It always starts around talk of Matsumoto Rangiku.

After you've both had too much to drink, or at least pretend that you have.

It's the one interest you still have in common, now that Tousen Kaname is dead and his old friendship with Komamura Sajin can no longer bring you together with Iba Tetsuzaemon.

Your boyish fascination with the busty lieutenant has become the only thing you feel comfortable discussing. Or the only thing that maintains a sense of normality in your otherwise fucked up life.

So tonight, you say that you like that she's cut her hair short. Maybe because it adds a certain girlish innocence, but mostly because you think it'd be easier to hold onto.

Easier to fist, without long strands spilling free and tangling your fingers.

But Iba argues that he misses those porno tresses that conjured fantasies of her riding him. Riding him so her sensually wavy hair could flip all around (nearly as sexy as her bouncing breasts, he insists).

You just laugh behind the sake bottle poised at your smiling mouth, and arch one challenging brow. You feel the need to mention girlish innocence just one more time. . .and lo and behold, his small smirk suggests mounting interest and a different kind of lewd appreciation.

Having settled that to your satisfaction, you speculate pervetedly that the silver chain between her breasts actually connects her nipples underneath her uniform. Then you fantasize openly about tugging that chain to taunt those sensitive nubs - teasingly, harshly, apologetically. And your friend Iba laughs a laugh soaked with sake, as he enacts your thoughts with one burly arm that yanks and yanks, then slowly twirls.

Like jerking someone off, almost, before winding an invisible chain around his hand.

The first movement stirs you enough as it is, but it's the last that has you shifting where you sit. You can't be entirely sure if it's made you uncomfortable because it makes you think of a different set of chains, or because you feel Kazeshini awakening.

Awakening because you're thinking of that different set of chains.

You down more sake and try to ignore the spirit's cooing inside your head. The excited gurgle of a laugh that should be good-natured, but is instead maddeningly malicious. The lascivious swirl of his long pointed tongue, the wink of his mocking blue eye, and the way he purrs and sighs when he twists that chain around his wrists - the one connecting two bloodied scythes - then grinds it between his legs.

You down more sake, with eyes drooped and haunted. It always starts around talk of Matsumoto Rangiku: of how beautiful she is, how sexy she is, how a body like hers is more a torment than a blessing. Of what you'd do to her if she ever accepted your puppy-eyed infatuation.

Of what Iba would do to her when she realized what she's been missing out on.

It always begins this way, before it eventually becomes a discussion of we instead of I. What would they do, together, to Matsumoto Rangiku? Iba thinks he'd be holding her from behind, his hands all over, from her breasts to her throat then back down again; holding her legs open for you, soothing them wide with a caring caress, as you bury your face between them and lick, suck, tongue. Lapping her up until she's screaming both your names.

Soon you're tugging at the tucked fabric around your waist. Loosening the top of your uniform, and trying to breathe quietly as you slip a casual hand between your legs. Trying not to alarm Iba Tetsuzaemon as you brush your fingers over your hardening cock. Like you're just readjusting yourself, or so you'd like him to believe, until that first touch becomes too tempting and you end up rubbing your palm down and biting the inside of your lower lip to conceal a moan.

It always ends the same way, but that's yet to discourage your nervousness. Every time it's hard to tell what Iba's really thinking when he's leaning back in such a way - legs spread in such a way - that any evidence of his potential arousal is hidden from your view.

When he's wearing his sunglasses even now, despite the dark of night and the barracks being shadowed.

But regardless, it always leads to him moving towards you instead of away. Sometimes after finishing what's left of his sake, or taking one final drag of his cigarette, but always leaning forward and never wiping his mouth so you can still taste alcohol and tobacco when your mouths connect. His is wide and his mustache scratches your skin, but you like the way it feels even though you've been talking about the smooth skin and plush lips of a woman.

Iba's own lips are deceptive, you've learned. They look harsh beneath his mustache, but you've found the top lip to be surprisingly endearing. Its prominence over the lower has it puffing forward - slightly, but just enough to make you think it's cute. To make you tease it mercilessly with nipping teeth and your own suckling mouth.

He undresses quickly, while seeming unhurried all at the same time. His body looks substantially bigger than yours, and his skin smooth and virtually hairless. It is that, even more than his style of speech and the burning cat tattooed on his back, that reminds you of a yakuza. He is clean and professional. He is refined. And meanwhile you feel like nothing more than a stray hooligan. A lost punk wandering, dirtied and marked - scarred, tattooed; your memory sprayed by a passing skunk that was all white instead of striped.

You can't tell if Iba notices the smell, because he always rids you of your uniform with gentle impatience. He always slides his hand between your legs and gives your sack a commanding squeeze that simply says Open.

And you do, because it's become that simple between you. Because you want that simplicity after everything that's happened, and Iba Tetsuzaemon seems to understand that without you having to say it.

So you spread your legs, accommodating, and he pushes them down towards your chest so you're bent in half and your hips are raised. He slides your uniform under you in a crumpled heap, and you reach down to smooth it out with some awkwardness. The two of you have done this enough times by now for you to know that he just cares to provide cushion against the hardwood floor. That he's just that thoughtful, and in response you're just that willing to secure his built body between long legs, after his strong fingers have been quick inside your puckering hole.

It's as thick as the rest of him when he finally thrusts into you. You feel there's nothing you want to do but hold on as he fucks your mind away. You cling to him, shaking, as you pant ragged breaths. Arms around broad shoulders, your hands slide down; over a tattoo you can't actually see with your eyes, but know from memory. You hike your legs up his sides, restless to find purchase higher on his back, and suddenly a powerful arm hooks behind your knee and slides your left leg over his shoulder.

The stretch makes you cry out. Makes you sound choked and strained, then simply satisfied when he leans closer so he can drive into you. Your hips buck to meet him thrust for pounding thrust, eager and urgent, as you cup the back of his neck and pull him down. Your other hand glides over short dark hair, your thumb grazing smooth skin that's been clean-shaven since the war ended, and you kiss an open mouth that's already red and swollen from your earlier ministrations.

Moaning, gasping, trembling. You're a mess of sound and feeling beneath him; shaking with pleasure and need. He breaks your kiss to lean back, and grips the back of your calves so he can push your legs to your chest. You watch his own brawny legs spread wider as he digs in, readying, before he cants. Hard, and his fucking now becomes neither fast nor slow, but steady and powerful and aimed just right.

If you thought you were a mess before, now you've been reduced to uncontrollable tremors and rolling eyes behind fluttering eyelids. His cock spreads you wide with every sure thrust, and you clutch it reflexively, spasming. Suck it back in and squeeze, hips bucking to get him even deeper. You're gasping so hard you think you might hyperventilate, but you hardly care when your toes are curling and your abdomen jumps-

Iba suddenly rasps "Fuck" above you, and you feel his cock pulse. You open your eyes, bewildered and dazed with pending release, but still eager to refocus on his expression. His hips jerk so your entire body rocks - so you gasp under the pressure of his cock hitting your prostate - and then you whimper against your own lip caught between your teeth when you feel him spilling over. Hot, like the throb of his erection for you and the pleasurable burn of your hole stretched open. He's still holding your legs for you but his grip starts to slacken, so you hold them back yourself as you reach down.

You can never tell for sure if he's actually watching behind the blackened frames of his sunglasses, but you think he must be because he stays kneeling where he is. Still and waiting as you squeeze your cock in your fist, and use the precome that's already leaked halfway down the shaft to make the pull slick.

Your pumping is fast and furious, and you think distantly that if nights like this become routine, your jerking arm will get disproportionately bigger than the other. . .

But then you start to arch, back bowing, and you realize Iba's still inside you. Calloused fingers tighten, scrape, and your thumb barely rubs the underside of the head before come hits your torso in thick ropes. You rock into your fist to draw out your orgasm, and consequently rock back onto him. Moaning and shivering, you gnaw your lower lip.

And struggle to still your hips before you get carried away.

There's a streak of come on your thumb, and you look at it instead of Iba as you suck it off. Although this has happened before, you've yet to decide if his fucking you is because he's aroused by you, or just aroused that you'd been talking about Matsumoto. He can be balls deep inside your ass - kiss you and let your tongue into his mouth - but even still you can't help feeling he'd prefer the soft curves and warm wetness of a woman if there happened to be one with you.

Despite that, you find you don't actually mind being his only means to release. Not when he's still so thorough and considerate, no matter what his reasons really are.

You start to sit up, and usually this is when one of you pulls away, and you both get dressed and call it a night. But he unexpectedly wraps an arm around your waist to hold you there, then pulls you towards him so you're straddling his waist as he rests on his shins. You'd already felt flushed before from the afterglow, but now you feel warm for entirely new reasons.

One of them being Iba's cock, which you notice is hard again and hasn't left you even once since he first entered you. You can't help shifting your hips around it like you're readjusting, but really you're just unsure, slightly surprised, and shivering with excitement all at once.

He moves first to kiss you, and his hands sweep down your back. Slowly, but leaving a burning trail in their wake. You arch against him responsively, and forget that you're smearing your come against a torso that belongs to someone who remains mysteriously unplaced on the spectrum of gayness.

Arms curling around his neck, you lean into the kiss and tease that upper lip that's entranced you. You rock in his lap, and broad hands smooth over the curve of your ass. They grip both cheeks and spread, before two middle fingers press to opposite sides of your entrance. Those calloused fingertips tease fleetingly before pressing in, harder and harder until they've actually breached you with his cock.

You gasp quietly into his mouth. Your eyes are barely open and you hold onto his shoulders, chest heaving against his, as you arch your ass. Silently inviting, begging him to go on, and he kisses you again as he wiggles his fingers deeper inside you.

You're stretched now around his throbbing cock and persistent fingers. You whimper a blissful groan, and feel Iba's finger pull out just to smear his come from earlier over the skin between your entrance and sack. A shiver and a moan, as you open your mouth for his tongue and claw down his back.

Before he suddenly leans away so he's lying flat against the hardwood. His legs bend behind you, and his other finger slips away so he can slide his hands around your hips. The new position immediately has you thinking of his fantasies regarding Matsumoto, but it's hard to dwell when he bucks his hips imploringly.

Bucks them again like he's saying Ride.

You settle back so you're pressed flush against him. You grind your hips, hard, harder and slow. . . Grind yourself onto him so he's nice and deep, and start to pant as your pace picks up. As you really start fucking yourself on his cock, just like he's told you to. You watch him grit his teeth, and the tilt of his head and the way he grips your knees to spread your legs tells you that he must want a look between them.

Bypassing his vulnerable torso, you let your hands go straight to the floor on either side of his head. Fingers splayed, you use it for leverage and balance as you lean over him. You keep your legs spread so he can see your cock bouncing in time, and you slowly lick your lower lip. His hands have moved to hold onto your sides, and you tremble a throaty groan.

As you ride him like you know he's wished Matsumoto would, you wonder if things will always have to be centered around her just to get to this.

What surprises you, is realizing that you won't even mind.

The title is a take on Iba's tattoo (the cat on fire), and Shuuhei being a Leo and literally a cat on fire. Because Leo is the lion, and a sign of the element fire, so yada yada har har. XD And Iba is a lovely Cancer, a sign of the element water, so you see where that's goin'. YEAH I THINK I'M MORE BRILLIANT THAN I REALLY AM. AND I PUT TOO MUCH THOUGHT INTO MY TITLES.

It's just something I thought I'd mention. XD Hope y'all enjoyed!