He can’t remember when the dreams started. Or what inspires them in the first place. All Ichigo knows is that they come without warning and that they are vivid, leaving him with an embarrassing problem in the morning. Waking up to wet sheets is never fun, especially when your sister is usually in charge of the laundry. Lately, Ichigo’s been taking that task on for himself. He can’t stand the thought of Yuzu washing this kind of stain.
Yeah, Ichigo’s suffering from wet dreams. And to make matters worse, they star someone he would’ve never expected. Not Rukia with her small hands and slim hips. Or Inoue with her large breasts and her tiny waist and bright smile. Or Yoruichi-san with all her curves and teasing, full lips. Or hell, even Byakuya with his cold grey eyes and sensuous mouth and occasionally questionable gender.
No, Ichigo’s delusions have taken a decidedly male turn, and he’s never even known himself to have a liking for men. Then again, he should’ve realized that much when he started to fall in love with Urahara Kisuke. Yet another piece of what the fuck that seems to comprise his life lately.
The dreams only make things worse.
They change quite frequently, but the theme remains the same. Whether Ichigo is himself or Zangetsu or Shirosaki or some strange amalgam of any of the above doesn’t matter. Whatever form he’s in, Ichigo is always, always, always, screwing the daylights out of Urahara Kisuke.
Up against a wall. In the shower. On the floor. In Urahara-san’s underground training basement with dust clogging the air, the taste of it and his teacher’s sweat on his tongue. The feel of that body moving beneath his, muscles strong and tensed. The geta-boushi flushed and Ichigo gasping for breath as he pushes into him. Wanting more, more, more.
It’s enough to drive Ichigo crazy. Doesn’t he have enough problems with two other personalities – all echoes of himself – constantly inside his head? His psychosis decides that adding sex dreams of his master to the convoluted mix is the next best step?
What’s worse is that they are always so vivid, so real. Ichigo wakes to phantom tastes on the tip of his tongue. To the feel of phantom fingers dragging through his hair, lips tingling where they’d been bitten or ruthlessly kissed. He wakes to the fading sensation of legs locked around him, urging him deeper. To echoes of a masculine voice in his ear, just as demanding.
Sometimes, Ichigo wonders if he has developed an obsession somehow and somewhere. If without his knowledge, he has become fixated. As though his subconscious is trying to tell him the truth of his desires. That he wants Urahara-san, forwards, backwards, upside down and sideways.
Tonight is no different than any other night.
Some details are so clear, others blurry and indistinct. There’s a faint impression of location. Four walls, a room somewhere, light slanting across the floor from a streetlight beyond the closed blinds. There’s furniture, but it’s blurry, dark shapes in the dim of the room. All Ichigo really recognizes is the bed, especially considering that it’s beneath him and all. The bed is made, but the covers are rumpled and disordered, pillow tossed to the floor.
It’s utterly silent, save for the sound of their bodies moving together. The sound of Urahara-san’s quiet gasps. The hitch in Ichigo’s own breathing, the soft rasp of his hands over bare skin. The creak of the mattress under them.
He’s himself this time. Ichigo isn’t sure why he’s so certain; he just knows that he’s himself and not another facet of his personality. It’s his hands and his lips and his tongue tracing circles on a collarbone, the sharp taste of the geta-boushi’s sweat on his lips.
Urahara-san is sprawled across the bed in front of him, hat missing, blond hair a disarrayed halo across his face. A few slats of light from the window highlight the sheen to his face, the way he constantly drags his tongue over his lips or chews on them even. The gleam in eyes that constantly shift from gray to green. Ichigo never really paid much attention to the man’s eyes before, but he notices them now.
Ichigo has never known his teacher to be this flexible, but he supposes that’s the beauty of dreams. The things that happen don’t necessarily have to be possible in real life.
The blond smells like gunpowder and candy and other, more bitter scents that remind Ichigo of hospitals and the biology lab at his school. The scents cling to Urahara-san’s skin and hair, but his sweat is salty on Ichigo’s tongue.
Ichigo can’t tell what color the bedspread is, but he knows that Urahara-san’s hair is ash blond, that there’s a trail of hair that leads from the shopkeeper’s navel – an innie, by the way – down to a thatch of equally blond hair. It can’t be that real life is supplying the intensity of the images because Ichigo’s never seen this man stripped all the way down. But his imagination is certainly filling in the blanks with stark clarity.
One of Urahara-san’s hands clutches to Ichigo’s arm, the right, which is pressed into the mattress for balance. His fingers squeeze in an uneven pace. Ichigo has Urahara-san’s right leg in his left hand, hooked just below his knee, pushing it back, giving him more room to move. His hips have a rhythm, a perfect rhythm that lets him slide in and out, pushing into tight-hot-clenching sensation.
The blond has only encouragement to offer. Voice low and throaty, raspy, thick with need. Moans and groans, finger squeezing desperately, demanding more. Ichigo himself is no better. Breath little more than frantic pants, sweat collecting on his forehead, trickling down his back.
He watches, avid, as Urahara-san’s free hand slides down his chest, palm rubbing briefly over peaked nipples before continuing a path downward. Ichigo’s heart leaps into his throat, and desire twists in his belly as he watches those fingers scratch through the thatch of blond hair before grasping his own arousal. His lover wastes no time in stroking himself, bringing himself pleasure.
The sight makes Ichigo’s eyes widen, his breath shorten. It’s so damn erotic, in perfect match to the look of hunger on Urahara-san’s face. To the way his blond hair clings sweatily to his forehead, the way his body arches and twists beneath Ichigo. The way his right foot is planted against the mattress, allowing him to push up against Ichigo and urge him deeper.
It’s a dream, but the sensation is so intense it might as well be real. Urahara-san is hot and clenching and smells so strongly of gunpowder and antiseptic. Ichigo wants to kiss him, so he does. Leaning forward to bring their bodies together. The kiss isn’t deep; they are at too much of an awkward angle for anything more than brushing their mouths together, tongues touching teasingly. But it’s oh so good, igniting the heat that’s already roaring through Ichigo like a wildfire.
Their tongues tangle briefly, Ichigo loving the taste of this man on his lips. Urahara-san gasps something wordless, or maybe it’s the rushing in Ichigo’s ears that makes it difficult for him to tell what it is. The geta-boushi moans. Ichigo watches as Urahara-san writhes beneath him, splattering his belly with fluid.
Muscles ripple around Ichigo’s arousal and pull him toward release. He tries to linger, to hold onto the pleasure wracking his body, wrapping around him and pulling him down into deprave clutches. But Ichigo is only human. He succumbs with a hoarse shout, grip tightening on Urahara-san’s thigh to the point of bruising.
His hips twitch and jerk as he spills himself. Sweat streams down his body, the fire in his belly like an explosive blaze. The world dims and fades, whites out, sparks dancing down his spine.
And Ichigo wakes with all the force of a man startled from sleep by loud noise or intruder. He is hard to the point of pain, fluid seeping from the head of his rigid length. He shoves his hand into his pants as he curls on his side, biting down on his other hand to hold back the noisy sounds threatening to spill from his lips. It doesn’t take long at all, not with the images so fresh in his mind. Not with the taste dancing on his tongue, so sharp and clear.
His entire body shudders as he tastes blood on his lips; he’s bitten too hard on his fingers. Ichigo hardly notices, not as his climax goes roaring through him. So good it hurts, making his muscles tense as he writhes beneath his bedcovers. He soaks his hand, splatters his sheets. The sharp smell of sweat and semen fills his bedroom. If he concentrates, he swears he can detect the faintest whiff of gunpowder.
Ichigo sags against the mattress, boneless, heart thudding in his chest as though unable to be calmed. His hand aches where he’d gnawed on his knuckles, and he knows he’ll have to get up, clean himself off, change his sheets for the third fucking time this week.
This is getting to the point of ridiculousness.
“Ya know what ya need ta do. Doncha, aibou?” Shirosaki drawls then, voice thick with humor and something else. Longing perhaps. “Otherwise, yer just gettin’ more ‘n more pathetic.”
Ichigo curses under his breath. That damn Hollow has a point, and Ichigo knows it.
There’s only one cure to his plight. One person who can ease whatever this madness is that has inflicted Ichigo.
And his name is Urahara Kisuke.