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Keith could smell Lance in his sheets.
He huffed, restless as he turned over, dragging his pillow up to his face and only getting another nose full of Lance’s cologne, the sweet smell of his shampoo.
He grazed a hand over the empty patch of sheets next to him, missing the warmth of Lance’s body, his nose tucked into his neck.
Sleeping next to Lance was the best fucking decision he’d ever made. Getting used to sleeping next to Lance? The jury was still out.
Their relationship was tenuous, built off of alcohol-tinged kisses and the feelings of Lance’s back against his chest when they collapsed into bed together, sleep pulling them both into unconsciousness. He’d never slept better than he had since the first night he’d found Lance sitting on the observation deck, his knees tucked up to his chest, his eyes vacant and tired, ringed with bruising. Keith had picked him up — bundle of blankets and all — and taken him back to his bed. Lance had complained and bitched, his pride a bit wounded, as Keith carried him across the threshold of his room; but the second Lance had been safely deposited onto the mattress, he had peeked up at him from the swathe of soft grey cloth he’d wrapped himself in and Keith had let himself indulge in a moment of weakness — let himself get tugged into Lance’s welcoming arms, pressed his nose into his hair and slept like that. He’d woken up, groggy and disoriented, to Lance’s loud voice defending their lateness to Shiro over the comms as he shook Keith awake for morning training. His cheeks had been dark when he’d caught Keith’s eyes.
He’d expected shame maybe. Embarrassment. He hadn’t expected Lance to walk straight into his room the next night, pillow under his arm, and finagle his way into Keith’s bed.
It had been nearly a month since then, and Lance was on a diplomatic mission, summoned to some far off planet that needed his quick mind, and Keith was left behind, the persistent smell of Lance stuck to his sheets like sticky sugar.
Unbidden, the image brushed into his mind, and he clung to it.
Lance’s pretty face pressed into that same pillow, his long fingers twisted in the sheets, his expression hidden, but his shoulders shaking.
Keith groaned, shoving his face even deeper into the pillow, his ears hot.
Keith swore, squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to ignore the interest of his cock, but his Lance was so persuasive, even god knows how many thousands of miles away.
He could see it so clearly, if he put his mind to it.
He already knew what Lance’s voice sounded like, syrupy and seductive, his eyes lidded as he flirted with nobody important enough to remember. He could so easily transport that image, rework it and relight it to fit his fantasies. He could see so clearly how the down lights of his bedroom would cast shadows against the line of his jaw, would hollow out his ribs, darken the depths of his irises.
Fuck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and hissing out a low breath.
Lance had kissed him once. That wasn’t exactly permission to go dreaming of how good he’d look with his legs spread. Just a chaste kiss, tasting like some strange alien alcohol in the corner of a ballroom, Lance’s cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling as he’d pulled way, pressing another kiss between Keith’s eyes.
Keith shuddered, remembering the taste of Lance’s lip oil; cherry flavoured in a slick smear across his mouth. Unconsciously, he licked his lips, wanting nothing more than the taste of Lance to linger on his tongue.
They hadn’t talked about it.
But Lance hadn’t exactly been shy after. He’d been cornering Keith in rooms, a teasing smile as he leaned close enough to hover his lips over Keith, testing every ounce of Keith’s self restraint as he distractedly responded to Lance’s incessant play-arguing. He’d stretch with an exaggerated whine that left his midriff bare and Keith’s mouth watering, He’d swing those long, long, legs over Keith’s laps, wiggling his feet till Keith grabbed his ankles, feeling the sharp jut of bone in the crook of his fingers.
Those legs.
Keith sighed, a hand palming at himself through his boxers, squeezing the hard length.
They were so endless. Brutally long as they flowed down from his deceptively tiny waist. Tan and smooth, thick thighs and shapely calves. Hairless — Lance had gotten used to shaving them for swim meets in his youth — with small scars on his knees from too many tumbles as a kid. Keith could see them slung over his shoulders, feeling the muscles in his thighs jump and flex under his strong hands. Pressing kisses to the soft insides of his thighs, biting at the crease at his hip.
Keith slipped a hand into his boxers, running slowly, head throbbing with the image.
The fantasy unravelled, smooth as butter.
Lance would whine, his hair a sweaty mess, when Keith bit down on his legs. He’d leave as many marks as he could, sucking hickeys into the skin, relishing in the way Lance’s legs shook in his hands. He could see himself tracing a finger down Lance’s perineum, pushing meanly at the tight hole between his cheeks.
Keith fisted his cock, fast and without any consideration for technique.
Just before he’d left, Keith had stumbled across Lance in the showers. He’d been half dressed, his face flushed from the heat, his hair curling into his eyes. He’d looked startled, but the expression had quickly faded into his usual jaunty grin. He’d said something, but Keith hadn’t given a single fuck what — not when water was tracing down the curve of his neck, the dip of his hipbones, so explicitly exposed by Lance’s jeans.
Low rise.
Keith had a toxic relationship with low rise jeans. On one hand, Keith got to see the stretch of Lance’s belly, peak at the waistband of his underwear when he raised his arms even as he immediately flicked his eyes away, face reddening.
On the other hand, Lance knew exactly what he was doing to him, and had made Keith’s life into a day-long strip tease. His shirt had gotten shorter on his growing frame. If he’d been tall and lanky at 17, he was stronger and even taller at 20; his muscles filling out, his body tough and war-worn, but still soft enough for Keith to rest his head on. Keith was obsessed with the stubborn bit of belly fat that Lance had retained through all their training. When Lance laid back on the couch, or reached for the tea on the top shelf, his shirt rode up enough for Keith to get an eyeful, his stretch marks and belly button the perfect place for Keith to drag his tongue over.
Keith kicked his sheets off, shoving his boxers down for easier access.
He wanted nothing more than to bend that boy over the kitchen counter, hold him down by the back of the neck and bite his way across those shoulder blades, feel the muscles under his tongue, relish in that broad back, the way it tapered into such a holdable waist. He wanted to hear Lance’s shitty jokes melt into garbled moans, his knuckles shoved into a drooling mouth as Keith spread him open with two fingers, slow and patient to feel the way his tight virgin hole would open up for him.
Lance would look lovely on his knees, too. Those big eyes blinking up at him, his lashes fluttering as Keith caressed his cheeks. Lance could be so obedient at times — that military training kicking into full gear. Maybe he’d get straight into it, wrapping those plush, full lips around Keith’s cock, sinking so far down him that he’d gag. He’d push through though, trooper that he was. He’d swallow determinedly, force his own head down until his nose was buried right at the base of Keith’s cock. Keith could see those shiny eyes blinking up at him, mouth spread obscenely wide, hands fisted on his thighs, cock straining and red — the picture of submission, with his hazy gaze and naked body on display for Keith’s pleasure.
Or maybe he’d be a tease. Get back at Keith for all those times Keith had shoved him to his knees in the training deck. Maybe he’d lick at Keith’s slit, hold eye contact as he hollowed his cheeks around the sensitive head of Keith’s cock. Keith could swear and grumble all he wanted, but Lance would just tighten his fist around Keith’s cock, eyebrow cocked and smile arrogant as he denied Keith any pleasure.
“Patience yields focus,” he’d mock, exaggerated expression and deep voice, palming himself absently.
He’d flatten his tongue against the underside of Keith’s dick, trace the vein with the tip of his tongue, all the while his capable hands would pin Keith to the bed, making sure Keith wouldn’t be able to rut against his mouth.
In either scenario, Lance would keep his mouth wide open, eyes shut and tongue hanging out like a whore for Keith’s release.
White would cover Lance’s cheekbones, the dainty cupid's bow of his upper lip. Lance would moan, voice wrecked and throat beaten, his gorgeous eyes flickering open to meet Keith’s.
Fantasy Lance smiled up at him, black eyelashes dripped with white, his red lips speckled with cum, and Keith was a goner.
Keith held his cock tightly in his hands, rubbing roughly at the sensitive skin as he came over his hands and stomach, the dream of Lance’s swollen mouth prolonging his orgasm until he lay panting, his dirty hand hanging off the side of the bed.
Keith groaned, feeling the sweaty cling of his shirt to his back, the uncomfortable feeling of his damp baby hairs sticking to his skin. Cum cooled on his stomach in an icky sensation that had Keith frowning.
Lance.
What would he say if he knew just how heavily he featured in Keith’s perversions? How would he feel if he knew how often his voice had been chopped up and reworked into soundbites that formed a litany of moans and pleas that made up the soundtrack of Keith’s dreams? How regularly Keith thought of dragging him into a closet to take him in any way he could, feel that soft hair tangled between his fingers as he thrust into Lance, over and over.
Keith groaned, lifting his hand up to inspect it, curling his lip at the sight of sticky cum coating his fingers.
Fleetingly, an image of Lance’s pink tongue dragging between his fingers, sucking them into his wet, open mouth to clean them up, invaded his mind, his moans swirling around Keith’s ears like smoke.
God, Keith thought, a bit hysterical, he was so fucking fucked.