Chapter 20: Consumed on the Couch
The silence of the apartment was a physical thing after the muffled chaos of the city below. The only light spilled from the desk lamp in the corner, casting long, jagged shadows from the stacked moving boxes and the peeling movie posters on the walls. The click of the lock engaging sounded like a gunshot.
Taichi barely had time to register the smell of stale instant noodles before Yamato’s hands were on him.
It wasn’t like the elevator. There was no predatory grace here, only a raw, unraveling need. A low, desperate growl vibrated from Yamato’s chest as he shoved Taichi backward. Taichi’s knees hit the edge of the low couch, and he fell onto the worn cushions with a gasp, looking up at Yamato’s stormy face, backlit by the dim lamp.
“Yamato, wait—”
Yamato didn’t wait. He descended, his mouth crushing Taichi’s, swallowing his words. The kiss was all teeth and tongue and the sharp, smoky taste of rooftop whiskey. One hand fisted in Taichi’s hair, holding him still; the other clawed at the front of his shirt. Buttons pinged off the laminate floor, scattering into the darkness.
“You let her touch you,” Yamato rasped against his mouth, the words hot and accusatory. His hands shoved the ruined fabric from Taichi’s shoulders, baring his skin to the cool, still air. “You smiled.”
“It’s my job to smile,” Taichi choked out, but the protest was weak, dissolving under the frantic scrape of Yamato’s nails down his chest. His own body was betraying him, arching into the touch, his cock already hard and straining against his jeans.
Yamato’s laugh was a hollow, ugly sound. He reared back, his blue eyes glinting in the low light. He made quick, brutal work of Taichi’s belt and fly, yanking the denim and his boxers down to his ankles in one harsh pull, leaving Taichi exposed and pinned. The air was cold on his heated skin.
Then Yamato was fumbling in his own pocket, pulling out a small, half-crushed packet of lube. The sight of it, planned and carried, sent a new shock through Taichi. This wasn’t just a momentary lapse. This was an intention.
“Turn over,” Yamato ordered, his voice gravel.
When Taichi hesitated, caught between defiance and a hunger that scared him, Yamato moved. He gripped Taichi’s hip and flipped him onto his stomach with a strength that left no room for resistance. The rough fabric of the couch scratched Taichi’s cheek. He heard the tear of the packet, the wet, slick sound.
A cold, lubricated finger pressed against him, not entering, just circling the tight ring of muscle. Taichi jerked, a shudder running through him.
“Yamato…”
“I need to be inside you,” Yamato cut him off, his breath hot on Taichi’s neck. The finger was gone. Then came the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock, nudging, demanding.
There was no gentle preparation, no slow breach. Yamato pushed forward, a single, relentless thrust that tore a sharp cry from Taichi’s throat. The stretch was a burning, splitting fullness, a violation that curled his toes and made his hands claw into the cushions. He was pinned, impaled, completely filled.
Yamato buried himself to the hilt and went utterly still for a second, a ragged groan escaping him. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Taichi… fuck.”
Then he moved.
He pulled back and slammed home again, setting a punishing, frantic rhythm. Each thrust jolted Taichi forward on the couch, each impact a blend of searing friction and a deep, shocking pleasure that began to burn through the initial pain. Yamato’s hand was a vise on his hip, surely leaving bruises. The other twisted back into Taichi’s hair, yanking his head up, arching his back.
“Is this what you want?” Yamato snarled, his rhythm never faltering, his cock driving into Taichi with a force that stole the air from his lungs. “Huh? You want me to fuck you like this? To make sure you remember who you belong to?”
Taichi couldn’t answer. Sounds were punched out of him with every thrust—gasps, choked moans. His own neglected cock was trapped beneath him, leaking and aching against the rough fabric. The pleasure was a coil tightening in his gut, savage and undeniable. It was shameful. It was perfect.
“You’re mine,” Yamato growled, leaning over him, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against Taichi’s back. His mouth was at Taichi’s ear. “Say it.”
Taichi shook his head, a feeble denial lost in the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the abused couch.
Yamato fucked him harder, deeper, his pace turning brutal, almost angry. The hand in Taichi’s hair tightened. “Say it.”
The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated through Taichi without a hand ever touching his cock. It ripped a raw, broken shout from his throat as he came, his body clamping down in violent spasms around Yamato’s driving length. White spots danced behind his eyes, his vision blurring as he emptied himself against the couch cushion, utterly wrecked.
The sensation of Taichi tightening around him, hot and pulsing, shattered Yamato’s control. With a guttural groan that was all surrender, he buried himself as deep as he could and came. Taichi felt the hot flood inside him, pulse after pulse, a claiming that was as physiological as it was emotional.
Yamato collapsed on top of him, a dead weight, his breath sawing in and out against Taichi’s shoulder. The only sounds in the apartment were their ragged breathing and the distant, dull hum of Tokyo.
Slowly, the world swam back into focus. The ache. The sticky warmth between his legs and inside him. The heavy, sweat-scented body pinning him down.
Yamato’s lips moved against the damp skin of Taichi’s shoulder. The fierce possessiveness was gone, replaced by a whisper so fragile it barely reached Taichi’s ears. “I’m never letting you go.”
The words should have been a comfort. A promise. Instead, they felt like a sentence.
Yamato shifted, slipping out of him. The loss was strangely acute. He rolled off, lying on his back on the floor beside the couch, an arm thrown over his eyes. Taichi didn’t move. He stayed face-down, feeling the cool air on his violated skin, feeling the proof of what they’d done begin to leak from him.
The frantic heat of moments ago had crystallized into a cold, sharp reality on the stained couch in their temporary, shabby apartment.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Yamato said to the ceiling, his voice flat. “Not like that.”
Taichi finally found the strength to push himself up. His body felt used, sore. He looked down at Yamato, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. The great stone Buddha, broken open and spilling out something too vulnerable to look at directly.
“Why did you, then?” Taichi asked, his own voice hoarse.
Yamato’s throat worked. “When I saw her… whispering to you. Touching you. I felt like I was going to burn down the whole city.”
It was the most honest thing Yamato had ever said to him. It was also terrifying. Taichi looked at the scattered buttons on the floor, the remnants of his shirt. He’d never felt more seen, or more like a possession.
He swung his legs off the couch, wincing at the tenderness. He didn’t know what to say. It’s okay was a lie. Don’t do it again was a lie he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell.
He just sat there in the semi-darkness, half-naked and thoroughly fucked, staring at the man on the floor, and wondered what horrifying, thrilling thing they had just started.