I don't fuck children, he doesn't need to say, all hard frowns and two flexible fingers, invading Keeler's mouth to slip in the crumbles of chocolate shell, and press down that slithering snake's tongue before it can hiss away more venom. He's a vicious little bitch when he wants to be, this slip of nothing of a navi is, cross Encke's heart. All of them are. Give them an opening, just one, and the maze of a mind the average navigator's pretending to work for the fleet's common good will focus urgently on taking down all your defences. Using them against you. Using you against yourself.
Their glances lock for a second - timed, lived along with the solid beat of Encke's choked breathing - and then he withdraws both digits, happily returned to feeding Keeler his midnight snack with the oblivious disregard favoured by gods and cowards.
"You've got no idea," he says lightly, as if he's not reviewing just the shade of red Keeler's sweet, pale ass would ripen into, if he were thrown over Encke's knee and given its belated beating. It'd teach Keeler not to take this, his fighter's concern, his own fucking health, one and ten percent seriously. It'd teach him good.
But a bloody argument isn't how their first night together should end, no spiting due, no spite and no anger.
A sigh, subdued.
"I'll cook for you, now and then, if you've got a thing against the menu," he offers tentatively, because there'll be no breaking him from the gossip mill's maw, if word back on the Sleipnir gets around that the ship's lead fighter's so damned whipped, he's putting on an apron and cutting contraband deals to get his ass in the kitchen for his navigator.
His eyebrows draw up, apprehensive. "What do you like?"
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I don't fuck children, he doesn't need to say, all hard frowns and two flexible fingers, invading Keeler's mouth to slip in the crumbles of chocolate shell, and press down that slithering snake's tongue before it can hiss away more venom. He's a vicious little bitch when he wants to be, this slip of nothing of a navi is, cross Encke's heart. All of them are. Give them an opening, just one, and the maze of a mind the average navigator's pretending to work for the fleet's common good will focus urgently on taking down all your defences. Using them against you. Using you against yourself.
Their glances lock for a second - timed, lived along with the solid beat of Encke's choked breathing - and then he withdraws both digits, happily returned to feeding Keeler his midnight snack with the oblivious disregard favoured by gods and cowards.
"You've got no idea," he says lightly, as if he's not reviewing just the shade of red Keeler's sweet, pale ass would ripen into, if he were thrown over Encke's knee and given its belated beating. It'd teach Keeler not to take this, his fighter's concern, his own fucking health, one and ten percent seriously. It'd teach him good.
But a bloody argument isn't how their first night together should end, no spiting due, no spite and no anger.
A sigh, subdued.
"I'll cook for you, now and then, if you've got a thing against the menu," he offers tentatively, because there'll be no breaking him from the gossip mill's maw, if word back on the Sleipnir gets around that the ship's lead fighter's so damned whipped, he's putting on an apron and cutting contraband deals to get his ass in the kitchen for his navigator.
His eyebrows draw up, apprehensive. "What do you like?"