goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"Yeah but I don't know anyone! Or where the good clubs are. And no one wants to be the poor charming scarred up dude all alone in the club. Having a buddy there makes it easier." He's half tempted to reach out and tap the tip of Mal's wrinkled nose. He represses it. "Put on some fuck me pants and we'll head out tonight?"

"...Put on some what?" Now instead of a wrinkled nose it's the actual confusion or distaste in the creases of his brow. "Ah, well, whatever. I can point you to a place or two that's fine? Clubs are all right. Bars. Mildly sociable with alcohol. Although I don't suppose you want that?"

"Fuck me pants. Pants that make you look particularly fuckable." He blinks. "Do you not have that in England?"

"I can't say I've come across the phrase," he sighs with a tint of irritation. "Nevermind that. Clubs, bars, alcohol?"

"Clubs. Booze, bodies, dancing." More the dancing than the booze but one or two drinks can't hurt, can they? No, no they can't.

"All right then. I can show you one or two that I occasionally go to. I suppose you would be more tactile." Ah well, he can go to a quiet bar any night.

"Giv'n me too much credit here, rookie." He murmurs against David's lips, hands infinitely gentle as the cradle his jaw. Like he's not hard and aching and it hasn't been forever. Like they've got all the time in the world. He drags his teeth over David's bottom lip and gives it a sucking tug before propping himself up on his elbows to get a good look at him. "It should. Or I'm not do'n it right."

"Is there something wrong with being more tactile?" Is this a judgement? The most irritating thing he's noticed, here, is that he can't tell when he's being judged. It's not upsetting so much as it pops him two steps to the left of on center.

"I didn't say that." Why would he jump to that conclusion?

"...Right." Reggie Malcolm is not. "Okay. Sorry. Old- crewmate? Crew member. Another pilot at the dome before this one was a judgemental asshat. Couldn't tell when he meant it or if he was just fucking with me. Makes me defensive."

"Trust me: you'll know when I'm being judgemental." There will be much more nasty sneering and scoffing.

"Thanks, Mal. You're a real bro." Another, and he does this a lot and has yet to get a proper brofist back, attempt at getting said brofist is made before he wanders off to get changed.

"Credit where its due," Wash replies, barely above a whisper. Every breath, he can feel, every twitch of Taylor's lips. The scrape of teeth makes him moan, makes his breath come faster, and it would be so easy to demand more right now, make it fast and rough and hot. But he wants to savour this. Hold it to himself. The last good memory he'll get.

"This is very very right."

Is...that...sarcastic or does he mean that? What prompted him saying that? He's too befuddled at that question to really register yet another fistbump attempt, but then the moment is over.

Never said he could read people. He should just...go. Right.

He still, somehow, has his old fuckme pants. Jeans that fade and cradle and fit now that he's gained back his muscle, heather grey henley that never did him wrong. Sure it's not dressy but he never really has been. It's casual, approachable, and most importantly? Fuckable. He saunters by Mal's place, knocking on his door.

"What else do you want, Wash?" he'd honestly be content to roll his hips a little and keep kissing him for the rest of the night. Probably why he doesn't stop himself from leaning in and brushing his lips against David's again and again, soft little touches that catch the curve of lip, the corner of his mouth, the dip of his chin. "Tell me so I can make it good."

Malcolm puts a little bit of thought into his outfit, although honestly not much. He always tries to look nice yet approachable when he's out. Fashionable yet casual. Ladies won't want to go somewhere if you look like a slob, after all.

He tugs a sleeve of his jacket into place and opens the door, popping out and shutting it again. "Good thing we're here in the city. Shame that coastal cities are so popular, given the war, but ah, how were we to know this would happen, hm?"

"Have a nice vacation while enduring the apocalypse." He smirks, thumbs hooked in his beltloops. "Lead on, Mal. I haven't been outside since I got dropped here."

If this was all he could have, he could honestly be content with making out like teenagers all night. If they had all the time in the world, he probably would. It's difficult to think when Taylor is kissing him like that, driving thought out of his head with every movement, every press of his hips.

He catches York's face between his hands, holding him still for a moment just to give himself time to breath. And to kiss him again, taste his skin, explore the angle of his jaw. "How am I supposed to think when you're driving me crazy, Taylor?" He kisses him again, lets it linger. "I want... god, everything. But... you want to fuck me? That... I want that."

He goes still when David brings his hands up, letting him guide how this goes now that he's actually taking initiative. While he's more than happy to debauch David at his own pace- knowing what he wants? Helps. And this is more than good. "Mmm...well you're not supposed to."

More than a little proud that he's still got it, that he hasn't forgotten how to connect with another human being like this. "We got time for everything."

But that? God. That has him shivering, has his hips grinding forward with more than just lazy intent. "Gonna have to move a little." Give him room to work. To touch.

He gives a breathless laugh, kisses Taylor again and presses his face against his shoulder so he can nuzzle at his neck. Wants to leave a couple of marks of his own now he's more comfortable. "Promise?" he asks, a teasing note to his voice. It's not something he can promise but it's nice to imagine it, right?

He catches his breath, rocks his hips up to meet Taylor's, his skin already sweaty and flushed. "Whatever you want. Just... tell me where you want me."

"Really? You've been staying on base the whole time? For such a people person, I find that surprising."

And lead he shall. Even with a looming apocalypse, you can't stop the night life of a big city, and while plenty of people would rather move farther inward, 'safer', more would rather stay in the protective shade of a shatterdome. It's the same as any other military installation, Malcolm muses.

He leads York to somewhere not terribly big, no flashier than anywhere else, but there's a thump of music from inside all the same. "After you."

"Promise. I'm not go'n anywhere." He's only been here a week but he's invested. These kids need a guide, these people have a good cause. Honestly he'd rather try for some kind of treaty since all out war just-

He hasn't been impressed with it. But he' a soldier, not a diplomat. Maybe Kimball will do better.

Pushing her out of his mind while he's got David so eager and warm and right fucking here is so damn easy. "I want you right where you are. Just gotta open your legs up for me baby."

It's a cheesy fucking line that he mitigates by nipping at the underside of David's jaw. "Gimme some room."

"Well, kinda use up my social skills in one go." Usually. This is- new for him. Something he needs to try, soemthing he needs to prove he can do for himself. It's not easy, pushing through the crowd, keeping Malcolm on his left so he wont' be taken by surprise.

it's smaller than Errera. Louder. Brighter. He squares his shoulders like he does before he steps on the mats, pastes on a grin and slides inside. Lets the rattle of the bass bore into his bones and give him something to move with.

"Thanks," Wash says, and the relief is genuine. "I need you here. You remind me what I should be." Somehow York makes him human, makes him want to be human. It was easier being a bad guy.

He flahses a smile at the endearment, so cliche it hurts and he loves it all the same. Especially when it's followed by the scrape of York's teeth against his neck and the warm promise in his voice. He parts his legs wide, hands skimming against Taylor's sides. Just can't get enough of him.

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