Work Text:
Lance has already sweated through five hours of an eight-hour shift when he sees the worst thing ever. Worse than a sixteen-top that doesn’t tip. Worse than a birthday party of four-year-olds (he loves four-year-olds, but they’re a mixed bunch on how they react to the costumed performers, and making children cry is not his bag). Worse than having to wear the Bigfoot suit after Josh R, who Lance is pretty sure must have some kind of religious thing against showering.
A mullet.
He makes a very smooth and natural-looking and definitely not at all frantic scramble to duck behind one of the fake plaster tree trunks that frame the bar.
Lance is just getting into character! He’s taking his job seriously, pulling out all the stops. He’s a cryptid. Cryptids are supposed to be hard to see.
…It’s probably hard to miss a big fluffy mascot with wings and bulbous red eyes lurking behind a post, though.
The Garrison has a lot of military scholarships so it’s not that expensive as far as colleges go, but it’s not so cheap Lance didn’t need a summer job. And he applied everywhere. But it’s also a tiny dusty town in the middle of the desert, and temporary jobs for outsiders are thin on the ground unless you get into the tourist trap business. Which is how Lance wound up working for the summer as a costumed performer at Bigfoot’s Burger Den.
The costumes are stifling and the food is mid and some people are real jackasses and his dignity is in the toilet, but the hugs from kids and excited fans are nice, and the pay is enough to tolerate it as long as nobody ever finds out that instead of skiing or working fancy internships like some of his classmates, he’s bumbling around a greasier and worse Chuck E Cheese in a polyester fursuit.
Today he’s Mothman, which is middle of the road, so far as the costumes go. It’s way better than the Frogman (the rubbery outer layer doesn’t breathe at all), slightly better than Bigfoot (the wings can get annoying but it doesn’t smell permanently like Josh R), but not as good as Slenderman (the suit is actually just a suit, and the long stringy arms are hilarious to flop around).
Lance hopes he was mistaken but knows he’s not. He knows that awkward haircut. Yeah, definitely Keith, there’s his grouchy face and hunched shoulders. So much for the joy of themed restaurants. And with him is Takashi Shirogane, looking around curiously at all the paper mache spaceships and winged monsters hanging from the ceiling.
It’s outrageous. It’s infuriating. It’s…a bummer. What does Shiro see in Keith? What the heck did Kogane do to get his attention? What’s so special about that guy? Other than his dumb mullet and his whole bad-boy leather aesthetic thing and his windswept I-don’t-give-a-flip attitude and incredible talent at flying every vehicle ever invented, pretty much. It’s a mystery.
Another mystery: what are they doing here, in this tacky-ass diner? In Lance’s tacky-ass diner? Nobody just randomly goes to a themed diner for the heck of it. This is tourist town, and Lance is pretty sure Keith is local. Not even just country-local, local-local, because James says they went to high school together and that guy grew up in the Garrison’s back yard.
Are they celebrating something? It’s July and Keith’s birthday in October (he knows that because he had to check which of them was older, obviously). They’re probably – ugh.
Probably celebrating the semester-end rankings.
Keith is at the top, of course, despite his middling academic scores and disciplinary marks, because his practicals and simulation scores are so unfairly good they more than make up for it. Maybe he earned his good boy trip to the dankest dive in town for it.
Lance is – he’ll get there. He’s just…not got much to celebrate on that front. He will, he just hasn’t hit his groove yet.
And of course Keith is Keith. He can’t just eat his stupid themed burger and drink his stupid themed shake, he has to be annoying and Keithy about it. It doesn’t take long at all to notice that Keith’s eyes keep following him as he makes his rounds, high-fiving kids and doing his part to make their burger excursion magical and cryptidious. Every time Lance just happens over there (noticing the table maybe just a tiny bit more than he normally would) the mullet is looking back at him – peeking over his menu, eyes darting to him and back over his fries. Does Keith somehow recognize Lance, even in the costume? He’s not sure which is worse: Pilot Shirogane knowing about his embarrassing job, or his rival making fun of him about it.
And then the worst possible thing happens: Shiro waves him over.
Keith is glaring pure murder at Shiro, so at least Lance isn’t the only one suffering.
But at least Lance is getting paid for it. “Hey human friends! You’ve sighted a cryptid!” he recites, waving and nodding as he reaches the table to make his antennae bob. Lowering his voice to be gravellier is totally a character decision and not just to keep either his rival or his idol from recognizing him in this stupid costume.
“Hey, would you mind taking a picture with my friend?” are the first words his idol ever says to Lance. “He’s a huge fan.”
Then Shiro flinches and turns to grimace at the mullet. Lance is pretty sure Keith kicked him under the table. This guy. No gratitude for the privilege he’s wasting. “Come on, Keith, you said you’ve always wanted to,” Shiro says in an encouraging, ignoring-being-kicked-by-a-jerk-throwing-a-tantrum tone. “Go on!”
“Come right on up, human friend!” He dials the ham-o-meter up to 12, like he would for a starry-eyed five-year-old. If he’s got to do this, he’s going to make it as annoying as possible for the chronically grouchy mullet. Even if he loses his shit and punches first and talks it out never like he tends to do Lance will barely feel it through the costume.
Keith reluctantly gets up and—oh. The faded black t-shirt he’s wearing has a massive graphic of Mothman splashed across the front of it, red eyes staring back at Lance’s. It has way more abs than the mascot costume.
“Wow!” Lance says, not even acting as he gestures with both arms at the picture. “You found me!”
Is Keith blushing? Is the mullet actually a fan of cryptids? Amazing. This is even better. Lance didn’t think he liked anything other than flying, knives, and scowling.
Slinging a furry arm around Keith’s shoulders, Lance makes a peace sign for the phone camera Shiro is holding up. (The big fluffy mittens don’t have articulated fingers, but he’s totally making a peace sign inside it.) Keith is stiff at first, but then leans into him slightly.
“Thanks,” Keith grunts out like a shy caveman once Shiro lowers his phone.
Lance pushes it by offering up a high-five. This time Shiro doesn’t even have to prompt him. Keith returns it, mouth crimped in a line like he’s trying not to smile.
Whew! Not only is his secret identity safe, he’s got some dirt on his rival! The mullet is a cryptid stan. He gets his confirmation ten minutes later, when he is entertaining a nearby table and catches a snippet of the most fascinatingly absurd conversation.
“—why they have an alien here,” Keith is grumbling.
Shiro is clearly biting back a smile. “The New Jersey Devil is real but you draw the line at aliens?”
“It’s just the Jersey Devil, but no, see—” Keith jabs at the table animatedly. “Aliens are real, they a hundred percent have Grays at Area 51, that’s not the point! Cryptids are native to Earth, so it doesn’t make sense—"
And sure maybe he’s kind of watching even more closely instead of making his full rounds around the floor (the place is kind of dead this time of day, ok) but it doesn’t take long to notice Keith is totally watching back, and not looking away now when he sees Lance –Mothman—looking at him. Very intently. Very…mouth-having. Mouthy. Not in his words, though he’s that too at the Garrison, but just, chewing on or sucking the straw of his Sasquatch Shake, licking ketchup off side of his thumb, at one point tapping a pickle against his bottom lip, all the while staring as much as he can get away with without Shiro seeming to notice. Does he even know what that looks like?
It’s. Um.
Lance is just trying to mind his own business, but Keith’s pickle-licking attention is like a laser on him. It’s making the back of his neck prickle. He can’t help but notice Keith at school, the guy is – he just draws attention to himself. Lance has never had that attention returned so brazenly. Half the time Lance thinks the mullet ignores him just to be annoying, and half the time he secretly, miserably thinks the guy might actually not even know he exists.
He wonders if the Keith knows about chapstick. It’s hard to tell through the eyecaps and at a distance. Lance has never really noticed his mouth so much. Usually his dumb haircut (and the intense look in his huge, clear, near-violet eyes, the fire in his posture) are what draw the eye.
When Keith sticks the end of the pickle in his mouth and his cheeks dent slightly, Lance turns on his slippered heel and beelines toward the back. Surely it’s time for his break. He’s not running away from the likes of Keith, he just needs a little minute away from his weird staring and the weird feeling it’s sparking in his gut.
“Hey.”
So much for his grand escape. It’s Keith, startling the crap out of him just appearing at his elbow like some kind of ninja. It does not help that the guy looks totally sketchy and nervous, glancing around behind him (they’re alone, great) and worrying his finger and thumb together.
“You’re a dude, right?”
“Uh…yeah, man.” Oh no. Keith has totally figured out who he is, hasn’t he. Is he about to call Lance out? Make fun of him for his shitty job? Is he going to criticize Lance’s performance of his favorite character? He’s got to stay cool. Calm. Collected. Maybe the guy just wants to nerd out. He clears his throat. “What’s up? You want another picture?”
“Thanks, but nah.” Keith chews on his lip. “Feel free to deck me if I’m skeeving you out, or tell me to fuck right off and I will.”
“Uhh….” He’s unnerving Lance, but full-out skeeve levels have not been achieved (yet), and now he’s really curious where the mullet is going with this. They’ve snarked at each other in class but he can’t remember that they’ve ever just talked one on one like this. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Keith actually approach anyone other than Shiro voluntarily. “Ok?”
“Can I blow you?”
Apparently the shock of the moment have made his ears stop working. “Come again?”
“Can I blow you?” Keith repeats.
Ah. The problem is not his ears. It’s the weirdo in front of him. “You want. To. Blow me?”
“Blow Mothman. Yeah.” Keith crosses his arms, a familiar pose topped with a familiar scowl.
“Just to be clear,” Lance says, “You mean blow as in suck?”
Now Keith looks confused.
“You’re – like sex? You’re asking to suck – you know.” He gestures awkwardly as his currently polyester-furred crotch. “The meat pickle.”
“Meat pickle,” Keith repeats, blinking then shaking his head a little with a soft little ha, an incredulous aborted laugh. “Sure. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Because of the Mothman suit.”
“Yeah.” When Lance doesn’t immediately respond, Keith adds, “It’s on the bucket list.”
“That must be a heck of a list,” Lance’s mouth says, his brain too busy exploding to supply anything smoother.
This is not something he ever imagined happening. Has he maybe, in a moment of weakness, indeed fantasized about shutting Keith up with his mouth? Or dick, in hornier moments of weakness? Sure. Who hasn’t, he would like to know! But he did not imagine Keith asking for it. Or the involvement of the cryptid mascot costume.
It’s an outrageous request and a terrible idea. Keith probably doesn’t know Lance knows him. He’s at work. They’re in public.
Lance will regret it the rest of his life if he turns Keith down.
Lance says, “Meet you in the alley in five?”
Keith grins bright and sudden then gone, like lightning in the desert. “You got it,” he says, and heads off with a bounce in his step.
So this is happening.
He tells his manager he’s going out back for his break and she nods without looking up from her clipboard, goes down the dark hallway past the bathrooms and stockroom and out the metal employee door into late-afternoon orangey sun, nearly blinding even through the filtered eyecaps of the mascot head after the dark inside. There’s no alley to hide in here at the edge of a tiny desert town, just a chain-link fence and scrub and endless wrinkled reddish hills beyond it and open cloudless sky, just the garbage dumpster and the cardboard breakdown dumpster to hide between.
That’s where he finds Keith. He’s squinting slightly out at the hills, leaning against the fake brick all stupidly cool with one foot kicked up and arms crossed in his stupid cool leather jacket and stupid cool biker gloves. Chipped fingernails tap impatiently on one arm.
Immediately he drops his foot and arms when he sees his polyester hero arriving, beckoning him over to his dingy little hidey-hole.
“How—” Lance starts, but before he can get any farther, Keith is pulling him between the dumpsters, urging him to the wall, and dropping to his knees.
Lance realizes he didn’t fully believe Keith was serious until this very moment.
Ok. Ok. Right. No time for pillow talk, mission is go. He starts to pull off his stupid fuzzy mittens so he can pull himself out.
“No, leave ‘em on, I got you man,” Keith says, going for his crotch and opening up the fly (the Velcro sounds horribly loud in the relative quiet, over the muted jangling music from inside and the distant hum of the highway) and digging out his dick and going for it every bit as headlong as everything he does in the simulator.
“Guess that’s a no on the roleplay-ack, easy man!”
“Shit, sorry.” Keith pulls his rough-skinned glove off with his teeth, gripping him in a warm, sweat-damp palm instead. “No time for roleplay. Fuck you’re big. Hell yeah.”
“Grower even, not a shower,” Lance says in what he’s sure is the sexiest version of a squeak possible as Keith’s bare hand – he’s not sure he’s ever seen the guy take his gloves off – squeezes on him, thumb rubbing just under the head.
And then he’s diving in tongue-first, wet heat pressing then closing on the head of Lance’s cock.
Lance gasps. It’s already stuffy and hot in the mascot suit, hotter still in the desert afternoon even in the shade of the building, and he’s quickly going light-headed from how fast he’s hardening. Keith clearly knows how to handle another guy’s dick just as well as he handles a skimmer’s controls, quickly licking him sloppy and dripping, one hand squeezing on him in pulses as the other pins him in place by the hip. There’s a little bead of hardness that presses against his slit, a startling dig of pressure in the softness of Keith’s lips and tongue – oh god, Lance realizes, he has a tongue piercing.
And he knows how to use it. Keith is really good at this. Lance is one part mad about it, nine parts (headed up by his dick) happy to write up a rave review. It’s hard to be mad, or have any non-gooey thoughts at all, with his brain getting sucked out his dick. It’s overwhelming, both the liquid heat sensation and the left-field revelation of his so-shiny rival being such a slut about it. Lance’s hands scrabble inside his stupid oversized mitts, patting them back against the brick in a desperate bid to cling onto anything stable.
Keith pats the back of his own head and makes a muffled hrmghrnmgmg like – well, Lance isn’t sure what he meant to say, but there’s not much he can do with his hands in these, but the idea of Keith asking to have that long shaggy hair pulled makes him bite his lip on a groan.
He ends up just putting his stupid mittens on the back of Keith’s head and it makes Keith groan right back, buzzing around his cock like a toy. Wowowow, the guy is really into Mothman. Not even the permanently-sticky polyester fur is putting him off.
His hips twitch forward automatically when Keith teases the nub of his piercing up under the sensitive head of his cock. He gags slightly, tongue tensing and shuddering against him, then moans, nodding slightly and making more encouraging sounds. Oh man. Ok. Lance rolls forward again, just a little, fucking into the ring of the fist at his base, and Keith meets him with an eager mouth, quickly building up speed until they have a fast, slapping counterpoint going.
The only downside is that he can’t see Keith’s face. He wants so badly to watch and see those smartass lips stretched around him, wants to know it’s Keith Kogane on his knees for Lance, but the mittens are too big and in the way and his field of vision in the mascot head too narrow. Instead he tips his head back, the Mothman head cushioning against the brick, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed closed behind the mask. It’s so hot inside the costume, almost as hot as the inside of Keith’s mouth. It feels like he’s melting, sweat running down his back, neck and pits gulfs of unbearable heat. His breath comes in stifled, choppy pants, his vision swims.
He can’t wrap his head around the idea that this is what Keith wanted, to blow Mothman behind a dumpster. Maybe he’s into the fursuit. Or maybe the guy is literally a monsterfucker, enough of one that he was willing to go for a polyester copy with cartoonishly floppy antenna and little fuzzy wings made of the same stuff as a plushie. There’s books like that, right? About werewolves and stuff? Lance suddenly wants badly to know how Keith jacks it, what kind of porn he watches, what he imagines. Does he imagine encountering some elusive beast out in the woods while he’s out and around, doing whatever knife-toting stuff he gets out up to in the wilderness? Does he imagine getting hunted down, dragged off to some creature’s den? Does he get partners to dress up like monsters and pull his hair while they fuck him? Probably not, if he’s resorting to some rando at a themed diner.
Lance could do it for him. Lance could get a costume – a much sexier, better costume than this ridiculous sweaty mascot. Something with leather gloves, so he could pull Keith onto his cock by the hair, grab him by the chin and squeeze ‘til his lips pouted. Lance sneaks out to town for a good time sometimes at night, and while he’s never run into Keith before, he’s a bit of a bad boy. Maybe he’d be out tempting fate. Hoping to run into something secretive and hungry. Lance could be that for him, fulfill that fantasy, fill out whatever other freaky things are on his bucket list, fuck him in a mask in dark corners of the campus, in the simulator, behind the stairs, until Keith was hooked, ‘til Keith came out in the night looking for him, and then, only then would Lance take the mask off – shock him with the fact that it’s been Lance the whole time, his rival that’s he’s been sucking and –
He tries to push Keith back as his thighs tremble with how close he is, the lightning thread of it getting dragged down his spine and out through his cock, he really does. Because he doesn’t want to actually choke the guy, because he didn’t ask and Keith didn’t say, and because even though Lance knows he’s clean Keith doesn’t know and they’re idiots fucking between two dumpsters with no condom. Keith leans in harder and catches it.
Lance bites his lip so hard he feels a punch-sting and the sudden salt of blood to stop himself from saying Keith’s name as the crazy mullet shows off the cum on his tongue, the bead of his piercing like a little island in the glistening puddle. And then Keith’s hand drops from the base of Lance’s dick, the head still nudged onto his bottom lip, and makes an incredible sound. He’s palming himself through his pants, Lance realizes through the haze. His knuckles whiten where they’re gripping the polyester fur at Lance’s hip and then his brow creases and his eyes scrunch, hips hitching.
Keith Kogane, top of their class, just came in his pants with a mouthful of cum and Lance’s dick in his mouth, and is now proceeding to lick him clean and swallow like he didn’t get enough to eat in his combo platter.
Lance wants to ask if it was good for him too, or something, if he’s ok, because he’s a gentleman (hey it’s a mindset, getting blown at his workplace in a mascot costume does not negate his gentlemanliness), but Keith is wrapping up this little show just as fast as he started it: scrambling back to his feet and running his fingers through his hair, wiping at his face with his shirt, brushing red dust and tiny chips of gravel off his knees.
“Do I look ok?”
“You look great,” Lance manages to croak out, and he does, flushed and lips gleaming slightly, humming with vibrant energy like he just broke a new record in the simulator. Zero embarrassment, completely pumped. Keith looks like he is going to be riding the high for the rest of the day.
“Nothing on my face?” Keith double checks, swiping again, and oh. Oh right, Lance is on his work break, and Shiro probably thinks Keith is fighting for his life in the bathroom or something.
The guy actually offers him a high five this time, which Lance shakily returns. His knees seem to be informing him that they’d like to go on indefinite break.
Keith’s mouth curves, just a little, the least smirky smile Lance has ever seen on him. “Thanks, Mothman.”
“Any time, human friend!” he automatically chirps with something more like his usual brightness, and Keith is gone.
That whole thing took only six minutes, he realizes when he staggers back in and sees the clock. He’s still got nine more to hide in the bathroom and tear off the mascot head, gasping for sweet air-conditioned air, and splash cold water on his tomato-red face. He wonders if he can gulp down an entire glass of ice water without throwing up in three minutes.
By the time he gets back on the floor, only slightly overheated and still wondering if he just hallucinated the whole thing, the server is asking Keith and Shiro if they want dessert.
“You can if you want,” Shiro tells Keith, who’s shaking his head.
“Nah, really, I’m good. I got everything I wanted.”
His eyes flick to Lance, and he winks.