Chapter 14: The Rehearsal Room Confrontation
The practice room was a tomb of sound, then a vacuum. Yamato’s final bass note faded into the soundproofing, leaving a ringing in Taichi’s ears. Kaito was a sprawl of limbs behind the kit, wiping his forehead with his shirt.
The door clicked open.
Miya leaned against the frame, all studied casualness, his eyes landing on Taichi with a familiarity that felt like a trespass. “Hey. Heard the noise. Sounded tight.”
He walked in, the smell of cheap cologne cutting through the scent of sweat and old wood. He headed straight for Taichi, who was leaning against an amp, trying to look unaffected.
“Been a minute, Taichi. How’s the footwork?” Miya’s smile was a knife. His hand came up, fingers brushing Taichi’s bicep.
Taichi recoiled as if burned, jerking his arm away. “Not interested,” he said, the words clipped and hard. “Don’t touch me.”
The silence was instant and profound. Kaito’s drumstick froze mid-twirl. Miya’s smirk slipped, revealing something sour and surprised beneath.
From across the room, Yamato set his bass guitar in its stand. The thunk was deliberate. He didn’t look at Miya. He only looked at Taichi as he crossed the space, his boots quiet on the scratched linoleum. He slid an arm around Taichi’s waist, pulling him close, his touch a brand of ownership. His blue eyes, when they finally flicked to Miya, were glacial.
“You heard him,” Yamato said. His voice wasn’t loud. It was flat, absolute. “Get out.”
Miya held his hands up, the smirk attempting a comeback but failing. “Christ, okay. Possessive much?” His gaze lingered on Taichi, a last, lingering scrape. Then he shrugged and turned, letting himself out. The door sighed shut behind him.
The click of the latch hadn’t finished echoing before Yamato moved. He spun Taichi and pushed him back against the wall, next to a faded poster for a band long graduated. The impact was jarring, solid. Yamato’s body caged him in, one hand flat on the wall beside Taichi’s head.
Yamato’s kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, hard and demanding, his tongue sweeping into Taichi’s mouth with a possessive fury. Taichi met it, his hands fisting in Yamato’s shirt, surrendering to the onslaught. When Yamato pulled back, his lips were wet, his breath hot on Taichi’s face.
“Good boy,” he murmured, the praise a low thrum that went straight to Taichi’s core. “Now, on your knees. Show me how much you mean that.”
Taichi’s pulse hammered in his throat. He glanced past Yamato’s shoulder. Kaito was pointedly facing his snare drum, adjusting a tension rod, but the slight shake of his shoulders betrayed his silent laughter. The audience of one. Humiliation, hot and sharp, flared for a second before dissolving into something darker, more compelling. This was the price. This was the proof.
He sank down, the cool floor biting through his jeans. His fingers went to Yamato’s belt buckle, the familiar metal cold under his touch. He got it open, then the button, the zip. He shoved Yamato’s jeans and briefs down just enough, freeing his cock. It was already half-hard, filling rapidly under Taichi’s gaze.
He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the head, tasting salt and skin. He swirled his tongue, a slow, wet circle, before taking more into his mouth, sinking down. Yamato’s hand buried itself in his hair, not forcing, just holding, a firm anchor.
“That’s it,” Yamato breathed, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. “Take it all. Show me you’re mine. Show everyone.”
The words, the reminder of Kaito’s presence, coiled heat in Taichi’s belly. He relaxed his jaw, let his throat open, and took Yamato in deeper, until his nose pressed into the coarse hair at the base. He held there, eyes watering, breathing hard through his nose, his own cock straining painfully against his zipper. He could feel Yamato’s pulse thrumming against his tongue.
Yamato let out a choked, ragged sound. He pulled back, his cock sliding wetly from Taichi’s mouth. He fisted himself, stroking fast and rough, his eyes locked on Taichi’s upturned face, on his spit-slicked, parted lips.
“Open,” Yamato commanded, a raw edge in his voice.
Taichi obeyed, sticking out his tongue, his breath coming in shallow pants. He watched, mesmerized, as Yamato worked himself, his knuckles white, his body taut.
“Fuck… Taichi…”
Yamato’s orgasm hit him. He came with a sharp, guttural groan, stripes of hot white landing on Taichi’s tongue, across his lips. Taichi kept his mouth open, swallowing what he could, the taste bitter and intimate. He licked his lips clean, the act of submission complete, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
Yamato looked down at him, spent, his expression one of deep, satiated possession. He hauled Taichi up by the front of his shirt, kissing him again, deep and searching, tasting himself on Taichi’s tongue.
“Perfect,” he muttered against Taichi’s mouth. He tucked himself away, hands steady now. “Now let’s go home. I’m not done with you yet.”
Kaito finally turned around, a wide, unapologetic grin splitting his face. He pointed a drumstick at Taichi. “You’re gonna be the death of him, you know that? In the best way.” He tossed the stick into his bag. “Lock up, maestro. I’m beat.”
They walked back through the crisp night, the encounter with Miya hanging unspoken between them. The dorm room felt like a fortress when Yamato shut the door. He didn’t immediately reach for Taichi. Instead, he went to the window, peering down at the quad below, his profile sharp in the neon glow from a distant building.
“He won’t stop,” Taichi said quietly, the taste of Yamato still on his tongue. “Miya. Or the other one. The photo.”
Yamato turned. The calm, controlled composer was gone. In his eyes was a feral, protective light Taichi had only seen glimpses of. “Let them try.”
He crossed the room and pushed Taichi backward onto the bed. He yanked Taichi’s jeans and briefs down in one rough motion, then shoved his legs apart. He produced a small bottle of lube from the nightstand, slicking his fingers without ceremony.
“Yamato—” Taichi started, but a finger was already pressing inside him, relentless. He was still loose from the morning, but the penetration was sudden, making him gasp.
“No talking,” Yamato said. He added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him. It burned, a bright, clarifying pain. “You belong here. In this room. On this cock. Nothing else is real.”
He withdrew his fingers and positioned himself. He pushed in, in one deep, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Taichi cried out, arching off the bed, his hands scrambling for purchase on Yamato’s back.
Yamato set a brutal, punishing pace. This wasn’t about pleasure. It was about erasure. About rewriting Taichi’s nerves, his very thoughts, with the raw, pounding reality of who owned him. Each slam drove the world away—Miya’s smirk, the unknown stalker’s camera, everything. There was only this bed, this pain, this man splitting him open.
“This,” Yamato grunted, sweat dripping from his chin onto Taichi’s chest. “This is all you are now. My fucktoy. My perfect, desperate hole. Say it.”
Taichi’s mind was white static. “Yours,” he slurred. “Only yours.”
“Whose?”
“Yours! Yamato’s!” The confession was torn from him, ragged and true.
Yamato’s rhythm fractured. He drove in deep and held, his body shuddering as he came, a hot, claiming flood. He collapsed on top of Taichi, his weight a solid comfort in the aftermath.
Long minutes later, he rolled off, pulling Taichi against him. The silence was full. Downstairs, someone was playing a frantic, joyful piano scale.
Kaito’s text tone buzzed on Yamato’s nightstand. Yamato reached for it, his arm tightening around Taichi.
He read it. His body went very still.
“What?” Taichi mumbled, already half-asleep.
Yamato dropped the phone on the sheets. His voice was eerily calm. “Kaito. He saw a grey sedan. Idling at the curb when he left. It drove off when he looked at it.”
The fortress walls seemed to thin, to breathe. The outside world wasn’t just pacing. It was parked at the gate, engine running.