Archive of Our Own

It’d been weeks since Pidge and Hunk had dragged him to his first frat party. Bolstered on by the threat of midterms on the horizon and a two-for-one special on Red Bull at the 7-11, Pidge had barged into the dorm he shared with Hunk and proclaimed they were going to a frat party.

At the time, it hadn’t occurred to Keith to say no. Partly because he was so desperate to stop studying Greek and Roman mythology, and partly out of morbid curiosity. He’d gotten his A.A. at a local community college, working full time and studying on the side before transferring to Altea Tech, which meant he’d had approximately zero friends or social life before now.

He’d never been to a party, let alone a frat party—though he’d seen enough of frat boys in movies to have a good enough opinion of them. It’d only been six months since he’d transferred universities, but he’d also seen more than his fair share of idiotic boys trying to act like men as they stumbled around campus in pretentious pastel polo shirts by day, and bro-coded tank tops and basketball shorts by night. Frat guys were loud and obnoxious and entitled, and Keith hated them on principle. But that didn't mean he was stupid.

Frat guys were also free with their beer and dumb. Or at least, that was the general idea he’d picked up from that Zac Efron movie Hunk had made them watch on their first night as roommates under the guise of bonding. Keith was pretty sure Hank had picked the movie solely because he’d noticed the gay pride sticker on Keith’s laptop and was trying to seem cool with it by selecting a movie like that. He didn’t bother telling him that frat guys were not his type, because Zac Efron’s body was nice enough to look at even if Keith wasn’t actually attracted to that type.

So when Pidge had insisted they were going to go get wasted, well, he’d slammed his textbook shut as fast as Hunk. Studying or free liquor? It was hardly a difficult choice—even if the liquor was likely to come with a hefty price.

The first party had been as loud and horrific as Keith imagined. It was made tolerable only by the sight of the hottest man on Earth being held up by his ankle doing a kegstand. Or at least, Keith felt eighty percent certain he was the hottest guy alive. Keith couldn’t actually see his face, but his thighs were on full display from his hideous basketball shorts slipping down, as was his muscled back and impossibly tiny waist.

The next week when Pidge suggested they go again, Keith was the first one to slam his laptop shut despite the fact that his stupid psychology paper was due at midnight and still needed another page minimum. He wanted to pretend that the only reason he was going to the party was for the free beer, but the truth was he was mostly hoping to catch another eyeful of the hottie from the week before. And an eyeful he got.

The second he walked through the door, the guy was sliding down the stairs on a piece of cardboard wearing nothing but a pair of tight black boxers and a rainbow flag tied around his shoulders like a cape as he screamed “Victory or Death!” and sailed down.

He crashed into the wall with drunken laughter, his frat brother crashing into his back seconds later. Before Keith could linger for too long and really get a good look at the guy’s beautiful face, Pidge had linked arms with him and dragged him towards the kitchen in search of the alcohol.

Keith did his best to keep his chill, but it was made harder and harder by the fact that, week after week, the dude's tank tops got smaller and smaller until Keith felt close to snapping.

"You could try, you know, talking to him," Pidge says in that matter-of-fact tone she always uses on Keith when she thinks she knows more than him. She’s sipping her punch and staring at him with raised eyebrows as the music around them blares.

"I don't like frat guys," Keith answers automatically. It’s the same answer he’s been giving for weeks, but it iswearing thin, and he’s pretty fucking sure that neither Pidge nor Hunk believe him anymore. Especially since the last two weeks he’s been the first one in the car waiting to get to the party, laying his entire body on the horn when Hunk and Pidge take too long buying chips from the vending machine in the dorm lobby.

Hunk chokes on his punch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he shoots Keith an incredulous look. "My dude, my man. I hate to be the bearer of this unavoidable and undeniable truth, but you do. You really, really fucking do."

"I think I would know who I like," Keith challenges. He tries not to blush. Blushing will definitely weaken his credibility. Then again, his roaming eyes are probably doing that for him already anyway.

"You really would think so," Pidge agrees, eyes wide as she sighs heavily, "and yet here we are standing in the middle of the frat house for the fifth week in a row, hiding from the guy you’ve got a crush on. It's just like when you didn't realize we were all best friends until a month later when we had to tell you."

Keith gives her a dirty look. "Traitor."

"I’m not betraying a friend, because this is for your own good, and we both know I’m not betraying my principles because at the moment my only loyalty is to the truth. And the truth, my dear Keith, is that you have been so thirsty for weeks that it's making it hard for me to enjoy my delicious adult beverage. The truth is, the only reason we’re all still hanging out in front of the punch bowl is because you can see out into the backyard and you’re desperately hoping hot frat boy will join in the kegger shenanigans even though we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him yet."

Keith crosses his arms and frowns. He hadn’t realized his ogling had been that obvious.

"Look the baby is pouting,” Pidge teases, jabbing her bony finger into Keith’s cheek.

"I'm not a baby!"

"Guess you'll have to prove it, dude.” Hunk claps him on the back. “Your Pepe Le Pew has finally made his grand entrance and is heading this way right now."

Before Keith can ask Hunk what the fuck that means, Hunk and Pidge scurry away to the other end of the kitchen, feigning interest in a beer pong game currently happening and leaving Keith alone at the punch bowl nursing a frown and a noticeably empty red cup.

"Thirsty?" someone asks from behind him. The voice is warm as honey and twice as nice, and Keith nearly crushes his empty cup with the dawning realization of who is standing behind him.

“You done there?” sexy voice asks again.

Keith has never wished for the earth to swallow him whole more than he does at this very moment.

Death would be a welcome refuge from this intolerable and cruel fate. He wants to open his mouth and say something—anything. Or even just move his stupid fucking feet to the side and stop being that loitering asshole blocking the alcohol. Instead of doing either, his body betrays him and he can do neither—rooted to the spot with indecision and panic.

Despite the last few weeks of attending these parties, he’s never actually come close to interacting with his crush. He admires him from afar, body flooding with warmth at the attractive lines of his body or rich laughter. So far it has suited Keith just fine. It’s safer this way, less chance for Keith to prove how out of his depth he is. Besides, the guy is way out of his league. Fuck, he is out of everyone’s league. And he is a frat boy. Double the reason why Keith’s crush is supposed to have stayed a secret fantasy which he indulges from afar.

At least until now.

Keith squeezes his eyes shut, wondering if he can pretend he can’t hear him. The music is loud enough that most people have to shout to be heard, which at least gives Keith enough plausible deniability to pretend he isn’t ignoring Hot Frat Dude. If it works, he might go away so that Keith won’t have to deal with the repercussions of standing next to someone so attractive his brain apparently malfunctions.

Life has a way of doing the opposite of what Keith wants and instead of leaving, the guy speaks again.

"You alright?" he queries. He doesn’t sound short-tempered or annoyed, just genuinely concerned, and it’s a memory Keith doesn’t need.

Keith’s heard him joking around with his frat brothers the last few weeks enough times that the sound of his melodic voice or booming laughter echoes in his ears long after he gets home, and long after he's shoved his hand down his boxers. But the guy sounds normal now—kind and thoughtful in a way Keith assumed frat boys couldn’t be.

“I’m fine,” Keith chokes out, if only so Mr Too-Hot-to-Exist didn’t think he is wholly incapable of speech.

“You maybe wanna budge over a little bit?” he asks. He’s so close now Keith can feel his breath ghosting against the back of his head.

“Nope,” Keith squeaks, horrified at the pitch of his voice and the word that just came out of his mouth. It’s official: Keith is the biggest disaster in the history of the universe. Fuck.

"Right, okay well this is awkward," he laughs, that same familiar rumble of laughter Keith’s heard more than once. It’s even nicer sounding up close and personal—rich and uninhibited and full of mirth. He wonders if the guy always laughs so much or if it’s just when he is drinking. "Just...I'm out of punch."

Keith inhales sharply, puffing up his cheeks with air as he shuffles to the side a few inches to make room for him. It’s apparently not far enough though because the guy's glacier-sized chest is suddenly pressed up along half of Keith’s back as he leans over to fill his cup. The noise that comes out of Keith’s mouth is a sound he’s definitely never made in the presence of another human, and he very much hopes the music is loud enough that the guy doesn’t notice.

“Sorry, I’ll hurry,” he whispers, face hovering inches from Keith’s as he turns to give him a cheeky smile.

Keith exhales slowly, his chest tight as he wonders if this is how he is going to die. The guy’s breath smells like Hawaiian Punch and cheap tequila. He also reeks of clean boy smell. Something which, if pressed, Keith would’ve had trouble describing until this very moment. It’s crisp and clean with an undercurrent of masculinity that makes Keith want to dunk his face into the punch bowl and drown himself, if only to stop the embarrassing desire to shove his face into other—far less appropriate—places. Fuck, why do boys smell so nice? It isn’t fucking fair. Frat Boy is supposed to smell like he hasn’t showered in a week or something else unsavory to make it easier for Keith to find reasons not to like him. Instead, he smells so fucking good Keith wants to cry. Or scream.

Life is so fucking unfair sometimes.

The guy’s cup is the same size as Keith’s, so he doesn’t have a goddamn clue why it feels like it’s taking him ten years to fill it. He’s not sure if the guy is just being obnoxiously careful and slow filling his cup so he doesn't spill any on Keith, or if he's doing it on purpose to exact revenge on Keith for blocking his way. Not that Keith has a fucking clue what kind of revenge it would be.

Either way, it drives him absolutely crazy.

Keith might worry he is blushing, but he’s pretty sure there isn’t any blood left to go to his face since it's definitely all gone south to his suddenly half-erect dick. Fuck being attracted to men and fuck his traitorous genitals’ inability to ignore hot frat boys. Especially semi-drunk frat boys with no sense of personal space who smell like heaven.

It seems appropriate really, that of all the things he's endured in his life, getting a raging hard-on by the punch bowl just from a cute frat guy touching his shoulder will be how he perishes.

Poetic fucking justice.

Perhaps it’s karma for Keith spending his first few months after transferring to a college with Greek life constantly talking about the horror of the patriarchy and how frats reinforce toxic masculinity. Honestly, that is the only explanation that makes a lick of sense as to why Keith is so uncomfortably aware of every inch of his body and the slow, rhythmic breathing of the guy behind him.

"Your turn,” he breathes against the side of Keith’s neck.

"What?" Keith stutters.

The words mean nothing to Keith, and the guy makes no indication he might move away, his warm chest still pressed snugly against Keith's back.

"Want me to fill you up?"

Keith makes a noise like a dying llama, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough bleed.

Any blood not in his dick rushes to his ears as they fill with a loud whirring noise. Maybe he’s hallucinating this entire scenario. Karma or hallucination seem to be the two most viable options at the moment.

"That a yes?" Hot Frat Boy chuckles, his amusement evident in the rumble of his chest.

Keith is either getting stupider, or he is hallucinating. He wants to say what again, but the words are stuck on the end of his tongue and instead, he makes another horrifyingly squeaky noise.

The guy laughs again, plucking the empty red cup from Keith’s hand then filling it with punch. 

Oh .

Fill you up. Fuck, Keith has a dirty mind.

The only reason he doesn’t drop dead on the spot is because at least the Adonis behind him has no idea that Keith’s first and only thought is about miles and miles of naked skin and a thick dick in his mouth or ass.

The guy hasn’t been flirting with Keith in an obscenely lewd manner—he was being polite. Of fucking course that’s what he’d been doing.

He tops Keith's cup up a little fuller than necessary, red punch splashing on his hand and onto the scratched wood of the ugly kitchen table.

"Sorry," he apologizes, brushing the punch away with the pad of his thumb but ignoring the spill on the table. It fits right in with a caked on white sticky mess Keith purposely chooses not to examine. "You just seemed like you really needed a drink."

The guy finally takes a step away, and the loss of his body heat is immediately missed. Not trusting himself to speak, Keith nods instead before turning to face the guy with the sole intention of not making an ass of himself. This is apparently impossible, however, because fuck fuck fuck he is so handsome it actually makes Keith's chest ache.

He is big and handsome and big. 

Fuck, he is so big.

Big everywhere.

Big arms with rippling bicep muscles—the right of which transitions into a smooth chrome prosthetic—and his flesh forearm is lightly dusted in dark hair. He’s got a big, broad chest with noticeably pert nipples beneath his thin tank top, and big thighs with the material of his hideous, too-thin basketball shorts spread taut across the expanse of each one. And a dick print. Fuck a huge dick print.

And his hands, fuck, his hands—metal and flesh alike are so big with a wide palm and long, thick fingers that grip his red plastic cup.

Fucking fuck.

“Uh, thanks. For the drink I mean,” Keith says stupidly after realizing how long he’s been staring at the guy’s, well, everything.

Fuck, even his smile is big as he ducks his head and gifts Keith with a toothy grin that makes him weak in the knees.

"You got a name?" he asks, shoving his free hand into his pocket, which is really unfortunate for Keith because the action tugs the stupid shorts down lower, leaving Keith with no question about whether the guy is wearing boxers or briefs—apparently the answer is neither judging by the expanse of dark treasure trail now visible.

Fuck.

Keith nods, lifting his drink and chugging half of it in one go as he stared at the sharp jut of the guy’s hipbone and the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath his stretchy waistband. The punch was sickeningly sweet and burns on the way down, and is definitely stronger than the punch Keith tried an hour ago. Whoever made this batch is clearly heavy handed with the shitty tequila.

It tastes the way the same way the other guy’s breath smells, and Keith desperately wants to taste it on his lips instead.

"You gonna tell me what it is?" Hot Frat Boy asks after a beat.

Keith’s head spins and he’s pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the punch, but rather the knowledge that the too-pretty-to-be-real frat boy who is standing in front of him has a cluster of freckles above his dick. How the fuck is Keith supposed to exist in the world with this kind of knowledge?

"Depends," Keith finds himself saying, now wondering if he’s been possessed. What in the fuck it might depend on, he has no fucking clue. Sometimes words come out of his mouth without his own goddamn permission.

Keith chugs the rest of his punch, hoping to find the courage he needs to utter his next words at the bottom. Instead, all he finds is the bottom of an empty cup. Fuck, apparently he’s going to have muster his own courage to do this.

"Oh yeah, and what does it depend on?" The look of amusement is evident on the guy’s face as he casually sips his own drink, which is so fucking rude because no one should look hot drinking from a red plastic cup, and yet the way his full lips curl around the plastic rim makes Keith’s dick twitch with interest.

The other boy leans against the edge of the dining room table, an action which makes the girth of his thick thighs spread even wider. It takes every single ounce of Keith's considerable self-control to look at Frat Boy’s socially appropriate head.

"Depends on if you earn it," Keith blurts out before he can think twice about the wisdom of flirting with the human equivalent of a Greek god. 

This can not possibly end well for Keith given his disastrous romantic history. Then again Keith’s penchant for doing the unwise has always been fairly high. He blames his parents and their insistence on telling him he could be anything, which often makes him go and do stupid things like having confidence in unrealistic situations. Unfortunately, having disgustingly-in-love parents, even after twenty-five years of marriage, has not helped Keith find love for himself.

“Oh,” Frat Boy breathes out. He doesn’t appear to be confused or put out. If anything, he almost seems excited and it makes Keith’s blood run hot. He digs a finger into the collar of his cotton t-shirt and tugs on it hard, wondering why the air around them seems so thick all of a sudden. Fuck, can’t this frat house afford air conditioning?

The guy opens his mouth as if to say something else to Keith, when someone wearing equally hideous basketball shorts—though they are far less attractive on his knobby knees—taps hot Frat Boy on the shoulder and leans into whisper something that has his face darkening. Keith blames the alcohol he consumed too quickly on the fact that even the guy’s overly thick caterpillar eyebrows looked fucking adorable as they furrow together.

“Shit, I’ve gotta go,” he tells Keith. Keith has no idea why he sounds like he is apologizing. It isn’t as if he owes Keith anything. “Someone called the cops with a noise complaint and my frat brothers always make me answer the door when that happens.”

Cute Frat Boy gives Keith his most innocent smile, and Keith can see exactly why they send him to deal with the cops. No wonder this fraternity never gets any damn violations.

Mr Knobby Knees nudges Frat Boy with his shoulder looking annoyed. He doesn’t budge.

“Will you come back next week?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” Keith answers, even though he is absolutely positive that he will come back no matter what, even if for some reason Pidge isn’t able to get them an invite again. In fact he is pretty fucking sure nothing in the world can stop him from showing up next week. Hell, he would even cross through the parking lot of the abandoned Safeway behind the frat house and climb their fence to get in if he has to.

Keith is absolutely not above low-key breaking-and-entering or party crashing in order to see Frat Boy’s smile directed at him at least one more time before he wizens up and realizes Keith isn’t that exciting.

“You should really, really come next week. It’s gonna be special, there’s gonna be—”

The music cuts off, a chorus of boos and dissatisfied groaning from party goers filling the house seconds before someone forcefully bangs on the front door. The knocking is followed by several choice curse words from the frat guys rushing in from the back yard and towards his frat boy. Well not his . Fuck, Keith’s brain is traitorous.

The other boy makes a dissatisfied expression that is, well, there is no other word for it—he’s pouting . Honest-to-God fucking pouting. Keith has never seen a grown man pout before. It should be stupid or ridiculous but instead, it ‘s just really fucking adorable.

Someone—one of his frat brothers, Keith assumes—puts a hand on Frat Boy’s arm and attempts to pull him away. He stubbornly digs his stupid plastic slides into the sticky linoleum floor in an attempt to stave off being dragged from the room.

“Just come next week!” He yells. He has at least thirty pounds and several inches on his frat brother which he is obviously using to his advantage. The only thing Keith can’t quite understand is why he cares if Keith comes back. Their conversation at the punch bowl—if you can even call it that—has been brief to say the least.

“Shirogane, get your ass to the front door! You remember what happened last time someone else answered,” another one of his frat brothers hisses, looking unsure whether he should be annoyed or panicked at the cops banging on the front door again. When Freckle Dick Boy doesn’t move, the second guy attempts to help by grabbing hold of his other arm. Together, they are apparently strong enough to overpower him as they drag him out of the kitchen in nothing but his socks, his slides stuck to the floor.

“Okay, I’ll come,” Keith shouts as he glances at the slides. It’s almost like Cinderella’s glass slippers, except Keith isn’t anything close to a Prince Charming. When he looks up from the floor, it’s to see a million dollar smile directed his way.

“My name is Shiro, by the way!” he yells seconds before Keith loses sight of him among the throngs of people trying to escape the party.

Shiro he thinks.

His frat boy’s name is Shiro.

For the first time that night, Keith smiles.

_______

Those first few parties, it’d been Pidge dragging Hunk and Keith there with the promise of no homework in sight and free drinks. The following week after the Punch Incident however, it’s Keith’s turn to practically drag Pidge and Hunk to the party.

"What's your hurry, lover boy?" Pidge asks with a smirk. She’s waggling her eyebrows at Keith in a way that is entirely ridiculous. If he wasn’t close to throwing up the Top Ramen he had for dinner, he might have laughed.

"Yeah," Hunk echoes, trailing alongside Keith as they dodge a drunk guy puking on the front lawn of the frat house. "You sure need a drink, don't you buddy? You really thirsty today?"

"I absolutely hate you both,' he grumbles, turning his back on them both and jogging the rest of the way to the front door. It’s littered with empty beer cans already and something that looks suspiciously like a used condom is in the hedge under the front window. Keith grimaces and jabs his finger at the doorbell before he loses his nerve and runs back to the car instead.

The music from inside seems, if possible, even louder than previous weeks, and Keith almost fears no one is going to answer the door. By the third doorbell poke he’s all but given up hope when the front door swings open.

“Hello,” Hunk says loudly, though to whom Keith wasn’t sure since it wasn’t obvious who’d opened the door.

“I think we should just take this as our invitation and go inside,” Pidge announces, squeezing in between Hunk and Keith and crossing the threshold. Never one to be left behind, Hunk follows suit, turning to stare at Keith expectantly.

Keith hesitates for a second before following suit, slamming the door shut behind them and squaring his shoulders. He’s inside now and there is no going back.

Frat parties are always, in Keith's limited experience, obnoxiously loud and out of control. Tonight's seemed to be trying to take it to a whole ‘nother level.

The large living room is so crowded that, had there been a max capacity, they would absolutely have been over it. Keith curses having a firefighter for a father as his brain mentally catalogues the fire code violations—the smoke detector hanging from the ceiling with no batteries, the overcrowding, and the suspicious smoke coming from down the hallway. Not to mention what is happening on the couch, an act Keith has no desire to try to untangle. Too many arms and limbs and not enough clothing.

“Right, who wants a drink?” Pidge asks, raising her voice to twice the normal level to be heard over the music.

“Me,” Hunk answers. He turns to Keith. “You need some liquid courage buddy, or you going straight for your man?”

“He’s not my man,” Keith blurts, louder than he meant to. He flushes when several people next to him turn to stare and give them a tight smile which they do not return. Keith has half a mind to turn around and walk right back out the door, not entirely unconvinced he hasn’t been out of his mind last week.

Shiro is so many levels out of his league and a frat guy. He is not going to be interested in Keith, well at least not for more than five minutes—until whatever fantasy he has of what Keith might be like based on his looks is squashed by him actually getting to know Keith. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. For some reason people—especially guys, and especially big guys like Shiro—see Keith and assume that because he doesn’t physically fit a masculine stereotype, that he is a certain way. They see his lithe frame and smaller stature and get it into their heads he is somehow weaker because of it or, more horrifying, that he has some sort of submissive kink. The one time a casual hookup had told Keith to call him Daddy, Keith had shoved him out of his goddamn bed.

Keith can’t be sure what Shiro expects him to be like, but he feels confident enough to guess that whatever it is won’t line up with who Keith really is. Most of the time when the type of guys Keith likes physically get to know him emotionally, they feel emasculated by the fact that he can bench press them under the table and knows his own fucking worth.

Despite all the reasons why it might have been a good idea for Keith to turn around and leave before things got messy or complicated or awkward, there was a problem with his feet and their inability to move when his eyes landed on Shiro from across the crowded room.

Shiro, who is wearing a pair of thin grey sweatpants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and cling to the generous curve of his full ass, skim his thick thighs, and once again show off a very substantial dick print. Of course all of that is nothing compared to what he was wearing on top. Or not wearing as it is. He has on a short cropped tank top with his fraternity’s Greek letters barely legible because it’s been cut so short. Every line of his chiseled abs are on full display, the cut of the tank top highlighting how broad his shoulders are and the full breadth of his body.

Keith’s dick twitches in his jeans as he stares at the way the short, loose material flutters across the swell of Shiro’s pecs. Keith has the primal urge to shove his face between them and grunt.

He’s wearing the same stupid slides with socks and the same ridiculous snapback with a long tuft of soft looking white hair sticking out of the front. On anyone else, it would be the most hideous outfit Keith has ever seen. On Shiro it is a thirst trap of astronomical proportions.

“I see something Keith wants more than a drink,” Pidge singsongs.

Keith flips her off as his feet begin to shuffle forward instead of backward. Shiro hasn’t seen him yet, which is a blessing and a curse. Keith takes the extra time to watch Shiro in his natural habitat, marveling at his obvious self-confidence as he chugs an entire can of beer without taking a breath, then smashes the can on the flat of his impossibly taut stomach with his prosthetic before grinning under the adoring cheers of his frat brothers.

Fucked. Keith is so fucking fucked.

He’s dimly aware of Pidge and Hunk pretending to cry as they mutter, "Our baby has grown up."

Keith doesn’t turn around to give them a dirty look or tell them to shut up, because that would require him to look away from Shiro, and that is simply inconceivable. The journey through the living room is slow going, not because of how crowded it is, but because Keith can’t take his eyes off Shiro, not even to blink.

Keith is not even remotely hyperbolic when he thinks to himself that Shiro is the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on in his entire life. It’s impossible to drag his eyes away from the ripple of Shiro's stomach muscles when he laughs deeply, or away from the way his big hands clench around the back of the chair he is now leaning against, or the way his almond shaped eyes crinkle up in the corners when his smile grows wider.

Keith is no stranger to crushes, or to lust, but looking at Shiro can’t compare to anything Keith has ever felt. He thinks back to his first romp with a boy when he was sixteen beneath the bleachers at school and how desperately aroused he’d been, or to the way his chest fluttered when he jerked off to really good porn, or to the first time he’d had sex with his ex-boyfriend, and not a single one of them had filled him with the kind of arousal that just looking at Shiro does right now.

He's never been attracted to anyone the way he is right now, his mouth dry and his tongue heavy as he watches Shiro. It’s reason enough for him to turn and run away, but also the exact reason he keeps moving towards him instead. A bolt of lightning could strike Keith and he would keep moving towards Shiro and his halo of white hair and angelic smile.

Keith's brain catalogues the exact moment Shiro catches sight of him; the way his chest expands with air as he stands taller and his cheeks spread wide with a smile so undeniably pure Keith feels like he should say thank you. It’s heady to be the cause of someone's pleasure, and Keith stumbles against the open doorway, breathless and really fucking turned on. His shoulder throbs from where it banged against the door frame, though not as much as his cock throbs in his jeans. Keith has no clue how he is going to make his feet weave through the crowds of people in the next room to get to Shiro when his dick is halfway to hard already and his heart is beating so fast he’s afraid he might actually pass out.

Those worries proved to be for naught, however, when instead of trying to find his way to Shiro, the other boy immediately finds his way to Keith.

Unlike Keith, who’s been awkwardly stumbling through the throngs of party goers—bumping into people and tripping over his own two feet—Shiro moves through the crowd seamlessly despite his substantial girth. There’s a grace with which he moves his body that makes fantasies of how he might move that body horizontally flash through Keith’s mind.

God, Keith is so fucking weak for this doe-eyed frat boy.

Normally Keith’s gut reaction would be to internally moan about the sheer unfairness of being so attracted to someone in such stupid clothes with a stupid backwards snapback in a stupid frat. Except he can't. Because as stupid as it all should be, there is apparently not a single thing about Shiro that Keith isn’t attracted to. It’s an unfairness that is tempered only by the fact that Shiro is still looking at him as if he were a lighthouse in a storm—his sole focus on Keith—as he gets closer. Keith doesn’t have a fucking clue what he might have done to enrapture someone like him, but he isn’t stupid enough to take it for granted either.

"You came," Shiro says once he’s close enough to be heard. He leaves a few inches of space between them, but it’s unnecessary because Keith is hyper aware of every inch of Shiro’s magnificent body.

“Yup. That’s me...I mean, uh, yes. Yes I came. Obviously, because I’m standing in front of you.” He snaps his mouth closed willing himself to shut the fuck up.

“Man you’re cute,” Shiro laughs, sliding up even closer to Keith, his left arm bent on the doorway above Keith's head showing off the thickness of his bicep and tufts of dark hair under his arm. Keith has to actually bite his tongue to keep from whimpering or reaching out to see if the hair is as soft as it looked. He'd swear he was dreaming, except not even his dreams have ever supplied him with a man like Shiro.

"You too," Keith mumbles, wishing he could say something more eloquent but too preoccupied wondering if he always found armpit hair sexy and never realized, or if its just so fucking hot on Shiro. Probably the latter.

There is something so unexpected about the undeniably masculine lines of Shiro’s overly fit body beneath a hot pink crop top and his soft tufts of white hair sticking out of that stupid, stupid hat. It’s a juxtaposition that makes Keith want to believe there is more to Shiro than one might expect. There’s something endearing about the almost sweet way he was smiling at Keith.

"So, does this mean I get your name then?" Shiro asks as he leans closer. His breath smells like cheap beer and minty toothpaste, and Keith is struck by the urge to fist his hands in Shiro’s shirt and pull him down hard to lick into his mouth and taste it.

“Not yet,” Keith whispers, knowing Shiro is definitely close enough to hear him even over the music.

Shiro pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he observes Keith. His eyes are a little more heavy-lidded than last week and his breathing slow as he unabashedly studies the lines of Keith’s face like he’s looking for something. He hums out loud as he sneaks his hand out to twist a finger in the hair at the back of Keith's neck, causing a shiver to course through his entire body. 

Jesus Christ, the tip of one finger touching his skin and Keith nearly moans. He really needs to get himself together.

“You planning on telling me tonight?” Shiro asks, resting his thumb at the side of Keith’s throat.

“Maybe,” Keith answers evasively. 

Truthfully he almost gave it to him last week, but he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that once he does, Shiro could be done with him. His traitorous brain keeps screaming, "You're playing a game with him and he's having fun and when it's done he'll find someone new" .

Keith might not have known many frat guys in his life—or perhaps none—but he's known guys and most of them were all the same. They’re selfish, self-centered and unreliable.

He wants to believe Shiro isn’t like that, but he doesn’t know—not for sure. All Keith knows for right now is that for some reason, Shiro found something about him interesting, and he wants to hold onto it as long as possible. His name is the only leverage he has left.

Maybe it’s selfish of him too, to want as much of Shiro's attention on him as possible, but Keith is only human. His self-control can only extend so far, and right now he feels like a guitar string wound too tight. One strum from Shiro and he’s gonna snap.

Keith has never been the selfish kind, but he figures he deserves to be selfish at least once in his life. Just this once, maybe it’s okay to want . And fuck does he want. He wants Shiro more than he's ever wanted anyone.

If Shiro wants to play a game, then Keith can play too.

"Okay," Shiro breathes with a tilt of his head. "It's alright, I'm a patient man. I can wait as long as it takes."

"As long as what takes?" Keith asks, finally dragging his eyes off Shiro’s lips and back up to his eyes.

"As long as it takes for you to stop looking at me like you're waiting for me to leave."

Keith snaps his mouth shut unsure what to say to that. Frat boys are not supposed to be emotionally intelligent, gentle and charming.

Exposed. He feels so fucking exposed.

"You want a drink?" Shiro asks, the tips of his fingers skimming down the back of Keith's neck. It’s simple but unexpectedly intimate, and Keith had fights the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch.

"Yes," Keith utters. He wants a lot more than a drink, but he doesn’t think now is the appropriate time to say it. " Please ."

Shiro grins, looping his arm around Keith's neck and guiding him towards the kitchen and the array of alcohol hidden behind a wall of Shiro's frat brothers. It’s uncanny the way their bodies slot together so perfectly, and Keith is inexplicably grateful for the touch, suddenly lightheaded.

"What do you want to drink?" Shiro inquires once they’re close enough to the counter for him to see the variety of cheap liquor bottles lined up beside another vat of artificially red fruit punch.

"Anything," Keith replies, if only because he doesn’t think his brain is working enough to make a decision. Not when all his brain can focus on is the heavy weight of Shiro's arm looped around his shoulder or the warmth of his breath against the shell of Keith's ear when he speaks.

Keith is so focused on the heat from Shiro’s body, and the fact that he reeks of that goddamn perfect clean boy smell again, that it takes a few seconds to realize that Shiro has yelled something to one his frat brothers. The guy raises an eyebrow at them in response, shrugging before reaching into the cupboard behind him and pulling down a bottle of Amsterdam peach vodka. He uncaps the bottle and pours a generous amount into two red solo cups before topping them off with a ladle of fruit punch and passing them over.

Keith takes too big of a drink and chokes. Fuck, it’s strong enough to put hair on his chest.

"Careful, that flavor is a little dangerous,” Shiro laughs, taking a much more moderate sip of his own.

"I can handle it," Keith insists, taking another chug to prove his point and resisting the urge to wince at the burn. He doesn’t exactly want to be drunk because whatever happens, he definitely hopes to remember every second of tonight. It’s just that sober, he isn’t sure there will be a tonight, not with his nerves threatening to ruin him by making him blurt out something embarrassing like you smell nice . By the third drink, Keith doesn’t even wince. The peach flavor really is dangerously good, and mixed with punch it’s easy to forget how much alcohol is actually in his cup.

"Whoa, slow down there," Shiro whispers, his fingers curling around his cup as he gently pries it from Keith's mouth.

"Why?" Keith asks, unable to stop himself.

"We've got all night." His fingers linger where they are wrapped around the cup atop Keith's. "I'd uh...kinda like you to remember it. Call me crazy, but I'd like to know you're into me without needing liquor."

Keith swallows down the liquid burning his throat, ignoring the burning at the corner of his eyes. Shit, shit, shit. He knew he was gonna do something stupid, just hadn’t expected to do it so fast. There’s something quiet about the way Shiro said it—as if it was a confession—a catch in his voice as he swallowed. His eyes are wide and guileless, and Keith finds himself moving without thinking, crashing their lips together.

Shiro lets out a soft noise of surprise, plucking the drink from Keith's hand and leaving him free to twine his arms around Shiro's neck and rise onto his tiptoes to deepen the kiss. Shiro melts against him, dipping his head just enough to put them on even footing as Keith plunders his mouth.

Shiro's lips are even softer than they look, but the most surprising thing about kissing him is the way he lets Keith take the lead. Inhaling a deep breath through his nose, Keith deepens the kiss, his chest pressed firmly against Shiro’s as he darts his tongue to swipe it along Shiro’s plump bottom lip. The peach flavored punch tastes even sweeter on Shiro, and it takes Keith a moment to realize the needy sounds he hears came from his own mouth.

When Keith finally pulls out of the kiss to catch his breath, Shiro's eyes are shut, his lips kiss swollen and his hat falling halfway off his head.

Fuck, he is so cute.

"Sorry, I uh...I," Keith stutters, unsure what to say next. I wanted to devour you seems too forward and I needed you to know how much I want you, alcohol or no alcohol felt too emotionally honest a confession to make in the middle of a party.

Shiro blinks open his eyes looking a little dazed before he smiles at Keith—a smile so unmistakably pleased and happy it leaves him breathless all over again. It’s the most blindly pleased smile Keith has ever seen, and it’s directed at him.

Because he kissed Shiro.

"Actually no, I'm not sorry. Not even a little bit."

This time, Shiro’s smile is damn near devastating as he cups Keith’s chin and bends down to press the chastest of kisses to his lips.

"Good," Shiro whispers. “That’s really good, because neither am I.”

Confidence bolstered, Keith reaches out to straighten Shiro's snapback, smoothing his fingers through the tuft of hair sticking out. It’s even softer than it looks, and Keith’s fingers itch with the desire to push the cap back off Shiro's head and fist his hands in Shiro's hair.

"Rule number five!" one of Shiro's frat brothers shout from the other side of the kitchen.

Shiro's eyes darken as he turns and flips someone off. "We're not having sex in the kitchen, asshole."

"You were eye fucking so bad I felt like I needed a condom,” annoying frat bro challenges, lifting his beer in a toast to Keith with a wink. Keith joins Shiro in flipping the guy off. The guy grumbles to himself and turns away.

It isn’t until Shiro’s eyes are back on Keith that what he just did hit him. He kissed Shiro. Kissed him like he means it in the middle of a crowded kitchen. He wants to sink through the floor in embarrassment rather than admit he honestly forgot that the rest of the world existed for just a moment.

Cheeks filling with air, Keith holds his breath and shoves his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the weight of the stares being directed their way. He isn’t sure if people are staring at Keith or Shiro or just both of them, but either way, it’s more attention than Keith normally likes directed his way.

“This is not an episode of The Hills . Eyes on your own drinks or dates, people,” Shiro hollers. Amazingly, everyone averts their eyes and Keith is hard pressed to deny how hot Shiro looks bossing people around.

Shiro shakes his head, a bit of hair falling into his eyes before he grabs their discarded drinks off the kitchen table. He passes Keith's back to him before looping his free arm around Keith's waist and guiding him out of the room.

"Ignore Matt, he's just jealous the most action he gets is with his robotics project."

"Sorry," Keith mumbles, tempted to down his entire drink in one go so at least he can blame his rash behavior on being drunk instead of being too horny to think straight.

"Thought you weren't sorry," Shiro challenges, guiding him towards the open back door.

"Not sorry about the kiss, just sorry I didn't uh...ask for permission first."

"Oh." Shiro sounds surprised, stopping in the middle of the doorway to turn and look at Keith. "Shit, you're sweet.”

“I’m not that sweet,” Keith argues.

“I don’t know about that, you seem pretty sweet to me," Shiro says quietly, dragging his thumb across Keith's bottom lip. "For future reference, I'm very interested and amenable to any ways in which you'd like to touch me. Including kissing. I really hope there will be more kissing."

“That’s good to know. Just you know, for future reference,” Keith breathes, lips tingling from Shiro’s touch.

Shiro grins widely, his nose scrunched up as he shuffles backward and fists a hand in Keith’s shirt to pull him with him into the back yard.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page about kissing being something that deserves a repeat performance. First though, I thought we might try something else.”

“What else?” Keith asks, stumbling along after Shiro, feet catching on the bottom step that leads from the house to the patio. Before Shiro can answer that question, however, Keith's eyes land on the yard. Or, at least, what was the yard, but has been transformed into what, close as Keith can tell, looks like some sort of rigged up rave. There are cheap white Christmas lights strung up across the yard, and a fairly substantial dance floor in the middle of the grass taking up well over half the backyard.

“Wow,” Keith breathes.

“See, I told you it was going to be something special this week. One of my frat brothers bought a storage locker and found them hidden behind a sofa. Pretty cool huh?”

Cool isn’t exactly the word Keith would use.

“I can’t dance,” he blurts out before Shiro gets any crazy ideas.

Keith can’t recall the last time he danced in front of other people. He hadn’t even danced at his own high school prom. The idea of dancing in public where other people can see is high on the list of things Keith would prefer death to. Public humiliation is not high on his list of good times, and while Keith can’t be entirely sure he will embarrass himself, his lack of dancing experience makes the probability quite high.

“Don’t dance or can’t dance?” Shiro queries with a quirk of his lips.

“Is there a difference?” Keith shoots back, lifting his cup and gulping down too big of a drink that burns all the way down.

“Of course there is. Don’t dance is firm. It means you aren’t interested in what our bodies might look like out there as we grind our hips together. Can’t just means you might need someone to teach you.” He takes a step closer to Keith, leaning so close his forelock brushes across Keith’s forehead. “Or maybe you just need some persuasion.”

“What kind of persuasion?” Keith asks, already having a pretty good idea as Shiro’s left hand skims down his side until warm fingers are brushing beneath the hem of his t-shirt along the small sliver of skin above his jeans.

“Depends.”

Keith clears his throat hoping Shiro can’t tell he is getting hard from such a small touch. “Depends on what exactly?”

Shiro’s eyes glint with mischief as he dips his head to close the small gap between them, leaving his lips hovering just an inch or so from Keith’s. It isn’t a kiss, not technically, but his lips brush against Keith’s as he whispers, “Depends on what kind of motivation you respond to. You the kind of boy who likes a challenge? A tease? A promise? Maybe all three.”

Keith’s bottom lip quivers as Shiro pulls his head away to wait for an answer. He’s teasing Keith already, and fuck if Keith doesn’t like it.

“I uh...might respond to any of those incentives. Depending on how they were, uh...executed.” He isn’t sure if it’s lust or alcohol making him stupider.

“Hypothetically, I might dare you to dance with me.” Shiro leans in close again, his lips grazing across Keith’s cheek this time. “Might dare you to show me how brave you really are.”

Shiro’s entire body radiates heat, his breath sweet and his eyes so ripe with excitement it sets Keith’s head spinning. Before he can tell Shiro that his words are definitely the type of dare Keith might respond well to, Shiro is speaking again.

“Or I might do this,” he says, moving back from Keith enough to set his drink on the floor before slipping both hands beneath Keith’s shirt and hooking his thumbs under the waistband of Keith’s jeans. It sends a chill down Keith’s spine, his stomach fluttering as Shiro pulls him flush against his hips and begins to sway. “Might tell you I want you close to me all night, baby.

Keith’s eyes flutter shut as Shiro rolls his hips and, fuck yes, his dick is definitely responding to this.

Keith isn’t sure if what Shiro is doing can actually be called dancing. In fact, he feels pretty sure that whatever glorious thing he is doing with his hips falls closer on the spectrum to sex than dancing, but with thick thighs bracketing him and a substantial dick pressed against his own, Keith is not about to get technical.

When Keith finally finds the words to speak, they come out breathy and stuttered. "What about the other thing?"

Shiro's smile is almost wicked as he takes a step away from Keith and, oh no. No . Keith wants that warm, hard body pressed against his again. Immediately.

"I thought you might be that kind.”

“What kind?” Keith asks, already knowing the answer.

Shiro doesn’t answer. Instead, he smirks at Keith before turning around to jog across the patio. He stops at the top of the wooden stairs that led out to the grass and makeshift dance floor, giving Keith one last exuberant smile over his shoulder before hopping down the stairs two at a time and moving to stand at the edge of the dance floor in Keith’s direct line of sight.

Then he begins to dance.

No , Keith thinks. 

No, this can not actually be happening.

Except it is happening, and it is every wet dream and fantasy Keith has ever had rolled into one. 

Shiro worries his bottom lip between his teeth and moves his hips to the rhythm of the music. The song isn’t one that Keith can recognize, something fast-paced with too much bass. Shiro's movements are too slow and don’t even seem to match the beat, but it doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter that Shiro is objectively not a great dancer because he is dancing for Keith.

It doesn’t matter that the dance floor is overcrowded and one of Shiro's feet is actually on the grass, or that other people keep bumping into him, because Keith only has eyes for Shiro.

Watching Shiro move his body like this is obscene really. The sway of his small waist and talented hips along with the visible rise and fall of his chest.

The music changes to something that sounds like it should be in a rave, the tempo so fast no one else seems to know how to dance to it either. For one brief moment Keith thinks maybe Shiro will come back to him instead of trying to dance to this. He’s wrong.

Shiro lifts his arms into the air as he spins around, head thrown back with a soft smile on his face. There’s a youthful exuberance about the way he bounces to the music, unconcerned with who might be watching.

Keith doesn’t know where to look, his eyes drawn so many places at once. He forces his eyes to linger in one spot, mesmerized by the way Shiro’s crop top rises offers a brief glimpse reveal taut pink nipples and impossibly full pecs. He let himself appreciate the view for a few long seconds before his eyes are drawn down to the movement in Shiro's sweats, his dick swaying as freely as his hands.

A soul-deep ache assaults Keith, and not just because of how physically attractive Shiro is, but because of how happy he looks.

Keith wants that too, wants to feel that free and untethered by societal expectations.

Most of all though, he wants Shiro.

Shiro on the dance floor is a wild thing—a sheen of sweat building on his flushed skin and his body moving effortlessly. He might not be the greatest dancer ever but he is clearly confident and comfortable in his body, which is by far the sexiest thing Keith has ever seen.

Keith has spent most of his life doing anything in his power to ensure he doesn’t have to dance in public. It seems fitting somehow that this time, as he moves towards the dance floor, it is entirely of his own accord.

Statistically, the odds of him making an ass of himself are high, but the sight of Shiro alone is just wrong. Keith wants to be standing beside him. He wants to laugh with him and move with him. He wants to exist in the same space as someone as mesmerizing as Shiro.

He also really, really wants those big hands on his hips again as their bodies sway with the music.

Slowly Keith moves to the dance floor, unprepared for the song to shift to something slower, something made for two people who definitely know what they're doing on the floor, and Keith's heart leaps into his throat as Shiro turns his eyes on him and crooks out a finger to beckon him closer. He’s already moving but if he hadn’t, the knowledge that Shiro wants Keith to join him would be enough to get his feet moving.

Keith swallows down the last of his nerves and chugs the remainder of his peachy punch, dropping his empty cup to the floor, only minutely sorry for littering. All the while Shiro maintains eye contact and an easy smile, rocking his hips from side to side with a hand outstretched towards Keith.

It takes longer than it should for Keith to cross the backyard because he gets stuck behind two very large guys arguing over craft beers, neither of whom seem to hear Keith yelling excuse me , followed by a fairly tipsy girl who mistakes Keith for her boyfriend.

By the time he's made it to Shiro, half his confidence is gone and he feels close to puking. The Christmas lights feel like a spotlight and though realistically no one has probably noticed his approach beside Shiro, he feels as if every eye is on him.

"There you are," Shiro says, blissfully unaware of Keith’s internal panic. "I was starting to think maybe I wasn't having any affect on you. Or, you know, that I was having the opposite of the desired effect and that my dancing was making you wanna run away."

Keith shakes his head. "Definitely not one of the thoughts that was going through my mind."

"Yeah?" Shiro replies, reaching out a hand and laying it on Keith's hip, pulling him onto the dance floor and closer to Shiro. "Any chance you wanna tell me what kind of thoughts you were having then?"

"I'm not sure we’re on that level just yet," Keith confesses, heart thudding loudly as Shiro's other hand rested on his other hip.

"Mmm,” Shiro hums, trying to get Keith to sway his hips. “I hear a yet in there. That's a wonderful sign."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Shiro agrees. "Like I said. I'm patient. Or at least I can be when it’s worth it.”

That makes Keith’s chest flutter. There he goes being sweet again, the absolute fucker.

"How patient?" Keith asks, unable to believe his own hips are currently swaying against Shiro's and he has yet to fall flat on his ass or embarrass himself. Maybe dancing isn’t as hard as Keith always imagined, or maybe he’s just lacked the right kind of incentive to give it a try.

"I'm very—" but Shiro stops talking as the music unexpectedly changes again.

The song is familiar this time. Too familiar. Every single hair on Keith's body stands on end and his stomach drops. No. No. This is not happening.

Shiro appears the opposite of how Keith feels, a look of unbridled excitement spreading across his face. Several of the frat guys on the dance floor began to cheer and holler right as Shiro starts to whistle.

Oh fuck no.

" Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby ," Shiro sings, hand on his chest as if it were some sort of serenade.

"Oh my God," Keith mumbles, fully prepared for the earth to swallow him whole.

Shiro stops singing to bark out a laugh at Keith before he continues to sing. 

With every line he sings, his voice gets louder. " Boy, I'm gonna show you how to do it and we start real slow. You just put your lips together and you come real close. "

Keith forgets how to breathe as Shiro drags a hand provocatively down his own chest and moves his hips from side to side. This song is not not sexy. Shiro singing this song is not sexy. This entire fucking thing is not allowed to be sexy.

Except it is. Fuck, it so is.

Shiro purses his lips together and leans closer. Fucking fuck. Keith’s brain or his dick are going to implode. A man can only be expected to endure so much.

" Blow my whistle baby, whistle baby ."

Keith’s heard this god-awful song enough times in his life to know baby is just one of the lyrics. But when Shiro's big eyes land on him, those full, soft lips curling with the consonants in the word baby, Keith wants to drop to his knees and blow Shiro's whistle right then and there, the people watching them be damned.

Keith can’t even be embarrassed about the thoughts flooding his brain, or the fact that he is standing there stupidly watching Shiro with his mouth hanging open.

He’s dimly aware of other party goers and some of the other frat guys singing the song as well, most of them drunk and off-key and clearly trying to make the lyrics sound even more lewd. None of them, however, can hold a candle to Shiro whoias crooning the words at Keith as if it weas a fucking love song.

Just when Keith is sure Shiro can’t surprise him more, he does. He yanks off his crop top, dislodging his snapback in the process, and leaving him standing there half-naked in front of Keith as he changes the lyrics and sings, " I'm betting you like boys that give love to boys .”

Then as if Keith isn’t losing his mind enough as it is, Shiro has the actual audacity to wink, the fucker. As if Keith's heart or dick can possibly handle it. Keith is a live wire—adrenaline coursing through his veins and sparking under his skin, unsure if he wants to scream or make Shiro scream.

Shiro’s chest is flushed pink from dancing, a thin sheen of sweat glistening over his body and his hair adorably mussed. His lips are pursed in a whistle, and it’s not hard to imagine what he might look like in bed, or on his knees for Keith with those pretty lips pursed or hollowed for an entirely different reason.

"Come on, sing with me," Shiro begs, hands turned out in an invitation as he rocks his hips closer and closer to Keith.

Remembering how to breathe, or even just stay conscious, becomes increasingly difficult.

"I don't sing."

"The same way you don't dance?" Shiro asks cheekily.

Keith shakes his head. "No. I do not sing."

"Fair enough," Shiro smiles. "Guess the chorus is on me then."

He straightens his shoulders before running a hand through his hair. He looks like he is getting ready for something, but Keith's brain can’t begin to handle thinking about what other wild ideas Shiro might have.

The music is blaring and Keith knows he is going to be singing this fucking song for weeks. He’s so distracted by Shiro's playful smile and trying to act like a normal human being it takes Keith a few seconds to realize the people around them on the dance floor have taken a step back to give them space.

Space for what, though, Keith doesn’t have a fucking clue.

This time, it isn’t Keith’s imagination playing tricks on him. Everyone is definitely watching them as Shiro bends down for his hat, slipping it onto his head backwards and pulling his floof through the hole before giving Keith a single nod.

Then he opens his fucking mouth and starts to sing. Loudly. Very loudly.

" Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby .” He moves his body like a man who knows all eyes are on him and likes it. “ Let me know. "

Shiro inches closer as he sings and Keith is aware of the catcalls and whistling from the people around them, but it doesn’t register, not really. Not when his brain is wholly incapable of caring about anyone or anything besides the ridiculous boy in front of him.

" Boy, I'm gonna show you how to do it ." 

Shiro’s knees begin to bend and Keith’s soul leaves his body..

Oh, hell fucking no, he is not going to do what Keith thinks he might be about to do. He can’t possibly—

" And we start real slow. "

Shiro drops all the way down to his knees as if he were born to be there. Keith’s brain short-circuits at the sight of Shiro kneeling before him, and the noise that came out of his mouth was nothing short of embarrassing. Thankfully, the sound was muffled by the hoards of people losing their shit as Shiro fucking crawled to Keith.

"Shiro," Keith chokes out. The name has little impact. Likely because his traitorous dick and face are making it abundantly clear that as ridiculous as this entire scenario was, Keith is completely into it.

Shiro looks so fucking proud of himself as he stops crawling at Keith’s feet and juts out his chin. His thighs are spread wide, hands clasped demurely between them as he licks his lips and waits for Keith’s response.

It’s completely and utterly ridiculous. Fucking absurd! It’s like one of those god-awful movies he once  watched with Hunk and Pidge except this isn’t a movie it is real life.

This is his life, and the hottest man he's ever seen is on his knees whistling and staring at Keith's stupidly interested dick.

" Blow my whistle baby ," Shiro sings quietly, this time his words are only for Keith.

His eyes are wide, his attention fully on Keith. Though it’s clear Shiro hasn’t minded the people watching him, Keith suddenly feels certain that, at the end of the day, the show has been for Keith and Keith alone.

There’s something almost sweet in the way he looks up at Keith, expression open and guileless despite the filthy innuendo of his words and movements.

There is absolutely no point in pretending Keith isn’t into it.

Fuck, he is so into it.

Maybe he’s secretly an exhibitionist and he never knew it, because the idea of everyone watching someone as beautiful as Shiro pander to Keith while on his knees makes Keith so fucking aroused it hurts. Shiro's face is just inches from his crotch and while his jeans are worlds more demure than Shiro's flimsy excuse for sweatpants, they are still tight enough that there probably isn’t a person in the backyard that can’t tell he has a massive boner for Shiro.

"This okay?" Shiro unexpectedly whispers, his hands on Keith's hips holding him steady.

Keith blinks. Okay? Fuck. There is a sweaty, half-drunk frat Adonis of a boy on his knees singing lewd and suggestive lyrics to Keith's dick and yet, somehow, Shiro is still managing to come off as the biggest gentleman Keith has ever met. Okay doesn’t even begin to cover the range of emotions Keith is experiencing.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s obviously been underestimating frat boys— clearly, Keith has been looking for men in the wrong fucking places.

"Yeah," Keith confirms with a nod. “This is okay.” 

Surprisingly, it’s the truth. Keith isn’t even embarrassed anymore. He’s way too fucking turned on to care what anyone else might be doing, or what they think of Keith and his lack of self-control.

Shiro smiles at his answer, thumbs rubbing circles on each side of Keith’s hip for several long seconds before he tilts his head back and wolf whistles. In response, every frat guy in the near vicinity whistles back.

All too soon, Keith realizes the song is almost over. It’s comical to find himself in a position to actually have the thought I hope this song never ends about Flo Rida, but life is turning out to be fucking weird like this.

Shiro's hands remain on his hips, swaying them from side to side smoothly. Keith’s vision tunnels in on Shiro and the strong lines of his face along with the way his big, warm hands feel guiding Keith’s movements. Fuck he likes the way it feels to have those hands on him.

Keith barely has time to appreciate the moment before Shiro’s body shifts and he scoots closer until there is barely an inch of empty space between them. Then he does the unthinkable—he buries his face in Keith's stomach. In his fucking stomach. Shiro’s face is warm, his jawline firm as he presses his face just above Keith’s aching dick. He doesn’t just stay there though. No, the fucker moves. His nose is squished against Keith’s lower belly, an action which rucks up the t-shirt as he rubs his nose into Keith's treasure trail and moves Keith's hands to rest atop his head.

Keith knocks the hat right off his head and fists his hands in Shiro's forelock.

Shiro lets out a guttural sound, something unmistakably close to a moan, at having his hair pulled and Keith's entire body flushes with heat.

Shiro. On his knees.

Shiro is on his knees and he likes to have his hair pulled.

Fuck .

There’s a small part of Keith that worries this might be all he ever gets, and he’s damn near desperate to hear that needy little noise come out of Shiro's mouth again while he kneels. Experimentally, Keith does it again because despite the people watching and his horror that he’s not actually horrified about the idea of being watched, he can’t stop himself. His grip is firm but gentle as he squeezes the hair and tilts Shiro’s head back just so. Shiro's bottom lip catches on Keith's jeans as Keith pulls his head back just a little further—the delicate pale pink skin of the inside of his lip exposed and glistening.

Keith uses his free hand to cup the back of Shiro’s head as his eyes roam over the long line of Shiro's arched neck and the visible bob of his Adam’s apple. The noise Keith is rewarded with for the action has his breath catching in his throat as he stares unblinking at the man beneath him.

Looking at Shiro is like looking at fucking porn, except better. So much better. He’s warm and real—full lips, broad chest and eager eyes and on his knees for Keith. He’s easily the most erotic thing Keith has ever fucking seen.

The song changes into something Keith is once again unfamiliar with, and all around them the drunk partygoers go on with their night, dancing and laughing as if there aren’t two tipsy boys in the middle of the dance floor close to fucking. Keith can only be grateful for the short attention span most drunk people have as they quickly begin to ignore him and Shiro. 

Unlike the people around them, Shiro isn’t moving. Not even an inch.

Instead, he remains kneeling at Keith's feet, his legs spread wide, mouth open as he pants—his breath warm and heavy against the skin just below Keith’s belly button. It’s only then that Keith realizes he isn’t the only one whose dick has betrayed him because Shiro’s cock is substantially tenting his sweats—the beginnings of a wet patch staining the front.

He wishes he could blame the alcohol for what he does next, but even sober he knows he would’ve done it too.

With his fingers still fisted tightly in Shiro’s hair, he tugs him forward until Shiro’s chin is knocked against the line of his aching dick.

Shiro grunts out his surprise but still doesn’t seem at all inclined to move. Instead, he nuzzles his fucking face into Keith’s erection. His eyelids flutter shut as he drags his cheek and lips against Keith’s dick again, his mouth spread wide open from the stiff denim of Keith’s jeans.

It’s too much. Fuck it’s too much and not enough and it’s so hot Keith’s brain melts. The only reason he knows it isn’t a hallucination this time is because not even in his wildest imagination could he ever have invented a scenario where this happens.

Keith’s been teetering on the edge for so long and now Shiro’s perfect fucking face is rubbing against his dick. Granted, his dick is completely covered by his stupid too-thick jeans, but the reality of the situation is the same—the world’s hottest man alive is mouthing his dick and looking really turned on by doing it.

One person can only be expected to have so much self-control. At least, that’s what he tells himself over and over again as his orgasm builds and he is incapable of pulling away to stop it. The thought repeats itself in his brain as Shiro nuzzles his dick like a goddamn eager puppy and Keith fucking comes in his pants like he’s a fifteen-year-old virgin.

He tries to stay quiet, really he does, but it’s just so fucking much to handle that it’s a miracle Keith hasn’t screamed yet. The hand that isn’t fisted in Shiro’s hair flies up to cover Keith’s mouth in a last-ditch attempt to muffle the ungodly whimpering sound he hears himself making.

Fuck, he hopes Shiro can’t hear.

From the look on Shiro’s face he can. He definitely can. Shiro’s eyes widen in surprise because, up this close, of fucking course he can tell what’s happening inside of Keith’s pants.

Keith is fucking mortified and does the only thing he can.

He turns and runs.

Keith runs across the patio and through the house bellowing out half-hearted apologies as he knocks into people. He runs through the front door and across the front lawn. He runs until he’s halfway down the street, stopping only when he realizes the dorms are too far to walk and he’s had too much alcohol to drive. Not that he would’ve abandoned Pidge or Hunk, but still.

With resignation he drops down onto the curb and sighs heavily, head in his hands as he stares down at his jeans. Sticky. He’s sticky and gross.

The way he sees it, Keith has two options; sit on the sidewalk in his own come for the next hour or so until his friends are done with the party, or sneak back inside to clean up and wait out his embarrassment while praying Shiro doesn't see him.

The first idea is infinitely smarter, but Keith doesn’t care about smart when his dick is so wet.

Decision made, he rises to his feet and re-enters the house with his head held down, weaving through the throngs of people who are too drunk or too self-centered to notice him. Unfortunately, by the time he finds the downstairs bathroom, it appears half the party has found it too—a line of people waiting to piss or puke filling the long hallway.

Shit.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he glances around the party, eyes landing on the stairway that leads upstairs to what Keith can only assume is the frat brothers’ living quarters. The bottom of the stairs is roped off with a line of what appears to be unused condoms tied together and a handwritten sign on a sheet of college-lined paper that says No Entrance in black Sharpie surrounded by several hideously drawn hairy dicks.

All around him people are more interested in the insides of their red plastic cup or the person they’re trying to suck faces with that what Keith is or isn’t doing. The odds of anyone noticing him sneak upstairs is very low, especially since most of the frat guys who live here are still outside.

It’s a stupid idea. A horrible idea. It’s like walking into a lion's den. No person with two brain cells trying to avoid frat boys—or one frat boy in particular—would go upstairs to their natural habitat.

Apparently Keith has no fucking brain cells left.

As steadily as possible, Keith sneaks under the condom rope and crawls up the stairs, eventually emerging onto the upstairs landing. Unlike the sticky and trash-laden chaos of the downstairs, the hallway is nearly pristine. The carpet even looks freshly vacuumed and the walls are lined with fraternity plaques and photos of groups of frat boys from years past.

Whatever Keith might have thought of fraternities before, he’s hard-pressed to deny that it is obvious the people in this one see it as an honor and privilege. Of course, his estimation of them drops once more when he opens the first three doors and finds each bedroom to be more disgusting than the last—mattresses without sheets, piles of dirty clothes littering the floors, textbooks strewn across the desk without a care, and several with condoms that are most definitely not unused.

With every door he opens in hopes of finding a bathroom, his hopes merely fall further and further. By the time he reaches the last two doors at the end of the hallway, Keith has all but lost hope, fully resigning himself to a night of more embarrassment and discomfort.

Still he’s come this far already. Expectations low he turns the handle on the second to last door and crosses his fingers. He pushes the door open and nearly weeps. A bathroom. An honest-to-God unused bathroom. Granted the bathroom has a pile of used towels on the floor, questionable white residue in the shower, and it smells like someone tried to drown themselves in Axe body spray. But it’s still a bathroom with a sink and toilet paper and, most importantly, no line of people waiting to use it.

Ten minutes later, Keith emerges from the bathroom refreshed and comfortably less sticky. Well, mostly. There’s only been so much he could to do clean off his boxers, but what he had been able to accomplish with the sole clean washcloth he found in the linen cupboard had done wonders to make him feel less like an embarrassed sex gremlin and closer to something resembling a real person.

His fingertips barely leave the door knob when Keith becomes aware of deep voices filtering down the hallway.

Keith isn’t sure what drunk frat boys might do to someone who ignored the warning sign and snuck upstairs, and he definitely doesn’t want to find out. His feet are already taking him back into the bathroom to hide when the voices get close enough that he can make out what they’re saying.

“Fuck, I need to piss. Can’t believe how fucking long the line is downstairs.”

“Well I’m peeing first, I drank more than you.”

Bile rises in Keith’s throat. Shit, shit, shit. If he can’t hide in the bathroom then where the fuck can he hide?

“You should shower while you’re in there, it smells like it's been awhile.”

“You too ass wipe.” There’s drunken laughter followed by what sounds like one of them being shoved into the wall.

Unwilling to risk discovery, Keith moves without hesitation towards the only door he’s yet to open, hoping it’s empty. Keith stumbles through the door then quietly shuts it behind him seconds before whoever was heading to the bathroom barreled down the hallway with heavy footsteps. Exhaling a heavy breath, Keith closes his eyes and waits with his back leaning against the closed door as he listens to more arguing and grumbling followed by the flushing of a toilet. The bathroom door slams, followed by another flush, and then the door slams again. Keith’s revulsion that neither of them bothered to turn on the sink and had clearly not washed their hands is dulled only by his relief at the sound of their receding footsteps.

That was close, too close . He needs to get his ass downstairs and probably out front before someone engages him in a conversation he has no desire to participate in. Problem is, as soon as he opens his eyes, his own curiosity is too great to simply leave.

The room he;’s standing in is nothing like the other rooms he stumbled into before. There’s no trash or dirty laundry piled on the floor, no used sex toys or condoms, and no chaotic disarray of school work. Even in the dark, Keith can tell the room is pristine. As tempting as turning on the light would be he knows it’s a very bad idea, and would undoubtedly increase his odds of being discovered. Unfortunately for Keith, his instincts towards self-preservation are often thwarted by the fact that he has an unnaturally high desire to try to understand things that don’t make sense. A neat room amongst throngs of pigs parading as frat boys makes no sense.

There’s really no decision to make as Keith flips on the light, a small laugh escaping his mouth as he gets a good look at the bedroom. Whoever lives in this one must not have even been at tonight’s party. He’s probably off studying at the library or maybe home for the weekend.

Allowing his eyes to roam over the bedroom, Keith takes in all the small details—the perfectly made bed with exactly the same amount of black duvet hanging over each side, a collection of what appears to be mostly astronaut autobiographies on the bookshelf, a row of perfectly polished white sneakers with the shoelaces tucked inside lined up at the foot of his bed, and a NASA poster on the wall above the desk. The only thing that comes even close to being messy is the desk itself, which has an open notebook open filled with unnaturally nice penmanship, several colored pens and highlighters arranged in a monochromatic order beside it, and three empty coffee mugs clustered together along the edge.

Keith moves closer to examine the single photo on the edge of the bedside table. Unfortunately it provides no clue as to who lives in this room since it’s a group shot of what looks like the entire fraternity.

Next he eyes the drawer on the bedside table, fingers itching at his side. It would be rude to open it and snoop. Then again, whoever lives in this room is obviously not at the party and Keith doesn’t plan on touching anything or stealing, he just wants to look and see if he can figure out who lives here. No harm has ever come just from looking.

Promising himself that he’s only going to look inside the drawer to assuage how own curiosity, then leave, he promises himself not to touch.

This turns out to be a promise Keith breaks the second he slides the drawer open and finds a copy of Monsters and Mana , his favorite manga. It makes a smile spread across his face as he reaches into the drawer and pulls it out before he has time to chastise himself for becoming a liar. It’s Volume One and he can’t help but wonder if this guy has read Volumes Two and Three and has them stashed somewhere else, or if he just discovered the series. As he flips through the book, Keith discovers multiple hot pink Post-It notes on different pages with little arrows and neat tidy scrawl with things like I love this or foreshadowing? written on them.

For the second time that night, Keith realizes he’s vastly underestimated frat boys by assuming they’re all exactly the same.

His ass hits the bed before he can change his mind, and he leans over to peer into the open drawer and see what’s hidden beneath the manga. Unlike the rest of the neat and tidy room, the drawer is, well, a hot mess. There’s two kinds of lotion—one called Mango Paradise and another called Tahitian Vanilla—an almost empty travel Kleenex, a Target brand box of Lactaid, some stray Band-Aids, several king size candy bars, the business card for a barber place across town, a single red balloon, and a lenticular bookmark with a pride of baby lions on it. And condoms. A lot of fucking condoms. Except not just one box or one strip of them. It looks like a condom machine exploded in his drawer—banana, ice cream, and cola flavored ones layered across the top, extra durable condoms, ultra ribbed condoms, ultra thin condoms, camouflage condoms and more—a literal rainbow of brightly-colored condom packets fill the drawer. Whoever this frat boy is, he either had a lot of sex or a compulsion to hoard the free condoms the health center is always handing out all over campus.

The rattling of the doorknob is all the warning Keith gets before the door is pulled open and Keith’s entire life flashes before his eyes.

“Shit, I’m so sorry I was hiding from—” but he stops speaking the second he sees who is standing in the doorway.

It’s Shiro. Except Shiro no longer looks fun loving and wanton, he looks like a puppy someone kicked. 

Oh, fuck.

“Me?” Shiro finishes, shifting from one foot to the other.

“No,” Keith tries to lie but it’s obvious Shiro doesn’t believe him.

“It’s okay, the party is pretty loud and there aren’t a lot of places to hide downstairs. I don’t blame you for needing a bit of quiet. I can leave.”

It’s insane how much Shiro looking dejected makes Keith’s soul wither. He wants to kick the ass of anyone who rips the smile off Shiro’s face, including himself.

“You don’t have to leave, you live here. Well probably not here but you know,” Keith trails off pretty sure his weird hand gestures aren’t making him any easier to understand.

“Uh, no I do. Live here I mean. This is my bedroom.” Shiro smiles, but it’s a closed mouthed smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Wait, this is your room?” Keith blurts, followed by the burning desire to know whether the condoms are a necessity or a random collection. His curiosity is dwarfed only by the surprise he feels at finding out this is Shiro’s room. For some reason, he has a hard time reconciling the wild frat boy from downstairs with the neat and domestic room he’s standing inside of. His mother often told him he inherited her quick temper and propensity to be judgmental, a truth he scoffed at more times than not. He feels that truth in his soul right now.

“Yeah, does that surprise you?” Shiro asks as he steps into the bedroom— his bedroom—but off to the side so the doorway was left clear. 

Something about him so clearly giving Keith an easy way out of the room if he wants confirms Keith’s previous suspicions about Shiro being a good g. It sends a second wave of guilt through Keith for leaving Shiro on that dance floor alone. He’d been so consumed with his own embarrassment at coming in his fucking pants, he hadn’t once thought about how Shiro might have taken his exit.

When Keith doesn’t answer right away, Shiro rubs his hand along his jaw and shuffles his feet slowly backwards. 

“I’ll leave you alone for a bit. It’s uh—” he pauses to glance at the blinking red lights of the digital clock on the side table, “it’s a quarter past eleven. I’ll make sure and stay downstairs until after one. Your friends should be done by then and you can stay here without feeling uncomfortable.”

“Wait, what?” Keith asks, the meaning of Shiro’s words only registering when Keith realizes Shiro is leaving .

“Uncomfortable,” Shiro clarifies. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable downstairs and—”

“You didn’t!”

Shiro purses his lips, voice quiet. “Didn’t look that way when you ran off.”

“It wasn’t, that is to say—you know.” Keith gestured uselessly with his hand.

Shiro absolutely did not look like he knew.

“Oh fuck it. Icameinmypants,” Keith all but shouts, the words jumbled together so fast it will be an actual miracle if Shiro understood even half of it.

“I’m sorry, you what?”

Keith opens his mouth then stopped at the heavy sound of approaching footsteps. It was bad enough Shiro was going to hear this confession a second time, he didn’t need someone else to hear it too.

He stalks forward, hand on Shiro’s arm as he pulls him back into the bedroom and shuts the door behind them. Shiro appears perplexed as he stares down at Keith’s fingers which are still wrapped tightly around the girth of his bicep before dragging his attention up to Keith’s face. 

Up this close, Keith can still smell the punch and peach vodka on his breath, can trace the lines of his full lips that were singing to Keith not that long ago, and is close enough to count every strand of white hair that his hand was fisted in. It’s torture being this close to Shiro and not touching him further, but Keith isn’t sure his touch would be welcome after his untimely abandonment.

“Before. Out on the dance floor. You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” Shiro raises an eyebrow and Keith shrugs. “Alright, I mean alright maybe I was a little unsure at the beginning, but if I hadn’t liked what was happening I would’ve told you. Trust me. I’m a big boy and I know how to take care of myself. If you had crossed the line, I would’ve kicked you in the balls.”

Instead of looking offended, Shiro looks pleased. “ Oh .”

“Yeah. So you know...I liked it. I liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” Shiro breathes, some of the light returning to his eyes. “You did?”

“Well, it’s not every day a guy serenades you with something so romantic and soft.”

Shiro snorts, his shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.

Pleasure blossoms in Keith’s chest. He very much enjoys being the reason for Shiro’s happiness. He enjoys it a lot. He especially enjoys the way Shiro’s lips curl up and the way his eyes brighten. It’s addictive, and Keith wants to be the cause of his amusement and happiness again. He wants to do something—anything—that might earn him another brilliant smile. Before that can happen though, he owes Shiro an explanation. 

“So, you liked the song then, huh?” Shiro asks. 

While he waits for Keith’s answer he hooks his thumbs into the corners of his pockets, an action that tugs the sweats down lower in the front again. Keith’s brain momentarily freezes at the sharp V of Shiro’s hips and the thick treasure trail that disappears under his waistband. 

Keith can’t help but wonder what kind of expression might cross Shiro’s face if Keith went on his knees for him.

“No,” Keith tells him, barely able to keep a straight face at the pout that is forming on Shiro’s face. Honestly, fuck him and his stupid cute face. It should be illegal to be so cute pouting.

Keith shakes his head, desperately trying to clear it of thoughts of Shiro’s dick in his mouth so he can get out the words that will likely ensure he won’t ever have that dick in his mouth. The idea of lying flits into his brain, but he dismisses it just as quickly as it came. As much as Keith doesn’t want to embarrass himself with the truth, and ruin his chances with Shiro, the idea of lying to him is worse. Keith hates liars, and he isn’t about to become one just to save face.

“I hate that fucking song. But I like you.” Keith doesn’t look away, his gaze unrelenting as he waits for Shiro to look at him. When he does, Keith doesn’t know how to read the expression he sees. “I feel like maybe I’m the one who surprised you this time.”

“I gotta be honest, I feel like I’m getting some mixed signals,” Shiro confesses, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.

“Sorry about that. And the uh...thing. The thing where I sort of, you know...ran away.”

Keith’s heart stutters in his chest as he speaks the words, blood pulsing harshly through his veins as he forces himself to remain calmer on the outside than he feels on the inside. For once, having a mom who is a CIA hostage negotiator is paying off as he mentally recounts her many words of wisdom about staying calm in the face of immeasurable stress to diffuse tension and increase survival rates. Granted, his mom’s paranoia was more about preparing Keith for worst case scenarios like active shooters or hostage situations and not how to tell the guy he likes that he came in his pants untouched, but his mom isn’t here and she doesn’t need to know where her lessons on meditation and calmness under pressure are being used.

“So, the message I’m getting here is that maybe you don’t want me to leave then?” Shiro suggests, as the beginnings of a smile appear on his face.

Keith licks his lips and nodded. “I definitely don’t want you to leave.”

“Any chance you wanna tell me why you left, or is that as secret as your name?” Shiro’s voice is teasing, but there’s something guarded in his eyes. It’s the same expression Shiro wore when he told Keith he wanted to be sure that Keith would still want him when he was sober. It hits Keith now that he wants a lot more from Shiro than a drunken one night stand—he wants to know Shiro’s secrets, to know what makes him happy and even what makes him sad. He wants to know what other unexpected things Shiro likes along with his secret love of manga and near military-level attention to neatness.

He wants to know Shiro.

Mustering every ounce of courage he possesses, Keith takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to Shiro’s. “I was embarrassed because I came in my pants.”

If Keith wasn’t been so sick to his stomach with nerves, he would laugh at the expression on Shiro’s face—the human embodiment of a surprised pikachu—his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

“Yeah,” Keith mumbles, dropping his eyes to the ground. “I know, it was fucking embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

“I feel like maybe I’m missing something,” Shiro says, his voice unnaturally high. He’s probably trying to figure out how not to make Keith feel bad for being an overly horny weirdo.

“I don’t do stuff like that.” Shiro’s eyes widen and Keith wants to slam his head into the wall just to make his mouth stop working. He is so not making things any better. “Shit, I mean, no—I do. I do have sex. I’ve definitely had sex. More than once. Not like a sex fiend but, you know, like a normal amount. I just don’t do...party things. It’s not usually my scene. And I don’t really have sex with a lot of people. Or maybe I’ve only done it once and then tonight. Not that what we were doing was uh, sex. Fuck why am I still talking.”

Keith’s entire face is hot, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know he probably looks like a rotten tomato. Fucking fuck.

Shiro loudly clears his throat, but Keith’s eyes remain firmly on the carpet until Shiro’s fingers are on his chin, tilting it up so that Keith is looking at him. Shiro doesn’t look horrified, nor does he look like he’s about to laugh at Keith or call him pathetic.

“So, what you’re telling me is that the guy I like and was trying very hard to impress tonight came just from watching me? Without being touched?” Shiro looks inordinately pleased.

“I mean, technically you rubbed your face against my dick. There were a few layers between us but you know...yeah.” The temptation to look at the floor is strong, but not as strong as the one to keep looking at Shiro.

Shiro smiles. “Alright, correction. The guy I’ve been trying to get to notice me for weeks was so turned on by my incredible dancing and vocal skills he came from one touch of—”

“I’m sorry, what?” Keith interrupts.

Shiro appears almost bashful, a pink hue tinting his high cheekbones. “I uh, might’ve begged Matt to invite Pidge so she’d bring you. And I might’ve been showing off every time I knew you’d be here. Just a little bit.”

Keith blinks, unsure what to say now that Shiro has effectively rendered him speechless. In the span of a few seconds, everything’s been turned upside down. The conversation is not going even remotely close to how he anticipated it might.

“I think you’re going to need to back up. How do you know Pidge? And how do you know I’m friends with her?”

“Matt. My best friend Matt, the asshole in the kitchen reciting the rules to us. That’s Pidge’s older brother. I saw a picture of you on her Instagram when I stole Matts phone at the beginning of term and sorta um...thought you were gorgeous and begged Matt to introduce me.” He says the last bit quickly, the tips of his ears turning red. “It took months for him to agree to invite Pidge to one of our parties. He kept saying it’d be gross to see his baby sister here, but I finally wore him down. Then you showed up that first night and, well, I wasn’t sure if I was your type or you’d be interested, so I kept trying to get you to notice me.”

“Oh, I noticed you,” Keith laughs, his mind reeling from Shiro’s confession.

“Yeah?” Shiro whispers, ducking his head. It’s hard to believe the boy who was on his knees giving Keith a faux blow job on the dance floor in front of a crowd of people not half an hour ago can be shy about this. Then again, Keith understands all too well how things feel different when you like someone.

“Were you really trying to get my attention?” Keith asks, still unable to believe it.

“Maybe just a tiny bit,” Shiro answers.

“Just a little bit?” he asks, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

Shiro laughs, the smallest hint of a dimple popping up in his chin. “Alright, maybe a lot. Matt said I was starting to look like a peacock showing off. He told me tonight that if I didn’t go say hi to you, he was going to kick me out of the frat.”

“Did he dare you to sing to me too?” Keith swallows audibly, rubbing the palms of his hands across his jeans. He doesn’t want to think poorly of Shiro but the idea of it being some sort of dare or something to prove to his frat brothers has now entered his mind and won’t leave.

“That was—no. It’s not what you’re thinking. Or, at least, I think I know what you’re thinking. Matt was just being a good friend and trying to get me to stop being an idiot and do something about my crush. I wasn’t trying to prove anything to him or anything else.”

“So the song was just—”

“Just for you.”

“Oh.” Keith is warm all over, but for entirely different reasons than just a few minutes ago. “So you don’t think it’s lame about the uh—” he gestures vaguely in the direction of his dick and grimaces.

“Not lame at all,” Shiro asserts quietly, inching closer to Keith. “Hot. So hot, fuck.”

“Hot?” Keith chokes out, brain already short-circuiting at how close Shiro is. Fuck, how does he still smell so good? Keith wants to shove his face in Shiro’s neck and breathe him in deeply, or maybe even lick him. He’s never wanted to lick someone before, and he doesn’t let himself dwell too long on whether it’s weird or not.

“So hot,” Shiro repeats, his big hands moving closer until several of his fingers are twined in the hair at the back of Keith’s neck again. Keith shivers, mouth falling open of its own accord. “Bit of an ego boost too. Good for my confidence.”

“You don’t look like you need any help in that area.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Shiro replies. He leans down so that his floof flutters against Keith’s forehead, his lips hovering close to Keith’s, though in a promise or a tease he can’t be sure. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“My mom,” Keith answers without thinking, immediately wanting to kick himself. He really needs to stop thinking about his mom when he’s around Shiro.

“Fuck, you’re sweet,” Shiro says with a soft laugh, his lips brushing over Keith’s as he speaks. “I want to kiss you.”

“Then do it.”

Shiro doesn’t need to be told twice, his lips descending on Keith’s before he gets the last syllable out. It’s different than in the kitchen, no surprise or hesitancy, just urgency. Shiro kisses like he means it, long flesh fingers curling around the back of Keith’s neck as his metal hand rests at the base of Keith’s spine. Judging by the taste of his kiss Shiro definitely had more punch, his lips sticky sweet and addicting as Shiro lets out a soft sigh of pleasure.

As the kiss deepes, Shiro pulls Keith flush against his body, and it isn't until Shiro’s erection is pressed against his hip that Keith realizes his own dick is already getting hard again. Fuck, someone like Shiro should be illegal. He’s barely done anything and Keith is already so turned on.

“God you—” Shiro gasps.

“Keith,” he gets out between kisses. “My name is Keith.”

Shiro makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat—almost a whimper—as he crashes his lips into Keith’s and digs his fingers into his spine, the kiss turning sloppy.

“Keith,” he whispers.

Keith shudders, an unexpected wave of pleasure rolling through his entire body at the sound of his name in falling from Shiro’s lips. Fuck, Shiro has a nice voice.

“Keith,” he says again, as if he’s doing it just because he can.

“That’s my name,” Keith laughs against Shiro’s lips, delighting in the way Shiro is stroking the skin just beneath the hem of his t-shirt.

“I like your name. Like everything about you,” Shiro tells him as he presses chaste little kisses to the side of Keith’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Keith groans, unable to think of anything more eloquent to say. The fact that he hasn’t come in his pants again already is a miracle. Getting words out while the guy of his dreams touches him and tells him he is pretty should earn Keith a goddamn medal.

“I wasn’t joking before,” Shiro says, breath ghosting across the shell of Keith’s ear. “I really do wanna blow your whistle.”

Keith snorts, pulling back to look at Shiro’s face. “That was really bad.”

Shiro sticks out his bottom lip. “I thought it was cute.”

“It was not cute, but you are,” Keith grins, earning him a bashful smile. “You can blow my whistle. Shit, I can’t believe I just said that sentence out loud.”

Shiro laughs. “Want me to blow your whistle baby, whistle baby?”

“Oh my God, don’t sing that song again or it’ll be in my head for weeks.”

“Yes, sir,” Shiro says seriously, snapping his lips shut and mock saluting Keith. 

Keith’s dick shouldn’t get harder at this, but it does. Fuck, it does.

“Can I do this?” Shiro asks, moving towards Keith again and letting his lips ghost down the side of Keith’s neck.

“Yes.”

“What about this?” he checks, nimble fingers slipping beneath the hem of the t-shirt, lifting the hem up.

Keith nods, lifting his arms above his head as Shiro continues to pull the shirt off. Instead of chucking it on the floor, he carefully folds it before depositing it on the floor.

“Sorry, army kid. Old habits die hard,” Shiro confides when he catches Keith’s eye.

“You’d probably hate my room then,” Keith says, thinking of the pile of clean but unsorted and unfolded laundry sitting at the foot of his bed.

“Does this mean you might want to show it to me some time, then?” Shiro asks softly, his mouth back on Keith’s neck and moving along the curve of his shoulder. This doesn’t seem like a blowjob to Keith, but he isn’t about to complain. Foreplay is a vastly underutilized endeavor, and Keith is very much a fan of being touched—especially by Shiro.

“I might,” Keith answers. 

The truth is, Keith wants nothing more than to see Shiro again, to meet him in the library to study or in the quad for shitty half-priced coffee on Fridays. He wants to bring Shiro back to his dorm to meet his friends, and crowd them together in his too-small bed and watch scary movies on his laptop, and take him to the place downtown Hunk found last week with one dollar tacos on Tuesdays, and maybe try to hold Shiro’s hand in the back of a movie theater.

He wants, fuck—he wants to date Shiro. 

Problem is, he isn’t sure what Shiro wants from all of this, not yet. Maybe seems like a safer answer than please don’t let this be a one time thing . Not that Keith is under some pretense that Shiro needs to promise him forever after a blowjob, but Keith is hard-pressed to recall ever being so drawn to another person, or attracted to them. Whatever this is, Keith wants to find out.

“What do you like?” Shiro’s voice is thick as honey, and it takes Keith a few seconds to realize Shiro’s question requires an answer.

“I mean...a mouth on my dick is pretty fucking spectacular. I’m not picky.”

Shiro laughs, the rumbling sensation reverberating against Keith’s shoulder where Shiro is trying to muffle his amusement. “Mouth on dick. Got it. Sounds difficult, but I can try to to satisfy.”

“Smart ass,” Keith chastises, glad Shiro can’t see his blush. “Why, what do you like?”

“I like it when my partner feels good. I like when my partner is noisy, like really noisy. I like my hair pulled and my hips held tight enough to leave marks. I love swallowing and the way it feels for someone to go soft in my mouth. I like the sound of sweaty skin slapping together and the unmistakable sounds of someone being fucked good.”

Keith is the one to make a noise at Shiro’s words, completely unprepared for the candor. 

It also doesn’t escape Keith’s notice that who might be the one getting fucked is vague and his head spins at the idea that they might switch. He wants to fuck Shiro as much as he wants to be fucked by him, and even the one percent chance that Shiro might be into both scenarios makes his dick throb in his pants. 

Fuck, he hopes they come off soon. He needs Shiro’s mouth or hands on his dick like he needs air to breathe.

“So you, uh, have a lot of sex then?” Keith mumbles, trying to sound casual.

If the way Shiro pulls back to squint at him in a way that is too adorable to be allowed is anything to go by, he’s missed the mark with his tone entirely.

“Not so much. I was with my ex-boyfriend for...a while.” He shrugs, that same shuttered expression crossing his face. Keith’s never felt so protective of someone he just met, shocked by just how much he wants to kick this ex’s ass (or say thank you for being an absolute idiot). “Let’s just say it was long enough to know exactly what I like.”

“Oh,” Keith breathes, his eyes inexplicably drawn to the drawer of hidden condoms.

“Yeah, and he wasn’t what I wanted,” Shiro says, squatting lower to press a trail of kisses down Keith’s quivering stomach. “And for the record, I don’t use all those condoms—I’ve been collecting as many as I can to prank Matt for his birthday next month.”

“Oh, that’s...good. I mean, not that you have to make promises or anything, but, you know. That’s good to know. Just to know.”

Keith contemplates closing his eyes, wondering if he stops staring at Shiro and his cute hair sticking out of his ridiculous backward hat and his cute lips and beautiful eyes, maybe he might stop rambling like someone who's never had any real social interactions before or only knows ten words. Unfortunately, closing his eyes would deprive him of the sight of Shiro on his knees, and that isn’t a sacrifice Keith feels capable of making.

By some miracle, Shiro doesn’t seem to mind his inane rambling. If anything, Keith would swear Shiro’s lips are forming a smile against his stomach just to the side of his belly button as he kisses lower. Shiro pressed a last single kiss to the jut of Keith’s hipbone before sitting back on his heels to stare up at Keith, his fingers lingering at the buttons of his jeans as he slowly undid the top one. His eyes never left Keith’s.

“For what it’s worth, casual sex isn’t really my thing.” Shiro tells him, his voice was dripping with earnestness.

Keith swallows, almost afraid to voice his next words but unable to stop himself all the same. “Is this an exception to your usual or…”

“This is me knowing I’d like anything you're willing to give me. But, if you think you’ll say yes, then I really, really want to ask you out on a date.”

“We might be doing this a little backwards,” Keith laughs, the muscles in his stomach fluttering as Shiro gets the zipper down and tugs his pants and boxers slowly down his thighs. “But, for the record, if you did ask me I’d definitely say yes.”

Shiro’s smile is brilliant, the dimple in his chin fully formed as he yanks the jeans and boxers all the way down to Keith’s ankles in one efficient tug. Ever the gentleman, he steadies Keith, politely not laughing when Keith nearly falls on his ass trying to kick off the pants and his shoes. Shiro waits for Keith to right himself before resuming the mapping of Keith’s body, this time dragging his lips down the inside of Keith’s trembling thighs—leaving open mouthed kisses and small nips on the sensitive flesh as his fingers knead the sides of Keith’s ass. As he moves lower, the length of his forelock brushes the tip of Keith’s now fully erect dick along with the stiff canvas of his snapback. It’s such a strange juxtaposition of sensations and Keith’s hips thrust forward, smearing a line of pre-come across the pristine black cap.

“You like when I touch you?” Shiro asks, his bottom lip catching on Keith’s inner thigh and exposing the soft pink flesh inside and a glimmer of white teeth. He turns lust-hooded eyes on Keith and smiles in a way that can only be described as self-satisfied as he waits for the answer. As if it could possibly be anything than a resounding fuck yes.

Definitely not trusting himself to speak, Keith merely nods instead. He might not have had that many past partners, but he’s no blushing virgin or stranger to sex. Still, he’s never had someone take so much time trying to learn his body—mapping his body as if he were mapping the stars.

It’s heady the way Shiro moves across his thighs and the dips of his hips with the utmost patience. His own dick tents his sweats, leaving a damp spot in the front and no question about how turned on he is, but not once does he rush the blow job or hurry his movements—his sole focus on Keith’s pleasure. Shiro kisses and licks and sucks his way from the top of Keith’s belly down to the bottom of his ankles and back up again until Keith is certain he might actually weep if Shiro doesn’t hurry up and put his teasing tongue and pretty lips on Keith’s neglected dick. 

It’s strange to be completely naked while Shiro kneels in his sweats with his cap still on, but it’s erotic too, knowing everything Shiro is doing is to make Keith feel good.

By the time Shiro’s pretty mouth is falling open to wrap around Keith’s dick, he’s lost all sense of reality. The world has narrowed down to the way the pads of Shiro’s strong fingers feel cascading over his thighs, blunt nails skimming along the hair of Keith’s calves as they move lower. His eyes hone in on the furrow between Shiro’s eyebrows as he touches and tastes as if memorizing Keith’s every response. Then suddenly, Keith’s dick is in Shiro’s mouth, leaving Keith to make a vaguely choking sound, fisting his hands in the hair sticking out of Shiro’s cap—more to steady himself than Shiro. 

It’s mesmerizing watching Shiro suck him down until his nose is pressed up against the dark curls that lay just above Keith’s cock.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” Keith gets out. 

After all that teasing, he somehow expected Shiro to be as slow and methodical with the blowjob—not deep throat him like a goddamn porn star.

Shiro’s mouth is too full to say anything, but the sound he emits is one of unmistakable pleasure, not unlike the low rumbling purr of a pleased kitten. 

With Shiro’s previous words still fresh in Keith’s mind, he hooks his thumb into the hole of Shiro’s snapback and pushes it off his head. Shiro’s pace doesn’t falter, though his gaze drifts up to Keith’s face with clear curiosity as Keith drags his nails across Shiro’s scalp and grabs a fistful of it then pulls—not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough for Shiro to really feel it.

Though he toyed with a bit of hair pulling on the dance floor and saw Shiro’s positive reaction, Keith is still unprepared for the loud moan Shiro makes—the vibrations from Shiro’s throat tickling his cockhead. Eager to hear it again, Keith fists the hair tighter and, sure enough, Shiro makes another sinful noise. Soon enough the room is filled with the sounds of Shiro’s pleasure and the wet slurping sounds he makes as he feasts on Keith’s cock.

Most of Keith’s past blowjob experiences were either treated like a necessary prelude to sex or as an equal exchange of sexual favors. Keith doesn’t hate giving them, but he doesn’t love it, and his previous partners’ mediocre feelings about the act had left him wondering what all the fuss was about. But Shiro, fuck, Shiro clearly likes being on his knees, and it is seriously making Keith re-evaluate his position.

“You’re really—ah, fuck,” Keith groans, using his free hand to pet at the rest of Shiro’s hair. “You’re really good at that.”

Shiro preens under the praise, the muscles of his throat loosening as he takes Keith all the way down again and rubs his nose into the patch of hair. Shiro’s breath is hot, the air from his nose ruffling the short curls as he digs his thumbs into Keith’s hip and urges him deeper.

“Fuck, if you don’t stop I’m going to come,” Keith yells, pushing Shiro’s head back a bit. 

It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long as it is, and it’s only the fact that he came prematurely in his pants earlier that’s allowed him to last more than a few seconds inside Shiro’s gloriously warm and talented mouth.

There’s a popping sound as Shiro sucks his way off Keith’s dick, lips swollen and pink as he licks precome off them. “That’s sort of the point.”

“Yeah but then, uh—” he blows out a breath trying to figure out how to word his thoughts. He has no idea what the right way to broach this might be. “I mean, not that you said you wanted more, and if this is all you want, you know, it's good. Really fucking good. But I was thinking, you know...just thinking maybe—”

“Thinking what?” Shiro asks, voice husky. Husky from Keith’s dick sliding down his throat. Fuck.

“Thinking I could fuck you,” he blurts out before he can lose his nerve. Shiro’s previous wording about what he likes in sex left Keith under the impression that he might like being fucked, and he seems to like Keith, which means it is at least a probability.

Shiro blinks twice, and Keith wants to knock himself unconscious. Only he could manage to ruin the mood of the best blow job of his entire life. 

When Shiro rises to his feet, Keith closes his eyes and prepares for the let down. Instead, what comes next is Shiro’s big hands on his thighs hefting him up as Shiro carries him a few feet to the bed and drops him gracefully onto it. 

There’s barely any time for Keith to register what’s happening before Shiro is hastily kicking off his clothes then climbs on the bed—or more accurately, <i>cimbs Keith</i>. He rests his hands on either side of Keith’s head as his body presses down against Keith’s. It’s absolutely fucking glorious. Keith shamelessly tries to catch a glimpse of Shiro’s cock, but it was hidden between their bodies, though the feeling alone of it against him was enough to convince Keith his suspicions of its girth had been accurate.

“You wanna fuck me, baby?” Shiro whispers.

“Jesus,” Keith breathes.

“You said it once, tell me again. Tell me what you want, <i>please</i>.” Shiro rolls his hips, the line of his cock rubbing against Keith’s in a delicious drag that does nothing to quell the ache deep inside of Keith.

“I wanna fuck you. If you’re into that sort of thing. If you wanted to fuck me instead I’m good with that too. Honestly, both of us being naked at the same time was a good fucking idea. I’m good with anything involving this level of nakedness. Just you know, for the record.”

Shiro smirks, dropping his head to rub his nose against Keith’s in an obscenely sweet move that is in direct contrast to the filthy way he continues to roll his hips. “I’m into that. I’m so into that. You wanna bend me in half, Keith? Wanna fill the room with the sounds of you fucking me until I beg?”

Keith nearly chokes on his own tongue. What the fuck kind of question is that? 

“Do you, uh, you beg?” Keith bravely asks.

Shiro hums, pressing Keith down into the mattress with his thick thighs and strong hips—the weight of his body comforting and warm and so god damn arousing. “I’d beg for you, baby.”

This is the last straw for Keith, who uses every bit of the training his mom taught him for how to overpower someone twice his size—another thing she does not ever need to know—to reverse their positions so that it’s Keith straddling Shiro, who blinks up at him with wide eyes.

“You...you’re strong,” Shiro breathes looking awed. 

Keith smiled, relieved to not be the one rendered speechless for once.

“I know how to handle myself. And you. I can definitely handle you.” He’s at least half joking, but the noise Shiro makes in response is anything but funny—a desperate keening sound emitting from him as he surges up to kiss Keith with none of the patience or finesse he possessed earlier. There’s not even time for Keith to try and think what he should do next because almost immediately, Shiro wraps his gloriously thick thighs around Keith’s waist and surges up. 

Shiro’s hold is strong, but the way his hands are roaming over Keith’s back is so gentle.

“Do you wanna do it or should I?” Shiro asks as he writhes beneath Keith, whose brain is barely functioning at sixty percent capacity and therefore can not be expected to answer questions right now.

Thankfully, Shiro seems to realize Keith is somewhat distracted because he pauses rutting up against Keith to throw his prosthetic arm out to the bedside drawer and yank it open. A moment later, his hand returns triumphantly clutching a small bottle of lube that must’ve been hidden along with a bright red condom. Keith barely has time to read the words ribbed for pleasure before Shiro tosses the condom onto the mattress then presses the lube into Keith’s hand.

Most of Keith’s experience with this comes solely from fingering himself, but since this is something he does almost every day that ends in Y, he’s pretty confident in his abilities. 

Shiro might be good on his knees, but Keith knows how to use his hands.

Without hesitation Keith scoots backwards, letting Shiro’s legs fall from his waist and onto the mattress as he nudges his knees apart with his elbows.

“Sorry if my hands are cold,” Keith tells him, squirting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers before moving his hand to Shiro’s ass. 

He doesn’t see the point in teasing, not when he’s pretty sure he won’t last that long. He’s already so close to the edge from Shiro’s mouth on his cock, and now he’s fingering the hottest man on the planet in anticipation of being allowed to fuck him. All the while said person is staring at Keith like he’s some sort of prize. It’s a lot for one man to handle.

“Just relax okay,” Keith says, stroking a finger over the furrowed skin.

“That’s like telling a kid to relax before Christmas,” Shiro huffs, legs falling open as wide as possible.

Keith can’t help but laugh, hair falling into his face as he ducks down to press the tip of his finger in. Rather than watch Shiro’s face, he watches his body and the soft rise and fall of Shiro’s stomach and the quiver in his thigh muscles as Keith’s first finger disappears into his body.

Now that Shiro is spread out beneath him, Keith allows himself to take the time to finally get a good look—at Shiro’s bulging biceps, full pecs, small waist, and the dark treasure trail Keith saw disappearing beneath the sweats earlier. Now that Keith can see everything , he can also see that Shiro is clearly someone who, unlike Keith, grooms himself.

“Enjoying the view?” Shiro asks a bit breathlessly, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

“Like you don’t know what you look like,” Keith says, crooking his finger and delighting in the visible shiver that courses through Shiro’s body in response.

“Could say the same thing about you,” he gasps.

Keith doesn’t bother to dignify that with an answer, but the pleasure he feels at knowing Shiro finds him attractive is undeniably arousing. Not that Keith needs more reasons to be aroused.

“You always talk so much during sex?” Keith asks, feeling along the rippled walls of Shiro’s channel, stretching it open before slowly slipping a second finger in.

“Only when the company is good.”

Keith blushes again, unused to being complimented in the middle of fingering someone. The kind of sex he’s had was never exactly quiet, but there had been a lot more grunts and noises and a lot less laughter and fun. It’s just one more thing that’s managed to surprise him about Shiro, and one more thing to add to the growing list of reasons Keith really, really likes him.

Shiro’s chatter continues as Keith scissors his fingers wide, twisting them before pumping them in and out of Shiro’s ass. When Keith adds a third finger a few minutes later, well Shiro gets a lot less chatty. Instead of words, there’s the way his legs fall apart, the arch of his spine as he pushes back on Keith’s fingers, and the exhale of pleasure when Keith kisses a trail from the inside of Shiro’s knee to the sensitive skin where his thigh meets his hips. Shiro is so free with the signs and sounds of his pleasure, making it easy for Keith to know when to go harder or faster and when to slow down.

“How do you want me?” Keith asks in a quiet voice as he pulls his fingers out to grab the condom.

It takes Shiro a few seconds to open his eyes, but when he does his eyes immediately travel down Keith’s body to watch him roll on the condom. Keith tries not to blush under the intensity of Shiro’s gaze, equal parts aroused and unused to feeling so seen.

“I like it a lot of ways. How do you want to give it to me?”

Keith’s hand stills at the base of his dick as he bites down on the tip of his tongue. Fuck . Every time he thinks Shiro can’t say anything else that could make his arousal flare, he is proven wrong. He barely knows how to answer that question. The idea of bending Shiro in half and having Shiro wrap those thighs around him as he fucks him is beyond erotic. The only problem there is that Keith knows if he can see Shiro’s face as he dicks him down good and hard then he very well might come after the first thrust.

“On your hands and knees,” he tells Shiro, a thrill of anticipation coursing through his body as Shiro smiles at him before rolling over. 

Once on hands and knees, all coherent thought leaves Keith’s brain. There’s nothing inside his head except the sight of Shiro spreading his knees wide, resting his forehead on his folded arms and his ass up high in the air ready for Keith to fuck him.

Keith ghosts his fingers over the generous swell of Shiro’s pert ass, watching as Shiro’s hole twitches. Giving in to his most primal desires he grabs ahole of Shiro’s ass and pulls him open, staring at the hole as it glistens with lube.

Fuck, Keith wants to fuck him so much.

“You’re so hot,” Keith murmurs, more to himself than Shiro as he lets go of his ass and wraps his left hand around Shiro’s hip then lines up his cock. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Shiro echoed, voice a little garbled against the skin of his forearm.

As much as Keith wants to see Shiro’s face, there is no denying the eroticism of watching the muscles in Shiro’s back ripple as he writhes, or the way Shiro’s spine curves as Keith’s dick disappears into his body.

There are no more words spoken once Keith finally begins to fuck Shiro, something which Keith is grateful for since there isn’t a chance in hell his brain could respond to anything. It takes all his concentration and self-control not to come immediately as the tight, warm heat of Shiro’s ass engulfs his dick. 

He pulls out until nothing but the tip is left inside then slams his hips forward, delighting in the throaty moan it earns from Shiro and the slap of their bare skin.

Earlier Shiro said he liked the sounds of sex, liked when someone got fucked into the mattress. If that’s what Shiro likes then Keith wants to give him exactly what he wants.

As Keith picks up the pace, Shiro shifts, rising onto his hands to give him a better purchase to thrust back in time to match each of Keith’s thrusts. It’s clear he likes to give as good as he gets, and Keith wonders if he might fuck Keith with the same intensity. Keith really fucking hopes he gets a chance to find out.

“Keith,” Shiro groans, the first thing he’s said since Keith began fucking him.

“Yeah?” Keith gets out, voice tight as he snaps his hips.

“I want...god, please .”

The sound of that desperate pleasure in Shiro’s halfway-to-ruined voice is more than Keith can handle. He wants more. He wants to know what Shiro sounds like when he really begs.

“What do you want?” Keith asks.

“I want—” but Shiro breaks off, making a choking sound as Keith slams into him hard, the skin of Shiro’s ass slapping against Keith’s hips. “Nnggh.”

Euphoria engulfs Keith. Fuck, is it exhilarating to be the one who causes someone like Shiro to lose coherence.

“What do you want, big guy?” Keith asks again.

“Shit,” Shiro grunts, his hands fisting tightly in the duvet. 

He turns his head to glance back at Keith over his shoulder, and what Keith sees makes his hips still. Shiro’s eyes are blown wide with lust, hair sticking up funny in the front and his entire face flushed pink. He looks wrecked. Wrecked because of Keith. Fuck .

Keith inhales slowly, struggling to catch his breath as his hands slide over Shiro’s lower back. 

“I want, uh—”

“Tell me,” Keith urges, echoing Shiro’s earlier words to him.

Shiro reaches an arm behind him until he finds Keith’s hand and moves it towards his head. “Please. Please. ”

“Oh, you want me to pull?”

Shiro swallows, eyes fluttering shut as Keith’s fingers slide into Shiro’s soft locks.

“You want me to fuck you good? Pull your hair? You want me to make you mine?” Keith chokes out, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Shiro whines, neck arched and shoulders taut with tension. “Please. Oh, fuck, please, baby.”

I’ll give you anything Keith thinks, slamming his dick into Shiro’s body as he tightens his hold on Shiro’s hair.

Keith has always been a bit of an all-or-nothing person, it’s one of the reasons he doesn’t date that much. Casual isn’t a word Keith’s brain understands, and sometimes it’s exhausting to feel so much and know the odds of those feelings being returned are low. 

Right now there’s no disguising the fact that he wants to give Shiro his all but, instead of scaring him, it just feels right.

Keith loses himself to the sounds of their fucking—to the filthy sounds of his dick sliding into Shiro’s lube slicked hole, to the needy high-pitched moans Shiro lets out every time Keith pulls his hair in time with his thrusting, and to the slap of skin-on-skin every time he bottoms out. 

Wanting to try something else, Keith lets go of Shiro’s hair—ignoring Shiro’s soft whine of disappointment—before teasing his nails across Shiro’s scalp.

The sound he’s rewarded with should be illegal. With absolutely no warning, Keith finds his orgasm ripped from his body, his hips stuttering as he collapses atop Shiro’s back with an undignified grunt, completely overcome by wave after wave of pleasure.

Unwilling to be the only one tipped over the edge, Keith noses against the side of Shiro’s throat before sucking hard as he reaches beneath Shiro’s body and wraps his hand around Shiro’s cock.

“Oh, God, yes,” Shiro huffs, seemingly unbothered by Keith’s heavy weight on top of him. 

Shiro easily remains on his hands and knees without any indication of strain from Keith’s dead weight on his back, supporting them both as Keith strokes Shiro’s cock. Keith is blissed out and desperate for Shiro to come and barely has time to marvel at the substantial weight and thickness of Shiro’s cock in his hand—already eager to have it in his ass or mouth next time. 

God, he hopes there is a next time.

Keith moves his free hand from where it fell against the bed up to Shiro’s hair, not pulling this time but simply playing with it instead. Shiro, it seems, likes anything involving attention to his head—his breath hitching audibly as Keith massages his scalp and twines his fingers through the longest strands inthe front. Keith’s focus on Shiro’s dick falters as he turns most of his itto Shiro hair—nails scratching the scalp, hand fisting in his hair in the softest of tugs. 

If Shiro notices that Keith’s grip on his cock has loosened, or that his strokes have became uneven, he doesn't show it—preening under Keith’s ministrations.

“Perfect,” Keith whispers into the sweat-dampened skin of Shiro’s neck as he moves his mouth up tp suck Shiro’s earlobe into his mouth. 

The result is unexpected and instantaneous, and the second Keith’s teeth graze over the delicate skin of Shiro’s ear, Shiro emitts a guttural groan and comes hard and fast—coating Keith’s hand and the bed in his release before collapsing onto the mattress.

Keith grunts in surprise as they fall together, Shiro’s ear slipping from his mouth as Shiro shoves his face into his pillow and makes a sound so overwhelmingly pleased that Keith knows he will be jerking off to that sound for weeks to come.

Too sticky to remain in one place, Keith rolls over, wiping his come-coated hand on Shiro’s already ruined duvet then removes the condom.

Again Shiro grunts, still boneless and face down in the bed, clearly not planning on moving. Taking things into his own hands, Keith opens the bedside drawer to find the Kleenex which he promptly uses to clean them up. Once he’s done, Keith collapses down next to Shiro on his side, unable to quell the fluttering of his heart when Shiro turns his face towards him.

There’s the smallest bit of drool on the side of Shiro’s mouth, his hair is sticking up in a million directions, and his face is awash with blissed out satisfaction as he throws an arm and leg over Keith and pulls him closer.

“Oh, you like to cuddle,” Keith marvells.

Shiro hummed out something that Keith can only assume is an agreement as he rubs his nose into Keith’s neck like a satisfied puppy. 

Unable to resist the lure, Keith’s hands once again find their way back to Shiro’s hair, gently petting it back off his face. It earns him a contented sigh of happiness as his body goes boneless again.

“You gonna fall asleep?” Keith laughs.

“Mmm, might. You mind?” Shiro asks, breath hot and heavy against Keith’s neck.

“I don’t mind,” Keith answers, not at all tired, but very content with the idea of lying with Shiro’s naked weight crushing half his body.

“Nap first,” Shiro mumbles.

“Yeah, and what’s second?”

“Wanna fuck you,” Shiro says, voice sleepy. “Then more sleep. Then more fucking. Then take you out to breakfast. I want pancakes.”

The smile on Keith’s face threatens to split his face in half at Shiro’s words. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes, the barest hint of a kiss pressed to the underside of Keith’s jaw before Shiro settles his head on Keith’s shoulder. “Are you saying yes?”

“ Yes .”

“Good,” is the last thing out of Shiro’s mouth before he wiggles his body, clearly trying to get more comfortable. 

Keith breathes out slowly, holding his breath as Shiro’s palm slips between Keith’s shoulder and the mattress to hold him close. It’s only a few minutes later that Shiro is passed out, judging by the change in his breathing.

Shiro’s weight is heavy and solid, and Keith closes his eyes, overwhelmed by an unexpected wave of contentment. 

He is definitely going to need his rest if Shiro plans on multiple next times . Suddenly exhausted, Keith closes his eyes and lets sleep claim him.