Chronolust Temptation [18+] High S*xual Content
Ch.4 Family Problems (I)

The shrill ring of the telephone sliced through the siblings’ easy chatter, scattering their jokes like startled birds. With an annoyed huff, the young man went to check on the appliance. However, just as his hand closed around the receiver, the ringing cut off, leaving only the faint buzz of the idle line.

Hayao’s shoulders slumped. “Great,” he muttered, setting the phone back in its cradle with more force than necessary. For a heartbeat, he stood there, listening for a second call that never came. When silence confirmed the caller’s retreat, he raked a frustrated hand through his hair and turned on his heel to go back to his sister’s room.

Hayao stood at the threshold of Yumi’s room, looking in. The single lamp on her nightstand glowed dimly, its amber light pooling on the hardwood floor and casting jagged shadows across the walls, where posters of old bands and faded travel photos hung crookedly. The air was thick with the sharp tang of sake, undercut by the musky scent of sweat and a hint of Yumi’s floral perfume, now clinging faintly to her skin after hours of wear. She lay sprawled across her bed, one leg tangled in the rumpled sheets, her chest rising and falling with uneven, labored breaths. Her sleek black dress—once a striking statement piece with its fitted bodice and subtle shimmer—was now a twisted mess, bunched around her thighs and wrinkled from her restless movements.

His pulse thudded in his ears as he took a tentative step forward, the floor creaking beneath his weight. He’d made the choice to help her, but now, standing here, the gravity of it pressed against his chest like a physical weight. This was Yumi—his big sister, the one who’d always been so fiercely independent—and yet here she was, vulnerable and disheveled, needing him in a way that felt both foreign and deeply personal. The intimacy of the task ahead made his palms clammy, and he wiped them on his jeans, swallowing hard.

“Yumi?” he ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he might wake her from a dream she wasn’t already half-lost in.

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, and she tilted her head toward him. “Hayao?” she slurred, the word tumbling out in a slow, syrupy drawl. A faint smile curved her lips, lopsided and unguarded.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, forcing a casual tone despite the knot tightening in his stomach. “You, uh, asked me to help you with your dress.”

She blinked, then gave a sluggish nod, her head bobbing awkwardly. “Oh, right. Yeah. Thanks, little bro. You’re… you’re the best.” Her voice wavered, thick with alcohol and exhaustion, but the gratitude in it was unmistakable.

Hayao edged closer to the bed, his sneakers scuffing against the floor. Up close, he could see the smudged eyeliner framing her eyes, the faint flush on her cheeks, and the way her dark hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink. He scanned the dress, searching for the zipper, and spotted it along the curve of her back—a thin silver line glinting faintly in the lamplight. To reach it, he’d have to maneuver her somehow, and the thought made his throat tighten.

“Um, Yumi, can you… sit up a bit?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “It’d make this easier.”

She groaned, a low, dramatic sound, but braced her hands against the mattress and pushed herself upright. Her movements were unsteady, her body swaying like a boat caught in a gentle current, and Hayao instinctively reached out to steady her, his hands hovering near her shoulders before pulling back. She managed to sit, though, slumping forward slightly, her head dipping as if it were too heavy to hold.

“Okay, hold still,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, and moved to kneel behind her on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he felt the warmth of her body radiating through the thin fabric of the dress as he positioned himself. His fingers brushed the zipper, the metal cool and smooth against his skin, and he hesitated, his breath catching. This felt too close, too personal—like crossing a line he hadn’t even known existed until now.

He gripped the zipper pull and began to ease it down, the soft rasp of the teeth parting cutting through the quiet. Yumi shifted, leaning back against him without warning, and her head settled against his shoulder. “You’re so good to me, Hayao,” she mumbled, her breath warm and slightly sour against his neck. “Always taking care of me… like… I dunno.”

His heart stuttered, her words stirring a mix of tenderness and unease. The softness of her hair grazed his cheek, and the faint scent of her shampoo—something citrusy and familiar—mingled with the alcohol on her breath. He swallowed, focusing on the zipper, guiding it down with deliberate slowness. The dress parted, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, her skin pale and faintly freckled in the dim light. Each inch felt like a revelation, and he fought to keep his mind blank, to see this as just a task, nothing more.

The zipper reached its end, and the dress loosened completely, sliding down her shoulders. Yumi sighed, a sound of pure relief, and rolled her shoulders to shrug the straps free. The fabric slipped lower, pooling around her waist, and Hayao jerked his gaze upward, his face heating as he caught a glimpse of her lacy black bra. “Okay, uh, there you go,” he said, his voice pitching high as he scrambled off the bed, putting distance between them.

Yumi turned to face him, swaying slightly, her dress now a crumpled heap around her hips. She looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded but warm, and smiled. “Thanks, Hayao. Seriously. I’d be a mess without you.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling. “It’s fine. Just… get some sleep, alright?” he said, all thoughts of the stopwatch fleeing him.

She nodded, then lurched forward, wrapping her arms around him in a sudden, clumsy hug. Hayao froze, his breath hitching as her warmth enveloped him. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and he could feel the rapid thud of her heartbeat—or maybe it was his own. 

“You’re the best brother ever,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. “Don’t ever change, okay?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammered, patting her back awkwardly, his mind a tangle of conflicting emotions—embarrassment, affection, a strange ache he couldn’t name. “You too. I mean, just… sleep.”

She giggled, a soft, drunken sound, and released him, flopping back onto the bed with a theatrical sigh. She tugged the sheets up over herself, nestling into the pillow, and within seconds, her breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Hayao lingered by the bedside, watching her for a long moment. The lamplight softened her features, smoothing away the chaos of the night, and he felt a quiet surge of protectiveness. She was a mess, sure, but she was his mess—his sister—and tonight, she’d needed him. He reached for the lamp, his fingers brushing the worn switch, and clicked it off, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow seeping in from the hallway.

As he turned to leave, he noticed her high heels still strewn across the floor—black, strappy things with scuffed soles. He hesitated, then crouched to pick them up, their leather cool against his palms. He set them neatly by the bed, aligning them with a precision that felt oddly satisfying, and stood, casting one last glance at Yumi’s sleeping form before slipping out and easing the door shut behind him.

In the hallway, he pressed his back against the wall, the cool plaster grounding him as his pulse finally began to slow. His mind replayed the night in vivid fragments: the weight of her against him, the softness of her voice, the way she’d looked at him with such unguarded trust. 

He exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair, and pushed off the wall, heading to his own room. The apartment was silent now, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional creak of the building settling. He changed into his pajamas—old, faded ones with a hole in the knee—and slid into bed, the sheets crisp and cool against his skin. He stared at the ceiling, shadows dancing faintly from the streetlights outside, and let his thoughts drift.

Yumi had always been the strong one, the one who’d patched up his scrapes as a kid, who’d taught him how to ride a bike, who’d laughed off his clumsiness with that easy grin of hers. But tonight, she’d been fragile, dependent, and he’d stepped up without a second thought. Perhaps, he was growing up.

***

Hayao lay in his narrow bed, the worn cotton of his pajamas shifting against his skin as he adjusted his position, trying to find comfort in the familiar dip of the mattress. His sheets, cool at first, had begun to warm against his body, but sleep remained elusive, his mind tethered to the events that had just unfolded.

He turned onto his side,  and his thoughts circled back to Yumi, to the way she’d looked sprawled across her bed. That dress—sleek and black, now crumpled and discarded—had been a symbol of her night out, her freedom. And seeing her like that had also aroused him.

His chest tightened as he replayed the moment she’d leaned against him, her head heavy on his shoulder, her words spilling out in a drunken cascade. “You’re so good to me, Hayao.” It had been a simple statement, but it echoed in his mind, stirring memories of their childhood.

He shifted again, the mattress creaking beneath him, and tucked an arm under his pillow, his fingers brushing the frayed edge of the fabric. The memory of her hug lingered, vivid and tactile—the warmth of her arms, the faint press of her cheek against his chest, the way her breath had hitched slightly as she’d whispered, 

“You’re the best brother ever.” It had been a fleeting moment, over almost before it began, but it clung to him now, a thread of connection that felt both comforting and disorienting. She was his sister, nothing more, and yet the closeness of it—the raw, unguarded intimacy—had stirred something he couldn’t quite name.

Hayao closed his eyes, willing his mind to quiet, but the images persisted: the glint of the zipper as it slid down her back, the curve of her shoulders as the dress fell away, the way her smile had softened in the lamplight. He groaned softly, rolling onto his back again, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if he could block out the thoughts. It wasn’t like that, he told himself firmly. It was just a favor, a sibling thing. She’d been drunk, vulnerable, and he’d helped her. That was all.

But the unease lingered, a faint undercurrent beneath his rationalizations. He dropped his hands and stared at the ceiling again, tracing the familiar patterns with his gaze. 

He exhaled slowly, his breath stirring the stillness, and turned his head toward the window. The young boy wondered if he should check on her—make sure she was still breathing steadily, that she hadn’t rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. The thought tugged at him, insistent, and he sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. His room felt small suddenly, the walls too close, the air too still.

Slipping out of bed, he padded barefoot across the cold floor, the hardwood chilling his toes as he moved to the door. He opened it quietly, peering into the hallway, and listened. The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the soft, rhythmic sound of Yumi’s breathing drifting from her room. He crept closer, easing her door open just enough to peek inside. She was still there, curled on her side, the sheets tangled around her legs, her pretty face peaceful in sleep. The sight eased something in him, a tension he hadn’t realized he was holding, and he lingered there, one hand braced against the doorframe.

“She’s fine,” he whispered to himself, the words barely audible, and stepped back, closing the door with a gentle click. Returning to his room, he slid back into bed, the sheets now slightly cooler from his absence.

As his eyes fluttered shut, the last image he held was her smile—crooked and warm, a quiet thank-you in the dark—and with it, he slipped into a dreamless sleep, the night folding softly around him.

***

Hayao trudged through the school gates of Tasaka High, his sneakers scuffing against the worn pavement as the morning sun cast long, lazy shadows across the courtyard. The air buzzed with the chatter of students, their voices blending into a monotonous drone that grated on his nerves. Another day, another endless stretch of boredom. His backpack hung heavy on his shoulders, stuffed with textbooks he barely cared about, and his uniform—a navy blazer and gray slacks—felt stifling in the early autumn warmth. He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, already dreading the hours ahead.

The hallways were a blur of faces and noise as he made his way to his locker. Amid the crowd, he spotted Shigeru Miyamoto, his best friend of many years, leaning against the wall, his lanky frame slouched casually, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized hoodie. The boys’ black hair was a mess, as usual, sticking out in odd directions like he’d just rolled out of bed. His sharp eyes scanned the throng of students, a flicker of something—anticipation, maybe?—crossing his face before he noticed Hayao approaching.

“Hey, Shigeru,” Hayao greeted, forcing a half-hearted wave.

Shigeru’s grin was immediate, wide and genuine. “Yo, Hayao! Ready to suffer through another day of soul-crushing lectures?”

Hayao snorted, unlocking his locker with a metallic clank. “Thrilled. You finish that math homework?”

“Barely,” his friend groaned, scratching the back of his head. “Mr. Tanaka’s out to get us, I swear. Those equations were brutal.”

They fell into step, weaving through the crowded hallway toward their first class. Hayao stole a glance at Shigeru, noting the way his friend’s gaze kept drifting, searching the sea of faces. Lately, Shigeru had been acting strange—fidgety, distracted, especially when Yumi came up in conversation. Hayao had a hunch his best friend harbored a crush on his older sister, though Shigeru never said it outright. It was in the little things: the way his voice softened when he asked about her, or how his eyes lingered a beat too long whenever she was around.

The morning classes dragged on, a parade of droning teachers and scribbled notes. By lunchtime, Hayao’s patience was fraying. He and Shigeru claimed their usual spot under a sprawling oak tree in the courtyard, its leaves rustling faintly in the breeze. Hayao unpacked his bento—rice, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables—savoring the brief respite. Shigeru sat cross-legged across from him, picking at his own lunch, his chopsticks moving absently.

They’d barely started eating when Nanako bounded over, her presence like a burst of sunlight cutting through the haze. She was all energy, her short bob bouncing as she dropped onto the grass beside them. “Hey, guys! Mind if I join?”

“Go for it,” Hayao said, gesturing with his chopsticks. Shigeru, though, froze mid-bite, his shoulders tensing.

Nanako didn’t seem to notice, launching into a story about her morning art class. “So, we were supposed to sketch still life, but someone knocked over the fruit bowl, and it was chaos—apples rolling everywhere!” Her laughter was bright, infectious, but Shigeru barely reacted. He kept his eyes on his food, his fingers fumbling with his chopsticks, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Hayao watched, intrigued. Shigeru’s usual banter was gone, replaced by a stiff silence. Every so often, his friend’s gaze flicked toward Nanako, quick and furtive, like he was afraid she’d catch him looking. When she leaned forward to grab a piece of her sandwich, Shigeru flinched, nearly dropping his rice.

“So, Hayao,” Nanako said, turning to him, “how’s Yumi? I haven’t seen her in forever.”

“She’s good,” Hayao replied, swallowing a mouthful of fish. “Busy with college, I think. She’s always holed up studying or out with friends.”

Nanako nodded thoughtfully. “College sounds intense. Tell her I said hi, okay?”

“Sure.” Hayao glanced at Shigeru, whose ears twitched at Yumi’s name. But when Nanako’s eyes flicked his way, he ducked his head, mumbling something incoherent into his lunch.

The rest of the break passed with Nanako chattering away, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. Shigeru stayed quiet, his responses clipped, his hands restless. When the bell rang, Nanako waved cheerfully and darted off, leaving Shigeru to exhale sharply, his body slumping as if he’d been holding his breath.

“What’s with you?” Hayao asked, nudging him as they stood.

Shigeru blinked, feigning confusion. “Huh? Nothing. Just... tired.”

Hayao smirked but let it drop. Shigeru’s poker face was terrible, and whatever was going on—whether it was Yumi or something else—Hayao wasn’t about to pry. Not yet.

The afternoon was a slog, each minute stretching into eternity. When the final bell rang, Hayao bolted, eager to escape. He waved a quick goodbye to Shigeru, who muttered something about homework and shuffled off, still distracted. As Hayao walked home through Tasaka City’s busy streets, his mind replayed the day—Shigeru’s odd behavior, Nanako’s brightness, the dull ache of routine. Something felt off, restless, like a storm brewing just out of sight.

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