Chapter 6: First Taste
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision. Yamato’s mouth sealed over his, a hot, desperate claim that stole the breath from Taichi’s lungs. There was no technique, only hunger. The taste of whiskey and something uniquely Yamato—coffee and winter air—flooded Taichi’s senses. A broken sound, half-protest, half-surrender, vibrated in his throat.
He’d never been kissed like this. It was devouring.
Yamato’s grip on his wrists vanished. Freed, Taichi’s hands fluttered for a second, lost, before one sank into the golden strands of Yamato’s hair, the other clawing at the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. The denim of Yamato’s jeans was rough against the inside of his thighs. The hard ridge of Yamato’s cock pressed insistently against his own, even through layers of fabric, and Taichi’s hips jerked up of their own accord, seeking friction.
Yamato tore his mouth away, breathing ragged. His lips were slick and swollen. In the flickering light, his eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. He didn’t speak. He yanked Taichi’s sweater up, and Taichi lifted his arms, letting him pull it off and discard it to the floor. The cool air of the apartment pebbled his skin. Yamato’s gaze burned over his chest, his stomach.
“Tell me you want this,” Yamato growled again, but it sounded less like a question and more like a plea for sanity.
Taichi couldn’t form a coherent sentence. His brain was offline, everything reduced to sensation. He managed a nod, a frantic, small movement. Yamato’s mouth descended on his neck, teeth scraping the tendon, tongue lapping at the salt-damp skin. A sharp, bright spark of pain-pleasure made Taichi cry out. His back arched off the couch.
“Say it.” Yamato mouthed the words against his pulse point, his hand coming down to palm Taichi’s cock through his jeans. The pressure was exquisite, maddening.
“Yes,” Taichi gasped. “Fuck, yes, Yamato, I want—” The rest was cut off as Yamato’s fingers made quick, rough work of his button and zipper. The relief of the constriction gone was immediate. Yamato shoved the fabric down his hips, and Taichi’s cock sprang free, fully hard, flushed and leaking.
“Look at you,” Yamato murmured, his voice thick. He wrapped his hand around the base, his grip firm and sure. A calloused thumb smeared the bead of precum over the slick head. Taichi choked, his vision spotting. “So fucking hard. Is this all for me?” He gave a slow, twisting stroke.
“Y-You know it is,” Taichi panted, his head thrashing against the cushion. His hands found Yamato’s shoulders, digging in. “Don’t—don’t talk so much.”
A dark, husky laugh escaped Yamato. “Always so impatient.” He lowered his head.
The first touch of Yamato’s tongue to his tip was a white-hot jolt. Taichi shouted, his fingers fisting in Yamato’s hair. Yamato didn’t tease. He took him in, deep, his mouth a wet, searing heat that made Taichi’s thighs tremble. He couldn’t process it. Yamato Ishida, on his knees on their shitty floor, his rival, his secret obsession, was sucking his cock with a single-minded intensity that shattered the world.
Yamato worked him with his mouth and hand, his other hand pinning Taichi’s hip to the couch. He’d pull back to swirl his tongue around the crown, murmuring filthy, ragged things—“Taste so good,” “Gonna make you come,”—before sinking down again, taking him deeper, until Taichi felt the head bump the back of his throat. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room, louder than the city outside.
“I’m not—I can’t last,” Taichi warned, his voice strangled. The coil in his gut was winding too tight, too fast. This was too much, years of something unnameable culminating in this raw, physical act.
Yamato pulled off with a slick pop. His lips were shiny, his chin wet. He looked utterly debauched. “Then don’t.” He surged up, capturing Taichi’s mouth in another kiss, letting him taste himself. Taichi moaned into it, desperate.
Yamato broke away, scrambling to his own jeans. He shoved them and his briefs down in one frantic motion, kicking them aside. His cock stood out, thick and veined, curving towards his stomach. The sight of it, so blatantly male and urgent, sent a fresh wave of dizzying desire through Taichi. This was real. This was happening.
“Condom,” Yamato gritted out, looking around wildly.
“Bedroom. Nightstand,” Taichi managed. He felt boneless, wrecked.
Yamato was gone for less than twenty seconds, a blur of motion. He returned with a small foil square, ripping it open with his teeth. He sheathed himself swiftly, his eyes never leaving Taichi’s. The crinkle of the wrapper was absurdly loud.
He didn’t ask. He pushed Taichi’s legs apart, kneeling between them. His hands were rough on Taichi’s hips, hauling him closer to the edge of the cushions. There was no preparation, no gentle easing. Yamato spat into his own palm, reached down, and slicked his fingers before pressing one against Taichi’s entrance.
Taichi froze. The intrusion was blunt, foreign. A sharp burn.
Yamato went still, watching his face. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
Taichi looked up at him—at the sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead, at the stark need etched into every sharp line of his face. He thought of the rain, the whispered confession, the unbearable weight of wanting something he had no name for. He shook his head. “Don’t stop.”
He braced himself. Yamato’s finger pushed in, past the tight ring of muscle. The burn bloomed into a deep, full ache. Yamato worked it slowly, his other hand stroking Taichi’s thigh. A second finger joined the first, scissoring, stretching. It was painful, intensely so, but beneath the pain was a shocking thread of pleasure, a feeling of being utterly claimed. Taichi breathed through it, his nails scratching at the worn fabric of the couch.
“Now,” Taichi gasped. “Yamato, now.”
Yamato withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing where his fingers had been. He leaned over Taichi, bracing one hand by his head, their faces close. His expression was grim, almost pained. “This will hurt.”
“I don’t care.”
With a low groan, Yamato pushed forward.
Taichi cried out, a raw, shredded sound. The stretch was unbearable, a searing invasion that tore through him. He felt split open, filled beyond capacity. Yamato buried himself to the hilt in one relentless thrust and stopped, his whole body rigid, a tendon standing out in his neck. Taichi clenched around him, waves of sharp, bright agony radiating through his pelvis. Tears sprang to his eyes.
“Breathe,” Yamato whispered, his own breath coming in harsh gusts. “Just breathe, Tai.”
The old nickname, unused for years, did something to him. Taichi dragged in a shuddering gulp of air. The pain began to recede, shifting, transforming into a profound, overwhelming fullness. He felt every inch of Yamato inside him, a scorching, solid presence that anchored him to the earth. He moved his hips, a tiny, experimental shift.
A wrecked sound escaped Yamato’s throat. He began to move.
It was slow at first, deep, dragging withdrawals and controlled, punishing thrusts. Each one rubbed against something deep inside that made Taichi see stars. The pain was still there, a live wire at the edges, but it was now inextricably woven with a pleasure so intense it was dizzying.
“Fuck,” Taichi moaned, his legs wrapping around Yamato’s waist, pulling him deeper. “Fuck, right there.”
Yamato’s control shattered. His thrusts became faster, harder, driving the couch back with a rhythmic thud against the wall. The sound of skin slapping skin, their ragged grunts and pleas, filled the small room. Yamato’s mouth was everywhere—biting his shoulder, licking into his mouth, whispering broken, vulgar praise against his ear. “You take me so well… so fucking tight… wanted this for so long…”
Taichi was lost. The world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined, to the sweat-slick friction, to the blue-fire heat in Yamato’s eyes. He was being unmade, piece by piece. His own cock, trapped between their stomachs, leaked furiously with every thrust. He was hurtling towards the edge, helpless.
Yamato shifted his angle, driving up, and Taichi shouted, his back bowing off the couch. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated through him, violent and absolute. He came untouched, stripes of white painting his stomach and chest in hot pulses, his vision whiting out. He clenched around Yamato violently, his cry muffled against Yamato’s shoulder.
The vicious grip of Taichi’s orgasm pulled Yamato over with him. With a final, brutal thrust, Yamato buried himself deep and froze, a guttural roar tearing from his chest as he came inside the condom. Taichi could feel the frantic pulses, the way Yamato’s entire body shuddered against him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths. The desk lamp chose that moment to finally give out, plunging them into near-darkness, lit only by the city’s neon bleed through the blinds.
Yamato collapsed on top of him, his weight heavy and complete. Taichi winced at the renewed ache, but didn’t push him off. He was drowning in the smell of sex and sweat and Yamato. His hands, numb, came up to rest on Yamato’s damp back.
Slowly, carefully, Yamato pulled out. The loss was immediate, a hollow, tender feeling. He disposed of the condom in a small wastebasket by the desk, the movement clumsy in the dark. He returned, standing over Taichi for a moment, a silhouette etched in blue light. Then he sank onto the couch beside him, not touching.
The silence was vast. It swallowed the echoes of their moans. It made the reality of what they’d just done swell until it filled the entire room, pressing down on them.
Taichi stared at the water-stained ceiling, the after-images of pleasure fading, leaving behind a bone-deep ache and a terrifying clarity. His stomach was sticky. His body felt used and alive in a way he’d never known. He glanced over at Yamato, who was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers gripping his hair.
Neither of them spoke. The unanswered questions hung in the air, heavier than any door they’d just broken through.
What happened now?