[Next entry: "Firefly Fic: Real food; No clue (Jayne/Wash, PG)"]
08/08/2007: "Firefly Fic: Unexpected (Jayne/Wash, NC-17)"
Title: Unexpected
Pairing: Jayne/Wash
Rating: NC-17
Words: About 2600
Summary: They get to drinking some of the foulest alcohol Wash has ever had the pleasure of tasting.
Notes: This is for grapho_spasm who asked for Jayne/Wash and sniffing. So many thanks to oxoniensis for the lovely beta read! All remaining mistakes are my own fault.
Disclaimer: Clearly I claim no ownership to the Firefly 'verse or its characters; nor am I making money from this fic writing thing.
When Wash had signed on with Mal Reynolds, he'd expected shady dealings, possible crime, and the thrill of piloting a ship that had a real edge to it. He'd expected bad food, decent takes, and maybe some running from the law.
Wash hadn't expected Serenity to become home.
The crew are the strangest mix of people he's ever worked with. They shouldn't fit together, but they do. Kaylee smiles and makes everyone laugh, even Zoe, who barely even tolerates Wash. The captain's fair and more or less even-handed, and given that he'd fought on the Independent side of the war, that's something Wash wouldn't have expected.
Wash is comfortable here.
When he finally comes to realize this, he tries saying as much to the others. Well, not Zoe, because she can hurt him. But to Kaylee he says, "Everyone is kind of nice, here. Mostly."
She smiles at him quizzically. "You expect something else?" And then she frowns, like she's made a sudden connection. "Wash, you trying to tell me something? 'Cause if someone's causing you grief, you oughta tell the cap! Oh. Unless. It ain't him, is it?"
He shakes his head, and leaves the engine room, because she's so good-natured she just doesn't get it. She expects people to treat her well. She expects a ship to be a home.
When he next sees Mal, he says, "This job is really great. I mean it."
But Mal just glares at him suspiciously and says, "I just hired us another gun-hand, and I ain't got anything extra to give you a raise, so don't go trying to sweet-talk me."
"Yes, sir. Captain. Sir," he replies in his best sarcastic voice. The crew might be decent, but it looks like trying to say so just isn't kosher.
Except, it turned out, when the new merc comes into the cockpit one night, brandishing a bottle of hooch and a couple of mismatched, cracked mugs. "You wanna drink? Everyone else 'round here ain't interested. Don't get it."
Wash is pretty sure he gets it, but what the hell. They get to drinking – some of the foulest alcohol Wash has ever had the pleasure of tasting. After a few shots, talking just starts up.
"Yeah, I get it," Jayne says, after Wash makes his thoughts about this job clear. "These folk ain't normal. Ruttin' girl, so happy. Don't think I ever saw a person so gorram happy all the time like that. Ain't natural."
"But it's nice," Wash says, and belches. The drink is strong. Foul. Foully strong and endearing. Not unlike the captain. He's about to say so when Jayne continues.
"Yeah, guess it ain't too annoyin'."
Wash doesn't know Jayne too well at this point, but he figures that's pretty high praise.
"And the captain. Don't know what to make of him. Can be real fun, can be a right pain in the ass. Can't make plans for shit. Brave. Stupid. Stubborn." There's an almost-admiring look on Jayne's face as he says it.
Wash figures that's a pretty decent description of Mal. "Independent."
"Aww, hell yeah," Jayne says, and knocks back another mouthful. "You said it."
"And Zoe –"
Jayne whistles. "Helluva woman."
"And scary."
"That too." Jayne gives him a measured look. "An' there's you. You ain't normal neither." Jayne eyes him up and down, slowly. "Them shirts. An' yer near as cheerful as the girl."
Wash laughs. "No one else could be that cheerful. It would tip the 'verse on its side. And what's wrong with my shirts?"
That gets him a snort, and a knowing look. "Colourful. Shirts like that, they only say one thing about a man."
"That he has a bold sense of fashion? That he's daring and exciting?" Wash waggles his eyebrows as he speaks.
"Nope."
"What, then?"
Jayne leans forward. "That he's lookin' to get his shirt torn right off him. 'Cause folk get sick and tired of havin' their eyes assaulted."
"Ah. Jayne. That's really –"
"Don't get ideas in that head. I ain't that drunk."
Wash laughs. "But I'm close enough." It's almost true. Looking at Jayne, he's certain that sex with the man would be one of the nastiest, sexiest things he'd ever done. Knock-down, drag-out sex, unpretty and incredibly hot. Jayne, who so far doesn't seem to take 'no' for an answer in anything.
Wash closes his eyes and thinks about Jayne pushing him up against a wall, or bending him over the nearest table. He thinks about folding his arms under his forehead, braced against the back of the pilot seat while Jayne fucks him.
Then he thinks about Zoe walking in, and the look that would be on her face.
"What?" Jayne asks, pouring himself another drink. "Yer lookin' nervous."
Wash shakes the image of her disgust, her anger, out of his head, holds out his glass, and says, "I'm not. Let's keep drinking."
They do. They drink, and it turns out that Jayne's a jovial drunk. He starts telling stories, and Wash starts laughing so hard – even when they aren't intended to be funny stories – that he ends up just slip-sliding from his seat down o the floor.
A few minutes later, Jayne joins him.
Once they're both on the floor, sprawled out and legs touching, Wash knows it's going to happen. He's just uncertain about the form it will take. Or how drunk they'll be by the time one of them makes the first move.
A drink later, Wash realizes that maybe by bringing out the hooch, it was Jayne who already made the first move. "Cunning," he says, his mouth not quite working right. The word is drawn out, slow.
"Huh?"
"You. Cunning."
Jayne winks at him. Or maybe it's a twitch, Wash can't quite tell. "I'm all kinds of cunnin'." There's a pause before he asks, "How? What'd I do?
Wash gestures between them, at the nearly empty bottle, at the pilot chair and again at himself. "You know."
But Jayne just frowns, and pours himself the last of the drink. "You ain't making no sense. Course, that don't seem unusual, from what I seen so far."
Ordinarily, Wash knows he'd have something witty to say there. Banter and piloting, two things he really excels at. But now, all he can do is smile, and his mouth feels wet, loose, when he does it. Jayne grins back, and it's – something. Nasty. A little dirty. Wanting. And Wash knows it isn't going to be long now.
It's just as well, because the cold of the metal floor is beginning to seep into Wash's bones – or, more precisely, his ass is starting to feel numb. It should be enough to get him up, moving, sitting on a chair – or Jayne – but somehow he's boneless, unwilling to do much beyond continuing to drink and listen to Jayne's increasingly raucous words.
Still, it's cold. The ship is always a little cool, it saves on fuel. Cold, he thinks, and drains the last of the hooch from his cup.
And then, he's warm. Almost. It's shameful how long it takes him to understand that this is because Jayne has moved, and is pressed up against him. He's pushed himself between Wash's legs, and is crowding him against the wall. Wash feels steady puffs of breath against his neck.
"What?" He asks it even as he leans in slightly, drawn to the warmth of Jayne's bulk.
"Huh?" Jayne takes a deep breath, and lets it out quickly; the rhythm becomes a pattern, enough that after a moment, Wash has to ask. "Are you – sniffing me?" The room burns with a kind of clarity that wasn't there before.
Jayne leans closer, his nose brushing along Wash's collarbone. "Nope."
"So. Uh. What are you doing?" He gasps as Jayne slides down, pausing briefly to press his face against Wash's stomach; then moving down to his thigh.
"Sniffin' at you." He's turned his head, and speaks the words against Wash's crotch, slow and careful.
Wash bucks up involuntarily, "Didn't I just ask," he grunts as Jayne's hand comes down hard on his hip, curving around it, "didn't I just ask that?"
"Dunno. Weren't listenin'." The words are spoken into Wash's crotch again, and then Jayne moves up, pushing Wash's shirt out of the way so that he can lick along the edge of Wash's pants, his beard scraping along Wash's skin. Wash's eyes close, and his head falls back, hitting the wall lightly.
"Mother of god, Jayne," he says, as he pushes upwards, pushes against Jayne's tongue and lips. Because this wasn't what he was thinking might happen. Maybe a grope, maybe something quick, dirty, impersonal. Not this kind of – sniffing. "I thought you weren't drunk enough."
Jayne looks up, grinning. "That were half an hour ago."
Wash grins back, and pushes Jayne up and away slightly. "Shiny. You wanna do this here? Where the captain might come by? Or. Zoe."
"Don't that just make it more fun?" Jayne's settled on his knees now, and is already thumbing open the button of Wash's pants, pushing them open. And then a warm hand is inside his pants, inside his underwear, cupping his cock, squeezing. Wash slides down the wall slightly, and reaches up to grasp Jayne's arm.
Everything feels overly sensitized, and the cotton edge of Jayne's shirtsleeve feels rough, sharp, against Wash's palm. The orange of the shirt seems bright, harsh, even in the limited light of the cockpit.
As Wash slips his fingers underneath the edge of the sleeve, Jayne's hands slide around Wash's hips, urging him up slightly and shoving his pants and underwear down.
The floor is cold on Wash's bare skin, and he yelps even as Jayne gets back to stroking his cock.
"What?"
"Cold. Cold on my ass."
Jayne smirks down at him momentarily, "Little man, you delicate?"
Swatting at Jayne with his free hand, Wash snorts, "You wanna switch? Get your bare ass down here? Isn't like you couldn't stand to lose some of it to frostbite."
The 'verse tilts before he realizes that Jayne's taken the snark seriously. Wash finds himself straddling Jayne's thighs, still trying to get his bearings even while Jayne is already unbuttoning his own pants, leaving them loose and open around his hips.
Wash's knees are cold, the floor is hard, and he forgets all about it when Jayne pulls Wash closer, aligns him, and wraps his hand around both of their cocks.
"Laotian fu," he says, gasping. Jayne's hand is rough, the friction is almost too much, even as he leans into the heat, into the familiar – but not recently – feel of another man, hard against him.
"Wouldn'ta," Jayne grunts back, "figured you had it in you," and Wash is about to grouse that he doesn't have it in him, not yet. But before he can say anything, Jayne twists his hand slowly, a long, slow glide. His other hand sits loosely on Wash's hip, not-quite urging him into a slow rhythm, something that leaves Wash half-grinning, his mouth slack.
But it's too much, too fast, and Jayne's hand rough on his cock, and Wash imagines that he can feel the calluses. "Wait," he says, pulling Jayne's fingers free. "Lube."
"Ain't got none here. My bunk –"
"No," Wash replies, bringing Jayne's hand to his mouth, licking the palm quickly, thoroughly before moving to suck on two of Jayne's fingers, fast and wet.
"Hell, little man, you're real good at that. Wanna maybe change things around and –"
"Shut up," Wash grins, wetting the other two fingers, swiping Jayne's palm a couple more times, and wrapping Jayne's hand back around them. It's slick, just enough, just a bit, and it's good, too good. It's obscene – rutting on the floor of the cockpit with a mercenary who would probably sell Wash out – sell all of them out – for a slightly larger cut. Anyone could walk in, anyone could see Wash with his pants down around his knees, straddling Jayne and rubbing against him like he's desperate or getting paid for it. It might be the incentive Zoe's looking for to finally convince Mal to toss him off the ship.
His head falls forward as he thinks about it, and Jayne's hand on his hip urges him to move faster. "Yeah," he manages to grunt out, balancing himself with one hand on Jayne's chest, the other around his bicep. He's panting, it would be embarrassing if Jayne wasn't just as far gone – eyes shut, mouth slack, head tilted back slightly so that his throat is bared.
Wash stops thinking about where they are. He focuses on hot, hard, Jayne underneath him, the flex of his arm under Wash's hand, the buck of his hips. He gets lost in the slick slide of a hard cock against his, reveling in the way Jayne's hand is wrapped so tightly around them.
Tightening his grip on Jayne's arm, Wash grinds down, grins a little as Jayne groans, long and too loud, and there's no way, just no way that someone didn't hear that. Wash hopes it's Kaylee, because she won't care, she'll just grin and walk away – maybe grin and watch – and he does it again, pushing himself closer, wanting more – wanting Jayne's hand to grip a little harder, wanting everything fast, faster.
He doesn't even notice that Jayne's hand has moved away from his hip until blunt fingertips are pressing behind his balls – fast circles, almost exactly the right kind of pressure – and Wash's arm weakens, he falls forward. He's close enough to feel the heat rising from Jayne, almost close enough to kiss. But Jayne turns his head to the side, and presses his fingers up, other hand twisting again, and Wash is coming. He feels it on his chest, hot, and looks between them, sees the way it slicks up Jayne's chest. Even through the body-shaking haze of pleasure blanketing him, even as the lassitude starts to creep up, he thinks about sliding down, sucking Jayne's cock into his mouth.
But he doesn't quite make it. Instead, Jayne pushes him up a little, urges his hand around Jayne's cock. And Wash might be more than a little drunk, he might be heavy with residual pleasure, but he's also wired, high, and Jayne's cock in his hand becomes one of the best things ever. He strokes, not lightly, and Jayne bucks up, grind out, "Harder."
Wash can do harder. Instead he slows down, teases, his thumb circling the head, slow, light, until Jayne's eyes open, and he says, "Quit messing around." Wash grins, goes back to hard, harder, focused, and that's pretty much all it takes.
Jayne comes, and it's messy and unfocussed, and oddly compelling. Wash actually has the luxury to watch Jayne's face twist up tight, then go slack. He pants, licks his lips, heedless of Wash watching.
Maybe they should continue this, go somewhere more welcoming, warmer than the floor of the cockpit. "Hey, you want to –"
But Jayne's already pushing himself up, unbalancing Wash, sending him tumbling. "Floor's cold," he says as he stands, unapologetic.
Wash shrugs and takes it for the hint that it is. He pulls himself up, gripping the arm of the pilot seat – a little askew – for support. "Thought you'd stand it longer, big strong manly type that you are," he says, buttoning up his pants, licking his lips, smiling, thinking about water.
Jayne shrugs, smirks. "I ain't got the insulation you got." He gestures at his ass as he walks out. "It's all muscle."
End.
