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Shiro can’t quite remember how he got here, but with his field of vision occupied entirely by Keith’s hooded eyes, glassy and dark, he finds that he doesn’t care.
“Is this–”
Keith’s eyes snap open, pupils going wide, “Yes.”
Before he realizes that he’s doing it, Shiro laughs, “I didn’t even finish the sentence.” The feeling bubbles in his chest, filling his lungs with air that has to be different from the air around him. How else could he feel this light, if not for his chest filling with helium?
“But I know what you’re going to say,” the cadet pouts, his eyes falling shut once more. He paws at Shiro’s hand, wrapping his fingers around the no-longer-burning joint.
Shiro’s eyes feel dry, but he can’t find it in him to blink and look away from the glossy sheen left on Keith’s lips by his tongue sliding over them, “Huh?”
Keith’s shoulders shake as he laughs, the spoils of his victory held between forefinger and thumb while he fiddles with the lighter. He lifts the joint to his lips and inhales as the flame takes to the dried plant, acrid smoke momentarily spilling from the end before he inhales deeply, the cherry burning bright.
Cherries fill Shiro’s thoughts, wondering if Keith still uses the cherry chapstick that fell out of his pocket when he first enrolled at the Garrison. He wonders if Keith’s lips taste like cherries, reminiscent of the balm, or if they’d taste like smoke and fire and ash.
He tilts his chin up, blowing smoke over Shiro’s head, “Why don’t you find out?”
Again, at a loss for words, the golden boy of the Garrison eloquently says, “Huh?”
And again, hopelessly beautiful as he does it, Keith laughs, “I think your inside thoughts came outside.”
“Oh,” Shiro deadpans. “I was thinking about cherries.”
Keith’s cheeks look like they’re tinged red in the low light of Shiro’s living room, “So you’ve said.”
Another long drag from the smouldering roll, but this time Shiro pieces together the words from Keith’s lips. Why don’t you find out? Shiro remembers his own voice speaking his thoughts without filter, Do your lips taste like cherries?
Time slows between them and Shiro rearranges his thoughts in the fraction of a second between Keith tilting his chin up and exhaling the smoke. Keith wants him to find out if his lips taste like cherries. Shiro is a scientist, it’s his duty to test a hypothesis when one is presented.
“Okay,” he whispers, pushing from his place leaning on the opposite end of his couch and entering Keith’s space. The younger can’t process it, the motion and the shifting of weight on the couch, not until Shiro is staring down at him and his lips have fallen open in a perfect ‘o’ and they’re still red and glossy even while smoke that had just been in his lungs slides over them. The white doesn’t have the chance to cross red lines, interrupted by Shiro’s lips sealing over Keith’s in a kiss so unexpected and anticipated that Keith has no choice but to melt, putty in the officer’s capable hands.
Hands that are currently experiencing the softness of Keith’s cheek and hip while he arches into the kiss, pressing his chest in a firm line against the broad form of Shiro’s body. It's at this moment that Shiro is forced to reconcile just how small Keith is against him, completely covered by the expanse of his shoulders that corner him into the couch cushions. He feels the vibration of Keith’s whine before he hears the high-pitched keen and it reminds him of the task at hand: the expedition and discovery of uncharted territory via memorization of the taste of Keith’s lips.
His tongue slips past teeth, swiping over Keith’s lips and filling his senses with the expected softness, shrouded in cherry chapstick and the smell of smoke when Keith gasps against his lips. Shiro inhales the smoke, his throat burning but no more than the flush creeping over his chest. Keith gives in so easily, tilting his face into the kiss, opening his mouth to let Shiro in, moaning so, so sweet when Shiro’s thumb presses into the soft flesh along the crest of his hip.
The officer pulls back to see that Keith’s pupils are blown impossibly wide, eyes so dark they’re nearly black. He’s gorgeous, perfect, and Shiro wants him more than he had thought possible. He slips a thigh between Keith’s, watching the boy screw his eyes shut while he tilts his hips into the friction.
“F-fuck–” he whispers.
Shiro’s brows twist, “Watch your mouth.”
The cadet laughs, but Shiro doesn’t give in so easily. He presses his thigh down, pulling a helpless keen from kiss-swollen lips. Keith rolls his hips into the pressure, but is met with the force of Shiro’s hands, both now steadfast on his pelvis, holding him in place.
He doesn’t know where it comes from, but the deep, “Be good,” that rumbles through Shiro’s chest is enough to make Keith’s hands scrabble against his chest, twisting fingers through the soft material of his t-shirt and draw the older man in closer.
“Please, Shiro,” the cadet whispers against his lips.
And who is Shiro to deny such a sweet request? He smiles, sealing his lips over Keith’s once more. Without the smoke between them, all Shiro tastes is cherry, as intoxicating as the smoke itself. He flexes his fingers, tugging Keith’s hips up so that they rock over his thigh in a slow drag. Keith’s fingers slide up, untangling from the fabric of Shiro’s shirt only to twist through his hair, nails scraping deliciously over his scalp while the pull of desperate fingers makes for a pleasant sting.
The next slide of Keith’s hips is met with increased pressure from Shiro’s thigh, his weight coming to rest over Keith’s tiny frame once more.
Shiro pulls back for air, “So good,” he slides one hand under Keith’s t-shirt, fingers pressing into the new lines of muscle forming from rigorous training, “Baby, so good for me.”
The pet name sets Keith ablaze, his eyes snapping open and tugging Shiro back in, though the attempt only serves to bring Shiro’s face into the crook of his neck where he decides that everyone needs to know who the cadet belongs to. Lips and teeth and tongue work a faint pink mark into the soft spot beneath Keith’s jaw, stray dots of red that would eventually fade into a pretty bruise left behind.
Shiro smirks, diving back in to leave a line of pink marks from his jaw to his collarbone, his hand still on Keith’s hip continuing to pull the boy up and over his thigh. Keith’s breaths are coming faster, his chest rising and falling with each motion and a distinct flush creeping out from the collar of his shirt.
“Shiro, ah!” He whimpers when Shiro’s teeth nip a tad too hard at the soft skin on his neck.
“What is it, baby?” Shiro mutters against his skin. His pants had grown uncomfortably tight, but his mind was too clouded by smoke and Keith to care. All he could think about was the perfect sounds coming from his cherry-coated lips, the stuttered gasps, the supplicant pleas of whining sighs.
“I-” the boy stops, his lips twisting around the words he couldn’t force out. Shiro pulls away from his neck, eyes sliding down over his clothed form. His shirt had been rucked up by Shiro’s hands, exposing the taut muscles of his core covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Shiro’s eyes trail further down to the prominent tent in his slacks and he notices the mouthwatering sight of a wet patch, undoubtedly caused by pre, at the highest point.
“You..?” The smile on his face is a dead giveaway that he knows exactly what Keith is trying to say, but the dark part of him that is so often held back wants to hear the boy say it.
“Hnnnplease,” he gasps, hips twitching against the officer.
“Come on, baby, let me hear you say it.”
Keith squeezes his eyes shut, “I-I’m cl-”
“Be a good boy and tell me.” Shiro pulls his thigh away and Keith sobs, his hips grinding against nothing in his desperation for something to grant him friction once more.
“I’m close! Shiro, please- ah!”
The boy is cut off by Shiro’s hand cupping him through his pants, applying delicious pressure along his clothed cock that strains against his pants. Shiro slides his thumb over the dark spot, pulling a long moan from the boy’s chest.
“Let me hear you, baby boy,” he whispers against parted lips, his own turned into a devilish smirk.
Keith’s jaw drops open and the hand that had been toying with the sensitive skin on his chest slides into his mouth, two fingers pressing down on his tongue, “That’s it,” Shiro coos, pleased by Keith’s lips closing around the digits and sucking softly, head bobbing even while tears collect at the corners of his eyes and he bucks his hips wildly into Shiro’s palm.
Shiro watches the boy unravel, the rolling of his hips becoming erratic as the noises from his lips spill over, the garbled sound of Shiro’s name coming from around his fingers. His hand slides over Keith’s pants, reveling in the twitch of his cock under the fabric. The moment he cradles the head of Keith’s dick in the soft flesh of his palm, the boy’s back bows into his chest, hips spasming while he grinds into the sensation and Shiro’s palm is met with sticky heat of the boy’s cum staining his pants.
“Oh, baby, so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, withdrawing his fingers from the boys lips and trying not to fixate on the line of spit that connects the two of them.
Keith’s mouth hangs open while he catches his breath, hips still twitching into the phantom warmth where Shiro’s palm had once been. His eyes remain shut even as his breathing levels out and Shiro is gone on the sweet look that takes over his features after such a debauched act.
“You okay, baby boy?” The officer asks, large hand cradling his soft jaw.
Keith hums, turning his face into the palm of his hand, where he presses a sweet kiss. “Mhm, sleepy.”
Something curls in the depths of Shiro’s gut at the exhausted words that cross Keith’s cherry coated lips, “Mm, better find a way to wake up, then,” he murmurs, his forefinger and thumb squeezing Keith’s chin before he turns delicate features to face him, “Because I’m not done with you yet.”