...that backrub. That ten-minute piece of religious enlightenment, proof that God's alive and well, exercising benevolence from the tip of Keeler's clever fingers. Every muscle down Encke's spine has been crying for a wet encore ever since he last cornered his navi in their fish bowl of a shower stall.
That's enough to get a man melting, and he concedes the point to his knees, when he lazily comes down on them, the cold hit of the tiles an aggressive reminder that this is bloody marble that will be denting his skin, and his sorry ass had better not forget it. He won't. He won't forget a thing about this moment, Keeler sprawling like a galactic mermaid, some cross between the remnants of a childhood fairytale and perverted possibility. Content. Keeler, content.
"Nah. I want to look at you a little," Encke manages late, and leans to rest an arm over the tub's rim, and his heavy head upon it. Good angle, lazy vantage - and when he reaches just so, he can still kiss the curve of a shoulder, the fine line of Keeler's neck, the tip of a perked ear.
Fingers wade through water idly, sending foam Keeler's way until, finally, Encke salvages a floating sponge, lifts it within view to signal the beginning of a far overdue scrubbing.
"Just lie back and tell me how to spoil you a little." Because God knows he can't get to often enough, not with half the ship vying for Keeler's attention, and some exit port or reactor winning exclusivity.
no subject
That's enough to get a man melting, and he concedes the point to his knees, when he lazily comes down on them, the cold hit of the tiles an aggressive reminder that this is bloody marble that will be denting his skin, and his sorry ass had better not forget it. He won't. He won't forget a thing about this moment, Keeler sprawling like a galactic mermaid, some cross between the remnants of a childhood fairytale and perverted possibility. Content. Keeler, content.
"Nah. I want to look at you a little," Encke manages late, and leans to rest an arm over the tub's rim, and his heavy head upon it. Good angle, lazy vantage - and when he reaches just so, he can still kiss the curve of a shoulder, the fine line of Keeler's neck, the tip of a perked ear.
Fingers wade through water idly, sending foam Keeler's way until, finally, Encke salvages a floating sponge, lifts it within view to signal the beginning of a far overdue scrubbing.
"Just lie back and tell me how to spoil you a little." Because God knows he can't get to often enough, not with half the ship vying for Keeler's attention, and some exit port or reactor winning exclusivity.