goddamngrenades | RP Open Post

"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."

"You and me both." He leans in, licking a line from Wash's collar to his throat, nibbling on his earlobe once he reaches it. "Course it feels good. I'm the one doing it."

Light and easy, he needs this to be light and easy so he won't do the usual dumb York bullshit of falling in head over ass. They don't need that. Not now. "Nothing to defend against here. Just you and me."

It makes Wash laugh and that in turn makes him relax against York so he can just savour whats being done to him instead of holding himself like he's ready to be attacked at any moment. "Wow, so modest there."

He slides his arms around York, splaying fingers against his back and rubbing lightly, getting adjusted to the feeling of skin beneath his fingers, and tilts his head to give York better access to his neck. "Just us."

"If you wanna get lucky you gotta be good." Rather than better to be lucky than good. Here? He's all steady hands tracing lines down Wash's spine, easy teeth grazing his jaw. Working out what makes Wash shiver and sigh in all the good ways. The right ways. It doesn't take long for him to hook onto the skin just under his jaw to start sucking in a bruise, hands busy massaging his lower back and ass.

"Did you practice that?" Wash asks, grinning, an expression that goes sharp with pleasure when York latches onto a spot under his jaw that just feels so damn good. His neck should not be an erogenous zone. He slides his hands down York's back, and down the back of those tight jeans that make his ass look unfairly good, pulling him as close as he can manage while there's still material between them.

"Nope, just came to me." He smirks right back against Wash's skin, dragging his teeth down a bit to start a line of bruises and lovebites. It's not like Wash is ever out of the armor regularly, it's not like anyone's gonna see. Now if Wash marked him up a little...The idea shouldn't be so damn appealing, but it is. Enough that he's pressing back against Wash's hands, rocking his hips forward when they reach his ass and he really, really needs out of his pants.

It drags a soft noise of pleasure from Wash. He enjoys the ache of it, and the feeling of York's mouth against his neck. He grips tight against York's ass for a moment and then growls, fumbling for the button of them because York is wearing far too many clothes and he needs to stop that immediately. "Get these damn pants off, I swear to god Taylor."

Now that's a good sound. A fucking great sound and he needs to wring more out of them- he's always appreciated vocal partners. "Or what?"

Not that he needs more incentive than Wash's fumbling he hooks an arm around his shoulders and leans back, dragging the zipper down and rolling his hips in a way that can't be anything but full of obscene promise.

"Or something I'll think up when I have brain cells again," Wash mutters. Christ, had York always been this much of an asshole, or was it just when he was about to get laid?

The way he rolls his hips is definitely deliberate and makes Wash groan, full of frustration and need, but at least the pants are coming off.

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