RP Open Post

[goddamngrenades]

Smut, Gen, Angst, Fluff, Anything, Everything.
PFL era, Post war, Pre Canon, AU, whichever
Brackets or Prose whatever you're comfortable with
Tag and go, baby!

Comments

[tactical_alert]

"Plenty. I sit in a few from time to time. Are you asking me out, Mr. Murray?"

[goddamngrenades]

"As a wingman, sure." He grins. "I need the help."

[tactical_alert]

"And here I thought people went nutty for the scars. And your charm," he adds with a smirk and a slight wrinkle of his nose. "I suppose that can be arranged. It's been a long time since I've had a wingman along or been the wingman. And it's good to get out from under the dome."

[goddamngrenades]

"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?"

[tactical_alert]

"...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?"

[goddamngrenades]

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

[tactical_alert]

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

[goddamngrenades]

"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.

[tactical_alert]

"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.

[goddamngrenades]

"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.

[tactical_alert]

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

[goddamngrenades]

"...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."

[tactical_alert]

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

[goddamngrenades]

"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.

[tactical_alert]

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.

[goddamngrenades]

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.

[tactical_alert]

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?"

[goddamngrenades]

"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."

[tactical_alert]

"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."

[goddamngrenades]

"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.

[tactical_alert]

It isn't so loud over at the bar. Thankfully. He doesn't care for the idea of having to yell orders or yell just to say hello to someone. "Need me around?" It hasn't escaped his attention that York keeps him on the left-hand blindspot side.

[goddamngrenades]

His fingers slip out to catch around Malcolm's wrist. Tug him along. "I'd appreciate it, yeah."

[tactical_alert]

A light frown that maybe York can't see. "All right. Wingmen, yes?"

[goddamngrenades]

"Yep. Kind of need you- you know- on my wing. To be my wingman." He offers a half smile when he tips his head enough in Malcolm's direction to actually see him.

[tactical_alert]

"Of course. Must have slipped my mind. Been a while. Where to, then?"