[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. ]
[Pietro's eyes are on the elevator the moment it opens, and he watches every twirl and movement of that knife as Wash heads for his apartment. He steps inside without any hesitancy, a little impatiently even, despite the pause in the flow of things down in the lobby. He spares a glance around the apartment, and it's much like his own. Pietro only has a few things set out in his, practical items that keep his hands busy, clothes here and there, and far too many pairs of shoes, but no decorations or keepsakes that didn't come with the place. He's only had his own apartment for a month, but rarely uses it, spending more time elsewhere, and doesn't consider it his home. Here in this building with Steve, it had been the same. He was another practical man whose apartment looked like he'd just moved into it when he'd been here a year. Every home is temporary, it's still the way Pietro thinks for the most part, though he doesn't want to. He wants to think there could be come permanency to what he's found in this place, but the moment he starts to live as if it is, he knows it will be taken away.
The lock clicks shut, and Pietro eyes the door once, scoffing to himself at that 'thanks'. It sparks the tiniest thread of regret, because he doesn't want to get more involved than what this is. There doesn't need to be pleasantries. Wash's hand is at his side again, pulling him close, looking down at him in that same way, like a raptor ready to strike, and a wave of arousal pulses through Pietro's abdomen and down to his twitching cock. His breath comes more rapidly as Wash brings the knife to his chest, pricking at the corner of his collarbone. It doesn't glint the same way most of the knives he's familiar with do. It's a different sheen, and he briefly thinks of Logan's claws, some unknown metal springing out from between the man's fingers, sharp and different, and Pietro had wanted then too, before he even realised it. The pressure deepens, a flash of just the taste of the pain he wants, dragging a bloody line across his chest, and Pietro makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, a wanting, needy sound that isn't quite a whine.
Pietro looks up sharply at that question, and he considers lying, pushing. Ororo had carved a design into his torso, all over, her small knife going too deep for a normal person's easy recovery. She'd known a version of him in her own world, one who had more advanced abilities, one who healed quickly. She'd gone harder on him because she'd made the assumption he could heal fast enough too. Pietro never stopped bleeding, and she needed to have a healer come in at the end. It's why he has no marks there, no deep jagged lines in the shape of a lightning bolt in between the puckered circular scars that mar his chest. He runs a finger around the edge of one of them near his naval, biting his lip. There's a hint of disappointment in his simple answer.]
No.
cw: references to eroticized violence, and also belatedly there's knifeplay in here, whoops
[ most of wash's life he's shuffled from place top place, living wherever he's sent and posted and wherever the moment brings him. he's resourceful, adaptable, able to fit himself anywhere, but he's always known better than to believe anything he has would last. the city is no different.
he watches the way he runs his finger around one of those scars -- wash could map them all out by now, whether pietro likes that or not, marks he recognizes as bullet scars. he can hear that disappointment in that answer, but something else has his attention, instead. its that pause before he answered, the sharpness in the way he'd looked up at the question, along wth his tone. considering. for a moment, he'd thought of lying.
wash moves almost immediately. pushing pietro back against the nearest wall, some shelves nearby rattling from it. the knife is lifted to pietro's throat, the flat of it pressed just underneath his chin and jaw to force his head up so he's meeting wash's gaze, hungry, wanting, seeing everything. ]
You don't know me. So understand this.
[ he tips the knife, pressing right into that nick he'd made before in the street just outside the apartment building, still wet with blood. just a little more pressure, and he deepens that wound, ever so slightly. he's keeping a bit more distance between them than he has so far, but it doesn't stop him from pressing in, pushing his knee between pietro's thighs, pressing up, his voice easing even lower on a quiet rumble. ]
I've hurt people, doing this. Broke bones. Choked into unconsciousness. Stabbed them. Killed them. [ while fucking them. giving them what they want. it does not come with the tone of regret, like he's believes he's a monster who needs to be restrained -- he does struggle with that. often. all the time. but here, he's focused, and he's using that example to prove a damn point. sometimes he wants to do terrible things. sometimes people want terrible things done to them. and maybe sometimes it'd be better to not indulge that, but sometimes no one wants better. ] You don't need to lie to me because you think I'll go easy on you.
The more you lie to me, the less you tell me, the more careful I have to be.
[ he turns the knife, angles his grip. he doesn't press that one wound any deeper, and instead starts to trace the metal down from under his chin. lightly grazing over skin, only a whisper-soft pressure from that too-sharp metal, following the curve of his throat. down over a trickle of blood left there from before. over fresh bruises, already forming from his hand locked tight around his throat in the alleyway. ]
[Wash shoves him against the wall hard like he was unsatisfied with that answer, and Pietro doesn't know why, not immediately. He whines quietly as the knife is pressed flat under his jaw, keeping his head tilted up. The way Wash regards him hasn't changed, he still wants him, wants this, but he's lecturing again. Pietro glares even as he squirms slightly and swallows thickly when Wash presses the knife into the same place, that still open wound, enlarging it. His knee is back between Pietro's thighs, something so familiar now Pietro all but expects it. He grinds slowly on instinct. Wash rambles on in that rumbling voice, the timbre of which sends shivers down Pietro's spine, but the words make him roll his eyes and gesture animatedly, but awkwardly, with one hand while keeping his shoulders and head still, words spat out in a clipped and bitchy tone as Wash drags the knife down his throat.]
You choked me unconscious. I am already dead, you know that, yes? So, what, you think I expected to be treated nicely here? And I did not lie.
[That gets emphasised, because he doesn't know Wash is accusing him of just thinking about it.]
[ he didn't know that pietro was dead, actually. to his credit he doesn't falter, but there is a small flicker in his gaze. its not like it matters here, anymore, his closest friend here is dead back home too.
the bob of pietro's throat just talking as wash drags that knife down his throat is enough for that too-sharp knife to cut a little deeper. wash can't help but watch that, for a moment, clearly getting some visceral satisfaction from it the same way he makes some quiet, pleased sound when pietro almost automatically starts to grind against his thigh. the words, though. ]
You thought about it.
[ pointedly. that hesitation was clear. but he's less trying to accuse pietro of something and more trying to give him some assurance, another attempt to guide him a little further down that pietro doesn't quite seem ready for, but he'll make the attempts anyway. the more pietro can relax, can open himself up to letting wash work, the easier what he wants will come to him. the more he's willing to set lines, the more he frees himself up to let his body react and struggle and fight as much as he instinctively needs to while sill havng a way to escape. and wash isn't a stranger to just crossing every line, to not even attempting to find out anything, but pietro always seems to have just enough give, just enough awareness that he always seems to want to try. ]
I'm not going to go easy on you. You don't heal, doesn't matter. If it gets you off to have a knife in your gut and a gun down your throat, I'd still give it to you.
[ but alright. enough of that. his hand moves up slightly from his waist -- to where he'd cut those lines before, when they were walking side by side on the street. he lets his fingers press against them, tracing those lines, drawing back that same sting -- even as he turns the knife again. this time the tip is pressed against his shoulder, just the faintest pressure. he leans close, finally closing that distance between them again, his chest brushing against pietro's, breath warm against pietro's lips, close enough for that rumble to be felt. ]
You're going to tell me how deep.
[ and slowly, steadily, as carefully controlled and deliberate as he always is, he starts to press that blade down, the metal is so sharp it almost doesn't have that bite, simply starts to slide through as it pierces his skin. ]
[It's a small flicker, but Pietro catches it. Wash hadn't known, hadn't assumed, and considering he asked that question about whether or not Pietro could heal, he probably had never thought about it. Pietro likes to think it's obvious from his scars, but he rarely says those words. Wash might be the first one who hadn't known Pietro in his own world that has confirmation he's dead back there. He hasn't even told Eloise, and she knows far more about his past than even those from his world, than anyone else but his sister. Fuck. Pietro shakes that thought from his head immediately, still unable to stop coming back to her. Wanda. Wash hasn't pushed him far enough since the alley, and Pietro's getting more and more restless about it. He tries to focus on the sharp slide of the knife over his throat, where it had pressed in slightly deeper while he spoke.
He shoots a quick glare at Wash for pointing that out, his hesitation that betrayed him, how he'd struggled in those precious seconds to tell the truth, thinking he might be setting another limit inadvertently. Wash hits on that too. His words, Pietro thinks, are supposed to be stating something important underneath their straightforwardness, but he doesn't grasp it, and he doesn't believe them either.]
No you would not.
[Pietro mutters that to himself under his breath. Wash wouldn't go that far, not if he needs to talk at length about limits and lines. The thought Pietro held previously with their last encounter, that Wash might be able to break him, it no longer holds. He can't. Push Pietro far, yes, make him uncomfortable in a way that might let him drift for a while, but break him? No. No, Wash doesn't stand a chance.
Wash's fingers slide over the the singing cuts on his hip, press down, and Pietro hisses. He shifts slightly against the wall as Wash brings the knife to his shoulder, closing in on him and taking up all the space and air until Pietro feels suffocated for a moment. His abdominal muscles tighten reflexively at the rumbling he can feel through his chest, but the words do nothing but irritate him. He waits until the blade has sunk in a few millimetres before he speaks, and he's sure it's nothing Wash wants to hear, pointed and frustrated.]
If I wanted to choose how deep, I would do it myself.
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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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The lock clicks shut, and Pietro eyes the door once, scoffing to himself at that 'thanks'. It sparks the tiniest thread of regret, because he doesn't want to get more involved than what this is. There doesn't need to be pleasantries. Wash's hand is at his side again, pulling him close, looking down at him in that same way, like a raptor ready to strike, and a wave of arousal pulses through Pietro's abdomen and down to his twitching cock. His breath comes more rapidly as Wash brings the knife to his chest, pricking at the corner of his collarbone. It doesn't glint the same way most of the knives he's familiar with do. It's a different sheen, and he briefly thinks of Logan's claws, some unknown metal springing out from between the man's fingers, sharp and different, and Pietro had wanted then too, before he even realised it. The pressure deepens, a flash of just the taste of the pain he wants, dragging a bloody line across his chest, and Pietro makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, a wanting, needy sound that isn't quite a whine.
Pietro looks up sharply at that question, and he considers lying, pushing. Ororo had carved a design into his torso, all over, her small knife going too deep for a normal person's easy recovery. She'd known a version of him in her own world, one who had more advanced abilities, one who healed quickly. She'd gone harder on him because she'd made the assumption he could heal fast enough too. Pietro never stopped bleeding, and she needed to have a healer come in at the end. It's why he has no marks there, no deep jagged lines in the shape of a lightning bolt in between the puckered circular scars that mar his chest. He runs a finger around the edge of one of them near his naval, biting his lip. There's a hint of disappointment in his simple answer.]
No.
cw: references to eroticized violence, and also belatedly there's knifeplay in here, whoops
he watches the way he runs his finger around one of those scars -- wash could map them all out by now, whether pietro likes that or not, marks he recognizes as bullet scars. he can hear that disappointment in that answer, but something else has his attention, instead. its that pause before he answered, the sharpness in the way he'd looked up at the question, along wth his tone. considering. for a moment, he'd thought of lying.
wash moves almost immediately. pushing pietro back against the nearest wall, some shelves nearby rattling from it. the knife is lifted to pietro's throat, the flat of it pressed just underneath his chin and jaw to force his head up so he's meeting wash's gaze, hungry, wanting, seeing everything. ]
You don't know me. So understand this.
[ he tips the knife, pressing right into that nick he'd made before in the street just outside the apartment building, still wet with blood. just a little more pressure, and he deepens that wound, ever so slightly. he's keeping a bit more distance between them than he has so far, but it doesn't stop him from pressing in, pushing his knee between pietro's thighs, pressing up, his voice easing even lower on a quiet rumble. ]
I've hurt people, doing this. Broke bones. Choked into unconsciousness. Stabbed them. Killed them. [ while fucking them. giving them what they want. it does not come with the tone of regret, like he's believes he's a monster who needs to be restrained -- he does struggle with that. often. all the time. but here, he's focused, and he's using that example to prove a damn point. sometimes he wants to do terrible things. sometimes people want terrible things done to them. and maybe sometimes it'd be better to not indulge that, but sometimes no one wants better. ] You don't need to lie to me because you think I'll go easy on you.
The more you lie to me, the less you tell me, the more careful I have to be.
[ he turns the knife, angles his grip. he doesn't press that one wound any deeper, and instead starts to trace the metal down from under his chin. lightly grazing over skin, only a whisper-soft pressure from that too-sharp metal, following the curve of his throat. down over a trickle of blood left there from before. over fresh bruises, already forming from his hand locked tight around his throat in the alleyway. ]
Got that?
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You choked me unconscious. I am already dead, you know that, yes? So, what, you think I expected to be treated nicely here? And I did not lie.
[That gets emphasised, because he doesn't know Wash is accusing him of just thinking about it.]
I do not need your lectures.
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the bob of pietro's throat just talking as wash drags that knife down his throat is enough for that too-sharp knife to cut a little deeper. wash can't help but watch that, for a moment, clearly getting some visceral satisfaction from it the same way he makes some quiet, pleased sound when pietro almost automatically starts to grind against his thigh. the words, though. ]
You thought about it.
[ pointedly. that hesitation was clear. but he's less trying to accuse pietro of something and more trying to give him some assurance, another attempt to guide him a little further down that pietro doesn't quite seem ready for, but he'll make the attempts anyway. the more pietro can relax, can open himself up to letting wash work, the easier what he wants will come to him. the more he's willing to set lines, the more he frees himself up to let his body react and struggle and fight as much as he instinctively needs to while sill havng a way to escape. and wash isn't a stranger to just crossing every line, to not even attempting to find out anything, but pietro always seems to have just enough give, just enough awareness that he always seems to want to try. ]
I'm not going to go easy on you. You don't heal, doesn't matter. If it gets you off to have a knife in your gut and a gun down your throat, I'd still give it to you.
[ but alright. enough of that. his hand moves up slightly from his waist -- to where he'd cut those lines before, when they were walking side by side on the street. he lets his fingers press against them, tracing those lines, drawing back that same sting -- even as he turns the knife again. this time the tip is pressed against his shoulder, just the faintest pressure. he leans close, finally closing that distance between them again, his chest brushing against pietro's, breath warm against pietro's lips, close enough for that rumble to be felt. ]
You're going to tell me how deep.
[ and slowly, steadily, as carefully controlled and deliberate as he always is, he starts to press that blade down, the metal is so sharp it almost doesn't have that bite, simply starts to slide through as it pierces his skin. ]
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He shoots a quick glare at Wash for pointing that out, his hesitation that betrayed him, how he'd struggled in those precious seconds to tell the truth, thinking he might be setting another limit inadvertently. Wash hits on that too. His words, Pietro thinks, are supposed to be stating something important underneath their straightforwardness, but he doesn't grasp it, and he doesn't believe them either.]
No you would not.
[Pietro mutters that to himself under his breath. Wash wouldn't go that far, not if he needs to talk at length about limits and lines. The thought Pietro held previously with their last encounter, that Wash might be able to break him, it no longer holds. He can't. Push Pietro far, yes, make him uncomfortable in a way that might let him drift for a while, but break him? No. No, Wash doesn't stand a chance.
Wash's fingers slide over the the singing cuts on his hip, press down, and Pietro hisses. He shifts slightly against the wall as Wash brings the knife to his shoulder, closing in on him and taking up all the space and air until Pietro feels suffocated for a moment. His abdominal muscles tighten reflexively at the rumbling he can feel through his chest, but the words do nothing but irritate him. He waits until the blade has sunk in a few millimetres before he speaks, and he's sure it's nothing Wash wants to hear, pointed and frustrated.]
If I wanted to choose how deep, I would do it myself.
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