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[ So that had been a thing that had happened.

Really, at this point, the station coming under attack from some crazy AI was just obligatory, like the weekly forecast of possible thunderstorms and meglomania with a side of attempted genocide. O'Brien is glad it's over, mostly because he fucking hates AIs even when they aren't actively trying to take over peoples' bodies and are just trying to torture/murder them the old fashioned way. Also he's happy to drink too much and pretend like the camaraderie extends to him, under the pretext of keeping an eye on the Spartans (who obviously can't know as much about drinking as any ODST).

He knows why Emile had slipped off away from the others. It had just taken O'Brien a few drinks to overcome his better judgment in not trying to follow him.

He brought beer, at least, and plunks the case down with a very serious expression. ]

Emile, we have a situation.

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[Emile looks up from where he's seated on his bed with a scowl, flipping his kukri in case he needs to casually toss it (with frighteningly accurate precision) at anyone who bothers him--but it's only O'Brien, and, well, to his credit, at least he'd brought some alcohol.

He sheathes the knife fluidly, tilting his head to the side a little. If it was a real situation, he figured Carter or Thom would have come--and there wouldn't be a case of beer on his floor. But he'll play along, keeping his tone neutral.]

Yeah? What's that?

This beer.

[ O'Brien points at it. Dramatically. ]

No one is drinking it. Also Carter said something about not drinking to excess or someshit and I said he was risking mutiny and he said something that I can't remember and then I thought I should go find you, probably so you can agree with me about the mutiny.

[Emile snorts, a tiny bit of a grin sneaking onto his face. Yeah, he probably should have joined everyone else downstairs--knew he should have, really. The Commander had given them all a break from patrol for the next few days, so there was no excuse not to join the party.

He couldn't really fault the little ODST for wanting to make sure he was all right, though.

Emile gets up and takes a few quick strides over to O'Brien, reaching down to grab a beer and flicking it open casually.]

Hell, no need to mutiny over that. [He drains it quickly enough, wondering idly why a house full of Spartans had even bothered to get beer at all--but then, well, he supposed it worked well enough on O'Brien.]

Worried about me, were you?

Yes.

[ Drunk O'Brien is much more honest, you'll notice. ]

You're like. Pining.

[Ouch.]

That obvious, huh?

[Okay, so he wasn't what anyone would call "social" in the normal sense of the word, but he hadn't expected anyone outside the team to notice.]

I'm fine, O'Brien. It's nothin' that ain't happened before. [He grins a little ruefully, trying to show O'Brien it's not serious. Hint: it is.] You probably have better company downstairs.

[ FOLDING HIS ARMS!!!! ]

I know what pining looks like and you're pining and I was gonna tell you a whole story that my CO told someone about chicks and pining but I just forgot it, so we're gonna sit and drink instead.

[ And for all that O'Brien is obviously sloshed, he grabs another can for himself and cracks it open without any difficulty. And then parks his ass next to Emile without asking. ]

If I wanted better company I'd go find a women's volleyball team to drink with, but nope, only space marines and aliens on this chunk of metal, and that shit Shepard drinks is secretly a chemical weapon.

[...Okay, his grin is a little more genuine at that, and Emile reaches an arm over to give him a friendly pat on one shoulder (can't punch anyone who's not a Spartan, that just leads to broken bones).]

Hell, if you don't mind. Appreciate it.

[As much as he didn't really want to be around the rest of the team, well, he didn't really want to be alone either.]

[ Testament to how sloshed O'Brien is: he just sort of blinks owlishly at the shoulder pat, like he doesn't understand how that just happened, but accepts it. ]

So do I need to try and remember Cortez's story about chicks? I know it's not really the same thing nobody cheated on anybody with half their unit and also the cook and nobody stole a Pelican just to crash it into someone else's barracks, but I can try to fill in the appropriate names.

[Emile...also...blinks.] That really happen?

[He cracks another beer. It probably won't help, but the company is, at least a little bit.]

Shit, man, Cortez has the best poker face I've ever seen. I have no idea whether it was true or not.

Jorge has the best poker face I ever seen.

[Which...reminds him of why he's pining. Good job there, Emile. Way to let O'Brien cheer you up. Let's try a different tactic.]

Hell, half of why I wear a helmet all the time is cause mine's so bad.

[ mumble mumble and O'Brien is half draped all over Emile's shoulder ]

You wear a helmet because you like being all, ooh I'm a big scary spartan, I never take my armor off and I don't have a face, it's a skull, and also this knife is my dick, look at how big it is it's so intimidatingggg.

[Emile looks startled before bursting out with laughter.]

Hell no. My dick ain't getting nowhere near no damn aliens.

[NOT DENYING THE PART ABOUT BEING A FACELESS SPARTAN.]

I thought Spartans were supposed to be able to kill aliens with anything.

Lemme see your knife.

Just cause I could don't mean it's a good idea.

[This gets an odd look. His knife or his knife, man? Could be either.

...Nah. O'Brien freaked out about that kind of thing, didn't he? Even if he was kinda hanging all over Emile right now? Emile carefully unsheathes the kukri and holds it in one hand.]

Don't cut yourself.

[ Emile you have never seen O'Brien drunk. He squints at the knife like some important secret might be written on the side, and then starts... well, fondling it. Deliberately. ]

'Don't cut yourself' my ass. This is totally what it looks like, by the way. When you're playing with this thing.

[ It isn't, O'Brien's making a big exaggerated porn star show out of it, pretending to flicker his tongue over the steel without actually touching it. ]

[...You did not just call that his dick and then start...doing...that....

He really, really hasn't seen O'Brien drunk before. Emile takes a steadying breath and speaks in a carefully even tone.]

You do realize what you're doin' there, O'Brien.

[Because he knows the signs. Anybody who wanted to get laid in the military knows the signs. O'Brien is as good as shouting out what he wants here--but the last thing Emile wants is for him to freak out and run off to Alien House again because of something he says or does.

But god damn, man, you don't do something like that if you haven't had experience.]

Who, me? [And he'll just stop mid-lick for a deliberate moment, tongue curled in the air.]

Dunno what you're talking about.

[ He sets the knife down and leans even closer, though, one hand coming to rest on Emile's thigh, expression completely certain. His gaze is only for Emile's mouth. ]

Maybe you should explain. Use small words, I'm really fucked up right now. [ Except he doesn't sound like it at all. The slurring edge to his speech from just a moment ago is gone entirely, and he looks and sounds combat fit and focused. ]

Edited 2011-10-09 03:56 (UTC)

[Briefly, a metaphor about knives, sharpening, and points comes to mind, but Emile's a little distracted by tiny redhead to vocalize it. He places a firm hand on O'Brien's back - nothing he can't get away from, if he wants to, but also one that firmly edges the other man a little closer until he's clearly invited to take a seat on that thigh, right next to a very noticeable bulge.]

I'm sayin' I don't want you to freak out if you start touchin' my knife.

[ IT'S K BRO how about O'Brien just take that blatant invitation to straddle Emile's leg, one arm curling around a shoulder for balance and his other hand sliding down Emile's stomach. His expression is cross, like Emile is inconveniencing him somehow, maybe with all his damn clothing, but his pupils are blown and he's breathing slightly faster, a flush on his cheeks. ]

Who's freaking out? Hate to break it to you, buddy, but yours ain't the biggest knife I've handled when I've been wasted.

[ That might actually be a total lie but he grabs Emile's package none too gently to punctuate, and then softens his touch immediately, cupping and rubbing through fabric, a punch drunk delighted grin appearing on his face at Emile already being half hard. ]

--aw yeah, look at you all excited. You like this, huh? I knew you'd like it, fuck you're big, how the hell do you keep this stuffed down the front of your armor...

[ Nope, he's not going to shut up. At all. ]

[Oh good, Emile was kind of hoping that was what O'Brien had meant. He freezes up a little at the sudden grab, inhaling with a sharp hiss, but that turns into an exhale of relief as O'Brien starts fondling him through his pants. He grins a little, clearly pleased at the attention.

--He dust didn't want O'Brien to run screaming from the room. The little ODST could be so touchy sometimes, and this was definitely one of those questionable grey areas.]

Armor's custom, you know. Measured it exactly to my size. Not like that damn mass-issue stuff.

[He begins to slide his warm hand under O'Brien's shirt and up his back, fingers tracing the spine upwards until he's gently tugging at the shirt to come off.]

Always the best for their precious Spartans.

[ Again the tone is cross, but at the same time he's clearly concentrating on bringing Emile to full attention. Which is a little tricky when Emile's trying to get his shirt off. He shudders disproportionately at being touched, flushing darker as if something so simple was the most erotic thing he'd ever had done to him, and then strips his shirt off with the apparent ease of practice, as if he'd had plenty of experience taking his shirt off while keeping one hand free to fondle someone else.

O'Brien isn't very impressive shirtless, but he also doesn't let Emile have much of a chance to look, pressing into him instead and biting along his jaw line to distract. ]

[God damn, O'Brien is sensitive is sensitive to touch. He must have been wanting this more than he'd let on, even if he seems a lot more interested in giving Emile attention than receiving it himself. (Of course, "more than he'd let on" equated to "more than zero interest at all ever", so maybe that wasn't a good indicator. Either that or Emile was losing his ability to tell when someone was interested in him.)

...Biting, of course, is exactly the kind of thing Emile likes, though the moan he makes is partially one of restraint since he knows if he let himself go here he'd more than likely end up hurting the much smaller ODST. He does reach down to squeeze an asscheeck, though.]

Damn, O'Brien. Just keep goin'.

Sir yes sir.

[ The tone was supposed to be mocking, except it comes out a little breathless instead when Emile gropes him. He bites harder in response, sucking a hickey onto Emile's neck, and slides his hand inside the Spartan's pants. ]

[They're definitely getting tight by now, and he shifts O'Brien on his lap a little to allow for better access. The pants will need to come off, but Emile's more than willing to let O'Brien do that. He does smile in relief when skin finally hits skin, though--pressure is one thing, but contact is another, and before very long at all he's fully erect. Now would be a good time to get those pants off.]

How do you want to do this?

Uh, I hadn't gotten much farther than 'say some shit and slide into his lap and see what happens.'

[ Sorry bro he's kind of distracted with your dick here, and paying more attention to it than the conversation. ]

[That's not going to have him thinking very clearly, you understand. He does unzip his pants, though, to at least make this a little easier. O'Brien's going to have to move for this to go any farther.]

Shit's happening.

[ WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM HIM HE'S SLOSHED okay fine he just makes a little noise that could probably be translated as 'fine jesus' and then picks himself up so he can slide to his knees in between Emile's thighs. ]

Not yet it's not.

[That's more like it. Much more like it. He slips his pants off quickly, and hello there's a giant Spartan dick in the room now.]

About to, then.

[Yeah he's perfectly aware of what that posture means, even if O'Brien's talking like he doesn't know anything.]

[ I'm sorry did you say something Emile, O'Brien's kind of distracted now. He's only been fantasizing about this since ever. He doesn't bother to look up at Emile's face for his response. ]

You, with the talking, shut it. You're wrecking the moment.

[ And, to little Emile, ]

Hello, gorgeous. You and I haven't been properly introduced.

[ He takes the shaft in hand and licks a long, slow stripe up the underside, teasing. ]

[Attempting to keep the straightest face ever, Emile thrusts his hips just enough to make Minimile waggle up and down in greeting before O'Brien licks him. At that he shivers a little and grabs a handful of O'Brien's hair, so he can guide him if necessary.

He does shut up, though. No sense in messing anything up now.]

[ Son this ain't his first rodeo. O'Brien huffs at the hair grabbing but doesn't even hesitate, taking his sweet time just getting Emile wet. He is, unfortunately, a little too big for O'Brien to take in entirely without choking or dislocating his jaw, but that's what hands are for, both busy where O'Brien's mouth can't reach. He takes the head in his mouth slowly, letting Emile watch, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks.

It's no professional blowjob but it's not an amateur's attempt either, and O'Brien flicks his gaze up to Emile's face to watch him watch. ]

[He's so completely used to that particular disadvantage of being Spartan-sized that he doesn't even seem to notice any inconvenience on O'Brien's part.

He groans and leans back, noticeably relaxing into the sensation. He gives O'Brien's hair a quick squeeze of appreciation and then releases it so he can lean back on his hands.]

Yeah. That's it.

[ And it's probably a good thing that Emile let his hair go, because the last memento O'Brien needs from this night is having anything accidentally ripped out.

Fortunately he's too distracted to really dwell on that possibility, smirking around Emile's cock at the groan. He is also way too drunk to come at this with a battle plan, like 'tease until bitched at or threatened and then suggest getting a room,' so the next five minutes or so is pure wish fulfillment for O'Brien, murmuring stupid filthy things in between swallowing Emile down and mouthing gently at his balls.

He chokes twice, throat bruised by a mere twitch of Emile's hips, and has to pull off to cough and sputter. O'Brien takes that as a challenge, though, and goes right back to it. ]

[And of course, having a Spartan's endurance meant Emile was perfectly content to let this run as long as O'Brien wanted to. He does become a little concerned at the choking, but the little ODST seems determined not to let that stop him. Still, he murmurs some encouragement and tries not to twitch his hips too hard, as much as he'd like to just start thrusting into the warm wetness of O'Brien's mouth.]

Damn, O'Brien. You--you gonna be okay, right?

Are you kidding?

[ yep talking to Emile's dick again ]

It'll take more than that to defeat me.

[ He had to chug half a can after each choking incident, because alcohol totally helps prevent bruising. ]

Good.

[Because that will totally make Emile think he can react a little more.

This might have to change. He doesn't actually want to choke O'Brien, but at the moment his brain doesn't have very much blood flow to it.]

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I DO NOT HAVE THE ICONS FOR THIS

oh like I do

spartans do it while linefacing

sob I need to make more icons

emile needs shirtless sexy icons with his helmet still on

you asked for it

OH GOD

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