Lavernius Tucker has Plans.
That's right, multiple plans. Usually Tucker's plans consist of two steps: 'get naked' and 'get off.' There might be a few deviations where he doesn't get completely naked, but step two is a must. It's a strategy that has served him well through years of his life, all the way back to his first plan when he was thirteen years old to sneak into the YWCA's changing room. It was a success and he got two good weeks of wet dreams out of that one. Simple plans are the best. Too many steps muck things up, make it easier to focus more on the doing than on the getting done and can cause a man to lose sight of what is really important: getting his dick wet.
This is different though. Making plans for Wash is different. “Dude,” he tells himself in the mirror that morning after brushing his teeth, “you are so whipped.” He injects as much chastising resignation into his tone as possible but it doesn't help. He's still blissed the fuck out about it.
The first plan he has is to get Wash worked up early in the morning, before they even go to breakfast. It shouldn't be difficult since they have PT in the morning, jogging and strength training. Tucker's seen like forty fucking porn scenarios about banging in the gym alone. They're going to be in workout clothes instead of their armor, makes for easy access to makeouts and maybe some heavy petting if he can get away with it, but for once he'll show restraint. Just this once, so Wash'll save it up for tonight. Oh yes.
Tucker shoots Wash a text, something flirty but extremely subtle like Cant wait 2 get hot and sweaty w/ u before leaving his quarters and heading for the track. He wears actual shorts this time because he knows Wash likes his legs (who wouldn't, his calves are fucking gorgeous) and heads to the track to wait for Wash to show up. He'll be surprised for sure, probably happily so because usually Wash is at the track and calling Tucker to get out of bed half an hour from now.
...except Wash is already at the track. Okay, well, that's fine. It's not like plan numero uno doesn't work if he's not first. He'll just stretch and then jog up alongside him. Let the sexual tension sit for a little while, simmer then boil, and then open with a slammin' pickup line. “So did you-”
“Tucker, not now,” Wash sighs.
“Okay, fine,” he mutters. Wash didn't want to flirt? Whatever. Fine, he'll deal with that. The first plan can be changed and it's not like the rest of the day is a waste, he'll just have to work harder on the next steps. Making out is always awesome, he'll just direct Wash's attention over to the small space between the utility shed and the perimeter wall with a nudge-
That Wash dodges. Ohhhkay. All right, well, his plan is failing spectacularly. What is it, does he stink? No, not yet; besides, Tucker always thought his sweat had that nice masculine tangy smell, totally metro and totally attractive. Wash never seemed to mind it when he was sweaty. Oh shit, does he already have a stiffy? No, no, Li'l Tuck is behaving. What the fuck is it?
One look at Wash makes the answer to that pretty clear.
He's barely flushed from the exercise, pale with dark smudges under his eyes, mouth turned down, a crease between his brows, the tired wrinkles that have carved themselves into his face with the tools of fear and heartache deeper than ever. “Oh geez,” Tucker sighs, and immediately abandons all of his Plans. “Wash, how long's it been since you slept?”
Wash doesn't look at him. “That obvious?”
“Yeah, it's pretty obvious. Okay, c'mon.” He grabs for Wash's elbow and this time Wash lets him, body stiff and just a touch resistant as Tucker drags him from the track. “No, no shut up. You're going back to bed and I'm going with you.”
“Tucker, I'm really not in the mood-”
“I can't just go back to bed. I have too much to do-”
“Uh you don't have anything to do until after lunch because I checked your schedule and I'm pretty sure your bangin' bod won't waste away from playing hooky for just one morning. Come on.” Wash doesn't actually fight all that much as Tucker goads him back toward his quarters, and that about says it all.
The longest relationship Tucker's ever been in was two weeks. He dated a girl in high school and they banged on the second Saturday after going steady. He says sometimes that he dumped her because he got what he wanted, but really she dumped him because supposedly he was shit at sex. Which obviously could not be true, for many reasons, the first being that he's awesome at sex and the second being fuck her for telling all the other juniors that his dick was small.
Not that Tucker is keeping count or anything, but he and Wash have been together for six months and seventeen days at this point. Tucker never thought he would keep someone around for that long, though he's not surprised; he's been with the same eight tools for years and years now, not that he gets any nookie out of them (no thank you for the mental image also). A fear of commitment isn't the problem here.
Maybe it's a fear of something else.
But like this, this is okay. It's not what Tucker's used to and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't thinking of sexy shit for half of it, but slowly pulling Wash's shirt off as he gives Tucker that resigned look, running his fingers through Wash's hair to muss it up and pulling him back toward the bed feels so natural it's like he's been doing it for most of his life.
“Here, let's switch it up.” Tucker lays down first and pulls Wash on top of him, scoots over against the wall and slides an arm over Wash's shoulder to press between his shoulder blades, pull his head down toward his chest. “Put your ear here.”
“What? Oh. Okay, uh.” Wash lays down like that, arranges himself awkwardly.
“No, c'mon, like.” Tucker pulls at Wash insistently. “Get comfortable.”
Wash fidgets, and again. “Why? Usually we're the other way.”
“Back when I had Junior, Caboose gave me this book as like, a baby shower thing or something. A baby shower gift three weeks after I had him, I know, and I have no idea how he even got it delivered- anyway,” Tucker interrupts himself because he can feel Wash getting exasperated in the way his body shifts, “the point is that in there it said something like the sound of somebody's heart is supposed to be soothing.”
“Except I'm not your baby,” Wash says dryly.
“No asshole, for everybody. Adults too, like it taps into something primal or something, some new age womb shit.”
“You...want me to treat you like a womb.”
“Oh my god.” Tucker's face burns and he smacks Wash on the back. “Just get comfortable already.”
Wash shifts around a few times but he gets there eventually, a heavy weight spread over Tucker's chest and side that isn't actually all that bad. His arm lies across his belly, his cheek mushed up against Tucker's skin. “...you know, I don't actually feel comfortable on my stomach.”
“'Cause of the whole thing about watching the exits?”
Wash pushes up and looks at Tucker in surprise.
“What? I read.” Tucker sniffs. Grey had mentioned it actually, during their talks about helping Wash with his anxiety and panic attacks. “What if you get on your back and put your head on my arm?”
They rustle around like that for almost fifteen minutes, trying different positions, different placements of limbs until Wash finally, finally relaxes within the crook of Tucker's arm. And Tucker lays there with Wash on top of him for once, eyes on the ceiling when they're not on the tips of Wash's fluffed up hair, fingertips running up and down, up-down the lines of Wash's body until his voice is gone from his breath, until the tension is gone from his bones and he's there, asleep, resting, and his.
Tucker's following plans go like this:
He tries to surprise Wash after his training session with the cadets only to be interrupted by Carolina abducting him for a mission. He spends the day in the Pelican complaining about his blue balls and upsetting at least ninety percent of the people around him.
The mess hall doesn't open early enough for him to bring Wash breakfast in bed and Kimball won't let him in to cook it himself because if Grif gets wind of it she'll never hear the end of it.
Bringing Wash over to see one of the civilian's new litter of kittens gets him brownie points but absolutely no nookie, because then Wash spends the following week visiting Mrs. Dunn's house and playing with the kittens until they find homes. Tucker gets reacquainted with masturbation in the meantime. He tells Wash he drew his face on his hand and takes off his glove to show him.
All of his plans collapse in on themselves, leaving him feeling more frustrated and disappointed than ever. They have sex once in a while but it's an uninspired thing, all quick handjobs or blowjobs to sate the hunger rather than indulging in a feast and Tucker gives up when the lack of quantifiable results gets him down. He redoubles his efforts with his training, gets good enough to check his instructor three times out of ten instead of just one. He goes jogging with Wash in the mornings and enjoys the simplicity of their breath in the same space, not always synced up but always parallel. He even lets Carolina talk him into a grappling session with Caboose to test him against other opponents and walks away with a sprained elbow and Caboose apologizing but still looking kind of smug about it.
It's not until they're in the war room going over an upcoming mission that Tucker thinks about it again, thinks about really fucking Wash, getting fucked by Wash. It kind of sneaks up on him actually; they're just talking about the mission and Kimball asks for his input and he says what he's thinking, rifle resting up against his shoulder as he points at the 3D map and goes, “The rest of it's okay but if this is the east-facing slope your guys are gonna get spotted coming down this way, not enough vegetation to hide. Send them up the west side, have them hop the ridge up here and then come down valley for a rear attack. -hah! Bow chicka bow wow.”
Kimball does the universal motion for rolling ones eyes when one is wearing a helmet but nods along with his assessment. “You're right. I'll have the waypoint moved.”
Washington is watching him and Tucker's not quite sure what it's about until a text notification pops up at the corner of his HUD. Kimball moves on to requisitions and he opens it as she and Doyle start squabbling about ammo rationing again.
WSH: I'm off for the rest of the day.
Tucker almost leaves right then and there. He fires back a quick FCK YEA OMFG DUDE MY PLCE and watches Wash's shoulders do that little hitch thing they do when he's trying to conceal a laugh. His fingers tap against his rifle for the rest of the meeting and he makes passes at Kimball until she tells him to get the hell out.
Tucker's back hits the wall and it sends bolts of lightning through all his limbs starting at his shoulders, ending at his balls, his dick that he presses right against Wash's thigh. Wash's mouth his so hot on his neck, his teeth digging in just barely every once in a while and Tucker thinks he could wind Wash's hair in his fingers and pull all fucking day, all fucking year. “Goddamn Wash yeah, yeah,” he pants but he turns his head, kisses his temple, his cheek, nudges his face back up with his nose so he can get his tongue inside Wash's mouth. Wash's hands burn against his skin like brands, gripping his hips so hard he hopes he has bruises later, and Tucker just keeps adjusting his grip in Wash's stupid soft bottle-blond hair, scratching his nails over his scalp until Wash whimpers in his mouth. “Fuck that's hot,” Tucker groans. “I wanna fuckin' make a playlist of all the sounds you make dude, seriously. I'd never get anything done.”
“That's not great incentive for me to let you,” Wash points out and his voice has that fucking awesome amused tone, that half-smug thing that makes Tucker think of Wash kicking the shit out of Felix the next time he sees him before handing that asshole over to Tucker for the coup de grace. God, god damn, god damn Wash is pressing him hard against the door, trying to rub up against him just as rough and Tucker has had a lot of sexy dreams that don't even come close to how great this is.
“Oh god, dude, fuck, let me fuck you.” Tucker slides his hands down Wash's back hard, grabs two perfect handfuls of his ass and squeezes. It's so awesome when Wash gets like this, too turned on to be self-conscious, too single-minded to delay or ask Tucker if he wants, if he really wants because of fucking course he wants when Wash's eyes are this dark gray in the shadows of the room, when his lips are bitten bright red, when he presses the planes of his chest right against Tucker's and he feels like he's being both held down and held up at the same time.
“Yeah,” Wash breathes against his neck and Tucker shivers, pushes back when Wash pulls, lets Wash yank him over to the bed so they can fall onto it, so Tucker can swing his leg over Wash's hips and keep kissing him, tasting him until his fucking mouth fucking bruises. “God, Tucker, I-”
“Yeah yes,” Tucker agrees dizzily, sucking kisses from Wash's lips; they move together like waves, like crashing water, like sheets of rain or mounds of lava, like the things of nature when they clash and make smoke and lightning and explosions. “God damn you're so hot. Fuck. I'm gonna suck your dick.”
Wash's breath stutters and the way he looks at Tucker with that expression on his face, like it still hurts him to accept something that feels so good makes Tucker want to jump into his past and beat the shit out of a million people. “You don't-”
“Shut up,” Tucker interrupts. He's not even letting that leave his mouth. You don't have to, giving Tucker a chance to take it back, still. It pisses him off. It makes him angry at Wash, angry for Wash, but he's got better ways of channeling that anger than starting a fight that won't end with either of them laid. He just wrenches Wash's sweats and boxer briefs down together, just far enough to get at his dick and licks his lips, dives in, pressing his tongue against Wash's slit until it sounds like he's crying, he feels so good.
Wash's hands come up to cradle Tucker's head, fingers shaking against his hair, trying not to squeeze as Tucker wraps a hand around his base and sucks on the head, takes him down as far as he can without gagging, comes back up with this fucking filthy slurp sound that makes his own cock twitch against the mattress. “Tucker,” Wash gasps; his legs come up restless, he hooks a knee over Tucker's side, he presses his head back into the pillow. “Tucker, stop, stop, I want- I-”
Tucker pulls off with a pop and Wash shudders. “Wash, if you're about to say 'I want you inside me' or like 'I want you to fuck me raw' or something like that, please, for god's sake, do it in like the sluttiest voice you can manage dude. I need spank bank material for when you're out on missions.”
“Come here,” Wash says lowly and he makes fists in Tucker's hair to pull him up and yeah, that's absolutely just as good.
The thing about Washington is that Tucker had been completely right when he'd said that Wash loves to deny himself. He loves drawing shit out, he loves taking forever to come; sometimes he'd tease Tucker until he was frantic before getting him off, and then finally getting himself off. Wash usually only had one good load to fire off before passing out but the longer Tucker delays it, the harder Wash crashes. Crashing is good. Crashing means a heavy, dreamless, satisfied sleep.
Tucker, meanwhile, can get off sometimes twice in the time it takes Wash to get off once, which is kind of perfect, his refractory period is probably his best feature (in his opinion). He actually hadn't even known about it before Wash; usually he'd come fast, before his partner, who would be so annoyed they wouldn't try to go for a second one. But Wash had just sighed like he'd expected it, made out with Tucker for another twenty minutes and then sucked his dick again. Fuck, that had been the most perfect moment the first time that happened; the head of his dick oversensitive and tingly, Wash merciless on it and it had hurt, squeezed like a vice to blow his load again but it had been fucking perfect.
“Dude,” Tucker whispers into Wash's mouth in that incredibly sexy way that he knows Wash loves because it's like softcore porn dramatic. Wash loves a hand pressing against his stomach, he loves Tucker rubbing a thumb over the hairs on his chest, he loves Tucker spreading his fingers out as far as possible to cover as much of his skin as he can. Tucker knows all this shit now. He knows Wash's things like he's got them fucking cataloged. “I wanna use the cock ring on you.”
Wash sucks in a breath. When he looks at Tucker it's all slow burning coals and sharp edges. “...okay. Grab it.”
It takes some coaxing and a lot of lube but Tucker gets the ring nudged down to the base and Wash props himself up on his elbows, brow furrowed. “You okay, dude? You look like you gotta take a shit.”
“No. Just...feeling it out.”
“Okay well, you're supposed to just get used to it at first so let's just mess with it and then if it gets bad we take it off.” Tucker drags a hand up the underside of Wash's cock and grins at the jerk of Wash's hips. “Yeahhh, looks like you like it.”
“It- everything's sharper,” Wash pants, hanging his head back. “Mmm, keep going. Keep going.”
“Oh man Wash, I totally wanna fuck you with this thing on you dude.” Tucker wipes at Wash's dick a bit before leaning down and sucking on the head of his cock. Wash jerks again with a punched-out sound, like a yelp almost and yeah, fuck yeah that's good, Jesus Christ he's so hard right now. “Okay okay, lemme get the lube, I'm at least gonna finger fuck you with this on.”
Tucker has to shove his hand against his own dick as he slips a finger inside Wash, tugs at his entrance, presses deeper and gets to his prostate to rub the pad of his finger against it. Wash slowly wilts back onto the bed and his dick just gets redder and redder, twitches against his belly every time Tucker jabs particularly hard or curls his finger.
“Oh god Tucker, I'm- I'm gonna come, I'm-” But Tucker just stops and Wash makes the most fucking amazing sound, half panting ahs and growling fucks and his dick twitches there like he's coming but he's not, he's fisting his hands in the sheets, he's pulling up and locking his legs around Tucker's waist like he's going to pull him in and in again and again. “God damn it,” Wash gasps, chest blushed red, freckles dark, head tossed and fucking Christ Tucker's never seen anything like it.
“Wash,” Tucker whimpers; his dick throbs and he can't help it, he can't help himself, he presses into the crease of Wash's leg and hip and slots his dick right next to Wash's and holy shit, holy shit that little bump of texture from the ring rubs over his cock just right and he's thrusting against Wash's stomach once, twice and coming quick, spurting up onto Wash's chest, pressing down as Wash pants and shakes against him.
Wash's dick throbs against Tucker's belly as he comes back down. “I wanna come so bad, shit Tucker, you're so hot,” Wash pants and Tucker's never really heard Wash say it like that before, just you're so hot because Wash never manages to get that far, always trips right at so and doesn't quite make it.
Tucker moans and shoves himself up, pins Wash to the bed with a kiss before pulling back. “Want me to take it off?”
Wash surges up to kiss Tucker back and they slide against each other, skin slick and hands grabbing, grasping, clinging to each other, fighting to hold on harder. “I-I don't know, I- Not yet, I don't want this to end yet-”
“Oh shit dude okay, I got just the thing. Wait just a sec,” Tucker presses down hard again, kisses Wash until his head swims before pulling away to roll off of him and start pulling boxes from beneath his bed. He can hear Wash shifting and heaving for breath on the bed, can picture the way he must look from the small sounds falling from his mouth like his own private porn theater. “Wash, what the fuck, you're so fucking hot,” Tucker mutters as he gets down on his belly, winces at the cold of the concrete floor against his dick as he fumbles for the box pushed all the way to the back.
It takes Wash a few minutes to answer him, voice a little more steady when he laughs, “You're getting that stupid pink dildo, aren't you?”
“It's not stupid and technically, not a dildo! Told you it was like a dildo.” There it is, fucking finally.
“What's like a dildo that isn't- oh,” Wash stops when Tucker holds up the vibrator with a sharklike grin. “Oh god. Okay. Get up here right now, we're using that.”
Like it's got its own gravitational pull, Tucker is once again drawn to Wash's mouth and they make out messy as he clambers back onto the bed, legs tangling, Wash jumping whenever anything brushes against his red, twitching so hard dick. “God, how can you stand being that hard,” Tucker asks as he rolls a condom onto the vibrator and lubes it up.
“It's- I know it'll be great once I actually do come so it's not bad.” The tone in Wash's voice definitely reads that it's a sight better than just 'not bad' and Tucker snorts. Even with his dick wrangled by a cock ring and a vibrator about to go up his ass, Wash is still shooting for dignity. Time to blow that goal out of the water. “I know you probably don't understand the concept of telling yourself no so I wouldn't expect you to g-ah, at least warm up the lube Tucker, Jesus.”
“Stop being a baby, it's not even that big. Look! I'm only like half hard and this thing's a fuckin' pencil dick in comparison.”
“Is it adjustable?” Wash reaches for the vibrator. “Holy shit, it is. Here, curve it.”
“What, like this?”
“No, like- You know where my prostate is, why are you bending it like that? Give it here.”
“No! Wash, stop, I've got it I'll do it-”
“Stop being stubborn and just-”
If asked later Tucker will call the resulting scuffle an incredibly sexy lubed-up wrestling match, but in reality it's he and Washington slapping a slippery vibrator between them, each trying to get a good grip on both the toy and each other. It turns on twice and Wash puts Tucker in a leg lock that isn't sexy so much as it is kinda painful and it only ends when Tucker gets a hand around Wash's dick and jerks him off into shuddering that he finally gets it away from him. “God! You control freak, lay down and let me handle this!”
Washington doesn't surrender so much as he acquiesces and that annoys Tucker, but this late in the game he'll take whatever he can get. “I'm not a control freak.”
“Yes you are. You always micromanage me when I fuck you,” Tucker grumbles, teasing the toy inside of Washington slowly.
Wash still manages to glare even when his breath hitches, when he rolls his hip up to take more of it inside. “I do not micromanage us having sex.”
“Like at least three times out of four.”
“It's called communicating!”
“How about it's called I know what you like so shut up and let me do it, how about that?” Tucker slips the vibrator back out of him before thrusting it in slow, angling it to drag against the inside of Wash's walls. He can see Wash's jaw clenching from here, trying to keep in the moan he undoubtedly wants to let loose because he's too proud to admit that Tucker's right.
But...going this way is going to end in more bad-feelings arguments than good-feelings arguments, so Tucker swallows his pride. This is about Wash, after all. “Trust me. If I do something you don't like just lemme know, but just trust me dude. I'm gonna make you feel good.”
Wash pushes himself up onto his elbows to look at Tucker and Tucker gives himself a moment to just take in all of him. The weathered lines of his face, the freckles across his cheeks and nose. His rumpled bleached shock of hair, the sides buzzed down and still dark, speckled with gray here and there which is incredibly sexy in a way Tucker never thought he'd be into. Wash has a lot of scars, way more than Tucker does but his are less dramatic, less blindingly obvious because his are accumulated from years and years of intense battle and patchwork healing instead of a few traumatic events followed by weeks of downtime. His scars are small and plenty, are white lines that run vertical over the corner of his mouth, follow the curve of his eyebrow, slope down the bridge of his nose. His marks are the result of wars instead of battles.
Tucker crawls over atop him and meets him in a kiss. “You deserve to feel good, dude,” he says, because he thinks Wash needs to hear it from someone he believes.
When Wash's expression goes all tight at the edges and soft in the center Tucker knows he said it right, got it across because he sinks down, slings an arm over Tucker's shoulders and pulls him down with him, kisses him like he's trying to swallow the air from Tucker's lungs, like oxygen from Tucker is better than the oxygen in the air because of who it's been inside.
Tucker lets Wash kiss him and reaches down between them, presses his arm against the hot, throbbing line of Wash's restricted cock and reaches for the vibrator, clicks it on. Wash jumps up against him with the moan he'd held in earlier, louder for its prior restraint and his mouth tilts back and away from Tucker's so Tucker goes for his neck instead. He thrusts the vibrator inside of Wash, gets a cramp in his wrist but tilts it until it presses buzzing against Wash's prostate and the strangled shout he gets for his trouble is a thousand, a billion times worth it, infinitely worth it.
“Oh god!” Wash squeezes out his sounds through his teeth, hips jerking desperately against Tucker's arm, his cock twitching hard and Tucker can hear it, can feel it in the line of Wash's body that if that ring wasn't there he'd already be coming, he'd be spent then and there and he paws at Tucker's shoulder as he thrusts the vibrator against that spot, desperate, frantic, “off, off, Tucker take it off, take it-”
He doesn't have to ask again. Tucker pops off of his neck and sits back on his heels, thumbs the release on the ring and pulls it up over Wash's dick. Washington gasps, almost sobs when Tucker bends down to swallow down half his cock, clicks the vibrator over to the highest setting and feels Wash's dick spurt against the back of his throat. He recognizes distantly that he's never heard Wash sound this unhinged as his shaking hands come down to Tucker's hair again, clutching as Tucker sucks down everything Wash gives him (and he'll never in a million years admit to practicing this, to practicing sucking dick and swallowing come but Wash might be able to tell anyway).
“Stop,” Wash begs finally, sounding finished, sounding weak and happy and destroyed as Tucker turns off the vibrator but leaves it there, knows Wash hates feeling empty and cold right after, pulls off his dick slowly enough to clean it before leaning back on his heels again and wiping his sopping mouth. “Oh my god,” Wash says hoarsely, gazing at Tucker with red-rimmed, awestruck eyes, “you swallowed. You actually swallowed.”
Tucker grins, feeling wrung out, painfully hard, accomplished like he's just saved a planet. “Gonna come again?”
Wash reaches and Tucker goes to him.
Tucker doesn't complain when Wash rolls Tucker onto his back. He doesn't say a word when Wash goes down on him, all eager hands and tongue and lips, he doesn't complain when Wash runs his hands all over his body, presses his fingers against scars and muscles, into the creases of his thighs, along the bones of his hips. He doesn't say anything when Wash sucks on the tip of his cock, doesn't throw out any witty commentary when Wash wriggles a lubed-up finger inside of him, doesn't fight when Wash braces an arm across his hips and teases him to screaming with a finger against his prostate and his tongue under the head of his cock.
And when he's coming into Wash's mouth, when he's wrapping his fingers in Wash's hair and pulling, when he's the one begging for Wash to keep going instead of for him to stop he knows that his plans are for shit because it always, always and forever (with his military career, with his friendships and fatherhood and his life up to whatever this is now), always works out best when he just goes with the flow.