Encke's flesh is going to bear the evidence of this night. In tiny punctures of crescent moons and long dragging welts, in the swollen impression of teeth and nails, in the simple fact that -- after tonight, if he hadn't before -- he'll have Keeler undeniably under his skin. He presses himself in, and Keeler's breath seizes in his throat, refuses to release its maddening hold through the burn. Perhaps Encke hasn't memorized Keeler quite as well as he'd thought; with a knit brow and claws in the meat of his fighter's shoulder, Keeler is pressing on and down onto Encke's cock, encouraging the invasion with a silent beckoning squeeze of his thighs.

Don't leave. Keeler can't remember that ever being a concern before. All of his lovers simply assumed their place beside him and within him, supposed without asking that he would still be there in the morning. Keeler's not sure if that speaks more to Encke's own self-worth, or the tenuous faith he's instilled for Keeler. But leaving is certainly not a variable that entered into the equation. Not with Encke. He's good to Keeler. He brings Keeler his coffee in the morning, he curls up around him to keep him warm at night, he beckons Keeler back to the cabin when he's gotten too close to work thrall, and he cares. Inexplicably, unfathomably, he cares about Keeler. You don't just leave something like that.

But what does Keeler expect? After trying his damnedest to avoid Encke during their first few weeks acquainted, it's no wonder he's paranoid they'll backslide into that again.

"I won't," Keeler's voice is little more than a shaking breath, and to reinforce, he seeks out another soft kiss. "You do whatever you want to me. I won't leave."

Anything, and he means that. Anything Encke wants, and Keeler will take it happily. Pull his hair, mark him up, tie him splayed, draw and quarter him, drag him to hell and the very depths of depravity. Keeler will bear it all with a smile.