Put You Through Me

by Syrina

Summary:

“You know you can never stop taking those,” Brad had warned him during one of his refills. “That’s really why they were banned. They worked great at suppressing any omeganess, but if a dose was ever forgotten or skipped…” Brad winced.

“You, what, explode?” Keith had asked.

“Kinda. In the hormone way. Worst heat of your fucking life.”

---

It'll all be fine. Except for the fact that Keith's trapped recovering in his flat with his alpha of a roommate who won't stop hovering. It's not like he got shot or anything. Oh wait he did. And now his hormones are a ticking time-bomb waiting to go off and ruin him for the way he's been suppressing them for years.

All he had wanted was some Twizzlers god damn it.

Chapter 1

Notes:

So....it's been a while and I know I have neglected fics but I really just wanted a justification to write Keith being a fucking disaster with less plot and more hijinks. So sue me.

Here's where the last couple months of mine went.
-Downloaded Genshin, lost any and all sanity
-Wrote a book (minus like three chapters but ssssh the ending doesn't matter)
-Won 50/50 for Raiden Shogun, so I will never complain about anything again
-Lost 50/50 for Yelan, so I will complain about everything
-Ate a lot of Pringles

And that's pretty much it. Without further ado, here's our disaster gays.

Put You Through Me

All Keith had wanted was some goddamn Twizzlers.

“All right! Hands where I can see and no funny business!”

Just a pack, a small one. Something sweet and cheap he could enjoy as a reward after his shitty week. Some Karen had harassed him at the bar for “drawing her husband’s eye” for Pete’s sake. Like the man had never seen a crop top on a dude and like Keith even wanted the eye of a sixty-year-old hedge fund manager.

Like Keith wanted anyone’s attention, really.

Well, maybe one but we did not discuss that.

“Hand over the money!”

Keith ducked his head out of the candy aisle of CVS, Twizzlers clutched in hand (because he was owed something goddamnit), wondering if he could slip out unnoticed. No such luck. The register was right by the doors, the poor cashier pale behind it as the douche with the gun waved it around.

“Hand it over!” the guy repeated, a little beanie pulled low over his ears, as if they couldn’t identify him if they didn’t know what the two inches of the top of his head looked like.

“A-A-All right.” The cashier pulled out the cash drawer, setting it on the counter.

“And the rest of it!” the guy directed, waving his gun to punctuate each word.

“That is all of it!”

“Bullshit!”

“W-We have a smart safe; all the sales money goes in there immediately after each shift change and we just had ours not even an hour ago.”

“Well open it up!”

“I can’t!” The cashier waved to something beneath the counter. “The money’s locked in until armored arrives for pickup.”

The robber roughly pulled the drawer towards him and started counting, spilling pennies and quarters as he did so. “This is only two hundred dollars!”

“That’s all we have!”

Honestly, who robbed a CVS?

Keith ducked back into the aisle, keeping his head low. He stared down at the Twizzlers in his hand, wondering if they had been worth it.

In his jacket, his phone started buzzing. The sound wasn’t loud, but in the near quiet of the store it was audible. Keith dug it free. His heart did something that probably counted as a cardiac episode when he saw the caricature picture pop up: shoulders stupidly broad, chin stupidly large, with goddamn pretty boy sparkles around his profile.

(Admittedly, the fair artist hadn’t been far off from the real thing. He had drawn Keith’s with a storm cloud over his head and an impressive scowl.)

“S-Shiro, heeey,” Keith answered, keeping his voice low.

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice boomed over the speaker, used to having to talk loudly to be heard above the bass of the club as Keith worked through his shift. It was all alpha baritone that did something to Keith. Something not good. Not good at all.

You think after nearly a decade, after knowing him through the acne and the long, gangly limbs, after being in such close proximity as his roommate, that Keith would’ve built up an immunity.

“I’m about to head out.” Keith heard the sounds of the station in the background, the printer beeping noisily and someone (probably Pidge) typing furiously. “Have you eaten yet? Do you want me to pick up Pad Thai?”

“We had that on Monday already. And it’s expensive…” Way outside Keith’s bar-tending budget.

“So? You love it.”

“That’s okay. I can scrounge something up.” Keith looked down at the Twizzlers. His stomach growled, his partly breakfast long gone. “I had a big lunch.” Lunch had been a Sprite and some swiped olives.

“All right, so that’s a large order of Pad Thai with shrimp, right?” Shiro said, as if Keith had agreed wholeheartedly instead.

“Shiro,” Keith hissed.

“I’ll be home in ten—.”

“What are you doing?!” Keith jolted as the robber appeared in the aisle, leading with his gun, the muzzle much too close to Keith’s cheek for his liking.

“Keith—,” he heard crackled in his ear, Shiro’s tone suddenly changing.

“I’ll—,” Keith tried to assure him he would see him at home, but the robber ripped the phone from him, jabbing at the screen to end the call. “Who did you call?!” Keith could see his pulse throbbing in his throat, spittle flying from his lips.

Keith held his hands out. “Nobody!” The robber hefted the gun at Keith and Keith flinched back, knowing from the gun safety courses that Shiro had made him take that this was not proper gun safety etiquette at all. “M-My roommate. He’s—.” Keith thought cop wouldn’t get him any brownie points and was technically inaccurate. Shiro had been promoted to detective months ago, one of the youngest ever to get the honor.

“I’m going gray prematurely to offset it,” he had joked, tugging at his silver locks.

In the guy’s hand, Keith’s phone buzzed. Shiro’s caricature popped up. Keith watched as the guy scowled at it before throwing Keith’s phone to the ground, stepping on it mid-ring.

Keith’s fingers twitched. He wanted to claw into the guy’s face (did he have any idea how long it would take Keith to save up to replace it?) but the presence of the black gun, still cocked and aimed at him, stilled him.

“Come on.” The guy grabbed Keith’s arm, jostling him forward. His scent, spiked with fear, almost putrid, went right up Keith’s nose, making him want to gag. “Up front! You two as well!”

Keith glanced behind him to see a mother and her daughter crouched there by the face creams, the little girl visibly trembling as she clutched her mother.

Keith felt something churn in his gut.

All he had wanted was some goddamn Twizzlers.

X

“Honestly, who robs a CVS?” Matt mused as he and Ulaz stood a good distance away, Ulaz with his car’s radio pressed tight to his ear, Matt on standby.

There was a perp with a gun and who knew how many hostages. They had a unit on the nearby rooftop, trying to get surveillance, but the place had an endless amount of fliers and advertisements taped across the windows. Matt sipped at a cold cup of coffee, wishing they had had time to stop at a Starbucks.

“You’d be surprised,” Ulaz said.

“What are they gonna do? Steal the receipt paper?”

Ulaz opened his mouth, possibly to reprimand him to take this seriously, when a familiar car squealed into the parking lot, tires burning rubber.

Matt had known Shiro a long time. They had been roomies in college before he had driven Shiro mad and forced him out onto the streets (read: he had gotten a nice little flat off of East and 5th all to himself with no one to rearrange the furniture at odd hours or collect geckos and sometimes misplace them from their cages). Words to describe Golden Boy Shiro were: calm, cool, collected, too hot for his own good, etc all in that same vein of adjectives.

But none of those could be used to describe the man that stormed from the car.

Matt had often joked that while Shiro looked like a typical alpha--big and strong and square-jawed--he didn’t act like any of the typical alphas. He had never raised his voice and used his stature to intimidate. He laughed when others tried to irk him, tried to spur him into an episode. Maybe that was one of the reasons he was promoted so quickly. He had all the strengths of an alpha (authoritative, direct) with none of the drawbacks (quick to anger, a tad possessive). He sometimes wondered if, during Shiro’s ruts, he did things like fold laundry or file his taxes, having ascended beyond his hormones and instincts.

But currently, what he saw storming across the parking lot was an alpha. Snarling, an expression of pure fury, his strides long and purposeful. His dress shirt was rumbled and unbuttoned, his shoulder holster hastily tugged on, straps straining across his stupidly large chest. His teeth flashed, nearly fangs, and his eyes seemed to pulse.

“Shirogane, we’ve got this,” Ulaz started. “This isn’t your jurisdiction—.”

Shiro stormed past him as if not seeing him.

Matt had to bodily step in front of him and hold out a hand to get him to stop. His palm met with Shiro’s abs (and shit they really were that hard, weren’t they?). “Shiro, buddy, look we’ve got this okay—.”

Shiro’s gaze seemed to take too long to focus on him, staring at something past him, making his eyes darken. Matt looked over his shoulder to see what had drawn his attention and froze when he spotted a cherry red motorcycle parked in one of the lots up front.

Matt tried to take a breath, tried to pretend it was someone else’s cherry red Yamaha that they had saved up years for. Someone else who had gotten the matching jacket and always wore it with crop tops, as if he had no clue what that silver of skin did to Shiro, walking around as if he wasn’t someone’s sex dream come to life.

But what were the chances?

“What are you doing to get them out?” Shiro directed to Ulaz.

“There’s a protocol for this,” Ulaz told him, unnervingly calm, making Shiro gnash his teeth and seem to swell in size.

“He could be doing anything to them! Anything .”

X

“I don’t know, man. Your dad sounds like a dick.” Keith bit into the Twizzler, a burst of cherry flavoring on his tongue, offering out another to the cashier.

“Yeah, a real dick,” the cashier agreed.

“So now you see why I had to do this?” The robber stressed, one half of a Twizzler dangling from his mouth. “You guys understand me! You both got shit dads?”

“Mine’s an accountant,” the cashier offered.

“Foster homes,” Keith said, neat and succinct.

The robber winced. “Ah, sorry, man. That must’ve been a rough place for a beta.”

“It is what it is.” A tiny thrill went through Keith, as it always did, for when he passed. Yes, yes, nothing to see here, just your run of the mill beta. Move along now. He shouldn’t be surprised exactly; he lived with an alpha and Shiro was none the wiser. He had been taking off the market suppressants long since the tender age of ten. He had foster family #1 to thank for that as they had not wanted to deal with any kind of hormone business, as if he was going to start humping the couch or something.

Keith knew he had gotten lucky. He had heard stories. There were families out there that specifically wanted omegas, and not for virtuous reasons.

So what if the suppressants fucked his biology? If there were studies out there that regaled the horrors that they did to omegas’ cycles, of life-long damages down the line? Keith didn’t need a cycle. He didn’t want a mate, didn’t want to be a slave to his instincts. He had even tried to get his scent glands removed as soon as he was on his own insurance, but the doctor had stared at him in such horror that Keith had stricken any and all future appointments. He would live a life of celibacy; that was fine with him. This the twenty-first century; they had grown beyond all that. More people needed to be on suppressants, at least that was what he thought.

Never mind the fact that they were technically illegal and Keith had to go to a very shady individual named Brad every three months. Brad was a godsend. The world needed more Brads. He went religiously, never missing a dose, knowing the consequences if he ever did so.

“I just need money so I can pay him back and get him off my tail!” the robber continued to moan.

“Well,” Keith started, “this was a bit extreme.”

“A bit,” the cashier agreed.

“It wouldn’t have been extreme if you had kept more than $200 on hand!” the robber argued.

The cashier held up his hands. “Take it up with corporate.”

“So, what’s the plan here?” Keith asked, keeping his tone light, jovial. His fingers shook as he tried to get another Twizzler free. “I mean there’s police outside.” Keith had heard them via their megaphone, had seen the spectacle of lights between some of the advertisements posted in the window.

The robber tugged his hair. “I know. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It wasn’t really.”

“You could just let us go?” Keith offered.

The robber’s head jerked up, his hand tightening around his gun. “Then what will they do to me? Nuh uh, man, I’ve seen the shows. They’d fill me full of holes in seconds. I just… I just need a moment to think.”

Nearby, the child started to cry as she clung to her mother. The mother tried to shush her but it was the kind of sobs that built in one’s chest and poured out.

The robber’s face flushed. “Hey, stop that! I ain’t a bad guy! Not really, promise! Look, the gun isn’t even loaded.” He tipped the muzzle forward as he messed with the clip, the muzzle unknowingly tilted down to aim right down the sight line at the child. The mother’s face blanched.

Keith hopped off the edge of the counter and stepped forward, putting himself between the kid and the robber. “Look, man, why don’t—.”

X

 

When the BANG split the air, it took all of Matt and Ulaz’s combined body mass to hold Shiro back. Still, he fought them, straining forward, his eyes near mercurial, all iris and pupil. “Let me go!” Shiro snarled. “You don’t understand. Let me—!”

“Do you have a visual?” Ulaz said into the radio, grunting as Shiro tried to push past him.

The radio crackled on his shoulder. Then, “One of the hostages was shot.”

Shiro pitched forward with new strength. Matt got a whiff of all pheromones, of stress and anger, and it was enough to almost send him reeling. “Shiro, Shiro, calm down!” He hadn’t seen Shiro this stressed, not even when he found one of Matt’s lost geckos in his mug—after he had finished said coffee.

“You don’t understand, Matt! Let me—! Just let me get to him!”

As Shiro’s roommate, Matt had learned Shiro was weird about his things. Sure, Shiro was all easy-going and “here take my jacket, no need to give it back” but in the sanctuary that he had defined as his space, he was much less so. He would get agitated when Matt moved things, unreasonably stressed when he couldn’t find things or when Matt had eaten all of something or forgotten to restock. His sleeping would grow erratic; his mood would fluctuate, soothing one second to snappish the next.

Matt took it as a quirk of being an army brat. Or maybe it was an alpha trait, one finally manifesting despite Shiro’s careful cultivation. Either way, their friendship had vastly improved when Shiro had moved out and was on his own.

He took it to mean that Shiro just couldn’t cohabit with anyone. That he needed his own space.

So imagine his surprise when Keith had moved in with him.

To be fair, Keith’s apartment had been in an awful part of town. Matt could remember Shiro deliberately tuning into the police chatter on late nights, ears pricked for the familiar neighborhood. He probably had asked him to move in to save himself from worrying as much as anything.

So, Keith had moved in and Shiro...hadn’t lost his shit.

No, if anything Shiro settled. Maybe the others couldn’t see the difference, but Matt could. The bags disappeared under his eyes. His smile came easier. He unwound like a snake uncoiling after bracing itself for a strike.

Matt had a couple theories about this.

Maybe a beta presence in his household balanced things out. Maybe Keith was just a better roommate, more thoughtful, more considerate (okay that was one was far fetched). Maybe Shiro had mellowed out. Maybe, after all their years together, Shiro had gotten used to Keith’s quirks and adjusted accordingly. Maybe Shiro already thought of Keith as one of his possessions—years of friendships dating all the way back to high school, back to even before Matt, justifying the claim—so his presence wasn’t disturbing so much as it was calming, a righting of something that had been wrong.

Or maybe it was simply because Keith was prettier to look at than Matt and Shiro lost his anger in the length of Keith’s lashes or the dip of his hip bone from his all criminally short crop tops.

Why they weren’t already fucking was beyond Matt’s comprehension.

All that being said, Matt knew he was fighting a losing battle as he attempted to hold Shiro back.

“Ulaz,” he warned, his hold slipping on the man.

“Do you have a clear visual?” Ulaz said into the radio.

A rumple of static. “We do.”

“Take the shot then.”

X

Keith laid on the ground with a bullet in his gut.

He was laying there, hands tight around the burn in his midriff and all he could think of was Why is the floor sticky?

“Oh man, oh man, oh FUCK, oh FUCK,” came from above him. “Why’d you do that? Why’d you get in the way man?”

Sorry next time I will be more considerate to the man fumbling around with a gun.

Keith sucked in a breath and was surprised when it hurt. His lungs stuttered. Something gushed against his palms. The floor was still mysteriously tacky.

“You shot him,” he heard the cashier. “You shot him.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

Reasons the floor could be sticky. #1…

Glass shattered around them with a thunderous sound. Keith turned onto his side, the movement producing a gasp and a sharp stab of pain. Shards fell on him, tinkled a gentle noise, opposing the wet and hard thud that preceded it.

Dots, white and filmy, danced in front of Keith’s vision. His palm scraped against the floor and even here it was faintly sticky. Was it the entire floor or just a section—?

The doors whipped open and a large body thundered through. “Keith?”

Keith blinked, trying to make the images make sense. Tremors racked up his spine. Every breath hurt .

“KEITH!”

He inhaled a breath that smelt of storm and spices and some instinct in his brain kicked off. His muscles went lax and darkness took him.

X

Keith couldn’t remember the last time someone had played with his hair.

Well, yes he could. It was his dad. His big hand coming down on Keith’s head, ruffling his hair, calluses scraping against Keith’s ear. But there was nothing malicious behind that touch, nothing unwanted.

This was kind of like that.

Keith felt fingers in his hair, nails scraping at his scalp, almost petting him. He knew his hair was too long. Knew he didn’t take care of it as he should. This was gentleness he hadn’t shown himself in a long time. The fingers stroked along each strand, carefully untangling where they found knots, smoothing them flat before continuing their arduous journey.

Keith could stay here for hours, lulled, sated.

He could probably purr if he ever allowed that part of himself free from its confines.

But a persistent ache made his eyes open.

White. Everything was white, blindingly so. There was the smell of medicine and antiseptic tainting every breath, with a faint tinge of blood. Keith shut his eyes again, wanting to go back into the fog.

The fingers in his hair paused. “Keith?”

Keith fought his eyes back open, knowing that voice, but not that tone, trembling almost fearful.

A body took shape beside him. Big shoulders blocked out the light. Silver hair came into the view, trimmed low on the back, hanging forward in a thick lock. Keith could see the ridge of scar tissue on the bridge of his nose before anything else, the slopes of his cheeks, the cut of his gray eyes, staring at him, tentatively.

“Hi,” Keith offered.

Shiro sagged forward. Keith felt the bulk of his weight hit the bed, the metal railing straining as he held it. “Oh God, Keith. Oh God. ” The metal digits of his prosthetic caught and held the strands of Keith’s hair.

“Since when were you religious?” Keith’s tongue felt heavy, his words fuzzy as they left his lips.

“Since I had something to pray for.” Shiro bent forward, his lips finding the crown of Keith’s head and just...resting there. Not kissing, not exactly.

Keith’s heart thudded a sluggish beat in his chest. He inhaled to ask what had happened and got a breath of storm and spices, a deluge of rain and the bright spark of something like cinnamon. A comforting blend, somehow.

“Sorry, sorry.” Shiro leaned back a tad and the burn of medicine returned to Keith’s sinuses. “I know I stink.” He rubbed a hand against his neck, where Keith knew his scent glands were—from an anatomy perspective, of course, not because he had traced the area countless times, memorizing the cords of Shiro’s neck and that (thankfully still) unmarred patch of skin.. “I usually have a better handle but...well… Even the nurses have been side-eyeing me. I’m sorry. If you’ll give me a minute I can get a hold on it.”

“It’s not...bad,” was out of Keith’s mouth before he could think better of it.

Shiro cocked his head. “Usually betas hate my smell.”

“How many betas do you know?” Keith challenged. If he had been clearer-headed he might’ve been more alarmed at his slip up. But right now everything ached with a dull pain and that wonderful smell was preferable to the stench of sickness and pain.

Shiro shifted forward. That smell returned, settling over Keith, flooding his senses. His eyes closed on their own regard.

“Hey, stay with me.” A note of panic threaded through Shiro’s voice. A thumb met his cheekbone, stroked up until Keith opened his eyes again.

“I’m tired,” Keith told him.

“I know, I know. Just let me get the doctors to look at you, then I promise you can go back to sleep.” He stood. A sound left Keith. His white shirt was stained red, having enough time to seep in deep and dry into the fibers.

Keith tried to sit up. “Were you hurt—?”

Shiro’s hand planted flat on his collar bone, forcing him back down. A muscle on his stomach ached strangely, something seeming to pull at his skin. “Hey, stop.” He smoothed a hand up Keith’s clavicle. “Not me. I…” He looked down at his shirt, his expression hardening, the color of his eyes a flat gray. “I carried you,” he said in a lower voice, not soft enough to be a whisper, not loud enough to be anything else.

It all flooded back to Keith, memories erupting where there had been fog. “Oh.”

A snort left Shiro. “Yeah, ‘oh’.”

Keith fought with the blankets, trying to peel them back, one getting caught by a tube that was taped to the back of his hand. Shiro tried to stop him. “Hey, easy—.” But Keith yanked his hands free until he found his body beneath the bulk.

The slope of his stomach was there, still intact, still whole save for the wad of bandages tapped to his right side, just above his hip bone and shy of his navel. He pressed down tentatively, an answering spark of pain bursting. He could see speckles of red where they had failed to wipe the blood completely free of his skin. He had a sudden to get up and shower, to scrub at his skin until any mark left was gone.

 

Shiro grabbed at his hands. “Hey, stop.” His brow was furrowed as he smoothed the blankets back over Keith. A chill worked up Keith’s spine as the heat returned. “It didn’t hit anything vital,” Shiro told him. “But it was lodged there and did some damage. You’ll have some pain for a while.”

“No more crop tops, I guess,” Keith said, trying to infuse his voice with humor.

Shiro’s lips flattened. “I’ll buy you all the crop tops. Every last one of them.” His fingers tugged at a wrinkle in Keith’s blanket, as if smoothing it out to be perfect was vital to Keith’s health. “They said… They said it looked like you were shot at point blank range.”

Keith jerked his chin in a nod, remembering how close the guy had been. “I guess so.”

“Keith—. ”

“He had it aimed at a kid, Shiro.”

“Still…”

“Are you saying you would rather have a little girl shot rather than me?”

Shiro’s chin tilted up, his look defiant. “And if I was?”

Keith stared at him. “You… You don’t mean that.” Shiro was nothing if not pragmatic. During the whole trolley problem discussion in their philosophy class, he had vehemently argued that it was better to sacrifice the one than the five.

“And what if you knew that one?” Allura had fired back.

Shiro hadn’t said anything to that, pursing his lips and going solemnly silent.

Shiro sighed as he sat back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s been a long day.” He patted Keith’s hand. “Lemme get the doctors.”

Keith looked towards the window as he stood, noticing an odd amount of light seeping through the blinds. He searched for a clock, but found none within sight.

“Shiro, what time is it?” he called before Shiro could leave the room.

Shiro glanced at his phone, hand braced on the door frame. “About eight in the morning.”

“How long was I out?” Keith asked, an odd sensation, something like foreboding, stirring in his gut. It had been near evening when he had entered the CVS, the sun just starting to sink towards the horizon.

“The surgery took about seven hours. And you’ve been out since. It’s the day after.”

He had been out cold for twenty four hours.

A full twenty four hours.

The heart rate monitor next to him started trilling a warning. He could hear the rate his heart accelerated with every beep, thundering fast.

Shiro returned back to him, hands out, that soothing smell enveloping Keith once more. Keith fought its comfort, wanting to snarl, his lips peeling back from his teeth. “Hey, hey it’s okay. You needed the rest.”

“You know you can never stop taking those,” Brad had warned him during one of his refills. “That’s really why they were banned. They worked great at suppressing any omeganess, but if a dose was ever forgotten or skipped…” Brad winced.

“You, what, explode?” Keith had asked.

“Kinda. In the hormone way. Worst heat of your fucking life.”

Keith hadn’t ever had even one normal heat so he had no scope of comparison, but he looked at heats as others did monsters or the IRS. Something unwanted, appalling, and loathsome. He wouldn’t ever have to experience one to know that.

At the time, Keith hadn’t thought it would ever be an issue. He was meticulous about it, an alarm going off on his phone each and every day and having two back up alarms to those. These were his lifelines. He wouldn’t ever miss a dose.

...Except he had.  

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

Now let's see how Keith's handling things, why don't we?

Always, there's going to be some unrealistic recovery from abdominal gunshot wounds going on. But you did not click on this to see realistic recovery. You clicked on this to see Keith get dicked down and I am but a humble servant to the masses, a slave to your wants and needs.

ENJOY.

Put You Through Me

“ Is it at least a cool scar?”

“ Lance, my God.”

“ Well, like you weren’t thinking it!”

“ I wasn’t.”

Keith felt a headache coming on. Maybe it was the healing gunshot wound. Maybe it was his own dread, left to shimmer in the back of his mind. Maybe it was from his friends all huddled around him, peering down at him as if he were an exhibit.

“ But, like, did the bullet go all the way through and you looked like Swiss cheese or—.”

“ Lance. ”

It was from his friends most definitely.

The hoard had descended upon him as soon as visiting hours had started.

Keith hadn’t known when exactly his circle of friends had become entirely cops but it had happened and he should’ve been more concerned about it than he was. He did have illegal drugs in his bathroom cupboard after all (masterfully hidden in a Tylenol bottle). Then again, Keith had always liked to live dangerously.

There was Allura, the police director of their precinct in her tight skirts and impractically high heels.

“ We really should get some legislation in place,” she had said upon entering his room. “The man had a history of impulsive episodes. He should in no way have had access to a gun.”

Lance, her model of a husband. (So maybe all his friends weren’t in law enforcement but the man watched enough true crime documentaries and knew all the police codes so he practically counted. )

“ You can tell me,” he whispered to Keith when he thought no one was paying attention. “Did the 10-32 leave you with a cool scar? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Pidge, Matt’s little sister who worked in forensics and qualified as a cryptid in some scientific circles.

“ Lance, my God, do you want me to give you a cool scar?” she threatened upon overhearing Lance.

Hunk, the barista at the precinct, who while not recognized as an official member of the force, was so essential to its continued existence that he had been christened in long ago.

“ Do you need more blankets?” he cooed over Keith. His face morphed into something demonic when he turned to the nurse. “Get this man some more blankets! Can’t you see he’s freezing?” The demon vanished when he turned back to Keith, fluffing his pillow. “There, there.”

And Matt who…

“ I think you’re suffering from a lack of Vitamin me,” he said to one of the nurses in the hallway, waggling his eyebrows, still in his uniform.

Matt didn’t count as one of Keith’s friends, Keith decided.

“ So, the scar,” Lance continued.

Keith willed the drugs to knock him out. He looked at his IV and wondered what was taking so long.

“ Quit crowding him,” Shiro’s voice came over them all, louder just by being bigger. He stepped forward from where he had been hanging back, eyes on Keith’s heart monitor. The others shied away, no questions asked. Keith inhaled and smelt the sharp tang of cinnamon. (He tried not to focus on why he smelt it so strongly, if there was a specific reason his senses were so heightened.)

Shiro’s fingers wrapped around the railing of his bed, the knuckles of his flesh hand going white, his metal one clicking with the strain. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was clenched, as it had been since the others had shown up.

Keith had always been attuned to Shiro’s body language. He had to be, prey being wary of predator even if he never classified himself in such a way. His shoulders unconsciously tensed in answer to Shiro’s, brain siphoning off adrenaline for a threat that was not there.

Shiro’s nostrils flared and he moved his hand to squeeze Keith’s forearm, thumb pressing down on a vein where Keith’s pulse throbbed.

Lance held up his hands. His nose scrunched like he smelt something bad. “Easy, big guy. We just want to make sure our good old buddy, old pal is on the mend.”

Hunk peeked over Lance’s shoulder. “He does seem really pale.”

“ He lost like liters of blood,” Pidge pointed out. “Of course he would be pale.”

“ And he needs rest,” Shiro cut in, words biting. “Not a circus.”

“ I’m fine,” Keith tried to tell him.

“ You’re not fine, Keith.” The cinnamon scent spiked as Shiro snapped. “You just went through seven hours of surgery for an abdominal gunshot which resulted in multiple organs being injured and you have approximately thirty-seven stitches holding you together. And I told them to take it easy.” He shot a glare at the assembled hoard and Keith, selfishly, was relieved not to be on the receiving end.

“ How about this?” Hunk piped up, playing peacekeeper. “Now that we’ve all seen he’s alive, we can visit in shifts so we don’t overwhelm him.”

“ I’m really fine—,” Keith tried to say.

Shiro gave a curt nod, jaw flexing. “That should work.” He looked down at Keith, shadows in his gray eyes. “You’ll let me know if it gets to be too much?”

“ I said I was fine! Look!” He sat up, to prove how fine he was, when a sharp splitting pain across his abdomen sent him right back down. That cinnamon scent flooded over him as he inhaled. Shiro caught his shoulder before he could crash back against his pillows, lowering him gently, his lips flat with disapproval.

“ Small shifts,” Shiro told his friends as they all dutifully started to file out.

“ Anything to not upset your alpha boyfriend,” Lance whispered to Keith as he passed, jostling his elbow as if they shared a joke between betas. Shiro was thankfully too distracted by the spike on his heart monitor to hear.

X

It was a fairly common presumption that Shiro and Keith were dating. Keith blamed parts Shiro’s tactile nature and people’s own expectations that everyone need a fuck buddy in order to live. They lived together. They ate together. Keith waited up for Shiro on his long nights, his eyes not closing until he saw the familiar headlights in the window, and Shiro always brought home take-out even if Keith hadn’t asked for it. Heck, they did each other’s laundry.

Why wouldn’t they be fucking? This was the twenty-first century after all. Alphas and betas were a thing that could feasibly happen. This idea of omegas being the only thing to satisfy an alpha’s instinctual craving was considered an antiquated thing. Sexual identification and one’s second gender had no bearing on sexual pleasure, as so many podcasters loved to tell people these days. Satisfaction could be found beyond hard-wired instinct.

So why weren’t they?

(Besides the obvious.)

Simple, because Shiro was Shiro and Keith was Keith.

Shiro was the boy who brought home report cards with things like “a joy to have in class” and “sure to have a bright future” and carried those expectations as if they were wings and not weights. He was the kind of guy who, while not beholden to the archaic beliefs, would be very happy and fulfilled in that role. He caught the bad guys and was an everyday superhero.

Meanwhile, there was Keith.

Keith, who always drew certain looks from his teachers, lips pinched, eyes slitted. He sometimes heard the echoes of their voices late at night, still in his ear. How he needed to “apply himself” and to “respect authority.” While the work he turned in was technically right, he always got docked points for using “an aggressive and needlessly hostile tone.”

Dropping out of college had been a thing of relief for those reasons.

Keith didn’t have a plan for his life. He bar-tended and he paid his bills and he didn’t worry beyond that because he did not have the capacity to. Each day surviving the minefield of his anxieties was a victory to him, though he knew others might see it as the bare minimum.

He was a disaster even without taking into account his classification. Including that, he was a full blown catastrophe. He was convinced that genetics had fucked up when he was invented. He couldn’t soothe people like Hunk, wasn’t a source of comfort someone went to. He couldn’t ever imagine himself just submitting to anyone or anything, of relinquishing power, control over his body, his mind, of making someone happy through his own degradation.

As a presumed beta, these traits weren’t seen as odd. They were seen as typical, in fact. Matt had even commented once how Keith seemed to mellow Shiro out, because Keith registered as a non-entity. Not the threat of another Alpha, not the opportunity or the lure of an omega. He was simply Keith, the hostile little fuck-up who Shiro for some strange reason tolerated.

While they were friends, Keith knew he and Shiro did not make sense as anything more.

Even if Keith wanted to be used casually for Shiro to scratch an itch, there was the fact that some things would become very obvious should he become aroused. And with Shiro… Well, how could you not be aroused? Keith had watched him cutting bell peppers one night and had gotten hard and that was saying something as the suppressants all but killed his sex drive.

Keith had exiled himself to a life of celibacy and Shiro deserved an omega he could dote on, pamper, and love wholly and without complications.

Keith was nothing but complications. He was a Rubik’s cube with no solution, a maze with no end, and why in hell would he ever sentence Shiro to that? Why would Shiro even be interested in Keith for that matter? Shiro was kind and good and just wanted someone to love, someone without all of Keith’s thorns.

Why would Keith ever put him through that?

X

“ Dude, you need to chill.”

Matt could tell Shiro wasn’t listening to him. His head was tilted, neck straining so he could peer into Keith’s room while Pidge visited, eyes reflecting the light oddly.

Matt shoved him. “Dude!”

He was surprised when he saw a hint of fang as Shiro finally looked straight at him, gone as soon as Shiro registered his presence. “What?’

Matt stuck his finger in his face. “Don’t what me, mister. You. Need. To. Chill .”

“ I am—!”

“ No you’re not. Smell that?” Matt waved his hands about the hallway, where Shiro’s scent saturated the air, heavy, cloying, suffocating. Every inhale sent Matt’s instincts nearly into a panic, his senses having to fight for control. It was not a challenge, he had to tell his other half. “Why don't you go piss around the room while you're at it? They’re going to ask you to leave if you can’t keep a handle on it.”

“ I do—.”

“ No, you don’t. What, you close to your rut or something?”

A flush came to Shiro’s cheeks, traveling onto his ears. “No, of course not. That isn’t—.” He drew in a great breath and let it go, shoulders dropping. “He’s hurt. And this place—. It smells all wrong and there’s too many people, too many openings. I couldn't protect him and he's hurt—.”

“ Deep breath, big guy,” Matt told him, grasping his shoulder. “He’s Keith. He’s scrappy.”

“ He shouldn’t have to be—!” Shiro exploded, reining it in at the last second when a bypassing nurse looked at him sharply. He pulled on his forelock, his metal hand tensing. “He was so pale and there was so much blood. In the ambulance, he stopped breathing, Matt. I heard his heart stop, heard the machine fail, and I—. I can’t lose him." He jutted his jaw forward, like Matt himself was challenging him for Keith's life and well-being. "I won’t. ”

“ Another deep breath,” Matt instructed him, not at all surprised at the spiral of Shiro’s thoughts. Ever since the accident that had cost him his twin brother and left him minus an arm plus a lot of scars, Shiro had been… Well, protective was probably too gentle of a word. “He’s fine,” Matt insisted

Shiro dragged in more breaths, sagging against the opposing wall, his chest heaving with each one. The scent gradually lessened, from being claws at Matt’s throat to a palm. Shiro glanced down at his blood-stained shirt, dark and dried enough for it to look brown, as if seeing it for the first time. “I should… I should change.”

“ You should. Unless you’re trying to make a new fashion statement.” Matt took a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

And nearly spat it out when Shiro shucked his button-down off right then and there in the hallway. He had on a gray tank underneath so titties were not poking Matt in the eye, but still.

“ Dude ,” Matt said, hoping to inflict shame on someone who had none.

Shiro raised a brow. “What?” He cut a fine figure, Matt supposed, the tank sticking to him like a second skin. Matt watched as a nurse rounded the corner and nearly lost her footing doing a double take, another unintended and unacknowledged causality of one Takashi Shirogane.

“ I meant go home and change.”

Shiro’s lips pressed together as if Matt had suggested he start twerking. “No.”

Matt felt slimy even before he said it. Did he want to be petty and underhanded today? Of course he did, not even a question. “I’m sure Keith could use some comforts from home.” It was a low blow...but effective if the way Shiro’s ears seemed to perk was anything to go by. Matt vowed to repent at church later. Forgive me father for I baited a dumbass.

“ He… He could use some sweats,” Shiro admitted. Gaze distant “Maybe some pajamas, socks, his charger, his toothbrush...”

Matt nodded encouragingly. “Yes, and nothing’s going to happen to Keithy-poo I promise. Romelle texted that she’d be here in ten anyway and she’ll sit with him until you get back I’m sure.”

Shiro’s gaze flitted to the doorway. Matt wanted to gag at how his expression softened , just from one mere glimpse.

My God, they both just need to fuck each other, beta or alpha be damned.

X

“ Did you get them?” Keith asked Romelle before she even crossed the threshold of his room. He sat up (as much as he could), straining forward until something beeped from his weight.

Romelle came forward, tottering on her heels, brow creased. “Yes, but—.”

Keith held out his hand. “Give it.”

Romelle shifted her tote bag and reached in, judgment in every bat of her eyelashes. “I told you that these were a bad idea—.”

“ Save the lecture, please, for when I haven’t been shot.” As soon as the white Tylenol bottle appeared in her hand, Keith snatched it. He shook out two (because why the fuck not) little blue pills and tossed them into his mouth. He crunched down on the pills, allowing the bitter chalk to coat his tongue and teeth, hoping that the action would make them work faster.

Maybe, his body hadn’t registered the full twenty-four hours. Maybe going through surgery and being knocked out had bought him some time. Maybe taking the double dose now was enough to count, enough to return him to normal and avoid what he had been careening towards.

Keith was a desperate man. And desperate men were owed miracles, right?

Keith could feel the unease as he poked his tongue around, making sure he had swallowed all traces of it. Since when had the world ever given him a miracle? Surely he had more than enough currency if grievances could be converted.

He gave the bottle back to Romelle to hide in her tote.

“ Keith,” Romelle started as she sat in the chair that Pidge had vacated. She scooted forward in it, keeping her voice low. “I really think you should talk to a doctor or nurse here—.”

“ I’m fine,” he cut her off.

“ You don’t know that,” Romelle insisted. Her purple eyes were wide. “You’ve been on these suppressants for years and you missed a dose and you know—.”

“ Thank you.” Keith 's words were sharp, his tongue heavy with thorns, but he couldn’t stop the tremble from entering them. “Yes, I am very well aware, dear sister.”

Though not blood-related, Keith considered Romelle the only family he had. They had grown up in Keith’s last foster home together. Two older kids, both sheltered for paychecks, counting down the days when they would turn eighteen on a shared calendar, Keith in October, Romelle the following September. Keith had even stayed with them for an extra year, paying though his nose on rent all the while, just so he could be there for Romy.

“ I’ll be fine,” he insisted to Romelle. “Maybe, like...it won’t even happen?”

Romelle gave him a flat look. “Keith—.”

“ Maybe ,” he pleaded to her.

“ Maybe,” she offered in a softer tone. She smoothed the edge of his sheets then took his hand in hers, her fingers skimming over the medical tape keeping Keith’s IV in. “But, if it does—.”

Keith tilted his head back against his pillows and groaned. “God, Romy.”

“ I’m just trying to ask you to be prepared. That’s why maybe you should talk to someone here—.”

“ I am not admitting I’m on illegal suppressants.”

“ They won’t, like, throw you in jail. This is a medical facility. You don’t have an OBGYN—.”

“ Because I don’t need one—.”

“— so you have no idea what could happen. I know what normal heats are like—.”

“ Please don’t.”

“— but there could be unforeseen complications, especially since this will be your first and you don’t have a partner—”

“ I will deal with it,” Keith said, voice firm, words carved out of steel. He had gotten this far alone. He refused to yield now to something as insignificant as biology.

Romelle propped her chin in her palm. “Then what is your plan, oh brother mine?”

“ To not have a heat,” he hissed to her.

She blinked at him. “You can’t stop it if it’s going to happen.”

“ Watch me.”

“ Humor me then. What is your plan if you do enter a heat?”

Keith’s current plan was to put himself into a coma and not wake until the year was 4044 and they had invented a cure.

Keith realized it was a bit far-fetched.

And if he couldn’t enter said coma and reach that futuristic nirvana, then, well, Keith was fucked. He was in a hospital for who knows how long. And even, once he was released, he lived with a fucking alpha.

Anxiety clawed up his throat.

“ I could get a hotel room or something,” he mused.

Romelle blurted out a laugh then jolted when she realized Keith wasn’t joking. “Keith, an omega in heat in a hotel room? Please tell me you’re not that stupid.”

“ They have locks on the doors—.”

“ A hotel room isn’t a familiar environment. Plus it isn’t safe. A mere deadbolt is not going to stop an alpha if they want in. Even if this was a normal heat, it’d be a terrible plan. Your anxiety would be making your hormones go haywire. You want to be somewhere safe and comfortable.”

“ Maybe they could sedate me—.”

“ Keith .”

“ Then what’s your brilliant proposal?” Keith fired back at her,

Keith expected Romelle to sputter, having no other alternatives because there were none. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, playing with her bracelet. “Well,” she started, deliberately looking down, “if you insist on not getting medical help, heats are easier when you have a partner.”

Keith snorted. “Awesome. So I what? Take out a Facebook ad? Freak Shiro out by letting another alpha into his home? Have my cherry popped by some sweaty asshole named Chad?”

Romelle stared at him.

Keith stared back. “What?” he said after a long moment.

She swatted him on the head which Keith thought wasn’t very sisterly of her considering he had a gunshot wound. “Sometimes I wonder how you can possibly be this dumb.”

“ I’m not—!”

“ I meant Shiro!”

Keith felt a hand reach up from his gut and strangle his vocal chords. Panic simmered in his gut, made him cold and sweaty. His heart monitor trilled a warning. Romelle turned to it, eyebrows folding in concern.

“ No,” he spat.

Romelle drew in a breath, ready to dig in for an argument. “But—.”

“No, Romy. He is not an option. He can never find out.”

Keith was useful as a beta. That was why he could live with Shiro, because he wasn’t a threat, wasn’t a conquest. All of that would go up in flames if the truth came out.

Keith was used to things burning around him. But this… He wanted to keep and protect this by any means.

Keith stared at his sister, his eyes imploring her.

Romelle sagged back in her chair, the flounces of her skirt rising with the movement. “Well, then promise me you’ll talk to someone.” She held up her hand before Keith could say anything. “I know, I know, but the doctors or nurses might know something that could help? And we don’t even know how long you have. What if you go into heat while you’re here?”

The thought was enough to still Keith’s tongue. Being here, amongst the sickly medicinal smell, all while that was happening to his body, making him helpless, making him not himself…

“ Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll… I’ll ask. Can you do me a favor, though?” he added.

She folded her hands and smiled smugly. “Anything.”

“ My Yamaha,” he said, remembering with a pang the cherry red paint, the custom grips he had added on, how it had been the first thing that had been truly his. “I left it… God, never mind.” A shiny Yamaha left overnight in front of a CVS that had been the site of an attempted robbery was on someone’s Christmas list somewhere. “It’s probably gone.”

“ Oh, no, it’s back at your place.” Keith looked up at her, thinking she was lying but her expression was relaxed. “I saw it in the garage when I went to get your...you know.”

“ How’d it get there?”

“ Shiro,” Romelle answered for him, as if it were obvious.

Keith shifted to try and relieve the strange knot in his chest but it stubbornly stayed there.

X

“ Can I ask you a hypothetical question?” Keith asked a nighttime nurse named Honerva who seemed harmless enough as she checked his vitals.

It was quiet as visiting hours were over, the beep of machines and the clicking of nurses’ shoes the loudest melody. Keith’s room was dim, lit by the low lights on his bed. He felt like sleep should be tugging at him, and he was tired, but he couldn’t relax enough to drift off. They had given him painkillers but Keith swore they weren’t working as his mind still felt sharp and clear.

 

His room was blessedly empty save for him and Honerva, which Keith viewed as a miracle. When the doctors had told Shiro he couldn’t stay the night with him (family only, rules applied even to alpha detectives), he had thought they would relent just from how fiercely he dug in his heels, appealing to every person he came across.

“ I’m practically his brother,” Keith had heard Shiro argue and flinched at the claim.

Yep, just my brother. Oh the hard-on I get when he lifts heavy things or makes that grunting sound deep in his throat when he stretches? That’s nothing. Nope, get hard-ons from looking at all my brothers. 

But even “practically his brother” didn’t move the doctors and nurses.

He had sat there, fuming as the final visiting minutes ticked down. “Your phone’s charged, right?” he asked more than once, despite the visible proof of it on his nightstand and plugged in. He hadn’t been sure when Shiro had left to retrieve the duffel bag of his things, possibly when Romelle had been visiting. Keith hadn’t been through it all yet but he spied some of his sweats, his Kindle, his toothbrush, his comb and his pajamas though the straining zipper.

Shiro had gotten a pair of fuzzy red socks out of the duffel and had slipped them on his feet before he had left. Keith hadn’t even noticed they were cold until his toes were beneath Shiro’s warm grip. “You call me the second anything happens.”

Keith had rolled his eyes but Shiro had only squeezed his foot, still under his hand, now snug in fuzzy red. He had attempted a jaunty salute, pulling at his stitches at the cost of his sass. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Shiro had left, ears though the AC in the hospital was blasting strong.

“ It’s a hypothetical question,” Keith repeated to Honerva as she raised her gaze at him over his chart, pen poised. He knew he had to ask now. Shiro would probably come back with his badge or some kind of warrant that would buy him what “practically his brother” hadn’t.

“ Hypothetical, you say?” Her voice was low and slightly raspy.

“ Hypothetically speaking,” Keith stressed, “what would happen if say… an omega that was on suppressants missed a dose because of...say a gunshot injury?”

Honerva gave him a flat look. “Well, I would say that that would explain some of the blood work—.”

“ It’s hypothetical!” Keith repeated.

“ And I would say it’s unfortunate but nothing to worry about. The stress would possibly bring on his—or her,” she added when Keith sucked in a breath to interject, “heat on earlier but it shouldn’t be any worse than normal, if a bit uncomfortable due to the aforementioned injuries.” Her pen returned to his chart, scratching something down.

“ What if…?” Keith twisted his fingers around his sheets. His flesh was pebbled with goosebumps—all save for his toes which stayed toasty warm. “What if he—or she—had never had a heat before?”

The scritch of Honerva’s pen was very loud, setting Keith’s teeth to clench. Her amber eyes peered at him. “I’d have to ask some clarifying questions. These suppressants...which type is he or she on?”

Keith knew there were legal suppressants but the problem with those was that you still had to have e heat twice a year. Granted, it was supposedly milder but it still qualified as a heat. Keith wanted no heats.

As Keith sat there, tongue twisting around a plausible that would still give the nurse what she needed, Honerva’s expression caved in and she let loose a heartfelt “Fuck.”

“ Hypothetically—,” Keith started.

“ Hypothetically, ” Honerva cut him off, words barbed, “this omega would be in for a very rough time and should they have their heat in this hypothetical hospital where hypothetical nurses are not paid enough, we’d have to put them in isolation and even then alphas of our staff would be at risk because the pheromones from this supposed heat would be colossal and the omega in question be at risk of delirium, heat exhaustion, dehydration plus a slew of other side effects as their biology tries to compensate.” She threw her pen down on the tray by his bed and placed her hands on her hips.

The image she painted made Keith want to crawl out of his skin, ticking time bomb that it was.

“ But can’t you give something to, like, not let it happen?” Keith asked, desperation making his voice shaky.

“ There are options, of course, but any knowledgeable professional would advise against it considering this individual has been on lifelong, illegal suppressants. Any attempts to correct or control one’s biology could have disastrous consequences as this omega would already be in a state of distress.”

Keith groaned in his throat and was embarrassed when it sounded more like a whine. “This is the twenty-first century. Don’t you have something—?”

“ Any options we have could have fatal effects on their sexual health, their scent glands, their reproductive organs, even mental health—.”

“ What if they didn’t care about any of that?” Keith snarled. All around him, the hospital smelt wrong. He could still smell faint traces of his blood and the scent made his stomach lurch. The sheets were too thin and it was too damn cold and Shiro—.

His phone taunted him, so close and Keith knew all he would have to do was send a text or call… Bile climbed his throat. He swallowed it back down. He steeled himself, even if the action hurt, his muscles sore, his mind fuzzy.

Honerva held up her hand, her tone gentler. “Nature will always win in this case. The best advice I could give is for them to be quickly dispatched from the hospital and to ride it out with a trusted partner who can see to their needs in a safe and familiar location. And then I would strongly advise them to seek a specialist and discontinue use of these suppressants.”

“ And if they don’t have anyone?” The words left Keith, strained and gasped. It had never mattered before. Keith hated that it did now.

Honerva tilted her head. “There are programs offered where an alpha could be...hired but because this is an unusual heat I would advise against it. The strangeness of the person might send the omega into further distress. Even if the omega doesn’t have a preferred sexual partner, a close alpha friend would be sufficient if only so they can provide their scent and see to it that food and drink needs are met. Someone safe, familiar, and trustworthy.”

So...Shiro.

Fuck no.

Keith tucked his chin into his chest. It wasn’t like she hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t already suspected. But, still, he had stupidly hoped. Fine,  medical professionals couldn’t help, he would find another way.

“ So...glad we’re only speaking hypotheticals, huh?” His attempt at a smile felt fragile as nerves twisted inside of him.

Honerva lifted his chart from the end of his bed frame, her smile humorless. “Yes, glad we are.”

 

Notes:

Hypothetically?

Yes, hypothetically.

Hypotheticals.

Ah, yes, hypotheticals.

Hypothetically Keith is fucked.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Me: They're in a hospital so no hanky-panky.

Cloaked me: Grey's Anatomy taught us differently.

Put You Through Me

 

Keith’s body was on fire.

 

It didn’t feel like his own. It felt like he had been scooped out and plopped into this needy, ill-fitting version that he did not know and could not control. His mind was crystal clear, aware of everything, but there was this fog separating it from his body and he could only look on in horror.

 

Maybe it would’ve been so bad if he had only been an observer.

 

But no. He had to feel everything.

 

His body ached, empty in a way it had never been before. He was both too hot and too cold, sweating and shivering in equal turns. His heartbeat thundered away, attempting to escape his chest. He was painfully, painfully hard and leaking—.

 

He recalled his foster mother giving him the suppressants for the first time, her eyes hard with a glint of warning. “You ever go off of these and they’ll breed you like the whore you are.”

 

He heard the rattle of the pills in their jar, almost taunting him.

 

Hands were on him. Strange hands. Wrong hands. A foreign smell filled his nostrils and he recoiled, cringing away. The wrongness of it all settled over him like oil. Disgust roiled in his belly, at the hands and, mostly, at himself for lying there.

 

No… NO! I don’t want this.

 

But his voice was a trapped thing, dying in his throat. His body was a prison, capable of great torment. A moan slipped free of him and he wanted to snatch it back and stuff it back down into his lungs. He didn’t need this. He didn’t want this. How could his body do this to him—.

 

There were teeth at his neck and panic in his chest and still his limbs refused to move and his hips actually canted upwards as if enjoying it, as if seeking more—.

 

“—eith! Keith!”

 

Keith jolted awake in the hospital bed, body cold and heaving breaths in as if he had been suffocating. His heart was fluttering in his chest, the monitor’s shrill alarm screeching in his ear. He inhaled the putrid, strange medicinal scent of the room and cringed away, needing something he couldn’t name—.

 

Arms banded around him, big and strong and familiar. Keith sagged into them, boneless, still gasping for air.

 

He inhaled cinnamon and felt like it was the first breath he had taken in a long time.

 

“Easy, easy.” Shiro’s voice rumbled by his ear. “It was just a nightmare.” His hand came up and Keith had always hated having anyone touch his hair but it was different with Shiro. (So many things were different when it came to Shiro.) He used the right pressure, the right touch that it didn’t set Keith’s hackles rising. Even now, his palm eased perfectly from the crown of Keith’s head down to his nape, giving it a squeeze, as if Keith had verbally told him exactly what he had needed. Shivers followed in its wake and Keith blamed the churning AC.

 

The room was still dark, light by the glow of machines and the faintest dawn light peeking through the blinds. Keith doubted visiting hours had started but didn’t question how Shiro was here.

 

Keith was bracketed between Shiro’s arms, nestled against his chest. He felt the familiar texture of his shirt, knew without looking it was his “Pluto: Never Forget” shirt. Keith had found it at the thrift shop and bought it as a lame Christmas gift. He remembered feeling so fucking embarrassed that year as Adam, Shiro’s boyfriend at the time, had gotten him a freaking Rolex.

 

He still had the shirt. The same could not be said for the Rolex. The thing had been worn so many times that Shiro’s scent had knitted in with the fibers. He kept his mouth open, though he didn’t need to. His lungs had enough air now. But he dragged in breaths through his lips and no, he was not scenting him, not really.

 

“He’s fine,” he heard Shiro say to someone and Keith stiffened as he realized he had an audience to his absolute humility. Possibly the nurses, summoned by his stupid heart monitor.

 

“Hey, shhh.” Shiro squeezed the nape of Keith’s neck, fingers warm. Keith realized he stood so that the bulk of his body blocked the door frame and anyone who was peering in. “You’re okay.” He petted through the strands. Keith remembered how greasy his hair was, how he hadn’t been allowed to wash it, and wanted to die right then and there.

 

“I’m fine,” Keith said, voice warbling. “I’m fine,” he said again, forcing steadiness into his tone. He wanted to shove away, not needing the warmth, the kindness, but either he was too weak or Shiro was too strong as he held him fast. He submitted to his fate and went limp.

 

There were worse fates than being held tight against Shiro’s pecs, Keith supposed.

 

“I’m sorry.” Shiro pressed the words into his hair, startling Keith. “I shouldn’t have left—.”

 

“No, no it wasn’t—. God, it was so stupid. Just a nightmare.”

 

Against him, Shiro stiffened. “Of course you had a nightmare. You were just shot.”

 

Oh, yeah. He had been, hadn’t it. It registered as a dull, throbbing ache, muted by the drugs they had pumped into him.

 

Keith registered his body then: how his blood wasn’t inflamed, how he was blessedly limp and dry, how his limbs and wants remained his own. He ached all over, but it was a sore muscle ache, not one driven by unwanted heat and desire.

 

How childish was he? Having a nightmare about his fucking heat.

 

“Still.” Shiro’s hand was a lulling thing as it stroked down Keith’s hair, making his eyes feel heavy. “I should’ve been here.”

 

“You can’t always be here.”

 

“Watch me.”

 

X

 

“What a bitch.”

 

“I admit she’s not very...nurturing.”

 

“You can say it, Shiro. It’s a safe place here. Call the mother-in-law what she is. A bitch.”

 

Admittedly, the choice of shows available on the hospital’s network cable weren’t great, but Say Yes to the Dress was at least the most entertaining of the options. As the bride rushed off in tears and Keith tried to will the mother-in-law to spontaneously combust with his mind, Keith dug into the dinner he had been served.

 

For the first two days, they had him on light meals. A lot of ice chips, applesauce, and questionable pudding. Today he was allowed actual solids, though thus far it had been cereal and a limp sandwich. He had hope for dinner—which was sadly dashed when he lifted the tray lid and saw some mashed potatoes and a sad shredded chicken that looked like it had endured torture rather than be properly seasoned.

 

Shiro frowned at his meal, brow creasing. “Don’t eat that.”

 

Keith shrugged, lifting his fork. “I kinda don’t have a choice—.”

 

Before he could put the chicken out of his misery, Shiro swiped the tray from his lap. It clattered as he placed it on Keith’s nightstand and Shiro bent to retrieve something. Two tupperware containers were pulled from the duffel at his feet and were held out to Keith. He recognized the storage as the thing that Shiro packed his meticulous lunches in. Keith took them, spying strawberries and pineapples through the glass in one and some kind of rice in the other.

 

Something in Keith’s chest twisted. “I’m fine really, you don’t need to—.”

 

“Keith.” His name should not sound like that. The ‘K’ a soft click of Shiro’s teeth; the ‘eith’ said in one breath. “Trust me, that meal is a crime in some countries. Eat. You need the nutrients.”

 

In the end, Keith’s stomach won out and he popped the lid on the fruit and bit into a ripe strawberry, flavor flooding over his tongue.

 

He was already inconveniencing Shiro left and right. What was one more?

 

Shiro had, as Keith had feared, worked some kind of magic (possibly with his badge) and got to stay round the clock. He camped out in a chair by Keith’s bedside during the day and slept that big body of his crammed onto the tiny little couch in the evening. Keith’s neck hurt just looking at him, head and shoulder twisted to get around the armrest, the small pillow the nurses had provided him with a weak cushion.

 

“What about work?” Keith had pressed the first night, when Shiro had been unfolding a blanket the size of a dish towel.

 

“I had some time saved up.”

 

Keith had jolted, guilt flooding through him. “But you were going to use that time to backpack across Europe this summer.” Shiro had been talking about it all spring; a white board with a sketched calendar, color-coded boxes lining out the weeks, appeared in his bedroom overnight. Keith asked questions but mostly he just liked to sit and listen to Shiro talk about it, his boyish smile growing as he talked about the streets of Florence or the wintry Swiss alps. Sometimes he even fell asleep to the baritone of Shiro’s voice, always waking up in his bed, covers tucked around him as if by magic.

 

He tried not to picture Shiro running into a sweet Spanish omega, classically beautiful and sickeningly docile as he rolled his ‘r’s, stumbling into a whirlwind romance amidst the backdrop of some grand, historically rich city. Most nights he succeeded. And other nights he laid awake cursing Spain. What had Spain ever done for them anyway?

 

Shiro hadn’t even looked put out as he fluffed his (still thin as a board) pillow. “This is more important.”

 

“But I’m fine,” Keith had insisted, hating how near a whine his voice sounded. He didn’t want to look too closely at why his blood pressure had dropped once Shiro had staked out a space, flooding the room with that cinnamon scent. Even though he wanted Shiro nowhere near him when and if his heat hit, he had no desire to be left alone amid the staff and their foreign, strangely pungent scents. He was still taking his suppressants religiously, down to the hour with having Romelle sneak them in, hoping for a miracle. He couldn’t deny he took comfort in the familiarity of Shiro, a fixed point in his life for years and years. “The doctor said if everything looked all right I’d be home by Saturday—.”

 

“Don’t argue with me on this, Keith.” And then Shiro had laid down and promptly fallen asleep in record time.

 

Keith had tried to throw something at him (he was a big target) but his aim was laughably bad and his ammo of projectiles was few (read: the tissues and empty water cups of melted ice chips on his nightstand). He thought he heard Shiro snort but that could’ve been just a deep snore.

 

So, Shiro was giving up some of his vacation time and now he was using the few hours he had away from the prison that was Keith’s hospital room to make him food.

 

And Keith felt like the worst kind of person. Useless, needy, feeble...and his hair was greasy as fuck on top of that.

 

As a clump of a strand fell over his forehead, he fought back the urge to scratch at his scalp. They still hadn’t let him use the shower; the stitches in his abdomen were too new, and he wasn’t well enough to hold himself up while bending over at the sink. Another day though and the grease in his air just might drive him to find the power.

 

He lost the battle as he tried to focus on the fifth—sixth?—dress the bride-to-be came out in, an admittedly atrocious number with enough volume and puff for her to count as a cake topping. The mother-in-law’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas as Keith gave in, dropping his fork and scratching his nails across the space behind his ear, cringing at the lank way his hair clung.

 

Keith should’ve realized his error before Shiro even spoke, “Your hair bothering you?” He had been watching him like a hawk, eyes tracking each bit Keith took like he was counting the calories.

 

“I need to wash it.” Keith tried for a laugh. “Or maybe they can just spray me down with a hose—. Wait, Shiro—.” An awful feeling filled Keith’s belly as Shiro stood, body taut.

 

A hand came over his knee, gave it a squeeze over the blanket. “I’ll be right back.”

 

He wasn’t… He wasn’t actually going to spray him down with a hose, right?

 

With the way he watched Shiro’s backside sway out the room, maybe he needed to.

 

As Keith contemplated figures of speech and Shiro’s understanding of them, Shiro reappeared with a small bowl, a bottle of something, and towels in hand. “This might be a bit messy,” he said as he deposited everything on the nightstand, “but we should be able to make it work.”

 

Keith saw the bowl was filled with water, a low vapor of steam rising from its surface, and spied the word ‘apple-scented’ written across the bottle.

 

“It’s cheap and they said they didn’t have any conditioner,” Shiro said, frowning as if the lack of conditioner in a hospital was a great sin, “but it should do the job.”

 

Keith’s stomach clenched. He fisted his hands around the sheets. “Shiro, you don’t have to—.”

 

“Shush. Now.” He stood, considering Keith. “Why don’t you lean forward.” One hand pressed on his collar bone, directing Keith with the slightest pressure. “And then tilt your head back.” Keith heard the sound of the bowl being picked up right as Shiro’s finger skated up to his chin. “And just watch Randy eviscerate this mother-in-law.”

 

Keith gaped at him, momentarily distracted by Shiro’s hands pushing his hair back. “You said you hadn’t seen this one!”

 

Shiro tucked a smile into the corner of his lips.

 

“Betrayal!” Keith wailed, dramatic. “Betrayal in my house—!”

 

Shiro tugged sharply on Keith’s hair. “I will dunk you.”

 

Keith had a snarky retort ready to go and lost it as he felt Shiro skim his fingers through his hair, gathering the bulk of it and then bringing the bowl of water up to wet it.

 

Keith grew his hair long out of necessity rather than want or preference of a particular style. He waited until it was at the length where he couldn’t stand it anymore and then he went to Romy to have her chop off what she could. He didn’t like people touching his hair; it was too close to his face, to his scent gland. Even Pidge just tugging on his ponytail made his hackles raise for no particular reason.

 

As Shiro was running his fingers through his hair, parting the strands and gathering water in his palm to wet Keith’s roots, Keith clamped down hard on the jolts and shivers that wanted to break out across his skin. But, unlike with others, it wasn’t discomfort, not exactly. His shoulders stayed lowered and he didn’t feel threatened, even as the big alpha loomed over him brows lowered in consternation. It was a battle of instincts inside Keith. One wanted to flinch away, to hide but another wanted to lean back, embrace the touch for what it was. Safe and...

 

Keith wasn’t going to put a name to this, so he tried to do as Shiro said and focused on the television.

 

When Keith’s hair was sufficiently damp and Keith felt like a wound tight wire, ready to spring apart, Shiro uncapped the shampoo. The chemical smell of apples filled the room, Keith’s nose wrinkled. Shiro, likewise, scrunched his nose and looked at it as if he was reconsidering.

 

“It’s fine,” Keith assured him. A water droplet ran down his neck, making him shiver despite the tepid temperature of the water. “Who doesn’t want to smell like a Bath and Body Works shop?”

 

“I can get some of yours next time when I’m at home,” Shiro promised. “I like yours better. You get the eucalyptus, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” He felt weird that Shiro knew of the scent of his cheap shampoo. (In an unrelated note, Shiro was a coconut guy. How Keith knew this was not important. Though he must’ve switched at some point, hadn’t he? To something with cinnamon. Keith tried to recall when he had last glanced at Shiro’s bathroom or restocked their hall closet but all he could remember was the coconut.)

 

Shiro leaned over him to start sudsing up his hair. He shifted, placing one knee on Keith’s bedside so he could get closer. The angle allowed a direct waft of that cinnamon scent right up Keith’s nose, overpowering that harsh apple. If he tried, he could detect the traces of his shampoo, small strands of the sweet smell weaving into that cinnamon, complimenting it.

 

Friends could admit that the other smelled nice, right?

 

Right.

 

Keith ground his molars together to stop the purr that wanted up his throat as Shiro worked his fingers against his scalp. He couldn’t remember the last time his hair was so thoroughly scrubbed. Probably never. Shiro went at it like he was going to get graded on it. That knee by his hip felt like a hot iron even though it was only a fucking knee. His eyes drifted shut and Keith reasoned the blacks of his eyelids was at least a less harrowing sight than the flex of Shiro’s bicep as he leaned over him. He felt water droplets and suds catch on his neck.

 

“Remember Professor Slav?” Keith asked aloud. He tried to distract himself with the memory, painting the familiar lecture hall in his mind, the green carpet and the harsh white lighting. Shiro—post growth spurt and glow-up—seat at the table beside him, drawing looks though he didn’t notice.

 

Keith had wanted to scratch all of their eyes out...in a completely platonic, friend way.

 

Keith didn’t need his sight to know Shiro’s eyebrow was twitching. “Don’t remind me. I swear I had my first aneurysm in his class.”

 

Keith’s laugh caught in his throat. “You got so pissed off.”

 

“Because math only has one right answer! And he would go on and on only to say ‘In another reality the answer could be two, who am I to say?’Um, the professor and the one who hands out the grades sir!”

Keith remembered sitting at his side, watching his note-taking—everything aligned to one edge, impossibly tidy—only for his pencil to snap when Slav backtracked with the dreaded “In another timeline…”

 

“That’s where my blood pressure issues started.”

 

“Gotta watch that blood pressure, Grandpa.”

 

Shiro’s hands stuttered in his hair, a snort escaping him. “Brat,” he chided. He paused and Keith felt the weight of suds in his hair—smelling pungently of fake apples. “Okay, now for the rinse.”

 

“You want me to tilt back?” Keith asked, trying to be helpful.

 

“I got it.” Keith felt the rim of the bowl at the nape of his neck, felt his hair get pushed back, ends first dunked in the water. Keith tried to focus on the show, on the display of lace and sequin as the bride tried on another, but it was all just noise in his ears.

 

He jerked when Shiro’s thumb, chilled from the water, skated by his ear.

 

“Sssh,” Shiro soothed. His cupped palm came and trickled water over Keith’s roots, pushing the suds back. “It’s just me.”

 

As if Shiro could be just anything.

 

When the last of the shampoo was washed free and Keith was officially smelling like the lost Strawberry Shortcake sibling, Shiro shifted away from him. That soothing cinnamon scent retracted from Keith’s orbit and Keith tried not to feel the loss. He took the towel Shiro offered him, moving to wipe the excess water from his locks though Shiro had done an efficient job in squeezing most of it out.

 

“Thanks,” Keith offered, his chest feeling tight, unable to maintain eye contact for too long.

 

He saw Shiro’s hand coming towards his face before he felt the rogue water droplet on his neck, racing down and sending a chill in its wake. Shiro’s fingers caught it, wiping it away from the neckline of Keith’s sweatshirt and sweeping up, hitting Keith’s scent gland. Keith felt the contact like a quake, rattling in his bones, and he swallowed his tongue—.

 

Shiro was too close. Close enough for Keith to count his eyelashes and to see the small freckles on his nose. His nostrils flared. His brows scrunched and he leaned in and Keith wanted to bare his throat—.

 

“Knock-knock,” trilled one of the nurses in the doorway and Keith would’ve bodily thrown himself from the bed if he was capable of doing so without ripping his gut open.

 

The nurse—blonde and peppy who looked like she existed on caffeine IVs—smiled knowingly. “Just need to check your vitals, hon.” Keith was pretty sure her name was Janice. God thank all the Janices out there.

 

Shiro straightened, clearing his throat once, twice. He fisted his hands then loosened them. “I’ll, uh, step out for a moment. You want more ice chips?” he asked, looking at Keith’s empty cup.

 

He left with the cup in hand before Keith could answer.

 

“Well he seems sweet,” Janice commented as she stepped forward with her blood pressure cuff.

 

“Um, yeah.” Keith’s face felt hot. That fucking apple scent was all he was able to inhale now, cinnamon long gone. He wanted to slap himself. He dreaded shifting and feeling slick in between his legs.

 

Get a fucking hold of yourself, Kogane!

 

Janice tutted as she grasped his wrist to take his pulse. “You two are such a cute pair of mates.”

 

Keith almost jerked his arm out of her hold. “We aren’t—!” he started too vehemently. “We’re friends,” Keith amended in a softer tone.

 

Janice’s smile didn’t slip. “Oh, my mistake. It’s just… Well, alphas usually don’t give pheromones off like that unless they’re with their mate.”

 

“Give what?” Keith asked.

 

Janice waved her hand about the room as if Keith could smell anything aside from that awful apple. “Never mind me,” she ended when she saw Keith’s expression. “Forget I said anything.”

 

“I’ve got ice chips!” Shiro announced as he appeared in the doorway carrying not one but two full cups of ice chips.

 

X

 

“Keith, wait.”

 

“Keith, stay,” Keith mocked as he opened the car door and swung his legs out. “Good boy, Keith. Now roll over.” Keith stopped when he saw Shiro, standing with his hands on his hips and feet firmly planted in the driveway, face set and a muscle in his jaw flexing. Keith sat back in the passenger seat, legs swinging out the open door, staying where he was.

 

Technically, the doctor hadn’t told him he wasn’t allowed to walk. But that was apparently what Shiro’s selective hearing heard.

 

So, he sat and watched as Shiro unloaded the car of their duffels, racing it up the house, checking over his shoulder as if Keith were up and sprinting in the ten seconds it took him.

 

Getting out on time (and without triggering his oncoming heat) had been nothing short of a relief for Keith. He felt as if he had dodged a bullet.

 

...Well, he hadn’t. Not the actual one.

 

A line of neat stitches still held the wound close. Keith had instructions to come back in another week to have them assessed. He would have follow up visits afterwards (certain things permitting) to ensure everything was healing correctly. He had instructions on taking it easy for at least a month….though Keith wasn’t sure how his bills were getting paid unless he could bartend from his couch.

 

He rolled his neck, a headache blooming. One thing at a time.

 

Shiro rushed back out the door and jogged down the stairs to help weak, pathetic little Keith.

 

“I can walk you know,” he couldn’t help but grumble as Shiro reached him.

 

Shiro only flattened his lips, reaching in to assist Keith out. Keith thought he would brace a hand against his back or give him his shoulder to help steady him.

 

But noooo.

 

Shiro reached out and scooped Keith out.

 

Keith made an embarrassing ‘eep!’ sound, trying to grasp at something that wasn’t stacked muscles of his best friend but there wasn’t exactly anything to grasp aside from that. That spicy scent of cinnamon and chestnuts flooded his senses.

 

A stupid memory niggled at the back of his brain. Shiro, in his early gym rat stages, still gangly and all boy. Sweaty and flushed after a set, beaming at him as he set down the little five pounds. “I bet I can carry you one day.”

 

Well...here was that day.

 

Marvelous, wasn’t it?

 

No it was not. Keith floundered as he grasped shoulders that felt like bricks and the bulge of a bicep at his back.

 

“Hey, easy, I’ve got you,” Shiro said, nudging the passenger door closed with his foot, as if this entire thing was in the norm and Keith was being needlessly dramatic.

 

“You don’t have to carry me!” Shiro’s steps didn’t even flatter as he bounded up to the door, Keith in hand like any old luggage.

 

Something in Keith sagged with relief at the familiar environment, the gray slate walls, the carpet thick enough to squish between his toes, familiar scents and sight, a soothing stimulus after the all white of the hospital.

 

Shiro didn’t set him down as he crossed into the living room. Keith didn’t know how to ask him to.

 

“Er—,” he started. A cord on Shiro’s neck caught and held his attention, flecked with stubble that he had missed upon shaving, moving as he swallowed.

 

What would stubble feel like if he just lapped his tongue—?

 

Where the fuck had that thought come from?

 

“I made you a set up here in the living room,” Shiro said as they entered. “Figured you’d go stir crazy if you were cooped up in your bedroom all day and the flat screen’s out here anyway, so…”

 

Keith turned to see what he meant. There, on their sectional, Shiro had pulled together his blankets and pillows. He had dragged over their coffee table so it was closer to the spot and Keith could use it without having to stretch. Keith already spied his phone and Kindle plugged, a heating pad coiled next to them and ready for Keith’s use if he so wanted as Shiro kept the place freezing.

 

Something in Keith’s chest ached.

 

“Shiro—.”

 

“I’ll get your water filled and everything unpacked,” Shiro said as he sat Keith down. “Is there anything else you’ll need? A snack?” Shiro assessed what he had assembled as if he had overlooked something vital. “I’ll get you some cashews and I got some grapes the other day. They’re still really ripe.”

 

“I’m fine,” Keith told him, finding words hard. His mouth felt fuzzy and his limbs were heavy. He blamed the pain pill he had taken an hour ago. “Thanks.”

 

Shiro smiled down at him. His hand lifted, fingers flexing but he pulled back before his fingers actually touched Keith.

 

Keith tried not to ache in a different way.

 

He found the remote as Shiro walked away, booting up Netflix and determined to put on something mind-numbing. He found the Great British Baking Show in their queue and started it up, letting the weight of his body pull him back into the couch cushions.

 

He was only resting for a moment, he told himself, bringing his red fleece blanket up over his shoulder. Then he would get up and help Shiro and figure everything else out.

 

But his eyes grew heavy and every inhale brought in a familiar scent. He nestled down further and pulled one of the pillows closer to him. It took him a moment to place the cool gray pillowcase. It was Shiro’s pillow—not his own. Shiro must’ve grabbed it by mistake and added it.

 

Keith tucked it closer to his face without really thinking about it, inhaling deep, a muscle in him relaxing its death grip.

 

X

 

Keith startled awake to the windows dark and the lamp lit low in the living room. The TV screen was frozen on the ‘Are you still watching?’ prompt which was never helpful as it thought it was.

 

Keith scrubbed crust from his eyes and rubbed his tongue against teeth that felt fuzzy. A glance at his phone showed he had been out a good five hours. What did they put in those pills? He shook his head trying to reorient himself. The call of nature drove him to him vertical and he actually managed to walk on his own two feet to their half bathroom without ripping open his abdomen (imagine that!).

 

Though each step did pull uncomfortably at his stitches.

 

He finished up and washed his hands, cringing at his reflection in the mirror. A crease from the pillow had embedded itself in his cheek and his hair had knotted itself into one tangle. He batted at it for five seconds, then gave up.

 

Shuffling, he walked towards their kitchen, the idea of grapes appealing to him now.

 

“Keith?” he heard called down the hallway, a light lit in one of the rooms. Shiro’s office.

 

Keith said something that was all grumbles and maybe a snarl as he padded on over to the fridge. Opening it, he found the grapes in the freeze and ripped off a few. He popped a few into his mouth, the bite of the cold and the burst of sweet flavor dancing across his tongue, as he heard heavy steps down the hallway.

 

“I’m fine,” he called, still with a mouthful of grapes. He opened the freezer door to retrieve a few more, oddly hungry.

 

“Keit—.”

 

“Look I made it all the way here by myself,” Keith said with a taunting wave of the stem of grapes. “Didn’t even keel over once.”

 

When he wasn’t chided, he looked back.

 

Shiro stood there, barefoot and dressed down in his sweats. His glasses made their rare appearance perched on the bridge of his nose. He wore his contacts to the point of pain, only admitting to defeat when he was squinting and itching. Keith knew why he preferred the contacts, but his current glasses at least weren’t the coke-bottle lens his parents had stuck him with. He looked older and more scholarly in them, like a professor in a porno...

 

Who was currently blinking at Keith as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His hands grasped the door frame and he swayed there, nostrils flaring on an inhale. “Keith….?”

 

“What?” He touched his hair. “Is it that bad?”

 

Shiro staggered forward, long strides eating up the distance, and Keith didn’t have a moment to divert him before his hand came up, grasping the side of Keith’s head and bringing him in close. Keith lost a grape to the floor with the movement. “Shiro, what—?”

 

He froze as he heard and felt Shiro inhale near the crown of his head, long and deep.

 

“Are you…?” Shiro seemed to struggle to get the words out. “Did you spill honey or something?”

 

“H-Honey?” Keith echoed.

 

“Or.” Shiro cleared his throat, still holding him, still breathing him in as if Keith were a perfume. “Sorry.” He straightened, an odd flush across his nose, hidden by his glasses. He was only there for a moment before he dove back in, picking at a piece of Keith’s hair and lifting it towards his nose. “A new shampoo or…?’

 

Everything in Keith froze. Limbs, body, tongue. Even his heart missed a few beats. Those stupid suppressants. He had missed another dose when he had fallen asleep on the couch.

 

Shit.

 

SHIT.

 

Notes:

Keith. You had ONE job!

Chapter 4

Notes:

Alternatively: how long can I get away with putting off the inevitable, a memoir by Syrina.

Put You Through Me

 

Keith escaped into his bathroom after squawking something about spilled honey, breathing hard, trembling. He braced his back against the closed door, another barrier should Shiro choose to follow him. Heavy footsteps did not pursue him, though, and Keith was left with the memory of a dazed Shiro standing in the kitchen.

 

He couldn’t be… He wasn’t…

 

He forced his breathing to quiet, trying to take stock of his own body. He ached, yes, a full body tiredness, but was it the preamble to a heat or just the aftereffects of the pain pills? He didn’t feel slick, yet, didn’t want to jump anyone’s bones (present company always excluded), wasn’t aching hard. He touched a hand to his forehead and reasoned he didn’t feel any warmer than usual.

 

After a few seconds of his racing heartbeat, he came to the conclusion that, no, he was not going into heat. At least not yet.

 

But his natural scent had somehow broken through, possibly as a result of missing too many suppressant doses or possibly because his heat was on the horizon and suppressants could not help him. He lifted his arm and sniffed himself, smelling nothing aside from his own sweat. If he inhaled deep enough though and concentrated, he could taste something sweet in the back of his throat.

 

Revulsion climbed up from his stomach. He swallowed back the bile.

 

Crouching, he retrieved the familiar Tylenol bottle from under his sink and chewed through two pills just to be safe. The chalky texture brought an odd tingling to his tongue. He took a mouthful of water from the sink to get rid of it.

 

Standing with his hands braced on the edge of the sink, Keith evaluated his flushed face, wild hair. He noticed an odd glint on his neck and tilted his head to assess further. He prodded at the sensitive space of his scent gland, horrified to find it slick to the touch. He got a whiff of what Shiro must’ve smelled, nowhere near as cloying as he feared it was.

 

He rushed to fetch his hand towel and a bar of soap. Layering the fibers generously, he went in and scrubbed at his neck, hard and fast. He swallowed down a cry as the rough fibers of the cloth seemed to grate against the sensitive skin but didn’t let up.

 

When he went to rinse and wipe the suds off, the side of his neck was angry and inflamed. He ran his fingers over the area and sniffed them, frustrated to still detect a note of that sweetness underneath the scent of the soap.

 

A knock at his door full-body startled him.

 

“Keith?” Shiro’s voice seemed unperturbed. “Is everything all right?”

 

Keith babbled something about his hands being sticky from the aforementioned spilled honey. He riffled through his medicine cabinet, finding an old bottle of aftershave and upending that over his neck. Nothing came out and Keith squeezed the bottle futilely, only getting gasps from it that smelled of stale cloves.

 

“O-Okay.” Shiro paused to clear his throat. “Let me know if you need anything?”

 

Keith said something that must’ve been an affirmative. He searched under his sink, finding nothing but detangler and toilet paper. Standing, his eyes alighted on the blue pumice stone he used to scrap the calluses on his heels.

 

He paused only for a moment to reconsider.

 

He snatched the stone up and faced his reflection in the mirror, exposing his neck and bracing himself. At the first few passes, textured skin on the stone scraping against his already smarting skin, Keith ground his teeth together and pushed on.

 

The reality of the matter was that this was all surmounting to putting a band-aid over an open wound. He needed a miracle. He needed…

 

X

 

“Brad!” Keith called out as he spied the greasy blond hair bobbing between the cars, waving him over towards where he stood by the restrooms at the back of the park.

 

Brad approached, looking both like a college student and also forty. “Whoa, little dude, weren’t you shot?”

 

“I got better.”

 

Technically, Keith knew he was supposed to still be on bed rest and having a clandestine meeting with his drug-dealer would not fall under that umbrella but desperate times.

 

Plus, Shiro was at work. And what Shiro didn’t know…

 

“Do you have anything?” Keith pressed him, having explained over text the reason for the meeting.

 

Brad sucked on a joint of something, the pungent stench making Keith’s nose wrinkle. “I told you you couldn’t miss a dose—.”

 

Keith shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Don’t you think I know that?!”

 

“—best I can offer is some good stuff to keep you out of it during your heat.”

 

Keith made a noise in the back of his throat. “And I told you, I don’t want to have a heat!”

 

“Well, you shouldn’t have missed a dose then.”

 

Keith blinked at him. “You are entirely unhelpful.”

 

“Been talking to my mother have you?”

 

Keith sagged against the stone wall of the restrooms, feeling betrayed and lost. Kids shrieked as they scampered around the nearby playground. One man, a father or a guardian, stood rooted in place, sniffing the air, glancing in Keith’s direction fixedly. Keith drew his hoodie tighter around him. He had a turtleneck on to cover his very angry, very red scent gland but paranoia clawed at his stomach.

 

“What if we upped the doses of my suppressants?” Keith pressed. “Doubled it? Tripled it?”

 

Brad’s red-ringed eyes widened. “My dude, that would have the opposite effect.”

 

Keith stiffened. “What do you mean?”

 

Brad squinted at him. “You aren’t… You aren’t still taking them are you little dude?”

 

Keith stood there, staring at him. “Am I not supposed to?”

 

Brad gasped on a puff of his joint. “My little dude, taking suppressants after the body has triggered one’s natural heat cycle will make things ten times worse. Your body will naturally start producing more hormones to counteract the suppressants.”

 

Keith felt his stomach fall to somewhere near his toes. A curse left him.

 

Brad chuckled. “In other words my dude, you are fucked.”

 

X

 

Matt didn’t think he was an easily annoyed person. Once his at-the-time girlfriend had stolen his credit card and used it to buy herself a ring to get married to another man and Matt had only been somewhat irked. It had been a nice ass ring, at least.

 

But after hours of listening to Shiro click-click-click his pen, Matt was about to lose it.

 

Done in by BIC. How tragic.

 

“Are you good?” he asked after the seven hundred and twenty-third click, leaning to the side so he could assess his coworker.

 

Shiro startled, dropping his pen, foot stopping mid-bob. “Yeah. Peachy.” He refocused on his computer which Matt doubted he was even seeing as the reflection in the glass behind him showed his absurdly neat desktop.

 

Matt’s eyebrows went up to his hairline. “Who in the God’s honest fuck says peachy anymore?”

 

“Me. I say peachy.”

 

“Are you a seventy-five year-old grandpa?”

 

Shiro threw his pen at him. Matt caught it in triumph, then watched in horror as Shiro retrieved another blasted pen from his cup, finger poised over the end, ready to snap the last of Matt’s sanity with one more goddamn click.

 

Matt reached over and grasped Shiro’s hand. “If you click that pen one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

 

Shiro moved his finger from the button.

 

Matt stood from his chair. “Come on, let’s have a coffee break.” He coerced Shiro from his spot and corralled him into the kitchenette. Closing the door behind them so they were trapped with the burnt coffee smell, Matt rounded on Shiro. “What is up with you?”

 

“What do you mean?” Shiro sounded distracted even as he stood right before him, refilling his coffee mug. It seemed to take him a moment to find the creamer, though the little pods hadn’t moved in the four years they had worked here.

 

“You’re jittery as hell, you’re distracted, you bit off a poor rookie’s head today when he asked for directions to meeting room C,” Matt listed, counting off on his hand. He eyed his friend, scenting the air as he did so. Though Shiro was trying to control it, there was a faint thread of cinnamon seeping out. “Are you nearing your rut?”

 

Shiro jolted. “What, no, of course not. I’m just… I’m worried about Keith.”

 

“Little Mr. Grumpy Pants is at home, safe and sound.”

 

Shiro shook the little creamer pod too hard. “But something could happen. His stitches could pop open or there could be internal bleeding that the doctors missed or he could fall—.”

 

“Did you really just equate Keith to the ‘help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ commercial?”

 

A flush crept up Shiro’s nose. “You know what I mean.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. His voice came out almost dream-like. “The other night, he smelled…”

 

“Smell? Betas don’t smell,” Matt pointed out. Not in the spiced way of alphas or the sweet way of omegas. Betas, if they had a scent, were neutral like dish soap or mint. “But, hypothetically, what did he smell like?”

 

Matt had always wondered, in a completely heterosexual way, about Keith. That wasp-like waist and those hooded eyes and that fuck-me-or-don’t hair? On a beta? Sometimes life was really not fair.

 

“Nothing.” Shiro’s eyes darkened, a wall coming down between them. “Forget it.”

 

Matt hefted himself up onto the countertop. “Are you sure you’re not nearing your rut?” Because all of this was vaguely familiar. Living with Shiro approaching and during his ruts was a full-blown nightmare. Shiro’s type-A personality ramped up to one hundred. He once reorganized their entire kitchen in a night and then got mad the next morning when Matt didn’t know where the sugar was. “It’s alphabetized!” he said, as if that was the obvious way to sort one’s countertops. He didn’t know how Keith dealt with him if not by some unflappable beta magic.

 

Shiro’s shoulders hunched. “I told you I’m not.” He paused as he sipped his coffee, lines appearing as his brow furrowed. “It’d be two months early anyway.”

 

“They can come on early,” Matt pointed out. “Especially after stress. Or if you’d been around an omega near their heat.”

 

Shiro snorted. “Right because I’m around so many of those.”

 

Matt felt silly for even suggesting it. Shiro seemed to avoid omegas, either eschewing the traditional roles and all they implied or he generally didn’t find omegas attractive. The only boyfriend he had had that Matt knew of had been Adam, another alpha, and the two’s foundation seemed to be built on hate-fucking more than anything.

 

Not that he knew from personal experience lying awake at night, hearing the very distinct sounds through the adjoining wall of their bedrooms, slowly coming to term with his life choices.

 

No, Matt got noise cancelling headphones for a completely different reason.

 

“Mine aren’t like that anyway,” Shiro continued. “I’m pretty regular.”

 

Of course he was. Because even in the way of biological needs Shiro was nothing if not disciplined.

 

“Well,” Matt said, eyeing his friend’s flushed cheeks and glittery eyes, “if you need some more time, just let Allura know. We can cover for you.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“And Keith—.”

 

“Matthew!” Allura glared through the glass window in the door, nostrils flaring. “Get your ass off the countertop this instant!”

 

Matt got his ass off the countertop that instant.

 

X

 

When Shiro came home, Keith was bundled up on the couch, mindlessly watching some episode of a true crime documentary. Shiro opened the door right at the good part. “And they found his body bound, gagged, and chopped into pieces, one vital piece of his anatomy missing.”

 

Shiro raised his eyebrows as he took his shoes off. “Some light watching?”

 

Keith shrugged, truly not even listening to the documentary. But the dour and grim voice of the narrator was more in tune to his mood so he’d let it play.

 

His mind was swarmed in worries. Brad had been his last hope. Now the reality of his situation pressed down on him, threatening to suffocate him. He would have his heat, that was unavoidable. He wasn’t asking anyone to help him, that was unthinkable. He needed a place to stay during, which was proving to be a challenge.

 

He had called his sister in a desperate bid, knowing she had a guest room.

 

“Keith, you do realize I’m an omega.” She had spoken very slowly, as if he were a child. “My presence is going to set you off further once you get into your heat. I know you don’t want to hear it but the best place for you is right where you are.”

 

Which Keith would agree to disagree. Hotel room it was, then. But a quick peek at his bank account had turned his stomach. Best he could afford was a motel room and he knew Romelle would scream at him over the fact that he was even considering. He could put a chair in front of the door anyway. It would all be fine. ...Right?

 

“Everything alright?” Shiro said, approaching him. There was something about him in his sock-clad feet, dress shirt half unbuttoned and cuffs pushed up his forearms that made Keith’s stomach clench.

 

“Yeah, fine, Just chilling.”

 

“Stir fry sound okay for dinner?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Keith jolted when he realized. He had spied the ingredients in the fridge, knew what Shiro had planned, and had half-baked thoughts of being helpful for once in his life. “Oh, sorry, I meant to start it while you were at work, that way—.”

 

Shiro’s hand squeezed his shoulder, pushing him back towards the couch. “Easy. Your only job right now is to rest.” He eyed him. “Aren’t you hot in all that?”

 

Keith was very much hot in his turtleneck and hoodie but the layers were needed to hide what he had done to his neck. “Not really,” he lied.

 

Shiro bought the lie and padded over to the kitchen. Keith heard the sound of cabinets and the click of the stove being turned on and had the strongest urge to follow and watch him. The lines of his back concealed by the stark white dress shirt but the fabric unable to hide the bulge of muscles as they moved. Something as simple as cutting a bell pepper seemed incredibly sexy all of a sudden.

 

Keith kept his ass firmly on the couch.

 

Motel room, that was his plan thus far. Fuck his bank account. He would deal with it later.

 

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But he did, anxieties tiring him much quicker than a workout ever did, as the next thing he knew Shiro’s hand was on his shoulder, rousing him.

 

“Keith, dinner’s—.”

 

Keith wiped drool from his cheek and pushed himself up, a pillow falling from his grasp. “Sorry,” he grumbled, blinking hard to reorient himself. Shiro’s thick trunk-like thighs were at his eye level.

 

“Keith, what happened to your neck?”

 

Keith’s hand flew to his turtleneck which had slipped down during his impromptu nap. He tugged the fabric back up, biting back a sound as the fabric rasped against his skin. “Nothing—.”

 

Shiro surged forward, batting his hands away, yanking the fabric down. He sucked in a breath. “Keith…”

 

Keith knew what he saw. The skin was raw and mottled from his attempts with the pumice stone. Layers had been scraped off. He had bled in places where he had scoured too deep, scabbed over now but still tender, liable to tear if he scratched at them.

 

It had stopped his scent though, so Keith couldn’t fully regret it.

 

Keith yanked away from Shiro and pulled his turtleneck up. He stared at the carpet fibers, panic pulsing through him.

 

“Who did this?” Shiro’s voice was quiet, contained, but something about it unsettled Keith.

 

Belatedly, Keith realized what his neck looked like. It could have very well been misconstrued as someone’s enthusiastic and uncaring gnawing.

 

It wasn’t wholly outside the realm of possibility. Betas did not have the potent scent glands of omegas and alphas. So, when things got a little intimate, sometimes they got a little desperate trying to sate their natural urges. The behavior was more typical of alphas but omegas could get antsy and overzealous as well.

 

Still, Keith wasn’t sure what exactly Shiro thought happened. That in the eight hours he had been gone someone had just come along and ravished Keith.

 

“No one—,” Keith started, hunching further into his hoodie.

 

“Bullshit!” Shiro’s vehemence startled Keith’s gaze back to him. He didn’t recognize Shiro, bristling, a flash of fang revealed as he snarled. “Who did this?!”

 

“I told you no one! Forget about it!” A growl left Shiro and Keith tried to backpedal. “I—.”

 

Shiro’s eyes were two silver flames as he spun around. “Are they here?!” He searched the room as if the poor son of a bitch was hiding behind the armchair.

 

Keith reached for him, this strange version of his best friend. “Shiro, stop—!”

 

“I’ll kill him!”

 

“I did it to myself!”

 

The admittance, while unplanned, did what he intended and froze Shiro. As Shiro wheeled to face him, Keith floundered for a better explanation. He knew how it sounded without one very important piece of context. A piece of context he was not willing to part with, be it life or death. “I-I…” he started, fingers twisting in the blankets. “After the hospital, I smelled so…”

 

So I butchered my own neck. Keith cringed at the conclusion, not finding a better alternative.

 

“You…” He could hear the doubt in Shiro’s voice, the skepticism but Keith didn’t challenge it, fearing he would dig himself a bigger hole.

 

He heard footsteps approaching him, glanced up to see Shiro stoic and controlled once more. Before Keith could offer anything else, Shiro reached down and plucked him off the sofa. Maybe if Keith had been in a better headspace he would’ve protested being carted off down the hallway (very aware of the hand on his ass) but alas he was not.

 

“You didn’t even properly dress it,” he heard Shiro murmur.

 

He was deposited on the countertop’s edge, recognizing the cool gray of Shiro’s adjoining bathroom. He went to push himself to the floor but Shiro blocked him with his frame, reaching overhead to his medicine cabinet. Keith bent his head to accommodate him and got a giant whiff of whatever cinnamon body wash Shiro had taken to using as of late. Keith eyed the bottles lining his shower, vowing to look later so he could write the company a note of praise and condemnation.

 

Shiro plopped a first aid kit on the counter (because of course he had a fully stocked first aid kit handy). His thighs pressed against Keith’s, boxing him in. “Off,” he told Keith, plucking at his turtleneck.

 

Keith clung to his layers like they were a life raft. “I’m fine, you don’t have to—.”

 

“Clearly I do.” Shiro’s words were short and Keith saw remains of that odd sheen to his eyes, making them almost glow. Those eyes leveled at Keith, staring him down.

 

It was a battle of wills as they stared at each other, neither yielding...until Keith caved.

 

He grumbled as he had to do what counted as acrobatics to remove his turtleneck from underneath his hoodie. Thankfully, the hoodie was nearly a tent on him. Still, he was sweating once he got the thing off and straightened out his hoodie. “Happy?” he sniped.

 

Shiro didn’t berate him, his frown deepening, a hand reaching for Keith. Keith flinched more out of instinct than actual fear of Shiro as the tips of his fingers skimmed Keith’s mangled skin. Jaw clenching, he reached for the first aid kit. “So you said you smelled?” Shiro said, voice forcibly casual as he got out some kind of ointment cream.

 

“I was… I was scratching at it,” Keith made up on the spot. “Like an itch and I guess…” He shrugged, creativity leaving him.

 

The lights of the bathroom were much too bright. Keith squirmed under them.

 

At the first touch of Shiro’s fingers, chillingly cold from the ointment, Keith nearly leapt off the sink. Shiro’s hand landed on his thigh, anchoring him down. “Easy,” he rumbled, voice all bass, Keith feeling it right up the base of his spine.

 

Keith pressed himself back against the mirror but there was little room to navigate with Shiro right there. The width of his palm stayed on Keith’s thigh, the size of it doing things to Keith’s brains. Heat stirred low in his belly.

 

Shiro’s fingers on his neck paused. He sniffed, nostrils flaring. Keith wouldn’t have noticed it save for he was so gosh darn close.

 

“That’s good—,” Keith tried to say, an elbow coming up to jostle against Shiro’s chest but he would’ve had an easier time negotiating with a brick wall.

 

Shiro’s brow wrinkled and he leaned forward, that big palm of his clenching down on Keith’s thigh. His eyes still held that strange light, as if lit from within. “Keith…” his voice came out drowsy, almost drunk.

 

“That’s good! I’m fine!” Keith wriggled, trying to gain an inch.

 

On the next inhale, aside from Shiro’s overwhelming body wash, Keith detected the notes of something sweet, like sugar.

 

Panic clawed up from his gut. He was all limbs trying to get off the sink, desperate to put miles of distance between him and Shiro. He would have to move, assume a new identity, flee across state lines. Surely North Dakota would take him; what else did they have?

 

Shiro’s fingers bit down on his thigh, latching tight. His bangs fell into his eyes and he was much too close and Keith wanted to flee, to hide—.

 

Shiro’s nose touched his neck and a gasp left Keith that was too near pornographic for his liking. He should’ve pushed Shiro away, should’ve fought harder, but some instinct made him tilt his head back instead. He could feel the shape of his lips against his collar bone, parting as he inhaled long and deep.

 

He imagined fangs piercing deep and scarring, claiming. Keith had never wanted to be claimed, not until that moment.

 

“Why do you smell sweet?”

 

“The honey—!” Keith spluttered, trying to go for the excuse that had saved him last night.

 

But Shiro hadn’t been pressed up against his scent gland then, not an inch of space between them, the tiny confines of the bathroom further boxing them in.

 

Shiro made a sound low in his throat that made Keith’s blood race in one direction specifically. He pressed closer to Keith (as if there was a closer to be had). “Yes, exactly like honey, like the best fucking honey…”

 

Between blinks, Shiro reeled away from him, back colliding with the far wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle. His eyes were wide, breathing coming in gasps. His massive body trembled in a way that would make Keith feel triumphant if it were for any other reason.

 

Shiro took a bracing breath before asking him the question that made Keith’s entire world fall down around him. “Why do you smell like an omega?”

Notes:

Yes Keith. Please share with the class.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Did someone ask for Shiro's POV?

Put You Through Me

 

Shiro was not a conventional alpha.

 

He had learned this early on, through failed attempts at a typical relationship. He liked to take care of his partners, inside and outside of the bedroom. It satisfied some itch in his brain to have their every need met. That meant doing everything from the cleaning to the cooking. A small thing that alarmed many of his omega partners.

 

“Did I not do it right?” Curtis, his last partner, had asked when he had come home to find their apartment scrubbed from top to bottom, the sour smell of his distress undermining any placating words he offered.

 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t always been a typical alpha. As a kid, he had been a beanpole, his fast metabolism leaving him with bony limbs and stretched out like he had been yanked onto a rack. Dreams of being able to protect and care for an omega, in the way that society expected of him, were far out of reach then. He maybe overcompensated a bit with the cleaning, with learning to cook, thinking that was all he could offer so he better be damn good. It had taken him almost all of his years in high school to figure out a gym and diet regime that could give him the body he desired, which he still stuck to with rigorous determination. Even when he had achieved the body of an alpha, though, he couldn’t forgo the little things he liked to do like tending to the home.

 

While typical gender roles were fading out of the mainstream, it seemed hard-wired instinct could not be as easily surmounted. Even when his partners claimed to be fine with his idiosyncrasies, their smell always gave them away. That harsh smell that buried its way into his nostrils and left him growling at his shadow.

 

He learned to hate that biting stench of an omega in distress. It set his teeth on end and brought to mind too many fragile smiles and downcast gazes. His own instincts howled whenever he smelt it, overriding his common sense, urging him to find and eliminate the cause.

 

...Which he couldn’t exactly do when the cause was himself.

 

So, he stopped dating omegas. He found better success with betas and alphas (if success was defined as efficient fucking and not worrying his partner). Though they never fully sated that aching need that built up in his jaw, that thing that left him ever so slightly hungry.

 

He imagined it sometimes, when he was alone and horny. Finding an omega who wouldn’t be stressed by his enthusiasm, by his quirks. Who would let him take care of them in the way that every chemical in his brain urged him to. Who would smell so fucking sweet that it left him a bit delirious. Who’d submit so sublimely and let him bite them, finally silencing that final howling need in his gut.

 

He was embarrassed by how hard he became at the thought.

 

Come on, Shirogane. It’s the twentieth-century. Leave all this stupid traditional bullshit behind.

 

That wasn’t what made a relationship work anyway. Shiro would much rather have someone he could talk to, that he could share things with and connect on values as well as where they wanted to be in life. Someone who didn’t have a meltdown when he vacuumed under the sofas because, apparently, him doing that meant he was unsatisfied with their cleaning skills and therefore disappointed in them as an omega and a person.

 

...There was just a part of Shiro that wondered why he couldn’t have both. That perfect partner.

 

And if that vision of a perfect partner would take the guise of his best friend, well...that meant nothing. Maybe you weren’t supposed to think that about your best friend in that way, but Shiro had only admitted that small fact to himself so maybe it was okay.

 

Keith, with dark hair and raven-tipped eyes and long legs that never seemed to end, made even longer by his crop tops. Keith, who saw him when he had been scrawny, defended him even, all biting words and a snapping gaze. Keith, who indulged his cleaning habits and never said a word against them. Keith, who let him feed him without any protest, who let him itch that insatiable urge in Shiro’s brain without even knowing it.

 

Except Keith was a beta. And not only that, he seemed wholly uninterested in anything sexual. During high school, no one ever asked him out (but maybe that was because Shiro would glare at anyone who dared approach their lunch table with a fixation on Keith). Living with him, he had never heard Keith mention even one date (which was good because Shiro might have to use his resources at the precinct in a way that would get him fired if one did come up). It was like he existed outside of the dating pool as some unachievable but enticing thing.

 

It wasn’t that Shiro didn’t want Keith to be happy. He was just very, very relieved that he, thus far, had not had to contend with the reality of Keith being with someone. The thought alone made something in him prickle and growl and Shiro wasn’t sure he could fully blame his alpha genetics for that response.

 

Shiro, on the other hand, was a bit of a whore. He liked sex. He liked everything about it: the anticipation, the build-up, the release, the cuddling after. He liked taking apart his partners and learning their tics. In bed, his eagerness and dedication wasn’t a deviation of the conventional dynamic but a desired thing, one tradition he could wholly get behind. He liked being good at it. Even before he had honed his physique, he had been good at it. One guy had told him after that that was “the best fucking blowjob he had never received” and Shiro had preened for an entire week. He had done that. He had satisfied them.

 

So, every time he thought of Keith in that way, guilt stained each climax. Not just because using an image of your best friend to jerk off wasn’t something that was done in polite society, but also because it wasn’t something that Keith wanted. Keith had no desire to be driven mad with pleasure. He had no desire for Shiro’s tongue to learn all the hollows and dips of his body. He had no desire to be with anyone—Shiro included. And here was Shiro, wishing and yearning he would succumb.

 

I know it would be so good. I just know it.

 

Even though Keith was a beta, being with him would ruin Shiro for all others. And, in return. Shiro would try to ruin him.

 

But, again, that wasn’t something Keith wanted.

 

So, he tried to make peace with it, trying to alleviate the itch by making sure Keith was fed, that he was safe and happy and cared for in every way but the one. And then fucking the daylights out of whoever’s bed he could find, clenching his jaw tight against moaning a name that wouldn’t be welcome, always slinking back once finished, never lingering a moment longer. A strange sort of revulsion settled over him by the time he got home and saw Keith on their couch, legs bare from his shorts, a pair of fuzzy socks pulled up his calves, hair mused.

 

“Have fun?” he always asked with a smirk.

 

He always had more fun with Keith, even if he only got fleeting, chaste touches, nothing like the intimacy he craved, the memories of his last romp wiped away in an instant.

 

He’s a beta. He doesn’t want you in that way, Shiro always had to remind himself to anchor his body to the bed, when the late hour made ridiculous thoughts seem possible.

 

He’s a beta.

 

He’s a beta.

 

Until one day.

 

He...isn’t a beta.

 

X

 

Shiro slammed the kettle too hard, the sound jarring as it hit the stove top. He heard Keith startle at their kitchen nook and wanted to offer an apology, but didn’t trust himself. So, he stayed at the stove, glaring at the kettle, clicking his teeth as he tried to alleviate the tension in his jaw.

 

All the while, that sweet smell seemed to dance in the room, seemed to twine around him, coax him like a siren. Shiro both hated and loved it, breathed in deep to hold it in his lungs, and didn’t know how he had ever lived without it.

 

Keith was an omega.

 

Shiro expected to wake up at any moment. This was a spectacular dream, after all, combining all his wants and fantasies and tying them off with a nice little bow. He would have to applaud his hippocampus later for this whole set up.

 

But the seconds wore on. Shiro’s body felt too heavy for this to be a dream. He stared down at the kettle, wondering why it was there. He had been about to do something… Ah, yes, he was going to make them tea.

 

Make tea for his best friend. His best friend Keith. Who was an omega.

 

“Shiro?” Keith’s voice came tentative and unsure. A sour note lanced through that sweet honeysuckle smell.

 

“Sorry,” Shiro mumbled, forcing his body to move. Mugs, he needed mugs. Mugs for the tea. That he was making for Keith. Who was an omega. Which had already been established, so why was Shiro’s mind getting hung up on that?

 

As Shiro prepped the tea (chamomile for him, peppermint for Keith), Shiro didn’t know where to start. He was lost in a sticky collection of feelings, each one clinging to him and rasping against his skin.

 

Why hadn’t he told him? Did he not trust him? Had Shiro been too aggressive, too much like those alpha a-holes he and Keith had made fun of? Had Keith been scared of him?

 

How could he be an omega? There was no way he had known him, had lived with him, and not been able to notice such a thing. Keith had no scent. At least before today he hadn’t. Shiro wouldn’t have overlooked such a thing, especially one as alluring as this. There was no way he had just been nose-blind until today. He didn’t have heats, at least from what Shiro could remember. He would’ve had a near perfect attendance record at school save for those times he and Shiro had skipped to race dirt bikes across the dunes. And he lived with him. He would’ve noticed if there had been an omega in heat not two doors down from him.

 

Tea in hand, Shiro turned to face him. He tried to force his shoulders to relax, for his jaw to unclench, for any lingering traces of anger or hurt to dissipate. He didn’t quite know if he achieved it.

 

Keith looked so small sitting there, drowning in the fabric of his hoodie, twitching with aborted motions as if he wanted to get up and flee and was forcing his body to stay here. Shiro wanted to praise him but feared he would be met with a snarl. There was still a pale cast to his skin that Shiro didn’t like, that reminded him too much of the starkness of the hospital sheets. His head was bent, dark hair hiding his gaze. His fingers worried a pattern on the cuffs of his hoodie.

 

He sat Keith’s mug down on the table and slid it over towards him, then retreating to his side of the table. He grasped the back of the chair in front of him, his own mug cooling on the table, untouched.

 

“How?” he finally asked, voice breaking over the question.

 

Keith shrugged, shoulders jerking in a nervous way.

 

“Keith.” Shiro didn’t mean for the growl to be added to his tone, but it was there, out before he could correct it.

 

Keith flinched. Shiro fought the urge to cave, to plead and placate and scoop Keith up and take him away from anything that was distressing him in such a way, that was souring his honey-sweet smell.

 

Again, hard to do when he himself was the culprit.

 

“I-I took suppressants,” Keith mumbled.

 

Shiro’s confusion only grew. “Suppressants don’t completely mask your smell like that. And they don’t completely stop your heats. We… We live together, Keith. I would’ve noticed…”

 

Or had he been that wrapped up in sinuous thoughts of his best friend?

 

Keith continued to squirm. “They’re...not normal suppressants.”

 

Shiro’s mind worked the confession over, unwillingly or maybe scared to come to a conclusion. Horror gripped him. “Keith…”

 

“Genetics screwed up, okay?!” Keith exploded, face flushed. “I’m not meant to be an omega. I don’t want to be. I-I’m not sweet or nice and the only thing I can make is toast! So I...took care of it. It’s fine. I’ve been on them for years—.”

 

“Years?!” Just when Shiro thought he couldn’t feel any more dismay, here was another heaping of it. “Keith, they’re illegal for a reason! Even short term, they can mess you up. Mentally, biologically. Heck, even your basic metabolism, sleep cycles, and natural scent.”

 

Though Shiro had only known that wonderful scent for a few minutes, panic churned at the thought of it being forever ruined.

 

“What was I supposed to do?!” Keith fired back. “Have my heats while I was in a home with ten other kids?!”

 

Not for the first time, Shiro was mad he hadn’t met Keith sooner. That he hadn’t been able to provide for him and offer his protection the second they met at freshman orientation. How many of Keith’s prickly edges could he have blunted if he had only been able to?

 

“Wait,” Shiro said as something occurred to him. Keith had been in foster homes since he was ten. Cycles like ruts and heats usually started in the later teens. His palm ached as his nails bit into the skin there, doing the math. “So, you’ve never had a natural heat?”

 

Keith, cheeks flushed, wouldn’t meet his gaze, glaring at a whorl on the table.

 

Shiro sagged into his chair, his limbs too heavy to hold him. His lizard brain was getting stuck on images and he had to drag it away from the filth.

 

“If I hadn’t missed a dose, I would be fine,” Keith argued.

 

“You would not be fine! You would be fucking up your biology and inevitably something would happen!”

 

“Well, maybe I want to fuck up my biology.”

 

Shiro ground his teeth together, the self-loathing in Keith’s voice hitting him like a lance.

 

Shiro had seen it once, what those suppressants did. They had found the kid late at night and, thinking him to be intoxicated, they had put him in the drunk tank. Within an hour, he had been howling, his smell spiking but no longer wholly sweet, a vein of rotten running through it. They had quickly gotten him over to a hospital, only finding out the details later. The nurses said they had to restrain him and isolate him, let him sweat it out for nearly a week while he howled like he was in the worst pain imaginable, running a dangerously high fever.

 

The kid had missed a dose and his heat had hit him with a vengeance—.

 

Shiro froze. Pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his head with an audible snap.

 

That sweet smell drifted through the air, taunting him with what its presence meant.

 

“K-Keith…” His mouth was very dry all of a sudden.

 

“I know, I know.” Keith ran his hands through his hair, tugging harshly on the strands. “I fucked up. But I have a plan, okay?” He sat forward, tilting his chin up, stubborn. “I can get a motel room—.”

 

Shiro nearly swallowed his tongue. “You are not getting a motel room!” he snarled and he could feel his fangs make an appearance as his lips peeled back.

 

The thought alone was one out of his worst nightmares. Keith, alone and vulnerable, that enticing smell and wanton moans a lure for any alpha prowling about, eager to rip apart something that sounded so pure.

 

Shiro had to take a bracing breath, had to unclench his hands as the joints to his prosthetic whirred in protest.

 

He would not allow it. Over his dead fucking body.

 

“Well, what am I supposed to do then?” Keith’s eyes glittered with frustration. “I tried to take more suppressants but—.”

 

Shiro buried his face into his hands. “Keith, you didn’t.”

 

“What was I supposed to do?!” Keith countered, desperateness weaving through. “I-I can’t have a heat! I can’t! I won’t. I won’t, I-I’ll—.”

 

That sour taste returned to his tongue as the air saturated and Shiro’s instincts took over with a roar. He rounded the table, approaching Keith in quick strides. He sank to his knees beside him even as Keith jerked back. Shiro caught the nape of his neck to stop him, anchoring him to the chair, his own pheromones coming off of him, trying to smother that sickly bitter scent.

 

“Hey, easy, breathe for me,” Shiro told him. Shiro was close enough to see the small freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, close enough to count his dark eyelashes. “That’s all you have to do.”

 

Keith jutted his chin forward, defiant even as his breaths left him in uneven pants, anxieties compressing his lungs. “I—.”

 

Shiro shushed him, squeezing his nape. “Breathe,” he chastised.

 

A small squeak left Keith and an embarrassed flush crawled up his neck. The edge of Shiro’s thumb skimmed against the bandage he had plastered to the side of Keith’s neck and something dark bubbled up in Shiro at the reminder of it.

 

Keith, taking a pumice stone to his own neck, killing that wonderful smell. Out of what? Embarrassment? Shame? Shiro wanted to hunt down every last person that had made Keith feel that and make them meet God.

 

He’s here now, Shiro reminded himself, feeling the weight of Keith’s neck in his hand, the sounds of his breathing evening out. You have him.

 

But he had failed to keep him safe. He had been taking illegal suppressants, gotten shot, and mutilated his own neck, all under Shiro’s supposedly watchful gaze. Shiro wanted to punch himself.

 

No more, Shiro vowed as he held Keith. He would keep him safe. Whatever that entailed with what was to come.

 

The fight seemed to leave Keith on his next exhale, shoulders rounding, tilting his head into Shiro’s hold. Shiro tried not be mesmerized by it. “I can’t have a heat, Shiro,” he confessed, words choked. “I won’t.”

 

Before he could get worked up again, Shiro squeezed him once more, his baby hairs tickling against his fingers. “I don’t think you have a choice,” he said, keeping his tone gentle, as if those words were enough of an apology.

 

X

 

That night, Keith was so emotionally drained he should’ve fallen right into a dead sleep. But, he didn’t. Instead, he lay in his bed, mind churning, while his body ached like it had run a marathon. He watched the hours tick away on his clock, getting more and more frustrated with every one: 11 pm, 12 am, 1 am, 2…

 

He violently twisted onto his other side, sheets rucked around him, every corner too hot from his own body heat, his side twinging from the forceful movement.

 

His worst nightmare had come to pass. Shiro knew what he was, what a fucking failure he amounted to be. And...it honestly hadn’t been as bad as Keith had feared. Then again, Keith’s imaginings had been very dramatic. In one, upon finding out, Shiro had thrown him out on the street, having no further use for a worthless omega, and had also eloped to marry Adam all in the same night. (Which was ridiculous; Shiro would need at least a week to pick out a suit, much less plan a wedding.)

 

No, instead, after Shiro had calmed Keith down, he made him eat dinner with the promise that they would talk about all of this later. Keith, seeing the golden opportunity to ignore and avoid, had jumped on it. But, here, in the quiet of the night, Keith couldn’t get his stupid brain on board.

 

His heat was coming. His last option had failed him. Shiro now knew. It all felt like a bunch of dominoes lining up and Keith was unable to stop the inevitable collapse. He couldn’t find stable ground to stand on. He had a plan—half-baked as it was—but with Shiro knowing now…

 

He couldn’t have his heat here with Shiro not even—.

 

Keith let his teeth dig into his bottom lip, hoping the spark of pain would stop the deluge of thoughts. Stop it, stop it, he told his stupid brain. When it didn’t, he clamped down harder, until he tasted the copper of his own blood—.

 

Floorboards creaked too close. Keith jerked upwards as cinnamon invaded his nostrils.

 

“Hey, easy.” Shiro’s big form padded across his room, silhouette rippling from the small light coming from the hallway. “I can hear you tossing and turning from my room.” He clicked on Keith’s bedside lamp and Keith shut his eyes as the illumination hit.

 

He felt theedge of his bed dip under a weight, his hand brushing a hard thigh. Something in his chest jolted and he got mad at the feeling.

 

“You need to sleep,” Shiro told him. “You need as much rest as you can get.”

 

“No, shit, what do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Keith sniped, words laced with venom. His body was all on board with the sleep but his mind wouldn’t shut the fuck up and rest.

 

Shiro tutted but said nothing further.

 

Keith’s eyes adjusted then and he saw Shiro there, body curved, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips and a worn gray tee that was too loose around the neck. He still reeked of cinnamon. Keith got a little dizzy inhaling it, the scent going straight to his brain.

 

Shiro’s dark brows suddenly puckered and he reached out, thumb skimming against Keith’s lower lip. “What happened?”

 

Keith felt the puncture marks his teeth had left. He shrugged, playing dumb.

 

Shiro pressed his lips together, dropping his hand. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

 

Keith wasn’t sure what he meant. The fact that he was omega, his oncoming heat, the suppressants that he had been on for years, or maybe finally painting that one wall in the dining room. Either way, Keith shook his head, dropping back down and pulling his duvet over his head.

 

He thought Shiro might leave as he held the cotton to him, his own breath quickly heating the space, but he didn’t feel Shiro’s weight move. Instead, he felt a hand on top of him, searching for a gap where he held the sheet closed.

 

“Can we try something?” Shiro asked. “To try to help you sleep?”

 

If Keith wasn’t so tired, he wouldn’t have been swayed. He let a section of the duvet go loose and let Shiro pull it back down. He propped himself up on his elbow. “What exactly?”

 

Shiro stared down at him and Keith thought he probably looked like a strung out gremlin with static in frizzing his hair and bags weighing down his eyes.

 

Shiro cleared his throat. “You can’t freak out on me.”

 

“Why would I freak out?” Keith challenged.

 

“I’m saying you can’t.”

 

“Why would I, though?” Keith asked, unease making his voice high.

 

Shiro suddenly laid down beside him. Keith’s bed was a tiny twin. It was barely made for him, much less all of Shiro. Yet Shiro folded his limbs and made himself fit. Keith made to push himself back against the far wall, leaving as much room for Shiro as possible, but Shiro reached out and cradled the back of his head.

 

Keith’s nose twitched at the wafting scent of cinnamon.

 

“Just...come here,” Shiro said, a flush resting across the bridge of his nose. He increased the pressure on the back of Keith’s head and brought him closer.

 

Keith blamed his addled mind for not grasping at the straws sooner and putting a stop to things. By the time Shiro brought him to the hollow of his throat—that dark jarring scent invading his senses—Keith tensed but it was already too late. He was nestled in and Shiro’s scent gland was right there, the position mockingly intimate, and every breath brought those veins of cinnamon and spice deeper into his lungs. He tried to jerk back but Shiro wound his fingers in his hair, holding him tight.

 

“S-Shiro—,” he tried to stammer but his lips brushed the skin of Shiro’s throat, tasting salt and something else, and he bit off any other words.

 

“You said you wouldn’t freak out,” Shiro chided.

 

Technically, Keith had promised no such thing.

 

He tried to push against Shiro’s chest but his fingers found the ridge of his abs and then stayed there. He was embarrassed as some vice holding his muscles tight seemed to slacken.

 

Shiro started up small pets along the back of his head. “Just relax.” He tilted his head, and Keith moved with the movement, and then Keith was pressed right up against his scent gland. “Don’t fight it.”

 

Keith would be lying if he said he never looked too long at the vulnerable, wonderfully unmarred stretch of skin along Shiro’s neck. He was only so strong, after all. But he kept such thoughts to the dark corner of his mind that he didn’t like to acknowledge existed.

 

Keith inhaled warmth and safety, cinnamon potent enough to taste in the back of his throat. Something in him that prickled and hissed suddenly soothed. He didn’t want to, though, damn it. He didn’t want to be some mindless omega who went boneless at the first smell of alpha pheromones. He didn’t want to surrender to the basic instinct and biology he had long been fighting against. (Who was he if he did?)

 

But as he was pressed there his muscles uncoiled like a cat and though some part of his brain was screaming at him to Stop, fight it grew muted with every second that passed.

 

“That’s it,” Shiro praised and a tiny thrill went through Keith. “Good boy.”

 

What the fuck are you doing? a sane part asked him. Keith wondered how it was still there. He’s just doing this cause he feels sorry for you. Poor little fucked up omega who doesn’t even know how to take care of himself. Is that what you want?

 

“Stop,” Shiro said, as if he could glean his thoughts. His hand swept down and he squeezed Keith’s nape.

 

A whine got caught in Keith’s throat.

 

“Just relax,” Shiro continued. His voice sounded far away, a deep baritone that reverberated up Keith’s spine. “You need this. Don’t feel bad about it. It’s okay. It’s natural.”

 

Keith wanted to shake his head, wanted to protest. Not for me, never for me. He wished he could rip out that part of him that was always hungry, always craved things, and smash it with a rock.

 

“It’s just me.” Shiro pressed him closer, cinnamon flooding over Keith, drowning him. “Use me.”

 

Keith was ashamed when he found himself canting forward, the bridge of his nose digging hard against Shiro’s scent gland, feeling faintly slick, the action mindless. He was a body disconnected from his brain, seeking comfort. A muscle in his lower gut clenched with sudden ferocity and maybe if he hadn’t been so tired, things would’ve progressed along a different path.

 

As it was, a dark blanket of sleep claimed him, deep and complete. Keith fell into it as if it were a surrender.

Notes:

Wouldn't it be funny if Keith ended up not having a heat? All this build up, all this tension and worrying and dreading and then just, nada.

...

I mean, it's not going to happen, but it would be kind of funny.

Chapter 6

Put You Through Me

 

Keith knew something was up the second he woke to the smell of pancakes.

 

Pancakes meant one thing: Shiro wanted to talk. He weaponized flapjacks whenever he wanted to talk, luring you with buttery goodness. The food took too long to eat so you were trapped at the table, belligerent as you ate your admittedly delicious food (he must’ve used crack of something), while he discussed whatever it is he wanted to.

 

Keith hid in his room for as long as he could, for as long as his stomach could tolerate that delicious scent wafting into the room.

 

Admittedly, he had woken refreshed with an ache in his body he didn’t want to think too long about. The shape of Shiro’s body against his seemed plastered against him as if he were memory foam. The sheets beside him had still been warm, so Keith knew it hadn’t all been some wild dream. (That also meant Shiro had stayed the night, not just until Keith had fallen into sleep, and Keith tried not to think too much about that either. He was becoming an expert at that.) He still smelt cinnamon on every inhale, the scent doing something to alleviate the anxiety that wanted to claw him apart.

 

So...that happened, Kogane, get over it.

 

Spurred by his stomach, Keith sulked into the kitchen, wondering if he could steal a plate and flee back to his room. Shiro was already plating, the pancakes unspeakably fluffy, squares of butter melting down the sides, powder sugar shaken on the tops. He was at the table mixing something syrupy and raspberry smelling that had Keith’s mouth watering.

 

Keith knew he didn’t make a sound, but Shiro glanced up as if he had, body straightening.

 

“Keith.” He cleared his throat as his voice cracked over Keith’s name. “Hungry?”

 

Keith felt like a ghoul as he slipped into the room, lured by carbs and butter. He was alarmed at the ravenous clawing of his gut, as if he had been starved. He only just managed to sit at the table and take up a fork and knife like a normal person, his mouth watering, nausea tinging his sudden hunger.

 

“We should talk,” Shiro said as he took a seat across from him. His gray tee slouched against one shoulder and Keith, embarrassingly, could almost feel the imprint of it against his cheek.

 

Keith was afraid he would say that. Bile burned at the back of his throat. Only his hunger kept him seated, his gut feeling hollow.

 

“We should get a plan in place for...when...it happens,” Shiro continued, steepling his hands.

 

“I have a plan,” Keith said around a mouthful of pancake that seemed to melt in his mouth. How he stopped himself from shoveling the plate into his mouth and fleeing was a mystery.

 

A muscle flexed in Shiro’s jaw. “Getting a hotel room isn’t a plan, Keith.”

 

“Motel room,” Keith corrected.

 

Shiro’s expression hardened. “Keith, even if this were your hundredth heat, you would not be able to spend it in a motel room. The smells alone would distress you further, prolonging it, worsening it. Not to mention that it isn’t safe.”

 

Keith ground his teeth together, keeping his eyes on his pancakes as he, perhaps somewhat violently, sliced and shoveled them into his mouth, chewing with too much aggression.

 

“The best thing for you,” Shiro continued, still in that annoyingly neutral tone, “is to stay here, where things are familiar, where there’s enough of your scent so that when you nest—.”

 

Keith flinched at the word, alarm zinging through him. “I’m not nesting,” he snarled. The thought made him want to puke. What was he, some sort of demented, horny magpie?

 

“It’s instinct,” Shiro said with too much patience.

 

“Well, not for me.”

 

That cinnamon scent permeated the room, a heavy blanket of it. “Keith—.”

 

“I’ll deal, okay?” Keith’s voice was waspish, filled with burrs and ready to draw blood. “Thank you for your concern, but it’s my problem. I’ll handle it—.”

 

“How exactly?” Shiro cut him off, a hard edge to his tone. “By making it ten times harder for yourself out of sheer stubbornness? By putting yourself through absolute misery? By guzzling more of those fucking suppressants until I come home to you passed out cold in the bathroom?”

 

Keith ducked his head. A sour vein of something lanced through the cinnamon scent. Keith clawed at the bandage on his neck as it began to itch.

 

Keith had dug his own grave, a years long process, the foundation laid by a scared and desperate teenager, and now he had to lie in it. He only wished Shiro wasn’t witness to his humility, to his own incompetence.

 

“I-I never asked for your help,” he tried to say.

 

“You can’t expect me not to, Keith! You’re…” Shiro’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing on the table top. “You’re my best friend. You can’t expect me to sit by and watch you put yourself through this.” He took a breath, the curve of his shoulders heaving with it. “I don’t think you quite understand what a heat all entails. And that’s just a normal heat, Keith. This...from what you’ve put your body through, plus the stress you’ve been through in the past couple of weeks…”

 

“It’ll be bad, I know,” Keith admitted. The residue of pancakes and syrup tasted like sawdust in his mouth. Nausea still churned in his belly, despite half the stack being gone, as if Keith had swallowed and the food had disappeared into some black hole. He felt faintly light-headed as he sat there.

 

A chair scraped against the floor and suddenly Shiro was there, kneeling beside him. Keith’s body, as it was caught in his orbit, curved towards him.

 

“Then let me help you,” Shiro pleaded, as if this were some great gift he was denying Shiro. He reached out and his fingers caught in the hair at the nape of Keith’s neck, a gentle, grounding touch. “This isn’t a battle, Keith. It’s not a war.”

 

But Keith’s instincts always told him that every day was a battle, against biology, against what felt to be inevitable. It was always something to be endured, never something to surrender. If Keith stopped fighting…

 

“What exactly are you saying?” Keith asked, because the action of helping Keith could amount to any number of things, not all of which Keith was sure he could survive.

 

Beside him, Shiro stilled. An odd flush crawled up his neck. “I’ll be here, for you,” Shiro said, words almost stilted, “in whatever way you need me. It might be enough for me to just be around, making sure you’re alright or...if you need more...”

 

Mortification was a yawning pit in Keith’s belly and he wondered how he didn’t collapse into it.

 

He had maybe, perhaps pictured it too many times, Shiro offering such things, but never like this, out of pity for his poor, stupid friend.

 

“Maybe…” Keith licked at his lips, his gaze darting away, fixating on a small nick on the wall. “Maybe there’s another option.” He was flailing at this point, a drowning man searching for any life raft even if it was only flotsam. “I could stay with Romelle or maybe I could find a doctor to tranquilize me or...I could hire someone…”

 

There were services out there. Alphas for hire. The thought disgusted him, but at least it would be some stranger who he would never, ever have to see again. (Read: not his best friend, roommate and sort of crush.) They cost a pretty penny and if Keith couldn’t afford a hotel room, he doubted he could afford some stud for hire—.

 

A sudden wave of acrid stench burned his nostrils and nearly suffocated him. Some internal alarm had him stiffening, had his gaze roving for an exit. The fingers on his nape tightened, almost bruising.

 

As quickly as it had come on, the smell vanished and Keith was left only with the memory of it buried deep in his brain.

 

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice, when it came, was strained. “You can’t ask that of me.”

 

Keith twisted to face him. The action pushed the fingers on his neck, had them creeping closer to the bandage on his neck and his hidden scent gland.

 

Shiro still was kneeling beside him but there was something about the position now that looked like a coiled predator, not a beseeching man. His eyes, looking up at Keith through his lashes, were dark.

 

“I’ll… I’ll help you in any way I can, but you can’t ask me to allow that. You can’t ask me to stand by and allow some other alpha”—he sneered the word like it was a slur, a ghost of that bitter smell wafted through the air—“near you when you’re vulnerable like that. You… You can’t, Keith.”

 

Shame flooded Keith. Of course it was a stupid thought. He shouldn’t even have brought it into being by voicing it aloud. Shiro, as unaffected as he seemed to be by his biology, was still an alpha and Keith expecting him to allow some other guy into his space just so he could fuck Keith and leave was woefully naive.

 

“I’m sorry,” Keith mumbled, relenting. “It was stupid.”

 

Shiro’s fingers relaxed and worked across his neck in a gentle massage. “We’ll figure it out,” Shiro assured him.

 

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Keith admitted, a wave of hopelessness flooding him. No matter how he tried to stand against it, it crushed him back down.

 

“Hey.” Shiro squeezed his neck, drawing his gaze. “We will get through this.”

 

Mutely, Keith nodded, vowing that, once he was out the other end of this, to never, ever miss a dose again.

 

X

 

Somehow, they made it to Keith’s appointment to get his stitches removed. So, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about pulling open his gut mid-heat.

 

His heat loomed like a great big spider, its shadow cast over the coming days, never quite sure when or if it would appear.

 

As each day passed without incident, Keith wondered if perhaps he had avoided fate, if they were wasting time dreading something that was only a ghost. He took stock of his body each day, searching for some inarguable difference, some sign that foretold of doom. He ached, yes, but that could be his newly healed skin and muscles building back up. He was ravenously hungry, yes, but could be a result of his recovery. He grew tired too easily, napping throughout the day, yes, but that could be attributed to the weaning off of the pain pills.

 

“Maybe I should go back to work,” Keith voiced one evening over dinner, trying to leave more of the stir fry on his plate, despite how his hunger clawed at him. The days spent at home recovering as well as dreading his heat were starting to gnaw at his sanity.

 

Across from him, Shiro’s fork scraped against his plate with a jarring sound. “Keith, you work at a bar.”

 

Keith shrugged. “So?” While he had been out, Shiro had been covering all the bills, a fact that rankled Keith to no end as well as brought untold relief. Technically, when he had gotten his stitches out, the doctor had cleared him to go back to “light” work after a week.

 

Maybe he would’ve given a different diagnosis if he had known about Keith’s missed dose of illegal suppressants and his supposed impending heat but Keith liked to ignore that little fact.

 

Shiro set his fork down hard. “Keith, you cannot be this dumb.”

 

Keith’s shoulders hiked up towards his ears. “What?”

 

“You cannot go back to working at a bar when you’re about to have a heat,” Shiro stressed.

 

“But how do we know I’ll even have a heat?” Keith argued. “It’s been two weeks. Maybe… Maybe the suppressants did their job. Maybe I’m cured.”

 

Something in Shiro’s expression almost seemed saddened by Keith’s words. “We don’t know that for sure. It’d be stupid to risk it.”

 

“It’s not a risk,” Keith insisted. “If I feel bad one day, I won’t go in and if I feel bad during a shift, I’ll leave—.”

 

“It’s still a risk. One that you don’t need to take. Bars aren’t exactly known for their polite patrons. ...If you’re worried about bills, don’t be. I can continue to cover us.”

 

Keith knew Shiro had to be dipping into his savings. As minuscule as his salary was bar-tending, it was still that, a salary. Between that and the unequal division of the home labor, Keith was feeling like a voracious little leech. Shiro was stocking the house like they were about to face the apocalypse. Keith counted more meats and cheeses than he knew existed in their fridge, plus an unspeakable amount of Gatorade. Keith wasn’t allowed to so much as fold clothes without Shiro appearing and offering to help. Even loading the dishwasher appeared to be some spell to conjure Shiro with a “you should go rest” instruction.

 

But something in Shiro’s slanted brows and pressed lips told Keith it would be a useless argument to have, so he relented. Maybe he could sneak out for a shift or two. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission and all that.

 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Shiro asked him after and Keith knew it was an olive branch so he nodded.

 

They took up their familiar positions on the couch—Keith scrunched into a little ball on the far end with a weighted blanket pulled tight over him, and Shiro, thighs splayed wide, taking up the over end, the strain of his gray sweatpants obvious (not that Keith was looking, and if he was, bad Keith). The lights were off and both were lit by the glow of the flat screen.

 

“Why isn’t your arm that cool?” Keith asked when the Winter Soldier made his grand appearance.

 

“Maybe ‘cause I’m not an assassin for the Soviets?”

 

“Well, what are you doing with your life then?”

 

“I don’t know. Honestly, I could be tempted. It would depend on Hydra’s healthcare options.”

 

“They probably have good healthcare.”

 

“The bad guys always do.”

 

It was during the lull before the final act that Keith began to feel strange. Or, well, strangely hot. Which was weird cause he was never hot with the Antarctic temperature Shiro had the AC set at. He pushed down his blanket, then hoisted it right back up when he felt exposed, unsafe. Sweating seemed preferable to that feeling then. His calves started cramping, a restlessness setting in. He flexed his feet, trying to alleviate the strain.

 

“Keith?” Shiro asked though Keith knew he hadn’t made a sound in his minute twitching and shuffling, hadn’t given any visible sign to his distress.

 

“Charley horse,” Keith said as an explanation, focus on the TV, trying to take in the plot. Where were Chris Evan’s pecs when you needed them?

 

“I told you to drink more water.” Shiro had bought him one of those stupid water cups with the time stamps along the side. Keith, stubbornly, let it sit filled at the 8 am line, as if that was a victory of great satisfaction.

 

Keith jolted as he felt Shiro’s hand come down on his leg over the blanket, searching for him among the weighted cotton. “Which leg?” Shiro asked.

 

“Sh-Shiro—,” was all Keith could manage, holding himself still, a sudden clenching low in his belly, that heat racketing up his spine.

 

Shiro found his right calve and made a sound of concern as he felt the tight muscles there. He started up a circular massage motion with his thumb, pressing down hard, the action muted with the thickness of the blanket. After a second, he reached under the blanket and his bare palm touched Keith’s calve. Keith jerked.

 

“Easy,” Shiro said. He tightened his hold on Keith’s leg as he gave a reflexive kick. “It’s just me.”

 

Pulling Keith’s leg straight, Shiro’s fingers prodded at Keith’s tight calve. He started up that massage again, a circular motion that brought a bit of pain at first, then immense relief as his muscles surrendered. Keith bit down hard on his lip to stop any sounds coming from him. He buried his chin down towards his blanket, inhaling cotton fibers, trying to hide, wanting to squirm away, to flee, but reluctant to sacrifice Shiro’s touch.

 

That heat still clawed at him, but it had fled the leg that Shiro touched.

 

The chemical smell of the blanket was enough to drive Keith’s head up. He could pick apart the smells in the house—the lingering garlic from dinner, the faint apple of their detergent, traces of Shiro’s cinnamon body wash—but Keith also noticed the absence of something. The wrongness of it had him breathing deep, trying to scent something he couldn’t name. Before he could stop himself, a whine broke from him, startlingly loud.

 

What the fuck?

 

Shiro’s hands froze. That ache returned to his calve, as quickly as it had left. Keith babbled, trying to ignore the barrage flooding his brain.This was wrong. Wrong. Too open here, hungry, thirsty. Nest? Where’s nest? The smells are all wrong. “I-I’m sorry,” Keith said, trying to force his voice steady, to drag his mind away from whatever trip it had started on. Stop it. You’re not some mindless animal. “I d-don’t know what that was…” He realized, belatedly, he was clawing at his neck, when his fingers scored too deep on one of his still healing scabs along his scent gland.

 

Shiro yanked him up towards him. Keith went like a ragdoll, feeling boneless and numb, all of his attention on the half-formed thoughts careening through his mind, trying to exert control over any of it.

 

Before he could determine what was happening, Shiro had him arranged in his lap, tilting his head, pushing his hair to the side, baring his scarred neck. It was healing, but Keith’s damage with the pumice stone was indisputable. The skin was red and prickled with still healing bumps. But, it had done what it needed to do. Keith hadn’t even caught a whiff of honey from his traumatized skin and that was...a good thing, right?

 

Shiro’s fingers skimmed the scarred skin. Keith shuddered from that tiny touch. A question was on his lips but it died as Shiro started gentle and prodding touches.

 

“Sh-Shiro?” Keith managed. His metal arm was looped around his waist and, under the blanket, his crop top had ridden up, meaning the stretch of cold metal was plastered to his bare stomach.

 

Shiro shushed him, still touching his scent gland. It wasn’t a bad or unwelcome touch, per say, but he wasn’t sure of it’s purpose. Not until a wave of honey flooded his next breath and that screaming litany of wrongwrongwrong in his brain finally silenced itself.

 

Shiro shifted him, his metal hand slipping down so his palm was on Keith’s belly, so the painful knot of his elbow wasn’t pressed in so tight to Keith’s side. He tilted so Keith could rest his head on Shiro’s shoulder, still with his head canted and scent gland bare to Shiro’s ministrations.

 

Keith was embarrassed that Shiro was so easily able to discern what he had needed (the absence of his own scent) while Keith himself was left reeling, as if his own body’s instincts were a foreign language.

 

“Easy,” Shiro said again, like he could sense the way Keith wanted to leap to his feet and flee. He pressed down his belly, anchoring Keith against him. Keith tried not to note the size of him, the press of his broad chest, the ridges of his hand, the size of his palm. “Let me do this, okay?”

 

The movie played on but Keith wasn’t watching it, was lost to breathing in deep, reveling in the presence of his own scent as it was coaxed from his ruined gland. (Why had he done that? Why was he such a bad omega? And Shiro was so kind and good, caring for him despite it all.) That restlessness in his gut was, gradually, calming. His eyelids grew heavy. He reached down to grasp at Shiro’s wrist, needing something to steady himself, keep him upright. He miscalculated, though. His hand drifted too low and he jolted when he felt his hard dick.

 

Alarm whirled through him, souring his scent, making Shiro tighten his hold, misconstruing his distress.

 

He was hard. And not just a little hard. Full-mast, straining, 100%. Why was he hard? No, no, it couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t happening. He tried to deny it, even as he felt a sudden gush of slick around his hole, feeling so, so empty.

 

No. No. Not today, hormones. Not ever.

 

He squeezed his cheeks together to contain the slick, and tried to cant his hips away from Shiro, tried to hide what was happening without having to forfeit Shiro’s touch. However, the action had the opposite effect as Shiro’s hand, once on his belly, slipped low and…

 

Keith froze. Beneath him, Shiro stiffened.

 

Shiro’s hand was on his dick. His undeniably hard dick.

 

And the world could end now, thank you very much. Meteor, nuclear apocalypse, do your thing.

 

But, unfortunately for Keith, no such cataclysmic event happened.

 

Save for his best friend’s hand being on his dick, but that was more of a singular cataclysmic event than a universal one.

 

“I’m sorry,” left Keith, sounding more like a whine. He shut his eyes. “It’s not you, I swear. I’m—. I-I don’t know…”

 

“Keith, stop.” Shiro’s hand was still on him. Shiro hadn’t leapt from him in disgust and went to go wash his hand in bleach, but Keith knew that was more because Shiro was a decent human being and less because Keith wasn’t nasty and shameful.

 

Who got hard when their best friend was trying to help them?

 

Abruptly, Shiro stroked him.

 

The action tore a punched out sound from Keith. The layer of his pajama pants and boxers provided a buffer, but somehow also made it worse as the fabric provided friction.

 

Keith reached down and snatched at his wrist, trying to still him, though the head of Keith’s twitching dick now rested in his palm. “Shiro?”

 

Shiro’s thumb swiped over his head, playing at his slit, smearing the precum it found there. Keith felt dizzy, as if he were about to pass out.

 

“Just...let me?” Shiro asked, as if he wasn’t still fondling Keith’s hard dick. “Let me do this for you. It… It doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just what your body needs.” He hooked his chin over Keith’s shoulder and pushed the blanket down. It fell in a heap and Keith’s shame was exposed. He tried not to look down, tried to mentally blind himself, but it was there, seared into his brain. That picture of Shiro’s fingers wrapped around his dick, a spot on his red sweatpants darkening, erection practically pulsing in Shiro’s grip.

 

Keith didn’t feel himself nod or make any noise of acquiescence, but Shiro was suddenly working him, firm strokes from an expert hand, the stimulation so much, too much, and yet not enough. All he could do was cling on and gasp and moan and try not to make a complete fool of himself. Shiro’s gaze was riveted down, to the sight of his palm, a line of consternation on his brow as he focused on jacking his best friend off.

 

Keith was ashamed that he couldn’t tell Shiro to stop. That he couldn’t will his dick to unharden. That he was sitting here, some needful, writhing thing, allowing this all to happen and about to orgasm out of his mind. His breath sawed in and out of him. His chest heaved. Panic tinged the lust fogging his brain, distancing his release.

 

Shiro skated his other palm up Keith’s inner thigh. “Calm down,” he said, voice all gravel. He squeezed Keith and Keith went cross-eyed.

 

Keith shook his head, struggling for sanity. “I-I shouldn’t be—. You shouldn’t be—. We shouldn’t be—.” He wasn’t some creature of desire. He didn’t know the script here and thus, shouldn’t be playing a part.

 

“Don’t think like that.” Keith felt Shiro’s lips graze the side of his neck as he talked. “This is just what your body needs right now.” He punctuated the sentence with a full stroke of his palm, from base to tip. Keith held himself back from rutting into the feeling, reaching down with a biting grip on Shiro’s thighs. “And I’m giving it to you. I’m offering. So let me.”

 

Keith had a thousand protests ready, a thousand excuses.

 

“Let me make you feel good.”

 

And they all went flying out the window.

 

Shiro continued driving him insane. The combined wet fabric of his pajama pants and boxers was enough to chafe a little on each glide of his hand. He seemed to intuitively know just what Keith needed, just how to handle him without Keith having to say a word, because Keith was mute, left to only breathy, mortifying sounds.

 

It was so much different from his own hand, desperate and hasty under the cloak of darkness. Shiro seemed intent on prolonging the pleasure, not heralding the release. He squeezed Keith at the base when Keith felt like he might come, stoking the flames higher and higher. Just when Keith thought he had reached a crescendo, somehow Shiro stopped, still holding Keith but not doing anything, allowing Keith to grow uncomfortable until he started up again and Keith found new depths in the ruined orgasm.

 

“S-Shiro, please,” he found himself babbling. He clenched down his thighs. The air was saturated with both spices and honey, a heady mix that had Keith growing drunk from. “Please.”

 

Shiro’s next stroke was a bit harder, exactly what Keith needed, and this time he couldn’t stop his hips from pistoning, chasing the feeling.

 

Shiro grabbed his hip bone and forced him back down. His hand splayed there, in the V between Keith’s hip and leg, the space it covered dizzying Keith. Shiro’s next moves were calculated. He made the hollow of his hand tighter and rubbed Keith. Keith yowled at the feeling, squirming, feeling his orgasm creep onto, dreading and anticipating it. He dipped his chin down and mouthed at the neckline of his sweater in an effort to muffle himself.

 

“Can you come for me?” Shiro asked him. And Keith found himself nodding (he would, for Shiro he would, he would try to be so good for Shiro), even as his orgasm barreled into him.

 

He lost his vision for a few seconds. When he came to, he was staring upwards at the ceiling, head thrown back in a vulnerable way. Shiro was still behind him, around him, his hand still holding his dick as it twitched through the aftershocks. He made an embarrassed sound when he realized how wet his pants were—both from his release and the slick now seeping from him. He tried to squirm away but Shiro held him still.

 

“You did good, so good,” Shiro praised, soothing him with little touches, little caresses. Keith wanted to feel more uncomfortable than he actually did, some part of him seeming to preen at the praise.

 

And he knew, even before he felt a dastardly clenching his lower belly, like an ache, hunger clawing at him even though he had just been sated, that he was in fucking trouble.

 

X

 

Matt was doing his nightly ritual of watching Grey’s Anatomy, not that he would ever admit to it, when his phone rang. “’ello?” he said, quickly muting the television. “Stud Matt, at your service, what’s wet and in between your legs?”

 

There was a long silence on the other end. Then, “Can you please check your caller ID before you answer your phone?”

 

“Shiro, my man. To be fair, only one type of friend calls this late at night.”

 

“What if I had been your mother?”

 

“Eh, Mom’s heard worse.” Matt reached for his beer, feeling slighted that it wasn’t Raquel as he had been anticipating but the night was still young.

 

Shiro took a breath, the sound loud in the speaker by Matt’s ear. “I wanted to let you know I won’t be at work for a few days. I’m taking some time. I’ve already alerted Allura and put the request in.”

 

Matt crowed. “Hah, I knew it. You are having your rut.”

 

“I’m not—.” Shiro cut off abruptly.

 

Matt worried the connection had dropped and leaned back to look at his phone screen. The call still showed connected, the timer clocking the seconds.

 

Then a loud, “FUCK” came through and the call did in fact drop. Matt felt like, in that moment, that he had made some sort of mistake, but Patrick Dempsey was about to bite it so Matt had other, more pressing priorities.

 

Chapter 7

Notes:

In which Keith is dumb.

-

Also, CW, some referenced child abuse. Nothing graphic or in depth but definitely unsettling.

Put You Through Me

 

“Romy, you gotta help me.”

 

“Keith? Are you okay? Is it your side or—.”

 

“No, not that. It’s… It’s what I’ve been dreading.”

 

“Oh, Keith.” While his sister’s voice was filled with sympathy, it lacked the drive to action that Keith wanted.

 

“Romy, you gotta let me stay with you or take me somewhere or—.”

 

“We talked about this. You’re safer right where you are. Unless… Is Shiro acting weird?”

 

Keith didn’t want to talk about Shiro. In fact, he wanted to forget that he existed. “He’s been...fine,” Keith forced himself to admit, ignoring the impromptu handjob that Keith was NOT thinking about.

 

“Then I really think you should stay right where you are.” Romelle paused, and he could almost hear her registering the muffled echoing of his voice. “Keithy, where exactly are you?”

 

“I’m…hiding in the closet,” Keith confused, peering forward into the darkness, cell phone pressed against his ear, his shirt sleeves falling against his face. He had scrambled here as soon as he had been able to detach himself from Shiro’s lap, his dick still unashamedly hard. “And don’t you dare say something like it’s ironic.”

 

“I wasn’t going to,” she said when Keith knew she had been about to do so.

 

Keith ran a hand through his hair, cringing as he felt the dampness of his pants. “You don’t understand, Romy. I can’t stay here. I can’t do this.” A full blown panic attack was rising up from his gut, making his vision hazy, his body cold with sweat.

 

He felt at war with himself. While he could feel the way his dick ached and the tight clenching of muscles in his lower belly, cold logic was overruling it, fear drowning it. He didn’t want to be this, this needy creature of desire. It was almost alien to him.

 

“Keith, I realize this is hard on you. We knew this was going to happen. And it sucks. But...I think your own anxieties are making this worse.”

 

“Like this could be any worse?!” Keith cringed back against the closet wall, trying to hide himself further, trying to separate himself from his body.

 

On the other end, his sister sighed. “The homes… It was messed up what they said to us, what they taught us. That being an omega was some shameful thing. That we could somehow be better if we could just cut out that part of ourselves. They acted like our heats were such horrible things, that we inconvenienced them by enticing the alphas. That just isn’t true, Keith.”

 

Keith snorted. “I know that.” Omegas weren’t just homemakers or cocksleeves. That was an old, antiquated view, regulated to the fifties ads where a big strong alpha came home to find his omega sweetly spread out and waiting on their bed. Your second gender didn’t predetermine your role in a relationship or even your interest in partners. While omegas were things to be desired, yes, they were not limited in that way.

 

“Do you? In relation to yourself?”

 

“That’s different.” Keith wasn’t something to be desired; he was something to be endured. He didn’t want to have a heat or a rut or anything that was remotely sexual in nature that stole his better judgment from him and left him vulnerable. Bad things happened when he allowed himself to be vulnerable. He wanted his wits about him always, his control over every situation an ironclad one.

 

...Even if that meant sacrificing a few things.

 

Like a decent, healthy sex life.

 

“Keith,” his sister said in a chiding way, and he heard her draw in a breath to argue further, when the creak of footsteps had him stiffening. He ended the call, his sister’s voice abruptly cutting off mid “You—.”

 

Keith pushed himself into the furthest corner of his closet, letting his clothes hide him, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle his breath. He heard the sound of Shiro’s footsteps, watched as light flooded the small crack at the bottom of the door as the light switch was flipped on.

 

“Keith?”

 

Keith curled in on himself, hating the way his chest lurched, the way a small part of him wanted to crawl out. The dampness of his pants reminded him.

 

He had sat there and allowed his best friend to jerk him off, all because he had been too horny to care. That was something that you didn’t just come back from and forget. It would be there in every glance, every simple touch (“I know what his hand looks like wrapped around my dick”). He had, possibly, destroyed their friendship (years of it) in a spectacular show of flames all for a fucking orgasm. Tears burned his eyes at the thought. Shiro had never been a price he was willing to pay for anything.

 

He heard Shiro padding about his room. Keith stayed hidden. His chest jerked with a repressed gasp when the closet door was opened, light flooding in, but Keith was tucked so far back into the shadows, the bulk of his clothes hiding him, that Shiro’s gaze wasn’t drawn to him. Keith bit his lip to stop the flood of apologies that wanted to stream out, the plea for Shiro to still be here even after all that.

 

You have no right to ask that, some dark part of him mocked. Whatever damage to their friendship, that had been by his own actions and, really, his inaction.

 

The door shut after a few seconds and Keith only allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief when the light vanished from the crack beneath the door.

 

Opening the door slowly so that it was soundless, Keith crawled out, a jittery kind of determination claiming him.

 

He still had his mind, still hadn’t devolved into humping the carpet, but for how long?

 

In the darkness of his room, he scrambled for his wallet and a clean pair of pants, gaze going to his window.

 

He needed to leave now, while he had the chance.

 

X

 

Keith felt like he was swaying like a drunk as he walked down the street, so he stared downward at his feet, determined to put one in front of the other in as straight of a line as he could manage. His sneakers squished with each step, rain having just doused the sidewalks and giving everything a slick, oil-like texture.

 

He had no plans.

 

Well, he had one plan. First motel or hotel he stumbled across, he would check in, bare the door, then turn off his cell phone and wait this whole crazy thing out. Yep, any second now he would come across one…

 

But the sidewalk kept disappearing beneath him and the signs around him blurred. Keith had to squint at a building way too long to recognize it as a McDonald’s, not like it had an obvious gold arch or anything. There seemed to be some kind of film pulled over his brain, leaving him sluggish and unsteady. It was also way too hot. Sweat poured off of Keith and he had regretted the sweater he had hastily added to help hide his raging hard-on before fleeing out the window. Taking it off, though, proved counterproductive as some alarm went off in Keith’s brain notsafenotsafenotsafe and had him yanking it back on.

 

Just find some place to stay, Keith tried to assure himself, the assertion doing nothing to calm that writhing, panicked part of him.

 

He had wiped himself dry with his soiled pajama pants before leaving but, all too soon, he felt the cold beginnings of new slick leaking from him. He cringed and tried to increase his pace, not caring any longer if he looked like a drunk.

 

He darted past streetlights, turning a corner that looked familiar, the scenery different in the dark with long shadows. If he remembered correctly, wasn’t there a motel just past—?

 

“Hey.”

 

Keith’s shoulders hiked up to his ears at the voice. He ducked his head down and vaguely registered the shape of a man in his peripherals but refused to make direct eye contact—.

 

Until a hand grabbed his bicep.

 

A snarl got stuck in Keith’s throat as he turned, inhaling something that smelt like sour whiskey, burning the back of his throat. He ended up gagging instead.

 

Fingers dug into his bicep, yanking him close. Eyes glinted over him, reflecting the street lamp, looking faintly yellow. “What’s a sweet thing like you doing out and about?”

 

Notsafenotsafenotsafe.

 

Keith tried to claw the man’s hand off him, showing his teeth. The man’s grip only tightened and he jostled Keith. Keith’s legs, already unsteady, nearly folded beneath him, the world around him swaying.

 

He caught the sound of the man inhaling deeply. “Oh, sweetheart, you are just ripe. Who let you out of their sight, hmm?”

 

Keith wanted to claw his skin off, wanted to leave the man a husk to fuck and steal away into the night, become nothing but vapors and ether. But he was rooted in place, stitched to his skin in a way that made him want to vomit. Saliva flooded his mouth but he couldn’t even swallow he was so petrified.

 

It was everything Keith had ever feared, all the awful stories those at the home had heaped upon him. That he was just some thing to be fucked. That somehow he would enjoy it, that he was made for it. It didn’t matter if he was treated gently or harshly, he would come either way and be thankful for it as that was his base nature. And he would hate himself for it all while being trapped, a prisoner in his own body, a slave to his own twisted needs—.

 

Tires squealed behind him. A car door slammed shut. Keith felt the man’s fingertips brush against his cheekbone as he pushed back a lock of hair, the action mockingly gentle. That awful whiskey scent soured every breath—.

 

And then, a surge of cinnamon.

 

“Get away from him.”

 

The voice, all snarl and so foreign in its anger yet still familiar, jolted Keith awake.

 

He reached down and bit the hand that held him, jaw aching, teeth arcing down hard. The man shouted and released him, his hand scraping against Keith’s teeth as he snatched it back. The salt and musty taste of the guy’s skin lingered on Keith’s lips as he turned and ran, only to barrel headfirst into a familiar chest.

 

Instead of jerking back and redirecting himself to flee in another way, Keith’s whole body sagged, fight leached from him, that awful heat still roaring through him.

 

Safesafesafe.

 

Shiro’s arms came around him, a bracket of strength and warmth. They trembled as they petted his hair back, trying to lift his chin up to face him, but Keith kept jerking free and burying his head back against Shiro’s chest, against a warm cable-knit sweater, traces of both their scents lingering in the fibers, shutting his eyes tight as he inhaled. He found himself suddenly cold, the dried remains of sweat chafing on his skin.

 

Faintly, he registered Shiro’s voice. “—eith? Keith?! Are you okay? Did—. Did he touch you?”

 

“I didn’t touch him,” came the man’s voice. Keith flattened his nose against Shiro’s pec, trying to hide from the stench of him. “But I wouldn’t be guilty if I had. An omega out here, alone, smelling like that? Practically asking for it. A neon ‘fuck me’ sign over his head.”

 

Keith flinched as the man’s words landed.

 

Shiro’s hands came around him, a vice-like grip. His one metal palm cupped the space around Keith’s scent gland. Keith felt the snarl rumbling in his chest before it left his lips. The fury and fervor of it sent a thrill through Keith as well as made him very relieved it wasn’t directed at him.

 

Keith tugged on his sweater. “Please. Can we go?”

 

He didn’t think his words were heard—mumbled into Shiro’s chest as they were—but, next thing he knew, Shiro was leading him towards the car, still idling. Once they reached it, Keith was reluctant to leave the safe place he had carved against Shiro’s chest, but he forced himself to duck into the passenger seat, folding his arms around him, as if he could seal in the heat he had stolen.

 

Shiro got into the driver’s seat and turned the car around. The radio wasn’t on, so all there was the sound of the speeding car and their own breaths. Shiro’s features flickered, outlined whenever they passed a streetlight, then darkened once they left it. His knuckles were white as they clutched the steering wheel.

 

He could smell it, slowly leeching through the air, the hot vein lancing through the lousy amounts of cinnamon that spoke of an angry alpha. And Keith did not have the naivety to think it was all directed at that slimy man.

 

Keith tucked himself further into the passenger, curling into as small of a ball as he could manage, a different kind of fear taking him now that the danger was past.

 

“Screw it,” Shiro suddenly said, the bark of his voice abrupt. He threw the car over onto the shoulder, put it into park, and turned to face Keith. His silhouette was haloed in blue from the neon open sign flickering behind him. “What in the fuck, Keith?! What were you thinking?! Look, I get it, okay. You’re going through a lot right now, but did you really think that being out on the streets when you’re like this is preferable to staying in the house with me?”

 

There was a lance of hurt there that had Keith shrinking further into his seat, trying to disappear. He shook his head, hating as his voice warbled. “N-No, I-I just… I wanted to be alone.”

 

“Then tell me that! Don’t go fleeing into the night like you’re a fugitive!” He took a breath, white teeth flashing as he grimaced pushing a hand through his limp bangs. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? If I hadn’t come when I did—.” He bit the sentence off, a dark look crossing his face.

 

Keith began to shake, the last dredges of adrenaline leaving him unsteady. All he wanted to do was crawl across the dashboard and get as close to Shiro as he could, fuse himself to his skin if it was at all possible and stay there, babbling apologies, until his anger dissipated. And he hated himself for that want, clamping down hard on his forearms, allowing his nails to dig in.

 

“We… We will figure this out together but you can’t just run off,” Shiro was saying, the sooth of his baritone making Keith’s thoughts fuzzy. “You can’t, Keith. You need to understand this. You’re vulnerable right now and I get that you hate that. And…I’m sorry if I overstepped when…”

 

To Keith’s horror, a sob clawed up his throat and he wasn’t able to catch it. Tears followed, flooding his eyes. Keith brought his knees up and buried his face against them, hiding, mortified anew when he felt fresh slick against his crack.

 

Keith stayed like that, his heart hammering in his chest, unsuccessfully trying to will the tears and this stupid, awful weakness to go away. He allowed the unshed tears to burn his eyes, the trapped sobs strain his throat.

 

“Keith…”

 

See? Genetics had messed up. Omegas didn’t cause this much distress and sow this much chaos. Something was intrinsically wrong with Keith, on a molecular level—.

 

Suddenly, the passenger door was wrenched open. Shiro was bending over him, filling the space. He pried at Keith’s hands and knees, trying to get him to uncurl. A whiff of that cinnamon was all it took, though, and Keith was unfolding himself, scrambling towards it. Shiro caught him against his chest, pressing him close. He tilted his head up when Keith tried to bury against his chest and directed him towards his neck, his scent gland. Keith happily went, some tense muscle in him uncoiling once he was nestled there.

 

Keith was such a bad omega, such a problem, and yet Shiro was still here, offering. The thought made new tears sting his eyes.

 

Shiro stroked a broad hand down the length of his spine. “Sssh, sssh. Easy. Settle. I’m not… Not mad at you, Keith. Not really. I was more scared than anything. And I’m so glad you’re safe.”

 

Shiro held him as he settled, each breath becoming a little easier. A light rain started up at some point and Keith could see it splattering the windshield. No doubt it was getting Shiro partially wet but he made no move to leave, still holding Keith, running his hand down his back and squeezing the nape of his neck.

 

A little bit of bravery found Keith there.

 

“At the homes—.” His voice was so ragged that he had to stop and swallow a few times. “At the homes,” he continued, “when an omega had their heat, they had a room that they would lock them in, with only the director having a key. They didn’t even put a towel under the door so you could smell...everything.”

 

The memory of that horrid, honey-sweet smell was permanently imprinted into Keith’s brain. It was a herald of things to come, of alphas growing restless, of betas getting disgusted, of omegas panicking as their turn was not that far.

 

Against him, Shiro stiffened.

 

“And if there was more than one omega having a heat…” Keith shrugged. “There was still only one room.”

 

It was always worse when there were multiples which was almost guaranteed as they were all living atop each other. A rut would trigger a heat which would in turn trigger a rut… It was some horrible domino effect. The smell was thick enough to feel like you were swimming in it.

 

He hadn’t allowed Romy to go in there. Remembered finding an overlooked closet in the basement, sitting sentry at the door. The fact that there were so many of them worked in his favor as the absence of one was often overlooked.

 

Keith pressed his nose against Shiro’s neck, trying to ground himself in the warm cinnamon scent.

 

“They would withhold food sometimes. Telling them that they could eat when they were done being such whorish little things.” He recalled vividly the raspy voice of the director saying just that, the clack of the lock always too loud. His brain had been wired to respond to the deafening sound of that lock, almost as if it were a gunshot.

 

“And sometimes-s…” Keith’s voice trembled, the memories sinking their claws into him. “They would let alphas in there, to ‘end it sooner’ they always said.” In Keith’s memories, they took on ghastly, hungry shapes when in reality they had been kids like him. They were always too eager, almost gleeful.

 

That had been the only time Keith had been thankful for his earlier foster parents. The suppressants had been a lifeline.

 

Shiro’s hands clutched at him, squeezing him tight. “Keith, I promise you it’s going to be nothing like that. I promise. I won’t let it.”

 

Keith knew he wouldn’t. Knew he wouldn’t withhold food or berate him or let some stranger in to fuck him. Keith knew this in his brain and yet…

 

Keith had nothing to compare it to, he realized. He had no idea what a good heat was, if there even was such a thing. He just had those awful memories of omegas howling behind a door late into the night.

 

Shiro pulled back and a sound of protest left Keith. He tipped forward, trying to follow (wondering what he had done wrong), but Shiro grasped his biceps and pushed him back so he could meet his gaze. Under the streetlight, his eyes had an odd glow. Keith shivered, both from that look and the space his body now occupied, no longer sharing Shiro’s.

 

“Keith, I know it’s a lot to ask. Especially with what you’ve been through.”

 

Really, if you thought about it, Keith had been through nothing. He had just seen others’ suffering and spent the majority of his life dreading a similar situation.

 

“And you can say no. I won’t be mad. I won’t punish you.”

 

Debatable. Or accurate as Keith was great at punishing himself.

 

“So, please, let me help you.”

 

There was only one answer Keith could give, that he wanted to give.

 

He nodded, surrendering, and was surprised when there was not outright remorse for succumbing, just blissful relief.

 

X

 

Keith fell asleep on the drive home.

 

Shiro spent too long lingering at a stoplight to watch him. He looked so small, curled into himself. At some point, maybe consciously or subconsciously, he had drifted closer to Shiro, his hand reached across the dashboard and grasped at Shiro’s elbow in a loose hold.

 

Something feral clawed in Shiro’s chest.

 

Not now, he told it. Not ever.

 

His wants didn’t matter here. Had never mattered, really. He needed to be here for Keith, be what he needed, try to exorcize some of the ghosts.

 

At the reminder of them, Shiro ground his teeth together, hard enough to hurt. He wanted to find that orphanage and burn it down, then hunt every last person of authority down. How dare they. How fucking dare they. They were supposed to protect those kids and what had they done? Scarred them for life and fostered a healthy amount of self-hatred.

 

He's here. You have him. He's safe. Those days are behind him. 

 

He had to stay in control. He had to be perfect for Keith. Even if…

 

A mental calendar appeared in his mind, one Matt had conjured with his offhand comment. You are having your rut.

 

Shiro was usually pretty regular.

 

But he also usually wasn’t around in an omega in heat and stressed as he had been…

 

He hated to admit that it wasn’t impossible. It would be early, but only by a couple of weeks. Some things would make sense. How quick to temper he had been. This restless, almost savage energy filling him, that had been pushing the treadmill to its limits and checking and rechecking the locks at night. That had him lingering outside Keith’s door sometimes, breathing deep, only able to be soothed then.

 

He tightened his hands on the steering wheel, catching his speed as he turned into the neighborhood.

 

It didn’t matter. Fuck his own biology. It could wait. Right now Keith needed him. And Keith trumped all things.

 

In the passenger seat, Keith made a sound, something breathy and small. His brows furrowed, then relaxed as he turned and his face found the curve of Shiro’s bicep. He settled there and Shiro felt pride well up in him. He had done that. He had settled his omega—. Not, not his. Shiro chided himself even as some instinct snarled at being denied the simple pronoun. Stop that.

 

He pulled into their driveway and while he should’ve felt relief as they pulled into the garage, Shiro couldn’t help but feel the first tendrils of dread.

 

He feared it was going to be a long couple of days.

Notes:

Goly gee, what a conundrum.

Chapter 8

Notes:

Syrina... did you write an entire chapter of gratuitous, near smut and heavy petting?

Yes, yes i did.

Put You Through Me

 

Keith woke up feeling as if there were cobwebs stuck in his head. He came to in his room, memories hazy and teeth uncomfortably fuzzy. Sweat had dried on his skin, sticking his clothes to him. They smelt wrong and Keith was shucking them off, action driving him before he could think through it.

 

He scoured for something, discarding everything he came across. His pajamas, too dirty. His sweats, too clean smelling. His favorite sweat, too rough. Finally, like a beacon, he caught a whiff of cinnamon and traced the scent to a crumbled hoodie on his bed, that the weight of his body had flattened in his sleep. He pulled it on, not recognizing the worn gray fabric as something of his, but not caring as the itching of his skin settled. The hoodie fell to his knees, massive on him, allowing the coltish lines of his calves to show and slipping off one shoulder. He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging the fabric to him, and inhaled deep.

 

Safe. Right. Good.

 

He searched for water next, careening about the room, feeling as if he were drunk, a wire in his brain connecting all things (action, thought, motor function) having frayed loose. He found a cup on his nightstand, newly filled though he didn’t recall doing so, sweating onto a coaster that he never used. He chugged half the cup, feeling feverish, then faintly nauseous as the water settled in his hollow stomach. He went to lie down but something kept him from doing so, some feeling of agitation. Wrong. Wrong. He paced, scratching at his neck, bright sparks of pain flashing where his nails racked, then some instinct drove him out into the hallway.

 

It was as he was walking that connections to his body seemed to reawaken. His hair felt greasy, his scalp itching. His skin seemed to jump with minute twitches. A tremble was in his hands and feet. Cold slick leaked from his crack, making him feel embarrassed. He was already half-hard, straining against the elastic band of his boxers, as if he had just finished watching a decent porno.

 

In a sane mind, any one of those would’ve driven him back into his room. But Keith continued forward, unable to connect conscious thought to action. He wanted to flee back to his dark cavern of a room and hide forever, but his feet continued a staunch path forward.

 

He stopped at Shiro’s gym/office, peeking through the open doorway, the sounds of the treadmill filtering to him.

 

What he saw had him biting his lip.

 

Shiro ran on the treadmill, the bare, long line of his back facing Keith. He ran at a punishing, brutal pace, stride not faltering, the treadmill shaking beneath him. The band of his black joggers slipped low, revealing divots on his hips that Keith’s tongue wanted to lick. Under the gold light, the broad expanse of his sweaty back seemed gilded, muscles bunching and flexing with his smooth movements.

 

Keith had to lean against the doorframe to hold himself up, gaze riveted.

 

Stop it! some surly part of him scolded. You’ve seen him work out before; stop drooling!

 

As if he had spoken, Shiro suddenly jerked, feet going wide to brace himself on the edges of the treadmill. He stopped the machine and waited for the track to settle before getting off. Fetching the towel from the handrail of the machine, he draped it around his neck before facing Keith. “Keith, I didn’t think you’d be up yet. How are you feeling?”

 

Watching as the white towel fibers rubbed against sweaty skin—draped over his clavicle, skimming one generous pec—Keith had never been so jealous of strands of machine woven cotton.

 

Brow furrowing, Shiro approached Keith. “Keith?”

 

Keith knew he should respond, knew he should stop staring—his gaze tracking where a droplet of sweat raced towards the band of his joggers—but his body continued to be some separate thing. He could howl and scream, wresting at dead controls, and yet it did what it wanted.

 

Shiro grasped his chin, directing his gaze up, forcing him to meet his eyes. Keith nuzzled into his hand, his hot cheek cooling once it was nestled against the curve of cool metal. Something in Shiro’s face flickered, a brief flash alternating between arousal and apprehension, before it smoothed into something neutral.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb catching against Keith’s bottom lip.

 

Keith’s tongue peeked out, laving the digit, the textured pad providing needed stimulation, his taste buds feeling oddly large.

 

Shiro directed him to lean back against the wall which was good as Keith’s legs felt like they were gelatin. His arm braced above him and Keith’s eyes shut as he got a wave of cinnamon.

 

“What happened here?” Shiro’s hand was on his neck, on the reddened lines his nails had raked along his scent gland.

 

Keith couldn’t string the words together. A reedy whine left his throat instead.

 

“Hey, easy,” Shiro hushed, petting him. “I’m not mad. Just concerned.” He massaged the area, easing where Keith’s hands had harmed. A sudden sweet scent wafted through the air, calming Keith.

 

Shiro kept up his ministrations as he talked, palpitating Keith’s scent gland with expert fingers. “I know we didn’t talk before… We didn’t sketch out boundaries. And I know, I know it’s hard now for you, but I need you to try. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

 

Mutely, Keith nodded. For Shiro, he would do anything.

 

Shiro caught his chin to hold his gaze, his gray eyes oddly serious, a flush settling across the bridge of his nose. “How… How far do you want to go? How far do you want me to go?”

 

Keith’s brows furrowed, not understanding the question, then mad at himself for not grasping it. Why was he so stupid—?

 

“Hey, hey.” Shiro griped his neck hard, stilling him. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not. It’s going to get bad and I need to know before then how you want me to help you. This is on me, though. I should’ve woken you. Should’ve asked before...all this started.”

 

That wasn’t right. Because Shiro was so good and so strong and Keith was the eternal fuck-up. Even though Shiro was trying to shoulder the blame, it was all on Keith.

 

Shiro drew in a bracing breath. “We’ll… We’ll figure it out then, yeah? Let’s try something easier. What do you want now?”

 

Keith was swollen and bloated with needs, thoughts a cluster in his head, hard to untangle, much less vocalize. This wasn’t easier.

 

That whining was back in Keith’s throat, making him cringe, making him sound pathetic and desperate.

 

Shiro leaned forward, indulging him as he crowded him, blocking out the world and making the space smaller for Keith so it was easier to breathe. “Easy, easy, sweetheart. I’m sorry. That was too open-ended. Can you nod and shake your head for me?”

 

Keith dipped his head in a nod.

 

Shiro smiled like he had accomplished some great feat. “Are you hungry?”

 

Keith was ravenous but he shook his head. Food couldn’t sway from where he was, breathing Shiro in, feeling small but secure.

 

“Are you tired?”

 

Keith could curl up and sleep for years but he shook his head. The thought of the loneliness of his bed, the sheets cold and too rough, made him want to yowl.

 

“Do you want to clean up?”

 

Keith paused. He felt sick and gross, layers of sweat clinging like some dead and still forming cocoon. More slick was gathering between his legs and he feared the state of his boxers. And maybe, who knows, getting himself cleaned up would return some level of function to him.

 

Keith jerked his head in a quick nod.

 

X

 

Water, hot enough to scald, fell onto Keith in a great big sheet from Shiro’s rainfall shower head. Maybe he should’ve questioned why Shiro had taken him to his bathroom, but Keith could care less now. He had the bigger shower, the walk-in space cavernous compared to Keith’s shower/tub combo in his en suite.

 

Steam fogged the glass. Keith knew he had been in here too long with no real action taken except for standing under the hot spray and squirreling through the bottles, looking for the origin of that heavenly cinnamon smell. All the bottles, though, were labeled with something vaguely herb-like: eucalyptus, mint, coconut.

 

Maybe in the cabinet?

 

Keith should really get out of the shower so he could check.

 

Yet he remained under the spray, water sluicing off him, hair plastered to his head, arms tucked in tight to his body, half-leaned against the shower wall, and legs pressed close together to hide his raging hard-on. He wasn’t even clean, slick still gathered in-between the crevice of his thighs, skin still itching.

 

Now, he was just dirty and wet. Brilliant.

 

He tried to direct his arms to reach for the shampoo or the bar of green-tinted soap, but they stayed locked in tight to his abdomen, as if they were holding him together and loosening them would spill little, sharp pieces of Keith all along the tiled floor.

 

Keith jolted as heard the door and then a questioning, concerned, “Keith?”

 

Tears burned at the corner of his eyes. He worked to lie but his tongue felt heavy and swollen in his mouth, unresponsive. You can’t even fucking wash yourself. How useless and pitiful are you—?

 

The shower door wrested open and Shiro was suddenly there, still in his joggers, bare feet dragging through the water, making the vast space of the shower intimate. Keith didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed as he huddled there against the shower wall, naked, the crest of his erection peeking between his thighs, shameless.

 

Shiro took in Keith’s state, water quickly darkening his joggers. Before Keith could blink, Shiro was there in front of him, pulling him up off the shower wall and getting him to lean back against his chest. Keith shuddered as the broadness of his chest was pressed against his spine, the way he encompassed him, the sheer size of him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he was saying, words tripping into one another. “I shouldn’t have—. I should’ve—.” He stopped himself, one hand braced against Keith’s bicep, leaning down, inhaling against the crown of Keith’s head, as if Keith could smell of anything beside wet and drowned.

 

“Will you… Will you let me help?” Shiro asked.

 

Against his chest, Keith nodded.

 

Shiro directed him to lean back, out of the spray.

 

At the first touch of his hands to his scalp, a generous dollop of shampoo cupped in his palm, Keith wanted to moan. His fingers carded through his hair, stroking his scalp, rubbing out the dirt and the grime. Keith wrinkled his nose at the manufactured, coconut smell but it was a small price to pay for Shiro’s attentiveness. All too soon, Shiro was tilting him forward, back under the spray. He slanted his hand against Keith’s forehead to keep the suds out of his eyes, using his other hand to part and rinse the strands. He added conditioner after, rubbing it through Keith’s locks, unnervingly diligent, until his fingers no longer caught in any tangles or knots. He pushed the strands back, plastering them to Keith’s head. Keith tilted his chin up to follow the movement.

 

Shiro’s lips skimmed the shell of his ear as he asked, “Can I wash you?” His hands were deliberately placed on Keith’s shoulders, not venturing further.

 

Again, Keith nodded, a little quicker to respond this time.

 

He was almost saddened to see Shiro reach for a washcloth. Not that he was envisioning those hands, foamy and slick with suds, sliding all over him, no barrier. The faint scent of eucalyptus reached his nose as Shiro rubbed soap over the cloth. Even with the barrier of the terrycloth, Keith shook as Shiro touched him. His thumb and fingers idly stroked, working him through the cloth. He started on his arm, tickling as he scrubbed between his fingers, then gliding upwards, profusely scrubbing.

 

Keith jolted when he got to his armpit. Shiro’s hand landed on his hip, squeezing. “Easy. Settle for me.” Keith endured the ticklish sensation, rewarded with Shiro’s murmured praise as he continued onto the dip of his clavicle, then his neck. Keith’s head lulled backwards, caught on Shiro’s chest. He repeated the process on the other arm, then returned to Keith’s chest.

 

Keith sucked in a breath as the cloth scraped against his nipples. The action failed to go unnoticed by Shiro. He paused, thumb poised over the bud, both a threat and a promise. He pressed down with intent, the motion so increment it could have been dismissed by Shiro just being efficient at cleaning Keith. A moan slipped free from Keith. “Oh sweet thing,” Shiro cooed.

 

Keith mashed his thighs together tightly, the friction grating against his trapped erection. Shiro repeated the action, his other hand flattening on Keith’s sternum, at least until he abruptly dropped the cloth to grasp at Keith’s hip.

 

It was only then Keith realized he had been canting his hips backwards, against Shiro, and the impressive bulge the curve of his ass had found there. Shiro gripped his hip to stop him, the tense lines of his finger biting into the plushness of Keith’s hip.

 

Shame flooded Keith. Here Shiro was just trying to help and Keith, limbs still soap slick, was grinding against him like some panting whore in heat—.

 

Shiro shushed him, the grip on his hip softening, lips close to the shell of his ear. “Hey, no, stop that.” His hand flexed on Keith’s hip, forcing him to arch back against him. Keith felt the glide of his wet joggers, soaked to the bone now, catching on the ridge of his erection. “This is what you want? What you need? Then take it, use me.”

 

Keith, unable to stop himself, ground back against him. He got a bit dizzy, feeling the length of Shiro, the girth of him.

 

Shiro bent over him, his hands going to Keith’s inner thighs, trying to pry them apart and get at the erection nestled between them. “Keith.” he chided when Keith’s thighs stayed latched tight, the pressure almost painful now on his dick. “Let me see. Let me help.”

 

Keith stubbornly shook his head, shutting his eyes tight, ignoring the burning coal low in his gut as he rutted back against Shiro. He reached behind himself, a clumsy grip finding the meat of Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro was doing so much for him, the least he could do was this. Shiro’s erection plumbed from the friction, a sound catching in his chest, his grip on Keith’s thighs stuttering. Keith was made for this after all, wasn’t he? To bring an alpha pleasure? Why then shouldn’t he—?

 

Shiro’s fingers wedged between his thighs and pried them apart, suddenly and perhaps a bit too roughly. Keith would’ve been sent to the floor if the abrupt presence of Shiro’s thighs wedging against the curve of his ass and the spread of his thighs wasn’t keeping him upright. His dick bobbed free into the air, annoyingly curved, the tip near purpling from Keith’s attempts at restraint, a damning bead of cum poised to drop.

 

Keith flushed at the sight of it, of how even like this, splayed open, naked, with his best friend half-hard against his ass in wet joggers, didn’t soften it.

 

Shiro closed his hand around it like it was a prize. Keith nearly came just from that small contact, a cry leaving him.

 

“Settle for me,” Shiro repeated as Keith jerked, stance unsteady, completely reliant on Shiro to keep him standing. The precariousness of it all should’ve alarmed him more than it did. “That’s it,” Shiro praised as Keith stilled, rewarding him with a twist of his hand, glorious friction against his dick. He sounded a little drunk, words softly slurring as he cooed them against Keith’s ear. “So good for me. This is what you needed, right? Look at you, aching for it.” His thumb swiped over Keith’s head, playing with his slit. “And you were trying to deny yourself, weren’t you?” He tsked. “We’ll work on that, sweetheart.”

 

He started to work Keith, squeezing the base of him, alternating strokes, making his fingers a tight hollow. Keith could only hold on for the ride, sounds punched out of him, embarrassingly loud. He tilted his head back, feeling dizzy, too hot, water from the shower head flooding his open, panting mouth. Right when the orgasm was poised to rip through him, Shiro halted, still holding his dick, squeezing the crown of him to stave off the orgasm.

 

A whine of confusion ripped from Keith. What had he done wrong? Besides, the obvious. Why was he being punished?

 

As if he had spoken aloud, Shiro shushed him. “Hey, easy. You’re so, so good. So perfect for me.” Something lit in Keith’s chest at the kernels of praise. “I’m not doing this to punish you. You need a good orgasm.” He started up the strokes again, lighter this time, slower, building up the fire he had quickly doused. “So let me give it to you. Trust me, okay?”

 

The fact that Keith was here and not biting and clawing to get out should’ve given him that answer. (Or maybe that was inaccurate. Maybe Keith was just that far gone that it could’ve been anyone. That he would’ve been this limp and pliant for any Tom, Dick, or Harry.)

 

The thought saddened and alarmed Keith, but the sensations quaking through his dick left it hard to focus.

 

Keith wasn’t sure where he was, who he was, if he even inhabited a body anymore. He was just waves of sensation, barely contained and confined to a space. Vaguely, he was aware of the burn of his shoulder as his twisted arm still clung onto Shiro for a hold. The arches of his feet as they slipped against the wet floor. The grunts from behind him and the snap of teeth by his ear. The suds circling the drain, the rhythmic fall from the shower head, and the other medicinal scents drowning under a powerful wave of savory spice. He could’ve been there for seconds, hours, days—it would’ve all made sense—poised upon the edge, waves of unknown pleasure coursing through him.

 

“Come for me,” Shiro suddenly instructed and Keith found he could, that he was, orgasm tearing through him, scream caught in his throat, release spattering the shower wall.

 

He felt exhausted and spent, like he had run a marathon. He was reminded of the wheeze of the treadmill after one of Shiro’s brutal runs.

 

Shiro worked him through the aftershocks, body curved around, all-encompassing, the press of his erection still an obvious thing against Keith’s ass, an unfulfilled alpha’s need. “So good,” he praised despite it. “So good for me. So perfect.”

 

The haze of pleasure lifting from Keith’s brain, Keith felt anything but.

 

X

 

After Keith had tried to inhale the entire charcuterie board that Shiro had put before him, Shiro had placed him in his lap and insisted he hand feed him.

 

So now, here Keith sat, hair still damp from the shower, hoodie stretched to try to cover his knees, the width of Shiro’s thighs beneath him, and Shiro rubbing at his back and shoulders as he individually picked out grapes and cheeses and little slices of meat to feed to Keith.

 

Keith wanted to hate it.

 

But he was some docile creature as he took every bite from between Shiro’s fingers, lips sometimes catching, chasing the salt from Shiro’s skin. His head lolled against Shiro’s shoulder. He was right at eye level with Shiro’s scent gland, looking faintly shiny, fighting back the urge to reach out and sink his teeth into it.

 

“So good,” Shiro praised after every bite, as if Keith had done some great and incredible thing.

 

Keith felt sick in the way of the flu, save for instead of a runny nose and sore throat, he had a never-dying erection and copious amounts of slick seeping from him. The orgasm had at least taken off the edge, but he still ached, body braced, anticipating the next wave, his dick already twitching back to life. He was exasperated with said appendage. What more did it want?

 

Shiro squeezed his waist where his hand was anchored, the pressure grounding. “Open,” he urged, bringing a bit of pork up to Keith’s lips.

 

“I’m not a kid,” Keith grumbled, feeling surly, but taking the meat between his teeth all the same.

 

Beneath him, Shiro stiffened. “Keith?” He grasped Keith’s chin before Keith could settle it back against his shoulder, tilting him upwards to meet Shiro’s gaze. “Keith, you there? Can you talk to me?”

 

Keith’s jaw felt rusty, his tongue still too big for his mouth. But he found he could now move it in the approximation of words, directions from his brain sluggish but able to get through. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse.

 

Relief flooded Shiro’s features. “Oh, hey, hi, sweetheart.” He raked his hand through Keith’s hair, pushing it back. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Tired. Achy.” He brought his knees in closer to his chest, feeling a gush of slick escape him. He huddled closer to Shiro, something like panic simmering up in his brain.

 

This wasn’t...awful, though. Awkward and inconvenient, sure, but not the soul-crushing, painful experience Keith had been anticipating. If this was the extent of his heat, Keith thought he could maybe survive this with some dignity intact.

 

Meeting Shiro’s gaze afterwards was a different story.

 

“I know. I know, sweetheart. You’ve been through it and it’s only just starting.” Shiro reached for a Gatorade bottle, which he had placed a straw in. “Drink for me?” he asked, bringing it up to Keith’s lips. Keith obediently sipped, maybe a bit too fast as Shiro grasped his jaw, chiding him. “Easy, slower.” He petted his thumb against Keith’s jawline in a reward when Keith obeyed. The drink left a sour taste on his tongue, the artificial sugar grating against his teeth.

 

He tucked his face against Shiro’s collarbone when he was done.

 

He felt Shiro’s chest hitch with a breath before his hands returned to him, keeping him close, one carding through his hair, the other braced against his bare thigh.

 

“While you’re able to, I need you to answer something for me.”

 

Keith would try, but he made no promises. A familiar fuzzy feeling was clawing up from his gut, his jaw stiffening, thoughts growing jumbled.

 

“I need to know how far you want me to go. How…to the extent… How you need me.”

 

Fuck me. Mount me. Knot me. Bite me. Claim me.

 

Keith internally recoiled from covetous thoughts, even as his dick hardened from them. Would it be so bad? If Shiro sunk his teeth deep into his neck, left a scar where no one had, claiming Keith with that small action. Keith had always dreaded the thought, of being had in that way, irreversible lest they let it heal over. Someone’s sad little cocksleeve.

 

But with Shiro…

 

The logical side of himself, growing fainter as the seconds ticked away, knew it could never happen. Shiro didn’t want him in that way, was only helping out, and Keith was being greedy wanting more. He felt guilty for even indulging the idea, sullying his friendship with Shiro all for his selfish, horny little brain.

 

“Do you… Do you want me to stick to my hands?” Shiro continued. “Will that be enough? Or do you want me to use my mouth?”

 

The thought of Shiro’s mouth did things to Keith. Not good things. Never good things.

 

He pressed his thighs together, trying to hide.

 

“Keith, I need you to answer.”

 

He was already in for a penny. What was a pound at this point?

 

“I-I guess,” Keith stammered, words stilted, “that would be alright.”

 

“Yeah? You want my mouth?” Shiro clutched him closer. “Okay, okay, sweet thing. You’ll get it then. Hey, focus here. We’re not done. What about… I have toys if you need them?”

 

The thought of something silicon and strangely clinical nestled deep in his sloppy, seeping hole, unyielding, perfunctory, made Keith upset. He knew it was the preferable option. He was such a bad omega. He didn’t deserve anything more.

 

Shiro’s hands passed over him, reassuring. “Hey, hey, sssh, sweetheart. It’s okay. No toys then.” Shiro’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “What… Do you… Will you...”

 

At least Keith wasn’t the only one struggling with words.

 

Shiro took a breath, seeming to center himself. “My knot,” he finally said, voice husky. “Do you want me to fuck you when and if you need it?”

 

The fact that Shiro was even offering should’ve scared Keith.

 

But he was too busy drowning in vivid images of Shiro hiking his legs, burying deep, satisfyingly long and thick. Another fresh rush of slick slipped from him, cooling as it stuck his boxers to him. He suddenly felt empty, denied.

 

“Hey, sssh, sweetheart. Please, please focus for me.” He grabbed his chin, trying to tilt Keith’s head back from where it was buried against his chest. “I need you to answer. I know it’s hard right now. But I need to know. Will you… Will you let me fuck you?”

 

Keith shut his eyes, blocking out the brightness of the kitchen, Shiro’s imploring, heavy gaze. He squeezed his lips together so hard his jaw ached, fighting back the babbling of yesyespleaseohgodyes that wanted to escape him.

 

Keith would let him do anything. Didn’t he already know that? So long as it was him. That had never been the issue.

 

Shiro’s thumb pressed against the corner of his mouth. “Keith? Baby? Are you there?”

 

“I don’t want to lose you,” fell from Keith’s lips before he could stop it.

 

Because that’s what would happen if Keith indulged in every slutty urge that wiggled through his mind. Shiro would follow along, because he was good and kind and under the impression that it was Keith’s heat driving him to these levels of debauchery. And when Keith could no longer use his heat as an excuse, when the cold light of day finally dawned, they would be left amid the aftermath and Keith didn’t know if Shiro could ever look at him the same way again, if he would even want to. He wouldn’t see his friend, the one he had known since high school. He would only see some lewd omega, just like all the others, lusting after his cock and Keith—.

 

The whines were leaving his throat, high-pitched, needy, distressed. Pathetic.

 

Shiro quieted him, touching his thumb to Keith’s lips, allowing the pad of it to sweep in and tap against Keith’s teeth. “Easy, easy. Settle for me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” He leaned in and licked a stripe up Keith’s neck, right over his scent gland. Keith jolted as if he had been electrocuted, a guttural sound escaping him.

 

The lights above him swayed, bright and distorted. A muscle in Keith’s belly clenched, an ache starting up in his lower back.

 

Shiro looked wrecked as he stood and deposited Keith on the edge of the table, slipping in the space between his knees. Keith’s knees latched together, a vice around Shiro’s hips. His dick tented the edge of his hoodie, pointing straight up towards him as if were some lecherous divining rod.

 

“I promise you,” Shiro said as he leaned over him. His hand came up to grasp the nape of his neck and Keith luxuriated in the feel, the breadth of his hand. “That no matter what happens, I’m never leaving you. You’re stuck with me. Okay?”

 

Something in Keith’s chest clenched. Tears were at the edges of his eyes. His breath left him too fast, his heart a hammering, wretched thing.

 

“Okay,” he managed.

 

Shiro’s thumb caressed the knob of his spine. The particles of him were deforming, becoming black and white and gray slashes in Keith’s vision. Only the feel of him, the shape of him, anchored Keith to his body. “So will you let me?” He sounded desperate, almost pleading, as if Keith was prolonging some great punishment. “When the time comes, will you let me give you what you need? Will you let me make love to you?”

 

In his chest, Keith’s heart lurched.

 

“Okay,” he managed one last time, before he slipped under and became a mute, wanton creature.

 

Notes:

Me, doing the math on how many chapters I can feasibly keep Keith's heat going: Elven.... Thirtteen? Fourteen? ...Twenty?

No, no I wouldn't do that Shiro.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Forgive the quick update but I am trying to get as much writing done as I can since with Baldur's Gate 3 and Genshin's Fontaine launching, you will not hear from me until I have lived out my Twilight phase and romanced a vampire and acquired hydro Mommy Yelan.

Put You Through Me

 

Shiro cataloged his mistakes.

 

He left Keith to wake up alone. Keith. He thought he had time to run himself through a brutal workout and tire himself out, as if energy was the only thing he needed to have a proper rut. And, because of his miscalculation, Keith had woken up alone, confused, seeping deep into the first hours of his heat.

 

He had then dumped Keith in the shower, already knowing his state (his stance shaky, non-verbal) and assumed he would be okay, that he would be able to wash himself. Again, he prioritized his own needs, the sight of him stripping easily and eagerly making Shiro’s thoughts devolve into debauchery. He had spent the time while Keith had been shaking under the shower’s spray, pacing and trying to breathe, a howling need in his gut. He was only lucky Keith hadn’t fallen, hadn’t slipped and cracked his head open or snapped his wrist.

 

He had failed to ask Keith before this had all started what the hard limitations were. While he had eventually gotten some semblance of an answer, it was still tainted by the way Keith’s pupils were blown wide, the seat of his boxers growing wet where he sat on Shiro’s thigh, to the point where Shiro was second guessing if it could even be called an answer. Would he have said the same thing if he had been clearer headed? If his scent hadn’t been saturating the air, calling to something deep and primal in Shiro?

 

Shiro feared the answer.

 

But his mistakes didn’t end there. No, they stretched back further.

 

Allowing Keith to get shot. Not knowing his best friend and roommate was taking illegal suppressants. Not being enough for Keith to confide that secret in. Not realizing when his friend came to school with no lunch, with sneakers held together by duct tape what it all meant. Not acting on it. For being scrawny and weak for so many years.

 

He had failed Keith in so many ways.

 

And he was determined that it would end here.

 

This is about Keith, he reminded himself, as he bent over Keith and nibbled along his scent gland, coaxing more of that wonderful smell out. His tongue caught on the scabs, the presence signifying another failure of Shiro. This is about what he needs. This isn’t about you.

 

His own straining erection tenting his sweatpants begged to differ.

 

He refused to acknowledge it as he pushed Keith’s hoodie up—his hoodie, he realized with a howl, left by Keith’s bed in hopes that his lingering scent could help in his absence—and slipped his hand under the band of Keith’s boxers, finding his prize.

 

He watched Keith as he jerked him off, almost clinical and detached, denying his hips the way they wanted to rut against the table’s edge. Shiro had experience with having to watch Keith’s body to gleam his true feelings, his words sometimes at direct odds with his body reactions.

 

“No, I’m not cold,” he would say even while he stood there shivering.

 

“I’m not hungry,” he would tell him as his stomach growled loudly.

 

“I’m not tired,” he would lie, bags heavy under his eyes, the sound of him tossing and turning all night carried through the walls.

 

Shiro had to learn to put all five senses to work when it came to Keith. A skill he now deployed as Keith fell deeper into his heat. He could see the way his mouth sometimes tried to shape words, but nothing ever came out aside from breathy, needy little sounds. Keith squirmed as he touched him, seemingly torn between chasing the sensation and shying away from it. His brows scrunched, his violet eyes a small sliver between dark lashes. His bottom lip showed the indents from his teeth.

 

Shiro didn’t want to say he liked Keith like this. It would be wrong, so wrong. Because this wasn’t Keith, not really. This was instinct and hormones and Shiro could’ve been anyone, any alpha with a working scent gland and a hand—.

 

A keening sound erupted from Keith, long and broken, unrestrained. He clumsily clutched at Shiro’s bicep, looking drunk, his lips glossy after a swipe of his tongue.

 

He should not relish this version of Keith. Keith wasn’t this. Keith was all fire and snark and too short crop tops. And Shiro loved that. Not this. Not this docile, mewling creature that canted into his every touch, that closed his eyes to inhale deep when another wave of his pheromones permeated the air, who allowed him to touch him in this way, in the way Shiro had always fantasized.

 

Keith came in his hand, hips jerking off the table, looking so pretty and perfect, brows relaxing as he was momentarily sated. He whined low in his throat when Shiro’s hand left him.

 

Shiro shushed him, gathering him to him. His release was still wet and slick on his hand, but Shiro made no move to clean it as he grasped Keith’s thighs, hooking them around his hips. Keith latched his legs tight, surprisingly strong when the rest of him was so limp. He picked him up, mindful of the low light over the table, a hand over his head to keep them from connecting. Keith wound his arms around his neck, burying his face against his scent gland. He jolted when he felt the curious swipe of a tentative tongue.

 

This isn’t about you, he told his dick. It was straining, the tip brushing against where the clef of Keith’s ass sat, fabric wet. Shiro realized that the only thing preventing him from sinking home was gravity and a scant layer of clothes.

 

He carried Keith back to his room, one hand braced under Keith’s ass, thumb unintentionally poised right on the rim of his tight, small hole. Something squelched as he pressed down.

 

Keith’s legs squeezed him.

 

Keith made a questioning sound as they entered his room, the familiarity of it reaching through his heat-addled brain. Shiro deposited him on the bed. (The bed that Shiro had insisted on buying him, because the sight of Keith’s long limbs scrunched on a tiny twin had angered Shiro. He was thankful for his foresight now.) He kept close, hovering over him, knowing his presence helped—.

 

Sour lanced through the sweet. Shiro bristled, hands clamping on Keith, gaze roving the room for a threat.

 

Whines slipped from Keith. He arched off the bed, clutching at Shiro, trying to crawl back onto him.

 

Shiro petted him, rumbling in his throat, trying to settle him. “Hey, easy. Easy, sweetheart.” The name fell too easily from his tongue. Shiro didn’t know how he would be able to part with it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Keith stayed tucked up against him, the flex of his muscles looking almost painful, keeping as much of himself off the mattress as he could.

 

“Do you… Do you not wanna be here?” Shiro had thought his room would be a favorable spot with its familiarity, but, once again, he seemed to have made a grave error. Shiro sat up, taking Keith with him. Keith settled, happily nuzzling against his neck, clinging to him.

 

A thought entered Shiro’s head, a horribly presumptuous and egotistical thought. But he couldn’t very well service Keith standing up like this.

 

...Or well, he could, with the proper motivation. But a bed would still be easier.

 

Shiro traced his steps back into the hallway, bypassing Keith’s door, moving to his own further down. He entered, feeling foolish. His bed was an indulgent, massive thing. King-sized with a gray comforter and sheets that cost too much but felt so nice and soft, Shiro considered it a good trade.He repeated the same actions he had in Keith’s room, laying him down on his comforter, bracing himself for that sickening sign of distress.

 

Instead, Keith trilled, tilting his head to the side and rubbing the side of his face against Shiro’s pillow. His legs released their vice-like grip on his waist and he settled easily amongst Shiro’s blankets.

 

Shiro tried not to think about how right he looked there, spread out, in Shiro’s bed, the edge of Shiro’s hoodie riding up on his stomach, his head resting on Shiro’s pillow, mixing his honey-sweet scent alongside Shiro’s. Shiro hoped it seeped into the fabric’s fibers, enough to stain, enough for Shiro to breathe in the scent every night.

 

Shiro’s jaw ached, his fangs descending, fighting back against the instinct to reach down and bite him, claim him in that last final way.

 

Keith twisted to the side, unknowing of the danger he put himself in as he bared his neck. His hands were knotting in the fabric of his comforter, pushing it this way and that, scrunching it up in one direction then flattening it, a frown crossing his lips.

 

Nesting, Shiro realized with a kick to his stomach. He had failed to make a nest for Keith, failed to even gather the materials.

 

Gaze desperately raking the room, he reached down for the blanket at the foot of his bed—the only thing within easy reach—and brought it up.

 

Keith snatched it from him, eyes near glittering, knotting and twisting the fabric.

 

Shiro made to get up, to get more materials for Keith, when the sudden and viscous bite of fingernails on his shoulder stopped him. Keith clutched at him, looking feral, lips parting for a flash of teeth. He grabbed Shiro and, as weak as he was, dragged him back on top of him, blanket forgotten as it lay strewn across his hip.

 

Shiro soothed a hand through his hair. “Hey, I’m not leaving. I promised, didn’t I? I just… Don’t you need more for your nest?” They wouldn’t be in this predicament if Shiro had thought this all through, but it was too late for that.

 

Keith tilted his head and Shiro didn’t know if he truly didn’t understand or was debating. His hands pawed at Shiro’s sweatshirt, kneading at the fabric.

 

Shiro lifted himself onto his knees long enough only to rip the sweatshirt off and then was back, braced over Keith, torso bare and the sweatshirt held out as an offering. Keith seized it from him, a happy trill escaping his throat, the sound that meant Shiro wasn’t a complete fucking failure. He placed it by his head, rubbing his cheek on it in a way that made Shiro’s chest feel too small.

 

He took off his sweatpants, with somewhat more reluctance. Somehow, the layers between his dick and Keith felt crucial to his control. But, if things progressed in the way they were meant to, it wasn’t like he would need them. You just have to watch yourself, he reminded himself.

 

Keith looked like a kid on Christmas morning, eyes feverishly bright, tucking the sweatpants on his other side, bunching the comforter to create some semblance of a wall.

 

Shiro’s hands landed on Keith’s hips, skimming up under his hoodie, a question in his gaze. Slowly, giving Keith enough time to react if he wanted to, he pushed the fabric up, revealing the long, sinuous lines of Keith’s torso. He watched the flexing of Keith’s abs as his breath hitched. Keith was deceptively tiny, all compact muscle and coiled intent.

 

He paused when he got to the knot of scar tissue from Keith’s gunshot. A burr of anger stuck in his throat. He touched it, reverently, and pressed a chaste kiss to it before continuing to undress Keith. Keith was flushed and writhing by the time Shiro got it up over his head, his hair sticking up in a mused halo. Keith made no move to add the hoodie to his nest, though, when Shiro offered it, seemingly riveted staring up at Shiro, biting down hard on his lip.

 

Shiro took him in, this beautiful, wanton thing. A permanent flush sat at the hollow of his throat. His eyes were wholly dark, looking like pools that Shiro could fall into. His nipples pebbled, heaving upwards with his heavy breaths, mocking Shiro. The dip of his hip bones where his boxers sat were sinful. His dick was already plumbing again, the head of him peeking through the slit in his boxers.

 

Shiro ran his hand down the length of his side, reveling in the way Keith arched. “Oh, sweet thing.” His hand ended at the waistband of his boxers, playing it. He pushed it down, revealing the sharp cut of his hip, feeling humbled for being allowed to see that stretch of skin.

 

“You want my mouth now?” Shiro asked him.

 

Keith bobbed his head in a frenzied nod.

 

Shiro pushed his boxers down with reverence, going slow, luxuriating in every inch of skin revealed to him. Keith’s dick bobbed free with an almost comical recoil, the tip of him already wet. Shiro’s finger’s stuttered over the slickness now seeping down Keith’s thighs. It connected his boxers to him, string of it pulling tight, quivering, then breaking. Shiro couldn’t help himself. As soon as he got the boxers off, his hands went to it, the webs of slick now clinging to Keith’s thighs. He played in it, growing dizzy, the liquid clinging to his fingers, stretching as he spread them. He brought them to his lips, licking, moaning at the burst of sweetness that came.

 

Shiro was a man on a mission as he parted Keith’s thighs further, fingers encircling to press at the plushness of his inner thighs. He found the source. Keith’s hole was pink and shiny, fluttering under his gaze, looking so incredibly small. When he touched a finger to it, though, in the slick gathered at the rim, Keith seemed to suck him in down the knuckle, crying out.

 

Shiro’s control went out the window. He dove in, mouth sealing to Keith’s rim, tongue prodding and tasting. He buried his face against the musty smell of Keith, jerking Keith’s legs wide to provide more room, cupping his other hand around Keith’s erection and pressing it back towards his belly. More slick gushed out from his ministrations. This was his. His omega crying so sweetly because Shiro was caring for him in the way he needed to be, getting himself wetter and wetter as a reward. He licked and sucked and growled as he devoured his meal.

 

And Keith, screaming his name, shattered apart.

 

X

 

For the next thirty-two hours, this was their routine. Shiro would wring orgasm after orgasm—with his hand on his mouth, once, creatively, with his thighs—until he was babbling but sated, dick softening, enough for him to sleep. Shiro tried to get himself to sleep when Keith did, knowing he needed the energy, but often he found himself lying still beside Keith, petting him, drinking in the sight of him curled up tight to Shiro, fingertips poised over Shiro’s chest in the mimicry of a clawed grip.

 

Shiro had made the mistake only once of leaving when he was like, thinking he was far too deep into sleep to notice, gathering provisions from the kitchen and a wet washcloth. He arrived back to find Keith awake, ripping the sheets and blanket with a frenzied, panicked energy, scent souring quickly. Upon seeing Shiro there in the doorway, energy drinks and jerky strips in his arms as an apology, Keith had launched himself at him with a feral snarl. It had taken two messy orgasms and repeated assurances from Shiro to get him to settle again and, even then, Shiro had the burn of bloody scratches on his back.

 

“It’s okay,” he had encouraged Keith when he had been digging his nails into him, racking them down his back, something like distress flickering across his features as if he had been aware of his actions. “I’m yours. I’ve been yours. Do what you want with me, sweetheart.”

 

He got Keith to eat when he could, finding that he got better results when he hand fed him, praising after every bite. He managed to get him into the shower, only when the reek of their sweat was notable through their combined scents. Like before, Keith had clung to him, nuzzling, and Shiro had to wipe him down, from his hair to his toes.

 

After day one ended and day two bled on, Shiro tried to do the math.

 

Heats usually lasted around three days. People often took the entire week off, though, to prepare and recover. Considering that this was Keith’s first heat, after years of suppressants, feasibly, they could be looking at another three days of this, the crescendo happening within the next twenty-four hours and then the next two days just a slow simmering down.

 

Shiro thought he could survive that.

 

Truly, it hadn’t been as bad as he had dreaded. While Keith was a needy thing, he was satisfied with Shiro, body hot but never reaching dangerous fever territory as Shiro had heard about with some heats. He came easily, readily. He didn’t fuss too much when Shiro paused to feed him. He had a quick recovery period but sometimes he was content to just cuddle, scenting Shiro’s neck, even with his dick hard and bobbing between them.

 

Because he hadn’t asked for it, Shiro hadn’t given it to him and had stuck to his mouth and hands to bring Keith to release. As a result, his own cock was aching, seeming perpetually swollen, tip near purple. He would’ve been completely blue-balled if he hadn’t come once, dick untouched, while eating Keith out, Keith writhing and crying as he tongue fucked him.

 

He felt guilty for it, then embarrassed but Keith hadn’t seemed to have noticed, too blissed out, his hole still twitching around the memory of Shiro’s tongue. Shiro had watched, transfixed, almost coming again at the sight.

 

Was he ever going to get the image of that out of his head? No. Was he ever going to be able to forget the knowledge that this was what Keith could be like, so sweet, so trusting, so ravenous? No. But would he survive if this was the extent of his heat? Yes, yes he would.

 

(And he wasn’t saddened that Keith hadn’t needed his knot. He wasn’t. He was relieved in fact, that they didn’t have to resort to crossing that barrier, that line. He was.)

 

But their careful routine devolved as day three dawned and Shiro woke to a biting, bitter smell. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, hadn’t consciously made that choice, but he awoke all the same.

 

Keith was curled away from him, clutching at the sheets, crying, sobbing. The arc of his spine was a painful line, knobs jutting upwards.

 

“Keith?” Shiro couldn’t keep the panic from his voice. He reached out to touch his shoulder and jerked his hand back, his palm scalded from that brief contact. Keith was burning up.

 

He sat up, the dim light of morning bleeding across the carpet. The room stank of sex and that awful, sweetly bitter smell. He reached across for Keith, ignoring the intense heat and tried to turn him to face him. “Keith?”

 

“It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Why does it hurt?” Keith babbled, sounding more coherent than he had in days. He tensed as his body was seized by a spasm, a sharp cry leaving him.

 

Finally, Shiro got him to turn over. His face was blotchy with tears. He was curled in himself, hands like claws as they curved around his shoulders, as if that was all holding him together. His teeth chattered, sweat pooling low on his collarbone, the two at odds with each other.

 

His pupils were shrunk, the rim of violet iris now visible, the pain having seemingly pierced through his heat-addled brain.

 

“Shiro,” he said. “Help. Ithurts.Ithurts.Ithurts—.”

 

Shiro hushed him, moving over him, trying to get him to uncurl so he could bring him up towards his neck. He did so reluctantly, spasms raking his body. Shiro had to hold his head up so he could scent him, Keith’s hands weakly clawing where they gripped his biceps.

 

While Keith was busy scenting him, Shiro reached down the length of his back, dipping into the crease of his ass. He wormed his fingers between his cheeks and was alarmed to find Keith’s hole bone dry. A cry left Keith at the touch of his fingers, his nails biting deep into Shiro.

 

A terrible helplessness clawed at Shiro. “I know, baby. I know it hurts,” he said as he clutched Keith to him, as another convulsion seized Keith, making him arch, too pained even to emit a sound. Shiro reached around, trying to find his dick amidst the sheets. He found the sharp jut of Keith’s hip bone first, then followed up, anxiety mounting when he found Keith flaccid. A few attempts at strokes had Keith recoiling from him, the friction painful instead of pleasurable.

 

As Keith sobbed against him, raked with waves of pain, Shiro had never felt more useless. It reminded him of when he had lost his arm and the months after, being so clumsy, so worthless. Here he had promised to look after Keith, to be the thing he needed, and he had failed. Failed in so many ways. All he could do was hold him, murmuring words that fell on deaf ears.

 

Should he take him to the hospital? The thought of Keith being there as he was, delirious and still reeking of sex, a spectacle amongst strangers, sent something in the alpha part of his brain howling. But...if that was what Keith needed… As he petted down Keith’s back, the heat of him startled him. If they could help where Shiro hadn’t… He would do it, in a heartbeat.

 

“Keith,” he started, wondering how to approach the topic, if he even should. Or if he should just scoop Keith up and take him, not worrying about if Keith consented to that or not.

 

Keith was clawing at his chest, words incoherent they were coming so fast.

 

“Fuck me,” Shiro heard among the nonsensical words, a clear, desperate plea. “Please, God, Shiro. Fuck me.”

 

Shiro squeezed his ass, skin tacky where his slick had dried. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t. You’re dry.”

 

Keith shook his head, hair sticking to him, damp with sweat. “I don’t care. I don’t care. Take me dry then.”

 

“I-I can’t. You’ll tear—.”

 

Keith choked on a sob.

 

Still holding him, Shiro reached over to his nightstand, riffling through the top drawer. He found the bottle, deposited it on the bed.

 

Keith jerked his head when he saw it. “No, Shiro, there isn’t time. I need it now!”

 

Shiro grasped his chin, forced his gaze to meet his. “I’m not hurting you,” he said, injecting force into his words when all he wanted to do was crumble to Keith’s every whim. “I’m not,” he said, gentler, tracing his thumb across Keith’s lower lip, raw from his teeth. “So let me at least get two fingers into you.”

 

He would’ve liked to get to four. Shiro knew he was big. And they hadn’t played or stretched Keith’s hole since the other day. Two would be a stretch, but he feared it was all Keith would allow.

 

“Two fingers,” Keith ascertained with a nod. “Two fingers, and then you’ll fuck me.”

 

Shiro tried not to jerk at his words, the phrase hitting wrong even though that’s how Shiro had described it. That’s what they were doing, wasn’t it? It wasn’t anything else. Shiro was just an upgraded dildo. He had a job to do.

 

Shiro upended the bottle over his hand. The lube had an odd, thick texture when compared with Keith’s slick. It shined, tinted amber, slicking his fingers generously.

 

Keith humped against him. “Come on,” he urged, breaking into a sob, his whole body tensing.

 

Even despite that, he tried to present himself as best he could, arching his back, the plumb curve of his ass jutting out. He buried his face against Shiro’s collarbone, mouthing along his scent gland. Shiro parted his cheeks, looking at the tiny pucker of his ass.

 

Shiro tried to start slow, spreading his lubed fingers over Keith’s rim, teasing in one tip. A sudden spasm raking Keith, though—and he could feel it in the tip he had wormed into Keith, the way his muscles clenched down with a viscous, punishing intent—had him picking up the pace. It was harried and messy and Shiro wasn’t happy with his work, wasn’t happy with the tightness of Keith’s hole and the dry squelch of his fingers as the lube dried.

 

“Shiro, please,” Keith wailed as another attack hit him. The muscles of his walls clamped down Shiro’s fingers. “Please, please, I’ll do anything. If you want to fuck me every night after, you can. I’ll let you. I’ll let you do whatever you want. I’ll warm your cock, just please.”

 

Though Shiro would never admit to them aloud, he had thoughts about how the first time he would take Keith would be like. He pictured roses, candles, their skin softened and rose-scented from a bubble bath. He wanted it slow, to the near point of pain, but delicious pain. That kinda that made your muscles ache after a good workout and made the release after all the more satisfying. He had envisioned sweet words pressed against supple skin, promises made in the dark and then spoken again in the light. He wanted Keith oversensitive and writhing and lost in the throes of his own pleasure, pleasure that Shiro provided, that he could control.

 

But instead, he got this. Keith’s hole barely wet. Keith begging for it, but not because he was lost to lust but because he was desperate to escape pain. Shiro could’ve been anyone, anything. Any alpha, and Keith would still be promising to be their toy if they would only fuck him here and now.

 

A lance of hurt jabbed Shiro in the chest, but he ignored it. Or tried to. You knew what this was. It’s not about you.

 

He parted Keith’s legs. His pale skin still showed the mark of Shiro’s teeth, the hickeys left by his lips. “Sssh, I’m here. I’ll give you what you need.” He hastily slicked himself up, the lube too cold, not having time to be warmed by his hand, then lined the tip of him against the fluttering wink of Keith’s hole.

 

With a grunt and a sharp, broken cry from Keith, he sunk in.

 

Chapter 10

Notes:

In honor of Yelan finally coming home and Fontaine being gorgeous, you get another chapter of absolute flith.

Put You Through Me

 

Keith was dying. There was no other explanation. He was drowning in fire, trapped in skin that needled against his bones, writhing as waves of pain clenched his muscles in sporadic bouts. He was empty, so empty. Thoughts fired at a dizzying rate, too fast and too garbled for him to make much sense of anything. WrongWrongNotsafeEmpty. He knew he was speaking as his throat ached, but, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall anything he had said.

 

He just wanted it to end.

 

And then, miraculously, with a weird stretching of his lower muscles, it did.

 

The fire doused. His skin stopped grating his bones. His thoughts slowed. His body was still clenched with the memory of pain but, gradually, as the seconds wore on and no punishing second wave assaulted him, his muscles relaxed.

 

With that, he realized two things.

 

One, the sharp, engulfing smell of cinnamon, laced with something deeper, woodsy.

 

Two, there was a dick in him.

 

Keith wasn’t sure how he felt about the second one.

 

He could feel it, stretching his rim, making his muscles ache in a strange way, just the head breaching him. It was warm, the remnants of lube startlingly cold in contrast. He thought it should hurt a lot more than it did, and maybe it was, but the echoes of that previous pain, of his muscles spasming around nothing, was far more prevalent than a simple burn of a stretch.

 

He waited for the panic to claw up from his gut, for the dreamy fog to evaporate from his head. This was everything he had dreaded, coming to fruition. He could remember the guttural sounds from behind that closed door at the orphanage. The omegas had always sounded like they were being ripped apart, gutted.

 

Just as the first simmers of fear ebbed through him, he registered the person above him, crouched over him, fists clenched in the sheets.

 

Shiro.

 

Haggard and looking like he had been put through a blender. Sweat darkened his silver hair, which hung limp and raggled across his forehead. There were thick pouches under his eyes, crescents that Keith’s fingertips itched to smooth over. His cheeks were hollow, brow furrowed in strain. Little oval-shaped bruises dotted his bicep and it took only Keith holding out his hand to realize they aligned with his fingertips. The beginnings of scratches curved over his shoulder and Keith shuddered to think what his back looked like.

 

Guilt slammed into him through the fog.

 

I haven’t been kind to you, have I?

 

An apology was on his tongue when Shiro shifted and, with the movement, stretched Keith.

 

An awful keening sound left him. His hands clamped down on Shiro’s shoulders and he tried to mind his nails. More of his length breached him and instead of being painful, it felt good.

 

Hands petted over him, skated a path down his rib cage. “Easy. Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ll give you what you need.”

 

Keith didn’t even question him. It was Shiro, who knew his body better than he did. Of course he would take care of him.

 

A terrible collection of guilt and shame started to fester at the thought. Shiro had been taking care of him. Such good care. And what had Keith done in return? Keith was nothing more than some gluttonous little leech—.

 

A tongue lapped over his scent gland, jolting him back into his body. Shiro, crouched over him, glorious body bent and poised, a dark light entering his eyes as he began to move.

 

Porn always showed it as borderline violent. The alpha would slam into the pliant and needy omega at an almost brutal pace. The squelching noises always sounded nauseating to Keith. If the omega came, it was untouched, no stimulation or forethought needed, orgasm usually a dry one. The omega needed no time or attention as they were only too happy to serve, to be used. That was all they needed to get off.

 

On his loneliest nights, he would think that Shiro wouldn’t behave any differently. (And then he grew mad when that didn’t exactly ruin the fantasy for him. What the fuck was wrong with his dick?)

 

It shouldn’t have surprised him that Shiro continued to defy all expectations. Keith swore the man got off on it.

 

Shiro was meticulous as he fucked into Keith. He shifted his hips, checking the angle, watching Keith, his gaze molten, until a cry left Keith. A grin flashed across his lips, making him look almost boyish. “There it is.” And he memorized that angle, the alignment of his hips, spearing into that nerve of muscles that made Keith see stars.

 

Did it always feel this good? Surely not. Surely…

 

He set a languid pace, seeming unconcerned with the hardness that Keith felt. Keith was left teetering on a cliff, the fall imminent, looming, if he would only be a bit more rough…

 

But he wasn’t. He kept the gentle, slow pace, hands a cooling balm over Keith’s body, murmuring praises into the shell of his ear. As his thrusts shifted Keith up the bed in increments, he moved the pillow to cushion his head from the headboard. Something about that small gesture made Keith want to bawl his eyes out.

 

“Shiro,” he said, as if his name alone was a full sentence. “Shiro! Shiro!” His nails bit into the flesh of his shoulders and he sent a silent apology as more marks were added.

 

Shiro made no move to stop him, to chastise him, to restrain him as he should because Keith couldn’t be trusted not to mar a good thing. Instead, he let Keith claw at him, seeming unbothered even as welts bloomed across his collarbone.

 

Good, some greedy part of Keith said. Mark him up so everyone knows. Make him reek of you so every omega in the tri-state area backs the fuck off. It’s too bad you didn’t find him sooner. He’s mine.

 

Except not really.

 

Keith’s jaw ached, his fangs too big for his mouth, the urge to bite, to claim jarringly intense.

 

Shiro pushed Keith’s hair back, cupping the back of his head. Keith nudged into his palm, chasing the touch, unable to help it. “So good for me,” Shiro praised.

 

Keith wanted to shake his head. He wasn’t good for anyone. He could be. For Shiro he could be, if he tried more, if he wasn’t an absolute wreck. But not like this. Not as a needy omega keening even while he was being fucked so good, so well, that stretch of unmarred on his neck taunting him.

 

(He registered his volume only vaguely. Some part of him dreaded going for the mail after all this, having to meet Mrs. Harris’s gaze over the hedge of her rosebushes, wondering if her eighty year-old ears had heard him screaming, begging, howling like a whore in heat.)

 

The pleasure was mounting, mounting, mounting. Keith grew fearful with its longevity. It had to end at some point, right? Keith couldn’t feel this good forever. He couldn’t be locked into this time loop of Shiro fucking him, muscles bunching above him, dick spearing him, hitting that bundle of nerves with unerringly accuracy—.

 

“It’s all right,” Shiro crooned, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Let go, baby. Let go. You can come.”

 

As if that’s what he had been waiting for, permission, Keith came. The orgasm ripped through him. His spend spattered his stomach, arced high enough to dirty Shiro’s chest. A full body quake raked through him, leaving his nerve endings dead, his mind and vision fuzzy.

 

Shiro worked him through it, coaxing, praising. “So good. So perfect.” He wrapped his hand around Keith’s shaft, ringing the last few drops from him, easing the harsh drop as the orgasm left him cold and vulnerable. “Look at you,” he said, marvel in his voice as if Keith was some great thing. “So perfect for me.”

 

And then he slipped from him.

 

The absence of Shiro’s dick made panic knife through Keith. He clamped down even as he felt Shiro retreating, his muscles convulsing around a horrid emptiness. A reedy whimper found its way out of Keith’s lips. He scrambled blindly, searching for this vital thing he had lost, grasping at Shiro’s shoulders, trying to coax him closer by hooking a leg around his waist. His hips rolled in a desperate bid, needing like water to quench a thirst, food for a hunger. He could feel that heat and the awful pain ready to reclaim him.

 

Shiro grasped his hip to still him, forcing him back onto the bed and Keith tried not to be thrilled by how easily he was manhandled. “Easy, sweetheart. Just...give me a moment.”

 

He was still hard, Keith realized, the curve of his erection still jutting out from the V of his hips, wet with lube and Keith’s own slick. The head of him was flushed a deep, angry red.

 

Keith felt as if he had failed in some crucial task.

 

Keith had found his release. Shiro hadn’t found his.

 

He was ready to offer himself back up (it wasn’t like they hadn’t already crossed a critical line) when he paused. Shiro hadn’t come at all, at least not to the recollections of an admittedly fuzzy Keith. Of course, why would he find release in Keith’s shameful body? This wasn’t erotic to Shiro. Keith wasn’t something he desired. He was here out of obligation and only hard because of pheromones and biology. While Keith had been lost in the throes of the best orgasm of his life, Shiro had probably been gritting his teeth to endure it.

 

Even now, Keith saw the cast of his jaw, the way he swallowed as if it ached, teeth clicking as he unclenched it.

 

Shame burned Keith’s cheeks, soured his gut. He felt the cold, wet residues of lube on his gaping, burning rim and the returning warmth of his own slick and was disgusted.

 

Keith shut his legs, or tried to as the bulk of Shiro’s hips still rested between them. Shiro grabbed at his knee as it hit his hip, frowning as he forced it back down, pressing his thumb against the jumping muscles of Keith’s inner thigh, an aborted fleeing urge. “Easy, sweet thing,” he said, misconstruing Keith’s actions. His nostrils flared as he inhaled and he bent down, as if in a trance, licking at a strand of slick that seeped down Keith’s thigh.

 

It’s pheromones, Keith reminded his heart as it stuttered in his chest. Shiro’s tongue was warm, lapping at an intimate, sensitive place. Keith could feel each of his exhales. “God,” he moaned low in his throat. “Your smell…” It’s instinct. Nothing more. Don’t you dare forget.

 

But Keith could feel that careful, cold logic slipping at Shiro’s fingers returned to his rim, playing in the slick that seeped from him, and his mouth soon followed.

 

X

 

Shiro was trying to get him to eat.

 

Keith didn’t want to eat, though. He wanted more of that cresting pleasure that Shiro had been giving him so diligently. He wanted the wet cavern of Shiro’s mouth or the thickness of his fingers or the girth of his dick, burning as it stretched him.

 

“Please,” Shiro said and his voice was strained in that way that made Keith think he had been at this argument for a while, though Keith couldn’t exactly recall. He pressed a slice of ham against Keith’s lips. “For me?”

 

Well…if it was for Shiro.

 

Keith took what was offered, his teeth scraping against the salt of Shiro’s thumb.

 

“Perfect, sweetheart.” Shiro smoothed his hand through his hair as a reward. “So good for me.”

 

A grape was offered quickly after and Keith turned his nose up. He had eaten, hadn’t he?

 

“Keith,” Shiro chided, reprimand in his name alone.

 

Keith parted his lips.

 

As Shiro fed him, he took stock of his body, of where he was. His memories were a smear of GoodSogoodShiroGodsofuckinggood.. The sheets around them looked fresh though Keith couldn’t remember when they had been changed. This meant that his attempts at a nest were mused but he found he didn’t care. He felt the thickness of Shiro’s thighs beneath him, the broadness of his chest behind him, the bulge of his bicep as it wrapped around his chest, forcing his head up to eat. If he could make a nest out of a person, this was ideal. His scent was on every inhale and he could count the measures of his breath just from the motions of his chest, though he had no way to apply that to actual time.

 

How long had it been? He couldn’t even judge time by the scuzziness of his skin as he vaguely recalled a bath and a shower. Maybe multiple baths and showers? He remembered the hazy steam, smelling of something herby and Shiro, always Shiro, a constant anchor.

 

His own body ached. He couldn’t feel his lower half. His legs were just prickles of sensation.

 

“Keith, please.” Shiro sounded close to sobbing as he brought a cracker up to Keith’s lips and Keith found his jaw wired shut. His thumb arced up, put pressure on the hinge of his jaw.

 

What the fuck was this obsession Shiro had with him eating? He had eaten some meat and a couple grapes. Wasn’t that enough? He could still feel them half-congealed in crevices of his teeth, not having had the energy to tongue them clean.

 

He stole the cracker from Shiro’s fingers and brought the offending thing up to Shiro’s lips. See how he liked it.

 

As if to show him what he should do (or maybe because he was also hungry, Keith couldn’t remember seeing Shiro eating), Shiro ate the cracker from Keith’s fingers.

 

It was like a switchboard lit up in Keith’s brain.

 

He sat up, searching for the food. He spied the tray on the edge of the nightstand and swiped a cube of cheese from it, turning to press it to Shiro’s lips.

 

Shiro chuckled, catching his hand in its intended path. Keith whined. “Hey, hey.” Shiro caught his chin and Keith found his gaze. He thought he could be caught in a storm or drowning at sea and still he would always find Shiro’s gray, steady eyes. “I’ll eat, only if you eat. Fair?”

 

No, not fair. Never fair.

 

But Keith was a compromising man, so he nodded.

 

It went on like that, a piece for him, a piece for Shiro. Shiro only chided him once, when he tried to gobble his piece too fast, so he could return to feeding Shiro. But after they fell into an easy rhythm and some restless, clawing thing in Keith settled at this small and simple thing.

 

X

 

Shiro was fucking him.

 

And it was wonderful, beautiful. How had Keith gotten this far in life not getting fucked by Shiro and stayed sane? How had he spent hours on the couch with him doing benign stuff like watching shows or eating dinner and he had just ignored the fact that his dick was right there?

 

Keith clawed at the sheets beneath him (a different color from when he last recalled), crying out in loud, wailing sounds.

 

Shiro shushed him, his breath a hot pant by his ear, making not real efforts to silence him other than soft “Sssh, Sssh, I know.” Above him, his body was a magnificent collection of ligaments and musculature, all aimed at nailing Keith’s prostate. His hands were fists in the pillow by Keith’s head, tendons in his arm straining, and Keith spared a bright, fleeting moment to bemoan the absence of that biting grip on him.

 

Shiro was annoyingly diligent about that. Keith’s skin was still mostly unmarred, a sheet of porcelain. Keith wanted marks, a canvas of memories, be they deep, smarting bruises or deliberately placed hickeys.

 

But it wasn’t like Keith was in a state to debate and argue his case.

 

“Come for me,” Shiro told him, and, like a wire strung too tight, Keith did.

 

It was different this time, though. Less heat and wild, churning thoughts. More steady, grounding pressure with a harsh amount of clear thought.

 

It was ending, Keith realized. However long they had been here—a few days, a week, two weeks, year—it was finally ending.

 

Keith should be thrilled.

 

Shiro was still nestled deep within him as he crashed down from his high, the length of him twitching, still hard.

 

Still hard.

 

He hadn’t come in him once. Not even come from him. Keith’s memories were albeit slippery things but he thought he would remember the searing splatter of Shiro’s cum, a brand, the cast of Shiro’s face as he came, imprinted and cast to memory. While Keith had come numerous times, Shiro had been stalwart, seemingly unaffected.

 

 

While this discovery wasn’t a new disappointment—it had cropped up at various times, usually on the heels of a soul shattering orgasm—the reality hit him now that they were staring down the end of his heat.

 

He hadn’t knotted him. Hadn’t come. Hadn’t found relief in Keith’s body, not once.

 

Keith tried not to internalize it. Try being the key word.

 

Am I that disgusting? That repugnant? Am I that awful of an omega?

 

Tears burned at the corner of his eyes.

 

Petting back his hair (freshly washed, smelling of some faint coconut), Shiro soothed him. “Sssh. Sssh, sweet thing. It’s almost over.” He fisted him, Keith’s dick miraculously softening for what felt like the first time in ages. A chuckle left him, one that made Keith want to punch him. “We made it.”

 

Keith continued the dialogue in his head. We made it. Thank God it’s done. That’ll I never have to touch you again. Now promise to never miss another dose and we can forget this ever happened.

 

Keith twisted his hands in the sheets and shut his eyes tight, trying to hide from reality, to disappear back into that blissful, dreamy fog where nothing mattered so long as Shiro kept touching him.

 

Stop, stop, he chided his own stupid thoughts. This was what he had been worried about. What he had dreaded. Unable to tangle the mess of his own emotions, mute his own desperate fucking heart.

 

He was unable to hide his souring scent, though, as his distress, now freed from the heat haze, climbed.

 

Above him, Shiro made a noise of confusion and bent down, easing his nose against Keith’s scent gland. He licked, the motion cursory and soothing. Keith shuddered. “Settle for me?” he asked, and Keith tried. Of course he would try if Shiro asked, but his muscles were clamped down tight on his bones, his thoughts lost in a descending spiral. His jaw ached from how tightly he clenched it.

 

This was it. His one taste of Shiro. And it would haunt him, just as he feared it would. And they would try to get over it, try to act normal. At least, Shiro would. Keith wasn’t sure what normal even was anymore. They would try but it wouldn’t be enough because who could eat out their best friend’s ass platonically and still act like everything was a-okay over omelets every morning? But they would try because Shiro was just that good of a friend and Keith was desperate enough for any piece of him he could get, even if it was only crumbs. But, inevitably, it wouldn’t work because of course it wouldn’t and Keith would have to find a new place to live and a new best friend and it was all because he was a useless fucking omega—.

 

“—reathe, Keith. Breathe,” the bite of Shiro’s words were a jarring stop to his thoughts. His hand was on his sternum, metal fingers spread wide, brows scrunched as he waited for the aforementioned breath. Keith gasped down a gulp of oxygen, the motion burning his lungs. His vision blurred. Shiro was a collection of silver and black particles, the expanse of his chest a cut of white.

 

“One more for me.” Shiro’s fingers pressed down his chest, the pressure not ceasing until Keith complied. “That’s it. That’s all you have to do.”

 

Keith realized only then that Shiro was still in him. How much of a fucking mess did you have to be to have a near panic attack while your best friend’s dick was still in you?

 

Keith threw his arm over his face, trying to hide in the crook of his elbow.

 

“Can you talk to me?” The impact of Shiro’s voice wasn’t lessened in the shadows. It still sent shivers down Keith’s spine. “Can you let me know what freaked you out?”

 

Keith wet his lips. Shook his head.

 

Shiro didn’t admonish him. Instead, he only petted down the line of his rib cage, making little soothing sounds in his throat, arcing his neck closer so the pheromones went right to Keith’s brain.

 

He began to move. Nothing with intent, just little pivots of his hip, enough to graze Keith’s prostate and release certain chemicals in his brain as his mind diverted from disaster to horny. Keith didn’t try to hide the sounds this time, parting his lips, letting each little moan slip free. (If Mrs. Harris hadn’t heard by now, she was obviously deaf so there was no reason to keep quiet.) His arm fell free from his face and Shiro grasped it before it hit the pillow, lacing their fingers together with a squeeze, the action startlingly intimate.

 

Shiro was so good. The perfect attentive alpha. How someone hadn’t snagged him was beyond Keith.

 

Shiro braced one hand on the bed, the flex of his bicep right at Keith’s eye level. Keith’s fangs ached with the sudden urge to sink deep into the layer of muscle. Shiro already had too many marks on him that he hadn’t asked for, though.

 

Had he been like this with Adam? This diligent, this devoted? If so, what the heck was wrong with that man? Would he be like this when he found an actual omega, a real partner?

 

That thought caused a swooping sensation. Keith felt as if he was falling and hit the ground at a jolting speed.

 

Because he would find an omega. Someone he could spoil and knot and fuck into with any reserve, true desire tainting every action. How could he not? Keith hadn’t even met them yet but he already hated them with a depthless passion. Because they wouldn’t appreciate it. They would take it for granted, that this perfect, gentle alpha chose to love them.

 

Keith wanted to claw their eyes out.

 

“Easy, easy,” Shiro soothed, once more misinterpreting his scent suddenly souring. He squeezed their interlocked fingers. That cinnamon smell poured over him like a wave, trying to blunt the burrs of thoughts that had tangled his brain. “You’re okay. It’ll be over soon, sweetheart.” He deliberately grazed Keith’s prostate on a stroke that was lingering, scoring somewhere deep within Keith.

 

As vividly as Keith had seen their separation after the fact, he saw Shiro’s future. He would meet a good omega who didn’t fuck up their cycles with suppressants. They would let him spoil them and they would crow over their good luck on finding him. He would fall in love because how could he not? And Keith would become an ink blot of a memory, something to tote out at parties when the conversation was lagging, “You wanna hear about the time my stupid friend forgot a dose of his suppressants?” And Keith’s neediness would be fodder for laughter.

 

Keith’s chest hurt. His lungs had shrunk. There suddenly wasn’t enough air in the world.

 

“Breathe,” Shiro reminded him, one hand spanning his chest, stilling his movements until Keith settled.

 

But...for now, Shiro was nestled dick deep in Keith and this other omega was an amorphous thing. Looming, sure, but not evident, at least not yet.

 

Keith squeezed his lower muscles experimentally, feeling the length of him, speared so deep Keith wasn’t sure how he wasn’t fucking his guts. The girth of him stretching his rim, molding around his shape, as if Keith were made for him.

 

Shiro’s hand convulsed as it fisted around the sheets by Keith’s head. “Keith,” he chided in a much different one. Sweat made his hair limply hang in his face. His face was flushed red and Keith noted a smear of something shiny on his brow, possibly slick from when he had been eating him out.

 

For now, Shiro was here with him, in him, with Keith’s slick on his face and the ghost of Keith's hands all across his body.

 

And that expanse along the column of his neck was still unclaimed.

 

Keith knew there was usually a second between thought and action. The brain worked too fast for the body to keep up, which was probably for the best. There was a second to rethink the thought, to restrain the body, to deliberate.

 

But that critical step seemed to be one of the wires that was still knocked loss in his brain.

 

He saw the area of Shiro’s scent gland, pristine. And he saw the ghost of some other omega’s fangs there, as if it had already happened.

 

He’s not yours, Keith snarled to the faceless, unknown omega.

 

Keith’s fangs throbbed.

 

He’s mine.

 

And that second between thought and action devolved into nothing as he reared up and sank his fangs deep into Shiro’s scent gland in a hard, claiming bite. His limbs folded around Shiro, clinging, wary of him rearing back, knocking Keith off even as the scar set.

 

Beneath him, Shiro jerked, but made no move to free himself or push Keith away.

 

No, instead, Keith felt the splatter of cum against his inner walls, the swelling of his knot plugging him, filling him, as Shiro finally, finally came inside of him.

 

Notes:

Keith, no. Bad, bad Keith. Very bad Keith.

Chapter 11

Notes:

Okay, don't hate me. We have one more chapter of poor communication or just a reluctance to communicate at all.

Put You Through Me

 

Keith woke and wished he hadn’t.

 

Everything ached, as if he had been put through a wringer, squeezed and pressed out. A small flex of his foot made muscles twinge in protest. His ass burned and a shifting of his legs caused a bright spark of pain to settle in deep. His dick felt raw, chafed and swollen, and he wondered if he would ever get hard again. (The thought alone was a cold bucket of water; he vowed to never, ever orgasm ever again.) Even the ends of his hair seemed to hold bites of hurt, awakening with any tiny movement.

 

Beneath him, the sheets (Shiro’s sheets, Shiro’s bed, he put together slowly) were cold and clean, despite the clammy dampness of his skin. A light comforter had been pulled up over his naked form and though he was uncomfortable with its heat, he made no move to shift it away. His limbs felt heavy and awkward, as if they had been weighted down and reattached on opposite sides. A gray hoodie was by his head and he reached for it, in a trance, bringing the soft fabric to his nose as he inhaled deeply, scent triggering some chemical release of a sedative. He could practically taste the cinnamon; it was that potent.

 

Memories were sparks in his head, a picture that was gradually revealed to him and when he could view its full shape, he cringed. His heat. And Shiro. Everywhere Shiro. On top of him, beside him, in him. The images scalded him. The memory of his voice, so reedy and needy, pitched high, desperate, everything he had ever feared…

 

What distressed him more was how much he had liked it. How each flicker of remembrance made heat pool low in his gut even while embarrassment claimed logical thought. He hadn’t felt that good in...well, ever. It felt good to give control over to somebody else, to trust them and be rewarded for it, not penalized. His handjobs and fumbled fingerings now seemed laughably inept. His dick goddamn twitched as he recalled the shape of Shiro’s wet tongue pushing into him, as if it hadn’t learned its fucking lesson.

 

I am never going to be able to get that out of mind.

 

Keith feared he was ruined.

 

Keith wished for death as he laid there, cheeks burning, the irrefutable evidence held in the state of his body, torn between arousal and humiliation. He was surprised he didn’t hurt more, considering everything. Yes, there was a deep ache in his muscles, and his whole body throbbed like a bruise, but it wasn’t the bright crippling pain of ligaments torn and a body pushed past its limitations.

 

The room reeked of sex. And Keith wondered how much they had had to go at it for it to saturate into the air like that, a physical presence.

 

A swipe of his tongue against his teeth, feeling fuzzy from plaque, revealed a brief taste of iron. He prodded his tongue along the cavern of his mouth, searching for the injury his teeth had made.

 

The sound of the door and the padding of feet startled him. He lifted his head, neck cracking, and pushed himself up, limbs trembling under the strain of his own weight.

 

Shiro padded into the room, clad in a thin sweatshirt and boxers, a tray of food held aloft in his arms. Something in Keith’s chest tightened, a new ache making itself known. He seemingly didn’t realize Keith was awake, bending to deposit the tray on the nightstand, moving a small army of empty water bottles to make room, the stretched neckline of his sweatshirt slipping down as he did so—.

 

No.

 

The mating bite, still raw and fresh, in the shape of his own mouth, smacked Keith in the face.

 

Nonononononono—.

 

Shiro jolted, nostrils flaring, turning to face Keith, knocking empty, dented water bottles to the floor in the process. Keith smelt his own fear lancing through the air, a sharp sour tang, like rotten fruit. He scrambled across the bed, ignoring his own body’s protests from the abrupt, jerking movements. He was one long, ceaseless scream as guilt drowned him. He couldn’t have—. He wouldn’t—. Except He had. The proof was right there. Shiro had just been trying to help and Keith had violated that trust, becoming the single most awful person in the entire world, lower than dirt—.

 

“Keith—.” Shiro caught him around the waist as he leapt from the bed. He hadn’t realized his plan was to flee, was all forward motion as he fought the restraining line of Shiro’s forearm, hands scrabbling against the metal, the open doorway a tempting goal.

 

His body worked against his mind as his knees folded beneath him, muscles failing him. Shiro caught him before he could meet the ground, scooping him up, as if he weighed nothing. Still Keith fought, all elbows and desperation. Shiro’s grip on him stayed gentle, as it always did, because Shiro was never the problem, Keith was—.

 

He got an up close look at the damage he had done and that was all he could see, taking up his entire view. The mark was haloed in bruises, blossoms of purple where blood vessels had ruptured from the pressure of his teeth. Keith spied other marks—from his nails, his fingertips, the knobby press of his knees, any part of him that could be used as a weapon, he had—disappearing under his clothes, painting an awful story. Anyone who looked at Shiro would think he had gotten into a fight with a feral badger. Keith shut his eyes, shame flooding his belly.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” fell from Keith’s lips, a litany of pleas but no matter how many he said would never be enough.

 

His back met the mattress and Shiro was over him, pinning him down, stopping his flailing elbows, his lurching knees. That wonderful smell wafted over him, tried to coax him into relaxation but Keith fought it. He didn’t deserve it. He deserved nothing—.

 

“Keith, stop.” The sharp slap of Shiro’s voice accompanied with a biting grip on the nape of his neck had Keith halting, suspended over a wide, yawning void, ready to devour him whole. The only reason he didn’t continue falling was Shiro. Shiro held him on the precipice, his eyes molten as they hovered above him, the set of his features… Disgusted? Exasperated? Disappointed? Keith couldn’t categorize emotions in his current state.

 

“Stop,” Shiro repeated, gentler this time, punctuating the word with a squeeze to the nape of his neck. He didn’t scruff and shake Keith, as he deserved, instead just applying that glorious grounding pressure. “Breathe for me.”

 

Keith hadn’t realized until then that he was denying himself air. Trapped sobs seemed to clog his throat. Upon his first faltering breath, one slipped through, cracking through the air, awful to hear.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said with his earned breath, swallowing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He worried saying it so much would undercut its significance but he was unable to stop himself, needing Shiro to know, to understand how ugly and horrid he felt. “I’m sorry—.”

 

Another squeeze to the back of his neck and Keith was silenced as if his airway had been cut off. “Stop,” he said again, voice gentle, soothing as a balm. His thumb started a small trail up and down the ridge of Keith’s spine. “I’m not mad. I’ m not, Keith. You were under so much stress. Your hormones were going haywire. You were…” He sighed, seemingly unable to finish, a blush crawling up from his neck, eyes cloudy like he was reliving the hell he had been put through. Keith wondered which adjective he had been about to use. Slutty? Needy? Lustful and uncaring? “This? This is just what you needed at the time.”

 

Keith twisted his head, trying to hide, finding there was nowhere to flee from out from under Shiro’s burning gaze and that ghastly mark. He didn’t deserve it. This level of understanding, this absolution. “I still shouldn’t have done it,” he murmured. It was a violation. An atrocious violation of Shiro’s trust, of his consent, and it spoke of nothing good about Keith’s fragile impulse control.

 

It just proved how right he had been in taking those suppressants. He was a terrible omega. Biology had made a very bad mistake.

 

Shiro dragged in a breath. “I know. I know, swe—Keith. It’s not a big deal, I promise you.” Keith wanted to argue. “Look, it’ll fade after a while.”

 

The thought of it fading sent a mad, violent panic through Keith. His fangs seemed to pulse where they were anchored into his mouth, having not fully retracted yet as his heat wore down. His jaw ached as he clenched it so tight, fighting back the instinct to latch on again, to make the mark deeper, bigger. Contempt consumed Keith. He should want it to fade, to erase the reminder of this awful moment. He pondered if he could pull his fangs out with pliers while they were still present, if that would solve some of the problem and be a sufficient punishment.

 

It wasn’t like he would ever need them.

 

Shiro’s hand was on his jaw now, fingers brushing over the tightness. “Hey, stop.” He massaged at the area where Keith’s jaw hinged, as if to force him to loosen it. “Relax for me.” Despite his best efforts, Keith did, muscles spooling into jelly, teeth clicking as they unclenched, Shiro’s voice tied to some vital control in his body.

 

“You can bite me if you want,” Keith offered, tilting his head to the side, offering up his neck, a shiver of fear creeping down his spine as the vulnerable area was bared. “To make it even.”

 

Keith knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he had made a grave error. Even before Shiro froze above him and the air was suddenly saturated with a deeper spice, he knew he had fucked up.

 

Shiro’s hand left him and, though he deserved far worse, in that moment, that small denial of touch to his heated skin seemed punishment enough.

 

“Keith.” Shiro seemed to have to work to get the words out, voice throaty. His hands fisted in the sheets by Keith’s head. His eyes looked angry and...hungry? “I’m not going to bite you just to make it even.”

 

Keith squirmed, searching once more for an escape route out from underneath Shiro. “I know. ‘M sorry. Forget it. Forget I said anything.” Why would he think Shiro would want to bite him? He, a poor, sad omega who couldn’t even control himself? Even if the mark did fade, why would Shiro want one more tether to him?

 

Shiro’s hands were back on him and Keith felt like he had been given a gift he didn’t deserve. His palm stroked a path over his rib cage, petting, soothing. It was only then that Keith registered his nakedness—that they had been having this entire conversation with his dick just hanging out there, saying hello—and he slotted his legs together tight in humiliation.

 

“How do you feel otherwise?” Shiro asked him. “Anywhere hurt?”

 

Keith wouldn’t tell him even if he had an open wound, so he shook his head. “Just sore. Achy.”

 

Shiro’s hands landed on his thighs, easily sliding between them and prying them apart. Keith was almost embarrassed how easily he allowed him to do so, just a doll for Shiro to manipulate, exposing him once more. It wasn’t like Shiro hadn’t already seen it all and more, but it was different without the drunkenness of his heat addling his thoughts. Keith shut his eyes, unable to take the sight of Shiro crouched over him, gazed riveted to the V between his legs. The darkness was almost worse though as he was unable to anticipate Shiro’s touch, bold and curious, on his inner thighs, scalding as they skated upwards, thankful bypassing his balls and dick. Keith jolted as he felt his thumb press down on his hole. He didn’t even breach him, just touched him, but still a hiss of pain left Keith as his rim burned from that small contact.

 

“You need to be honest with me,” Shiro chided.

 

“Sorry,” Keith offered, tucking his head against his shoulder. Why couldn’t he just be fucking better?

 

Shiro’s touch left him, he heard the sound of Shiro’s nightstand drawer, then Shiro’s finger was back on him, pressing something cold and chilling to his rim. Keith’s eyes opened at the strange sensation, his muscles tensing, rim tingling. He scrambled for something to ground him and found only Shiro’s shoulders, Shiro’s weight over him.

 

Shiro shushed him, hands solid as they stayed on him, one hand smearing the cool liquid on his hole, the other braced on his thigh, keeping him spread. “It’s a numbing gel,” Shiro told him. His thumb pressed down, breaching him, just the tip, pushing more of that gel in. “It’ll help.”

 

Keith shook at the sensations, the memories they evoked, falling down around him like leaves shaken from a tree. He could feel Shiro’s thumb pressing in, the shape of it, the wideness of his knuckle a delicious burning stretch that was quickly doused as the gel started to take effect. Keith almost resented it, wanted to feel the spark of pain, of discomfort fading as pleasure won out.

 

Shiro’s thumb left him all too soon, fingers ghosting around his rim, rubbing the last of the liquid in. “Anywhere else?” he asked.

 

Keith shook his head.

 

“Are you sure?” Shiro smoothed his hands over his thighs, a half massage.

 

Keith nodded.

 

Shiro’s hand suddenly fisted around his dick. Keith arced off the bed. He hadn’t even realized he had grown half-hard, erection pressing into Shiro’s palm.

 

“What about here?” Shiro asked him.

 

Keith quaked and yet all Shiro was doing was holding him, palm cold as it grasped him. While there wasn’t any fresh gel on his hand, the residue from when he had smeared on his hole was there and Keith could feel the faint tingling effects where it pressed against his shaft.

 

“I-It’s fine,” he stammered to Shiro. “Just ignore it.”

 

Shiro sighed out, as if disappointed. “Keith, you don’t ignore your body’s needs. That’s not healthy.” He twisted his hand, palm cupping Keith to examine him, thumb stroking over Keith’s head. Keith glanced down and wished he hadn’t. The sight of his dick cradled in Shiro’s broad hand—red and straining, admittedly chafed and angry, a pearl of precum on his tip, poised to fall on Shiro’s thumb—did something to him. The erection almost hurt as it swelled.

 

Shiro clucked his tongue, giving a firm stroke to Keith that had him seeing stars. “Can you be honest with me for a few questions? Just nod yes or shake your head for no. I know it’s hard, sweetheart. Can you do that?”

 

Keith bobbed his head in a nod. For Shiro, he could do that. For Shiro, he could try.

 

“Do you feel good like this?” He punctuated the question with a pointed stroke, tightening his hold on Keith.

 

Keith nodded, unable to deny it, cheeks and ears burning.

 

“Do you want to come?”

 

Keith jerked his head in a nod.

 

“Would you let anyone do this to you? Anyone who was willing?”

 

The question was odd enough that it gave Keith pause.

 

“Would you let anyone see you like this, Keith?” Shiro elaborated, his voice pitching low, near frenetic. His eyes looked wholly dark, pupils swallowing up his irises, riveted to Keith’s dick cradled in his palm, a hint of fang showing in his parted lips. “Any alpha? So long as they were willing to take care of you?”

 

Keith shook his head, hard and fast.

 

“Do you regret that it’s me seeing you like this?”

 

Keith did, on some level, because he didn’t want to be like this for Shiro. This sniveling, covetous thing. But, out of all the options he had, he did recognize that Shiro was and always would be his only option to feel safe and secure.

 

He shook his head.

 

“Will you let me take care of you?”

 

Nod, nod, all the nodding. Keith was a lecherous thing, he would take so long as Shiro offered.

 

Shiro squeezed him, tight enough for a cry to leave Keith, the ghost of an orgasm clawing at his gut. “Then, let’s get this taken care of one last time.”

 

X

 

The following days, as the heat leached from Keith’s system, Shiro and Keith circled each other like they were ghosts forced to haunt the same perimeter. It was awkward, just as Keith had feared. He couldn’t meet Shiro’s gaze over the kitchen table, conversation stilted, one-sided on Shiro’s part as Keith found his tongue numb in his mouth. His gaze always strayed to Shiro’s neck and he thought he might be developing some masochistic habits as each time he saw the bite, it hurt, yet he still didn’t try to stop his wandering gaze. He often fled and hid in his room at the first opportunity. It was admittedly easier to just not try.

 

Keith knew he wasn’t helping things. He wasn’t even trying to pretend like things were fine, wasn’t putting in the effort. But every time he saw Shiro’s face, his lips, his hands...it was a domino effect of discovering some new memory in the sea of his heat.

 

His heat had lasted six days. From Monday to Saturday, an unusually long time but all things considered not unexpected. Keith marveled at the time once he had figured it out. Had he really spent six days getting deliriously fucked? How the fuck could he even walk?

 

It wasn’t just the fucking that haunted him, though. It was the flashes of tenderness, the constant touching, the anchoring presence in his body and scent just being near.

 

He called Romelle, let her know he was alive.

 

“So…” she prompted, her voice leading. “How was it?”

 

“Fucking awful,” he grumbled, the lie tasting wrong on his tongue.

 

“But Shiro took care of you?”

 

Keith felt like crying. His eyes smarted and he threw his hand over them to hide even though his sister couldn’t see. “Yeah. Yeah, he did.”

 

He thought at times that maybe his heat was still ongoing, that it hadn’t ended, that he was stuck in a perpetual lingering heat. It would explain the sudden erections he got just from a fleeting glimpse of Shiro’s hands, the constant, ever-present heat warming his veins, making his skin itch uncomfortably, the way his mind just plummeted into horny thoughts unprompted.

 

He could bend me over and fuck me and knot me right here, he thought while brushing his teeth at the sink one day. I would have to watch my own reflection, see just how depraved I am.

 

When his dick had somewhat recovered, he tried jerking off one night, so desperate he was for some relief. He had been pulling on his dick for a full thirty minutes before he realized something was wrong. While he was hard, he wasn’t reaching orgasm, wasn’t even coming close. Something about his own hand, his own clumsy touch. He denied himself reaching for memories that he knew could help him along, grounding his teeth together. He continued to try, nearing tears as the minutes wore on, as his dick began to truly hurt from his fumbling and relief hovered out of reach. With muffled scream into his pillow, Keith rationalized his dick was fucking broken. Even his own bed smelt wrong, cold and foreign.

 

The fact was, he knew if he went to Shiro, sniveling and pathetic, Shiro would probably cave and help him, attributing it to his lingering hormones, his chemical imbalance. But it felt dangerous to acknowledge this as then the only thing keeping Keith from satisfaction and blissful relief was his own fragile sense of morality.

 

He wanted to hate Shiro.

 

But he could tell Shiro was trying, desperately harder than Keith, to restore things to normality. While Keith was holed up in his room, he knocked on the door with offers of movies and games. “I’ll let you win at Scrabble,” he offered once which was laughable as Keith always won at Scrabble; Shiro was terrible at spelling. “Why the fuck did you think there was a g in kernel?” “I thought it was a silent g.” He left plates of food by his closed door when Keith skipped meals, food that Keith let go cold, only caving when his ravenous hunger won out. Left laundry folded, neat and tidy, and Keith knew the gesture was a thoughtful one but he couldn’t help but view it as taunting. You can’t even do your own fucking laundry?

 

This dance seemed to stretch on, infinite and endless, a prolonged hell.

 

In reality, it had only been four days.

 

Shiro had knocked on his door that evening. “I’m returning to work tomorrow,” he warned. He waited for a response, though Keith never gave one, huddled under the covers, tucked into as small of a ball as possible, willing himself to disappear. It hadn’t worked thus far but Keith was determined. Keith’s own job waited for him but Shiro had cautioned against returning. “You’re still giving off hormones,” he had warned. Keith had sniffed at himself, trying to discern his own scent amid the mess of senses but if he did smell, he was scent-blind to it. “It’s the aftereffects of a heat. Your body needs time to wind itself down. Usually it only lasts for a day or two but… Well, let’s just be cautious.”

 

Keith knew he didn’t to get on with it, needed to go back to work and stop leeching off of Shiro, possibly needed to find a new place to live. But all he had the energy to do was lie here in the dark, body yearning for something it couldn’t have, aching like Keith was denying it some physical need.

 

“Unless...you need me for anything?” Shiro said into the quiet. “I can squeeze another day off.”

 

Keith folded his hands tight around himself, trying to contain himself when all he wanted to do was leap from the bed, open the door, and attach himself to Shiro like Velcro. He tried petting his fingers along his neck, his collarbone, as he remembered Shiro doing to soothe him, but it had none of the same effect.

 

The bite, he realized with horror and glee.

 

A glimpse of Shiro the following morning when he darted from his room to grab a granola bar, though, showed a sleeveless turtleneck effectively hiding the mark.

 

Keith felt like he had been punched.

 

Of course he’s not going to parade around with your bite mark, he chastised himself.

 

He needed these stupid fucking feelings to stop. He needed to go back on his suppressants or get something stronger that would blunt all these desires, turn him into a Ken doll with a smooth blob where his genitals had been. He had been waiting to take them, not exactly knowing when this post heat or whatever it was would wear off.

 

At least with Shiro back to work, he was no longer sequestered to his room.

 

Padding out into the space made him feel guilty, though. The place reeked of Shiro, of his distress and anxiety, all further triggering his flight instincts, making him unable to relax. He turned on his heel to flee back to his room when he spied something on the kitchen counter.

 

Shiro’s lunch box.

 

Shiro had a system. He brought his lunch three days out of the week, meal prepping for it every Sunday. This allowed him to stick within his budget and his calorie intake. Shiro was usually meticulous about these things but it didn’t surprise Keith that he had forgotten it with all the stress he had put him under.

 

The thought appeared in his head. I could take it to him. As an apology. He could be useful, helpful this one time. To make up for all his selfishness.

 

He searched for his shoes.

 

X

 

He had to take the subway as he didn’t feel up to taking his bike. That already set him on edge, had him frazzled by the time he got to the precinct. He noticed ever since his heat and maybe it was lack of suppressants as well that his senses had been in overdrive, especially his sense of smell. When Shiro fried onions in the kitchen, he could smell them through his closed door as if they were right beneath his nose. On the subway, with everyone crowded together, the mix of smells—orange blossoms of perfume, sandalwood of cologne, mint of mouthwash, the stale, clogging scent of sweat—almost sent him into a panic. His hands fisted around the lunchbox, clutching it like a lifeline. For Shiro, he repeated it, a mantra as he counted the stops. For Shiro.

 

People cast glances at him as he passed and, at first, he thought he had a giant, blinking neon sign, screaming OMEGA over his head. He had slapped a scent blocking patch over his scent gland before he had left (having prepped and ordered them off of Amazon the day he came out of his heat, even paying for expedited shipping) but even the reviews had said they weren’t one hundred percent effective. Catching his reflection in a window as he walked down the street though, showed he wasn’t displaying any outward signs of omeganess, he just looked fucking miserable.

 

His hair hung about him, shaggy and in need of a cut. He hadn’t bothered to brush it in a day or two so he probably had some mats he would have to cut out. His cheeks were sunken, his sink sallow and glistening with nervous sweat from being crammed into the subway train. His eyes were weighed down with bags, purple bruises staining his skin. His neck was blotching where the scent patch was suctioned to his skin and he wondered if he was allergic to something in the latex. Not like he was taking it off. His hand held a tremor where it clutched the lunch box. He tightened his hold, trying to stop it, but it only worsened. Pulling down his sleeve to try to hide it, he ducked his head and continued on.

 

Upon entering the precinct, the AC blasted him, made him feel like he was entering a freezer. If he was remembering right, he thought Shiro’s desk was near the back. He would recognize it from the Captain America Funko pop he had bought him (and the fact that his pens would be organized by color). He prayed Shiro wasn’t there, at the moment, that he could just drop it off and go, his good act silent.

 

In a stroke of good luck, when he reached it, Shiro’s desk was in fact empty.

 

Unfortunately, the one across from him was not.

 

Matt peered over the divider between the desks, eyes widening. “Keith. Sheesh, man, what grave did you crawl out of? Shiro said you were sick for a bit, but, geezus, didn’t know you were at death’s door.”

 

Keith debated hissing at him. But he could see Matt producing a spray bottle from nowhere as if he was prepared for such events.

 

He settled for grumbling something, setting Shiro’s lunch box on his desk, turning to leave.

 

“Aw, look at that.” Matt crooned at the lunch box, leaping from his chair. “What a good little housewife you are. Bringing him his lunch.”

 

Keith’s shoulders hiked up to his ears. “Where is he anyway?” The smell of him, cinnamon and cloves, was stale here but Keith supposed that was typical as he had been off for a week.

 

Matt gestured somewhere behind him. “Someone wanted to come in and give a statement. They were worked up so we sent Shiro in. He’s good at that stuff. Makes people feel safe.”

 

Keith’s gaze passed over the glass offices lined up along one side of the wall. His gaze snagged when it caught a familiar shape, all shoulders and the broad slope of a back (a back he vividly recalled raking his nails down). He sat across from a man. An omega. Keith didn’t want to assume but he looked like an omega, slumped shoulders, big eyes, and hair that fell into his face. He looked close to tears. Shiro reached across the table, touched his wrist, and it was such a fleeting thing, but the man turned his gaze up and Keith couldn’t blame him. He knew what it felt like to have an alpha like that, baritone voice soothing in its rumble, intimidating in stature and yet so gentle, so kind. The omega looked at him with yearning.

 

And Keith wanted to rip into his fucking face.

 

He had to anchor his feet where they stood, had to ball his fist and allow his nails to dig into his palms, until the spark of pain was felt. He ground his teeth together hard, his fangs ached. A growl caught in his throat. His thoughts were howling, feral things.

 

Get away from him. Stay away. He’s mine. Mine! He’s not yours. He wears my bite.

 

And yet the omega couldn’t see his claiming bite. Shiro had covered it up. The marks and bruises on his arms had faded. All evidence of Keith had been wiped from him, as easily as dust clearing.

 

The anger, as quickly as it had consumed him, turned to anguish.

 

He’s not yours. He’s not.

 

Matt reeled back from him, nostrils flaring, eyes widening. “Dude—!”

 

Keith ducked his head, turned on his heel, and fled.

 

X

 

Matt’s day just kept getting weirder. First a sulky, miserable Shiro, acting like he had come back from a funeral, not a week of caring for his sick roommate. (What kind of sickness called for your roommate to serve as a nurse?) And then Keith and his...whatever that was. He swore he had smelt like—.

 

“I thought I left this at home.” Shiro examined his lunchbox with a pinched brow, returning from taking the guy’s statement. A glance over Shiro’s shoulder showed Matt the hopeless omega still mooning after him but that wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. Shiro should come with a warning label.

 

“Keith brought it in,” Matt answered.

 

Something bitter lanced through the air, making Matt’s hackles rise.

 

“He what?”

 

Matt examined his previous statement, looking for a possible trigger. He could find none save for maybe Keith’s name alone but he double checked to make sure he hadn't said something like "Keith's a sweet piece of ass." Though, if he had said such a thing and to Shiro's face nonetheless, there was no question he would be dead by now. “He...brought it in?” Matt repeated.

 

“He’s supposed to be resting,” Shiro fumed, something like panic in his expression. “How’d he even get here? He can’t ride his bike.”

 

“I’m assuming the subway.”

 

“He took the subway?!”

 

“People take the subway, Shiro. It’s kind of a universal thing called public transport.” Matt paused. “Though, I will admit he didn’t look so hot. And he smelled—.”

 

Something malevolent possessed Shiro. “You smelt him?” he repeated, low and murderous, as if Matt had done something egregious like seeing Keith’s bare ankles. Matt knew better. Keith was Shiro’s in all save for verbalized commitment recognized in a court of law. Even if Keith were to stroll in buck naked, Matt would be better served plucking his own eyeballs out first. Even when Keith wore his crop tops, Matt kept his gaze averted upwards, as if Keith was a foot taller than he actually was, just to be on the safe side. 

 

“Not, like, deliberately,” Matt defended. “It was kinda hard not to. It’s like when you were stinking up the place.” He recalled the sharp stench of distress, uncommon for a beta to produce but if Keith had already been weakened from being sick… Matt was no biology major but maybe it was possible.

 

Why else would he smell like an omega?

 

A very sweet omega admittedly.

 

As if he could gleam his thoughts, Shiro loomed, gaze cutting. “Where is he?”

 

Matt shrugged. “He left a couple minutes ago. Probably to go home?”

 

“By the subway.” Shiro’s lip curled over the word. Matt wondered what subways had ever done to Shiro, if they had ever killed his dog or something equally horrific.

 

...Although, if Keith was smelling like a heat-sweet omega, a crowded subway train probably wasn’t the best place to be.

 

“Presumably.”

 

A curse left Shiro and he sprung into action, turned towards the door, shouting over his shoulder. “Cover for me.”

 

“Since when did I become your secretary?” Matt shouted at his back. Shiro’s phone rang at his desk and Matt reached for it, answering in his best douche-of-the-year, customer service voice, “Takashi Shirogane’s office, may I take a message?”

Notes:

I mean, cannonically this is their dynamic. Keith does something dumb. Shiro panics.

I promise you these two idiots will figure it out though.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Warning: COMMUNICATION.

Reader discretion is advised.

Put You Through Me

 

Keith tried to calm himself as he waited for the subway, but his thoughts were slippery, barbed things. He had no reason to be feeling this way—angry, betrayed, jealous—and yet he did, some wire in his brain acting independently of logic, and this was causing a confusing mix of shame and self-hatred to join the mix. Moreover, a layer of tiredness was blanketing him, making sounds muted and his vision fuzzy. For the first time, he rethought his decision for such an excursion.

 

He tried petting his fingers along his jaw, tapping on his collarbone, aggressively stroking the pulse point on his wrist but nothing helped. His hands were not Shiro’s and they lacked this necessary sedative. He pulled the neckline of his hoodie up and held it closed, not trusting the scent blocker as his anxiety mounted. It itched something fierce and he fisted his hands to fight against the instinct to scratch at it.

 

The subway finally arrived after what felt like an hour of waiting. When the doors opened—a warm, snick of air—Keith reeled back, scents assaulting him like fists. He ground his teeth as those around him jostled to get on and tried not to breathe as he, too, plowed forward. It smelt like what he imagined a petri dish did when allowed to let the bacteria bake and cultivate under a hot sun. He kept his inhales shallow as he gripped a railing and took up a stance, but it did nothing to dampen the impact. He felt the scents go straight up to his brain, left to buzz and batter around. The doors shut and the train lurching forward felt like a prison sentence.

 

Stop it. His heart was rabbit-fast in his chest, panic growing, forced to be contained as he held himself still and silent. Stop being dramatic. You’ve ridden the subway before.

 

Yes, but it had never smelt like this, like everything around Keith was trying to suffocate him. He couldn’t even pick out one individual smell. At least, not at first. Then, a whiff of cloves slipped through and had his shoulders stiffening.

 

Some instinctual part of his brain categorized it before Keith could. Alpha.

 

Which was ridiculous because of course there were alphas on this train.

 

But something about this particular alpha’s scent had Keith feeling unsettled, had his gaze roving for an exit, of which there was none because Keith was trapped in a moving metal box, being drowned in unfamiliar and strange scents. He surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder, folding his other arm in tight to himself, trying to pinpoint the source of the cloves, just so he knew where the danger lied. He wasn’t a bloodhound, though, and he found his eyes pinballing from body to body unhelpfully.

 

Another breath and more cloves, this time more potent, like they were closer.

 

Keith shifted, watching the tunnel flash by through the window, anticipating the next stop. He could get off there, walk home if he had to. Though his limbs felt heavy and he felt as if he could fall asleep if only he weren’t so anxious, he would suffer through the trek home over this confinement of the subway train, that clove stench circling around him, a stalking predator.

 

It didn’t matter that this was a semi-packed cab and there were eyes everywhere and feasibly nothing could happen. Keith felt as unsettled as if he were alone in a darkened alley at night.

 

Useless energy made his calves tight. He flexed his feet, trying to dilute the helpless feeling. As he did so, he felt it. A strange palm grazed his ass, fingers deliberate and curious over the fabric of his sweatpants, that reeking stench of cloves right there.

 

Keith jerked away, his shoulders hiking towards his ears. He twisted, snarl ready on his lips, fight or flight deciding on fight as there was nowhere to go, when a shadow loomed, blotting out the subway lights above him.

 

“Walk away now before I hurt you,” came a voice that was all gravel and achingly familiar.

 

Keith found himself sagging, listing forward, even before he registered the broad back, the tapered lines of his waist, the folds of his black bomber jacket as recognizable as his own hand. That cinnamon smell had a Pavlovian response trigger in his brain. The panic and anxiety in him settled, quieted.

 

“You really need to keep a better eye on him then,” came a waspish voice. Keith couldn’t see him over the curve of Shiro’s shoulder, had no desire to. “When he’s out here, smelling like that, someone’s bound to—.”

 

“Walk. Away,” Shiro enunciated each word, leaving no room for argument.

 

A shiver racked down Keith’s spine, not out of fear for the snarl in Shiro’s voice, but for the strength behind it.

 

Safe.Safe.Safe.

 

“Keith.” Shiro said his name like a curse, turning to face him, keeping his body between Keith’s and the rest of the car. He curved slightly, bracing his arm against the wall behind Keith, encasing Keith with his body alone. It provided a relieving smother to the scents, a buffer. His other hand folded over where Keith’s rested limply against the railing, fingers clenching down tight over Keith’s. “What are you doing?”

 

“I-I was bringing you your lunch. What… Did you follow me?”

 

“You’re darn right I did.” He bent forward, lowering his voice, gray eyes glinting under the fluorescent lighting. “The subway, Keith? Really? After—. You’re supposed to be resting.”

 

“You forgot your lunch,” Keith pointed out again, matching his heated whisper.

 

“Fuck the lunch, Keith. Look, you should never feel that you can’t go anywhere simply because you’re an omega, but some places just aren’t smart. Trapped in a subway car when you’re just coming out of your heat is one of them.”

 

“I have a scent blocker on!” Keith tugged the neckline of his hoodie aside to bear the thing, as itchy as it was.

 

Shiro’s gaze darkened like the scent blocker had personally offended him. He seemed to have to drag his gaze away from it, back onto Keith’s face. “Those things are not effective.”

 

“Well, I did the best I could do all things considered.” Keith let his hoodie go slack. “I can start back up on my suppressants soon anyway and then we never have to worry about this again.”

 

Shiro stiffened. The hand over his tightened to an almost painful degree, metal joints pinching his skin as they compressed. The cinnamon scent lanced through the air, thick and cloying. “Keith…you can’t be serious.”

 

Keith tucked himself back against the wall, feeling the momentum of the train reverberate up through his spine. He tried to put more distance between them, but the wall and his trapped hand under Shiro’s restrained him. “About what?”

 

“Your suppressants?!” Shiro looked as if he wanted to shake him, damn their audience of commuters. “Really?! After everything you just went through, you want to start taking them again?”

 

“The suppressants weren’t the problem—.”

 

“They’re illegal for a reason, Keith!” He stopped as his voice rose, lowering it back down with considerable effort as the curious gaze of a woman on a nearby seat eyed them, probably living for this free drama. “We’ll… We’ll discuss it when we get home, okay?”

 

Keith wasn’t sure what there was to discuss. Keith was an omega. He sucked at it. Hence, he needed those suppressants.

 

“Okay?” Shiro prompted, voice firm, prying for an answer that Keith was not giving in his surliness.

 

The car shook then as they hit a rough patch. The motion jostled Keith forward into Shiro, pushing him against the width of his chest, and he...melted.

 

This must be what addicts felt like after succumbing. Blissful, shameful relief. Keith didn’t realize then how much he had denied himself in those days spent curled up under his comforter. The feeling of Shiro’s body was a balm. His skin drank it up, every micro of contact, blunted as it was through the layers of their clothing. It almost hurt, but in the way of a tense muscle slackening. Keith wanted to rub against him like some needy cat, wanted to hook his legs around him and climb him and gnaw on his neck where the impression of his teeth was hidden.

 

He caught himself much too late for him to play it off, nestled against Shiro for too long.

 

Instead of calling him out for his flagrant behavior, Shiro only gave a quiet exhale and folded his other arm tight around Keith, keeping him close. Keith didn’t fight it, closing his eyes and tucking his face against Shiro’s chest, allowing himself to hide.

 

X

 

Shiro didn’t launch immediately into the reprimands as soon as their door was shut, which Keith appreciated. Instead, he shucked his jacket off and told Keith, “Let’s get that thing off.”

 

Keith’s mind devolved into filth, into Shiro peeling his clothes off and carting him back to the bedroom and Keith letting him, even grateful for it—.

 

He was pushing the neckline of his hoodie aside when Keith realized he meant the scent blocker. He flushed, embarrassed for thinking otherwise. Shiro’s fingers picked at film. Keith hissed as it was peeled from his neck, the skin smarting. A sudden wave of soured honey wafted up to his nose, making him stiffen. His hand reached up, fingers curved into claws to scratch, when Shiro’s hand caught his. “It’s inflamed,” Shiro said, clasping his fingers around Keith’s and tugging him towards the bathroom. “You might be allergic to the stuff.”

 

There was no mocking admonishment in his tone but Keith flinched like there was.

 

Under the harsh lighting in the bathroom, Keith shuttered his eyes as Shiro made him tilt his head back, made him bear his neck. Keith caught a flash of his red scent gland in the mirror, skin flushed in the square shape of the scent blocker. God fucking damn it. Why couldn’t he just take care of himself?

 

Shiro swiped something chilling and soothing onto his neck, rubbing it in with his metal hand. He was half bent over Keith, expression drawn in concentration, as if this task was very important. He prodded at the area even when the stuff had melted into his numb skin, a gentle massage. Keith reached back and anchored his hands onto the edge of the skin, needing something to keep him standing upright. It wasn’t until his next inhale when he realized that sour note was gone from his scent that he realized what Shiro was doing, coaxing the anxiety and fear out of his scent with an alpha’s presence. He ground his teeth together, chest contracting it like it was trying to crush his lungs and heart.

 

Shiro hushed him. “Easy.” His fingers drifted up to a spot just under Keith’s right ear. The corner of his lips tugged down in a fiercer frown as he took stock of Keith’s hair, the mats in it. Keith fought the urge to apologize for some strange reason. “This is just what your body needs. There’s no shame in it, Keith.”

 

“Yes, there is,” Keith spat, finding a well of strength to step back out of Shiro’s reach and duck out of the bathroom.

 

He marched across the stretch of the living room, arms folding around himself, head ducked down to try to disappear into the neckline of his hoodie.

 

Shiro’s voice pursued him. “We need to talk, Keith.”

 

Keith wheeled on him. “About what exactly?”

 

Shiro stood there in the threshold of the bathroom, lights behind him looking like a halo, one hand braced against the doorframe, a muscle in his forearm flexing.

 

Keith felt his wants like a physical ache. He wanted to crawl back to him, to press his fingers against the line of his forehead until they disappeared. He wanted to ask Shiro to call him ‘sweetheart’ again, wanted to pretend and believe in the lie that he was good and sweet. That he could be for someone, someone very special.

 

He dug his nails into his biceps, the spark of pain grounding him, keeping him from racing across the tiny stretch of carpet that separated them.

 

“You can’t take those suppressants again, Keith,” Shiro told him and Keith bristled at the condescending tone.

 

“Well what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” he lashed out. “Have my god awful heats?”

 

“Yes, exactly that.” Shiro ran a hand through his hair, tugging on his bangs. “Maybe get on some legal suppressants if it bothers you so bad. But, Keith, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. It worked out this time, but those things… We don’t know what the long term repercussions are. Your emotional and sexual health—.”

 

“I don’t fucking care about my sexual or emotional health,” Keith snarled, cutting him off. “I just don’t want to have any heats. And what am I supposed to do then when I have these hypothetical heats? Get a fun toy? Rent someone out?”

 

Shiro clenched his jaw, white teeth flashing, eyes suddenly dark. “You’d come to me obviously.”

 

Keith stared at him. Shiro stared back. Keith waited for the punchline. Shiro gave none. Keith grew frustrated at Shiro’s calmness, at his lack of panic regarding this crucial thing, so he aimed to hurt. “And what happens when you find an omega? How’s he going to feel about that? With you being a seasonal booty call?”

 

“I’m not going to find an omega, Keith,” Shiro said with too much patience and carefulness, as if what Keith was proposing was as logical as the sky turning violet.

 

“You can’t know that! And what happens if I can’t control myself, if I bite you during every heat?” If the mark never faded, was what Keith meant. If he had the audacity to reinstate a claim he had no right to.

 

“Then, you’d bite me.”

 

“You’d be okay with that?!” Keith heard his voice rising with his hysteria, but couldn’t stop it. “With me mutilating you, with a mating bite that didn’t mean anything—.”

 

“Yes,” Shiro cut him off, leaving the doorway, “because if that’s what you needed, if that’s what it took for you to stay safe and healthy, I would do it again and again in a heartbeat.”

 

Keith’s throat closed. His eyes burned with unshed tears. He tried to dig his nails harder into his arms, hoping the pain would distract him, but they spilled over his waterline before he could stop them. He dragged his arm over his face, hoping to soak them up, but more and more kept coming.

 

He heard Shiro approaching, his heavy steps unmistakable. He felt Shiro catch his hand as he tried to drag it over his face again. “Keith, I know your heat was awful and it isn’t something you want to repeat—.”

 

“It wasn’t awful, that’s the goddamn problem!”

 

He felt Shiro freeze, felt his fingers grow stiff where they clasped his arm. Keith yanked it free and hid his face in his hands. Shiro was there, though, trying to pry them away, hovering so close that Keith could smell the mint on his breath. “Keith? Keith, talk to me, please. What do you mean by that?”

 

Keith cursed his stupid fucking mouth. “Just what I said,” he spat out, muffled from his cupped palms. “It wasn’t awful.” The admittance should’ve felt like a weight being removed, but it didn’t, instead more crushing pressure being added.

 

“What… Your memories… You were pretty out of it for the most part. What do you...? Do you remember any of it?”

 

Shiro was offering him an out. Keith would be stupid not to take it.

 

“I remember all of it.” Apparently, Keith was the king of idiots.

 

Keith heard Shiro’s breath hitch. He had dug himself an inescapable hole now. There was nothing to do but lie in it.

 

“I remember all of it,” he said again, condemning himself further. “And it wasn’t awful.”

 

“That—. That’s good then.” Shiro’s voice sounded shaky. “It means the presence of an alpha helped—.”

 

Sudden frustration surged through Keith, had him flinging out his hands, shoving Shiro. “It wasn’t because there was any alpha there; it was because it was you!”

 

His hands felt scalded where they rested against Shiro’s chest and he got a sudden, vivid image of his nails digging into the plushness of his pecs. He went to snatch his hands back, but Shiro caught them, held them still, prolonged the contact.

 

Shiro was staring down at him, expression near awed, and Keith felt like there was a spotlight on him that he couldn’t escape. He felt more naked than he had during his heat, where all he had to clad him were yearnings and sweat.

 

“You… You knew it was me?” Shiro took a step forward, still gripping his hands. Keith stumbled back against the wall. With nowhere to go, Keith tried to shut his eyes and duck his head but he felt gentle fingers grasp at his chin, tilt his head up, and he was compelled to open his eyes. Shiro’s eyes burned him as they raked over him, looking for some hint of untruth. “The whole time… You knew it was me there with you and it…it wasn’t awful?”

 

The “Yes” escaped him as a sob, sentencing him.

 

X

 

Shiro felt as if he were in a dream. A wonderful dream. He should feel alarmed that Keith remembered all of it, that he remembered every cherished word Shiro pressed into his skin, every tender caress that should’ve condemned him as he sprinted past boundaries, should’ve given him away.

 

It was because it was you.

 

He was hung up on the small admittance rather than the embarrassment of Keith recalling every filthy thing he had done with him under the guise of “helping.” He hadn’t been some upgraded dildo then. Keith hadn’t been so lost that he had been picturing anyone, any alpha.

 

Before him, Keith trembled like a leaf, eyes watery, lips pressed into a stubborn line. His scent spiked between sour and sweet, a rollercoaster that left Shiro dizzy. His hair was in a wild disarray, his lips were chapped, and thick bags tugged at his darting eyes. Shiro’s heart twisted as he took it all in. You haven’t been taking care of him. Shiro had left him to stew in the spiral of his thoughts, believing he would find his own way out.

 

“Sssh, sssh.” He shushed him though Keith wasn’t saying anything. He pressed him further back against the wall, using his body to box Keith in, nosing gently at the crown of his head. A sob broke free, the sound broken and making Shiro tighten his hold on him. He worried at first he had misconstrued, that Keith didn’t need reassurance and touch, but space. Then, Keith’s hands latched around his shirt like claws and tried to pull him closer, though there wasn’t any closer to be found. A whine escaped him, reedy, and Shiro hushed him again.

 

“I’m right here,” he told Keith. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Though there had been days he had thought that that choice would be taken from him. Days of staring at Keith’s closed door, of recounting his mistakes, of secretly adoring the bite mark on his neck, of holding himself back from breaking the damn thing down and taking his omega—.

 

Not his, he reminded himself out of habit, then paused.

 

He tugged back, just enough to meet Keith’s gaze. His face was flushed and though Shiro was holding him, he looked like he could shake apart at any minute.

 

“What’s got you so upset?” he asked him. It felt very important that he get this right this time, that he understood fully and left no room for any misconceptions.

 

A laugh burst from Keith, mocking in its tone. “Like you have to ask?! Because I remember it all and it wasn’t awful and it meant something to me but it didn’t mean anything to you—.”

 

Each word hit Shiro like an arrow. “Why do you think it didn’t mean anything to me?”

 

“Because you only came once!”

 

“Twice,” Shiro amended. Keith stared at him, eyebrows scrunched. Shiro felt heat crawl up from his neck. “Once when, ah, I was, well, eating you out.” Keith’s cheeks pinked and Shiro fought the urge to reach down and lick them. “You tasted so fucking sweet,” he said not with any conscious thought, more on instinct, mouth suddenly dry at the memory.

 

Keith could only blink at him, beautifully flushed and dazed. Then, he seemed to shake himself. “That’s still only twice and I came...a lot more than that.”

 

“You needed it,” Shiro argued.

 

“You barely left any marks,” Keith continued.

 

“You wanted me to mark you?”

 

Keith squirmed. “Kinda?”

 

Shiro felt his grasp on sanity was shaky at best and Keith was testing his limits at the moment. Something feral in him was howling at him to give in, strip his omega bare and remedy all complaints. But, if he did that, he would be right back to staring at a closed door, berating himself.

 

“Keith.” His hands clamped down on Keith’s biceps, trying to show him the severity of his words. “It was your first heat. It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about what I needed or even wanted. I… I had to control myself.”

 

A light seemed to dawn in Keith’s eyes and his scent finally settled. Shiro’s next inhale was all sweet-honey. “You…wanted to mark me?”

 

He asked it innocently. Shiro had to bite back on a vicious growl that crawled up his throat. “Of course I did,” slipped out before he could filter it. “I wanted to leave marks you would feel for days, weeks. That everyone could see and know…” He stopped himself, but it was too late.

 

Instead of looking up at him in horror, though, Keith was staring up at him—bottom lip wet from a swipe of his tongue, eyes oddly bright—with clear arousal. “And know what?” he prompted.

 

“Know that you were mine,” Shiro continued, a condemned man.

 

Suddenly, Keith was on his toes and there were lips, sweet as sugar, crashing into this, their teeth knocking at a jarring angle, but Shiro didn’t care, couldn’t care. Kissing Keith should not have felt as filthy as it did, all things they had done being considered. But it felt sinful as he hoisted Keith’s ass up into his palms, felt his slim legs lock around his hips, all the while he plundered that heavenly, willing mouth. Keith was eager and sloppy, shaking with nerves, and Shiro did his best to gentle and guide him so the kiss grew less frenetic, less violent.

 

When they parted, Keith’s eyes were hooded and he looked near drunk. Shiro allowed one hand to leave his ass—the other staying anchored there, squeezing with reassurance—to pet through his hair, marveling that he could, that he was allowed. Keith followed the touch by canting his head back, desperate and needy, as if he had never left his heat. “I-I didn’t know it could be like that,” he said, chest heaving, the V of skin revealed by his hoodie taunting Shiro. “I didn’t know it could feel that good.”

 

Shiro’s chest surged with wonder. “It doesn’t always.” He pushed a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear, tracing the shell of it watching as his boy quaked. “When you bit me”—Keith stiffened and Shiro ran an assuring hand over his collarbone, watching as he relaxed for him—“I was so proud.”

 

Keith’s brows scrunched, his nose wrinkling. “I think you need a dictionary.”

 

“No, I chose the right word. I was so fucking proud you picked me. That I was finally enough for someone—.”

 

“Shiro, you were always enough.”

 

“But then I thought you weren’t in your right mind,” Shiro continued, needing to get it all out. “That it was all instinct. That you would’ve bitten anyone.” Here he couldn’t keep the growl from his voice. He had remembered how the euphoria had soured as he looked at Keith’s hazy eyes, his skin still heated to the touch, that blissful moment snatched as quickly as it had been allowed.

 

“I wouldn’t have bitten just anyone,” Keith rushed to say. His gaze darted down, unsure, then met Shiro’s. “I… I know I wasn’t good then, during my heat—.”

 

Shiro stopped him. “Sweetheart, you were fucking perfect.” He noted the way Keith’s pupils dilated at the word ‘sweetheart’ and filed that away as a very important part of his daily vocabulary now.

 

“I didn’t do anything.”

 

“You let me in. You trusted me to take care of you.”

 

Keith snorted. “That isn’t—.”

 

“That’s everything, Keith.”

 

He watched Keith’s face, as he seemed to try to recontextualize it. “Still. I… I can be better. I can try.”

 

As if he were trying to sell Shiro on him, on this, on his dream come to life. His hand squeezed the globe of Keith’s ass, slotting their hips together, using the wall as support. A little ‘eep’ left Keith and he clawed at Shiro’s shoulders to establish a better hold. Shiro could feel the shape of him, hardening against him, caught a whiff of that potent honey smell of his slick. “There is no better, Keith. You’re perfect.”

 

Shiro knew he had a job to get back to, paperwork to file, hours to clock, but nothing could tear him away from the way Keith’s body melted against his, tension leaving him, like he was made just for him. There was no heat to blame this time. Keith’s eyes were clear as he met his, lust shimmering there, all directed at Shiro.

 

Everything else could wait.

 

His omega needed him.

 

His omega wanted him.

 

Notes:

Cut to Matt, eating Shiro's lunch: Yeah, I don't think he's coming back, but if he does I'll apologize and order him Chick-fil-a.

Chapter 13

Notes:

*pulls myself out of 60 hours of Baldur's Gate 3* What day is it?!?!?

Put You Through Me

 

Somehow, they made it to the bedroom. Shiro’s bedroom to be precise. Keith didn’t remember the journey—they could’ve found some wormhole and were teleported here. All he knew was Shiro’s lips on his, Shiro’s hands on him, touching, scorching, and without an easy excuse to be there now, other than the obvious.

 

His mind was still reeling, conversations repeating on a loop, as he felt the edge of the bed press against the back of his knees and he should’ve been more startled by its appearance. Keith felt as if his heat had never ended. He was burning, drowning, and didn’t care so long as Shiro kept touching him. His body was a live wire, jumping and sparking with every simple brush of fingers.

 

Some sane part of him, clinging ironclad with bony fingers to common sense, wondered if this was all some heat-soaked dream. The final neurons of his burnt out brain sending him off on a high note.

 

If so, who was Keith to deny them?

 

Shiro groaned low in his throat, seeming magnetized to Keith’s lips. Keith felt clumsy as he tried to keep up, Shiro’s lips demanding and insistent, their teeth clacking painfully at one point. “God,” Shiro moaned, “you taste…”

 

“How do I taste?” Keith murmured because he was curious.

 

“Like honey, like the sweetest fucking fruit.”

 

Keith should’ve rankled at being called sweet, at being compared to anything that wasn’t black licorice and snark. But, here, in the quietness of Shiro’s room, with only the two of them as witnesses, Keith didn’t mind, even quietly reveled in it.

 

Shiro gripped the nape of his neck—the span of his palm startling Keith, arousing him—as he gentled the frenzy. “I always wondered how you’d be,” he said, nudging their noses together, still close enough that they shared the same breath, their lips grazing.

 

The muggy feeling in Keith’s brain cleared enough for him to ask “What?”

 

A blush crept up Shiro’s neck. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught speaking aloud. “I mean, I may have pictured it one or twice… This,” he emphasized with a darting glance to Keith’s tingling lips. “But I never—.”

 

“What do you mean you pictured it?” Keith’s voice was near a squawk.

 

That blush deepened. “Not like—. Just—. What I meant was—.”

 

“You pictured kissing me?”

 

“Of course I fucking did,” Shiro admitted well and truly flushed.

 

Keith felt as if he was being told two plus two now equaled five.

 

“Keith,” Shiro said, voice all careful patience. “You had to have known I’ve been gone on you since the day we met.”

 

Now the math really was not mathing. Keith looked down to make sure he still stood on solid ground. “What?” burst from him, alarmingly loud.

 

“You… You were so pretty, so smart, so funny. I still remember those ripped up black jeans you wore the first time I saw you. It made me have an unhealthy obsession with dark denim for years.”

 

“You never said anything,” Keith fired back. He analyzed their years together with a critical eye, double checking that he hadn’t missed a “Hey, Keith, I like your ass”, wondering where he had been misled.

 

Shiro laughed. “How could I? I was, what, one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. I looked like someone had strapped me to a rack and then stretched me out. I got bullied relentlessly. Or do you not remember how exactly we met?”

 

Of course Keith did. He had stayed late cleaning up in the library for old Mrs. Colleens and upon leaving had heard a weird, hollow banging sound coming from the boy’s locker room. He had followed it, because honestly being stupid and getting murdered from investigating a strange sound was better than returning to the home. He found one of the shower stalls, a broom handle wrested through it, shuddering from the force from the other side. Upon getting the broom handle free, a very naked, wet Shiro, clutching a hand towel to his bits, had spilled out onto the floor.

 

“I couldn’t even protect myself then, much less a partner. Loving someone means protecting them, cherishing them and if you can’t do it… Well then, you have no right. And you...You seemed to exist above it all. When you started having lunch with me, it was, hands down, the best day of my life. The bullying stopped and yes, I did start fantasizing about you a little.”

 

The bullying had stopped because Keith made sure to death-glare the stupid fuckers into near panic attacks every chance he had gotten. Keith had found the key to ending bullying was just having a really good resting bitch face.

 

“You—. Then—. Y-You had a crush on me all the way back then?” Keith stammered over the words.

 

Shiro ducked his head, as if embarrassed, pressing a distracting kiss to Keith’s throat. His hands skimmed down to hold at Keith’s hips. “Maybe just a little one.”

 

“You never said anything!” Keith repeated, finding this fact very important.

 

“How could I? Once I had the guts to fess up, by then you were my best friend, an intrinsic part of my life. And you… You never seemed interested. In me, in anyone or sex in general.” He reached up, pushing a lock of Keith’s hair back, lingering, gaze ensnaring. “I… I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or risk losing you in any way. I couldn’t, Keith. I could take losing my arm, my family. But you? Never you.”

 

Keith had the sudden urge to cry big, heaving sobs. He buried his face against Shiro’s neck to hide.

 

The years he had spent restless in his own bed with paltry fantasies and unsatisfied orgasms now seemed incredibly stupid.

 

Keith worked his tongue against his dry lip, trying to find the words, to put years of anxieties into just a few sentences. “I… I thought you wanted an omega. A traditional omega. And I wasn’t… I’m not… I can’t be...”

 

Shiro’s hands were gentle in his hair. “Keith, you’re perfect.”

 

Keith shook his head, still hiding, eyes pressed tight, trembling from every soft touch, every word that fell from Shiro’s lips. “I’m not. I know I’m not. And I spent so long trying to smother that part of myself, to kill it, I don’t know if I can be—. And it’s not like I didn’t imagine you—.”

 

Pressed so tightly against Shiro’s chest, Keith felt and heard his breath stutter as he stiffened.

 

Suddenly Keith was peeled back from the dark hollow of Shiro’s neck.The sudden lights of the room made him squint, made Shiro appear in particles before sharpening. His eyes, when they came into focus, were strangely sharp and serious. “Keith, what do you mean by you imagined?”

 

Keith cursed his stupid tongue then. But if they were getting things out into the open…

 

He squirmed under Shiro’s gaze as he stammered over the words. “Y-You… I-I mean, you keep harping about how scrawny you were but even then, you were…handsome and so fucking nice. I wanted to hate you out of principle alone because you made me—.And now just look at you!” He tried to place it off, forcing a laugh, shaky as it was. “I’d have to be dead not to—.”

 

His words were swallowed as Shiro descended, attacked his lips, a sudden heat to him, a determination. A hand grabbed his ass and lifted, the floor vanishing from under his feet, and suddenly the plushness of Shiro’s mattress was beneath him.

 

“You imagined me,” Shiro said when he managed to drag his lips away, voice dark and dripping with intent, “how exactly?” The mattress groaned as he pressed his hand on it, right by Keith’s hip, his knee lifting to rest on the other side. Keith’s hand landed on his bicep, feeling the muscle jump under his palm.

 

Keith felt naked as if his clothes had suddenly been ripped from him.

 

“Talk to me, Keith,” Shiro pleaded, eyes bright. He leaned down so he could whisper in his ear. “What did you imagine?”

 

Keith’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape but not wanting to move, to actually commit to moving his body away from Shiro’s warmth. His gaze landed on the nightstand clock, startled at the time. “Shiro, it’s after one. You should really be getting back to work. W-We can talk later.”

 

It would only be a couple hours respite but Keith would take what he could get. If only to get his head on straight and not feel like he was about to combust in his skin.

 

Shiro paused, glancing back at the clock with a frown. He seemed to debate, still poised over Keith, muscles bunched. “Fuck work,” he declared which sounded nothing like the man who Allura joked they needed to invent a perfect attendance award for. He returned his attention to Keith, pupils blown wide. “Now tell me.”

 

Attempt thwarted, Keith swallowed, struggling to find his voice. “I, you know, pictured...things.”

 

“What things?” Shiro’s fingers were at the edge of this hoodie, playing with the hem.

 

Somehow, Keith found it would’ve been easier if Shiro were a complete stranger. If he were just some stranger on the subway or some patron at the bar for Keith to sit across from that unknowable entity and describe every last filthy thing he had ever had the audacity to envision in the late or early hours.

 

As it was, because it was Shiro, Keith found himself rendered mute and flushed hot.

 

Shiro pushed him back with a gentle hand. Keith’s back met the bed and Shiro crouched over him, blotting out the world. “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He pressed a coaxing kiss by Keith’s ear.

 

An odd smell reached Keith’s nostrils, distracting him. He pushed his head to the side, seeking its source, niggling at a memory in the back of his head. There was Shiro, of course. Keith could identify that like he could his own hand. But there was another scent nestled into the blanket fibers, twining around Shiro’s.

 

“I haven’t washed the sheets since…” Shiro admitted, watching him. “Haven’t wanted to,” he amended in a raspier voice.

 

Keith realized he was smelling himself, scent heady and potent in a way that wasn’t usual, not unpleasant, but not wholly familiar.

 

That small admittance, that Shiro had fought against his laundry schedule just to keep Keith’s scent cradled here until it faded, made something in Keith’s chest clench and his tongue loosened.

 

“I-I sometimes… I wasn’t… I’m not imaginative,” Keith warned. “And the suppressants all but killed my sex drive so…”

 

Shiro frowned down at him, running a deliberate hand down his side, watching him shudder. His gaze flicked down and Keith’s cheeks heated to realize he was half-hard already, outline visible in his sweats. “You seem fine to me, sweetheart.”

 

“T-This isn’t normal. I’m not sure if it’s the heat or you or…”

 

“You’re only like this for me?” Shiro asked in a small, curious way. He pushed Keith’s hoodie up and placed a palm on his stomach, pressing down, watching as Keith’s breath hitched.

 

“I don’t know. It’s not like I have anything to compare it to—.”

 

“And you won’t,” Shiro promised.

 

Keith gasped out loud, too loud, too needy as Shiro pressed a kiss on the stretch of skin below his belly button, too close to where he wanted him. “I-I don’t trust anyone else,” he admitted.

 

That was the one single thing. If it had been anyone else, Keith wouldn’t have trusted that his neediness wouldn’t have been mocked, would have had his defenses up high to the point where he couldn’t relax. But with Shiro, that wasn’t a worry, didn’t even register as a possibility.

 

Shiro rewarded him with a kiss that was too brief, licking into his mouth. “Come on, sweetheart. You still need to tell me what you pictured.You can close your eyes if that will help,” Shiro offered. He was fully poised over Keith, head bent, lips brushing the waistband of Keith’s sweatpants, the action innocent until he saw the smirk forming on his lips.

 

Keith did close his eyes, hoping to find a reprieve in the shadows. He could still feel him there though, an unmistakable force tenting the air, the breath over his exposed lower belly. “S-Sometimes, I pictured you...just forcing me to take it. To take you. Using me…”

 

Shiro’s snort caused Keith’s eyes to fly open. Shiro was staring up at him, resting on his forearms, eyes crinkled with amusement. “That’s woefully unimaginative, sweetheart.”

 

“I told you—,” Keith started. He ended on a gasp as Shiro leaned down and licked at him over the sweatpants. The sensation was muted due to the fabric, but Keith still jolted as if he had been shocked.

 

“Where would I take you?” Shiro pressed. As he paused, Keith heard how labored his own breaths sounded, pants punctuating the air. “The shower? The living room? Here, in my bed? In your bed? On the table?”

 

“We eat there, Shiro.” Keith felt his sanity slipping from him, clung to it with all he had.

 

“Exactly.” Shiro’s smirk said it all and Keith lost himself for a moment as all the blood in his body rushed south.

 

And then Keith’s pants were down, boxers and all and Shiro had him in his mouth.

 

The action was sudden and sharp and had Keith wailing as he felt the wet heat of Shiro’s mouth engulf him, tongue teasing his head. His hips stuttered and jerked, unsure whether to chase the good sensation or cant away from it. Shiro made the decision for him as he grasped his hips, fingers biting deep (deep enough to bruise, Keith hoped), stilling him, controlling, making him endure.

 

Heat coiled in Keith, pooling low. All too soon, after what had to be only moments, Keith could feel the crest of an orgasm, threatening to overtake him. He glanced down, which was a mistake. Shiro peered up at him through hooded eyes, lashes dark, mouth stuffed full of Keith, throat working as he swallowed—.

 

Keith pushed himself up onto his forearms, tried to jerk himself from Shiro’s hold. “Shiro, wait, stop—.”

 

As if Keith had set him on fire, Shiro was off of him, wiping his lip, concerned gaze on him. Keith worked to vocalize himself but the sudden crashing feeling of a ruined orgasm had him nearly sobbing, pleasure just out of reach, right there.

 

“Keith? Sweetheart?” Shiro reached up to cradle his head, fingers catching in his hair. “What’s wrong? Did I… Did I do something wrong?”

 

Keith shook his head, at least being able to manage that, still reeling from the quaking sensations in his body, even all the way down to his toes. “No, no, I-I just… I was about to come.”

 

A smirk softened Shiro’s look of worry. “That’s kinda the point, sweetheart.”

 

“But not that soon!” Keith argued. He rubbed a hand over his forehead, hoodie suddenly too hot and heavy to endure. Even though he hadn’t reached completion, it was still hovering there, poised to take him, muscles clenching in anticipation, slick beginning to pool at his hole. “No, no. Something’s wrong. Maybe my heat or my fucking hormones or—.”

 

Shiro pushed his hair back to examine his face. His gaze darted over him, assessing, gray eyes probing. “I don’t think anything’s wrong, Keith.”

 

“It has to be!” He tried to clench his thighs together, to hide how his hole was getting wet, how his dick was still hard and ready. But Shiro was there, wedged between his splayed thighs, able to see everything. “Why the heck else would I be ready to blow after less than a minute?”

 

Shiro placed a hand on the globe of his ass. His fingers reached back, searching, finding his crack and delving in, humming when he found Keith’s wetness. “It’s called arousal, sweetie.”

 

“Arousal doesn’t work like this,” Keith spat, as if he knew, as if he had written the goddamn book. His bare chest taunted Keith and Keith realized only then that at some point Shiro’s shirt had come off and he had missed it. There must be something seriously wrong with him. “I-It doesn’t feel like this.”

 

“It can, though.” Shiro’s fingers stayed poised over his hole, playing in Keith’s slick, never actually touching where Keith needed him. “If you’re with the right person. If they’re taking care of you.” Keith moaned aloud, sharp and keening as Shiro’s thumb flattened against his hole, the tip of it dipping in, stretching him, just the barest bit.

 

“It has to be my heat,” Keith insisted, not understanding how his body shook and clenched around one tip of a goddamn finger. “Maybe it isn’t over or maybe it’s kicked my hormones into overdrive or maybe because I bit you…”

 

“Maybe.” Shiro allowed him to have that one small thing as his thumb began to fuck into him, small and shallow, not enough, not nearly enough, and Keith still shook, alarmed and terrified and, yes, aroused—. “Or maybe this is just what happens when you deny yourself for so long. You… As soon as the fog of your heat cleared, you took off.” Shiro’s brow furrowed. A lace of anger entered his voice. “You didn’t let me take care of you, didn’t want to see me—.”

 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Keith would’ve tried for a greater apology but Shiro’s thumb was distracting him as it pressed inside, scraping against his walls, searching for something—.

 

Keith keened, body tightening like it was a live wire, a headier, better sensation as Shiro massaged circles against the one tiny spot in Keith that made him see stars.

 

“What did you do before me?” Shiro asked. “To find relief?”

 

Keith felt that there were better times to be having this conversation but he tried to indulge Shiro. “I would just, you know.” He shrugged, not sure what Shiro was expecting. How many ways could someone jerk off? “I would jerk it until I finally came and it would be done—.”

 

Shiro’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth at his perfunctory words, a chiding sound. “Keith, that couldn’t have been satisfying. You didn’t use lube? Oils? Didn’t play with yourself?” His thumb punctuated every word with another fuck into him, another grazing glance to his prostate. He could feel his knuckles at his rim, wet with his slick.

 

“I… I didn’t need all that.”

 

“Didn’t need? Or didn’t think you needed it? Choose your words carefully, sweetheart.”

 

Again Keith shrugged, embarrassed as he squirmed, not sure what Shiro wanted from him, not sure how he was expected to give full, intelligible answers as Shiro continued to play with him. “Both? I didn’t see the point—.” He cried out as another of Shiro’s fingers wiggled into his hole. It was an easy glide as he was sopping wet. He could feel it on his thighs, hear the squelch as Shiro’s fingers moved.

 

He struggled to hold the thread of the conversation. “But that isn’t the point. The point is it never felt like this.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Keith grappled to find the word, to find any word that would encompass this drowning, floating feeling, this all-consuming thing. He felt like some beast, ravenous and hungry for more, an abyss that would never be filled even as the sensations poured in. “Good,” he settled on, annoyed at its banality but unable to find anything else. He grasped onto Shiro’s shoulders, shuddering as Shiro continued to finger him. “It feels really, really good.”

 

Shiro pressed a kiss to his shoulder and, as a reward, worked another finger into him. “Can you let me make you feel really, really good, then?”

 

“I-I thought that’s what I was doing.”

 

Shiro lowered his lips to Keith’s dick and nipped at the crown. Keith wanted to shout a warning, feeling as if a breeze would be enough to set him off. All he managed though was a low and strangled moan.

 

“No, right now you’re worried about coming too soon. About if this is normal, if you’re normal and the right kind of omega.”

 

Keith stared up at him, thoughts apparently written all over his face.

 

“You’re worried about this.” Shiro gestured to the mark on his neck and Keith truly hadn’t been, but now that he was staring at it, he realized he was. He was worried he would bite Shiro again, proper decorum be damn in the wake of these new hungers, screwing things up before they had even got started.

 

“I don’t want you to be worried about anything,” Shiro told him. “I want you to lie back and feel and come as many times as you need to and I don’t want a single worry in your head by the end. Can you do that for me?”

 

It seemed like such a simple ask. But Keith felt the ground around it laced with the landmines of expectations and of the unknown, ready to blow up in his face.

 

For Shiro, though, Keith would try.

 

He nodded and Shiro wasted no time, fingers still in him, swallowing him back down.

 

X

 

When Shiro arrived to work the next day, grinning ear to ear, scent thickly saturated, a brand new mating bite sported proudly on his neck, it was no exaggeration to say Matt fell right out of his chair.

 

On the plus side, Joe the Janitor kept the floors surprisingly clean as Matt got up close and personal with their spotlessness.

 

“What in the actual fuck?” Matt squawked at him. Shiro only grinned, all cat that ate the canary. “When—? How? Who?!”

 

They had a meeting that morning so Matt didn’t get an answer out of him until much later. And, even then, it was more like he stumbled across the answer.

 

Around lunch, Shiro’s phone buzzed and he leapt from his desk like Matt did when he got the alert that his DoorDash driver was on the way. Suspicious and needing a way to waste more hours of his day, Matt followed him.

 

He found him in the parking lot. Matt cursed the neon orange shirt he had decided to wear that day as he tried to hide inconspicuously behind a trash can as he spied.

 

He saw the plane of Shiro’s broad back, bent as he leaned against his car, someone else pinned between him and the metal. He spotted too many legs for him to be alone, Shiro’s clad in dress pants, the others clad in a pair of jeans. Some hint of honey on the breeze had his nose twitching, had him placing the oddly sweet scent mingling in with Shiro’s own.

 

“I feel like you left it purposely this time,” said a waspish, familiar voice that had Matt doing a double take.

 

“So what if I did? Maybe I wanted a reason to see you.”

 

“You left the car with me and made me drive you this morning.”

 

“I wanted company for the long commute.”

 

“It’s twenty-five minutes.”

 

Matt nearly vomited in the trash can. How was Shiro allowed to talk like that? All lovey-dovey. Someone should send him to the drunk cell to sweat it immediately.

 

The distinct sound of kissing reached his ears and Matt felt embarrassed, as if he were watching porn and not, you know, a public parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. Matt ducked further behind the trash can to save his precious, innocent eyes.

 

When next he ventured a peak, Shiro was backing away, walking backwards, as if he just couldn’t bear to spare the few seconds of eye contact such reckless behavior offered. A lunch box was in hand that Matt didn’t recall him having when he had stepped out. And by the car…

 

Matt caught just a glimpse as they darted into the car, raven dark hair and a red crop top and a sinfully small waist and even just one of those characteristics would be enough to identify the individual, but all together it was damnable evidence.

 

Even if the rich scent of an omega hung in the air in Keith’s wake.

 

Shiro turned and froze when he saw Matt there, with his bright orange shirt, only sixty percent of his body covered by the trash can. Matt stood and dusted himself off, as if this was all very normal, cleared his throat, and then he rounded on Shiro with a loud “Since when?!”

 

When he had gone to bed the night before, he was ninety-eight percent sure Keith was a beta.

 

He made the rounds with this discovery, looking for someone else to commiserate with this unnerving changing of universal facts. Overall, he was disappointed with the result.

 

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock,” Pidge said when she told her but this was Pidge so maybe she was just acting like a know-it-all to save face in front of him.

 

He didn’t have much better luck with Hunk. “Yeah, always suspected,” Hunk mused as he prepped the afternoon sandwiches at the deli, annoyingly calm, as if this wasn’t earth-shattering noise worthy of the Times. “Good for them though.”

 

All Allura did when he burst in to explain the shocking revelation that Keith was an omega and he and Shiro were now fucking was remind him of that closing report he had failed to give her so...no luck there. How dare she remind of him work while he was at work.

 

Thace only stared at him, unblinking, a Hail Mary that Matt had stumbled across while trying to hide from Allura. “Who?” he finally asked.

 

He called Lance, the last chain in the friend group, his last hope. “No fucking way!” Lance proclaimed, finally giving Matt the justification in a shocked reaction he had been seeking. “Since when?!”

 

And then Matt had to sit quietly at his desk, wondering what it meant that he apparently had the same observational skills as one Lance McClain. Nothing good, mind you. Nothing good.

Chapter 14

Notes:

*Fights off the choke hold Astarion has on me to give you the final chapter*

Put You Through Me

 

“Come on, man. Shoot your shot.”

 

“I don’t know, man.”

 

“Grow a pair of balls,” Craig spat at his friend Jeff, who seemed to be the picture of pining as he sat at the bar table, tearing at the napkin under his drink in his nervousness, eyes riveted to the beauty working the bar. “He doesn’t have a mating bite,” he pointed out.

 

Which was a crime in and of itself. The sweet thing, leaving wafting breezes of subdued honey in his wake, should’ve been snatched right up. Raven tresses were messily tied up, stray locks spilling free as the night wore on, looking soft as butter. A red mesh crop top and a skin tight tank revealed what had to be the smallest waist known to man, built for hands to encompass. The swell of his ass was prominently displayed in a pair of dark jeans that did more for denim than any Levi’s ad ever did. Nails were painted black and eye-liner accentuated his cat-like eyes. He looked to be built to ruin someone, or multiple someones, if the gazes that followed him were anything to judge by. The only thing that seemed to keep them at bay was his neutral look of disinterest as he served drinks, a look that seemed to dare anyone to try. A sinful slope of a collarbone was revealed as he reached under the bar to refill a drink, displaying what Craig knew to be true but seemed impossible.

 

The sweet thing was unclaimed, the smooth porcelain of his neck unmarred.

 

“What’s the worst he could say?” Craig prodded at his wuss of a friend.

 

Jeff flicked a baleful look to his friend, as if every disastrous route had already played out in his head.

 

Craig downed another shot. “Fine, if you won’t go after him, I will. But no crying when you get an invite to the wedding.”

 

But just as Craig stood and Jeff was sputtering at the betrayal, the mood in the bar shifted, from horny to chastened all in one breath. Something—Someone—headed towards the bar, navigating the tables, causing lustful gazes to fall as he passed.

 

An alpha rounded the bar’s edge, standing tall and proud, claiming bite clearly visible, like something out of a scientific journal of the peak specimen. The omega flashed white teeth, expression morphing as his eyes brightened, honeyed scent blossoming, and Craig felt an awful wave of disappointment.

 

“Not fair,” he bemoaned as he plopped his ass back down and reached for another shot.

 

X

 

“You know you don’t have to visit me on every shift.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I’ve done this for years.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

Shiro didn’t seem capable of words this evening so Keith stopped trying, resuming wiping down the bar as he closed for the night. Although this simple task proved more difficult with an alpha plastered to his back, hands looped low around his hips, nose nudging at his neck, causing his scent gland to tingle.

 

It had been a month since everything. He thought the damn thing would calm down already.

 

He had been worried, when his scent gland had healed and his natural scent started seeping through, ridiculously pungent even after his heat, spiking beyond his control. His doctor (that he had reluctantly caved to seeing after repeated arguments with Shiro) told him that this was normal, that as his hormones rebalanced and normalized (which might take years) his scent would stabilize. He had wanted to go on legal suppressants as soon as possible to help stifle it but the doctor, who only had years of medical school to back up his claim so what could he really know, had insisted that would be counterproductive, that he needed to just ride it out for now. The best he had been able to acquire was a masking gel that he slathered on the area and even that didn’t fully douse his scent, only muted it so he could go out in public.

 

He still fought the instinct to smother it, to claw at it, which was marginally helped by Shiro’s continued affections to it. Like he was currently doing.

 

“Shiro,” Keith warned as he got a whiff of himself, a sharper honey scent seeping through the careful mask of gel that was no match for Shiro’s continued nibbles.

 

Shiro made a questioning sound in the back of his throat, even as his tongue darted out and skated across Keith’s neck. His hands slipped lower and Keith flushed even though the bar was empty and the bar’s height hid Shiro’s fondling to anyone that happened to walk by and glanced through the windows. To any passers-by they were only two silhouettes, obscured in the low lighting but back-lit by the neon signs behind the bar, bottles glittering behind them.

 

“Shiro,” Keith said again, going for more chiding but it came out more as a moan as Shiro felt him through his jeans, fingers deliberate.

 

“That can’t feel good, baby,” Shiro mumbled, sounding near drunk, against his neck, feeling for his zipper along the length of his hardness.

 

“Whose fault is that?” Keith spat as he bent his head, trying to hide his flushed face with his hair, resisting the urge to rock into Shiro’s hand, shameless in his chasing of his own pleasure.

 

This wasn’t entirely Shiro’s fault but Keith liked to blame him more than was necessary. He and his stupid abs and his talented tongue and his big fingers—.

 

Keith swallowed a moan as he was released from his jeans, only for Shiro’s hand to engulf him.

 

Keith thought that there was something really wrong with him and it concerned him that no one else seemed to share in this worry. It wasn’t normal to be this horny. It couldn’t be. He worried that his heat had never left him, that it still had its claws in him, punishing him for years of neglect. He would leak at random times when only seconds before he had been doing something as innocuous as chopping vegetables or brushing his teeth. Heat flashes and feelings of intense, almost debilitating arousal were common and left Keith feeling breathless and ashamed.

 

His doctor assured him it was all normal, his hormones regulating, and Keith was perhaps a bit too embarrassed to detail the severity of it so he swallowed his protests.

 

At first, he had tried to ignore it, neglecting his dick when it plumbed up for no goddamn reason, retreating to the nearest bathroom to perfunctorily wipe away the slick, as if by denying himself indulgence he could retrain his body.

 

But the best laid plans always caved to the force that was one Takashi Shirogane.

 

It had happened one night when they had been cuddling, watching some superhero movie and while yes, Robert Downey Jr. had it going on, that was no fucking reason in the world for slick to start pooling in his crack, for heat to suddenly grip his bones as tightly as if it were his own skin. If he hadn’t been sitting in Shiro’s lap, he might’ve gotten away with hiding it.

 

Instead, Shiro had only made quiet, inquisitive sound, paused the movie, laid him out on the couch and proceeded to wring orgasm after orgasm out of him, not bothering to muffle Keith’s wails as pleasure tipped into hyper-sensitivity..

 

“You need to tell me,” Shiro said afterward, which was unfair because Keith was barely capable of thought much less words.

 

“I-It’s embarrassing,” he had managed, not able to feel anything below his hips.

 

“It’s not, Keith. It’s really not. It’s just what your body needs.”

 

“My body needs to stop being such horny little slut—.”

 

“Sweetheart,” he said in warning, hands clenching on his thighs, a near growl in his voice.

 

Keith stopped.

 

Shiro waited him out, not moving, breath still hitting his open and wet hole.

 

Shiro didn’t like it when he did that, when he degraded himself, even if it was all true. So Keith was trying to be better. He didn’t know if he was succeeding exactly, but he was trying.

 

“I’m not a slut,” he had said aloud and was rewarded as Shiro’s mouth returned to him.

 

He didn’t want to admit that things had calmed down after he had started going to Shiro with his little problems. When the sudden wave of arousal would overtake him, leaving him trembling and stammering, he would find Shiro with an honest “I need you.” Once it had been at four am with Shiro on the clock to do a shift at six and Keith had felt like the worst fucking person as he roused him, his boxers already slick, his legs shaking underneath him.

 

Shiro hadn’t chastened him, though, hadn’t even expressed frustration. Instead, he had scooped him up, alert despite the early hour, sat him on his face and...well…

 

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Shiro had admitted to him once, buried between his thighs as if he wanted to live there, his cheeks red from where Keith’s thighs had gripped him. “You have no clue.”

 

It had gotten better in that the spontaneous bouts of crippling arousal at odd times were lessening to at least manageable bouts of arousal that were suspiciously timed to whenever Shiro was in the vicinity. Keith wasn’t exactly complaining, but it was perhaps a bit alarming that he could go from zero to one hundred the second he got a whiff of cinnamon as Shiro opened the door. He was worried he was becoming addicted.

 

The rumble of Shiro’s voice brought him back to the present. “Did you miss me?”

 

Keith tried to squirm, to lessen the intensity of Shiro’s hand as he worked him, but the lip of the bar and the bracket of Shiro’s arms pinned him in place, making him take it, endure it.

 

“Shiro,” he said, only the bar’s height and near darkness covering his shame. He saw the shapes of bodies flit by past the window’s glass and a spike of nervousness went through him as well as an equal amount of excitement. God, he really was a slut, wasn’t he? Wanting to be seen by strangers getting off. “P-People could still s-see—.”

 

“So? What exactly would they see, sweetheart? A sweet little omega and his alpha taking care of him?” He squeezed him, fingers playing with his head, where evidence of his arousal was beginning to bead. “Maybe then they would stop staring at your ass.”

 

“I-It’s a nice ass,” Keith argued.

 

Shiro growled as he almost meanly stroked him. The bit of roughness made a spike of heat hit Keith in the belly.

 

“N-Nothing’s wrong with them just looking—,” he continued.

 

“They should know better.”

 

“How would they know?” Keith challenged and Shiro’s hand stuttered over him, his other hand slapping the edge of the bar, metal fingers grinding together as he gripped it.

 

“We talked about this,” Shiro said in warning.

 

It had been a point of contention. Probably their biggest one. Keith’s neck remained unmarked.

 

“Let’s wait,” Shiro had argued. “Keith, you only just had your first heat. You… You may not know what you really want. I’m not saying no, I’m just saying let’s wait. Until we’re sure this is what you really want.”

 

Keith bristled at the notion. He wanted Shiro and he would want Shiro even if he were dead from the waist down. Didn’t coming to him night after night with his aching dick prove that?

 

Already, he had to renew Shiro’s bite. He had come to him only last week, near panic, the redness of the bite having only faded slightly. Keith realized he could’ve been mean, he could’ve given an ultimatum, but something about the frantic hysteria in Shiro’s eyes, the way he pleaded, and Keith had relented without argument. Shiro had settled only when Keith had sunk his fangs deep over the old puncture wounds, arms wrapping around him tight, holding him there.

 

It didn’t escape him that if he had been willingly to be a bit cruel, he might’ve had a mark already.

 

Keith would be lying if he said he didn’t like his mark on Shiro, though. He just didn’t understand why Shiro didn’t want to return the favor. All for some grand, stupidly chivalrous ideals.

 

Shiro dropped to his knees suddenly, hands bracketing Keith’s hips, turning him so he was facing him. Cinnamon hit Keith in the face and something about the scent smelt richer, oddly potent. Something about it had Keith’s muscles tightening, an instinct he didn’t know and couldn’t follow.

 

Shiro’s eyes glittered as he looked up at him. Keith couldn’t discern his irises from his pupils. A shiver racked down his spine. He felt like prey under the intensity of Shiro’s stare.

 

Shiro inhaled deep, lashes fluttering, his head canting towards Keith’s aching dick. “God, you smell like me, even here.”

 

Keith had noticed that. Even after showering, there was a spice to his smell, seeping deep into his skin. He supposed it was maybe seeking Shiro’s bed night after night, unable to calm down until he had strong arms wrapped around him, a familiar scent enveloping him, a body tucked around him. Going to his own room felt like an unnecessary step that he continued if only not to appear too needy. Honestly, he should probably just set his old room on fire so at least he had a permanent excuse.

 

“You’re mine, even without a bite, understand?” Shiro asked him, not looking away, nuzzling his cheek against Keith’s twitching dick.

 

Incapable of words and what he had sowed, Keith could only nod.

 

Without anything, Shiro took him into his mouth.

 

 

X

 

In truth, Keith had thought life as an omega would be significantly harder than it actually was. His friends hadn’t bated an eye. He wasn’t immediately jumped and assaulted the second he stepped outside. True, he got a few lingering looks and the patrons at the bar had become a bit more forward, but it was nothing a long, withering stare couldn’t handle. And some of that he knew would calm down once his scent did and once Shiro got over his fucking self and bit him.

 

He almost felt silly for his years of angst, for dreading this like it was some unspeakable horror.

 

“I’m proud of you,” Romelle had told him one night after he had her over for dinner. She had hugged him tight and Keith, for once, hadn’t fought her. “So proud.”

 

She would probably be less proud if she could see him now.

 

He slipped out of his room, the ghost of the night thick around him, shrouding him. He felt his way down the hallway by touch and memory, bare feet padding across the carpet, a chill settling over his bare skin. He fought the instinct to abandon this stupid plan, to flee back to his room and change out of this ridiculous thing.

 

He had bought it in a moment of pure frustration, after another fight with Shiro over his still unmarred neck.

 

“I don’t want you to regret it,” Shiro had told him, looking close to tears. “I don’t want you to regret me.”

 

As if Shiro was ever something Keith could regret.

 

He realized, perhaps a bit belatedly, that there was power in desire and Shiro did desire him, even if he wouldn’t give him what he wanted. It was evident in the greedy way his fingers played across his thighs, in the way he visited the bar during every one of Keith’s shifts, gaze raking over the crowd, searching for problems, in the way he looked at him when he got home, soft, wrinkles forming around his eyes. Really? he had wanted to ask one night, when his hair had still been unwashed and he was lazing around in his pajamas, fingers stained orange from a snack of Cheetos. And still, the second Shiro had gotten through that door, he had fallen over Keith, sloppy kisses and searing eyes. This is what gets you off?

 

Keith had become dizzy upon this discovery. It wasn’t just the lingering hormones of a heat and the chemical alpha/omega balance. Shiro wanted him.

 

And Keith could use this.

 

It had taken him a few days trying it on in secret, bathroom door securely locked, for him to feel not ridiculous enough to execute said plan.

 

Even now, though, his plan already in action, Keith couldn’t help but feel a bit absurd with too much of his skin exposed. If it had been anyone else but Shiro, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it, would die from embarrassment right on the spot. He had spent so long thinking of himself as this non-sexual thing. It was hard to view his body through a lens of desire, of something that could be wanted in such a way.

 

But, for tonight, he was delusional enough to try.

 

Of course that careful plan of sneaking into Shiro’s room, of rousing him and overwhelming him, all crumbled the second Keith peaked his head into his room only to see his bed empty, sheets thrown aside and crumbled.

 

Behind him, Keith heard a noise. Peering down the hallway, he saw the faint light of the stove light in the kitchen softly illuminating, a shadow cutting through, the muffled sound of cabinets opening.

 

In hindsight, Keith maybe should’ve gone back to his room to change out of his get-up before investigating, now that his plan was ruined.

 

But he didn’t.

 

He found the kitchen in a state of upheaval. Cabinets thrown open, items half-emptied and then arranged in some manic away along the countertops. A wet rag abandoned on the stove, side blackened from scrubbing at the ring that seemed forever imprinted on the one burner they used. Their kitchen table holding all of their cereal, left half-sorted (always in alphabetical order) with Lucky Charms waiting for the Kellogg’s to join them in their line up.

 

Keith’s stomach did an odd sweeping motion of both horror and unspoken glee as he realized what this all meant.

 

Shiro stood with his back to him, frowning intently down at their spice organizer that he had brought down from their cabinet. “Who puts pepper before salt?” he grumbled. (It had been Keith who would’ve been more conscious in returning things to the spice rack if he had known what was on the horizon.)

 

Most alphas with their ruts grew territorial. Shiro grew an organizational and cleaning itch.

 

His scent hung heavy in the air, an intense cinnamon, making Keith feel dizzy with each inhale. He felt slick seep from him, gushing against the scant inch of fabric that covered him there.

 

“Shiro?” It left his lips before he could think better of it. Before he could remember what he was wearing.

 

Shiro’s head jerked up, a puppet on a string, a glance over his shoulder to acknowledge Keith’s presence, attention returning to his half-organized spice rack, before he froze where he stood. Slowly, his head lifted and his gaze returned to Keith, pupils blown wide.

 

His scent was thick enough to drown in. Keith clutched the doorframe, knees suddenly weak.

 

“What.” Shiro’s voice was gruff, a crackling of syllables. He licked his lips before trying again, voice still gruff. “What are you wearing?”

 

Not much by any definition of the word. The black panties sat high on his legs, more like strings than panties, silk oddly cold against his skin. His dick was barely covered, especially now, as it was hardening, a Pavlovian response to the man before him. He hadn’t realized he needed stockings so the garters of the panties laid unsecured on his thighs, swaying in the slightest breeze, making him jolt from that little touch. The tiny corset of a top only had stretches of lace fabric across the sides and back, panels on the front held together by a big white silk bow across his chest, that suddenly felt too flimsy to hold everything together, like the searing heat of Shiro’s gaze only would be enough to undo the small knot.

 

The whole thing was delicate enough that it would probably only last through one night. Keith had known that when he had bought it, reasoning he only needed it for one night.

 

But with the way Shiro was staring at him, it might not even make it through the hour.

 

“Um…clothes?” This had gone entirely differently in his head, when he had pictured Shiro still asleep, intensity blunted as he woke up, Keith having the upper hand, at least for a moment.

 

And the scent of Shiro’s rut hadn’t been hanging heavy in the air, addling Keith’s brain.

 

Abort! Abort! Some sane part of him screamed.

 

But he was ensnared as he stood there, pinned in the crosshairs of Shiro’s gaze as it raked over him. At his side, Shiro’s hands twitched, fingers curling like he could feel the silk between them.

 

“I’ve never seen that before,” Shiro mumbled.

 

“It’s, ah, n-new,” Keith stammered, taking a step back. The wall stopped him.

 

“New,” Shiro repeated, as if he had never heard that word before.

 

Shiro approached him, bare feet eating up the distance, the spice rack forgotten and Keith really must look like something for him to abandon organizing spices. His hands came up to press against the wall beside Keith, trapping him.

 

Slowly, as if Keith were a wild animal that could be startled into fleeing, he lifted his hand and brought it to the bow, fingers playing at the silk end giving a light tug that pulled the fabric taut. A shudder wracked through Keith. He knew Shiro was tall and big, kept those facts close to him, but he seemed to engulf him as he bent over him, blotting out the rest of the world.

 

He could break me, so easily, Keith thought with a small thrill.

 

No, bad, Keith. Wanting to be snapped in two is bad.

 

“Any particular reason you picked tonight to wear this?” Shiro asked, too calm, too composed.

 

“W-Well—.” Keith realized only then how this looked. Shiro’s rut and this outfit and Keith thinking himself a clever little seductress. You bit off way more than you can chew, Kogane. “N-No it wasn’t like that. I didn’t realize—.”

 

A bone-rattling growl ripped from Shiro as he pulled on the bow, the silk unraveling in his fist, Keith’s chest bared to him, to his teeth and lips as he descended. And Keith could only endure. Keith shook and moaned as Shiro attacked one bud then the other, alternating, licking and sucking and biting, leaving each shiny and pebbled with bruises.

 

“You’re only gonna wear this for me,” Shiro told him, as if Keith had been pondering going out for groceries in this thing.

 

Beneath him, Keith’s legs folded, but instead of meeting the ground, Shiro grasped his thighs, fingers latching on tight, spreading him and forcing his legs to wrap tight around his hips. Keith felt his wetness then, smelt it as his legs were parted, the scent saturating the air.

 

“That for me?” Shiro asked, his fingers creeping up Keith’s thigh, searching. His eyes were all pupils.

 

Keith had the presence of mind to grab his wrist before he could find his goal.

 

Shiro glanced at him, testing his hold as he twisted his fingers, a tiny noise of confusion leaving him at Keith’s denial.

 

“You know what I want,” Keith told him and he saw some semblance of reason return to Shiro, his lips flattening, protest ready. Keith squeezed his wrist. He could see where Shiro was tenting in his pants, gray fabric darkening. And Keith wanted nothing more than to take it out and let Shiro slide it home. But he had gone into this night with a plan. And dam it, it had been a good plan. “I’m not letting you touch me until I get it.”

 

It was borderline cruel to do this to him during his rut.

 

But Keith could be a bit cruel.

 

“Keith,” Shiro groaned, sounding vexed and pained. “Sweetheart, we can talk about this later, I promise.” His fingers squirmed against Keith’s hold, gaining only an inch. “Look how wet you are. Aching for me. For now, let me—.”

 

“No.”

 

Keith hadn’t really thought that the word had power. What could “no” actually do against an alpha who was much bigger than him, much stronger and driven by lust?

 

But Shiro froze as easily as if Keith had leashed him and pulled the thing tight.

 

“No,” Keith repeated, excitement thrumming through him as Shiro stilled, as his fingers stopped fighting to break his hold. “Not until you bite me.”

 

Shiro made a sound of frustration. “Keith—.”

 

“You heard me.” Keith let his legs fall to the floor, finding them steady enough to stand. And even though he was in undone lingerie, his nipples still wet from Shiro’s mouth, slick dripping onto his inner thighs, he felt powerful.

 

“We talked about this. You could regret it and I don’t want to be something you resent—.”

 

“I know what I want!” Keith erupted. “You may not think I do, but I do!” He reached out, carding his fingers through the hair right above Shiro’s nape. Shiro lulled into the touch, eyes going half-mast. “And what I want is you. So...please?” It felt wrong to beg for this but it was out before Keith could second guess himself. He was playing with fire here, an alpha entering a rut and his body in lingerie and asking for this all now hadn’t been the plan. But, here they were. “Please?” he repeated again, watching the way Shiro’s pupils contracted. “Please make me yours. I want a home. Please.” He swallowed, crooning his next words, “Please Alpha—.”

 

A garbled groan left Shiro and the next thing Keith knew, Shiro’s fangs were at his neck, biting in deep to his scent gland, scorching as they pierced flesh and drove home finally, finally.

 

“Mine,” he heard murmured against his shoulder, as good as any brand seared into his skin.

 

“Yours,” Keith echoed, feeling relief from the admittance.

 

And Keith came untouched.

 

X

 

“So, how did you manage that?” Romelle asked, admiring the fresh mark on his neck a week later, a bit of whip cream on her upper lip from her coffee. “I thought Mr. Chivalrous would at least make you wait a year."

 

Keith knew he was too smug as he sipped his latte. He wore a loose tank to bear the mark, had admired it for what felt like hours in the mirror, fingertips idly tracing the shape of it. “I asked.”

 

Notes:

Once again wouldm like to thank everyone who's shared, commented, and given kudos. It means the world to me and though I don't respond to every comment know that I read them all and appreciate them.