goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"Wow, not even a full date and I'm already being ditched. That has to be some kind of record," Wash says, and leans in to brush a smear of chocolate from around York's mouth with his thumb.

"I dunno, can you bake like this?" He turns his head, eyes on Wash as his tongue darts out to lap up that chocolate from his skin, grin just on this side of wicked. This he knows how to do. How to flirt, how to tease. It's familair ground.

Wash sucks in a breath when York's tongue darts out against his thumb. For a moment he's transfixed, staring at York's mouth. "I dunno. Never tried."

"Have smith show you how to make this and I'll love you forever." York cuts the next bite and offers it to Wash, eyes bright and utterly unrepentant.

"Promise?" Wash says. He curls his tongue around the fork as he eats the next bite, a little tease that he can't resist. York asked for it.

"Cross my heart." Yes, he asked for it. And he's damn pleased by it. Someone- he's not sure who, shuffles the rest of the kids out of the mess like they're about to go at it on the table- which isn't entirely impossible but no.

People have to eat on those tables. It's just rude to fuck on them. "I think someone decided it was past their bedtime."

"Maybe it was getting too hot in here for them." Which isn't the case for him. This hot is good. More hot is better.

"Couple of fine specimens like us. I'm not surprised." Now it's just a question of which of them cracks first.

York finishes off his half of the cake lazily, settling back in a slouch that he knows has the shirt riding up on his abs while he sips his coffee. "Too much to handle. Both of us."

Wash is not at all subtle about his staring. York hasn't lost any tone since the project. He's built and Wash's gaze lingers over his abs, the flat planes of his stomach that he can see. "Surprised they let us out without a hose turned on us."

"Hose doesn't reach this far." He blinks, grinning. "There was a kitchen fire two days ago. Bitters tried to get the hose inside. Didn't work."

"oh mu god,"Wash says, covering his eyes with a hand. "At least they got it out." While he'd been out sulking and wallowing his self-hatred.

"It was pretty exciting and a good impromptu lesson on teamwork. Bitters isn't allowed to cook anymore." York slides a foot out, hooking his ankle around Wash's.

He really doesn't care about what Bitters isn't allowed to do right now. Wash catches York's hand, drawing it to his lips to press a kiss against his wrist. If he's breaking first, so be it. He's gone too long without touching anyone else except in violence.

It's only breaking if it stays broken. At the end of the night they're both winning and that- it's such a small damn thing that touch. And he's shivering for it all the same. "...Your place or mine?"

"I don't care. They're both close," Wash says. He stands up more quickly than he'd intended and pulls York up with him.

"So- mine?" The door's approximately ten steps closer than going around to Wash's. Not that he's counted. But then Wash is up and he's up and someone's shuffling in the side to clean up after them and he can't really- fuck it.

York steps in close and loops an arm around Wash's waist, leaning into him, onto him, pressing in tight to press their lips together.

This is better, so much better than he could have imagined. He holds York close against himself as they kiss, and there's no chasteness about it now, now teasing brush of lips. It's hot and a little rough and Wash fists his hand into the front of York's shirt.

Gentle isn't something they really need. Not after so long without another human being touching them. Not after so long like this. It's all too much and too little, a goddamn supernova after years in a void. He pulls back, forehead to forehead with Wash and breathing hard. "...c'mon. Bed. Now."

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice shaky with need and lust. It's been too fucking long and he can't deny what he wants now., the one bright spot in his life. He needs this if he's ever going to drag himself out of this pit.

He can't bear to let go of York even when they're hurrying back to his bunk.

Hands on his waist, on his back, curling through Wash's hair as they stumble back to the nearest door and he actually manages to get his key into the slot on the first try. Turns it, pops the lock and pushes Wash inside while he kicks it closed.

A week in and he's pretty settled. There's data tablets of shit he's found, things he's sorted out, drills that need doing. Photos from the project, from home, from his first unit. Things that the other Freelancers gave him. The bunk's got a home knit blanket that Smith recovered on the last run that's a deep blue and soft as hell.

He's already sliding his hands into York's shirt, wrestling with buttons which are at this moment the worst invention humanity has ever come up with. York's hands are all over him and it isn't enough. Too many clothes in the way, too much material keeping him from touching skin.

He does pause, briefly, to look around. In a week York has made his room look more like home than Wash has managed in months. That's a little sad.

Door locked and lights up he starts peeling his shirt off- careful not to tear it because it's not something he owns, just something he's borrowed. The jeans, though, he doesn't mind ripping again as he pops the button on his fly and kicks off his boots, stalking back over.

"C'mon kid. Lemme see you."

He watches. How could he do anything else? York is perfect, flawed and scarred and gorgeous with it. The scars just make him seem more real. He's survived and that's hotter than just a pretty body could make him.

He is awfully pretty though.

Wash reaches down to tug his tank top up and over his head, sweatpants already riding low on his hips. "Like what you see?"

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