Chapter 1: The First Pose
The closet door felt like the lid of a sarcophagus. Kaidan breathed in, the scent of cedar and his own nervous sweat filling his lungs. Outside, the soft rustle of sheets told him Hank was waiting, patient as always. The red glow from the fairy lights seeped under the door, painting his bare feet crimson.
He looked down at himself. The iridescent pink fabric of the thong shimmered, even in the dark. The matching cropped hoodie was soft, the bunny ears on the hood brushing the top of his vision. He adjusted the heart-shaped pasties, his fingers trembling. This was stupid. He was a manga artist, not a model. He sketched fantasies; he didn’t live them out loud.
“You die in there, bunny?” Hank’s voice, warm and amused, rolled through the door. “I’m getting old waiting.”
“Shut up,” Kaidan muttered, but a smile tugged at his lips. He gripped the knob. His heart was a frantic bird against his ribs.
He pushed the door open.
The red light hit him first, a warm, liquid wash that made the pink lingerie glow like inner neon. He kept his eyes on the floorboards, on Hank’s scuffed sneakers discarded by the bed. He couldn’t look up.
A low, appreciative whistle cut the silence. “Wow.”
Kaidan chanced a glance. Hank was propped against the headboard, wearing just a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips. The tattoos across his shoulders and chest were dark swirls in the dim light. His gaze was a physical touch, traveling from the bunny ears down Kaidan’s torso, over the bare strip of his stomach, to where the thong tied on his hips.
“Hi,” Kaidan breathed, the word barely there.
“Come here.” Hank’s voice had lost its tease, gone rough at the edges.
Kaidan took a few steps, the silence heavy with the hum of the lights and the distant city noise. He stopped near the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of him, then behind his back. Awkward.
“You look… unbelievable,” Hank said. He didn’t move to touch. He just looked, his brown eyes black in the crimson glow. “Turn around, baby. I want to see that thong disappear between those cheeks.”
Heat flooded Kaidan’s face. He obeyed, turning slowly, feeling more exposed than if he were naked. The fabric was a whisper against his skin. He heard Hank shift, a sharp intake of breath.
“Jesus, Kaidan.”
“Is it… too much?” Kaidan asked, his voice small. He stared at his sketchbook on the desk, at the half-finished panel of a knight and a dragon.
“Are you kidding?” Hank’s laugh was a soft huff. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Come up here.”
Kaidan turned back and crawled onto the mattress. The sheets were cool. Hank immediately pulled him close, not to kiss, but just to hold. Kaidan’s head found the spot on Hank’s shoulder it always did. The tension in his shoulders began to unknot.
“You were really nervous,” Hank stated, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Kaidan’s back, just above the tie of the thong.
“A bit. It’s new.”
“I know. I love it.” Hank kissed his temple. “My shy little bunny, all dressed up just for me. Makes me feel like the luckiest asshole alive.”
Kaidan snorted, burying his face deeper. “You are an asshole.”
“Your asshole.” Hank’s hand slid down, cupping him firmly through the silky material. Kaidan jumped, then melted into the touch. “So,” Hank murmured, his lips against Kaidan’s fluffy pink hair. “You said you bought a few outfits. What’s next? The belly dancer thing?”
“Maybe.” Kaidan tilted his head, finally meeting Hank’s eyes. The affection there was a solid, steady thing. It gave him courage. “If you’re good.”
“I’m always good.”
“Debatable.” Kaidan shifted, straddling Hank’s lap. The position made him feel taller, more in control. He saw the darkening of Hank’s eyes, the way his gaze dropped to the pasties. “You just want the show.”
“I want you,” Hank corrected, his hands settling on Kaidan’s thick thighs, thumbs rubbing the sensitive skin. “The show is a breathtaking bonus.”
Kaidan leaned down, letting his hoodie brush Hank’s chest. He pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to his lips. Hank’s hands tightened on his thighs. When Kaidan pulled back an inch, he whispered, “The belly dancer costume has coins. They’ll make noise.”
Hank’s grin was wolfish. “I’m counting on it.” He leaned forward and captured Kaidan’s mouth again, this kiss deeper, a promise of what was to come. The red light painted them both in shades of desire and warmth, a private world where a nervous artist could be a bold bunny, and a gym coach could worship him, one shimmering, whispered secret at a time. Outside, the city blinked, unaware. In here, the only plot that mattered was the one they were writing together, touch by touch, on rumpled sheets.
In here, the only plot that mattered was the one they were writing together, touch by touch, on rumpled sheets. They continued kissing for a while more until both of them broke the kiss, breathing a bit heavily. Hank smirked and asked for the belly dancer costume again. Kaidan rolls his eyes with no heat behind them and crawls back on his feet. As he walked back to his closet, he made sure to sway his hips a little, now feeling more confident. Back in his closet he rummaged through his pile of outfits until he found one belly dancer costume he liked: it was made of red fabric, gold accents and coins, the bra was translucent and the veil only covered down his chin. Kaidan looked himself in the mirror and added two last things: he changed the pink pasties for golden ones and added some makeup to make his eyes more sharp. When he stepped outside of the closet, he found Hank sitting on the edge of the bed. Hank savoured the view before asking Kaidan to make a little dance for him. Kaidan said he didn't know how to dance, his nervousness returning, but Hank said he would help him and pulled him on his lap where his erection aligned perfectly with Kaidan's tight hole. Hank didn't waste time and began guiding Kaidan's hips to roll on him, Kaidan gasped and quickly followed the rhythm.
The coins on the hip scarf jingled, a soft, metallic counterpoint to Hank’s rough groan. Kaidan’s thighs tightened around Hank’s, the red fabric of the skirt rucking up. He could feel everything—the rough texture of Hank’s sweatpants against his inner thighs, the terrifying, thrilling ridge of Hank’s cock straining right there, against the flimsy barrier of the thong and his own body.
“Just like that,” Hank growled into his neck, his hands firm on Kaidan’s hips, steering him. “Fuck, listen to that. You sound expensive.”
Kaidan whimpered, the rolling motion sending shocks of pure need straight to his own neglected dick. He clutched at Hank’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscle and ink. The translucent bra did nothing to hide his peaked nipples, the gold pasties catching the red light with every shuddering breath.
“Hank…”
“I’ve got you. Just move.” Hank’s voice was gravel, his own control fraying. One hand slid from Kaidan’s hip around to his ass, kneading the flesh through the silk. “You’re so fucking perfect. All this for me.”
He emphasized the words by grinding up, a hard, deliberate press that made Kaidan cry out. The pressure was maddening. It wasn’t enough. It was everything.
“Off,” Kaidan panted, fumbling for the tie of the thong. “This… need it off.”
Hank’s hand stilled his. “Not yet.” He used his grip to slow Kaidan’s movements, turning the frantic rolls into a deep, sinful grind. “You wanted to dance. So dance. Make me crazy watching you.”
He leaned back, putting just inches between them, his dark eyes burning. The command was clear. The heat of humiliation and desire warred in Kaidan’s gut, but the desire won, molten and absolute. He bit his lip, his sky-blue eyes locked on Hank’s, and began to move without Hank’s hands guiding him.
It was awkward at first. A stilted shift of his weight. Then another. The coins whispered, then sang. He let his head fall back, the veil brushing his collarbones. He rolled his shoulders, a slow, undulating wave that started in his spine and traveled down. He remembered panels he’d drawn—captive princes, courtesans in smoky rooms—and he let that stolen confidence fuel him.
He placed his hands on his own stomach, sliding them up over the golden pasties, up to his throat. His eyes never left Hank’s. Hank looked like he’d been punched, his breath coming in short, sharp pulls, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the mattress.
“You’re killing me,” Hank rasped.
Emboldened, Kaidan reached down, his fingers hooking under the waistband of Hank’s sweats. He didn’t pull them down. Just traced the line of them, feeling the fierce heat beneath. He leaned forward, the coins falling forward with a cascade of sound, and put his mouth on Hank’s.
This kiss was different. Salt and ownership. Hank’s tongue plunged in, claiming, and his hands came up to fist in the red veil, pulling it, twisting it around his fingers like a rein. He broke the kiss, panting.
“Now. The thong. Now, Kaidan.”
The urgency snapped something in the air. Kaidan scrambled off his lap, his fingers trembling as he untied the tiny bows on each hip. The silk slithered down his thighs. He kicked it aside. He stood there, in the jingling skirt and the see-through bra, fully exposed from the waist down. His small cock was hard, curving up against his stomach, flushed and leaking.
Hank shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself. He was thick, heavy, the head dark and wet. He didn’t touch himself. Just stared.
“Come here. Straddle me again. But slow. Make me watch every fucking inch.”
Kaidan’s mouth went dry. He moved, climbing back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Hank’s thighs. He braced his hands on Hank’s shoulders. The coins settled around him, a cool circle on his skin.
Hank’s hand wrapped around himself, giving a slow, slick stroke. He guided the blunt head to Kaidan’s entrance, pressing just enough to tease, to feel the tight, desperate flutter of muscle.
“You ready?” Hank’s question was a formality. His eyes were black.
“Yes. God, yes. Please.”
“Then take it. Take what’s yours.”
Kaidan sank down.
The burn was exquisite, a stretching, filling ache that forced a ragged sob from his throat. He went slowly, as ordered, the descent an agonizing revelation of fullness. He felt every vein, every pulse. The red light swam in his vision. Hank’s hands flew to his hips again, not pushing, just holding, his own body rigid with the effort of letting Kaidan set the pace.
When he was fully seated, impaled, they both froze. Breath held. The world narrowed to this point of union, the searing heat where their bodies met. Kaidan could feel Hank’s heartbeat in his cock.
“Fuck,” Hank whispered, awed. “You feel… you feel like heaven made just for me.”
Kaidan started to move. Up, then down. A slow, dragging slide. The friction was insane. He couldn’t think. He could only feel and obey the deep, primal rhythm taking over his body. Up. Down. The jingle of the coins became a frantic, shaking beat.
“Faster,” Hank grunted, his hips bucking up to meet the next downward stroke.
The slap of skin joined the melody. Kaidan’s bra felt too tight, the world too bright. He let go of Hank’s shoulders, arms falling to his sides, his head lolling back as he rode him. He was a mess of sensation: the bite of the coin belts on his hips, the sweat slick between their stomachs, the punishing, perfect drive of Hank inside him, hitting a spot that made white sparks flash behind his eyelids.
“Touch yourself,” Hank commanded, his voice shattered. “I want to see you come on my cock.”
Kaidan’s hand flew to his own dick. It was slippery with pre-come. He fisted himself, his strokes clumsy and frantic, perfectly in time with Hank’s upward thrusts. The dual stimulation was too much, a feedback loop of pleasure coiling impossibly tight in his gut.
“Hank… I’m gonna…”
“Do it. Come for me, bunny. Let me feel it.”
Hank’s hands clamped on his ass, fingers digging in, splitting him open wider as he pistoned up into him. The change in angle was brutal, perfect. Kaidan’s cry was a raw, broken thing. His orgasm ripped through him, convulsing, blinding. He spilled over his own fist and onto Hank’s stomach, his body clamping down viscously around the cock still pounding into him.
The intense, rhythmic clenching pushed Hank over the edge. With a roar that was mostly Kaidan’s name, he drove up one last, final time and held, his own release pumping hot and deep inside Kaidan in pulsing waves.
The collapse was gradual. Kaidan sagged forward, his forehead hitting Hank’s shoulder, the coins settling with a last, soft sigh. Hank’s arms came around him, holding him close, their hearts hammering against each other in the sudden, thick quiet. The scent of sex and lavender filled the air.
They stayed like that for long minutes, just breathing. Hank’s hand came up to stroke the damp pink hair under the bunny hood, which had somehow stayed on through everything.
“So,” Hank finally murmured, his voice husky with use. “The belly dancer costume is a keeper.”
Kaidan laughed, a weak, breathy puff against Hank’s skin. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious. We’re framing it. It’s holy now.”
Kaidan pinched his side, making him jump. The movement made him acutely aware of the softening length slipping out of him, of the warm, sticky mess between his thighs. He winced.
“Okay, maybe a shower first,” Hank conceded, kissing his temple. “Then framing.”
They untangled themselves, a slow, tender process. Hank stood, his sweatpants still around his ankles, and he kicked them off. He looked absurd and magnificent in the red light—tattooed, spent, utterly comfortable in his skin. He offered a hand to Kaidan.
“Can you walk?”
“I think you broke me,” Kaidan said, but he took the hand, letting Hank pull him up. The skirt of the costume, now damp in places, clung to his thighs. He felt wrecked in the best possible way.
Hank led him to the bathroom, a small, tiled space just off the bedroom. He turned on the shower, waiting for the water to steam. He gently removed the veil, the bra, the hip scarf, the coins now silent. He peeled off the golden pasties with a tenderness that made Kaidan’s chest ache.
Under the hot spray, they washed each other. It was slow, methodical. Hank soaped up his hands and smoothed them over Kaidan’s shoulders, his back, the curve of his ass. His touch held no fresh urgency, just a deep, sated gratitude. Kaidan returned the favor, mapping the familiar script of tattoos on Hank’s back, rubbing the tight muscles there.
“You were amazing,” Hank said quietly, water streaming down his face. “You know that, right?”
Kaidan just nodded, pressing his face into Hank’s neck. Words felt too big. They always did after.
Dried off and wrapped in soft towels, they migrated back to the bed. Hank pulled the top sheet over them, disregarding the damp spots. Kaidan curled into his side, his leg thrown over Hank’s, their feet tangling.
The red fairy lights were starting to feel less like a stage set and more like their own private sun, setting on the spent, quiet landscape of their bodies.
“So,” Hank said, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Kaidan’s arm. “The move-in date. Next weekend still good?”
The question, practical and enormous, landed in the warm haze. Kaidan shifted, propping his chin on Hank’s chest to look at him. “Yeah. If you’re sure. My place is kind of a mess. It’s mostly manga and art supplies.”
“Our place,” Hank corrected. “And I don’t care if it’s a nest of ink and paper. It’s closer to the gym. And it smells like you.” He squeezed him. “I’m sure. I’ve been sure.”
Kaidan searched his face. In the subdued glow, Hank looked open, earnest. The teasing coach was gone, leaving just the man who carried his toothbrush in his gym bag, just in case. The man who’d watched him try on silly, sexy costumes with the reverence of a man at a shrine.
“Okay,” Kaidan said. A simple word for a tectonic shift. “Next weekend.”
Hank smiled, a real, quiet smile that reached his eyes. He pulled Kaidan up for a soft, lingering kiss. It tasted of toothpaste and promise.
“Good.” Hank settled back, pulling the sheet up to their shoulders. “Now go to sleep. I’m exhausted. You’re a demanding little bunny.”
Kaidan snorted but snuggled closer, his ear over Hank’s steady heartbeat. The last thing he registered before sleep took him was the weight of Hank’s arm around him, solid as an anchor, and the faint, cool shimmer of a forgotten gold coin, gleaming on the floorboards in the dark.