Title: They Also Mourn, Who Don't Wear Black (Bookmark)
Author: Lys
Characters/Pairing: Ishida UryuuxKon, Kurosaki Ichigo
Rating/Warnings: Heavy R for sexual situations, language.
Status: Bookmark 4/10, 16711 words.

a/n: Moved this part ahead because I wanted to write about hot boys kissing. I am simple but I am happy, stfu! Also, I am seriously unsure about my Ishida Uryuu voice, in context of this fic and in general. It bothers me, and since I have been piecing together an Ishida/Chad/Ichigo (MOAR 3SOMES) multi-parter in addition to this monster, I'd love to hear any comments, positive or negative, people have about the Ishida voice.

01: Bookmark
02: I Tell Ya What, Man
03: Low-Down Dirty Thief




Kon was avoiding him (and it still bothered Ishida that the shinigami, in his immense brilliance, had not given the mod-soul a proper name). Ishida was immediately aware of this, being a clever boy with a, literal and not figurative, sixth sense. Nevertheless, he let it go for a day, and then another day; before he knew it, Kon had been skirting around him, clinging to shadows for an entire week.

It was one thing to avoid somebody. It was another thing entirely to avoid somebody who knew exactly where you were, especially if you predictably followed almost the same route every night. Ishida eyed his expensive swiss timepiece with dispassion, hiding in a goddamn bush like some sort of sexual deviant. Maybe he should have put some shorts on under a trench-coat and actually looked the part. Behold! The Quincy Flasher.

Ishida’s running mental commentary slowed. It was about time, wasn’t it? Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut. Ignoring the way his long lashes tickled his cheeks, he concentrated on gathering the loose reiki in the air into something tangible, strings floating around his form like a kelp forest. He eyed them critically, looking for the right one.

It was the same color as all the hundreds of other threads, but Ishida was good at his trade, and he knew the difference between silk and rayon.

It took him all of five seconds to find Kon’s thread, caressing it lightly with his fingertips in hopes of coaxing the boy closer. He wondered what it felt like to be on the receiving end. Twenty minutes later, perched on the thin metal crossbar of a swing-set like an ocelot, clutching a half-eaten bag of garam masala-flavored potato crisps in one hand and looking curious, Ishida's quarry appeared. Kon steadied his upper body with his free hand.

Ishida was the last of the Quincy, genetically bred to have eyes like raptors. He had 20/8 vision in both eyes. He damn well had better not have needed glasses.

He wore them because they made him look hot.

“Pin-pon,” Ishida chirped smugly, stepping out from behind the bush. Kon dropped his bag of chips to the ground, a look of comical surprise on his face. Ishida would have mocked him for it, if he wasn’t so glad just to look upon Kurosaki’s features again. He could see Kon’s legs tensing under him, ready to launch his body in the other direction. Ishida was being ignored and brushed aside to his –face- now, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.

“No,” he commanded.”Stay.” Kon stopped mid-thrust, looking down at Ishida nervously.

“What happened?” Ishida walked slowly and deliberately casually over to the swing-set, leaning against the incline of one cold, metal pole. He brought his leg up, hooking the slight heel of his black shoes on it. He could hear the fabric of Kon’s clothing rustling as he deliberated a course of action, swaying back and forth unconsciously. Having made a decision, whatever it may have been, Kon slid from the playground equipment and landed weightlessly at Ishida’s side.

It must be nice, to view gravity as a polite suggestion while Ishida was having a hard time even summoning his bow.

“Nothin’,” Kon mumbled, toeing the dirt like an upset child.


“You’re a liar,” Ishida said straightforwardly, digging in his front pocket for a tube of lip-balm and gliding it on. He rubbed his pale pink lips slowly together, intentionally drawing the other boy’s gaze to his face.

Caught you. Ishida snapped the cap back on pointedly.

“Ichigo found that stuff you put in my pocket that night.”

Ishida’s brows rose delicately. Was he being intentionally vague, or was he just made that way?

“I don’t mean to sound callous but, ‘And?’”

Kon shrugged his shoulders, looking at Ishida from under his brow. The flesh below his eyes was looking horrifically dark and tender, stress from two different psyches piling up on the body until it was bared to the world. “He knows I had sex. He doesn’t know what I did. He doesn’t know who it was.”

Ishida would feel extremely guilty, days later, for the small and hopeful voice that was quashed in the back of his head; the one that secretly wanted Kurosaki to figure it out all along. At the present time, he just looked away from Kon, glancing into the distance.

“Are you alright?”

Kon pointed to the rough, dry scab marring the side of his face. Ishida was suddenly, strangely, angry about this.

“Did Kurosaki hit you? If he hit you, I’m going to give him a fresh new hell.” Nevermind the fact, Ishida noted, that it was Kurosaki himself that spent most of the day suffering whatever wounds he may have given himself.

“It’s complicated,” Kon muttered, stating the blatantly goddamn obvious.

“I won’t push.”

They stood in silence for longer than strictly necessary until Kon bent over to retrieve his fallen bag of potato crisps, choosing to go with the bend-at-the-waist approach, rather than crouching. Ichigo’s low-riding jeans dipped even lower, sliding to show a peek of black silk boxers and the dimples that helped bring out the way broad shoulders and back slowly melted into a small waist. It was pleasant, not like Ishida’s admittedly pencil-straight intellectual bodytype.

He’d love to design for that back and those shoulders.

Ishida took his chance as Kon snagged the bag off of the ground, checking to make sure there was no dirt mixed in with his crisps. Ishida pressed into the presented rear-end to mold the front of his thighs along Kon’s own upper legs, leaning forward to slip his hands under the blinding yellow t-shirt and up. Kon deserved it, bending over like that.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to push?”

“I meant the topic.” Ishida slid his hands around Kon’s chest as the other boy came up again with his crisps, trying his damndest to glare at Ishida over his shoulder. He grazed Kon’s nipples with his pointed nails. The other boy wriggled where he stood, flush against Ishida. “I never said anything about,” he thumbed one nipple, rolling his archer’s callous against it for emphasis. “You.”

Kon moaned gently in a strange, attractive mixture of irritation, annoyance and approaching bodylust. Ishida paused in his ministrations, waiting for Kon’s answer. He wasn’t about to do something like this with an unwilling partner, especially one of Kon’s…particular disposition. A gentleman was a gentleman was a gentleman, even if the gentleman’s cock was starting to swell, nestled comfortably against the cleft of Kon’s pleasant ass.

After a second, Kon pressed backward into Ishida’s hips, irritation still in his voice, but clearly accepting the available setup. “I thought they didn’t exist. Someone who liked this just as much as I did.”

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you,” Ishida murmured with self-depreciative amusement against the warm side of Kon’s strong neck, “It’s always the quiet ones.” He stood on his toes, just enough to dart his tongue along the shell of Kon’s soft ear, tickling the sensitive vellus hairs with his pre-meditatedly minty breath.

Kon turned in Ishida’s arms, scratching at the bothered ear. “Nope.”

“Well, your severe and upsetting lack of knowledge concerning the psycho-sexual patterns of the admittedly but happily socially challenged has been rectified. Let us move right along.” Ishida moved his lips against Kon’s, applying a gentle push until the redhead opened his mouth, his own rough, hot lips moistening against Ishida’s freshly lubricated mouth. Ishida slid his tongue in, catching the pungent, sweet taste of cinnamon and cardamom.

Ishida smirked against Kon’s mouth when he dragged across a piece of clove that was lodged in Kon’s teeth, oil biting against the tip of his tongue.

He was right about the flavor having been garam masala, then.

Kon, in Kurosaki’s body which was a little more than an inch taller than Ishida (and Ishida liked it), moved the hand that wasn’t still clutching the crisps to tip Ishida’s head back and rub against his fine, black hair. The texture of the shaved hairs standing and falling along his neckline was achingly arousing. Ishida thrust his groin against Kon’s thigh, sighing at the delightful sense of friction. Kon stopped kissing, pulling away from Ishida’s lips as the Quincy’s soft sex-noises faded into inquisitive protest.

“Uryuu.”

Ishida tried to move in for a second bout of Frenching. Kon moved his hand between their faces, pressing two fingers against Ishida’s chin. He would have found it outrageously rude, coming from anyone else. From Kon, brown irises dark and turbulent and sunken from weeks of worry lived two lives through, it was pacifying.

“Uryuu. I think I changed my mind.”

“Don’t be so naïve,” Ishida groused. “You can have sex with someone you don’t love. You can love someone you’re not having sex with.” It was like Kurosaki was rubbing off on the mod-soul, understandable because of the amount of time they spent in the same room together but no less bothersome. “I may secretly enjoy Kurosaki’s comraderie, but I do not love him.” It was half-true, at the very least. When Ishida was honest with himself, he was forced to confront his own convoluted feelings for the shinigami, but Ishida was rarely honest with himself, especially concerning shinigami. “You, on the other hand. I honestly enjoy your company. I don’t want you because you’ve got Kurosaki’s body. I want you because Kurosaki’s body just happens to be my type, and I can manage to have sex with you without wanting you dead.”

“I can’t.”

“Are you listening to the words that are coming out of my mouth?”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry. I just really can’t—it won’t…”

Uryuu, suddenly noticing the entirely flaccid state of Kon’s own cock, disengaging from the comfortable warmth of the hard chest.

“I can’t. I feel guilty, Uryuu. I think I’m going to puke.” Kon’s face was, in fact, looking more than a little peakish.

“Fine. It’s fine. I don’t think I could make out with a boy who was looking like somebody just stole his cupcake and then his balloon floated away, anyway.” He offered Kon a small smile, the only kind of smiles Ishida offered anyone.

“Uryuu,” Kon said, pulling something out of his pocket.

“Here’s your hankie back.”

“It’s a pocket square,” Ishida corrected Kon, before accepting the piece of seafoam fabric. Kon disappeared into the distance with that alarming sort of speed and grace with which Kon always disappeared with.

Ishida brought the fabric to his nose. It smelled like Kurosaki.



If there are any major fuck-ups in this chapter, it's because I only finished it because I can't sleep tonight >:/.