[ wash would revel in a verbal admission about just why pietro had sought him out for this -- but there's something he takes a quiet, visceral pleasure in this, too. in knowing why when pietro himself doesn't entirely, usually just due to stubborn refusal but here because he can't grasp it, in the same way he can't quite hold wash's gaze. wash is a careful, disciplined man who doesn't so much as drink, but he's far from above indulgence in vices. and being someone's vice is a special kind of thrill. an indulgence all on its own.
he eases forward. still standing, his posture almost too casual for what he's doing, moving himself between pietro's legs with his grip still locked over his chin and jaw, forcing him even further back where he's seated. he shifts his hand just a little more, allowing two fingers to press into pietro's pulse, now. a light pressure, but present. ]
You called me here.
[ apparently his first port of call. his fingers push against his throat just a little more, that quiet predatory hunger looming in his eyes again. ]
no subject
he eases forward. still standing, his posture almost too casual for what he's doing, moving himself between pietro's legs with his grip still locked over his chin and jaw, forcing him even further back where he's seated. he shifts his hand just a little more, allowing two fingers to press into pietro's pulse, now. a light pressure, but present. ]
You called me here.
[ apparently his first port of call. his fingers push against his throat just a little more, that quiet predatory hunger looming in his eyes again. ]
And I made you a promise, didn't I?