Days on days on weeks of suspended passion, Keeler winding him up like a tight spring, the most decadent décor he's ever had on deployment, fucking finally a good portion of the - domestic supplies stashed discreetly by the headboard —
...and now his navi wants a nap.
He thinks, if he searches neither long, nor far, he'll find a military court willing to pardon murder on a defence of blue balled emotional distress.
Just point the martial jury towards a picture of Keeler with his puckered lips in that sultry pout uniquely dedicated to the few early rounds when Encke and he share a morning, and Keeler wants his coffee, and Gosh, darn, the cup's just so far away, and the bed's so warm, and Encke likes himself a walk anyway, doesn't he? Kiss-kiss.
Or shots of Keeler on bridge, high on his authority, eyes a little burning and cheeks running a flush, as he leans in over the command deck, and all Encke wants is to push him down and take him over.
Or a causal footage of Keeler smoothing down imperceptible wrinkles in blinding-white velcro that moulds to his lean shape almost obscenely, touching it carefully, touching himself for good, long minutes with innocent abandon.
"I think I'm going to fuck you til you're hoarse now," Encke concludes matter-of-factly, eyebrow vaguely twitching at the God-damned nerve, because if he's not getting his backrub, Keeler's sure as hell not earning a luxury reprieve. And then they're kissing again, heartbreaking and simmered, clouds brewing up to storm. Blind fussing's a bit of a bitch, but the tube in hand concedes: he manages, through an effort of more will and perseverance than romantic ease, to slip wet fingers beneath Keeler's thighs and fleshy rump, tease open his navi's entrance.
Suddenly, everything's getting a little - real. He peers, frowning lightly, to catch a good look of Keeler's pretty face. "Gonna cuss me out in the morning?"
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...and now his navi wants a nap.
He thinks, if he searches neither long, nor far, he'll find a military court willing to pardon murder on a defence of blue balled emotional distress.
Just point the martial jury towards a picture of Keeler with his puckered lips in that sultry pout uniquely dedicated to the few early rounds when Encke and he share a morning, and Keeler wants his coffee, and Gosh, darn, the cup's just so far away, and the bed's so warm, and Encke likes himself a walk anyway, doesn't he? Kiss-kiss.
Or shots of Keeler on bridge, high on his authority, eyes a little burning and cheeks running a flush, as he leans in over the command deck, and all Encke wants is to push him down and take him over.
Or a causal footage of Keeler smoothing down imperceptible wrinkles in blinding-white velcro that moulds to his lean shape almost obscenely, touching it carefully, touching himself for good, long minutes with innocent abandon.
"I think I'm going to fuck you til you're hoarse now," Encke concludes matter-of-factly, eyebrow vaguely twitching at the God-damned nerve, because if he's not getting his backrub, Keeler's sure as hell not earning a luxury reprieve. And then they're kissing again, heartbreaking and simmered, clouds brewing up to storm. Blind fussing's a bit of a bitch, but the tube in hand concedes: he manages, through an effort of more will and perseverance than romantic ease, to slip wet fingers beneath Keeler's thighs and fleshy rump, tease open his navi's entrance.
Suddenly, everything's getting a little - real. He peers, frowning lightly, to catch a good look of Keeler's pretty face. "Gonna cuss me out in the morning?"