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Tea For Three	By : Darbracken Category: Descendents of Darkness/Yami No Matsuei > Yaoi-Male/Male Views: 3255 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Muraki, Tsuzuki, Tatsumi or Yami no matsuei/Descendents of darkness. I have not and will not get any profit from this fanfic.

Chapter List
- 1-Tea For Three
- 1
This was a challenge set to my by my other half, aka Kyogou (on here). My limits were Muraki x Tsuzuki, a place of my choosing and the prompt was blindfolds. What ended up being written was far longer than the one page minimum. Warnings for non-con, violence and Muraki-sexiness abound. If you're going to rate me with one star for this please at least give me some constructive feedback.

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The scent of blood saturated the air, each drip on the wooden floor breaking the eerie silence that clung to the senses. Soft fabric brushed as fingertips laced together, waiting. Before him, two bodies stretched out, a delightful prospect indeed. However, there was only one whom his sincere interest was roused by, but the man had to learn that to be marked as his prey was to yield to insanity. Mahogany strands stirred, the shinigami in question starting to rouse from the depths of slumber. And so the play would begin, protagonist wreathed in chains and his own shame, the antagonist drinking in every second of his torment and agony.

“How good of you to join us, Tsuzuki-san.” A jerk of his head told Muraki all he wanted to know, silky tones recognised by the bound creature. The dance began; sinew tightened as chains were thrown out, a sinuous motion of fear and confusion. Moments passed as he merely watched, the slightest of smiles touching pale lips. Eventually it must have dawned on Tsuzuki that he was trapped as limbs began to slow, words grounds out between clenched teeth.

“Where the fuck am I, Muraki?” Those lovely amethyst orbs would have burnt him, he knew; condemned him to an eternity in the abyss. Sapphire silk prevented him, grazing down beautiful features as the blindfold swayed with the weakening exertions as reality settled into his prey’s mind.

“I thought I might invite Tatsumi-san and yourself over for tea.” Of course such pleasantries were the things furthest from the doctor’s mind, delighting in the stiffening of Tsuzuki’s body. Panic began to set in, freezing the man in place, as tentatively he sought his friend blindly. Suddenly the metallic scent of blood reached him, senses seeking out to capture what he could of the truth of their situation. No wounds adorned his body, only the ache of manacles around his wrists and ankles - spreading limbs troubled him, which led him to the only possible conclusion – it was Tatsumi that was injured. “What have you done to him, you bastard?!”

What indeed? Platinum danced with pleasure as he rose from his seat, crossing to the pair of shinigami, possibly the two most dangerous men in Enma-cho at his mercy. It was quite empowering. “Unlike you, Tatsumi-san can see but he cannot speak, isn’t that right Tatsumi-san?” Finally he addressed the shadow master, sapphire eyes narrowed in animosity and pain. Gloved fingertips traced a line down his breastbone, lifting only when they came across the thin rose stems that bound the secretary. Thorns dug into pliant flesh, the doctor fascinated by the crimson fluid that sprung forth with every twist of protest the man gave as he attempted to get away from fingers.

Tatsumi suddenly threw himself forwards as tiny tendrils of shadows ripped upwards, wanting with every fibre of his body to tear the smug expression from Muraki’s face. Alas it wasn’t to be, energy supressed the moment it had ushered forth, springing backwards into the shinigami with all the ferocity of a whip stroke. Teeth pressed into the gag wedged in his mouth, unable to stop the low moan he knew would affirm his presence to the delicate Tsuzuki, cursing the doctor to the deepest pits of Hades. Not even in his well-schooled mind could he find torture enough to rend upon the man standing before him, wreathed in white like some damned angel.

Tsuzuki jerked, the moan tingling up his spine in ways he could not explain nor cared to examine. It was clear now that Muraki had not concocted Tatsumi’s presence just to screw with his mind, he was present and the strong waft of vitae in the air meant that further injuries had just been inflicted to the man. Long lashes squeezed tight, feeling a burning sensation prickling in his eyes, not wanting the man who had sheltered and befriended him when he first entered the summons department to suffer at the hands of the clearly psychotic doctor. “Muraki, stop screwing around, it’s me you want…”

Despite the show of bravado, it was not lost on Muraki how his beautiful shinigami’s voice quivered and crackled, rich with the emotion he fought to leash. Chains shivered as the man struggled to distribute his weight more comfortably, trying to cover as much of his frame as possible. It was not lost on their captor, each movement a thread of information. Perhaps they’d been lovers? No, Tsuzuki was far too coy for that and he didn’t take the secretary as a man who let his passion overtake his reason. Then maybe once he had desired it? “There is a choice to be made, Tsuzuki-san.” Silky tones came from a little distance away, slick with desire and amusement. “As much as I would enjoy debasing you both, I am, as far as you need to know, mortal. To save time, one of you must submit to my touch… the other will be executed.”

Silence ensued, thick with tension as he watched the interplay of sinew down the slender body. Tsuzuki thought he was going to be sick, terror curling in the pit of his stomach. If he offered himself as a sacrificial lamb, he knew the secretary would be broken in the uncaring hands of the doctor and never forgive himself for Tsuzuki’s fate. If he begged to feel the doctor’s touch, then he was condemning the other to die. Barely able to breathe through the tightness of his throat, droplets wound their way underneath the blindfold.

Traitor, demon, unclean. All the words of his youth came flooding back, a breathy, broken sob reaching his lips. Really he was a damned creature; he deserved nothing more than to die. Though Tatsumi may never forgive him he would protect him, die for him. Unclear sounds broke into his thoughts, the secretary obviously struggling as garbled words were expelled. “No, no, no!” A mantra, begging Tsuzuki not to do what he knew he must. Mahogany strands fell as his head tipped between straining forearms. “Execute me.” Time seemed to still before the anticipated sound of anguish crawled up his spine.

Tatsumi ached in ways he had forgotten existed, raw grief gripping him as he heard the words he knew deep down the other would utter. The fragile shinigami would never put himself first, even if it was paramount that he survived the crazed doctor. Violently he bit into the gag, unable to muster words around it to beg Tsuzuki to reconsider or to beg the doctor to not follow through. It was then he realised Muraki was peeling off a pristine glove with his teeth, barely having contemplated the results of the choice that concerned his own wellbeing.

Platinum sparkled with deep satisfaction and sadism, reaching out to grasp the secretary’s nub and roll it firmly. The intoxicating scent of fear beckoned him, a surge of power thrilling him as flesh swelled under his ministrations. Aside him, his broken shinigami wept quietly, how beautiful amethyst orbs were when hazed with tears. How sweet the siren call of his body. Unrepentantly sapphire ripped into him, the sensation of Tatsumi’s hatred swelling only amusing him further. Yes, let him hate him. Let him despise his very existence. It would make the chase that much more interesting.

Sorrow welled up within Tsuzuki, though it was not for himself, long having considered his existence unworthy. Tears dripped from his chiselled jaw, reaching out his senses towards the shadow master, knowing what he had just inflicted on the kind man was almost worse than death itself. Teeth gritted, warm flesh circling the swollen nub; barely a touch at all. Anger lashed out incoherently at the doctor touching him, simultaneously torturing the only man he had let his barriers down around. Loathing bubbled in the depths of Tatsumi’s stomach, fruitlessly cursing the sadist. Despite every rational thought detesting the man, his body began to react, prickles of arousal swaying up the inner of forcefully parted thighs.

Tsuzuki’s breath ceased as a low hum roused, unable to see what Muraki was doing, trying to settle the chains so he could listen to the smallest of clues. Tatsumi, to the contrary, wished he couldn’t see; heat darkening platinum as the doctor leant forwards to claim his lips. Though he seethed, it was impossible to deny Muraki’s beauty or skill, tingles following in the wake of short fingernails against his thigh. “It seems Tatsumi-san is quite sensitive.” Words jarred Tsuzuki’s attentiveness, forcing him to imagine why such words would be uttered; sure he heard the huskiness of lust in baritone silk.

A muffled gasp forced past the gag as the large vibrating plug the doctor was wielding ran up the inner of his thigh to nestle underneath silken globes, rolling them back and forth just slightly with tiny thrusts. Every thought willed his body not to react but it was inevitable, flesh swelling to betray him. Sapphire locked on Tsuzuki, it had been so long since he had felt any sort of embrace, the brief accidental touches between them only fuelling his frustration. Digits as talented in the art of murder as they were at the dance of life and death that was surgery wrapped around the burgeoning arousal, stroking it.

The interplay between the two shinigami was pleasing him, making the situation fall completely into his control. A tiny whimper greeted his thumb sliding over the slit of Tatsumi’s manhood, a wry smile gracing handsome features as he saw Tsuzuki stiffen. Very interesting. “It also seems Tatsumi-san is quite a masochist, he is already... so... very... hard.” Needlessly he narrated the reaction to his prey, the slight whimper having betrayed the reaction his ministrations were having. “Do you think I should use a cock ring, Tsuzuki-san? After all I don’t want it to be over before it’s even started…”

Formless emotions swelled in Tsuzuki, confusing and painful as air burned in his throat. Foremost was sorrow for what he had inflicted on Tatsumi, but in the depths of his being jealousy sparked. Nothing had progressed from the liquor sweetened kiss the secretary had forced upon him so long ago but sometimes in the depths of the night he had fantasised that it had. Now he felt two sets of eyes on him, his dear sweet Tatsumi’s and the penetrating gaze of Muraki. Then there was the doctor himself, professing his love in silky-smooth tones, promising him the world yet touching another. The thought of the two men who held a place in his most depraved fantasies –together- flickered into the forethought of his mind. They would be stunning together.

Fine silver and mahogany strands spilling together, the motions that would tear the tiny whimpers he was hearing from Tatsumi’s throat… if his imagination did the scene any justice, it was something out of his darkest desires. Shame burnt through him as he felt himself starting to stir, imagining that the doctor had indeed encased the straining length in a silver ring that pressed tight around the base denying the other shinigami release. What did it matter, he was to be executed soon. “Seiichirou…” Plaintively he called the other’s name, such intimacies long ago discarded as the secretary had slammed the office door in his face, demanding he find another partner.

Guilt raced through Tatsumi’s body as heat reached Tsuzuki’s cheeks, a shiver whispering down his spine as he heard his name on his lips. Sapphire lowered to the man’s growing arousal, realisation dawning upon him. All this time, Tsuzuki had not been disgusted with him? Certainly he had pushed him away but perhaps it had only been surprise at the sudden crash of lips and not revulsion.

Aching inside and out he trembled as he wilted into the thorny stems, unable to grasp any sense of clarity. All this time he had longed and wished and desired and soon Tsuzuki would cease to exist, his hopes thrust into oblivion. Slick fingers were grazing his entrance, insanity twisting in his usually ordered mind, focussing his entire being on the bound shinigami. This would be their first time, last time… a stricken sound tugging his throat as he gave himself over the overpowering need. Though the skilled fingers that touched him were not Tsuzuki’s he would imagine they were so they might lay together if only once.

Sensing the change in the atmosphere a bead of sweat skimmed down Tsuzuki’s throat, wet pants invading his hearing. Fingers were pushed deep into untested muscle, spreading cold lubricant through the tight passage. Pain burst through Tatsumi but it didn’t matter; long digits belong to his cherished Tsuzuki, desire darkened sapphire focused on the blindfolded man with heat and intensity. Almost tenderly they stroked and cajoled him into relaxing, scissoring taut heat to prepare it for what was to come.

The needy little sound he heard next caused his rousing manhood to twitch. Was Tatsumi thinking of him? Or was Muraki just so good that even the ice that surrounded the serious accountant melted under the heat of his touch? Whatever the truth, teeth grazed his bottom lip, the vision of Tatsumi writhing beneath him searing into his mind. Even in his most risqué fantasies he had never imagined the secretary would bottom, but faced with it he realised that somehow it was darkly delicious; to rip control from the iron-willed man. Shivery breath pulled him back into the current, just as Muraki pulled slick fingers from the abused pucker of muscle.

From the depths a pained groan roused as he felt the unrelenting pressure of a thick tip pressing to tormented muscles. Defiantly he clenched before he was breached anyway, the agony making him feel grounded in some way; the only thing that was real in the otherwise depraved nightmare he was enduring. Mercy was not a trait the doctor was known for, inch after inch infiltrating Tatsumi until only the end of the plug protruded. Shaky inhalation pulled in the cool air, sweat-dewed flesh stained crimson as he swayed dangerously, perilously close to losing consciousness from the combination of pain and psychological torture.

Lips were bruised by the insistent scrape of teeth, a wet sound causing cheeks to heat. Was Muraki inside him? Imagination splayed them out before him, gloved hands holding Tatsumi’s strong pectorals, the thick length sinking between pert cheeks. Groans twined together, one of pain, the other of longing as Tsuzuki twitched, each fresh sound sending a knowing thrill along his spine. Muraki would undo him; he knew that no matter the amount of loathing, the secretary felt there was no denying the doctor was skilled. Perhaps his fascination with the human body had contributed to the man knowing just where to touch, when and how.

Pale lips curved as he watched Tsuzuki squirm, thrusting the plug slowly into the most intimate regions of the secretary. Imagination was a dangerous tool, one that he could use to his advantage. Twisting his wrist just slightly he struck firmly, rewarded with a low, needy moan. Limbs strained and then became lax, convulsing as luminance burst into Tatsumi’s perception. From the heated lick of swollen lips it seemed his triumph hadn’t gone un-noticed by Tsuzuki either. A shudder rippled through chains and down the shinigami’s spine, perhaps a memory of when he had tasted the all-consuming desire that the doctor drugged the secretary with.

As the crescendo began to build sounds became more frequent, though muffled by the saliva glazed gag. Tiny thrust stirred slender hips, hazy sapphire locking onto the swaying form of his former partner who rocked in time with the intoxicating surges of discomfort and pleasure. Fear drove ice through his veins, hearing his own desperate vocalisations, the heat building to an almost unstoppable surge. It was all over, once he climaxed he would never see the sweet but troubled brunette again. He could not stop though, each inward twist that filled him driving him inexorably towards the cliff.

Dangling on the precipice he felt a warm tongue trace his cheek, realising dimly that Muraki was lapping up his tears. Ire flared; he would kill him, hunt him down like the dog he was and slaughter him in the most excruciating manner he could conjure up. Such were the thoughts of Tatsumi Seiichirou, his throat raw with anguish, yearning on the final note of his release as he faded into blackness, overwhelmed by agony and the surge of orgasm.

A wet pop extracted the plug from the secretary’s entrance, stems fading as the body was deposited on the floor, broken and bloodied. It was almost time for the final act of his intricate plan, hauling Tatsumi into a room some distance away from where Tsuzuki remained chained. In the silence anxiousness mounted, each second feeling like hours until the doctor’s inevitable return. Would death be swift and merciful? Hair roused at the back of his neck, knowing that the sadist could never be so kind, but he had no choice except to wait on Muraki.

Limbs shivered, it pleased him; the little hiccups and uneven breaths the shinigami was taking when he returned. Ribs rose and fell rapidly, whether with fear or arousal unclear. “It is nice to have you all to myself again, Tsuzuki-san.” Jealousy flared as his gaze raked down to the straining length between pale thighs, swollen with the sounds he had ground out of the summons department secretary. It occurred to him that only he ought to be able to encourage such blatant excitement. The sharp exhalation that greeted gloved fingertips on a damp cheek thrilled him, his Tsuzuki-san only so sensitive to his touch.

“Kill me Muraki; you got what you wanted...” Words were almost wept, the trembling voice pleading for completion of the torment. A low chuckle teased along the erect hairs of his neck, stirring further heat in the shinigami’s belly. “Unfortunately for you, my sweet Asato, your death was never on my agenda.” The fabric of gloves pushed into his mouth then, stifling any response as their forms came together, thoroughly enjoying how Tsuzuki stiffened in confusion as he felt the signatory white suit still in evidence.

Thoughts spilled through his mind, crashing incoherently together as confusion overtook him. Why would the doctor go to the trouble of making him choose if he had no intention of following through? Dread suddenly clawed through every vein. Tatsumi. Tatsumi would think he had died. Tatsumi would blame himself for surviving, for being unable to change his fate. Tatsumi would grieve for him and loathe the mark Muraki had burnt onto his body. Yet why was it a relief to feel fabric caressing his spine? Deep down, had he despised the thought of Muraki with another so much? Finally the thoughts were too much and a hysterical laugh burbled around the damp material.

Fingers were retracted, having thoroughly stroked and teased the pliant mouth, a possessive line drawn down the straining abdomen by the wet fabric. “Are you relieved Asato? That I didn’t bury myself in another man?” Baritone was amused, taking the slight clench below his touch as an affirmative; really, Tsuzuki was too cute at times. All the more reason to degrade him. “Asato, you are dead.”

Tones were soft, intimate as though he were releasing the man from the fetters that had held him to the mortal world. A shudder passed through the shackled frame, nubs starting to harden with the proximity of the man who drove him to the edge of insanity before pulling back into bitter sweet embrace of reality. The way he said his name, it made him feel like he was possessed, owned by the crazed doctor. As though there would be nothing simpler than yielding to his demands.

Choice was denied Tsuzuki; he was captured, tight in his snare and he would never let him go again. Fabric fell away from ivory flesh, as pure as the celestial but only the heart of a demon beat within. “Be mine, Asato, only mine and I will take you away from everything.” Wet digits invaded the broken brunette, stoking the embers of desire that burnt silently in the pits of his being. It would be so simple to submit. To embrace the monster that Muraki enthused with every subtle twist of digits.

Soon he heaved, weight thrown into the chains that held him fast, thighs trembling and prised open by desire. Undone. Truly Tsuzuki was beautiful and it was a feat in endurance merely to keep himself from burying into the wanton heat of the brunette. Platinum strands caressed a tear stained cheek, rolling flesh across his palm with each stroke of the aching arousal. “Mine.” A choked cry acknowledged it as he completed their union, filling the eager passage in a single thrust.

Bodies twined together, straining and aching, everything burnt away from Tsuzuki’s mind. Even his sense of identity quaked below the fire that consumed his every cell, unable to discern whether it was cleansing holy fire or if the pits of hell has swallowed him. Hips slammed together time and time again until sounds became incoherent and he could hear the distant voice breaking with raw, needy groans, belatedly realising it was his own. Muraki completed him. All the whispers of fate, of belonging that the doctor had implanted into his psyche mocked him. They were one, he was painfully aware of that now, blood and his own release slick between his thighs as a hoarse cry ripped from his throat.

As barriers yielded, so did his strength, the scent of sweat and sex thick on the air, intoxicating. His beautiful Tsuzuki. The cry was bewitching, offering him everything that the vulnerable, shaking body could offer. Heat surged forth as he slammed into shaking limbs thrice more before he joined him in oblivion, exploding into the tight passage that welcomed and embraced him. Wrists rubbed raw by metal were released, the bar spreading ankles removed as he knew Tsuzuki would run no longer. The attractive man was barely conscious and splayed across the floor, fractured and overwhelmed.

The satisfaction was immense. In the morning, he would remove Tsuzuki from existence, as though he were nothing more than a ghost. Immure him within a world were lucidity barely mattered, where they could be together without the constraints of Enma-cho baring down upon them. Tomorrow he would lock away his fragile little bird in a beautiful gilded cage that he would never seek to escape. For now though, he merely laid aside him, strong fingers running through sweat damp mahogany strands as he watched the shinigami cry himself slowly to sleep.

“Mine.”
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Tea For Three