[ You did the right thing he tells himself, trembling as he listens to Lance protest on the other side of the door. It would be so, so easy to just unlock it. He could let Lance in, could get his mouth and hands all over him and some of the heat would finally subside and he could think straight.
It's not that easy, though. The last thing he wants to do is use Lance like that, or to make him uncomfortable and he needs him thinking straight before he ever even brings up the idea of him helping Shiro like this.
Two hours.
It seems like a short amount of time, but Shiro spends it curled in the blankets, furiously resisting the urge to touch himself. He knows how to handle heats; knows he's going to need to ask for water and food. Knows how to drag orgasms out of himself slowly, two fingers curved inside himself, other hand on his cock. The only difference is where it was something pleasant before, now, it's like he needs it. He's soaked, just like an omega, rutting helplessly against his fingers and into his hand, torn between the two. He's been with a few omegas before, knows the signs and knows he's exhibiting them. The problem is that it still feels like a rut.
The loss of Lance is all too distracting; he counts down the minutes until he gets an answer, wringing a few orgasms out of himself and sitting in the coldest shower he can manage, panting as he recovers from it. When Lance finally knocks, Shiro's sitting on the bed, tense and staring at a book he's clearly trying and failing to read. ]
It's -- fine, come in.
[ It's not fine, none of this is fine, not when the door opens and Shiro instantly smells how wet he is. There's too much sensory input from the silky robe he's wrapped in to the scent of Lance wet and the front of the material clearly outlining his cock. Shiro's mouth waters and it takes every inch of control to stay seated on the bed. ]
You don't know what you're getting into, Lance. I don't, even. It feels like -- both and it shouldn't feel like both.
no subject
It's not that easy, though. The last thing he wants to do is use Lance like that, or to make him uncomfortable and he needs him thinking straight before he ever even brings up the idea of him helping Shiro like this.
Two hours.
It seems like a short amount of time, but Shiro spends it curled in the blankets, furiously resisting the urge to touch himself. He knows how to handle heats; knows he's going to need to ask for water and food. Knows how to drag orgasms out of himself slowly, two fingers curved inside himself, other hand on his cock. The only difference is where it was something pleasant before, now, it's like he needs it. He's soaked, just like an omega, rutting helplessly against his fingers and into his hand, torn between the two. He's been with a few omegas before, knows the signs and knows he's exhibiting them. The problem is that it still feels like a rut.
The loss of Lance is all too distracting; he counts down the minutes until he gets an answer, wringing a few orgasms out of himself and sitting in the coldest shower he can manage, panting as he recovers from it. When Lance finally knocks, Shiro's sitting on the bed, tense and staring at a book he's clearly trying and failing to read. ]
It's -- fine, come in.
[ It's not fine, none of this is fine, not when the door opens and Shiro instantly smells how wet he is. There's too much sensory input from the silky robe he's wrapped in to the scent of Lance wet and the front of the material clearly outlining his cock. Shiro's mouth waters and it takes every inch of control to stay seated on the bed. ]
You don't know what you're getting into, Lance. I don't, even. It feels like -- both and it shouldn't feel like both.