Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ Shadow Play ❯ Chapter 1

Obligatory Disclaimer: I have no ownership rights to Yami no Matsuei (Descendants of Darkness); these belong to Matsushita Yoko and Hakusensha.

Author's notes: If you've read this fic originally on LiveJournal (specifically in yaoi_challenge 2004-5), you'll note that this is a slightly different version. Hopefully, as this one has suffered a bit more editing, revising, and betaing, it is a bit better. Thanks to Gaudior for the latter.

Also, a Magic Fingers, for those who don't know the brand name, is that little device attached to the bed in some hotel rooms that gives you a "massage"-by making the whole bed vibrate-when you put in a quarter. This will become important later ^_~

Enjoy!

~Angst

He was here.

Watari was here, too, and he'd let the mad scientist draw him through myriad intersections and alleyways in search of novel stimuli--avoiding tourist traps, Watari had said--for the duration of the afternoon, deciding to stay the evening rather than begin their reports in the relative calm of Meifu.

Tatsumi pondered the why of these and like things, staring blankly at a pentagram stenciled in spicy sauce, peanuts at its vertices, on his partner's plate, shifting out of the way automatically whenever Watari's gesticulations reached across the table. The man was a reminder, though unwitting, that his place was behind his desk, attacking an inevitable build-up of paperwork after several days in the field. Even if it was nine-thirty, and he'd been satisfied with the early resolution of a minor crisis, and he'd come to enjoy Watari's company once out of the office, out of the lab, where he need be watched less for hidden vials and mad schemes than for overexuberant amateur photography. Once they'd begun, in an effort he'd proposed for its cost-effectiveness, covering small investigations together in unassigned or overburdened sectors after the Kamakura success.

At the moment Watari detailed his new hypothesis of a means for locating Muraki, no trace of him yet found since the Kyoto fire. His friend's cool, scientific words acquired heat behind a Kansai dialect, thickening now in frustration--and Tatsumi returned his attention to his partner, concentrating to understand. It had been a year since Kyoto, and not a trace had been found.

"...and so by triangulating the path of the spell in four dimensions using its twelve-dimensional equivalent leg as a guideline, we should be able to determine the exit coordinates.

"I only wish this solution had presented itself sooner, as now we'll have to count on the spell's force having been enough to alter molecular structures in the surrounding materials at the entry point, and of course those parts of the immediate scene that weren't destroyed by fire were magically shielded, so they only hope is to find, for instance, a firetruck that was at the scene at the moment of the spell over a year ago and has not reacted to magical interference beyond surface levels since and obtain a significant enough sample from each of several locations on its body to analyze and reconstruct the angle.

"Oh, and did I mention we'd need to know exactly where it was at the time in relation to the entry point of the spell?"

Watari's head sunk between his palms. For the better part of that past year, the scientist had obsessed about locating their mutual enemy. Now, continued failure culminated in a string of unscientific terms murmured into arms folded on the table before him.

This, Tatsumi admitted to himself, was why he'd agreed when Watari had argued for sightseeing. It had seemed a welcome return to normalcy, really, after the past months of serious trials, failures, research, secretive expeditions to Kyoto--all ending in frustration. The day before they'd left on this mission, he'd looked up from the payroll to find 003 worrying at his inkpad with her talons, hooting softly. He'd followed her, and something had thudded against the lab door as he'd reached it; he'd entered to find two walls of blackboards covered in tiny equations, post-it notes carefully covering with freshly inked notations parts Watari had corrected, extending onto the spaces between boards, part of a desk, a third wall. A block of the sticky notepads had rested on the floor before him, and Watari...

...had simply stood, silent, unable to look him in the eye. Half a day of his time, he knew, was worth excavating his partner from the mound of responsibility he'd piled upon himself. And the alternate methods he longed to try were, at present, unviable, he'd told himself repeatedly. Everything would remain as before his opinion of Watari had begun to change. Before he had noticed, at least.

Which was why, when he aimed to say something neutrally comforting, what fell forth was the sort of barb with which he might have baited the scientist long ago.

"Do you always drink this heavily when you theorize? It would explain a good number of your inventions."

And why he felt like an ass the moment he'd said it.

"This is my only drink this evening, thank you," Watari replied, glaring.

"I know," he admitted, Watari's softening expression telling him the apology had been heard.

"He escaped from my sector, Tatsumi. Every status meeting I have to look at Bon and tell him there's been no progress."

Watari drew a steadying breath, selecting his next words carefully. "And Tsuzuki...He's angry. And hurt. And he won't admit it's for anything but Bon's sake. He's driven to find Mr. Chemically Imbalanced and take revenge...for Hisoka, but still can't say he didn't deserve..."

He looked up, eyes sincere. "...it would help a lot if someone who loved him would get over his own issues and show him a normal relationship."

Tatsumi paused, wondering what role his partner was trying to wheedle him into, trying not to snap, I gave Hisoka advice once, he took it, they're progressing, and I will not have a fatherly discussion with him about dating. He rephrased. "As I understand it, his time with Hisoka has..."

The sentence was interrupted by a painful jolt to the back of his head.

Watari was staring at him in exasperation. "You, you idiot!"

He lowered his voice, smiling awkwardly at the nearest cluster of startled restaurantgoers. "Tatsumi, go to him, be gentle with him, and maybe both of you..."

Tatsumi's eyes closed tiredly behind the hand that moved to adjust his glasses; Watari had expected it. He'd been snappish and unresponsive lately when the scientist popped into his office for a chat, happier than usual to be cajoled into long lunches or unskilled assistantship in the lab. Initial reluctance correlated with later enjoyment upon removal from the environment indicated that the problem was in the office.

And he was determined to pursue it. "I won't believe you don't think about him that way. Anyone can see the way you look at him."

"I love Tsuzuki as a brother."

Watari snorted. When he took on a question with determination, even a plainly annoying one, Tatsumi had recognized, he was beautiful to watch, brows coming together, eyes darkened in concentration, banked fire through tinted glass.

Compassion now tempered intensity. "Why did you leave? Was he too difficult to work with, or were your feelings too difficult to face?"

"Pity does not breed...romance, Watari. He needed a guardian, a protector--as did everyone with whom he came into contact."

Tatsumi smiled, but the burning eyes would not be evaded. "I am able to...assist in his care from a distance, but if his every hurt were to become mine..."

"Then what do you want?" Watari whispered roughly.

Tatsumi forced himself to breathe, unclench his fork, look up to ascertain that Watari had had no idea what his words would suggest. Images of bright hair filigreed loosely across muscled shoulders, brushing a trim waist and looking like nothing more than rich veins of ore in alabaster--he invoked silent damnations to the onsen in Hokkaido--were quickly stifled. Watari was a luxury he couldn't afford.

He'd looked away, back then, and his eyes had happened to fall on Tsuzuki.

Which was, of course, when Watari had actually been paying attention.

Pressures that had been building inside him for years made his joints weak; he felt as though the slightest movement would cause him to burst.

"I..."

"...want..." His voice sounded overly loud in the closing restaurant.

"...to continue this conversation at the hotel."

"All right," Watari agreed, "but you're not getting away from me."

* * *

Throughout the short walk Watari fought to staunch his own excitement.

Tatsumi, he noted, had involved himself in a studious survey of the local air, jaw set, carefully looking at nothing, seeming grudgingly to scan the aeons for his own demise, or he might have noticed the scientist's hyper state. Despite himself, Watari thrilled in the tension, instinct telling him this evening would have real content, unlike their usual cautious exchanges.

Intellectual stimulation. Meaningful exchange. He'd been craving that.

From Tatsumi in particular, and not the only thing, but this would suffice; the rest could be channeled into his work as in past years.

Although that too had met little success lately, he realized halfway to the hotel, other frustrations building there to toxic levels, nothing accomplished in regard to Muraki's whereabouts.

Perhaps this whole day was only a contrivance for passing time without thinking of his own aggravations, but he didn't want to return to work quite yet.

Or admit you're as bad as Tatsumi, an inner voice chided.

Watari began teaching it the periodic table. Atomic weights and all.

* * *

At the hotel, Tatsumi locked their room door, likening the sensation to hermetically sealing his own doom. Should Watari ask the right questions, he knew, he would be unable to stop answering. On some level he wanted to hear those questions, give those answers.

He didn't want that.

Tatsumi crossed the small room, sitting on his bed; shortly a quiet creak informed him that Watari had finished shooing his owl out the window and now sat opposite on his own.

"What do you want?" Watari prompted gently, but it still wasn't the right question.

"I don't know," he said truthfully, but it felt like a lie.

"Talking about such things is useful, even…" if I can't have you, his mind filled in, and Watari blinked to clear it.

Helping him. Helping, he told himself.

Tatsumi looked up in--wistful?--worry. "I want to talk without transferring discomfort to my friend." Don't let me hurt you, don't let me burden you; I'm not certain I can stop.

Watari couldn't decide whether he wanted to slap the man opposite or embrace him. "That's what you're doing now." I'd rather have this talk tangled with you, under the covers, and exhausted, but this is what I can give.

"And without being accused of nonexistent romantic entanglements." You haven't realized yet?

"Are you sure?" Watari asked, and that wasn't the question it seemed. Is there no chemistry, or do you not want there to be?

"Long ago, perhaps." There's someone else now. Tatsumi dared to look up.

The room was perceptibly closer than before, the air denser.

"And your tastes have...changed?" And he's agreed to discuss...with me...

"I am...perhaps less patient, now. And more in need..." I could need you too much if you let me. He'd dropped his voice to a whisper, and Watari was leaning forward, on the very edge of his mattress. The next words would be a desperate gamble. "...of an equal." He caught Watari by the eyes, then, across the short distance between hotel beds, willing the scientist to understanding or obliviousness as long as he picked one soon.

Oh, Watari thought. He risked a glance, a rather startled one, at Tatsumi, who was still watching him silently.

Thingy. What's it called? Damn? No, that's right--Fuck.

I want him. He wants me. We have a hotel room to ourselves. Tonight.

I should do something about this, you know.

Oh, fuck, he thought, falling back on the bed and looking frantically for a means of stalling.

He was somewhat concerned when his partner proceeded to stare at the floor for a full minute before landing insensibly on his bed, but Tatsumi took it in stride.

Oh, yes. He'd just have to avoid Watari as much as possible for the next few weeks to months--only until the other man caught a fever for another dangerous scientific machination to the neglect of all else. To get a head start, he'd removed his shoes and was moving toward the bathroom when he heard an unusual question.

As Watari made an attempt to collect his thoughts, he'd heard the slight creak announcing that Tatsumi was getting up, walking away from the conversation and the too-rare chance before them. Oh, no, you don't, he had thought, casting a determined glare at Tatsumi's back before his attention came to rest on the Magic Fingers.

"Hey, Tatsumi, does your bed have one of these?"

The secretary turned. "What?"

Watari pushed a coin into the little box by his bed, which started buzzing. "I've thought about installing one of these in my bed a few times, but it's a futon, and of course I'm in the lab most of the time anyway..."

"Watari, what is your point?" He resettled his glasses in customary irritated gesture.

"Come sit down. These are relaxing." Watari patted the bed, smiling tensely.

Glancing at him incredulously, Tatsumi found himself complying.

"Lie down?"

"No."

"Fine. I will." Watari had meant them to sound casual, but the words were rushed. He lay back, propping his head on folded arms.

"I do not find this relaxing," Tatsumi grumbled.

"No? I think it's rather--"

"In fact, it's somewhat obscene."

Watari raised a curious eyebrow. "How so?"

"Just imagine the possibilities."

"I rather like them." He was fiddling with the edge of his turtleneck amusedly, now propped on one elbow.

"Inelegant."

"Oh?" Watari prodded, utterly intrigued now.

Tatsumi decided it was time for a calculated risk.

"The overall sensation lacks the precision of, for instance, shadows," he said, and heard the man next to him take a deep breath. "I've always wondered...to what effect they could be used..."

Watari sat up abruptly, facing away; it hit Tatsumi that he'd misjudged.

"It's warm in here," he excused, standing up to walk to the window, but a firm hand on his shoulder set him back on the bed with a thump.

"It's nice right now," Watari began, and Tatsumi waited.

"I've noticed lately," he said, paused. "I think there's something wrong with the heating in the lab," Watari added hesitatingly. "It gets cold at night."

"I could…personally attend to it, if you wish," Tatsumi replied, feeling his way through the conversation, not quite looking at his partner.

"That would be nice," Watari returned neutrally.

No, not neutrally. Neutrality didn't sound like a sigh. And it didn't require a hand gently laid atop his own.

The tension in the room crackled like ice on the first warm day of spring, melting and sliding like Watari's head onto Tatsumi's shoulder, flowing like his arm around the scientist's waist. With the suddenness of spring thaws he pulled Watari to him, investigating the feel of heavy golden hair between his fingers, strong arms around his neck, a slender waist beneath his steadying palm, forgetting all these in favor of the pliant mouth that drew his attention fiercely.

Watari's customary exterior of mad exuberance had been a trait he'd tolerated, once. Something he no longer noticed, later. Even more recently it had become an endearment, but it paled in comparison with this. Energy had gone nowhere, but was magnified, transformed into a heated urgency. A need matching his own at once taunted and pled with gliding tongue and gentle teeth, and Tatsumi felt out of control, a desperate stream swept into a greater saltwater sea of bitter frustration. He needed, and now, but Watari pulled back, taking deep breaths.

"What do you want?" Watari whispered in his ear, and this time it meant just what he wanted it to mean.

"This," Tatsumi replied, pulling the scientist closer for a deep kiss, becoming unbalanced, falling backward with Watari in his arms. Their teeth clicked together, and brief chuckles clashed in the cavity formed by two mouths, becoming gasps as soon as Tatsumi's hands found their way beneath Watari's layered turtlenecks, pinching the delicate skin there, as Watari discovered a sensitive nipple through the cotton of a dress shirt. There was friction lower, and cloth felt nice, but oh, skin would be so much better...

Something pressed harshly into the side of his nose, making Watari wince and pull back, straddling his partner. As he sat up he caught his falling glasses, and the shadow master could see childish hesitation in his eyes as he looked to Tatsumi, to the nightstand--too far away, and back, not wanting to move.

Tatsumi sat up, then, Watari sliding down to sit on his calves, and removed his own glasses, taking the scientist's in the same hand. Leaving him one arm free with which to roll Watari onto his back against the pillows, twisting to free his own legs and brace himself over the scientist, leaning forward to place the eyewear on the small table.

"You're fast," Watari noted, handing Tatsumi the tie he'd meanwhile removed, and both grinned, ridiculously bursting into laughter when the bedside device abruptly quit, the constant background whirring gone.

No distractions, he thought, leaning down again to explore the line of Watari's jaw with his mouth, drawing the ribbon from his hair and sinking both hands into golden waves, an indulgence he'd thought he'd never allow himself.

It was as decadent as he'd imagined.

Watari's hands worked at his partner's jacket buttons, at his vest, gave up trying to find his shirt under all that wool and moved to Tatsumi's belt. The secretary sat back once he'd removed it, discarding the offensive articles before returning to Watari's equally obstinate fluffy turtleneck, already bunched as high as it would go beneath Watari's armpits, and, from this new leverage, pulling it over his partner's head.

Gently, Watari traced Tatsumi's arm through his shirt sleeve, catching his attention with eyes rather than hands. He drew Tatsumi back down to him, settling left hand on his shoulder, right between the blades of both. The next set of kisses was slow, exploring, careful. And, somehow, even more intense as Watari set a slow starting pace, his tongue barely tickling the shadow master's mouth between strong but closed brushes of their lips. As Tatsumi's hand wonderingly carded through his hair, he sucked on the older man's lower lip, biting gently, asking entrance which Tatsumi willingly gave. The hand which had been lightly resting between his partner's shoulderblades came up to guide the back of Tatsumi's neck, and Watari tickled each side of his partner's mouth with the tip of his tongue as he untucked that edge of Tatsumi's shirt.

He continued wetly down the side of Tatsumi's neck, Tatsumi allowing him to bite into the heavy fabric of his dress shirt, popping the buttons loose as far as he could reach, finishing with his free left hand while still applying kisses to the exposed chest.

Tatsumi shrugged out of the damp shirt while Watari waited, smirking, then moved down between his partner's legs. He took hold of Watari's boot.

"Pull," he said, boot and sock removing easily, the other pair following. Watari stretched casually under his glance, arching with a contented noise.

Which opportunity Tatsumi took to reach beneath him, teasingly placing three hard fingers behind the noticeable bulge in his pants. Watari gasped sharply, straining into the unexpected touch as it feathered gently over his erection, which twitched deliciously as the shadow master's thumb found its head. He all but fell into the pillow, his hips lifting of their own accord, defying the limits of the human skeleton in search of pleasurable sensations, as Tatsumi teased him through the fabric before quickly ridding him of his belt. That gone, he undid the button of Watari's slacks, pulled the zipper, grabbed waistband in both hands, and discovered that Watari was again wearing a bodysuit.

The scientist seemed embarrassed. "Sorry. I really hadn't expected..."

Tatsumi merely lifted his legs, finished freeing them of the dress pants. He tossed them aside, not knowing where and not caring-- wherever the rest of their clothing had gone, somewhere between the room's two beds.

"You wear too much clothing," Tatsumi stated, leaning in close to his partner.

"Like I said, I get cold," Watari replied. Tatsumi merely lowered his weight slowly onto the scientist, heat bouncing back between their eyes, focusing laser-like between touch and reaction to reaction to reaction...but something smooth had slid in between them, thin as the space where they lay full against each other but definitely there, and Watari felt a motion behind him, a pull at the zipper on the back of his bodysuit, though Tatsumi's hands rested above his head. His eyes widened.

"The multiple uses of shadows," Tatsumi reassured as the zipper traveled down his spine, small tendrils of darkness hooking the edge of the cloth and sliding it away from his skin as he lay there, as his partner lay atop him, discarding it at the end of the bed. He shivered.

"Tatsumi?" Watari whispered, breathing against the long hairs that tickled his partner's neck.

"Hm?" Tatsumi returned, the sound vibrating against a pulse point.

"Take off your pants," Watari breathed, voice catching in a submissiveness that compelled him to obey or else--or else not face the consequences of doing so, and that was unthinkable. Watari's hands shook as they impatiently fumbled at the button, but Tatsumi swathed them in calming shadow, and the scientist felt the button and zipper give way as though the wool were butter, drawing a sharp breath as his partner's erection pushed free of the cloth, barely brushing his through a layer of smooth darkness as the shadows drew his slacks away and out of immediate concern.

"So what else can you do with your shadows?" Watari asked coyly, and Tatsumi felt a surge of answering playful aggression. If the scientist's curiosity was torturing him so badly, how could he refuse to satisfy it?

Before his partner had time to protest, he'd pulled Watari's arms up over his head, and thick tendrils of shadow had fixed them, crossed at the wrists, bent at the elbows, and resting on the pillow, in place.

"Um..." Watari began, but stilled when Tatsumi leaned in, reassuring, breathing shhhh against his lips in a tease-of-a-tease that forced him to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and trust.

Tatsumi sat back between his knees, watching intently, and he'd thought to ask again for some explanation when the touch of silken threads began to register against the tips of his fingers, brushing along the digits to tickle the nerve-dense flesh of his palms, a soft, light background noise of sensation as bolder ribbons quickly rose from the pools of shadow under his arms, caressing wrists, elbows. Watari pressed his lips together, withholding sighs, then giggles, as he relaxed. He allowed his eyelids to fall shut, heightening his sense of touch by shutting off that of sight, as soft vines slithered past his armpits, attacked the soles of his feet, low chuckles escaping with little difficulty from the lips he tried hard to keep shut (if Tatsumi was intent on playing the cat, why should he be an easy mouse?). The individual strands met and joined, slowing, churning, becoming currents in the pond of shade under his back that lapped at the delicate places of shoulderblades and spine, surged up against his shoulder muscles, gently kneading. Watari opened his eyes, looked at Tatsumi, whose own fondly crinkled at the edges.

"You always tense up there," he explained, and Watari smiled, turning the motion into a quirk of his head, a bitten lip, a glance that made Tatsumi's cock leap visibly and right hand shoot out to Watari's thigh to steady him. It was an expression of surrender, but foremost of triumph.

Ribbons of shadow brushed softly up the insides of his knees, his thighs, and Watari released a pleased sigh. Neck arched, he stifled a moan as one silky tendril slipped past his heavy balls, meandered its way slowly, achingly, in little curves and swirls along his shaft, barely stroking the head of his...

Arching abruptly, eyes flying open, Watari lost his battle with silence as that gentle shadow dipped into the slit of his cock, uttering an incoherent moan that brought a smile to Tatsumi's lips. Tatsumi watched intently, directing the tendril of shadow to curl around the stiffened member, a writhing spiral squeezing from base to tip up and down the shaft, uncoiling, tightening and falling again.

"T-Tatsumi!" Watari half gasped, half sobbed, and Tatsumi realized that he was rubbing hard circles into the side of Watari's knee with his thumb, hips rocking slightly with every stroke of the shadows. Watari's long legs caught around his waist impatiently, and he leaned forward, barely daring to brush his chest against the soft skin and hard muscles of Watari's, rising and falling in gasps, and when his partner rose to meet him it was an electrical circuit completed, current running through both of them, and Watari's thighs pressed hard against Tatsumi's hips, and Tatsumi's hands burned on pale skin, and Tatsumi's tongue plunged between Watari's lips in desperate parody of his intentions.

Watari could barely remember to breathe for the variety of sensations his partner was inflicting upon him, as Tatsumi threatened to strip away his soul through his mouth, his nerves through his skin, shadows still coiling about his limbs, pressing, caressing, soft, cool contrast to the hot and demanding hands that moved along his arms, shoulders, that made him gasp into the kiss as they found a sensitive spot on his ribs, as they moved in languid contrast to the brutal ministrations of Tatsumi's mouth, stroking moiré curves over his nipples, finally grasping his waist, reveling in the slight curve outwards of his hips, taking strong hold of his ass. Tatsumi finally gave in to his own pleasure, drawing Watari to him, himself to his partner. He gasped, and his lips broke contact with Watari's, head falling onto the younger man's shoulder.

Watari could tell his partner was holding back, trying to give him the utmost of pleasure before he took his own, and would be damned if he didn't participate in their lovemaking. He held on to Tatsumi's waist with his legs, rocking upwards and twisting, remembering hastily not to bite through his own lip as sensation washed over him, as he lost coherent thought and they came together again and again, blood pounding in his ears...

Grinding against Watari, in the embrace of legs and hips and toned stomach, Tatsumi felt himself about to fall into that path in which lay madness, about to end this night earlier than he had imagined, and it took every scrap of his willpower to draw back from his partner, lift himself up on weak, heavy arms, to gain back his breath. He saw Watari's eyes open hazily, full of want, of need, windows to everything he'd felt over the last year: frustration, desire, hope, despair, need, and dropped his face down to the other man's, breathing heavily.

"Not...yet," he whispered. Tendrils of shadow pinned down Watari's legs, and the other man howled frustration, Tatsumi soothing him with a gentle caress to his outer thigh. As he bent to trace the line of Watari's leg, running his fingertips along the muscular calf, displaying fascination with the well-shaped knee, Watari's head beat the pillow; he uttered an inarticulate noise of fury when Tatsumi paused, tonguing the inside of his knee, though it turned into a breathy exhalation as he worked his way up the inner thigh with small bites.

"I didn't know you were into torture, Tatsumi."

Tatsumi chuckled against his hip, and at the vibration Watari thrust helplessly forward, bound by the infuriating shadows.

"Please..." he begged, knowing the secretary would never let him live it down later.

He didn't care.

The shadows began to move again, to slip down his thighs and pool under his ass, and somehow he could feel how they listened for Tatsumi's command though they lay dormant as normal shadows. And he set that thought aside for later scientific examination, for the shadows had moved shiftingly, softly, to cup his ass, support him, spread him. He looked to Tatsumi, then, and Tatsumi was watching him intently to see if this was acceptable, and of course it was, dammit.

"Please," he said again. Silk brushed against his entrance, circling, pressing gently and holding back, while Tatsumi continued massaging his legs, hips--whatever he could reach without letting Watari pull him closer again.

The scientist had decided to give Tatsumi his way this evening, but he knew it was the nature of their relationship to push and pull, to struggle against each other to a common goal that, hopefully, both would understand better in the end. He refused to be dominated, and if he was submitting to his partner, it was to assuage his own curiosity. Pleasure was something they would achieve together, not one give and the other take. Watari locked eyes with Tatsumi, letting him see every flicker of pleasure he incited in his blonde partner with a stroke of shadow, watching the fires burn hotter correspondingly in Tatsumi's eyes when Watari came back from a moment of lost focus as a slim finger of shadow penetrated him slowly, inexorably.

The rest reared up against him under the secretary's command, kneading his ass as Tatsumi rubbed his hips reassuringly. They gently massaged unaccustomed muscles, encouraged his legs to spread farther apart as the tendril inside him widened, was joined by another, sliding in and out. Maddening!

"Tatsumiii," he hissed, "How...canyou...stand...to justwatch? Please...please...come over here...I'll be good" The words were uttered as yelps and moans, the shadows filling, stroking, scissoring.

Tatsumi paused, then lay atop his lover, marveling in the fevered flush of his pale skin. Leaning on one elbow, he brushed sweat-dampened bangs from Watari's face, drew his lips along the curve of Watari's ear, under the line of his chin. Watari shook with effort, trying not to strain against his bonds, not to brush himself against Tatsumi and break his promise not to interfere with the other man's concentration. He sought only what he could reach with his mouth, leaving sloppy, wet kisses on forehead, cheek, mouth, chin, ear. He looked directly into Tatsumi's eyes, pouring frustration into the glance, meeting his partner's intensity, and the shadows swelled in, filling him, and he breathed in shakily, but he would not break the glance, would not move in reaction to the teasing hands on his belly.

Tatsumi grinned, then, in a way Watari was sure he'd never grinned for anyone else, a promise of hunger and sensual fulfillment that left his strained limbs weak. But he would not break the glance as Tatsumi's left hand moved to cup his flanks, support him, and he took himself in the other, guiding his heavy cock forward. Watari's body tried to rear away at the unaccustomed intrusion, but his patience was wearing thin, and he forced himself instead to push slowly towards Tatsumi, delighting in the way Tatsumi's arms trembled as he held himself arched above Watari, joining them.

The pressure was odd, but he could feel little friction even when Tatsumi was inside him, and he realized there was still a thin wall of shadow serving as lubricant between him and his lover.

"You've...certainly put thought into the full use of your powers, Tatsumi."

Tatsumi smiled warmly as he came into focus, leaning over Watari and bracing himself on both forearms. "Are you ready?" he whispered.

Using what little range of motion he had at present with which to tease inventively, Watari smiled in a way that made Tatsumi catch his breath, then squeezed.

He thrust helplessly, wondering who was really in control. "I'll take that as a yes," Tatsumi gasped. He withdrew slightly, then pressed forward again, making Watari shiver.

"Yesssss."

Tatsumi was encouraged by his partner's pleasured hiss, pulling out a bit more on his next stroke, rewarded when Watari arched to meet him. He established a slow rhythm, straining forward to taste the curve of Watari's neck, his collarbone. He dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of Watari's neck at the same moment he thrust hard, and a sharp cry of his name urged him to pick up the pace.

Watari was utterly overwhelmed with sensations: Tatsumi over him, inside him, mouth assaulting his neck and chest, the friction of skin on skin, skin on sheets, the shadows still manipulating his arms, stomach, legs, caressing the insides of his knees, supporting the small of his back, though they pressed harder now, more urgently, that he was almost afraid of being swallowed in them, of never leaving this moment. He wanted to scream at the slow pace Tatsumi was gradually building up, wanted to coax his partner into reaction with arms, legs, mouth, fingers. But his arms were still pinned above his head, and he could only reach so far, helplessly, as Tatsumi drove him to the edge of madness.

He had only his voice with which to taunt and please, and he suddenly wanted to know the specifications of the weapon in his possession.

"Tatsumi..." he whispered, arching, his painful erection rubbing against his partner's sweat-slicked stomach, and Tatsumi's lips found, suckled a nipple, and he thrust just a bit harder. "A-ah!" Watari rocked back up against him with every stroke, moaning, purring, panting, urging his partner on, harder, deeper, more friction against his rock-hard cock, and he didn't care how loud he was becoming, tossing his head back and thrusting his hips up to meet his lover's now feverish plunges, cries echoing off the walls.

Tatsumi was secretly enjoying the vocal signs of Watari's pleasure, but, as he grew louder, what remained of his practicality couldn't risk a call from the front desk. Slowing to take Watari's face, through billowing hair, in his hands, he covered Watari's mouth with his, plunging his tongue deep and muffling a vocalization in progress. That moan of pleasure turned into one of frustration, and Tatsumi pulled back, confused, looking into the face of his partner. Watari pouted, straining against his bonds, and through a haze of lust the shadow master understood that his partner wanted full participation in this act. The thought that Watari would not be satisfied until he could touch Tatsumi was heady and glorious, and Tatsumi felt a surge of warmth spread directly from his brain to his groin as he relinquished control of the binding shadows, kissing Watari again, this time slowly, thoroughly, even as he plunged harder, faster into the willing body beneath his.

Suddenly free of his bonds, Watari took the opportunity to touch all that he could, running his hands over Tatsumi's arms, his sweat-dampened back, feeling the play of the hard muscles in his abdomen as he moved...again...and again...running his fingernails across the soft flesh of his partner's flanks, tangling his hands in soft, disheveled chestnut locks and pulling Tatsumi down in heated kisses from which they both broke away almost immediately only to come together again, gasping, violent. He could barely breathe, strained and trembling, and he knew Tatsumi wasn't much further away from the end by the new, erratic quality to his no-longer-gentle thrusts. And he wanted as much contact as possible, and he locked Tatsumi to him, arms tight around his back, knees about his waist...

As Watari muffled a hard cry with a harder bite to his shoulder, Tatsumi knew that at last they'd hit the right position. Neither man, however, would last much longer. Drawing on every remaining scrap of willpower he had not to just lose himself in pounding Watari as hard as possible, he marshaled the shadows once more, hurrying to focus when his partner arched, gasping. They reached up between the pair, wrapping around the base of Watari's cock, holding him on the edge of oblivion.

That shout, some distant, unimportant portion of Tatsumi's brain noted, must have been heard throughout the hotel. Watari clutched insensibly at his shoulderblades, writhing madly, and had he been a weaker man, they might have been removed of his body. But he didn't care; the twisting of the man beneath him was maddening, and he was so close already. His strokes were hard, erratic, desperate, counterpointed with the moans of two men, for he no longer cared about volume, the shadows overtaking both locked forms, covering and consuming, until at the very last moment he sheathed himself entirely with a last hard thrust, falling forward into those shadows. Were they shadows? They gave way to blinding light.

After a while, coming to in deliciously shared aftershocks that rippled from one man to the other, he noted that the light he saw was the bedside lamp in reflection on golden hair. Dumbly, he stared at it for what seemed an hour, basking in the peace of sated contact with his partner, his warmth, the way that hair shifted slightly whenever he exhaled.

Slowly, his vision grew dimmer, eyes closing in sleep.

"Think your shadows are so impressive," Tatsumi felt more than heard, nuzzled sleepily into his collarbone, "wait'll tomorrow night."