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“Look, Tucker, I’m just saying, there is no advantage to being straight.”
“Uh, look, when your gross ass is dying alone in a nursing home and I’m being taken care of by my fucking awesome kids, then you can say how there’s no advantage.”
“I mean, that's- That's not how it works, but, okay.”
Tucker and Grif were stood in the corner, beer bottles littered across the floor as they swayed and chatted. They’d won, they were back and mostly recuperated and the armies had essentially done a raid, gone through the ranks and swiped any alcohol they could find. For the superior officers, of course. Most of the soldiers were too young anyways. Grif might have palmed off a flask of some nearly-expired passionfruit vodka to Palomo to spike the punch with, but really, that’s not too big an offense. Kimball was watching from the other side of the room, stern but clearly relaxed at the idea that she was off the hook for now. Most everyone was taking advantage of the free booze, laughing and joking, while a few, maybe a dozen, took the opportunity to chill in their quarters or out on the streets. Tucker elbowed Grif, missing his shoulder and catching him in the side of the head.
“See, check her out. Redhead, four o’clock. You really gonna let your gay ass miss out on that?”
“...That’s Agent Carolina.”
Tucker choked on a swallow of beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked down at Grif, and looked back at Carolina. “Aw, fuckberries,” He brushed a hand through his hair, wincing as he nudged a patch of gauze on his hairline. “You sure? I’ve seen her out of armor, she’s like, all hard and angry.”
Grif cocked his head, leaning his weight on Tucker.
“Yeah, that’s her. ‘Sides, she and Kimball and… Fuck, Grey? I think Grey. They’re like some kind of badass lesbian triad.”
“Fuuuuuck. Why is everyone around here a lesbian?”
“There’s a shitload of straight girls around. They just don’t like your gross ass.”
“How would you know?”
A shrug from Grif as he tipped his head back to swallow the last of his beer. He held up a hand to Tucker as he set the bottle on the floor, indicating that yes, he had a point to make. Two seconds.
“Okay. First of all, don’t laugh. Second of all, they hit on me. Like, a lot. At least three of the girls from Simmons’ squad. Two from Caboose’s.”
Tucker socked a fist into Grif’s arm, getting a squawk from him as he toppled over onto the floor. Two bottles rolled off into the crowd as Grif tried to get back up, wobbling on his feet. Tucker’s eyebrows were in his hairline as he stared down at Grif.
“You’re shitting me! Fuckin’- Five chicks? Five girls hit on you. Five actual, living, breathing women looked at you and wanted your dick. Your tiny, unwashed dick.”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, dude. I’m like, huggable and nonthreatening. Plush. Plus, I’m not super aggressive. Nobody wants to fuck somebody who’s always breathing down their neck about it.”
“Fuck you. Okay, okay, fine. Fine. I’m done talking about chicks with you.”
Grif shrugged and sagged back against the wall, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He wanted to get out of here, but he didn’t want to be alone in his room for the night. Simmons was still recuperating, doing a physical therapy session on his own despite Doctor Grey telling him not to. Caboose was… No, Caboose was tagging along with Donut, Grif could see about ten inches of afro rising above the crowd. That was definitely Caboose. Now that he focused, he could hear Donut yelling above the noise of everyone else. Grif pointed them out to Tucker, who really, really wanted to tell them to turn on their goddamn hearing aids. Implanted right in their brain and they couldn’t remember to turn them on. Always bitching. It was a constant stream of bitch.
“Tuck, we need something a lot stronger if I’m gonna listen to you all night.”
“I’m on it.”
Tucker was smashed. From what slurred garbage Grif had managed to decipher, he'd cajoled Kimball into giving him a bottle of something stronger, though it had cost him a promise that he'd make sure Palomo didn't totally screw something up. Keeping an eye on Palomo was second nature to him at this point, so that was fine. Tucker and Grif passed the bottle between them, occasionally grimacing at the taste. Tucker belched as he leaned down on Grif, chest resting on his head and arms draped over his shoulders. Grif managed to keep him on his feet, surprisingly steady.
“I'm just- I'm just sayin’, man. I don't get it. I don't get it, dude. I'm hot. I'm like, super hot. Chicks should be lining up for this dick.”
“Maybe they don't like falsies.”
“Ooohhh shut. The fuck. Shut up. My dick is a goddamn medical miracle. I worked hard for it. I got this dick fair and square. You piece of, piece of- You. Besides, you're not getting laid. You don't get to make fun of me.”
Grif shrugged, nodded, tipped his drink back. That may be true. But he had prospects. He was going places. He was going places. The bottle made its way back to Tucker, who held it loosely in his hand and let it rest against Grif’s belly. He made a limp motion over into the crowd, pointing out no one in particular.
“Okay. Okay, you know what. I'll do you a favor. I scratch my back, you scratch mine. Let's get you laid. What's your type. Let's, let’s find you a man. You like blondes? Or, no, okay, short dudes, you like short dudes…”
“Tucker, I don't have a preference. I just like, y’know. Dudes.”
“Wash. Wash isn't straight. He was having like, orgies back in Freelancer. How about Wash.”
“Not gonna lie, I'd let that man raw me in front of God, Kimball, and my team. We're not on the same level though, y’know? He's too hot.”
“Yeah, I feel. Wait. No. What? Jesus Christ, you're worse than your sister. Okay… Caboose.”
Grif stood on his toes, trying to pick Caboose out from the crowd. He wasn't outwardly drunk, beyond the obviously shattered vocal filter, but he still swayed and almost fell backwards. Caboose was tall as hell and still managed to blend in. He was a master of stealth when he wasn't trying to be.
“Isn't he seven feet tall? Dude, he'd destroy me.”
“Fuck, dude, I don't know. Maybe you're into that. Fuckin’- Anal annihilation. No Caboose? Come on. I'm sure he's a sweet guy. He probably figured out how to use his dick.”
“I like my ass, okay? Don't try to hit on Caboose for me. Just find a nice, not-terrible guy, that can give me an orgasm, and isn't ten to fifteen years younger than me. Goddamn, I'd even settle for half-terrible.”
Tucker nodded, chin digging into the top of Grif's head. He slapped his hand on top of Grif’s belly, passing the bottle back. It was almost empty. He was such a lightweight. Grif reached up, patted Tucker’s cheek. Just a casual, reaffirming touch to make sure Tucker hadn't died on top of him. That was a concern Grif had at the moment. He'd have to get Tucker to bed eventually.
“Simmons. What about Simmons.”
“Nice ass, massive fuckin’ top, I am desperately in love with him, and he's doing physical therapy right now so that's off the table.”
“I bet I got some ideas for physical training that you could do with him.”
“Fuck off, dude.”
“I'm trying to help you get your dick wet. Chill. Okay, Simmons, Caboose, and Wash are all no’s. Donut?”
“Nah, dude. They're way too good for me. Like… That's like trying to fuck God. For me, at least. Nobody wants this. Especially not Donut.”
Tucker grumbled, shoved his face into the crook of Grif’s neck. He whined about how his brain was fuzzy, full of TV static. He didn't recognize when guys were cute and sexually available. The things he did for his friends. Grif would owe him big time after this. Grif ran his fingers through Tucker’s hair, snagging their bottle from him and draining the last of it.
“Seriously, dude. We gotta work on your self-confidence. We’re, we’re gonna do it. Okay? You are a god. You are sexually active and you are- You're gonna do this. We can get through this. We’re going to give you an orgasm. Come on. Let's go get Wash.”
“Aw, fuck. Fuuuuck, okay. Okay. Dude, you sure? He's really hot. Like, Simmons hot, but rugged and all hairy. If Simmons were, I dunno. A DILF.”
“You can't rate how hot people are in relation to Simmons. He's gross. He's like, a twink that got all elongated and noodley.”
“Fuck off! Don't fuckin’ tell me what to do. I'll rate everyone in re- Relation to Simmons. Fuck, dude. I love that asshole. Put me outta my fuckin’ misery, I'm so-”
Tucker straightened up, pitching backwards as he grabbed onto Grif’s shoulders and frog-marched him forward. He was stumbling and not doing a great job at propelling his friend, but he did his best. Now if only he could figure out where the fuck Wash was. He'd just seen him, he'd been talking to Smith, where the hell- Tucker ended up steering Grif directly into Wash’s back, smashing them together and sending Wash stumbling.
“Tucker, what the hell are you doing?”
Wash straightened up, brushing down the front of his shirt. He'd spilled his drink and the front of his shirt was wet and clinging to his torso. Grif was going to die. Grif was going to melt into the floor and die. His face was hot and he suddenly felt a lot more drunk than he thought he was in the first place. Wash looked him up and down, eyebrows raised, before he shifted his attention back to Tucker.
“Tucker. What are you doing.”
“Look, okay, okay, look, look. Look. Hear me out. When was the last time you got your dick sucked.”
“That's not- That- What?”
Tucker waved his hands, flapping them vertically in an attempt to calm Wash down and keep him placated.
“Shush, shhhh. Shsh. Don't yell. Inside voices. All I'm saying is that you need to get laid, and so does Grif. I'm making a love connection for you guys. Get it? Come on, look at this guy,” Tucker pressed his hands against Grif’s cheeks, mashing them together. “He's so plush and huggable. It'd be like fucking a teddy bear or a- A big toasted marshmallow.”
This was possibly one of the worst situations Grif had ever been in. And he'd had to deal with Sarge for the past eight years. Tucker was breathing down his neck and squishing his face, Wash was looking at him like he'd grown a third arm out of his forehead, and Smith was doubled over, laughing silently. Grif might as well just lie down and die right now. His head felt cloudy and, in all honesty, he wasn't feeling remotely good. He'd really prefer to just sleep. Tucker wouldn't stop talking.
“Smith, Smith, stop laughing, okay, help a guy out. Is or is Grif not a fucking catch? Look at this. Tell, tell me you wouldn't make sweet gay love to him.”
Smith snapped up, immediately standing at attention, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the sheer effort he was putting in to not laugh. The corners of his mouth wobbled, and he choked on his words more than a few times.
“Sir, with all due respect, I prefer- I prefer to keep my opinions to myself.”
“Smith, don't puss out on me.”
“I don't think my partners would be very happy with me, uh. Admitting to wanting to make sweet, gay love to Captain Grif.”
“Well, fuck. Okay, then convince Wash that he should be making sweet gay love to Grif.”
Smith turned to Wash, still barely keeping it together. He cleared his throat, relaxing a bit to scoop his drink back up off the floor and down the rest of it. Composure. Smith opened his mouth, and burst out laughing.
“I’m- I’m very sorry, sirs, it’s- The situation is a little- A little ridiculous.”
Grif scowled, shifting so when Tucker leaned on him again, he toppled over and had to be caught by Smith before he faceplanted onto the floor. Grif was doing his best to compose himself, not get all pissy and storm off or anything. The booze was really hitting him now, beyond the lowered inhibitions. His head pounded and he felt his stomach lurch. Whether that was alcohol or nerves, he didn’t know. Thankfully, Tucker took the opportunity to halfway pass out on Smith and sneeze all over his shirt before falling onto the floor. Smith looked disgusted, and pawned him off onto Grif. Good job. Wash slung his arm under Tucker’s armpits, helping Grif hoist him up.
“Hang on, I’ll help. He’s on my team, he’s partly my responsibility.”
“No, I got him hammered, he’s my problem. I got this.”
“Grif, I need to talk to you anyways.”
Right. One foot in front of the other, now. Back to Tucker’s room to drop him onto the bed and roll him over so he wasn’t in any danger of choking on his own vomit. Grif dropped a sheet on top of his friend, and rifled through his drawers to take a delivery fee out of his wallet. Fair’s fair. Wash watched him from the doorway, arms crossed. When he knew Grif could see him, he jerked his head towards the hallway.
“I’ll walk you back to your room. Come on.”
Grif trudged along a pace behind Wash, doing his best not to stagger. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor. Wash was walking straight, shoulders back and head held high as he marched. When he spoke up, Grif barely noticed.
“You’re not a bad guy, you know.”
Grif made a noise that was part questioning, part acknowledgement, and sounded entirely like a “Whuh?”
“I’m serious. You’re compassionate and you give a damn about your teammates. You show it in a little bit of a roundabout way, but you do care. You’re very… You’re not a bad guy. I don’t give out praise a lot, so-”
“I got it, Wash. Thanks. You know how to compliment a guy.”
“I- Look-”
“Dude, don’t try to make me feel better about shit. Compliments about how decent I am aren’t, really helpful right now. Come on. How would you feel if every time you just, kinda wanted to hook up with someone, everyone either makes it into a big fuckin’ thing or treats it like it’s so ridiculous that I actually want- Look, don’t make me feel better. I’m drunk. It doesn’t help,” Grif shrugged. Wash slowed his pace to match Grif, looking down at him through furrowed eyebrows. He looked concerned. Ew. Genuine human emotion. Better pepper this conversation with a few light-hearted, self-deprecating jokes! “I mean, look at me. I'm fat, ugly, lazy, and probably disabled. The only tail I’m getting is either pity or fetish-geared. Y’know? Nobody’s gonna look at me and go, yeah, he’s hot. Let’s be realistic.”
“Have- Grif, have you considered actual therapy? Those are some pretty serious self-esteem issues.”
“Wh- No, I don’t need- I don’t need therapy. Simmons is the kind of person who needs therapy.”
“...Because of his horrific self-esteem issues-”
“Because he was abused as a child.”
“Which led to horrific self-esteem issues, among other things. Look, I’ve been seeing Doctor Grey, she’s a little eccentric, but. I really do think you’d benefit from talking to her.”
Grif shoved his hands further down into his pockets, shoulders hunched up. He’d think about it, but he wouldn’t let Wash in on that little tidbit. The two of them came to a stop in front of Grif’s bunk, milling about and trying to come up with some way to part. Wash cleared his throat.
“Grif, I- I’d rather not take advantage of you... I mean, well- You’re pretty drunk. But if you can catch me after training, I don’t have anything on my plate. You’d have to get up pretty early, though. Think you could manage?”
Grif blanked. He stared down at the ground, looked up at Wash, and nodded. Then, he threw up on Wash’s shoes.
Grif's alarm beeped at six A.M., and he was a hundred percent sure that it was going to kill him. His head throbbed and he groaned, rolling over to slap his hand on the snooze button. Too loud. Grey light buzzed from the emergency lights in front of his door, and who decided that lights that never shut off were a good idea? Fuck this. Why did he set an alarm last night. This was awful and he wanted to go back to sleep. He rolled over to check his datapad, squinting at it and seeing if he had any notes as to what the fuck to do.
meeet wahs fafter attrrainign
Thanks, drunk Grif. He hadn't gotten blackout drunk last night, but he sure hadn't remembered everything. Tucker had collapsed and Grif had stolen money from him, Wash thought he should be in therapy, Smith had been laughing a lot about something-
“Oh, shit!”
Grif sat up and nearly vomited, and had to sit down on the edge of his bed and put his head between his legs. Shit. Shitshitshit. He groaned and dragged his hands through his hair, suddenly hyper-aware of how sweaty and messy he was. Okay, shower first. The shower ended up being him sitting down on the floor for a half hour with soap bubbles dripping into his eyes. Goal accomplished. Okay. Teeth brushed, pills taken, hair combed out nicely and put up, maybe put on a clean pair of sweatpants. Perfect. He looked ready and only marginally hungover. Now where the hell did Wash do his workout routine. Probably the training room.
He passed hordes of people in the hallway, some of them staggering and worse off than he was. Smith nodded at him, while Bitters draped himself across Smith’s back and made a series of groaning noises. Ah, young love. Grif just marched forward and got lost about three or four times, but eventually he found someone who could direct him to the training room. He got an odd look from the soldier, but she pointed it out to him and asked if he needed a spotter or anything to help him along. He didn't, but he was flattered by the offer. So he told her to take the day off and enjoy it. The training room door was flat against the wall with a keycard scanner. Which Grif realized, upon patting his sweatpants’ pockets, he left in his bunk. Dammit. Maybe he could just knock?
He raised a hand as the door whisked open, instead rapping his knuckles against Wash’s shoulder. Smooth move. Wash cleared his throat, towel slung around his neck.
“I almost thought you were standing me up. I was just on my way to get you- Oh! And you’re in workout clothes, good. Come on, I’ve got a routine all set up for you.”
“Uh, excuse me, I was not told I was going to be exercising-”
“Sorry, Captain Grif. That's the deal,” Wash simply stated as he moved back inside the training room, making a sweeping motion with his arm to welcome Grif inside. “I didn't make it too difficult, anyways. No reason to go hard on you just yet.”
Grif sidestepped him, eyes narrowed as he made his way through the gym. All of this was unfamiliar, and Wash was starting to sound like he'd been taking pages out of Donut’s playbook. For now, Grif would settle on being incredulous and suspicious, but not overly so. When Wash pointed out a section near one of the walls, covered in training mats, Grif just plodded along and nudged at the mats with his foot. He was doing his best. The things he did for his dick.
“Now, I realize you're not exceptionally athletic, and that you're not necessarily receptive to other styles of learning-”
“Oh, come on. Really? What, you couldn't find a fuckin’ snack cake to tie on a stick and make me run for? Wash, there's insulting someone and then there's just- There's just degrading and belittling them. If I wanted to do exercises, I’d do them! I didn't- Come on, Wash, I thought I had something to look forward to today,” Grif snapped, but the headache forming at his temples was definitely making him sound more whiny than he wanted. He kicked at the mats and trudged over to one of the crates scattered across the gym as an obstacle course. “I mean, nobody cons Simmons or Sarge into exercising. Sarge hasn't been in this gym once, but he gets a free fuckin’ pass.”
Wash watched him from across the room, arms folded as Grif pouted on the crate. He was sure he looked ridiculous, his feet didn't touch the floor and the metal was freezing even through his sweatpants. Time for a motivational speech from the former Blue leader. Something about how Grif just needed to get over it. Therapy, again, or maybe a diet and exercise. Fuck that. Grif was going to sit here and probably pop Wash in the face, and then go back to bed.
“You're not exactly respected around here, are you.”
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“No, it's- Not like that! I mean- People just see you as a joke, right? Maybe you're not as good at things, or you're naive, or-”
“I'm a tiny fat guy.”
“Or you're a tiny fat guy. You're a war hero, right? You helped take down Freelancer, and you had to deal with all that, and Chorus, I mean, you did so much to help Chorus. And people still don't respect you.”
Grif swung his feet idly, nodding along. He felt like he should be a little insulted by what Wash was saying. Even if he was trying, it still sounded like teasing to get him to do something. Wash wasn't very good at this kind of motivation. He had gotten closer though, crossing the room and standing next to Grif.
“You're not helping. Did you talk to Grey?”
“Okay, a little. Look, all I'm saying, is that you're probably stuck in this hole to where you don't think you can be good at anything, cause that's what everyone's been saying. But it's just a matter of finding out what fits you.”
“Yeah? You sound like you're projecting. What, were you on the bottom of the board in Freelancer?”
“Yes, actually. I never had a chance to find something I excelled at. And maybe there wasn't anything in Freelancer for me to work with. But you've got different opportunities. You, you understand what I'm getting at, right?”
Wash reclined against the crate and bumped his shoulder against Grif. He was trying to play the role of some kind of friendly mentor, someone approachable yet firm. Grif could appreciate that, but it wasn't really helping. He'd just wanted to get laid. He didn't want to commit to an exercise routine.
“Yeah, Wash. I get it. Let's just get it over with, my boner’s already gone.”
Wash decided that, given Grif's low center of gravity and bulk, he might be good at wrestling. Grif remarked that maybe he should be a sprinter. Do some hurdle-jumping. Maybe try horseback riding. Wash didn't appreciate the sass. He demonstrated a few holds, most of which ended with Grif’s shoulders being wrenched around or his back strained. With his face squashed against the mat and one eye suctioned shut, he glared up at Wash. He had a hand wrapped around Grif’s arm, holding it up as his knee pinned the other. His fingers curled through Grif’s hair, pushing his head down against the mat.
“Alright, how do you get out of this one.”
“I'm gonna get athlete’s foot in my eyes, man, give it a rest-
“Get out of this one and you can take a break. Come on. If you were grappling Felix, you'd be dead by now.”
“Felix, God rest his soul, was a six foot seven twig. He couldn’t grapple me if-”
“My point exactly. Get out of this one and you can hit the showers.”
Grif rotated his shoulder and tested where Wash had him pinned. He wiggled his fingers once, then turned his hand to grab Wash’s wrist, yanking him forward and jerking his head back to crack Wash with the back of his skull.
“What the hell , Grif!” Wash shot up onto his knees, letting go of Grif to press the back of his hand against his forehead. “I said get out of the hold, not-”
“But I got out! Come on, don’t bitch about it. You jacked up my bad shoulder, I headbutted you. Equal, uh. Law of equals. At least you’ll be fine in a few minutes, I’m gonna be fucked up for days. And you’re still squishing me onto this gross mat.”
Wash sat back on Grif’s legs, still grumbling about his head. Grif wasn’t joking, he’d gotten his donated shoulder yanked around, and that thing wasn’t exactly attached well in the first place. The muscles were seized up and he would be feeling it for a long damn time. Wash was quiet for a while, then nodded.
“Okay, come on, I’ll help you out with that.”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“Your shoulder. I’ll help you pop it back into place.”
“Newsflash, it’s been out of place for ten years. I really don’t think anything you can do is gonna help.”
“Well, it can’t hurt then, can it?”
He had a point. The two of them ended up wandering to the showers, separately, thank God, and Grif did his best to put himself back into working order. His shoulder was still bothering him, but at least he wasn’t nasty anymore. Well, that was relative. He was always gross. But he was less so, now. If only he could find his damn clothes, he’d put them right on the bench, and they weren’t on the floor, had Wash taken them? No, nobody wanted to see Grif all flopping out, much less Wash, so who-
“Grif? Did you take my clothes?”
“Dude, I was about to ask you the same- Thing… Jesus Christ. Have you ever considered modeling? Or- Or doing porn, and that’s a serious question, because Jesus Christ.”
Wash had come around the corner, towel draped around his hips. To say he was disconcertingly attractive would be an understatement. Grif was not a poetic man in his everyday life. Sure, he wrote and all, but he didn’t look at people and compare them to the forest or the, whatever, the flowing rivers. He just looked at people and noticed that they clearly had an important workout routine that they must have never missed a day of. Wash was muscle under a layer of soft and he was clearly making it work, no definition, really, but built-
“Grif, how often do you see people out of armor.”
“In the past decade? Not very often. Why.”
“You’re staring.”
“I- That is the last thing I would do, I have never stared at any naked men in my life, and I am hurt that you’d imply that I am. Staring. At a naked man.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that? Grif, I like you. I respect you as a Captain and for what you’ve done. Please stop talking so I can set your shoulder.”
“Right, sorry,” Grif kept talking as he sat down on one of the benches, very aware of how exposed he was. “Uh, I get it, I’m making it weird, you’re not into- Uh, you’re just a trainer, or a CO or whatever your rank is, and I'm a creepy, staring guy, and we’re just, a couple dudes, a trainer, and his-” Wash sat down behind Grif and grabbed onto his arm, pulling it back and rotating it in its socket. Well, that shut him up. Grif yelped, trying not to squirm.
“I’m not into what, exactly? You keep going on tangents,” Wash hummed as he pressed his thumbs into Grif’s shoulderblade, kneading the knot of muscle. “I never said I wasn’t- That’s phrased badly, let me start again, I didn’t say I wasn’t-”
“Oh my god I made assumptions, I- You didn’t say you wouldn’t, you just-”
“Yeeeeep.”
“I’m an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Can I suck your dick then?”
Wash dropped his forehead against Grif’s shoulder, laughing. He kept pressing his fingers into Grif’s shoulder, working out the soreness as best he could. And then he didn’t stop laughing, his fingers slipped and he wrapped his arms around Grif’s torso. Grif kicked his feet, very glad that he could at least touch the floor here. He was kind of in shock. Wash’s hands were roaming, sliding down Grif’s sides to press under his stomach, knead his thighs, dig his nails into his hips.
“How about we take it slower. I’m not in any rush.”
“Okay, okay, that’s fine, uh, I’m cool with that, just, casual, friendly touches, that kind of thing. I get it.”
“Grif, I’m not talking about some kind of covert, under the radar, powerplay relationship. If you want, I’d be completely open to something serious, I just-” He cut himself off, still wracked by sporadic laughing fits, “I just wanted to know what you liked first. You can return the favor later.”
Grif felt himself shiver, whatever reply he had dying in his throat. He made a noise that sounded like a squeak when Wash pressed his lips against one of the circuitry-scars around his implants, teeth nipping the silvery lines. Wash’s hands were still tracing over his thighs, fingers dragging over stretchmarks. Grif snapped up, remembering the mess of hair currently drying into a puff on his head. Okay, fix that, pull it up, or something, Wash already thought he was gross-
Wash leaned in and bit down on the crook of Grif’s neck, pulling him back closer against his chest. His foot twitched against the floor, kicking out as Wash left a dark bruise on his shoulder. Ignoring the rabbit-esque reaction, Wash decided his time was best spent leaving more bruises on Grif’s neck and shoulder, and apparently completely ignoring Grif’s very obvious dick. All Grif had on was a towel, and here Wash was, groping his thighs and biting his neck and riling him up! Grif wasn't one to go popping boners all over the place like a randy teen, he was too old for that, obviously, it had just been a long time since anyone had been this close to him! Wash was just teasing, for some ungodly reason, trying to make Grif even harder. Which wasn’t a feat, his skin was burning up and Wash kissed at the side of his neck, knuckles brushing over spangles of body hair and soft skin. And it's not like Wash was unattractive, Grif could feel broad muscles pressing against his back, and when Wash shifted again, hips slotted against Grif- He had a very obvious erection. Agent Washington, hot, blonde, muscular, rugged- was attracted to him. To him. Captain Dexter Grif. Wash’s hands moved under Grif’s stomach, pressing onto his hipbones, brushing his thumbs over thin scars. He was embarrassed and achingly hard, his face flushed hot as Wash moved- his teeth were digging into Grif’s shoulder, palm pressed against the hard line of his cock. It still wasn’t enough. Grif wanted more of his mouth, his hands, his arms wrapped around him and chest pressed flush against him-
“Wash, come on, you’re dragging this out.”
“I’m enjoying the moment!”
“You’re being a jerk.”
Wash huffed into Grif’s ear, and then his hand was tight, almost too tight, thumb slicking over the head of his cock and Grif bucked his hips up, mouth dropped open and soundless- He threw a hand back behind him to pull at Wash’s hair, Wash moved his free hand between Grif’s legs, cupping his balls and Grif could hardly breathe. It had been too long, he was wound up and Wash bit him once, twice, left a trail of bruises up behind Grif’s ear. His hand flared, squeezed tight around the head of his dick. Grif’s legs were shaking, his breath was coming out in gasps, he pulled Wash’s hair, rolling his hips up against his hand and shuddering. Another hard jerk and Grif arched up, hips lifting up off of the bench as he climaxed. He kept quiet, thank God, voice strangled in his throat as Wash slowed down. His legs felt like mush, and Wash’s hand was still stroking him, sending little bursts of heat through his body. Wash cleared his throat.
“So. Ow?”
Grif breathed, felt his chest burn, and realized he was ripping Washington’s hair out of his skull. His cheeks flushed and he unwound his fingers from Wash’s hair, lacing them together on his lap as he mumbled an apology. His head was fuzzy and he felt like he was dying. Overall, he’d rate this as a solid A minus handjob. Minus because he wasn’t getting to return the favor. And because his ass was glued to a locker room bench, because his towel had apparently disappeared into thin air. Damn. Wash’s arms wound around Grif’s torso, fingers pressing into his sternum.
“You sound like you’re dying.”
“I have mentioned the fact that I’m a gross little fat dude, right? Plus, my ribs are all fucked up, since Simmons had some kind of tragic Ace bandage accident in his youth. Basically, I am dying. But slowly.”
“Have you talked to Doctor Grey about-”
“Damn, dude, my life isn’t a big mess that we can slap a Grey band-aid on. I’m living with it.”
Wash yawned, pressing his nose against the side of Grif’s neck.
“Right. So, you know Tucker stole our clothes.”
“Oh, of course.”
“He’s probably still in the locker room.”
“Absolutely.”
“That offer for a blowjob still on the table?”
“You fuckin’ know it.”