Now what? Now, Keeler's trapped beneath Encke, perhaps figuratively as much as physically, staring up at him with a complacent grin and lazy eyes. Now, Keeler really can't care less that there's a sharp irritation so plain in Encke's eyes, or that the weight against his own stomach is bordering more on painful than comforting. Despite his size, he can take it; despite what Encke seems to think, he's resilient, in form if not constitution.

But Encke fails to see the inherent flaw in his own plan. The way -- stretched out over Keeler as he is -- that he's opened himself up at the neck for a bruised retribution. Because Keeler's more viper than cat, and the sooner Encke learns that, the better off he'll be. Unlike that cat, Keeler doesn't shy. Rather, his arms and legs all wind long and warm around Encke's weight, and he buries his face in the crook of the fighter's neck. Vengeful teeth find the tender flesh there, bearing down to precursor a quiet growl and a firm drag. No aim to bruise, but no aim to abstain from such either.

Vindictive little bitch of a navigator, despite all efforts to the contrary. And Encke deserves every taunt and tease that's delivered him.

"No idea what you've gotten yourself into, do you?" Keeler asks through the clench of teeth around Encke's skin, through the breathlessness of the weight upon his chest. "Not a damn clue."