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startcountdown2014-04-09 06:59 pm
youfallinline) wrote in startcountdown2014-04-09 06:59 pm
(no subject)
"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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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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--"
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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.
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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.
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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."
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But then, We need to talk. And Keeler groans internally, resists the temptation to roll his eyes. Because immediately, his mind engages the high anxiety, abandons lucidity for apprehension. Praise doesn't come in the guise of We need to talk; there are a million things that could come out of Encke's mouth right now, and a vast majority of them will leave him hurting. He can hear them on Encke's lips already. We can't fall in love; which Keeler knows, even if it's already too late. Or, Ground rules: no talking to other boys, which is as ridiculous a command as the notion it accompanies. Or, We can't let this interfere with our work; when it's going to -- in a thousand tiny, incomprehensible ways -- whether they strive for a disconnect or not.
Deep breath, and Keeler shifts again, eases himself back enough that he can meet Encke's eyes, and looking every bit the child about to be chastised. Because what else could this possibly be?
"Mm," Keeler offers as an invitation to proceed, then: "How are you even capable of thinking after that? Starting to think you worry more than I do."
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He sighs, gently grasping the back of Keeler's neck as he might've a kitten's nape, gripping and letting go in a lethargic massage. This conversation needs patience, relaxation, all the foreign elements that contradict the navigator M.O perfectly and completely. "Look... Keeler. The big bad boys tonight and all their dinner talk, the base they wanna plant in enemy territory. That's probably the Sleipnir."
Because nothing's bigger, sturdier, better, and as warships go, they're in the Cadillac of space slaughterhouses. And if the Forces That Be decide, this is it, this is what we're sending out, this is the last ground and we're standing it here - it'll be either the honour roll or suicide for everyone on board.
"When they ask who's volunteering, I've been thinking, I'm... I'm all right. Staying on. I'm good. It'd mean a whole lotta pay, couple more stripes. Could use that on the discharge file." He pauses, because all that bullshit takes gumption to spew, and he's running out of steam; running out of half-lies; just running out. "And it'd get you on that transplant list."
That transplant list, the one Keeler should've headed years ago, where excellence and genius and a well-packed punch of personal charm can't buy a beautiful tin boy his heart. But rank might. Need - the need to keep Keeler alive and well and operational for a fucking desperate measure sure as hell would.
Encke's done the math, and it's worth it - well worth staying on board for a ship that might be sinking half-way through sail for that.
He notices belatedly that his hand's stilled over Keeler's neck; he resumes the motion, because gods spare the man who forgets to pet his cat or his navi, then aims for nonchalance. "So, omy end, I'm - yeah. But, you've... you've got your doctor momma and your family and... we've got two more days on this ship. Don't want to hear nothing from you til they're done, but think it over. Then let me know, and I'll let... some other folks know. Yeah?"
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But it carries a different weight for Encke. It's not as simple as duty, or the frankly suicidal belief that location doesn't matter when death is imminent. He's putting himself on the cross for Keeler's sake, in a play for rank and the privilege that went along with it. Perhaps lieutenant doesn't warrant a new heart, but commander? Captain? Admiral? Perhaps that does. For all his staggering intelligence, Keeler hasn't considered the possibility that his rank could mean the difference between impossible and probable.
And that Encke is willing to march into almost-certain death, that he claims it's for Keeler's benefit-- It's hard enough wrapping his head around the scenario without considering the implications of that.
Hope is painful, and Keeler hasn't allowed himself to feel it in so long. Because there's only ever been disappointment, gentle let-downs that always felt like the end of the world; because even with a neurosurgeon for a mother and more battle accolades under his belt than most of their veteran military, Keeler still hasn't earned himself that distinguished place and that sacred promise. That the medical community will try for him, because he's worth it, rather than simply allowing him to waste away into nothingness and obscurity and a nerve-wracking painful death. A life of fear, of near-constant anxiety--
Could there really be a future without that worry?
"I never figured that leaving the Sleipnir was an option," Keeler muses despite Encke's warning, and a smile tugs at one corner of his lips as he casts eyes downward. "There's nothing to think over, Soldier. My place is at your side, and we have a duty to the warmachine."
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"Give it two days, Keeler," Encke manages with a groan, eyes threatening to roll out of their sockets when his navi follows what appears to be a natural instinct for sheer and utter contradiction.
A choice few insults go lost, muttered in the air as Encke stretches to reach the bed table and fish blindly for a few rounds, before emerging triumphant with a fistful of complimentary chocolate thins. Here, the Proxima flaunts its resources - where economically-sensitive hospitality would have the bedside sweets individually packaged to weather delay until service, the damned ship's got enough treats and hands to delegate that fully exposed chocolates can go replaced every six hours. The ever weary guest needn't even bother with opening the seals. Fucking hell.
Encke smiles wanly at it - the sheer obscenity of it all - and waves the candy before Keeler nonchalantly. "Second thing is, I'm putting a few pounds on you." Eight or ten would make a modest ideal, but knowing Keeler, he'll settle for a few. "Not negotiable. You get some meat on, or I'm submitting you to the med ward myself."
And he would, by everything, he'd drag Keeler by the collar and drop him off with the head doctor on call without worry or waver. His good ol' navi might pull rank to arrange a discreet discharge under normal circumstances, but they've got equal weight to throw, and Encke's qualms about snitching to the brass on this are few and far between. He'd sooner not - there are lines, and then lines, and he can't cross that Rubicon without sacrificing Keeler's cooperation on simple, petty things for many months to come; but Encke'd do it and call the deed well done, if that's the only way to see his navi finally registering on a fucking scale.
Because Keeler's so thin. He's so thin and so frail and so uniquely placed to invite breaking that Encke'd do it with his own two hands, if he can't harden him.
"Barely touched dinner," he scolds with a light frown, dropping a chocolate square to knock at Keeler's lower lip expectantly. "You like me shoving things down your throat that much?"
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So he'll try. For Encke's peace of mind, if nothing else, he'll try. Teeth scrape at Encke's fingertips as Keeler accepts the offered chocolate, and he sighs as he allows it a moment to rest on his tongue. There's an edge of warning to Encke's tone, and Keeler hasn't quite decided whether or not that's to do with some deeper question of control. And again, Keeler is struck with the notion that if Encke's trying to exercise some battle of domination over Keeler, he's selected the wrong opponent. On an interpersonal level, there isn't much Keeler could care about less.
Of course, it could be genuine concern for his safety and health, and that possibility is more baffling still.
In any case, med ward admission isn't a threat Keeler weighs lightly. With a dour frown, he snatches another chocolate from Encke after the first, and offers an edgy glare as he nibbles the corner of it.
"'course I do, Daddy," and at that, Keeler's tongue peeks out to catch a bit of stray cocoa from his lips. "Much as you love shoving them, I'd wager."
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I don't fuck children, he doesn't need to say, all hard frowns and two flexible fingers, invading Keeler's mouth to slip in the crumbles of chocolate shell, and press down that slithering snake's tongue before it can hiss away more venom. He's a vicious little bitch when he wants to be, this slip of nothing of a navi is, cross Encke's heart. All of them are. Give them an opening, just one, and the maze of a mind the average navigator's pretending to work for the fleet's common good will focus urgently on taking down all your defences. Using them against you. Using you against yourself.
Their glances lock for a second - timed, lived along with the solid beat of Encke's choked breathing - and then he withdraws both digits, happily returned to feeding Keeler his midnight snack with the oblivious disregard favoured by gods and cowards.
"You've got no idea," he says lightly, as if he's not reviewing just the shade of red Keeler's sweet, pale ass would ripen into, if he were thrown over Encke's knee and given its belated beating. It'd teach Keeler not to take this, his fighter's concern, his own fucking health, one and ten percent seriously. It'd teach him good.
But a bloody argument isn't how their first night together should end, no spiting due, no spite and no anger.
A sigh, subdued.
"I'll cook for you, now and then, if you've got a thing against the menu," he offers tentatively, because there'll be no breaking him from the gossip mill's maw, if word back on the Sleipnir gets around that the ship's lead fighter's so damned whipped, he's putting on an apron and cutting contraband deals to get his ass in the kitchen for his navigator.
His eyebrows draw up, apprehensive. "What do you like?"
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Let alone the depressing fact that Keeler isn't even sure what dishes he prefers anymore. He's lived on nutrition bars and protein blends and plain rice for so long, even the Sleipnir's regular hot menu comes as something of a treat. Whatever is fastest and easiest to consume in his office between drills, or midway through whatever tech spec blueprints he's pouring himself into on that particular evening.
"You don't have to do that," Keeler demurs, and it comes with the sudden realization that Encke really is far better than he deserves. "I'll... start joining you in the mess hall, I think. Get myself on a schedule. That'll help, right?"
There's silence for a moment, thoughtful, and Keeler savors off half his chocolate in its midst.
"...I used to like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches," he murmurs, at some length. "With sliced bananas and honey. And that rainbow cereal they sold back on the colonies. They stopped making it when we were ten. Do you remember it?"
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-- damn. Encke'll have to investigate that battle plan one day. Not today, though. Today, this is good. Warm. Intimate. Keeler's a soft weight in his arms, wonderfully susceptible to the taunts and teases of Encke's tickling fingers, when they slip down to hook over the dismissed covers and drag them over them both. The temperature and filter and ventilation are set up to what Encke's come to identify as the Proxima standard in languish, but you can never trust a draft, not with Keeler's low immunity at stake.
They'll work on that. A schedule, snacks, the additional mouthful: anything will help the cause of upgrading Keeler from glorified skeleton to at least starving runway supermodel proportions. Even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And the... rainbow cereal Encke's supposed to have befriended.
"Sure," he agrees casually, lazy half-smile coming out to play; no point in serving Keeler the realpolitik reminder that outlier colonies get the crumbs of luxury goods and exotic imports, where the spoiled scion of a neurosurgeon's house was probably privy to the cream of an overpriced crop. The only damned rainbow-toned tidbit Encke's ever put in his mouth was a set of psychedelic condoms, and he's never wandering in that run-down satellite ring brothel again.
Gave bloody good head, though.
Almost as good as -
His voice melts, all smooth butter and feigned disinterest. "And how'd a nice surgeon's boy get so good at holding all them other things in his pretty little mouth?"
Because natural talent and intuitive ease still don't amount to the kind of lethal skill Keeler's tongue and teeth work in the bedroom - not without a story to tell.
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The only answer he can provide is a soft blush and a bashful shrug, downturned eyes and the urge to hide his face against the crook of Encke's neck. No sense in playing coy when Encke had enjoyed the fruits of it firsthand, but there's still an element of shame in it, no matter how enjoyable the result.
"I went to prep school. All boys." Keeler says, at some length, and almost too quietly to be heard. "You pick up a few things."
Or more than a few. There's ample opportunity for self-improvement when you're the prep school bicycle. Though there's something to be said for the mental image of a young Keeler in khakis and blazers, on his knees in a locker room, bent over a dormitory desk-- The best of the best in secondary education, and Keeler spent a vast majority of it between the sheets. His picture's coming clearer now; why a privileged doctor's son thought himself more suited to military life than med school.
Drift colony private school slut is probably the cliched past Encke expects of a navigator anyway.
"Worked out for you, though. Didn't it?" Keeler asks with a wry grin, fully expecting an eyeroll either way
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Like how to welcome it up the ass real nice, sobs swallowed after you take a bruising. How to bleed without letting your agony become someone else's problem. How to answer gropes and tooth loss with 'please' and 'thank you's. How to lose yourself.
Still, the last hour saw no mental blocks Encke could discern, no kicks and screams, no resigned whimpers; and a quick mental review of one of the better hours in Encke's sweet, sweet life reveals nothing in Keeler's demeanour to suggest scarring hardship. Maybe posh places get the subtle abusers. And maybe somehow, this lovely, sheer gift of a human being coasted through. Just maybe. Encke can work with ugly odds.
And he can work up Keeler while he's at it, aiming a tragically afflicted glance his navigator's way and sighing with aplomb. "...was all right. You know." His shrug unsettles the thick covers, raises them half an inch. "Nothing special. Maybe if you'd have worn that skirt."
That skirt, nice and red, the perfect pop of ruthless colour against Keeler's unforgiving pallor. Encke's thinking of just the one.
He nods to urge Keeler on: lullaby time, big boys need the full story. "And then you joined the fleet, and no one tried to get you - interested?"
Look at Keeler. This sweet, fucking gorgeous morsel, just calling for a mean old bloke to sweep in for a bite. Look at him. Unless Keeler's whole string of exes stands a regiment of blind fighters, unless every navi who's shared a battle school class or dorm room with him swore a vow of chastity, unless every God damned superior officer considered the path of virtue - unless all the world's exceptions somehow applied at once, someone must've tried to tumble Keeler in his bed.
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What makes Encke different? What makes him the exception to the general rule? Even after weeks of castigating himself over it, Keeler hasn't reached a satisfactory conclusion.
But there's comfort in Encke's arms, rare happiness in the wake of their sardonic exchanges. Keeler's fingertips trace the wave of Encke's collar bone and then down, to idly trail between the hard cut of muscles that are far more distracting than they've any right to be, and for the first time in years, Keeler feels content. Comfortable, warm, at ease and unconcerned. No small feat, considering his tendency toward anxiety. Perhaps that contentment -- that happiness -- is the only reason he needs.
"That kind of thing didn't really matter to me, after I joined." Keeler murmurs, and then -- without warning -- delivers Encke a sharp bite to his shoulder. "But if it's just all right, I can go back to celibacy. If you'd prefer."
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That won't do, now.
That won't do at all.
No, no. Encke hisses - who the hell wouldn't - then he plots revenge. He's lessoned under the best of them on this, withstood the conjugal comedy of his mother's wayward pet cat, which, in its silver age, was joined by a pup. The dog bore through hostilities, took it all in play, loved his best friend for fucking ever, the grumpiest feline that ever did live. Hell, the stupid mutt would even wag his tail for more, after all the clawing. And then the inevitable happened: the dog upgraded from palm-size to rhinoceros proportions, and where Encke had cast his silent calls that he'd slaughter next time so much as one claw peered his way, dear Fido had a better solution to end the conflict.
He still loved the cat, you see. So, whenever it'd try to bit, or snap, or raised so much as a paw, the dog wouldn't oppress, wouldn't chase, wouldn't even bark.
...he'd sit on her. Lay most, but not all of his weight, and pin her down, til the bloody cat's temper waned and gave way to the inevitable surrender. You don't mess with something twice your size, after all.
Maybe Keeler needs that reminder of casual jungle rules; obligingly, Encke wraps his arms around the navi's twig of a waist,, then slowly rolls both of them over, until he's got Keeler beneath him again, defenceless and immobile.
"Now, what?" he teases lightly, eyebrow arched in slightly condescending rise.
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But Encke fails to see the inherent flaw in his own plan. The way -- stretched out over Keeler as he is -- that he's opened himself up at the neck for a bruised retribution. Because Keeler's more viper than cat, and the sooner Encke learns that, the better off he'll be. Unlike that cat, Keeler doesn't shy. Rather, his arms and legs all wind long and warm around Encke's weight, and he buries his face in the crook of the fighter's neck. Vengeful teeth find the tender flesh there, bearing down to precursor a quiet growl and a firm drag. No aim to bruise, but no aim to abstain from such either.
Vindictive little bitch of a navigator, despite all efforts to the contrary. And Encke deserves every taunt and tease that's delivered him.
"No idea what you've gotten yourself into, do you?" Keeler asks through the clench of teeth around Encke's skin, through the breathlessness of the weight upon his chest. "Not a damn clue."
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"- bitch," he snarls, teeth pulled, lips thinned. The burn of the bite spreads like lightning, scrawny and crisp, fractured at its extremities. He laughs with the exhale of a breath too long held. "Son of a bitch."
Keep it up, and the first thing out of Encke's mouth when he meets Keeler's momma's gonna have to be one hell of a well-tailored apology. She might like the hear her pretty boy talk first, see her son play the fleet tough guy - and fail, miserably, whenever Keeler's sterling spoiled scion pronunciation twists cussing into caricature.
It's kind of funny how navis think they've got it in them to rouse hostilities, or - cute, Keeler; real cute - head straight for the jugular.
...or withstand strands of strain. He can feel it, the residue-turning-prominence of tension that sheaths Keeler's body, the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, as breath organically tempers in response to Encke's weight. Muttering, he concedes first, turns them over again until the pale leech draining him down's nice and cosily perched atop Encke, rather than squashed beneath him. He's not letting Keeler off this quick - not, the sharp pulse of pain on his neck warns, after this stunt - but the only discomfort he wants to greet kindly in his bed involves delayed gratification and saccharine navi mewls.
Heavy fingers catch Keeler at the neck, firm and unrelenting in silent reminder, before sweetening into a caress of the white-cased scalp. "Yeah?" A chuckle. "Why don't you brief me, then, navigator. What am I dealing with?"
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That, as far as Keeler is concerned, should be explanation enough. You're dealing with him. You're dealing with the prodigal son of the navigators, the cream of the bloodstained, war-mongering crop. You're dealing with the alpha of the omegas. You're dealing with a man who can take apart a fragile mind just as easily as he disassembles a maintenance bot, and that in and of itself should be terrifying. But Encke doesn't seem to have a healthy respect for anything, far less the inherent strength of the man in his arms. A healthy respect would require him to recognize the inherent danger with which he's fallen to bed, and he's unwilling to give Keeler even the most doubtful of benefits.
But it's fine. As far as Keeler's concerned, he can go on believing his navigator's helpless. It'll make his moment of realization that much more keen.
"Did I bruise you?" Keeler mocks a pout, faux empathy, and leans down over Encke's shoulder to kiss away the lingering wetness from his own mouth. "I'm sorry, baby. Maybe you should be more careful where you bare your throat."
Keeler's hands stray once more, smoothing across Encke's chest, tracing his muscles in a manner almost pious. It doesn't occur to him that statement could be taken metaphorically. He's not about to break Encke's mind, though perhaps he's doing a fine enough job of that without even trying.
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It's hot and cold, fresh and old.
This whole face-heel turning's getting old, Keeler lashing out as if he hates himself when he's around something good. As if he hates Encke for trying to give it.
"...yeah," he says emptily, stupidly, more to fill the silence than contribute to whatever storm's brewing inside Keeler's pretty little head. 'Bare his throat'. Give him a break. Give this whole damned thing a break.
There's stiffness when he starts bringing himself up to sit, more in his neck; he dispels it with a quick rub, then passes the back of his hand over his cheek, knuckles strong against his eye.
"Should... should head out." To his cabin, where they had bloody well better had been just as generous with the mini-bar stocking. "Need a shower."
And a cigarette.
And a few seconds to breathe.
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But they've just finished. But Encke's slept in the same bed with Keeler for the past few weeks. But Encke's warm and comfortable and -- by this point -- familiar enough to lull Keeler to sleep when nothing else can. But Encke had promised a night of utter debauchery that he's tapping out of in the first round. But Keeler wants him to stay, and why the fuck would he leave?
Keeler stares. Words of protest die in his throat, and Encke can veritably see the walls reconstructing themselves behind his eyes. It was a joke. It was a fucking joke, and Encke is shoving his way out of bed. If Keeler threw this sort of tantrum every time Encke poked fun at him, they'd be back to separate bunks and a forcibly polar schedule. Perhaps they would be anyway, after tonight. Every inch of separation is a brick, every word out of Encke's mouth is mortar, and stockades are far too easy for Keeler to construct.
Conquest. Even Keeler's own mind is accusatory. That's it. That's the only explanation that makes any goddamned sense. Three weeks of a feigned relationship seems an awful lot of trouble to go through, particularly for something that -- with his rank and his body -- Encke could have gotten anywhere. But perhaps that wasn't what Encke was after. Perhaps this was all some power play on the fighter's part; a game of domination and mastery. Perhaps ripping Keeler's heart out was merely the insult to the injury.
And just like that, it was all a mistake from the start.
Keeler swallows hard and offers a smile, leans up to press another kiss to Encke's shoulder. Fine. If that's what he wants, if he needs to believe he's won -- he conquered -- then so be it. Keeler isn't going to feed into this ego struggle any more than he already has. There are a million little tasks setting themselves into place now; how to separate himself again, how to physically and emotionally distance himself without damaging their professional relationship, how to ensure it doesn't happen in the future. It starts now, with Keeler pulling the blankets over his shoulder, and rolling onto his side with his back to Encke.
"Alright," the acceptance is easy and even. "Sleep well."
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