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WASHINGTON. ([personal profile] protocol) wrote2021-10-16 12:49 pm
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duplicity inbox





placeholder content up here until rocket gets his shit together

expect nsfw.
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[personal profile] covert 2022-03-09 02:19 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]
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[personal profile] covert 2022-03-13 01:12 am (UTC)(link)
[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.]