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Shiro opens the door to Keith’s bedroom just in time to see Keith hurl a desk chair against the wall. The chair makes contact with an explosive crack, one piece ricocheting across Shiro’s line of vision while the rest of it crumples to the floor.
“Keith.”
Keith ignores him in favor of retrieving the chair from the ground. His face is red and his expression is murderous. Jaw clenched so hard that Shiro can almost feel the bone-on-bone ache of it himself. Once Keith has the mangled chair in his hands once more, he swings it into the wall again—
And again—
And again—
And there’s a dent in the wall now, and the chair is not so much a chair as it is just a piece of metal that Keith is beating into the castleship.
“Keith, stop that.”
It’s unnerving, the way Keith’s anger sounds. With his jaw clenched so tightly, each sharp exhale is more strangled grunt than the next. Just the crushing clang of the metal meeting wall rings out between them, and that furious breath. Shiro thinks it would almost be better if Keith were screaming or swearing; anything would be better than the stark tendons pulling in Keith’s neck and the way his arms and chest are ripcord tight, every muscle taut as he silently rages.
Abrupt, Keith drops the piece of chair and replaces it with his fist. The sound of flesh meeting the wall is worse; his knuckles come away red. Bloody.
“Keith—”
Blood finds the floor— one drop, another beside it— and Keith is reaching behind himself to unclasp his blade. He’s deft with it, turning it over in his palm as if the weapon is simply an extension of his body. He draws it back,
“Alright. That’s enough.” Shiro steps over the debris and into Keith’s space to wrap one hand around Keith’s wrist. “Give it to me.”
Keith whips his head up to glare at Shiro. His first instinct is to pull away, but Shiro tightens his grip around Keith’s wrist. He’s not going anywhere.
His eyes are a storm. Shiro looks down at him and purposefully keeps his own expression neutral. The mission had gone badly. A disaster. It was Keith’s fault. Shiro inherits the aftermath as kind of a corollary to the original problem, some explosive chain reaction with Keith at the core. He can feel the jumping of Keith’s radial pulse under his thumb. Bruising. Violent.
“I said, give it to me.” There’s a hard finality to the statement. Shiro won’t ask again.
Luxite is a dense material. The blade is heavier than it should be by looks alone— even the hilt is weighted for balance. It’s warm too, like a living thing, like the sharp edge of it can smell the blood that’s already been spilt. Shiro takes the knife from him.
Shiro tosses his head in the direction of Keith’s bare mattress. He releases Keith’s wrist. “Sit down. Clear your head.” The sheets have already been torn off the bed and are in a ragged pile on the floor. Keith’s paladin helmet is across the room, obviously thrown. Keith’s chest piece and boots and gloves are similarly strewn about his quarters.
Shiro holds his gaze with Keith— Keith’s mouth is set but emotion escapes in the flair of his nostrils, a sharp huff that speaks of something incandescent ready to explode. He half expects Keith to argue with him, or even— for a moment— to strike him, but, no. Instead he drops, like he was thrown there, onto the mattress in front of Shiro.
Keith’s lips are chapped. He’s bitten them raw. He doesn’t look down, nor does he look at Shiro, but someplace just to Shiro’s left. Hands fisted over his thighs, body tight. There’s a smear of blood on the thigh of his undersuit.
“You know, when I’m angry, I don’t have the luxury of tearing the ship apart.” Shiro says. And he is angry. Keith has been doing well— functioning as a part of the team, playing nice with their diplomatic efforts— too well to backslide like this. Shiro’s admonition comes out sharp and Keith’s reaction to it is just as profound. He flinches like Shiro slapped him. But then, Keith takes it in stride, hunching his shoulders, not meeting Shiro’s eyes. Ignoring him. It’s maddening, this refusal to engage, and Shiro’s irritation spikes. He grabs Keith’s face, roughly cupping his jaw. Forcing his face upwards. “Keith. Stop this. Look at me.”
In response, Keith shudders. He’s still not making eye contact,
Shiro follows his gaze. Keith is focused on the knife in Shiro’s other hand. “Keith.” At the sound of his name, Keith swallows. Shiro can feel the movement under his touch. And then nothing. Keith is utterly still.
Is he frightened? Shiro mentally takes a step back to corral his own anger. He drops his hold. It’s no secret that Keith has had a difficult past. “You know I would never hurt you."
Keith’s tongue finds its way over his teeth and he sucks. He has to tear his eyes away from the blade to finally look at Shiro. "I know," he says. His voice is throaty. Low.
Some slight shift of his legs pulls Shiro’s attention to Keith’s lap. The undersuit material is lightweight and skintight both. The tent between Keith’s legs leaves no question.
Keith is not scared. He is aroused.
"You're hard,"
Shiro moves the knife and Keith’s breath catches like he can barely contain himself. He bites down so hard on the noise that the split in his chapped lip starts to bleed. He licks it off, but the cut still wells red as he presses his lips together. His eyes flick up to Shiro and then back down to the knife. His hands curl into the mattress. His knees shunt together, but it’s too late to hide. He doesn’t deny what Shiro said.
“From what?” Shiro asks, not expecting an answer. “Being mad? Breaking things?”
Blood feathers from Keith’s lip to his chin. Shiro uses his thumb to brush it away— the same hand that has fingers curled around the hilt of the knife. The action leaves the flat of the blade just a breath away from Keith’s skin. Keith’s mouth drops open, his eyes flutter shut. He sucks in one ragged inhale and Shiro can feel it over his hand and hear it in the quiet of the room. It sounds like desperation.
Shiro is fixated, watching the way tension is seeping out of Keith under his hand. Rage uncoils into something thicker. Headier.
Keith looks up at him, pupils fat in the dark storm of his eyes. His lips are still parted; he tilts his head, just a fraction to Shiro’s left. The blunt hilt of the knife presses into the soft flesh of Keith’s open mouth.
He’s begging for it.
Standing in front of him, Shiro pushes the hilt deeper. The blade catches in the light but Shiro is cautious of its edge, careful not to cut himself as he manipulates the hilt over Keith’s broken lip. Keith’s lips catch as Shiro skirts the blunt end of the knife over them. Pressing down, pulling back. Plush lips, stained red, they look so soft. Shiro drags the butt of the dagger out of Keith’s slack mouth, plunges it in. Keith whines .
The sound of him. Heat dips in Shiro’s stomach, pooling in his groin. This is sick. He removes the hilt of the blade from Keith’s mouth, watching the way saliva strings between the hilt and Keith’s open mouth. “Fuck.”
Shiro holds the side of Keith’s face, hooking the tip of his thumb in the corner of Keith’s open mouth. Holds him there, holds his jaw open with enough force that he can feel the hard edge of Keith’s teeth against his own thumb. Shiro slides the knife back in. Slow. Nestles it in the flat of his tongue. Pushes it further, against teeth, the soft palate. Keith gags but takes it in stride, wants it. He’s looking up at Shiro. Deeper now. Shiro watches the way drool is pooling over Keith’s cracked lip, mixing with the blood. Tears prick at the corner of Keith’s eyes, wetting his dark lashes as he blinks them away.
Keith is touching himself. Not with any finesse. He just has one hand fisted in his crotch, gripping his cock though the suit. Getting off on Shiro fucking his mouth like this. Shiro’s own dick stirs at the sight of him. His uniform is suddenly too hot. Pants too tight. Keith’s jaw is slack, mouth open for Shiro—
He removes the hilt of the knife.
The long column of Keith’s neck ripples as Keith swallows. “Shiro,” he says, voice gravelly like it was before. “Shiro. Please.”
Keith’s touch is light as it finds Shiro’s hand. It becomes more than obvious what he wants as he guides the flat of the blade to find the line of his jaw. The fine edge of it— sharp enough to cut a hair in two— skirts along the swell of his cheek. But it doesn’t break the skin.
Shiro realizes that he’s holding his breath at the same time that Keith shudders out a sigh. The luxite is naturally hot to the touch; how often has Keith done this to himself, some pantomime of a caress? When he touches himself?
Withdrawing the knife, Shiro switches the blade to his other hand and presses his palm—real flesh and blood— against Keith’s cheek. He feels flushed, skin tacky to the touch. Keith leans into it. He looks up at Shiro, undone.
Bending close, Shiro lets his hand slide from Keith’s face to his shoulder. A familiar touch for both of them. He noses into Keith’s hair, presses a kiss against his forehead. “Take off your suit,” he tells him. This is unfamiliar. His own voice sounds husky to his ears.
Shiro keeps the knife in hand as he unclapses his own belt and unbuttons his trousers. The relief as he wraps a hand around himself is enough to get drunk on, but he does little more than that. He’s too distracted. Keith is below him— now undressed, to the waist. The flush in his pale skin is apparent over the tops of his shoulders and the way it mottles over his chest, disappearing into the fine hair there. Shiro ignores the sweet peaks of his nipples and the shiny head of his cock peeking out of the bottoms of the undersuit. His attention is elsewhere.
The hot flat of the blade against his face must not be the only way that Keith uses the knife to get off.
His sternum is littered with innumerable thin, bright lines. Hatch marks and crisscrossing, white and raised over pale skin. The same scars are adorning his ribs, some shorter, some longer. His stomach. The tops of his hips. One wraps from his navel to his rib cage, a delicate arc sweeping from the dark hair covering Keith’s stomach. Shiro pushes Keith back against the mattress, a knee on either side of Keith’s waist. His undone belt buckle swings as he settles there. Kneeling over him. Shiro traces the long, faint arc with his index finger and Keith shivers underneath him.
“I know I shouldn’t,” Keith gets out. His narrow chest heaves like it wouldn’t be able to withstand admonishment from Shiro, not this kind. He’s looking away, one finger tracing a scar on his stomach. “But it feels so fucking good, I—” He swallows. Looks at Shiro. “I just do.”
Shiro runs the point of the knife over his skin, too light to cause any damage. Just enough to feel that it’s there. Keith sucks in a breath, abused mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Shiro swears under his breath. He had no idea— fuck, the way the steel looks against his skin. The way he’s laid out here, vulnerable to anything and everything. Shiro skirts the flat of the knife over Keith’s shoulders, watching the way goosebumps form over his arms, the hard nubs of Keith’s nipples.
“You’re— teasing—” Keith gets out. He sounds short of breath.
The knife drags along Keith’s collarbone, down past the hollow of his throat. Shiro wets his lips.
“Like this?” Shiro asks, cock throbbing. He has the point of the blade poised over Keith’s sternum. Not breaking the skin, only just making contact.
Keith sets a hand over Shiro’s. Applies pressure. The blade sinks beneath the skin of Keith’s sternum like it was meant to be there. It’s barely a pinprick, but the effect is instantaneous. Keith hisses out a gasp, hips bucking upward into Shiro, hands now clenching into not-quite-fists.
“More, Shiro.” Blood wells under the point of the knife and Keith is not rage but desperation as his eyes find Shiro’s. He grits his teeth. “C’mon, c’mon, please ,”
If the knife is hot, this must burn. Shiro drags the sharp edge of it in one excruciating and perfect line down Keith’s sternum, as if preparing to crack him open. He imagines it, two thumbs, just there, the pressure, the snap. Blood beads along in the knife’s wake. The cut is shallow, but Keith’s fingertips immediately find it. He makes a mess of the perfect line, smearing the wet, hot blood through his chest hair and beneath his nails. Into the hollow of his throat as he squirms, unable to move much underneath Shiro’s weight. He groans, reaching for his cock.
Shiro thumbs along the line. Never in his life has he enjoyed drawing blood.
Never in his life has he been this hard.
He lifts the knife from Keith’s skin. Blood shifts over the luxite’s surface, mercurial in how it beads and skirts along the edge. Keith is desperately jerking his own cock, even as he’s pinned underneath Shiro. The shallow cut down his chest won’t close: Keith is playing with it, pushing and pulling at the edge, pressing his fingers into the broken flesh with an urgency that matches the way he’s touching himself.
Keith stops when Shiro moves the knife again. The blade catches in the light of the room; Shiro motions with it that Keith should finish undressing. He scrambles to push the undersuit down his thighs, kicking it off his feet, eyes locked on Shiro’s face. “Good boy,” Shiro tells him, running the back of his hand along the inside of Keith’s thigh. Teasing. The skin is soft under his fingertips, soft, but uneven. There are scars there too— and now Shiro can imagine the way Keith must have abused them while they were still fresh.
“Shiro,” he whines, not distinctly from the praise, or the teasing, or the heaviness of Shiro’s eyes on him, but from all of it together. “You can’t just— just— stop.”
“Funny,” Shiro says, forcing the word out— his voice is two shades darker than it should be, and this is anything but funny, “I don’t remember any intention to stop.”
Keith’s hair splays over the mattress as he shakes his head. He swallows, his adam’s apple dipping in his throat. His eyes are on the blade.
They follow it as Shiro sits up, adjusting his position. Keith swears— ground out, hissing— as the flat of the blade runs along the inside of his thigh where Shiro was teasing a moment prior. The heat from it leaves a trail of flush on that pale skin, even without breaking it. Instinctively, Keith widens his legs, spreading them for the knife. His cock, fully erect, bobs with the movement.
“That’s right, Keith.” Shiro says, one hand now stroking himself. He takes a moment to push his boxers down and pull up the hem of his shirt. Even so, he doesn’t pull the knife away from Keith’s skin— or miss the appreciative way Keith sucks in a breath at the sight of Shiro.
Shiro fists around the head of his own cock tight enough that he groans. Keith, sitting up on his elbows, watches. His dark eyes are hungry. There’s still blood smeared all over his chest. Shiro feels the sharpness of Keith’s gaze, keen and piercing. Cutting.
But Shiro needs both hands next: one to dig into the meat of Keith’s inner thigh, thumb pressing into the lithe muscle there. And the other hand to hold the knife. Shiro lines the blade up with the length of Keith’s cock. He’s smaller than Shiro, of course, smaller than the blade too. Cute. It feels like neither of them are breathing as Shiro runs the knife over the length of his dick—just to touch, not to break the skin. Back down, over his balls.
Keith swears, hot and low, and Shiro wraps a hand around him. He jerks slower, lazier than Keith did himself. He drops him, giving the same attention to his own dick. The knife glimmers in the air while his cockhead disappears in and out of Shiro’s fist.
“Keith,” Shiro grunts, watching him watch him. Watching him eye the knife again. He rolls it in his hand, touching it to Keith’s face like before— there’s blood on it now, not dried yet— and down Keith’s neck. Keith is breathing so hard. Over his chest, the flat of the blade over one of Keith’s nipples, down his stomach. The tip of it traces the crest of his hip. Back down again. To the base of his cock. Over it. Keith trembles.
Shiro fits the point of the blade under the head of his cock, and Keith stutters out a halting breath as he watches. His dick twitches, the point of the knife dips in just under the crown. Pre dribbles out at the same time that Keith moans . His hands fist, his head drops back, his stomach clenches, his hips jerk. The movement plunges the needlesharp point of the dagger in that much further—now enough to draw blood. The blurt of pre mixes with the pearl of blood as Shiro removes the knife. Both drip down the length of Keith’s cock.
What is it about the knife that gets him off? The danger, the thrill, the pain? The attention? Shiro wraps a hand around Keith and strokes, slow and deliberate. He’s slick with blood and pre, hot— Shiro lowers his head to take Keith’s cock into his mouth. He tastes of copper and salt,
“I— Shiro— fuck— fuck — ”
The swearing is cut off abruptly. Shiro takes more of him, tongue laving over his length. He looks up to find that Keith has his fist shoved in his mouth, bloody knuckles and all. His eyes are squeezed shut. Shiro pulls off slowly, letting his lips linger around the abused crown. He flips the knife in his hand.
Presses the blunt end of the hilt over Keith’s entrance.
Keith arches off the bed, fucking into Shiro’s mouth. “Shi-ro!”
“You’ve done this before.” Shiro says after dropping Keith’s dick from his mouth. He strokes him, Keith’s dick all but disappearing in Shiro’s large hand. The hilt of the blade is thick and the end of it is rounded. “Show me.”
Plunging his own fingers in his mouth, Keith covers them in spit and circles around his hole before pushing them inside with a hiss. Just like that— quick. Rough. He exhales, shaky, and then readjusts his position, heels digging into the mattress for better leverage. “I need—” He wants the knife.
“No.” Shiro keeps it firmly in his hand.
A huff of irritation cuts through Keith’s arousal. “Then do it right,” he says, grounding out the words. He directs Shiro to lower the blade again to his skin— this time to the teased skin of his inner thigh. The edge breaks the skin and Keith keens as Shiro drags it along. The line wells crimson. Keith gathers the blood on his fingertips, rolling them against his thumb, relishing it, before he pushes them back inside.
Shiro pumps his hand over his own dick, fucking into his fist as he watches Keith finger himself open. Keith is making a mess with the blood, smearing it over his thigh, over his cock, into his hole. The knife gleams. Shiro flips it in his hand again— a motion he’s seen Keith do a thousand times— he waits for Keith to withdraw his hand.
He presses the rounded end over his entrance.
The thick hilt of the knife goes in slowly. Keith’s breath hitches and he cries out, bloody fingertips curling over his thighs. Still, it’s with less resistance than Shiro would expect. He draws the knife out, and in again, fucking Keith with it slowly. Deeper, and deeper. And then it’s fully buried in him.
The blade threatens to draw more blood as it skims the edges of Keith’s already wounded thighs. Shiro’s heart is pounding, he feels lightheaded, this is—
“Haaah—” Keith groans. “Fuck,” he digs into the fresh cut on his thigh before his hand flutters, uncoordinated, over his dick. Twisting over the head of it— faster than before. He’s close.
“You like this. Being filled up.” Shiro says, rubbing his thumb over the strained pucker of Keith’s entrance. Keith likes the stretch, likes the burn. The pain. It’s obvious.
“I— yeah, Shiro. Yeah. I like it.”
Shiro slides the hilt of the knife out of him. Keith all but thrashes over the mattress, biting out Shiro’s name in irritation. He quiets when he realizes that Shiro has replaced the knife with himself.
Shiro runs a thumb over Keith’s mouth, hand curled under his chin. “Spit,” he instructs.
“S-Shiro,” Keith spits into Shiro’s palm.
“Take a deep breath for me, Keith.” Shiro twists the slick hand around himself.
Obedient, Keith inhales.
Shiro lifts his hips, pushes in.
“Ah—!” Keith’s voice is sharp, almost a sob. “Fu— Shiro !!”
Tight.
Shiro groans, burning, burying himself in Keith’s tight, hot heat. Pre is pooling over Keith’s stomach— as Shiro fills him, Keith’s dick twitches and cum joins it, pearly and thick. Keith is shuddering, brows pulled together, mouth slack.
The sound of Keith’s ragged breaths is soon drowned out by the snap of Shiro’s hips and his own heavy groans. Keith is limp beneath him, body loose as Shiro fucks him. Hard. Fast. He still has the knife in his fist; the blunt hilt of it digs into Keith’s hip as Shiro holds him in place.
His thrusts become more erratic, faster as he gets closer and closer.
He slams into Keith, close, close,
Shiro comes, curling forward, bending so close to Keith as he spills inside him that the knife is almost pressed against his own skin. His breath hitches and his grip trembles— the blade quivers in midair.
Keith gasps, eyes squeezing shut, body tight once more. His hands are light over Shiro’s face, down his chest. He reaches for his blade. “Shi-Shiro,” he says, fingers clumsy as they grasp at Shiro’s wrist.
Shiro sits up, cum dribbling out of Keith’s ass as he changes position. Chest heaving, he tilts the point back to Keith’s skin. Just to the right of Keith’s navel, above that. High enough to be over his ribs, high enough that Keith would struggle to mark the spot himself. At least like this.
A lesser weapon would catch on the skin, would tug. But the luxite moves like nothing at all through the tender skin: A curve. Shiro inhales, his body still thrumming with pleasure as the blood wells. Keith’s fingernails are digging into the cords of his wrist. Urging him on. Shiro goes slow, a downward stroke, then, another rounded upswing.
The letter ‘S.’
There, carved into Keith’s skin.
Keith shudders. He presses his entire palm over the cut, feeling it. Pressing it in like he wants to make sure that it sticks. His eyes are trained on Shiro, his lips are parted. He has his other hand wrapped around his cock, jerking uncoordinated— he comes again, red welling between his fingers as cum drips down the other. He finishes, arms going slack. Shoulders loose as his head lolls back.
Shiro drops the knife onto the mattress. His hands are shaking like there’s a current under his skin.
He takes a deep breath.
There are tears on Keith’s face. When Shiro moves to brush them away with his thumb, Keith jerks back, wiping his own hand across his face. Smearing blood there. “I’m—”
“Stay still.” Shiro stands up. His legs feel weak beneath him— he steadies himself for a moment before he moves again. He takes the knife and puts it in the cubby at the head of Keith’s bed. Out of the way. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” Keith tells him. His voice is small.
Each room is equipped with a medkit— it takes a moment to locate Keith’s, but Shiro finds it after some tense searching underneath his bathroom sink.
When he returns to the bedside, Keith is sitting further away than he was. He has his knees pulled up to his chest, back bowed as he buries his face against them. One hand is still pressed against the mark that Shiro made.
At the sound of his name, Keith looks to Shiro. “Oh…” he says, like he didn’t expect Shiro to have the medkit. Or the warm towel. The wet washcloths. “You don’t have to— I mean. I’m okay.”
Shiro is deliberately slow as he sits on the bed next to Keith. “Come here,” he says.
The slightest frown pulls Keith’s brows together. “Where?”
“Here.” Shiro makes an obvious spot in front of him on the bed. He’s sitting with his back to the headboard. He motions Keith into his lap.
Keith joins him slowly, movements sluggish, but, separate from that, hesitant. He’s wary as he moves closer.
Shiro is patient. He keeps his touch heavy as Keith settles in front of him— a hand on Keith’s waist. A gentle touch on his arm. His bare skin is clammy. He has goosebumps again.
“You’re cold?” Shiro asks, bending around him with the warm washcloth. His face first, the blood across his cheek and down his chin. Keith’s back is against Shiro’s chest. He feels tense as Shiro wipes his stomach. Between his legs.
The breath is stilted when Keith finally allows it to escape. He answers, low, under his breath: “It’s not the room or whatever. I just get like this. Y’know. After.”
Imagine him: alone, cutting. Getting off on it. Alone, cleaning himself up, coming down. Shiro kisses the top of his shoulder. Keith’s hair is thick, soft; he pushes it aside to kiss the nape of his neck.
“Usually I just take a hot shower,” Keith volunteers. His hands clench into fists. “Or, um,” he falters as Shiro finds his right hand and spreads it out. There’s blood under his fingernails. When it’s clean, Shiro lifts his hand to press the back of it against his mouth. He sets it down carefully on Keith’s thigh before tending to the other. “But this is nice,” Keith says, just above a whisper.
The cuts are shallow but they still need to be cleaned and bandaged. Shiro takes care of the first aid in the same slow, methodical manner. The long cut down Keith’s sternum. The deeper, shorter cut on his inner thigh. Keith is quiet against him.
Lifting Keith slightly, Shiro moves from where he’s been sitting behind him. He leaves Keith on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him to tend to the last cut he made. The ‘S.’
The skin around it is pink and swollen. Beads of red still prick at the deepest part. Shiro cleans and bandages it like the others; when finished, he sets his lips against the gauze. Closes his eyes. Keith’s hands are resting on his shoulders. He bends forward, holding Shiro close.
“I guess I just—” Keith inhales. A stilted movement tells Shiro that he’s scrubbing at his face, even though Shiro can’t see the motion. “I just get mad when I mess up. I know it’s stupid, but what if,” Shiro can hear him swallow, “What if I’m not good enough. To make people stay?” He forces out a breath. “I know it’s dumb. But what if you—”
That’s all Keith can manage before he swallows again, throat too tight.
Shiro looks up at him. Keith has his eyes squeezed shut. His chapped lips pressed together tightly. Shiro touches his cheek, thumb brushing against the soft skin. “Keith.”
Keith looks at him.
The kiss, when Shiro stands up, bending close to him, is quiet. There’s no bite to it, no frantic energy. Just a soft press of his mouth, a gentle parting of Keith’s lips. A sigh, from Keith, as Shiro sinks into the bed, holding him. I’m not going anywhere, Shiro is telling him. Keith makes a breathy noise, pulling Shiro closer, dips a tongue into Shiro’s mouth and Shiro answers him, I’m here . He kisses down Keith’s neck, slow, sweet. He presses a firm touch against the mark he made, you’re mine .
And there’s still four more letters to make sure that Keith knows it’s true.
***