[ 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. ]
[ their teeth definitely collide but this kiss isn't about finesse. it's about leaving marks, more than what they've already done to each other.
wash growls a little into the kiss, a noise that normally wouldn't sound very threatening at all. his armor is yanked apart and off, and wash rests his arms over locus' shoulders so he can pull off the gloves and gauntlets, tossing them behind locus. once those are off, he should move to the armor on his hips, but instead he sinks his hands into locus' hair, tugging on it as wash pushes his tongue inside the sniper's mouth. ]
[ A noise traps itself in the back of his throat, every fiber of his being suddenly strung tight as Washington settles his way ontop of him. He's there, and Locus could overturn him now. Knock him to the ground, take his gun, fire--
The thought doesn't stop him from dragging his teeth across Washington's lower lip, nor from dragging a hand along his undersuit until he can find the fastenings and undo them in a rush. Peeling desperately for some slip of skin, something warm and firm under the curl of his blunt nails.
Wash's little tug at his hair earns another rough, threatening noise, before he starts to roll, to try and shove Wash to the ground and flip their positioning. ]
[ the catches at the back of wash's suit will open easily for locus, and wash lets one hand drag down to locus' broad shoulders, nails digging into scarred skin. he bites back at locus' lip, biting harder than he means to when locus rolls, pushing wash back.
wash squeezes his legs tightly around locus' hips, letting him try to roll them but then throwing his weight into continuing the move and trying to end up on top. it's not a sure thing, but he isn't fighting as hard as he could, either. ]
[ Admittedly, Locus is somewhat distracted as well.
Not being pinned down and vulnerable at the hands of an enemy ranks high on his scale of instinctive behaviors, but whatever this is? Makes that somehow less important. He still snarls under his breath when Wash regains the upper hand, straddling his hips securely, and it's hard to tell if the buck of his his hips is to try and dislodge him...or simply to appreciate that weight and friction moving against him.
More.
His fingers dig under the flexible weave of the suit, peeling it away from Washington's shoulders. How many scars would be there for the counting? ]
[ wash's scars may not be as numerous as locus', but they are there - most prominently the puckered bullet scars through each shoulder - one an entry hole, the other an exit. the rest are smaller and more faded - what might have been an energy sword cutting over one arm, what looks like a glancing knife wound on his wrist.
they all have stories to them. wash isn't sharing them right now, not with locus under him and snarling, rolling his hips up. wash squeezes his thighs together and rolls his hips down, not quite pressing them together but - there's at least friction, something to rub up against.
He bites again at Locus' bottom lip - all but trying to make him bleed, apparently, and reaches down with one hand to start unlatching the armor on his own legs, the other planting it on Locus' broad chest.
[ It's different, in ways he'll pick apart later. It's still a fight for control, a battle of wills as much as it is an effort to get some pleasure out of this, but the importance of pleasure is paramount somehow. Even if he's pinned, even with Wash having the upper hand, the larger part of him doesn't care.
Not so long as there's this, some itch that can be scratched. And scratching there was, following lines and raised patches of skin with the curl of his nails, eyelids lowering as he watched Washington peel himself out of the rest of his armor.
Good. Good, he understands, he isn't about to leave them both wanting. The urgency, wherever it's coming from? It's getting worse, far worse by the moment. They're unprepared, likely less a few things that would make this easier, but that's unlikely to stop them. Not at the rate they're going at this. ]
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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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wash growls a little into the kiss, a noise that normally wouldn't sound very threatening at all. his armor is yanked apart and off, and wash rests his arms over locus' shoulders so he can pull off the gloves and gauntlets, tossing them behind locus. once those are off, he should move to the armor on his hips, but instead he sinks his hands into locus' hair, tugging on it as wash pushes his tongue inside the sniper's mouth. ]
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The thought doesn't stop him from dragging his teeth across Washington's lower lip, nor from dragging a hand along his undersuit until he can find the fastenings and undo them in a rush. Peeling desperately for some slip of skin, something warm and firm under the curl of his blunt nails.
Wash's little tug at his hair earns another rough, threatening noise, before he starts to roll, to try and shove Wash to the ground and flip their positioning. ]
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wash squeezes his legs tightly around locus' hips, letting him try to roll them but then throwing his weight into continuing the move and trying to end up on top. it's not a sure thing, but he isn't fighting as hard as he could, either. ]
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Not being pinned down and vulnerable at the hands of an enemy ranks high on his scale of instinctive behaviors, but whatever this is? Makes that somehow less important. He still snarls under his breath when Wash regains the upper hand, straddling his hips securely, and it's hard to tell if the buck of his his hips is to try and dislodge him...or simply to appreciate that weight and friction moving against him.
More.
His fingers dig under the flexible weave of the suit, peeling it away from Washington's shoulders. How many scars would be there for the counting? ]
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they all have stories to them. wash isn't sharing them right now, not with locus under him and snarling, rolling his hips up. wash squeezes his thighs together and rolls his hips down, not quite pressing them together but - there's at least friction, something to rub up against.
He bites again at Locus' bottom lip - all but trying to make him bleed, apparently, and reaches down with one hand to start unlatching the armor on his own legs, the other planting it on Locus' broad chest.
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Not so long as there's this, some itch that can be scratched. And scratching there was, following lines and raised patches of skin with the curl of his nails, eyelids lowering as he watched Washington peel himself out of the rest of his armor.
Good. Good, he understands, he isn't about to leave them both wanting. The urgency, wherever it's coming from? It's getting worse, far worse by the moment. They're unprepared, likely less a few things that would make this easier, but that's unlikely to stop them. Not at the rate they're going at this. ]
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 ?