Exhibit - 1. Exhibit

Keith quite likes his regular job as a life model. It fits well between other seasonal gigs, and the opportunity to sit still and do nothing but empty his mind is relaxing. It’s like meditation which pays. He doesn’t always talk to the artists, because he understands that for some of them, it’s kind of weird to spend so long staring at him naked and then have to not think about that when speaking face to face. And so often he finds the comments run in the direction of ‘oh, I could never do that’. But Keith doesn’t mind being naked and watched by people he doesn’t know. He’s confident in his body, relaxed and comfortable in the shape he inhabits, and apparently he’s got a good look for drawing.

It’s a win-win.

This is, until his Wednesday evening session at Altea studios rolls around and there is a new artist seated at the central easel. And Keith can’t look anywhere else.

New guy – Keith always misses introductions on account of not being required under the warming lamps until everyone has set up – is big and buff and looks like he spends all of his time at the gym. No one gets biceps like that without serious effort.

Keith blinks.

Bicep like that. Singular.

New guy has long legs and shoulders like a superhero and only one arm. The silver hair – so clearly not dyed out of a bottle – on someone who otherwise looks like a classical statue, gives him an otherworldly appearance. His easel is set up with charcoals and paper, but if Keith squints, he’s sure he can see plasticine sticking out of the guy’s tote.

The poses for the evening involve lots of movement, and when the long one comes about, Keith ends up facing the wrong way. He scowls in the privacy of his own head at the loss of opportunity to check out the new artist, because for the first time in a long time, Keith swears he can feel the other man’s gaze roaming across his bare skin.

*

A week later, and Keith watches from behind the curtain of the little dressing room as the students file in. Sure enough, big, buff, and beautiful is among them. He doesn’t make conversation much, but appears to be listening politely to Pidge as they hold forth about the study of cubist versus contemporary art styles.

“Oh Shiro.” Allura waves tall, handsome, and silver over to an easel. “I set this one up for left hand use already, if you like?”

Shiro. It’s nice, exotic. Keith tastes it in a whisper on his lips. Delicious.

“Who are you looking at?”

Keith turns from his view of Shiro and Allura talking – Allura owns Altea studios and is a fantastic classical painter in her own right – to his co-star for the evening. Sessions with dual models attract larger crowds, and he and Hunk tend to be especially popular because they have great opposing body types.

“New guy,” Keith answers softly. “I like the way he looks.” At me, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“Oh, tall…” Hunk comments. “C’mon buddy, they’ll be wanting us out there.”

By their very nature, double life model poses tend to be more dynamic and therefore shorter. Most are only seven minutes tops, which feels like far longer when you are standing braced against another person, in the simulation action of pushing them over or holding them up. They do only one pose where Hunk is actually holding the bulk of Keith’s weight as he ‘falls’, but that’s super short and they allow the students to take reference photos from their easels before they switch.

Whenever he can, Keith watches Shiro.

Shiro sits sideways to his easel, charcoal or pencil in hand. His eyes never seem to stray to what he’s drawing as he works, and he keeps contact on the page almost constantly, working in continuous lines rather than a series of shorter strokes.

In each pose, Keith can feel the way Shiro’s eyes travel over him, following or leading the motion of his hand, and it makes Keith never want to look away.

But Shiro stops often, placing his implement down to stretch and flex his hand, or roll his shoulder. And Keith finds his own gaze flicking again and again to Shiro’s tote, and the shape of the plasticine within. The next time Shiro pauses to wince and flex, Keith is certain of his first assumption that the man is not a natural two-dimensional artist.

The longer poses always come at the end of the session, and beforehand they have a break. Keith shrugs into his robe – red with black trim, slightly satiny, but warm – flexes until his spine cracks, and steps down from the dais just as Allura approaches with a high stool. It looks like he gets to sit for the next bit. Excellent.

“All well?”

“Peachy,” Keith replies with a grin. “Everyone is sketching tonight?”

“Seems so.”

Keith pretends to think, then smiles. Allura rolls her eyes; Keith doesn’t fool her.

“Maybe it’s worth reminding them that this is a multimedia session?”

“Indeed.”

Allura arches an eyebrow at him, and Keith jogs off to get a quick drink and one of Hunk’s home-made cookies. For blood sugar. It’s surprising how draining just posing can be.

Just as Keith and Hunk are about to drop their robes and assume the next pose in the list taped to the floor – Keith sit, Hunk stand, arms over shoulders – Allura rings a note out on the Tibetan singing bowl next to her desk and all the students look to her when she speaks.

“You have all produced excellent work so far this evening, but I do not wish you to feel constrained by a single medium. You should use whatever materials you like. This will be a twenty minute pose; be adventurous.”

There is a general murmur of assent from the class, and the moment Keith hangs up his robe and settles on the stool, Pidge is the first one to switch her drawing materials for a massive folder of randomly coloured and textured papers and a glue stick. As they start to rip segments for a collage piece, other students select paints and brushes, one goes for chunky pigmented oil sticks, and Keith wraps his arm over Hunk’s broad shoulders and watches Shiro hesitate.

The man looks at his bag once, twice, rolls the stick of hazelwood charcoal in his fingers, then smiles, places it down and moves his sketch and easel to the side. Shiro places an unused drawing board across his spread knees as he faces the front properly, and Keith can’t help but stare at the disparity between the sheer width of his shoulders – and the thick pecs he can see straining the neck of his henley – and the narrowness of such a tiny waist. The girth of Shiro’s thighs does not escape his attention either. Then Shiro reaches for his plasticine and Keith’s entire focus narrows down to the little maquette of himself and Hunk taking shape on the board.

Even one handed, Shiro is obviously a natural sculptor. His broad, dexterous fingers pinch and smooth the modelling putty with a focus and commitment which is completely mesmerising. Keith cannot look away, not even when Shiro’s eyes travel over his face. He wishes it was his flesh being moulded under that firm but gentle touch. The way Shiro handles his materials tells Keith in no uncertain terms that this is a man very good with his hand.

The moment Keith feels his dick stir with the interested, heated pattern of his thoughts, he shoves them aside, and wills himself flaccid once more. It is a skill practised and honed out of necessity, because group homes have no privacy, and even after moving in with his uncles, Keith hadn’t always had the time or desire to deal with his morning erection in the traditional manner. The talent has come in very handy for life modelling too, because when Keith’s mind is empty it makes a perfect landing pad for randomly horny fantasies. Almost none of them ever involve broadcasting his desires to a room full of strangers who are paying to stare at him.

By the end of the session – two more poses, one with both standing and one both sitting back to back – Keith is only slightly chubbed, but the moment his robe goes on, his dick springs to full attention and he doesn’t get the chance to examine Shiro’s beautifully rendered maquettes before excusing himself.

He and Hunk can hear the chatter of the group from behind the curtain as they pull on their clothes, and clearly Shiro’s models are the centre of attention for many. Compliments are piled upon him as Keith emerges once more – hastily dressed in black jeans and a band t-shirt with his leather jacket slung over one shoulder – and he sees the way Shiro ducks his head, biting his lower lip in a completely adorable fashion. He is bashful and self-effacing as he waves away the praise, the tips of his ears turning pink with his blush.

“Thank you, thank you. Yeah, thanks. I mean, it would be better in real clay. But it’s too messy and hard to transport.”

“You don’t work from sketches first?” Pidge enquires, on hands and knees to study the maquettes on the board.

Keith feels a swell of rising jealousy to see anyone so close to Shiro’s lap. He shakes himself mentally. He has no claim whatsoever over the man.

“I’m right handed.” Shiro shrugs, and the movement of his right shoulder and residual limb telegraphs exactly the palm-up gesture Keith knows he would be making. “Or I was. My drawing skills aren’t what they used to be.”

It is the kind of comment which kills the conversation. There are few more ‘well done’ and ‘it looks great’ uttered, and people begin to disperse, intent on clearing away their own supplies before heading to wherever they will go to next. Shiro might be an incredibly gifted artist, but people are still uncomfortable to be reminded that he is working without a dominant hand most of them take for granted. The slight makes Keith equally annoyed and upset.

“Hey.”

Shiro blinks, and looks up at him. Even with Keith dressed, his gaze is reverential, worshipful, and Keith’s cock jerks unhelpfully in his tight jeans. He’s fairly certain anyone looking can see the imprint of his dick through the denim.

“Y-you’re…” Shiro glances from Keith to the fabric draped couch where he spent the past half hour sitting back to back with Hunk.

“Keith,” he supplies with a smile. “I’m Keith.”

“Shiro.”

“Yeah, I know.” Keith hunches down to be eye level with Shiro’s maquettes. “You’re a wonderful sculptor.”

“Thank you.”

Keith glances up at Shiro’s face – those intense grey eyes, the soft blush over his cheekbones, the gentle parting of his lips – and decides to jump in head first.

“You know, if you want to work straight in clay, I’d be happy to come model at your studio sometime.”

Shiro blushes harder, fingers splaying and tapping noiselessly against his thigh.

“Oh, I er… don’t think I could afford your fees just on my own.”

Keith waves his hand, pushing the issue aside.

“I’ll give you a special rate. Say, dinner?” He smiles, confident and slightly lopsided. He doesn’t care about the money, he just wants Shiro’s worshipful gaze on him again, and wants to watch back without a dozen other people distracting him.

“Oh…”

“Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?” Keith bites his lip when he smiles and stands, hooking his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. He does not miss the way Shiro’s eyes land directly on his crotch.

When Shiro returns the smile, there is a shining thread of boldness and self-assurance in his expression. Keith’s cock gives another unhelpful jerk against his hip.

“Yes please.”

Keith taps his number into Shiro’s phone, Shiro sets his profile picture as a snapshot of one of the maquettes.

“Just one thing,” Shiro says as he accepts the phone back. “I don’t have a studio in town…”

*

Shiro’s studio is attached to his house, or at least, that’s what Keith assumes as he parks his motorbike in front of the little whitewashed cottage, inhaling the scent of a million roses and honeysuckle which climb over every wall. The man – and is it Keith’s imagination or have those muscles gotten bigger in the past week? – greets him at the door and ushers him through the house and into what Keith supposes used to be the dining room, but is now a pottery studio. The plumbing and power from the open plan kitchen has been extended and adapted, and there is certainly no need for heat lamps here – not with the huge gas-fired kiln squatting in the corner, shedding heat like Keith sheds clothes.

“Can I get you anything?” Shiro asks as Keith toes off his boots and places them to the side.

“I’m OK, thanks. Where do you want me?”

There is an area already where Shiro has obviously taken some time cleaning and setting up. There is a chair, a stool, several cushions which definitely belong elsewhere in the house – owing to the lack of white and red clay smears – and a thick red and floral carpet upon which has been laid the fluffiest sheepskin Keith has ever seen. The moment he is naked, he wiggles his toes into the wool in unbridled delight.

“Can you stay just there?”

“Sure.” Keith stills, holding the pose with his hand in his hair, holding the falling strands back from his face as he looks down at his feet. “You do your thing Shiro. It’s why I’m here after all.”

Without moving, Keith can just about track Shiro’s movements as he moves around the studio. He has work boards and clays set out already, a variety of tools and water jars at hand. The instant he begins smoothing and squeezing a lump of rust-orange clay into submission, Keith feels heat pool low in his belly.

Shiro is looking at his legs – he can tell even with his admittedly poor view of the man – working his heated gaze over the taut cords of his hamstrings and the curve of each calf. Keith resists the urge to flex and tense his buttocks as he feels Shiro’s gaze graze higher over his body. When he licks his lips, Keith hears the click of Shiro swallowing in response, and the room gets hotter.

He sits for the next pose, facing backwards on the chair, knees spread and arms folded across the back, chin in hand. Shiro tells him to stare into the middle distance but Keith would rather stare at Shiro, at the way his shoulders bend as he reaches down for more clay, at the twist of his impossibly small waist. He smiles as he works, adding material and smoothing it out until Keith is repeated again, only eighteen inches high in his sitting pose, his muscles turned to clay as Shiro layers skin over them with his thumb. Shiro is more relaxed here, more comfortable, as his freer movements cause him to wince less, though he still stops regularly to flex his fingers.

Everything he touches – desk, work boards, the window latch, the hem of his shirt, his chin – is marked with rust red smears.

Keith burns when Shiro looks at him, wanting to be marked too.

As the pose goes on, Keith finds himself hardening under Shiro’s intense stare. He doesn’t try to will it away, he doesn’t want to, and the sight of Shiro’s fingers smoothing carefully down the bumps of his clay abs to the flat, softer skin of his lower belly makes Keith quiver with desire. It’s no wonder he cannot withstand the force of his libido.

Shiro sprays his work with water and wraps loose plastic over it to control the humidity as the drying process begins, then crosses to the sink as Keith stretches and shakes out his joints. The clay he picks up upon his return is palest dove grey, smooth as silk between his fingers.

“How do you want me?” Keith asks as Shiro brings a wire frame to the centre of his workspace. The three-dimensional stick figure gives him an idea of how he’s supposed to stand. “So do I have a polearm over my shoulders or am I a farmer in the field?” Keith takes up the wooden pole – looks like a handle off a broom – and lays it across the back of his neck, looping his forearms over it. “Please tell me I’m not going to be the dude on the cross?”

Shiro chuckles, and the smile which splits his face makes Keith heart race.

“No, none of those. They will be scales, eventually, hopefully. With flowers and fruit on one side, seeds and bones on the other.”

Keith chews his lip for a moment, gazing down at the spaces where these items reside in Shiro’s mindscape.

“Like the justice of the harvest?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool.” Keith leans his weight onto his left foot and looks back up at Shiro. “All good?”

“Um…” Shiro pulls his lower lip in between his teeth with a little frown. His eyes dance across Keith, never settling, and Keith misses the intensity of his usual focus already. “Not quite.”

“You’re allowed to put me where you want to Shiro. I’m all yours.”

“Oh… er… feet closer together?”

Keith does so.

“Hmm…”

“Come show me?” Keith suggests softly.

With him standing across the room, Keith forgot just how much of Shiro there is. Closer to, and without the benefits of a platform to stand on, their height difference is thrown into sharp relief, and Keith spends an agonising minute staring at the man’s clavicle head-on before Shiro takes his chin and tilts his face downward and to the right side. The view down Shiro’s front is hardly any less exciting, and Keith’s cock throbs, heavy with the pulse of his arousal.

Then Shiro moves the way Keith has settled his right arm over the pole, aligning it just how he wants, and Keith forgets how to breathe. Shiro’s hand is so firm and big and warm – even though Keith isn’t cold – and he wants to melt under that pressure. Keith shuffles his feet, knowing the pose still isn’t quite what Shiro wants. He feels a deep-seated need to do just as the other man wants, though his longing to be good isn’t enough to stop the steady throb of his pulse in his cock.

Shiro bends to correct Keith’s pose, kneeling at his feet, his one hand skating over the curve of his hip and the swell of his thigh to grasp his ankle. Shiro’s eyes never leave him, and suddenly they are there like that, eyes locked, staring at each other.

Keith wets his lips and sees Shiro track the movement of his tongue. His thighs quiver with want, and Keith thinks it’s a good thing he has his hands looped up and out of the way, because the temptation to touch Shiro, to push and take advantage of the situation, is almost unbearable as it is.

Shiro leans in to tug at Keith’s ankle, encouraging him onto the ball of his foot. Keith turns his hips ever so slightly to keep balance, and his cock bumps across Shiro’s cheek and nose, following the soft line of the scar which cuts across his face. Shiro’s eyes flick up to his before the contact is even broken, and Keith is treated to the sight of Shiro looking at him whilst Keith’s tumescent erection rests against his jaw.

“Oh…” Keith barely even realises he’s made a sound, because the inside of his head is full of hot fog.

“Keith…” Shiro’s voice is low and longing, sweet and rich like molten chocolate. “Please?”

Keith’s throat goes dry as Shiro’s hand skates up from his ankle, over the back of his knee, to his thigh. Shiro’s fingers nearly span the entire diameter of his leg. Shiro squeezes, then makes to lean back a fraction. After all, Keith’s dick is still touching his face.

“Gods. Shiro… yes.”

Shiro doesn’t say anything else, turning his face back towards Keith crotch, leaning in to breathe deeply as his lips press dryly against the thin skin between Keith’s hip and his crotch. Keith’s breath catches in his chest when Shiro squeezes his thigh again, and then Shiro places that same warm kiss against his shaft and Keith feels like he’s going to give out at the knees.

He expected Shiro to just dive in, because what is there to think about? Keith’s already hard and it’s not like his cock is anything special – maybe a bit longer than people expect on a guy of his build, and pretty too, as far as cocks go – but not worth the intense consideration Shiro is giving him.

Shiro places another kiss right near the base, humming as he does so, his eyes travelling over every inch of Keith’s skin from his navel down to his knees, and Keith bites his lip in order to keep from whimpering.

“Let me hear you,” Shiro murmurs, lips moving over his skin as he makes his way along the length of Keith’s cock. “Beautiful,” he breathes over the head, causing Keith to shiver.

The first touch of Shiro’s hand around him draws a punched out sound from Keith. Shiro makes a perfect circle with his thumb and forefinger, and he uses it to draw Keith’s foreskin back to expose his crown. Shiro’s breath is hot and damp across his sensitive skin. Shiro licks his lips, and Keith groans.

“Please.” He doesn’t think he’s ever begged anyone for anything before, but Keith’s not too proud to admit that he is begging now. He’s never been more aware of his lack of hands. The pole over his shoulders creaks. “Shiro.”

Shiro smiles, closes the distance between them, and licks the tip of Keith’s cock.

“Fuck-!”

Shiro makes a pleased noise, and just for a moment, Keith thinks the torture is over and that the sculptor is going to swallow him down. But Shiro breathes a second wet kiss across his dick, then eases the foreskin back again to lap at the slit. Keith’s hands become fists.

“Ahhh…”

“You’re so pretty, Keith,” Shiro purrs softly. From this angle, it’s not clear whether he’s talking about Keith or Keith’s dick. Keith doesn’t think he cares which it is.

Keith whimpers, transferring his weight back onto his front foot, angling his hips to get Shiro’s mouth closer to his cock. He itches to thread his fingers into that tuft of silky looking silver hair, to stroke over Shiro’s eyebrow or rub the tips of his ears with his thumb. But he can’t do any of those things. Keith can only watch, holding onto his rampant libido by a fast fraying thread, as Shiro begins to lay slow and careful worship to his cock.

It is the most non-traditional blowjob Keith has ever received, and undoubtedly the best by miles.

He groans when Shiro’s hand releases him to trace up and down his thigh, whimpers when he leans into the big palm spread over his lower abdomen, keens when Shiro’s lips finally close around the head of his cock. By the time no more than an inch of his dick is inside Shiro’s velvet soft mouth, Keith is a shivering wreck, the pole over his shoulders is digging in painfully with the pressure he is exerting, and he feels like he could come if Shiro so much as looks at him directly.

But Shiro continues in his soft manner, mapping Keith out with his hand and his tongue, pulling off his cock to kiss wetly down his length, pressing his face into the juncture between hip and thigh and inhaling once more with his soft grey eyes sliding shut. He wraps the base of Keith’s dick in his hand, holding him still – apparently just to look at him and nothing more – and Keith feels like he’s going insane as he babbles Shiro’s name over and over in a near incomprehensible litany. Shiro takes Keith into his mouth again, his hand sliding down to cup his balls and stroke over his taint, and the moment Shiro swallows around him, Keith is gone.

“I- Shiro!”

The pole over his neck feels like it is going to snap in two; Keith feels like he’s going to fly into pieces, and he grits his teeth and sobs out his pleasure as he comes in hard pulses down Shiro’s throat. Shiro grips him tightly around his upper thigh, steadying him, and Keith wishes he would hold tighter so it might bruise, and mourns that Shiro washed his hand and isn’t leaving bold rust red fingerprints on his skin. His orgasm is dizzying, euphoric, lengthy, and Keith almost doesn’t notice when his arms go slack and he drops the pole, ignoring it as it clatters and rolls away across the floor. All his attention is focused on the man who laps softly at his cock as he pulls away, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

“Holy fuck… Shiro…” Keith is proud of himself for even being able to string those words together.

Shiro gets a leg under himself, as though making to stand, and Keith’s knees finally buckle. He knocks Shiro backward as he drops, fingers intent on the man’s clothes as Shiro gapes at him, wide-eyed.

“K-Keith! You don’t have to- I mean, it’s not necessary for you to reciprocate.”

Keith grinds down against him with a frown. Shiro is rock hard, and just as big and thick between his meaty thighs as he is everywhere else. Keith can hardly wait to see, but he pauses with one hand over the distinct bulge in Shiro’s joggers.

“You don’t want to?”

“No- I mean, yes- but-”

Keith rolls his eyes. Shiro’s stammer is adorable, and his blush is cute as fuck, but he also just had his lips around Keith’s cock so he can hardly be pulling the innocence card. Keith stares at him levelly, not moving his hand, grinning when Shiro’s cock jerks into his touch through the cloth.

“Shiro, this is not some Machiavellian blowjob. You’re hot.”

“Oh…” Keith sees the way Shiro shrugs, the telegraphed motion of his missing limb, the ducking of his head as he shakes the floof of starlit hair over his face. “Really?”

Keith wants to maim whoever made Shiro ever feel like he was anything less than perfect. The man underneath him is a deity, and he deserves to be treated like one.

“You’re fucking beautiful. You own a mirror, right?” He sees the flickering hesitation in Shiro’s eyes. “Never mind, don’t answer that.” Keith will prove to Shiro how perfect he is if it’s the last thing he ever does. He slides down Shiro’s body, takes his hand, and weaves it into his own ink-dark hair. “Just, let me.” He flicks his eyes up to Shiro’s. “Please?”

Shiro’s eyes are huge, and the colour is high on his cheeks as he nods. He still looks a little bit like he can’t believe this is actually happening, but he also doesn’t remove his hand from Keith’s hair as Keith pushes up his shirt and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Shiro’s joggers. Shiro’s abs jump, pulse speeding up under Keith’s touch, and Keith can’t help but grin as he presses a soft kiss beside the neatly trimmed treasure trail which vanishes into Shiro’s underwear. The hair here is black as his eyelashes, and the scent Keith inhales is some combination of clean cotton, jasmine, and white clay which he wants to bottle and keep with him to huff in secret.

Keith draws Shiro’s clothes off him all at once, the tight band of boxers and joggers trapping his thick thighs, and Shiro’s cock practically slaps him across the face as it springs back up to rest over his belly. Keith lets out an involuntary noise of need and desire, his eyes widening as he takes in the thick, flushed length in front of him. Shiro’s cock is a thing of beauty, but Keith is far too eager to taste it to spend hours just staring.

He wraps a hand around the base – and fuck, his thumb and forefinger barely meet around the girth of it – and braces his other hand over Shiro’s hip and navel as he angles Shiro’s cock towards his mouth. Keith licks his lips once, being sure to get the corners, presses a wet kiss to the tip of Shiro’s cock, and then sinks down in one movement until Shiro is pressing against his throat. Keith groans, and swallows around him.

“OH FUCK-!”

Shiro spasms involuntarily, bucking still deeper into his throat as his long fingers clench reflexively in Keith’s hair. Keith moans, eyes fluttering closed with the heady sensation of being filled and tugged by the roots, and nuzzles into the soft hair of Shiro’s crotch.

“AHHH! Nnngggh-!”

Keith doesn’t waste energy bobbing up and down, but simply continues to swallow around the hot, hard muscle in his throat, moulding his tongue to the underside of Shiro’s cock as he locks his lips tight around the base of the shaft. He keeps it up until he’s slightly dizzy from lack of oxygen, and pulls back just far enough to have his airway become functional once more. Instantly Keith’s mouth is flooded with the sweet tang of Shiro’s precome, and he hums in delight.

“Fuck… fuck, Keith…”

A quick glance upward shows that Shiro looks as wrecked as he sounds, mouth wet as he pants, eyes blown wide. Keith smiles in his head – his lips are currently otherwise occupied. He wastes no time in drawing in a deep lungful of sweet oxygen and sweeter eau du Shiro, before he leans in and closes his throat tightly around Shiro’s cock once more.

Shiro’s grip in his hair borders on painful and Keith doubles down and sinks himself even further onto Shiro’s cock until his whole face is pressed flush to the man’s belly. He can feel Shiro’s pulse against his tongue and the desperate hitch of his breath under his cheek. It’s so fucking sexy, Keith’s sure he could come again just from that. Shiro gasps his name, the first syllable a desperate whine. Just when Keith thinks Shiro is going to pull him off, the pressure on the back of his head changes and Shiro fucks into his throat and comes hard.

“Fuck. Yessssss…”

Keith does not splutter, but it’s a close thing as he begins to swallow around the pulsing weight opening his throat. Shiro keeps him pinned there the whole time he comes, and Keith feels his spine melt with the pressure and pleasure of being exactly where his partner wants him.

When Shiro’s hand unclenches, Keith waits another few moments, and then pulls off slowly. The last thing he wants Shiro thinking is that he forced Keith to do anything. Keith inhales whilst he laps at the sensitive tip of Shiro cock; he wasn’t even close to tapping out.

Eventually he lets Shiro’s cock slip fully from his mouth, swallowing freely for the first time, then wipes his mouth with his knuckles before he places a kiss at the base of his shaft. Shiro shudders with oversensitivity.

“Oh my god…” Shiro sounds dazed, lost, and like Keith might have accidentally sucked out his soul. “You really just… I mean… wow.”

“No gag reflex,” Keith says with a smirk, and has the pleasure of watching Shiro blush really hard. It’s so cute. “I love the way you look at me.”

“Oh, Keith…” Shiro says his name like Keith is special and important and somebody worth knowing, and Keith can’t help but warm to the sound.

He folds an arm over Shiro’s abdomen, and reaches out to lace the fingers of his other hand with Shiro’s. The sculptor squeezes him tight, and Keith practically purrs with the warmth of the gesture. Shiro gazes down at him, and even now – with his breath uneven and his chest sheened with sweat – his expression is just as intense, just as reverential, and Keith knows he is hooked.

He smiles back, content to simply lay between Shiro’s legs and rub little circles with his thumb on the soft skin on the back of Shiro’s hand. And then his stomach rumbles.

“I-” he begins, only to be interrupted by the noise a second, louder time. “Sorry.”

Shiro looks amused, his eyes shining with mirth.

“Well, I did promise to feed you,” he says with a soft chuckle.

“I’m hardly a stray cat, Shiro,” Keith pouts. “It was mostly an excuse to get you to agree to let me come model for you.”

Before Shiro can say anything in response, Keith’s stomach grumbles unhappily again.

“Poor baby.” Again, Keith has the feeling Shiro is talking to parts of his body, rather than him. “Orgasms make you hungry?”

Keith presses his face into Shiro’s abdomen as he blushes. He’s sure Shiro is smiling more just from the soft noise he makes. When Keith risks meeting Shiro’s grey eyes again, the man looks content, blissful. It’s such a good look on him.

“I mean- I wasn’t exactly expecting this to go in a romantic direction but...” And just there is the little hitch of Shiro’s breath, a quiver of his belly against Keith’s cheek and a look of hope in his eyes. Keith beams. “...Are you still going to feed me dinner?”

Shiro’s smile broadens, and in one movement, he has hauled Keith up by their joined hands until Keith is lying full out on his chest. Keith gasps in surprise and delight, and swallows whatever Shiro was going to say next in kisses.

When they break for air, Shiro’s smile is soft and sweet, and he drags his fingers through Keith’s hair, pushing his bangs back from his face.

“I’d like to take you for dinner and breakfast.”

Keith beams.

“It’s a date.”