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startcountdown2014-04-09 06:59 pm
youfallinline) wrote in startcountdown2014-04-09 06:59 pm
(no subject)
"Now, what I want to know is," he gives by way of greeting, catching hold of Keeler's lapels as soon as his navigator commits the indiscretion of allowing him entry to his private cabin, "whose cock do I gotta suck to get assigned here?"
A brow is raised incredulously, automatic doors close snap closed behind him, and Encke kisses his navi at long and at fucking last, the pleasant buzz of half of an original wine bottle transferring between their tongues, deeper from Keeler's plump lips somehow, richer and depraved.
It's hard work on a good day, shoving a gorgeous man against a plush-laden wall and abusing the inside of his tender mouth without meting misfortune on your trousers; and it's damn well unreasonable, when they're arguing against the stiff limitations of their ceremonial uniforms, and each time Encke's gloved fingers fly into precious, pale hair, they connect with the honourary decorations on Keeler's shoulders; and it's overall vile, when there're now six layers of clothing between them, rather than the far friendlier two. It's all a mess, yes, but Encke's never not risen to the occasion, and this day (night by now, he has to remember, they've whiled over eight hours in a bloody battle room) won't see him start any bad habits.
Keeler's an old one by now, aged over the three weeks since their encounter, both saving grace and poison. Their - 'relationship's still tentative, a rocky road gone occasionally paved by natural chemistry and underlying good intentions. They share a bed and a bird and the best damned sync on their plague of a ship, and physical bonds largely innocent of any overture past kissing, a choice few gropes and careful insinuation. Doesn't matter: Encke wants him. Wants Keeler weak or strong, biting or mewling, willing and committed, and with his own thoughts clear.
Wants him enough that when the summons came to rendez-vous on the luxury carrier Proxima with the fleet's elite for an intel and tactical exchange, Encke's first worry didn't go to the brass, who ever do love wasting his damned time, or to his second-in-command, who'll need a raise after covering solo for 72 hours, or to their inevitable welcome committee among their peers, who hold battle-worn Sleipnir officers in the same regard as blockbuster action heroes and mythical beasts. No, Encke groaned because after all the shuttling and the meetings and the wining and the dining, they all got the rare privilege of private quarters.
...like hell. Like hell, when half the tactical group members drooled the carrier a new humidity reservoir after looking over Keeler. As far as Encke can tell, the day's best intelligence decision involved him crowding his navi in Keeler's quarters and letting the hell of unhinged self-restraint loose after hours and hours of Spartan discipline and unmoving attention.
And food porn. He can't forget the food porn.
"Those were real peaches on the platter. And they've got women, Keeler. I saw a fucking skirt." And wide hips and a wasp's waist and a fine, fine set of - he kisses his navi again, hard, eager and definitive, leaving his silent mark. Fine set of everything, and he's got better in his arms right now. "Welcome to the Proxima, sweetheart."
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"You want me to wear a skirt for you, Soldier?" Keeler grins, and laughter bubbles beneath the question. "I can find one."
A nice, tight, short skirt. Even without half a bottle of wine in him, Keeler would wear it, and those endless legs would mean surer death for Encke than a bullet to the head. Long stems and a pretty face are enough to slay any fleet boy, let alone when they're attached to a smile like Keeler's. It's a shame and a sin, and half the Proxima were acknowledging that with lecherous stares, while Keeler went clueless about his business with Encke. Only eyes for his fighter, what a sweet catch of a navi.
"There's a coffee machine in the cabin," Keeler chirps, eyes alight; sure enough the bitterness of a dark roast is sharp the air. "And little, tiny bottles of champagne."
Verdant bottles like wee soldiers, all lined up and waiting to be sampled, standing regimental beside the sleek, steaming coffee maker. Keeler had abandoned a half-savored cup before letting Encke in, and the taste of it -- black, strong -- still lingers on his tongue. Languid sweeps against Encke's lips between hurried words, amorous and fervid and needy, because--
Encke fills out his blues better than any man Keeler's seen, and it's been a chore all day to ignore that glaring fact.
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There were glances thrown the way of this fine prize quite literally in his hands, vicious and coveting and the littlest bit predatory, and Encke has to remember they're no longer saved through sheer grace of their rank here - they're all officers for the next remaining 60 hours on the Proxima, and men 'as good' as him have strong histories - full careers - of wooing high-placed paramours through force or trickery.
He'll need to keep an eye on Keeler, full watch and friendly vigil, and to reward this precious patch of lily white skin right beneath his chin - excuse him, lieutenant - with a bruise or two, so others learn of the claim. Primitive, but efficient in a viper's nest of alpha personalities and abundant booze.
"Like the ones everyone kept passing you during dinner>" Cheap trick, but eerily effective, and he can think of at least two navis whose drenched reason are likely to have found him in choice company by the end of the post-briefing dinner. "Had some attention on you, didn't you, baby."
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Damn Encke's hands. Damn his teeth. He really hadn't noticed. Keeler tends to be entirely single-minded when there's a question of tactics on hand, and the whole of this exchange has been something of a feast for Keeler. Information, tech releases, strategem; he can subsist on it, just as readily as Encke on his precious peaches. And for all the world, he's found them to be far more satisfying.
As such, he hadn't touched the champagne, scarcely took notice of the food until Encke plied him with wine and a bit of cheese. And despite the veritable feast, Keeler limited himself to a single plate, plain food, and only as much alcohol as Encke saw fit to shove down his throat. Enough to set the room pleasantly swimming, without the impaired judgement that came with outright inebriation.
"Had to keep an eye on your decorations." Because there certainly are enough of them on Encke's jacket, and Keeler could swear he'd gotten food stuck on every single one before dinner was through; like he was making a sport of it. "Keep my man looking presentable for the brass. Why are you--"
Keeler purses his lips, realization dawning a beat too late. Bruises -- hickies -- on his throat. Encke's hair is too short to yank him away by, but Keeler makes due with nails at the back of his neck, biting in crescents, dragging welts into his skin.
"Encke," he snaps. "Where I can hide them. We've talked about this."
Not that it ever makes an impression, but hope springs eternal.
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Marking a lover's demeaning and primitive and raw and wrong - and it works. But he doesn't expect Keeler to subject himself to it willingly, not when he's swapping dignity for a questionable epidermal accessory, not when he'll be questioned, judged and assessed by every man with eyes and an opinion.
"I'll make it up to you," he gives, like empty consolation to a petulant child, dust on a flight platform. Easy words. Easier, as he leans down to latch to Keeler's mouth again and has to wonder what the hell the day's addiction to his navi is about, when he's successfully, if barely avoided getting all in-your-face and needy in the past. It's the lavishness of their surroundings, maybe, the artificial euphoria of a simulated life of daily, Earth-bound luxury.
Fuck's sake, there was golden velvet touching his knuckles when he pinned Keeler to the wall - he needs more of it, colour, if not cloth, will have to poke and prod his navi until Keeler has a belated play with the AI-maintained interior decoration of their Sleipnir quarters. They could use some colour in there.
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But up to him? With a sigh, Keeler pushes his braid back from its eternal perch over his right shoulder. He cradles the back of Encke's head with both hands, and guides his lips up beneath the curve of his ear. It's normally hidden by his hair, a soft and secret patch of skin; but sometimes, if one were paying attention -- staring -- and if Keeler turned his head just so--
"Here," Keeler whispers; and he knows it's not the wisest plan of action, knows there's no hope of hiding it if Encke gets carried away.
But just as sure, he finds he doesn't particularly care.
"You mark me up, you better do something about it, Soldier."
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"Sir, yessir," he whispers, and lets hot breath announce his visit before following up with the tip of an idle tongue, the graze of suspiciously sharp teeth. Years and years of canteen mush have left them wanting an opportunity to blunt, but Encke likes to exercise them, the canines especially. He lets them sink now, slow, steady and impossibly disciplined in descent, until the bite threatens to break skin, and he only back-and-forths into the mark, extending its survival rate. He pulls away to survey it, pretty, inflamed red against the stark white of Keeler's ear, and Encke's pleased - truly, viscerally pleased - because whatever part of him still barters with animals has just received the gift of a lifetime.
And then he's water between Keeler's fingers, slipping away only to regroup on his knees at his navigator's feet, nonchalantly earning fast territory in his private war with Keeler's belt.
A button follows - a second - and he looks up with a cheeky grin, like a schoolboy who's just discovered his best friend forever, his right hand. "Any objections to getting blown out of your fucking mind, lieutenant Keeler, sir?"
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And then the fighter is on his knees, working through Keeler's belt and buttons, and for all Keeler's candor, it manages to steal the breath from his throat. Any objections...? No. Not a one. Not a single goddamn thought in his pleasantly-buzzing head, save an incredulous and slightly crazed YES. Lord, yes. Fuck yes. And if this earns him the ire and scorn of an entire ship of jealous eyes and needy leers, let it. At this moment, Keeler swears he could fight tooth and nail through the very mouth of hell with a smile on his face. So long as Encke is waiting on his knees at the end of it.
"Just one," Keeler breathes, and he briefly fumbles through the pull and clasp of a vinyl waistcoat belt. "Get us both out of these damned blues first."
Because if they're doing this, they're doing it right, and Keeler decided a few weeks previous that nothing is quite as right as Encke's nudity against his own bare skin.
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He laughs lowly, enjoying the enthusiasm of his navi - his, because Keeler's head just turned to attend to his belt, and Encke could please-and-thank-you spot his mark in all its red and recent glory. Good ol' Keeler, applying himself with such heart and great conviction.
They sync in all of a moment, battle ease lending bedroom finesse, and Encke finds himself lowering what cloth Keeler unties, discarding the belt, and moving on to trousers. They're thin, Keeler's twigs of thighs when they make their late appearance, too thin and due a breaking. Encke catches them between his hands, unimpressed with the fit.
"Barely put anything in that damned mouth of yours during dinner, did you." A click of the tongue, scolding. "How do you want me to fuck you, when you're all skin and bones, hmm?"
Hands slide up briefly, and he's caressing Keeler's ass again, more thin muscle than comfortable fat there too.
"Needs some padding, sweetheart. Something nice and soft to get a hold of..."
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Honestly, the first time he's nude in three weeks, and all Encke can manage is a complaint. Never satisfied, even as the white trousers slip away, piece by piece revealing the pale flesh beneath; lithe legs and a cock growing harder with each brush of Encke's fingertips, trembling along with the soft wash of sensation, tingling across his nerves, raising him to gooseflesh in its wake.
"Sure you'll figure something out," Keeler's voice is a shivering staccato, catching on short gasps, quick intakes of breath that are the only things serving to steady his swimming head. "I have complete faith in you."
Complete faith. It had been slow to come, but one doesn't share a bird and a bed with someone for nearly a full month without trust taking root with a choking hold.
"Fighter," a soft gasp. "How do you want to fuck me?"
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But then Keeler's rambling, which would conscript Encke to an orgy for moans, groans and eye-rolling on the average day, but now inevitably ends up feeling - ...cute. Here he is, the prettiest, brightest, most accomplished piece in a ship of prodigies, and Keeler's falling undone before the (high) prospect of a bedroom tumble.
Briefly sentencing his navi with holding himself upright, Encke pulls back, efficiently undoing the buttons and collars and additional straps of his jacket, then advancing to his undershirt. Orders were orders, after all, and Keeler's done with the blues. Keeler's done with anything remotely resembling patience, he can tell, his kneeling spot offering just the right vantage to his lover's interest-piqued arousal.
"I was thinking of sucking you off dry," he begins causally, more to tease Keeler into his traditional fluster, than anything, "or bending you over that table -" A nod towards the rightmost corner, where a desk's on display, "and giving it to you raw, or just going back to our friend, the wall. Course, I've got a bed right here too... how's that sound? How do you want it, baby?"
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Where is his celibacy now? For that matter, why had he ever been?
But his own notions of how he wants it are so much simpler, and far more sentimental. How, where, position, act; logistics seem so much less important than the broader details. He wants his legs around Encke's naked body, wants to see the bliss on Encke's face when he comes, wants the slow burn and pressure that goes hand-in-hand with a man sunk deep inside. God forbid he speaks it, though; Keeler's been frustratingly tight-lipped with his own wants and needs, lest Encke accuse him of lying again.
"Don't have to be back until 1000," Keeler grins down at his fighter, and carefully slips a leg over Encke's shoulder, mindful of the fringe and decoration against the crook of his knee as he eases Encke closer. "Think we can manage all of the above, don't you?"
Keeler's always been an overachiever.
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"Depends," he answers late, and meets Keeler's pale eyes with the scepticism of a man who's spotted a gargantuan challenge and decided, in a rare moment of suicidal bravado, to give it a finger. "Do I get cig breaks?"
And then he's shifting, repositioning his weight to balance out Keeler's leg straddling his shoulder and lower back, expelling warm breath over the pretty little cock before him. It's obscene, how androgynous lieutenant Keeler (sir) is undeniably a man, yet he'd still have the hips and the wiles and the perverse inclination to parade about in a skirt. He chuckles a little at the mental image, rewarding Keeler's length with a few lazy, wet kisses, while he plans out how the hell to go about this.
'Sucking cock's the traditional business of navis and twinks, and so often do the two coincide that the duty's got permanent assignment. The big boys of the Sleipnir's world seldom learn to put that skill on their resumes. And before enlistment, when he'd still been Ja - before, the many women with whom he'd shared his nights and his bed had taught him a little about this kind of attendance, but all of them had unfortunately failed to bring a dildo in for alternative demonstration.
"You call the shots, Keeler," he murmurs, because it's too damned embarrassing to straight up ask a guy to direct you on how to make him come.
He doesn't know much of the theory behind this, tugging Keeler's cock down to hold it captive under a guiding hand, as he leans forward to take the tip in a drooling mouth; he just hopes he's an intuitive learner.
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But then he's between Encke's lips, and every single protest falls dead in his mind. Contrariness falls away, fades in the wake of a soft whimper as his knees buckle, and he nearly sinks under the pressure of his own weight. A skilled mouth doesn't much matter when it's around a man who hasn't known carnal pleasure since time untold. Keeler's undoing is the debauchery of his cock cradled against a burning tongue, lashing pleasure straight through to the base of his spine, failing him for common sense and reason.
And, unlike some people, Keeler's not going to complain about his good fortune.
I won't be like them, he repeats to himself, as he presses his fingertips across Encke's scalp. I won't bend over for a fighter, as he resolves to do just that, at Encke's whim and want. I won't reduce myself to a plaything, as he pushes himself deeper into the fighter's mouth. I won't preoccupy myself with hedonism, as he completely abandons himself to blissful excess.
As if it's not entirely too late already.
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There's no art to splaying your tongue flat beneath weight, swiping and folding on the sides, licking in short strokes, taking slow breaths and slower suckle; there's no ambitions. Just sheer enjoyment, when he receives Keeler full on and lets the short twitches of his navi's body set their pace, lets everything around them translate through the filter of the unique taste of Keeler's flesh, the despicably all-seeping scent of his lover's body.
Above his hand, he can feel the sturdy presence of Keeler's pretty round balls, remembers to fondle them gratefully. Somewhere, way far beyond, there's the staggered tune of - damn, cafe jazz, and some poor fuck's going to get the reaming of his lifetime in a little bit for disturbing the brass' orgy. Meanwhile, the vent's started slipping in incense, because nothing spells bedtime for the upper class like lab-worked lavender. Small stimuli, appreciated but unnecessary, nothing compared to being this helplessly subordinate to another man, to taking his pleasure from it.
A pleasure - he aims a glance above - he can't tell whether Keeler's also enjoying, or forcing himself to fake.
He breaks away from his little debut to fold his arm beneath Keeler's thighs in a makeshift seat, nudging the navigator's other leg over his shoulders, because, You weigh less than a rag, and you and I'll be having words over it again later, and he trusts a wall and himself more with keeping a man steady than he does Keeler's own two legs.
"You're thinking too much," he says, guttural and strained, eyes bright with warmth, "You suppose your boy can't tell?"
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But what's the alternative? Babble out his disparaging internal monologue until Encke decides -- rightfully so -- that he's not ready for this? Which is ridiculous. Ready or not, mentally prepared or not, Keeler wants this. He's wanted it for weeks, he simply wasn't expecting it to happen after a sumptuous dinner on a damned pleasure cruise. It's a harmless lie. But then, he remembers that Encke knows his tells, reads him like a book without Keeler's blessing, and not having this conversation right now can end his fun just as surely. Because Encke doesn't appreciate dishonesty, even if it's the little white lies Keeler slips to keep the peace.
"Trying not to think," he says, a little more honestly, then: "Always told myself I'd never do this. Because this is what navigators are expected to do, and I never wanted to be like them. Just wanted to-- I don't know. Have a respectful relationship with my fighter and leave it at that. And it's been a little over six years since I--"
Since he enlisted. Since he let anyone touch him like this. Since he surrendered himself to the inevitable in any capacity. Of all the control he wrests from every other aspect of their shared existence, he feels a distinct lack of it when he falls -- ready and willing -- into Encke's arms. And it's alarming, and he wants to wrestle it back immediately and call this entire affair off, but more than that he wants--
He wants the warmth. He craves the pleasure. He's been aching for Encke to touch him and take him, and yes it's a distraction. Every time he sees Encke on the bridge and in the corridors, every time the fighter flashes him a smile or a wink, every time he curls up against the man in their bed at night, it's the most beautiful distraction. And if Encke stops now, this lascivious image -- the roughness of Encke's scalp beneath his fingerpads, his pale legs draped over the dark wool of Encke's jacket, his cock sinking through unforgiving lips -- will haunt him for months to come.
"I'm just a little nervous," Keeler breathes, his tongue loathe around the admission. "But I want this. I want you."
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But then Keeler stops talking, a diatribe best summarized as, I'm broken in a million parts, but please keep me anyway, and he can't pretend he hasn't been paying attention, for all he's 'otherwise engaged.' They know better.
Abandoning his favourite toy, he lets his forehead rest on Keeler's left inner thigh for a moment, chuckles, "Six years. You've got so much catching up to do, I'll be needing my painkillers tomorrow."
Humour, innuendo, whatever breaks the ice. Then, soberly, looking up from the corner of his eyes, "Just want you to sit back and enjoy this. That's all."
Absent the use of his hands, it's like Keeler's cock and he are at war, and he's stuck deciding a strategy on how to best coax and keep it into his mouth. He goes for the simple kill, mouth tight around the length as far as it'll go without choking him - sorry, Keeler, that's an advanced lesson, and this is still 101 - dragging lips and teeth back and forth attentively.
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Because Keeler knows how to suck cock. Distantly, faintly, he remembers how it's done; echoes of a hard length in his mouth, cradled against his tongue, the bitter-salt taste of cum in the back of his throat. Flush-faced and debauched, on his knees, a plea in his eyes, tears spilling over when he took the head too deep. He remembers the trial-and-error of what felt best, of lovers gently guiding him away, No baby, like this, compassionate lessons in depravity.
"Encke," Keeler smiles down at him, with a slow brush of his thumb over the fighter's cheekbone. "Open your mouth a little wider, and tuck your teeth behind your lips, like this--" A brief pause for demonstration, Keeler pursing his lips slightly. "And then they won't won't scrape."
Unless he wants them to -- to keep Keeler on his guard -- which is a distinct possibility that hasn't occurred to Keeler.
"I can show you," a shy suggestion beneath timid eyes. "If you like."
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Sense hits him hard and early: hey, asshole, that's unfair. The jealousy act's really, stupefyingly unfair. Life doesn't (re)start with your most recent lover, no one's coming a virgin to this marriage bed, and their only official prohibition lies honourably steadfast on chewing gum and STDs. God knows Encke's bringing his own baggage, some of it ambulant and leer-prone and still sporting a fine, fine ass in standard whites (and just how awkward it'll get when Keeler learns his fifth in-command and his fighter tumbled a few hours three months ago, Encke doesn't want to know). Right now, he can't - won't begrudge Keeler six year-old liaisons; hadn't known he'd gotten so disturbingly possessive already.
He makes a point of leaning his head against Keeler's hand, welcoming the touch in guilty overcompensation. Then he winks, letting his navi go free (mouth wide, teeth tucked). "Sure. There gonna be a test on it later?"
But he relinquishes his hold on Keeler's legs all the same, setting them down one at a time, until he (tentatively) trusts the man with holding his own weight and balance for the exact two seconds it takes Encke to nod towards the bed, eyebrows raising inquisitively. Nothing wrong with their friend, the wall here, but when you've joined the fleet, sex in a decently sized, comfortable bed is closer to 'rare' and 'exotic' than hardcore kink.
A feigned-innocent smile. "You know what I bet's real hot in one of those? Back rubs."
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Feasibly being able to stand on his own two feet means very little when he actually gets there. Encke's oral attentions brought him to shaking, and relinquishing himself to artificial gravity again is a chore for which he isn't entirely prepared. He leans back against the wall, collecting his breath and himself for the span of a few staggered moments. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, he ponders the merits of shoving Encke to the ground, of making a name for himself between his fighter's legs, all spread upon the plush carpet and discarded clothing.
But the floor won't do. Not when there's a perfectly luxurious spread awaiting them, so far and away from their usual, sad little merged cot. Instead, he takes Encke's hand and coaxes him to his feet, beckoning him the one, two steps it takes them to span the distance to the bed. A bed, onto which Encke is unceremoniously shoved, with Keeler following suit in a graceful straddle across his lap. Long legs, pale thighs cradling Encke's waist, rocking uncertainly against the front of his trousers. These blues are coming off first and foremost; flattering though they are on a physique like Encke's, Keeler is fairly sure -- fairly -- that he doesn't want to answer for any unexplained stains on his uniform. Fighter blacks, bless the dark wool, may hide a good deal, but a man's seed?
Oh, and Keeler intends for this to get messy.
"Either way, gotta' get you out of these first, Soldier," Keeler murmurs, working his fingers down through golden button and belt clasp alike. "Sure we can make real good friends with the maintenance bot here, but I'd rather not make it hate us by staining your blues our first night out."
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He should tease Keeler like Keeler's teasing him, riding his shielded groin with the experience of a veteran stripper. Cursing under his breath, Encke raises himself to sit, responding as much to his navigator's verbal prompts as he's learned to follow the physical ones. You don't get the luxury of delayed response time, of questions and answers mid-sortie - you learn to read your navi like the back of your hand, keep him just as safe.
"Sir, yessir," he agrees, then spends the better part of a minute removing dress jacket, shirt and belt without completely unstraddling Keeler. You don't do that to your well-primed lover, you don't just push him off you and on the floor, even when he's responsible for the most vicious hard-on you've had since the hormonally prodigious times of early adolescence.
A silence intimacy's spread between them, weighty and confining, a benign claustrophobia. The world's suddenly reduced to Keeler and his warm skin and his little laughs and his inefficient tugs at straps and fasteners. And Encke finds he likes it - likes catching Keeler's chin and tipping it aside, so he can lean in and leave a dry trail of short kisses worshipping his earlier mark. Nice, healthy flush on the teeth-crowned skin, rosy and staying behind a pale ear. Good.
"...got a secret, lieutenant," he confides, all maudlin murmurs and hot breath and soft sighs against Keeler's neck. "Wanna hear it?" A kiss on his boy's jaw, a ghost of it in parting. "You're pretty. Real pretty." And another. "First time I saw you, I thought, damn, look at'im." And a third, strayed towards Keeler's chin, a moment or two's investment before he looks up, eyes bright. "And now I get to hold you, and you're even prettier. Funny thing, that."
So funny, it doesn't even need the laugh, and he can just kiss his man instead - all sorted.
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There's no room for that brand of philosophy between the sheets, though. Not when Keeler's managed to free himself of his remaining bits of uniform while Encke tackled his own, not when he's nested -- wonderfully bared any offending scrap of cloth or garment -- in his fighter's lap and languishing in the exquisite attention of the man's lips. Pretty. Intelligent, witty, kind, strong; of all the traits Keeler might have valued more, Encke settles for pretty, and despite the urge to scoff, Keeler feels his face going hot. Pretty is alright. He'll settle for pretty, so long as Encke keeps on kissing him.
And in any case, that's no great secret.
"You never told me you were a romantic, Lieutenant," Keeler teased, dipping to meet Encke's lips for a few lingering, hostage kisses.
Right, Encke's all about romance. Keeler's arms around his shoulders, grinding a pert ass in slow undulations against Encke's clothed cock, a forced pacing to keep them both from throwing down and abandoning principle, and it's a bet Keeler can lose just as easily. Heart thundering in his ears and skipping in the cage of his chest, face flush and breath staggering, shivers thrilling along his body with each brush of Encke's fingers and lips, and a certainty that he's going to fall prey to Encke's every whim without a second thought. Romance. That's what this is.
"You going to fall in love with me, Soldier?"
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He knows that much. He's learned that little. Eyes wide, muscles iced in the struggle between ire and consternation, he can't fucking breathe. He must've taken down four scouts the other day, got off later on the high, the smell of Keeler so carefully imbibed in their shower stall - and now he's on overdrive to the brink of terror, because his navi's pointed out the obvious, that a whole month of carefully dancing around each other speaks less of easy flirting and more of commitment.
"We don't talk about it," and Encke gives it like sacrament and order, braised in formality and hate and their thin implications. We don't talk about it, because you wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Encke wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Command wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because it's ridiculous. We don't talk about it, because it's fucking true, beautiful. Possibilities. Speculations. Complications.
He ends them all with the tight, wet press of his lips on Keeler's forehead, perverse in its modesty against the backdrop of his navigator's nudity. The segue's even more obscene, just the strident, telling fall of metal teeth kissing teeth, as Encke's zipper surrenders to the cause.
"Anything I should know?" With any other partner, it'd be shy glances versus firm queries, sheepish smiles or offended pride - it'd be The Talk, the one that inevitably sees all of Encke's lovers either out the door, or reviewing the laundry list of whom they've tumbled with in the past three months and what in God's name kind of colony plague they might be carrying. Because Encke knows where the boys go on leave, and he knows the brothels they've got running there, and he damn well knows he's never trusting a Baby, I'm sure I'm clean ever again.
But that's not Keeler's problem - Keeler's more tenant than casual friend to the med ward, and no half-decent caretaker, let alone a cohort, would allow him to go around sharing STDs with the class. Keeler's problem, years since he last parlay, are the DOs and DON'Ts of in-betwixt-sheets diplomacy. What he hates in the way most pretty boys hate having their hair pulled; what he's scared stiff to try, but might give into just to keep the peace. Things Encke needs to know, so his report card can earn its EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS, rather than a compassionate SATISFACTORY.
..shit He really is falling for Keeler.
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"I grew up on a drift colony." Keeler's palm warms around the nestle of Encke's cock, fingertips pressing firm along the base's underside. "Mama's a neurosurgeon. Dad stayed home and took take of us. I have a sister named Serah. And I joined the fleet when I was 18, so that Mama wouldn't send me to med school."
Not what Encke's looking for, he knows. But as far as Keeler is concerned, if he's going to have Encke's cock in him, the fighter's going to know him. He's going to know the minute details of his colony privilege and his well-to-do family, he's going to scoff at the notions of trading private schools and a medical career for military life, he's going to judge Keeler beyond the surface of white leather and frail limbs. Even if said judgement turns out to be spoiled brat, at least Encke will know. That's a level of intimacy beyond physical, a level expressly forbidden by certain codes of fleet conduct, as if they don't flagrantly disregard it on a daily basis as is.
Years ago, in what feels now like a completely different life, behind closed doors and in the lush privacy of colony linens, Keeler learned that his mouth was his greatest bedroom forte. You wanna' make a man crazy? Get him between those lips, he'll be yours forever. Empty assurance from a man who left him the following morning, but the notion stuck with Keeler and bloomed into pride. Granted, he's six years out of practice, but there are certain things that just don't leave a man. Oral prowess comes so natural to him, it may well be divine providence; woe be the god who granted him that talent.
Kisses rain down the strong line of Encke's neck, trace the gentle rise of his collarbone and follow his sternum down the center of his chest. Fluttering lips across his stomach, the hot lance of a tongue dipped into his navel, and Keeler slips down until he's poised ready between his fighter's thighs. There's something almost taboo about holding a man's gaze when you're taking his cock in your mouth; a certain breach of the soul that never fails to bring a blush to Keeler's face. But he holds it, pale eyes locked to dark as torrid breath falls across Encke's shaft, until bit by bit he's taken in. Past tight lips and scorching tongue, past wet and heat and velvet softness, down -- unbelievably -- to the very base of him, and Keeler's throat is struggling not to rebel against the invasion.
And never once does he look away.
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His boy would've worn his whites anyway. Maybe they'd have met anyway, a hot, heavy one night affair during one of Encke's shore leaves. Except doctor Keeler'd have never spared five for an officer who has the run, but not command of his own bloody ship, and Encke would have been too earnest in his contempt of laid back upper class civs to learn the inside of Keeler's dainty scrubs.
...like he's now learning the inside of Keeler's dainty mouth. Survival's all a realist can aim for, when his navi's such a worldly boy, because Keeler must've walked half a dozen towns, and his tongue's learned the tricks in all of them. Trust this infuriating, oblivious man to make Encke feel more painfully inadequate about his performance than every school, task and military master he's taken in his life.
He has to laugh again, hoarse and a little strained; it's what keeps him from whimpering like a third rate alley whore.
"Back rub's still better than... fuck." And then it's just that, shallow thuds, Encke's head sliding blissfully back and past his shoulders, heavy blinks and weighty moans. He can feel himself, heavy and so fucking constricted, the beat of his pulse echoing in the muscles of Keeler's welcoming throat. It can't be easy, lithe little man growing a snake's maw, but evolution and his navigator's sheer, inexhaustible will both see Encke swallowed up whole.
The difference in their proportion's too damned unreasonable for this kind of ego play, and he finds himself with his hands in Keeler's hair and undoing his braid, sobbing and pleading like a weak and will-wanting thing, because that's just the kind of puddle his lover's reduced him to. There his neural synapses go. Splat, when he opens his eyes to the sight in front of him.
"Baby, come on, don't. You don't have to - got no need to - " Have to what? Have to - he can't fucking think past laboured breaths and finally getting to tread his fingers through Keeler's irresistibly long hair. "Don't you do that."
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There's no shame in this. Keeler comes to that realization with fingernails biting into Encke's thighs. This doesn't bring him down so much as bring him into perspective. An obscene grace, depicted too perfectly in the perfection of sweeping strokes. Encke tells him don't, and all Keeler hears is encouragement. A plea for more, divinity on the fighter's lips, and Keeler can no sooner stop than cease breath and life. Like Encke's cock is a thread of life, and he's clinging to it with every ounce of the impulsivity he'd withheld through the past six long years.
It's simple enough to wonder why, easy to disregard his own thoughts and morals in the heat of the moment. Because maybe he'll regret this later. Maybe he can't see the sky for the stars. Maybe he's gone too far to forgive himself. Fuck it. Encke's gasping and staggering his pleas and pushing desperate fingers through Keeler's hair, and Keeler's never felt more wanted. Giving pleasure, bringing a man to the edge of his sanity, forcing him to stare madness in the face through tongue lashes and heated strokes; is there anything more satisfying than that?
And it has Keeler so hard, he's practically aching.
"You don't want me to stop," Keeler pauses long enough to chide Encke, with a sly grin and sharp eyes. "You want me to swallow your cock until you can't even breathe anymore."
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