Chapter Text
As he sweats away under the summer sun’s bright glare, Keith has to wonder what sort of job affords someone a fucking Roman villa, complete with bronze replicas of famous statues, lush lawns and topiary that require a whole team of gardeners, and an oversized pool in need of near-constant cleaning and maintenance. It’s a monster— fifteen feet deep on one end and large enough to comfortably serve a small community— and after a month on the job, Keith has a routine down pat.
He comes by the small mansion daily for quick maintenance checks to skim the pool and test the water and makes longer, in-depth visits twice a week to scrub the tiles and do chemical treatments. The owner of the whole estate is a Galra of enormous proportions, and Keith’s glad he’s never seen Sendak outside of his first day on the job. The handshake alone had been enough for Keith to peg him as an asshole, albeit the kind clever enough to use his callousness to get ahead in life.
As he skims grass clippings and dead bugs from the surface of the pool, his gaze occasionally drifts to the facade of the ostentatious Greco-Roman style mansion, up sleek Corinthian columns and above the rows of porticos. Dozens of wide windows offer him occasional glimpses of Sendak’s husband, Shiro— the kept man— as he goes about his life of quiet, secluded opulence.
Sometimes, he spies Shiro on the villa’s long balcony, a drink in hand as he leans on the railing and watches Keith work— in gauzy, revealing outfits or sleek suits, depending on the weather. Other days, Keith only feels the weight of his stare, enough to raise the fine hairs along his nape and set some questionable thoughts running through his head.
But there’s no sign of him today. Keith doesn’t see any of the gardening staff around either, and for once he’s envious of Rolo, as it’s another scorching day in a heat wave that shows no sign of breaking any time soon. He can feel every beating ray of the sun deep in his pores, under his skin, and it’s a blessing that he doesn’t burn easily.
With a groan, Keith lifts the hem of his shirt and uses it to mop the sweat from his brow. It’s already soaked across his chest and down his back, the heather grey fabric gone dark with perspiration, and even his loose swim trunks somehow manage to chafe. Lance had painted an entirely different picture of the whole pool boy gig, and like a fool Keith had actually believed his overhyped bullshit. The reality is a little less of the promised paradise and a little more like torture, doomed to spend blistering days mere feet from cool, crisp waters that he’s not allowed to set foot in.
It’s a whole world of look, but don’t touch. It’s an awful lot of temptation for one man to take.
Keith is kneeling down on the sunbaked stone beside the pool, wearily fishing a snake from one of the cylindrical skimmer traps set into the concrete— a kingsnake, harmless but slippery as fuck— when he catches sight of Sendak’s husband coming down the long walk from the main house with a sleek, glass-topped tray in hand.
The man is in nothing but a silky black top left unbuttoned down to his navel, a black speedo, and a pair of flimsy sandals. His muscled, scarred thighs are left bare, those long legs moving toward him with purpose, and it’s a scenario Keith has only navigated in fuzzy, semi-delirious daydreams while he bakes under the unrelenting sun.
“Fuck,” he mutters as he gets ahold of the snake, just narrowly avoiding a panicked bite.
“Wow. Uh, how’s the pool cleaning going?”
Keith looks up at Shiro— all glorious six-foot-three of him, nothing but smooth muscle resting under scar-marked and glistening skin— with his arm still jammed down into the skimmer trap, water up to his elbow, and his hand wrapped around the head of a very frightened kingsnake.
He manages a tight smile. “Swimmingly.”
It makes Shiro laugh, although his brilliant smile falters as Keith pulls the writhing snake out of the pool water.
“Thanks for handling that,” he says as Keith walks clear over to the fence to drop the kingsnake on the other side. “And not just killing it.”
“Only a snake,” Keith shrugs, drying off his arm on a portion of his shirt that isn’t already soaked with sweat. “No reason to.”
Shiro nods his approval, his charming smile returning in full force. “I, uh, brought you these,” he adds, holding out the tray in his hands as soon as he remembers it. “It’s a scorcher today. Thought you might like a drink.”
“Yeah, definitely. Thanks.” Keith takes the few steps to shorten the remaining distance between them. He hasn’t been this close to Shiro since his first day on the job— a brief introduction from Sendak, a warm handshake, a little wave as Keith was lead away to the pool.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I poured a little of everything. You’ve got your basic ice water here. Some blue Gatorade. A Russian River white ale— really tasty. And a strawberry daiquiri that I mixed up special. Take anything you want.”
As Shiro carefully balances the tray on one hand and points to each drink in turn, Keith can’t help but stare at the diamond-clad band around his ring finger. It glints like the sun on the water, impossible to ignore.
He chugs the Gatorade— because electrolytes— and then the water in quick succession, grinning when Shiro lets out a little sound of surprise. The worst of his thirst slaked, Keith considers the last two drinks. Both are frosty cold and blissfully tempting, the sort of thing that’d require him to shirk his work and sip slow.
He picks up the mixed strawberry drink and tries it. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Shiro must like his sugar. “It’s good,” he says, licking his lips.
“I may not be able to cook, but I can make a mean daiquiri,” Shiro halfway brags as he takes the beer for himself and tosses the tray onto a poolside chaise lounge.
“You can go in, if you want,” Keith says, eyeing him. He’s got Shiro pegged as in his late twenties— probably a decade younger than his husband, at least— despite the silvered hair that crowns his head. “You’re all dressed for a swim and I’m pretty much finished.”
“Oh, this?” Shiro glances down at his scant outfit, as if he might’ve forgotten that he’s in what amounts to a pair of briefs and a mostly unbuttoned dress shirt. He looks Keith right in the eye as he draws a long swig from his frosty ale, shrugs, and says, “It’s just comfortable to wear.”
“I’m sure,” Keith agrees carefully, fighting to keep his gaze from sinking lower down the older man’s chest. That bared strip of skin is too inviting, kindling an entirely different kind of thirst in him. “Especially on a scorcher like this.”
A smile pulls at one corner of Shiro’s mouth. He steps in, hips swaying, and pinches the hem of Keith’s sweat-soaked shirt between his thumb and his forefinger. “You look a little uncomfortable, Keith. Might be too hot for this.”
Keith swallows thickly at the feel of Shiro toying with the fabric at his waist even as they stare each other in the eye. Shiro’s words are left to linger in the air between them.
“If you ever need to cool off, feel free to dive in,” he says before he finally turns to go, letting Keith’s drenched shirt slip from his loose grasp. “Even Sendak’s not mean enough to begrudge you that.”
Three more weeks crawl by, the heat as heavy and still as the doldrums, and Keith adjusts to a new routine. Maintenance that he used to finish in thirty minutes now takes an hour. His pool-scrubbing visits become a half-day affair. And it’s all because of Shiro, who brings him something icy cool every day and coaxes him into making conversation while they drink— not that Keith is complaining.
Not when everything tastes as good as Shiro looks. The selection varies based on the older man’s whims— iced tea and green smoothies and fruit-infused water— but he’s quick to offer to fill any special requests, head tilted just to one side, tongue running over the fullness of his bottom lip to catch the salt left from a sip of his margarita.
Fuck.
There’s a line between them that Shiro likes to flirt with, and it doesn’t help (or hurt) that he’s always dressed to tease, too: tops made of netting, baring so much skin he might as well go without; form-fitting tanks and loose basketball shorts that hang onto his hips for dear life; undone suit jackets with no shirt underneath. It’s a bit of a tragedy that he’s so effortlessly handsome, given that the only person around to appreciate his good looks is one lone pool boy. Keith’s never been one to care much about clothing, even if it’s designer-made and worth more than his pickup truck and bike combined, but as he lies awake in his bed and lazily pumps himself to sunlit memories of Shiro in sheer tops and low-riding joggers, he thinks he might get the appeal.
He becomes passably good at maintaining idle chatter— about his dog, his roommates, day-off plans with his mom, his hobbies— while actively fighting the carnal desperation that proximity to Shiro stokes. He gets piecemeal details about the man in return: a workout routine that starts before dawn and spans hours; a love of How It’s Made and PBS cooking shows; mentions of Sendak’s late hours and frequent business trips; nothing about family at all.
And it’s just another Tuesday when Keith pulls up the long drive, keys in the code to the back of the villa, and stumbles upon Shiro in the pool. He’s doing a lazy backstroke in nothing but a pair of tight, white swim briefs. Showy.
Keith lingers just behind a replica of winged Nike and takes a few minutes to watch, willing his breaths to even into something passing for casual. The elegant classical statues that flank the length of the pool, god or otherwise, have nothing on Shiro. He’s practically a work of art himself, body perfected through a tireless commitment to himself and the time and means to fulfill it. Keith has to mask his awe as he finally approaches with his kit in hand and the long handle of the pool skimmer balanced over his shoulder.
Shiro gives him an excited little wave before splashing toward the edge of the pool, his smile dripping satisfaction. He knows Keith’s routine. Knew he’d end up with an audience.
“Coming in?”
He asks it coyly, looking up at Keith from under a heavy cast of lashes— full and dark, glimmering with crystal water. Like this, Shiro has the allure of a siren or a mermaid or any other sea creature with a penchant for luring men into dangerous waters.
Keith crouches down at the pool’s edge, his mouth screwed to one side. He wants to comb his fingers through Shiro’s wet hair; he’d like to lick a stripe right up his neck, chlorine taste be damned. “I only just got here.”
“And you’re already sweating,” Shiro observes, his voice all feigned dispassion. He reaches up to thumb at the collar of Keith’s shirt, where it’s already gone damp. “The water’s fine. I promise.”
“I think I’m technically the judge of that,” Keith says as he starts fishing out his pH kit and test strips.
Shiro rolls his eyes and pushes off of the wall, diving backward into the pool’s depths, and Keith’s gaze can’t help but follow. Ripples bounces back and forth across the surface of the water, distorting Shiro’s figure as he skims along the bottom. It’s easy, the way he glides and turns, every bit of his shapely body drawn out for Keith to see. The sun gleams off of the sleek metal casing on his prosthetic, catching on every curl and extension of his right arm. It’s an advanced model— it must be, Keith thinks, to function the way it does.
Shiro’s down there a long while. Long enough that Keith starts to grow nervous.
But he crests the water with an open-mouthed gasp, prosthetic hand coming up to slick back the longer fringe of his forelock; soaking wet, his hair reads darker and greyer. It’s still a handsome color on him.
“Are you going to let me do my job sometime soon?” Keith asks, mostly amused but also legitimately concerned about how he’s supposed to function while Shiro does that right in front of him. “Or do you enjoy swimming with tons of dead bugs?”
Still treading water, Shiro shrugs. “How many houses do you have left after this?”
“You’re my last stop,” Keith says, noting the power in Shiro’s shoulders as he strokes his way back to the edge of the pool. The enormous villa is so far out of the way that it only makes sense. “Always.”
The admission makes Shiro smile, more sly than he has any right to be. He plants his hands on sun-warmed slate and heaves himself up with absolute ease, all coiled and rippling muscle under drenched skin. And then he stands there, water sluicing down his chest and shapely legs, the planes of his abdomen; it drips steadily from his wet hair, clinging along sharp cheeks and full lips.
Keith stares while he grabs his towel and starts drying his hair, slowly working his way down. The plush white material wraps his neck like a fluffy mane before Shiro slips it over his broad shoulders, around his chest and under his arms, then flexes as he stretches it to dry his back. Shame starts to kick in somewhere between him smoothing the towel down the ridged muscles of his abdomen and squeezing the fabric between his dripping thighs, and Keith finally takes a deep breath and looks away as Shiro bends to dry his legs.
He can hear a faint little laugh as Shiro throws the towel over his shoulder and heads to his shaded chaise lounge. He settles down with one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee, lounging with the aura of a big cat— comfortable in his sprawl and at home in his domain, spread out by the pool with Keith nearby. He has a tablet in one hand and a bright yellow smoothie in the other, and Keith guesses that at least some of the other frosty drinks arranged on the glass table beside Shiro are meant for him.
Keith’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and there’s one unspoken in everything Shiro does. With an extra little stretch that’s absolutely uncalled for, Keith strips off his shirt and tosses it onto a nearby chair. When he casts a glance over his shoulder at Shiro, he spies the man eyeing him just over the top of the tablet in his hands. Subtle. Straight-faced.
Hm.
Keith shucks off his loose, knee-length nylon swim trunks next, kicking them over to the chair with his shirt. The swim bottoms he wears underneath— purchased with Hunk and Lance’s enthusiastic input— are skin-tight and come down just to the tops of his thighs. The vibrantly red fabric clings to his slim hips and sticks to every curve, dangerously close to riding up his ass. It’s… not comfortable.
But as Shiro suddenly chokes on his pineapple ginger smoothie, Keith decides he can live with it.
When the dry, sweltering heat wave finally breaks, it’s with a bang and a rush of rain that seeks to make up for weeks of absence.
The storm hits all at once, just as Keith finishes rebalancing the pool’s pH, and tears the sky apart in flashes of light and peals of thunder that ring in his ears. He’s soaked through as soon as the heavy sheet of rain drops, nearly blinding in its density, and before he can even contemplate making the long run to his pickup in the driveway, Shiro appears at a nearby door.
Keith doesn’t hesitate when the man waves him over, genuine worry plastered across his handsome features. He sidles in through the open doorway, under Shiro’s outstretched arm, and finds himself standing in a gilt foyer with awful acoustics.
Soaked and shivering and nearly naked, Keith wraps his arms tight around his ribs. The glossy marble floors are cold and slippery under his bare feet, and the cool air stirred by a row of massive ceiling fans pulls the hairs along his wet skin taut.
Shiro is quick to pull off his robe— dark and fluffy, still a little damp from his recent post-workout shower— and drape it around Keith instead, heedless that all he wears underneath is a pair of tight, luxuriously soft-looking underwear. (And a pair of fuzzy black slippers.)
Keith isn’t sure which warms him more: the cover of Shiro’s thick robe, still touched with the older man’s body heat, or the sight of him stripped down to just a pair of briefs that show the clear outline of his cock.
“Let’s get upstairs and get some clothes. I’m sure I have something you could borrow,” Shiro says, a wide hand braced gently behind Keith’s back to steer him. “Careful. I hate how slick these floors get. Ridiculously impractical,” he complains, huffing to himself.
“Thanks,” Keith manages as Shiro guides them through another room and up a sweeping set of stairs. Rain beats heavily against the enormous windows, the sound of it enough to drown out whispers and quiet words. Thunder rumbles underneath it all, a deep note that never quite seems to break.
Shiro whistles low as they make their way down one last, long hallway. It’s dim, the skylights meant to fill the villa with natural light instead showing just a dark blur of storm clouds. “Wouldn’t want to be out driving in that.”
“Hell no,” Keith agrees, thinking of flash floods and mudslides.
The master suite is about what Keith expected— massive and beautifully furnished, complete with a wide fireplace and a walk-in closet that looks roomier than his apartment bedroom. Centered along one wall is a bed sized to fit the space. It can only be a California king, spread with silky grey sheets under a pristine white comforter.
While Shiro starts digging through his drawers for something suitable, Keith awkwardly stares around the room. The sparse furniture is dark, sleek, and modern, seemingly out of step with the rest of the villa’s look. The windows are covered by sheer white drapes that pool onto the floor, and an array of small, potted plants sit on the sill to keep Shiro company.
On the fireplace mantle, there are pictures of Shiro and Sendak, and a bleak curiosity draws Keith in. The largest is a wedding photo, both of them in tailored tuxedos beside a cake nearly as tall as Shiro. Another has them together on some street in what looks like Greece. The next features them dressed for some formal event, Sendak’s arm hooked around his waist.
And then— oh. A shot of Shiro in just a slip of lingerie, draped over a black-maned lion with glassy golden eyes, his metal hand buried in its dark fur.
“Keith? Do these look like they’d— oh, fuck. Oh, shit. I forgot that was up there,” he says in a rush, reaching past Keith to flip the framed picture facedown on the mantle. The metal hand spread across Shiro’s face isn’t enough to hide the bright blush across the skin that peeks through his fingers. “We shot it in his game room. He used to like taking pictures of me with his other trophies.”
Food for thought. “Is he, uh, around?”
Shiro works his jaw side to side before settling on a half-smile. “Sendak’s currently out of state for an indeterminable length of time. That’s the best I could get out of his personal assistant.”
More to consider as Shiro offers him a makeshift outfit of a tiny, stretchy white tee, sweats with a drawstring waist, and star-patterned briefs; their hands brush, but neither of them pull away. The universe is offering him an opportunity on a silver platter here, answering a thousand silent poolside wishes— the forces of nature conspiring to bring them together in Shiro’s half-lit bedroom, the both of them nearly naked, an electric current akin to the storm outside arcing between the slender void between them.
“Shiro… we could— if you wanted, uh— if you’re into it, I’d— oh, fuck,” he sighs out, pushing back his damp hair in frustration.
“Keith, I thought you’d never ask,” Shiro says, lightly teasing despite the color blooming over his cheeks and across his chest.
“I’m not exactly great with words,” Keith admits as he steps in and trails his hands up the defined curves of Shiro’s biceps and wide shoulders, nervous even as he loops his arms around the older man’s neck. “But I’m pretty good at a lot else.”
“I bet,” Shiro answers, grinning into their first kiss.
It’s perfect, Keith thinks, though he’d never dreamed of anything like it— dark and intimate, underscored by thunder so near that he can feel it through the soles of his bare feet. Shiro’s mouth is steady, the gentle swipes of his tongue measured; it’s some kind of balance to Keith’s sloppy desperation, the enthusiastic little nips he makes at Shiro’s bottom lip.
Steely cool fingers cup under his jaw, along his chin, guiding him to an angle that allows Shiro to deepen the kiss; his tongue slips between his teeth and runs over Keith’s pointed canines. He can feel the steady stroke of a metal thumb up and down along his windpipe, the textured black polymer fingerpad dragging sinfully slow over his skin.
Keith’s not quite sure if he’s pushing Shiro back toward the California king or if Shiro is drawing him there. Maybe it’s gravity drawing the both of them in, pulling Shiro down onto its bouncy softness and inexorably taking Keith with him. He plants a knee on the bed, just to the side of Shiro’s thigh— Sendak’s bed, a voice in the back of his mind warns, but the reminder only serves to stoke the heated thrill working its way deep under his skin.
“Anything special in mind?” he asks as he settles down on Shiro’s lap and strokes his hair. It’s silk between his fingers, as fine and pale as strands of moonlight. He palms Shiro with his other hand, savoring the fullness of him, how hard he is already, before toying with the waistband of his briefs.
Shiro bites his lip and shakes his head, shrugging helplessly. “Anything you want to do.”
He sounds hopeful about it, eager to take whatever Keith is willing to give him. Trusting. Keith takes his time tasting his way down the length of Shiro’s neck while he considers all the things he’d like to do with him. To him. Nearly two months of slow torture have given him plenty of time to mull it over.
“I’d love to eat you out,” he says as he nibbles on Shiro’s shoulder, soothing over the faint marks left on his skin with a wet lick.
There’s a hesitant beat of silence that the heavy rain fills. Shiro’s brows lift a fraction, his lips parting in a look of surprise that’s highlighted by the white flash of lightning outside.
“Too much?” Keith asks, ready to suggest something— anything— else in the hopes of pleasing Shiro.
“No! No, no, I’d like that a lot, really. It’s just— it’s been a while.” He clears his throat. “Usually it’s just wham, bam, Sendak’s snoring. Y’know.” He snaps his fingers. “Like that.”
What a tremendous fucking waste. “He really doesn’t deserve you.”
The blush across Shiro’s cheeks deepens, and after mustering the nerve to look Keith in the eye again, he makes a request. “Kiss me?”
Keith happily obliges. In the span of five minutes, it’s clear that Shiro’s ached for this— affection, comfort, the tender touch of another person— and Keith knows that solitary yearning well. He’s overwhelmed by the barest touch, whispering his gratitude as if Keith is personally rearranging the heavens for him. His breaths stutter and stop from a brief nuzzle along his sternum; he moans obscenely just from the glide of a hand down his inner thigh. When Keith presses a kiss to Shiro’s wrist and tells him he’s beautiful, the man looks like he might actually cry. It’s been a while sits at the back of his mind, and he wonders just how long it’s been since Shiro’s been loved slow, teased and taken apart, an ounce of thought given to his pleasure.
Keith’s commitment to putting Shiro first might as well be etched in stone, now.
It’s only a little awkward as he lays back and maneuvers Shiro into settling over him just right— reversed with his bent knees resting on either side of Keith’s chest, ass bared inches in front of his face, only the curve of his upper back and wide shoulders visible at this angle. Keith’s long fingers skim up the backs of the thighs he’s dreamt about having his head between for weeks, slowing only to give the taut muscle an appreciative squeeze. His palms trace the ample curve of Shiro’s shapely cheeks and gently spreads them apart.
Kisses first, soft and wet. Shiro jumps at the first touch of his tongue, tip trailing light around his rim, his sharp gasp audible even over the raging storm outside. Keith slides a hand forward to hold onto Shiro’s hip, pulling him closer as he licks a long, hot-breathed trail between his cheeks. All of his hungry mouthing eventually earns him a steady rock from Shiro, accompanied by a soft train of murmurs— his name, mostly, and encouraging pleas for more. He grins against Shiro’s skin at every particularly loud keen, and after kneading at the fullness along his thighs, Keith chances a little slap that’s just hard enough to make his ass quiver.
Shiro moans, low and unmistakably pleased, and Keith spanks him again.
“Harder,” Shiro gasps after the next one, a wretched sound escaping him when Keith delivers, pairing the smack with a slide of his tongue that dips just past Shiro’s rim.
Under his palm, Keith can feel the rising warmth of reddened flesh. He gives the firm swell of Shiro’s ass a gentle squeeze, soothing, and spends the next few minutes teasing his saliva-slicked hole.
Keith can pinpoint exactly when Shiro loses himself in it. Aluminum and carbon fiber fingers suddenly wind into his hair, gripping tight and tugging his head up from the stacked pillows under him, trying to urge him deeper. Shiro’s little rocking motions become an insistent roll of his hips as he eases back onto Keith’s face, spine arched as he finds the perfect angle.
The sensory flood is enough to leave him heady. Keith drowns in the press of Shiro’s thighs around him, his solid weight bearing down in a rhythm that grows more frantic by the second. The slide of Shiro’s soft, puckered skin over and around his tongue. The slow drag of Shiro’s heavy cock over his chest, right between his pecs, as he rolls his hips and rides against Keith’s mouth. The steady throb of his own arousal, laying untouched now that Shiro’s free hand is buried in his hair.
Blindly, he runs his hands up Shiro’s sides, desperate to feel the body twisting above him, before settling them in a bracket around his hips. Keith gives him another good spank— this time on the other cheek— and then holds on tight as Shiro grinds down onto his face and comes across his chest with a strangled cry.
Keith swallows down a deep breath as Shiro shakily lifts himself up and haphazardly flops onto the bed beside him, head somewhere down by Keith’s thighs. His own cock sits hard and achingly heavy against his belly, and Keith belatedly realizes he’d forgotten to touch himself at all. It’s not a terrible loss, though. He thinks that he might just pop from the sight of Shiro alone— stretched out beside him, still trembling from his orgasm, skin bright with the glisten of sweat and sporting a whole-body flush.
He can feel the warm, slow trickle of Shiro’s come down his chest as he sits up, the beginnings of smug satisfaction stirring inside of him. “Didn’t do too bad, did I?”
Shiro groans out his contentment, lifting his head just enough to eye Keith. There’s mixed praise and accusation when he says, “You made me see stars.”
“I’ll give you a whole damn galaxy of them,” he promises while he clambers on top of Shiro, who huffs at the sudden weight and then breathes out a laugh as Keith kisses a spotted trail down his neck.
“How am I supposed to return the favor?” Shiro asks as he reaches down between them to drag his metal knuckles along the underside of Keith’s dick, smiling sweetly when he shudders.
It’s bliss that could be his undoing. And it would be so, so easy to let Shiro take the reins, to let him get him off like his body is begging for, but…
Gently, Keith reaches low and gathers Shiro’s hand in his own. He slowly winds his fingers through dextrous prosthetic digits and then draws Shiro’s arm up, over his head, pinning his hand there while he kisses him deep. He lingers close even after the kiss breaks, an ache growing in him at the thought of pulling himself even a hair further from Shiro. “I want to take care of you tonight, like you deserve.”
Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat; Keith presses his lips to where it’s caught. He wants to give Shiro everything that’s been lacking; wants to show him everything he can do that Sendak won’t, for lack of care or desire. And he’s hopelessly eager to leave a mark in Shiro’s memories, in his life.
“How could I say no to that?” Shiro asks after another moment, smiling crookedly. There’s still a little bit of daze behind his eyes— those stars, maybe, still shooting through.
Keith skids his palm up Shiro’s flat belly, over the ridge of his ribcage, and squeezes the bulge of his left pec. It’s too much to cup in just one hand, and a thrill like a lightning-strike courses right to his dick as Shiro whimpers from just a glancing brush of his thumb over a dark nipple.
He slips an oiled finger into Shiro first, finding his prostate and teasing it agonizingly slow while he stretches him out, swallowing up every murmur he makes.
Shiro’s begging by the time Keith presses the dark head of his cock into his slick, blushing hole, easing in so slow that Shiro tosses his head for want of it. But Keith doesn’t make him wait too long; can’t, because he’s falling apart at the seams the moment he’s snug inside Shiro’s heat, deep enough to imagine he can feel the thundering beat of Shiro’s heart and every shift of muscle around him as he takes his hefty dick in hand and rubs gently at a spot under the delicate curve of its head.
Keith starts out slow, drawing out and pushing back in only halfway, still working Shiro loose as strong legs wrap around his midsection, embracing him tight. And the man under him is unusually quiet through it, his dark, full lashes fluttering as he steadies himself with shallow breaths that match the languid pace Keith sets. That all changes when Keith gives him every inch, bottoming out in full strokes that leave Shiro open-mouthed and writhing, keening noises the only sound to escape him.
Shiro curls a hand around the back of his neck and keeps it there, holding him close and steady. Keith can feel his grip tense around the column of his spine as the slow roll of his hips becomes something urgent, nails scraping lightly into his skin. It speaks to something deep in Keith, being held like this— their noses hovering inches apart, stares locked, the squeeze at his nape a strange and perfect comfort.
It’s a fight to gather up the shredded tatters of his self-control and bind them into something that can last the next five, ten, fifteen minutes. However long it takes to leave Shiro melted into the plush expanse of the bed, well-fucked and utterly spent. His eyes slip shut as he slows just enough to draw back down from the brink. It’s too much, almost— the sight of Shiro under him, the firm heat around his cock, the feel of legs hooked around his back and a fist curled in his sweaty, rain-doused hair— but he manages. Barely.
“Oh, fuck,” Shiro breathes under him, bucking into the lazy roll of his hips. His free hand roves up and across Keith’s chest, down his flexing stomach, settles light over Keith’s hand where it sits wrapped around his cock. “Mn, daddy, please—”
Immediately, Shiro draws up his prosthetic hand to cover his face, though slivers of his embarrassed blush still manage to peek through. “Oh, god, I didn’t— f-force of habit. I’m so— ah! Fuck— sorry,” he gasps out in between the determined thrusts that make his whole body jolt.
“I don’t mind it, Shiro,” Keith purrs in his ear, enjoying the little shudder that rolls through him. There’s a first time for everything— including fucking a married man— and while he’d probably have balked if it came from anyone else, he’s getting the feeling that absolutely anything Shiro does would strike the right kind of chord in him. “Call me whatever you want. Or I can call you daddy, if you want.”
Shiro’s smile curls up slow, under a deepening blush that sits pretty on his skin. He turns his head aside and doesn’t quite answer. Being plowed into the mattress he shares with his asshole husband wasn’t enough to make him shy, but this is.
“M-more, Keith,” he encourages after a few moments lapse, chin lifted and head tilted back, silver hair tousled. Even a bitten lip isn’t enough to stifle his moan when Keith digs his hands deep into the down of the white comforter and throws his whole body into one thrust, and a deliriously pleased laugh bubbles out of him after. “Keith! Oh, Keith.”
Hearing his name like that certainly works— brought low and husky with need, a pitch he’s never heard out of the man before. They tumble past some point of no return, and Keith knows there isn’t a hope of reining himself back in. Not while Shiro is murmuring his name like a litany and praising him to high heaven; certainly not while he marvels at the flash of yellow across Keith’s eyes and clumsily caresses his cheek, a thumb gently tugging at his snarl to reveal the fangs tucked behind it.
“Go ahead, Keith,” Shiro spurs, storm-grey eyes fixed on his, that unspoken challenge resting somewhere behind them. “Let go.”
It’s a command he’s hungry to obey. A second wind of stamina and a flare of Galra strength have him gripping onto the bed with both hands as he pounds into Shiro with frantic, bruising intensity.
Shiro’s metal hand falls to his side to twist in the fabric of the comforter, holding fast to it and to him as Keith heaves himself into every last thrust, hot blood singing in his ears. He could swear he hears the pop of ripped seams somewhere under the sound of the storm and his own heavy breaths— it’s Shiro, wrenching apart the silky fabric with one hand as Keith pushes them both to the verge of a climax weeks in the making.
Shiro cries out, whole body tensed as he arches into Keith, the powerful arm attached to the hand around his nape pulling him down for a messy kiss that knocks their teeth together. Keith can feel his contented sigh as the tension slips out of him with his release. He draws out of Shiro and barely gets his hand around himself before he’s shooting across his belly, stripes of his come mixing with the sticky trails Shiro left on himself.
He collapses on top of the larger man without a word, only barely cognizant of the sweaty, tacky mess sandwiched between their skin. He’s bone-tired. Boned tired. If he had the strength, he’d say it out loud. Shiro loves puns.
It’s with enormous effort he eventually braces a hand on the mattress and tries to push himself up, mentally preparing to drag himself to the bathroom. A shower would be great, but he’ll settle for a quick wipe-down before he stumbles down to the drive. He’ll have to check the weather— and it’s only then Keith remembers he left his phone sitting with his shirt and shorts, piled on a sunchair by the pool, probably well beyond saving now— and see if the roads are navigable. Honestly, Shiro seems like the type that’ll call him a lift anyway, even all the way out here—
A hand spanned across his back keeps him from budging. “That storm’s not going anywhere, and neither should you.”
Keith happily resigns himself to it, laying his cheek against Shiro’s chest and facing one of the windows to watch the steady stream of the downpour. “I appreciate the hospitality.”
He snakes his hand up to brush through Shiro’s hair but ends up limply palming his face instead. It gets him a snort, and under his palm Keith can feel his cheek move with a smile. “I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow, too,” Shiro promises, kissing at the heel of his hand.
They drowse together to the sound of the rain, and as slumber draws near, Keith rolls off of Shiro and finds himself quickly spooned. It’s warm. Comfortable. Desirably close in a way Keith’s never seen much appeal in before.
“Keith…"
He grunts in response, hoping to every deity imaginable that Shiro isn’t about to ask for another round so soon.
“Can you swim?” Shiro whispers.
His eyes flutter open again. Outside, through the rain and the dark, he can just make out the rustle of palm trees’ fronds and the sway of the hanging plants on the balcony. “Not really,” he admits, feeling a tiny sigh of understanding from Shiro.
Between his father’s desert shack and the busy work schedule of his mother and uncles, time and opportunity had never quite aligned. Braving the shrieking crowds of kids at the community pool to practice by himself had never quite seemed worth it, either.
“I could teach you.” Shiro brushes his hand up the back of Keith’s neck, lifting his hair aside, and presses a kiss to his damp nape. “You spend so much time taking care of that pool. You really ought to get to enjoy it.”
It’s not an unappealing thought, and he makes a good point. “Sounds like an excuse for pool sex,” he teases, unsurprised when no denial comes. “But yeah. I’d like that.”
He can feel Shiro’s smile against his skin.