“Sorry.”
“Yes. You are.”
“What the fuck else do you want me to say? I’m sorry.”
“I don’t recall requesting an apology in the first place.”
“Whatever. Jesus, this hurts. You got one helluva right.”
“I ought to. With you around, I get plenty of practice,” Ishida Uryuu
retorts, then touches a careful finger to his torn lower lip. He
grimaces at the resulting smear of blood and gingerly tilts his
throbbing head to examine his opponent.
Kurosaki Ichigo looks even worse than Uryuu feels. The orange-headed
idiot was spoiling for a fight when he followed Uryuu home, and Uryuu
knew it; Uryuu let him in, anyway. It was better than leaving him to
roam the streets, looking for trouble and - no doubt - finding it.
Better Kurosaki vent his rage within the contained environment of
Uryuu’s apartment, on someone who understands. That Uryuu matches him
fury for fury and blow for blow doesn’t hurt, either.
After the fact, Uryuu’s not sure what started it or who threw the first
punch, which is typical. Their personalities are reason enough. Aside
from a shared vocation they’ve nothing in common, if you don’t count
consistently rubbing each other’s last nerve raw.
"God." Kurosaki shifts, groans, and subsides, long legs splayed in
front of him, back propped against the miniscule balcony’s sliding
door. “So gonna regret this tomorrow.”
Uryuu slants Kurosaki a derisive glance. “Why not now?”
Kurosaki’s insane grin twists his mouth. “Blood looks good on you,
Ishida," he says. "And I like bein’ the one who puts it there.”
“Sadist.”
“Never said I wasn’t. ‘Sides… you like it, too.”
It’s sick. It’s borderline masochistic. But it’s also true. When
Uryuu's fist connects with Kurosaki’s jaw, when Kurosaki splits Uryuu's
lip or blacks his eye, when they’ve reduced each other to groaning
heaps of contusions, Uryuu feels almost… sanctified. It’s like the time
he put his fist through a wall: agonizingly painful and very, very
satisfying.
“Time is it?” Kurosaki mumbles.
“Around 02:30." Uryuu frowns at his swollen knuckles. "Are you staying?”
Kurosaki shrugs then winces when the movement jars aching muscle. “Dad’s already had his scheduled coronary. Might as well.”
“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me," replies Uryuu, dryly.
Amber eyes narrow. Rolling onto hands and knees, Kurosaki crawls the
few yards separating them and looms over Uryuu’s prone form. “Thought
you said that was a bad idea.”
“It is,” agrees Uyruu.
“Thought you didn’t wanna do it again.”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop fucking with my head!" Kurosaki's hands curl into fists on either side of Uryuu's head. "Dammit, Ishida-”
“I said it’s a terrible idea and I don’t want it." Uryuu pauses,
looking steadily into Kursaki's eyes. Then, "I didn’t say no,” Uryuu
says, and grabs the front of Kurosaki's torn tee. He yanks Kurosaki
down, showing him what he wants without words, which -- considering
Kurosaki's advanced level of stupid -- is probably what Uryuu should
have done in the first place. It certainly gets the desired result.
Kurosaki kisses the way he fights – brutal, no holds barred. His taste
is coppery aggression, his scent clean sweat and healthy, young male,
and Uryuu’s body responds as it always does, as it did in the aftermath
of their first battle. Uryuu hates his reaction, hates himself for the
unwanted weakness, but at this moment he can’t bring himself to care,
not with Kurosaki sucking his soul out through his mouth. Then Kurosaki
wraps a hand around Uryuu's aching cock and Uryuu's blood leaves his
mind for points more interesting. He arches, mouth open, fingers
digging into cotton and muscle, and Kurosaki's grip tightens in
response; they grapple in a mockery of their previous combat, nothing
on their minds but bare skin and how best to achieve it.
Locking his legs around bony hips, Uryuu rolls them so he’s on top and
pins Kurosaki’s shoulders to the floor. “Be still,” he orders, sharply.
He sheds what remains of his uniform and kneels, cupping Kurosaki’s
erection. He rubs his palm its length, wringing a groan from Kurosaki's
gut.
Kurosaki is breathing like he just ran three miles without stopping.
His eyes are open, but unseeing, and, “Need… need to-” he gasps,
straining towards Uryuu's touch.
Uryuu shakes his head, letting his most malicious smile curve his mouth. “I don't think so.”
He's careful with the zip. Kurosaki has an indifferent attitude towards
underwear and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone without -- as
he obviously has. Tugging grey trousers away from hard flesh, Uryuu
sits back on Kurosaki’s sprawled legs and enjoys the view.
Kurosaki squirms impatiently. “The hell are you waiting for, an engraved invite?”
Uryuu feels his smile widen. “I’m deciding where to start,” he tells Kurosaki. As if there was any question.
“Fuck!”
Kurosaki’s dick is solid and heavy in Uryuu's hand, hot against his
lips. Licking a line from base to head, Uryuu swirls his tongue over
the crown before sucking it in. For endless moments, there’s nothing in
his world but his mouth moving over Kurosaki’s erection, the salt-sweet
tang of pre-come, and Kurosaki's harsh breathing. Then Uryuu swallows,
his throat contracting around its obstruction, and hands pull him up
and off. “Can’t… gonna,” Kurosaki pants.
“All right.”
“Where’s the-”
“There’s none.” Uryuu doesn’t keep lubricant around. Saliva is good enough for this.
“Gonna hurt.”
“I know.” He wants it to.
“Ishida…”
“Shut up, Kurosaki. And stop that, or you can finish yourself off.” The
hands stroking Uryuu's cock and balls fall away. He takes his time with
his fingers, licking them thoroughly before reaching back, shoving fore
and middle past the initial constriction of his anus. He’s still
straddling Kurosaki, whose eyes are fixed on the apex of his spread
thighs. A sound that just might be a whimper reaches Uryuu’s ears. He
smiles. Kurosaki’s not the only sadist in the room.
Pushing saliva-slick digits deeper, Uryuu deliberately brushes his
prostate, teasing both himself and Kurosaki. He does it because he can,
because he enjoys knowing he’s the reason for the mindless lust on
Kurosaki’s face. Inoue Orihime rates vacant confusion, Rukia
affectionate irritation, anything else remotely female blank
incomprehension, but Uryuu – Kurosaki sees Uryuu. And Uryuu likes it.
Uryuu prefers Kurosaki’s animosity to the distant friendship he offers
others. They will never feel the fierce burn of Kurosaki's full
attention. They will never know the purity of his hatred. They will
never see this part of him, the part that belongs to Uryuu and no one
else.
“Fuck, Ishida, you don’t hurry up, this is gonna be over before it
starts,” Kurosaki groans, and Uryuu's eyes snap open. He pulls his
fingers free of his ass, then reaches down, aligning the tip of
Kurosaki’s cock with his hole and relaxing his muscles as much as he
can. Not that it does any good. Spit and pre-come just aren’t enough
prep when your hole isn’t made for stretching and your partner’s hung.
By the time Kurosaki’s halfway in, Uryuu feels like he's being ripped
open a milimeter at a time.
Kurosaki is watching Uryuu's face. His jaw is clenched; this is where
his conscience always kicks in, trapping him between pleasure and
guilt, which amuses Uryuu no end. The moron can take a zanpakuto thrust
to the chest without a sound, but he can't deal with causing this kind
of pain. "Uryuu, you don't-"
"I thought I told you to shut. The fuck. Up--god!"
Uryuu's head falls back as though his neck can no longer support its
weight; he stares blindly at the ceiling and digs his fingers into
Kurosaki's skin. There’s blood running freely from under his nails and
out of his mouth -- probably his ass, as well. He shoves down, forcing
the last of Kurosaki’s cock into him and sags in place. His breath is
coming too fast and his hands are braced against rigid muscle. Come
morning, his hips will bear the marks of Kurosaki’s convulsive grip.
Kurosaki’s eyes are screwed shut; he needs to move so badly he's all
but shaking. Uryuu straightens, rising to his knees. The worst of the
pain has subsided and he’s hardening again, the shifting friction
inside him almost too much. “Now,” he tells the blackness behind his
closed eyes, and spreads his thighs even more, splaying them wide
across the bony angles of Kurosaki's hips.
Kurosaki doesn’t need to be told twice. He thrusts upwards even as his
hands tighten, pulling Uryuu down. Uryuu’s vision whites. Kurosaki’s
dick rams into him exactly where he needs it, long fingers pull
insistently at his own cock, and coming is suddenly not only a want but
an imperative. Fighting or fucking, for them it’s all the same: a
furious build-up to a massive explosion. It can’t last, never does, not
when they’re both stretched to the breaking point, riding adrenaline’s
edge with the need to get off now, now, now screaming along every nerve.
Kurosaki goes first, blind with the intensity of his orgasm, fingers
wrapped tight around Uryuu’s erection. That, combined with the jerk and
spill inside him, is more than enough for Uryuu. Nails digging ragged
crescents into Kurosaki’s arms, he comes on a strangled shout, his
semen mingling with the sweat slicking their skin. Bending at the
waist, he rests his forehead on Kurosaki’s abdomen and for a long time,
neither of them moves or speaks.
Uryuu eventually stands, severing their physical connection, and limps
into the bath. He returns with a wet towel and drops it on Kurosaki’s
unsuspecting head. Unfolding his futon, Uryuu falls face first onto it;
he’s almost asleep when Kurosaki staggers over to join him. Kurosaki
flops down next to him, drapes an arm across his back, and is promptly
unconscious.
Outside, dawn pinks the horizon. When it breaks, they’ll get up and go
their separate ways. They won’t talk about what happened, won’t allow
themselves to think about it… until the next time. It’s a relationship
no one else would even want to understand. It’s messy and violent and
twisted all to hell and back. It’s probably unhealthy. It’s possibly
illegal. But it’s theirs. That’s enough.
fin.
