Chapter 10: Pinned Against the Wall
Yamato broke the kiss as suddenly as he’d begun it. His breath came in ragged gusts against Taichi’s wet mouth. Without a word, his grip still vise-like on Taichi’s wrist, he turned and pulled.
Taichi stumbled, his socked feet sliding on the linoleum, narrowly avoiding the glittering minefield of broken glass. He didn’t resist. The part of his mind that should have been shouting was utterly silent, drowned out by the roaring of his own blood. Yamato dragged him into the narrow hallway, the fluorescent tube above buzzing with a sickly energy.
He pushed Taichi hard, slamming his shoulders against the peeling wallpaper. The impact knocked a breath loose from Taichi’s lungs.
“No more pretending,” Yamato rasped. The calm, observant mask was gone. His blue eyes were dark, almost black with a need that looked like fury. His hands went to the front of Taichi’s shirt, gripping the cheap cotton at either side of the button placket. He wrenched.
Buttons flew, pinging against the wall and skittering across the floor. Cool air hit Taichi’s chest, followed immediately by the heat of Yamato’s palms sliding up his ribs. Taichi gasped, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud.
Yamato’s gaze swept over him, taking in the exposed skin, the rapid flutter of his heartbeat at the base of his throat. Then he dropped to his knees.
The sight was so profoundly shocking Taichi felt his knees buckle. Yamato Ishida, on his knees in this shitty hallway. His rival. His hands, those elegant, actor’s hands, fumbled with the buckle of Taichi’s belt. They were shaking. That detail, the tremble in those steady fingers, did something to Taichi’s insides.
The belt came loose. The button of his jeans popped. The zipper snarled down. Yamato shoved the fabric aside, and Taichi’s cock, half-hard and already leaking, sprang free.
Yamato didn’t hesitate. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward and took the length into his mouth, swallowing him down to the root in one smooth, deep glide.
“Fuck!” Taichi shouted, the word tearing from him raw and unbidden. His skull cracked against the wall again, pain blooming bright and secondary to the shocking, wet heat that enveloped him. Yamato’s mouth was tight, his throat working around the head. He pulled back, his lips sliding with obscene precision, then sank down again, deeper.
Taichi’s hands scrabbled for purchase, tangling in Yamato’s blond hair, not to guide, just to hold on. Yamato hummed, the vibration shooting straight up Taichi’s spine. He worked him with a practiced, relentless skill, his tongue circling the sensitive ridge of the head on each upstroke, one hand cupping and rolling his balls, the other gripping Taichi’s hip hard enough to bruise.
It was too much. It wasn’t enough. Taichi felt a coil tightening low in his gut, a terrifying precipice. “Yama—I’m gonna—“
Yamato pulled off with a wet pop. He rested his forehead against Taichi’s trembling thigh, his breath hot on damp skin. “I’ve dreamed of this,” he murmured, the confession rough and quiet against Taichi’s flesh. “Of how you’d taste.”
Then he stood, fluid and sure. He spun Taichi around to face the wall, the rough wallpaper scratching his bare chest. Yamato yanked Taichi’s jeans and briefs down to his ankles in one brutal pull, trapping his feet. The vulnerability was absolute, exposing him. Taichi shuddered.
He heard the click of a cap. Yamato’s slick fingers, cold with lube, found his entrance. One pressed inside without ceremony, a blunt, burning intrusion. Taichi choked.
“Relax.” Yamato’s voice was a command at his ear. A second finger joined the first, scissoring, stretching. It burned, a sharp, bright pain that morphed into a deep, unfamiliar ache as a third finger worked him open. Taichi pressed his face into his forearms, biting back sounds he didn’t recognize as his own.
The fingers withdrew. He heard the rustle of Yamato’s own clothes, the zip, the slick sound of his hand on his cock. Then the broad, wet head of him was there, pressing relentlessly against Taichi’s stretched hole.
“You’re going to take all of me,” Yamato said, his voice thick.
Taichi pushed back, a desperate, unthinking movement. It was an answer.
Yamato sheathed himself in one slow, agonizing push. The stretch was devastating, a feeling of being split open and filled beyond capacity. Taichi’s vision whited out at the edges, a static buzz filling his ears. He was pinned, impaled, completely possessed.
Yamato didn’t wait for him to adjust. He withdrew almost fully and slammed back in. A brutal, punishing rhythm. Each thrust drove Taichi harder into the wall, the friction on his own cock trapped between his stomach and the plaster maddening. Yamato’s hand snaked around his hip, fisting him, jerking him in time with his drives. His other hand came up, not to cradle, but to wrap around Taichi’s throat, applying just enough pressure to claim, to remind him who was in control.
The mix of pain and pleasure was a drug. Taichi was fracturing. “Harder,” he slurred, the word mangled.
Yamato obeyed. His hips pistoned, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the narrow hall. He was everywhere—the heat of his body blanketing Taichi’s back, the bite of his fingers, the deep, internal stroke that touched something that made Taichi see stars. The coil snapped.
“Come for me,” Yamato growled into his ear, his voice cracking with the strain of his own control.
Taichi’s orgasm ripped through him like a seizure, violent and mindless. His release shot hot over Yamato’s clenched fingers, streaking the wall. He cried out, a broken, sobbing sound as Yamato fucked him through it, the overstimulation a sharp, sweet agony.
Feeling him clench and pulse was Yamato’s undoing. With a final, deep lunge, he buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid. A low, guttural groan vibrated through Taichi’s back as Yamato came, pulsing hot inside him, his grip on Taichi’s throat tightening for one searing second before going slack.
They stayed there, locked together, gasping. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint buzz of the light. Yamato’s forehead came to rest on Taichi’s damp shoulder, his body heavy and spent.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The ache in Taichi’s shoulders. The cool air on his backside. The throbbing, full sensation where Yamato was still softening inside him.
Yamato’s lips moved against his skin, the whisper barely audible. “I’m not letting you go.”
Taichi turned his head, his cheek scraping the wallpaper. He found Yamato’s mouth, kissing him sloppily, tasting salt and sweat and himself. The words came out raw, scraped from the very core of the confusion and desire that had been churning in him for weeks.
“Don’t.”