It's a nice little stretch of navi real estate, small but elegant and strategically positioned so that it's constantly centre stage, whenever it deems to be seen. The kind of spot seasoned lovers don't bite into out of pleasure, but sport.

"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?"