Chapter 28: The Wrecked Sunshine
The dorm hallway was quiet, a hollow tunnel after the kitchen’s riot. Taichi’s heart still thrummed against his ribs, a trapped bird fluttering in the cage of his embarrassment and something else, something hotter. Yamato walked beside him, not touching, but his presence was a physical pressure against Taichi’s side. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick, charged, humming like the faulty lights.
Yamato’s door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the dim, familiar chaos of his room. The only light came from the desk lamp, a golden pool that cut the shadows into sharp shapes. It fell across the rumpled bed, the guitar, the scattered papers covered in Yamato’s tight, anxious script—lyrics about sunlight.
Taichi stood in the center of the room, feeling unmoored. The laughter from the kitchen echoed in his head. Glowing. Sunshine. His skin felt too tight, too sensitive where the marks lay hidden.
“They all knew,” Taichi said, his voice sounding strange in the quiet.
“Yeah.” Yamato didn’t move from the door. He leaned against it, watching him. His blue eyes were dark in the low light, absorbing the gold. “For a long time.”
“Why didn’t you… why didn’t I?”
“You see what you want to see, Taichi.” Yamato pushed off the door and took a step forward. “You live in the light. The rest of us live in the shadows it casts.”
He came closer, each step measured. Taichi’s breath hitched. This was the other side of the public revelation, the private reckoning. Yamato stopped just before him, so close Taichi could smell the coffee on his breath, the clean scent of his skin beneath.
“Does it bother you?” Yamato asked. His voice was low, stripped of its earlier teasing. This was raw. “That they know I fuck you? That they know I make you scream?”
Taichi’s throat worked. He should say yes. It should terrify him. But the heat pooling in his gut, the treacherous ache between his legs, spoke a different, damning truth. He shook his head, a tiny, desperate motion.
A flicker of something fierce and possessive crossed Yamato’s face. He lifted a hand, his thumb brushing over the love bite on Taichi’s neck, pressing down just enough to make Taichi gasp.
“Good,” Yamato murmured. Then his voice changed, dropping into that rough, intimate register that turned Taichi’s bones to liquid. “Because I’m not done with you. Turn around.”
A shiver ran the length of Taichi’s spine. He obeyed, turning to face the cluttered desk. His hands found the edge, gripping the cheap wood. Papers rustled under his palms—sheet music, doodles, his own name written over and over.
He heard Yamato move behind him. The sound of a zipper. The rustle of clothing. Then hands, warm and sure, settled on his hips. Yamato pushed Taichi’s sweatpants and briefs down in one rough tug, the fabric catching at his knees, binding him. The cool air of the room hit his exposed skin, raising goosebumps.
Yamato’s hands slid from his hips, over the curve of his ass, possessive and appraising. He spread him open without ceremony.
Taichi jolted, a sharp inhale tearing through him. He was exposed, utterly vulnerable, bent over the desk in a pool of lamplight. He felt Yamato’s gaze on him, on his most private part. The shame was there, a bright spark, but it was instantly drowned in a wave of dizzying anticipation.
The first touch wasn’t his cock. It was Yamato’s tongue, hot and wet, licking a broad, filthy stripe from the base of Taichi’s balls all the way up to his hole.
“Fuck!” Taichi cried out, his head dropping, forehead pressing against a scattered notebook.
Yamato didn’t pause. He licked again, slower, circling the tight, clenched ring of muscle before pushing the flat of his tongue against it. Taichi’s knees trembled. He was melting, dissolving into the sensation. Yamato’s hands tightened on his ass, holding him open, and then his mouth was on him properly, his tongue spearing inside.
It was an intrusion, wet and deep and impossibly intimate. Yamato fucked him with his tongue, curling it, probing, making lewd, sucking sounds that filled the quiet room. Taichi was panting, a continuous stream of broken sounds falling from his lips. “Oh god… Yamato… please…”
Yamato pulled back, leaving Taichi empty and clenching at the air. He spat, a warm, wet glob that landed directly on his exposed hole and dripped down. Before Taichi could process the crude act, Yamato’s fingers were there, pushing one, then two inside him with no more preamble.
The stretch burned, a bright, clean pain that Taichi craved. He pushed back against the intrusion, wanting more. Yamato’s fingers were long, skilled from guitar strings, and they knew exactly where to go. He scissored them, crooking them upward, searching.
When he found it, Taichi saw white.
A sharp, electric jolt shot through his entire body. His back arched violently, a ragged scream torn from his throat. Yamato’s fingers rubbed over that bundle of nerves again, relentless, and Taichi’s cock, trapped against the desk, jerked and leaked a hot stripe of pre-come onto the wood.
“There it is,” Yamato growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pumped his fingers, hitting that spot with brutal, practiced accuracy. “That’s my good boy. Making a mess already. You’re so fucking greedy for it.”
The praise, filthy and sweet, wrapped around the pleasure, tightening the coil in Taichi’s gut. He was sobbing, babbling, mindless with need. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop, fuck me, just fuck me, Yama—”
Yamato withdrew his fingers. The sudden emptiness was a physical ache. Taichi heard the tear of a foil packet, the slick sound of Yamato stroking himself. Then the blunt, broad head of his cock was pressing against Taichi’s spit-slicked, stretched hole.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t ease in.
He slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, tearing thrust.
The air fled Taichi’s lungs in a punched-out groan. He was filled, split open, perfectly impaled. Yamato was buried deep inside him, their bodies flush. He stayed there for a moment, letting Taichi feel every inch, every pulsing vein. Taichi’s vision swam. It was too much. It was everything.
Then Yamato pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm from the first stroke. Each thrust rocked Taichi forward, the edge of the desk digging into his hips. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and sharp, punctuated by Taichi’s choked cries.
Yamato leaned over him, his chest a hot weight against Taichi’s sweat-slicked back. One hand wrapped around Taichi’s throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive collar. The other hand snaked between Taichi’s body and the desk, wrapping around his leaking, neglected cock.
“You feel that?” Yamato snarled in his ear, his breath hot. His hips pistoned, each drive hitting Taichi’s prostate dead-on. “That’s my cock. Claiming you. Again. Everyone heard you were mine. Now let them hear you proving it.”
His hand began stroking Taichi in time with his thrusts, fast and rough. The dual assault was unbearable. Pleasure detonated along every nerve, a continuous, shattering cascade. Taichi was losing all sense of where he ended and Yamato began. He was just a vessel, being filled, used, adored.
“That’s it, sunshine,” Yamato grunted, his own control fraying. His thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder. “Come for me. Scream it. Let the whole fucking dorm know what a perfect, desperate slut you are for your best friend.”
The words, the relentless friction, the overwhelming fullness broke him. Taichi’s climax ripped through him with a violence that bordered on pain. He came with a strangled shout, stripes of white painting the desk, his body clamping down viscously around Yamato’s cock in wave after endless wave.
The intense clenching pulled Yamato over the edge. He shoved in one last, brutal time, grinding deep, and Taichi felt the hot, liquid pulse of his release filling him. Yamato’s groan was a raw, shattered thing against the nape of his neck.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the wet, messy sounds of their joined bodies. Yamato’s weight was heavy, comforting. He nuzzled into Taichi’s damp hair, placing a soft, incongruously tender kiss there.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. Taichi winced at the sensation, a sweet, sore emptiness left behind. He couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t support him. He remained slumped over the desk, come cooling on the wood, Yamato’s spend beginning to leak down his thigh.
Yamato’s hands were gentle now. He righted Taichi’s clothes, pulled his sweatpants up over his hips, and turned him around. Taichi’s legs gave way, but Yamato was there, catching him, guiding him to sit on the edge of the messy bed.
He crouched in front of him, his own pants still undone. His sharp features were softened in the lamplight, his eyes searching Taichi’s dazed face.
“Okay?” Yamato asked, his thumb wiping a stray tear from Taichi’s cheekbone he hadn’t even felt fall.
Taichi could only nod, leaning forward until his forehead rested against Yamato’s shoulder. The world outside this room, the cameras, the fans, the other guys, felt like a distant dream. Here, in the musky, spent darkness, there was only this: the ache, the proof, and the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that nothing would ever be simple again.