[But he's not at the point of finding out five years of his life got stolen just yet. It all, somehow, just fits.]
Especially after working with teenage girls. I've met tigers that were easier to handle. [That much is entirely true, it's impressive he never sprouted grays. But, leaving out all his real work, he's aware it sounds like a lot. He follows Wash into the street still tugging an arm through his sleeve - hat caught between two fingers.] A few of those didn't last out a month. But there are days I need to remind myself I'm just coming up on twenty-four.
[ Wash makes some amused sound, in response -- one that distinctly sounds like he understands and relates. He's never been a gym teacher in a boarding school, but he might as well have been for a while for the recruits he was saddled with to train, and for the squad that he more or less adopted. He has a long-standing role as a long-suffering babysitter. ]
I'm thirty-seven. [ He stays close as they walk, enough that their shoulders brush. He still lives in public housing, and the apartments are recognizable, very nearby. ] No pinball machine here, been military most of my life.
[Dick knows the public housing well, although the Up not so much as the Down. He still has a place in the down apartments he uses to monitor new arrivals. It's not so easy to do with the security the higher levels have in place, but there are ways and means.]
I like thirty-seven on you.
[He offers it simply, with an upward sideways glance. Most of the people Dick gets involved with are older - call it a natural inclination for someone who never really got to be a kid. Most people his age feel impossibly young and unformed, or all too breakable. He looks for people who've withstood a few storms. In simple terms, he'd find Wash attractive across a crowded bar. Knowing something of him only helps.
He doesn't ask about the military, not just yet. It's being out of it that catches him - like Wash, he's more out of service right now than he's ever been and it makes him feel slightly crazy.]
And got pulled out to somewhere like this? I think the lack of purpose might have me crawling out of my skin.
[ Wash on the other hand tends to avoid most younger people for those exact reasons. Even people a little closer to his age sometimes feel a bit too far away from what he knows, like they're from a whole other world. In that same crowded bar, Dick would have caught his eye, but he might not have done anything about it. Now they're here, and while Wash still doesn't know him he knows enough to sense that they might have more in common than not. ]
That sounds about right, yeah.
[ And he assumes that Dick might know the feeling pretty well, himself. He gestures with a tip of his head when they get to the buildings, into the lobby, calling for an elevator. He's on the 8th floor, with a neighbor he knows well. ]
I don't know if I'll ever fully get used to it. [ At this point he's technically been out of the military for some time, but. They say it never leaves you. ] What about you? Feeling idle at all?
[Whatever that might say about him. He hasn't stopped working here - he spends nights staking out the gangs in the down or watching those in the up who have let power go a little too much to their heads. But all of it is chump change to what he's used to. Even the villains trapped here seem to have had their teeth removed.
The one thing he'd like to fight - the city itself - hasn't given him an in yet. It feels all too much like he's banging his head against a brick wall.]
But yes.
[The elevator arrives with a jingle and the doors open empty. Dick steps in first - a liberty perhaps - leaning back against one mirrored corner, so the walls reflect him in three different angles.]
[ Wash could make work for himself if he wanted to -- likely in similar things. But for as bored as he is, he's too stubborn in other regards. This city isn't his own, and he's been pulled here against his will, and while he's too practical to not put on a show of integrating for the sake of blending in, past that he's steadfastly refusing to integrate at all. He'd still found ways to keep himself busy, with enough people from back home showing up with him to keep him busy. Friends and enemies both, back from the dead and otherwise.
But recently, most of them had disappeared, the city spitting them back out with the same casual ease that it'd pulled them in with. Dick stepping back in is better timed than he might realize.
He steps inside, hits the button for his floor, and -- there's really no hesitation. He doesn't wait for the doors, just starts to close the distance between them, blocking Dick into the corner he's very conveniently (and maybe purposefully, as far as Wash's concerned) put himself into, lifting a hand to brush his fingertips against his chin, following up the line of his jaw. There's that intensity of his gaze again, fixed on him fully, a surety to his movements like he already knows the shape of him and how his cheek fits against his palm. ]
We can fix that.
[ The doors slide shut behind him, the elevator hums as it starts to move, and Wash leans down to pull him in for a kiss. ]
[It's certainly one way to start, and Dick would have been disappointed if Wash hadn't taken the initiative here. His height is good, just one more way to crowd Dick in even as he stretches up to meet him, the kiss just as demanding from Dick's side. Wash tastes familiar even under the bitter twist of the drink, setting up an easy flood of memories of every other time Dick's had his mouth on him. He tastes better non-hallucinatory.
Dropping the hat for lost on the floor of the elevator, Dick hitches his hands into Wash's belt, pulling him in enough to press up against, while his fingertips dip under to find the heat of his skin.
He tilts his head back, just a fraction, as the doors behind them seal shut.]
[ He tastes good, tastes familiar, warm and sweet under the lingering taste of coffee, and Wash kisses him like he knows him, tonguing deeply into his mouth. Dick tips his head back just enough to get a word in, and Wash's hand slides up to the back of his neck, clearly having to stop himself from just leaning down again immediately. ]
Eight.
[ Not that many, and that's fine. Wash does intend to actually leave the elevator. But all this talking they've done has brought up so many very, very vivid memories, and Dick had tucked himself into a corner that had just been difficult to resist. He doesn't wait for an answer, his other hand moving around and briefly palming over his ass before sliding up to the small of his back with that same easy confidence, hauling his body closer to his own as he kisses him again. ]
[Dick murmurs eight back against Wash's mouth before licking his way into it, too much want in him to be gentle about it - he kisses like it's a demand and a plea all at once. He's more than pliant about being pulled in flush against him, already half hard where his hips jut up against the other man's thigh.
It's a keen reminder that he's never had Wash completely. He's been splayed out, all holes used, but not in the way he craved. Perhaps because he craved it. The thought's almost painful - he makes a small, tight sound at the back of his throat as his hands finally slip up under Wash's shirt - blunt nails digging into his back. At this point he's not quite sure how he didn't just climb over the table back at the shop.]
[ It's been very intentional. Wash thrives off of control, the feeling of how Dick would just let himself be used to his liking, how willing and pliable he was under his touch. Part of that was pushing him, forcing him to face and admit and vocalize just how much he wanted it, how much he needed it. A few times Dick had begged for more, and Wash had pressed him to take it further. Outside of their little transactional arrangement. And Dick, broken up as he'd been, hadn't relented. So neither did Wash.
He makes a quiet, rumbling sound in his throat when he feels those nails dragging against his back, pulling him in closer, his hand sliding back down to palm over his ass. He presses his thigh deliberately against his half-hard cock, licking deeper into his mouth, and --
-- Eight floors really isn't much. The elevator dings, the door slides open. Wash still doesn't pull away, and somehow he thinks that if they'd stayed there for another hour (or until the elevator gets called elsewhere), Dick wouldn't have minded at all. But he ends up shoving him hard back into the corner of the mirrored walls, pulling back, nipping at his lower lip with his teeth and tugging slightly as he does. And for a second or two he just looks at him, eyes half-lidded but that intensity and focus still strong behind them, drinking in the sight of him. ]
I think you missed me.
[ A little bit of a half-smirk, and he's already turning away to step out into the corridor. His neighbor has the tendency to manage to run into him at awkward times, but thankfully, it's quiet now, and he just leaves Dick to collect himself while he goes to unlock his door. ]
[Dick stays right where he's put even after Wash turns away, blinking back a little of a pleasant kind of shell shock, hard and horny and somehow already frustrated. He stays put because his first and keenest impulse is to get on Wash's heels and press him straight up against the opposite wall.
Instead he lets out a rush of breath, one word a whisper at the end of it.]
Fuck.
[Then, finally, he rocks forward on his heels and follows at a trot, the impulse not quite gone, but on a leash for the moment. He's caught up to Wash by his apartment door, leaning in against him as he works the lock. He's lighter - a little giddier - that he was, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.]
So why do you still live in assigned housing? Nice neighbors? Hot neighbours? Just into the whole utilitarian thing?
[ Wash leans back slightly against him in turn, just turning his head enough to glance at him. Pleased enough that Dick hadn't been able to quite follow him immediately. ]
Neighbor is someone I know from back home, yeah. [ Once someone he trusted with his life, to someone he would've shot on sight, and now -- he just might trust her with his life again. It's complicated. ] I've not felt the need to move just yet.
[ Partially, he's not used to having a "home" -- he's spent most of his life shuffling between military installations, bases, ships. But on top of that, moving out into a place of his own implies a level of permanence that he isn't really ready to accept yet. He holds the door open for Dick, gesturing him inside with a tip of his head. The place is largely what the Up apartments would be by default, utilitarian is very much his thing, and if anything the Up in general is still far too much for him. Everything is perfectly and meticulously organized, there's an absence of clutter, and the only things that make the place feel more lived in are small details. The only thing Wash has apparently really added are some mats set out near the windows overlooking the city. It is probably of little surprise that someone like Wash would care a lot about some kind of exercise and working out.
He shrugs off his coat, not doing anything, as of yet. A little just to see if Dick might do anything on his own. ]
[It's interesting to note where they're different and the same. Dick is messy - all his apartments have been a fascinating collection of boxes and trash. But they've also never been homes. Even the loft he's in now is home because of the people - not the amount of his belongings kept there. If it came down to that he'd never have had a home at all and, as a kid growing up in a travelling circus, then an orphan in a home that didn't fit who he was, that's something that feels almost natural to him by now.
The mess, though. The mess would drive Wash crazy.]
The only person here from my world is my brother. Which is about as complicated as it sounds.
[And another brother, from another world. And another him from yet another. It's enough to give a person an identity crisis.
Dick assesses the room quickly and automatically. He doesn't need to register the exits - all the apartments here are the same and he's been in enough to know. He does look for the kind of place someone might store a weapon. Anywhere set up where someone might be concealed. Automatic. The large windows make the room feel overlooked, but that's not something Dick thinks he's likely to complain about.
He sheds his coat, noting where they hang, and steps forward to offer to take Wash's from him - the surroundings losing his attention as his focus settles back where it's been pulled the whole time. There's no other priority but re-familiarizing himself with Wash - if it takes starting from his boots and working up. But, for all the back and forth over it before, he doesn't kneel.
[ Wash has a few weapons stashed around to make sure there's always something within decent reach, mostly knives. He'd come in with a few of his favoured weapons, but those are a lot harder to come by and he keeps securely in his own room. He notes with interest how much Dick seems to take in the space, locking the door behind them, and isn't expecting when Dick offers to take his own.
A pause, a slight hum, equal parts approving and amused as he hands it over. What Dick actually says, too, that's also a surprise. Won't do anything he hasn't been told to, but won't hesitate to ask, either.
He takes his time to consider -- and makes no secret of what he's thinking about, in the meanwhile. His eyes flick down over his body, tracing shapes and lines he's memorized perfectly, mapped out with his mouth and tongue. How long he's quiet for seems to be deliberate, too, just enough where Dick really has to sit weigh the weight of his gaze, his eyes dragging over the length of his body as he looks back up to meet his eyes again.
Wash takes a step forward, reaching out to curve his hand under his jaw. ]
You're going to.
[ But he'll decide how. He apparently doesn't mind dick making requests, though.
He takes another step forward -- his hand sliding down to press against his chest. Pushing him back, further inside. ]
What was it you said you were doing for a living, now?
[ Just so casually, even as he ends up backing Dick against a wall, fingers splaying across his chest over his clothing when Dick ends up braced back against it. ]
[Of course the waiting time is deliberate. Dick can feel himself wanting to interrupt the silence and has to bite words back, the corners of his jaw tight once Wash's slow once-over reaches his face. It's just long enough for his mouth to dry, so that he swallows hard once Wash's hand skims over his throat.
He tips his head up as Wash walks him backwards, steps confident enough as he'd already measured out the room. He can almost time the moment that his shoulders hit the wall and he moves without letting his focus drop for a second from Wash's face.]
I didn't.
[His tone's not quite so casual - at least, the effort to sound that way is audible.]
I teach yoga at a gym in the down. [He flashes a grin.] So any time you want to see my downward dog–
[ Dick has his full attention, now, in multiple ways. His eyes entirely fixed on him, drinking in everything about him, watching with a focused intensity that seems almost predatory, like he means to devour him whole. He's watching his every breath, feeling the way his chest rises and falls under his hand, counting what he can feel of his heartbeat -- and there's that confidence to it. Like nothing Dick does could possibly go unnoticed, like Wash already knows so much about him.
There are new things. He does notice the way Dick moves with confidence even like this -- interesting, something to file away for later. His voice, calm enough but not quite, that grin, and of course, what he's saying. ]
I do yoga. [ A slight hum, amused, his eyes dropping briefly to linger on his lips, further down to the curve of his throat. He shifts a little closer, using a foot to nudge against one of Dick's, enough to urge his legs apart -- so his other hand immediately slide down, palming up along the inside of his thigh. ] Might have to visit sometime.
Just another in a series of odd jobs?
[ His tone is perfectly even, to the extent that it's almost uncanny, even as he rolls his palm over the bulge of his cock. ]
[Stillness has always been one of Dick's personal challenges. From a child learning to center himself on a rope hooked up across the circus ring, to Bruce putting him through meditation exercises for hours at a time to try to leash his wild, unstoppable energy and teach him to find and use the quiet moments in a fight. He still rarely spends any time unoccupied, and it takes reaching down into himself to stay centered and still against the wall for Wash.
He was better trained, most likely, in those lost memories - but the potential for perfect obedience is still intact. His hands fist and flex at his sides, but he doesn't reach out.]
I don't know that you'd call it odd. It's one of the more normal on the list.
[There's no training to keep his hips from jerking forward for a little more contact when Wash finally reaches his cock, now thick and more than evident in the way it's stretching the front of his jeans obscenely. He keeps his shoulders firmly pressed to the wall, chin raised so the lift and catch of his throat as he bites back a needier sound is clearly visible. A breath, and he carries on -]
And I like to feel I'm doing a service - helping people stay flexible in their old age. You're welcome to come.
[ Dick was always surprisingly pliant and obedient, in Wash's memories, took well to just about everything he threw at him, if anything a little too eager to be used, something Wash was all too happy to take advantage of. He seems different, here, but not too different. Still eager, still willing. And still a very pretty sight, when he's on the edge of something, when he sees the way that sound catches in his throat, his hands flexing at his sides with the effort it's taking him to stay still.
Good. The only sign that Wash gives of his approval is the slight lowering of his eyelids, more and more of that hunger and want evident in his gaze. He looks a little like he wants to flip him around and fuck him to tears there and then, but his actual movements are still perfectly controlled, his fingers tracing the shape of his cock through his jeans. ]
I'm not that old just yet. [ A bit of a playful lilt to his voice, there. He does do yoga, though, has always focused on bodyweight exercises, and the mindful and meditative qualities of it he finds helpful to keep steady, firm, present, centered in himself and his reality -- things that sometimes seem all too fragile. ] Guess it is pretty normal. But the list isn't.
[ His touch is light, dipping down, dragging up along the underside of him, following the length of his shaft. He seems to remember that, too, the shape and weight of him in his palm, and his other hand eases up from where it's splayed across his chest, faintly brushing over the curve of his throat, fingers curving under his jaw. ]
What do you actually do?
[ A blunt and direct question, but Wash clearly isn't particularly concerned with subtlety and grace, right now. ]
[It would be a cat-and-mouse game, if someone like Dick could ever really be considered prey -- and if the mouse was given to goading the cat to unsheath its claws. Wash has near perfect control of himself (the way Dick would, if he decided to force it - the way he's trying to let go of, here) but Dick reads faces like other people scan supermarket labels. He can see how someone's put together with a glance.
And he doesn't think there's any less want burning under Wash's skin than his own. There's something impossibly hot in watching the way he restrains himself. Dick almost lets his eyes close as careful fingers brush up the length of his throat, but there's a sliver of blue still visible under his lashes, wanting to watch.]
I teach yoga classes, at a gym in the down. [He says it slowly and deliberately, and they both know it's both an answer and a lie.] Zumba on Wednesdays.
[His cock twitches hard as Wash's nails track up the denim covered length of his cock, friction and anticipation an electric mix.]
Is this an interview? I thought I had the position.
[ Wash is an impeccable liar when he wants to be, has a perfect and practiced poker face -- skills that he developed out of necessity, in his particular circumstance. Maybe someone like Dick would still be able to read past it, but to an extent, that hunger and want in his eyes is visible because Wash wants it to be, because he wants him to see and know exactly how ready and hungry he is to break him in half.
He notes the way Dick almost closes his eyes -- almost, still looking up at him through those long lashes dark against his cheeks, and there's something about that that just makes him burn more. How clearly he wants this, how much he enjoys it -- and how being submissive and willing doesn't mean he still isn't sharp. The answer's a lie, they both know it, and he's done a lot worse to interrogate people than this -- whether or not he's ultimately going to get an answer, at least right now, is less important than the game. But he's certainly going to try. ]
You got shortlisted. Culture fit questions, now.
[ He cups his palm over him more deliberately -- not enough to give him the pressure or friction he might really want. Just on the edge, never quite enough, Wash got terribly good at learning how to ride that edge of frustration for Dick over their not-quite time together, learning how to recalibrate to any differences there might be about him now. ]
The city knows us better than anyone wants to admit. And you've got more scars on you than even the worst of your boarding school teenagers could inflict.
[ He met quite a few people over the course of his fake-life and in all of them what they ended up doing there and how they acted spoke to some truth within themselves. They chose a police officer for Dick, and his suspicion is that that has to speak to something more than one job out of a very storied career -- that, and he's too smart. Too sharp. He saw the way he swept the room, how he'd measured his steps before hitting the wall. That's an instinct ingrained in people who are more like him, ready to assess every space for every threat and danger. Less so for zumba instructors.
Wash pushes his thumb against the pulse of his throat, just enough for him to feel it, for it to be just the slightest bit uncomfortable when he speaks or breathes -- for Wash to count his heartrate. ]
[Assassins in training, every one. The day they turned and tried murdering half the school was a doozy. There are at least a few scars on him he could pin to a fifteen-year-old with a bowie knife.
The drag of his attention in two different directions is more of a distraction than it should be. For now the warm pressure between his legs somehow manages to take a backseat to the more interesting (threatening -- it's probably telling what keeps his interest) pressure against his windpipe. Dick finds himself swallowing to test the grip. Not tight, just there, and the body naturally protests any kind of restriction.
But, he can take a lot worse. He blinks his eyes open, making full, easy eye contact with Wash.]
But I can promise you, I haven't told you a thing that isn't true.
[As long as nobody's conflating omission with dishonestly. There's more information he's willing to silently spill: under his hold, Wash will feel Dick's heartbeat slow to something meditative and peaceful. Amazing the skills you can pick up through yoga.]
Maybe you should tell me more about the core values you're looking for. [A beat. He smiles, something sharp, and leans in just a little to the grip round his throat.] Sir. I can promise you in terms of work ethic there's no project I'll tell you is too big to take on, and I'm passionate about putting in the effort to walk home wearing as much of your come as you'll let me.
[ For some other people threat of being choked out would be just that -- a threat. For Dick, Wash already knows all too well, it's a dangle of something that's still a threat but closer to a reward, a frustration not at all unlike the way he's barely keeping enough pressure against his cock. He's so much bolder than he remembers, too, not that he was ever exactly meek in his memories but certainly not nearly this mouthy, but it's something that Wash decidedly likes.
Also impossible to not be intrigued by the secrets he clearly has. He feels the way his heartbeat slows, with a certain immediacy to it that has Wash sure that he wouldn't be feeling it if Dick didn't want him to. Like a silent hint that they're playing the same game, after all, that Wash isn't chasing after nothing. Probably more than just yoga -- though Wash does connect it to yoga regardless, because that is definitely some of the benefit Wash gets out of it. Meditative focus and control when he needs it.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward in response to that statement, but as Dick leans forward into that hand at his throat, Wash simply pulls it back, ever so slightly. Just enough to keep that pressure where he actually wants it. Even pulling back just a little more, enough to ease that pressure, to let his fingers brush teasingly against the underside of his chin. ]
Be good enough for me, Dick, and it'll be less about going home wearing my come -- [ he leans closer, folding his elbow and letting it rest against his front, his voice easing into something even lower, softer, a certain gleam in his eye ] -- and more about me keeping you here so you'll always be filled with it.
[ And then that hand on his throat does tighten. Sudden, sharp, but still a very precise amount of pressure, not quite enough to fully cut off his air just yet, but almost -- he'll be able to breathe and speak, with great effort, attempted gulps of air bubbling and bobbing under his palm. ]
Sorry. Richard. [ He leans closer still, enough that his breath fans across Dick's skin, his lips and teeth and tongue lingering around the sound of his name. His other hand still steadily cupped over his cock through his jeans, shifting just enough that he can start to pop open the button. ] You like when I call you Richard, don't you?
[Dick watches Wash put things together with some degree of satisfaction of his own. He wouldn't have come chasing after this if Wash had been capable of dumb brutalities and nothing more - Dick can pick up that kind of date in any bar in town after a certain time of night. There's so much more here than idle threat and teased reward. It takes a particular mind to know how to pick him apart, and more and more Dick's sure that he hasn't misjudged Wash's.
Not that he plans to make it easy. There are times he'll play the perfect submissive, put in the work, but that in itself requires earning in return.
That subtle little withdrawal of pressure is a case in point - a perfectly timed tug on the leash, and even if the breath that Dick lets go might contain something whisperingly close to a curse, he straightens up.
The comment about keeping him and the unexpected possessiveness in Wash's low tone lands another perfect hit, flashing up all the images he's sure Wash intends it to. Being kept and used, and used again. The perfect surrender of control, being little more than a receptacle. Already past any attempt at a snappy comeback, Dick's searching for words when Wash snatches them away from him. His grip's cruelly tight and Dick doesn't think he can have been hard at all for how painfully he's suddenly aware of his pressing erection. His pulse flares at the exact same time. Fuck.
He tests his airway, scrabbling and rasping for air even as his hips rock desperately forward, trying to rut up against Wash's hand.]
You'll... [The word trails to a scratch, almost a whine. He heaves a breath and tries again.] You'll be the only one who does.
[There's something in that, a harmony to the possessive note struck before.]
[ The way Dick had slowed his pulse under his touch had been a deliberate showcase intended for him to notice -- a hint of what else he might be capable of, and to show him how much he can control. Which makes it intensely satisfying and a definite turn-on when he feels that control fall away, kicking back up again to a rapid pace under his grip. Wash remains acutely aware of it, almost tuning himself into that rhythm even as it's disrupted by his gasps and his throat working to form the words to answer him.
Wash is patient. As controlled and restrained, as always, keeping that pressure carefully controlled as Dick fights for the words, drinking in the sight and sound of his voice cutting off into an almost-whine like he's hungry for it. Even as Dick's hips strain to press up against his touch, his hand there is steady, apaprently ambivalent to his attempts, popping open the front of his jeans, pulling down the zipper -- clearly teasing at touching him, but not actually doing more than that, just yet.
He watches, just as hungry, as Dick manages another breath, feeling the way the words bubble in his throat against his palm, and ah, that does resonate, something darkening in Wash's eyes in response to it. Maybe it's unreasonable to feel any kind of possessiveness over someone he genuinely doesn't know, when in some ways they've only just met for the first time. But the memories are vivid, real or not, and he remembers Dick bent over his desk, half-conscious and shivering, lifting his head to part his lips eagerly and willingly for his cock, and. Really, how could he not want him to himself? To have at least some small part of him, to ravage and piece apart?
But here, he takes his time to answer, too, lets Dick continue to sputter and struggle to lift his hips against his touch. His gaze briefly drops down to Dick's hands at his sides -- he is impressed by his restraint and control, how much he can hold himself back there even as he's clearly desperate -- and back up again, leaning closer, biting sharply at his lower lip and tugging on it with his teeth even as Dick works to breathe, chasing the mark he leaves with his tongue. ]
You want that to be mine?
[ A bit of a growl to his voice, and he shifts even closer. He crowds him against the wall, their height difference more evident as he has to lean further down, as he uses that hand over his throat to force his head back. ]
I'll take it.
[ A flurry of movement, all at once. His grip tightens further, until it goes from it being entirely possible to breathe and speak with difficulty and effort, to vice-like, hard enough to leave bruises against the delicate skin around his neck and throat. It's still not enough to quite choke him out completely, only to take away most of his air save for one small, tiny, sliver -- but Wash is leaning in to catch Dick's mouth with his own in another kiss. He kisses him harsh and bruising and possessive, like he means to draw the air out from his lungs himself, forcing him literally choke on not just the air but on him, his lips and tongue, the taste and presence of him, heavy and demanding. His other hand finally slips in past the denim of his jeans, tugging down his underwear until he can take his cock fully in his hand, calloused fingers curving around him as he starts jerking him off. He touches him like he knows him here, too, like the weight and feel of him in his hand is something he knows, and he settles immediately into the rhythm he remembers Dick enjoying, flicking his wrist and teasing his thumb over the head in the way his memory supplies. ]
[All too familiar with having his air cut off (more often in less safe, sane or consensual circumstances) part of Dick's mind automatically stands aside as a distant observer measuring the exact moment he should take defensive action while the rest exists within the sensation. It'll take him a long time, if ever, to be able to give up even that silent fragment of self control.
But the sensation is so easy to get lost in. The world narrowing and everything within its smaller frame becoming bright with intensity as his airflow goes from too little to almost nothing, the natural instinct to panic taken over by something lightheaded, almost giddy, and Wash's voice is far away as he says mine.
There's no question what's his. Dick's craning into the hold on his throat just to meet that kiss. It's not romantic, it's claiming, and he needs it - right now, more than he needs air.
At his sides, his fingers finally flex out of the fists he's kept them in and drag at the front of Wash's shirt instead, only pulling him closer, asking for more. Dick's hands look for purchase as Wash wraps another around him, this grip firm but not crushing, working him over with a calculated intent and it's so – much that there's a moment he should be more embarrassed about where Dick's legs could almost give way. It's 0 to almost complete overwhelm faster than should be possible, tears springing sharp to the corners of his eyes as he gasps airlessly into Wash's mouth, trying to catch the hint of a breath around the demands of his kiss. His adams apple tugs desperately under Wash's grip as he swallows and chokes, trying to mouth the word please without a voice to speak it. It's not a plea to stop. The way he tugs at Wash, closer, closer, is begging for the exact opposite.]
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[But he's not at the point of finding out five years of his life got stolen just yet. It all, somehow, just fits.]
Especially after working with teenage girls. I've met tigers that were easier to handle. [That much is entirely true, it's impressive he never sprouted grays. But, leaving out all his real work, he's aware it sounds like a lot. He follows Wash into the street still tugging an arm through his sleeve - hat caught between two fingers.] A few of those didn't last out a month. But there are days I need to remind myself I'm just coming up on twenty-four.
[Next month, in fact.]
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I'm thirty-seven. [ He stays close as they walk, enough that their shoulders brush. He still lives in public housing, and the apartments are recognizable, very nearby. ] No pinball machine here, been military most of my life.
[ And now he isn't. ]
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I like thirty-seven on you.
[He offers it simply, with an upward sideways glance. Most of the people Dick gets involved with are older - call it a natural inclination for someone who never really got to be a kid. Most people his age feel impossibly young and unformed, or all too breakable. He looks for people who've withstood a few storms. In simple terms, he'd find Wash attractive across a crowded bar. Knowing something of him only helps.
He doesn't ask about the military, not just yet. It's being out of it that catches him - like Wash, he's more out of service right now than he's ever been and it makes him feel slightly crazy.]
And got pulled out to somewhere like this? I think the lack of purpose might have me crawling out of my skin.
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That sounds about right, yeah.
[ And he assumes that Dick might know the feeling pretty well, himself. He gestures with a tip of his head when they get to the buildings, into the lobby, calling for an elevator. He's on the 8th floor, with a neighbor he knows well. ]
I don't know if I'll ever fully get used to it. [ At this point he's technically been out of the military for some time, but. They say it never leaves you. ] What about you? Feeling idle at all?
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[Whatever that might say about him. He hasn't stopped working here - he spends nights staking out the gangs in the down or watching those in the up who have let power go a little too much to their heads. But all of it is chump change to what he's used to. Even the villains trapped here seem to have had their teeth removed.
The one thing he'd like to fight - the city itself - hasn't given him an in yet. It feels all too much like he's banging his head against a brick wall.]
But yes.
[The elevator arrives with a jingle and the doors open empty. Dick steps in first - a liberty perhaps - leaning back against one mirrored corner, so the walls reflect him in three different angles.]
Bored as hell, all the time.
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But recently, most of them had disappeared, the city spitting them back out with the same casual ease that it'd pulled them in with. Dick stepping back in is better timed than he might realize.
He steps inside, hits the button for his floor, and -- there's really no hesitation. He doesn't wait for the doors, just starts to close the distance between them, blocking Dick into the corner he's very conveniently (and maybe purposefully, as far as Wash's concerned) put himself into, lifting a hand to brush his fingertips against his chin, following up the line of his jaw. There's that intensity of his gaze again, fixed on him fully, a surety to his movements like he already knows the shape of him and how his cheek fits against his palm. ]
We can fix that.
[ The doors slide shut behind him, the elevator hums as it starts to move, and Wash leans down to pull him in for a kiss. ]
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Dropping the hat for lost on the floor of the elevator, Dick hitches his hands into Wash's belt, pulling him in enough to press up against, while his fingertips dip under to find the heat of his skin.
He tilts his head back, just a fraction, as the doors behind them seal shut.]
How many floors?
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Eight.
[ Not that many, and that's fine. Wash does intend to actually leave the elevator. But all this talking they've done has brought up so many very, very vivid memories, and Dick had tucked himself into a corner that had just been difficult to resist. He doesn't wait for an answer, his other hand moving around and briefly palming over his ass before sliding up to the small of his back with that same easy confidence, hauling his body closer to his own as he kisses him again. ]
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It's a keen reminder that he's never had Wash completely. He's been splayed out, all holes used, but not in the way he craved. Perhaps because he craved it. The thought's almost painful - he makes a small, tight sound at the back of his throat as his hands finally slip up under Wash's shirt - blunt nails digging into his back. At this point he's not quite sure how he didn't just climb over the table back at the shop.]
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He makes a quiet, rumbling sound in his throat when he feels those nails dragging against his back, pulling him in closer, his hand sliding back down to palm over his ass. He presses his thigh deliberately against his half-hard cock, licking deeper into his mouth, and --
-- Eight floors really isn't much. The elevator dings, the door slides open. Wash still doesn't pull away, and somehow he thinks that if they'd stayed there for another hour (or until the elevator gets called elsewhere), Dick wouldn't have minded at all. But he ends up shoving him hard back into the corner of the mirrored walls, pulling back, nipping at his lower lip with his teeth and tugging slightly as he does. And for a second or two he just looks at him, eyes half-lidded but that intensity and focus still strong behind them, drinking in the sight of him. ]
I think you missed me.
[ A little bit of a half-smirk, and he's already turning away to step out into the corridor. His neighbor has the tendency to manage to run into him at awkward times, but thankfully, it's quiet now, and he just leaves Dick to collect himself while he goes to unlock his door. ]
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Instead he lets out a rush of breath, one word a whisper at the end of it.]
Fuck.
[Then, finally, he rocks forward on his heels and follows at a trot, the impulse not quite gone, but on a leash for the moment. He's caught up to Wash by his apartment door, leaning in against him as he works the lock. He's lighter - a little giddier - that he was, a smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.]
So why do you still live in assigned housing? Nice neighbors? Hot neighbours? Just into the whole utilitarian thing?
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Neighbor is someone I know from back home, yeah. [ Once someone he trusted with his life, to someone he would've shot on sight, and now -- he just might trust her with his life again. It's complicated. ] I've not felt the need to move just yet.
[ Partially, he's not used to having a "home" -- he's spent most of his life shuffling between military installations, bases, ships. But on top of that, moving out into a place of his own implies a level of permanence that he isn't really ready to accept yet. He holds the door open for Dick, gesturing him inside with a tip of his head. The place is largely what the Up apartments would be by default, utilitarian is very much his thing, and if anything the Up in general is still far too much for him. Everything is perfectly and meticulously organized, there's an absence of clutter, and the only things that make the place feel more lived in are small details. The only thing Wash has apparently really added are some mats set out near the windows overlooking the city. It is probably of little surprise that someone like Wash would care a lot about some kind of exercise and working out.
He shrugs off his coat, not doing anything, as of yet. A little just to see if Dick might do anything on his own. ]
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The mess, though. The mess would drive Wash crazy.]
The only person here from my world is my brother. Which is about as complicated as it sounds.
[And another brother, from another world. And another him from yet another. It's enough to give a person an identity crisis.
Dick assesses the room quickly and automatically. He doesn't need to register the exits - all the apartments here are the same and he's been in enough to know. He does look for the kind of place someone might store a weapon. Anywhere set up where someone might be concealed. Automatic. The large windows make the room feel overlooked, but that's not something Dick thinks he's likely to complain about.
He sheds his coat, noting where they hang, and steps forward to offer to take Wash's from him - the surroundings losing his attention as his focus settles back where it's been pulled the whole time. There's no other priority but re-familiarizing himself with Wash - if it takes starting from his boots and working up. But, for all the back and forth over it before, he doesn't kneel.
He doesn't do anything he hasn't been told.]
I missed you. Do I get to show you how much?
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A pause, a slight hum, equal parts approving and amused as he hands it over. What Dick actually says, too, that's also a surprise. Won't do anything he hasn't been told to, but won't hesitate to ask, either.
He takes his time to consider -- and makes no secret of what he's thinking about, in the meanwhile. His eyes flick down over his body, tracing shapes and lines he's memorized perfectly, mapped out with his mouth and tongue. How long he's quiet for seems to be deliberate, too, just enough where Dick really has to sit weigh the weight of his gaze, his eyes dragging over the length of his body as he looks back up to meet his eyes again.
Wash takes a step forward, reaching out to curve his hand under his jaw. ]
You're going to.
[ But he'll decide how. He apparently doesn't mind dick making requests, though.
He takes another step forward -- his hand sliding down to press against his chest. Pushing him back, further inside. ]
What was it you said you were doing for a living, now?
[ Just so casually, even as he ends up backing Dick against a wall, fingers splaying across his chest over his clothing when Dick ends up braced back against it. ]
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He tips his head up as Wash walks him backwards, steps confident enough as he'd already measured out the room. He can almost time the moment that his shoulders hit the wall and he moves without letting his focus drop for a second from Wash's face.]
I didn't.
[His tone's not quite so casual - at least, the effort to sound that way is audible.]
I teach yoga at a gym in the down. [He flashes a grin.] So any time you want to see my downward dog–
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There are new things. He does notice the way Dick moves with confidence even like this -- interesting, something to file away for later. His voice, calm enough but not quite, that grin, and of course, what he's saying. ]
I do yoga. [ A slight hum, amused, his eyes dropping briefly to linger on his lips, further down to the curve of his throat. He shifts a little closer, using a foot to nudge against one of Dick's, enough to urge his legs apart -- so his other hand immediately slide down, palming up along the inside of his thigh. ] Might have to visit sometime.
Just another in a series of odd jobs?
[ His tone is perfectly even, to the extent that it's almost uncanny, even as he rolls his palm over the bulge of his cock. ]
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He was better trained, most likely, in those lost memories - but the potential for perfect obedience is still intact. His hands fist and flex at his sides, but he doesn't reach out.]
I don't know that you'd call it odd. It's one of the more normal on the list.
[There's no training to keep his hips from jerking forward for a little more contact when Wash finally reaches his cock, now thick and more than evident in the way it's stretching the front of his jeans obscenely. He keeps his shoulders firmly pressed to the wall, chin raised so the lift and catch of his throat as he bites back a needier sound is clearly visible. A breath, and he carries on -]
And I like to feel I'm doing a service - helping people stay flexible in their old age. You're welcome to come.
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Good. The only sign that Wash gives of his approval is the slight lowering of his eyelids, more and more of that hunger and want evident in his gaze. He looks a little like he wants to flip him around and fuck him to tears there and then, but his actual movements are still perfectly controlled, his fingers tracing the shape of his cock through his jeans. ]
I'm not that old just yet. [ A bit of a playful lilt to his voice, there. He does do yoga, though, has always focused on bodyweight exercises, and the mindful and meditative qualities of it he finds helpful to keep steady, firm, present, centered in himself and his reality -- things that sometimes seem all too fragile. ] Guess it is pretty normal. But the list isn't.
[ His touch is light, dipping down, dragging up along the underside of him, following the length of his shaft. He seems to remember that, too, the shape and weight of him in his palm, and his other hand eases up from where it's splayed across his chest, faintly brushing over the curve of his throat, fingers curving under his jaw. ]
What do you actually do?
[ A blunt and direct question, but Wash clearly isn't particularly concerned with subtlety and grace, right now. ]
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And he doesn't think there's any less want burning under Wash's skin than his own. There's something impossibly hot in watching the way he restrains himself. Dick almost lets his eyes close as careful fingers brush up the length of his throat, but there's a sliver of blue still visible under his lashes, wanting to watch.]
I teach yoga classes, at a gym in the down. [He says it slowly and deliberately, and they both know it's both an answer and a lie.] Zumba on Wednesdays.
[His cock twitches hard as Wash's nails track up the denim covered length of his cock, friction and anticipation an electric mix.]
Is this an interview? I thought I had the position.
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He notes the way Dick almost closes his eyes -- almost, still looking up at him through those long lashes dark against his cheeks, and there's something about that that just makes him burn more. How clearly he wants this, how much he enjoys it -- and how being submissive and willing doesn't mean he still isn't sharp. The answer's a lie, they both know it, and he's done a lot worse to interrogate people than this -- whether or not he's ultimately going to get an answer, at least right now, is less important than the game. But he's certainly going to try. ]
You got shortlisted. Culture fit questions, now.
[ He cups his palm over him more deliberately -- not enough to give him the pressure or friction he might really want. Just on the edge, never quite enough, Wash got terribly good at learning how to ride that edge of frustration for Dick over their not-quite time together, learning how to recalibrate to any differences there might be about him now. ]
The city knows us better than anyone wants to admit. And you've got more scars on you than even the worst of your boarding school teenagers could inflict.
[ He met quite a few people over the course of his fake-life and in all of them what they ended up doing there and how they acted spoke to some truth within themselves. They chose a police officer for Dick, and his suspicion is that that has to speak to something more than one job out of a very storied career -- that, and he's too smart. Too sharp. He saw the way he swept the room, how he'd measured his steps before hitting the wall. That's an instinct ingrained in people who are more like him, ready to assess every space for every threat and danger. Less so for zumba instructors.
Wash pushes his thumb against the pulse of his throat, just enough for him to feel it, for it to be just the slightest bit uncomfortable when he speaks or breathes -- for Wash to count his heartrate. ]
You shouldn't lie on your resume.
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[Assassins in training, every one. The day they turned and tried murdering half the school was a doozy. There are at least a few scars on him he could pin to a fifteen-year-old with a bowie knife.
The drag of his attention in two different directions is more of a distraction than it should be. For now the warm pressure between his legs somehow manages to take a backseat to the more interesting (threatening -- it's probably telling what keeps his interest) pressure against his windpipe. Dick finds himself swallowing to test the grip. Not tight, just there, and the body naturally protests any kind of restriction.
But, he can take a lot worse. He blinks his eyes open, making full, easy eye contact with Wash.]
But I can promise you, I haven't told you a thing that isn't true.
[As long as nobody's conflating omission with dishonestly. There's more information he's willing to silently spill: under his hold, Wash will feel Dick's heartbeat slow to something meditative and peaceful. Amazing the skills you can pick up through yoga.]
Maybe you should tell me more about the core values you're looking for. [A beat. He smiles, something sharp, and leans in just a little to the grip round his throat.] Sir. I can promise you in terms of work ethic there's no project I'll tell you is too big to take on, and I'm passionate about putting in the effort to walk home wearing as much of your come as you'll let me.
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Also impossible to not be intrigued by the secrets he clearly has. He feels the way his heartbeat slows, with a certain immediacy to it that has Wash sure that he wouldn't be feeling it if Dick didn't want him to. Like a silent hint that they're playing the same game, after all, that Wash isn't chasing after nothing. Probably more than just yoga -- though Wash does connect it to yoga regardless, because that is definitely some of the benefit Wash gets out of it. Meditative focus and control when he needs it.
The corner of his mouth quirks upward in response to that statement, but as Dick leans forward into that hand at his throat, Wash simply pulls it back, ever so slightly. Just enough to keep that pressure where he actually wants it. Even pulling back just a little more, enough to ease that pressure, to let his fingers brush teasingly against the underside of his chin. ]
Be good enough for me, Dick, and it'll be less about going home wearing my come -- [ he leans closer, folding his elbow and letting it rest against his front, his voice easing into something even lower, softer, a certain gleam in his eye ] -- and more about me keeping you here so you'll always be filled with it.
[ And then that hand on his throat does tighten. Sudden, sharp, but still a very precise amount of pressure, not quite enough to fully cut off his air just yet, but almost -- he'll be able to breathe and speak, with great effort, attempted gulps of air bubbling and bobbing under his palm. ]
Sorry. Richard. [ He leans closer still, enough that his breath fans across Dick's skin, his lips and teeth and tongue lingering around the sound of his name. His other hand still steadily cupped over his cock through his jeans, shifting just enough that he can start to pop open the button. ] You like when I call you Richard, don't you?
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Not that he plans to make it easy. There are times he'll play the perfect submissive, put in the work, but that in itself requires earning in return.
That subtle little withdrawal of pressure is a case in point - a perfectly timed tug on the leash, and even if the breath that Dick lets go might contain something whisperingly close to a curse, he straightens up.
The comment about keeping him and the unexpected possessiveness in Wash's low tone lands another perfect hit, flashing up all the images he's sure Wash intends it to. Being kept and used, and used again. The perfect surrender of control, being little more than a receptacle. Already past any attempt at a snappy comeback, Dick's searching for words when Wash snatches them away from him. His grip's cruelly tight and Dick doesn't think he can have been hard at all for how painfully he's suddenly aware of his pressing erection. His pulse flares at the exact same time. Fuck.
He tests his airway, scrabbling and rasping for air even as his hips rock desperately forward, trying to rut up against Wash's hand.]
You'll... [The word trails to a scratch, almost a whine. He heaves a breath and tries again.] You'll be the only one who does.
[There's something in that, a harmony to the possessive note struck before.]
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Wash is patient. As controlled and restrained, as always, keeping that pressure carefully controlled as Dick fights for the words, drinking in the sight and sound of his voice cutting off into an almost-whine like he's hungry for it. Even as Dick's hips strain to press up against his touch, his hand there is steady, apaprently ambivalent to his attempts, popping open the front of his jeans, pulling down the zipper -- clearly teasing at touching him, but not actually doing more than that, just yet.
He watches, just as hungry, as Dick manages another breath, feeling the way the words bubble in his throat against his palm, and ah, that does resonate, something darkening in Wash's eyes in response to it. Maybe it's unreasonable to feel any kind of possessiveness over someone he genuinely doesn't know, when in some ways they've only just met for the first time. But the memories are vivid, real or not, and he remembers Dick bent over his desk, half-conscious and shivering, lifting his head to part his lips eagerly and willingly for his cock, and. Really, how could he not want him to himself? To have at least some small part of him, to ravage and piece apart?
But here, he takes his time to answer, too, lets Dick continue to sputter and struggle to lift his hips against his touch. His gaze briefly drops down to Dick's hands at his sides -- he is impressed by his restraint and control, how much he can hold himself back there even as he's clearly desperate -- and back up again, leaning closer, biting sharply at his lower lip and tugging on it with his teeth even as Dick works to breathe, chasing the mark he leaves with his tongue. ]
You want that to be mine?
[ A bit of a growl to his voice, and he shifts even closer. He crowds him against the wall, their height difference more evident as he has to lean further down, as he uses that hand over his throat to force his head back. ]
I'll take it.
[ A flurry of movement, all at once. His grip tightens further, until it goes from it being entirely possible to breathe and speak with difficulty and effort, to vice-like, hard enough to leave bruises against the delicate skin around his neck and throat. It's still not enough to quite choke him out completely, only to take away most of his air save for one small, tiny, sliver -- but Wash is leaning in to catch Dick's mouth with his own in another kiss. He kisses him harsh and bruising and possessive, like he means to draw the air out from his lungs himself, forcing him literally choke on not just the air but on him, his lips and tongue, the taste and presence of him, heavy and demanding. His other hand finally slips in past the denim of his jeans, tugging down his underwear until he can take his cock fully in his hand, calloused fingers curving around him as he starts jerking him off. He touches him like he knows him here, too, like the weight and feel of him in his hand is something he knows, and he settles immediately into the rhythm he remembers Dick enjoying, flicking his wrist and teasing his thumb over the head in the way his memory supplies. ]
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But the sensation is so easy to get lost in. The world narrowing and everything within its smaller frame becoming bright with intensity as his airflow goes from too little to almost nothing, the natural instinct to panic taken over by something lightheaded, almost giddy, and Wash's voice is far away as he says mine.
There's no question what's his. Dick's craning into the hold on his throat just to meet that kiss. It's not romantic, it's claiming, and he needs it - right now, more than he needs air.
At his sides, his fingers finally flex out of the fists he's kept them in and drag at the front of Wash's shirt instead, only pulling him closer, asking for more. Dick's hands look for purchase as Wash wraps another around him, this grip firm but not crushing, working him over with a calculated intent and it's so – much that there's a moment he should be more embarrassed about where Dick's legs could almost give way. It's 0 to almost complete overwhelm faster than should be possible, tears springing sharp to the corners of his eyes as he gasps airlessly into Wash's mouth, trying to catch the hint of a breath around the demands of his kiss. His adams apple tugs desperately under Wash's grip as he swallows and chokes, trying to mouth the word please without a voice to speak it. It's not a plea to stop. The way he tugs at Wash, closer, closer, is begging for the exact opposite.]
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