Keeler laughs, pure and full and beautiful: "I offer to suck your cock, and you ask for a back rub. What hell hath I wrought upon this universe?"
Feasibly being able to stand on his own two feet means very little when he actually gets there. Encke's oral attentions brought him to shaking, and relinquishing himself to artificial gravity again is a chore for which he isn't entirely prepared. He leans back against the wall, collecting his breath and himself for the span of a few staggered moments. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, he ponders the merits of shoving Encke to the ground, of making a name for himself between his fighter's legs, all spread upon the plush carpet and discarded clothing.
But the floor won't do. Not when there's a perfectly luxurious spread awaiting them, so far and away from their usual, sad little merged cot. Instead, he takes Encke's hand and coaxes him to his feet, beckoning him the one, two steps it takes them to span the distance to the bed. A bed, onto which Encke is unceremoniously shoved, with Keeler following suit in a graceful straddle across his lap. Long legs, pale thighs cradling Encke's waist, rocking uncertainly against the front of his trousers. These blues are coming off first and foremost; flattering though they are on a physique like Encke's, Keeler is fairly sure -- fairly -- that he doesn't want to answer for any unexplained stains on his uniform. Fighter blacks, bless the dark wool, may hide a good deal, but a man's seed?
Oh, and Keeler intends for this to get messy.
"Either way, gotta' get you out of these first, Soldier," Keeler murmurs, working his fingers down through golden button and belt clasp alike. "Sure we can make real good friends with the maintenance bot here, but I'd rather not make it hate us by staining your blues our first night out."
no subject
Feasibly being able to stand on his own two feet means very little when he actually gets there. Encke's oral attentions brought him to shaking, and relinquishing himself to artificial gravity again is a chore for which he isn't entirely prepared. He leans back against the wall, collecting his breath and himself for the span of a few staggered moments. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, he ponders the merits of shoving Encke to the ground, of making a name for himself between his fighter's legs, all spread upon the plush carpet and discarded clothing.
But the floor won't do. Not when there's a perfectly luxurious spread awaiting them, so far and away from their usual, sad little merged cot. Instead, he takes Encke's hand and coaxes him to his feet, beckoning him the one, two steps it takes them to span the distance to the bed. A bed, onto which Encke is unceremoniously shoved, with Keeler following suit in a graceful straddle across his lap. Long legs, pale thighs cradling Encke's waist, rocking uncertainly against the front of his trousers. These blues are coming off first and foremost; flattering though they are on a physique like Encke's, Keeler is fairly sure -- fairly -- that he doesn't want to answer for any unexplained stains on his uniform. Fighter blacks, bless the dark wool, may hide a good deal, but a man's seed?
Oh, and Keeler intends for this to get messy.
"Either way, gotta' get you out of these first, Soldier," Keeler murmurs, working his fingers down through golden button and belt clasp alike. "Sure we can make real good friends with the maintenance bot here, but I'd rather not make it hate us by staining your blues our first night out."