This came to me while I was showering tonight—don't we all think about Bleach yaoi in the shower? Okay TMI, I know.

Anyway, I'm still in the middle of writing "Black and White", but somehow this struck me. It's not fluffy, it's not funny, and it's definitely not something I'm used to writing.

Enjoy. (I hope)

It began one night when the boy suddenly appeared at his door, his shirt in tatters and bloodied, revealing more than a dozen bruises and fresh cuts. He had been so weak that he'd passed out at the steps, one hand outstretched as if he was just about to knock.

Kisuke had sensed his presence at once, and had taken him in and healed his injuries without question. The blond-haired man didn't have to ask to know where he had gotten them; the determined look in the boy's eyes when he awoke a few hours later was answer enough.

After that first time, it became a daily ritual. Every night without fail, the boy would stumble to his shop, sometimes collapsing at the door, other times on the floor of the guest room. The injuries were always horrifying—swollen eyes, cracked ribs, sprained ankles—but the iron steel in the boy's eyes never wavered.

He couldn't remember when it started, but he was taken by surprise the first time it happened. He could've stopped it, could've simply walked away, but he didn't, because he sensed the desperate need for comfort in the boy's body, in his soul. He kissed like he was drowning and Kisuke was air, clung to Kisuke as if he was afraid that the blonde would leave him cold and alone. His hands snaked into every crevice on Kisuke's body, nails raking, leaving trails of stinging scratches on Kisuke's skin.

They never spoke when they did it; the boy, especially, was eerily silent even when his eyes rolled back into his head in pleasure. Kisuke tried his best to be as silent, but he would let slip a moan or two once in a while, and every time he did so, those blue eyes would look at him accusingly through strands of damp black hair.

Kisuke didn't have to worry about being gentle, neither did he have to learn what the boy liked, because he never had to do anything. The younger one took charge, taking and giving pleasure as he wished. But he was not selfish, he never left Kisuke unsatisfied. Far from it, in fact. Kisuke had never had such mind-shattering orgasms before having sex with the boy. Yes, it was simply that—an emotionless transaction, sexual pleasure in exchange for consolation, for comfort. Once he was done, he would leave as silently as he appeared, and Kisuke would stare at his back, often still heaving and shivering from the lingering high of his climax.

The way the lithe body writhed beneath him, on top of him, in front of him, haunted Kisuke during the daytime. It felt so wrong, Kisuke knew the boy was using him as an outlet. Why the boy would choose him was a mystery, but if he had to guess, he would say it was purely out of desperation—the boy had no one else to turn to. Too ashamed to face his friends, no solace from the only blood-relative he had. In fact, Kisuke knew for a fact that it was that very person who was inflicting this pain on the boy, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Tonight, like every night, he arrived soundlessly. Yet tonight, unlike every night, there was not a scratch on his body. As usual, he went straight to the point, stripping Kisuke mechanically until the older man stood completely bare in front of him.

Expressionless, he pushed Kisuke onto the couch and climbed onto his lap. He never needed preparation, and Kisuke never asked if it hurt. He sat there and watched the boy lower himself, taking all of him in one firm slam of his narrow hips. Kisuke bit his lip to silence a hiss as pleasure lanced through his body.

The boy rocked his hips mercilessly, constantly bringing Kisuke to the brink and cruelly dragging him back, taunting him with unpredictable pace and varying depth. Sometimes Kisuke was buried to the hilt, other times he was barely inside, and his body shook as he approached the inevitable end. His head slumped forward onto the boy's pale chest when he lost himself in another gut-wrenching climax, spilling his seed deep within the tight, throbbing heat. It was not until Kisuke lifted his head that the boy finally came, soiling their stomachs.

Tonight, unlike every night, the boy looked into Kisuke's eyes before he climbed off. He touched him, even, tracing a long, graceful finger down Kisuke's cheek, collar bone, and finally, brought their lips together in a smoldering kiss. He sucked hungrily on Kisuke's tongue, and let his teeth graze the sensitive skin of Kisuke's lips.

Tonight, unlike every night, he turned around and stared at Kisuke before he left.

And that was when Kisuke knew that he would never see him at night again. Oh, they would still meet, still talk, even fight side-by-side, but never again would Ishida Uryuu seek him out for comfort like this.

Time for an unusually-long author's note.

This is the shortest story (does it even count as a story?) I've written, so I'm compelled to explain its context a little more. This is set during Uryuu's training with his father, when he was working to regain his Quincy powers, which explains his injuries and why he continues to endure them. If you knew this before reading this AN, I salute you, and maybe I can get a cupcake in return for managing to convey that through ~900 (very vague) words?

What I'm curious to know is...would you have known that it was Uryuu if you didn't see the pairing info in the story properties?