Chapter Text
It’s usually easier for you to detach yourself from the models.
After all, there’s no telling how many people might try to make a move on them after the class ends. Or even how many times they’ve been creeped on. At some point, it moves beyond just the fundamentals of learning to sketch, of rendering a form, and the focus of a creative can seem more intense than the scrutinizing of details in order to transfer it to paper.
So you, out of professional courtesy, typically refuse to allow yourself to consider any model attractive. Typically, you attempt to extract the humanity from them and view them as merely the subject of your sketch, rather than an incredibly confident and good-looking person posing nude or close to it, which was something you would never be able to see in the flesh without the guise of an art class.
Several things marked him out from the others, making your professional courtesy increasingly more difficult.
For one thing, he was in your class the most often. He was about your age still, but as an industry professional, Kishibe chose to model for classes at the local community college in his spare time. But for your class in particular, he just happened to be your model the most, sometimes even a few weeks in a row.
Another factor that impeded your ability to maintain a professional relation to the model was the fact that he gave criticism. After his modeling time was over, he would put on a loose robe or tighten his towel and head directly for your canvas to give it a look-over. Really, you would have given an arm or a leg for that kind of advice from someone as acclaimed as the model, but it made it harder to focus because of his proximity and intensity.
The final marker—and, you decide as he hands you your can from the vending machine, the most pertinent—was that he was very slightly, at least to your tastes, above your league and above anyone else’s that you had ever seen.
Rohan Kishibe was almost cut out of stone. The man was uncharacteristically and puzzlingly ripped, yet stood with complete grace and a haughty demeanor that would put your cat’s to shame. His hair was strangely styled but just eccentric enough to juxtapose his physique and bone structure with an individualistic confidence and lack of care regarding what other people thought that made him not just someone you would find interesting but also someone who made you irrepressibly horny.
So you definitely tensed when you heard that he would be your model for your independent study. Granted, you had something of a friendship, but it was a nude study. His willingness to go along with the directions somewhat shocked you; either he had something impressive to bare or he had no shame, neither of which would have surprised you in the slightest.
The clicking of heels and the muffled impact of sneakers on the linoleum floor of the hallway pass unrhythmically and fast. Lining the walls, previous studies hang from art hooks, but besides that, the characteristic drying rack and paint splatters were absent from the spartan room. Except for yourself and the model, the room was barren and lifeless.
“Do you have a particular pose in mind?” Kishibe cracks open the soda can from earlier.
“Yeah, just face me.”
You sat somewhat shakily in your metal chair, staring at your stained jeans as Kishibe stepped onto the pedestal in a familiar robe. He nodded in your direction; you smiled in greeting. He hands you an easel and you adjust it accordingly to the size of your canvas, vertically positioned.
The green-haired model clears his throat. “Are you comfortable?”
Was he nervous? Or maybe he was just stalling, trying to get his last few moments of movement in before he had to keep still. Regardless, your eyebrows jump. “Comfortable?”
“With me being naked,” said the model. Right. A moderate warmth rushed to your face.
“Um…” Were you? Didn’t matter. You had to be. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
Dammit, now you were getting nervous. “Are you backing out now, or…?”
“No, no. Just give me a second.”
You avert your gaze out of courtesy as he undresses, still not sure as to how you were going to deal with knowing what he looked like naked after the fact. Any attempts you made to prepare yourself for seeing someone else without clothes completely failed once you glanced at him.
No matter how hard you tried to keep your thoughts on hitting the rubric for the assignment, it proved futile. For a few seconds, you swallowed air, taking in the scene in front of you. Of course he just had to look perfect under his clothes, have exactly what you liked in a guy, and… and you couldn’t really focus below his abdomen.
“Could you maybe tilt your head more to the right?”
Kishibe followed your instruction, adjusting his stance somewhat. He seemed nervous, but altogether maintaining composure.
You started out sketching basic shapes in order to render his chest and shoulders. Something vaguely rectangular for his torso, ellipses to round out his biceps and such, quick lines to sharpen. Using a lighter pencil, you pressed in deeply to relieve some of your tension, the marks remaining faint and constant.
The more you tried to focus, the further you drifted from your focal point. Curiously, as you attempted to keep the drawing on your mind, you pursued any train of thought prompted by the subject of your piece. Sketching his sex proved difficult not only from a technical perspective, but also from an onanist one. Even flaccid, it was larger than you had expected, and you weren’t quite sure how to foreshorten it… The back of your neck gathered enough sweat for you to remove your jacket and pin back your hair.
All you could do was try to keep your mindset a scientific one. You couldn’t see the circumcised glans flare from this angle, and you weren’t about to ask to see it. Your thoughts wandered to how it might look if you jacked him off, if you would see him hard in front of you. You could definitely see the line where his glans flared from there. You could also definitely measure his corona with your thumb and forefinger. You could also touch the back of his cock, could run your tongue across his shaft before you go down on him.
Heat gathered in your thighs somewhat, and you pressed your knees together, adjusting your tank top at the thought of what he would feel like inside of you, how well you would fit his sex and constrict it.
Rohan coughs quietly and you suffer a startling reminder that he is alive and in the same room as you as you thirst from afar. Sketching further definition of his abdominal muscles, you almost calmed down enough to treat this like just another assignment. At least, until you looked below his stomach. Or… at his lower stomach.
The dick you were sketching now stood on its own, and Kishibe’s gaze had settled far away from you. What made him hard?
Seeing him visibly aroused broke the one rule in your mind: that this was a completely sterile environment. It never really occurred to you that he would also get turned on, and… maybe even because of you.
Biting back a smile, you tuck a charcoal pencil behind your ear and point the HB in his direction. “Hey, um, Rohan?” He looks at you, somewhat lost in thought. “Something moved.”
The model follows where you point, and without his expression changing, some red rushed to his face. “I see.”
“Could you move it back?” Rohan’s eyes widened. Seeing him look surprised like that was sort of endearing, something you didn’t see often at all. Letting a small grin cross your face, you lean forward, angling yourself towards him. His gaze dips to your chest, then back to your eyes. “I already sketched it how it looked before, and I don’t think we’re allowed to change our pose halfway through the assignment. See,” you turned your canvas around for Rohan to see, and he flushes a bit darker, “I already foreshortened it, and it’s longer now, so I’ll have to redraw your stomach as well.”
“Maybe you just need more knowledge of anatomy.” How he manages to maintain a monotone while completely erect—almost painfully so, judging by the veins popping out from his shaft—is a mystery to you. “If you’d like, you could see how it looks from different angles.”
“Hmm… That does sound interesting.” You rest the end of your pencil against your lower lip. “Maybe after I’m finished with this timed study, though. Are you comfortable?”
“Do I look comfortable?” He narrows his eyebrows, an edge rising in his voice. Another wave of heat rushes to your face, but you swallow in an attempt to suppress it.
“You look happy.”
He does not look amused. You giggle behind a charcoal-smudged hand. Something he must have been thinking of made him a little harder, and Rohan exhaled, obviously frustrated.
It was kind of cute.
You sketched some more, adding some preliminary shading, and after a little bit, you obviously weren’t finished, but you had enough to finish without him modeling.
“Do you want a break?” You look up at Rohan, whose gaze hadn’t moved from you since the last time you spoke. “It’s getting a bit late.” The green-haired man covered himself, and you tried not to notice how much bigger his bulge looked under the sheer fabric. “I’m going to grab some iced tea from the vending machine, let me know if you want one.”
“(Y/n).”
You jump. It was the first time he’d said your name. You weren’t sure that he even knew it. “Yeah?”
“Get me one.” His tone is… oddly authoritative.
The fan circles a dozen times, emitting a low hum.
“No problem,” your heart skips a beat in your chest.
Walking through the door with your bag, you rustle for a few quarters and insert them into the machine, choosing one of your favorite canned teas and matcha for Rohan. Slipping on your jacket, you wait for the cans to fall to the bottom.
Rohan stands in the doorframe, and you walk over to give him his matcha, but his hand slides against your jaw and he’s kissing you, holding you taut against him for the quickest moment, passionate and angry and energetic. You let go of your bag, the cans of tea landing on the canvas lining.
Without thinking, you touch his stomach, trace the muscles of his neck, and kiss back, but he’s still hard and you can feel him against your abdomen. Rohan pulls away, still holding you close, still hovering, but only looking at you so close. “Sorry,” he exhales, the greens of his eyes almost glowing in the dim hallway. “Should’ve asked.”
“Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission,” you murmur, a hesitant smile flickering across your stunned expression, and Rohan pins you to the wall, dropping his towel. “For that, I mean.”
“How much can you forgive?” His lashes were long, full in volume; a dark green that contrasted the pallid hue of his soft skin. “Because there’s a lot more I want to do to you after the way you looked at me.” His earrings, gold fashioned into pen nibs, glint. “I don’t ask permission when I make art.”
You swallow, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck, and you shiver, pressing another tentative kiss to his lips, and he tastes like the tea you gave him earlier, bittersweet.
Some of your saliva dripping from his mouth as he pulls away, Rohan’s gaze flits between your eyes and somewhere else. “Be my canvas sometime,” he says, slipping a wadded up piece of paper into your back pocket. “Call me.”
You breathe heavily against the wall as the model picks up his towel and robe and walks away, wondering where he was hiding that paper.