Tenshikui no Sekai

The Afterfeel of Cotton (Izumo x Rin)

She didn’t take off his shirt that night. Without thinking, Kamiki Izumo disappeared under her bedcovers still clothed in the light sweatshirt Okumura Rin had given her.
It was barely more than t-shirt weight cotton, so why did it feel like a shield? Even beneath the futon, heavy as it was, why did just
this shirt feel like her last defense? Izumo hated being vulnerable. She’d been vulnerable far too often in her life. Still, at the last moment she had crumbled beneath the weight of her own insecurities and nearly gotten herself killed. All that stood between her and death was the miraculous appearance of that two-bit good-for-nothing talentless little brat, and yet he had stood there. He’d kept his head and told her to rip the summons circles, without hesitation he’d taken on the ghoul though he had no way to fight it, didn’t spout any stupid, worthless words of comfort or wig out when he saw her crying… Oh damn. She cried in front of him. The shame burned to life on her face again, and unconsciously she hooked her nose beneath the edge of the stretchy cotton neck, and by the time she realized she’d done it the smells were registering. Suddenly very aware that she was in a man’s shirt (never mind that it was the unreliable idiot’s), her brain’s overdrive kicked in before she knew what to do with it. The light smell of salt and sweat, the deep, heady smell of a man… there was a hint of spice for some reason, and also the inexplicable smell of something sweet that wasn’t sugar or baked, but rather natural. Her fingers trembled as she noticed that there were threadbare places and patched places, and the bands were stretched to the point of no return. The shirt was damn old, but he hadn’t replaced it; it barely registered that she was wondering why. Still, what struck her was the feeling. Like an aftertaste, she could feel him inside that shirt. It was warm, nearly hot; but the back was cold from when he was thrown to the tile floor. It was stretched not only from years of conforming to his body, but also from being gripped by the ghoul. It settled around her loosely, nearly big enough to pass as a dress, and she felt ridiculously small and self-concious the more she thought about it. The next time Izumo looked at the clock on her phone, it was already 4:30. Stuffing all her fluttery, girlish feelings back beneath her basket of complaints she stood and, with great hesitation, pulled that shirt–her armor–off. She’d definitely have to wash it before giving it back… even if he was an idiot.

A fanfic that I share with you and surely many would have liked it to happen from start