Chapter Text
Keith takes a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs until they stretch, then lets it go, feeling his shoulders sink with it, feeling it rush out of him. The air smells like pancake batter and maple syrup, and the morning light filters in through their little kitchen window, dappled onto Keith’s face by the ginkgo trees in their side yard.
There’s an ache in his thighs and his shoulders from sparring yesterday, but still every muscle fiber in his body feels relaxed. It’s a Sunday morning, and there’s nothing on his schedule, nothing but cooking breakfast and lounging around with his husband, maybe a walk around the neighborhood. It’s beautiful weather, he thinks idly. He should open up the windows and get some fresh air in.
As if called by Keith’s thoughts of him—as if his thoughts are anywhere else with any regularity—his ears pick up on the sounds of feet padding on the hardwood behind him. He turns to see Shiro, shuffling into the kitchen with those too-heavy steps of a body that isn’t quite awake yet, clad in only his wrinkled boxers. Keith allows himself a moment to look, raking his eyes over his husband’s body.
“Mornin’, baby,” Shiro slurs, rubbing the back of his forearm over his eyes and yawning.
Keith smiles, and there’s that funny feeling again, the one he gets each time he realizes that this is really his life, that they really get to have this. This easy domesticity, deep love and companionship, and no threat of all that being torn away hanging just around the corner.
Shiro’s always been an early riser—it would be unheard of for Keith to be the first one awake a few years ago, and it’s still unusual now, but since the war, now that his body and mind are getting used to the idea that he doesn’t have to be on high alert at all times, sometimes he sleeps in. It makes Keith so happy to see.
When Shiro reaches him, he turns his head back and tilts it up for a kiss, which Shiro delivers, smiling into it. Shiro’s hand finds the back of his neck, and when Keith turns back to the griddle, he plants another kiss on his cheek, his jaw, the ticklish space under his ear, making Keith giggle and squirm away.
The pancakes are starting to bubble, so he slides the spatula under them and flips them over, listening to the satisfying sizzle when they land.
Behind him, Shiro leans into his back, all but draping himself over Keith like an oversized cape. He hooks his chin over Keith’s shoulder, then wraps his arms all the way around him, until his hands reach around to form to Keith’s hips.
“You’re warm,” Keith comments, sliding a pat of butter onto each of the pancakes as they continue cooking.
“’M always warm,” Shiro mumbles, nuzzling into the side of Keith’s neck.
“Yeah, but more than usual. Are you feeling okay?”
Keith cranes around, as much as he can while Shiro has him pinned against the counter, and presses the back of his hand to Shiro’s forehead.
“Yes,” Shiro replies, pouting at having been dislodged, but taking the opportunity to drop another kiss on Keith’s cheek.
He’s a little warm, but not enough to be concerned, so Keith gives a considering huff and turns back around to his pancakes, deeming them done on the other side and transferring them onto the waiting plate next to the griddle.
“There you go,” he prompts, pushing the plate back towards Shiro while he scoops more batter onto the skillet for another batch. “These are yours, go ahead and get started.”
He doesn’t expect Shiro to stay right where he is, returning to his place wrapped stubbornly around Keith’s back.
“No,” he refuses, pushing his nose into Keith’s hair and squeezing him tighter. “I’ll wait for you.”
“Your pancakes will get cold…” Keith protests.
“Don’t care,” Shiro grumbles.
“What has gotten into you this morning,” Keith laughs, not-so-secretly charmed by his husband’s early-morning cuddliness. Shiro just sighs and nuzzles into the mating bite on Keith’s neck. It makes Keith blush and shift his hips, unintentionally tilting his head to expose it more.
It’s a little harder than usual to finish cooking with a giant man hanging off of him, but he manages, and by the end of it his cheeks are sore from smiling and tickled by countless kisses.
They take their pancakes over to the little breakfast nook they had built in the corner of their kitchen, and to Keith’s amusement, Shiro slides into the bench on the same side as Keith, continuing until he’s pressed to his side. He rolls his eyes but leans into it, and is half surprised that Shiro doesn’t try to feed him bites of pancake off of his own fork, although he looks a couple of time like he’s considering it.
After the pancakes are gone and their fingers are sticky with syrup, Shiro rushes to offer to clean up, and Keith goes around the house opening up the windows, letting the breeze flutter their curtains. Shiro is finishing up the last of the dishes when Keith wanders back into the kitchen, and when Keith thanks him, he smiles like he’s just been given a gold medal, and Keith has the familiar feeling that if Shiro were a dog, his tail would be wagging.
They set out to spend their lazy Sunday just as a lazy Sunday should be spent—in love, relaxed, and with no plans or obligations. Keith goes to spend some time tending to their back garden while the weather is so nice, and Shiro sits on the patio, ostensibly to read, but every time Keith looks over, he catches Shiro just watching him work.
Afterwards, they take a stroll through the neighborhood, hand-in-hand, Kosmo trotting beside them, enjoying the dappled sunlight and the newly-blooming azaleas.
“We should plant some of those out front,” Keith muses, and Shiro hums and puts an arm around Keith’s shoulders.
When they see their elderly neighbors outside, they wave hello, but Keith notices Shiro pulling him in closer.
Back home, they each take a shower and then spend the rest of the morning lounging together on the couch in their sun-filled den. Shiro lies back with Keith cushioned on his chest, one of Shiro’s arms thrown around his waist. Keith reads, and Shiro reads too, although most of the time it seems he’s distracted by playing with Keith’s hair, fiddling with the end of his braid and stroking it back from his forehead. When the breeze coming through the open windows pricks goosebumps into Keith’s skin, Shiro pulls a blanket over them and wraps him in it, pulling him back against his chest.
Early afternoon is welcomed by Shiro turning Keith over and fucking him into the couch, slow and languid but no less devastating, until Keith’s boneless and purring, draped over the arm of the couch and unlikely to move himself anytime soon. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to, because after they both fall into a short nap, tangled together despite their sticky skin and the cum and slick dripping down Keith’s inner thighs, Shiro lifts him into his arms without so much as a grunt and carries him into their bathroom to get cleaned up.
He sets him on the counter next to the sink and turns on the water, waiting for it to get warm before he wets a washcloth and passes it over Keith’s flushed skin with care, cleaning him while Keith pitches forward and leans on Shiro’s chest with a yawn.
“You’re still warm,” he mumbles, rubbing his cheek against Shiro’s pec.
Shiro just hums and nudges Keith’s legs apart so he can clean between them. Despite the fact that Keith’s completely sated and frankly doesn’t have the energy to go again if he wanted to, the touch still makes him shiver. He can feel Shiro smirking into his hair, and he pinches his side in retaliation.
When he’s good and cleaned—and after he’s reminded Shiro to take care of himself, too—they head to the kitchen for a snack. If Keith doesn’t refuel, he’s going to fall right back asleep. That’s just what Shiro does to him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Shiro prepares their snack—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—and watches Keith eat, almost like he’s trying to make sure Keith eats it, to make sure he likes it. Keith’s a little bemused, not sure what’s up, but it’s not unlike his husband to be excessively attentive.
Afterwards, Keith lounges on the couch some more, Kosmo curled at his feet, while Shiro becomes suddenly concerned with the plants that have come to nearly take over their house. He starts meticulously looking over each of them, doing one pass around the house just to check their moisture levels and fret over any brown spots that have turned up on their leaves, and then another pass to water the ones that need it.
“Baby, come back,” Keith whines after a while, wanting a partner in his relaxation, not someone running around being all productive around him while he’s trying to be lazy. He’s barely finished the sentence when Shiro is back in the room, dutifully climbing onto the couch and into Keith’s reaching arms.
With Keith’s encouragement, Shiro settles on top of him, weighing him down into the couch in a way that soothes something deep inside him. He sighs, and Shiro settles in and nuzzles into his neck, scenting him. Keith makes a pleased noise, and his hand finds the back of Shiro’s head, fingers running through the short hair on the back of it, fingernails idly scratching at his scalp.
The breeze from their garden carries on it the faint scent of honeysuckle, courtesy of the bushes they’ve let grow wild along their fence line. It smells to him like home, even though this has only been home for a small portion of his life. The dappled sunlight dances across his eyelids as the trees sway outside the windows, reminding him that it’s only afternoon, that there’s more day to be had, but he doesn’t care. If it’s up to him, he’s perfectly happy to spend it right here.
***
Shiro’s not someone who hates Mondays. Usually, he actually kind of likes them, barring any particularly awful meetings planned for the day or tight deadlines coming up. Monday mornings feel like a fresh start, and he enjoys the work that he does, even if he often works too much—he’s working on that. Usually, he likes boarding the Atlas when she’s grounded and greeting his friends and coworkers on board, running into the other paladins and stopping to give Kosmo a pet when he poofs into the hallway in front of him, tail wagging.
And the best part, the very best part, of going to work is the fact that Keith is there too. Working in the same place as his husband is an unexpected perk, but one he now doesn’t think he could live without. He loves working with Keith, having meetings with him, being able to eat lunch together and pop into each other’s offices.
Today, though, it isn’t enough.
From the moment they part ways in the morning after coming in together, heading to separate meetings in different parts of the Atlas, Shiro starts feeling uneasy, antsy, because Keith isn’t beside him. He’s too far away. Logically, Shiro knows he could be talking to Keith in a moment, see him in seconds if he needed to, but he can’t shake the agitated feeling that’s coming from being separated from his husband, tensing his muscles and making him tap his pen on his desk. It’s weird.
He just misses Keith, he tells himself. He wants to be with him, to be touching him, and there’s nothing unusual about that. He always feels like that to some extent, would always rather be next to Keith if he had a choice. It’s just that it’s more than usual.
A notification from his calendar dings on his computer, though, telling him he has a briefing call to get on, so he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Keith, just to tide himself over, before shaking it off and trying to focus.
It doesn’t work. When Keith doesn’t immediately text back— he’s in a meeting , Shiro internally scolds himself, but it makes no difference—the nervous feeling intensifies, twisting sour in his stomach and speeding his pulse.
For the next half hour, while he puts himself on mute and the call on speaker, he spins in his desk chair, taps his pen against his thigh, grinds his teeth, and completely fail to absorb any of the information whatsoever. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.
Finally, when the call is wrapping up, and he signs off maybe a little more abruptly than he should, he glances at the clock in the corner of his monitor to confirm that Keith’s own meeting should be over by now and gets up, heading out the door and down the hallways of the Atlas to Keith’s office.
When he gets there, he knocks on the side of the open door before walking straight inside and up to his husband, whose back is toward him, wrapping his arms around him.
“Hi baby,” he says, smiling into Keith’s hair.
Upon reflection, he’s extremely lucky that Keith could probably smell it was him before he accosted him, because his husband has very quick reflexes and very sharp elbows. But as it is, Keith turns in his arms with a bewildered laugh and accepts his kiss smiling, if bemused.
“What is it?” he asks.
God, he’s so pretty. No one’s ever been so pretty. His eyes sparkle.
“Shiro?”
“Hm? Oh! Uh, I…I just wanted to give you a kiss,” he shrugs. “I missed you.” He feels his cheeks heating, because yeah, maybe this was a little silly, but it just felt necessary at the time.
“Sap…” Keith mutters, shaking his head, but his cheeks are pink too, and he’s biting his lower lip the way he does when he doesn’t want to show how wide he’s smiling.
Now that Shiro’s gotten to see him, to smell him and get some of his scent on his clothing to carry him through the rest of the day, he realizes he should really let them both do their jobs and says goodbye—but not before pulling him in and laying one last kiss on his lips.
The rest of the day is filled with meetings, each of them, unfortunately, separate from Keith’s. Each time, Shiro finds himself growing more stressed and agitated after going a while without seeing his husband, tense and filled with undirected energy like a caged animal.
So in between meetings, he slips down the hallway and into Keith’s office just to steal a kiss. He texts him regularly, throughout the day, nothing of substance, just wanting the contact if he can’t have Keith with him physically. He’s distracted to the point of being fairly useless in any of his meetings, eyes glued to his phone, waiting for it to light up and disappointed every time it does with a notification from someone other than Keith.
Keith indulges him with eye rolls and embarrassed, pleased smiles that he tucks his chin to hide.
When they drive home together, finally together, Shiro spends the drive with his free hand reaching across the console to rest on Keith’s thigh, his prosthetic large and wide enough to span the width of it in a way that has a pleased rumbling noise wanting to kick up in his chest.
He always wants Keith, in every way possible—wants to be near him, to talk to him, to hear his thoughts. To be surrounded by his sweet scent, his warmth, the sound of his voice, to touch his skin. He wants to love him, to have him, to make him shudder and sigh. And right now, he wants it noticeably more than usual.
That’s saying a lot, too. His baseline level of desire for Keith is pretty damn high. But right now, he feels like it’s boiling over, like it’s pushing the rest of the thoughts out of his brain, no room for them on top of the overwhelming need to press his face between Keith’s legs and make him scream.
When they walk in their front door, Shiro is half-hard and ready to pick Keith up and carry him straight into the bedroom, but then Keith’s stomach rumbles, and his train of thought comes to a screeching halt and all his focus switches immediately to getting Keith food.
They order takeout, getting pretty much half of the menu because Keith couldn’t decide what he wanted and Shiro insisted on just ordering all of it. Keith throws on a movie that neither of them is really interested in and they eat on the couch, with Shiro gradually shuffling closer and closer, seeking more contact with Keith. He wishes he had him in his arms, even now, when there are takeout containers strewn everywhere and plates heaped with lo mein balanced on their laps. If he could grab Keith and pull him into his lap without causing a catastrophic mess, he would.
After the meal is finished and the copious leftovers are put away in the fridge, Shiro gets his wish, and they lounge cuddling on the couch, stretched out across the whole length of it with Keith lying in front of Shiro, back pressed to his front. Shiro has his flesh hand wormed under the hem of Keith’s shirt, searching out his warmth, palming casually at his belly. He likes the way he can feel Keith breathing in the rise and fall of his stomach under his palm, the way he shivers and kicks out occasionally when it tickles, but then settles.
Keith sinks back further against Shiro, his whole body lax, fully relaxed. It satisfies Shiro somewhere deep and fundamental, feeling how comfortable and safe his mate feels here with him, maybe because of him.
Things are right, now. Keith is with him, pressed against him, and there’s no one else around to get in the way. Shiro could almost purr with it.
He nuzzles his way into the soft warm crook of Keith’s neck, scenting him, pleased when Keith tilts his head to give him better access. He rubs his cheek against Keith’s mating mark, admiring the faintly silver, shiny lines of the scar, the smooth feel of it under his cheek.
He’s not paying attention to the movie, but his thoughts aren’t focused elsewhere—they’re absent; his mind is nearly blank, filled entirely with Keith, the pure sensations of him. He’s surrounded by the scent of him, his warmth, his softness leaning back against Shiro’s chest, the faint feeling of his heartbeat under Shiro’s palm. He moves his hand on Keith’s chest to feel it more clearly.
After a while, without consciously intending to, just driven by some primal instinct, Shiro finds himself licking over Keith’s mating mark, then nibbling at it gently, making sure not to bite in earnest.
Keith laughs, a short, confused burst, and he squirms, to which Shiro rumbles a noise of displeasure deep in his chest and pulls Keith closer.
“What are you doing?” There’s a breathy tone to Keith’s voice that has Shiro’s dick twitching with interest.
He doesn’t have an answer to that. He searches his mind to provide one, but it’s unpleasant, pulls him out of the warm buzz blanketing him with his mate in his arms, so he stops trying and leans in to the good feelings. He starts pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses on Keith’s neck, more intent behind them now as he lets his teeth graze the bite mark in between them, drags them over it.
Keith shudders and moans softly, stretching up into it, tilting his chin up, giving Shiro unfettered access to such a vulnerable, delicate part of himself without hesitation. Shiro preens at it internally, at the evidence that he’s a good alpha, that he’s been deemed worthy of such unrestricted trust. He sucks a mark into Keith’s skin, then soothes over it with his tongue and pulls back far enough to get a look at it.
The words for what he’s feeling won’t quite string together in his head, but he knows he likes the sight of it, and images flash through his mind of Keith’s neck decorated unmistakably with his marks when he goes to work tomorrow, of everyone noticing them and knowing just what they mean. They spark a flame in his core, spreading throughout his body and prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.
He moves an inch and starts working on another mark, laying down a line of purple jewels to adorn his husband’s pretty neck.
The sounds of the movie have almost entirely faded from his awareness, now, turning into nothing more than a dull background noise, a source of light that flashes colors across Keith’s skin, ever-changing. Keith is moving, shifting in his arms, pressing back against him and rubbing his thighs together.
“Shiro…” he moans eventually, a hint of a whine in it, because Shiro isn’t taking this further. He’s been busy, but now when he pulls back to examine his progress, he’s happy with his work.
“Shhh, okay baby.”
He can attend to his husband now. His mate. Give him whatever he needs.
Shiro shifts his hips back just enough to get his hand between them, then grabs the back of Keith’s waistband and pulls his sweatpants and briefs down past his ass. Immediately, he sees the glisten of slick between Keith’s thighs, and a fraction of a moment later, he’s hit by the smell of it, heady and sweet, smelling like love and lust and home. Keith’s scent has changed since he and Shiro got together officially, especially the unique scent of his slick, like it’s changing to be just for Shiro, just between the two of them, and it pleases and soothes something deep in Shiro’s instincts to know that no one else has smelled him like this.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans. His head spins, like he’s just taken a swig of whiskey, and his senses come into sharp focus, all narrowed in entirely on Keith. “Look at you. You’re just soaking. Is that all for me?”
He plunges his hand into the slick, no hesitation, moaning at the feeling of his fingers sliding so easily between Keith’s warm thighs, up between his cheeks. He spreads it around, then finds the heart of it, splitting his plush lips and feeling at his slit, where he’s wettest.
Keith is having trouble forming words, mouth open in a silent moan as he arches his whole body, legs stretching and toes curling. He nods, and makes a choked noise in his throat, burying his face in the couch below him.
Shiro rubs over Keith’s entrance clumsily and feels another burst of slick gushing out against his fingers. It’s noisy; the movement of his fingers through Keith’s folds makes a sloppy sound.
“Messy baby,” he mumbles. Keith whimpers.
He uses two fingers to push into Keith’s hole, spreading it wide around them and sinking in deep. Keith’s so silky inside, so hot and slippery. Strong, too, and Shiro grunts when Keith’s muscles clamp down on him. His fingers are thick, but his cock is much thicker, nearly bursting out of his own pants now, grinding mindlessly into the clench of Keith’s thighs below where his hand plays with him. He knows, though, that Keith will take him beautifully, open around him and let him in even as he’s stretched nearly as wide as he can take—then wider, when Shiro’s knot pops inside.
Keith is panting, head craned back and leaning on Shiro’s chest, hand clawed into the couch in a grip that Shiro worries in passing might tear the upholstery. Wouldn’t be the first time. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, emphasizing the line of his cheekbone, and Shiro takes a moment to admire him. His lips are pink, plush from being chewed, parted in a way that makes Shiro want to push something in between them. His face is awash with pleasure, with desire; it’s lax with it—no hint of stress, no traces of thoughts he’s holding in.
Shiro pulls his fingers free with a slick sound and tugs his own sweatpants down far enough to pull out his cock, paying no mind to the sticky mess that comes with his hand.
Then, keeping his eyes trained on Keith’s face, making sure he doesn’t so much as blink, he strokes himself a couple of times, spreading Keith’s slick over himself, and guides his head to notch against Keith’s fluttering opening, then lets go to press his spread-wide hand against Keith’s lower belly and sinks into him in one long, slow stroke.
As he does, he watches the way Keith’s face changes—the way he cranes his head back further, parts his lips wider around a soft gasp, the way a small line appears between his eyebrows as they knit in pleasure at the stretch, the way the flush on his cheeks spreads down his neck and over his collarbones.
Shiro loves the way Keith blooms for him. He doesn’t do it for anyone else. It’s not just in the bedroom, either—the way Keith’s whole being lights up when he finds Shiro’s eyes across the room at a diplomatic party he doesn’t want to be at, the way his body language changes when Shiro comes to stand next to him and places a hand on the nape of his neck, relaxing and opening, turning towards him like a sunflower to the sun. The privilege of being the person Keith opens up around, the one he can truly relax and be himself with, is one Shiro will never take for granted.
Warm sappy feelings aside, though, there’s no denying that the way Keith reacts during sex goes straight to his dick, too. It only takes a few deep, powerful thrusts in before some kind of dam breaks in Keith, like it always does, and the noises start to spill out of him unrestrained. And there are a lot of them. He’s loud, high-pitched and desperate in a way he would never let anyone else hear—it took Shiro a while to earn the trust for Keith to let him hear, either.
Shiro loves him like this. He loves him.
His thighs ache from the strain of the position as he keeps up a sharp, unyielding pace, pounding into Keith with one hand kept solid and firm on his stomach to hold him where he is, but he barely notices it. Keith is squirming, panting, moaning, then finally a purr breaks loose in his chest and rumbles through him. Shiro meets it with a gasp. He loves that sound most of all. It means he’s doing something right, making Keith feel good and safe and loved and happy.
Shiro bites down on Keith’s shoulder and comes with a growl, hips stuttering and grinding deep into Keith, shifting and pressing him into the couch. As soon as his awareness has come back enough, he leans back, hooking an arm around Keith and bringing him with him, letting go of his shoulder and licking over the dimpled bite marks.
He wraps a hand around Keith’s cock and finds, with surprise, the stickiness of come already coating it—he must have come without Shiro noticing—but he’s a thorough man if nothing else, so he closes his fist around it and strokes him anyway, wringing one more mewling orgasm out of him before he collapses, boneless, and pushes Shiro’s hand away.
In the aftermath, the sounds of the movie fade back in. It’s nearing the end, it seems, explosions and cars screeching on pavement flashing across the screen. They’re both breathless, panting to recover, and Shiro can feel Keith’s purr along with his heartbeat through his back against his chest.
They stay like that for a few minutes, just basking in each other, in the calm, the quiet, the aching thrum of tired pleasure in their bodies. Shiro’s still buried inside Keith, sensitive and softening. He can feel every twitch of Keith’s body, every involuntary clench around him as his muscles relax. The sensations are too sharp, but the feeling of still being surrounded by Keith is good enough that he stays where he is, just for a little while longer.
He noses into Keith’s soft hair, inhales his scent. He presses soft kisses to each mark he made on his neck, then one lingering one to his mating bite. Keith’s purr grows louder, and he finds Shiro’s hand, still on his stomach, weaving their fingers together. Their rings clink against each other, one large and one smaller.
Eventually, Keith yawns, and that prompts Shiro into action. He brought his husband pleasure, now it’s time to take care of him in other ways.
He stands, lifting Keith into his arms as he does. Keith makes a grumbling noise, but considering how boneless he is and how his head immediately flops into Shiro’s chest, it was the right call. Shiro carries Keith to the bathroom and sets him on the sink to free a hand to turn on the water. When he turns back, Keith is looking up at him with a dopey kind of love clear as day on his face, and it makes Shiro want to melt. He kisses Keith’s forehead and strokes his hair back where sweat has stuck it to his skin, then uses the built-in thermometer in his prosthesis to check that the temperature of the water is just right.
In the shower, Keith manages to get enough control of his legs back that he can stand under his own power, but Shiro still coaxes him to lean into his chest as he runs a soapy washcloth over him.
“Can I wash your hair?” he asks, playing with the long, loose ends of it.
Keith hums and nods, eyes closed and cheek pillowed comfortably on Shiro’s pectoral. He feels warmed from the inside, needed and trusted, and worthy of it.
He takes the job seriously—taking the detachable shower head down and running the water over Keith’s hair methodically until it’s soaked through, then working Keith’s eucalyptus-scented shampoo into his hair thoroughly, massaging his scalp as he goes. Keith’s purr picks back up, vibrating against his chest, and Shiro can’t help but stand a little straighter with pride. He washes the suds out, waiting until the water runs clear before moving on and smoothing conditioner into his hair, making sure to coat every strand in it. Keith often skimps on his conditioner, saying it’s too expensive to use globs of every time, but Shiro thinks Keith deserves soft hair that detangles easily, no matter the price.
When they’re both clean, Shiro sits Keith on the edge of the bathtub and wraps him in a soft robe after he’s been dried, then runs a comb carefully through his wet hair, making sure to get out any tangles. Keith watches him quietly with a thoughtful look on his face, but Shiro doesn’t ask what he’s thinking. He knows Keith will tell him if he wants to.
They end up falling into bed naked afterwards, not bothering to put on clothes after the warm comfort of their shower and too tired to care. Curled together, Shiro relishes the feeling of skin against skin. Keith’s face is buried in his neck, nosing unconsciously at his scent glands from time to time as he drifts off.
Shiro heaves a satisfied sigh and pulls Keith closer, feeling himself beginning to slip into a heavy sleep. Looking back on the day, he has admittedly felt a little weird. But now, he’s too content to care.
***
Tuesday morning begins with Keith waking up with a Shiro-sized weight draped on top of him, nearly smothering him with his chest. He wiggles out from under him and gives Shiro a playful swat on the ass when he grumbles at losing Keith’s warmth and pouts at him from the bed. In the bathroom, he first lifts his arms into a good, deep stretch. His muscles are sore—the good kind that comes from fucking and exercise, and he sighs deeply at the feeling of stretching them out.
Behind him, there’s a rustling of the sheets and the heavy sound of Shiro’s feet hitting the floor as he stands.
With a yawn, Keith releases the stretch and rubs his hand over his eyes, getting the sleep out of them before he blinks blearily at the mirror. The first thing he notices is his wild bedhead—not surprising after sleeping with it loose, though his hair is pleasantly soft and smooth from Shiro’s thorough treatment. The second thing, shortly after, is the hickeys.
“Shiro!” he exclaims, staring open-mouthed at the absolutely ravaged state of his neck, littered with deep purple bruises.
“Hmm?” comes Shiro’s sleepy reply as he walks up behind him.
“Look what you did to my neck!”
In the mirror, their eyes meet, and it takes only a moment for Shiro’s eyes to flick to the marks and then guiltily back to Keith’s.
Shiro wraps his arms around Keith’s middle and rests his chin on his shoulder, pulling what could only be described as puppy eyes.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding at all sorry.
Keith rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous…” he mutters. “The amount of shit Lance is going to give me when he sees…and Kolivan’s stare. He won’t say anything, but that’s somehow even worse.” He cringes at the thought and quickly starts thinking of what excuse he might be able to use to not have his video on during his virtual meeting with the Blades today.
Shiro is quiet for a minute, still draped over him while Keith starts brushing his teeth.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks after the pause, and there’s a vulnerable tone in his voice that makes Keith turn around to look him in the eyes, not his reflection.
He looks genuinely worried, eyes wide and almost sad, and Keith can’t have that.
“Baby, no. I’m not mad. I—I don’t mind if you want to mark me. I mean, yeah, it’ll be a little embarrassing, but uh, I actually…I actually kind of like it.”
He doesn’t know why his cheeks are heating. Shiro has had his tongue up his ass, there’s not exactly any need for acting demure at this point. But truth be told, the idea of everyone he sees on the Atlas today—and for the rest of the week, probably—seeing the plain evidence that his mate loves him, protects him and takes care of him…it has more than just his cheeks growing hot.
He’s not the only one, if the way Shiro’s looking at his reflection in the mirror now is any evidence. His eyes are hot, and fixed on the image of Keith with his neck scattered with his marks, like he’s imagining what everyone else will see. What they’ll know.
When Shiro’s arms start to tighten around his waist, Keith wriggles out of his grasp and turns on the hot water to wash his face.
“Don’t even try to start something,” he scolds. “We’ll both be late for work.”
***
They’re late for work.
Throughout the day, other little things start to crop up. Shiro packs Keith a lunch to bring to work, his favorite kind of sandwich wrapped up all neatly in parchment paper with crisp, perfect folds, plus a clump of grapes and a few thin slices of cucumber. He hands it off to Keith when they’re rushing out the door for work like it’s something precious, like it’s incredibly important to him that Keith eats it.
“I know you don’t have time to take a lunch today between meetings,” he says, “and you have to make sure you eat.”
When he does eat it, later, Shiro is in his office while they both join a call together, and he watches him as he eats, practically glowing when he can tell Keith likes it.
Shiro’s in Keith’s office a lot, in fact, popping in whenever he can with an adorable look of concern on his face that melts immediately into relief when he lays eyes on Keith. He’s touchy, too, extra affectionate and, frankly, horny.
He’s scenting Keith a lot. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not at all. Especially when there are others around.
None of this would necessarily be unusual on its own, but all at once, it’s enough for Keith to notice. He doesn’t know what to make of it.
Keith feels people’s eyes on him throughout the day, too—on his neck, to be specific. He can’t help but to preen a little, hold his head higher for them all to see. He’s glad he decided not to cover the marks up. The alien diplomats visiting from other planets notice, too, and some of them are more obvious about their interest than humans would be, some looking at his neck and nodding with something that translates pretty clearly as a kind of impressed approval, or in one case, arousal. He finds himself thankful that Shiro isn’t there when that happens, or he’s pretty sure they would have an international diplomatic incident on their hands.
As expected, the first time he sees his friends, the pleased feeling turns a corner sharply into annoyance, most of which is directed straight at Lance.
“So, did Shiro run into an alien that temporarily turned him into an octopus last night, or what?” Lance asks from across the conference table where the group of them have lingered after a meeting.
Keith glares, baring his teeth a little. “No,” he growls.
At the end of the table, Hunk laughs nervously. “Well I’m glad you guys are uh, keeping the magic alive.” He scratches the back of his head. “You know, I’ve heard a lot of people say that marriage absolutely killed their sex lives—“
“Not those two!” Lance interrupts, sticking a finger up in the air as if he were the uncontested expert on the subject of Keith and Shiro fucking. “Nope, they’re always going at it like rabbits. Don’t think anything could slow them down.”
Beside him, Pidge groans. Her head has been in her hand for a while now. “Lance, just stop while you’re ahead.”
“What? Am I wrong?”
Matt chuckles softly and shakes his head. He’s been mostly quiet, which Keith appreciates.
“I ran into Shiro earlier when he was on his way to your office,” Matt says. “He seemed, uh. Weird.”
Keith’s always appreciated Matt’s bluntness. He lowers his hackles a little. Frowns at his folded hands on the table. He’s quiet for a minute, and then he shrugs.
“Yeah, he’s been sort of…extra Shiro the past couple of days. I don’t know what’s up.”
Matt makes a considering noise.
“Elaborate,” Pidge says.
So Keith explains. Leaving out most of the details, but giving enough to give them an idea of how he’s been acting.
“Oh,” Lance exclaims after, like it’s obvious, “sounds like he’s going into rut.”
At that, Keith positively hisses, leaning forward against the table like he might just leap over it.
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Lance,” he snarls, with maybe more venom than is really necessary.
Lance immediately puts his hands up in his classic ‘what did I do wrong’ position, Hunk starts chuckling nervously again, Pidge throws her head back and rolls her eyes, and Matt meets Keith’s eyes knowingly, grimacing slightly. At least there’s someone here who understands.
Because Shiro’s not going into rut. Because he doesn’t. Can’t. Hasn’t since his first sort of semi-rut as a teenager first presenting as an alpha, before his illness and the side effects of its treatment fucked with his body and his hormones enough that his whole mating cycle essentially went on hold, waiting for things to get back to normal, to stop having to fight for its life before resuming its natural background patterns. The thing is, things never got back to normal. Because while his illness was treated and controlled, it wasn’t cured, and because when he went off to Kerberos, he didn’t come back. Whether it was the lasting damage his illness caused, or the massive stress and trauma he went through after his capture and the war that ensued, they don’t really know, but the end result is that Shiro’s ruts are gone for good. He’s never had a real one.
It doesn’t matter, in the grand scheme of things. It’s hardly the biggest scar Shiro’s history has cruelly left on him, and it’s not like the ruts would have provided anything they can’t do without them. Still, it’s just another way the universe has hurt Shiro, left its indelible mark on him, taken a part of life away from him that he should have gotten to have, that they should have gotten to experience together. It stings. It makes Keith hurt on his behalf.
Matt is watching him, and he offers a sympathetic smile.
Keith sighs. He’s tired, and he has a headache, and really he just wants to go home and be with Shiro. This was his last meeting of the day, so there’s nothing stopping him from leaving, and that’s just what he’s going to do.
“Well, anyway…I’m gonna go. See you guys tomorrow.”
Hunk wishes him a good rest of his day, and Pidge apologizes on Lance’s behalf—who’s still trying to defend himself—but they all fade quickly as the door behind him shuts and he’s left in the empty hallway.
Some of the tension he’s carrying in his body fades during the walk through the Atlas to Shiro’s office, so by the time he gets there, he’s more tired and ready to fall into his husband’s arms than he is angry.
When he puts his palm on the door lock and it swings open for him, though, Shiro turns, sniffs the air, and immediately gets up from his desk and comes to Keith’s side.
“Is everything okay, baby?”
“M’fine. Just tired. Can we go home?”
“Of course, starlight.” Shiro’s petting his hair already, holding him, waves of comforting scent coming off of him. Keith turns his face to seek it out instinctively, pushing his nose into Shiro’s throat.
By the time they get home, Keith’s already feeling better. Shiro convinces him it’s okay to doze off in the car while he drives, and he reaches across the console and holds Keith’s hand the entire way. The stress of the day hasn’t gone away, but he’s been able to push it into the background in favor of spending a pleasant evening with his husband. He’s already thinking about the cuddling he’s going to get, and wondering what kind of takeout they’ll order.
Inside, their house is quiet and dark and familiar, and Keith can finally fully relax in the knowledge that it’s only him and Shiro, here. He doesn’t have to worry about anything or anyone else.
Shiro turns on the light in the foyer and bends down to help Keith get out of his shoes, kissing his knee as he does. Keith blinks in momentary surprise at the tenderness, even though it shouldn’t be surprising when it comes from Shiro. Sometimes, he still has to pause to remember that it’s okay to be taken care of now, that it isn’t going to be yanked away from him when he needs it most. He puts a hand on Shiro’s shoulder to balance himself, and when Shiro smiles up at him, Keith sees his whole future in his face.
When Shiro stands, he steps close into Keith’s space and guides him with a hand on the back of his head to scent him. Keith goes easily, breathing in deep and rubbing his cheek up against Shiro’s scent glands, and they stand there like that for a while, until Keith’s tiredness makes itself known again and he shifts on his sore feet.
Shiro notices, of course, and makes a funny, concerned chuff in his throat.
“Why don’t you get changed out of your work clothes, baby? Then we can order from the Vietnamese place in town?”
Shiro follows him into the bedroom and rustles through the drawers of their wardrobe while Keith unbuttons his uniform, searching for something.
He straighten when he finds it, and turns to Keith, holding a bundle of fabric in his arms and wearing a hopeful expression.
“Want to wear this?” he asks, that vulnerable tone there in his voice again.
Keith looks down at what Shiro’s holding out towards him. He recognizes it quickly as a piece of Shiro’s clothing, not his own—a sweatshirt, one that’s big enough to be encompassing and cozy even on Shiro’s huge frame, one of his favorites.
“It’ll be really comfy,” he adds.
It’s no secret that Shiro likes Keith in his clothes, he just usually doesn’t ask for it directly. Not that Keith minds.
He steps forward, taking the sweatshirt from Shiro gladly. It’s soft between his fingers, and he brings it to his nose reflexively, pressing his face into the fabric. It’s covered in Shiro’s scent, duller than when Keith scents him directly but still soothing, and he takes a deep breath of it like it’s fresh ocean air. He feels warmer already, before even pulling it over his head.
It’s huge on him, unsurprisingly, and as it settles over the tops of his thighs, he feels pleasantly surrounded by it, like being held by Shiro secondhand.
When he looks back up, Shiro is staring at him like Keith is the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
“Pretty,” he manages, voice husky and a little strained. Keith could swear he can see his pupils dilating all the way from here.
Keith snorts. “Like you’ve never seen me in your sweatshirt before.”
“Hmm. Never gets old.” Shiro smirks, then gives Keith a quick kiss as he passes by and heads to the kitchen.
They hunch together, pouring over the takeout menu and picking out frankly too much food to order for dinner while Shiro not-so subtly fawns over Keith in his sweatshirt, still captivated. He’s running his big hands all over Keith’s body without purpose, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but just can’t keep his hands off of him. Skating under the shirt, fitting around his ribs. When he’s on the phone ordering, one hand finds its way down to grab a healthy handful of Keith’s ass, and Keith has to muffle his yelp of surprise so it isn’t heard on the other end of the line. Shiro doesn’t move his hand.
They eat cuddled on the couch together, surrounded by takeout containers. Shiro pulls Keith close when they sit down, nearly into his lap—he probably would have if Keith let him.
Shiro’s feeling playful, apparently. It’s something Keith appreciates especially nowadays when it comes out, because he’s so thankful that they’re in a position now where that side of Shiro can come out. It’s something he didn’t see for so long, that now he treasures it when he does.
After they’ve eaten and cleaned up, lounging on the couch turns into an impromptu sparring session, initiated by Shiro, who’s suddenly full of energy and a need to get it out. He tackles Keith onto the couch first, landing him on his back and then pulling back, half letting him go, inviting Keith to try to get away.
Not one to back down from a challenge, Keith hooks a leg around Shiro’s waist and twists, using the torque of his body to roll Shiro onto the floor and land on top of him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the carpet above his head with a little growl.
Beneath him, Shiro is grinning, and Keith can see the gleaming sharp of his canines.
One thing Keith has always loved about sparring with Shiro is that they’re exceptionally well-matched. Neither of them can reliably get control over the other, which leads to exhilarating, challenging grappling that they both enjoy. Shiro has the edge on raw strength and size, but Keith is faster, more agile. They’ve both got the training and experience to make them good fighters, the intelligence to put those advantages to use.
They can go at it for hours, pinning each other and then letting go to do it all again, until they’re sweating and flushed pink with exertion and more than a little arousal. Often, the fighting leads to fucking, including when the sparring takes place in the shared gym on the Atlas or in the Castle of Lions, and they have to find the nearest semi-private space while tearing each other’s clothes off as they go—which has led to a number of awkward encounters with unsuspecting friends and coworkers just trying to get something out of the supply closet and finding Shiro pounding Keith against the shelves.
Now, when Keith rolls his hips down, cocky, teasing, he can feel that Shiro is already stiffening. They’ve only just begun.
Shiro takes the moment of distraction to surge upwards, unbalancing Keith and launching them into another scramble.
Twenty minutes later, they’re still wrestling on the floor of their living room, trading playful growls and bursts of happy laughter. There’s a vigor to Shiro’s moves, an energy behind them. He’s definitely hard now, as is Keith, but neither of them does anything about it—not until finally, Shiro pins him and bites down on his neck, a shallow mimic of his mating bite.
Immediately, Keith goes boneless and lets a high keen escape his throat, and Shiro ruts against him pointedly. The undercurrent of arousal that Keith was enjoying throughout the sparring spikes, blooming low in his belly, and he’s suddenly desperate.
“Shiro, Shiro, fuck me, hurry,” Keith gasps, already clawing at Shiro’s clothes.
Shiro responds with a growl leading into a happy chuff, his instincts conflicted between raw, dominant need and the desire to please his mate that is now being satisfied. Keith manages a breathless laugh despite the ever-heightening alpha, mate, submit, fuck me throbbing in his veins, threatening to drown out his more conscious thoughts.
Shiro doesn’t even seem to notice—too focused on yanking down Keith’s leggings, just far enough. A new growl rumbles in his throat when he sees the slick already painting Keith’s thighs, just from their sparring.
“Yeah,” Keith pants, “see what you do to me? Ahh, fuck, baby . ” Shiro’s already inside of him, thrusting a few times to bury himself all of the way into Keith’s tight heat. Shiro noses at the scent gland on Keith’s neck, groaning, and drags his teeth over it, open-mouthed. Keith’s panting rapidly, trying to catch his breath, relishing the stretch of being split open wide around Shiro’s girth.
He doesn’t get a chance to adjust before Shiro’s pulling back until just the tip of him is keeping Keith’s hole open, catching on the edges of it, and then plunging back in. Keith yowls with it, dragging his nails down Shiro’s back where he clings onto him. Shiro snarls, and Keith feels his knot, already, popped and pushing up against Keith with every thrust.
Keith’s so slick that the slide is slippery and easy despite his tightness, and Shiro can fuck in at a brutal pace. The house is filled with their panting and traded growls, the slap of sweat-dampened skin together as Shiro’s hips snap against Keith’s ass, likely leaving bruises and pinkened skin on his ass and the backs of his thighs.
“Yes, please, please, Shiro.” Keith is clawing at Shiro’s back, arching up into him, and he knows he’s leaving angry red marks that’ll be there in the morning, but he can’t help it.
With each thrust, Keith’s cock, trapped between their stomachs, gets sweet friction, and Shiro is pushing up against every sweet spot inside of him, and he’s spiraling surprisingly quickly towards orgasm. As the knot in his belly tightens and high, breathy whines squeeze through his throat, Keith finds himself pushing back on Shiro’s knot each time it bumps against his hole.
He doesn’t usually take a knot outside of heat, unless he’s especially horny and has been well-stretched, but right now, there’s a feverish want in him that has him locking his ankles behind Shiro’s back and pulling him closer.
“Go ahead, knot me, alpha, AH!”
Not needing to be told twice, Shiro puts enough strength behind his next thrust to push his knot in too—it takes a couple of insistent grinds of his hips to pop it all the way in, and when it does, Keith shrieks as he comes, clenching down on Shiro’s knot. Shiro spills inside of him; Keith can feel it, wants almost to move closer to it, to get Shiro deeper inside of him, even though he’s already buried as deep as Keith’s body could possibly handle.
Keith feels like his body is buzzing, hot and flushed and dizzy with the feeling of being so full, so stretched to the limit.
“God,” he groans, “hah, Shiro, fuck.”
Shiro licks at his neck a couple of times, appeasing.
Each twitch of Shiro’s cock inside him makes Keith’s thighs twitch involuntarily, hypersensitive, and small aborted whines bubble up in his throat.
On top of him, Shiro’s weight becomes heavier, sinking to rest on Keith as he comes down too.
“Wow,” Keith pants, catching his breath. “We should spar more often.”
Shiro grumbles, a noise almost like a purr that vibrates in his chest and makes Keith chuckle. He strokes Shiro’s hair, the back of his neck, and lets himself float pleasantly back to earth while Shiro’s knot comes down.
After a few minutes, when Shiro’s knot has shrunk enough for him to slide free, Shiro shifts, readjusting. He wiggles down, and Keith lets him, confused but too sated to say anything. He stops when his head is level with Keith’s chest, then lays it down, his ear pressed to the center of it, just to the left of his sternum. Then, he’s quiet and still, a heavy weight draped over Keith, the rhythm of his breath slow and steady. Keith thinks he’s listening to his heartbeat.
It’s a tender moment, and Keith isn’t willing to disrupt it, so they just lie there for a while, together, unperturbed. Keith is already sore, but it’s a good kind of sore—the ache of well-used muscles and a good fuck. He wouldn’t be surprised if Shiro started snoring soon. Then he’ll have a giant pile of man to figure out how to get into bed. He closes his eyes and smiles, and can’t help the happy chirp that spills out of him.
This is what they get, now, after all the pain and struggle. They get each other.