spankbanks | somewhere, alone in the jungle...

[ when wash finds out that tucker just - let locus go, he's a little irritated.

locus doesn't just get to walk away from everything that happened, even if he understands doing better not from a prison cell. but wash never killed half of an entire planet. and while he has sympathy for the fact that locus came to terms with what was happening, well - he doesn't have the entire story.

he thinks it had to do with felix, given how the fight at the purge temple went, but he doesn't know that for sure, and that's still not an excuse.

so, he leaves the others to their celebrations. he has to give it a go at finding locus. he keeps in touch with carolina, but apparently she gets caught up in the festivities because she never gives him a warning before it happens.

he thinks he's getting close, though. locus may be good at stealth, but wash was a recovery agent. he may not know locus well, but he knows him. and he knows locus wouldn't steal something right under their noses. and santa was oh so helpful with providing intel from across the planet.

there is a temple of transport, wash figures that's where locus is headed.

of course, he has about two seconds of feeling smug that he's pretty sure he's tracked locus almost down before things start feeling... weird. like his suit's cooling ability is broken. ]

What the -?

[ There is no celebration for him. There is just a yawning, gaping chasm between what he'd known and where he was going, and it seemed to grow with every step he took. Looking back was pointless. He'd made his choice to strike out on his own, to find the right way to start rectifying all the harm he'd managed to do, but on his terms.

He deserved that much, he thought, whether it was true or not.

But the journey was not an easy one. No transport, nothing but traversing the Chorus jungles by foot in the hopes of reaching the next temple before conflict escalated once more. Unfortunately, his injuries from the Tartarus crash were still troubling him, and medigel only worked for so long.

He'd need to reapply. Rebandage wounds. Think of a strategy. Once he was offworld, the rest of the plan would come together, surely. Felix had--

No. No thinking of that just now.

Setting up a small camp near the foothills, still mired in enough thick foliage to make discovering him difficult, Locus had pried himself out of a good deal of his armor to start tending to his wounds. Just about the time he felt something pulse outward from the core of the planet.

What in the world...?

It began slow, a creeping heat that was almost foreign to him by now. He ignored it for a while, continuing to wrap his ribs with some difficult on his own, but the feeling grew. Spread. It was warmer now, far warmer than it had any right to be, and his confusion only grew as time went on.

Though realization would not be far behind. ]

[ that was probably the reason wash had caught up to him at all - the fact that he was injured. he'd been glad to know that, when tucker had told him about the fight at the communications temple. at least it wasn't a fully healed locus.

he ignores that pulse, ignores the creeping sense of heat that climbs up his spine. wash figures out exactly what it is the closer he creeps to the foothills, but - a man so used to denying himself such things, it's easy to push aside at first.

the sweat trickling down the side of his temple, less so.

he broadcasts, short range, on all frequencies. ]

I know you're out there, Locus.

[ he just has to hope the man responds... and doesn't comment on the rasp in his voice as wash creeps through the underbrush, rifle in hand. ]

[ He might have heard him, with his helmet on. It sits, instead, off to one side as he lifts one hand, curling his fingers and trying to pinpoint the sensation. It crawls. It squirms. It tingles deep and warm and aches...

Not that there isn't a great deal of him that aches already, but this is different. Distantly familiar, and when realization hits him, it's with a groan of frustration. Really? This, now, of all times?

With growing ire, he finishes wrapping the last of the bandages and leans back against the tree he'd taken shelter under, trying to will the feeling away. No good. Even after everything he's gone through in the past twenty-four hours, there is this feeling. This need. Base and carnal and growing by the second.

He wants to continue ignoring it, to pick up and continue moving. But in this state he doesn't know how far he'd make it, how long he could keep focus. Nothing seems able to temper the warm flush sweeping through him, and once it's clear that nothing is going to cause the feeling to abate?

The codpiece of his armor is unfastened, dropped to the ground along with the rest. It leaves him bare-chested, undersuit unzipped to his waist and only his leg armor remaining, and shoring himself up against that tree he reaches down between his thighs to squeeze. Maybe even in just the hope that enough pressure might cause it to die down.

No such luck. Instead he feels like just what he needed, a firm grip and friction that has his toes curling suddenly in need. Another low noise nearly slips free before he bites it back, and a fresh wave of heat swallows him up as his head falls back.

Damn it. Damn it. ]

[ no response, which is frustrating - making the anger mix with the desire sweeping through him. when he finds locus he's - he's not sure. that prickle at the back of his spine mixes with the clench of his stomach. no, not any of that. why is he entertaining the thought?

there's a low noise, the sound of armor and bandages nearby. his hearing feels amplified, and he turns his rifle that way, moving through the jungle.

if locus were listening for him, he wouldn't exactly be the most silent at the moment. instead, what he comes up on is locus, head tilted back against the tree, more naked than wash feels he's ever seen him without the armor, a hand between his legs.

well. that's new. and intriguing, despite himself. locus isn't armed, but all his weapons are at an arms length - and the sword, too.

wash takes the dare, though, stepping out from the foliage, rifle trained on the merc. ]

Locus.

[ it's sharp, but inside his suit wash is sweating. just the sight has his body reacting, cock pressing on the inside of the kevlar and isn't that uncomfortable? wash tries to ignore it. he's ignored worse. ]

[ Of course. Of course that's what happens. His guard down, submitting to this...this weakness, and the one to come across him in that exact moment is none other than Washington himself.

Locus's head lifts, staring first at the gun, then past it to the man with his sights trained on the merc. But he doesn't make a move towards any of his weapons, doesn't move his hand from where it currently rests, traitorously clutching that growing hardness under his suit.

But the sweat trickling down his back has nothing to do with fear. He just stares from under those heavy brows, waiting for one second. Then two. ]

...are you here to kill me, Agent Washington?

[ His voice sounds rough, low and husky, even without the distortion of the filter, like he hasn't used it in ages. No fear, not even surprise. Why bother? Washington could kill him in that moment, easily. What a shameful victory that it would be, humiliating on top of it all. And yet Locus doesn't so much as balk. The gun is aimed, but Washington is a professional.

And his finger isn't on the trigger quite yet. That in itself is telling. ]

[ it's just his luck to come across locus like this. wash would be smug if he felt anything but. instead he can't ignore the fact that the sight makes his mouth dry.

something is going on. he's aware enough to realize this, something outside of them is influencing him and possibly locus, but he has no idea what or how to stop it. the sound of locus's voice makes him swallow, glad that the mic doesn't pick up that audio. so he hopes, anyway.

he takes a step forward, into the camp proper. ]

I should. It'd make everyone's lives a lot easier if I brought back a body.

[ another step, within a few feet of locus now. but his finger isn't on the trigger still. no, but washington believes in redemption, and he came to take locus alive.

his breathing feels heavier. he wants to take off the helmet, sweltering as he is, but arousal hasn't overridden reason, yet. ]

[ Locus's chin lifts. Washington might be a changed man, might believe in redemption, but at one point in his life? He was a stone-cold killer. And at one point in time he had seen the desire to kill Locus himself in his eyes. That desire had been real, visceral. ]

Do it, then.

[ One shift of a finger, one tug. The pull of metal, the swift strike of the mechanism falling into action and a spray of blood. That would be it. He wouldn't be able to reach for a weapon swiftly enough to stop him. No. In this tense and heated moment there is a very real power here in Washington's hands, and Locus is acutely aware of where he stands in this.

God help him, he's never been harder in his life.

When he speaks, it's damn near a growl, despite the faint panting that still has his chest rising and falling more rapidly than usual. Sweat beads, trickles down his jaw and catches at the hollow of his throat. ]

You have me at your mercy. So. What do you plan on doing about that?

[ fuck him, but it's a good sight.

wash wishes he could shake that thought off, but it's impossible now that it's lodged itself in his brain. locus looks good like this, tense and frozen - yet somehow his body is still in motion. wash can feel his eyes track the sweat sliding down the other man's jaw, the desperate clasp of his hand between his legs.

he's getting off on it. wash is sure of that. the problem is, apparently, so is wash.

he takes another couple steps forward, standing feet to feet with locus. the barrel of his rifle comes up, levels itself at the center of locus' facial scar. ]

Right now? Doesn't look like you're exactly terrified to die.

[ has him worried. has him curious, with that heat blazing across his skin. the gun drops a little, but nudges itself under locus' jaw next - tries to make him tilt his head back. ]

[ There's a thrill to it, that's for certain. Not knowing if Wash will take the opportunity in front of him or not. He can guess, of course. If Washington were going to shoot him, surely he would have done already. Instead the tension stretches deliciously onward, even as cool metal presses in against his overheated skin.

Locus does in fact tip his head upwards, but that steady gaze doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. Heart hammering loud enough to thunder in his ears, he keeps his expression as steady as he can. ]

That doesn't answer the question.

[ He wants to move. Wants to continue to squeeze, to stroke, to get himself off to this despite logic telling him how sorely he needs to reach for his weapon instead. But holding himself in check is almost doing just as much for him, waiting for some sign from Wash that says what he suspects must be the case.

Whatever is happening to him? Is happening to the Freelancer as well. ]

[ he's right - if wash were really going to kill him, he would have shot him on sight. wash doesn't want him to think that, though.

the gun drags down, further, pressing into the dip of locus' collarbone. this flies in the face of every regulation wash has ever followed.

even with his armor on it's clear that he's affected. his breathing is faster, and deeper - his breaths visible as he takes them in the way his shoulders move. his hands grip too tight to the rifle.

distracted, by the press of metal against locus' skin. ]

Maybe I don't feel like answering your questions.

[ The edge of the barrel presses into his skin, earning a faint hitch of breath, a slight swell of the pupils of his eyes. Even in the relative low light of the jungle, it's obvious. Too obvious.

There's a brief flicker of tongue across his lower lip, his head tipping forward once more. ]

Then what do you feel?

[ He need something, anything, that will break this thread of tension. He knows what he feels, what he wants, but it is Washington with the upper hand.

For now. ]

[ his tongue flicks across his lip, his eyes dilated. it's telling, even to wash. there's probably something ironic about locus asking him what he feels, but then again, wash is used to denying himself many things. ]

I feel like you need to finish what you started.

[ wash finally steps closer, his foot nudging locus' legs apart. he means what he caught him doing. ]

[ Oh. He knows exactly what he means. Or rather, he's fairly certain he does. It's very contextual, paired with the visible rise and fall of his chest, the strain in his voice.

Locus swallows tightly, his throat bobbing, before he eases back into the tree once again. Washington wants him to continue? Very well. That tension holding his hand firmly in place finally breaks as, with a low sound that could very well be relief, the heel of his palm drags against himself through the titanium weave. The resulting flare of friction sparks along every nerve ending in a ripple, spreading outward, and he barely even looks concerned about Wash nudging his legs further apart to watch.

Though he is looking. Staring Wash straight in the eye as his hand moves over his cock, and if possible that heat swells. Like this is the moment he's been waiting for, like that something he's felt tying his fate to Washington all this time hasn't been cut just yet.

He aches for it. For touch, for command, for things he hasn't had a need for in years. ]

[ wash can feel his gaze drawn down between locus' legs, his helmet tilting down a little bit further, the gun still pressed against locus' collarbone.

there is some connection between him and locus, as much as he's struggled to separate the two of them. there's something in locus that he's seen in both himself and maine; paths they could have taken to end up where he was. did end up, maybe.

wash tries not to think about it, most days.

for now, he watches. licks his lips inside the helmet, tastes the sweat on his upper lip before he speaks again. ]

Go slow. You don't want this to be over too quick.

[ he presses the gun forward, just a smidge. ]

[ Oh, the baleful look he gets for that. But the press of the gun seems to hold sway over him -- not precisely out of self-preservation -- and he obeys. His hand slows, fingers carefully curling to map out the full length of him under the suit, aware for every moment of Washington's gaze on him.

There's a minute satisfaction to be found in knowing Washington isn't truly rid of his demons after all. For all his plays at self-righteousness...there's a monster inside of him, too. ]

Don't I?

[ Down to the base, palming his balls with a brief flicker of his eyelids, a muted noise low in his throat. Then those fingers smooth upwards again, nailed turned inward if only to add a little more pressure. He has to wonder how Washington would have it, what his hand would feel like instead.

Instead, he plays the voyeur. Locus can understand the appeal, at the very least. It might not have gone so differently, were the tables turned. ]

[ he can give wash looks all he want. wash is the one still in his armor, and with the gun. at least, that's what wash tells himself to feel like he has control of the situation. like this isn't the result of rapidly spiraling loss of control, and they're just both lucky they haven't decided the best way to get off is to kill the other. ]

No, you really don't.

[ the threat is implicit. over too soon and wash may decide whether he's shooting or bagging locus back. except that the heat running through his veins wouldn't make that such a cut and dry decision.

he watches him closely, the way he adds his nails to the mix, reaches down to palm himself. already, the thoughts are changing. he could reach down and touch. he could easily get his own armor off too.

the heat finally gets to him enough that he reaches up with his free hand, pops the latches on his helmet and tugs it off - revealing hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, cheeks far too red. wash's face gives away much more with the helmet off, like how his eyes track locus' hands. ]

[ Skin hunger is a thing, he's been told. It's never felt more like hunger than it does right now, seeing the flush of Washington's face and imagining how warm it would feel, whether or not he could taste the salt of his sweat on it. His mind seems to want to spiral down that path and he finds himself groaning softly, almost under his breath, before tipping his head back hard enough to smack against the tree behind him.

Slow. Have to go slow, because that gun is still pressing against his skin, cool metal slowly warming. Part of him wants to press his face to the barrel, to the cool metal further up just for some sort of relief from this incessant heat.

Instead, he continues to work himself over, dragging his finger tips until the suit is stretched taut, and the outline of that hard cock couldn't be more clear. Then a squeeze, a slow slide downward as he swallows, too aware of how his mouth is starting to water.

He needs. Something. It's undefined and indefinite and it's starting to drive him mad. ]

[ wash, too, can feel it - the desire to touch, to pull off the armor and the undersuit, and reach down, touch locus, the scars across his body and the feel of his skin. he feels like he can already feel the heat on his own skin - but he knows that's only his own.

he drops the helmet behind him, hearing the sound of his armor. there's an idea that grows, but it takes a moment for his brain to formulate it. ]

Pull it out.

[ he isn't specific but 'it' is pretty obvious what it is. as it stands, wash steps closer, and lets go of the gun to reach to his hip, pulling out his pistol.

he raises it as he pulls the rifle away, attaching it to the mag strip on the back of his armor. the pistol lets him get in closer, and he presses it to locus' chin. ]

Look forward, Locus.

[ wash's voice is rough, strained - it's hard to fight against the pull, the desire to just touch and sink into it. but he's trying, even if his eyes are blown wide. ]

[ Briefly, focus returns. He needs it to reach up, to pull down at the suit where it still clings to his hips, enough that his cock can be freed from its confines. It seems to bend low with the tug, the tight pull of fabric, before springing free. A second later and his fingers wrap around it, and while it isn't cold out the difference in having any hand on it, flesh to flesh, is night and day.

There's a groan that catches behind teeth clicking shut, his jaw clenching as the pistol nudges under his jaw. At once those gray eyes settle on Wash, so near now he could reach him. He could make some sort of fight, a struggle to overtake him.

He could. But he doesn't want to. No want exists in the moment except this, his brain mired in that heavy, hot fog. Licking his lips almost purposefully, he stares into Wash's eyes and begins to stroke himself anew. Still slow, as instructed. ]

Is this what you want, Agent Washington?

[ The tone is almost mocking. ]

[ he wants to tell locus: quit trying to analyze me. but he knows enough that if he does, that's admitting that locus got under his skin to begin with. it's one thing to let the reds and blues know it; another to let the mercenary know it.

but then, wash was never good at guarding his expressions without the helmet.

he has to bite down on his bottom lip without thinking about it, watching the way locus' hand curls around his cock, moving slow, and the timbre of his voice. damn it. he almost doesn't care that he might be being mocked. ]

What if I said it was?

[ where would that get locus, if he knew? wash breathes out like that'll make the heat less. the gun slips up a little, nudging at the skin under locus' lip. wash isn't sure if he wants to push the barrel of the gun against his mouth, or something else. ]

[ He doesn't know. He doesn't know if it nets him anything at all besides knowing, and he's already got a pretty good idea. It's all over Washington's face, the hunger in his eyes, while he watches Locus touch and tease himself into near blinding frenzy.

The panting is audible now, lips part just so. And when the barrel of the gun shifts? It's barely even a consideration before he tips his head lower, enough to press warm lips against the cool metal like a lover.

Yes. Yes, he wants that, too, if the sudden twitch in his hands wasn't any sort of indication. ]

[ locus pants, and it sounds like the loudest thing in the world right now. and then he lowers his mouth to the gun, presses it - solidifies the shreds of the idea in wash's mind.

he tilts the gun up, the barrel pressing against locus' lips. it's unusually gentle for how he's jabbed the gun at locus before. at the same time, when locus' hand is wrapped around his cock, his free hand moves forward - armor and kevlar reaching down to cup locus' balls. ]

[ Iris blown, Locus stutters for a moment, the movement of his hand suddenly less steady than before. Just that singular grip, the rough feel of kevlar and metal, has every nerve in his body singing, pitched and unending.

The moan against the gun pressed to his lips is decidedly more guttural, before his eyelids fall shut and, purely on instinct, his tongue slips out against the barrel. The taste is bitter and acrid, oil and mineral and metal, but that doesn't stop him.

More. ]

[ wash is hard in the undersuit, his cock pressed uncomfortably under titanium and kevlar, and the codpiece. still, he ignores it, the throb of it and the dampness at the head, for the way that locus reacts.

his moan, the way his body stops and then starts again, licking the gun. wash is meticulous with his guns, even during the war. and still, he lets out an explosive breath.

he squeezes his hand, gently - but there's still a threat there, enhanced strength with something so delicate of locus'. for the gun, he doesn't push forward yet - just waits to see what locus will do next. ]

i defaulted to brackets but prose is also okay

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this is just going to devolve into gun kink

you bet your sweet ass it is

bless (also im about to sleep but yooo gotta hit this once more)

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