That's right, Keeler, give it up and cuddle, there's a b -
"- bitch," he snarls, teeth pulled, lips thinned. The burn of the bite spreads like lightning, scrawny and crisp, fractured at its extremities. He laughs with the exhale of a breath too long held. "Son of a bitch."
Keep it up, and the first thing out of Encke's mouth when he meets Keeler's momma's gonna have to be one hell of a well-tailored apology. She might like the hear her pretty boy talk first, see her son play the fleet tough guy - and fail, miserably, whenever Keeler's sterling spoiled scion pronunciation twists cussing into caricature.
It's kind of funny how navis think they've got it in them to rouse hostilities, or - cute, Keeler; real cute - head straight for the jugular.
...or withstand strands of strain. He can feel it, the residue-turning-prominence of tension that sheaths Keeler's body, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, as breath organically tempers in response to Encke's weight. Muttering, he concedes first, turns them over again until the pale leech draining him down's nice and cosily perched atop Encke, rather than squashed beneath him. He's not letting Keeler off this quick - not, the sharp pulse of pain on his neck warns, after this stunt - but the only discomfort he wants to greet kindly in his bed involves delayed gratification and saccharine navi mewls.
Heavy fingers catch Keeler at the neck, firm and unrelenting in silent reminder, before sweetening into a caress of the white-cased scalp. "Yeah?" A chuckle. "Why don't you brief me, then, navigator. What am I dealing with?"
no subject
"- bitch," he snarls, teeth pulled, lips thinned. The burn of the bite spreads like lightning, scrawny and crisp, fractured at its extremities. He laughs with the exhale of a breath too long held. "Son of a bitch."
Keep it up, and the first thing out of Encke's mouth when he meets Keeler's momma's gonna have to be one hell of a well-tailored apology. She might like the hear her pretty boy talk first, see her son play the fleet tough guy - and fail, miserably, whenever Keeler's sterling spoiled scion pronunciation twists cussing into caricature.
It's kind of funny how navis think they've got it in them to rouse hostilities, or - cute, Keeler; real cute - head straight for the jugular.
...or withstand strands of strain. He can feel it, the residue-turning-prominence of tension that sheaths Keeler's body, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, as breath organically tempers in response to Encke's weight. Muttering, he concedes first, turns them over again until the pale leech draining him down's nice and cosily perched atop Encke, rather than squashed beneath him. He's not letting Keeler off this quick - not, the sharp pulse of pain on his neck warns, after this stunt - but the only discomfort he wants to greet kindly in his bed involves delayed gratification and saccharine navi mewls.
Heavy fingers catch Keeler at the neck, firm and unrelenting in silent reminder, before sweetening into a caress of the white-cased scalp. "Yeah?" A chuckle. "Why don't you brief me, then, navigator. What am I dealing with?"