Chapter 26: The Morning Claim
Taichi swam up from a deep, dreamless sleep, aware first of warmth, then of a specific, insistent pressure against the back of his thigh. The fog of sleep parted under the sharp, sweet sensation of lips tracing the knobs of his spine. A soft groan escaped him, and he shifted, the sheets whispering against his skin.
Yamato’s arm was a heavy, familiar weight around his waist, but this was different. The press of Yamato’s morning erection was deliberate, a question asked with his body. Taichi’s own body answered before his mind could, a low heat pooling in his gut.
“Again,” Yamato murmured into the nape of his neck, his voice graveled with sleep. His hand slid down from Taichi’s hip, cupping the curve of his ass, possessive and sure. “But this time, I want to feel you. No condom.”
The words landed like a live wire on Taichi’s skin. Every nerve ending sparked. He’d never done that. The concept itself had been a distant, theoretical thing, bundled with vague notions of risk and intimacy he’d never examined. But now, with Yamato’s body a solid line of heat behind him, the idea wasn’t theoretical. It was visceral. The thought of Yamato inside him with nothing between them, skin to slick skin, of being filled so completely it left a mark—it made his mouth go dry and his cock thicken achingly.
He turned his head slightly on the pillow. The room was still dim, the half-packed suitcase by the door a silent reminder of the tour starting tomorrow. But here, in this bed, time had collapsed into a single, hungry present.
“Yes,” Taichi whispered, his own voice hoarse. He pushed back, a small movement that ground his ass against Yamato’s hardness. “I want to feel you.”
He felt Yamato’s sharp inhale, the way his body went still for a fraction of a second before turning to liquid heat. Yamato rolled him onto his stomach with an ease that made Taichi’s breath catch. The position was submissive, exposed, and after last night, it felt like a secret language only they spoke.
Yamato settled behind him, his knees nudging Taichi’s thighs wider. His cock, hot and heavy, slid through the cleft of Taichi’s ass, a teasing, torturous preview. Taichi heard the click of the lube bottle, the wet sound of Yamato slicking himself.
The blunt, slippery head pressed against his entrance. And stopped.
“Tell me you want it,” Yamato growled. The command was low, stripped of its usual gentle caution. This was the other Yamato, the one from the stage and the secret lyrics, all possessive intensity.
Taichi pushed back, but Yamato held firm, denying him. The denial was its own kind of pleasure, coiling the tension tighter.
“I want it,” Taichi breathed, the words muffled by the pillow. He lifted his hips, offering himself. “I want you inside me, bare. Please, Yamato.”
The ‘please’ did it.
Yamato sheathed himself in one slow, brutal thrust.
The difference was seismic. Without the thin barrier, the sensation was overwhelming, almost too real. Taichi felt every inch, the pronounced ridge of the head, the thick stretch, the vivid heat of Yamato’s skin against his own sensitive rim. A ragged, punched-out groan tore from both of them.
“Fuck,” Yamato hissed, his hips flush against Taichi’s ass, buried to the hilt. He didn’t move, letting them both drown in the feeling. “God, you’re hot inside. Like you’re fucking made for me.”
Then he began to move. There was no gentle pace this time. It was a claiming. Yamato pulled back and slammed home, setting a punishing rhythm that shook the bed frame. The sound was obscenely wet, flesh on flesh, each thrust jolting Taichi forward. Yamato’s balls slapped against his perineum with a dull, rhythmic thud.
Yamato’s hand clamped on Taichi’s hip, fingers digging in hard enough to promise bruises—dark marks Taichi would trace later with a secret thrill. The pain grounded him, fused with the pleasure building like a storm in his core.
“You’re mine,” Yamato chanted, his voice a raw, breathless scrape against Taichi’s ear. Each word was punctuated by a deep, driving thrust. “This tight, perfect ass is mine. I’m going to fill you up, Taichi. Going to mark you from the inside so you remember who you belong to all day.”
The filthy, possessive promises speared through Taichi, lighting him up brighter than any stage. He was melting, dissolving into the feeling of being used and adored in the same breath. He was hard and leaking, his own cock trapped beneath him, rubbing against the sheets with every jarring movement.
Yamato’s angle shifted slightly, and the next thrust hammered directly into his prostate.
Taichi cried out, a broken, high sound. Stars exploded behind his eyelids.
“There it is,” Yamato grunted, hammering that spot again, and again, relentless. “You gonna come just from my cock fucking that sweet spot? You gonna come untouched like a slut?”
The degradation was praise. It was permission. Taichi could only sob, his body coiling impossibly tight.
Yamato’s hand slid under him then, his fingers wrapping around Taichi’s slick cock. The touch was electric, precise. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, a tight, twisting rhythm that matched the brutal pace of his hips.
“Come for me,” Yamato commanded, his voice guttural, final. “Come on my cock. Show me how much you love it.”
It was the trigger. Taichi’s orgasm ripped through him without warning, a seismic wave of pure sensation that wrung a silent scream from his throat. His body convulsed, clamping down viscously around Yamato’s driving length as stripes of white shot from him, spattering the sheets beneath his stomach.
The violent tightness was Yamato’s end. With a choked, ragged shout that was pure agony and bliss, Yamato buried himself as deep as he could go and pulsed. Taichi felt it, the hot, distinct flood filling him, a shocking, intimate claim that made him shudder through the last aftershocks of his own climax.
Yamato stayed there, planted deep, grinding faintly as he rode out the pulses, his body a trembling weight atop Taichi. Their breaths sawed in the quiet room, the only other sound the drip of the faucet in the adjoining bathroom.
Slowly, carefully, Yamato pulled out. The feeling of emptiness was profound, followed immediately by the warm, slick trickle of his release leaking from Taichi’s used hole. The physical evidence of what they’d done.
Yamato collapsed beside him, his chest heaving. After a moment, his hand came up, fingers gently brushing the sweat-damped hair from Taichi’s forehead.
Taichi turned his head. Every muscle felt liquefied, every nerve blissfully oversensitive. He met Yamato’s gaze—the blue eyes dark, sated, watchful. A lazy, utterly satisfied smile spread across Taichi’s face.
“We should do that every morning,” he said, his voice wrecked but brimming with a simple, devastating happiness.
Yamato stared at him. Then a laugh escaped him, rough and real, the kind he never let anyone but Taichi hear. He pulled Taichi close, ignoring the mess, tucking Taichi’s head under his chin. His lips brushed Taichi’s temple.
“Deal,” he said softly.
They lay there as the grey morning light finally infiltrated the room, illuminating the dust motes and the packed suitcase. The real world waited, with its schedules and managers and carefully crafted images. But here, in the smell of sex and shared skin, with the evidence of Yamato’s possession cooling on his thighs, Taichi felt something slot into place inside him, something solid and unshakable. He had spent a lifetime living in the present. For the first time, he looked at the messy, beautiful boy holding him and thought, This. I want this to be my future.
Yamato’s fingers traced idle patterns on his shoulder. “Management meeting at ten,” he murmured, a reluctant anchor back to reality. “They’re going to want final confirmation on the setlist. Your solo is right after my new one.”
Taichi knew which one. The ballad Yamato had been working on for months, the one he’d named “Honey Eyes.” He nuzzled closer, pressing a kiss to the pulse in Yamato’s throat.
“Can’t wait to hear it,” he said, and meant it in a way he never could have yesterday.