Chapter 1: Panties and a Pink Shirt
The kitchen was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffered sounds of the city outside. Morning light, thick and golden, cut through the half-open blinds, painting warm stripes across the worn wooden floorboards. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams.
Choso stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. The air held the faint, sweet scent of cinnamon from yesterday’s baking, and beneath it, the cleaner, soapy smell of the dish liquid he’d used. He was lost in the simple ritual, his movements slow and a little stiff with sleep.
He wore only two things: a soft, faded pink hoodie that smelled overwhelmingly of Yuji—of cheap body wash and his particular, warm skin—and a delicate scrap of black lace that barely qualified as underwear. The hoodie hung loose on his slender frame, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The lace was damp already, a fact he was painfully aware of, a secret between him and the cool morning air.The kettle began a low, tentative whistle. He jumped, just a little, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the counter. The crimson markings under his eyes seemed darker in this light, like old bruises.Footsteps, quick and familiar, sounded in the hallway. Choso’s breath hitched.He didn’t turn around.
A warm, solid body pressed against his back.Arms wrapped around his waist, hands splaying possessively over the soft cotton covering his stomach. Yuji’s chin came to rest on his shoulder.
“Morning,” Yuji mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep. He nuzzled into the side of Choso’s neck, inhaling deeply. “Smell like me.”
Choso felt a shiver race down his spine, pooling low in his gut.His knuckles whitened on the counter. “It’s your shirt,” he whispered, as if it wasn’t obvious.
“I know.” Yuji’s hands began to move, slow and sure. One drifted lower, over the curve of his hip, fingers tracing the faint ridge of lace beneath the fabric. “Making tea?”
Choso could only manage a nod.The kettle’s whistle climbed to a shrill peak. He made no move to silence it.Yuji’s other hand slid down, palm cupping him firmly through the damp lace. A low groan vibrated against Choso’s shoulder blade.“Jesus, Choso. You’re soaked.”
Heat flooded Choso’s face, his ears burning. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against Yuji’s chest. The whistle of the kettle was deafening, a sharp counterpoint to the thick, heavy silence between them.
Yuji’s fingers pressed in, just a little, and Choso gasped. A jolt of pure electricity shot through him, making his legs feel weak. “Y-Yuji…”
“Just from wearing my clothes?” Yuji’s voice was a rumble, amused and darkly pleased. His hand moved, a subtle, relentless pressure through the slick fabric. “That’s all it takes?”
The praise, the ownership in the question, undid him.Choso nodded again, frantic this time. A small, broken sound escaped his lips. He was trembling, his entire body alight from that single point of contact.Yuji shifted, turning him gently until his back was against the counter. The sunlight caught Yuji’s face, his own grin wide and easy. He looked at Choso—really looked—at the flushed skin, the parted lips, the way the black lace peeked from beneath the pink hem.His gaze was a physical touch.
He leaned in, closing the distance slowly, giving Choso every chance to pull away.He didn’t. Their lips met, soft at first, then deepening.Yuji tasted like sleep and mint toothpaste. Choso melted into it, his hands coming up to clutch desperately at Yuji’s t-shirt.
Yuji broke the kiss, breathing harshly. He kept one hand anchored on Choso’s hip, the other moving to tease the edge of the lace. “Kettle’s screaming,” he said, his eyes locked on Choso’s.
“I don’t care,” Choso breathed, the words foreign and brave on his tongue.Yuji’s grin turned sharp. He reached behind Choso without looking and shoved the kettle off the burner. The whistle died abruptly, leaving a ringing silence filled with the sound of their breathing.“Good,” Yuji said. He dipped his head, mouth tracing the line of Choso’s jaw, down the column of his throat. He nipped lightly at the hollow where his pulse hammered. “Tea can wait.”
Choso’s world narrowed to the heat of Yuji’s mouth, the rough drag of his t-shirt against the sensitive skin of his thighs, the promise in those words. The sun warmed his back, the kitchen smelled like home and want, and for once, he didn't have to think at all. Yuji was leading, and all he had to do was feel.
Yuji’s hands were everywhere, yet they moved with a devastating patience that made Choso ache. The rough pads of his fingers traced the line of the lace where it cut into Choso’s thigh, a teasing, maddening pressure that promised more and gave nothing.“You’re shaking,” Yuji murmured against his skin, the words hot and damp. His other hand came up to push the oversized hoodie off Choso’s shoulder, baring pale skin to the sunlight and the cool air.The contrast made him shiver harder.
“C-can’t help it,” Choso stammered. He felt unraveled, hyper-aware of every point of contact: the firm counter at his back, the solid warmth of Yuji in front of him, the delicate, soaked fabric that was the only barrier left.
Yuji leaned back just enough to look at him, his eyes dark and focused. He took in the flushed chest, the quick rise and fall, the way Choso’s hands still clutched weakly at his shirt. A slow, easy smile spread across his face. It wasn’t cruel, but it was full of a knowing power that made Choso’s breath catch.
“Just gonna feel, okay?” Yuji said, his voice low.It wasn’t really a question.
Choso nodded, a jerky, eager movement.He bit his lower lip to stop another pathetic sound from escaping.
Yuji’s hand slid back down, over the curve of his hip, beneath the bunched-up hem of the hoodie. His fingers dipped under the waistband of the lace, blunt and warm against the feverish skin of Choso’s lower stomach. He paused there, his thumb stroking a slow circle just above the bone.The anticipation was a live wire. Choso whined, high in his throat, and pressed his head back against the cabinet.The wood was cool through his topknots.
Finally, Yuji’s fingers slipped lower, past the crisp line of lace, into the damp, waiting heat.
Choso cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound that shattered the kitchen’s quiet. His knees buckled, but Yuji was there, his arm solid around Choso’s waist, holding him up as his fingers curled, slow and deep, inside him.
The sensation was blinding. It was too much and not enough, a perfect, filling pressure that erased every thought.Choso’s vision blurred at the edges, golden light swimming into formless color. He was panting, each breath a shaky gasp.
Yuji fingered him with a steady, relentless rhythm, his own breathing harsh in Choso’s ear. “So good,” he growled, his voice thick with awe.“So fucking wet for me. Just from my shirt.” He twisted his wrist, a clever, devastating motion that made Choso see white.
Choso could only moan, a continuous, broken stream of sound. He was molten, pliant, completely owned by the push and drag of Yuji’s hand. Every nerve was alight, singing a desperate, focused song. The world narrowed to the sunlight on his closed eyelids, the smell of cinnamon and Yuji, and the exquisite, building friction coiling tight in his core.