Now he remembers that burn. Forgotten to the years, abandoned from thought in the wake of romanticized bliss, Keeler's failed to consider the discomfort as part of this equation. But the pressing breach of digits brings the realization fresh -- right, this is unpleasant, at least initially -- though Keeler manages with little more protest than a slow breath and furrowed brow. It doesn't last, he reminds himself. Never long, once upon a time, but it's been six years, and the adjustment period is going to be a bitch. There are silent calculations, Keeler mentally gauging the stretch of his jaw around Encke's girth, hedging estimations on just how much this will suck and for how long before he can manage to abandon himself to bliss again.
"Only if you roll over without making me come," Keeler attempts the ghost of a laugh, reaffirming for perhaps the thousandth time that Encke simply doesn't grasp his humor. "But you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"
No. Because Encke is, if not tactful, at the very least considerate. He's not a selfish lover, or else he wouldn't have been the first on his knees in this room, wouldn't have torn his cock away from Keeler's wanton mouth in favor of mutually-assured pleasure. His kisses wouldn't be so sweet, so utterly fulfilling. His touch wouldn't leave Keeler sighing and daydreaming. He wouldn't be invading Keeler's fantasies down to the most depraved detail, idealized and fetishized perfection. Fuck, this is so much more than sex...
Condoms. Right. Formality before fun. Encke's hands are busy, so Keeler's cast out to find one, teeth through gold foil -- and shit, they have the fancy kind here, the ribbed-and-pointless brand Keeler used to entertain in high-brow bedrooms of the colony -- before he's reaching between his own pale legs to find Encke's cock. Rolled down over the hardness of his fighter's shaft, the motion practiced though his hands are shaking. Trembling, because despite himself, there's still anticipation, still a hint of anxiety, and he's not sure he'll shake it even when the deed is finally done.
And, not for the first time, Keeler wonders how it's come to this. How they salvaged affection and fondness and sex from what they'd been at the start.
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"Only if you roll over without making me come," Keeler attempts the ghost of a laugh, reaffirming for perhaps the thousandth time that Encke simply doesn't grasp his humor. "But you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"
No. Because Encke is, if not tactful, at the very least considerate. He's not a selfish lover, or else he wouldn't have been the first on his knees in this room, wouldn't have torn his cock away from Keeler's wanton mouth in favor of mutually-assured pleasure. His kisses wouldn't be so sweet, so utterly fulfilling. His touch wouldn't leave Keeler sighing and daydreaming. He wouldn't be invading Keeler's fantasies down to the most depraved detail, idealized and fetishized perfection. Fuck, this is so much more than sex...
Condoms. Right. Formality before fun. Encke's hands are busy, so Keeler's cast out to find one, teeth through gold foil -- and shit, they have the fancy kind here, the ribbed-and-pointless brand Keeler used to entertain in high-brow bedrooms of the colony -- before he's reaching between his own pale legs to find Encke's cock. Rolled down over the hardness of his fighter's shaft, the motion practiced though his hands are shaking. Trembling, because despite himself, there's still anticipation, still a hint of anxiety, and he's not sure he'll shake it even when the deed is finally done.
And, not for the first time, Keeler wonders how it's come to this. How they salvaged affection and fondness and sex from what they'd been at the start.