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Keith’s ears flick at the roaring of the crowd, the rec hall packed tight with spectators excited to start their weekend with some good, clean violence.
He ignores them, same as he ignores the bunny-hybrid beside him with her small hand at his elbow, and the much larger bear-hybrid on the bunny’s other side. She leads them both up onto a raised platform where three humans wait for them.
The bunny drops their arms and stands by a human in scrubs who shines a bright penlight into the bear’s eyes, then into Keith’s. His tail twitches at the annoyance but he doesn’t blink.
“Dilation normal,” she says to another human, who ticks a mark on his clipboard. “Get ‘em on the scales.”
The bunny girl leads the bear to be weighed first. “Stand here, please,” she says in her soft, wispy voice.
She’s a long-ear, Keith notes with detachment. Bred to seem more docile than other more rigidly eared species. None of the strain of keeping her heavy ears pricked forward shows on her face.
The human in scrubs taps the weights on the scale bar a few times until it’s balanced. “Two-eighty-four,” she says to the man with the clipboard. “Weight bracket G. Predator species. Next.”
The bunny ushers the bear off the scales and takes Keith’s elbow again to lead him onto the scale. He doesn’t love this part of the process, all the guiding touches by some prey species— it always seems so unnecessary— but he allows it, like always.
“One-forty-two. Weight bracket B. Predator species.”
The third human on the platform looks uncomfortably back and forth between the other two. “Are we sure this is the right match-up? The people want a fight, not a slaughter.” He taps nervously at the microphone in his hand.
“It’s right here on the paper,” says the man with the clipboard, pointing at the page. “The felid’s owner said put him in. We just do the hoktril screening. S’ not up to us who goes against who.”
Keith also doesn’t love being spoken about like he’s not standing right there, but, again. He allows it, like always.
The woman in scrubs takes two vials from a cooling unit on a table, and hands them both to the bunny. She points at the first vial. “This one for the bear.” Then to the second, much smaller vial. “This one for the felid.”
Obviously, Keith thinks.
The girl’s face is blankly pleasant as she obediently hands off the vials.
The man with the microphone looks once more between Keith and his opposition before shrugging to himself.
“Alright pretty thing,” he says to the bunny, and swings open the gate to the ring. “Go ahead and lead ‘em out.”
She takes them both gently by the elbow again and leads them through, not even flinching when the human plucks at her tail through the cutout of her miniskirt as he follows them out.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The human’s voice booms around them, and the noise of the crowd swells. “For the second match of the night, it’s your favorite bear hybrid! Three-time champion in this very arena, put your hands together for Boulder!”
The crowd erupts with cheers, the noise oppressive to Keith’s sensitive ears.
“And his opponent, newcomer to the Kral Zera Arena and our first felid in the ring since Boulder himself defeated crowd-favorite, Hurricane, three years ago... give a warm welcome to Wildfire!”
Keith expects the boo-ing and jeering, already prepared to keep his tail swaying calmly and a smirk light on his lips. They won’t underestimate him for long.
“Fighters ready?”
Keith and the bear hybrid— Boulder— step in front of each other and grip hands, holding their vials in the other.
Boulder crushes Keith’s hand in his massive palm with a grin. It hurts, but Keith doesn’t even blink.
Boulder won’t underestimate him for long, either.
“Hoktril ready, and…let the match begin!”
They drain their vials and hand them off to the bunny, who takes them and leaves the ring. The gate locks behind her with an air of finality.
Keith and Boulder step back from each other and the announcer takes his place on the raised dais.
Keith cracks his neck, waiting for it to kick in.
The hoktril serum is measured carefully for different weight brackets to ensure their systems metabolize it at a similar rate, so when his skin starts to tingle and he gets a rush of heart-pounding energy, he knows that the other hybrid is feeling it too.
A growl rises in Keith chest, his lips pulling back to show his pointed teeth.
The bear answers with his own deep rumble.
There’s a quiet moment of tension, the crowd holding its breath, while they size each other up.
The bear is stronger, significantly so, but Keith is faster. Smarter, too, probably, but he hasn’t gotten this far by underestimating his opponents.
The bear shatters the moment with a deafening roar and it’s on, the predators lunging for each other, snapping and snarling.
Keith swipes at his opponent, feeling him out and testing his reflexes. He’s a little too slow to avoid it and Keith gets some claw marks into his arm.
Somewhere in the haze of his mind he hears the announcer call first blood, but it doesn’t matter, just something to get the crowd yelling. The hoktril coursing through him will have those scratches healed in minutes.
They circle each other, assessing openings and weaknesses.
The bear leaps at him and Keith stumbles; massive claws gouge deep into his side and the force of it sends him flying.
The crowd bellows.
He manages to get to his feet and stagger out of the way of a follow-through attack, ears pinned back and hissing. He clutches at the painful gashes, hand bloody when he pulls it back.
Grinning and salivating with the taste of an easy, early victory, the bear lunges again, Keith just a hair too slow to avoid a shallow slice on his shoulder.
He doesn’t even feel it, and his side is already starting to knit together. But the bear isn’t thinking about that. The bear is thinking that he’s almost won, that Keith’s a few solid blows away from being down for the count. And he gets sloppy.
For ever hit that Keith takes, Boulder takes three, until he’s got gashes in various stages of healing all over his body and he’s panting from exertion. The hoktril makes serious, lasting injuries a rare thing in fights like these, deaths even more so, but the process of such rapid healing saps energy like nothing else.
That’s what Keith is counting on.
Boulder is slowing noticeably, and the crowd is screaming for him to hurry up and finish Keith off already.
Keith is still moving quick; he hasn’t sustained a serious injury since the first one.
Eventually Boulder stumbles to the side and Keith takes the opening, swinging a wide roundhouse kick to his head, fatigue and blunt force trauma putting him on the mat for long enough that the announcer calls the match.
It’ll take a moment for them to open the gate, so Keith works the crowd a little— if he wants to make it to the big time, he’ll have to be picked up by a sponsor first, and to be picked up by a sponsor, you have to have fans.
But humans are simple creatures.
He completely ignores the announcement of his victory and the easily swayed crowd chanting his name now, stretching languidly and arching his back.
Really, it’s almost too easy.
He licks his lips with a small smile, but his attention is elsewhere.
The gate should be opening soon…
He hides his excitement behind haughty aloofness, cocking a hip out and checking his claws, tail low behind him and swaying just enough to bring attention to it, as black as his hair and as soft and fluffy as it looks.
It’s opening, the gate is opening and he can smell him, the only human in the world he cares about, and he’s right outside the gate, waiting for Keith…
His muscles tense, ready to launch himself into strong arms and bask in warm praise—
But no. He has to remind himself every time— he can’t run to him, can’t nuzzle and scent him like he wants; he’s a fighter, rookie but already a hotshot, bred for the ring. Not some domestic lap-cat.
He spares the crowd his attention long enough to leave them with a sharp-toothed grin that shows off the points of his canines, knowing it makes him look dangerous and half-wild. That’s his brand after all. It’s part of the appeal. Humans like to think they could tame him. Every human always thinks that they could be the one to command him, control him. They get off on the fantasy.
Keith’s only met one human who never tried.
The bunny-hybrid passes him on her way to help Keith’s defeated opponent stagger to his feet, but Keith has eyes for only one person...
“Takashi Shirogane. Registered owner of felid-hybrid fighter, stage name Wildfire.”
He’s showing his ID to the human with the clipboard, even though Keith knows he knows who Keith’s owner is.
Owner.
Keith doesn’t like the word. Shiro doesn’t own him in any way but on paper.
They’re partners, Shiro says. Equals. They help each other, watch each other’s backs. Take care of each other.
Keith doesn’t belong to anyone but himself, he says.
That’s what he says, but.
Keith would let Shiro own him, if he wanted.
Keith would let him own him in the way that so many humans like to own their little pets, would wear the scent of his claim proudly, would let Shiro have him any way he could imagine.
Except that Shiro doesn’t want him.
Not like that.
And Shiro already takes such good care of Keith, more than Keith could ever provide in return. If Shiro wanted, if he asked, Keith would give him his body on a silver platter, for Shiro’s exclusive and exhaustive use.
It’s all he really has to offer.
But Keith’s a fighter, bred for the ring, temperamental and difficult by nature. Not some sweet little breeder.
And Shiro doesn’t want him. And he already does so much for Keith that Keith can’t ask him for anything else.
The clipboard man hands the ID back. “Congratulations on your win, that felid’s a little firecracker. Wait here for a moment and Archie will be here with the prize money.”
“Sure, thanks.”
Shiro’s polite smile expands into a brilliant grin as he sees Keith approaching. His eyes are so warm and Keith just wants to rush into his arms— but he’s got a persona to maintain.
He’s antsy to get back to their hotel room so Shiro can smother him in praise and affection.
“You were amazing!” Shiro whisper-shouts. “I’m so proud of you! Does anything hurt?”
Keith gives Shiro a quick, private smile and shakes his head.
The woman in scrubs approaches them with her penlight. “May I?” she asks Shiro.
Shiro doesn’t make decisions about what Keith will consent to. Instead, he looks to Keith for an answer.
Keith nods.
It irritates him that the human still waits on Shiro to answer. “He says it’s fine.”
The penlight shines into his eyes and his ears flick back, tail twitching it agitation. The light hurts.
“Pupils still dilated,” she confirms. “Would you like any anti-stimulants?”
Shiro looks at Keith again even though he already knows Keith’s answer.
Keith shakes his head.
“No, thank you. They make him sick.”
Keith doesn’t like the new, assessing look that she gives them. He’s seen it a few times when Shiro’s refused the anti-stimulants for him, and he doesn’t understand it, or why Shiro’s face is always carefully neutral when it happens.
Keith gets Shiro’s attention and taps two blunt-nailed fingertips to his lips.
“Could you get some water for him, though?”
He could speak for himself, but the hoktril makes him hazy and it’s harder to form the words. But Shiro always knows just what he needs.
“Of course.”
While Keith is sipping at his water pouch, the announcer comes down and shakes Shiro’s hand and congratulates him, handing him a thick envelope, which Shiro pockets.
Shiro also shakes hands with the owner of the bear hybrid, a heavily perfumed middle-aged woman in high heels, when she approaches.
Keith is glad Shiro doesn’t cover up his natural scent.
They compliment each other on their fighter’s talent in the ring, and agree it was a match well fought. Keith knows Shiro is just being polite, but he bristles at Shiro’s words of praise for the other hybrid. His ears flick back in annoyance.
He doesn’t like the indulgent, patronizing smile the bear’s owner fixes him with.
“Mine gets possessive, too, after a fight. It’s part of the fun, right?” She turns when the human in scrubs speaks to her. “Hm? Oh, no, dear, we won’t need the anti-stimulants, thank you.” She titters, and takes the hand of her still-healing fighter. “Come along, Bruno, let’s get you cleaned up and into a nice, warm bed, hm?” Boulder— Bruno, whoever— grunt and nods, letting his owner gently lead him off through a door off the side to avoid the fans.
What did she mean by possessive? Keith isn’t possessive, at least not any more than he usually is, which he feels is a normal and reasonable amount. He doesn’t like when humans talk over his head and he doesn’t like the strain in Shiro’s smile as he bids them good night.
But the strain leaves his smile when he looks at Keith, and that’s all that really matters. “Do you need anything before we go back to the hotel? Are you hungry?”
Shiro knows he’s not, but he always asks, just in case. Keith will be ravenous tomorrow, but all that he wants right now is to cuddle and sleep. They’ll get back to their room and Shiro will insist on wiping off the dried blood and sweat, Keith will pout about it but let him, and then he’ll crawl into Shiro’s lap and wake up fresh as a morning daisy in clean pajamas, curled up with his face buried in whatever shirt Shiro was wearing last.
Shiro never sleeps in the same bed as him, always books rooms with two queen-sized beds when they’re too far to drive home, but at least he lets Keith have his scent to soothe him in his sleep. Just another little way that Shiro takes care of him, another little thing that Keith has no way to repay him for, another little reason that he can’t ask for more than he’s already got.
Keith shakes his head, closes his eyes and taps his temple. Shiro’s broad hand is warm and comforting when it squeezes his shoulder. “Alright, then. Let’s get you into bed.”
Keith hears a poorly stifled sound from behind them as they turn to leave, but Shiro ignores it so Keith does too.
***
This is Shiro’s favorite part after Keith has a match, and equally the part he dreads the most.
He sits in the armchair by the hotel window, Keith half-conscious, curled and purring in his lap, soft tail curling around Shiro’s ankle. He closes his eyes and enjoys the peace while it lasts.
This would be so much easier with anti-stimulants. But even in small doses they’re more like horse tranquilizers; the chemicals that neutralize the hoktril leave Keith feeling lethargic and nauseated for days after a fight. Shiro can’t ask him to put up with that just to make things easier for himself.
Shiro can already feel the shame heating his face: he’s got Keith stripped down to his underwear, himself only in lounge pants. He’s found that more skin-to-skin contact prolongs this part, soothes Keith’s instinctual desire for closeness for longer, but he hates how much he craves this for himself, feels lecherous and predatory for holding Keith close and relishing the weight of him in his lap, feeling sick pride that he’s the only one that gets to see Keith like this, the only one he scents, the only one who gets to feel him purr against their chest, safe and happy and trusting.
But this is all he’ll let himself have.
He’s promised himself, and he’s promised Keith more times than he can count, though Keith won’t ever remember it.
Keith whines and squirms, pushing his nose into the juncture of Shiro’s neck and shoulder, breathing him in. He’s never ready for this, but he’s never broken and goddammit, he never will.
He closes his eyes and steels himself.
He lets Keith scent and snuggle, but when Keith starts getting restless, squirming and tongue darting out to lick a thick stripe up his throat, he stands with a grunt and carries Keith over to the bed across the room. Keith clings when he tries to lay him down, but Shiro slips from his arms with the ease of practice.
“Shiro,” Keith whines, slurred from the hoktril and scratchy from disuse. “Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Keith. I’m right here with you.”
“Don’t leave,” he pleads. “Kiss me.”
“I’m never going to leave you. Not for anything. But I can’t do that.”
Keith’s wordless, heartbroken whine tears at him. “You don’t want me,” he whispers, and god, that tears at Shiro, too.
“I do,” he confesses. “More than anything. But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I took advantage of you.”
Keith sits up and leans forward,painfully earnest when he says “It’s not! You wouldn’t!”
Shiro allows Keith to take his hand and rest his feverish cheek on it.
“Keith,” Shiro says gently. “I know you think that. But the hoktril is still wearing off. I know you want me right now, but it’s not what you actually want. It’s just your body’s instincts telling you that you do.”
“You can’t tell me that!” Keith shoves his hand away and bares his teeth. His voice carries on top of the growl rumbling in his chest. “I want you all the time! You- you don’t want me! You can’t reject me and then say it’s my fault!”
Keith’s distressed and angry, but he still trills when Shiro strokes his cheek and it rips at Shiro’s heart.
“I’ll make you a deal, ok?” he says. Jesus, he’s got the words memorized at this point. “Tell me that when you’re not coming down off of a hoktril high. Tell me that on a regular day with nothing in your system, and I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Fine!” Keith says. “I will! I’ll tell you tomorrow as soon as I wake up. And then you’ll kiss me? And touch me? And- and- and-”
“Anything, Keith,” Shiro whispers. “Anything at all.”
“Fine.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes while Keith calms himself by rubbing his face all over Shiro’s prosthetic, instinct telling him that if it doesn’t smell like Shiro, then it should at least smell like Keith.
When Keith limply drops Shiro’s arm and his breaths start to come quicker, a flush creeping up his throat and into his cheeks and eyes going glassy, Shiro braces himself.
“Uh, Sh-Shiro?”
Here it comes.
“What is it, Keith?”
“I… I don’t feel good. M-my skin hurts, it’s too hot. I need- I have to-”
Keith flops on his back and wriggles out of his underwear, too out of it to be ashamed.
Not that he should feel any shame about any part of his body.
The bedspread beneath him is a stale floral pattern, but Keith makes it look like art, his pale skin glowing in the dim lamplight, criss-crossed scars intersecting with the birthmarks of his heritage that curl over his hips and up his shoulders, and all of it utterly flawless.
He fists his cock and Shiro turns away to perch at the foot of the bed instead.
“Shiro,” Keith moans, and Shiro clenches the covers tight, until his knuckles are white and his prosthetics creaks.
“Keith, I- I should go.” He tries every time. “I know you need this, but I shouldn’t be here.”
“No!” The same edge of near-panic. “Don’t go, don’t leave me-”
“Hey, hey shh. It’s ok,” he soothes. “I’ll stay right here. I won’t go anywhere, I promise.” With his back still turned, he strokes over Keith’s bare ankle, a soothing touch for Keith and the most he can allow himself before he sinks his fingers into the covers again.
The only sounds he can hear are Keith’s breathing and his own thundering heart, until Keith gasps and whimpers his name, and Shiro can feel the tremors in the mattress, an echo of Keith’s movements that he wishes he couldn’t feel.
Keith growls in frustration, his movements picking up.
Sometimes this is enough, for Shiro to stay close and let Keith get it out of his system, but he’s not optimistic for tonight. Those nights seem to be coming fewer and further between.
“Shiro, please,” he whimpers, and Shiro can feel him start to thrash. “It’s not enough, I can’t- I can’t do it, Shiro, touch me please!”
The fabric between Shiro’s fingers rips.
He has to keep his voice calm, level. Keith needs one of them to be in control of themselves. “I can’t, Keith. You know that. You just have to take care of it yourself until- until you tell me, tomorrow.”
“Will you look at me?”
He doesn’t want to.
Does want to. Desperately.
If he turns, will it be for Keith’s benefit, or his own?
Keith trills at him, plaintive and wretched, and that’s his choice made for him.
Shiro turns, slow, braced for what he’ll see.
His breath shudders out of him.
Keith’s a fucking dream— and Shiro’s nightmare— flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat already, panting through gritted teeth with those sharp, sharp canines on display. His pupils slit and expand, ears pinned flat in his shaggy hair.
He strokes himself with one hand, the fingertips of the other hand digging into his own hip. He doesn’t seem to notice that his claws keep unsheathing and pricking his skin.
“Hey, hey, whoa.” Shiro’s pulling Keith’s hand from his punctured skin before he can think. “You have to be careful, you’re not going to heal as fast.” He presses Keith’s hand firmly into the ugly covers. “Destroy the covers as much as you want. I can replace them, but I can’t replace you if you hurt yourself.”
He wipes the beaded blood from his hip, and yeah ok, that was a bad idea because Keith is still jerking his cock now inches away from Shiro’s hand and Keith’s arching into the soft touch with a pleased little chirp.
Shiro snatches his hand back.
“Shiro…”
“I know, I know.”
Keith is leaking all over his hand and belly, cock red and pulsing.
“Just let it out, it’s ok.”
Keith strokes himself faster, his hips hitching up to fuck his fist.
“Ah! Nnn Shiro I-”
“It’s ok,” Shiro whispers, hating himself for watching. For wanting to watch.
“I can’t- I can’t- fuck!”
His claws rend a hole in the covers.
“Keith-”
“No!” He smacks his fist onto the bed. “It’s not enough, I- I’m so empty…”
Oh god, please, please not this.
Before Shiro can beg him not to, Keith’s on his belly, ass in the air and tail raised like an invitation.
Shiro has a perfect, unimpeded view of his pink little hole and that’s enough to make his eyes cross, but behind Keith’s balls Shiro can see his slit opening, glistening and engorged with arousal.
“Keith…” He feels totally helpless.
“Touch me,” Keith pleads. “I need you. You- you could fuck me. I could make it so good for you, I know I could.”
Shiro wants to cry. “I know, Keith. I know you’d be perfect. But I can’t.”
Keith trills at him again, a pathetic sound.
“What if-” God he feels so sick even offering, but if it helps... “What if I told you how to touch yourself? Would that help, if I guided you through it?”
“I- maybe? Will you… will you tell me to do it how you would? If you could?”
As long as he doesn’t actually touch him, it doesn’t matter, right? As long as Keith gets what he needs. As long as Shiro doesn’t lay a finger on him, it’s all just specifics that Keith will have no memory of in the morning.
“If that’s what you want. I can do that.”
Keith nods with a sigh.
“I need to get a towel, I’ll be right back. Ah-ah, I’m not leaving, don’t fuss. Close your eyes and take two deep breaths, and I’ll be back before you’re done.”
Shiro has a soft hotel towel beneath him before he’s finished inhaling his second breath.
“There, see?”
Keith nods into the pillow and mumbles, “You always keep your promises to me.”
Shiro’s breath constricts. “I try, Keith,” he whispers, not sure that Keith is even listening. “God, I try so hard.”
“Shiro, please, I need—”
“Shh, ok baby, I know. Lay on your back for me, that’s good. Is your tail comfy?”
The tip of it twitches where it hangs off the side of the bed.
“S’fine.”
“Good.” Shiro takes his earlier seat at the foot of the bed. “Now I want you to just, lightly run your hands over your body. Don’t focus on trying to keep your claws in or out, just let them do what feels natural.”
Keith sighs, eyes sliding closed while his claws slowly extend like caps over his blunt-clipped nails.
“That’s it. Be gentle, so you don’t cut your skin. Now run the pads of your fingers over your nipples. Does that feel good?”
“Mhmm...” Keith sighs. Shiro doesn’t think he even realizes that his legs have fallen wide, or that he’s giving Shiro a torturous view of the dribble of slick that spills from his slit to the towel beneath him.
“Good, that’s...good…” Shiro can’t think.
“Tell me...what to do next.” His cock is still angry-red and leaking, but Keith seems calmer under Shiro’s attention and instruction. That’s good. Once he’s relaxed enough he won’t need to focus on retracting his claws.
“Bend your knees, and touch your thighs and hips the same way. Keep taking deep breaths.”
Shiro feels a surge of victory when Keith’s claws retract naturally after only a few more moments.
“You’re doing so good, sweetheart. I want you to spread your legs a little further and take one finger and brush over your slit, but don’t push in yet, alright?”
Keith moans, gathering slick on his finger as it glides over the tender skin between his legs. “D’you think m’good?” he slurs. “Am I doin a… hnn… a good job?”
His words are already starting to go, and Shiro knows that once he gets something inside him he’ll be almost totally nonverbal. “I think you’re so good, Keith. You’re doing wonderfully. You’re making me so proud, baby.”
Keith’s hazy eyes light up and another trickle of slick pours over his finger. “Want you to be p-proud of me. Wanna be good, make- make you, hah, make you proud.”
“I am,” Shiro promises. “I’m so proud of you, baby, you’re always so good for me. You’re being so good right now, doing just what I ask. Now get some more slick on your fingers and spread it over your cock, ok? Then stroke yourself nice and slow.”
Keith moans when his hand curls around his cock.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” Shiro coos. “Keep stroking just like that, and when you’re ready you can put one finger inside.”
Keith doesn’t hesitate before pushing a finger in, mewling as another rush of slick pools out of him. Shiro’s dick throbs.
“Is that good, baby?”
Keith chirps at him, lashes fluttering.
“I thought so. Are you ready for two?”
He immediately plunges a second finger inside and begins rocking his hips down onto them.
“I guess that’s a yes,” Shiro croaks.
Keith’s fingers drip and shine when he pulls them out to spread more slick on his cock.
“Good job,” Shiro praises. “Start stroking yourself a little faster now, that’s it. Keep doing exactly that, just let yourself feel it.”
With Keith finally to content to work at himself, Shiro closes his eyes and tries to think of anything else but the sounds of Keith’s pleasure coming from beside him.
With the prize money they got tonight, and from what he made from the bets he placed, they’ll be able to pay all the upcoming bills for the next month at least, with enough left to stock the fridge a few times over and take Keith to a celebratory steak dinner tomorrow.
An aggravated growl drags him away from safer thoughts and back to the present, where Keith glares at him with his pupils slitted and upper lip curled back. When he’s sure he has Shiro’s attention, he spreads his legs wider and pushes a third finger into himself, arching his back into an unnatural curve and mewling loudly.
Fucking Christ. He should’ve known better.
“Ok, baby, ok, I understand. I’m watching now, I promise. Relax again for me, ok? You don’t have to earn my attention, it’s all yours, Keith.”
I’m all yours.
Keith slowly relaxes into the mattress, watching Shiro watch him.
“Make yourself feel good,” Shiro instructs gently. “I’m watching.”
Keith’s eyes flutter closed, satisfied. Pleased little trills mix with his moans as he strokes and fingers himself, getting louder as he picks up speed.
The wet, sloppy sounds of Keith’s fingers have Shiro’s own fingers digging cruelly into his thighs, trying to watch like he promised he would without thinking of all the things he wants to do to Keith, how good he could make him feel…
“ Shiro…” Keith moans, precome beading up and spilling over his fist and fuck Shiro can see the way his cock pulses and spurts out another clear dribble that rolls down his fingers.
Keith usually can’t say anything when he’s like this, but he’s still calling for Shiro and it’s all Shiro can do to keep his hands off his own cock because if he touches himself he’ll be gone in two strokes.
“I’m here, baby,” Shiro whispers. “I’m right here. Do you need to come?”
Keith nods but makes a distressed sound, eyes blinking open and holding Shiro’s gaze, reaching for him with a hand sticky and dripping with his slick. Those fingers would taste so sweet on his tongue…
Stop it.
“It’s ok, you can come sweetheart.”
Keith shakes his head and growls, ears pinning back.
He reaches for Shiro more frantically, then— when Shiro doesn’t immediately comply— pulls his wrist to his face with an aggravated huff and pointedly breathes in.
Oh.
He wants to scent him.
Wants to scent Shiro while he…while he…
But that’s ok, right? Keith scents him all the time. This isn’t so different.
It’s a comfort thing. And if it doesn’t require Shiro to touch him…then, it’s fine.
Right?
Keith trills pathetically, eyes begging, and Shiro’s moving before he can help it.
He kneels on the floor at the head of bed, the nightstand between their beds digging uncomfortably into his side, but as he bares his neck and Keith squirms closer, all he can feel is Keith shoving his face against his skin, taking deep, shuddering breaths that make him shiver.
“Is that better?” Shiro whispers.
Keith chirps at him.
“Good. Don’t get distracted, baby, keep touching yourself. Perfect, just like that. You’re doing so well, sweetheart, so good for me.”
The words pour out of him; praising Keith just feels natural and right, even though he knows putting himself this close to Keith is so dangerous for his self-control. And then Keith’s hot breath is on his neck, followed by just the faintest scrape of sharp teeth and thinks yes, yes, do it, please before his braining catches up and realizes that under no circumstances can he let Keith mark him.
“Don’t bite,” Shiro commands, putting steel into his words to make sure Keith listens. He hates using that tone of voice with Keith, but he can’t walk around with teeth marks on his neck for Keith to see.
Keith whines and snaps his teeth, but they don’t touch Shiro’s skin.
“Good boy,” Shiro murmurs. “Always so good.”
At this angle, Shiro has the perfect view of Keith’s hands speeding up, getting desperate. He can’t quite see Keith’s fingers disappearing inside himself, but he can hear them, and he can just imagine the slick pooling between Keith’s splayed legs the same way that his cock is leaking a puddle on his belly.
Keith’s breaths have turned to gasping, hiccuping moans. His abs clench, hips snapping up into his fist then rolling down onto his fingers, the motion so fluid that Shiro can only imagine how Keith would look on his—
Stop. It.
Keith trills again, then starts making these pitchy little unh, unh noises that Shiro knows too well, and Keith won’t know the difference if he closes his eyes and looks away, he should close his eyes and look away but he’s not, he’s not looking away, he’s squeezing hard around the base of his cock through his pants and watching, voice like gravel as he says, “Fuck, baby, that’s it, keep going, you’re doing so good, being so good for me, god you’re so beautiful you have no idea, so perfect, Keith, come on baby, come for me, come for me, oh good boy—”
Keith’s cock jerks once, twice and he’s coming, wailing through it as he streaks rope after rope all over himself, and Shiro can’t see it but he knows Keith’s walls are clenching around his fingers, pulsing over and over as he gushes slick onto the towel.
Shiro feels a breath away from tumbling over the edge behind him.
Keith takes one last panting breath of Shiro’s skin, cock spilling another little dribble of come that rolls down and adds to the mess in the thick, short hair at the base, before his arms go limp, twitching with aftershocks.
Keith blinks dazedly up at Shiro when he stands to put some much-needed distance between himself and the sated hybrid.
“Shiro?” Keith rasps.
Shiro sits back down at the foot of the bed, close enough to keep Keith calm, but far enough to help clear the haze in his mind.
“Hey, Keith.” His voice sounds wrecked.
Keith’s brows draw. “Are you ok?”
Is he?
“I’m just fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Keith hums thoughtfully.
“Are you hard?”
Shiro chokes. That’s new.
“Wh- ah- what?”
Keith doesn’t look at all concerned or embarrassed. “Your dick. Are you hard?”
What’s the point in hedging around it when the answer is obvious anyway?
“Yes.”
“Is it because of me?”
Jesus.
Who else would it be?
“Yes.”
Keith considers that.
“Can I suck you off?”
Jesus.
He says it like he’s asking if they can go see a movie, or if they can get milkshakes after practice.
“I—”
“I can make it good.” He looks so earnest, so eager. “I’ll be careful of my teeth, I swear. You would like it, if you let me.” He sits up on his knees, come sliding down his chest and belly and dripping down between his legs.
Shiro closes his eyes and fits his fingers into the bruises he dug into his thighs earlier.
“I can’t, Keith. I’m sure—” he swallows. “I’m sure you would be great. It’s not you, I just. I can’t take advantage of you like that. You’re too important to me.”
He’s braced for an argument, but when he opens his eyes, Keith looks disappointed but accepting.
“Do you want to come on me?”
Where the fuck is this all coming from? Is Keith actually trying to kill him?
“Kei—”
“You wouldn’t even have to touch me!” Keith rushes to say. “I’d hold still, and you could take care of yourself. You’re going to anyway, right?” He gestures to himself. “What difference would it make?”
The question pulls Shiro up short.
...What difference would it make?
The thought is more tempting than it has any right to be.
No. He can’t.
He can’t.
But... why? Why can’t he? Keith’s already covered in come. What’s a little more?
He bites his lip as he palms his straining dick through the soft cotton of his pants.
“I’d wear your scent on me all day,” Keith sighs, and he’s already getting hard again, stroking his messy cock as his eyes rake Shiro in.
It’s the douse of cold water he needs. Of course Keith would be able to smell it, he can always tell which humans are fucking their hybrids, so obviously he’d be able to smell it on his own skin.
And what would he think, smelling like Shiro and having no idea why?
Giving in would’ve been a disaster, and he very nearly did. He’s ashamed. That should never have been a close call in the first place.
“I can’t, Keith. I want to, but I can’t.”
Keith growls. Not at Shiro, just a sound of general frustration at the unfairness of not getting what he wants.
Shiro can sympathize.
“Then let me watch,” Keith demands. “You can stay as far away from me as you want.” Shiro hates that he can’t do anything about to note of hurt in his voice. “Hell, you can go to the other side of the room and I’ll stay right here, just. Let me watch you. Please.”
Shiro’s cock is insistent that whatever he decides, he does it soon.
“Ok,” he concedes, and Keith lets out a breathy yesss that squirms in Shiro’s belly, come and slick squishing between his fingers with a filthy sound. “But you have to stay there.”
“I promise,” Keith says, and his eyes track Shiro like prey as he sits at the edge of his own bed, facing Keith.
He grabs some preemptive tissues from the side table between their beds and shimmies his pants down his hips just far enough for his cock to spring free.
Keith whines and strokes himself faster. “Off,” he murmurs. “Take ‘em off.”
Honestly, what difference could it possibly make at this point?
He kicks them off, dick twitching at Keith’s low trill.
Keith’s eyes are wide and impossibly dark as they track Shiro’s every movement. “Do it. Go.”
Shiro lets out a long puff of air, wrapping his hand around himself and praying for forgiveness as he stares at the ceiling.
“Look at me.”
“This isn’t gonna last very long if I look at you, sweetheart.”
Keith shakes his head. “Don’t care.”
Shiro groans helplessly as he lowers his eyes back to Keith, who’s watching him hungrily while he reaches behind himself to plunge his fingers back into his sopping hole. A bead of precome pulses from Keith’s cock to mix with the mess already there.
This really isn’t going to last long.
Keith starts up that fluid roll: down onto his fingers, up into his hand, and Shiro swears, strokes faster, blood on fire under Keith’s rapt attention.
“I could ahh, I could sit on your cock right now.”
Fuck, Keith, don’t, please don’t. Shiro begs silently for mercy, gritting his teeth and devouring Keith with his eyes the exact way he knows he shouldn’t.
“You’re so b-big,” Keith moans, “you’d stretch me so wide, but I’m so, so wet, Shiro, I could sink down onto you all at once, I could take the the whole thing, I know I could, and you’d be so- ohh- deep. You’d fuck me so good, make me come, I’d come as many times as you told me to Shiro, I would, I promise, I’d be so good, let you come inside me like you’re trying to put a litter in me—”
“Keith!” Shiro gasps, barely managing to get the tissues up in time. “Keith, Keith oh, fuck!”
“Oh—!” Keith’s eyes widen as he watches Shiro spill, following after him a split second later, come splattering up his chest as his eyes clench shut and he keens through the orgasm.
Like this, Shiro can see the way Keith’s hole flutters and clenches around his fingers, like it’s trying to pull them deeper, slick dripping from his hole and coating his hand and thighs.
Fuck.
Keith takes a few gasping breaths and collapses back, heedless of the mess on the towel or on himself.
His eyes flutter as he grins dopily at Shiro. “Wow.”
It isn’t two seconds later that his face has relaxed and his breath has evened out.
“Well, guess I know how to wear you out when you don’t want to go to sleep,” Shiro mutters softly and immediately regrets it. Images of them doing this at home, on their own terms, because they want to, is more than he can process while he’s still trying to piece himself back together after what just happened.
It’s never gone that far before— this isn’t the first time Shiro’s guided him through getting off, but usually once Shiro gets him started he’s good to go, content for Shiro to praise him from afar a few times throughout. It’s true that he’s been getting needier, the times that he fingers himself starting to outweigh the nights where just jerking off is enough, and he’s begun to demand Shiro closer, whining to scent him. Shiro normally offers his wrist on those occasions; he has no idea what he was thinking letting Keith at his neck in that state. But that was just one mistake in a carnival of mistakes— Shiro never should have allowed any of it to get that far.
He berates himself through flushing the tissues and getting Keith cleaned up and wrestling his ragdolling body into fresh pajamas, as he grabs his worn undershirt from the floor and leaves it on Keith’s pillow. He dumps the towel and the ruined comforter down the laundry chute in the hallway. He’ll put his on Keith’s bed and come up with an excuse for the missing one in the morning.
He scrubs off thoroughly in the shower and uses the time to worry. About why Keith was so much needier tonight, if maybe this time he’ll remember when he wakes up.
What happens if he remembers? If he’s angry with Shiro? Disgusted? Horrified?
Shiro doesn’t know if he could survive Keith leaving him.
And what happens if he remembers and he’s...not angry? If he meant what he said? If he wakes up clear-headed and refreshed and slots his lips against Shiro’s, finally, finally—
Shiro squashes the thought. That glimmer of hope only ever turns into the ache of disappointment.
The last question is the most realistic, and the most frightening for it:
What if this continues? If Keith never remembers? How much longer can Shiro do this, before he reaches his limits and does something he can’t take back?
Just this morning, he would’ve said forever. That he could put up with it indefinitely and never break.
But tonight showed him just how much Keith eats away at his self-control. How with a few words, he can make Shiro’s restraint crumble.
A few feet away, Keith snuffles as he rolls over, trusting and oblivious.
“I promise I will always keep you safe.”
That was Shiro’s first oath when the half-feral hybrid with walls a mile thick was legally signed over to his care nearly three years ago.
They’ve come so far since then, and Shiro would rather lose his other arm than break Keith’s trust.
“You always keep your promises to me.”
It rings in his ears, the unquestioning certainty that Shiro would keep him safe, like an obvious and indisputable fact of the universe.
Shiro wants it to be true.
He curls tighter under the thin sheets, eyelids growing heavy to the lullaby of Keith’s deep, even breaths.
For just a moment, in the muddy thoughts between wakefulness and sleep, he allows himself to hope. He imagines a life where they’re more , where Keith accepts and returns Shiro’s feelings of his own volition, where he wants Shiro as deeply and desperately as Shiro wants him.
It’s selfish and naive of course, but there’s a little spark of hope that maybe, maybe…
Maybe.
Maybe things will seem simpler in the morning.