Abstinent from objections, Keeler's like a child, or a stone, or the colossal spare engine in hangar 4D that Science Div's politely relinquished to obscurity and the custodian team stubbornly refuses to acknowledge as part of their collection dues. Sociable physical weight betrays the navigator's presence; everything else - sound, sight, scent - is absent. Perfunctory. Still.
Plain fatigue's the conventional fault in these arrangements: a good fuck takes its toll. But then, Keeler's manned a ship's tactical department for forty hours of duty without sizeable strain, and however highly Encke might want to rate the night's performance, a tumble between luxury sheets can't mete anything close to service exhaustion.
He opens his mouth to say (anything) something, but reaches the bathroom threshold, and then manoeuvring the door without upsetting Keeler's balance gives him enough of an excuse for delay. For a moment, he almost forgives himself that, single-mindedly focused on carving their path without letting the unexpected dimness blind him. The bathroom's all a cream beast, well-worked tile, if not marble, and a fragile shower of warm light that went introduced more, Encke can wager, for atmosphere than practicality. It's all so wretchedly romantic, from the discreet petal bowls and candles littered with largesse, to the inviting curves of the large bath tub on display. An altar for pathetic, desperate men to bring their borrowed whores and bill off "love", but he'll take it tonight, as he sets Keeler on the tub rim and toys with the water dials that'll draw their bath. Encke'll take it and be damn well happy.
"Always thought to hit up law school when I'm out of here," he murmurs absent-mindedly, letting fingers dip and twirl in the pooling water, as he takes inventory of the bath salts on the nearby shelf display. When he's out of the war, not if. Not in Encke's wonderland.
"Martial prosecution pays enough for the hassle." And will conveniently red carpet its entry for a retired senior officer with medals and stripes.
His hand stops briefly over the lavender infusion, tipping enough of the substance in to summon a fury of bubbles and the inevitably chemical waft. Good. Acceptable.He nods, briefly satisfied, and gives the edge of the tub the obligatory wistful pat to signal his approval. "And the first cheque's reserved for one of these beauties."
Then the pleasantries are over, a moment's peace bought at the price of practical concerns, both now depleted. Dark, dead eyes hunt down Keeler's watery glance.
His voice is butter before the knife, heated and smooth. "Should practise, if we want to break it in together."
no subject
Plain fatigue's the conventional fault in these arrangements: a good fuck takes its toll. But then, Keeler's manned a ship's tactical department for forty hours of duty without sizeable strain, and however highly Encke might want to rate the night's performance, a tumble between luxury sheets can't mete anything close to service exhaustion.
He opens his mouth to say (anything) something, but reaches the bathroom threshold, and then manoeuvring the door without upsetting Keeler's balance gives him enough of an excuse for delay. For a moment, he almost forgives himself that, single-mindedly focused on carving their path without letting the unexpected dimness blind him. The bathroom's all a cream beast, well-worked tile, if not marble, and a fragile shower of warm light that went introduced more, Encke can wager, for atmosphere than practicality. It's all so wretchedly romantic, from the discreet petal bowls and candles littered with largesse, to the inviting curves of the large bath tub on display. An altar for pathetic, desperate men to bring their borrowed whores and bill off "love", but he'll take it tonight, as he sets Keeler on the tub rim and toys with the water dials that'll draw their bath. Encke'll take it and be damn well happy.
"Always thought to hit up law school when I'm out of here," he murmurs absent-mindedly, letting fingers dip and twirl in the pooling water, as he takes inventory of the bath salts on the nearby shelf display. When he's out of the war, not if. Not in Encke's wonderland.
"Martial prosecution pays enough for the hassle." And will conveniently red carpet its entry for a retired senior officer with medals and stripes.
His hand stops briefly over the lavender infusion, tipping enough of the substance in to summon a fury of bubbles and the inevitably chemical waft. Good. Acceptable.He nods, briefly satisfied, and gives the edge of the tub the obligatory wistful pat to signal his approval. "And the first cheque's reserved for one of these beauties."
Then the pleasantries are over, a moment's peace bought at the price of practical concerns, both now depleted. Dark, dead eyes hunt down Keeler's watery glance.
His voice is butter before the knife, heated and smooth. "Should practise, if we want to break it in together."