Keith stood under the hot spray of the shower head, his eyes closed as he focused inward, trying desperately to regain some sense of composure. He wasn’t quite certain what was wrong with him today; he was the one moving out of sync in their training exercises, he’d run himself into an invisible maze-wall so hard he was dizzy for a quarter hour after it, and he swore he could still feel the static jolt under his skin. When Shiro had touched his shoulder, eyes concerned, his touch was like a fresh electric current and Keith had yanked himself away.

Being away from Earth means going without heat suppressants. This proves to be a problem for Lance who has been avoiding his heats since puberty. Lucky for him Shiro and Keith are willing to help. “I thought that was why you were being such a jerk.” Keith’s feet shuffled over over the carpet. “You know. Another omega in your space?” “No, I just really find you annoying.”

Just because an alpha can go through rut alone doesn't mean he should. "Okay." Lance's palms were sweaty with what he was about to say. He was about to break so many rules. "Cards on the table, guys. We got any omegas sitting here?"

Heat fic. 'Nuff said.

Shiro's heat hits, and Keith helps him with what he needs

Lance discovers he has the hots for Keith. Then he discovers that Keith is, quite literally, hot for Lance.

Allura is acting a little strange. Shiro is asked to help, and he accepts enthusiastically.

They think it will be funny to leave him with a Galra in heat. It whimpers. It's a sound of pure pain, one Shiro's heard a hundred times now in the arena. The sound of something wounded and helpless; the sound of something that knows it. "Are you hurt?" Shiro asks in the bare silence of the cell, and moves a few steps closer. The creature on the floor twitches violently at his voice. It's not dressed like the other prisoners. It's hard to tell in the poor lighting but the back of its skin-tight suit is glowing in circuits, the same purple he's come to associate with the Galra. "I won't hurt you," he says, softer. It doesn't make a sound but its back arches, head lifting from the floor, dragging black hair along the floor. It's dripping wet with blood or sweat. Shiro realizes the small sound he's barely been registering is breath—it's panting. It rolls, just enough to eye Shiro through its dark bangs. He. It's a boy, and he's beautiful.