The greatest mark of their mutual insanity is, he's actually doing the math: 1000 show-up means 0900 wake-up, means ideally 0300 turn-in, means four hours of play-time, means an hour per round, means if Encke can't make a boy real fucking happy in sixty minutes, he should surrender his decorations here and now. There's a slowly etching on the inside of his skull, a smooth trajectory for them to follow from one assortment of tangled limbs to the next, but then, that's the fighter way: their navis say something needs done, they get it bloody well done.
"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.
no subject
"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.