Chiaroscuro

Title: Chiaroscuro
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Kurosaki Ichigo/Kon (w/Shirosaki)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, not my greatest.
Status: One-shot, un-betad.


Ichigo’s head shot up as the door to his second-story bedroom opened with a squeak, tongue still clutched loosely between his front teeth, breath hitched in his chest. He quickly dragged his hand out of the folds of his hakama, moving it to fist in his white and blue, involuntarily replaced by Ishida Uryuu, bedsheets. He could’ve been having a better night, from the looks of it, caught masturbating in his bedroom. Why had he been a total retard and not locked his bedroom door before setting up camp?

Oh, Ichigo thought with relief. That was why.

His own pointed face peered nervously around the doorframe, inhabited by Kon's soul. Ichigo’s form slid into the room quietly, Kon shutting the door behind him. The lock slid home. Ichigo cleared his throat, trying to play it off cool and unassuming. He was suddenly glad for the silly Shinigami period costume he had no choice but to appear in; the oversized hakama were roomy enough to hide his erection, the black silk cool enough to be comfortable under the circumstances. Kon crossed the room to look at Ichigo apologetically. “I should have knocked. I didn’t know you were already back, and—“

“You’re me,” Ichigo said. He never enjoyed pointing out the obvious, especially when it involved uncomfortable situations. “If I’m up here knocking on my own door, you’ll give us away. So don’t worry about it.”

“I s’pose.” Kon sunk delicately into the bed beside Ichigo, something Ichigo was generally incapable of doing. The bedframe sunk just slightly, pressing their shoulders together for a second until Kon relaxed slightly against Ichigo, warmth spreading through the fabric over his arm. It was a blatant reminder to the teenager that Kon was almost wholly unphased by acts of male masturbation, generally being a physically motivated individual (and who wouldn't be, waking up one day to discover they were suddenly in the middle of puberty?). Ichigo had only caught Kon in the act—in his body—what, 17 times?

Ichigo ran a hand through his own effort-dampened hair, forcing his brain not to think of memories containing the sight of his own hands wrapped around his cock as his body moved under Kon's directions ten feet away, disembodied from his will. Not while he had an erection, and not while the one who was moving Ichigo’s hands in those memories was sitting, nearly nestled, beside him on the bed.

While Ichigo was mentally preoccupied with the timeless trap of thinking about not thinking about something, Kon placed the fingertips of his right hand along Ichigo’s choppy hairline, brushing the bright fringe aside and lifting his sidelocks. Ichigo’s cock throbbed at the brief touch and he shoved the other boy away with both hands planted firmly on Kon’s naked chest. The upper-body nudity was confusing to Ichigo. He quickly realized that he himself, more often than not, slept in nothing but his boxers.

It was Kon, after all, that liked dressing Ichigo’s body up in soft pyjamas or an oversized t-shirt before curling up in bed. Ichigo wondered when even something like sleeping habits had gotten so convoluted in his life.

Hah!

Kon grunted at the pressure on his chest. “You’ve got a nasty scratch along the top of your forehead, Ichigo.” Ichigo eyed Kon warily from under his brow, head drooping. He considering why this fact was being brought to attention. The oozing cut would, of course, go away once Ichigo slid back into his human body. The one Kon was currently inside of.

Kon licked Ichigo's rough thumb-pad and moved it to start working at the wound in a way that would be motherly had it been almost anyone else, heart beating calmly under the Shinigami’s palms, the skin stretched across the human body’s pectorals warm, pliant and damp. Kon must have taken a hot shower very recently, just before Ichigo's return from hollow-hunting. Ichigo wasn’t sure whether to find it touching or creepy, the fact that Kon could have done anything he wanted in the last two and a half hours, and had chosen (instead of playing on a swingset, irritating his sister's, jacking off or running across town) to meticulously clean and dress Ichigo’s body for bed.

Kon continued sliding his wet thumb across Ichigo’s forehead, removing the bits of dried blood to better inspect the cut. It brought to mind something Ikkaku had told him in Soul Society, that forehead wounds most always bled a lot. Ichigo gave another ineffectual shove against Kon's form before giving up, folding his arms across his chest. Ichigo kept his body language closed.

“Leave it,” he commanded the mod-soul. “It’s not a problem.”

“It looked pretty bad to me.” Kon favored him with a pout, lower lip sticking out.

“S’fine. I just ran into a real bitch of a Hollow out there tonight.”

Kon cocked his head curiously, Ichigo’s own thin, pale eyebrows arching at him, silently asking why anything outside of a captain-class could give someone like Ichigo a problem. He hadn’t realized how strange the color of his own orange hair was against his skin until just then. Ignoring the revelation, Ichigo freely interpreted Kon’s suddenly upset body language as ‘you should have called for help, I was around and so was Renji.’

"But you, um, got rid of it, right?"

Ichigo cracked his neck, suddenly very, very sore. The adrenaline was finally wearing thin. “Took me about an hour to take down the bastard. I don’t think he was completely normal for a hollow. I had to try a lot harder than usual, and...”

Kon looked as if he was about to argue whether or whether not Ichigo was actually as fine as he said he was, but instead he stared furtively at Ichigo’s crotch, contemplating something.

The teen groused. Something inhuman tittered cruelly, from the back of Ichigo’s mind.

Say it.

“So, um,” Kon stared openly at this point.

“Don’t say it,” Ichigo warned seriously. “I’ll surrender you to my sister, I fucking swear.”

Admit it.

“You got excited from your fight, right? And it made you hard.” Kon said it. An unnervingly understanding grin spread from ear to ear beneath the mod-soul’s canny brown eyes. It was the kind of smile that stalked antelope through tall grass in Africa. "It's alright. It's natural, I think." The grin was an alien expression on the familiar face. Ichigo stood nervously from the bed.

“It’s not what you’re thinking. So stop thinking it!” Ichigo's voice cracked, growing slightly frantic.

Not giving Ichigo the chance to escape to the other end of the room in avoidance, Kon snaked a hand gently into the gaps of the black hakama which parted at Ichigo’s hips, running along the side of Ichigo's sweaty thigh and tickling the hairs there. Ichigo nearly suffered a coughing fit, unprepared for this sudden, frustratingly familiar physical contact.

His groin wanted friction. His hands clenched, palms growing clammy. Muscle memory didn’t care if Ichigo was having a crisis of ethics. His body knew what it wanted. His conscience, on the other hand, was not going to be jacked off by Kon another boy occupying his own body.

“Kon.” Ichigo clenched his teeth.

The unoccupied arm curled around Ichigo’s torso, pining him against Kon’s hot chest. Kon worked his hand further into Ichigo’s hakama, fingering the edge of the silk fundoshi beneath it for a sense of direction. He traced the fabric by feel, knuckles dragging individually across Ichigo’s groin, tickling his cock.

“Kon. Stoppit.”

Kon grasped Ichigo’s groin tightly, cupping his testicles. He rolled his palm against the heat there. Ichigo jerked in Kon’s arm, feeling the blood pool heavily in his erection.

“I’ve done it before. So’ve you. What’s the big problem, if we've both done it to ourselves?”

“That's not the damn point.” Ichigo bit down, splitting his lower lip, the copper tang of his own blood on his tongue fleetingly. Kon was still rubbing his erection in slow sweeps, coaxing him backward toward the fluffy, cruelly inviting bed.

That's it. Get mad at him.

“It’d be really, really nice,” Kon emphasized his words by moving back to the ties on the sides of Ichigo’s fundoshi, pulling them loose with his fingers. The fundoshi slowly slid down one of Ichigo’s roomy hakama-legs. “I read in your dad's medical magazine that it was good for relieving stress and lowering blood pressure. You were going to do it by yourself anyway.” Ichigo was silently pleased Kon kept the sentiment both of them understood to himself. Kon knew Ichigo wanted it, because two hours a night or more, Kon was Ichigo, hand pumping up and down his erection, experimenting to learn what felt just right.

“This is so fucked up,” Ichigo muttered.

Ichigo could feel the hollow smirking at him somewhere beyond his consciousness, and he stiffened. Kon hesitated behind him, fingers paused over the band of fabric holding the hakama secured.

Oh, you like it, the voice in Ichigo’s head giggled. You can’t blame him, aibou, it’s how he is.

“Maybe,” Ichigo said.

“Maybe what?” Kon finished unfastening the hakama and they fell to the ground with a soft hiss as he pulled Ichigo, naked from the waist down, to tumble on top of his chest on the bed. Slowly, Ichigo rolled over, arms pining Kon to the mattress, tangling them both in the layers of Ichigo's loose yukata, Kon trapping one edge under his shoulders.

He's simple.

Kon tilted his head slowly, showing the underside of his chin to Ichigo, adam’s apple strongly visible against the stretched skin and taut muscle. His eyes fluttered gently closed, brown eyelashes laying against high cheekbones. Ichigo stared down into Kon's face, breathing labored. He was suddenly struck with a feeling of horror, slamming heavily across his shoulderblades.

"Ichigo," Kon sighed, meeting the Shinigami's eyes. Ichigo winced internally.

Unnatural black teeth bared themselves behind thin white lips in delight, geisha-like. The hollow's voice was keen in Ichigo's consciousness. How does it feel, aibou, staring down at your own face beneath you? You gonna slap your own face, 'cause you hate yourself?

Kon managed to maneuver one of his hands, shaking from the feeling of Ichigo's nails digging into the shoulder, muscular weight still holding him prostrate against the bed. He wrapped it firmly around Ichigo's stiff, pulsating erection.

Riding, the hollow cooed, threading the word with a pornographic, livid kind of sexuality, is little more than the art of keeping a horse between your own fleshy body and the cold ground. Don't you feel twice as big, borrowing his legs? Twice as powerful, borrowing his form? You better do good, aibou or he'll toss you, too.

Just like me.

Kon darted his pointed tongue out. Ichigo watched his name form fondly on his own chapped lips.

So you better ride, aibou, and don't you dare fall off.