Archive of Our Own ^beta

A loud clang! rings out as Tucker’s back hits the wall, metal on metal. He tries to push forwards a step, but Wash, that asshole, that smug son of a bitch, boxes him in, pinning him there with his shoulder so he can keep his hands free. Tucker thrashes, hissing through his teeth as he tries to squirm away. “Come on, man! I was kidding!”

“I wasn’t,” Wash replies, trying to sound casual through gritted teeth. A quick flash of pride lights up Tucker’s face in his helmet; Wash actually has to fight to keep him pinned. The only thing that keeps him from gloating about it is Wash’s hand on the codpiece of his armor, detaching it with ease and dropping it, to which Tucker starts fighting him with renewed effort. “I told you, if you don’t stop distracting the recruits during training with all the stupid sexual innuendos, I’m going to do something about it. This is me doing something about it.”

“And I get that, but- but look, Wash! If you’re gonna rip a guy’s dick off, you have to tell him that before he gets himself into trouble, not after!”

“Shut up. I’m not ripping your dick off.” Between them, something clicks, and although Tucker cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse of it, Wash’s armor blocks his view. “This is what they did during Project Freelancer when they thought somebody had too many distractions to focus on training.”

“Oh, yeah, like Project Freelancer is notorious for their good decisions. Say, have you called any of the other freelancers lately? How’s Tex? And Wyoming? Oooh, and Maine, he always seemed like he came out of that whole incident like a functional, well-adjusted, living adult, or maybe you could try-”

Tucker cuts himself off with a strangled sound as Wash yanks the front of his leggings down, exposing him. His brain plays a litany of ‘what the fuck’s on loop as he realizes how terrible of a choice it was to forgo underwear today, but none of that saves him. He bluescreens so hard that he forgets to fight back, leaving Wash with the perfect opening to fit his balls through a tight ring, envelop his flaccid dick in metal, and slide a lock through the notch on top, all before Tucker remembers to protest. Wash pulls away, and-

That’s when Tucker finally gets a good view of the cock cage. 

“What the fuck,” he says, aloud this time, as Wash withdraws, picking up his codpiece for him and shoving it against his chest. Tucker reaches down to try and mess with the lock, to see what sensation he can still get from all of this, only for Wash to slap his hands away. “Hey! It’s my dick!”

“No, Tucker. For the time being,” Wash replies, flashing the key around his neck, “it’s my dick. Once you figure out how to control yourself and follow orders, you can have it back.”

Tucker whines, and Wash takes that as an opportunity to grab his leggings and pull them up for him again. He pats his crotch ambivalently, yanking a choked sound from Tucker’s chest as he fits the codpiece back on the front of his armor. Tucker pins himself against the wall, hands up, watching as Wash fastens it into place. “You can’t do this! I-I didn’t set a safeword, and you’re not even kind of my type, and- and-“

Wash snaps the codpiece in place with a soft click!, stepping back. “You don’t seem to understand what’s going on here. This is a punishment. I told you there would be consequences, and now you’re going to serve them.”

“But for how long?” Tucker cries, desperate. “You can’t just take a man’s junk away from him without giving him a chance to say goodbye!”

And seriously, he can’t. Wash has to be bluffing. Any second now, he’ll take the cage off and send Tucker scampering back to his quarters with a warning and a bruised ego to nurse, and Tucker will learn. He’ll be good next time, honest, now that he knows that Wash has absolutely zero fear of going for the balls. All Wash has to do is take that damn key out, but-

Even behind the visor, Tucker knows Wash is smiling. He can hear it in his voice. “Well, Captain Tucker, you tell me. That’s entirely up to you.”

When that sick bastard leaves Tucker standing in the hallway, he turns around quick enough that he doesn’t have to see the reaction that evokes from him. At that display of sheer, unadulterated dominance, at the idea of someone having touched him for the first time in forever, and at Wash sounding almost happy as he walks away, Tucker’s cock twitches in its new confines, pain spiking through him immediately as his knees buckle and he crumples to the floor.

At least he has the dignity to wait until Tucker hits the ground before he starts whistling.

-

Wash has him running laps with the recruits the next morning. 

Just him.

“And here I thought good leadership came from leading by example,” Tucker sneers, and from Wash’s place leaned casually up against the wall, arms crossed, Tucker swears he can feel bolts of lightning crackling between them, sparking off their armor and threatening to blow them both up at the drop of a hat. He still hasn’t gotten quite used to it, the idea that they’re doing something that is undeniably a sex thing, and Wash has barely looked at him since then.

“I woke up early this morning. I already did mine,” Wash replies. “It’s your turn, and since I know you’ll bail if I’m not standing here to watch you the entire time, I’m going to stay right here.”

“But I-”

“That is a direct order, Tucker.”

Tucker hisses from between his teeth. He glances back over his shoulder, making sure none of the recruits are within earshot, then marches over to him. Wash doesn’t even move, not even when Tucker plants a hand on the wall next to him and drops his voice. “Look,” he mutters, “I barely slept last night. I’m exhausted.”

Wash nods authoritatively. “It sounds like you were trying to get hard in your sleep. Or your body was, at least. It happens.”

“Great. So you know what I’m going through here? And you’ll cut me a little slack?”

“Oh, no. I never said that.”

Tucker groans, his head falling back as he takes a step away from him to throw his arms out to either side of him. “How the fuck do you expect me to exercise like this, man?! Are you trying to get me to bruise the shit out of myself?!”

“You’re being dramatic. You’ll survive. It’s perfectly doable.” Wash pushes himself off the wall, patting him on the shoulder. He stops there, then lowers his voice to a murmur so the recruits can’t hear. “Strap it down. That makes it a hell of a lot easier. Be sure to clean up when you’re done, too.”

Then, he just- walks away. While Tucker’s brain short-circuits, thinking about how Wash knows enough about being locked in chastity to give him pointers, of all things.

And that’s just day one. 

-

“So this is actually something Project Freelancer did to you guys?”

They’re sitting in Wash’s office, going over some rosters, when Tucker stops pretending to go through his and starts asking questions. It’s day three- day three of torment, of no sleep, of being locked in a hell of what Wash seems to think is his own design- and the hardest thing has been thinking about Wash, locked up and just as desperate as he feels now, all those years ago. Wash sighs, not even bothering to tear his eyes away from his work. “Sometimes.”

“As a punishment?”

“As a training device.”

Silence.

Tucker just keeps staring at him.

To his credit, it does break Wash eventually. He drops the papers, drumming his fingers on the desk in annoyance when he finally meets Tucker’s eye, his voice stiff and measured as he makes his way through each and every word. “The Director referred to me as ‘eager’, which meant I had the least experience of everyone and seemed the most apt to do something stupid. With the cage, they had a means of insurance. I would stay in line, because they had something I wanted. Without the distraction of physical pleasure, I had fewer things to occupy myself, and I could focus on training.”

“Did it work?”

Wash’s lips purse. “Not in the ways they expected it to.”

Jackpot. A grin splits Tucker’s face. “Oh, yeah. So your disciplinary strategies that didn’t work on you are totally gonna work on me, just because you really, really want it to?”

“That’s not the point.” Wash turns back to the rosters again, picking up a pen to keep from tapping his fingers. One nervous fidget turns into another, and he taps that on the desk instead. “It wasn’t a punishment for us. It is for you. We never knew if or when we’d get that right back, so we had very little incentive to behave or misbehave based on that factor. You do. You’ll learn something from this.”

Tucker snorts, rolling his eyes. He slides his chair a bit closer to Wash’s, butting up against the edge of the desk so he can lean on it. “You take away a man’s ability to orgasm, one of the few joys this war still leaves us with, and you’re gonna write it off as a learning experience? Sorry if I’m not kissing the ground you walk on, but-”

“I didn’t take away your ability to orgasm.”

Tucker stops. He blinks, staring at Wash, waiting for him to say something else. When he doesn’t, Tucker prompts him. “You didn’t?”

“If you’re desperate enough, flexible enough, or willing to ask for help, then no. I didn’t.”

Oh. 

Oh, god.

“But-” Tucker splutters, and after a second, he barks out a laugh to keep from choking. His face heats up with every passing second. “I can’t just- just show people this. It’s embarrassing. I’d have to explain how I ended up like this, and the prostate orgasm is basically just a myth anyway, isn’t it?”

Wash flips a page, then hums. “Sure, Tucker. Whatever you say.”

Tucker files that away onto a list of things he saved in the back of his mind starting just a few days ago, one entitled ‘THINGS I’M GOING TO JERK OFF TO UNTIL I SAND THE CALLUSES OFF OF MY HANDS WHEN WASH GIVES ME MY DICK BACK’. The list, shamefully, despite Wash having not been his type up until he laid his hands on him, already contains two items:

One. Someone, probably with a bottle of medical-grade lube in front of an audience of several people, put a trembling, rookie Wash in a chastity cage, and he thought it was so livable- if not likeable- that he feels fine inflicting that on another poor bastard.

Two. Wash evaded the ‘no orgasms’ rule of his chastity cage by fucking himself in the ass.

If Tucker could cum in his armor, he would, but alas. That would defeat the purpose of Wash’s whole sadistic exercise.

“If you’re just going to keep staring, you don’t have to be here.”

Tucker snaps back to reality, shaking his head. “Dude, you have got to let me borrow some of whatever kinky shit you’ve got in your toy box. I’m dying over here. A little bit of relief would do me a world of good. You understand what I’m going through.”

“I do.” He flips another page. “I also put you in this situation, and I know it’s not that bad. There’s no reason for me to do that, even if I wanted to.”

Tucker groans and slumps all the way onto the desk, his hands folded in a prayer position. “C’mon, please? Just the name of your favorite? I can get it myself if you have to, you evil fuck, just let me know what you used!”

That forces Wash to pause. The faintest hint of a grin graces his face, his mouth quirking up at the corners as his eyes stop scanning over the paper. He hesitates for a moment, steeling himself, then says, decisively, “Maine.”

An inhuman sound escapes Tucker’s chest.

A third item joins the list.

-

The recruits keep talking about the toolshed. Everybody and their mother thinks that, across the entire base, that is supposedly the best place to make out, because it doesn’t have a window, and the latch sticks for long enough that if you are tangled up with somebody in there, you have a minute to jump away from each other and/or cover your dick if someone tries to come in. It’s pretty far off, and when the armory and labs have better tools to accomplish whatever task you have in mind, most people don’t bother to go all the way out there. It’s relatively quiet. Most people forget it exists in the first place. It’s more or less unattended.

There’s a rumor going around the mess hall, though, that someone has been using the tools, not just the shed. There’s a checkout log so they can keep track of everything, and of course, nothing ever goes missing that isn’t accounted for by it, but someone modifies one of the tools a bit. They took the only pair of bolt cutters in the shed, sealed them shut with five zip-ties, and left them there. That could just be interpreted as a prank, sure, but no one can figure out to whom. There’s a note slapped on top of it that reads “nice try!”, a little smiley face drawn underneath it that some of the recruits argue from here to Blood Gulch looks sinister. No one has needed them, thankfully, but if they were to need them, they’d need to find somewhere else with scissors, seeing as Agent Washington checked them out a while ago and still hasn’t returned them. The recruits, in turn, engage in increasingly wild speculation with each passing day about what that could possibly mean, about whose sex could possibly involve a set of bolt cutters and how, and why they seem to be doing it by written correspondence instead of just talking to each other.

Of course Tucker knows about it. He was the first one to find it, a solid twelve hours after Wash put him in the cage. He’s also the one that started the rumor that, whatever they’re doing, it was definitely Grif and Simmons.

-

Oddly enough, the cage sort of works. Seeing as he just gets frustrated when he makes some shitty sex joke, seeing as he can’t have sex and he can’t jerk off, Tucker learns to bite his tongue a bit more often. Sure, there’s some that he simply can’t pass up, but those are satisfying for their own sake. He’s a little less distracted, too, seeing as he has fewer human impulses to worry about, and he doesn’t exactly hate the sudden increase in his amount of overall free time, either. It’s a little boring, sure, but he keeps breaking his personal records, then breaking them again, and again, until he’s too exhausted to imagine Wash’s smug face to piss himself off anymore. 

So, no, it’s not the worst thing in the world. 

“Captain Tucker?” Wash’s voice breaks Tucker out of a stupor, his hand landing on Tucker’s shoulder as Tucker wraps up a conversation with one of the recruits about their progress. Tucker jumps, glancing back at him, and Wash jams a thumb back towards his office. “Could I borrow you for a moment?”

That doesn’t mean Tucker is going to pass up on an opportunity to end it. His knee-jerk reaction is still oh hell motherfucking yes, this is the day!

He doesn’t say that, of course. If Wash smells blood in the water, he’ll change gears faster than Tucker can lie his way out of that mistake. Instead, Tucker, behind his visor, gives him a professional grin, one that says I’m so trustworthy, and you can let me out of the cage any day now. “Of course. Lead the way.”

They end up in Wash’s office. Better than the hallway, but Tucker has spent an honestly stupid amount of time in here within the last few weeks, trying to annoy Wash into unlocking him, and he’s starting to get sick of the place. He perches himself on the edge of the desk without being asked, and Wash slots himself between his spread legs, reaching for his codpiece. Tucker wraps his fingers around the edge of the desk in a desperate attempt to keep them from shaking with excitement, but at the sound, Wash pauses, glancing at him. “Is this okay?”

God, yes. So much more than okay. This is about to be, like, the quality of life improvement to end all quality of life improvements. Tucker nods amiably. “Whatever you gotta do, Wash.”

Wash gives him one curt nod right back, then drops his attention to Tucker’s codpiece again. He pulls it off, sets it aside, and, just as professional as he was when he put it on there, he slides Tucker’s leggings aside to gain access to his dick.

He hums, almost amused, at the addition of underwear, and slides that aside, too. Tucker prays Wash doesn’t notice the way his breath hitches whenever the cage gleams up at him, nor how he doesn’t start breathing again until Wash takes his cock in hand.

He doesn’t take the key out right away. Wash just sort of examines him, running his thumb over the slats in the cage, like he’s checking for damage or tarnish. Tucker doesn’t complain. Maybe there’s some step that has to happen first, something about a release of pressure after so long spent caged, and he’s the last person to complain about making sure his junk stays safe. He wore two cups during the entirety of basic training, layered on top of each other. That’s how dedicated he is to dick safety. All he has to do is be patient, keep his mouth shut, and wait, and soon enough, Wash will-

Wash tucks him back into his underwear and his leggings, and Tucker breaks out of his fantasy, blinking at him. Wash picks up the codpiece, ignoring the way Tucker suddenly goes rigid. “Wait, you’re not gonna—?”

He trails off, but Wash gives him a second to finish. When he doesn’t, he snaps his codpiece back in place and steps away from the desk. “No. I’m not. I don’t think you’re done yet.”

“But-” holy shit. What a cruel, conniving bastard. They’re sure he’s not a spy for the pirates? “But you called me in here and everything! I’ve been good!”

Wash hums, making a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand, and- oh, Tucker has half a mind to kill this guy. “I just wanted to make sure you were keeping it properly cleaned. I don’t actually want you to get hurt. I just think a little frustration could light a fire under you.” 

He phrases it like a hypothetical, like he’s been letting Tucker suffer all these weeks and hasn’t even been checking his stats, like he hasn’t already gotten exactly what he wanted. Tucker snarls, hopping down from Wash’s desk. “Oh, amazing. How gracious of you, you fucking asshole.”

Tucker swears he hears Wash stifle a laugh from behind his visor. “You are doing a really good job. I’m honestly impressed.” Well, at least he’s paying attention. Still, he turns, sighing. “If only I’d brought the key with me today. Too bad.”

Tucker jolts at the mere implication, and he trips over his own feet trying to trail after Wash as they head for the door. “Nononono, Wash, wait, I’ll follow you to your quarters, I’ll suck your cock, I’ll do all your laundry for the next month, just please-”

Well. So much for not sounding desperate.

-

Dr. Grey keeps the supply closet in her office locked if she isn’t around out of a fear that people will come in, take whatever they want without consulting her, and reduce a critical aspect of their already dwindling medical supplies. The office stays open, though, so everyone who has ever needed a tylenol while she’s on her lunch break knows this for a fact.

Tucker, however, has very little to do during his free time, so he knows more.

He knows Dr. Grey goes to lunch around 13:30 every day, like clockwork, and is gone for thirty minutes. She will not let you in the closet unsupervised, and you cannot pick the lock. However, if you show up right before that, ‘just to see how she’s doing’, she’ll talk your ear off until about 13:35, never letting you get a word in edgewise. He knows a startling amount about her preferences for blood draw spots, as well as the fact that Dr. Grey is a closet sadist and that engaging with her sexually should probably require a waiver, but he’ll never find out for sure, because he is not tapping that. However, once you have this conversation with her, she’ll eventually realize that she’s late, and, scatterbrained as she is, she’ll forget to lock the supply closet on her way out. 

She keeps disposable, single-use packets of medical-grade lube on the third shelf, in the back corner, all of them collected in a little cardboard box. The door locks from the inside, but you can throw the lock before you leave, and the door will still close. If you take a few packets of lube off the top, she’ll never notice, and even if she were to, she’d never be able to trace it back to you. 

He also knows, due to one of the many posters hanging behind Dr. Grey’s desk that he stared at while she went on and on about blood draws, where the prostate is. 

He probably could have just asked for the lube, but really, he doesn’t want her asking followup questions. There’s that adage about sticking your dick in crazy, but there’s something to be said about letting crazy stick you with her terrifying collection of needles, too. He has no fucking clue what’s in those syringes, and he is not trying to end up pregnant again.

The night of his successful heist, though, Tucker almost misses her. She probably has a vibrator in that office somewhere.

He was so close. He found the lube. He got away with the crime. He made it through a very long, very harrowing day of training and war planning, one that put him back in his quarters much later than he’s used to. He got over his reservations with butt stuff as much as he could, but seeing as he’s hit a point beyond desperation, that part wasn’t nearly as hard as it would have been (nor as hard as he would have been) at the start of this. He worked himself up to three fingers, stretched to the point where he decides that he could get used to this, only to discover, now that he’s face-down on his bed, working them in and out of him at a breakneck pace, that his stupid fucking fingers aren’t long enough to reach his prostate.

He tries. He puts in a really valiant effort, one comprised mostly of swearing and begging his own body to work with him here. The friction, a little bit of something after so long of nothing, feels incredible, but it’s not enough. He could cry. Honestly, he nearly does, just out of frustration.

After an hour of trying, Tucker groans, pulling his fingers out and wiping them carelessly on his sheets. He lays down flat, panting, trying to think up some other solution to this that doesn’t involve shoving Donut into a closet and finding out if the guy can top. There’s nothing in his room worth fucking himself with. He’s already checked. 

Beneath him, his cock twitches in its confines. 

“Oh, so you think you’re the one with problems,” Tucker snaps. 

He does agree, though. Something’s got to give. He just hates what that ‘something’ has to be.

-

Tucker drops to his knees on the floor of Wash’s office, just on the other side of the desk, head hung low so he doesn’t have to look at him properly. It takes Wash, out of his armor for once in his stuck-up, rule-following life, a moment to look up from his reports, staring at him with a bit of confusion as he waits for an explanation that never comes (just like somebody else Tucker knows). After a moment, he bites. “Captain Tucker.”

“You win,” Tucker says, tone flat. A beat. He reaches up, unlatches his helmet, and pulls it into his lap. “Please help.”

Wash blinks. “What?”

“You win,” Tucker repeats. Fuck, how does this guy get around all day with his head up his ass? “I’m done. I can’t take it anymore. I’m crazy horny, I haven’t gotten off in weeks, and you haven’t given me any indicator of when you’re actually gonna feel nice enough to take this stupid thing off, so- please.”

“I really don’t know what you’re asking me for here.”

Tucker groans, annoyed, then remembers that he’s supposed to be very nicely asking Wash for a favor and drops his head again. “I know you’re not gonna take the cage off, but I need something. I can’t focus, and my fingers aren’t long enough to get me anywhere.” He’d hoped that would be enough for Wash to get the hint, but Wash just stares at him, motionless, and Tucker takes in a sharp breath. Fine. Okay. His fingers tighten on his helmet, and he forces his voice not to shake. “Fuck me. Please. You don’t have to take the cage off, but if I don’t cum soon, I am actually going to fucking die.”

Before he even finishes that last bit, Wash turns back to his work and sticks the back end of his pen in his mouth, half-spinning his chair back and forth idly with one foot. “You’re not going to die,” he informs him, matter-of-fact, like he’s never heard a hyperbole in his life.

“I am!” Tucker insists. “It hurts, Wash, you have no idea how much this sucks!”

Wash takes his pen out of his mouth and gestures vaguely to Tucker’s crotch with it, all without looking up from his precious reports. “Y’know, I once wore one of those for six months straight-”

“And I’m not you!” Tucker doesn’t mean to yell, but he does mean to interrupt Wash, and he does that just fine. Wash freezes at the sound of his voice, his mouth snapping closed, and- sure. Fine. If that’s what’s going to get him to stop making fun of him, then Tucker isn’t going to continue to grovel. He takes a breath, setting his helmet in front of him, and carefully, he starts to remove his gauntlets, too. If he can look at his hands, it means Wash doesn’t get to see how badly this next part is going to hurt to admit, but he’s been thinking about it for weeks, and there’s no space in his chest for it anymore. The bitterness has to go somewhere, and it turns out that ‘somewhere’ is Wash’s office floor. “I’m not the perfect freelancer super soldier you are. I’m just- just some guy. Fuck it, I’m the chosen one or whatever, but at the end of the day, I just don’t do the shit you do. I never have, and I never will.”

Wash sits with that for a second. He’s looking at Tucker again, at least, slowly lowering the papers into his lap, and that stupidly square jaw of his sets within its confines. “You’re a lot stronger than you think you are.”

Tucker lets out a dry, humorless laugh as he gets his gauntlets off, dropping them with the helmet. “And? What does that have to do with it? I can’t strongarm my way into an orgasm, man, you ziptied the boltcutters shut.”

“Why me?”

“Is that really your last defense here?” Tucker starts to work the chestpiece of his armor off, but pauses to count off on his fingers. “Let’s see: you already know. You can’t make fun of me. You can’t ask me questions. You can’t make my life harder because of it. You put it there, and I think you should take a little bit of responsibility for my suffering, seeing as you’re the primary cause of it. That’s five things. Good enough for you?”

Wash hesitates. Actually, visibly hesitates. Hell, if Tucker didn’t know any better, he’d say the no-nonsense, unflappable Agent Washington is blushing, but he has no idea who he’d say it to, because nobody would ever fucking believe him. “I don’t know, Tucker. We really shouldn’t.”

“Yeah? When has that stopped us from doing anything else?” The chestpiece latches finally release, as do the ones to Tucker’s pants, and he sighs in relief as he practically tumbles out of them. He’s on his hands and knees now, and he takes a moment to catch his breath, lighter now, before he looks back up at Wash and plays the single most unfair card in his hand. It’s a simple question, yes or no, but it’s been stuck in the back of his mind since they started all of this. He tried this line back on earth, too, in quite the same breathless inflection, but it usually got him slapped. Here, though, he’s a badass, time-traveling, sword-wielding DILF, and Wash has already manhandled his dick before, so this might just work if he puts enough pout into it. “C’mon, Wash. Don’t you want me?”

Wash’s jaw clenches so hard that Tucker is the tiniest bit worried that he might crack a tooth. Either he’s about to get kicked in the face, or-

Wash sighs, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Bend over the desk.”

Or he put exactly the right amount of pout into it, and now he’s getting laid.

“Oh my god, thank you so much,” Tucker gasps, all of it bleeding together into one word as he scrambles to his feet and over to Wash’s desk. Wash reaches for one of the drawers, but Tucker pulls a packet of lube from his pocket, dropping it on the desk; Wash stops, looking almost impressed, and Tucker is too relieved and in his own head to think about the implication that Wash, for some reason, keeps lube in his desk. “Like I said, my fingers aren’t long enough, and believe it or not, Dr. Grey apparently doesn’t keep a sex toy supply, so I thought I was just gonna have to suffer forever.”

“Uh-huh,” Wash replies. Tucker still hasn’t bent over the desk. Wash doesn’t order him to do it again, just takes Tucker by the shoulders and eases him down onto its surface, and Tucker, unable to think too hard about it, just- follows. He goes down to his hands, but Wash nudges him a little harder, and without a second thought, Tucker goes down to his elbows instead. Wash’s fingers slip into the waistband of leggings, and-

Oh, wow, he’s actually going to fuck Wash. Tucker had considered the possibility of that happening, of course, seeing as he marched in here about five minutes ago to ask him to, but he almost didn’t expect to get this far. It’s been a while, and as Wash eases his leggings and briefs down to the middle of his thighs, Tucker can’t help but run his mouth to keep some of the tension down. “Do you have any idea how much this thing pinches? And all the time, too. Working out, sleeping, fuckin’- walking to dinner, and don’t even get me started on trying to find time to shower alone.”

It doesn’t help that Wash is giving him absolutely fuck-all to work with, even as he brings two slick fingers to Tucker’s ass and just- just touches him. Probes. Feels. He keeps his voice quiet and unaffected while Tucker tries to catch a breath he never had any right to lose. “I sure do.”

Fuck. What if Wash doesn’t actually want him? Or what if this is bad, or Tucker’s not actually good at taking it up the ass, and Wash can’t stand him after this? Tucker just keeps rambling. That’s the safest option, of course. If he’s talking, he can’t think. “I don’t know how you freelancer guys survived without jerking off every night. Seriously. It hasn’t been that long, comparatively speaking, and I still feel like I’m gonna die. I just-” 

Wash does not let him finish (just like somebody else Tucker knows), but either way, Tucker stops thinking. Wash makes damn sure of that. Wash eases two fingers into him, keeping his movements shallow, and his touch near instantly punches all the air out of Tucker’s lungs. “Oh. Oh my god.” 

“Does that feel okay?” Wash asks, earnest as can be, and- oh holy shit, the voice is a ploy. That is his sexy voice. It’s low, and it’s rough, but he means it when he asks, but he’s so unfairly hot that he doesn’t have to play it up.

“Oh my god.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” A smirk slips into his voice, nearly unnoticeable, but seeing as Wash is sort of the only thing Tucker can focus on right now, Tucker picks up on it. He loses it, though, a second later, when Wash crooks his fingers in just the right way, and dear god, it is real, there is such thing as a prostate, and Wash is just going at that thing like they’re old friends. He just keeps chatting, too, and that certainly doesn’t help, unless you count making this all ten times hotter ‘helping’, in which case, he may as well be Mother Theresa. “Us ‘freelancer guys’ survived because we had an ounce of self control. We weren’t chasing what felt good. We were chasing what we thought was right.”

Tucker lets out a soft, breathless laugh, still trying to get his head to stop spinning. “He says, like he’s never had these magic fucking fingers up his ass before.”

“The thing about being a good soldier, Tucker,” Wash continues as though Tucker hasn’t said anything at all, emphasizing Tucker’s name with a bit more pressure from his fingers and killing another smart-ass comment before it gets the chance to form, “is it takes discipline. Not someone beating it into you, either. You deciding, on your own, to do what needs to be done.”

“Sounds like I’ve got that part nailed, then, right?” Wash spreads his fingers a bit, sighing, and something clicks a second later for Tucker, y’know, once he gets his higher brain functions back. “Heh. Nailed.”

“No, you don’t.” A beat. “Well, sort of. For the most part, this is just you being greedy. However, I can admire the fact that you came to me, willingly, and admitted that you needed help.”

Yeah, after a couple weeks of torture. Is that really all Wash wanted? Sadistic fuck. “Sounds like a pretty good soldier to me.”

“Meh. Not a good soldier, I’d say, but you’re getting there.” Tucker rolls his eyes, and right when he considers kicking Wash in the shin, Wash places his free hand on Tucker’s hip. His fingers slide around to the front of it, and gently, he rubs circles in the dimples of Tucker’s back with his thumb. “Still very, very good for me.”

A shudder runs down Tucker’s spine, and he drops his head, his forehead thunking onto the desk as Wash’s hand ticks its lazy pace up a notch. He should be pissed, seeing as Wash just admitted that he’s into making Tucker come to him like this, but damn, does it feel nice to be told he’s doing all this right. “Jesus fuck, Wash, that’s the right button to hit. Keep doing that. Please.”

Wash hums, an ambivalent sort of sound that Tucker can’t really parse the intention of. “I appreciate how you did, at least, try before you asked for help. There’s no shame in it, but I like self-sufficiency. I can tell you aren’t lying about making an effort, either.”

“You- shit- keeping a lie detector in your desk now?”

“Oh, no. Nevermind the fact that you’re a terrible liar, it’s not something you said.” Wash’s hand tightens on his hip, his nails subtly digging into his skin. “The lube is a little bit of a dead giveaway, though. There’s still some there. Did you try this morning, give up, and come right here?”

Oh, goddamnit. He can tell. Tucker’s face burns at the realization that he’s been had, that Wash caught him, and at the fact that, according to Wash, he’s a shit liar, so he can’t even think of a believable excuse. He stammers for a second with a few ‘well’s and ‘actually’s, but Wash stops moving altogether, and Tucker blurts out the real answer before he can even help himself. “Last night, but I thought you were kinda gonna be all ‘grr Tucker I need you right this second’ and plow me, so I did it again this morning so you wouldn’t have to wait.”

Wash chuckles, infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Figured.” With that, he pulls his fingers out, and as he pulls open one of his desk drawers, he adds something else. “Is that how you think I sound, by the way?”

Okay, yeah, now Tucker can kick him. He tries, too, but Wash evidently stepped back when he opened up his desk, so he misses by what feels like a country mile. “No, you sound like a drill sergeant and a nerd who doesn’t give a shit that I put in all the hard work ahead of time!”

Behind him, something rips open. “I’m sorry,” Wash says, all jokey and cruel like a man who is the furthest thing from sorry, “have I not made it abundantly fucking clear by now that I’m not keen on giving you an orgasm just because you asked?” With that, he puts his hands—both hands, oh shit—on Tucker’s hips, settling behind him. “Besides, you weren’t exactly complaining.”

Well, no. Of course not. It felt nice, and Tucker’s going to have to take notes next time, should there ever be a next time. For now, though, he gets to huff and roll his eyes, because fuck, he’s not sure how much longer he can stand all the teasing. “I reserve the right to be a little annoyed!”

“Yeah, well. I appreciate it, even if you don’t.” Wash takes his hands off of him again, and a moment later, something else tears open. Moves. Tucker knows skin-on-skin when he hears it, and Wash isn't touching him. “That’s the difference. A commanding officer is supposed to make a good soldier’s life harder. A good soldier is supposed to make his commanding officer’s life easier.”

When Wash does deign to touch him again, it’s with one hand, then with- oh fuck that’s his dick. He lines himself up, hard and hot and slick, and Tucker has to take a breath to steady himself, lest he chicken out from the gayest thing he’s ever done. He props himself up a little better, trying to give Wash a look that says I’m not freaking out even a little bit right now. “Well? How did I do?”

Which, evidently, was the wrong move. In all his frustration, sexual and otherwise, Tucker forgot one very critical component of this equation: Wash is hot. 

Wash hasn’t noticed him yet. Either that, or he’s too locked in on the curve of Tucker’s ass to care about his face at the moment. He always looks so serious, his jaw set, his eyes trained on whatever task he has assigned himself, but now, he almost looks relaxed, even fully clothed. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he answers Tucker, and- god damnit, has he always had dimples? “I mean, I thought you were pretty thorough, but-” At that, Wash presses forward, and Tucker, enraptured by the look on his face, gives way without an ounce of resistance. It punches the breath out of him, and the only thing that keeps Tucker from turning back around is the way Wash eases into him, an inch, then two, with his gaze locked on the space between them the whole time. He has to stop there for a second, his head rolling back lazily and his eyes clenching shut, and Tucker notices with the world’s strangest pang of affection that Wash worries his lower lip between his teeth during sex the exact same way he does when he tries to puzzle through a tough battle simulation. 

Carefully, Wash takes his hand off of his cock, bringing it up to join the other on the opposite side of Tucker’s hips. He holds him there, rocking his hips unbearably slow and shallow as he lets out a pleased sigh. “Oh, yeah. Great work.”

Wow. If Tucker weren’t caged right now, he thinks he could have gotten off from that and that alone. Wash sure does know how to make putting in overtime sound appealing.

He pushes in a little further, though, and Tucker has to stifle a moan, dropping his head onto his forearm. “Wash, holy shit. Holy actual-fucking-shit.”

With a hum, Wash’s hands slide up to his waist, and he slides with it, further, deeper, closer. “Feel good?” he asks, voice low, and this time, it’s not a question Tucker’s meant to answer. He knows. He knows it’s fucking incredible, and his smug ass doesn’t need Tucker to tell him.

“You bottomed? Exclusively? For how long?” Tucker’s going to tell him anyway, of course. Wash keeps going, though, and this time, Tucker doesn’t bother pretending like he’s not moaning, melting into a puddle on his own arms. He props his chin up instead, and he just keeps rambling. “Dude. This dick is wasted on bottoming. Locking it up is the most evil thing Project Freelancer ever did.”

“He says, as though he’s done this before.”

“Look, man, I may not be a hardened veteran like you when it comes to bottoming, but I know a great dick when it’s-” Wash shoves his hips a bit more insistently, pushing further, and Tucker has to cut himself off to gasp. He lets out a laugh, and when he continues, Tucker’s voice comes out higher, more strained, “-fucking me in the ass, oh my god, Wash, please give it to me.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I will,” Wash reassures him, perfectly innocent. Despite that, he continues fucking him just like that, slow and careful and barely even moving, and he still hasn’t bottomed out. “Eventually.”

There’s the catch. Tucker looks back at him again, pleading. “Or now, maybe? That’d be pretty great.”

This time, Wash does meet his gaze. He glances up from Tucker’s ass to see him, and the moment he does, lips slightly parted, already sweating, a fire sparks behind them. He looks back down a second later, sighing, and offers exactly zero change in pace, like the gigantic tool that he is. “Y’know, Captain, I think that’s one of the things I take issue with when it comes to how you conduct yourself,” he says, flipping his tone from ‘we’re having sex and I think you’re hot’ to ‘conversational-yet-scolding disciplinary hearing’, which shouldn’t still be hot, but Tucker has been trying to roll with the punches lately anyway. “That’s probably why I haven’t unlocked you yet, come to think of it.”

Tucker groans. He tries to push himself back a bit further, but Wash’s grip holds firm. “Are you lecturing me right now? Seriously?”

Something snaps. The game changes, and Wash pushes further, scrambling Tucker’s higher brain functions. He takes his hands off of Tucker’s waist and plants them on either side of his chest, leaning forward to accommodate, he slides so far into him that Tucker swears he’s gonna be tasting lube for a week after this. “I sure am, Tucker, and you’re gonna lay there, and you’re gonna take it,” Wash hisses, and shit, sir yes sir. Tucker, mouth hanging open, just sort of nods and gives him an ‘uh-huh’ in response, and Wash continues from there, rocking his hips in a slow, insistent rhythm. He punctuates his sentences like that, because Agent Washington is too cool for periods now, apparently. “You don’t think. You do what you want, when you want, and you never wait for anything. You’re hasty, and impatient, and callous.”

Oh, right. They’re still supposed to be having an argument about Tucker’s behavior, as though that’s what any of this is about anymore. Tucker huffs out a laugh. Sure. He’ll play. “Gets results, though, huh?”

“That’s the really infuriating part: usually, it does.” Oh, Tucker hopes Wash knows most of this is lost on him right now. He’ll remember it in snippets later and use it to win arguments, but for now, whatever this is, as it grows more genuine, Tucker is reading all of this as dirty talk, seeing as they’re said in Wash’s sexy breathless voice. “You do something stupid, or you only think about yourself, and the universe goes ‘oh, no. No consequences for Tucker. He’s lucky. He’s gonna get all the natural aptitude and none of the disposition to wield it, and he’s still gonna knock everything he does out of the park’.”

That, for a lecture, sounds suspiciously like praise. Tucker certainly isn’t going to correct him, but shit, that’s more affection than Wash would give him on a good day.

“I admire you, Tucker. I really, really do, but sometimes, you make that kind of embarrassing.” Oh, shit. That is totally praise, and on top of that, it doesn’t sound like an act. It just sounds like Wash. Tucker’s face flushes. “I know you’re talented. I know you’re strong, and smart, and everything that would’ve made you give Carolina a run for her money back in the day, but instead of getting better, you sit around and make dick jokes all day.”

“Yeah?” Tucker purrs right back. Maybe he can get this back on track by playing things up a bit. “And what’s the course of action here, big guy? What do I need? A spanking? ‘Nother two weeks in the cage? A long, hard reminder over your desk every night?”

“What you need,” Wash snipes back, “is a little bit of patience. All you’ve done since I locked you up is try to find ways to get out of it, and if you’d just waited and let me come to you, I would have let you out weeks ago.”

“Yeah, as if. Besides, excuse me for being a problem solver.”

“A problem solver,” he echoes. He picks up the pace a little bit, gritting his teeth for a moment, and Tucker has to slide a hand off the desk to grab onto the edge of it. “You tried to get the cage off in a million different ways. Cutting it off. Begging. Bargaining. None of them worked, and now-”

He stops. It sounds like it’s finally setting in. Tucker smirks. “Now what, Wash?”

“Now I’m fucking you over my desk. I tried to punish you, and you’ve turned it into a scheme to get laid.” Wash lets out a hiss, defeated. “You’re just- just proving my point, you know. Being the best soldier you can be isn’t just about what you can do, it’s about when you choose to do it. Sometimes, if you want something, you have to wait. You have to go through it first. You have to work for it.”

“You told me I wasn’t allowed to suck your dick.”

“Are you even listening to me right now? You’re just- you’re-” Wash starts, but he cuts himself off there. His hips still, and for a moment, Tucker thinks it’s over, but Wash takes a shuddering breath like a man doused in ice water, drops his head onto the nape of Tucker’s neck, and once he catches his breath, he finishes, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re tight. God damnit.”

Tucker laughs, and finally, Wash’s resolve shatters. When Tucker pushes himself up onto his hands, Wash lets him, and Tucker eases himself up until he can put his cheek against Wash’s, his back flush to his chest. “No, I’m not listening. C’mon, just fuck me, please?”

Wash huffs. He nods, though, mumbling a ‘yeah, sure’ under his breath starting up again. Right when he does, Tucker opts to be a little mean and tightens up a bit, which, okay, wow, first of all, and second of all, makes Wash’s hips stutter again. He bites his lip again, hard, and- well. Tucker’s immediate thought is he looks like he’s gonna bite through it, he should stop. 

He acts, without thinking, just like Wash said he does.

Then again, Wash kisses him back, so it clearly isn’t always a bad thing.

This new angle, though—shit. Tucker sees why the cruel nun possession Agent Washington put him on his elbows to start, because when he’s on his hands, pressed up against him, he’s never not nailing his prostate. Sure, Tucker just got acquainted with that guy, but “repeated pleasure plus time equals orgasm” isn’t exactly rocket science. He gets to take Wash deeper like this, though, and even better, he gets to make out with him while he forgets his own name. He’s touching him so much more, and now, he gets to hear every little whimper that lives at the back of Wash’s throat, barely audible. Wash tries to force himself to be quieter, he learns, and he’s enjoying this far more than he wants to let on. He learns plenty of other things, too. There’s an amount of tongue Wash considers ‘too much’, but he’ll never complain if you get to that point, just pull back and start over. He has a tiny chip in one of his canines. Despite the thermos of coffee on the corner of his desk, he still tastes like regulation-standard mint toothpaste, and Tucker kind-of-sort-of wants to rip him apart with his teeth.

Wash fucks like he trains, though: efficient, leaving no room for wasted time, and in a manner that seems like it was specifically engineered to piss Tucker off. It doesn’t exactly help that Tucker hasn’t gotten off in weeks, nor that Wash seems to have made it his personal goal to wrench an orgasm without him. The pressure is building, and once Wash sets his sights on something, short of a gunshot wound to the head, nothing is going to stop him from getting it. Either that, or he’s way too in character, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing. Tucker resolves not to tell him how close he is, regardless. What Wash doesn’t know won’t kill him. 

Still, when Wash pulls away from the most recent kiss, pressed close to him, Tucker pants in a way so desperate that the best he can do is pray that Wash doesn’t notice, arching back into him. “Fuck, Wash, just like that-”

“You know what pisses me off about you, Tucker?” Wash murmurs, and his voice is so rough that Tucker is sure it could sand paint off a car. “You don’t try because you don’t think you can do better. Under all that fuckin’ bravado, you still act like you’re still some lab rat kicking rocks at Blood Gulch.”

Fuck, Tucker thinks. Back at it again with the criticism. Somebody has got to get this guy laid- oh, wait. He can’t help but laugh at that, but it comes out a little too weak and a little too breathless. “Oh, yeah?”

“I really don’t think it’s all that funny.” One hand moves from its place by Tucker’s hip, sliding up until it plants itself on Tucker’s chest, holding him against Wash’s body as he continues to fuck him. “You got good when your back was turned, when you weren’t paying attention, and that’s the part that sucks, because now that you finally deserve to brag, you still don’t think you do. Everybody either wants to fuck you or be you or learn from you, and yet this is the example you choose to set.”

Oh. Oh, that’s praise, and really, really nice praise, too. The pressure keeps building, and this time, it doesn’t recede, not in the slightest. Tucker opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a litany of sounds. They don’t really mean anything. 

“You piss me off, Tucker, because I know you’re good, but with talent like yours, just good isn’t good enough.” Thankfully, Wash is still in monologue-mode, teeth gritted, going on and on and ignoring the way that Tucker starts to come apart in his arms. “You could be better if you just applied yourself. You’re good, but with the right guidance, you could be great.”

The last word comes out as a hiss against Tucker’s ear, punctuated with a stab of Wash’s hips, and something inside of Tucker ignites-

Then explodes into a sensation of pure, unadulterated feeling. It’s intense, fireworks that make Tucker’s knees go weak as Wash’s hips stall inside of him, but despite it all, he doesn’t cum.

Holy shit. The mythical prostate orgasm, once thought impossible by space DILFs across the galaxy, is real. It’s real, and truly, it’s a religious experience. After this, Tucker will worship it as his new god, but in the meantime, Wash makes him a believer, holding him up as he gasps and claws his way through divine sensation. 

By the end of it, he’s still panting too hard to speak. It lasts longer, he realizes, which automatically earns it another point over cumming the dumb old fashioned way. He lets out a weak cry as Wash pulls out of him, but he doesn’t have enough fight in him to stop him, nor to do anything but lay back down on the desk where Wash puts him. He hears something hit the bottom of the wastebasket nearby, followed by the rustle of clothing and the sound of Wash’s boots on the tile. He rounds the front of the desk, still tucking his shirt back into his pants. Tucker cranes his neck to look up at him, trying to muster the energy to make a joke about needing a cigarette or something stupid like that, but any words die in his throat once he catches sight of Wash standing over him, raking sweat-soaked hair back with one hand and reaching for him with the other. Tucker leans for his touch. Asks for it. Begs.

Wash seizes him by the jaw, then leans down further to meet him, almost condescending. His brow is knit tight across his forehead in determination, and he’s still huffing out breaths from between his teeth as he bypasses Tucker’s face and goes for his ear instead, his voice a low snarl. “Fight it all you want,” he says, like it’s an invitation and a foregone conclusion all at once, “but I’ll make a damn fine soldier of you yet, Tucker. Just you wait.”

He lets go before Tucker gets the chance to process all of that, ruffling his hair back into presentability as he backs off. Wash turns, and when he strolls right out of his office like Tucker isn’t melted in a puddle on his desk, Tucker knows it isn’t a way to get out of aftercare: it’s an invitation to follow.

In the half-second before Wash closes the door, the key glints around his neck.

Fuck.