It's not so much the words that have Keeler blushing, as the mental images that accompany them. In his mind, it's already like a film reel; his cock between Encke's lips, bowed over the desktop with Encke's hands in his hair, splayed sinuous across red velvet bedcovers and cradling the fighter's waist between his thighs-- His leg still throbs from the bite, and Encke's so close, Keeler can practically taste the sound of his own moans. The barest brush against his cock -- unforgivably hard and aching for attention -- sets Keeler to twitches again.

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.