[ 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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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.]