"Not thinking," Keeler replies, his voice a little airy, a bit breathless, a hopeless lie.
But what's the alternative? Babble out his disparaging internal monologue until Encke decides -- rightfully so -- that he's not ready for this? Which is ridiculous. Ready or not, mentally prepared or not, Keeler wants this. He's wanted it for weeks, he simply wasn't expecting it to happen after a sumptuous dinner on a damned pleasure cruise. It's a harmless lie. But then, he remembers that Encke knows his tells, reads him like a book without Keeler's blessing, and not having this conversation right now can end his fun just as surely. Because Encke doesn't appreciate dishonesty, even if it's the little white lies Keeler slips to keep the peace.
"Trying not to think," he says, a little more honestly, then: "Always told myself I'd never do this. Because this is what navigators are expected to do, and I never wanted to be like them. Just wanted to-- I don't know. Have a respectful relationship with my fighter and leave it at that. And it's been a little over six years since I--"
Since he enlisted. Since he let anyone touch him like this. Since he surrendered himself to the inevitable in any capacity. Of all the control he wrests from every other aspect of their shared existence, he feels a distinct lack of it when he falls -- ready and willing -- into Encke's arms. And it's alarming, and he wants to wrestle it back immediately and call this entire affair off, but more than that he wants--
He wants the warmth. He craves the pleasure. He's been aching for Encke to touch him and take him, and yes it's a distraction. Every time he sees Encke on the bridge and in the corridors, every time the fighter flashes him a smile or a wink, every time he curls up against the man in their bed at night, it's the most beautiful distraction. And if Encke stops now, this lascivious image -- the roughness of Encke's scalp beneath his fingerpads, his pale legs draped over the dark wool of Encke's jacket, his cock sinking through unforgiving lips -- will haunt him for months to come.
"I'm just a little nervous," Keeler breathes, his tongue loathe around the admission. "But I want this. I want you."
no subject
But what's the alternative? Babble out his disparaging internal monologue until Encke decides -- rightfully so -- that he's not ready for this? Which is ridiculous. Ready or not, mentally prepared or not, Keeler wants this. He's wanted it for weeks, he simply wasn't expecting it to happen after a sumptuous dinner on a damned pleasure cruise. It's a harmless lie. But then, he remembers that Encke knows his tells, reads him like a book without Keeler's blessing, and not having this conversation right now can end his fun just as surely. Because Encke doesn't appreciate dishonesty, even if it's the little white lies Keeler slips to keep the peace.
"Trying not to think," he says, a little more honestly, then: "Always told myself I'd never do this. Because this is what navigators are expected to do, and I never wanted to be like them. Just wanted to-- I don't know. Have a respectful relationship with my fighter and leave it at that. And it's been a little over six years since I--"
Since he enlisted. Since he let anyone touch him like this. Since he surrendered himself to the inevitable in any capacity. Of all the control he wrests from every other aspect of their shared existence, he feels a distinct lack of it when he falls -- ready and willing -- into Encke's arms. And it's alarming, and he wants to wrestle it back immediately and call this entire affair off, but more than that he wants--
He wants the warmth. He craves the pleasure. He's been aching for Encke to touch him and take him, and yes it's a distraction. Every time he sees Encke on the bridge and in the corridors, every time the fighter flashes him a smile or a wink, every time he curls up against the man in their bed at night, it's the most beautiful distraction. And if Encke stops now, this lascivious image -- the roughness of Encke's scalp beneath his fingerpads, his pale legs draped over the dark wool of Encke's jacket, his cock sinking through unforgiving lips -- will haunt him for months to come.
"I'm just a little nervous," Keeler breathes, his tongue loathe around the admission. "But I want this. I want you."