hector chasse. (ironarmor) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2016-01-15 01:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | hector chasse, npc: killian |
WHO: Hector Chasse & Killian Stracke.
WHAT: Hey, remember that time Hector and Killian were young and dumb and drunkenly broke a table? No? WELL NOW YOU KNOW, ENJOY
WHEN: Way back in '58.
WHERE: The Kamikaze mess.
WARNINGS: Drinking, crass innuendo, a lot of swearing.
"Okay, okay," Hector interrupted loudly with a wave of his hand as he cut off Killian's conversation, "no, shut the fuck up for a second. I have a question." After two years of RAC training, it was a relief to finally be assigned to a ship. To feel like this job was secure, and the fucking recruits with him were vetted and good at their jobs. On board the Kamikaze, a ship that looked as prickly as he felt when dealing with the younger trainees, he was finally starting to settle in, to look at the walls of this spacecraft like they were his own; even with an older engineer supervising, he felt like he could do something with the ship. Turned out there were a couple people on board he could stand, too. Killian wasn't so bad when they started drinking together, and while one pilot was in the bridge, that gave them time for some R&R. The mess was empty; it was late, and they'd taken over the place with their metal cups and the bottle of vodka between them, their laughter echoing through the room while the other crew members presumably slept. "Okay, here's my question —" Hector pointed his cup at the pilot. "Why don't you get laid more? Look at you. That gunner from the Cuba Libre was all over you, and you brushed her off like you didn't fucking care. What's the deal with that?" There was an exasperated sigh to follow. "I don't care," the younger man asserted, dropping forward from where his chair had been precariously balanced on its back legs. The metal came down hard, like his elbows upon the table. "Jesus, she's not hard on the eyes or anything, but she's so—" He flapped a hand, as if it would perfectly illustrate his meaning. "You know. That." Hector stared at his crewmate with a vague smile and a bright hint of — something in his eyes. "She's so — that?" Incredulous, he started laughing. "What the fuck is that? Too attractive? Too much for you? Wait, that must be it. You don't like a woman who can take you with one hand behind her back." There was no delay in the reach for that bottle. "I don't like a woman who looks like she wants to eat me like a rare steak," he corrected, drawing the much-needed drink over. "And, and, if I slept with every person who ever looked my way, including our not-so-fucking-subtle-with-the-eyes gunner whose name I can't pronounce, there would be no deal." Killian paused, rolling those words back over in his head. "I don't have a deal, shut up." He took a swig right from the bottle. "Fucking pour, you animal," Hector growled at him, shoving the cup towards Killian's hand, which swatted petulantly. "No, no. That's bullshit. You definitely have a deal." He'd figured this out, he decided; there was only one way to get to the truth. "Okay. Let's get this straight. It always comes back to one thing, and you're definitely drunk enough to be fucking honest, for a change," the engineer informed his crewmate quite reasonably. "So: tell me how you lost your virginity, Stracke." Throat burning, the pilot made a face — at the demand, not the taste. For a moment, it seemed like he was conjuring up a protest, something along the lines of Not a chance, but the moment passed, and Killian was wrapping fingers around the cup. "Pre-emptively," he started, "again, shut up. It doesn't count. We were doing homework drunk, she made me wear her skirt, and in the morning she told me she was probably a lesbian and then she threw up on the living room floor. That's not even— what the hell is that? I think I'm still offended." "She —" Hector's incredulity bought Killian at least a moment of stunned silence as he absorbed that information. "She made you wear her skirt?" He started laughing; he really couldn't help it. "And that didn't clue you in that she was a fuckin' lesbian, Stracke? She made you wear her skirt." Peals of laughter spilled from him as he tried to reach for the bottle of vodka to steal it back from the pilot. "No fucking way. I don't believe you. Seriously?" The vodka was stubbornly pulled off the table, to settle lopsidedly against Killian's thigh. "Yeah, seriously, who would make that up? It wasn't even that great, and kissing her was like kissing a fish, and if you take that literally, I'm gonna get really creative with this bottle." Hector took one foot off of the chair where his crossed ankles had been casually resting in order to lengthen his reach, swiping towards Killian's hands for the bottle. "Oh yeah?" he challenged. "So what, she gasp a lot? Wet and slimy? Couldn't close her mouth? Give me the goddamn vodka or you'll have to get creative." Ever more stubbornly, the pilot slid his chair back, the scrape almost worthy of a grimace. "All of the above and then some, and before you fucking say anything, it was not my first kiss, and he was a lot better with his tongue than she was." A slow smirk made its way across Hector's face. "Really," he drawled, deliberate and unhurried as he leaned back in his chair once more, feet spread, posture relaxed. "Well, the skirt thing explains a lot, sure. Tell me about your first kiss, then. Who was he?" "An asshole," Killian offered, in the distinct tone of someone wanting to change the topic. "A hot asshole, but an asshole. Figures the first guy whose dick I wanted in my mouth moved to Mars." Both realizing he'd moved too far from the table and that he'd said too much, he stood up, very nearly swaying with the movement. "And that was a little too honest, Jesus." The bottle was settled back on the table. "No." Hector's other foot swung off the chair, and he was standing all at once as well, moving far more swiftly than someone as inebriated as he was ought to be capable of moving at this point. That smirk was a shark grin, sharp and predatory and more than a little hungry. His boots tangled with Killian's as he crowded the pilot back towards the table, slow but decisive, giving the other man room to push him away before he was pinned. But he wouldn't, of course. Hector could sense it. That honesty was an invitation. "Just the right amount of honest, I think," Hector replied, voice low in his throat, setting his cup down on the table to let his hands find Killian's hips instead. They attached, one after the other, like magnets finding their mate. "On behalf of all the men of Mars, let me issue a proper apology." There was still laughter in his tone. "His loss — my gain." As anticipated, there was little fight, despite the dash of surprise in bright eyes. Killian flattened his own hands against the table, uncertain of how to proceed except with loose, honest lips. It had been a little bit of an invitation; he hadn't been aware how much of one until his heart skipped some beats. "He kind of set a high bar, you know," was what he could manage in the moment, voice a little strangled. "Unless being a good kisser is a hot asshole thing across the board." One hand rose to grasp Killian's jaw, holding his chin tightly between thumb and curled forefinger as he considered the challenge. He'd been focused on graduation and his new placement these last few months; it had been a little while since he'd had the chance to work out his energy on someone else. There was a lot of coiled intent in his chest. Things he wanted to do. Things he was already hungrily considering. The alcohol was making the mess hall table seem like a very appealing part of his plans. As he leaned in, head tilting slightly, Hector murmured: "You tell me." The kiss was rough, unyielding. It felt good to claim the pilot's mouth and tease his lip with his teeth, to taste the vodka on his breath and run a hand down his spine. Breathless, he broke away at last, and raised an eyebrow as he suppressed a smirk. "Well?" Only once they'd come apart did Killian notice his hand had moved of its own volition to Hector's chest, practically furled into a fist in the material there. He licked his lips, lacking the sobriety to be self-conscious about the way he panted too hard. This hadn't been how he'd intended the evening to go. He'd certainly thought about it from time to time, but they had been thoughts and nothing more. Well, he wasn't complaining. Now that the topic of his sexual purity was behind them, Killian could allow the amusement to trickle in, brows raising in return. "Dunno, you might need to give it a second go." There was a soft chuckle in Hector's throat as he leaned in again. "Shut the fuck up," he snorted. "You know you love it." And with a harsh shove, he pushed Killian back on the table, grinning as he pinned the pilot down. The bottle of vodka fell onto the ship floor. Kicking at the cracked bottle, acrid-smelling liquor pooled on the floor, Hector tugged his pants more securely on his hips and shot Killian a dry look. "Go on, straighten up," he ordered, though there was a playful edge to his voice. "Someone's going to come looking for a midnight glass of water and get an eyeful. Ten woolongs it's the captain." The younger man groaned something that sounded suspiciously like I hate you into his arms. He wasn't in a rush to get up, though — shirtless, he sat back on the edge of the table and ran his fingers over the surface. It was the only thing made out of wood in the ship, as far as he could tell (wood was rare in the sol), and now there was a long crack in it. "That wasn't there before, was it?" "No," Killian sighed, sluggishly going through the motions of righting himself, "'cause I felt it splintering under my hand." Which, in part, contributed to how he struggled with the buckle of his belt. The jello legs were no help whatsoever, and giving up on the belt altogether, he settled one hand on Hector's upper thigh for balance. Partly for balance, anyway. "So, what's the verdict on the deal with me?" Hector glanced down at the hand on his leg, eyebrow raised. He wasn't really much for — touching, unless it was during foreplay or the act itself. But he'd allow it, he decided after a moment's reflection. Killian didn't seem like the touchy-feely type. A moment or two of post-coital contact wasn't going to hurt anyone. "You need a teacher," Hector told him easily, reaching over to do the buckle for the pilot. His fingers were nimble where Killian's were clumsy, the surety of endorphins making him feel just a little bit invulnerable. It was always a good feeling, that. Victory and testosterone all tied up in a neat knot. "You know. Someone who can show you how it's done. Just because you fly this ship doesn't mean you know shit about how it runs." He nudged Killian's thigh with his own. "I've got time for lessons." That hand pulled away, and there was a long-suffering sigh. "I hate you so much," Killian repeated in a way that was far from convincing as his gaze fell to the cracked tabletop for the first time from that angle. Christ. "No, you don't," came Hector's amused reply. Killian was studying the mark; Hector was studying the dark curl that had settled at his forehead. He nodded at the crack. "I won't tell if you don't." He meant more than just the damage to the ship's public furniture, of course. Even through the post-coital haze and lingering inebriation, it was understood. That much was evident as the pilot met his eyes in a much different way than he had earlier: silent understanding, and maybe a shade of something a little warmer. He expelled one last heavy breath. "Just as long as you don't tell me you're a lesbian tomorrow," he intoned, leaning (albeit gingerly) back over the table to rest his elbows there once more. "My lips are sealed and all that." Hector bit back the joke that was so easy to make and focused instead on the important part of the conversation: what came next. Honesty, after all, was the best policy. "So here's how this works, if we do this," Hector told him lowly. "No strings attached, mutual respect. Opt out at any time. You want me to fuck off — tell me, and I'll fuck off. No questions asked. You want to stop, at any point, before or after or even in the fucking middle, and I'll stop. Sound amenable to you?" He raised an eyebrow, hands curled easily in his lap but faint tension in his shoulders. This was definitely not what Killian had anticipated of the night, he recognized once again, pausing in his tracing of that obvious split in the wood. The terms were weighed, but not for long. "Sure," he replied, waiting a moment before saying with clearer certainty, chin tilting up this time: "Yeah, sounds amenable." The rising temptation to say Where do I sign was swept away. "Good." Hector sat for a moment longer, then patted Killian's thigh appreciatively with a recovering snort. "Well, that's great. I was wondering how long it was going to take me to find someone I could take out my aggression on. Come on." Shifting, he leaned down to set his elbow on the wood next to the pilot and bit at Killian's jaw, unmindful of the mark it might leave behind. "Let's get —" There was a terrible, aching crack, the protest of abused and damaged wood beneath the weight of two full-grown men, before it simply gave way and splintered in half, dumping them on the floor of the Kamikaze mess in a stunned pile of wood and limbs. "FUCK!" It didn't hurt that much, really — Hector was used to taking blows. But he looked astonished at the broken sides of the table on either side of them and shot a quick glance at Killian, who seemed more amused than stunned, the beginning of an incredulous laugh turning his lips upward. "Let's get the fuck out of here before someone comes to find out what the hell that was," and he was laughing despite himself, chuckling as he shoved Killian upwards and scrambled to his feet. There was a sway to prelude the pilot's laugh, his shoulder knocking into Hector's as a hand came up, the signal for Wait. "What about the other evidence?" He directed an open palm to the bottle kicked away, now sitting by its lonesome several feet away from the mess they'd made. There were the cups to consider as well, but they been swept away by an arm, hidden, by this point, under an intact table somewhere. "Oh, for fuck's sake —" The engineer swooped down to sweep up the bottle, cracked and empty, and waved it towards the door. "Happy? Let's go!" Killian's answer to that was another laugh, the sound hitting the walls of the empty mess hall as he backed up toward the exit, seeming entirely unrepentant for the damage they were about to leave behind and what had caused it to begin with. "Go on," Hector shook his head, but he didn't look particularly sorry, either. Their poker faces at breakfast tomorrow would have to be good. |