enough that purple will start to overtake everything.
wash does consider for a moment, and he fishes out his device -- sending him the location ping. still idly twirling the knife in his other hand the entire time. it's habit, a fidget, and in some ways that pietro might notice he clearly seems more comfortable with some kind of weapon in his hand than without one. ]
Walking's fine.
[ but he has given him the location ( public housing, wash still hasn't moved, even though he clearly could ), not saying it out loud, but offering pietro a clear choice, here. he could zip off and probably idle impatiently for a while while wash makes his way there, or they'll have to actually deal with each other for a while without just fucking. either way wash is already moving, one last spin of the knife before he stows it back away ( apparently hidden somewhere behind him ) and starts to step out into the street, just quietly curious as to whether or not pietro will fall into step next to him or go ahead. ]
[Pietro scoffs at receiving a ping, digging his device out of his pocket like it's a tedious chore to check it. Which it is, when Wash could have verbally told him, but it also gets Pietro to step away from the motorcycle. The provided apartments in the Up. Pietro knows them, had lived there for all of three weeks with his first contract partner, Steve having never moved out either, despite being in the city for around a year. He could be there in the time it would take Wash to walk less than a quarter of a block, and he's very tempted to do that, just run off. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hand starting to shake as he slides his phone back into his pocket. He wants to run there, but it's the public housing, and someone will see him waiting, waiting for this, half-dressed and barefoot with fresh bruises over his throat, lip red and puffy where it had been bitten. It's best to slink in from the street to minimize that, as Pietro knows he won't be allowed into the building ahead of time. His current contract partner doesn't live there.
He sighs in exasperation at the logistics, even as he glances at the knife in Wash's hand, how he moves it deftly, tempting him and making him lick his lips unconsciously. Fuck. A tight coil of heat forms in his stomach, realising he hadn't given any previous thought to option number three — running home. Wash puts the knife away and Pietro rushes by him to get out ahead, zipping off down the street like he might run all the way there, but he stops and turns two building away, lifting one hand impatiently and shouting, despite just considering he didn't want to be seen in this state.]
[ wash doesn't move at a leisurely pace, but he is walking, not running, or jogging, long strides at a good clip. like it or not, pietro will have to wait for him, either on the way or at the apartment building, and unless pietro is going to attempt to give him a piggyback ride this is the pace they'll be moving at. catching up with pietro, he reaches for him before he bolts off again, grabbing him by the arm, reeling him in towards his side. to anyone watching, it would be affectionate, maybe a little blatantly possessive, not exactly uncommon for a dominant interacting with a submissive. and none of that is untrue.
but when pietro is pulled in closer, he lets his arm snake around his waist. the movement is smooth and subtle, and as wash's fingers settle against pietro's waist right where some of those faded bruises would have been, there's also the sudden press of cool metal. the point of a knife. there's the second knife he's carrying with him today, apparently had been hidden somewhere near his shoulder, now slid down his sleeve, just using two fingers to control it where the flat of the blade is pressed against his palm and wrist. the point of the knife skims against pietro's skin ever so slightly as his hand settles into place, and while its hard to tell what kind of knife it might be just from that brief contact, there is a different weight to it.
wash never breaks his pace while walking, looks at him, and smiles. he's not making fun of him or teasing him -- it's not a smile pietro has seen on him before, not directed at him. its warm, friendly, and its because they're in public, out on the street, now, and wash is a gifted liar who knows very well how to play things off. ]
Lets talk for a while, Pietro.
[ you had the option of just making your way straight there, but now you're here, and this is what it'll be. a threat and a reward, all tied up in one. ]
[It takes forever for Wash to catch up with him, and Pietro taps his foot the entire time, fidgeting irritably, and he has other reasons for it besides impatience, trying to burn off every bit of pent-up energy before they get to the apartments, adrenaline and that underlying element of fear only making him far more restless. When Wash finally reaches him, grabbing his arm, Pietro rolls his eyes, and hadn't expected much else, that possessiveness muted but still there. Only the way Wash pulls him closer and slides his arm around him makes Pietro scoff indignantly, that friendly familiarity somehow more offensive than if Wash were to drag him off somewhere by his wrist, but it's a sound that trails off too soon into a soft gasp at the presence of that second knife, presumably kept up Wash's sleeve, the sharp point of it grazing Pietro's skin. His muscles tighten under it, and he feels that blade as if it's pressing up against a bruise that's no longer there, heat prickling in his stomach as he shivers once.
He furrows his eyebrows at that smile, both disturbed and further irritated by it. Wash doesn't need to keep up some kind of appearances out here. Pietro has never been respectful or leaning into his station in public, frequently doing the opposite with provocative intent, and it grates on him to be shoved into it like this. He huffs and wraps his trembling fingers around Wash's wrist, not pulling it away, but pressing the knife against himself more firmly, a reminder that they're not here to talk. That's not what Pietro wants, and only what he wants matters. The question gets ignored in favour of a raised eyebrow and a direct and level sideways look at Wash as they continue walking at a snail's pace. Pietro speaks casually, and his statement is true as far as he knows, unless that weird metal piece at the back of Wash's neck affords him some superhuman abilities to withstand such force.]
I could kill you in less than a second if I wanted. You realise that by now, yes?
[He is in control, and whether he needs to remind Wash or himself, he has to draw attention to it.]
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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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Yes, yes, you have said. "Come home with me", was it?
[He speaks quickly, words close to smashing into each other, but he still tries to downplay eager notes in them to irritated impatience. He brings one finger up to run over the knife as if he might push it away easily.]
We would be there already if you thought to take your cock out an hour ago.
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Couldn't help myself.
[ it does feel good, and god part of him does just want to fuck him again right here in the middle of the alleyway while dragging a pretty red line down over his chest -- but he is patient, can wait for it, and if anything, he knows the wait will be far worse for pietro than for him. and so he does, finally, shift his hips enough to let his cock ease from him. the knife twirls slightly between his fingers as he pulls it away from pietro's neck, his other hand moving to his legs to ease them off of his waist. ]
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I know. I am irresistible. Established fact.
[He whines softly as Wash pulls his cock out, involuntarily clenching around it and shifting uncomfortably as sparks of arousal get set off again. Pietro braces himself against the wall and unhooks his legs from around Wash's waist. They're stiff and tingly from being there so long, and once his feet are on the ground, he keeps one hand on the bricks, leaning into it, until they stop shaking. It only takes a couple of seconds, but it feels like minutes to him, long enough to annoy him. Slipping out from between Wash and the wall quickly in a blur of blue and white, Pietro finds his discarded pants, and has them pulled up and buttoned, fiddling with the belt before he even turns to looks at Wash again, less than half a second later.]
Are we going, old man, or have you changed your mind?
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he doesn't move to help pietro, lets him take care of himself even if he does keep an eye on him as he fixes his own jeans and belt -- uncomfortably hard, but that's fine -- and pietro moves again. it doesn't catch him quite so off guard this time, but he still hasn't seen too much of it. when the blur of him settles into place and fixes his belt, wash just watches him for a few moments, his expression one of quiet curiosity melded in with that possessive want, with that predatory drive.
he twirls the knife idly in his hand. ]
Its not so far. We can go your way -- or we can ride.
[ they can just walk, or pietro can just run depending on his energy level. wash drove here, though, just not in a car, gesturing with the knife as he catches it back in his grip again. parked further down the alley is his motorcycle, sleek black and chrome. some purple accents that aren't his own choice, but he doesn't protest what makes sombra happy. wash doesn't have any qualms about leaving it here, he'll come back later ( jolene's accidentally becoming a frequent spot for him, apparently ) and is mostly assuming that pietro would rather walk and gripe the whole way about how slow things are, but hey. if pietro wants a ride. ]
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I like the purple.
[It could be mocking, but it's not, his taste's aligning more with Sombra's. He crosses his arms and leans against the motorcycle for a moment, like he's making a decision, but it was already made the second Wash spoke. He hates transportation of any kind, all too slow and even if it would get him somewhere faster than walking at a normal person's pace, he moves less and it's therefore more torturous to endure.]
We are walking. Riding is worse. You want to take this? Tell me where you live and I will meet you there. Trust me to show up, yes?
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wash does consider for a moment, and he fishes out his device -- sending him the location ping. still idly twirling the knife in his other hand the entire time. it's habit, a fidget, and in some ways that pietro might notice he clearly seems more comfortable with some kind of weapon in his hand than without one. ]
Walking's fine.
[ but he has given him the location ( public housing, wash still hasn't moved, even though he clearly could ), not saying it out loud, but offering pietro a clear choice, here. he could zip off and probably idle impatiently for a while while wash makes his way there, or they'll have to actually deal with each other for a while without just fucking. either way wash is already moving, one last spin of the knife before he stows it back away ( apparently hidden somewhere behind him ) and starts to step out into the street, just quietly curious as to whether or not pietro will fall into step next to him or go ahead. ]
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He sighs in exasperation at the logistics, even as he glances at the knife in Wash's hand, how he moves it deftly, tempting him and making him lick his lips unconsciously. Fuck. A tight coil of heat forms in his stomach, realising he hadn't given any previous thought to option number three — running home. Wash puts the knife away and Pietro rushes by him to get out ahead, zipping off down the street like he might run all the way there, but he stops and turns two building away, lifting one hand impatiently and shouting, despite just considering he didn't want to be seen in this state.]
Hurry up, old man!
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but when pietro is pulled in closer, he lets his arm snake around his waist. the movement is smooth and subtle, and as wash's fingers settle against pietro's waist right where some of those faded bruises would have been, there's also the sudden press of cool metal. the point of a knife. there's the second knife he's carrying with him today, apparently had been hidden somewhere near his shoulder, now slid down his sleeve, just using two fingers to control it where the flat of the blade is pressed against his palm and wrist. the point of the knife skims against pietro's skin ever so slightly as his hand settles into place, and while its hard to tell what kind of knife it might be just from that brief contact, there is a different weight to it.
wash never breaks his pace while walking, looks at him, and smiles. he's not making fun of him or teasing him -- it's not a smile pietro has seen on him before, not directed at him. its warm, friendly, and its because they're in public, out on the street, now, and wash is a gifted liar who knows very well how to play things off. ]
Lets talk for a while, Pietro.
[ you had the option of just making your way straight there, but now you're here, and this is what it'll be. a threat and a reward, all tied up in one. ]
How much do you care about your safety?
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He furrows his eyebrows at that smile, both disturbed and further irritated by it. Wash doesn't need to keep up some kind of appearances out here. Pietro has never been respectful or leaning into his station in public, frequently doing the opposite with provocative intent, and it grates on him to be shoved into it like this. He huffs and wraps his trembling fingers around Wash's wrist, not pulling it away, but pressing the knife against himself more firmly, a reminder that they're not here to talk. That's not what Pietro wants, and only what he wants matters. The question gets ignored in favour of a raised eyebrow and a direct and level sideways look at Wash as they continue walking at a snail's pace. Pietro speaks casually, and his statement is true as far as he knows, unless that weird metal piece at the back of Wash's neck affords him some superhuman abilities to withstand such force.]
I could kill you in less than a second if I wanted. You realise that by now, yes?
[He is in control, and whether he needs to remind Wash or himself, he has to draw attention to it.]
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cw: references to eroticized violence, and also belatedly there's knifeplay in here, whoops
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