Summary: Ichigo Kurosaki somehow found himself on the set of X-rated movie, Strictly Business. Hey, he needed the money. But the teen soon discovered he may be in for more of a challenge than anticipated when meeting his more experienced co-star, Toshiro Hitsugaya. And as Ichigo's character, Akio Morita, begins to see past the icy exterior of Yuki Takahashi—Hitsugaya's character—Ichigo finds himself relating to his character in more ways than one…How did he end up falling for that frigid child prodigy? This was supposed to stay professional!

Pairings: Ichigo/ Toshiro and other minor same-sex pairings.

WARNING: Contains profanity and strong male-on-male sexual content. Not suggested for minors (though I'm still one myself XP).

Disclaimer: Tite Kubo is the owner of Bleach, and the idea of Strictly Business is purely a result of my perver—ahem—overactive imagination. Any similarities to other media are only coincidences, as I have not watched pornography or anything of the sort myself (unless you count yaoi doujinshi).

Strictly Business

In truth, Ichigo wasn't sure why he suddenly felt like backing out even when he knew doing so was now impossible. And frankly, he was disappointed in himself.

Ever since his mother died eight years ago, Ichigo had learned to take things in stride—whether it was his grades, the weather, or his father's childish behavior and violent wakeup calls. He'd told himself that this job would be no different. He would approach the cast and crew as if Strictly Business was another innocent school play, only much more professional. The people here were humans just like him and had their own lives and reasons for being here; there was no need for him to feel pressured to impress them. And his costar—this "Hitsugaya" guy—would be just another man. Ichigo's family hadn't ever been very religious, so society's claim that his soul would rot for sodomy didn't faze him. He and the male would engage in purely platonic intercourse on film and then go their separate ways, unlikely to ever cross paths again. He wouldn't have to marry Hitsugaya or anything: wouldn't have to love him, or even like him, for that matter, although this whole setup would require a certain level of tolerance….He would go in to do what he came to do and leave with his money. Simple, easy, and without any negativity whatsoever. That's what Ichigo had promised himself for weeks.

So what had happened to his confidence?

Really, the answer wasn't all that complicated. Not in his mind anyway.

See, Ichigo had made several attempts to envision Hitsugaya before actually meeting him. Because really, what kind of man would willingly submit himself to an inexperienced seventeen year-old? Ichigo had wondered this. Perhaps Hitsugaya was like himself, just doing this for the money. After all, playing the lead uke in a yaoi film typically earned more than the lead seme—much like females were paid more in hetero films—especially if one was going "gay for pay". It would make sense. But then, Ichigo considered the possibility that Hitsugaya actually sought pleasure. What if the man was the type to get off on being ravished with a camera as a witness? Would Ichigo be able to do his job knowing his counterpart was a pervert? Ichigo had barely contained a shiver when he thought of this. He'd wondered if Hitsugaya was a macho, hair-covered body builder (playing uke very awkwardly), or if he was a metro-sexual pretty boy whom could easily pass for a girl. Was he lanky, or healthily fit, or steroid defined? Or did he have man-boobs? Would he be just as nervous as Ichigo? Or would he actually try to flirt with Ichigo?

Ichigo had had no idea of what to expect, but whatever he'd prospected, it hadn't been this Hitsugaya who, at the moment, wanted him to—

"…strip, Kurosaki."

…take his clothes off.

Ichigo remained silent, his hands still covering his face although their light trembling was already beginning to subside. He focused on breathing steadily as he came to terms with his current situation. He was in what he assumed to be the Director's private lounge. The director, Kisuke Urahara, was also in the room, sipping tea and holding Ichigo's contract. The third occupant was Hitsugaya himself. White-haired, teal-eyed, child-sized Hitsugaya, whom was waiting albeit patiently for Ichigo to fulfill his demand.

To strip.

Ichigo inhaled deeply, unable to easily comprehend that he was expected to do it with somebody who looked close to his sisters' age. But then, he'd just have to accept that fact, wouldn't he? He was doing this to support his family. For Yuzu, Karin, and even Isshin. If he only remembered the fact that this display of ignominy would be for them, he could get through it without completely losing his mind. He would do anything for those important to him…even become a porn star, and this wasn't even that—it was just one film; probably the only acting experience he would ever get it his life, and after the hype over Strictly Business died down, he'd show up years later on one of those "where are they now?" pornography specials. But who really cared about those shows and what happened to the people on them, anyway? He didn't, that's for sure. Ichigo once again exhaled.

Hitsugaya, and Urahara from beneath his hat, watched as Kurosaki dropped his hands and straightened up. His countenance was clear of all previously visible distress and in its place was his signature scowl and eyes that reflected resolve. His chocolate brown eyes locked briefly with Hitsugaya's turquoise ones before they slid from the boy to the man sitting back at the coffee table.

"Um…director?" Ichigo started, searching for the man's gray eyes to meet his gaze. But, as he noticed was the theme, they were overshadowed by his bucket-hat, and Ichigo just ended up glancing off to the side awkwardly. He rubbed his neck subconsciously and continued. "I'm sorry, but you think you could step out a minute? I don't mean to be rude or anything, I just…"

"…I completely understand, Kurosaki-kun." Urahara said, and his voice was low and, well, understanding (Ichigo didn't doubt that he did, considering his earlier display of thought-literacy). He rolled up Ichigo's contract and tucked it somewhere inside his robe before opening his paper fan to hide his expression as he stood and crossed the room. It wasn't until he just passed Ichigo, stopping in the doorway, before he turned to actually look at the two males still standing there. His head tilted back only slightly, but enough for the nearest candlelight to perforate his hat's shadow and reveal a mischievous gleam in his eyes. The fan couldn't hide his grin from Ichigo at this angle. "You kids behave, or I'll have to punish you~"

"…Eh?" Ichigo's response.

"See you at the meeting~"

Ichigo's scowl deepened and he fought down the involuntary blush caused by Urahara's diction. But he reluctantly decided to let it go, as the man was already gone, and instead turned his attention back to the other remaining occupant in the room. Expecting to see Hitsugaya still standing there—staring at him with his arms folded—he was slightly surprised to find that the shorter male was no longer in front of him, but over fiddling with the stereo system. Ichigo had only a moment to realize the room had fallen completely silent for a minute before the strums of a guitar echoed throughout the lounge. A drumbeat soon accompanied, and suddenly the entire atmosphere of the lounge shifted. He wearily watched Hitsugaya as he stood from his crouch and crossed the room to reclaim his original spot on the futon across from Ichigo, thus realizing he hadn't moved an inch since stepping into the room.

Hitsugaya settled into the sofa, folded his legs into the same position Kurosaki had first seen him in, and then propped his left elbow upon the armrest to cradle his cheek with his palm. Teal eyes zoned in on the orangette. The idiot was just…standing there; looking lost. Hitsugaya couldn't help but mentally sigh in neither annoyance nor impatience, but mild exhaustion.

"Well, Kurosaki?" He prompted, but his voice expertly failed to convey any of the tiredness he felt.

Hitsugaya was still waiting for him to start taking off his clothes. Knowing this, Ichigo felt his shoulders tense, but he was quick to silently remind his self of his oath and forcibly relaxed them once again. "R-right…."

Ichigo purposefully looked anywhere but into Hitsugaya's expectant eyes as he slipped out of his candy-apple red jacket. It was far from embarrassing, as it was only his jacket—it fell to the floor with a faint thud—but he didn't want to acknowledge the fact that those blue-green orbs were tracking his every move. His face was set as he continued.

Over head, a voice began to narrate. "Hey, slow it down. Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me? Yeah, I'm afraid. Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?"

Hitsugaya observed as Kurosaki lifted his shirt up, over, and off of his head. The teen did so just as casually and tossed the garment to the floor with his jacket. The white-haired male merely blinked at the upper body now revealed to him, taking a mental photo of the lean but well-built physique. Everything about it—from the neck, to the broad shoulders, to the pectorals, and down his toned abdomen until the peach skin disappeared into his pants—was neither lacking, nor overdone. Hitsugaya was more than used to the sight of shirtless guys, and Kurosaki was only a bit above average: his perfectly sun-humped skin tone giving him those few extra points. But then, the assessment had only just begun.

Ichigo just couldn't get used to the intense stare he'd been receiving ever since the boy laid eyes on him, but he did his best to pretend it was nonexistent as he lifted his feet one at a time to remove his converse and socks. Said shed items joined their predecessors on the ground. Next were his pants. He tried not to think about what he was going as he tugged off the black slacks, he really did. Briefly closing his eyes, he recalled the countless times he'd ever had to change for gym class or undress for bed. He'd never felt embarrassed about taking off his clothes before. Not even in a locker room full of hormone charged teenage boys who, being naturally curious human beings, couldn't help but spare a glance or two down at whomever they were showering next to, almost always resulting in subtle that's-not-my-body-why-am-I-staring-wait-no-way-is -his-larger-than-mine and I'll-act-like-you-weren't-just-ogling-my-cock-hey- could-please-pass-the-soap blushes. (Not even if he'd been unfortunate enough to be stuck next to Keigo Asano, his eccentric friend who absolutely insisted on pointing out how well-endowed Ichigo was without any qualms. He'd known Keigo long enough to be sure that the brunette was straight, so he could never figure out why he continued to express such thoughts loud enough for practically the entire locker room to hear. Ichigo had actually grown use to it, as well as Asano's daily attempts to jump him, but he had no doubt that anybody else would've sued the boy for being too stupid for his own good by now. Actually, when Ichigo thought about it, he seemed to be the only person at school who suffered so much of Asano's harassment on a regular basis. It was kind of weird, Keigo's apparent obsession, but then again, it was Keigo.)

The point was that Ichigo rarely ever felt uncomfortable with his body, no matter the circumstances. And yet…being in the lounge with just Hitsugaya like this—with only his boxers to remove—caused him to begin to question his impeccable resolve. This was where the total awkwardness of the whole situation would become virtually impossible to ignore.

Meanwhile, the song went on. "There might have been a time when I would give myself away; Oh, once upon a time, I didn't give a damn. But now, here we are. So whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?"

Kurosaki's legs were long, tan, and sinewy: slender, but more than capable of supporting the rest of his body. His feet were proportionate to his height, his calf muscles were defined, and his knees weren't at all knobby. Hitsugaya's gaze continued upward, but their inspection of Kurosaki's lower body was halted by the cuffs of the teen's plain black boxers. His eyes automatically lifted and discovered that Kurosaki was staring back at him, apparently waiting to make eye contact…although he didn't understand why the boy was wasting his time. He was sure that his own eyes were as unreadable as always, and that Kurosaki would only find himself looking at twin walls of oddly colored ice. Seeming to realize this, Kurosaki now heaved a sigh and ran a hand subconsciously through his orange locks, breaking the gaze. Hitsugaya took note of the way the boy's muscles moved during the action.

"Look." Ichigo began, fully aware that Hitsugaya was already doing more than "looking". But he continued. "Could you at least tell me why you want me to strip not even ten minutes after meeting me?"

The question was totally valid and honestly expected, and Hitsugaya didn't see any reason not to answer. He'd been asked the question several times before, after all. "I require every person in your position to do this, Kurosaki."

"But…why?" The taller teen inquired.

Hitsugaya shrugged, but it only looked like a tensing of his shoulders to Ichigo. "Because we have to acquaint ourselves with each other's body anyway. I see no point in postponing the matter. So could you please hurry up?"

Ichigo frowned. His right hand, which had been combing his hair, trailed further down the back of his head until he was rubbing the nape of his neck. "I mean sure but…"

"Kurosaki, the quicker you do it, the sooner it will be done and over with."

But when Ichigo sought out and analyzed Hitsugaya's eyes, he spotted none of the potential comforting tone that he'd imagined in the smaller man's voice; just the same bored expression. The same nonchalant expression. The same nonjudgmental expression. Ichigo knew he should've felt like Hitsugaya's stare wasn't anything but criticizing as it raked over his body, but somehow, he suddenly believed that the boy genuinely didn't care. He didn't care that Ichigo was stripping before him in a suggestively dim lit room. He didn't care about Ichigo's unbelievably high levels of discomfort and anxiety. And he didn't care that he'd be submitting himself to Ichigo—a complete stranger who, at the moment, couldn't know less or care less about him. Ichigo wasn't sure whether to feel perturbed by the boy's callous indifference or if he should find reassurance in the fact that no matter what he did, Hitsugaya wouldn't regard him as anything less than a teenager willing to humiliate himself just to support his family. Opting for the latter because it made him feel less pathetic (if only momentarily), Ichigo sighed heavily again, shut his eyes, and gripped the waistband of his boxers.

And the song continued. "Just don't give up; I'm working it out. Please don't give in; I won't let you down. It messed me up: need a second to breathe. Just keep coming around… Hey, whataya want from me? Whataya want from me? Whataya want from me?"

It's about time, Hitsugaya thought. Sharp, teal eyes narrowed. Outwardly, he was stoically composed as he lounged on the futon, his chilly demeanor never warming nor his air ever decreasing in intimidation. But somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, he felt something stir. The sensation was so miniscule that Hitsugaya could've thought he'd imagined it, but no. He knew it was there because it always began to stir around this point of an assessment, and he even knew what triggered it although nobody else even had a clue that it existed. Anticipation. He could feel the great sleeping dragon crack open its crimson eyes to see exactly what Hitsugaya was seeing, which was Kurosaki's hands: tugging his black undergarments downward.

First to be revealed was the pelvis. Then the masculine swelling of the hips. The narrowing of the "V" beginning at the navel was an arrow pointing to Kurosaki's nether-regions, still obscured by fabric, and Hitsugaya's fingertips twitched against his face. The dragon was awake now, stretching its wings and spreading a tingle of excitement throughout his gut. He knew it was wrong; that he should not be feeling such things. That his interest in potential partners was only piqued when he analyzed their private regions was a perverted fascination worthy of incarceration. But he didn't care: for the feeling stemmed from his constant exposure to situations such as this, and old habits are often the most difficult to break. So Hitsugaya didn't bother fighting the familiar tickle below his own navel as Kurosaki's boxers were shimmied down to the floor, stepped out of, and kicked into the boy's pile of other discarded clothing. Turquoise lenses immediately retraced up Kurosaki's legs, returning to where they left off at the boy's thighs.

Deliciously tanned thighs.

Hitsugaya blinked, remembering that it was not yet time to fully appreciate his counterpart's body. He at least needed to focus until…his gaze finally locked on what lay below Kurosaki's groin. The recognizable heat pooling within him sprouted a sudden need to tug at the collar of his golf shirt, but Hitsugaya was too focused on his opposite's body to act upon the urge.

Even Kurosaki's most confidential area was of a healthy tan hue. Said fact alone caused Hitsugaya to rank the strawberry's genitals above most of the other men's he'd ever worked with. That, coupled with the thickness of the boy's veined length and its apparent strength, even in its flaccid state, marked the boy's package as probably the most impressive Hitsugaya had ever seen. His inner dragon of lust growled in appreciation that it was not disappointed, and he subconsciously licked his lips. Most people would call him sick, but by now he couldn't recall a time when he wasn't possessed by the beast. Hitsugaya's mask of apathy didn't falter even as he tried to imagine what it would be like to touch the organ: to map every contour and burn its natural heat into his memory. To squeeze it just to feel its pulse—as if it were a separate being of its own—and receive grateful praises from its owner in response. To taste it: to trace its shape with his tongue until he knew it by form and flavor. But most doggedly of all, he tried to envision what it would be like for the thing to fill him. To bring him as near to completion as physically possible. To finally satisfy his insatiable craving for…something. He didn't know what it was he needed so intensely, but he knew that Kurosaki possibly possessed what he'd been in search of for all this time.

And he was growing aroused just thinking about it.

Ichigo's cheeks burned.

As if it wasn't completely humiliating and degrading enough to bare himself, the white haired kid had to go and completely eye-rape him. He could practically feel those uncaring orbs roving across his skin; dipping into every crevice and tightly hugging every curve of his body. Ichigo couldn't even pretend to listen to the music rocking overhead because for some reason, he couldn't tear his attention away from Hitsugaya's bang, which had suddenly become the most interesting thing in existence. He couldn't think of anything to say or do in response to Hitsugaya's silent survey except stand there and analyze those snow white strands of hair from across the room. Only the male singer spoke, and only the dancing flames of the room's candles moved. So when there was a slight movement just below Ichigo's line of vision, his chocolate eyes had immediately moved to find something else to focus on. He now wished they hadn't, because he'd actually caught the tip of Hitsugaya's moist tongue dragging across his apparently dry lips. As quickly as it appeared though, it vanished, leaving Ichigo's gaze to linger on the boy's mouth.

One of Inoue's fairies (the girl was as childishly imaginative as she was a beautiful goddess) must have poofed in and super-glued Ichigo's eyes to Hitsugaya's lips…because he couldn't look away. They were pale and smooth looking—matching the rest of Hitsugaya's china-like face—and still slightly parted. Invitingly parted. His own creative mind (though significantly limited compared to Inoue's) briefly wondered if it would be possible for Hitsugaya to vacuum his soul in just by inhaling. Even from here, those lips looked too petal-soft to belong to a guy, and it wasn't until Ichigo licked his own lips, wondering if they tasted at all like the burning vanilla-scented candles and seriously considered finding out, that he realized he was staring at the mouth of another man.

Mind stuttering to halt along the border of "oops" and "shit", Ichigo tore his gaze in a way that would've surely been painful, had it really been glued to Hitsugaya's face by little fairies. Heat threatening to creep up his neck, he quickly glanced upward to see if the actor had caught him staring. But as it turned out, Hitsugaya was still staring at him, and he didn't have to follow the boy's eyes to know he'd be looking down at himself in all his naked glory. He couldn't stop the scarlet blush that visibly stained his cheeks as he realized what that meant: Hitsugaya had licked his lips while looking at Ichigo. No, he wasn't just looking. He was checking him out. And if that lip-wetting-like-Ichigo-was-a-delectable-looking-s trawberry was any indication…

Hitsugaya liked what he saw.

The lyrics pulsing through the air could have been considered a coincidence, if either of them bothered to pay any attention. Which they didn't, really. "Yeah, it's plain to see that baby, you're beautiful, and there's nothing wrong with you. It's me; I'm a freak. But thanks for loving me, 'cause you're doing it perfectly. Yeah, there might have been a time when I would let you slip away. I wouldn't even try, but I think you could save my life."

Ichigo wasn't sure what to feel except utter embarrassment—as he'd felt more in the past hour than he had in his entire lifetime—and his hands instinctively moved to cover his private area. His face took on a scowl of its own volition when the action jarred Hitsugaya out of whatever trance he'd been in and turquoise eyes raised to actually look him in the face. Ichigo was taken aback by the first emotion other than boredom now frosting over those eyes, and he was immediately weary if not a bit disturbed. Hitsugaya's expression nor posture had changed in the slightest, but his eyes revealed more than Ichigo cared to have met head-on; he recognized that smoldering emotion for what it was, no matter how little experience he'd had in romantic relationships. He'd seen it whenever he took Yuzu and Karin window shopping in the mall (against his will) and Yuzu spotted a nice sundress or Karin caught sight of a cool sports jersey, and they refused to look away until Ichigo threatened not to buy them ice cream. He'd seen it whenever Tatsuki crashed at his place and they watched day-long marathons on TV and the champions were awarded with "everything's bigger in Texas" sized belts of gold. He'd seen it whenever Chizuru Honshō, a red-headed lesbian in his class, stared very openly at the chest of one Orihime Inoue, the most lusted-after girl in Karakura High. He'd seen it whenever Keigo was in the presence of anything with two legs and breasts.

Desire. Hitsugaya was looking at him with passionately burning desire.

Ichigo was frozen.

He wasn't vain, but he knew that he was a pretty decent looking guy: Keigo always pointed out the chicks who would stare, especially whenever Ichigo was on the Skins team in a basketball game. (Keigo himself would complain about how sexy Ichigo's bad-boy persona was, as if he could help it, and caused many to once again question his friend's sexuality.) But besides the shameless Keigo, Ichigo couldn't remember ever having been ogled by another guy before, and not even his female admirers had ever looked at him so…predatorily; like they were about to pounce, as Hitsugaya looked about ready to just now. Staring into his eyes, Ichigo felt as if the boy was actually trying to lure him in and devour him this time, and the strawberry quickly caught his self before he was compelled forward by the hypnotic irises. Brown eyes shifted anxiously to the kitchenette along the right wall, suddenly feeling very chapped-lipped and wanting something to drink. But he couldn't move—not under Hitsugaya's hawk-like watch.

"Um…" Ichigo stopped to clear his throat, which had curiously run dry, before continuing. "I'm…naked," obviously, "so…now what?" He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know the answer until he realized that he was completely vulnerable to this kid.

Hitsugaya didn't respond. His gaze traveled downward again to where Kurosaki was covering his genitals, as if shielding them from potential attack on Hitsugaya's part. His camera-like lenses traced the teen's hands, noticing their size compared to his penis, and couldn't help but wonder how often the orangette masturbated. His hands certainly looked big enough to get the job done: the perfectly sized hands to bring pleasure to such a beautifully developed member. Hitsugaya wondered how his own smaller and paler hands would compare, wrapped about its circumference, and suddenly didn't want any hands but his own touching Kurosaki—not even Kurosaki's himself. He was breathing significantly faster than just minutes prior, nearly panting, and he could feel the blood rushing to his own growing bulge within the confines of his khakis. He badly wanted to wrap his legs around something, preferably the taller man's waist, but he would settle for doggie style around one of his bare legs if he had to.

He really was sick, wasn't he?

Hitsugaya forced his eyes shut and expertly willed himself to breathe evenly. He had to focus for now, he told himself. There would be plenty of time to enjoy Kurosaki's body later. (Perhaps they could even come back to the lounge after the cast and crew meeting….They'd relight the scented candles, set Adam Lambert's CD on replay, and borrow some toys from Urahara's shop. The make-out session would be on this same futon, the foreplay would be on the cushion-scattered rug, and the main event would be Kurosaki bending him over the coffee table. It would be hard. It would be fast. It would be vulgar. It would be absolutely mind blowing and they'd do it twice, no, three times, and it would be hot and it would be rough and—) No. Hitsugaya squeezed his eyes shut tighter, but Kurosaki's silhouette was etched into the insides of his eyelids. His arousal wasn't diminishing as quickly as it usually did once his object of fascination was out of sight, and it was no wonder. Kurosaki's body was perfect. The red-eyed dragon within him growled insistently, and Hitsugaya couldn't remember the last time his unhealthy addiction had been this provoked. He absently bit his bottom lip, and he was panting. He felt hot. He wanted to be touched. He needed to touch somebody else.

"Kurosaki, come here."

Ichigo frowned. He'd been just about to ask what was wrong, as Hitsugaya hadn't responded and suddenly seemed to start hyperventilating, but the boy's tone revealed no sort of distress; it was just as leveled as before. To say Ichigo was confused and mildly weary would be an understatement.

"Why?" Ichigo asked, quirking an orange eyebrow.

"Just…come here."

This time, there was a tangible bit of strain in the smaller male's command. And maybe it was a trick of the dim candlelight nearest Hitsugaya, but Ichigo swore there was something wrong with his childlike face. It…resembled how Yuzu or Karin's would look when they had a fever—flushed. Wait a minute. Was the boy sick? The question kicked his suspicion and lingering embarrassment to the proverbial curb as brotherly instinct was triggered. He crossed the room without further question or complaint, temporarily forgetting that he was supposed to be covering his front in a failed attempt to retain some decency. He did, however, hesitate when he was within arm's reach of the boy, whom was curled up in the corner of the futon. Ichigo couldn't hear Hitsugaya's soft panting beneath the louder music overhead, but there were the tell-tale signs: the quick rising and falling of the small form's shoulders and his slightly parted lips, the bottom of which was being abused by the boy's own teeth.

"Hey…are you okay?" Ichigo asked, forgetting his nakedness and crouching to see his opposite at eye level. He was scowling, but this time out of instinctive concern.

No answer.

Hitsugaya berated himself for allowing his inner turmoil to show, as he was usually the expert at locking away his emotions. And Kurosaki had asked if he was "okay" out of concern. Out of pity. He absolutely loathed pity. He didn't like to witness pity, receive pity, or even pity other people. It was a disgusting feeling, to express sadness or regret for another person's suffering yet doing absolutely nothing to help them. It was a shallow, frivolous thing that just kept the bad vibes circulating; made you break down in tears even after coming to terms with whatever misfortune had befallen you or someone you held dear. Pity was stupid. And he really wanted to smack Kurosaki across his gorgeous face.

But his body wanted otherwise. It was burning with unreleased pheromones and itched to tackle the nude Kurosaki to the ground; to bite and touch and lick every exposed inch of the man's being. He wanted to have that perfectly sculpted body heaving with lust beneath him and drenched with sweat above him…to drown in the masculine moans and relish the feminine whimpers. He craved to know if the strawberry tasted like strawberry and if his cream tasted like cream. What a delicious combination; it made him ravenous just thinking about it. His erection strained painfully against the restraints that were his boxers and pants, and he shifted slightly—too subtle for Kurosaki to notice—just to feel the wonderful friction that resulted and caused impossibly more blood to gather and boil throughout the entire lower half of his body. It was so hot, too hot, and he swore that all he needed was to glimpse Kurosaki's naked splendor once more before his dragon took over and oh, how he wanted to give up control of the reigns for just a little while: he knew for certain now that he'd never been so turned on in his life.

But…his eyes were still shut. Kurosaki was kneeling right in front of him (a rather obscene position considering his state of undress) and he couldn't even see it because his fucking eyes were still closed. Was he always so slow?

Ichigo was really alarmed now. Hitsugaya's breathing had become ragged and he could actually hear its uneven pattern at this proximity. That, coupled with the fact that Hitsugaya's forehead now glistened with the thinnest layer of sweat, pointed to no other explanation for the sudden behavior than sickness. Damn it, Ichigo thought, quickly getting to his feet and turning to rummage around at the kitchenette. He moved before he noticed a pair of teal eyes peek open, and he was unaware that he was being watched as he located a plastic cup in one of the cabinets and hastily filled it with cold water from the tap. It wasn't until he was once again crouching in front of the boy on the futon, cup of water in hand, that he met the gaze. Feeling fortunate that Hitsugaya was showing signs of consciousness, he offered the refreshment with determination set in his brow and a firm, "Here, drink this."

Still, Hitsugaya didn't respond. He only stared back at Ichigo. The color of his eyes seemed darker than before, and although it could've been because they were hooded by Hitsugaya's eyelids or by the light's angle, Ichigo took it as a sign of a worsening condition. He thrust the cup forward again: the water sloshed a bit inside, but none spilled.

"Go on; it will make you feel better."

Go on; it will make you feel better. Hitsugaya blinked. He stared at the water which would offer minimal relief to his type of awful heat, and then at Kurosaki's face which was crowded with the awful sense of pity, and then down at Kurosaki's body where his length was proudly displayed between parted legs in an awfully provocative manner.

And then he pounced.

There was a sound of plastic hitting and water splashing across the wood paneled floor, but it was unheard beneath the music and loud thump as two bodies crashed to the rug.

"Ow, fu…what the hell!" Ichigo hissed and tried to reach back to rub his head where it had suddenly become very friendly with the ground. His brain spun, and he was temporarily stunned, so it wasn't until he tried to do so that he realized he couldn't and remembered how he'd come to be in this position in the first place. Hitsugaya had tackled him. Said boy was now straddling his abdomen and pinning Ichigo down by his wrists, his strength both surprising and pissing off Ichigo, whose pride was already wounded from being taken off guard so easily.

"What the fuck, get…off…of…!"

Ichigo's exclamation trailed off as he stared up at his attacker with wide brown eyes. Hitsugaya was breathing hard, as if he'd just run one of Tatsuki's marathons, and was staring back down at him with the same lust-filled gaze as before. Ichigo was once again paralyzed as he became painfully aware of their position: he was naked, trapped on the floor beneath Hitsugaya's trembling frame; Hitsugaya was pinning him down, looking absolutely…hungry. Ichigo could feel his heart thudding heavily in his chest, but the feeling wasn't nearly as vivid as the telltale hardness pressing into his stomach.

Also known as Hitsugaya's erection.

Dear.

God.

Help me, Ichigo pleaded silently. He wanted to move. He had to move. But he'd made the mistake of looking into Hitsugaya's eyes, and now he was truly stuck gazing through the boy's windows to his soul. Even if he did muster up the strength to escape, that childlike face wouldn't allow Ichigo to cause any harm to his undersized molester; he was too sentimental, and although the boy was displaying the strength of a man, his stature was that of child, thus just as fragile. How old was Hitsugaya anyway? Surely not old enough to harbor such a passionate expression. Not old enough to be assigned as Ichigo's uke in Strictly Business. And definitely not old enough to be…wait, what was he…?

Hitsugaya closed his eyes just before they rolled to the back of his head in ecstasy. So good…Kurosaki tasted so good. Hitsugaya had dipped his head just to sample a bit of the wondrous skin bared to him, but once he had a taste, he had to go back for another just to make sure the flavor was constant. He'd licked Kurosaki's collar bone—Kurosaki, whom didn't taste like strawberries at all. It was slightly salty with dried sweat (it must have been hot under that red jacket) which should have been gross, but to Hitsugaya, it was rather heavenly; not so different from those giant pretzels they sell at the fair (The ones you dip in nacho cheese, he thought, then proceeded to imagine licking melted cheese off Kurosaki's hot skin). He licked the same spot over and over again, his tongue warm and moist, and the tang of salt faded until he was just licking Kurosaki for the sensation of finally doing so. But his head inevitably shifted a bit in his ministrations, and the salty taste of the skin outside his tongue's previous perimeter sent Hitsugaya's mouth exploring.

Ichigo was in shock: he couldn't even move his head, and he found his vision obscured by gravity defying tufts of white that smelled faintly like the vanilla-scented candles. They shifted as Hitsugaya moved his head, ever so slowly making his way up the right side of Ichigo's neck. Ichigo could feel the velvety softness of Hitsugaya's tongue, stroking him in long, thoughtful licks as if Ichigo was melted ice cream dripping down the side of a cone. He could feel Hitsugaya's hot breath ghosting over his moist skin whenever his tongue wasn't in contact, and it would have made Ichigo shiver if—no wait, he just did. This was too wrong.

"Hey." Ichigo began, wanting to sound stern, but his vocal chords betrayed him and his voice was soft, as if he didn't want to scare Hitsugaya away; like the boy was some kind of small animal. He tried again. "Hey, you need to st—ah. Ah…"

Hitsugaya had reached the vulnerable junction between Ichigo's neck and jaw. Somewhere behind the sudden tingle of pleasure, Ichigo knew it shouldn't have felt as amazing as it did; that he needed to stop this now, but…

Hitsugaya noticed the bigger male's reaction and felt the urge to smirk, but his mouth was preoccupied. Yes. This was what he'd been waiting for. The junction was the softest part of Kurosaki's otherwise sturdy neck, and it was the only place on his partners' body that Hitsugaya actually took his time to nurture because he understood how utterly sensitive the lymph nodes there were. Hitsugaya caressed the smooth pad of skin with his tongue, eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the rare act of gentleness, and listened to Kurosaki's breathing hitch. When the taste of salt was gone, the white haired closed his lips around the area and sucked lightly, but left his teeth out of it. He wouldn't mark the magnificent body just yet—especially not the particular spot of which he'd grown fond, and especially not when he received such an appreciative hum from below. He could feel the rhythmic pulse of the nerves—of a heartbeat—beneath his lips and it satiated something in Hitsugaya's chest. But then, Hitsugaya's more prominent craving still hadn't been satisfied, and he released Kurosaki's captive wrists in favor of tracing up the toned pair of arms while he continued to care for the boy's sweet spot.

Ichigo couldn't even scold himself for letting the sound slip; he was enjoying it too much. He didn't even take the opportunity, once he felt his wrists released, to throw the smaller man off of him. Hitsugaya obviously possessed more experience than any child could possibly have, what with the way he was sucking all of Ichigo's common sense out from that special point on his neck, which he hadn't even known existed before now. Through the pretty, white haze that had mysteriously settled over his logical thoughts, he could feel two hands traveling up his arms, over his shoulders, and back down to his chest, tracing every dip and curve of the muscles he worked three times a week at the gym to achieve. It was odd, the combined sensation of appreciation and craving that he was receiving from those hands. As if the body still straddling him wanted nothing more than to touch and feel and take Ichigo's in all at once. But Ichigo didn't mind. Hands trailed down and up and across and back again, as if Ichigo's entire body was a sheet of brail that Hitsugaya desired to read and decipher and memorize and read again, already knowing what the next word would be.

Hitsugaya was finally getting what he wanted, and Kurosaki was still distracted by the most skillful tongue and petal soft lips working at his jaw line. So when Hitsugaya felt a vibration in his pocket (which sent a jolt of pleasure to his erection, considering their close proximity in his pants), his logical mind, which had disappeared long before Kurosaki's, was slow to catch up. He was distantly reminded that he'd set his alarm for the meeting so as to not be late. But…why? Why was he still this hot? Sure, he hadn't gone anywhere near his ultimate prize yet, but then, he hadn't really been planning to. This was only an assessment; the time for his hands to wander innocently….

Okay, so maybe he had thought he'd be able to "survey" further. Maybe if Kurosaki hadn't taken so long to strip…No, no, he wouldn't be ungrateful. He'd had a taste of Kurosaki's presence, and at least he was now sure that it was the most intoxicating he'd ever sampled. He was still agonizingly hard, but then, he was used to being left unfulfilled. Sighing inwardly as logical thought and reasoning forced their return into his snow-crowned head, Hitsugaya forced his hands to slow in their frantic movements before stopping altogether, settling them between his legs: on Kurosaki's abdomen. He reluctantly released the boy's beautifully tanned skin from his mouth and instead moved to speak into his ear.

Ichigo was initially disappointed when the sensations stopped and even considered asking his opposite to continue. He was pleasantly surprised when the hot breath bore down on his ear as he began to descend from his high, and he shivered lightly, also never realizing how sensitive the hearing organ was. He was borderline panting and finally noticed the familiar heat pooling at his groin, as well as how good the pressure of a body sitting on him down there felt. He was aroused. But something in the back of his mind was howling for his attention, and he didn't know what it was, but it was urgent enough to cut through the fog that had settled over his brain. There was something big; something important and conspicuously obvious that he was just way too dense to notice.

Something that became painfully clear as soon as the masculine voice—in a bored tone, coming from the "most skillful tongue and petal soft lips" of the male body that was the cold-eyed Hitsugaya, "sitting on him down there" while he was nakedly aroused—said,

"I approve."

A/N: Whew! Longest chapter I've ever written for FanFiction (fortunately, I actually hand wrote about half of the chapter before typing), and I'm rubbing my neck like Ichigo does because I've been hunched over the keyboard for the past...I don't even know. Didn't play out like I'd originally thought it would, but I guess that's what authors mean when they say "the story wrote itself".

Yes, yes, I know; nymphomaniac Hitsugaya is totally OC, but hey, it's fun to write, plus it ties into the storyline. How did I do for my first ever shot at mild sensuality? Constructive criticism please! And about the small pity bit…Have you ever been in a tough spot, but you tell yourself "I won't cry" or "I'm done crying", then along comes some inconsiderate-who-thinks-s/he-can-help-or-at-least -wants-to-but-only-makes-it-worse who asks you "what's wrong" or something like that, and THEN you start bawling your eyes out? I hate that.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed! The lyrics are from Adam Lambert's "Whataya Want from Me". (For those of you who don't know, he's a smexy-gay-guy-whom-everyone-agrees-is-still-smexy- even-though-he's-gay, and I'll be using more of his songs. So, I. Do. Not. Own.) I'm as addicted to reviews as Hitsugaya is to penis, so drop me one!

…Did I really just say that?

…Yes, yes, I believe I did and I also believe that I won't change it.

~'Taku786 ^^