DESPAIR

III

ISHIDA REACHES

I was tired, but I couldn't sleep... not without the object of all my thoughts sleeping out there in my living room, on my couch, with my pants on and one of my spare blankets covering him. So after almost half an hour of tossing and turning and trying not to think about Ichigo, I finally feel carefully for the table lamp in the dark and switch it on.

Kurosaki Ichigo. Perpetual scowl and an attitude to match, so passionate about everything worthy of his attention... volatile nature, always ready to explode beneath his light mask. No half measures about him. So wild.

So dear for me it hurts just to think about it. And though he's been Ichigo - not just Kurosaki - in my head for a long time now, I know it's dangerous to continue thinking of him like that. It may slip out, and I don't want to be exposed and humiliated... the last Quincy turned into a puddle of mush and lust for loving a Shinigami. Way to go, Uryuu.

What would my grandfather think about it, if he knew? What would...? No, I don't care about my father, just as he doesn't care about me. Cold bastard.

Grandpa, on the other hand...

Want anything, anything that can distract me if only for a few minutes. I can fix a midnight snack... yes, that's it. I just have to get to the kitchen without looking at him, without breathing his scent, without hearing his snoring - I'm pretty sure he snores, he's so damn loud while awake -, and I think I can do that.

I move as silently as I can, out of the bed and to the door, and I'm almost there when I hear it: a low mumble, the rasp of clothing, repeating again and again, almost rythmically...

Just what the hell is he doing?

The faint glow of the street lights through the window is more than enough to show me exactly what Kurosaki Ichigo's doing right now, and I can feel myself hardening for the second time tonight. I never, not even in my most feverish fantasies, imagined the scene playing in front of my very eyes.

Skin on shameless display against the dark background of the couch, shirt lifted up to the neck, pants shoved down to the ankles, blanket kicked to the floor, hips shifting and twisting. Fingers sliding over the lines of ribs, dragging over nipples that look honey-colored, just like that butterscotch candy grandpa used to give me every sunday. The sound of skin against skin as the other hand's fingers curve over that thick shaft and slip down between those sprawled thighs before gliding back up to grasp the reddened flesh again.

No scowl in his face, just sheer pleasure.

His body is lean but powerful, magnificent. He's pure beauty, and I have a hard time trying to discern if this is another daydream of mine, trying to breathe again, trying to move away. But I can't, I'm glued to the doorway watching him, unable to move and now breathing so fast I think I must be hyperventilating.

He's moaning now, low in his throat, need and pleasure in each little sound, and I feel lost.

I must not touch myself. I must not touch myself. I must not touch myself. I must not touch...

So much for control and self restraint. One more moan is all it takes to make my hand disobey my brain, and shift down to ease myself against the soft press of my underwear and my loose pajama pants. Ichigo's head is arched back, his neck flexed, and I bite my lip furiously, trying desperately not to make any noise; my cock is pushing against my briefs.

His fingers shine lightly now in the dim light as he pumps steadily, and my hand is rubbing in a matching rythm the front of my pants; the scraping of cotton against the hypersensitive flesh creates a mix of pain and pleasure that shoots up my spine. Then his back arches off the couch and I have to close my eyes and bite my lips until they bleed.

I can't see him coming and coming, but I can hear the little sounds he makes, and it almost kills me with the intensity of my feelings and the sensations coursing through my body.

I lift my hands and cross my arms over my chest, even though I'm still impossibly hard, and finally open my eyes and look at him. His hand has stopped and he's looking at his crotch with the scowl firmly on place again.

Who do you think of when you do this, Ichigo? A girl? Inoue, perhaps? Or it's a boy, a... a man? You were thinking of someone, I can tell. You were biting that shirt - my shirt -, trying not to scream someone's name. Who...?

Now he's looking at me, surprised and ashamed, and I can see his cheeks flushing and his mouth opening and closing, gaping like a fish out of water. Then he's frantic all of a sudden, trying to cover his bare body and failing miserably.

"Umm. Umm..." - he doesn't know what to say. I don't know, either - "sorry about the couch, Ishida. I... I'll pay the cleaner's bill, I swear, and..."

"Fuck the couch." - the minute those three words leave my mouth, I know I'm in deep.

"Whaaaaat?" - gaping again, and though he still looks like a fish, I can't help to think it's the most kissable fish ever.

"Oh, sorry, forgot you've done that already. You were masturbating. On. My. Fucking. Couch. You owe me an explanation, Kurosaki." - and my mouth is on autopilot, on dirty mode. Great. What I'm gonna do next?

"Umm... I was horny?"

"Brilliant answer. And who were you thinking of?"

I'm trying to pry the information out of him, even though I'm hurting just thinking of him with someone else. Someone as vibrant and full of life as him...

"Not gonna tell you that. No way."

"Why?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?"

"That's my line. And this is my house, and that's my couch." - and I'm jealous, Ichigo. Burning with desire, and hunger, and jealousy...

"Fine, then I'll get the hell out of here!" - he gets up, more beautiful now that he's in anger, and tries to zip his pants, my pants. He's dressing, he's leaving, and I can't stand this anymore.

"No, you won't!"

Next thing I know, I have him pinned to the couch, feeling the hard length of his body under me. And I know for certain he can feel my erection, but right now I don't care. He's far stronger than me, and I'm going to be kicked to the moon and beyond... but for once I, Ishida Uryuu, the last of my lineage, don't care a bit.

He doesn't resist, not a little. Not when my mouth devours his as I place the palm of my hand on the middle of his chest, wondering when the knot in my throat has traveled down to lodge beside my thundering heart. I can feel Ichigo's heartbeat race as I slid my hand up his shirt, over the sharp point of his Adam's apple, to cup his cheek.

I abandon that luscious mouth to slide my lips along the line of his jaw, leaving a damp trace on his neck, nuzzling behind his ear, my tongue lingering to finally taste the tender skin there. He tastes like... like Ichigo, and there's no better flavor in the whole wide world.

He feels great under me, hard and strong and solid...

He catches my hips and pulls me against him, rocking up against my belly, making me rock against him in counterpart. Then I nibble on his ear, and he moans, and I almost whine in response. It's good, so good, like nothing in my life has been. Ever.

But a question has been left in the air, and even if I already know the most likely answer by now, I need to hear it from him.

"Tell me," - nibble - "tell me who were you thinking of."

He does not answer, but his hands are now in my hair, his fingers raking sensuously through it, massaging my scalp, pulling a gasp from me. I just push up the shirt and find two neat honey-colored nipples to kiss, lick and tweak, pinching just a little to hear him make little sounds back in his throat.

"Aaah!" - his skin is silky, even with the scars. He's panting, and each pant pushes me closer to the edge - "I was thinking of you! You, freaky bastard..."

Oh yes. Yes.

I shift a little sideways on the couch and smooth one hand across those firm abs, closer and closer to the final destination. His pants are still unzipped, so I push them open down his thighs. I know I can do this, I've dreamed of this so often... gingerly, I cup my hand around Ichigo's erection and curl my fingers tight.

He almost comes right up off the couch. "Ah! Ah, ah!"

Touching another - another man - is weird and familiar in a way I cannot explain. The throb of blood under that tender skin, the growing hardness underneath, the slickness. I'd never even thought of what it would be like to look down at my hand around somebody else's cock. Strange, but right, because it's Ichigo's and he's the one I've been longing for.

His hips are rolling with my strokes, his moans echo through me. I lunge for his mouth and take it in a kiss that's half bite, and he's holding me and biting back, his hands grasping my pajama pants and taking them down my thighs along with my briefs. I feel the chill of the night air in my cock, and I have to let go of his when he pulls me flush against him again.

I scrape my teeth along his jaw, kiss and suck at the vulnerable spot below his ear, and he mutters something incomprehensible, his fingers digging into my buttocks, our cocks sliding one against another. Those sensations send a shock of need through me so strong it nearly sends me over the edge. I go still, gasping, muscles taut. His fingers flex, and I shudder.

"Ishida..." - his voice is rough and uneven and his breathing, as harsh as mine, feels heavenly against my cheek.

"My name" - I look at his flushed face and lick that delicious bottom lip - " is Uryuu. Call me Uryuu."

"Freaky... bastard," - despite his obvious excitement, he almost laughs in my face. But his smile disappears and suddenly he's serious again - "Uryuu..."

That's it. I thrust harder, and come soundly with my face buried in his neck and his hands clutching my ass, pleasure and need pulsing out of me; he groans and thrusts harder up against me and I'm still shuddering when he comes too, again. Everything is hot, wet, slick and wonderful where we're pressed together.

The realization of who I'm with, that he just came, that he made me come and I made him come, overwhelms me.

This isn't a dream, but it could be over any minute. And I don't want it to end. Now that I know what love is, I don't want to let it go; I can't go back to the despair of wanting, needing and not having.

He's mine now.