...sweet tooth, huh? To hell with words and winks and hard, heated glances; next time Encke wants his navi out of the Tactical Ops room, he's luring him with candy. Tie some on a string. Drag it across the strategy table. Watch Keeler climb it on all-fours and catch it between his lips, and make sweet, sweet love to it with his tongue before giving it a good swallow.
-- damn. Encke'll have to investigate that battle plan one day. Not today, though. Today, this is good. Warm. Intimate. Keeler's a soft weight in his arms, wonderfully susceptible to the taunts and teases of Encke's tickling fingers, when they slip down to hook over the dismissed covers and drag them over them both. The temperature and filter and ventilation are set up to what Encke's come to identify as the Proxima standard in languish, but you can never trust a draft, not with Keeler's low immunity at stake.
They'll work on that. A schedule, snacks, the additional mouthful: anything will help the cause of upgrading Keeler from glorified skeleton to at least starving runway supermodel proportions. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And the... rainbow cereal Encke's supposed to have befriended.
"Sure," he agrees casually, lazy half-smile coming out to play; no point in serving Keeler the realpolitik reminder that outlier colonies get the crumbs of luxury goods and exotic imports, where the spoiled scion of a neurosurgeon's house was probably privy to the cream of an overpriced crop. The only damned rainbow-toned tidbit Encke's ever put in his mouth was a set of psychedelic condoms, and he's never wandering in that run-down satellite ring brothel again.
Gave bloody good head, though.
Almost as good as -
His voice melts, all smooth butter and feigned disinterest. "And how'd a nice surgeon's boy get so good at holding all them other things in his pretty little mouth?"
Because natural talent and intuitive ease still don't amount to the kind of lethal skill Keeler's tongue and teeth work in the bedroom - not without a story to tell.
no subject
-- damn. Encke'll have to investigate that battle plan one day. Not today, though. Today, this is good. Warm. Intimate. Keeler's a soft weight in his arms, wonderfully susceptible to the taunts and teases of Encke's tickling fingers, when they slip down to hook over the dismissed covers and drag them over them both. The temperature and filter and ventilation are set up to what Encke's come to identify as the Proxima standard in languish, but you can never trust a draft, not with Keeler's low immunity at stake.
They'll work on that. A schedule, snacks, the additional mouthful: anything will help the cause of upgrading Keeler from glorified skeleton to at least starving runway supermodel proportions. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And the... rainbow cereal Encke's supposed to have befriended.
"Sure," he agrees casually, lazy half-smile coming out to play; no point in serving Keeler the realpolitik reminder that outlier colonies get the crumbs of luxury goods and exotic imports, where the spoiled scion of a neurosurgeon's house was probably privy to the cream of an overpriced crop. The only damned rainbow-toned tidbit Encke's ever put in his mouth was a set of psychedelic condoms, and he's never wandering in that run-down satellite ring brothel again.
Gave bloody good head, though.
Almost as good as -
His voice melts, all smooth butter and feigned disinterest. "And how'd a nice surgeon's boy get so good at holding all them other things in his pretty little mouth?"
Because natural talent and intuitive ease still don't amount to the kind of lethal skill Keeler's tongue and teeth work in the bedroom - not without a story to tell.