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28 May 2008 @ 23:33
FIC: Cut, Bleed, Repeat [Bleach].  
Title: Cut, Bleed, Repeat.
Fandom: Bleach [manga].
Rating: NC-17.
Genre: Angst, drama, romance, smutfic.
Summary: Prompt: "Blood red and the spaces between words." Ishida Uryuu heals, with help.
Warnings: Yaoi, spoilers, cursing, masturbation, graphic/rough sex. Also inaccurate astronomy.
Pairings: Kurosaki Ichigo/Ishida Uryuu.
Author's Note: Birthday giftfic for technovanilla. Aye, I kinda took your prompt and ran cackling away with it, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. Happy birthday, darling! I don't think this is particularly original, but you never know. Thanks as always to twitchdemon for epic beta. Have my babies. <3 (I just realized this is my first NC-17 mansex. Holy shit. I'm not a virgin anymore! 8U)




Ishida Uryuu, Quincy, has tailor's hands, skilled, strong and sure, always graceful, always accurate. They caress the needle and ply fabric, tapered fingers bringing thread up to his thin lips to be licked, swiftly and efficiently, then dashed through the eye of the needle and put to work. They grip his bow - not too tight, not too loose - set, aim, release, repeat. They readjust his glasses, fix his tie, button his shirt, hold his food, balance his books. These hands keep him in control. These hands are as beautiful as they are deadly.

They ache. They sting. They bleed from a hundred cuts as he sets, aims, releases, repeats. He could stop, but he won't, not until the balance is back, the balance he himself destroyed. Set, aim, release, repeat. Set, aim, release, repeat.

He knows Kurosaki is watching him, hears him yelling at him to stop, you're tearing up your hands - true, Kurosaki, your powers of observation are keen as always - and tells him, shut up. He doesn't shut up, of course. His voice grates in Uryuu's ears, buzzing like bees, as Uryuu winces, stings, bleeds, repeats. Kurosaki can't even keep quiet after cutting a giant Hollow in half, Uryuu feels himself think, and is only slightly surprised to find that there is no jealousy in his bones, and that the anger is gone as well, the place where it used to hide empty and ringing in a way he doesn't like or understand. Sensei would be proud; Uryuu is merely aware, as he shoots and shoots and shoots again.

"Get up, Kurosaki," he says at last, as the crackle of static energy in the air fades away. "You probably won't die now."

"Wow, thanks," the other boy says sarcastically, staggering upright and throwing his zanpaku-to over his shoulder. "I really don't know how I can ever repay you, you complete idiot!" He tries to punch Uryuu in the face, but misses and hits his shoulder instead.

"Ouch," says Uryuu. And then, "That didn't hurt, Kurosaki."

"Whatever, moron. Your shoulder's too hard. Come on." Kurosaki begins to trudge off towards Karakura. He stops and turns, hands on his hips, when he sees that Uryuu isn't following.

"What?" Uryuu says tightly. Wince, sting, bleed, repeat.

"Come on! I'll get you some bandages for your stupid hands, stupid."

"I can bandage my own hands, Kurosaki."

"Maybe if you only had one injured hand, you could," Kurosaki sniffs airily, "but both of your hands are fucked up. If you try to bandage one hand, you'll get the bandage bloody and aggravate the injuries on your other hand, and if you try to bandage the other hand, the bandages on the first hand will come off, and the injuries there will get aggravated. So basically you'll just have two sets of nasty, bloody bandages. Now get your rear in gear. I'm going to help you. It's no fun beating up an injured guy."

Uryuu stares at him. Then he walks, stiff-legged, over to stupid stupid stupid Kurosaki, who adjusts his grip on his damn zanpaku-to, grins his big, stupid, shit-eating grin, turns to lead Uryuu home, and yelps like a little girl when Uryuu jabs him with two fingers in the back of the neck.


"Don't change the bandages. You'll screw yourself over," Kurosaki warned seriously, all business with gauze in his hands, even though he got them tangled up for five whole minutes. He was so ridiculously inept that it personally insulted Uryuu to feel how well he tied the bandages, snug but not so tight as to cut off circulation, like a thin scarf wrapped around his arms.

Just to prove that Kurosaki doesn't know everything, Uryuu changes his own bandages that night and the night after, even though Kurosaki emphasized that "you can come over whenever you need to change them, because you definitely can't do it yourself, Ishida", in that special Kurosaki voice of his that made the hair stand up on Uryuu's neck and the blood boil in his hands. He tells himself that it feels just as good when he does it and does his best to ignore the slight bleeding from one of the deeper cuts on his drawing hand.

Because he can't write or sew, he spends the next few days resting, studying, and watching craft shows on his small black-and-white television. He accomplishes a great deal, given his situation, and allows himself a small amount of pleasure in a weekend well-spent.

As he gets ready for bed on Sunday night, Uryuu regards himself in the bathroom mirror. He is calm, contemplative, bespectacled, and severe, he thinks, as he always has been and knows, even now, that he always will be. For a moment he stares intently at his reflection, hoping to see something further; then he turns his head away and begins to wash his face.

He crawls between crisp, cool sheets (meticulously clean because he never eats in bed and changes his bedclothes twice a week) and permits a contented sigh to escape. He knows he is ready for school the next day; he is ready to move past his own error and go back to ignoring Kurosaki, as he has always done, despite the careless red reiatsu that snake endlessly about his face. Irritating. Like the perfectly-twined bandages that he's removed, now in the bathroom trash to be taken away in the morning.

When he put on those bandages, Kurosaki's look of concentration was so intense as to be almost laughable. Cradling Uryuu's elbow in one hand, fingers grasping the end of the gauze, he used the other hand to wrap the bandage around and around. Once the edge was tucked into the rolls of cloth, he gently pressed his freed hand against the bandage, making sure it was snugly secure, sticking his finger (well-washed, of course) under the gauze every few inches to make sure it wasn't too tight. Ran his hand up Uryuu's arm when he was done, satisfied and too proud, snickering when Uryuu flinched and said Stop it, you're tickling me. Then repeated: cradle, grasp, wrap, press, check, stroke, snicker. Slapped Uryuu on the back when he finished. You'll live.

And what on earth did he mean by that? Uryuu is not so weak that he would let his life leak away from him just because of a few cuts. Kurosaki must have meant something else. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems with Kurosaki, the Quincy is beginning to find. His brash stance, his bravado, are a means to an end, nothing more and nothing less. What Uryuu can't figure out is what that end is. Regardless, Kurosaki's passion is genuine, unforced, bottomless, and without direction - or at least any direction Uryuu can see.

That night, Uryuu dreams of reiatsu. When he wakes, he can't remember what colour they were.


"Come eat lunch with us," Kurosaki says, frowning. I see that you changed your bandages yourself. I'm going to kick your dumb ass.

"No, thank you," Uryuu replies coolly. Screw you, Kurosaki. I don't need a nurse.

But he goes, of course, with Kurosaki and his ridiculous friends, the playboy and the clown, whose names Uryuu never bothered to learn, because who cares about a soul reaper's friends? Uryuu knows them as chatter in the background, a buzzing white noise behind the blood red that is Kurosaki and the violent shout of his spirit. They are insignificant even now, as Uryuu swallows down cheap food and watches Kurosaki do the same, tense, angry, though Uryuu isn't quite sure whether his anger is directed at himself or at the Quincy. But he can tell by the tightness of the boy's jaw that he is waiting for something to happen, and he takes a perverse pleasure in his own static state. Wait, Kurosaki. I don't know what you want, but you can wait for it.

Kurosaki shifts in his seat, chews violently. Fucker. Stop looking at me.

The playboy is watching them like insects under a magnifying glass. Uryuu hates people who are smarter than they look, so he keeps his eyes focussed on Kurosaki, who is exactly as intelligent as he seems, the kind of boy who would run with a tiny sword and no plan to try to cut up a monster the size of a town.

Kurosaki looks up at him, glares. Uryuu lifts a hand, readjusts his glasses, drops his meal. "I prefer to eat alone," he murmurs, though he's said it already, and gets up to go.

"Hey!" Kurosaki snaps, and grabs his wrist. Uryuu looks down at him coolly, nostrils flared. Don't touch me.

"You should eat lunch with us again," Kurosaki says levelly, not looking away. "Sometime. You know."

"But you're paying next time!" wails the clown.

Stupid boy. Shut up. Uryuu ignores him. He keeps his eyes trained on Kurosaki, tilts his head slightly so his glasses flash in the beating sun. "Maybe I will." Maybe nothing. I'm done with you, Kurosaki.

"You should," Kurosaki repeats. I know you, say his bright, dark eyes. You will.


And he does. He can't help himself. He gravitates toward Kurosaki, try as he might to stay away - and gravity implies heavenly bodies, his own and another's, beckoning to each other irresistably and unconsciously until one or the other of them must fall into orbit.

There is no dramatic moment of realization. Uryuu simply figures it out. He has been distracted lately, and he comes to understand why.

Upon contemplation, he finds it most economical to masturbate in the shower. It's warm, wet, and easy to clean. So this is all entirely logical, he tells himself as he lathers his chest with - where on earth did he get this? a gift from one of the girls in the sewing club, probably - lavender-scented body wash. Though perhaps a bit indulgent - undoubtedly quite indulgent - it is something that he has to do. Do it, get past it, clean the walls. Be done with Kurosaki.

He so wants to be done with Kurosaki. He does not want to be entranced by him, to watch his shoulders in the sun as he leaves school, to stare at his neck, his cheekbones as he stares blankly at the chalkboard, to bring to mind again and again the feeling of Kurosaki's hands on his arms, stroking and tickling and turning him on.

Uryuu rinses the soap off. It occurs to him that perhaps he should have done that afterwards as he runs his hands down his streaming belly. He is hard, eyes closed, as he curls his hand around his cock and imagines things that will shame him later. Every word Kurosaki has ever said heats up as he pulls, strokes, squeezes, as the hot water plasters his hair to his face and his unguarded eyes flicker with want.


I want you, Ishida.

He leans against the cold tile and imagines being fucked. Hard. He wants to bleed. Make me bleed, Kurosaki. It's barely enough; it barely keeps him. His cock twitches, wanting more, but there is nothing more for him to give, so he squeezes hard and it hurts but he keeps going until he's crying, unless that's the water from the shower, starting to cool down.

He shakes, fingers flickering off his thighs, up his chest. He tweaks a nipple, bites his lip, and comes, and comes, and comes. Sinks to his knees. Lowers his head. Sighs. Reaches for his towel.

And something in his chest has come undone.


He can't see. There's too much blood in his eyes, dripping from a cut on his forehead. He can't smell. He won't feel his nose; he thinks it's broken. His mouth is wet and copper-tasting. He coughs, hacks - his ribs hurt - and he knows what comes up onto the pavement is as red as him, turned inside-out.

Uryuu leans back onto the alley's lone trash can, which seems decorative, almost, a comfort, a friend to a boy with broken parts of himself splayed across the ground. "I'm sorry, Kurosaki," he whispers, barely hearing what he's saying, what he can't possibly be saying.

A shadow standing above him, shaking with rage? fear? something else?, spits, "Do you have any idea what you - " Stops. Shakes its head. "You perverted piece of shit. Stay away from me, Ishida. Stay - just - stay the fuck away from me!"

Uryuu watches with a sad, goofy half-smile as the indecipherable shadow that is Ichigo Kurosaki flees him. "I win," he chokes out, coughs, spits, smiles. Repeats.

He gropes around on the ground beside him; his nimble fingers eventually locate his glasses, retrieve, inspect. They're bent nearly in half. Uryuu puts them on anyway, and stumbles home through a skewed world.


It's Kurosaki who's done this. It's because of Kurosaki that he can't think for fear of understanding. It's Kurosaki's fault that Uryuu can't sleep, that there are bruises on his chest and a bandage on his nose, that he's had to get new glasses, and that he can't stop touching himself. Hot. Hard. And he can't stop himself from remembering as he does.

Kurosaki. I need you. Please. Fuck me.

The swing of a fist, again, again. The pain. He needs it. "Please," he whispers, "hit me."

And as he twists himself up in sweaty sheets, cries Kurosaki's name without shame or knowledge, his window bursts open and suddenly Kurosaki is there, staring at this new, strange Uryuu whose cock is out, who is wanton and red-faced. Indignant.

"This is private property," Uryuu says, panting, not slowing. "And it's the second floor."

"Fuck you," Kurosaki says, an angry red flush spreading across his cheekbones. "You don't care. Stop that."

"Why should I?" Uryuu replies, arching his back. "I know you're going to hurt me. I might as well keep going until I can't anymore."

"What makes you think I'm going to hurt you?"

Uryuu stares at him, then removes his glasses. He can't see; Kurosaki is a nothing, a blur, but the hand on his cock is solid and hot. "Because I want you to," he whispers helplessly.

There is a pause, the air sucked out of the room; then:

"Yeah." Kurosaki takes off his jacket, shuts the window. "I'm going to hurt you."

And Uryuu can barely see, but he watches and knows that Kurosaki is removing his shirt, his pants, his shoes and hideous orange socks. The closer Kurosaki gets, the faster Uryuu moves, until at last the shinigami grabs his active hand, then the other one as it sneaks down Uryuu's body. He pins Uryuu's arms over his head and hisses, "Don't expect me to kiss you," as he leans his weight down, shifts, grinds.

Oh. Kurosaki. But Uryuu doesn't cry out, not yet, he doesn't want to be hit, not yet, though he allows himself a strangled yelp at the heat and the wetness of flesh against flesh. Kurosaki gasps, lifts, grinds, and he is so hot and so hard that Uryuu can't quite fathom it, and says so.

Kurosaki glares down at him, eyes brighter even than usual. "Shut up, Ishida," he growls, menace twisted up with lust, and twists a nipple viciously. This time Uryuu does cry out, at the sensation and the memory of Kurosaki's face, watching him writhe against his sheets:

Don't touch me, Ishida.

Touch me, Ishida.

And he knows.

And when Kurosaki groans almost painfully and flips him over, prepares him with some crappy makeshift lube too fast and thrusts in too soon and too hard, Uryuu spreads his legs and begs for more. When Kurosaki pulls out and shoves himself back in hungrily, soaking in the warmth and breathing in shattered gasps, it hurts, but Uryuu lifts his ass in the air and thrusts back, eyes shut tight, stars flashing in the darkness. When Kurosaki bites his shoulder hard enough to bruise, Uryuu bucks up with his entire body, feeling the boy's chest against his back like a full-body electric shock. And when Kurosaki finally hits that spot, once - twice - three times - until Uryuu loses count, Uryuu forgets the bleeding and the pain and loses himself as red ribbons curl around him and Kurosaki wraps his fingers around Uryuu's cock - twists - strokes - repeats -

And when he comes, Uryuu wonders for a long, hot moment why it isn't blood.
SCIENCE!: matt!heartdaughtersofisis on 29th May 2008 19:24 (UTC)
XD I'll take that as a positive review, then? Thanks for reading!