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Wash doesn’t pretend he can every really have Tucker. He doesn’t even partially believe he could ever win Tucker over. He would never say he’s capable of being the object of Tucker’s affections.
But he can fantasize. Nobody can blame him for that.
Tucker is attractive, no doubt about it. He’s tall, taller than Wash by at least a foot, with a damn near blinding smile and muscles that Wash has wanted to touch since the first time he saw Tucker out of his armor. (When he said Tucker could beat Freckles at arm wrestling, he wasn’t kidding.) He's kind of the ideal.
So when Wash lays back and pretends it’s not his hands on his body, he has no regrets.
Tucker has been frustrating today, more so than usual. Rather than the sharp retorts he normally sends in response to Wash’s jabs at his skills, he’s taken to twisting everything into an innuendo. Normally this wouldn’t bug Wash so much, but seriously, he has not had enough time to properly get off in a really long time. Back before Carolina came along and swept them up in her personal vendetta, he could sneak off occasionally or do his best to be quiet while Tucker and Caboose were sleeping, but since they crashed on this planet, he’s been so focused on keeping the crew safe that he hasn’t had enough time to attend to his own needs.
Needless to say, he’s a little pent up, and Tucker’s comments (especially those involving fucking) aren’t helping.
He acts like it’s anger that gets him to give up. A frustrated wave of his hands and a slump in his swagger is all it really takes, along with a couple grunts that sound vaguely like swear words. Tucker laughs, yells out another derogatory phrase, and that’s it -- his mind is officially in the gutter, goodbye cruel world.
He escapes to the ship. Nobody looks for him here, and it doesn’t really echo as much as it initially seemed. Logically, jacking off on a crashed ship is the worst idea, but there’s not a lot of privacy with Caboose and Freckles stomping about. The ship is his sacred place at this point. He might as well make his own base in it.
Well, he’s alone and horny, so he gets his armor off as fast as he can. He sets it all aside, now in the undersuit, and finds he’s a little nervous. Sure, quick little sessions are fine, but he’s kind of in the mood to drag it out, and -- what if he’s caught?
He brushes the thought aside. He’s already halfway there, might as well keep going.
He undoes the undersuit and flops it haphazardly atop the armor, leaving him in his binder and underwear. Joy. The binder is a bit of a pain to get off, but once he does, he takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders a little. He pushes a crate up against a wall and sits on it, all the way back. The metal sends a shiver down his spine. Any sensation right now could be a good sensation.
Finally.
He slides a hand over his stomach, slowly slipping under the hem of his briefs, fingers combing through pubic hair to trace a circle around his clit, and a soft sigh escapes his lips. Slowly but surely he works his index finger inside himself. He can’t believe he’s already this wet. Fuck Tucker. And also, y’know, fuck Tucker. If only.
He pulls his finger out of his briefs, slick with his juices. He absently pops it into his mouth to clean it off before peeling his briefs off. Now that that’s all out of the way, he’s good to go. His fingers find his clit again, this time catching it between them and rubbing, and it doesn’t take long for his mind to work towards the fantasy.
Tucker kisses down his chest, stomach, calloused hands--he knows they’re calloused, he’s studied those hands before, thinking of all the things they could be doing; he’s felt them on his arm early in the mornings before he puts his armor on, generally followed by a whining “Wash!” that he can’t help but think would be fitting for a very different situation--dragging lightly across his skin, and deep down he knows it’s not real, but he pushes the thought away and sinks further into the rapidly growing haze. His hands press down on Wash’s hips, and then he brings a hand between Wash’s thighs, dipping a finger into his heat.
And then Tucker’s head is between his legs, tongue on his clit, lips soft against his labia. There’s a hand on his thigh, and another on his stomach. When Tucker’s tongue drags up the length of his pussy and then centers on his clit, he’s dimly aware it’s actually his fingers. When Tucker starts to flick his tongue against his clit rapidly, he knows it’s his middle finger. And when Tucker sucks his clit into his mouth--well, he so far hasn’t figured out how to simulate that particular feeling with just his fingers, but he can use his imagination, and the mental sensation makes his thighs quiver. He’s moaning openly by now, but he’s not particularly scared of being caught.
Tucker’s hand on his stomach inches upward to his breasts, fingers sliding across his hardening nipples. He rolls one between his index and middle finger, and Wash melts into the touch, despite it being his own hand. His clit throbs under his fingers.
Tucker pushes his tongue down on his clit harder, making him arch his back and cry out under the pressure. He’s starting to sweat, which would worry him if it weren’t for his armor--the only one who’ll be able to smell it (probably) is him. He glances down, and for a second, he can almost see Tucker’s head between his legs, lips enclosed around his clit and gaze heavy and dark as he looks up at Wash, and.
He lets out one last desperate whine, like he’s begging someone, though who he’s not sure, before he cums on his hand, thighs closing as the fantasy dissipates (sorry, Tucker) and the only thing he feels is the tingling fire sweeping through his body. He has to cover his mouth to muffle his shout.
He moans quietly as he comes down from his orgasm. It doesn’t last as long as he hoped it would. He almost wants to go again, and when he nudges his finger against his clit, though sensitive, it pulses pleasantly, but he doesn’t really have the energy. If he wanted to he could wait a few minutes, until he didn’t feel so heavy and boneless, but they do need him out there. A quiet voice in the back of his mind tells him to “fuck them”. He ignores it and starts to gather his clothes.
Standing is a little difficult at first, and there’s a small moment where he thinks he might fall, but he catches him on the edge of the crate and steadies himself. He dresses quickly, aside from the binder, and then, he exits, dimly aware of the smell of sex on him.