Pietro: renowned as Quicksilver for his ability to not only move at accelerated speeds that rendered movement as a silvery blue apparition, but to think, act and perceive the world in a fraction of a second. But consequence to this new enhancement, he had to restrain himself and suffer the intolerably slow perception of time to interact with the world around him and those that occupied it.
While he ensured to accommodate his team-mates limitations at the beseeching of his beloved sister, who chastised previous behaviour that involved the blatant utilisation of his abilities to provoke retaliation from particular individuals, in all other aspects of his life that wouldn’t impact on others - not directly (this is Pietro we’re talking about here) - he was free to enjoy the particularities of his abilities.
He wasn’t ashamed of who or what he was.
Yet as disbelieving as it might be to learn, there was one exception in which Pietro favoured the passage of time as he once regularly experienced. During the throws of masturbation, he desired the long, drawn seconds, relishing as it produced an intensified accumulation of pleasure, begging release. And for all he was brash and cocky, working against his nature required concentration and diligence free of distractions.
Pietro removed the sweat from his brow, wiping it upon his clothed arm. The survival training had been gruelling as only to be expected when coordinated by both Rogers and Barton. Lunatics, he thinks. The session had commenced at dusk and continued throughout the night with rare periods of rest. The set tasks and Barton’s berating comments – disguised as coaching, apparently - had pushed Pietro to his limits. But he had fed on the adrenaline. Starved of rest or replenishment, he savoured the challenge and met it without hesitation. Sure he was a pain in the arse and argued training was beneath his capabilities and a waste of his time, but sure enough, Rogers’ program made him regret the boast – though he wouldn’t openly admit that. Pfft. But he continued without further complaint though jest he did. Any opportunity to antagonise Barton was its own sweet reward, to which Barton reprimanded him with a volley of explosive arrows.
They concluded at dawn, everyone going their separate ways in search of recuperation. Though Pietro was unlike most. While undeniably tired, aching muscles and an uncountable collection of bruises and scratches, long-term he fared better than his team-mates who would suffer the results of last nights session for days to come. To his advantage, his body continually rejuvenated; a property of his enhancement. Already his muscles felt noticeably recovered. The bruise sustained earlier from ricocheting rubble was in final stages of healing; now blotched yellow, admiring it. He might even boast being able to go another round, but he considered keeping him mouth shut, for once. However, experience had taught Pietro a valuable lesson: that while he possessed this ability, among others, he still required sleep. He wouldn’t deny the need though irksome as it was.
Stepping into the elevator he commands the voice activated system though to his annoyance requiring to repeat himself. He had told Stark the voice recognition experienced issues with his and Wanda’s accent. Though he suspected Stark enjoyed his torment in-particular, Wanda too patient to protest. He slouches against wall and acknowledges silently that he didn’t want to go to bed hyped on restored energy. Despite needing sleep, it would make it difficult. He considers with amusement that he might have to rub one out to tire himself. Be in no doubt he enjoyed the activity - more than enjoyed. Yet it possessed multiple benefits due to the uniqueness of his conduct.
He had learned early into the acquirement of his abilities that slowing his perception of time that which is experienced and calculated by others, allowed for intense, mind-blowing orgasms. It couldn’t be any simpler than that. Only that it did possess a level of difficulty. For concentration and diligence was required to not revert back to his perception of time, to fight his nature and distractions, was both mentally and physically taxing – or maybe that was just the orgasm? Experimentation and determination now allowed him to perform the activity with considerable ease, though he suspected there would always exist a degree of difficulty; he was fighting his very nature after all.
The thought was undoubtedly a tantalising prospect, his body instantly receptive and charged with sexual excitement. It’s a new type of energy, birthed in the pit of his stomach, uncontrollable and exuberant. He considers the idea a second longer: yes, he was currently in an elevator and while alone, it might stop anywhere along the way before reaching his floor. He’s mindful to not suddenly whip out all he has to offer though confident in his ability hastily tuck himself away should the time require it. He did possess some propriety as surprising as that might seem. But the desire and anticipation is too much to ignore, realising then he’s been decided for.
He would just need to be discreet, he thinks, for as long as his self-control allowed him to be.
Pietro greets himself, palming the dormant mound in his pants. He indulges in leisured massaging and squeezing, enticing the excitement. His body knows the routine all too well, the beginnings of interest prevalent in the stirring of his cock. It doesn’t take much; he was easily aroused with the right stimuli and he was always looking to find alternative and exciting methods. But today he would resort to reliable techniques. He continues, feeling the changed and eager swell of his cock, filling the capacity of his hand and pants, and he smirks at the success though knowing he was without fail. The fabric of his pants provides additional friction and furthering to heighten his cocks sensitivity. Come on, he encourages. But it’s not enough. He needed more. His hips rise against his hand, creating more friction to motion against. Using the heel of his hand, he resists the upwards thrust, redistributing more weight onto his shoulders and also onto the ball of one foot. He grunts with effort but the motion is timed and rhythmic. Internally he chants ‘slow, slow’, reining in the desire to frantically gyrate and release the control. But he bites down, pushing through excruciating slow pace.
The elevator doors open and he stalls at the sudden exposure. He slumps back, breaths marginally quicker and colour flushing his cheeks. His reflection stares back; eyes lustful and his undeniably engorged groin drawing his attention. He smirks, almost a congratulatory gesture to himself before exiting the confined space. His cock throbs, uncomfortably confined. He could sprint to his room and recommence immediately, but the energetic movement might overstimulate him before reaping the full reward. No, he didn’t want that. He desired to deny his pinning arousal and prolong the ripe reward for as long as he could bear. He shivers at the prospect.
So with measured strides, he encloses on his destination; the movement just maintaining his arousal’s interest.
Pietro’s restraint teeters dangerously, having to concentration on each simple action and command the correct speed to conduct himself. With a calming breath, he commands the blinds to lower, the room entering a state of darkness until his sight adjusts. It was minimal preparation but he needn’t require much. His shoes since removed, he walks over to the bedside; the sheets and pillows as they were when he crawled out of bed the morning before. He drags his hands down over his pelvis, withholding all desired attention to the prominent mountain that occupied the front of his jeans. It was a battle against himself; either way, he still won, but he had a preferred method. Knowing what awaits him is a delicious thought, and even more-so, denying that need. He strips out of his jeans, admiring the tent of his jocks, and then he draws down the elastic band, watching himself string free, bobbing with eager attention. He strokes just once, affectionately, a promise for what was to come.
He isn’t particular with positioning, sliding across the mattress to sprawl out, commanding the space. The aircondition room heightens the sensitivity of his naked skin, prickling with goosebumps. His cock twitches against his stomach - another petulant reminder. He grasps the girth firm in his dominant hand and begins motioning up and down in a typical fashion. It’s a steady rhythm but it swiftly and successfully rebuilds the tension from the elevator. He manipulates his foreskin, using it to massage the crown of cock. He hisses aloud, the sensitivity surprisingly overbearing. He repeats the action, measuring the spiking increase of his arousal; amounting stroke by stroke. His pants harshly, his abdomen motioning with the exertion. The palm of his hand rubs the tip of his cock, the gesture juicing it of the precum that seeps out.
Improvising, he utilises the precum to ease the friction of his hand, committing to long, lengthy strokes. Arhg, too hot! His body is flushed with prickled heat, immune to the effects of the cool room. In frustration, he shoves the top beneath his arms, not wanting to relinquish hold for a moment. His skin gasps in relief.
The fight intensifies. The urge to reach the peak taunts him. Soon, he tells himself. But he indulges, increasing the speed of his strokes but remaining with human limits. He whispers encouragement, come on! More. More!
Spontaneously, he flips onto his stomach, grinding into the mattress and relishing in the sensation. His ripe ass rises then thrusts down, repeating again and again, the mattress bouncing and thumping with his enthusiastic yet desperate intention. He claws at the pillows, at sheets, then grabs hold of the headboard, using it as an anchor to increase the downward motion. The thud of his body upon the mattress and his exclamations are a chorus of pleasure and effort.
Yes! His hips snap down, now short, quick thrusts; cock sliding across the beds surface and back, rising like a pendulum to fall and then smoother between body and fabric once more. The severe arch of his back is painful, a smooth curvature of glistening flesh, but it only serves to drive him further. Harder. Deeper. Yes! He moans. He feels his body constrict, tightening before the fall, his breath ragged and harsh. And taking himself in-hand a final time, pushes himself over the edge.
His grip upon the headboard is ironclad, reduced to desperate rutting as the waves of his climax consume him. Throaty cries are muffled against the pillow as he milks himself for what he’s worth, spilling upon his hand. He’s left with the sweet, exhausted afterglow, lying limp and breathless. With enough energy, he pulls his arm free from beneath him and flops over, discarding the mess with an afterthought. In no more than a minute, he enters into the deep slumber he sought, equally satisfied on both accounts.