[ wash doesn't reach out to help or support him in any way, but he does watch, as always. the unsteadiness, confusion. normal for someone who's completely fucking drunk, of course, though wash has gathered between the abrupt request for food and the baskets of once-chicken wings that pietro's body has to work though things like that faster and easier than most. its harder for pietro to hold his gaze, more than before, that defiant streak still absolutely present, and wash follows him towards the greenroom and neatly steps out of his way when pietro shifts direction. out into the alleyway isn't entirely unexpected, but it's fine. not the first time he's been pulled into the alley by a bar, it won't be the last, and wash follows quietly as pietro moves further in, watching the way he moves, the shift of his muscles under his skin, the long line of his back.
pietro seems happy enough at a certain point. trying not to fidget, in a way that wash has come to see is habitual for him, his voice still trying to project some level of command, but the most damning thing about it would simply that wash doesn't bother to refute it. he even shift his posture to project more of his present, doesn't change the way he looks at him, isn't bothered by that at all. there's no need to act to reclaim any kind of control when he knows he has it. he had it the moment pietro called him here.
a nod, and he allows his gaze to drag up over the length of his body. following muscles and angles that he already has memorized, the last remnants of bruises he knows he placed -- and that sauce still spilled across his chest. pietro's lucky he's pretty. ]
About time.
[ dryly, like he's the one impatient instead -- but he is impatient, in his own way, wants to get his hands on him again, has definitely lingered on the memory of pietro on that rooftop goadinng him on as much as the memory of the way his voice shattered when he begged, the sound of his moans when his throat was too hoarse to even sound them. he moves quickly that, simply flattens one hand against his sternum and shoves him back against the alley wall, immediately moving in close to pin him bodily against it, apparently uncaring about the sauce and more concerned with pietro. it's familiar and immediate, the way that wash immediately moves to take up all of his space and crowd him back aganst the wall, but there's something a little different to it, too.
wash had learned much about pietro over time over their last encounter, gradual shifts and adjustments. but even after how long it's been since then, wash slots himself back in like he belongs here. there's a distinct familiarity to the way he runs his hand down over pietro's side, like he's not just touching him but feeling over muscles and tendons that he knows -- and he seems intent on drawing the memory back for pietro, too. he immediately presses a knee against the brick wall between his legs, sliding it up between his thighs, his other hand tangling through his hair to pull roughly on the strands even as he kisses him again. harder now, more demanding, tonguing over his bottom lip like he still remembers the split in it when he'd bitten down before. wash still has his own shirt on, but he's more focused on pietro, still, his hand sliding down over his front, over his abdomen, immediately starting to work at his belt and pants as much as he can with how his hand is trapped between them. ]
no subject
pietro seems happy enough at a certain point. trying not to fidget, in a way that wash has come to see is habitual for him, his voice still trying to project some level of command, but the most damning thing about it would simply that wash doesn't bother to refute it. he even shift his posture to project more of his present, doesn't change the way he looks at him, isn't bothered by that at all. there's no need to act to reclaim any kind of control when he knows he has it. he had it the moment pietro called him here.
a nod, and he allows his gaze to drag up over the length of his body. following muscles and angles that he already has memorized, the last remnants of bruises he knows he placed -- and that sauce still spilled across his chest. pietro's lucky he's pretty. ]
About time.
[ dryly, like he's the one impatient instead -- but he is impatient, in his own way, wants to get his hands on him again, has definitely lingered on the memory of pietro on that rooftop goadinng him on as much as the memory of the way his voice shattered when he begged, the sound of his moans when his throat was too hoarse to even sound them. he moves quickly that, simply flattens one hand against his sternum and shoves him back against the alley wall, immediately moving in close to pin him bodily against it, apparently uncaring about the sauce and more concerned with pietro. it's familiar and immediate, the way that wash immediately moves to take up all of his space and crowd him back aganst the wall, but there's something a little different to it, too.
wash had learned much about pietro over time over their last encounter, gradual shifts and adjustments. but even after how long it's been since then, wash slots himself back in like he belongs here. there's a distinct familiarity to the way he runs his hand down over pietro's side, like he's not just touching him but feeling over muscles and tendons that he knows -- and he seems intent on drawing the memory back for pietro, too. he immediately presses a knee against the brick wall between his legs, sliding it up between his thighs, his other hand tangling through his hair to pull roughly on the strands even as he kisses him again. harder now, more demanding, tonguing over his bottom lip like he still remembers the split in it when he'd bitten down before. wash still has his own shirt on, but he's more focused on pietro, still, his hand sliding down over his front, over his abdomen, immediately starting to work at his belt and pants as much as he can with how his hand is trapped between them. ]