[Pietro feels the quick drop of a familiar sinking sensation in his stomach when Wash just nods and rakes his eyes over him like he can see everything. His fingertips feel hot, burning, and his breath catches in his chest, remembering the first time that hit him, that his persistent claims of control have little effect. Wash already knows Pietro holds the power, and he doesn't care, it doesn't bother him in the slightest. The only struggle for control here is within Pietro himself, which he understands on some basic level, but not completely, not to where he can stop fighting it. And Pietro has no response to that turn around, that dismissive brush off, because he is the one taking too long, too lost within trying to escape his own thoughts that he can't function as quickly.
Wash shoves him hard against the wall, and he becomes both more and less aware at the same time, shocked a bit out of the haze of alcohol by a rush of adrenaline as his back scrapes across the rough wall, but sudden arousal spiking a drop in cohesive thoughts. Wash's presence is just as Pietro remembers it, oppressive and confining, and daring him to pay attention to anything else. In the back of his mind, he notes the alley was a good choice, and there won't be a couch to linger on afterwards, to deal with Wash clinging and touching him differently, more gently, it's the worst time for that. Wash's rough hand runs along his side, an intimate touch that makes Pietro squirm internally with the knowledge, the familiarity in those fingers.]
Shit.
[His legs are shoved further apart, Wash wedging his knee up against the wall, and it takes every bit of restraint Pietro has not to grind against Wash's thigh. But those fingers are in his hair, pulling hard, drawing high pitched whines of both annoyance and pleasure from him, and Pietro moves his hips. Once, quick, before he can stop himself, tightening his abdominal muscles. He responds to the kiss immediately though, hungry for it and moaning when Wash's tongue glides over his lip, right there. Wash reaches down between them and Pietro makes an impatient noise he can't swallow fast enough, sliding his own hand down to assist, or hinder as he's not too coordinated with it. His voice is just a hiss of frustration.]
no subject
Wash shoves him hard against the wall, and he becomes both more and less aware at the same time, shocked a bit out of the haze of alcohol by a rush of adrenaline as his back scrapes across the rough wall, but sudden arousal spiking a drop in cohesive thoughts. Wash's presence is just as Pietro remembers it, oppressive and confining, and daring him to pay attention to anything else. In the back of his mind, he notes the alley was a good choice, and there won't be a couch to linger on afterwards, to deal with Wash clinging and touching him differently, more gently, it's the worst time for that. Wash's rough hand runs along his side, an intimate touch that makes Pietro squirm internally with the knowledge, the familiarity in those fingers.]
Shit.
[His legs are shoved further apart, Wash wedging his knee up against the wall, and it takes every bit of restraint Pietro has not to grind against Wash's thigh. But those fingers are in his hair, pulling hard, drawing high pitched whines of both annoyance and pleasure from him, and Pietro moves his hips. Once, quick, before he can stop himself, tightening his abdominal muscles. He responds to the kiss immediately though, hungry for it and moaning when Wash's tongue glides over his lip, right there. Wash reaches down between them and Pietro makes an impatient noise he can't swallow fast enough, sliding his own hand down to assist, or hinder as he's not too coordinated with it. His voice is just a hiss of frustration.]
Move it, let's go.