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Keith can tell there’s something off about Lance the instant he gets a good look at him in the hangar. 

They’re fresh off a simple recon mission, both of them in fighters instead of their lions, and it had gone particularly well. Lance had perched in the rafters, sniper rifle at the ready, and murmured instructions to Keith on the ground, his voice low and calm; concentrated in a way that seems to come so much more naturally to him now. And Keith had rolled and tip-toed and flipped his way to the intel with the hot tingle of arousal building steadily behind his belly button, wondering if Lance would hear it creeping in at the edges of his 'Roger that's. They’d gotten in and out in less than a varga, unnoticed even though Keith had recklessly stopped to kiss Lance hard just before they’d climbed into their respective fighters.

“Go on, Sharpshooter,” Keith had goaded over the comms when Lance had asked about it on the flight back, “Keep talking to me.”

And, as expected, Lance had. He’d paused for just a second, hummed a little 'Wha-? Oh…' then dropped down into that smooth, focused register again. He’d spent the entire rest of the flight making absolutely filthy promises.

(This part had shocked Keith when this thing between them—this thing where they fuck and fuck and fuck and don’t feel any apparent need to talk about it—first started. There’s a stark difference between the flirting Lance does on a regular basis and the flirting he does when he means it. He drops the cheesy finger guns in favour of something lowly frenetic and relentless in its heat. He’s shameless, as always, but it’s a different kind than the puffed-chest bravado of his day-to-day. It’s obscene , the  debauchery he lets roll off his tongue like it’s nothing. And even though he’s come to expect it, it fucking does it for Keith in a way that still surprises him.)

Keith had spent the entire trip back squirming in his seat, letting out the occasional “ fuck , Lance,” through gritted teeth, readying himself to be accosted and wrecked the minute they reach the castle. So he clocks immediately that something is off when, upon landing, Lance shimmies down from his fighter and turns to Keith and tucks his messy helmet hair behind his ears (without even calling it a mullet) and kisses him quick and chaste.

There’s mischief in his blue eyes, sure—the exact kind of nasty hot mischief that’s had Keith half-hard for the past half-varga—but they don’t flicker in the direction of their rooms, or rake up and down Keith’s body so visceral he can feel it, or catch on his lips like it's a speed bump to his gaze.

They don’t do any of the things they normally do.

Instead they stay fixed on Keith’s face, a little crinkled at the sides with his smile, all warm and sweet despite the heat in his voice when he breathes, “Hey, Samurai.”

It throws Keith. He’d been expecting to be pressed up against the hull of Lance’s fighter by now, arms and mouth full of the Cuban, gasping requests for more in between assertions that they need to find somewhere more private right now. Instead, he finds himself standing dumbly, Lance’s hands cradling his jaw, those long fingers playing idly with his earlobes (an action that has no right getting him as hot as it does).

When Lance kisses him again, Keith tries to deepen it, but the red (blue?) paladin just pulls back at the first swipe of his tongue, lips curled back in a serene little smile. Keith huffs, no real anger behind it, and tries to pull Lance closer by his hips, and finds himself at even more of a loss when the other paladin actually resists instead of melting forward the way he usually does (because he loves to exploit the fact that, even though he’ll never admit it, Keith totally gets off on the fluidity of those goddamn hips).

“What, not going to keep all those promises?” Keith teases, because he’s not sure if he has the right to ask what the hell is going on given the casual dynamic of their thing.

It puts a more recognizable expression on Lance’s face. He smirks, quirks an eyebrow, glances down at Keith’s lips, and mumbles, “Don’t you worry your pretty little mullet, I’m going to keep them.” And then he kisses Keith again, and slips his tongue into his mouth, and everything would be back to normal if it weren’t for the fact that he keeps an inch between their bodies and doesn’t move his fingers from where they’re driving Keith nuts (just from playing with his fucking earlobes, Jesus Christ) and licks and massages all slow like this isn’t the hundredth time they’ve done this.

It pulls an embarrassing noise from Keith. “Lance…?” he starts when they pull apart (with a filthy, sticky noise that he swears doesn’t make just a little harder), but again Lance doesn’t let him finish. He dips down and leans in and replaces the fingers of his left hand with his tongue for one glorious moment, nibbling gently at his earlobe.

“Come on,” Lance whispers afterward, breath cool against the wetness he’s left, and starts tugging him toward the hangar doors.

Keith lets himself be led. He tails silently behind Lance, acutely aware of the way the other man has laced their fingers together instead of grabbing him by the wrist, trying his best not to blush every time Lance turns to look at him (because he keeps doing it; sending these little fleeting looks back over his shoulder, clearly aroused but also tender and open and admiring). Once, he stops altogether, but where he’d usually push Keith up against the nearest vertical surface to slot his thigh in between his legs and grind (just so , right on target so he can still feel the pressure even through their armour, making Keith weak in the fucking knees), this time he just pulls him close and keeps their fingers tangled together as he kisses him hard but doesn’t touch him with any other part of his body. When Keith tries again to push into it, to press himself closer with a little whiny noise in the back of his throat that he knows for a fact gets the Cuban’s motor running, Lance just pulls back with that crinkly-eyed smile again. Then he pulls on Keith’s hand and doesn’t stop again until they’ve made it back to his room.

As the door wooshes shut behind them, Lance turns and crowds into his space, and Keith reaches up, thinking this is finally it—this is the flashpoint between them where they combust and fall into each other so hard that all their reds and blues and blacks become purple in one abrupt supermassive explosion—but Lance catches his hands halfway. And just for a second, Keith thinks ‘oh, it’s going to be like that,’ and softens his stance, fully expecting a rough shove and an over-loud clang as the armour at his wrists meets the wall by his ears (fully expecting something vulgar like, “Stay still and wait all pretty for me while I get you ready for my cock,” in that dominant growl that Lance uses rarely, but very, very effectively). 

But Lance just presses Keith’s arms back against his sides and leaves them there, prone and useless. And he presses in closer, heedless of their chest plates grinding together and the way Keith stumbles a little because they’re not against the wall, just in the middle of the small room with various articles of Lance’s clothing and skin care products strewn about the floor. He presses in and frames Keith’s face with his hands and brushes his top lip against the other man’s, just once, and somehow the fact that he doesn’t follow it up with a kiss—just stays close and lets their breaths mingle while he slides those devious fingers back to start playing with Keith’s earlobes again—is so mindlessly intimate that Keith finds himself gasping. 

“God, you’re so...” Lance murmurs, and those deft fingers leave his ears to trail down his neck and start working at the clasp of his chest plate, and Keith never finds out what he is. “I’m going to take my time today, okay?”

“Wha-?” Keith cuts himself off with a choked groan as Lance’s tongue flits out against his bottom lip, subtle and still so fucking close. They’ve done take my time before, and it was nothing like this. It was still desperate, still undeniably carnal in its nature, even as they’d clawed at their own urges and forced themselves to slow down and savour it.

This is something else entirely.

“Wanna show you exactly what you do to me...”

Keith feels dumb with arousal. Lance hasn’t even touched him properly yet, but his head is swimming. He doesn’t know what Lance means, not really, just knows he wants it as long as it entails more of this. The wave of trust he feels is almost dizzying. He pants against Lance’s lips as the other man works diligently at his armour, bits and pieces dropping carelessly at their feet. He makes to help once, but Lance just shakes his head minutely and mumbles something like ‘No, let me…’ and Keith falls a little further down some slope inside himself that he doesn’t understand.

Eventually Keith is left in just his black bodysuit and the bits of protection below his hips, where Lance can’t reach without crouching, and finally—finally, finally, fucking finally —they’re kissing again, sordid and slow, explicitly audible. And this time it’s Lance who moans, right into Keith’s mouth, and the black paladin has never been so hard from this kind of subdued foreplay in his life.

(To be fair, he’s never experienced this kind of subdued foreplay in his life, either, so there’s that.)

Lance doesn’t pull back so much as he pulls down, trailing his lips in a series of surprisingly innocent kisses down Keith’s neck and chest, unzipping the bodysuit as he goes. He goes so slow the zipper is reduced to the individual metallic click of each tooth and the gentle, repetitive sounds of his lips. And when he gets low enough he starts working on the remaining armour, still kissing at the twitching muscles of Keith’s stomach and saying in between, “Wanna take you apart.”

By the time he’s pulling the zipper the last few inches and reaching up to help Keith wriggle out of the tight fabric of his undersuit, the black paladin is a little embarrassed at the state of himself. He’s already fully hard, curving upward toward his stomach, foreskin pulled tight, and Lance hasn’t even looked at an erogenous zone on his body beyond his fucking belly button.

“Lance, I...what…?”

His voice is small and confused, but undeniably affected. He trusts Lance, but that in itself makes something intense and intangible wriggle its way beneath his skin, stealing away his ability to think clearly.

“Just let me take care of you,” Lance whispers, breath condensing against the skin of Keith’s hip and skating down to tease almost painfully against the pulsing flesh of his cock. “Let me show you…”

He doesn’t elaborate on what it is he’s going to show Keith, and Keith forgets to ask as Lance’s tongue flicks hard against the sensitive spot right below his head. Keith moans something like ‘fu-hah-ohmygod’ and curls forward. He has nothing to lean against, so he’s forced to keep a clear enough head to make his shaking legs support his weight as Lance, true to his word, takes care of him (and then some).

Lance is always talented with his tongue, and he fucking knows it. “Bisexual blessings,” he’d gloated, unprompted and grinning the shit-eating-est of grins, the first time he’d blown Keith and crawled back up his body to where he was lying prone, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, hair matted with sweat. “Crossover techniques.” (Keith had been too out of it to offer anything but a groan and weak ‘fugoff Lance’.) He’s creative with it, flicking and pressing and circling even as he’s able to relax his throat and take Keith impressively deep. And he usually gets so into it, concentrating hard, looking up with an expression like he’s determined to make every movement better than the last. He sucks cock like it’s a competition; like he’ll be fucking pissed if it’s not the best blow job his partner has ever experienced; like he has something to prove.

This time, though, he’s almost reverent about it. He takes his time about it, taking Keith in like he needs to savour each new inch, swirling his tongue in patterns so random and drawn out they turn Keith’s moans into a series of throaty chokes. He’s focused, but not in a goal-oriented way; more like he’s studying and cataloguing every response he can get, and luxuriating in the process. 

When he replaces his mouth with his hand (still gloved, because holy fuck he hasn’t even taken off his armour yet) and leans down to lick Keith’s balls (while he jerks him with that particular twist that Keith can never quite manage on his own), Keith is forced to steady himself with trembling hands on Lance’s shoulders. His thighs are shaking ridiculously, spine curled question mark tight. “Lance, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” Lance murmurs, right against the skin he’s been licking, and Keith’s cock jumps. “You’re doing so good, so good for me, I know you can take it.” His lips stretch around the head of his dick again, and there’s a palm on his balls and a finger pressing just behind them, and Keith actually stumbles for a second before he catches himself.

“I can’t...Lance, please, it's too…”

But the red paladin (blue paladin? Who fucking cares, their purple is already seeping into the corners of Keith’s vision) doesn’t let up. Keith’s spine bends the other way, arching hard as he throws his head back, desperate for some kind of steadying force as his abs tense involuntarily, almost nauseous with pleasure he can’t fully give into. Usually the things that get Keith frenzied in bed are the same things that do it for him in everyday life: too fast, too hard, wringing him out until there’s nothing but a rush for him to ride and try to control. But Lance’s pace is almost lazy, his movements unwavering but careful, and Keith still feels like he would have blown his load already if it weren’t for the awareness needed to keep himself upright.

He can’t stop moving his hands, grabbing at Lance’s shoulders and then gripping handfuls of his hair and then patting down around his jaw, neck, spine. And he’s twitching all the while, movements jerky, making noises so uncontrolled and continuous that it sounds to his own ears like he’s crying. When the finger rubbing maddening circles into the sensitive spot behind his balls dips back and brushes over his hole, it sounds like he straight up chokes.

He’s not sure whether it’s a relief or not when Lance pulls off him and moves his hands up to rest on his hips. He stays on his knees, and when Keith has started breathing regularly enough that he can look down without fear of actually passing out, he finds a soft, almost worshipful expression on Lance’s face. His lips are a little swollen and there’s a red stain across his cheeks and a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and nose and upper lip, and he’s looking up at Keith like he hung the fucking moon.

(He doesn't know it now, but this moment will come back to haunt him until the day he dies. "When did you know you were in love with me?" Lance will ask one day, years after this. And Keith, one too many glasses of wine in, will tell him the truth, and he will never live down the fact that he fell in love at the tail end of a blowjob.)

This time, when Keith moves, Lance doesn’t stop him. He lets himself be hauled to his feet; lets Keith mash their lips together violently as he starts working at the clasps still holding Lance’s armour on. It’s fucking embarrassing how Keith can’t help the way he clings, the way he moans long and loud into the kiss, the way he’s so goddamned gone on Lance even as the Cuban holds him lightly, far too composed. When he finally gets Lance down to his bodysuit, Keith fucking keens, the newly revealed warmth intoxicating as a chaser to the unforgiving metal.

He throws one leg up around Lance’s waist without thinking, because he knows intrinsically that the other man will catch it. He grinds forward, uncaring as his dick comes dangerously close to the metal teeth of the bodysuit’s zipper, drunk on the pornographic image and feel of Lance’s hardness straining against the fabric. He’s not expecting it when Lance scoops up his other leg and hauls it up so Keith is sitting in his hands, pressed even tighter against him, and the sudden show of nonchalant strength has the half galra clutching at his shoulders with a low, “Fuck, I love it when you do that.”

Lance’s hum and smooth, “Do what?” are little more than a vibration against his clavicle.

Keith lets his fingers trace the tense divot between tricep and bicep on both Lance’s arms, relishing the fact that he can basically let all his limbs loose and Lance still holds him up without complaint. “Show me how strong you are like this.”

A chuckle, then, and a tongue against his neck, and the barest scrape of teeth. “Yeah?” Lance grips him tighter; hitches him up on his waist and pulls him closer so the very tip of that lewd outline is pressing at the bottom of Keith’s balls in an indecent promise of what’s to come. “You like being manhandled?”

“I like it when you manhandle me.” The correction comes thoughtlessly, panted around a groan. It’s not like Keith to be this verbal, and certainly not this senseless, but the minutiae of differences in their tryst this time has affected him more than he thought. He feels high on it, so far past insecurity or inhibition that he can’t remember why he ever would have cared enough to censor himself when Lance is making him feel this good.

For the first time since they landed their fighters, Lance seems surprised. Keith feels him freeze, the teeth at his chest abruptly pulling back behind soft lips. When Lance leans back far enough to look up at Keith (who’s still sitting up high enough on his waist that he can feel the tip of Lance’s cock nudging at him, Jesus fuck), he’s wearing a somewhat shocked expression, eyebrows pinched. “Yeah?” His voice is curiously even, given the blown out quality of his pupils and the slackness of his lips. “You like that it’s me?”

And Keith, just on the other side of one of the best happy-ending-less blowjobs of his life and so keyed up he can’t quite remember how to spell his own last name, no longer understands how anything can make Lance stop. “I only like when it’s you,” he admits carelessly, “It fucking has to be you.”

(It’s a truth he’s only admitted to himself once, the very first time Lance had pressed his wrists into the bed above his head and ordered, gruffly, “Keep them there,” and gone on to ride him within an inch of his life. Keith’d had partners before who’d tried similar things—one night stands whose rough hands had been too much along with their rough words, who’d been rebuffed with a snort and a quick switch of positions, a threatened Keith usually hissing something like, “In your fucking dreams.” And in the moment, Keith’s brow had furrowed, and he’d awaited the jolt of no, nope, not happening that had always come with such dominant treatment. He’d shocked himself when his only reaction had been to melt into the mattress with a downright slutty noise. He’d realized it was the trust that made the dominance hot; realized that fuck, he’d found it so goddamn hot when Lance dominated him because he fucking trusted him; realized at the exact same time that he was about to tuck all these realizations away under a few dozen more orgasms because they entailed dangerous, treacherous feelings that could very well threaten their thing.)

Lance pauses for a palpable beat, and just as Keith is about to start rutting against him, right against his fucking stomach (because it’s Lance’s  stomach, and at this point Keith thinks he could get off on anything—get off on a fucking shoulder blade—as long as it belongs to Lance), the arms holding him up start to lower. He slides down Lance’s front, drags along his cock (so close he can feel it twitch hard, even through the bodysuit), until they’re eye to eye again. They start moving toward the bed, but Keith barely notices, caught up in the way Lance is looking at him right in the eye, leaning deftly back when Keith tries to catch him in a kiss. He’s not smiling, not even particularly aroused-looking; just intense, staring and staring and staring like Keith’s a Magic Eye he’s just caught the outline of a picture in.

He’s so distracted that it’s almost a surprise when Keith’s back hits cool, rumpled sheets. And Lance just keeps staring as he rips the zipper of his body suit down with a high pitched fzzzzt and slinks out of the thing and crawls on top and cages Keith in, knees on either side of his hips, on all fours so he’s hovering a frustrating few inches away. And then his hand is on Keith’s jaw, warm and almost innocent, his thumb rubbing little abstract patterns over his cheek and up over his temple. “I…”

He licks his lips and seems to think better of whatever he’d been about to say.

“What?” Keith asks, and brings his own hands up to cup Lance’s face, even though it forces him to tuck his elbows awkwardly in. (Even though he’s pretty sure he’s never done it before; never touched the smooth skin there just to feel the odd rolling warm it sets off right below his ribs, because it's Lance's skin.)

But whatever had been on the tip of Lance’s tongue, he’s already swallowed it away. He shakes his head and lets his eyes flutter closed, and when he nuzzles into Keith’s hand like he doesn’t he notice he’s doing it, the warmth below the black paladin’s ribs shoots backward; races up his spine and out along all his nerves. “I want to be inside you,” Lance says, and the warmth practically starts vibrating. “Is that okay?”

Keith nods, and if it's a little over-zealous, well, neither of them care to comment on it.

(It’s another thing that had surprised him when their thing had started: the fact that Lance always, always stops to confirm in some way what the plan is. Keith had been so used to just figuring it out, going with the flow— oh, I guess we’re going to full on fuck and I’m the one taking it up the chuff, better bear down . Lance had been adamant, pausing without fail during every tryst to whisper, “Can I go further?” or “What are you in the mood for, chief?” or “Are you okay if I…?” and his casual concern had been strikingly endearing. It had made Keith feel considered in a way he never had before, especially on the occasions when he’d asked, a little hesitantly, if it was okay to stop or switch positions, only to be met with such nonchalant acceptance that the easy “Sure”s and “Of course”s had somehow made Lance even more attractive.)

Lance kisses him again, long and slow and unrelenting. And even though Keith keeps his hands on Lance’s face, arms mushed between them, a mirrored hand getting a little sweaty against his own cheek, it feels painfully erotic. It gets a little off-kilter as Lance reaches for the lube (unabashedly on top of the bedside table, the shameless fiend), apparently unwilling to part. His lips slide up and to the left, so Keith has to crane his neck or else tongue at the corner of his mouth, but the black paladin doesn’t mind. It’s worth it when he can take the opportunity to grab Lance more comfortably around his waist; when he can hear Lance popping the cap (and probably making a total mess of his sheets as he lubes up his fingers one-handed) and keep kissing him and keep kissing him and keep kissing him as he settles back over Keith and slips his hand down, down, down…

They part with another acute, protracted, nasty noise that twists itself into a sort of writhing version of Lance’s name in Keith’s throat.

Relax, baby,” Lance murmurs.

The huff Keith lets out in return is a little hysterical. He almost wants to let it turn into a full-on laugh; relax, Lance says, like Keith isn’t strung out on him like a fucking addict. Like he can control himself with that long, careful finger reaching inside him. Like being called a silly, sappy, stupid pet name that Keith has always cringed at with others doesn’t make his entire fucking ribcage sing.

Still, he breathes. Relaxes. Closes his eyes to gather himself and then gently bears down. Lance curses softly as his finger sinks in easier.

“Can I try something?”

It scares Keith that he has to bite down on a yes; has to take a second to actively think better of that and ask, “What is it?” (Because fuck, he’d let Lance blindfold him, at this point, and tie him up and block his ears and do whatever the fuck he wants; because he trusts him, and the acuteness of that trust is getting him higher and higher.)

Lance looks him in the eye; keeps his hand still where his index finger is still buried inside him. “I want to edge you. And then I want to see if,” he bites his lip and starts up a gentle rocking with his wrist, looking down toward where his hand has disappeared between Keith’s legs. “If you can come from just this. Just me being inside you.” 

Keith starts rocking his hips against Lance’s finger. It exacerbates the burn a little, but it’s worth it to feel the stretch; to sink a little deeper into the knowledge that Lance’s finger is inside him. “Yeah,” he breathes, “We can do that, it sounds...oh my god…”

For the first time since they hit the sheets, Lance moves quickly. He shuffles down Keith’s body (which jostles his finger deliciously), and picks his cock up with his free hand, and slides his mouth back down around it before Keith’s finished articulating the d in god.

Keith’s hands slip into Lance’s hair, and he has to concentrate to not hold too tight or pull. Then there’s a second finger, just running softly along his rim, Lance’s way of checking on him again, even with his mouth full, and the attentiveness makes Keith’s thighs shake. Lance pulls off, pumps slow with his hand, presses a kiss to Keith’s hip. “Relax.” He licks up the side of Keith’s cock with the flat of hs tongue. “Let me take care of you, baby.”

It doesn’t help Keith relax, not even a little bit, but it does make him throw his head back with a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

Lance goes about the business of opening Keith up with determined patience, and he keeps his earlier promise and then some: he takes Keith the fuck apart. He takes far too long to finally sink the second finger in, and then he doubles that time scissoring and thrusting and crooking. When he finds Keith’s prostate, he spends what feels to the black paladin like hours just rubbing these maddening circles over it, tapping it in sync with his bobbing head, finding it again when the twisting of Keith's hips has him losing it and grinding the pads of his fingers over it in long swipes. When Keith starts to get close, he pulls his mouth away; lets his dick slap back against his belly with a vaguely humourous splat.

“Another…” Keith gasps into his hand (and when had he covered his own mouth? When had the fingers of his other hand fisted into the sheets above his head where the lube had pooled earlier?) “Lance, another, I’m ready…” 

Lance grins up at him. “I know you’re ready,” he practically coos, “I know.”

He presses hard against Keith’s prostate with two fingers and swallows him down again. 

Keith’s moan verges on a shout. 

Lance waits until he’s close again to press a third finger in. It’s a dizzying sensation, the added stretch just quelling his orgasm even as the heady perception of even more of Lance inside threatens to bowl him over. He becomes distantly aware that he’s canting his hips, fucking himself down on Lance’s fingers and thrusting, uncontrolled, up bewteen his lips. And the Cuban is taking it like a champ, throat loose as he allows Keith to fuck his mouth, still exactly on target where he's pressed inside like the sharpshooter he is.

Keith feels a little bad for how roughly he grabs Lance by the hair and hauls him off his cock, but as it is, it’s a close thing. He grasps himself around the base of his dick and, with a magnificent force of will, forces his hips to still. “Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. His cock jumps in his hand—once, twice; he’s so close he’s pretty sure an errant thought about Lance’s nostril would have him spilling. “Fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck, no, no, not yet…” He arches back; grips himself so hard it hurts; tenses all the muscles in his legs and focuses on how gross and tacky drying spit is instead of how hot the mouth that put it there is.

His cock pulses one more time, a little clear bead of liquid oozing from the tip, then settles.

“Keith, holy shit…”

Lance’s voice is worshipful and wrecked.

Keith’s chest is heaving. He feels sweaty everywhere. His mouth is dry from how long he’s held it open, panting. He lets go of his dick; lets his hands flop up beside his head. He stares up at the ceiling, shaking, unable to look down at Lance because it’s just too much. “Please,” he whispers. “I want you to fuck me…” A sound Keith has to concede sounds an awful lot like a sob comes stuttering out of him when Lance pushes cruelly against that spot again, just once. “Fuck, baby, please…!”

He doesn’t register the dumb pet name until he’s said it, but he doesn’t have a chance to be embarrassed. Whatever it had done to him when Lance had said it, it seems to do the same when returned, threefold. He pulls his fingers from Keith’s body with care (Keith groans; clenches around nothing; feels gloriously debauched). “Call me that again,” he says as he climbs back up the black paladin’s body.

His stare is intense again. There’s hardly any blue left in his eyes.

And Keith would usually be shy, but there’s that trust again, filling his cranium until it feels like it’s coming out his ears. "Baby,” he murmurs.

Lance shudders forward a little, like his abs are tensing without his permission. He sighs. “Damn…” He swallows. “That’s, uh…”

The hysteria of the entire evening has Keith in a lax headspace he’s not used to. For the first time all night, he feels as though he’s got Lance at a disadvantage. “Come on, sweetheart, I want to feel you.” Keith feels around until he finds the discarded lube. The words are foreign in his mouth, but in the moment he’d try anything for Lance. “You have me so close, baby, so close, I just want to feel you fuck me…”

He drips lube all down his stomach as he reaches between them, but he doesn’t particularly care as he’s able to finally wrap his slick hand around Lance’s cock.

Shit.” Lance thrusts involuntarily. The slide is sublime. He makes a move as if to shift and reach for the bedside table, for the ridiculous amount of condoms he keeps stocked in the drawer, but Keith squeezes just so and the movement is aborted.

“Just like this,” Keith says, “I want to feel you inside me just like this, baby.”

Lance’s eyes actually roll back in his head, fluttering. He dips his head down into Keith’s shoulder, and his hips pull backward so his dick slips out of his grasp.

A fuzzy, faraway consideration makes itself known, just urgent enough to have Keith pausing, coming back to himself a little. “Is that okay?” he asks, a little hesitant. “We don’t have to if you’re not comf–”

Lance cuts him off with a hard kiss. He shifts; reaches down between them; rests his weight on one forearm braced beside Keith’s head. A blunt pressure makes itself known against Keith’s entrance.

“Hey,” Lance whispers, “Open your eyes for me.” (When had Keith even closed them?) “Stay right here with me.”

The pressure increases. The moment comes when it’s almost uncomfortable, when the danger of slipping off mounts, mounts, crests; then they find the right spot, the right angle, and Lance starts to press in. And the sick pleasure starts up, and the head pops snugly into place and Keith can’t help his little relieved gasp. It hurts a little, as is to be expected, but he sinks into the ache and savours the little ah Lance puffs out against his lips. He pauses to allow Keith to adjust, and he can feel the way Lance is hardening even further, twitching where he’s just barely started to breach Keith’s body. Keith knows how hard this part is, remembers the times when he’d damn near recited the whole alphabet backwards in his head to stop himself thrusting heedlessly into Lance. But this whole thing has been so much, and there’s no barrier between them this time, no latex sting, and Lance is shaking with the effort, and the fact that he’s still holding back to make sure Keith is okay has the man leaning up to taste that desperation first hand.

The movement causes Lance to slip in another inch. They both groan. “God, Keith, that feels amazing,” Lance pulls back to pant, face tense with concentration, eyes clenching shut only for a second before he forces them open again; forces them to stay focused on Keith and his pleasure and his comfort and goddamn it, the black paladin is so fucking gone.

“Keep going,” Keith demands softly, and shudders as Lance obliges, pushing forward slow and steady until, with an exquisite stretch and twinge, he’s fully inside.

There’s the familiar not-quite-cramp, the strain of his body fighting its natural urge to tense at the intrusion, the edge of discomfort to the fullness of it all. But Lance sighs and kisses him deep and nudges forward just a tiny bit more, as if he can somehow get even deeper, and the heady, intimate knowledge in the feel of Lance’s hips pressing up against his ass has Keith moaning with satisfaction rather than pain. And the fact that he can feel the difference in the glide, the distinct absence of a condom’s faint resistance, has him clutching at Lance’s shoulders, thighs tense around his waist.

Keith breathes Lance’s name against his lips, and rolls his hips in a miniscule little circle, and is surprised when Lance reaches down to still him with a firm grip. “Don’t move,” he says, throat tight, and buries his face into the pillow beside Keith’s head.

“Sorry,” he says after a few moments, when his hand has loosened on Keith’s hip and he’s rubbing apologetic circles into it with his thumb. “I didn’t expect it to be this intense.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Feels good to feel you bare like this.”

Lance props himself up on his forearms and meets Keith’s eyes again.

“Yeah, that’s part of it.”



Before Keith can think of a response (before he can even really process all the things Lance might mean by that; all the things Keith wants him to mean by that), Lance withdraws a little and pushes tenderly back in, and all he can say is, “Ah...La–hah!”

They’re always good at this part, at building up a rhythm together, angling their hips and compensating smoothly until they’re both gasping. But this time it’s a deep-seated, inherent syncing. Lance picks up speed slowly, and Keith wraps one leg around his waist and braces the other, knee up, against the bed to give himself leverage to push back at just the right slant, and they don’t think about it. Keith finds himself totally unaware of the movement of his own body, focused completely on the feeling of Lance above him, around him, inside him. He tilts his head back and Lance’s lips are there, biting into his neck, before he even realizes it’s what he wanted. He feels the slightest shudder in Lance’s hips, and his hands are there before he registers moving them, one grabbing at a hip and the other indulgently palming at his ass, urging him to keep going (and the Cuban stutters out a groan at the hold).

They kiss vulgar and hot, and pant hard until the air is almost too humid to breathe between them, and practically paw at each other as they rock with ever increasing fervor. Lance keeps his promise—he doesn’t touch Keith where he’s started leaking against his stomach, red and twitching, and it’s euphoric torture. A conglomeration of half-words and stunted noises pours from his mouth, and he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

His body tightens slow and steady. His hips snap up to meet Lance’s with more intention, and then his abs clench, then his thighs, arms, calves, until his whole body is wound tight and trembling. He gets quieter, even his throat tensing up, until he’s just letting out a series of taut little, “Fuck, Lance, yeah”s. It’s a totally different sensation, this pleasure emanating completely from inside himself and elevated by the carnal knowledge of everything Lance is doing to him, like his peak is being fucking battered out of him. He feels so far past any orgasm he’s ever had just by touching his dick, toeing some unknown line between too much and never enough.

And Lance, for his part, get this concentrated little divot in his forehead, eyes eventually clamping shut, mouth slackening. The realization that he’s close—and yet still holding himself back, still determined to pull all that honeyed pleasure from Keith first—hits Keith as if through molasses, sluggish and sweet.

It’s all so strong he feels a little sick with it. “I’m close,” he slurs, “Shit, baby, I’m so close…”

He notices the slight falter in Lance’s hips, but it’s not until the man groans into his ear, body practically vibrating even as he resolutely keeps thrusting, that Keith understands what’s going on.

Lance’s whole face crumples, like he’s in impeccable pain, and his breathing goes ragged and sharp, and he still doesn’t stop. He comes—comes inside Keith; bare—and doesn’t stop because he’s so fucking dead set on blowing Keith’s mind, and Keith is kind of pissed off because it’s so fucking hot that everything else, for the rest of his life, will surely pale in comparison to this.

He snaps like a rubber band as he comes. His back arches jerkily out of its curled position, and his hips threaten to cramp as they splay open, and his cock twitches so hard with the first pulse that he can feel it get caught, just for a second, on the edge of Lance’s belly button where he’s still moving above him. He writhes with his orgasm, distantly a little shocked at the come that splatters all the way up to their clavicles, and the fact that Lance’s hips finally stutter to a stop as the man groans a thin ‘Oh god’ just has Keith tensing again, nearly choking on his own moans.

“That’s it, baby,” Lance murmurs as Keith keeps shaking, orgasm stretching on into some unknown territory (a strange, quivering mixture of climax and aftershock), “Fuck, that’s it…” 

All their lines blur; the line between orgasm and not-orgasm, between fucking and not-fucking, between Keith and not-Keith. They let their trembling slow in tandem, Lance still buried deep inside, jerking every time an involuntary movement has Keith tightening around him. He seems unwilling to part any more than necessary, dragging his cheek up along Keith’s to press a messy kiss to his lips, and then dragging it back down again to catch his breath against his neck, pressing an occasional peck to the skin there. Keith lets his hands run up and down Lance’s back, heedless of the sweat and the weakness of his arms, memorizing the spots that have gone tense with years of training and battle and stress. 

“That was…”

Lance lets his voice sink into the pillow; skate along Keith’s jugular.

It’s a very particular pause.

Usually, this is the part where Lance leans back with some kind of toothy grin to wax (or wheeze, really) poetic about how “awesome” or “great” or “mind-blowing” their fucking has been. It’s the part where Keith rolls his eyes good-naturedly and slaps Lance’s hands away, his post-coital body overheating and uncomfortably damp. It’s the part where they clean up and rib each other a little and kiss again like it doesn’t mean anything that they’re hesitating in bed, and again in the bathroom, and again at the door.

This time, Lance says ‘That was…’ and trails off, and neither of them is laughing, and when Keith whispers, “Yeah. It was... yeah,” a thick, not-quite-uncomfortable silence overtakes them.

After a few minutes, they can breathe normally again. A minute after that and Lance is forced to pull out, both of them inhaling sharply at the sensation. There’s a disagreeable feeling, afterward; a feeling of pliancy mixed with liquid fullness that has Keith wincing. And yet he finds himself trying to commit the sensation to memory, almost obsessively clenching the sore muscles, entranced by everything, physical and otherwise, Lance has left in his body.

For a moment, Lance hovers, the tip of his still-wet dick dangling down to leave a silly smear at the top of Keith’s right thigh, seemingly unsure what to do next. “Keith, uh…” he starts, expression on the edge of perturbed. On the other side of arousal, his eyes are startlingly blue, the pupils back to their normal size.

They’re pretty, Keith thinks, especially peeking out from that adorable little pinched expression. He’s running his fingertips along the soft brown skin beneath the left one before he even realizes what he’s doing. This close up, he can see the minute little jump in the muscle, and he leans up to kiss it; to feel that little bounce against his lips, too. He feels himself start to blush partway through, this tired boldness at odds with his natural standoffishness, but he doesn’t stop. Somehow, he thinks, if they retreat now, whatever change is happening will be undone, and they’ll go back to the way it was before (or worse, to the way it was before that: grudging teammates with a penchant for pulling pigtails). 

“Just…” Keith swallows hard. “Please, just say it.”

“I like you,” Lance whispers, all in a rush, like it’s been resting against the roof of his mouth and all he’s had to do to let it tumble out is part his lips. “I like you, like, a lot.”

And even though Keith, on some level, has known what this evening has been about, has known what this kind of intensity means, it’s still an unambiguous relief to hear Lance say it. Underneath, there’s a relief that’s more cryptic; an unexpected jolt as a warm, fond sensation settles in his stomach: the feeling is mutual. “I like you, too,” he replies, then adds, smiling, “Like, a lot.”

Lance’s face positively blooms into a grin, so many feelings unfurling over his handsome face that it actually takes Keith aback, a little. (It really is, like, a lot.) “Yeah?” Lance asks.


Keith isn’t sure if he leans up to kiss Lance, or if it’s the other way around, but he doesn’t really care; just enjoys the unhurried nature of it. He naturally shifts over when Lance moves to lay beside him, both of them resting face-to-face, heedless of the cold come that drips down to soak into the bedspread.

“Go out with me?” Lance asks after another easy kiss.

Keith wrinkles his nose teasingly. "But I'm sticky."

"Not literally right now. In general. Go on a date with me."

"Just the one?"

"Okay, who did you knock up?"

Keith raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"With dad jokes like that you have to have kids, so who am I becoming a step-parent to?"

"Step-parent? I haven't even agreed to date you, yet."

It's impressive, really, how long Lance can stretch the e sound in Keith.

“Okay, okay, I'll go out with you," Keith laughs. "I guess.

“You guess?” Lance parrots, and his face is so radiant and relaxed and happy that Keith finds himself wanting to do all sorts of disgusting things to it, like pepper kisses all over it and wake up to it every morning. “You guess? Just you wait, Mullet, I’m going to boyfriend the hell out of you, and then we’ll see.”

“Boyfriend isn’t a verb.”

Ha, it is when I use it. I’m the most boyfriend-y boyfriend who ever boyfriend-ed.”

Keith snorts. “Lance, that's not...never mind. Why don't you just prove it, Cargo Pilot.”

Lance’s grin turns crooked and fond as he kisses Keith again. “Looking forward to it.”