goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"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?"

He tips his head to the side, thumbs hooked through his beltloops as he tries to make up his mind. "Hmmm... I don't know. Probably going to have to see more to be sure."

Doesn't stop him from stepping that last little bit forward and letting his hands trail over those scars he'd seen a week before, eyes dark from more than just lust. "Think I just might."

"Way to boost my ego there, Taylor," Wash says, trying the name out on his tongue. "York."

York is frank with the way he touches him, touches the scars. There's no shyness about it, and no condemnation either, or revulsion. "Guess you're not bad yourself."

"You know. Back when I was a rookie my friends called me Tay." Because the second syllable was too much goddamn effort. "Be honest. How much hell am I gonna catch if I call you Davy?"

Because this shouldn't be so serious. And it shouldn't be wrapped up in the lingering claws of the project. He steps in easily and slides his hand up Wash- David's ribs, grinning. "Cuz I think I could like calling you that."

"Tay?" he says, sounding sceptical. It doesn't quite fit for him. Even Taylor feels strange to say when he's been York as long as Wash has known him. And he hasn't been David in years.

He almost laughs when York suggests Davy though, but then there's a hand sliding up his ribs, a hot palm against his skin. "Keep on like this, you can call me whatever you want."

"Yeah. It fit better when I was skinny and hadn't bulked up yet." When he was Wash's age at the time of joining the project. "Stick with Taylor."

York is- york was. Taylor is.

Is busy with his hands on David's skin, tracing an erratic path like he's looking for the catch to a lock. The trick to popping this safe.

"I like that better anyway," Wash says, grinning as he imagines Taylor as a skinny gangly kid. It's kind of hilarious.

He just can't keep occupied with it when York is touching him, hands splaying out across his ribs, stomach, the muscles of his back. Dextrous hands. It's not surprising.

Wash hooks his thumbs into his sweats and pushes them down, underwear and all, and kicks them off to one side.

"Someone's eager." Not that he isn't himself, hands immediately slipping down to smooth against the line of Wash's hips, dipping back to squeeze his ass. It really, really is a nice ass. Niner wasn't wrong. "Goddamn. What have you been lifting- I do not remember you this cut."

"It's- it's been an age since I was this close to anyone," Wash admits, turning his head away awkwardly. "And this feels good." He wanted to bask in it, save up the moment as something to remember when everything inevitably fell apart. Of course it would. It always did.

Taylor's hands are warm and firm against his ass and Wash laughs. "I work out a lot. I promised... I swore I'd never be defenceless again."

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