“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.”


“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.


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.


“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.



~~~~~~~~ Back to Bleach ~~~~~~~~



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