He's got a mouth on him, Keeler does, and that much is obvious. And he'll fucking utilise it, all tongue and teeth, and Encke hisses through the sharp residue of acid, tangy pain. The muscle's fine, hard meat leathered by exercise, resilient before military siege and incipient colony heat, pre-conditioned; it's the sheer audacity of it all that stings, the rare reminder that beneath his etiquette and polished phrases, the downcast eyes and subtle plans, Keeler's full fire, all-consuming. Rich.

That won't do, now.

That won't do at all.

No, no. Encke hisses - who the hell wouldn't - then he plots revenge. He's lessoned under the best of them on this, withstood the conjugal comedy of his mother's wayward pet cat, which, in its silver age, was joined by a pup. The dog bore through hostilities, took it all in play, loved his best friend for fucking ever, the grumpiest feline that ever did live. Hell, the stupid mutt would even wag his tail for more, after all the clawing. And then the inevitable happened: the dog upgraded from palm-size to rhinoceros proportions, and where Encke had cast his silent calls that he'd slaughter next time so much as one claw peered his way, dear Fido had a better solution to end the conflict.

He still loved the cat, you see. So, whenever it'd try to bit, or snap, or raised so much as a paw, the dog wouldn't oppress, wouldn't chase, wouldn't even bark.

...he'd sit on her. Lay most, but not all of his weight, and pin her down, til the bloody cat's temper waned and gave way to the inevitable surrender. You don't mess with something twice your size, after all.

Maybe Keeler needs that reminder of casual jungle rules; obligingly, Encke wraps his arms around the navi's twig of a waist,, then slowly rolls both of them over, until he's got Keeler beneath him again, defenceless and immobile.

"Now, what?" he teases lightly, eyebrow arched in slightly condescending rise.