[Bleach fic] pulled from the "junk-drawer"
I needed a break from long-ficcing, and the USTing so frustrating, oi, with the tension...
Title: Like a Plate Tectonic
Characters: Renji, Ishida
Spoilers: Vague Hueco Mundo/FKT
Warnings: gratuitous sex
Rated: MA
Summary: On minor seismic events; the things that shake us and wake us up.
There is a lurching moment of disorientation when he wakes, as if everything has turned backwards and upside-down. His head is facing the wrong way in bed, and bed isn't where it's supposed to be either. It all just feels...off. He can't place why, but Ishida's first thought--after groaning and stuffing his head under the pillow--is Earthquake. His second thought is Water Closet.
Floundering upright, like swimming towards an ever elusive surface, he has a third thought. Followed by a jumble of fourth and so-on thoughts: that he is a)surrounded by dense reishi b)sore all over and c)someplace other than his own room, his own home, his own anything. He's in a plain room on a low bed; high walls with imposing wooden shutters; flickering gas-light filtering in from outside.
He's not sure what he's thinking. A light push swings the shutters open, and he's leaning his head and shoulders out to gage the distance. From there it's a small matter of gathering enough reishi, and enough of his robe to ensure a dignified landing. Done and done. He drops into a shaky crouch and plasters himself back against the rough wall. He breathes in, and a pale, pre-dawn Seireitei breathes with him.
The Fourth division barracks sprawl out around him, all unassuming angles and gently vaulted roofs; colored tiles guide his steps through a series of linked courtyards with modestly placed trees and benches; serene and non-threatening to the last detail. Only one thing out of place here--besides the dazed and wandering Quincy--and that would be the tall, shihakusho clad Shinigami skulking around with a stick between his teeth.
Red hair, tattoos, and that annoyingly Kurosaki-like expression. _Abarai_. Walking right towards him.
Ishida ducks around a low ornamental wall, and with grace truly becoming a proud Quincy, tumbles hard down a set of brick steps into a gravel pond. The game is up.
He looms up over the wall with a bemused frown, and leans over gracelessly, front of his yukata spilling open to reveal more tattoos--more of Abarai than Ishida had ever imagined he'd want to see.
"Ain't it a little early for Beggar in the Dark?" He muses. "You get lost on your way to the toilet?"
Remain cool, Ishida reminds himself. Act like you meant to do that. "I--needed some fresh air," he mutters politely, standing with what's left of his dignity, and yanking his yukata straight. "What are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for your ass to do something stupid," Renji points out. "Just like that."
The flash of irritation must show, the way he cocks his head at Ishida. Damn him.
The jagged eyebrows lower and crease. "Come on. It's too early for little boys to be out of bed," he murmurs, sticking his long arm out over the wall.
"Thanks for your concern, but it's needless." Ishida wobbles past the offered hand and teeters his way up the steps. "I can find my own way without--" a lurch. Like his elevator's just hit the ground floor. He stumbles, dizzy, and falls right into the waiting arm.
"No place for pride here," Renji--Abarai murmurs, warm hand looping easily around his shoulder, buoying him with a gentle swell of reiatsu. "Where to?"
Ishida scrubs at his cheeks with a rough sleeve and allows himself to be pulled into Renji's side; the smell of fresh laundered cotton, sword oil, and warm bread all hitting him with a gust. "Water-closet," he mutters, noting how gingerly Renji still moves, how he winces and holds his shoulders stiff. "But I can walk on my own, alright?"
"Tch." Renji latches onto the back of Ishida's kaku-obi and hauls him in a shuffling frog-march across the court. "Then walk," he grumbles.
Ishida wobbles and trips down a much steeper set of stairs at Renji's side. His knees feel like jell-o. Every drop jars, unsettles his already disordered insides. If he's half-way honest with himself, he doesn't need to urinate as much as he needs to vomit. Just get it out of his system, so he can get on with his day. The images and smells are fresh enough that he can feel it rising already, hitting the back of his throat--
(thick white slugs choking every hole, coating and congealing in a mass, cutting off his air)
--ending in a splatter at his feet. And oh great, he's not even going to make it to the bathroom. Renji's got him bent over a storm-drain, hand on his neck, hemline gathered out of the way, and there's just no helping it. Ishida heaves and lurches and holds onto his knees, eyes shut tightly, praying to get this over and done with so he can go crawl into the nearest hole and never come out. He wishes he hadn't had that second bowl of rice-porrige last night.
Anything but white. He'd rather see anything but that right now.
"Yeah, hollar, just get it all outta your system," Renji murmurs, awkwardly chafing the spot between Ishida's shoulder blades, tugging the collar of his yukata back to give it clearance. "All right? Feel better now?"
Ishida snorts and gags, but thankfully that seems to be the end of it. "No." He shuts his eyes again, just so he doesn't have to look at it. "Abarai, if you're a true friend...do me the favor of ending this."
"Don't even joke," Renji grumbles, ever so gently hauling Ishida back by his collar, like a misbehaved puppy. "C'mon, let's go get you cleaned up."
Ishida answers with a groan and tight-lipped nod. He manages to stand under his own power, and shrugs Renji's hand away with a ticklish shiver. As if things couldn't be more embarrassing. "I think I can do it without your help," he grumbles, stepping over the gutter and heading for the shower building just across the court.
Renji skulks along behind him and says nothing until they reach the door, muttering impatiently for Ishida to hurry up and piss before the rest of the fourth wakes up.
The sun's just kissing the horizon outside, shedding weak watery light across the tiles as Ishida hikes up his yukata and aims himself with cold fingers. This is hardly ideal, but a drain is a drain, he reasons.
"Run some water," Renji calls in after him. "For god's sake, I ain't standing in your piss while I shower."
"Don't talk to me!" Ishida snaps, wincing as he wrenches open the hot tap. "I can't go if you talk."
"Whatever," Renji mutters.
The sun's up, the birds are singing, and somewhere nearby, a tree is throwing off its pollen. Just maybe, thinks Ishida, it's all going to be okay. He shakes free one last droplet, then steps clear of the drain to strip.
"Start the water for me, s'cold as hell out here." Renji sniffles, coughs, and stumbles into the outer vestibule with one sandal half off. Hands fumbling to unwrap obi and hakama himo, he shrugs off kosode and shitagi and stands shivering in his fundoshi to untie his hair.
Ishida fiddles with the cold water and tries not to stare.
Renji looks quickly askance as he slings the last bit of cloth aside, catching and cupping his genitals in one hand and neatly holding it all tucked away. Like a courtesy. He carries himself past Ishida with something approaching real dignity, and drops to a limber crouch under the nearest shower head. "Hey," he mutters, craning his neck. "You got the last bar of soap there. Give it over."
"No way," Ishida snipes. "I'm using it." He hasn't finished building a proper lather, and there's no way he's going to risk such close personal contact under such potentially dangerous circumstances.
"Don't be stingy, give it." Renji sticks out his hand, and he's still cupping his tackle in the other, but not so tightly as before. He waggles his fingers and glares hard, and he's right up in Ishida's personal space, close enough to see the scars.
After over a month, the marks left by Aizen have faded and filled in, the fresh shiny pink of healthy scar tissue carving a trail from the top of each shoulder to just below his nipples. Ishida remembers hearing him complain about his wrecked tattoos, and Rukia giving him righteous hell for it.
"Yo," says Renji. "You gonna give me that, or you gonna sit there staring all day?"
Ishida lets the lozenge drop from nerveless fingers into Renji's outstretched hand. He rinses off quickly, setting his jaw hard to bite back the chill. Once done, he rises on stiff legs and walks mechanically towards the square bathing pool in the dark farthest corner. His fingers fumble stiffly to ignite the gas torch up on the wall, and it takes far too long, after he's sunk into the water, for the heat to reach his bones.
Renji is watching him now, with this puzzled, pained expression. He's twisted round on his stool with his hair slicked against his neck in running red rivulets. Red, everywhere Ishida looks. His lips, his mouth, his prick--swelling and blushing in the heat--even his eyebrows growing through the black ink.
Ishida shivers jaggedly and hugs his arms beneath the water. Red is the color of fire, of blood, he thinks; with all of that red, surely Renji would be enough to warm him through. The thought alone brings heat to his cheeks, sends shockwave impulses through his every fiber. He knows he's staring now, and he sees Renji staring right back at him, boldly appraising him with one dark, head-to-toe, scrape. It leaves him feeling strangely raw, as if his flesh has been peeled back, his moist and tender soul exposed.
Renji sucks at his lower lip, then carefully unfolds from his seat. Ishida jerks his eyes away and shyly covers his crotch with both hands as Renji approaches the pool.
"Tss, like you've got anything I haven't seen before." Renji dips a hand in the water by Ishida's arm. He doesn't offer a word of comfort. There is just his hand: gently stirring and creating ripples, and his eyes keeping careful watch, and his nearness shedding warmth into the harsh air. "Is it okay if I--" he leans forward, cautiously swimming his hand closer. "I mean, you won't flip out of I touch you or anything?"
Ishida wishes he'd just done so without asking, because now he's got time to think about it. "I'm fine," he grates out.
"Yeah, sure you are." Renji leans his upper body along the ledge of the pool, half crouching, half kneeling along the steps. "Why the hell else do you think I've been following you around all week?"
"I thought it was for the company," Ishida chatters. "The refreshingly erudite conversation. Not because I needed a damned baby-sitter!
Renji slips his hand free of the water. "You oughta be flattered I didn't just pawn you off on some unseated drone, or worse, left you to melt down all by your lonesome."
"Well, thanks for that, Abarai. This is much less humiliating."
"I told you, call me Renji." He stifles a yawn and scratches his chin, then grabs onto the edge of the pool with both hands, bracing to lever himself up. "Now shuffle over. I'm comin' in!"
Ishida pushes off from the wall and lets the water support him, propelling himself lazily into the corner and watching as Renji vaults over the side.
Renji settles into the water with a rude splash and a contented sigh. Mercifully, he doesn't seem interested in doing anything besides looking. "Ten minutes," he mumbles, sinking back against the wall by Ishida's arm. "The commissary stops serving breakfast at nine, no exceptions." He lets his head fall back against the ledge, exposing the slight flutter of pulse at his neck.
Ishida shivers again and quickly pulls his knees in. "Really, I'm all right," he says weakly; making pointless small-talk, because he can't think of anything better to do. "As soon as I'm fully recovered, I see no reason why I shouldn't be cleared for combat."
Renji rolls a lazy eye at him. "I thought Shinigami were the enemy," he drawls. "I thought once that whole business in Hueco Mundo was over with, you'd want nothin' more to do with us."
"I never said anything about fighting by your side."
Renji tips his mouth into a sly smirk. "Heh." He gives the tub's surface a sharp flick, spraying water, and says: "Never change, Uryuu."
He's sure he blushes redder than Renji's idiotic eyebrows at that. "I don't plan to," he sniffs, and sinks down up to his chin.
It takes a beat, a breath, to realize he's let the infraction slide without comment. By that time, it's already far too late, and it will continue to haunt him throughout the day: a small cloud over his head, a curl of steam from his tea that spells out Uryuu, a ripple of a heat-haze that follows his every move no matter how hard he tries to shake it.
He is damned.
"This changes nothing," he hisses hotly into the rough mouth. "Never gave you permission to use my name."
Abarai hikes him up against the wall with an ugly sound, a harsh animal grunt that tugs him to knots, 'til he's not sure which way is up. "Fine then, Ishida." He says it over and over again, groaning into the space between their mouths. "Ishida. Does that suit you?"
"A--barai." Even like this, with his shoulders ground back into the stucco and his hips raised like some back-alley whore, it's important he maintain his distance. He is stretched out and filled and aching, and it would be far too easy to forget himself, to forget who he's with. "Abarai."
"Ishida," he whispers. "Ishida." His movements and his voice become rougher, disjointed. "Is it okay--I--I can pull out--"
"No, don't." He's going to have bruises by tomorrow, and a scraped back that will not be easy to explain. But the part of him that serves to worry about those things is small compared to the part that's _really_ enjoying this. That part does not give a flying fuck about dignity and propriety when he's grinding his bare backside flush with Abarai's hips; when he's lit up inside like a glowing coil, and more utterly, physically _here_ than he's ever had a right to feel; when he thrusts down and makes Abarai's eyes flutter closed, he doesn't care what name he calls him.
Whimpering and quaking like he's about to break apart, the surging building warmth is worth every syllable. "I-shi-da."
He anchors his heels and flexes with it, into the rhythm of his own quick/white/hot climax like a well-timed set of fireworks: slight silver to Renji's blooming red. "Abarai," he soothes. "Abarai." He crunches up awkwardly and, still spasming in tight little quirks, kisses the salty lips.
He's doubly damned.
Renji sags against him, radiating warmth like a heartbeat. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to be so rough."
So personal, Ishida thinks he means. "It's alright." He kisses him harder, deeper, sated and loose-limbed and bathed in strangeness. "I'm tougher than I look." This is entirely unlike himself--this winded, shambolic mess--and for a moment he thinks 'Earthquake'.
Tsunami. Every inch of his insides feels tumbled over and scraped raw, rawest where they meet, and when Renji pulls out. (Again with the sorries.)
"It's alright," he says, again, carefully straightening his clothes. There's no more kissing and no more intimacy beyond the careful hand on his shoulder, but even that feels far more personal than it has a right to. "Abarai, are you--"
He asks because he feels he ought to. Because the look on Abarai's face is worrying. Because, who is he to kid himself?
Renji brushes it off with a careless shrug, eyes shuttered, and gently propels Ishida towards the mouth of the alley. "Go on," he mutters. "I'm sure you'll wanna get cleaned up before dinner."
"You know me far too well," Ishida grunts, and wanders off to shower and change (hands roaming in a daze over all the tender places Abarai had been) and try to make some sense of himself amongst the wreckage.
~end?~
Man, short-fics are such a beast to summarize, IDEK. Comment and crit is more than welcome. O__O;
Title: Like a Plate Tectonic
Characters: Renji, Ishida
Spoilers: Vague Hueco Mundo/FKT
Warnings: gratuitous sex
Rated: MA
Summary: On minor seismic events; the things that shake us and wake us up.
There is a lurching moment of disorientation when he wakes, as if everything has turned backwards and upside-down. His head is facing the wrong way in bed, and bed isn't where it's supposed to be either. It all just feels...off. He can't place why, but Ishida's first thought--after groaning and stuffing his head under the pillow--is Earthquake. His second thought is Water Closet.
Floundering upright, like swimming towards an ever elusive surface, he has a third thought. Followed by a jumble of fourth and so-on thoughts: that he is a)surrounded by dense reishi b)sore all over and c)someplace other than his own room, his own home, his own anything. He's in a plain room on a low bed; high walls with imposing wooden shutters; flickering gas-light filtering in from outside.
He's not sure what he's thinking. A light push swings the shutters open, and he's leaning his head and shoulders out to gage the distance. From there it's a small matter of gathering enough reishi, and enough of his robe to ensure a dignified landing. Done and done. He drops into a shaky crouch and plasters himself back against the rough wall. He breathes in, and a pale, pre-dawn Seireitei breathes with him.
The Fourth division barracks sprawl out around him, all unassuming angles and gently vaulted roofs; colored tiles guide his steps through a series of linked courtyards with modestly placed trees and benches; serene and non-threatening to the last detail. Only one thing out of place here--besides the dazed and wandering Quincy--and that would be the tall, shihakusho clad Shinigami skulking around with a stick between his teeth.
Red hair, tattoos, and that annoyingly Kurosaki-like expression. _Abarai_. Walking right towards him.
Ishida ducks around a low ornamental wall, and with grace truly becoming a proud Quincy, tumbles hard down a set of brick steps into a gravel pond. The game is up.
He looms up over the wall with a bemused frown, and leans over gracelessly, front of his yukata spilling open to reveal more tattoos--more of Abarai than Ishida had ever imagined he'd want to see.
"Ain't it a little early for Beggar in the Dark?" He muses. "You get lost on your way to the toilet?"
Remain cool, Ishida reminds himself. Act like you meant to do that. "I--needed some fresh air," he mutters politely, standing with what's left of his dignity, and yanking his yukata straight. "What are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for your ass to do something stupid," Renji points out. "Just like that."
The flash of irritation must show, the way he cocks his head at Ishida. Damn him.
The jagged eyebrows lower and crease. "Come on. It's too early for little boys to be out of bed," he murmurs, sticking his long arm out over the wall.
"Thanks for your concern, but it's needless." Ishida wobbles past the offered hand and teeters his way up the steps. "I can find my own way without--" a lurch. Like his elevator's just hit the ground floor. He stumbles, dizzy, and falls right into the waiting arm.
"No place for pride here," Renji--Abarai murmurs, warm hand looping easily around his shoulder, buoying him with a gentle swell of reiatsu. "Where to?"
Ishida scrubs at his cheeks with a rough sleeve and allows himself to be pulled into Renji's side; the smell of fresh laundered cotton, sword oil, and warm bread all hitting him with a gust. "Water-closet," he mutters, noting how gingerly Renji still moves, how he winces and holds his shoulders stiff. "But I can walk on my own, alright?"
"Tch." Renji latches onto the back of Ishida's kaku-obi and hauls him in a shuffling frog-march across the court. "Then walk," he grumbles.
Ishida wobbles and trips down a much steeper set of stairs at Renji's side. His knees feel like jell-o. Every drop jars, unsettles his already disordered insides. If he's half-way honest with himself, he doesn't need to urinate as much as he needs to vomit. Just get it out of his system, so he can get on with his day. The images and smells are fresh enough that he can feel it rising already, hitting the back of his throat--
(thick white slugs choking every hole, coating and congealing in a mass, cutting off his air)
--ending in a splatter at his feet. And oh great, he's not even going to make it to the bathroom. Renji's got him bent over a storm-drain, hand on his neck, hemline gathered out of the way, and there's just no helping it. Ishida heaves and lurches and holds onto his knees, eyes shut tightly, praying to get this over and done with so he can go crawl into the nearest hole and never come out. He wishes he hadn't had that second bowl of rice-porrige last night.
Anything but white. He'd rather see anything but that right now.
"Yeah, hollar, just get it all outta your system," Renji murmurs, awkwardly chafing the spot between Ishida's shoulder blades, tugging the collar of his yukata back to give it clearance. "All right? Feel better now?"
Ishida snorts and gags, but thankfully that seems to be the end of it. "No." He shuts his eyes again, just so he doesn't have to look at it. "Abarai, if you're a true friend...do me the favor of ending this."
"Don't even joke," Renji grumbles, ever so gently hauling Ishida back by his collar, like a misbehaved puppy. "C'mon, let's go get you cleaned up."
Ishida answers with a groan and tight-lipped nod. He manages to stand under his own power, and shrugs Renji's hand away with a ticklish shiver. As if things couldn't be more embarrassing. "I think I can do it without your help," he grumbles, stepping over the gutter and heading for the shower building just across the court.
Renji skulks along behind him and says nothing until they reach the door, muttering impatiently for Ishida to hurry up and piss before the rest of the fourth wakes up.
The sun's just kissing the horizon outside, shedding weak watery light across the tiles as Ishida hikes up his yukata and aims himself with cold fingers. This is hardly ideal, but a drain is a drain, he reasons.
"Run some water," Renji calls in after him. "For god's sake, I ain't standing in your piss while I shower."
"Don't talk to me!" Ishida snaps, wincing as he wrenches open the hot tap. "I can't go if you talk."
"Whatever," Renji mutters.
The sun's up, the birds are singing, and somewhere nearby, a tree is throwing off its pollen. Just maybe, thinks Ishida, it's all going to be okay. He shakes free one last droplet, then steps clear of the drain to strip.
"Start the water for me, s'cold as hell out here." Renji sniffles, coughs, and stumbles into the outer vestibule with one sandal half off. Hands fumbling to unwrap obi and hakama himo, he shrugs off kosode and shitagi and stands shivering in his fundoshi to untie his hair.
Ishida fiddles with the cold water and tries not to stare.
Renji looks quickly askance as he slings the last bit of cloth aside, catching and cupping his genitals in one hand and neatly holding it all tucked away. Like a courtesy. He carries himself past Ishida with something approaching real dignity, and drops to a limber crouch under the nearest shower head. "Hey," he mutters, craning his neck. "You got the last bar of soap there. Give it over."
"No way," Ishida snipes. "I'm using it." He hasn't finished building a proper lather, and there's no way he's going to risk such close personal contact under such potentially dangerous circumstances.
"Don't be stingy, give it." Renji sticks out his hand, and he's still cupping his tackle in the other, but not so tightly as before. He waggles his fingers and glares hard, and he's right up in Ishida's personal space, close enough to see the scars.
After over a month, the marks left by Aizen have faded and filled in, the fresh shiny pink of healthy scar tissue carving a trail from the top of each shoulder to just below his nipples. Ishida remembers hearing him complain about his wrecked tattoos, and Rukia giving him righteous hell for it.
"Yo," says Renji. "You gonna give me that, or you gonna sit there staring all day?"
Ishida lets the lozenge drop from nerveless fingers into Renji's outstretched hand. He rinses off quickly, setting his jaw hard to bite back the chill. Once done, he rises on stiff legs and walks mechanically towards the square bathing pool in the dark farthest corner. His fingers fumble stiffly to ignite the gas torch up on the wall, and it takes far too long, after he's sunk into the water, for the heat to reach his bones.
Renji is watching him now, with this puzzled, pained expression. He's twisted round on his stool with his hair slicked against his neck in running red rivulets. Red, everywhere Ishida looks. His lips, his mouth, his prick--swelling and blushing in the heat--even his eyebrows growing through the black ink.
Ishida shivers jaggedly and hugs his arms beneath the water. Red is the color of fire, of blood, he thinks; with all of that red, surely Renji would be enough to warm him through. The thought alone brings heat to his cheeks, sends shockwave impulses through his every fiber. He knows he's staring now, and he sees Renji staring right back at him, boldly appraising him with one dark, head-to-toe, scrape. It leaves him feeling strangely raw, as if his flesh has been peeled back, his moist and tender soul exposed.
Renji sucks at his lower lip, then carefully unfolds from his seat. Ishida jerks his eyes away and shyly covers his crotch with both hands as Renji approaches the pool.
"Tss, like you've got anything I haven't seen before." Renji dips a hand in the water by Ishida's arm. He doesn't offer a word of comfort. There is just his hand: gently stirring and creating ripples, and his eyes keeping careful watch, and his nearness shedding warmth into the harsh air. "Is it okay if I--" he leans forward, cautiously swimming his hand closer. "I mean, you won't flip out of I touch you or anything?"
Ishida wishes he'd just done so without asking, because now he's got time to think about it. "I'm fine," he grates out.
"Yeah, sure you are." Renji leans his upper body along the ledge of the pool, half crouching, half kneeling along the steps. "Why the hell else do you think I've been following you around all week?"
"I thought it was for the company," Ishida chatters. "The refreshingly erudite conversation. Not because I needed a damned baby-sitter!
Renji slips his hand free of the water. "You oughta be flattered I didn't just pawn you off on some unseated drone, or worse, left you to melt down all by your lonesome."
"Well, thanks for that, Abarai. This is much less humiliating."
"I told you, call me Renji." He stifles a yawn and scratches his chin, then grabs onto the edge of the pool with both hands, bracing to lever himself up. "Now shuffle over. I'm comin' in!"
Ishida pushes off from the wall and lets the water support him, propelling himself lazily into the corner and watching as Renji vaults over the side.
Renji settles into the water with a rude splash and a contented sigh. Mercifully, he doesn't seem interested in doing anything besides looking. "Ten minutes," he mumbles, sinking back against the wall by Ishida's arm. "The commissary stops serving breakfast at nine, no exceptions." He lets his head fall back against the ledge, exposing the slight flutter of pulse at his neck.
Ishida shivers again and quickly pulls his knees in. "Really, I'm all right," he says weakly; making pointless small-talk, because he can't think of anything better to do. "As soon as I'm fully recovered, I see no reason why I shouldn't be cleared for combat."
Renji rolls a lazy eye at him. "I thought Shinigami were the enemy," he drawls. "I thought once that whole business in Hueco Mundo was over with, you'd want nothin' more to do with us."
"I never said anything about fighting by your side."
Renji tips his mouth into a sly smirk. "Heh." He gives the tub's surface a sharp flick, spraying water, and says: "Never change, Uryuu."
He's sure he blushes redder than Renji's idiotic eyebrows at that. "I don't plan to," he sniffs, and sinks down up to his chin.
It takes a beat, a breath, to realize he's let the infraction slide without comment. By that time, it's already far too late, and it will continue to haunt him throughout the day: a small cloud over his head, a curl of steam from his tea that spells out Uryuu, a ripple of a heat-haze that follows his every move no matter how hard he tries to shake it.
He is damned.
"This changes nothing," he hisses hotly into the rough mouth. "Never gave you permission to use my name."
Abarai hikes him up against the wall with an ugly sound, a harsh animal grunt that tugs him to knots, 'til he's not sure which way is up. "Fine then, Ishida." He says it over and over again, groaning into the space between their mouths. "Ishida. Does that suit you?"
"A--barai." Even like this, with his shoulders ground back into the stucco and his hips raised like some back-alley whore, it's important he maintain his distance. He is stretched out and filled and aching, and it would be far too easy to forget himself, to forget who he's with. "Abarai."
"Ishida," he whispers. "Ishida." His movements and his voice become rougher, disjointed. "Is it okay--I--I can pull out--"
"No, don't." He's going to have bruises by tomorrow, and a scraped back that will not be easy to explain. But the part of him that serves to worry about those things is small compared to the part that's _really_ enjoying this. That part does not give a flying fuck about dignity and propriety when he's grinding his bare backside flush with Abarai's hips; when he's lit up inside like a glowing coil, and more utterly, physically _here_ than he's ever had a right to feel; when he thrusts down and makes Abarai's eyes flutter closed, he doesn't care what name he calls him.
Whimpering and quaking like he's about to break apart, the surging building warmth is worth every syllable. "I-shi-da."
He anchors his heels and flexes with it, into the rhythm of his own quick/white/hot climax like a well-timed set of fireworks: slight silver to Renji's blooming red. "Abarai," he soothes. "Abarai." He crunches up awkwardly and, still spasming in tight little quirks, kisses the salty lips.
He's doubly damned.
Renji sags against him, radiating warmth like a heartbeat. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to be so rough."
So personal, Ishida thinks he means. "It's alright." He kisses him harder, deeper, sated and loose-limbed and bathed in strangeness. "I'm tougher than I look." This is entirely unlike himself--this winded, shambolic mess--and for a moment he thinks 'Earthquake'.
Tsunami. Every inch of his insides feels tumbled over and scraped raw, rawest where they meet, and when Renji pulls out. (Again with the sorries.)
"It's alright," he says, again, carefully straightening his clothes. There's no more kissing and no more intimacy beyond the careful hand on his shoulder, but even that feels far more personal than it has a right to. "Abarai, are you--"
He asks because he feels he ought to. Because the look on Abarai's face is worrying. Because, who is he to kid himself?
Renji brushes it off with a careless shrug, eyes shuttered, and gently propels Ishida towards the mouth of the alley. "Go on," he mutters. "I'm sure you'll wanna get cleaned up before dinner."
"You know me far too well," Ishida grunts, and wanders off to shower and change (hands roaming in a daze over all the tender places Abarai had been) and try to make some sense of himself amongst the wreckage.
~end?~
Man, short-fics are such a beast to summarize, IDEK. Comment and crit is more than welcome. O__O;