[ These are the moments that Wash strives for. Fleeting, ephemeral things but that seem so all-consuming as they flash before his eyes: the flickering times when Dick loses his grasp and control, when he can't help but just buckle under his touch, when he can reduce him to nothing but desire and desperation and need. Dick pushes at him, and Wash answers by that grip on his throat locking up even more, shoving him harder against the wall, keeping him in place, breaking their kiss just enough that he can watch with a kind of devouring hunger in his eyes. The way Dick's lips part as he gasps and struggles, the color in his skin paling just from literal lack of air, how his throat bobs and fights even as Dick wants and craves more -- sealed away into a memory that he'll be able to look back on any time he wants. He drinks in everything, the desperate press of Dick's body against his own and the throb of him under his touch as he comes hotly against his palm and fingers.
The moment passes, as they always do, and Wash is still pressing him bodily against the wall. He's still working his hand over him, though his pace is slowing -- enough to milk him dry, to have him squirm slightly in the sensitivity afterwards. Importantly, though, he still isn't giving him air. Just watching him, deliberately counting the seconds passing by as his fingers continue to press bruises against his throat.
Eventually he pulls his hand from his cock -- only to immediately press those fingers straight into Dick's mouth, crude and shameless, smearing a thumb over his lower lip, and only then does he finally let go. Just a little, at first, allowing him a small sliver of air, and then all at once, releasing his grip from his neck entirely. He says nothing, yet, just watching him with a real sense of quiet satisfaction in his eyes, like he himself is reveling in some post-orgasmic afterglow. ]
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The moment passes, as they always do, and Wash is still pressing him bodily against the wall. He's still working his hand over him, though his pace is slowing -- enough to milk him dry, to have him squirm slightly in the sensitivity afterwards. Importantly, though, he still isn't giving him air. Just watching him, deliberately counting the seconds passing by as his fingers continue to press bruises against his throat.
Eventually he pulls his hand from his cock -- only to immediately press those fingers straight into Dick's mouth, crude and shameless, smearing a thumb over his lower lip, and only then does he finally let go. Just a little, at first, allowing him a small sliver of air, and then all at once, releasing his grip from his neck entirely. He says nothing, yet, just watching him with a real sense of quiet satisfaction in his eyes, like he himself is reveling in some post-orgasmic afterglow. ]