Tatsumi writhed, trying to free his wrists and legs, reaching his will out desperately for the shadows he'd trained so long to control. They weren't there. He didn't know how Muraki had done it, but there were simply no shadows in the building. He was helpless and the mad doctor knew it.
Glaring up at the pale horror bending over him, he bit back his screams of pain, refusing to show how much it hurt, being taken like a common street whore, having that knife scrape patterns over his skin.
He was helpless, but he was still proud, and pride counts for more than you'd think.
In the end, the Shadow Master had screamed. As the binding spell settled itself into the Shinigami's soul, the curse seal sprang to life, and Muraki had emptied himself into that beautiful, defiant body, the pent up sound had forced its way loose.
Muraki smiled as he gently wiped away the last of the blood with a warm, wet cloth. Long strips of sanitized gauze came next, wrapping the unconscious man like swaddling clothes. The doctor tucked Tatsumi into bed and nestled one of his dolls in the other man's arm.
With a smile, he left, pausing in the door for a last look at his dolls.
The shadows were there now. He gathered them to him and threw them at the pale man smirking at the end of his bed.
The shadows stopped less than a foot from their goal as their master fell screaming back on the bed, angry red lines blazing to life along his form. He tried desperately to hold them, to keep his will, his hatred, focused. His will was a match for the doctor's...he knew this...
The curse changed that. The shadows fled. Tatsumi curled in a broken ball in the bed, sobbing, barely struggling as his new master scooped him up, held him, whispered in his ear.
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