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angelsnkisses · 8 months

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Study Break - Dalton Lambert x fem!reader <3

💟 nsfw - mdni 💟

A/N: there's not nearly enough stuff on here for dalton, so of course, i had to assist! i mean, the movie is still pretty new.. so that's probably why but whatevs :).

warnings: softdom!dalton, sub!fem!reader, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

Quiet, slow music hummed in your ears, flowing through your headphones as you tapped your pen against your lower lip. You stared down at your nearly blank journal page, brows furrowed and mouth turned in a scowl. You couldn't think of anything, not one idea for your paper, and it was bugging the hell out of you. You groaned after a hot minute of practically boring holes into the paper with your gaze, yanking out your headphones and laying your head on the desk.

"The universe is against me, I know it," you huffed, whiny and defeated. Dalton, who had been sketching and watching you work for the better part of two hours, looked up from his own book. He chuckled, but still smiled apologetically, getting up off the bed and walking over to stand beside you. He looked down at your paper, one of his hands rubbing your back with a gentle touch. "No it isn't, you've never done anything to the universe," he argued lightheartedly, crouching down next to the chair and tapping your back gently. You didn't respond, still wallowing in your own little vat of self pity.

"Hey, come on. You're gonna figure it out," he reassured, reading what you had so far before turning to you. He couldn't see your face, but he knew you probably had on that frustrated pout of yours, the one he secretly loved so much. You peeked down at him, sighing when you saw his face. Those eyes always pulled you in, took your mind off whatever it was you were even upset about it the first place. You rotated the chair to face him, leaning down and putting your hands on the sides of his face.

He was so sweet, so supportive despite you being just a little dramatic about your project. It wasn't due for a week, and your partner was doing half of it anyways. Your tense expression relaxed as you brushed his hair out of his face, cracking a small smile. "You're right, you're right. I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?" you asked, earning a little laugh. He shook his head in your hold, resting his hands on your knees and leaning up.

"Not ridiculous, you just worry too much," he teased, gaze flicking between your eyes and lips. You frowned a bit, still messing with his hair as you felt your face heat up. He was right, you did worry quite a bit. About your classes, him, work.. you couldn't help it. You moved your hand to cover his mouth when you saw him start to lean in, pushing his head away with a playful scoff.

"Better watch yourself, Lambert. I still gotta focus," you said, trying to sound annoyed. Really, you just sounded amused.. which you were. He groaned against your palm, his hand darting up to grab your wrist. He kept your hand against his face, turning it a bit and pressing a small kiss to the skin. "I'll help you de-stress," he said, his words a whisper between his kisses. He trailed the kisses up your arm, listening to your hesitant sigh.

"My roommate will be back soon," you reminded him, trying to ignore how good his lips felt. It was hard to say no to him, but your poor roommate had been traumatized enough times. She had already caught you twice, once being on her birthday. She always insisted it was fine and she should've knocked, but you always insisted it was your fault, and she shouldn't have to knock to get into her own dorm. Still, you really needed to start shooting them a warning text..

"I'll be quick. I swear," he vowed, his gaze longing and fervent. You couldn't help but get deja vu everytime you saw him between your legs, always remembering the first time he'd ever settled himself down there. That was over a year ago, when he was far more inexperienced and you had to teach him what you liked, etc. Now, he knows exactly how to get you to cum on his tongue over and over, and it's one of his favorite things to do. He watched you get lost in thought, that familiar look in your eyes telling him you were starting to give in.

"Yeah, that's it," he mumbled, his free hand squeezing your knee. He pushed lightly against it, trying to get you to open up your legs for him with encouraging hands. Your stomach did backflips when you saw how worked up he was getting, heat pooling between your thighs. Biting down on your lower lip and peeking at the small alarm clock on your desk, you hesitated, glancing between him and the paper.

"Just for a little while, then I'll let you work," he promised, thumbs rubbing anxious circles on your skin. You gaged his pleading gaze, warmth spreading over your skin where he touched you. You looked down at his hands, biting back a quiet noise. You always forgot how big they were, how long the fingers stretched.. you didn't stop him when they hooked into the waistband of both your shorts and underwear.

"Lift your hips for me," he murmured, the subtle dominance in his voice making your knees weak. You did as he said, heart pounding as you watched him peel them off your legs with ease. You slowly started to spread your legs apart once the fabric was discarded, feeling even more vulnerable when he inhaled sharply at the sight. Just the thought of him touching you more was enough to get you soaked, arousal glistening for him to see. You watched his eyes light up, legs shifting underneath him so he was on his knees as his hands gripped your thighs. He tugged you closer to the edge of the chair, a seemingly pleased hum emitting from his throat.

"Knew you'd like it," was the last thing he muttered before pushing his face forward, pressing his tongue flat out to lick a slow, greedy strip up your dripping cunt. The suddenness made you gasp, the warmth pulling a mewl from you as one of your hands laced into his hair. His name rolled off your tongue when he pressed a kiss to your clit, his lips soft and welcoming. Dalton peered up at you through dark lashes, one hand releasing your thigh. You squirmed under his stare, about to whine for more when he started gently sucking your clit between his lips. The moan you produced was intoxicating, filling his ears and egging him on.

You were too caught up in the feeling of his mouth to notice his hand moving just below his chin, index finger prodding at your sopping hole and catching you off guard. He was quick to smack one of your thighs upon them tightening around his head, a wordless warning that left your skin stinging. You pushed your legs back open shakily, fingers tightening as you pulled at his hair. The action instantly enticed a heavy moan, vibrating through your swollen clit and making you buck your hips involuntarily. The deep, muffled chuckle he released against you was unreasonably sexy, reminding you how desperate you were already acting for him.

You were about to apologize quietly, when his finger abruptly moved into the comfort of your warm walls, pumping slowly and clearing any considerations of speaking. Instead, you leaned against the back of the chair, breathing shallow and quick. "Dalton," you whimpered, the closeness making your whole body ignite with need. You were sure he could feel you practically throbbing against his lips, even more so when his middle finger joined the index. You almost felt guilty pulling at his pretty hair, the brown strands soft and silky between your fingers. You loosened them, carding through his hair instead in an attempt to taciturnly make up for the rough grip.

His fingers picked up speed when he felt you clench around them subtly, unable to help the proud feeling he was consumed with. He loved that despite his unruly life, nothing could affect his ability to make you feel good. Nothing could stop him from loving and caring for you, and that was good enough for him. He tried not to get all sappy, focusing on your trembling figure instead. He ignored the painfully hard bulge in his jeans, craving your release almost as much as you were. He longed to feel your slick coat his fingers, his movements picking up a bit. When his fingers started to curl, you just about lost it, heels digging into the ground as you tried to stabilize yourself.

"Mmh, don't stop," you begged, knowing damn well it wouldn't be the first time he took away your orgasm at the last minute. He had no ulterior motives tonight, however. He just kept up what he was doing, darkened eyes staying on you nearly the whole time. His cock ached at the sight of your face contorting in pleasure, that familiar little 'o' forming on your face as you cried out. His lips twitched up when you came undone on his face, his eyes rolling back just a bit as your familiar taste invaded his tongue. The majority collected on his fingers as he licked and tortured your overstimulated clit, your orgasm slowly beginning to subside as he helped you ride it out.

He pulled his fingers out, pulling back and inspecting them. He grinned at the sight of the sticky, pale substance, catching your tired eyes before pushing them past his lips. He groaned softly around the digits, sucking them completely clean. It wasn't enough, his greed getting the best of him as he leaned back in. You borderline yelped when he started sloppily lapping up the leftover arousal soaking your cunt, your eyes brimming with tears as his nose rutted against your clit.

"W-wait.." you begged softly, your legs twitching everytime he bumped into the sensitive spot. He pulled away when he was satisfied, shifting himself onto his feet and standing up. He leaned down to put his hands on the arms of your chair, caging you in with a sweet, yet heated gaze. You couldn't help but shudder when he got a bit closer, your body buzzing as you caught your breath. He tilted his head, closing the space between you and pressing his lips to yours. You involuntarily moaned against him, hands grabbing at his shirt and tugging him closer. Your eyes blinked shut when you tasted yourself on him, cheeks burning with the realization.

Dalton was starting to get needy himself, kissing you with affectionate, hungry lips. You made a surprised little noise when he slipped his tongue into your mouth, the kind of noise that made him yearn for you like no other. He felt a little guilty, especially since he'd promised you to be quick, but god, he couldn't stop thinking about how good you felt around him, how perfectly he filled you.. it was driving him insane.

"I wanna feel you," he practically moaned against your lips, his voice pleading and breathless. The blunt words made you wet all over again, a borderline inaudible sound leaving you as you forced yourself to shake your head. He broke the kiss, trailing smaller ones to your jaw. One of his hands moved to the side of your neck, holding you still so he could start nipping at the soft skin. Your pulse thrummed against his palm quickly, which he allowed to flatter him just a little.

"C'mon, she won't come home," he murmured, as if he could read your mind and tell exactly what was making you anxious. He wasn't actually sure when she'd be back.. but he didn't mention that part. He was about 70% sure he had enough time, and that was good enough for him. He waited while you pondered it, his lips pressing into the space where your jaw met your neck. You groaned, mentally cursing yourself before lacing your fingers back into his hair. He hummed at his little victory, hands beginning to wander your figure.

You knew you shouldn't, it was unfair to your roommate.. and the neighboring dorms that could probably hear you if they listened hard enough. You just couldn't help yourself, you rarely could around him. Your hands were shaking slightly in his hair when he lifted you off the now wet chair, crossing the small room to get back to your bed. He pushed his sketchbook off the comforter and onto the floor, setting you down on the mattress before standing. You felt exposed, reaching down and trying to shove your shirt over your bare bottom half while he stood over you.

The way he chuckled had your arousal leaking onto the bed beneath you, his hands moving to start undoing his belt. He watched you, taking his sweet time, tilting his head just a bit when you whined beneath him. "Don't be embarrassed, I've seen it all before," he reminded you, as if you had somehow forgotten how he was practically making out with your pussy not 5 minutes earlier. Your face got hot all over again, thighs clenching together at the sound of his voice. You always got so desperate after your first release, craving more of that syrupy sweet pleasure that only he could provide.

The way he was affecting you didn't go unnoticed by him, his teeth flashing in a grin as he tugged the belt from the waistband of his jeans. He began undoing the button and zip with one hand, the other gesturing toward your half naked body. "You're gonna keep that on for me, hm?" he mumbled, his eyes swimming with lust as they raked over every inch of your form. The shirt was his, otherwise it would have been on the floor in seconds. His favorite thing in the world was fucking you while you wore his clothes, and he did it every chance he got (which was a lot, since you were almost always in one of his shirts or jackets).

You nodded shyly in response to his question, not trusting your voice. You bit down on your tongue when he started tugging his jeans down, eyes greedily lingering on the front of his black boxers. He felt his cheeks heat up just a little at your attention, tilting his head down and pretending to mess with the hem so you wouldn't see his reddened cheeks. You watched his hands carefully, rubbing your thighs together when he continued to take his time.

"Please, I need you so bad," you whimpered, catching his attention. You didn't usually say stuff like that, claiming it sounded silly coming from you. The simple sentence sent a throb through his already aching abdomen, his hands pushing down the fabric without any more hesitation. You could have cum just from the sight, abdomen tensing with need. "Yeah? Need me to make you feel good?" he cooed, cocky now that he'd gotten the reaction out of you. He didn't wait for your answer, climbing over you and putting his big hands on your thighs. He tugged you closer, pushing your legs open with his eyes pinned down. He could have wept at the sight of you all wet for him again, making a small mess on your sheets and covering your inner thighs with the shiny, translucent slick.

"You're so pretty," he half-moaned, one of his hands leaving your thighs. The compliment had you reaching up, hands roaming his chest needily. He gave no warning before he dragged his index up your slit, collecting some of the liquid desire on his fingertip and slipping it past his lips. Your whole body warmed at the sight, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. You watched him lean down more, positioning himself between your legs and lining his swollen, eager tip up with your dripping hole. His eyes flickered up to yours when you gasped quietly, the hand on your thigh slipping up to grasp your hip soothingly.

"You ready?" he asked, his tip already wet from nuzzling into your folds. You whispered a deprived, desperate 'yes,' so clearly craving him. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, trying to somewhat distract you with the gesture while he started to push himself inside your tight, wet heat. You both gasped in unison, yours shakier than his due to the stinging stretch between your legs. He kissed all over your face, mumbling quiet apologies as you winced and huffed with every inch he gave you. No matter how many times you did this, he always had to start slow with you. The initial stretch was always the hardest part, but after that, it was typically smooth sailing.

By the time he had bottomed out, you were already pretty much used to it, lips catching his as soon as you were given the chance. You whimpered when he started pulling back again, the drag of him along your walls stirring up pleasure in your abdomen. You could hear him groan into your mouth, hand slipping under your shirt as he moved. He palmed at your right tit, squeezing the soft mound of flesh gently. His slightly rough hands were warm and comforting, touching you just right as his hips started moving at a steady, slow pace.

The moan you produced was heavenly, louder than before as pleasure trickled across your body. Dalton found himself disappointed that he didn't get to truly appreciate the sounds you were making, breaking the sloppy kiss so he could hear you properly. His pace was gradually increasing, his own quiet moans giving you all sorts of funny feelings in your belly. He leaned up a little more so he could look down at what he was doing, groaning at the sight. You peeked down, too, biting your lower lip when you realized how wet you were getting him. His dick was partially covered in a creamy white, making a wet, almost squelching sound with every thrust. You released an embarrassed whine, the lewd sounds making you feel ten times more exposed.

Dalton didn't share your feelings of embarrassment at all. In fact, he was going fucking nuts about the fact that he could literally hear how soaked he made you. His thrusts started to get harder, the sound of skin on skin mixing in with your whiny moans as he continued watching himself fuck you. The way his big cock disappeared, reappeared, disappeared, reappeared over and over was fucking hypnotizing. The only thing that could tear his gaze away was the sound of you gasping, hands dropping down to grip the sheets as your back arched up a bit.

"Oh, right there," you pleaded, eyes fluttering shut as your head fell back into the pillows. Dalton quickly realized what he was doing to you, a proud little smile on his face as he chuckled breathily. "Mmh, feels good, huh?" he cooed, knowing you couldn't answer as his hips pushed against you to deliver a particularly hard thrust. Your legs started to tremble, a loud, desperate cry escaping your lungs when he started intentionally pushing against that perfect spot over and over. Your toes curled, legs wrapping loosely around his waist as you tried to get him closer, deeper. Something must of been in the air today, because you couldn't remember the last time you were this frantic for him.

You were wrapped around him just right, snug and warm and wet. He felt his tip kiss your cervix, shushing you softly when you whimpered and squirmed under him, not knowing what to do with yourself. His libidinous sounds encouraged you, the noise coaxing you closer and closer to your second release. One of your hands moved from the sheets, trying to pry his from your hip so you could interlock your fingers. He noticed right away, releasing his bruising grip and taking your hand, pushing it against the bed as he fucked you harder.

"Dalton, 'm gonna cum," you managed to warn softly, a choked whine following quickly after. He hummed, an adoring smile pulling at his lips as he gazed at you. He didn't take his eyes off you once, just rubbing an encouraging thumb across the back of the hand he held. "That's it, cum on my dick," he purred, the filthy words catching you off guard. Your legs tightened around his waist when you felt it all wash over you, shaking and crying as he fucked you through it. You heard a raspy 'fuck' over the roaring in your ears, a whimper sneaking it's way into your boyfriend's moans as he felt his own orgasm snap. He pushed himself as deep as he could manage, head falling on your shoulder as he filled you up with warm, thick cum. It was mind numbing, your pussy still twitching and fluttering around him as his thrusts continued. You were overstimulated, but you wanted to let him ride it out.

"Atta girl," he mumbled, his thrusts slowing to a stop as he panted heavily. He pressed a sweet, gentle kiss to your shoulder before he pulled back, blue eyes meeting yours. His heart swelled when you gave him those loving, hooded eyes, unable to stop himself from smiling subtly. His hair stuck to his forehead, face flushed and chest heaving with his deep breaths. You couldn't help but stare, the hand that wasn't in his shakily reaching for his face. You brushed the damp hair from his face as best as you could, tired and lovesick in your peaceful afterglow. He pushed his cheek into your palm, sighing contently through his breaths.

After a few moments of the two of you catching your breath, he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours once more. This kiss was different than the other ones, gentle and caring instead of sloppy and desperate. Taking his opportunity, he slipped himself out of you, the sudden emptiness eliciting a gentle moan from you. He whined dramatically when you broke the kiss, your teeth flashing as you grinned, amused. You looked over his shoulder at your alarm while he started kissing your neck, craving aftercare just as much as you were. Sadly, it was already 9, and your roommate rarely stayed out very long after that. You mentally cursed your predicament, giving Dalton apologetic eyes. "She's probably on her way now," you mumbled, and he knew exactly what you were talking about. He groaned against your neck, clearly disappointed, but still pulled away. He thought about it for a second, before scoffing when he realized how obvious the solution was.

"Oh wait- duh, I live here too. We can walk over to my dorm," he recalled, making you laugh; a genuine, almost musical sound that had Dalton folding for you all over again. He pressed one more kiss to your forehead before gently pulling your legs off his waist and standing. "What about Chris?" you asked, wincing softly as you sat up. The space between your legs ached, and when you moved, you could feel cum start to leak out of you. It made you blush, remembering just how exposed you were. You watched Dalton pull on his boxers as he shrugged. "She's with a friend tonight," he responded, like it was common knowledge.

"You're telling me I risked my roommate getting an eyeful of us.. you know, when we could have been in your empty, risk-free dorm?" you gasped, mocking betrayal. He laughed at that, throaty and low as he lifted his hands in defeat. He grinned sheepishly, walking over to the desk chair where this whole situation began. "Yeah, maybe," he admitted, earning a playful eye roll from you (you would never admit it, but part of you loved the risk). He picked up your shorts and underwear, walking over and offering them to you.

"Here, we'll get you all cleaned up when we get there. I have some clean clothes you can wear," he promised, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple before turning to hunt down the rest of his clothes..

A/N: this is.. something. i never know how to end fics, that's why its always so abrupt 😭. anyways, i finally finished this one! i wanna write another one with a gn!reader :). work and classes have kept me so busy, but i'm gonna try to post a bit more frequently 🫶 hope you enjoyed <3! (not proofread yet)

#ty simpkins #dalton lambert #dalton lambert smut #dalton lambert x reader #insidious #insidious: the red door #insidious the red door #i love him so bad #angelsnkisses #mdni

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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

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“No.”

Lance groans loudly, forgoing smacking his face in his hands and going straight for banging his head repeatedly against the elevator doors, which Keith thinks is a touch dramatic. But regardless he crosses his arms over his chest and stubbornly refuses to budge from his position.

“Keith. For the love of God.”

“God is dead and I’m not climbing out of a goddamn ten thousand foot elevator hatch with you.”

Keith admittedly puts a tad too much emphasis on the ‘with you’ part of the sentence. It’s obvious in the way Lance stops and lifts his head up and glares at Keith so icily he doesn’t need to squint to make out Lance’s expression in the low emergency lights; his eyes practically burn a hole through Keith’s forehead. Keith winces but doesn’t say anything.

“You have gone toe to toe with a goddamn zombie dictator,” Lance grinds out, “but you’re too much of a pussy to climb an elevator shaft?”

Keith stiffens. “I’m not — shut up!”

Smirking, now, visibly delighted that he’s managed to press Keith’s buttons (God Keith wants to punch him), Lance leans against the elevator wall, hip cocked, feigning nonchalance.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says, inspecting his nails like it doesn’t matter. “I just never would have thought that the best pilot out of the Garrison and literal pilot of the Red Lion is, you know, a chicken.”

Keith clenches his fists. Lance is frustrated and bored and pushing Keith’s buttons because there’s fuck else to do. He is. Keith knows this.

But he is so goddamn good at it.

“I’m not a fucking chicken, Cargo Pilot.”

‘Cargo Pilot’ is usually a hole-in-one insult that’s guaranteed to make Lance bristle, sure to make him bare his teeth and go bright red and generally lose his absolute shit. Keith is even sparing in his use of the term, careful not to let it lose its potency.

But because the universe hates him and also Lance is the most annoying motherfucker alive, his smirk only widens, and he flexes his fingers, still fucking casual, still not even bothering to look up in Keith’s direction.

I hate you, Keith thinks, with feeling.

“Sure,” Lance says, without. He shrugs. “Prove it.”

For a second Keith thinks he’s so mad that he might. But then he imagines it fully, pictures his bare back pressed against Lance’s, feet planted on the slippery castle walls, lights probably still out, struggling to put one foot in front of the other and drag each other upright. He thinks of how much effort that would take and how easily he would start to sweat, how easily every shift of their muscles would loosen the friction-borne grip between them, how easily his foot could slip. He thinks of how long a ten thousand foot drop would take, how long he would have to accept that he’s going to die before he splats on the pristine floor.

His stomach turns. His face goes green.

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Oh my God, you’re afraid of heights!”

“I am not!” Keith snaps, because he isn’t, he just has a fucking brain. “It’s just — it’s ten thousand fucking feet, Lance!”

“A pilot!” Lance screeches. “A pilot afraid of heights!”

“You are so goddamn extra!” Keith cries.

Lance makes more vague screeching noises. He gestures furiously at Keith, then pauses, then makes a sound in the back of his throat akin to a loudly dying whale, then gestures back at Keith, then at the ceiling, then at the elevator as a whole. Then he lets out one loud, long, final yell, completely wordless and directed at what Keith can only assume is the heavens, and stops, closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and very calmly crawls onto the floor, belly first, and lays perfectly flat with his face pressed to the tiles.

“I hate it here,” he says serenely. He pauses for a minute, thoughtful. “Also, I hate you.”

“Ditto,” Keith mutters, finally giving up and joining him on the floor. He tips his head back until it thumps on the elevator wall and sighs, loud and long, wondering vaguely if this is punishment for the hundreds of times he mocked Shiro for his fear of squirrels. He truly thinks it might be.

All he wanted was twenty goddamn minutes in the pool. That’s all. He’d have even taken ten. He just wanted to swim a few laps, maybe float for a bit, and pretend he was in a lake somewhere without pressing problems such as saving the universe and the fate of every single soul in it.

Eight minutes, really. Seven.

The lights flicker back on. Lance lifts his head, hopeful, then stretches out one ridiculously long leg (seriously what is the deal with that he’s basically a giraffe, it’s too much, Keith should talk to someone about it because since when were legs allowed to be that — long and shapely, or whatever, it’s weird) and presses the closest button with his toe.

It does nothing. Lance stares at it for a few minutes, as if attempting to bring the elevator alive by manifestation alone, but no life is forthcoming. Lance huffs sadly and returns his face to the floor.

“That’s really disgusting,” Keith says, although he has his fair share of Floor Time. “People walk on this floor all the time.”

Lance doesn’t bother looking up, groaning loudly for several minutes before simply rolling away to the opposite side of the elevator.

“Shut up,” he says finally, after so long Keith almost forgets his original comment. “You just —”

Abruptly he straightens up, pulling the towel off his neck and crawling forward to place it in the middle of the elevator. Keith rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts, a little.

“You and your commentary stay on the loser stinky mullet half of the elevator,” Lance says. “The pretty half that’s not infected with your rancid vibes belongs to me.”

“Were you trained to be this annoying?” Keith ponders, half out of genuine curiosity. “Like, do you do this on purpose?”

“Ignoring you now,” Lance says primly.

Keith scowls. He’s not — Keith isn’t the one who’s too irritating to be around without going insane.

“I’m ignoring you, asshole.”

Lance doesn’t respond. Keith closes one eye and holds up his thumb and forefinger to the approximate shape of Lance’s face, pretending he’s squishing his head. It brings him great peace.

After a while, though, he starts to get restless. His legs starts bouncing, up and down so fast it’s blurry, and then his fingers start to tap, but the feeling of rustling under his skin only gets worse, spinning faster and faster and coil tightening more and more in his stomach until he just — implodes, really, until his brain goes boom and says if you don’t get moving right this second, and Keith says in response to it, believe me I’m on it. He’s scrambling to his feet before he has the conscious thought to do so, hands moving before he tells them to and pushing him upright, bare feet padding rapidly on the floor as he paces, three steps until he hits the wall then pivot then three steps then pivot then three steps again. Over and over and over. His fingers stop tapping but his shoulders get twitchy; itchy under his skin and on it, sweaty because there’s no airflow and this goddamn elevator is sweltering. Or he’s just hot. He usually runs hot. He’s not sure and he doesn’t care to know, because the pool would have been refreshing but instead he’s stuck in a ten by ten by ten cube stuck somewhere on a ten thousand foot tube and to his right his rival-slash-teammate keeps huffing and rubbing his hands on his arms and muttering to himself.

“Could you maybe cut that out,” Keith snaps, which is entirely unfair because his pacing isn’t quiet, but Keith is three seconds away from attempting to climb the walls and it’s Lance, anyway, when are they not arguing, so it doesn’t matter.

Maybe when you’re having a crisis-brought bonding moment, says a voice in his brain. Stuck elevators are kind of a crisis.

Shut up or I’m going to give myself a concussion, Keith responds to it.

“Not my fault it’s goddamn freezing in here,” Lance snaps.

Keith pauses. He looks down at Lance. He frowns.

“Your lips are blue,” he observes, bewildered.

“Eat shit,” Lance responds, predictably. He’s fucking — he’s shivering.

Keith is made astutely aware of the cooling sweat on his back and grimaces.

“Lance,” he says slowly, “it is not cold in here.”

Lance blows out a breath like the goddamn weight of the world is on his shoulders. He flicks his eyes up to meet Keith’s, who is standing behind his head and leaning down, and somehow manages to seem like the more put-together person between them, which is bonkers.

“I’m anaemic, stupid.”

Keith blinks. Suddenly the air feels very solemn, and he shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t know you had an eating disorder,” he manages eventually.

Lance’s faces scrunches up in confusion for seven whole seconds before it clears, and he looks at Keith like he is the dumbest man alive and then bursts out laughing.

“That’s — anorexic, you idiot! I don’t have enough blood!”

“Oh,” Keith says, face heating. He scowls as Lance continues to laugh way harder than what was called for, clutching his stomach with tears rolling down his face. He pokes Lance aggressively with his toe, and by that he means his kicks him. “Will you stop — it’s not that funny, dickhead!”

“It really is,” Lance wheezes.

Keith scowls harder. His face is as red as his shorts and the flush is starting to spread down his chest and Lance notices and it only makes him laugh more, because he’s a shithead of the worst kind. “I hope you choke.”

Keith flicks his towel over his head and yanks, embarrassed, stomping to the other side of the elevator as if that will somehow make Lance shut up faster. It doesn’t, obviously, and he hears Lance laugh for several minutes until he finally winds down to giggling, then eventually nothing.

Keith harrumphs quietly to himself. He resolves to sticking in his corner like he should have from the very beginning, until the elevator starts moving again or someone on the team comes to save them. At this point he’s so done he wouldn’t even care if it was Shiro, wouldn’t even care if Shiro gloated about it for eternity (Keith saved his ass from government experimentation, anyway, so he wins by default for the rest of time). He faces his corner and pulls his knees to his chest and starts picking at a loose thread in the seam of his shorts to amuse himself.

Several minutes later, he hears Lance shifting. He ignores it. He pulls at the thread until it comes loose, then busies himself with tying the thread into the most complicated and random knot he can.

A few more minutes later, and there’s the sound of fabric rustling and draping, then quiet cursing. Keith untangles and retangles his knot for the fourth time.

After what must be a half hour, Keith hears the sound of teeth chattering.

He sighs. He looks forlornly at his knot.

“I could just ignore him,” he mutters to himself. “He probably won’t die.”

He thinks of how short Lance’s shorts are. He pinches his own towel in his fingertips, so thin he can practically feel his fingerprints. He remembers blue lips and a clenched jaw and raised gooseflesh.

He sighs loudly, more of a groan, and flicks his ball of thread away.

It takes Lance a few seconds to respond to Keith looming over him, which is worrying. But eventually he cracks open one brown eye and flares up at Keith.

“What,” he mutters. His teeth are chattering so bad it sounds like two words.

“You’re freezing,” Keith says. His voice is softer than he expected it to be.

Lance huffs, closing his eye again and curling further into himself. “No shit.”

Keith frowns. “I’m not.”

“Well, rub it in, why dontcha.”

Keith frowns. “You’re not understanding.”

Lance ignores him. Keith has a sudden and vivid memory of the year Shiro and Adam drove him up to Seattle in the winter so he could be more cultured, or whatever (or less of a desert menace, Adam had argued, and perhaps more inclined to stop biting people), and spent the whole car ride lecturing him about hypothermia.

“It doesn’t take very long to set in,” Shiro had said.

“And once you have it you need to warm up or your heart can stop,” Adam had finished, very serious.

Suddenly Keith starts to feel very panicked.

Lukewarm tea, warm blankets, skin to skin contact with someone who’s warm, were Shiro’s instructions. And then possibly hospital.

Well. Keith has one of those things.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he wraps a gentle hand around Lance’s shoulder, tugging him upright, then pulls him forward so his cradled hands are pressed against Keith’s chest and his head is tucked into the junction of Keith’s neck.

Worryingly, it takes Lance almost thirty seconds to start complaining.

“You smell like mullet,” he whines. But he doesn’t move away. In fact, he burrows closer.

Keith swallows down his worry. “Mullets don’t smell like anything, dumbass.” He brings his hands up to press against Lance’s back. Lance groans, curling deeper into Keith’s hold. His nose is icy and burns a trail across Keith’s shoulder, down his collarbone. Keith’s flush from earlier makes an enthusiastic return, because nothing good still exists in the world.

“I still think you’re annoying,” Lance mumbles. Every move of his lip brushes against Keith’s skin.

“Shut up and focus on not freezing to death,” Keith snaps.

Lance snorts. “I’m not gonna freeze to death, doofus. It’s just a dead elevator. Once I fell asleep on the Garrison rooftop in January and only had to spend three days in urgent care, so basically I can withstand anything.”

Keith pauses. He tries to reconcile the Lance who just said that to the Lance who came up with a life saving plan in thirty seconds on the Balmera to the Lance who threatened to stick Keith in a wormhole to the Lance who smiled and said they made a good team before passing out in Keith’s arms.

“You are a very confusing person,” he says when all the reconciling does absolutely nothing.

“Thank you,” Lance says, sounding pleased.

Keith snorts and tightens his hold. Lance sighs and sags a little. Slowly his fingers stop feeling so much like ice blocks, and his breathing doesn’t sound so erratic. Keith doesn’t know how long it’s been. He stopped trying to count somewhere between when Lance’s cheek squished against his chest and his fingers started tracing featherlight patterns across his skin.

Lance yawns. Keith tries to fight his but ends up yawning anyway.

“Is it bad to let a person with hypothermia sleep?” he mumbles, half-slurring his words.

Lance hums. “‘M not hypothermic.”

“Dunno. Could be.”

He sighs again, a puff of air against Keith’s neck, and spreads his palms against Keith’s chest, flat. “‘M not. You’re too warm.” He pauses. “Freak.”

His tone is fond. The corners of Keith’s lips quirk up. “Weirdo.”

“Mhm.”

He falls asleep trying to count Lance’s breaths. It’s — groundbreaking, somehow.

———

(“Oh, my God.”

Keith cracks open bleary eyes, lifting a hand to rub his face. Lance groans from his place on Keith’s chest — in a puddle of drool, why is that not nearly as revolting as it should be — and snatches Keith’s wrist way faster than he should be able to as groggy as he is, placing it back around his waist.

“Oh, my God,” the voice repeats, gleeful.

“Shut up, Shiro,” Keith mutters. “Fuck.”

It takes him a minute.

His eyes fly open at the same time as Lance’s, and they look at each other, and then Keith is being shoved and kicked at the same time somehow and Lance is scrambling backwards at the speed of light, screeching. A loud bang makes Keith look over and he discovers his brother, who is dead to him, collapsed on the floor, laughing so loud Zarkon can probably hear him.

“What — Shiro — go — stop fucking laughing, you piece of shit!”

Lance continues to screech. Keith whips a towel at him.

“You gay pining loser!” Shiro shrieks. “I’m going to tell literally everyone!”

Keith puts his head in his hands and wishes he’d fallen down the goddamn elevator shaft.)

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