Thread by @verdigrease

Cont.

#sheith

Shiro rushes into his room, closes the door and collapses against it, his cock already in the palm of his hand. He strokes twice and makes a mess of himself, held together up until that moment only by guilt that he is taking advantage of his best friend.

https://twitter.com/verdigrease/status/1544455068845576197

He spends the rest of that night in his room, jerking off another time, drawing it out because he doesn’t want to lose the residual feeling of Keith on his cock, his chest, and Keith’s thigh sweat from his palms, so he barely even touches his cock, coming more from the mental

image of Keith laying on top of him than the physical stimulation. He records and catalogues all of Keith’s little moans and the feel of the inside of his thigh where Shiro put his fingertips while he gripped him and held him and /fucked him/. He pushes the shame and guilt to

the back of his mind that night, decides to forgo leaving his room until the morning even with the sticky mess he’s made of himself and his sheets and a pillow he gripped while stroking himself, wound so tightly that he was sure if he didn’t have something next to him to pull

apart with his fist, he’d chew through his bottom lip or the bed frame.

The guilt comes back when he hears Keith shuffle out of the bathroom quietly and whispers a tiny /Shiro?/ against his door, and he can’t bring himself to respond, or to breathe even, afraid Keith might take

it as invitation to enter his room which he was now sure he didn’t have the wherewithal to lock upon retreating into, and then what is he going to do, how is he going to explain the tissues piled up on the floor and the thick air and the smell of sex that he’s sure now permeates

every piece of fabric contained in his room just from being in the same space with him while he was writhing in the bed polishing his knob to the thought of his /best friend/ for /HOURS/.

Not that he doesn’t /usually/ jerk off thinking of Keith, but rubbing a quick one out before sleep because you’re stressed and your best friend wore a pair of impossibly tight leggings while you watched Netflix together is a completely different beast to the drawn out, almost

uncomfortable hours-long solo session.

And so he pretends he didn’t hear Keith, who surely whispered it thinking he might be asleep already, and he hears his flatmate retreat back to his room a couple of heartbeats later.

---
Shiro manages to crawl out of bed the next morning at 10AM, a lot later than usually. Which means that Keith already had breakfast and went out, most likely, so Shiro braves the shower, then cleans up the mess that his room is in. As he shuffles into the living area with

his hands full of still damp, cum-laden tissues with the intention to throw them away, he comes face-to-face with Keith, a look of concern on his face, clearly expecting him.

Shiro freezes like a deer in the headlights and shoves his hands behind his back, then circles Keith

and throws the tissues in the bin in the kitchenette.

[I slipped into fic writing mode, god help me]

"Shiro, can we talk?"
"Mhm. Yeah, sure. I'm on my way out though-" he offers an excuse and immediately realizes how ridiculous that must sound, considering he's fresh out of the

shower and only wearing a pair of sweats. Keith must realize it too judging from the way he slowly stares up and down his body, then settles on his face with a look that Shiro doesn't recognize even in his decade-and-spare of knowing Keith.
"Just, um, need to get dressed."

He knows his face is red, can feel the heat to the tips of his ears. Keith's mouth opens slightly, with the intention of saying something, and Shiro realizes that from this moment on, every time Keith opens his mouth he will be haunted by the visions of the tip of his own cock

sliding into it.

Keith changes his mind, and his expression transforms, going from the peculiar expression he was wearing after he measured Shiro up head to toe, through confusion, settling on something tinged with sadness. He closes his (beautiful, wet, /hot/) mouth, gives

Shiro a tiny smile, then closes his eyes and shakes his head a bit.
"You know what? Never mind."

---
#sheith

The following couple of days are a bit awkward between the two of them, but by Wednesday, the tension seems to clear, as it always does when it comes to them. Even when they fight - rarely, but it happens - a couple of days of companionable silence quickly

turns into their standard routine, and soon it's like it never happened. They usually do talk things out, though, with their heads cooled off and when they've reassured themselves that they don't hate each other.

It's part of why Shiro loves Keith. He is hot-headed and stubborn

but burns out quickly, and the underlying care for his friends always comes out in the end. They get along on instinct, it's easy to talk to Keith, especially since he is usually the one to start up the conversation, knowing that Shiro lacks initiative in the department.

Shiro spends his days at work, manages to push the visions of naked Keith from his mind for the duration of workhours. On Wednesday, when Keith chirps at him from the kitchen as he walks into the apartment and he knows that everything's okay and things between them are as usual,

he allows himself to start thinking about /next time/.

Keith- in the snippets of conversation with others that Shiro was brave enough to listen to - claims that camming is a job like any other. He enjoys it overall, but it's not always /enjoyable/, depending on requests he gets.

They were all drunk past the point of shame one night at Allura's birthday party, a couple of months ago, and playing one of the stupid, teenage party games, when someone asked Keith something and Shiro didn't manage to filter out all the parts that made heat bloom in his chest

and the pit of his stomach. Keith admitted that he doesn't /actually/ come most times, even though most clients like it. He fakes it, he said - and he's very good at faking it.

So Shiro finds himself hoping that Keith doesn't mind the awkwardness, how dumbstruck Shiro was

last Saturday night. Hopes that Keith will set up another session next Saturday every time he opens his mouth to ask Shiro something. Hopes that Keith doesn't mind that he had to fake it, that he enjoyed it nevertheless. Hopes that Shiro is the person he trusts the most,

and (and there is that guilt again) that he doesn't have a trustworthy alternative.

He resolves to try and be a bit better /next time/. That when Keith asks for him to join him /next time/, he will gather the courage to ask for feedback, that he'll ask Keith to elaborate on what

he liked and if there were things that he didn't like. That he'll ask about the parts of Keith's body that he's allowed to touch. That he'll make it better for Keith. He allows himself to fantasize about /actually/ making Keith come, something he is /excellent/ at with others.

He pushes the unsuccessful attempt at a kiss to the back of his mind in these plans. He knows why Keith pulled back, that kissing is different, not an interesting part of the performance for the client, and it usually means something. Something that, and he has long ago

come to terms with it, Keith doesn't feel for him.

This is good. It's enough. It's more than he ever could've expected to have with Keith.

So when Saturday night comes around and Keith still hasn't started the conversation up, he doesn't understand.

He spends the night on the couch, waiting for Keith in the same spot as last Saturday, TV volume up slightly to cover the noises coming from the other room. Hopes Keith just assumed it will happen again, that he'll come out of his room at 1AM, when the session with That Client

is supposed to start, tell him to get undressed and wait for the half-hour mark.

It doesn't happen.

It doesn't happen the following Saturday either, and Shiro goes to his room both nights at 2AM and has another round of agonizing, punishing masturbation, lasting hours.

The Saturday after that, Shiro realizes there won't be a /next time/. He goes out at eight, as usual, giving Keith reign of the whole apartment. Goes to his usual club, has a couple of drinks.

He thinks about picking someone up, and the cute twink that has been eyeing him from

the bar is Shiro's type to a T, given how much he looks like Keith. Shiro never takes them back home - given how the whole purpose is to take his mind off Keith, having him in the next room while he fucks somebody else would only lead to Shiro imagining Keith under him instead

of the person he is having sex with. Besides, he never knew how to kick people out nicely before the morning, and Keith meeting any of his casual dalliances was not a pleasant thought.

But he doesn't pick the twink up. He goes back home alone, and sits on the living

room couch at half past 1AM, his ears tuned to the shuffle coming from Keith's room, fully intent on retreating to his room at two minutes to 2 as has become his - perverted, creepy, disgusting, he chastises himself - routine, before Keith comes out of the room to clean up in the

break between two clients.

At 1:45AM, he hears, “Oh, /fuck/, Kai!”

A voice that doesn’t belong to Keith.

A voice that distinctly does NOT sound like it’s coming from a speaker.

A voice that sends a chill down his spine, its sound unmistakable, a voice he has /hated/ for years, attached to a person that he has hated even more.

Lotor.

—-

#sheith

Shiro doesn’t leave his bed until noon on Sunday.

He doesn’t bother to shower the sweat and cigarette smoke from his hair before he goes to the kitchen for breakfast. Keith, luckily, isn’t home. Shiro sighs into his too-hot coffee and runs his hands over his face,

his eyes, wide open for too long last night, aching and dry.

It’s not like he didn’t try to fall asleep last night. When he shuffled into bed, carefully compartmentalizing the need to break something and postponing it for the gym punching bag on Monday morning, he was fully

intent on /sleeping/.

Then at 2AM the door of Keith’s room opened and he heard the hushed tones of the person he hates the most in the universe saying something to the person he loves the most in the universe.

Fucking Lotor.

And Keith /giggled/.

He balled his fists against his sides.

Then he heard a moan and the need to break something turned into the need to break someone’s — a /specific/ someone’s — jaw.

Fucking. /Lotor./

Shiro never understood what Keith sees in Lotor. Yes, he’s handsome — elegant and slim and with sharp features, while Shiro is all meat and square. And /yes/, Lotor is eloquent and charming while Shiro is tongue-tied and shy until he gets three shots of whiskey in him.

But Lotor is an asshole.

/But/, judging from Keith staying with him for nearly two years and then calling him up for a fuck even after their sudden and bitter breakup, Lotor also fucks good.

Shiro listened to their slower-than necessary shuffle toward the

apartment door, detected a characteristic giddy lilt in Keith’s voice, the telltale sign of Keith falling in love. Shiro’s heard it too many times in his life, never directed at him.

He stayed awake until the sun started to rise and then fell into the swirly haze of disconnected

dreams of pale skin and dark hair and turning into a panther and tearing someone apart with his teeth.

—-

[oops Shiro is a bit of a Nice Guy TM but it’s okay because he is also a genuinely nice guy haha. Had to up the jealousy to 11 bc possessive Shiro best Shiro]

Keith always has a good time in bed with Lotor, and the Saturdays spent with him in front of the camera are the most fun he has had camming since he started doing it, a couple of weeks after he broke up with the very same man. Lotor knows what makes him tick, and in spite of the

fact that they’re doing it ultimately for someone else’s benefit, he’s attentive and obviously makes sure that Keith has a good time, too.

But Keith catches himself sometimes, for a short heartbeat anticipating a harder thrust, a change of pace that is more intense than what

Lotor ever does. And when it doesn’t come, he feels a pang of disappointment every time.

Keith doesn’t let himself linger on it, because he knows that leads to crushing guilt and regret the next morning. When he lets himself imagine Shiro in Lotor’s place even for a second

on Saturday nights, he can’t even look Shiro in the eye the following day, knowing how much he hurt him with his request, knowing that Shiro is /that/ much of a good friend that he’d do anything to help, in spite of just how uncomfortable it would make him.

When Keith thinks about Shiro’s averted gaze, his hesitation to follow Keith’s direction for every step along the way, an unsettling feeling settles in his gut. He’s happy it took Shiro only a couple of days to get over it, knows it would take /him/ far longer if he was in

Shiro’s place. But Shiro is sweet and kind and above all awkward, so Keith let it go without the usual conversation, afraid he’ll stir up an admission of resentment if he pushes too hard.

It doesn’t help that he began noticing Shiro and that gnaws at him more and more.

Keith was always aware of how attractive Shiro is. Everyone is perfectly, acutely aware of it. Lance commented several times that he has a “one month rule” when he enters a new relationship, more as a joke, but Keith knew he was also deadly serious. One month after Lance starts

dating a new, pretty little thing before he introduces her to the rest of the friend group — just so he’s not too obvious that he is actually avoiding introducing her to Shiro. Painfully gay and awkward Shiro, but they, without exception, look up at him slack-jawed and with

moony eyes and giggle at the light-hearted inside jokes Shiro shares with Keith, that they couldn’t possibly understand.

Keith finds himself hoping to catch a glimpse of Shiro shirtless, exiting the bathroom in the mornings. He catches himself staring at Shiro’s body

during their shared breakfasts, his biceps straining the fabric of every t-shirt he owns, big hand enveloping the entirety of a large coffee mug. He starts avoiding spending time in the narrow, enclosed kitchenette with Shiro, after a night of tandem cooking resulted in

one too many brushes of groin and ass, and while he himself was at the end flustered and jovial, he noticed Shiro was guarded and clearly uncomfortable.

Lotor has been pestering him for a month to go out for a drink, and, after spending an evening watching Netflix with Shiro

and staring at his fingers fiddling with his loose waistband the whole night, salivating at every glimpse of Shiro’s stomach, Keith relents and says yes to Lotor.

—-

#sheith

Shiro took it upon himself (as he usually did) to pick up the food for Pidge’s party. His work was the closest to Hunk’s favorite caterer and everyone insisted that he would be the only one capable of carrying the mountain of food in his arms. It proved to be

a bigger challenge than he’d anticipated, and so when he stumbles into the apartment with a pile of boxes full of food eclipsing his field of vision he is even more grateful than usual when he hears Keith’s warm laughter and a pair of deft hands starts helping him with the cargo.

“Come and help, don’t be a dick, Lotor”, he hears Keith say offhandedly.

Lotor is here. And I t’s 6PM. On a Wednesday.

Shiro lets the other two men whittle down the pile of food and store it in the fridge systematically, frozen in place and willing himself into a neutral facial

expression for when his face comes into view.

When all the food is put away, Keith smiles sheepishly, shoots a look between Lotor and Shiro, then shrugs, as if to say “guess this is happening, sorry I didn’t warn you in advance.”

He goes to join Lotor on the couch, where he’s lounging already, having abandoned the task of helping Shiro before it was done. Keith sits next to him, places his feet on the couch, on the opposite side of Lotor’s lap, and leans into him.

It takes every ounce of Shiro’s willpower to stop himself from screaming.

Or crying.

Instead, he grits his teeth, squeezes out “It’s not Saturday.”

He ignores Keith’s shocked expression, realization that his trysts with Lotor aren’t a secret dawning on his face. Shiro points

his sternest glare at the object of his hatred.

“Takashi, did you finally learn days of the week? Good job!” Lotor offers in a sing-songy kindergarten teacher tone, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Lotor,” Keith’s tone is serious but warm. Shiro resets his jaw, attempts

to stop himself from grinding his teeth into a fine dust. He levels a look at Keith, one he’s certain he has never addressed at his best friend before — judgement. Keith’s eyes grow wide yet again, then he sets his lips in a pout.

“I invited him. It’s /my/ home, too.”

Shiro can’t stop himself from huffing in frustration. He opens his mouth to say something — anything that will make his nightmare end, only to shut it with a clack when he sees Lotor’s arm wrap around Keith’s body, tips of his fingers sneaking under Keith’s light shirt.

Shiro sighs, shakes his head, then turns and retreats to his room to either change his clothes for the party, or to claw skin off his body.

[getting there hahaaa. first actual conversation between these idiots coming soon!]

—-

#sheith

“What the hell is the matter with him?” Keith follows Shiro’s retreating form with his eyes.

“What do you think? He’s jealous.” There’s laughter in Lotor’s voice most times, a note of mockery, as if making sure that everyone knows he doesn’t take anything seriously.

It used to be a charming trait. Now it just reminds Keith how Lotor didn’t even take their relationship seriously.

“Jealous.” He cocks an eyebrow at the blond man. “Not /everyone/ wants to get in your pants, Lotor.”

That elicits a hearty laugh.

Keith looks at him, puzzled, lets him plant a kiss on his lips accompanying the last exhale.

“Have to go home to shower. Wouldn’t want Shiro going Psycho on me in your bathroom,” Lotor concludes, mirth still in his voice. “I’ll be back to get you around eight. Yeah?”

Keith nods and allows another kiss, longer this time, then walks him out and locks the door behind him.

In truth, he knows why Shiro is acting the way he is.

Keith’s relationship with Lotor wasn’t a disaster, strictly speaking — they wouldn’t have kept in touch, otherwise — but it /was/ a disappointing mess. Keith fell for him head over heels, and while Lotor’s words said he felt the same, his actions decidedly did not.

It really could’ve been much, much worse; Keith was still haunted by the memory of catching a college boyfriend — who he thought was /the love of his life/ at the time — in bed with a classmate.

Lotor didn’t do anything even remotely as awful as that, at least not to Keith’s knowledge, but as soon as it seemed like they were approaching a more serious stage in their relationship, he’d go distant, start avoiding him.

“Commitment issues,” Allura said; “he’s not ready to settle down yet,” was Lance’s interpretation. Shiro went with a simple and uncharacteristically rude “he’s a dick”.

So Keith, tired of having to pull him back into the relationship for the hundredth time, broke it off suddenly.

It seemed for a moment that Lotor would fight for him, but when Keith suggested that moving in together would be a sign of change in attitude, he pulled away again, and that was that.

Keith is over Lotor — truly and well over him.

So over him, and anyone else, that he’d started ogling his best friend and flatmate on the daily. But Lotor is also safe, and seems to know what the arrangement is about, so Keith lets him get away with kisses and touches, born more of habit than any genuine feelings.

Hunting for hookups and one-night stands is tiring, and convenience takes priority; it doesn’t hurt that it helps Keith get his mind off Shiro, at least a little.

Shiro, who was his shoulder to cry on for months and months after the breakup, taking in stride the mood swings and entire weeks Keith spent mostly in sullen silence, arguably has the biggest bone to pick with Lotor.

Keith sometimes wishes Shiro would be a little less overprotective, but in truth it's a presence in the back of his mind that brings him comfort most days. He can always count on Shiro to have his best interests at heart.

Keith showers and gets dressed, mulling it over the whole time.

At half past seven, determined to clear the air, he knocks on the door of Shiro’s room lightly, then enters without waiting for a go-ahead.

He knows that, when Shiro is in a mood, it means he’s already wound up to the point of breaking, and has a tendency to clam up and refuse contact.

As if to prove it, Shiro says “go away” at the door just as Keith is entering, then sighs in frustration at the sight of his friend in the doorway.

“What,” he says flatly, not even bothering to shape it into a question.

“Look, Shiro, I know why you’re upset, I just wanted to—”

“We can talk in the car, alright? I need to get ready.”

Keith huffs at the interruption — his pet peeve, and Shiro /knows it well/. Off to a good start.

“I’m not going with you. Lotor is picking me up at eight,” Keith starts,

intending to explain that it doesn’t mean anything, already feeling his patience slip. He’s not the one with the problem temper in this conversation, though: Shiro’s face goes so comically red that Keith is sure for a second steam will come out of his ears. He interrupts again.

“Lotor? Fucking Lotor, Keith! Do I have to remind you what happened last time? You said you were over him,” he hisses the last sentence in a staccato, more intense than Keith ever saw him. He seems more pissed about this than he was about Curtis cheating on him,

jaw chewing on something non-existent, working overtime to stop him from yelling.

Keith decides to come out with it straight away, offer the bit of information that will placate Shiro before he combusts. “It’s not like that this time — it’s casual. Just fun. Sex.”

“Right, sure,” Shiro says quietly, in a defeated tone, then turns away to pick out a shirt.

“It’s true.”

“You keep on believing that. Don’t come crying to me when you burn yourself again on the same fucking flame.”

His tone is bitter. Was Keith that much of a burden back then, or is this the resentment over that one fucking Saturday night finally coming out?

Keith tries to stop himself from adding bile to his words, but they come out vicious anyway.

“Well, Shiro, not all of us are content just moping around and not having that type of connection with anyone. Some of us enjoy sex sometimes, you know.

Even if it’s with someone you don’t care about romantically. It’s the meaning of the word /casual/ in this context, you know?” He hears the note of condescension in his own voice, knows he’s picked it up from Lotor, hates it and himself and Lotor for a second. Continues anyway.

“You might benefit from it if you gave it a try sometime. Might help with the permanent air of frustration.”

He realizes his face was turned away for the last couple of sentences, almost ashamed of how cruel he’s being to his best friend, but maybe a bit of tough love will help.

He turns back to Shiro, whose face fell completely, a kind of deflated and slightly sad confusion replacing the anger from a couple of seconds ago. Keith dials back on the vitriol, realizing he knows fuck-all about Shiro’s sex life, preferences, and level of comfort.

“I mean there’s nothing wrong with that… Like, waiting for the right one, I guess, if you want to call it that. Sorry I sounded so judgmental. But, like, maybe don’t judge the rest of us who are capable of being casual?” He crosses his arms, preparing for an aggressive response.

“Where did you get that idea? I’m not waiting for anyone.” It’s honest, Keith can tell, but Shiro still blushes slightly, looks down for a barely-there second. “I have casual sex.”

“You have casual sex?” Keith snorts, incredulous.

In the three years that they’ve lived together, Shiro has never once brought anyone over. As far as Keith knows, since Shiro broke up with Curtis, he has been celibate. Well, until that Saturday night four months ago, at least.

“Yeah.” Shiro offers, matter-of-factly, and Keith knows it’s the truth. When he stays silent for a couple of seconds, Shiro continues. “I just don’t bring them here. Uh— hate morning-afters.”

Oh.

It hits Keith more than he would’ve expected.

He’s still not used to the attraction he feels for Shiro, the animalistic, hormonal pull toward his body.

He was sure — /sure/ — Shiro’s hesitation and discomfort and, later, avoidance, was because he’s just /like that/, awkward and timid and shy and hung up on Curtis, or, god help him, Adam. But this isn’t that.

This means that Shiro’s performance that night isn’t an innate talent, but a practiced, common occurrence, something he offers on the regular to complete strangers.

He just doesn’t want Keith.

The doorbell startles him from his stupor.

He mumbles something and exits Shiro’s room, along the way noting that it’s been years since he was as happy to know Lotor came to see him.

—-

#sheith

At 9PM, Shiro slams the door to his car and sighs, preparing to carry a mountain of food on his own for the second time in the same day.

He’s in the middle of Tetrising the top of the pile, with the strawberry cheesecake box and the other (“different

crust”, Hunk said) strawberry cheesecake box competing for the prize of “box most likely to fall apart between the second and third floor”, when, again for the second time that day, a pair of hands pops in his field of vision, their movements a blur as they split the food

into two piles. Shiro hopes for a second it might be Keith, but the green shade of nail polish — Keith’s least favorite color — tips him off that it can’t be him before he comes face to face with the celebrant themself and smiles over the still not-insignificant pile of food

still in his grasp.

“Why oh /why/ wouldn’t you call me to come down and help you with the food? The only reason I saw you is because Lance locked his keys in the car again.” Pidge turns slightly and tilts their chin up towards the back of the garage where Lance is struggling to

open the door of his car with a thin metal contraption shoved in the base of the driver’s side window. The latch finally clicks and he whoops jovially. Pidge looks at Shiro again and sighs.

“Didn’t want to bother you, it’s /your/ special day. And I didn’t know who else

got here. Well, aside from Keith,” he snorts dismissively.

“Keith? He’s… not here yet.”

Lance calls them up, finally having gotten what he needed from the car, and, after exchanging hellos, Shiro lets the two of them chatter the whole way up the four flights of stairs, content

to add short quips and incapable of thinking about anything apart from the probable reason as to why Keith still didn’t get to the party even though he exited the apartment nearly 45 minutes before Shiro. His first thoughts are, as always, the worst: car crash, flash flood,

sinkhole, and the gruesome death following each flashing in his mind for a couple of heartbeats, before he wills himself to stop catastrophizing and gets his anxiety under control. He figures it far more likely that Lotor took Keith to his place, probably for a quickie,

and he cringes inwardly at the thought, then catches himself. He promised to himself, a month ago when he figured out that Keith was seeing Lotor again (but still had the decency to hide it from Shiro) that he wouldn’t let himself slip into the old habit of being, well,

a jealous dick, to say it plain. It wasn’t for Lotor’s benefit — far from it — but he realized that he’s started treating Keith differently when in a particularly jealousy-laden mood. Today was the worst one, and he’s sure he’d be regretting the tone he used on Keith in his room

for a long while.

He hates the new feeling he gets nowadays — distinctly different than anything he felt during any of Keith’s previous relationships — that he hadn’t managed to pick apart completely during sleepless nights thinking about Keith. It’s a bitter, heavy thing,

and it weighs on his mind day in, day out, as he tries to analyze it over and over and over again. But it’s too nebulous when he’s alone, and flares up to something more defined only when a situation happens — a situation much like today’s, when the blood pounding in his ears

almost, but not quite, overshadowed the one thought he’d been trying to crystallize for months in his mind: a single word, every time his eyes brushed over Keith.

/Mine. Mine. Mine./

#sheith