dappered | (no subject)

(no subject)

[ So.

It'd been two days since Wash left Church in that empty city. Two days of blissful quiet (except it was never completely silent, not in his head, not with the echoes that Epsilon had left and the whispers that Wash still heard sometimes when he was on the verge of sleep) and he put them to use, moving fast and efficiently and reminding himself darkly the entire time how much Church hinders him, how he was operating with much less efficiency when he had to babysit, etc.

How could he possibly expect to go after the Director with the ultimate AI as his partner if his partner was a bitching juvenile manipulative little bastard. Who thought that abusing his trust was okay. Who thought that doing things like--

( kissing him, he remembers, the pressure of his mouth, his taste, the softness of his throat under Wash's fingertips )

--like that was acceptable. No big deal. Just proving a point, bitch.

It's almost enough to make him not want to go back, when he reached the crest of a cliff and suddenly recognizes the scenery. A shallow lake, a valley surrounded by mountains, one Blue base, one Red base, and one crashed black ship.

Valhalla. Which, now that he'd been reminded about it, did have some unverified accounts of dead zones and abandoned outposts attached to the file he'd glanced through. Valhalla was situated where it was because of this and now apparently occupied by the remnants of the Blood Gulch teams, and while it was a huge relief to have concrete proof of where he was (still not how it happened, still nothing to explain his jailbreak and Church's miraculous physical form, and the only theory he has getting progressively uglier), it meant he had some decisions to make now. The Meta and the recording devices inside Freelancer Command had seen Church's A.I. form, however briefly. Church needed to be kept hidden, needed to be kept safe, and Wash had no intention of waltzing back into a jail cell. It's not ideal, but they can hide here. Or around here, in the caverns that run underneath the cliffs. And know, at least, that their closest neighbors aren't going to jump at the chance to turn them in to Command.

Church doesn't see it quite so rationally. Church points out, in the tone of voice reserved for deepest atrocity, that what is being suggested is really the same thing as going to a place that is close to Caboose.

Wash privately winces along with him at the thought, but remains adamant. Blah blah hiding place, blah blah fugitives, blah blah finding Epsilon, blah blah just get your fucking gear and stop arguing.

Wishful thinking. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Clumsiness might be overlooked, but the pace slowly turns itself into an issue as Wash clutches harder, digging his fingers in and cursing softly, thrusting more urgently and not finding the friction he needed.

Not that it's precisely Church's fault, between the inherent awkwardness of trying to jerk someone off standing opposite you aaaaand probably not being used to two-handing. Which. Is nobody's fault except nature's.

He grits his teeth and resists the urge to bite. ]

Will you just-- [ and breaks off, frustrated and not knowing what the hell to even tell him.

(will you just go faster harder will you just let me--) ]

S'not my fault, dude, maybe you would have been better off humping my leg or something.

[ A LITTLE TESTY HERE ]

'Better off?' This is still your--

[ fuck it, that's a clear moan as Church changes his hold, and he buries his face against the side of Church's neck to muffle it, breathing unsteadily. ]

Yeah, that's better. It's not bad, right? Would you fuck me like this, too? What if I told you I'd be okay with you holding me down and grinding me into this shitty metal floor until you came? Would you do it?

[ Yeah you can have some BRAIN STATIC over that one, Church.

The rest of him, though, reacts just the way he's looking for, hips surging forward and his breath catching, blunt fingernails raking four parallel lines in Church's skin. His teeth sink in this time, corded muscle against his tongue suppressing the pathetic sounds trying to get loose.

It's a quick rush of adrenaline, though, and after a second Wash retains enough sense to actually answer him between uneven panting. ]

I'd--ungod

I'd hurt you.

Do I look fucking delicate to you? What if I wanted you to fuck me? What if I asked you to? Do you want me to ask?

Will you fuck me, please?

...okay.

[ good thing, too, since Wash is yanking him forward and then turning both of them, pushing him down against the table and pinning him there to kiss him brutally (to silence the protests, no take-backs), one hand holding down a wrist above Church's head and the other splayed on his stomach, moving quickly down to the waistline of his pants. ]

[ AIS DON'T NEED TO BREATHE come on church

It's probably a testament to how much of his control Church has eroded that he doesn't even think, doesn't even consider that Church hadn't actually meant that request literally. Or maybe he just wants Church to mean it. Or maybe he's just decided to stop thinking entirely, latching on to his neck instead when Church turns his head away, working down to his chest. That hand at his stomach hooks into the waistband there and then Wash is dragging both pants and boxers down off his hips. ]

[ He is close, and Church's enthusiasm isn't really helping that. But he's at least got both hands free to drag the rest of Church's clothes all the way off, fumble for the gun oil on the table and drench his hands in it (gotta be careful with him, have to always be mindful, be restrained responsible, washington) and spread Church's legs, slipping one hand underneath and rubbing him with two fingers. ]

[ The jerk of surprise might've given him pause if he could bring himself to care, but it's not out of bounds for someone who'd never done this before (unless Texas--), and Wash merely kisses him back eagerly, tasting metal and running his tongue over the bitten spot. Church does get, for a second, a mostly unintelligible murmur that might have been an attempt to soothe, something like it's okay or remember to breathe since. You know, he's not wasting any time getting Church oiled up and carefully pushing a single finger inside him. ]

Come on. Hurry up.

[ (Demanding.) ]

I said-- [ breathe, focus ] --that I didn't want to hurt you.

[ Actually he didn't say that, not exactly, and they're both going to have bloody furrows all across their shoulders and backs in the morning anyway. He works on adding another angry red mark to Church's throat, adding a second finger when Church asks for it and then a third, probably before he's ready, pushing deep to hunt that particular spot that makes this worth it. ]

Fuck you, Wash, I'm not some fucking --

God, fuck.

[ No, no he doesn't, but Wash takes that as encouragement. He'll be horrified later, maybe, that he's becoming fluent in Church and can understand the thousand nuances of the word fuck, though some tiny vindictive (greedy) piece of him thinks this particular one he could learn to like. Church clinging to him, swearing helplessly, face pressed to his shoulder. Maybe if this--

Maybe he should pay some attention to what the hell he's doing, hastily spreading the rest of the oil on his own aching cock while still fingering Church. He withdraws them slowly, letting him come back to himself a little bit, before wrapping one of Church's legs over his hip, lining himself up.

A gentleman would ask if Church is ready, or at least warn him. Wash has never considered himself much of a gentleman and eases in, gritting his teeth at the agonizing slowness and the tight entry and ohgodchurchfuckgod. His head drops, the muscles in his shoulders cording from sheer restraint as he works the tip of himself inside. ]

Oh god, no, fuck, you have to -- Don't, you're not -- Fuck me, fuck me, please just do it, please, please.

...

[ He obliges.

His fingers will leave marks, turning the skin white where he grips Church and he pushes in, sheathing himself fully, the heat and constricting muscles around him nearly making him dizzy. He should wait here until Church is used to it. He should hold himself still inside and wait while Church adjusts and

he's not doing any of that, because Church is pleading and he withdraws halfway with a shudder only to thrust back in hard, once, twice, in and out rough and too fast and he knows it and isn't stopping. ]

[ It's strange, a little, that Wash had an impression of this act as faceless where you hold someone's hips and stare at the line of their back and you can't see them because they're looking down and you'd have your eyes closed, anyway, not wanting to look, only wanting the part that was blind sensation.

This isn't like that. This is so far from that it's almost terrifying, Church reacting to the smallest motion Wash makes and pressing back into him and his voice muffled against Wash's neck and why why is it the Alpha AI that has to be the most honest of his lovers, the most human and open.

He tries his best to steady Church, no breath left to spare to say anything reassuring (and Church isn't listening anyway), lean down over him so his back actually meets the tabletop and he can hold on to Wash, and also to slow himself down, changing the angle of entry and thrusting deeper instead of faster. ]

[ Okay. Alright. The pitch of Church's voice has changed from pain to not-exactly-pain and Wash can hold this rhythm, is pretty goddamn close himself (how long have they been at this, anyway, how can they have been arguing not even an hour ago before Wash got on his knees for Church) and it's his turn to bury his face in Church's neck, lips moving against his skin and speaking soundless words or names or reciting psalms or maybe paragraphs from the military handbook. Aside from the ragged hitch in his breathing he's silent, and a little bit after he feels Church move he drops his own hand down to help get him off.

Electricity curls in the pit of his stomach and he tenses suddenly (apprehensively). ]

Church--