If it were left up to Keeler right now, Encke would already have him splayed across the ridiculously-lavish bed -- pale skin against crushed cardinal velvet -- spread beneath him in a disheveled uniform half undone. But Encke's still pandering to the idea that Keeler isn't of sound mind when he asks for it, and Keeler is never in any mood to force the issue. Encke hasn't seen him absent so much a shirt since their shower stall fiasco.

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."