Thank everything they're not in the Sleipnir. Thank everything, because he knows the kind of duress standard furniture can take, and he's got a 98.5% certainty he'd have wrecked a bed tonight, pushing, shoving, scratching at the mattress, just like Keeler's insides wreck him, sweet tremors and undulations of pliant flesh everywhere around his body. Leeching him.
There's nothing in those final moments: no subtlety, no finesse, no romantic trigger of synchronized climax. He just knows, warm seed between them, and the rest of him privately relieved by Keeler's foresight to feud with their uniforms, that it's all right to finally follow on his navi's - his lover's cue.
"Damn," he whispers hoarsely , because military discipline's all good and well, but he commits the fucking idiocy of looking Keeler in his gorgeous face, and it's all Encke can do to spare an officer ten minutes and a tirade on public disruption when he muffles his groans in Keeler's shoulder.
Beyond that, it's all standard: you come in the man you've wanted for a month same way you come in a common whores, with the exact shallow gestures and simple mechanics. A strange emptiness scours through him, as if, having declared some kind of - fuck him - affection, this entire interlude should have been more meaningful, should've brought some kind of personal revelation with it. But then he pulls out - slowly, because he's not that fucking asshole - to cut down on at least some parting pains early, and there's white on white beside his withdrawing hand, Keeler's hair all in disarray.
And everything thaws.
Keeler's going to cuss a space storm in the morning, when he wakes up to tangles and the immediate need for a braid (sir, yessir), and Encke'll get to laugh at his fussing behind the rim of his coffee cup. The laughter he's looking forward to infects his lips even now, and he rolls over to the side of the bed, runs a hand over Keeler's arm warmly.
"Don't doze off, sweetheart." Then, those four words, "We need to talk."
no subject
There's nothing in those final moments: no subtlety, no finesse, no romantic trigger of synchronized climax. He just knows, warm seed between them, and the rest of him privately relieved by Keeler's foresight to feud with their uniforms, that it's all right to finally follow on his navi's - his lover's cue.
"Damn," he whispers hoarsely , because military discipline's all good and well, but he commits the fucking idiocy of looking Keeler in his gorgeous face, and it's all Encke can do to spare an officer ten minutes and a tirade on public disruption when he muffles his groans in Keeler's shoulder.
Beyond that, it's all standard: you come in the man you've wanted for a month same way you come in a common whores, with the exact shallow gestures and simple mechanics. A strange emptiness scours through him, as if, having declared some kind of - fuck him - affection, this entire interlude should have been more meaningful, should've brought some kind of personal revelation with it. But then he pulls out - slowly, because he's not that fucking asshole - to cut down on at least some parting pains early, and there's white on white beside his withdrawing hand, Keeler's hair all in disarray.
And everything thaws.
Keeler's going to cuss a space storm in the morning, when he wakes up to tangles and the immediate need for a braid (sir, yessir), and Encke'll get to laugh at his fussing behind the rim of his coffee cup. The laughter he's looking forward to infects his lips even now, and he rolls over to the side of the bed, runs a hand over Keeler's arm warmly.
"Don't doze off, sweetheart." Then, those four words, "We need to talk."