"Done talking today." Simple as that, hunting dog gnawing its bone, suckling it clean, veneer to marrow. Taking Keeler "off-market" until such a time that Encke's 'competition' no longer has the Sleipnir's rough equivalent in weight to throw around. Crown jewel piece like Keeler, you see it blemished, you think some general got there first. You leave it to its peace and start praying your career won't be paying for leers and a few choice glances.
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.
no subject
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.