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"Now, what I want to know is," he gives by way of greeting, catching hold of Keeler's lapels as soon as his navigator commits the indiscretion of allowing him entry to his private cabin, "whose cock do I gotta suck to get assigned here?"

A brow is raised incredulously, automatic doors close snap closed behind him, and Encke kisses his navi at long and at fucking last, the pleasant buzz of half of an original wine bottle transferring between their tongues, deeper from Keeler's plump lips somehow, richer and depraved.

It's hard work on a good day, shoving a gorgeous man against a plush-laden wall and abusing the inside of his tender mouth without meting misfortune on your trousers; and it's damn well unreasonable, when they're arguing against the stiff limitations of their ceremonial uniforms, and each time Encke's gloved fingers fly into precious, pale hair, they connect with the honourary decorations on Keeler's shoulders; and it's overall vile, when there're now six layers of clothing between them, rather than the far friendlier two. It's all a mess, yes, but Encke's never not risen to the occasion, and this day (night by now, he has to remember, they've whiled over eight hours in a bloody battle room) won't see him start any bad habits.

Keeler's an old one by now, aged over the three weeks since their encounter, both saving grace and poison. Their - 'relationship's still tentative, a rocky road gone occasionally paved by natural chemistry and underlying good intentions. They share a bed and a bird and the best damned sync on their plague of a ship, and physical bonds largely innocent of any overture past kissing, a choice few gropes and careful insinuation. Doesn't matter: Encke wants him. Wants Keeler weak or strong, biting or mewling, willing and committed, and with his own thoughts clear.

Wants him enough that when the summons came to rendez-vous on the luxury carrier Proxima with the fleet's elite for an intel and tactical exchange, Encke's first worry didn't go to the brass, who ever do love wasting his damned time, or to his second-in-command, who'll need a raise after covering solo for 72 hours, or to their inevitable welcome committee among their peers, who hold battle-worn Sleipnir officers in the same regard as blockbuster action heroes and mythical beasts. No, Encke groaned because after all the shuttling and the meetings and the wining and the dining, they all got the rare privilege of private quarters.

...like hell. Like hell, when half the tactical group members drooled the carrier a new humidity reservoir after looking over Keeler. As far as Encke can tell, the day's best intelligence decision involved him crowding his navi in Keeler's quarters and letting the hell of unhinged self-restraint loose after hours and hours of Spartan discipline and unmoving attention.

And food porn. He can't forget the food porn.

"Those were real peaches on the platter. And they've got women, Keeler. I saw a fucking skirt." And wide hips and a wasp's waist and a fine, fine set of - he kisses his navi again, hard, eager and definitive, leaving his silent mark. Fine set of everything, and he's got better in his arms right now. "Welcome to the Proxima, sweetheart."

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"Done talking today." Simple as that, hunting dog gnawing its bone, suckling it clean, veneer to marrow. Taking Keeler "off-market" until such a time that Encke's 'competition' no longer has the Sleipnir's rough equivalent in weight to throw around. Crown jewel piece like Keeler, you see it blemished, you think some general got there first. You leave it to its peace and start praying your career won't be paying for leers and a few choice glances.

Marking a lover's demeaning and primitive and raw and wrong - and it works. But he doesn't expect Keeler to subject himself to it willingly, not when he's swapping dignity for a questionable epidermal accessory, not when he'll be questioned, judged and assessed by every man with eyes and an opinion.

"I'll make it up to you," he gives, like empty consolation to a petulant child, dust on a flight platform. Easy words. Easier, as he leans down to latch to Keeler's mouth again and has to wonder what the hell the day's addiction to his navi is about, when he's successfully, if barely avoided getting all in-your-face and needy in the past. It's the lavishness of their surroundings, maybe, the artificial euphoria of a simulated life of daily, Earth-bound luxury.

Fuck's sake, there was golden velvet touching his knuckles when he pinned Keeler to the wall - he needs more of it, colour, if not cloth, will have to poke and prod his navi until Keeler has a belated play with the AI-maintained interior decoration of their Sleipnir quarters. They could use some colour in there.

If it were left up to Keeler right now, Encke would already have him splayed across the ridiculously-lavish bed -- pale skin against crushed cardinal velvet -- spread beneath him in a disheveled uniform half undone. But Encke's still pandering to the idea that Keeler isn't of sound mind when he asks for it, and Keeler is never in any mood to force the issue. Encke hasn't seen him absent so much a shirt since their shower stall fiasco.

But up to him? With a sigh, Keeler pushes his braid back from its eternal perch over his right shoulder. He cradles the back of Encke's head with both hands, and guides his lips up beneath the curve of his ear. It's normally hidden by his hair, a soft and secret patch of skin; but sometimes, if one were paying attention -- staring -- and if Keeler turned his head just so--

"Here," Keeler whispers; and he knows it's not the wisest plan of action, knows there's no hope of hiding it if Encke gets carried away.

But just as sure, he finds he doesn't particularly care.

"You mark me up, you better do something about it, Soldier."

It's a nice little stretch of navi real estate, small but elegant and strategically positioned so that it's constantly centre stage, whenever it deems to be seen. The kind of spot seasoned lovers don't bite into out of pleasure, but sport.

"Sir, yessir," he whispers, and lets hot breath announce his visit before following up with the tip of an idle tongue, the graze of suspiciously sharp teeth. Years and years of canteen mush have left them wanting an opportunity to blunt, but Encke likes to exercise them, the canines especially. He lets them sink now, slow, steady and impossibly disciplined in descent, until the bite threatens to break skin, and he only back-and-forths into the mark, extending its survival rate. He pulls away to survey it, pretty, inflamed red against the stark white of Keeler's ear, and Encke's pleased - truly, viscerally pleased - because whatever part of him still barters with animals has just received the gift of a lifetime.

And then he's water between Keeler's fingers, slipping away only to regroup on his knees at his navigator's feet, nonchalantly earning fast territory in his private war with Keeler's belt.

A button follows - a second - and he looks up with a cheeky grin, like a schoolboy who's just discovered his best friend forever, his right hand. "Any objections to getting blown out of your fucking mind, lieutenant Keeler, sir?"

Oh, for the love of god and all that's holy, yes. The teeth sink through his flesh, worry a deep red welt into skin like alabaster, and Keeler nearly succumbs to the sudden weakness in his knees. A hard lean against the wall to keep himself upright, shivering though he is against the onslaught of an ivory-silken mouth. Mark your territory, stake your claim; that was the order, and Encke is rising beautifully to the occasion.

And then the fighter is on his knees, working through Keeler's belt and buttons, and for all Keeler's candor, it manages to steal the breath from his throat. Any objections...? No. Not a one. Not a single goddamn thought in his pleasantly-buzzing head, save an incredulous and slightly crazed YES. Lord, yes. Fuck yes. And if this earns him the ire and scorn of an entire ship of jealous eyes and needy leers, let it. At this moment, Keeler swears he could fight tooth and nail through the very mouth of hell with a smile on his face. So long as Encke is waiting on his knees at the end of it.

"Just one," Keeler breathes, and he briefly fumbles through the pull and clasp of a vinyl waistcoat belt. "Get us both out of these damned blues first."

Because if they're doing this, they're doing it right, and Keeler decided a few weeks previous that nothing is quite as right as Encke's nudity against his own bare skin.

...like opening a self-aware Christmas present whose that whimpers and moans whenever you breach its folds. There's an erotic metaphor there, something about flesh and invasion and the act of subjugation and all the cheap social studies bullshit they shove down their throats during officer school, which ultimately amount to nothing when he has Keeler here, pretty and poised and melting in his arms with no need for literary artifice.

He laughs lowly, enjoying the enthusiasm of his navi - his, because Keeler's head just turned to attend to his belt, and Encke could please-and-thank-you spot his mark in all its red and recent glory. Good ol' Keeler, applying himself with such heart and great conviction.

They sync in all of a moment, battle ease lending bedroom finesse, and Encke finds himself lowering what cloth Keeler unties, discarding the belt, and moving on to trousers. They're thin, Keeler's twigs of thighs when they make their late appearance, too thin and due a breaking. Encke catches them between his hands, unimpressed with the fit.

"Barely put anything in that damned mouth of yours during dinner, did you." A click of the tongue, scolding. "How do you want me to fuck you, when you're all skin and bones, hmm?"

Hands slide up briefly, and he's caressing Keeler's ass again, more thin muscle than comfortable fat there too.

"Needs some padding, sweetheart. Something nice and soft to get a hold of..."

"I can put my clothing back on, if you'd prefer."

Honestly, the first time he's nude in three weeks, and all Encke can manage is a complaint. Never satisfied, even as the white trousers slip away, piece by piece revealing the pale flesh beneath; lithe legs and a cock growing harder with each brush of Encke's fingertips, trembling along with the soft wash of sensation, tingling across his nerves, raising him to gooseflesh in its wake.

"Sure you'll figure something out," Keeler's voice is a shivering staccato, catching on short gasps, quick intakes of breath that are the only things serving to steady his swimming head. "I have complete faith in you."

Complete faith. It had been slow to come, but one doesn't share a bird and a bed with someone for nearly a full month without trust taking root with a choking hold.

"Fighter," a soft gasp. "How do you want to fuck me?"

Put his clothing back o - son of a presumptuous... shooting Keeler an incredulous glance, he bites into the especially tender spot on the upper inside of his man's thigh, where the leg nearly joins its groin and neighbours Keeler's length, now prominent. A play nip, toothy and light and a shallow warning. Just you go on and dare get any of that clothing back on, Keeler. You do that.

But then Keeler's rambling, which would conscript Encke to an orgy for moans, groans and eye-rolling on the average day, but now inevitably ends up feeling - ...cute. Here he is, the prettiest, brightest, most accomplished piece in a ship of prodigies, and Keeler's falling undone before the (high) prospect of a bedroom tumble.

Briefly sentencing his navi with holding himself upright, Encke pulls back, efficiently undoing the buttons and collars and additional straps of his jacket, then advancing to his undershirt. Orders were orders, after all, and Keeler's done with the blues. Keeler's done with anything remotely resembling patience, he can tell, his kneeling spot offering just the right vantage to his lover's interest-piqued arousal.

"I was thinking of sucking you off dry," he begins causally, more to tease Keeler into his traditional fluster, than anything, "or bending you over that table -" A nod towards the rightmost corner, where a desk's on display, "and giving it to you raw, or just going back to our friend, the wall. Course, I've got a bed right here too... how's that sound? How do you want it, baby?"

It's not so much the words that have Keeler blushing, as the mental images that accompany them. In his mind, it's already like a film reel; his cock between Encke's lips, bowed over the desktop with Encke's hands in his hair, splayed sinuous across red velvet bedcovers and cradling the fighter's waist between his thighs-- His leg still throbs from the bite, and Encke's so close, Keeler can practically taste the sound of his own moans. The barest brush against his cock -- unforgivably hard and aching for attention -- sets Keeler to twitches again.

Where is his celibacy now? For that matter, why had he ever been?

But his own notions of how he wants it are so much simpler, and far more sentimental. How, where, position, act; logistics seem so much less important than the broader details. He wants his legs around Encke's naked body, wants to see the bliss on Encke's face when he comes, wants the slow burn and pressure that goes hand-in-hand with a man sunk deep inside. God forbid he speaks it, though; Keeler's been frustratingly tight-lipped with his own wants and needs, lest Encke accuse him of lying again.

"Don't have to be back until 1000," Keeler grins down at his fighter, and carefully slips a leg over Encke's shoulder, mindful of the fringe and decoration against the crook of his knee as he eases Encke closer. "Think we can manage all of the above, don't you?"

Keeler's always been an overachiever.

The greatest mark of their mutual insanity is, he's actually doing the math: 1000 show-up means 0900 wake-up, means ideally 0300 turn-in, means four hours of play-time, means an hour per round, means if Encke can't make a boy real fucking happy in sixty minutes, he should surrender his decorations here and now. There's a slowly etching on the inside of his skull, a smooth trajectory for them to follow from one assortment of tangled limbs to the next, but then, that's the fighter way: their navis say something needs done, they get it bloody well done.

"Depends," he answers late, and meets Keeler's pale eyes with the scepticism of a man who's spotted a gargantuan challenge and decided, in a rare moment of suicidal bravado, to give it a finger. "Do I get cig breaks?"

And then he's shifting, repositioning his weight to balance out Keeler's leg straddling his shoulder and lower back, expelling warm breath over the pretty little cock before him. It's obscene, how androgynous lieutenant Keeler (sir) is undeniably a man, yet he'd still have the hips and the wiles and the perverse inclination to parade about in a skirt. He chuckles a little at the mental image, rewarding Keeler's length with a few lazy, wet kisses, while he plans out how the hell to go about this.

'Sucking cock's the traditional business of navis and twinks, and so often do the two coincide that the duty's got permanent assignment. The big boys of the Sleipnir's world seldom learn to put that skill on their resumes. And before enlistment, when he'd still been Ja - before, the many women with whom he'd shared his nights and his bed had taught him a little about this kind of attendance, but all of them had unfortunately failed to bring a dildo in for alternative demonstration.

"You call the shots, Keeler," he murmurs, because it's too damned embarrassing to straight up ask a guy to direct you on how to make him come.

He doesn't know much of the theory behind this, tugging Keeler's cock down to hold it captive under a guiding hand, as he leans forward to take the tip in a drooling mouth; he just hopes he's an intuitive learner.

Celibacy does strange things to a man. The notion occurs to Keeler, about half a second before Encke graces his cock with the wet heat of his mouth, that no one's paid him this attention in well over six years. Six years of frigid showers and bitter denial, insistence that he didn't need this, that it's too distracting to bear consideration. There's some faint and palpable fear that he'll lose considerable ground over this; that all his hard-won battles had gone to his favor, owed solely to a clear mind borne of abstinence. I won't be like them, he'd promised himself. I won't bend over for a fighter. I won't reduce myself to a plaything. I won't preoccupy myself with hedonism.

But then he's between Encke's lips, and every single protest falls dead in his mind. Contrariness falls away, fades in the wake of a soft whimper as his knees buckle, and he nearly sinks under the pressure of his own weight. A skilled mouth doesn't much matter when it's around a man who hasn't known carnal pleasure since time untold. Keeler's undoing is the debauchery of his cock cradled against a burning tongue, lashing pleasure straight through to the base of his spine, failing him for common sense and reason.

And, unlike some people, Keeler's not going to complain about his good fortune.

I won't be like them, he repeats to himself, as he presses his fingertips across Encke's scalp. I won't bend over for a fighter, as he resolves to do just that, at Encke's whim and want. I won't reduce myself to a plaything, as he pushes himself deeper into the fighter's mouth. I won't preoccupy myself with hedonism, as he completely abandons himself to blissful excess.

As if it's not entirely too late already.

Easy, boy. Easy does it. Like starting up a new bird that can break your neck and end the joy ride just as smoothly as it can keep you on the saddle.

There's no art to splaying your tongue flat beneath weight, swiping and folding on the sides, licking in short strokes, taking slow breaths and slower suckle; there's no ambitions. Just sheer enjoyment, when he receives Keeler full on and lets the short twitches of his navi's body set their pace, lets everything around them translate through the filter of the unique taste of Keeler's flesh, the despicably all-seeping scent of his lover's body.

Above his hand, he can feel the sturdy presence of Keeler's pretty round balls, remembers to fondle them gratefully. Somewhere, way far beyond, there's the staggered tune of - damn, cafe jazz, and some poor fuck's going to get the reaming of his lifetime in a little bit for disturbing the brass' orgy. Meanwhile, the vent's started slipping in incense, because nothing spells bedtime for the upper class like lab-worked lavender. Small stimuli, appreciated but unnecessary, nothing compared to being this helplessly subordinate to another man, to taking his pleasure from it.

A pleasure - he aims a glance above - he can't tell whether Keeler's also enjoying, or forcing himself to fake.

He breaks away from his little debut to fold his arm beneath Keeler's thighs in a makeshift seat, nudging the navigator's other leg over his shoulders, because, You weigh less than a rag, and you and I'll be having words over it again later, and he trusts a wall and himself more with keeping a man steady than he does Keeler's own two legs.

"You're thinking too much," he says, guttural and strained, eyes bright with warmth, "You suppose your boy can't tell?"

"Not thinking," Keeler replies, his voice a little airy, a bit breathless, a hopeless lie.

But what's the alternative? Babble out his disparaging internal monologue until Encke decides -- rightfully so -- that he's not ready for this? Which is ridiculous. Ready or not, mentally prepared or not, Keeler wants this. He's wanted it for weeks, he simply wasn't expecting it to happen after a sumptuous dinner on a damned pleasure cruise. It's a harmless lie. But then, he remembers that Encke knows his tells, reads him like a book without Keeler's blessing, and not having this conversation right now can end his fun just as surely. Because Encke doesn't appreciate dishonesty, even if it's the little white lies Keeler slips to keep the peace.

"Trying not to think," he says, a little more honestly, then: "Always told myself I'd never do this. Because this is what navigators are expected to do, and I never wanted to be like them. Just wanted to-- I don't know. Have a respectful relationship with my fighter and leave it at that. And it's been a little over six years since I--"

Since he enlisted. Since he let anyone touch him like this. Since he surrendered himself to the inevitable in any capacity. Of all the control he wrests from every other aspect of their shared existence, he feels a distinct lack of it when he falls -- ready and willing -- into Encke's arms. And it's alarming, and he wants to wrestle it back immediately and call this entire affair off, but more than that he wants--

He wants the warmth. He craves the pleasure. He's been aching for Encke to touch him and take him, and yes it's a distraction. Every time he sees Encke on the bridge and in the corridors, every time the fighter flashes him a smile or a wink, every time he curls up against the man in their bed at night, it's the most beautiful distraction. And if Encke stops now, this lascivious image -- the roughness of Encke's scalp beneath his fingerpads, his pale legs draped over the dark wool of Encke's jacket, his cock sinking through unforgiving lips -- will haunt him for months to come.

"I'm just a little nervous," Keeler breathes, his tongue loathe around the admission. "But I want this. I want you."

By the end of his navigator's unfortunately timed psychoanalysis, Keeler's cock and he have become the best of friends; he never quite thought he'd enjoy it so much, trying his teeth on the side of sensitive skin, probing the tip with his tongue and teasing away droplets of dew, feeling Keeler's heartbeat through the slight pulse of a rebellious vein, so fucking blue against the corpse white and newborn pink of Keeler's everything. He does, now - does, because it's Keeler, and while his navi's no different than all the other not-boyfriends Encke's ever held in the fleet at the beginning of a courtship, this one sick, busted, contrary man's the only one who's made Encke as happy for the catch as he's been for the chase.

But then Keeler stops talking, a diatribe best summarized as, I'm broken in a million parts, but please keep me anyway, and he can't pretend he hasn't been paying attention, for all he's 'otherwise engaged.' They know better.

Abandoning his favourite toy, he lets his forehead rest on Keeler's left inner thigh for a moment, chuckles, "Six years. You've got so much catching up to do, I'll be needing my painkillers tomorrow."

Humour, innuendo, whatever breaks the ice. Then, soberly, looking up from the corner of his eyes, "Just want you to sit back and enjoy this. That's all."

Absent the use of his hands, it's like Keeler's cock and he are at war, and he's stuck deciding a strategy on how to best coax and keep it into his mouth. He goes for the simple kill, mouth tight around the length as far as it'll go without choking him - sorry, Keeler, that's an advanced lesson, and this is still 101 - dragging lips and teeth back and forth attentively.

Enjoy it. Keeler intends to, and he'd been nearly lost in the sensation of Encke's mouth until the scrape of his teeth came into play. It begs a gasp, the staggered drag of bone against flesh, and the sensation is just unpleasant enough to keep him on edge despite the accompanying thrill of Encke's tongue. He calls the shots, Encke promised; but the notion of speaking such a filthy directive--

Because Keeler knows how to suck cock. Distantly, faintly, he remembers how it's done; echoes of a hard length in his mouth, cradled against his tongue, the bitter-salt taste of cum in the back of his throat. Flush-faced and debauched, on his knees, a plea in his eyes, tears spilling over when he took the head too deep. He remembers the trial-and-error of what felt best, of lovers gently guiding him away, No baby, like this, compassionate lessons in depravity.

"Encke," Keeler smiles down at him, with a slow brush of his thumb over the fighter's cheekbone. "Open your mouth a little wider, and tuck your teeth behind your lips, like this--" A brief pause for demonstration, Keeler pursing his lips slightly. "And then they won't won't scrape."

Unless he wants them to -- to keep Keeler on his guard -- which is a distinct possibility that hasn't occurred to Keeler.

"I can show you," a shy suggestion beneath timid eyes. "If you like."

Show him. Small blessings, the weight in his mouth keeps it from souring in a snarl. Show him what? Other men's erudition in fellatio love and lore? Because you don't end up learned without a couple of well-meaning gents sharing tips, tricks and ample demonstrations, and if Keeler thinks he's being cute, parading the implicit legion of his past lovers, when Encke's keener on knocking their teeth out for touching his navi than on thanking them the trade —

Sense hits him hard and early: hey, asshole, that's unfair. The jealousy act's really, stupefyingly unfair. Life doesn't (re)start with your most recent lover, no one's coming a virgin to this marriage bed, and their only official prohibition lies honourably steadfast on chewing gum and STDs. God knows Encke's bringing his own baggage, some of it ambulant and leer-prone and still sporting a fine, fine ass in standard whites (and just how awkward it'll get when Keeler learns his fifth in-command and his fighter tumbled a few hours three months ago, Encke doesn't want to know). Right now, he can't - won't begrudge Keeler six year-old liaisons; hadn't known he'd gotten so disturbingly possessive already.

He makes a point of leaning his head against Keeler's hand, welcoming the touch in guilty overcompensation. Then he winks, letting his navi go free (mouth wide, teeth tucked). "Sure. There gonna be a test on it later?"

But he relinquishes his hold on Keeler's legs all the same, setting them down one at a time, until he (tentatively) trusts the man with holding his own weight and balance for the exact two seconds it takes Encke to nod towards the bed, eyebrows raising inquisitively. Nothing wrong with their friend, the wall here, but when you've joined the fleet, sex in a decently sized, comfortable bed is closer to 'rare' and 'exotic' than hardcore kink.

A feigned-innocent smile. "You know what I bet's real hot in one of those? Back rubs."

Keeler laughs, pure and full and beautiful: "I offer to suck your cock, and you ask for a back rub. What hell hath I wrought upon this universe?"

Feasibly being able to stand on his own two feet means very little when he actually gets there. Encke's oral attentions brought him to shaking, and relinquishing himself to artificial gravity again is a chore for which he isn't entirely prepared. He leans back against the wall, collecting his breath and himself for the span of a few staggered moments. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, he ponders the merits of shoving Encke to the ground, of making a name for himself between his fighter's legs, all spread upon the plush carpet and discarded clothing.

But the floor won't do. Not when there's a perfectly luxurious spread awaiting them, so far and away from their usual, sad little merged cot. Instead, he takes Encke's hand and coaxes him to his feet, beckoning him the one, two steps it takes them to span the distance to the bed. A bed, onto which Encke is unceremoniously shoved, with Keeler following suit in a graceful straddle across his lap. Long legs, pale thighs cradling Encke's waist, rocking uncertainly against the front of his trousers. These blues are coming off first and foremost; flattering though they are on a physique like Encke's, Keeler is fairly sure -- fairly -- that he doesn't want to answer for any unexplained stains on his uniform. Fighter blacks, bless the dark wool, may hide a good deal, but a man's seed?

Oh, and Keeler intends for this to get messy.

"Either way, gotta' get you out of these first, Soldier," Keeler murmurs, working his fingers down through golden button and belt clasp alike. "Sure we can make real good friends with the maintenance bot here, but I'd rather not make it hate us by staining your blues our first night out."

This one ego blow comes easy: cringe though Keeler might, few things can outdo the sweet, fine mercy of a back rub. Encke thinks to object on that count, to defend the inanimate dignity of his shoulders and spine - but then his navi's already manoeuvring him with typical finesse, the kind of poking and prodding and gentle coaxing that too often mask a tactician's blunt steel. He lets himself led, takes to the bed with relish, indulges, briefly, with the prospect of a timely nap exclusively designed to be God damned contrary. He should tease Keeler like that one day: get him all worked up, hot, bothered and begging, then collapse on his pillow and declare 'celibacy' (and lights out).

He should tease Keeler like Keeler's teasing him, riding his shielded groin with the experience of a veteran stripper. Cursing under his breath, Encke raises himself to sit, responding as much to his navigator's verbal prompts as he's learned to follow the physical ones. You don't get the luxury of delayed response time, of questions and answers mid-sortie - you learn to read your navi like the back of your hand, keep him just as safe.

"Sir, yessir," he agrees, then spends the better part of a minute removing dress jacket, shirt and belt without completely unstraddling Keeler. You don't do that to your well-primed lover, you don't just push him off you and on the floor, even when he's responsible for the most vicious hard-on you've had since the hormonally prodigious times of early adolescence.

A silence intimacy's spread between them, weighty and confining, a benign claustrophobia. The world's suddenly reduced to Keeler and his warm skin and his little laughs and his inefficient tugs at straps and fasteners. And Encke finds he likes it - likes catching Keeler's chin and tipping it aside, so he can lean in and leave a dry trail of short kisses worshipping his earlier mark. Nice, healthy flush on the teeth-crowned skin, rosy and staying behind a pale ear. Good.

"...got a secret, lieutenant," he confides, all maudlin murmurs and hot breath and soft sighs against Keeler's neck. "Wanna hear it?" A kiss on his boy's jaw, a ghost of it in parting. "You're pretty. Real pretty." And another. "First time I saw you, I thought, damn, look at'im." And a third, strayed towards Keeler's chin, a moment or two's investment before he looks up, eyes bright. "And now I get to hold you, and you're even prettier. Funny thing, that."

So funny, it doesn't even need the laugh, and he can just kiss his man instead - all sorted.

First time you saw me, you screamed at me, Keeler wants to remind him. Screamed, for an unexpected medical leave that he'd still been battling on arrival and yes Keeler is still bitter about that. But they're past it, supposedly; as much as one can be past a dismal first impression, because part of that may never really leave them. Perhaps they can't expect it to. Perhaps they're both working against a caste belief greater than themselves, and nothing short of death will disabuse them of these fixed notions.

There's no room for that brand of philosophy between the sheets, though. Not when Keeler's managed to free himself of his remaining bits of uniform while Encke tackled his own, not when he's nested -- wonderfully bared any offending scrap of cloth or garment -- in his fighter's lap and languishing in the exquisite attention of the man's lips. Pretty. Intelligent, witty, kind, strong; of all the traits Keeler might have valued more, Encke settles for pretty, and despite the urge to scoff, Keeler feels his face going hot. Pretty is alright. He'll settle for pretty, so long as Encke keeps on kissing him.

And in any case, that's no great secret.

"You never told me you were a romantic, Lieutenant," Keeler teased, dipping to meet Encke's lips for a few lingering, hostage kisses.

Right, Encke's all about romance. Keeler's arms around his shoulders, grinding a pert ass in slow undulations against Encke's clothed cock, a forced pacing to keep them both from throwing down and abandoning principle, and it's a bet Keeler can lose just as easily. Heart thundering in his ears and skipping in the cage of his chest, face flush and breath staggering, shivers thrilling along his body with each brush of Encke's fingers and lips, and a certainty that he's going to fall prey to Encke's every whim without a second thought. Romance. That's what this is.

"You going to fall in love with me, Soldier?"

The average brain can survive four minutes without oxygen. That means, you can live a little if your fighter's shut off from its air supply. You can live a little, if your recruitment intake's alpha wannabe plays domination wars and drowns you in the communal showers. You can live a little, if your navi's all but riding your cock and asking - questions.

He knows that much. He's learned that little. Eyes wide, muscles iced in the struggle between ire and consternation, he can't fucking breathe. He must've taken down four scouts the other day, got off later on the high, the smell of Keeler so carefully imbibed in their shower stall - and now he's on overdrive to the brink of terror, because his navi's pointed out the obvious, that a whole month of carefully dancing around each other speaks less of easy flirting and more of commitment.

"We don't talk about it," and Encke gives it like sacrament and order, braised in formality and hate and their thin implications. We don't talk about it, because you wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Encke wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because Command wouldn't like the answer. We don't talk about it, because it's ridiculous. We don't talk about it, because it's fucking true, beautiful. Possibilities. Speculations. Complications.

He ends them all with the tight, wet press of his lips on Keeler's forehead, perverse in its modesty against the backdrop of his navigator's nudity. The segue's even more obscene, just the strident, telling fall of metal teeth kissing teeth, as Encke's zipper surrenders to the cause.

"Anything I should know?" With any other partner, it'd be shy glances versus firm queries, sheepish smiles or offended pride - it'd be The Talk, the one that inevitably sees all of Encke's lovers either out the door, or reviewing the laundry list of whom they've tumbled with in the past three months and what in God's name kind of colony plague they might be carrying. Because Encke knows where the boys go on leave, and he knows the brothels they've got running there, and he damn well knows he's never trusting a Baby, I'm sure I'm clean ever again.

But that's not Keeler's problem - Keeler's more tenant than casual friend to the med ward, and no half-decent caretaker, let alone a cohort, would allow him to go around sharing STDs with the class. Keeler's problem, years since he last parlay, are the DOs and DON'Ts of in-betwixt-sheets diplomacy. What he hates in the way most pretty boys hate having their hair pulled; what he's scared stiff to try, but might give into just to keep the peace. Things Encke needs to know, so his report card can earn its EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS, rather than a compassionate SATISFACTORY.

..shit He really is falling for Keeler.

"Hmm," Keeler muses, and the pause for thought finds thin fingers creeping between their bodies.

"I grew up on a drift colony." Keeler's palm warms around the nestle of Encke's cock, fingertips pressing firm along the base's underside. "Mama's a neurosurgeon. Dad stayed home and took take of us. I have a sister named Serah. And I joined the fleet when I was 18, so that Mama wouldn't send me to med school."

Not what Encke's looking for, he knows. But as far as Keeler is concerned, if he's going to have Encke's cock in him, the fighter's going to know him. He's going to know the minute details of his colony privilege and his well-to-do family, he's going to scoff at the notions of trading private schools and a medical career for military life, he's going to judge Keeler beyond the surface of white leather and frail limbs. Even if said judgement turns out to be spoiled brat, at least Encke will know. That's a level of intimacy beyond physical, a level expressly forbidden by certain codes of fleet conduct, as if they don't flagrantly disregard it on a daily basis as is.

Years ago, in what feels now like a completely different life, behind closed doors and in the lush privacy of colony linens, Keeler learned that his mouth was his greatest bedroom forte. You wanna' make a man crazy? Get him between those lips, he'll be yours forever. Empty assurance from a man who left him the following morning, but the notion stuck with Keeler and bloomed into pride. Granted, he's six years out of practice, but there are certain things that just don't leave a man. Oral prowess comes so natural to him, it may well be divine providence; woe be the god who granted him that talent.

Kisses rain down the strong line of Encke's neck, trace the gentle rise of his collarbone and follow his sternum down the center of his chest. Fluttering lips across his stomach, the hot lance of a tongue dipped into his navel, and Keeler slips down until he's poised ready between his fighter's thighs. There's something almost taboo about holding a man's gaze when you're taking his cock in your mouth; a certain breach of the soul that never fails to bring a blush to Keeler's face. But he holds it, pale eyes locked to dark as torrid breath falls across Encke's shaft, until bit by bit he's taken in. Past tight lips and scorching tongue, past wet and heat and velvet softness, down -- unbelievably -- to the very base of him, and Keeler's throat is struggling not to rebel against the invasion.

And never once does he look away.

It's not what he asked for, not what he wanted, and not what he'd expected. But it is what makes him laugh, a discreet and well-thanked distraction from the breathtaking scenery of Keeler deciding it's time to go to town. "Med school, huh?"

His boy would've worn his whites anyway. Maybe they'd have met anyway, a hot, heavy one night affair during one of Encke's shore leaves. Except doctor Keeler'd have never spared five for an officer who has the run, but not command of his own bloody ship, and Encke would have been too earnest in his contempt of laid back upper class civs to learn the inside of Keeler's dainty scrubs.

...like he's now learning the inside of Keeler's dainty mouth. Survival's all a realist can aim for, when his navi's such a worldly boy, because Keeler must've walked half a dozen towns, and his tongue's learned the tricks in all of them. Trust this infuriating, oblivious man to make Encke feel more painfully inadequate about his performance than every school, task and military master he's taken in his life.

He has to laugh again, hoarse and a little strained; it's what keeps him from whimpering like a third rate alley whore.

"Back rub's still better than... fuck." And then it's just that, shallow thuds, Encke's head sliding blissfully back and past his shoulders, heavy blinks and weighty moans. He can feel himself, heavy and so fucking constricted, the beat of his pulse echoing in the muscles of Keeler's welcoming throat. It can't be easy, lithe little man growing a snake's maw, but evolution and his navigator's sheer, inexhaustible will both see Encke swallowed up whole.

The difference in their proportion's too damned unreasonable for this kind of ego play, and he finds himself with his hands in Keeler's hair and undoing his braid, sobbing and pleading like a weak and will-wanting thing, because that's just the kind of puddle his lover's reduced him to. There his neural synapses go. Splat, when he opens his eyes to the sight in front of him.

"Baby, come on, don't. You don't have to - got no need to - " Have to what? Have to - he can't fucking think past laboured breaths and finally getting to tread his fingers through Keeler's irresistibly long hair. "Don't you do that."

You wanna' make a man crazy? Mission fucking accomplished; Encke can hardly string two thoughts together in a halfway-coherent manner, and that's a rousing success as far as Keeler is concerned. No back rub is better than this. Very few things are better than this: filthy purity between Encke's legs and a mouth like sin so tight around his cock it's like the grip of death. Even if he can't endure having the fighter down his throat for long, he works the man's cock with pornographic abandon, riches to the gutter in one long sweep of his tongue.

There's no shame in this. Keeler comes to that realization with fingernails biting into Encke's thighs. This doesn't bring him down so much as bring him into perspective. An obscene grace, depicted too perfectly in the perfection of sweeping strokes. Encke tells him don't, and all Keeler hears is encouragement. A plea for more, divinity on the fighter's lips, and Keeler can no sooner stop than cease breath and life. Like Encke's cock is a thread of life, and he's clinging to it with every ounce of the impulsivity he'd withheld through the past six long years.

It's simple enough to wonder why, easy to disregard his own thoughts and morals in the heat of the moment. Because maybe he'll regret this later. Maybe he can't see the sky for the stars. Maybe he's gone too far to forgive himself. Fuck it. Encke's gasping and staggering his pleas and pushing desperate fingers through Keeler's hair, and Keeler's never felt more wanted. Giving pleasure, bringing a man to the edge of his sanity, forcing him to stare madness in the face through tongue lashes and heated strokes; is there anything more satisfying than that?

And it has Keeler so hard, he's practically aching.

"You don't want me to stop," Keeler pauses long enough to chide Encke, with a sly grin and sharp eyes. "You want me to swallow your cock until you can't even breathe anymore."

That's it. That's just it. That's top of the line on his wish list, number one with a trivial edit - get them an audience. Get Keeler on his bony knees before him, darling mouth opening up wide, while Encke slides in real slow, and all the fucking brass enjoys the view they'll never own on order, cash or credit. Get Keeler out of right and reach, completely and unfailingly possessed, past dibs, due and manipulation. Get Keeler off the market, 'look, don't touch' status and no more private worries that the next man who boards the ship could wave around his dick and enough weight to spirit a precious navi face away on 'indefinite transfer leave.'

But that's not tonight's priority. Shouldn't be.

"Mmmmm... that what I want?" he drawls out, rolling each sound over with a heavy tongue, barely remembering spoken words and meaning. Keeler's a prodigy, every performance virtuoso, and if Encke minds that he's been outplayed, game, set and match, it's only because one day he'll have to extend a challenge demonstration to the four-six hours he'd really appreciate for... scientific purposes. Note-taking. Sure. They should go on leave at one point - seven days of artificial sun bliss, colony wanders and Keeler's exertions. Encke can live with that thought. Encke might not live past that reality, but he can live with the thought.

Body limp and strange, he contorts until he's thwarting a few laws of physics and many of common sense, all in the noble service of tipping Keeler's chin up and away from his groin, of sweeping in for the killl of a kiss, light and airy. Slow. Just enough to circumvent humiliation and stymie early climax. To appreciate the aftertaste of man and brew. The room amenities. Right.

"I like my coffee with more sugar," he murmurs with an expectant rise of his brows, as if Keeler should know and correspond, as if every decision of what enters the navi's tempting mouth should be in preparation of it being ravaged.

He smirks at that, finally starting to pull away, move.

"What I want, lieutenant, is you running recon on just how soft this bed is, while your boy does some looting." Lube. Condoms. Paraphernalia. Accessories to his inevitable murder at Keeler's hands and lips. He'll be damned if an orgy madhouse like the Proxima's not packed to the brim with them, but every prize needs digging.

Lay back and relax. As if Keeler is capable of that. As if Keeler isn't comprised entirely of neuroticism and eagerness in the guise of strategy. Contingencies for contingencies, backups for fallbacks, a mind running five times faster than his heart can process. He's lead navigator of the largest warship in the galaxy, and there's a reason for that distinction. It sure as hell doesn't have to do with relaxing.

Your boy. Keeler has to catch his breath every time those words trip Encke's lips. It hadn't born consideration before, when everything about this tentative romance felt so hopelessly tenuous. It wasn't worth teasing himself, giving himself a chance, when there was no possibility of--

Of this. Of his arms and legs wrapped tight around Encke, cradling the fighter in his embrace as he brings their lips together. Hungry, slow, biting and intense, and Keeler cursed Encke -- cursed himself -- for the day this started. Because it's never felt like this. He's never wanted it so keenly, never felt such need for any of the myriad lovers he'd taken on the colony. It's dangerous on more levels than the risk to their professionalism. It's fatal.

Encke has developed a sense for Keeler's tells; he'll anticipate the movement before it even happens, shift with the lean of Keeler's body as he brings them down to the bed. He's given his rightful place over Keeler, who spreads himself back across the crushed velvet and memory foam and--

And melts.

"Oh hell, Encke," Keeler breathes through a sigh. "It's like-- Like a goddamn cloud. Changed my mind. No fucking. We're going to sleep. Is that depraved enough for you?"

Days on days on weeks of suspended passion, Keeler winding him up like a tight spring, the most decadent décor he's ever had on deployment, fucking finally a good portion of the - domestic supplies stashed discreetly by the headboard —

...and now his navi wants a nap.

He thinks, if he searches neither long, nor far, he'll find a military court willing to pardon murder on a defence of blue balled emotional distress.

Just point the martial jury towards a picture of Keeler with his puckered lips in that sultry pout uniquely dedicated to the few early rounds when Encke and he share a morning, and Keeler wants his coffee, and Gosh, darn, the cup's just so far away, and the bed's so warm, and Encke likes himself a walk anyway, doesn't he? Kiss-kiss.

Or shots of Keeler on bridge, high on his authority, eyes a little burning and cheeks running a flush, as he leans in over the command deck, and all Encke wants is to push him down and take him over.

Or a causal footage of Keeler smoothing down imperceptible wrinkles in blinding-white velcro that moulds to his lean shape almost obscenely, touching it carefully, touching himself for good, long minutes with innocent abandon.

"I think I'm going to fuck you til you're hoarse now," Encke concludes matter-of-factly, eyebrow vaguely twitching at the God-damned nerve, because if he's not getting his backrub, Keeler's sure as hell not earning a luxury reprieve. And then they're kissing again, heartbreaking and simmered, clouds brewing up to storm. Blind fussing's a bit of a bitch, but the tube in hand concedes: he manages, through an effort of more will and perseverance than romantic ease, to slip wet fingers beneath Keeler's thighs and fleshy rump, tease open his navi's entrance.

Suddenly, everything's getting a little - real. He peers, frowning lightly, to catch a good look of Keeler's pretty face. "Gonna cuss me out in the morning?"