A Proper Son

Title: A Proper Son
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Ishida/Ichigo, Ryuuken
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, enema, semi-forced sex
Status: One-shot. un-betad. 5,000 words of IchiIshi pr0n.


Ichigo awoke slowly, world coming into contrast with some degree of resistance, eyes refusing to focus on the hospital room around him—was he in his father’s clinic, just downstairs? No, he thought, his father’s clinic wasn’t so well-outfitted or, what? Uninviting and suspicious with its dimmed, nearly non-existent lighting and the pervading smell of whatever antibiotic it was that always permeated these places.

A latex glove snapped somewhere behind Ichigo, startling him. He could feel the warmth, then. The sloshing of liquid in his gut, like he’d just had far too much to drink all at once. The summer’s day feeling of sicking on water after you attack the fountain during a game of soccer. Except the water wasn’t cold, didn’t shock his internal organs. It was warm…relaxing.

Something else Ichigo couldn’t put his finger on.

“What?” he muttered stupidly. He should have been resisting all of this, whatever was going on. He should be howling his fool head off and demanding to know what the fuck was going on, but he was so (what?)…so relaxed and so turned on. It occurred to Ichigo then, that he had been highly drugged. He was drugged and—and naked, in a hospital room. His next words were, “Oh, fuck.”

The voice from behind Ichigo, owned by the glove-wearing person (the one who had done this to him, he assumed) snorted aristocratically from behind him. Ichigo noticed he was seated on a steel and vinyl cushioned examination room table, testicles cold against the sheet of white paper that was the only thing separating him from the unattractive beige plastic. He shivered. The water shifted in his belly, enough that it felt drum-tight beneath his abdominal sheath, pressing against the wall of battle-tightened muscle, on the edge of pain, but not painful. It was a concentrated sort of pleasure and Ichigo was conscious suddenly of the plug in his ass, keeping the liquid in there, just about body temperature. He moved to stand up and it poked at something inside Ichigo that he hadn’t been aware of until that point (he kind of wished he had been, at the moment) and Ichigo’s knees went wobbly, helped by the drugs.

He fell back down on the table, jostling the plug. It poked that spot again, making Ichigo’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, half-erect cock further awakening. Ichigo could feel it growing hotter, uncomfortable in the chill antiseptic air of the examination room. His hands were tied behind his back, he could tell by the feel it was with orange hospital identification bracelets, sharp plastic edges digging into his wrists when he tried to stretch the bands and pull his hands apart, to wrap them around his bobbing cock. He wanted to move his hands around it, not even to jerk himself off really, although he was hornier than he’d ever been in his entire life, which, admittedly, was pretty horny. He just wanted to get it out of the cold air and give it some attention, make it feel less incriminating.

Because Ichigo had been given an enema, he realized (he wasn’t an idiot—his father was a doctor), and he’d liked it. Was liking it. He bit his lower lip tightly, sucking it into his mouth and tonguing it, holding in the unwholesome little moan, low and bright-edged, that threatened to spill out like the water inside him.

The noise burst out anyway, catching the attention of the man behind Ichigo.

Coming into the boy’s vision, lingering at the edge of it teasingly before sliding toward the door of the examination room, five feet away from Ichigo and looking white and immaculate and worthy of a good throttling, Ryuuken slid the gloves off and put them into the little red ‘Biohazard’ box. He cleared his throat with a noise that was deep and pointedly disinterested.

“You fucking bastard,” Ichigo sneered, trying to stand from the table and failing, knees weaker than his will to leap on the asshole progenitor of Ishida Uryuu like a rooster and kick him to a bloody death. He fell again, cushions of the table doing him no real favors, rubbing the tip of the large buttplug against his prostate a third time as he sat back down. Ichigo whimpered, erection now full and rigid and weeping at the tip as the blush from morbid embarrassment covered his face, seeking new territory on his deceptively broad shoulders and developed chest. Ichigo was suddenly glad for the lack of lighting in the chilly room.

It kept the thick, distractingly hot blush from adding insult to injury.

“If you insist,” Ryuuken chuffed, words full of clinical consideration and a staunch, natural sort of formality. Ichigo’s face fell when the grey-haired man whirled and walked out of the door, shutting it with barely a sound. Ichigo stared. A minute passed. He started working at the bracelets looping his wrists together behind his back, shoulders starting to grow sore because of the position. No luck. He willed his erection to start going down, wondered why it hadn’t yet because, by all rights, there should be nothing actually arousing about this whole goddamn situation because not only was it illegal, it was completely fucked the hell up and confusing to boot. His cock disagreed, only bobbing in time with Ichigo’s heavy, nervous heartbeats and he thought, that’s right, he put something inside of me that’s making this happen. Besides the water, that was.

Another minute passed. Ichigo had begun to tear up, testicles growing tight and heavy and those sort of things he always imagined what ‘blue balls’ would feel like when Mizuiro joked about Keigo having them. It felt too tight. Everything felt too fucking tight and at this point, Ichigo didn’t give a fuck what was going on. He just wanted to get off and get the fuck out of there.

His head jerked up when the door opened, silent but quickly, gracing Ichigo with a draft of cold air, uncomfortable against the moistness of his erection and the pervading warmth inside of his gut, no less regretfully pleasant now, three or four minutes after the fact, than it had been when he’d first woken up. Ryuuken entered slowly, seemingly distracted by something. Ichigo realized what—rather, who—when Ryuuken’s arm snapped forward, tossing his own son into the room roughly and then walking in himself, shutting the door behind him and standing, tombstone-cold and straight and blocking the entrance. Ishida rolled twice along the ground, hissing lightly when his sharp, thin little elbows scratched on the linoleum and a little more pronounced when he collided with the steel drawers and step-stool of the examination table.

The table shook, squashing Ichigo’s balls between his hard thighs, and he let out an incriminating ‘Ah!’

Ishida stood immediately, staring behind himself with a pair of askew eyeglasses, taking a minute to recognize Ichigo because of the ruined vision, because (Ichigo assumed) he’d never encountered Ichigo naked in a hospital room with his abs slightly pressed out, stomach full and rounded like he’d had far too much for dinner, cock now fully erect with the glans bumping insistently at Ichigo’s bellybutton. Ishida stammered.

Ichigo shrugged.

“What—Kurosaki,” Ishida hissed, adjusting his glasses on his fine-boned face with heavily shaking hands. Ichigo couldn’t blame the guy for freaking out. He’d probably be freaking out, too, if he didn’t have enough tranquilizer in him to take out a head of Kobe beef. His inner voice said, Ichigo, you fucking moron, don’t think about beef right now. His cock twitched, bouncing against his stomach and drawing a line of sticky precum across his abdominals.

Ichigo shrugged.

Ishida bit his thin, red lip and whirled on Ryuuken, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The older man stood still in the doorway, face passive, eyebrows slightly knit in some emotion Ichigo couldn’t even guess at; couldn’t begin to guess at the emotions of a guy who would pump an eighteen year old boy full of doped-up water and some kind of crazy aphrodisiac and leave him on a table for one of his better (male) friends to find. Who happened to be his own damn son.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Ishida, and Ryuuken slid a cheatingly youthful-looking hand around the handle of the door, moving to depress it while keeping his sharp eyes trained on his son, flickering between Ishida and Ichigo.

“Ryuuken!” Ishida’s voice rose, high in octave and demanding, upset. “What in the world is the meaning of this?”

“Ishida, don’t—“ Ichigo hissed at his friend. Ishida shot him an upset look over his shoulder, face lividly red, just like Ichigo’s own he was certain. Ishida’s eyes flickered down Ichigo’s chest, lingering on his cock for just a little longer than Ichigo thought they should have, before turning their angry blue back on his father. Don’t do anything stupid, was Ichigo’s warning, but it seemed kind of useless in the situation, as surreal as it was. Wasn’t this whole thing completely stupid?

The two Quincy observed one another for a moment, entirely too long in Ichigo’s aroused, exposed, muzzied opinion. Stop talking, he thought, untie me and let me go to the bathroom to take this plug out, jack myself off and then kill myself from embarrassment.

Ryuuken opened the door and this time Ichigo could see the dimmed lights of the hallway, obviously in Ryuuken’s private practice and not the hospital, after hours.

“Watch your tone with your father,” Ryuuken muttered, shooting an irritated look at the boys before continuing. Ishida didn’t argue. “I have had enough of watching my single child pander to the fool-headed shinigami son of a fool-headed shinigami. You have found loophole after loophole to directly defy my request to stay away from the whole lot of them, Uryuu, for what reason? So that you could follow this orange-haired disgrace of a boy around like a lovesick schoolgirl? I’m giving you a chance to get it out of your system, Uryuu. I grow tired of watching you make an idiot of yourself.”

“Does that ill old head of yours think this is what I wanted? What is wrong with you, Ryuuken?”

Ichigo stirred, brow knit and mouth open, ready to ask the question he was burning to ask. Ishida held a hand out behind him which Ichigo recognized as Ishida’s body language for, later, we’re all busy now, Kurosaki. Ichigo resigned himself to panting twice, a loud, increasingly insistent groan rising out of his ribcage. Both Quincy politely ignored it, continuing their more than slightly tense conversation.

The elder Ishida clucked his tongue, stepping out the door. “I don’t think this is what you want, Uryuu, give your father more credit than that. I know this is what you wanted, so I’m giving you a go at it so that you can, if nothing else, grow a sense of propriety and stop lusting after the Kurosaki brat and put him under your boot properly. I have told you, you insist on disobeying my rules a your father, and if I can’t have you be a proper son, you will at least not be a pathetic one.”

The door shut before Ishida could get a return argument in, lock clicking home loudly in the silence left in Ryuuken’s wake. Both boys relaxed momentarily, glad to be rid of Ryuuken’s presence and voice and self, locked door seeming to grant them their little piece of privacy back. The relaxation quickly fled when they realized that there was, curiously, no push-button to unlock the door from the interior of the room and, furthermore, they were locked into it together. The two of them.

Alone.

As Ichigo sat on the bed with his cock waving in the air, weeping. Naked.

Ishida was nervously pawing at his glasses for something to do, blush if anything growing stronger now that they were left to their own devices, Ryuuken knowingly somewhere nearby, assumedly. He was flustered-- excessively flustered. This was not the first time Ichigo had seen Ishida flustered. He was a type A personality, after all, and was easily flustered when things weren’t going patently perfect in every way or, at least, his way. Ichigo had seen a flustered Ishida many times before, in the three or more years they’d known one another.

This, however, was the first time Ichigo had realized how good the Quincy looked with his face a violent red below those severe little glasses and the oddly softening haircut. This was the first time Ichigo noticed the aristocratic cut of Ishida’s nose, the high cheekbones and the pink, cherry-petal lips. He would have sniggered at the thought—Ishida looked kind of like a pretty girl, except for the slightly constipated expression he always wore (as if Ichigo was one to talk about constipated expressions). He wasn’t sniggering now, though, because his erection was throbbing at the thought of those girlish lips wrapped around it and Ichigo wasn’t sure if it was his brain or the drugs doing the thinking, and it was that part—the unpleasant, nauseating doubt—and not the thought itself that upset Ichigo.

Ryuuken, he really pissed Ichigo the hell off.

“Kurosaki,” Ishida hissed suddenly, voice thick with guilt and nervousness and so-upset-he-could-cry (and Ishida had done it before in the time Ichigo had known him and so had Renji and Ichigo kind of admired both of them for their honesty), trying to avoid training his anger-bright eyes on anything but Ichigo’s face and only there for as long as it took to reassure Ichigo that he was sorry. “I can’t appropriately explain how much of an ass I feel like right now, and I want you to know I’ll do anything to make this up to you. As soon as I find something to cut those identification bracelets off of your wrists, I give you complete permission to punch me in the face. You can even break my glasses, if you want.”

Ishida scurried around, opening and closing drawers as he went, doing just what he’d told Ichigo. Eventually he found a pair of small, slightly curved scissors which Ichigo could only guess at the purpose of. He made his way over to the naked boy, leaning forward and working the scissors at the ties on Ichigo’s wrists, hands cool against the warm red of his own hands, swollen from bad circulation. Ichigo tried to ignore the brush of long black bangs along his shoulder, tried to concentrate on everything at hand even though he was drugged and suffering a severe case of sensory overload and the warm water that was still sloshing in his belly was making him tired.

Finally, Ichigo managed to spit out, “Wait, you’re gay?”

“Mostly,” muttered Ishida, “But can we not talk about this right now? After I get these bastards off—“ he gave a tug at the stringy plastic, tossing one of the multiple bands of orange over Ichigo’s shoulder, landing unceremoniously on the floor. “I’m going to help you over to the bathroom and put you in a gown. Can you stand?”

Ichigo’s face grew even hotter, if that was possible, working his wrists against the ties, eager to get out. Ishida grabbed them to tell Ichigo he wasn’t doing either of them any favors. The question was petrifying. Ichigo had to force the answer out of himself.

“I’m drugged—“

“I can tell,” Ishida cut in. Ichigo grunted at him.

“I can’t stand very well, but. Your da—Ryuuken, uh. He—“ Ichigo stalled. Ishida waited to see if Ichigo would finish his sentence given time, working the last of the cutting ties off of Ichigo’s wrists, rubbing at the angry red welts, the little spots of blood, left behind. Thin, deft archer’s fingers worked at Ichigo’s red palms for a moment, before Ishida grabbed one hand and walked around to Ichigo’s front hesitantly. He continued to work circulation back into Ichigo’s extremeties. Ishida froze when Ichigo clenched his teeth tightly together and let out a rough moan, not out of relief but of obvious arousal, laced with the promise of rough sex from delayed need.

“MAO-inhibitors. And bremelanotide?” Ishida suggested. Ichigo could feel the other boy’s hands stop shaking quite so noticeably, calming over his own sore ones.

”Sure,” said Ichigo, “because I know what that means when I’m completely sober.”

Ishida sighed, full of irritation, guilt and a shade of pity. His hands moved back to Ichigo’s, concentrating on the one he still hadn’t thoroughly massaged. When Ichigo moaned this time, Ishida didn’t stop, and Ichigo could vaguely see the outline of the beginnings of an erection in the dark slacks that Ishida wore which Ichigo had always thought were too tight (but secretly, flattering).

“MAO-inhibitors are…I—“ Ichigo watched Ishida’s face screw up, looking for the least hurtful or down-talking definition possible. Ichigo was used to this expression, at least. “He pumped you full of aphrodisiacs and I’m worried. He wouldn’t kill you, though, I’m sure of it, so not that worried, but I’m still wo—How did he get these into you, anyway? I don’t see an IV or anything, Kurosaki.”“

Oh, right. He never had told Ishida about That. Ichigo hissed, sound sliding from between his clenched teeth, before continuing what he’d meant to say. “An enema. He gave me a fucking enema. And there’s a plug in my ass, Ishida.”

Ichigo felt he’d done a spot-on job of making the situation seem as ridiculous as it really was. Ishida’s hand jerked over his own and the Quincy pulled away, opposite hand flying to his forehead and rubbing. Ichigo frowned up at him from his spot on the table.

“Kurosaki, he what?”

“Don’t you dare make me say it again, you asshole.”

Worrying at his lip again, Ishida leaned forward, soft palms with rough little bow-callouses splayed across Ichigo’s taut abdomen, softer face moving low to rest an ear against the warm surface. Ichigo jerked when the tips of Ishida’s bangs and the cotton of his white button-up brushed against Ichigo’s impossibly hard, ignored erection and his sensitized skin. Ishida ran the hands across the surface, tickling until Ichigo’s muscles twitched, painful against the tightness. Ishida tutted as he pulled away, confusion still plastered across his pale features.

“There’s more in there than there ought to be. Normally you’re supposed to use two liters or less, but I could swear you sound about four. He probably did it to make you a little less likely to sneak away."

Ishida favored Ichigo with a look that said that sneaking away was one of the things Kurosaki Ichigo was better at, left to his own devices.

"Does it hurt, Kurosaki?”

Ichigo spluttered. There was something very, very wrong with Ishida Uryuu, but now was not the best of times to be enumerating the reasons why to his friend. Not while he sat in Ishida Ryuuken’s examination room with his cock aching and standing at attention. “More than there ought to be? There ‘ought to be’ fucking none in there, Ishida, and no it doesn’t really hurt, it feels kind of—“

Ichigo shut the hell up right there, before he could stick the other foot in his mouth.

“I was just saying,” Ishida said at length, voice curious but serious, eyes hidden behind his glasses, “That this is part of why you’re feeling a bit off, I’m sure. It explains the distension.” The hand fluttered back to Ichigo’s stomach, tracing the slight roundness with the same feathery touch.

Ichigo swore under his breath. “Ishida, it’s now officially your own damn fault I’m asking you this but please, please, for the love of all that is would you please pull me off before I explode?” And he didn’t mean in the sexy way, either.

Ishida did a double take. Ichigo made a mental note to remember that, because he’d never actually witnessed a person do a double take before. He’d only seen it in manga, heard about it in stories between girls at school a year or so ago, when they were all still attending.

“Kurosaki,” Ishida said, voice defensive but tellingly husky.

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to,” the orange-haired boy hissed, hands griping as well as they could at the edge of the table, as well as they could being not very well at all. “I heard what Ryuuken said, I’m not an idiot. You’re hot for me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” said Ishida, noncommittal and blushing, “Perhaps.”

“Then I am actually in fact begging you to jack me off, Ishida, please.”

The boy gave a little moue at the irritation and demand in Ichigo’s deep voice but moved closer regardless, one hand stretching to wrap around Ichigo’s erection. It stopped when Ichigo drew in a sharp breath, cock jumping at the quick touch. “Don’t stop,” he panted.

Ishida didn’t. Bolder the second time around, one hand moved manicured, pianist fingers to pin down Ichigo’s foreskin, already sliding halfway down his cock in its painfully hard state, revealing the velvety red flesh beneath. The other hand wrapped around it, softly at first and then giving an experimental squeeze. Ichigo could feel the thick veins along the exterior beating against the palm of Ishida’s hand. He made a series of unrestrainedly loud, inarticulate noises, because the only fucking person around to hear them anyway was Ryuuken, and Ichigo was sure the old bastard figured it was happening anyway.

“Oh,” Ishida said with an intense, guilty brand of curiosity.

“Don’t ‘Oh’ me, Ishida. Move your damn hand!”

Ishida did move his hand, up and down roughly three or four times, squeezing at the base with the practiced hand of somebody who’d masturbated himself off for years. Ichigo didn’t know why it surprised him. Did he think Ishida was some kind of ascetic or something? That he didn’t whack himself off just as much and just as happily as Ichigo did? Or maybe Ichigo just wasn’t in the habit of thinking of his friends’ sex lives. Maybe in this case, that should change.

Ishida gave a good handjob, even if it was dry and impromptu. Ishida had, apparently, also noticed the dryness. He stopped. Ichigo threw his head back until the fringe of the base of his hairline tickled the back of his shoulders, groaning harshly. “Oh shit, please don’t stop.”

“I just want to…go look for something to use as lube or whatever. You’re too dry, Kurosaki. I can think of a couple of things to blame for it, but it’ll be no good if I keep this up.”

“No, just—screw the lube. Screw that. Ishida, could you—I mean, would you uh, suck my cock? You won’t need any if you could just suck it. Please?”

Was please appropriate when asking your best friend to give you a blowjob?

Ishida paused in his moving to look for something wet and moisturizing in the examination room. He offered Ichigo a wry little smile, wiping his hands on the legs of his slacks. “I don’t know, Kurosaki. My mouth on your dick would be quite a lot like having sex. Are you sure you’re willing and (considering everything) mentally prepared to make this decision?”

“Yes,” Ichigo said adamantly. “And was that a stupid joke?”

“Probably,” Ishida said, eyeing Ichigo’s erection like a curious little animal come across on a walk through the park. Slowly, he sunk down to his knees in front of the table, stretched up and not relaxed, trying to make the respective height of his mouth versus Ichigo’s dick match up appropriately. Ichigo snorted at the top of the Quincy’s dark, glossy head.

“If you’re not sure I guess I uh—was kind of an ass to ask you to do this for me, wasn’t I?”

“For god’s sake, Kurosaki, not at all. You’ve already pointed out the sadly outed fact that I would not hesitate to have sex with you in the slightest. I’m a nerd. I think I’ve seen enough internet pornography at this point to be able to give a blowjob with some manner of beginner’s luck.”

“If you say so,” Ichigo hissed, voice cracking at the end as Ishida moved forward, tips of his soft little red lips pressed against the glans of Ichigo’s penis, pulling the insistent thing down from its place pointing at his abs. A pointed tongue ran over the slit at the tip and Ishida carefully bobbed down, taking the head fully into his mouth, pressure of the line of his incisors gentle against the hard flesh as the other boy tested the feel of Ichigo’s cock inside his mouth.

Ichigo pursed his lips together and smashed one fist weakly against the cushions of the examination table. The expression of desire seemed to encourage Ishida, who suddenly pulled his teeth back and, taking a deep, noisy breath through his nose, slid the erection into his wet, hot mouth. Ichigo groaned his approval.

They fell into a soft, gentle sort of motion, not because Ichigo was really in the mood for soft and gentle, what with the treatment he’d been given just seven or eight minutes ago when he’d awoken. Mostly it was because, all things considered, Ishida really was new at this, as was Ichigo, and the situation was not at all comfortable and even less so anticipated. They continued this pace for another thirty seconds. Ichigo could feel his sore testicles lifting, getting ready for the orgasm that was lurking somewhere in the distance, coaxed by Ishida’s pretty head moving up and down along the length of Ichigo’s cock.

Ishida paused, staring up at Ichigo with darkened blue eyes, peering from under his foggy lenses, eyebrows arched upwards. “I think you’re about to come.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to swallow, Kurosaki.”

“But—“

“I’ll be fine, you pansy. It’s cleaner this way.”

Ichigo couldn’t argue with the cleaner bit, although the pansy part was going a little far. Ichigo wasn’t going to complain, though. Not when he had a wet mouth wrapped around his cock and sucking him off for the very first time in his life and he’d never bothered, until this point, to be a little worried that he was 18 and a complete and total virgin.

That’s fixed now, he thought in dark humor, as Ishida went back for an uncomfortable deep-throat, squeezing Ichigo with his throat as he gagged just slightly at the feeling of the throb against the back of his mouth. Ichigo came, hard enough to bring pricks of water at the corner of his eyes, stomach muscles twitching, cramping from the water beneath them. The boy beneath him pulled away carefully, lips pressed together in a way that was, to Ichigo, ridiculously dainty for having just been wrapped tightly around his penis.

Ishida, true to his words (as he nearly always was) swallowed the entirety of it. A small, yellow-white bit of the cum still lingered at the corner of Ishida’s mouth. He snatched it off with his finger, beading it and licking it off of his finger with his pointed pink tongue. He cleared his throat. Took a deep, uneven breath. Cleared his throat again.

After a second, Ichigo’s vision righted itself and he asked, “What’s it taste like?”

Ishida shrugged, standing up and stretching his sore back and neck, his knees. “Like shit. Same as mine.”

Ichigo tried to consider this statement, but decided against it. At any rate, he’d just been gotten off by Ishida Uryuu, and it’d felt good. He’d liked it in the end, despite the fucked the hell up of the whole thing. Who the hell kidnapped people and filled them full of drugged water so their son could look at them naked, anyway?

Well, whatever. Whether it was honest attraction he’d never before considered, or just the drugs talking, Ichigo didn’t care. He wanted to do that again sometime. And maybe he’d return the favor. Maybe.

“Can you stand?” Ishida asked quietly, rubbing his glasses on the hem of his white button-up. “We should get you into the bathroom, soon. It’s about time that—“ he pointed in the general direction of Ichigo’s ass—“Should be taken out.”

“What the fuck do you think, Ishida?” Ichigo said, voice post-orgasmic and hoarse.