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

[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?"

[goddamngrenades]

"Start at the bar and then to the dancefloor. You can dance, right?" Light on his feet as Mal is, it'd be impossible for him to not.

[tactical_alert]

"I wouldn't know. But yes, let's start at the bar. Water?"

[goddamngrenades]

"Beer." One beer. One. It'll be fine- it's just one beer. Something to hold and not drink. A prop for the rest of the night. he can manage that.

[tactical_alert]

"Water in an otherwise empty beer bottle?" Hey, it's a suggestion.

[goddamngrenades]

"I can have one beer. It's not gonna ruin my diet." He knocks Malcolm with his elbow. He appreciates it, really, but he can handle one drink. Why'd D have to bring up the 'recovering alcoholic thing' with mal, really?

[tactical_alert]

Stern face is stern. "Because if you have one, you'll probably have two, and then probably three. See the pattern?"

[goddamngrenades]

"Which is why I only have enough cash for one beer- maybe not even that if the prices are high." He props his elbows on the bar, face tipped to Malcolm. "I can manage that, Mal."

[tactical_alert]

Stern face remains stern. He'll order a cocktail for himself though. Something in a martini glass, fruity and orange-y.

[goddamngrenades]

True to his word, York counts out how much he'd need for a single beer, generous tip on top. It's light and smooth and easy to sip. He says nothing about the fruity drink till the orange peel starts bobbing when Malcolm sips and - "Would've figured you to be a gin martini kinda guy/"