The frown's inevitable, sculpture-hard, deep. Prep school. All boys. You pick up a few things.
Like how to welcome it up the ass real nice, sobs swallowed after you take a bruising. How to bleed without letting your agony become someone else's problem. How to answer gropes and tooth loss with 'please' and 'thank you's. How to lose yourself.
Still, the last hour saw no mental blocks Encke could discern, no kicks and screams, no resigned whimpers; and a quick mental review of one of the better hours in Encke's sweet, sweet life reveals nothing in Keeler's demeanour to suggest scarring hardship. Maybe posh places get the subtle abusers. And maybe somehow, this lovely, sheer gift of a human being coasted through. Just maybe. Encke can work with ugly odds.
And he can work up Keeler while he's at it, aiming a tragically afflicted glance his navigator's way and sighing with aplomb. "...was all right. You know." His shrug unsettles the thick covers, raises them half an inch. "Nothing special. Maybe if you'd have worn that skirt."
That skirt, nice and red, the perfect pop of ruthless colour against Keeler's unforgiving pallor. Encke's thinking of just the one.
He nods to urge Keeler on: lullaby time, big boys need the full story. "And then you joined the fleet, and no one tried to get you - interested?"
Look at Keeler. This sweet, fucking gorgeous morsel, just calling for a mean old bloke to sweep in for a bite. Look at him. Unless Keeler's whole string of exes stands a regiment of blind fighters, unless every navi who's shared a battle school class or dorm room with him swore a vow of chastity, unless every God damned superior officer considered the path of virtue - unless all the world's exceptions somehow applied at once, someone must've tried to tumble Keeler in his bed.
no subject
Like how to welcome it up the ass real nice, sobs swallowed after you take a bruising. How to bleed without letting your agony become someone else's problem. How to answer gropes and tooth loss with 'please' and 'thank you's. How to lose yourself.
Still, the last hour saw no mental blocks Encke could discern, no kicks and screams, no resigned whimpers; and a quick mental review of one of the better hours in Encke's sweet, sweet life reveals nothing in Keeler's demeanour to suggest scarring hardship. Maybe posh places get the subtle abusers. And maybe somehow, this lovely, sheer gift of a human being coasted through. Just maybe. Encke can work with ugly odds.
And he can work up Keeler while he's at it, aiming a tragically afflicted glance his navigator's way and sighing with aplomb. "...was all right. You know." His shrug unsettles the thick covers, raises them half an inch. "Nothing special. Maybe if you'd have worn that skirt."
That skirt, nice and red, the perfect pop of ruthless colour against Keeler's unforgiving pallor. Encke's thinking of just the one.
He nods to urge Keeler on: lullaby time, big boys need the full story. "And then you joined the fleet, and no one tried to get you - interested?"
Look at Keeler. This sweet, fucking gorgeous morsel, just calling for a mean old bloke to sweep in for a bite. Look at him. Unless Keeler's whole string of exes stands a regiment of blind fighters, unless every navi who's shared a battle school class or dorm room with him swore a vow of chastity, unless every God damned superior officer considered the path of virtue - unless all the world's exceptions somehow applied at once, someone must've tried to tumble Keeler in his bed.