Everything's plotted, planned, a smooth operation: in a sortie, you know what you get into, you know how you're getting out, you don't leave your heart on the way. Encke's got it covered. The contrast plays out to the last notes of its swan song, weak, wane, sentimental kisses against the sly slaughter of their previous inhibitions. He's been waiting for this, jealously guarding the opportunity, spying the time and place when it's not just Keeler willing, but every last ounce of blood in Encke's own veins.

Tonight's the time, the most luxurious ship they've stepped foot on's a prime location; and suddenly, the plan's obsolete, and this - whatever the hell this is - isn't about calculated risks anymore. It's about giving deep, careful and slow thrusts, sneaking a hand between them to help Keeler out with an element of friction. Keeping them close and wrinkling their sheets.

Tension crawls up his spine, leaves behind muscles stirred to stark contours, weighed with the sheer effort of keeping himself restrained. He can't savage such a small lover, fucking won't, but there's nothing wrong with lowering Keeler beneath him and keeping him caged, because even if Encke's willing on the worst of his days to put down his head and his wage on his navi's word, he can't exercise trust on this one. Keeler's here, taking his insecurities and his cock, and Keeler's not leaving. Not tonight.

"You feel good, baby... you feel so, so good," he praises breathlessly, because sweet nothings are one-night affair standards, and he was never much good at shutting his damned mouth once it's finally open. Because he wants to. "...love that about you, love you a little. Just a little..."

But a little goes a long way, and with these things, it's a doomed downward spiral. Neither needs that reminder. As far as Encke's concerned, he'll have done a piss poor job of the fuck of his lifetime, if either of them cares within the next ten minutes.