Chapter 12: The Morning After
Consciousness returned in a slow, thick tide. Taichi became aware of the solid weight of an arm draped over his ribs, the press of a chest against his back, the even, warm puffs of breath against his nape. He was on his side, curled on the rug, and he was full.
A deep, dull ache pulsed in his core, a residual stretch that felt brand new. Memories flooded back—the cracking bones, the crushing weight, the brutal, knotting possession. A shiver ran through him, part aftershock, part awe.
Behind him, Yamato stirred. Taichi felt the shift immediately—the swollen, impossible pressure inside him began to soften, to recede. The knot, deflating. It slipped free with a wet, obscene sound, followed by a sudden hot trickle that ran down the back of his thigh, soaking into the rug.
Yamato’s arm tightened around him. A low, sleep-roughened growl vibrated against Taichi’s spine. “Awake?”
“Barely,” Taichi murmured, his own voice sandpaper raw.
Yamato’s hand slid down from his ribs, over the sticky mess on his belly, and further. His fingers wrapped around Taichi’s cock, which was already filling again under the rough, possessive touch. Taichi hissed, arching back into him. Every nerve felt scraped raw, hypersensitive.
“Again,” Yamato growled, the word less a request and more a statement of fact. His voice was wrecked, layered with a gravelly hunger that hadn’t fully receded with the wolf.
Before Taichi could form a coherent thought, Yamato was moving. He rolled Taichi onto his back with an ease that spoke of lingering inhuman strength. The movement made more of the wolf’s spend leak out of him, a warm slickness on his skin. Yamato loomed over him, his silver hair loose and tangled, his blue eyes dark, pupils blown wide with a possessiveness that was all man and all beast intertwined.
He pushed Taichi’s legs apart, his gaze dropping to where Taichi was open, used, glistening. Yamato spat into his own palm, slicked his cock—still thick, still hard—and guided himself back to that wrecked entrance.
“Look at me,” Yamato commanded, his voice a rasp.
Taichi dragged his eyes up, meeting that fierce blue stare. He saw the worry there, buried under the heat. The fear of having gone too far. Taichi answered it with a slow, deliberate spread of his legs, a silent offering.
Yamato’s control frayed. He pushed in.
The stretch was immediate, exquisite. Taichi moaned, his head falling back against the rug. It was different now—Yamato was human, but the fullness was no less overwhelming. The slide was smooth, aided by the copious spend from before, a filthy, intimate lubricant. Yamato seated himself to the hilt in one long, relentless thrust, and Taichi’s body clenched around him involuntarily, overstimulated and desperate for more.
“Fuck,” Yamato grunted, his hips flush against Taichi’s ass. “You’re so tight. Like you’re trying to keep me in there forever.”
He began to move, setting a deep, punishing rhythm that was entirely human in its intent. Each stroke dragged directly over Taichi’s prostate, a lightning bolt of sensation that had him seeing white behind his eyelids. It wasn’t the frantic hammering of the wolf; this was slower, more deliberate, a re-claiming by the man who knew every sound Taichi made, every place he liked to be touched.
“That’s it,” Taichi gasped, his hands flying up to claw at Yamato’s shoulders, his back. He felt the raised welts from his own nails from the night before. “Right there, don’t fucking stop—”
Yamato drove into him, again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the quiet cabin. He leaned down, capturing Taichi’s mouth in a savage kiss, all teeth and tongue and shared, ragged breath. Taichi could taste himself, could taste the wildness that still lingered on Yamato’s lips.
“Mine,” Yamato snarled against his mouth, the word a vow.
“Yours,” Taichi choked out, the admission tearing itself from him. “Always yours, you fucking animal.”
The words tipped Yamato over the edge. His thrusts lost their measured pace, becoming erratic, desperate. He buried his face in the crook of Taichi’s neck, his breath scalding hot. His teeth found the claiming mark he’d made weeks ago, the scar tissue still tender. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but with a firm, grounding pressure.
It was the final spark. Taichi’s orgasm ripped through him without warning, a silent, arching convulsion that locked his muscles and tore a ragged cry from his throat. His cock jerked between them, spilling over his stomach and Yamato’s in hot, helpless pulses.
The feel of Taichi clamping down around him, milking him, was too much. Yamato shuddered, a broken groan muffled against Taichi’s neck. He thrust once, twice more, slamming deep, and Taichi felt the hot flood of his release, another claiming shot deep inside his already filled body.
They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating, sticky mess. Yamato’s weight was a welcome anchor. Taichi could feel the frantic hammering of Yamato’s heart against his own chest, slowly settling into a synchronized rhythm.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing.
Eventually, Yamato shifted, pulling out slowly. Another trickle escaped, and Taichi winced at the sensitivity, the sheer, debauched emptiness. Yamato saw it. He leaned down and kissed him, softly this time, a slow exploration that tasted of salt and exhaustion and something indefinably sweet.
“You’re insane,” Yamato whispered, his forehead resting against Taichi’s.
“You love it,” Taichi mumbled, a drowsy, triumphant smile tugging at his lips.
Yamato didn’t deny it. He just kissed him again. Then, with a sigh, he pushed himself up. “Come on. You need a shower. We both do. We smell like a zoo.”
He stood, offering a hand. Taichi took it, his legs wobbling as Yamato pulled him upright. He looked down at himself—bruised hips, bite marks on his shoulders, the mess painting his skin. He felt raw, used, and utterly at peace.
The shower was a small stall, steam quickly fogging the glass. Yamato pushed him under the hot spray, his hands gentle as they smoothed over Taichi’s bruises, soaping away the evidence of their night. Taichi returned the favor, washing the matted fur and sweat from Yamato’s skin, his fingers tracing the powerful lines of his back, the curve of his ass.
They didn’t speak much. The water ran clear, then shut off. They dried each other with rough towels, the domesticity a stark, soothing contrast to the violence of their joining.
Back in the main room, Yamato found a clean pair of sweatpants for Taichi and pulled on his own. He surveyed the wreckage of the rug, the shredded clothes. A faint pink tinge colored his cheekbones. “I’ll… burn that later.”
Taichi laughed, sinking onto the edge of the rumpled bed. “My mom would kill me if she saw what happened to those pants.”
Yamato sat beside him, their shoulders touching. He was staring at his hands, the human hands that could turn into claws. “Taichi… about last night. What I became. What I did to you. If it was too much—”
Taichi cut him off, leaning into his side. “It was exactly what I asked for. What I wanted.” He looked up, meeting Yamato’s troubled gaze. “Don’t you dare apologize for giving me what I needed.”
Yamato searched his face, looking for any hint of lie or hesitation. He found none. The tension in his shoulders slowly eased. He looped an arm around Taichi, pulling him close. “You’re the only one who could ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“I know,” Taichi said simply. He did know.
They sat in silence as the grey morning light finally pierced the cabin’s windows, illuminating the dust motes and the aftermath on the floor. Taichi’s stomach growled, loud in the quiet.
Yamato snorted. “I’ll make food. You need to eat.”
“You’re just trying to fatten me up for next time,” Taichi quipped, elbowing him.
Yamato stood, a genuine, slow smile spreading across his face. It was rare, that smile, and it always felt like a victory. “Maybe I am.”
He walked toward the small kitchen area, but paused, looking back. The light caught the silver in his hair, the sharp angle of his profile. “Band rehearsal tonight. At the usual place. You could… come. If you want. It’s just a shitty dive bar, but…”
The invitation hung in the air. It was normal. It was human. It was everything they were trying to stitch back together around the wild, secret core of them.
Taichi grinned. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
As Yamato turned to rummage for eggs, Taichi let himself fall back onto the bed. The sheets smelled of them, of sex and pine and home. He stretched, his body protesting in a dozen delicious ways. He stared at the water-stained ceiling, a thought crystallizing with perfect clarity.
He wasn’t just in love with his best friend. He was in love with the wolf, too. With the wild, terrifying, beautiful entirety of him. And as the smells of cooking food began to push back the musk of the night, Taichi knew, with a certainty that anchored him to the earth, that he would follow that wildness anywhere.
Tomorrow was a problem for tomorrow. For now, there was only this: the sizzle of food in a pan, the ache of a well-used body, and the low, contented hum of his own heart, beating in time with the one in the next room.