[ 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.]
[ easily, candidly. wash is used to being the one relatively normal man among people who could snap him in half. somehow, he keeps up, sometimes more than that, adaptable, resourceful, resilient, clever and willing to pay costs and go distances that many would not. pietro grabs his wrist to press the blade more firmly against him, and wash resists it. not afraid of hurting him, but he's in control of this. pietro could kill him, certainly, hit him so quick that his bones would shatter on impact, but that quiet confidence he has is completely unaffected and unshaken by it. pietro is handing that over to him, however reluctantly, and however easily he might forget it when he's not being pushed against a wall.
its not a confirmation that he doesn't have tricks up his own sleeve, but wash prefers to be underestimated, as much as possible -- which is just half of the reason he's doing this. keeping pietro held close to his side, heated, possessive, but a dominant and submissive among many doing the same thing. there's always a little thrill to doing something like this in public, not on display but just carefully hidden, a use for a skillset that wash has and no longer has much opportunity to flex.
he twists the knife, just once, and the way he can manipulate the blade so precisely without even the full use of all of his fingers on that hand is a sign to his skill with it, and now he actually does break the skin, one sharp, bright red line just over pietro's hip, not deep enough to draw any blood past that single line. he turns to tuck his chin against him, murmuring into his ear, voice rumbling low in his chest. ]
I asked you a question.
[ it may have sounded like a threat ( entirely intentionally, wash is absolutely a man for whom danger and sex blend and blur together ), but it was also an actual question he expected an answer to. all this intentional, too: pietro doesn't seem like a man who'd particularly enjoy having to put things off in order to even start to have a conversation about lines and limits. so instead, they'll talk like this. walking in public, making him wait, wash's voice in his ear and a knife pressed to his skin. ]
[Pietro's eyebrows knit together as he frowns, just once, a very quick movement, surprised that Wash would pull against that action and not immediately go along with pressing the knife harder. It throws him off. The offhand way Wash agrees to his proclamation doesn't, though. He knows, he knows what Pietro can do, and he doesn't care. Pietro huffs irritably, squirming slightly in Wash's hold until he moves the knife and breaks skin, a slow drag of a sharp sensation that isn't quite pain. Pietro hates himself for shuddering with it, for making a quiet mewling noise in the back of his throat, and mostly for wanting more.
Wash is being oppressive again, and Pietro feels just as trapped beside him as he did up against the wall. His stomach tightens hard and he has a visceral need to defy and not answer that question simply because Wash wants it answered. Pietro twitches and sucks in a snippy little breath through his nose, fighting with himself before he does address it. It still bothers him greatly that he squeezed Wash's arm that time, an admission that he couldn't deal with something. It bothers him more that Wash expects him to again, why else would he ask such a question?]
If I say no, you will stop. If you do not, I will hurt you.
[ he likes those little mewling noises -- and since he first heard them, when they were on the rooftop and he manages to draw an actual desperate please from him to when he had pietro spread out beneath him with his tongue in his ass, wash is angling himself to get more of them. ]
We all say no to things we want, sometimes.
[ not that wash would question or push that that ( except he absolutely, definitely has ). but limits are in themselves freeing. knowing where lies a line that he absolutely cannot cross means he's free to push every other line. and sometimes that's messy. especially for someone like pietro, he can tell, pushing into something without an understanding of what he wants. its unreasonable to expect someone to know everything. a lot of this is discovery, messy and raw, and wash is very, very willing to lean into that.
wash pulls pietro a little as they're walking, closer to his side to neatly sidestep someone they're passing on the street. a slight shift to his hand at pietro's side, and with it another purposeful upward drag of the knife, another bright little spark of surface-level pain. a reward, for staying close, for continuing to talk. ]
You hold back. [ his voice is even lower, quieter, murmured almost straight into his ear with his chin tucked against his hair. pietro may not be pressed against his chest but that rumble, that almost-growl is still clearly audible, clearly felt. ] You're afraid, sometimes.
What of?
[ he doesn't expect fully honest answers from pietro, especially not like this. but he will start to prod at them. ]
[He snorts quietly at that. If Wash wanted this discussion, he should have done it on the roof. This is belated and unnecessary and Pietro's restless energy is building over it, agitated at having to think about any of it. As Wash pulls him aside so someone can pass them on the sidewalk, Pietro glares after them with misplaced anger. He can stand in anyone's path if he wants to, and having Wash take it upon himself to control him in that way has his fingers shaking violently for half a second at Wash's wrist. He's distracted from that soon enough with another small cut across his hip, and he swallows another noise that threatens to leak out of his mouth, because he knows Wash likes it and right now, Pietro doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing it. Not with that voice rumbling those words into his ear. Pietro's response is immediate and acerbic, and he digs his fingers into Wash's wrist while he gestures emphatically with his free hand.]
Oh, now you want me to be chatty?
[Pietro stops then, abruptly, refusing to take one more step. If Wash wants to continue walking he'll have to drag him down the street.]
You need a line? You just crossed it. I contacted you for a reason. If you are not here for that, you can leave. We are not talking, understand?
[There are questions he's not going to answer, subjects he's not going to talk about.]
[ pietro stops and wash moves with it, turning around. he doesn't keep dragging him forward, instead just fits his free hand against the other side of his waist as he faces him fully, and pushes him back, moving forward with it until pietro's back hits the glass wall of some cafe around the corner from the public up apartments. the glass rattles in place, it draws some attention, wash doesn't pay it any attention. ]
I'm not asking for a life story, Pietro.
[ getting to know each other outside of this isn't a requirement of this relationship. that knife is still tucked against his forearm and wrist under his sleeve, and he shifts to that the flat of the blade is pressing against pietro's skin, instead. not cutting, in the way he knows pietro would want, and just like that, wash is bearing over him again. ]
You want to let go? You want to stop thinking? [ his other hand is gripping tightly over his hip, now, sliding into a familiar place, old bruises and marks and how he held him when he'd lifted him fully into his arms, away from the wall down in that back room, forcing him to hold onto nothing but him. the hand with the knife hidden in his sleeve lifts -- curling his fingers just under his chin. there, very purposefully within pietro's sightline, is the flash of the blade, how much wash is holding his forearm in line with his wrist a hint to how long it is. its heavier, a darker steel, guided with his thumb against his palm until the tip is pushing right underneath pietro's chin. ] You're the one holding yourself back.
I can take you there. Push you as far as you want and even further. [ a glint of that quiet hunger in his eyes -- he wants that. craves it. ] A few lines in the sand will make that easier for yourself to find, but if you're too proud for that?
[ his arm tips. the tip of the knife just barely knicks pietro's skin, a tiny cut under his chin where it starts to meet his neckline. its smaller, but this time he lets it reach deeper, enough to leave more than a lingering red line, enough for blood to bead to the surface, for it to drip, for that tiny bright pinprick of pain to start to ease into something deeper, leaning forward with it until his lips brush against pietro's own. ]
I'll find them myself.
[ knowing someones limits helps him know where to push and where to hold back and where to push even further until someone breaks. he's already started to learn a good deal about pietro without him telling him anything, and frankly, working with pietro with is hardly unfamiliar. felix was like this, too. and much, much worse.
and then he steps back, lets his arms fall except for the one still at his waist. he gestures with his head. ]
We're here.
[ it really is just the next building or two over, and wash pulls away completely. he lets the knife slip from his sleeve, and this is -- much larger, heavier. not designed to throw, but designed cut straight through metal and armor and still pierce a beating heart beneath it. he twirls it easily between his fingers just like he did with the other knife, even with that difference in weight, and he'll move on ahead and head straight into the public apartment building. ]
[He can feel the glass shake under his back, a slow undulating movement. People on the street are looking, and unlike Wash, Pietro's focus is on it, on them, on being watched. It fuels his irritation and his arousal and he squirms. Wash's voice draws him back, and he rolls his eyes again. He knows he wasn't asked for details of his entire life. Wash had one simple question, and Pietro will not answer it, will not tell him what he's afraid of, what he's apprehensive about. It's simplistic, to him, and he doesn't understand why he needs to. Wash crowds him again, looms, and the same sort of oppressiveness returns, that blade against his skin, and all Pietro wants is to grab Wash's wrist and turn it, to have the sharp edge of the blade slide across his skin, feel that sharp pain and heat of arousal he knows he can achieve. Ororo hadn't wanted to cut him, had been forced to, but Wash does want to, and it could be so much better with him because of it.
Pietro knows where Wash's hand is, when it had been there before, and that both annoys and excites him. Wash makes those same statements, what he could do for Pietro, and he starts to form a response, to be belligerent about it and say something along the lines of Wash promising those things, not delivering, and lecturing him instead, but the first word is only half formed before Wash's fingers are under his chin, the knife visible, and Pietro just wants again. The point of the blade presses right to his skin, on the edge of sinking in. You're the one holding yourself back. Is he? He fights when he doesn't want to, he knows this, it's a compulsion, ingrained in him so hard, he'd needed that so long just to survive that giving that up, giving in so completely, seems impossible. He thinks of it that way, pointless to try because he will wrench control back every chance he gets if it starts to feel like it's slipping away to a degree he can't tolerate.
He doesn't see the way 'lines in the sand' help with this, all of this sort of experience far out of his wheelhouse as someone who hadn't touched kink or even thought about it before arriving in this city. His experience fairly vast, but narrowly focused. And he is too proud to admit how clueless he is. He just knows what he wants for an endgame and the means of getting there don't matter to him. Wash pushes the knife into his skin, finally, only a little, a hint of that deeper pain Pietro craves and desires, and it stops him from considering just running home, which he hadn't quite realised he had been. He savours that feeling, the crackling nerves, the bloom of blood that starts to trickle down his throat. Wash's lips brush his, then he pulls the blade away and gives Pietro his space back, and he's only frustrated and agitated about it. He glares and huffs as Wash just starts for the apartments, playing with his knife in a way Pietro interprets as mocking. Wash expects him to follow, he knows this, and he hates himself for doing it. Once the door closes behind them though, and they're halfway through the lobby, Pietro finally speaks again, voice quiet, toneless, and with that same half-awareness over whether he's actually saying it, like his utterance of 'please' there on the roof weeks ago, he issues something of a limit.]
[ wash is careful to give pietro choices. opportunities. chances for him to figure out what he wants and for him to show that he's ready for what he's asking for. he's dealt with worse, in terms of terribly stubborn insufferable men ( he's drawn to them for better and for worse ), and pietro's defiance is something he can entirely work with, even thrive with. he's entirely ready for pietro to decide to run out from him, to have bolted and left him in the alleyway. but instead, pietro follows, and not just that. he answers. its quiet, almost unnaturally even, almost like pietro doesn't quite know what he's saying, but it's an answer.
that's more than what wash was expecting. he can work with that. and while he won't say that out loud, he'll reward pietro for this sliver of cooperation, as much as he can. ]
Alright.
[ simple acknowledgement, no judgment, no teasing. for a man built on movement, needing to move makes sense. this is the first line pietro is choosing to draw, and that gives wash a few ways to go: it tells him that this is a limit he cares about more than pain or anything else, that when its needed he can offer him a moment of solace by letting him move a little more. it tells him about where he can redirect his efforts, where it would be better to focus on. it tells him that if he does want to emphasize something, that binding him might affect him more than it does other people.
and for some people, wash would treat that line as solid, immovable, immutable. but for someone like pietro. it tells him, too, that if he ever does want to truly break him, it almost definitely would be here, driving him to the point where he'd entrust himself into his care, completely bound and motionless. a thing to note for the future. perhaps to push towards someday.
most importantly for now, it tells him that pietro wants this. that he listened, heard him, and however reluctantly, is trying to meet him at a halfway point, knowing that he needs to do it to get what he wants.
wash has lived here for almost two years, now, and staff in the lobby acknowledge him and pietro both, watching pietro with more curiosity as wash moves to the elevator. ]
Eighth, if you want the stairs.
[ another choice, and a simple one. the elevator doors slide open, and wash watches him for a moment, his gaze clearly lingering over pietro's body, to small trickle of blood from his chin down over the curve of his bruised throat. the knife spins again between his fingers, and he turns to moves inside. ]
[Alright. Wash has nothing else to say but that, and it both confuses Pietro a little, and irks him, spoken like he needs that confirmation, as if being placated. He lets out a heavy exhale from his nose, crossing his arms and half nodding in acknowledgement that this 'line' has been established. It makes his skin itch to have stated it. Pietro doesn't want to take that out given to him because of it, doesn't want to admit to further weakness by avoiding the elevator. He hates them, always had even before he'd been given abilities that make it worse. Elevators were death traps, hardly worked, got stuck between floors where people starved to death if the building was bombed and no one could get to them, or the whole thing plummeted and crumbled upon striking concrete rubble. Stairways collapse too, he knows this, knew people who died in them, but he feels less trapped in them, where at least there's a chance to get out.
He'd used this elevator in this building all of once, the first time Steve brought him here. They'd been on the 21st floor, and Pietro never opted for the elevator even once after that the entire time he lived in this building. Once he'd discovered the cave system during the blackout, he's traveled that way every time he needs to go to the Down, the ten minute elevator ride there feeling like an agonisingly slow descent that fueled nothing but panic and agitation. The pinging noise as the elevator doors open bring all his thoughts into sharp focus and makes him reconsider his determination to not look weak. Wash is watching him, studying him, the knife glinting in the overhead light as it slides effortlessly between Wash's fingers. Pietro's cock twitches, he fidgets and debates with himself, and then disappears, zipping off for the stairwell. When Wash arrives on the eighth floor, he'll be pacing the hallway a little or having settled down to lean against the wall, palm flat against it and drumming his fingers incessantly.]
[ wash meanwhile, likes stairs, likes to keep himself moving and keep his wits about him always, and there's something he always dislikes about small, enclosed spaces. but he's learned to curb that instinct over many, many years, or at least restrain it, quiet it. he hardly has the same relationship with movement that someone like pietro must, though, and he watches pietro fidget, shift, react to the sound of the elevator -- and then disappear in a blur. interesting.
when wash steps out of the elevator, he's still spinning that knife. its' an idle action, completely habitual. he likes knives, is good with them, overlooked by many of his peers back home but he tends to do better than even them at anything that's a little more down to earth, simple, practical. he feels at home with a knife in his hand and a pistol in his grip. the eigth floor really is so much more quiet without south and sombra here. pietro's there, impatient, drumming his fingers against the wall, and wash will go ahead to his apartments door and gesture pietro inside.
its plain, in here. simple, spartan. for a man who's lived here for two years the space doesn't look lived in at all, hardly changed from the default that he was given when he first showed up to the city. pietro wouldn't be blamed ( or even entirely inaccurate ) for assuming that he's been taken not to wash's home but to just an extra apartment he's still keeping for reasons like this. really, wash is just concerned with simple practicalities -- and after two years still hasn't really learned how to see this place like a home.
once they're inside, though, with wash locking the door behind them. ]
Thanks.
[ just the single word. thanks for following him here, putting up with him even though pietro clearly is mostly concerned with immediate satisfaction, for giving him that one line in the sand even hen he clearly didn't understand the point of it. wash's focus is already locked back on pietro. narrowed, focused, that familiar predatory shift in his eyes, and they've not even stepped very far into his apartment but his hand is gripping over his waist again, fingers sliding into place over old bruises, hooking a little into the belt loops of his pants to draw him closer. he doesn't crowd all of his space just yet, keeping himself at arm's length, but this is, after all, his space. its like he's looming over him anyway.
one more twirl of the knife in his other hand, and he doesn't hesitate. a bit of his own impatience, a bit of wanting to give pietro a reward for being here with him, and the motion really is the same as if he was about to plunge the knife into pietro's chest. but instead the edge of the knife is suddenly pressed against pietro's chest with the tip digging ever so slightly into the corner of one collarbone. finally in full sight and held close its clear this knife is a hell of a difference from the lighter throwing one, a full eight inches, the metal dark and glinting in a way that might show its more than simple steel. more pressure, the knife cuts in, almost too easily, designed to cut into so much more than just flesh. not too deep, yet, just enough to draw blood, and wash draws a line across his chest. watching him. just to see pietro react.
calmly, conversationally, at the exact same time, even with that clear hunger burning in his eyes as he glides the blade across one collarbone. ]
Do you heal?
[ he doesn't know the depths of what pietro can do, after all. and he's seen what's possible, out there. ]
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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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[ easily, candidly. wash is used to being the one relatively normal man among people who could snap him in half. somehow, he keeps up, sometimes more than that, adaptable, resourceful, resilient, clever and willing to pay costs and go distances that many would not. pietro grabs his wrist to press the blade more firmly against him, and wash resists it. not afraid of hurting him, but he's in control of this. pietro could kill him, certainly, hit him so quick that his bones would shatter on impact, but that quiet confidence he has is completely unaffected and unshaken by it. pietro is handing that over to him, however reluctantly, and however easily he might forget it when he's not being pushed against a wall.
its not a confirmation that he doesn't have tricks up his own sleeve, but wash prefers to be underestimated, as much as possible -- which is just half of the reason he's doing this. keeping pietro held close to his side, heated, possessive, but a dominant and submissive among many doing the same thing. there's always a little thrill to doing something like this in public, not on display but just carefully hidden, a use for a skillset that wash has and no longer has much opportunity to flex.
he twists the knife, just once, and the way he can manipulate the blade so precisely without even the full use of all of his fingers on that hand is a sign to his skill with it, and now he actually does break the skin, one sharp, bright red line just over pietro's hip, not deep enough to draw any blood past that single line. he turns to tuck his chin against him, murmuring into his ear, voice rumbling low in his chest. ]
I asked you a question.
[ it may have sounded like a threat ( entirely intentionally, wash is absolutely a man for whom danger and sex blend and blur together ), but it was also an actual question he expected an answer to. all this intentional, too: pietro doesn't seem like a man who'd particularly enjoy having to put things off in order to even start to have a conversation about lines and limits. so instead, they'll talk like this. walking in public, making him wait, wash's voice in his ear and a knife pressed to his skin. ]
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Wash is being oppressive again, and Pietro feels just as trapped beside him as he did up against the wall. His stomach tightens hard and he has a visceral need to defy and not answer that question simply because Wash wants it answered. Pietro twitches and sucks in a snippy little breath through his nose, fighting with himself before he does address it. It still bothers him greatly that he squeezed Wash's arm that time, an admission that he couldn't deal with something. It bothers him more that Wash expects him to again, why else would he ask such a question?]
If I say no, you will stop. If you do not, I will hurt you.
[His words are fast and clipped, dismissive.]
It does not need to be more complicated.
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We all say no to things we want, sometimes.
[ not that wash would question or push that that ( except he absolutely, definitely has ). but limits are in themselves freeing. knowing where lies a line that he absolutely cannot cross means he's free to push every other line. and sometimes that's messy. especially for someone like pietro, he can tell, pushing into something without an understanding of what he wants. its unreasonable to expect someone to know everything. a lot of this is discovery, messy and raw, and wash is very, very willing to lean into that.
wash pulls pietro a little as they're walking, closer to his side to neatly sidestep someone they're passing on the street. a slight shift to his hand at pietro's side, and with it another purposeful upward drag of the knife, another bright little spark of surface-level pain. a reward, for staying close, for continuing to talk. ]
You hold back. [ his voice is even lower, quieter, murmured almost straight into his ear with his chin tucked against his hair. pietro may not be pressed against his chest but that rumble, that almost-growl is still clearly audible, clearly felt. ] You're afraid, sometimes.
What of?
[ he doesn't expect fully honest answers from pietro, especially not like this. but he will start to prod at them. ]
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Oh, now you want me to be chatty?
[Pietro stops then, abruptly, refusing to take one more step. If Wash wants to continue walking he'll have to drag him down the street.]
You need a line? You just crossed it. I contacted you for a reason. If you are not here for that, you can leave. We are not talking, understand?
[There are questions he's not going to answer, subjects he's not going to talk about.]
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I'm not asking for a life story, Pietro.
[ getting to know each other outside of this isn't a requirement of this relationship. that knife is still tucked against his forearm and wrist under his sleeve, and he shifts to that the flat of the blade is pressing against pietro's skin, instead. not cutting, in the way he knows pietro would want, and just like that, wash is bearing over him again. ]
You want to let go? You want to stop thinking? [ his other hand is gripping tightly over his hip, now, sliding into a familiar place, old bruises and marks and how he held him when he'd lifted him fully into his arms, away from the wall down in that back room, forcing him to hold onto nothing but him. the hand with the knife hidden in his sleeve lifts -- curling his fingers just under his chin. there, very purposefully within pietro's sightline, is the flash of the blade, how much wash is holding his forearm in line with his wrist a hint to how long it is. its heavier, a darker steel, guided with his thumb against his palm until the tip is pushing right underneath pietro's chin. ] You're the one holding yourself back.
I can take you there. Push you as far as you want and even further. [ a glint of that quiet hunger in his eyes -- he wants that. craves it. ] A few lines in the sand will make that easier for yourself to find, but if you're too proud for that?
[ his arm tips. the tip of the knife just barely knicks pietro's skin, a tiny cut under his chin where it starts to meet his neckline. its smaller, but this time he lets it reach deeper, enough to leave more than a lingering red line, enough for blood to bead to the surface, for it to drip, for that tiny bright pinprick of pain to start to ease into something deeper, leaning forward with it until his lips brush against pietro's own. ]
I'll find them myself.
[ knowing someones limits helps him know where to push and where to hold back and where to push even further until someone breaks. he's already started to learn a good deal about pietro without him telling him anything, and frankly, working with pietro with is hardly unfamiliar. felix was like this, too. and much, much worse.
and then he steps back, lets his arms fall except for the one still at his waist. he gestures with his head. ]
We're here.
[ it really is just the next building or two over, and wash pulls away completely. he lets the knife slip from his sleeve, and this is -- much larger, heavier. not designed to throw, but designed cut straight through metal and armor and still pierce a beating heart beneath it. he twirls it easily between his fingers just like he did with the other knife, even with that difference in weight, and he'll move on ahead and head straight into the public apartment building. ]
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Pietro knows where Wash's hand is, when it had been there before, and that both annoys and excites him. Wash makes those same statements, what he could do for Pietro, and he starts to form a response, to be belligerent about it and say something along the lines of Wash promising those things, not delivering, and lecturing him instead, but the first word is only half formed before Wash's fingers are under his chin, the knife visible, and Pietro just wants again. The point of the blade presses right to his skin, on the edge of sinking in. You're the one holding yourself back. Is he? He fights when he doesn't want to, he knows this, it's a compulsion, ingrained in him so hard, he'd needed that so long just to survive that giving that up, giving in so completely, seems impossible. He thinks of it that way, pointless to try because he will wrench control back every chance he gets if it starts to feel like it's slipping away to a degree he can't tolerate.
He doesn't see the way 'lines in the sand' help with this, all of this sort of experience far out of his wheelhouse as someone who hadn't touched kink or even thought about it before arriving in this city. His experience fairly vast, but narrowly focused. And he is too proud to admit how clueless he is. He just knows what he wants for an endgame and the means of getting there don't matter to him. Wash pushes the knife into his skin, finally, only a little, a hint of that deeper pain Pietro craves and desires, and it stops him from considering just running home, which he hadn't quite realised he had been. He savours that feeling, the crackling nerves, the bloom of blood that starts to trickle down his throat. Wash's lips brush his, then he pulls the blade away and gives Pietro his space back, and he's only frustrated and agitated about it. He glares and huffs as Wash just starts for the apartments, playing with his knife in a way Pietro interprets as mocking. Wash expects him to follow, he knows this, and he hates himself for doing it. Once the door closes behind them though, and they're halfway through the lobby, Pietro finally speaks again, voice quiet, toneless, and with that same half-awareness over whether he's actually saying it, like his utterance of 'please' there on the roof weeks ago, he issues something of a limit.]
I need to move.
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that's more than what wash was expecting. he can work with that. and while he won't say that out loud, he'll reward pietro for this sliver of cooperation, as much as he can. ]
Alright.
[ simple acknowledgement, no judgment, no teasing. for a man built on movement, needing to move makes sense. this is the first line pietro is choosing to draw, and that gives wash a few ways to go: it tells him that this is a limit he cares about more than pain or anything else, that when its needed he can offer him a moment of solace by letting him move a little more. it tells him about where he can redirect his efforts, where it would be better to focus on. it tells him that if he does want to emphasize something, that binding him might affect him more than it does other people.
and for some people, wash would treat that line as solid, immovable, immutable. but for someone like pietro. it tells him, too, that if he ever does want to truly break him, it almost definitely would be here, driving him to the point where he'd entrust himself into his care, completely bound and motionless. a thing to note for the future. perhaps to push towards someday.
most importantly for now, it tells him that pietro wants this. that he listened, heard him, and however reluctantly, is trying to meet him at a halfway point, knowing that he needs to do it to get what he wants.
wash has lived here for almost two years, now, and staff in the lobby acknowledge him and pietro both, watching pietro with more curiosity as wash moves to the elevator. ]
Eighth, if you want the stairs.
[ another choice, and a simple one. the elevator doors slide open, and wash watches him for a moment, his gaze clearly lingering over pietro's body, to small trickle of blood from his chin down over the curve of his bruised throat. the knife spins again between his fingers, and he turns to moves inside. ]
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He'd used this elevator in this building all of once, the first time Steve brought him here. They'd been on the 21st floor, and Pietro never opted for the elevator even once after that the entire time he lived in this building. Once he'd discovered the cave system during the blackout, he's traveled that way every time he needs to go to the Down, the ten minute elevator ride there feeling like an agonisingly slow descent that fueled nothing but panic and agitation. The pinging noise as the elevator doors open bring all his thoughts into sharp focus and makes him reconsider his determination to not look weak. Wash is watching him, studying him, the knife glinting in the overhead light as it slides effortlessly between Wash's fingers. Pietro's cock twitches, he fidgets and debates with himself, and then disappears, zipping off for the stairwell. When Wash arrives on the eighth floor, he'll be pacing the hallway a little or having settled down to lean against the wall, palm flat against it and drumming his fingers incessantly.]
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when wash steps out of the elevator, he's still spinning that knife. its' an idle action, completely habitual. he likes knives, is good with them, overlooked by many of his peers back home but he tends to do better than even them at anything that's a little more down to earth, simple, practical. he feels at home with a knife in his hand and a pistol in his grip. the eigth floor really is so much more quiet without south and sombra here. pietro's there, impatient, drumming his fingers against the wall, and wash will go ahead to his apartments door and gesture pietro inside.
its plain, in here. simple, spartan. for a man who's lived here for two years the space doesn't look lived in at all, hardly changed from the default that he was given when he first showed up to the city. pietro wouldn't be blamed ( or even entirely inaccurate ) for assuming that he's been taken not to wash's home but to just an extra apartment he's still keeping for reasons like this. really, wash is just concerned with simple practicalities -- and after two years still hasn't really learned how to see this place like a home.
once they're inside, though, with wash locking the door behind them. ]
Thanks.
[ just the single word. thanks for following him here, putting up with him even though pietro clearly is mostly concerned with immediate satisfaction, for giving him that one line in the sand even hen he clearly didn't understand the point of it. wash's focus is already locked back on pietro. narrowed, focused, that familiar predatory shift in his eyes, and they've not even stepped very far into his apartment but his hand is gripping over his waist again, fingers sliding into place over old bruises, hooking a little into the belt loops of his pants to draw him closer. he doesn't crowd all of his space just yet, keeping himself at arm's length, but this is, after all, his space. its like he's looming over him anyway.
one more twirl of the knife in his other hand, and he doesn't hesitate. a bit of his own impatience, a bit of wanting to give pietro a reward for being here with him, and the motion really is the same as if he was about to plunge the knife into pietro's chest. but instead the edge of the knife is suddenly pressed against pietro's chest with the tip digging ever so slightly into the corner of one collarbone. finally in full sight and held close its clear this knife is a hell of a difference from the lighter throwing one, a full eight inches, the metal dark and glinting in a way that might show its more than simple steel. more pressure, the knife cuts in, almost too easily, designed to cut into so much more than just flesh. not too deep, yet, just enough to draw blood, and wash draws a line across his chest. watching him. just to see pietro react.
calmly, conversationally, at the exact same time, even with that clear hunger burning in his eyes as he glides the blade across one collarbone. ]
Do you heal?
[ he doesn't know the depths of what pietro can do, after all. and he's seen what's possible, out there. ]
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cw: references to eroticized violence, and also belatedly there's knifeplay in here, whoops
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