Work Text:
Wash was nearly at the end of his rope. It had been weeks since they had crashed, and Carolina and Church had left without a word. Weeks without any real contact with the outside, and their one successful attempt at getting a radio transmission through had actually made things worse by bringing two more people to take care of. He was trying to lead blue team, but he couldn’t seem to do anything right. He was a soldier, and Caboose and Tucker, for all their inexplainable luck, were not. It had taken him too long to realize it, and now his Hail Mary move to convince Caboose to return leadership of blue team, and control of Freckles, to him wasn’t. Fucking. WORKING!
He threw his helmet at the door of his hidden workroom in frustration just as it slid open. It flew over the head of Simmons, who had to duck. “Sorry, Wash!” he said, coming up off one knee. “I know you didn’t want to us coming back here, but I finished cleaning blue base, and so Caboose told me to see if you needed help.” Wash just glared at him, biting down on screaming at him to leave. Simmons was an added frustration and responsibility he didn’t want. If Freckles caught him ‘skipping out on orders,’ he’d probably be dead. It didn’t help that the maroon soldier represented a time in his life when he was grasping for any control of his own destiny, and had done things he regretted. It had been false control that gained him nothing he had thought he wanted.
He had been glaring too long. Simmons shifted nervously, mumbling another apology, and slipped quickly out the door. Wash let his head fall back for a second, a tiny bit relieved, but the door opened back up and the maroon soldier slid back in, holding Wash’s helmet and some kind of cloth. Wash’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, his voice dropping in an effort not to yell. All in an effort to avoid Freckles, and any other stray idiots in the area.
Fuck Freckles, and fuck the rest of them.
“Oh, I was just going to see if I could buff this scratch out of your helmet,” Simmons said nervously. The man wasn’t stupid, and Wash wasn’t being subtle about his agitation. Steel blue eyes bore into him as he tried to get the black marks off the helmet, which kept slipping in his hands. When Simmons looked at the work bench, obviously looking for a place to it down, Wash slipped a little further.
“Give me the god damn thing!” the blue leader snapped, stalking over and grabbing the helmet out of Simmons hands before he could think of moving any of the chaos Wash had carefully laid out, never mind there being a clear spot where it had been resting, the model he was using to rebuild Caboose’s. He turned it so the scratch was facing out, bracing it against his stomach. “I’ll hold it.”
“O-okay, Wash,” Simmons stuttered. He stood as far back as he could and still reach it, and Wash almost snarled. “How the hell do you think that’s going to work?“ He reached out and snagged the Simmons’ chestplate and yanked him so that he was standing with only the space of the helmet between them. Wash thought he heard the Simmons inhale sharply, but couldn’t be sure with his helmet still on.
“Y-you’re r-ight,” he said, the stammer getting worse, and Wash didn’t imagine him starting to breathe harder, and he liked the other man nervous. Liked it enough that he felt a urge deep inside he hadn’t felt in years. Fuuuck.
“Is that how you answer your superior, soldier?” Wash almost didn’t recognize his own voice.
Simmons noticed, too, because he stopped working on the scratch as his head snapped up. “No.” Simmons swallowed, and tried again. “No, sir.”
“Better.” Wash said. “Now get down there and buff my helmet.”
“Si-ir, are y-you sure?” Simmons voice was getting higher, something that happened whenever he got really nervous, but the breaking was reserved for women. Wash tried getting a better read, but he needed to see his face, and there was the damn gold dome blocking it. He needed Simmons to run from this room and never mention this again.
“Are you questioning me, soldier?” Wash demanded. Simmons shook his head furiously.
“N-no, sir.”
“I didn’t think so. Now, take off your helmet and get on your knees.” A tiny voice in the far back of his head screamed to stop, he was under his protection, even if he was really a red. He didn’t care anymore. He stared as Simmons slowly raised his hands, now slightly shaking, and removed his helmet. Took in the slight flush to his face, so apparent on his pale skin. The slightly glassy look in his green eyes, and the fact that he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “And for the love of God, stop stuttering. I’m not a girl.”
Simmons took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he said slowly and quietly as he sunk to his knees, placing his own helmet to the side. The tiny voice in the back of his mind screamed at the red-head to get up and run, but the words never left Wash’s mouth. Instead, he clutched onto his own cobalt and yellow helmet and watched Simmons work, his hand sliding smoothly and quickly over the spot over and over. It only took a few minutes to do now that the proper pressure could be applied, but Wash felt hypnotized, and a tiny groan escaped into the silence that had surrounded them when Simmons breathed on the spot to give it a final buff.
Simmons shivered slightly at the sound, his eyes meeting Wash’s steel blue ones. His breath caught in his throat at the look he saw there. The blonde ex-Freelancer was usually so controlled, so angry. He looked anything but in control now, and if he was angry, it was pushed away by the aroused look in his eyes. “Is there anything else, sir?” he asked, tugging slightly on Wash’s helmet. He was surprised when he released it, until he realized just how close his head was to Wash’s codpiece.
Wash pulled his magnum off his hip, checked the chamber to make sure there was a bullet there, making sure Simmons could see it. “My gun needs cleaning. So get to licking,” he said, lowering the weapon so it was pointing right at the red head’s mouth. Wash watched with a great deal of satisfaction as Simmons eyes grew huge, staring at the pistol.
“Sir?” he squeaked.
Wash hooked his chest piece and pulled him closer, even as he rested the muzzle on his lips. Simmons’ tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and Wash let go before he did something else he’d regret. “I said lick my gun, soldier,” Wash said huskily, and readjusted his stance as the space behind his codpiece went from a little tight to uncomfortable. He pushed the gun harder onto his mouth.
“Yes sir,” Simmons whispered, and his tongue flicked out and touched the front of magnum. He took a shaky breath, and this time, he gave it a long, slow stroke up the front of the muzzle. His confidence up, he began slowly moving around the gun with his head, using the same long strokes for the smooth surfaces, pausing every now and then to work the tip around the edge of the scope cover, hard little motions that seemed designed to make Wash‘s breath catch. He finally slid his lips over the top cover of the scope, before coming back to the front of the handgun. He looked up directly into the blonde’s eyes and pushed his tongue into the barrel.
Wash felt everything Simmons did in his own cock as he worked his tongue in and out of the muzzle. Slowly, the gun was rotated, and Simmons took the hint. He slid his lips back and forth along the flat surface before opening his mouth, taking in just the front. He closed his eyes, and slowly pushed forward, stretching his lips over the oblong muzzle, then pulling it back off just as slowly. Wash didn’t bother to hide the groan this time, and Simmons eyes jumped to his, and he stopped moving. Wash shoved the gun farther into his mouth, up to the hand guard. “I didn’t tell you to stop.” Simmons made a noise of assent, then began working it in earnest. He moaned around the gun, the sound, and sight of him quickly bobbing his head so close to his codpiece making Wash hard enough to be painful even if he wasn’t wearing a thing.
It wasn’t just that, though. He felt his own finger reach for the trigger. It was only training religiously in gun safety that kept Simmons safe. He had the power to change that. Simmons was his. His life was in his hands, and, for this moment, his death. He was in complete control of something for the first time in… years. He felt the relief, let it pour out of him a slightly maniacal laugh. He felt Simmons startle, and put his free hand on the back of his head and began working the gun in and out of his mouth himself.
He heard a clank, and realized he wasn’t the only one needing relief. Simmons shuddered, and Wash shifted slightly to see he had freed his own cock, and was pulling on it furiously. Never one to let a good idea go to waste, Wash tried to get his own codpiece off, but couldn’t quite get the clasps to work one handed. Frustrated and in pain, he let out a growl, ripping the gun from between Simmons lips so he could use both hands. Simmons whimpered, and he looked back down to see the red staring up at him, one hand still wrapped around his own erection, the other having touched his lips. He wasn't looking at Wash anymore, he was looking at the blood on his finger. His lip was split from the gun. Wash made some kind of noise, because Simmons looked back up at him, then glanced to where the blonde was trying to get himself free. He swallowed, and then that tongue wet his bottom lip again, licking the blood off.“Would-” Simmons squeaked, then swallowed hard, blushing bright red. Wash watched his Adam’s Apple bob, and the thought of the redhead doing that around his dick had him closing his eyes, trying to not cum in his armor. “Would you like me to help, sir?”
Wash wasn’t sure who was in more danger in that second, and what the danger actually was. But he needed more. “Can you get it open with one had so busy?” he asked, biting the words out.
Simmons blushed, but gave him a small, sarcastic smile. “I’ve done a few times in my life, Sir,” he said.
“Then do it,” Wash ordered. Simmons hesitated for a second, then used long, skilled fingers to easily remove the codpiece. He lightly ran his fingers over the tent in the former agent’s underarmor before tugging his erection out. It only needed a little encouraging to break free of the protective layer, popping out into the open air with a groan of relief from it’s owner. Already it was dripping clear precum, and Simmons swayed slightly toward the sight, his tongue once again licking his lips. “Are you as good at sucking cock as you are at kissing ass?” Wash asked, practically sneering.
“I would like to think so, sir,” he answered, staring at the one pointing right into his face. It was so close, he could have just licked the clear fluid out of the slit from where he was.
“Then lets find out, soldier,” the blonde answered. His free hand once again cupped the back of his head, weaving through his hair, urging him closer. He felt his knees get weak when he felt the other man’s hand circle him at the base and gently begin pumping him. The breath on his circumcised head was hotter than hell, and waiting wasn’t an option. He brought the pistol back up, running it slowly up Simmons’ face, watched him make a small move, almost nuzzling it. Wash pressed it into his temple. “Quit stalling,” he growled, fighting the urge to pant. Simmons’ tongue caught the drop on his tip, and Wash caught his breath. And then his lips touched it, slid it slowly into his mouth, and Wash’s vision went bright and blurry.
“Oh, fuck yes,” he groaned, twisting the gun slightly. Dick paused, and Wash made a noise of impatience. “Don’t sto--Oh, fuuck,” he said, and then his soldier was running his tongue around the base of his head, before licking and probing the slit. The sound of him beating himself off mixed with their moans, a beat that seemed to pound through Wash’s head.
His. He was his. His Dick. Only his.
Wash let his head fall back as Simmons slowly pulled him in, a perfect seal already made with his lips. So slow, in and out, the suction sublime, and the tongue and thumb playing with the vein on the bottom of his cock, amazing. He began moving his hips, and Simmons hummed around him, sending vibrations through him, so that he had to brace his free hand on the other man’s shoulder to steady himself.
It was the sound of Simmons’ hand faltering on his cock that brought Wash back to some sort of coherent thinking. He shifted, dragging Dick forward as he stepped back to support himself against the workbench. He stepped carefully, firmly on the hand between Simmons’ legs. “I didn’t say you could cum yet, soldier,” he said. Simmons tried to pull himself off Wash to answer, but Wash only held his head still. “It won’t take long. You definitely suck cock better than you kiss ass,’ he said, staring into those bight green eyes. He began pumping his hips furiously, and soon gave a shout, shooting blast after blast into his mouth. His head felt like it was exploding, sanity and thought scattering into a thousand pieces. The moment he moved his foot, Simmons gave himself a few strokes before he also came screaming.
Neither man moved for a few seconds, simply holding themselves up as they caught their breath and tried to remember how to think. Wash recovered first, swooping down and grabbing the missing pieces of his armor. He already had his codpiece back on when Simmons finally glanced at him. The look of shock and something else twisted Wash’s stomach with guilt. He tried to smile at the redhead. “You can’t go out like that. Get cleaned up,” he said, then quickly turned and walked out. He managed to get around corner before he had to stop, suddenly hyperventilating.
He leaned into the wall, resting his forehead against the cool smooth metal. It had felt so good, having him under his complete control. Just the thought sent a shudder of pure pleasure through him. He needed to get Freckles under control. Because it couldn’t happen again. It couldn’t.
Simmons’ face flashed in front of his eyes, the blush bright across his nose, his lips wrapped around his gun, and he shook his head. He was thoroughly screwed.