Race You For It - 1. Race You For It

Keith does not know how he ends up fucking Takashi Shirogane in a closet.

He knows why: because Takashi Shirogane exists, and Keith is ruined by that fact alone. But the circumstances which have led to this moment – Mister Just-Call-Me-Shiro bent double with his ass in the air whilst Keith lines himself up with the winking hole he has just spent three minutes frantically fingering open – are far less clear.

Despite the fact that they race in the same league now, Keith thinks the mere idea that they’ve ended up attending the same party is still sort of ridiculous. This is a fancy party; Coran is one of hoverbike racing’s most prestigious benefactors. He owns the racetrack Keith competed on today and more besides, and Keith is still surprised the person at the door let him in with his un-styled hair and holes in the knees of his jeans. Keith spent his early career – if you could call showing up and buying his entry to back street illegal hoverbike races with whatever money he'd scrounged a career – following every move that Shiro had made. He lusted, privately, over the photo shoot the other racer had done for GQ – where Shiro's muscle tank had been so tight and so thin it was practically transparent – for at least eight months after it had been printed. And he still has that issue tucked into the inside pocket of his knapsack.

But their public interactions have been good. Shiro has been unfailingly polite and good natured – as is his way with everyone Keith thinks – and Keith has shown barely any of the usual surly attitude he is known for and which his coach hates. His sponsors like his bad boy image, which Keith maintains purely by wearing his scuffed leather jacket and well-worn fingerless gloves at all times, and by not responding to media questions poking at his private life. Keith doesn’t have anything to hide, he just hates talking about his past. Kolivan doesn’t mind his one-word answers though, because every time Keith has actually waxed lyrical about anything other than the specifics of his hoverbike or the race in question, it has been a disaster. Keith let’s his coach deal with the sponsors, and he just stands where he’s told and arches an eyebrow at the camera.

But now he’s in a walk in closet filled with perfectly laundered smart-casual outfits which look like they cost more than Keith’s first hoverbike, with his pants around his knees. His shirt is pushed up under his arm pits and the broad, perfect swathe of Shiro’s shoulders in front of him. The dimples of Shiro’s lower back are a pair of perfect little divots under Keith’s thumbs.

So, the party.

Drinks.

Keith nursing a half inch of single malt like he actually knows what he's doing, and Shiro hunching down to look for ice in the freezer of the host's massive party kitchen. Shiro wearing those tailored black pants, his ass the most perfectly sculpted thing Keith has ever seen.

And Keith doesn’t move his eyes away quick enough, and Shiro catches him staring. Shiro asks him something – about the view? The race? The weather? Keith’s not sure. He assumes whatever he responds with is clever or desperate enough to impress the Golden Boy of racing, because Shiro is crowding close, with a thick forearm braced on the wall over his head. Keith’s not short, but Shiro is big. Keith arches an eyebrow at him, smirking with well-practised confidence.

“So…first time at Coran’s right?”

Keith nods, feeling his pulse start to thrum like the engines of his bike.

“You want the tour?”

He raises his free hand to his lips, swollen from kissing, and smiles against his fingertips. His shirt is pushed up under his arm pits, his nipples are hard and flushed from attention. Shiro did that. Shiro kissed his chest, left toothy indents in his pec, then groaned against his mouth when Keith got a hand around his frankly enormous cock and begged him for more.

Keith’s grin turns triumphant as he tracks his eyes down Shiro’s back once more, pulling his ass cheeks apart with one hand, watching the way his thumb drags over the plush muscle.

"Red?" Shiro asks, his voice halfway to a groan.

It's Keith’s track nickname. It had been the only colour he could find to scrawl his race number onto his hoverbike for his first official race, back when he'd joined the lower division last year. Along with the red streak of paint smeared unknowingly across his cheek, it had stuck. He's obviously spent too long on this reverie, because Shiro is looking over his shoulder, his back arching obscenely, the tiniest hint of concern marring his lustful gaze.

"Everything OK?"

"Yeah," Keith chokes out, dragging his eyes away from the sight of Shiro’s hole, shiny and slick with Keith spit, and back to his face, the blush over his cheeks deep and extremely attractive. "Perfect. You're fucking beautiful, baby."

Shiro groans. At the praise or the nickname, Keith isn’t sure, but he knows he wants to hear that sound again. Shiro’s natural speaking voice is a rich baritone that Keith has not only spent hours listening too, but has absolutely imagined when he’s jerked off a fair-few times. But Shiro’s voice now is higher pitched, edged with need, and Keith wants to drown himself in it.

Keith pushes the blunt head of his cock against Shiro's rim, rubbing himself there but going no further. Shiro jerks back against him, and Keith instantly wraps both gloved hands around his hips to stop the motion. He knows they’ve not really done enough prep, too overexcited to slow down and wait, but the idea of hurting Shiro is unconscionable.

"R-Red?"

The softness of Shiro’s stutter makes Keith feel bold. Shiro's is gorgeous like this, true enough, but he’s also vulnerable. Keith knows the other man is putting a lot of faith and trust in him by being here like this. And not just like this because they are half naked in a closet in someone else’s house, but because Takashi Shirogane is the best hoverbike racer for more than twenty years and the only person to win the Triple Crown and the international Grand Prix in the same season, ever. Keith doubts that anyone thinks of Shiro as the type of guy who wants to have his shoulders pushed down against a shelf of perfectly steamed cashmere sweaters and get fucked. He's a big guy: strong, beautiful, solid, self-assured, and with musculature like a marble statue. And stereotypes blow.

Keith bends, sinking over Shiro until he is draped flush across his back, fingers tickling up his obliques before tracing the ridges and furrows of his impressive abs. He swirls around Shiro’s navel, fingertips scratching through the surprisingly soft hairs of a dark, well-maintained treasure trail, teasing around the base of his cock. He exhales warmly on the back of Shiro’s neck, rolling his hips so that the length of his cock slides over Shiro’s waiting hole.

"I cannot wait to rail you against every flat surface available," Keith growls in his ear, "I bet you're gonna to look real pretty spread over my pillows, Hotshot.”

Shiro's breath hitches, his abs heaving with Keith's words. And Keith grins, proud of the effect he is having on the man of his dreams.

The truth is, he’s had Shiro’s poster on the wall since he was thirteen. Shiro was just a seventeen-year-old in the Junior Division back then, grinning like the sun shone out of his smile.

Keith knows he’s lucky, because not every kid who puts in a bid for a track-side tickets gets one. There’s always more people in fan line ups than the drivers actually have time to meet and greet, but here he is, standing with his hard earned ticket in his hand, ready for Shiro to sign. Shiro takes it, scrawling his big, loopy signature with a silver sharpie which matches his hair, and their fingers brush when Keith takes the ticket back.

“I want to be just like you one day,” he blurts out, regretting it the moment the words leave his lips.

Shiro’s eyes meet his, and a tiny frown appears between his straight brows.

“Don’t aspire to be like me, bud.” Keith’s heart swells with the words from his hero. “You could be even better than me. Aim for that.”

“Really?” Keith wonders if the racer can see the stars in his eyes

Takashi Shirogane, the best racer in the Junior Division, doesn’t know Keith from any random stranger, but he still holds Keith’s gaze and his fingers on the ticket tightly when he replies.

“Yes.” So serious, so full of power. Keith can’t look away. “Go. Be great.”

Now, he allows himself to make a circle with his fingers around Shiro’s dick. He intends a loose stroke, but his fingertips only just meet around Shiro’s girth. The other man groans at the touch, his beautiful voice deep with need.

“Keith…”

“I got you big guy, don’t sweat it.”

Keith rolls his hips in a time with the movement of his hand, and Shiro practically whines when Keith’s cock slides over his hole again. For all that he was in a hurry to prep Shiro and get here, Keith feels the perverse desire to drag this out, despite the danger of their location. But he doesn’t want Shiro to worry that he’s being toyed with, so he draws his fingernails down the man’s spine, leaving faint red marks in their wake, and grasps his cock to nudge the tip against Shiro’s rim. There is a moment of silence, of pressure, where Keith forgets how to breath and his entire existence is reduced down to the sight and sensation of his cockhead pushing into Shiro's body. And then with an inaudible pop he begins to sink into the other man.

Keith thought Shiro was tight around his fingers as they kissed, but that’s nothing compared to the mind-blowing pressure around his cock now. In he thrusts, pulling Shiro’s sculpted ass apart with his thumbs, unable to look away as he splits him open, sliding deeper and deeper in one long movement until he is pressed in tight, all the way to the hilt.

Shiro moans, loud and reverberating in the close quarters of the closet. He shakes all over as Keith begins to pull back, the stretch of him somehow even more obscene on the way out, and Keith is driven by the mad desire to make Shiro as loud as possible.

So, he does. He keeps both hands on Shiro’s ass and pulls himself all the way out, loving the way the other racer’s hole looks just as he leaves it, soft and lax and gaping a tiny bit before tightening in a perfect rose-blush pucker once again. Shiro’s skin quivers under his touch, and then he is groaning aloud once again as Keith fucks directly back into the tight sheath of his body.

“Red!”

Keith can’t help the pleased, proud grunt he produces at Shiro’s sudden exclamation. He drapes himself over Shiro’s spine, wrapping both arms around his chest to pull him upright, the change in position allowing him to slip a little deeper into his partner as Shiro scrabbles for a hand hold on a different shelf. He half whimpers a profanity, and Keith sinks his teeth into the back of Shiro’s shoulder.

“Ahhh-!”

“Hmmm, oh you’re a noisy boy, aren’t you?” He chuckles, low and soft into Shiro’s ear, hoping the other man can’t tell quite how affected his is by their situation or the noises Shiro is making. The truth is, Keith knows if he lets himself drift even for a moment this will all be over before it’s even begun. “Feel good, Hotshot?”

“Y-yeah… fuck yeah. God, Keith…”

“You’re so fucking pretty, Shiro.” This brings forth a moan which is pornographic all by itself. Keith beams. “Look at you taking me so well.”

Keith yanks off his helmet and glares at the person standing on the open track near the pits. It’s not a race day, but pre-season testing, and it’s early enough that Keith had beaten both his coach and his one and only mechanic out to the track in order to get some time to himself with his bike.

“No one takes turn six like that. Not unless they are crazy, stupid, or mad skilled.”

“And which am I?” Keith manages, his annoyance at the interruption soothed by the soft way Shiro is smiling. Keith’s seen Shiro smile a lot, on posters, in interviews, shaking hands on the track, but those smiles are public and bigger. This one is just a quirk of his lips, his eyes gentle but focused, like Keith is the only other person in the universe right now.

“Time will tell, Red,” Shiro caresses the nose of Keith’s still warm hoverbike with one hand, the gestures far more intimate than a bare hand on a machine should be. “But you took it so well.”

Keith strokes a hand up Shiro’s front from his cock, across the perfect ridges of his abs, to cup on one beautifully plush pec. Shiro groans, and Keith uses the distraction of his bare fingertips skimming teasingly over Shiro’s pert nipple to slide himself all the way out of Shiro, until just the crown of his dick remains stretching the other man open. Shiro whimpers – actually fucking whimpers – at the loss of his cock, and Keith feels heady with the power he’s been given over his idol. He grunts, almost growling, then staggers back in a flurry of limbs as Shiro jerks his hips, fucking himself back onto Keith’s cock without pause.

“Holy fuck, Shiro-!” Keith’s the one propping himself up with a hand braced against a shelf of precisely folded outlandish outfits now, his other gloved hand clutching at Shiro’s hip as the man grinds his ass down on Keith. He wants to say something else, but he seems to have forgotten all language, both of his remaining braincells furiously smashing together in his dick.

“And I thought you were gonna fuck like you fly, Red?” Shiro half turns and swivels one eye on look back at him, the movement showing off every curve of his back and shoulders, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Or are you not the spitfire everyone thinks you are?”

Fuck the shelf, because Shiro’s tone galvanises him beyond all physical capability. Gravity has nothing on Keith on a mission, something he’s proved several time already. He reaches up to fist his fingers in Shiro’s hair – having to get a handhold far further forward than is natural because of Shiro’s delightfully soft textured undercut – and yanks the other racer back into an extreme arch to put Shiro’s ear level with his lips. He snarls, then slams his hips into Shiro’s as hard as he can.

“Was that a challenge Hotshot? You not tired of seeing me beat your record already today?” Keith feels a little delirious and feral, but Shiro only growls back with equal fervour.

“I could never get tired of that, Keith.”

The angle is awkward for a kiss, but they make it work, tongues colliding and smearing wetness in a way which would be messy and weird, if not for how desperate and hot they both are. Keith can feel Shiro’s pulse where his hand roams once more across his chest, and his own heartbeat is loud in his ears.

“Fuck- Shiro-”

And then suddenly there is light and the filtered noise from the party continuing downstairs without them. Keith isn’t sure if the sound of him swallowing his tongue is louder than the scrape of Shiro’s shoe against the floor, but they both try and make themselves smaller and less obvious. But neither thing is really possible, because Keith’s cock is still very firmly in Shiro’s ass, and they are already as far back into this enormous closet as the limits of physical space allow.

“I know I have the scarf in here somewhere Allura, darling....”

Keith clamps his hand over Shiro’s mouth just before he feels his idol groan their hosts name against his palm. Coran has come to his closet with Allura Alforson, looking for a fucking scarf, and if he turns the light on no amount of hasty movement is going to hide Shiro’s modesty, or his enormous hard on.

“Shhhhh…” Keith murmurs, more a breath than a whisper, against Shiro’s neck. “Quiet now, big guy.”

Coran hasn’t turned on the light, but already Keith can see that the man has his back to them. The closet is big and expansive, and so full of clothes as to create extra depth and shadows into which Keith and Shiro have slid. Coran is one of the most famous people in the racing industry, and Allura is certainly the most powerful as the CEO of Altea Tech, and something about the utter precariousness of the situation makes Keith bolder.

He reaches down to wrap his hand around Shiro’s cock once more, popping the head through the circle of his fingers, grinning darkly as he feels Shiro begin to mouth wetly at his hand. He nips the man’s neck, high up where it will sting and where the collar of Shiro’s jacket won’t hide it, and begins to rock himself in Shiro’s perfect body when he feels a blurt of slick precum begin to coat his hand.

“Oh, here it is. Silk darling, feel. Brought it back from Paris for your father. You’ll give it him for me?”

“Of course, Coran, it’s so nice of you to think of him…”

But the voices are fading along with footsteps, and the light dims suddenly as the door swings back behind Coran, leaving only a half inch stripe of paler shadow illuminating Shiro’s broad body. Keith chuckles.

“Fuck… that was close.”

Shiro moans against his hand as Keith pumps the head of his cock back through his fist, slippery with Shiro’s fluids.

“That’s hot… ohh…” Keith feels how his cheeks swell with his proprietary smile. “You kind of liked that, didn’t you, big guy? Was it the idea of getting caught, hmmm? Or do you just secretly like the thought of showing all this-” Keith makes sure to squeeze Shiro’s cock in time with his thrusting hips when he speaks, “-off to someone? You know you’re fucking beautiful Shiro. You kind of like the idea of people watching me worship you, don’t you?”

Shiro whines, head falling forward, dislodging Keith’s hand over his mouth. Keith doesn’t mind, but holds Shiro’s hip once more as he begins to lengthen his strokes. The new position lays Shiro out in front of him once more, and Keith’s only sadness is not being able to see that pretty face.

“Red…” Shiro sounds wrecked, and Keith knows he could get used to the sound of his name said like that.

“Fuck, Shiro…” Keith abandons his rhythmic stroking – Shiro whines at the loss – and runs all ten fingers down Shiro’s back, adding darker scratches to his earlier marks. He growls in pleasure. “Hope you aren’t doing any more topless photoshoots… everyone’s gonna know you belong to someone.”

For half a breath, Keith worries he’s overstepped, but then Shiro makes a punched out noise as Keith thrusts into him, ass clenching tight around Keith’s cock as he gasps. Keith reaches around, fingernails still digging little red crescents into the meat of Shiro’s lower back to touch once more at his cock. Shiro’s still hard, he hasn’t come, but Keith can feel the other man’s pulse hammering through his velvet-fine skin, the muscle slick with his precum. Keith groans, bending to press his lips and teeth into Shiro’s shoulder.

“Shiro… fucking hell, Hotshot.” Another groan drives Keith to bite harder, to worry the skin with his lips and tongue in between thrusts and murmured obscenities “You like that. Gahh… makes you hot, doesn’t it? Fuck… this-” he laps his tongue over the mark on Shiro’s shoulder, grasping his hip and yanking Shiro back onto his cock as he does, “-this is mine. You’re mine.”

Even if it’s just for now, just this once. Keith knows he probably doesn’t even get ‘tonight’ let alone the potential of a future. He gets now, he has to make it count.

“Keith-!” Shiro’s moan is desperate with need, his body vibrating under Keith’s ministrations. It energizes Keith’s frenzy into determination.

“Mine-!” He snarls into Shiro’s back, tugging him up again, pressing forward, shoving Shiro into the wall of shelving – knitted jumpers and silky textured garments that Shiro instantly disarrays with his hands as he steadies himself. “I always- always wanted...fuck, Shiro-!”

Keith flexes his foot, pumping the clutch as he punches the throttle, flicking up through the gears of the hoverbike, slightly faster than the machine actually likes to go. Something whines, and Keith snarls in the privacy of his helmet. The new bike – a fully rebuilt Holt TT Classic 900 – is slick and fast and bright cherry red, but Keith doesn’t know it like he did his old dirt racer. They’ve not learnt each other’s limits yet, and he feels like she doesn’t trust him.

“C’mon Red.” Keith isn’t sure if he’s talking to himself or the bike. “We gotta hold it together round this corner. Stick to the line.”

The left-hand turbine makes a rattling noise Keith doesn’t like at all, and the moment he tweaks the steering to ease up on the downward thrust from that side, it sends him off course and he loses his grip on the inside edge of the track. From behind him, slicing out of his slipstream like a phantom, comes Shiro on his sleek black Holt Katana RSV-X. The bike outclasses Keith’s in every conceivable way, passing him with scant microns between the wingtips of their turbine rims.

Keith snarls and pushes forward with both joysticks, ignoring the readouts which flash into orange and red as he pushes the engines as fast as they can go. It’s not enough, Shiro is too good a racer and his bike is too quick of a machine, and Keith flashes over the finish line a close but indignant second place.

He avoids throwing his helmet off in angry frustration when they finally pull up between the main stands, but only because Kolivan is already there and watching him. It’s only his third race in the pro-league, and he’s already been warned to be on best behaviour for his sponsors. And second place is good, it’s four crucial points to add to his tally and a big silver medal on his chest, but Keith is pissed with himself because winning was so close that he could taste it.

“That was some flying out there, Red.” Shiro on the podium is bright like the sun, everyone and everything drawn to him. He is the centre of Keith’s solar system when he directs his smile towards him, reaching down to pull him up the half step onto the higher platform. Someone has draped him in a garland of roses like a winning racehorse and ‘Shiro and flowers’ is a good look. “You were amazing out there.”

“Thanks.” Keith feels sort of stunned, to be standing so close to the champion of hoverbike racing and his own personal hero. Suddenly, he doesn’t hate Shiro for beating him. “You too. You’re so good.”

Shiro’s smile becomes soft, small, almost shy. Keith could blame the colour in his cheeks on the heat of the day or the flush of winning, but he doesn’t want to.

“You’ll have it next time, Red. I always said you we’re going to be great.”

And Keith stares at his idol and realises he isn’t the only one who remembers. He burns.

It is hot in the closet; the atmosphere is close and damp with their breathing and the sweat of their bodies. Keith pulls his fingers around Shiro’s hip, the sheen of sweat between them loosening his grip but driving him feral with desire. Everything is wet and heated and perfect and Shiro clenches around him so beautifully as he whimpers and moans Keith’s name in pleasure. Keith isn’t touching him, nothing beyond light teases traced up the underside of his cock as Shiro ruts and jerks towards his hand, desperate for more friction. Keith has a hand grasped onto the shelf over Shiro’s bowed head, an anchor as he fucks deeper, driving himself inside Shiro to hammer against his prostate. Shiro is falling to pieces in front of him, trusting Keith to hold him tight until he can fuse together again, and Keith is heady with the faith that’s been put in him.

“Shiro… fuck- so fucking pretty like this.” Keith switches his grip to knead the firm globe of Shiro’s magnificent ass, and feels the vibration of Shiro’s groan as his fingernails dig into the man’s beautiful skin. Keith wants to lick the sweat from his body, and he uses the next fuck forward to lean in and do just that. He drags his tongue up the furrow of Shiro’s spine, producing a moan which is practically a purr. “God, Hotshot. Can’t wait to see you when you come. Bet you look so fucking pretty, baby.” Keith grins when his words produce a whine of need from Shiro. “You gonna come on my cock like a good boy?” He claws an arm around Shiro’s chest, moulding himself to the other racer’s strong back as his pace increases, holding onto the shelf of Coran’s clothes for dear life as he drives himself towards his finish. “Cause you’re a good boy, aren’t you Shiro? The Golden Boy, everyone loves you.”

Shiro moans, wordless, wanton.

“Everyone loves you,” Keith gasps. The smack of his hips into Shiro’s ass is audible now, Shiro’s body clenches around him weakly but enough to drive him further insane. “But only I get to have you. Right, Hotshot?”

“Yes! Keith- yes. Red, please-!”

But his name in Shiro’s voice like that has done Keith in, and he growls and bites deeply into Shiro’s shoulder, a mark which he knows will leave a bruise, but he feels unable to stop himself. He ratchets forward, and then his whole body is tense and rigid as he spills himself. Coming inside Shiro feels transgressional, special, intoxicating. Shiro clutches at him, his whole-body sucking Keith in and keeping him close, and Keith has never been more thankful for the support of exterior props. He’s fairly certain the shelf in his hand might have splintered.

Footsteps.

It is the worst possible timing, but Keith knows in the fraction before the door opens that there’s no stopping what’s about to happen. He yanks a handful of fabric off the shelf – and thanks some beneficent god somewhere because it is one of Coran’s flamboyant and enormous capes – and swings it over his arm as he braces against the shelf. His other hand instantly comes up to Shiro’s mouth once more, and as the door is flung wide Keith bites his tongue on a yelp of surprise because Shiro has just sucked Keith’s thumb into his mouth right past the second knuckle.

“...He might well be in the garden, but it’s chilly out. Let me grab you a coat before we go and look.”

Keith’s eyes go wide in shock and horror, because the voice belongs to no other than the chief engineer of the Holt Motor Company. Matt is, as everyone knows, Shiro’s best friend and HMC are Shiro’s main sponsor. Keith might have hidden most of their partially clothed bodies from view, but he’s not tall enough to cover the distinctive shock of Shiro’s two-toned hair, and he’s glaring at the man who designed the engine of his own hoverbike over the ball of his shoulder.

There is absolutely no question that Matt has seen, but the person he’s with – a reporter Keith realises which a chilling shudder – is rather quickly grasped by the shoulder, and turned so that they are facing Matt in all his shaggy-ponytailed charisma.

“Let’s look at you. You’re a bit narrower than Coran… maybe a cape would be a good idea?”

Fuck. Yes, Matt Holt has definitely seen them and wants them to know that he has. Keith simultaneously wants to keel over and die and also continue fucking Shiro for as long as he physically can. Shiro is still hot and tight and perfect around him, Keith hasn’t wilted at all, and now he imagines the idea of filling Shiro up with another load and he practically snarls against his skin.

“Oh no, Coran won’t mind. He’s very generous with his things...”

He wants Matt to fuck off, and soon, but Matt is - Keith suddenly realises – a wanker, and will draw this out as long as possible to torture them both. Shiro laps at his thumb, distracting him from whatever innuendo Matt is dropping into his completely unnecessary conversation, swirling his tongue around the digit and Keith clenches his jaw so tight stars explode behind his eyelids. He wants this, and for far more than just this, now, in a fucking closet at the party. He wants this again and again in every manner Shiro will allow him. Keith desires nothing more than to worship his idol, and if he has to build an alter out of every locked door in the universe to make that happen, he will.

Keith angles his arm, hunching over Shiro protectively, and turns to Matt with a pleading expression. Matt, pretending to decide on which hat will best suit his reporter friends skin tone, smirks.

‘Please,’ Keith mouths silently. ‘Please go.’

‘What’s it worth?’

Keith fights the urge to destroy something. He wins, barely, and only because the wet heat of Shiro full of his cum is so distracting.

‘Name your price.’ Keith begs without speaking. ‘Anything. Please.’

Matt’s easy grin turns hard, but he wraps an arm around his friend again, directing them out of the closet with a little push. His eyes meet Keith’s and hold his gaze with lowered brows for a long moment.

‘You’d better make him happy, Red.’ Matt instructs silently.

“I think that’ll do. Let’s go see if we can find Shiro for you in the garden and get that quote for your article, yeah?”

Keith drops the cape as the closet door closes. The click of a latch has never been such a welcome sound as it is now.

“Fucking hell.” Keith groans into Shiro’s shoulder, mouthing over his skin. “That was way too fucking close…”

But his words drift into nothing, because Shiro is rhythmically and deliberately squeezing around the length of his cock, and Keith’s hips are already rolling in response to the action, fucking himself into the wet mess he’s already made. The idea of being his own sloppy seconds makes him moan, and clearly, he’s learnt nothing about being quiet even though they’ve been interrupted twice already. Shiro sucks harder on his thumb, tongue shaping against his knuckle, and Keith loses all semblance of self-control.

“Hands out, hotshot. Hold on tight, big boy.”

Shiro does exactly as he’s told, both hands coming up to grip the shelf in front of him. Keith tears his hand from Shiro’s mouth, grabbing his hip tight, dropping the other hand to squeeze around the base of his girthy cock. Shiro has dribbled enough pre to coat himself in the most erotic manner Keith has ever known.

“Gonna be noisy for me now, baby?” Keith snarls as he pulls himself from Shiro’s body, cockhead tugging at his puffy rim before thrusting back in one slick slide which he swears pulls part of his soul loose with how wet and perfect it is. “I’m going to make you scream, Hotshot.”

“Big promises there Red-” Shiro begins, but Keith shuts him up by pushing down his back, forcing him into a lewd arch, and nailing his prostate with perfect accuracy.

“Did you learn nothing from today, Hotshot? I always follow through on my promises.”

“K-Keith-!”

Shiro groans, gasps, whines as Keith encircles his cock, playing with the wetness at the tip as he plows into him again and again. And then Shiro clenches around him, bearing down on Keith’s cock as he comes. Keith is helpless – unprepared to be milked of his second orgasm as he collapses against Shiro’s back – and whimpers his idol’s name in a haze of bliss.

“Shiro… Shiro…. Fuck. I love you so much, gods.” He gulps a breath, vision hazy with oversensitivity and lack of oxygen. “So perfect Shiro, so good. Love you, baby.”

Shiro’s chest catches on the inhale, and his voice sounds low and serious.

“Red? What did you say?”

Shiro stops him with a hand on his shoulder as Keith crosses the track towards his hoverbike. He’s in pole position on the grid, having qualified fastest for today’s race. The two-hundredths of a second he’s shaved off Shiro’s time makes his blood sing with the sparkling possibility of future victory.

“What was that, Red?” Shiro arches an eyebrow, and his hand has travelled almost to Keith’s neck, squeezing weightily.

For a heartbeat, Keith considers shrugging off the question and the contact with a harmless lie, but the look in Shiro’s eyes stops him. The other racer’s gaze is dark, his voice low, but there’s no hint of threat, only the whisper of promise. It makes Keith want to be bold.

“I’m gonna beat your record today.”

“Is that so?”

Keith jerks his chin at the line-up, at his name sitting above Shiro’s. He likes the way it looks there. Shiro arches an eyebrow at him.

“So, you wanna be on top, do you little spitfire?” The intonation in his words causes Keith to shudder visibly. He’s fairly certain the sudden swelling of his cock isn’t visible through his leathers, but he burns beneath his suit regardless. “How about a little wager? Since you’re so confident.”

Keith has always been helpless in the face of a challenge.

“You’re on, Hotshot. What do I get if I win?”

Shiro swings a leg over his hoverbike before he answers, scooting himself forward with a rolling jerk of his hips. Keith licks his lips, following the action.

“Whatever you like Red.” Shiro smiles, a small, private thing that Keith burns into his memory. “Stay on top, and you can stay on top.”

Keith gapes at him, stunned. There is absolutely no misreading that tone. Every moment he’s ever spent looking at Shiro and thinking about him with his hand around his cock flashes through his vision. There’s a lot of them.

Shiro’s grin becomes a smirk.

“Race you for it, Red.”

Keith panics. He knows Shiro heard him. He knows what he said in the moment of delicious afterglow where his brain decided to bypass his quality filter and just tell his idol – who he is technically still fucking in a closet – that he loves him. Keith wants to throw himself and his hoverbike off a cliff, rather than deal with the rejection which is about to come. Worse, he knows that Shiro will be soft and gentle with him, try to make it painless and kind. Keith hopes maybe the other racer will punch him instead, somehow that will be easier to live with.

“Shiro-”

“Don’t,” Shiro cuts him off quickly, a hand coming around to wrap around Keith’s thigh, holding him flush to his body even though Keith’s gone soft inside him, his cum a wet mess between them. “Just… let me have this, OK? Let me pretend, just for now.”

Whatever Keith was going to say, he swallows as the shaky tone of Shiro’s words gets through to him.

“Wait, what?”

As awkward as it was getting out of some of their clothes when they were both hot and eager, it’s nothing compared to the artless way Keith slips from Shiro’s body. He winces with oversensitivity as he tucks his tacky dick back into his underwear, before turning Shiro around with a hand on each shoulder.

Shiro looks well fucked, his hair in disarray and his clothes a mess, and Keith would be proud if it wasn’t for the fact that the colour on Shiro’s cheeks has little to do with his orgasm, and everything to do with the wetness brimming in his eyes.

“Shiro-!” Keith surges up to kiss him, pressing against his lips for a long second before Shiro yields, their tongues sliding past each other as the bigger man opens up with a half-caught whimper. “No one is pretending here, OK?”

“K-Keith?”

Keith wraps both fists into the front of Shiro’s shirt, still pushed up above his fantastic chest. Keith has to stop himself from salivating at the sight.

“That was the best moment of my entire fucking life and I’m never going to say otherwise. I’m all in.”

“Better than winning the Arizona Canyon Classic?”

Keith snarls, tugging Shiro down by his shirt to bite his lip.

“I would give up racing tomorrow if it meant I got to kiss you again.”

“Oh Red...” Shiro’s wide-eyed shock only last for a moment, and then he’s smiling again. It’s another private grin, low and soft and just for Keith. “You mustn’t do that. It’s so much more fun to have you to race against.”

“Even if I win?”

“You don’t realise how much I enjoy looking at your ass.”

Keith didn’t realise he still had enough wherewithal left to blush, but apparently he does, because Shiro's words make his cheeks heat despite everything they've just done and said.

“You cannot just say that! Shiro!”

“And yet I did.” Shiro kisses him back. This time is slow and soft and Keith knows he could happily get lost in this for hours. “You were serious?”

“About being in love with you? Yeah.”

Shiro groans into his mouth and Keith is back to combing Shiro’s silvery hair floof with his fingers and instantly he moulds himself against the other man’s front.

“I don’t wanna share you with them,” Keith manages when they break for air.

“Well that makes two of us.”

Keith punches him ineffectually in the shoulder. Shiro is built like a tank, and Keith’s muscles are apparently made of cooked noodles now that he’s physically exhausted. Shiro laughs softly.

“I mean it-” Keith starts.

“Me too, Red.” A frown passes across Shiro’s face like clouds over the moon. “Matt and his reporter friend are still out there somewhere I expect, and they won’t be the only ones. Everyone will want a comment out of me. I’ve not lost in a while and… well, you did break my track record.” Shiro beams. “I’m so proud of you.”

Keith kisses him again quickly, because the fond look in Shiro’s eyes is making him feel all squirmy.

“Yeah, well. If it wasn’t for you my life would have been a lot different.” Keith runs his hands down Shiro’s ribs, skimming the marks his fingernails have already left on Shiro’s skin. “Let me take you away from here, baby.”

“Yeah? You got anywhere in mind?”

“I’ll go to the edge of the universe if you’re coming with, Hotshot.”

Shiro grins, cupping his jaw, eyes sparkling despite the fact that his pants are still trapped around his thighs and they both look exactly like they’ve spent the last hour fucking in a closet.

“Sounds good Keith. Really good.” Shiro kisses him, and this time, it tastes like a promise. “You can drive.”