Hey guys! It's a productive week for me, since I'm on break. I've also got a ByakuyaxIchigo in the works, but if there's anything you'd like to read (pairing-wise), I definitely have the time, so just let me know. Please review!
This one is for Anna.
Warnings: Incest, sex
Disclaimer: Don't own anything
Uryuu Ishida entered his empty house in a series of movements which bore no semblance of ceremony. In between shouldering open the door and kicking off his boots, he clasped his keys in his teeth and struggled to shake the snow off his bag as he clutched the mail under his arm. When the snow had settled into various piles about his boots and bag - some on the porch, some sinking into the carpet of the entry hall - and a fair amount of cold air had stolen into the house, Uryuu locked the door behind himself, sparing a moment to rest with his back against it as he shuffled through the mail.
A lone Christmas card, from Isshin.
Uryuu left the mail in a neat pile on an end table, giving no indication that he had sorted through it. In his bedroom he changed into his pajamas, a ritual he had enacted year after year on the first day of winter break. Without fail, he would come home elated to be finished with exams, and then somewhere between slipping on his flannel sleep shirt and wandering aimlessly into the kitchen, he would find himself oddly depressed, uncertain of what to do in the absence of homework or study.
With a half-hearted frown he foraged absent-mindedly through the cabinets, vaguely searching for something to snack on. Among the wholesome ingredients kept on hand - fish stock, miso powder, onions, canned mackerel - there were no traces of the holiday season, not a single stash of candy or batch of cookies, bejeweled loaf of bread or bundle of spices. At Ichigo's house, the cupboards practically overflowed with colorful slews of confections and treats, all stuffed with sweet fruits and spiced nuts, bright and glistening in their midwinter cheer. The Ishida cabinets were far more sober, their contents sensible and relatively few.
As he started the miso stock simmering on the stovetop, Uryuu reflected on the absence of holiday traditions among his family. Up until shortly ago he had believed that his house had always been bereft of them, but then came that odd spring day: his father had suggested that he clean the attic out, and in his cleaning he found a small box full of modest Christmas decorations - a couple of wreaths, a humble little tree, a few strands of lights. His father had only commented that they had belonged to his mother, and had promptly hidden them away somewhere.
Uryuu sighed, stirring the mackerel into the boiling stock along with a few sheets of sea weed. He could barely imagine his father submitting to such frivolous tasks as celebrating a holiday. Even birthdays were merely mentioned; New Year acknowledged only by the silent switching of the calendars. It seemed that his mother's passing had dissolved whatever in him had enjoyed celebrations and occasions, something that Uryuu had come to resent early in his childhood.
He could remember hearing his father crying in the wake of his mother's death, though never seeing it. At night, when he would tiptoe by his bedroom door en route to the kitchen, he would hear it - low, frustrated sobs, broken and incomplete, heartbreaking. After a time, though, even those episodes of grief subsided to cold stoicism, and Uryuu found that he had lost both parents.
It was difficult, then, not to hate his father, for his emotional vacancy, for his distance, for that damn unceasing sternness with which he faced all situations regardless of their significance. Whatever was left of Uryuu's love for his father - stunted affection never to find expression in another embrace or kind word - slowly turned to pity, and showed itself in little acts of nurture: meals on the table, packed lunches, perfectly knotted ties, mended shirts, a clean house.
It was there that the story became complicated. Uryuu's brow creased slightly, knitting together with that familiar anxiety. The soup had come to a rolling boil; steam poured off in drifting savory clouds. Settling the lid over the pot, Uryuu began to gradually reduce the heat, though he leaned close to the stove to enjoy the feeling. Outside, it had begun to snow again, a slight drift of white among the grey air that the boy could see clearly from the small kitchen window...
Uryuu could hardly remember when his anger had become pity, and when his pity had become the strange addition to his nurturing that formed desire. He supposed such must be how women felt about men: the urge to care for them, the half-amused need to help them, and of course, the strange attraction to them, to their bodies, strong and broad and vigorous as Ryuuken's certainly was.
A dark blush seared Uryuu's cheeks, burning and spreading in his chest, his neck, the tips of his ears. He desperately wanted his narrative to be different, wanted it to feature him in a better light. Certainly, he thought, there were children out there who managed to see to their parents' needs without developing bizarre, unnatural fixations on them. It seemed to him that he was incapable of such pure martyrdom: he had taken on the jobs his mother had left undone, and had found himself wanting the same perks she had been entitled to.
Namely, he contemplated, slipping on oven mitts as he removed the pot from the burner, his father's unprejudiced ear, his most mature and complex love, and of course, his perfectly sculpted and expertly maintained body...
The rice cooker nearly met an untimely end as Uryuu jerked upward, startled by the sound of his father's arrival. First, there was the opening and closing of the door, the softening of heavy footsteps - a pause, during which a few letters were torn open - and then Ryuuken arrived in the doorway of the kitchen, worn from a long day's work, examining a bill. Uryuu knew the routine like clockwork.
"Good evening," he announced evenly, "how do you feel about your exams?"
"Fine," Uryuu replied flatly, barely offering a glance to his father.
"What have you prepared?" Ryuuken peered over his son's shoulder, eyeing the steaming pot on the stove.
"Miso-mackerel and rice," came the shiftless response.
Silence stretched between them as Uryuu prepared the rice, refusing to acknowledge his father, who, as always, seemed entirely unfazed by the distance. After a moment, Ryuuken deposited the bill in the desk drawer he kept for such matters, and disappeared down the short corridor to change out of his suit.
When Ryuuken returned, it was to slide into his seat at the small table he shared with his son, his place already set with a bowl of soup, a bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks waiting for him. Uryuu stood at the refrigerator, pouring himself a glass of water.
"What would you like to drink?" he asked coolly, once more without sparing a glance.
"Water is fine," Ryuuken replied, waiting for his son to be seated before starting the meal.
Still, where conversation should have occurred, there was only empty, oppressive silence. Uryuu ate with his head down over his bowl, and Ryuuken stared into the distance through the kitchen window opposite his seat. The snow had begun to fall in increasingly thick sheets; he doubted whether or not it would be possible to make it into work in the morning, and was suitably glad that school wasn't a concern for the following weeks.
What he could not have known was how intensely his expressions of thought - a slight knitting of the brow, the adjustment of his glasses - tantalized his own son. Uryuu stole quick, fiery glances at the man through his bangs, watching as he wordlessly contemplated the weather.
"Well," his father's voice stunned Uryuu into a bolt-upright position, "very good as usual."
Ryuuken carried his bowls to the sink and nodded once to his still-seated son before heading off into the living room to do a few moments' worth of unwinding before readying his things for the following day. Uryuu started the dishes and slunk off to his room, shutting and locking his door quietly behind him.
Even in his own space, Uryuu found it rather difficult to breathe. It felt as though Ryuuken's presence followed him even there, in fading traces of his cologne, in the plain whiteness of the sheets and curtains, in the neat orderliness of the furniture.
As he undressed, he found himself shivering at his own touch. Even the hem of his shirt as it passed over his nipples brought a shudder through his slim frame, rushing warmth to his groin. His back arched involuntarily and he practically fell into his bed as he tugged his sleep pants on, halting them at his narrow hips.
Images of the evening passed fleetingly through his mind. As he slowly began to stroke his sex, he slipped his glasses off, abandoning them on the nightstand. The lamp was shut off, the night snowy-silent and dark in its wake. Uryuu could think of nothing but deft hands sliding all over him, well-practiced fingers inside him, his legs spread wide, and those lips on his, thin and insistent...His hips jerked involuntarily as his hand moved over his slick sex.
When he realized his teeth were bearing unreasonably hard into his lip, he stretched and rolled onto his side, arching immediately as his pre-cum smeared over his sheets. The touch was enough to force a sharp gasp from his throat; he arched into his touch again, pumping his hips as though he was being taken, and in his mind's eye he saw only Ryuuken, the resolute doctor locked in passion, his hard body moving, his thick sex pressing in and out -
With a strangled half-cry, Uryuu spilled his seed into his hand.
His chest heaved as he struggled to regain his grip on reality. He was cold, and the house was quiet. Sitting up, he cleaned his hands with tissues from his bedside table, and settled his glasses there, venturing one last glance at the window as the snow fell outside. At length, he settled beneath his sheets, tugging them up beneath his chin as he waited for sleep.
Despite the respite from school, the next morning was still an early one. Uryuu seemed to be entirely incapable of taking a break from things, especially when those patterns of work and responsibility had become ingrained into his biological schedule. He climbed out of bed at six-thirty and tugged a long-sleeved shirt on briskly; the morning air was frozen. As he readied the morning's tea, he gazed out over the street beyond the kitchen window, surprised at the depth of the snow. It seemed surreal to him then that something of such profundity could accumulate so quickly, and in such perfect silence...
The hard soles of Ryuuken's shoes on the linoleum tiles startled Uryuu from his contemplation. He whirled around, tea in hand, and began to set their places for breakfast. As his father sat and quietly ate his breakfast of toast and hot cereal, Uryuu put his lunch together - rice, mixed vegetables, and a cup of last night's soup. Even that process was one of exceptional finesse; Uryuu treated each small container as a serious matter, filling them carefully and stowing them sturdily.
Ryuuken settled his plate in the sink and turned, scooping his briefcase off the floor before heading toward the door.
"Wait," Uryuu called, following after.
Ryuuken turned just as he reached the door, startled by his son's voice.
"Your tie," Uryuu explained briskly, "your tie is crooked."
His slim, deft fingers gently worked the knot loose and corrected it; Ryuuken simply tipped his chin up and allowed the boy to work. Uryuu took the liberty of smoothing the fabric down when he was finished, nearly causing a shiver in his slender frame at the feeling of his father's hard chest.
"Thank you, Uryuu." Ryuuken nodded politely, and then headed out into the cold, leaving his son alone in the silent living room.
Uryuu, meanwhile, was shaken to the core.
The scent of his father's aftershave lingered on his fingertips, spicy and clean; he could still feel the heat of his body through the crisp linen of his shirt, and the layers of tight muscle just barely out of reach...Uryuu half-stumbled back toward his room, though he was stopped on his way - halted by that same intoxicating scent, and the warmth of the remaining steam still dissipating from Ryuuken's shower. The boy peered into his father's empty room - it was, as one would expect, clinically clean, neat, orderly. The bed had been left unmade, and Uryuu could still see the outline of the spot in which his father had slept.
Just as the night before, Uryuu felt that familiar warmth pooling at his sex at the mere thought of Ryuuken. What would the man really be like, he wondered, in bed - clinical and direct, with very little affection and efficient, intense pleasure? or was there yet another side to him, a gentleness or passion reserved only for the bedroom?
Hesitantly, as if dreaming, Uryuu tiptoed into his father's room and settled onto the bed, running his open palms over the soft sheets. The sensation alone caused him to shiver and he discarded his glasses on the night table, reclining back into the pillows. He imagined, then, his father over him, pressing him down into the bed, and as he pushed his own pants down over his narrow hips, he thought only of those more talented hands, undressing him and moving lower...
He turned his face as though offering his neck and inhaled his father's spicy scent straight from his pillow. His body arched heavily into the mattress, every silken touch wringing another shudder from him. Tentative fingers came to encircle his hard shaft, stroking at a feverish pace. As his hips began to rock in time with his strokes, a familiar emptiness made itself known inside him, and he winced with need to be filled. He hated it - he could thrust his fingers inside himself and stroke that spot that made him shudder with pleasure, but it was so hard to go deep enough, fast enough, hard enough...It never matched his fantasies.
Perhaps he forgot, momentarily, that he was alone, or simply became enveloped in his fantasy, but for whatever overwhelming pleasure or distraction - such as the sound of his own moans - he did not hear the door opening in the entry way. He did not think for a moment that the roads were most likely closed a little further out, due to the snow.
He did not imagine, for a minute, that his father was standing in the doorway of his room, staring aghast at him.
It was only when he opened his eyes for a brief moment to imagine staring deeply into his father's that he noticed a faint disturbance in the corner of his field of vision and, upon whipping his head to focus on it, found that it was Ryuuken.
Uryuu lost his voice. A coldness rushed through his blood and stole his breath; he could not scream, he could not protest, he could only seize the edges of the covers and tear them loose, covering himself as he trembled violently under his father's gaze. He would not, under any conditions, meet his father's eyes; he could barely even breathe. The urge to curl tightly into himself overtook him, though he fought it: he already appeared to be badly damaged in his father's view, perhaps evil, and he could not take the idea of appearing weak as well.
Though, he was.
And after another second of silence, he did curl up on the bed, like a child admonished, or awaiting punishment.
"What is this?" Ryuuken finally asked, though it was impossible for Uryuu to divine whether or not it was rage or pain that strained his voice.
There was perfect silence. Ryuuken stepped forward, but hesitated again, his hand resting on the doorframe.
"Some sort of punishment for me, Uryuu?"
And it wasn't, Uryuu knew there was nothing of the sort anywhere near his mind, but he understood how it could be seen that way, a son masturbating into his father's sheets - certainly the first thought of any rational person wouldn't involve a painful, subdued love.
Only Ryuuken's shifts in movement could be heard throughout the entire house, and the noise seemed deafening to Uryuu. He still hadn't looked up. His body was locked in tension. His father's assumption ached in him, and he wanted to protest, but suddenly he felt as though his entire life had been pulled out from beneath him, that nothing would ever be the same - that he had not only lost the faint resemblance of a loving relationship that he did enjoy with his father, but also any relationship at all. Tears burned the corners of his eyes and slipped out despite his fighting them.
For the firs time in years, Ryuuken heard his son cry. It was then that he realized - despite all the evidence contrary - that there was no malice, no hatred in what he had found, though he did not conceive of any other explanation.
He tried to probe with greater tenderness then, though he reserved himself greatly.
"Uryuu," he tried again, hesitating to form the right words, "what is the matter?"
"I'm sorry," came the boy's half-sobbed whisper.
Ryuuken took a deep breath and sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Uryuu flinched as his weight depressed the mattress, and moved a little further away. He suddenly felt much more like a child than he ever had, even in his small years.
He also felt terribly cold.
"I know that, for boys - for young men, I mean, that..." Ryuuken began uncertainly, losing his words despite their attempted medical precision.
"It isn't that," Uryuu replied weakly.
"No?" Ryuuken's question revealed his surprise.
"No, it's - that - I've just -" Uryuu's voice was disrupted by his shattering nervousness and his persistent tight sobbing, but he went on thoughtlessly, as an exorcism: "I've just - well, I've taken, I've taken care of us, I've felt so - so close to...to you."
Ryuuken was stunned. After his wife's death, he had sincerely needed the boy's help: he had no idea how to run a household on his own. But Uryuu had seemed to display such an aptitude for all those things his mother had previously taken care of - the cooking, cleaning, sorting and organizing - and he was just as beautiful. Ryuuken had realized at some point that he really did regard the boy as a wife, as his second in command, someone he could trust to stabilize his life. But he had realized also that his developing attachment to the boy was unhealthy, and unfair, that it wasn't right to turn one's son into one's wife, no matter how perfectly the role fit. And so he had tried to be stern with the boy, to make him feel as though he were performing military service as opposed to participating in a warm and supportive relationship. But somehow the attachment had grown, and the nurturing and companionship and the constant undercurrent of intensely subdued love had deepened and ensnared both of them.
Uryuu gave a start when he felt a hand settle softly on his covered shoulder.
"I apologize, Uryuu," Ryuuken said, his voice much more tender than his son had expected ever to hear again, "but I think we've - misunderstood one another."
"For some time, I've tried to prevent you from feeling like - a wife to me, Uryuu." The boy stiffened, and his father continued. "But I've needed your help. I have done my best to..."
"But it's too late," Uryuu murmured, shifting slightly under the covers.
"I know," came the soft response, accompanied by a slow and steady stroking of his shoulder and back.
"How can you expect someone to, to put so much time, so much care into someone else and not - and not - and not want to have, to have something..."
Uryuu again began to utter some weak protest, but Ryuuken hushed him, and slid his glasses off to rest them on his nightstand. He massaged the bridge of his nose for a moment, warding off the haze of confusion that threatened to consume him. He wanted to comfort his son, and yet not only as a son, but as the one who had for so long been his other half, the maker of meals and the straightener of ties, the washer of dishes and the packer of lunches - the lover just waiting to fall into his arms.
He shed his jacket and laid it neatly on the floor, followed by his tie. Then, he turned to his son, gently urged him onto his back, and, without a word, leaned down to kiss him.
Uryuu gasped as his known world collapsed into a flurry of warm lips and soft fingers trailing down his chest. He arched up into Ryuuken's touch and, though his eyes were wide open, saw nothing. He parted his lips and let his mouth be explored by a deft and teasing tongue, and squirmed as the sheets obscuring him were slowly drawn downward.
"Ryuuken - " he managed in between breathy moans, "don't - mock - me - "
"You know I don't joke," his father countered, then kneading his narrow waist, kissing along his jaw, "but I believe I understand you."
Uryuu stilled and Ryuuken drew back to look down at him. His tears had mostly dried, though there was a bright edge of swimming confusion in his glossy eyes, and a look of hurt, as though he really did suspect his father was mocking him, or worse.
"It is natural, Uryuu, for feelings like these to develop after so long living this way," he explained gently, "you aren't alone."
Uryuu was taken aback - he said nothing - but he clumsily began to pluck open the buttons of his father's dress shirt, eliciting an approving smile from the older man. When the shirt fell open and was shortly shrugged off, Uryuu was delighted to find the very firm planes and angles of muscle and flesh he had imagined, and timidly ran his hands over them. Ryuuken tipped his head back, allowing the exploration with a pleased sound deep in his throat.
Ryuuken found himself incredibly aroused, with any notion of shame far from his consciousness. He moved over the boy, straddling his knees, and began to kiss him with fervor, sucking those pale lips between his and nibbling, running his hands up and down the impossibly narrow chest and thin waist, just stopping at the sharp hip bones. Uryuu was fairly bucking beneath him, hard once again with boyish vigor, already dripping.
The doctor brought the boy's shaking hands between them, guiding them to his own sex. Uryuu could feel him pounding hard beneath his slacks; the feeling was so intense, so electrifying - he moaned abruptly and, fingers quivering, went about the business of undoing the clasp, lowering the zipper, and fondling the rigid flesh beneath. Ryuuken quickly relieved himself of his slacks and boxers, leaving his son to tenderly stroke his thick, dripping sex. He rolled his hips into the boy's hands, and didn't give him time to let the size induce second thoughts.
He moved downward, pressing light kisses to the boy's pale pink nipples, and trailing more down the center of his slender body. When he came to his sex - just as pale and slim and elegant as the rest of his figure - he trailed his tongue from base to tip, and carefully took the tip into his mouth, teasing with his lips.
Uryuu bucked his hips into the heat and moaned sharply as waves of pleasure coursed through him. Everything ached - he felt the familiar need to be filled up inside, then spurred on by the feeling of Ryuuken's rock hard sex still haunting his fingers; his nipples ached for more touch, and his cock for release.
"Oh, please - !" he cried, not precisely sure what he needed, only that he needed it badly. Ryuuken sucked him only for a moment more, drawing away just as Uryuu was poised to come, leaving the boy's body arched and his chest heaving.
"Shh," Ryuuken pleaded gently, "let's not concern the neighbors."
That said, he reached up and withdrew something from his nightstand - the identity of which did not escape Uryuu. He hesitantly spread his long legs, an action that was rewarded with a grateful hum from his father. Momentarily, eyes squeezed shut, he felt careful fingers probing at his entrance, slickening the smooth flesh. Uryuu jumped when the first finger was slid gingerly inside, and, though he clenched his teeth at the new sensation, he managed to steady himself for the next. Ryuuken was exceedingly gentle with his son, but by the third finger, Uryuu was chewing his lip and breathing quickly, trying to stifle a whine at the back of his throat.
"Easy," Ryuuken urged him, "relax, Uryuu."
And the boy tried, but instead found himself convulsing with pleasure the moment his father's long, practiced fingers teased that blindingly sensitive spot inside him.
"Ryuuken - !" he cried, twisting beneath the older man.
Ryuuken withdrew his fingers and positioned himself over the boy; to his surprise, Uryuu draped his calves over his lower back, bringing them close together. The doctor slid his arms beneath the boy's delicate shoulders, bringing him into a tight embrace that left Uryuu's lips against his shoulder, their hearts pounding inches apart.
"Relax," Ryuuken reminded, reaching between their bodies to position the tip of his sex at his son's entrance, "I won't hurt you."
As his father pushed inside, the boy was incapable of making any sound. His brows knit together and he screwed his jaw shut, refusing to let the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes fall. He was so full, he could feel his flesh stretching to accommodate Ryuuken's length; he was on the verge of losing his composure when that rigid cock pressed firmly against his little pleasure center.
"Yes," he gasped, eyes wide, "there, that's that feels - " And his toes curled, legs tightened around Ryuuken, forcing him deeper into his body as his rhythm picked up and his thrusts came deeper and faster.
Ryuuken had no doubt that it was his son's first time - though there was little room for thought in his head at the moment. He kissed the boy's neck, and continued to thrust into the tightness of his body as his orgasm built inside him. Uryuu rocked back onto his sex, moaning sharply each time he brushed against that sensitive spot inside him. He clutched the doctor's broad shoulders as he neared orgasm, his body tightening and pulsing with pleasure -
"Ryuuken!" he finally cried, arching up sharply, drawing the man deep inside him with a sudden tightening of his legs about his back. His seed spilled over his stomach and he writhed as his orgasm pulsed through him in intense waves of pleasure, peaking as he felt Ryuuken fill him with his own seed.
When Uryuu was next aware, he was cradled tight against his father's body. Silence stretched between them as they both caught their breath, and let their hearts come to a steady rhythm again. When Ryuuken was finally prepared to speak again, he licked his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to his son's soft black hair.
"I love you, Uryuu," he murmured for the first time in years. There was a distinct trembling in his son's frail body, and the sentiment was shortly returned, an exchange which restored the Ishida household finally to a home.
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