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lysapadinTitle: Dealer's Choice
Characters/Pairings: Keith/Lance/Shiro
Summary: Matt has a plan to get Shiro laid; Shiro has a lot of misgivings about this.
Notes: Mundane AU kind of a thing, because I wanted a thing where Lance and Keith take Shiro home from a club and bang him like a drum. Smut, the barest trappings of plot, Shiro's body issues, pancake-waffle discourse, and Shiro bottoming like a champ (hah!). 6277 words.
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Dealer's Choice
Shiro catches himself hanging back, his footsteps slowing more and more the closer they get to the club. Matt notices that he's outpacing Shiro sooner rather than later—pity—and leaves off the animated description of his dissertation research to plant himself on the sidewalk in front of Shiro. "Okay, are we really going to do this again?"
"Um." Shiro can't quite make himself meet Matt's eyes. Instead he looks down the street to where knots of people stand on the sidewalk, lit by flickering neon and the glow of cigarettes.
"Third time's the charm, they say." Matt sounds ruefully amused, not exasperated, and wears a friendly grin when Shiro checks. "Shiro. Buddy. I swear on everything I hold holy—"
"You're an atheist," Shiro points out.
"—I swear on the grave of Carl Sagan and in the name of Neil deGrasse Tyson," Matt says, not missing a beat, "that if you go home alone tonight, it'll be your own personal decision and not because you won't have other options."
On the one hand, there's the fact that Matt does have a deep and abiding reverence for Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson. On the other hand—hah!—there's Shiro's other hand, or rather the prosthetic where his hand used to be. "You've been my best friend since sixth grade. I'm pretty sure you're required to say that."
Matt rolls his eyes, pretty much the way he had when he'd finally gotten Shiro to admit why it'd been actual years since the last time he'd gotten laid. "All right, have it your way. You can tell me so in the morning if you end up crying yourself to sleep in your lonely bed tonight. Now come on." He grabs Shiro's real hand and hauls him forward, ignoring all the laws of physics regarding inertia, relative mass, and force that say he shouldn't be able to budge Shiro. But then, physics really can't account for a Holt who's got the bit between his teeth, so Shiro ends up paying the cover and following Matt inside the club in spite of all his misgivings. If nothing else, he'll get the chance to tell Matt how wrong he is, and that is not an opportunity to be missed.
The inside of the club is dim and loud with the steady throb of the dance music and the crowd of people inside. The dance floor is full of people moving to the beat, some because they're actually dancing but most because they're taking the excuse to grind against their partners in ways that have to be violating several different ordinances about public decency. Yeah, Shiro can guess why the club is called The Meat Market.
Matt drags Shiro past the dance floor, straight to the bar, and buys them both a double round of tequila shots before Shiro can protest. "Drink up," he commands, yelling to be heard over the din, and suits action to words, licking and salting his hand and throwing back both shots in rapid succession before turning an expectant look on Shiro. (Shiro has long since given up on trying to figure out how Matt hasn't given himself alcohol poisoning by now, given his slight frame and the frankly astonishing amounts of booze he can down when he wants to.)
Shiro sighs, toasts his inevitable hangover, and knocks the first shot back. The tequila burns his throat; the salt and lime sting the chapped places on his lips, and Matt just taps his toe until Shiro repeats the whole rigmarole.
The alcohol settles warm in his stomach as he drops the spent lime wedge in his shot glass; Matt gives him a quick, pleased nod. "All right," he yells. "Fly free, little bird, and don't forget to use those condoms I gave you!"
With that, he turns and dives into the crowd on the dance floor, which swallows him up right away.
Shiro is going to blame the way his face feels hot on the tequila and not his horrible best friend or the glances he's getting from the other people at the bar who were close enough to hear that. He rubs his hand over his face and orders a beer, wondering how long he needs to give it before he can order an Uber and not end up getting mocked for cowardice later.
"—and don't forget to use those condoms I gave you!"
Keith snorts as short and bespectacled launches himself onto the dance floor, because he'd called that one from the minute Shorty had dragged his tall friend to the bar and then inflicted tequila shots on him. His tall friend has the kind of stiff, embarrassed posture of someone who really doesn't want to be where he is right now. Keith's surprised that the guy doesn't bolt for the door the second his friend leaves him alone, then sees him checking the time on his phone while the bartender fetches his beer. So he's the honorable type, then, for all he's here under duress.
Keith can work with that.
It's not difficult to let the crowd push him closer to the guy, who's still blushing—no, that's a scar running across the bridge of his nose and—huh, that's a hell of a fancy prosthetic the guy's got.
Keith revises his initial assessment (flustered thirty-year-old virgin) to something potentially more interesting. "Hey," he yells; when the guy doesn't look up from his beer, he jostles him, just enough to get his attention. "I'm Keith."
Yeah, no way this guy's a virgin, not with looks like those; he's got a strong jaw and killer eyes, and that shock of white hair should make him look like an overgrown scene kid but doesn't. He looks startled to be addressed. "What?"
"My name is Keith," he repeats. In case that doesn't get the point across, he adds, "What's yours?"
The guy gives him a flustered look, like he's on the verge of bolting after all, but he answers after the hesitation. "Shiro."
This isn't the kind of place where flirting and smooth-talking end up in hook-ups, but Keith's fine with that. He has it on good authority that he's not good at that stuff anyway. Action, though—he's plenty good at action.
He leans into the guy's—Shiro's—space so he doesn't have to shout quite so loudly, close enough to get just a hint of spicy cologne, and says, "You wanna dance?"
Shiro gives him a wide-eyed, surprised look. "What?"
Keith thinks about the way Shiro's friend had to drag him into the building that the two shots he poured into the guy, and while he's never going to get people, he thinks he can maybe guess a few things about this particular person. "Do you want to dance?" he repeats, leaning in closer and laying his fingers against the back of Shiro's wrist. "With me?"
It's a sin and a shame for such a hot guy to look so surprised by an invitation like that, but Shiro does look surprised. Shocked, maybe. "I—" He stops and gives Keith a searching look. "Are you one of Matt's friends?"
Wow. There are so many things Keith wants to say about that, but it's easiest just to raise his eyebrows. "Who the hell is Matt?" Probably that short guy, Keith guesses, not that he really cares. "Do you want to dance or not?" Maybe Shiro's just straight, or maybe Keith isn't his type.
Shiro looks lost for a minute, then his expression smoothes out. He lifts his beer to his lips and drinks, holding Keith's eye—no, challenging him. "I don't know. Do you?"
Too bad for Shiro that he doesn't know that Keith lives for challenges.
Keith grins at him, or shows his teeth at any rate, and reaches over to pluck the half-empty bottle right out of Shiro's cybernetic fingers. He wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle and helps himself to the rest of the beer, holding Shiro's eyes while he does it, and places the emptied bottle on the bar when he's done. "Yep. Sure do." He reaches across Shiro and deliberately insinuates his fingers between cool metal ones. "C'mon, let's go."
Shiro blinks at him, looking stunned, but he lets Keith pull him away from the bar and into the crowd on the dance floor.
Who needs pick-up lines, anyway?
Shiro doesn't know which is hitting him harder, the tequila that's stretching a slow, languid heat through his veins or the sharp-edged glint of Keith's smile, but something definitely has him dizzy. What else could have him striding out into the crowded dance floor after Keith, whose every step turns more liquid, a seamless transition into moving with the music by the time he turns back to Shiro. He gives Shiro another of those knife-sharp smiles and steps into him, flattening his hands across Shiro's chest and sliding them up and over his shoulders. "C'mon," he says—Shiro thinks, it's even louder out on the dance floor—as he hooks his arms around Shiro's neck and nudges up against his body, one long, lithe line of heat from Shiro's chest to his groin as Keith moves against him.
It's been a long damn time since Shiro's done anything like this, but there are some things the body apparently doesn't forget: Shiro finds Keith's hips and they fit his hands perfectly as he steps into the beat.
Keith's eyes gleam from beneath the shaggy fall of his hair, bright with approval.
Jesus, he's forgotten what it's like to have another body moving against his, forgotten how good it feels just to feel someone else's body heat. To move with the bass beat of the music blaring from the speakers, too loud to be decipherable, just for the sake of moving.
Shiro begins to relax into it, into the heat of Keith's body against his and the slow burn of the alcohol in his bloodstream, and can't even be too embarrassed when his cock begins to rouse.
Keith has to be able to feel it; he's pressed so tight against Shiro there can't be any mistaking it.
As the song shifts to a different beat, he smiles at Shiro, slow, and grinds their hips together.
The friction is enough to make Shiro's breath stutter, to make the blood go to his cock even faster.
Keith's smile stretches wider; he hooks a hand around the back of Shiro's neck and pulls him closer, close enough to put his mouth against Shiro's ear. "Two options, if you wanna hear them." His breath is hot against Shiro's skin. "Option one: we head out back and I blow you." He bites Shiro's ear while that's still reverberating down Shiro's spine, settling hot as a solar flare at the pit of his stomach. "Or option two: you come home with us and let us fuck you stupid."
"Jesus," Shiro breathes before his brain catches up to his libido. "Wait. Us?"
Keith pulls back and gives him a feline grin right before Shiro feels the heat of someone else fitting himself against his back. "Us," he repeats.
The guy at his back hooks his chin over Shiro's shoulder and says, "I'm Lance," as he slides his hands into the front pockets of Shiro's jeans.
"What?" Shiro says. "What?"
Lance is never going to admit it to Keith, of course, but damn, Keith knows how to pick them. He can't even blame the guy for sounding clueless, not when he can feel how crowded his jeans are getting. He rocks his hips against the guy's ass, which is a thing of beauty forever as far as Lance is concerned, and licks the side of his throat. "Come home with us, gorgeous," he tells the guy while he's still shuddering between the two of them. "Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back."
Weird, the guy goes stiff at that, and not in the fun way.
Before he can do much more than that, Keith shoots a dirty look Lance's way and leans in. "That's metaphorical," he tells the guy. "No actual money involved!"
Weird, but okay, whatever. Lance can work with that. "Unless you're into that," he says. "I'm down for a little role play if you are."
"God damn it, Lance, shut up," Keith snaps before returning his attention to the guy. "Sorry, he's an idiot, I only keep him because I can't reach the top shelf."
"I thought it was for the things I can do with my tongue," Lance protests, but they're not really paying attention to him.
Keith is giving the guy some kind of really intent look. The tension begins to ebb out of him, those incredible shoulders easing under Lance's chin. Keith must really see something he likes in this one, because he smiles and pulls the guy down and slides his tongue right in the guy's mouth.
Lance whistles at them—Keith is hot, okay, and what he saw of their guy before getting over here looked pretty amazing, too. "So," he says once Keith lets the guy up for air, "you wanna get out of here or what?"
He feels the way the guy takes a deep breath, the tension in his frame, before he says, "Sure. Why not?"
Aw, yeah. Lance grins at Keith and gets a quelling look in return—it's a little offensive, really, because Lance is totally behaving himself—oh. As Keith tugs their guy off the dance floor, Lance gets his first look at the guy's right arm. There's an ugly band of scarring halfway down his bicep, and below that he's got metal where skin should be. Oh.
Well, shit, doesn't that just make him feel like an asshole? No wonder Keith was giving him the stinkeye.
He'll just have to make up for that later on.
Lance can't be too surprised by the band of scar tissue crossing their guy's nose when the guy finally turns and lets Lance get a look at him. He's been through some shit, that much is clear, but then, who hasn't? Lance grins at him and gives him a slow once-over. "You got a name, gorgeous?"
The guy still looks wary, but he says, "Shiro," which is enough to work with.
Lance grins at him and slides himself in against Shiro's side, hooking his arm through the metal one and leaning against him. "Awesome. Let's get the hell out of here, yeah?"
Shiro looks at him; there's a thread of tension that Lance can still feel in him, a darkness in his eyes that doesn't sit there very well, but in the end he nods and lets Keith latch onto his other arm. "Sure."
Keith leans around Shiro and says, "You're driving. Asshole tax."
"Aw, man, really?" Lance protests, but not really feeling it. "Fine, but you'd better not be getting him off in the back seat before I've gotten a shot at him."
Shiro turns a lovely shade of pink at that, one that shades into red when Keith smirks and says, "I guess you'll just have to drive fast, won't you?"
"Oh my God," Shiro says faintly as they hit the cooler air of the street outside the club. "Just what am I getting into here?"
Lance grins at him. "Baby, we are gonna blow your mind."
"Oh my God," Shiro says again, which, well, he just hasn't seen anything yet.
The thing Shiro figures out pretty fast is that neither Lance nor Keith are really exaggerating, well, anything. The two of them steer him up the street, bickering amiably back and forth in between making casually filthy remarks about what they're going to do with Shiro when they get him home, which, well. Shiro is feeling the tequila pretty well by this point, and that lets him ignore the voice at the back of his head insisting that this isn't actually happening.
Then they reach the place where Keith and Lance are parked, and Keith chivvies him into the back seat—"Don't be silly, there's plenty of room, go on"—and crawls in after him. By the time Lance gets the keys in the ignition and the engine turns over, Shiro finds out that there is plenty of room as long as he's sprawled across the seat. Keith fits himself between Shiro's knees while Lance puts the car in gear, gives him a smile that gleams in the light from the streetlamps, and kisses him again.
Shiro loses track of things a little after that.
Keith kisses him like it's his sole mission in life, licks his way into Shiro's mouth to stroke his tongue against Shiro's, catches Shiro's lip between his teeth and sucks on it, moves between slow, thorough kisses and hot, demanding ones until Shiro is dizzy and breathless and his mouth feels tender, bruised, and he's hitching his hips up against the weight of Keith's body lying against his, too caught up in the heat burning in his veins to worry about anything else. Keith seems to like that; he hums against Shiro's mouth and slides his hands under Shiro's shirt as he bears down against Shiro, a slow grind that has Shiro seeing stars and clutching at Keith's shoulder and the back of the passenger-side front seat as he groans. Keith bites the shell of his ear again, catches the lobe between his teeth to suck on it, and runs his hands over Shiro's chest.
He should care about that, he really should—Shiro loses track of that thought when Keith strokes his fingers over his nipples, pinches them at the same time he sucks on the skin just below Shiro's ear, Jesus fuck—! Shiro knocks his head against the window as he arches into the sharp, aching points on his chest and the brain-melting heat of Keith's mouth on his throat, Keith's weight between his thighs and the tension coiling low in his belly—
"We're here," someone announces.
Shiro groans as Keith pulls back, taking his hands and weight away as he sits up, and—
Lance is twisted around in the driver's seat, looking at him. His eyes are dark and he looks hungry. "Jesus, I am so glad we didn't get pulled over. I think I might have been doing eighty on that last stretch."
Later on, Shiro will be properly appalled at the recklessness of that. Right now he can't be bothered, not when he's so hard and hot that he's soaked a wet spot right through his jeans.
Keith grins at him and holds out a hand. "C'mon, let's go."
"Okay, yeah," Shiro says, taking his hand, and scrambles out of the car with him.
He misses most of the details of the trip from the car to the bedroom, but that's probably okay—it's not like Keith and Lance have invited him over to tour their house, unless Shiro wants to count the various flat surfaces they take turns pinning him against to kiss him as a tour. Maybe a very focused, niche tour? Yeah, that's the best he can come up with when he's drunk on tequila and their mouths and hands, which are much more interesting anyway.
By the time they hit what Shiro has to assume is their bedroom, he's breathless and knows that Keith may be the biter, but Lance is the one who likes to leave marks—his throat is tender in a dozen places that are going to get him all kinds of shit from Matt later. He's also lost his shoes and t-shirt somewhere along the way.
So has Lance, who crowds him right up to the bed while Keith yanks his own shirt off. Lance grins at him and pushes at Shiro until the mattress hits the back of his knees and he ends up sitting down more abruptly than he means to. "All right." He rubs his hands together, eyes gleaming. "Now it's my turn to get a crack at you, gorgeous." He goes to his knees just like that, folding up at Shiro's feet and pushing his knees apart as he leans in to lick Shiro's stomach.
"Oh my God," Shiro breathes, muscles jumping under Lance's tongue.
Lance casts a grin up at him. "Aw, and I haven't even gotten started yet." He has busy fingers working on Shiro's fly, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. He plucks at Shiro's hips next. "C'mon, up."
"I would have gotten him undressed before getting him in bed," Keith notes while Shiro is obediently lifting his hips up so Lance can drag his jeans and underwear down his thighs.
"Everybody's a critic," Lance tells Shiro sadly, right before he leans in and swallows him down.
Literally swallows him down; Shiro can't breathe with the sudden insane punch of sensation as Lance's throat works around the head of his cock, vibrating with Lance's hum while Lance nuzzles against his stomach, eyes bright behind his lashes. Shiro knots his fingers in the bedclothes, gasping, mind gone blank of everything but hot and tight and yes. Lance hums again and Shiro can't help himself; he jerks his hips up, as if there's any way he could fuck himself deeper into Lance's throat.
Lance moves with him, lifting up and letting Shiro roll his hips up, slides his palms along the insides of Shiro's thighs and hums back to him when Shiro finds enough breath to groan.
He's so caught up in the heat of Lance's mouth, the way Lance's throat works around the head of him as he rocks up against him, that he forgets about Keith until Keith twines his arms around him and says something against his ear, something about talented mouths and putting up with bullshit. Shiro isn't tracking very well, not when every fiber of him is pulling taut, but it's good, it's perfect, to have another body at his back, someone to hold his weight as he arches. Then Keith catches his earlobe between his teeth and Shiro is gone, there's nothing left of him but the raw punch of pleasure that drives the breath out of him, wipes his brain clean of everything but how good it feels, and leaves him sagging and stunned in its wake.
"God," he croaks as Lance lets his cock slip out of his mouth and blots his lips on the back of his hand before grinning at him.
Keith snorts against his shoulder. "Yeah, like I said, I put up with him for a reason."
Lance flips him off, casual. "Love you too, babe," he drawls as he sits back on his heels. He grins at Shiro again as he undoes his jeans and slides his hand inside to curl around his cock. "So, now that we've got the edge taken off, what's your pleasure?"
It's not fair for Lance to be asking him complex questions like that when he's just sucked Shiro's brain out by way of his cock and Keith is mouthing his shoulder, biting his way along it—Jesus, that's his right shoulder, with all the scars from the shrapnel—
Keith has to feel him go tense, but he runs his tongue along the healthy skin parallel to one of the scars and runs a hand up Shiro's chest to toy with his nipple. Like he hasn't noticed. Like he isn't bothered.
Shiro sucks in a breath, one that shudders. "I don't know. It's been a while."
He can't help himself; he watches Lance for—he doesn't know what, pity or sympathy, not that he even knows what he'll do if he sees something like that on his face.
Lance's grin just stretches wider. "Huh, okay, guess it's dealer's choice. We can work with that." He rises to his feet in one easy movement and leans down to kiss Shiro, coaxing his mouth open for it so Shiro can taste himself on Lance's tongue.
Jesus. How is this actually real?
Shiro isn't actually convinced that it is, but if he's dreaming he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. He loosens his grip on the sheets and lifts his real hand so he can cup Lance's head and deepen their kiss, closes his eyes and leans into it, and hears the satisfied way Lance hums as he sets his hands on Shiro's shoulders and strokes his thumbs along his collarbones.
Keith bites the nape of his neck and sucks as he slides his hands down Shiro's back, fanning them on either side of his spine and curving them so he can fit them around Shiro's ass. He squeezes hard enough that it almost aches and utters a pleased sound when Shiro shivers. "Mm, you like that?" He squeezes again, working his hands against Shiro's ass, and yeah, Shiro likes that. Keith nips his nape again. "You like getting fucked?"
Shiro groans into Lance's mouth; Lance draws back a little. "I think he does." He slides his hands up to cup Shiro's face between his palms. When Shiro opens his eyes, Lance is smiling down at him. "How about it, you want Keith to fuck you? He's bossy as hell, but he'll blow your mind."
"Bossy my ass," Keith mutters, "there's nothing wrong with getting shit done, okay?" He slides his fingers over Shiro's skin, dips them under him and rubs them against Shiro, finding the spot just behind his balls and circling them there. The sensation rolls right up Shiro's spine, slow and demanding, draws a groan out of him. Keith keeps moving his fingers, slow and relentless. "You want it?"
"God, yeah," Shiro says.
Lance grins at him and stoops to kiss him again. "Good choice," he tells Shiro between kisses. Keith says his name and Lance laughs into Shiro's mouth. "He's so bossy."
It sounds like a well-worn argument to Shiro, all the venom long since vanished and nothing left but affection. "Yeah, yeah." The mattress moves behind Shiro as Keith changes position, pulling away from him. "Get with it already, you guys are still halfway dressed." Brisk as his tone is, his hands are gentle when he curls them around Shiro's arms, tugging at him until Shiro gets the idea and scoots back from the edge of the mattress.
Lance purses his lips. "Yeah, no, Shiro's more like a third of the way dressed." Then he tugs Shiro's jeans and underwear the rest of the way down his legs and tosses them aside. "There, that better?"
"Getting there." Keith pulls Shiro down and presses against him, his chest to Shiro's back, and strokes his hands down Shiro's body. "What're you gonna do, stand around and watch us like some kind of pervert?"
Shiro thinks that Lance may actually be considering it; he taps a finger against his chin before finally shaking his head. "Maybe next round." He shucks himself out of his jeans and reaches into the drawer of the nightstand while Shiro's brain is still hung up on that casual next time. He pulls out a tube and flips it to Keith. "I got other ideas." He grabs a condom and flicks that at Keith, too, before turning a grin on Shiro. "You any good with your mouth?"
It comes across as one part challenge and one part check-in, like Lance will just move on to the next idea if Shiro says no, which—it's sweet, in its way. Considerate.
Shiro clears his throat and feels the smile spread across his face, something slow and sure that he hasn't used in a long time. "Why don't you tell me?"
Lance laughs, clear and pleased. "All right."
He climbs into bed after them, and for a minute everything is a mess of figuring out how to arrange themselves. Lance ends up seated at the head of the bed, reclining against the pillows with Shiro lying between his spread legs and Keith at the foot of the bed, sliding his hands up the backs of Shiro's thighs and coaxing them apart.
Lance grins at Shiro and ruffles his fingers through his hair. "Well?"
Shiro has never claimed not to be competitive. He answers Lance's grin with one of his own and leans in so he can trace his tongue up Lance's cock, slow, and tease it over the head, tasting the flat and salt beading there while Lance lets out a sigh and curves his hand around the back of Shiro's head—not pushing, just holding him. "God, Keith, you are not gonna believe how pretty he is."
That seems a little excessive to Shiro, all things considered, but he puts it out of his head and focuses on the taste of Lance on his tongue, the soft texture of his skin against his lips, and the sound Lance makes as he closes his mouth around him and plays his tongue over him. Keith makes it easier to not think by sliding slick fingers against him, unhurried but relentless, pressing against him until Shiro's muscles relent and open up for him.
Shiro closes his eyes against the first stretch, the way the sharpness of it sings up his spine, perfect and sweet. God, it's been a long time since he's done this, had someone else's fingers inside him or someone's cock in his mouth, and he's never had both at the same time. It's good, in an overwhelming kind of way, and for a moment he has to just feel.
Then Lance slips his hand down to grip the back of his neck. "Yeah?" he says, husky, and yeah, Shiro is still on board.
He slides his mouth down a little more and sucks, hard enough to make Lance gasp. When he looks, Lance is leaning his head back against the headboard, his expression gone open and lax. "God," he breathes, rubbing his fingers through Shiro's hair. "God, Shiro…"
That's good, and so is the weight of Lance's cock against his tongue and the slow, perfect movement of Keith's fingers inside him. Shiro slides his hand over the inside of Lance's thigh and strokes his tongue over him, teasing it along the crown of his cock and losing himself a little in figuring out all the things that will make Lance groan. He only makes progress on this in fits and starts, because Keith works a second finger into him, and then a third, sinks them deep and curls them inside Shiro until Shiro sees stars behind his eyelids and has heat pooling in the pit of his stomach again.
"God, look at you," Lance says as he rocks his hips up, sliding his cock over Shiro's tongue. "How are you even real?" He strokes his fingers through Shiro's hair and cups his jaw, holding him, and that—that's really good, good enough to put a pulse of heat through Shiro, good enough to make him groan. "Oh, man…" Lance cradles Shiro's face in his hands and holds him for it as he lifts his hips, sliding his cock deeper into Shiro's mouth. "Is that good?"
Shiro answers the only way he's currently able, but relaxing his jaw and letting Lance's cock play back and forth between his lips, but that seems to be plenty clear.
Lance strokes his thumbs along Shiro's cheekbones and keeps going, groaning as he does. "God, Keith, he likes being held."
"Yeah?" Keith's voice has dropped, gone rough at the edges. "Nice." He crooks his fingers inside Shiro once more before dragging them out of him.
Shiro groans as he does, is already lifting his hips when Keith reaches for them, coaxing him up onto his knees. He groans again when he hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper and the low sound Keith makes, and then finally, finally, Keith takes Shiro's hips, hands sure, and holds him for it as he pushes in, slow enough that Shiro trembles with the stretch and aching heat of it as Keith fills him up.
Lance rolls his hips back and forth, slow, fucking his mouth as Keith sinks home. Honestly, Shiro doesn't know which one of them the spill of his words is for: "That's right, isn't he good, isn't he amazing?" he keeps saying, breathless, and yeah, Shiro agrees with him, Keith is perfect. He holds Shiro's hips, lifts them and grinds into him until Shiro groans, holds him so securely that Shiro can't rock back against him, and then, when Shiro thinks he'll lose his mind if the balance doesn't shift, he moves, pulling back to rock back into Shiro, hard.
Sensation breaks over him, driving a cry out of Shiro's throat, and Keith does it again, and again, while Lance cups his face and fucks his mouth.
Everything slips away but the two of them, the stretch and ache of his jaw as Lance slides back and forth over his tongue and the way Keith groans behind him, holding him steady for each long, hard roll of his hips and the starbursts of pleasure dancing over his nerves. God, he'd forgotten how good this could feel, how good it could be to lose himself in pleasure with someone else like this. That feeling sweeps through him, lapping over him warm and sweet and intoxicating until Shiro lets himself slip under, lets the two of them hold him and fuck him, lets Lance fuck his mouth until his hips stutter and he comes, flooding over Shiro's tongue as his shout echoes off the walls. He lets Lance stroke his hair as he groans, pressing his cheek against Lance's thigh as he pants for breath and Keith fucks him harder, driving into him at a sharper angle until pleasure closes on Shiro again, wringing down relentlessly. Keith curses and grinds into him, digging his fingers into Shiro's hips as he tips over the edge, too, shuddering as he comes and then sprawling against his back.
"Mm, wow," Lance says eventually. He's still petting Shiro's hair, which is both very nice and also very likely to put Shiro to sleep if he keeps it up.
Keith stirs a little and presses his mouth against Shiro's shoulder. "Mmhm." He kisses the other shoulder before pushing himself up and tending to the mess.
Shiro pries his eyes open; he knows how this part goes, though it takes all the willpower he can muster to make himself sit up. He opens his mouth to say something polite about calling for a ride, but Keith leans over and steals a kiss from him first. It's nice—very nice—and cuts the ground out from under Shiro completely. While he's still blinking, Keith says, "Pancakes or waffles?"
"What?" Shiro says, blank.
"Breakfast," Lance supplies. "Are you a pancakes guy or a waffles guy?"
Shiro blinks, not entirely sure why they're asking, but eventually essays, "Waffles?"
"Hah!" Keith sounds bizarrely satisfied by his answer. "Waffles, good."
"Damn," Lance mutters good-naturedly. Shiro is pretty sure he's missing something. "Ah, well, I knew you couldn't actually be perfect." He waves a hand, regal. "I forgive you for your waffly heresy."
"…right," Shiro says, for lack of any better response.
Keith just rolls his eyes. "Ignore him, he's just bitter he's gonna have to make us waffles for breakfast." Then he hooks an arm around Shiro and pulls him down while Shiro is processing that. He wriggles around against the mattress, making himself comfortable against Shiro's side, and heaves a contented sigh.
"I'm not bitter, I'm just sad that you two are so woefully misguided in your choice of breakfast foods," Lance sniffs while Shiro is trying to figure out what's going on. He gets up and flips off the light before returning to bed and fitting himself against Shiro's other side. "It's tragic, really."
"Your face is tragic," Keith tells him. He sounds like he's already half asleep.
"Your mullet is tragic," Lance shoots back, snuggling against Shiro.
Keith says something like mmphf and breathes deep against Shiro's ear.
Lance huffs; the sound is fond. "Typical, dude. Totally typical. One fantastic orgasm and it's lights out, Keith."
Shiro clears his throat; it's embarrassing but he really needs to ask. "Um. It's been a long time since I've done this kind of thing, but… isn't this the part where I go home?" The way they've got him tucked down between them doesn't really point that way, but… seriously, he's pretty sure this isn't how the script runs.
"If you go home, I can't make you your inferior breakfast food of choice," Lance says. "Also, it totally rules out morning sex, and that really would be tragic."
Shiro stares into the darkness; there's a certain undeniable logic to that point, and yet… "Somebody in this bed is crazy, and I'm not sure it's actually me."
Lance laughs. "You know, Keith said the same thing when we first hooked up, too." He finds Shiro's hand—the prosthetic hand—and gives it a squeeze. "Go to sleep, Shiro, rest up for the waffles and morning sex, yeah?"
"Yeah," Shiro says after a moment. "Yeah, okay."
(In a few weeks, Matt is going to shake his head and say, "Only you would hook up with a pair of guys at a club called The Meat Market and end up getting two boyfriends out of it. Only you, Shiro." Then he'll grin and say, "I told you it was a good idea," and Shiro will have to admit that yes, once again, Matt was right. But he won't mind too much, because Keith will be leaning against him as he does it and Lance will have their fingers laced together. What's a little bit of Matt's gloating compared to that?)
end
Comments are lovely!
Characters/Pairings: Keith/Lance/Shiro
Summary: Matt has a plan to get Shiro laid; Shiro has a lot of misgivings about this.
Notes: Mundane AU kind of a thing, because I wanted a thing where Lance and Keith take Shiro home from a club and bang him like a drum. Smut, the barest trappings of plot, Shiro's body issues, pancake-waffle discourse, and Shiro bottoming like a champ (hah!). 6277 words.
Dealer's Choice
Shiro catches himself hanging back, his footsteps slowing more and more the closer they get to the club. Matt notices that he's outpacing Shiro sooner rather than later—pity—and leaves off the animated description of his dissertation research to plant himself on the sidewalk in front of Shiro. "Okay, are we really going to do this again?"
"Um." Shiro can't quite make himself meet Matt's eyes. Instead he looks down the street to where knots of people stand on the sidewalk, lit by flickering neon and the glow of cigarettes.
"Third time's the charm, they say." Matt sounds ruefully amused, not exasperated, and wears a friendly grin when Shiro checks. "Shiro. Buddy. I swear on everything I hold holy—"
"You're an atheist," Shiro points out.
"—I swear on the grave of Carl Sagan and in the name of Neil deGrasse Tyson," Matt says, not missing a beat, "that if you go home alone tonight, it'll be your own personal decision and not because you won't have other options."
On the one hand, there's the fact that Matt does have a deep and abiding reverence for Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson. On the other hand—hah!—there's Shiro's other hand, or rather the prosthetic where his hand used to be. "You've been my best friend since sixth grade. I'm pretty sure you're required to say that."
Matt rolls his eyes, pretty much the way he had when he'd finally gotten Shiro to admit why it'd been actual years since the last time he'd gotten laid. "All right, have it your way. You can tell me so in the morning if you end up crying yourself to sleep in your lonely bed tonight. Now come on." He grabs Shiro's real hand and hauls him forward, ignoring all the laws of physics regarding inertia, relative mass, and force that say he shouldn't be able to budge Shiro. But then, physics really can't account for a Holt who's got the bit between his teeth, so Shiro ends up paying the cover and following Matt inside the club in spite of all his misgivings. If nothing else, he'll get the chance to tell Matt how wrong he is, and that is not an opportunity to be missed.
The inside of the club is dim and loud with the steady throb of the dance music and the crowd of people inside. The dance floor is full of people moving to the beat, some because they're actually dancing but most because they're taking the excuse to grind against their partners in ways that have to be violating several different ordinances about public decency. Yeah, Shiro can guess why the club is called The Meat Market.
Matt drags Shiro past the dance floor, straight to the bar, and buys them both a double round of tequila shots before Shiro can protest. "Drink up," he commands, yelling to be heard over the din, and suits action to words, licking and salting his hand and throwing back both shots in rapid succession before turning an expectant look on Shiro. (Shiro has long since given up on trying to figure out how Matt hasn't given himself alcohol poisoning by now, given his slight frame and the frankly astonishing amounts of booze he can down when he wants to.)
Shiro sighs, toasts his inevitable hangover, and knocks the first shot back. The tequila burns his throat; the salt and lime sting the chapped places on his lips, and Matt just taps his toe until Shiro repeats the whole rigmarole.
The alcohol settles warm in his stomach as he drops the spent lime wedge in his shot glass; Matt gives him a quick, pleased nod. "All right," he yells. "Fly free, little bird, and don't forget to use those condoms I gave you!"
With that, he turns and dives into the crowd on the dance floor, which swallows him up right away.
Shiro is going to blame the way his face feels hot on the tequila and not his horrible best friend or the glances he's getting from the other people at the bar who were close enough to hear that. He rubs his hand over his face and orders a beer, wondering how long he needs to give it before he can order an Uber and not end up getting mocked for cowardice later.
"—and don't forget to use those condoms I gave you!"
Keith snorts as short and bespectacled launches himself onto the dance floor, because he'd called that one from the minute Shorty had dragged his tall friend to the bar and then inflicted tequila shots on him. His tall friend has the kind of stiff, embarrassed posture of someone who really doesn't want to be where he is right now. Keith's surprised that the guy doesn't bolt for the door the second his friend leaves him alone, then sees him checking the time on his phone while the bartender fetches his beer. So he's the honorable type, then, for all he's here under duress.
Keith can work with that.
It's not difficult to let the crowd push him closer to the guy, who's still blushing—no, that's a scar running across the bridge of his nose and—huh, that's a hell of a fancy prosthetic the guy's got.
Keith revises his initial assessment (flustered thirty-year-old virgin) to something potentially more interesting. "Hey," he yells; when the guy doesn't look up from his beer, he jostles him, just enough to get his attention. "I'm Keith."
Yeah, no way this guy's a virgin, not with looks like those; he's got a strong jaw and killer eyes, and that shock of white hair should make him look like an overgrown scene kid but doesn't. He looks startled to be addressed. "What?"
"My name is Keith," he repeats. In case that doesn't get the point across, he adds, "What's yours?"
The guy gives him a flustered look, like he's on the verge of bolting after all, but he answers after the hesitation. "Shiro."
This isn't the kind of place where flirting and smooth-talking end up in hook-ups, but Keith's fine with that. He has it on good authority that he's not good at that stuff anyway. Action, though—he's plenty good at action.
He leans into the guy's—Shiro's—space so he doesn't have to shout quite so loudly, close enough to get just a hint of spicy cologne, and says, "You wanna dance?"
Shiro gives him a wide-eyed, surprised look. "What?"
Keith thinks about the way Shiro's friend had to drag him into the building that the two shots he poured into the guy, and while he's never going to get people, he thinks he can maybe guess a few things about this particular person. "Do you want to dance?" he repeats, leaning in closer and laying his fingers against the back of Shiro's wrist. "With me?"
It's a sin and a shame for such a hot guy to look so surprised by an invitation like that, but Shiro does look surprised. Shocked, maybe. "I—" He stops and gives Keith a searching look. "Are you one of Matt's friends?"
Wow. There are so many things Keith wants to say about that, but it's easiest just to raise his eyebrows. "Who the hell is Matt?" Probably that short guy, Keith guesses, not that he really cares. "Do you want to dance or not?" Maybe Shiro's just straight, or maybe Keith isn't his type.
Shiro looks lost for a minute, then his expression smoothes out. He lifts his beer to his lips and drinks, holding Keith's eye—no, challenging him. "I don't know. Do you?"
Too bad for Shiro that he doesn't know that Keith lives for challenges.
Keith grins at him, or shows his teeth at any rate, and reaches over to pluck the half-empty bottle right out of Shiro's cybernetic fingers. He wraps his lips around the mouth of the bottle and helps himself to the rest of the beer, holding Shiro's eyes while he does it, and places the emptied bottle on the bar when he's done. "Yep. Sure do." He reaches across Shiro and deliberately insinuates his fingers between cool metal ones. "C'mon, let's go."
Shiro blinks at him, looking stunned, but he lets Keith pull him away from the bar and into the crowd on the dance floor.
Who needs pick-up lines, anyway?
Shiro doesn't know which is hitting him harder, the tequila that's stretching a slow, languid heat through his veins or the sharp-edged glint of Keith's smile, but something definitely has him dizzy. What else could have him striding out into the crowded dance floor after Keith, whose every step turns more liquid, a seamless transition into moving with the music by the time he turns back to Shiro. He gives Shiro another of those knife-sharp smiles and steps into him, flattening his hands across Shiro's chest and sliding them up and over his shoulders. "C'mon," he says—Shiro thinks, it's even louder out on the dance floor—as he hooks his arms around Shiro's neck and nudges up against his body, one long, lithe line of heat from Shiro's chest to his groin as Keith moves against him.
It's been a long damn time since Shiro's done anything like this, but there are some things the body apparently doesn't forget: Shiro finds Keith's hips and they fit his hands perfectly as he steps into the beat.
Keith's eyes gleam from beneath the shaggy fall of his hair, bright with approval.
Jesus, he's forgotten what it's like to have another body moving against his, forgotten how good it feels just to feel someone else's body heat. To move with the bass beat of the music blaring from the speakers, too loud to be decipherable, just for the sake of moving.
Shiro begins to relax into it, into the heat of Keith's body against his and the slow burn of the alcohol in his bloodstream, and can't even be too embarrassed when his cock begins to rouse.
Keith has to be able to feel it; he's pressed so tight against Shiro there can't be any mistaking it.
As the song shifts to a different beat, he smiles at Shiro, slow, and grinds their hips together.
The friction is enough to make Shiro's breath stutter, to make the blood go to his cock even faster.
Keith's smile stretches wider; he hooks a hand around the back of Shiro's neck and pulls him closer, close enough to put his mouth against Shiro's ear. "Two options, if you wanna hear them." His breath is hot against Shiro's skin. "Option one: we head out back and I blow you." He bites Shiro's ear while that's still reverberating down Shiro's spine, settling hot as a solar flare at the pit of his stomach. "Or option two: you come home with us and let us fuck you stupid."
"Jesus," Shiro breathes before his brain catches up to his libido. "Wait. Us?"
Keith pulls back and gives him a feline grin right before Shiro feels the heat of someone else fitting himself against his back. "Us," he repeats.
The guy at his back hooks his chin over Shiro's shoulder and says, "I'm Lance," as he slides his hands into the front pockets of Shiro's jeans.
"What?" Shiro says. "What?"
Lance is never going to admit it to Keith, of course, but damn, Keith knows how to pick them. He can't even blame the guy for sounding clueless, not when he can feel how crowded his jeans are getting. He rocks his hips against the guy's ass, which is a thing of beauty forever as far as Lance is concerned, and licks the side of his throat. "Come home with us, gorgeous," he tells the guy while he's still shuddering between the two of them. "Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back."
Weird, the guy goes stiff at that, and not in the fun way.
Before he can do much more than that, Keith shoots a dirty look Lance's way and leans in. "That's metaphorical," he tells the guy. "No actual money involved!"
Weird, but okay, whatever. Lance can work with that. "Unless you're into that," he says. "I'm down for a little role play if you are."
"God damn it, Lance, shut up," Keith snaps before returning his attention to the guy. "Sorry, he's an idiot, I only keep him because I can't reach the top shelf."
"I thought it was for the things I can do with my tongue," Lance protests, but they're not really paying attention to him.
Keith is giving the guy some kind of really intent look. The tension begins to ebb out of him, those incredible shoulders easing under Lance's chin. Keith must really see something he likes in this one, because he smiles and pulls the guy down and slides his tongue right in the guy's mouth.
Lance whistles at them—Keith is hot, okay, and what he saw of their guy before getting over here looked pretty amazing, too. "So," he says once Keith lets the guy up for air, "you wanna get out of here or what?"
He feels the way the guy takes a deep breath, the tension in his frame, before he says, "Sure. Why not?"
Aw, yeah. Lance grins at Keith and gets a quelling look in return—it's a little offensive, really, because Lance is totally behaving himself—oh. As Keith tugs their guy off the dance floor, Lance gets his first look at the guy's right arm. There's an ugly band of scarring halfway down his bicep, and below that he's got metal where skin should be. Oh.
Well, shit, doesn't that just make him feel like an asshole? No wonder Keith was giving him the stinkeye.
He'll just have to make up for that later on.
Lance can't be too surprised by the band of scar tissue crossing their guy's nose when the guy finally turns and lets Lance get a look at him. He's been through some shit, that much is clear, but then, who hasn't? Lance grins at him and gives him a slow once-over. "You got a name, gorgeous?"
The guy still looks wary, but he says, "Shiro," which is enough to work with.
Lance grins at him and slides himself in against Shiro's side, hooking his arm through the metal one and leaning against him. "Awesome. Let's get the hell out of here, yeah?"
Shiro looks at him; there's a thread of tension that Lance can still feel in him, a darkness in his eyes that doesn't sit there very well, but in the end he nods and lets Keith latch onto his other arm. "Sure."
Keith leans around Shiro and says, "You're driving. Asshole tax."
"Aw, man, really?" Lance protests, but not really feeling it. "Fine, but you'd better not be getting him off in the back seat before I've gotten a shot at him."
Shiro turns a lovely shade of pink at that, one that shades into red when Keith smirks and says, "I guess you'll just have to drive fast, won't you?"
"Oh my God," Shiro says faintly as they hit the cooler air of the street outside the club. "Just what am I getting into here?"
Lance grins at him. "Baby, we are gonna blow your mind."
"Oh my God," Shiro says again, which, well, he just hasn't seen anything yet.
The thing Shiro figures out pretty fast is that neither Lance nor Keith are really exaggerating, well, anything. The two of them steer him up the street, bickering amiably back and forth in between making casually filthy remarks about what they're going to do with Shiro when they get him home, which, well. Shiro is feeling the tequila pretty well by this point, and that lets him ignore the voice at the back of his head insisting that this isn't actually happening.
Then they reach the place where Keith and Lance are parked, and Keith chivvies him into the back seat—"Don't be silly, there's plenty of room, go on"—and crawls in after him. By the time Lance gets the keys in the ignition and the engine turns over, Shiro finds out that there is plenty of room as long as he's sprawled across the seat. Keith fits himself between Shiro's knees while Lance puts the car in gear, gives him a smile that gleams in the light from the streetlamps, and kisses him again.
Shiro loses track of things a little after that.
Keith kisses him like it's his sole mission in life, licks his way into Shiro's mouth to stroke his tongue against Shiro's, catches Shiro's lip between his teeth and sucks on it, moves between slow, thorough kisses and hot, demanding ones until Shiro is dizzy and breathless and his mouth feels tender, bruised, and he's hitching his hips up against the weight of Keith's body lying against his, too caught up in the heat burning in his veins to worry about anything else. Keith seems to like that; he hums against Shiro's mouth and slides his hands under Shiro's shirt as he bears down against Shiro, a slow grind that has Shiro seeing stars and clutching at Keith's shoulder and the back of the passenger-side front seat as he groans. Keith bites the shell of his ear again, catches the lobe between his teeth to suck on it, and runs his hands over Shiro's chest.
He should care about that, he really should—Shiro loses track of that thought when Keith strokes his fingers over his nipples, pinches them at the same time he sucks on the skin just below Shiro's ear, Jesus fuck—! Shiro knocks his head against the window as he arches into the sharp, aching points on his chest and the brain-melting heat of Keith's mouth on his throat, Keith's weight between his thighs and the tension coiling low in his belly—
"We're here," someone announces.
Shiro groans as Keith pulls back, taking his hands and weight away as he sits up, and—
Lance is twisted around in the driver's seat, looking at him. His eyes are dark and he looks hungry. "Jesus, I am so glad we didn't get pulled over. I think I might have been doing eighty on that last stretch."
Later on, Shiro will be properly appalled at the recklessness of that. Right now he can't be bothered, not when he's so hard and hot that he's soaked a wet spot right through his jeans.
Keith grins at him and holds out a hand. "C'mon, let's go."
"Okay, yeah," Shiro says, taking his hand, and scrambles out of the car with him.
He misses most of the details of the trip from the car to the bedroom, but that's probably okay—it's not like Keith and Lance have invited him over to tour their house, unless Shiro wants to count the various flat surfaces they take turns pinning him against to kiss him as a tour. Maybe a very focused, niche tour? Yeah, that's the best he can come up with when he's drunk on tequila and their mouths and hands, which are much more interesting anyway.
By the time they hit what Shiro has to assume is their bedroom, he's breathless and knows that Keith may be the biter, but Lance is the one who likes to leave marks—his throat is tender in a dozen places that are going to get him all kinds of shit from Matt later. He's also lost his shoes and t-shirt somewhere along the way.
So has Lance, who crowds him right up to the bed while Keith yanks his own shirt off. Lance grins at him and pushes at Shiro until the mattress hits the back of his knees and he ends up sitting down more abruptly than he means to. "All right." He rubs his hands together, eyes gleaming. "Now it's my turn to get a crack at you, gorgeous." He goes to his knees just like that, folding up at Shiro's feet and pushing his knees apart as he leans in to lick Shiro's stomach.
"Oh my God," Shiro breathes, muscles jumping under Lance's tongue.
Lance casts a grin up at him. "Aw, and I haven't even gotten started yet." He has busy fingers working on Shiro's fly, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. He plucks at Shiro's hips next. "C'mon, up."
"I would have gotten him undressed before getting him in bed," Keith notes while Shiro is obediently lifting his hips up so Lance can drag his jeans and underwear down his thighs.
"Everybody's a critic," Lance tells Shiro sadly, right before he leans in and swallows him down.
Literally swallows him down; Shiro can't breathe with the sudden insane punch of sensation as Lance's throat works around the head of his cock, vibrating with Lance's hum while Lance nuzzles against his stomach, eyes bright behind his lashes. Shiro knots his fingers in the bedclothes, gasping, mind gone blank of everything but hot and tight and yes. Lance hums again and Shiro can't help himself; he jerks his hips up, as if there's any way he could fuck himself deeper into Lance's throat.
Lance moves with him, lifting up and letting Shiro roll his hips up, slides his palms along the insides of Shiro's thighs and hums back to him when Shiro finds enough breath to groan.
He's so caught up in the heat of Lance's mouth, the way Lance's throat works around the head of him as he rocks up against him, that he forgets about Keith until Keith twines his arms around him and says something against his ear, something about talented mouths and putting up with bullshit. Shiro isn't tracking very well, not when every fiber of him is pulling taut, but it's good, it's perfect, to have another body at his back, someone to hold his weight as he arches. Then Keith catches his earlobe between his teeth and Shiro is gone, there's nothing left of him but the raw punch of pleasure that drives the breath out of him, wipes his brain clean of everything but how good it feels, and leaves him sagging and stunned in its wake.
"God," he croaks as Lance lets his cock slip out of his mouth and blots his lips on the back of his hand before grinning at him.
Keith snorts against his shoulder. "Yeah, like I said, I put up with him for a reason."
Lance flips him off, casual. "Love you too, babe," he drawls as he sits back on his heels. He grins at Shiro again as he undoes his jeans and slides his hand inside to curl around his cock. "So, now that we've got the edge taken off, what's your pleasure?"
It's not fair for Lance to be asking him complex questions like that when he's just sucked Shiro's brain out by way of his cock and Keith is mouthing his shoulder, biting his way along it—Jesus, that's his right shoulder, with all the scars from the shrapnel—
Keith has to feel him go tense, but he runs his tongue along the healthy skin parallel to one of the scars and runs a hand up Shiro's chest to toy with his nipple. Like he hasn't noticed. Like he isn't bothered.
Shiro sucks in a breath, one that shudders. "I don't know. It's been a while."
He can't help himself; he watches Lance for—he doesn't know what, pity or sympathy, not that he even knows what he'll do if he sees something like that on his face.
Lance's grin just stretches wider. "Huh, okay, guess it's dealer's choice. We can work with that." He rises to his feet in one easy movement and leans down to kiss Shiro, coaxing his mouth open for it so Shiro can taste himself on Lance's tongue.
Jesus. How is this actually real?
Shiro isn't actually convinced that it is, but if he's dreaming he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. He loosens his grip on the sheets and lifts his real hand so he can cup Lance's head and deepen their kiss, closes his eyes and leans into it, and hears the satisfied way Lance hums as he sets his hands on Shiro's shoulders and strokes his thumbs along his collarbones.
Keith bites the nape of his neck and sucks as he slides his hands down Shiro's back, fanning them on either side of his spine and curving them so he can fit them around Shiro's ass. He squeezes hard enough that it almost aches and utters a pleased sound when Shiro shivers. "Mm, you like that?" He squeezes again, working his hands against Shiro's ass, and yeah, Shiro likes that. Keith nips his nape again. "You like getting fucked?"
Shiro groans into Lance's mouth; Lance draws back a little. "I think he does." He slides his hands up to cup Shiro's face between his palms. When Shiro opens his eyes, Lance is smiling down at him. "How about it, you want Keith to fuck you? He's bossy as hell, but he'll blow your mind."
"Bossy my ass," Keith mutters, "there's nothing wrong with getting shit done, okay?" He slides his fingers over Shiro's skin, dips them under him and rubs them against Shiro, finding the spot just behind his balls and circling them there. The sensation rolls right up Shiro's spine, slow and demanding, draws a groan out of him. Keith keeps moving his fingers, slow and relentless. "You want it?"
"God, yeah," Shiro says.
Lance grins at him and stoops to kiss him again. "Good choice," he tells Shiro between kisses. Keith says his name and Lance laughs into Shiro's mouth. "He's so bossy."
It sounds like a well-worn argument to Shiro, all the venom long since vanished and nothing left but affection. "Yeah, yeah." The mattress moves behind Shiro as Keith changes position, pulling away from him. "Get with it already, you guys are still halfway dressed." Brisk as his tone is, his hands are gentle when he curls them around Shiro's arms, tugging at him until Shiro gets the idea and scoots back from the edge of the mattress.
Lance purses his lips. "Yeah, no, Shiro's more like a third of the way dressed." Then he tugs Shiro's jeans and underwear the rest of the way down his legs and tosses them aside. "There, that better?"
"Getting there." Keith pulls Shiro down and presses against him, his chest to Shiro's back, and strokes his hands down Shiro's body. "What're you gonna do, stand around and watch us like some kind of pervert?"
Shiro thinks that Lance may actually be considering it; he taps a finger against his chin before finally shaking his head. "Maybe next round." He shucks himself out of his jeans and reaches into the drawer of the nightstand while Shiro's brain is still hung up on that casual next time. He pulls out a tube and flips it to Keith. "I got other ideas." He grabs a condom and flicks that at Keith, too, before turning a grin on Shiro. "You any good with your mouth?"
It comes across as one part challenge and one part check-in, like Lance will just move on to the next idea if Shiro says no, which—it's sweet, in its way. Considerate.
Shiro clears his throat and feels the smile spread across his face, something slow and sure that he hasn't used in a long time. "Why don't you tell me?"
Lance laughs, clear and pleased. "All right."
He climbs into bed after them, and for a minute everything is a mess of figuring out how to arrange themselves. Lance ends up seated at the head of the bed, reclining against the pillows with Shiro lying between his spread legs and Keith at the foot of the bed, sliding his hands up the backs of Shiro's thighs and coaxing them apart.
Lance grins at Shiro and ruffles his fingers through his hair. "Well?"
Shiro has never claimed not to be competitive. He answers Lance's grin with one of his own and leans in so he can trace his tongue up Lance's cock, slow, and tease it over the head, tasting the flat and salt beading there while Lance lets out a sigh and curves his hand around the back of Shiro's head—not pushing, just holding him. "God, Keith, you are not gonna believe how pretty he is."
That seems a little excessive to Shiro, all things considered, but he puts it out of his head and focuses on the taste of Lance on his tongue, the soft texture of his skin against his lips, and the sound Lance makes as he closes his mouth around him and plays his tongue over him. Keith makes it easier to not think by sliding slick fingers against him, unhurried but relentless, pressing against him until Shiro's muscles relent and open up for him.
Shiro closes his eyes against the first stretch, the way the sharpness of it sings up his spine, perfect and sweet. God, it's been a long time since he's done this, had someone else's fingers inside him or someone's cock in his mouth, and he's never had both at the same time. It's good, in an overwhelming kind of way, and for a moment he has to just feel.
Then Lance slips his hand down to grip the back of his neck. "Yeah?" he says, husky, and yeah, Shiro is still on board.
He slides his mouth down a little more and sucks, hard enough to make Lance gasp. When he looks, Lance is leaning his head back against the headboard, his expression gone open and lax. "God," he breathes, rubbing his fingers through Shiro's hair. "God, Shiro…"
That's good, and so is the weight of Lance's cock against his tongue and the slow, perfect movement of Keith's fingers inside him. Shiro slides his hand over the inside of Lance's thigh and strokes his tongue over him, teasing it along the crown of his cock and losing himself a little in figuring out all the things that will make Lance groan. He only makes progress on this in fits and starts, because Keith works a second finger into him, and then a third, sinks them deep and curls them inside Shiro until Shiro sees stars behind his eyelids and has heat pooling in the pit of his stomach again.
"God, look at you," Lance says as he rocks his hips up, sliding his cock over Shiro's tongue. "How are you even real?" He strokes his fingers through Shiro's hair and cups his jaw, holding him, and that—that's really good, good enough to put a pulse of heat through Shiro, good enough to make him groan. "Oh, man…" Lance cradles Shiro's face in his hands and holds him for it as he lifts his hips, sliding his cock deeper into Shiro's mouth. "Is that good?"
Shiro answers the only way he's currently able, but relaxing his jaw and letting Lance's cock play back and forth between his lips, but that seems to be plenty clear.
Lance strokes his thumbs along Shiro's cheekbones and keeps going, groaning as he does. "God, Keith, he likes being held."
"Yeah?" Keith's voice has dropped, gone rough at the edges. "Nice." He crooks his fingers inside Shiro once more before dragging them out of him.
Shiro groans as he does, is already lifting his hips when Keith reaches for them, coaxing him up onto his knees. He groans again when he hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper and the low sound Keith makes, and then finally, finally, Keith takes Shiro's hips, hands sure, and holds him for it as he pushes in, slow enough that Shiro trembles with the stretch and aching heat of it as Keith fills him up.
Lance rolls his hips back and forth, slow, fucking his mouth as Keith sinks home. Honestly, Shiro doesn't know which one of them the spill of his words is for: "That's right, isn't he good, isn't he amazing?" he keeps saying, breathless, and yeah, Shiro agrees with him, Keith is perfect. He holds Shiro's hips, lifts them and grinds into him until Shiro groans, holds him so securely that Shiro can't rock back against him, and then, when Shiro thinks he'll lose his mind if the balance doesn't shift, he moves, pulling back to rock back into Shiro, hard.
Sensation breaks over him, driving a cry out of Shiro's throat, and Keith does it again, and again, while Lance cups his face and fucks his mouth.
Everything slips away but the two of them, the stretch and ache of his jaw as Lance slides back and forth over his tongue and the way Keith groans behind him, holding him steady for each long, hard roll of his hips and the starbursts of pleasure dancing over his nerves. God, he'd forgotten how good this could feel, how good it could be to lose himself in pleasure with someone else like this. That feeling sweeps through him, lapping over him warm and sweet and intoxicating until Shiro lets himself slip under, lets the two of them hold him and fuck him, lets Lance fuck his mouth until his hips stutter and he comes, flooding over Shiro's tongue as his shout echoes off the walls. He lets Lance stroke his hair as he groans, pressing his cheek against Lance's thigh as he pants for breath and Keith fucks him harder, driving into him at a sharper angle until pleasure closes on Shiro again, wringing down relentlessly. Keith curses and grinds into him, digging his fingers into Shiro's hips as he tips over the edge, too, shuddering as he comes and then sprawling against his back.
"Mm, wow," Lance says eventually. He's still petting Shiro's hair, which is both very nice and also very likely to put Shiro to sleep if he keeps it up.
Keith stirs a little and presses his mouth against Shiro's shoulder. "Mmhm." He kisses the other shoulder before pushing himself up and tending to the mess.
Shiro pries his eyes open; he knows how this part goes, though it takes all the willpower he can muster to make himself sit up. He opens his mouth to say something polite about calling for a ride, but Keith leans over and steals a kiss from him first. It's nice—very nice—and cuts the ground out from under Shiro completely. While he's still blinking, Keith says, "Pancakes or waffles?"
"What?" Shiro says, blank.
"Breakfast," Lance supplies. "Are you a pancakes guy or a waffles guy?"
Shiro blinks, not entirely sure why they're asking, but eventually essays, "Waffles?"
"Hah!" Keith sounds bizarrely satisfied by his answer. "Waffles, good."
"Damn," Lance mutters good-naturedly. Shiro is pretty sure he's missing something. "Ah, well, I knew you couldn't actually be perfect." He waves a hand, regal. "I forgive you for your waffly heresy."
"…right," Shiro says, for lack of any better response.
Keith just rolls his eyes. "Ignore him, he's just bitter he's gonna have to make us waffles for breakfast." Then he hooks an arm around Shiro and pulls him down while Shiro is processing that. He wriggles around against the mattress, making himself comfortable against Shiro's side, and heaves a contented sigh.
"I'm not bitter, I'm just sad that you two are so woefully misguided in your choice of breakfast foods," Lance sniffs while Shiro is trying to figure out what's going on. He gets up and flips off the light before returning to bed and fitting himself against Shiro's other side. "It's tragic, really."
"Your face is tragic," Keith tells him. He sounds like he's already half asleep.
"Your mullet is tragic," Lance shoots back, snuggling against Shiro.
Keith says something like mmphf and breathes deep against Shiro's ear.
Lance huffs; the sound is fond. "Typical, dude. Totally typical. One fantastic orgasm and it's lights out, Keith."
Shiro clears his throat; it's embarrassing but he really needs to ask. "Um. It's been a long time since I've done this kind of thing, but… isn't this the part where I go home?" The way they've got him tucked down between them doesn't really point that way, but… seriously, he's pretty sure this isn't how the script runs.
"If you go home, I can't make you your inferior breakfast food of choice," Lance says. "Also, it totally rules out morning sex, and that really would be tragic."
Shiro stares into the darkness; there's a certain undeniable logic to that point, and yet… "Somebody in this bed is crazy, and I'm not sure it's actually me."
Lance laughs. "You know, Keith said the same thing when we first hooked up, too." He finds Shiro's hand—the prosthetic hand—and gives it a squeeze. "Go to sleep, Shiro, rest up for the waffles and morning sex, yeah?"
"Yeah," Shiro says after a moment. "Yeah, okay."
(In a few weeks, Matt is going to shake his head and say, "Only you would hook up with a pair of guys at a club called The Meat Market and end up getting two boyfriends out of it. Only you, Shiro." Then he'll grin and say, "I told you it was a good idea," and Shiro will have to admit that yes, once again, Matt was right. But he won't mind too much, because Keith will be leaning against him as he does it and Lance will have their fingers laced together. What's a little bit of Matt's gloating compared to that?)
end
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