RenIshi- Arabian Nights
...Okay, actually this is IshiRen, really. The anime's new fillers will be based on Kubo's spreads, and the first is the Arabian-themed one. However, since Studio Pierrot apparently hates Renji, he went from a perfectly reasonable green and black outfit to a contraption with poofy sleeves that can only be described as a mash-up of Princess Jasmine and Aladdin's outfits. My first thought was that Uryuu had a hand in making Renji look like a moron, and thus, this was born. It's supposed to be about a year or two post-series, I guess. Also, it was an excuse to write dominant!Uryuu, which I will freely admit is a huge kink of mine. xD Still can't write Renji, though. If anyone is interested, I might write the prequel.
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Uryuu is not often one for being facetious, but even he is not immune to the desire for revenge after being pranked himself. Given that Abarai’s idea of a “nice tour of the Soul Society, courtesy of yours truly” had ended with Uryuu miserably drunk and in the Shinigami’s bed, he thinks he’s being merciful in his retaliation. Abarai himself looks about ready to have an apoplexy, his face as red as his hair as he paws at the minimal fabric covering his chest.
“What. Is this.” Abarai growls, gesturing to the lilac top and blooming white pants.
“Your costume,” Uryuu replies smugly. “These parties require that one come in costume, and I doubt any of the attendees would catch the subtle humour of you appearing in your shihakushou.”
“Yeah? Do they ‘require’ that I come in a frigging girl’s costume, too?” Abarai attempts to tug the vest over his chest, but to no avail. Uryuu reaches out to stop him, making sure his fingers trail along exposed skin as he does.
“Careful with that,” he warns, voice sharp but eyes dancing. “The fabric is quite delicate, so any… Roughhousing would damage it.” If Abarai has caught on to his implications, the scowl on his face doesn’t belie it.
“What the hell am I supposed to be, anyways?”
“It’s an Arabian theme,” Uryuu responds, adjusting his own blue shirt, letting the deep-cut v-neck slide a little lower down his chest. “A region to the west, on the mainland. It’s mostly desert country.”
“So do all guys dress like chicks in this ‘Arabia’ place, or are you just being a prick?” Abarai retorts, struggling to wrap his tongue around the odd word.
“It was never specified as to what type of Arabian-style costume I put you in, Abarai,” he murmurs, smirking. “Simply that I put you in one.” At last, the Shinigami’s mind seems to process the hints Uryuu’s been dropping, and he leans forward, one hand on the wall near Uryuu’s head, the other indicating his vest.
“You said this thing’s pretty fragile, right?”
“It’s nice to know you can comprehend basic speech,” Uryuu quips, his own hand coming to rest at the base of Abarai’s neck.
“So what happens if I break it?” Abarai asks, lips now grazing Uryuu’s ear.
“I’d be rather displeased, of course,” he responds, sounding anything but.
“Sounds to me like you’re pissed enough as it is.”
“I suggest you rectify that, then.” Abarai’s mouth is inches from his, close enough that he can taste what smells suspiciously like taiyaki. Uryuu stops him, though, and pushes him down to the nearby bed. “I forgot to mention, though,” he continues, savouring the slack-jawed expression on Abarai’s face as he straddles his lap. “I’m the sultan, and you’re in my harem. In other words,” he murmurs, hands sliding down Abarai’s bare chest, fingers tracing the jagged contours of his tattoos. “I’m in charge.”
They are an hour and a half late to the party, and Abarai walks with a slight limp.
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Uryuu is not often one for being facetious, but even he is not immune to the desire for revenge after being pranked himself. Given that Abarai’s idea of a “nice tour of the Soul Society, courtesy of yours truly” had ended with Uryuu miserably drunk and in the Shinigami’s bed, he thinks he’s being merciful in his retaliation. Abarai himself looks about ready to have an apoplexy, his face as red as his hair as he paws at the minimal fabric covering his chest.
“What. Is this.” Abarai growls, gesturing to the lilac top and blooming white pants.
“Your costume,” Uryuu replies smugly. “These parties require that one come in costume, and I doubt any of the attendees would catch the subtle humour of you appearing in your shihakushou.”
“Yeah? Do they ‘require’ that I come in a frigging girl’s costume, too?” Abarai attempts to tug the vest over his chest, but to no avail. Uryuu reaches out to stop him, making sure his fingers trail along exposed skin as he does.
“Careful with that,” he warns, voice sharp but eyes dancing. “The fabric is quite delicate, so any… Roughhousing would damage it.” If Abarai has caught on to his implications, the scowl on his face doesn’t belie it.
“What the hell am I supposed to be, anyways?”
“It’s an Arabian theme,” Uryuu responds, adjusting his own blue shirt, letting the deep-cut v-neck slide a little lower down his chest. “A region to the west, on the mainland. It’s mostly desert country.”
“So do all guys dress like chicks in this ‘Arabia’ place, or are you just being a prick?” Abarai retorts, struggling to wrap his tongue around the odd word.
“It was never specified as to what type of Arabian-style costume I put you in, Abarai,” he murmurs, smirking. “Simply that I put you in one.” At last, the Shinigami’s mind seems to process the hints Uryuu’s been dropping, and he leans forward, one hand on the wall near Uryuu’s head, the other indicating his vest.
“You said this thing’s pretty fragile, right?”
“It’s nice to know you can comprehend basic speech,” Uryuu quips, his own hand coming to rest at the base of Abarai’s neck.
“So what happens if I break it?” Abarai asks, lips now grazing Uryuu’s ear.
“I’d be rather displeased, of course,” he responds, sounding anything but.
“Sounds to me like you’re pissed enough as it is.”
“I suggest you rectify that, then.” Abarai’s mouth is inches from his, close enough that he can taste what smells suspiciously like taiyaki. Uryuu stops him, though, and pushes him down to the nearby bed. “I forgot to mention, though,” he continues, savouring the slack-jawed expression on Abarai’s face as he straddles his lap. “I’m the sultan, and you’re in my harem. In other words,” he murmurs, hands sliding down Abarai’s bare chest, fingers tracing the jagged contours of his tattoos. “I’m in charge.”
They are an hour and a half late to the party, and Abarai walks with a slight limp.