[ pietro's impatience is endearing, in a way. reliable, something he can use, and count on, draw a bit of visceral satisfaction for because who doesn't enjoy it when someone just wants you, now, when you can drive them to desperation just by holding back. he hisses a little through his teeth when pietro's touch starts to speed up, the friction hitting a point where it starts to edge into something different.
he grinds into it, rocking his hips forward, dragging himself against pietro's cock and up into his touch, growling low in the back of his throat and biting down at his neck. ]
My bad. [ he'll speed up.
he wrenches pietros hand back again, just leaving their cocks pressed together, letting his hips continue to roll forward, to grind himself against him. this time he's reachng up to grab pietro's hand out of his hand, too, pressing closer, using his body weight to shove him once against the wall. he pulls pietro's hands up, over his head -- though along the way. he stops for a moment to catch the knife in his teeth, just to free up his hands better, his tongue running along the flat of the blade slightly, and in that moment as his hands shift he lets the leather of the belt slide briefly against pietro's neck. purposefully, deliberately, the material brushing up under his chin and jaw, a whisper of a promise of what else could be done, a seed he purposefully pushes into pietro's mind and imagination.
for now, though, he's doing something else. pietro's hands pulled up over his head, wrists pulled together. he does this surprisingly -- quickly, like he's done this a too many times before, looping the belt around his wrists, wrapped tight and snug, the buckle clicking shut in place. pietro can still move, of course, wash has yet to actually use anything to restrain him, and this is a first as he guides those bound hands down behind his head, behind his neck.
his hands freed, he grabs the knife from his own teeth. spinning it once, deft and nimble, letting his tongue run briefly against the edge before letting the point settle against pietro's chest, resting against his collarbone. he just watches him, for a while, watches how he adjusts to being newly restrained, watches the rapid rise and fall of his chest and how the knife moves with it with the gentle pressure he's applying. and before pietro has the time to whine too much about it, he starts to cut. pushing the knife in, just deep enough to where wash now knows pietro likes it. a sharp string, a trickle of red, right on the edge of bleeding and not, a straight line from his clavicle, down over his chest. ]
-- Better?
[ with a bit of that purr, that rumble, leaning close again. his free hand dropping down between them to fist his calloused hand around their cocks, smearing his palm with pre and working wetly down over them both. ]
[Pietro hasn't used his speed like this with Wash, and he's paying attention to how he reacts to it — that short hiss, grinding into his hand, the growl that rumbles in his his throat, teeth on his neck. He could go harder, so much faster, abrading the skin, building up heat. Pietro hadn't intended it to be a display of his control of things, just an impatient action, but he feels like it is now, with the way Wash takes to it. Pietro doesn't protest when his wrist is grabbed again, he can do this another time, keeps it in the back of his mind to experiment with again. He moves his hips more insistently after the loss of that friction, more desperate for something now that the rub of Wash's cock against his feels dull and muted in comparison. He does let out a ragged little growl in frustration when Wash grabs his other hand too, irritated as they're pulled up over his head. He pulls at that grip slightly, fidgeting, but his eyes are on the knife between Wash's teeth. The belt slides against his neck, under his jaw, that not quite smooth drag of leather over his skin, and Pietro immediately thinks about what he knows he's supposed to, and that irritates him further. He imagines that belt around his neck, how different it would feel to Wash's hand, crushing from all sides at once, what Wash could do to him with both his hand free, while still giving him that restricted feeling as he struggles to breathe. Fuck. Shit.
The thought occurs to him again that he's in over his head, even if he's made some choices, given some direction, because his mind goes to dangerous places and Pietro knows he wouldn't say no to that, not right now. His fingers start vibrating the moment Wash slides the belt around his wrists, pulling them tightly together. Pietro's immediately trying to pick at them, reflexively, moving his fingers and twisting his wrists as much as they'll move, reaching for the edge of the belt that his fingertips just can't quite brush with the way his hands are positioned. He doesn't start tugging against it entirely until Wash is moving his hands behind his head. It's a little more panicked than the testing Pietro had done before when it had just been Wash's hand around his wrist, pinning it to the railing or the wall in that room. His breathing becomes shallower and he bites his lip as he keeps his eyes on that knife, not looking at Wash, not wanting to see those intense and assessing eyes. Then the knife is pressed against his chest, his collarbone, and it stays there. Stays there. For so long that Pietro gets close to squirming, muscles twitching and whines starting to build in the back of his throat, and he bites his tongue before he makes any more comments, pushes any more.
He freezes momentarily when Wash increases the pressure and the knife breaks his skin, a visceral hard pull in his stomach as an echo of that deep pain from his shoulder floods back to him. Pietro lets a quiet whimper escape, and he hates himself for it. It stays shallow, that cut, and the warmth he's come to associate with that light level returns, crackling sensations from firing nerves and arousal pooling in his abdomen. But that question irks him, has him huffing and fidgeting again, his right hand shaking faster and more erratically, and Pietro feels like Wash is mocking him again, all while that rumbling bleeds into his chest and that rough hand strokes over their cocks, and he can't help pressing himself into it and whining.]
You are still making me wait.
[It's spoken too fast and his breath hitches in between a couple of words. He can't stop squirming, unconsciously pulling at the belt because it's there and an annoyance, but constantly working its way to the forefront of things when he wants to focus on the knife and his cock. There are too many points of stimulation.]
[ any kind of restraints has pietro immediately testing them, and that makes sense, with who he is, what he can do. pietro has told him that he needs to move, and wash will respect that line -- but it does also tell him that restricting movement in any way is something that pietro is somehow sensitive to. it might be wholly negative, but that's what this is going to be. pushing at lines, finding out, exploring and learning. messy and imperfect.
as always, wash is watching, learning -- he doesn't pull too much against it until he has his hands behind pietro's head, and there's an anxious quality to it, a panic, his breathing reaching something shallow. he can see every muscle in him twitching and straining to move, that little wanting whine -- and whimper, as he starts to drag the knife down over his front. his words tumble out, clipped and hurried, and wash answers him immediately, easily, his hand briefly stilling over their cocks to squeeze over them both, his own cock hard and aching, throbbing against pietro's. ]
Yes.
[ wash is, in fact, making him wait. that one line he's drawing down over his front stops, and he lifts the knife -- one clean red mark from his clavicle to down to stop just short of his navel. he settles the tip of the knife near his collarbone, again, hips grinding forward to rut their cocks against each other, his hand fisted over them, rough and slick with pre, leaning close yet again. biting at his lower lip, drawing him briefly into another harsh, brusiing kiss, making some soft, pleased noise at the taste of him as he growls against his lips. ]
If you want that belt anywhere else? [ that tease over his neck and throat, had of course, been wholly intentional. ] We start with this.
[ he kisses him again, and to his credit he doesn't seem to wait too long before he starts to move the knife again -- but he knows, by now, that pietro's impatience doesn't seem to just be a function of personality, but of biology, that things are slower, last longer. this time he cuts out at an angle, starting near the clavicle, digging the knife in. trailing toward his nipple -- and stopping just short. again, a lift of the knife, back to the collarbone, another diagonal line, cut in the other side. it's geometric, perfectly symmetrical, almost too inhumanly precise. another display of wash's exacting control, over his own body, over the knife -- and in this moment, clearly trying to exert that over pietro, too.
its subtle, but maybe more noticeable for someone like pietro. wash doesn't seem to mind the squirming and writhing, but he is paying attention to how he's reacting to the restraint of the belt around his wrists. the more he pulls against it, the more the knife seems to just barely pull back, the pressure getting lighter, and if he ever stills more, that pressure returns. barest fractions of an inch worth of difference, the tiniest adjustments, but wash is doing them anyway, paying close attention even as he draws those perfect lines, as he keeps tonguing hungrily into his mouth. ]
[Yes. Pietro growls over that, a frustrated and insistent noise, but short-lived. He doesn't want to wait any longer here, but also does, conflicting desires increasing his level of irritability, even as Wash's fingers pressing hard around his cock makes arousal far more prominent. He doesn't complain in the end, letting out a broken breathy whine instead, as close to voicing his displeasure as he's going to get right now. The grinding starts again, and Pietro tries to drive it faster, harder, more desperately, leaking cock aching, whining into Wash's mouth, and squirming uncomfortably the moment Wash pulls back to issue that ultimatum, that he won't be given what he wants until he endures something else that clearly agitates him. And Pietro fucking considers it, abdominal muscles tightening with that thread of fierce self-loathing that presents itself at such thoughts.]
Fuck.
[He gets that out in a huffy tone before Wash's mouth is back on his, where Pietro tries to bite his tongue almost viciously in retaliation. He understands this is some kind of test or assessment, and it grates on him, knowing Wash is looking for other limitations, reactions he can push or prod at and manipulate, take Pietro apart with. He knows this, and should be stopping it, but he isn't. Because it's what he wants too, to know what he can take and to uncover why he reacts to things the way he does, to separate arousal and fear or blend them together, he isn't sure.
It converges into frustration and continual edging into desperation with every drag of the knife over his chest. The pulses of pain and excitement vary, ebb and flow, and it's off, not the steady unending way it had been. By the time Wash is on the end of his third mark, Pietro has figured it out, the association, how to make him go harder, just that tiny bit deeper where the pain is perfect and flows through his chest the way he wants it to, the way that makes his cock twitch and strain under Wash's hand. It's when he stops focusing on his wrists, on the restraint, which he can't do for long. His fingers twitch and curl, the muscles in his arms tighten and spasm, and the one part of his brain that can't let it go hones in on it even more. Pietro makes a loud agitated noise, and squirms insistently, with his entire body, his annoyance manifested physically as he pulls back from Wash's mouth. His attempt to get what he wants through alternative means is to beg. Sort of. Pietro's tone is bitchy and sarcastic, a mockery of it as he lets a mewling cant slip into that one word.]
[ he's heard you beg sweeter than that, pietro. and honestly, if he put enough effort into making it sound nice, whether or not he means it, wash might let him get away with it -- he's a patient man, willing to make progress like water wearing down a stone. but for as much as there is a little mewl to the sound, pietro can't help but sound sarcastic, but not take it seriously. afraid of asking for what he wants, of admitting what he wants, unhappy with wanting it -- all of the above, something else, wash still isn't clear. but either way.
there's no hesitation to it. wash presses the knife in where it currently is, tip resting paused over his chest, at the end of that line stopped close to his nipple. the knife turns sharply, pulls a line straight vertically down over his pec, just at the right pressure, the right depth that pietro wants it at. at the same time, wash lifts his hand from their cocks, wet and sticky, and just slaps him. hard, across the face with the back of his hand, hard enough for the sound to ring and crack through the air, letting it linger for a while before reaching out to grab him by the chin, thumb slick with pre as he presses it into the hinge of his jaw. he forces pietro back to look at him, again, his eyes wanting and watching as always. ]
Only counts when you mean it.
[ he did give him a touch of what he wants, anyway, more than that even with the slap -- intentional. a hint of pain and reward but still a punishment, enough to make it clear that wash wants more than that, expects more than that. pietro clearly finds some comfort in movement, in being able to escape a situation when he wants, has always chafed against the ways in which wash could hold him in place and hold him down, but there was some thrill in it for him, too, wash could tell. something he liked, even if he may not know it, even if he may hate it. so what this is is a taste of it, a small hint of that restraint, wash trying to push him to let go enough to accept it and the helplessness that comes with it even if it's just by distracting him with sensation everywhere else.
a bite to his lip -- the knife lifts, his arms shift. one more roll of his hips to rub his cock against him, except this time his arms are hooking under his legs, his thighs, lifting him wholly into his arms again. he lets his weight stay braced against the wall with pietro's wrists still bound together behind his head, that one roll of his hips suddenly easing his cock wetly through his crease instead, rutting against his ass, just over his hole. a few moments to make sure he's held steadily in his arms, and -- he doesn't actually wait, or make him beg again. he's all but dropping him onto his cock, throbbing cockhead pushing against his hole and then pushing inside him, stretching him open around him. he shudders on a low, rumbling groan as he hilts himself into his ass again, adjusting his weight to shove him against the wall, to hike up one leg further over his waist -- and to free up that hand with the knife. previously tucked neatly against his palm so he could use his hand, again spinning a little between his fingers before the grip lands back in his hand.
there's a pause now, as he adjusts to the new position, as he makes sure he's steady, but between everything. his cock buried in pietro's ass, their bodies pressed close together, the knife glinting in his hand. its clear that he fully intends to overwhelm him with sensation again, a thousand things for him to focus on until the restraints are just another one of them to fade into the back of his mind. ]
[Wash pushes the knife in deeper, a sharp shift in direction and trailing slow with consistent pressure down over Pietro's chest, and sparking that level of pain he demanded. Demanded, that's how Pietro is framing it to himself, a demand through begging. He makes a frustrated noise though as Wash lets go of their cocks, ready to complain about it, but doesn't get a chance as Wash strikes him hard. Pietro's abdomen tightens, he sucks in a sharp breath and his nostrils flare as he glares indignantly. He's certainly been hit in the face harder than that, but not slapped, not backhanded like a misbehaving child, and all he feels is utterly incensed and livid. For all of three seconds, when the lasting sting of it, the tender skin he can tell is going to bruise... it makes his cock twitch and his balls ache, and Pietro sucks his bottom lip into his mouth to chew on instead of saying something in protest. Wash has his fingers at his jaw then, pressing hard, smearing precum, looking at him with those intense predatory eyes. Pietro shakes slightly, with anger or fear or something else he can't even identify, and though he continues to say nothing, a brief acknowledgement of that statement flickers in his eyes before he looks away.
He knows what Wash expects from him, and he loathes that one spark inside him that wants to give it to him, wants to please him, that wants to overcome the issue Pietro knows he has, another step in a loss of control that fundamentally frightens him. But he can't do it. His fingers feel hot, burning, and numb at the same time, shaking and flexing and if he could easily abrade his skin like a normal person, his wrists would be bleeding. Those thoughts slip momentarily as Wash bites his lip, a sharp little pain that gets Pietro to refocus. Wash shifts positions, grabbing his thighs and holding him up entirely, braced hard against the wall, rubbing his cock along his ass, and Pietro whines lowly, with some kind of relief and also anticipation, hating himself for shifting his leg to hook around Wash's hip like it comes naturally. He yelps quietly, and that devolves into a genuine mewling as Wash's cock sinks deep, so very very slowly, but persistently. Pietro clenches around it hard, almost violently, as if to take control, overcompensating for the way he still tugs and fidgets with the belt even as he stares at the knife, challenging, and belatedly responds to that dismissal of his feigned plea with a self-satisfied smirk.]
[ pietro's caught off guard by that, clearly, angry, but something in his expression shifts a few seconds after, just before he's grabbing at his jaw. not all that easy to read, but certainly something other than raw anger, something that makes it hard for pietro to hold his gaze. those little things wash can't help but take immense satisfaction in, knowing how much he tears them unwillingly from pietro's grasp, wanting to give but not knowing how. the way keeps shaking, vibrating even as he tries to focus, that giving little whine and how he hikes his leg around wash's waist. he shudders a little just from how tightly pietro is clenching around him, all that tight muscle and heat squeezing all around his cock.
there's something wash genuinely enjoys about seeing him -- even now, so breathless and trembling, trapped completely against the wall -- manage a smirk. arrogant as always, utterly insufferable, trying to hold on to his scrap of control without thinking too much about how desperate it is, without thinking about how even as he clings to it he's so many times asked wash to take it away. there's an appeal to his pride, an obnoxious kind of charm, and wash can see how his cheek is already lingering red from how he'd slapped him before and thinks of how much he'd still really, really love to wipe that smirk from his face.
wash makes some soft sound, another rumbling pleased purr, leaning close to press his forehead to pietro's and briefly suck on that bruised and bitten lower lip. the knife eases between them, and he lets the flat of the blade slide against his cock, never letting any of that edge catch him there but letting him feel that cool shock of metal right against sensitive flesh, until the tip is resting right against his abdomen, near his navel. ]
Only because I think you're pretty.
[ teasing, almost playful, not really mocking, even if pietro might hear it that way. but then wash is starting to move. he finds his rhythm quickly, one hard sharp thrust against him another, the muscles of his arm locked tight as he keeps that knife to his throat. its difficult to control it quite so precisely when he fucks inside pietro deep, when that heat is all around him and when he jolts his body in his arms and against the wall, but wash manages well enough, that pressure easing on and off with every movement -- but never enough to cut, never enough to reach any deeper. ]
[Pietro takes another victory in drawing out that soft purr, smirk only faltering once Wash starts to suck on his lip, and Pietro moans quietly. He gasps quickly, a choked little noise stuck in the back of his throat along with it, as he feels the knife at his cock. He stills almost completely then, muscles tightening and tense except for his fingers that still tremble. It drags over his shaft, even just the flat of the blade making his nerves crackle and arousal pool heavily in his abdomen, pulsing down through his cock, hard and continuously leaking. Shit. He's almost desperate to come already. Wash drags the knife higher, and Pietro begins to move again, twitches and light writhing, abdominal muscles fluttering under the blade as it stops near his navel. He wants to press himself against it. Pietro runs his tongue over his lower lip, a quiet breathy laugh escaping at that comment, and he immediately has a response, confident and spoken like it's immutable fact.]
Everyone does. Even like this.
[He can't help but be arrogant about it, even in this position, with red streaks lining his chest, hands bound behind his head, Wash's cock shoved deep in his ass, throbbing impact of that slap still felt against his cheek. He's hot. He knows. It's not as bad as it had been on the roof, and this hasn't yet crossed his threshold into too embarrassing to be proud of, a line that keeps moving further along if Pietro were to be honest with himself.]
Fuck.
[That comes out squeakier than Pietro would have liked, and shifts into a series of high pitched whines as Wash starts to move, hard and insistent, the knife now at his throat, bringing that awareness of arousing fear and anticipatory need for the lighter pain that doesn't come, teasing, not enough. He's on the edge, kept there perpetually with so much stimulation, but not enough, and every strike of Wash's cock scraping along sensitive places inside him increases the irritation and frustration right along with his level of arousal and desperation.]
Fuck. I need-
[He bites his lip and doesn't finish that thought. Pietro's fingers flex and curl and he squirms, he just wants to touch himself and take it that one bit further, completely focused on that task and more annoyed than ever with the belt.]
[ wash doesn't mind pietro's smugness expanding more here -- to him its a sign of a few things. that he's starting to really want to please him, starting to take some pride in not just wash's physical responses but simply just in his approval. that he's getting comfortable enough here, which means there's always room to push further, more. and most of all, it means that as much as part of pietro might hate himself for this, might burn with shame for it and everything they've done before. none of it is forgotten. all of it taken in, leaving marks on pietro that stay even when the bruises and scars fade.
playing into pietro's pride isn't contrary to any of wash's goals, as far as he's concerned. pietro is built, attractive, capable and clever, wash doesn't mind telling him that, finds no shame in the fact that he's drawn to him, that he wants him, wants this. and there's always something that wash just likes about pietro starting to wind ever so slightly towards wanting to please him, about pietro finding pride and arrogance even here, looking completely fucked out hair tousled, eyes dark, breathless with his chest marred with red lines and his cheek lingering red. wash growls a little in answer -- ]
-- Especially like this.
[ pietro looks fucking incredible, like this.
he notes his response to the flat of the blade at his cock, another little raw thrill running through him at every whine and twitch and squirm. he can see how much pietro is continuing to struggle against the restraints, as wash continues to deliberately keep him right on the edge of too much and not enough. everything all at once, a knife edge, his cock thrusting deep, the stinging reminders of cuts, that slap. his other hand urges pietro's other leg up, just to free him up more, until he can fuck him nice and hard up against the wall as the knife stays balanced right against his throat, his newly freed hand sliding up, deliberately pressing over every line and cut he'd just left in his skin before settling in his hair. a hard twist through the strands, wrenching back, his voice rumbling as always, possessive, demanding. ]
Tell me. [ he lets the knife glide and scrape over the pulse in his throat. still not cutting, not breaking skin, leaning forward to half-muffle a groan against his lips as he buries himself deep inside him, again, and again. ] And maybe I'll give it to you.
[ unsaid, but clearly implied: if you beg, if you beg nicely. he'll give it to you. ]
[Wash shifts his grip on his thigh, brings his other leg up, and Pietro makes a loud frustrated noise, aimed at himself as he hooks that leg around Wash's hip too, digs his heels into his back again. He has little leverage to do anything, but there are still efforts made to get Wash to fuck him harder, squeezing around his cock, trying to push his hips forward faster. His nerves are on fire, and it's getting difficult to distinguish sensations from each other, an overall state of heightened sensitivity and perception that makes him want to scream, or cry, or both. Wash keeps fucking him, running his fingers over those shallow cuts and reigniting the sting, and Pietro squirms underneath that touch. He whines in a sharp distressed way that's a mix of agitation and need when Wash grabs his hair. That sharp tug sending heat down his chest and sparking both more obvious struggling at everything, and more defiance as Pietro gets close to his breaking point. Wash's rumbling voice Pietro can't get out of his head, out of his body as it reverberates through him in slow waves, that knife at his throat, there like a promise that won't be fulfilled, just out of reach. His cock throbs hot and his abdominal muscles twitch uncontrollably, but he can't do it. He can't beg. Won't. Not after he'd almost slipped into that moment of weakness, that moment Wash immediately pounced on. Wash is close, his face barely inches away after that kiss, presence oppressive and he's ready to pull at and unravel any thread of acquiescence Pietro will give him.
It's none. Wash gets nothing. Pietro spits in his face, a cornered and feral response on instinct.]
not new to wash in general, it's something he's come to expect, a consequence of having violent and feral on the list of things he's drawn to -- he's had felix spit on him, spit in his mouth, done the same to him in turn. sometimes its done out of reflex and anger, sometimes to goad him specifically into lashing out and fucking him harder, faster. this, wash doesn't quite know pietro enough to know for sure, but he knows its different, knows he's desperate, that he wants and he wants and is on right on the verge of breaking or begging or doing anything, anything, and he's reaching for everything he can to stop himself.
wash's expression twitches slightly, his head turning -- but he resets quickly, his gaze not even faltering. he does need a fraction of a second to process what'd just happened, his jaw working, but then his body twists, reacts on raw instinct. wash keeps fucking him, unrelenting, rhythm rough and steady and just enough to have his cock scraping and throbbing against the rawest, most sensitive parts of him. his hand still stays tight in his hair, twisting only a little more, just enough to wrench his head back. the knife gets tucked back against his palm as he pulls that hand away, and another sharp crack, another hard slap. hard across the face, over that same cheek. the smack rings through the air, and in that same moment as pietro is still reeling from it his hand drops back between them. no cutting, this time, but the knife eases over his stomach, his abs, the cool metal suddenly brushing raw and dry against the side of pietro's throbbing cock. wash's thrusts cause his body to lurch, pietro's cock bouncing, and wash is sure to keep the back of the knife facing upwards, no cuts or pain unless he permits it. the knife is solid, well made, lighter in shade than that other knife but darker than most common metal all the same, warming slightly just from contact with pietro's heated flesh.
wash doesn't repeat himself, just slides right back into place, his breath hot against pietro's lips and cheek as he mouths over that bruised and bitten lip, his hand still pulled taut through his hair. still a thousand things and a dozen ways to flood pietro with sensation all at once, more happening whenever he lashes out -- but till not enough. almost. not enough. watching him through half-lidded eyes, devouring, expecting, his rolling up as a hard thrust has his balls pressed flush to his ass, grinding to reach even deeper inside him before fucking inside him all over again. ]
[He might have taken another victory in that small twitch of a reaction, but he doesn't process it, isn't looking for it. Pietro isn't even sure why he did it, it was something, something that wasn't giving in. That fraction of a second is enough for him to have his focus on Wash's cock again, continuing to thrust inside him where Pietro can feel every scrape against raw nerves, every bit of friction and pressure, the stretch of his muscles even as he clamps down onto it, and all of it is not enough. His frustration builds quickly again, and he's completely lost track of even his own slow perception of time when Wash wrenches his head back further and slaps him again. Hard, in the same place already tinged with lingering pain, and now the additional impact sending a deep and not-quite-sharp pulse of it through his jaw. The sound is louder than it should be, heightened to him like everything else, not yet cresting over the edge where it all fades into nothing and background sensations. Wash won't allow it. Allow it. Pietro makes a soft noise as he thinks it, as that knowledge sinks into his brain, a despondent little whine on the edge of a sob he won't let escape.
The knife is back at his abdomen, metal running over his twitching muscles, precise and controlled even as Wash slams into him so brutally. Pietro's nerves are frayed, his fingers feel hot as they vibrate and shake, his muscles ache from straining and flexing and twitching and he still can't stop squirming, moving, desperate for more attention. His breathing comes heavier as Wash slides the knife down to his cock, and Pietro is unaware when he starts mewling, tiny high pitched almost tormented sounds. Wash's mouth is on him again, pressing over the raw place on his lip, over that fresh bruise forming on his cheek. Every thrust is driving sparks behind Pietro's eyes as Wash fucks him hard and deep, and still Pietro pulls at that belt, as if he could make it all stop if he could touch himself. His eyes burn and he bites down hard on his lip, sparking pain that isn't enough to help dull the rest of the sensations, and that's when he breaks. A choked half sob of a noise followed by a slurred stream of words, spilled out together and cracking in places.]
Too much, not enough, please, I need to come, please, let me touch...
wash is quick to reward it ( it's tempting, always tempting to keep him there even longer, force him to not just break but shatter and -- he will, with time ), except for the few moments he takes to simply savor it. the sight of pietro on the edge of something, utterly overwhelmed, breathless and flushed and looking like a complete mess, skin blooming red, wash's own fingers twisted in his hair, those lean muscles twitching and working and rippling under his skin as he struggles for more that he isn't getting, that he can't get, that wasn't isn't allowing him to have. the feel of him hot and tight around his cock, legs wrapped tight around his waist with his heels digging into the small of his back. those sounds, high pitched and so familiar to him now, whining and mewling, getting louder, more insistent, and how it all seems to burst from him all at once, words slurred together like he doesn't even know what he's saying, begging for something, anything.
his entire body shifts, and its punctuated with the glide of the blade aganst pietro's cock as he allows it to press in deeper where the knife point is settled against his skin. the perfect amount of pressure, right depth that he knows pietro wants, maybe flirting at the edge of deeper, drawing a bright red line up from his lower stomach, up towards his navel. wash leans in close to kiss him -- a mercy, really, considering how much he would love to let those words keep spilling out from him, but god he wants him, wants to taste, wants to feel. pietro is still mewling desperate and wash swallows those last few rambling words on his tongue, lapping deep into his mouth with another rumbling purr. pleased, wanting, possessive, demanding, all at once.
wash lets his other hand drop from his hair, ease down between them. that knife keeps cutting, a neat geometric arc around his navel, the metal gliding against pietro's shaft as he works, and he only angles the knife to break that contact from his cock when he replaces that pressure with his own hand. calloused fingers slide around him with a distinct familiarity, like he knows the weight of him in his palm, immediately giving his cock a sharp squeeze, hard enough for it to hurt. he eases back, fists his hand around him, a crude hole for pietro's cock to fuck into as wash's thrusts keep jarring his hips up on every thrust, pumping his hand over him, nice and hard. the pressure in wash's own body is building, building, and that pleased purr eases into a growl the closer he gets, his thrusts getting harsher as he works his hand over pietro's cock, as he keeps cutting into his skin, as he kisses him hard and deep. ]
[It only solidifies for him that he's begging when the knife sinks into his flesh, actually cuts him, with the pressure and flow he wants to it, if not a half step further that makes his breath hitch. Wash trails the blade up his abdomen, keeping it set against his cock, and Pietro feels the first harder sensation that lets him tip just over the plateau of stimulation he was on. Wash is kissing him even as he continues to let words fall from his lips, doesn't know what they are, but he tenses and whines every time he thinks it might have been another 'please'. Wash's possessive rumble, pleased, and still commanding, runs through Pietro's entire being and he both hates it, and doesn't. Pietro bites Wash's tongue once, sharply and quick, but doesn't keep his teeth there, assuming he won't get what he wants if he shows that much defiance, and with those thoughts comes another wave of self-loathing.
Wash's hand is finally on his cock, and it's not what Pietro wants, he wants his own hand there, and he yanks harder at the belt in frustration, but like his bite, just once. Wash's fingers are rough and the squeeze around his cock hard and painful, making Pietro yelp, a short cry of a noise that holds more pleasure in it than anything else. He makes every effort to fuck Wash's hand hard and fast, slightly out of time with Wash's cock pounding into his ass. It doesn't take long for Pietro to finally fall, sensations reaching the peak he'd been desperate for, and when Wash's growl grows more insistent and louder, Pietro comes, muscles snapping tight, clenching so hard around Wash's cock, pressing himself against both the wall and Wash's hand in some awkward stretch of movement, trying to keep all sensations.
And he doesn't for one moment realise this had been successful in making him forget what he wanted to, because it worked.]
[ it's easy to get swept up in this. wash is focused, always is, but there are always those moments when he can let himself just revel in sensation. the sounds he makes, how he can still hear ragged words that almost sound like pleasepleasure of overwhelming someone, or knowing how much goddamn pride pietro has and what it takes to strip him down. pietro comes, his entire body locking up around him, his back arching, and the feel of all that heat clenching around him so fucking completely and tightly and all at once is more than enough to bring wash over the edge, too.
his hips snap upwards, burying himself deep as he comes, spilling hot inside him. he moans against pietro's mouth, breaking away from the kiss just to mouth over his cheek and jaw, riding it out with sharp rolls of his hips, his entire body shuddering. all the while he keeps working his hand over pietro's cock, that knife still dragging through pietro's skin, leaving another line just under his navel. eventually, wash is left just shuddering, those growls and moans easing to some softer, contented sound, just enjoying the last of the sensations still moving through him, the feel of pietro's body still quivering around him.
not quite what pietro had wanted now, what he'd begged for, but what he wanted before that -- and still giving him release. wash is going to keep those wrists bound for a while, for how effective this has been. wash steadies himself again before long, pulling the knife away. he teases the blade along pietro's thigh before turning it to keeps it in his grip, tucking the flat against his palm and wrist to hold it safely as he eases that hand and palm down to the back of pietro's thigh, squeezing, feeling the muscle, but hoisting him up slightly, hauling him close to take his weight off of the wall and against himself. wash lingers there for a moment more, leaning close to nip at that lower lip again, mouthing down over the curve of his throat -- and he shifts his other hand, wet and sticky with cum, to the back of pietro's leg.
a step back, pulling pietro away from the wall, fully into his arms, and he'll step further into the apartment. the wall's nice, but he'd like more space to work, moving down towards his bedroom, still mouthing bruising kisses against pietro's neck and shoulder and notably making apparently absolutely no movement to undo the belt from pietro's wrists. ]
[Pietro gets his release, but not entirely, stimulation continues in the wake of his orgasm, Wash driving into him deep, hot come splattering inside him, the trail of the knife. He breathes heavily as Wash breaks the kiss to move over his jaw, rough fingers still wrapped around his cock and stroking, not allowing it to become completely flaccid. His abdominal muscles twitch and he tries to still them as Wash carves out another shallow steady line, pain sparking more readily while Pietro is oversensitive to it. And in the midst of that, Pietro clings to that pleased and satisfied sound Wash makes when his growls get quieter, lets his pride seep into it and claim it for his ego.
Wash drags the knife against his thigh, and Pietro whines despite his efforts not to. The knife is retracted then and he makes a huffy discontented noise as Wash squeezes his thigh and forces him forward to lean his weight against his chest. Pietro shifts and starts to bring his hands back in front of him, but Wash is in the way, biting at his lip, and he gives up half-way through, hands shaking, muscles in his arms twitching. He moans quietly when Wash gets his mouth on his throat, a slight purr of his own that's far less effective. Wash's sticky fingers grip at Pietro's other thigh as he's lifted from the wall completely, his muscles tense even as he squirms slightly to balance himself better. They're almost in the bedroom before Pietro makes a disgruntled noise and all attempts at helping Wash hold him easily shift to frustrated fidgeting and insistent tugs on the belt.]
Are you going to let me down?
[It's irritable and somewhat demanding, but it's not his real question, there wouldn't be as much apprehension underneath the tone in it.]
[ wash likes that little purr, anyway -- and does let pietro down. nicely, deliberately, enough control over his weight to set him down onto the bed, and for as sterile and almost too well kept the rest of wash's apartment is, the bedroom might be even more so. wash settles himself on the bed, too, between pietro's still-spread thighs, watching him with quiet satisfaction as he twirls the knife idly in his hand again, the metal catching light as it moves between his fingers. he lifts the other hand to his mouth, wet with pietro's come, licking some of it off -- not deliberately, slowly, but definitely doing it to be seen, tongue wrapping against his own thumb before he settles his hand back over his thigh.
he is still, of course, making no move to release his wrists. ]
[Pietro grumbles and shifts uncomfortably, but eventually settles on the bed in all of two seconds. He blows an audible breath from his nose as Wash takes up space between his thighs, and he doesn't feel any less of that oppression than he had in Wash's arms. His eyes are on the knife again, only momentarily, aware again now of every stinging slice from it over his torso. Wash distracts him from that with his other hand, and Pietro groans quietly as he watches Wash's tongue drag so slowly over his fingers, tasting Pietro's come.
That hand is on this thigh, and he moves then, rolling his eyes as he gets his hands in front of him. He has no intention of asking for Wash's assistance, only begins to gnaw at the leather of the belt with his teeth. He could get out of it in fractions of a second this way, but he wants to see what Wash will do, and he's deliberately slow about it instead.]
[ absolutely feral, and somewhere in the back of wash's mind he's rolling his eyes at himself, distantly noting how fucking typical it is of him to be as drawn to pietro as he is. he doesn't seem too phased by it, though, if anything faintly amused, immediately reaching out to grab his wrists bound close to each other by the the belt, fingers wrapped against the buckle. he pulls his wrists away from his mouth, hard and sudden enough to jerk him forward.
his other hand's still holding the knife, and casually, without any real lead up to it, just lets the blade start digging into his upper thigh. enough to cut, not quite as deep as he's learned that pietro wants, watching him even as he holds those wrists in his hand. ]
I know you could get out.
[ he could get through those restraints and be out of the apartment before wash could even process it, really. but here he is. staying because he wants to stay, letting himself be bound because he wants what's there, and as much of a thrill as there is behind physical dominance, there's something to this, too. having control because it's given. however reluctantly. ]
I could tie you up even tighter.
[ just a suggestion, put out there even as that knife continues to cut down towards his knee, over his thigh. again, almost inhumanly geometric, a perfect, straight line. ]
[He isn't surprised by Wash's actions in the least, almost expected it, lets him tear his wrists away from his mouth, lingering taste of leather as it scrapes across his teeth. Pietro's abdomen tightens, a quick jerk of a sensation at it all the same, and he doesn't pull back once Wash has hold of his wrists. He glares hotly for a second, a defiant flicker in his eyes even as he does absolutely nothing to get himself out this situation. Wash confirms that as Pietro's gaze shifts to the knife and he hisses at it slides into his thigh, teasing, not deep enough, barely existent pain that is nothing but an irritation in its mockery. It distracts him enough that his thoughts slide out of his mouth.]
So I could not get out?
[It's quiet and questioning as his eyebrows knit together and he presses his teeth into his bottom lip. He'd said he needed to move, and he does, almost desperately at times, uncontrollably, and thinking about it, he can almost feel the impact of running into those concrete walls so many times when it had all been beyond his control. His fingers shake and he tugs unconsciously at the belt again. His eyes remain on the knife.]
[ pietro's fingers shake and wash's grip tightens. its not enough to force him to stop, but that's clearly the intent -- and wash is partially doing it just to see how he'd respond, if he'd even notice, if part of him might quiet the shaking or if he'd try to push back. ]
You'd still be able to move. Maybe we can work up to that over time. [ a promise in those words, curving into a rumbling growl, that want in his expression clear. he knows of course that pietro had given him a line, i need to move, and he intends on respecting it -- but it's still a whisper of something, an echo of the for now he'd given him when he set aside that other knife. slowly he lifts pietro's wrists in his grip again, pulls them up over his head, pushing his body back down against the mattress until he has pietro's wrists pinned to the sheets, his arms outstretched over his head. wash is bearing down over him, again, his knees still neatly between pietro's thighs, lifting the knife to tap the tip of it lightly against his jaw. very purposefully giving pietro the time to look at him above him, to maybe imagine briefly what it really might be like to have wash bind him so tightly he couldn't move an inch. ] But right now, I can just make it much, much harder for you to get out of this.
[ his fingers ripple over the belt wrapped around petro's wrists. bite marks in that leather, now. that'll be an interesting one to explain to people. wash likes restraining people, has a few things up his sleeve -- rope, silk, cuffs, and not the kind for play, had gone out of his way to find something that even a slippery fucker like felix couldn't just pick or break his way out of. heavy duty, not exactly easy to chew through. maybe pietro still could anyway, but much like how pietro didn't chew straight through his belt. that's not the point. and he thinks that on some level, deep down, maybe without entirely realizing it, pietro is starting to understand that. ]
[Pietro hates himself for it, for understanding that shift in Wash's grip, what that tightening is signalling to him. And that he tries it, wills himself to rein in the anxious response, stilling the fingers of his left hand after a couple of failed attempts, but the right remains shaky, erratic movement. Over time. He understands that too, his "for now" reiterated in a different way, but there within that rumbling voice, very clear to him. Pietro shifts and squirms to get comfortable again the moment Wash pushes him down, wrists pinned above his head. His breathing comes more heavily, and before he even looks at Wash, he tips his head back to look at his hands, testing the restraint again as if it had changed and he doesn't already know what every piece of that belt rubbing against his skin feels like and exactly how far he could pull and twist his wrists.
Wash's presence steals his focus again, that knife at his jaw, knees between his thighs. He stares back boldly as Wash speaks again, telling him what he could do, offering, and letting his fingers run over the belt. Pietro's cock twitches and his chest tightens. Offering. That's what it is, has always been. If Pietro wants it, he can have it, have that control taken from him, but he needs to admit first that he wants it, admit it to himself as much as agree to it. But he doesn't, not verbally, only snorts dismissively and rolls his eyes.]
[ offered freely and easily, there for pietro to take. he's not there yet, and wash knows that. it'll probably take a lot more time. but for as long as pietro wants it wash will push him to get him there. pietro's shaking stills slightly under his grip -- he can tell it takes him a few attempts, that its still not quite there, one hand mostly stilling while the other keeps twitching, moving. but pietro had tried, responded. wash can't tell how much he'd done it on purpose, but there's something there that ne notes and files away, as always, his grip shifting to soothe his thumb briefly over pietro's left hand. a slight touch, brief, and wash doesn't say it or even make a sound but the intent of that is clear: a whisper of praise without a word. good.
pietro stares up at him, and he can see it in his eyes, arousal, want -- and even then he looks away, scoffs, rolls his eyes. wash hums a little in response, letting that knife shift in his grip, holding it so that as he lets his hand drag down over his front, the blade just barely skims his skin, too. down over the curve of his throat, to where that first cut starts at his clavicle, stilling briefly there to feel his racing heart as he follows the line further and further down to the mess of cum spilled across his abdomen, fingers smearing through it, knife gliding through. ]
I have options.
[ he keeps his weight braced over him with that hand pinning pietro's wrists down to the bed, leaning over to the beside table. wash keeps a spartan, practical apartment, has a few selections of belongings, has resisted the need to settle in or get anything more. in all honesty, many people he brings home don't usually make it to the bedroom, and he has less in here than one might think. but he did live here with someone especially fucking difficult. there's a drag and clink of metal from the bottom drawer wash is fishing through, but what he eventually returns with, as he leans back, is a length of rope. thick, corded, and doesn't really look like the kind of rope one might associate with bondage play if only because it looks more like the rope that a man might use to do more real, practical work, different from the more brightly colored lengths that pietro may distantly remember wash using in a classroom. it works for his purposes. a pragmatic man, in the end.
he doesn't wait or ask permission, shifting on the bed. he never lets go of the knife ( more an ingrained habit than anything else, an instinct, why would he let go of it when there's someone else here who might take it ) even as he drags pietro's bound wrists up to the barred headboard. he only needs one hand to undo the belt, fingers nimble and deliberate as always as he releases the buckle, and while he will let pietro have some amount of movement and freedom he immediately grabs one of pietro's writs and starts to bind it to one of the bars on the headboard. he lets pietro have his other hand, for now, for him to move or even to feel at the bonds that wash is putting in place, every loop of rope, every drag of it against his skin somehow feeling just as deliberate as wash's own touch. ]
[Pietro lets a frustrated noise settle in the back of his throat for a moment as Wash continues to tease, drag the knife over his throat, to where he'd made the first cut, down over his chest and abdomen, trailing through the drying come. So fucking slow, and so little pressure. He tries not to squirm, but by the end, he's fidgeting in that way where he doesn't know if he wants more or less of it. It ends with a short growl of both disappointment and relief when the knife leaves his skin and Wash leans over him, keeping that pressure on his wrists, that oppressive weight on top of him.
He's aware of every little sound, drawn out and heightened in his spike of apprehension, and he moves slightly, trying to shift over enough to get a look at things before Wash decides he gets to see them. It's pointless and he can't see over the edge of the bed. It doesn't take long at all, but Pietro is almost ready to demand Wash just pull something out of that drawer and get on with it when he finally does. Pietro's only experience with specific bondage rope was that one class, the only time he's seen it, and this is more familiar, a normal length of rope one would have for any number of things. Rougher, thicker, possibly easier to fray and more susceptible to friction, a notion Pietro sets aside for the time being. Wash moves his wrists again, and he watches it from an awkward angle looking above him, even as he inches himself up further on the bed, helping and hating himself for it.
His shift is immediate when Wash undoes the belt, a short burst of motion where Pietro shakes out his hands and squirms to get the stiffness out of his shoulders, but he doesn't pull that hand out of Wash's grip when he gets hold of it, settling down then as much as he can, even if he uses his free hand to poke at and play with everything he can touch, the rope, the headboard, fingers blurred in their quick movements, pulling at things, trying to wedge them underneath the coils of rope being wrapped around his other wrist, completely focused on that and no longer paying attention to Wash.]
[ interesting. wash is pleasantly surprised in the small movements pietro makes to actually help him, that slight subtle inching up the bed. part of him eager or at least curious, wanting to push himself further, wanting to see what's there. he's restless, though, and the apparent contradiction between what he's doing holds fascination for him. the wrist he's already binding to one of the bars of the headboard, that hand seems mostly settled, calm, as still as pietro tends to be without being literally unconscious as far as wash has seen, but the moment wash gave him the freedom of his other hand he's moving.
at first, wash thinks he's trying to get out -- but that other hand isn't moving, not trying to wiggle free, mostly trying to stay in place. he interprets pietro's movements then as just. fidgeting. like a restless child with too much energy except he moves so damn fast, willing that one hand to stay still but having to make up for it elsewhere. wash continues his work, managing to avoid pietro's interfering fingers as he finishes binding that one wrist in place, and then he's grabbing him by the forearm. doing what he can to actually still him, and making use of the knife tucked into his grip to get his attention, a sudden glide of metal along the length of his arm, one moment where the edge breaks the skin enough for it to sting the way pietro likes. ]
Restless, aren't you?
[ distantly amused, more teasing than mocking, voice still thrumming slightly with that same rumble, that almost-purr. his other hand is working with the remaining length of rope, as he shifts a bit more on the bed -- drags pietro's wrist to the other side of the headboard. this is good, strong rope, mostly cotton, but it definitely wouldn't be impossible or difficult to chew through if pietro really wanted to. but he'd still need to get the bindings to his mouth, bend his body enough to reach what he needs to undo. in wash's experience with pietro so far, he's strong, but not inhumanly so when he doesn't have the space to build up any kind of momentum. wash doesn't have that much on hand, but he does have some heavy duty cuffs that might be a lot stronger, but. he's choosing this. choosing rope. letting pietro think about escaping and how he might break free, just to see how much he can push him into not even wanting to.
though he is considering getting more specialized rope, now. a note to himself at the back of his mind. inspired by pietro, apparently. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he grinds into it, rocking his hips forward, dragging himself against pietro's cock and up into his touch, growling low in the back of his throat and biting down at his neck. ]
My bad. [ he'll speed up.
he wrenches pietros hand back again, just leaving their cocks pressed together, letting his hips continue to roll forward, to grind himself against him. this time he's reachng up to grab pietro's hand out of his hand, too, pressing closer, using his body weight to shove him once against the wall. he pulls pietro's hands up, over his head -- though along the way. he stops for a moment to catch the knife in his teeth, just to free up his hands better, his tongue running along the flat of the blade slightly, and in that moment as his hands shift he lets the leather of the belt slide briefly against pietro's neck. purposefully, deliberately, the material brushing up under his chin and jaw, a whisper of a promise of what else could be done, a seed he purposefully pushes into pietro's mind and imagination.
for now, though, he's doing something else. pietro's hands pulled up over his head, wrists pulled together. he does this surprisingly -- quickly, like he's done this a too many times before, looping the belt around his wrists, wrapped tight and snug, the buckle clicking shut in place. pietro can still move, of course, wash has yet to actually use anything to restrain him, and this is a first as he guides those bound hands down behind his head, behind his neck.
his hands freed, he grabs the knife from his own teeth. spinning it once, deft and nimble, letting his tongue run briefly against the edge before letting the point settle against pietro's chest, resting against his collarbone. he just watches him, for a while, watches how he adjusts to being newly restrained, watches the rapid rise and fall of his chest and how the knife moves with it with the gentle pressure he's applying. and before pietro has the time to whine too much about it, he starts to cut. pushing the knife in, just deep enough to where wash now knows pietro likes it. a sharp string, a trickle of red, right on the edge of bleeding and not, a straight line from his clavicle, down over his chest. ]
-- Better?
[ with a bit of that purr, that rumble, leaning close again. his free hand dropping down between them to fist his calloused hand around their cocks, smearing his palm with pre and working wetly down over them both. ]
no subject
The thought occurs to him again that he's in over his head, even if he's made some choices, given some direction, because his mind goes to dangerous places and Pietro knows he wouldn't say no to that, not right now. His fingers start vibrating the moment Wash slides the belt around his wrists, pulling them tightly together. Pietro's immediately trying to pick at them, reflexively, moving his fingers and twisting his wrists as much as they'll move, reaching for the edge of the belt that his fingertips just can't quite brush with the way his hands are positioned. He doesn't start tugging against it entirely until Wash is moving his hands behind his head. It's a little more panicked than the testing Pietro had done before when it had just been Wash's hand around his wrist, pinning it to the railing or the wall in that room. His breathing becomes shallower and he bites his lip as he keeps his eyes on that knife, not looking at Wash, not wanting to see those intense and assessing eyes. Then the knife is pressed against his chest, his collarbone, and it stays there. Stays there. For so long that Pietro gets close to squirming, muscles twitching and whines starting to build in the back of his throat, and he bites his tongue before he makes any more comments, pushes any more.
He freezes momentarily when Wash increases the pressure and the knife breaks his skin, a visceral hard pull in his stomach as an echo of that deep pain from his shoulder floods back to him. Pietro lets a quiet whimper escape, and he hates himself for it. It stays shallow, that cut, and the warmth he's come to associate with that light level returns, crackling sensations from firing nerves and arousal pooling in his abdomen. But that question irks him, has him huffing and fidgeting again, his right hand shaking faster and more erratically, and Pietro feels like Wash is mocking him again, all while that rumbling bleeds into his chest and that rough hand strokes over their cocks, and he can't help pressing himself into it and whining.]
You are still making me wait.
[It's spoken too fast and his breath hitches in between a couple of words. He can't stop squirming, unconsciously pulling at the belt because it's there and an annoyance, but constantly working its way to the forefront of things when he wants to focus on the knife and his cock. There are too many points of stimulation.]
no subject
as always, wash is watching, learning -- he doesn't pull too much against it until he has his hands behind pietro's head, and there's an anxious quality to it, a panic, his breathing reaching something shallow. he can see every muscle in him twitching and straining to move, that little wanting whine -- and whimper, as he starts to drag the knife down over his front. his words tumble out, clipped and hurried, and wash answers him immediately, easily, his hand briefly stilling over their cocks to squeeze over them both, his own cock hard and aching, throbbing against pietro's. ]
Yes.
[ wash is, in fact, making him wait. that one line he's drawing down over his front stops, and he lifts the knife -- one clean red mark from his clavicle to down to stop just short of his navel. he settles the tip of the knife near his collarbone, again, hips grinding forward to rut their cocks against each other, his hand fisted over them, rough and slick with pre, leaning close yet again. biting at his lower lip, drawing him briefly into another harsh, brusiing kiss, making some soft, pleased noise at the taste of him as he growls against his lips. ]
If you want that belt anywhere else? [ that tease over his neck and throat, had of course, been wholly intentional. ] We start with this.
[ he kisses him again, and to his credit he doesn't seem to wait too long before he starts to move the knife again -- but he knows, by now, that pietro's impatience doesn't seem to just be a function of personality, but of biology, that things are slower, last longer. this time he cuts out at an angle, starting near the clavicle, digging the knife in. trailing toward his nipple -- and stopping just short. again, a lift of the knife, back to the collarbone, another diagonal line, cut in the other side. it's geometric, perfectly symmetrical, almost too inhumanly precise. another display of wash's exacting control, over his own body, over the knife -- and in this moment, clearly trying to exert that over pietro, too.
its subtle, but maybe more noticeable for someone like pietro. wash doesn't seem to mind the squirming and writhing, but he is paying attention to how he's reacting to the restraint of the belt around his wrists. the more he pulls against it, the more the knife seems to just barely pull back, the pressure getting lighter, and if he ever stills more, that pressure returns. barest fractions of an inch worth of difference, the tiniest adjustments, but wash is doing them anyway, paying close attention even as he draws those perfect lines, as he keeps tonguing hungrily into his mouth. ]
no subject
Fuck.
[He gets that out in a huffy tone before Wash's mouth is back on his, where Pietro tries to bite his tongue almost viciously in retaliation. He understands this is some kind of test or assessment, and it grates on him, knowing Wash is looking for other limitations, reactions he can push or prod at and manipulate, take Pietro apart with. He knows this, and should be stopping it, but he isn't. Because it's what he wants too, to know what he can take and to uncover why he reacts to things the way he does, to separate arousal and fear or blend them together, he isn't sure.
It converges into frustration and continual edging into desperation with every drag of the knife over his chest. The pulses of pain and excitement vary, ebb and flow, and it's off, not the steady unending way it had been. By the time Wash is on the end of his third mark, Pietro has figured it out, the association, how to make him go harder, just that tiny bit deeper where the pain is perfect and flows through his chest the way he wants it to, the way that makes his cock twitch and strain under Wash's hand. It's when he stops focusing on his wrists, on the restraint, which he can't do for long. His fingers twitch and curl, the muscles in his arms tighten and spasm, and the one part of his brain that can't let it go hones in on it even more. Pietro makes a loud agitated noise, and squirms insistently, with his entire body, his annoyance manifested physically as he pulls back from Wash's mouth. His attempt to get what he wants through alternative means is to beg. Sort of. Pietro's tone is bitchy and sarcastic, a mockery of it as he lets a mewling cant slip into that one word.]
Please.
no subject
there's no hesitation to it. wash presses the knife in where it currently is, tip resting paused over his chest, at the end of that line stopped close to his nipple. the knife turns sharply, pulls a line straight vertically down over his pec, just at the right pressure, the right depth that pietro wants it at. at the same time, wash lifts his hand from their cocks, wet and sticky, and just slaps him. hard, across the face with the back of his hand, hard enough for the sound to ring and crack through the air, letting it linger for a while before reaching out to grab him by the chin, thumb slick with pre as he presses it into the hinge of his jaw. he forces pietro back to look at him, again, his eyes wanting and watching as always. ]
Only counts when you mean it.
[ he did give him a touch of what he wants, anyway, more than that even with the slap -- intentional. a hint of pain and reward but still a punishment, enough to make it clear that wash wants more than that, expects more than that. pietro clearly finds some comfort in movement, in being able to escape a situation when he wants, has always chafed against the ways in which wash could hold him in place and hold him down, but there was some thrill in it for him, too, wash could tell. something he liked, even if he may not know it, even if he may hate it. so what this is is a taste of it, a small hint of that restraint, wash trying to push him to let go enough to accept it and the helplessness that comes with it even if it's just by distracting him with sensation everywhere else.
a bite to his lip -- the knife lifts, his arms shift. one more roll of his hips to rub his cock against him, except this time his arms are hooking under his legs, his thighs, lifting him wholly into his arms again. he lets his weight stay braced against the wall with pietro's wrists still bound together behind his head, that one roll of his hips suddenly easing his cock wetly through his crease instead, rutting against his ass, just over his hole. a few moments to make sure he's held steadily in his arms, and -- he doesn't actually wait, or make him beg again. he's all but dropping him onto his cock, throbbing cockhead pushing against his hole and then pushing inside him, stretching him open around him. he shudders on a low, rumbling groan as he hilts himself into his ass again, adjusting his weight to shove him against the wall, to hike up one leg further over his waist -- and to free up that hand with the knife. previously tucked neatly against his palm so he could use his hand, again spinning a little between his fingers before the grip lands back in his hand.
there's a pause now, as he adjusts to the new position, as he makes sure he's steady, but between everything. his cock buried in pietro's ass, their bodies pressed close together, the knife glinting in his hand. its clear that he fully intends to overwhelm him with sensation again, a thousand things for him to focus on until the restraints are just another one of them to fade into the back of his mind. ]
no subject
He knows what Wash expects from him, and he loathes that one spark inside him that wants to give it to him, wants to please him, that wants to overcome the issue Pietro knows he has, another step in a loss of control that fundamentally frightens him. But he can't do it. His fingers feel hot, burning, and numb at the same time, shaking and flexing and if he could easily abrade his skin like a normal person, his wrists would be bleeding. Those thoughts slip momentarily as Wash bites his lip, a sharp little pain that gets Pietro to refocus. Wash shifts positions, grabbing his thighs and holding him up entirely, braced hard against the wall, rubbing his cock along his ass, and Pietro whines lowly, with some kind of relief and also anticipation, hating himself for shifting his leg to hook around Wash's hip like it comes naturally. He yelps quietly, and that devolves into a genuine mewling as Wash's cock sinks deep, so very very slowly, but persistently. Pietro clenches around it hard, almost violently, as if to take control, overcompensating for the way he still tugs and fidgets with the belt even as he stares at the knife, challenging, and belatedly responds to that dismissal of his feigned plea with a self-satisfied smirk.]
Worked though, yes?
no subject
there's something wash genuinely enjoys about seeing him -- even now, so breathless and trembling, trapped completely against the wall -- manage a smirk. arrogant as always, utterly insufferable, trying to hold on to his scrap of control without thinking too much about how desperate it is, without thinking about how even as he clings to it he's so many times asked wash to take it away. there's an appeal to his pride, an obnoxious kind of charm, and wash can see how his cheek is already lingering red from how he'd slapped him before and thinks of how much he'd still really, really love to wipe that smirk from his face.
wash makes some soft sound, another rumbling pleased purr, leaning close to press his forehead to pietro's and briefly suck on that bruised and bitten lower lip. the knife eases between them, and he lets the flat of the blade slide against his cock, never letting any of that edge catch him there but letting him feel that cool shock of metal right against sensitive flesh, until the tip is resting right against his abdomen, near his navel. ]
Only because I think you're pretty.
[ teasing, almost playful, not really mocking, even if pietro might hear it that way. but then wash is starting to move. he finds his rhythm quickly, one hard sharp thrust against him another, the muscles of his arm locked tight as he keeps that knife to his throat. its difficult to control it quite so precisely when he fucks inside pietro deep, when that heat is all around him and when he jolts his body in his arms and against the wall, but wash manages well enough, that pressure easing on and off with every movement -- but never enough to cut, never enough to reach any deeper. ]
no subject
Everyone does. Even like this.
[He can't help but be arrogant about it, even in this position, with red streaks lining his chest, hands bound behind his head, Wash's cock shoved deep in his ass, throbbing impact of that slap still felt against his cheek. He's hot. He knows. It's not as bad as it had been on the roof, and this hasn't yet crossed his threshold into too embarrassing to be proud of, a line that keeps moving further along if Pietro were to be honest with himself.]
Fuck.
[That comes out squeakier than Pietro would have liked, and shifts into a series of high pitched whines as Wash starts to move, hard and insistent, the knife now at his throat, bringing that awareness of arousing fear and anticipatory need for the lighter pain that doesn't come, teasing, not enough. He's on the edge, kept there perpetually with so much stimulation, but not enough, and every strike of Wash's cock scraping along sensitive places inside him increases the irritation and frustration right along with his level of arousal and desperation.]
Fuck. I need-
[He bites his lip and doesn't finish that thought. Pietro's fingers flex and curl and he squirms, he just wants to touch himself and take it that one bit further, completely focused on that task and more annoyed than ever with the belt.]
no subject
playing into pietro's pride isn't contrary to any of wash's goals, as far as he's concerned. pietro is built, attractive, capable and clever, wash doesn't mind telling him that, finds no shame in the fact that he's drawn to him, that he wants him, wants this. and there's always something that wash just likes about pietro starting to wind ever so slightly towards wanting to please him, about pietro finding pride and arrogance even here, looking completely fucked out hair tousled, eyes dark, breathless with his chest marred with red lines and his cheek lingering red. wash growls a little in answer -- ]
-- Especially like this.
[ pietro looks fucking incredible, like this.
he notes his response to the flat of the blade at his cock, another little raw thrill running through him at every whine and twitch and squirm. he can see how much pietro is continuing to struggle against the restraints, as wash continues to deliberately keep him right on the edge of too much and not enough. everything all at once, a knife edge, his cock thrusting deep, the stinging reminders of cuts, that slap. his other hand urges pietro's other leg up, just to free him up more, until he can fuck him nice and hard up against the wall as the knife stays balanced right against his throat, his newly freed hand sliding up, deliberately pressing over every line and cut he'd just left in his skin before settling in his hair. a hard twist through the strands, wrenching back, his voice rumbling as always, possessive, demanding. ]
Tell me. [ he lets the knife glide and scrape over the pulse in his throat. still not cutting, not breaking skin, leaning forward to half-muffle a groan against his lips as he buries himself deep inside him, again, and again. ] And maybe I'll give it to you.
[ unsaid, but clearly implied: if you beg, if you beg nicely. he'll give it to you. ]
no subject
It's none. Wash gets nothing. Pietro spits in his face, a cornered and feral response on instinct.]
no subject
not new to wash in general, it's something he's come to expect, a consequence of having violent and feral on the list of things he's drawn to -- he's had felix spit on him, spit in his mouth, done the same to him in turn. sometimes its done out of reflex and anger, sometimes to goad him specifically into lashing out and fucking him harder, faster. this, wash doesn't quite know pietro enough to know for sure, but he knows its different, knows he's desperate, that he wants and he wants and is on right on the verge of breaking or begging or doing anything, anything, and he's reaching for everything he can to stop himself.
wash's expression twitches slightly, his head turning -- but he resets quickly, his gaze not even faltering. he does need a fraction of a second to process what'd just happened, his jaw working, but then his body twists, reacts on raw instinct. wash keeps fucking him, unrelenting, rhythm rough and steady and just enough to have his cock scraping and throbbing against the rawest, most sensitive parts of him. his hand still stays tight in his hair, twisting only a little more, just enough to wrench his head back. the knife gets tucked back against his palm as he pulls that hand away, and another sharp crack, another hard slap. hard across the face, over that same cheek. the smack rings through the air, and in that same moment as pietro is still reeling from it his hand drops back between them. no cutting, this time, but the knife eases over his stomach, his abs, the cool metal suddenly brushing raw and dry against the side of pietro's throbbing cock. wash's thrusts cause his body to lurch, pietro's cock bouncing, and wash is sure to keep the back of the knife facing upwards, no cuts or pain unless he permits it. the knife is solid, well made, lighter in shade than that other knife but darker than most common metal all the same, warming slightly just from contact with pietro's heated flesh.
wash doesn't repeat himself, just slides right back into place, his breath hot against pietro's lips and cheek as he mouths over that bruised and bitten lip, his hand still pulled taut through his hair. still a thousand things and a dozen ways to flood pietro with sensation all at once, more happening whenever he lashes out -- but till not enough. almost. not enough. watching him through half-lidded eyes, devouring, expecting, his rolling up as a hard thrust has his balls pressed flush to his ass, grinding to reach even deeper inside him before fucking inside him all over again. ]
no subject
The knife is back at his abdomen, metal running over his twitching muscles, precise and controlled even as Wash slams into him so brutally. Pietro's nerves are frayed, his fingers feel hot as they vibrate and shake, his muscles ache from straining and flexing and twitching and he still can't stop squirming, moving, desperate for more attention. His breathing comes heavier as Wash slides the knife down to his cock, and Pietro is unaware when he starts mewling, tiny high pitched almost tormented sounds. Wash's mouth is on him again, pressing over the raw place on his lip, over that fresh bruise forming on his cheek. Every thrust is driving sparks behind Pietro's eyes as Wash fucks him hard and deep, and still Pietro pulls at that belt, as if he could make it all stop if he could touch himself. His eyes burn and he bites down hard on his lip, sparking pain that isn't enough to help dull the rest of the sensations, and that's when he breaks. A choked half sob of a noise followed by a slurred stream of words, spilled out together and cracking in places.]
Too much, not enough, please, I need to come, please, let me touch...
[Fuck.]
no subject
wash is quick to reward it ( it's tempting, always tempting to keep him there even longer, force him to not just break but shatter and -- he will, with time ), except for the few moments he takes to simply savor it. the sight of pietro on the edge of something, utterly overwhelmed, breathless and flushed and looking like a complete mess, skin blooming red, wash's own fingers twisted in his hair, those lean muscles twitching and working and rippling under his skin as he struggles for more that he isn't getting, that he can't get, that wasn't isn't allowing him to have. the feel of him hot and tight around his cock, legs wrapped tight around his waist with his heels digging into the small of his back. those sounds, high pitched and so familiar to him now, whining and mewling, getting louder, more insistent, and how it all seems to burst from him all at once, words slurred together like he doesn't even know what he's saying, begging for something, anything.
his entire body shifts, and its punctuated with the glide of the blade aganst pietro's cock as he allows it to press in deeper where the knife point is settled against his skin. the perfect amount of pressure, right depth that he knows pietro wants, maybe flirting at the edge of deeper, drawing a bright red line up from his lower stomach, up towards his navel. wash leans in close to kiss him -- a mercy, really, considering how much he would love to let those words keep spilling out from him, but god he wants him, wants to taste, wants to feel. pietro is still mewling desperate and wash swallows those last few rambling words on his tongue, lapping deep into his mouth with another rumbling purr. pleased, wanting, possessive, demanding, all at once.
wash lets his other hand drop from his hair, ease down between them. that knife keeps cutting, a neat geometric arc around his navel, the metal gliding against pietro's shaft as he works, and he only angles the knife to break that contact from his cock when he replaces that pressure with his own hand. calloused fingers slide around him with a distinct familiarity, like he knows the weight of him in his palm, immediately giving his cock a sharp squeeze, hard enough for it to hurt. he eases back, fists his hand around him, a crude hole for pietro's cock to fuck into as wash's thrusts keep jarring his hips up on every thrust, pumping his hand over him, nice and hard. the pressure in wash's own body is building, building, and that pleased purr eases into a growl the closer he gets, his thrusts getting harsher as he works his hand over pietro's cock, as he keeps cutting into his skin, as he kisses him hard and deep. ]
no subject
Wash's hand is finally on his cock, and it's not what Pietro wants, he wants his own hand there, and he yanks harder at the belt in frustration, but like his bite, just once. Wash's fingers are rough and the squeeze around his cock hard and painful, making Pietro yelp, a short cry of a noise that holds more pleasure in it than anything else. He makes every effort to fuck Wash's hand hard and fast, slightly out of time with Wash's cock pounding into his ass. It doesn't take long for Pietro to finally fall, sensations reaching the peak he'd been desperate for, and when Wash's growl grows more insistent and louder, Pietro comes, muscles snapping tight, clenching so hard around Wash's cock, pressing himself against both the wall and Wash's hand in some awkward stretch of movement, trying to keep all sensations.
And he doesn't for one moment realise this had been successful in making him forget what he wanted to, because it worked.]
no subject
his hips snap upwards, burying himself deep as he comes, spilling hot inside him. he moans against pietro's mouth, breaking away from the kiss just to mouth over his cheek and jaw, riding it out with sharp rolls of his hips, his entire body shuddering. all the while he keeps working his hand over pietro's cock, that knife still dragging through pietro's skin, leaving another line just under his navel. eventually, wash is left just shuddering, those growls and moans easing to some softer, contented sound, just enjoying the last of the sensations still moving through him, the feel of pietro's body still quivering around him.
not quite what pietro had wanted now, what he'd begged for, but what he wanted before that -- and still giving him release. wash is going to keep those wrists bound for a while, for how effective this has been. wash steadies himself again before long, pulling the knife away. he teases the blade along pietro's thigh before turning it to keeps it in his grip, tucking the flat against his palm and wrist to hold it safely as he eases that hand and palm down to the back of pietro's thigh, squeezing, feeling the muscle, but hoisting him up slightly, hauling him close to take his weight off of the wall and against himself. wash lingers there for a moment more, leaning close to nip at that lower lip again, mouthing down over the curve of his throat -- and he shifts his other hand, wet and sticky with cum, to the back of pietro's leg.
a step back, pulling pietro away from the wall, fully into his arms, and he'll step further into the apartment. the wall's nice, but he'd like more space to work, moving down towards his bedroom, still mouthing bruising kisses against pietro's neck and shoulder and notably making apparently absolutely no movement to undo the belt from pietro's wrists. ]
no subject
Wash drags the knife against his thigh, and Pietro whines despite his efforts not to. The knife is retracted then and he makes a huffy discontented noise as Wash squeezes his thigh and forces him forward to lean his weight against his chest. Pietro shifts and starts to bring his hands back in front of him, but Wash is in the way, biting at his lip, and he gives up half-way through, hands shaking, muscles in his arms twitching. He moans quietly when Wash gets his mouth on his throat, a slight purr of his own that's far less effective. Wash's sticky fingers grip at Pietro's other thigh as he's lifted from the wall completely, his muscles tense even as he squirms slightly to balance himself better. They're almost in the bedroom before Pietro makes a disgruntled noise and all attempts at helping Wash hold him easily shift to frustrated fidgeting and insistent tugs on the belt.]
Are you going to let me down?
[It's irritable and somewhat demanding, but it's not his real question, there wouldn't be as much apprehension underneath the tone in it.]
no subject
he is still, of course, making no move to release his wrists. ]
no subject
That hand is on this thigh, and he moves then, rolling his eyes as he gets his hands in front of him. He has no intention of asking for Wash's assistance, only begins to gnaw at the leather of the belt with his teeth. He could get out of it in fractions of a second this way, but he wants to see what Wash will do, and he's deliberately slow about it instead.]
no subject
his other hand's still holding the knife, and casually, without any real lead up to it, just lets the blade start digging into his upper thigh. enough to cut, not quite as deep as he's learned that pietro wants, watching him even as he holds those wrists in his hand. ]
I know you could get out.
[ he could get through those restraints and be out of the apartment before wash could even process it, really. but here he is. staying because he wants to stay, letting himself be bound because he wants what's there, and as much of a thrill as there is behind physical dominance, there's something to this, too. having control because it's given. however reluctantly. ]
I could tie you up even tighter.
[ just a suggestion, put out there even as that knife continues to cut down towards his knee, over his thigh. again, almost inhumanly geometric, a perfect, straight line. ]
no subject
So I could not get out?
[It's quiet and questioning as his eyebrows knit together and he presses his teeth into his bottom lip. He'd said he needed to move, and he does, almost desperately at times, uncontrollably, and thinking about it, he can almost feel the impact of running into those concrete walls so many times when it had all been beyond his control. His fingers shake and he tugs unconsciously at the belt again. His eyes remain on the knife.]
no subject
You'd still be able to move. Maybe we can work up to that over time. [ a promise in those words, curving into a rumbling growl, that want in his expression clear. he knows of course that pietro had given him a line, i need to move, and he intends on respecting it -- but it's still a whisper of something, an echo of the for now he'd given him when he set aside that other knife. slowly he lifts pietro's wrists in his grip again, pulls them up over his head, pushing his body back down against the mattress until he has pietro's wrists pinned to the sheets, his arms outstretched over his head. wash is bearing down over him, again, his knees still neatly between pietro's thighs, lifting the knife to tap the tip of it lightly against his jaw. very purposefully giving pietro the time to look at him above him, to maybe imagine briefly what it really might be like to have wash bind him so tightly he couldn't move an inch. ] But right now, I can just make it much, much harder for you to get out of this.
[ his fingers ripple over the belt wrapped around petro's wrists. bite marks in that leather, now. that'll be an interesting one to explain to people. wash likes restraining people, has a few things up his sleeve -- rope, silk, cuffs, and not the kind for play, had gone out of his way to find something that even a slippery fucker like felix couldn't just pick or break his way out of. heavy duty, not exactly easy to chew through. maybe pietro still could anyway, but much like how pietro didn't chew straight through his belt. that's not the point. and he thinks that on some level, deep down, maybe without entirely realizing it, pietro is starting to understand that. ]
no subject
Wash's presence steals his focus again, that knife at his jaw, knees between his thighs. He stares back boldly as Wash speaks again, telling him what he could do, offering, and letting his fingers run over the belt. Pietro's cock twitches and his chest tightens. Offering. That's what it is, has always been. If Pietro wants it, he can have it, have that control taken from him, but he needs to admit first that he wants it, admit it to himself as much as agree to it. But he doesn't, not verbally, only snorts dismissively and rolls his eyes.]
I will believe that when I see it.
no subject
pietro stares up at him, and he can see it in his eyes, arousal, want -- and even then he looks away, scoffs, rolls his eyes. wash hums a little in response, letting that knife shift in his grip, holding it so that as he lets his hand drag down over his front, the blade just barely skims his skin, too. down over the curve of his throat, to where that first cut starts at his clavicle, stilling briefly there to feel his racing heart as he follows the line further and further down to the mess of cum spilled across his abdomen, fingers smearing through it, knife gliding through. ]
I have options.
[ he keeps his weight braced over him with that hand pinning pietro's wrists down to the bed, leaning over to the beside table. wash keeps a spartan, practical apartment, has a few selections of belongings, has resisted the need to settle in or get anything more. in all honesty, many people he brings home don't usually make it to the bedroom, and he has less in here than one might think. but he did live here with someone especially fucking difficult. there's a drag and clink of metal from the bottom drawer wash is fishing through, but what he eventually returns with, as he leans back, is a length of rope. thick, corded, and doesn't really look like the kind of rope one might associate with bondage play if only because it looks more like the rope that a man might use to do more real, practical work, different from the more brightly colored lengths that pietro may distantly remember wash using in a classroom. it works for his purposes. a pragmatic man, in the end.
he doesn't wait or ask permission, shifting on the bed. he never lets go of the knife ( more an ingrained habit than anything else, an instinct, why would he let go of it when there's someone else here who might take it ) even as he drags pietro's bound wrists up to the barred headboard. he only needs one hand to undo the belt, fingers nimble and deliberate as always as he releases the buckle, and while he will let pietro have some amount of movement and freedom he immediately grabs one of pietro's writs and starts to bind it to one of the bars on the headboard. he lets pietro have his other hand, for now, for him to move or even to feel at the bonds that wash is putting in place, every loop of rope, every drag of it against his skin somehow feeling just as deliberate as wash's own touch. ]
no subject
He's aware of every little sound, drawn out and heightened in his spike of apprehension, and he moves slightly, trying to shift over enough to get a look at things before Wash decides he gets to see them. It's pointless and he can't see over the edge of the bed. It doesn't take long at all, but Pietro is almost ready to demand Wash just pull something out of that drawer and get on with it when he finally does. Pietro's only experience with specific bondage rope was that one class, the only time he's seen it, and this is more familiar, a normal length of rope one would have for any number of things. Rougher, thicker, possibly easier to fray and more susceptible to friction, a notion Pietro sets aside for the time being. Wash moves his wrists again, and he watches it from an awkward angle looking above him, even as he inches himself up further on the bed, helping and hating himself for it.
His shift is immediate when Wash undoes the belt, a short burst of motion where Pietro shakes out his hands and squirms to get the stiffness out of his shoulders, but he doesn't pull that hand out of Wash's grip when he gets hold of it, settling down then as much as he can, even if he uses his free hand to poke at and play with everything he can touch, the rope, the headboard, fingers blurred in their quick movements, pulling at things, trying to wedge them underneath the coils of rope being wrapped around his other wrist, completely focused on that and no longer paying attention to Wash.]
no subject
at first, wash thinks he's trying to get out -- but that other hand isn't moving, not trying to wiggle free, mostly trying to stay in place. he interprets pietro's movements then as just. fidgeting. like a restless child with too much energy except he moves so damn fast, willing that one hand to stay still but having to make up for it elsewhere. wash continues his work, managing to avoid pietro's interfering fingers as he finishes binding that one wrist in place, and then he's grabbing him by the forearm. doing what he can to actually still him, and making use of the knife tucked into his grip to get his attention, a sudden glide of metal along the length of his arm, one moment where the edge breaks the skin enough for it to sting the way pietro likes. ]
Restless, aren't you?
[ distantly amused, more teasing than mocking, voice still thrumming slightly with that same rumble, that almost-purr. his other hand is working with the remaining length of rope, as he shifts a bit more on the bed -- drags pietro's wrist to the other side of the headboard. this is good, strong rope, mostly cotton, but it definitely wouldn't be impossible or difficult to chew through if pietro really wanted to. but he'd still need to get the bindings to his mouth, bend his body enough to reach what he needs to undo. in wash's experience with pietro so far, he's strong, but not inhumanly so when he doesn't have the space to build up any kind of momentum. wash doesn't have that much on hand, but he does have some heavy duty cuffs that might be a lot stronger, but. he's choosing this. choosing rope. letting pietro think about escaping and how he might break free, just to see how much he can push him into not even wanting to.
though he is considering getting more specialized rope, now. a note to himself at the back of his mind. inspired by pietro, apparently. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)