Work Text:
He’s moaning above her, desperate little noises that keep verging on getting too loud, too needy, and she kind of really wants to hit him for it, but there’s no way she can reach him from here, not with his cock heavy on her tongue and pushing further in with every bob of her head. Her lips tighten as she moves, sucking him further down her throat, and he arches back against the shelves, cleaning supplies rattling as his fingers dig deeper into her shoulder. She doesn’t want bruises, not again, but she doesn’t tell him to stop, too busy working her own fingers against her clit to care about anything else.
“Fuck-- fuck, I’m gonna--”
She pushes forward, swallowing his cock down and sucking down the shaft as he comes down her throat, his hips jerking forward against her as he groans -- quieter than last time, at least, though that doesn’t mean much. She draws back as he comes down from it, tongue sliding over his cock to lick him clean, her own hips bucking against her hand as she pulls off of him.
He always looks dazed after he comes, like he’s not really sure if it was even real, but a sharp jerk at his hips, a look, and he drops down on his knees and reaches for her, fingers sliding over hers and pushing them harder against her clit as he slides his inside her.
He’s still not great at this, still learning what gets her off, but she’s too worked up to need much more than his palm pressed against her fingers and his lips on her jaw to gasp and muffle a moan against his throat, fingers digging into his leg to keep her balance as she shudders and comes against him in hard little pulses.
They lean against each other, after, both trying to catch their breath, his cock still slick with spit and come and her fingers still wet and shaking, but there’s no affection, no gentle kisses or pleased words murmured into her hair. She just draws back when she has enough strength to pull herself to her feet, pushing her fingers into his mouth to make him suck them clean. She doesn’t do messes.
She thinks he’s going to say something, as his tongue flicks over her knuckles, maybe ask her back to his room, but she presses her lips together and reaches down to tug her sweatpants back up, glancing around the supply closet to make sure they haven’t left any evidence.
“Tomorrow. Same time.”
South doesn’t wait for Wash to answer.
He doesn't really know how it started, but when he asks -- when he finally works up the nerve to question why -- South just looks at him, the same patronizing sneer she gives him every time they do this, and Wash drops the subject.
It doesn't matter why, only that it's happened, and they’re both too far into it to want to screw it up with words. It's cold and lonely and empty, out here in space, and for all the ways Wash manages to screw it up with women, in all his stuttered words and flustered gestures, he’s still got needs, and South’s never had any doubt as to her own. They both get something out if this -- that’s how it works in Freelancer, and even if he’s hardly her first pick, Wash knows how to keep his damn mouth shut.
No questions. No words, either to anyone else or to each other, not for this. They share nothing but the gasp and groans and heat of their shared pleasure, unburdened by any shred of emotion. She doesn't really give a fuck about him as anything more than a warm body, and Wash doesn’t have to do anything more than look at her to know that hoping for anything further is a waste of time.
(He still wonders why, all the same.)
They don't concern themselves overmuch with details. A place, a time, a shared look, and they find each other one way or another, in lips and tongues and stuttered motions of fingers over skin. He's learned, by now, not to leave her wanting, but there's never any question that everything is on her terms. South takes what she wants from him, whether it's the thick heat of his cock on her tongue or the press of his fingers inside her, tongue twisting invisible patterns over her clit, and he knows he’s lucky to get anything in return at all.
She'd half expected him to be as bad in bed as he is just talking to girls, and there’s no way around the fact that his technique is sorely lacking, but he's a quick study, and even if Wash never lasts very long it doesn't take much to coax him enough for round two when they have the time for it.
It's crazy, it's crazy and stupid and they both know the risks they're taking, but the one time Wash mumbles something about breaking protocol, South drags her teeth over the flushed head of his cock and it seems to slip right back out of his mind.
If North knows, he hasn't said anything, and that's exactly the way South likes it. If he does know -- and she hopes he doesn't, because her lovers have never and will never be his business -- then he keeps his judgments to himself. She doesn’t need the concerned looks or the brotherly advice, meant to make her think about her decisions or some bullshit like that.
It’s her choice, all of it, and she can decide to do whatever the fuck she wants with whoever she wants.
(Even if it is Wash.)
He knows she’s angry, but then, everyone knows when South is angry. Some of them are good at hiding it -- they’ve all learned the hard way to avoid the quiet storm of Carolina’s wrath, the clenched jaw and short, hard orders thrown at anyone who dares to cross her, and Wash is usually the only one crazy enough to try and get through to Maine when he’s pissed off. South is a hurricane, tearing through the barracks with no regard to who or what is in her way until she finds Wash, slamming the door to his room shut behind her and grabbing him by the shirt.
“South? What’s going--”
She doesn’t say a thing, but he gets the message loud and clear in the furious press of her lips to his, silencing him save a muffled groan as she shoves him against the wall, the heavy plates of her armor digging into his skin. He reaches down to start pulling her armor away only for her to pin his wrist to the wall, and strong as he is there's no overpowering her like this. There's a moment of resistance, when she pulls back for breath, a half-mumbled what the hell are you-- and then she's devouring his mouth with her own and he stops thinking about anything at all.
It takes nothing for her to push him to his knees, and he’s allowed to pull enough of her armor away to get at the seam of her bodysuit, tongue working against her clit with a mumble of desire. It’s not enough, though, even when her fingers dig so hard into his shoulders that he knows he’ll have bruises later, and she snarls a curse at him as she pushes him back.
“Sorry, I just--”
“You talk too fucking much,” South growls, and it takes nothing to grab him by the shirt and drag him over to the bed, shoving him until he’s flat on his back and giving her the most stupid, wide-eyed look she’s ever seen. There’s a question in his eyes as she sheds the rest of her armor and the undersuit, but her mouth swallows the words before they can leave his lips, teeth all but gnashing against his.
South’s never let him fuck her -- it’s too messy and with how goddamn fast he comes there’s no way in hell she can trust him to pull out -- but she doesn’t fucking care right now, not about him, not about the war, not about her fucking name on the board in the wrong goddamn place, none of it. She doesn’t have to prove herself, not to him, not here. The only thing in the whole stupid universe that matters is the press of his cock against her, hot and hard and thick enough to make her lose her breath as she pushes down, filling herself with him in one rough stroke.
There are no worried questions, no words of comfort, just the familiar slap of skin against skin and the groans muffled into her hand, and if she’s too rough he doesn’t complain, not that she cares anyway.
“South--”
She knows what that moan means, but her hips don’t stop moving for a moment, and when he arches back she drags her hands down his chest and between her own, fingers finding her clit as her hip jerk with every hot pulse of come inside her until it’s too much to take.
When the waves of heat finally stop running through her, she finds Wash spent and breathless beneath her and looking up at her in something she finds uncomfortably close to wonder. South doesn’t care, though, and rolls off of him as soon as her legs stop shaking to start setting her armor back to rights, almost moving on autopilot. For once, Wash doesn’t try to say anything, and South is almost grateful for it, but she doesn’t even spare him a second look as she stalks out, door slamming shut behind her.
He’ll hear the story later, of course, once he sees the board and her name just above his, once one of the others tells him about Carolina saved the goddamn day again, but for now, South can pretend none of it ever happened.
(And it won’t have, once she gets her rank back.)
Except she doesn’t.
Except it’s not her name on the board at all, once Texas shows up to fuck everything up. South hates her on principle alone, but she doesn’t need anything more than that when she finally gets a good look.
She’d always had a hope, forever vain, that she’d surpass them all one day, that she’d prove that she didn’t always have to trail behind her brother, but Tex changes all of that -- Tex, and that fucking Sarcophagus mission, the one that leaves her without even a chance to prove herself.
North takes the brunt of it, once she finds out just had badly they’d gone and fucked it all up, and he takes it as well as he ever has, never raising his voice, just letting her work out all of her frustration at him. She hates him sometimes, she thinks, for how it never seems to get to him, how he never really understands what it’s like for her.
(It doesn’t matter. He’s still her brother.)
South knows North like the back of her hand, like her own reflection in the mirror -- just taller, broader (but not stronger, she says to herself, because he’s not and he never will be) -- and she fucking knows when he’s being patronizing, when he’s trying to make her feel better.
Like there’s any way she can feel better about this.
“South, just--”
“Just what, North? Calm down? You gonna tell me I’m too worked up about this again? Fuck that. I’ll calm down when she gets off her high fucking horse.”
“You know why she did it,” North says, and it’s so obviously pacifying that she wants to hit him for it. “Maine’s barely been able to communicate since he got out of recovery, and--”
“And what? She wants to make sure he’ll be credit to team? Bullshit. She just wants to look good. Prove she’s better than all of us.”
“South--”
(She misses their house back home. It’s harder to slam doors that don’t have hinges.)
South has never gotten close to anyone else in the Project. Not really. She has North, and as much as she pushes him away it’s not like he won’t come back. He’s family.
But if there was anyone she could have called a friend, it was CT. She wasn’t as loud and abrasive as South, maybe, but she wasn’t meek, and she sure as hell wasn’t weak-willed. South liked that about her. She’d be quiet, most of the time, and she’d leave when South wanted some privacy, but she didn’t keep from speaking her mind when she had something to say.
She was a constant, and a comfortable one, because South never had a problem besting her, and for as far down on the board her name has slipped, at least she’s still on there. CT isn’t.
She’s on a different list now.
Wash almost looks like he wants to say something, when South leads him back to her room, when he sees CT’s empty bed, the footlocker gone, but South covers his mouth with hers and he resigns himself to the silence they’ve always shared.
Not like she knows what the fuck to say anyway.
(It’s the first time they’ve fucked in her bed.)
South’s jealous.
It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, but fuck if she isn’t tired of this bullshit. All her goddamn life, she’s gotten well-meaning comparisons to her brother, words that cut into her like knives every time she didn’t do exactly what perfect fucking North did. And it never even matters how mad she gets at him, because North doesn’t-- he just takes every last bit of her aggression and rage and fire like a sponge until she’s all burnt out.
That’s how things have always been, and it’s how they’re supposed to be, no matter how much she hates being second best-- she’s always had North there to lash back at when things weren’t going her way, without fail. Despite all the things that make her resent him sometimes, nothing’s ever meant more to him than South.
Nothing until Theta.
Until Theta and his fireworks and skateboard and all that fucking innocence she should have known North would fall for. It doesn’t matter that it’s a computer program, not to him-- no, North acts like Theta’s a fucking child he’s been entrusted with, someone he’s supposed to look after instead of use in battle.
(He’s already got her, anyway. He shouldn’t need anything else.)
But she can deal with it. She’s on the list to get an AI, and it gets shorter with every passing day, until they’re given a date. It’s what she’s been waiting for since the day they were announced, and though Wash seems more nervous than ever South can barely stop smirking.
She should have known she’d get fucked over in the end. She always does.
Wash has the good sense to stay away until long after the dust has cleared, after the news has reached every ear in the Project. It wasn’t just that Carolina had gone and stolen her AI, it was that she couldn’t even handle it.
She hadn’t felt the slightest flicker of guilt for the savage joy she’d felt at hearing that Carolina had ended up in recovery. Served her fucking right.
(They reject her request for Carolina’s AI. Vulture, they call her. South doesn’t care. It was hers to begin with.)
Wash comes to see her once he gets the time for his implantation. He wants to apologize, she can see it in his eyes, and she doesn’t want to hear it. All she’s heard lately are apologies.
We’re sorry, Agent South Dakota, but you’ll simply have to wait your turn.
So sorry, old sport. Suppose you’re simply not up to snuff, eh?
Hey, I said I was sorry. You’re still my sister. No AI will ever change that, okay?
“South--”
“Shut up,” she barks. Wash flinches, and it feels good, using that over him. Doesn’t matter what his rank is. Doesn’t matter he’s getting his first. She still owns him. Has since the first time he got on his knees and put his mouth between her legs.
(She knows it’s not like that. Not really. But she’s never claimed she didn’t see things her own way.)
“You’re still right after me,” Wash says. For such a tall, broad guy, he’s got a goddamn talent of making himself look small. It’s the way he shrinks his shoulders and cowers. “It’s-- it’ll be fine.”
South snorts. “Don’t need to convince me. What, you worried?”
“It’s just-- after Carolina--”
“That bitch got what she deserved,” she snarls. “They’re computer programs. And if she hadn’t gotten greedy, then she wouldn’t have fucked herself over, now would she?” South huffs. “Nothing to worry about.”
Wash still looks uncertain, but at least he’s stopped whining. “I guess.”
“You can’t fucking do this!”
“In the wake of this incident, we feel it wise to put the implantation procedures on hold, Agent South. This is only a temporary measure.”
“South, come on, calm--”
“Calm? You want me to be calm? They’re removing them! You promised me an AI and she took it from me! You all took it from me!”
“Agent South--”
North has just stepped out to talk to someone -- York, she’d think, if he hadn’t gone and run off with fucking Texas. Thought he’d stick behind for his buddy here, or for that bitch Carolina. Shows how much he cared.
Fuck, South doesn’t know why she’s still here. She looks down at Wash.
He’s awake.
Shit, he’s awake, gray eyes bleary but slowly focusing on her, and South sits up, startled. “Wash?”
He manages to meet her gaze, blinking rapidly. “Allison?”
South gives him a blank look. “Who?”
“You’re… Allison.” He reaches for her, fumbling, and South backs up instinctively. Shit, they’d said he’d reacted badly, but she would’ve fucking thought the guy could recognize her.
“Who the fuck is Allison?”
He’s too weak to sit up and she’s grateful for it because he’s looking at her and seeing someone else and it creeps her the fuck out. “Allison, please, I--”
“I’m not Allison!” she says, too loudly. “It’s South, okay, remember, I’m South, I-- hey! Medic! Get over here, he’s up!”
South retreats as the medic comes over and as soon as they’re in sight Wash starts screaming and she doesn’t look back because anything better than seeing someone else in Wash’s eyes and wondering just what that thing did to him.
He’s not all there when he does wake up for real. North tries to talk to him, but it’s clear he’s just barely lucid. He’s a lost cause and North knows it the way she did when he first called her Allison.
When they leave, she doesn’t think about him.
And when she finally sees him again, years later -- when she gets the message from Command with his psych profile outlining just what he’s going to do, when Wash follows it to the goddamn letter -- she doesn’t think about all the supply closets they defiled or how she used to hold him down and fuck him stupid.
All she thinks about is how she’s going to get her hands on Delta.
(After all the years she’s waited, she never realized she didn’t have a plan once she had him.)
Delta asks her once if she regretted shooting Agent Washington.
South laughs so hard her stomach hurts.
What was fucking left to regret?
She thought Maine -- the Meta -- would kill him.
It is my understanding that Agents Maine and Washington were friends.
Yeah, but now he’s fucking crazy. Why the fuck didn’t he just kill him? I left him there for Maine to kill.
Delta doesn’t have an answer. It’s not logical. There’s not much the Meta does that’s logical.
Wash won’t be happy to see her, but with the crazy shit Maine’s been getting up to, she’s better off with him than waiting around for the Meta to come find her.
I still believe this course of action is dangerous. If we are following Agent Washington, logic would dictate that others could be as well.
Shut up, lightbulb.
Then she hears the growling.
Wash raises his gun and points in her face, and she could swear Delta’s hum in the back of her mind is an echo of her brother. I told you so.
It’s been ages since she thought about drawing Wash in with a look, a jerk of her head, getting what she wanted from him. How easy he was.
“Oh, come on, Wash. What’re you gonna do, shoot--”