Black Arcana: The Inverted Fifteen

BY : ChocolateCarnival
Category: Bleach > Threesomes/Moresomes
Dragon prints: 2433
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any of the character within, they belong solely and rightfully to Kubo Tite. I am merely borrowing them for my own amusement and make no money from this.

URGENT NOTICE: The Main Pairing for Black Arcana has changed to solely Kurosaki Shiro (黒崎 白) x Kurosaki Ichigo (黒崎 一護), I’ve decided to keep it simplified for now since writing a threesome will be troublesome. Please forgive the misleading information my Honeys, perhaps I’ll write a threesome like this at another time.

Right my Honeys, I apologize that I've been all over the place lately with my updates but I've been rather sick and incapacitated for a long time now. I've injured my dominant hand and I can't really type much at all, that's why I'm doing as much as I can without straining myself too much. Please take note, I have not stopped writing…I'm just too busy to sit down for long periods of time.

I've pushed aside The Rhythm Of Rhyme for now because this story just popped into my head and HAD to be written. It's been too long after all. I ask that you please heed the warnings thought, this story isn't for the faint of heart.

Black Arcana: The Inverted Fifteen will contain: M/M LemonsEstablished Twincest between Shiro and IchigoDark EroticismHeavy AngstIllnessIncestDominance/Submission, AU Modern Japanese Setting, Symbolism and rough sex.

The Main Pairing is: Kurosaki Shiro (黒崎 白) x Kurosaki Ichigo (黒崎 一護

If there is any warnings you do not like, please do not read. Also, just a side note for my Honeys, I've started a Facebook page that's linked to my Blog and my Fanfiction updates so that I can be easier to reach. You can find the link on my Profile page or on the side panel of my Blog if you're interested in following me.

Other than that, please enjoy…this story is quite different to what I usually write but it was a lot of fun.

Black Arcana: The Inverted Fifteen

Paint ran in rivulets across a blended black and grey background, a fracture of colours flung expertly across a blank canvas to sculpt a breathtaking piece of urban art, dark eroticism, sensual imagery and the indescribable gaze of a chained orange haired muse observing the darkness of the world from behind a mask of stoicism and a solitary tear carved into his cheek. Seated regally upon a sculpted throne draped in red velvet, elegant fingertips were digging painfully into a gilded obsidian arm rest as a pitch black shihakushō of days long past, trailed marvellous black and white silk folds upon a spiked and raised dais suspended far above the fiery pit of Jigoku's (1*) torturous void. Cuffed to dark stalactites that jutted menacingly from the vast dome of a moonless and starless sky above, a chained and bandaged right hand was clasped nobly around the completed hilt of an unusually large, unique and curved black blade. Driven unsheathed into the floor between intricately buckled and knee-high black booted feet; a sea of skulls, black candles, human remains and pools of blood served to enrapture the Ruler of the Underworld in a moment of halted time and dark reprieve. Where depthless chocolate brown eyes were staring straight ahead with no inkling of fear or regret, only a steadfast gaze locked onto the past and future simultaneously.

With a messy array of vibrant, semi-long orange locks dancing restlessly across the bridge of a straight nose, wired black headphones concealing his ears from sight and a complex breathing system of pipes and black tubes connected to a dark gasmask covering half of the King of Hell's face, the ethereal being's hauntingly beautiful countenance seemed to transcend both reality and time in those moments as the burning embers of hellfire danced menacingly across the reflective surface of his deadly sword. Two long, bone-white and sharp angled horns were also protruding ominously from the sides of the orangette's head, accentuating a crown of intricately wound black chains that spanned evocatively between two devilish appendages as there became no doubt this being was the Devil himself. He was the inverted fifteen, the rightful emperor ruling over Kurosaki Shiro's bitter heart and an awe-inspiring soul that made up the other half of the skilful artist's entire existence. This was his King, his muse, his eternal beloved and his closely bound twin. They were connected irrevocably by a red string of fate, his own black nailed fingertips carefully drawing a number '0' brush across a large canvas to colour in a thin thread of blood that was twined around his muse's left pinkie finger and lead off into the void below him where a hip-length white haired soul was breaking the surface of a black lake with a sensual arch.

It was if the lost soul was being called there by the Master of Shinigami, the siren song of the dead lifting him from the depths of darkness to face the agonies of life and rebirth as the flames of hell shot up from beneath the inky surface in vast, blazing, citadels. His own reflection's inverted gold and black eyes were gazing up in awe at the regal youth seated on his throne of blood and darkness. The twenty-year-old frantically crafting another masterpiece of skill and dark beauty, forced to mentally distance himself from the scene in those moments lest his soul start to quiver with need or a forbidden, sinful, lust was ignited deeply in the depths of his mind. He could already feel pure ecstasy stirring in the pit of his stomach, his breaths becoming shallower and shallower with every second that passed as he stared intently at the beautiful portrayal of his beloved King that had been rendered by his own hand over more than a year of exhausting toil. Kami, the King was simply beautiful. It did not matter if he was painted as he was with vibrant orange locks, tanned skin and kind eyes, sketched with quick charcoal lines in black and white or represented in an intensely stylized piece like this where Shiro's imagination opened a door into his soul. Ever since the two of them had been brought into this world from the same womb, the eldest son of the Kurosaki family had instinctively known there was something inherently wrong and different about him.

The way he saw the world was unlike anything human society could understand. No one could or had the right to draw him away from his intensely focused obsessions. Neither his mother nor father seemed to notice that they always looked towards Ichigo for affection whilst he himself barely tolerated any form of touch unless it was initiated by himself or he accepted it lovingly from his twin brother. The darkly refined and genius-level style of his art that could be produced after hours, sometimes even days, of intense introspection. Not to mention the way he always found beauty, elegance and inspiration in the strangest of places—. It was simply impossible to think of the entire list in such a short span of time, Shiro noted to himself dazedly. His concentration was already wavering on the brink of exhaustion as he contemplated staying in his studio for another few hours to finish off the more complex symbolism of 'Black Arcana'. When tired gold and black eyes landed on a sleek smart phone screen situated on the table next to him though, he could barely make out the flickering numbers because the unusually silent device was partially concealed beneath a messy sprawl of dirty paint tubes, paintbrushes, turpentine and used water jugs. It took several slow minutes just to decipher the time as 00:30 in the morning, the white haired artist reluctantly placing his brushes aside so that he could sit back on his stool for several seconds of reprieve.

It was always an immense strain on his body to be enraptured by his work like this, he cursed himself silently. Sometimes it took an entire hour just to bring himself back into the flow of reality, a violent struggle of wills ignited deeply in the depths of his mind just to silence the erratic flow of his breaths and calm the frantic beat of his heart. Possessing the skill and knowledge to paint his darkest and most taboo fantasies may have been coveted by all of the art world, but Shiro doubted any of his patrons would ever be worthy enough to cast a single glance over his King's form the way he saw him. They simply didn't deserve to look upon Ichigo's inherent beauty, to see his haunting purity with their filthy eyes and lecherous desires… Ichi belonged solely to Shiro, he was the only person in the world the young artist needed in order to live selfishly like he did. When the Oyaji had entered some of his oldest son's paintings in a national art competition several years ago, one of Tokyo's most exclusive galleries had taken an interest in exhibiting the twenty-year-old's work from time to time. Despite only being sixteen at the time, Shi had already been hailed as the youngest and most successful artist of his generation. '斬月' or 'Zangetsu' as he was known by his pseudonym, was the most sought after painter in the country.

He was still considered a university student by occupation though, he never truly wanted any part in the fame and fortune he had been granted by sheer luck alone. Shiro simply wanted to provide a comfortable home for him and his beloved to stay in so that they could escape the overbearing clutches of their insanely boisterous father and his crazy antics. To possessively keep his King by his side like he had promised to do since they were young, Shiro would reluctantly allow the undeserving masses to view and admire his works just as long as they never made an offer to buy a piece that featured Ichigo's natural sensuality and eternal beauty. Considering that most of those pieces made up his vast collection, Shiro rarely let anything go unless it was for an insanely high price and a sworn statement that it would never be reproduced anywhere without his knowledge. He only had one muse after all, only one subject that never ceased to inspire him again and again and again. If common humans wished to own a part of his soul, they were going to have to be prepared to pay for it with their lives as collateral. Pushing stylish blue and black framed glasses up his nose to stop them from sliding to the floor as he bowed his head forward in moment of silent stillness, slow movements pulled large turquoise headphones to rest against the back of his neck as the white haired teen allowed a vast array of colourless hip-length locks to sway hypnotically against his spine.

Forcing himself to his feet with fluid and graceful movements, black nailed and ringed fingertips were dragging irritably through raggedly cut and considerably long bangs as a deadly smirk of teasing insanity curled played across pale lips. The tired teen was chuckling melodically at the small reminder swimming into the forefront of his mind, his Oyaji often joked with their six year younger brother Tensa that his oldest looked like a psychotic killer whenever he gazed out at the world from behind a thick mass white strands and allowed uncommonly long locks to cascade freely down his back. His smile was so unnerving most of time that it served to frighten people into an early grave whenever they managed to catch a glimpse of the harsh intensity that was present in his eyes simultaneously. Ichigo had likened it to gazing into a black void once. The alarming array of emotions Shiro expressed were so dark and overwhelming that it instantly ignited a primal fear in anyone's soul that was stupid enough to cross him or sparked his uncontrolled rage. Alas, that was what came with territory of being a partial sadist, Shiro thought. He always enjoyed seeing the flicker of reverence that came over the disgusting humans he had to deal with every day. Reaching for an elegant thigh-length black trench-coat that was haphazardly thrown over the coatrack behind him, the twenty-year-old realized there wouldn't be much time to stand back and admire his achievements of the day.

He had a promise to keep, after all. Shi never broke the promises he made with Ichigo. After vowing to be home early that weekend and to bring his little King a treat from his favourite chocolate boutique in the city close to his private gallery, it was time lock up the studio and head down the path towards home. It was already much later than he expected, the white haired student had once again been too enraptured in his work to notice the passage of time and just how long he had been busy. Using a black nailed thumb to scroll across the screen of his phone, golden eyes clenched shut for several moments of thought as struggled to bite back an exhausted yawn whilst taking his time to note down the numerous messages and missed calls he had received over the last few hours alone. Everyone always seemed to seek out his presence on Friday the thirteenth for parties, publicity events and all other bullshit gatherings society called 'fun'. Why exactly he was a target for that, he would never know. He was merely an artist, not a celebrity seeking attention from the public. Quickly sending a reply to his twin to let know he was on his way and that he'd reach home in the next few minutes, it was pure luck that he had picked up a carefully wrapped box of chocolate treats earlier that day…otherwise Shiro would have ended up disappointed his King without intending to.

If there was one thing he would never forgive himself for, it was disappointing and upsetting Ichigo when he could avoid it in the first place. The King was the only thing that kept him alive on most days. Shiro had decided long ago that he didn't want to live if Ichigo was not there with him until the end. Many seemed to take it as joke when 'Zangetsu' said his soul was linked to his twin's and that they would die at the same time. He simply couldn't think of a worthwhile life without Ichigo's gentle and balancing presence by his side. The orange haired medical student was the only being in the world that possessed the ability to equalize the inherent darkness that had been birthed into Shiro's soul. To skilfully calm the insane voices of the damned that often cried deafeningly in his mind and saturated his ears to be rendered perfectly across paper and canvas day after day, hour after hour and minute after minute…it was a wonder the famed twenty-year-old had not been driven insane long before now. However, in return for his brother's kindness and steadying presence, the oldest of the Kurosaki Twins believed he had been born to shield and protect his beloved from the harsh realities of the world without holding back. He existed solely as Ichigo's blade, a mercilessly sharp sword that cut through his King's enemies without hesitation and protected him just as fiercely and possessively as a taboo lover would.

They were nothing without the other after all, just two beings that transcended the bonds of love and sculpted their own interpretation of how deeply sibling attraction and taboo eroticism could be carved into twin souls. Using a large throw of turquoise and gold silk to cover 'Black Arcana', Shiro made sure all open and incomplete canvases were covered from prying eyes as he shrugged a black trench coat over his shoulders and reached for the keys to lock his studio. A form fitting long sleeved carmine shirt was conforming sensually to his upper body beneath black fabric, several black belts and twining chains tinkling softly against his waist as heavy booted feet and long jean clad legs took the stairs two at a time. He was heading directly for his apartment that was only ten minutes away, the early autumn chill already freezing silently through the air as intense golden eyes took several long moments just to observe quiet breaths misting the atmosphere in front of him. Curling lazy arms around his waist to hopefully preserve some of the warmth that was seeping from his skin, the white haired teen hastily transversed familiar walkways and pavements into the dark night as his heart picked up an excited rhythm of sheer anticipation.

The dim light of a waning moon was dancing hypnotically across pale skin, igniting his unusual white hair in an iridescent shimmer of fractal colours as the twenty-year-old remained completely blind to the exotic attraction he often ignited in other's souls. Even the distant voice welcoming him to his home in a high-end apartment building went completely unnoticed. The words were simply waved aside with an irritated 'che' as the twenty-year-old ignored the doorman that greeted him with a formal bow and leering eyes that traced his form up and down without hesitation or shame. In the busy life that Shiro tread through day by day, he seemed to have forgotten one simple fact. He and Ichigo possessed the same face and body type. They were almost identical in every aspect, only the colour of their hair, eyes and skin was pigmented differently from one another to set them apart. Not that it mattered in the least since the artist only had eyes for one muse. Black nailed fingertips curling absently around the careworn messenger bag slung over his shoulder, his mind trying to forget the anxious shiver of fear and trepidation racing down his spine when he entered the small space of an elaborately decorated elevator and prepared to return home.

In this expensive apartment complex where only neatly dressed and rich businessmen lived, Shiro felt out of place and constantly underdressed regardless of his success and fortune in the real world. The large suite he shared with his twin on the fifteenth floor with three rooms, a kitchen, living space, guest quarters and large garden on the terrace, was truly a comfortable little haven that the two of them could live in peacefully whilst being far away from Karakura Town's oppressive and tragic atmosphere. There were too many bad memories there, after all, too much sorrow to make the King unhappy if he was kept locked away in a world where darkness, vengeful street gangs, tragedy and constant fear of death was impressed on his soul every day. As the white haired artist finally reached the penthouse suite after exiting the elevator doors, he was forced to halt for a moment as his mind raced through the possible candidates that could be visiting them so late at night when he spotted a small pair of school shoes that were placed neatly beside Ichigo's white sneakers. He didn't need to call out a greeting to get his answer, the lock on the door clicking in place behind him as a rhythmic tap of bare feet raced across wooden floors and a youthful voice called out to him with quiet urgency.

'Shi-nii! Shiro-nii! What took you so damn long! I called you ten minutes ago for help but you didn't answer!' Jerking in surprise when a short fourteen-year-old turned the corner with intense and unnerving blue eyes pinned his older brother with an apathetic glare, the six-year-younger Tensa displayed an unusual amount of distress for his normally stoic and intensely controlled personality as waist-length wavy black locks, highlighted with a single lock falling messily between pale eyes, danced restlessly across youthful features and Shiro was barely given a chance to hang his coat on the door beside him. A small elegant hand had curled painfully tight around his right wrist, dragging the white haired artist deeper into the apartment despite several cries of exasperation and frustration that echoed through the air as Shiro's thoughts suddenly halted in his mind and the previous foreboding he had felt racing down his spine, flowed like a shock of pure ice through his veins. This couldn't be like that, right? This last time he had seen Tensa like this, Ichigo had—.

'Oi! What the fuck do ya think ye're doin', Otouto! I haven't even had a chance to take off my shoes yet, damn it! Can ya give me a moment?' A deadly baritone cursed violently, the twenty-year-old digging heavy black heels into the floor to halt the hasty blackette's rushing steps. He was shaking himself out of a painful death grip, his concentration and racing panic shattered by the sound of his phone coming to life in his jean pocket as black nailed fingertips fumbled restlessly with the vibrating, screeching, device. 'You're not even supposed to be here, Otouto! Aren't you writing exams?' Answering the phone with an impatiently yelled 'what', Shiro wasn't surprised when there was no answer to his question as Tensa boldly gripped the black fabric of his shirt and pulled him down so that the considerably taller twenty-year-old was eyelevel with a short hundred-and-fifty-eight centimetre frame. He was promptly forced to forget his surprise in lieu of anger however, when a deadly glare seared deeply into the depths of his soul and an expert hand snatched away his phone without remorse and ended the call without even looking at who it was. All that Shiro could remember was the annoying voice of the Oyaji saying his name before a surprisingly strong grip pulled him into the living room and finally gave him a chance to notice the shimmer of frustrated tears that were gathered in the corner of icy cold, pale, blue eyes.

'This isn't the time to be worrying about bullshit, Shiro! I can't find Ichi-nii's medication and he's been struggling to breathe for the last ten minutes! Nothing's helping! He—.' Resting a calming hand atop a head of infinitely soft black locks, a hiss of concern echoed passed pale lips as serious golden eyes watched his little brother trail off with a quiet sob and turn his head away to conceal tears of shame that dripped mournfully from the corner of his lashes. He often forgot just how young Tensa was, he was only in the first year of junior high regardless of his mature and stoically controlled personality. 'It's alright, Otouto. Just take a breath and sit quietly on the couch. Call the Oyaji back and tell him to fuck off and leave us alone, it's too late to be bothering anyone. And when you're done, how about making some hot chocolate? Ichigo always says that yours is the best and I'm sure he'll love something sweet.' Even whilst finding an immense amount of self-control in order to not panic in front of his brother, Shiro was struggling to calm his own fears as he hastened his steps across a fluffy carpet and rummaged through the traditional Japanese chest where his twin's medication was kept. It took too long to collect the necessary tablets in his hand, two…three white and red capsules and a blue one that felt sticky in his palm as he reached for a glass of water that was thankfully not far from his fingers.

'Idiot King! When last did you take your medication? Did ya strain yourself too much today?' Pain hazed brown eyes were gazing at him from behind a curtain of messy orange locks, a heavy temple resting tiredly against the cool glass of the window as Ichigo shifted guiltily in his favourite seat that was built into the window ledge and decorated with several exotically colourful pillows and spreads of turquoise silks. Several heaving breaths were fogging up the transparent surface of the glass with rapid bursts next to him, a grimace of pain curling across luscious petal pink lips as the medical student turned his to the side defiantly and clutched the three-quarter sleeve blue shirt that was drawn across his heart. Knowing instinctively that his twin was in too much anguish to speak for himself, Shiro lifted the tablets to his own lips and curled the tip of a pierced tongue around his fingertips to place them in his mouth. He could see his twin's eyes widening with surprise, petal pink lips parting with cry of concern and fear as he took a swig of water and bent forward to grip a lowered chin between his forefinger and thumb.

Now was not the time for hesitation, he breathed quietly.

Sealing Ichigo's lips with the slick slide of his own, a frown of concern furrowed white brows as a hitched moan greeted his sensual caress and he skilfully passed on the needed medication so that he could settle his King's pain. It took several moments of hesitation on the orangette's part to accept it though, Ichigo eventually swallowing without protest as a subtle pink flush coloured pale cheeks and he curled a desperate grip through the black fabric of a heavy trench coat. Even when faced with heart stopping situations like these where Ichi came far too close to death because of the hereditary heart condition that had stolen their mother's life, Shiro would find him eternally beautiful…

That's why he always reassured his King that he'd never be alone, even in death they would transverse the afterlife together. That's just how deep their bond was…

They were inseparable.

A physical representation of pure taboo and sinful lust that was wrapped in dark, deadly, eroticism.

1* - Jigoku – Hell

Right, that's all the notes for now. Thank you so much for reading, I truly appreciate it. If I could ask for a small review for my hard word…I'd be eternally grateful to you. Other than that, I seem to have run out of things to say. I'm not sure what will update next since I'm struggling to type but hopefully it won't take too long.

I'll see all my Honeys again soon,

Yours Always

Chocolate Carnival

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