The average brain can survive four minutes without oxygen. That means, you can live a little if your fighter's shut off from its air supply. You can live a little, if your recruitment intake's alpha wannabe plays domination wars and drowns you in the communal showers. You can live a little, if your navi's all but riding your cock and asking - questions.
He knows that much. He's learned that little. Eyes wide, muscles iced in the struggle between ire and consternation, he can't fucking breathe. He must've taken down four scouts the other day, got off later on the high, the smell of Keeler so carefully imbibed in their shower stall - and now he's on overdrive to the brink of terror, because his navi's pointed out the obvious, that a whole month of carefully dancing around each other speaks less of easy flirting and more of commitment.
"We don't talk about it," and Encke gives it like sacrament and order, braised in formality and hate and their thin implications. We don't talk about it, because you wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Encke wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Command wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because it's ridiculous. We don't talk about it, because it's fucking true, beautiful. Possibilities. Speculations. Complications.
He ends them all with the tight, wet press of his lips on Keeler's forehead, perverse in its modesty against the backdrop of his navigator's nudity. The segue's even more obscene, just the strident, telling fall of metal teeth kissing teeth, as Encke's zipper surrenders to the cause.
"Anything I should know?" With any other partner, it'd be shy glances versus firm queries, sheepish smiles or offended pride - it'd be The Talk, the one that inevitably sees all of Encke's lovers either out the door, or reviewing the laundry list of whom they've tumbled with in the past three months and what in God's name kind of colony plague they might be carrying. Because Encke knows where the boys go on leave, and he knows the brothels they've got running there, and he damn well knows he's never trusting a Baby, I'm sure I'm clean ever again.
But that's not Keeler's problem - Keeler's more tenant than casual friend to the med ward, and no half-decent caretaker, let alone a cohort, would allow him to go around sharing STDs with the class. Keeler's problem, years since he last parlay, are the DOs and DON'Ts of in-betwixt-sheets diplomacy. What he hates in the way most pretty boys hate having their hair pulled; what he's scared stiff to try, but might give into just to keep the peace. Things Encke needs to know, so his report card can earn its EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS, rather than a compassionate SATISFACTORY.
no subject
He knows that much. He's learned that little. Eyes wide, muscles iced in the struggle between ire and consternation, he can't fucking breathe. He must've taken down four scouts the other day, got off later on the high, the smell of Keeler so carefully imbibed in their shower stall - and now he's on overdrive to the brink of terror, because his navi's pointed out the obvious, that a whole month of carefully dancing around each other speaks less of easy flirting and more of commitment.
"We don't talk about it," and Encke gives it like sacrament and order, braised in formality and hate and their thin implications. We don't talk about it, because you wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Encke wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Command wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because it's ridiculous. We don't talk about it, because it's fucking true, beautiful. Possibilities. Speculations. Complications.
He ends them all with the tight, wet press of his lips on Keeler's forehead, perverse in its modesty against the backdrop of his navigator's nudity. The segue's even more obscene, just the strident, telling fall of metal teeth kissing teeth, as Encke's zipper surrenders to the cause.
"Anything I should know?" With any other partner, it'd be shy glances versus firm queries, sheepish smiles or offended pride - it'd be The Talk, the one that inevitably sees all of Encke's lovers either out the door, or reviewing the laundry list of whom they've tumbled with in the past three months and what in God's name kind of colony plague they might be carrying. Because Encke knows where the boys go on leave, and he knows the brothels they've got running there, and he damn well knows he's never trusting a Baby, I'm sure I'm clean ever again.
But that's not Keeler's problem - Keeler's more tenant than casual friend to the med ward, and no half-decent caretaker, let alone a cohort, would allow him to go around sharing STDs with the class. Keeler's problem, years since he last parlay, are the DOs and DON'Ts of in-betwixt-sheets diplomacy. What he hates in the way most pretty boys hate having their hair pulled; what he's scared stiff to try, but might give into just to keep the peace. Things Encke needs to know, so his report card can earn its EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS, rather than a compassionate SATISFACTORY.
..shit He really is falling for Keeler.