Soft Soap, Hard Water - 1. Soft Soap, Hard Water

Shiro holds the door open with his shoulder, and uses a smirk to cover for the fact he’d quite like to groan too. He might have won this round, but Keith’s getting better, faster, and stronger. Each hit he lands during their sparring bouts hurt far more than Shiro will ever let on. Keith rolls his head, working his neck, and Shiro frowns.

“It aches?”

“It’s fine.” Keith drops his shoulders, and then his fierce expression. “That last pin was maybe a bit hard. I’ll be fine after a shower.”

“You should have yielded sooner.” Shiro returns.

Keith bumps him with his shoulder as he passes by, and Shiro uses the opportunity to cup a hand around the back of his neck, feeling for the twinge he knows is there just from the way the boy carries himself. Keith pauses, and Shiro refuses to allow himself to get drawn into the tenderness of the skin under his fingers, or the silk strands of Keith’s too long hair brushing over his knuckles. He grips more firmly on the meat of his shoulder, and feels the pop of tension – slight but definite – before Keith relaxes fully.

“Better?” Shiro asks, without purpose.

“Yeah.” Keith sneaks him a sidelong glance, and grins like a brat. “I can’t wait for the day I’ll get to make you say it though.”

Shiro blocks that thought from travelling south, and keeps his eyes very firmly ahead and decidedly not travelling lower, as he follows Keith from the main gym into the locker rooms and shower block.

The showers attached the Garrison gym are... adequate. They aren’t as unreliable as the ones Shiro remembers from his own days in the dorms, and the individual shower heads are at least divided into stalls by old fashioned half-height tiled walls. Matt complains constantly over how a super high-tech facility like the Garrison, that regularly sends people into space and maintains bases on Mars and the moon, can still design a shower block which wouldn’t look out of place in an early twentieth-century high school. They’ve both long grown used to the luxury of having en-suite facilities.

Which is what Shiro will blame for the fact that upon taking his towel from his locker, he discovers he has no soap, shampoo, or anything else to wash with. He closes the door and rests his forehead against it, trying to resign himself to the idea of walking back, hot and sweaty, to his quarters and sighs. Someone will stop him on the way around the base with some kind of urgent request, and knowing his luck, he won’t be able to get clean and freshened up before lunch.

“Forget something?” Keith asks.

“Yeah well, not all of us have a perfectly stocked shower caddy just waiting to go at six in the morning.” The showers, like the gym they’ve just exited, are deserted. No one else who doesn't have to be is up this early on a weekend.

Keith rolls his eyes, looking far too cocky for someone Shiro just pinned to the mat and made yield four times in the past hour. He takes his shower caddy and slings a towel over his shoulder as he turns away from the lockers, toing off his shoes as he steps onto the cold tile. Shiro follows like a fish who swallowed a hook.

“Well, we don't all have our own private bathrooms, now do we?” Keith exhales as he yanks off his shirt and steps forward to turn on the shower head and set the water temperature. “I love it when it's like this though...” Keith shoots a sidelong glance at Shiro. And suddenly there he is, the boy from numerous study sessions and rooftop star watching evenings: soft and happy and relaxed. Shiro's eyes are drawn to the slope of his shoulders and now that they're not working out or fighting each other, he can watch all the tension just slip away. Keith’s smile is beautific and enticing. “Just the two of us.”

“Keith...”

Just those words start a dangerous thought in his head, because Shiro would be lying if he didn't admit to having lost many hours of sleep wondering what it would be like to be with Keith, just the two of them, with no risk of interruptions or discovery. Of course he's imagined Keith in his room and in his bed. He’s rolled over in the mornings and wished. Lost himself in wondering what it would be like to wake up with Keith, to sleep with Keith. But imagining is all he will let himself do. He mustn't push, it's not his place.

Keith offers him a different smile then, a little bit shy, and Shiro is reminded that his best friend and protégé is that much younger than he is. Keith turns away to grab his shower caddy, and Shiro isn't sure if he's supposed to hear the next words Keith utters or not.

“I can dream, can't I…?”

Shiro can barely pull his eyes away as Keith shucks his pants and underwear and steps under the hot spray of his shower head, but he does. Keith’s been naked around him before; there is a certain unavoidable closeness which comes with being best friends, and gym buddies, living on a residential base. But Shiro has always been very careful never to actually look at Keith. He’s seen more of Matt naked than he has of the boy who has now spent several fantastic hours sitting in his lap with his tongue down his throat. But this is the first time Keith’s been anything less than fully dressed since he gave Shiro his new undercut. Now more than ever, Shiro finds it incredibly difficult not to give into the desire to stare. He wants to memorise all of Keith, to learn the planes of his chest and the subtle curves of his hips and thighs, just the same as he’s committed to memory the shape of Keith’s face and lips.

He shakes his head to dislodge the growing desire to follow Keith into his shower cubicle, which is only vaguely successful, before peeling out of his own sweat-soaked clothes and standing directly under the spray of his own shower as it turns on. The first blast of water is always icy cold, and Shiro swallows his shudder and closes his eyes. He is not going to take advantage of the boy who trusts him – and only him – with his smile. Irresponsible erection cowed somewhat by the water, Shiro adjusts the temperature and begins to scrub at his skin with his knuckles, lacking anything better to do the job with, and wishing he had shampoo.

“Hey Shiro?” Keith is standing with both arms folded over the low wall, a mostly used bottle of shampoo in one hand. Shiro locks onto his galaxy eyes because at least that’s a safe area to continue obsessing over. Keith nods to the bottle. “I’ll let you borrow mine...”

The ‘if’ is implied in the slightly lopsided tilt of his lips. Shiro had always been terrible at walking away from a challenge.

“Keith?”

Keith flushes suddenly, unable to duck behind his hair as it is plastered to his scalp. Shiro wraps his self-control around himself just in time to stop his hand from reaching out to trace the delicate curve on Keith’s eyebrow. The moment passes, and Keith looks self-assured once more. It is a look Shiro knows well, so similar to the one Keith wears in the simulator when he’s decided he’s going to smash another record.

“You can have my shampoo. But I want to wash your hair.”

Every single cell in Shiro’s body freezes. He is immobile, completely breathless, his heart paused whilst the synapses in his brain fire into the nothing that has replaced all conscious thought. Keith’s smile sets him on fire, a heat almost painful flashing through his entire body before he can move again. Keith rocks the plastic bottle against the tile, the noise somehow setting the pace for his pulse as it begins to whoosh in his ears once more, louder than the sea.

“C’mon Hotshot, I can’t let you leave here with sweaty hair.”

The words – softly spoken but hot like a branding iron – pull all Shiro’s free will out of his body, and his feet have started moving before his brain can hope to catch up. The distance around the low wall to Keith’s shower stall feels galactic, each pace takes light years and the beat of his heart as he moves is a series of solar flares blooming under his skin. There are a multitude of reasons why he should not be doing this, and as he finally crosses to Keith’s side of the low wall, his brain has regained enough function to remind him. They are in public – and Iverson’s disapproving tolerance of their relationship or not – it is a bad idea to be naked with Keith. He knows this is exactly the sort of situation Matt has been trying so hard to ensure they avoid. But Keith is looking at him, with the same intensity with which he stares down the simulator, and Shiro doesn’t bother with resistance. That ship has long been blasted from the solar system.

Keith turns to face him as he approaches, one elbow still propped on the tile wall, most of his body out of the direct wash of the spray, and his bright eyes go dark as he sinks very white teeth into the pink pillow of his lower lip. Keith’s gaze examines him like he’s precious, valuable and holy. Shiro would look away if he could think of a single safe place for his gaze to land, but he knows if he looks now, he’s not going to be able to hold himself in check at all. It’s taking all his self-restraint not to let all his blood flow to his crotch as it is. He stops a respectable dozen inches from Keith, and the boy simply grins up at him, pushing at his chest to get him to stand under the water.

Keith likes his showers hot, almost on the edge of unbearable, but before Shiro can consider saying anything, the boy leans past him to dial back the temperature. The action brings his arm sliding wetly against Shiro’s ribs, Keith’s leaner torso pressing flush to his own. Shiro stiffens.

“Shiro...” Keith doesn’t pull back, simply tucking himself along Shiro’s front, head under his chin, fitting easily into the curves of his larger frame. He feels the shell of Keith ear press against his pec, clearly listening for his heartbeat. “It’s okay Shiro. It’s just me. Just breathe.”

Shiro takes a breath, gazing through his eyelashes down at the top of Keith’s head and the slope of his slightly bony shoulders, the water falling around them keeping him from directing his gaze elsewhere. Keith right, of course, it’s just them. It’s Keith in his arms – beautiful, brilliant, hard-edged, tough, stubborn, sweet – but still Keith. Keith holds plenty of surprises inside his narrow body, but no shocks. Shiro breathes again, and feels Keith’s lips curve into a smile against his sternum.

“That’s better.” Delicate fingertips beat out a staccato rhythm – his heartbeat, Shiro realises belatedly – onto his pec as Keith speaks against his skin. “I meant it, you know. I’m totally going to make you yield on that fucking mat one day.”

Shiro doesn’t try to hide his chuckle, loving the way Keith’s whole body moves when his does. He presses a kiss to the wet, ink spill of hair below him without thinking about how anyone else might interpret it.

“I look forward to it, Spitfire.”

Keith twists underneath him, and suddenly Shiro’s entire world narrows down to a pair of bright, star-swirled violet eyes, and the shadow between Keith’s parted lips. Keith makes a noise in the back of his throat that Shiro absolutely refuses to interpret as a whine, and then the boy is cupping his jaw, guiding him down until their lips slot together without a sound.

It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s not the first time they’ve kissed, by now they are very firmly into double figures and the frequency doesn’t appear to be slacking off anytime soon, but the sensation of Keith’s lips on his still robs Shiro of breath and higher brain functions. Sure, he’s an astronaut, he’s co-piloted a ship to the Mars base and has the second best simulator test scores in Garrison history, but when Keith is kissing him, Shiro doubts he could spell his own name. Keith parts his lips with a swipe of his tongue, delving into him, and Shiro is happy to give his protégé whatever he wants, everything he wants. He opens up for Keith, hands coming up to span his slender waist, long fingers trailing low on his hips. Keith likes that, and he makes a pleased noise into the kiss which vibrates all the way down to Shiro’s cock. He is embarrassingly hard in seconds. Keith shifts his body, dragging his stomach against Shiro’s erection in a manner which has to be deliberate. Keith chuckles into his open mouth, when he lets out a very plaintive whine of desperation.

“Getting excited are we, Hotshot?” Keith thumbs across his cheek, and Shiro realises he has enough blood spare to be blushing, somehow. “I thought we were going to wash your hair?”

The sharp snap of the shampoo cap brings him back to himself with shattering speed. It is far too close to another noise, one Shiro only hears in the lonely privacy of his own quarters, and he’d be lying if he tried to pretend that there has been anything else except this burning star of a boy, featuring in his private imaginings for the past few months. Keith steps back, and then frowns. Shiro wants to poke the little furrow between his eyebrow, then realises there is literally nothing to stop him from doing so. The action makes Keith chuff impatiently, then smile.

“I forgot how tall you are,” he explains, stepping out of the spray of the shower.

“I can duck?” Shiro offers, already bowing his spine. Every other time Keith has messed with his hair, they’ve had something to sit on. Keith shakes his head.

“No. I’ve a better idea. Hold this.” Shiro barely has a hand on the shampoo bottle before Keith moves away from him as much as the little shower stall will allow, before hopping up to sit on the narrow tile wall which divides the showers. He spreads his knees and holds out his hand for the bottle again. “There, that’s way better.”

The new position does indeed make Keith taller, tall enough to reach Shiro’s hair properly, but it also means that the gaze Shiro has been keeping firmly locked with Keith’s is now lodged on the soft, taut skin just above his navel. And without a fixed point to latch onto, Shiro feels his eyes start to roam over all the places he’s never before allowed himself to look.

He knows Keith is well put together, tightly muscled, lean and lithe. They’ve trained together plenty, and Shiro’s had the other boy in his lap more than once. But it’s something quite different to see it. To see the place where Keith’s sun kissed thigh turns pale where his shorts have always covered his skin, trace the subtle curves of his hips as they crease into his torso, and stare openly at the shape of his cock as it fills out under his scrutiny. Shiro hasn’t touched him since the haircut, and though every memory of that evening is etched permanently into his mind, the view still gives him a thrill. Keith swallows audibly, and Shiro flicks his gaze away and down to the floor instantly. The very last thing he wants is for Keith to feel uncomfortable.

“Hey… no.” Keith’s fingers take hold on his chin, forcing his eyes back up to his face. “You’re not allowed to be embarrassed – you’re perfect.”

Shiro stares at him in shock, and Keith snorts.

“This cannot be a surprise, Shiro. You do own a mirror, I’ve seen it.” The boy bites his lower lip again, the pressure turning the flesh pale with lack of blood flow. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you though-” he is not looking at Shiro’s face when he speaks. “-you’re so pretty too.”

Stunned, Shiro simply gapes at him. Keith smirks.

“Come. Let me wash your hair.”

Shiro does, because what choice is there when Keith looks at him with eyes full of swirling nebula and speaks in a voice as strong and sure as gravity? He steps up between Keith’s parted knees, close enough that with every breath the jerk of his cock threatens to collide with either the cold tile wall or the warm, wet flesh of Keith. Shiro tries to sneak a hand across to cover himself, but Keith sounds displeased.

“Hotshot...”

Shiro settles his palms instead around Keith’s hips, right where the boy has expressed before how much he enjoys them, and is rewarded with a dazzling smile.

“Better. Close your eyes. I don’t want to end up getting soap in them, okay?”

Not looking is easier – it always is – and Shiro breathes and forgets to worry about how close Keith is to him and stops being embarrassed about not being able to hold his interested erection in check. Keith smooshes shampoo between his fingers, then begins to smooth it over Shiro’s scalp. When firm fingertips begin to work the lather into his hair properly, Shiro lets out a soft groan and feels his spine begin to melt. Keith’s satisfied hum only increases the contentment that washes through him with each touch.

Keith massages the shampoo into every inch of his scalp in tiny little circles, drawing out gentle moans and the lingering tension Shiro was unaware he was even carrying around. Thumbs skim down the edges of his ears and he shudders, though it’s not unpleasant, bringing a little chuckle from Keith and a repeat of the motion. Keith plays with his bangs, the long hair now sculpted with sweet smelling foam and the boy’s fingers. Shiro is sure he probably looks like a cartoon character. Keith doesn’t speak as he shifts forward, his narrow chest resting flush against Shiro’s, reaching past him into the hot stream of the shower. The motion causes Keith’s jaw to bump his nose, and Shiro definitely isn’t strong enough not to take a deep lungful of Keith’s slightly sweaty scent. The combination of fruity shampoo, post-sparring match sweat, and boy-smell should not be sexy. But somehow when all those things are coming from Keith, Shiro becomes easily addicted. He brushes a kiss against the soft curve of Keith neck, and the boy shivers.

“I’m supposed to be washing your hair, and you’re being very distracting.” Before Shiro can even think of moving away, four blunt nails rake across the back of his scalp, pushing through the finely buzzed hairs of his undercut. It is an unequivocal command to stay put. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, Hotshot.”

“Oh.”

“Do it again.”

“Oh...”

Keith scoops handfuls of water and begins to wash the suds from his hair, being careful to pull Shiro’s floof away from his eyes, keeping the slithering soap off his face. The combination of smoothing palms and gently scratching fingertips is heavenly, and Shiro allows himself to sink further into the join between Keith’s neck and jaw. He inhales again, then parts his lips and simply breathes, open mouthed, against his skin.

Keith’s skin is smooth here, not slightly calloused like his knuckles and the inside of his thumbs where he grips the joysticks, not wind chapped like his lips. He can feel Keith’s pulse under his lips, and he passes his tongue over the contact happily. Keith is caressing the top of his head once more, working in a familiar smelling conditioner. The idea that he’s going to leave here smelling like Keith produces a warm, rich feeling in Shiro’s belly, pleasure melting down his loins as he mouths into the crook of Keith’s jaw. He thinks of the only place he knows where Keith’s skin is even softer than this. He thinks he would do about anything to get his mouth to the part of Keith where only his hands have been.

Keith massages his scalp, firm fingertips now combing from his crown right across the curve of his head to his nape. Keith might claim only to be good with knives – and somewhere beyond stratospherically awesome with the simulator – but Shiro is starting to believe his protégé is gifted at anything which involves his hands. When the boy cards his fingers through the longer length of his bangs, Shiro doesn’t stifle the soft moan he makes directly against Keith’s skin. His tongue and lips still working softly, leaving no trace, across Keith’s throat. The boy tightens his grip.

“We should wash this off now.”

Shiro makes a wordless sound of acquiescence.

“I’m cold Shiro.”

That is without question, not true, because Keith always seems to burn a little bit hotter than most other people Shiro has ever met – certainly always warmer than Shiro – and everywhere Keith’s skin is touching his is heated in the nicest way. But Shiro would never dream of disagreeing with him about this. They argue without heat in the way of friends about many things; about how many reps are actually beneficial and what just counts as showing off, about whether to barrel roll left or right through the asteroid field, about whether the burritos in the canteen are better or worse than whatever the heck it is the commissary is passing off as goulash lately. But when it comes to this – to the undefined thing which is Shiro and Keith – Shiro knows he will do everything he is bid by the nebula bright young man before him. He is helpless to do otherwise, and has been since the moment Keith opened up his straight razor and told him to keep still. He’ll do anything for Keith.

Shiro’s doesn’t pause to think about his actions but simply wraps one arm around Keith’s waist and pulls him off the wall and flush against his chest as he steps backward into the hot stream of the shower. His arms feel massive compared with the narrow, tight musculature of the boy. Keith’s free arm goes around his neck, his other hand still holding his hair, and Shiro breathes through his mouth as water cascades down over his face, blurring ever so softly the divide between them. He’s not in Keith’s shower, they’re in their shower, and the world outside simply doesn’t exist.

Eventually, Keith squirms, and Shiro realises that he is still holding the boy off the floor having forgotten that Keith isn’t actually that tall, and that he is not the only one standing under the shower with an interested crotch. His own lust has taken a back seat to the contented warmth of just existing in the same space as Keith. His erection is no longer waving at him in over-eager excitement, but hanging heavy and half-chubbed between his thighs. The drag he feels against his lower abdomen and hip as he puts Keith down though, is searing. Even though his spine is curled over in an almost painful and definitely uncomfortable manner, Shiro thinks he could stay like this forever, his face tucked close to Keith.

He places another open kiss, wet with the running water of the shower, on Keith’s neck, and this time Keith groans. The boy tugs at his hair, and Shiro raises his head just far enough to relieve the pressure, finds himself staring into Keith’s violet eyes once more.

“Shiro...”

Keith’s lips shaping around his name has him quivering.

“Kiss me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shiro’s not quite sure how those words came to be on his tongue, but they seem suddenly fitting, especially when Keith’s smile changes from softly sweet to darkly pleased. There is a rumble in his chest not unlike a satisfied lion as Shiro slopes his shoulders, cupping his jaw in one large hand to slot their mouths together again.

Kissing Keith is a revelation, this time just as much as the first; as much as every other time. Shiro knows he will never become used to the intense wave of adoration that sweeps through him along with Keith’s tongue. Keith moulds against him, but Shiro feels like he is the one who is being reshaped to fit the molten-iron heat of the boy in his arms. Keith purrs into the kiss, fingers tightening in his hair and smoothing down his nape. Shiro allows the boy to take whatever he wants, follows his lead in this, whereas Keith usually shadows him in so many things. He licks into Keith’s mouth as the boy bites his lip, traces the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing along his throat.

He loses time like that, breathing whenever the parting of lips and the movement of the water allows, kissing Keith again and letting his fingers trail into the furrow of the boy’s spine, thumbs resting in the ever-so-faint dimples above his hips. Keith touches him back, pressing against the pulse point in his neck, smoothing over the thin skin inside his elbow, dipping into his navel but drifting no lower. Slender, clever hands return again and again to his hair and his neck, and Shiro moans and sighs as the firm massaging motions are replaced by blunt fingernails scraping across his skin. He is hard again, but he almost doesn’t care. It’s secondary to the radiant heat of Keith pressed against him, warm everywhere but especially where his cock is trapped against his thigh.

When Keith breaks the kiss, the need for more than half a lungful of oxygen finally outweighing their desire to simply melt into each other, Shiro smiles at the hitching of Keith’s hips. The movement is small as he seeks more friction, the hot drag against his thigh is delicious but clearly not enough by the frustrated whine Keith makes in the back of his throat.

“Shiro...”

He’s never going to get used to Keith saying his name like that.

“Anything, Keith.” Shiro wonders that he even needs to say it. By now Keith must know Shiro would quite literally sacrifice the entire universe on his word. Keith eyes practically glow, Shiro must be getting soap in his eyes because they look golden somehow, and the rocking of his hips stutters. “Spitfire?”

Keith’s fingers rake from the base of his neck across his skull before fisting in his bangs. The prickle of pain is the perfect counterpoint to the sharp double-thud of his heart. He swallows reflexively as Keith stares him down, feeling like quarry the moment it realises the hunter’s aim is true.

“Down, Hotshot.”

Shiro doesn’t drop to his knees, but it’s a close thing. He stays with the hand which guides him to the floor gently, his legs splaying wide, heels planted firmly against his ass. His spine curving gently as Keith palms come to settle atop his head. Shiro allows his own hands to slide from the delicate indentation of Keith’s spine around his hips, and then down each of his magnificently long legs. Keith almost had him pinned when they sparred earlier, one leg wrapped over his chest and exerting a surprising amount of pressure as Keith had tried to turn the twist into a proper hold. Even then Shiro had wanted to run his hands over Keith’s thigh, the tight muscle of his calf, his delicate and shapely ankle. Now he does, he has permission in the wordless grunt Keith makes as he begins to smooth Shiro’s hair away from his face once more, rinsing out the last of the conditioner.

Keith’s legs are beautiful, the back of his thighs faintly ticklish, and Shiro watches the water ripple and splash over him as he glides his hands back to Keith’s hips.

“You’re beautiful.” Keith’s voice is low and full of wonder, and Shiro realises he’s having another moment where he doubts that this thing between them is really real. “Shiro...”

Shiro glances up at him through his eyelashes, vision blurry with the angle and the falling water, and smiles.

“I love you Keith.”

Keith makes a strangled, half-choked noise, and the hands holding his head push his face away and down. Shiro clearly isn’t the only one who sometimes finds it easier not to look. The new angle however presents him quite clearly with Keith’s entirely hard dick, flushed almost purple at the tip, and Shiro stares. He’s never been anything approaching this close to Keith before, naked or clothed, and the temptation to simply memorise each curve and pulse of Keith’s beautiful cock is almost overwhelming. Shiro staring isn’t giving Keith the friction he clearly wants though, and the narrow hips in Shiro’s hands push into his grip. He flexes automatically, stilling the movement, but Keith’s frustrated whine is almost entirely subsumed by the harsh bang of the door and the grate of voices which belong to other people.

Keith’s head snaps up, the hand not in Shiro’s bangs coming to rest on the low wall behind where he kneels. Shiro doesn’t move. The boy’s fingers in his hair are tight and immoveable and Shiro keeps his spine bowed, head hanging low. His face is mere microns from the heat of Keith’s crotch, and each beat of his pulse threatens a bob which would bring them into direct contact. His position is keeping him hidden, but Shiro doesn’t know if he can remain silent if that happens.

“Fuck! Kogane…” The intruder sounds like he might have just head small heart attack. “Way to sneak up on a guy.”

Keith snorts. Actually snorts. Shiro has never heard him make such a derisive noise before, not even when Matt suggests things in the simulator which have them both rolling their eyes and telling him stick to his instruments like a good scientist should.

“Piss off.” There’s no real heat in Keith’s words, but no room for negotiation either. Keith is as forgiving as the depths of space.

“Well, ‘scuse you-” The overtly chatty tone – verging on a nasally camp twang – clearly does nothing to improve this intruders’ chances. “-you can’t just commandeer the entire shower block. Even if you are the Garrison Darling’s pet projec-!” The words end with an undignified squawk and the very distinctive wet smack of a washcloth being used as an impromptu projectile. Shiro flushes with pride; of course Keith has perfect aim.

“C’mon man, just- don’t...” Someone else clearly doesn’t think this whole encounter is worth the fallout.

“No. Everyone knows the gym showers are better than the dorms. Hotter too.”

Shiro can’t look up to see Keith’s expression, but he knows what it will be. The best pilot in the Garrison will arch a single dark eyebrow, jerk his chin, and – there – is the clenching of his fist, still held in Shiro’s hair.

“Get lost, Cadet.” The dismissive tone brooks no argument, and Shiro shivers. This is a new Keith, forceful and hard, and very different from how he normally is with Shiro. Shiro is not embarrassed enough to deny that it does things to him.

“Hey, no! You don’t outrank us, Kogane.”

Keith growls.

“You can’t even fly well enough to make it out of the cargo-class sims. I’m betting I can whump your ass buck naked if I have to. Now, git.”

The interrupting Cadet splutters something which thankfully doesn’t resolve into anything actionable, and Shiro hears the sounds of them beating a hasty retreat. Above him, Keith relaxes the grip in his hair so it’s no longer painful and the body in his hands goes lax and supple. Shiro’s thumbs automatically find the soft spaces within Keith’s hips, the place where his adonis belt will be when he fills out and puts on more muscle, and he strokes little circles into the smooth skin there. Keith begins to pet at his hair, and Shiro resists the urge to purr. He glances up to see Keith looking down at him, smiling in the gentle way he only ever does for Shiro.

“You’re so good, Hotshot.” A thumb swipes over his brow, and then Keith’s other hand is cupping his jaw, fingers creeping towards his mouth. “Such a good boy.”

Shiro doesn’t have time to form a response beyond a pleased smile, because Keith begins to trace over the shape of his lips with two fingertips, and Shiro goes still and quiet under his hands. Each step of this dance is both familiar and new – even if they’ve never actually talked about the very clear thing Keith has for Shiro’s mouth – and Shiro doesn’t part his lips until Keith smears at the corner of his mouth. He lets himself go plaint and malleable as the boy dips between his teeth and presses at his tongue. Shiro strokes the fingers with his tongue, repeats the motion when Keith’s eyes deepen yet again, and keeps his jaw loose and open when Keith withdraws to rub the moisture across his already wet lips.

Shiro watches him, utterly entranced.

“You’re so beautiful.” Keith’s praise is better than every flight simulator record he’s ever broken. “Stars… Shiro-”

Shiro squeezes his hips briefly, possessive and reassuring.

“Tell me what you want, Spitfire.”

Keith grins, entirely predatory.

“I should think that’s obvious by now, Hotshot. And you’ve got everyone convinced you’re smart...” He hooks a thumb into Shiro’s mouth once more, forcing him to drop his jaw, pad of the digit testing the rounded points of Shiro’s teeth. “You good?”

Shiro nods, unwilling to break position in order to speak. He returns the pressure of Keith’s thumb with his tongue, rubbing at the tip in a deliberately suggestive manner until Keith flushes visibly, despite the heat of the falling water around them, and his cock twitches. The tip brushes against Shiro’s chin, catching ever so briefly on the underside of his lower lip, and Shiro sees the moment when Keith goes from wanting to taking. His protégé wraps a hand around himself, allowing for a single wet stroke down his length, before he lines up his cock and places the crown against Shiro’s lip. Shiro gazes up at him as Keith’s thumb slides to the corner of his mouth before pulling away. Every risk he’s ever taken is completely justified as he maintains eye-contact, sinking down on Keith’s beautiful cock. Keith’s pupils dilate so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t actually faint: his eyes have gone oddly shimmery again. Shiro swallows around the head as it bumps into the back of his throat, and Keith keens between clenched teeth, his jaw as tight as the fist in Shiro’s hair.

“Oh fuck… Shiro-!”

Keith doesn’t try and control him with his grip, but maintains it as an anchor as Shiro pulls off almost all the way, laps and sucks at the tip before taking him all the way to the root once more. Keith curls over with the sensation so that he’s almost folded in half – as flexible as he is in sparring – and his free hand scrabbles at Shiro’s back and shoulders. Shiro can’t breathe and doesn’t care, on his knees with his nose smushed against Keith’s near hairless crotch is about the best place he can think of being.

Eventually he does squeeze Keith’s thigh hard enough to distract him – because he’s good but he can’t actually survive without oxygen – but stops the boy from pulling away completely. Keith tries to apologise, words falling over each other as he tries to remove his hand from Shiro’s hair. Shiro tongues at his slit, making him squirm, and places Keith’s palm back on top of his head, before reassuming his position with a hand wrapped around each of the young man’s thighs. His hands are big, he knows this, and Shiro marvels at how his fingers span almost three-quarters of Keith’s legs even as he drinks down another sweet-salty burst of precum. It’s as though he swallows all of Keith’s words too, and the next noise to issue from his throat is far nearer a growl than anything Shiro’s heard him make before. He feels the power of it all the way down to his tail-bone, loving the heated slide of pleasure which follows, and locks his gaze with Keith as the boy jerks his hips involuntarily.

Keith looks wrecked above him, wet hair hanging in his face and his cheeks delicately coloured, mouth open, eyes wide. In the delicious shadows of his mouth his teeth almost look pointed, and he pants with raw need and lust which makes Shiro feel like a god. He realises that – of course – Keith’s never done this before either. Everywhere Shiro goes on his body, he is the first. The thought makes him preen: Neil Armstrong hasn’t got anything on this. He hollows his cheeks, pushes the head of Keith’s cock into his cheek so that the boy can see the way it distorts his mouth and delights in the gasping whine the action produces. He laps at the underside of the hard muscle, pressing it up into the roof of his mouth, loving the way Keith’s hips rock into him without hesitation as he seeks more and faster friction. Shiro hums to encourage him, ignoring the aching need to touch himself, as Keith begins to gasp incoherently above him.

Fingernails rake at his nape, and Shiro can’t be anything but proud of the idea that he might be wearing Keith’s marks on his skin. The young man shakes, thrusting hard enough to slap his balls into Shiro’s chin audibly, fingers painfully tight in his hair as he comes.

“Ahhhhh Shiro!” Keith gnashes his teeth. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. “F-fuck-!”

Shiro hums happily as he drinks Keith down, savouring the earthy taste of him along with the feeling of the cock still held between his lips. He suckles gently at Keith as he shivers with aftershocks of pleasure. Not until the grip in his hair changes to the heel of Keith’s hand pushing his forehead away does he let the boy slip from his mouth with a contented sigh.

“Holy...” Keith blinks down at him, slow and stupid, like Shiro sucked his brains out through his dick rather than just his orgasm. “Damn, Hotshot… that was… fuck.”

“Better than flying?” Shiro asks with a smirk. He remembers his first time and the mad euphoria which had come with it. Keith barks a laugh and strokes a hand across his jaw, smudging his lips with one thumb in a manner which now feels like the most wonderful kind of habit.

“You’re damn good Shiro, but you ain’t that good. Nothing’s better than flying. Not even sex.”

“Ouch, I’m wounded.” Shiro pouts, but Keith’s no longer looking at his face. He doesn’t need to flick his eyes down to know that his own cock is jutting out in an obvious manner. The slight sting of the falling water is almost welcome at this point.

Keith bites his lip, colour bleaching from the plump flesh. Shiro wants to kiss him again, but the view from his knees is still so good.

“Keith?”

“You didn’t come.” The pause is heavy with longing, and then Keith licks his lips and Shiro feels his heart stutter practically out of his chest. “I want to watch.”

Shiro doesn’t look away as he takes himself in hand, almost flinching with the sudden contact. He lasts all of ten strokes under Keith’s proprietary gaze, framing the boy’s name silently as his orgasm floods through his body, leaving him gasping and spent. Keith traces fingertips across his brow and down to cup his cheek.

“So pretty. So good, Shiro.” The pressure of one thumb under his chin pulls him to his feet and into a long, slow, languid kiss. Shiro braces himself against the low wall, wondering how long it will take for his spine and knees to return to work as load bearing structures. Keith breaks the kiss to thumb over his lips once more. “Thank you.”

Shiro can barely do more than hum with pleasure and contentment into the kiss once more.

Eventually they do leave the shower. Turning off the water and watching Keith collect the items for his shower caddy feels softly domestic and sweet, until Shiro emerges from the towel over his head to remember that Keith will have to dress and then they will both need to leave… in opposite directions. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face as Keith yanks on his post-workout Garrison issue sweats, before treating him to another delightfully soft kiss.

He could get used to this. He wants to get used to this.

“See you in the mess for dinner?”

“Of course.” Keith grins broadly. “Should be mac and cheese tonight after all, I bet we can get seconds.”

“If we eat fast enough, we’ll get thirds.” Shiro returns, knuckling at Keith’s still damp hair, back into the socially accepted space where he’s a Junior Officer and Keith is a gifted and unruly Cadet. “Bye, Spitfire.”

“Bye, Hotshot.” Keith glances quickly along the corridor, then grabs the front of Shiro’s shirt, yanks him down and presses a fast, hard kiss to Shiro’s lips before bouncing back on his heels. “Love you.”

Shiro stares after him, stunned, as he takes off along the passage which leads to the Cadet barracks. He presses two fingers to his lips, chasing the ghost of the kiss.

“Love you too…”

He’s heading towards his quarters in search of fresh clothes and the pile of tests to mark which will take up much of the rest of his day, when he sees Matt coming out of a lab, looking like he might have recently electrocuted himself. His jacket is smoking faintly.

“Hey Matt.”

“Hey Shiro...” Matt’s expression falls as he raises his hand, becoming instantly suspicious. “Why do you look so smug?”

Without answering, Shiro knows his expression only becomes more so. Matt blanches, looking like he wants to claw at his own eyes.

“Oh no! NO! Stop it! Stop looking at me like that! Why do I have to know these things…?”

Shiro laughs. He can’t wait to tell Keith all about Matt’s freak out at dinner.