It was the first time Keith and Lance had ever trained together informally and Keith has the slowly dawning realization that this might have been a bad idea. It had never occurred to Keith that Lance might wear, or even own, a tank top. Not that it didn't make sense - Keith himself had left his own jacket in his room without bothering to bring it down to the training deck, and Lance had apparently had a similar vein of thought and left his entire shirt behind, because hey, wasn't working out what tank tops were like, actually for?

Keith didn't know. He also didn't know why he was over analyzing it. Oh, except that he did, and it was because Keith was gay and there was too much gorgeous bronze skin on display not to be terminally distracted by because Keith was thirsty and pathetic. In his defense, Keith hadn't even known Lance was CAPABLE of being… this kind of distracting. Sure, he had a handsome face and a nice laugh or whatever, but he was also made up entirely of scarecrow limbs too skinny to have any sex appeal whatsoever, right?

Nope. Not right. Wrong wrong wrong, Keith had been so wrong. Lance's body may have been lean and slender instead of displaying the thick bulk one usually associated with a muscular frame, but by no means could he qualify as scrawny. There was power in those arms, sinewy defined muscle rippling obviously under his soft tan skin, every slight movement as they fought highlighting the graceful strength normally hidden under tacky-but-probably-comfortable coat.

And his back. Like, holy shit those were some nice back muscles. Lance's shoulders were surprisingly broad and every time Keith got behind him instead of taking advantage of it to attack, he'd find himself instead staring at the flex of muscles in between his shoulderblades, thoughts lost in a tangle of fantasies of his own fingers scratching red lines into the flesh of Lance's back while he was fucked and jesus christ there might even be enough strength in his prowling muscles to be able to pick Keith up and fuck him against the wall right here in the training deck -

Keith was blindsided by a kick to his stomach, and by the time he could suck the wind back into his lungs he was pinned to the floor on his back, Lance hovering inches above him and close enough to see the sweat rolling down his face as he panted.

"Got you," he declared excitedly, before his face twisted into something mildly concerned. "Uh, not that I didn't deserve the win for being amazing and all, but are you okay? You seem a little… Out of it."

He still hadn't sat up off of Keith and holy shit did Lance ever smell good when he was all worn out and sweaty like this. Before he knew it was going to happen, Keith opened his mouth and the horrendous words that fell out came in the form of a pathetic gasp, "Fuck me like the slut I am."

Lance blinked, jaw dropping. "P-pardon?!"

Oh shit that wasn't good. Keith sat up quickly, shoving Lance's face out of his way as he stood up and scoffed in the steadiest voice he could, "I said 'fuck me, I'll have to try again.' I was cursing myself for zoning out; come on and get back to the fight."

"R-right," Lance said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Yeah, that makes a lot more sense than what I thought I heard."

"I can't even imagine," Keith lied, making sure he still wasn't facing Lance until he was sure that he wasn't so furiously red anymore.

"Yeah, you probably don't want to," Lance laughed, scrambling back to his own feet. "You guys might be right about me having way too filthy of a mind. Guess you can't turn off the perv."

That was an understatement Keith could relate to.