[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
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]