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Keith didn’t know what he expected. Part of him hoped that he wouldn’t like the strip club. It was just the whole idea and tackiness of it all. He told himself that he was just here to see what all the hype was about before deciding it wasn’t his thing and leaving.To his credit, for the better part of the past hour, he’d predicted right. He felt completely out of place in the weird lighting that was both too dark and way too bright at the same time, coupled with the blaring music that made his ears unpleasantly ring. Wading through the sea of drunk, gyrating bodies reeking of cheap spirits and sweat didn’t help either. It took far too long for him to finally reach the bar and rinse this experience out of his system. ‘It’s like a moral detox,’ he assured himself, ‘if I don’t remember it in the morning, it never happened.’ The bottom of the shot glass soon faced the ceiling as he hastily swallowed its contents and his pride. Keith Kogane, leather-clad, legendary lurker supreme, was at a strip club . He scoffed at the absurdity of it, and clamped his eyes shut with the hope that maybe when they opened, he’d be back in his bed with the sunlight peeking through the shutters, and this whole ordeal would just be a distant, hazy dream.He had no such luck, and soon found himself staring at an empty glass, fully intending it to be filled and emptied again in quick succession. Deciding against it, he swivelled in his bar stool to haphazardly glance at the stage. ‘Well, I’m already here, so might as well make the most of it.’ Only once he did, he became immediately entranced - his gaze locked on one particular dancer who easily stood out from the others in the already impressive lineup. All the air was seemingly sucked out of his lungs as he released a choked breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. “… wow.” He realised too late that he’d voiced his thoughts out loud, but he was too far gone to care.The man in question was, simply put, effortlessly confident. He was radiating confidence from his place on stage where he was illuminated with a metaphorical spotlight. It may as well have been a literal one - he deserved every bit of extra attention he could get.
His lips were hooked left in a sharpened smirk, and his eyes burned under darkened lashes with an intense focus on the job at hand - which just so happened to be expertly rolling his hips into the ground, with very little fabric covering very little skin, and leaving very little to the imagination.Keith didn’t know what he expected. Part of him hoped that he wouldn’t like the strip club; but now all of him was certain that he did.He dropped his gaze in hopes of catching his breath before others realised that the bright red flush of his cheeks had nothing to do with the empty shot glass he was cradling. His sudden surge of bravery might, though, and he chewed on a thought before uttering an indignant “fuck it” and stumbling off his barstool. Uncertainly, he inched towards the raised platform at the centre of the room, mentally restraining himself to stay a comfortable distance away to avoid coming off as a creep.‘This is a strip club for god’s sake,’ he reminded himself, ‘ I won’t look like a creep for doing what I’m meant to have come here for.’ And with that pep-talk, he dared himself to lift his eyes from the varnished wood he’d found comfort in for who knows how long; up past the barstools and high tables; up, up, up past the neon blues and the purples and the golds and-up to meet a pair of piercing greys. They were wicked and screamed of danger, and alarms were blaring in the back of Keith’s mind telling him to stop, turn around and leave before it’s too late. But it was already too late.He was pinned in place by the dancer’s determined stare, which seemingly marked him for consumption. Just the thought of that sent a sharp shiver down his spine.The predator in question cocked his head, and raised a palm to swipe at the sweat beading under his bottom lip. He then took two slow, measured steps towards Keith’s section of audience, hips rocking in time with the music - before accelerating to a sprint and skilfully leaping into the air, only to land in a perfectly executed knee slide.His bared torso gleamed under the pulsing stage lights as he firmly planted a strained arm between his legs. There was a moment’s pause, before he rhythmically grinded into it, the other one tracing the defined planes of his stomach.A once metaphorical hook of a smirk now took on a much more literal meaning; it had caught
Keith by the throat and was reeling him in. He wasn’t sure what happened between that moment and the next, but he suddenly found himself pressed flush against the side of the stage, neck craned up to come face with the single most beautiful man he had ever seen.Features a vivid crimson, and drenched in sweat from physical exertion much like the the rest of his body, the man bore into Keith’s soul through half-lidded eyes, toned chest rising and falling with his heavy breaths. His smirk faltered for a split second as he dampened his lips and rolled the bottom one between his teeth.Keith’s breath caught in his throat as his lungs immediately seized.There was an increasing pounding reverberating in Keith’s stomach and chest as the man dipped his head to close the gap between them at an excruciating pace. Keith let his eyelids fall closed without knowing what exactly it was that he was anticipating, and a few painful moments of nothingness followed. He was about to recoil in humiliation, before feeling a surge of warmth near his left ear, sending a bolt of electricity through his core from that small, single point of near contact.“Done in 30. Come see me after.” A deep, exhaust-roughened voice murmured so softly that Keith wondered whether he’d imagined it. The spark of hot breath lingered for a moment too long, yet too short, as it suddenly disappeared - the guilty offender already backing away to return to his spot centre-stage.An almost cocky nod of the head and a heart-stabbing wink followed, and just like that, he returned to his routine as if nothing had happened.Keith felt his lungs slowly begin to refill. ‘This is gonna be a long night.’ Half an hour passed agonisingly slowly, but Keith’s eyes never left the one spot on the stage that seemed to be lit the brightest despite the room’s overall dim lighting. Soon the stage was left empty, the music had quietened down, and he found himself subconsciously eyeing the dark drape of fabric that the object of his infatuation had disappeared behind. He was so, so fucked. He’d always been the kind of guy to stay clear of social situations. It’s not that he was shy - he just didn’t like other people. Yet here he was, about to meet a man who may as well have stepped out of his wildest fantasies.A man who was bold, charming, and hot as hell… everything Keith was not. It was terrifying, intimidating, and-… right behind him.Keith felt a soft hand rest on - no - engulf his shoulder, and he whipped himself around to face the personification of both his worst fears and greatest hopes and dreams. He’s about to open his mouth to say something, but the hand recoiled as if scathed, and he immediately feared that he’d scared the man off already.The man in question proceeded to look down at his feet with a small smile, and his hands made their way to his lap where, wait - was he fidgeting? Keith froze, awestruck - genuinely confused, as he saw the confident image of the man he’d seen less than 10 minutes ago crumble right before his eyes.Keith’s heart melted as the man slumped his broadened shoulders, before nervously extending a hand in greeting.“Hey, I’m Shiro… ” Shiro looked up then, a warm, corny smile plastered on his face that crinkled his cheeks, and squeezed at his eyes, and ohmygod are those dimples?! Keith responded with a smile of his own, taking Shiro’s hand in his to give it a firm shake. “Hey Shiro, I’m Keith.” The tension visibly dissipated from Shiro’s shoulders, and they both heaved a sigh of relief.“I’m really sorry about earlier,” Shiro’s brows furrowed as he frowned into his palms, and he clasped his hands together to twiddle his thumbs. “I-I didn’t mean to come on to you or anything - I mean, not that I don’t WANT to… I mean who wouldn’t want to? Look at you! I mean- nevermind. I don’t wanna be creepy or anything and I’m really sorry for all that stuff it’s just, y’know, the whole showbusiness thing and being onstage really gets to your head you know? And I guess it just gave me this false confidence, because I knew I sure as HELL wouldn’t have had the balls to approach a guy like you otherwise, and- ”“Shiro.” The name felt foreign yet comfortable on Keith’s tongue, and he mentally tested its shape in his mouth a few times.“ -like I was saying, I’m just really sorry that we had to meet this way, because I’m not like that in real life, and I’m scare people would get disappointed-”By this point, Shiro’s hands were flailing about in an ill-fated attempt at gesticulating for emphasis. Keith had to repeatedly duck to avoid getting whacked in the face, and it reminded him of a great dane that thinks its a lap dog.Shiro continued, “ -that you’d get disappointed - if you found out that that’s not how I really am, and in actual fact I’m just this really awkward guy who really doesn’t know how to act around guys I have NO chance with, and- ”“ Shiro. ” Keith repeated, voice stern but with no heat behind it.Having been snapped out of his mindless babbling, Shiro’s eyes snapped up to meet Keith’s, and his brows seemed to disappear into his white forelock as he muttered a rushed “ -huh?”“You’re rambling.” Keith unnecessarily pointed out - more as a question to himself in disbelief. Shiro finally looked up, accidentally punching himself in the chin as he attempted to move his hand up to scratch the back of his head - it was adorable.“… oh. S-sorry… ” he whispered, dragging out the “y” like a 5-year-old who had just been told they’d unintentionally hurt their friend’s feelings.Keith’s heart threatened to burst out of his chest right then and there. He let out a reassuring chuckle and grinned stupidly wide. “Stop apologising. For what it’s worth, I’m glad I met both sides of you. And besides, I think I like this side more.” There was a moment’s pause, and Keith wondered if he’d taken the right gamble of words.He must have, because shortly after, Shiro was practically beaming . “Y-you really think so?”“Yeah.” ‘ Of course. Of course I’d like the real you.’ “It’s… cute.” Shiro virtually combusted at that, cupping his face in one hand and crumpling into himself, releasing a range of sounds that sounded like something between a snort and a nervous chuckle.“Hey, why don’t we get outta here. There’s a pizza place down the road - d’ya think we could go there and just, start over?” Keith raised a questioning eyebrow as he let any potential for a future with Shiro hang in the torturous void of silence between them.“… yeah,” Shiro sighed, with another heart-evaporating, dimpled smile, “I’d love that.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There’s a lot you can tell about someone from what they order at a pizza place.
If it’s a plain cheese pizza, they’re probably either broke or someone who values the simpler things in life. Pineapples on pizza automatically places them on the
‘batshit crazy’
spectrum, although their exact spot can be negotiated. If it’s a salad- at a pizza place? Are you serious? Ditch ‘em.
And if they order a four-cheese pizza with a cheese-stuffed crust and extra cheese? Then well… they might just be the textbook definition of husband material.
Which is exactly what went through Keith’s head as the waitress nodded in confirmation, scribbling the order
placed by the man seated opposite him in the secluded booth. His future husband. Keith’s poor heart had barely recovered from its hard,
hard
fall, before said waitress began repeating the order, sending it plummeting into the depths once more. She swivelled to face him, and he was acutely aware of the movement of her lips, but the words were completely drowned out as he mentally planned his holy matrimony.
“... today?”
“Huh?”
“I said: ‘
and what will you be having today?’
” His panicked thoughts of apologising for making her repeat herself died as she fixed him with a warm smile and a knowing glimmer in her eye. Mouth opening and closing like a suffocating codfish, Keith said the first and simplest thing that crossed his mind.
“Uhhh… I’ll have the same, please,” he managed, almost choking on thin air in the process. This received a cocked eyebrow in concern, which was quickly replaced with another genuine smile as she shut her notepad with a snap and moved to collect the menus.
“Alright, then! Two four-cheese pizzas with stuffed crust and extra cheese. Beautiful. Have a nice day!” Keith hoped he misheard the slight
“te”
added onto the end of the final word, but before he could properly process it she’d already left with what looked an awful lot like a wink in his direction.
This was the part of eating out with people that he hated the most: where you no longer had menus and food choices as fuel for conversation, but the
actual food
wasn’t there to use as a topic of discussion yet either. The part where you have to actually put in
effort
to try emulate some form of meaningful communication. First impressions are important, and Keith didn’t want to be known as the awkward coward who was too scared to engage first. He just had to say
something
; literally
anything
was an improvement on the current silence. A quick glance across the table at fiddling hands, wandering pupils, and a shy
grin of courtesy proved to Keith that he wasn’t the only one with that thought.
“So… Shiro,” he began, and he watched as the man in question heaved a sigh of relief, releasing the tension in his shoulders and slumping into the seat.
Alright, good start. You’ve made him more relaxed, now just… carefully ease into conversation. You can do this. Deep breaths. One… two… ok now
go.
“How’d you get into, y’know… the whole stripping thing?”
Shiro let out a choked cry for help. The room went silent. Keith could see war flashbacks begin to materialise as the world desaturated into black and white - with
The Sound of Silence
in the background.
Fuck fuck
FUCK
. Not that.
ANYTHING
but that.
Suddenly, the booth became a battleground. An arena. The fight? A backwards staring contest, with the two of them competing to see who could
avoid
eye contact the longest.
Damn it.
First kinda-
ish
-not-really-a-date with the hottest guy he’d ever (and probably
would
ever) meet, and Keith had already royally fucked it up. He was preparing to throw down a ten, make like a banana and split when the sound of a throat clearing pinned him in place. Shiro clasped his hands together clumsily with an unintentionally loud clap, proceeding to do what Keith had mentally dubbed as his signature Thumb Twiddle™.
“Ummmmmm… funny story actually…” he paused to look up at Keith, as if awaiting confirmation to continue. When he was met with a reassuring smile and hesitant nod, Shiro took a deep breath and resumed. “... it all started with DDR.”
Keith was almost 100% certain that he’d misheard. He took a moment to process what had just been said -
thoroughly
process it, several times - before bursting into a fit of half panicked laughter, half confused noises.
“Wait… DDR like,
‘Dance Dance Revolution’
DDR?”
A pained groan escaped Shiro’s throat, and he visibly grimaced like he’d been kicked square in the nuts. The following
“Mhm.”
came out as more of a helium-induced squeak than a cohesive response.
“Like, light-up arrows, Cascada’s
“Everytime We Touch”
DDR?” Another affirmative squeak. “That’s so…”
“... stereotypically Asian?”
Both of Keith’s hands shot up beside his ears in the universal signal of surrender. “You said it, not me.” There was a subsequent cacophony of shoulder shrugs, noises of agreement and a well-earned “Touché.”
Fuck it.
He’d already started down this cursed path - he may as well ride it home.
And,
the voice in his head supplied
, if he played his cards right, that might not be the only thing he’d be riding tonight.
No. Bad Keith. Focus.
He cleared his throat (a poorly disguised attempt to collect himself), and put on what he hoped was an encouraging expression. “Well, sounds like quite the story - I’d love to hear it.”
Whether throwing in the big
“L-word”
was the right call or not was debatable. On one hand, it could have been perceived as far too forward, and he’d be left alone in a two-person booth with nothing but a broken heart, a bill for two pizzas, and some well-deserved shame. On the other hand, well - he wasn’t sure what the possible other hand could be. Time seemed to freeze at the peak of suspense, increasing his already torturous panic.
Just as he was preparing to make like a grape and escape - Shiro spoke up, once again saving the potentially awkward situation. Albeit a weird jumble of incomprehensible syllables, it was all Keith needed to unclench his fists… and also his buttcheeks.
“All right.” Sometime during this fragmented conversation, Shiro had somehow managed to turn beet-red, in an impressively consistent shade from the tips of his ears to where his neck disappeared into his black-and-white raglan shirt. “Here goes nothing.”
If Keith got everything else horribly wrong that night, at least he could say he was right about one thing: it really
was
quite the story.
It began as all love stories do: with the room melting away as eyes locked on an object of infatuation, the world going into slow-mo, and some tacky soundtrack to top off that cheesecake. Shiro was 7 when he’d first laid eyes on a DDR machine - and it was love at first sight.
Since that fateful day, he’d made DDR his religion, and the arcade his place of worship. It was never innocent to begin with; he didn’t bother with deluding himself that it was completely normal and healthy to be as obsessed with this game - or
any
game, for that matter - as he was. But what started as an unusually passionate hobby quickly turned into a goddamn trainwreck.
A friend of his nonchalantly mentioned a DDR competition in passing one day. Little did they know that that would be the biggest regret of their entire life.
For nearly a decade, Shiro dedicated his life to competitive DDR. He lived and breathed it. Over time, stomping on the lighted squares became second nature, and he got so good that people began to realise that competing against him was a lost cause; they opted to just kick back and enjoy the show instead.
Because
boy
, was it a sight to behold.
Shiro had managed to improvise a flawless choreography to every track, every single time without fail, somehow finding ways to seamlessly integrate the arrows into his freestyle movements. It was breathtaking to watch for anyone even
slightly
interested in the game - no, the
sport
- of Dance Dance Revolution.
But, unsurprisingly, his skills were left unnoticed, and most passersby shrugged him off as a typical over-eager Asian DDR fanatic, not even sparing him as much as a sideways glance.
“Okay, sorry to interrupt - but how exactly does this lead into-“
“M’getting there, you’ll see… all this relates.” When Keith looked unconvinced, Shiro promptly sighed, raising three fingers on his right hand in a Brownie Girl Scout salute. “Promise.” This was accepted with a curt nod, which he took as a green light to carry on.
So
, as he was saying, people didn’t really pay him any mind. He was just a lanky high-school senior whose delayed growth spurt not only left him a generous foot shorter than the rest of his classmates, but also the limb control of a newborn giraffe. Unless, of course, he was on a DDR machine. There, somehow, against all universal logic, his floppy limbs thrived.
Like all good tales though, there needed to be a climax - some sort of conflict or hardship the main protagonist must face in order for the story to progress. His was boot camp. Not because he dreaded the long, exhausting days and the gruelling training regimen -
oh, no
.
But because he had to give up competitive DDR.
“Not gonna lie, I cried for a good month and a half over this.”
Keith tried, and failed, to hide his amusement. “A month? Over DDR?”
Raising his finger to
emphasise his point, Shiro narrowed his eyes in faux intimidation. “
And a half
. Don’t judge, okay… DDR was like my
life
.”
“Why’d you give it up to go to camp then?”
Shiro let out a defeated sigh. Then another. And a third for good measure. “Ah. Tragic military child origin story. A classic.”
His grandfather, Shiro explained, was a veteran, who had earned his citizenship through service. Therefore, it had become a philosophy in their family that in order to remain worthy of being called American, each generation, male and female alike, needed to serve - even if briefly.
Which was fine for everyone that came before Shiro’s time, because
they didn’t have to give up DDR for a year.
But, he digressed. It was inevitable. So he did the whole bootcamp thing, held a funeral and accompanying wake for his DDR carrier, then returned home to get used to being back in the real world before he headed for college.
A couple of things immediately became noticeable.
One: He’d finally grown into, and then
out
of, his limbs. The boy - no,
man -
was now built entirely of hulking cords of pure, compact muscle that threatened to shred every shirt he encountered.
Two: The gods finally blessed him with a long promised height boost, giving him the extra foot he was lacking, and then some. And then some more. He was easily well over 6 feet now - putting his old bullying classmates to shame.
And three: He was still helplessly, irrevocably in love with DDR.
Shiro couldn’t have chosen a better time to make his fated comeback. It was a Sunday afternoon, which meant peak time for DDR fanatics worldwide, especially the ones attending the competition taking place. This event was the biggest he’d participated in by
far
, even major enough to have its own livestream.
He had executed the game’s sequences beautifully with streams of perfect scores, gathering a sizable crowd of awed onlookers - which didn’t even take into account the possible thousands tuned into Twitch as well.
As shallow as it was, his new look
was
making people better appreciate his talent. He knew this, but didn’t quite realise how
much
- until one day, a mysteriously elegant woman with platinum hair suggested that he could make decent money doing what he evidently loved. There was a catch, though.
He’d have to do it in spandex speedos.
Now, you see, Shiro had a few meager shreds of dignity, but he was also only human. What would you have done if someone offered to pay you for doing the one thing that made life worthwhile - the one thing that made waking up and completing daily mundane tasks
slightly
more bearable?
So of course, he agreed.
Allura,
as he came to learn, accidentally stumbled across the stream of his competition while waiting for her online
“Advanced Pole”
workshop. She’d immediately felt inspired.
To her credit, she managed to contain her enthusiasm enough to wait until she had an appointment in his general area to seek him out and not hop on the first cab that passed her to make a beeline for his little rural arcade.
Her plan to simply observe quickly turned into her making sure an oblivious DDR competitor was made aware of his Adonis-like stature - by promptly offering him a job.
He’d started at Voltron: Legendary Descender effective immediately - nervous as hell and extra careful to ensure no one discovered his true origins, because although he had an undeniably torrid affair with the thing, he was almost certain that his earnings would dip significantly if patrons learnt that the performance they were witnessing came to fruition at a DDR machine of all places.
They’d pegged him as “a natural”, and he soon became the club’s favourite newcomer. Then the club’s favourite, full stop. An ongoing debate quickly emerged concerning who did the club’s name more justice: the many dancers dropping down poles into splits of all different shades, or Shiro - with his steamy, grounded routines that made everyone in the room wish they were the floor beneath him.
The rest of his life there - although still incredibly fun - became pretty bog standard and routine; the same costumes and the same customers and the same shitty club music that nobody really paid much attention to anyway.
“Of course, until tonight. When I met you.” He admitted quietly, refusing to maintain eye contact, and opting instead to grin stupidly at the tabletop with a full-blown flush in his cheeks. He cleared his throat and adjusted his position in his seat, erasing most of the evidence of the blushing mess that sat in his place moments before. ‘
Man,’
Keith thought,
‘this guy’s recovery time’s insane.’
“Aaaaaanyway…” he concluded, “that’s my story. What’s yours? What do you do?”
Keith Kogane, ever-infamous for spontaneously talking out of his ass, spared no beat in responding.
“I’m an escort.”
Shiro choked on his strawberry milkshake. He barely managed a
“wh-
ghk
-wha-
ahem
”
in between coughing fits, before quickly realising how
horribly
disrespectful he was being, and that he may have potentially offended Keith. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sure it’s a great occupa-”
“
NONONONONO
I MEANT ESCORT LIKE “
CHAUFFEUR”…
NOT LIKE -
THAT.
” Keith flailed his arms about in an ill-attempt at gesticulation, indulging himself in the illusion that it would save him further embarrassment.
Nice job, Keith. Way to go.
“...not that there’s anything wrong with being
that
either, like, I fully respect that.”
That’s… not any better.
If Keith were a wiser man, he’d shut his pie hole now before the situation devolved into something unfathomably worse.
Unfortunately, he was no such man.
“Not that I assume that because you strip, you’re automatically involved in sex work-”
What the actual fuck.
Keith never did quite know when to shut up. It had never been his forte. Fortunately, Shiro quickly caught onto his increasing panic, and redirected the focus of the conversation. Or, at least, tried to.
“So… what’s your hourly rate?”
They were both hopeless - and undeniably made for each other.