Chapter 20: Twin Ruin
The new energy inside Taichi didn’t settle; it prowled. It was a caged beast, Rook’s violent will mixing with the desperate hunger of the others, a volatile cocktail that made the very air around him feel charged. He didn’t go back into the club. The thumping bass felt juvenile now, the dim lights insufficient to hide the new sharpness in his gaze. He needed space, or perhaps something rougher.
Van, a silent silhouette at his side, guided him through a service exit. The heavy door swung shut, muffling the music instantly. They were in the back alley.
Here, the Pulse Room’s glamour bled out onto wet concrete. Neon from a cheap signage lit puddles of iridescent oil and something less identifiable. The air was cold, smelling of damp brick, spilled liquor, and the sweet-rot scent of overflowing dumpsters. The bass from inside was a faint, distorted tremor in the pavement.
Two figures were huddled by the dumpster, their laughter sharp and too loud. Frat types, probably. One was vaping, the cloud of candy-flavored smoke catching the neon. They saw Taichi first, silhouetted against the light from the door. Then they saw Van, looming behind him, and their bravado visibly wavered.
“Private party’s over, boys,” the taller one said, trying to sound tough. His friend giggled nervously.
Taichi said nothing. He simply stepped forward, into the garish light. He’d discarded the ruined harness entirely. His shirt was untucked, hanging open. His pants were loose, low on his hips. He saw their eyes drop, saw the confusion and then the dawning, greedy recognition as they took in the smooth lines of his body, the provocative suggestion of his form.
“Whoa,” the shorter one breathed. “What are you?”
“Something fun,” Taichi said, his voice flat. He leaned back against the cool, graffitied brick wall, spreading his legs just enough. The invitation was crude, blatant.
The tall one grinned, nudging his friend. “See? Told you this night would get better.” He swaggered over, the vape pen dangling from his fingers. “You looking for a good time, sweetheart?”
“I’m looking,” Taichi said, his eyes glinting, “for a meal.”
The shorter one laughed, a high, nervous sound. He was already fumbling with his belt. “Fuck yeah. Me first.”
They didn’t ask about Van, who had melted into the deeper shadows near a fire escape, his presence now just a watchful chill. They were too focused on the prize, on Taichi’s pale skin in the sickly light, on the implicit promise. They pushed him roughly against the wall, their hands grabbing, their breath smelling of cheap beer and mint.
“Hold him,” the tall one grunted to his friend.
The shorter one pinned Taichi’s arms above his head, his grip surprisingly strong. The tall one yanked Taichi’s pants and underwear down to his thighs in one jerky motion. The cold alley air hit his exposed cunt and ass. He was already slick, the demonic wetness a constant now, a beacon.
“Jesus fuck,” the tall one hissed, staring. “It’s… it’s fucking real. Two of ‘em.” He spat on his fingers, not for Taichi’s comfort, but to roughly slick himself. He was already hard, his cock jutting out angrily. He didn’t line up with Taichi’s cunt. He aimed lower, for his ass. “Gonna break in this back door first.”
He shoved in without ceremony.
The pain was a bright, shocking bolt. Taichi’s head slammed back against the brick. The frat boy was all aggressive, untutored thrusting, pounding into his ass with a bruising, selfish rhythm. The guy was panting, grunting animal sounds into Taichi’s neck.
“My turn, my turn!” the shorter one whined, still pinning Taichi’s wrists. He let go with one hand to shove at his friend’s shoulder. “You said! My turn!”
“Fuck off, I’m almost there!”
“Now!”
With a final, jagged thrust, the tall one pulled out, his cock slapping wetly against Taichi’s thigh. He stumbled back, breathing hard. The shorter one didn’t even remove Taichi’s pants fully. He just spun him around, bending him over a filthy metal dumpster, the edge digging into his stomach. The cold, greasy surface was against his cheek.
This one aimed for Taichi’s cunt. He drove into it with a single, furious lunge, burying himself to the hilt. He was smaller, but his desperation made up for it. He fucked like he was trying to win a prize, short, frantic strokes that jolted Taichi against the dumpster’s edge.
“Yeah, yeah, take it, you fucking slut,” the boy chanted, a parody of porn dialogue. His fingers dug into Taichi’s hips.
Taichi endured it. He let the sensation—the pain, the invasion, the sheer vulgarity of it—wash over him. He focused inward, on the churning vortex inside his gut. The siphon was open, a silent, gaping maw. He could feel their energy; it was thin, bubbly. A childish aggression, a borrowed confidence from too many drinks. It was barely a snack after Rook’s feast.
He waited.
The tall one, recovered, pushed his friend aside. “My turn again. Move.” He positioned himself again at Taichi’s ass. This time, he was rougher, angrier. He gripped Taichi’s hips like handles and slammed home.
For a moment, they both fucked him, a ragged, uncoordinated rhythm, the shorter one in his cunt, the tall one in his ass. Taichi was a piece of meat between them, jarred and battered, the dumpster rattling with their effort. Their grunts and curses filled the alley.
“I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!” the one in his cunt whined.
“Me too, fuck!”
This was the moment.
Taichi stopped being passive. He clenched.
It wasn’t just a physical tightening. It was the full, terrible force of the siphon, focused and unleashed through the very flesh they violated. He gripped their cocks inside him like vises of dark, hungry power.
The change was instantaneous. Their groans of building pleasure twisted into sharp, choked gasps. The frantic motion stopped. They froze, buried inside him, their bodies rigid.
Taichi felt it—the sudden, violent pull. Their pitiful energies, their cheap thrills and fragile egos, were torn from the root. It wasn't a transfer; it was a yanking. A draining.
Their screams started as guttural rasps, the sound of air being forcibly ripped from lungs. The one in his ass tried to pull out, but his muscles were locked, seized by the parasitic draw. He shuddered, a violent, full-body spasm.
From the shadows, Van’s tendrils of living darkness shot out. They weren’t gentle. They wrapped around the boys’ throats, not to choke, but to muffle. The screams became muffled, wet burbles against the leathery shadow-flesh. The tendrils tightened, holding their heads in place, forcing them to stare into Taichi’s back, to feel the final pulses of their own lives being sucked away through their trapped, spasming cocks.
Taichi drank it in. The energy was weak, sugary, and left a faint nausea, but the act of taking was what fed the beast inside him now. He felt them diminish, felt their minds go blank and hollow. When he finally relaxed his internal grip, they didn’t collapse. They simply slid out of him, boneless, and crumpled to the greasy pavement like discarded sacks.
Silence, broken only by the distant thump of the club and the drip of a leaky pipe.
Taichi straightened up, pulling his pants back over his hips with calm, deliberate motions. He looked down at the two figures. They were breathing, but their eyes were open and vacant, staring at the neon-lit sky without seeing it.
Van emerged from the shadows. He didn’t glance at the drained boys. His eyes were only for Taichi. He reached out and, with a tenderness that belied the scene, wiped a smear of grime from Taichi’s cheekbone.
“Messy,” Van murmured, his voice a low thrum. “Like pups fighting over a scrap. The taste is… unrefined.”
“It’s what was here,” Taichi said, his own voice cold. He felt nothing for the boys. Not pity, not triumph. Just a faint, metallic aftertaste.
“The hunger is growing,” Van observed, his fingers tracing the line of Taichi’s jaw. “It is learning to be selective. Good.”
He guided Taichi away from the dumpsters, stepping over the prone forms. At the mouth of the alley, where the light from the street tried to penetrate, Taichi paused. He looked at his hands in the sodium glare. They looked the same. But he felt the layers inside him now—Marcus’s need, Rook’s brutality, the hollowed-out echoes of these two nameless boys. A patchwork monster wearing his skin.
Van’s hand rested on the small of his back, a possessive anchor. “Come. The city is full of darker appetites. You’ve merely sampled the table scraps.”
Taichi nodded, letting Van steer him into the night. He didn’t look back at the alley. The hunger, now refined and挑剔, turned its gaze outward, toward the deeper shadows of the city, where the flavors promised to be far more complex, and the feasts, far more filling.