startcountdown | (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."

Threaded | Flat

Keeler shakes with silent laughter, arms winding around Encke's shoulders the best they can, in the confines of his stiff-sleeved regalia coat. There's a love-hate relationship with dress blues (a designation which he's always found ironic at best, considering standard navi blues are in fact white, and reveal every secret, stain and misstep far too readily). They're heavy, they're scratchy, and they demand a level of posture control that's laughable under normal circumstances. Shoulder padding, shiny buttons, a vinyl waistbelt, and more pins than he can rightly remember the cause for. Unnecessary, superfluous, but damned if he doesn't make it look good.

"You want me to wear a skirt for you, Soldier?" Keeler grins, and laughter bubbles beneath the question. "I can find one."

A nice, tight, short skirt. Even without half a bottle of wine in him, Keeler would wear it, and those endless legs would mean surer death for Encke than a bullet to the head. Long stems and a pretty face are enough to slay any fleet boy, let alone when they're attached to a smile like Keeler's. It's a shame and a sin, and half the Proxima were acknowledging that with lecherous stares, while Keeler went clueless about his business with Encke. Only eyes for his fighter, what a sweet catch of a navi.

"There's a coffee machine in the cabin," Keeler chirps, eyes alight; sure enough the bitterness of a dark roast is sharp the air. "And little, tiny bottles of champagne."

Verdant bottles like wee soldiers, all lined up and waiting to be sampled, standing regimental beside the sleek, steaming coffee maker. Keeler had abandoned a half-savored cup before letting Encke in, and the taste of it -- black, strong -- still lingers on his tongue. Languid sweeps against Encke's lips between hurried words, amorous and fervid and needy, because--

Encke fills out his blues better than any man Keeler's seen, and it's been a chore all day to ignore that glaring fact.