[ 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.]
[ Even without his own oxygen being cut off, for Wash, the whole world seems to narrow, too. He'd already been entirely focused on Dick, but that only seems to intensify the more he struggles under him. The world falls away until all there is is the taste of him, rich and warm, the press of Dick's body arching against his own, the sound of Dick's heartbeat beating rapidly against his own chest, the heat and weight of his cock against his palm, how he can feel him throbbing under his touch. He's paying close attention, drinking in every detail because it's all good, because in some ways he's as desperate for Dick's want and helplessness and desperation as Dick is for his touch, for more -- but also just to know. If it's ever really too much, he'll notice.
But it clearly isn't too much. It isn't enough. Everything from Dick's movements to the helpless breathless sounds he makes drowned between their mouths, like he's trying to beg but can't find the breath or words for it, is for more. Wash takes some real satisfaction in it when he feels Dick's hands on him, another moment of Dick's practiced slef-control shattering under his will. Fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase, twisting and tugging at his shirt and his front, trying to anchor himself closer, to drag him closer, too.
Even as he keeps kissing him, he does deeply consider pulling away. Breaking off at this moment to punish him for daring to touch him without permission. But while Wash won't forget that, and he'll find punishment for it, right now all he wants is to have Dick shatter completely beneath him. Dick's legs seem to buckle, almost give way, and Wash responds to it by pressing closer, shoving him bodily against the wall, keeping him upright by pinning him in place, and he keeps going, working over him with that perfectly practiced pressure and rhythm, building him more and more.
He breaks away from the kiss. Not completely, staying close, his grip vice-like and definitely leaving bruises around his throat, and he just looks at him for a few long moments, studying him with an almost detached, languid expression -- but under those half-lowered lids his want and hunger is clear, birght and burning in his eyes. ]
Come on. [ A murmur, finally, whispered soft against Dick's lips even as he keeps gasping for air. ] For me.
[ And he locks his hand even harder around his throat, cutting his air off completely, leaning in to kiss him again. Easier, more languid and relaxed, but somehow even more possessive before, not just demanding but expectant, like he means to smother him with his lips and tongue, all the while his hand keeping that calculated rhythm and pressure, working over him just a little faster. ]
[It should be shameful being this ready, this needy, even if - had Dick given in to the draw of his memories rather than the thread of caution telling him that things might not match up in this more tangible existence - he'd have been ready to walk into this room and offer himself over without much more than a remember me? This city, and this month in this city in particular has him frayed and reckless. At night he'll walk into fights most people wouldn't walk out of, and by day?
Well, he's here. Chasing the same kind of freedom from thought that he finds mid fight when its brutal enough. That moment where instinct kicks in. That high where the pain bursts through and whites out the world.
Memories merge as the present moment loses its clarity and he's in a shitty hotel room instead, face pressed down until he can taste the polish of Wash's boots before being dragged back up by the throat and thrown against the nearest surface - bed or table or wall. He remembers resenting it, resenting him and circling back to him like a dog anyway. Craving it in spite of himself. He remembers peeling wallpaper and his mouth full of sour tasting blankets. And he thinks hazily he might be trying to tell Wash about it, struggling for air and for words - thoughts - anything.
He's not really aware of the tear that slides down his cheek as Wash examines him, except for the slight sting.
And finally he's pushing – hands gripping Wash's shoulders, though not with all the strength he could use to fight him off if he had to, just pushing back as a desperate sound gets caught against the hand round his throat and he's coming, hard and messy into his palm.]
[ 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. ]
[It's truly skirting the edge of danger - that silent observer Dick set within himself is ready to set off every alarm going - and yet Dick lets it happen. His grip tightens on Wash's shoulders, fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises of their own, dark smears capped by the drag of red where his nails have caught deep enough to scratch. But he lets it happen. Lets Wash choke the breath from him and deny him more until his lungs are burning and his vision can't be trusted, flashing colors like fireworks around them.
He lets Wash thrust two - three fingers into his dry mouth, almost grateful for the moisture despite the tang of salt. He can't swallow around him at first, and almost forgets to breathe even when the pressure lets up the faintest amount.
His body can't forget, though, a soft whine picking up where the air tries to find a pathway round Wash's hand, Dick's tongue, and then a painful gasp as he lets go. He coughs harshly around the fingers invading his mouth, pulling his head back as far as the solid barrier of the ball behind will allow. But only long enough for air to re-establish itself in his lungs. For the world to swing back into focus and bring Wash's heavy-lidded gaze with it. Dick finds himself trying to read something there, to know if he's been good enough.
Then, careful not to drop his gaze, he sets about licking his hand clean of the mess its coated in.]
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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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But it clearly isn't too much. It isn't enough. Everything from Dick's movements to the helpless breathless sounds he makes drowned between their mouths, like he's trying to beg but can't find the breath or words for it, is for more. Wash takes some real satisfaction in it when he feels Dick's hands on him, another moment of Dick's practiced slef-control shattering under his will. Fingers scrabbling desperately for purchase, twisting and tugging at his shirt and his front, trying to anchor himself closer, to drag him closer, too.
Even as he keeps kissing him, he does deeply consider pulling away. Breaking off at this moment to punish him for daring to touch him without permission. But while Wash won't forget that, and he'll find punishment for it, right now all he wants is to have Dick shatter completely beneath him. Dick's legs seem to buckle, almost give way, and Wash responds to it by pressing closer, shoving him bodily against the wall, keeping him upright by pinning him in place, and he keeps going, working over him with that perfectly practiced pressure and rhythm, building him more and more.
He breaks away from the kiss. Not completely, staying close, his grip vice-like and definitely leaving bruises around his throat, and he just looks at him for a few long moments, studying him with an almost detached, languid expression -- but under those half-lowered lids his want and hunger is clear, birght and burning in his eyes. ]
Come on. [ A murmur, finally, whispered soft against Dick's lips even as he keeps gasping for air. ] For me.
[ And he locks his hand even harder around his throat, cutting his air off completely, leaning in to kiss him again. Easier, more languid and relaxed, but somehow even more possessive before, not just demanding but expectant, like he means to smother him with his lips and tongue, all the while his hand keeping that calculated rhythm and pressure, working over him just a little faster. ]
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Well, he's here. Chasing the same kind of freedom from thought that he finds mid fight when its brutal enough. That moment where instinct kicks in. That high where the pain bursts through and whites out the world.
Memories merge as the present moment loses its clarity and he's in a shitty hotel room instead, face pressed down until he can taste the polish of Wash's boots before being dragged back up by the throat and thrown against the nearest surface - bed or table or wall. He remembers resenting it, resenting him and circling back to him like a dog anyway. Craving it in spite of himself. He remembers peeling wallpaper and his mouth full of sour tasting blankets. And he thinks hazily he might be trying to tell Wash about it, struggling for air and for words - thoughts - anything.
He's not really aware of the tear that slides down his cheek as Wash examines him, except for the slight sting.
And finally he's pushing – hands gripping Wash's shoulders, though not with all the strength he could use to fight him off if he had to, just pushing back as a desperate sound gets caught against the hand round his throat and he's coming, hard and messy into his palm.]
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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. ]
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He lets Wash thrust two - three fingers into his dry mouth, almost grateful for the moisture despite the tang of salt. He can't swallow around him at first, and almost forgets to breathe even when the pressure lets up the faintest amount.
His body can't forget, though, a soft whine picking up where the air tries to find a pathway round Wash's hand, Dick's tongue, and then a painful gasp as he lets go. He coughs harshly around the fingers invading his mouth, pulling his head back as far as the solid barrier of the ball behind will allow. But only long enough for air to re-establish itself in his lungs. For the world to swing back into focus and bring Wash's heavy-lidded gaze with it. Dick finds himself trying to read something there, to know if he's been good enough.
Then, careful not to drop his gaze, he sets about licking his hand clean of the mess its coated in.]