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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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

Now he remembers that burn. Forgotten to the years, abandoned from thought in the wake of romanticized bliss, Keeler's failed to consider the discomfort as part of this equation. But the pressing breach of digits brings the realization fresh -- right, this is unpleasant, at least initially -- though Keeler manages with little more protest than a slow breath and furrowed brow. It doesn't last, he reminds himself. Never long, once upon a time, but it's been six years, and the adjustment period is going to be a bitch. There are silent calculations, Keeler mentally gauging the stretch of his jaw around Encke's girth, hedging estimations on just how much this will suck and for how long before he can manage to abandon himself to bliss again.

"Only if you roll over without making me come," Keeler attempts the ghost of a laugh, reaffirming for perhaps the thousandth time that Encke simply doesn't grasp his humor. "But you wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

No. Because Encke is, if not tactful, at the very least considerate. He's not a selfish lover, or else he wouldn't have been the first on his knees in this room, wouldn't have torn his cock away from Keeler's wanton mouth in favor of mutually-assured pleasure. His kisses wouldn't be so sweet, so utterly fulfilling. His touch wouldn't leave Keeler sighing and daydreaming. He wouldn't be invading Keeler's fantasies down to the most depraved detail, idealized and fetishized perfection. Fuck, this is so much more than sex...

Condoms. Right. Formality before fun. Encke's hands are busy, so Keeler's cast out to find one, teeth through gold foil -- and shit, they have the fancy kind here, the ribbed-and-pointless brand Keeler used to entertain in high-brow bedrooms of the colony -- before he's reaching between his own pale legs to find Encke's cock. Rolled down over the hardness of his fighter's shaft, the motion practiced though his hands are shaking. Trembling, because despite himself, there's still anticipation, still a hint of anxiety, and he's not sure he'll shake it even when the deed is finally done.

And, not for the first time, Keeler wonders how it's come to this. How they salvaged affection and fondness and sex from what they'd been at the start.

Might as well be consorting with a virgin, for all the good six years of going desert dry've done Keeler: face flush, eyes burning, and mind enslaved by inhibitions and utterly unconvinced. A better man would stop now, take the Sleipnir's lead navi through a recital of half-baked reassurances, or a twelve year-old's tutorial of what goes where before everyone starts to notice babies don't come out.

But Encke wants Keeler more than that better man - more than any man can, and the time for sympathetic stalling sprawls like a sun-warmed cat behind them.

The white wrist's bird bones and the light twist Encke doesn't give, a warm substitute for air in the fighter's tight grip, when he takes Keeler's hand captive and presses it down over his dressed-up length. He's hot for it, underneath the lieutenant stripes, hot for a fuck and hotter for a fight, and Keeler's made a tradition of stirring him to both. Playing him on.

"I'd do a lot to you," he says, darkly earnest to a degree of antisocial sobriety. "About as much as you let me get away with."

And he would, dog on the bone, hunt declared before eyes slit and burning. There's a danger here, in a balance precariously achieved by placating, rather than annulling violent, contrary forces: one day, he'll eat up Keeler whole. Devour him, skin and marrow, cock and heart. There're ways to break a man, and fighters know them.

He doesn't look Keeler in the eye when he nudges his legs apart, takes himself in hand and finally - God damned finally - starts to ease himself in. There's no need for it. It'll be hurt and anger and bravado, and Keeler'll fray his lower lip between his teeth, before yielding a little groan and reasoning himself into the strategy of whiling this one out. Encke knows. He's spent days learning just what his navi's made of.

"...just don't leave," he says stupidly, as if it's a bargain. As if he can make up for it - for everything. Anything.

Encke's flesh is going to bear the evidence of this night. In tiny punctures of crescent moons and long dragging welts, in the swollen impression of teeth and nails, in the simple fact that -- after tonight, if he hadn't before -- he'll have Keeler undeniably under his skin. He presses himself in, and Keeler's breath seizes in his throat, refuses to release its maddening hold through the burn. Perhaps Encke hasn't memorized Keeler quite as well as he'd thought; with a knit brow and claws in the meat of his fighter's shoulder, Keeler is pressing on and down onto Encke's cock, encouraging the invasion with a silent beckoning squeeze of his thighs.

Don't leave. Keeler can't remember that ever being a concern before. All of his lovers simply assumed their place beside him and within him, supposed without asking that he would still be there in the morning. Keeler's not sure if that speaks more to Encke's own self-worth, or the tenuous faith he's instilled for Keeler. But leaving is certainly not a variable that entered into the equation. Not with Encke. He's good to Keeler. He brings Keeler his coffee in the morning, he curls up around him to keep him warm at night, he beckons Keeler back to the cabin when he's gotten too close to work thrall, and he cares. Inexplicably, unfathomably, he cares about Keeler. You don't just leave something like that.

But what does Keeler expect? After trying his damnedest to avoid Encke during their first few weeks acquainted, it's no wonder he's paranoid they'll backslide into that again.

"I won't," Keeler's voice is little more than a shaking breath, and to reinforce, he seeks out another soft kiss. "You do whatever you want to me. I won't leave."

Anything, and he means that. Anything Encke wants, and Keeler will take it happily. Pull his hair, mark him up, tie him splayed, draw and quarter him, drag him to hell and the very depths of depravity. Keeler will bear it all with a smile.

Everything's plotted, planned, a smooth operation: in a sortie, you know what you get into, you know how you're getting out, you don't leave your heart on the way. Encke's got it covered. The contrast plays out to the last notes of its swan song, weak, wane, sentimental kisses against the sly slaughter of their previous inhibitions. He's been waiting for this, jealously guarding the opportunity, spying the time and place when it's not just Keeler willing, but every last ounce of blood in Encke's own veins.

Tonight's the time, the most luxurious ship they've stepped foot on's a prime location; and suddenly, the plan's obsolete, and this - whatever the hell this is - isn't about calculated risks anymore. It's about giving deep, careful and slow thrusts, sneaking a hand between them to help Keeler out with an element of friction. Keeping them close and wrinkling their sheets.

Tension crawls up his spine, leaves behind muscles stirred to stark contours, weighed with the sheer effort of keeping himself restrained. He can't savage such a small lover, fucking won't, but there's nothing wrong with lowering Keeler beneath him and keeping him caged, because even if Encke's willing on the worst of his days to put down his head and his wage on his navi's word, he can't exercise trust on this one. Keeler's here, taking his insecurities and his cock, and Keeler's not leaving. Not tonight.

"You feel good, baby... you feel so, so good," he praises breathlessly, because sweet nothings are one-night affair standards, and he was never much good at shutting his damned mouth once it's finally open. Because he wants to. "...love that about you, love you a little. Just a little..."

But a little goes a long way, and with these things, it's a doomed downward spiral. Neither needs that reminder. As far as Encke's concerned, he'll have done a piss poor job of the fuck of his lifetime, if either of them cares within the next ten minutes.

Just a little. And that's where the real danger lies in this liaison. Not in Encke fucking him just little too hard, not in Keeler flying off the handle and flying them into a murder-suicide; in atttachment, in love. That's never been an option between the two of them, and Keeler had assumed that they were on the same goddamned page with that sentiment. And yet, the scathing reprimand -- you fucking selfish idiot, Encke -- dies on his lips the moment he realizes--

Hell, what chance did they really have? Were they going to skate by on cuddling and silent sexual tension until one or both of them died? It's not entirely realistic to expect a void of emotion when Encke is so damned sweet and Keeler is so unforgivably clueless.

Fuck it. It's not worth considering. Not right now.

The grip around Encke's cock is unyielding. Even in after the ache began to ebb, even as Keeler found solace in the wrap of Encke's hand, that tightness remains a vice. Because the contrast of their bodies was bound to drive them mad from the start, bound to have them both at odds and battling euphoria down to the last contrary thread. Because despite the passing pain, Keeler is so completely filled, and it's hard to focus past the sensation of that completeness. He rises to it, writhes with it, moves against Encke to meet him and take him deeper with each thrust. To welcome him with beckoning arms and splayed legs and a willing body that feels as if it's been constructed as an offering for Encke. They fit together. They move together. Together in near-perfect harmony, every bit as impressive as their sync and their flights.

And Keeler's smiling. Inexplicably, for no reason he can rightly place, he's smiling, and that's every bit as intoxicating as the honey-sweet mewls that betray him each time their bodies come together. A pornographic cliche from the very vision of purity, and Keeler makes it look and sound so beautifully sincere.

"Oh fuck, Encke," Keeler manages to breathe between shuddering whimpers. "You-- Fuck."

He's fucked navis before - that's no news and no surprise and, in the grander scheme of the fleet's future, no bother. They don't recruit whores and dress'em up in whites, but the general expectation is, genetically engineered human sacrifices epitomize artificial intelligence design and have a great ass, to boot. Of course they'll appeal. Of course you'll end up courting'em. And of course the likes of Encke got tested upon registration, until three independent medical wards confirmed fighter candidates were, in fact, not blind.

So, Encke can see what's before him, and he can see it's - different; it won't be 'tumbled with another navi' going in his ledger tonight, but 'slept with Keeler.' 'Had the opportunity.' 'Earned the bloody privilege.'

He can live with that, mouth finding Keeler's, hungry in thanks, damn well ravenous.

"Thought we - thought we were," and he's struggling to laugh, because Keeler's parading his pearly whites, and rule number one is, you don't leave your navi hanging, not in bridge quarters, not in a bird, and not in a bed.

...though, damn, next time (and the next time that follows the next time, and the next time after that, and all their heirloom successors), Encke's introducing a caveat: if he's not allowed to roll over before Keeler's come, then Keeler's sure as hell not allowed to put on a show. There're forty-nine different faces the Sleipnir's sweet little lead navigator can make between the sheets, lieutenant Keeler, sir, all beastly and beautiful, and Encke's committed each to memory, beside a symphony of whispered urges and sublimated moans.

It's as if Keeler's fighting pleasure sometimes - the rational acknowledgement of it, and not the carnal overture, where he's all willing courtesan happily on display, and so fucking tight and good that Encke's hissing his curses between gritting teeth, rutting into his navi and reducing it all to domination. Maybe that's the key to it, to getting Keeler to let the fuck go: steal bliss from him.

Kiss, thrust, punishment, heat - "Gonna let us hear you scream, lieutenant?" - and with a vicious stroke of Keeler's cock, grin.

"Gonna' make me scream?"

It's a challenge as much as a tease. Encke's already reduced him to whimpers and an arched writhe, how much harder will it be for him to steal himself a scream or two instead? But scream -- Keeler has always thought -- is such a misnomer. Because it's never a scream so much as it is a cry, a soft shout of encouragement, of appreciation, the exalted exclamations of a tongue too tangled in pleasure to form the proper praise. They taste sweet and pressing at the back of his throat, all but a plea in and of themselves. If they can't find release, they'll tear him apart from within; and Encke's lips are the heated grave of every blissful breath that shudders free of Keeler's lungs.

Encke's flesh yields to the press of Keeler's teeth, welts beneath the drag of his nails, and both sensations are intoxicating. Sinking through soft skin and firm muscle the likes of which Keeler can only comprehend on a theoretical level. It's equal parts attraction and jealousy. Because his heart beats faster and his face flushes hotly, and he can't say exactly why the man's physique has become such a fixation, except perhaps active admiration of that which he'll never really have.

Because he certainly won't be bodily pinning Encke to a wall any time soon, pretty decoration though he'd be.

Keeler kisses his way through half his sanity, until his breath allows for closed lips no longer. And from there, the labored gasps weave themselves into gentle cries, and the pleasure knots itself into maddening intricacies within his stomach. He won't be long for it; after six years without, he's impressed that he's made it this far, and it's so close he can practically taste it. He wants it like he wants each staggered breath, and--

"Encke, come on," Keeler pleads, his gaze the agonized picture of mercy. "Please, I'm so close--"

Pretty, perfect, pristine navi begging for cock, destitute Madonna turning tricks for fighter favours. Keeler's never looked better than this.

He plays the part as if he belongs to it, bashfully 'celibate' and soft-spoken til the covers're cast aside, with the kind of face old school church painters and veteran porno producers hold in high regard. Fuck med school: five minutes on his knees, and some senator'd pony up his card, carte blanche; ten, and Keeler'd be made for life.

Encke doesn't tell him so - doesn't, because Keeler's every bit an alley tail, paws and tail and scratches, and he'll scuttle away in hair-risen indignation no later than he's called out for it. Two words out, and he'd claw Encke's eyes off, then rub himself against his man's thigh and God damned purr.

No, there're better way to communicate, and they involve manhandling Keeler into tenuous positions, long lean legs spread so very wide, then locked tight around Encke's waist, when the fighter rams in-out; like this, there isn't a patch of Keeler's limbs that he hasn't tattooed with the print of his ownership, hot hands or hotter glances. The wet slap of skin on skin spurs him on obscenely, like the drill drum beat they sometimes play during fake marches, and if his hold on Keeler's waist tightens, if the darling, caring strokes he gives to coax the man's length along turn rough - well, who the fuck can blame Encke? Look at Keeler (Encke tries, desperately, not to, not when each move sends him to a shudder, not when he's fighting his navi's lure and himself). Fucking look at him.

"So just - " Just breathe, breathe like Encke can't - "Just... let it go, baby. Nothing... holding you back."

He's teeth-in by the time he realises he's molesting the same spot within the hour, and if Keeler'd prized his earlier restraint, he'll throw a fucking fit in the morning when he sees the kind of butchery Encke's made of the skin beneath his ear.

For the moment, Keeler is past caring. For the moment, he's riding a pleasure so high that it's utterly fractured him from the top-down. Mind and heart and core all consumed and hungry in a dichotomy of which Keeler can't hope to make sense. He's a ruin of languid shatters, sharp edges tearing through the last of his tattered resolve and drawing the blood of surrender in hopeless pools. Encke has him. God help him, Encke has him, practically caged and Keeler can't so much as brush the lock. Doesn't want to, because this--

Keeler didn't want it, told himself for so long that he couldn't have it; sex and affection and -- fuck it -- love. Why hadn't he been partnered with Encke right out of training? He could've had it that much sooner.

The completion takes him like the grip of death. His final cry comes hand-in-hand with a choked gasp, shuddering along with the rest of his rigid body. It winds him tight around Encke, around his shoulders and waist and cock, tight enough to steal breath and arrest thought. He's lost; it's written on his face -- lips parted around his death-keen, eyes squeezed shut, brow deeply knit -- all the bliss and agony of physical perfection. A warm spill across their stomachs, sullying Encke's fingers. Finished shaking, finished practically weeping, finished beneath Encke and very nearly a part of him as well.

Has he been chanting Encke's name through the shudders of his orgasm? Has he been tearing blood from his back with desperate grasping? Has he made himself as indispensable -- as essential -- to Encke, as the fighter is to him? Hell if he knows, hell if he can tell, with a ringing in his ears and his breath refusing to come steady.

Hell if he cares.

Thank everything they're not in the Sleipnir. Thank everything, because he knows the kind of duress standard furniture can take, and he's got a 98.5% certainty he'd have wrecked a bed tonight, pushing, shoving, scratching at the mattress, just like Keeler's insides wreck him, sweet tremors and undulations of pliant flesh everywhere around his body. Leeching him.

There's nothing in those final moments: no subtlety, no finesse, no romantic trigger of synchronized climax. He just knows, warm seed between them, and the rest of him privately relieved by Keeler's foresight to feud with their uniforms, that it's all right to finally follow on his navi's - his lover's cue.

"Damn," he whispers hoarsely , because military discipline's all good and well, but he commits the fucking idiocy of looking Keeler in his gorgeous face, and it's all Encke can do to spare an officer ten minutes and a tirade on public disruption when he muffles his groans in Keeler's shoulder.

Beyond that, it's all standard: you come in the man you've wanted for a month same way you come in a common whores, with the exact shallow gestures and simple mechanics. A strange emptiness scours through him, as if, having declared some kind of - fuck him - affection, this entire interlude should have been more meaningful, should've brought some kind of personal revelation with it. But then he pulls out - slowly, because he's not that fucking asshole - to cut down on at least some parting pains early, and there's white on white beside his withdrawing hand, Keeler's hair all in disarray.

And everything thaws.

Keeler's going to cuss a space storm in the morning, when he wakes up to tangles and the immediate need for a braid (sir, yessir), and Encke'll get to laugh at his fussing behind the rim of his coffee cup. The laughter he's looking forward to infects his lips even now, and he rolls over to the side of the bed, runs a hand over Keeler's arm warmly.

"Don't doze off, sweetheart." Then, those four words, "We need to talk."