[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ It's threat upon threat, at this point, but Locus has ceased to care about the danger presented. That, or some part of him is riding high at the thought of it. He could shift his grip and seriously injure him. He could move his finger to the trigger and pull.
But the coil of his fingers feels like encouragement. Washington hasn't pulled the gun away yet, and Locus gives it another long, searching swipe of his tongue. Then another. It doesn't taste any better now, but he doesn't really care about that right now, either.
He does, however, lift his hips ever so slightly against Washington's hand. Come on, give him something. Anything. This...madness that's fallen over him demands it. ]
[ wash watches that tongue swipe out against the gun and he takes a shuddering breath as locus lifts his hips. after a moment, he slips his hand up. metal and kevlar bump against locus' hand as wash wraps a hand around his cock, careful with the grip of it. he's hungry for skin but still he denies both of them the touch of it so far.
with his other hand, he nudges the barrel of the gun against the opening of locus' mouth. ]
[ It's cool, cold against his tongue, but bound not to remain so. Not with the way his mouth opens and sinks down over the tip. The metaphor is so obvious you could damn near roll your eyes, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this itch and the need to scratch it, and sucking the tip of his sworn enemy's pistol is for some bizarre and unhealthy reason totally doing it for him right now.
It helps that it's mutual. That he can feel the grip of that gloved hand and know that Washington is mired just as deep, wants just as badly. ]
[ wash wants, badly. there's a part of him that's only moments away from stripping his own armor off, and making use of locus' mouth the way that the gun is. the very obvious metaphor is absolutely doing it for wash as well, the sight of his weapon and those lips wrapped around it.
his hand tightens, strokes up until locus' hand is nudged away, and then a kevlar-covered thumb is rubbing against the head. ]
[ A full-bodied shudder wracks through him at the pressure suddenly pressing in against the tip of his cock, already slick with precum, and a low, rasping sound is muffled against the metal. Every nerve crackles alight, attuned to that touch, needing it, and his hips instinctively rise to buck up against the hold Wash has on him now.
Hasn't touched himself in God knows how long, but he's riding the edge now, nearer and nearer. And if it tips over, what then? Will it end? Will that be enough? ]
[ locus shudders, gives a low noise and wash bites the inside of his cheek. it's harder and harder to deny himself the things that he wants and what he wants now are more of those noises. he doesn't press the gun in further, for now.
his thumb swipes over the head of locus' cock again before he starts pumping his hand, slow and firm - giving locus friction against the movement of his own hips, kevlar and armor slicked by precum. ]
[ It's good. It's better but not yet quite enough. All it really seems to do is add fuel to the fire, the way that texture grinds against his skin, his hips pushing upwards in an effort to seek more, faster.
What will it take to see Washington lose his composure as well? Nevermind that the fact that he's here, touching him, watching him tongue and mouth against his pistol with darkening eyes means that he is losing his composure at least somewhat.
One hand lifts, curls around Washington's wrist. But rather than pull the gun away he holds him steady, those pale eyes once again pinning his as he sucks against the bitter tang of the barrel. Willing him to loose that last thread of restraint. ]
[ it's the touch that finally makes his composure fully break. locus' hand curls around his wrist and wash - he could be doing more, getting more. touching more.
he lets a small noise escape from between his lips, finally pulling the gun away from locus' mouth. he knows he must be far gone because he clicks the safety on and drops it. he lets go of locus to grab him by the neck, tilting his head up so he can press their mouths together.
it's not sweet and slow, it's wash biting down on locus' bottom lip, the taste of metal and gun oil between them. but wash's other hand reaches up to press down on the emergency release latches for his chest piece, popping them open with a small snap. ]
[ Strange. There's no sense of renewed safety when the gun is drawn away, still slick in the light, and tossed aside. It feels every bit as dangerous when it's Washington's mouth crushing against his, his teeth closing against him, and Locus lets out a low snarl. He surges up, biting back, kissing back, it's hard to tell which.
But something hums inside him, satisfied. Yes, this. More of this, in particular.
The familiar pop-hiss of the suit catches releasing earns at least a fraction of his attention, and fingers scrabble to yank the armor out of the way, tossing it in the direction of the gun without a thought. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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But the coil of his fingers feels like encouragement. Washington hasn't pulled the gun away yet, and Locus gives it another long, searching swipe of his tongue. Then another. It doesn't taste any better now, but he doesn't really care about that right now, either.
He does, however, lift his hips ever so slightly against Washington's hand. Come on, give him something. Anything. This...madness that's fallen over him demands it. ]
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with his other hand, he nudges the barrel of the gun against the opening of locus' mouth. ]
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It helps that it's mutual. That he can feel the grip of that gloved hand and know that Washington is mired just as deep, wants just as badly. ]
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his hand tightens, strokes up until locus' hand is nudged away, and then a kevlar-covered thumb is rubbing against the head. ]
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Hasn't touched himself in God knows how long, but he's riding the edge now, nearer and nearer. And if it tips over, what then? Will it end? Will that be enough? ]
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his thumb swipes over the head of locus' cock again before he starts pumping his hand, slow and firm - giving locus friction against the movement of his own hips, kevlar and armor slicked by precum. ]
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What will it take to see Washington lose his composure as well? Nevermind that the fact that he's here, touching him, watching him tongue and mouth against his pistol with darkening eyes means that he is losing his composure at least somewhat.
One hand lifts, curls around Washington's wrist. But rather than pull the gun away he holds him steady, those pale eyes once again pinning his as he sucks against the bitter tang of the barrel. Willing him to loose that last thread of restraint. ]
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he lets a small noise escape from between his lips, finally pulling the gun away from locus' mouth. he knows he must be far gone because he clicks the safety on and drops it. he lets go of locus to grab him by the neck, tilting his head up so he can press their mouths together.
it's not sweet and slow, it's wash biting down on locus' bottom lip, the taste of metal and gun oil between them. but wash's other hand reaches up to press down on the emergency release latches for his chest piece, popping them open with a small snap. ]
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But something hums inside him, satisfied. Yes, this. More of this, in particular.
The familiar pop-hiss of the suit catches releasing earns at least a fraction of his attention, and fingers scrabble to yank the armor out of the way, tossing it in the direction of the gun without a thought. ]
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i'm so used to writing Sexy Time Dialogue that having a character who doesn't feels weird
oh, wash has got it in there somewhere i'm sure
bow chicka... bow wow?
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potential ideas: spit for lube, as trite as it is. thighfucking ?