Thinking about #Sheith working in a shitty 24 hour 1950s themed diner - they don't know each other but they both work the midnight to morning shift.

Shiro's the shy, silent war vet who flips burgers for a living. Keith's the exciting waitress on rollerblades and a pink skirt.

#transKeith #bodydysphoria

It's a tricky job for Keith. All the waitresses must wear bubblegum pink dresses and rollerblades - and it makes Keith feel like shit.

But he's got a criminal record and nowhere else will hire him. Plus, he needs the money for his t-shots.

He's stuck between a rock and a hard place, his job sucks. Midnight shift means he gets the worst customers (truckers always pinching his bare thighs).

But there's one perk - the shy, silent chef with the massive fucking pecs. Keith's not sure if he wants to be him or do him.

Shiro doesn't talk but he always keeps an eye on Keith when the rougher customers come in. At first it pissed Keith off - he's a big boy, he can take care of himself.

But now he likes it. Shiro's huge body is a threat in itself, and Keith likes the possessiveness of it all.

He also likes reading Shiro the daily joke from the newspaper. The jokes are /never/ funny - but Shiro's shoulders always shake when Keith reads them. Some days he even makes a sound, a gentle rumble. When Keith smiles his ears turn pink.

Shiro's liked Keith since the first shift they shared together.

Keith had showed up at midnight in a leather jacket and a bubblegum pink dress, white apron tied around his waspish waist. He makes rollerblading look easy, chewing gum as he ties his laces. When he takes off the

jacket he's covering in tattoos and scars and bruises. His hair is long and when he puts it in a bun several strands fall either side of his cheeks. He's got a nose piercing and he paints his fingernails.

Keith looks exciting, and Shiro stares a lot.

Not a lot of people come in after midnight and Keith uses the empty black-and-white checker floor as his stage.

He twists around in rollerblades and listens to Def Leppard. Anyone driving past the diner would get the best show of their lives, Shiro thinks.

He doesn't speak to Keith. Doesn't speak to anyone since the incident. He figures Keith must have a criminal record like he does - a pretty boy like that doesn't work in a dump like this.

He tries not to stare too often but he knows Keith is staring back.

Probably at his arm. Everyone stares at his prosthetic arm.

Shiro likes this job because he doesn't have to speak to customers. He doesn't have to shave either. He comes in with stubble and shadows from his reoccurring nightmares and no one says a thing.

"You look like shit," Keith says to him one night.

He's just come in for his shift and it's the closest he's ever stood to the boy. He's tall in his rollerblades - but not as tall as Shiro. He smells good, like cheap perfume and coconut hairspray. Shiro doesn't know what to say.

Keith rubs his mouth with cherry lipbalm until the colour stains and he levels Shiro with a look.

"You don't talk much," he says, smacking his lips.

Shiro shakes his head. Keith looks him up and down. Jesus, he's got long eyelashes and his scent is cloying.

No wonder Keith makes a killing in tips. That must be the reason he stays. Boys like this don't work in diners like these.

Most nights its just the two of them - and Shiro has front row tickets to the show Keith gives at 3am. Judas Priest tonight, and a mop as his dance partner.

Shiro envies Keith.

Some nights Keith leaves on his motorcycle and it's the coolest thing ever. Other nights he gets into cars, different men come pick him up.

Lucky, Shiro thinks. He wonders what it's like to sleep with Keith - surely as thrilling as he looks.

Shiro wonders what it's like to sleep with /anyone/.

Shiro sighs and watches Keith leave in a red sports car. His non-existent sex life irritates him, but being a 32-year-old virgin is somehow on the bottom of Shiro's list of problems.

#nsfw #prostitution

Keith's life isn't as exciting as it seems.

After a long and dreadful shift at the diner Keith waits outside for his ride. The sun isn't up yet, a red line on the desert horizon. None of Keith's work seems to happen when the sun is up.

A tacky red car pulls up, tinted windows.

Keith spits his gum into the bin and gets inside. He flashes a fake smile, let's the man in the driver's seat put his hand onto his bare thigh. He shifts the skirt up and Keith shivers.

Before the car leaves, keith glances back and

sees Shiro cleaning up as he ends his shift.

He wonders what a man like that is going home to do. Maybe has a wife. Some kids. Something nice to look forward to.

Not Keith.

Keith earns $20 beneath a bridge with his mouth around a strangers cock.

His next shift at the dinner, Keith notices Shiro has shaved. The man lifts his eyes when he comes in as if to seek approval. Keith rolls his own.

"You look less shitty tonight," he says in a kind voice.

The edges of Shiro's eyes crinkle. Keith shrugs off his jacket and stuffs

it in his locker. He fixes his hair and puts on his skates. There's only two people in the diner so Keith fills the coffee jug and takes it over to them.

He knows he doesn't look like the other waitresses. And it's not like the girls are that much classier than he is.

They're trashy too - wannabe actresses and washed up moms, all with criminal records. That's what they should call this place, Keith thinks. Felon diner.

There's a choked cough from the kitchen and Keith realises he's said that part out loud.

But at least the other waitresses look the part. Blonde. Red lips. Keith's suppossed to wear a blonde wig when he works but it itches. It doesn't matter - he makes the most tips out of all them. He must be doing something right.

Cherry, his name tag says.

That's who he's suppossed to be. That's the part he plays. Cherry, bring me another coffee. Cherry, what's good tonight?

It's insulting, Keith knows. The skirt, the name, the whore-red lip gloss.

But it's a paycheck, and slightly less dangerous than his other job.

I do intend on making this a fic one day but I really wanna continue this thread what do you guys wanna hear more about?

Me, looking at the poll results: fingering is flirting... right...?

*cracks fingers* one gooey, virgin flirting coming right up

Keith's aware that Shiro's been watching him.

Keith has eyes built into the back of his head and he knows what it feels like to be stared at. Legs. Ass. Little waist. He knows the weight of men's eyes.

But Shiro's weight is pleasant.

Respectful, even. When Keith catches him staring the man immediately drops his head. He's seldom seen, hides behind the window that opens to the kitchen. His eyes are always tired and usually he's got stubble.

But they're nice eyes.

The diner smells like cold onion and artificial strawberry in the dead of the night, and when the last customer goes Keith picks up his newspaper and finds the daily joke.

He clears his throat and Shiro appears in the window, Pavlovian. It's their routine now.

"What did the duck say when she bought a lipstick?" Keith asks out loud.

Shiro waits, the corner of his mouth curves the slightest. Keith rolls his eyes, he can already see the answer. He's not going to blush when Shiro laughs. He won't do it. He's not that easy of a guy.

"Put it on my bill," Keith says.

Shiro's eyes brighten. His shoulder hitch. He shakes his head as if to say /Cherry, you're terrible/ - and Keith's face betrays him and turns pink at the soft, handsome rumble he makes in his throat.

"Oh you liked that?" Keith says.

Shiro doesn't answer but he nods. Keith blinks furiously. This guy is too much.

"Yeah I thought you would," he says, because it's clear Shiro isn't going to speak. "You really like the bad ones."

The man parts his mouth like he's going to say something, then he stops.

Keith huffs, fixes his hair in the reflection of a napkin holder. He's never heard Shiro speak but if his voice is as deep and gentle as his laugh, Keith knows it would undo him.

"Do you have kids?" Keith blurts. Shit. He didn't mean to ask. "Only dads like those type of jokes."

Shiro shakes his head. Hmm. Keith pulls a napkin loose and blots his mouth.

"Does your wife want kids?" Keith asks again.

He tries to sound bored. Conversational. It's not sensible to invest too much into a brick wall, no matter how handsome.

Shiro lifts up his hand, the real one. He wiggles his fingers and Keith realises he's trying to show him there's no ring. Oh.

"Girlfriend?" He tries again.

There's a soft, little laugh - Keith only catches it because it's 3am (and because he's weak for the sound).

"No girlfriend, I guess. Boyfriend?"

Shiro turns red. Ahh. Keith smiles and heads over to the dukebox. It's a tacky thing and it hardly works. They're suppossed to play 1950s music, to set an atmosphere. He turns it off and sets his mini speaker on the table.

Keith prefers his own atmosphere. He puts on Mötley Crüe. The music starts and he turns it up, spinning around on his skates. He loves skating - its one perk of the job.

He notices Shiro has written something on a slip of paper and hung it above his window like its a new order.

Keith skates his way over and plucks it from the clip. Shiro waits quietly, his ears pink.

"I don't have a boyfriend," Keith reads out loud.

Hmm. He doesn't know what to do with that information. He glances at Shiro and skates to the middle of the floor, a wide open space.

Keith's not a dancer.

But there's something satisfying knowing he's getting paid to dance around in rollerblades. A fuck you to the boss. Keith tips his head back and spins, closing his eyes. He's not in a diner, he's somewhere far away.

Somewhere gorgeous.

He knows Shiro watches him dance. And the countless drivers on the highway, the streak of midnight riders. The windows of the diner face the long and empty desert and Keith dances for it, raising his hands up to the ceiling.

The air-conditioning kisses like the breeze.

And with his eyes closed Keith is bodyless. No limbs, no breasts to bind, no needles jabbed into his thigh. No sinking dread when he looks at himself, when he squeezes into this ridiculous pink dress.

Keith his eyes closed Keith is who he /wants/ to be - someone godless.

The three minutes pass like an eternity and when the next song plays Keith opens his eyes. It's a song from the 70s, something his dad used to play. Keith slows to a stop, staring out the window.

In its reflection he sees Shiro standing in the empty diner behind him.

"Come dance with me," Keith says.

Shiro doesn't move. He's wearing a white shirt stained with grease and his hair is ruffled. Keith doesn't feel scared when he's alone with him. There's something about him, and his quiet, motionless shadow is a comfort.

Keith hugs his waist, dances his fingers up his side. He feels the edges of his binder and exhales, letting go. He spins around and sees Shiro has stepped forward like some anxious deer.

Keith holds out his hands and waits expectantly.

Shiro's hand is rough and warm from working in the kitchen. He doesn't grab Keith's hands, just turns his palms upwards and lets him take the lead. The metal of his prosthetic is smooth, worn over with time.

Keith takes the mans hands and rolls closer, forearm to forearm.

Shiro smells like bread buns and mustard but beneath that is cologne. Expensive cologne, Keith knows. He inhales and relaxes, shifts closer until he shares the cook's warm. Shiro's shaking, fingers ghosting his arms.

"Do you know this song?" Keith whispers.

Shiro shakes his head. He's surreal close up, eyes wide and mouth pressed into a line. He looks terrified. Am I doing that to him? Keith thinks. Wow. His eyes are almost gold. He swallows and Keith follows the movement along his throat.

"Breathe," Keith says, and laughs.

Shiro's chest swells and sinks. He lets go of a heavy breath and it melts him, brings him closer. His fingers touch Keith's elbow as he moves in. The boy places one hand on his chest, fuck. He can feel how god damned warm he is.

Shiro is scarred, Keith can see that. Some little and some big, they move as his skin twitches. Keith wants to touch, soothe him, but he can tell Shiro's one sudden movement away from spooking. What a strange man, so gentle but so large.

He can't seem to make eye contact with Keith, glancing up through his lashes only to look back down. His hand cups the back of Keith's arm and pulls him in very slowly, their stomachs brush together.

Keith opens his mouth to say he's never danced with someone before, but the

door swings open and smacks the bells above the threshold. The sudden noise makes Shiro flinch, makes his hand squeeze Keith's arm too tight - bruising. Keith gasps, surprised.

And Shiro lets go of him just as quickly, stepping away as a customer walks inside.

Keith's arm bruises where Shiro squeezed him.

When he arrives for his shift the next night he dusts the bruises with makeup. It's not a big deal, not the worst mark a man had given him. Besides, Shiro didn't mean to.

Shiro doesn't come out of the kitchen.

Keith can see the top of his head as he works, occasionally sees his hand as he rings an order up. Keith skates back and forth between the customers, retopping coffee and forcing chit-chat, all the while glancing at the kitchen to see if Shiro will look up.

He doesn't.

Keith doesn't get why he so badly wants the man's attention. It's not like he wants him. It's not like he even knows the guy - but that doesn't stop Keith from writing a note on an order paper and sticking it above Shiro's window alongside an order for two strawberry milkshakes.

Are you ignoring me? It says.

Shiro dutifully takes the notes and he says... nothing. Keith exhales, readjusting his apron and mumbling under his breath. It's fine. He has customers to serve. He doesn't give a shit about the guy flipping burgers.

When the last customer leaves it's 2am and Keith's still a little heart-sore. He doesn't bother to look at the window as he rolls over to the speakers. He puts on something sappy and old and he stretches his arms over his head as the music starts.

He notices a floof of white hair in his peripheral but ignores it. It's not until the song finishes and he's a got a sheen of sweat on his brow that Keith even acknowledges Shiro's presence. The man is standing off to the side wringing a dish cloth.

"What?" Keith says.

It's a little ruder than it should be but it's been a long shift without Shiro's staring. Keith waits with his hands on his hips.

"You wanna dance now huh?"

Shiro finds his eyes, he nods. God he looks pathetic. Keith's shoulders fall and he gives in, putting on another song.

"Come here," he says, gentler.

Shiro approaches slowly like he did the night before but when Keith holds out his hands the man only offers up his flesh arm. He keeps his prosthetic by his side. Like it's dangerous. Like it -

"Oh," Keith says. "You thought you'd hurt me?"

Shiro's eyes fall to the floor. Keith's stomach sinks. He grabs at the prosthetic arm and takes it in both arms, Shiro flinches. He pushes it onto his hip and holds it there until he's sure Shiro won't move away.

"It's fine," Keith says. "You won't hurt me."

Metal fingers twitch against his ribs. Keith is short enough to duck down and force eye contact from the man.

"Are you listening? I said it's fine."

That Adams apple bobs again. A warm hand finds his other arm. Keith's never danced like this before but Shiro seems to have.

He quietly guides Keith into a position and starts to rock him slowly side to side. Tension leaves Keith as he shuffles closer. Shiro keeps him at a distance when Keith tries to move in closer.

"Leaving room for Jesus?" Keith asks.

Shiro's eyes narrow. He squeezes Keith's hand

where it's clasped in his own. He moves him an inch closer until their chests /almost/ touch and this is where he stays. Keith doesn't argue but he rolls his eyes as loudly as he can.

"You shaved again," Keith notes.

Shiro nods and... and seems oddly proud of himself.

Keith is only human and unfortunately dancing in the arms of a big, strong man with pecs like bread rolls and who smells of nice cologne is... is devastating to him. Keith's even a little wet and he's embarrassed by how easy Shiro undoes him.

"Where'd you learn to dance like this?" Keith asks.

Shiro shrugs, his hands more confident. He even lifts Keith's arm and encourages him to do a twirl. His pink skirt flares as he turns on his skates. When he faces Shiro again he reaches up and touches the hint of a metal

chain around his neck. He tugs lightly and the man doesn't stop him so he pulls until a pair of dog tags appear.

"Military?" Keith asks.

Shiro nods. He spins Keith again and the boys heart skips a beat. Shiro's confidence grows with each moment that passes.

"So how come you work here?" Keith asks.

Shiro holds him firmer now. It feels good when their hands touch and their chests brush together. Keith wants to lean forward and push his face between Shiro's pecs, this is maddening.

Shiro doesn't answer but Keith doesn't stop asking.

"You did something bad, right? Criminal record?"

Shiro nods to that. Keith's breath hitches even though he knew the answer would be yes. God he hopes it's a hot crime. He hopes the man holding him isn't a serial rapist or evading tax fraud.

When Keith turns around Shiro uses one metal finger to point at his chest. He waits patiently - You? Keith realises he is asking.

"Duh," Keith laughs. "This is the only place that'd take me."

Shiro's eyes crease like when he's about to smile.

He spins Keith around but not the entire way. When he's facing the window Shiro holds his waist from behind, puts one hand very cautiously on Keith's stomach. The air escapes his lungs when a big chest presses against his back. In the reflection Keith can see them together.

"You're gentle," Keith says once he gets his breath back, touching Shiro's forearm. "For a big guy."

Shiro makes a little sound, a noise of indifference. It starts low in his stomach and travels up Keith's spine. He wants to press his hips back. He wants to be bent over.

Normally he hates this. Hates any man who makes him feel small. Hates being reminded of his little waist, of the fat he finds hard to shed from his hips. Hates being made feel like... like a...

Keith squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't see his reflection anymore.

He feels good in the darkness with two big arms wrapped around him. Feels like he does when he dances - no body. When he sees himself in his imagination he's a little taller, a little less pretty. There's possibilities. Keith exhales and grasps Shiro's metal arm.

When the dance is over Keith feels... strange. Tingly. He feels too warm and he feels dread at the same time. Shiro goes back to the kitchen and the atmosphere has changed, it's lighter.

When Keith picks up the newspaper Shiro listens as he reads the daily joke.

((Just thought I would add a little note on Keith's gender identity as I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable with any future content.

I can only write about my own gender identity/experiences. I don't feel comfortable expressing how I do identify - but

I'm not sure it's a common experience. It might be! I'm not sure. It would be wonderful if someone reading this thought "wow, I can identify with what the writer is saying" but I'm not expecting anyone to.

I just wanted to reassure anyone reading that Keith's feelings

surorunding his gender in this fic come from a /very/ personal place inside of me - and are genuine. I cannot say I identify as trans (but also cannot say that I don't!)

But everything I write is from the heart. If Keith's identity or his interest in more traditonally feminine

things is uncomfortable for you I definitely understand! And wanted to give you a heads up that his femininity will be explored throughout this thread. This may or may not include lingerie, makeup, and dirty talk that includes language such as good girl/princess/pussy, etc.

Keith does 100% identify as male and is actively transitioning in this thread. I'm not sure which direction this will take but I'm interested in having Keith explore these things with Shiro in a healthy, safe environment for him. I also want Shiro to try these things too!

Sorry this was so long and rambly. But I wanted to give the heads up to anyone who might be reading and not feel comfortable with future content. And I wanted to reassure you that I write Keith's experiences very genuinely.

If you have any advice for me on tagging this sort of thing I would be very grateful. I only know my own struggles with gender and I can't say what will make others uncomfortable, so please let me know if there's tags you'd like to be used))

That being said... fluff or smut?