"Hmm," Keeler muses, and the pause for thought finds thin fingers creeping between their bodies.
"I grew up on a drift colony." Keeler's palm warms around the nestle of Encke's cock, fingertips pressing firm along the base's underside. "Mama's a neurosurgeon. Dad stayed home and took take of us. I have a sister named Serah. And I joined the fleet when I was 18, so that Mama wouldn't send me to med school."
Not what Encke's looking for, he knows. But as far as Keeler is concerned, if he's going to have Encke's cock in him, the fighter's going to know him. He's going to know the minute details of his colony privilege and his well-to-do family, he's going to scoff at the notions of trading private schools and a medical career for military life, he's going to judge Keeler beyond the surface of white leather and frail limbs. Even if said judgement turns out to be spoiled brat, at least Encke will know. That's a level of intimacy beyond physical, a level expressly forbidden by certain codes of fleet conduct, as if they don't flagrantly disregard it on a daily basis as is.
Years ago, in what feels now like a completely different life, behind closed doors and in the lush privacy of colony linens, Keeler learned that his mouth was his greatest bedroom forte. You wanna' make a man crazy? Get him between those lips, he'll be yours forever. Empty assurance from a man who left him the following morning, but the notion stuck with Keeler and bloomed into pride. Granted, he's six years out of practice, but there are certain things that just don't leave a man. Oral prowess comes so natural to him, it may well be divine providence; woe be the god who granted him that talent.
Kisses rain down the strong line of Encke's neck, trace the gentle rise of his collarbone and follow his sternum down the center of his chest. Fluttering lips across his stomach, the hot lance of a tongue dipped into his navel, and Keeler slips down until he's poised ready between his fighter's thighs. There's something almost taboo about holding a man's gaze when you're taking his cock in your mouth; a certain breach of the soul that never fails to bring a blush to Keeler's face. But he holds it, pale eyes locked to dark as torrid breath falls across Encke's shaft, until bit by bit he's taken in. Past tight lips and scorching tongue, past wet and heat and velvet softness, down -- unbelievably -- to the very base of him, and Keeler's throat is struggling not to rebel against the invasion.
no subject
"I grew up on a drift colony." Keeler's palm warms around the nestle of Encke's cock, fingertips pressing firm along the base's underside. "Mama's a neurosurgeon. Dad stayed home and took take of us. I have a sister named Serah. And I joined the fleet when I was 18, so that Mama wouldn't send me to med school."
Not what Encke's looking for, he knows. But as far as Keeler is concerned, if he's going to have Encke's cock in him, the fighter's going to know him. He's going to know the minute details of his colony privilege and his well-to-do family, he's going to scoff at the notions of trading private schools and a medical career for military life, he's going to judge Keeler beyond the surface of white leather and frail limbs. Even if said judgement turns out to be spoiled brat, at least Encke will know. That's a level of intimacy beyond physical, a level expressly forbidden by certain codes of fleet conduct, as if they don't flagrantly disregard it on a daily basis as is.
Years ago, in what feels now like a completely different life, behind closed doors and in the lush privacy of colony linens, Keeler learned that his mouth was his greatest bedroom forte. You wanna' make a man crazy? Get him between those lips, he'll be yours forever. Empty assurance from a man who left him the following morning, but the notion stuck with Keeler and bloomed into pride. Granted, he's six years out of practice, but there are certain things that just don't leave a man. Oral prowess comes so natural to him, it may well be divine providence; woe be the god who granted him that talent.
Kisses rain down the strong line of Encke's neck, trace the gentle rise of his collarbone and follow his sternum down the center of his chest. Fluttering lips across his stomach, the hot lance of a tongue dipped into his navel, and Keeler slips down until he's poised ready between his fighter's thighs. There's something almost taboo about holding a man's gaze when you're taking his cock in your mouth; a certain breach of the soul that never fails to bring a blush to Keeler's face. But he holds it, pale eyes locked to dark as torrid breath falls across Encke's shaft, until bit by bit he's taken in. Past tight lips and scorching tongue, past wet and heat and velvet softness, down -- unbelievably -- to the very base of him, and Keeler's throat is struggling not to rebel against the invasion.
And never once does he look away.