Chapter 15: The Hand Job
The walk from the living room to the bedroom was a fever dream. Taichi floated, his legs unsteady, guided by the firm pressure of Yamato’s hand on the small of his back. The dorm hallway, usually just a beige passage between their lives, felt charged, the silence between them thick and humming.
Yamato’s door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in his private world. The desk lamp cast long, dramatic shadows over the torn magazine posters—Taichi mid-leap, Taichi laughing, Taichi looking away. The air was close, saturated with the scent of Yamato’s skin and old paper.
Before Taichi could speak, could even process the shift from shared space to this sanctum, Yamato turned him and pushed.
Taichi fell backwards onto the unmade bed, the springs groaning under him. Yamato was on him before he could bounce, a solid weight of muscle and want, covering him, caging him in. The breath rushed from Taichi’s lungs.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” Yamato muttered, the words a hot, ragged scrape against the side of Taichi’s throat. His hands were under Taichi’s shirt, rucking the soft cotton up in impatient fists, exposing his stomach, his chest. “Since you fucking shivered on that futon. Since you sighed.”
His mouth followed the path of his words. He licked a wet, deliberate stripe from the dip of Taichi’s navel, over the trembling planes of his abdomen, up to the hollow of his collarbone. The sensation was electric, crude, and profoundly shocking. Taichi cried out, his back arching off the bed.
Yamato pulled back just enough to look down at him. In the low light, his blue eyes were almost black, pupils blown wide. The cool, composed mask was gone, stripped away by a hunger so raw it made Taichi’s heart hammer against his ribs.
“You have no idea,” Yamato breathed, his voice gravel, “what you do to me. For years. No fucking idea.”
He moved then, a swift, efficient series of motions that stripped Taichi of his sweatpants and boxers in one rough yank. The cool air hit his skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of Yamato’s gaze. He was completely exposed, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach.
Taichi’s breath hitched, a sound of pure vulnerability.
Yamato’s hand wrapped around him. It was dry at first, a firm, possessive grip that made Taichi jerk. Then Yamato spat, crudely, into his own palm, and slicked his length, the wet, filthy sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
“Fuck,” Taichi whimpered, his hips lifting off the bed, seeking more.
Yamato stroked him, slowly at first, a torturous up and down, his thumb circling the slick head with every pass. He was studying Taichi’s face, watching every flinch, every shudder.
“Look at me.”
Taichi’s eyes, which had screwed shut, flew open. He was pinned, held by that intense gaze as surely as by the hand on his cock.
“You like this?” Yamato’s voice was a low command. “You like my hand on your cock? Tell me.”
The directness shattered the last of Taichi’s coherent thought. He was a live wire, sparking under Yamato’s touch. He nodded, frantic.
“Words, Taichi.”
“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, I like it. I like it.”
“Good.” Yamato’s hand sped up, the rhythm turning punishing, perfect. His fist was a tight, wet channel, and Taichi was fucking up into it, mindless with need. His moans lost shape, becoming a raw, repeating chant. “Fuck… fuck, Yama… yes…”
He was hurtling towards it, the tension coiling unbearably tight in his gut, his balls drawing up. Sparks flashed behind his eyes. He was babbling, pleading without words.
Yamato leaned down, his lips brushing Taichi’s ear. His voice was a guttural, possessive growl that went straight to Taichi’s core.
“Come for me. Right now. Cover my hand. I want to feel you lose it. I want to feel it.”
It was the permission, the order, the filthy promise in those words that broke him.
Taichi’s orgasm ripped through him with violent force. A sharp, punched-out cry tore from his throat as his come shot hot and thick over Yamato’s knuckles, stripes of it painting his own stomach. His body locked, every muscle taut, then shook with relentless waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.
Yamato didn’t stop. He kept stroking, milking him through it, his grip unrelenting even as Taichi whimpered from the oversensitivity, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Only when Taichi went completely limp, spent and shuddering, did he finally still his hand.
Taichi lay there, wrecked, trying to remember how to breathe. The world was a soft, blurry haze.
Then he saw Yamato bring his glistening hand up. He watched, mesmerized and disbelieving, as Yamato held his gaze and slowly, deliberately, licked a broad stripe across his own soiled fingers. He cleaned them, his tongue capturing every drop of Taichi’s release, his eyes never wavering.
It was the most intimate, the most profoundly carnal thing Taichi had ever witnessed. A sob caught in his raw throat.
Yamato lowered himself, bracing his clean hand beside Taichi’s head. He hovered there, his body heat radiating, the scent of sex and sweat between them. The hunger in his eyes hadn’t faded. It had deepened, tempered now by something dangerously close to awe.
He said nothing. He just looked, as if memorizing the flushed, well-fucked picture Taichi made in his bed.
Outside, a car passed, its headlight sweeping a fleeting arc across the ceiling. The real world still existed. But here, in this dim room, it felt forever changed. Taichi’s skin still buzzed. His mind was quiet, stunned into submission. The only thing that felt solid, felt real, was the weight of Yamato’s gaze and the terrifying, thrilling understanding that this had only just begun.