[ She drinks like she's Russian, but once she reaches her limit the cool facade falls away. But that's just his girlfriend. The sarcasm falls away and the joking demeanor comes out. Clint drinks in solidarity, but he's pretty sure her and Natasha are trying to kill themselves. His liver is already well used. At forty-four he can't drink like he used to. He can't get black out drunk, but he can get drunk. But somehow he realizes he's less drunk than Wanda when her hands wander under the table during conversations. At some point after Wanda has started dancing he realizes that maybe it's time for going back to his apartment. She rips the table cloth off the table sending empty glasses rolling to the edge as Steve and the others clamor to catch them. Yeah. Time to go.
Off the go back. Back to the apartment. He's scared she'll rip another table cloth off the table. At some point she has it wrapped around her head like an old woman when they're standing in the elevator to get up to his floor. He has to laugh because he's just drunk enough to find it absolutely hilarious. Especially when she starts talking to him like an old gypsy woman. This is the woman he loves. Pretending to be an old gypsy woman with a beer stained table cloth and no shoes. Where the fuck did her shoes go? How did he not notice this?
They hit his door though and Wanda's hands dip into the back of his pants. He smiles and leans back as he hesitates to find his keys. ] I don't think that's where hands belong. [ He hums as he finally finds the right key. He turns the lock and stumbles inside with her. ] Show me some more of that dancing. But no pulling table cloths around. [ He kicks his door shut. ]
[ Her brother had taught her how to drink. Living on the streets for several years of their young lives, Pietro had learned schemes to get themselves fed every night, which sometimes included a bottle or two with his sticky fingers when the night was good. But what her brother never did teach her was how to behave when having a drink. So she doesn't, instead drawing from memories of old gypsies she'd camp with on the rarer open fields of Sokovia, her hips and feet moving in step from mere muscle memory.
She doesn't get like this often, so she doesn't exactly hold back when she does. The table cloth makes for a nice prop, keeping her hands busy all through the night while she's with the others. Because as the liquor courses through her, she craves the need for touch, the instinctive neediness for comfort and closeness of Wanda's youth still a factor even now as a woman. Blame a brother who spoiled her with endless attention for those traits too.
She's well in control most of the night, but when it's just her and Clint, she can't help herself, hands slipping over and under layers, fingers playing with them of his pants as drunk laughter bubbles up. ]
And I thought you weren't fond of my dancing. [ She pretends to put on a pout, but her smirk still slips through, stumbling her way inside and pulling him with her. Fingers stroking at his hips as she slides to stand in from of him, she moves her own hips, swaying them slowly as her eyes focus half-lidded on Clint. ] Would you like the more private version of the dance?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
Off the go back. Back to the apartment. He's scared she'll rip another table cloth off the table. At some point she has it wrapped around her head like an old woman when they're standing in the elevator to get up to his floor. He has to laugh because he's just drunk enough to find it absolutely hilarious. Especially when she starts talking to him like an old gypsy woman. This is the woman he loves. Pretending to be an old gypsy woman with a beer stained table cloth and no shoes. Where the fuck did her shoes go? How did he not notice this?
They hit his door though and Wanda's hands dip into the back of his pants. He smiles and leans back as he hesitates to find his keys. ] I don't think that's where hands belong. [ He hums as he finally finds the right key. He turns the lock and stumbles inside with her. ] Show me some more of that dancing. But no pulling table cloths around. [ He kicks his door shut. ]
no subject
She doesn't get like this often, so she doesn't exactly hold back when she does. The table cloth makes for a nice prop, keeping her hands busy all through the night while she's with the others. Because as the liquor courses through her, she craves the need for touch, the instinctive neediness for comfort and closeness of Wanda's youth still a factor even now as a woman. Blame a brother who spoiled her with endless attention for those traits too.
She's well in control most of the night, but when it's just her and Clint, she can't help herself, hands slipping over and under layers, fingers playing with them of his pants as drunk laughter bubbles up. ]
And I thought you weren't fond of my dancing. [ She pretends to put on a pout, but her smirk still slips through, stumbling her way inside and pulling him with her. Fingers stroking at his hips as she slides to stand in from of him, she moves her own hips, swaying them slowly as her eyes focus half-lidded on Clint. ] Would you like the more private version of the dance?