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Who: Jesse Pinkman & Ronan Lynch; Jesse Pinkman & Joseph Kavinsky; Jesse Pinkman & Noah Czerny; Jesse Pinkman & Andyr Prince. (Will set up more starters if anyone wants one!)
When: Post-Moira crash into the Midway Hub
Where: Around the camp set up
What: #justpostwhatthefuckthings
Note: Warnings for swearing and other stuff I'll edit in if necessary. If anyone wants to do post-crash things with Jesse, shoot me a PM and I'll toss up a starter for you!

☲ closed to ronan

[ One of the things Jesse managed to salvage of his own belongings from the Moira was the tent he'd received upon being promoted to Tiruncula rank a month or so ago. It's pitched shoddily among other crew members' tents pitched nearby, a slipshod effort on Jesse's part with how little he really knows about camping. Not that it matters, not that Jesse even cares. Hours have blurred on by since the ship went down, and Jesse has steadily descended from blind adrenalised terror into a state of shock-induced apathy; all the horrific things he's seen has anesthesised him into an eerily indifferent calmness.

Sitting crosslegged just outside his tent, there's a cigarette dangling between his lips, smoke drifting up from the lit end, while he's washing his hands in a dented camping saucepan of water that he'd managed to acquire. Barefoot and dressed in just his filthy jeans, his equally filthy blood-caked t-shirt is lying in a heap beside him. The water is cold, shocking against his skin; goosebumps rise across his arms and chest as he scrubs water up along his forearm, washing away dirt and dried blood as best he can with what little water he has available to him. He focuses on the task like he hasn't got a care in the world, like nothing horrific or traumatising has taken place.

Realising someone is approaching him, slowing down in front of him, Jesse glances up with a puff on his cigarette. It's Ronan. Smoke billows from around the cigarette pursed between his lips as Jesse peers up at Ronan with a look that's full of acknowledgement, yet unreactive; that same eerily indifferent calmness. Turning his attention back down to what he's doing, he remarks around his cigarette with a curt casualness that's entirely out of place with the whole situation: ]

'Sup?

☲ closed to kavinsky

[ On the very outskirts of the makeshift camp set up by all the crew, away from the bustle of crew members and the grim reminders of everything that led up to the ship crashing, Jesse loiters in near darkness, smoking one of his last cigarettes. The only light thrown on him comes from the camp itself, dim and indistinct; the tip of his cigarette glows red and bright in the murky shadows with each drag.

That shock-induced apathy hasn't really lifted. As he stands on the edge of the camp, he watches the camp from this safe distance with an impassive casualness. Disconnected from it all, like a spectator to a situation that he's watching on a screen rather than a part of. That's not to say there isn't an endless hum of trembling anxiety trapped beneath the surface, waiting to tear through his bubble of indifference; that's not to say that his hands aren't constantly sweaty, or that his heart isn't constantly racing. But he seems disconnected even from that.

He stands slouched on the spot, hand shoved in his pocket, other hand bringing his cigarette up for a drag and then dropping away to his side with a flick of ash. It's like he's standing on a street corner and not on the edge of a camp that's stranded on a planet on the edge of the universe. However, a noise nearby has Jesse snapping his head towards it, eyes suddenly alert and sharp. He exhales a plume of smoke, shoulders tensing up while he peers into the darkness. Another noise, like a twig snapping under someone's shoe. ]

...Hey, who the fuck's there, yo?

☲ closed to andyr

[ A few days have passed since the crash, in whatever way that "days" can be defined on this alien planet. Where Jesse, during the first couple of days, had been eerily apathetic in the face of so much trauma and terror, that shock has been slowly subsiding, giving way to a benumbed yet anxious helplessness rotting away inside of him. The only thing for it has been to keep busy, and god knows there's plenty to do. Not that Jesse is skilled in any of the areas needed most, but if Mr. White taught him anything outside of manufacturing meth and applying himself, it's taking inventory.

So, that's what he's been doing: throwing himself into the task when and where he's needed. Taking stock of the supplies salvaged by noting each item down on a clipboard, and moving said supplies to designated inventory areas. He's an exhausted wreck, having barely slept, barely eaten, but keeping busy keeps the churning storm of helpless panic all knotted up inside him contained.

It's when the stocktaking hits a lull in productivity, while those in charge work out how to inventory new supplies recovered from the Moira, that Jesse, bitten with a desperate nicotine craving, heads through the makeshift camp to find a secluded spot. He hovers near the edge of a cluster of tents, cigarette pursed between his lips and lighter igniting the tip, and it's when he draws in a deep, grateful hit of cigarette smoke that his eyes land on a familiar face. Andyr, sitting alone. A face Jesse hasn't been able to forget. Unspeakable horrors he hasn't been able to forget. Jesse hangs back, loitering in the dim shadows, wondering if he ought to approach the guy at all. And then, eventually, he hesitantly starts towards Andyr. ]

Hey, man.

[ An equally hesitant greeting as he comes to a stop at a respectful distance from Andyr. ]

☲ closed to j

[ It's late, dark. Half the camp is asleep, or at least trying to sleep, in their cramped little tents and makeshift shelter fashioned out of salvageable materials from the Moira. Jesse isn't asleep, though. Sitting outside his tent, he's chewing on his fingernails anxiously in between taking drags of his cigarette, looking this way and that. Seeming to be looking out for someone. That someone being Daisy. He hasn't seen her and he doesn't know where she is, and he can't seem to contact her over the MID. He's worried. She knows where his tent is, though, having camped with him in it the first night of the crash. It's why he's sitting here waiting for her, looking out for her: maybe she'll show up.

As he takes another edgy drag of his almost-finished smoke, everything about him seeming restless and fidgety even though he's sitting still, he throws a glance the other way and spots J up ahead. Heading towards him, it would seem. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Jesse sets the rocket firecracker aside to pile the other firecrackers he'd pulled out back in the box. Hefting the box in his arms, he stands up and turns to Ronan. He looks past him at the debris, making a calculated guess as to whether he's tall enough to jam the thing into the big hole he can see the box would fit well into. Naturally, he's not. So, he's shoving the box against Ronan's chest for him to take. ]

You do the honours, hotshot.

Sure thing, pipsqueak.

[Ronan cheerfully takes the box and hops on over to the space junk. Fitting the stuff into the hole doesn't take much of a stretch for him, obviously, and he's bounding back to Jesse's side a minute later.]

[ Pipsqueak. He'd shove Ronan in exasperation for all the insults relating to how tiny he is next to him, if he wasn't far more excited about these firecrackers. While Ronan scampers off with the box, Jesse collect the rocket firecracker and head back a good several more yards, so he and Ronan will be at a safe distance. He crouches down and inspects the rocket, then starts lining the firecracker up with the debris. By the time Ronan has joined him again, Jesse is positioning the firecracker with the wooden stake wedged into the ground. He leans in close so he's eye-level, lining up the rocket with the best target for the firecracker to aim towards. ]

They're all gonna fuckin' hate us back at camp. [ Or maybe some of them will think it's as awesome as he and Ronan will think it's going to be. ] Whatever. They're missin' out.

[ And, okay, with the rocket secured in place and ready for launch, Jesse glances up at Ronan with an excited gleam in his eyes while fishing his hand into his pocket for his lighter. ] You wanna light it?

We'll be way the fuck out of here before they figure out it's us.

[Ronan has no intention of explaining the existence of dream fireworks to the rest of the camp. He takes his place by Jesse's side but shakes his head at the offer, getting nice and comfortable for a view of the explosion.]

You can do it.

[ Jesse meant in terms of the explosion this is going to cause. But Ronan is right - they'll both definitely be way the fuck out of here before anyone figures out who's behind it.

He raises his brows up at Ronan like "you sure?" before excitedly turning his attention to the rocket, anyway. A snap of the lighter and he tentatively lights the fuse at the base of the rocket, which flares alight in a ball of sparks. Jesse hurriedly jumps to his feet and backs away to stand beside Ronan, watching, waiting, eager eyed and full of rapt anticipation.

The suddenness of the rocket taking off has Jesse exclaiming, "Whoa, shit!" with a startled, delighted laugh, and the speed of the thing rocketing towards the debris is almost as fast as the blink of an eye. It sails straight for the hunk of metal with a slight bend to its path - and hits bang on target. ]

[Ronan is perfectly content to let Jesse have all the fun. Few things please him more than watching others enjoy his creations - even if this particular dream thing is ripped straight from Kavinsky's psyche. (They've been spending too much time sharing one mind. Ronan knows it.)

As the rocket hits the target, the debris bursts with shrieking whistles and shocks of colorful light. Pieces of metal go flying into the air, riding sparks and pinwheels of fire. The noise is thunderous, echoing louder than it should over the valley, almost deafening from this short distance. Ronan's laughing like a madman, but he can hardly hear himself over the roar. He throws an arm around Jesse and slaps him on the back in congratulations, as if he's done all the work.]

Fuck yeah, man!

[ It's a terrifying, thrilling, exhilarating thing, watching the fireworks come to life, knowing he had been the one to light the fuse. The spectacle of colour bursting into the dark sky is electrifying; Jesse lets out a loud whoop of a laugh, barely able to hear himself over the ear-shattering explosions. As Ronan is clapping an arm around Jesse's shoulders, Jesse is pumping a fist into the air in adrenalin-charged victory. In unison with Ronan: ]

Yeah, bitch!

[ And he lets out another ecstatic, roguish laugh while turning to Ronan with that hand coming at Ronan in a triumphant yeah, bitch! high five. ]

[Ronan slaps that incoming hand, absolutely elated. Another successful dream thing, another step toward becoming himself again. Over by the trash heap, fireworks are still whizzing and crackling, probably for far longer than fireworks ought to. Ronan throws his other arm around Jesse in a hug and takes him for a little spin, whirling around and around while sparks rain down.]

[ The moment Ronan is grabbing him and hoisting him up off the ground, Jesse throws an arm around Ronan's neck as he's being spun around in circles. He clings on with that one arm, other arm pumped back into the air, the deafening pepper of explosions drowning out his laughter. He probably weighs almost nothing next to Ronan's strength and stature, and he doesn't care that Ronan is spinning him around and around, because in that moment he's the fucking happiest and most exhilarated he can remember feeling in a long, long time. ]

[The fireworks eventually die down and leave nothing but a smoking hunk of metal emitting the occasional leftover pop, and Ronan eventually has to stop spinning because otherwise he'll fall over. So they find themselves collapsing against the side of a boulder, Ronan's chest heaving with panting and snickering. He keeps one arm around Jesse's shoulders, regardless.]

Ah, beautiful.

[ God, by the time slows with spinning him around, Jesse realises how dizzy he is. His legs, like jelly and all uncoordinated from everything tilting and spinning in his vision, cause him to stumble and collapse with Ronan. His arm stays anchored around Ronan's neck, the stupidest, most thrilled grin on his face, pupils fully dilated with the rush of coke.

The silence settling over the darkness makes the ringing in his ears ring all the louder. Amplifying the silence, the darkness. It's like hitting that point of dissatisfaction where the high of a drug has descended into its inevitable, disappointing comedown: the only way back up is more. ]

Man-- [ Slumping against the boulder while hanging off Ronan. ] 'Beautiful'?! Are you kidding?! More like-- [ His other hand balls into a fist and lands a playful punch to Ronan's stomach. ] Fuck, we shoulda saved some! You got me wanting to blow up more shit!

[Ronan lets out a laugh when Jesse punches his stomach, and he hooks Jesse into a weak headlock to keep him from doing it again. Though this kind of just ends with the both of them pressed temple-against-temple, Ronan slouching so close to him.]

There's nothing else to blow up out here. Unless we find more space junk, I guess. Whatever. Enjoy the moment, fucker.

[ Jesse just laughs at the headlock, drunk on happiness, on coke. He tries to land another playful punch into Ronan's gut in pretend protest, though it's as weak an attempt as Ronan's headlock. So, he gives in, sagging against Ronan's side, attempting to wrestle Ronan into his own headlock but too dizzy and laughing too much to be all that effective. Dumb, stupid, playful roughhousing. ]

[This ends in a tangle of arms, hands grabbed at heads, with some amount of slapping and hair-pulling, before Ronan trips and they both fall to the ground in a squirming pile. If it hurts at all, Ronan doesn't feel it. He's practically giggling, the whole thing feels so silly.]

[ Every slap and dumb hair pull makes Jesse laugh all the more, boisterous and boyish and utterly immature. He tries to dodge each slap, tries to grab Ronan in a more secure headlock, tries to toss him over to the ground just to be a dick. The stumble to the ground both of them wind up taking is utterly clumsy on Jesse's part, with the universe still tilting on an axis around him. In between the squirm of legs and hands grappling at each other, Jesse half-rolls on top of Ronan as he locks a leg with his while attempting an extremely poor try at actual wrestling.

Ronan's giggling, though - it's infectious. Jesse manages to straddle Ronan, and with Ronan now pinned underneath him, Jesse seizes the opportunity to land another playful punch to his ribs - but winds up dropping his forehead onto Ronan's chest in a collapsing fit of stupid laughter along with it. ]

[By the time Jesse manages to get the upper hand and pin Ronan beneath him, Ronan's quaking with laughter again. This reminds him of wrestling with Andyr before, and that - Well, that. Ended. Favorably. Everything feels absurd to him now. It's probably the cocaine. It's definitely the cocaine.

His hands seize Jesse's waist like he's about to throw him off, but then Jesse collapses onto his chest and those hands end up remaining where they are, thumbs hooking into the belt loops of Jesse's jeans.]

[ Definitely the cocaine. How it heightens... everything. All Jesse is doing is lying on top of Ronan and still laughing, giggling, the kind of stupid asshole giggle he'd wind up collapsing into back in simpler days when it was just him and his crew - Badger, Skinny Pete, Combo - getting high, being idiots, laughing to the point where they wouldn't even know what they were laughing at anymore. Exactly like now.

Ronan is a such a solid warmth underneath him, too, and so are those hands on his waist, and, man, things like human touch always feels so good when he's riding a coke high. Coke, he suddenly thinks amongst all the idiotic laughter. Ronan has the coke, doesn't he?

Too lazy to be bothered pushing himself up, Jesse renews wrestling with Ronan, this time with a hand reaching down for Ronan's jean's pocket while he's still slumped in a fit of laughter on Ronan's chest. ]

Where's the blow, asshole?

[Ronan squirms beneath Jesse as that hand starts groping. There's no helping his erection when he's got a handsome man on top of him, and he has to make a split-second decision here about whether to try to hide it or go with it and see where it leads.

The high makes that decision for him.]

It's in there somewhere.

[Right next to something else.]

Just reach a little deeper.

[Ha! This is hilarious.]

You're gonna make me--?

[ Whatever, Jesse's hand is already halfway into Ronan's pocket, anyway. God, he can't stop laughing, though. His stomach hurts from laughing. His cheeks hurt. His lungs hurt. It's the best kind of discomfort. He feels so alive, for once.

Hand plunging deeper into Ronan's pocket, his fingers snag the plastic of the little baggy - and as he's yanking his hand back out, it brushes against... oh. Hand trapped halfway in Ronan's pocket, Jesse goes suddenly still. He's panting from all the laughter, which is still bubbling out of him, even though he's just realised Ronan has an erection.

Jesse quickly pushes up from Ronan's chest. The fireworks have all long died out now; it's dark as hell, save for his flashlight over there casting a lone beam off into the blackness. Only a dim glow of light spreads peripherally to where he and Ronan are, and Jesse can only just make out his face.

What possesses him to experimentally trace his thumb with a subtle stroke of his thumbnail up along the hardness pressing through the material inside Ronan's jeans pocket, who the fuck knows. The coke, probably; the hedonism coke always brings out in him. Maybe misguided, crippling loneliness simmering underneath that. Whatever the reason, it just happens without thought. ]

[He'd expected Jesse to jump off him and scream and maybe do a couple backflips out of gay panic.

He did not expect this.

Ronan's whole body responds to that, the lightest of teasing elevated by the drugs and the sheer surprise of it. He sucks in a sharp breath, laughter abruptly silenced. His back arches, hips rolling and twisting slightly to push his cock closer to Jesse's hand. It's difficult to maneuver, trapped as he is, but it's plain enough that he's inviting Jesse to experiment further. His hands are still hooked around Jesse's waist and now his fingers graze the skin beneath Jesse's shirt.]

[ A flare of gay panic is immediately what follows. He's not a faggot. What the fuck is he doing? That hand in Ronan's pocket twists its way sharply out the moment Ronan is seeking more of that touch, baggy of coke forgotten in the surprise of where this has suddenly shifted to.

That little touch of Ronan's fingers sneaking up under his shirt, though - it's barely there, yet it's sharp and bright like fingernails being dragged across that very spot. If Ronan were a woman, Jesse wouldn't think twice about pushing his hand into those jeans, wouldn't think twice about leaning down and claiming that mouth. He'd be heady, dizzily aroused, eager to stoke the promise of coked-out sex.

What he'd give to feel warm hands on him. Anybody's hands. Anybody who wants him. A sudden heaviness starts to swell in the base of his balls at the thought of getting off. He could jerk off later to relieve tension but he feels alive and hedonistic now; and there's something... extremely hedonistic about making Ronan - this tough, impenetrable, magnificent, terrifying creature, who allows himself no pleasure - weak with desire. How human it makes him.

Jesse runs his tongue across his top lip while staring down at Ronan through the near blackness, then the hand he'd just yanked out of Ronan's pocket moves Ronan's waist. With tentative curiosity, that hand travels down, down, until it's sliding over the hard swell of Ronan's erection trapped beneath his jeans; an entirely alien sensation to Jesse, to be touching a man there. Knowing exactly what feels good, though, he's groping with a kneading squeeze that never fails to get himself hard whenever he's fondled himself like that. ]

[What most people fail to realize about Ronan is that the tough, impenetrable, magnificent, terrifying creature is also just a boy. A tender, easily broken, deeply traumatized boy who's afraid more often than not. If he didn't have the cocaine to give him courage right now, he wouldn't even know what to do with himself.

He still doesn't quite, as his addled mind skips from moment to moment and seems to be missing the parts in between. Fireworks, then wrestling, then a fingernail, and now this. The hand feels good, that's all he knows. When it squeezes him, his hips jerk and he ruts up against Jesse's hand, a soft whimper escaping his throat. If Jesse wanted to see him helpless, he's already there. Lying in the dirt, staring up at the darkness with heavy-lidded eyes, being felt up by someone he can hardly see.]

[ Makes Jesse kind of sick, then, doesn't it? To find a greedy sense of power in Ronan's weakness. Not that Jesse really knows what to do - if Ronan were a girl, Jesse would know all the right things to say, all the sweet, enticing words, use sex as an extension of their drug use. But here he is, rubbing Ronan's cock through his jeans and hearing that tough, angry, dangerous boy whimper helplessly.

Jesse leans over Ronan, forehead dropping to his chest , hand rubbing up and down, kneading and coaxing Ronan's hips to rut up into his hand. The flittering worry that this makes him a faggot - feeling up a guy like this - bounces around inside his amped up head, so he shuts his eyes. Just pretend. Just go with it. And with that thought at the fore of his mind, Jesse turns his face up and his lips meets the scratchy, bristly stubble of Ronan's jaw.

His mouth grazes along it, his own bristles rough and scratchy against Ronan's skin, until his lips are by Ronan's ear. ]

You can touch me if you want to. [ Murmured; a low, coaxing hum against Ronan's ear, while his hand keeps kneading, rubbing, palming Ronan's hardness in gradual increasing confidence. ]

[It's only in the dark that Ronan realizes how outrageously sexy Jesse's voice is. Or maybe it's the words. You can touch me if you want to. From a straight man, no less. This is the stuff of daydreams during World History class. Maybe someone slipped something extra into the cocaine. This can't be happening.

But it is. Jesse's hand is there, undeniable, massaging his length and sending shocks of heat through his nerves. It continues to draw quiet sounds from Ronan's throat. Vulnerable, but unmistakably boyish and not remotely girlish. There will be no pretending.

Blindly, Ronan's hands begin to travel. The left glides up under Jesse's shirt and over his bare chest, feeling pronounced ribs that remind Ronan of Adam before finding a nipple to tease with his thumb. The right slides down over Jesse's clothed thigh, following a seam along his jeans until Ronan finds his cock. It's on its way to full hardness, which surprises Ronan even though the time for surprises should probably have passed.

With the clumsy touch of a virgin, Ronan starts to stroke it. He can tell he's not doing as skilled a job as Jesse, especially because his hand is trembling, but it's a touch that conveys admiration. Ronan is impressed and maybe even intimidated by Jesse. He is, Ronan's just realizing now, a grown man. An extremely attractive one.]

[ That hand travelling up his back feels like liquid fire on his skin. Everything is heightened, most especially the warm, solid touch of a hand softly roaming across his skin like that. Jesse melts right into it. Between the enthralling thrill of watching the piece of ship debris explode in a rainbow of fireworks, the cocaine humming through his veins, and now this, Jesse feels a million miles away from any bad thought, memory, feeling. Somewhere deep down, there's a sick sense of guilt that he's corrupting Ronan for his own selfish means, that he's excited by how small and helpless this imposing, frightful, mystifying boy is.

That guilt dissolves into the background as Ronan's fingers trail their ticklish way up his ribs, and Jesse exhales a small, shuddering breath against Ronan's ear at the toying tug at his nipple. Even if Ronan hadn't told him that he was a Catholic boy with strict rules about touching himself, disgusted at the thought of touching himself, Jesse can easily tell how inexperienced Ronan is in the fumble of his trembling hands, in his nervousness. Jesse rocks his hips into that touch between his legs, pressing his burgeoning cock into Ronan's palm. Taking his hand away from Ronan's crotch, Jesse presses that hand up against Ronan's, urging him to grope him, touch him, to not be afraid of pleasure.

Holding Ronan's hand firm to his crotch, Jesse rocks into his palm with a slow, luxurious grind. Like sex comes completely naturally to him, like it's something he doesn't fear at all. Even if this is a guy that he's with. He's not letting himself think about that. Somehow, Ronan being utterly, hopelessly virginal about this, with those soft little whimpers of his and his eager, experimental touch, makes it far easier for Jesse to just go with it. ]

Don't be afraid. [ Again, murmured into Ronan's ear, low and deep. ] Just do whatever feels good. [ Another grind of his cock into Ronan's hand while still holding it there for him, showing him. And then, because Jesse most certainly wants to snort another hit: ] Want another bump?

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