Chapter 12: Van's Claim
Taichi’s apartment held the silence of a tomb, but inside him, a riotous noise roared. It had been three days since the bathroom. Three days of a haunting, hollow emptiness. The constant, dripping need had subsided, replaced by a deeper, more terrifying truth: human food tasted like ash. Coffee was bitter water. The sandwich he’d forced down at lunch sat in his gut like a lump of cold clay.
He lay on his bed in the perpetual twilight of his drawn curtains, a single stripe of fading sun cutting across the room like a fault line. The room smelled of him—stale sweat, unwashed sheets, and that underlying, coppery scent that was now his own baseline. He traced a hand over the subtle, firm curve of his lower abdomen. It was no longer a soft swell. It felt defined. Permanent.
A shift in the air pressure made his ears pop. The shadow in the corner of the room, behind a tower of unpacked boxes, deepened and congealed.
“See?” Van’s voice slid out of the darkness, smooth as oil. “You’re already forgetting how to be one of them.”
Taichi’s heart hammered, a frantic, human rhythm against his ribs. He didn’t turn. “I went to work. I smiled at David. I made a joke about the photocopier.”
“And you thought of nothing but the feel of my cock splitting you open the entire time.” Van materialized at the foot of the bed, not as a full form, but as a concentration of threat and desire. His eyes glowed like banked coals in the dim light.
Taichi had no retort. It was true. Every keystroke, every meeting, every sip of tasteless water was just filler between the memories of being stuffed, claimed, flooded.
Van flowed onto the bed, a movement more liquid than human. His hand shot out, fingers like steel bands around Taichi’s throat, and slammed him flat onto the mattress. The breath left Taichi’s lungs in a pained whoosh. Van leaned down, his face inches away. Taichi could see the impossible, star-filled darkness in his eyes.
“You’ve been a greedy little slut,” Van growled, his thumb pressing against Taichi’s windpipe, not to cut off air, but to claim the pulse beneath. “Haven’t you? Fingering your new cunt in your mind all day. Wishing it was mine. Dreaming of being stretched.”
“Yes,” Taichi rasped, the admission torn from him. The shame was gone, burned away by a hunger that dwarfed it.
Van’s free hand hooked into the waistband of Taichi’s sweats and yanked, tearing the fabric with a sound like a gasp. The cool air hit his bare skin. Van’s claws—black, curved, and wickedly sharp—dragged down Taichi’s inner thighs, not breaking the skin but leaving raised, fiery red trails in their wake. Taichi cried out, his legs falling open in automatic, eager submission.
“Look at you,” Van sneered, his gaze raking over Taichi’s exposed flesh. The new slit was visibly wet, glistening in the low light. His cock lay hard against his stomach. “Dripping for me without being touched. A perfect, hungry hole. But you have another.”
Van’s clawed fingers, slick with a dark, self-generated oil, found Taichi’s asshole. They didn’t tease. One thick finger plunged in, knuckle-deep, a brutal invasion. Taichi arched off the bed, a choked scream caught in his throttled throat. The stretch was immediate, savage. A second finger joined the first, scissoring him open with ruthless efficiency.
“This one needs to remember its purpose too,” Van muttered, his breath hot against Taichi’s cheek. He crooked his fingers, finding the bundle of nerves inside with unerring accuracy. Pleasure-pain exploded up Taichi’s spine, white and electric.
Then Van removed his fingers. The emptiness was worse than the invasion. Taichi whimpered, bucking his hips uselessly.
Van shifted his grip, his hand leaving Taichi’s throat to wrap around the base of his own cock. It was already fully erect, thick and veined, the head weeping a bead of fluid that looked black in the gloom. He positioned it at Taichi’s weeping front entrance.
“This belongs to me,” Van stated, and drove forward.
There was no slow penetration. It was a single, devastating thrust that buried him to the root in the tight, slick channel. Taichi’s world shattered into pure sensation. The burn was exquisite, a filling so complete it bordered on violence. Van was bigger than the conduit, hotter, more alive. Taichi could feel every ridge, every pulse.
Van didn’t move. He let Taichi feel it, let the agonizing fullness become his entire universe. Then he leaned down, his mouth against Taichi’s ear.
“Now for the other.”
Van’s oil-slick fingers returned to Taichi’s ass, now three of them, pushing in alongside the massive girth of his cock in Taichi’s cunt. The pressure was unbelievable. Taichi felt stretched to the point of breaking, stuffed beyond capacity. A broken sob escaped his lips.
“You can take it,” Van growled, beginning to move.
He established a brutal, alternating rhythm. He’d pull his cock almost all the way out of Taichi’s cunt, then slam back in, while simultaneously twisting his fingers deep in his ass. Then he’d grind his hips, making Taichi feel every inch inside his cunt, while his fingers curled and pumped in the other channel.
The bed rocked with the force of it. Taichi was a thing being used, a vessel being filled, and the pleasure was a dark, rising tide that threatened to drown him. Each thrust knocked a sound from him—a gasp, a moan, a ragged cry.
“You’ll never be satisfied with their pathetic, human pleasure again,” Van panted, his own control fraying. His thrusts became harder, faster, a machine-gun pounding that drove Taichi up the bed. “This cunt, this ass… they’re mine. They’ll only come alive for me. You’ll walk through your world feeling this empty, aching hollow, and you’ll know nothing but my touch can fill it.”
The words seared into Taichi’s soul more deeply than the physical violation. They felt true. They felt like fate.
Van’s rhythm faltered. He snarled, a sound that was wholly inhuman, and buried himself impossibly deep. Taichi felt the hot, surging flood of his release inside his cunt, a claiming so profound it triggered his own climax.
He came untouched, his cock jerking and spilling over his stomach, but the real eruption was internal, a convulsive, milking spasm around Van’s still-pulsing cock and invading fingers. It went on and on, wracking his slender frame until he was sobbing, oversensitive and shattered.
Van slowly withdrew, first his fingers, then his softening cock. A gush of fluid followed, soaking the sheets beneath Taichi. Van collapsed beside him, pulling Taichi’s limp, trembling body against his own cooler, solid chest.
For a long time, only their breathing filled the room. The stripe of sunlight on the floor had vanished. True darkness had fallen.
Taichi’s voice was a raw scrape. “I can’t go back.”
“You don’t have to,” Van murmured into his hair, his claws now gently tracing patterns on Taichi’s arm. “Soon, this pretense ends. You feel the change in your blood. In your hunger.”
Taichi did. The world outside his window—the distant sound of traffic, a snippet of laughter from the street—seemed flat, colorless, a recording played on a faulty device. The only thing that felt real was the ache between his legs and the demon’s arms around him.
“What happens then?” he whispered.
Van’s answer was a kiss, deep and languid, tasting of salt and oblivion. “Then,” he said, pulling back just enough to let his glowing eyes hold Taichi’s gaze, “the real feeding begins.”