"Caught" by Evil Asian Genius

"If the nightingale will not sing, kill it." Oda Nobunaga
"If the nightingale will not sing, wait until it does." Tokugawa Ieyasu
"If the nightingale will not sing, make it want to sing." Toyotomi Hideyoshi

From a half-slumbering repose he was snared, silk sliding around his wrists to catch him against the rough bark of the sakura tree. The tightening of the bonds was what woke him, pulling him up upon his knees.

Confused, Hisoka struggled against his fetters, serving only to constrict them further, the pressure increasing against his arms as they were pulled back behind him. Red twisted around his arms, darkening to black. Like blood. Or tangled trails of ribbons.

Help. But the word couldn't - wouldn't come out of his mouth.

As the world sharpened around him, he realized that he was half-dressed, kimono falling open lasciviously, obi trailing the rain-slick grass.

And that's when Muraki appeared.

Oh please, let this be just a dream...

* * *

He was thirteen again, but he knew he couldn’t be. There was Meifu and Tsuzuki and the others and the sakura and oh it was pink and the flowers fell like discrete drops from a rain of watered blood... Hisoka closed his eyes, struggling against it, trying to wake up from whatever dream he had been drawn into, from whatever illusion that he needed to dispel.

Yet he was drawn back into this unreal reality with a gasp of fear as he heard that voice, that silken dark voice that promised so much yet so little and he couldn’t, couldn’t break away.

It tugged at him, drawing him forth so that he could feel the binding of the ribbons against him and was it his blood or just ribbons dancing in the hint of a breeze that picked up and there was so much to it that he couldn’t comprehend.

Beneath him the grass was slick with rain just as it had been that night when he slipped as he ran and it did something to his ankle and he couldn’t get up in time to avoid those arms, those hands, that mouth.

Entwined, his fingers scrabbled uselessly against the ribbons, and he fought like a marionette against its strings.

Muraki knelt before him, on one bended knee as if a grotesque parody of an engagement, a promise of love twisted into something deadly.

With elegant fingertips he tipped Hisoka’s face up to him, revealing those green eyes brimmed with the hint of tears, a spark of light against the red-moon sky.

"I promised now, didn’t I?" Hisoka tried to pull away but couldn’t, gaze caught by quicksilver gray as though a bird hypnotized by the reptilian slits of pupils.

"No...it’s not real..." Hisoka stammered, the hot touch of Muraki’s hand like a brand against his skin and as his empathic senses accidentally brushed against Muraki, he felt as though he was falling into a fathomless abyss, dark and twisted like the grasp of the clammy fingers of the dead sliding all over his skin until he was nearly screaming from it.

But instead it was a mewl of pain, a weak and choked cry as Muraki drew back, careful not to let Hisoka spiral into a loss of himself.

"Does it matter?" Muraki smiled, more a quirk of the lips than anything that had real meaning behind it. Black humor danced in his eyes. "Real or no...you still feel, don’t you?"

“"I don’t...don’t want..." Hisoka shook his head, grasping for spells, for the protection of his own powers. But like phantoms or ghosts, it was as if it was all slipping away and he couldn’t catch them in his mind.

"Then I shall make you want, my little puppet. My nightingale." Muraki’s fingers came back, sliding down the curve of Hisoka’s neck. As his hands passed over Hisoka’s skin caressingly, over the curse marks, the lines of crimson flared into being and Hisoka cried out, nearly passing out from the pain, red-hot flashes of light flitting behind his eyelids.

And still, it was as if he was drawn, pulled toward Muraki while the ribbons held tight until he was taut between the two; the tree, the man, the past, the present.

"Sing for me." Muraki’s voice was lustrous, sensual. "My little bird." His lips pressed to Hisoka’s throat and Hisoka’s eyes shut tight, a tear wobbling at the edge of his eye, threatening to slide down his cheek.

Muraki’s hands slid lower, finding his bared chest, the lines of the curse delineating the smooth panes. He caught a nipple between his fingers and teased it to hardness before pinching it cruelly within the vise of his fingernails. It drew forth a gasp of pain from Hisoka.

"Please." The word slipped out of Hisoka’s mouth and past his teeth before he could stop.

Let me go.

And to his surprise, Muraki answered.

No.

* * *

Like that night yet more still, it went on. Muraki with his white coat stained crimson with blood, drying and flaking off in blacked bits, his hands still reeking of that copper-rich scent. Hisoka took shallow breaths, trying not to catch that smell mingled with the sweetness of sakura, but as Muraki’s hands moved upon him, he found himself drawing deeply at that poisoned air, needing it to fill his lungs so that he could scream.

And yet the sounds didn’t come out. Like the past, the only screams were the ones within his own mind as he tried to pull his empathic powers away from Muraki’s touch, protecting them within himself so that he didn’t have to feel that fathomless night, those corpse-cold emotions.

Instead, it was little whimpers and gasps that escaped his lips even as he drew air to scream, to pull away. But it wasn’t working.

Within the hands of the puppet master, Hisoka’s body danced to Muraki’s touch, responding to his every caress. Whether pain or pleasure, he followed it blindly, unable to draw away.

The marks of the curse played along his skin like the whisper of delight. It was wrong, he didn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t...no...

"Did you think that you could forget me?" Muraki’s lips were close to his ear and it sent a shiver up along his spine, a feeling that left sweet tingling itches along his rain-soaked knees, down to his toes.

"Did you think that they would offer you succor? That you could lose yourself in the embrace of the one you think you love?"

Hisoka shook his head wildly, concentrating on trying to breathe as Muraki’s hand slid down to cup his growing erection and why was he hard for this and, and...

Muraki’s hand closed upon it, giving it a forward pulling squeeze, and Hisoka cried out, an empty sound as the unvoiced breath passed through his lips.

"There is only one that you love truly..." Muraki’s tongue dipped into his ear, and the moist hot touch nearly undid him. "And that is me."

"N-no..." Hisoka tore at the ribbons as a hint of mad laughter filled the air, rich with promise.

"You’re mine." With that, Muraki drew off his coat, pooling the bloodstained white around him. His gray shirt rode silkily against Hisoka’s skin as Hisoka was borne in Muraki’s embrace until his back was pressed against the rough bark of the tree, ribbons slacking their hold.

But a moment later and they tightened, drawing Hisoka up to a standing position, his bare wet legs half-dangling, his weight held up by the unmistaken grip of the bonds upon his wrists.

Hisoka looked up and there it was, blood. Tiny droplets, sliding down his arms from the fetters, the crimson blending into the lines of his curse until he didn’t know where one started and the other ended and he knew that it was indeed his own blood that was binding him, through some arcane doing of Muraki’s.

He would have wept with frustrated helplessness if he could. But instead his eyes were drawn back down to that silver hair that now was below his line of sight, a hot slippery play of tongue and fingers across his chest as his legs were parted and Muraki moved between them.

Hisoka trembled under the hand that seduced him into hardness, those clever lips and fingers dismantling him like the casual scope of an autopsy, his responses found and disassembled with a lingering efficiency.

And as a saliva-slicked finger pressed its way into him, finding that spot of pleasure hiding within his body, he came in a spasm, hot semen working its way into Muraki’s hand, between his fingers. Muraki laughed at that, a low chuckle of appreciation.

"No one else can make you feel like I do, my pet." And this time tears did come to Hisoka’s eyes as that devastating sensitivity that he always had after orgasm slid over his body like the drape of a heavy mantle of silk. Weak-kneed, he would have limply fell to the ground had not the bonds and Muraki’s hand been holding him up.

"No one." Muraki licked at the cooling seed upon his fingers and because what Muraki said was true, a sob tore through Hisoka’s throat, breaking whatever spell that had caught his voice and stilled it.

A parting of cloth and an unfastening of clothes. Muraki’s shirt slid wantonly against Hisoka’s bared chest, the skin-warmed mélange of buttons and cloth grating almost unbearably against his tender flesh, the edge of a button scraping along a tormented nipple. With one free hand, Muraki caught one of Hisoka’s legs from under the knee and pushed it up, pressing Hisoka more securely to the trunk of the tree. Had not the loose kimono provided some amount of protection, Hisoka’s back would have been scored by the indifferent bark as Muraki slid against him.

Firmly pressed with no means of escape, Hisoka opened his mouth to cry out but Muraki’s lips caught him, pulling the breath out of him as his tongue ravaged his mouth. The slicked blunt weight of Muraki’s cock pushed against his entrance and he would have squirmed if he had room to move.

It slid into him inexorably, an undeniable force, lubricated as Hisoka now realized with his own issue, the semen that had come forth from his own body now used to ease Muraki into him.

Hisoka cried out against Muraki’s shoulder, a sound that was jarred and broken by Muraki’s thrusts, little ones that eased into Hisoka more and more, past that tight ring of muscle, the hard member stretching him, sending a sweet chill along his skin as Muraki penetrated him.

Finally, Muraki was fully sheathed within him and Hisoka trembled at the fullness, that little mouth of his entrance spasming around Muraki’s cock, tears sliding down his cheeks. Muraki licked at the tears, his pale blue eye staring blindly at Hisoka through the veil of his silver hair. With Hisoka’s leg slung over the crook of his elbow to hold it up, he began thrusting into Hisoka.

Slow hard thrusts that left Hisoka crying out with every plunge that pressed against that pleasure spot inside of him, convulsing as his own penis throbbed into life, pressed between the two bodies, scraping along the front of Muraki’s clothes. Perversely, he could feel Muraki as though himself, sliding past that grasping ring of muscle, the friction unbearably delicious.

Muraki gritted his teeth, picking up his pace and Hisoka let out a wail of pain or pleasure or something in between as Muraki pounded into him or perhaps it was the other way around, fingers digging cruelly into Hisoka’s pale skin leaving crescents of red where Muraki’s nails marked him.

The curse danced along Hisoka’s skin and Muraki’s hand suddenly tightened around Hisoka’s trembling cock, caressing it into hardness while that member inside of him stabbed against that pleasure spot unerringly. Hisoka came with a cry and a splurt of fluid, writhing as Muraki’s thrusts sped up relentlessly until he too filled Hisoka with his hot issue. The secondary orgasm flooded his mind, blanking out the world around him and he cried out desperately, spasming around Muraki’s cock.

"You’re mine." The voice filled his world as the retreating hardness slipped wetly out of him, the withdrawal leaving him empty.

Mine. The word defined him as Hisoka slipped into darkness.

* * *

Another dream. Hisoka woke up, feeling the teasing longing of desire playing out against his flesh. He felt the hot brand of the marks trailing past a nipple, sensation dancing to the unseen hand that controlled it.

Hisoka cursed himself, hating himself, and yet his hand still wandered to fondle at his own growing erection and he stroked it with a tightening grip. Plying his precome along his shaft with a little added help of saliva until he was slick and hard, moaning as he masturbated, his fingers played along a pert nipple until his own fingernails caught it with a twist of bright pain.

He was right after all, and even if Hisoka didn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it, it was true.

No one else could make him feel as Muraki did.

Hisoka came against the soft sheets of his bed with a thrust of his hips, his teeth biting into a clenched fist nearly hard enough to draw blood as the memory of Muraki’s fingers danced upon his skin like the touch of a lover.