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Shiro is a busy man.
He’s the Captain of the Atlas, and Keith - he’s the head of Voltron.
As attractive as the titles sound, they allow no time for laziness. Shiro’s lucky to plant a messy kiss on the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth as he finishes the cold dregs of his coffee and darts out the door, arm full of paperwork and ear full of praises and suggestion from the Garrison.
And when nighttime comes around, and Shiro falls into bed hours after Keith does, face-first into the Garrison-issued sheets, there’s only enough energy left in him for another sloppy kiss, and a mumbled g’night before he’s dead to the world.
In the mornings Shiro's a zombie.
He’s dead eyed and unresponsive, only physically capable of brewing coffee and putting on pants, his hair as crumpled and pale as the sheets, eyes the same colour as the coffee that drip, drip, drips into the glossy mug.
Some mornings he doesn’t make it as far as the kitchen. He opens his eyes and replays the last fragments of his dreams. His arm, which he keenly misses despite the presence of his new one. His fight with Keith, that has his artificial fingers crawling across the sheets to find the hand of the boy he almost killed.
And on the laziest of mornings, he doesn’t wake up until Keith has crawled on top of him, and is pressing dry kisses to the underside of his slumbering throat.
Keith kisses his cheek. His fluttering eyelids. The scarred bridge of his nose, fingers combing back his hair and grazing over barely-there stubble. Keith kisses, and grabs Shiro’s cock through the fabric of his sleep pants. Strokes it slowly until the captain opens his eyes and a deep, deep sub-vocal groan escapes his lips.
“Keith.”
Keith, whose hair is tied back off his face, little strands loose against his brow. Keith, whose lips are full and kinda dark, and whose eyes are docile with sleep, but fingers inquisitive with lack of sex. Keith, who is touch-starved, and who has loved Shiro since he was fifteen-years-old.
Keith, whose plump little ass is rocking back against Shiro’s more-than-interesting cock, mouth partway open like the swell of swollen dick against his backside is more sustaining than food, than air.
Keith, who has always been a man of few words, but starts babbling when Shiro’s hands come up to squeeze his hips.
“Had a dream about you,” Keith admits, pupils blown so wide his eyes are black. He chews his lip and releases it raw, berry-red.
“You fucked me so hard I cried. Fucked me so deep I could taste your cock in the back of my throat.”
The shit he says makes Shiro’s breath catch in his throat, sticky with sleep. Makes his dick twitch like a teenager, makes him squeeze that narrow, almost feminine waist so rough that Keith flinches too, his abdominal muscles contracting. Little hips writhe in a grip so severely different in size that it makes the captain’s mouth dry.
Shiro pretends he doesn’t have a size kink, but his cock can’t lie the same way his mouth does.
Even the sight of Keith’s slender thighs spread out over the breadth of Shiro’s stomach make him flood with heat, hands inching closer like he might encompass the boy’s waist with the circle of his fingers.
“It’s been so long,” Keith continues. Shiro doesn’t respond, because he can’t. He’s asleep with his eyes open, dick hard. He squeezes Keith again, and Keith whines.
Yeah, whines. The formidable, half-Galra, part-time-assassin, defender of the fucking universe - whines, because he hasn’t been fucked in three days.
And he does it in the way that tells Shiro he’s purposefully trying to rile him up. He’s acting. Coaxing Shiro into doing something he should do more often.
Lose control.
“I want it so much,” the boy admits, his fingers splayed over the swell of Shiro’s pectoral muscle. He squeezes. Can’t fit the mass of it into the palm of his hand. His dainty fingers, which have killed. Could kill Shiro too, but instead trace the Cupid’s bow of his mouth.
“I almost went looking for someone else,” Keith whispers. Like he doesn’t want to say it - but forces himself to anyway, because Shiro hasn’t reacted to anything else he's said. It’s his last shot. Distantly, the man knows this.
He lets Keith search his face for heartache, mouth open to rush out an apology, an I didn’t mean that baby, but the admission doesn’t hurt Shiro. No, the thought of Keith split open by another man doesn’t wound him.
It pisses him off.
Keith’s too easy to throw onto the bed. Too easy to manhandle. So small. Shiro wants to feel bad about the way he throws him. How he slams his pretty body down into the sheets, locks him down with his robotic arm, blue light glowing off the tip of Keith’s upturned nose.
He wants to feel bad - but doesn’t. Because he knows, even in his sleep-induced haze, that Keith could easily flip him too. Keith is as strong as him, and if anyone could fight the Champion and win, it would be him.
Keith Kogane.
The only reason he’s on his back right now is because he wants to be there. He wants Shiro to be mad. He wants Shiro to squeeze his neck, and rut his angry cock between his thighs.
“You don’t need anyone else,” Shiro hisses, metal thumb pressing into the dip of Keith’s throat. His other hand, his organic one, rips his sleep shorts down milk-white legs. The fabric tears. Keith makes a sound, his knees falling open so he’s vulnerable under his boyfriend.
He looks like food. Laid out to eat, a full course meal.
“You don’t need anyone else,” Shiro repeats, coming down to smoosh his nose into Keith’s. “… Right?”
He whispers his insecurity onto Keith’s mouth. The boy smiles. Shakes his head. His breath tastes like sleep. His eyelashes tickle Shiro’s face.
“You’re enough for me,” he whispers back, reaching down to cup Shiro’s cock through his sleep pants. It’s hot, and wet, and desperately pressed against the fabric, the damp tip poking out above the hemline, rubbing slick into the underside of the smaller man’s wrist.
“Almost too much for me,” Keith adds, wrapping his hand around Shiro's mass. His fingers don’t touch around the root of it. Keith’s eyes lid, and he groans like he’s stroking his own dick.
Shiro grins. He puts a hard kiss on Keith’s mouth. Rolls his hips, spreads Keith’s thighs apart with mismatched hands, breath stuttering as his cock nudges the skin of the boy’s thighs. Dips lower and and snares against his hole. It’s too tight, too dry, but Shiro’s hips jerk again, slave to his primal brain, eager for something wet, and constricting, and Keith to dip into.
“You j-just, ahh.”
Shiro closes his eyes a second, sentence lost. He cherishes how good it feels to rut against his boyfriend’s navel. To rock down, undulate his hips and shove his cock against his hole again. Over and over until it’s slick with pre-cum, and there’s a filthy sound in their bedroom quarters.
“You just like me for my big cock,” he finishes, glaring down at Keith. He smiles again, crooked, and Keith rolls his eyes, staring at something over his shoulder. But his face is pink with blood, and the blush goes down to his throat, to his collar and his nipples, and even the backs of his hands where they grip into the sheets.
“And what do you like me for?” Keith murmurs, turning his head so their lips can touch. It isn’t really a kiss. More of a slide of lips, his body nudged up the mattress as Shiro forces a space for himself between his legs, hands greedy as he pushes and pulls where he needs him, boxes him in with his knees and forearms.
He tilts his head and whispers that word into Keith’s ear. The one that makes him flinch, his eyes go glassy at the sound of it. He feeds the dirty word into his hair, the one he only says when he’s insanely worked up, and finishes it off with a nasty curl of his tongue into the shell of it.
Shiro’s not even awake. Not fully, but he’s hard. Keith is naked, and pliable, and pretty beneath him. He doesn’t need his brain to work this one out. He could do this in his sleep. He grabs a handful of firm ass and tries to shove his cock into Keith, only stopping when Keith sobs and tugs the forelock of his white hair.
His lizard brain yells stop!
Keith yells too.
“You can’t just shove it in!” He shouts, giving another rude tug to Shiro’s hair. The man grunts, hardly registering the sting. He stares down at his prey, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Keith should know better than to play with dormant fire. He’ll get burnt.
Sleepy Shiro doesn’t have time for thinking. Or for lube.
“Jesus,” Keith mutters, pushing on Shiro’s shoulders. “Just lay back.”
Just like that Shiro is on his back again, and Keith is on him the same way as before, tugging down his shorts so they’re naked, skin on skin, and Shiro doesn’t have to do anything but watch as Keith puts two fingers in his own mouth and sucks.
Shiro keeps his hand on the meat of the boy’s hip, digging his thumb in as he sits up a little, the longest locks of his black, black hair brushing the captain’s chest. He closes his eyes as he fingers himself, little crease between his eyebrows as he crooks his fingers, a hurt sound leaving his mouth.
The man wants to say something. Tell him something about patience. But all his brain blood is in his dick, and he can’t muster an intelligent thought past the sight of that stretched, pink hole wet with spit, and Keith slipping another finger into himself, sobbing like he’s been stabbed.
“Don’t stare,” Keith cries, shoving his free hand into Shiro’s chest. The man blinks. His hand tightens on Keith’s hips, and when the boy laughs there’s an edge to it.
“You’re so s-stupid when you wake up,” he accuses, shaking his head like he’s in awe. He reaches over Shiro and fumbles with the cubby above their bed, and the man below makes a happy sound as Keith's chest brushes against his mouth. He kisses right in the centre of it, unable to hold back a smile. He is stupid. Keith makes him that way.
When Keith comes back down his fingers are wet with lube, plastic bottle squeezed and lid uncapped, discarded in the sheets along with Keith's humility as he fucks back into himself.
But Shiro doesn’t really know what’s going on because his dick is throbbing and unplayed with, thick and painful where it sits behind Keith’s fingers, falling out of him with another slick smack.
“You’re beautiful,” Shiro mumbles, still staring at Keith’s hole. He puts his other hand up on the boy’s hip and tries to sit him down on his cock, tries to force him down onto the root of it. Three fingers aren’t enough. Especially not little, dainty fingers like Keith’s. The human part of Shiro says it will hurt his boyfriend to fuck him like this.
The animal part of him says good.
Sometimes when he fucks Keith, his pupils get small and yellow, and his teeth narrow into something feral. It only ever lasts a second, a flash of unfamiliar on that lovely face. Something Keith can’t control, and is ashamed of.
It happens now when Shiro sits him down on the tip of his cock, the head of it slipping past the tight furl of him, shoving all the breath out of his lungs.
Keith.
So tight his cock is forced out again, hitting his stomach with a smack. Keith's is fat with blood, sitting curved and pretty on his stomach, and Shiro nudges his thumb against the head of it as the boy falls forward.
He's breathing heavy, looks as dazed as Shiro feels, and leans heavily on Shiro’s hands. It’s alright, because Shiro is strong. Strong enough he can keep Keith propped up with one wrist, and his other hand goes between his legs to open him up properly, two knuckles deep inside to render the boy dumb.
When he seats himself in Keith again, he's looser, but still so tight he has to force it a bit. Pull him down on his hips because Keith is keening, fingernails dug into the back of Shiro’s flesh hand. But he’s finally in, or mostly in. There’s two or three inches that he just can’t fit. It’s biology. Keith is too small, and Shiro is too big. The boy rocks back and forth minutely, doing his best to act like he isn’t physically splitting in two.
“I’m fine,” Keith says, voice clipped. He’s staring at the wall. His stomach is so tense Shiro could trace the muscle in it, lean up just enough that he can kiss the space below his ribs. It makes the noirette deflate, his thighs spread just enough to sink down one more inch, eyes closed and breath released in slow, stilted puffs.
His eyes are wet. He looks like he's about to cry, because it's just like Keith to rush into something without thinking of the consequences. To bite off more than he can chew, and suffer in pretty stubbornness, and somehow look at Shiro like he's not the one causing him all this pain.
He looks at him as if he hung the moon and stars.
“Come here,” Shiro says.
Keith ignores him, closing his galaxy eyes. Lashes sticky. He shakes his head and more hair falls from the elastic tie. His wrist is shaking. His chest is still because he isn’t breathing, so the captain fucks up into him a little, just enough to force a surprised gasp from Keith.
“I said come here,” Shiro groans again, feeling Keith clamp down around him like a viper. The noirette’s stomach suckers in as he draws another pained breath. His thighs are quivering. Shiro traces his thumb over the cord of them, appreciative.
He jerks his hips up again. Another inch slides in, and Keith mades a sound so raw and loud that Shiro wants to slap his hand over his mouth and smother it - but instead he tugs the black paladin down and eats the punched-out little oh fuck’s off his mouth instead.
“There we go,” Shiro mutters on his teeth, feeling Keith rock back on it like his profession is taking cock. “Like that. Fuck yourself, good boy.”
His compliments are lazy, slurred. He flattens his palm over Keith’s lower back, finds the dimples of his spine and presses in. Slides a little lower just to feel how stretched he is around the thick of his cock, pad of his finger tracing the place where they connect, nudging in to see if there’s leeway, if he can dip his finger in too.
“So na-ahh. Nasty, S-Shiro. You’re so gross,” Keith breathes.
His voice hitches with each shallow thrust, Shiro’s palm splayed over his ass, keeping his cheeks spread out so he can fuck up into him again, and again. He pats his flesh. Then smacks it. Digs his fingers in and hits it harder, until Keith makes that sound he likes.
Keith sounds like a whore, but Shiro won’t admit that. Not when the boy is so vulnerable on his dick, so lovely. He looks like a deity - and he loves him. He can’t call his soulmate a slut, and he’s lucid enough to know that.
But still, the word stays stuck in the back of his throat, and he has to swallow around it and grip Keith’s ass tighter just to keep it there.
Black hair falls over Shiro’s nose, touches the pale of his own, covers his eyes so the man closes them, focusing on Keith’s breath, and the shampoo smell on his head. How hot he is. How he hugs every inch of him, and everything Shiro’s been through in this life has been worth it because Keith's fucking him, and he’d do it all again if it meant being with the boy he loved more than Earth, loved more than his arm, loved more than anyone who had come before.
Shiro moans, because he can’t say those words either. He’s too sleepy.
When Keith lifts his head and looks at Shiro, his eyes are dusk-coloured and framed by thick, black lashes. It makes the man’s heart falter, and his hands hold him tighter, like Keith might fade away and dissipate like he has in all of Shiro’s dreams, a wisp of smoke that smells like soap, and lavender, and Arizona sun.
He squeezes until he’s sure Keith is tangible. A solid mass of muscle, and devotion, and carefully built walls that Shiro has tugged down bit by bit until he could kiss Keith without asking. He kisses him now, slipping his tongue past little white teeth, unable to hold back the sound he makes when he tastes Keith’s tongue, and if it’s possible for fondness to have a flavour, this is it.
The tender lick of Keith’s kitten tongue, small and pink, and utterly unlike any other part of him, is enough to have Shiro’s hips hump up too quickly, nasty little pat, pat, pats that fill the room and rock startled gasps out of open lips, make Keith lean his forehead down on his boyfriend’s, and his hands curl into fists against the captain’s beating heart.
“Shiro,” Keith breathes. He's sweating. He pulls back just enough that the man can see stars behind his eyes, and his own reflection in bottomless black, just enough that Shiro can mouth at his neck and feel the rumble of his next words against his lips.
“I’m gonna cum,” the black paladin says, the last syllable little more than a rush of hot air.
Shiro nods. He knows. Can feel Keith’s hole tighten up, feel it twitching around his cock over and over and over, making his own orgasm coil down under his navel and gather heat, fuel to drive himself harder into Keith. In, and in, and in, and those two or three inches aren’t out anymore, they’re buried as far in as they’ll go.
And then Keith stays true to his word, and comes.
Shiro surges up and nips his throat. Pushes him back and curls his arms tight around his lithe waist as Keith’s back hits the sheets, a surprised noise caught in his throat as he’s smothered in the sheets.
His thighs split apart as Shiro fucks in, a stuttered one, two, three - and then he’s gone too, mouth open and damp on the other’s neck as he groans into his flesh, releasing into him so wet, and so much, that Keith’s fingers hug his biceps and try to stem the flow.
He doesn't stop until he's sated. Until he's released every single drop of himself inside the boy, shoved it in so deep he won't be able to clean it out, and the thought is the last sleep-induced one Shiro has.
The rest are sober, and he finally regains full consciousness, and is blessed with the sunrise of Keith's post-orgasm face, more tender and unguarded than most had ever seen the boy before.
"Takashi," he mouths, staring up at Shiro. His fingers are gentle on the side of his jaw. The man turns his head and kisses them. It earns him the smallest, sweetest smile. It's the proudest accomplishment of his life.
"Good morning baby," he says back. He doesn't pull out. He wants to stay. Keep it warm, and Keith full, riding out the remnants of the animal part of him.
The black paladin doesn't argue. Just lets Shiro kiss him properly. Without tongue. Just lips. Gentlemanly and proper, a church-like kiss as cum dribbles down his thigh and stains the bedsheets.
"Good morning," Keith mouths against him. His fingers have gone to the back of Shiro's head now, nails playing with his hair. It makes him shiver, cat-like and pressing into the nice touch. He goes to sit up but Keith locks his legs around his hips, and his arms around his neck.
He's made a mess of the boy. Fucked him so filthy it turns him red, a retrospective blush.
But the way Keith looks at him, keeps playing with the back of his hair like he isn't still impaled on his softening cock, tells Shiro all he needs to know.
They're made for each other, and Keith is as animal as he is.