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Muraki had originally given Watari a considerable quantity of opium to shut the overly effusive and annoying Shinigami up. However, he had not expected the foremost scientist of Meifu to begin rolling around on the futon like some fluffy, golden-haired kitten in heat. He studied this curious effect from the shadows in the corner, every so often his watchful gaze alight by the glowing tip of his cigarette. Watari seemed enthralled with the sensual landscape of his imagination, painted for his personal enjoyment. Muraki had been with Oriya when his occasional lover had taken too much opium, and he was familiar with its amorous effects, but he had never seen anything quite like this before, so naturally he was intrigued. Besides, he had never had an opportunity to study this particular Shinigami so closely before. After sliding his shirt up his torso as high as possible, clearly incapable of removing the mock turtleneck, Watari's hands trailed slowly down his sweat-moistened chest, fingers caressing taut skin stretched perfectly over muscle and bone. With a pink tongue flicking over parted lips, Watari pressed his body into his self-pleasuring hands, insatiably ravenous for more stimulation. When the Shinigami's fumbling fingers began working his tented trousers open, Muraki felt an echo of tightness in his own, demanding release. He knew that he should not take risks. He knew that Tsuzuki would arrive any moment to rescue his abducted friend, snatched by pure happenstance and discovery at a Kyoto garden. However, Watari writhed like an oversexed feline, choking him with pheromones, demanding to be stroked and pleasured. With a needy growl reverberating at the back of his throat, Muraki extinguished his cigarette and shortly thereafter found himself on the bed, assisting Watari in divesting the scientist of his unwanted black trousers as efficiently and quickly as possible. "Oh, Muraki, do you like what you see?" Watari smirked playfully, glasses slightly askew on his face, one hand playing upon his chest and the other gliding between his legs. Muraki quirked a brow, quite surprised that Watari was cognizant enough to know precisely who was stretched overtop of him. "As a matter of fact, yes... I do." Muraki drank in the lightly muscled body beneath him like a fine wine, and as his left hand freed his aching, hard cock from his trousers, he lowered his eyes to the blushed erection and thatch of sumptuous blond curls between Watari's legs. "I didn't think I was your type." Watari reared up briefly and finally pulled his shirt off his body. He reclined on the futon languidly, and then spread his legs wide, every graceful movement screaming for him to be taken. "Nor I yours." Muraki sank his lower torso onto Watari's, sighing in satisfaction as their silken skin slid together like a bolt of fine fabric pooling onto the floor. Rocking his hips, Muraki embraced the decadent pleasure of caressing himself against another man, especially one so receptive and pliant. Watari laughed softly, amber eyes sparkling mischievously. His shoulders pressed into the futon as he arched up eagerly to meet Muraki's hungry thrusts. "Oh, but you're not my type, Muraki. However, you are convenient." Stung by Watari's insensitive remark, Muraki growled and felt his lips quiver in agitation. He snapped his hips and ground himself firmly between Watari's legs; hot, hard flesh sliding, and soon slippery with sweat and precome. The more Watari encouraged the nearly violent onslaught by stroking himself up along Muraki's cock, the angrier Muraki grew... and the closer he came to climax. Plunging two long fingers into his mouth, Watari began sucking suggestively while his eyes slid half closed in his own private ecstasy. Strong legs wrapped around Muraki's backside, aiding in their frictionless ride of lust. Watari gasped and moaned urgently around his fingers as though he was about to come any moment. Muraki's world exploded into an angry, red haze of cheated pleasure as he spilled hot white over Watari's firm belly. He had barely caught his breath when Watari finally ceased moaning and spoke almost lucidly. Watari's opium-laced gaze fixed upon the dark corner where Muraki had sat only moments ago. The Shinigami smiled, a little too gleefully, and purred, "Tatsu-kitten. I was wondering when you'd join the party." As the shadows converged into a million sword points, Muraki wondered if Oriya would ever get his blood out of the walls. ~ fin ~ The morals of this story: 1. Never underestimate Watari. 2. Never piss off a Shadowmaster. 3. Never give Watari free access to opium. 4. Never leave Xandria unattended for several hours in an overworked and sleep-deprived state. ~~~~~ |
