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Okay, technically it’s not illegal.

It’s not exactly legal, but it’s not illegal.

That doesn’t make sense, but like, it totally makes sense.

The arena is an old, abandoned roller rink that used to host birthday parties in the eighties. The electricity is a little faulty, and several things have died under the bleachers, but it’s all they’ve got.

It’s a small town. Not much happens here. Well, anything of interest, really.

So when night comes, they crawl out of their suburban homes and drive five miles out of the city, towards a ghost town, out in the desert. They grab their booze and their weed and they fill in by the numbers, revving up the old generator, the teams rolling in by the dozens.

Now, roller derby isn’t illegal. It’s a real sport, played by real athletes. 

But out here? Oh ho.

The rules are fake, and the points definitely matter.


 

Lance pulls back the strap, and cracks the kneepad to his leg with a loud snap.

The room smells like alcohol and sweat. They’re halfway through the game, and Lance already has blood running down his arms from that nasty fall.

Ah well, the life of a jammer.

He looks across to the red team – those fuckers, who stole their victory three weeks ago.

The reds are stupid strong, and wicked fast, and raw, unadulterated evil.

Well, they’re actually okay people, but their jammer.

Fuck their jammer, both figuratively, and literally.

Keith is a little shorter than him, but is so fucking fast. He never pulls his hair back – just lets it stick to his face as he sweats. He’s all muscle and reflexes, and he’s Lance’s sworn enemy.

He’s hot as fuck, basically, but that’s beside the point. He’s evil, and Lance is gonna’ take him down.

“Alright.” Pidge pinches the bridge of their nose, “We’re down by five, thanks to Lance.”

“I fell!” Lance cries, “On my face! You know how much I value my face.”

“Is your face connected to your feet?”

“N-No-“

“Then you can keep going.” Pidge lectures, and Hunk laughs behind his hand. Lance crosses his arms, and pouts.

“So, what’s the plan then?” A blue member asks.

“I want a wall thicker than Maria,” Pidge says, hands on their hips, “And I want Hunk to whip Lance so fast, if he falls he’ll score points.”

A few team members snort, and Lance flips them off.

Aye aye, captain.”

Lance pats Hunk on the shoulder, and rises to his feet, back popping.

“Come on, Hunk. Let’s whip it like Devo.”


 

Roller derby is essentially a simple concept.

Each team gets one jammer, and five blockers. For every opposite team member the jammer laps,  their team gets a point. So, in that case, it’s the blocker’s job to help their jammer, and hinder the other.

Now, usually there’s rules. Like, no contact by hands, feet, head, elbows – no hitting above the shoulders, or under the thigh-

But ha. Out here, it’s every man for himself.

Lance wipes the blood off his lip, and eyes the enemy jammer.

Keith is already skating towards the jammer line. He leans down to adjust a kneepad, the other hand being kept to his side. His finger is broken. Lance knows, because he’s the one who broke it.

Lance skates up next to him, and secures a nasty smirk.

“How’s that finger holdin’ up, baby boy?”

“Stop that.” Keith wipes his face, with a growl, “We’re the same age, you fucktard.”

“Wow, what rude language.” Lance scoffs, and watches his team take their positions. “Mad ‘cause you lost your jerkin’ off hand?”

“You’re talking a lot of shit, for a loser.” Keith retorts, leaning down to press his hands on his knees. The bent over position really stretches the fabric around his ass, and Lance doesn’t bother hiding his stare.

“Yeah, well, not for long.” Lance grins, and takes the position too.

There’s the first whistle- Lance can’t help but sneak a look; Keith puts in his teeth guard and glares forwards, eyes narrowed into something sexy and focused. Lance grins, and puts in his guard.

The whistle blows, and they skate as fast as their feet can take them.

The crowd is a loud, rumbling mess behind them, drinks in the air, curses being thrown. Lance watches Keith take off, aiming to break through the pack, and make his first jam.

But Hunk directs the wall, and Keith is met with resistance, and an elbow to the side. Lance tries to skate his way through, but a red blocker goes for his shins- it’s fucking Shiro, of all people, strong and swift as hell. Lance stumbles over his skates, but picks up the pace, ignoring Pidge’s shrill yells from across the rink.

Fucking go! Go!

All he can see is Keith’s ass – but Lance calls to his team, and the wall opens, Lance making a break for it.

Hunk grabs him by the arm, and whips him, sending him rushing around the swell of the rink.

Coran, the snarky bastard of an announcer, grins from the middle of the rink, “Aaaand there goes your blue jammer! The reds sure did go for the throat, but your blue team isn’t givin’ up just yet!”

There’s the sounds of kneepads hitting the floor, but Lance can’t risk a look to see if it was his team or not. He skates hard and fast-

“Aaand Keith takes down a blue! What a strong jammer, this bastard is.”

Shit, shit.

Lance looks over his shoulder, and immediately looks back, ignoring the burn in his muscles. Alright, alright. Time to show what he can do.

He uses his long legs to his advantage, approaching the end of the pack, eyes immediately looking for openings.

“Ohh! Lance goes in for a jam- but the reds aren’t just known for their offense!”

Goddammit, that’s true too. A few red members shift and slide, blocking his way, stopping his jam. Lance grinds his teeth against the guard and goes to slide past Shiro, but-

There’s an elbow shoved in his face, and Lance yelps at the sting. He sees just enough to know it was fucking Keith, of all people. Keith smirks, and Lance’s body burns from his head, to his toes.

Keith goes in to pass Hunk – but god bless Hunk, because he slams his bodyweight into Keith so hard, he rolls off his feet.

And the red jammer is down! The red jammer is down!” Coran shouts, “It looks like the blue is gonna’ go for it!”

Shut up Coran, god, shut up.

Lance sees a leg go out to trip him, but he swerves through the pack, one, two, three-

He’s out!”

“Yeah!!!” Pidge yells, hand slapping against the railing. “Fuck yeah!”

Lance lets out a breathy laugh, and looks up to the scoreboard.

25 to 25.

He looks back across the rink. Shiro is there, helping Keith up to his feet.

Damn, his face looks pretty fucked up. A swollen jaw and a bloody lip – good. Serves the bastard right.

Lance’s own face aches, but he makes a point to smile big and wide, right at Keith.

He sees Keith spit out his teeth guard, and physically growl from across the rink.

Ha- Ha. You may be hot, but Lance is hotter.


 

Their team actually wins for once. Not by much, but a win is a win.

Hunk picks Lance up, twirls him around, gives him a drink and shouts his name.

The crowd is a mess of drunk teenagers and drunker adults. Lance rubs his swollen elbow, but takes the shot, and grins.

“Great job Lance.” Pidge slaps him on the back, “You won me some great dough there.”

“You bet on us?”

“Yeap.” Pidge grabs a beer, and grins.

“Hey.” Hunk points out, “At least Pidge didn’t bet against us this time.”

“True. We oughta’ go celebrate, yo.”

“Dude, we have school tomorrow.” Hunk whines, “Finals are this week, and we’re so close to senior year.”

“Fuck finals!” Lance shouts, loud enough for the crowd behind them to parrot Fuck! Finals! Fuck! Finals!

Lance gestures to the crowd with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smirk, but is only met by Hunk's exasperated sigh.

The rest of the team chats to each other excitedly, clinking drinks, celebrating their win.

“Oh hey.” Pidge gestures, “Lance’s boyfriend is coming over.”

Lance looks up, in surprise, to see Keith slowly skating his way over, hand still cradled to his side.

“We’re not dating.” Lance spits, turning his head. 

“Right, right. His super gay crush. Sorry.”

“I don’t like him!” Lance sputters, ripping off his elbow pads with a hiss, “He smells like vodka and his shorts are way too tight.”

“You act like that’s a bad thing.”

“Yeah, I wish you two would just fuck already.”

“Shut up!” Lance shoves at them, trying not to smile. Fuckin’ hell, he hates that Hunk and Pidge can read him like a book.

“Hey,” Keith says, with a half wave – and Hunk and Pidge scatter like rats.

Traitors.

He’s forced to look at Keith, and nod, “Yo,” tongue sticking to the back of his gums.

“Um.” Keith blinks, and extends his uninjured hand, “Good game.”

“How unlike you,” Lance grins, and shakes his hand. “GG.”

“I’ll get you back.” Keith says, eyes narrowed into dark swirls of hot, attractive fire.

Lance squeezes his hand, and leans in close enough to whisper, with a smile, “Over my dead body.”

Keith opens his mouth to say something else- probably something stupid because Keith is a big doodoo head- but there’s the sickening sound of sirens.

Cops.

“Fuck!” Pidge shouts first, turning to the stadium full of people.

“Shit.”  Lance parrots, and pulls his hand back. There’s this single moment of silence, the calm before the storm, before the room explodes in chaos.

“Scatter!” Pidge shouts to the team, running with Hunk at their side, “Go! Go!”

There’s a shove at his back, bodies all around him, everyone rushing for the door. Bodies push, and pull, vaulting over bars, jumping down the stadium seats. Lance feels hot panic sweep down his body. He’s just under 21, fuck, fuck! Fuck!

His team is gone, his friends moving and jostling with the crowd.

His feet won’t move.

Lance can’t go to jail. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t-

A hand grasps his.

Lance whips his head around hysterically, and looks right into Keith’s spitfire eyes.

“With me!” is all Lance hears, before he’s being pulled in the opposite direction.

They’re still in their skates, but Keith grips his hand hard, and yanks him away, out the back doors, and down an old abandoned hallway.

“What!?”  Lance shrieks, and frantically tries to rip out of his grip, “Keith! Everyone is going the other way!”

“We’ll get caught!” Keith hisses, and skates faster. The hallways are dark, electricity only being powered to the main rink. There’s debris that clutters the floor, and a few water damaged walls that are sunken in. Some lights hang low, out of their sockets, and Lance nearly trips over a wire.

“L-Lets pick a room and hide!”

“No.” Keith grinds, “They’ll check the perimeter. We’ll hide in the storm drain.”

“Dude, that’s dangerous.”

“Are you drunk?”

“A…A little.”

“Then it’s better than being arrested.” Keith says, and that’s that.

Keith kicks down a rotten door with his skates, and Lance tries not to think about how hot that is.


 

They’re tucked in a round, cement overhang. It’s quiet, except for the occasional drip from the drain. If Lance listens hard enough, he can still hear the sirens, and occasional yelling.

His body burns from the game. He slowly undoes his skates, flexing his toes in the darkness.

He looks up at Keith.

Keith.

His rival.

The guy he just beat in the rink.

He had no reason to save his ass. But Keith did anyways.

“How’d you know about this place?” Lance asks, because he can’t help it.

“Shush!”

“You shush!”

“I’ve hid here before.” Keith says, in a whisper.

Lance smirks, “Oh? Is Keith a little bad boy?”

“Fuck off.” Keith growls, and Lance raises his hands in surrender.

Lance slips off his other skate, and breathes out a shaky breath. He wants to leave. Go home. Find his phone and call his team. He sure as fuck hopes they didn’t find Hunk- Pidge is fine, but Hunk has no idea how to handle the slammer. Shit. Shit.

“They’ll be fine.” Keith suddenly says, with no explanation.

“W-What?”

“You’re worried about your team, right?” Keith mumbles. “It’s written all over your face.”

Well, yes.

“They’ll be fine, I’m sure.” Keith mutters, and leans his head up against the cement wall.

Lance worries his lip, kneads his thumb into his left palm, and sighs. It’s probably…time to grow up.

“Keith…um.” He lowers his voice more, “Uh, thanks.”

“Huh?”

“For grabbing me.” Lance lets out a half laugh, “I was in shock. You really do have some good reflexes.”

“Did you hit your head?” Keith suddenly asks, eyebrows pushing together. Lance can barely make out the lines of his jaw, and his wily hair.

“No.” Lance grins, “But you certainly did. You okay?”

Keith swallows, “Yeah.”

Lance looks to where he shifts, still in his skates. Fuck, his hand must hurt so bad.

“Hold on.” Lance says, suddenly, and waddles over to his side of the drain. It hasn’t rained in a long time here, thank goodness, because Lance hates getting his socks wet.

Lance slumps next to him, and leans down to unlace his red skates.

“H-Hey.” Keith stammers, “What are you-“

“Skates suck.” Lance mumbles, “Like, really suck. I dunno’ about you, but I hate blisters.”

“I can do that myself.” Keith huffs.

“Yeah, with that hand?” Lance unties his right skate, and yanks it off in one swoop. “Right.”

Keith closes his mouth, and lets Lance undo his other skate. They get tossed next to Lances, slumping over, red and blue.

Keith’s shoulders are full of tension, but Lance relaxes back against the cement, and breathes out a sigh. They’re close enough that their shoulders barely touch, the only sense of warmth here in the drain.

The red member tucks his gloved hand into his lap, and whispers, “This is weird.”

“Our stupid rivalry is weird.”

“Right. That too.”

It grows silent. The police lights are still flickering against the backs of the trees, so they wait.

How did he even get here? Lance had a good life. A decent time in highschool, and OK college experience so far-

But Pidge had approached him one day; saw him skateboarding to class and said hey, you’re pretty fast on that thing.

It’s interesting, the turns life takes. The fact that Lance would be a part of an underground roller derby team. Interesting, that he’s got scars on scars, where before he never broke a bone. Interesting, at how much he’s grown. He’s still tall, still skinny, but more confident, maybe. Less of the fake confidence – more of the real shit.

There’s an owl that coos somewhere. Lance doesn’t wanna’ think about all the creepy crawlies he’s probably sitting on. His head hurts a little, from the Jaeger, and the injury. His lip is swelling up already. He can feel the blood drying on his elbows.

Keith breaks the silence.

“You know I think you’re hot, right?”

Lance blanches.

“Excuse me?”

“Like, a lot. A lot hot.” Keith says, like that makes sense.

“Are you fuckin’ drunk?” Lance jolts up, actually scaring Keith into shying away from him.

“Sorry, I-“

You’re hot as fuck.” Lance blurts, “And wicked fast.”

Keith stares, eyes rounded into saucers. He gapes, “I thought you hated me.”

“I hate you because you’re hot.” Lance says, like it’s obvious.

“Because I’m…?”

“And especially in that uniform.”  Lance sighs, pulling up his legs, and resting his forehead against his knees. “Why is your ass so round? It defies all laws of Ass-ology.”

“When you get beat up,” Keith blurts, “I get so fucking turned on, it’s awful. Like, the bruises just cover you like paint and fuck, a couple weeks ago when you got that bloody nose I almost lost it-

Lance is a little bit drunk, a little adrenaline heavy, a lot exhausted, but he’s so sure of his actions, when he reaches over and grips Keith by the front of his shirt, forcing their bruised lips together so hard it hurts.

Damn, it really does hurt, but it’s good. It’s so, so good.  

He isn’t sure what Lance expected out of the kiss- but he should’ve anticipated how hot Keith is, in the physical sense. He just seems to burn, so warm and fiery, kissing Lance strong and deep and without any hesitation.

Their heads bob with the first break, but push back together without question, hands drawing up into hair and shirts and limbs tangling together. Keith keeps his injured hand out of the way, but his other cradles Lance by the back of his neck and makes the kiss deeper, wetter, really sloppy and literally perfect.

Lance feels his lip split back open, and then Keith’s. Fuck, Lance has never had a bloody kiss, but it shouldn’t be this hot.

Lance moans at the sting more than anything, but Keith lets out a breathy little noise, and Lance feels himself burn alive.

The woop woop of police cars driving away grounds them. They pop apart, eyes blinking, breath mixing together.

There’s silence. The drip of the drain.

And then Lance laughs, burrowing his head into Keith’s bruised shoulder, feeling Keith giggle too.


 

That morning, when he's finally home, Lance traces over his bruised lip, time and time again. His heart squeezes, his body full of adrenaline. 

His phone burns a hole in his pocket. His neck throbs, from where Keith had touched him. So, so gently. 

And Lance falls.


 

They kinda’ start dating, okay?  

It’s weird at first. Like, Keith has literally given Lance several concussions. Lance has sent Keith to the hospital.

But they end up sharing milkshakes on the weekend. Lance grabs his hand one day, and Keith holds it like it’s something to lose.

Their first date is at Lance’s apartment – Hunk’s eyebrows disappear behind his bangs, but he leaves them be, to makeout on the couch and watch shitty romcoms.

Keith is dense. A little uptight. Really sexy, and kinda’ funny. Unfortunately, he isn’t just a pretty face – Keith’s personality blossoms in time, and Lance finds himself smiling so much, his face hurts.

You’d think it’d be weird. They were rivals for so long- but, it kinda’ feels natural. Like, their long talks over the stars in the sky, their fights over derby strategies, the wrestling off couches, and the late night drinks.

They sit in the only Denny’s in town. The waitress is this mean older lady with a crooked tooth and a lazy eye that everyone knows as Denise. The Denny’s is a little run down, but the only thing better than McDonalds, and cheaper than Olive Garden.

Lance looks across the table – he studies Keith in all that he is, soft skin, unkept hair, sharp eyes and strong shoulders. He sure is a beauty, even with the remnant of a bruise on his cheek.

Lance swirls the straw in his milkshake. He knows he’s been talking a lot, but Keith has listened to everything – laughed, at some parts, barked at others, but has listened.

That’s uh, not usually the case.

He’s used to it- the eye rolls and the shut up Lance.

Keith is good to him.

Lance draws a figure eight in the chocolate, and says, “So I gotta’ ask…”

Keith looks up, from where he was previously occupied, hooking his ankle around Lance’s from under the table. “Hm?”

“You’re an astronomy major, right?”

“Yeah?”

“So why roller derby?” Lance takes a sip, and runs the toe of his shoe up Keith’s calf.

Keith blinks, “Do you really wanna’ know?”

“Yeah.” Lance says, seriously, “I do.”

Keith hesitates, and looks down to where his pancakes sit, half eaten. He shrugs, “Er, Shiro scouted me out. As my TA.”

“Why?”

“I have a high tolerance to pain.” Keith says, blunt, like the end of a knife. “I was doing a lot of stupid shit. Shiro caught me cliff jumping my bike, and thought I was on a suicide mission.”

Lance’s throat runs dry, “Oh.”

Keith shrugs, and plays with his fork absent mindedly, “I didn’t really have that high of a respect for myself anyways.”

Lance sputters. He draws his foot back to trap Keith’s leg with both his ankles, frowning, “That’s stupid. You’re awesome.”

Keith, finally, breaks out into a smile. He’s got one dimple that shows when he bares his teeth, and his eyes sparkle a little around the irises. He shakes his head, “I just didn’t care, I guess.”

“You care now?”

“Yeah.” Keith turns serious, “Yeah.”

Lance nudges his foot against Keith’s, “Good.”

Denise refills Keith’s orange juice. For a moment, they get lost in the football game playing on T.V. Their ankles stay locked together like that, stupidly sappy, hidden in their small corner.

But Keith breaks the soft silence, and asks, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why’d you join the blues?”

“Cause.” Lance grins, “I like to have fun.”


 

It’s three in the morning. With finals over, and summer here, only the nights are cool enough to keep a shirt on and not sweat to death.

Lance stands outside Keith’s apartment. Lance can see his window from here.

The fucker won’t answer his calls, so.

He picks up a small rock from the ground beneath his feet, and chucks it at the window. He misses, and hits the wall, but his second throw taps the glass.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

He picks up another pebble, and tosses it. It bounces off again – but the window flies open, a disheveled Keith looking down at him.

His sleepy eyes widen, and he barks, “Lance!”

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel.” Lance half whispers, and extends an arm, “Let down your mullet.”

Keith’s eyes narrow into a glare. He leans out the window and hisses, “Moron! What are you doing here?”

“Wow, rude.” Lance fakes a hurt expression, “I just came here to kiss my cute boyfriend, and this is the thanks I get?”

As Keith wakes up, his expression softens. He looks down at Lance with apathetic exasperation, before he closes the window, and appears a minute later, half dressed.


 

Lance tightens his arms around Keith’s middle and sighs. The desert wind is cool, the stars bright and shiny above their heads.

Lance can feel the swollen bruise in Keith’s side. He knows, because he put that there. He has one to match, on his left hip, where Keith butt bumped him hard enough to send him flying.

Damn Keith and his ass of steel.

Keith drives the motorcycle with a refined skill that Lance just doesn’t have. He’s focused, goggles on, driving down the empty two-lane highway.

Lance holds on, breathes in, feels the wind rustle his clothes and smiles.

“You’re super sexy.” Lance says, against Keith’s ear, and feels Keith’s body grow warm.

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Lance mouths, “I saw your game last week.”

Keith turns his head, their helmets clacking together, “You did?”

“Mmm.” Lance presses his nose into the back of Keith’s neck, “When you punched that guy in the face, I almost came in my pants.”

Keith revs the engine incredibly loud, and Lance laughs, watching his neck physically turn red.

Shut up! I’m trying to drive.”

“Make me.”

“Oh, I’ll make you alright,” Keith growls against the wind, “you’ll shut up real fast, when we crash into an oncoming car and die.”

Lance rolls his eyes, but closes his mouth, and goes back to tracing small circles on Keith’s stomach. The desert is a dark blue under the moon. The stars continue to shine.

Lance thought he’d have to pull the romantic side of the relationship; he just assumed Keith would be that guy. It was fine. Lance was prepared-

But Keith pulls the bike off the side of the road, and turns around to cradle his face in his hands – kisses him, under the stars, and proves Lance wrong once again.


 

They still play hard.

Lance gets a lecture from Pidge; if you go soft on him out there, I’ll kick your ass.

But it’s all cool. There’s ten teams in their prefecture – they play the red lions like, once a month, and oh ho, they definitely don’t go easy on each other.

Its great couples counseling. 

Today, actually, marks their one-month anniversary. One month since Keith and Lance kissed in the storm drain. Since the cops showed up and ruined the party.  

Lance eyes Keith from across the rink, and winks. Keith shoots him a half-assed glare, and flips him off.

The score is actually in their favor – an easy 35 to 25. They’re totally set to win, but Lance isn’t gonna’ go easy.

They line up on the jammer line; Coran babbles on mic, and Pidge yells commands from the bench.

“Hey baby.” Lance grins, and takes the starting position, “Don’t cry too hard tonight, aight?”

“Oh ho.” Keith smirks, and leans on his bruised knees. “It’s so on.”

The whistle blows, and they take off.

Keith, of course, skates like a bullet. Lance can’t help the teeny tiny bit of pride, thinkin’ hell yeah, that’s mine.

There’s elbows and feet, wheels against the floor and rough jabs. The red team won’t let up, but the blue team doesn’t stop either. The block is a madhouse, fighting desperately against each other. Keith and Lance both struggle to pass it, nudging each other, and their defense.

The crowd roars and cheers, violent shouting and rowdy curses. Alcohol sloshes out of solo cops and bottles – they haven’t learned their lesson, but that’s the beautiful thing about youth.

Hunk shoves a red member off the rink, and Lance takes the opportunity to fly-

But Keith sweeps his feet out from underneath him, jabs him in the nose and sends him rolling.  

Lance sees stars, and he goes down hard.

God fucking dammit.


 

They lose. Lance ends up passing the jammer star to someone else, benching himself to nurse his bloody nose, and his swollen ankle. Dammit, that hurt like hell.

They’re a little disappointed – but in all honesty, they played their best. They’re not quite out of the bracket yet. They still have next week’s game to make it up.

Lance pulls the icepack away from his nose, and grimaces at the blood. He’s gotta’ start taking it easy here, or he’s going to run out of blood soon.

A body sits down next to him, and pats his shoulder.

“Doin’ okay?” Hunk asks.

“Yeah bro.” Lance winces, “Hurts though.”

“Damn, I’m sure.”

“I think I’m gonna’ go to the bathroom.” Lance eyes the icepack.

Hunk nods, “Do you want us to wait for you?”

“Nah. You guys can go home.” Lance pats his leg, “I’ll probably hitch a ride to Keith’s place tonight.”

“Cool.” Hunk stands, “Stay safe, kids.”

Lance rolls his eyes, and waves him off, waddling into the bathroom. He limps over some debris, and bangs the door open.

The restrooms are fucking disgusting – nobody uses them anymore, considering how run down they are – but the water still works, which is really all Lance needs.

He washes the blood off his face, and leans off his bad leg. Damn, Keith is fucking strong. That shouldn’t be as big of a turn on, but, what’s a gay to do.

Speak of the devil; the door creaks open, and shuts, light flooding in from the crack in the roof.

Lance nods, “Hey.”

He doesn’t get a response. Instead, hands twist in his jersey, and slam him up against the metal door, forcing his sore head to bang loudly.

“Shit!”

“Dammit, Lance.” Keith growls, suddenly, against his lips, kissing and licking away all the blood. “Dammit, dammit.”

Lance gasps out of pain, but his body melts, soppy, like water in Keith’s hands. Keith holds him there, strong, and kisses him, kisses him- sweeps him away, burns him.

“Are you hard?” Lance asks, against his lips, “Because you gave me a bloody nose?”

Yes.

“Fuck.” Lance’s eyes roll back, and his body folds. Keith grips him from underneath his thighs, and hauls him up, folding into the hands that curl in his hair.

“Mmnn-“ Lance purrs, into the kiss, “Dammit, that’s h-nnhot-“

Keith doesn’t grace him with a response; he just sucks his soul through his tongue, forces spit past his lips, slurps back and breathes hard through his nose. Lance’s ankle aches against Keith’s back, but he’s so used to the bruises, to the scrapes, to the blood, that it feels good.

It’s rushed, and fast, but everything is suddenly boiling, all because of Keith.

“Mm,” He breathes, writhing in his arms, pulling his hair, deepening the kiss. “Keith~”

“Sorry.” Keith presses, “About hurting you.”

“Remember-hah, when I jabbed you so hard you broke a rib?”

“Mm, yes.”

Lance licks across his lower lip, and purrs, “We’re even.”

The grip on his thighs is bruising, but it makes Lance’s body flush liquid hot. His spandex shorts don’t do much to hide how hard he’s getting, but it’s not like Keith cares.

Keith grinds close enough to make Lance keen into the kiss, and Keith pants out a soft moan.

“This is gross.” Keith suddenly mumbles, with they break to breathe.

Lance pants – tips his head back and groans when teeth bite into his neck. Arousal washes from his neck, down his chest and between his thighs.

“Hah, grosser than the storm drain?”

“Probably.” Keith nips, and watches as the hickey forms before his eyes.

“Our first time won’t be in a bathroom.” Lance decides, no matter how much it hurts to say.

“You need a car so we can fuck in it.”

Not in a car either.”

“Fine.” Keith breathes, “But I can do this.”

He grinds Lance against his abdomen, and Lance’s filter dissipates into nothing.

Keith makes him come in his shorts, like he’s fifteen.

But Lance jams his palm between Keith’s legs, and repays the favor.


 

Lance stands in front of his floor length mirror, and towels off his body. The steam from the shower slightly fogs the glass, but it’s still enough for Lance to see the damage.

There’s a scar over his hip, across his forearm and under his ear. He’s got bruises on his knees, and his elbows. They’re round and purple and horribly ugly.

He’s not sure what Keith goes on about – they don’t look like paint, they look like bruises, but whatever, Keith is weird.

Lance smooths a hand down his chest, and toward his hip, where a flower of a bruise forms. It’s blue and purple, the darkest one he has.

He trails up his body, and smooths his fingers over the small, bite sized bruises on his collarbones.  

Funny enough, over half of the marks he’s got are from Keith. His boyfriend is totally a biter, and Lance shouldn’t have to tell you why that’s a turn on.

The teeth marks on his neck aren’t even hidden. Keith couldn’t give less of a fuck; Lance looks like such a whore, walking into the derby with a necklace of hickeys.

Eh, but Lance wears ‘em proudly. Who is he to turn down such a kind gift? Ha.

Lance eventually shrugs his joggers back on, and prepares to go to bed. He needs these bruises to heal by next week’s match.

Keith won’t be playing, but he’ll definitely watch – and Lance wants to see Keith squirm up in the stands, when Lance bleeds all over the rink.


 

 “I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Keith says, as he tosses his backpack over the fence, and jumps it.

“Oh, don’t even go there, you adrenaline junkie.” Lance points, and jumps after him.

They land on concrete – this motel pool is hardly ever used by anyone. Who swims in a motel pool anyways?

Except, the pool is actually pretty clean. There’s a leaf or two that floats by, but the lights under the water illuminate it to a faint glow. The stars shine above their heads, and the small amount of alcohol in their blood calms their nerves. Lance turns some music down low on his phone, and rests it on his backpack.

“Whatever.” Keith rolls his eyes, “I did cool stuff. This is just lame.”

“Lame? Lame?” Lance sputters, “Swimming is not lame.”

“It kinda’ is,” Keith mumbles, but his eyes shine with mischief, “I only agreed so I can do this.”

He reaches for the hem of Lance’s shirt, and hikes it high above his head. Lance gasps as the night air makes his body rise with goosebumps – but Keith smooths his hands over all the tan skin, and Lance melts against him.

“Pretty.” Keith coos, and kisses his ear.

“Sap.”

“Dickhead.”

“Moron.”

"Asswipe." 

"Dingleberry." 

Keith sputters out a half laugh, and Lance breaks out into a smile. He shucks off his pants - Keith is left there as Lance turns and jumps into the pool, underwear and all.

“Dammit.” Keith laughs. The water sprays him slightly, “Seriously?”

Lance pops up over the water with a wicked smile. He flicks his hair out of his eyes, and purrs, “Come on in, babe. The waters great.”

“I think I’m fine up here.” Keith says, “It looks cold.”

Lance rolls his eyes, “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“How many fingers have you broken?”

“Six.”

“And you won’t jump in the pool?”

“Nah.”

Lance sticks out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, and turns, “Fine. I’ll just enjoy the water by myself.”

Keith folds his arms, and looks away, “Fine.”

There’s a few crickets that sing off in the bushes, and the water occasionally sloshes over the edge of the pool. Music plays so, so softly.  Its…kind of relaxing, almost, in a sense. The stars are pretty too.

Keith jolts at the sound of something wet hitting the concrete. He looks down and sees Lance’s soaked boxers, wadded up in a ball.

When Keith meets his eyes; Lance feigns innocence, paddling around in the pool, butt naked, whistling the tune of Partition. 

There’s the sound of clothes hitting the deck, and then water splashing over the edge of the pool. Lance laughs, and laughs, slapping a hand over his mouth when Keith pops up, long hair sticking to his head.

“Yeah!” Lance cheers, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Now lose the boxers.”

“Someone could see us.” Keith defends, treading water.

Lance rolls his eyes, “Some bad boy you are.”

Keith sticks out his tongue, but worms his hand under the water, sliding off his shorts and tossing them on deck.

“C'mere,” Lance grins, but Keith is already there, pushing him up against the edge of the pool, looking into his eyes like he means everything.

“You’re a tease.” Keith states, hands moving beneath the cool water to smooth down his hips. They’re between the shallow and the deep end, where the water comes up to Lance’s waist, and his toes graze the bottom of the pool.

“I’m the tease?” Lance raises his eyebrows.

“Mmm.”

“As if. You’re the one who walks around in bootyshorts.”

“They’re a team uniform.”

“You wear them like, three sizes too small, my dude.”

Keith doesn’t grace him with a reply- his hands are slow, and methodical, mapping out all of Lance’s sides with his fingers.

The water is crystal clear. Keith can see everything – the tiny curve of his navel, and his half-hard dick against his thigh.

Keith’s eyes look down, and back up, staring at Lance’s lips, before meeting his eyes. The look is filthy, and it makes Lance’s body run warm. Lance reaches to wind his long, gangly arms around Keith’s shoulders and bring him closer. He hops up a little in the water, and wraps his thighs around Keith’s hips effortlessly, the lessoned gravity a blessing.

“Do you hurt?” Keith asks, still studying him, still watching. His voice is soft now – the mood is slowly shifting. The moon shines bright, and the night sings.

“From the derby? No.”

Hands smooth from his hips, to his knees, soft beneath the water.

 “Okay," Keith nods, and kisses him against the edge of the pool. Lance hums, and squeezes his legs tighter, forcing their bodies to wetly stick.

It’s funny – they kiss a lot. All the time, really, because its super nice and their lips fit like a lock and key. You’d think it’d be old news by now, but Lance’s body still flushes under his gaze, still bends to his will, like a wire.

And Keith bends him, and bends him, shapes and molds and melts Lance into something new.

Their lips smack when they part – tongues trace teeth, slide and pull, lips growing slick and breath rushing faster. Keith braces a hand beneath his ass and grinds hard enough for Lance to actually moan. He’s getting hard, dammit, and the muted friction from the water is driving him bonkers.

So Lance fights back. He feels the pool rub the skin on his back raw, but it’s nothing, compared to how sweetly Keith touches him, how hard he kisses. Everything is just Keith. Him, here, his rival. His boyfriend. The cute kid with the mullet and the shiny eyes and the nice ass.

It’s hard to believe that Lance has this. He sure as fuck won’t let go.

Lance grinds against him- smirks when he feels Keith's dick poke him in the thigh. Keith meets him halfway – lips coax Lance’s mouth open, and fingers dip down and around his ass, rubbing against his hole, making Lance sob.

“Fuck, Keith.” He arches, “Are we, are you- f-ahh-“

“Shh.” Keith kisses the corner of his mouth, and then his cheek, “I won’t, if you don’t want to.”  

Lance’s dick gives a pathetic throb between them – he feels Keith grind their hips together, and he cries, cocks hot and slippery in the water. He’s seen him naked- Keith is a nice size, and Lance wants that up his ass, like pronto.

Shit.” Lance squirms- the fingers rub harder, such a tease, such a tease- “Keith, what the fuck. Of course I want it, I want it.” He feels his mouth run ahead of him, leaving his brain behind, mumbles of god, god you’re so hot fuck-

“There’s silicone lube in my backpack.” Keith pants. His breath is already a little ragged, which Lance takes great pride in. There’s no condoms, but it’s cool – Lance made ‘em get tested last month.

“Fine, fine.” Lance squirms, “I don’t, hhn-“ he grinds, “-n-need a lot. I had like, three fingers up my a-ahn-ass, last night.”

Keith pauses.

Lance blinks.

Keith’s eyes are round, his shoulders rigid, hands frozen beneath his ass. Lance’s leg slips a little on his hip beneath the water, and he stutters, “K-Keith?”

God.” Keith moans, and tips his head to rest in the cold, damp curve of Lance’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

“Babe?”

“Gimmie’ a second.” Keith breathes.

Lance feels his heart skip a beat or two. He lets a hand fall beneath the water- skims down between Keith’s legs, and grins when he feels how hard Keith is.

“Oh ho ho.”

He wraps a hand around Keith’s base, and feels the weight of him in his hand. He’s tempted to stroke, but his hand is ripped away-

Don’t.” Keith stresses, and shifts Lance in his arms, “Don’t. Fucking hell, Lance, do you know how hot that is. Do you know?!”

Lance barks out a laugh, even as Keith sets him down in the water, and leans up over the edge of the pool for his backpack.

“What?” Lance laughs, “Me shoving my hand up my ass?”

Fuck, Lance stop talking.”

“I thought about you, you know.” Lance twirls a strand of wet hair around his finger, “I was insatiable-“

Keith grips him by the hips, turns him around in the water, and shoves him up against the edge of the pool. Lance feels hands pry his legs apart, and he yelps when two thumbs spread his ass, lewd and obscene.

“Ah!”

“Be good.” Keith demands, and slicks two lubed fingers up his ass with little resistance.

“Ah, shit.” Lance curses. He rests his forearms on the edge and pushes his ass out, seeking more, more. Everything burns, despite the cool swell of the water, and the gentle lights.

They really are pushing it, aren’t they? Anyone could round that corner- anyone could see him here, with Keith’s fingers up his ass, twisting and turning and wiggling and stroking- ah, shit, ah fuck-

“Keeeeiith.”

“You’re so loud.” Keith growls, “So demanding.” His fingers slick in, “So petty. Such a princess.”

Lance pants, eyes clouding over, mind fuzzing away. He’s close, but not close enough, there, on the edge, but ripped back. Keith’s words thrum in his head; his voice is raspy and deep with arousal; impatient hips flush against his ass.

Keith leans against Lance’s upper back – “You’re so tough,” he kisses, “tall,” his fingers curl, “I want to bruise your thighs, Lance. Have you seen them? Goddammit.”

Please.”

“When you take a fall you stand back up.” Keith grinds his cock against his ass, and Lance about fucking loses it. Keith growls, “Every. Fucking. Time.”

“Keith!”

Fingers drill right into his prostate, and Lance about comes, right there, he almost does. A guttural moan is ripped out of his throat, like revving a chainsaw. His body shivers beyond his control, his eyes roll back, Keith’s name falls from his tongue in broken gasps.

“You throw pebbles at my window.” Keith says, “You steal the fries off my plate.”

“Ahhnh- ah-!”

Keith’s voice cracks, with strain, “When I broke your nose, you weren’t even mad. When I forgot your birthday you forgave me.”  

“I c-can’t, Keith I c-can’t!” Lance sobs, because he can’t, he can’t, he needs him, everything’s hot, sickeningly hot, burning, boiling- Keith’s cock continues to rub against his ass, a hand tugs at his hips.

“I, hah,” Keith pants, and pulls out his fingers. His forehead falls to rest between Lance’s shoulder blades. The water lightly swirls with their movement. Keith breathes in, and out, and says, “You’ve made me hopelessly fall for you.”

Through all the hazy arousal, Lance has enough brainpower left to process what Keith is saying.

He takes a moment, to ignore the way his body screams, and begs- forces back the need, just to say, Keith, you’ve had me wrapped around your little finger since day one.” Lance can feel Keith’s sharp inhale against his back, and Lance groans, “But if you don’t shove your dick up my ass in the next three seconds, I am going to actually break your nose on purpose-“

And just like that, Keith worms his cock in around the lube, and Lance sees god.

He lets out a long strain of yes yes yes yes fffuuuck  yes- and Keith breathes out broken moans against his shoulder.

Fucking in a pool is hard; it’s just rocking, and shifting, and shallow thrusts against the wall – but Lance moans every encouraging word under the sun, until his voice goes raw, until his skin blisters, until he can’t breathe.

And Keith litters him in bruises, paints him like Picasso, nips his neck until it belongs to Keith only.

It’s odd. A little rough. Unconventional, but strangely them.

Lance can take the bite marks. Keith can handle it when Lance flips around and rakes his nails down his back. They bite tongues. They lick blood. They dip their fingers into old bruises and sob when it hurts.

Keith fucks him so good, and Lance rocks down with him. Hands scramble for skin and hair, thighs press together beneath the water. It’s possessive, and raw, and everything Lance wanted. Keith has this look in his eye, predatorily dangerous – the same look that Lance sees on the rink, and it makes his cock fucking solid.

“Keith.” Lance purrs, and smooths his hands against his cheeks, speaking against his lips, “It’s good, it’s good-“

Lance's body slides with every thrust- his legs squeeze. The slide of Keith's cock is muted through the water, but its so incredibly smooth, so good. Lance feels full, stretched, complete- balls press up against his ass, and Lance affirms that he likes fucking girls, but he really, really likes fucking dudes.

Keith pants against his lips, breathes his name, squeezes him tight, makes Lance feel like the world. 

"Lance-"

Keith grinds up into Lance’s prostate, and the latter sobs, coming so hard that his body trembles, that his thighs shake, that he loses all sense of self and reality. It’s just hot waves, pulsing endorphins, the evidence washing away in the chlorine. 

Lance opens his eyes just in time to see Keith’s face as he comes – to see his eyes close and feel his strong body tense. Hes beautiful; Lance studies his expression to memory. 

And Lance realizes how quickly they’ve changed.

He’s hit, like a train, with this overwhelming sense of adoration for the person buried up his ass.

Lance smooths his thumb over the bruise on Keith’s cheek; Lance knows he has one to match. Keith slowly, slowly opens his eyes. They’re a hazy grey, but beautiful beneath the stars. Lance pushes Keith’s bangs out of his face, and kisses his forehead.

It’s stupidly sweet, but whatever - Keith kisses him back. They taste like pool water and salt. Chlorine, and warm skin.


 

“Dammit!”

Lance’s palms hit the floor with a residing smack that makes his elbows lock, and body jolt.

“Ahh! The blue jammer is down!”

The sound of wheels and hard, muted contact ring against the walls. The crowd is large tonight, swollen full, people sitting on laps and bars and shoulders.

Lance scrambles to his feet – he can see the enemy jammer fighting his defense. Lance slides up, but his knee gives out, and he grunts as his palms smack against the floor again.

There’s a voice, loud and angry from the stands. Pidge, for one, but also-

“Get up!” Keith leans over the divider, smacking his hand against the wall, “Get up! Get up!”

Lance pants – feels his body burn, sweat drip down his back. The entire red team is there, next to Keith, yelling too.

I guess that’s what happens, when you date their jammer.

Babe, move!”  Keith yells, nearly climbing the wall – if not, for Shiro yanking him back by his shirt.

And Lance grins.

Fuck the bad knee, fuck the fall – he’s up on his feet, and gliding as fast as his legs will carry him. The last blue blocker sees him, grabs him by the forearm and whips him-

And Lance flies.


 

The couch is a little worn down – there’s jagged lines from all the rips Lance has tried to hand sew shut, and a coffee stain or two – but it’s been a good couch, and Lance just can’t say goodbye.

Keith is curled up under his right arm, head resting against his chest. He’s got Lance’s left hand resting on his thigh, the palm turned up – he traces absent circles with his forefinger, and sighs.

There’s a scar there, right across the palm. It’s newly healed -it sucked ass getting stitches, but it healed up fine enough for Lance.

Keith trails his forefinger up his lifeline, traces the skin between his fingers, lingers up at the pads of his fingertips, and slides back down to Lance’s palm. Keith’s touch is warm, but his body is warmer, tucked beneath Lance’s chin.

“You have long fingers,” Keith says, a little slurred in the late hour.

“That’s not the only thing about me that’s long.”

“I literally hate you.”

Lance laughs, and squeezes him closer, “Nooo noo please-“

“I’m breaking up with you.” Keith jokes, still tracing circles on Lance’s palm, “I deserve better.”

“Excuse you,” Lance teases, “You’re dating a champion.

“You got second place.”

“A champ-i-on.”

“Out of two teams.

“Hey, nothin’ wrong with a silver medal.”

 “Okay,” Keith shakes his head, smiling, “whatever helps you sleep.”

“Uh, that would be you,” Lance smirks – he draws Keith firm against his chest, and grins when Keith squirms closer, hooking his legs across Lance’s thighs.

“I assume I’m staying the night?”

“Do you want to?”

“Mmm.” Keith nods, and turns his head, nose pressing into Lance’s throat- he breathes in, and Lance involuntarily shivers.

Lance doesn’t have a T.V. – only Netflix propped up on their laptop – but even that is off.

Their lives are loud; full of homework and professors and school hallways – of arenas and drunk crowds.

So, the silence is kinda’ nice.

But, Lance was never any good at sitting still. Or staying focused. Or keeping his mouth shut.

“I love you.”

Keith’s body tenses in his arms, but Lance doesn’t regret it – how could he? It’s only the truth.

Keith manages, “Do you really?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve broken your nose.”

“Yes.”

“I forgot our six month anniversary.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I threw you off my motorcycle.”

Lance laughs, “Haha, that was funny.”

Keith squirms around in his arms – straddles his lap and looks Lance in the eye.

“Really?" 

Lance rolls his eyes, “Yes really. What, do I gotta’ write it out in blood?”

“No,” Keith says, “I just, I-“

“You don’t have to say it-“

“I love you too,” Keith flushes and swallows- Lance follows the bob of his adam's apple, before looking back up to his eyes, and grinning.

“I know.”

“Ass.”

Yet Keith curls into him, stealing a kiss – one, then three – and Lance clings to his hips, and swallows his tongue.


 Lance cracks his kneepad to his leg with a residing snap.

The room smells like sweat and alcohol.

He sees Keith line up next to him, crouched over, seat dripping from his forehead, down, across his nose, and to the floor.

The first whistle rings.

The crowd roars in anticipation.

Lance takes his position.

Shares a look with Keith.

And flies.